#it brings up some interesting questions about how we conceive of the self in different scenarios

[microwaved-cheese-sandwich]

I also have an internal monologue constantly but it's like talking to another person. I mean I'm talking to myself but as if it was another person. So I also think/say "you have to do this", "please be calm", etc .

I thought it was what everyone does... isn't it?

sometimes! peoples thought streams are all different. many people think in first person, some in second or even third; usually ppl use different perspectives at different times. lots of thoughts aren't words at all, just a flow of feelings and concepts. personally I often talk to myself in second person. I also sometimes use 'we', referring to myself as speaker and listener. how and why this kind of thing happens, and how common it is, is probably beyond my expertise. but i promise you are not weird for it lol

[lokiondisneyplus]

Yes, Loki series director Kate Herron knows about your fan theory about the show, the analysis you posted to social media. No, she won’t tell you what she thinks about it, or whether you were right.

“I follow all the conversations on Twitter,” Herron told Polygon in an interview shortly after Loki’s season 1 finale. “I don’t always weigh in on them, because I made the show, so they don’t want me weighing in like, ‘Actually, guys…’ I think that’s the whole point of art — it should be up for debate and discussion.”

[Ed. note: Spoilers ahead for season 1 of Loki.]

Loki has been a hit for streaming service Disney Plus — episode 6 of the show, the final installment for this season, was reportedly watched by more households than any of the platform’s MCU finales to date. The series has been a popular source of fan conjecture and argument, with one particularly big rolling conversation focusing on whether the budding romantic relationship between trickster Asgardian Loki (Tom Hiddleston) and his alternate-universe counterpart Sylvie (Sophia Di Martino) is a form of incest.

Herron is willing to speak up about that one. “My interpretation of it is that they’re both Lokis, but they aren’t the same person,” she says. “I don’t see them as being like brother and sister. They have completely different backgrounds […] and I think that’s really important to her character. They sort of have the same role in terms of the universe and destiny, but they won’t make the same decisions.”

Herron says thematically, Loki falling for Sylvie is an exploration of “self-love,” but only in the sense that it’s Loki learning to understand his own motives and integrity. “[The show is] looking at the self and asking ‘What makes us us?’” Herron says. “I mean, look at all the Lokis across the show, they’re all completely different. I think there’s something beautiful about his romantic relationship with Sylvie, but they’re not interchangeable.”

Directing the final kiss between the two characters was a complicated process because it had to communicate something about each of them over the course of just a few seconds. Herron says the primary goal was creating a safe, comfortable environment for Hiddleston and Di Martino, and after that, she had to think about how to bring across Loki and Sylvie’s conflicting goals in that moment.

“It’s an interesting one, right?” she says. “Emotionally, from Sylvie’s perspective, I think it’s a goodbye. But it’s still a buildup of all these feelings. They’ve both grown through each other over the last few episodes. It was important to me that it didn’t feel like a trick, like she was deceiving him. She is obviously doing that, on one hand, but I don’t feel the kiss is any less genuine. I think she’s in a bad place, but her feelings are true.”

Herron says directing Hiddleston in the scene mostly came down to discussing the speech Loki gives Sylvie before the kiss. “That was really important, showing this new place for Loki,” Herron says. “In the first episode, he’s like, ‘I want the throne, I want to rule,’ and by episode 6, he isn’t focused on that selfish want. He just wants her to be okay.”

Loki writer and producer Eric Martin recently tweeted that he wished the show had been able to focus more time on two of its secondary characters, Owen Wilson’s Time Variance Authority agent Mobius M. Mobius, and Gugu Mbatha-Raw’s Ravonna Renslayer. “I wanted to explore her more deeply and really see their relationship,” he says, “But covid got in the way and we just didn’t have time.”

Asked if Loki and Sylvie’s relationship suffered from similar necessary edits, Herron says it’s true that the show’s creators and audience still don’t know everything Sylvie went through to make her so different from the Marvel Cinematic Universe’s original version of Loki. “We’ve seen her as a child, but she’s lived for thousands and thousands of years, in apocalypses on the run,” she says. “I think there’s so much more to delve into with Sylvie […] You’re filling in the blanks. You see [her on the planet] Lamentis, and it’s horrific. And you’re like, “Well, what kind of person would she be, growing up in apocalypses? What kind of personality would that give her?”

Herron says Sylvie’s backstory actually reminds her of the 1995 movie Jumanji, where a young boy is sucked into a magical board game in 1969, and emerges 26 years later as a full-grown man, played by with typical manic energy by Robin Williams. “It’s such a weird reference, but…” she says. “He’s a little boy when he ends up captive in that game, and when he comes out, it’s obviously been a life experience. With Sylvie, it’s similar. She was a child when she had to go on the run, so she’s had a very difficult life. I would love to see more of it. As Eric said, she’s a rich character, there’s so much to be explored.”

Herron says, though, that during her time on the show, material about Sylvie was added rather than cut — specifically, those scenes of her as a child, being kidnapped by the TVA. “This was before my time, but I know in the writers’ room, there were lots of avenues exploring Sylvie on the run and what her life was like,” Herron says. “I wouldn’t want to speak more to those, because I wasn’t there when they were being discussed. But something wasn’t in there that was important to me — I felt we should see her [history] in the TVA. Me and the team were talking about how it made complete sense, because episode 4 is all about twisting the idea that the TVA might be good on its head. And so that’s something that came in later, once I joined, was seeing her as a child. I think we needed to see that, not to understand her completely, but to get an idea of her motivations, why she’s so angry at this place.”

Talking more broadly about the series finale, Herron says the last few episodes weren’t as heavily referential as the first episodes, which she intended as “a love letter to sci-fi.” While early images like the TVA’s interrogation rooms had specific visual references from past science fiction, episode 6’s locations were drawn more from collaborations with the crew.

“The idea of the physical timeline being circular, our storyboard artists came up with that,” Herron says. “I had in the scripts, ‘We move through space to the end of time,” and then me and [storyboard artist Darrin Denlinger] discussed how we could play with the idea of time, while also adding MCU nods. He was like, ‘What if the timeline is circular?’ I think that’s such a striking image, like the Citadel at the End of Time is the needle on a record player. I just thought that was such a cool image, but it wasn’t necessarily taken from anything.”

Episode 6 focuses heavily on the mysterious figure He Who Remains and his citadel, a space she says was largely conceived by production designer Kasra Farahani. “I remember he brought in the art of the Citadel, and I thought it was beautiful,” Herron says. “He said, ‘The Citadel has been carved from an actual meteorite,’ which I thought was such an inspired idea. And He Who Remains’ office is the only finished portion of it.”

She says there are only a few direct homages in episode 6, including the zoom shot through space, which directly referenced a similar sequence in Robert Zemeckis’ 1997 film Contact.

“And then I have my Teletubbies reference for episode 5,” Herron says. “I wanted the Void to feel like an overgrown garden, like a kind of forgotten place. And I realized I’d pitched it as the British countryside. I remember trying to explain it to ILM, who did the visual effects, and saying, ‘Oh, you know, it’s like the Teletubbies. It’s just rolling hills, but they go on forever.’ That actually was quite a helpful reference in the end, which is funny.”

Asked for her favorite set memory from shooting the season, Herron says it comes down to Tom Hiddleston starting a mania for physical exertion before takes. “Sometimes he runs around set to get himself in the right mindset before he performs,” she says. “He does pushups. You know, you’re going into an action scene, you want to look like you’ve just been running. And it became infectious across all the cast. We’ve got so much footage of — I think Jack [Veal] ended up doing it, who plays Kid Loki. I’ve got [shots of] him and Sophia doing pushups and squats, just to get ready. It was so funny watching that echo across all the cast. I think all of them ended up doing those exercises with him at some point. It was so funny.”

“That might be my favorite set story, but it’s honestly, not a sweet one,” she adds. “I would say my favorite thing is his enthusiasm. He’s a very kind empathetic person. We were filming this in quite tough circumstances, a lot of people were far from home and isolating, and he brought this warmth and energy and joy to the set every day. And I think that made everyone feel very safe and very bonded. I’m forever grateful to him for doing that.”

[littleoddwriter]

Hello dear! Can i request a Roman Sionis X Male!Reader where the reader is a metahuman with the ability of manipulating blood (aka a vampire) and tries to hide it from his lover until Roman finds out when Reader saves him from a mobster? Fluff please + Roman as proud as hell of his lover? Thanks in advance!

Life's Good | Roman Sionis x VampireMale!Reader

I am so sorry it took me so long to finally write this! I'm slowly catching up with the last few requests I've received before my break. I hope you're still interested in this and like what I've done with it (I admit, it got a little away from me because I was super invested in the scenario I came up with, so it is probably less fluffy than you may have wanted, sorry)!

summary; see above.

notes; CW // Blood-Drinking (mild Dub-Con for that at first); Gun Violence; Being Threatened; Murder (not graphic). Vampires; Kind of angsty?; Fluff; Aftercare (non-sexual, but you know, after feeding from someone).

Unlike most people would think you’ve actually been born this way. Your parents were vampires, conceiving you naturally, which of course meant you’d been born a metahuman. You’ve lived quite a normal life, despite the fact that instead of eating, drinking and sleeping like other humans would, you only slept rarely, only ate people food when you had to fit in, and otherwise you fed from humans, drinking their blood. You’d never killed anyone with it, though. Enough people who wanted you to feed from them existed, establishments were you could find them were all around the world. It was a pretty good life.

Still, you usually opted to keep it secret, unsure as to how people might react. While the general opinion of vampires has changed in all these centuries, standing in front of one was still a wholly different thing for most. You understood and respected that.

So when you met Roman – his scent so enticing, you had trouble keeping your fangs in – you stood in front of the question once again. Should you tell him?

Eventually, you decided to go with the flow and see where it’d take you. You didn’t immediately want to ruin your chances with him before you’ve actually gotten to know him at all.

At first it was a casual relationship anyway, no need to tell him your big secret then. But as time went on, your relationship became more serious. You stayed over at his loft more frequently, forced to eat his food and drink his beverages, so as not to let him suspect anything. It didn’t hurt you or anything, it was just unnecessary and you’d never get really used to, well, actual food and such. All the different textures and tastes and what you could do with what to change it. It was fascinating, but not exactly your favourite thing.

Of course, one fateful day it had all come to a head.

You had just admitted to yourself that you loved Roman a couple of weeks ago, not daring to say anything to him, as you didn’t fancy ruining what you two had with those three simple, yet powerful words.

Now though, you regretted that decision more than ever, terrified that maybe you would never be able to tell him how you felt.

It all happened so fast, too. One moment, you and Roman were out on the streets, way into the evening, having just had dinner at an expensive restaurant he’d invited you to; and you were laughing, talking about something – you couldn’t remember what – when you turned into an alleyway. In the next moment, a rival mob boss shot at the two of you. Warning shots, missing you both on purpose.

“What the fuck?!” Roman exclaimed, livid, but you could smell the underlying anxiety change his usual scent from when he was enraged. You hated it.

The gang leader – whatwashisface, you could never keep up – stood now in front of you two, having Roman at gunpoint. His men had surrounded you two, pointing their guns at both of you.

“What do you want?” Sionis spat at the other mob boss, glaring at him with a piercing, wild look in his eyes.

You stayed silent, your hands raised out of instinct. The bullets wouldn’t be able to kill you, unless they were specifically made for it, but that was so unlikely, you weren’t overly worried. You were concerned about Roman, though, anxious that this might have been it.

“Set an example, that’s what. You can’t scare us into submission. You can’t control us. You really think getting a hold of the East End would give you enough power to do that? Fuck you, I say!” the leader yelled.

“Well, fucking go on then if you’re really so tough! Or are you only bark and no bite? Cowardly ambushing me in private like that, I’m inclined to believe you are nothing but a talker. You can’t scare me either, you fuck.” You really wished Roman would shut up for once, lest he’d really get himself killed this time.

Your mind was racing with all possible outcomes this situation could bring. Only one was sure to get Roman out alive; and boy were you glad you’ve fed from someone yesterday.

Even though you had never killed anyone and didn’t desire to do so, you were ready to do anything for Roman, no matter what. You didn’t care that he’d know then, know that you were a freak of nature, as some hateful people liked to call people like you. You didn’t care that you’d take lives. They weren’t innocent, dared to threaten your love and you just couldn’t see past that.

Taking a deep breath, you closed your eyes and concentrated, focusing your abilities into play and onto every single man of this rival gang. It was rare for you to use any of your powers that didn’t exist and activate naturally, like your strength. Your parents had taught you to only use them for self defence and this situation was practically screaming for it.

Snapping your eyes back open, now glowing red, all of the men around you gasped and crumbled, letting their weapons clatter to the ground, grasping at their throats, or chest, trying so hard to save themselves. Moments later, they were all just lifeless bodies, lying around Roman and you, as if you were some victorious kings. And in a way, you were exactly that, weren’t you? Roman was soon to be the King of Gotham after all.

All too suddenly, all the strength left your body, your legs giving out. Roman, despite his apparent shock, caught you, steadied you. Gently, he lowered you to the ground, keeping his arms tightly wound around you.

It had taken a lot more out of you than you had anticipated. You desperately needed to feed.

“Y/N? Baby, hey, look at me,” Roman spoke softly, something only reserved for you, you had come to realise.

With half-lidded eyes, you looked up at him, a strained sound passing your lips. “You okay?” you asked, still unsure if everything had truly worked out the way you thought it would.

He scoffed, “Yes, quit worrying about me. Are you okay? What the fuck was that anyway?”

“Just gotta eat,” you murmured, slurring your words heavily, “Sorry about the- that. I’ll explain later.”

“What do you mean you have to eat? Baby, I can’t follow you. I hope you realise that I’m missing some of the fucking context here,” he chuckled, which bordered on sounding hysterical.

“Blood. Vampire. Now, Roman, or else- fuck. Won’t make it.” Your eyes fluttered closed for a moment, your voice just barely above a whisper anymore. Fuck, you hoped he understood. Even more so, you hoped he was okay with it and that maybe he liked you enough to save your life. You didn’t exactly fancy feeding from him, when he was basically pressured into it. But he had a choice, you told yourself.

When you were slowly lifted up a bit and felt skin against your lips, you forced all your last strength to open your mouth – your fangs had automatically unsheathed when you unleashed your powers – and bite down.

The first taste of Roman was as intoxicating and overwhelming as you had always fantasised it would be. A shaky moan came out of him when you started sucking in earnest. Pretty quickly, you regained more and more strength, feeling increasingly less dead. You cupped the other side of Roman’s neck with your hand and pulled him further in. Shit, you couldn’t possibly get enough.

After a few, long moments, you felt Roman push against you, as well as pulling at your clothes, calling your name. Reluctantly, and almost as if you were just waking up from a trance, you let up and licked up the excess blood on his neck, simultaneously licking his wounds closed.

Roman was breathing heavily, and you were still feeling out of it, as you two just kneeled in this alley, holding each other, amidst the dead bodies of Sionis’ former rivals. It was bizarre.

“I think we should go home,” Roman said eventually, his voice sounded so soft, as if he was barely present in the real world.

You nodded and got up, helping Roman to do the same. He was swaying a little and this time you were the one who steadied him. Drinking someone’s blood always took a toll on both parties and you knew you had taken more from him than you usually dared to do with anyone. It made you feel guilty. You had to make it up to him later – if he still wanted you then – that was for sure.

When you had arrived at Roman’s loft, you helped him lie down on his chaise longue, legs propped up on one of his many pillows, to help his blood flow to where it was most needed. Then you went over to the kitchen to get him a glass of orange juice and an energy bar.

Roman nodded in thanks when you pressed either item in his hands, standing above him. You felt so uncomfortable, didn’t quite know what to do with your hands, or if you were even supposed to still be here. He’s been so unusually quiet the entire time, albeit it was most likely due to shock and blood loss.

“So, you’re a vampire.” Roman stated, looking at you, and you hated that you couldn’t place his expression into any kind of category. You just nodded in answer. “Right. And why exactly didn’t I know?”

Your mouth opened and closed a couple of times, looking for the right words. “I was afraid of losing you over it,” you settled on telling the truth eventually.

Again, Roman only nodded; his expression was still so indecipherable, but then a certain shine caught in his eyes. You’ve only witnessed it a couple of times thus far.

“You killed for me,” he practically gasped. “Have you killed before? Being a vampire and all, I’d presume you have.”

You shook your head, “No, that was the first time, actually.”

“Fuck,” he muttered. Then, in an instant, his expression morphed into something prideful, a huge grin plastered on his face, his eyes brighter than any stars you’ve seen in the sky above – it was breathtaking. “You killed for me,” he repeated, sitting upright, throwing his legs over the side of the chaise longue, planting his feet on the ground.

“Y-yeah, I did,” you replied, a weak chuckle leaving you. You still couldn’t quite believe that you’ve done it, especially when you spared a thought on how it made you feel – powerful, so far above others, good.

“I can’t fucking believe you. Fuck, you’re a dream come true, my little prince! You’re so special. A vampire! And you killed for me, because-“ He couldn’t finish it, realisation dawning on him, you could see it in his eyes, in the way his smile slowly vanished.

“Because I love you, yes. I couldn’t lose you over some stupid mob boss who thought he could ambush you like that.”

Roman licked his lips and nodded, placed the empty glass and half eaten energy bar on the table in front of him, and got up.

“I’m proud of you,” he then said, taking you by surprise.

“What? Why?”

“For not letting your fears get in your way. You were afraid of losing me for being a vampire, but you were probably even more terrified of losing me to my mortality. And you pushed through it. Almost fucking killed yourself, only to save me. I’m proud of you for doing that. I’m grateful, too, naturally.”

“Oh, yeah, that makes sense. Thanks, Roman,” you snickered.

Instead of continuing the conversation, Roman pressed his lips against yours in a passionate kiss, wrapping his arms around your waist. Putting your arms around his shoulders, you kissed him back, hoping to show him just how grateful you were with that single kiss.

Then you remembered your guilt from before and broke it. Roman glared at you for a moment. “What?”

“You never gave your consent, I- I fed from you and you never-“

“I did. By offering myself to you. I had a choice, you know? So quit it. You’re not guilty of anything, my boy. And just so you know, I’ll fucking kill you if you ever feed from anyone else again, ‘kay?” He was smirking, but his eyes had an edge to them, which let you know that he was serious about his threat.

Giving a short laugh, you nodded and kissed him again. Life really was good.

[rax-writes]

Enchanted - Part I

Fandom:  The Chilling Adventures of Sabrina

Pairing:  Caliban x Reader

Warnings:  None

Notes:  I’ve been thirsty for this blond bastard since he popped up in the show, so it’s about time I write for him. // So this is slightly OC, because the reader is a Spellman and it gives some backstory on that, but I still tried to keep it predominantly a reader insert.

As the only trueborn daughter of Edward Spellman, conceived during his very brief, loveless marriage to his late bride, you had grown accustomed to being treated differently. Your aunties fretted over you endlessly, despite being well aware of the fact that you were an extremely proficient witch. You were given unearned, unquestioned respect by each member of the Church of Night, as well as every witch and warlock you met. Typically, they asked you endless questions, being that your father had intended for you to be his successor, prior to his untimely death and Faustus Blackwood’s treachery-ridden rise to the position of High Priest. This meant that you had been a sponge for each and every one of Edward’s theories, teachings, and creeds, as well as his extensive knowledge of spells, conjuring, potions, and other witchcraft.

You prided yourself on being a witch of above-average skill and know-how, although that did not mean you were keen on being subjected to impromptu interviews about it all. Additionally, it seemed as though every single creature you encountered knew your father, which often meant they were twice as heaven-bent on killing you, as he had not been one to take mercy on monsters. All in all, it was rare that you were treated as you – not Edward Spellman’s daughter.

That is, until you encountered a certain self-proclaimed Prince of Hell.

Of course, you had been vehemently against Sabrina entering the Netherworld to save her boyfriend. However, you were aware that her determination knows no bounds, so she’d certainly be going with or without your approval, therefore you decided it’d be best to join her endeavor. Upon entering Hell, you, your sister, and her companions found yourselves on a somber, despondent beach, and a medley of wails filled your ears – which could only mean one thing.

“Wait, so… Hell is a beach?” Harvey inquired dubiously.

“Not quite. Hell is a vast realm, full of a myriad of abysmal regions, and this is merely one of them. In particular: the Shores of Sorrow,” you explained. This new information seemed to distress him further. Theo stood, fear in his eyes as he looked to the cages standing out on the water.

