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manicpixiefelix · 3 months

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This is going to sound so pretentious to say, but I think that one of the most incredible things Emerald Fennell did with Saltburn was give it's audience both everything and nothing all at once. But which I mean that every moment we see on screen is so carefully chosen and wonderfully detailed. Every second of the story that Oliver chooses to tell us is perfectly crafted to give us the exact story he wants to create, nothing more and nothing less. Saltburn's narrative lives and dies in Oliver's obsessive recollection, his confessional. Its why these characters who are so clearly and wonderfully rich below the surface can, at a glance, come off as shallow. Oliver didn't care!! And the one he did care about, he gatekept so jealously (I saw someone else's meta discussing this and I absolutely agree) to the point where we as an audience barely know who Felix was. We don't even know who Oliver was, at the end of the day; he was manipulative and ambitious and obsessive and - I could not tell you a single thing he genuinely liked that wasn't Felix. Because that's it, isn't it. That's the story of Saltburn. Everything revolved around Felix, and Felix was everything, and so Oliver's story only focuses on the absolute tragedy of having everything and then losing everything in that one Summer.

And nothing else.

Emerald gave us the gift of Oliver's everything, and the vague, nebulous nothing that he cares about just behind it. The hints of more, jumping off points of intrigue and imagination, things we can extrapolate from and speculate about. There is so much room in this world around it's implications and offhand remarks for us to all build upon. We don't even know if Venetia is Felix's older or younger sister???? There is limitless space to play in this world, both before the events of the film, but also between the few moments Oliver chooses to show us. We see twenty minutes of Oliver's Full First Year at Oxford before he goes to Saltburn, so much of how he falls for Felix and becomes his friend goes so unsaid and unseen, little more than a montage, and Barry and Jacobs's phenomenal chemistry selling their closeness, so we don't have to know each detail.

But that's the thing, that's just bliss; the falling in love is a given in this story, he opens with that. These moments would simply be nothing on the road to everything.

Its like Emerald Fennell is kissing me directly on the forehead and giving her blessing to fill in the blanks. She knew we would; she literally said she knew Saltburn would be a hit on Tumblr, she knew what she was doing. This film was made for those of us who like to over analyse media and also create vivid and intricate headcanons and sometimes both at the same time.

Tumblr, and creatives especially, love Saltburn because it deliberately lets us play in its world, in that sweet spot between everything and nothing, all at once.

#saltburn #saltburn 2023 #saltburn meta #felix catton #oliver quick #venetia catton #farleigh start #emerald fennell #elspeth catton #sir james catton #james catton #felix x oliver #felix catton x oliver quick #manicpixieart

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erisenyo · 4 months

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"could you please come and get me?" I'm BEGGING🙏🙏🙏

For this prompt game! (And also this one!) (Andthis one too lol)

(Can be read as a follow-up to this)

“…and, like, everyone goes through phases!”

Hakoda hastily unfolds from his very undignified stretch at the muffled sound of Sokka’s voice, wincing at the protest of his sore back. Bato keeps saying he’s eventually going to value his posterior chain enough to stop taking red eyes no matter how cheap they are, and one day Hakoda is actually going to listen instead of making jokes about posteriors.

“—and sisters, you know? They never let go of anything no matter how old you all get, and they always take things too far—”

Hakoda glances again around the dim lit, tidy shop as if maybe the angle of the sunlight will have changed, vaguely pleased and surprised that Sokka is here so early as the faint jangle of the admittedly-huge keyring filters through the door.

It’s hours past when they usually open, of course, but judging by the timing of Sokka’s late-night-scarfing-down-dinner phone calls, he’s been working plenty past when they usually close.

“—not in a creepy way or anything, obviously. Just a joke. A bad one!”

Not that Hakoda was really worried. And he was right to now really worry! There’s nothing blown up, no scorch marks or tools missing because Sokka really needed a good shearing weapon for his robot-killing robot, no half-deconstructed engines and piling-up repairs because Sokka is sure he’s figured out a way to get more efficiency out of the whole system.

“—and that one is totally new, anyway. I had no idea it was even there! And so, um. High definition.”

Those this Audi sitting in the middle out of the shop, which is very out of place for Wolf Cove to begin with, let alone in Hakoda’s shop…

“And I mean, you know how sisters are!”

Hakoda does have some questions about that.

That Jesk kid better not be involved, or whatever his name was...

“Or—right?” Sokka’s voice is suddenly clear as he finally finds the right key to unlock the office door. “You—maybe? I mean—you—or—”

“Yeah,” a husky, raspy voice cuts in, faintly amused, and Hakoda pauses in surprise as he realizes Sokka isn’t on the phone. “I have a sister.”

Hakoda glances curiously through the office window as Sokka flicks the lights on, bright light illuminating the office and the break room and the car bays one by one, revealing his son—dressed for work, not starving, not injured, good—and the lean, black-on-black clad boy behind him, and Hakoda feels his eyebrow jump up in surprise.

Ah. He recognizes a pretentiously pre-worn designer leather jacket when he sees one. That would be where the car came from, then.

“And,” Sokka hurries on, darting nervously around the office as he wakes up the computer and sets down his coffee and Hakoda’s other eyebrow slides up to join the first. He can recognize Sokka’s cover-his-ass voice anywhere. “It’s not like I would recognize you out of context anyway without, you know. Or with, or—and so, like, it's not like I was being weird or anything, or like, trying to lock you in the basement or something, or—fuck.” Sokka scrubs his hands over his face before pasting on a bright, game smile and marching toward the car bays. “Yeah, I’m just going to stop talki—Dad!”

“Sokka,” Hakoda greets him, giving the other boy—not a boy, Sokka hates being called a boy, he reminds himself—a curious look. “And…?”

“Oh,” the boy blinks, freezing a little. “Uh—”

“I didn’t realize you were coming back,” Sokka hops in, hurrying over. “Is everything okay?”

