#anyways. surprisingly writing out the background was less painful than expected

[thewizardscurse]

everything i say has come before

#cedart #oc tag #like clockwork #the winged one #<- i redesigned her recently for fun :-] #anyways. surprisingly writing out the background was less painful than expected #still annoying as hell though

[schrodingersauthorii]

In honor of Salvage Ch. 18, I have prepared the first chapter of my Phoenix Salvage AU. @muffinlance , there’s one scene that’s 100% an improvement in my overall writing structure I pulled from you, and I bet NOBODY can tell which one it is.

—————————

The young soldier must have somehow heard the blade coming. He didn’t have time to cry out, but the panic stains his face. Not quite the easy death Hakoda wanted, but unavoidable, and still far kinder than leaving him to the sea.

Two years of fighting had left many too-young Fire Nation soldiers dead on this deck, but this was different than a battle. Different even than a mercy kill, back when they thought maybe Fire Nation prisoners would simply accept a fate other than death.

The soldier wouldn’t have left them any choice in the end. But he hadn’t forced their hands. Not yet.

One of the men murmured a prayer, a simple benediction for the journey to the next life. This wasn’t the clean up after a battle, and there might not Fire elders speaking rites for the kid somewhere across the sea. The soldier might only have what they give him, and they're pragmatic people- not cruel.

The Fire Nation burns their dead. That would be kindest, but if they could safely build a pyre, then they could have safely kept a firebending prisoner. The young soldier have a sea burial.

The corpse vetoed this. Violently.

Akake and Tuluk yelped, dropping the suddenly burning body onto the wooden deck.

Fire shouldn’t be green and purple, Hakoda barely had to think, and the fire disappeared. He blinked the sparks out of his eyes, and the deck was as clear. No fire, purple-green or otherwise. Just a vaguely soldier shaped mound of ash.

Hakoda reached down to touch it: barely warm, and not so much as a soot mark beneath it.

Something stirred. Something tiny. Hakoda grabbed it without giving himself time to think about it. Whatever it was squirmed frantically in his hand.

Hakoda looked down, expecting- something. A still beating heart, perhaps. A reptile or worm, at the very least. Something repulsive and macabre. But a tiny, down-feathered bird trembled in his hand. He brushed ash off of soft, orange wings. Even filthy, the fledgling glowed like sunrise.

“It’s a bird,” Hakoda said, dumbfounded.

“A bird,” Tuluk repeated.

The bird cheeped in distress. Hakoda started to pet it, but it nearly fell to the deck in its effort to escape his hand. He quickly cupped it with both hands instead. The bird pecked at his fingers.

The entire deck stared in stunned silence. What were they supposed to do with a bird?

————————

Tolko presented a box hastily stuffed with hay from the albatross-pidgeon coop. Hakoda carefully dropped the chick inside. It burrowed down into the loose “nest,” still cheeping incessantly.

“He’s so cute,” Tolko gasped. “What are we going to do with him?”

Tolko stared at the bird with love already in his eyes. The bird stared back with… suspicion. At the very least.

Hakoda’s temples begun a warning throb.

“Ask Kustaa if he can… find anything,” he finally said.

Tolko cooed at the bird as he walked away.

Hakoda felt a dreadful portent hum in his bones: this would not end well, and there was absolutely nothing he could do to stop it.

------

“What is that?” Kustaa asked.

“A bird,” Tolko said. And held the chick up to Kustaa’s face, as if not seeing the puffball was the problem.

“Which might also be a Fire Nation soldier. The Chief wants to know if you can find anything.”

“A soldier.”

“Yeah. He was drifting past, we fished him out, but he was. You know. A Fire Nation soldier. And he said he was a firebender. So.”

“So what?”

“He kind of...died. And spontaneously combusted. The bird was in the ashes. See?”

Tolko brushed the bird’s head and held up a sooty finger. The chick couldn’t really floof in anger- it was already at maximum floof- but it gave its best impression of outrage anyway. Tolko hastily placed it on the table before it could tumble out of his hand.

“This is a bird,” Kustaa said. “I’m a healer, not an ornithologist. Or a shaman. All I’m qualified to say whether or not YOU have brain rot.”

“Umm…” Tolko mumbled.

“Any headaches? Blurred vision? Acute pain in your arms or legs? Motor difficulties?” Kustaa asked as he prodded Tolko’s arms.

“No?”

“Then we’ll work with the assumption that Spirits were involved, not Swamp Fever. Hopefully, a minor Spirit.”

Kustaa leaned down in front of the bird.

“Can you understand us: peck two times, then three.”

Low and behold, the bird did… then stared at them and pecked a deliberate pattern of some sort.

“I don’t understand that,” Kustaa said.

A storm of outraged peeping.

“I’m sorry, but there’s nothing I can do about it. Are you a Spirit, one peck for yes, two pecks for no.”

Two pecks, and more outraged peeping.

“...Are you a bird?”

In hindsight, it was incredibly bold of them to assume Zuko knew more than they did about anything.

--------

Tuluk entered Hakoda’s office after a single knock, and Hakoda’s temples immediately resumed pounding.

“Apparently, the bird insists he is the soldier, and NOT a Spirit,” Tuluk said.

Hakoda pinched the bridge of his nose. And resolved to make an offering soon. There were stories about shapeshifting Spirits who forgot they weren’t human.

“Keep an eye on him,” Hakoda said. “We’ll head to the nearest port and find an Earth Sage. This is exactly the kind of trouble we don’t need.”

Tuluk nodded grimly.

A thought struck Hakoda. “How did…?”

Tuluk sighed. “Lots of questions. Lots of patience. Kustaa is positively charmed with the little menace.”

“He’s a bird.”

“A mean one,” Tuluk agreed. “But he’s warmed to Kustaa and Tolko, for stars knows why.”

Hakoda didn’t like the idea of a Spirit getting… attached to his crew, but he liked the idea of an upset Spirit on his ship even less.

“Keep an eye on them, please,” Hakoda said.

Tuluk nodded, understanding in his eyes.

“I’ll do my best, but that’s a conversation you need to have with Kustaa and Tolko. Probably the rest of the crew, too.”

Hakoda’s headache sharpened with knife-like intensity. Tuluk eyed him with concern.

“Chief. Nobody will blame you if you need a drink before that. Kustaa’s almost ordered a shipwide medicinal order.”

Hakoda sighed.

“After,” he promised. And didn’t clarify after what.

—————————-

Their youngest crewman tucked the surly creature into his parka, from where it eyed everyone and everything with deep suspicion. Tolko kept up a mostly one-sided commentary, which the soldier-bird seemed surprisingly engaged with.

“Do you know his name?” Punuk asked as Tolko showed the bird their snack break offerings.

“No,” Tolko said through a mouthful of salted fish. “It’s the character for ‘righteous rule,’ but we couldn’t figure out the pronunciation. So Birdie it is.”

“Birdie” cheeped aggressively enough to attract the other crewmen’s attention for the first time in hours. There was still work to be done, and his constant noise quickly faded into the background.

“That’s terrible. How about… Sparky? Ember?”

“Blaze.”

“Inferno.”

“Red.”

“You can’t call him red, he’s pink.”

“He’s definitely more orange than pink.”

“Orange still isn’t red.”

Ragnalok tossed an empty water skin at the pair.

“Stop torturing the poor guy. He already died once today.”

The trio went quiet.

“Way too soon, man,” Panuk said.

Birdie was… worryingly quiet for several hours after that.

-------

Tolko roused in the middle of the night, awakened by a faint stirring of downy feathers and soft cooing. Birdy was awake. Tolko couldn’t see it, but dawn must be on the horizon.

Birds liked dawn. So did firebenders, presumably. It was early, but Tolko wasn’t tired-tired, so…

Tolko scooped Birdy up in one hand and slid out of his hammock. “We’ll go top deck,” he whispered as he tucked Birdy into his collar.

Birdy cheeped in a maybe grumpy, maybe affirmative way. But it was soft, so Tolko didn’t think he was upset. Birdy was very, very good at communicating when he was upset, bird or not.

It still seemed uncharacteristic. And Birdy was slumping on Tolko’s shoulder in a way he hadn’t yesterday.

Tolko scooped Birdy back into his hand, and Birdy just… cheeped quietly. Cheeped once and fell silent.

Okay. It was early: Birdy might just be tired. It was a Thing, that birds got sleepy when it was dark- even if it wasn’t actually night. They’d go topdeck and watch the sunrise, and if Birdie still seemed off he’d come back and wake Kustaa.

Tolko climbed the last stair just as the sun broke free of the horizon. Birdie chirped softly again, and Tolko held him out into the light.

“It’s beautiful,” Tolko said.

And Birdie once again caught fire on the Spirits damned deck.

#avatar the last airbender #fanfic #phoenix salvage

[usergreenpixel]

JACOBIN FICTION CONVENTION MEETING 2: The Black Book (1949)

1. Introduction

Welp, here it is, Citizens.

Welcome to the second meeting of the Jacobin Fiction Convention. Please, enjoy some snacks and drinks and get comfortable because we’re in for a pretty wild ride.

The review of “The Black Book” is finally here. Initially released under the title “Reign of Terror” in 1949, it acquired its second (and more famous in our community) title during its rereleases, as far as my research could tell me.

Now, before we proceed, allow me to give you some background info on the way I found this movie.

I have seen @frevandrest ‘s posts referring to it. A few other people too, but I simply don’t remember the usernames. Still, I immediately got the impression that it’s a rather infamous movie in our community so I decided to review it simply out of morbid curiosity, just to see what the fuss was about.

I found the entire thing on YouTube so it’s available for anyone curious or masochistic enough to check it out.

Let’s just say that I dropped the movie several times and the reasons for this awful impression are going to be listed below.

2. The Story

The story reeks of propaganda, which is to be expected.

Basically, The Evil Misogynistic Gay Pigeon Boi Not Yet Dictator ™️ Robespierre wants to become, well, the dictator of France.

Problem is, apparently only Barras can appoint him as the dictator and that guy is in hiding, refusing to comply. And to make things worse, the titular book, Robespierre’s personal death list of sorts, has vanished.

Robespierre believes that he cannot control the Convention without the book and summons Duval, the butcher prosecutor from Strasbourg, to locate the death list in 24 hours. Unbeknownst to him, Duval gets replaced by one Charles D’Aubigny, who is eager to stop Robespierre...

Yes, Citizens, they attempted to make a thriller/detective story of sorts, which isn’t a bad idea. If my prompts are any indication, there’s a lot of genres that fit the setting of the French Revolution. In fact, I would love to read a good detective story set in this era.

The keyword here is ‘good’ though, and, unfortunately, this movie simply didn’t cut it for me as a detective story.

(Spoilers ahead!)

In all honesty, it’s actually quite predictable in its execution. Personally, I predicted rather quickly that the book wasn’t actually stolen and it was a distraction move.

The complete lack of logic in the actions of this Robespierre and the ridiculous levels of seriousness also were really painful to watch and kept breaking any potential immersion on my part.

For instance, Robespierre’s method of controlling the Convention is not telling who is and who is not on the list.

Now, in Real Life ™️, this hardly stopped the Thermidorians but apparently that’s not the case in the movie! Nobody even tries to speak up against him or, you know, quietly assassinate him to prevent him from getting all the power, which is hardly realistic if you ask me.

I also feel like this plot line of Charles and Madelon (the female lead) being these bitter exes is boring and really done to death. It’s actually one of my least favorite tropes and I would rather prefer them to simply have a professional relationship (because yes, men and women can have platonic relationships), like old acquaintances who went on a spying mission that one time or something similar.

This romantic subplot was really shoehorned into the story in my opinion and I do believe that it would’ve been more tolerable with only the main plot left in the final script, but oh well.

3. The Characters

Once again, boring is the best adjective I can come up with. Fouché felt less out of character than the others though, which is not a good sign.

Madelon is the femme fatale mixed with damsel in distress and Charles is the stereotypical single detective character. That’s about it. They’re both just walking clichés.

Anyway, since the OCs are kind of archetypical and blander than oatmeal without milk, let’s discuss the historical figures.

Robespierre is once again stereotypical, but I find it funny that his HQ are connected to a bakery and his scene with pigeons near the beginning is surprisingly accurate in the sense of the “he likes pigeons” tidbit. I don’t know if the creators did any research on this but it’s a nice detail nonetheless.

And now let’s talk about Saint-Just in this mess. He is ridiculously and cartoonishly evil, kicks kittens to prove it, giggles and grins like me when I write something funny in my chapters and is incredibly dumb. Also, he sounds and acts like he belongs in a Western, not in this kind of movie.

Fouché is...well, Fouché, believe it or not. Opportunistic, cruel, a backstabber and he turns on Robespierre so he is not as out of character as the others. He also makes a face similar to an owl or that “You don’t say” meme. His almost friendly banter with Charles is pretty entertaining though, I’ll give him that.

4. The Setting

The authors didn’t do their homework here properly. I’m not an expert but most outfits don’t fit that epoch and a lot of names are butchered when they’re pronounced. Danton and Marie-Antoinette in particular suffer from that, but so does SJ.

I know that the Internet was not a thing yet but it baffles me that apparently the creators couldn’t bother to consult native French speakers? Dig up information about the time period in archives? Look at portraits? Read books? You know, the usual parts of ❇️ research ❇️. Apparently, they couldn’t and it really shows.

The backgrounds are better in this department, but nothing particularly impressive here either.

5. The Acting

A+ for effort I guess. Look, guys, people trash actors a lot but I think that here they tried their best with what they had so props for that. The over-the-top acting and the extensive seriousness even made this boredom fest kind of funny to watch at times so I’m going to give it credit where credit is due.

6. The Conclusion

All in all, a pretty bad and boring movie filled with propaganda, clichés, flat characters but also occasional unintentionally funny and cartoonish moments sprinkled in.

If you’re into bad movies, I won’t stop you from watching it but I highly recommend you to do something else with your free time if you’re looking for an actually good movie.

This concludes today’s meeting of the Jacobin Fiction Convention. Stay tuned for updates, Citizens, and stay safe!

Love,

- Citizen Green Pixel

#french revolution #frev media #frev #maximilien robespierre #louis antoine de saint just #I still refuse to make a fouche tag #napoleon #history #movies #Jacobin Fiction Convention #review

[painted-crow]

Submission time #19

so i’ve been spending the last little bit unburning my lion primary. now i’m sort of lost on secondary? i suspect i have bird in there somewhere but i’m having a hard time separating my natural secondary and a model that i really like and find helpful. (or maybe it’s the now-surprisingly-loud lion primary drive for authenticity coming through?) so if it’s okay with you, i’ll take a crack at some of the quiz questions and see if there’s anything of note? spacing might be weird—i’m on mobile :/

Sure thing!

When you succeed, how influential in that success were the people around you?

my answer to this one depends on the day. yes, they’re extremely influential; no, i don’t always like it. not because i don’t appreciate or need the help but because it got into my head in a funny way growing up. i’ve always been tremendously lucky to have people who love and want to help me, but like... it gets to the point where it feels like i’m nothing on my own. how much of this is a favour? what do i owe you? are you just trying to spare my feelings or because i’m related to someone else? i’m desperate to be able to say (and believe) that i’ve done something for myself on my own terms.

Ooh, okay. So, you've maybe got some caretaker Badgers around you, but that's not you--you don't really value this in yourself, even if it's how the community around you works. If you have any Badger secondary, it's anxious.

Do people consider you charismatic?

charisma is SUCH a concept. it gives off such an animal magnetism, face of the revolution vibe, which is not me at all. i have to work hard to be nice bc most people deserve the benefit of the doubt (as i repress the instinct to be judgy and mean LMAO) and also bc it just works better socially? flies and honey and all that. i also have very specific ways of being nice: “mom friend” and “hypercompetent rookie in line of succession” and “spicy and nonjudgmental confidante” which, granted, are already all parts of my personality just emphasized for clarity. i think of it like... personality colour correction, or... code-switching i guess.

You've literally just described Actor Bird. Also, you're not very nice when you describe yourself, are you?

people tend to like me more than i like me, though, and it catches me a little by surprise every time. maybe it’s just because i live in my own head and it’s a lot quieter and more anxious up here. it does suck a little, suddenly being worried that like “ooh ppl only like what u show them but that’s not how u rlly are”

Lions (primary or secondary) and Actor Bird can really clash... it sounds like you're discovering that your primary doesn't like this tactic as it unburns. Also, I think Bird masks just take a lot of energy if used long term. That might be me though.

so i’ll Sprinkle In Some Light Trauma to gauge the reaction (and regret it immediately). the truth is that not many people make it past the social utility part of friendship and so i don’t rlly... feel safe? putting down the masks which are designed to smooth interactions in any case. (so i guess YES but actually no i’m charismatic but also that’s a very different public facing side)

Yeah, this is all Actor Bird so far. Also, hugs.