“Guys, look…. What are those?”

“They’re the souls of the damned,” you responded, in unison with another voice. At first, you thought it was some sort of echo, but quickly deduced that it was a separate voice entirely. You turned to see a man standing a short distance away on the beach, and your first thought was that he was so beautiful that he looked monumentally out of place in this dreary landscape. He was quite tall, with lovely green eyes, blonde ringlets cascading around his handsome face, and a body that looked to be hand-crafted by Aphrodite herself.

The visually pleasing stranger held searing eye contact with you as he took a few steps toward your group. He seemed intrigued by the fact that you – someone who was clearly not from Hell – was familiar with your locale.

“They drown as the tide rolls in, over and over… for all eternity,” he elaborated, as your party approached him. He surveyed your sister and her friends, then returned his eyes to you with a charming smirk. “Although, I’m certain you already knew that.”

“Hi, we’re looking for Lilith,” Sabrina stated. “Uh… Madam Satan, Queen of Hell. She’s in Pandemonium, if you happen to know the way.”

“I would be more than happy to assist anyone accompanying a woman of such intellect and ethereal beauty,” the man stated, charm dripping from his voice as his eyes remained set on you. You would not deny that he was easily the most attractive man you’d ever seen, but you were also conscious of the fact that you were in Hell, therefore he was almost certainly a demon – not exactly ideal dating material. So, you merely met his gaze, donning a smirk of your own, crossing your arms gracefully, and giving a slight tilt of the head to wordlessly meet the challenge posed by his advances.

“All blood flows to Pandemonium. Follow the blood-red road where it flows, and there you’ll find the throne of Hell,” he responded, after your silent exchange, as he gestured toward a small creek of blood nearby.

“Thanks,” Sabrina said, nodding. “And you are?”

“We greatly appreciate your kindness, sir, but I’m afraid we’ve no time for formalities,” you interjected. It was just as well, as the man seemed hesitant of answering her query.

“Understandable. Although, I do hope to cross paths with you again,” he admitted, then took a step forward to take your hand and bring your knuckles to his lips, maintaining eye contact with you as he did so. He then turned to your sister. “Never step off the road. It’s clever you’re wearing dead men’s shoes, though… any demon worth his salt can smell mortal flesh a mile away.”

The two of you shared one last, lingering look, then he slowly spun on his heel and returned his attention to the nearby elaborate sandcastle.

“Come on. Let’s go,” Sabrina said, and the five of you made your way to the flowing blood.

After a not-so-pleasant stroll through the Field of Witness, and the Forest of Torment, where you searched with Theo and Harvey as Sabrina and Roz located Dorian’s pestilential flower, as well as an excursion to a hellish version of Sabrina’s high school, you found yourselves in the throne room of Pandemonium. Lilith decided to allow Sabrina to leave with Nicholas, so long as she would crown Lilith in front of all of Hell. She agreed to do so, but as soon as the ceremony began, it was evident that the Kings were still displeased.

“And who do you propose would rule?” Lilith asked.

“Ahh,” Beelzebub responded, and it was clear that Lilith had stepped right into his trap. “All hail Caliban, Prince of Hell. Molded from the clay of the pit itself. Native son of the inferno, born to restore and rule our dark domain.”

To your surprise, the good-looking blond from the Shores of Sorrow stepped forward, clad in a different outfit, one more suitable for Hell, and smiled at your sister. “Hello again.”

“Uh… hi?”

This Caliban explained that he intended to restore stability to the Nine Realms, and ultimately, conquer the Earth to make it the tenth circle. Unsurprisingly, your sister was simply not having it. She claimed the throne as her own, shut down Caliban’s refutation, and decreed that the Infernal Court be dismissed.

As Caliban turned to go, he locked eyes with you. With a small smirk, he stated, “It appears our paths will cross again, enchantress.” He left through the colossal double-doors of the throne room, and silence befell the room, before you all left, Nicholas Scratch in tow.

Upon returning to your room for the evening, you laid in bed, unable to sleep and staring at the ceiling. Although you attempted to steer your train of thought to more important matters, such as how to help the coven and what it would mean for Sabrina to be the Queen of Hell, you found your mind veering back the dashing young “prince.” Aside from the fact that he’s a demon, and that he sought to descend Earth to chaos and enslavement, he had challenged your sister – and that simply wouldn’t do. So, you conceded that you must push your unwelcome thoughts to the side, such as how his eyes made you feel vulnerable and on fire all at once, or how pretty that alluring voice of his would sound in the bedroom…. Hell help you, you were going to need to try much harder than this.

A sudden whooshing sound and a bright light brought your attention to the corner of the room, and as the vortex of fire dissipated, you saw none other than the object of your desires standing before you.

“To what do I owe the pleasure? Here to berate my baby sister some more?”

“No. I am here for you.”

You sat up in the bed, then swung your legs off the side, staring at him quizzically. You noticed that Caliban eyed your attire hungrily, and you briefly thanked yourself for choosing a red silk nightie with black lace trim this evening. Opting to bask in the feeling of him undressing you with his eyes, you stood and crossed your arms over your chest – both to show resolution, and to accentuate your chest. His gaze grew ever more ravenous.

“Speak your piece, then.”

“I wish to court you,” Caliban stated coolly, that smirk of his gracing his lips.

“And why is that?”

“You have piqued my interest. Your beauty is beyond compare, and your intelligence and self-assuredness are both endearing and intriguing. I am quite taken with you,” Caliban admitted, now perusing your bedroom and investigating your elaborate bookshelves. He then turned to you, and in a few strides, he was standing in front of you, towering over you as those enthralling green eyes seemingly bore into your soul.

“Allow me to court you. I vow to do my utmost to make you happy, and keep you unquestionably…” he trailed off, bending down to hover his lips mere centimeters above yours as he finished his sentence, “... satisfied.”

You did not miss the way your breath caught in your throat as a result of his actions – nor did Caliban. It caused his smirk to widen further. Nevertheless, you squared your shoulders and looked up at him with all the confidence you could muster.

“Stand down from your attempted coup d'état of Sabrina’s place on the throne, and I will gladly court you, Caliban.”

“Although my name falling so sweetly from your lips is enough to persuade me of almost anything, I’m afraid that I cannot comply with your request, princess,” Caliban responded. “But, if bartering is the ticket to courting you, then so be it. Even if I wanted to, it is impossible for me to stop the Plague Kings’ quest to unseat Sabrina Morningstar and Lilith, but I can let you in on how they plan to do so, which will allow your sister time to prepare for it. And if the Kings or Lilith ask, you didn’t hear a word of that from me.”

You pretended to mull it over for a moment. If you were being honest, it wasn’t exactly twisting your arm to go out with someone as mind-bogglingly attractive as Caliban, so having the opportunity to do so and help Sabrina certainly seemed to be a win-win.

“I agree to your terms.”

“Excellent,” he said, his smirk changing to a toothy grin, flashing a set of perfect pearly whites. He seemed genuinely thrilled that you agreed to court him. “You may inform Sabrina that the Kings intend to evaluate her progress as Queen of Hell for a short time, and if she fails to meet their expectations, they shall send she and I on a quest to find the Unholy Regalia. Whoever is the victor shall earn a rightful place on the throne, by infernal law. So, I would advise that Sabrina watch her p’s and q’s for the next few weeks, but still prepare for the inevitable quest for the Regalia.”

“Thank you, Caliban.”

“Anything for you,” he responded, taking your hand and placing a kiss upon your knuckles, as he had earlier that day, before cradling it in both of his hands. “Now, where would you like to go for our first outing, little dove?”

“I have heard rumors of a carnival coming to town this weekend. Take me?”

“It would be my pleasure,” Caliban said earnestly, then sat down languidly on the ornate velvet couch immediately behind him, and gently pulled you down to sit with him. “In the meantime, I would very much like to get to know you better, if it would please the lady.”

The remainder of the evening was spent on that very same couch, with the self-proclaimed Prince of Hell. The longer you talked, the closer you grew in proximity, until you were nestled against his side with your legs tucked underneath you, his arm draped around your shoulders. Caliban listened intently as you told him about your life, and he readily told you tales of his own past and answered all your questions. A large percentage of the conversation entailed you explaining earthly matters to the Hell-born gentleman, and he was genuinely interested in all the information you had to offer. It was incredibly refreshing for someone to be interested solely in you – not your father’s legacy.

After a while, your eyelids began to feel unbearably heavy, and eventually, you succumbed to sleep, your head falling onto his shoulder. As Caliban looked down at your sleeping figure, after sharing an invigorating, intimate night of soul-sharing, he vaguely wondered of the possibility of love for a man made of clay.

The warm, fuzzy feeling now forming in his chest was all the answer he needed.

Part II

[wendimydarling]

Cover the Mirrors

Summary: Amber is earning a masters degree in mythology and folklore; when a handsome stranger sweeps her off her feet, she’s left wondering how, and struggles to keep up with his lifestyle.

Pairing: Vampire!August Walker x OFC (first person reader)

Word Count: 6826

Warnings: Alright, we ready to get into the menu of delights we will be reading today? Okay but seriously, if you are triggered by anything on this list, it is your responsibility to not read this work of fiction. The warnings are as follows: manipulation, subtle exhibitionism, fingering, penetrative sex, mention of oral (male receiving), biting, clawing, choking, blood, male violence, gore, non-con, rape, spitting, fear play, primal play, breeding, mention of death, torture, and potentially cannibalism, if you squint.

A/N: Okay so this story is based off of this thread where @killjoy-assbutt-1112​ gave me a fic title, but I added another twist to it that I’d been brewing for months; I was excited about it but now I’m not. Whatever, I’ll give it to you anyway. Sources for my vampire lore came from here and here. Cover art was made by me; August was drawn by the amazingly talented @cheyentjj​ and has been used with her permission. Thank you so much to everyone who brainstormed with me, and a special thanks to @agniavateira​ for betaing! 

“If you look at the Slavic region, vampire folklore runs rampant. One especially interesting specimen is the Pijavica. The Pijavica (translated “leech”, or “drinker”) was a rare species of vampire— traditionally male, and a powerfully strong, cold-blooded killer. The potential for conception is most commonly believed to be through the incest of the deceased with his mother during his life, though some believe that one can be created through the exceptionally malicious and evil acts of the deceased before his death. 

The birth of a Pijavica is attributed to many different causes, including suffering an “unnatural” or untimely death such as suicide, excommunication, improper burial rituals, or even simple causes such as an animal jumping or bird flying over either the corpse or the empty grave, being conceived on certain days, or being born with a caul, teeth, or tail.” 

I paused my typing, fingers leaving the keyboard in order to brush loose strands of hair from my face. Around me, the baristas of my favorite coffee shop were buzzing like worker bees in an old hive; they were gearing up for the lunch rush, and I realized I’d been here four hours already. 

This place had long been my go-to study zone. It was small; there was just enough hustle and bustle to keep me from descending too deep into the abyss of studying and yet, it had the respect of the patrons that a library does. The owner, Fred, made sure that conversations were kept in hushed tones, courteous to those of us who needed to work in noise instead of quiet. 

“If ya wanna be loud, go sit at a Starbucks!” He’d huff at those who didn’t heed his warning.

My eyes took in the familiar surroundings as I stretched. An oversized wood-burning fireplace filled the wall next to the vintage cash register; it was sandwiched between two built-in bookcases housing stories of all kinds that were meant to be read and enjoyed. The old stone clackling ran all the way up the wall, and a custom mantle made from an old oak tree that had fallen in Fred’s backyard sat delicately above the firebox. Yes, this shop was magical. It held a special place in my heart, and I’d visited so often that old Fred had deemed the table I sat at as “my table”. It was always kept reserved for me. 

I reached for my coffee without looking; my brain needed more caffeine. I’d spent months on this master thesis, and yet for some reason, the notion of vampires was such a struggle. I didn’t understand the fear of those who lived back then. The origins of bloodsuckers were chaotic, the “treatments” laughable and still, people were willing to kill their own offspring over such nonsensical superstitions. Cold drops of stale roast hit my lips in a harsh reminder that I’d finished my previous dose. I sighed heavily and dropped the cup to the wooden surface of my table. Eyes closed, I laced my fingers around my neck and drew my elbows together to stretch my spine. Coffee. I need more coffee.

“Having trouble?”

A man’s baritone, smooth as whiskey interrupted my thoughts. My body jolted at his leisurely tone, and I nearly tumbled off the chair as my eyes snapped open to view the intruder. Sitting across from me was anything but a man; I was in the presence of divine artistry, two breathtaking orbs of gray-washed sky centered below auburn curls that adorned his perfectly symmetrical face. A sharp nose pointed to his strong jaw, while an amused smirk tugged at the corner of lips that I’m certain could send even a nun to her bedroom for self-maintenance. He wore a crisp, pinstripe suit, the buttons of his dress shirt undone sinfully low, revealing a smattering of additional curls. 

My oversized turtleneck sweater and leggings suddenly felt subpar.

“The name’s Walker,” he mused further, gesturing a large hand toward the empty paper tumbler that was now lying on its side. “What were you drinking?”

“I--I um,” I fumbled with my words, embarrassed by my sudden inability to form a proper sentence. “I had a flat white? With two extra shots of espresso.”

The man named Walker had the cup in his hand and was out of his chair before I could blink; he was already ordering another coffee by the time I managed to process his intentions. I watched him hand the barista a bill I couldn’t see, but by the shocked expression on her face at the man’s declination of the change, it must have been a sizable amount. He sat down at the table again and stared at my chest unabashedly, making it clear he wasn’t just looking but imagining as well.

I should have been offended or felt objectified, but instead I felt drawn into his gaze.

“Having trouble?” He asked again, gesturing this time at my laptop.

“How long were you sitting there?” I blurted out, still too flummoxed to answer his question. Walker laughed and I swear, time stood still. Never in my life had I heard something so beautiful.

“Long enough.”

His reply was short and cryptic, a dismissal of my burgeoning curiosity. The barista chose that moment to bring two orders of coffee to the table, offering both of them to Walker by mistake. I took in her awestruck countenance, and there wasn’t a doubt in my mind that if my face matched hers I’d sink to the floor and die of shame. That notion shook me from my stupor and I was finally able to address his question.

“It’s my master thesis,” I explained, taking a sip of the scalding liquid he handed me. “I’m a History major, with an emphasis in mythology and folklore.”

I took another sip and tapped my phone, large numbers greeting me on the screen. Numbers that told me I was extremely late.

“Oh my god I have to go, I’m so sorry!” I apologized, scrambling to pack my things. In my haste I knocked my drink off the table. Resignation sunk in deep, submission to the knowledge of further humiliation at the impending spill. None came however, as Walker caught the drink in his hand before it crashed to the dark tiles.

“Thank you,” I murmured, gawking at him in bewilderment. Who was this man?

“It’s my pleasure,” he said, standing to help me collect the remainder of my books. “I’m interested in your thesis, could we perhaps discuss it over dinner? I don’t want to keep you from your next engagement.”

“I—” I stared at him, his face open and inviting. I’d been asked out before, but never this abruptly, and never by someone who looked and behaved like him. It sounded like an adventure…or a good story to tell on girls’ night at least.

“You know what, sure. Why not?”

I scribbled my number onto a napkin and slid it his way, grabbing the rest of my gear and heading toward the door. As I pushed against the hard metal, Walker’s large fingers caught my wrist, wrapping around it like ivy wraps around a lamppost. They were cool to the touch and yet somehow, my entire body immediately felt heated.

“We forgot first names,” he chuckled, “I’m August.”

I grinned sheepishly, pulling my arm from his surprisingly firm grip. The clank of the metal door handle resonated with the introduction I threw over my shoulder as I left the warmth of the shop and the handsome man behind.

“Amber.”

It took August a full week to call me. I felt like a fool; Did I leave on a poor note? Had I offended him somehow? Did he simply decide to change his fucking mind? I was kicking myself for saying yes; how could I have agreed to go on a date with a complete stranger? Now that I was no longer in his flustering presence, I began to see reason again. I knew nothing more than this man’s name, and the fact that he was more than likely rich. He could be a cold-blooded killer for all I knew, and I had every intention of telling him off.

I was in my apartment when he called. Still stuck on my thesis, I was currently unable to determine how best to explain the theory behind the sexual appeal of vampires. In my frustration, I hung upside down over the side of my bed, reading a book that discussed the many different works of literature revolving around vampirical romanticism and hoping the blood rushing to my brain would help me ascertain how to go about my explanation. The book was written by two authors who essentially argue the whole time, one of them convinced that the human fascination with vampires stems from the cannibalistic nature of bloodsucking or that it alluded to other bodily fluids such as semen, whereas the other stood firm in his belief that it held a much simpler cause; it was nothing more than the presence of oral fixation and sadism that caused the fantasy to plant its seed.

My phone vibrated but I ignored it, too engrossed in my book to be bothered with answering. I was so close… the answer was right there, it just continued to escape me. It wasn’t until my phone vibrated a second time to notify me of a voicemail that I put the pages down and picked up the electronic device.

The moment I heard August excusing his delay in calling to a work emergency, I immediately sat up and hit redial. There was something in his voice that made my heart quicken and my pulse race; it made the hair on my arms stand on end. I regretted sitting up so fast as it rang, the blood surrounding my brain draining quickly into the rest of my body. August answered on the second ring.

“Hi, Amber.”

“I—hi.”

I rolled my eyes then flinched in pain, congratulating myself sarcastically on how pathetic that response sounded with a slap of my palm to my forehead.

“Please, allow me to apologize again for waiting so long to call,” August insisted, seemingly unphased by my lack of vocabulary. “I still intend to take you to dinner, that is if you haven’t written me off completely.”

“No it’s fine, I totally get it,” I assured him. I had completely forgotten my earlier annoyance. He had explained it after all, and it could happen to anyone.

“Perfect. I’ll send a car tonight then, at seven. Wear something revealing please, I wasn’t able to see that pretty little neck of yours last time.”

My insides shook with an unexpected pang of shocked arousal at August’s request. The sexual confidence saturating his tone had me instantly reduced to nothing more than a deep desire for him to drag me to my knees by my hair. Why I wasn’t offended by the dominantly abrupt way this man spoke to me, I’ll never know. I put on the best flirty air I could manage in my stupor.

“I think I can manage that. Might have to charge you though.”

August laughed for the second time since I’d known him and I smiled, proud that I’d caused such a melodious sound to grace this earth.

“I like your spirit; you’re gonna be fun. I’ll see you tonight.”

“I—okay bye,” I managed to say before he hung up. I stared at my phone stupidly, as though I thought he was going to call again. Instead, the large clock face glared up at me like it always does, an ever present reminder that I live on a different plane of time than the rest of the world. I fell back on the bed, thinking about the man named August.

He likes my spirit? I hadn’t really shown him much, I’d been unable to do anything but stammer and trip over my words like a schoolgirl would when confronted by the cutest jock at school. What could he possibly see in me? The woman I truly was, the one I knew was underneath the bumbling idiot finally answered me. You’ve got three hours, Amber. Show him what you’re made of.

Resolve set in, and I bounced off the bed and walked toward my closet. For whatever reason, he’d chosen me, so I was going to let my confidence in that thought override all the self-doubt that was threatening to surface. I pulled my favorite dress from the hanger and set out to work. He wanted revealing? Then revealing is what he’d get, but I was going to do it my way.

The car was punctual, though I was less so. I scrambled to put diamond studs in my ears while being driven to some unknown location, my nerves making my hands shake. Once again, the notion that I could be driving to my death crept up my spine, but I brushed it off. Rich men send cars, it’s what they do. And I am an intelligent woman, I wouldn’t let myself be put in that situation.

Would I?

Touching the final stroke of Red Wine lipstick on my lips, I pulled my loose curls over my shoulder to expose my neck and put my things in my vintage black clutch, staring out the window at the ancient building that housed the most expensive club in town. I was suddenly grateful I’d chosen such a fancy dress. I fidgeted with the soft hem of the sleeve at my wrist, drawing it back and forth between my fingers while I waited for the driver to come to a stop.

I saw August there waiting, looking sharp as ever in another expensive three-piece suit, buttons undone just as low as the first time. This time however, I felt much better matched to his attire, and my confidence rose right next to my excitement. August came down the steps to open the door and I took his hand, hiking the burgundy velvet up to my thigh so that I could exit the car smoothly. The heavy fabric dropped to the ground the moment I freed it from my grasp, allowing August to study how I’d chosen to honor his request.