“Yeah, I just wanted to grab a few things from the house, see you and Katara a bit,” Hakoda assures him, reaching out to give Sokka’s shoulder a squeeze and offering a smile to the other boy as he trails Sokka after a moment across the shop floor. “Who’s this?”

“How’s Gran Gran?” Sokka asks as the boy hesitates, mouth half-open.

“She’s doing well, things are coming along,” Hakoda says, cocking his head to get a better look at the boy. He’s definitely familiar—not surprising, with those nearly-gold eyes and scar and the kind of cheekbones that Sokka loves to trip over—but Hakoda can’t quite place… “Are you one of Sokka’s college friends?” Shit, Hakoda should know those. He at least knows it isn’t…what was his name, Tamu? It’s definitely not him…

“Ah, no,” the boy says, shifting on his feet and flicking a quick look to Sokka. “Wh—"

“How long are you back for!” Sokka says over top of him, eyes wide with interest and that’s definitely his cover-his-ass voice again…

“Just a few days,” Hakoda says absently. Is it one of Sokka’s high school band buddies? They used to always be hanging around the basement and crowding into the kitchen. “I haven’t seen around town,” he says slowly, the sense that he knows this kid niggling at the edge of his thoughts.

“…No,” the kid agrees after a beat, equally slow.

“Yeah,” Sokka says quickly, voice coming out high. “He’s not from around here!”

“This is your car?” Hakoda asks, because the kid might not look much like a trombone players but he does look like a speed demon.

“Uh, yeah,” the kid says, glancing at the sleek red lines where Sokka’s set the Audi out with pride of place dead center in the middle of the shop. “Sorry?”

“Sorry?” Hakoda blinks, momentarily distracted from the nagging familiarity of the kid.

“I broke down,” the kid shrugs, apologetic, and Hakoda can only give him a bemused look.

“It’s what we’re here for,” he says. And they’re certainly going to charge him for it, with a car like that—and Hakoda will be making sure he’s charged. He recognizes that look on Sokka’s face…

“Right!” Sokka says, overly bright. “Car repair!”

“A full-service operation,” the kid murmurs, cutting Sokka a sideways look.

“We strive to be,” Hakoda says proudly, giving Sokka his own curious look as his son chokes a little, blushing. Oh yeah. Hakoda is definitely making sure this kid gets charged.

“Car repairs!” Sokka says loudly, clearly powering through…whatever is going on. “We’ve had a lot of those! Want to—” he glances quickly around. “—the books! Want to see them? Or the—I can get you up to speed?” he suggests half-desperately. “On everything?”

Hakoda makes a vaguely affirming noise, listening with half an ear and mostly watching the kid who is in turn watching Sokka, looking faintly bemused by and more than a little curious about Sokka’s immediate, exhaustive, relieved, highly detailed account of the past month.

Maybe he’s a new teacher in one of Sokka’s art classes? He thought they were all old men by Sokka’s description, but this one seems like an artsy type. Though why he’d be here and not back in Republic City…

The kid gives Sokka another sidelong look through his lashes that really isn’t all that subtle to anyone other than Sokka, and ah, that could be a reason.

And he can tell Sokka likes his friend back from the fidgety, half-nervous, half-hyper way he’s shifting his weight and playing with his bracelets and rings and he better be fucking taking those off before work, Hakoda’s not trying to have anyone lose a damn body part inside an engine. At least the earrings are out…

Hakoda thinks, though, that he really would have heard of the kid if he’s following Sokka cross-country to keep him company. But then, maybe that’s why he has the persistent, nagging sense that he’s met or at least seen this kid befo—

“Oh!” Hakoda suddenly exclaims, snapping his fingers as realization hits. “I know you!”

“You—!” Sokka trips a little as the kid startles, giving Hakoda a half-surprised, half-cagey look. “You should really hear about theorderthatPakkutriedto—”

“You’re the boy from the poster over Sokka’s bed!” Hakoda says, triumphant and Sokka cuts off with a high, strangled noise, the kid opening his mouth and nothing coming out.

“The one where’s he’s all shirtless and oiled up?” Hakoda prompts when Sokka doesn’t say anything, pleased to have placed it. “Remember, you got that fancy photo editing program for it? So you could cut him out of the full shot and enlarge the size? And Bato took you to that special print shop in Whale Harbor to get it done out on the special poster paper?”

The kid slowly transfers his stare from Hakoda to Sokka, who is looking more and more like a deer trying to freeze to avoid the notice of an oncoming car.

“You know, for your eighteenth birthday?” Hakoda reminds him, concern fluttering in his chest when Sokka doesn’t immediately latch onto the topic like he always does. “Because you couldn’t find any magazines big enough to see from that far away?” He definitely isn't misremembering, he knows he isn't...right?

The kid slowly closes his mouth, eyebrow inching up higher and higher.

“And you’d filled up all your wall space, so you needed to move to other surfaces? And Katara said you weren’t allowed to put anything up in the shower?” No, he's definitely right. Hakoda had been quietly and intensely relieved by the shower edict enough to be sure.

“I,” Sokka finally says, mouth working, “I, uh.”

“Didn’t you recognize him?” Hakoda frowns, reaching out to feel Sokka’s forehead.

“Yeah, Sokka,” the kid—shit, Hakoda still doesn’t know his name though—says, pointed, “Didn’t you recognize me?”

“I…need to go now,” Sokka announces, suddenly fumbling in his pockets.

“What?” Hakoda blinks, confusion threading alongside his pleasure at finally placing the face.

“What?” the kid half-laughs, startled.

But Sokka just whips out his phone, already marching away, his face crimson and voice echoing off the high ceilings, “Katara? Yeah, I’m—yeah, I’m still in town. Yes, I know that you're on nights, I—yes, I—look, could you please come and get me?” A pause. “No, I—actually, yes. I need to go die now, please. Not here.”

Hakoda stares after Sokka as he finally shuts the office door behind him, bemused, scratching the back of his head and shifting his attention to the kid who looks like he doesn’t know whether to worry or laugh again.

