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tcm · 4 years

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Donald O’Connor Deserves to be a Super Star By Susan King

Donald O’Connor was a star. But I always thought he should have been a super star – a honorary Oscar-winning, an AFI Life Achievement Award and a Kennedy Center Honors recipient. He should be considered an equal to other legendary musical comedy stars, like Fred Astaire and Gene Kelly, especially considering his remarkable athletic and acrobatic “Make ‘Em Laugh” number in the beloved Kelly-Stanley Donen MGM musical SINGIN’ IN THE RAIN (‘52), in which he literally backflips off walls, leaps over a sofa and even wrestles with a fabric mannequin. It was a gravity defying routine that is still a work of brilliance nearly 70 years later.

What makes that number even more astonishing, is that it was O’Connor’s second attempt at the exhausting routine that’s captured on film. He told me in a 2002 Los Angeles Times interview that “when they filmed it, no one checked the aperture of the camera properly. It was all fogged up. So, the whole day’s shooting was ruined. We had to go back and do it again. But for me, it kind of helped because I knew it better and I was able to do it better in the number.”

During his heyday, O’Connor had it all. He was adorable, impish, possessed a lovely voice, great tap-dancing skills and uncanny comedic chops. And, he managed to hold on to his dignity and get laughs playing straight man to a wisecracking mule in Universal’s extremely lucrative FRANCIS series. In 1997, he told me that he loved doing the franchise, which began in 1950 with FRANCIS. “It was wonderful,” he noted. “It gave me a chance to get away from the song-and-dance character. I never thought they would be that successful.”

O’Connor quipped that he had a “fantastic” relationship with the mule, voiced by Chill Wills. “I have worked with a lot of jackasses! I’ve had plenty of experience. We were very dear friends until he started getting more fan mail and that was the end of that! That broke up our relationships. Ego clashed with ego.”

So why did superstardom evade him?

After all, when the Film Society of Lincoln Center honored him 1997, The New York Times’ dance critic Anna Kisselgoff gushed, “To call Donald O’Connor a song-and-dance man is like calling Shakespeare a strolling player.” O’Connor’s timing was off. When he reached the height of his popularity in the early 1950s, the studio system and big movie musicals were on their way out. He only made a handful of musicals after SINGIN’ IN THE RAIN. And then movie offers basically dried up after the ill-fated biopic THE BUSTER KEATON STORY (‘57), which tanked with both critics and audiences.

And then there was his life.

O’Connor made audiences laugh, but his real-life was anything but joyous. He was literally born in a trunk in 1925 to a circus strongman and a circus acrobat. He lost his father at six months old when his father died of a heart attack in the middle of his routine. O’Connor’s overbearing mother put her children in the act. O’Connor told me he joined the family act when he was just 13 months old. “The first thing I did was dance and do acrobatic trips.” O’Connor told me that his mother never sent him to school. His sister was killed when she was hit by a car, and when O’Connor was 12, his brother Billy died of scarlet fever.

He began drinking when he was about 19 years old while serving in World War II and began to rely on the bottle. His New York Times obituary quoted him saying, “Instead of coming home and having one or two drinks, I’d have one or two bottles.” O’Connor had a heart attack while in his 40s, spurred by his use of nitroglycerin pills before his nightclub acts so he would have the stamina for his routines. He would later have quadruple-bypass surgery in 1990. O’Connor had a physical collapse in 1978 due to his alcoholism. He was sober by 1979 and remained so until his death at 78 in 2003.

I got the opportunity to interview him three times: in the early 1980s, when he was at the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion in a production of Show Boat as Cap’n Andy; in 1997 when he co-starred in the Jack Lemmon/Walter Matthau comedy Out to Sea; and in 2002 when he was appearing at the Academy of Motion Pictures Arts and Sciences’ tribute to SINGIN IN THE RAIN.” Each time I found him charming and sweet.

I was recently watching William A. Wellman’s action-adventure Beau Geste (‘39) and there was O’Connor charming as the younger version of Gary Cooper’s character. He’s was equally enchanting in his first major film SING YOU SINNERS (‘38), in which he portrays Bing Crosby’s younger brother (Crosby is actually old enough to play O’Connor’s father) who becomes a jockey. He became a teen dream when he was put under contract at Universal in the early 1940s, usually appearing with Peggy Ryan in a series of youth-oriented musicals. Critics took notice of the teenager with The New York Times praising his turn in the musical comedy MISTER BIG (‘43), stating “as fresh and delightful a performance as any jaded eye could care to see.”

O’Connor told me that he did 14 films in one year before he entered the service. “The pictures were making so much money, they tried to get in as many as they could so they could release them once every three months while I was in the service. So, when I was in the service, my career was going up all the time. They all made a fortune for the studio.”

He was so popular in the 1950s that he hosted the Academy Awards in Los Angeles in 1954 (Fredric March anchored in New York) and that same year won the Emmy as the host of The Colgate Comedy Hour. And after watching him performing on Texaco Star Theater, New York Herald Tribune’s critic John Crosby enthused that O’Connor was “one of the greatest all-around talents in show business.”

I went on YouTube to watch clips of O’Connor recently. I suggest you do, too. It’s uplifting and joyous watching his fun routine on skates in the “Life Has its Funny Little Ups and Downs” from I LOVE MELVIN’S (‘53), which reunited him with his SINGIN IN THE RAIN costar Debbie Reynolds. And I also enjoyed his “I Love a Mystery” routine from the Deanna Durbin musical SOMETHING IN THE WIND (‘47), in which he duets with numerous colorful balloons.

After he began sober, O’Connor returned to work in such films as Milos Forman’s RAGTIME (‘81) and Barry Levinson’s TOYS (‘92), and he continued to work on stage, in clubs and on TV. He told me in 1997 that retirement was a dirty word to him, and even at 72, he was on the road about 32 weeks a year. “It keeps me really busy. I sing, dance, do comedy.” I told him that he should do more movies. “Well, I know it,” O’Connor said, laughing. “Get in there and talk it up. Be my agent!”

#Donald O'Connor #Singin in the Rain #muscial #classic musical #old hollywood #Make Em Laugh #funny #Gene Kelly #TCM #Turner Classic Movies #Susan King

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loftec · 3 years

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what do u think about the new episode? because i personally fucking hate it :) i hate shameless, the only thing i care about right now is fic 😔

Same, my friend. I have been thinking about what to say or not to say about this for over a week and every time I've sat down to just type something out, I haven't been able to articulate anything. But I have so much to say, so I will try.

Now, if you (reading this, right now) are one of the lucky peeps who like this season and what it's got going for Ian and Mickey, so far... then maybe skip this rant. I honestly don't want to drag you down with my criticism. It's so ok to peacefully enjoy something without having to listen to people being crabby about the thing you love. Pax vobiscum.

That said.

(Crabby rant under cut.)

But if you're like me, kinda hurt and let down for the very last time, please stay a while. I'll tell you why I'm like this, and why I'm no longer angry, just disappointed.

Here's the thing, the first episode wasn’t any fun for me, but I quite enjoyed the second! It was the kind of low-stakes close-knit family stuff I want from a Shameless episode. Literally all they have to do to keep me happy is cram a bunch of Gallaghers into a kitchen and let them talk to each other for five minutes. I'm very easy to please. I like Sandy, I like what she does for Debbie's character. I like Tami, I like that Lip seems a lot happier. I like Liam, someone please take care of the boy. I like that Carl has a goal, and that he's all grown up. I like that Ian and Mickey are married and that they're a part of this family again. It’s a nice vibe, we’re having a party for Franny and it’s not perfect, but we learned something and we’re having fun. It’s fine.

On the whole, it’s nice. But for someone whose main priority is Ian and his significant other, it’s the same old bullshit all over again.

In seasons 1-5, I'm pretty sure Ian and Mickey only had like three conversations with each other that weren't plot relevant. But it was fine, it's en ensemble cast and Fiona, Lip and Frank got most of the A plots. Ian and Mickey had a lot of serious stuff going on, so the 5 minutes they got to do something each week had to be used dealing with all the shit they had to deal with. It's fine. This is fine. It's fine. I understand how TV works. We cut in on them in the middle of a conversation about Jean-Claude Van Damme, and I understand that they've spent the whole evening together and that they've talked about other things as well. Silly, inconsequential things, things people talk about when they like each other and want to be close and get to know each other. And when we're dropped in the middle of Ian, Mickey and Svetlana playing house in 5x1, I understand that it has been a period of time since we saw them last, and that things have changed. That they have talked about some things, and not talked about some things. And I happily played along and filled in all the gaps, I did the work; I imagined them together on a good day, on a calm evening lounging on the couch, on a lazy morning sleeping in. Quiet breakfasts, lively dinners. I imagined what they would say to each other, what they would talk about and what they still couldn't talk about. I did the work because it felt like it was worth it, because I knew that the story they were focusing on (Ian's illness and Mickey coming into his own) were worth it. That they needed every second they could get to tell the story of a mentally ill teenager and his abuse survivor boyfriend learning to love and support each other, and get better and grow up on their own terms.

I, the fool, kept thinking that one day. One day it would get better and they would get a break and the show would give them a minute, just a minute here and there, to be happy. Have a conversation that we could get in on. Have one good day for us to witness, and not just imagine.

Instead they broke them up for production reasons, for behind the scenes bullshit, for no reason at all, other than the simple fact that the show runners have never once cared about Ian and Mickey as much as we have. As much as Cam and Noel have. They had no qualms about rewriting a whole season's arc to make no sense in the last minute. They had no issues with throwing a beloved character in prison and leaving him there for a season and a half (which could have been good storytelling... if not every single Gallagher to ever get locked up had some lucky thing happen to spring them out again way before they’ve done their time). They had no problem with letting Ian say and do one thing one minute and then the exact opposite the next.

I think the thing that truly made me give up on the show at that time was the tattoo. We had such precious few things to work from when trying to understand these characters and we did our very best. We took the crumbs and we built a whole castle of cake. And one of the cornerstones, one of the first fucking things we ever knew about Mickey Milkovich, was that he could spell the name "Ian Gallagher". And if they wanted to give him a bad tattoo, they still could have. Maybe he did it himself and got it wrong because of the angle. Maybe there was a miscommunication and whoever did it on him got the name wrong. But no, they had to have him sit there and claim that he didn't know how to spell his boyfriend's name. It was so petty, so mean-spirited, such a massive fuck-you to anyone who dared to care and retain the things they'd previously told us about Mickey, I just had to stop caring about canon. I drew a line for myself around the canon I could understand as emotionally consistent, and ignored anything that landed on the other side of it. Perhaps not the best way to watch a TV show, but then I also stopped watching the show. So it worked out.