Do you like going into situations with a plan?

mmm. i don’t think i plan so much as i attempt to see into the future and force my best outcome. i HATE going in blind—if i can a way around something, i will, but if i can’t it has to at least be a good and sensible attempt. most of the plans i usually put together have coping-mechanism, doodling while on a phone call energy: too granular to ever implement, just something to put order to the things you’re thinking.

This is still lots of Bird energy. Plans don't always look the same, you know? And some of us barely use 'em at all.

like, i do have all my degree requirements and preferred classes listed out, because that’s important and i should have that sorted out correctly before declaring my major. but the hour by hour daily schedule is more of a thing to make me feel in control and like i’ve put the work into considering it.

i’m also a stereotypical nerd: i have an english/history brain, i write a lot, i fall down personality inventory rabbit holes for fun, i pick up random things that end up relevant years later, nothing was as distressing as not being able to read for fun bc university was just Too Much—you know the drill.

I do, but not everyone is like this. You're probably a Bird, and I wonder if you're taking your secondary for granted because you feel like it's expected of you.

but for someone who plans as a coping mechanism, it’s also sometimes the best way to put me off. like i don’t know, being friends, which is the only thing in my life where traditional overthinking would RUIN it absolutely.

i know someone who semi-despairingly refers to herself as machiavellian because she interacts with people like it’s 4D chess.

Huh, so your friends don't talk about themselves very nicely either.

collects info, reshapes her entire personality into something designed to appeal to whoever she’s talking to. i tried not to get into motive bc socializing really is like That sometimes, but i couldn’t imagine pulling that off. i talk big game about acting a certain way, but only in ways that are already part of me yk? if i couldn’t believe i was being legit in some way i’m like 97% sure it would show through somehow and make it real weird.

You're still on Actor Bird. Your friend might have a Snake model? but you're an Actor Bird.

How do you feel about shortcuts?

work smart not hard, she says, working hard anyway bc she needs to see all the little things fall into place just to make sure that they do.

seriously though, that is for “important enough” things: i need to see it done to standard. i can rest only with a job well done kind of thing—due diligence so that any tomfoolery that goes down isn’t my fault and therefore no one can get mad at me.

This might be a Badger model, and I'm gonna take a shot in the dark and say you picked this up from your community because it's what they expect of you. You don't seem to take any joy in it, though; it seems like an anxious response.

also i have beef with the idea of being gullible, so i’m gonna see it with my OWN EYES. for less important things, it’s a heart says yes mind says no situation. i love the shortcut that saves time and effort but keeps the quality, which is plentiful when it’s like. pasta sauce, but not when it’s like. the Donner party heading to california. i would love to shorten that stuff, but the consequences of a poorly done shortcut are more painful than the slog.

Bird modeling Badger. Yep.

Do you feel the need to keep the peace?

(it didn’t come up on this run of the quiz but i’ve been mulling over for a while!)

Huh. This question doesn't always come up? I always get it. I have to assume it's the quiz checking for Badger.

i’ve got a fairly bad temper and a transparent face. so no—i’m not much for keeping the peace. i can do it properly if compelled, but it’s exhausting and irritating and only really makes me resentful of the emotional labour.

Whether you can keep the peace is kind of separate from whether you feel you should, but you also really dislike being in that role. You're modeling some Bookkeeper Badger, which doesn't actually make you happy, and you really don't seem to like using Courtier for anything.

does it bother me when people fight? yeah, like most people do when it’s a rift-causing argument in a group they care strongly about, but if i’m not more loyal to one side of the dispute i’m much more likely to take out all the parties and have done with it. i’ve been known to fight back or even start stuff if the cause is important enough, or i have spleen to vent, but i’m a very messy arguer so staying out of it and collecting receipts in the background is much more my style.

Wonder if you've got some Lion secondary hiding out in your Houses. You don't like going into things unprepared, but maybe there's a Lion model you could be nurturing that would make you happier than that Badger mess that's been pushed on you.

anyway. this was long. made me think harder about badger than i thought. lots of feelings, but def not as sad as the ones i typed up and deleted ages ago which i elect to count as progress. thanks for making it this far hahahah

Yay! Progress!

Yeah, I don't think you're a Badger. It really doesn't make you happy. You sound like a Bird to me: actor Bird, rapid fire Bird, but not Badger. Not Snake, either; if you're a rapid fire or actor Bird (or both) you might mis-Sort yourself into Snake, but I'm not getting that from you.

--Paint

#sortinghatchats #submission #ravenclaw secondary #hufflepuff secondary model #rapid fire bird #actor bird #paint speaks

[missorgana]

how fast the night changes

pairing: alex/willie, background julie/luke

fandom: julie and the phantoms

rating: general

word count: 2244

warning: swearing, referenced homophobia (very brief)

summary: "I think it's brilliant." Reggie tells him. "Brilliant?" Alex deadpans, "You think asking Domino's to send your cutest delivery guy is brilliant?" (an ‘everyone is alive’ AU, seen on this post)

(i am once again late to an event, but here’s my fic for @jatp-week! i really kinda mixed the prompts of day 2 and 3, but nevertheless, i found a cute and hilarious au and had to write it 💖 hope yall enjoy!!)

read on ao3

“I can’t write that, Luke!”

“Yes, you can, dude! Trust me.”

Alex hates his friends. So much.

Okay, no, they’re wonderful and crazy and planned him a birthday party, so maybe he can’t really hate them.

But they’re real close to the limit right now.

Because after much not so civil discussion of pizza toppings, they’re about to order, and suddenly Luke makes a turn back to the topic of Alex’s love life.

Sounds weird, he knows.

But Luke and Reggie, who he’s almost known since birth (well, in spirit, at least), have a minor obsession with setting him up with someone.

He’s always been admittedly socially awkward, so Alex knows the boys are doing it out of love, and they wouldn’t ever make him uncomfortable.

Well, intentionally, anyway. Their insistent wingmen roles suit them, while being perpetually annoying.

And Flynn loves to join in a bit too much for Alex’s liking.

Julie’s more indifferent to this topic of discussion, because she’s an angel. Credit for settling ninety percent of their squabbles goes directly to her, but since her and Luke finally started dating, they’ve been dragging her to their side.

Goddammit.

Alex is currently staring at his best friend in disbelief, and while their advice makes sense most of the time, this is just outrageous.

“I think it’s brilliant,” Reggie tells him from the bean bag, in possession of the tv remote, which he’s been zapping through movies with for an insane amount of time, “and can we order, already? I’m starving.”

Julie’s been an angel, once more, by hosting the surprise party for Alex. And he totally didn’t cry when they revealed themselves. Nope.

The boys hugged him, to the point of them all cuddling on the floor before the girls claimed their own Alex-time, and really, emotions everywhere.

This is also less than a month since Alex came out to them, and to be honest, it was the scariest thing he’s ever done.

That’s why he loves them so much. They’re the first people he’s ever told, not even his parents, and he’s not sure when he’ll do that.

Religion’s always been strict at home, and he’s pretty sure having an openly gay son might give his dad a heart attack.

Alex can’t bear the thought of rejection from his own family. He’s got a family here, though. And this is safety.

“Brilliant?” he deadpans, Reggie clearly not understanding the absolute embarrassment this could only result in, “You think asking Domino’s to send your cutest delivery guy is brilliant?”

His friend only replies with a wild gesture of arms.

“Can’t believe I’m saying this, but I agree.” Flynn speaks up, and Julie shook her head with a smile.

“I wouldn’t call it brilliant,” she adds, just about saving Alex’s heart, until, “but I kinda wanna see who they send.”

“Julie!”

“What?!”

“Forget it, drummer boy! She’s on our side!”

The boys laugh, and my God, they’re the worst. He can’t be mad at these idiots, which is why he simply rubs his temples. No additional notes, then.

“Okay, so, if we forget that and everyone’s happy with that many toppings, then-” and really, Alex is mere seconds from the pay button, till his phone is grabbed from his hands too quickly for him to react.

Luke is the absolute worst.

“Hey! Give it back!” he really tries, really, jumping towards his best friend, who laughs, with Flynn eagerly holding him back, “Don’t you dare, Luke!”

“Dare what?” he replies innocently, and suddenly, his phone is back, and a white screen tells him Thanks for your order.

So not only did his stupid romantic of a friend write exactly the note he protested against, but as if it weren’t enough, he added a winky smiley, too.

Alex is done with wingmen, done with love. Nope, never doing that. Ever.

Except it’s done now, and they all got a smug expression on their faces, except Julie, of course, with her apologetic eyes, and man, he just wants to hide forever.

He’s giving Luke his best stink eye, which he has too much puppy eyes to do, Flynn told him, and his friend rubs his shoulders assuringly, “Alex, what’s the worst that could happen? Either you get the cute guy’s number, or if he’s not cool, you’ll play it off as a prank, or something.”

Alex just shakes his head.

And Reggie’s stopped zapping, landing on The Empire Strikes Back, like he hasn’t seen it about 300 times before.

“I hate you.” he tells them simply.

Reggie grins like an asshole from the beanbag, “You could never.”

It’s especially annoying because he’s sort of right. And really, it’s not like Alex can turn back time now, so even though he’ll definitely get them back for this, somehow, there’s not much else to do than wait.

Fifteen minutes pass by where Luke and Julie hog the couch to themselves, Yoda’s hitting R2D2 with a stick, and Flynn obsesses over just how many different snacks they need.

Reggie decides to abandon the bean bag, too, and rest his head on Alex’s shoulder instead, so maybe it makes it all okay.

And so when twenty minutes have gone by along with throwing popcorn at the television, and Alex intensely quizzing Julie on what kind of birthday cake they got him, the doorbell rings, and the living room bursts into a tantrum.

His friends jump all around him, because of course, they want him to answer the door, which he’s refusing, but they seem too excited to listen when this ridiculous plan of theirs is reaching its peak.

Luke’s holding his shoulders again, “Answer it!”

“I mean, this is technically Julie’s house-” Reggie manages, surprisingly, but Flynn looks at him with disapproval, “Don’t switch sides now, man!”

But Alex is already at the door, suddenly, somehow, in the midst of the discussion.

He doesn’t really see the point in protesting now, anyway, and Julie pinches Luke’s side, redeeming her in his heart. Also, he can’t help touching his hair, cause that’s what happens when he’s nervous.

“I promise, Alex, you’ll be fine!” she looks excited too, but like, secretly.

They all nod in unison, too, dorks.

And so he mentally prepares himself for possibly the most awkward experience in his life. Dramatic, he knows, but seriously, will this exchange be anything other than painful? He doubts it.

Is it too much to hope for, that the delivery guy doesn’t see the notes? Maybe it’s just the boss who handles the orders, yeah, that’s not impossible. Right?

But as much as Alex is prepared for the embarrassing conversation ahead, he’s certainly, in no way prepared, as it turns out, for seeing who’s standing on the other side of the door.

The delivery guy. Well, obviously, stupid brain, but listen.

Alex is met with the cutest guy he’s ever seen. And he’s met a lot of cute guys, albeit they’re all in the same small town, but come on.

In short, let’s say Domino’s delivered more than they asked for.

And uh, yes, Alex realises the irony. Reggie would love that joke, he thinks to himself, hysterically, actually.

So, said delivery guy standing in front of him is a bit shorter, and, of course, he’s wearing uniform, cap and winter jacket, in this god forbidden weather, but he notices the strands of dark hair framing his face immediately.

And the red, dangling earring on his right ear. And his cheekbones, oh my god.

There’s no way he’ll tell his friends any of that once this is over.

Said friends are snickering in the background, by the way, or well, Reggie is, anyway. He prays they’ve moved slightly behind the door, or turned back to the couch, or anywhere out of sight.

“Hey, man!” the shorter boy says, while Alex is suffering an internal breakdown, “It’s, uh, 10 pizzas for ya, right?”

And so he nods tight lipped as an answer, because honestly, he’s not sure he’s capable of forming words right now. As if he wasn’t already embarrassed enough. Super mega cute delivery guy lifts an eyebrow, just enough that it’s noticeable, but he doesn’t voice whatever thoughts passed his mind.

Bless him.

That is, until Alex gets all the cash out (with a tip, hopefully making his shift a bit more bearable, when he has to deal with something like this), and he suddenly asks, “So, am I alright?”

Alex thinks his brain might have an immediate shut down. “What?” he sputters, and his voice totally doesn't squeak, shut up.

Cute delivery guy giggles. That’s just not fair, is it?

“Am I cute enough, I mean.”

That- oh my god. First of all, said boy doesn’t look tired, or annoying, or weirded out, judging by his expression.

Second of all, he looks to the ground for a second, but really, his posture is all confidence. Except he bites his lip, which gives Alex a headache.

“I, uh…” he starts, like he actually knows to finish the sentence, “Sorry, uhm. My friends. They’re ridiculous.”

“Oh.”

Alex expects more, but he doesn’t continue.

Is his mind playing games with him, or does cute delivery guy actually look… disappointed?

No, that can’t be right. He can’t be flattered by a customer note, which, by the way, did the boss decide who to send? Did the Domino’s delivery, or whatever, have a collective vote?

Alex truly doesn’t understand the chaos his friends get him into, sometimes.

He has to admit, it’s not half bad, given that he’s getting food and looking at a cute guy. And actually talking to him. That’s a first.

So, not having much time to weigh his options, he gives the shorter boy the money and tries his hand with damage control, “I mean, uhm, it’s my birthday. Sorry, my friends are obsessed with setting me up with someone, so here we are. I-I’m so sorry, I… and they! Didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

Super mega cute delivery guy nods along with Alex’s anxious spiel.

And then he smiles, but somehow it looks less like a customer service smile, and more like… a real one? Warmer. He doesn’t really know.

Alex is an absolute wreck, so he’s scared to get his hopes up. Cute guy still thinks he’s a weirdo, probably. More so now.

“Seriously, don’t worry man.” he answers, in what Alex feels is an eternity later, “And happy birthday! Damn, you should’ve put that in the order. We got specials.”

And fuck, he’s so cute. Almost looks genuinely excited, and so he can’t help but giggle. Nervously. It’s the Alex way, as Flynn says.

“Thanks.” he tells him, and he hopes to God he isn’t blushing right now.

The guys will never let him forget this day, he’s sure.

Transaction’s pretty much straightforward then, and his dork friends actually show themselves and help get the pizzas (and three soda sixpacks, seriously, Luke?) into the living room.

Reggie elbows him with a smirk, too, the idiot.

Thing is, that’s out of the way too, and there’s pretty much zero reason for super mega cute delivery guy to be here anymore. His scooter certainly doesn’t look empty of goods just yet.

Yet, he lingers. 

Only for a few seconds, before he catches Alex completely off guard with another question, “So, you don’t want a cute delivery guy?”

There’s no way in hell he isn’t blushing right now, holy shit.

It just makes Alex feel even more like a puddle of goo, because the shorter boy bites his lip again.

And because his mouth is even more stupid than his nerves, “I, uh, I-I mean… Yes. Well, I got one.” blurts out before he can stop it.

This leads to super mega cute delivery guy raising his brows, putting his hands in his pockets, and putting a stupid grin on his face.

Alex is so lost so quick, oh my god.

“You think I’m cute?” he asks, almost sounding surprised, which is possibly the most ridiculous thing tonight, because look at him!

He can’t help looking at his feet, because surely, he must be blushing beyond belief. And the shorter boy tilts his head just a bit, not losing eye contact completely.

Seriously, can he stop being this cute? Alex might just combust soon.

“I mean… obviously.” he tries, shrugging and fixing his hair, “I, well, Domino’s certainly delivered. Oh my god, uh, that’s just terrible. I’m so sorry.”

When Alex finally straightens up again, super mega cute delivery guy smiles at him, exposing his dimples, and that just makes him feel even more things. If that was even possible right now.

“You’re adorable.”

Okay, now, what is actually going on.

He blinks rapidly, like this is a figment of his imagination that’ll disappear in front of him, except the shorter boy grabs the receipt and scribbles something.

And he sticks his tongue out a little bit when writing, like there wasn’t enough cute things about him already, fucking hell.

Next thing Alex knows, he’s handed the slip of paper again, with something at the top that looks quite a lot like a phone number.

Cutest delivery guy, he had signed it off.

Oh my god. Oh my god. Oh my god.

“Name’s Willie, by the way,” super mega cute delivery tells him, ultimately turning back to the long awaiting red scooter, butnot without a wink that totally didn’t make Alex’s knees wobble.