“Well, I’m Hakoda,” he eventually offers, extending his hand and biting the bullet that it’s okay to not know this one’s name, they probably haven't actually met before, “I’m his father.”

“Zuko,” the kid says after a beat, accepting his handshake—strong grip, callouses, no eye contact but that’s okay considering he’s looking after Sokka. “I’m, uh. The guy from the ceiling?”

Hakoda huffs, half-amused and giving him another quick look—and then his hand a slightly harder squeeze. “Grown up a bit, have you?” A lot less oil, too. And a lot more clothes.

Same cheekbones, though.

“Uh—so has he? Since then?” Zuko hazards, glancing toward the office where Sokka is…screaming into a pillow, by the looks of it.

“One could say that," Hakoda says after a beat, thinking of Sokka’s last trip to Whale Harbor and the poster tube he’d come back with happily cradled in his arms. “But maybe not as much as you’d think.”

#Hakoda is so proud of himself #He is going to get a good grade in Dad and in remembering his son's interests and hobbies #A thing that is possible to get and desirable to achieve #Sokka and Zuko are quietly dying and Hakoda is just there like 🙃#asks and answers #prompt games #fic writing #my writing #Sokka #Zuko #Hakoda #Zukka #Zukka fic #Rockstar Zuko AU

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apalapucian · 4 days

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pureblood parties are always so unnecessarily dim. like vampire dens. or how james imagines them to be, at least. cascading velvet. candlelight. it’s especially pretentious now, he thinks, with the theme being masquerade, the elaborate masks making everyone look the same. not human. an entirely new species between veelas and peacocks, all jewels and feathers.

he doesn't feel like himself without his glasses as well. and he just — doesn't feel real in general, stirred in here among them. like he's an oil painting of himself. he glides through the crowd and feels colors drip in his wake.

he finds lily by the punch table, nursing a crystal goblet, drinking molten gold.

his gait falters. his heart does also.

(lily always looks clear to him. real and human. all her colors entirely to herself.)

"any sign of him?" he asks when he reaches her. he’s been scouring the ballroom for their target tonight — a ministry official the order suspects has been imperiused — to no luck.

"no," she says, gaze sweeping the crowd. "and god, this dress is so itchy."

"shame. you look like a million galleons in it."

she turns to him, million-galleon smile on. "i’m surprised you can put a definite price on it."

"aw, don’t feel bad. it’s just an expression. you know i think you’re priceless."

"yeah?"

he grins. in answer, he asks, "wanna dance?"

and so they dance.

the song is a slow waltz, grand orchestra. it sounds like one of his mum's favorites. he can't name it though. there's just that vague, soft-lit memory: his mum's smile, his dad's wrinkled hands.

his dance partner's attention is still on the crowd.

"maybe he’s not here," he says. his attention is entirely on her.

"maybe," she says. "i just don't want to... waste the night."

"well, if we have fun while we're at it, it won't be a waste at all."

she smiles. with him now, fully. "and do you mean dancing like this, or — ?"

"or," he answers. "decidedly or."

she laughs. "really? here?"

"why not?"

"uh, because? we're surrounded by enemies?"

"the risk — ah, how do i put it — elevates the experience, won't you say? and it's not like we haven't done it before."

she stops waltzing. "you're serious."

"it's james, actually. sirius is at home."

she laughs again. then, chin up and smirking, his hand in hers, she leads him out of the dance floor.

—

the wall is cold against his back, and, even worse, it's uneven; one of those stupid pureblood family trees carved on marble. once by themselves she starts kissing him like she's in a great hurry, hands all over. james lets her.

the floors here are so black and so shiny it looks like they're floating on a lake. the one at hogwarts, specifically. he kissed lily there for the first time. by it. the trunk of the beech tree he was pressed against at the time was uneven too, but lily was warm on him. and soft. and perfect.

(god, you're too much, she told him that day, coming up for air, lips almost as red as her hair. a fucking goddess.

you're alright, i guess, he replied, just some regular mortal. it made her laugh so much though. and james reckons making her laugh feels close enough to playing god.)

the light is sparse here, now; just whatever filters in through the giant windows and the cracks between doors. the crescent moon is somehow reflected by james's feet. a ridiculous thought, stepping on the moon. he thinks of remus.

she sucks on his pulse point just then, sighing something against his skin, and james seizes that moment of distraction — tightens his grip on her waist and turns them in one swift movement so she's against the wall. she gasps, back hitting the grooves and ridges with a thud.

he looks down at her. although still wide-eyed, she's looking at him an entirely different way now. he takes her mask off. his hands are shaking. he hopes she doesn't notice. she probably doesn't; the mask's barely left her face and she's reaching up to unbutton his shirt further, nip on his collarbone, too preoccupied to notice much else. it's so hard to catch her eyes here, so frantic and so dark. her reds are all bruise-purple. her green all wrong.

he takes her cold, roaming hands, puts them together, then singlehandedly pins her wrists above her head. she likes that, watched him do it throughout, breath hitching.

then she feels the cold sharp blade against her neck.

she doesn't like that. quite expectedly.

"what the fuck?" she snaps, trying to break free at once. "what are you doing?"

"nothing yet," says james, holding on, ironclad. "but scream and you'll find out."

she keeps quiet, makes a show of pressing her lips together. she glares but doesn't dare move, the glinting end of the dagger too close to skin.

"first," james says, voice low, "you're going to drop your wand."

she complies. the wand clatters on the floor, the sound echoing in the empty hall.

"and then my wand."

her eyes widen, mouth falling open in shock. slowly, defeatedly, she does as she's told.

"good. now you're going to tell me where the fuck my wife is."