Anyway, this wasn't supposed to be about the first five seasons. But I'm obviously still bitter, and I wanted to explain why I'm well past the point of chasing after crumbs. Because it’s still the same bullshit, only now they’ve exchanged important, nuanced storylines about coming out and getting better for... I don’t know. Talking about sex and arguing about money.

Here is an incomplete list of loftec’s crumbs of disappointment, so far:

Ian and Mickey have been married for 6 (?) months, and the writers will have you believe they still have not had a conversation.

Ian is still relegated to C-plots (only now he's sometimes allowed in the background of an A plot, which is fun I guess but still not near what he deserves after all these years).

Meanwhile, Lip got two separate extended scenes detailing how he tricks his girlfriend into spending less money, in the first episode. That’s so much airtime spent on one point. In the second episode, he had a casual conversation with his baby! Ian and Mickey haven't had a casual conversation about anything since fucking never!

Ian and Mickey have talked about sex and money, so far. Nothing else. Important things, I'm sure. But let's compare this with Lip in the same episode. Lip and Tami wake up together, they get to be sweet to each other, talk about their lives and daily routine, they have a chat about coffee and someone they know who is having a hard time, then they get into the subject of their conflict du jour. Ian and Mickey get a weird allusion to how much sex they're having (so much sex you guys, just believe and it will come true!) and then they're arguing about jobs and money. For two whole episodes. Except that one time where they got derailed and accidentally talked about monogamy instead.

Monogamy. Something they haven’t talked about before. And apparently a word Mickey doesn’t understand, or know how to spell.

And it still feels so petty, because it's just. So specific. They could have chosen any of the magnificent character traits of Mickey's that they teased us with in the first five seasons, and this is the thing they pick? And then turn into a main character trait?? Mickey can't spell. Mickey doesn't understand words. Haha ha. And I'm not purposefully misunderstanding this scene, I promise. I understand what they were trying to do. I most certainly understand what Noel acted his ass off to convey. I am not here freaking out about Mickey wanting to be with other people, or Ian saying this or doing that. I'm not worried about them cheating or getting a divorce. I'm just really disappointed that this is where we are now.

That Mickey, who we all saw through and understood to be smart and loyal, quick on his feet and quippy as anything, has been reduced to this. I'm pretty sure he's had his hand down his pants in half the scenes he's been in so far. I don't know what that means, but it's like... a choice. And I don't like this choice. They could have had an insecure conversation about monogamy and money and we could have gone on this journey with them as they struggle with their inability to communicate and I would have been all for it, if it had been written with something more, anything else, something to break through the plump humor and crass approach to this marriage that Ian spent half of the last season trying to have a conversation about! But never got to, because the writers thought it would be funnier to have Mickey punch Ian in the face and run off with some guy, rather than talk to him!

Also, I know this is getting outrageously long, but the fighting. The fighting is another thing. Who here watched that scene in 3x9 where Ian tries to get Mickey to be honest with him and Mickey kicks him in the face rather than admit he's gay, and thought, hey! Guys being guys, am I right? Who here watched that scene in 5x10 when Ian punched Mickey in the face because he didn't know how to accept care from someone who loves him and wanted to feel a feeling, and thought; oh yes, this is just how they communicate! This is fine! I know I didn't. But sure, why not. It's a choice, I guess. They're just manly men, and manly men fight with their significant others. They beat the shit out of each other, no problem. This is not something we need to have a conversation about, not at all.

This is about writing. They easily could have written Ian and Mickey’s scenes differently. They could have had incidental bits of conversation, hinting at their lives outside of this conflict they’re having. They could have been in the background of someone else’s scene, just a quick gesture of something nice that would help flesh out the bits in between. They could have conversations and storylines about pretty much anything, and still bring up the question of monogamy and Mickey’s residual insecurities about Ian’s past infidelity. They could have been subtle about it, instead of writing a clown scene where Mickey acts like a clown and Ian doesn’t remember that he’s done a lot of shit in their past that they maybe need to talk about. Because they still haven’t talked about it? NOT ONCE? THEY WERE IN THE SAME CELL FOR MONTHS! AND NOT A SINGLE CONVERSATION WAS HAD. THIS IS FINE. I’M FINE.

I get it. This is supposed to be a fun show about whacky characters. It's supposed to be outrageous, the show runners and writers are choosing these things to get a reaction. I get it, and I don't like it and if you think this means that I should stop watching the show and shut up, then I agree with you.

But also, I love these characters and this community, and I want to like this season. Our last season. I want to watch it and still hope that Ian and Mickey will get to have a conversation about nothing special, just because they like each other, before it's over.

And if not, there is always fic. And you know I will be making them talk to each other in NTW until there are no words left.

#I want you to read this rant in hbomberguy's voice #please and thank you #would you believe me if I said this is the short version?#oh wow #i just scrolled up and realised how long this got #i'm sorry #don't read this #it's terribly silly and I should go to bed #Anonymous

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angeltrapz · 3 years

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for the “give me a character” meme! Eric, Adam, William, Mallick, Strahm, Rigg!!!!

YESS thank u!!!!

Eric:

How I feel about this character: That's my boy!!! <33

All the people I ship romantically with this character: Uuuu okay. Adam, obviously, but concerning the SAW polycule: Adam, Art, Lawrence, William, & Mallick!!

My non-romantic OTP for this character: Him & Rigg!!! That's his best friend!!! + he and Gibson in the Eric Lives AU!! (Gibson IS dating his best friend + recognizes that he's made the effort to change <3)

My unpopular opinion about this character: You Understand This but the idea that he's irredeemable/deserved to die is complete and utter bullshit. This post that you made perfectly describes my feelings on that!!

One thing I wish would happen/had happened with this character in canon: Firstly that he. Y'know. Didn't die. But I would have loved to see any of his interactions with Hoffman? Obviously they knew each other + I like to think they have since they were in academy together, so there's gotta be some sort of history there, y'know?? I feel like he definitely cared about Eric so I would've been very interested to see more regarding that relationship! + one more big one: I wish he knew/was at least made aware of the fact that Daniel was ALIVE and okay. It kills me thinking abt how this man died not knowing if his child made it out.

Adam:

How I feel about this character: I loooove him he deserved better. I relate pretty heavily to him.

All the people I ship romantically with this character: Hehe. Lawrence obviously!! Chainshipping is a HUGE comfort ship for me. BUT! Regarding the SAW polycule: Lawrence, Eric, William, Gibson, & Mallick!! + when concerning that alternative canon continuity we've been talking abt, Strahm. But only in that circumstance lol,,

My non-romantic OTP for this character: MANDY!!! In any AU where she's either not a disciple or abandoned her apprenticeship, I firmly believe that he and Amanda would be best friends. Mean gay/lesbian solidarity siblings who would fight tooth and nail for each other + who get each other on a level that not many others can. Pamela also!! Along w Mandy I like to think they talk about their experiences being trans a lot + just bitching w each other lol.

My unpopular opinion about this character: IDK how unpopular this actually is but I 100% believe that Adam would never become a disciple in any capacity, ESP not of his own accord. I genuinely think he'd rather die. That's just not something I can see him doing in any circumstance.

One thing I wish would happen/had happened with this character in canon: I wish someone had gotten him out of the bathroom :( And in an AU where he lives I hope someone tells him what a bastard Zep was!! No one made that dude hold a gun to Diana's head and listen to her heartbeat what the FUCK was that!!

William:

How I feel about this character: He's such a sweetheart I love him,, <33

All the people I ship romantically with this character: Lawrence & Adam <3 in the polycule though this includes Eric & Mallick!!

My non-romantic OTP for this character: He and Pamela obviously!! His sister is his best friend and they're there for each other 100%.

My unpopular opinion about this character: Much like Eric I don't think he deserved to die/that he's completely irredeemable... he fights so hard to save everyone and is utterly devastated when he can't. He's willing to hurt himself to save others (nearly dislocating his shoulders trying to keep both Addy and Allen, burning himself with the steam for Debbie, etc.) and it's like. John is always talking about how it can't be personal but it seems pretty fucking personal here!

One thing I wish would happen/had happened with this character in canon: The fact that nobody saw how hard he fought for his coworkers + the sacrifices he made for them upsets me to no end. That was intentional. John didn't want Tara + Brent (or Pamela for that matter!) to see him as human and that fucking bothers me!! So basically I just wish that they could've seen it via camera like literally almost every trap victim gets in some capacity!!

Mallick:

How I feel about this character: Yet another character I relate to wayyy too much <33 I love him...

All the people I ship romantically with this character: BRIT!!! + concerning the SAW polycule: Adam, Eric, William, & Lawrence!! (Art maybe too,,)

My non-romantic OTP for this character: I like to think he and Laura would've gotten along actually? I feel like that would be a good, healthy friendship. And I do like the idea of he and Brit like this too!! Other than that maybe Mandy? I feel like they could relate to each other a little bit, help each other when they're feeling brainweird,, (Mallick n Mandy: havers of Symptoms Disorder <3)

My unpopular opinion about this character: Again I don't know if it's unpopular, persay, but uh. I don't think the Mallick we meet in V would willingly sit and listen to Bobby Dagen in 3D. He'd hate that dude. My take on it is that Brit didn't survive V (although I think read somewhere that the crew confirmed she survived?) and that's why he was there: because he'd lost the one true connection he'd made in god knows how long. That's rlly the only way I see him sitting thru Dagen's bullshit lmao.

One thing I wish would happen/had happened with this character in canon: I wanted him to see Brit again,, and I just wanted to see him more in general tbh, esp because he makes a reappearance where so many prior Jigsaw survivors do not. I would've liked to see him interact with Simone given that they both lost a limb/nearly a limb (in Mallick's case). This is related to that, but I also wish the evidence of the 10 Pints trap wasn't just. A tiny scar? I HC that it took his whole hand, so.

Strahm:

How I feel about this character: Ohhh my beloved. Why didn't they give you a better narrative it would've been SO interesting. I love you though <3

All the people I ship romantically with this character: Honestly? Still super fond of Gibson/Strahm in a scenario where things are different,, I've written quite a bit abt them and kinda want to again but if I do it'll probably be. Not for a while + VASTLY different. but recent additions have been Hoffman (I used to. not understand Stroffman whatsoever. now I Get It) and Adam!!