“See ya, birthday boy!”

#mine #jatpedit #my writing #willex #jatpweek #fanfiction #fandomaestheticgang #eloquencenet #queernet #creatorssource #fluff #mlm #everyone lives au #general rating #referenced homophobia #mention of religion #meet cute #tw: swearing #julie and the phantoms #netflixedit #my creations #sabrinasfamily #userems #marisasfamily

[a-stitch-in-time-and-space]

Headcanon: Julian Bashir is autistic and has frequent sensory overload, and the only two people who can help him are Garek and O’ Brien. Me? Projecting? It’s more likely than you think!!!

Ha, moooood. Which on that note I have a somewhat intense fic here in which Julian has a meltdown. It’s not related to sensory issues so much as “oh boy a lot of shit’s happened to him” but if you want more O'Brien helping him out after this – so because we gave that fic to O'Brien, let’s give this one to Garak.

Also can we talk about the fact that it’s canon that Julian and the other augments can hear sounds at decibels that non-augments can’t and that it causes them pain, but Julian just taught himself to not react, like fuck, how did someone write this and not follow through on Julian-Bashir-is-autistic-and-or-otherwise-nd!

sorry for taking so long, a. this got a bit longish so it’s under a cut and b. I got distracted by the fact that I always want to see everyone’s notes on reblogs in case of interesting discussion points and i have just now learnt that that cannot be done easily if a lot of people reblog at once… oh hyper-fixation how you get me time and again

this takes place post-Doctor Bashir I Presume and alludes to the fact that during this time Garak and Bashir’s interactions were gradually stripped away in the show (because it too gay) - Andy Robinson ran with that in A Stitch In Time and had Garak write about how much he regretted the two of them not remaining close/hinted that he was in love with him… so take that background as you will.

—— More Space ——-

Thank goodness, he thought after an indeterminate amount of time. O'Brien was here. He would be able to calm him down, he would know how to come up with some soothing description of exactly which of DS9’s pistons or pipes or programs was currently making that noise and he’d either fix it or stay with him until it sorted itself out. Or maybe the noise was gone and the residual whining was just himself recreating it perfectly in his head, or maybe he was just too far gone by now for it to matter, but O'Brien would help. Since the two of them had become friends and some of Julian’s old ticks had returned after his augmentation had come to light, Miles had been a surprisingly steady presence in his life.

“Doctor?”

No, not Miles.

Garak.

He couldn’t make himself respond. His body felt like it was compressing him into a vice, with all his ability to focus somehow splintered into a million shards, each of them painful to the touch. Oh no, what if Garak touched him? If Garak touched him right now he might shatter or scream or something else entirely outside of his control, but talking was also impossible right now, so he couldn’t ask him not to touch, please don’t touch-

Garak sat down in front of him, far enough away that it didn’t feel like too… much.

“Doctor. You don’t need to say or do anything.”

He could manage that.

“I was wondering why you’d missed our lunch date. Very pleased to find you didn’t simply opt not to come without telling me, although I find the alternative to be distressing.”  He stopped talking for a moment then. “Apologies for breaking into your room. Again.”

While Garak simply sat and occasionally spoke Julian was dimly aware of the fact that he could feel his edges hardening again. The shards were being pulled back together.

He also noticed now that he was freezing. It usually happened like that, having sat sedentary for however long or coming down from some emotional extreme. He shivered.

“This station is cold,” said Garak.“The temperature, the lights, the people… all too cold.”

Julian managed a smile and it was like his mouth was freed from a curse. “It is, isn’t it.”

“Not to mention loud,” Garak added.

“All that machinery,” Julian nodded and spoke slowly. His mouth still needed to unstick. “Every time an alarm goes it’s like a sharp pain… I used to be… much better at this.”

“What do you mean?”

“I used to… I used to get these all the time as a child. Meltdowns, shutdowns, I think. But then my parents told me later that it was a side-effect of the augmentations and I tried to… to will myself to stop them, to bypass my natural instincts in order to not be found out and it worked, in a way, or at least nobody found out. I familiarised myself with and categorised any sights, sounds, smells, feelings I came across on earth during my Starfleet training and ordered them into lists and sublists: What I could handle mostly, what I could handle sometimes, what I needed to avoid at all costs. I managed to… to pretend. And then I came to Deep Space Nine and for awhile it was all too much again, I had to make new lists, but I managed, I really… I really did, I really did, I really-” he was talking himself into hyperventilating again, he knew this, but he couldn’t stop now, “- and then I got captured and it was like everything just stopped. I barely- I don’t even remember most of it, but when I got back it was so much worse -”

“Julian,” said Garak and the sound of his first name coming from Garak’s mouth surprised him back to the now. “Julian,” said Garak again. “You’re here. With me. On a floor that is quite cold, I might add.”

Julian breathed out and mumbled under the exhale. “One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten.”

“What is that,” asked Garak.

“Counting my fingers. It… helps.”

“Noted,” and the easy way in which Garak seemed to have just accepted that he would be helping Julian again in future was another shock to his system, but then why wouldn’t he? Even if they hadn’t met up as often as they used to. Even if he was untrustworthy at heart and Julian could never figure out why Garak wanted his company at all. He found he missed Garak’s simple and complicated nature. It grounded him, somehow.

He got up off the floor, reaching out for Garak when he stumbled. He held him just tight enough to make sure that he wouldn’t fall. Not overcrowding – Julian suddenly remembered that Garak was claustrophobic. He must know how easily sensory inputs could become too much.

At Garak’s questioningly soft hold on his arm, Julian nodded and he helped him to the sofa. “Would you like some water?”

Julian nodded. As Garak went to fetch it, he began to talk again. Somehow… he just needed to get it out now, like an excision. “After the truth came out my mother told me that they’d been lying. I mean, they’ve been lying about so much, but specifically about this. I’ve always been like this. Or. Some of it. The meltdowns. I thought… those memories weren’t real. But now they are? Some of them. I’m having trouble sorting them.”

Garak handed him the water.

“I developed a theory,” said Julian, forgetting to sip.

“Tell me your theory doctor,” said Garak, his tone of voice tender as he sat down beside him, again, close enough if he needed him, but not too close.

“I was wondering why a heightened inability to process inputs was a side-effect of the vast majority of augments, when I had this inability before my augmentation. I started to suspect that it was less to do with the augmentations and was simply… who we were. The augmentations gone wrong could throw that into extremes, but that may have more to do with medical trauma responses than… anyway, I can’t confirm until I have more data. I did research into my own developmental delays, the medical history – it’s fascinating how we repeat cycles actually, first it was considered a form of possession or changelings, then it began to be classed under a broad form of what would be known as schizophrenia, then divided into narrow and still somewhat inaccurate categories of autism, aspergers, adhd, add, high and low functioning etcera, and then was gradually broadened again under general brain-differences known as neuroatypicals or neurodiverse,” he took a breath and continued: “- I’m not too interested in 21st century history honestly, but I know the government upheavals affected medical classifications and concepts of what was known broadly as “disabilities” at the time, and that it fundamentally shifted again once we formed the federation. But then -” and here he started gesticulating widely in excitement or outrage - “it all becomes the same just repackaged, doesn’t? Stigma against augments who are overwhelmingly people like me is stigma against neurodiversity is stigma against the “possessed,” it’s…” he trailed off. “It’s all the same,” he finished lamely.

He’d become very aware suddenly that he’d done that thing that annoyed most of the people he ever conversed with, running his mouth while forgetting the other person. But Garak didn’t seem annoyed. He was listening intently, in fact. At the pause he even nodded and offered: “The history of such matters is different on Cardassia. Or rather, mental and developmental differences don’t get acknowledged on Cardassia.”

“Eugenics?” said Julian with a frown.

“Not as such. We don’t mind in theory, as long as everyone can perform the tasks they’re assigned to. It’s a… class thing. If you belong to a powerful family and are expected to do great things in the army or politics or the sciences, being unable to do so for any reason is usually – what is the term humans use? - “Swept under the rug.” But then someone like you, dear doctor, if you had been Cardassian it might surprisingly have been easier for you.”

Julian shook his head. “My abilities are due to my augmentations. I’d have been… I don’t know. Not me,” he said softly.

At that, Garak gave him a look that he couldn’t pin down. Something… surprised for a moment, almost? Then smoothed out into an enigmatic smile. “Perhaps. From what you tell me you’ve always processed like you do, you’ve just been given better tools to translate and more…” he searched for the word for a second, before landing on: “space.”

At that Julian burst out into an unexpected laugh. “I certainly have enough space out here. More than enough, I’d say.”

Garak’s smile deepened. “But it doesn’t matter. Either you were always going to be able to pursue medicine and the stigmas of your parents and surrounding society were preventing you from discovering that on your own, or your augmentations made you unlock new abilities. But on Cardassia someone with the kind of passion you possess would have done well, with or without them.”

“If I were born into the right class. And if I didn’t get arrested for being fundamentally against the militaristic state.”

“Naturally,” acceded Garak. “And I must say I’m quite relieved to find the incorruptible, perfect federation comes with its own flaws. One wouldn’t have expected it with the way humans constantly go on about it.”

“Oh, we go on about the federation? According to you Cardassia is superior in culture -”

“- oh, definitely -”

“- politics -”

“- without a doubt, my dear -”

“- criminal justice system?”

“- well, we’ve never brought a wrong case before the court-”

“- I know you’re just saying that to rile me up-”

“- my dear doctor, when have I ever been anything but sincere?”

“- when have you ever said anything you meant?”

“- I am offended, truly-” said Garak with a big grin on his face.

Julian found it the easiest thing in the galaxy to return.

“Remember to drink your water,” he was reminded, gently, before they continued their lunch discussion. It was a moment in which they both forgot that they had ever begun to drift apart in the first place.

—— The End ——-

#Julian Bashir #Elim Garak #ds9 #st: ds9 #star trek #fanfic #writing

[paradife-loft]

alright, here we go.... did anybody want a write-up on my (initial/current/main) Fallen Hero protagonist? because I sure have got one, and an obsessive need to talk about this game!! :’D

they’re actually more intentionally a self-insert than most characters I play, since I didn’t really have any pre-game time in which I was considering what sort of person to play and what their name/background would be. eyyyyyy impulsivity!

anyway, on with it. some facts, as they were, about one Ishvah Bakker, formerly known as Sidestep...

Basics

Probably mixed race of some sort, or otherwise on the liminal edge of (not?) white - other people’s perceptions are crucial, and more defining than they’d like, for as long as they can remember. (Good thing they’re a telepath!)

Nonbinary and genderless and generally salty about it. (Dysphoria makes every other body-related trauma response even more fun!)

Long-ish dark brown hair, which they usually wear down or in a simple ponytail. Better than needing to think about styling it, anyways...

Aromantic bisexual. Full of angst. (Aren’t we all.)

Supervillain codename: Iconoclast

Says fuck! :D

Psych profile

Generally quiet and watchful and cautious - a thinker, a planner, a tactician, at least as far as their comfort zone goes. Curious (sometimes morbidly curious) as all hell, in a “killed the cat” sort of way. Alas, not much satisfaction has been had. More just worry about what it says about them that their curiosity can “override” alleged basic human reactions like “empathy” or “getting freaked out by gore”.

Despite the control-freak tendencies, the more a situation slips away from, or otherwise can’t be planned and controlled, the more they do Impulsive Shit. Reckless, adrenaline-junkie, can’t-sit-still-because-then-the-anxiety-will-know-where-you-live, self-endangering impulsive shit. Anything to get the situation back under their immediate influence, if not control.

Speaking of which, attitudes toward bodies? They’ve got a callous disregard for physical sensations like pain, & the (temporary) structural integrity of bodies, especially once that aren't theirs.

They’re very dissociated from bodies in general really, their own included; thinking of them as tools, and willing to let them get fucked up in the service of "more important" goals.

(Shoutout to when they had to perform surgery on themself! :D Totally not fucked up or anything. Especially that they hated seeing themself naked, especially through “another’s” eyes, more than they hated having to actually do the surgery. Nothing to see here folks, just a normal person.)

When needing to improvise interpersonally, they try to head for whatever reveals the least about who they actually are & what they're capable of - using others' preconceptions and biases to fill in blanks with whatever they're expecting. They’ll use appearing weak, tired, unassuming as a shield, but it... grates. Still, feels less dangerous and attention-grabbing than being confident.

Relatedly, they do hate losing their telepathy - the lack of sensory overload is nice, but that doesn't outweigh how... naked they feel, exposed and cut off and unsure if they can trust what they see. (Only what they see.) It’s easier in their puppet’s body, Alex, since everyone else just sees an obvious young white man and there’s no need to manage those expectations, but even so, a loss of information never feels good. (Objectively useful to learn how to manage without, but not their emotional preference.)

Yeah, even if their puppet body goes around in a binary gender, they still prefer to have a name that’s genderless to their own ears at least. Alex is common and unassuming. (And leaning into the private supervillain grandiosity in-joke with themself as far as other notable Alex(ander)s is.... entertaining. Hush, it doesn’t mean they need a life.)

They tend toward being perpetually un(der) satisfied by accomplishments as soon as they’ve just come out of the oven, as it were - a restless mind always moving onto the next step, the next thing that needs to happen. They didn’t used to be like this, did they? But it’s better like this now, considering all that’s happened. 

(Perhaps because of that, perhaps in contrast, their personal apartment is done up in a surprisingly cozy way. Soft carpet and dark encompassing furniture, fabric on the walls, understated lamps and indoor string lights, and only a small window in each room. It’s one of the few things they can find calming, especially when it comes with some coffee.)

(Delicious self-medication with minor stimulants~)

And hey, the coziness is probably also nice because of how disgustingly touch-starved they are. Starved and averse all at once, really, which is just the best. (And uh, also sexually frustrated.... not that they let themselves think about that, hahahaha....... Moving on.)

The lack of sleep involved in maintaining two lives? Is absolutely getting to them, even if they don’t realise it. Sure, they think their body is getting all the rest it needs while they're in Alex's, but their brain is still active in maintaining the telepathic link such that the sleep isn't quite as restful and rejuvenating as it otherwise could be. (Well, assuming they didn’t constantly have nightmares.) Hence some of the increasing emotional instability & inability to hide their feelings when confronted with actual stressful situations.

Background

LA was the first place they ever tried to make a home, really. Or multiple different home iterations. They feel tied to the city, not least because of how the change in the place and its name feels like a macrocosm of what they’ve done switching sides themself.

Because this is a self-insert (and I do what I want, Thor), and to provide some justification for their first name, I’m thinking about their first (failed, aborted) attempt at being A Person (after getting out of whatever X-23 situation is getting teased for their origin story?) and joining any sort of community, being with a local shul. Perhaps after being helped out by people involved in a community service program? There’s a fair bit that resonate(d) with them, or at least felt good - the idea of being wanted and cared for and responsible for each other, of improving the world and doing positive deeds, of having a fucking family... They probably poked some feet into the idea of converting...

But that definitely crashed and burned. Half of it was coming to realise just how much self they’d have to put into the community to become a part of it - and they either had no self to speak of, or couldn’t risk, couldn’t feel comfortable, revealing what bits they did have. Peace was hard to come by. Comfort with uncertainty, with simultaneous opposite-seeming truths, never coalesced, and in fact felt actively threatening - as did the idea of being able to achieve any sort of relational parity with a higher power of some sort. It’s in the name, after all - a higher power is something you’ll never be able to live freely under with respect. So as that all came to a head, all the paranoia and feelings of inadequacy, they just... left. Don’t really think about it much now, don’t like to think about it, because it felt perhaps even more naive than trying to play masked hero, but... the name stuck.

As apparently did the desire to Be Good And Make Things Better, despite themself, because there they were back again with this stupid hero scheme, meeting Julia Ortega and making friends, being naive and trusting and thinking the whole damned system didn’t need to be burned down for anything to change. That other people could help protect you, that being part of a system could help protect you even if you weren’t one of the bastards at the top pulling the strings, helping nobody but themselves and their own power and pocketbooks.

Well, that sure isn’t going to happen again. This time, they’ve learned their fucking lesson.

#rambling #James liveblogs video games #(close enough) #FHR: Ishvah Bakker #I love them they're terrible #(ask me thingggsss bc there's definitely more I haven't covered! but uh this is already getting super long lmao)

[listoriented]

“B”een There

done that.

So here ends my time playing games that start with the letter B. Thanks for reading! It's been three years plus change. Back in early 2016 when I pondered how the world might look when I finished another letter, I never imagined, even from that unsteady ground, just quite how different things would become (in terms of global political-psychological landscape) - though really all the top-down drama happened that year, and everything since then has just felt like the normalisation and ratification of it, this splintered-systemic madness, the post-parody, post-fake fake-real. Or whatever you want to call it.

