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yenforfairytales · 1 year

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Sure sure, Daniel has a bratty, sassy, flirty ‘Jersey’ side—but folks seem to forget just how sweet, earnest, naive, and innocent he was in the KK trilogy. One of my favourite scenes is in the first film at the start, when Daniel sees a dog in his flat complex and moments later fetches water for it—without being asked! What an angel. Anyway, this sweet innocence is probably why Terry had him totally blindsided for a while in KK3, and did it with such ease. And because Silverusso has always had my heart, let’s not forget this clueless, adorable Danny is exactly the one that piqued Terry’s demented, decades long obsession. That sweet and spicy combination is just so winning—along with the looks. I don’t blame Terry for being totally overwhelmed by the boy, it was inevitable. Terry Silver is the very definition of whipped. Lol.

Yes! Completely agree. Daniel is a perfect mix of tough but sweet. Slutty but innocent. It's a maddening blend.

He stands out. Unforgettable to everyone he's ever met even 35yrs later.

Oh, anon, are you me? Daniel giving the dog some water is one of my all time favorite scenes too!!

It's so subtle. Miyagi saw that in him. When he gifted Daniel the bonsai embroidery and Daniel said he'd understand if Miyagi ever wanted it back. And Miyagi smiled, "I know you understand." HUUUUU 😭 brb crying

There's other sweet examples, but Daniel is so thoughtful!! The most thoughtful and considerate.

Sure, his temper can override that sometimes, but even though he has attitude, he remains observant and so empathetic that he feels guilty about everything and can't sleep unless he apologizes.

That's a sensitive soul who never wanted to fight anyone and ended up constantly under attack. But look how much everyone loves him and will do anything for him. HIS LOVE SAVES PEOPLE. His forgiveness. He's truly a light.

Not to get off track but, another favorite innocent moment of mine is in kk2 when they're getting on the airplane and Daniel goes, "Airsick? What's airsick?!" :U

Just super loud and confused. Lmao

Again speaks to his innocence at that time. Maybe more Jersey street smarts than book smarts but the poor baby went through like a lifetime of maturity in one year because of the events of all three movies.

A little heartbreaking that CK Daniel is so... world weary. He's quieter. He's more observant. Meaning, he's more calculated in every interaction. Ten times smarter than when he was a kid.

I definitely blame Terry for that. He broke Daniel's heart. And according to Jessica, it took him some time to recover. (Although we know it was not completely)

Luckily for everyone, Daniel is such an angel that he never lost his sweetness or his instinct to help others even if he is cautious. He's willing to forgive but he tried his damndest to become people and business savvy as to never get hurt again.

He's intelligent. He's refined. He's a leader.

The irony that the parts of Daniel that Terry liked best he helped destroy. That trust and innocence. The irony that Terry was denied the forgiving nature of Daniel he knows is there because of his own actions.

Terry remembered that sweet, naive boy and imagined being forgiven right away and was legit shocked at Daniel's anger. Not necessarily at the rejection, but at Daniel's angerrr.

Daniel's comment about Terry being in a padded cell really struck a nerve.

I will say this - both men would not have such hurt and anger after 35 YEARS if there was no love involved at all.

The reason Daniel could forgive everyone else was because he never loved them. They were never friends.

He loved Terry. He mourned someone who never existed. And Terry wouldn't care so much about being forgiven if he felt nothing either.

THIS IS GETTING TOO ANGSTY I'M SORRY

One day someone will have to do a gifset of all the times Terry and Daniel eye-fucked each other in CK. There were so many secret smiles y'all.

I think they missed each other as much as they're mad at each other.

Anyway

This sweet innocence is probably why Terry had him totally blindsided for a while in KK3, and did it with such ease. And because Silverusso has always had my heart, let’s not forget this clueless, adorable Danny is exactly the one that piqued Terry’s demented, decades long obsession.

Let's think for a moment the picture that Kreese painted to Terry about this "punk kid" and his sensei.

Some prissy troublemaker that unfairly beat up the Cobra Kai students and made a fool of Kreese.

Then Terry meets Daniel and he's tiny and sweet and can barely meet Terry's eyes.

They spent months together. Terry's not stupid, he quickly learned the truth. He just desperately wanted to make Kreese happy.

And then years later, we see that Terry doesn't believe Kreese about the past anymore. He scoffs and rolls his eyes!

youtube

And if Terry was being honest with himself, he'd admit that he wanted to be a sensei(but couldn't because of his father's business) and loved having his own student. I and others think he was a little hurt when Daniel didn't want to be in Cobra Kai anymore and quit.

(Terry was like Bill in Kill Bill. "I... overreacted.")

That sweet and spicy combination is just so winning—along with the looks. I don’t blame Terry for being totally overwhelmed by the boy, it was inevitable.

Who wouldn't love having Daniel's full attention? Daniel was like... enamoured with everything about Terry. He did everything he said.

That's intoxicating.

Terry already thought of himself as godlike. Wealthy. Handsome. Powerful. Getting away with crimes and tricking this sweet young thing.

And then said sweet young thing looks up to you and hangs on your every word? AND he's actually a pretty good student, a fast learner?

BUT Daniel has enough attitude that he does give Terry a bit of a challenge. All the more sweeter for when Daniel eventually gives in. What fun!

Terry Silver is the very definition of whipped. Lol.

What is this?! Terry, explain!!!

Where were you going with this??

"That was beautiful!"

35 years later...

"You were powerful, free..."

Legit Terry would have done anything Daniel asked if he had been greeted with a warm reception in CK.

Lest you all forget! Terry was happy to see Daniel again. He was not happy to see Kreese.

Terry called Kreese his weakness because he was a weight around his neck and had to be removed. But Terry refused to get rid of Daniel, who all but jumped on Terry's back like a spider monkey and caused more trouble for Terry than Kreese ever did! Amazing!

I was going to say more about that and lost my train of thought.

Still waiting for the au where Daniel reigns in the righteous anger a bit and manipulates Terry to be on his side over Kreese's.

#RIDICULOUSLY LONG #WHY DO YOU GUYS LET ME GO ON THESE TANGENTS #ENABLERS #just kidding i loveh u #i had to stop myself #do you think Terry wrote sonnets about Daniel Larusso half as long #I'll fight all of you #lmao #cobra kai #daniel larusso #terry silver #silverusso #my asks #I'm...sorry

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westofessos · 7 months

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Trick or Treat Scooby-Doo! is not only the best Scooby movie in the past (at least) ten years, it’s probably the best piece of Scooby anything in the past (at least) ten years.

Yes, Mystery Incorporated was good. I appreciated the darker tone, and the season-long storylines rather than each episode having different, disconnected stories was very cool. However, in doing that, I felt that they lost a bit of the Scooby magic. Not to mention the Velma/Shaggy relationship, and the god awful characterization of Velma as an individual character. And while I always love a traps-obsessed Fred (and they did that so well), I hated Daphne pining after him episode after episode while he seemed to not care about her at all.

Be Cool, Scooby-Doo was also very good. It was definitely one of the funniest pieces of Scooby media we’ve ever gotten. The first episode alone made me laugh harder than almost any of the other movies or shows. But the animation was absolutely atrocious, and that sort of thing, to me, is unforgivable for Scooby.

Trick or Treat Scooby Doo!, however, is perfect, and I do not say that lightly. The entire thing is the perfect homage to the original show, and the perfect way to stay true to what Scooby should be, while also modernizing it a little.

The animation. Don’t even get me started. It’s literally just an updated version of the original animation for Scooby-Doo, Where Are You?, and I am completely in love with it. This is the animation that should be used for the new stuff!

And queer Velma! Thank god for whoever at WB finally made Velma queer. I salute you. It was perfect. Coco Diablo was also incredibly hot, continuing the decades long Scooby movie tradition of having insanely gorgeous side characters that will 100% be some kid’s gay awakening. Or, at the very least, they’ll be like me and look back at this movie once they know they’re queer and realize that there was a very specific reason they were so obsessed with her. For anyone wondering, these characters for me were Lena and Simone from Zombie Island, the Hex Girls, Crystal from Abracadabra-Doo, Crystal from Alien Invaders, Miss Mirimoto from Samurai Sword, and that blue-haired witch from Goblin King.

And the humour! This movie is so genuinely hilarious. I killed myself laughing quite a few times. So unhinged, a lot like Be Cool. It delighted me to no end.

Not to mention all of the little Easter eggs that they threw in for the complete fanatics like me. They all made me so, so happy. The old villains and their costumes, the gang sitting at the table in the library and looking up, the brief reference to Scooby-Doo and the Goblin King (my personal favourite Scooby movie), and as I mentioned, the animation.

This movie is just. . . it’s the perfect Scooby movie, okay? The world needs more Scooby, and if it’s done like this (even if they only do a few more, so we have a perfect couple in a row reminiscent of the Zombie Island, Witch’s Ghost, Alien Invaders, Cyber Chase run, I would be thrilled), it’ll be perfect.

Anyway. That’s just the ranting of an absolute lunatic that’s also a lifelong Scooby lover and also just watched that movie yesterday and is obsessed with it.

#I’m so sorry to my mutuals who are half normal and have to deal with this shit #I’m just very passionate about Scooby-Doo okay #scooby doo #trick or treat scooby doo #velma dinkley #daphne blake #fred jones #shaggy rogers #halloween

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childotkw · 1 year

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First, let me apologize for the size of this monster ask. Sorry.

The POTC fic ate my brain. I can think of nothing else now. Just... the sheer possibilities, ya know?

With Tia Dalma, I always thought Jack, though fond and always respectful, was mindful to maintain a certain distance between them, careful to not pay any offence. With fem!Jack though I see their relationship being much, much closer. Close as sisters perhaps? Or even a mother-daughter relationship (where is Jack's mother in this AU? Still a mumified head being carried around in Teage's pocket?). How does she react to Jack's deal with Davy Jones? Is she mad that her former lover is once again trying to chain a woman to his side? Or does she laugh, because the man has clearly not learned his lesson?

And Davy Jones himself is a whole other can of worms. Does he look at this bright, wild young woman, clearly favored by Calypso, and wants to claim her as the best addition to his crew in decades or simply as a way to get vengeance on the goddess? Or worse, does he look at her and think of a child that never was, a bittersweet what-if that could have been if only Calypso had waited for him on land all those centuries ago...

As for Barbossa, I want to see this man have Regrets (TM). I want him, cursed and desperate, to see Jack alive and well after abandoning her on an island and feel... things. Outrage, anger, disbelief. Amusement. Immense relief. Want him, back and alive again, to long for that short, fond, teasing 'Hector' instead of the cold, indifferent 'Barbossa' that greets him everytime. Does he lie awake at night, a part of him, no matter how small, yearning for that time when he sailed the Black Pearl under the banner of the Captain Jack Sparrow?

And Becket and Salazar! I have no words for these two, everything about their relationships with Jack fascinate me.

In the movies, the tension was THICK between Jack and Becket. I always thought those two had Real Respect for each other in the beginning. Jack who thought he had found a Actual Good Man to work under. Becket who thought he had found someone who, with a little time and polishing, could stand just behind him at the top of the world, the closest to an equal a man like him could get (tolerate?). Which really, only makes the betrayal from both sides even worse. Jack, who finds out the man he thought was good was actually even worse than the scoundrels he grew up with ("People aren’t cargo, mate"). And Becket, who finds out his little protégé, whom he had such high hopes for, actually has morals and a free will that don’t (and never will) align with his plans/worldview.

I wonder, with this fem!Jack au, were there rumours of Jack being the future Lady Becket? I wonder, later, after all's said and done, when Jack is tied to a burning ship with Becket looking on in the distance, is there a ring somewhere on Jack? On Becket?

And even later, when whispers of the Black Pearl start cropping up in the docks and inside darkned pubs, along with her Captain, does Becket have to sit down (with anger? Relief?) or does he stand and stares out the window of his office, towards the wide open sea and tries to imagine where his wayward (friend, enemy, lover? His, certainly) pirate is and how he might get her back, this time permanently

... did this just turn into a Davy Jones and Calypso ver. 2.0??

As for Salazar, I loved the idea of him from the get go. After we got the backstory of his and Jack's first (and last) meeting I was gone for this spanish ghost. The chase, the obsession. The way this encounter marked and changed both of them, one literally died and had to spend decades waiting in purgatory for a chance at revenge while the other spends this same amount of time forever know by the name coined by El Matador del Mar, the Spaniard's little bird who flew away...

Does Jack being female in this AU change anything for Salazar? In the minutes before being tricked and killed, did he think of her less as a pirate and more like a young woman led astray, perhaps even forced into this life? Does he think of himself as a savior for Jack (lol)?

Also. I'm all for a threesome happening between Jack, Elizabeth and Will. I think they deserve a threesome.