My non-romantic OTP for this character: PEREZ!!! I've always thought of them as best friends since I first saw IV, and I do think he genuinely cared about her - quite a lot, actually, esp given how devastated he was when she was injured. They hang out at each other's apartments all the time + get coffee regularly. I love them.

My unpopular opinion about this character: I don't think he's a dumbass?? I don't know if that's unpopular. I think that he's IMPULSIVE and that it gets him into trouble, but Strahm has always struck me as incredibly intelligent + has a good moral compass for the most part?? I mean, he figured out there was a second apprentice (second as far as he knows, anyway) helping with traps just by examining Kerry's crime scene. I think he's VERY smart. He just acts quickly + sometimes that means there's not much planning for if things go south. (I DO agree that showing up to the packing plant w/out backup was dumb though,, doesn't mean he DESERVED the Water Cube but y'know)

One thing I wish would happen/had happened with this character in canon: It's not really mentioned if he does in canon, but I wish he'd been made aware of the fact that Perez was alive,, it bothers me that he might've died not knowing she was okay. The other thing is that I wish he'd survived V!!! I think it would've been WAY more narratively satisfying for him to kinda follow in Tapp's footsteps as a vigilante Jigsaw hunter. (That's why I love yr takes on him so much!!)

Rigg:

How I feel about this character: He has such a big heart. He cares so so much. I wish ppl talked about him more :(

All the people I ship romantically with this character: Gibson!!! And uhh Hoffman, but they're exes,, but! In a scenario I'm kind of going over in my head, maaaybe Adam... the basics though is that he searches the Nerve Gas House independently and somehow finds the Bathroom following II, and He is the one to rescue Adam. Very tentative abt that one though bc I'm still working it out lol. (Possibly Eric/Adam/Rigg???)

My non-romantic OTP for this character: Eric!!! His best friend <3 I think he's also pretty close with Kerry, though I think he hangs out w her independent of Eric given,, the messy ex situation. I think he probably got along well with Fisk too!! OH and I think he and Sing would've been good friends as well. The chaos of a Rigg/Gibson/Sing friend trio...

My unpopular opinion about this character: Mmm I don't know that I have one? Other than maybe like. I understood why he went through the door. He knew Eric was on the other side; he just didn't know the circumstances or what would happen if he went through. All he knew was that he was that much closer to someone he's been trying to find/rescue for MONTHS + someone he cares for deeply. Of COURSE he went through. He breaks my heart ugh,,,

One thing I wish would happen/had happened with this character in canon: I wish he hadn't even been tested!!!! His one flaw was that he cared about ppl and somehow John saw that as something he needed to fix!!! Like yes I do agree that it was eating away at him and the obsession might've been unhealthy, but that's two of his closest friends dude!! I don't think he deserved to be tested for that. I don't. He just wanted to help ppl and keep them safe. I absolutely despise how Rigg was treated dkjflkdf!!!!

#saw #eric #adam #william #mallick #strahm #rigg #asks #long post #THANK U I loved getting 2 answer this!!!#+ if anyone else wants 2 send more for different SAW characters I'm still open to these!!#dude I have So Many Feelings abt rigg lately goddd #also I just realized tht this is all my f/os. rigg is a platonic one But Still!!!

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bellamyblake · 3 years

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Hi Iva! First of all I would like to say - thank you for loving Bellamy so much, it means so much to me to read your posts and feel the same love I have for him. The way I wholheartedly with your every word... about his tragic life, his immense love, everything. On the other hand, you must hurt a lot judging by myself - I honestly cannot stop crying multiple times a day. I do not know how to make the pain stop. I dont know how much more I can handle, its not getting better but actually worse p1

P2 when I think about in details about his life like you did – his life had no happy beginning, or middle, and certainly not the end. Maybe only as a baby boy before O was born. I don’t know how to deal with the fact the character that I genuinely believe had it the worst ended up with the worst possible ending as a reward for honestly trying to do better. Like if he at least experienced love and understanding from O or SOMETHING… but she never got to tell him sorry for beating him up,

P3 that now she understands what he did for her… I am gonna go crazy over this, honestly. I wanna stop crying and enjoy fanfiction with much better ending for him. Where should I find solace? Was his death at least quick, maybe he did not have time to think about what happened? Is there an afterlife where Aurora waited for him? Was that what I can hope for when Aurora was NEVER explained, she was not an alien so what was she? But he also sow Cadogan in the same scene and he was alive then?

P4 Should I watch 5x13 on loop to get in my head this was the ending? Should I teach myself to edit and do some manip for the ending? My only way of coping is seeing other people, blogs like yours that love him just as much. But I keep crying and feeling utterly miserable ☹I am 27 I never spend so much time loving any character (fun fact, It must be around 3 500 hours for me reading ff, watching the show and fan edits and tumblr posts). I know Bellamy will always and forever be the one beloved

P5 one beloved character of mine and no one will ever come close. Bellarke, the same – they were my OTP. The only one. I need to do something about this cause I am loosing my damn mind… I could handle almost anything, I would cry, yes, but I was absolutely sure of one thing - no matter their ending, sad or happy, in some sense they would do it together… and we got THAT. Does anything help you? I am so sorry for dumping this on you but reading your posts - its like hearing my soul.

Hello!

First of all thank you for the kind words and for enjoying my blog so much.

I really do love Bellamy Blake a whole damn LOT. Like a damn LOT hah. I think that’s pretty obvious by the posts I make even if they’re not as many lately because I’m mentally not doing well right now. But that same love you feel, I feel it too and I’m glad I’m not alone in this.

I also get angry too and I cry a lot still about the way things ended. I also have not spent that much time in my life invested in a fictional character before so this is a lot for me as well and I get how you feel.

You asked me if something helps and for me it helps a lot to write you know? Be it meta or fanfiction, I indulge myself a lot in writing.

It’s funny that even when I write fics I don’t write happy fics, you’d think that I’d make him absolutely happy in what I write but I don’t. But indulging yourself in a world of your creation with this character helps a lot. And it’s fun too, to do this, to build a world for him, a different one-be it with Clarke or with a family of his own or Idk just with anyone. Giving him love that he never had and joy he never felt. I think that helps me a lot and it helps me forget how he died and how much it hurts (I wanna say that even typing this makes me cry hah, so...).

I also like to rewatch some episodes that were more about him as a character and then meta in my head. That usually gets me sad too but it’s also exciting to think about some of the stuff that happened and dive in the psychologity of his character (which I do a lot) LOL. But that’s mostly painful. I don’t get many asks about him and meta stuff so I mostly do it in my head on my own and dive into the world of direction and how things were done and love making sense of them.

Headcanons are something I love doing too though I haven’t written (or posted) much lately. In fact I haven’t posted anything lately because Idk...I’m not sure that sharing everything you create is good these days. people got so judgemental over time, the way actors and cast are threated is horrible but it extends to the entire fandom and its participants so it’s ugly and dark and horrible and I think stops a lot of people from posting gifs or fics or anything at all. But that’s another subject.

So yes writing helps me a lot. Reading fics helps me a lot. I’m not sure what the recipe is here because honestly I am in the same boat as you. I love this character more than anything and any other that I’ve loved and been in a fandom before so...this is hard for me too. And it’s fucked up.

I also love making gifs for him though I don’t make anything good or special. Gifs I think can be lots of fun but also pain too-fun cause when you go to gif a moment you can rewatch half the episode (at least I do) and sad cause it can bring you some pain but at the end giffing is really Idk..rewarding. Except when people don’t reblog shit so that’s discouraging too hah.

I’m sorry I don’t mean to be a debbie downer.

To tell you the truth after years of being on here and in fandoms I realized this-I can create to soothe my soul from the pain, like from losing Bellamy but I don’t have to seek validation from people and post it. I can do it just to heal myself and not share it. When you share it what? You just get disappointed. That’s why I have 230 drafts. Half of them are unpublished headcanons. some of them are published fics with few readers or readers who yelled at me for writing sad stuff. the other half is stories i’ll never post. So I guess my advice is-

find something to get your hands on, to create, be it editing, giffing, writing, something to let the grief out, to soothe the wound inside you. and then you can decide if you want to share it or not. and even if you don’t it was inspired by the best character ever.

He was loved, he deserved more, he did. But you can create worlds where he has more.

He can be held by his mom as a baby, he can be tucked in, he can be climbing up her leg and reaching for her arms, he can be cranky when he had his first tooth, or sad when he had to go to day care, he can be scared before his first exam and anxious as he grew up. He can be having nightmares and not sleeping when O was born, he can be terrified and feeling alone. He can have friends and be hugged and loved and have a first kiss, he can live in a house by the ocean with clarke with two beautiful kids and a dog and a cat for her cause she loves cats. Or he can be alone curled up in his bed just crying his grief away.

He can be anything that you wished for him, anywhere you wished for.

Hope I helped some!

#answered #bellamy blake #the 100 #im sorry if i wasn't as helpful #i tried #hah #i think about him every day #and cry too #alwaysdreamingofmiracles

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yankyo · 4 years

Text

Promised Fic

That fic I still don't have a real name for where you peg Beej yay

Warnings : mention of pet play, denial, beej begging, soft domming fun with the bby

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You loved Halloween movies, every year the tradition was to gather up bags upon bags of candy, make a happy little fort in your living room and just binge the classics until there was just nothing more to watch - and every year more and more spooky movies joined that list. This year, however, instead of adding another movie, you added a companion. Curled up in your lap, happily purring as you ran your fingers through his hair was your beloved demon: Beetlejuice. The past new nights, he had talked through the grisly slashers, giggled through the psychological horrors, and had gorged himself on all of your candy - not a surprise, Beetlejuice simply adored being a little shit and irritating you. What was surprising was the movies he shut up to watch: The Addams Family. Of course, you weren't complaining, they were great, feel good comedies, but not even a giggle was a little strange. You found yourself watching him more than the movie, watching the way he stared at Morticia everytime she was onscreen - honestly, you agreed. Morticia was a babe, and the actress did a phenomenal job, in fact she was part of your bi awakening as a kid - along with Debbie, of course. But every so often, Beej would glance over at you with this thoughtful expression that told you he was mulling something over - which could be anything ranging from, goth gf, or tiddy noice or isn't it interesting how the Addams are treated like they're dumb but they really know that people are trying to take advantage of them and are more amused than anything by the attempt. Beetlejuice was an enigma that way.