"i — but james — "

the tip of the dagger stains red. just the tip of it. barely there. shift and you miss it. except her. or him. whoever the fuck this is doesn't miss it. they press themselves best they can against the wall, but the sting's already started, and there's nowhere to go.

james tilts his head and looks them dead in the eye. "do i seriously look like i'll buy it right now?"

he watches them consider, feels their heart thunder under his weapon hand. the consideration turns to doubt. then it turns to fear. "i'll tell you," they say. it's lily's voice, frenzied and scared, and james wants to scream. wants to sink the blade lower. "i'll tell you," they insist. it's not her, james begs himself to remember. lily is always clear. with her, wherever, the colors are never wrong. "just — please. i'll tell you everything i know, please don't hurt me — "

"oh, if lily is hurt in any way at all," james interrupts, his own heart raging in his chest. "rest assured that people will get hurt." the blade drags, thin red line appearing. he stares at it. he didn't mean to do that. it takes all of his remaining self-control to draw his eyes back up and still his hand.

not her. not her.

not lily.

" — and you're first on my list."

#jily #jily*#james potter #lily evans #marauders era #apalapucian*#ugh good night this one came out of nowhere and wouldnt let me sleep until i'd posted it and IM SO TIREDDD. sorry if it's a bit clunky #i'll edit tomorrow maybe #heres a thing! byeee

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olderthannetfic · 3 months

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I read horror pretty much exclusively. Dark, twisted, monstrous, mysterious, the more fucked up the better.

So imagine my consternation when I crack open the latest horror book I checked out (published in 2023) and find, on the very first page, a note reading thus:

A quick heads-up about the content of this book. You're going to find marriage troubles, parental trauma, child endangerment, talk/images of infanticide, postpartum depression, suicidal ideation, bodily harm, ableism (internalized and externalized), anti-Semitism (internalized and externalized), claustrophobia, some gaslighting, and a whole lotta bug stuff. There's also a character who's a real racist, sexist piece of shit.

A horror book. For adults. With a warning that there might be horrific content ahead. *facepalm* The way it's worded feels like something straight from an AO3 author's note. "Bug stuff"? Could the author be a little more vague? They were all too happy to get very specific about everything else (i.e., internalization and externalization, just in case the reader might be okay with one or the other). Why does this author sound like they're working their way down a DNI checklist? I half expected the final line to read something like: I don't condone any of this in real life btw and anyone who agrees with this stuff (that means YOU proshitters) please kys thx lol.

As if the content warning wasn't already a turnoff, the next page included artsy and I'm sure very personally meaningful quotes from two songs by The Mountain Goats. (I know nothing about the band, but they sound like some flavor of pretentious white boy hipster folk music.)

I mean, a warning for claustrophobia? (Discomfort? In my horror?) What next, author's notes warning for fetishization/glorification of death? In a genre where I anticipate, nay, expect characters to die in gory, gruesome ways?

Christ alive. I feel like I'm losing my mind.

The Mountain Goats? Jesus.

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carnybat · 9 months

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the pretentious asshole himself…Tarn…the dialogue is from MTMTE #51…sorry I didn't want to do deathsaurus' lines because i have a very clear, yet vague idea of what he should sound like and i didn't like my attempt lol.

#voice acting #mtmte #transformers #tarn

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gale-gentlepenguin · 6 months

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What is your opinion on the comments from the writers about the season 5 finale and the finale itself?

So I should say that the only comments I’ve seen (from the translation ) and this ( post )

My opinion on the writers and their commentary regarding the finale.

I do understand why they did the things they did.

Limited resources and wanting to utilize what they had.

I totally agree with their use of Piano Lucky Charm.

I think the fight the physical fight with Monarch and Bug Noire is phenomenal.

I can tell a Lot of effort went into planning this season out.

And as a Writer I can respect the references, nods, foreshadowing and jokes that were put in.

Fang using Kung fu is a hilarious image and it’s my favorite shot outside of monarch having a piano dropped on him.

People can say they like the ending, and if they do, awesome. I’m glad that you can enjoy this ending that I don’t.

So let’s have that put at the forefront

That is everything positive I have to say regarding the commentary and I will be going into detail on my ‘Problems’ below. And yes I will be getting angry.

(You have been warned)

I absolutely LOATHE their explanation on how they justify their ending.

Everything about it makes them sound pretentious and arrogant. They sound like they think they are being so clever with an ending when the ending is actually a fucking punch to the face of ANYONE that cared about having a resolution to this arc.

If the writers were so keen on having us CARE for Gabriel’s little arc. Why not take that Kwami’s choice special and replace it with a two episode arc of Gabriel, Emilie and co getting the miraculous? They can’t say budget because they could use flashbacks or the re-enactment from Representation.

And my goodness, the mental gymnastics it takes to say “Gabriel put down his other rings which means he lost” NO IT DOESNT. He is making his wish, he won. Why the heck would he need them after?!

“His wish is vague, so we don’t know what he wished for.” I DONT CARE IF HE WISHED FOR FREE ICE CREAM FOR EVERYONE ON EARTH! HE WON BY EVERY METRIC! It’s unsatisfying, it’s gross, and it feels all kinds of wrong to the point that my soul as a writer feels personally insulted.

The arrogant pretentious Pricks don’t even realize they left Ladybug in the losing position once again! She’s going to have to suffer the consequences of the wish. Not the person who died VINDICATED.

In the words of Brooke from one piece

“Death is never an apology.”

But she got the miraculous back? Yea, AFTER the villain got what he wanted. Adrien never finds out about any of this, Marinette is left gaslighting and hiding things from him, just like usual but now MORE people are keeping things from him.

All of this writing just end up with a cool final battle scene and then take a metaphorical dump all over it because their peak in character development is outfit changes.

The ending isn’t unsatisfying because it’s meant to be. It’s unsatisfying because it made 5 seasons of watching ML pointless.

And I didn’t think I could hate the finale more than I do. BUT THE COMMENTARY somehow made it Worse!? I don’t know how the f*** they did it.

But knowing their intent and knowing this ending was always intended makes VOLTRON’s ending SEEM serviceable. And yes I know how bad that sounds and I FUCKING MEAN IT.