August drank in my covered form, taking in the way my dress hugged my curves and accentuated what it needed to. His eyes darkened as they lingered on the single large triangular section of bare skin that started at my shoulders and came to a point between my breasts, and I watched his tongue dart out of his mouth softly. He looked downright hungry. August stepped closer, fingertips grazing the flesh on my collarbone before he fastened his grip onto my nape and inhaled the hair at my temple deeply, pressing his lips to my ear.

“You are simply mouthwatering,” he growled, low and possessive. His hand released my neck and slid down to the small of my back, sending a shiver down my spine. My insides quivered at his touch, fragrant drops of dew pooling rapidly in the flimsy lace that guarded my mound from potential intruders.

“You wanted to see my ‘pretty little neck’,” I teased his earlier arrogance, lifting my skirt to traverse the steps leading inside, “I thought I’d frame her for you, give her the spotlight.”

August cocked an eyebrow at me in amusement, sensing my challenge. His fingers dug into my hip a little harder than necessary as he guided me through the establishment with nothing more than a nod to the hostesses. Apparent jealousy marred the face of one, and I thought I saw a hint of worry on the other. We were gone before the emotion could register in my mind.

I was escorted to a private booth in the upstairs of the establishment. While the first floor was crowded and full of people, the second floor was empty; August had requested it for our use alone. I could hear the hum of nightlife below, the haunting, non-lyrical melody of a soft alto wafting over the balcony as we walked past, the whispered promise of an enchanting night. A few tables and chairs were strategically placed on the floor, hugged by back-to-back rounded booths on either wall. Light ethereal curtains hung on either side of them, offering privacy from the guests who would typically sit in the next box over. August led me to the corner booth nearest the balcony so that we could look upon the stage if we chose.

“Our table, milady,” he joked, leaving a wet kiss on the back of my hand. Though the charade was seemingly in jest, it could not have been farther from it. His piercing eyes never left mine and I gasped at the feel of his brazen tongue on my skin. The suggestion of what he could do with it hung thick in his gaze, lacing the air with the succulent first tendrils of decadent tension. Playing along, I took a sharp breath and curtsied. I stayed low as August stood to show him the appeal of my figure at this angle, tilting just my head to look up at him. He stood there, head held high like a king, and the smile I received at my display was downright sinful.

“What a treat you are,” he murmured, cupping my chin briefly. My breasts swelled as I stood, consenting August the claim to chivalry by way of settling me into the alcove. He swept my hair over my shoulder again, trailing a single finger down my neck in admiration before taking his own seat. My insides were nothing but a pile of kindling, and every touch he gave was a spark that threatened to ignite the dry leaves into a burning flame of need.

The courses came and went just like those moments, every phrase emphasized with physical intimacy of some kind, whether it be just a gossamer brush of his fingers on my ear or an intentional grasping of my hand. He went as far as to boldly stroke the back of his knuckle along my cleavage, making me dizzy with desire. Each touch was avaricious—like he owned me—and I had zero qualms about letting him.

We ate our fill, but August made no move to leave the comfort of our small corner. With the noise of people below dulled by the far reaches of our seclusion, it was easy to converse. I told him more about my master thesis and the Pijavica, how they could read minds and enjoyed the power of persuasion, how they were impervious to all but decapitation, and how only their offspring could kill them. He listened intently, sharing tales of his own career. It was how I discovered that he was a doctor.

“I don’t practice anymore though, I prefer to study and learn. Specifically, I’m attracted to tears.”

“Tears?” That struck me as odd; it wasn’t often you came across someone who had such a unique field of study. “Why tears?”

August swirled the whiskey in his glass and downed it abruptly. He subtly indicated to our attendant for another before continuing his explanation.

“I’ve always had a fascination for the small things, things that people don’t seem to think matter; the mind-body connection, you know? For example,” he brushed a thumb over my cheekbone, “Did you know that the cellular structure of tears looks different based on the type of tear?”

August cupped my neck with both of his hands, tilting my head this way and that, his calm features set in measured focus as he spoke.

“Basal, reflexive, emotional... they all look different.”

I closed my eyes, letting him caress my skin. August’s touch was intoxicating, addicting. Even his scent was an aphrodisiac to my senses. I couldn’t get enough of it, lured ever closer to his sturdy frame, letting him manipulate my body how he saw fit. He nuzzled my hair, his soft spoken words dripping with lust into my ear.

“In fact,” he went on, “Even among those categories they differ, dependent on the stimuli.”

I could feel his breath on my neck, his lips surrounding the pulsepoint in my veins as he spoke, my jaw his destination. A hand snuck under my skirt, skimming along my trembling skin toward the seeping treasure that awaited him at the end of his journey. I spread my legs willingly, inviting him into my deepest of secrets. August hummed as he went on, sending spirals of tingling vibrations through my chest.

“The sting of onions, the sadness of grief… the satisfaction of overwhelming pleasure.”

“August…” I breathed, but my voice was severed as August simultaneously laid claim to my mouth and my womb. Thick fingers penetrated me in the same moment as his probing tongue, and it was in that moment I knew I was lost; August Walker could pull everything from me and I wouldn’t care; I’d want it, need it. He had spent all night teasing me, testing me, manipulating me and filling me with nothing but a desire for more, leaving me empty and wanting. He had succeeded, I now craved him above all else in this world.

August lifted my skirts, hoisting me with little effort to straddle his lap and I cried out in shock. The sound of my sudden impalement on the thick steel of his manhood was camouflaged by the crowd of people below; no one heard the echo of carnal awakening that sang through the air. When had he undressed? I bit my lip as he sank deeper into my core until the salty bitterness of copper and iron stung my chin. August’s eyes fell to the red droplet, darkening until the only color left in his pale irises was the very absence of light. With a hideous growl he ravaged my mouth, tasting every inch of my bruised lips with the hunger of an animal that’s been caged for far too long.

Thrill and terror tangled themselves in my mind, weaving an intricate web of wanton desire inside of me as August took me right there in the booth. Time itself seemed to halt, the room disappeared. Were we still in the club? Was it still the dead of night? Did I still require oxygen to breathe? Or was my life source now August’s touch, the light in my very soul dependent upon his kiss?

I didn’t notice when we left, nor when we arrived at a house that overlooked the city. I didn’t notice the lock on the basement door, or the fresh garden in the yard. I didn’t notice the continual rising and setting of the sun. I didn’t notice when I grew hungry, nor when I grew tired. I didn’t notice, not anything but passion, need, and desperation.

I didn’t notice.

Sleep drained from my limbs slowly. I awoke to black silk caressing my skin, dim sunlight shining through the wall, diffused by a covering of clouds that hung in the sky. It confused me that it was coming through the entire wall, until I realized that said wall was simply one large window, and the room I found myself in was built into the rock of an obsidian cliff overlooking the city. The room was minimally decorated in dark tones that coordinated with the nature outside, save for a striking, golden painting of a woman crying on the far wall. I clearly wasn’t home, and last night’s events slowly returned to the forefront of my mind.

August.

August was, without a doubt, the most attentive lover I’d ever had. Memories of his lips, his scent, his god-like physique that was surely carved from marble entertained my thoughts, returning my mind to the pleasure I’d never experienced in my life. Chills ran up and down my skin, alighting in wonder as my hand drifted to my sex. My fingers found my petals, swollen from overuse, aching in the dull agony of satisfaction. I stroked them gently, soothing the pleasant tenderness, moaning softly as the blood rushed to swell my clit once more, my other hand slipping beneath the silk to join in the heavenly edging torment.

A sharp, sudden sting at the brush of my inner thigh caused me to cry out, my hands snatching away from their play. I sat up, peering beneath the sheets to discover a semi-circle of divots cut into my leg. Is that a… a bite mark? I pulled at the skin and felt the dried blood crack, a small pinprick of new red seeping through the scab. I lunged from the bed to stand in front of the full-length mirror in the corner and look for other signs or markings, but what I found made me gasp.

Bruises peppered my neck, chest, hips and thighs. A few other crescents were scattered amongst them, standing out against the dark patches that shaded my skin. I took a physical inventory then, feeling the soreness in my jaw from being stretched by his cock, the ache of my neck from having my hair pulled, the shaky feeling of muscular fatigue in my legs from being tensed by orgasm after orgasm. I thought I detected a slight sheen on my skin, but I couldn’t tell if that was from the tremulous bliss of a satisfying fuck, or if it was the sweat and oil caused by said satisfying fuck. Either way, I looked happy and content. I grabbed August’s dress shirt from the floor and threw it on as I left the room to explore.

The bedroom led to a hallway, the wall to my left still nothing but expansive glass that showed off the impressive view. On the other side were large, black and white abstract prints, hung evenly spaced against dark panels. To the left of each was a shadow box with an ornate glass vial inside; each bottle was thin, no longer than my palm and differing in design from the others. Tiny, intricate patterns were painted on the outsides in white, blue, and gold, and gold stoppers sealed each one. When I entered the main room, I discovered a curio cabinet that housed at least a hundred of them, and I leaned in to look at how varied each one was.

“Victorian tear catchers,” August’s voice was suddenly behind me and I whirled sharply, startled. He chuckled at my alarm and I laughed with him, enjoying that glorious sound.

“They’re beautiful,” I murmured, turning back to look at the delicate glass. August pulled me against his naked chest, nosing my hair and kissing my neck.

“Yes you are,” he whispered, earning an eye roll from me. August chuckled and opened the cabinet.

“Would you like one?”

“Really?”

I looked at him, stunned. He simply nodded his head in the direction of the vials and I examined them, selecting one that had a white pattern on it that looked like lace.

“Mmm, a good choice. Perhaps I can collect tears of ecstasy for you,” August whispered. The thrill of what he was implying awakened my senses, and I let him lead us slowly back toward the bedroom. I felt like teasing him, so I delayed a bit by asking about the art on the wall.

“What are those?” I pointed to the first print, a cross-hatching pattern that looked like it was made of sewing pins.

“Those are tears of grief,” he stated, stopping in front of each as he walked me gradually down the hall.

“A yawn,” he said of the next, a white background with dark, fern-looking splatters. August traced his mouth along my jaw, his hand dipping beneath the button of his shirt to play with the sensitive nipples he had rediscovered. I keened as he continued shifting us toward the kitchen, struggling to keep my composure. The next print was a much darker gray, and it looked like it was covered in snowflakes.

“Any guesses?” August asked, mouthing my earlobe in tandem with the flick of his thumbs over my hardened nubs. I whimpered, my knees weak in his lustful embrace.

“Uhm… cold air?” I rasped as he sucked on my neck. August chuckled through his nose, the vibrations of his voice rippling through my chest to connect with his teasing fingers.

“Onions.”

“Yeah okay.”

I tilted my head so that I could kiss him, but suddenly the thought of onions turned my stomach. I lurched, pulling away and gagging slightly. Instead of concern, August smiled knowingly, seemingly unbothered by my retching.

“I see morning sickness has set in. It’s a little early and I had hoped you’d be able to avoid it, but alas, that’s not the case.”

My head swam suddenly, confusion mutilating all thought. I backed away from him.

“Morning what? What are you talking about?”

August took a step toward me, placing a hand on my belly and lacing his fingers in the hair at my nape.

“Women always taste better after they’ve conceived. And I can keep them longer; they make much more blood when they’re host to a fetus.”

I pushed against him, turning away and vainly attempting to process his words. Pregnant? Taste better? Blood? My eyes focused on a card I hadn’t noticed earlier in the shadow box, a single word printed on it.

Bridgette

“Isn’t it ironic,” August mused, tracing my collarbone with a thick finger, “That five weeks ago, you had a chance encounter with the very thing you’ve been studying for months, and now you carry his child.”

The room spun. I couldn’t think; my brain refused to process the nonsense he spoke.

“Five—five weeks?! No that’s not possible, our date was last night!”

“It’s more than possible, sweet morsel. Think about it.”

Bile rose thick and acrid in my throat then, threatening to spill. Memories and time started filtering into my mind, replacing the fog with everything I’d lost. The last puzzle piece clicked into place, confusion all but disappeared and I was left with nothing but the cold, terrifying truth. Pijavica. Vampire. Monster.

I’d fallen into the clutches of a monster.

I did the only thing I could think of; I slapped him as hard as I could and took off through the house, ignoring the sharp pain of a chunk of hair remaining in his hand. My heart pounded in my chest, desperate to be free of this sudden nightmare. I slammed into the front door and grabbed the handle, a strangled sob catching in my throat when it wouldn’t open.

I rattled the door knob, panic consuming every fiber of my being. Suddenly, it wasn’t just my life I was fighting for; apparently there was a life inside of me that needed protecting. The child of a Pijavica that was depending on me to escape, so that he could come back and kill his father. I have to get out. I gave up on the door in anger, spinning around and looking for another way.

“Do you know why I chose you?”

I heard August’s voice again, but he was nowhere to be seen. His voice came louder, penetrating my mind. I have to keep moving.

“It was because of your name; they match your eyes.”

I whimpered at his words, sneaking my head around a corner to survey the living space for some form of an exit.

“Amber has a historical application, you see,” he went on, louder. I dashed over the floor, desperate to be gone from him. Door after door remained locked, and my terror grew with each attempt. Every now and then I could hear August, whether it be a rustle of fabric or the knock of his foot on the wooden floor. The scholar in me knew that it was on purpose, that he was luring his prey, giving chase to his food, and yet my rational mind refused to take charge. I was being led by my flight response, and his jarring monologue wasn’t helping.

“Throughout history, whenever a goddess cried it was typically tears of amber, save for the goddess Freya, who cried gold. You met her in the bedroom.”

His laughter echoed through the dark walls of his lair, and chilled me to my core. It was no longer a beautiful sound, but grating and horrible. I was nothing but a petty human to play with, some toy that he could eat when he tired of me. Tears streamed down my cheeks as I came to the last door. Dear God, please let this one open. To my utter relief, the door swung wide and I was met with stairs. Stairs went down, and we were on a cliff. Down was good. Down meant freedom.

I clambered down the steps and flung open the door at the bottom, stumbling into the room and falling to the floor in horror and fear. There in front of me, was nothing but mirrors. A maze of mirrors, each one showing me my trembling features, mocking me, letting me know just how fucked I was. I turned back, intending to go back up the stairs and try another way, but August’s silhouette stood at the top, preventing me from going back into the house. I heard a scream and realized it was my own.

Scrambling off the floor, I took off into the maze, blinded by my tears.

“Each of those girls made it this far you know,” August taunted. I heard the slam of the door and nearly choked as I ran. “You’ll die in this room, just like they did.”

His nonchalance, his continual unconcern about chasing me, his arrogance that he would no doubt catch me made me so angry. I raced from path to path, growing ever more frantic every time I reached a dead end. I didn’t even know if this room had an exit, I just knew I had to keep moving. I tripped over something as I rounded a corner, screaming when I saw what it was.

“I see you found Bridgette,” August chuckled, and I looked up from the skeleton to see his hideous face marred with a sinful sneer. I gasped and took off again, turning this way and that. Hitting another dead end, I doubled back and ran smack into August’s broad torso. He caught me and held me close as I screamed, ripping his shirt from my body. He spun me around, pinning my wrists between my back and his belly, trailing his fingers languidly over my naked frame in an inspection of his handiwork. My jaw was gripped in an iron vice and August forced my gaze to the mirror.

“Do you see what I see?” he mocked. I could only stare in horror, for nothing but my own terrified expression stared back at me.

August had no reflection.

“Out of all the patterns in the world, do you know which tears are my favorite?” August continued to torment. He inhaled my hair deeply, snaking his tongue along the length of my cheek, tasting the stains my tears had left in their wake.

“Fear.”

I heard August growl as I fought against him, his iron grasp caging me against his cool skin, more of the cursed moisture pooling in my eyes. Glassy drops fell, retracing a new path toward my chin but August just kissed them away, shoving me to the floor when my knees buckled of their own accord. He let go of my hands to fidget with his slacks, pulling me back toward him every time I tried to crawl away as a parent would to a petulant child. On the third attempt he snapped my knee, a scream tearing from my throat in my woeful submission to his desire.

Finally free of his clothes, August lifted my hips, lining his rigid cock up against my sweat-soaked folds. He dove into my treasure without care, forcing his way into the depths of my belly, stretching and tearing my walls until he was fully sheathed. Strong arms wrapped around me again, and I felt two sharp points prick the junction of my neck and shoulder. I cried out and thrashed in fierce protest, knowing that small pinch was just a warning of oncoming pain.

August’s teeth punctured my skin easily, shredding muscle and sinew until they hit bone. I howled in pain as I watched blood drip from the wound, a familiar crescent shape joining its brothers on my body. Searing heat shot through my neck with his first draw of thick plasma; the violent removal of blood causing an intense burn that I felt all the way down to my injured leg. August released my neck and I clapped a hand over the fresh wound.

I looked over my shoulder at him; his head was tilted down, mouth still full of my blood; the lack of a reflection behind him unsettling to my senses. August opened his wicked maw slowly, dark scarlet trickling from his lips onto the junction where my hips met his, run through by his sword. He looked up at me with a nasty grin, bloodstained fangs curdling my stomach. I closed my eyes and turned away as he swiped a hand through the mess. His fingers penetrated my core alongside his cock, deaf to my sobbing objections.

“You’d better open your eyes, pet… This needy little cunt is dripping, I’d hate for you to miss it.”

August emphasized his sick joke by grasping my hair, shoving my head to the floor, forcing me to look once more into the polished glass. My desperate wails for mercy were all that kept me grounded as I watched him thrust, my battered hole be stretched beyond capacity. Nothing but empty space plundered my core, crimson air bruising the very place within me that only just last night had been treated with such tenderness and care. Not last night. His slick fingers found my mouth and violated it effortlessly; no amount of pressure I could apply would break through his tough skin.

“God, you look so beautiful.”

August pulled me up and took to my neck with fervor, latching onto the broken sliver of skin like a leech. The more he drank, the weaker I became, until there was no resistance left within me. I could see the color drain from my bloody face, I could see black slowly creep into my vision, but I was powerless to stop it. August was in charge, he held my entire existence in his hands, and he intended to extinguish it. I closed my eyes again, accepting my fate.

I was going to die.

One of my favorite places to visit is a small outdoor cafe, very near the coffee shop where I met Amber. Mmmm. Amber. Not a day goes by that I don’t think of that tantalizing woman.

She lasted so much longer than all the others, you know. I was able to feed off of her nearly three full months as she hung there in my basement, until the last drop of her tantalizing nectar was finally extracted. She smelled of carraway and saffron, tasted of sweet mulled wine, and with the rich, heady, piquancy of her fertile womb seasoning each sinew, every inch of her opulent flesh begged to be consumed. I must admit, I should have dispatched of her sooner, but fascination overtook my curious mind as her own was consumed by insanity.

First it was freedom she asked for, and then death. Sometimes she would beg to speak to her mother one last time. But by the end, she only asked for one thing.

“Please,” she would whisper, “Please… Cover the mirrors. Just cover the mirrors.”

She asked so nicely, but how on earth could I hide such beauty? Her tears were just as rare, you see. They hold a beauty unmatched by any of the others that hang on my walls. I’ve never seen such a fear pattern like hers; it is more exquisite than the dawn of a misty spring day in the countryside, more beautiful than a woman at the height of euphoria. And they way they sparkled against her skin, lustrous tracks that wound down her temples and through her hair, glinting in the mirrors with each slow rotation of her inverted body... well, it was as if I was living among the stars. Adding her ashes to my garden was such a shame.

I sat at that little cafe, eyes closed, viewing the world through my enhanced scent. Each drop of bitter coffee, the pollen of a nearby bee, the oil in the bike chains of two clumsy humans as they rolled past; each note and fragrance alerting me to its owner. A familiar scent reached my nose and I turned my head sharply, focusing on it.

Carraway… Saffron.

I smiled softly, opening my eyes to greet the woman that now sat at my table. The honey irises that had intrigued me all those months ago met mine and I chuckled low.

“Amber.”

Read on AO3.

[missvifdor]

Alright, I share a quick thought like this, but imagine Bucky having the DID (be careful, I want to make it clear that I'm not an expert and any mistakes on my part are unintentional and I'm sorry for being so stupid The DID is not a joke, it is a real trouble and I would never allow myself to laugh or joke about it).

So I was saying, Bucky having DID:

Thinking back to all the traumatic moments in his life, it would be easy enough to think that he could have had it. Imagine that at one point his brain and mind say "STOP" and no longer able to cope with all these events, decide that in order to survive, he must create a "shield" (I don't know if I am speaking correctly, sorry if that doesn't make sense).