No don't apologise - this is great!! I'm glad I'm not the only one who's excited for this one 🤣 I'm going to break this up so I can keep my replies on track!

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For Tia Dalma and Jack - that respect and wariness is definitely still a core component of their relationship! But you're right in that they'll be a lot closer in this AU than in canon. While it might not quite be a full mother-daughter dynamic, there will be maternal aspects to how Tia Dalma treats Jack. Jack's mum is still technically alive for most of the story, even if Jack doesn't see or talk to her. Once the movie timelines come through, that's probably when I'd say Jack's mother died.

But Tia Dalma is uber pissed when she sees Jack for the first time after her deal with Jones. She goes quiet and wrathful, staring at the unseen mark on Jack's soul - the brand that shows her debt to Jones for anyone with the talents to see. And Tia Dalma mourns Jack long before she dies because even with all her power, not even she can break a soul-deep deal.

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As for Davy Jones - it's six of one, half a dozen of the other. He genuinely wants Jack's skills on his ship, and knows she's unparalleled as a helmsman. But he also is a petty, bitter man, and knowing that Calypso thinks Jack as hers also plays into his decision. It's very 'you like this thing so I'm going to take it from you' mentality. (Though I am intrigued at the potential and completely fucked up implication of Jack-as-a-stand-in-daughter. I'd need to think on that!)

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And oh do I have plans for Barbossa! He definitely ends up having something maybe like regret!

One of the things I rambled about in discord was wanting the Black Pearl crew to suffer some consequences for mutinying against Jack. After all, Jack is a Pirate Lord, and though it isn't widely known, the daughter of the Keeper of the Code. She is a good captain, respected, and generally well-liked, and mutiny is serious fucking business for pirates. A lot of people are angry at Barbossa for what he did, and in those ten years after the mutiny against Jack, the Black Pearl crew were considered persona non grata. They weren't really welcome at any pirate stronghold, and a lot of the older generation were chomping at the bit to avenge Jack.

The only reason no one did anything was because Jack, essentially, spread the word that if anyone was going to kill Barbossa, it was her. And they respected that.

And because Barbossa and his crew were scorned by most of the other pirates in the Caribbean, they didn't exactly know that Jack survived and was gunning for them.

So, the first time Jack and Barbossa see each other, his shock is genuine - as is the strange rush of adrenaline he gets because Jack's presence is still electrifying and keeps him on his toes. It's his irritation at her calling him 'Barbossa' catches him off guard, and it takes him a minute to remember that Jack was the last person to call him Hector - because he crew would never be that familiar with him - and he hates the part of him that mourns that. He had liked Jack during the brief time they had sailed together, found her engaging and brilliant, but his ambition had always been stronger than any affection he might hold for other people, and so this was where they ended up.

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And Beckett. Oh, Beckett...you're absolutely right in that the tension between them was *chef's kiss*

Even without the deleted scene, you could tell that those two had history the second Jack stepped in the room. And I think, for me, the most telling aspect that these two knew each other and knew each other well was that Jack didn't even try to be a fool in front of Beckett. Yeah, sure, there was some joking and posturing - but it was so half-hearted in comparison to other interactions Jack has.

Jack's masks were stripped back when speak to Beckett, and I find that fascinating. So, in this AU, there will definitely be a hell of a lot of implications between them.

There's respect, naturally, and an acknowledgement that they're intellectual equals. Beckett doesn't underestimate Jack (as even Barbossa and Will and Elizabeth are still prone to do despite knowing Jack's track record), and Jack doesn't insult Beckett by pretending to be something she's not.

But there's also that very acute bitterness and betrayal between them. Because Beckett tried to turn Jack into something she wasn't, tried to get her to compromise on her morals, and he burned her ship; and Jack broke Beckett's belief that he'd finally found someone who could understand and accept every facet of his being.

There's disappointment as well - that their partnership didn't work out. Because they had liked each other, and admired each other, and though they never progressed beyond a 'professional' relationship, Beckett knows that if he were to marry a woman it would have been Jack.

And that sense of ownership Beckett has over Jack is incredibly dangerous - because in his eyes if he can't be the one holding Jack's leash, than no one could. Jack was too big a threat to remain free, so she had to die.

It's all very poignant. Behold:

And Jack knew what men typically wanted from her. They saw the wildness in her dark eyes and the tangles of her hair and the freedom in her blood and it made them itch. It made them want a taste of it for themselves - or drove them mad enough to want to take it from her.

Put her in a cage and clip her wings and to crow as if they had tamed the sea itself.

But Beckett was different. He didn’t want to tame her. He was too clever to think he could. That anyone could chain her for long.

No.

Cutler Beckett wanted to break her, if only so he could put the pieces back together in the way he wanted.

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For Salazar, I don't think I'd change it much from canon. I don't think Jack being female would change his perspective much. He'd still be enraged at being beaten as he was by this slip of a pirate girl. The obsession would remain, the impact they had on each other would remain - Jack as the ultimate 'prey-that-got-away', and Salazar being the one that completely redirected Jack's path in life, propelling her into captain-hood and giving her her name.

Either way, they haunt each other.

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And for the ship - there might be elements of Jack/Elizabeth/Will, but it's not gonna be a prominent thing, unfortunately. I already have a main pairing in mind for Jack for this one 😂

(And no, it's not Norrington.)

#anonymous #PotC #embrace the wild (face your fears)#female jack sparrow #thank you for sending this in!!#I had so much fun responding 🤣

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glass-needles-and-futurisms · 2 years

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Some rambly thinking-out-loud Muse fan angst...

I realize that everyone has their own tastes and subjective opinions, but there's just something heartbreaking about fans on social media and the music establishment at large collectively giving up on Muse. Even posters on this very website have all but consigned Muse to the "cringier than Nickelback" dustbin.

And you know what? It's fucked up, and I'm probably going to regret this post but I want to get angry.

Like... I get the criticisms, I really do. I get all the charges that the music hasn't been as rich and nuanced as it had been when the band was in their twenties. I get the decline in the poetic lyrics, the overbearing synth fetish, the warmed-over socio-political hyperfixation, the perceived lack of substance. I'm not a blind fangirl; in fact, I'm probably more hyper-aware and sensitive to the breadth of the criticisms than anyone.

And you know what? All this does is make me even more fond of the band, warts and all.

A bit of a meandering personal anecdote, but I used to be pretty active in professional wrestling fandom. I also did a lot of reading on hyperreality and the culture industry for school. And what I came away with is wrestling is an entire industry that dehumanizes its performers, treats them as little more than perfect, muscled action figures to parade on social media and reduce to snappy youtube highlights, reducing decades of physical training and industry experience to a "THAT'S A SLOBBERKNOCKER!" meme.

And you know what? Even after I drifted from wrestling fandom, I could never unsee that systematic dehumanization again. I see it in movies, in cartoons, in books, and yes, in music.

Call me a cantankerous old millennial, but the way music gets marketed nowadays just doesn't sit right with me. Even with something claiming to be DIY and organic like tiktok rappers or indie artists, there's this aggressive eye towards marketing and hustle, towards gaming the algorithm and Spotify playlists. Even the attempts to be "real" and "relatable" feel artificial and manufactured.

And that's one of the reasons Muse means so much to me: for all their stadium rock cringe and synthetic polish, somehow it still feels more flawed, more earnest, more real than whatever's on tiktok right now. They're not even trying to be aesthetic or relatable, because Matt Bellamy is a Tom Morello-fanboying space alien just trying to make sense of an increasingly fractured political landscape the only way he knows how.

If you've been a fan of any kind of long-running rock band, you know there's ALWAYS that phase where things just felt wrong, where nothing is hitting like it used to and the albums aren't as tight anymore. But bands learned to soldier on through bad albums, because rock as a genre left room for fucking up and fucking around in a way that the throwaway competitive nature of more mainstream pop doesn't. Unless a pop star had a massive obsessive Taylor Swift-sized following, one bad album was a death sentence.

Sure, this created something of a systemic rot in the genre where rock in general felt static compared to the freshness and dynamism of younger musical acts. But the entire discourse around dinosaurs and "legacy acts" just felt to me like wrestlers being treated as action figures all over again. It's younger audiences signaling to bands "you're not allowed to make music anymore, because you're old and irrelevant and embarrassing."

Fuck. That. Shit.

Let artists be artists. Let pop stars be pop stars and let dad bands be dad bands. If this mentality had persisted then, we never would've gotten David Bowie or Leonard Cohen or Johnny Cash. And even they made their fair amount of shit music before they finally got their flowers.

And sure, even by dad band standards Muse is still pretty fucking weird and embarrassing. But this is what letting artists age gracefully really means: allowing weirdos to keep flying their freak flag even if that freak flag isn't "cool" like Radiohead or Rammstein or My Chemical Romance or Måneskin or any of these other bands "better" than Muse.

Yeah, I know I'm not making much sense right now. Rant over.

#muse #muse band

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blazehedgehog · 1 year

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Thoughts on the first Michael Bay Transformers movie? Allways get confused how on the internet everybody hates it while the original cartoon was also just a cheap toy commercial. I get when people complain about a bad adaption of a good work, but transformers is just cool robot action - and thats what we got - cool robot action with cgi thats looks betterr than alot of stuff that comes out today.

I think I've said it before but I think I was too young for a lot of Transformers stuff. It started airing a year after I was born and by the time I was starting to enter its target demographic, the show ended.

I was more about Ghostbusters, Ninja Turtles, Jurassic Park, and Sonic the Hedgehog. Transformers was something my brother had more of a connection with than I did.

The toys were also mega expensive. Truth be told, there was a brief window where I was enamored with some of the Transformers toys. But they were often more than twice the price of, say, a $4 Ninja Turtle action figure. I remember Hasbro or whoever doing some G2 reruns in the mid-to-late 90's and I saved up a whole month's allowance to buy a tiny little Bumblebee for like $9. It was nuts.

So there was a lot going against my ability to care about Transformers as a kid.

With that in mind...

The first Transformers movie is... okay. It's not great. It's got that signature Michael Bay look all over it: high contrast, high color saturation, excessive orange and teal color grading, everybody's always sweaty, it's always night time or sunset, lens flares all the time all over the place, the camera is always too close to everyone at all times, and there's this uncomfortable obsession with "hotties." We gotta have at least one lingering close-up shot of a woman's body framed by the summer heat. For a decade or more every movie this dude made looked like this.

But I don't remember that first movie being unwatchable. It was fine. True enough, the action is a bit incoherent, because it's all whirling chrome and the camera's too close to see what's going on except for a flash of sparks.

I don't like the way the robots look. The original Transformers, at least for me, were already hard enough to draw. For someone who has trouble drawing three dimensional shapes, all these rigid robots that are big rectangles full of hard-edges, it's not easy. But Bay's Transformers are next level impossible. There are thousands of shapes -- maybe even millions. I get wanting them to look like advanced alien technology, but it's sort of a mess.

Later Transformers movies definitely got worse, as they leaned more in to the toyetic qualities of the characters. They kind of wanted to have their cake and eat it too by making something that gestured at still being a kids property while you had weird adult humor and mega violence (it's okay, that decapitated robot wasn't human, and that's not blood, it's cyberton goo).

It's not hard to see things from the perspective of the OG Transformers fans, either. Like, Optimus's lips are a dumb compromise. A lot of it smacks of "what if we took this kids property and made it EPIC and BADASS." I may not have connected much with Transformers media, but that's still more than a little silly in a way that feels degrading for all involved.

"It was always bad, so it's allowed to be bad in a different way" isn't really landing for me as an excuse, either.

But that first movie's still not awful, I guess. It did not necessarily offend me (though later movies did). I just have no desire to rewatch it. Or any of the Transformers movies.

Except... y'know what? That standalone Bumblebee movie was very alright. And it seemed a little more respectful to the source material! Wouldn't mind seeing that one again.

#questions #Anonymous #transformers #michael bay #bumblebee

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setaflow · 1 year

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Get to Know Me

Thanks for the tag @ghostoffuturespast (please take me on a nature walk with you I'll bring granola bars)! In my decade of using this Tumblr I don't think I've ever done this tag prompt so it's nice to get some fresh answers. Let's see...

Are you named after anyone? Technically? My mom was considering a bunch of names for me when she was expecting, the name she would eventually choose being among them (I think the frontrunner at the time was Vanessa), When she went into labor, one of the nurses helping her was an older woman named [insert my name here] and she said "oh there hasn't been a baby named [insert my name here] born in this hospital in 30 years! :)" so my parents eventually picked that one instead of Vanessa. I get that I wasn't technically named after that nurse, but I was definitely named with her influence, and that has to count for something there lol.

When was the last time you cried? Within the last month, not really willing to get that personal here though. On average I'll cry like 3-4 times a year.

Do you have kids? Hell no, could you imagine?

Do you use sarcasm a lot? Only with people I'm close with. It used to be a running joke that I couldn't do sarcasm well-- still really can't, to be honest-- so I really use it sparingly and try to make it obvious if I do.