Nor did I imagine that it would take me so long. But, life. I went overseas, moved houses, moved cities, went through a breakup, started a PhD, rode a bike, read some books, faffed around. I anxiously played hundreds of hours of Rocket League; I ticked off every achievement in Mini Metro; I spent too long trying to remember what I was doing in Stardew Valley. I reviewed some games over at Gamecloud, which wrapped up earlier this year.  Time accumulated in a predictable but upsetting way.

Beloved demigod of gaming blogs RPS went through a full staff turnover, pretty much. It's weird, man. VR happened but remains a bit beyond my periphery, even if it gets brought up from time to time in the groupchat. Battle Royale games weren't a thing a few years ago, then they became everything, now they are still a big deal, the biggest deal, or maybe a large-medium deal, or just a large part of the background - I honestly don’t know how to quantify this. Steam's ubiquity has slipped markedly, through a mixture of managed negligence and increasingly aggressive competition. The inherent limitations of being bound to one commercial distribution system on one hardware platform have always been at the back of my mind, but I do increasingly wonder if my time would be better spent on a project that dug through other veins. The answer is, for now, that sometimes you've gotten keep doing the thing you said you were gonna do, if no other reason than because. 

Tumblr, our home since 2016, has gone through its own shifts and controversies in this time too. They no longer seem to allow unencoded links (so no-one ever knows what they’re clicking on), it became less friendly to adult content, and as of today apparently Tumblr has been sold on to wordpress. I don’t really know the implications of this last thing.

Some Maths

I played fifty one games beginning with B. Of the forty-eight that I'd deem to have some notional metric of completability, twenty-four of those I (often in the most flexible sense possible), "completed". 50%: Not as bad as I'd expected, TBH, especially as that includes a couple of painful six/seven game streaks where I didn't finish anything.

Ceremonious Award Giving for Games Starting with ‘B’

It is always hard to pick favourites, and from any given vantage point they tend to change. Nevertheless, an act of self-canonisation is in order, as is tradition. Given the nature of this project, I do put a lot of value in titles that surprise me in one way or another. Batman: Arkham Asylum and Bulletstorm were equal Best Goofy Action surprises (it pays having low expectations, sometimes), with an honourable mention to Brigador. The Banner Saga was the most surprisingly thought provoking. Davey Wreden’s autoficitive The Beginners Guide gets the Anodyne Prize for Most Enjoyably Difficult To Put In A Box. 

Botanicula was probably my Favourite (total) Revisit, or the best non-surprise. 

B was a letter characterised by a few high-budget action series (of which my favourite part was Bioshock 2 (Minerva's Den)), held up by substrate of modest indie things of varying impact. My attention span was all over the place, too. We had a lot of short forays with little to say, but there was there were also more than a few wordier attempts at thought. I'm bad at judging what makes "good" writing, particularly of my own, which I oscillate between accepting and loathing, but I can tell you which games/posts took the cake for length and effort: Baldur's Gate for longest playtime; Burnout: Paradise for highest word-count (and longest gestation period); Battleblock Theater for the most time-consuming method of putting a post together; The Beginners Guide for the most times played through a game in order to try and parse it; Braid for the most external reading and referencing.  

I think the most absurdly Expensive-at-purchase game here was Battlefield: Bad Company 2, which also gets the newly thought of I Can’t Believe It Still Has Functioning Online Multiplayer prize. I'm handing the Most Disappointing badge to Broken Age, despite (or because of) already having played it a bunch before attempting it for the list, though Before the Echo (fka Sequence) takes the Aquanox Award for game I inexplicably sunk the most time on trying to finish despite not really enjoying. I hold the Most Contempt for Breach & Clear. Black Mirror had the Worst Voice Acting, and it was also the Oldest Game here (2003), at least in terms of no-significant-alterations though depending on how you want to factor in remasters and remakes, you might alternatively give that prize to Broken Sword (1996) or Bionic Commando Rearmed (1988). Blueberry Garden was Purchased Most Long Ago, in 2009, though the Aquaria Trophy for Longest Unplayed Incumbent goes to Bob Came in Pieces, which I'd bought in 2010 then never installed (it's pretty good, it turns out!). However, the special Emotional Closure Award goes to Baldur's Gate, with which I already had nearly two decades of fond, scattered memories, before finally finishing for the first time during this project.

More Maths

When I started this letter I had 438 games in my steam library. Right now I have 1049 games, which is almost exactly three times the amount I had when I started this blog in October 2015 (~350). I've played 70 games total. A further 57 entered the list behind the marker, into the exempt scorched land of the already visited alphabet, which means we're at 127/1049 = 12.11% of the way through the list, which is a +7% increase on where we were at three years ago. That's not nothing. But at 2.5% per year, it's not a lot. Globally, the average human lifespan is 68 years.

Terrifying Implications For the Future

The maths says that the current terms aren't working, that I'm drowning in a heady mixture of my own relentless consumerism, hesitation, and procrastination from this task which is itself an avenue of procrastination - that at this rate I will probably die (or certainly give up) before even getting to the halfway point, and that we can't continue like this in good faith. 

So I'm going to get a bit reckless, even change the rules slightly, in order to try and breathe new life into this thing. All games must still be played for at least an hour - yes, that one stands. But. BUT. I'm setting a hard time limit of one week, from one game to the next, post to post. For now at least. No more lofty words about striving to "finish" games as a rule rather than exception. It's quantity over quality (pretending for a second that quality was ever a concern) from here on out, business over pleasure, irreverence over lengthy considerations, scrapbooking over essays.

On the bright side, this means I can have a weekly posting schedule. Let's say Tuesdays? Tuesdays seem like a good day for posting.

A couple of other things: 

List Oriented now has a ko-fi tip jar, just in case you, dear reader, enjoy this blog - or did before it went completely silent for the first half of this year - and feel like helping to pay for my caffeine addiction and/or encouraging me to keep going with this task. 

Another thing I want to do is compile a list of links to good places for games-writing and other things that I like, because a) I feel like such a page would be helpful for me to keep a record, even if for nobody else; b) my conception of the internet is permanently stuck in 2008 but also; c) it's hard to remember where to look for good things on the internet, sometimes, these days, given our habitual over-reliance on various platforms to direct us to CONTENT. But one thing I want to include is a list of other places where people are doing this kind of list-oriented project thing. I remember a bunch of them sprung up a couple of years back when we gained a brief and relative flash of notoriety, though I’m not sure how many stuck at it. If you yourself are doing one, or you’re aware of any others who are, Let Me Know! 

Anyway, looking ahead. C. An obtuse but interesting letter. Not so many of the big-hitters. A buuuuunch of city builders and management games, a few influential and/or janky platformers, more than a handful of puzzlers, some famed RTS series, a heap of question marks, a coupla interesting art things and a few uh *squints* Shooting Game. Happily for me, a lot of titles that I've not yet gotten round to giving a go, so this will be all...fresh.

I have a vague memory from when I got through A, of looking ahead to C and thinking at least it was a much more compact section than B, at the time, some light on the other side of what I'd already known would be a slog. But here we are three years later, and now there's fifty seven such games beginning with C, so there goes that thought. You'd think, having identified the consumerist-excess problem that catalysed this stupid thing, I would have stopped buying game bundles at some point, made this ridiculous project a bit easier for myself, a little more plausible for everyone else. 

But, we must continue. It's a new day. A new letter. A new schedule.

The way is long and it is littered with videogames.

above: “celebrating” my “achievements” with a ‘b’eer

#sitrep #the letter b #steam #steam list #batman arkham asylum #bulletstorm #brigador #the banner saga #the beginner's guide #botanicula #minerva's den #baldur's gate #burnout paradise #battleblock theater #battlefield bad company 2 #before the echo #broken age #breach & clear #blueberry garden #bob came in pieces

[yvngbin]

hello i’m arriving to the party an entire day late and this is Not Surprising at All to anybody who knows me slightly well because i’m late to everything. said late writer is ya boy , felix  ! i’m 20, i use he / him pronouns, annnd you don’t wanna know about me, you want to know about actual Nerd incarnate , yongbin .

his stats are here ,  bio is being rewritten because my dumbass deleted it from my drive , and all i have left to say is that you can like this if you want me to message you on here or discord to plot instead, since i’m usually faster on there … usually …

note: talks of surgery / birth defects,  &  kinda nsfw

⦑ felix. / 20. / gmt. / he/him. ⦒ woah ! tell me i did not just see cho yong bin walk past us, they’re the child of the cho family right ? they’re twenty three now, so i wonder if they’re here training to become an anarchist hacker. i heard they’re really intuitive & vexatious, so i’d say stay away from them unless you really wanna try your luck. no wonder they’re so notorious though, with the face of byun baekhyun i’d be interested in them as well. anyway, back to what i was saying. - yongbin, pain in the ass, and his most common sobriquet, zero ( name’s inspired by binary code btw ) , was a self taught anarchist hacker , but he sure as hell hasn’t been doing it for free all this time. he’s immensely adept and writes concise code and thoroughly enjoys annoying people and wreaking havoc in that precise order.

- hacker is kind of a blanket term, bin’s speciality was in blackmail, identity theft, exploiting vulnerabilities in various networks and systems, and causing all sorts of chaos online. when he was younger and before he was intimately familiar with the academy, he offered out his services to online rebel groups ( both good and bad ) and wasn’t officially apart of any system or group.

- this was subject to change a few years later when he was caught out on a slight mistake tracing back to his ip, assessed by an official representative of the school, who was impressed by his abilities and offered him an ultimatum: to join the academy or go to a detention camp.

- behind the screen bin was born with a pretty serious congenital heart defect. he needed surgery to survive, if only temporarily. every ten years or so, he’d have to do the same, with more or less no guarantee that they would all be successful. ( i would like to think that when he joined the academy some sort of technology maestro has helped him w / his respiratory issues so lmk if there’s a potential plot link there )

- bin is also an orphan who went through a very jaded system . he never knew his parents and frankly doesn’t care to know them, but little does he know that they have been tracing him from birth and were the sole reason why he got his place in the first place, ultimately unable to take care of him when their careers, both arms dealers, were too dangerous for a kid. his craft and experiences with life has made him instinctively cynical about his parents’ generation so like.. trusting an institution full of teachers their age was not and would never have been an ‘ideal’ for him. 

- his part time job used to be at a pc repair shop and he liked working there a lot, most people would question why he’d ultimately then go on to ruin a life he was happy with just to constantly risk getting into trouble. yongbin’s answer ? Because he’s Chaotic Neutral Thats Why

- socially, surprisingly unlike how most hackers are portrayed as nerds w sellotape on their glasses n a pocket protector ( he has a pocket protector but thats besides the point ) zero is outgoing in school and onwards, liked seeing what other people were interested in, pushing boundaries and keeping up with his friends just by listening and absorbing information.

- he isn’t exactly well liked, because his brain to mouth filter malfunctioned a lot of times which caused friction, But he definitely knows how to make and maintain friendships if you can handle him vanishing off the face of the earth and replying to your text from two weeks ago at 4 am like wyd

PERSONALITY

- zero’s life has mostly been not very fun, and he definitely realises this, but he’s not really the type to sit around and cry about it. mostly, he tries to take it with a stiff upper lip and a good sense of humour. he’s snarky and dry and enjoys getting into cyber-wars with other comp nerds in his limited friendship group. he definitely also enjoys sending lil viruses to other ppl in hearst just to let you know just how much your firewall sucks

- he’s got a real bad habit of getting wayyy in over his head with things. he’s like, a lil bit of a troublemaker — a back-talking, muttering under his breath, sneaking into places he shouldn’t, kind of troublemaker, but nothing too offensive. however, he sometimes gets into Actual Trouble because he makes the world’s worst choices and follows the world’s worst people’s advice. his personal motto is, “oh fuck. why?”

- he can be affectionate and immensely appreciative of anyone who’s genuinely kind toward him, even if his pride won’t let him come right out and say so. he’s p creative and resourceful — definitely can think you out of a pinch, even if he’s not so great at solving his own shit.

- friend wise, he’s attentive and thoughtful; sharp as a tack, funny as anything, and would totally rather help you out with your problems than get into deep discussions about his because opening that big ol book of issues is not gonna be fun for Anybody - romantically he’s inwardly pansexual for a long while but to people around him that probably.. wouldn’t be that big of a surprise. don’t talk to him about real love though he really is a computer machine with 0 emotions in that realm

tinie headcanon list because ive been slowly gathering them in my head for Days

-  has a handful of piercings on his ears , but the one he’s known for most is his labret piercing

- has a chameleon called cookie and donates to a dog shelter wherein his favourite stray dog ( known as flash ) lives. and yes he’s naming them after computer terms. no he wont Reconsider

- proud owner of 1 terabyte of hentai stored on his external hard drive that he’d gladly d*e for n is not ashamed of it in the slightest this zone is kink shame free !!!!

- loves to go exploring around the grimier parts of the academy and places you rlly wouldn’t expect him to be to clear his mind. abandoned classrooms, warehouses, etc.

- talk to him about conspiracy theories about alien life forms for a friend

- has absolutely awful hand eye co-ordination despite it playing in to a big part of their training so just know he’s probably dying first, or just teach him to throw a punch and not somehow hurt himself ? Blease

- sticks his tongue out while he’s hacking or doing anything that requires concentration. can’t multi-task and will ignore everything in his general surroundings to give 110 percent to whatever he’s doing.

- is a scorpio so sorry u cant trust anything he says i dont make the rules the astrological gods do

that’s all i’ve got up to now and i hope this gives you a bit of background into what he’s about. i think i’ll finish here before i write more trash so [ hacker voice ] im out

#hearst.intro #now to completely revamp my theme bc its ugly #this is also embarrassingly long #hnyways #we in this bitch.. finna get crunk !

[chininirisart]

I’ll Take You Deeper | Chapter xiv: birthday boy ii > On FF.Net and AO3

Warning/Notes: happy bday to my favorite blue haired boy  Status: In-progress (14/?) Summary: In one way or another, they simply fit. xiv: birthday boy ii:  “Hey!” She throws an arm around 2D’s shoulder and he leans down awkwardly to better fit into her embrace. “There’s this creepy guy hitting on me and he won’t leave. Do you mind if I stick around with you guys for a bit?”

The club is packed tonight, thrumming to the beat of overly loud songs and bodies swaying on the dancefloor, illuminated by a throng of colorful, bright lights. The bar is located in a more secluded area bathed in an orange glow that is easy on the eyes. 2D leans his elbow on the granite counter and swirls his drink inside the glass, watching the ice cubes dancing in the amber liquid with disinterest. His head has been pounding since the moment he set foot in this club, a pulsing pain located behind both broken eyes. He knows better than to mix medicine with liquor, but is tempted to do that in case he evades a nearly certain death and manages to get rid of this discomfort.

Russel is sitting on the stool beside his, a bottle of beer in his hand as he chats with the bartender about politics. This is supposed to be a meeting to celebrate Stu’s birthday, but Murdoc is somewhere trying to hook up with someone and 2D has ran out of things to say. Despite the weeks spent apart, they met up for a night out hours ago and have already caught up on anything that could be interesting and worth sharing. He wants to leave, but thinks it will be rude to ditch his friends.

2D takes a gulp of his whiskey and wipes his lips with the back of his hands. He checks the watch on his wrist; they have been here for approximately forty minutes. He doesn’t understand how Murdoc can try to find a... Date for tonight. They aren’t exactly as young as they used to be in college, and the trio is at least eight years older than the kind of public this club attracts. True, there are some people that are into older men, but personally, 2D has yet to meet with one that does not have any kind of ulterior motives. Most of the younger women he dated seemed to expect him to be some kind of younger sugar daddy, and left sorely disappointed when they found out he isn’t filthy rich.

Another bartender offers to refill his glass, but he declines and asks for a soda instead. He is in the mood for something fizzy and sweet, and entertains a bit of hope that a non-alcoholic drink will magically cure his headache-bordering-migraine. The man speaking with Russ moves away to tend to another client and his friend turns back to him with an apologetic smile, motioning at the can in his grip with his half-empty bottle.

“Ya okay, man?” 2D nods his reply. “If ya wanna leave, we can go. I’m just gonna finish this and ditch Muds.”

“Tha’ wouldn’t be nice.”

“Sure it won’t, but I’m tired of seein’ him chasin’ chicks and dudes and other kinds of entertainment.” Russel responds with a shrug and props an elbow on the counter. “And if I find out he’s doin’ drugs again, Imma beat him to an inch of his mediocre life.”