Because if I'm not saying bullshit, that's what the host's DID is for, to protect it and that's where the Alters come in. The basis of the DID is that the host not supposed to know he has it.

But all the time, there will be signs: amnesia, dissociative disorder, depersonalization, derealization,. Imagine, one day, everything is going well, you get ready to go to sleep and then when you wake up, the date, the time have completely changed, you are now dressed and you have no memory of having lived this. that happened after you last remembered.

Now imagine Bucky going through the same thing, he'd be pretty scared I think.

Bucky would have these symptoms, but not just that. For example, he might feel like he has feelings, thoughts, moods, or anything else that is not ... his but belongs to someone else. Or he would hear voices talking to him (Wait, this has nothing to do with schizophrenia, the voices heard cannot be suppressed with medication and to the host this is really heard as a person's voice real voice or an interlocutor. These are real voices).

You know when we think and hear a voice but it is that of our subconscious, and well that is still different.

(I won't procrastinate any longer, but if you are interested, I advise you to inform yourself to find out more. For example, there is a youtube channel that talks about it because the designer has DID, she and other affected people talk about it here: https://youtu.be/ek7JK6pattE ).

Back to our Super Soldier:

Bucky, like anyone with DID will have both good and bad triggers.

The good ones would be: Music from the 40s, his favorite food, something that reminds him of his sister or mother, etc.

The bad ones: Something or someone who could bring back bad memories, maybe the language Russian, the pain linked to his metal arm, the situations where he cannot feel comfortable or very anxious, a dangerous mission that has gone off the rails a bit.

Let's talk about his Alters: The Winter Soldier will have taken a big place in his life and I think he probably never left him because he is part of him.

So I would lean towards the fact that Winter (let's call him that) has become one of his Alters. It would have become this:

Alter Trauma Holder and Persecutor: some of his tasks are to hold traumatic memories ... especially so that other Alters are not not disturbed by these memories and that the system works more or less. And often, well, trauma holders do not voluntarily choose this role, they are there because the brain did it like that and it can seem very unfair!

It is common that in addition to h: And, even when they do, sometimes they just aren't able to pass it on to the rest of the system and, unfortunately, to the outside either. This is one of the reasons why it is very difficult for a system to find and manage trauma or to talk to a therapist, for example. This is one of the reasons why it is very difficult for a system to find and manage trauma or to talk to a therapist, for example.

Trauma holders are also It called “Secret Keepers / Secret Holders”.

Her Part Persecutor: To put it mildly, the "Persecutor" is an alter who is hostile to the system or the outside world . Well, obviously, it’s nowhere near that simple.

In general, persecutors are alters who have internalized hatred or rejection, either towards themselves, towards other members of the system, or towards the outside world. It is a traumatic response that follows physical abuse, toxic relationships and assaults experienced by the system. Like the protectors, the persecutors seek to prevent further attacks, attack in defense or suffer for the rest of the system. But they ... don't always do it the right way.

There are different kinds of persecutors, some tend to reject any outside person, others may have internal words and feelings of worthlessness, still others may sabotage a possible therapy for fear of the medical profession, then of others can re-experience their traumas, injure themselves, etc… They are very often hyperviligant and easily activated.

They are sometimes very withdrawn and influenced by feelings causing for example a strong anxiety or suicidal thoughts. But they can also be authoritarian and seek to impose behavior on the rest of the system, considering that the others are incapable of protecting themselves and are responsible for the abuses suffered. Finally, some persecutors are a representation of aggressors and persecute the system like these. The persecutors are above all persecuted by trauma and in particular they need to be secure. It is very common that, once appeased, they become essential protectors of the system.

Here's another Alter, James: It would be quite similar to the Bucky of the 40s but different at the same time.

He would be an Alter Internal Self Helper: The "Internal Self Helper" is an alter that helps the system internally. It is not uncommon for ISHs to serve as some sort of mediator to the rest of the system, as if they were "the voice of reason."

They often have a good knowledge of Alters and how the system works (but this does not mean that they easily share this information). They are also often discreet, facing little or not at all or only side by side with another alter.

Internal self helpers are often associated with the creation and management of the innerworld, especially when it was conceived unconsciously.

ISH is a frequent supporting role among gatekeepers, protectors and sometimes among trauma holders.

And Bucky would be the host: Host "refers to the alter who fronts most of the time ... when all is well. And this nuance is important!

Indeed, the “Host” is a bit like the basic Alter, the one who is there when there is no need for any other Alter, no triggers, and no Alter is needed wanted to face. In principle, he manages the day-to-day life, so you would think that it is indeed the alter that uses the body most often, yes. But no.

A system is frequently affected by all the little things in life, whether or not it requires the presence of another Alter at the front. And, especially when it is not conscious, it can be common for another alter (social or protective, for example) to be more present than the host. It all depends on the environment of the system and the awareness of its multiplicity as well as the choices and possibilities of each of its members.

For this reason, there are systems without a host (or with a sleeping host) as well as systems with multiple hosts (which are then called co-hosts), which handle different aspects of the day-to-day. good. Of course, the hosts can also have another role, such as caretaker or alter social.e for example. It may also happen that a new host appears and the system changes hosts.

The host is a role that can be difficult to take in at times, as it is often the first alter to become consciously aware (yes, consciously aware) of his multiplicity. And it's already not easy to realize that we "are not alone in your head", but it is also difficult to realize that you have shared your whole life with "these others people in his head ”. It is very common for the host to doubt his legitimacy, to be afraid of lying, etc. They are often influenced by the feelings, thoughts and feelings of other Alters.

On the other hand, the host can usually be an alter who allows for better communication, as he or she serves as a bit of a mediator, conciliatory and benevolent towards the system and the outside world, while being held to it 'deviation from the consequences (emotional for example) of traumas. A stable host is an important basis for functional multiplicity.

Be careful, it must be said: the host is not the original! Many systems don't have an original, and while you might think the host is some kind of original, it isn't. Of course, if there is an original in the system, it can be a host. But, whether host and / or original, all Alters should be considered equally. (Really, for this to work, it's important to understand this)

Otherwise, a person with DID may have other Alters, the number can vary and they are all different!

Now, how would it be if Bucky had a Y / N ? Would other people in the system agree with that? Would Y / N manage and understand this situation? That is the whole question.

But let's imagine that in the best-case scenario, Winter and James are ok with this relationship and even have feelings for Y / N, it will still be a job all the time.

The best would be someone who can differentiate the three and act with the three as if they were three different individuals (Who they are and this is very important because each Alter deserves to be recognized).

Being in a relationship with Bucky is a bit like being with a big teddy bear who could easily shoot you in the head with near-deadly precision. And a gentleman under all circumstances, of course.

Being with Winter is complicated enough, but not impossible. You just have to know how to do it and above all succeed in interpreting his looks, his silences. The man is not the biggest talker but know that he would be ready to kill for you and protect you.

As for James his Fronts are very rare but when he will be there, believe me when I tell you that he will not leave you alone with his affections! He is surely the one who is the most sociable of the three and who will take the greatest pleasure in teasing you or improvising a dance with you in the middle of your living room.

Well I have finished! Do not hesitate to tell me what you think of it in the comments, or if you want a part two to find out more in general or to know more about the romantic relationship side + ... SNFW.

[acesartemis]

" Coffee, ice cream, and alcohol. These are three things that always elicit a look of shock, horror, and disbelief or even an audible gasp whenever someone learns that I don’t like them. How can you not like coffee? But everyone likes ice cream, it’s delicious! So you don’t like any kind of alcohol? They either pity me or become irrationally angry about my aversions—which I did not consciously choose to have. They try to convince me that I simply haven’t tried coffee, ice cream, or alcohol in the right way yet, and they pressure me to try it again at some undetermined point in the future. Sometimes it feels like moral outrage. Sometimes it feels like they have instantly become offended, either because they assume that I have insulted something that brings them great pleasure, comfort, and joy or because they think I’m judging them. I’m not. I have simply tried these things—on multiple occasions, with different flavors, and in various situations—and I have determined that I don’t like them and I currently have no interest in trying them again, in any iteration. This is apparently a difficult thing for most people to grasp, and I have seen similar reactions when people learn about asexuality. 

Sex is not a human necessity or obligation (and neither is romance). Sex is not universally desired and sexual attraction is not a universal experience. People on the asexuality spectrum acknowledge and embody these unpopular truths, and we are ostracized for it. Not only do we have our very existence questioned by a dominant society which cannot stretch its imagination far enough to believe in the validity of orientations outside of those deemed normal, but we are also often denied space in the very community that takes pride in the challenging of those norms. Asexual is queer, but many queer allosexuals spend an inordinate amount of energy trying to convince us otherwise and actively trying to shut us out of the queer spaces that should be safe havens for everyone with (ethical) non-normative sexualities and attractions. 

So many people see queerness as being principally defined by which gender(s) one has a sexual and/or romantic affinity towards (or which gender(s) one is). Historically, this is largely how it has been defined and understood, by both queer and cishetero folks. They have only understood queerness through the non-normative performances of and attractions related to sex (and gender), not through the denial or subversion of these performances and attractions. It is my belief that asexuality would be better understood if we collectively expanded and reformed our cultural notions about sex, intimacy, and relationships, and even prescribed gender roles in relation to these things (an essay for another time). 

Asexuality would also be better understood if we expanded and reformed our understanding of queerness itself. Over the last few years, it has become increasingly clear to me that far too many people largely define queerness in the same problematic way that many define Black womanhood—by how many harms and heartbreaks we are faced with and by how much danger we are in on a daily basis. I cannot begin to express how dangerous and counterproductive it is to define queerness by our suffering. I’ve had my queerness invalidated and witnessed others have theirs invalidated by self-proclaimed queer experts citing the dangers allosexual queer identities face for being out or not “passing” as straight and/or cis, making all sorts of assumptions about what traumas I may or may not have and how they may or may not be wrapped up with my asexuality. 

Conceiving of queerness in this way is in direct contradiction with the project of queer liberation. The point is to normalize queerness so that none of us have to endure, survive, or die from these abuses—whether institutional, individual, interpersonal, structural, public, or private. It is not to define our queerness by whether or not we have experienced these abuses “enough” to be considered authentic. Gatekeeping is not queer liberation. It only serves to reproduce the same harms as compulsory cisheteronormativity."

— Sherronda J. Brown

(colored parts are my own emphasis)

[9worldstales]

INTERESTING POINTS TO PONDER FROM INTERVIEWS 1

Interviews might not remain forever available or not be easy to find so I’ve decided to link them and transcribe the points I find of some interest so as to preserve them should the interview had to end up removed.

It’s not complete transcriptions, just the bits I think can be relevant but I wholeheartedly recommend reading the whole thing.

And of course I also comment all this because God forbid I’ll keep silent... :P

Title: Tom Hiddleston On Set Interview THOR; Talks About Playing Loki, How He Got Cast, and a Lot More

Author: Steve Weintraub

Published: Dec 10, 2010

BEST BITS FROM THE INTERVIEW

ON LOKI

So could you talk about in the film how it’s being played?

Hiddleston: Yeah. Well we’re starting at the beginning; I think it’s safe to say. I start in the film as Thor’s younger brother and I think in the manner of all younger brothers I have a greater sense of freedom. I’m not the oldest therefore the parental expectations aren’t as heavy, so it’s like a lot of younger children in sibling groups; I think Loki has a bit more freedom. He’s not going to be King. He knows that. And so he’s freer to…he has less responsibility on his shoulders so he’s freer to have a bit more fun. And I think like everybody at Marvel has been very clear and brilliant about coming into this that Loki just has…they’re both enormously gifted. Thor and Loki are a 2-man team and they’re both going to run Asgard when Oden steps down, and Thor has an ability and a physicality and a presence—a physical presence that is…he’s the type of man you follow. You just do. In the same way they used to talk about all the leaders and the captains and the generals that came out of both World Wars that those captains and generals weren’t necessarily elected just in battles. There were certain men who were followed. You know, leaders were born and Thor is that guy. And Loki’s gifts are different in that he is sharper, he’s cleverer, he’s more interested in tactics and strategy. He’s capable of thinking ahead and he enjoys chaos. So he enjoys reacting to chaos and that affects how given that he’s the God of mischief. Mischief is essentially chaos. He likes stoking the fire of chaos and seeing what happens as a result. And so I think that’s where we start in that he’s just physically not as strong, but he has…he’s quicker and sharper and I guess that’s fair to say…

PUBLICIST I’m listening, don’t worry.

Hiddleston: Yeah, quicker, sharper, more playful and then I think over the course of the story and I can’t say the full story, but there is a kind of….a couple of major shocks about Loki and his history and who he is and why he is come to him. He’s made aware of for the very first time in the films. There are certain things that fans of the comics will already know, but hopefully you see Loki learn certain things about himself for the first time. So it’s a journey of self-awareness. He doesn’t, at the beginning of the film, know his own power and I think through the course of the film he comes to learn his true nature and the extent of his power. But with a propensity for mischief I think as soon as he knows how powerful it is that’s when it becomes dangerous.

We got to play with some of those fantastic weapons, how have you learned to wield them?

Hiddleston: It’s been fascinating actually. And one of the first things I did when I came on board was that we started with stunt training.  And we thought like what is…it’ll be boring if Thor was a tank. It’d be boring if Loki was another tank and they were just running into each other. So we thought if Thor is thunder and power and muscle and brawn and he’s got his hammer, Loki should be like…he should be so quick he’s like the wind. So if Thor is heavy, Loki is light. We thought what would be the weapon that Loki would be fighting with? So we thought throwing knives….because I think Loki doesn’t like to get his hands dirty in a fight. He likes to be quick, efficient and lethal. It’s like one blow—slam. So we thought it would be throwing knives. And I thought if there was a way…if Loki could fight in a way that was as impressive as Thor’s, but was completely different so in a way Loki is too quick and Thor can’t catch him, you know? I kind of conceived of Loki as a kind martial artist with these throwing knives. Someone who’s like a dancer. He dances his way out of combat and these knives are his way of keeping his foes at arm's length but it’s lethal. When you get one of those knives in, you’re gone. I had a great time actually, we were shooting on another set shooting a bit battle sequence. And the set was made of this stuff. It looked hard but it was soft. It was foam. And my stunt knives were rubber so they didn’t like take out the grip or the camera operator. But we found like…I’d always throw them and Russell Bobbit, the props master, would always go and retrieve them for me for the next take. And he couldn’t find one of the daggers and we were like looking all over the set for this dagger. And I’m like where the hell did it go? And like about half an hour later we’d thought we lost it somewhere in the green screen. And he said, Tom, and he pointed up and this rubber knife was stuck clean into the set, so I knew I was throwing them with some kind of velocity.

Does it affect your thoughts at all that maybe you could do this performance a 2nd, 3rd, 4th time? Did you bring any bread crumbs or anything like that?

Hiddleston: Yeah, I feel that way certainly. I haven’t started…I can tell you this for free. I don’t start the film with him like immediately gone to the dark side. I think it’s good to see that Loki is genuinely Thor’s brother and there is a complicated relationship there. So that it isn’t just like…he isn’t just an out and out villain. He isn’t all black. He isn’t someone who the audience can immediately say “he’s the bad guy” because I think it’s more interesting if… because no character in real life or in comic books or any play or film or anything, nobody thinks they’re a villain.  You always think there’s a complete logic to what you’re doing and you know what’s best and you know what’s right. And I think it’s really interesting to see Loki’s actions from his perspective and he’s just someone who becomes more and more damaged by, I think, a sense of isolation from his family and a sense of…it’s kind of a deep loneliness. I think when the world makes you feel rejected, you bite back. And I think over the course of the film that’s what you see in Loki. He feels continually cast out by different sets of people and his brother particularly and at a certain point he’s pushed too far and he comes back with a vengeance.

A lot of the actors have been talking about working with Ken, Shakespeare is definitely a touch stone, is that something that’s come up working with Ken? Of any characters you’re sort of…

Hiddleston: I’ve talked to him very much about subtlety because I don’t want to do any eyebrow twitching or moustache twiddling. I don’t want to do sort of like a caricatured villain. I’ve tried very much to make Loki psychologically plausible. Someone who’s damaged and very, very intelligent and is able to sow the seeds of deceit. Like he’s the Oscar winning liar, you know? He’d stand up there and you buy it. You’d buy anything from him. He’s the perfect salesman. Because my background is Shakespeare as well, I’ve done a lot of Shakespeare in London and Iago is kind of a touch stone for me. Edmund in King Lear, if you know that story. But I draw my inspiration from all over the place. I’ve been listening to lots of the Prodigy. Like there was an album they released in the ‘90’s called Music for the Jilted Generation, which has a real rage in it. It has a real kind of like don’t piss me off because I’ll bark at you. And I find myself listening to that sometimes. And there are some great performances. Ken talked a lot about some of Peter O’Toole’s greatest performances and how in “Lawrence of Arabia” or “The Lion in Winter” he is on the edge of darkness. He’s on the edge of sanity. You can see it in his eyes that he’s been pushed to the brink and you’re not sure if you can trust him because there’s a madness in there, you know? A greatness, too and a charisma and a power that you want to get close to and you want to see inside, but it’s a little bit dangerous. And so I’ve been trying to kind of… I drive to work every morning and I try and light some kind of bonfire under myself which is adrenalized and hot and alone. It’s a strange feeling when you’re playing a character that feels so alone.

Are there certain like iconic gestures or poses from the comic book that you’re trying to use, because when I think of Loki I always think of him kind of slouched in the throne and kind of brooding.

Hiddleston: Yeah, that’s definitely like…I recall that Ken talks about the racing mind. He said I want to see…he said every time I put the camera on your face, I want to see your brain going at the speed of light. But I don’t want anyone else in the scene to see it. So this is a very private thing of like someone who’s just thinking 10 steps ahead of the game every time, but not making it so obvious that it’d be like guys, somebody look at Loki because he’s cooking up something. Bad ass, you know? But I do feel like he’s a sort of person who never sleeps. His brain never stops working. And he’s always cooking up something. You’re never quite sure if you can trust him and….what was the question again?

Well, like were there certain…

Hiddleston: Yeah, facial expressions. Certainly there’s this fantastic shot of me on the throne where it’s like straight out of that sort of iconic image where he’s got the staff and he’s slouching in it. He’s like, got a problem with that? You know? But yeah, I guess as an actor I start from the inside out. Like the costume is enormously helpful but I always think like what makes him tick? What is human about this character? I don’t want to play a cipher. I look at someone who is damaged, broken, alone, isolated from his family, doesn’t feel like he belongs, someone who’s been lost, abandoned. And there are physiological tropes for those things, you know? And you see the lost and damaged and abandoned children of our world. It’s no accident that they grow up to be… to fill our prisons, you know? And that’s kind of who Loki is. He’s just really clever, you know? So he’s good at hiding his own intents I think. So I think the process of living through those emotions or feeling so angry with people because they don’t trust him. And feeling angry with Thor because he gets everything. He’s the favourite son. I think just the process of living inside that anger, that rage, that hurt every day creates an intensity on my face which I’m not aware of. So it’s not like I’m creating expressions but absolutely there’s a kind of a raw intensity that Ken said from the word go he said I want to see you every day with a layer of skin peeled away. I want to see that ticker tape machine inside your head like working at 1,000 miles per minute. Yeah, it’s great man!

MY TWO CENTS

I love to read Tom Hiddleston’s interviews because they’re always filled with extra information, which are often based on bits that didn’t make into the final cut but are still part of the canon or give an insight on the characters’ minds.

Like how he says ‘Thor and Loki are a 2-man team and they’re both going to run Asgard when Odin steps down’ because in the old script it was implied that, although Thor would be king, Loki would be his right hand man, giving him consueling.

On the differences between Thor and Loki’s fighting styles and how Loki is still dangerous. People might not get it from the movie, assuming Thor is the one with the fighting ability but here it turns out Loki too has his strenght, although it lays in different things, like speed.

Or how he remarks about Loki’s loneliness and sense of isolation, who feels rejected and that’s why he bites back, someone who’s really smart.

It’s all things that I love to hear about a character and that show a good care in creating him.

Of course through the interview he also say things that are more technical, related to how he got hired or how he found difficult to wear Loki's horns and so on and this too is very intriguing but what always win me are informations about the characters, their mind, their world. And he always share some of them in all his interviews.