But as long as he wasn't saying anything, you weren't pressing, he would speak up in due time. So you simply focused on stroking his hair, there was one spot if you scratched just right, he would go completely limp and purr all the louder - he refused to admit that he purred, something about 'I'm a demon, not a house cat, babes!' but he also wasn't about to admit how he nuzzled into your lap and sent you that expectant look whenever you didn't immediately begin petting him either. As much as anyone could see just how needy your little bug was, his pride was verbal but he still flopped in your lap without even the moments hesitation for more cuddles. Looking down at the happy demon, you couldn't help but lean in and kiss his cheek if just to see his cheeks flush green with happiness. Too cute.

"That's the look of a woman who's gonna be breaking out the strap later." He spoke up, lifting his head slightly to send you a grin as he pointed to the screen. With a soft smile of your own, you tilted your head in mock confusion.

"There's a specific look?" You asked, only for him to practically shoot up with an overenthusiastic

"Yes!!" He fumbled for the remote to pause the movie at just the right moment. "See? The little smirk, the way she looks at him as if to say 'imma fuck your brains out', the way he looks back at her like a dude who just had his brains liquidated out of his skull. That's a dude getting his bussy fucked up." You snorted at the explanation, but he was still going. "You give me the same look before you dom." The blush was back and stronger than ever, the slight pink in his hair telling you just how excited he was really getting.

"So, basically, she reminds you of me?" Flattering, really, and the way Beetlejuice peeked over at you with that look of neediness had you shuffling forwards to take his cheeks in hand. "Is that why you've been quiet all movie? How long have you been thinking about that?" He squirmed in place, refusing to meet your eyes for the moment.

"Since when she was clipping roses." You laughed,

"So since the beginning? Oh, Bj, you know... you shouldn't be torturing yourself like this." You pressed him down into the couch with a hand as you straddled him, "that's my job." Your voice had dropped into a husky purr, a poor imitation of Morticia, but Beetlejuice whimpered all the same.

When Beetlejuice subbed, he was either extremely bratty, or, like today, he was like limp and willing under your touch - eager to please. Either was cute, but his obedience was absolutely endearing. Especially when he was trying to hold back from bucking up into you as you slowly ground your hips into his. Cupping his cheeks, you kissed him until you both were breathless before you pulled back just enough to whisper a single word, 'bedroom'. Before you could even blink, the room snapped away and the two of you fell onto your bed - and your comfortable sweatpants and tank top had been swapped out for a form fitting black bodysuit, the pattern not unlike a spider's web. "Bug? What's this?" You sat back with your hands on your hips - the words almost scolding if not for the amused twist to your lips.

"It looks good on ya, doesn't it?" Not completely obedient then. You sat back on the bed, giving him a look that made him fidget in place before you stood to make your way to the toy box at the far end of the room. "B-babes?" The nervousness in his tone making you automatically give him a reassuring look - bad dom bitch persona aside, you didn't want to make him too anxious. At least, not in a bad way. Once he had relaxed again, his tense expression smoothing out, you snapped your fingers and pointed to the floor.

"Where do bad boys belong?" You asked, your voice stern, he almost fell flat on his face in his eagerness to kneel next to your bed - if you gave permission you knew he would already be at your leg - but you didn't want your puppy just yet. "Now stay." He went ramrod straight and still - if not for the fact that his tongue had lolled out of his mouth as you bent over to rummage through the toy box. You were fairly certain there was new things added, but that wasn't all that strange, you didn't know where he was getting them, but Beetlejuice was constantly bringing home various sex toys that either interested him or just made him giggle. He had used to just show up with them and toss them your way, but after accidentally beaning Delia in the head with a dildo that looked like it belonged to freaking Sauron, you had told him he was to keep such things in the bedroom - and then made him fuck himself on said dildo until he came all over himself. Good times. Of course, Beej loved the bigger toys, the ones that were textured and thick and filling, and being quite the size queen yourself you were more willing to oblige. And watching him come undone on such a dildo was always so entertaining, but not the way his eyes just lit up whenever he saw you pull out the harness was just so much more fun.

"Which one do you think I should use?" You asked, pulling out two different straps - one was small, thin, pink in color and the other was green with black stripes, long, thick and was textured. You didn't really need to ask, you knew which he would pick and weren't all that shocked when he shyly spoke up,

"The green one."

"What's the magic word, baby?"

"Please?" Oh that word was just so pretty on his lips, but you remained silent. It took but a few seconds for Beetlejuice to realize his mistake and hastily correct himself, "please, miss." Better.

"I don't know," you sighed, giving a slight shake of your head, "you've been pretty bad lately, talking during my movies, eating all my snacks and not even cleaning up after yourself. Do you really deserve this?" You asked just to hear that whiny little sound he made whenever you denied him what he wanted.

"I'll be good, miss! I swear! I'll clean up and everything." He was crawling forwards tentatively until he was at your feet. "Please, I want..." he looked wrecked without you even having to lift a finger, his cheeks flushed, his pants strained, his breath coming out sharp and fast. When you reached down to pet his hair he let out a shaky moan and pressed into the contact.

"I think you can ask better than that, Bug, what do you want?" He hesitated and your gentle touch turned hard, your soft fingers digging into his hair to yank his head back and force him to look up at you. "Come on, baby, tell me what you want." Despite the rough touch, your voice was soft, barely more than a whisper, yet he hung ok each word.

"I want you to fuck me, Miss." He practically moaned the words, you had no doubt he would cum untouched if you were to pull his hair any harder. "Wreck me, use me, I'm yours." You leaned in and kissed him softly.

"Then why are you still dressed, baby?" The urgency in which Beetlejuice ripped off his clothing was amusing, to say the least. He was more than capable of just snapping his fingers and rid himself of his clothing, but he was so focused on you that the idea probably didn't even cross his mind. Within moments, his already tattered clothing lay in shreds and your eager demon sat squirming before you. "Good boy," you praised, kneeling to give him the attention he deserved, as well as to show him the cock ring you had pulled from the chest. The sight made him shudder and gulp, but he leaned back and set his hands at his sides all the same. He always came far too quickly when you fucked him, so the cock ring was something of a necessity if you really wanted to have some fun with him. And there was no better sight than when he had been denied one too many times and was begging you in tears to please please just let him cum.

He let out a shaky sigh as you stroked his cock, once, twice, one more time just to see the precum beading at the head. His eyes trained on you as you slowly slid the ring over his cock to press it firmly down to its base - he hissed at the pressure, his thighs already shaking. One more reach into the chest and you pulled out a long silk rope, soft gray in color. Automatically, he held his wrists up for you to tie, letting out an excited exhale as you pulled the rope tight against his skin and used it to lead him back towards the bed. As your thighs hit mattress, you took a seat, your demon crawling between your legs to lay his head reverently on your thigh. For a moment, you regarded him quietly, as if trying to figure out just exactly what you wanted to do with him before you raised your leg and placed it on his shoulder. You knew he didn't have to be close to you to smell your arousal, but he took in a deep breath all the same, his pupils narrowing into slits at the smell of you. It didn't take long for him to start to squirm, drool already dripping from his chin as he tried just so hard to hold himself back. Control had always been something of a problem for him, but he had come quite a long way from where he was. Now, even as he twitched and gave you those longing puppy dog eyes, he waited until you gave a slight nod of your head to lunge forwards and nuzzle against your clothed core. His teeth grazed your inner thigh gently, soft nips quickly followed by his tongue as he tried nosing aside the fabric blocking him from you. After a moment, you took pity on him and peeled away the tight fabric yourself and no sooner was your pussy revealed to him did he rush forwards to taste you.

Beetlejuice always said that eating you out was his favorite pastime, and really, actions spoke louder than words with just how much enthusiasm he put into the task. At first, the wet sounds of him slurping up every single trace of your arousal his tongue could reach had been embarrassing - but after so many months of dating and the many, many, times he had his head between your legs, the embarrassment was long gone and your immediate reaction was to lace a hand in his hair and rock up into his eager mouth. His tongue slithered it's way inside of you, full and quickly swelling up as his teeth ever so gently scraped your clit, your thighs trembling as his tongue wriggled against your g-spot insistently. Sometimes, Beetlejuice was something of a tease, pushing you closer and closer before pulling away mere milliseconds before you could actually cum. This, unfortunately, was one of those times as the smug little bastard yanked back to grin at you, his face all slick with your arousal. Unamused, you scowled back at him, making trembling limbs pick yourself back up to stalk over to the forgotten harness.

"Up on the bed." Of course he followed that order without playing around, crawling up onto his hands and knees, raising his cute little butt up in the air for you. You took your sweet time in stepping into the harness and attaching the strap, pausing for a moment to pick up a bottle of lubes before you meandered your way back over to the bed and your waiting boyfriend. You ran a hand up his back, pressing forwards to maneuver him into just the right position for you before you noticed something. "Babycakes, when did you put this in?" You pressed on the plug currently stretching your boyfriend out and he mumbled into the pillow. You didn't even have to look up at him to know that he was blushing - or to know that it had probably been there since the moment he started thinking of you taking charge for the night. Impatient as he was, he never did want to waste much time in prepping when you could be plowing him instead. Which was ironic seeing as he would, could, and has spent hours eating you out and fingering you. But, of course, after being denied yourself, you weren't about to just give him what he wanted! Oh no! There was a lesson to be learned here!

His whine echoed through the room as you slowly tugged on the plug before pressing back into him, his cock bouncing as you fucked him with the plug.

"Babe, please!" He cried out, even as he automatically pressed back as you nudged the plug forwards. Of course, you knew it just wasn't enough.

"I have to make sure you're ready, sweetie! I don't want to risk hurting you, right?" Pain really never was a worry with Beetlejuice, sure, certain things could hurt him, but he always healed far too quickly for it to even matter. But proper etiquette called for prep and who were you to ignore etiquette. In, out, in, out, in, in, swift pull out, Beetlejuice's whimpers and pleas fell on deaf ears you played with him, the sounds growing sharper as you reached underneath him to slowly stroke his cock. It didn't take long for him to be absolutely shaking, his cries getting desperate as you just barely missed his prostate with each push inwards. "Oh baby, what's wrong?" You asked, your voice soft and sweet. "Is it not enough? I mean, you chose it! Surely you must like this plug, right?"

"No! Want you! Please!" He was almost sobbing now as he pushed back in vain. You took pity on him this time and actually pulled the plug out of him this time to set aside.

"Its ok baby, I've got you." You crooned as you rubbed his tense back. "I won't tease you anymore." With one hand you grabbed onto his hip while with the other you grabbed the base of the strap-on and once you had applied an adequate amount of lube, you began pressing into him. His babbled words of thanks were sharp and high pitched, your hand on his hip possibly the only thing stopping him from just shoving back to sheathe the whole thing. Soon enough, your hips lay flush to his, your body curved over his so you could take the end of the rope to tie his hand to the headboard. "How we feeling babe? Green?" You asked, leaning down to press a tender kiss to his back.

