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queenshelby · 3 years

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The Policeman’s Daughter – Part Four

Pairing: Thomas Shelby x Reader

Warning: Mention of Assault and Sexual Abuse, Mention of Suicide, Murder, Fluff, Slow Burn Smut, Drugs

Words: 2,878

Please comment, like and share. Your engagement is important to me.

Tommy’s Residence, Birmingham, 18 September 1924

‘Mr Shelby, shall we prepare breakfast?’ Francis asked as you and Tommy stumbled into the house at around 9 o’clock in the morning, your clothes covered in mud and dirt and your hair messy.

‘What?’ Tommy said, still laughing about the incident near the pond.

‘Breakfast Mr Shelby?’ Francis asked with a smile, seeing Tommy laugh for the first time since Grace’s passing.

‘We will have breakfast at 10 o’clock, eh?’ Tommy asked, looking at you. You nodded, smiling at Tommy as you did.

‘Thank you, Francis’ Tommy said before pulling a few leaves out from your hair which had been caught there earlier.

‘You’re welcome Mr Shelby’ Francis said before informing Tommy that his sister had picked up Charles at 8 o’clock to take him to the fair as she had promised.

After your brief encounter with Francis, you and Tommy made your way upstairs and quickly undressed before you shared a bath together.

‘I am not sure if we both fit in here?’ you said as you watched Tommy sink into the bathtub.

‘We will. Common’ he grinned and you breathed deeply for a few seconds as you stepped into the tub before reclining back, easing your torso into the welcoming embrace of the lavender scented water and against Tommy’s chest.

Tommy quickly moved the hair out of your face and over to one side before gently giving your neck a kiss.

‘I never quite met anyone like you’ Tommy chuckled, taking desire in your gypsy roots and your shy beauty.

‘Nor have I met anyone quite like you Tommy’ you said as you nudged your face against his nose gently, wanting him to continue kissing your neck.

He chuckled quickly at your eagerness and continued to plant small kisses and nibs across your neck while wrapping his arms and legs around you.

His hands eventually bushed over your breasts, rubbing and kneading them and Tommy could feel your hard, bullet like nipples in the palm of his hand.

‘Hmm Tommy’ you moaned as he gently tweaked them and rolled them between his thumbs and forefingers. The pleasure was intense, and your body was crying out for more.

You were squirming back against Tommy and he released your left breast and reached down in between your legs.

His fingers parted your lips before moving to your clit, gently rubbing it.

‘Oh Tommy’ you moaned as your arousal was intense and you once again lost yourself to Tommy’s touch.

‘I want you to cum for me Love’ Tommy whispered as, suddenly he slipped two fingers into your wet entrance.

‘So fucking wet inside, eh’ Tommy smirked satisfied and it wasn’t long until you felt a huge orgasm approaching.

Your eyes were closed as you engulfed in the pleasure Tommy was giving you with his thrusting fingers, right against your g-spot.

‘Fuck, Tommy’ you moaned as, finally, you climaxed and your walls contracted around Tommy’s fingers.

‘That’s it Love, cum on my fingers’ Tommy groaned and so you did, hard and fast, legs shaking while Tommy held you in place.

After a minute or two when you finally came down from your high, you could still feel the tingling sensation everywhere while Tommy washed your body gently with a bar of soap.

‘Hmm, thank you’ you moaned, opening your eyes as your body was covered in soap which is when, suddenly, you heard a knock on the door.

‘Telephone Mr Shelby. It’s your brother Arthur. Apparently, it is urgent’ Francis said and Tommy responded with a short ‘fuck’ before getting up and out of the bath quickly.

***

Following Tommy’s telephone call, you met him in the dining room to have breakfast before spending the remainder of the day in the stables with the horses and reading while Tommy had to attend to some urgent business matters.

You kept pondering on about what it was that he did for work. He owned several factories in Birmingham but constantly seemed to encounter trouble of some sort.

Over the course of the day, you had also realised that he owned several guns and weapons. But why, you didn’t know.

‘I am sorry that I only got to spend half of the day with you’ Tommy said when he eventually joined you in the reading room at around 7 o’clock that day. ‘No more business for today’ he then promised you.

‘It’s fine Tommy, really’ you said as he sat down next to you and you were quick to cup his face and draw him close for a kiss.

But it wasn’t just one kiss you were sharing. You and Tommy were kissing for a good fifteen minutes, each round growing more fierce and desperate than the last. It was good, but it wasn’t enough. You wanted more, even more than the night before.

‘Tommy?’ you said quietly in between the very heated and passionate kisses.

‘Yes Love’ he whispered while caressing your face as his deep blue eyes looked deeply into yours.

‘I want to feel you. All of you’ you then said while reaching immediately for the zipper of his pants. You never felt so wanton, so eager to be with someone. As if a dam broke somewhere inside you, carrying you away with its tide.

‘Slow down Love, we’ve got time’ he said, grinning at you.

‘Let’s go upstairs, eh?’ he then suggested and you nodded eagerly before following him to the bedroom.

As soon as you reached the bedroom, Tommy walked you back to his bed, unbuttoning the shirt of his that you were wearing and then leaving you in nothing but your panties.

‘Tommy, I want you so badly’ you whispered before doing the same to the shirt that he was wearing, leaving him wearing nothing but his suit pants.

‘Nice and slow, eh’ Tommy said, slowing you down again as you both climbed onto the bed together.

Within seconds, his warm body was a comfortable weight atop yours and you wrapped your legs around his hips and held him closer to you, sighing in contentment as he kissed your neck and shoulders. Your heart felt full, almost to the point of bursting out of your chest with sheer joy.

He kissed your cheek, your jaw and then descended down to your throat. A startled gasp escaped you when he kissed a particularly sensitive region. His lips quirked into a devilish grin as he spent more time on that place, licking and nibbling and eliciting small gasps from you.

Holding your chin, he made you look up at him. His eyes sincere, full of love and understanding.

‘You’re beautiful and I am a very lucky man’ he then said simply, and just like that, a sense of peace and calm replaced your sense of nervousness.

Tommy then leaned down and kissed you once more before continuing on. ‘If anything makes you uncomfortable, tell me, and I’ll stop’ he reassured you.

You nodded gratefully and he drew another lingering kiss from your lips and then kissed your sternum, down to your cleavage and your bare breasts.

His warm hands made your breath catch as they caressed the sensitive underside, hefting your breasts and worshipping them slowly. Your insides clenched with pleasure as he rubbed your hardened nubs, rubbing and rolling them over before bringing his lips down onto them.

‘Oh’ you gasped as Tommy’s wet tongue flicked over your flesh.

Your eyelids shut down as you took in the sensory overload of your two nipples being stimulated simultaneously. You never noticed his other hand moving down onto the crotch of your panties and you jerked as his tentative fingers rubbed your slit through my moist underwear.

As Tommy was stimulating you, you finally seized the opportunity to unbuckle his belt and pull his pants and undergarments down his legs at one go before he could protest. His cock jumped up, freed at last and you held the warm throbbing flesh with your hand, marveling at its warmth and inherent pulsating beat.

‘I need you inside of me Tommy’ you whispered, caressing his face as you did.

Tommy kicked his legs to work his pants down all the way as you continued to stroke him gently and when they were down around his ankles he grabbed your legs behind the knees gently. After he pushed down your panties, throwing them onto the floor besides the bed, he lifted your legs up and spread them apart, allowing him to line himself up with your entrance.

‘Are you sure about this Love?’ Tommy asked again quietly and you nodded in the affirmative as your hips rocked up against him, teasing him.

Tommy let out a gentle groan as he felt your wetness on the tip of his cock and began to slide his length over the lips of your sex gently.

After his tip had been lubricated enough, he gently pushed inside you a little, spreading your lips, before withdrawing again.

‘Tommy’ you moaned, desperate for more, but he was determined to take it slow, pushing in a little deeper as he entered you again.

He pushed down a little further with each thrust, wetting its length with each stroke until, finally, he was buried all the way inside you.

‘Oh god’ you moaned and Tommy could clearly feel the wet heat that was enveloping his cock as he slowly began to slide in and out of you with deep but slow thrusts.

You wrapped your arms around Tommy and pulled him up for a passionate kiss and you lay like that, joined at the hips while you furiously kissed, tongues fighting for supremacy and breathing like you had both run a race.

Tommy then began to pull out until only the head of his cock remained in you and then slowly pushed back in again. Slow deep strokes, savoring the feelings of being joined together with you. The warm, wet friction was overwhelming. As he slowly stroked in and out of you tight pussy he began to slide his hips from side to side. Each stroke in and out was a change in direction, the head of his cock sliding across different areas of your mound, stimulating you in new and different ways.

‘Yes Tommy, fuck’ you began to scream as he continued to make love to you. Bucking up your hips, you indicated for him to go faster, to take you harder.

With several loud groans, Tommy continued to pound in and out of you, picking up the pace at your urging. You felt incredibly tight around his cock and he struggled to hold back much longer, having wanted to feel you for so long.

You could tell he was close and the thought of Tommy filling you with his warm cum drove you wild, sending you closer and closer to your own orgasm.

‘Come in me Tommy. I want to feel you come inside me’ you begged and Tommy pounded deep into you and grunted with each thrust.

‘Fuck yes’ you moaned again as he picked up speed and, just as he did, you couldn’t hold back any longer.

While screaming his name for all to hear, your walls contracted around him while your legs began to shake uncontrollably.

‘Oh god yes Tommy’ you cried, tears of joy running down your face, as your orgasm washed over you hard and fast and unlike anything else you had ever felt.

Your arousal and watching you come undone beneath him caused to Tommy to groan loudly. He could feel his balls tightening and knew the end was at hand.

‘Fuck Y/N’ he groaned as he felt the first spurt of cum shooting out the end of his cock. With that, he slammed himself as deep into your pussy as he could and held himself tightly against you and rocked from side to side.

‘Tommy’ you moaned, feeling Tommy’s cum fill you as he held himself tight against you, never wanting to pull out.

‘You feel so fucking good’ Tommy groaned again as you milked the last drop from him with your tight walls.

‘I want you to stay inside me forever Tommy’ you whispered before pulling him close for another kiss and, after a little while, his cock began to soften and he pushed himself tighter still against you to delay the inevitable while continuing to kiss you deeply.

After sharing deep passionate kisses for a few minutes, his shriveled cock slid out of you and your mixed fluids began to leak from your wet slit.

It felt incredible, knowing that you had united in the way you did.

Tommy eventually rolled of you and, while laying side by side you continued to kiss and caress each other while your breathing slowly returned to normal.

Tommy then kissed across your breast and slipped your nipple into his mouth and flicked his tongue across it while he ran his hand across your body and down over your mound.

‘Oh my god Tommy’ you said in disbelieve as you reached down in between his legs as well, realising that his cock was hardening again.

‘That’s what you do to me Love’ Tommy grinned as, all of a sudden, he heard a car pull up in the driveway.

He jumped up quickly, put on his pants before reaching for the gun he left inside the chest of draws in the bedroom.

‘Tommy?’ you asked with concern but, just as you did, he put the gun back down, realising that it was his aunt Polly and her son Michael who were coming into the house.

‘Sorry Love. We will have to continue this later, eh’ Tommy said, causing you to pout.

‘I will make it up to you’ Tommy then grinned before pressing his lips onto yours once more for a quick but passionate kiss.

‘After you are done with business, you better going fuck me all night long Mr Shelby’ you said with determination just before Tommy left the bedroom.

‘That can be arranged’ he winked as he walked out of the door.

‘We’ve got a problem’ Polly said as soon as Tommy walked into the office on the lower floor of his house where Michael and Polly were already waiting for him.

‘This better be urgent as I am fucking busy, eh’ Tommy growled as he sat down, unbothered by the fact that he was still half naked, wearing nothing but his suit pants.

‘Here are the names and addresses of the three men who went to London. They report to a said Major James Y/LN, living at 132 Downing Lane, Birmingham. He also is in London at the moment’ Polly explained.

‘Fuck’ Tommy said as he realised that the man in charge was your father.

‘Do you know what he wants?’ Tommy then asked, swallowing harshly when he did.

‘See you hang and us in jail I would say’ Polly said as she threw a stack of papers onto Tommy’s desk with file notes from a source Michael had in London.

‘We can take him out, but we need to do it tonight Tom. We have men in London who can do it’ Michael then suggested while Tommy started to look through the papers.

‘No’ Tommy then said, causing Polly to shout and argue.

‘Tommy, he will hang you, probably us too. We have the chance to take him tonight. We need to do this’ Polly argued.

‘No Pol. I will deal with it, eh’ Tommy responded angrily.

‘It’s because of her, isn’t it? You are fucking her, aren’t you? Michael has told me about the security guards at the address and the payoffs’ Polly said, causing Tommy to sigh.

‘She’s got nothing to do with any of this Pol’ Tommy growled.

‘Well, it wouldn’t be the first time you fall for a fucking spy, now would it Tommy?’ Polly growled harshly, thinking back at when Tommy got involved with Grace.

‘I said I fucking deal with it, Pol’ Tommy shouted and it was at this point that Polly got even more upset and angry.

‘If you don’t, I will and if I have to kill them both, then so be it. I am not losing my son over this. You’ve got one week Tommy’ Polly said before telling Michael that it was time to go.

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ladyeliot · 4 years

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Do it.

Request: @imerdwarf : Hi my dear friend ❤️ I was wondering if I could send in a small request? 🥺 a friends to lovers with Bucky - reader has loved him for a long time but he’s always with other girls and just feels like he doesn’t like her that way but it isn’t until she starts crying he learns the truth? 🥺 your writing is amazing and I’m glad to have found your blog ❤️

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Fem!Reader (40s)

Warning: Fluff, fluff, fluff and maybe sad.

Word count: 2243

Notes: Sorry for my spelling and grammatical mistakes, English is not my native language, I am learning.

New York City, 1943

The clarity with which you heard the words that came out of the radio distressed you. There wasn't much good news coming from across the ocean, but you knew that's where you wanted to be. The courage of the many soldiers who passed through your hands encouraged and comforted you, they had hope, everything that was needed in those times. Your main task was to vaccinate and check that each and every soldier who went to war was in good physical condition. There were many times when you had to refuse their permission, and you watched as frustration set in.

But things changed when a loved one came before you to give your approval of their good physical health. Bucky Barnes was more than a Sergeant in the United States Army, he was your friend and confidant for a couple of years when Bucky showed up at the medical centre after becoming the third YMCA welterweight boxing champion. From that moment on you both discovered that you had many things in common, and perhaps it was because of that and the constant casual coincidences you had over the next few months that you became good friends.

"Done," the curtain that separated your cubicle from another nurse's cubicle opened, letting a smiling Bucky through.

You jumped up suddenly when you saw how he had snuck into that place, and the soldier you were poking at the top of his buttock was surprised too. But Bucky didn't seem to mind.

"What are you doing here?" you asked, offering the soldier cotton wool with alcohol.

"I've just had my destiny confirmed" Bucky picked up a series of confidential papers, which he shouldn't show you.

The soldier you were vaccinating reluctantly left by pulling up his trousers, and Bucky took the seat he had left on the stretcher. You took the papers he was offering you and discovered that first thing tomorrow morning he would be leaving for Europe. His departure took you somewhat by surprise, as you at least expected him not to leave until September, but he was determined. He was leaving tomorrow and you still hadn't received your assignment orders, even though your application had been sent for months.

"So you're leaving first thing tomorrow morning for London," you confirm by looking at the documents.

With every gesture on his face, Bucky showed that happiness and pride you were used to seeing in each of your patients. It was clear that there was nothing better than news like that to cheer up the American people, their courageous men and women fighting for their country.

"Well, what do you plan to do on your last night of freedom, Sergeant?" Your question had a specific purpose, to discover Bucky's priorities, among which you clearly knew was his best friend, Steve Rogers.

James took the papers again from your hands and got up from the stretcher practically in one jump.

"Enjoy this wonderful city and its pleasures," he said cheerfully. "Tonight I have a double date with Steve, we'll take Connie and Bonnie to Stark Expo and then dance.

You arched one eyebrow smiling at the plan he had just proposed, the smile was not really the best expression to show your feelings, but it was perfect to hide them. You were not prone to show your affection in front of the people you loved, maybe that's why you accepted to dedicate yourself to nursing, you preferred to show your affection with strangers. That and running away from your small town.

"So, a double date? That sounds wonderful."

As Bucky played with the papers in his hands you wondered whether you should say goodbye to him now, whether that would be the last time you would see him before he left first thing the next day, and whether you would not see him again until the war was over and everyone returned home, if he survived.

"So... is this goodbye?" you asked with a sour smile.

Just as Bucky was about to take the step and respond, the white curtain opened showing a young private waiting to be vaccinated. Bucky showing his stripes informed him to wait a moment.

"Of course, Sergeant."

Just as the private had disappeared again, Bucky resumed the conversation.

"I think so, this is goodbye," Bucky kept the papers. "Goodbyes... I'm not very good at them."

"Don't worry, Sergeant," you said, looking at his blue eyes as you leaned on the stretcher. "You just focus on being good at what matters, and come back safe and sound."

"Of course ma'am," Bucky gave you one last smile before disappearing through the curtain and informing the soldier that he could pass.

The rest of tomorrow you functioned as if you were part of an assembly line, soldiers and vaccines, vaccines and soldiers, your mind was lost elsewhere, wandering between various thoughts. Practically all your friendships were thousands of miles away from you, you only knew about them through a few lines that came to you with every correspondence at the beginning of the month. Your life was becoming a nuisance, and now he was leaving too. You wanted to be there, in the front line if necessary, to help, even if you regretted it every day later. That situation was frustrating.

With the sunset you started to pick up your belongings, there was nothing more you could do for today, just take off your uniform and go home to sit on the couch while you kept your mind distracted listening to the radio. The girls were going out that night to dance with a lieutenant and his mates, but you just needed a bit of calm.

The number five bus soon passed, and after crossing the Manhattan bridge you were on your way back to Brooklyn. You were living in a small rented flat in North Brooklyn, and every night when you arrived Mrs. Ferris would come over to say good night to you, although you knew that she just wanted to check that you didn't have a companion, as the rental contract forbade it.

"Good evening, Mrs. Ferris," you said as you walked up the stairs to the first floor. "Have a nice evening."

After having said your farewell, as always, you went into the house and prepared to open the window of the living room, just to listen to the atmosphere of the neighbourhood and to discover that you were not alone in that place. The radio news had finished and a Harry James song "I've Heard That Song Before" began to play, a song that made you think of Bucky and that at that very moment he would be dancing with Connie or Bonnie, or maybe both. You couldn't blame him for anything, in the first place he didn't know your feelings, and secondly first thing tomorrow morning he would be going off on the most dangerous adventure of his life, surely if you were in his position you would have done the same.

You stood silently by the window frame, listening to the sweet melody coming from the radio and contemplating all the windows lit in the buildings opposite. It took you longer than usual to realize that someone on the pavement, just below your window, was calling your attention, because you were transfixed by the Brooklyn night.

"What the hell are you doing here, Bucky?" The tone of surprise came in your words, but it was so faint that I probably wouldn't have heard you.

Bucky pointed to the front door of the building, emphasizing that he wanted you to let him in. You shook your head quickly, it was impossible for Bucky to get up to your house without Mrs. Ferris noticing. Your friend made a nagging gesture, but quickly indicated that you should go down to the street, where he was. With a charming smile he waited for your answer, and you no doubt pleased him by coming down quickly.

"I hope you're not late, Miss Y/S/N," Mrs. Ferris quickly opened the door. "And if you do, take off your shoes to go up the stairs."

"Of course, Mrs. Ferris, enjoy the evening."

With a little chuckle you opened the front door of the building and found Sergeant Barnes waiting for you at the entrance.

"What are you doing here?" you said with a scowl. "I thought you were in some bar in Queens dancing until dawn before a ship takes you to England."

"Well, let's say Steve has left and it's my turn to take care of the two ladies," he said, taking off his cap.

"Can't Sergeant Barnes handle two ladies?" Your mischief came out, if Mrs. Ferris had heard such a comment she would have kicked you to the curb, but Bucky was used to it.

Bucky did not respond, he just smiled and put his cap back on completing his uniform again.

"Would you like to go for a walk?" you asked when you realized that the conversation was limited.

"Please," he said, raising his hand to get you started.

You knew that neighbourhood perfectly, you had lived there since you moved to New York, and you had walked those streets day after day. As if you were taking an exam, you were trying to answer the question: Why did Bucky suddenly appear that night? Maybe it was true, Steve had left and didn't want to be with two young ladies. "Really?" you thought to yourself, it was James Barnes, he would have been thrilled with that situation.

"Have you received the answer to the relocation request today?" he asked, breaking the silence.

"Not yet," you said with regret in your voice. "I hope to receive it next week, I wouldn't like to stay another month in New York.

The lampposts opened past you on your night out, there was practically no one there except those groups of young people who were returning to their homes.

"You're looking forward to going to the frontline," he said, placing his hands behind him and looking ahead.

"Aren’t you?" you smiled melancholyly, staring at him. "It's not me who's leaving tomorrow."

Bucky kept walking as he looked straight ahead.

"You know," you started. "Maybe it's stupid, but I feel like my work here is useless. I became a nurse three years ago to escape that Missouri town and see the world, and I enlisted in the army nursing corps to serve my country and do something worthwhile in my life. But I've been doing medical examinations on soldiers and giving injections for three years.”

You did not know at what moment you stopped, but you were in the middle of an alleyway illuminated only by a pair of street lights. Bucky was watching you carefully as you let your thoughts flow.

"Practically everyone I know is struggling somewhere in the remote world, and I feel like I'm stuck and can't do anything to help," your mind went fast as your hands tried to express how you felt. "And tomorrow you're going thousands of miles away too and I'll still be here, getting up like I do every morning and giving medical check-ups to people who may not be with us for months.”

Your eyes became watery as you spoke. Finally you looked up from the floor and discovered that Bucky was looking serious as he listened to you, his expression made you nervous.

"I know, it's stupid," you quickly wiped away the tear that was going to fall down your throat by looking away and biting your tongue hard.

"No," Bucky denied with his face removing his cap. "Nothing you just said is stupid."

At the time you were a little embarrassed to have exposed how you felt, but your companion's reaction made you realise that he had hidden feelings too, and was not very likely to expose them either. Bucky raised his hand slowly, as if afraid of scaring you, and stroked your cheek. His caress made you shudder; it was so delicate that you closed your eyes to enjoy the time it lasted.

"You're looking forward to war," he whispered, staring into your eyes. "And I'm wishing you wouldn't."

You felt those words inside you too, they were a clear reflection of what you wanted, you didn't want him to go to the front tomorrow either.

"I'd kiss you right now," he whispered, focusing his gaze on your lips.

"Do it."

As if it were an order from a superior, Bucky accepted it and quickly shortened the distance between your lips. You had wanted to live that moment so many times and now it was happening, a few hours before his departure, and that was reflected in the need for that kiss. Your lips were opening up to each other, causing a more agitated breathing. It did not matter to you if someone was passing by or a curious person was watching through a window, it was your moment.

It was not until you parted that you discovered the fear you both felt within yourselves, the fear of not seeing each other again, and this was present in the kisses you gave each other until dawn.

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gigslist · 3 years

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34+ Voiceover Roles & 3 Musician Open Calls - Work From Home - Paid

'F*cking Sober' Podcast

22 + Roles

3 Open Calls for Musicians With Their Own Music

PAID WORK FROM HOME NON UNION

Deadline : September 15, 2021 2:00 PM

Somehow9am Productions // F*cking Sober: the first 90 days Podcast

Katie Mack, coord.

