#i had such a distinct and vivid image for this scene in my mind when i first considered drawing it

[abstractfrog]

THE GLORIA SCOTT - part 2, and a follow up to my comic for the first half of this scene! thanks sm to @crashingmeteorz for allowing me to source validation for my whimsical cosmic approach to this moment <3

[nowis-scales]

For the fates asks game!

10. What are your favorite song(s)

11. What do you feel is underappreciated about Fates?

The link to the full ask list that I am answering questions to can be found here.

Thank you so much for your questions!

#10: “What are your favourite songs?”

I feel like I can say without a hint of bias that Fates has the best soundtrack of all the Fire Emblem games I’ve played. I think there is just so much intrigue in the fact that the game has to blend multiple different cultures, themes, and emotions as it is technically a three-in-one kind of story, so it ends up having this very strong, distinct soundtrack that seeks to compliment parts of itself while also encouraging unique sound across all the countries. It leaves me with a lot of favourite songs from the Fates soundtrack.

If I had to pick just a handful though, I think my choices would be Dance in the Dark, Paradise (Dark), A Mother’s Wish, Petals in the Wind, In the Stars, You of the Dark, The Water Maiden, Destiny by Blood, Lost King’s Supper, and Bubbles. Being a fic writer, there are a lot of other songs that have my affection because they paint very vivid scenes in my mind (for example, Vacant Cradle being a Vallite song not only by sound but in name conveys the horror of what happened there), but these are the ones that I consistently enjoy listening to. As you can tell, some are more about setting the scene, while others are more about peaceful sound. 

Petals in the Wind and Dance in the Dark are two of my favourites just because they have a very cheerful sound. The former plays a little bit more with it being a subdued joy, more like something is pleasant. The latter, on the other hand, seems very vibrant in its joy, like it wants everyone to share in the dance. I think the songs in a way almost speak to the personalities of Hoshidans and Nohrians alike: both groups are joyful, kind people, but the Hoshidans are calmer and more pleasant, while the Nohrians are more enthusiastic and strong-willed. It’s a neat little thing that I’ve noticed, although I have played Conquest the least, so to be honest I couldn’t tell you if Petals appears in it… heh. If I didn’t have so many other games on my list, I’d try and do a replay soon!

In the Stars, Bubbles, Paradise (Dark), Bubbles, and The Water Maiden are all songs I like because of their peaceful quality. There’s a degree of warmth but calmness that comes with each of them, and it makes them some of my favourite songs to listen to while working on creative projects. Whether I’m writing or painting or even working on something for school, those four songs just provide good vibes for the act.

A Mother’s Wish, Lost King’s Supper, You of the Dark, and Destiny by Blood are all the songs that I love that I would refer to as “scene-oriented”, in the sense that they paint an image in my mind of some kind. I contemplated walking you through each of the scenes that I can picture when listening to each of them, but uh… for some reason I feel kinda embarrassed doing that, haha. Point is, I love all of the energy behind each of these songs, and how they evoke a certain joy or thrill from their sound. They serve their narrative purpose really well, and I love getting to listen to them.

#11: “What do you feel is underappreciated about Fates?”

This question came up in a few of the asks I got, so I might stick to answering with just one for this ask if that’s okay with you!

This is perhaps going to be a bit of a hot take, but I think what is underappreciated about Fates is that the conflict of Fates actually works just fine as a concept. Could it have used more polish and attention spread over all? Sure. Am I saying that Hoshido being shown in a more positive light than Nohr is actually totally fine? No, and to even think I’m suggesting that would be a “how dare you say we piss on the poor” moment! What I’m trying to say is that people get so angry about the presence of Anankos and Valla as a big aggressor and factor in why Nohr and Hoshido are fighting, they forget that even without them, Nohr still does not have the resources that Hoshido has. Valla or not, they would be fighting anyway. Hell, the whole reason they’re fighting is because of animosity between their respective dragons that led them back in the day! Religion and resources are still two major reasons for fighting. We see them in real life all the time! Anankos is simply choosing to harness the pre-existing anger once he begins losing his sanity, and use it as a weapon to make humanity destroy itself. 

Nohr and Hoshido, sans Corrin and Anankos, still have two very good reasons to be fighting. There is actually plenty to go off of for a conflict with just that alone (and there’s more in the game that’s less concrete, too!), it’s just that the Western fanbase’s faux-grey mortality obsession has obscured people from seeing the power of a story that directly points out that hatred, whether justified or not, can be totally hijacked by someone structurally higher than you and harnessed to make you do their bidding. I think sometimes people forget that just because Fates’s premise begins with and entertains the concept of a moral dilemma, doesn’t mean that its job is to throw moral dilemma after moral dilemma after you. They use the moral dilemma of which family you choose and what society you are entering to anchor you to the core concept: that both cultures and people are full of kindness and worthy of protection, and that both are worth protecting and preserving against those who would wish to destroy them. The conflict invites the player to consider how they can inform themselves and not be played by the will of people like Anankos, and though I will always say it was handled less elegantly than it could have been — for some of us, at least partially because we played Treehouse’s butchered translation — it is a valuable lesson and message.

[alliseaisfandom]

Wordtober day 4: Dodge

using the the official inktober prompts

People say opposites attract. People also say best friends should be like two peas in a pod. Maybe starting with what people say isn’t a great idea, because people also tended to say Deanna was a weirdo. And those were the people Isadora ended up punching.

Rubbing the other woman’s back with one hand and the other laid flat on the duvet, Isadora waited. For Deanna to stop shaking slightly, for her hand to grasp back in a sign she was back from the other side, for her eyes to roll back to the front of her skull, whichever came first.

Being an Oracle wasn’t easy. Deanna took it with extreme dignity.

A sharp gasp brought Isadora’s mind back to the present: The hand on the duvet was swiftly squeezed as Deanna grasped for an anchor and the other reached back for the glass of water they’d brought with them when Deanna felt “another one on the way”.

“Hey, it’s Isa. I’m here. You’re home, you’re okay.”

Deanna nodded, eyes still shut and sipping the cold water through the metal straw, the clinking of it against the glass the only sound in the room.

When she spoke, it was a bit hoarse, barely over a whisper. “It’s one of yours again.”

Isadora sighed. Being a Chosen One wasn’t easy either.

It certainly helped that her best friend had an insight on just what she was Chosen for. In the same way it helped Deanna make sense of her visions if she had been present for most of the life of the subject.

Opposites. Peas in a pod. Take your pick.

Once Deanna was back on her feet, she drew aside the curtain on the far wall of her room, revealing a white board full of two very distinct and equally tiny types of handwriting, a couple books worth of post it’s, and the occasional news clipping. The board was used for most prophecies, but only the really important (and unrelated to them) stayed.

“Why is it me again?”

“I do not know! Ask your weirdly big family if they have a tradition of signing fates off to the supernatural!”

“This is what, the third time this year? Fourth?”

Deanna grimaced “Fifth.”

“Fifth??”

“Yea remember that time I changed my mind and we went rock climbing instead of on a beach trip?”

“Yea?” Isadora raised her head from where she’d flopped down on the bed.

“Yea.”

“Ugh! How do you block the Universe’s number?”

“I’ll tell you what, when I find out you’ll be the first to know.” She basically sighed the sentence.

Isadora got up. She didn’t really know how to answer other than slide her arms around Deanna and hold tight. “I’m sorry, Dea.”

“It’s fine, it’s not like you made me an oracle. And it’s not bad when they’re you. It means I can help you.” She tilted her head, lightly headbutting Isa. “Dodging time?”

Isa smiled against her.

“Okay, so! What do you have?”

“I have the sun, moon and rising constellation of your birthdate.”

“Oh so it’s me me.”

“Yeah. I also have…” She trailed off, brow furrowed.

They’d been doing this for years, so Isa knew not to push. Dea didn’t really have prophecies told to her as much as she was shown flashes of scenes culminating in a giant domino effect that was usually saving or ending some part of the world. Not always, though. Sometimes the prophecies were small like “Mr. Forin will be pissed off next Wednesday and deliver a surprise exam” – illustrated ever so helpfully by a family home, a detailed image of an explosion followed by falling drops and a roulette wheel- or “Old lady Ori’s cat will get tangled in spider webs and wander the neighborhood” – and nobody wants the vivid description of an anatomically correct spider-cat hybrid shared over lunch.

“The first daughter of the first daughter of the first daughter.” Dea almost yelled. But her enthusiasm was short lived, “Wait, that’s doesn’t fit you.”

Isa thought for a bit. “Oh that’s low.”

“What?”

“It does fit. My dad’s the oldest kid.”

“Your da- fucking transphobic prophecies!”

Isadora reached into the sides of the board and pulled in her picture and one of her dad to the small open space where they had for figuring out today’s message.

“Wait, we’ve established they don’t care about blood lines right?”

“Yea, there was that one about your witch aunt that turned out to be your mom’s best friend.”

“Does it have a date?”

“What?”

“The thing I will do. Is it dated?”

“I mean, there are definitely early summer vibes to the scene, why?”

“Because!” Isadora reached across the board again, this time picking up a picture of a woman in her forties, the name ‘Allison’ scribbled in blue ink “My dad is marrying my stepmom in three months on the 20th! And she has-”

“She has two kids older than you!!”

“So in summer, I will be the youngest child!!” Isa grinned.

“And the second daughter!” Dea smiled back, raising her hand. “Dodged!”

“Dodged!” Isa high fived her.

That was their thing. Sure, it wasn’t always this easy, especially when the visions weren’t about Isa. But they’d gotten good at figuring out the who and the what, and if it was worth making the effort to dodge. Sometimes they couldn’t. That’s what the news clippings were for. For every catastrophic train accident there was a front page spread on a miraculous save borne of chance. For every post it with scribbled out names when they got it wrong there were small notes thanking one or both of them for suspiciously well timed advice they’d given someone.

Isadora and Deanna had been best friends since the day they’d met. Isa had been there when Dea had her first vision, when the doctors couldn’t find reason for the “seizures”, when they finally realized her vivid dreams would step out into the world and when they stopped the first one. And she’d been sitting on this same duvet the first time Dea had a vision about her. And the second. And the third. And the on average 4.6 times – now 4.8 – she was featured on some big catastrophic event.

The world was still standing. This was their thing.

Many months after Isa’s dad’s wedding (which Dea attended obviously) and after the supposed coming of the vision (Dea tried to not give her details of the action if she had them, or even of the specific day, but she had looked up to Isa one late spring day, and said from where she rested her head on her lap “it would’ve been today” with a small  proud smile, before returning to her book) , it happened again.

They were in Isa’s dad’s kitchen. He and Allison had gone out for the weekend and Alex and Charlie were still at work, so Isa had dinner on her hands; which is to say Dea had dinner on her hands and Isa was on cutting veggies duty.

The speed with which Isa put down the knife and caught the bag of noodles off of Dea’s hand would’ve made records. And then she waited.

When Dea came back to herself, she was… different.

They did all the rituals and reassurances and then Dea wouldn’t really look at Isa all of the sudden. Eyes shifty and face flush and the nervous finger tapping was back, that had left around highschool, why was that back?

“So… Is it someone you know?” She tried

“Mhm.”

“Oh that’s nice! Is it one to dodge?”

Silence.

Okayy then. “Do I know who it is?”

“I- yea.”

“Oh cool, is it someone from work? That Jayce fellow in the lobby has biiig Chosen vibes.” Nothing. “Or maybe Tessa? I mean I wouldn’t say I know her since she’s your boss and all but-“

“It’s you!”

“Oh! Why didn’t you say so?”

“It’s- it’s also me… It’s tricky.”

“Ah. Well if it’s anything big, we got it right? I mean unless I have to go out into a tick infested backwoods somewhere to appease some fae anthropologists, that was not a fun month.”

Dea stayed quiet again.

“Dea? You there?”

“Hm?”

“You didn’t say it.”

“Say what?”

“You always say ‘tell me about it’ when I talk about that month, and then you tell me one more ridiculous excuse you came up with for why I wasn’t at uni then.”

“Right, yea. Tell me about it.” Dea’s eyes were unfocused. Far away.

“I’m not leaving.”

That seemed to do something. Dea snapped her head up, looking right at Isa.

“If it’s something like I’m meant to leave you or hate you or hurt you consider it Dodged! I would die before I did that.”

Dea opened her mouth a couple times, but her voice got lost on it’s way out and she closed it again. Isa took her hands in hers. “I know you can’t always tell me but- I’m geeing worried here.”

Dea closed her eyes for a bit. “It’s… You’re meant to… Sit alongside me.”

“Ha! Little late for that, started doing that in 6th grade!”

“No, that’s too literal, you’re… not supposed to leave!”

“Pretty sure we just went over that actually.” Isa chuckled.

Dea shook her head violently. Isa’s easy smile fell, she could see her friend was distressed but to not be able to help-

“Dea, I know it’s hard. But I can’t help if you din’t describe it to me, I need to know what I’m aiming for when i say stuff or I ca-”

“Marriage!” She almost yelled. “The closest definition in the english language is… marriage. And all it entails.”

Oh.

Oh.

Dea still wasn’t looking at her. And that just wouldn’t do, not now! I mean sure it was a tricky situation, it wouldn’t do that Dea was uncomfortable every time Isa was around for the rest of their lives, and Isa was pretty sure step one of a marriage was falling for someone and she had had that one down pat for ages so- wait a minute…

The nervous tapping. The flush. The silence at whether or not she wanted to dodge it. The way she wouldn’t look Isa in the eyes goddamnit.

Isa lifted one hand away from Dea’s own to curl it around her chin and gently turn her gaze back

“Hi.” Still nothing. “I have a question.”

It was silent permission but it was permission nonetheless.

“What would happen if I didn’t want to dodge it? Just this once?”

Turning Dea’s eyes to her was the best decision Isa could’ve made because the way the woman’s eyes widened was just about the most precious view she’d ever experienced.

“But it wouldn’t- It’s not you that wants it, it’s the-”

“Dea, you’ve known me for over ten years. In those you’ve had visions of me a total of 65 times. We dodged 57 of them, and the ones we didn’t were a choice. I think we’ve established the existence of my free will.” Isa smiled at Dea’s barely contained eyeroll, even now, at her head for numbers, “so I am not asking about the grand scheme of things. I’m asking you. What would happen if I didn’t want to dodge it?”

Dea took her time: searching Isa’s face, cataloguing every micro expression she’d grown up with, every millimetre of skin waiting for a catch she knew damn well wasn’t coming. And when she was secure enough, she finally answered, voice tiny and hopeful:

“No dodging.”

And Isa didn’t need prophetic powers to tell her that was the best decision they had ever made. Through that night’s dinner, holding hands under the table, through every kiss where they melted into each other as if it was their first again, through every night for the rest of their lives, from the one where they finally did a real proposal to the one where they exchanged teary eyed vows.

No dodging.