"Beyond green, fluorescent green, neon, fuck me already, -" before he could say more, you pulled out slowly before swiftly slamming back into him, making him choke on whatever words he still had left. After that, there was simply no mercy given, you kept a hand on his hip while reaching up to lace a hand in his hair to yank his head back so you could sink your teeth into his neck. There were days you felt bad for your neighbors, after all, Beej and you weren't the quietest of lovers and they surely heard everything - this was not one of those days. No, you were way too invested in the indulgent, appreciative moans you were pulling from your boyfriend as you fucked him.

"Look at you, drooling already." You purred, pressing your fingers into his open mouth, "so wrecked already and I've barely even started." You breezed your wet fingers down his chest til you just barely brushed the tips of your fingers along the length of his cock. The headboard creaked as Beetlejuice pulled on the ropes, already begging for you to touch him more, please, please, please, touch him! And really, how could you deny him? Wrapping your hand around his dick, you jacked him off in time with your slamming hips and his cries only grew louder.

"I wanna cum! Please, fuck, let me cum!" You toyed with the cock ring, twisting it this way and that before you let out a soft tsk and kissed his cheek.

"Not yet baby, patience." Not like this, at least! You pulled back, ignoring his sharp whines as you pulled out to guide him onto his back for you. "Relax, baby," with him laying down, his cheeks flushed, his eyes wet with unshed tears, his hands bound above his head - you just needed to take a picture! So, you hopped up off of the bed to swipe up your phone and took a few quick shots of your boyfriend. There was just one thing missing in this shot... and the whimpers your boyfriend was letting out while sending you abandoned puppy eyes did tug at the heartstrings. Alright, you had teased him long enough - not really, but you couldn't help but be weak to him.

As you settled on the bed, he pulled you in closer with his legs, and you just had to lean in and kiss your squirmy demon before you took your strap in hand once more to guide it back into him. This time, you didn't tease, you didn't hold back, with sharp strokes as deep into him as you could manage, you pulled the cock ring off of him and began stroking his cock. The cry he let out echoed throughout the apartment, his back arching up so high you would've wondered if he was going to pull something if he weren't already - you know, dead. As worked up as he had been all night, the stimulation proved too much for him to last and soon enough he was moaning garbled praise and pleas once more. "Its ok, Bug, you can cum."

"Thank you! Fuck! Thankyouthankyouthankyou!" His moans grew higher and higher until he cut off with a choked gasp and came. Hard. The slightly fluorescent cum reached up to his chin and yet cum still dribbled past your fingers and onto his stomach as you worked him through the orgasm, praising him all the while. Now, you took another picture of him, cum splattered on his chest, his eyes dazed, his expression damn near ascended. Perfect. While he was still coming down, you untied his hands and stroked his hair,

"How we feeling, Bug?"

"Like you fucked the life back into me." You both giggled softly as he reached up to kiss you. "Give me five minutes and I'll return the favor..." he grinned, his thumb stroking softly across your cheek. "Cara mia." You snorted softly, but placed your hand on top of his and sent him a warm smile in return.

"Don't be gentle, mon cher."

#beetlejuice smut #beetlegeuse #beetlejuice #beetlejuice x reader

117 notes · View notes

emma-poole · 4 years

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Maryanne.

You’re in my prayers every morning, she tells me on the sidewalk, casually slipping my 65 pound pitbull, Robin, a treat from her fanny pack. She tells me this every time we cross paths, which, if I am lucky, is a weekly occurrence. Maryanne should really have an ‘outfit of the day’ column in the New York Times. She is easily spotted a block away, not only by my dog’s nose, but in her perfectly coordinated clothing choices; bright red rain boots, wide-brimmed red hat, cherry earrings, and the color red lipstick that reminds me of my grandmother, who resembled Marilyn Monroe, smelled like old perfume, and never left the house without it.

Sometimes I wish I could shrink Maryanne to barbie-doll size and carry her around in my pocket. Maryanne never shames Robin for her plump figure. Her very spirit elicits joy- on evening walks in the neighborhood, when my mind jumps fifty years into the future, I think, when I grow older, I’d like to be like Maryanne.

Tell me about your outfits, I say one day, on the corner of Pinehurst and 184th. She recounts her days as a nurse in World War II, how although she loved her work, she was required to wear white every day. Now, I can wear whatever I want! She looks up at me with watery blue eyes lined in brown pencil, tiny, delicate hands roped in purple vein and beautiful. I have the overwhelming desire to scoop her into a hug.

Maryanne is a widow. She saves animals around the neighborhood and always carries treats in her purse. We commiserate about the state of the world, how humans don’t deserve dogs, and sometimes, my dating life. I often imagine her as the girl she used to be, fixed up in nursing whites, young and in love. And yet, how grateful I am to experience her in this phase of her life, just barely five feet tall, aged only by a number but towering in presence and charm.

I would like to think the universe created Maryanne as a reminder of the magic that exists here on earth. There is something about her aura- otherworldly, fairy-esque, that makes my breath catch in my throat each time I see her. As if the trees she passes suddenly begin to sway. And the light the sky emits at once becomes softer.

24 Hour Deli.

I don’t care about cohesion. Aesthetic is a non-issue. I want my salads big and overflowing, a picasso of flavor, texture, and crunch. Some (most) days I request a side of blue cheese dressing to use as dip for the potato chips I will inevitably buy no matter how many times I tell myself you don’t need them. I leave the store, plastic bag in hand, excitement stirring at the enjoyment to come- quiet room, a cornucopia of television options, peace to consume my masterpiece as if I am animal who has been deprived of food for months.

The 24 Hour Deli— I don’t know why I call it that- it’s actually called the Gourmet Deli, is approximately a one-minute walk from my apartment. Its marquee, bright, blocky and red, thrives with activity at all hours of the day. The 24 Hour Deli recently got a makeover. It now has more than five fancy gelato flavors and the miniature containers of cabot sour cream I like to destroy in one sitting. On the outside of the door, there is a clear no pets allowed sign. Yet magically, each time I walk into the deli with Robin, who suffers from separation anxiety, the cashier says nothing. Robin is no more than a sweet-demeanored curvy burrito, but being a pitbull, people tend to act strange at the sight of her.

The staff at the deli understand us. They let Robin sniff the endless line of Little Debbie snack cakes, and even sometimes offer their hand for a lick. Robin is overjoyed anytime she is allowed to enter an establishment, and this small gesture does not go unnoticed. The man who makes my salads sees me. He doesn’t laugh when he tosses in the eighteenth vegetable choice, rather tilts his head to one side and softly, almost lovingly, asks what else miss? I am always in awe watching him mix the ingredients together and making the whole ordeal fit perfectly under the flat plastic lid.

The 24 Hour Deli, like most local New York City bodegas, is more than just a deli. It is a meeting spot for conversation, gossip and respite from the street. It contains everything from beef jerky to pregnancy tests, the latter which I have sheepishly purchased among familiar faces that gave me kind smiles and a paper bag to carry it out in. It is run by a family whose hospitality has held me for the seven years I’ve lived in this gem of a neighborhood, quirky but inviting, not without its rough history and continued adoration of pungent marijuana and backwoods blunt wrappers, the latter which I have had my fair share of romantic neighborhood partners purchase before heading to my room on balmy summer evenings, knowing they’d be promised candlelight and a soft body.

Perhaps I will go to the deli soon to buy fresh flowers for my bathroom. They are not the best quality, but I like the way they look perched in my windowsill, trying mightily to stay alive.

The ladies at the Nail salon.

I have a paper card in my wallet that keeps track of the number of times I get my nails done. It is a rewards card, promising half off after I have completed six sessions. Over the last seven years, I am probably on my tenth card. The ladies at Diamond Nails know me by name. They compliment my hair, smile when they see me walking Robin, and massage my shoulders generously. They are motherly and kind, always assuring me of my nail polish color choice and warmly welcoming me into their establishment for however long I choose to stay.

I often get my nails done on days I feel sad. The budding of a new relationship gone awry, boredom at the state of things, the staggering injustice of healthcare in this country. Maybe I will get a manicure! Suddenly I am walking out the door, a quick left, the smell of acetone.

The ladies are drinking coffee. I smell takeout in the back room. I grab a handful of People magazines, propping myself in the oversized cushy chair and its complementary foot basin that will transform my toes into appealing seashells. Two women walk in- one is disabled and blind; her aid walks beside her. I take in this odd pair and am immediately brought back to my childhood, accompanying my dad to the house for the deaf he briefly worked at. My memories are mini movie reels- Sheri, a redhead, walking on the treadmill, calling my father Toli instead of Tony, over and over. My six-year old eyes, wide and observant, taught not to judge but understand. The blind woman chooses hot pink for her nails. The ladies tell her it is a lovely choice.

One day, while waiting for my nails to dry, my scalp tingles as hands weave in and out of my hair loops. I think perhaps I am receiving an extended shoulder massage, and close my eyes. The fingers move swiftly, repeating patterns and directions. I realize my hair is being braided, unsure as to why or if I should interject. I decide to let it happen. When she is finished, she proudly holds up a mirror so I can see the back. Beautiful! I reply. I laugh on my way out the door- amused that I came in for a manicure and left with a french braid. One month later, it happens again. I accept that it’s a package deal, and look forward to the next time.

I don’t know the lives of the ladies beyond the four walls of the salon, but I would like to imagine that they are filled with loving families, and warm homes that nurture them after a long day’s work. Their work is so giving, and far underappreciated. Having one’s nails done, similarly to getting a haircut or sitting at a bar nursing a cocktail, is never just about the monetary exchange. It is therapy. And the ladies, with their strong hands and tender demeanors, are my therapists.

Do yourself a favor and go to Diamond Nails. Make sure to tip generously.

An Ode to Morning Coffee.

If I collected all of the money I spend each day on neighborhood coffee, I’d have a jar amassing thousands of dollars by now. This is both depressing and impressive; on one hand, I’ve procured an awfully expensive habit. On the other, I honor my commitment to ritual. It all began when I adopted Robin. Robin wakes up each morning around eight am. It takes me approximately thirty minutes to make the bed, shower, get dressed, throw together some hair and makeup, and toss my keys in the mini purse I carry, along with plenty of poop bags and of course, coffee money.