2D chuckles and downs the rest of his drink, the usual odd feeling clogging his throat as the carbonated liquid goes down. They keep in touch via group messages, and the older man mentions his encounters with illicit narcotics every couple of days. Privately, Russel and 2D have expressed their concerns and the former mentioned looking for a rehabilitation program for their friend once. Murdoc is a jackass that is hard to handle more often than not, but they still care for him despite all the nicknames given through the years.

A lithe body stumbles in the space between them and both men turn to the newcomer. A woman with tousled hair and slanted eyes straightens her form fitting dress and fixes them with a brilliant smile. “Hey!” She throws an arm around 2D’s shoulder and he leans down awkwardly to better fit into her embrace. “There’s this creepy guy hitting on me and he won’t leave. Do you mind if I stick around with you guys for a bit?”

They share a glance and a common thought: is Murdoc the guy she’s talking about? That’s likely. “Sure.” Surprisingly, 2D is the first to take initiative by giving up his stool so she can sit on it instead. She smiles gratefully and reaches down to rub her sore ankles. Her heels seem to be killing her feet.

“We’re leavin’ in a few. Would ya like us to escort ya outside?”

“I’d like that, thank you.” She beams at them and signals for a bottle of water. “I lost sight of my friend long ago. I was planning on leaving anyways.”

“Then it’s settled.” Russel lifts his bottle in a saluting gesture and she mimics it before sipping her drink.

They slip into an easy conversation, talking about something 2D doesn’t quite catch because he is too busy watching her fan herself and twist her hair away from the nape of her neck to reveal a drop of sweat that glides down her pale skin. It feels wrong to check her out when she has just sought them for protection, and his eyesight is bad, but he isn’t blind to beauty when it is standing there just before his nose.

Russel claps his big hands in surprise at something she says and she laughs at him. Something like recognition flickers on his friend’s face, but that is all 2D sees that isn’t her. She is petite and has curves in all the right places. She crosses a leg over the other and her tight skirt rides up an inch to reveal more bare skin. He’s seen women more scantily clad than her, but none seemed to evoke this reaction out of him. He decides the heat of the club is getting to his head, and coupled with his headache, it’s bound to be an explosive and dangerous combination.

Before long, they move towards the entrance of the club, the woman sandwiched between them with Russel leading the way, his bigger frame creating a path among the dancing bodies. She has her hand wrapped around 2D’s wrist so he won’t get lost from them and her other fingers are curled around the back of his friend’s shirt. 2D greets the cooler night air with a sigh and their new friend bends down to release the death grip her shoes have on her feet with a hiss. Her toes wiggle on the pavement and she stretches her legs until her ankles pop.

“Ya sure ya don’t want us to take ya home, Noodle?”

2D perks up at the name, and she smiles with a wave of her hand. “I’m sure, Russ. I live near Dulwich Park anyways. It’s too far from your home.”

“D’s from around that neighborhood, right, bro?” 2D nods slowly and Russel claps a hand on his shoulder. “Then ya make sure she gets home safely, all right? It was good to see ya again, Noodle. Is yo’ number the same one?”

“Yeah. Text me sometime so we can meet up again.”

The large man waves at them and heads off in the opposite direction. 2D offers Noodle his jacket and takes the heels from her hands. She smiles bashfully as she slips her arms through the sleeves and rolls them back to an appropriate length to her shorter limbs. The pounding, muffled music of the club fades in the background as they walk away through chilled streets in silence. Noodle whips out her phone and quickly types a message to someone before slipping it back into her cleavage, and 2D watches amazed as she types an entire paragraph in less than thirty seconds. He needs a minute to write a single sentence. The damned letters are too small.

Noodle whirls around to regard him, walking backwards with her hands resting laced together on the base of her spine. He returns her easy smile with a small one of his own, which stretches wider when she tilts her head. She looks insanely cute. “Do you mind if we stop for a quick bite? I haven’t eaten in hours.”

“O’ course. Just lead tha way.”

She grins and directs him to a twenty-four hour diner located a little ways out of their path to her neighborhood. The bell above the door jingles when she pushes it open and a teenage boy with braces smiles brilliantly from behind the counter, quickly walking around it with two laminated menus as they slip into a booth by the windows. The teen talks to her for a while and leaves so they can pick their orders, staring at her with longing splattered all over his face from his place by the kitchen doors. She’s a regular.

Noodle doesn’t seem to notice or mind that the boy is infatuated with her and points at a particular dish on the menu in his hands. “The waffles here are heavenly. Wanna share?”

2D reads the description and feels his mouth watering. “Yeh sure? I don’t wanna eat yer food, love.”

She laughs and it makes him want to laugh, too. “I don’t mind. I don’t like eating too much late at night, but I’m really craving waffles. If you don’t want to, then I’ll just get some toast.”

“No, no, then, by all means, get sum waffles.”

The teen returns immediately when she calls him over, a skip on his steps and a sparkle in his brown eyes. He jots down her order and nearly melts on the spot when she fixes him with her usual smile that even 2D has already grown to love. Noodle turns her attention back to him as soon as she’s done, chin resting on her joined hands.

2D passes the menu to the waiter unseeingly, all his focus on the beautiful woman sitting across from him. “So yeh know Russ?”

“Yes, we were classmates in a course back in college, though he’s older and was nearly graduating then.” She picks a napkin from a small basket in the center of the table and starts folding it. “I recognized him from a distance and knew I could count on him to hide from that guy.”

“’Bout tha’ guy... Did he have an awful crooked nose, thick brows, sum yellowed teeth?”

Noodle makes an odd face at him and bursts out laughing. “Oh, no, no. He had a sorry excuse of a goatee and was a douche.”

2D nods in relief. “Oh, fo’ a moment we thought he could’ve been our friend. Glad it wasn’t him.”

The boy sets a plate down before her and she cuts herself a piece before passing the plate and cutlery over to him. He tries to get a bit of everything on the fork and smothers a slice of waffle and banana in the red berry sauce drizzled on top. Not only does the dish smell good, the taste is also otherworldly. 2D hums as the waffle seems to melt on his tongue, his taste buds rejoicing at the sweetness of the sauce. Noodle grins and they share the rest of the food without speaking much.

She pays after insisting she was the one to invite him, and 2D finds himself on the other end of the boy’s glare. If the teen is scowling at him because she paid or because they shared a meal, he doesn’t know, and honestly he doesn’t care. He even goes as far as opening the door for her and directing a smug smile at the waiter to mess with him when she thanks him and tucks some hair behind her ears. Once outside again, he lets his smile drop and they resume their walk to her building, this time talking amicably.

For someone that has troubles to text people and tie his shoes, his fingers know how to cooperate when he wants to play a song on his faithful keyboard. Noodle steps closer to him when the wind picks up, stars in her eyes. “Does Russel still play the drums?” He nods, looking down at her for some clarification. “We should totally form a band!”

“What?”

“Yeah! You play the keyboards and he plays the drums. I don’t want to brag, but I can pull off some mad guitar riffs. All we need is a singer and a bassist.”

“Murdoc’s a bassist.” He blurts out, followed by a: “And I can sing.”

“No way!” Noodle steps in front of him and he stops. Her fingers curl around the hem of his graphic tee shirt and she stands on her tiptoes to get a closer look of his face. “I could see you have the looks of a rock star, but you sing as well? That’s cool!”

2D’s gaping mouth closes and curls upwards, heat crawling everywhere around his body. Noodle moves away with a flush on her cheeks and clears her throat, stuttering only slightly as she tries restart a conversation after she practically invaded his personal space. He takes notice that their arms brush together as they walk through silent streets. They talk about music, having found a common interest, and they share names of their favorite songs and artists.

When they reach her building, Noodle climbs the first step so she can be a little closer to his eye level. His gaze looks back into her own then swivel down to see her bottom lip disappear between her teeth. Noodle makes to take off the jacket, but he stops her with a hand on her wrist, his thumb right above her fluttering pulse. She sucks in a breath and he exhales through his nose.

“Yeh can return it to me later.”

She hesitates, but eventually nods. “Can – Can you lend me your phone?”

He doesn’t think much of the way her voice breaks and releases her so he can pull it out of his pocket. She shivers before he passes her the device, their fingers touching. Her face lights up when she unlocks the screen and she types quickly, a faint music reaching his ears accompanied by a dim light shining through the material of her dress on her chest. As soon as it starts, it stops and she returns the phone to him.

“Now you have my number, and I have yours, so if you’re interested in forming a band you can, you know, text me or call me or... Or something.”

2D looks down at the screen, at her name on the contact list followed by a single grinning cat emoji. His brain catches up with what she’s implying and he looks back up to meet her expectant, nervous dark eyes. Noodle is still nibbling on her lip and, God, does he want to kiss her right now, but he barely knows her and doesn’t want to scare her just in case he’s misreading her intentions, which happens more often than not, he has to admit.

He slips his phone back in his pocket and lifts her shoes in the space between them. 2D can be slow at times and isn’t always the brightest crayon in the box, but for some reason he has always known what to say to the ladies that catch his eyes. “I have a very important appointment tomorrow night an’ I’ll need tha jacket.”

Noodle’s hands halt halfway to her heels. “You do?”

He nods solemnly. “So how ‘bout we meet at Dulwich Park at seven in the evenin’ and then we can try to find this important appointment o’ mine?”

She blinks at him and smiles slowly, shoulder shaking with silent laughter. Noodle rests her hand on top of his before slipping her shoes out of his grasp, the tilt of her mouth a coy little thing he wants to wipe off with his own and commit to memory. “It’s a date.”

So it is. 2D watches as she walks backwards up the stairs, eyes never leaving his until she bumps into the door and gasps in surprise. He chuckles at her embarrassment and waits until she disappears inside the building, which takes a while as she stands there looking back at him with something in her gaze he can’t quite name. Once the door’s closed behind her, he walks the short distance to his own apartment building, swiping his finger to unlock the phone and staring at her name on his list.

2D shrugs his shoulder and taps the message icon, becoming pleasantly surprised when an ellipse with three blinking dots appear to indicate she’s already typing. He snorts to himself at her first message and brings the phone closer to his face, squinting his eyes to see the tiny keyboard better. He puts the device away, but soon it vibrates in his pocket again. None of them will be getting much sleep it seems.

#gorillaz #2nu #2dxnoodle #2d x noodle #2d/noodle #fanfiction #gorillaz fanfic #collection: ill take you deeper

[pickalilywrites]

Ereannie - La La Land or Jeankasa - Kubo and the Two Strings for the movie/pairing ask. Take your pick!

Don’t call me out for never watching La La Land I just really liked the trailer and music ;~; (Kubo is also an excellent movie though! Laika studios is incredibly underrated and deserves more recognition!) 

I know the difference between a song and a piece please don’t murder me for using it somewhat interchangeably. 

Who knows? Is this the start of something wonderful and new?Or one more dream that I cannot make true?

“Do you like music?” he asks her once. He taps away on the piano keys, a repetitive but hypnotic melody that keeps her rooted to where she’s standing. She’s never been very entranced by musicians, particularly struggling artists. They reminded her too much of herself and she’s surprised she’s stuck around him so long. She blames the cursed melody he keeps playing, this song he continues to play over and over. It’s the same song, he insists, he’s just adding things here and there so that it feels complete. It always sounds brand new when she listens to it though, and she always feels compelled to stay and listen to the whole thing in its entirety if he ever does finish it. Is he purposely taking so long composing it so she’ll stay? No, he’s not that smart.

She considers his question and doesn’t have an answer. She’s never paid attention to music very much. It’s the sound that plays in the background of movies she’ll never be in. It’s more pleasant that chatter in a crowded diner, but it was completely removed she doesn’t think she’d even notice. “Do you like music?” she asks him. How stupid, asking a musician if he loves music, but the question has already fallen from her lips.

He doesn’t laugh at her or smirk. He simply smiles and says, “Music is the language of love.” He either doesn’t care or doesn’t notice when she scoffs. It’s probably the latter because he’s turned to her now, the piano composition completely forgotten, and he’s gesturing with his hands the way he does when he gets excited. “I’m serious! The movies and the romantics say that French or Italian are, but they’re all lying. Because music, Annie, is universal. It’s eternal.”

“Eternal?” she snorts. But maybe he would know about love and music and eternity since he seems to be the expert on romance and love languages, declaring the other romantics to be fakes and amateurs. “You think your song is going to live forever?”

“I’m not that pompous,” he grins. He turns back to his piano and begins to play again, that slow, mesmerizing piece. It seems to loop over and over in a circle, but each rendition is something she’s never heard before. “No, it’s a smaller kind of forever. It’s like a picture that captures a moment and you return to it whenever you hear those familiar chords.”

And it’s the first time she’s ever really stopped and listened to music. The way he describes it, she thinks that just focusing on a few notes will soon transport her to a memory from her distant past. All she hears is the same melody and nothing really comes to mind. The first time she ever heard it comes to mind and she remembers waking up in his messy apartment and silently cursing herself for not getting up early enough to leave it as a one-night stand. He surprisingly made her breakfast, eggs and toast that were cold and sitting on the counter because he had forgotten to wake her up right after and instead ran to the piano to compose a song that had come to mind.

“Anything?” he asks after a few measures.

“Nothing,” she says as the memory fades.

He’s not discouraged though. “You’ll get it someday,” he says.

She’s not so sure.

Is it their talk that has her listening to all the sounds around her? It used to be just the music in clubs she watches Eren perform in. She used to shrug and tell him it was alright whenever he asked if she liked the show but now she can pinpoint what sections appeal to her most, what instrument she likes best with the piano he plays, or the swells and decrescendos in a piece and how that heightens each piece. And she starts to hear rhythm in the way people walk. Worst of all, she can hear it in the way he talks.

“Annie,” he says, and he must be teasing her because no person should be able to make her name sound like a song. Or maybe he’s always talked like that and she’s never noticed it.

“You were great,” she lies.

“Yeah? What was your favorite part?”

The part where you said my name, she wants to reply, but she lies and tells him she likes the trills after the last run.

The piano reminds her of happier moments, him playing the piano for her and asking her what she thinks even though she hardly knows anything about the technical terms and only knows what sounds good to her. He laughs less often now but when he does it transports her back to a simpler time, back when complaining about her auditions and the rude casting directors would make him smile. And she likes the sound of the door opening and closing at the end of the day because it’s the sound of him coming home even if they don’t enjoy each other’s company the way that they used to.

And she thinks she’s starting to understand what he said about those little eternities that he spoke about so long ago because she clings to the memories that all the sounds bring no matter how little they are. They’re better than everything she listens to now. His sighs are tinged with impatience and hers with frustration. The doors in the house slam too hard whenever one of them leaves. They speak in tense conversations, him about her failing acting career and her about his failing music career, and it’s quiet but she can hear their voices rising with every word and she wonders at what point their arguments will just be a series of shouts.

But she hates the stretches of silence the most. The other sounds, even the arguing and the slamming doors, allow her to see something – her leaving to go somewhere other than there and him staying at home, drinking instead of composing – but the quiet scares her because all she sees in it is her being alone and nothing else.

She doesn’t listen to music very much anymore. She doesn’t like the images they conjure in her head, but she allows him to take her to a small jazz club one night to celebrate. She doesn’t want to celebrate but he’s so excited that she can’t say no. A drink or two wouldn’t hurt anyway, she decides.

Annie sits down beside him, some stupid fruity alcohol in her hand. She doesn’t really pay attention to the figure sitting at the piano, but the first bars of the song starts, and she takes a second glance at the pianist and she realizes she knows the man sitting on stage just as well as she knows the song he’s playing.

It’s that dreamy melody again, quiet and romantic like he had always been. She always thought she had understood what he meant, that thing he said about music being able to capture a moment forever, but now she’s sure she does. As she listens, she can see their past stretched out behind her and the future that could have been laid out in front of her.

A romantic but beaten down pianist meets a cynical but hopeful actress. He takes her home for one night and she unexpectedly falls in love with him. He plays her a melody she will never forget, one that will haunt her until the day she leaves. He supports her in her worst hours and she listens to him during his. He tells her she’ll be wonderful at her at her next audition and she believes him. Except she’s not and she doesn’t even get a callback, all she gets is upset and angry. And he brings her flowers even though she’s not a fan of things that stay pretty for a day before wilting and rotting away. The music speeds up, it’s more frantic now instead of the calm it was before. It’s the arguments and the fights and avoiding each other by pretending to be busy in different rooms. It’s him slamming on the piano keys to fill up the dreadful silence and it’s her opening the windows all the way to let in the sounds of the bustling city so she can forget they’re not talking anymore. How the hell is he replicating that painful silence as the music slows back down again, the key changing to something minor and tragic only to emphasize the moment that she says sorry and walks out the door.