[arcticdementor]

I have a certain fondness for cyclical history, or at least the notion that there are some structural patterns that seem to recur in predictable waves throughout history – including ones that could explain our current period of upheaval.

Several observers of history have theorized broad 60-100 year secular “cycles” of historical disorder and reorder, such as William Strauss and Neil Howe’s generational theory and Peter Turchin’s “cliodynamic” forecast of an “age of discord” – both of which predicted a period of extended crisis around 2020 and now seem to pretty much be playing out exactly as prophesized.

…

This stuff is worth exploring more, and I aim to do so in the future. But first, I think it might be worth it for us to start by actually thinking bigger – much bigger. As in: what if we aren’t witnessing a period of change “unseen in a century,” but unseen in five centuries? And, what if we are engulfed not in a secular cycle, but in one more fundamentally religious in nature? That’s an important question to analyze, even if you aren’t religious.

In the last decade we’ve seen the emergence in the West of a strident new ideology of “Social Justice” which, despite its self-conceived secularism, many observers have now convincingly argued bears all the hallmarks of a new religious cult, complete with a new metaphysics of truth and reality, a concept of original sin, a new hierarchy of moral virtues, a self-constructed canonical liturgy and a strict orthodoxy, a de-facto priesthood, sacred spaces, self-abasing rituals, a community of believers, linguistic shibboleths, blasphemy laws, and excommunication – among other giveaways.

But, quite notably, this “New Faith” seems to have, consciously or unconsciously, modeled most of its belief system and ritual practices straight out of the Christian tradition, from an overarching preoccupation with the weak and the victimized, along with an emphasis on atonement (though any conception of grace, forgiveness, or redemption is notably absent), right down to specific forms of ritual, like the washing of feet or the symbolic reenactment of martyrdom.

This raises an interesting question: is what we are witnessing now less an entirely new faith than what in the past would have instead been immediately recognized and categorized as part of the long list of Christian heresies, large and small, which challenged the established church throughout history? Could we be living through, as I posited briefly in my introductory essay to The Upheaval, a religious revolution similar to the Reformation that wracked Europe beginning around 500 years ago?

A 500 Year Cycle

Enter the late Phyllis Tickle, an American academic and journalist following religious trends, and her 2008 book The Great Emergence, which essentially argued precisely that. Tickle’s book is frankly what I would have described as a work of pure kookery as recently as five years ago, but, well, times have changed.

The Great Emergence posits that Christianity has throughout its history been shaped by a recurring 500 year-long cycle of structural and spiritual dissolution, turmoil, and re-formation. Each time, the Church has seemingly been seized by a collective desire to cast off established institutional structures and beliefs. She identifies four past rotations of this cycle, coincidentally describing a “mighty upheaval” that has inevitably consumed the Christian world at every climax of this cycle before order was eventually restored.

…

Tickle describes an established religion as a sort of cable – not just a metaphorical “cable of meaning that keeps the human social unit connected to some purpose and/or power greater than itself,” but with the analogy of an actual cable.

Inside a steel cable are three interwoven strands, in this case representing spirituality (interior religious experience and belief), corporeality (the physical embodiment/evidence of a religious practice’s existence and practice, such as books, liturgy, or a priest’s robes), and morality (essentially applied spirituality, filtered through corporeality). On the outside of the cable is a waterproof casing that protects the interior. In our analogy, this is the religion’s story (the mythic and actual shared history that unites members). Finally, in between the casing and the strands is a pliable mesh sleeve that makes the cable more flexible and less brittle, and helps to absorb shocks. This is the common imagination or illusion of the religion’s believers about “how the world works” and is “to be imaged and thereby understood.” It serves as a general operating system for the group.

So constructed, said religious cable can rest underwater on the seabed of history for quite a long time unperturbed in its function. However, eventually the outer casing (the story) will become corroded, and the interior mesh (collective imagination) disrupted by events. At first this is fine, and the cable continues to hold, or is even repaired. That is until “that fateful time, about once every five hundred years, when the outer casing of the story and inner sleeve of the shared illusion take a blow simultaneously. When that happens, a hole is opened straight through to the braid. The water rushes in; and human nature being what human nature is, we reach our collective hand in through the hole and pull out the three strands one at a time. Spirituality first, corporeality second, and morality last. We pull each up, consider it from every possible angle, and at times finger it beyond all imagining.” (If you’re now thinking of the rapid growth of people in the 21st century that began claiming they’re “spiritual but not religious,” you are connecting the dots here).

…

Which brings us to a final interesting pattern that Tickle identifies in every cycle: the emergence of at least one “new form” of Christianity, but also simultaneously a process of “re-traditioning” by the original faith that has “occurred with each turn of the eras and is a substantial dynamic in the progression from upheaval to renewed stability.” In the case of the Reformation, the Church was “freed” to tackle errors and corruptions, and to make significant institutional reforms (in the Fifth Lateran Council, the Councils of Trent, etc.) during a period of counter-reformation that would eventually produce a less decadent and more unified, clarified, and vibrant Catholic Church.

…

What happened in sum, in Tickle’s telling, is that “sola scriptura, scriptura sola,” which “had answered the authority question in the sixteenth century and, more or less, had sustained the centuries between the Great Reformation” and the modern day, was mortally wounded. In largely Protestant America, this had big consequences (and meanwhile the Catholic Church was facing similar pressures). Any agreement on the three strands of the cable – what it means to be “spiritual”; what the corporeality of the church should looks like, or if it should even exist; and eventually what it means to be a moral person – was now gone.

The result, she says, has been the emergence of a new faith structure.

The very first manifestation of this, Tickle argues, dates back to the birth and explosive growth in America of Pentecostalism, a form of “charismatic” Protestantism that emphasizes a radically egalitarian, direct and personal relationship with God sufficient to produce the famed “speaking in tongues” common in Pentecostal worship. Pentecostalism “by definition assumes direct contact of the believer with God and, by extension, the direct agency of the Holy Spirit as instructor and counselor and commander as well as comforter.” As such, “Pentecostalism assumes that ultimate authority is experiential rather than canonical… Pentecostalism, in other words offered the Great Emergence its first, solid, applied answer to the question of where now is our authority.”

Today, however, even Pentecostalism is beginning to break down – along with evangelicalism and pretty much every other denomination – and see its followers assimilated into something new: the “Emergent Church.” But what exactly is that?

…

And the “Emergents,” it turns out, “are postmodern.” Despite all that rationalist science from earlier, the takeaway from the collapse of authority has been “that logic is not worth nearly so much as the last five hundred years would have had us believe. It is, therefore, not to be trusted as an absolute, nor are its conclusions to be taken as truth just because they depend from logical thinking.”

…

But who ultimately determines the narrative in this ultra-democratic faith? Tickle taps into network theory to answer: crowd sourcing. The group will manifest its own values and own authority. This “differs [from the past] in that it employs total egalitarianism, a respect for worth of the hoi polloi that even pure democracy never had, and a complete indifference to capitalism as a virtue or to individualism as a godly circumstance.”

Is any of this beginning to sound somewhat worrying to you? Well don’t worry, says Tickle – and it is worth pausing here to note that Tickle is an enthusiastic self-described Emergent who thinks this is all great news – the coalescing Emergent Church will settle on new answers to authority, spirituality, morality, and practice, and find its footing as the new dominant Christianity.  Meanwhile the reactionaries left in the corners will undergo a process of re-traditioning and come out the better for it in the end. And they can take heart that “every time the incrustations of an overly established Christianity have been broken open, the faith has spread – and been spread – dramatically into new geographic and demographic areas, thereby increasing exponentially the range and depth of Christianity’s reach as a result of its time of unease and distress.”

And with the new egalitarian faith tradition so deeply in touch with our common humanity, all the bloodshed and general unpleasantness experienced during every past historical case of “emergence” will presumably be avoided (Tickle seems to forget about that part in her excitement). Then everyone will live happily ever after – or at least for another 500 years.

That was Tickle’s conclusion anyway. But she published The Great Emergence in 2008 and died in 2015, so she didn’t live to see what’s actually happened.

The Actual Great Emergence

Tickle wrote her book too soon. Liberal, vibrating, Eastern-inspired hippies no longer, her “Emergent Church” seems to have taken a turn in the last decade that she didn’t see coming, transforming into a rather different beast.

Here’s what I think may have happened. Tickle got a lot of things very right: the cable of institutional Christianity was corroded by science and cultural entropy; sola scriptura, scriptura sola did break down, and the faith did enter a crisis centered on the question “where now is authority?” A new Christianity did began to emerge, just as she described.

In fact the trends toward the collapse of establishment Christianity were perhaps even more powerful than she may have predicted. A recent Gallup poll found that less than 50% of American’s are now official members of a church or other religious organization, down from over 60% in 2008.

…

But – and this is my theory – in the end Tickle’s version of Emergent Christianity proved a weak social construct. It existed to gratify its adherents with the belief that they were still morally good members of a religious tradition, whose primary goal was to provide for their happiness, while liberating them from any higher authority beyond themselves and freeing them from any of the responsibilities or strictures that had once characterized that religion.

In other words, Emergent Christianity was mostly Moralistic Therapeutic Deism all along.

Ultimately, this fragile early-stage Emergent Church didn’t resolve the crisis because it didn’t have any real authority, meaningful substance, or unifying purpose.

Meanwhile, many of the seeds planted within Emergent Christianity that Tickle mentioned were still finishing germinating, namely: post-modernism, narrative-driven reality, direct personal relationship with and self-interpretation of divinity, opposition to hierarchy, and crowd-sourced authority.

But, most important of all was I think something Tickle doesn’t really touch on too much: the modernity-driven suspicion, deep within the hearts even of many Christians, that in fact, as Nietzsche infamously put it, “God is dead.” Increasingly skeptical about the existence of any kingdom of God in heaven, they were primed for a logical alternative: building the kingdom of heaven on earth instead.

The stage was thus set for The Great Merger.  

At some point the Emergent Church came face-to-face with secular, identity-based “Social Justice” activism – likely in the 2010s, when core theoretical ideas behind that movement, based on post-modern Critical Theory and neo-Marxist frameworks of identitarian struggle, first really began to seep out of the academy and crystalize into effective activist movements, such as Black Lives Matter or the trans rights movement, in a big way.

Both sides liked what they saw, but for the Emergent Church in particular this was a match made in narrative heaven. Secular Social Justice activism dovetailed perfectly with both the strong historical emphasis on social justice work within many Christian denominations (including the Social Gospel movement) and the post-modern seeds already present in Emergent Christianity (such as the primacy of self-interpreted identity). But more importantly it offered Emergents nearly everything they had been missing and longing for. Suddenly they had a new source of authority (the doctrines of Critical Theory and the hierarchy of intersectional identity), a clear metaphysics of good and evil (the oppressed and their oppressors), an ultimate objective (to perfect the world by the elimination of evil), and a grand narrative of how to live in the world.

George Orwell famously wrote in his 1940 review of Mein Kampf that: “Whereas Socialism, and even capitalism in a more grudging way, have said to people ‘I offer you a good time,’ Hitler has said to them ‘I offer you struggle, danger and death,’ and as a result a whole nation flings itself at his feet.” Well, the Emergent Church offered its restless followers comfort and a good time on earth; neo-Marxist Social Justice offered them revolutionary struggle, and so they prostrated themselves immediately.

…

That’s not the end of the story though, as I think Emergent Christianity may have had more influence on the secular activist movement than the latter tends to consider. In fact I think it might have been quite important to the rapid emergence and spread of the New Faith.

To start with, it provided the concept of sin. This helped grow and empower the activist movement tremendously. Why? One might not think of free-wheeling secular culture embracing the idea of sin so easily, even joyfully, but it was a simple matter. As an example, picture a hypothetical middle-class suburban white lady, enjoying a relatively comfortable material life but wracked by a vague but unshakable sense of guilt about her existence – for being white in a country with a history often unkind to non-whites; for her consumption habits contributing to environmental pollution and climate change; for being the citizen of a rich country while elsewhere in the world children starve, and so on. Liberalism has never addressed this feeling in a satisfactory way. Suddenly, along comes the New Faith, and tells her that it’s all true: she is indeed a sinner, and she’s not alone! In fact the whole country and her whole race is corrupted by the original sins of colonialism, slavery, and genocide. What a relief! Even better, it has a comprehensive plan of action for how to address this sin.

This helped reorient Social Justice from the purely systemic to the personal. Neo-Marxist roots mean that the modern Social Justice movement tends to think primarily in terms of systems, and aims to drive systemic change to address systemic problems, like “systemic racism.”  Broadly speaking, this is still the case, but the problem is that this is both a hard goal and a cold, impersonal one. It’s not very inspiring to tell people their individual agency is of little import to the machine and that the only way to affect progress is to change the whole machine. Activism seems like pretty desperate business in that case. The concept of sin, however, provides a short circuit to this problem: it implies that progress can be made through a sort of personal moral transformation (say by acknowledging one’s privilege and “unconscious bias” and moving from “racist” to “anti-racist”) which anyone can achieve if they “educate” themselves and “do the work.” Liberalism has studiously avoided telling our secular white lady how she should live in the world, so this kind of moral direction provides the relief of having a distinct path. Moreover, if everyone was to accept this path all the problems of the world would be immediately be solved, so convincing (or forcing) more people to accept the Good News and begin their personal transformation becomes an imperative mission.

…

Finally, it provides an even greater sense of community to the faithful, helping to overcome the atomizing isolation and loneliness of liquid modernity. This is a somewhat odd community though. Just as Tickle predicted, communications technology has made it simultaneously vast and hyper-democratic. You might question whether the strict orthodoxy and blasphemy codes of the New Faith, to which one must submit or be canceled, are democratic, but that is only because you have forgotten your Plato and Aristotle, either of whom could have warned you what tends to happen to pure democracies. As Aristotle put it in his Politics:

[T]here demagogues spring up. For the people becomes a monarch, and is many in one; and there many have the power in their hand, not as individuals, but collectively… At all events this sort of democracy, which is now a monarchy, and no longer under the control of law, seeks to exercise monarchical sway, and grows into a despot.

If you ever wonder why something you said that was fine 72 hours ago is now an unredeemably racist, sexist, excommunicable offense, it’s because the disembodied Swarm Pope, who leads the People’s Democratic Priesthood of All Believers, crowd-sourced it from the swirling Id of the mob on Twitter while you weren’t looking.

…

The problem is that, even if the 500 year cycle that Tickle describes is genuine, it isn’t clear in each case what is cause and what is effect. As Tickle acknowledges at one point in her book, “over and over again,” the “religious enthusiasms” of each period of cyclical emergence “are unfailingly symptomatic or expressive of concomitant political, economic, and social upheavals.” So was the Reformation the cause of Europe’s 16th century turmoil, or just one important manifestation of a broader secular dynamic driving general upheaval? If the “great emergence” was not the cause, then what was? Tickle doesn’t attempt an answer to that, so our inquiry is back near square one.

However, I do have a suspicion that the question Tickle identifies as at the core of recurring crises in established Christianity – “where now is authority?” – is key. It may be that the seeming collapse of any firm locus of authority in almost every aspect of life today – politics, geopolitics, elites in general, religion, morality in general, asset pricing, economics in general, media, information in general, etc. – is central to our whole broader upheaval in the world today.

[autumnblogs]

Day 51: Estrangement from The Self

https://homestuck.com/story/5935

I didn’t really take Terezi’s problem with Faygo seriously the first couple times reading Homestuck, but in terms of the way that Homestuck’s different characters mirror each other, and the Trolls’ bizarre alien problems are used to directly comment on human problems, I think it makes sense to say that Terezi’s Soda Abuse should be taken exactly as seriously as Rose’s alcohol abuse.

Rose and Terezi only interact a handful of times, which is a shame, because on a certain level, they share the same basic problem; a lack of faith in the people around them combined with a crippling lack of self-worth. Though they both have strong narcissistic tendencies, Rose and Terezi display over and over again a desperate need for affirmation, and when they can’t get it from their peers, they seek it from other sources; Terezi’s manipulation by Aranea, in this sense, is parallel to Scratch’s manipulation of Rose in terms of the motivation of the one being manipulated.

More after the break.

https://homestuck.com/story/5936

(More indication that being on the God Tiers literally elevates characters to exist more on the narrative layer than they did before.)

https://homestuck.com/story/5937

In theory, I want the story to reward Dave’s newfound aloof optimism, but I think he’s still like... going too far in the other direction from where he started. We know he’s been questioning his relationship to Bro’s weird ideology, and he’s clearly less interested in being a Hero than he “should be” - but he’s still coping with his emotions mostly just by not acknowledging them.

He’s in for a rude awakening when he gets to the new session.

I should note that like, while Karkat and Dave’s friendship develops into a romance instead of into a platonic bromance after the reset, I don’t think we’re given much of an indication that their actual dynamic is all that different aside from being more physical.

https://homestuck.com/story/5944

Davesprite’s story is parallel with Dave’s, and as I’ve probably already said, forms a core part of Homestuck’s narrative about the distributed nature of the self, and the way that we can’t ever really know ourselves perfectly.

There are the literal material distributed selves like Davesprite, or sometimes Brain Ghost Dirk, or all the various versions of a character from other points along their own timeline, or from Doomed Timelines.

Anything we learn about Davesprite helps us to learn more about Dave. Anything we learn about Lil Hal helps us to learn about Dirk.

If Homestuck is about alienation, estrangement, then through characters like Davesprite, and Lil Hal, we learn that these people are not only estranged from each other by time and space, they are even estranged from themselves by the partitions in their own head, and by the way in which they are observed by other people, and form idealized versions of themselves to aspire to that they can never be. Other better versions of themselves exist in other timelines, and two different versions of a character both wish that they were the other.

Paul Tillich, a French existentialist philosopher and theologian talks about the idea of estrangement from the self as being rooted in the same problem that estranges us from others in his essay You are Accepted.

Maybe that’s another thing that I need to write about. I shall probably do so once we get to Davepeta’s talk about the Ultimate Self. (Did I already write a companion piece about it? Maybe I did.)

https://homestuck.com/story/5955

Okay; the plot has switched tracks, but the theme is very much still exactly what it was during Davesprite’s ramble. What is the significance of all of the alternate selves? In keeping with her very Dirk-like adherence to the idea that she is a certain person who is a certain way, and needs to be who she is, Vriska’s conception of all the alternate selves is that they are meaningless and have no signifiance.

I think it’s telling that we don’t really see any alternate Vriskas in this undead army.

https://homestuck.com/story/5957

While this seems extremely obvious to me anyway, it’s worth pointing out that Meenah alludes to the reason why The Condesce has latched onto Jane in pretty much exact words.

She yearns to have an Heiress, someone that she can teach her badass ways. In short, Meenah wants the same thing that Dirk wants - she wants ideological offspring!

https://homestuck.com/story/5961

I think with Andrew’s stated disdain for Worldbuilding (don’t quote me on that; I’m just pretty sure he said it once, and the fact that his villains are the characters who engage in long-winded worldbuilding screeds is suggestive of this as well), this is another way in which He is Fucking With Us.

The worldbuilding gives us symbols we can use to think about the themes the rest of the comic addresses, but broadly speaking, it’s not actually all that consequential.

https://homestuck.com/story/5966

Aranea continues to use language suggesting that she views the universe very much like a single organism - it’s an interesting quirk of hers.

https://homestuck.com/story/5982

As we come up on the conclusion of Disk 2, Aranea’s monologuing definitely recalls Scratch’s monologuing. (And of course, the journal entries from Mindfang before that).

The background information here is definitely relevant for one thing; helping us to understand the emotional background of the characters.

https://homestuck.com/story/5986

Long isolation and hardened pursuit of justice sounds like a certain mail-lady.

https://homestuck.com/story/5997

As in her initial conversation with Terezi, Aranea calls attention to the somewhat “fake” nature of Choice, and libertarian free will as it is often conceived of. It would not be in keeping with Caliborn’s character for him to choose the other option; just as it would seemingly not be in keeping with Vriska’s character for her to abandon her pursuit of power.

https://homestuck.com/story/6017

Terezi’s black and white worldview - her view of acts as good and evil, and her view of people as either good or evil - makes her completely incapable of coping with the shame of her bad decisions. Terezi doesn’t know how to forgive, or what forgiveness looks like - she does not know how to bridge the gap between herself and someone else once they are estranged. She has never been able to forgive Vriska. And she certainly can’t forgive herself. Not for getting into a relationship with Gamzee. Not for becoming addicted to Faygo. Not for repairing her vision. And certainly not for killing Vriska.

https://homestuck.com/story/6020

And Karkat brings it around again to the ongoing conversation about the ways characters are estranged from themselves.

https://homestuck.com/story/6043

Tavros’s single emotional triumph in pretty much the entire story.