Hudson Heights is lucky to have a rich coffee culture. There are multiple cups of coffee on each street corner, from the rudimentary but delicious cafe Bustelo at the bodega (low on ambiance, strong on flavor) to the cozy hole-in-the-wall, beloved Cafe Bunni. Nestled on the corner of 187 and Pinehurst, Bunni is a locally owned Ethiopian dream, serving everything from feta scones to frothy oat milk lattes. Tactically, it is the place I choose most often, mostly because Robin can rest her loins on the bench outside while watching my every move once I am in line to order.

Aesthetically pleasing bags of coffee beans line the cafe walls. Baked goods are displayed at the register, flirting with their puffed edges and swollen buttery insides. A long, communal wooden table is the main source of seating in this intimate space, as well as a window-seat bench. Robin, my oversized croissant, is perfectly visible on the other side of the glass. The whites of her eyes loom above seated coffee drinkers.

Cafe Bunni is approximately two hundred steps from the apartment of the first guy I dated when I moved to this neighborhood. He lives with his mother and drives an obnoxiously yellow pick-up truck. He asked me out while I was carrying laundry home. I should have known better. I was twenty-five and easily wooed by street flattery. He was twenty-one and desperate for attention. Bunni is a wonderful place to duck into when you spot ex boyfriends you’d rather not interact with. It is large enough to blend you into other bodies, and small enough that the whole event is not a big to-do. On many a summer morning, my eyes still waking to the day’s light, I have sought out anonymity in a paper coffee cup.

Perhaps my favorite fixture of Bunni is the way it inhabits the neighborhood. Between these walls, customers feel the understated, off-beat energy of the Hudson Heights residents. It is a tiny artist’s colony smack in the middle of a spa and a chinese restaurant. A place for those of us with less traditional jobs to post up, writing our dreams down in journals, people watching to feel less alone. We can sit there for hours, seen and supported by the comings and goings of both the patrons who fill the space and the baristas who are its undercurrent.

It’s difficult for me to pass Bunni without purchasing something. Sometimes I buy iced coffee just to have a cup in my hand while walking down the sidewalk. Other days, I never make it in, choosing to sit on the bench outside while watching the bustle of foot traffic go by. I once met a lady there who collects and sells crystals. She seemed a bit lonely, and happy to talk to anyone who’d listen. I complimented her necklace. We shared stories of moving to this neighborhood, coffees in hand, until Robin licked my ankle, alerting me it was time to go home.

Fort Tryon Park.

Imagine a maze. Giant and sprawling with lush greenery, gothic stone arches and secret roundabouts. Large enough to get lost in, small enough to find your way out.

Things I have done in Fort Tryon Park:

Cry. Clean up poop. Sing. Pick grass from the lawn while staring at the Hudson River. Smell flowers. Unintentionally photobomb a photoshoot. Meditate. Light sage. Sunbathe. Witness a quinceanera. Smoke weed. Talk to strangers. Watch a man masturbate behind a tree. Breathe deeply. Drink coffee. Pet dogs. Think about my life. Sit. Wait. Walk.

When I describe Fort Tryon Park to, say, a downtown person, I feel suddenly blessed, as though I am the keeper of a privileged secret that only a part of this city knows. Fort Tryon doesn’t belong to me, but it feels like it does. It is where my neighborhood ends, and Narnia begins.

On a good day, the park is about a fifteen minute walk North from my apartment. Each time we visit, I coerce my dog into posing for pictures. In the Fall, our earth-toned scarves blend in with the foliage; blankets of copper leaves illuminate a walking path, boots deliciously crunching with each step. In the summer, walks last up to two hours, trudging slowly from humidity and necessary water breaks. The park is both home, and home away from home. It receives me however I choose to show up. Nothing makes me feel more like a local than giving a visitor directions to the park, or its love child, the Cloisters. A simple head nod or wave in the right direction sends them on their way. I have paid forward Hudson Height’s most prized possession. My good deed for the day is done.

Years back, during one of my first visits to the park, I met a beautiful young woman roaming the grass with her giant snow angel, Zoe, and miniature tan taco, Zeta. Zaza, the owner of the eccentric dog duo and I became fast friends. We continued to meet for iced coffee and park walks. We watched my dog kill a gopher, and cried with hands held firmly as we heard it take its last breath. Meeting this Z trio changed my life; in the coming years, I would no longer feel like a mere resident of the neighborhood, but a fixture, with beautiful, lifelong friendships and last minute dinner dates to Refried Beans for oversized burritos and chips and salsa.

I am convinced the juju that permeates Fort Tryon is emboldened by the people who inhabit it each day. Much like the park itself, we span an array of colors and history, stories that give us character and scars to prove that although our lives haven’t been easy, we show up each day to smell fresh air and tilt our heads back to the sun. Thank you, Fort Tryon, for being my heartbeat at the tip of Manhattan.

The Lookout on Chittenden.

You know in the movies, when the grieving family member goes into the hospital chapel to pray by themselves? The lookout on Chittenden Avenue is Hudson Heights’ very own outdoor church, where on any given day, individuals can be spotted looking out the river’s horizon, asking for guidance from whatever higher power they believe in.

At least that is what I do. Usually at sunset, and most always, with Robin. Picking her up requires a deep squat and a tight grip around the underbelly. However, once I have it, we perch like bobbing lily pads in the ocean, peering out at New Jersey, waiting for a gust of wind or the smell of someone’s fried chicken to waft toward us.

The lookout is the kind of friend who doesn’t require every day interaction, but will always show up when you need them. Tucked away beneath a small hill, its presence is found rather than known, adding to its charm. Sometimes I imagine the narrative of the people who perch there alongside me- who is breaking up with who, who misses their mother, who also talks to the sky. Do they seek refuge here the way I do? At times not knowing what is being sought out but pulled to arrive anyway?

Or the residential voyeurs of the block, who put up fliers warning against drugs and littering, Chittenden’s silent army. My heart goes out to them. They know the real estate they live upon is neighborhood currency; they are only trying to preserve it.

I recall a visit to the lookout after a particularly painful heartbreak. The setting sun was so beautiful, it hurt. I couldn’t fathom how the world continued on as mine closed in on me. I knew in that moment that I would be ok, as I have always known, deep in my bones, that my small world spins within something much greater than me. It’s the staggering irony of life, that beauty can be found anywhere, even in the midst of agonizing pain. Nature has always known better than us. Embrace change, she whispers, and you will experience awe each day. It’s hard to walk yourself home with a broken heart. But then the sun sets. The skyline sparkles beneath a black sky. I smell the changing of seasons as the breeze hits the trees, releasing a single leaf on the ground beneath me.

Charles.

Charles has short white hair, olive skin, and piercing blue eyes. He is long-limbed and svelte, appearing almost fragile. Charles wears neutral colors and has long, elegant hands. He likes to eat dinner solo at the neighborhood restaurants, and always says hello to my dog.

I wonder often about Charles’s backstory. I have never asked, though I am confident if I did, he would share freely. There is a sadness in his demeanor that makes me want to reach my hands inside his chest and untwist the hurt. It is always the sad people who are kind, I’ve noticed. I have no idea if Charles is sad or not. Maybe melancholy is a better word. Or maybe it’s the way the deep lines around his eyes make him look like an etched painting, and the tiny blue half moons beneath them reflect longing, or wisdom.

I must have passed Charles at least ten times on the street before asking him his name. Now, I can’t stop using it. Hi Charles, I smile, walking down the giant stairs on 181st. He is on a bench with coffee, reading a newspaper. How’s it going, Charles? At 181 Cabrini, a spread of charcuterie and cheeses half eaten at his table. Robin sits down on his large feet. He pats her head. Oh, hi Charles! At the park, outside the laundromat, on my way to work.

I wonder how long he has lived here, what he does all day, if he has some large sum of money he lives on that pays for all his dinners out. I wonder if he is happy dining alone, savors it ritualistically, as I do my morning cup of coffee or the heady aroma of fresh cut flowers. Or if he longs for a partner, relying on the immersion of himself in the neighborhood as a way to feel more connected and less alone.

Of course, I could ask him. I think he would probably be flattered to know I’m thinking this much about the intricacies of his life. And yet. The mystique of not knowing somehow compels me. I have always imagined the inner lives of strangers; and though I am a truth seeker in nearly all aspects of my life, I am not sure I need to know the answers to the stories my brain creates. It’s like...foreplay. Or the titillating anticipation of an event nearly being better than the event itself. The hot sting of desire felt on the lips before the kiss. Must we spill over all our secrets? Or is the pleasure of them contained in the withholding?

The last time I saw Charles, he was sitting alongside a homeless man with pock-marked skin and gentle eyes. Another familiar face. They appeared to be friends. I smiled at the man, and said hello to Charles. Perhaps I will work up the courage someday to ask what brought him to this city. For now, I am grateful he is here, embedded into the scenery I call home.

Bennett Park.

Fun Fact- you’re standing on the highest natural point of elevation in New York City, I tell my soon-to-be boyfriend at the time. He is spending the weekend with me. It is our first time meeting each other in person. Ha.

I have probably spent more time in Bennett Park than any other place in Hudson Heights. When I first moved to the area, it was an all day stomping ground for the boys who perched on stoops and asked if I was from the heights. I’d walk Robin at midnight, letting her run laps in the grass while they rolled fresh blunts and skateboarded badly. I didn’t often take part, but I loved the camaraderie of these gatherings, how the park always felt like it belonged to someone, and in turn, that I belonged to it.

Bennett Park turns into a carnival on weekends; kids appear from every direction, dogs take refuge under shaded trees, the ice cream truck’s melody echoes in our brains- da da da da da da dum dum dum DUM dum dum. Orthodox Jewish women sit in clusters on the grass, dressed in long skirts and soft hats. I wonder if they know I am one of them, that despite my tattoos and nontraditional dress, I, too, can chant Hebrew prayers in my sleep, and recognize Saturday as their Sabbath. That I see a part of them in a part of me, though I will always wonder if they are happy, or have dreams bigger than motherhood, or spend moments in solitude wondering of a different life. The air smells of weed and cut grass. Children squeal on the swings. Someone plays hip hop out of a loud speaker while a parent bandaids a scraped knee. We coexist in our separate corners, together.

That boyfriend never visited my neighborhood again, though he did love the park and my attempt at impressing him with trivia. We made out on the grass under a moonlit sky, the boys of years past watching in the background, their silhouettes only vaguely familiar now. I was in love with the idea of him more than the individual I never truly had the chance to get to know, except through distance, and time zones, and continents. The agony of physical separate-ness gnawed at me; I fell asleep for an entire year existing on memories of a savored few nights together and future projections of what our life could be.