What sports do you play/have you played? Tons, surprisingly! I was a fairly active kid and dabbled in softball, ballet, soccer, basketball, and fencing at various points in my life. I swam competitively for 12 years, played lacrosse for nearly as long (first as a defender, then as a goalie), and played a little bit of field hockey as well through middle and early high school.

What's the first thing you notice about other people? Height, usually. Comes with having an egregiously tall 6'8 brother-- first thing I do is mentally check if they're taller than him or not.

Eye color? Blueish-gray. I have minor partial heterochromia as well: a streak of light brown in my right eye.

Scary movies or happy endings? I've been getting into scary movies lately! I binge the Dead Meat YouTube Channel at work for background noise and those videos have increased my interest in horror movies over the last few months. I always love that horror movies have interesting horror and trivia behind their productions and hearing the host James detail them all out has really given me a new appreciation for the kinds of work that go into them.

Any special talents? I can bend my elbows more than 180 degrees.

Where were you born? Northern New Jersey, about 15 minutes west of New York City.

What are your hobbies? Writing, reading, cooking/baking, hiking, running, swimming, video games, watching video essays about things I'm interested in, obsessing over New York sports teams.

Do you have any pets? I take care of my roommate's dog from time to time. He's not mine, but he's a sweetie and I'm basically his aunt, so sorta-kinda.

How tall are you? 5'8.

Fave subject in school? It cycled when I was still in school, but they tended to be History and English. I was a really good essay-writer and there are several periods of history I love learning about-- it's probably why I took to the Assassin's Creed series as much as I did-- so depending on the teacher it was usually one of those. I took a few media and film classes in college and I loved those as well-- I love media analysis with all of my heart.

Dream job? Used to be Olympic Swimmer, then Marine Biologist, then SportsCenter anchor. I came really close to achieving a few of those, but alas :P

Tagging @skippygiraffee @beammeupbroadway @trashcatsnark @seraphfighter @clusterfxckedbysirens and @shadesofchaoticenergy if you want to give this a swing!

#Personal #Long Post #Thanks again for the tag!

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hereyeswerefilledwiththestars · 1 year

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thanks to @cows-wearing-my-sweater @cryley @ohcaroline @justlikemebutsixfootthree @nowshesdoingitallthetime for the tags!! here's 15 questions/15 mutuals (although i'm so late to the party i fear everyone has done this already!!)

1. are you named after anyone? not in first name, but my middle name was my paternal great-grandmother's name

2. when was the last time you cried? uhhhh i'm a bottler-upper (probs due for a good cry soon) but i did cry during always wanna die on jan 19th when i saw the 1975 in glasgow lol

3. do you have kids? no i do not! i think i'd like to have some one day but we'll see what happens

4. do you use sarcasm a lot? i'm scottish... of course i do??

5. what's the first thing you notice about people? vibes, probably. and then hair and eyes? i really don't know

6. what's your eye colour? blue, but like a blue-grey

7. scary movies or happy endings? happy endings! i am so scared of horror (that said, the last film i saw in a cinema was bones and all and i LOVED IT. so that's my exception)

8. any special talents? i can sing and play guitar quite well! i can also hand sew, but that's more a convenient skill than a habit i guess. also i can do the splits but only the left leg lol

9. where were you born? central scotland, a town halfway between glasgow and edinburgh. birthplace of both me and irn bru

10. what are your hobbies? writing (but this is also what i do at uni), reading, rotting in my bedroom, drinking alcoholic beverages, going to the theatre, buying makeup lol

11. do you have any pets? i do not! but there are 9339494 cats in my street that i have weird little bonds with, and my uncle has two dogs i see all the time that are absolutely obsessed with me lmao

12. what sports do you play/have you played? i ws a dance kid for a decade - ballet, tap, jazz, lyrical/contemporary, hip hop/commercial, irish, tiny bit of highland. also i was oddly good at touch rugby when i was 12/13?? idk

13. how tall are you? five foot four inches tall hehe

14. favourite subject in school? english, music, modern studies (i think this would be social studies elsewhere?), french (but only because i was good at it)

15. dream job? i used to want to be a features journalist/critic, but now i just want to be an essayist/novelist/screenwriter like my patron saint joan didion <3

tagging lovely people @imightgetbetter @throughthepostmodernlens @gloomy-peony @jesuschristmattyhealy @yourtouchismidas @bookish-strawberry and anyone else who wants to give it a go!! also moots if you've already done this i am so sorry lol i'm very late to this <3

#mads muses #asks

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how-to-do-it-better · 1 month

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Reasons For Going Braless

It may be time to let the girls out of boob prison.

With Sam EscobaR, Tonilyn HornunG, & CQt Rose. Listen to the Podcast at How To Sex.

With their pokey underwire, thick straps and sweat-trapping cups, bras are not always the most comfortable thing in the world. Sure, getting a bra that properly fits can do wonders for your boobs, but there's nothing quite like going without one.

While there are certainly some folks who simply can't go bra-free, whether it's due to comfort or size, the ones who can; seem to universally agree that it is supremely amazing — whether you do it in public or just in the comfort of your own home. As someone with large breasts who has recently started embracing the wonders of going braless, I am totally obsessed. Why? Let me count the ways.

1. Your boob sweat can just ... evaporate.

Look, one of the most inconvenient things about summer (and having big boobs in general) is the pool of under-boob sweat that appears with the slightest hint of heat. When you skip the bra, you have a chance to air it all out rather than pressing that gross moisture against your skin all day. It even creates health risks of skin infections and rashes.

2. Your natural chest shape emerges.

For years, I thought that extremely round, padded and shaped look was the best one for my body. Now that I've started skipping a bra all together, I actually get to see the shape of my breasts, about which I've been previously self-conscious. It's fine if you like a bra-shaped appearance for your boobs, but it never hurts to try something new.

3. You realize how unique all boobs are.

Since the bra-free look has returned to popularity, more folks with differently shaped breasts have been rocking it. Droopy, small, large, asymmetrical, perky — all sorts, not just the one type fashion, movies and TV would have us believe. And the cool thing about that is that it's a reminder of how different chests are from one person to the next.

4. You get that "just took off my bra" feeling all. day. long.

You know how wonderful it feels to remove your bra the moment you get home? Imagine experiencing that delight for the entire day.

5. You save money on bras.

Fact: Bras are expensive. Another fact: Replacing them is annoying. If you wind up only wearing one for half of the week, you go through 'em half as fast — and spend half as much.

6. Nipples are highly underrated accessories.

The 1970s was a glamorous decade filled with glitz, gold and visible nipples. Take a page from the disco era and allow your nipples to add a little extra fun to your look. After all, men wear theirs out literally the entire summer. What's the big deal about letting ours simply rest naturally under the fabric of a shirt?

7. You look great in a crop top.

If you've ever felt so inclined to try the continuously popular crop top (hey — it's for any age, any body type!), I've got great news for you: They look great sans bra.

8. At the end of the day, you don't have all those pressure lines.

Even the best bras can leave some uncomfortable marks on your skin — why not just skip 'em all together?

9. It feels just a little extra adventurous.

I'll be honest: Going without a bra sometimes translates to risking a "wardrobe malfunction," depending on what you wear it with. But hey, you only live once. You might as well feel extra alive every once in a while — and that breeze-plus-boobs combo will definitely help.

10. Going without a bra doesn't make your boobs "sag."

First of all, some breasts are naturally droopy. That's a fact, and it's fine. You don't need to be afraid of it! Second, there's this oft-repeated old wives' tale that if you don't wear a bra, your breasts will get lower and lower, but a 15-year French study actually concluded the opposite. In fact, the study found that women who went without bras developed more muscle tissue, allowing their bodies to support their breasts naturally. Thanks, science!

11. You remember that if something makes you uncomfortable, sometimes it's best to just skip it.

Obviously (and unfortunately) there are situations where people are going to judge you for what you wear. However, if you feel your most confident heading out to dinner or to the park without a bra, let yourself just go for it. And don't listen to anyone who says your breasts aren't the right shape, size or type to go bra-free.

12. Once you adjust to how it feels sans bra, it can feel seriously powerful.

Yes, really. Just trust me.

Why I Stopped Wearing a Bra

My mom's refusal to wear one used to embarrass me. Now I get it.

BY TONILYN HORNUNG

It used to embarrass me — my mom's refusal to wear a bra. I'm not sure why, really. It's not like she jogged her way through life forcing everyone to stare at her heaving chest, but as a teenager, I found her refusal mortifying. I'm sure a therapist would delve deeper into the reasons why this may have bothered me, saying something along the lines of, "Seeing your mother in any way womanly or sexualized made her seem like more of a real person than a mother," but to my basic teenage brain, it was simpler. Women wore bras. That's just what women did, and my mom was a woman, so she should wear her bra. But she did not. Now, as an adult, I think my mom might have been on to something.

There was a time I enjoyed buying frilly, lacy bras, and such. Walking into Victoria's Secret was a quiet thrill for this shy, little Catholic schoolgirl. I'm sure my husband would appreciate it if that thrill still existed in my world, but if I'm being honest, the last time I bought a bra was over three years ago. No, I have not decided to burn all my bras for some sort of political statement or because it was super cold this last winter. I haven't purchased a bra for a very good reason.

I wore a bra for two years straight.

The pregnancy books don't really tell a nervous mom-to-be all there is to know about Mom Boobs. Sure, the books go into fantastic detail about all sorts of other pregnancy issues, using scary words like "discharge" and phrases like "growing areolas." But I found that the majority of these helpful tomes forgot to mention that a pregnant lady's breasts can be so tender that putting on a bra, and then strapping them down with an Ace bandage, is the only way to walk up and down a flight of stairs comfortably. The bra (with the Ace bandage) became my best friend during my pregnancy.

I figured after I had the baby, my life and my boobs would achieve some sort of normalcy. I thought I'd be home free, but then I started nursing my baby. Again, I needed a bra to support my milkshakes — but this time it was a nursing bra. These contraptions are slightly more comfortable than a real bra but unlike a normal bra, they open in the front for a little quick air conditioning on a hot summer day. Still, though, trying to sleep without "The Girls" contained was as uncomfortable as sleeping on two actual cartons of milk. So I wore a bra during my pregnancy and while breastfeeding — day and night for two years. (I did take it off to shower.)

Now I require freedom!

At most, a passerby might see me in a sports bra just to keep "The Girls" from roaming all over the place, but I can't stand wearing a real bra anymore. They feel tight and constrictive. I have earned the right to feel my "Girls" flop against my stomach as I sit, but more important, I've discovered my mother's secret: Bras are uncomfortable.

Perhaps one day I will come around and prefer a little lace and wire help hike up my puppies, versus the power of gravity, but for now, I like my freedom. And maybe if I actually used the Victoria's Secret gift card my husband bought for me last Valentine's Day, I might discover bras have evolved over the last several years to where it feels like a person is wearing nothing. But I have a better idea. Why not actually wear nothing?

Oh god! 10 years from now, what will my teen daughter say about my free puppies?

By Tonilyn HornunG

My back pain Is Gone!

My horny hubby’s idea helped me deal with upper back pain.

By CQt Rose

Not wearing a bra... braless... letting the puppies (or kittens, in my case) play freely. Yes, when I went to the grocery store this morning, I didn't bother strapping the girls into anything that would restrict their natural movement. Shopping at the mall? Nope. Church last Sunday? Sorry, that was me swaying completely to the music. (Oh, get over it. Do you really think Mary, mother of Jesus, wore a bra? I rest my case.) Shirts versus skins amateur basketball tournament? Dang, I was benched before that decision had to be made.

Looking back, I can see how naive and silly I was fifteen years ago. I can also remember the real reason I rarely confine my chest into some modern day instrument of Puritanism.

It was the turn of the century (the year 2000, for the calendar deficient). Between the stress of work, my husband launching his own business, and a move from my beloved home to a big city, everything was crashing down on me. The end result was headaches, upper back pain, and a miserable me.

I suffered through it for almost six months before that fateful day my husband came to me with a bewildering question: would I be willing to try going without a bra for a month to see if it helped my maladies.

Fifteen years ago, prior to that moment, before six months of increasingly excruciating pain, I wouldn't be caught dead without a bra. I even slept in a sports bra.

My hubby is a curious sort and loves research. He had been looking for anything we hadn't tried to help my upper thoracic(back)/lower cervical(neck) spasms, which were the likely source of my recurrent head aches. Low-and-behold, an unpublished work by a couple of orthopedic surgeons in England reported an unusual finding.

Women scheduled for surgery due to neck and upper back pain, when asked to go without the 'benefit' of a bra during pre-surgical preparations, often noted reduced symptoms, even before their actual surgery.

Discussing things, the dynamic-doctor-duo started to consider the bio-mechanics of the brassiere.