#Gale’s thoughts #miraculous ladybug #ml critical #ml criticism #ml writer criticism #Gale gets salty #ml writing salt #recreation salt #I think for the sake of my sanity that’s the last I’ll be talking about the finale

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dantesdickferno · 3 months

Text

amaretto

Miguel/Reader | Explicit | Chapter 1/?

a/n: I brought this blog back from the dead to post this so I hope y’all enjoy. Gonna be a few chapters but not sure how many yet. Femdom reader, Bartender Miguel basically. Horny and angsty modern NYC AU, no powers. Bit of a slow burn (ish). Enjoy lol

***

The Basilica is, for all intents and purposes, a mediocre bar.

There’s a pothole steps away from the bar’s entrance that customers have to maneuver past in kitten heels and designer sneakers, and the embossed metal sign at the front of the door is almost completely covered in rust. It’s clearly an establishment that’s too pretentious to be a dive bar, but not exactly up to code enough to be an upscale cocktail bar either.

Recent attempts to rebrand the place as a hole-in-the-wall speakeasy have been successful, meaning that it’s now the common haunt for every art history graduate student, Bauhaus enthusiast, and unattainably gorgeous bisexual poet in lower Manhattan who’s willing to spend 17 dollars on a drink.

You stumble across the small chipped navy blue door after a brutal day at work. The patrons at the luxury handbag store you have the distinct displeasure of interacting with were particularly snippy today, and your pair of not-yet-broken-in oxfords feel more like a prison than a fashion statement at the moment. You need a drink to help forget the past ten hours ever happened just so you can do it all over again tomorrow. You’ve never heard of this place, but you don’t feel like getting on the subway just yet and looking for a bar that’s closer to home. This vaguely sketchy place will have to do.

The cozy interior of The Basicilia smells of cigar smoke and melting wax. Lit partially by candlelight, the brick walls and small antique cherrywood tables feel distant, yet homey. There are large gothic-style lanterns hanging from the low ceiling, and servers expertly move through the crowd carrying stainless steel trays full of thick-cut fries and bowls of green olives.

Despite the bar being relatively full, only one other person is sitting at the actual bar when you approach it—everyone else appears to be relegated to the various tables and benches strewn about the space, or hugging the walls holding glasses of craft beer.

With all of the fuss that sitting down on a stool, pulling off your winter coat, and hanging your things on a hook underneath the bar causes, it takes you a moment for you to see him.

But you do.

There’s a blur of movement in the corner of your vision as a tall man in a black button-down with rolled-up sleeves vaults over the bar wall and stalks over to the other end of the restaurant before knocking on a solid black door with the sole of his boot.

“Hey! You awake in there? They need help running food!” The man shouts, not waiting for a response before rushing back across the room and climbing back into the bar.

The sound draws a few eyes, but no one appears to be shocked—it seems to be a common occurrence here, judging by the way the person who appears to be the manager steps out of the previously kicked door looking bleary-eyed and sheepish, a pair of noise-canceling headphones around his neck and a set of keys jangling at his belt.

But your attention has been drawn elsewhere.

The man is tall enough to reach for a bottle of Belvedere vodka on the top shelf to hand to a nearby barback without straining. You notice his hands first—broad, veiny, with nails cut down to the bone. There’s a bandage wrapped around the middle finger on his left hand. A smattering of hair on his triceps, which are all muscle and sinew. And two tattoos—-a fang on his right bicep, and a bundle of marigolds on his left forearm. He leans onto the bar table to address you, his button-down snug around his chest.

Jesus fucking christ. If you had a drink you would certainly spill it.

“What are you getting,” he says—his voice raw from shouting, you assume—and his voice trends downward at the end of the sentence, as if he doesn’t want to ask you, as if it isn’t a question. You can’t even pretend to be offended—working in the service industry is a thankless task, and you know that well enough. But even you can admit that the level of tension in his jaw and the shuttered look in his eyes is disconcerting in a way that has to do with more than the fact that he presumably hates his job.

“A mojito, please,” you say, with less confidence than you’d normally have. You’re used to sitting at bars alone and making conversation with the bartenders, but tonight doesn’t seem to be going in that direction.

“A mojito?” The man repeats, and you know it’s the wrong choice somehow. Other than an almost imperceptible eye roll, he nods, turning his back to you to grab the right ingredients.

Still. It makes you curious.

“What’s wrong with a mojito?” you ask, watching the way his shoulders stiffen. It’s like his entire being is on constant guard, waiting for the other shoe to drop–you can see it in the way he turns back to look at you, his jaw set as he sets down a collins glass and starts picking damp mint sprigs out of a chilled metal container.

“First time here?” he says, and again, it isn’t a question. He places the mint leaves on a paper towel to dry before rubbing them on the rim of the collins glass and putting them in a separate pint glass.

“Yeah. What’s wrong with a mojito?” Normally you’d take your cue from the bartender and quit trying to make conversation, but something about him makes you want to poke and meddle, like touching a live wire with the tip of your finger.

“Nothing.”

“I won’t get offended. Is this one of those ‘what your drink of choice says about you’ things?” you probe, leaning onto the bar top. The other conversations seem to fade to a lull in the background of your mind, your sights set on tormented brown eyes and tense, broad shoulders.

“No.”

“Because that kind of seems like what this is—”

“No.”

“Then what is it? If you don’t mind me asking. I hope I’m not committing a major bar crime, or something.” He clearly minds, and the sigh he lets out is nothing short of torturous sounding, but he seems to indulge you anyway. You briefly register his hands reaching for various cups and bottles at an even tempo, his movements intentional as he makes your cocktail. He crushes mint and lime and sugar together with a blunt tool before opening a carafe of ice. A shiver runs through you, completely against your will, as you watch him work. You’ve always had a soft spot for competence.