And so Bennett Park became my steadfast companion to get through each day. Every morning, with a cup of coffee and Robin at my feet, I walked aimlessly around its perimeter, noticing what was familiar- Bench. Tree. Water fountain. Rock. Lending Library. The grass where Robin likes to roll.

Ritualistic habits, I have learned, are a form of meditation. You can mend a broken heart by entering the same place each day while watching your perception of it slowly change. One day, almost magically, the flowers appear more potent, the sun, brighter, and your breath, which has been lodged somewhere between grief and hope, escapes into a singular, joyous exhale.

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bopeepwritingsheep · 6 years

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The TAZ writer’s discord is a terrible influence and they fanned my one-off ‘Johann is the reincarnation of Keats’ suggestion into this little smattering of snippets.

Lydia and Edward realize that the spell they used to resurrect Keats wasn’t a revival spell, it was a reincarnation spell. They try and locate his soul and end up finding the signal for it on the moon, but thanks to those lich shields they can’t actually get to it. Instead, they track every pod that heads down and when they see Angus come out of one of them, reminding them so strongly of curious, baby Keats they snatch him up assuming he’s their beloved little brother.

They are wrong.

Johann notices first when Angus never comes back from his errand to pick up some new rosin and sheet music. He follows the coordinates of his pod, then follows the trail of people who saw him and eventually finds himself venturing into the felicity wilds, violin ready to strike. He casts sleep on half the monsters he finds and follows strange billboards he only heard rumors about ages ago when the bureau was first assembled. Johann knows about Wonderland, he prays the billboards are lying. This place that almost killed his Mo--His Director, and it could take his brother his friend.

Johann walks into Wonderland and walks into a Nightmare he couldn’t have possibly expected.

“We've always been missing our own live accompaniment! A bard, we should have known!” Lydia crows, appearing beside Johann in a bright flash of neon green. Johann blinks, but only startles as an arm slithers across his back and he turns the other way to see Edward. He shouldn’t know their names but he does.

The man tugs him closer, “Come on, Keats. We'll get rid of that little human boy. Oh, what were we THINKING, a HUMAN? How silly of us, Keats.”

The touches don’t feel invasive, and maybe that’s the worst part because they’re familiar and soft and he saw the Director after she came back from Wonderland. Nothing here is soft but the woman’s voice is as she leans in and whispers, “Keats, it’s alright, we've got you. You don't have to be sad or alone anymore, you have US. Remember us, Keats.”

Keats--Johann, his name is Johann--brushes back his hair, it’s the same shade. He lacks the colorful highlights and lowlights but the same rich warm brown, like rosewood, peaks past at their roots. That’s where Johann locks his gaze, so he doesn’t have to meet their eyes and see if they reflect back his own.

“My name is Johann. Give me back my friend.”

“Keats, sweetie, that’s just not how the game is played.”

“We know you’re new to this, Baby Bro, but there ARE rules that even we can’t bend.”

Johann breathes in. He breathes out and black, noxious smoke fills the air. He wants to cry but then Lydia and Edward will lock him up again--Or worse, they’ll take Angus and Johann will have to spend endless hours panicking over whether he’d gotten the little boy killed or tortured.

Instead, Johann is stuck here, killing and torturing strangers and he just wants to go home. He speaks softly, he tries to enunciate better--Keats had good diction, “Can I go back to my room? I-I want my violin.”

He hates the strange electric one they’ve given him, it’s tinny sound makes his ears ache and the bow feels artificial and wrong in his hands. They took his violin, only let him play it in his room at ‘night’. He always casts sleep on Angus so the little boy stops having nightmares. After what he’s done now, he’s terrified they’ll take it away.

Ungrateful brothers don’t deserve such nice things.

“Angus?”

“Yeah, Johann?”

“I-I need you to call me Keats now. They--Edward and Lydia might stop hurting you so much. You’re the only one who still calls me that.”

“...If I stop will you still remember?”

“I-It’s okay, I mean, stuff is fuzzy lately. I think being around them brings back, like, the dead memories but I’m still--Johann’s still part of me.”

“I’ll still call you Johann. When it’s just us.”

“...Thank you.”

“Hey--Hey Angus, it’s been a little while.”

Keats--Johann, Johann, Johann--is so terrified. The little boy in front of him looks like an utter wreck, he doesn’t look like the always immaculate fancy boy, Angus McDonald. His body shakes with exhaustion. Charm person isn’t supposed to be like this, his sib--The twins have altered it. Done something to this variation to make it last so long and it’s clearly hurting the little boy they’ve inflicted it upon.

“Hello, sir! Did you have fun today? Miss Lydia and Mister Edward said I did such a good job we could have a sleepover to celebrate!” His grin is too wide, his eyes a little too bright and Keats knows the boy is running on empty, “I’m not very tired but we can do a puzzle, you love puzzles, Mister Keats!”

He hates puzzles, they’re frustrating and repetitive like everything in this gods forsaken place. He wants to sit in the corner in and cry. He wants to scream and topple the beautiful grand piano in the corner and smash it to pieces with magic. He wants to scoop up Angus and soothe the sickly red lines on his wrists and the wild look in his eyes but Edward and Lydia have taken away his violin privileges. So Johann does something that sickly, weak-lunged Keats had never been able to do.

Johann sings.

“Lullay, mine Liking, my dere sone, mine sweting,” His voice fills the room, low and soft. Johann practically sags with relief when Angus blinks and wobbles on his feet. The half-elf reaches out an catches the boy before he falls, cradles him, and sings, “Lullay, my dere herte, mine own dere derling.”

Johann finishes casting calm person layered with a heavy dose of sleep, “Hey, just take a nap for me, okay? I’ll be right here the whole time.”

“J-Johann? Where--What’s going on?”

“Shhh, lullay, just sleep. I’ve got you.”

There’s a full crowd outside, not just his sibling’s fans, the clamoring ocean of lacquered wood, but people here to see him. It’s very exciting, to have a crowd for his very first performance. He isn’t supposed to peak but he does, Lydia and Edward are dancing so they won’t notice his lasp of good behavior but he just wants to see. Keats smiles when he spots Angus, banging his hands against the stage. He always loves Lydia and Edward’s performances so Keats hopes that Angus will like his.

Angus is with others his eyes are immediately drawn to the woman--Keats eyes water for just a moment and he squints. Very carefully he wipes his eyes, doing his best not to muss up the makeup Edward had painstakingly applied in preparation for Keats’ big debut. There are other folks with Angus, three men but none of the flashing lights catch him this time.

He pulls back when he hears his cue, lifts the blindingly bedazzled electric violin to his chin. He ignores how wrong the weight feels. He lets his bow fly, the beat is faster than what feels comfortable but it’s the song that Edward and Lydia gave him. They say once he’s been working for a little longer they’ll let him write his own music, but only if he lets them approve. They’re the ones who know what the people want, after all.

Keats plays wonderfully until the curtain rises for his big entrance. He grins wide at the audience, like Edward and Lydia taught him because No one likes a Debbie Downer and Isn’t it just easier to Smile, Keats?

But then he looks out at the crowd. Angus is crying--He’s just that proud of Keats, isn’t he? The three men are shouting and so are the mannequins around them. It must be a standing ovation! Then he looks over at the woman and she--She looks scared. She can’t be scared--The Director is the bravest one of all of them, if she’s scared then something is--Keats shudders to a halt, the sickly twang of a missed note fills the stage as he stares out at the crowd.

Lydia is at his side almost immediately, “Oh, look Keats! You’ve got adoring fans, you’ve just grown so much under our tutelage!”

He smiles because he’s made Lydia proud, hasn’t he? She seems happy and he glances over at Edward stood at the other end of the stage--but his brother isn’t there and Keats feels a shiver of--Of stage fright. He’s just so nervous about his first performance, his eyes feel itchy.

His chest aches.

#taz fic #johann #wonderland twins #angus mcdonald #lydia and edward #johann!keats au

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itsyourchoicedevotionals · 2 years

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Chosen

“You were chosen by God the Father long ago. He knew you were to become His children. You were set apart for holy living by the Holy Spirit. May you obey Jesus Christ and be made clean by His blood. May you be full of His loving-favor and peace.” 1Peter 1:2NLV

“You were chosen by God the Father long ago.” Do you see this? Understand this? For the rejected; for the abandoned; for the wounded; for the alcoholic; for the drug addict; for the trafficked; for the neglected; for the unloved; for the bullied; for the beaten; for the one raised to have to be good enough; for the one raised under religious rule WE WERE CHOSEN BY GOD THE FATHER LONG AGO TO BE HIS SPECIAL TREASURES; HIS BELOVED CHILDREN. How will you deal with this news?

The religious spirit would tell you the number of hoops you must jump through to earn being chosen— but guess what— before you breathed; before you sinned; before you did good things; before you chose Jesus as your Lord— YOU WERE CHOSEN for eternal life by Him. Exciting news.

My recent devotional focused on people abandoning God and the church in record numbers. Why would people disbelieve, when His promises and words bring encouragement, plus He fulfills His Words? Could it be because— “And because lawlessness will abound, the love of many will grow cold” Matthew 24:12 NKJV? I truly can’t understand. Where else can they turn to? Do people literally give up on gospel truth thinking evil is winning? They just give up? Jesus said it, so it has to be the truth. But— did they truly believe in the first place?

We’re chosen. We’re loved. We’re protected from harm. Wait, you say, ‘I was in a car wreck, how’s that for, protection?’ Did you seek counsel from God, about whether you should go? Perhaps a check was in the spirit but we didn’t pay attention. We’re still alive right? My personal experience, I usually have a feeling of caution before something happens. —What about the missionaries who’ve been murdered? Where was protection for them? They’re in heaven. Isn’t that our end goal? From my near death experience I can relate— when the pain threshold was intolerable, I was in a tunnel with no pain, peace and this gorgeous, iridescent, white light. Coming back into life with the pain was the hardest part. The missionaries suffered but for a moment.

Being chosen to be God’s child— You can’t get better than this, because it’s eternally wonderful. “Made clean by His blood” is beyond awesome. I sinned, never deserving “His loving-favor and peace.” And you?

Countless billions don’t know they also have been chosen. We must get to them and let them know they’ve already been chosen, Jesus loves them. Will you help? It’s your choice. You choose.

LET’S PRAY: Father God, please send us one person a day to tell them about the love You have for them. Empower us with boldness to step out and speak to them lovingly for You, in the name of Jesus Christ I pray.