They noted that those nasty things were distributing weight from the front of the chest, up over the shoulders, crossing directly over the thoracic-cervical spinal transition zone and associated parts: muscles, joints, spine. Everything was potentially affected, even resting posture. That shoulder-to-shoulder boulder holder was intentionally moving structural stress onto the upper back and lower neck. It couldn't really be that simple, could it?

Obviously, the bra was made by a group of men to help women, right? Nope. The brassiere was made to keep the God-fearing menfolk focused on their jobs and proper etiquette. Why bother retraining a man when you could more easily torture a non-voting woman. Rapidly the freedom of movement was replaced by the proper brassiere, corset, and other torment devices. All to keep evil women from flaunting their apple-eating harlot bodies, and thus deliberately forcing men to have improper thoughts. Heaven knows, no righteous guy would ever have an improper thought if not directly lured by a woman... at least not more than six a minute. (Yes, I know, that study was flawed, but it's still very funny.)

With the passing of time, this original reason for the invention of the bra has been lost. Most people incorrectly think it was made to help women by supporting the breast and to prevent sagging. Not really truth in advertising is it? Yet look what gender is running the ad campaign to promote another piece of lingerie to be added to a woman's "essential" wardrobe.

Knowing it's not to support the breast tissue, why not consider asking women, while on the waiting list for surgery, to 'go natural' for a month. I'm sure our good doctors spun it as "in preparation for surgery" instead of "because we're beady-eyed sex fiends that want to see bouncing boobies everywhere!" (Cue up "Bounce Your Boobies" by Rusty Warren.)

For their study, they evaluated pain scores, mobility, headache frequency, and any other data point they could find (I'm sure the doctors' wives nixed the nipple diameter and 'cup-ability' of the-breast-in-hand aspects of the study, but being boys first, scientists second, I bet it was on their original study outline).

Interesting trial for the patient, not so good for surgical income because a significant portion of the women who went braless improved enough not to need surgery. Back pain? Gone. Neck pain? Nada. Headaches? "Dammit, Jim, bring that one back or I'm gonna have to start putting out!"

Returning to my own painful situation, facing my husband's puppy-dog eyes begging me to try, I bit the bullet. I bit my lip. I did a hundred hail Mary's that first day, asking forgiveness for my sin. I left the bra off.

The following morning, I got reminded not to put it on.

"But it's not working," I whine to my scientist.

"It's been eleven hours," he says.

"Yes! And it's not working!" I emphasize, since he seems to want to prove my point.

"How long have you been in pain?"

"Four months."

"Half a year, sorry. Nice try. Next contestant," Doctor Smarty-Pants says.

"So? It's not working," I grumble.

"So I get half a day to fix a problem spawning, growing, consuming you for six months? The study said four to six weeks."

"But people will see!"

"You mean under your T-shirt, button-up, sweat shirt, and... please! A scarf? It's spring, at least lose the scarf."

I reluctantly put down the bra, leaving all the other clothes on, thankful it was my day off. No freaking way I was going to work without a bra.

Little did I know just how adamant my belligerent husband could be in some instances.

The next day is much easier. Much fucking easier because, "Where the hell are all my bras?" I snarl.

He swallows with a deer-in-headlight look. Not a good sign before I've had my breakfast. He bolts for the door.

"Stop! Man-up!" I yell at his retreating back.

He turns back toward me when at a safe distance, "That's cowboy up, to you, sweetie! Free Willie!" and he pumps his fist in the air before hastening to finish his escape.

By the end of the second week, I'm woman enough to admit, I was having fewer headaches. My neck still ached like a son-of-a, but I swear, Aspirin and I were no longer having an intimate relationship. Of course, neither were my husband and I, but that's not necessarily out of the ordinary.

Finishing the third week, he had grown a set and returned to our bed, sleeping uneasily as I occasionally sang the 'Bobbit' song. I wasn't going to mention my neck pain was reduced by more than half. Let him sweat a little more.

End of the first month? I wanted my brassieres back, but only for special occasions. Like when I go out in public. When I get up in the morning. When I go to bed at night. You wouldn't take Linus' security blanket away, would you? Unfortunately, my husband would... the bastard.

Start of week five. I had to start being honest with him, because he'd hidden a small fortune in lingerie. My neck and upper back were almost completely pain free. I hadn't had a headache for almost ten days. My boobs didn't hurt. They weren't even hitting my knees... yet.

Ladies? Here's a special hint: don't marry a scientist. Not only will they try to support everything with fact, plus at least two references, but everything becomes a classic study where a single result means nothing.

"Ok, you tried our little test. You can have them all back," he smiles, returning the stack of my clothing. He earns himself a blow job. (Oh, as if you've never been so happy to get your way you don't go a little crazy.)

Little did I know, his devious man-mind was still at work. Two weeks later, I make the mistake of dumping out three aspirin onto my plate at breakfast.

"Headache, huh?"

"No shit, Sherlock, who gave you the first clue?" I glare at him, daring him to mention labeled dose.

"You want me to rub your shoulders?"

Never trust a guy volunteering to give you a back rub. He wants something. Or, in my case, he's about to prove something I don't want to really hear.

"Sure," I say, somewhat dejectedly into my toast and pills.

His hands gently start at my shoulders, then in toward my lower neck...

"Holy mother of... stop! Ow! Stop!"

"Oh, sorry. Neck pain?"

"Yes, Einstein, and shoulder tenseness, and..."

Flick. Where the fuck do guys learn to do that? I didn't even have time to flinch, let alone stop to realize what he was doing reaching behind my back again. My girls drop two inches.

"Fucker."

"Thank you. We're starting braless study, phase three now. I trust you can have your bras and use them responsibly? Only in dire emergency? Like you've got an audience with the Pope?"

"Fucker." Only this time, it's said in that tone that means I've given up. Dammit, the stupid Y chromosome-holding genetic freak now held all the cards. {Funny, I never realized how much I could swear when in pain. The good news is that scientific studies show cursing increases your pain tolerance - cuss away.}

"Thank you. You want help taking it the rest of the way off?"

Stupid-ass puppy-dog eyes. God I love him. No matter how hard he makes it.

It only takes three weeks this time. Completely pain free. Last aspirin almost the day after our showdown. I wore a bra less than seven hours over that period of time, and only because it was summer now, and it's too hot to keep wearing a sweatshirt every time I go out.

Then a not-so-funny thing happens. We're out and I've worn just a T-shirt and a huge baggy sweatshirt with jeans. It's hot. I was going to pass out.

"Take off your sweatshirt, silly!"

"I don't have on a bra, dipstick!"

"Sorry, I forgot. Everyone looks at you. You're the center of the universe."

"Stop being an ass, I'm dying of heat."

"You think anyone really gives a flying flip about what you are or aren't wearing? I'll help you watch for the first leery-eyed bastard that looks your way. You get 'that' look, we're out of here. If you don't get that look, you accept it: unfortunately, you're just not that important... just like me. People are in their own worlds and they never see the world around them. Take your freedom and live it."

Stupid revolutionary scientists.

I hate to admit it, but I didn't burst into flames that day not wearing one out in public. Except for the rare occasion, it didn't seem like anyone ever noticed. In fact, until much more recently when I started wearing the thinner, lace-and-sheer tops as I grew more confident and comfortable with my body, did I ever notice anyone taking a second look at me.

It's amazing, not only am I still married to the scientist, but my girls get to roam free everywhere we go. Though I still enjoy a good massage today, it's not needed for neck and upper back pain.

If you or someone you love has upper back pain, neck discomfort, shoulder tenseness, or headaches, it's an easy experiment to try on your own (at least if you're female or a bra-wearing guy). There's no serious significant side-effects and you might be surprised at the amount of mental freedom you feel.

So in answer to, "Uh, excuse me miss, but you have a very nice, uh, natural movement to you when you walk. You aren't, uh, you're not..."

"You bet, buck-o. I'm not wearing a bra! And I'm loving it!"

Another woman concurred.

Great therapy idea.

There are various reasons why some women never go braless but a big reason is insecurity about their shape, thinking their breasts are too small or too big or especially if they think they are too saggy.

A group of neighborhood wives that discovered the benefits of going bra-free, in conjunction with also discovering that their supposed "imperfections" are actually attributes. It came about at a neighborhood walking group, one June evening.

One of the wives revealed that her bras cause her pain and that she goes braless at home to get relief, but is too self-conscious to do it away from home. Another confesses that her doctor told her to avoid bras for the same reason and the three other wives all admit that they hate their bras but feel compelled to wear them, even around their neighborhood friends.

The gals dared each other to leave their bras home at a future walk. The next evening at that next walking group, the wives were talking about their insecurities about their breast shape/size. to dress "conspicuously braless". The ladies eventually decide that during the next night’s walk, as therapy, they will be braless, & forced to learn that their size/shape is OK.

At that next night’s walking group, the women finally were all braless, and loved it. Within a couple weeks, they thought nothing of it, and when the older Anderson couple in the neighborhood started walking with them, the ladies were not bothered at all about Mr. Anderson.

By August, the neighborhood summer barbecues were also mostly braless, & the wives often showed up wearing either tube-tops, bikini tops, or went bra-less under tank-tops, in the 90 degree heat.

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sophieebdaily · 4 months

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Billboard: Sophie Ellis-Bextor Thinks ‘Murder on the Dancefloor’ Hitting the Hot 100 Is ‘Actually Bonkers’

. The pop singer breaks down how "Murder on the Dancefloor" wound up in Emerald Fennell's Saltburn, the TikTok trends it spawned and why she'll always love performing her signature song.

For the last two decades, English pop singer Sophie Ellis-Bextor has been more than happy to divert her fans with performances of her deliciously cutthroat nudisco anthem “Murder on the Dancefloor.” With top 10 chart placements all over Europe and Australia upon its 2002 release, the song became an indelible part of the star’s career.

“That song took me places I’d never been before, and it was always quite a special one for me,” Ellis-Bextor tells Billboard over a Zoom call, sporting a knit-pink sweater and perched atop a cushioned wicker chair. “[It] took me to Latin America and Southeast Asia and all around Europe — it was already a song I associated with adventure and new things and a friendly, glorious chapter of my life.”

So, when the star found out that her song at long last debuted at No. 98 on this week’s Billboard Hot 100 (dated Jan. 13, 2023), more than 20 years after its original release, she was naturally flabbergasted. “It’s glorious, it’s magical, really,” she says, disbelief still tinging her voice. “But it’s very hard to process, if I’m honest.”

The new wave of attention for “Murder on the Dancefloor” comes largely thanks to the song’s inclusion in the pivotal final scene of Emerald Fennell’s twisted 2023 thriller, Saltburn [spoliers ahead!]. At the conclusion of the film, Oxford student and certified maniac Oliver Quick (played by Barry Keoghan) revels in having murdered his crush/obsession Felix Catton (Jacob Elordi) and his entire family the only way he knows how — dancing buck naked through the sprawling estate he inherited from them to Ellis-Bextor’s gleeful track.

It’s a scene that’s equal parts disturbing and hilarious, which Ellis-Bextor says is the perfect tone for her song’s inclusion. “I think Barry Keoghan’s character in the movie and mine in the music video are not so dissimilar,” she offers.

Below, Sophie Ellis-Bextor chats with Billboard about her song’s revival into pop cultural conversation, the bevy of TikTok trends it’s spawned over the last month and why she’ll never grow tired of singing her seminal single.

“Murder on the Dancefloor” is officially having a renaissance! What does it mean for you to have this song re-entering the public consciousness 20-plus years into its existence?

I think I’m still getting my head around that a little bit! My relationship with the song is great, I perform it all the time — it’s been the song that people associate the most with me. But to have it having this little wild adventure on the charts is actually bonkers.

I’m sure this was not on your bingo card for this year.

It wasn’t, but I think I learned a long time ago that the bingo cards — they’re not really what they’re made out to be. You have to be open to the unexpected. Because it’s nice to be surprised, actually.

This song now officially marks your first-ever entry on the Hot 100, debuting at No. 98 this week. I know the new wave of attention has been very recent, but have you noticed any difference in the reaction between the U.K. audiences who really responded to it originally, and the newer American audience that’s discovering it today?

Yeah, nothing really happened in America with the song when it came out in 2002. To have it doing new things now is really extraordinary. To have new people discover it now, people who didn’t know at all, is insane.

The only way I’m really seeing that is through all the viral stuff, because it is all quite recent. Lots of exciting things happened for me because of “Murder on the Dancefloor” when it first came out — real career highlights. But this resurgence is something that’s next level, because when you start out your career, everything’s about asking “where might that lead?” Or, “if that happens, then you get to do this.” This time, I don’t really want to think like that. Momentum is such a glorious, exciting thing, and I just want to enjoy whatever happens.