“It’s more of a practical thing,” he explains, and you settle onto your stool, sensing a tangent incoming. “Mojitos aren’t complicated to make, but they take time. They have a lot of moving parts. And then once one person orders it, I get ten more people who saw me making it asking for it too, and I have to start the process over again. And then more people order it, and next thing you know I’m making mojitos for the rest of the night.”

“So when I ask for mojitos at other bars and they say they’re out of mint, are they lying?” you tease. He places your drink in front of you then, topping it off with a mint spring and a lime wedge at the rim of the glass.

“...Every bartender hates you,” he says in response, leaning in, and you give him a soft smile, sipping from the glass. It’s one of the best drinks you’ve ever had.

There isn’t an ounce of enjoyment to be seen in his eyes, or in the shadows of his face. But you swear you see a flicker of something there, like something that has long since lain dormant coming back to life—if only for a second–before it dissipates.

“What’s your name?” you ask, pushing your luck. Any spark that had once been lit is extinguished. He backs away, the lanterns from overhead casting shadows across his features that make him look like a stranger again. You silently curse yourself.

“I don’t do that,” he shakes his head, before venturing to the other end of the bar to help a seemingly new bartender whip up a martini. You wait patiently, watching the way his mouth moves and his hands gesture as he corrects the bartender on their…technique, or something. You have no idea. From afar, he looks equally as intimidating, if not more so. The lines of his body don’t indicate any kind of softness, and his shoulders are slightly hunched as if he’s ashamed of himself. You wonder if he does bicep curls in a concrete room for hours until he sweats out all of the vulnerability. Or maybe he runs from it, in the early morning, breath labored and lungs aching until his sneakers are worn out.

“You don’t do names?” you ask him as soon as he returns, and his time he doesn’t even pretend to hide his exasperation, rolling his eyes again before resting his elbows on the bar so that his face is inches away from yours. Your heart lurches. A quick glance around rewards you with a few of the patrons regarding you with a vague amount of interest—and concern.

“Listen. I’m not a therapy session bartender,” he says with enough disdain to cause your eyebrows to raise in surprise. “I like the theory of it. The drink making. That’s it. Talk to that guy,” he continues, gesturing to a fellow bartender with a man bun and gauges who’s currently chatting up the only other person sitting on the other end of the bar. “He’s chatty.”

This close-up, you can see the dark circles around his eyes, his slightly chapped lips. You get a brief urge to trace the wrinkles across his forehead with the pads of your fingertips, but you hold off, of course. The man seems like he’s too old for anyone. He’s lived a million lifetimes.

“I don’t want to talk to that guy,” you say, feeling emboldened. I want to talk to you. “No offense.”

Something in his expression flickers back to life once more, like a butterfly trying to fly without one of its wings.

“Miguel,” he says after a while, sounding pained. You tell him your name, and he gives no indication that he’s registered it.

“Do you wanna open a tab, or close it?” Miguel asks then, and his voice sounds weightier.

“...Keep it open.”

***

The bar is sweltering, but the cold, sour tang of the mojito keeps you cool as you watch Miguel make his way across the bar to help mix drinks for other patrons. You feel pinned to your stool somehow, like a bug under a microscope, even though Miguel doesn’t spare another glance in your direction. The music in here is alright, but not noteworthy. You wish you had someone to dance with.

The bartender with the man bun makes you another mojito before you can say otherwise, but it tastes different somehow. Too much mint maybe. Not enough bitterness. Miguel’s theory seems to be wrong; you scan the bar for other tall glasses with sprigs of bright green mint and find none. After brief consideration, you decide not to bother him any further by informing him of this fact.

The bar gets increasingly more crowded as the night goes on, and it becomes abundantly clear that Miguel isn’t going to check on you again. You want to believe it’s because he’s too busy, but you wonder if you made the wrong impression somehow. You wonder why you care. You hate that you do.

You settle your tab and gather your things before buttoning your coat and setting off into the night. Your two drinks have muddled your senses just so, but not enough to be completely disorienting. On the precipice of happy, maybe.

As you zip your coat up to your chin and walk down the sidewalk, you think about going home to your studio apartment and cuddling with your cat Cinnamon. You think about hopefully getting a few hours of sleep before the workday comes back around in the morning to swallow you whole once again. You think about the harsh line of Miguel’s jaw, about the fact that he’ll likely forget about you come morning.

“Every bartender hates me,” you repeat to yourself—a truly harrowing fact—before shaking your head and walking down the steps into the subway.

a/n: lmk if you enjoyed/if you wanna see more—mwah x

#dom reader #miguel o'hara #miguel x reader #miguel x y/n #miguel x you #miguel spiderverse #miguel spiderman #miguel smut #miguel 2099 #atsv miguel #atsv x reader #atsv fanfiction #atsv fic #atsv fandom #across the spid #sub miguel o'hara

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i-am-the-niche · 1 month

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Percy Jackson Analysis ep.1

(did that sound vaguely pretentious? I feel like a need a funny name for this)

SO SORRY it took me this long. To be truthful I put on My Happy Marriage to listen to while refining my notes, I'm not a huge romance lover so I didn't think I would get that invested but then I proceeded to binge the whole thing...

anyways go watch My Happy Marriage, it messed me up in the best ways

On to my children, the way I wrote these notes was chronological, including lines I thought were powerful and thoughts I had while watching, enjoy my sub-tier analysis

To start with I think the casting, as well as most of the acting in the show, is phenomenal. There are some acting scenes which aren't great, but the nice things about child actors is that they grow and improve

iconic opening line 10000000/10

blackjack cameo? *chefs kiss*

One thing that really stands out to me regarding young Percy in school is that the bullying is portrayed so well. Like, sure some kids get punched but more often it's whispers, snide comments, teachers not doing enough to stop it. Not to mention when you have mental health problems or neurodivergency on top of that it makes it even harder to fit in and gain help from authority figures. There's no way teachers weren't aware of how Percy was being treated (we even see this in the books with mortals that don't care about him getting picked on by other mortals, think sea of monsters)

GROVER!!! I know I already ranted about the casting but Aryan just does such a good job. I hope in later seasons we see him more than we did in the books.