:"A call for artists in recovery for the 2nd Season of The Webby Award Winning Podcast Series 'F*cking Sober: the first 90 days.' We are looking for voice over talent and musicians/music producers for 'FS: Shadai.' 'F*cking Sober' is a semi-comedic mostly non-fictional narrative podcast following Shadai’s first 90 days of getting sober. Thirty-five year old Shadai is the black, queer, strong female in advertising— so what if she keeps shots in her bra for between meetings, right? But after a shitshow holiday party, a fuzzy cop encounter, and a disaster presentation with the new big account, Dry January doesn’t seem like such a bad idea. Maybe Dry Forever is better. This is what it looks, acts, and feels like to get f*cking sober. This 8 episode serialized show features music by artists with their own story with recovery. F*cking Sober Season 1: Anita has received 15k downloads since it’s release in Nov 2020, and received a 2021 Webby Nomination for Best Limited Series, and a Webby Win for Best Writing for a Podcast. At this time we are only looking to work with artists who have a relationship/understanding of recovery. Please follow instructions for submitting and what to include in the cover letter to be considered! Thank you! Listen to Season 1 to get the vibe: https://podcasts.apple.com/us/podcast/f-cking-sober-the-first-90-days/id1538804959?i=1000499155627 And check out: www.fckingsoberpodcast.com @fckingsober90_podcast More information about Somehow9am Productions & Katie Mack (Producer): www.somehow9amproductions.com www.mackstage.com"

Roles

Shadai (Voiceover): Female, 18+WORK FROM HOMEproduction states: "Note: We are only accepting submissions from artists who have their own story in recovery, TY! 35 year old, black, queer, cis gender female attorney with a dry sense of humor, who has strong opinions and shares them sometimes, is a powerhouse and knows it all… until… until she doesn’t. Please note your experience with improv/comedy in your cover letter If you have writing experience or are interested in writing please note this in your cover letter. We will be giving writing credits to the right candidate who desires to contribute to the molding of this character."Required Media: Voice Reel

Other Characters (Voiceover): 20-70

"Note: We are only accepting submissions from artists who have their own story in recovery, TY! We are looking for diversity in every sense of the word, from all genders, to ages, to ethnicities, to lived experiences, to food preferences!! In short, we are looking to cast dope, interesting people. Looking to cast various characters through out the S2 Shadai, including but not limited to:

Dad (black, army veteran, a dad’s dad)

Mom (black, hyper critical, the opposite of Shadai)

Dana (any ethnicity, work enemy)

Coco (white, work bestie)

JewBoo aka Therapist (Jewish, confidant, motherly, with a special sense of humor)

Miriam (black, best friend and ex-lover who tells it like it is)

Galen (white, gay, best friend who is warm and caring and pushy)

15 other characters Please note any experience you may have with comedy/improv if any. Please submit your reel along with your cover letter."Required Media: Voice Reel, Cover Letter

Musicians (BIPOC Artists in Recovery) (Voiceover): 18+ music from BIPOC identifying artists.

Musicians (Queer Identifying Artist in Recovery) (Voiceover): 18+ music by Queer Artists.

Musicians (Non-BIPOC/Non-Queer Artists in Recovery) (Voiceover): 18+ music from non-BIPOC or non-Queer Identifying Artists in recovery.

"To be produced over the course of October 2021 - January 2022 Shadai’s commitment is estimated at two hrs/wk. Other characters 30mins. Musicians, all work should already exist. Please be prepared to send stems or stripped down tracks."

Compensation & Union Contract Details

Stipend: $25 - $75Production states: "Shadai (Lead Character), $550 for full season. All Other Characters: $25-$50 per episode. Musicians: $25-$75 per song per episode. Sync license contract."

Seeking talent: Nationwide (United States)

Website:http://www.fckingsoberpodcast.com

======================================

'Rain: Series III'

12 Voiceover Roles

PAID WORK FROM HOME NONUNION

Deadline: September 14, 2021 8:59 PM

JKPRising James Klim, filmmaker

Seeking voiceover talent for "Rain: Series III," a web-series, created in the video game Halo Reach on MCC via Xbox/PC. "This series will have a total of 13 episodes. I have many characters to cast, 12 specifically. If you wish to learn more about the show, you can check out my documentary series regarding the show. You can view the first episode here - www.youtube.com/watch?v=AlzPQvJS3og A little bit about me, I am a freelance filmmaker who actually got into film through making Halo videos as a kid when I was younger. You can check out some of my work here - www.jkprising.com/ I've always wanted to return to my roots & finish a series I was never able to before, but now I have the time to focus on it. This is a paid position. Rates depend on each character as some have more lines than others & vice versa. I am not the wealthiest person in the world, but I will to compensate each voice actor for their performance. My budget per character is between $100 - $300. This again, all varies per character. In this post, there is a video of what the character will look like in the series. I have also attached a single page from a random episode script from the show. The highlighted lines are what the character will say. There will also be non verbal lines highlighted, this is meant to be voiced kind of like an anime, where every movement usually has sounds. Typically, how would you make a sound if you did any of the following, head turn, turns around, surprised gasp, sighs, etc. Since this a paid gig, I am expecting a professional voice audition & if hired, continued professional audio. This means minimum to no background noise. The audio needs to be crisp."

Roles

Chloe Moody (Voiceover): Female, 18-35WORK FROM HOME29. Voice type: English/United Kingdom accent, polite, doesn't get mad often but when she does, she loses it, anxious, low self esteem, hopeful. Chloe Moody used to be a psychiatrist, but after the death of her soon to be husband, she spiraled into insanity. She met someone later on in life named Tom Rains, who looked exactly like her dead boyfriend. She became obsessed with him & tried to get with him, which sunk her further into a deep depression. She finally hit rock bottom, which causes her to seek out help from the very people she used to serve. Chloe meets a psychiatrist named Jennifer, who is able to help herself almost fully recover. Chloe eventually accidently runs back into Tom, which triggers Chloe to try one last time. After a final rejection, Chloe comes to the realization that she is not redeemable & decides to take her own life in front of Tom. Chloe's death, triggers a massive event for Tom Rains, which has massive ramifications for the series. Chloe is a major character and will appear in a couple episodes.Languages:

English

Accents:

British

Australian

Voice Styles:

Soft

Softspoken

Crazy

Compassionate

Sad

Angry

Required Media: Voice Reel

Dark Daryl (Voiceover): Male, 18-40WORK FROM HOME

32, voice type: Very dark presence, evil. sadistic, look at examples like Yami Marik from the Original Yu-Gi-Oh - www.youtube.com/watch?v=4xaa_ycud6o, manic, darkness. Dark Daryl is the darkness of his original persona, Daryl. Daryl accidentally acquired a powerful technology known as an imperium. This caused Daryl to lose himself to it at some point & was taken over by an alternate personality named, The Professor, which caused tons of damage. When Daryl came back to his senses, the damage had been done & others abandoned him, which caused him to grow angry at something that he didn't consciously do. Daryl once again loses himself to the imperium, which turns into Dark Daryl, a representation of all the anger & hatred he endured over the course of his past uncontrollable actions. Dark Daryl is very aggressive, sadistic & wants to destroy the people who wronged him in the past. Eventually, he comes face to face with Daryl & fights to stay as the one who remains in control, even if that means killing Daryl & anyone who gets in his way. Dark Daryl is a character who appears in the second half of the show, & becomes the series main villain. He will appear in many episodes.

Languages:

English

Voice Styles:

Aggressive

Angry

Evil

Commanding

Straightforward

Scary

Dangerous

Intimidating

Demonic

Required Media: Voice Reel

Nikki (Voiceover): Female, 18-35 WORK FROM HOME

25. Voice type: Energetic, passionate, caring, open-minded, loving, positive, independent, fighter. Nikki used to date Tom Rains. She didn't really have much going for her, as she had no ambition at all during that time of her life. After Tom broke up with her, this was quite the shock to Nikki. It caused her to really dive deep within herself & from that moment, she tried to learn more about herself. She discovered a love for storytelling, & so went into journalism. Nikki is now dating Jennifer & they have been together for almost a year. Nikki eventually gets wrapped up in a major conspiracy, which drags many of her friends in with her. She is in for the story of her entire career. Nikki is a major character and will appear in many episodes.

Languages:

English

Voice Styles:

Comforting

Compassionate

Caring

Amusing

Animated

Brave

Heroic

Required Media: Voice Reel

Talent works remotely with professional recording equipment.

Professional Pay: $100 - $300Pays between $100-$300 depending on character.

Nationwide (United States)

Additional Materials

Website: https://www.jkprising.com/

Nikki Audition.pdf - https://d26oc3sg82pgk3.cloudfront.net/files/media/uploads/casting_call/7f95c65b-ab53-43d3-a66b-9e59d1041acb.pdf

Dark Daryl Audition.pdf - https://d26oc3sg82pgk3.cloudfront.net/files/media/uploads/casting_call/00cfdf46-84c1-4da6-9dee-91c7bcdeed3d.pdf

Chloe Moody Audition.pdf https://d26oc3sg82pgk3.cloudfront.net/files/media/uploads/casting_call/186cbe9e-9c7e-4ce5-bcbe-2407a9dec00b.pdf

#voiceover casting calls #work from home voice over work #music wanted online #jobs for musicians #remote jobs for musicians #music writer jobs #gigs for recovering addicts

3 notes · View notes

writerman · 4 years

Note

Psst. Write a hanahaki disease fic for Barduil where Thranduil has it. You gotta write it.

Hey, anon, remember when you requested this probably like a year ago? Yeah, me either...

Anyway, here is what you asked for. I wrote over 7000+ words in a day to finish this asap.

My thanks to @morticia-butler for all the help looking up Hanahaki disease headcanons and an iconic line I simply had to include.

This is a long one so some of it will be under a readmore BUT you can also read all my other Barduil prompts via this fancy schmancy LINK

On to the story!

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

8:30am. Thursday. September 17th. Just petals.

The mirror reflected a pale and haunted image back at him while bright and vibrant yellow petals dusted the front of his pyjama t-shirt.

Daffodils.

His favourite. Thranduil, however, had come to detest the sight of them. The sunshine yellow flowers openly mocking him, their bobbing heads in the breeze seen as a gaggle of them laughing almost jovially at his situation.

No point thinking on it in-depth, not when he could temporarily abate the problem.

With such a thought in mind, Thranduil brushed the petals from his shirt into the sink and watched as they swirled in the water a moment before vanishing down the drain into the darkness.

But there would be more.

There was always more.

A soft knock at the bathroom door stilled his hand as he reached for his toothbrush and he turned to see Tauriel watching him with concern.

“I didn’t know you were visiting today, what are you doing here?” Thranduil’s voice was soft as he spoke, though, the lilting sound of surprise cracked his voice for a moment. “Had I known you planned to visit I’d have been ready by now. What are-” Thranduil watched as Tauriel leaned toward him, her hand brushed the fabric of his t-shirt as she plucked a petal still clinging to the fibres.

“Dad, you said this had stopped!” The words rushed out and they were so loud as she held the petal up between them. While it hadn’t meant to come out so accusing, he could hear the dismay that coloured her words, it still felt harsh and Thranduil braced himself for a barrage of instructions to get himself to a doctor.

“It was quelled for some time. The doctor gave me special inhalers that slow the spread but I’ve not had the time to contact the surgery for a refill.” He gestured to an empty inhaler laying innocently on its side by the sink. They had helped immeasurably and the majority of his family had believed the disease was done and gone.

But Hanahaki was not that easy to be rid of, he knew and deep down his family knew that too. It was easier to think he had been cured than to do consider the alternative…

“I dropped by because I wanted to know if you felt like grabbing breakfast?” Tauriel turned from the bathroom door and wandered into her dad’s bedroom, his clothes were laid out already, she paced past the bed and back out into the hallway. “I’ll be downstairs, let’s go out still.”

There was no time to respond and so Thranduil internally agreed to breakfast with his daughter. She and Legolas were the same in that they were strongwilled, always happy to make a decision and happy to make it for someone else too.

They definitely had gotten that trait from him, even if he had mellowed somewhat with age. It was easy to recall his younger days with clarity, he walked tall never a curve to his back because he bowed to no one.

He had been so headstrong and confident, even after his wife had died. People had come to him speaking softly with sincere condolences but Thranduil cast the sorrowful glances aside and carried on working.

That felt like aeons ago now, Thranduil was more in touch with his emotional and mental health now, gave and took the time of others as freely as he should have when he was younger. Thranduil found value in the world where once he would have shunned it.

Turning to look in the mirror, that pale and haunted face stared back but the eyes seemed less empty than they had earlier. Even with his disease there was still hope within him, it was choked and stuttering by the roots of the flowers in his chest and lungs but it was there.

“I can’t give up, not yet.” He whispered to himself.

They ended up heading to Tauriel’s favourite place for breakfast, it was a small family-run restaurant and the food was good. The cheery wait staff did not match the highly polished wood and marble of the place but it felt strangely homely all the same.

It was while Thranduil perused the menu that Tauriel brought up the subject, or rather, the object of his disease to him. A public place so he would not make a scene, perhaps, or rather, she hadn’t thought of the setting and only wanted to relinquish her hold on the burning question she had within for months.

“So, will you at least tell me who it is that did this to you?” Badly worded. No one had passed the disease onto him, that wasn’t how it worked and he knew Tauriel understood that. “Come on, dad. Do they know what they’ve done to you?” Of course, she was angry but why was she being angry with someone innocent in all of it?

While the majority of the time Thranduil was able to ignore these unnecessary outbursts from his children, there were ofttimes when his frustration got the better of him and one of those times was now.

With hands loosely balled into fists resting on the tabletop, Thranduil pinned his daughter with an icy glare that quashed whatever words she had left inside to say on the matter.

“I have told you time and time again, I will not tell you who it is. You know damned well that they are not to blame in this. You’ve seen the diagnosis, even though I’ve asked you to stay out of it, you’ve seen the words ‘ self-inflicted’ on the documents.” He voice was low but the chill in his words caused Tauriel to sit back in her seat and avert her gaze from his.

“I’m sorry-” She stopped when the waitress came over and set down their coffee and a rack of toast. There was time enough between the waitress approaching and leaving for Tauriel to regain her composure. “I’ve read so much about this over the past few months, it might now be onesided that’s all.” She was right but the percentage was low.

Hanahaki disease was such an odd illness to contract, the phenomenon of flowers growing in a person’s chest and lungs due to unrequited or onesided love. The agitation of yearning and pining watered the blooms until the lungs were completely full and the chest cavity would split open with leaves and stems and petals spilling out and killing a person instantly if they hadn’t already died from suffocation.

But that was only intense cases. There were ways to slow the spread and Thranduil was taking measures to ensure he could do such a thing.

Regular therapy was one. His therapist was a wonderful woman who guided him through the process of coming to terms with his unrequited love. They spoke of how to be honest and open with the feelings he experienced and how to provide his own closure.

Though, they had many hurdles to jump. Thranduil didn’t believe in closure per se, to him revisiting something traumatic and uncomfortable merely reopened wounds. They’d spent many sessions focussing on the death of his wife and while it had helped immensely in allowing a belated grieving it ultimately had not helped with his predicament.

But he was not to call it a predicament his therapist had said. To remove the seriousness of the disease was to remove the value of his own life. There were many times she had asked him to look from the outside in and speak on the issues in his life as though they affected another person. It had helped and when things looked bleak or if Thranduil began to brush off the seriousness of his illness he would remind himself that he would not allow someone else to do that to themselves.

The next most drastic step was surgery, but it was a temporary step and it slowed the spread of the disease. Researchers in the medical field studying Hanahaki always implied heavily that the physical manifestations of the disease were caused by the brain and thus Hanahaki was registered as a mental illness.

It was why doctors pressed so hard for those that suffered to seek therapy.

“I won’t be involving the person in this what so ever, Tauriel. Please, I ask again that you drop the subject.” How he had pleaded like this before and how it emotionally exhausted him to see the fear in her eyes every time she visited.

It was all because he knew that one day she feared she’d find him lying dead, a bouquet of blood-stained flowers adorning his chest in a beautiful and grotesque display of the love that had plagued him.

“I understand that you’re scared but I promise you I have no given up. I have an appointment with my therapist this afternoon and with my surgeon to discuss a date for surgery.”

His words seemed enough to placate her for now and she instead busied herself with buttering some toast.

3:00pm Thursday. September 17th. Just petals.

“We spoke about your wife again last week, I noted that you requested we move on from the subject. Why do you feel you need to leave that subject alone?” The room was shaded from the bright Autumn sunshine streaming in from the window.

Thranduil could see the glowing gold around the edges of the blinds and forgot where he was for a moment as he watched it flicker with the shadow of trees swaying the breeze. He couldn’t remember why he’d suggested they move on but it seemed the right course of action to him.

“I just feel we aren’t focussing on the real problem.” When he spoke he made a point to look at her. Maintaining eye contact seemed important at that moment, he didn’t want her to think he was ruled by indecision. “My wife has been dead for years and we have already confirmed that, as much as I miss her, I have come to terms with her death and grieved appropriately.” Too business-like. As soon as the words had come out of his mouth he knew.

The therapist merely ‘hmm’d’ in response and wrote something down. There was the internal battle to struggle with now, to explain himself to her or let her assume something of him that he would, personally, deem incorrect.

“What is it you would like to speak about instead?”

That was the problem, he didn’t really know. The only thing he wanted to ask was ‘How did you get over someone and quickly?’ but there wasn’t really much of an answer she would be able to give.

Magazines for years had offered ‘helpful tips to get over that person that doesn’t like you back!’ and Thranduil had put no stock in their, so called, wisdom. Now they didn’t publish these things, now they would ask you to seek help if you experienced any symptoms they listed on the page.

Distraction techniques had been offered by his family in droves at the beginning when his diagnosis had been revealed. Nothing had actually helped because his mind would often wander to the object of his affection when he was practising a new hobby.

“I think my need to rush these sessions is just because I’m scared of losing myself completely and if I do that, well, you know what happens.” Thranduil gave a half-hearted shrug, he barely lifted his shoulders but it was a shrug all the same and his therapist acknowledged it as so with a nod.

“Everyone is scared of dying, Thranduil. Perfectly healthy people, people who have terminal diseases. Do you want to talk about your fear of dying?”

He didn’t.

They, instead, spoke of newer experimental ideas that Thranduil might have been interested in trying. She wrote out the prescription for the refill on his inhaler and made another appointment for a week later.

It wasn’t often that Thranduil left the sessions more tightly wound than he had been when going in but he at least knew that he’d need something to talk about next week or they’d get back on the subject of his wife and he honestly didn’t think that was helpful.

His next appointment was at the doctor's office, they wanted to schedule surgery but they had needed proof he was visiting his therapist before they would agree. It was a messy and an unfair condition but at least at the doctor's office he could get them to fill the prescription so it wasn’t too much of a wasted trip if they refused his surgery.

1:00pm Friday. September 18th Foliage.

The office was quiet now.

Everyone but Thranduil had packed up for the day and headed out to start their weekends. It was a perk Thranduil had implemented years ago and it had been appreciated, even if it had been created to benefit him more so than his employees at the time.

Nothing was waiting for him at home and there was plenty of paperwork to do so he poured himself a glass of water, took his inhaler and got comfortable at his desk reading through a brief for a new promotion.

So engrossed was he in his work that he failed to notice someone entering the office and only when a takeout coffee cup was set before him did he move his gaze from the files he had been reading to intently.

Looking up Thranduil ceased his movement almost instantly at the sight of his best friend Bard. The afternoon sunshine illuminated his handsome face with a soft golden glow, his brown eyes looked golden as he smiled down at him. His cheery countenance was always welcome and so was his gift of coffee but Thranduil could tell his friend was there with an agenda of sorts.

“Haven’t seen you lately, Thran. You’re not holding yourself up in this office every night until late again, are you?” The concern, it left a shaking and aching hole inside Thranduil and that hole soon became clogged with stems and leaves, give the disease an inch and, well, that old adage.

“No, I just had something to do here but it can wait. Did you need something?” To try and remain relaxed and carefree around Bard was increasingly difficult, more so when he had endeavoured to hide his disease from him as much as he could.

“Hm, well, I just had the feeling that you’ve been avoiding me for a while if I’m to be completely honest.” Straight to the point, no beating around the bush for Bard and he had every right to be concerned because he was correct.

Perhaps it was more obvious lately that he had been trying to avoid Bard for a few weeks. Avoidance was never going to be the answer but this man was why he had the disease, or rather, what exacerbated it. There would never be a time he would place sole or even partial blame on Bard for what he was going through.

“I’m sorry, I suppose I have been caught up in work recently. I’m absolutely not overworking myself before you ask. However, I’ve neglected my best friend and I think I owe you a drink, at least.”

“At least,” Bard repeated in agreement and he grinned, they didn’t move to get up.

Thranduil busied himself with taking a sip of his coffee, it was a blond roast from Michael’s he could tell without even looking at the logo on the side of the cup. All the while he inwardly cursed the tightness in his chest and new shoots began to sprout and buds began to burst into bloom.

There was no chance he could even begin to hazard a cough. It’d look like a cat had swallowed a canary. Or a man that had swallowed his feelings.

For a short while, they chatted idly about what they’d done recently. Bard talked of hating the empty nest syndrome he was suffering now that Tilda had moved out, leaving the family home nothing but a ‘mausoleum of family memories that were visited by a spectre that had helped create them’. It was a dramatic sentence and Thranduil laughed aloud before offering something vaguely sympathetic to soothe his friend.

“Can’t you clock out already, you own the business let’s get out while it’s still bright,” Bard complained as he rose from his seat and wandered toward the large window Thranduil sat with his back to. “The sun is still warm and we could probably walk to the pub instead of taking the car.”

“Walking to the pub suggests that you don’t wish to have a few drinks but one too many.” As much as he hoped he sounded wise, Thranduil knew Bard would have clearly taken it as a challenge. So they were absolutely going to get drunk that night and Thranduil couldn’t have been more terrified of that prospect.

“I haven’t seen you in ages, you’re my best friend and even if we both regret how bad we feel in the morning, age that does that to you, I want to get drunk with you, Thran!” Ah, old age hadn’t fully caught up with Bard yet, he was vibrant and energetic and hot. Gods above was that man gorgeous.

That was where it all began though, Bard had blazed into his life when they were in their early 30’s. Thranduil had just lost his wife and was trying to juggle a career and two grieving kids.

Bard and his wife Anya had helped him. They took the kids to school and picked them up and fed them so Thranduil could… do what? He couldn’t even remember now- he hadn’t grieved that was for sure!

With a 10 year and an 8-year-old broken over the loss of their mother and having no support from their emotionally unavailable father, Tauriel and Legolas had grown up to be quite well adjusted. Though, some of that might have been the therapy they’d gotten as suggested by their school.

It had happened only 2 years later, Bard lost Anya and he was thrown into a situation similar to Thranduil’s and the roles were reversed. Sigrid and Tauriel grew up like sisters and were still close because of how often they saw one another. They bonded strongly over what had happened to their mothers and became each other’s strength when they needed it.

The same happened with Bard and Thranduil, they became close friends. They took the children on holiday together, camping or water parks and spent their weekends finding activities for the kids that they too could take part in.

For a while, it had been just friendship, but then as the children grew up and wanted to spend less time with dad and more time with friends they found company in each other more often than not.

Then Tauriel and Legolas moved out for university, Sigrid and Bain left Bard for the same reason, Tilda was always adventuring with her friends and so when the empty house became too much they would go out.

Dinner, drinks, a walk in the park, catch a movie or two.

Innocent stuff, but Thranduil allowed himself to get comfortable and in letting his guard down he let feelings in that he had tried to avoid from the moment he met Bard.

The problem was when Anya died Bard told Thranduil he couldn’t ever see himself falling in love with another person again.

This was proven time and time again over the years, dates would happen once or not at all with people that could have been his perfect match, and eventually, Bard learned to ignore anyone that tried to flirt with him. A suggestive smile or even a compliment was brushed off as nothing more than friendly and the more unattainable he became the more Thranduil realised he was in love with him.

A terrible turn of events to be sure, and now he suffered daily for it with petals littering his pillows and flowers choking out his lungs.

“Are we going out then?” Bard’s voice cut through the memories Thranduil was replaying in his mind for the hundredth time and how thankful he was when he did. The blooming of the flowers in his chest increased with the thoughts of Bard.

To say no to the request would put a strain on their friendship. Bard had already noticed that he was being avoided and it would do them no good for Thranduil to continue that. So, with a nod, he got up from his seat and grabbed his jacket.

“It is a nice day, let’s walk to the pub then.” Intoxication was the last thing he needed but to keep up the charade that all was fine he’d need to at least try and play along. To play the role of a man in perfect health, body and mind, didn’t seem easy but he had to try.

He would try because he loved him.

10:45am Wednesday. September 30th. Bursting Blooms.

It was classed as routine surgery but Thranduil couldn’t imagine how hard it would be to slice someone open and remove flowers stamen to stem to root. Temporary as it was, he was thankful they had managed to organise it so quickly, his outing with Bard and the subsequent dinner the night after meant that his condition rapidly grew worse as time went by in the company of his best friend.

He’d woken to more petals on his pillow than he had ever seen before and his breathing laboured. Even coughing to free up space didn’t work and instead, he was gifted with near whole flower heads landing in his hands.

The kids were horrified as they watched this because of course, it would have happened while they visited. Which led to him having to listen to endless ‘You should go to the hospital right now.’ in a chorus from them both until he showed them the inhalers.

They sat either side of him in the waiting room now.

Legolas bounced his leg continuously looking around the waiting room for something to distract him. He’d taken time away from University to be there to help with recovery.

Tauriel chewed her nails and checked the time on her phone every couple of minutes as if time flowed differently in a hospital waiting room.

There was no cause for his anxiety to manifest when he was sat between two that were already doing all the work for him. Sadly, he had no words to calm them of their fears because he was just as afraid.