The newfound success for the song is largely thanks to its inclusion in the wild final scene of Saltburn. Walk me through the process of how you got involved in the movie — when did Emerald Fennell or the production first reach out to you? How much of the plot were you aware of?

I knew very few facts! They asked for permission about a year ago, maybe around springtime last year. I knew the name of the film. I knew that Emerald Fennell was the writer and director, so it was in safe hands. And I knew the scene would involve a character dancing to the entirety of the song completely naked. That was it! And that was all I needed, so I said “yes,” immediately. When we got to the summer, I started to hear a little bit of buzz around the movie, and I was invited to go to a screening. So I went along with my whole family — my mom, my teenage son, my husband, my brother. Actually, they coped very well, even when I had a couple of challenging moments.

I’m sure you did — having your son next to you through that film must have been intense!

Well, he’s 19, so it wasn’t too bad — though he was still sitting between his mother and his grandma! But not only did we survive, we all really loved it, and my son said it was one of his favorite films he’d ever seen. I thought it was brilliant; it entertained me, it was dark, it was funny, it looked beautiful, and the music is used throughout the movie in a really clever way.

Agreed, and I think that’s especially true for “Murder on the Dancefloor” — it fits perfectly into this dark, campy ending, and when you’re listening to the lyrics of the song in this context, they become a bit more sinister. Did you experience any of that feeling when you were first watching it?

Yes, definitely. But then I think that song sort of lent itself a bit to that originally, as well. Because in the music video, I’m not playing a goodie. I’m a nasty person who’s been very mischievous — I kill people, I poison someone, I chloroform someone, I’m whipping people out all over the place just to win a dance competition.

As you mentioned, the scene also ended up creating multiple viral TikTok trends, the most popular showing people executing the film’s choreography while moving through their homes. Did you ever imagine a song of yours becoming a Tiktok trend?

Absolutely not! I’m a 44-year-old woman; I’m not saying you can’t use TikTok if you’re that age, but it’s a lot less likely, right? I have my eldest son, and my next one down is nearly 15, so we have TikTok in the house, but it’s never coming from my phone. It is fascinating, though, because one minute [my sons] will be listening to The Shangri-Las, and then it’ll be Wham!, and then it will be a modern pop record. The songs come from all over, from different decades. It’s like a record shop that’s got everything in stock. It’s really changed the way that kids listen to music — it doesn’t have to be about what’s newly released, it’s about what really makes them feel good in the moment.

I do think sometimes it feels like I’ve been invited to a party that I never thought I’d be part of. I saw Vogue used [the song] for a series of clips of people on the red carpet of an awards show, and then it’s just some kids and their dogs dancing to it. That gives me so much joy, because nobody wants their songs to just peter out. You want the conversation to keep going, you want to know that someone somewhere is getting a lift from it.

It’s also worth noting that this is not the only sync that this song received earlier this year — one of my personal favorites was the song being featured as a lip sync on season 3 of Drag Race Down Under last year. What did you make of that performance?

It was so amazing. I mean, just being included in Drag Race is such an honor, full stop. I got to be a guest judge on Drag Race UK last year, and I just love the fact that that’s so mainstream now, because it’s so groundbreaking. I think the thing about Drag Race that I love is that there is this facade that’s very pulled together and considered and incredible, but then you’ve got the story behind it. That’s always the bit that brings the heart and the vulnerability and I just think the juxtaposition of that is so incredible.

This is part of an ongoing trend in music, where these songs get syncs in major movies and TV shows, and then see record-breaking gains. “Running Up That Hill” comes to mind, as does Matchbox Twenty’s “Push” from Barbie. What do you think it is about these song placements that leads to such huge results for artists like yourself?

Oh, golly. I suppose for me the conversation probably starts before that, when you ask why those directors wanted to use those songs. And sometimes, it’s something that’s a little bit in the ether already. With “Running Up That Hill,” Stranger Things was certainly the tipping point, but I remember seeing it used in Pose a few years before that in this scene was really moving. It can feel like there were a few little seeds you planted, and then suddenly you turn around and there’s a forest. Nothing like this happens in a void. I think that’s why it’s really important to appreciate how special it is, because there is no equation where it can be utterly manufactured. You need people to feel like they’re part of it.

This has long been the song that people know you best for. Some performers get fatigued with their “signature songs” — have you found yourself feeling at all fatigued with “Murder?”

Oh, no. I mean, I wouldn’t want to do a gig where I just sang it seven times in a row, but I’m a music fan before I’m a singer. So I always think like I’m in the crowd; I always want to create a good shape for the show, where it’s got to finish with something that hopefully seals the deal. That journey has invariably, for 20-odd years, always ended with “Murder on the Dancefloor.” I feel like sometimes, when artists get funny about the songs that they’re known for, I want to sit them down and say “Don’t take that for granted, mate! Don’t do some weird different version. Sing the one I know the way I know it!”

Obviously, I hope that people come to me through this song and then find a couple of other things they like. That would be wonderful, I’ve laid a lot of work out for them to go have a little look-see. But if I’m known for one song for the rest of my life, I’m not going to be churlish about it. I’ve already had an embarrassment of riches as it is — this is just one more.

Source: Billboard

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yegarts · 2 years

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“I Am YEG Arts” Series: Vincent Brulotte

Photo by Jay Procktor Photography.

Ask someone where their favourite place in the world is, and you’ll likely wait a minute while they narrow it down. Ask Vincent Brulotte, and he’ll instantly reply, “The movie theatre!” In 2020, that favourite place also became Brulotte’s part-time office when he joined the team at the Edmonton International Film Festival. Today, he’s the festival’s artistic director, dedicating much of his year to finding new and exciting voices in filmmaking. Never been to the festival? Consider Brulotte your guide. He’s got tips to get you knowing, going, and on-with-the-showing! Get your popcorn ready. This week’s “I Am YEG Arts” story belongs to Vincent Brulotte.

Tell us about your connection to Edmonton and why you’ve made it your home.

I moved here at a very young age and have spent over 20 years calling Edmonton my home. Growing up on the west end of Edmonton, and then living in Oliver for the past decade, I’ve been lucky enough to explore and experience many facets of life in this great city: our arts community, our river valley, West Edmonton Mall… Edmonton is spoiled for activity and excitement, especially during our unimaginably long summer days, and that vibrance is what has kept me here.

Tell us a little about your role with the Edmonton International Film Festival and what makes it special to you and the city.

Since joining EIFF in 2020, I’ve been lucky enough to be named Artistic Director of our 2022 Festival. Helping to lead on programming, festival planning, and community engagement has aided in connecting me with so many parts of our city—there are so many groups and communities that reside here, more than you’d ever guess! EIFF is not only our opportunity to highlight local and international cinema, it’s our opportunity to build new relationships within our arts community and outside of it, too. There are few things that make us feel closer to each other than enjoying a film together, and it’s that sense of community building that makes EIFF so special.

What is it that you love about programming?

There’s a lot to love! It’s an opportunity to keep up with independent and global cinema, to understand perspectives from all around the globe, and to see the stories of thousands of individuals—each with their own point of view and experience in life. There’s a certain thrill in screening a film, adoring it, and then wanting to share it with your friends and family. How often do you text a friend telling them they *have* to watch the same TV show you are? Imagine that thrill, but amplified to getting the opportunity to share it with hundreds of strangers and eagerly anticipating their reactions. Every year our team gets so giddy when we imagine our audience enjoying a film we’ve programmed; it’s truly all about bringing Edmontonians something unique, or compelling, or even controversial.

Growing up, what was the first film you watched that made you want to be part of telling stories?

Raiders of the Lost Ark! It was the kickoff to a three-Saturday family event in which we watched all three of the Indiana Jones films, and I can still feel my grandmother’s hands over my eyes as

they open the Ark of the Covenant, shielding me from revolting sights of faces melting and heads exploding. Our family movie nights were always special, but it was after those weekends that I became furiously obsessed taking to our family computer and doing hours of research about upcoming films, classic films, and awards-circuit films—I had to know it all. I doubt my reaction would’ve been as strong if not for knowing that movie nights meant time spent together as a family, sharing emotions as the film in front of us so expertly manipulated them. I still look forward to sharing films with my family. It’s something that always brings us closer or teaches us something new about one another.

What does community mean to you, and where do you find it?

Community is so special to me. Some could say it’s people linked by a common goal or interests, but I find community within many different parts of our lives. Community means sharing, whether it’s sharing resources, or experiences, or even emotions—I sometimes forget how connected I am to the people around me, even strangers. Community is everywhere, whether you’re waiting in line at a bus stop or part of an audience at an event like Folk Fest, we’re all sharing something, and it doesn’t always have to be interactive or social to feel connected.

How do you stay creatively sharp?

Nothing beats reading—essays, journalism, and anything non-fiction tends to stimulate me most; there’s so much to learn about the world around us, and creativity can spark so strongly when we pull from reality. Keeping up with classic and contemporary cinema is a must for me. I learn something from almost every film I watch, and I try to carry that knowledge with me as I move through my career and life. Most of all, journaling helps keep my writing sharp(ish) and reminds me of how much I’ve both changed and remained the same.

Who’s someone inspiring you right now?

Climate activists are easily the most inspiring people in the world to me right now. Our future is in such dire straits, and securing a sustainable society for future generations is one of my highest priorities and biggest fears. Anyone who is pushing to create green jobs or to eliminate fossil fuel production is doing some of the most thankless work, especially in this region. I hope that our politicians—on all sides—make the commitments necessary to keep us from irreparably damaging our environment, no matter how difficult they seem. I encourage anyone and everyone to put pressure on their local governments and representatives, no matter where they’re from, and put an end to the selfish consumption that’s led us to this point.

BALIKBAYAN red carpet with Vincent Brulotte, Kerrie & Jon Jon Rivera (Director). Photo supplied.

What are you most looking forward to about this year’s festival (Sept. 22–Oct. 1)?

I’m most looking forward to this being our first festival at full capacity again! We encourage everyone to take all the precautions they deem necessary, as this pandemic isn’t quite over, but we’re so looking forward to packed houses and roaring crowds as we show them some of the most entertaining and thought-provoking films of the year. Our audience is what keeps us alive, and I can’t overstate how much we think of you as we plan each year’s festival. We hope you’ll enjoy all of our programming and can’t wait to hear what you think of it.

What can someone attending EIFF for the first time expect from the experience? Any tips for being a great film-fester?

Being a great film-fester is easier than you think! It starts with looking through our Program Guide available on our website. Our schedule-at-a-glance is a stylish and convenient way to plan your days—print it out and highlight everything you want to see; it’ll help you visualize your time commitment. You don’t need me to tell you to turn your cell phone off and to keep chatter to a minimum, but just in case… do those two things, please! It not only makes the experience better for you, it makes it better for everyone around you.

If you love a film, make sure you vote in our Audience Choice Awards! So many winners have expressed their immense gratitude for our audience, and it’s such a good way to show a filmmaker how much their story meant to you. Finally, bring a friend! Movies are always better together, and think of how cool you’ll seem when the film you took your friend to wins Best Picture next year. It’s like sharing that win!

Describe your perfect day in Edmonton. How do you spend it?

A perfect day in Edmonton is always a Thursday, everything is open without being too busy. It starts with a cold-brew coffee from my fridge and a Beb’s Bagel from my freezer, because my perfect day involves not spending too much money on breakfast. A walk through Oliver and the River Valley, ending at Walterdale Hill by 11 a.m. would have to be next, followed by reading on the Hill into the afternoon. The perfect day would have to continue at Landmark Cinemas 9 City Centre, catching a 2 p.m. matinee and enjoying a late lunch of popcorn and soda. I’d continue onward for a happy hour at Redstar. We’ve got tons of amazing local restaurants in downtown Edmonton, but my perfect day has to include a dinner at the Old Spaghetti Factory—it’s all included! Finally, if it’s Thursday, there’s usually a killer drag show at Evolution Wonderlounge. Pop in there with some friends, cheer on some amazing local drag performers, and before you know it it’s midnight! Feel free to use this as a blueprint for your own perfect day; I don’t hold any intellectual property rights to it.

Click here to learn more about Vincent Brulotte, the Edmonton International Film Festival (Sept. 22–Oct. 1), and this year’s exciting lineup.

Opening night of "Portraits from a Fire". Photo supplied.

About Vincent Brulotte

Vincent Brulotte is an avid film-lover who joined the Edmonton International Film Festival team as Artistic Director in 2020. His passion is programming, but his talents are endless, and he’s beyond excited to bring fresh ideas to enhance the festival experience for audiences and filmmakers. Interested in finding new and exciting voices in filmmaking, he’s driven by stories both international and local, with a strong interest in voices from the LGBTQ+ community and from BIPOC filmmakers. Most of all, he simply loves movies and believes a good story comes from anywhere and everywhere. Ask him, “What’s your favourite place in the entire world?” and he’ll answer without skipping a beat… “Sitting inside a movie theatre.”