[cryptidvagabond]

I have whatever is the complete opposite of Aphantasia. My thoughts are so vivid that it can actually bog down my mind and cause sensory overload sometimes. When I'm writing, I'm not building the story one word at a time, I'm watching it happen in my head like a movie, and transcribing what I see. When I'm reading, I'm listening to the voice in my head dictate the story like an audio book, complete with separate, distinct voices for each character and for the narrator. When I have intrusive thoughts, it feels like it's my subconscious mind bullying my conscious mind. They're not thoughts like, "You should do (insert horrible thing)" they're more like. "Hey, here's what would happen if you did (insert horrible thing)" in grisly detail. Like if I was cutting vegetables, it would show me an extremely detailed, medically accurate, "scene" of what would happen if I slipped up and cut off my finger instead. Those are the kinds of thoughts that are usually encouraged to notice but not judge, because those thoughts are not me actually wanting to cut my finger off, but are just my brain poking itself and going, "Hey, does this hurt? Are we distressed? Do we need the adrenaline? Do we need the endorphins?" And I can't really judge myself for a trauma response I don't have control over. It's just my brain's way of testing it's own limits. Intrusive thoughts are stress testing for your brain, the same way that people will overclock a PC and crank it until it crashes.

It can very much feel at times like my thoughts do not come from "Me" or like I'm not in control of my train of thought. My mind wanders often, and I daydream all the time. Literally. I get caught up in a thought and it turns into a series of images in my head, and next thing I know I've been staring at the wall for an hour while I watched an entire miniseries in my head, complete with an entire ensemble cast of characters and special effects. I probably should start applying the, "Acknowledge and move on" tactic for more than just my intrusive thoughts, to be honest.

All this to say, maybe it does have something to do with the Aphantasia, maybe you've been spared the extra distractions. I can't imagine what it's like to feel like you have a say in your mind and the thoughts you experience. I know a lot of people usually have to try a little bit to see pictures or hear a voice in their heads, but I've never had to put effort into it. It happens whether I want it to or not, and sometimes at the worst possible moments. I've laughed at more funerals than I like to admit, because of some absurd thing my brain has cranked out to cope with the grief.

It does sound like you may be taking it a little too literally. But also, at least me personally, I feel really guilty about my intrusive thoughts sometimes. Because they're not always aimed at myself, sometimes it's a thought about ending a relationship for no reason other than it's emotionally taxing, or hurting someone I love for no real reason. I have to catch myself before I judge myself for thinking that, I have to remind myself that's not something I actually want. It can be hard to understand that if you don't experience it. Intrusive thoughts can be so wildly different from the tone of my every day internal dialogue that it can feel like they come from someone else entirely. And my first instinct was to lay judgement on them, to say, "Oh, wow. That is so messed up, how could I think that? I'm a terrible human being." And that's...not great. So I had to learn to stop doing that.

When it says to recognize where the thoughts are coming from, it probably means "What experiences or emotions fueled this thought?" My intrusive thoughts, for example, come from years of feeling unsafe and insignificant. So they often take the form of something bad happening to me, not because it should, but because it could. It's fear, it's anxiety, and it's anticipation. Preparing for the worst, so I'm not surprised when, not if, it happens.

I don't think it means "Watch the thought" like you watch a bug crawling on the wall, or a trail of ants on the sidewalk. I think it just means to ruminate on it a bit, pick it apart to figure out what it's made of. What is the motive behind this thought? What emotion, or action, or external stress caused it to be formed?

I don't know how much, if any, of this is helpful. But I hope so.

People who don't have aphantasia, who can see images in their head and such, I have a question.

When you have thoughts, do you hear them in a voice in your head? Like, if I "think to myself" something like remember to do the dishes, I don't actually think it as a phrase, its...conceptual, just a thing I know. Until recently I've always thought things like "I can hear it in my head" or "I thought to myself" were just idioms.

If I think about needing to do the dishes I don't hear it or get a visual of the dishes or whatnot. Do you?

I'm struggling yet again with DBT partly because I keep running afoul of the wording, and I can't tell if I'm taking it too literally or if it's asking me to do something a lot more abstract for me than for other people or what. We're in "mindfulness of current thoughts" at the end of the distress tolerance unit, and they keep saying things like notice the thought, don't judge the thought, watch the thought to see where it came from, you are not your thoughts. And like...okay...but I am. They come from me, they're part of me, I cannot watch a thought, it's a thought. Why would I judge it? It's me, I don't have emotions about my own thoughts, they're in my head so nobody can see them anyway.

But I'm beginning to think that there's a certain binary most people have where they don't consider their thoughts to be so integrated into their consciousness. I thought maybe it's because they can hear them or similar, and with aphantasia it's not a binary or even a spectrum, it's just in you. At least that's how it is for me. It'd be like telling me to notice but not judge the function of one of my kidneys. I mean, mission accomplished on not judging, but I don't have a way to consciously observe the kidney, it's on its own journey.

Anyway I just wonder. I'd like to understand at least one thing from this unit before we finish, but my track record suggests that I would do better to radically accept the reality that I will not.

[mikeo56]

Research that aims to explain why some people experience intense visual imagery could lead to a better understanding of creativity and some mental disorders.

William Blake’s imagination is thought to have burned with such intensity that, when creating his great artworks, he needed little reference to the physical world. While drawing historical or mythical figures, for instance, he would wait until the “spirit” appeared in his mind’s eye. The visions were apparently so detailed that Blake could sketch as if a real person were sitting before him.

Like human models, these imaginary figures could sometimes act temperamentally. According to Blake biographer John Higgs, the artist could become frustrated when the object of his inner gaze casually changed posture or left the scene entirely. “I can’t go on, it is gone! I must wait till it returns,” Blake would declaim.

Such intense and detailed imaginations are thought to reflect a condition known as hyperphantasia, and it may not be nearly as rare as we once thought, with as many as one in 30 people reporting incredibly vivid mind’s eyes.

Just consider the experiences of Mats Holm, a Norwegian hyperphantasic living in Stockholm. “I can essentially zoom out and see the entire city around me, and I can fly around inside that map of it,” Holm tells me. “I have a second space in my mind where I can create any location.”

This once neglected form of neurodiversity is now a topic of scientific study, which could lead to insights into everything from creative inspiration to mental illnesses such as post-traumatic stress disorder and psychosis.

Theirs is a very different experience from most. It’s extremely immersive, and their imagery affects them emotionally

Reshanne Reeder, Liverpool University

Francis Galton – better known as a racist and the “father of eugenics” – was the first scientist to recognise the enormous variation in people’s visual imagery. In 1880, he asked participants to rate the “illumination, definition and colouring of your breakfast table as you sat down to it this morning”. Some people reported being completely unable to produce an image in the mind’s eye, while others – including his cousin Charles Darwin – could picture it extraordinarily clearly.

“Some objects quite defined. A slice of cold beef, some grapes and a pear, the state of my plate when I had finished and a few other objects are as distinct as if I had photos before me,” Darwin wrote to Galton.

Unfortunately, Galton’s findings failed to fire the imagination of scientists at the time. “The psychology of visual imagery was a very big topic, but the existence of people at the extremes somehow disappeared from view,” says Prof Adam Zeman at Exeter University. It would take more than a century for psychologists such as Zeman to take up where Galton left off.

[vivelafrancemotherfuckers]

WEST SIDE STORY 2021 THOUGHTS (SPOILERS)

Yesterday I saw Spielberg's West Side Story and I have no words. I'm very picky when it comes to movie adaptations of musicals, and I was definitely slightly uncertain about this one, but it has absolutely blown me away. Spielberg's love for the show is blatant in every frame he presents and every choice he's made.

I don't want to conpare it too much with the previous adaptation. I just want to point out a few highlights:

1. THIS CAST. Seriously. I hate A. E. so I won't speak much about him. All I'll say is I was expecting him to be worse, but he wasn't. In fact, it would have been considered a better performance if he hadn't had to share the screen with these absolute human powerhouses. Which leads me to (standing ovation) Ariana DeBose, Mike Faist, and David Alvarez. Theater pros who have arrived in Hollywood to show them how it's done. Spielberg proves the importance of casting people who know the craft over people with name recognition. They stole the show. Rachel Zegler left me speechless. That voice, that emotional depth, and that screen presence, at that age? What a future ahead of her! And what can I say about Rita Moreno that hasn't been said already? She is such a beautiful addition to the film, and a gift to us all to be able to see this performance from her at almost 90. And, finally, the Sharks/Jets are phenomenal and I'm glad they were allowed to shine. Josh Rivera and Kyle Coffman come to mind as standouts. Josh makes Chino incredibly complex, and Kyle scared the shit out of me in the scenes after the rumble. It felt weird to be scared of a Newsie. Speaking of Newsies, playing "spot the newsie" was a lot of fun.

2. THE CINEMATOGRAPHY. Janusz Kaminsky's work is always stellar. But he was able to understand something crucial to movie adaptations that not many can master: make use of the medium. It's based on a stage show, but it's not a stage show. This, my friends, is A MOVIE. It encapsulates late 50s New York, the very vivid image of the rise of gentrification. You can feel the desperation of all the people who will soon lose their homes and their blocks in the name of progress. It lookd like it was made in the 1950s while being distinctively a modern movie. And the dancing. Oh, boy, do Spielberg and Kaminsky know how to film a dance number! Chef's kiss.

3. THE MUSICAL NUMBERS. Speaking of dancing... I can't find the words to describe how I felt watching Justin Peck's choreography performed by these absolute beasts. The opening number, the dance at the gym, AMERICA, cool. Oh, boy. The beauty of it all. I don't know how to explain it. You have to SEE it.

4. THE REFERENCES. I loved how there were very subtle visual references to '61 like the purple wall and pinkish tones before the song Maria and the use of snippets of Robbins' choreography here and there, as well as direct references to Romeo and Juliet when Tony says he's a by the book guy (Juliet tells Romeo "you kiss by th'book" when they first meet), or also visually with the clusters looking strikingly like Verona. It's a great nod to what came before them. I'm sure I'll find many more when I rewatch it.

5. CHARACTER DEVELOPMENT. Shout out to Tony Kushner for fleshing out the characters more to show us why they make the decisions they make and why they are the way they are. Chino's arc helped us to understand how he gets to the point of killing Tony. We understand why Tony has been away from the Jets, and Anybody's, my love, has more scenes and a bigger involvement in the plot. Even San Juan Hill itself and the community are explored more, which we as 2021 audiences might need for context if we wish to understand the characters. Other subtle but brilliant details like the Jets playing with the gun that Riff just bought hit you like brick with the reality that these guys are, after all, a bunch of kids fighting over a territory that won't be there for much longer.

Overall, I'm still impressed by it even a day later. Was it perfect? Probably not. I never liked the originall placement of I Feel Pretty in the second act, and hoped they would play out the dramatic irony of the audience knowing what happened at the rumble against María's happiness a bit more, and I wanted Bernardo to have more to do, but it still blew me away. I can say that, after almost a decade of being let down by movie adaptations of my favorite musicals, I finally left the cinema feeling every positive feeling possible and can't wait to watch it again. I feel blessed to have yet another way to experience this story. Because, remember guys, this movie doesn't replace the 1961 adaptation, it builds on it. It's not a remake, it's a different adaptation of the same material. And what a wonderful adaptation it is. Thank you, Mr. Spielberg.

[the-marsh-harrier]

Who was Orion Black? (Pt 4) Orion Black x Female!Reader

A/N: I wanted to explore Sirius’s childhood more in a non-traditional sense and give Orion and Walburga some interesting character development. This takes place after Sirius has broken out of Azkaban. Although this is a reader insert in parts, it is not the main focus and some chapters will have little or no mention of the reader. I have also altered the year Walburga was born to be 1940 instead of 1925 as it states in cannon (this is my fanfic and I’ll do what I want with the characters that are in it). Similarly, in some of the chapters to come, I already know I will upset some people with the way I portray Sirius and Walburga’s relationship - remember everyone is entitled to portray fictional characters as they want in their fanfics and if you disagree, please write your own. JKR's bigotry and opinions are not welcome here nor supported.

Masterlist Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 (Part 4) Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9

The process of entering a memory was an unusual one. It was like being the only completed part of a painting, eagerly awaiting the completion of those around you. Watching a memory come to life is similar to watching wisps of colour swirling and morphing into shape but it's not only the image, it's the sounds of the world, the smells, the textures. Each sense slowly brings itself into fruition, it's like a new world being created before you.

Nearing the end of the memory's creation, Sirius realised that he was sitting in a flying carriage with three other men. As their faces slowly became clearer, he could recognise them but not fully; the young faces of Vincent Rosier, Orion Black, and Alphard Black. The men's faces began to get much more vivid and life-like, their gestures became more purposeful, their voices unmuffled and their typical early 1950s attire took shape. The distinct smell of cigarettes and cologne floated into Sirius's nose, offering him a sense of familiarity in this foreign environment. Vincent and Alphard had calming confidence in their posture, they seemed relaxed as they lounged back in their seats, but Orion seemed nervous like his mind was telling him a million different things simultaneously.

Soon, the scene was completed, and the memory shifted its way into motion. As the carriage swung about in the air, Orion felt his stomach churning in much of a similar way. He was only twenty-four years old and in transit to Paris to a Match-Makers Ball. His mother had sent him to this awful event where eligible pureblood witches and wizards meet to ensure the continuation of their bloodlines. Orion put his head in his hands, he was to attend these events or marry Walburga when she came of age – his cousin… Alphard's younger sister. The idea repulsed him and to know he would be expected to have a child with her after she finished school. Yes, when she finished school! Who could anyone think that this was a good idea? She was eleven years younger than him and still in school!! Perish the thought. What should he expect though? Cygnus, the middle child on that side of the family, managed to get Druella Rosier pregnant during the summer break of their second year at school! Whatever Pollux and Irma were teaching their youngest children needed correcting.

Orion wasn’t the only one struggling to find a match though. Vincent and Alphard were also struggling but for very different reasons. Vincent’s trouble was selecting one suiter though, a prolific romancer; whereas Alphard, he had no interest in anyone. Alphard had always felt more like himself whilst single or with friends thus his interest in romantic or sexual relationships was non-existent.

Orion had to find someone, he had to… and the sooner the better, but there was always one stinking point. He knew he’d struggle as soon as they asked what he did for work. When the answer of musician left his mouth, most pure-blooded women heard financial inconsistency and turned away not seeing how he could provide for them. He could understand where they were coming from, some months work was harder to find than others but it didn't make him incompetent. His father was trying to get him to work in the Ministry like ‘good’ men do, but Orion knew a life in the Ministry meant a life of misery – no one enjoyed working there… no one Orion knew anyway.

“Eh Cheer up! You’re not going to catch anyone carrying on like that.” Vincent Rosier chuckled. His thick Northern-French accent decorating his words. “This is my last chance to find someone I like or it's that dull Beauvais girl that your mother recommended to mine." Vincent jokingly pointed his finger at Orion. "I won’t have your miserable face ruin it for me either. I have no intention of calming down my unusual behaviour and no one-woman will change that.”