“Have people died from this surgery, dad?” Legolas piped up out of the blue, he sounded so young in that moment and Thranduil felt guilt course through his veins like ice for putting his children through something like this again.

When he didn’t answer Tauriel did for him and she shook her head even though Legolas was focussing more on a poster across the room than on anything else.

“No, because the surgery, while invasive to a degree, only removes some of the plants. They don’t fully remove everything because they simply can’t. Dad is going to be ok, more ok after this than he is now.” Her confidence only shaking by the tremor in her voice and Thranduil hoped Legolas couldn’t hear it.

“Hmm, ok.” Pensive now Legolas falls silent but his leg continuous to bounce but not as animatedly as before. He was not calmed but something in her words convinced him that the surgery would be fine.

Though, he didn’t understand why she would lie to him like that. His son was perfectly capable of looking up the survival rate on his phone, it was low just as low as the rate of people that were cured by expressing their feelings to their heart's desire.

They were approached by a nurse in scrubs.

“Mr Oropherion, if you would like to come this way.”

1:56pm Wednesday. September 30th. Roots.

Someone was gently squeezing his arm.

“Thranduil, you’ve just come out of surgery. Can you hear me?” The same nurse that took him in was now waking him. “We need you to respond to know you’re ok.”

Nothing felt real yet he managed to croak out something akin to an ‘I’m fine’ but that was it. The need for sleep and an excruciating pain rushed over him and he groaned hands gripping the sheets as he waited for it to subside.

“Out of 10, 10 being very painful and 1 being not painful at all how do you feel?” The nurse was holding a clipboard and a pen, they looked down at Thranduil with an expectant look and merely blinked blankly when Thranduil didn’t respond right away.

He needed more time than this to consider everything, on the one hand, he could breathe on the other the pain of being sliced open and stitched back together was awful.

“Ah… 8 maybe?” His whole body shook as he came out of the anaesthetic and all he wanted was to leave his body while it was in this state and return when he was at home comfortable in his own bed with a cup of tea.

His time in the recovery room was short and he was wheeled into a private room where he was greeted with the grim face of his best friend. Bard looked awful, pale and he seemed to have aged 10 years all with concern etched deep into his face.

“You were having important surgery and just elected not to tell me?” It was quiet, so quiet that Thranduil almost didn’t hear him speak. It wasn’t until they were fully alone after someone had administered strong painkillers, that Thranduil finally acknowledged what Bard had said to him.

“I didn’t need more people worrying about me than was necessary. I’m sorry, Bard. I should have told you but I didn’t want you to ask what the surgery was.” If he was honest, he still didn’t want Bard to know and if he asked him then and there he would outright refuse to tell him.

Even if keeping such secrets ended their friendship it would be safer then, the heartbreak of losing him as a friend was all the cure he needed and it would continue to protect Bard from the truth.

“If you had just told me that I could have been here for you from the beginning! Instead, I get a call from Tauriel asking me to come by and sit with Legs because she had to go grab something from home. I had no idea what she was talking about so you can probably expect a gushing apology from her later.” Bard dragged a hand through his dark hair, now laced with silver, as he started to pace.

It wasn’t fair.

Life wasn’t fair but this was kicking a man while he was down!

“I’m sorry, Thran. I didn’t mean to come in and just… yell at you. How are you feeling, are you ok?” Bard moved towards the bed and poured a glass of water out and handed it to Thran who took the offering gratefully and slowly sipped the cold water in trembling hands.

“Why can’t you tell me what the surgery was?” Bard pulled up the visitor chair so he was sad right by Thranduil’s bedside. For a moment he seemed indecisive in his actions until he, apparently, had a moment of clarity and took Thranduil’s hand in his. “Is it… cancer?” The words were uttered almost reverently as though he was afraid to speak the words any louder than a whisper.

Could he lie and say yes?

Oh, how disrespectful he would be to cancer survivors and those who had lost their battle. No, he could not lie and so he shook his head feeling more forlorn with each passing minute. The desperate need to wrench his hand from Bard’s was unbearable, the heat of the man’s hand seared into his skin and he couldn’t think straight wondering how it would be to hold his hand and know he loved him back.

Something inside him grew and already a new bloom began to sprout.

This was too dangerous.

Gods, he was dying and yet he still thought he had a chance with this man sat at his bedside holding his hand whispering words to him like a prayer.

Eventually, he knew he’d had to put an end to all of this.

How he wasn’t sure.

8:36pm Saturday. October 10th. Stems.

The children had just left, left with promises to be there again in the morning but Thranduil waved them away and told them it was not necessary to coddle him in such a way. The look on their faces told him he really had no say in the matter what so ever.

The surgery results were more temporary than he’d have liked, petals had started appearing again after a mere 10 days. With the inhalers they were few and far between but only 10 days of respite. His scars not yet healed from the procedure!

All in all, it seemed to have been a waste of time but at least he was still able to breathe with relative ease, though emotionally it seemed he was breathless. Legolas and Tauriel barely gave him a second alone and were hawks when it came to spotting petals.

At first, they’d been nigh hysterical but Thranduil had calmed them down and explained that these things happened and that he was still able to breathe well enough so there was nothing to worry about.

They hadn’t believed him. Not even for a second but they were distracted enough to come down from the height they’d been at in their worry.

The doorbell rang not even 5 minutes after the children had left and Thranduil assumed one of them must have left something behind, so when he opened the door to find Bard on the doorstep he was surprised but ushered him all the same.

“It’s late, what are you doing here?” Thranduil shivered and pulled the long misshapen and baldy knitted cardigan tightly around himself. It had been a gift from Tauriel, she had knitted it and then proceeded to never try knitting again yet Thranduil adored the huge thing that near drowned him. “Aren’t you coming inside?”

He noticed after a moment that Bard lingered a little too long at the door and seemed frozen by indecision. It wasn’t like him to be unsure of something so Thranduil prodded again.

“Are you coming in?” But Bard wasn’t looking at him, he was staring at the cardigan and feeling self-conscious Thranduil wrapped his arms around it trying to cover the large holes, but Bard kept staring until Thranduil actually become protective of the garment and snapped at him.

“What are you looking at?” Much like Tauriel had done before, Bard leaned forward and between his finger and thumb pulled a yellow petal away from Thranduil’s clothing, it seemed much brighter in the gloom of the autumn evening.

It seemed enough for Bard to piece together the truth and he looked dismayed, his shoulders dropped and his head dropped for a moment before he forced himself to look up at his friend.

“Is.. this why you had surgery?”

“Let’s not do this on the steps outside, come in and I promise I will answer all of your questions.” That seemed to put him in motion and with a short nod, Bard stepped into the warmth of the house and Thranduil shut the door.

“How long have you had this?”

Straight to the point, Thranduil had hoped he’d be given the chance to offer tea or something else before Bard started grilling him for answers. Honestly, though, he knew the question Bard wanted an answer to the most and Thranduil didn’t think he had it in him to tell him that, not yet at least.

“Hmm, a year now, maybe?” It had been so long since he had been without the cursed disease and he hadn’t exactly been counting, seeing it was more a count down to his death if he truly tried to rack up the days.

“Is there a cure, will you die from this?” The panic appeared from nowhere and Bard bit his lip as he tried to work out what he wanted to do next, he seemed to want to cross the room toward Thranduil and pace so to put a stop to either Thranduil made him sit down.

“I will make tea and answer those questions when I come back.” One of them had to remain calm, while he would have loved to have thrown away his composure and screamed to the Heavens that life wasn’t fair he didn’t think it would help his situation in the slightest.

When he returned with the tray Bard was stood again but this time by the fireplace looking at the family photos set out across the mantle. They were mostly of himself with the kids, one of is and Bard’s family all together on a camping trip and one of his wedding day.

“Hanahaki, huh?” He must have googled it while Thranduil was in the kitchen, that was fine but he probably knew more than Thranduil would have liked now. “So the surgery you had was to remove some of the flowers… ah, I can’t pretend like I’m not going to ask. Who is it that did this to you, Thran, who is the one that can’t or won’t love you back?” The tone seemed one of incredulity, as though Bard couldn’t quite believe there was anyone in the world who couldn’t love Thranduil.

But there was.

“Does it matter who and isn’t it better to see that I am trying to get better instead of giving up?” Deflect the question by asking a question, the only thing he could do as he poured tea and tried to stop his hands from trembling. “I am doing everything the doctors say I should.”

“Which is?”

“Haven’t you just checked the internet for all of this?”

“Well, yeah, but I want to hear you say it, that’s all.” The conversation was going nowhere because Bard clearly couldn’t stand not knowing who this person was that had captured Thranduil’s heart and refused to return it.

“I have therapy every week, I have inhalers to slow the spread of the blooms and recently I had surgery to remove the majority of the blockage but the roots are deep.” Such a drastic admission and so unfair to reveal his imminent death so casually.

Taking a sip of tea, Thranduil watched Bard’s face cycle through several emotions before settling on… nothing. Instead of responding Bard merely added some sugar to his tea before lifting it to his lips to drink.

“So, you were just planning on dying without telling me?” The words came out flat as though the conversation was casual yet boring. He had hurt his friend that much he was sure of but there wasn’t really much of anything he could say to soothe him now. Bard had been right, and what Thranduil had thought was caring and helpful turned out to be more selfish than anything else.

“No, I would never do that to you, Bard. I don’t want to keep these things from you but please see this from my perspective. This isn’t something I want to scream from the rooftops- ‘LOOK AT ME EVERYONE I AM DYING BECAUSE THE PERSON I LOVE DOESN’T LOVE ME BACK AND I AM NOT EMOTIONALLY STABLE ENOUGH TO ACCEPT THAT!’ why would I want to reveal my weakness to someone? If Legolas and Tauriel hadn’t found out I would not have told them either!” He didn’t like being weak like this, not after a life of being seen as an unshakable strength a rock that you could rely on. Everything was beginning to crumble why would he want to bare his soul now?

“Fine but don’t think I can just forgive you for hiding this from me. After everything we’ve been through together you just fail to tell me that, 1) you’re in love with someone, and 2) You’re dying because of it.” Bard set down his cup a little too hard and pushed himself to his feet and headed for the door. “I… I have to go, Thran. I’m sorry.”

He was on his feet in seconds following Bard to the door but the man was already in his car by the time he got out onto the steps to call him back.

“You don’t understand…” Thranduil whispered as he tugged at the cardigan pulling it tight around him against the chill. “I didn’t tell you to save you from the guilt that I know you’d feel.” Of course, the words merely dissipated into the cold night air and the vapours trailing each word rose into the sky before vanishing completely.

At least the universe heard his admission of the truth.

4:00pm Friday, December 11th. Nothing but a memory.

They had given him a clean bill of health.

No roots, stems, stamens, petals, not even a leaf remained. The flowers had wilted and withered to nothing and Thranduil took an easy deep breath as he left the doctor’s office. It was a chilly December evening and he was adjusting his scarf when Legolas nearly bowled him over running into him his arms thrown around his neck in a tight embrace.

“I heard the news! You’re better now for good?!” The excitement in his son’s voice brought genuine tears to Thranduil’s eyes and he buried his face in Legolas’ golden hair for a long month savouring the warmth his son gave.

When they broke apart Tauriel was stood by her car, the engine still running. They must have just arrived as he was leaving. She gave him a cheery wave before climbing into the car to shut off the engine.

Thranduil hadn’t confessed his feelings to Bard and Bard had not confessed his to him. Instead, he had worked hard to understand that sometimes your feelings just were not reciprocated and that was ok.

Platonic love was just as good as romantic love, sadly, he hadn’t been able to speak to Bard since he’d walked out on him all those weeks ago. While he would always love Bard he understood that what he had done was hurtful and if he’d been given the chance he wished he could apologise.

It had never been his intention to hurt his best friend but he had been so caught up in his own pain he had forgotten to consider those nearest and dearest to him. How had it been fair to hide such a horrible problem from those he held dear?

“Have you heard from… him?” Tauriel knew everything now, she’d gotten it out of him not long ago, he was at his lowest and needed someone who might understand. It was not his proudest moment, leaning on his daughter emotionally for support, but she had been steadfast in her support of him that it seemed so easy to tell her everything.

Thankfully, Tauriel didn’t hold the reaction Bard had against him.

“I had been angry just like him too, remember?”

Oh, she had, she had screamed murder in his home, right in the centre of the living room, when she had realised and didn’t speak to Thranduil for days. It was the longest she had ever gone without talking to him before, a whole 6 days until she came around and they talked about what it meant for the family.

But now they were fine, life could resume. Thranduil could live with seeing them without the soft concerned glances Tauriel and Legolas would exchange when his chest grew tight and he wheezed as he tried to grasp a full breath.

If only he could repair his relationship with Bard. There weren’t many he shared his life with and losing someone was extremely noticeable when that someone was fully apart of his daily life.

Even visiting his usual haunts proved useless. There didn’t seem to be a trace of him anywhere and Thranduil was much too much of a coward to walk right up to his door and demand to be let in.

Yet, none of his calls were returned or his texts answered. When Tauriel asked Sigrid if her dad was ok she just shrugged and said he wasn’t doing anything unusual of late, but he had been grabbing a drink with workmates more often.

That wasn’t a cause for concern as Bard had always been the friendly and sociable type.

Whatever was going through his friend's mind he sincerely hoped he would take the time to consider contacting him so they could talk. There were only so many text messages he could send without looking incredibly desperate.

5:30am Tuesday, December 24th. Easy breathing.

A shrieking doorbell and the sound of continuous banging on the door jolted Thranduil awake and he swore loudly as he tumbled out of bed and shuffled wearily down the stairs. Whoever it was had better have a fantastic reason as to why they had to get him up at stupid o'clock in the morning!!

When he pulled the door open to see a rather dishevelled Bard using the door frame to hold himself up the air in Thranduil’s lungs seemed to vanish. He stood motionless for a good 30 seconds before helping Bard inside.

“You absolutely reek of alcohol. What are you doing here?”

There was silence proceeding his question and, at first, Thranduil thought the man had fallen asleep on the sofa where he had collapsed but it appeared he was just thinking of the best response.

“I had to see you.” Surprisingly he didn’t sound drunk and Thranduil considered that the cold must have sobered him up. For his own mental health, he decided against asking him what he meant about having to see him.

“I don’t know about you but the larks aren’t even up yet and I am tired. Let me make some coffee for the both of us and we can see if I can’t get some sense out of you.” As he turned to move Bard’s hand shot out and his fingers curled around Thranduil’s wrist tugging him backwards with ease.

“No, let me speak to you, hasn’t it been long enough already?” A sleep-deprived gravelled tone did not suit Bard and Thranduil could see dark circles around his eyes. Whatever had been on Bard’s mind of late must have had him up around the clock.

“You were the one that decided you’d had enough of me, remember?”

Those words caused the man before him to relinquish his grip on Thranduil’s wrist and he just gave a nod but when Thranduil didn’t move he took a deep breath and began to speak.

“I’m sorry that I made it about me. There wasn’t even a second where I considered how scared you must have been to know that any day could have been your last.”

“Yes, well, thankfully those days are behind me now.”

Like a shock of electricity had gone through him Bard jumped to his feet looking this way and that before having the decency to look genuinely apologetic.

“Did I interrupt your sleep with them?” In the light of the living room, Thranduil got a better look at him and something inside him clicked into place and he had to withhold a groan when he realised he had definitely, once again, fallen in love with his best friend.

“There is no one, the person I was in love with, I’m not in love with them now. It took a long time to come to terms with the fact they did not care for me the way I wanted but I am better because I started to love me more.” Oh, what a liar he was. Yes, he did care for himself a lot more but he was falling right back into the rut he had been not 8 weeks ago.

The second he started spitting petals he was going to wring Bard’s neck. There was no way he was going through all that again!

“There’s no one, ah, good. That means I have a sliver of a chance to ask you out on a date then.”

No, no he wasn’t doing any of this without coffee. As much as he wanted to address every single word the man had just uttered he wasn’t doing this without caffeine and maybe some toast.

Without a word he walked off into the kitchen and, like a lost puppy, Bard obediently trotted in behind him trying to get his attention. No, no, no, he was going to fill the machine with coffee beans and put bread in the toaster then he was going to get the toaster and throw it at Bard’s head!

Whipping round to face him, Thranduil grabs a fistful of Bard’s shirt and pulls him close enough that they are nearly nose to nose.

“You’re telling me that you have developed feelings for me in the past 3 months I have been in recovery?”

Fear was the only emotion in Bard’s eyes and they were wide to the point the whites almost exceeded the iris. It would have been funny if Thranduil hadn’t wanted to throttle the man where he stood.

“Well, I wanted to tell you I loved you as soon as you opened the door but you’re so scary when you’ve just woken up. You’re scary now, please don’t kill me. I love you!”

That was it.

“You LOVE me? Is that so Mr I Will Never Love Again? IS that so?!” There was a mixed bag of emotions stirring up inside him but mostly the murderous intent was winning out. Killing Bard wasn’t really on the cards but he wasn’t going to let the man get away with nearly killing him for over a year even if he had no idea it was his fault.

“You are very, very, very lucky that I just so happen to love you, too.” The iron grip on Bard’s shirt relaxed and he tried his best to smooth the deep wrinkles but it was not to be. Regardless, he had Bard looking at him with a sappy grin plastered over his pale face like he’d been told he’d won the lottery and not the affections of a highly problematic male.

“R-really?”

“As much as it now pains me to say this, yes, I do love you so very much. So much so that my heart could burst if I tried to contain it any longer.” The thumping of his heart was so hard in his chest that he was sure Bard could have heard it if he’d tried. Somehow things were falling into place now with such little effort.

There had been a chance Thranduil would have found himself bitter about the whole thing and shunned Bard’s advances. Revenge should have been high on his list with the grinning idiot before him but he couldn’t bring himself to do anything other than lean in and press a kiss to his Bard’s lips.

“Really, really.”

#Barduil #Bard the Bowman #Thranduil #Hanahaki disease #The Hobbit #AU #Anonymous

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pettyprocrastination · 4 years

Text

Rip Out Our Seams and Stitch Us Together

Maxwell Lord x Valerie Lord x Black!Reader

Chapter Two

Word Count: 2.7k

Warnings: Profanity, slight sexual themes, description of the beginning of an anxiety attack, Max puts his hands on you for a hot second but then you rip him a new one lmao.

Chapter Summary: The Lord’s have a discussion while Max work’s from home and you meet the other half of D.C’s richest power-couple that you now work for.

Tag List: @ithinkhesgaybutwesavedmufasa @captainsamwlsn @zeldasayer @readsalot73

Chapters: 1/2

The Lord manor was silent, as it always was. Even when Max and Valerie were home, it was still lifeless.

Her heels clicked against the marble floor as she walked into her bedroom, which was larger than most living rooms. The steady click-clack echoed throughout the grandiose household and bounced right back to the source. Nothing else was heard; no laughter, no pitter-patter by the feet of excited pets or even children to see mommy come home. Not even the eagerly awaiting footsteps of her husband to welcome her back, take her bags, and ask her how her day went.

Maxwell was never the type for such idiosyncrasies, and never would be.

Cold, empty, fake.

A dollhouse meant for Barbie and Ken was more authentic.

I guess that made them no more real than the toys themselves.

Well, that is if Barbie and Ken secretly hated each other and slept with other people on the side all throughout their relationship. Valerie didn’t know much about dolls.

She set the plastic bag onto her bed and began unbuttoning her blouse, letting it fall off her shoulders and onto the ground before shimmying out of her jeans.

Valerie Lord wearing something that isn’t designer? She picked up the sundress that had first caught her eye, pressing it to her chest and marveling at just how soft it felt. That’ll be the fucking day.

She slid it on with ease, she couldn’t say that for half of her wardrobe.

Dresses were made to hug her figure and accentuate her curves. Constricting, suffocating, so tight she could barely breathe and the flashing of cameras so bright, nothing was there to ground here, nobody was. She couldn’t see it all was too-

Soft. Her fingers ran along the fabric, hips swaying slightly as she watched the long skirt flow with her movements. It hugged her chest like it was made just for her, but it didn’t suffocate her - not a choking grip on her lungs, but a gentle hand on her chest. Her hands drifted down to the pockets, where she slid them in and remembered the grin you had on your face when you told her.

“It’s sort of my signature.” You boasted, chest puffed out like you just won a gold medal. Valerie couldn’t help but notice the shirt you had been wearing, a button up with covered in different colored squares, so tacky and loud she could feel the migraine building just from looking at you.

She also couldn’t help but notice just how little buttons were actually used to close it. A wide expanse of your chest on display, smooth skin practically on show for her before stopping just above your belly button, the curves of your chest peeking through enough for her to wonder if you slipped, would you be completely exposed?

Valerie shook herself free from the thoughts of the ridiculous seamstress, with her ridiculous tattoos and that ridiculous nickname. ‘Stitches,’ give me fucking break. She scoffed, but then turned around to admire the dress from the back. You do good work though…

The idea was set in her mind, and Valerie Lord was as stubborn as they come. There was no turning back. Won’t be too bad, she reasoned with herself. I could count it as my charity work for the month.

Maxwell sat in his office, nursing a glass of scotch while going over a contract sent over to him late that afternoon. He could’ve easily stayed late at work, it wouldn’t be the first time. Valerie wouldn’t have worried, or cared at all really. She slept in a separate bed, in a separate room on the other side of the house.

She wasn’t his reason for coming home early. Christ, she wasn’t the reason he did anything.

The true culprit was his secretary.

Delilah Harris was a pretty young thing who must've thought that sleeping with the big man would get her a better job, better pay, or maybe a side job as his sugar baby. What she wanted exactly he wasn't too sure about, but if he had to deal with the pathetic woman cuddling up to him at his own company as if they were lovers moonlighting a secret affair? Oh, he was going to lose his shit.

So he found himself sitting at the mahogany desk in his office, glasses pushed up on his nose. Finally able to get work done without being distracted by some incompetent bimbo batting her eyes at him.

The door to his office creaked open. He didn’t bother looking up.

Spoke too goddamn soon.

“I've commissioned a seamstress to make me a dress for the gala in September.” Valerie’s voice was always so matter of fact. So condescending, as if her flimsy shrink degree suddenly meant she was smarter than him, the one who actually made money.

“I’ll be meeting with her tomorrow.”

“That sounds positively riveting, dear.” Max drawled, turning a page to read more of the agreements. He was only a quarter through the damn thing and he already knew half of these deals weren’t going to be made unless he was six feet fucking under. Somebody was definitely getting fired tomorrow.

“I’ll be a bit tied up at work. You know, since I actually have a job and all. But you go ahead and make sure to tell the sewing mice I said hello, Cinderelly.”

He heard his wife huff and put her foot down, Max didn't have to see her to know she had her arms crossed and a frown on her painted lips. Like she always did when she didn’t get her way, a petulant child with an endless temper tantrum.

“She’ll be making a suit for you as well, darling.”

The glasses slipped down his nose as his head shot up. “Excuse me? If you didn’t notice I’m a little busy running-” He stopped in his rant to take in the flowing white dress she wore that came all the way down to her shins. “Well that’s a bit too ‘Little House on the Prairie’, don’t you think?”

She uncrossed her arms, hands coming down to the skirt to bunch it around in her fists and swish it side to side. “Well I like it, and I’ll be damned if I don’t do something just because you don’t like it.”

Max snorted and set his glasses on the table. “Well that much is true, given how much you know I loathe that laughable model, yet you still keep him around.” He feigned thought and looked off in the corner. “What’s his name? Randy?”

“Robert.” She corrected. “And how’s the secretary, still drooling at your feet like the little lap dog she is?”

“At least she gets on my lap.” His eyes roamed her figure in the dress with a hunger she hadn’t seen in God knows how long. “What are you wearing under that?”

Valerie grinned, her hands slowly slid up her legs, dragging the dress along with them. “Well wouldn’t you like to know?”

Her husband sighed, head falling into his hand but never letting his eyes leave her form. “You know I hate games Valerie.” His tone was even as he spoke but she could see the tension in his shoulders like a steel wire ready to snap.

“Well that’s not true at all.” The dress passed her knees and slid up the silky skin of her thighs. “I know for a fact that you love games.”

Her hands released the skirt, letting it fall back around her legs.

“But only when you win.” She turned on her heel, fabric swishing around her as she did. “Wednesday afternoon, Maxwell, don’t be late!” Valerie slammed his office door shut behind her, leaving her husband alone once more.

Maxwell sighed, long and loud, before he pushed his glasses upright on his face and returned his attention to the stack of papers in front of him. For the rest of the night he did all he could to push away the phantom image in his mind of his wife’s supple thighs gripped in his hands.

Max looked to the building his driver parked outside of with great disdain.

“Check again.”