She looks up then and expects it to be over then, but his fingers continue to dance across the keys. It’s supposed to be over, she knows because she was the one who walked away and the one who never came back, so why does it continue?

The piece returns to the beginning, but it’s not the same. She closes her eyes and takes it in, listening to it deeply like she did back when she really listened to music so long ago. At first, she thinks it’s her returning to him. Then she thinks its him chasing her. It’s a mix of both in the end, she realizes, an alternate ending where they fall back together. It’s them meeting halfway, pausing to take each other in before he reaches for her face and saying her name in that beautiful way he had before she interrupts him to press her lips against his. She can see them returning to his apartment – it’s messier since she’s been away – and her sighing but not in the tired and frustrated way she had done in the days before she left. She sees him pulling her into his arms to dance in the middle of the night, celebrating the finished song despite not even knowing if it would ever be successful. They watch her first role on the big screen, a secondary role, but he whispers to her that she’s wonderful and that it’ll surely be the start of something good. He becomes a hot-shot musician, she becomes a big-name star. He travels with her to various shoots, writing songs about all the things they do in between in the beautiful places they go. And they’re together.

Had this song always been this beautiful? It must have been, she just didn’t realize it until now.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” the man besides her whispers as the song ends. He claps along with the rest of the audience, but she doesn’t move a muscle. “Should we stay for another?”

She’s reminded that the visions the piece conjures only exist within its notes. So she turns to the man beside her, away from the musician at the piano, and says, “It’s late and I’m tired. Let’s go.”  

It’s a beautiful piece - it always had been, and it still is - but she doesn’t want to say it out loud. Maybe it would make everything about it real, the things that had happened and everything that could have happened if things had turned out differently, and she doesn’t want to dwell on it. It’s too late to do that.

But he already knows how beautiful his song is. He’s played it a hundred times, probably a hundred times more after she left, and went back to those moments in the piece.

And before she leaves she glances back to see his eyes meet hers. He doesn’t smile or nod at her but then again, she doesn’t either. It’s enough though, she thinks, because they used to know each other, and they still do. They know what happened, what they both wanted, and why things are the way they are now.

Too soon, he turns away, counting under his breath like he always did before he starts a new number and she almost smiles thinking about how there are things that she’d always know.

She pushes open the door and follows the other man out, away from Eren, and returns to her life without the beautiful pianist, the melody of his last song forever echoing through her mind.

#snk #ereani #eren jaeger #annie leonhart #tfw all your aus are happy except this one #half of me wanted to write passionate dreamy romantic eren #but another part is like #eren: ya like jazz? #asks #answered #anon #anonymous

[samthepotterhead]

(1/3) Blog - My HP trip to London - 14/12/17

I came back from my four day trip to London last week and now I’m excited to review my visit (HP-wise)! —Warner Bros. Studio Tour— Everbody says the Tour is a must-see for Potterheads (along with the parks in Hollywood and Florida), so I was naturally happy to be able to do the famous Warner Bros. Studio tour in Leavsden. I didn’t have the highest expectations for the Tour, because I just prefer the books over the movies, but I was still really excited. -What I especially liked- * The shuttle service. Even if Watford Junction (the meeting point for the bus) is quite a while away from downtown London, it was no problem to get there. The shuttle bus was very much on time and seeing other Harry Potter fans slowly gather round is a really good feeling. The price for the shuttle with return included is 2.50£ per person, so completely okay. The bus itself is full of Harry Potter pictures on the outside so being inside such a bus is a great feeling too. * The shops. The main shop, plus the one after Studio 1 and the one next to the Hogwarts Express, seriously has everything - from costumes to sweets to wands. They have more merchandise than any other Harry Potter shop I’ve been to during my stay in London. I saw a couple buying 800£ worth of things in the main shop and that’s seriously couple goals, because I can see why they did that. * The making-of videos. Apart from the fact that I only saw half of them because there were so many people, they were all really interesting. There are videos about the hair and makeup specialists, about the costume designers and many more. I especially liked the one about the portraits they made for the movies, also because there were benches and you had time to watch the whole thing. * The wand training session. That’s not a long feature - it only takes about 5 minutes - but it was simply amazing. You could choose from a set of wands and then the battle scene choreographer (on a screen) showed you three different wand attack moves. You learned them first and then tried to attack a Death Eater (also on screen). I felt like I was learning a real wand move and naturally, I put a lot of effort into it. Some great pictures came out of that, too. * The Diagon Alley studio. Though not the the whole length of the street, Diagon Alley was built up in real size. There is so much detail in it and you really felt like walking through a (surprisingly uncrowded) Diagon Alley. Everything a book fan needs. * The Hogwarts model. After some small, uncolored, models of buildings from the movies, you leave and turn right into the next room with this enormous, richly detailed model of Hogwarts, the soundtrack of Philosopher’s stone nostalgically playing in the background. I seriously had a moment where I thought I would cry. You can get really close to the model and get an idea of how huge Hogwarts must be and this was something extremely interesting to me. * The Tour Passport. It’s for free and I read it was especially for children, so I didn’t open it until later on. Bad idea because it looked like a lot of fun to fill out the different questions. However, I don’t think I would’ve had the time for it anyway (see “gadgets” for more). * The price. Yes, the tour is expensive, but if you see how many props they have to take care of and how many people are working there, it’s a fair price. Additionally, you get to stay there as long as you want and that’s something I actually haven’t seen anywhere else before. -What I liked less- * The mass of props. You walk in into Studio 1 and you see hundreds of hundreds of props. Sounds great in theory, but in reality you’re so overwhelmed that there’s no way you can see all the details of the props. And I personally felt like missing out on so many things. * The crowds. Especially children tend to fight their way through the crowds into the first row (to see the Gryffindor common room for example) and ignore that there are other people who want to see the props in detail as well. But also some adults literally place themselves in front of you and stay there for two minutes. Also, the crowds make you feel as if you only had 10 seconds to see each prop, because there are people waiting behind you already. There were a lot of things I only had a quick glance of, even if you could theoretically stare at one prop for eight hours. * The arrangement. It’s literally a hall (the studio) crammed with all sorts of things and almost no space in between. Additionally though, the props are not really arranged in a certain (logical) way, like from movies 1 to 8 or after certain events like the Triwizward Tournament. The Beauxbatons uniforms for example were across the room from the Triwizard cup and Madame Maxime’s costume was even in a different studio (the great hall). I’m usually not a very tidy person, but exhibitions should certainly have a logical arrangement. * The noise. Alright, I see why there have to be a lot of people at the same time and I see that especially children are noisy, but the people are not the only problem. There are lots of TVs with making-of videos as well as some props with sound effects. The videos are really interesting and they’ve put a lot of effort into it, but they’re extremely loud - to make them heard over the noise of the crowd. And the sound effects are sweet, but sometimes really unnecessary or simply way too loud. My main memory of the Tour was this super loud Studio 1 and I’m surprised that my ears could handle it. * The lack of guides. On the website it says there are guides at every station, but I honestly saw about three and maybe would’ve seen five if I had actively looked for them. It was okay since I know pretty much everything about Harry Potter itself, but especially concerning the movies, I would’ve liked to have a little more additional info. The guides that I saw would have surely given me that information, but I didn’t really know how to ask for that except maybe “Can you tell me some cool extra facts about this prop??”. * The additional “gadgets”. Of course, it’s your own choice whether you buy the Audio Guide and the Souvenir Guide or not, but I expected a bit more on those two things. The Audio Guide was actually great, because it gave you quite some background info on certain props, but listening to it, reading the infos next to the prop, watching the videos and taking photos, and then actually having a look at the prop was a lot. The Souvenir Guide has a lot of pictures in it and has many pages, but there is no additional information in there. You made exactly the same photos yourself and that’s souvenir enough in my opinion. So, nice idea, but rather unnecessary. * The length. Obviously it’s great that they made such a big tour with so many props, because certainly not all movie franchise fans can say that. But I have to say that firstly, my back seriously started to pain after three hours and it only stopped overnight (I’m 19); and secondly, I became tired and not able to fully take in all of the amazing props after Studio 1 (such as the Knight Bus or the Potter’s house). But I have to admit, I was on one of the latest tours that day and it was already dark. -What I would change- * Make the tour a real exhibition. Only put some props out at a time, but with more information (as either videos, through guides, or big info boards). This can be achieved through a cool theme that changes, let’s say, every six months. It makes the tour shorter, but more detailed, and people will go there more than once, simply because the content changes. * Make time slots, but with a smaller amount of people. For example, each group has two hours for the Great Hall and Studio 1, two hours for the Hogwarts Express, the cafeteria and the outside part, and two hours for Studio 2 with Diagon Alley, the Hogwarts model etc. Fewer people will be less noisy and less stressed, because they can look at all the things in detail. * Make the Passport the only “gadget”, but maybe in a larger format. When there are exhibition themes with a lot of background information, everybody will love to write it down to keep it in mind. The questions from the Passport are great for that. * Make more special events with actors, directors, producers or designers. The great hall would be perfect for that, with the section of the teachers’ table being the stage (without the costumes and some of the props of course) and the rest of the room being space for the audience. Depending on how fragile the tables are, you could also use them for the audience to sit at. Every Harry Potter fan would love to see such an event (and would pay a decent amount of money on it). Conclusion: All in all, I was not disappointed in the tour - it was fun, but I also didn’t have that high expectations. I was hyper excited for maybe five minutes when the shuttle parked in front of the Studios and we could actually see it, but then toned it down again. I probably won’t go again in the next few years, because, well, the content mostly stays the same. The theme parks in the U.S. might be better for me since I wished to feel more “inside” the world of Harry Potter, but the Studio Tour doesn‘t really provide that (- which they don‘t pretend to anyway!). The making of movies in general is really interesting to me, but that didn‘t change the fact that I liked to have seen a more “magical” tour. So that’s 2/5 stars from me, a book nerd, but movie fans might give it more!

#BLOG #harry potter #london

[bloodinhershoesrpg]

Congratulations Becky, you have been accepted for the role of Barbara Donne with a faceclaim change to Kat McNamara! Your application was the first I read over and to say it provided a great start would be, quite frankly, an understatement. I am absolutely enamoured with how perfectly her struggles and reasoning for being who she is to date resonated within your app, how vividly you have portrayed the many facets of Barbie and how well they harmonise within your writing which I can’t wait to see liven up the dash soon! Please send in your account with 24 hours and have a look at the checklist before you do!

REGARDING YOURSELF

Name / Age / Pronouns: Becky, 19, she/her.

Activity: Activity is subject to heavy fluctuation (anywhere from a 4-7), depending a lot on my uni schedule and when my tests are. However, I always will ask for a hiatus when it’s necessary and let anyone playing with me know what sort of activity they can expect from me.

REGARDING THE STAR OF YOUR SHOW

Character name and faceclaim: Barbara Donne – with a FC change to Kat McNamara? :)

CHARACTER DISSECTION

BARBARA. Hailing from the Greek word barbaros, meaning foreign or strange - she’s always figured that she had been named aptly. Always an outsider, always a stranger, even in her own skin, she takes comfort in Saint Barbara, in her strength. She knows how the story goes: every wound inflicted upon her healed, every fire brought near her skin extinguished. But she knows how the story ends and sometimes, in the dead of night, Barbie wonders if she’ll end up like her: end up the martyr, end up the sacrifice, with the insides of her veins painting the ground. ANAIS. French for grace, her middle name always seemed like a taunt to her – in her former years, she had always been lacking grace, been too much raw power and not enough silk covered elegance. But in recent years, she has lived up to it, coating her movements with an old world finesse like a second skin, moving through the ranks without a ripple, leaving onlookers always confused as to where she came from and how she ascended. (Surely, she cannot deserve it.) DONNE. Rooted in Irish mythology as Donn, the god of the dead – her last name always felt like a little bit of a promise, and a little bit of a curse.

PERSONALITY. Who were you before the world told you who you had to be? Barbie thinks she remembers being soft, being kind in the beginning – and part of it stems from her looks. She was born with delicate features, handpainted on a canvas of porcelain, doe eyes that changed with the context of her background (green in the woods, golden on cloudless mornings, honeyed hazel in the pale afternoon light), and hair so bright it was only rivaled by her smile. When people saw her, small and lithe and fragile, flighty in essence, a little dove that alighted in the palm of their hand, it was hard not to trust her, an impossibility to expect cruelty from her. And because the world craves sweet things, beautiful little souls, because it aches in constant hunger for a minute kindness, it swallowed her up, turned her softness into a warzone and layered her edges into knives.

So she remembers her obsidian mouth, flinty and stone cold but still beautiful – tongue cutting through skin so thinly, down at a molecular level, that most of the time, people didn’t even notice blood being drawn until they left, drained and cold. But she believes that everything has a purpose, and this portion of her life is no different. She remembers that it feels just as empty, just as painful, to be throwing words like punches as it does to receive them, and how truly heavy lies the head that bears the crown. She dissembles her weaponized empathy, sheds her cloak of cruelty – it never suited her well anyway.

So here she stands, bearing kindness around her neck like a cross on a chain, letting it glint and dangle in front of everyone, takes the shattered glass hate and grinds it to dust beneath the molars of her smile. She tastes war, heavy on the back of her tongue, and everyone knows the innocents are the first to go. But here’s the beauty of being delicate: when she shatters, all her broken little pieces will cut them right back. And everyone leaves none the wiser; everyone thinks that it’s their fault for breaking it in the first place. Everything has a purpose, everything is by design.

BACKSTORY.

i. dig up the bones

Her father likes to talk about the day she was born – about how when her mother finally had her after an exhausting eight hour labor, she had said, half delirious, “She will have a hard time of it.” He likes to talk about how her mother had cried and held her close after that, rocking her gently as tears dropped from the tops of her cheeks onto Barbara’s forehead. “She is so beautiful, and the world will not stand for it. Don’t argue with me. Just answer me this, my love: why do flowers wilt? Why do they wilt, when they should bloom forever?”

He has no answer for that question, and Barbara learns early on not to ask it.

But her mother is right, in the end. She spent her childhood tucked away and loved, hiding like a little mouse from the rest of the world, spoiled sweet to the core. But the world finds you eventually, and everything will come all at once.

It starts because her hair gleams like a halo of fire around her porcelain skin, and the kids at school tug at it and make fun of her for the translucence of her cheeks when blood rushes to the surfaces and matches her hair. They call her carrot-top and throw the baby carrots from their neatly packed lunches at her, and she finds out everything can hurt her, no matter what it is.

She goes home and cries in her room, cursing her hair and her fair skin and her thin frame. She wishes she were big and burly and tall, so no one would dare hurt her. She begs her father to let her take self-defense over dance, but can’t find her tongue when he asks why. So she channels her hurt and her anger into ballet – it makes her feel beautiful and strong, this tulle-layered corner of hers, far away from playground wounds. (All this hurt and loneliness and spite bites her in the ass one day, when they say her dancing is too much the raw provocateur and too little of the soft princess they’re looking for.)

Either way, her wishes aren’t heard, and this is how she learns the casual cruelty of children.

It changes in high school – while she’s not big and burly and tall, no one dares pick on her because her beauty becomes her sword and her armor. Boys who used to pull her pigtails find themselves wanting to tug her hair for different reasons, those who laughed at the easy blush of her cheeks covet how naturally color comes to her, and with time, they want to press bruises into her skin with their lips and not the packaged contents of their lunches.

She is a stroke of lightning upon her childhood tormentors, just how a vengeful god smote St. Barbara’s killer where he stood after her death. She hides wolf grins behind demure hands, sharp teeth snapping, blood-hungry. Is she not made from the gilded dust of monarchs of ages past, sitting pretty with a crown tipped on a bed of curls?

Payback feels like freedom until you stop and realise you’re still just as pissed as before.

ii. but leave the soul alone.

In the end, it’s love that unclasps the years of trauma she wore swathed around her delicate shoulders, that pulls her down from where she played judge, jury, and executioner in her academy. They find her in an empty training room, lights dimmed and pushed up against the mirror, only it’s not any of the boys they find her wound around, and the lipstick prints on her neck attest to that fact.

Barbie is all little red riding hood to Isa’s big bad wolf, and she’s homesick for a sixty second love, hungry for the sink of her canines.

She is quickly and swiftly ousted from the uppermost echelons of academy hierarchy, but she can’t bring herself to mind. (What she does mind are the slurs pressed in whispers behind her back, dyke dyke dyke.) So she goes back to drinking venom insults and letting it drip off her lips like honey instead, lets herself be repainted kind-bubbly-weak-Barbie, kind smiles reaching welcoming eyes, the Sistine Chapel amongst a sea of sinners, a safe harbor in a storm. She pats the seat next to her and her quick taps sound like welcome home, stay for a while.