Alphard's gentle chuckle filled the air as he rummaged in his pocket producing a cigarette. “I don’t know why you two are worrying so much. You need to put less pressure on yourselves.” Alphard advised while lighting the cigarette with a click of his fingers.

“Easy for you to say. Pollux and Irma leave you alone after Cygnus’s little accident.” Vincent chuckled as he took Alphard’s cigarette from his hand and took a puff. “Nearly finished your dear-old-dad off.”

Alphard snatched the cigarette back, making sure to send Vincent a short glare before drawing in a long drag. “This is why you don’t have kids. They just cause you problems. No partner, no kids, no problems. I just have to keep attending these events to keep mother off my back.”

Orion took a swing from the flask he’d kept concealed in his jacket pocket to still his nerves.

Alphard chuckled. “I understand why you’re nervous." Alphard gestured to Orion. "I live with Walburga and I have a feeling she’ll get worse before she gets better.”

Vincent glared at Alphard before attempting to comfort Orion. “Rye, I’m sure everything will work out this time.”

“I just know that dreaded question is going to come up. ‘Why don’t you have a real job?’ and I’ll wish I got hit by one of those muggle car contraptions. I’d rather die than let my hag of a mother have her way.” Orion explained while he rubbed his hand over his forehead.

“Well, at least you have a skill, and your music is incredible. Maybe we should sit you at the piano before you start talking, eh?” Vincent didn’t understand why Orion’s employment made so many women question his worth. Some months, Orion made more money performing and writing than Vincent did working in the investment sector at Gringotts. Vincent took a flask out of Orion’s hand. “Come on, let’s get a buzz going.” Vincent smirked.

“Look, dad always sends me out with a vial of liquid luck, but you two need it more than I do.” Alphard winked handing Orion the vial.

“Don’t tell me that or I’ll drink the whole lot.” Orion took a sip.

“Oi! Save some for me!” Vincent argued.

Ba-boom! The carriage landed with a heavy shake. Before getting out, the trio nodded at each other and entered the building. “We've got this.” Orion smirked as he headed toward the ball feeling as if lady luck was finally on his side.

***

Orion took Vincent’s advice and took to the piano early into the event to see if it drummed up any interest which it did – just not of the romantic variety. Orion had, however, been commissioned for a few future balls and family events. It was now much later into the night and Orion was sitting at the bar alone. He was starting to think that maybe that liquid luck might have been faked; especially if you compared his evening to Vincent’s. In fact, Vincent had a very successful evening, he managed to acquire three witch’s owlery addresses and a cheeky wizard’s flooport code. Even Alphard was doing well having settled himself in a group of slightly older witches and wizards playing a drinking game. Orion was about ready to give up when he felt a tap on his shoulder. Turning around it was as if Merlin himself has conjured up the most beautiful person he had ever seen.

“Hello. I saw you playing earlier, and I’ve been mustering up the courage to talk to you ever since. You are quite the pianist.”

Orion’s was flabbergasted. “W-well… I-I… th-thank you. Um, would you care to join me?” He managed to stutter out while gesturing to the barstool next to his.

“I would like nothing more.” There was a short pause in conversation as you got yourself seated. “You must tell me how you write such beautiful music. Whoever the lucky person is to be your muse must be so enamoured by your talent. Are you just accompanying your friend over there?” You pointed toward, a now, very drunk Vincent successfully flirting with the barman.

“No, I am here to find myself a match but it appears to be easier for some than others.” Orion joked.

“Oh, my apologies. I hadn’t seen you speak with anyone other than to commission your work so I assumed you must be spoken for.” A slight blush creeping onto your face. “And if I might enquire, are you without a muse then?”

“That position is as vacant as my friend’s modesty, unfortunately,” Orion said before taking a swing of his drink. You began to laugh which made Orion pick up slightly. This was going much better than any other time he had tried to talk to someone at one of these events.

“Well, what is the application process to become your muse then?” a sly smirk forming on your lips.

Orion tapped his chin in thought before meeting your gaze as a slow song began to play. “As you have successfully navigated the initial conversation. I would say a dance is in order, do you agree?”

Your smirk turned into a smile. “Most certainly.” As you stood, you moved closer to Orion than he had expected, making him blush as he took your hand in his.

The pair of you moved in sync as if you had been dancing together for years. Each of you taking turns to share smiles and meaningless conversations as you spun around the ballroom. Song after song played and the two of you danced on into the night. The ball was due to finish at the stroke of two, and Orion was very aware that he was running out of time to secure a means of communication with you after this event.

“Would you like to meet again?” Orion asked, slightly unsure if you would agree as you hadn’t hinted at it prior.

“I’m so glad you finally asked. I was dreading having to ask your friend for your owlery address.” As you jokingly nodded toward a passed-out Vincent sprawled over a chez-lounge. “So, does this mean I get the position then?” You enquired.

Orion looked at you slightly confused before you clarified. “Your muse. Is the position mine?”

Orion found himself chuckling once more. “Not quite. A second interview needs to be arranged but I’m sure, if all goes well, after that you can have whatever position you’d like.”

Giggling, you suddenly realised you had never asked for your dance partner’s name. “I believe we might have skipped some formalities. Y/N L/N, a pleasure to meet you.” Orion’s couldn’t hide his surprise, a L/N… he had spent the last hour dancing with a L/N and he hadn’t introduced himself. Orion could already feel the slap his mother would give him and the glare of his father. “Sorry, I don’t like to introduce myself initially. I find that it can draw the wrong attention, you know?” You had become slightly bashful at your partner’s silence – had you spoiled the whole evening? Your family, despite its success, was commonly known for its acceptance of muggle integration into wizarding society and as such didn’t follow traditional pure-blood wizarding practices. You knew it was a silly idea to attend this ball but originally when your friend had purchased a pair of tickets, you hadn’t realised it was a purest event – it was just supposed to be a fun weekend in Paris.

“No, no, no. Um, I understand why you wouldn’t lead with that at this type of event. Not to the same reasons but I imagine I receive a similar reception the moment when I tell purest witches who I am.” Orion swallowed thickly. “You’re going to be as surprised as I am when I tell you my name.” after a deep breath, he continued. “Orion Black. And my offer of a second interview for my muse still stands, should you still be interested in the position, of course?”

He was right. A Black requesting to meet with you again. His family were practically royalty in the Wizarding World. They were true Purest! Toujour Pur! Always Pure! What would his family think? Does he think you’ll be another clueless girl with a broken heart at the hands of a man of the noble house of Black? What would your family think? Engaging with a purist family would not end well on either side. You could already hear the scolding you’d receive from your family for approaching a Black in the first place, so Merlin knows how they’d react to you agreeing to a second meeting. Nevertheless, these thoughts didn’t stop your mouth from running away with itself. “Yes, I would very much like to see you again.”

Relieved. That was the only way to describe how Orion felt when he heard those words. Pure unadulterated relief. “Oh, thank Merlin.” He thought to himself as he reached into his pocket and produced a magical business card. “Write to me and we can arrange it.” Orion was elated! You were amazing company, attractive, and had a good sense of humour. You came from a prestigious enough family for him to convince his mother – and in turn his father… he’d just have to negate some of their questioning about your stance on integration, perhaps describe you as tolerator of muggles as opposed to an integrator until later if a relationship bloomed between you.

You took his card and decided to test the waters slightly. “Perfect! I’ve always wanted to go to one of those muggle viewing rooms… oh… what are they called? With the moving pictures.” Orion was feeling his plan picking itself apart as quickly as he’d pieced it together. No one could know about him taking you to a cinema.

“A cinema?” Orion questioned. You were delightfully surprised that he knew what one of those even was.

“Exactly! A cinema! Would you take me?” You asked with a hopeful smile.

Orion didn’t know how enough about muggles to plan something like this alone and he would have to keep this very quiet. He didn’t know how he would acquire entry to a cinema. By Merlin, how could he pull this off? Alphard! Alphard would know how to get into the cinema and Vincent must know about muggle money! He didn’t know the customs of attending a cinema but, again, he knew a few half-bloods from his school days and from his work, one of them would be able to help. “Yes.” It was Orion’s mouth that was running away from his brain now. “I’ll find a way. It can’t be too complicated.”

***

Sirius was propelled back into his seat. A cinema? Since when did Orion know what a cinema was? Let alone take a pure-blooded witch to one; both would be clueless. Shaking his head and reorganising his thoughts; Sirius looked through the vials to collect the next memory just as the next piece of his father’s work began to play. The tune was strangely familiar but not in the typical way of having heard at Orion's hands. That's when Sirius realised, this was a song from the Wizard of Oz. Orion had created his own version of (Somewhere) Over the Rainbow. Why?! This rabbit hole seemed to only give more questions than answers.

[cryopathiic]

PRISMATIC EYES FIX ON THE CEILING ABOVE. In that moment, a part of him wanders back to the vivid image of Chichi preaching about divine intervention — it's a passing thought, but a reflexive one nonetheless.

And then a gunshot silences the room. The guru's jaw clenches as white noise fills his head, obscuring any yelling. Uncle Sano's befuddled expression is only a shadow at the corner of his vision and the commotion blurs as a grim reality begins to sink in. They're shooting at the vents. There's something in the vents. Pale lips part with an impalpable gasp. Dōma forgets to flinch the first time and by the third, the vent has been gutted open like a fresh hunt. And from its bowels... descends the child.

The zip ties burn into his wrists when his body reflexively folds over with the collision. It squeezes an 'oompft' out of Dōma and he feels his own thighs tickle into a numbing sensation, momentarily. No, that's undoubtedly his kid. The smell he exudes is unmistakable; teenage hormones blending into mud, sweat and a distinct lack of deodorant. With a limp body on top of him, the restraints suddenly feel tighter.

But he doesn't flinch. His eyes are stiff over the child that lies half-conscious in his arms — if he had landed a little to the left his head would have splattered open like a watermelon, Dōma thinks. Now it just crushed his poor forearm instead. That's going to leave bruises. His gaze traverses over the wounds with uncanny tranquility; a few dislocations but the blood is bright red indicating shallow, fresh cuts. He tries to wiggle his crushed legs and see if there's anything leaking; if Inosuke got shot and there's an exit wound, surely there would be worse than bloodsmears on his lap to deal with.

" This one's yours? "

Uncle Sano's hoarse voice beckons rhinestone eyes to snap away from the scene; it's just as the guards retrieve the child's body and move off somewhere to the side, out of his vision field. There's a prolonged pause during which Dōma merely aimlessly nods back while his mind makes futile efforts to connect the dots — is he under the influence, maybe? Maybe he took something and he can't remember. Inosuke being in that room sounds wrong; no, it feels wrong. It feels as though two very different facets of his life are coming together in an unholy union — the better man he has tried to be and the heartless man he is.

And the latter prevails.

❝ He's a disciple of mine from the orphanage. I had to bring him along and he must have snuck out of the car. ❞ He begins; the mobster across would be privy to the nuances of a shift in the young man's expression. One mask slips off and gives way to another with practiced ease; the smile remains but Dōma's tone loses its effervescence. It's rigidly polite; professional. The sort of thing a man who reveres in tradition like Sano might appreciate.

❝ You have my sincere apologies for the vents. Of course, you will be compensated. He's quite young and unruly, still. ❞ There is an air of casual conversation that one could not hope to hear from a man strapped to a chair in naught but his briefs. Sano's bushy brows have climbed all the way up to his forehead, deepening its wrinkles. He seems mildly amused by the outcome, although the glare shot towards his guards was rather telling. Some might not make it to see the light of tomorrow's sun after a child slipped past their security.

" So the rumors are true, then. Huh. I don't know what to tell you. A man raising a child that's not even his own without a proper mother— "

Dōma's fingers twitch. He doesn't hear the rest of that sentence. Sano is evidently amused by the lack of reaction on the young man's part; an asset prized amongst those who deal in pain and fear on the daily as so often happens in their field of work. There's an unspoken ommission that Dōma is showing his true colors with that collected tone; Sano knows of his exploits and what he does with the people he surrounds himself with. And now he gets to talk, not with some airheaded teenager wearing the skin of a man, but rather with the Lord Founder.

❝ I'm very sorry. Try as I might, personal and professional lives intertwine sometimes, as you can understand. I mean, you have had to raise Mei-chan while running the ring all by yourself as well, no? ❞

" You would do well to keep my daughter's name out of your mouth, nephew. " Sano quirks a brow as something skeptical creeps into his expression. Dōma's smirk deepens with a pitched chuckle. And he leans, against the binds, with an audacity only a man who exploits God itself could muster.

If he pisses him off just enough, Sano will do something stupid. Kidnappings are all about equanimity, after all. They both know killing the guru will bring more trouble than it's worth; killing the child might have been a more viable route if Dōma had shown any interest in Inosuke to begin with. But that won't make him bend either and the mobster has probably heard enough to know that. It's no longer a game of chess, but a test of patience. How much longer can Sano milk this situation for all that it's worth? Ransom? Pissing off Muzan-sama? In either case, there's not a figment of trepidation in the young one's tone. He merely shuffles in his seat, seemingly getting comfortable — over his shoulder, he steals a guileless glimpse of the space behind him, looking for Inosuke under an aimless guise.

❝ I would advise that you guys tie him up while he's still out of it. Unfortunately, I was not blessed with a well behaved girl as you were— so I make do. ❞ He continues in a monotone cadence, unpertrubed by the scandalized expression those insolent words painted on the old man's face.

❝ Now, about the Spider Lilly, I'm not sure why you'd turn down my generous offer in the first place, but, in either case, let me make some things more clear for you, Sano-sama. If you don't take my deal, someone else will. And with it they will take all the merits of bringing a revolution to the playing field — this thing will spread like wildfire, trust me on that. Soon, whoever controls the supply will control the market. And sets the commission fees as he pleases, of course. Giving this opportunity to someone who already has an extended network like yours will do much more than merely restore your family's former glory. ❞ He pauses then, cants his head with a look that would befit the perpetrator rather than the victim of this situation.

❝ Wouldn't you like to leave a legacy for little Mei-Mei's future? ❞

[drabsyo]

Drabs, I know that you usually draw Fleur with slightly darker blonde hair than Narcissa. Was it a choice so that it’s easier to distinguish them from each other or was your Fleur maybe slightly influenced by the actress from the movie who had darker hair?

In the books Fleur didn’t seem to have much description other than having long silvery hair (waist length?) and having this glow around her. So like with Narcissa, what works have influenced your design of Fleur?

It’s fascinating sometimes to read the artist’s perspective and your previous reply to the anon about Narcissa has been very interesting.

Thank you!!! 🥺

I was actually pretty embarrassed over how enthusiastic I got over the whole hair thing, but I'm glad it made some sense at least 😂 And now that I've been given even more reason to talk about it... (Let's face it, I shouldn't even be allowed on this website to begin with, ya'll have been way too nice to me.)

Only click on keep reading if you want to read Some Nonsense.