#Jesus Christ #lord of lords #Word of God #Holy Spirit #God #it's your choice #devotional #chosen #protected #loved #abandoning #disbelieving #clean #love #hope #faith

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sholiofic · 7 years

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Agent Carter OT3: Steve Rogers gets defrosted in the '70s.

This is a brilliant idea and I really want to write this entire fic, but just in case I don’t actually manage to do that, let’s consider this a down payment.

---

"We found him," Howard's voice said on the phone. "We found him, Peg."

... and in that initial instant, with her mind full of the day-to-day business of SHIELD, she had no idea what he was even talking about. Her mouth was open to ask when it all crashed on her, the elation in his voice, the way he sounded so much like he used to sound, decades ago.

"Peg?" he was asking now. "Peggy, did you hear me?"

"I heard you," she said. She hadn't even known he was still looking. Of course Steve deserved it, of course, but ... she hadn't known he was looking. This was a relief. It would be good for Steve's family, if any remained, to have closure. And for Howard, perhaps more than anyone. "In the Arctic?"

"Yeah, pretty close to our original search grid. If we'd just -- but it doesn't matter, doesn't matter." Howard cleared his throat. "Peg, I need a SHIELD plane up here, yesterday -- with the best medical staff and portable facilities that you've got."

There were about a million things to untangle in that sentence, not the least being Howard's on-again, off-again relationship with SHIELD, but Peggy zeroed in on the most important word: medical. "Howard," she said slowly, "he's not alive, is he?"

"We don't know. Steve and the plane are encased in ice." Peggy was glad he wasn't here, glad he couldn't see the way she still reacted at the sound of Steve's name. "We still don't know what the serum is capable of. I admit it's unlikely, but from our preliminary survey, it looks like he's, uh -- he's still in perfect shape. It's possible."

"I'll scramble a team immediately," Peggy told him. Her brain was running on autopilot as they went back and forth on the details -- just another mission, just another field op -- until she hung up. And then there were calls to make, preparations to set into motion.

After she'd gotten the ball rolling on the -- she didn’t know whether to call it a recovery or a rescue, on the retrieval ... only then, she allowed herself the brief luxury of burying her face in her hands for a moment, elbows resting on her desk.

Steve wasn't alive. It wasn't possible. No need to think about it -- no need to think of Steve being twenty-seven, when she was fifty-seven ...

No need to think of a love she'd long since left behind her, a lost future she hadn't thought about in decades.

If you're alive, why couldn't we have found you thirty years ago, before I built a life ...?

"Peggy?"

Peggy looked up with a smile, an automatic response to that beloved voice. "I didn't know you were still in the office."

"Got tied up with paperwork," Daniel said, flashing her a quick grin that was no less dazzling for the laugh lines that time had slashed deep in his face. He'd embraced the relaxed fashions of the 1970s, and his hair was a mess of salt-and-pepper curls that he'd long since given up on slicking down, his brown tweed jacket unbuttoned to reveal the yellow open-necked shirt beneath.

("You look like a used-car salesman," Jack liked to tell him, still polished in a suit and tie, because Jack was always going to be Jack.)

"And it's a good thing I did," Daniel added, limping into the room. With the latest generation StarkTech prosthetic leg, he rarely even used a cane, but he was leaning on one today, which meant he was tired. "Jack called from Berlin. He's tied up, probably won't be home for another week or so. Which means he'll miss Debbie's graduation."

"Oh, poor thing. We'll have to break it to her gently." Although Debbie was Daniel's biological daughter, and Carol with her riot of blonde curls was Jack's, the girls had gravitated towards precisely the opposite father figures in their teenage years. Both of them loved both of the men who semi-openly shared their mother's life, but Debbie -- with her penchant for power suits, a nearly-finished law degree from Yale, and a burning desire for a political career -- was very definitively Jack's favorite daughter, while gentle, idealistic Carol, who was currently working with a nonprofit helping Vietnam veterans and had frequently clashed with her mother over what she saw as SHIELD's nongovernmental overreaches, was just as obviously Daniel's.

"She'll understand," Daniel said wryly, resting his good hip against the edge of Peggy's desk. "She might be a little hurt, but she's a practical kid, and I think she gets Jack better than either of us do. For some reason."

"No accounting for taste," Peggy said, the playful banter emerging, after all these years, with little input from her otherwise-occupied brain.

But Daniel knew her too well. He leaned forward and reached out to brush her cheek with his fingertips. "You okay?"

"Yes ... no ... I don't know." She reached up to run her hand through her hair again, and instead brushed an errant curl into place. "I got a call from Howard just now."

Daniel's mouth twisted. "Well, that's always fun. What'd he want?"

By now, Howard had burned many of his bridges at SHIELD. Not all of them; never all of them. He still got along well with most of the science division. But rifts were even developing with Hank Pym, these days. And those who'd never gotten along well with Howard (such as Daniel, or Jack) had ever less patience with him.

"He wanted to tell me ..." She hesitated. A part of her wanted to wait to break the news until they knew for sure, one way or another. But, while she and Daniel both understood that there were things she couldn't tell him (and vice versa) because of their jobs, this was too big to keep from him. Not intentionally. "He thinks they might have found Steve. I'm sending a team up. I ... haven't decided if I'm going to be on it."

"Oh," Daniel said softly. He reached over to brush against the fingers that were still trying to adjust her graying curls, and hooked his hand lightly around hers. "That must be pretty strange, after all these years. But it'd be good to ... you know. Have something for the family to bury, and all of that."

"Yes, that was my first thought," she admitted, and knew as soon as the words had left her mouth that she wasn't going to tell him about the other part: that Steve might have survived the ice. Not until they knew. Not unless he asked.

Not yet.

#agent carter #peggy carter #daniel sousa #peggysouson #aus #lazaefair

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waltrp · 4 years

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IT’S CALLED A HUSTLE, SWEETHEART

BIDDI BOPPI BOOP A SPECIAL MESSAGE ADMIN ZULEMA: ya’ll know that Nick Wilde is a character that means a lot to me. I am absolutely honored to pass this torch down to my sweet angel Alicia. I loved the mention of Nick’s dad and how his passing affected who he is as a person. It’s a nice added detail to the already complex Nick. I’m excited to see what you do with him. Please refer to THIS PAGE for your next tasks. We can’t wait to roleplay with you. Welcome to our Ohana xx.

It’s a pleasure to meet you…

Alicia. Y’all done know. 22. EST. She/her. I’m a character hoarder, I have a cat and I just bought and moved into a new (old as me) house!

Are you positive you can be active?

Yes. I know I’ve struggled for a long time, but I feel like I can give all of my characters the love they deserve right now. Whenever they allow me to come back to work I’ll have wifi installed, I’ll have my boyfriend’s laptop that is much quicker and easier to deal with than mine and I’ll have my own space to do what I want in my free time. If it comes to a point that I cannot juggle all of my babies I’ll take a step back and make the decisions that need to be made.

How did you stumble upon Walt?

I still remember after all this time it was in the Debby Ryan tag.

Did you read the rules?

Yes, but it was forever ago so I looked through again.

Are you sure?

Character you want?

Nick Wilde.

Please describe the character for us.

With his exaggerated winking and extensive memory of pickup lines, Nick is – no doubt about it – a flirt. A ladies man, if you will. Don’t get him wrong, he’s also talked up his fair share of men to get what he wants. He has no shame. That’s not to say that his charm always works; he’s been slapped once or twice… or a few more. Especially when you mix his sarcastic nature in. Sometimes he reads the situation wrong, sometimes he knows it’s going to backfire, but he just can’t help himself. The boy loves trouble. Even when he had plans to be more than a con man, even when he was trying to be on his absolute best behavior, he was a magnet for mischief. Whether he was pulling pranks on teachers or trespassing on his neighbors’ woods, there always seemed to be a stern scold just around the corner. That didn’t phase Nick. He was a Wilde, after all.

In fact, occasionally he found himself craving punishment simply because it was the only form of acknowledgement he knew how to receive. When you can’t find good attention, you’ll settle for bad. When your As aren’t praised, you’ll stop caring what your report card looks like. When you’re alienated no matter how many times you share your snacks, you’ll learn to cut out the unnecessary heartbreak and sit by yourself at lunch. But no matter how bad school was, Nick had a good home life. He had a father that was more than happy to toss a ball around the backyard and a mother that tucked him in every night with a forehead kiss. He loved his parents. Losing his dad hit hard. He passed away shortly after Nick’s ninth birthday. Though he was young, he never truly mourned the loss, trying to be strong for his mother. It’s no secret that he’d rather run from emotions than face them head on. And run he did. Even when the group of kids kicked and beat him. They tied his hands together, restrained them and laughed when he couldn’t defend himself. There were many moments in his life that Nick never dealt with, just waiting until the day they destroy him.

Second character choice:

Terra Bailey.

It’s time to see that sample para.

Wasn’t this just his luck?

Nick let his suitcase fall to the floor with a loud thud. The last thing he wanted was to be taking classes again. When he’d graduated high school he thought he was done. No more staying up late to cram information for tests — not that he’d done that in years, he’d gotten through by the skin of his teeth. Nick Wilde was smart, but he didn’t care about showing it. He didn’t care if some stranger with a teaching degree thought he was worth passing or failing. There were much more important things he could use his with for than getting a degree of his own. And here he was anyway. Thanks, Judy.

It was a nice place. Better than his apartment back home, nicer than his childhood bedroom. That wasn’t the point, though. The point was that he didn’t want this. He didn’t ask for this.

His dad would be proud. The thought flickered through his mind for a split second before he shut it down. His dad would be nothing. His dad couldn’t be anything anymore. It was pointless to try to be anything for someone that couldn’t see it. He wasn’t going to live out the dreams of a dead guy. He wasn’t going to think about the tears in his mother’s eyes when he told her that he had to leave or that she’d probably dreamed of him deciding to go to college for years. He wasn’t going to think about any of it.

Letting an annoyed huff blow through his lips, he pulled his shirt over his head and tossed it onto the floor. Tomorrow morning he’d be waking up early for his first class of the day. He better get some rest.

Anything else, love?

I’m sorry that was the worst para I’ve ever really written because I didn’t have time to write out my long other ideas. I made a mock blog, because I’m obsessed with mock blogs, and I wanted to make sure I’d have the muse. Spoiler: I do. If you wanna peek to make sure I’ll do the beloved mans justice.

#waaccept #disney rp #bio rp #rp #rpg #roleplay #animation rp #city rp #magic rp #school rp

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