CONNECTING THE DOTS

LINDSEY DAVIES. Barbie offers smiles and hugs like an olive branch, offering a friendship. With all the attention driven her way, the whispers plaguing her have abided, instead bitterly haunting Lindsey. They’re a strange duo, abrasive as Lindsey is – but they work surprisingly well. Barbie tries to be a cushion, a buffer of sorts, in social situations, working to smoothing the edges of Lindsey’s demeanor, acting like a balm in hostile situations. While she comforts those left in the wake of Lindsey, a small part of them rejoices to see them put in their place by her words.

CRISTINA REYES. Like attracts like, no? Despite how the rest cage around Cristina like she’ll pounce at any moment, expecting the flower to sprout a pair of fangs, Barbie edges closer and closer, curious to see what sort of kindness the other girl offers, and for what reason. After all, there’s an explanation for everything, and nothing comes without a reason.

REGARDING YOUR INSPIRATION

HEADCANONS.

PICK UP YOUR HEART ON THE WAY OUT. Barbara’s always been in the minority (her name taunts her, foreign, strange little Barbie). Statistically, less than 2% of the population possess either red hair or green eyes, not to even touch upon having both – she honestly doesn’t know why she expected to be part of the majority when it came to love. Boys have wanted her since middle school – since they discovered redhead was a porn category – but she has never wanted a boy; not in the same way they want her. She’s tried, really, she has, to convince herself that she wants them – she’s kissed many a boy feral and left them to scramble in her wake as she leaves. But let’s just say it straight: she’s not.

FAIR FOLK. Barbara doesn’t lie – much like the mythical fae of fables long forgotten, she only speaks in truths or not at all. Of course, this doesn’t stop her from concealing the whole truth, letting others falsely assume their own truths or speaking poison edged half truths. But a full on lie, she cannot and will not do.

NICOTINE FROM A SILVER SCREEN. It’s a stereotype, rail thin ballerinas who have a cigarette for dinner; but it’s the truth. It’s not uncommon to find her outside, white Insignia hanging off her lips, exhaling tobacco smoke like it’ll cleanse her.

ANIMAL PERCEPTION. Ever heard of a saying that animals have a sixth sense? Barbie bonds with animals of all kinds, offering birdseed in her palm, petting every dog or cat she comes across, and those who look at her and see undeserving written across her hiss in anger. Fuckin’ disney princess or some shit.

Thank you for reading! i would have written more but i’m also really guilty of always writing last minute apps; best wishes & really great job with everything even if i don’t get the part x

MOCK BLOG. https://barbiemocks.tumblr.com

#accepted #accepted:barbara

[evilkitten3]

Dealing With the Monthlies

AN: I should be working on something else (an ongoing story, that essay I have to do if I want to go to college next year, etc.), but I'm writing this instead because I'm on a plane heading for Texas and my uterus is being an enormous bitch. Don't have your period on an airplane, children, it's absolutely horrible. Anyway, this is for my friend @tyranny-mutt, who has helped me improve my writing in many areas. And by 'many' I mean 'one', but it was one that sorely needed improving. This is for you, dude.

Title: Dealing With the Monthlies

Summary: Kaiba and Yuugi aren't dating. Really. They're not. Yuugi's only over there so often because Kaiba wants to Duel. They only slept together a couple times. Okay, maybe a lot more than, that but they aren't a couple! Too bad Anzu isn't buying it. (In which Yuugi suffers and Anzu forces Kaiba to be a better not-boyfriend)

Genre: Humor/Romance (for a… given definition of those words)

Characters: Kaiba Seto, Mutou Yuugi, Mazaki Anzu, Kaiba Mokuba Thief King Bakura

Pairings: Rivalshipping (Kaiba x Yuugi), implied Slateshipping (TKB x Anzu) (leave me alone I need this)

Warnings: Trans male character (Yuugi), not-straight people (everyone), a complete and total loser (Kaiba), and the Ultimate Mom Friend™ (Anzu)

To say that Kaiba Seto had not expected to awaken to his longtime rival Mutou Yuugi curled up on the bed and moaning in pain would be like saying that Mokuba had "kind of guessed" that his elder brother was interested in men. Seto's coming-out party had been less of a party than a morning greeting. If Seto remembered correctly, it had gone something like this:

"Mokuba, I'm gay."

"Yeah, no shit, bro. Pass the syrup."

Not that Seto had thought that Mokuba would reject him, but still.

So yes, Kaiba Seto was surprised to see his rival (and NOT boyfriend, so shut up, Jounouchi) curled up on the bed and moaning in pain. There was no visible wound, so Kaiba did what anyone who was connected to Yuugi did when something happened – he called Anzu.

"Kaiba, it's four in the morning," Anzu complained. "This better be important."

"Is Yuugi dying?" Kaiba asked, ignoring her entirely. "He's clutching his stomach and moaning a lot. I tried to ask him about it, but he just said 'get a knife and end it', which I felt probably wasn't the best solution." Anzu was silent for a moment.

"Kaiba Seto, you are a twenty-seven year old genius billionaire," the dancer said flatly. "Is this really something you need my help with?" Seto didn't replied, and Anzu sighed. "He's on his period, you nerd," she grumbled. "Just– be a good boyfriend and get him what he needs."

"Not his boyfriend," Kaiba objected.

"Yes you are, shut up," Anzu snapped. Kaiba heard something in the background that sounded like laughter. "You shut up too, Bakura, you're just as useless when I'm on the rag." The laughter stopped abruptly, disintegrating into grumbles. Kaiba wondered for what was not the first and would most certainly not be the last time why on earth Anzu had volunteered to let the Ancient Egyptian stay with her. He'd heard something about arm wrestling and well-earned respect, but it still didn't make much sense to him.

"What exactly does he need?" Kaiba asked. "Tampons, right?"

"Ugh, no," he could almost hear Anzu wrinkling her nose. "Yuugi hates those things, and for a good reason. He needs pads. Go into the bathroom; I'm sure he's got a stash in there somewhere."

"Which bathroom?"

"Which one does he usually use?"

"The one attached to my bedroom."

"Then try that one." Kaiba found the package of pads fairly quickly, wondering how he'd never noticed it before.

"Got it. Anything else?"

"Probably some sort of painkiller," Anzu mused. "Got any ibuprofen?"

"Of course I do," Seto snapped. "Have you met the idiots I have to deal with on a daily basis?"

"No, but I have met you," Anzu shot back. "I imagine you have to take several aspirin a day just to tolerate yourself." Kaiba scowled, but didn't get the chance to form a retort. "Also, get some chocolate. Chocolate makes everything better. It doesn't have to be fancy rich person chocolate; just about anything will do."

"Chocolate, pads, and painkillers," Kaiba recited. "Is that everything?"

"Just about," Anzu confirmed. "Also, whatever you do, do not challenge him to a Duel today. Last time he Dueled you during his period, he came home crying because he thought he'd hurt your feelings. And then he hugged Bakura. I had to threaten him with a violent and painful death to make sure he didn't try to push Yuugi away. Do you know how hard it is to threaten someone with a violent and painful death if with nothing but eye contact? It's not easy, I'll tell you that." Now Kaiba was wondering why Bakura agreed to stay with her. It didn't sound particularly safe.

"Any other suggestions and or death threats?" Kaiba asked. He was only being semi-sarcastic.

"He might wanna make out a little," Anzu teased, snickering. "Possibly a lot. Give him lots of smooches."

"For the eightieth time, Mazaki, we aren't dating!" Kaiba snapped his cell phone shut before she had a chance to argue, and turned to face Yuugi, who was giggling.

"Kaiba, we're pretty much dating," he said, grinning. "You know you loooooove me. Anzu's right; I want smooches. Also, can you carry me to the bathroom?"

"I don't think periods take away your ability to walk," Kaiba grumbled as he picked up his rival. "And we aren't dating."

"Are too."

"Are not."

"Are too."

"Are not."

"Are t–" Yuugi was cut off as Kaiba pressed their lips together.

"No, we're not. Shut up." He carefully set Yuugi down outside the bathroom. "I'm going to have Isono bring some chocolate. Go… take care of that." Yuugi laughed.

"You can just say 'don't bleed all over my expensive marble bathroom floor'," he said, amused. Kaiba snorted, snatching up his phone.

"Don't bleed all over my expensive marble floor," he repeated. "If possible, don't bleed on anything."

"Wish that was possible," he heard Yuugi mumble. And then– "Thanks, Seto."

"Whatever," he replied immediately, with no hesitation or waver in his voice. He wasn't blushing. They weren't dating. Yuugi was only here because Kaiba wanted to beat him. And sometimes that led to sex, but they weren't dating. Really. They were just… rivals with benefits. Is that even a thing? Kaiba wondered. Well, it is now. And sure, sometimes Kaiba started thinking about Yuugi and couldn't stop, and sometimes they went out to dinner before or after Dueling, and sometimes Yuugi could persuade him to eat lunch with his friends (usually Anzu and the Egyptian Bakura, the latter of whom was fun to argue with, but it wasn't a double date), and maybe sometimes he wanted Yuugi to sit on his lap and kiss him while he worked, but that didn't mean–

Kaiba dropped his phone. He sprinted down the hall, flinging open the door to his younger brother's room.

"Mokuba!" he hissed as loudly as he dared. "I think I'm dating Yuugi!" Mokuba looked at him and sighed, wondering why he was cursed with such a dumb brother.

"Yes, Seto. Yes you are."

AN: I am… surprisingly proud of this, actually. It was fun. XD Not as much Yuugi as I would've liked, but hey. Also, fun fact – this is the closest TKB has come to actually showing up in one of my fanfics so far. Even though he's pretty much my favorite character. I almost never write him. What the hell, me? Anyway, I hope you enjoyed the story, and please tell me what you thought! Thanks~ Kitty out.

#yu-gi-oh! #ygo fic #seto kaiba #kaiba seto #yuugi mutou #mutou yuugi #anzu mazaki #mazaki anzu #mokuba kaiba #kaiba mokuba #thief king bakura #rivalshipping #slateshipping

[letthesleepingdoglie]

From Whence He Sprang - 02

Title: A Street Rat Named Jason

Rated: M for Blood and Violence

Part: 02 of 18

The Catherine Hershey School, Gotham City

January 9th, 2012

10:07 EST

Team Year One

Jason couldn’t believe his luck. From the moment he’d first arrived at the Catherine Hershey School, he’d started to believe that his years of bad luck were starting to turn around. The last week had done nothing to change that belief. If anything, they’d reinforced it.

The first night, immediately after Batman and Robin had dropped him off, a security guard had brought him to the main student dormitory and introduced him to one of the dorm’s resident advisors. He’d been given a clean, though somewhat baggy, pair of pajamas, a toothbrush and toothpaste, and been guided to an empty dorm room where he’d slept for a bed for the first time in years. Best of all, for the first time in his life, he had his own bathroom. After years of living on the streets, only being able to wash himself when it rained and relieving himself in abandoned alleys, having a toilet and shower to himself was a luxury beyond belief.

The next morning, the headmistress had come by and spoken with him, asking him questions on his background and upbringing. She was a kind middle aged woman named Mrs.Anderson, and Jason got the feeling that even if he hadn’t shown her the card Batman had given him, she still would have let him stay at the school anyway.

Armed with the information Jason had given her, the headmistress and her administrative staff had managed to track down and request important documents like his social security card, education records and birth certificate on his behalf. Jason had also been forced to meet with a number of different people, including the school doctor, a therapist, and one of the teachers at the school.

This morning, he’d just finished the last of those meetings with a man who was the head of school for CHS. He’d asked a lot of the same questions that Robin had asked about Jason’s life on the streets, at their first meeting. Just like with Robin, Jason had felt like the head of school had actually cared about the answer, so he told the man the truth. The meetings were all part of the schools guiding mission to ensure that less privileged children got the chance to live a better life than the one that they might have been born into.

As Robin had told him when they’d dropped him off, the school was indeed a good place. It had been founded around the turn of the 20th century by a wealthy philanthropist, who had used the profits of his industrial empire in order to fund the school. To this day, thanks to its founder and several generous donors, the school maintained a sizable endowment in order to provide for its students, who were primarily selected and accepted on the basis of economic need, geography, and the capability to learn.

While the school had more than enough resources to provide for its students, owing to its origin as a vocational rather than a college preparatory school it still expected students to perform chores while they were staying on campus. Surprisingly, Jason found that he enjoyed the menial work. He took to these tasks with vigor and without complaint: compared to trying to pick someone’s pocket, or hot-wire a car, the act of shoveling snow was refreshing in its simplicity and lack of danger. The chores also gave him an opportunity to bond with his classmates, who had given him some idea of what to expect once classes started in a couple of days.

All things considered, and for the first time in several years, Jason felt happy.

Later that day…

16:14 EST

The Head of School for the Catherine Hershey School was a man in his early 70s named Alan Turner. As a young man, he had been a teacher, but had eventually joined the administrative side of teaching and worked his way up. Thanks to his skill, many private schools in the country had wanted to hire him, but he’d eventually settled on joining the CHS, as he had been drawn by their mission to help less fortunate children overcome their backgrounds.

By almost all accounts of the people who knew him, he was a good man. His staff knew him as a hard worker who almost never took days off, while the orphans and foster children who attended the school that he helped run knew him as a kind man who was always willing to listen to their problems.Twice a year, at the start of each semester, he took the time to visit any new students who had joined the school. Alan took it upon himself to look at these children in the eye and hear their stories. Given the majority of their backgrounds, he knew even just one friendly face in a new environment could be the difference between a good transition and a bad one.

For the most part his efforts were successful. There were hundreds if not thousands of alumni from CHS who remembered Alan as a man who had helped them escape the poverty that most of them had been born into.

Most of the time, Alan performed this routine out of his desire to make sure that the new kids at school felt welcome. However, this year, the act of visiting these children was a penance, something he took upon himself in order to make sure the guilt of his choices never left him. An act to make sure he remembered the children he was forced to sacrifice for the greater good.

He’d come into his office at the main building this morning to find a note on his desk. It was a simple note, made of parchment rather than paper, with four simple words written in elegant and flowing script: “Your tithe is due.”

It never ceased to amaze him how much anguish and terror that little note caused him, just as its predecessors had haunted him every four years in the twenty since he’d become the Head of School for CHS. Each time he received one, he was reminded of the night that the man who had called himself Raptor had come to visit him in order to explain to explain certain obligations he was expected to fulfill.

On that night, twenty years ago, Alan had awoken in the middle of the night and found himself with a blade held to his throat, face to face with a killer. Not literally face to face, since the man’s face had been obscured by a stylized mask that featured an avian beak and goggles, but close enough for Alan to see the faint impression of eyes behind those tinted goggles.

“Alan Turner.” The man had growled, pressing lightly with his blade to stop Alan from crying out in fear. “My name is Raptor. If you make a sound, I will kill you and everyone else in this house. Nod if you understand.”

The threat to him, and by extension his family, was clear. Conscious of the fact that his wife was still sleeping peacefully next to him, Alan nodded, and was silently led out into the study of his home.

Once Raptor had withdrawn to relative privacy with his captive in tow, he had proceeded to outline his purpose in coming to Turner’s home that night. He was, he explained, an agent for an organization that held enormous power and influence over a large number of countries. This organization required children. Not just any children, but children who came from nothing, who could be disappeared without a fuss and shaped and moulded into whatever the organization wanted them to be.

The Catherine Hershey School was a place where such children could be acquired. One child selected on the basis of mental capability, physical skills, and lack of strong family connections was expected every four years. and as Head of the School, he was in the perfect position to both appraise any potential recruits and help their… acquisitions go much more smoothly.

And so, at that moment, Alan had three options: He could refuse to cooperate and be killed right then and there, though his family would be spared.

He could lie and attempt to betray Raptor, in which case not only would be killed, but his entire family would be tortured and killed as well.

Or, he could agree, and nothing would change. The school would continue operating under his guidance, free of interference. All that it would take was one name, given at the appointed time.

Alan had agreed.

And now he stood, 20 years and four sacrifices later, on the verge of sacrificing a fifth innocent child to the terrors in the night. His hands trembled as he withdrew a pen from his coat pocket

Briefly, Alan considered leaving the space where he was supposed to write the name of his selection on the parchment blank. If even a tenth of the rumors that he’d heard were true, he was condemning one his young charges to a great deal of pain and suffering.

But it had to be done. One child to save the rest.

Alan’s shaking hand wrote out the formulaic response easily: I nominate Jason Todd to serve.

He stood up and left the parchment in the middle of his desk, just as he’d been instructed to do all those years ago. He knew that by the time he returned tomorrow, it would be gone.