I did consider Fleur's actress when I thought about her hair color. Though I pictured it to be something of a mix between movie Fleur and Elsa’s (from Frozen) hair. But the way I drew Fleur's hair, the way it falls across her shoulders, that was more of... well, I imagined Fleur to have effortlessly perfect hair, like she doesn't seem to need to style it so much because it's already whimsical as it is, what with her being part-Veela. There were a lot of fanfictions that helped me to sort of see a better image of Fleur in my head so really, I owe it to all the talented writers out there!

It's also the same with Narcissa's case. Though I decided to give her paler hair, compared to Fleur's, because I wanted to emphasize that air of vulnerability Narcissa has—this image she conjures, like she's this fragile thing made of glass, which typically in fanfiction is what Narcissa uses so that Voldemort would overlook her a lot, hence why she wasn't given any "missions" or "tasks" while Voldemort was in Malfoy Manor. Slytherin preservation. This "fragile" image was something Narcissa capitalized on and maintained perfectly, but in post-war Cissamione fanfictions, she no longer has to put on that façade—she starts living for herself, but the quiet sadness about her never really goes away.

I really did struggle at first, I had to find a way where I could draw them without confusing people and myself.

So, again, I sifted through a lot of canon and non canon material about these two characters which funnily enough made me see some kind of parallel going on between them. I know. Fleur Delacour and Narcissa Black. Parallels?! It's nuts. But again, this is only within Fleurmione and Cissamione fanfiction, and it really helped me to draw them better. (At least in a way that made them distinguishable from one other at first glance, I’d like to think.)

These 'hair scenes' are mostly the bits where Hermione "first" sees Fleur. Hermione is entranced, a little curious, sometimes she feels indifferent, but the general theme is Hermione immediately finds Fleur beautiful—which probably explains why Hermione in fanfiction sometimes thinks Narcissa could be part-Veela like Fleur. And as you can imagine, that's where my struggle began.

You'll see what I mean in a minute. And just like last time, remember that this part comes with spoilers.

🔹 In Fighting is our form of Flirting by InsomniacAndBi in Chapter 2 Hermione sees Fleur for the first time. This is the first Fleurmione fanfiction I've ever read, and also the first time I've encountered Fleur's character. Tall, bright blonde hair, won the genetic lottery, aristocratic features, face held in a scowl, floats into the room with effortless poise, immediately starts demanding things out of people... Sounds vaguely familiar, doesn't it. Like some other blonde we know.

"Non!" A voice from the doorway said. "This is not what was agreed."

For a moment, Hermione thought about ignoring it but turned to glance over there if only to quell her curiosity. A girl stepped into the room and Hermione's phone call was forgotten in a moment. She knew that it wasn't nice to stare but Hermione couldn't help but do it because, in all honesty, this was the prettiest girl she had ever seen. She was definitely taller than Hermione was, with bright blonde hair and...clearly she had won the genetic lottery.

Her skin practically glowed and it looked so smooth and soft. It made Hermione wonder if she used those fancy beautification charms or had a very lengthy skincare routine. Or maybe, just maybe, this is what being rich did to people's faces. There was no doubt in Hermione's mind that this girl was rich - like extremely rich, like even rich people thought she was rich. That kind of rich. That was the type of rich that this girl was.

Also, only super rich people curled up their lip like this girl was doing.

She breezed into the room like she was floating and Hermione hastily ended her phone call and promised to call back later.

"This is not what was agreed," The girl said again and Hermione felt incredibly small sitting in front of her. Not to mention, the girl's clothes screamed 'I'm rich and I know it' and Hermione's screamed 'I'm so out of place that I might as well be a bull in a China shop'.

"I have no idea what you're talking about," Hermione managed to get out when it became apparent that the girl was waiting for her response.

"You are English." The girl looked shock for a moment at Hermione's accent before shaking her head angrily. "This is not what was agreed."

🔹 In Oath of Silver by i_shall_wear_midnight immediately in the first chapter, when Witcher Hermione first meets Fleur, it's something Hermione quickly notices. Vivid sapphire eyes. Silvery blonde hair that shimmered in the torchlight. And once again, right off the bat, Fleur is pushy. She wants things done her way. It’s just so cute how she doesn’t even let the fact that Hermione is a Witcher, an extremely dangerous outcast in society, get in the way of that.

(I'm sorry for this but I just have to gush about Oath of Silver. Hermione as a witcher is just so fitting for her character; she possesses that natural eye for detail that remarkable witchers have, witchers like Geralt and Vesimir (a skill that gets even more honed through the Witcher Trials). Hermione even has Geralt's dry sense of humor, a bit rough around the edges, brilliant, snippy without really meaning to (because she asks a lot of questions and would rather get to the point), but has a good heart.)

The witcher figured that would be the end of her human interactions for the evening, but only a few minutes later, the stunning newcomer from before appeared before her. Upon closer inspection, Hermione couldn’t imagine she wouldn’t be conspicuous in any group of people she happened to find herself immersed in. The woman was looking back at her with vivid sapphire eyes, and silvery blonde hair that shimmered even in torchlight. Her attire was travel-ready, but elegant.

“Bonsoir. You are a witcher, oui? Or perhaps a ‘witcheress’ is more accurate? I am not familiar with all the terms…” She watched the beautiful stranger patiently while she fumbled through Hermione’s professional title. As if the distinctive, amber colored cat-eyes hadn’t given her away, the brunette mused wryly. Eventually, the blonde gave up and sat herself down at Hermione’s table, her medallion twitching faintly as the stranger got settled. Hermione filed that away for later. Her new dinner buddy seemed to be oblivious to the curious and concerned looks now being thrown her way at boldly taking a seat at a mutant’s table.

“I came from Ellander,” she began in a non sequitur. “The temple, and spoke to the priestess Nenneke, who told me about you.” Hermione continued eating her second serving of stew and waited for her to get to the point. “I would like to hire you as an escort as I travel back to Toussaint.” The witcher finally put her spoon down.

“Sounds like you ought to be asking some mercenaries to be your bodyguards,” she responded, eyeing the bow the woman was carrying on her pack meaningfully.

“A pair seems doable, and I’d prefer you.”

“I’m not a bodyguard.”

“Yes, technically, I am aware,” she replied, beginning to show signs of impatience.

“Then why are you soliciting a monster-slayer?”

🔹 Witnessed here in Time and Blood by whistle.the.silver is probably the most interesting one because it uses the concept of Veela hair as a wand core brilliantly. Again, this comes with huge 🛑spoilers🛑. Read the italicized words at your own risk. I can't add the entire clip here, as the topic of Fleur's hair is littered throughout several other chapters. But this story shows us a Fleur who is willing to do anything in order to protect Hermione during the course of the war.

My memory is a bit foggy, I haven't read this story in months, but here's what I remember:

This takes place during the time of Shell Cottage, where Fleur is married to Bill and takes care of Hermione. Fleur didn't expect to fall in love with the young brunette and, as the Golden Trio's time in Shell Cottage comes to an end, she worries over Hermione's safety. Fleur, using magic only known to the Veela tribes, does her best to offer Hermione protection in any way that she can--even going as far as to study what Lily Potter did so Harry could live. At one point, Fleur cuts her own hair with a length now roughly above her shoulders to give Hermione a new wand. But this isn't the only bridge Fleur is willing to cross to make sure Hermione survives the incoming battle. Fleur's grandmother, Ron, and even Bill himself, is a little sceptic over the propriety of Fleur's actions, but Fleur is determined to do whatever it takes to make sure Hermione makes it out of the war safe and alive.

So that was a lot to wade through, I know.

But if you've skipped all those parts for the sake of missing spoilers then let me go ahead and explain why the parallel between Fleur and Narcissa are there. Sure, it's plain to see that they have similar physical characteristics, but they're also similar in other ways.

In Witnessed here in Time and Blood, Fleur is willing to do whatever it takes to protect Hermione during the war: sacrifice the secrets of the Veela, make Hermione a wand, make her marriage and friendship with Bill suffer, be scrutinized by her Veela tribe, etc. And didn't Narcissa do the exact same thing during the war to make sure Draco made it out alive? They both chose to 'betray' everyone else for the sake of this one person. Not to mention, in Extinction by rubikanon Narcissa even makes Hermione a wand. (I’m telling you, there are so many parallels between these two ships and I can probably list more but I'd rather not make this post longer.)

Here, I’m just going to go ahead and say it—it’s almost like Fleur and Narcissa in fanfiction have the same love language.

A glaringly obvious difference between them is their upbringing, and we could argue that this why Fleur tends to be more open with her emotions while Narcissa tends to be more carefully guarded with hers. And I don't know if writers realize these parallels but as someone who's a huge fan of both characters and as someone who makes the occasional fanart of them, it's a pretty difficult detail to ignore. This crazy conspiracy all started because I had to find a way to make both characters look distinct from one another... It's just so interesting that writers from two different ships unknowingly make these parallels with two completely separate characters who are often at the opposite ends of the seesaw.

But again, let's take a look at Extinction by rubikanon. (I know. Extinction?! AGAIN?! Always.)

Spoiler warning!

🔹 Extinction by rubikanon has a marvelous take on this, as it turns out Fleur and Narcissa are actually good friends, and if I remember correctly, occasionally exchange letters (I’m unsure about this bit, I might have read it in a different story). They just get along remarkably well; I imagine they both share a kind of mutual respect for each other, a quiet understanding for the way the other woman carries herself: poised, meticulous, they pride themselves in their work, they both know how to handle an Ocean Of Secrets™, they're both accustomed to being under the spotlight of the public eye, and they’re both dedicated to their loved ones. Needless to say, Fleur and Narcissa are both giddy over the prospect of being with someone they love and adore, and end up meticulously planning numerous (I think it was hinted) double dates (Fleur with Bill, and Narcissa with Hermione) with the same kind of endearing enthusiasm that leave Hermione and Bill with no choice but to agree to the whims of their respective lovers.

(Scene seen in Chapter 23: Build Up Your Defense 2 of 2)

Narcissa and (Hermione) I were sitting together on one of the couches when Bill and Fleur arrived later. They showered Teddy with kisses on his little cheeks. He'd gotten past his clingy phase and adored us all, struggling to walk around the room by bracing himself on everyone's knees.

Suddenly Narcissa reached up and grabbed onto someone's wrist behind her head. "Don't even think about it," she said.

"That's just scary. How did you know I was there?" George stood up from behind the couch, a toy spider dangling from his hand. Teddy shrieked with laughter.

"She has eyes in the back of her head," Draco said.

"Mothers," George grumbled, sitting down close to Angelina. "Dump her, Hermione. I need you to date someone more prankable."

Fleur looked in surprise at the two of us on the couch. "Oh, la vache! How did I not know zees? You are lovers?"

"We're dating," I said mildly, though we really were lovers. In every sense. I glanced at Narcissa and bit my lip as heat spread through me. My imagination started planning a middle-of-the-night rendezvous.

"No wonder she (Narcissa) was so adamant about healing that curse," Bill said thoughtfully.

"Adorable! Simply adorable!" Fleur exclaimed, sitting down on Narcissa's other side. "We must go out for a double date next week, all four of us. We'll dine at L'Escargot!"

Narcissa's eyes lit up.

"Oh, no," I said.

"You won't have to eat snails," Narcissa said. "Please, mon amour?"

"French doesn't work on me."

"Please?" She kissed my cheek again and again. "Please? Please?"

Laughing now, I pulled her in for a kiss on the lips and said, "Yes, alright. But only because I have fond memories of trying new foods with you."

"As do I," she agreed.

Then we realized everyone was staring. Narcissa cleared her throat and straightened up, blushing. Draco made a face. Ginny looked a little more favorable. Harry held in laughter, and Andromeda hid her camera.

"Adorable!" Fleur declared again.

🔹 Also, I just have to add Sugar and Spice by waltzlikeits1698 because Chapter 4: Happy Birthday, Harry is absolutely hysterical. During Harry's birthday party, Hermione sulks in a corner because Fleur has apparently been avoiding her. Ginny decides to do something barking mad, something Hermione typically falls for.

“Ooh, someone’s grouchy,” Ginny teased, retracting her arm and facing Hermione fully. “What’s wrong with you?”

“Nothing,” Hermione insisted, although even she could hear the pout in her voice.

“Sure seems like it,” she snarked, summoning two shots and offering one to Hermione with a waggle of her eyebrows. Hermione pulled a face and Ginny shrugged before downing both, one after the other. (...) “You know, I spotted a tall, blonde drink of water hanging around the stairs.”

“What!?” Hermione exclaimed, whirling around and leaning out of the room to look at the staircase. Sure enough, standing at the bottom and resting a slender hand on the bannister was a tall, blonde witch who made Hermione’s heart stop with her mere presence. She had started forward before she knew it, her heart taking up an even quicker beat as she crossed the few steps and reached out a hand to clasp her elbow. The woman turned, that beautiful blonde hair catching the candlelight as it moved in one long sheet.

Hermione retracted her hand in horror, her eyes widening. “Mrs Malfoy!?”

Narcissa Malfoy raised an eyebrow at the witch who had practically accosted her. “Miss Granger. Can I help?”

What was she even doing here?

“Uh,” Hermione said dumbly, “sorry, I just… need the loo. Can I-?”

She gestured lamely to the staircase. Both women stared at the perfectly reasonable gap that Hermione could easily pass through. The moment stretched on.

Slowly, Narcissa returned her inscrutable gaze to Hermione, who squirmed uncomfortably in response. She then took a small step to the side and gestured for Hermione to pass. She did so and, as she turned the corner of the staircase, sent a deadly glare at Ginny, who was practically pissing herself with laughter.

(...)

Fleur had arrived. Hermione couldn’t explain exactly how she could tell, considering she had been in the duplicated bathroom for the last ten minutes after humiliating herself in front of Narcissa, but she knew it like she knew that it was levi-O-sa.

(...) (Hermione) She tried to avoid eye contact with Narcissa on the way back down and was thoroughly unsuccessful: the witch had physically reached out and laid her own hand over Hermione’s on the bannister, forcing her to stop and look up. Then, with an intention behind her eyes that Hermione had neither the brain capacity nor the energy to delve into, she said “It’s Ms Black now.”

Then she had released Hermione’s hand and turned back to her conversation with Andromeda and two wizards Hermione didn’t recognise.

Come to think of it, there were a lot of people Hermione didn’t recognise.

Anyway, long story short, this is the result of reading both Fleurmione and Cissamione—

But RIGHT. At the end of the day, again, these are just some crazy little things I picked up on and I may or may not be right, no one has to agree with me, everyone can disagree with me. Actually, yes feel free to disagree with me. I need to get out of this damn site and you know, touch grass.