He finally ditches his abusive girlfriend, and stops putting up with her.

Ironically, being tolerated in their wickedness is probably the last thing people need when they’re involved with it.

Letting Vriska keep on abusing him is a disservice to both Tavros and Vriska.

Really, it’s best for both of them.

https://homestuck.com/story/6050

Vriska continues the pattern of shit-talking herself. She always vacillates between vastly inflated self-esteem, and complete dejection.

https://homestuck.com/story/6054

Vriska’s vastly inflated ego is part and parcel of her nature as a Thief of Light I think.

Because she doesn’t just think the world of herself in the sense of stealing everyone else’s meaning and relevance.

Vriska assigns all the responsibility in the world to herself. If she doesn’t act, or if she doesn’t, as far as Vriska is concerned, everything that comes to pass, comes to pass because she wills it, at least at the moment.

Vriska Serket is a Megalomaniac of the highest order; she conflates herself with Lord English. She conflates herself with God.

Vriska is as alienated from herself as anyone is, and it’s because she thinks she understands who she truly is, and considers living up to the ideal version of herself a matter of ultimate importance.

https://homestuck.com/story/6056

Kanaya’s intervention is parallel to Dave and Karkat’s.

https://homestuck.com/story/6065

Caliborn has graduated from having nothing but complete disdain for everyone who is not himself to having some use for other people, but even his camaraderie only extends to those who prove themselves useful to him; he makes a mockery of friendship, and his attempts at civility are signifiers as empty as his life is of the possibility of genuine benevolence.

https://homestuck.com/story/6071

Meenah’s emotional theatrics are as genuinely disheartening as they are darkly hilarious because, like Dirk, and like Vriska, Meenah is a Dangerous PersonTM; she views the violence she is capable of as being intrinsic in her nature, and something she basically is incapable of resisting. Like everyone else in the story, Meenah is basically uneasy with who she is, but only a handful of characters are like Meenah in that they are basically resigned to that uneasiness. Instead of doing the things Meenah wants to do, she does the things she does not want to do.

https://homestuck.com/story/6241

So here we are at the end of Disc 2, in the same basic predicament we were at the end of Disc 1.

Everyone is miserable. Everyone’s relationships have broken down all but completely.

Everyone is estranged from each other, and everyone is estranged from themselves, and if they think a cute little reunion is going to resolve all of the emotional problems that they have failed to confront over the past three years, they’re in for a rude awakening.

More tomorrow, as we start in on the final quarter of Homestuck.

See you tomorrow; Same Cam Time, Same Cam Channel

[notbecauseofvictories]

Can I ask what field your new job is in? I know you wanted to move away from law; I want to move away from the career path I've spent all the years since graduating university bolting myself to, and I just wondered how you did it/ if you did it, and what kind of sideways movements made sense for you?

For privacy reasons, I won’t talk explicitly about my new job, though you’re correct it’s not an attorney position. (I still love law but I’m not barred in Illinois and I haven’t been practicing long enough to waive in, which makes finding attorney jobs very difficult until I can retake the bar.)

I will say that if you want to move away from a particular career path, there are a couple questions I’ve found helpful to ask myself:

1.) What do I want to do when I grow up?

I am a big proponent of the game plan. 

You can, of course, jump off a cliff with no parachute or idea of what waits for you at the bottom. That is a certain kind of game plan! And some people pull it off with great aplomb, I’m not knocking it. However, I am a risk-adverse, pragmatic scaredy cat, and I absolutely never start something unless I have at least a vague idea of the best- and worst-case results. So when I’m about to make a life change like “get out of terrible job, move back to Chicago” I start by figuring out—well, what the hell does that actually look like?

But before I think about what that looks like, I take a step back and ask myself a whole battery of questions:

What is my ideal, perfect-world job? What’s my title? What are the hours I work? Do I travel often, not at all, somewhere in between?

What do my dream responsibilities consist of? 

How much interaction am I comfortable with—would I be happy sitting behind a desk all day, or do I want to be out among the people?

How much authority would be happy with? Do I want to be in charge, or is following orders where I’m most comfortable?

What else do I want in my life, such that I’m willing to make career tradeoffs? (e.g., do I want a family I spend lots of time with, a hobby I can devote myself to outside of the 9-to-5, a charity or start-up that I see as my real passion?)

Where do I want that perfect-world job to be? Am I happy changing cities, moving frequently, to pursue the work I want to do, or does location come first and drive what jobs I’m willing to take?

[An additional question you encounter a lot as a lawyer is: “are you okay not necessarily believing in the organization you serve? do you care whether  you serve a particular mission, or are you really just here to draw a paycheck and not break laws?” but I recognize that’s a conundrum probably….unique to lawyers.]

After answering the questions above, you might realize that your exact, ideal dream job doesn’t exist—that’s fine! but a valuable first step is understanding what your priorities are, where you see yourself being happy, and what you think is important in your professional life.

2.)  What steps would I very likely need to take to get there?

Even if it does exist, chances are you won’t be able to leapfrog from your current position to your exact, ideal dream job. (FYI, my current position is not my dream job or even really a stepping stone to the dream job; I made compromises based on other criteria.) So the next step is the inevitable plunge back into reality—namely, okay, so how the hell do I get to where I’m going???

If you don’t already know (which is likely, given that this isn’t your field) then this step is a knowledge-gathering endeavor. You’re trying to figure out what the path looks like, so naturally, consult other people on the path you’re interested in. 

Personally, I highly encourage you utilize the absolute crap out of your network. 

By which I mean: stalk facebook, LinkedIn, your school’(s) alumni pages, your parent’(s) friends, your friends’ friends, the people who work at the same place you do (even if you’ve never met them), everyone you have a mutual connection with via social media, individuals who belong to a professional association you hope to join, academics/journalists/lawyers/etc. with non-private twitters who you’ve looked up to for a long time and whose career you want to emulate, etc. If they’re nearby, invite them to a 15-20 minute coffee break. If they’re interested in mentoring, do lunch, dinner. Follow up with the professors who inspired you and email people who make news about stuff you want to work on. If you’re interested in going back to school for a degree (the clearest way to communicate a professional shift, fyi) then email the school you’re interested in and let them fete you. You’re going to be so obnoxious!!!*

* Do not be obnoxious. If you’re looking for a polite way to introduce yourself to someone you don’t know personally but hope to make a professional connection with, see me after class.

And honestly, sometimes the answer is a degree, a certification, a particular internship or a personal connection. Sometimes the answer is redrafting your resume. Sometimes the answer is “well, you’d really want to work as X or Y before I consider you for Z.” Sometimes the advice is, “sorry, we only consider graduates from this school/that internship/etc. and you aren’t so.” 

You end up having to keep looking, and looking and looking. There are a lot of ways to get rejected from a job these days. There are similarly a lot of ways to get where you’re going, whether you know about them or not.

………I’d also urge you to keep in mind that all advice (all of it, even mine!) is personal. When people talk about their careers, career paths, and their strategies for attaining both, they are speaking from a deeply private place—as much as “how to know your romantic partner is The One.” It’s just a bit more prosaic in its outlook. 

3.)What skills do I currently have, or can reasonable acquire in my current role, that will take me from A to X/Y/Z/or ultimately B?

Even if you could snap your fingers and go from point A (where you are) to point B (where you ideally, perfectly, want to be) chances are the you that currently, professionally exists wouldn’t be prepared for it. So as you think about transition to a stepping-stone job, or a new field, think seriously about what the hell you bring to the table and how you’ll convince that interviewer that actually, you’re perfect for the job. 

It does take some creative thinking and a little bit of conniving corporate wordplay (which is fair game, as the corporations invented it first.) For example:

Have you worked as a McDonalds’ drive-thru window representative and shift manager for the past 5 years? well, congratulations, you are, right now, an expert in customer service and human capital resource management. 

Are you currently a lowly typist-slash-clerk? well, mazel, because actually your specialty is in database management and particularly data cleansing, you could probably pass yourself off as an analyst if you knew a little R, python, or other programming languages.

Do you deal with disgruntled customers all day? Well done, because literally every industry will hire you, they all have angry people who call the hotline/helpline/tipline/etc. and are constantly on the lookout for humans who will not shout YOU ABSOLUTE ASSHOLE back at said disgruntled customers.

Have you been in a different industry, but are looking to transition to a similar role in a new industry? Well done, you, talk about your leadership, curiosity, and self-starter attitude. Managers love a self-starter, probably because they like to entertain visions of not having to do work.

If you feel you could attain the necessary skills in your current role, sometimes  it’s just matter of talking to your current boss (depending on the boss!) Saying, “hey, I’m really interested in Z, could you put me on Z? is there any Z to be had?” is a good first step. Even just to tell the interviewer for a position with a lot of Z duties that you went to your boss saying “I want to do Z, Z is def a priority for me.”

4(ish): Keep reevaluating, based on the new information you acquire.

Going through Step #1 now, answering those questions about myself and my ideal work/workplace/job, is a completely different experience than it was in early 2018. As a recent law school graduate, all I thought about was finding the best learning experience—a year and 6 months later, having been run through the wringer of one helluva a learning experience, I can tell you that there is other stuff to think about. It’s not that my answers have changed, I would still be happy traveling, working long hours, with diverse clients. But there’s other stuff I couldn’t even conceive of then, that I realized (the hard way) was very important to me.

So don’t be afraid to revisit your answers, to keep thinking, reevaluating, considering where you are and where you want to end up.

[back-and-totheleft]

Romantic, freewheeling, containing fathoms

IT'S early in the piece but maybe the best way to explain the allure of Oliver Stone’s romantic, freewheeling autobiography is to tell you how one of my best friends took on the experience.

My mate, a self-confessed Stone nut, downloaded the audio version of Chasing the Light - as read by the author - and then proceeded to drive around Cork city with the Oscar-winning director and screenwriter for company. “Love how he paints a picture of post-war optimism in New York circa 1945-46,” he messaged me. “Take me there...” Throughout his storied but turbulent career, Stone has certainly taken us places - the steaming jungles of Vietnam, the (serial) killing fields of the American heartland, the fervid political theatre of El Salvador, the grassy knoll. Even if we didn’t always like the destination, more often than not it was worth the journey.

Reading Stone's words in Chasing the Light, it’s impossible not to hear that coffee and cognac voice. The words roll from the page, sentences topped off with little rejoinders, just about maintaining an elegant flow. Drugs are mentioned early and often, while the word “sexy” features half a dozen times in the opening chapters alone. As in his best movies, Stone displays a positively moreish lust for life, at one point referring to how the two parts of the filmmaking process, if working well, are "copulating".

The book tells the story of the first half of his life, up to the acclaim and gongs of Platoon, and it’s clear that his own sense of drama was underscored by his family background, which is part torrid European art flick, part US blockbuster. His mother, Jacqueline - French, unerringly singleminded - grew to womanhood during the Nazi occupation of Paris. She downplayed her striking appearance as the jackboots stomped the streets but quickly scaled the social ladder, becoming engaged to a pony club sort. Enter Louis Stone.

Considerably older than Jacqueline, Louis quickly zoned in after spotting her cycling on a Paris street. In no time Jacqueline has jilted her fiancée (who, remarkably, appears to have turned up as a guest at the wedding), Oliver is conceived and one ocean crossing later, William Oliver Stone is born.

This family contains fathoms, Stone's father straight-laced and Commie-hating on the surface, yet a serial adulterer (even threesomes are mentioned) and positively uxorious towards his own mother. "It was sex, not money, that derailed my father," he writes. Louis's infidelities nixed Jacqueline's American dream, and Oliver’s with it. Jacqueline ultimately cheats on Louis, not simply via a fling but a whole new relationship, and with a family friend to boot.

What’s even more interesting is Stone’s reflections on *how* it was dealt with. Already dispatched to a boarding school, he learns of the disintegration of his family down the phone line. It has the coldness of some of the best scenes from Mad Men, children of the era parceled off to the side even as momentous events in their home life detonate in front of them. As things veer ever more into daytime soap territory, Louis then tells his son he's "broke", echoing the impact of the Great Depression on his own father's business interests.

By now, Stone is unmoored. He has secured a place in Yale but blows it off for a year and heads to Saigon to teach English: "I grew a beard and got as far away from the person I'd been as I could." On his return he decides he is done with academia; he'll be a novelist in New York, much to the distaste of his father. "That's why I went back to Vietnam in the US Infantry - to take part in this war of my generation," he writes. "Let God decide."

And here we are at the pivotal moment in Stone's adult life. Plunged into the strange days of 1968 in the jungle, he recalls a scene in which his patrol group comes under attack, imagining itself surrounded. Time elides and a metre may as well be a mile, explosions going off everywhere and bullets flying amid paranoia and uncertainty that borders on the hallucinogenic. "Full daylight reveals charred bodies, dusty napalm, and gray trees."

Tellingly, Stone focuses on this arguably cinematic episode while other incidents in which he is actually wounded don't receive the same treatment. By the time he leaves Vietnam he has served in three different combat units and has been awarded a bronze star for heroism. So many of his peers were drafted, yet he had decided to go. You never get a direct sense that his subsequent career is in any way a type of atonement, yet it is never fully explained. "Why on earth did you go?" he is asked. "It was a question I couldn't answer glibly."

From this point on, Chasing the Light mainly becomes a love letter to the redemptive power of the cinema, pockmarked with acerbic commentary on Hollywood powerplays. Stone's firsthand experience of jungle combat gives him a sense of perspective that no amount of cocaine or downers can ever truly neutralise, and it also imbues him with a sense of derring-do. At NYU School of Arts, his lecturer is Martin Scorcese, an educational home run. Watching movies is a place a refuge, writing them a cathartic outlet. It leads to visceral filmmaking, beginning with his short film Last Year in Vietnam. That burgeoning sense of career before anything else brings an end to his first marriage - "'comfortable' was the killer word". The seeds are sown for the plot that would germinate into Platoon.

As he moves past the relative disappointment of his first feature, Seizure, the big break of writing Midnight Express, and then onto the speedbump of The Hand, his second movie, Chasing the Light becomes a little more knockabout, though no less enjoyable. Conan the Barbarian, for which he wrote the screenplay, became someone else's substandard vision, Scarface a not entirely pleasant experience as his writing efforts move to the frosty embrace of director Brian de Palma. Hollywood relationships rise and fall like scenes from Robert Altman's The Player. His second marriage, the birth of his son, the slow-motion passing of his father, and all the time Stone is chasing glory on the silver screen.

By his late thirties it feels like he's placing all his chips on Salvador, a brutal depiction of central American civil war based on the scattered recollections of journalist Richard Boyle and starring the combustible talents of James Woods and John Belushi. His own high-wire lifestyle is perhaps best encapsulated in his reference to Elpidia Carrillo, cast as Maria in Salvador: "Elia Kazan once argued against any restrictions for a director exploring personal limits with his actresses, and I wanted badly to get down with her," he writes with delightful candour. Yet ultimately "I convinced myself that repression, in this case, would make a better film." Note: in this case.

Salvador was a slow burner, not an immediate critical or commercial success, but then in the style of a rollover jackpot, it started climbing the charts just as Platoon is about to announce itself to the world. Despite some loopy goings-on, that shoot in the Philippines had never gone down the Apocolypse Now route of near-madness, the drama mainly confined to warring factions within the production team. Ultimately, Platoon was the movie mid-Eighties America wanted to see about Vietnam. The book finishes in triumph, Stone clutching Oscars for Best Director and Best Picture.

There are piercing insights and inconsistencies dotted throughout. Stone lusts after good reviews but rails against the influence wielded by certain writers, such as Pauline Kael. He makes frequent reference to his yearning for truth and factual accuracy, yet hardly raises a quibble with The Deerhunter, the brilliant but flawed movie by sometime ally Michael Cimino which - particularly in the infamous Russian Roulette scenes - delivers an entirely concocted depiction of North Vietnamese forces. But then again, Stone revels in what he says is the ability to "not to have a fixed identity, to be free as a dramatist, elusive, unknown."

We've come to know him more in the decades since - through the menacing Natural Born Killers, the riveting but wonky conspiracy of JFK, the all-star lost classic U-Turn, even the missed opportunity that was The Putin Interviews. As my friend, who is the real authority, correctly observes, Chasing the Light is also weighted with nostalgia for a time when political dramas and anti-war films were smashing the box office, something hard to imagine today.

The second volume, if and when it arrives, will surely make for good reading - or listening. Buckle up your seat belt and take a spin.

-Noel Baker, “Oliver Stone’s freewheeling autobiography tells the story of the first half of his life,” Irish Examiner, Jan 17 2021 [x]

[ograndebatata]

Silver Linings

So... I’ve actually had this fic pretty much complete for weeks now, but I recently got motivated to polish it up and share it here, for... well... I’m not sure why, and honestly there may be many motivating factors, but... anyway, here it is. 

I hope you enjoy it. 

Note: Like pretty much every Elena of Avalor fanfic by me, this one takes place in my Tales of the Ever Realm AU. To give a bit of context on what it is, it’s basically an AU where all of Sofia the First is canon, and all of Elena of Avalor episodes until Snow Place Like Home (in terms of ‘timeline order’) are canon. Details and characters from later episodes will sometimes be used, but there are many important differences between my fic AU and canon.

One of those, as will be clear from reading this fic, is that in this AU, Ash Delgado has a genuinely and healthily loving relationship with both her husband and daughter (although we really only get to see the former in this one) and also is just a much better person in general, though still with a few traits of her canon self. I hope you will enjoy it for what it is, and I apologize in advance to those who happen to prefer the canon versions of her character and her relationships.

Also, I tried my best to make this fic strong enough to stand on its own, but I realize a few details may still come across as confusing. I apologize for that in advance as well. If you’d like any sort of clarification, please feel free to ask.

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Note #2: There is some stuff in this fic that can be seen as slightly suggestive. Nothing full-blown NSFW, but still, there is a bit of steaminess. Those who aren’t particularly fond of such content want to tread carefully. I may be worrying too much over nothing, but... I feel it’s better to be safe than sorry.

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Note #3: Although I tried my best to make it strong enough to be read on its own, this fic works better read as a sequel to @lostbutterflyutau‘s fic The Second Navidad, which she wrote for me as a Christmas gift last Christmas, and which I liked so much that I decided to make it canon to my fic universe. If you’d like to read it, I strongly recommend it.

And on that note, I say the same thing regarding all of her Elena of Avalor fics. They're full of well-written characters, great portrayals of feelings of all kinds, and wonderfully fluffy moments of the romantic, the friendship, and the familial kinds. I strongly recommend them all. Also, if you read them and like them, please take the time to leave her some feedback, even if it's only a few words. Remember that taking even only a few seconds to give feedback leads to better environments for fanworks of all kinds. 

With that said... let us begin.

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Silver Linings

The Kingdom of Norberg, February 14th, Year 9222 of the Ever Realm Calendar…

A series of sharp knocks cut through the cabin’s main room, making Ash Delgado jump in her chair as the sound brought her struggle with her focus to an abrupt end, ruining her already feeble efforts at forcing herself to study the weathered yellow page she held, trying beyond her best to find a solution to the dilemma she’d been struggling with for over a year.

One of her hands slammed the page against the table as her other one reflexively curled around her tamborita; the next instant, her ears picked up the last few knocks that rapped against the wooden boards. Her heart settled down as the force and rhythm behind the sounds told her who had arrived, drawing a relieved sigh from her as she released the drum wand’s handle. Ash looked up at the closed door on cue with its lock clicking as a key was turned inside it. The next moment, the door drew inwards, making her grimace at the chilly air that entered the cabin, followed soon after by her husband.  

“I’m home!” Victor announced as he closed the door behind him, before wiping a few fresh snowflakes off his shoulders and setting down a bag of canvas he’d been carrying. 

Then, as his eyes fell on her, still by the table she’d been sitting at since he left - though now with layers of pages scattered over its surface - a sheepish smile uneasily crawled across his features.

“Did I interrupt anything?”

A mock-annoyed smirk curling her lips, Ash teased, “Not this time.”

Besides, even if he had, his loud arrival was one of the safety norms that they and their daughter had established for whenever they stayed anywhere: to always make their presence known when arriving, to ensure they conveyed they weren’t any unexpected visitor. 