The driver, Daniel, sighed and looked through the mirror to meet his employer’s eyes. “I have sir, three times already. This is the address that Mrs.Lord gave to me.”

The shop was tiny, the name “A Stitch In Time.” on a sign above the door. A series of little figurines, mugs, and warrior knic-knacks lined the multiple window sills. It was quaint, homey, and the type of place many feel like a friend rather than a customer.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

Max stomped out of the car, shutting the door with so much vigor it shook slightly.

“Wait here for me.”

“Of course sir.”

His first step onto the asphalt, was directly into a puddle of muddy water that splashed back against the end of his trousers. Even through the window he could hear Daniel cough to hide his laughter.

Max peered through the windows, looking for a sight of anybody within the store before grabbing the door using only two fingers and walking inside.

A small bell jingled against the door as his entrance, and a voice called out from the back of the store.

“I’ll be out in one moment!” A woman shouted, Max took the chance to look at the racks of clothing around him, picking up one particularly horrendous skirt with the tips of his pointer and forefinger with a frown.

This was the place that Val chose? Maybe he should sign her up for rehab, because she’s got to be smoking something to think-

“Welcome to a Stitch in- oh shit.”

Max turned his head to see you standing at the back door, mouth slightly agape. He took in your cheap jeans, your gold chain resting against your chest, a large expanse of skin left sinful on display due to the especially gaudy shirt you wore only being buttoned by the button three. Untamed curls framed your face like a halo as you stand shocked by the man before you.

“Son of a bitch.” You mumbled, your eyes raked over his blonde hair all the way to his designer shoes. “That lady was actually for real.”

“That Lady, being my wife I presume?”

Max's voice, though annoyed, was rich and smooth and shook you out of your stupor.

“That she is. She came in on Monday and briefly spoke about..a commission?”

“Yes.” He continued to walk around the store, looking at everything with a sour face, even you. “Why she did I’m not so sure.”

“Excuse me?”

Five minutes in and Max Lord was already proving to be worse than his wife.

“Is this place up to health code?”

“Excuse me?”

Five minutes in and it was confirmed that Max lord was definitely worse than his wife.

He waved a dismissive hand in the air before he stopped browsing judging your store.

“But what baby wants, baby gets.” He drew a hand to his heart in what could only be described as a sarcastic display of fake love.“Happy wife happy life and all that bullshit, right?”

You knew from the get-go that Maxwell Lord the Fourth was a load of shit. The moment you saw his dazzling smile in his commercials you knew that in real life he was probably like every other rich person in the world. Entitled, classist, and so judgmental they’d reject a glass of water in the Sahara if they knew it was tap.

You weren’t sure if it was satisfying or disheartening to know you were right.

Nonetheless, a job is a job and you’d having to be fucking insane to reject a giant payout like the Lord’s would no doubt offer.

But that didn’t mean you had to be happy about it.

“Timeline?”

Max blinked. Usually people who thank him for the oh so amazing chance to work for him, but you stood your ground. He tilted his head to the side, looking at you with a new inkling of respect.

“Four months.”

“Event?”

“The museum of Natural History is throwing a gala for it’s donors.” He adjusted his cuffs as he spoke to you, only looking at you in brief glances which pissed you off even more. “I’m the top one.”

You scoffed under your breath. “Of course you are.”

“Excuse me?”

“I said how charitable of you.”

The animosity of his glare dissolved into a smirk. “Of course.”

You stuffed your hands into our pockets so he wouldn’t see how tightly they were balled up into fists.

Think of the money, dumbass. You reminded yourself. Stomach the rich people bullshit for a little bit for a huge payout. You've got this.

“I’ll be able to do it, but it may be a time crunch.” His face fell once more.

“This is a job, honey.” He spoke slowly and moved his hands with each word as if you didn't understand what he was saying.

“I expect it to be done to the best of your abilities, whatever pisspoor standard that may be.”

Well, you thought before you marched forward until you were nearly nose to nose with the billionaire. You lasted this long, that’s reward enough.

“Listen here you glorified trust fund baby, I work hard and I work well. But keep in mind I have a multitude of people coming through that door every damn day that I also do work for. So don’t think that just because you and your trophy wife have matching silver spoons wedged up your-”

Max’s left hand lashed out and clamped over your mouth, his fingers digging into the plush skin of your cheeks. If you weren’t so fucking pissed that this mother fucker had the audacity to put his hand on you like that, you may have taken a moment to marvel at just how soft they felt against your skin.

You reared back, blood roaring in your ears before you finally found your voice. “You’ve got to be out of your goddamn mind if you think you can put your hands on me like that and not expect me to shove my foot up your-”

While you yelled, Max fished a slip of paper out of the pocket of his coat and handed it to you with a condescending smile. “Will that suffice?”

His manner, so calm and collective while you were about to wring his neck made you pause.

“Will what suffice?”

He sighed, wiggling the slip in the air. “This.”

You set your hands on your hips and stare at him in defiance. “Oh? What is it? A certificate for being the most pompous-”

“Just take a fucking look and you’ll see!”

While at first his sudden booming voice caused you to jump. You couldn’t help it, but your chest swelled with pride at seeing the great Maxwell Lord lose his temper at you. To know that you could get under the skin of the most powerful man in D.C. was almost enough payment in itself. Keyword being almost.

You snatched the paper from his hands, anger melting into shock when you realized it was, in fact, a written check and-

That’s a lot of zeroes.

Max picked some imaginary lint off his shoulder before he took in your gobsmacked form with a satisfied smile. “I trust that will be enough to cover the consultation fee?”

Christ on a cracker, this was just for the consultation fee?

Stand your ground, girl. You reminded yourself. Don’t give him power over you. Give this corporate ken doll a piece of your mind.

You cleared your throat as you tucked the check worth more than your car into your backpocket and crossed your arms. With squared shoulders and your head held high you spoke in the most impassive and neutral tone you could collect from yourself.

“It’ll do.”

Maxwell grinned like he was the cat and you the canary. You wondered what that made his wife. The sadistic pet owner most likely.

“Marvelous.” He all but purred. “Valerie will be in tomorrow to talk design with you. Until we meet again, Stitches.”

With a quick pivot on his heel, your richest client walked out of your store and into the car waiting for him outside.

You felt a bit of your pride return when you watched him step into the dirty puddle of gutter water for a second time that day.

#maxwell lord x reader #maxwell lord #valerie lord #valerie lord x reader #maxwell lord x valerie lord x reader #ww1984 #pedro pascal x reader #pedro pascal #Stitches

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capsized-heart · 4 years

Text

Lady Liberty and The Captain / Part One

Pairing: Steve Rogers x Reader, Bucky Barnes x Reader (1940′s Brooklyn AU)

Summary: You are a rising young star and the newest breakout actress in Hollywood’s Golden Age! When war finally descends on the west, your reputation as America’s Sweetheart finds you cast in a promotional picture alongside Captain America himself.

Yet, he looks eerily familiar, like your Stevie from childhood…

Word count: 4.7k+

Warnings: fluff!!

A/N: hello, everyone!!!! I hope you’re staying home, warm, and safe during these crazy times. I’ve been snuggling with my doggie and continuing with my university’s online classes in my final semester..absolutely crazy how things are rn. I hope this new story can help brighten up your day just a little bit.

First of all, I just want to say thank you💖💛for all the love that old and new readers alike have shown this blog recently. I’ve been writing on this platform for a little less than a year and I never thought l’incendie would blow up as much as it has. You guys are amazing. I’m really excited and eager to share new pieces and hope you enjoy the content I have coming! Please don’t hesitate to pop in and say hi, or shoot me a message. I’ve really enjoyed connecting with readers and would love to know your thoughts on my fics, or just to talk about fandom stuff! Timmy included! PAHAHA

So, this chapter is gonna be a part of a mini-series for a 1940′s writing challenge and I’m using the prompt of wartime romance! This will probably be split into two or three parts and I will tag the host as soon as the last chapter goes up, I’ll most likely make a masterlist in the end as well. Reader has a name in this fic, but hopefully the choice of name will make sense later on :D

As always, feel free to drop a ask/message if you’d like a tag in the next update.

ENJOY!

THE NEW YORK TIMES

Film: ‘Apple of Discord’, Lola Swanson’s Dazzling Debut!

By NICHOLAS WATTS September 1, 1943

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The film drama from the original screenplay written and directed by Andrew Campbell opened to a roar of applause and acclaim at the Radio City Music Hall yesterday evening. Apple of Discord is a reimagining of the myth and Plato’s allegory, focusing on the tumultuous, profoundly elegant life of a young noblewoman during the Trojan wars.

The film’s frontrunner and leading lady is Hollywood newcomer, young and fresh-faced Lola Swanson. Swanson’s performance is so thoughtful, so unfaltering, so intelligent and controlled that it is hard to believe this is little Lola’s long awaited motion picture debut. And what a debut this is!

Starring opposite Hollywood veterans Sean Schultz, Kash Dennis, and Gracie Smith, this star-studded cast packs punches and sizzling chemistry and yet, Swanson does not fizzle out but confidently holds her own, demanding your attention in every scene, and rightfully so. Watching Swanson in this picture is watching a major actress in the making.

Born and raised in the heart of Hell’s Kitchen before moving to Brooklyn to pursue acting, some may recognize Lola from her daytime television roles in Insanity and Passion, It’s a Date! and as Jessica in Jessica Davis Returns.

Now we know these roles were preparing Swanson for the debut of the decade.

“APPLE OF DISCORD” is now showing at the Radio City Music Hall and Cinema 2. Tickets at 25 cents. Running time: 139 minutes.

★★★★☆

——

APPLE OF DISCORD, written and directed by Andrew Campbell; director of photography, Laszlo Kovacs; edited by John Wright; music by John Barry; released by Universal Pictures.

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The newspaper trembles hard between your fingers, threatening to tear its edges. Pulse pounding, ears ringing. You can’t stop smiling. You feel like crying.

You reread the words again and again, the words written by legendary film critic Nicholas Watts, the man you’ve only dreamed of making an impression on, that he’d someday see you in a picture. And here he’s written a glowing review of your major motion picture debut.

You erupt in a fit of giggles and screams, twirling around the small space of your apartment in a swirl of nightgown, pinned curls. A neighbor, Mr. Krisinski, you think, pounds on your wall to shut you up.

It’s still early morning and you had gone downstairs at first light to buy a paper from a newsboy. Outside your window, the streets of New York already yawn and bustle with morning commute. The movement of people, gleaming automobiles against the red brick buildings and muted gray of Manhattan. Warm sun washes over it all, your heart brimming and full, mirroring the glow of golden dawn.

You feel on top of the world. Maybe you’ll finally make it here.

Your phone rings. You rush over to the mint blue rotary telephone on your bedside table, snatch up the receiver before Mr. Krisinski can break down your door with all the racket you’re making.

“Hello?” You say into the mouthpiece, cradling it between your hands. You feel breathless, high strung and buzzing, like you’d just downed a whole case of Coca-Cola, whirring with the taste of sugar and success, bubbling with starpower. Maybe it’s Kash or Gracie calling to congratulate you. Hell, maybe even President Roosevelt.

“Lola! It’s me. Have you read the paper?” The cool voice of Peggy asks you through the receiver. You quietly laugh at your own fantastical expectations. Of course it’s Peggy. Punctual, collected Peggy.

Peggy Carter is your talent agent and manager at MGM. Peggy had snatched you up while you had been working as a background actress on Michael Curtiz’s Casablanca, so hopeful and beholden just to be in the presence of such respected artists, willing to stay the extra hours even after the other girls had gone home when realizing they wouldn’t be seen in the shot. It hadn’t been your first time on a hot set, you were used to the itchy costumes, long hours of endless waiting, and the empty stomachs, but no way you were going to miss a chance to see Ingrid Bergman and Madeleine LeBeau up close.

Back then, only a few years ago yet a lifetime away it seems, Peggy had been a casting assistant, seeing your dedication and marching right up to you between takes to hand you her card. On the back, written in smooth blue ink, a time the next morning for an audition at MGM Studios in downtown New York. Eight o'clock sharp.

You didn’t sleep at all that night after you wrapped.

She’s worked at getting you into audition rooms and meetings for years, pushing you onto writers, production assistants, riggers, directors. She had secured you an audition with Andrew Campbell after “accidentally” leaving your headshot in his mailroom and later calling his assistant with threats of stolen property. MGM’s new fresh face had been penciled in for a side read the following week.

Fierce, ingenious, and your own bright star, you’ve risen through the ranks and fought your way up with Peggy at your side.

“Yeah, Peg. I have it here in front of me. This is...absolutely nuts.”

“Not really, you were brilliant in the picture, darling. But it’s a comfort to know Watts has finally replaced that cotton in his brain with some sense.”

Another laugh from you, twirling the telephone cord around your finger.

“Let me have this one, Peg.”

“If you insist.”

You hear the rustling of newspaper from the other end. You can practically see Peggy sitting at her desk, perusing the paper over a morning cup of coffee, her hair curled, makeup and nails all scarlet red and perfect. The golden placard glittering on the frosted glass of the door.

Margaret Carter, Casting Director.

“I’m calling to tell you about an offer we received this morning from Paramount. I think you should take it.”

That rush of giddiness burns bright again in your veins, pulse skyrocketing.

“Paramount? Geez, what did they say?”

“They want you for a promotional picture that’s being produced by Senator Brandt. Brandt is hoping to boost the homefront’s war bond sales with a little starpower from you and from Captain America. You’ve seen his posters, haven’t you? That costumed bloke?”

You have. Plastered everywhere and looking like an absolute buffoon. Nice physique, though.

The disappointment that settles in your stomach is ugly and cold, like a fruitless pit, hard, rough, a sour taste in your mouth. It’s stupidly childish, yet your own expectations for your first movie, first box office hit, for that very first taste of the promised fame and fortune of success, begin to blink out. Expectations you’ve held on to since you were a little girl, since you realized this is the type of work you want to do for the rest of your life.

You’ve managed to impress Nicholas Watts, the most cynical film critic in all of Hollywood, and this is your big break? A Paramount picture featuring you and a tights-wearing mascot?

Peggy is practically asking you to star alongside Mickey Mouse.

“Is that all they offered?” You respond. You wince at the demanding, ungrateful tone. Afterall, showbiz has hardened you to go after what you want, to take and take because this lifestyle does not guarantee anything. You’re told no more than you are yes, the constant rejection having molded you into a diamond tough girl, glitzy and solid, unbreakable, beautiful.

But how many girls would kill to be in your place?

“The only sensible deal. They also offered you the role of Violet for It’s a Wonderful Life, and Ruthie in The Grapes of Wrath.”

“What?! Peggy, contract me for those instead!”

“Well, I’m not going to. And you listen well as to why.”

You twist your lips together. Peggy’s voice filters clipped and disapproving through the phone line, the way she always gets before she offers you damned good advice.

“Not just Watts is impressed with your work, Lola. You’re finally turning heads and for all good reasons. Anyone can get in front of a camera if they have the right look. But you’ve shown them that you have the look and the raw talent. Critics are saying you’re rivaling Judy Garland, darling. And you’re telling me you want the part of a lousy love interest? A secondary daughter? All because the pictures have big names behind them and people may go see it?

“No,” you mumble.

“No is right. You know better than anyone that people expect young stars to burn out fast so they can take their place. It’s all business. If I put you in for those roles, we’d be playing right into their hand. We’d use up all your potential in one summer. The public would get sick of seeing your face in every big picture. We have to earn their affection, darling. It’s slow and tame and not always glamorous, but this deal is smart.”

You listen, silently.

“Morale is low. War is when people turn to familiar pastimes and simple pleasures. To treat themselves, to take their minds off all the grizzly headlines. Captain America embodies all of that and more. If we take this, I promise you, Lola, that people will remember you as the girl who got them through the darkest times. This will do wonders for your career years down the line. And then, if you still want to play Violet, I’ll phone Frank Capra myself.”

You close your eyes and draw in a breath, a smile tugging at the corners of your mouth.

“Well, it looks like I don’t have much of a choice, do I?”

“Wonderful. I’ll phone Paramount now. We’ll be in touch.”

Growing up with poor Irish immigrants for parents, the rare moments you could afford to splurge on luxuries, you spent them at local cinemas and theaters with your brother. Any day was a good one when you and Samuel bought tickets for a noon screening, the cheapest showing of the day, scraping together pocket change to split a popcorn if you were feeling extra special.

And reclining in a nearly empty theater with refreshments and goodies between the two of you, you’d watch the silver screen with hope in your mouth and stars in your eyes. In here, it no longer mattered how little money you had, or the discrimination your family faced, or the war in Europe, or the meager apartment you’d go home to, lucky if the electricity and heating had been paid for. In here, nothing else mattered but the visual stories.

And you realized that you wanted to help tell them. You wanted to be in front of the cameras, to embody characters and personas and let audiences worldwide empathize and identify with your performances.

You’ve loved playing make-believe since you were a little girl, having never really grown out of it. You could do it, you think. Dangerous dreams, perhaps, but what child doesn’t hold this wish within them? To see their name in lights and to be admired and commended, but most of all, to provide for their family?

How hard could it be?

At sixteen, you land your first speaking role. It’s pathetic. You’re working on set as background, per usual, only this time, the director picks you out from the crowd and gives you the line of, “Good morning, sir.” You’re to look off camera as the actor playing Kent entered the scene and you would then say your line.

You’re stupidly excited. Three simple words. You’ll be uncredited, of course, but your face would finally be seen! With butterflies fluttering in your stomach, the scene resets, Kent takes his mark, the cameras roll, and you deliver.

The scene is cut from the final reel.

You pound the pavement. You scour newspapers and flyers for casting calls, you phone agencies and playhouses, you save up to get your picture taken on glossy photo paper. You keep looking. You keep working in background until you can land a steady role.

Then, you finally get one. A miniscule part of a friendly neighborhood girl on a TV drama for CBS. You only have mere minutes of screen time, but the checks that arrive in the mail from Columbia Broadcasting System after your first few episodes air say otherwise.

You open a savings account. You plant your paychecks and watch them grow into a comfortable sum of money. You land another guest starring role for a daytime soap, the secretary of the title character. Combined with your parents’ salaries from your mother’s sewing and your father’s work on the railroads, you become the main breadwinner.

You move your family out of Hell’s Kitchen, out of your cramped, dark apartment. You sign a new lease under your new stage name and move to Brooklyn together.

Brooklyn is slightly cleaner, but the familiar hustle and bustle, the noise of shopkeepers and dialects and children and cars is comforting, grounds you in your roots. When your CBS drama wraps months later with your last check in the mail and you’re looking for your next gig, your brother works odd jobs to help shoulder the burden. Brick laying, chimney sweeping, milk and mail delivering, Samuel becomes no stranger to any and all work, so long as it pays. You become a typist on the side as you wait for auditions and callbacks.

Samuel tells you his aspirations to be a poet, a writer. He hasn’t said a word to your parents, but he shows you the small bound notebook he carries with him, leafing through pages of prose and verse. You encourage him to submit his work to newspapers, publishers. He gives you a shy smile, says he’ll consider it as soon as you get your motion picture debut. You shake on it. Together, your already close bond of brother and sister grows stronger as you each work to support your art.

You’re waiting for Samuel to finish his shift so you can catch a late showing of His Girl Friday, a warm September day when you first meet Bucky Barnes down at the wharfs. He’s tall, lean, and glistening with sweat when he rounds out of the warehouse with an armful of crates and nearly knocks you off the pier.

“Hey, watch it!” he snaps. His eyes flash like the water around you, blue and cold and dangerous. Brown locks curl with perspiration against his forehead, the sleeves of his workshirt rolled up over his shoulders, the exposed skin of his throat and arms flushed and tan.

Embarrassed, you try to steady him, to which he growls in annoyance and spins out of your reach. He makes a great show of bearing the weight himself, grumbling as he sets down his load. You don’t miss the way the muscles in his back flex and dip. It isn’t until he slowly stands back up, wiping his palms on his khakis, that you get a good look at each other.

The hostility in his eyes softens ever so slightly, simmering into a look that cinches your chest tight when his gaze travels shamelessly up from your kitten heels to the curves of your lips and cheek. His breathing is still labored as he surveys you and you can feel heat and color blooming against your skin. When his eyes finally settle on your face, you can’t decide whether you want to slap or kiss him.

“You lost or something, honey?” He asks with a whisper of a smile. He strolls in a lazy half-circle in front of you and moves to go back up the ramp to the warehouse. Then, he pauses and turns back to you.

“Have we met before? I swear I recognize you from somewhere.”

This delights you deliciously, that a handsome young man you’ve met by chance has seen your work. Not glamorous, acclaimed roles by any means, but recognition nonetheless. You bite the inside of your lip to suppress your smile and give him a coy, bashful flutter of your eyelashes.

“If that were the case, I’m sure I’d remember you.”

He grins wolfishly, pleased, and takes a step closer. “Yeah? Think you’ll let me take you out for dinner tonight?”

“She’s got plans with me, Buck.” Samuel’s voice carries across the water. Your brother emerges with wooden boxes and sets them between you and Bucky in a huff, as if he’s implementing a physical barrier, both childish and endearing. Bucky glances at you and Samuel.

“Are you two..?”

“Steady? No. She’s my sister.”

Bucky snorts and his eyes find you again, glittering in the evening light. “You never told me you had a sister, Sammy. And such a looker too..”

“Makes you wonder why I never brought her up,” retorts Samuel and gives him a playful shove, traps him briefly in a headlock. “At least Steve wouldn’t ogle.”

“Stevie would get a nose bleed and pass out.” You hear Bucky grunt back. Samuel moves as if to dump him into the drink and Bucky pinwheels, scrambling. “I’m sorry! I didn’t mean it!”

Satisfied, Samuel releases him and socks him in the shoulder for good measure. Bucky stumbles, looking boyish and smooth despite his shirt and hair all disheveled.

You’ve seen his type in casting offices all across New York; bold, alluring, and charismatic. It’s a look and type you’ve longed to act opposite of someday, as all young starlets dream of, but a look that simultaneously sparks the feminine temptation that shivers between your breasts. You wonder if Bucky would look the same in a dark bedroom, with him on top of you and your fingers running over his back…

Bucky grins toothily when he catches you staring and shoots you a wink. None of those movie star hopefuls hold a candle now to his rugged, spirited charm.

Samuel guides you back up the pier so he can punch out his time card and the two of you can be on your way. And as you’re about to set foot on solid ground, you hear Bucky call out to you.

“What’s your name, honey?”

Samuel sighs and shakes his head. “Cripes.” He mutters to himself. Before Samuel can stop you, you laugh and turn back to the water with a fresh and girlish aire, warmth and excitement whispering through your veins, young and naive and sixteen.

“Dolores!” You give him your full name, your real name. For once, you don’t want to be Lola Sparks. You want to be your natural, honest self, the girl who deserves young love and joy and an untroubled adolescence. The sound of your voice rings clear and strong, the diva that you are, and Bucky’s mouth curves upwards.

“See you ‘round, Dot.”

Much to Samuel’s displeasure, you tail your big brother around the docks like a lost pup whenever you have time. And being a C-list actress and a part-time typist, you have plenty of it. You loiter with the excuse of bringing sack lunches, waiting on Samuel and Bucky at the edge of the warehouses. It’s lonesome and bores you to no end being all by yourself, until one afternoon when someone is already waiting at your spot by the pier.

Small, skinny as his own shadow with a fringe of blonde hair, he leans hunkered and folded within himself, timid and seemingly conscious of how he occupies space. His jacket droops over his shoulders, eyes downcast even as you approach. He has a sketchbook in his hands, concentrated as the pencil moves across the page in fast, gentle strokes. You see an impressive likeness of the piers and Bucky’s distant figure in charcoaled lines.

“That’s really something.” You say.

He jolts so hard the paper tears and he crumples it into his fist in a single motion. “Huh?” he answers. When he looks to you, you realize his eyes are a pretty shade of teal. He flushes, petrified, the tips of his ears coloring pink. You feel horrible when he goes to pocket the ball of paper.

“I’m so sorry for scaring you,” you breathe. Gently, you offer your palm to him. “If you’re not keeping it, do you mind if I have it?” You ask softly. A few seconds pass and he shakes his head before placing it in your hand. You unfurl the paper, carefully smooth it out as he watches you from the corner of his eye.

Shyness is a barrier of art you’ve known all too well, from your own experiences in audition rooms to your brother’s reluctance to find a publisher, you understand that sting of insecurity better than anyone. So, you let him watch you as you admire his work, let him know of his talent and let your actions speak for you. You smile and slip the drawing into your purse.

Then, his stomach grumbles audibly, almost comically loud. He folds his arms around his stomach, so tight you’re afraid he’ll snap in half. You quickly reach into one of your paper bags and hand him a sandwich wrapped in cellophane and a can of lemonade.