Okay. Well. I'm gonna stop here now. So. Bye. But thank you anon for this lovely ask!! I’m really touched that you wanted to know what inspired the way I drew Fleur 🥺💕💖 But still. So sorry for this massive word vomit!! 😂

[romanceboys]

(interview) gq korea february issue 2021 — shinee minho “i’m still as passionate as ever”

1. i heard that your schedule ran until dawn today. you still look energetic.  no matter how exhausted i am, my condition improves once i wake up and take a shower. because it’s like the usual morning routine. 2. you take pride in the fact that your stamina is second to none, right? it reminded me of something you said long ago. i wouldn’t go as far as to say that it’s my pride, but i do know my stamina is stronger than most. my energetic appearance is my positive characteristic as well. 3. moreover, it hasn’t been long since you were discharged from the marines.  well, it seems like my stamina has gotten better. hahaha. 4. there must be a lot that you want to do. what do you enjoy doing the most these days? since it’s not the kind of situation where i can roam about freely, i’ve been spending a lot of time with my family. i was with them on christmas and new year’s. i’d barely done this since debut so i think it was a good thing. even in the military, i missed my people the most. 5. that must be why on the day of your discharge you made a surprise appearance at taemin’s music broadcast waiting room. in your military uniform.  i rushed straight from pohang. the shinee members were gathered to support taemin, and the staff that had been with us for over ten years was present too. when i looked back on shinee’s activities in the military, the very fun and enjoyable memories felt vague, but on that day they became clear to me right away. this is why we’ve continued together for so long. 6. what do you talk about with your members? since we’re currently preparing for our album, we’ve been talking about us as a team a lot. things like shinee’s (future) direction and what we ought to show. 7. did you figure something out? up till now shinee has often attempted unique and novel challenges, musically and stylistically. there were times when things were derived from what we did first, or even times when we had to question ourselves “is this okay?” before taking a bold step. but because we're an idol group, we folded under inevitable stereotypes and could not ignore them. however, we now collectively agree on preserving our artistic aspect well in order to show off a more distinct musical colour. 8. agreed. can you tell us which song represents shinee’s identity? the title track of the 4th album ‘view’ was shinee’s turning point. prior to this, the group was mostly known for its strength in performance, but through this song we were able to show the type of musical colour we pursued. we tried deep house at a time when the genre was unknown to k-pop and though it was not done without reservations, we got the response we expected. it’s basically what the entire (odd) album stands for. 9. besides music or performance, is there any other scene that can portray shinee well? having overcome many obstacles, we can’t define ourselves simply by saying ‘yes, this is us.’ rather, if there were to be a documentary made on shinee, i wonder how it’d be like to have the opening scene unveil the members’ perfectly human state instead of their moments of glory. for instance, saying whatever i want to without hesitation. without worrying, without walking on eggshells.  10. are you a quiet person? though i do joke around easily, i try to be careful with my words. i’m more of a listener than a talker. 11. you lived entirely as choi minho in the military. did you live true to yourself or were you able to discover a new side? it’s both. i had a lot of time for introspection. i reflected on the time spent and thought about what was good or disappointing, it unveiled a side of me that i hadn’t even considered while working as shinee minho. rather than saying it changed me, i was able to understand myself more definitively as a person. what i could be honest about and careful with with people became clear to me, i also realised that my strengths can become my weaknesses. 12. what made you think that? i thought i had an outgoing personality, but in retrospect i was more concerned about the people around me than myself. the other party can only be at ease if i’m comfortable... i was so busy being considerate that i ended up becoming stressed without realising. 13. an upright and serious image comes to mind when we say minho, turns out there was a complicated reason for it. it’s because i wasn’t even aware of it. i believe it’s something i need to work on to become a better person. this is also why i’m looking forward to my thirties. i’m curious about the areas i’ll mature in. 14. among the expressions that describe minho are passion and giving it your all. when do you think was your most passionate era? when i debuted as shinee, practicing blindly and then promoting made me feel like i was lacking a lot which affected my confidence. after our first concert, however, i became less anxious and worried. i realised that there were many fans who supported me. all i could think of was that i had to give it my best. my passion from back then is still the same as ever. it’s my understanding that i’ve come all the way to the present without cooling down. 15. what meaning does passion hold for you? does it mean that you’re very ambitious/greedy? i used to think passion and ambition meant the same thing. i was very certain that you could achieve anything if you were ambitious enough and worked hard. i hypnotized myself into believing that because i wanted it so badly, not because i was being reckless. as i started gaining more experience, i began to differentiate between the two. if passion means doing what you can to the best of your abilities, then greed is limiting yourself when you try something new because you wonder whether you can do it well. and that is why confidence is important. if you’re confident, then you can carry greed with a positive energy. 16. have you now gotten used to acting and promoting as shinee at the same time? at first i thought i could do it even if it was difficult. turns out that wasn’t the case. killing two birds with one stone wasn’t as easy as i thought. i don’t want to let either go. instead of saying yes it’s hard or i’m disappointed in the results, i believe this is a problem i need to solve. 17. your first activity after discharge was acting. you made a special appearance in the drama ‘lovestruck in the city,’ what was your first line? “please wear this.” i cannot forget it. 18. why not? one of my favourite words is ‘first.’ your first experiences are always unforgettable. seconds are usually a vague memory. that’s why firsts are extremely meaningful. standing before the camera for the first time after discharge felt like i was starting anew. the scene wasn’t even that hard, but i was very nervous. just like the first time i acted, i vividly remember the day’s situation, people, the atmosphere, and the weather. 19. do you remember your first scene as well? it’s been more than a decade.  it was a one-episode short drama; the scene was filmed inside a tow truck. i don’t remember my line very well, but the actors, the hustle and bustle of the staff outside the window, the glaring sunlight, the tow truck i sat in for the first time are all still very vivid. i try not to forget it. 20. do you remember the first praise you received for your acting?  hm, many people around me say nice things, but i’ve never considered those as compliments. it’s because i don’t think i’ve done anything praiseworthy yet. so let’s just say my first praise doesn’t exist for now. 21. that is a very objective yet cool answer. then what do you think is something you need courage to do?  everyday things.... like cooking. i can’t bring myself to even think about it, but i should attempt it before it’s too late. 22. by the way, you started sns. you did say in an interview that you did not see the need for socials, so what changed your mind? i received so many letters from fans in the military. i read every single one of them, and in most of them fans asked me to share my daily life through sns. though i did joke around saying that i’d rather hold a personal photo exhibition than create socials, i got one as a present for fans who spent two years waiting for me. but i’m not sure if i can manage it well. 23. do you tend to record your personal life through pictures like others? haha. not at all. i’m working towards it these days. 24. when was your sns profile picture taken?  when i was three or four years old. i racked my brain over this too. whether to upload a sefie or to go for a cool vibe. 

translated by romanceboys — take out with full credit (source)

[beatricethecat2]

“I’m super bummed about the yurt,” Myka says.

“It is rather unfortunate," Helena says. "Perhaps internet rentals are unreliable?”

“That’s how everything’s done these days. And it’s not their fault, the pump died, and no water means it’s a no-go. But I still want that river view.”

“And the solitude. Plus the solar-powered generator.”

“You were super into that,” Myka says. “But this place…” She pushes at the cards scattered in front of her. “They just left stuff lying around. Such a dump.”

“It was rather last minute. Merely a stop-gap; a place to rest our weary heads after nights under the stars.”

“And backs on the hard ground,” Myka grumbles. “Where’d you find this?” She twirls a yellow flower between her thumb and forefinger.

“In the garden behind the shed. Though ‘garden’ and 'shed’ are generous terms.”

“Thanks for picking it. And thanks for being so upbeat about this,” Myka says, cracking a small smile.

“Thank you for humoring my curiosity.” Helena gathers the cards within her reach and piles them into a neat stack.

“It’s given us a destination, which we needed.” Myka pushes more cards towards Helena. “You’re sure none of the sites we saw are what you remember?”

“From the stereographs? No.” Helena fans the cards out and begins to arrange them in suits.

“Could you…could it be you don’t remember it as well as you thought?

"Stereographs were the virtual reality of my day. They immersed one in places inherently foreign to our own. The take-away memories were vivid. I was hoping…”

“Hoping what?” Myka says, scooting closer, joining in organizing the cards.

“That the physicality of the ruins would trigger an emotional response. I viewed the images at one of Charles’s parties not long before I was bronzed. My reaction was quite visceral; I’d felt life flowing through the structures, even though they were long abandoned.”

Helena stares at the card in her hand.

“Then again, I wasn’t exactly in my right mind. Perhaps it’s a ridiculous quest.” She lays the card, a joker, on the table.

“Hey, we’ll keep looking,” Myka says, laying her hand over Helena’s. “We’ll regroup in Vegas, then go north and hit Mesa Verde. It’s pretty magical.”

“You’ve been before?”

“Girl Scout trip. Long, miserable bus ride. But even as a kid, the cliff dwellings felt magical.”

“Perhaps they’re the site I’m looking for!” Helena says, perking up. “And, perhaps we met there in the past. Star-crossed lovers, throughout time and space.”

“Past lives? You believe in that?”

“Not in a grand sense,” Helena says, aligning the gazes of the queen of hearts and queen of spades to face each other. “But I do appreciate that these days, one can mention such trivial mythologies without repercussions.”

“What do you mean?”

“In my day, as a woman, there was little room for flippant musing. Christian values dictated our every move, while Spiritualism promoted the fanatic embrace of communing with the dead. Not to mention the base-level assumption women were of a lesser intellect.”

“So you’d never say it out loud.”

“Never. In fact, I’d blocked it out. Hard science was my escape but at the expense of my sanity.”

“I suppose we all need a sense that something out there's guiding us,” Myka says, plucking the two other queens from the spread and aligning them as Helena did. “It’s kind of romantic to think our connection’s lasted hundreds of years.”

“But you’re not sold.”

“Nah.” Myka slips the cards on top of each other and slides them back into the pile.

“Perhaps my bronzing was the universe’s way of aligning our presence.”

“Sounds like a story you might write. Or one you already did.”

“So pragmatic, Myka Bering.”

“You’re the romantic,” Myka says, bumping Helena’s shoulder.

“I’m a woman of science!” Helena quips playfully.

“Hm, yeah,” Myka mumbles, turning to look towards the other side of the trailer. “Come with me, 'woman of science.’ Let’s test out this awful looking bed.”

She grabs Helena’s hand and tugs her across the room. They tumble in tandem onto the full-size futon.

------------

Bering and Wells On the Road ("Warehouse 13" Season 5 replacement) Season 1: Episode 5 Title: Las Vegas: Hopes, Dreams, and a Little Bit of Crazy

Summary: Myka and Helena travel across the expanse of Texas toward the arid Southwest, tracking down a memory. A last-minute cancellation leads to less-than-ideal accommodations and musings on the universe. A stop in Vegas turns into an artifact hunt after a few nights on the town. While there, a less than supernatural mystery garners honest talk, revealing a sticking point that, for better or worse, is left hanging to be resolved down the line.

Previously: Episode 1, Episode 2, Episode 3, Episode 4

------------

***BONUS SCENE***

“What’s this?” Myka asks, holding a piece of paper found while tidying the room before checkout.

Helena turns from packing and squints at the page.

“It appears to be an advertisement for burlesque.”

“It’s a strip club.”

“There’s a distinction?”

“You’ve watched enough cop shows to know.”

“Touché,” Helena says with a smirk. “Were you considering attending?”

“It’s from your pocket! The stuff you took out to dry clean your coat after it got gooed.”

“I don’t recall saving that piece of ephemera.”

“Maybe you recall this?” Myka flips the paper over.

Helena steps closer and squints again.

“Do you need glasses?”

“I haven’t had proper tea yet,” Helena grumbles. “It appears to be writing.”

“It’s a name. And a number. Who's Giselle?”

“Ah…” A light bulb goes off behind Helena’s eyes. “The tall, blonde you were ogling at the bar.”

“Me? What blonde? Oh…” A dimmer bulb goes off behind Myka’s eyes. “I thought I recognized her from that show we saw, Zumanity.”

“And I’d thought she’d reminded you of a tall blonde from your past.”

“Sam was a man.”

“Gender is a construct–”

“I know! I don’t need another lecture–”

“–designed to control the masses, just like– ”

“Capitalism, religion, television….who knows what else,” Myka gruffs. “No more podcasts in the car for a while, OK?" 

Helena crosses her arms over her chest and grunts dismissively. Myka's face pinches as she holds her ground.

"So you, what, went up to this woman when I took that call from the Warehouse?”

“As it happens, she spoke with me,” Helena says, puffing up like a bird on the defense.

“She came to our table?”

“I’d gone to the bar. I needed a top-up as you’d been gone for an immeasurable amount of time.”

“And she just happened to be there?”

“Coincidentally.”

“Coincidentally? And she 'coincidentally’ gave you her number?”

“We had a lovely conversation about the mechanics from the show. The hanging armatures, the chains, the silks, the water tank. And the athleticism that went into their provocative stunts.”

“Uh-huh. But she gave you her number. Why?”

“I believe there was a misunderstanding.”

“A misunderstanding?”

“Must you parrot me so?” Helena plants her hands on her hips.

“If you’d tell me what really happened, I wouldn’t have to.” Myka mirrors Helena’s pose.

“Fine. You seemed so enamored, I thought to ask questions–”

“I thought I recognized her, that’s all!”

“She was quite stunning. Did I mention statuesque?”

“Helena, why?” Myka waves the page in Helena’s direction.

“She offered us a backstage tour.”

“Us, or you?”

“I’d pointedly mentioned you, so us.”

“Oh.” Myka’s shoulders slump. “What does 'backstage tour’ mean?”

“I believe a peek behind the production.”

“Because you said there was a misunderstanding.”

“Due to her somewhat pointed overtures.”

“I knew it! She was hitting on you.” Myka smacks the desk with her hand. 

Helena grimaces. “I believe she was 'fishing’”

“Do you even know what that is?”

“I do, as per the aforementioned police procedurals. In fact, it was….refreshing, being courted by a woman." 

"I’m a woman!”

“Yes, but….in the wild, so to speak.”

“Did you…” Myka starts, then glances at the paper again. She sits on the edge of the bed and looks up at Helena. “Did you want to go out with her?" 

"Again, I’d pointedly pointed out I was taken.”

“Then why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because we rushed off New York, New York the minute your call from the Warehouse finished.” Helena throws her hands in the air. “We then spent the majority of yesterday chasing an elusive King Kong around that scale model of the city.”

“We did. Stupid antiques convention.”

“I swear we spend more time on Warehouse business than our own.”

“Like once a month.”

“Every week.”

“Every other week. When they call us. Us getting whammied doesn’t count.”

“Mine was New Orleans. Yours Austin. But the others…”

Myka tallies missions on fingers until she hits ten. “You’re right. We’ve spent a lot of time on Warehouse stuff. I’m sorry.”

Helena shakes her head while breathing out a heavy sigh. She sits next to Myka and lays a hand on her thigh. “To answer your question, we’re off today anyway, so there was no point in mentioning it.”

Myka slips her hand over Helena’s. “I bet you actually wanted to see the mechanics backstage. That’s something people do on vacation.”

“Quite an improvement from Trouble Wit,” Helena says.

“I don’t know that that is.”

“Illusions with pleated paper. Parlor tricks, but they delighted Christina so.”