I'm UNHEALTHILY OBSESSED at the idea that mythomagic cards are to help train halfbloods. It also gets me thinking about season 3 interactions between little Nico and Percy. But it's incredibly clever to have a game that would entice children to learn more about the monsters they're likely to face against. It's also a clever marketing move irl.

Once again great portrayal of bullying while still keeping the show appropriate for kids

UNREALISTIC their paper would never be printed with color ink /lh

I really enjoy how they displayed dyslexia, it seems very accurate to descriptions.

"how it makes you feeeeel"

The lines about not everyone who looks like a hero being a hero and not everyone who looks like a monster being a monster is some of the best foreshadowing I've ever seen. It perfectly foreshadows Luke, Medusa, and generally captures one of the major points of Uncle Ricks books.

the hold fast line being used through the series *chefs kiss*

One thing I stand by in both the books and series is that I was incredibly disappointed in how little Chiron directly stood up for Percy- even in regards to mortals. Like yeah ok he's gonna be a hero but he's also twelve, help the poor boy!

The bullying Dodds shows Percy is also very accurate to real life. I've had many teachers who straight up bully kids just like this and are never called out for it.

The utilization of the word 'Special' thought the series is a great example of how "PoLite EUpHEmiSm' and often weaponized and used as derogatory terms and serves as an example of why many push for using terms like disabled over differently abled.

"childhood trauma, feelings of inadequacy" DAMN GROVER just going for the jugular, pop off. love how the show incorporates realistic convos kids would have. This instance and other little side bars we see throughout the show add something that I often find missing in television throughout all generas. it's incredibly important to have realistic convos to help solidify characters as people.

"Never ever stand up to them" "that doesn't sound right" THIS LINE 10000000/10

"there you are" we're not fools Percy Jackson

I did feel like this should have been Perseus Jackson seeing as how it's pretty canonical that monsters and gods alike only refer to him using his full name, adding on the the names have power theme that permeates throughout the series.

trauma for days

"is he dead?"

Chiron low-key being the embodiment of gaslighting, girl boss, gatekeep

UNCLE RICK CAMEO!!!

realist portrayal of adults already having their mind made up and children being unable to do anything except tell their story over and over

(also does Kronos speak to Percy in his dreams as the school principal? I genuinely can't remember, if so Kronos sure knows how to embody nightmares)

I honestly wish they would have expanded more on both how guilty grover would have felt rating Percy out (even if it means protecting him) and also how betrayed Percy would have felt. his fatal flaw is loyalty, grover was his very first and very best friend, he only really has his mother, this would have been a huge punch in the gut.

anyone else feel like grover and Percy should have been interviewed separately?

I'm sorry, I have to complain about the lighting in this show. WHY IS IT SO DARK? THIS ISNT SHOWN IN THEATERS! MY EYES ARENT THIS GOOD. IM SQUINTING TRYING TO FIND OUT WHAT IS ON THE TV!! WHYYYYY??!?!

"at least I know you think you didnt" -not helpful Chiron :/ shame on you

"you might have the most difficult journey" great foreshadowing

'SPeCiaL'

I know there was lots of discussion about how Gabe wasn't abusive 'enough' but often times abuse isn't easy to see or what TV leads you to believe. The show keeps it age appropriate while also showing how much of a leech and how controlling he is (answering Sally's phone, not wanting her to leave to the beach). Honestly I might make a separate post on this but at the moment I'm tired of seeing ignorant people claim that Gabe wasn't aggressive enough or that Sally wasn't meek enough to be abused.

I was disappointed that Eddie became a 'good' character instead of showing how abusive adults often have buddies backing them up

It's realistic Percy would talk to Gabe even though he's a dick, kids want to make connections

Sally in the rain- reference to Poseidon 10/10

Sally is just happy to see him :')

"all that matters is that your here, ok?" aww

BLUE FOOD!!!

"Is there something else you wanna talk about" mom knows

"I'm scared" damn does that resonate

once more just because Sally isn't portrayed as meek doesn't mean that that whole interaction wasn't unhealthy and abusive

di angelo reference! even if it's not our di angelo the name choice was incredibly purposeful

"it's getting angrier" personification of the storm lends well to Zeus and Poseidon

love PJO dream sequences

"who are you" does Kronos not know who Percy is? Gonna be real this confuses me, am I missing something obvious?

Sally was crying??!?!

the race from the car to the cabin is another example of the writers (and actors) creating realistic people you can connect to. the nostalgia that hit me in this scene was POTENT

It's so so so important to have a place to escape to as an abuse victim, and as a teen in general. Scratch that, just people in general need places to escape to which makes the cabin even more significant

Percy's self deprecating marshmallow talk :(

"I'm used to the world feeling weird to me" neurodivergency and mental health issues can create very isolating atmospheres making community important -camp is that community

Uncle Rick does a great job creating metaphores regarding discrimination and ableism

It's so hard to tell someone you trust and love that you think something is wrong, especially as a child. Walker did a fantastic job capturing all the mixed up emotions that occur.

"something that felt real to you but no one else could see" once again significant to neurodivergency and mental health

I don't personally like the choice to have Sally tell Percy that his father is a god. The acting in the scene also just rubs me really wrong - it feels fake. I think I enjoyed the book version better with him never receiving a clear answer until camp, and even then you can debate on how "clear" it was.

I would be freaking out so much more that Walker if my mom approached the subject like this. It would be incredibly frightening to think your mom was going insane alongside you.

"there is something wrong with my brain" once again, uncle Rick reaches out of the screen/pages to hit me where it hurts

"I don't want to see him" the betrayal he feels :(

grover pants scene (I feel no need to elaborate on this note, it was by far the funniest scene of the episode 1000000000+

"so the important thing is not to panic"

"who are you" nooo he's ur friend don't do this to me :(((

I love grover

very nice natural lead into explaining the mist

The show is unfortunately hit with the complex issue of trying to provide context to an audience who already knows and is eager to see the action. I know there were many criticisms about it but I will say my mother, who didn't read the books, felt she had a firm grasp on the lore of the show, so that counts for something?