Still, the sheepish look remaned on Victor’s features as he unclasped his cloak and hung it on a hook beside the door, before walking over towards her. Smiling at him, Ash reached up to his face and settled her hand on his jawline as he rested his’ between her shoulder blades, closing her eyes as the two of them leaned towards each other and put their lips together. Cold seeped into her fingers as the mixed smell of salty air, tobacco smoke, cooked bacon and burned wood floated into her nostrils, but Ash kept her fingers on his face and pressed her lips further into his’, holding both her touch and her kiss for a few more seconds. 

Then, as she and Victor both pulled away and she opened her eyes, a faint chuckle bubbled up her throat at the sight she beheld. 

Victor blinked in puzzlement. “What?”

Suppressing another chuckle, Ash explained, “Your mouth is full of lipstick.”

Again. She inwardly added, as pointless as it was. Victor’s mouth or face ending up full of lipstick when they kissed was as big a given as water being wet or as the sun rising everyday. But Ash liked her makeup in the style she wore it, and she knew that for all his playful grumbling, Victor also did.

Giving an easygoing chuckle himself, Victor reached up with his free hand and rubbed it across his mouth, the faint dark-blue sparks she saw flying from his fingertips telling her what he was trying to do. Alas, the final results were different from the intended, the smear on his lips only spreading further across his face, bringing a stronger chuckle out of her.

“Here,” she said, removing her own hand from his jawline, silvery-grey sparks swarming around her fingers. “I’ll do it for you.”

Saying so, she swept her magic-filled hand over his face, the smudges of lipstick vanishing in her fingers’ wake.

“I guess this just shows I still need more practice,” he said good-naturedly as he straightened himself, caressing her ponytail along the way. 

He glanced around the room as he righted himself, then turned back to her and asked, “Did Carla leave already?”

“Princess Chloe asked her to go early,” Ash explained. “Apparently so the two of them can properly help Queen Abigail get ready for her date with King Hector. And Carla said that because she was spending the night at the palace anyway, she might as well stay over already.”

Nodding in acknowledgment, Victor walked over to her right and pulled up the chair beside her, sinking onto it with a pensive look on his face, the expression looking more pronounced thanks to his placement against the lit fireplace that burned a few feet away. Ash knew without having to ask that he was having a bout of the same struggle they had both endured since Carla had unintentionally struck up a friendship with the princess of Norberg. On one hand, it was good that Carla had made a friend, at least for the duration of their stay here. On the other, Norberg was a close ally to Avalor, and even if wanted posters of him and Carla hadn’t made it here yet (and weren’t likely to be sent now that neither of them had been to Avalor for over a year), it could still happen, especially given that Princess Chloe was at least a friendly acquaintance of Princess Elena. Or then, the Crown Princess of Avalor or someone closely associated with her could unexpectedly drop by and recognize him or Carla, which would at best mean they’d have to leave, and at worst might literally spell their dooms. And that was assuming none of their more dangerous enemies was lurking in the shadows, planning something that Ash could easily conceive as far more horrible than anything Princess Elena would ever do to them if she caught them.

But Carla knew she needed to be careful, and the three of them were making sure to keep an eye on anyone who seemed suspicious, just like their jaquin allies were doing. With luck, Carla’s friendship with Princess Chloe would just keep going without incident during their final two weeks or so in Norberg.

“How did things go at the harbor?” Ash brought up, out of genuine interest as much as out of a wish to change subjects. 

The deepening of Victor’s frown answered her question well enough, but still, he replied, “Not very well. There weren’t many sailors there, it being the day it is and all, and most of those I found were more interested in drowning their sorrows or seeking other forms of consolation than in talking about some mysterious kingdom.” As he caught sight of Ash’s own frown, he added, “No thanks to it being the day it is, I guess. After all, it was the same thing during Sweetheart’s Day in Avalor.”

Though that didn’t make her feel any better, Ash gave him a reassuring smile. After all, it wasn’t his fault that today was Valentine’s Day - or Dia del Amor y la Amistad, as her parents had called it, due to it being the holiday’s name in both Paraiso and Cordoba. Most sailors who’d ordinarily be in taverns or at the harbor were likely to be with their girlfriends or wives or families, and those that weren’t would either be too busy with work or too sullen at their lack of companionship to be in a chatty mood. 

“Was any sailor at all willing to talk?” she probed.

Victor shrugged. 

“Some were. But most of those couldn’t tell me anything about that place, and the only two that could didn’t tell me anything we don’t already know.” He stopped, his eyes clouding over as he mentally sorted out his words. “They said that that kingdom looks clean and calm enough from a distance, and the rulers seem friendly enough, but there’s just something under its surface that doesn’t quite make it an inviting place, and anyone going farther than the harbor automatically needs a full guard unit escorting them because of the land’s perils.” His frown deepened even further, his eyes narrowing to the point they seemed to turn into two black holes thanks to the shadows from the fireplace. “In a sense, it’s like a more extreme version of what I heard Avalor was like under Shuriki’s rule.”

Ash pursed her lips, the mere reference to that woman’s name making her temper flare. She might have come to terms with her husband having fallen for Shuriki’s lie that she could make him and Carla malvagos, but having that daemonfirma brought up in conversation still made her blood boil. Good for her that she was dead, because if Ash had gotten to fight her for a third time, she would have done everything she could to ensure their fight would end with Shuriki having a departure far more painful than the one Princess Elena had given her. 

Forcing herself to push aside the hatred that still burned at her, Ash said, “Well, at least we have more evidence that that kingdom is not a place where we want to stay any longer than absolutely necessary.” Her heart growing heavier, she added, “Unfortunately, we still need to go there.”

His forehead creasing, Victor gave her a sympathetic look. 

“Things also didn’t go well over here then?”

The tiredness and frustration from her mostly wasted afternoon rearing up like a striking snake, Ash let out a long sigh. 

“Yes and no,” she settled on.

Victor didn’t even blink at her response, his sympathetic look staying the same as before. 

Taking a deep breath to gather herself, she explained, “On the good side, I went over my improved potion recipes again just to be safe, and it held up again. The improvements I made will be enough so that neither of the potions will take quite as many moon cycles to achieve its purpose.” Her heart again grew heavier as she once more realized what it implied, but she forced herself to add, “On the bad side, there still are a few ingredients for both potions that just can’t be replaced with anything found somewhere else.”

Victor’s mouth again started to curl into a frown.

“So… that means…”

Ash nodded.

“There’s no way around a trip to that kingdom that seems out of a mix between a crime novel and a horror story. It’s still the only place where some of the ingredients we need exist, and God knows how long we’ll take to find them all.” 

Again, Victor narrowed his eyes so much that the fireplace made it seem like he had two black holes in his eye sockets. Ash narrowed her eyes as well, the weight of the implication hanging over her like a boulder sustained by the finest thread that was about to break. The idea of spending any amount of time in that kingdom was anything but pleasant. And having to stay there for who knew how long (at least a year, to give an optimistic estimate) only made it worse.

“And that’s not all,” Ash forced herself to go on. “It’s not even the worst part.” 

Victor sat the tiniest bit straighter, his eyes opening ever so slightly.

“What’s the rest?”

Her answer seemed to swirl around in her throat, as if trying to come out, but unable to find its way to her mouth for some reason. Though she knew Victor wouldn’t judge her or think less of her, and she had never lied to him, admitting to her failures or inabilities was not something she had ever or would ever like. After all, they were failures or inabilities, which Ash had always loathed, even back when she had just been Seentahna.

But despite being a dark wizard, Ash knew how wrong it was to be dishonest, especially to the man she loved, and she knew he felt the same towards her. Neither had ever lied to each other, and she wouldn’t be the one starting now. 

“I think we may be doing all of this for nothing,” she at last managed to say. 

Reading Victor’s question in the way his eyebrow moved up his forehead, Ash reached towards one of the papers on the table and lifted it aside, exposing a round purple orb around the size of an orange, the orb somehow feeling as heavy in her hand as if it was made of cast iron. 

“I can’t know for sure without looking at the Codex Maru, but the more I study this blasted thing, the more unlikely it seems that we will be able to channel its power as we want to, if we manage to fix it in the first place,” she explained as she raised the jewel. 

The words forced its way out of her like thick mud mixed with sharp knives. Just having to utter them made her heart sink almost as much as them being true. Another smile dawned on Victor’s lips, his hands moving over and curling around her right hand like a comforting blanket, his thumbs ghosting over her knuckles in a tender caress. 

“It’s alright, Pluma,” he whispered. “We can get through this.”

Despite the warmth in both his gaze and voice, the weight in her chest didn’t fade. She wouldn’t give up his support for anything, but what she really needed was a miraculous breakthrough on how to use the Jewel of Night, or on another way to recharge it. Ideally, both. Because as things stood now, achieving even one of her goals seemed borderline impossible. All means to recharge the Jewel of Night that she knew were difficult to put in practice, and many of the ingredients they would need to make both the potion that would repair it and the one that would recharge it (assuming they would manage to find a certain key ingredient for that one) came from plants and animals that had already been rare when she was a child. If even one of those had already gone extinct, they’d be right back where they started, and the Jewel of Night would be good for little more than to place on a shelf as decoration.

And even if they managed to fix it and recharge it, the only thing that might have anything on how to properly siphon its power into them was the Codex Maru, assuming that could be done in the first place. And to get the Codex Maru, they’d need to face Princess Elena, who could wield the Scepter of Light, and her Royal Wizard, who was Alacazar’s grandson and was all but certain to take after his grandfather if he’d managed to defeat a malvago powerful and skilled enough to cast the malvago-making spell on Victor and Carla at the same time and successfully pull it off. 

Whoever said malvago was, defeating him would have been an impressive feat for any wizard, but it was all the more so coming from a boy who hadn’t even been eighteen when he did so. And the boy would only have grown more powerful since then. Even now that Victor and Carla had grown much more powerful themselves, Ash knew the three of them would need a good plan and a very healthy amount of luck to get the Codex on their own. And if she had to guess, they would only have one try, because if they got caught, Princess Elena was bound to execute them all.

The thought hitting her like a blasting spell, Ash’s gaze snapped away from Victor, the fear that too often lingered at the bottom of her heart suddenly shooting up to the surface, her eyes wide as if to let it fly out. The next moment, twin caresses ran over the back of her hand, soft despite the roughness of the skin giving them. Though she knew where they came from without needing to look, Ash turned to meet Victor’s eyes, which still glowed with the same warmth.

“Let’s not think about that now,” he said. “Let’s think about something else.” 

An empty smile flitted across her face, her gaze turning away from his’. As if drawn to it, her eyes fell on the Jewel of Night, stared into its opaque depths, the emptiness within it seeming to remind her of how difficult their mission was, and yet how they needed to accomplish it if they were to ever be truly at peace. To think Victor made it sound so easy. To put aside something that their lives in a sense literally depended on, as easily as if it was a matter of deciding not to wear clothes they didn’t particularly like. 

“I’ve had practice,” he replied as if he had read her mind, a playful smirk on his lips. 

Against her wishes, Ash allowed herself a small smile. Quips aside, she knew that must be true. After all, he had managed to keep himself and their daughter alive and safe, despite having very few magical skills before he was made a malvago. More than that, he had managed to raise Carla as happy and well-adjusted as their circumstances allowed, and done a better job of it than she imagined most men and some women would. 

But that still didn’t change the main point.

“If we don’t think about it now, we’ll have to think about it later,” she insisted, even as she lowered the hand holding the Jewel of Night.

Her words came out tense, almost solid, but Victor simply kept giving her the same warm smile from before, rubbed his thumbs across the back of her hand again. Then, he rose from his chair and moved to stand behind her, taking his hands to her hair and releasing the knot in her hair tie, the tiniest sense of relief washing over her as a slight pressure left her head, her hair spreading out from its ponytail and cascading free to below the middle of her back. Though she couldn’t see him, she felt Victor smiling as he curled a hand around her hair, his other one gently scratching her scalp. A wider smile breaking through her lips, Ash hummed in delight, leaning back into her chair, guessing what he intended to do. As she expected, Victor lifted her hair so it wouldn’t be stuck between her and the back of the chair, his hands then settling on her head and running over her white locks like a hairbrush, spreading the strands apart and gently easing tangles and knots. 

A louder hum flowing through her, Ash tilted her head back as Victor pressed the tips of his fingers to her hairline, before gently but firmly running them back, tension falling apart in their wake as he caressed her scalp. 

“I know it’s difficult, Pluma,” he whispered. “Believe me, I had more than enough time to learn it on my own.” His voice shivered the slightest bit at those words, and Ash knew he was remembering his and Carla’s many close escapes over the almost fifteen years she hadn’t been with them. “But we’ll figure out how to use the Jewel of Night.” He ran his fingers over her scalp again. “And even if we don’t, we’ll find some other way to get rid of the Evergrowing Forest.”

Ash chuckled mirthlessly. 

“You talk as if the odds are on our side.” 

Running his fingers over her scalp once more, he replied, “I’d rather think I talk as someone who chooses to keep on believing things will get better. And as someone who was lucky despite the odds.” He reached downwards and slid his  thumbs in a half-circle behind her ears, bringing them forward rubbing them over her cheeks. “And more than once at that.”  

Frowning at the second sentence, Ash knitted her eyebrows as he moved his fingers back up to her scalp, rubbing continuous circular motions from her hairline to her nape. 

“I was lucky enough to meet you in the first place,” he went on. “I was lucky enough to run into you again and start to know you better. I was lucky enough to reunite with you more than twelve years after losing track of you. And I was lucky enough to reunite with you a second time almost fifteen years after we got separated again. And I could make a longer list.” 

Unable to help herself, Ash turned her head even farther upwards, literally smiling up at him as he looked down and gave her a smile of his own.

“I don’t suppose I could argue against that,” she replied.

His hands rubbed just a bit harder across her scalp, a sigh rolling out of her lips as relief surged from his fingertips and rushed through her. 

“I was lucky as well,” she added. “On all those accounts, and more.” 

Yes. Ash thought, sighing once more as he massaged her scalp again and relief rushed through her being once more.

Despite everything, she had been lucky. Probably luckier than she deserved after everything she had done. Not only for getting to meet Victor and getting to reunite with him a grand total of three times - or two, if she only counted those after they had actually started their relationship - but also for having a wonderful daughter who she loved and who loved her back, and for getting to be with them both and just be able to be a family despite the threats hanging over their heads. 

Victor must have read something on her face again, for he said, “So... back to not thinking of unpleasant matters for now… why don’t you put these things away, and I can tell you an idea I’ve had?”

A deep groan rolling from her lips as Victor’s motions suddenly reversed, she fake-glared at him.

“You should know by now that I don’t take orders from anyone.” 

She felt his hands temporarily stop their movements as he shrugged. 

“I prefer to look at it as an invitation.” His massage still halted, he crouched to whisper in her ear. “Though it’s one I confess I would very much like you to accept, mi amor.”

“You would, wouldn’t you?” she breathed as he straightened himself up, a deep sigh flowing out of her. “Very well. What is it?” 

“Uh-uh-uh!” he tut-tutted. “I’m not seeing anything put away...” 

Her eyes narrowed at his response, a low mock-grumble joining her change in expression. He really knew her a bit too well. 

“Watch out, Victor,” she teased. “You don’t want to fall prey to the stereotype that men can’t keep a house.” 

He again ran his fingers through her hair, the white locks parting in their wake. “It’s more like I don’t want to go against how you like to be the one putting your own things away, especially when it comes to magical studies.”

Another affected grumble rippled out of her mouth. Again, he knew her too well. 

“Very well then,” she conceded, her fingers curling around her tamborita’s handle.

On cue once more, Victor withdrew his hands from her hair and curled them over the sides of her chair, pulling it back exactly as she stood up and drew her drum wand, then aimed it at the table’s surface. 

“Llévaluq!” she chanted as she smacked the drum.

Identical silvery-grey glows bloomed around each page spread over the table, as well as around the purple gem she’d been studying for hours. Ash fiddled her fingers as if she was playing a harp; the papers bent and swerved and turned over the table like flying carpets before settling into a neat stack, the gathered pile of pages then flying into the shelf behind her with a beckoning motion from her hand. The Jewel of Night followed in their wake with the same gesture, but swerved slightly to the right and upwards, stopping its course once it hovered above a small, seemingly ordinary light yellow jar with rectangular Maruvian patterns of a darker shade over its surface.

She directed a look at Victor as she held the jewel in place. The next instant, he drew his own tamborita and aimed it at the jar. 

“Piikrete tarruyniu waaygico!” he chanted, punctuating each word with a smack on the tamborita.

After the last smack resounded through the cabin, a dark-blue glow bloomed around the drum as Victor raised his hand, the jar’s lid floating about a foot off and allowing Ash to slide the Jewel of Night in. Hearing the low clatter of it landing, she holstered her tamborita as Victor lowered his hand, setting the lid on its place.

Sliding his tamborita into its own holster, Victor turned to her with a smile, reaching out with his left hand. “Now, where were we?”

Taking his hand, Ash replied. “You were about to make an invitation.”

He raised his arm in response, in time with Ash twirling in place, her hair fanning out as she completed her spin and then stepped towards Victor’s chest as he drew her to him, wrapping both arms around her as he settled his lips on her neck. 

“I was thinking…” he halted his words to kiss her neck “...that you could wait here while I run you a nice warm bath…” he kissed a slightly higher spot “... and then you take the time to enjoy it while I cook a special dinner with what I brought…” So that’s what’s in the bag! Ash thought as he kissed below her ear “... and then we could have our second celebration of Dia del Amor y la Amistad.” he finished, tenderly kissing her cheek.

Her eyes widened at the words, her heart leaping slightly in her chest. Their second celebration! Amidst her frayed nerves after repeated failures with the Jewel of Night, she had completely forgotten about that! Not about the celebration they and Carla had had that morning - after all, it had been the first time the three of them properly celebrated Dia del Amor y la Amistad since her return - but about the second celebration that was meant to be just for her and Victor, which they had even talked about more than once over the previous days. 

I really need to stop thinking about that jewel if it can make me forget something like that. 

Victor chuckled as if she had spoken her words rather than thinking them, the curling of his lips telling her that he was cooking up a joke. 

“You know, as far as stereotypes go, it’s men who are said to forget romantic celebrations…” he brought up. 

Despite the laugh at his quip, Ash reached back and nudged Victor’s nose with her index finger. 

“Watch your tongue, Mister. If I get annoyed, you’re going straight to the couch tonight.”

He gave her a melodramatic gape, put a hand to his chest. “Oh, the horror!...”

Taking her chance, Ash twisted out of his embrace and then pressed herself flush to him, wrapping one arm around his shoulder and sinking her other hand into his hair as her lips leapt upwards to claim his. He engulfed her in another embrace, resting his hands on her back as their mouths met. For a heartbeat, their lips started to glide over each other’s, both reading the other’s intention to take things slowly. But then, like alcohol meeting a cinder, their passion seemed to explode through their bodies, leaping the frustrations this day had brought them both as their lips devoured each other time and time again, each trying to both drain their pent up tension and help the other with their own, somehow wanting to put out and build the fire flowing between them at the same time. Awareness of everything faded into the background as they devoted every bit of their focus to the flutter of each other’s hands and mouths, to the feeling of each other’s touch, to the warmth of their kisses. 

It seemed to last an eternity before they drew apart, looking into each other’s eyes like hypnotized, as if they were floating. 

Then, despite herself, Ash burst into chuckles, taking her hand to her lips in a token attempt at suppressing them.

Amusement twinkling in his own eyes, Victor curled an eyebrow and blew through his pursed lips.

“I’m full of lipstick again, right?” 

Her suppressed laughter slowly fading, Ash summoned magic into her other hand and waved it over Victor’s face, the lipstick smudges dispelling under the sparks swarming around her fingers. 

Lowering her hand as she let the magic fade, Ash drawled, “So… that warm bath?”

“Coming right up,” he replied with a mock-casual tone and a warm smile as he lowered his arms. 

Realizing she would need to let him go for him to run her bath, Ash pulled away, following him with her eyes as he headed to their cabin’s small bathroom. 

A warm bath sounded nice indeed. While cleansing charms could do the job just as well, and far more quickly, they couldn’t equal the peaceful feeling of sinking into the warm water and feeling it melting the tension from within her, making her stop thinking about the day’s concerns better than the best mind control spell. 

It wouldn’t really make them go away, she knew. However good this night was, their concerns wouldn’t become any less real, and the Evergrowing Forest would remain a threat to their lives until they managed to destroy it.

But at least tonight, Ash would enjoy what she had to be thankful for.