#yegarts #edmontonarts #iamyegarts #yegfilm #edmonton international film festival #artistfeature

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maximoffcarter · 3 years

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Halloween Special: Peggy Carter

Pairings: Peggy x reader

Summary: In a new world, after 70 years, Peggy was still learning the new life. After meeting y/n, she admired how much she knew about everything, and there was always something new to learn. What happens when she learns that her girlfriend loves Halloween?

A/n: Day 2 of Halloween Special! I decided to use Captain Carter in this one, wanting to read more about her cause *chefs kiss* she's perfect. Day 3 is coming tomorrow, wait for it ;)

Peggy lost 70 years. 70 years of life, of advances, of a new world. Everything seemed to be weird when she came back to this world, she felt lost at first because all she knew was life back in the 40’s, and aside from being an agent and now a captain, she knew nothing. Then she met y/n, who seemed to know more about the world than any other person, it’s like she had lived in every decade. Peggy had made herself hard on people, she didn’t want to show weakness or be open to anyone just yet not knowing who she was supposed to trust. But y/n truly changed that.

She made Peggy show a side she had never showed to anyone, she made her soft, she made her feel loved for the first time in years. It was a weird feeling, but at the end, Peggy decided she couldn’t lose a chance of anything at this point, because we never knew when life was going to take a turn. So, she acted on those feelings. She started dating y/n after a few months later of working together and getting to know each other better, it was the best feeling ever, it was the greatest thing.

Peggy was still earning about this whole new world, so she learned the new holiday’s and traditions. One that y/n never stopped talking about, was Halloween. Halloween seemed to be a very lovable holiday, the first Halloween Peggy had, she had only known y/n for a while, she learned about the whole thing; movies, candy, costumes, etc. It was funny, even weird, but y/n seemed to enjoy it. This year though, y/n decided she would celebrate it with Peggy, she had planned the whole thing, even if Peggy wasn’t the most excited about it, she hid it, she didn’t say a thing.

“So…Halloween with your girl, huh? You do know y/n is obsessed with it.” Natasha laughed as she put her stuff back in her locker.

Peggy nodded. “I know. I’ve noticed.” She offered a smile. “I believe it’s a little…odd. What’s so special about getting costumes?”

“We use costumes all day.” Natasha pointed to her S.H.I.E.L.D uniform.

“Exactly my point.”

“But you won’t say anything to y/n, are you?”

Peggy shrugged. “I don’t want to ruin it for her. She- she loves it. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her so happy about something.”

“She has you wrapped around her finger.” Natasha smirked.

“Is it bad?”

“No. It’s cute.” Natasha smiled.

Peggy smiled. “So…to deal with this Halloween thingy.”

“Deal with it?”

Both Natasha and Peggy turned to find y/n standing right at the door and staring at them. Peggy stood up from the bench and walked to her, not knowing what to say. Y/n looked down at her hands and sighed.

“You know…you could’ve said you didn’t like it. I don’t want to make you do anything you don’t like.” Y/n said softly as she looked back at Peggy.

“Darling, I didn’t mean that. I was joking. I-“

“I see it in your face, Peg. You pretend because I like it. If you really don’t want to deal with it, you don’t have to. That’s it.” Y/n shrugged. “We just won’t do anything. Maybe a mission would come up.”

“Y/n-“

“I gotta go. Promised Fury I’d help some agents to train.” Y/n nodded as she walked out of the room.

Peggy groaned as she covered her face. “I screwed up.”

“Sadly, you did.” Natasha patted her back. “Gotta fix it someway.”

____________________

“Y/n? Can I have a word with you?”

“I have a mission, I told you about it yesterday.”

Peggy sighed. “Y/n, I didn’t mean it. I-“

“No, Peggy, I get it. Alright? I get it, you- you are not used to all this, it’s been a year and a half of you getting to know all of this, a few months of us dating. And you know…I hate when people lie. I don’t like knowing that I make them do things they don’t want to do. I want you to be happy, so…we won’t do anything.”

“But you love all of this. I can’t stop you from enjoying it.”

“I don’t want to do anything. I truly don’t.” Y/n shook her head. “Forget it, really.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“I know.”

Y/n knew she was probably exaggerating, she didn’t know why she was doing all this, saying all of this, why she was so mad about it. But she thought Peggy really did get what she liked and what she had meant for y/n. But she also knew how hard it could be to adapt to a whole new world, and Halloween wasn’t even important to many people, but for y/n it was a holiday where she could enjoy movies, candy, where she could be herself. That’s all she really wanted. But she knew Peggy better than anything, she couldn’t make her do something she didn’t want to, she was her own person, and she would never make her do things that annoyed her.

She arrived to her apartment with a bag of groceries, kicking the door closed and walking to the kitchen to put everything on the counter. She grabbed the candy and some cookies she had bought, feeling more down that she thought as she didn’t feel the same excitement. She grabbed the cookies and walked to her couch, but before she could jump on it to lay down, she heard a knock on the door. She groaned and walked back to the door.

“I haven’t put the candy out of the bag kids, you probably want to-“ she opened the door and stopped before she could do anything else. “Peg-“ she looked up and down at her. “What?” She laughed softly.

“Trick or treat.” Peggy shrugged as she opened her arms. “I’m a S.H.I.E.L.D agent for tonight.”

“Peggy, I-“

“No, let me talk.” Peggy sighed. “I’m sorry that I said that. I know how important this is for you, and I thought maybe we could…go walk in our costumes and buy some candy.” Peggy smiled. “If that is what you do, I don’t-“

“Why are you doing this?” Y/n raised her brow.

“I love you.” Peggy smiled lovingly. “I want to try new things with you, like I have since the beginning. I love getting to know more about you and know about the things you love. Because I love you.”

Y/n bit her lip as she tried to hide her smile, grabbing Peggy’s hand, and pulling her close to her. She put the cookies on the table beside her door, and as soon as Peggy placed her hands on y/n’s waist, y/n couldn’t help but pull her into a kiss, making Peggy smile.

“You borrowed the costume from Nat?” Y/n grinned against her lips.

“Perhaps I did.” Peggy chuckled as she pushed y/n into the apartment to kick the door close after. “And you, darling, will also dress up.” She showed her the bag as she smiled.

Y/n chuckled. “It better not be a silly thing.” She grabbed the bag and kept talking as she opened the bag. “Because I get it if you want to laugh at me because of my love for Halloween, but it would be cruel if- oh. Wait.” She looked down at the bag and back to Peggy to confirm it. “Are you-“

“Very much serious.” Peggy grinned. “I know it’ll fit you perfectly.”

“We’ll see about that.” Y/n smiled as she leaned in for another kiss.

____________________

“Only for this night.” Peggy said as she walked with y/n by her side.

It was probably around 10 pm, kids and people walking around the streets of New York. Streets full of Halloween decorations, laughs and some screams were heard, but Peggy and y/n lived in their moment.

“But Peg! I look so cool with it! How come Nat can use it and I can’t? I’m also a professional agent.” Y/n smirked as she made a pose with Peggy’s shield.

“What in heavens is that pose?” Peggy laughed as she kept walking.

“It’s your pose! You’re a total poser.” Y/n smirked.

“Am not.” Peggy rolled her eyes. “Natasha is though.”

“She’d beat your ass if she heard you, agent.”

“I’d like to see her try.” Peggy smiled, grabbing y/n’s hand, and pulling her closer to her as they kept walking. “How’s your night been, captain?”

Y/n smiled. “Perfect.” She squinted her eyes. “I also love that…captain. Sounds great.”

“Oh, don’t you get used to it. I’m captain here.”

Y/n stopped for a moment and turned to Peggy. “That you are.” She smiled as she leaned in to kiss her lips. “Thank you for tonight.”

“Anything for my best girl.” Peggy smiled.

Y/n blushed slightly as she cleared her throat. “C’mon. Let’s go get more candy.”

“Ugh, I’m sick of it now.” Peggy rolled her eyes but smiled as y/n pulled her so they could keep walking.

#peggy x reader #peggy carter/reader #peggy carter x you #peggy carter fic #peggy carter x reader #peggy carter/you #peggy carter #captain carter #captain carter x reader #peggy carter fanfiction #what if season 1 #marvel #one shot #marvel fic

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youngbugandtonystank · 3 years

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what's the difference between what wanda did to those people in wandavision and what tony did with ultron?

I have so many asks about this. Hate asks, and people wondering what’s going on. This is the only one I’m answering.

Both of them are responsible for their actions. I’ve seen people try and take away either Tony’s responsibility for that or Wanda’s engagement and accountability.

In Tony’s case, the Ultron program was supposed to be a global peacekeeping program to protect the people, acting as a suit around the world to prevent events like the Battle of New York. He was doing it in the name of peace and safety. Tony was rightfully scared because he was the only one who knew what was coming. Wanda intentionally enhanced that fear in him and this drove him to create Ultron with Bruce. He has responsibility for it. Same as Bruce. He owns up to this, he took full responsibility and agreed that they needed to be regulated.

Tony Stark: A few years ago, I almost lost her, so I trashed all my suits. Then, we had to mop up HYDRA... and then Ultron. My fault.

Tony Stark: There's no decision-making process here. We need to be put in check! Whatever form that takes, I'm game. If we can't accept limitations, if we're boundary-less, we're no better than the bad guys.

Tony Stark: That's good. That's why I'm here. When I realized what my weapons were capable of in the wrong hands, I shut it down and stop manufacturing.

If people think he needs to be in jail for it, then I’m guessing the rest of the Avengers too since all of them have made mistakes and killed people too. As a matter of fact, after the events of Wandavision, I’m sure that Wanda should be in the Raft, but because she’s ‘a poor baby’ yall won’t think she deserves that.

SPOILERS

It’s a big possibility that we don’t have all the info about what happened in Wandavision but we’re going to go with what we know so far.

In Wanda’s case, she did it to appease her grief and pain, and I can understand why she would get to that point, she’s been through a lot and maybe she was about to lose her mind. Instead of recruiting Wanda after the Sokovia incident, they should’ve given this girl treatment for her mental health problems. She just lost her brother and passed through a very traumatic war zone, of course she needs assistance. Cap and Natasha were the ones responsible for her because they were training the ‘new’ avengers. Sam was with them and he used to be a counselor to veterans with PTSD. He could’ve helped Wanda with some of her traumas. As shown in the series, Wanda did the whole hex business before meeting Agatha, which means creating that little reality was all Wanda’s responsibility. Hayward and Agatha did exactly what Wanda did to Tony (and the avengers/other people) in AOU. They manipulated her and played with her emotional traumas. Hayward showed her Vision’s body parts and Agatha started to pull strings to know how Wanda did what she did and her real powers while orchestrating against her.

Both of them have made mistakes. No one is better than the other. I don’t understand why some fans want to make someone responsible more than the other or blame one character for the other. While Wanda gave Tony that vision and pushed his self-destructive side to obsess over saving the world, he did create Ultron, what Tony didn’t predict was that the robot was going to corrupt itself. Same with Wanda, while Agatha and Hayward contributed to her trauma, she held hostage and isolated 3,892 people to create her perfect reality, ripping these people away from their identities and free will to fit her own fantasy. Don’t turn this into ‘omg poor her, it’s Tony fault that she’s this way'. I can’t believe I have to repeat this but you don’t see Peter Parker obsessively looking for the person who manufactured the gun instead of the criminal who actually killed Uncle Ben. Ridiculous that I have to repeat this example.

Oh and about Vision’s body (damn yall have a gift to turn everything into Tony’s fault for some reason). I can’t believe some of you think Tony (while grieving for 5 years) would give Vision to Hayward. You’re either pulling stuff out of your asses or you didn’t pay attention to the show. Maria Rambeau founded and was the Director of S.W.O.R.D. In 2018 (when IW happened), this is where she came up with a new policy within S.W.O.R.D. to ground snapped agents in case they ever returned. Maria was diagnosed with cancer, then two years later (2020), she passed away. Then, Hayward was promoted to Director of S.W.O.R.D., in his first years (2020-2022) he refocused the organization’s work from extraterrestrial operations to robotics, nanotechnology and artificial intelligence, etc. There, that was the 5 years. Then in 2023 it’s when he started project Cataract, which revolved around rebuilding Vision as a sentient weapon. Tony was dead when this happened. How come yall don’t get this part? I don’t understand, do you really think his dead corpse signed some papers to give Vision to those people? LMAO

Instead of thinking Tony would give up Vision just like that, think (possibilities):

Maria was the head of S.W.O.R.D., she might have just been keeping his body safe without doing anything with him. Maybe she trusted Hayward and he, obviously, betrayed her because he’s turning her organization into something else after her death.