“Here, let’s trade.”

“That’s awfully kind of you, but I can’t accept..” he starts. The timbre of his voice is surprisingly gallant and sure, pleasant, sweet. You have a gut feeling that the world has been taking advantage of that kindness his whole life, scaring him away from genuine compassion, that everything must have a catch. It makes you press harder.

“I insist. Please. It’s the least I can do for sneaking up on you.” He eyes you warily and again that feeling of regret washes over you. “Consider it payment.” You smile.

Finally, he takes Samuel’s lunch from you and unwraps the sandwich. He eats quickly and quietly, draining the lemonade only minutes later. Perhaps it’s his bony statue, but you feel happy to see this stranger eat.

When he’s finished, he wipes his mouth and turns to you. His lips, pretty, pink, part as if about to speak, yet no words leave him. Instead, he stands frozen with that transfixing blue-green gaze keeping you still, lingering.

That is until a stream of brilliant scarlet red dribbles down his chin and splatters onto his dress shirt. He pinches his nose, doubling forward and his flustered complexion matching the blood spilling from his nostrils.

“You must be Steve,” You laugh lightly and quickly hand him your handkerchief of cream yellow lace and embroidered flowers. You help steady him as he keeps his head tilted down. “Bucky’s told me all about you.”

Steve groans and presses the handkerchief to his face, blushing all the way down to his neck.

Steve returns your handkerchief days later with an embarrassed hush, carefully cleaned and laundered. It smells of lavender and clean linen and the image of him working the fabric between his thin fingers with soap and suds warms your heart.

You tell him it’s his. He blooms and keeps it neatly folded in his breast pocket.

You and Steve quickly grow close in the hours you spend together waiting on Bucky and Samuel. You pack extra lunches for him and sit by the piers chatting, skipping stones as Steve sketches the Brooklyn skyline day in and day out.

“Draw me!” you tease. “Isn’t that the request that all artists want to hear?”

But surprisingly, he does. He always draws you and Bucky and Samuel with striking, intimate familiarity. His sketchbook gradually fills with portraits and pictures of you, sketches that could put your very headshot to shame.

After their usual shifts, the four of you head to the drugstore for your ritual of sodas and sundaes. Two pairs, brother and sister and brothers by blood enjoying a rare wartime treat. With the rations on sugar, it’s a special and memorable circumstance just to be together and sharing something sweet.

It’s there, at your corner booth in Wolfe’s Pharmacy over ice cream, that Bucky opens up a paper for that night’s television network schedule and sees your name.

His eyebrows shoot up. “Dot,” he says. “What do others call you?”

Defeated, you twist your lips, hesitant to break the short spell of normalcy you’ve had with your new friends. Samuel sips at his Coke with a silent grin.

Time for the truth to come out.

“Well, ‘doll’, by Stevie,” you giggle and toe Steve’s foot under the table. Steve shyly shrinks back into his seat. “But CBS calls me Lola.”

Bucky’s jaw drops.

“Get out of here. You’re pulling my leg..”

“I absolutely am not.”

“Sammy, tell me she’s pulling my leg.”

“She’s not.”

Two pairs of brilliant blue eyes dart between you and your brother. Bucky’s face breaks into an open smile, laughing. Steve lurches forward.

“Have you ever met anyone famous?” Steve prods with a hint of that honest, innocent charm.

You wrinkle your nose sheepishly. “Mason Cook?”

“Who?” Bucky asks around a mouthful of sundae.

“Exactly.” Samuel snorts.

“Well, I’m sure he’s very talented.” Says Steve.

You swipe his maraschino cherry and let the stem dangle between your lips. “At least Stevie believes in me.”

“Dot, honey. I saw your pilot episode. If anyone’s a fan, it’s me.” Bucky feigns hurt, hand to his chest.

You stick out your bottom lip before sucking in the stem, working it into a tight knot in your mouth. “Are you still gonna be when your girl is signing autographs with John Wayne?”

You place the knotted stem on your napkin. Bucky nearly chokes.

“I better be.”

Samuel coughs. Steve giggles.

You thank your stars that your secret doesn’t change anything between Steve and Bucky. They treat you just the same; as Samuel’s baby sister who tags along with the boys. The teasing, the fleeting looks all unchanging.

Girls, you’ve unfortunately realized, are catty and mean. You’re competing for roles, after all. But with Bucky and Steve, your first taste of homecoming since moving to Brooklyn, you don’t have to worry about silly competition, or fame, or being the best in the room. They keep you level-headed, reminding you of your girlhood and life’s simple pleasures.

Bucky drives you and Steve around town in the company truck on weekends. Hopscotch and jacks on brick roads and warm nights, watching sunsets until the sky blushes peach and mango yellow at Coney Island.

A Saturday afternoon on Rockaway Beach, a vacation for you all after a draining week of work and auditions when Bucky promises to win you a stuffed bear when he sees you eyeing the one on careful display.

“Buck..Bucky, give it a rest, we can try the next one.” Steve chides.

Another plastic ring pings off the neck of a glass bottle. Bucky curses, rings his hands together and slaps another dollar onto the counter.

You and Steve trade looks. Bucky’s been at it for ten minutes. At this rate, you know you’ll be walking on the train tracks home tonight.

So, you and Steve huddle close and cheer him on. Do it for our doll! says Steve. Finish it so you’ll stop wasting money, you dolt! you cry. Hell, even the vendor finds it humorous and joins in.

And when Bucky wins that grand prize and you’re handed a teddy bear as big as Stevie, you hoist it on your back, careful to not let it touch gravel or dust as the three of you walk in line with the train tracks later that evening.

Paradise, a sheltered haven from the broken landscapes and realities that the European newsreels broadcast home in grim black and white.

True to Bucky’s word, they become your biggest supporters, helping you run lines and monologues and accompanying you to auditions. Bucky’s not bad for a scene partner, and Steve’s awareness of emotion and character motivation is impressive.

The attention you receive from casting directors and auditionees doesn’t hurt your chances either, lanky Steve and smoldering Bucky wishing you luck before stepping into the green room.

You book a drama. Then, a short film. Then another. You call them your lucky charms.

And when your humble little short film “premiers” at the corner cinema, squeezed in between an empty noon showing of a cartoon rerun, Steve and Bucky whoop and holler when your character is shown on screen. They throw popcorn and gumdrops, jostle you by the shoulders. Bucky even runs down the aisle and mimes kissing the projector screen.

“That’s our girl! That’s our Dot!”

The usher threatens to throw you out. Steve tells him you’ve paid good money for your tickets and you’ll stay and watch as long as you please.

The following week, you’re scouted by Peggy Carter.

Your world, your career will never be the same.

#steve rogers x reader #bucky barnes x reader #steve rogers x female reader #steve rogers x you #bucky barnes x female reader #bucky barnes x you #captain america x reader #captain america x female reader #captain america x you #winter soldier x reader #winter soldier x female reader #winter soldier x you #steve rogers fanfiction #bucky barnes fanfiction #steve rogers imagine #bucky barnes imagine

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ducktracy · 5 years

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66. buddy’s day out (1933)

release date: september 9th, 1933

series: looney tunes

director: tom palmer

starring: jack carr (buddy), bernice hansen (cookie)

to quote a frequent catchphrase in the harman and ising cartoons: oh boy, oh boy, oh boy! i’ve been eagerly waiting for this moment. many a thought is racing in my mind as i type this, i don’t know where to begin! i suppose with some history:

so, harman and ising have left leon schlesinger in the dust. he has a contract to fulfill and no characters to show for it. he set up his own studio at sunset boulevard and searched for some people to add onto his crew, primarily from disney (jack king, earl duvall, who made buddy’s character, ben hardaway...) and a few leftover from harman and ising’s unit, most notably friz freleng.

tom palmer, another picked from the disney pile, directs this short, and when i was originally putting together the cartoon info i was really confused. who was this dude? i’ve heard of jack king and ben hardaway from watching their porky cartoons, and of course friz freleng, but never tom palmer. it turns out i hadn’t heard of him because after this cartoon and the next one, i’ve got to sing a torch song, he was fired. that should tell you right off the bat what we’re going to see. this cartoon also had to be reworked. according to bernard brown and bob clampett, the first draft was even less funny than the final version. to give you an idea of palmer’s sense of humor, he’s cited as calling a visual gag a “funny piece of business”. well, technically, this short IS a funny piece of business. business practices.

anyway, enough history. buddy, his dog happy, his girlfriend cookie, and her baby brother elmer all venture out for a picnic that goes awry.

much in the style of movie trailers in the 30s, where the characters have their names emblazoned on the screen and a little description, we are introduced to our cast. buddy, “our hero”, cookie, “buddy’s sweetheart”, elmer, “cookie’s baby brother”, and happy, “buddy’s pal”. the scene is corny within itself, but the awkward, janky animation—especially with buddy mechanically turning around and wobbling as if inebriated—make it even more awkward and discombobulated. it’s a different approach to introduce a cast of characters, sure, but its potential isn’t realized and falls flat.

cookie and elmer are the first to be formally introduced. cookie is bathing elmer, who reaches out of the tub to grab a sponge. cookie continues to spank him back into the tub, and once he finally grabs a hold of the sponge he squeezes it in his face. unprecedentedly, accentuated by bad timing and awkward sound effects (as well as animation), elmer splashes about in the tub, the sponge flying out of his grip and smacking cookie in the face. he realizes what he’s done, holds his nose, and seeks refuge in the bath water as cookie approaches him. she scrubs the top of his head... which is actually his butt, his head poking out at the opposite end. undoubtedly added in after. cookie dries him and tosses him in the air, catching him with the towel that makes a horribly discombobulated bell sound.

there’s a lot wrong with this scene. little to no creativity or any stretch of the imagination whatsoever. the sound effects are not timed well, carrying over into different shots. one minute cookie is frowning, the next she’s smiling. it’s impossible to make out what any sort of emotion the characters are feeling, and it comes off as very robotic and unnatural.

now to buddy, “our hero”, who’s washing down his car (that’s labeled ASTHMA on the side?) with a hose as happy observes. dissatisfied with the meek steam of water the hose is producing, he turns the nozzle to get more water out. happy barks at the aimless hose and bites it.

happy is sent into the air as the hose writhes and thrashes about. the force of the water sprays off any accessories on buddy’s car, and there’s a brief moment where buddy pumps his fists in frustration, but quickly returns to his smiling self and turns the water off. again with the incomprehensible emotion: expressing no concern for his dog’s safety and blankly observing. there is a nice little gag—probably the funniest part of the cartoon, aside from the cartoon’s existence itself—as the car itself shakes off any water like a dog. i’d be happy if the cartoon went for overused gags like those. it’d still be boring, yes, but fun to watch. instead, everything just feels very straight forward.

cookie is getting herself dolled up, even blowing a kiss at a picture of buddy on her vanity. i guess they wanted her to come off as a betty boop type? that’s how she reads to me. she pops her head out of the window and cries “yoo-hoo, buddy! i’m ready!”

as riveting as ever, buddy answers “i’ll be right over, cookie!” i still have little to no idea of how he’s supposed to be portrayed. i suppose a loyal, dutiful “boy scout” type. he’s introduced coyly as “our hero”, but has yet to display any heroic qualities. however, because he’s labeled a hero, we’re automatically supposed to like him, even with little to no indicator of his personality.

buddy gives his car a few cranks, but it’s in reverse: the car tears backwards through the fence. immediately after, there’s a shot of a bunch of dogs and cats and a clothesline stacked up in the car (again probably added in), and the car tears through a greenhouse. much obnoxious crashing later, the car is decorated head to toe with flowers as it crashes into the side of cookie’s house.

evidently, buddy is supposed to come off as a charmer, because cookie finds it beautiful. buddy opens the door for her and salutes, another indicator of the boy scout persona? also, look at how terribly the house and the car clash with all those flowers. this cartoon lacks physical lighting value—it could very well be the particular restoration, but everything feels very light and white and washed out.

buddy packs up a stroller and a picnic basket and climbs into the car. the car’s engine sputters, and the flower gag becomes even more redundant once all of the flowers are shaken off. nevertheless, they go on their merry way.

it seems buddy bought his car in europe. maybe that’ll explain for the jarring view of the mirror. i know it’s so you can see elmer and buddy at the same time, but couldn’t they have chosen another angle? or, at the very least, tilted the mirror and elmer slightly? it’s very jarring and out of place—just like the sound effect of falling rocks that cues when elmer hits buddy over the head with a bottle.

as they crawl up a steep hill, the engine sputters and expresses difficulty at climbing the hill, but soon enough it’s back to normal. a very wasted gag—the same gag is in porky and gabby and is much more entertaining, with porky and gabby chasing after their car and trying not to get flattened.

the car whirls around some twists and turns, accompanied by a fire engine to convey urgency. another potential gag wasted. instead, it comes off as annoying and cutesy, like “haha, look at what a hurry they’re in!” nevertheless, they arrive at their destination, buddy toting the picnic basket and stroller while whistling.

a very awkward romantic scene. cookie (i don’t know if i’ve called her honey at all—i’ve had to change “honey” to “cookie” many times while writing this, so bear with me if i didn’t catch one) situates herself down on a hammock and strums a guitar, singing. buddy, ever the charmer, comes up behind her and pushes her, singing in complete gibberish. to make it even more awkward, he asks “woojie woojie woojie?”, prompting cookie to respond “no, woojie woojie woojie!” a pass at an innuendo, maybe? if so, it fails to come across as such, instead reading as annoying and coy.

various critters repeat the same dreaded dialogue. some caterpillars, some bees, and some frogs. i suppose out of all of them, the frogs are the most amusing, with the woman frog smacking her courter and hitting him over the head with a cattail. i’m curious as to whether bob clampett was in charge of that gag, it feels like a shadow of his own gags in cartoons.

buddy and cookie have an awkward embrace as we cut to elmer and happy. i feel like elmer has the most screentime in this cartoon—really everyone except buddy. i suppose his “our hero” line was supposed to do all of the personality building for him. that, or tom palmer had no idea what to do with him. my senses point to the latter.

elmer is eating (sucking? does he have teeth?) on a hotdog link, pushing a curious happy away. happy whines continuously, and to shut him up, elmer pacifies him with the pork. note the lines around happy. they just kind of... twinkle there. i guess to express shock? no additional head movements or anything. you could even have the lines dissipate and fizzle out—porky’s romance does a very entertaining job of that here. watch the exclamation mark above the dog’s head and how it dissipates. very entertaining and comes across as deliberate, not just “oh geez, i need to convey some sort of emotion here”.

still whining, happy prompts elmer to throw a cake in his face. happy runs around aimlessly while elmer laughs obnoxiously. happy runs into a tree trunk, and the cake flies off of his head onto elmer’s. conveniently, cookie walks by elmer, sees the mess, and scolds him. very janky, awkward animation as elmer shuffles away, sniffling. there’s a jarring transition as elmer and happy approach the car. they don’t get in it, they approach. the next thing you know, in the next shot, they’re already in the car.

this shot is wonky on a number of reasons, but mainly spacing and lack of depth. happy shouldn’t be able to squeeze behind the gas pedal and fit there so easily. following his body, it doesn’t look like his butt is sitting on the floor, just his front paws. the wheel is at an equally awkward angle—i know so elmer can fit, and animation is all about presentation, not practicality, but still. elmer takes his aggression out by stomping on the gas pedal. surely you can see where this is going.

elmer and happy have hijacked the car, which drives away with them in it. buddy and cookie chase after them, buddy pushing cookie in the stroller and later hopping in himself. another shot of elmer and happy, and then the same shot of buddy and cookie, complete with buddy jumping in the stroller AGAIN. the sound design, as always, is very misplaced.

buddy and cookie follow elmer and happy on the winding route they took, the background just flipped horizontally, which, of course, doesn’t make sense—it should just be the animation that’s flipped, but i digress. the whole thing with this climax is that there’s no urgency. no super fast speeds, no intricate camera angles, no dynamics. it’s just a baby and a dog in a car that just so happens to be moving.

there are a few gags, but they’re very trite and predictable. elmer and happy drive through some haystacks and thusly have straw bears. they crash into a hotdog sign, which lands on top of buddy and cookie. they drive past a rotating laundry line, which flies up and attaches to cookie and buddy’s baby carriage. the laundry line and the hotdog sign make a makeshift helicopter. clever, i suppose, but it isn’t executed to show off any cleverness. there’s a very jarring violin slide effect as the laundry line falls down and attaches itself to the stroller. i hate to trash on bernard brown, the sound effects guy, but the sound design is distractingly bad in this cartoon. i’m guessing (and hoping) it improves, but the innovation later sound designer treg brown would use with his sound effects id totally lacking. the sound effects are just there.

suddenly, elmer and happy find themselves on train tracks. i bet you’ll never guess what’s coming from the opposite direction. A TRAIN!!! crazy, right?? there IS a good shot of buddy and cookie looking down at the train tracks below, probably the most creativity this cartoon possesses (above).

buddy and cookie land on a roof and use a ladder to divert the train. the train goes the other way and all is well, pushing the shack that cookie and buddy landed on with it. and then, guess what? the consecutive shot the train is BACK ON THE TRACKS. the delivery comes across as haphazard and sloppy.

reunited at last, buddy woojie woojies elmer, who squirts him in the fact with his milk bottle. iris out.

whew. where to begin. well, obviously, i’m not a fan of this cartoon. it’s sloppy, vague, and awkward. tom palmer’s direction is directionless, and the quality of the cartoon is poor, even for 1933’s standards. the sound design is jarring and discombobulated, and none of the characters are memorable, especially buddy. this cartoon should’ve been called elmer’s day out instead.

however, i don’t like to completely bash things. i’m an optimist and always try to look on the bright side. the backgrounds were painted nicely, and the music was good. buddy’s design is VERY cute here. he looks his best in this cartoon. his 1935 design is okay, better than the next design we’ll be seeing. though tom palmer’s direction is sloppy, it WAS his first directorial job. i’m sure he was a much better animator at disney than he was director here. also, leon shlesinger opened up his studio on sunset boulevard. 2 years later, termite terrace would be born, and the world would never know peace since. so, in a weird way, buddy led to bugs, to daffy, to porky... especially since his lack of success led to i haven’t got a hat, which introduced a pool of new characters to be used in upcoming in shorts, including a little stuttering pig i happen to know. so buddy has caused good! but in a rather bad way.

i wouldn’t recommend this cartoon, but at the same time, i absolutely do recommend it. watch it for yourself and see how messy it is. it got a few good laughs out of me the first time i watched it, but all from making fun of it.

link!

#lt #buddy’s day out #reviews #long post

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kxowledge · 5 years

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A LONG UPDATE – including rants about Milan, my life, law, discipline, languages, etc

TLDR if you don’t care: I’m back and I know I always say this, but I mean it – I should get better soon & I even bought a phone after weeks of living without one. I’ll try to answer all asks I receive by Sunday and set a regular queue.

I have been slowly recovering from what was most likely mono, combined with an immune system destroyed by a severe vitamin D deficiency and stress. These days have been filled with long walks in the forest, eating cherries and peaches, biking in the sun, gradually increasing the intensity of my workouts (I never truly stopped, but I decreased their frequency and the number of reps I did), diligently applying The Ordinary’s Pycnogenol 5%, drinking Mariage Frères’ Eros tea, and regular study sessions.

It still doesn’t feel like summer – and up until a few days ago, the weather agreed with me. Nonetheless, I’m trying to get out in the sun more, and I visited a couple of places: the Pinacoteca Ambrosiana (the lightning and all the Mary Magdalenes still amaze me, the special sections dedicated to Leonardo not so much), the Church of San Fedele (which not only is quite stunning in itself, but does also a good job at integrating the ancient with the modern: the cultural horizon has changed and we often don’t understand the same references people understood in the past, hence also religious art is changing because the ultimate purpose is to teach the audience), Palazzo Morando (originally for Lace and Design, about lace-making in Cantù, but ended up visiting Bob Krieger, a collection of over 200 of his photographs, which was much more interesting), and the Cripta of San Giovanni in Conca – part of which is in the pic; the ruins are not much (literally), but the history it’s fascinating, and what’s even more fascinating is how interconnected with the rest of Milan is (the funerary monument to Bernabò Visconti is the one at the Castello Sforzesco, the roman mosaics of the pavement at the archaeological museum, the façade was literally moved to another church) – they unbuilt a church and it’s fucking incredible.

The other pic is me, frazzled, on my way to the law exam, in my hand a 35-pages comprehensive summary. I couldn’t make it to last week’s exams because I was sick, so I’ll have to take them in June or September; however, I aced (hopefully) the two exams I took this week: Financial Calculus and International Commercial and Trade Law. I really like law, the academic subject, and trade law was perhaps the most interesting section, even though I greatly enjoyed contract law and public law as well. It appeals to my core: it’s orderly, systematic, functional, complete. The WTO - the construction, the functioning, the legislative framework, etc - is exceptional. I say the academic subject because I doubt that I would actually enjoy the practice, the only exception perhaps being constitutional review.

In spirit of the upcoming exam I watched On the Basis of Sex (2018) – which! was! really! good! By which I mean that it was reminiscent of Legally Blonde, not much in the themes (although of course there are similarities), but in the cinematography & certain shots were outstanding, some lines remarkable, and all so interesting (at least for me who knew next to nothing about Ruth Bader Ginsberg before).

I also finished Book I of the Nicomachean Ethics, which I immensely enjoyed and which I believe is going to be a great foundation for building my own ethics philosophy. There’s a line that says that virtuous actions are pleasant for the man who loves virtue – I believe this to be very true, and it is most evident when procrastinating or engaging in unhealthy habits: indulging in these actually decrease my happiness, not just to the extent that they are detrimental in the long run but also in the short run they don’t actually provide satisfaction, and it’s from there that my motivation to do the opposite springs. Discipline as the key to happiness, not only because it’s the way to reach what you are seeking to accomplish, but also because in itself is satisfying. Maybe I am driven by an unhealthy dose of self-loathing for doing ‘unvirtous things’, but I choose to see it as seeking contentment.

I also read Diffusion of Innovation. I hope to follow in the steps of EM Rogers – he’s the father of diffusion theory, which is a building block in technology and innovation management, and he became so by cutting off the bullshit and reorganizing systematically a field to the point that he almost is fundamental to it; before him it wasn’t considered nor important nor solid, and after him it has been lagging behind. The story of how he came to be interested in this kind of research is very much like mine and it looks like our paths are going to be similar; I really hope I’ll turn out as brilliant as him. For now, I’m just trying to get over the fact that my research is not going to be statistically significant, since it’s not within my possibilities to reach a broad sample size, but it can still be a building block towards something bigger.

On another note, the other day I briefly dipped into Spanish for a half hour or so. The good news is that I don’t hate it anymore: I was barely able to stomach it for the past two years, while now I once again think it sounds lovely and I remember why I liked it in the first place. I obliviously forgot a lot though - I used to be able to speak quite fluently and now, while I’m fine with passive comprehension, I have trouble actively recalling even basic vocabulary. I feel conflicted because I don’t want to lose it, but at the same time other languages have the priority over it and I’m not sure how I can make it fit into my life.

It’s interesting how I never truly assimilated the language to the point I would think in it, even though I had been learning it since I was eight. Instead, as soon as I started to learn German, I was already thinking in it (which was extremely frustrating due to the lack of vocabulary known and because it was displacing English). A couple of days ago I stumbled upon a couple of lines in German and I am still of the opinion that it’s such a beautiful and delicate-sounding language. I think that dropping the class in favour of French was the right choice, but I still want to learn it eventually. Most likely in 2/3 years. In the meanwhile I want to focus on French, which is my second preferred language to use (first one being English). I think I made enormous progress in the past four months - hopefully enough for me to pass the two upcoming tests – but I’d like to take it further: I want to be fluent, I want to master it, I want to actively use it. If my application is accepted, then I’ll have the opportunity to do so in the next couple of years. Yet, all of this has only made it painstakingly clear that I’m tired of Italian. I find the everyday spoken language almost offensive, while some books leave me in absolute awe (Foscolo, Pavese, etc). But in both cases, it’s not what I crave, it’s not what I need. It pains me to be far from the English language – even though it’s the official language of my studies, it’s still not enough. I’d love to read more about being bilingual: it’s both incredibly interesting and incredibly frustrating.

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63824peace · 5 years

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Monday, 5th of december 2005

I saw the movie Always: San-cho-me-no-yuuhi again over the weekend, on Saturday. I watched it at the Navio Tohoplex in Umeda, Osaka.

I hadn't visited Navio since they renovated it. I felt so nostalgic when I saw traces of the older Navio Hankyu. I even saw the elevators that went straight into the theater. The Kitano Theater had already occupied Navio Hankyu's construction site, so they simply built Navio Hankyu around the theater.