“See, I like hearing that stuff,” Myka says, squeezing Helena’s hand. “Would you have told me any of this if I hadn’t found the flyer cleaning up?’ She hands the paper to Helena.

"Why would it matter?” Helena crumples the paper and lobs it towards the garbage can. It bounces off and onto the floor. 

“Because for this to work we need to talk to each other, tell each other how we feel.” Myka looks Helena in the eye. “I can’t read your mind.”

“Then, perhaps we were not destined to meet throughout time and space.”

“Hey, you can’t take it back. I like that idea now.” Myka threads her fingers through Helena's and flips their hands over. “You’re really annoyed about the work stuff?”

“I was hoping to have you all to myself.”

“You do.” Myka squeezes Helena’s hand again and lifts it up, kissing its back. “How much time do we have before checkout?”

Helena glances at her wristwatch. “Not nearly enough.”

“But it could be.” Myka threads a lock of hair behind Helena’s ear and guides their lips together. Their kiss leads to more-than-kissing in record time.

Next Scene: Running late to checkout…

-TBC-

NOTES: The quote, “Las Vegas is a city built on hopes, dreams and a little bit of crazy,” is by Eleanor Goggin. If you haven’t seen a well-shot stereograph in a viewer, you are missing out. Their mock-3D spaces from bygone eras can be mind-blowing.Myka with the flyer is from a season four episode where she and Pete go to Las Vegas. The show Zumanity is a racy offshoot of Cirque du Soleil and just closed after a seventeen-year run in Vegas. I started reading a fascinating dissertation about why middle- and upper-class Victorian women embraced Spiritualism. In a nutshell, it gave them autonomy and a sense of power within the rigid confines of what was expected of them as women while they remained safe within the construct of home. H.G. would have bristled at that, because she wanted more. But I’m certain she would have been fascinated by Hilma af Klint’s amazing drawings and paintings, even though they were based in Spiritualism and Theosophy. Oh and here's on of the stereographs. (H.G. would have seen it later than 1898.) Also, the title font/design is from the first edition of the book you are thinking of but the content is not related.

[shigarakisdumbwhore]

Evan, Oh Evan - FNAF One-Shot

A/N: In this story Evan dies before Elizabeth. The Afton family moved over to America when Michael was a little boy. Charlotte is slightly younger than Michael before her death. Afton is a typical father until his breaking point. It's told from the perspective of old Michael looking back. It's not 100% canon and I went my own way with a lot for some creative freedom. It's been 7 years since I wrote my first FNAF fanfiction on Wattpad and it's gotta be 5 years since the last time I wrote one. Funny how much we change and grow, from 11 to 18.

Summary: The Bite of '83 has just occured and now Michael is in a panic trying to process everything as he runs away from his father's consequences.

Word Count: 2,324

Warnings: extreme and graphic descriptions of death, blood, and gore, cursing, descriptive feelings of grief and anger, just about anything you can expect of FNAF so if you can't handle that then I suggest you find something different

It was the sound. It was the sight. It was the way Evan hung there inside the bear’s mouth. The scene was so gruesome I couldn’t even describe it if I tried. The image is burned inside my brain just as vivid as the moment it happened but I can't say it out loud. The words won't come out. It’s not my proudest moment and I don’t like talking about it.

Not a lot of people liked my father. They thought there was something a bit off about him, and suspected strange things from him. He was never violent with us as young kids. Never the most affectionate and fun-loving father either, unlike how I knew my friends’ dads to be, but he loved us in his way. I liked to call it the Afton way. I wasn’t as affectionate with Evan or Elizabeth either, especially not Evan. I guess you could have even considered me to be a bully. I was just like any other teenager. I thought I knew everything, consequences didn’t affect me, I never did anything wrong, and the world revolved around me. The only thing that was much different than everyone else was that William Afton was my father, my biological father.

At that moment, the first thing that crossed my mind was Shit, what’s dad gonna say about this? The thought Evan was dying didn’t click at first. It didn’t click until much, much later on in the hospital room. I remember staring at his back, the blood pouring down his neck and staining his dark shirt. I lifted my mask and looked around. The room was full of guests, I knew that, but it felt completely empty. Despite all the eyes on me, the only glare I felt pierce through my soul was my father’s across the room. He was standing with two people, holding a glass with fruit punch in it, and staring at me. I felt a shiver run down my spine the second our eyes met. If only looks could kill, I would have been a goner.

“Shit, man. Shit, Michael, c’mon. What did you do?” My friends were talking to me, shouting and crying, but everything sounded fuzzy. My focus was entirely centered on my father, from his eyes to his posture. I had never felt so many emotions flow through me at once. I felt the fear and anxiety of what happened to Evan, and the anger and drive coming off my father.

I glanced at Evan and then back to my father, who was now making his way to me in a stride. I saw the push in his first step and something told me I needed to run or I was going to get the beating of my life. My body moved before I could think. I don’t even remember how I got out of the building or where I got the bike, much less who owned it. They should have got a lock.

I heard the sirens of an ambulance and turned around to see it behind me. I swerved to the side of the road, then pushed the petals to follow it as fast as possible. There was no evidence presented to me that ambulance held my brother other than just the feeling I had in my gut. I turned my head to see my father’s car, old, busted up, and rusted. It was too distinct to be anyone else's. Everything seemed to be going so fast and so slow at the same time. It was like my vision couldn’t keep up. At first, it appeared nobody was driving the car until he got so close to me, close enough he could have run me over. This time though, it wasn’t the look from before. It wasn’t the typical I’m going to give you a beating look. This glare was as cold and true as a killer. Little did I know at that moment, those eyes would stay that way for the rest of my father’s life.

A last minute decision made me take a sudden turn down a side road. My father continued to follow the ambulance as I ran to the closest business, an innocent family diner. I rushed in without a hello, begging to use their phone.

“Are you okay, boy? You look ill,” an older woman to my right asked me.

“No,” I cried, “I just… please, let me use your phone.” The waitress behind the counter pointed to a white phone sitting next to the register. I pushed two older men, innocently drinking their coffee at the stools, aside to leap over the counter, but not without a couple barks about how offensive I was behaving.

“Uncle Henry? I think I did something really, really bad. Can you come pick me up?”

“What ha-” he paused, and then just hummed to himself, “Where are you? I’ll be right there.” I asked the waitress for the name and address and then gave it to Uncle Henry. He didn’t say anything else to me. I heard the click and then the tone. I listened to it for a few seconds before I realized nobody was on the other side anymore. My brain was fried and I couldn't think straight.

“Everything alri-”

“I'm fine! Stop asking,” I snapped as I ran out the door. It felt like forever I sat at the bottom of the steps before Uncle Henry pulled up. He wasn’t my real uncle but he felt close enough to be one. He was my father’s business partner and good friend. Henry was much softer than my father. It was refreshing for me sometimes but I needed it more than I ever needed it before that day. I jumped into the passenger seat. Uncle Henry didn’t waste any time asking any questions.

“What happened? You look like you saw a ghost, you’re completely white.” His hand reached out to touch my forehead. “You’re so cold.”

“I… I think I killed someone. Dad’s gonna kill me!”

Uncle Henry had an expression of disbelief wash over his face. He blinked fast as it appeared he tried to process the information. “Woah, calm down. Tell me what happened. I don’t think you’re capable of killing some…one…,” his voice trailed off once he saw the look on my face.

“Evan got stuck in one of the animatronics… I put him in there. I didn’t know! I didn’t mean to! They’re taking him to the hospital now…”

Uncle Henry’s face grew rapidly pale. He remained silent as he stared at me, analyzing me as if trying to see some kind of hint of a prank. I wished it was a prank. Everything was so hazy it felt like a fever dream. The weather was so beautiful, it had to of been a crime to have such a tragedy happen. He looked away from me, now with the face of disappointment. The feeling doomed on me perhaps I should never have called him. I wanted to get out of the car and run away forever. He sighed but still remained completely silent.

As a kid, it's impossible to understand some of the things adults say or mean. One of those things was how could silence be deafening? My father often played The Sound of Silence by Simon and Garfunkel on his record player, which dawned the question for me. There was no sound to silence, that’s why it’s called silence. However, at that moment, at the ripe age of fourteen, I finally understood what they all meant, and I wished I could become ignorant again. I realized then too that ignorance truly was bliss.

Uncle Henry licked his lips. “I’m going to take you to the hospital. We’re going to go in after your father lea-”

“But why?”

“After your father leaves. We’ll see how he is, I’m sure he’s fine. Waiting won’t do any harm. Those animatronics couldn’t have hurt him too much…” his voice trailed off again. I could almost sense a feeling of doubt in his affirmations. I didn’t want to tell him at the time, how I saw the blood and the way it crushed his skull. I figured it was best to pretend I didn’t see it and pray to God Evan would be alright.

Uncle Henry stayed with me the whole time until he could verify my father eventually left to go home. It was late, the sun was setting. There was an eerie sensation in the atmosphere that I couldn’t quite put my finger on. Together we walked side by side into the hospital. The door to Evan's room was shut.

“I do have to inform you,” the nurse said, “the sight is quite disturbing. I wouldn’t recommend anyone with even the strongest stomach to go in there.”

“Will… will he be okay?” Uncle Henry and the nurse only exchanged glances and nothing more. He kneeled down to me and put his hand on my shoulder.

“If you don’t want to go in there and see him like that, we don’t have to.”

“Will you take me home?”

“Of course, kiddo,” he patted my shoulder with a forced smile.

I had never seen Uncle Henry walk away from something so fast. It was like his body didn’t think before it moved. I knew he didn’t want to see Evan like that and he didn’t want me to see either. Thinking back on it, there’s not a doubt in my mind he knew. Once he arrived in the hospital, he knew there was no chance in hell that Evan Afton would survive.

Uncle Henry drove me home. The car ride was mostly silent besides the low volume from his radio. Out of respect, neither of us turned it up, but I had to admit it made the environment tense. He asked if I wanted to stay at his place, offered to talk it over with my dad for me, but I politely declined. Sooner or later I knew I’d have to face my dad.

I was infamous for blasting through the door and slamming it shut so hard my father would holler from upstairs. However this time I was painfully aware of every sound I made inside the house. I tried to sound invisible but it was an epic fail. I looked straight ahead and saw my dad in the kitchen, sitting at the table in a chair facing me. In his hands, he had an open newspaper. His eyes just barely peered over the sheet to see me. That killer glare still possessed his eyes. Back then, I didn’t know any better that he truly had the intent to kill. Back then, he was just my dad.

I stood in front of the door like a deer in headlights. A million thoughts about what to do raced through my mind. Up the stairs? No, he’ll chase you. I’d rather be buried like a dog in the backyard than face a beating in my bed. Go talk to him, or maybe he doesn’t want to talk to me. If he wanted to talk to me, he would have said something already, right? Right? Right? Right… right… right… right… RIGHT?

My body jolted from the loud and sudden sound of the newspaper smacking on the wooden kitchen table. Dad's palms were pressed down firmly, so hard I could see the white creeping up the sides of his hands from where I stood. He leaned over the table and just gazed into my eyes. To me, it felt like he was inches away from my face. I swore I could feel his hot breath as he huffed.

“Get. Away. From. Me.” His voice didn’t sound real. In all reality, he spoke sternly and soft. Somehow, to me, it echoed and rang in my ears like a loud bomb going off in my mind. I didn’t hesitate to walk to the stairs next to me. I paused. At the top of the staircase stood my sister, Elizabeth. She had tears in her eyes as she hugged her teddy bear. I didn’t get the chance to say anything to her before she took off running, like she was afraid of me. I felt a pit form in my stomach. Would people think I was a murderer? Am I going to jail? I slowly walked up the stairs to my room.

When I opened the door, I nearly jumped out of my skin. Sitting on my bed, hugging her knees to her chest, was Charlotte, Uncle Henry’s daughter. She wasn't much younger than me. We got along well because of the closeness in our age. The wind blew my curtains around from the open window next to my bed, she must have crawled in. This wasn’t unusual. Charlotte and I often would sneak out at night to visit each other.

“Does Uncle Henry know you’re here?”

“That’s all you’re going to say to me?”

“Well, what am I supposed to say to you?!” My voice was a mixture of anger and sadness, filled with vulnerable cracks and shakes. I didn’t mean to snap at her. I just wasn’t sure how I felt or how I was supposed to feel. How does one child handle such a thing, much less two of the opposite gender and values.

“Daddy said Evan isn’t going to do good.”

Will… will he be okay?

“It doesn’t take a genius to figure that out.” I plopped down in my desk chair and leaned my head on my hand.

“Why did you do it?”

“It was only a joke… I didn’t mean to.” I didn’t mean to, right?

[5oclockcoffees]

The landscape that surrounds my home in Sweden can be misleading. The bird activity it contains is diluted by the vastness of the flat open land and sky, which gives the impression that very little is going on. In January 2015, with the inkling of an idea that their activity might be more prevalent than I first thought, I decided to try to pull the birds from the sky. On the edge of a field next to a stream I set up a 6 cm-diameter stage in the form of a wooden pillar about one and half metres high. Opposite it I placed another, the same size, on which I mounted a motion-sensor camera. When I visited the camera a few days later, to my surprise, it had worked. The pillar had funnelled the birds from the sky offering them a place to rest, feed, nurse their young, and look around. I was captivated. The images were often chaotic, the birds offbeat and awkward like contortionists, but the shapes and soft lines made by their bodies and wings were arresting. From my kitchen window the pillar appeared like a matchstick in the flat distance yet the absence afforded the birds a greater presence in my mind. Even when I was out of the country I would be imagining the activity on the stage. Most were species I had never seen before, though a few I recognised from my teenage obsession with inner-city bird life, which had been central to my escalating interest in making photographs in Bristol, growing up. My frame of mind making this new work took me right back to those years as if completing a full circle. This new exercise became an accidental way of getting to know both bird behaviour and even individual birds. Some were small, some were large, and some had distinctive personalities, completely vivid, and resembling people I knew. I am very drawn to the shapes presented by birds in flight, birds perched, and those in between the two: claws clenched overhanging the surface of the pillar, translucent feathers splayed to reveal patterns and markings, images as pristine as in an identification book, and those, too, which are battered, wet or windswept. The shapes often conjured images of the birds playing stringed instruments, or wearing cloaks and masks, exercising or screaming. I was also struck by how the relatively fixed pre-composed rectangle of the camera offered a reminder of the infinite variations of a single scene over a period of time, suggesting that nothing happens twice. It is now four years since the project began and the weather-beaten wooden pillar has become moulded into the landscape as if it has always been there. I often think of it like a sundial that occasionally catches the arc of the sun. In the summer months, the dry weather prompts cracks to appear and the pillar becomes brittle. In the autumn the pillar darkens in tone absorbing water again triggering moss to swell and spread. Over time the 6 cm wooden stage has become smoother as if slightly polished by the landing of many feet. The surface grain of the wood is more pronounced where claws have scraped between the growth rings. I have since learned that the region of Skåne, where I live, is home to 192 of the 250 species of birds that are native to Sweden. The Pillar, Stephen Gill.