One of the Sokovia Accords regulations states that the use of technology to bestow individuals (the term ‘enhanced individual’ in this book is defined as any person, human or otherwise, with superhuman capabilities) with innate capabilities is strictly regulated by the government, as is the use and distribution of highly advanced technology. Vision signed those accords ('I'm saying there may be a casualty. Our very strength invites challenge. Challenge incites conflict. And conflict... breeds catastrophe. Oversight...oversight is not an idea that can be dismissed out of hand’) The Avengers were no longer be a private organization and they operate under the supervision of the United Nations. This means they (UN) were the ones that referred Vision’s body to S.W.O.R.D., to a trustworthy leader, Maria.

Vision died in Wakanda, not in New York. Tony was missing for 22 days after the snap, the rest of the avengers should’ve taken responsibility for his body.

Why is it always Tony’s fault but never consider that other parties are also involved in this?

I want to address some other asks with this one. I know some of you are angry because people are starting to blame Tony all over again, so a few things to remember:

Tony did not create the Accords. The Accords were the result of all the collective actions the Avengers have done in their superhero careers. All of them have made mistakes and the collateral damage of that was taken into consideration by the government and 117 countries around the world. He signed the accords because he knew that he could amend them with the support of the rest of the avengers and he knew about Thanos (something big was coming).

Obadiah Stane (it’s so bizarre for me seeing that some people don’t know who this guy is, I’m guessing that the people who are watching Wandavision are too young to remember or didn’t watch the Iron Man movies at all which is highly probable) was the one selling weapons to the wrong people, not Tony. Obadiah was the CEO of Stark industries and became second-in-command for two decades. He grew jealous of Tony and began cooperating with the Ten Rings in Afghanistan, selling them Stark Industries weapons illegally. Imagine blaming all of it on Tony when Obadiah basically murdered thousands only because he felt a little green. If someone who you trust (he had no reasons to doubt Obadiah since he was like a second father-figure for him) does something behind your back (take into consideration that people like Pepper; who was Tony’s assistant and had knowledge of all of Tony’s activities and responsibilities, Rhodey; who was the liaison between the military in the department of acquisitions and Stark Industries, and Happy Hogan; who was his personal bodyguard and Head of Security of Stark Industries, didn’t know what Stane was doing either), how are you going to know about it? Tony trusted him. And when he realized what was going on he immediately stopped all of it. He worked hard to be better and people overlook that because they want other characters to look better.

Don’t act like Tony was the only one assisting the military. All of the avengers assisted in one way or another. Natasha (who used to be an assassin) was in the Red Room, trained in the Black Widow Program in association with Leviathan and the Soviet Armed Forces, served for KGB, etc. Bruce Banner used to work for the United States government and was commissioned to create a super serum for them. Same goes with the rest, Sam, Clint, etc. Steve Rogers was a soldier lmaoooooooooooooo like, what happened to Tony with Obadiah happened to Steve with SHIELD/HYDRA in TWS. He trusted the people working in there (SHIELD), served for them, did missions for them and as soon as he found out what they were doing behind his back he turned against them.

Knowing all of this, how is Tony always the villain for yall? I’m guessing because Tony’s popularity in the MCU, but still, aren’t yall tired of not understanding the plot and having people repeat it to you constantly? Watch the movies if you want to understand the franchise, people. Stop following the crowd.

Also, Wanda is not a kid, she’s a 35 year old woman in Wandavision, she was 26 in AOU and 27 in CW. Hardly a child. Tony had almost her same age (38) when he realized Obadiah was selling illegal weaponry behind his back. The only reason people don’t fully forgive Tony is because 1. he’s a man and 2. he’s a billionaire. Even if Wanda was poor she still killed and hurt many people over the course of her life. Stop trying to make Tony the villain only to downplay Wanda’s actions.

Both have killed people, both have made mistakes. They’re both responsible for them.

#wanda maximoff #wandavision #vision #tony stark #avengers #marvel #mcu #this is the only ask I'm answering about this #exhausting

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zmediaoutlet · 3 years

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in support of Texas relief, @padaleckimeon donated $100 and requested Dean Jr. meeting Sam and Dean in heaven. Thank you for donating!

to get your own personalized fic, please see this post. (no longer taking prompts)

(read on AO3)

When Dad dies, Dean takes a week off. It wasn’t sudden, or a surprise. Dad had been sick for a while, his body starting to fail him. At first Dean had been scared, and then he’d been angry. He was only twenty-four when Dad got the diagnosis and it wasn’t—fair, in some stupid but essential way. He’d barely graduated from college and, yeah, Dad was kind of old, older than a lot of his friends’ parents, but—he thought, somehow, that him dying just wasn't… applicable. Dad was just—there, always. Solid, supportive, kind of boring maybe but also stronger than anyone Dean had ever known, or would ever know, and it wasn’t right that he could just be sitting in his apartment midway through a novel and get a call and kind of sigh, because he was in a good part in the book, and then to sit up straight with his hair standing on end to hear Dad say, quiet, I'm sorry, buddy. We need to talk about something. That’s what he said, first. That he was sorry.

There were treatments, but not many. Dean had flown out and gone to a few of the appointments with the oncologist and Dad had been quiet, listening to the options. He’d researched a lot of this on his own, because Dean had done the same thing, and they’d both been nodding along during the options. Injections, radiation. Chemo. Dad had asked, polite, what the life expectancy was for each option, and Dean had watched the side of his face and not the doctor, and when the answer was given Dad had closed his eyes briefly, and then looked away from both Dean and the doctor, out the window at the snowy day, and Dean had known, then.

Dad made it past Dean’s twenty-fifth birthday. He had a party with his friends, at his girlfriend’s apartment, and they tried to keep his spirits up but it was a pretty shitty party, all told. The next day, his actual birthday, he flew back out to Dad’s house and he was in good spirits—had a mini-cake, even, with a single candle that he made Dean blow out—but he was thin, and his hair was growing back in snow-white and tender-soft, and when Dad fell asleep in front of the crappy old cowboy movie that Dean had picked just because he knew Dad for some reason liked it, Dean went out onto the porch into the nearly-springtime air and he cried, pissed at himself. Pissed at everything. Then just—unbearably sad, because he liked his current girlfriend but he didn’t think he was going to marry her, and that meant that whatever girl he did marry would be one his dad would never meet—if he had kids, they’d never know how his dad concentrated like a motherfucker on crossword puzzles and obsessed over documentaries and knew every single piece of the inside of that behemoth car in the garage and was just the smartest kindest most stubborn person. Just—the best person. They’d listen to Dean’s stories maybe but they wouldn’t know, because Dad would never meet them, and that was just—unbearable, that night. In the morning, Dad made oatmeal and Dean added a bunch of sugar because Dad’s oatmeal was inedible otherwise, and Dad smiled kind of rueful like he always did when Dean did that, and then Dad said, I’m sorry, again, kind of quiet, and Dean reached out and held his hand—thin, and the bones feeling frail—and he said don’t be sorry, Dad, and four months later, Dad was dead.

Dad was always pretty up-front with him about most everything, especially after he and Mom split up. When he was twelve, Dad explained the supernatural very carefully, telling him that he was safe but that other people might not be, and why. When he was thirteen, Dad told Dean that Hell and Heaven were both real and that there was, definitely, confirmed, a God, and maybe it wasn’t the same God that other people knew but that Dad said he was kind, in his own way. The person in charge of Hell, Dad said, was maybe less so, but she wouldn’t hurt Dean, ever. Dad said he knew that for fact, and he said it so certainly, looking Dean in the eye, that Dean believed him. When Dean turned eighteen, a few months from graduating high school, Dad took him to a tattoo parlor and said for maybe the first time in Dean’s life that something was non-negotiable, and Dean hadn’t cared because what other kid in the senior year was going to walk at graduation with a kickass demonic tattoo?

There were other things, though, that they didn’t talk about. Dad said one day a lot when Dean was little but then, when he was older and it was clear that one day would be never, he just said—I can’t, buddy. I wish I could.

After the week off, rattling around the old house, and the cremation with no service that Dad had insisted on, Dean drives out to the lawyer in Sioux Falls. She’s nice. Respectful but not cloying. The Samuel Winchester Estate that Dean is the sole beneficiary of is—a lot of money. A lot more money than he knew Dad had, or that he could have ever earned. Dad has assigned some of the money to go to charities, and to some people Dean doesn’t know—the lawyer doesn’t say who in the specific, but says they’re kids of some of Dad’s old friends. Dean didn’t know Dad had many friends, much less ones who’d get trust funds in inheritance. Aside from the stock options and the accounts and all the money left over, Dean inherits a list of assets. The house, of course. The Chevy in the garage, with the stipulation that he can never sell it. A safety deposit box, from which the lawyer has already retrieved the contents.

She leaves him alone, to go through the box. Neatly organized, like everything else in Dad’s life. File-folders of pictures, printed out all old-fashioned. Some of Dean when he was a baby. Some of when Dad and Mom were still together, leaning against each other, Dean hugged between them. Some—much older, creased and faded, stored in little plastic sleeves so they can't degrade. He recognizes a few from the framed copies Dad always had in the house. Some he hasn't seen. Most of them—almost all of them—are of his Uncle Dean, who died before he was born, and he looks especially at one that just—hits him in the gut, in this awful way where he has to sit there looking at the soothing taupe paint of the conference room wall before he can look at it again. Uncle Dean's facing the camera, sort of, although he's laughing about something and not really looking into the lens, and there's Dad, laughing too. He looks… young. Younger than Dean is now. He flips the picture over. Dad's handwriting, careful: 2006, Bobby's house. Almost fifty years ago. An entire life he didn't know. He thinks again of his imaginary future kids. These lives they have, grandfather to father to son, that overlap like a venn diagram but—not enough. Not close to enough.

What's a life? How to summarize, from beginning to faded end, in a way that would make sense to anyone but who it happened to?

Dad left letters, explaining, but he's gone and the context is missing. There are so many questions Dean wants to ask but he can't, of course, anymore. The first letter is attached to the key to the bunker, where he would never take Dean when he was alive, and on winter break from med school Dean flies from Boston to Kansas and rents a car and drives alone through the snowfields.

Dark, inside. He throws the big switch and the lights crackle, hum on, almost reluctant. He has no idea how it's getting power. Dust, but not as much as there could be. A library, a kitchen. Archives upon archives. Dad had explained, but what little he'd said both in life and in the letters didn't come close. It was home, he wrote, for over a decade. The only one we had with four walls, for our whole lives, although we didn't think of it that way. I didn't, at least. Dean doesn't know what that means but he looks into the bedrooms and sees… emptiness, plain bunks and old desks and funny lamps. I just picked a random room, Dad said, and as Dean's looking he really can't tell which was Dad's. Figures. Their house when Dean was growing up didn't change a bit, no matter how terrible that wallpaper was. It's only when Dean pushes open the door to room 11 that there's any personality, and he flicks the light and stands there blinking, surprised. Guns and knives on the wall. Books, piled up. Empty beer bottles crowded on the little table. Dust, but—not as much as there could be. He walks in, cautious, this feeling in his gut like he's in someone's home and they've just walked out, and could return any moment. A food bowl on the floor. A shirt flung over the chair. On the desk: more books and magazines and a folded actually-on-paper newspaper from 2024, and a job application, half filled out. Dean Winchester, it says at the top, in mostly-neat capitals, and Dean rests a hand on the back of the chair and feels… strange. He tries to picture it—the man from the pictures, Dad's brother, filling up this space. Drinking beer and reading pulp westerns and checking out—oh, weird, magazine porn. Dean shakes his head. Impossible.

In the letters, Dad said: Hunting was all we knew how to do. With everything we knew, it was our duty to use the knowledge the best way we could. I went back and forth on it. Your uncle never did, even if I know there were times he wished he—that we both—could be something else. I don't want that for you. I want you to live exactly the life you want for yourself. No expectations, okay? Not from me or anyone else.

There are printed files that go back a hundred years. More than. Paper files, but old SSDs too, with connectors Dean has to find adapters for. Dad: If you want to know what we did, it's digitized. I know I always said I'd tell you one day, but I never knew how to say it. I'm sorry for that. I always thought I'd be one hundred percent honest, if I ever got a kid, because of how we were raised. I didn't know how hard that could be. Stuff that you'd want to say, but when it came time to just open your mouth and say it there weren't any words.

Dad wrote up all the old hunts, it turned out. Simple notes about where/when/how, the kind of monster it was, the number of people who died and the people who were saved. The people they had to explain things to, who knew now about the supernatural underbelly to the universe. He noted, too, if there were injuries, and Dean reads with his hand over his mouth a long, long litany of Dean W. shot, right arm; Sam W. broken bone in hand; Dean W. concussion; Sam W. strangled. On and on. No wonder Dad didn't make a big fuss when Dean broke his leg in the fourth grade.