Back then it had been Umeda's most popular theater. Popular films often filled the theater to capacity from morning until evening. No one who really wanted to see a movie ever let the crowd deter him. It compares with the Marion Theater in Ginza.

They built Navio Hankyu in the shape of a ship. Each floor looked like a triangular wedge of cheese. They offered an art gallery inside, as well as a number of restaurants. I would eat at one of the restaurants after watching a movie.

I entered the renovated Navio Tohoplex. It has a number of smaller theaters inside since it's a cinema complex. Unfortunately, they chose to show Always in one of the smaller theaters.

I descended to the seventh floor and entered theater number eight. They used to have restaurants there in the past.

The movie has run for several weeks already, so I was surprised to find the theater almost full. Always is a real blockbuster. I took a seat in the back of the theater, and I had a good view of the audience's crowns. I was astonished once more to see that half of the audience had gray heads... they were elderly. Saturday wasn't a workday, so people were more likely to attend the theater... but I remain stunned by the overwhelming nostalgic support that people over fifty have given the movie.

I heard that Always ranked number one in the box office for three weeks. The film's renown as a hit really woke up the older movie-going audience. We don't often see mature-aged people touched by a CG movie.

I felt freer to cry during my second viewing. I knew the story's development and I no longer scrutinized the special effects, so I could let myself go more easily. Tears fell endlessly.

In the theater, I heard the audience weep in Dolby Surround Sound. We rarely see people of all ages and both genders cry in a theater. The older generation especially wept tears in remembrance of that lost time. I felt as though they were the tears of the Showa Era itself.

I hadn't been to Osaka's Umeda in a long time. I had last been there for the MGS3 release event, so that meant that I hadn't been there in about a year.

Umeda is the city of my youth. I met so many people there when I grew from boyhood to adulthood. I experienced so many steps on my way to becoming an adult, like dating, taking a part-time job, shopping, and entertaining.

Umeda is really special to me. It's quite nostalgic... although I don't feel quite as much nostalgia now as I had when I walked there a year earlier. It's the city of my memories... have I been in Tokyo too long?

I hadn't realized that my gait had fallen out of sync with the rest of the Osaka pedestrians. Walking became difficult... I often bumped into others. Osaka's dialect aggravated my ears. I couldn't stand the poor manners that people displayed while crossing the street. The billboard colors and people's clothing seemed obnoxious and harsh, rather than vibrant like people usually regard Kansai color schemes.

I couldn't collect myself for some reason. I used to feel calm every time that I returned to Kansai, but I couldn't feel that way this time.

That was a real problem! Was I still a Kansai man?

I mounted the long escalator leading to the Hankyu Umeda station's central gate. I held the handrail and looked at my feet - something just didn't feel right.

I looked up and didn't see anyone in front of me. Everyone stood on the right side of the escalator en-masse, and I had reflexively stood on the left. The escalator passengers going down glanced dubiously at me. I - a supposed Kansai man - had become an alien in Osaka.

People in Kansai form a line on the right side of the escalator, and people in Tokyo line up on the left. We simply do these things-no one formalized them. I heard that the habits switch somewhere around Nagoya, a city situated between Osaka and Tokyo.

"Where do I belong?"

After I asked myself this, I moved slowly to the right side.

I enjoyed the live version of Green Day's album Bullet in a Bible so much that I purchased its studio recording, as well as the Japanese release of their album American Idiot. The Japanese version has two discs and includes a bonus track, Bakuhatsu Live!~Tokyo, which they had performed at Makuhari Messe on March 10, 2005.

My favorite tracks are Boulevard of Broken Dreams and Wake Me Up When September Ends. It came with a lyrics card, so I'll memorize them to sing at Karaoke. I doubt that karaoke versions exist, though.

In the afternoon, we shot the footage for Metal Gear Saga at the sound-mixing studio. Lui handled the actual shooting, and KojiPro's Takahashi-kun obtained another camera to make doubly sure that we got the footage. We had rehearsed it last week, so everything went smoothly. We actually finished shooting ahead of schedule.

I changed into another jacket, and we filmed a video-letter that will run at one of our programmers' wedding party.

We got a real surprise when our make-up artist arrived for the shooting. She had worked with us last year at TGS 2004. A year and a half later, we met back together.

Murashu suddenly started wearing glasses. Four-eyes Murashu!

He explained that he wore them because his eyes were bloodshot.

Sexy glasses!

Shinta wore glasses too... was it a coincidence? Four-eyes Shinta!

Shinta wore glasses for the same reason that Murashu wore his. Had they contracted an eye disease? Or had they been in cahoots last night?

Double sexy glasses!

The InterLASIK eyesight operation had become very popular at KojiPro around the beginning of this year. Ryosaku lost his glasses, and then the Colonel lost his... and then pairs of glasses diminished day by day.

KojiPro's glasses diminished heavily within six months. I seriously considered having the operation at one point.

And now the four-eyed boys have returned! The times have reversed, and we see glasses in December... oh those sexy glasses!

I went to Jinbo-cho to get some pictures taken of myself for publication purposes. I only learned today that I needed to do so when Ichiro Kutome the Braggart King told me about it. We had planned to eat Torinabe together, but Torinabe turned into photography without my even noticing.

"Torinabe has chicken in it, and since the Bird Flu is still pretty hot conversation, let's settle for our usual tempura."

We changed our plans, and he took me to Jinbo-cho. Yet he didn't leave our taxi in the direction of the tempura restaurant once we had arrived at Jinbo-cho.

"Where are you going?" I asked.

"I want to show you a store. Come on, let's go." He walked into an alley.

He walked deeper into the alley as he spoke. I had no choice but to follow him through the maze of alleys. It was like a hedge-maze garden. I would have gotten lost if had we been separated. I lost my sense of direction after several turns right and left. Yet I felt as though I had been there before.

"Haven't we been here before?" he asked.

"I think we came to a second-hand bookstore around here together, didn't we?"

Suddenly, the King of Used Books stopped. My eyes settled on a nice-looking shop named Higurashi. They had set up photographic accoutrements (such as the camera and the lights) in front of the shop. Mr. Kato, the photographer, and his assistant Hasshy had prepared to shoot photos in the cold weather outside.

I'm always so grateful for Mr. Kato's work.

"I've walked into a trap again!" I thought, but I quickly resigned myself to the cold weather as soon as I noticed Mr. Kato and his assistant. I consented to the photo shoot even though I had only worn casual clothing.

We stood in the gallery of the painter Mr. Kuniyoshi Kaneko. People often use the place for movie or photo location shoots. It's a great place to go for a location shot.

At least the King of Location-Hunting showed good taste in that.

The King of Presents had gone out of his way to set up this photo shoot as a gift, once he had learned that Mr. Kaneko once interviewed L'Arc-en-Ciel's Hyde there. I also noticed memorabilia from my much-loved Jean Cocteau inside the gallery.

Ah, all that made me really happy!

The King of Consideration sure is thoughtful.

We took a photo of the gallery entrance.

We took a few more photos inside the gallery. Hasshy turned out to be a fan of L'Arc-en-Ciel. I learned that Hyde had sat in a particular chair. We shared an animated conversation about the band for a while.

We finished taking pictures safely at 9 P.M.

Thank you so much everyone!

I'm also grateful for the art club Higurashi's cooperation.

We wrapped up by taking a commemorative photo with Mr. Kato and Ichiro Kutome. Hasshy actually pressed the camera shutter. I pressured him in good humor, saying, "This will appear on a blog that's received over 600,000 visitors!"

He took the photo very well.

Mr. Kato is a marvelous man. Five years have passed since we first met, when he took my photograph for the limited edition of MGS2. The King of Introductions had introduced me to Mr. Kato. Since then I have requested Mr. Kato's services every time when I need photos taken of myself. He also took the photo for HIDEOBLOG.

His photographs are superb of course, but I just plain like him. I always find his conversation really interesting when we take a break. He really expands my knowledge.

He's a pretty cool old man.

Good photographers are attractive people. A photographer's sensibility and talent draw out the subject's charm, be it a person or scenery. I only have limited experience with photographers, but the good ones are always interesting people too. Their soulful sensibilities become the true subjects of their photographs, whatever the concrete subject might be.

Photography is a subjective art... it isn't objective. We didn't really get pictures of me today. Rather, we got pictures of Mr. Kato's perception of Hideo Kojima. If I think of them this way, then I don't feel as embarrassed to appear in them.

I ate tempura at Yama-no-ue-Hotel. I don't know why, but I always eat tempura here with the King of Tempura after we finish an MGS game. We first came here about seven years ago when we completed MGS1. Neither one of us had proposed the habit... we just fell into it naturally.

We ate today to celebrate the completions of Subsistence and MGA2.

Ichiro Kutome handles all of the art direction for KojiPro's MGS-related packaging. The King of Tempura had been reckless once and became a father. Now he seems to have grown up a little. He understands now that the tempura batter is just as much a part of tempura as the bulk. He has become more sensitive to subtleties.

Afterwards we went to the cafe Milonga Neova, where the Cafe King often goes.

We drank a Belgian beer named Guillotine. It had a good body and was really tasty. I'd like to drink it again.

The cafe's closing hour hit at 11 P.M., and they threw us out. The King of Evictions had only worn a T-shirt, even in that cold weather.

Strangely enough, I didn't feel too cold. Perhaps that's because the Showa Era's warm appearance remains there in Jinbo-cho.

The Showa Era lives on in people's minds and in Tokyo's charm.

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wknc881 · 5 years

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CLASSIC REVIEW: THE GERMS- GI

BEST TRACKS: Communist Eyes, We Must Bleed, Manimal, Lexicon Devil, Richie Dagger’s Crime

By the time the Ramones had condensed rock and roll into its brattiest possible unit, punk’s death was already long set in motion. Though “punk rock’ was not a magical intervention by a sympathetic God tired of listening to Fleetwood Mac, the ultimate cultural amalgam that became the genre’s first (and arguably “purest”) wave burned incredibly hot and equally fast. And all by design, of course. So if one were to grab their leather studded microscope to set distinct barriers within punk’s seemingly never-ending canon, the Ramones’ first “1,2,3,4!”s at CBGB are finalized through the Darby Crash’s 1980 suicide. Through his band, the Germs, Crash brought punk’s ethos to the end of its first crescendo by making it harder, faster, and, most importantly, without any apparent control. Though the rise of hardcore punk following the Germ’s demise was faster and harder by technical standards, this was a controlled catharsis. In fact, the highly disciplined blasts of noise made famous through bands like Minor Threat, 7 Seconds, and Rollins-fronted Black Flag, were at least partially in response to punk’s initial reputation of being so decadently caked in debauchery. But whatever catharsis is found within the Germs is chaotic, almost accidental. As the logical conclusion to a genre founded on white-hot excess, they were possibly the most extreme practitioners of debauchery. Their sole studio album, “GI”, is an absolute mess of feedback-riddled guitars, frantic drumming, and incoherent snarls of anti-authority. It is every promise of punk rock fulfilled, and because of that “GI” is a horrifying record. By the time it’s thirty minutes are up, you realize that this is it. As Darby Crash burned out in a wild thrash against every perceived establishment, so did the first wave of punk rock.

Jan Paul Beahm was born in Venice, California in September 1958. Moving to West LA by the late 60s, Beahm’s troubled childhood was patterned with episodes like his brother’s drug overdose/murder, his mother’s frequent bouts with psychosis, and the abrupt death of his stepfather. An avid reader, Beahm was enrolled in Innovative Program School, an LA alternative high school which combined Erhard Seminars Training and Scientology. It was here that Beahm met Georg Ruthenburg, and the two frequently took LSD on campus. Fearing that the boy’s increasing novelty as spaced out cult-esque figures within the school was brainwashing other students, Beahm and Ruthenburg were kicked out of IPS before graduation. They decided to form an incredibly raw, amateur band in the vein of proto-punk acts like the Stooges or MC5 and began purposefully recruiting unskilled musicians for their chaotic project. Eventually settling on the name “Germs” (after others proved too long and therefore expensive to print on T-Shirts), Beahm and Ruthernburg became Bobby Pyn and Pat Smear, respectively. After being joined by bassist Lorna Doom and drummer Donna Rhia, the Germs recorded their first single, “Forming”, a minute and a half pounding, meandering expulsion in 1977. Soon after, Bobby Pyn was rechristened Darby Crash, and the Germs began their infamous circuit within LA’s burgeoning punk scene.

Crash, the clear frontman of the group, would spend shows loaded on booze, painkillers, and heroin while babbling his song’s lyrics seemingly everywhere but the microphone (which apparently had to be taped to his hand at one point). But it was punk; the Germs embodied a pure disorder that LA’s underground was craving by the late 70s. Live performances were often violent, with Crash frequently confronting members of the audience while stumbling about, rarely confident in his ability to stand. Eventually, the band’s notoriety blacklisted them from every club in the city, forcing them to perform under the moniker GI (Germs Incognito). And perhaps not coincidentally, this also was the name of their first/last studio album; a record which has now been bestowed a legendary status for fans of punk akin to “Never Mind the Bollocks” or “Damaged”. For an LA who had only witnessed the germs through their increasingly messy live performances, 1979’s GI was a moment of clarity that forced every listener to sit back for a second and think “holy shit these guys are actually talented musicians”. Smear was finally given a stasis upon which he could clearly show off his incredibly tight and fluid guitar playing, while Crash’s songs could actually be consumed as, well, songs. But what was most surprising were Crash’s lyrics which, up until the recording of GI, were largely impossible to comprehend through hectic live shows. Under his dyed hair, broken teeth, and skin often sliced by glass on stage, he was a poet obsessed with his own inevitable destruction. At once, it became clear that Darby Crash knew he was the final fetid breath escaping his movement; he knew his anarchy was destined to end soon. And it did. After GI’s recording, the Germs found it even harder to perform live within the city, as the LAPD would often come to violently disband crowds which they saw on the edge of a riot. Crash appeared to know the Germs were not sustainable, becoming increasingly removed from the band before purposefully administering himself a fatal dose of heroin December 7, 1980. LA’s most notorious punk band was over. Don Bolles, the band’s final drummer, went on to join a handful of other LA punk bands while Pat Smear eventually joined Nirvana, as a touring guitarist, and the Foo Fighters, as a full-time member.

Musically, it can be hard to differentiate between every track on GI. Within each two-minute snot-fest one will find a crispy guitar, loose and pounding drums, and a Darby crash snarl (of course!). But the third, fourth, or maybe fifth time scratching your head while attempting to consume this spoiled rotten album will elucidate a surprising amount of depth. For instance, “Manimal” opens with a simple yet devastating Smear riff which sounds akin to early Black Sabbath, demanding attention while Doom’s fat, rounded bass acts as an anchor before dissolving into Crash’s fiery yelps. “Manimal” also contains Crash’s most explicit recognition of his otherness and ultimate destiny outside of civilization with “I came into this world/Like a puzzled panther, waiting to be caged/but something stood in the way, I was never quite tamed”. “Lexicon Devil”, the groups most well-known song, is revamped with a new penchant for barreling speed, with a four-chord, percussive guitar lead doubling Crash’s cultish growls which entice the listener to surrender to the Germs and all of their promised damage in lines like I’m a lexicon devil with a battered brain And I’m lookin’ for a future, the world’s my aim

So gimme, gimme your hands, gimme, gimme your minds”. “Richie Dagger’s Crime”, probably more playful than any other track, is shockingly optimistic. Smear’s crunchy, aggressively uncompressed blues leads weave between Crash’s sputtered autobiography of a boy who exists purely to rebel against every person he meets. “We Must Bleed” is the Germs’ most concentrated display of their inherent bend towards deconstruction, is a simple four-chord descent into nothingness which holds both the beginning and end of the Germs within it. The song goes longer than its peers, though Bolles drums become quickly resigned to a tribal thump which Crash spouts “We Must Bleed” over and over again. As it thuds on, the song destroys everything around it, and when even the air begins to fall around Darby Crash he begins to bellow “I want out now!” as his band becomes looser and rattles into oblivion. Crash runs out of things to destroy, and in the terror that follows he realizes that the only thing left to fall is his own body.

The Germs existed for only five years. But in their attempts to become the most vicious and unhinged bands in Los Angeles they cemented a legacy as the final, and brightest, flame of 1970s rock music. After a culmination of disenfranchisement, drugs, and snottiness birthed punk in New York, a trajectory was set that could have only ended with the Germs. And through GI, the germs have left a permanent record upon a movement which was dangerously close to only witnessing them in their brief shenanigans while still on this Earth. In my opinion, Darby Crash is the unheralded king of the punks, and GI is the contract which bestowed his domain.

-Cliff Jenkins

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sharkfish · 6 years

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Do you know of any long fics? I’m going on vacation tomorrow and I need something to read. Preferably, >100,000 words

i decided to ignore your request and give you fics over 75k xD i trolled through my bookmarks and this is what i found! these are almost all E rated.

(if anyone knows any of the writers that i didn’t tag, feel free to tag in replies, i always like to know when someone is recing me)

Appoggiatura by ceeainthereforthat 121k

Castiel leaves the religious commune of Heaven Farms to study classical piano after winning a full scholarship paid for by the Deanna Campbell Memorial Foundation, and answers an ad in the campus newspaper: 1 bedroom to let. Meals provided. 50mb wifi, quiet odd music student preferred.

A Room Of One’s Own by NorthernSparrow 94k

All Dean wants is a little privacy. Cas doesn’t understand.

a turn of the earth by mishcollin 95k

Dean’s your typical half-orphaned, monster-killing 22-year-old until a trenchcoated stranger crashes into his back windshield one September night, claiming he’s an angel that knows him from the future and that he’s on the run.

Frigging fantastic.

(Or, in which Castiel gets stuck in Dean’s timeline preseries and Dean kind of hates it—until he doesn’t.)

C-S-T-L by komodobits 90k

It’s been nineteen years since the beginning of the Last War, and the Alliance Army is losing land faster than it can supply good men to defend it. Their hope is the synthesis of Android Angeles, a series of humanoid machines designed without the capacity to feel, and thus enabling them to be the perfect super soldiers. In order to check their battle suitability, the first prototypes are sent down with a landing party of the men they will later replace, and Sergeant Dean Winchester is paired with Unit 5284-C-S-T-L for the assignment. Cas, as Dean nicknames him, is easy enough to work with - once you get past the emotional vacancy and blatant disregard for human life, that is - but as the squad’s tour goes on, Dean gets to wondering whether the Android Angeles are really as unfeeling as he’s been told, or if the fear of a reality in which malfunctioning prototypes will be shut down is too great for them to exist any other way.

Clean Air by anactoria 121k

Centuries after the surface of the earth was devastated by an unknown disaster, the remnants of humanity live in a series of vast underground silos, each unaware of the existence of the others.

For the inhabitants of Silo 34, the silo is the world, and the only world they know. Questions about the outside world are forbidden, and asking them is what got Dean Winchester’s parents killed. He isn’t even sure himself that they weren’t crazy.

That all changes when he hears a voice on the radio – a voice from another world.

Dream of Now by Sass_Master (series) 136k

Dean’s getting some pancakes together for breakfast when Cas saunters in after a run.

He’s trying to focus on whisking batter, unfairly distracted by Cas a few feet away, breathing heavily and shining with perspiration. Dean’s been painfully aware for a long time that Cas is pretty easy on the eyes, but he’s used to seeing Cas buttoned-up and unflappable, looking straight-laced in a stiff oxford and an unflattering trenchcoat.

Now Cas is sweating, Dean’s borrowed t-shirt clinging to his skin, flushed from exertion and Dean really can’t deal with that in his kitchen right now.

For All You Young Hockey Players Out There, Pay Attention bythursdaysfallenangel 143k

Dean Winchester knows two things about hockey, two things his dad made sure he knew. One, hockey is a guy’s sport, and two, hockey is family. Hockey meant Sam and Bobby and Benny and Victor and Gabriel and hell, his entire team. So when Victor gets traded, Russian-star-turned-new-teammate Castiel Krushnic becomes a threat. As much as Dean hates him for that, the longer he sticks around, the more he begins to threaten that first rule too. Dean’s been taught his whole life that those who play hockey should not be captivated by deep accented voices and the way a guy handles his stick, so how the hell is he supposed to justify what he’s starting to think about Cas? All Dean wanted at the beginning of the season was to win, and now all he wants to do is figure out how he feels about Cas and how to deal with it without ruining his career and tearing his family apart.

Grown-Ups Making Grown-Up Choices by Carrieosity @carrieosity 81k

Dean is a grown-ass man - he can take perfectly good care of himself, thank you very much. Except that sometimes the easier or more fun choices aren’t always the right or best ones, and, all right, maybe thinking ahead and working the long game isn’t his strongest suit. It’s fine! He’s fine.

When he meets Castiel, he realizes that flying by the seat of his pants may not be the best way to attract the super-serious (gorgeous, funny, genius) Alpha. Dean’s shrink has been telling him he needs to start making “grown-up choices,” and if that’s what he has to think about in order to make Cas fall for him, then he’ll give it a whirl.

Halflings by Unforth @unforth-ninawaters 103k

Ever since his wife Lisa died, Dean Winchester has been willing to do anything for his son Ben. When Ben decided he wanted to adopt a halfling, Dean said yes without hesitation - provided they did so the right way, by giving whichever half-human they decided to bring home the respect and dignity it deserved. Half-octopi Castiel isn’t exactly what they were looking for in a pet, but, then, they aren’t exactly what Castiel was expecting for owners, either.

I Can Make You Scared by Dangerousnotbroken @dangerousnotbroken 136k

So this is how it goes. Best day of Dean Winchester’s life. Loses his job, finds out he’s been cheated on, gets dumped, all in the course of one fucked up Thursday. Drinking himself into oblivion is the natural response, right? A chance encounter in a dingy dive bar gives Dean a new friend who sees his problems and likes him anyway. Now, as Dean struggles to pick up the pieces of his life, Castiel just might help him put them back together in a way he never expected.

I Wanna Get Outside (Of Me) by emwebb17 142k

Dean is a novice in the dom/sub world asked by his employer as a desperate last resort to be a sub for his recluse of a brother, Castiel. Castiel is a diagnosed OCD suffering from PTSD and agoraphobia, mysophobia, and dystychiphobia. Needless to say—he’s a mess who hasn’t stepped out of his home in literally seven years. The only times Gabriel can see traces of the way his brother used to be is when he feels in control—specifically when he has control over a sub. However, due to his idiosyncrasies and paranoia, keeping a sub around has been impossible. Enter Dean, who’s not a very traditional submissive, to try his hand at subbing for the hermit.

Living in Agony by ChasingRabbits 120k

Dean Winchester’s life is… well, it’s not great. He’s a gym teacher, he’s in his thirties, and he can’t seem to keep any part of his life straight. When the aftermath of a one-night stand goes awry, Dean is dragged kicking and screaming out of his cozy little closet and into the harsh light of reality.

Enter: Castiel Novak, the new history teacher, who knows full well that life gets crappy when you don’t allow yourself to live it in the way it needs to be lived.

Plus One by ceeainthereforthat 90k

Castiel Novak might have to attend three weddings in two months, but he’s not about to let his brother play matchmaker. His family’s Internet streaming company is too important to let a relationship steal his time, but he knows exactly what to do–hire someone to pretend to be his boyfriend.

Dean Winchester has worked five-star hospitality long enough to know how to fit in with Castiel’s crowd, and this job could score him the connections to make his acting career take off. It’s a business deal, no matter how they’re drawn to each other. When the lines of their contract start to blur into real feelings, can they withstand Castiel’s family and jealous fans working to split them up?

Satin and Sawdust by Ltleflrt @ltleflrt 159k

When Castiel moves out of Jimmy’s house and into his own place for the first time, he saves money on buying a home by investing in a Fixer-Upper. He knows nothing about how to fix the many problems the house has, but he figures he’s smart enough to figure it out. Unfortunately it’s not too long before he learns that he’s way in over his head.

Thankfully his new neighbor Dean is a handyman, and agrees to help him out. He knows Dean has a bit of a crush on him, but he’s not taking advantage of it, really. Dean’s a great guy, and quickly becomes a good friend.

Should’ve Just Asked by Annie D (scaramouche)

Despite their age gap and differing social circles, Castiel has struck up a warm friendship with Mary Winchester, a wealthy widowed socialite. When Castiel needs a place to stay, Mary invites him into her house, where there’s loads of spare room. Castiel’s aware that they make an odd pair, but he doesn’t fully realize how things look to outsiders, especially to Mary’s eldest son. All Dean Winchester sees is that his mom has apparently hooked up with a hot young guy (who is totally Dean’s type) and that makes things… weird.