"what else haven't we talked about, what else haven't you told me" broken trust :(((

"I'm actually 24" NOW IS NOT THE TIME GROVER

"won't all of us be safe" ha... about that

"swear it, SWEAR IT GROVER" damn, okay sally

again, WHY IS THE LIGHTING SO DARK?!?! I know it helps hide cgi but we know there's gonna be CGI in a show abt monsters and myths

"you are not broken, you are singular" amazing foreshadowing

Sally is bamf

trauma

the choice to make things silent after Sally 'dies' *chefs kiss once again

I just really love the shot of Percy surfing down the monster dust

"he must be the one" :)))

hope y'all enjoyed :)

#annabeth chase #annabeth pjo #disney plus #disney+#grover pjo #grover underwood #percy jackon and the olympians #percy jackson #percy pjo #disney #pjo season 1 #pjo tv show #pjo series #pjo #pjo spoilers #pjo show

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desire-mona · 2 months

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dps boys (and keating's) favourite songs (aka me projecting because i love music) (also modern au because you cannot limit me to music before 1960 you just cant)

i made a playlist of all these songs in case you wanna give em a listen, you can find it here. if you totally disagree with me or wanna add more then absolutely let me know!

neil: talia - ride the cyclone (the musical)

yes i KNOW it's obvious to choose a song from a musical BUT. ride the cyclone is special, i think he'd really like the lack of an ensemble and enjoy the dark premise despite the comedic nature of a vast majority of the show. also i totally think his favourite performance would be by gus halper bc of the use of the projector. mischa or noel is definitely a dream role of his.

todd: vincent - james blake ('s cover, og by don mclean)

don mcleans lyricism is like catnip to poets and it has gone unacknowledged for far too long. a lyrically gorgeous, vaguely queer sounding song about a tortured artist, covered by someone with an ANGELIC voice. can you name anything more todd? not to mention the piano is so far beyond moving, nothing short of a masterpiece.

charlie: dear prudence - siouxsie and the banshees (again - a cover, og by the beatles)

firm believer that charlie was an avid beatles hater for a WHILE until eleanor rigby grew on him, much to his dismay. is now a casual beatles enjoyer, only due to the fact that their vocals annoy him. so a cover by siouxsie sioux (whom he most definitely has a crush on) is basically a blessing in disguise. loves the instrumentals, loves the vocals, loves all of it. insists that its better than the original and will ultimately die (correct) on that hill.

meeks: love on the line (call now) - her's

as much as i love and adore meeks, i have been loyal to my headcanon that he is an annoying music snob since day one. of course, this culminates in his favourite song being by THE indie pop/rock band that pretentious people love to bring up the death of. he is no exception, any time the band is mentioned he will without fail go "did you know that they died in a car crash?" either way, id be lying if i said this was a bad pick. the upbeat vibe mixed with the actual meaning of the song being about a guy wasting all his money on a sex hotline? it makes the whole song so fun, and thats right up his alley! super danceable too, which plays a huge part.

pitts: bad fruit - jean dawson

will mona ever shut up about jean dawson? signs point to no. anywho, if you've followed along with my pittsie musings then you KNOW that i consider pitts to be the most well versed music guy to ever step on welton academy campus. realistically, im sure his favourite song changes on a day to day basis, but he always comes back to this. jean dawson makes art that ive seen few do similarly, everything he brings to the table i find so incredibly unique and well crafted. definitely pitts' biggest music crush.

cameron: '39 - queen

absolutely, 100%, without a doubt, an extremely guilty pleasure. i take his parents as the type to ban queen in their household (for reasons that im sure youre able to pick up on) but i ALSO take cameron as a sucker for classic rock, match made in hell. of course, since brian may does the vocals on this song instead of freddie, he can listen on the dl and be fine. also, the concept of time travel in music is SO!!! INTERESTING!! would absolutely go on a 10 minute long tangent about the story and meaning of the song, which only mittsie would actually listen to.

knox: lavender buds - MF DOOM

fine, FINE. i'll give knox a proper headcanon, but i wont be happy about it. i think i would listen to MF DOOM a lot more if i was a former bully, but thats not actually based off anything so dont take that as an insult, avid listeners. honestly i dont really have an in depth explanation for this one, just look at the lyrics and youll understand.

(this repeats 3 times)

i also take him to be a big r&b/ blues enjoyer, also based off nothing at all, so the sample probably appeals to some sense of nostalgia.

keating: clair de lune - claude debussy

yes, even modern keating's fav song would be classical, you can rip that from my cold, dead hands. this song was based off the poem by the same title by paul verlaine, which i'll include because it is just so damn beautiful.

Your soul is a select landscape

Where charming masqueraders and bergamaskers go

Playing the lute and dancing and almost

Sad beneath their fantastic disguises.

All sing in a minor key

Of victorious love and the opportune life,

They do not seem to believe in their happiness

And their song mingles with the moonlight,

With the still moonlight, sad and beautiful,

That sets the birds dreaming in the trees

And the fountains sobbing in ecstasy,

The tall slender fountains among marble statues.

Paul Verlaine, 1869 (originally written in french, so this is a rough english translation)

now the song itself does SUCH a good job at capturing the beauty and moving parts of this poem, and it fits perfectly with a plethora of different emotions. i know without a shadow of a doubt that its his kryptonite. is that me projecting because i love this song and i love keating? absolutely, but i still think its true either way.

#desire mona #media #please please please listen to the playlist all these songs are wonderful i promise #dead poets society #neil perry #todd anderson #charlie dalton #steven meeks #gerard pitts #richard cameron #knox overstreet #john keating #mona talks music #banger

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