“Selene.” He called to his secretary as he pulled open the door to his office and began to don his heavy winter coat.

“Yes Mr.Turner?”

“I’m not feeling too well. I’m gonna head home and rest for a bit. You don’t mind locking up do you?”

“No problem at all.” She replied with a kind smile, handing him his coat and moving to open the door that led into the hallway. “It’s nice to see you taking care of yourself for once sir. Rest up and feel better.”

He gave her a tight smile as he maneuvered past her. “I’ll try.” He promised.

Framed pictures of both previous and current students lined the main hallway leading to his office. Alan spared a glance at them as he made his way towards the exit. He envied the children in the pictures their innocence.

His was long dead.

——————————————————————————————————————————

Gotham City

January 12th, 2012

20:53 EST

Team Year One

“Hey,” Zatanna’s voice crackled through the comm in his ear. “Missed you today.”

Several dozen feet below the streets of Gotham, Dick slowly made his way through the sewers, storm drains, and abandoned subway tunnels that comprised the Gotham underground. “Sorry Zee. It feels like every super villain in Gotham picked this week to launch some sort of evil scheme.”

“The signal is horrible.” She noted. “Where are you?”

“You don’t wanna know.” Dick said, taking care not to slip on a puddle of god-knows-what as he continued to search for Jason’s personal belongings. The kid had given him the location of the tunnel entrance, which he’d remembered, but also the directions to his underground home, which he’d forgotten.

Absent any landmarks he could use to keep track of his position, Dick was forced to search in ever widening concentric circles. The underground wasn’t illuminated, which meant that he had to navigate using his mask’s night vision mode. Luckily, he was able to avoid venturing into most of the sewer tunnels that were connected to the underground, correctly reasoning that Jason would never have slept near them.

A few minutes ago, he’d come across some signs of habitation that made him think that he was on the right track.

“What’re you up to tonight?” Zee asked curiously. “Not that I’m complaining, but I think the fact that I’m your girlfriend obligates you to spend at least one night a week with me.”

Dick winced. He knew Zatanna understood how important he considered putting on his costume and venturing out every night, but he always felt guilty about taking time away from her.

“Sorry.” He said again. “Batman and I dropped a kid we met on the streets off at a boarding school last week, and I promised him that I’d bring him some of his old stuff that he hid in the underground before classes start tomorrow.”

“Ah, typical Robin.” She said fondly. “Always keeping his promises… at the last minute.”

He smirked at her good natured jab. “You know you love it.”

“That I do.” She gave a dramatic sigh that was audible despite the horrible quality of their comm signal. “You’re off the hook for tonight, but I expect you to make it up to me.”

“Of course. Flowers, dinner, and a movie.” He said, smiling despite his surroundings. Their dates might have been relatively mundane by some standards, but they both enjoyed them immensely. “Sometime next week, alright?”

“OK.” Zatanna said coyly. They both knew once he said he’d do something, he would. “Bye.”

“Bye Zee.” He said, closing the channel.

Dick ventured into another tunnel offshoot and caught site of an alcove that was two or three feet off of the ground. It was too small for a fully grown man to lie down comfortably, but it looked perfect for someone that was Jason’s size.

He peered into the alcove and caught site of a bundle that was tucked into the back. Thanks to advanced WayneTech systems, the night vision mode of Dick’s mask gave him greater levels of detail than most standard Night Vision Goggles, but it still rendered everything in a green-black monochrome.

Dick tapped the edge of his mask to deactivate Night Vision and switched on a flashlight in order to examine the bundle. It turned out to be a small backpack, wrapped in plastic bags in order to keep it both hidden and safe. A patch with the name “Jason” had been stitched onto the back.

He smiled. “Gotcha.” He slung the pack onto his back and made his way back to the surface, taking care not to get the contents wet.

He could’ve taken the batwing and flown directly to the school, but he’d elected to ride there on his motorcycle. It made the journey out to the city’s outskirts longer, but much more enjoyable. He’d always preferred the freedom of the road as opposed to the relatively cramped confines of an aircraft cockpit.

In terms of stealth, tonight wasn’t a great night: it was a full moon out, which meant that it would be easier to see both him and his bike if he got too close to the school. He decided to park his bike in the woods outside the school and make his way over to the student dormitories on foot.

Hacking into the school’s database and figuring out which room Jason had been assigned was child’s play. The programs he’d designed could cut through military grade software with ease; the encryption on the school’s wireless network fell apart like wet tissue paper.

Once Dick had determined which room he was supposed to sneak into scaled the exterior of the four story dormitory by hand. It was dark inside, which meant that either Jason wasn’t there, or he was asleep.

Just in case it was the latter, Dick elected to give notice of his arrival. “Jason?” He whispered, rapping lightly on the window. “Jason, you in there?”

He waited a few moments for a reply, but there was none. The moonlight reflecting off of the window made it hard for him to see if there was any movement inside. He pulled a birdarang from his utility belt and used the edge to flip the latches of the window open, allowing him to climb in.

“Jason?” He whispered again, not wanting to scare the bejesus out of the 12 year old in case he’d been wrong and the kid was actually there, but the room was deserted. Dick smiled, hoping that Jason was out having fun with some of the other kids on campus.

The part of him that had been raised by Alfred felt compelled to make the messy and clearly slept-in bed before completing his task and leaving. As he reached under the bed to tuck in the sheets, he felt something metallic collide with his fingers. Dick peered under the bed and was amused to find the hubcap that Jason had “stolen” from them; evidently, he’d stuck it under his bed in order to hide it from covetous eyes.

He left it there, making sure that the sheets and blanket were crisp across the mattress before fluffing and rearranging the pillow. Task completed, he unslung the backpack he had recovered from his shoulders and placed it on the bed. He’d been hoping to check in with Jason to see how he was doing, but given the circumstances, that could wait for another day.

He pulled a small notepad and pen from his belt and wrote out a short note, which he left on top of the backpack before hopping back outside and shutting the window behind him. “Told you that I’d get your stuff back to you in time. Hope you’re liking it here. - R”

As he made his way back to his motorcycle in order to head back to downtown Gotham for his nightly patrol, Dick made a mental note to himself to stop by in another couple of days to make sure the kid was doing alright.

At That Same Moment…

Somewhere.

“Get up.” An unfamiliar voice said from above him.

Jason stirred and rolled over from where he had been sleeping. As he sat up and rubbed his bleary eyes, he became aware in his groggy mind that this wasn’t his room at the Catherine Henderson School.

He was in a large room, something that looked like one of the tunnels from the Gotham Underground, except older. Most of the Gotham Underground had been built out of a uniformly sized red brick, but this room was made out of irregular cobblestones. There were several scattered pillars around the room, which would have been dark if not for the hundreds of candles that had been set out on both the room’s perimeter and on a candelabrum hanging from the ceiling.

Jason also became aware that he wasn’t alone. There were other children around him who had also been asleep on the ground, each of whom looked to be about his age. There were 10 masked men amongst them, shouting in harsh tones for the children to get to their feet. As the youngsters complied, he could see that most of them had circles of fatigue and sleeplessness in their eyes, which were made even more prominent by the candlelight. Jason felt pretty exhausted himself, though from the dryness in his throat, it felt like he’d been unconscious for some time.

“What’s goin-“ The words had barely left his mouth before a hand snaked out of nowhere and grabbed a fistful of his hoodie. In the time it took him to gasp, Jason was hauled up so that his feet kicked uselessly at the air. He found himself face to face with one of the men who had been standing guard over the children.

The guard was wearing a full face mask that concealed his features, though the mask itself was unusual. There was a pair of goggles embedded on the front of the mask, as well as a stylized avian beak and eyebrows.

“Quiet.” The man growled into Jason’s face before dropping him onto his butt on the cold stone floor.

Jason wanted to leap to his feet and attack the man but his instincts, coupled with the knives that the masked man wore strapped to his body, told him that to do so would be an incredibly bad idea. He silently got to his feet instead. He wondered how he’d gotten here, what was going on, and what was going to happen next. The last thing he remembered had been going to sleep in his bed back at the school’s dorm.

Quickly and efficiently, all the other children who were in the room with him were awoken cajoled onto their feet as well. They stood in a loose mob, facing a large podium with a bird’s face emblazoned on it, at the front of the room. Most of them looked around fearfully, but kept silent.

Most. Not all.

“Who are you?” One girl in the row ahead of him asked one of the masked men fearfully, in slightly accented English. It was hard to tell by candlelight, but Jason thought she was hispanic. “Where are we?”

At a glance, Jason knew the girl had made a mistake. The man she’d questioned was similarly garbed to the other guards, but his armor was much more embellished: the brows and beak on the mask were both longer, and the fingertips of his gauntlets ended in razor-sharp points. He turned menacingly and positioned himself directly in front of her.

“My name is Raptor, Talonmaster of the Court of Owls.” Despite the fact that he spoke in a hushed whisper, all of the other children heard him clearly. Raptor raised a hand and casually backhanded the girl across the cheek. The force of the blow caused her to spin and fly backwards into the row of children behind her.

“And you will speak only when spoken to.”

Jason was halfway towards Raptor before he’d even realized he was moving. “Hey!” He shouted furiously, “Leave her alone!”

Some of the other guards moved to stop Jason, but Raptor stopped them with a raised hand, uncaring as Jason charged at him. The moment he got into range, Jason drew his fist back to throw a punch.

“Ulk-“ Suddenly, he found himself dangling in the air again, only this time, the hand that held him was clamped around his throat rather than holding a fistful of his hoodie. “Hmm.” Raptor hummed consideration as he held the twelve year old at arm’s length, head tilted in an almost bird-like gesture of curiosity. “You’ll do.”

Before Jason could even think about struggling, Raptor shifted and punched Jason twice. Once in the stomach, and once in the solar plexus. The air rushed from Jason’s lungs, and his chest seized, making it difficult to replace the lost air. A follow up blow impacted directly on his nose, blinding him with blood and tears.

Despite the pain, Jason raised his hands up to his throat and tried to pry Raptor’s fingers from around his throat but it was impossible. Raptor’s fingers felt like they were made out of steel. In punishment for his attempt at escape, Raptor punched him again, this time in the liver.

Jason’s conscious mind crumpled in pain. Raptor was just about to hit him again when a voice pulled him short.

“Raptor, enough.”

A man wearing a fine grey suit emerged from the shadows and strolled up to the podium. Like Raptor, the man was wearing an avian mask to obscure his features, but it was of a different style. Raptor wore a hood that covered his entire head, while the man in the suit had a mask that only covered the front of his face; the man’s grey hair was still visible.

His mask was also much more ornate than Raptor’s, made from gold. It almost seemed to glow in the candlelight. “We can hardly blame them for not knowing the proper forms at the moment. Their ignorance will pass in time.”

“As you wish, Grandmaster.” Raptor said. There was obvious respect in that tone. He opened his hand and dropped the 12 year old to the ground, where he landed in an unceremonious heap. Raptor bowed his head in deference to the man he had called Grandmaster.

The Grandmaster gave a slight bow in return, a master acknowledging the respect and loyalty of a servant. He turned his attention to the children in front of him and spread his arms wide in a gesture of welcome.

“Hello, dear children.” He said, voice warm and rich despite the mask that he wore. “Welcome. Welcome to the Court of Owls.”

#young justice #young justice fanfic #young justice fanfiction #jason todd #robin #dick grayson #the court of owls

[listoriented]

Brigador: Up-Armored Edition

I write to you from a friend's living room. This is maybe the third time I've started this post - the first time I was in a (pretty shit) cafe, where I remembered that I still have issues to sort out re: feeling self-conscious about doing writing in public, while the next attempt was at the kitchen table of a different friend on the other side of Melbourne to where I sit now. The point I wish to not-so-cleverly communicate is that I'm on the move again, the vagary of conditions of being mobile and staying with friends slightly less conducive to mouse and keyboard games like, pertinent example, Brigador, which this here blog post is (a little superficially) about. I should add that even though I didn't bring a mouse with me, there is definitely a mouse here that I could borrow (sitting right in front of me, in fact. Should I take a photo? No), and that it wouldn't be too hard to temporarily shift e.g. the stationary, tobacco, textbooks (but probably not the 1000 piece puzzle which if not finished seems very close to it), move this laptop from my actual lap and onto the table, plug in and play. But I'm starting to realise how much gaming is a hobby of domestic interior comfort for me. The space comes first, then the habit. Arguably/ideally it should be the other way around.

Sometimes life chooses when you're finished with the game - is a thing I wanted to write, leaning into the wince, extra helpings of cheese, melodrama leaking down my face, although even then it’s a painful simplification. It's more that mix of circumstance with the self-determined pressure of like, how long you should spend on any one game in a dumb myopic self-indulgent project versus an ongoing desire to slip in diary snippets while making it first and foremost about the game and also, like, not getting bogged down in personal shit. With Brigador I had, back in Canberra, almost - ! - finished the campaign, anyway, though a bit of last-minute research told me this whole campaign mode that I'd been playing was a more recent addition (the 2017 "up-armoured" part, in fact) to the game, and is kinda meant as a large tutorial section to the game proper, which is (I think) a freelance, permadeathy, scores and upgrades situation. Silly me for assuming.  

Brigador is a - here, do you like descriptors specific to videogames and nothing else? - cyberpunk isometric bullet-hell mech shootybanger. You WASD your mech around the map, mouse-aiming at specific targets and enemy mechs/infantry while trying to not get blown up. The mechs can be slow and clunky, fast and fragile, with a few different weapon options and special abilities. It's set on a planet (I think?) called Solo Nobre, where there are lots of factions and loyalties and uh... I don't know. There was a lot of competently written flavour text for each mission. I dutifully read all of it but I wouldn't know how to go about paraphrasing the narrative (if there is any).

At a systems level though Brigador is, like, surprisingly solid. Fuck it. I’ll say it. It’s good. It’s a good game. It's endearingly simple, utterly mindless fun. The mechs aren't much to look at, but they have a real sense of weight to them - the heavy ones are almost painfully slow, while the lighter ones float effortlessly across the grid. There's enough control and tactical variability there that you could get quite a lot of mileage out of it; I found the heavy mechs with big guns generally easier to pass missions with, while I suspect the stealthy and/or zippy ones might take a bit more practice to use without meeting certain failure. Every building, wall, barrier in the game is destructible, which is a bit gimmicky but also, good. Also, the cannon fire is backed by some really decent clattering sound effect work, while the industrial synth backing track escalates in tempo as the pewpew gets hectic.

It doesn't seem like much to look at, at first, with a weird mixture of repeating doodads, lo-fi polygon shapes with newer engine textures making it seem like it belonged to no particular place and time. But even this I came around to. There's a restrained but wonderful use of neon/fluoro, against the ever drab industrial backgrounds. I quite liked the shadowy, half-lit streets and the renditions of retro-future industry, even while it was difficult to see the neighbourhoods and commercial districts that dotted the game’s story as anything other than open-plan mazes with a few illuminated but-otherwise-meaningless targets.  

To be in Brigador is to be passing a moment just fine. And that's kind of about it. That's about it with a lot of games, I guess, although there's a purity of having basically-nothing-else present here. Nothing to think about. I think, particularly when I started to struggle with some of the longer missions, sometimes insta-killing my mech by driving into an unseen gas-station or similar (some of these are not well marked) right at the end of the mission and thereby having to repeat the whole thing again, swearing at the computer and the game and myself but also not really caring, I felt a heightened awareness of the futility of all this which, yeah, is nothing new, but I mainly only feel it when I play shittier, less altogether well-glued games than this one. Like, what is the point, actually? Brigador is functionally excellent; a pretty effective waste of time. How many times can I come to this particular conclusion about a game? For the lifetime of this blog.

When/Where: Brigador: Up Armoured Edition was in the June 2017 Humble Monthly. This is the first time a game from Humble Monthly has come up, I think, and it's also coincidentally from the first Monthly I got (after a long time of being like, no, that’s stupid). I think the carrot here was Stellaris, which predictably I still haven't had a proper go with, a year later.

Who: It was developed by Stellar Jockeys [official site], a four-man team across Illinois and Washington State (I know where these places are because America is everything even though I've never been there, hi). The game originally hit early access in 2015, full market in 2016, and the Up-Armoured re-release was June 2017 (same time as it was bundled with the monthly).

Duration: I played it for...7 hours. I unlocked 6 out of 63 achievements (wow so few) and one of those was for accidentally opening the console.

up next is Broken Age, beginning a run of adventure games being four of the next five in the list. Expect interrupted business as always.

#game61 #brigador #brigador: up-armored edition #mechs #bullethell #stellar jockeys #humble monthly #isometric