The Last Great Race by wincechesters 82k

There is a race that takes place every year in Alaska called the Iditarod, a thousand mile journey across the Alaskan wilderness by dog sled team that has come to be known as “The Last Great Race on Earth”. It is a test of endurance, of the relationship between dogs and their people, traversing mountain ranges, frozen rivers, forest and tundra.

When writer Castiel Milton is forced to spend two and a half months in Alaska at Winchester Kennels to cover the race preparations and the Iditarod itself, the only person more dismayed than he is Dean Winchester, one of his hosts. Castiel views his assignment as a punishment and is less than impressed by his surly host, and Dean distrusts the sheltered city-born writer who has invaded their home and their lives. But soon, as the Winchesters prepare for their race and Castiel learns about sled dogs and what a musher’s lifestyle is all about, they forget to hate each other and their relationship evolves into something neither of them expected.

ok this is sterek and tagged with watersports and underage but hear me out — i love this fic. stiles gets peed on at the beginning of ch9 if you want to skip it, but it’s really just about as weird in a werewolf verse as you’d imagine, and i still love the fic so.

Sell Your Body to the Night by Dira Sudis (dsudis) 121k

“No,” he repeated impatiently. “I’m not a cop. I’m someone who wants to exchange my money for your sexual services. I was told you were in that line of work.”

“I, uh, yeah, sorry,” Stiles said. He glanced around again and then up–the full moon was almost directly overhead. Just one of those nights, maybe. “Yeah, I am. I do that.”

also sterek, but hear me out – this is the first sterek fic i ever loved, and if it weren’t for this fic, i probably wouldn’t have gotten into it in the first place.

Cornerstone by Vendelin

Suffering from PTSD, ex-Marine Derek Hale moves back to Beacon Hills to open a bookshop and find a calmer life. That’s where he meets Stiles, completely by accident. Stiles is talkative, charming and curious. Somehow, despite the fact that he’s blind, he’s able to read Derek like no one else.

if you read and like any of these, give the writer some comment love!!!

and have a great vacation!!!!

#origin-void #sharkrecs #sharklists #destiel #sterek

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thebrotherscupheadandmugman · 6 years

Text

Pyramid Peril! With Djimmi the Great!

Before you read: This is a rewriting of the main game Cuphead. Characters, certain dialogue, music, and locations obviously do not belong to me. This is best read with the OST playing over it. And before you start reading, remember that reblogs > likes! That being said, enjoy!

Blogs with Djimmi as a muse: @djimmi-the-great-and-powerful @karnivalkrew (that’s me!)

The brothers spread out all eight of the Soul Contracts they've collected so far onto the forest floor. “Moe Tato, Weepy, Psycarrot, Goopy le Grande, Cagney Carnation, Ribby, Croaks, Hilda Berg...That's it! That's all the contracts we need in Isle One!” Mugman cheered, crossing off Hilda's name. “Onto Isle Two then?” “Yup!” The older mug checked his watch. “And it's only 1:45! We're making great time!" “Fantastic! Let's go!” “Right.” Mug nodded. The boys gathered up the contracts and put them back into their pockets, making their way to the Die House of Isle Two.

As our heroes entered the square, orange building, they immediately spotted King Dice on the other side, blocking the way to the next isle. “Well, look what the cat dragged in. For your sake, I hope ya got all 'em contracts, Cupface.” The manager taunted, earning a scoff from the younger child. “As a matter of fact, we do! See fer yerself!” Cuphead pulled out the Soul Contracts again, showing them all to King Dice as Mugman pulled out the list with the names they crossed off. “Well. Ain't that a pip! Looks like you really put the kibosh on them debtors. You can head on over to the next isle.” King Dice smirked, adjusting his blazer. “Plenty more marks for you to lean on there!” “Let's hurry up and make tracks, Cuphead.” Mugman urged, putting emphasis on the later half of his brother's name. “We've got about 33 hours until the deadline.” “Uh, 33? Try again, genius.” “What?!” The brothers asked in unison.

“The Devil said we had until midnight tomorrow!” Mugman reminded. “Exactly. You have until twelve-o-clock, AM...September 30th.” “What?!” “But that's only...!!” Cuphead began to count on his fingers before Mugman finished for him. “That's only ten hours!! We're just two kids, we can't possibly travel all of Inkwell Isle in less than a day! Let alone doing so while having to get all these contracts!!” “You had no problems traveling all the way to Hell and back.” “He....he's gotchya there...” Cuphead had to admit. “Oh come on!!” “This isn't fair!” “Life ain't fair, wheats.” “You can't do this!!” “Oh can't I? That's where you're wrong, half portions! I think you both fail to realize just who I am.” The manager smirked, going silent as he let the bass play for a short while. The furniture around them began to bounce and sway to the music, dancing along to the rhythm.

“I'm Mr. King Dice! I'm the gamest in the land. I never play nice, I'm the Devil's right-hand man!

I can't let you pass, Cuz you ain't done everything! Bring me those contracts, come on, Bring them to the King!” He sang.

“If you haven't finished your task! Haven't worked assiduously... No I cannot let you pass! Don't you mess with me!

Don't mess with King Dice...” Suddenly all the furniture around them grew mouths and teeth, singing to King Dice's song. “Don't mess with King Dice!” “Don't mess with me...” “Don't mess with him!” “Don't mess with King Dice...” “Don't mess with King Dice!” “Don't mess with me!!” The brothers subconsciously took a step back, towards each other. Neither one of them liked the situation they were in, and the singing furniture surely didn't help.

“I'm Mr. King Dice! Heed just what I say... The Devil has his price. And I'll make sure you pay...

I don't have time to mess 'round, And I hope you will agree! Bring me those contracts, Pronto! Don't you mess with me.” The dice practically growled, yet he was still singing.

“Don't mess with King Dice!” “Don't mess with King Dice!” “Don't mess with me!” “Don't mess with him!” “Don't mess with King Dice!” “Don't mess with King Dice!” “Don't mess with me! Ah...” King Dice glanced down at the boys, with a sinister smirk as all the furniture stopped its movement. “Any how, I guess I should take a powder already. Enough bumpin' gums, ya dig?” With that, the die hopped up with a dramatic twist, and spiraled down into a hole that suddenly disappeared just as quickly as it had appeared.

The brothers just stood, clueless as to how to respond. “Well that just wasted like two minutes.” Cuphead cracked. “Ten hours?! Th-this is impossible!! There's no way we can convince everyone to give us their contracts in only ten hours!!” “Mugman, calm down! We ain't gettin' anywhere with you panickin' like this!” “Cuphead, what're we gonna do?! There's no time ta-” “Mug! Calm down!” Cuphead grabbed his older brother by the shoulders and gave him a harsh shake. “Look....I know you ain't gonna like this, but we've gotta stop reasoning with 'em!” Mugman paused. “W-w-what?” “If we waste time trying to convince people to hand over their souls to us, we'll run out of time for sure! We can't try to reason with 'em like that!” “B-but-” “No! It's not gonna work!!” “I...” Mugman sighed. “You're right...” “Course I am. Have I ever steered you wrong?” Cuphead tried to joke, but it only earned a soft glare from his older brother. “Don't even start.” “Oh right...Yeah, that was probably the worst time to say that.” The brothers exited the Die House and entered Isle Two.

As the boys took their first few steps out of the house, they had to stop to take in the land before them. Inkwell Isle's carnival. As run down as most of the rides were, the amusement park had been going on strong for the past 80 years or so. It was always fun to look around, but they hadn't been able to come as patrons in years. They only were able to pass through.

Since it was relatively late in the day, the line to get in was particularly short, so the brothers stepped forward to get in the line, before they suddenly heard an elderly, familiar voice. “Guys, hang on!” The cup kids turned around to see their grandfather, Elder Kettle, just outside the Die House. Cuphead gave a big smile. “Thank the stars I caught up with you. I believe I've found a way out of this mess you're in!” Elder Kettle beamed as he walked closer to his grandsons. “Hawt dog! You have?!” Mugman cheered with a wide, excited smile. Elder Kettle nodded. “Your strength is growing! You'll soon be a match for that no-good King Dice...” The brothers looked at each other. “And maybe even the Devil himself!” Mugman gasped at the thought. “Golly, do you really think?” Cuphead asked. “I do! But you'll never get close to the Devil unless you already have those Soul Contracts in hand!” Elder Kettle shifted his weight onto his cane, extending his pointer finger and his right hand. “Only then will you get a chance to turn the tables on that fiend! So, when that time comes, do the right thing!” “Golly...Turnin' the tables on the Devil himself?” Cuphead wasn't so sure...He was confident in his abilities, but what would happen if they failed? Mugman pondered a similar train of thought. Wouldn't it be better to play it safe and do what was asked? If they won, they'd give everyone their contracts back and life would return to normal. If they lost, the Devil would take their souls forever! But if they do what the Devil told them to, they'd be spared, yet they'd still be condemning so many people to an eternal life of Hell! “Well, I'd best leave you two to it.” “Yeah, yer right, Elder Kettle. We don't got much time, so we'd better shake a leg.” Elder Kettle started to walk away, but Mugs took a step closer to stop him. “Uh, wait!” “Hm? Yes, Mugman?” Elder Kettle hummed, turning around. “Well, I have a question. What would happen if I were to try to use an Ex Move without any magic built up in my Super Meter?” Elder Kettle's eyes widened at that, his mustache frowning into a grim expression. “Hmm...Well, it wouldn't be good, that's for certain.” Elder Kettle pointed to Mugman's torso with his cane. “Your Super Meter is a combined buildup of your natural magic and the weaponized magic I gave you from that potion. Trying to use an Ex Move without the proper magic will simply drain it from the magic in your soul. That would completely drain your energy. If you did that, it would take you weeks, or maybe even months to recover.” “Oh good golly! Ya couldn't have just left it at 'don't do it'?” “If I had there would be two certain young boys who would have tried it out anyway.” The Elder glared, prompting the cup to whistle innocently. “You two are indeed growing stronger. But you must remember your limits. You may have to push them, but please...be careful to not push them over the edge. Watch each other. Take care of each other.” “Of course. Will do, Elder Kettle...and thanks for telling me.” “Anytime, Mugman.” “Next!” “Wuh-oh! That's us! C'mon Mugs, let's get going.” Cuphead reminded, pulling his older brother along by his wrist.”

“Traveling or riding today, boys?” “Ri-” “Just passing through again.” Mugman answered. “Aw man...” “That's all you two do isn't it? Well I suppose you two aren't old enough to putz about unsupervised.” The ticket cashier joked, handing each of the brothers a red rope bracelet. “Remember to give these back to Cathy on the other side of Isle Two, you guys! Have a swell day!” “Thanks, Joe!” Mugman waved, walking past the gate of the carnival. “Is that guy's name really Joe?” Cuphead asked. Mugman simply shrugged, making an 'I dunno' sound. “Everyone's name is Joe these days.” “Hm. True I guess.” Cuphead agreed with a shrug. “Anyway, where do we start?” “I'm. Reading.” Mugman huffed, unraveling the list of debtors. “Let's see...We got...Baroness Von Bon Bon...that...was kind of fun to say...Uh, Baroness Von Bon Bon, Djimmi the Great...Actually...Djimmi...doesn't he run the Pyramid Peril maze?” “I dunno.” Cuphead mimicked with a shrug, “Ask Dih-Jimmi.” Mugman looked over at his brother. “Djimmi. It's pronounced Djimmi.” “There's a 'D' there, not an 'S-H'! 'Duh-Jimmi'.” Mugman sighed rolling his eyes and looking back down at the names. Cuphead then happened to notice an all too familiar pilot standing by a long, orange tent. “Is that Floyd?” Mugman looked up from the list again. “He's standing next to our planes.” “What's he doin' here?” “Let's go ask him.” Mugman rolled the list back up, then put it in his back pocket.

The brothers walked over to the canteen, Mugman giving Floyd a cheerful wave as he got closer. “Floyd, what are you doing out here?�� “'N with our planes no less.” “Good timing fellas! I just added an upgrade on your Aeroplanes! On top of your repairs as well, of course. “Wow, really?” Cuphead beamed. “Uh-huh. Now you can wallop your foes with bombs!” “Couldn't we do that with our Ex Move and Super already?” Mugman asked. “That's different, kiddo! That was more like a special attack! But now this is just a different weapon altogether!” “Oh, like the Roundabouts?” Mugman compared. “The what now?” “Never mind, I think we get it.” Cup said. “So, it's like a weapon we can just change?” “Yup! Just switch your weapon whenever it strikes your fancy! Try it out!!” “Wow! So nifty!! I can't wait to try it!” “Oh....I probably should have started off with this, Red Casablanca...Your plane was too badly damaged, and I only had time to upgrade your brother's.” “What?!” “I'll upgrade it as soon as I can, but if you need your Aeroplanes now, you just won't have the mini-bombs quite yet.” “Aww man!” Cuphead huffed with a pout. “Well...I don't know if we need them...Uh, Floyd, do you know anything about Djimmi? Djimmi the Great?” “Hoo boy. Djimmi is a genie. Big guy. I wouldn't doubt it one bit if your normal bullets do nothing but tickle him.” “So...we need our Aeroplanes.” Cuphead grumbled. “Alright! Let's get ta work then. No one else is gonna take down Shimmy the Great.” “You didn't even try there.”

The screen faded to the next scene, the boys flying around in what seemed to be a vast desert with a complex maze down below. In the center of the maze, were three pyramids with the largest one having a giant Sphinx head as the entrance. The brothers could see some of the patrons of the carnival down in the maze below, working their way towards the center. “Golly! I don't ever remember going through the maze before.” Cuphead thought. “You always said it was stupid. I've always wondered what the ride in the center was though.” “Wait, there's a ride down there?!” “Yeah? See that big pyramid in the middle there? There's supposed to be a ride in there.” “Golly!! That's so nifty!! We shoul-” “Halt! Who goes there?!” A voice boomed from seemingly nowhere. The brothers looked all around before a large, muscular, red genie wearing a light blue-green vest, pants, and a turban with a beige feather attached to a red gem, also wearing a beige belt and black and beige, short arm gauntlets, appeared before them, on a flying carpet, in a puff of blue-green tinted smoke. “Hah hah hah hah hah! I've always wanted to say that!” The genie chuckled, puffing out some smoke from a wooden cobpipe. “Anyhow, I'd ask you two what's up, but I guess the answer would be us, huh?” “Are you Djimmi?” “That's right, ding ding ding, you are correct!! Djimmi the Great at your carnival guiding service! Which reminds me! I'm actually supposed to tell you that this is a no-fly zone, so I'm gonna have to ask you two to land your planes...” Djimmi hissed dramatically. “So sorry about that.” “But...wait, aren't you flying too?” Mugman asked. Djimmi's jaw suddenly dropped, stopping only when it slammed against the blue-green carpet with a loud clang! “By golly! He's right! I've been caught red-handed! Well, my hands are always red I guess. But still! Don't tell my mother, she'll be so disappointed in me! Oh no!! How could I be so easily defeated?!” Cuphead couldn't help but snicker just a bit at that. “Okay, but all joking aside, we're here on business, Dshjimmi.” “That was not even close, Cuphead.” “Uh oh. Not business! Anything but business! Noooo!!” “What's so bad about business?” Mugman asked, raising a brow. “Yeah, what's so bad about it, Shihdimmi?” “You can't spell it without 'sin'! Well, you could try, but it'd probably look really weird. Like...bisnuss.” Djimmi pointed as he spoke, the same blue-green smoke shot out from his finger as the letters B-I-S-N-U-S-S appeared in red neon lights in the sky. “Huh? Why not B-U-S-Y-N-E-S-S?” Cuphead asked. “That spells 'busyness'.” “Well, you're the smart one, aren't ya?” “Heh. I'd like to think so.” Mugman admitted. “But we're on a time-limit, uh, so...we're only gonna ask once?” “Yeah, we have a question fer ya!” “Well, I have an answer for ya!” “Look Dihgemie, we can either do this the easy way or the hard way. Yer choice. Give us yer Soul Contract.”

Djimmi's eyes widened at the mention of a Soul Contract, his playful grin fell into a shocked frown. Low, ominous bass tones began to play as Mugman caught Djimmi's expression, allowing his stomach to drop. “Why do I get a bad feeling about this?” “Oh, probably because I'm doing this.” Djimmi's body was revealed to have changed to form a string-bass, and that he was the one strumming the ominous music. “But in all seriousness,” Djimmi twirled around, returning to normal, “No.” “You don't understand, Mr. The Great!! We need it!!” “I can't just give you my Soul Contract!!” “Look, Dshjushujshjudgejimmi! If ya won't give it to us, then we'll just hafta take it by force!!” “If that is what you wish!! You will feel the wrath! Of Djimmi! The Great and Pow-OOF!” Cuphead suddenly opened his fire at Djimmi, cutting the genie off from his sentence. Djimmi dramatically keeled over, and fell off his carpet, which swooped down after him and vanished from the screen completely. “Cuphead!! At least let him finish!!” Several versions of Djimmi suddenly began playing 'Amazing Grace' on bagpipes from down below, all wearing traditional Scottish kilts. “Somehow, I think he's just fine.” “Ugh, I hate bagpipes!!” Mugman complained. “Yer the one with the bombs! You can shut them up y'know.” Mugman pressed a new button inside the cockpit of his plane, then pressed his thumb down on the stick, dropping a mini-bomb onto the Djimmis below. As the bomb exploded, all the genies turned charred, black, and wide-eyed before crumbling into ash. A drum and a trumpet began to play as the boys noticed the cob-pipe Djimmi had in his mouth floating in the middle of the air. Djimmi's voice audibly took a deep breath, a light gray smoke puffed up from the mouthpiece to form his figure. Djimmi removed his cob-pipe with his right hand, then let out a large puff of smoke that formed Cup's head with X-es for eyes. “Ah!” “Oh!” The brothers coughed at the tobacco smoke in their faces, attempting to wave it away so they could breathe and see. “Behold!! The Chest of Challenges!” Djimmi pulled his carpet out from underneath himself and a large golden chest flipped out from the rug. The genie crossed his arms with a wide, forced grin as the golden chest's lid flapped open. “Really, I think you boys would love it! It's really the cat's meow!!” Suddenly a golden cat sarcophagus flew out from within the chest, soaring towards Cuphead and Mugman.

The brothers split apart, Mugman opting to get up higher, whereas Cuphead sank lower to avoid the attack. The sarcophagus suddenly split open with a meow and a metallic bink, launching kitty-like scarab-beetles that followed the boys' Aeroplanes. “Skull Shot!” Djimmi's head suddenly grew very large and stretched out when his skull launched from his mouth, as if being pulled out by the teeth. As Mugman moved to dodge the golden scatrab-beetles, he found himself cornered and with no time to react. Djimmi's skeleton-jaw opened wide, and clamped down on Mugman's plane as he flew into the mouth before going off-screen. “You look the fool, falling for the first trick I learnt at genie school.” “Mugman!!” Cuphead growled and began firing at Djimmi once again. “What's the matter? Not a cat person? Aw, now that's just clawful, who doesn't like cats? Unless you're allergic. Or maybe cat's just got your tongue.” Djimmi joked, sticking out his tongue to reveal a white and black cat clinging onto his tongue for dear life. “Mrowr?” “I'm back!!” Mugman suddenly flew back into view, just above his brother. “Oh thank golly.” Cuphead breathed. “Shoot him!!” “On it!” Mugman began firing bullets at the genie, all while the cups tried to avoid the scatrabs chasing after them. “Take this, Dahsjshuzjh-” “Just stop trying.”

Djimmi could see that the boys weren't having as much trouble as he'd hoped, so he put up his hands in the shape of a 'T' as if to call for a time-out. “Wait! Hang on. This isn't working. We need something else. Hmmm...” Djimmi lifted up his arms half-way, as if he were meditating while he thought. “Hmmmm! Hmmmm....” Two stone bars appeared above and below Cuphead and Mugman, as if there was suddenly a floor and ceiling while Djimmi himself slowly vanished. “Wha...Where'd he go?! Did he run away?!” Mugman began to panic. “He can't get away that easy!!” The brothers flew faster, only to find themselves in front of a pillar comprised of Djimmi's various body-parts painted on stone. “Wuh-oh!!” “Guess the odds are really stacked against you now, huh?! Wuhahahaha!!” His laugh seemed to echo throughout the desert, and unable to stop their planes, the brothers found themselves slowing their Aeroplanes down as much as they could so as to not crash, but if nothing was done, it would be inevitable. “Mug!! Whadda we do?!” “Uh, keep firing!!” The boys did just that, however it seemed as if nothing was working, up until a stray bullet hit Djimmi's laughing face, causing him to flinch with a loud, “Yeowch!!” “His face!!” Mugman called out. “Wuh-oh!” “Hey, that's my thing!!” Cuphead whined as both the brothers aimed right at the new-found weak spot. “Wait, really? Whoops, my bad. Aagh!!” Djimmi's face suddenly exploded into crumbles with a puff of white smoke, only for the brothers to be met with a saw-blade in between them and the next pillar. “I kinda saw that coming, honestly.” Djimmi grumbled over the saw.

The brothers were quick to locate the next face, but just as quick to find themselves trapped by the blade. “Hang on, follow me!!” Mugman swiftly glided up and over the saw and quickly switched his weapon over, bombing Djimmi's face, which crumbled instantly. “Ow!” “Let's try to hang back here and wait for an opening!” “There's his face! In the center!!” “But I don't wanna be the center of attention! Or maybe I do? Actually, I do!” Mugman got up close and dropped another bomb on the stone face. “On second thought I don't.” Djimmi's face said as it crumbled to pieces. Once again, the brothers hung back and waited to spot the weak point before trying to break it while dodging the saw. Only this time, there were two faces. “One on top!” “And one below!” “Now there's two ways to go!!” They both chimed. “Wait, isn't that a bad thing?” “Oof!” Mugman bombed the upper one that happened to just a bit closer to them. Once again, the brothers quickly located the weak spot in the center of the next pillar, but this time Djimmi had a bored expression, as if he knew what to expect, and once again, his face was bombed. Finally, only one last pillar stood in their way, Djimmi's face was right at the very top. This time, Mugman had to wait for an opening, but once it was there, he wasted no time in flying up and dropping another bomb. The whole pillar disappeared in a puff of smoke, Djimmi transformed back into his normal self, and waved the stone floor and ceiling away with his left hand. “Yeesh, what are ya, the Blue Bomber?” A hand trailed up to loosen up a necktie that hadn't previously been there moments ago. “I can't believe it, I'm losing to a mug!” “Blue Bomber?! How'd you know my code name?!” “Huh? That's your code name? Who knew? I didn't. I was just referencing a game!” “What kinda game uses 'Blue Bomber' at all?!” “One for the NES.” “The N-E...What?” “This is a cartoon from 1934, what are you talking about?!” Cuphead questioned. “Cartoon? I thought this was a video game!” Djimmi snapped his fingers and a large book appeared in his hands, along with some eyeglasses on his face. “Maybe I should have actually read the script I guess.” After glancing over the script for a few moments, Djimmi then snapped his fingers again, disappearing into yet another puff of smoke.

“Let's split up for a little bit! Just until we know what he's doing!” Mugman suggested. “Right!” Cuphead nodded. Suddenly, a gold and blue sarcophagus of the genie descended from above, stopping just short of the edge of the screen. His right hand reached over and opened the coffin, and from the cosmic nebula within, Djimmi, a slug of his former self stretched out with an oddly high-pitched, “Yaaaaaaaah!” “Ew, what the heck?!” “Must be feelin' sluggish.” Cuphead thought. Mugman figured the mini-bombs would make quick work of the slug genie, so he got in close and continued to drop bombs onto Djimmi. Cuphead on the other hand, was forced to stay low, and shoot at the sarcophagus normally. “Go, my Dummy Mummies!!” Suddenly, mummies with a striking resemblance to Djimmi flew out at the boys, groaning out, “Raaaahhh.” “Ah!! A mummy!!” No sooner than Mug had said that, the next mummy that flew out wore an apron and a beehive wig over the wrapped up turban. “Raaaahhh.” This time, the groan sounded as if Djimmi himself were making a rather poor attempt to sound like a mother. “Leave the nice genie man alone! Or else you'll be grounded for the next two months!!” “Oh no, so scary.” Cuphead deadpanned with a sarcastic tone, before shooting at the mummy, making it fade away. “So, ya want scary eh? Put up ya dukes, fellas! Hiya!” Djimmi's eye sockets extended out, launching out his eyeballs that formed planet rings around themselves, at the brothers. “Woah!!” Cuphead scrambled to dodge, turning his plane harshly as he accidentally pulled into a roll to avoid the projectiles. “Oopsie. Talk about an Eyeball Mishap. How'd that even happen?” Another mummy flew out, and headed straight towards Mugman. “Huuuuuur-” The Dummy Mummy was cut off as it just so happened to cross the path of the mug's next incoming mini-bomb before he could process the incoming attack. “Y'know on second thought, maybe that Eyeball Mishap worked out better for me. Hiya!” Djimmi launched out his eyeballs yet again, but this time, Cuphead wasn't able to dodge, and as one eye pushed his left wing down, the other pulled right wing up, forcing the red plane into another roll that caused the young pilot to lose control. “Ahh!! No, no, no, no!!” “Cuphead! Don't over-correct, and pull up!!” With that bit of advice, Cuphead managed to level out his plane again, and pulled up. “Whew..” “Aw man, you were really on a roll, kid!” The boys both focused their efforts, and as Cuphead's bullets hit Djimmi the slug right in the neck, one of Mugman's bombs conked him right on the head, forcing his teeth to protrude outwards from his mouth. “Ouch! I mean-! Is that the best you got?!” Mugman got some distance , then lowered himself to meet Djimmi's sluggish form. He then pulled himself into an aileron roll, and forced the magical energy from his body out, launching a blue Chomper Missile. However, the missile would never hit the slug genie, as the second he saw it incoming, he shivered in fear, and quickly closed the sarcophagus, who's once serious face now shed a single tear before it hopped away. Boink, boink, boink, boink, boink, CRASH! The screen shook as the sound of breaking glass was heard off-screen.“Owie, I got glass in my eye! Aahh!!” The brothers gave each other a shared look of unamusement.