[bnhablessings]

okay how about a bakugou angst scenario where his s/o gets hurt in training. he’s either very angry (more than usual) or just quiet because of how distraught he is. could you even write the reaction of him visiting his s/o at the hospital?

I may have cried writing this. I was in such a downer mood that it played perfectly into my writing. This definitely turned into a one-shot btw. I hope you enjoy this, Lovely!

I totally was thinking of Avatar the last air bender when I thought of what quirk she could have btw

Bakugou Katsuki x Female!Reader

Warnings: Angst (so much angst- like grab a tub of ice-cream, but I am a baby so idk), fluffy ending, mentions of blood/violence, talks of death, grammar mistakes probably

Words: 2,440

 Everyone knew that you trained frequently with Todoroki and Midoriya. It was how you became stronger and Todoroki didn’t mind helping you out (after Izuku talked him into it). You were grateful for every opportunity you had to train with them. It worked well as Midoriya always managed to help you work on your quirk.

Your quirk was a rather simple one. It was Earth Manipulation. It’s just as the quirk name suggests, you can manipulate the Earth. The only condition was that your feet had to be bare in order to feel the Earth under you.

It made it a challenge for the two who constantly trained with you and vice versa. The only downside was your boyfriend, Bakugou, who hated the idea of you training with them. Of course, he couldn’t stop you.

Which eventually leads to a dreadful night that will forever be etched into his brain.

~*~

For once, Bakugou can’t go to sleep no matter how hard he tried. He can’t figure out why. His hand rests against his phone and his body starts to fill with anxiety and anger since he has no idea why he’s feeling like this.

Eventually, it hits him. He checks his phone and to his very strong annoyance, it’s past 9:30. He should be asleep right now and you usually would’ve given him one of your annoying (but lovely) goodnight texts. That’s why he couldn’t sleep. You didn’t say goodnight.

Could you possibly still be training?

The thought made him angrier. He told you numerous amounts of times that sleep is important (his sleep). It pissed him off that you were spending so much time with Icy-Hot and fucking Deku. Just the idea of them with you right now is sending his blood boiling, more than usual, anyway.

He’ll have to give you a piece of his mind later is what he is thinking. Anything to get rid of the annoying worry that seems to bubble up in the pit of his stomach.

He makes it close to the training grounds. It feels rather cold but he brushes it off, feeling even more concerned for you now. When he is near, he is surprised to not hear any sounds of fighting. His ears instead pick up concerned hushed voices.

As soon as he steps foot in the training ground his whole body freezes at what he sees. The scene before him sends his heart racing in the worst way possible. His blood feels like it froze, at his anger almost dissipates.

Why are you on the ground?

Why is Recovery Girl here?

Everything feels like it’s going in slow-motion as he tries to make his suddenly heavy feet move. Aizawa is the first person to notice his presence. He is quick to make the two boys who were training with you go to him.

The last thing he needs is for Bakugou to see you in such a… state like this.

“Kaachan- I- She-“ Midoriya is cut off from Bakugou’s harsh glare as he suddenly tries to look past his two classmates.

“What the fuck happened?!” He shouts.

The concern is so obvious in his voice and it almost makes Midoriya want to cry.  He tries to explain again after taking a deep breath.

“(Name), had a serious accident-“

Midoriya is pushed out of the way as soon as those words leave his lips. Todoroki is quick to try and stop him from venturing further but it was futile once the ash-blond heard your name and accident. Midoriya and Todoroki trail after the angry boy in hopes they’ll stop him but it’s too late.

He sees your body on the ground. Your eyes are closed. Blood is oozing out of the back of your head. Your whole body is limp. Recovery Girl looks saddened. It feels like he can’t breathe. Why? What happened? Why are you like that?

“Bakugou, Todoroki, Midoriya, head back to the dorms,” Aizawa demands.

“Fuck that- Like I’m going back. Tell me what happened right now! Why aren’t you helping her?!” Bakugou is shouting at this point.

Before Aizawa can explain or command him yet again to leave. A new voice filled with sympathy speaks.

“Young Bakugou, now is not the time to be shouting. I’m escorting Young (Name) to the hospital with Recovery Girl. Listen to Aizawa. We’ll keep you and your class updated as needed,” All Might says.

He and Aizawa don’t allow Bakugou to think about it. They are quick to make sure you are securely in All Might’s arms with Recovery Girl. Just like that, he was gone.

Bakugou’s mind goes blank before the anger hits him out of nowhere. He turns around and glares at your training comrades. Aizawa, thankfully, predicted this would happen and ends up subduing the poor angry boy.

~*~

The first day without your presence makes everyone wary. The whole atmosphere is tense and fragile. The wrong word or action feels like it could make the one who is causing the tension explode. Class 1-A is at a loss on how to approach him.

It’s obvious that since your… incident… last evening, that he has not been in a great mood. Scratch that, it is obvious that he is in the worst mood possible. It even has Aizawa and the other teachers more concerned than usual. The class has no idea what happened. All they do know is that you simply went to your usual training session with Todoroki and Midoriya. They decide to keep their distance and give him time the first day.

The second day has everyone on edge. Bakugou hasn’t said a single word but the distinct popping sounds from his quirk are heard every now and then throughout the day.

The third day someone finally speaks to him. It was a simple question but one that made the popping sounds grow and Bakugou’s expression to become mixed.

“Bakubro, what happened with (Name)?” It was Kirishima who asked.

Of course, fucking Deku and Icy-Hot explained to him what happened and god… Just imagining what happened the way they described it is killing him. The crackling noises from his palms cease to be and he says absolutely nothing.

He focuses his stare as he thinks about you. Allowing what he did not witness to fill his head. That is until he hears Midoriya and Todoroki speak up in what they call a “whisper”. He almost scoffs but he doesn’t. He doesn’t have the energy to. Instead, the images in his head become more vivid from their words.

“We were training but (Name) wanted to go a little longer than usual, which was odd,” Todoroki murmurs.

Midoriya nods and continues, “We can tell she was getting tired but she kept pushing and begging so we continued. Aizawa, of course, was there ready to kick us out when she unleashed one of her new moves.”

“It appeared it didn’t go to plan. One of the huge boulders she produced from the Earth didn’t go the way she wanted- And well, (Name) started to panic,” Todoroki states his eyes falling down as he recalls the memory.

Midoriya nods his head and frowns. “I- Uh, I don’t know exactly what happened but within her panic, she lost control of her quirk? There were rubble and stone everywhere coming from the ground but… Then we just saw her on the ground. A large piece of stone seemed to land on her… We should’ve stopped her. Told her to wait until she had enough strength to try that move,” Midoriya says his voice cracking a few times from the guilt.

Bakugou stands abruptly. The desk is pushed away and the chair fell to the ground. His breathing is heavy but he says absolutely nothing as he walks out of the room. He knows it’s not their fault. He knows this but it’s so hard not to blame them. Not to blame you.

He wishes he could just yell at you. Call you a dumbass and see your embarrassed expression from that or hear a snarky retort back. Just anything. He didn’t think he can love someone as much as he does you but it is certainly hitting him hard right now.

“Young Bakugou, I- You have been granted permission to see Young (Name). Would you like to come with Mr. Aizawa and myself?” All Might asks.

What a dumb fucking question Bakugou thinks to himself.

~*~

“I have to warn you. The doctor-“ Bakugou doesn’t allow All Might to speak as he opens the door.

It slams against the wall and immediately Aizawa is glaring at the male. However, it softens upon seeing Bakugou trying to fight any emotions on his face. The only give-away to Bakugou’s grief is the small tremble of his lip.

He goes to take a seat beside your laying figure. His hand immediately reaching for your rather limp one. It feels slightly cold to him and that bothers him greatly.

“Young Bakugou, as I was saying before. This may be terrible to look at since it appears she is sleeping but as I explained in the car she is in a coma. The doctor said they managed to get the swelling from the brain trauma down but because she is in a coma there is a chance that she may not wake up,” All Might finally says what he’s been meaning to.

Bakugou’s hand grips yours even tighter but in a firm voice he states, “She’s going to wake up.”

If you don’t, he won’t know what to do.

~*~

Day by day got harder as you showed no signs of waking up. He kept to himself as always but his shouting has been to a low minimum. Only glares, small growls, and the popping sound of his quirk indicate his low mood, which happened to be all the time now.

Each day he would get with one of the teachers to visit you at the hospital. They allowed him a small time to have some privacy with you and every time he would allow his strong façade to drop. Only in front of your unmoving body as he begs you to wake up or keep staying strong.

The one day he nearly had a heart attack visiting you was the day he caught Midoriya and Todorki visiting you. They had flowers and a card with them and looked dressed up but that seemed to piss him off more. He ignored every logical thought in his head as he hurled towards the two before they can dare open the door to your room.

Aizawa who escorted Bakugou this time got lucky he reacted just as fast and erased Bakugou’s quirk as his hand neared the boys’ faces.

When nothing happened, the two look surprised and glance at their teacher.

“Bakugou, if you are going to act like that you will no longer be allowed to visit (Last Name).”

Just the thought kills him. He bites his tongue as he glares at the two who figured out why he is so angry. Why he finally broke and nearly exploded their faces off. However, none of them had time to bring it up as a loud and fast beeping sound comes from your room.

A few nurses push through to the room and a doctor comes inside and Aizawa knowing the drill forces all of the boys to leave to the waiting room.

Bakugou hates the waiting as his heart beats incredibly fast.

“We do feel guilty but we aren’t the ones that caused her harm. It was an accident from her pushing too hard,” Todoroki broke the silence.

Midoriya can only nod.

That was the only day he couldn’t see you do to the fact you stopped breathing for a few minutes.

~*~

“(Name), it’s been a whole month without you. You gotta wake up soon. I don’t know how much longer I can fucking handle this shit,” Bakugou whispers into the skin of your forehead before placing a kiss on it.

He continues to vent to you as this has been his only outlet.

“I know I don’t say it a lot. I know I can be a complete dick but I do love you. This hurts and you’re the only one I can truly rely on. The other idiots can never take your place. I need my dumbass.”

He stops talking to take in much needed shaky breath before placing another kiss on your forehead.

The door opens and All Might and Aizawa walk in. “Ready to go Young Bakugou?”

No. He’s really not. He never wants to leave. It’s been an absolute nightmare. His heart aches whenever he sees you in this damn bed but he doesn’t voice it to anyone. He hates it when his lip trembles but it always seems to when he tries to show how he’s not feeling about you.

He stands up being careful with your hand, ready to place it at your side, and just as he’s ready to let go of it, you squeeze it. Bakugou stops. It was the lightest squeeze ever but it was the first time you have done it.

The teachers notice the sudden change in him and watch with alertness. Bakugou stares down at you and sits back down as soon as your eyes open.

“I’m going to get the doctor,” All Might quickly states as Aizawa goes to your other side.

You are staring straight up and trying to speak when Aizawa shushes you. The doctor comes in just in time to say, “Miss (Last Name), try not to worry-“

Bakugou blocks it out as he can no longer fight the tears. You’re awake.

~*~

This time Bakugou heads towards the hospital without a scowl. A teacher should already be there helping with physical therapy and such but by the time he gets there, you should be done.

He’s on time as Midnight helps you gently lay down on the bed. She nods at Bakugou before leaving to give you both a few minutes of privacy.

Ever since you woke up, Bakugou has been more affectionate. It’s odd but you can sense the constant worry he has for you. A smile appears on your face and without thinking you say, “I love you too.”

He pauses and looks puzzled.

“I don’t remember much but I heard you. I heard you constantly telling me that I will wake up, that you love me, that I’m your dumbass,” You say gently.

His lips tremble once more and all he can manage to say is, “I need you more than you know, Dumbass.”

[mantrabay]

Hope Springs Eternal Part 2.9

One should be cognizant of tread marks of a different kind that await all of us.

But attitude is key. A timeless trait.

More fodder this for that colourful cryptic creation I’m churning about in my brain.

One could not help but notice the dwellings in this compact charming but claustrophobic town.

They were spreadeagled to a fault with scant regard for privacy or personal space.

Neighbours like nodding polders wave from their aluminum polycarbonate verandas.

The sort with integrated guttering and moulded frames.

All packed together like crates in a warehouse.

A carbon copy of some construction company’s catalogue.

The trailing shrubs, wilting flowers in mosaic porcelain propagators, superimposed trellises and overstocked pools to name but a few.

They only served to reinforce their stylish if somewhat stifling similarity.

I was mindful of today’s appointment thanks to my tarnished gold watch and the sonorous chiming of the nearby chapel clock.

Of course one must not overlook Mr and Mrs Ispy as they were nicknamed locally.

The naughty snoops who were minding everybody's business bar their own.

Adam and alma ahern were their names.

Aunt Virginia had some scathing words about their type.

“Some people base their whole world around tittle tattle.

They are grounded in matters that smart folk view with Olympian disdain.”

One can just imagine the cocked ears and protruding noses feasting on every scrap of scandal real or contrived.

Theirs was an in-built antennae always aligned for mischief of the murkiest kind.

They had an ubiquitous presence.

You never knew what hedge or door they might pop out of.

They sniffer dogged their way around every trail, route, and byway in pursuit of some scurrilous rumour.

Encylopaedic were they on shenanigans of all kinds.

A satellite dish for backstabbing and intrigue.

Some were even so unkind as to suggest that they spied on each other.

They knew everybody and wormed their way into everyone’s confidence when they could!

Gossips at the cutting edge of trivia.

“Oops ….oh no! I’m about to crash.”

I said with my voice trembling.

Lost concentration for a minute.

My notepad and pen skating on a footpath that resembled a small scale ice rink.

Aunt virginia's word’s about focus were never more valid.

“ There goes my poem on ...a mudpatch.”

Despite this sudden intrusion I kept my balance but maybe lost something valuable.

A tumult of events on the ground and overhead took place.

Shrill birds chirping and circulating in the sky, swooning and swooping like a scene from an Alfred Hitchcock movie.

As I slowly regained my balance I walked wearily and warily towards the diary with said verse.

The lines were smeared with mud.

Uncannily like a lady’s mudpack.

The heartfelt lines were still legible.

Well, just about.

My heart was beating for various reasons now.

I had a 4 pmdeadline to meet with forty or so minutes to spare.

Yet there were so many distractions.

An embarrassment of diversion sometimes towered above that stultifying uniformity which threatens even the most imaginative town architecture.

Or was my mind playing tricks on me with all the soundscapes and stimulation of the senses?

The downside of being a poet and writer perhaps?

Virginia’s words of wisdom coming back to haunt me but would I listen ?

The real world and fantasy can segue into one another with distinctions blurred and the usual proneness to exaggeration.

Were the exotic whiffs of Bombay mix recipes emanating from a market place bazaar or some nearby dwelling?

Were they just an illusion with factual elements mixed in?

Either way a favourite haunt of both the Ispy’s and the teen couple I had spoken to earlier was a marketplace.