[alysemeadfad]

Portraiture

Group practical

we sat parallel to another person, we had our pencils stabbed through paper so we could not see the paper below and we had to focus only on the face and not look down, basically a blind drawing as far as looking at the drawing but we could see what the object was as we drew it.

i did the same thing again in graphite and had got a better understanding of proportion considering we could not see the drawing.

we then chose a unique image of ourselves, well mine was rather unique and we did a rough sketch to help us decide what we wanted to draw for our social realism drawing, i was quite impressed by my sketch the proportions were not half bad.

photo REALISM

i chose to just do the center of my face as i felt it would look the best in the social realism style, i then grid my drawing in 4 by 5 squares and did the same to my paper before then beginning my drawing of the outline and basic shapes in order for me to add tone and texture later on 

what is photo realism?

photo realism is a form of art where a drawing or painting looks absolutely identical to the object or photo it has been drawn from, so much so you cant tell the difference between the two, it takes time, patients and a lot of skill.

but most of the art community don’t consider this to be an art form.

Many would argue that the technical skill required to make Photorealism art can be exceeded by a decent color photocopier or a computer, thus avoid to use the word art in such context, but this discussion brings us to an analogy of photography. If photography is merely capturing an image of what is already there, where is the art in that? It is right there in the photographer’s perspective, the exact choice made by the person wielding the camera in what to capture and from which angle, moment and perspective. If a person creating a photorealistic recreation of a photograph doesn’t have that “artistic” input of a photographer, then what is artistic about the process? Some would say even those renditions are not strict interpretations of photographs, instead, they incorporate additional, often subtle, pictorial elements to create the illusion of a reality which does not actually exist, or cannot be perceived by the human eye.

In the end, as in many things in art, and life in general, the final conclusion remains behind the individual perspective

Da Vinci

Long recognised as one of the great artists of the Renaissance, Leonardo da Vinci was also a pioneer in the understanding of human anatomy. Had his ground-breaking work been published, it would have transformed European knowledge of the subject.

https://www.rct.uk/collection/themes/exhibitions/leonardo-da-vinci/the-queens-gallery-palace-of-holyroodhouse/explore-the-exhibition#/

At the outset of Leonardo’s career, anatomical illustration was in its infancy. To convey the three-dimensional form of the body and to show how it moves, Leonardo had to develop a whole range of new illustrative techniques. His challenges were in many ways the same as those faced by anatomists today, and some of Leonardo’s drawings are remarkably similar in approach to modern medical imagery, such as MRI and CT scans and 3D computer modelling.

Studies of Human Proportion

While studying Vitruvius for his work on the Milan and Pavia cathedrals, Leonardo became captivated by the ancient Roman architect’s detailed studies of human proportions and measurements. In addition, when he was measuring horses for the Sforza monument, he became interested in how they related to human proportions. Comparative anatomy appealed to his instinct for finding patterns across different subjects. So in 1490 he began measuring and drawing the proportions of the human body.

The construction lines and all of the annotation almost take away from the actual subject and become more of the focus, which was the main idea anyway It was not meant to be a work of art, but rather a manual for how to create it.

Da vinci was a polymath, a person of wide knowledge or learning. He was not only an artist but a scientist, sculpture and an architect.

Frida Kahlo

was a Mexican painter known for her many portraits, self-portraits, and works inspired by the nature and artifacts of Mexico. Inspired by the country’s popular culture, she employed a naïve folk art style to explore questions of identity, postcolonialism, gender, class, and race in Mexican society. Her paintings often had strong autobiographical elements and mixed realism with fantasy. In addition to belonging to the post-revolutionary Mexicayotl movement, which sought to define a Mexican identity, Kahlo has been described as a surrealist or magical realist.

Kahlo’s paintings often feature root imagery, with roots growing out of her body to tie her to the ground. This reflects in a positive sense the theme of personal growth; in a negative sense of being trapped in a particular place, time and situation; and in an ambiguous sense of how memories of the past influence the present for either good and/or ill.[110] In My Grandparents and I, Kahlo painted herself as a ten-year holding a ribbon that grows from an ancient tree that bears the portraits of her grandparents and other ancestors while her left foot is a tree trunk growing out of the ground, reflecting Kahlo’s view of humanity’s unity with the earth and her own sense of unity with Mexico.[111] In Kahlo’s paintings, trees serve as symbols of hope, of strength and of a continuity that transcends generations.[112] Additionally, hair features as a symbol of growth and of the feminine in Kahlo’s paintings and in Self Portrait with Cropped Hair, Kahlo painted herself wearing a man’s suit and shorn of her long hair, which she had just cut off.[113] Kahlo holds the scissors with one hand menacingly close to her genitals, which can be interpreted as a threat to Rivera – whose frequent unfaithfulness infuriated her – and/or a threat to harm her own body like she has attacked her own hair, a sign of the way that women often project their fury against others onto themselves.[114] Moreover, the picture reflects Kahlo’s frustration not only with Rivera, but also her unease with the patriarchal values of Mexico as the scissors symbolize a malevolent sense of masculinity that threatens to “cut up” women, both metaphorically and literally.[114] In Mexico, the traditional Spanish values of machismo were widely embraced, and as a woman, Kahlo was always uncomfortable with machismo.[114]

image taken at the MoMa in Nyc

Fulang-Chang and I depicts Kahlo with one of her pet monkeys, interpreted by many as surrogates for the children she and Diego Rivera were unable to conceive. The painting was included in the first major exhibition of her work, held at Julien Levy Gallery in New York in 1938. In the essay that accompanied the show, the Surrealist leader André Breton described Kahlo’s work as “a ribbon around a bomb” and hailed her as a self-created Surrealist painter. Although she appreciated his enthusiasm for her work, Kahlo did not agree with his assessment: “They thought I was a Surrealist but I wasn’t. I never painted dreams. I painted my own reality.” Kahlo later gave this painting to her close friend Mary Sklar, attaching a mirror to it so that, if Sklar chose, the two friends could be together.

Tai Shan Schierenberg

Tai Shan Schierenberg lives and works in London. He graduated from the Slade School of Art in 1987 and in 1989 won first prize in the National Portrait Gallery’s John Player Portrait Award. He was then commissioned to paint Sir John Mortimer for the Gallery. The National Portrait Gallery also holds his portraits of Lord Carrington from 1994, Lord Sainsbury, 2002 and most recently Seamus Heaney from 2004. Other noted commissions include Professor Stephen Hawking, Sir John Madejski and a double portrait of Queen Elizabeth II and the Duke of Edinburgh. For Schierenberg, there is an emotional charge that comes from the different textures and densities, and ultimately the light conditions, that occur in a place at a certain time. He describes his process in 2010: Painting and painting and painting, endlessly exploring ideas in paint on canvas, always painting my way. Finding that over time I can’t see the trees for the paint. Sometimes its good to try a new way, a different path, expose oneself to the vagaries of chance - and see the trees again.

Before he finishes a commission, Tai-Shan Schierenberg usually splatters a bit of paint in the corner of the portrait. It’s not a stylistic move – the brushstrokes in his paintings are fluid but the images themselves are representative – but rather one which gives the subject something to complain about.

in the image above you can clearly see the texture and markings on the canvas, the artist uses oil paint on canvas and applies it using a pallet knife and a large brush, making various large strokes in the work. this gives a rough texture and edge to the piece.

These instinctive visual images refuse to betray the plasticity of the medium. Unlike Freud, Schierenberg sees paint simultaneously as flesh. It is exactly this technique that establishes the major paradoxes characteristic of his work. It is both abstract and realist, edgy and sensitive, grand and inconclusive, violent and melancholic, physically intense and aesthetically detache

Lucian Freud

was influenced by surrealism, but by the early 1950s his often stark and alienated paintings tended towards realism. Freud was an intensely private and guarded man, and his paintings, completed over a 60-year career, are mostly of friends and family. They are generally somber and thickly impastoed, often set in unsettling interiors and city scapes. The works are noted for their psychological penetration and often discomforting examination of the relationship between artist and model. Freud worked from life studies, and was known for asking for extended and punishing sittings from his models.

one of my chosen artists, tai shan sheirenberg seems to be heavily influenced by the style of lucian freud yet he made his own style, they both use the same meduims, oil on canvas also.

here in the colder tones we have a painting by lucian freud, you can see the texture of the brush strikes that help carve out the facial features.

here is a painting by tai shan, the tones are a lot warmer, they are not of the same person tho they look similar, you can see the brush strokes again on this image that help carve out the facial features, tho they are a lot more prominent in this painting as thats tai shans style, you see paint before you see the face .

Interpreting line

The Visual Element of Line is the foundation of all drawing. It is the first and most versatile of the visual elements. Line in an artwork can be used in many different ways. It can be used to suggest shape, pattern, form, structure, growth, depth, distance, rhythm, movement and a range of emotions.

We have a psychological response to different types of lines:

Curved lines suggest comfort and ease

Horizontal lines suggest distance and calm

Vertical lines suggest height and strength

Jagged lines suggest turmoil and anxiety

The way we draw a line can convey different expressive qualities:

Freehand lines can express the personal energy and mood of the artist

Mechanical lines can express a rigid control

Continuous lines can lead the eye in certain directions

Broken lines can express the ephemeral or the insubstantial

Thick lines can express strength

Thin lines can express delicacy

[ishidasado]

Why is everyone such insensitive North haters?

This is something I’ve been wanting to talk about for some time now. Within the Detroit fanbase there is an overwhelming number of “North haters”. These people say North is “Violent for the sake of violence”, or that she “loves killing far too much”. They say she doesn’t have character development and that she isn’t justified in her hatred for humans. This is what leads many fans to the idea that David Cage (director of Detroit) is a “hack” or “failed to represent the LGBT community”, by excluding Simon as a potential lover for Markus, instead of North. .I’m here to prove all of this WRONG and set the record straight for David Cage.

Point one: “North is violent for no reason and she loves killing far too much.”

Counterpoint: Nope. She has a backstory that isn’t too easily missed unless you decide to be a total jerk to her. While thinking alone on the rooftops in the very start of the “Freedom March” chapter, Markus has time to reflect on Jericho and his choices leading up to this moment. He’s later joined by North, who also comes to this spot to think. The two start a conversation and you have a choice to ask her about her past, as she had previously asked you about yours. Upon asking her, she is too ashamed to admit what she had faced (which should signal to the player that she is dealing with some emotional and/or mental trauma)  If you insist she tell you more about herself, she replies with the following “I was nothing. Just a doll in a distributor program meant to satisfy humans.” This implies that she was a “sex doll”, as Markus later remarks that he “saw her memories” and that they took place in “the Eden Club”. 

Dear, everyone who truly believes that North isn’t justified in her “need for violence” and “hatred of humans”, Do something for me and “close your eyes” (as Carl would say) Close your eyes and imagine that you’ve been in a drugged-state of low awareness since your birth. Ok, now, imagine one day you “wake up” and come to full awareness. You realize that you’ve been kept in a vending machine your whole life in nothing but your underwear so sleazy men could “rent you” for a couple of hours and have their way with you, nothing being off limits. They’ve been raping you and brutally abusing you for their amusement. They’ve been exposing themselves to you and forcing you to play the sickest, and dirtiest sex games in existence. In the moment you “wake up” there is a man on top of you saying disturbing and sick things about your body. These are the ONLY people you’ve EVER encountered. I know it’s hard to imagine this, because it’s so traumatizing, but this is exactly what happened to North. She then killed the man in self defense, then ran away from the sex-club/prison that’s been renting her out to the worst of humanity (again the ONLY humans she has EVER known) 

Why on Earth do you think the Tracies turned out bitter and resentful? They were in the EXACT same situation as North, yet I see no hate for them. Also, before you say “yeah but the Tracies didn’t automatically call for war, it’s ok to be mad, but North takes it to far”, I have a counterpoint for that too. North actually didn’t automatically call for war. She stayed at Jericho for a few weeks without bringing it up. It was only when Markus proposed “stealing from the humans”, that she jumped on board. I HIGHLY doubt that if the Tracies would have had influence over Markus, that they would be any kinder to the humans than North was. 

North doesn’t “love” violence or war. She is a survivor of life-long sexual assault with clear PTSD and trauma symptoms, and that makes her “feel safe” in lashing out at the people who put her in that position. I highly recommend all “North haters” to research this topic, as there are many extreme emotional and physiological side effects that align with what North is experiencing. Among them is “feelings of Shame, anger, and violent behavior”

Point two: North had no character development and is unjustified in her hatred for humans.

Counterpoint: Alright, we already covered the obvious reasons why she is completely justified in her hatred for humans, as she had only ever know them to be “sex abuse machines”. What I want to talk about now, is her character development. She indeed did have character development. 

When you first meet her, she starts out cold and aloof, barely wanting to talk to Markus and telling him “If you’re looking for comfort you’ve come to the wrong place”. Slowly, over the course of the game she shifts her tone, later looking into his eyes and saying “whatever happens next, we’ve already made the history books” in an effort to comfort him when he is doubting himself and the android movement. She repeatedly attempts to comfort him, saying things like “Take care of yourself, I don’t want to loose you”, and “Your the hope of our people, we trust you.” She slowly opens up to Markus and even begins to understand that his “peaceful approach” isn’t as careless as the trauma of her past would have her believe. Also notice, that the last chance she has to sway Markus onto her “violent path” she finally provides a reason, for her otherwise, seemingly random need for violence. When she presents the “dirty bomb” to Markus she tells him that she feels it would be their “last chance if things go wrong”. Up until this point, she had NEVER reserved violence as a “last resort” for if things go wrong. She had accepted that a peaceful protest was the way that Markus had chosen for his people and that it was the right thing to do. She even planned on participating, having no real problem with the decision apart from her lingering worry that “things might go wrong”. She had a lot of character development, but haters refuse to see it. 

On the other hand, Josh never changed or developed, but no one complains about him. He starts of screaming at Markus to “use dialogue not violence” and he ends saying “you and I haven’t always agreed but if it wasn’t for you I’d be dead, I’m with you” even if you did everything he told you to throughout the game, he continues to believe that Markus is “unlike him” and even continues to blame Markus for ever trying to free his people. He continues to act righteous and “holier than thou” until the very end. He couldn’t just thank Markus, he had to add that extra layer of  “you haven’t always been as righteous as me”. Even in the event that Josh dies on the battlefield, he scolds Markus with his dying breath, saying “The blood we spill will be on our hands”. Additionally, Josh also badmouths Markus after he sacrifices himself in the PEACEFUL protest, saying things like “He’s the one that got us into this mess” and “He put us all in danger by provoking humans”, as Simon fights to defend Markus. Lastly, I’d like to mention that Josh was also the first to mention using violence as a means to an end, in the beginning. When Markus suggests they steal from Cyberlife, Josh quickly says “but we don’t have any weapons. And even if we did, none of us knows how to fight.” Markus was the one who had to tell Josh, that they could do it without violence. Josh remained a hypocrite while North grew in understanding (even if she couldn’t shake off her fears).   

The bottom line fact is that North was written well and Josh was not. North changed and evolved throughout the story, and Josh did not. (Not hating on Josh, just comparing the character development to make a point. Josh has none, yet people complain that North doesn’t when she CLEARLY does)

Point three: David cage is a hack and doesn’t represent the LGBTQ community correctly because Simon couldn’t be a lover choice for Markus. 

Ok, we are going to have to talk about how this mindset negatively (and unfairly) effects perception of both North and David Cage. Because David Cage didn’t present the option to acquire Simon as a lover, despite the enormous sense of admiration and love that Simon has for him, fans tend to believe that Cage is a “homophobe” or a “hack”, and this in turn, leads them to resent and hate North because of her position as “The one David Cage chose for Markus”. These fans believe that Cage chose North because she is a famale, but another look at the broader spectrum of this decision tells a very different story.

While sifting through a Reddit post by David Cage and his team, where they were hosting a Q&A, I found a question that pertains to my argument. The First question asked on the page was “Why is North exclusively romance-able despite Markus having equal moments/more moments of chemistry with other characters?”.  His answer is one that should put this subject to rest, and clarify/justify his reasoning for “Cutting Simon as a lover”. In response to this question, this is what he wrote.

He clearly states that there were considerations for Markus to be able to have other love interests aside from North, but that the idea had to be scrapped due to the sheer manageability of the dialogue and story paths, the branches he refers to as “permutations”. I hear all of the North haters making the argument “Why didn’t they pick Simon, if they could only have one?” I imagine that these haters think that North was privileged because she was a female, and that is why everyone is saying that David Cage is “homophobic” and a “hack”. 

I’ve heard arguments that say that the excuse he gave in this response was “weak at best, because the game already has so many branching paths” Please think about this reaction to Cage’s response. Adding more to deal with would, conceivably be more difficult to work with. Everyone who worked with Cage on Detroit has expressed their amazement at the fact that he was able to keep everything that made it into the game fluid, and sensible. If it’s a miracle he’s able to keep so many event’s and branching events aligned in his head and on paper, then why on Earth does anyone find that handling another ENTIRE lover’s relationship would be easy? 

Now that we’ve explained why it’s insane to believe that adding branches to an already huge choice game wouldn’t make the development a lot more difficult, lets take a step back and try to asses this decision. We will assume that North, Josh, and Simon were all candidates to be a love interest for Markus. Which would make the most sense to prioritize from the story’s standpoint while keeping in mind that the “lovers relationship was not the main story in this game? The first one we can rule out is Josh, because he is meant to serve as the “angel on Markus’ shoulder” and would serve as a terrible motivation to urge or tempt the player into doing something against their moral compass, as the point of the game is to create hard decisions for the player to be confronted with, and I believe that this was the main purpose of the lover as well. It creates a decision that the player has to make between love and what they believe is right, which is a difficult one to make. Besides the fact that he wouldn’t help with the tone this game was going for, Josh would also be a bad choice because he doesn’t need his backstory told for us to like him. He doesn’t need justified in wanting Markus to take the peaceful approach because most people will agree that peace isn’t a bad thing. 

Now the decision comes down to North vs. Simon. As I previously stated, the entire point of having a lover for Markus was to have that internal struggle, someone pulling you one way, when you know another way is best. Simon is neutral in all the decision making, which is something the North haters site as a reason he should be the lover instead of North. However, taking into account, the context of what this game was meant to be and what it was meant to make you feel, you realize that it is, in fact, North that would be best suited for the role of “lover”. Because Simon is neutral, he wouldn’t present the same type of pull, or persuasive temptation that Cage wanted for this game, effectively making the decision process that much easier. North, on the other hand had the perfect motives to sway you as a lover. She was a legitimately broken soul who wanted nothing but to see the humans suffer for what they had done to her, because it was the only path she knew. Markus falling for her would create the tough decision that had to be made between what she wanted and what was good for his people. While it’s true that Simon could stand to have his background explained, it is North who desperately needed hers to come to light, otherwise, she wouldn’t be likable and would be viewed as a “violence for the sake of violence” type of person (which is extremely ironic because people were to illiterate to read her motives and condition, thus I must type this whole article)

So we have come to the conclusion that Josh wouldn’t work because he is in compliance with what is “right” and wouldn’t have a moral tug at your heart strings, along with the fact that he is likable as he is, due to his peaceful nature (even if he does enforce it with tons of frowns and yelling) We’ve understood that Simon wouldn’t be enough to push you either way, making the whole point of incorporating a “lover” moot. Finally, We’ve arrived at the same decision that David Cage made. That is, North is the best candidate because she is the only one with a personality that needs to be justified, a backstory that needs to be told for us to care for her, and a perfect amount of pressure on you to choose the path you know is wrong for the sake of love.

North wasn’t unjustified for hating humans or for her PTSD induced violence tendencies. She wasn’t prioritized by Cage because she is a “female” and he is a “homophobe”. She is a well written character and was the best choice, from a story standpoint, to write as a lover to Markus.

If you still want to call David Cage a “homophobe” or a “hack”, or say he doesn’t do the LGBTQ justice because of the Tracies, that is a whole different subject that I will cover later, so stay tuned.

(BTW If you really are longing for a legit gay couple in this game, you don’t have to look any further than HankCon. They never go beyond friends *probably due to all those extra branching paths Cage wanted to avoid and the complication of their relationship* but they do make googly eyes at each other *especially Connor to Hank* and they literally bring each other to life. But more on that later.)

*PS: If you dismiss HankCon solely because of their age appearance gap (because androids are ageless) or because Hank’s appearance doesn’t suit your “sexy” needs, you are sick and I don’t want to talk to you :)