As they looked forward once more, they saw Djimmi before them again, meditating just as he had been earlier. A thin, clear swirl surrounded his head and face as he rolled his head in a clockwise motion. “Huh? What's he doing? Wo-woah...” Mugman mumbled, suddenly feeling completely out of it, as if someone was peering through his memories. The same clear spirals slowly materialized over the boys, but only for a few moments before Djimmi's turban suddenly transformed into a massive light-bulb. “That's it! Hah hah hah hah!” The brothers finally managed to snap out of the strange trance once the spirals went away, just in time to spot a smaller version of Djimmi's turban slowly floating and spiraling down towards them. “Since you two are so fond of playing the roll of the Devil's little puppets...!” Djimmi suddenly changed into a large, disembodied hand that quite clearly belonged to him, he then grabbed a wooden control bar that appeared from seemingly nowhere, and flew up off the screen. “Introducing, for the first time ever, Puphead!!” A wooden marionette flew up, bouncing once the strings suddenly stopped moving. However, this hadn't been just any simple marionette, as his head took the shape of a wooden mug, with a small red nose, and a straight, blue-green straw sticking out, from the head. Puphead also wore a light red t-shirt with matching red shoes and shorts that matched his straw. Mugman shuddered at the sight of the wooden doll, he'd never liked marionettes, they creeped the heck out of the poor preteen, and the similarity to his little brother and himself didn't at all help.

Puphead skipped along through the air, inching closer to the brothers before his legs suddenly stopped moving. He stuck his right arm out and pointed, a small hole opening up at the tip of his finger as his head fell over to the right, limply.

“Wuh-oh.” Puphead's whole arm began to vibrate as he began shooting at the brothers. Three large, round blue bullets flew out at the boys, and one last pink bullet sailed straight for Mugman! The end of his blue straw closed up as a gloved hand formed. Mugman rolled forward, and parried the round bullet successfully. “I did it!!” “Mugs! Keep firing!!” Mugman tried to use his mini-bombs, but with the shells flying out the way they were, Mugman couldn't get close enough to reach the puppet. He switched his weapon back, keeping a constant line of fire as Puphead shot four more round bullets at them.

Suddenly, Djimmi's mouth appeared from the bottom of his turban, and small black bullets shot out in a circular shape from the red gem. “Woah!!” Cuphead panicked, attempting to dodge the smaller bullets, only to run into the large pink one, leaving the nose of his Aeroplane with a white X-shaped bandage. “Cuphead!” “Don't worry kids! This beating's for free – no strings attached!” Djimmi taunted, firing out more bullets in sync with his little puppet. Djimmi knew just how to defeat these kids. Overwhelm the red one, and frighten the blue one. Unfortunately for our heroes, Djimmi's little scheme was working. Cuphead's Aeroplane couldn't stand much more, but there was no way Mugman would be able to fight on his own! “Cuphead!” “I-I'm fine! Let's just end this quickly!!” Cuphead scowled. He knew they could do this, but he also knew he couldn't last much longer. Mugman looked over at Puphead, assessing the situation. It would seem Puphead was created from their own memories. So if this were Cuphead before him, or even himself, where would he need shoot? Mugman knew he wouldn't want anyone hitting his handle, but there was no way to reach it on the puppet from where they were. What about the belly? Cuphead's tummy was always ticklish, but it also seemed to bruise easily. Wait, that was it! “Aim for his belly!!” Cuphead flew lower, keeping his fire constant as he focused more on dodging the bullets from Djimmi and Puphead, as Mugman flew up to be at straw-level on the marionette. Once there was a break from Djimmi's bullets, Cuphead was able to focus his aim properly, and fired right where he expected Puphead's belly button to be. It was evident that the puppet tried to move his hands to cover his stomach, but the tension in the strings wouldn't allow for it. Cuphead kept up his fire, trying his best to keep an eye on the turban behind him. Puphead evidently didn't like that one bit, his legs curled up to block the fire and he straightened up his head, only to lower it to try and protect his tummy. Mugman seized the opportunity and opened fire the second he saw the handle on the back of his head come into view. With a puff of smoke, Puphead's face changed to have X-es for eyes and a frown, as his hands folded up, and his straw formed a halo. “Knockout!!” “Huh?” “Wait that's it? Whew! Thank golly that's over with.” Cuphead sighed.

“Sike!” Djimmi appeared before them with a puff of smoke, he whistled, signaling for his turban to float back onto his head. “Betchya didn't know I could throw my voice like that, did ya?” Djimmi yanked the corner of his mouth off his face and chucked it at the brothers, and much like a boomerang, his grinning mouth came back to him, Djimmi catching it in his hand. He placed his mouth back on, but rather than the usual grin he'd been giving the brothers from the beginning, it almost seemed like he was gritting his teeth at them. “.gnorw no siht tup syawla I !spoohW” Using his two index fingers, Djimmi pushed the two corners of his mouth, twisting it until his grin was right-side up again. “But in all seriousness...Now I'm really mad!! You may be able to shoot magic finger guns and launch little bombs and drink outta your own heads, but can you do this?!” Djimmi twirled around as he descended downwards and out of view. “Um...probably?” Mugman shrugged. Suddenly, Djimmi spiraled back into view, four times larger than he had been just moments ago. His eyes glowed yellow, and he circled his gigantic hands in a confusing-looking motion. Three magical pyramids faded into view, each with a closed, light blue-green eye on all four sides. “Um, never mind!!” “W-woah!” Cuphead bit his lip nervously, looking at everything around him as he kept his thumb firmly pressed over the shooting button. The three pyramids circled the brothers, Djimmi shot them a glare and four clear rings shot out from the gem on his turban. “Cuphead, move!!” Cuphead pulled into a nose-dive, but almost crashed right into a pyramid in the process. “Ah!” Suddenly the pyramid's eyes opened, and Cuphead flew away, feeling that he should flee. After five seconds, four purple cosmic beams fired out from the pyramid, pointing up, down, left, and right, cornering Cuphead as he tried to avoid the beams. “M-Mug...” The child was close to trembling, this was far too much for him, and what's worse was that Mugman didn't seem to hear him. Djimmi smirked, then fired another set of mental rings at Cuphead. The boy saw them coming, and tried to steer out of the way, but doing so caused him to fly into one of the cosmic beams, just before its fire stopped. “Aaaahh!!” Cuphead shrieked, the cosmic blast hitting his body hard. “Cuphead!!” Mugman flew over to his baby brother. “Cuphead, are you alright?!” “Mugman, I-I can't d-do this!! Th-there's too much going on, I-I can't--” Cup shook his head, tears starting to build up in his goggles. “Cuphead, yes you can, I know you can! Alright?!” “B-but Mugman!!” “Shh! Don't worry about that, alright?!” “One more hit, and my plane's going down! I-I can't!” “Just hang on, alright! I won't let you go down!! Just stay calm, take deep breaths, and keep firing! Don't worry about whether or not you're hitting him, just keep shooting and dodging!” “That's what I've been doing!! And it's not working!!” “Just a little bit longer! Okay?!” Mugman expelled the magic of his full Super Meter from his body, melding and morphing with his Aeroplane as he formed a Super Bomb. He flew close to Djimmi, only to be hit by a sudden cosmic beam, causing him to detonate early. “Mugs!!” Mugman backed up from the explosion, flying right next to Cuphead. “I'm not hurt...Shaken, but not hurt.” Mugman bit his lip, having just lost his plan. “I wasted my Super.” There was a pause as the brothers stared down the large genie. “I have one.” “What?” “My Super Meter's full! But there's no way I could make it to him if you couldn't!!” “I know you can do it, Cuphead! Just wait for my cue, alright?” Cuphead looked ahead, worried. It took him a moment, to decide before he glanced at his brother with a soft nod. “Alright...” So the brothers waited, never ceasing their fire on Djimmi.

Soon the pyramid's cosmic rays vanished, and Mugman saw Cuphead's opening. “Now!!” Cuphead unleashed his Super, melding with his Aeroplane as he sailed towards Djimmi. Mugman then noticed another Pyramid open its eyes, and feared Cuphead wouldn't be able to move over it in time. “Cuphead!!” The cosmic beam shot out, just barely missing Cuphead and allowing him to get even closer. “What?! No!!” Djimmi fired another set of rings at the Super Bomb, but Cuphead managed to swivel under them. Djimmi gasped after he saw it, just as Cuphead crashed right into his cob-pipe, causing him to inhale and choke on the tobacco inside. Djimmi began sputtering and coughing, puffs of smoke coming out of his mouth as he did. “You did it!!”

As the final few notes rang out, Djimmi shrank back down to his normal size, his magic carpet allowing him to stay within the boy's view as his massive coughing fit knocked him to his arms and legs. “Ha! Take that, Djimmi!!” “Hey, you finally got his name right!” Cuphead paused. “I did!” He beamed. “But, Djimmi...We need your Soul Contract.” Djimmi was too busy coughing and gasping still, but with the snap of his fingers, the contract appeared before Mugman. Mugman looked it over before plucking it from the air, and shoving it into his cockpit for the time being. “Thank you...Come on Cuphead, let's go. Floyd's not gonna be too happy when he sees your plane.” “I...Yeah, let's go.”

#Cuphead and Mugman: Don't Deal with the Devil #Pyramid Peril #Cuphead #Mugman #King Dice #Djimmi the Great #Puphead #Word on the Wind! {Rebloggable Content}#Drabble #Rewriting #You're Supposed to Hit the Queue Ball!#((Fun fact: The day I finished this was the same day the DLC was announced.))#((There was also a bit of cut content that I just couldn't fit in here but this was super fun to write))#((I was going to include a Popeye reference and have him sing a parody of Popeye's little I'm Popeye the Sailor Man))#((Then the little *toot toot* Popeye does with his cobpipe XD))

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sainthockey · 6 years

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Evgeni Malkin + Anna Kasterova: SNC Russia (May 2018)

Evgeni Malkin is the most titled Russian hockey player in the NHL; he has superb stats and three Stanley Cups. Right now, while you read this issue, he is fighting for his fourth Cup: the playoffs begin in May and the final round ends in June. If the powerful Pittsburgh loses quickly -- though there's almost no chance of that -- we may see Zhenya participate in the IIHF World Championship, which is also running in May. SNC couldn't ignore the month of hockey -- or the fact that Malkin is married to one of the biggest sex symbols in sports journalism, TV presenter Anna Kasterova. For both of them, this is their first cover photoshoot and interview, taken by Ruben Zarbabyan in Miami.

August 7th 2006, Magnitogorsk. Evgeni Malkin wakes up after a night that would later be called “the worst of my life.” Discussions with Metallurg Magnitogorsk regarding Zhenya’s new contract were delayed late into the night. What was the argument? It was obvious to everyone that Zhenya was ripe with hope that he would soon transfer to the NHL -- Pittsburgh, his draft team, was already waiting for him. But the leaders of Metallurg insisted that it was necessary that he stay with them for one more year. Once they reached the eleventh hour of negotiations, they finally found Malkin to be persuadable -- and he signed the year’s contract and went to sleep.

But when he awoke in the morning, he realized that he made a mistake, and made a crucial decision -- he would call his North American agency, find a way to refuse the contract, and make it to the United States. “You can’t do that to people -- force them to sign these contracts at three in the morning,” Zhenya would later say in an interview.

Despite accusations about his lack of patriotism and the skepticism of “well-wishers” about his future in hockey overseas, he soon made his debut -- in September 2006 with the Penguins.

Around the same time -- in Moscow -- a Psychology student from Zelenograd -- Anna Kasterova -- was on the cusp of making a major decision. Her head throbbed -- the program she was in felt too managed and didn’t get into the heart of the work she wanted to do. It was time to instead turn to her childhood dream -- becoming a TV presenter. She quickly began to send her resume out to many companies, and heard back finally from “Russia 24.” However, without any experience or education in this field, they only offered her an internship where she would go to shoots with the channel’s star correspondents, hold their microphones, perform menial tasks, watch how they worked, and twiddle her thumbs. In this role, she would have to stay for two years -- all of this after a quiet office position for a financial company.

“Yes, before television, I tried out a number of different spheres. But everything seemed to be taken, as it turned out, and I’m an intelligent woman.” Slim, tall, and tanned, Kasterova has both the laughter of a contralto and some healthy self irony. But thanks to this, she still got her chance to get some time in front of the camera -- and took full advantage.

There was TNT, VGTRK, “Headbutt,”, “Central Television,” NTV and a bunch more. Twelve years later, the two of them are together in Pittsburgh. He is a three-time Stanley Cup winner. She is the the face of Russia 2, and now mother and wife. It seems that maybe the time of heavy career decisions is behind them, but even if not, they won’t have to endure them alone.

“We met in 2011,” recalls Kasterova. “More precisely, Evgeni saw me on TV. He found my number through some friends and sent me a message. I’m trying to remember what kind of friends they were…”

“Well, FSB, maybe…” Malkin loves to communicate with short, ironic punchlines -- which when paired with the unique timbre of his voice and his expressive accent (if spoken in English) usually brings forth the laughter of others. (translator’s note: here is an article about FSB, Russian state security/spy group since 1995)

“So, FSB, right?” Anna fixes her husband with a faux-angry look -- the style of communication of all happy couples -- and a moment later the both of them erupt with laughter. Through the laughing, Kasterova recounts the original text message that he sent. “It was something like this: Hello, Anya – This is Zhenya Malkin here. Here, I wanted to say, I liked you. If you'd like, can we be friends? And here, I’ll write to you sometimes.” Whether the insidious use of the word “here” worked on her -- or simply that she was that day in a good mood -- she agreed. Although, it isn’t possible to imagine how many of these types of messages she must have received -- a girl who, at the time, had the status of a sex symbol.

The storyline of their communications was revealed almost immediately: Evgeni’s feelings were revealed on the other side of the screen -- he did not hide them and constantly tried to initiate a full-fledged date. But Anya was not in a hurry to let this ardent center forward cross the blue line. And it didn’t help that Malkin lived and worked an entire hemisphere away.

Therefore, for three long years, Malkin and Kasterova were stuck in the stage of semi-friendly correspondence and the rare phone call. There were occasional “hellos” said on Fight Nights and in various Moscow restaurants, but nothing more.

“Of course, I understood that there is little chance for friendship between a man and a woman,” recalls Anna, “that once you write there is some interest there, but for some reason I was determined to to continue drawing it out.”

“There was interest,” recognizes Malkin, “but in the conversation I was being quite forward, as is typical of men. First of all, I wanted to get to know each other and that would show. It was extremely annoying that it took so long.” That fateful meeting, after which -- in the words of Malkin -- everything became quite serious, took place where hockey players and TV journalists collide as if they were all quantum particles in the Big Bang -- during the Winter Olympics in Sochi, or more precisely, immediately following. Malkin’s first date, in fact, he begged and persuaded Kasterova to have lunch with him as a small comfort after his unfortunate defeat against the Finns in the quarterfinals.

“Without a second thought, I agreed,” says Anya, “and we met. It immediately became clear that this brutal hockey player -- with a romantic and vulnerable nature -- has a hard time getting over defeat.”

It’s funny that the Big Bang that brought Kasterova and Malkin together could not have happened if the current ban on NHL participation in the Olympics had been in place back then. Malkin is certainly upset about the situation -- that he could not play for Russia during their first Olympic victory in many decades -- but he is happy for his colleagues and hopes to be able to attend the Winter Games in 2022.

“We are just pawns in this situation,” he says, from his heart, “the decisions are made by billionaires. The league considered their options and decided not to let us go -- it’s a shame, but that’s it. But of course I am very happy for our team.”

“Of course I understand how it important it would be to Zhenya to win this medal,” says Kasterova. “And I would love to go along with him and cheer -- especially since I have not been to Korea.”

“Nevermind that -- you would go to the North!” says Malkin -- a little family trolling.

“To what North, Zhenya?” Again, Anya fixes him an imaginary stern look and then they both burst out in more than one peal of laughter. Evgeni’s sense of humor was forged in difficult conditions: numerous press conferences and scrums with such questions as ‘when did you know you needed to add to the offense?’ (indeed, being shut out 2-0, clearly he would realize it was time for some offense? Did he feel they were getting shots off in attempt to get a goal?). Malkin crafted the perfect recipe for combatting such questions: blurt something out -- some simple, paradoxical thought from his head. In combination with his heavy accent, that certainly is enough to make the Americans roll with laughter.

From this, you might perceive Malkin as some kind of bumpkin -- one shirt, simple as five cents, with a strange, slightly clumsy demeanor. But you’ll only believe this until you see how he spins himself full round two defenders, all while sliding the puck past the opposition’s goalie. Then it becomes clear that Malkin is far from that simple guy.

His whole family, both mother’s and father’s, worked at the Magnitogorsk Metallurgical Plant. The family of Kasterova, too, comes from the field of science and industry. Anya’s first TV program on Russia-2 network dealt with topics of science, technology, and the internet -- but it was not by chance! Her grandfather was one of the lead engineers at the Zelenograd factory of Angstrem. Remember those vintage Soviet handheld games where the wolf catches eggs in a basket? As well as Mysteries of the Ocean and Autoslalom? These games were developed from the efforts of our heroine’s grandfather -- and Anya was one of the first informal beta-testers!

“I was even given models that did not end up in mass production!” she states proudly.

Today, their family life is clearly divided between days on which Zhenya has a game and days on which he does not. On game days, they wake up, Anya sees Zhenya off to the rink, and then after she begins to cook him his game day meal according to the rules of hockey nutrition -- though fortunately they are not so complex. When Malkin returns, he eats, sleeps about an hour, and then leaves once more to prepare for the game. If Anya is attending, she will head to the rink a little later on.

On days with no game, Zhenya will return from practice in the afternoon and they spend the rest of the day with their son Nikita. Off days are mostly spent driving to meet friends for lunch or dinner -- either one of their friends from the large Russian-speaking community in Pittsburgh, team captain Sidney Crosby, Malkin’s linemate Phil Kessel, or Swedish teammates Patric Hornqvist and Carl Hagelin.

“Kris Letang is also a good friend -- sometimes you can hang out with him,” adds Evgeni.

But in general, Pittsburgh is a small town with a population of only three hundred thousand. It used to be the center of the American steel industry, but those jobs have mostly moved to other countries and the city is trying to move more into technology and environmental fields. The time spent here is fairly calm, nothing like the nearest metropolis -- New York -- which is seven hours away by car, too much for Zhenya’s schedule to handle during the season when he has a maximum of one and half days off at any one time.

What about Las Vegas? “Well, I wasn’t there, but Evgeni?” Kasterova looks at her husband, questioning.

“Evgeni loves Vegas!” Malkin says, referring to himself in the third person, though the statement is clearly made with false bravado. He was only in Vegas a couple of times, and only for work -- to play against the local hockey team. “It’s probably cool to go there on vacation -- go to concerts, play in the casino, but in the offseason we spend much of our time by the ocean, and this year Nikita’s great-grandmother is eager to spend time with him, so we will try somehow later.”

Homesickness, of course, arises in their situation. They fight it as they can: sometimes by watching Russian channels (his favorite film is “Operation Y” and hers is “A Cruel Romance”). More often, they drive to Russian shops in the area to get baraniki. At the peak of his nostalgia, Malkin bought a Russian billiards table -- he loved to play in Magnitogorsk and has now seriously improved his skills! These kinds of sports, focused on scoring, are definitely his thing. (translator’s note: baranki is a russian bagel eaten with tea-- the smaller form is called sushki. thanks to emalkin71 for the help with this-- i had always used the term sushki instead!)

And they don’t lack for friends in Pittsburgh -- close and loved -- as well as some urban infrastructure. “I knew what I was going for,” Anya said that she consciously made a choice -- in favor of her future husband, their family, and his career. “But this decision was not easy for me, nor without tears. Entertainment is not the main thing in life, and for an athlete, of course, Pittsburgh is quite ideal -- there is nothing to distract you from your sport.”

Indeed, Malkin does not seem to be distracted. For the Penguins, Geno (his American nickname, a derivative of his name) is a leader in the broadest sense of the word: he has the most goals and points on the team, and the best “ratio of usefulness.”

A Siberian Hulk, moving across the ice at supersonic speed, the archetypal Russian, a hero who will come and say just two simple words in a distinctive accent and solve all of your problems -- that’s how people in the States think of Malkin. And the fans of the Penguins also see in him the reincarnation of Mario Lemieux, the legendary #66, who brought their then second-rate team to two Stanley Cups in the early nineties. In one way, Malkin has even bypassed Lemieux: he has three cups (in 2009, 2016, and 2017). And even this year, they have a serious chance to nab a fourth!

But in the regular season, Pittsburgh played just ‘okay’ -- why? “After winning two cups in a row, most opponents play against us very hard,” says Malkin. “On one hand, they are afraid of us, but they also would like to beat us at any cost.” For Zhenya, this means the increased attentions of the defense -- and not always within the rules.

Hockey offers a lot of space for aggression: 26 specific penalties exist for which you would receive a two-minute removal, and another 15 that warrant a full five minutes. Games in which Malkin doesn’t draw a single penalty due to the aggressive attention of the opposition just don’t happen.

This, of course, is not the story of Pavel Bure -- the main Russian star of the previous generation. He was nicknamed “Russian Rocket,” and in his case, his bodyguards Brasher and Odjick would stop anyone from even coming after him by smearing opponents to the ice.

For the 6’3” and nearly 198 lb Zhenya, this method won’t fly. Opponents know he isn’t all talk -- he does take penalties and even fights sometimes! But the straightforward and benevolent Malkin doesn’t know how to beat them with their own tricks and hates the dirty game they play. When he is provoked to fight, he doesn’t hesitate to punch first -- Magnitogorsk-style! If he were a character in a combat video game, maybe this would be beneficial, but it’s a disastrous strategy on the ice. Geno could easily be taken out of the rest of the game and then Pittsburgh would be without its main sniper.

The team traded for Ryan Reaves in the offseason to help solve this problem, and Reaves racked up six fights in half a season’s time -- a more than satisfactory result! Reaves’ presence allowed Malkin to cut the number of penalties he took in half. But in February, the team traded Reaves in favor of strengthening their third line. It seem that in the playoffs, points will be more valuable than fists.

However, it seems that Evgeni has his own personal Ryan Reaves at home. When she once again directs us all to move on with more of the interview questions, I notice that Anna is not at all relaxed. “This is my usual state,” Kasterova states quietly. But Malkin is quite relaxed -- joking and laughing. Thanks to his wife’s tireless efforts, all of his worries begin and end on the ice. And all this at a time when their son, Nikita, is nearly two years old (very soon they will have to tend to his cries and end the interview) -- a difficult time in the life of any young family!

It is not surprising that under such conditions, Geno recently passed the 900 point mark in the NHL. Fans expect that he might reasonably finish with one and a half or even two thousand points before he’s done. The question before them now is whether they are going to return to Russia after he retires. Malkin pipes up immediately in favor of this, but Kasterova speaks over him with a more considered opinion: the two are still in constant communication about this topic. Much of this will of course depend on their children.

At this point, it becomes clear that with Anya by his side, Zhenya would never be forced to agree to anything, no matter how much pressure was put on him. Not at three, or even five o’clock in the morning -- he’s a happy man.

(translation by: saintroux)

#Evgeni Malkin #Anna Kasterova #SNC Russia #translations by saintroux #Pittsburgh Penguins #thanks to sevenfists for giving it a once over ❤️#and to emalkin71 for a few points that i missed

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