Both had their own agenda with the aherns being the

more devious!

Pumpkin seed baps on spits reeking of sesame oil with the most aromatic seasonings wafting everywhere or so I thought.

Incense and Moroccan spices taunting the nose of this stroller on a mission. But also setting off rumblings in the tummy that couldn’t be sated immediately.

A very vivid image of Virginia with her Mona Lisaesque demeanor appeared.

I was juggling her insights on punctuality and other matters and trying to act on them.

Was I clutching at an ebbing twilight zeal or a burgeoning young at heart momentum?

Distractions make inroads into time but I felt I was being drawn to them.

Did I hear the raucous sound of docker’s voices barely audible but imaginable above the booming traffic?

Were they coming from somewhere close?

Maybe the ships trademark foghorn was setting off an overactive mind or had I supernatural powers at this point in my life?

Whatever the truth, there’s been many a threadbare naval yarn I’ve overheard.

The type that has been twisted, embroidered, embellished even marinated on seas high and low.

Gag induced guffaws billowing upwards as smoke from a chimney stack.

Uproarious bonhomie drowning out the offloading of fetid fish catch.

The vortex of a spiraling timeline giddy with impulse and image drove me on in defiance of their colour and charisma.

But before I knew it a wafer thin voice called out from the corner shop, the location of my rendezvous.

“Hello. Hope spring. I’m your date.

Bang on time both of us.”

A Spritely lady in her late sixties with profuse greying hair.

Her eyes were so expressive and sparkled with life.

“Don’t know if I shared my last name when we first met.”

“You did.” I replied.

Virginia, would be proud of my recollection.

“Did you get my call earlier this morning reminding you of the date?”

Hope Spring queried.

“I must have missed it.” Said I archly.

“I also wanted to ask how the poem was going?

We started talking casually as you were writing it.

You were having trouble naming it.”

She said.

“I couldn’t think … how about ?”

We both spoke at the same time and laughed.

“Hope ….hope springs eternal!”

The good of it all had us in stitches. I doubt my aunt Virginia would have approved with her dislike of such humour.

“Have you got the poem with you?” Hope enquired.

“No. Sorry, hope some of the lines are a bit muddied.” A reply that made me blush.

Virginia would have scowled.

“Maybe the next time we meet you’ll have it done.” Hope again.

That sounds promising I muttered to myself.

“Yahoo…..you two love birds.

Have fun. See you at the local coffee house.”

Sonia and Winifred's message as they passed by on their bicycles jolting us out of our conversation.

“Lovely people. Maybe we should take their advice and head off that way.”

Hope placing her right hand on mine.

I nodded in agreement.

“I’ve had this strange feeling all day that I’m being watched… another presence.

Ever had that feeling ?” Miss Spring enquired

innocently.

“As I haven’t been in this town for long

it seems more intense than the usual curiosity.” She continued.

“Shortly after I arrived in this

area I met a charming couple called the aherns.

They warned me of gossips who fed on eavesdropping and misfortune.

Maybe that’s it. I’m certainly grateful for their warning.” Said Hope.

I could barely restrain myself at this bizarre twist that Virginia would definitely

have found amusing.

At that I walked towards the cafe with Hope while craning my neck, taking in all all my surroundings and noticing everything!!

Photographs and short story extract mantrabay copyright protected.

Thanks as always for reading and viewing my posts.

I appreciate that.

[letterboxd]

Touching the Void.

Searching for cinema that soothes? Ella Kemp suggests it could be as simple as looking for a film poster with a white background.

How many weeks has it been? When did any of us last go blindly into a cinema and take a chance on something new? Film-watching in the time of Covid-19 has changed. The immediate and never-ending news of the world is frightening. Is it still, and more than ever, okay for me to sink into movies to alleviate my mood, just for a bit? How is that even possible when the world has come to a standstill?

We are forced to adapt, and it has taken some time for my attention span and emotional capacity to adjust. But I think I might have found a solution, and I have the meticulous list-makers of Letterboxd to thank. It was Izzy’s list of comfort movies that first lit the fuse. Specifically, the second, third and fourth row; films including Billy Elliot, Clueless, School of Rock.

Fifteen stark posters, speaking one truth: We are vulnerable and nervous. What we need is a film poster with a white background to assure us the movie exists entirely to serve and soothe us.

Part of Izzy’s ‘comfort movies’ list.

List-making on Letterboxd has never been more prolific. Pandemic movies, overdue filmography catch-ups, comfort movies galore. Everyone categorizes and logs their watches differently, but Izzy’s pattern speaks to me with an epiphanic answer. I’ve always admired successful color-coding, but now I see its crucial function.

As I scroll for distraction, for something guaranteed to be good (because I cannot and will not be subject to any uncertainty I can avoid), I see the rainbow. The pale blues of Studio Ghibli, Wong Kar-wai’s passionate reds, the pastels of Netflix Original breezy romances. Like some kind of cinematic ikebana, countless Letterboxd members have mastered the art of arranging film posters. There are standouts: the staggering oeuvre that is Gordon’s chromatic roundup of favorite posters; the comprehensive color-graded history of women directors via their best posters, courtesy of Vanessa; and the penchant for beige in the year 2015, as spotted by Letterboxd co-founder Matthew Buchanan.

A selection of Gordon’s favorite movie posters.

But when I see these 300 examples, color-coded by typography and accents by Sera Ash, I recognize that white movie posters are the ones most likely, in this very strange time, to take care of me. I see it in three distinct filmmaking periods: Disney animations from the 1940s and 50s, the video marketing for cult comedies of the 1980s and 90s, and the alternative marketing materials of my favorite films of the 2010s. Each poster is straightforward and inoffensive. It captures the story, but never dares to impress or intimidate beyond basic description.

A 1975 re-release poster for ‘Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs’ (1937).

In 1937, Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs announced the birth of Walt Disney’s feature-length empire. While its original theatrical poster is also mostly white, it is represented on Letterboxd by a 1975 re-release poster depicting a peek through the keyhole: a curved triangle framing Snow White, the dwarves, and the two sides of the jealous queen, against a vivid green forest. In the bottom corner, a castle. To the left, the title—her name in red cursive, theirs in black. These simple images come together to present an elementary summary of the ingredients within. The white frame showcases the seminal animation craft without suggesting the viewer diverts their eye anywhere else.

This technique was common across other animated titles, collected in lists like dantebk’s Disney animated classics. Pinocchio toys with the hyperreal relationships between characters alive and wooden, human and animal—but does so on a plain canvas, so that the magic remains within reach. Dumbo, Bambi, Cinderella, Peter Pan—each follows suit. Whether with the mustard yellow of a circus tent, the faint sketches of grass tufts, the gold dust of an enchanted fairy godmother or the ink blue of a midnight starry sky, these colors (indicative of each defining scene-setter or mood-maker) only pepper a blank background, and so make their significance ever greater with the most sporadic touches.

A selection from dantebk’s list of Disney animated classics.

Live-action knockouts from these decades—films like The Shop Around The Corner and The Red Shoes—embrace painted recreations of their protagonists (Margaret Sullivan and James Stewart as festive lovers in the former, Moira Shearer as a tortured ballerina in the latter) and use the color red as a signifier of romance, against a plain white page, to set the mood. Slashes and splashes of red have been used to create a vibe in genre cinema for many decades—a trend deftly chronicled in this list by Rocks.

As far as we know, the underpinnings of digital photography began in the 1950s, and the first published color digital photograph dates back to 1972, when Michael Francis Tompsett shot a photo of his wife Margaret for the cover of Electronics magazine. Consumers got their hands on the gear in the late 1990s, but movie studios really started to make the most of sharp digital photography and stark white backgrounds for their striking posters from the late 1980s onwards. Because, never mind the multiplex, the video store is where you wanted your comfort fare to stand out in the 1980s and 90s.

Ferris Bueller’s Day Off (1986) and Say Anything… (1989) form a handsome, trend-setting 1980s pair. While the theatrical poster for Cameron Crowe’s Say Anything… deigned to include John Cusack’s co-star, Ione Skye, by the time of the film’s video release, the focus is clearly on pre-High Fidelity Cusack, as proud underachiever Lloyd Dobler, smouldering lopsidedly under the weight of a boombox. It’s the singular image of the film to this day.

Meanwhile, Matthew Broderick as Ferris-slacking-Bueller is making the most of his title activity, arms behind his head, a proud smirk on his face. Nothing else matters except that these charismatic young stars are stepping up to leading-man status. The white background accentuates the star power of these new boys in town, embracing the limelight in one fell swoop.

Star power is everything: beautiful people doing simple things against empty backdrops, because what could be more important than the regularity of symmetrical bone structure, of familiar charm? The trend boomed in the 1990s and 2000s, in films widely embraced by casual moviegoers. The sort who list “watching Netflix” as a Sunday activity on dating profiles and use the Christmas holidays to rewatch comedies they have memorized over dozens of half-attentive viewings (absolutely zero judgement here!).

The vast majority of these films have white posters. Who is your soothing cup of charm: Tom Hanks on a bench, nothing more nothing less, from 1994’s Forrest Gump? Or Heath Ledger, effortlessly cool, leaning on the brown corduroy armchair Julia Stiles sits in for the 10 Things I Hate About You poster from 1999? (The 90s harnessed the increased appeal of having two lookers just sitting and posing against a plain background, as demonstrated in this chilling list by Ashley.)

Ashley’s list of couples posing in front of a white background.

Will Ferrell had been earning his stripes as an actor for years, but he changed the movie comedy game as Buddy the Elf in 2003. There’s plenty of visual humour in Elf, but Ferrell’s coat-stand posture bedecked in festive green velvet and those tights is… enough. A white background lets the ridicule slide, just.

How many Disney series really deserve a whole movie—and one that stands the test of time? Lizzie McGuire, resting on her tiptoes with a swinging suitcase in hand, sells The Lizzie McGuire Movie like no idyllic views of Rome ever could. It’s reaching out to an audience loyal to the character, one who will follow her to the ends of the Earth, or at least to another continent. Hilary Duff could be doing almost anything on this poster and it would achieve the same effect—so long as the white background remains plain enough to keep eagle-eyed fans on the main event at all times.

It’s surprising that the star-making system only let Meryl Streep appear in a tiny box, one of four character tiles, on the poster for The Devil Wears Prada in 2006. But the design here taps into 1940s animated sensibilities, giving prominence to a devilish red Macguffin larger than the humans. It still achieves the same function—a glossy, glamorous design with the accessible sell of a quotable, star-fuelled comedy.

Red may be the color of romance and the devil; it’s also the color of comedy. Exhibit A: the 2007 gross-out comedy Superbad, whose star power—marking the emergence of Jonah Hill and Michael Cera—is used to an opposite and impressive effect on its poster. The awkwardness of these teen boys—lanky, unkempt, insecure—is what cinches the comedy. The simplicity of the poster design, with their uncomfortable posture against, well, nothing at all, further anchors their incapability of facing the world in any confident way, shape or form.

There are countless more examples, like Marley & Me, Bridesmaids, 27 Dresses (notice how the red type is replaced by pink when the film’s plot veers toward the altar). But to understand the curious and timeless appeal of the white movie poster, what happened to it in the 2010s cements its adaptable strength.

As the art of graphic design has continued to bloom, the aesthetic argument for the colorless color-block movie poster has shifted to embrace a film’s context. Consider Danny Boyle’s Steve Jobs, the enjoyable 2015 drama that provided Michael Fassbender one of the most under-celebrated roles of his career, playing the late Apple co-founder. The poster turns the canvas into a blank screen: the title is typed, the text insertion point poised, waiting for the next key press. As Jobs, Fassbender occupies the bottom right corner, in profile, thinking.

This starkness makes sense: what’s next, Steve? It offers a rare example of a poster from the past decade that fully leans into the monochrome aesthetic entirely on purpose—to serve the restrained and unequivocal need for white. (And it’s interesting to compare with the marketing narrative for an earlier film about another tech leader: observe how Jesse Eisenberg’s Mark Zuckerberg eyeballs us from The Social Network’s dark-mode poster.)

Comfort movies don’t own the white poster, of course. Jordan Peele’s Get Out toys, both in its marketing and its delivery, with the binaries of black and white. It’s deployed on-screen with sophisticated horror, and this extends to its two most graphic poster variants.

While one poster sees Daniel Kaluuya’s character, Chris, sat on a chair split vertically between black and white, the all-white poster allows only a center-frame letterbox to reveal Chris’s enormous eyes, accompanied by an all-caps type treatment. The vast expanse of white only makes the image more menacing, framing the claustrophobia so effectively. The landscape crop is a device that defines stern dramas as much as arthouse comedies, as documented by Haji Abdul Karim in their expansive list.

Haji Abdul Karim’s list of white-with-landscape-image posters.

But back in the ‘comfort’ realm, we’re seeing more and more that the marketing wants to have it both ways—the negative with the positive; the art house audience and the multiplex crowd. As genres blend, demographics collapse and audiences become more fluid, a film’s advertising needs to speak more languages.

Two ultra-comfort films from last year demonstrate this idea well. The poster for Judy sees a backlit Renée Zellweger finding her light, receiving her applause. Black is the key color, right down to the classic little black dress; the eye is drawn to the title, spelled out in red sequins. It’s showbiz, it’s drama. Though the film itself fudges a few of the more uncomfortable facts of the star’s story, it’s still honest about her addictions.

In the white-background version, which was more widely distributed, Zellweger, in a floral dress, turns away from the light. The name still sparkles, but in softened gold. There’s no less glamor, the stakes in the film are just as high, but she’s perhaps more accessible like this. The focus, as it was in the 90s, 80s, 40s, returns to the main event.

Greta Gerwig’s Little Women, too, played with dark and light. The indie queen released her previous film, Lady Bird, via design-conscious distributor A24, and Gerwig’s singular aesthetics promised that her Little Women remake would be worlds away from all the others. But when the first images for the film were released, the marketing campaign was questioned by die-hard Gerwig fans.

Both of the group posters are curiously stripped back, freezing Louisa May Alcott’s beloved March sisters in a moment. In the darker image, they gaze out a window, secure in their festive domestic bubble, but set on what’s beyond. There’s more to life, and the film, than this room. It feels more lush, painterly, certainly more dramatic.

Whereas the white poster, at first, seemed like a mistake. It took one of the first images teased from the film and just... dropped it onto a poster. The March sisters look as if solidified by clay, entirely undynamic and at odds with the fluidity and warm soul Gerwig had made herself known for in her filmmaking.

And yet, nothing matters more than these characters. Beth, Jo, Meg and Amy are holding each other, happy, each in their own favourite color, and there is nothing more to fight over. The white-poster alternative lets the 2010s viewer stay attached to the most important part of the film.

The lessons here? A white poster is a vital sign that you’re safe here. You’ve made the correct choice. Attention spans are dwindling, options are expanding, focus is difficult. The promise of a white frame tells me what matters, what is good, where I should place my time and my value. For now.