He sleeps in the bunker overnight, in one of the spare bedrooms that's not room 11. There's a fan on the ceiling, dusty office supplies on the desk. By lamplight he reads the letters, on his back on the stiff terrible mattress, his eyes stinging and past-midnight tired. Our lives weren't the kind of thing anyone would want, Dad wrote. I spent so long trying to get away from it because I thought 'it shouldn't be this way' – and I was right, you know? It shouldn't have been how it was. But it was that way, anyway, and in the end that was something I was okay with. We were making what difference we could. We were happy. A lot of people have it worse.

'We'. Dad hardly writes Uncle Dean's name but he's in every letter. We, we, we. Dad told Dean stories, of course, the dumb stuff they got up to when they were teenagers, or the (sanitized, Dean's sure) adventures they had as adults, but despite the pictures on the wall at home and the pictures in the deposit box and the whole life that's here, Dean can't—see it. Beer bottles on the table in the bedroom, one on either side of the tiny table. The shirt slung over the chair. We were happy, he says, but—how? Dean can't imagine it.

In the last letter Dad wrote, I think I'm writing this when I've got a month or two left. Dr. Hendricks isn't sure. I wish I had more time, to explain how it was. Who we were. I never told you the most embarrassing thing in the world, but I'm old and I'm not going to be around and not much will be able to embarrass me anymore, so screw it. (Fifty years ago I would have gotten really mad at myself for that kind of comment; more things age can fix.) There are books about us. There's a hard drive, in the bunker. It's labelled BURN THIS. (That's your uncle's handwriting.) They're true, more or less. Written by a really crappy, amateur writer, but he was a kind of prophet, and he knew everything there was to know about us, and he wrote books for about five years, based on our life and the real things we did. Some of it is exaggerated and melodramatic. A lot of it is just how it happened. You'll have to decide which is which. I don't come off too well in some of them but I hope you'll understand that the world… I don't know how to describe it. Somehow the world felt different, then. It was just us, trying our best. I hope it gives you some idea of the life we had. No matter what happened, I'm glad that life led me to you.

What's a life?

Dean marries. Not the girl from college but a woman, later. Red hair, blue eyes. Absolutely no sense of humor beyond puns. Hates cooking and has strong opinions on movies from the 1980s. They have three kids, a girl and then a boy and then a girl again. All dark-haired, smart. Dean gives the boy the middle name Samuel and his wife holds his hand, says it sounds great.

He's a doctor. He meets hunters. He sets bones for free and prescribes medication when needed and when it will be needed. A woman, last name Novak, calls him and says you know, your dad was one of the greats?, and he meets people—older than him by twenty, thirty years, with scars and dangerous lives and guns hidden in every corner, and he hears stories. Sam Winchester, who saved the world. Dean knows—he's read the books—but there are more years that the books didn't cover, more people who didn't die because of his dad's intervention. "They were the best," one man says, shrugging, and gets no argument, nods and shrugs from every hunter in the room, and Dean goes home that night and kisses his littlest girl where she's already tucked up in bed, and he thinks: what will she know, about who her grandfather was? Who their family is? What could she possibly know?

Dean's wife dies in her eighties. An accident. A broken hip, an infection following. Still happens, even in this new century. The kids are grown, have kids of their own, and the funeral is big, and there are people at his elbow who say to him we're so sorry and who share anecdotes of her life and who support him to his chair, even though at ninety he's perfectly capable of getting to his chair himself. He's a cranky old man, he realizes. She would've laughed at him. He thinks, inevitably, of his own father's death. Silent and unmourned, except by one. What's a life.

He writes letters, for his children. The estate is handled. He calls the oldest girl and explains to her that she's going to be the executor, and that there are things she has to keep. A key. A car. Pictures, so that her boys will know where they came from. "Of course, Dad," she says, placating a little because he's old and clearly starting to lose his grip, but she'll do it. She's a good kid. Dean learned how to raise a kid from the best.

When he dies, he's expecting it. The trip to the hospital. The monitors. He knows the pain meds even if he's retired and his doctor looks like an infant but she gives him the good stuff. It's—easy. A slipping away. He closes his eyes to sleep and there is a moment where he thinks with surprisingly clarity, this is okay, isn't it, and has the feeling of someone's hand laid on his, and then he sleeps, and doesn't wake up again.

He opens his eyes in an armchair, in a house that he doesn't recognize but that feels instantly familiar. Music playing, somewhere, and a gold-tinged afternoon spilling through the window, and tone-deaf singing from the kitchen. His mind feels clearer than it has in… Tears come to his eyes but it doesn't hurt. He puts his fingers to his mouth and smiles, breathing in slow, and thinks—well, this is it. Heaven.

Time is no longer time. Space is—immaterial. There's a house, not their house, but it's roomy and it has what he needs and the bed he crawls into with his wife at the end of a day is comfortable, and that's what matters, as he lays his hand on her hip where he used to lay it always, and she sighs against the pillow and squirms and tucks herself into a fetal pretzel, like she always used to. The spill of her hair red against the pillow. Her warmth, plush against his bones. She smells not of honeysuckle or vanilla but just like warm, human skin, the faint bite of salt-sweat at the nape of her neck, the must in the morning in thin bluish light when she turns over and finds him awake, and smiles. Incredible. The weight of her is real, and the spot between her breasts when he kisses her there is real, and he'd always believed in some distant way that what his dad had told him was true—that there was a heaven, that there would be some kind of justice after death—but it was distant, and academic, because of course there was a life to live and patients to care for and children to raise and a wife to bury and a death to get through. What a thing, to come to. This place, with her hair on the pillow, and her smell. He hadn't forgotten it, in the end, after all.

The house sits in some place that feels like South Dakota. Home, or close to it. A lake among trees. A distance between things. He reads, and plays games he barely remembers from being a kid, and he watches the Ghostbusters movies again because his wife insists and they are, he has to admit, still funny, but he makes fun of the weird museum guy anyway, and she kicks him where her feet are tucked in his lap, and he tickles her in retaliation, and then—well, the movie will be there, later, when they're done.

She rides her bike every day. One day she comes back and says she was just visiting her mother, and Dean sits up and says, "What?" But—of course. What's time? What's a space, between this shared slow heaven and another? She shrugs—his mother-in-law says hi—and he sits there on the couch with his game paused, watching her go into the kitchen and shake her sweaty hair back from her face, redoing it into the practical twist at her neck like she always does, and he thinks—okay. Okay, maybe now.

The bookshelf has every book he could want, and seems to know what he needs to read before he does. Raining outside, spattering gentle on the eaves, and his wife made a huge pot of tea and took it to bed upstairs and left him just a cup, and so he sits at the kitchen table with his cup of tea and opens the book—Home, by Carver Edlund—and reads it, lingering, even if he's read it three times before online, his thumb brushing over the cheap too-thin pages of this physical copy. There's a poltergeist, preposterous. The psychic, odd and familiar. The brothers, united, and he reads the next-to-last chapter very slowly, lingering, as they find the box of pictures, as they get into the car together. Drive off, to meet some new dawning day.

He finishes his cup of tea. Puts on a clean shirt, combs his hair. "I'll be back," he says, to his wife, and she blinks at him from her nest of blankets with her own book and then only nods, and Dean goes downstairs and gets into his car and finds the road, beyond the garden gate, and drives.

He doesn't know where he's going but that doesn't matter. He turns on the car radio and it's playing—oldies, but really oldies, the stuff that was old when he was little. What childhood sounded like. Farms appear, melt away. Trees rising, through hills. He sings along, under his breath, remembering: a roadtrip to his grandma's house, Mom sleeping in the passenger seat and Dad driving through the night, and Dad singing very, very badly, as quiet as he could, and Dean thinking even as a kid that this was some private thing, to see, and he had to be silent and not show that he was awake or it would disappear. That feeling, it crept up on him at the oddest times, when he was an adult, and later. That sensation of the armored tank of the car moving through the dark, and the silence around them, and the quiet music inside, and Dad, in a world of his own, entirely separate from the world he shared with Dean.

Another hill. Climbing a mostly-paved road. Not raining anymore but the sun coming in slanted gold through the trees. Distance, and a curve, and then: a house. Old-looking. Older maybe than the one Dean and his wife share. In front of it, a car. The car.

Dean parks. He gets out, and the air smells washed-fresh, a little fecund. Like summer. He puts his hand on the hood of the Impala and it's sun-warm and he tears up, completely unexpected, and has to sit on the hood and hold his hands over his face, his heart—full, in a way he's felt since dying, but not in this particular way, this way of feeling that he thought had mellowed, a lifetime ago.

So much for putting on a good face. He wipes over his mouth and dashes his eyes clear. A porch, with new-carved railings. A door, painted blue. He knocks, his body feeling empty and clean and young, terribly young, and before he's quite ready the door opens, and it's—his uncle, in a purple plaid shirt and paint-spattered jeans and grey socks, frowning at him, saying, "Uh, hi?"

He looks—almost exactly like he looked in the pictures. Maybe forty, lines beside his eyes and heavy stubble on his jaw. The age he was when he died. Dean opens his mouth, can hardly dredge up what to say, and then he hears a voice say, "Dean?" and Dean and his uncle both turn their heads to see—Dad, young too, completely shocked, standing on the far side of the porch in running gear with sweat slicking his hair back from his head, and Dean drags in air and says, "Dad," and Dad grins at him, that big creased dorky-looking dad-smile that Dean only got once in a blue moon, and he steps forward and they're hugging, then, and it's—heaven. That's all he can think. Heaven, Dad's arms tight around him, his shoulders slotting in under Dad's because—Dad was so tall, and this is where Dean fit and never would fit again once Dad was gone. Here, under Dad's arm. Like being a kid again.

Dad's hand on the back of his head. A startled, shaky, deep breath in, and then hands gripping his shoulders, and being shoved reluctantly back to have Dad look down at his face, serious and worried. "How long has it been?" he says. "Are you—you didn't—?"

"I was ninety-seven," he says, and Dad's eyebrows go high and he smiles, big and glad and real, relieved. He touches Dean's face and Dean smiles back, tears rising again for no reason and for so many reasons. "I look good, don't I?"

Dad huffs a laugh. "You look great," he says, and then his eyes lift over Dean's head, and Dean has to turn around because—

What to call him? Uncle Dean. Standing there with his shoulder against the doorframe, his mouth tucked in on one side. Like from right out of one of the pictures, returning Dad's look. His eyes drop after a second to meet Dean's and Dean feels this odd jolt, in his chest. Bizarre, to see. He's real. All Dad's stories, the wall of memories, the books, and here he is, in grey socks, looking all over Dean's face like he's seeing it for the first time. "Guess you got your looks from your mom's side of the family," Uncle Dean says, finally, and Dad says, behind him, "Nice, dude," and Uncle Dean shrugs, unrepentant, but with an unexpected dimple quirking into his cheek, and holds out his hand to shake, and Dean takes it and has another shock at it, warm, callused, firm, real—while Uncle Dean says, wry, "Well, I guess some introductions are in order, huh?"

Uncle Dean and Dad share the house. It's nice, inside. Old fashioned in a way that feels comfortable, as Dean's come to expect. (He wonders, in a few hundred years—will new arrivals to heaven expect old-fashioned arcologies?) Uncle Dean brings beers from the kitchen and Dad takes his without even looking, drinking in Dean's face when Dean's doing the exact same to him. He looks so young. Younger, maybe, than he was even in the few pictures Dean has of him being a baby, held tiny in the crook of Dad's massive arm—some past time, some time Dean doesn't belong to, but Uncle Dean clearly does. Dad shakes his head after a few seconds, huffs again, rueful. "I don't even know where to start," he says.

Uncle Dean rolls his eyes, behind him, and says, "How about you ask the kid how he's doing, genius." Mean, but he squeezes Dad's shoulder too, and Dad bites his lip, looks at Dean, his head tipping. Asking.

It's awkward, but only in the way Dean would expect. To see his dad after so long—and both of them dead—and to explain… what? A life. Being a doctor, meeting a wife. Children. Grandchildren. "Great-grandpa Sammy," Uncle Dean fake-whispers, "told you you were old." Nudging Dad, half-sitting on the arm of his chair. Looking proud enough he could burst, although Dean doesn't know exactly why.

"Are you going to make dinner or are you just here to heckle?" Dad says, looking up, exasperated, and Uncle Dean raises his hands, says, "Oh, I'm here to heckle," but he gets up, too, says, "You get tired of the inquisition, kid, we've got more drinks in the kitchen," and cuffs Dad around the back of the head before he disappears down the blue-painted hall—and music comes on, after a moment. The kind of music that was on Dean's radio as he drove. Comfort sounds that go deep into some space beyond his bones.

"He's a lot, sorry," Dad says, after a second.

"I know, I read about it," Dean says, and Dad blinks at him, mouth half-open, before he remembers.

They have dinner. Uncle Dean makes burgers, fries, a spinach salad that Dean and Dad both groan at, and he looks at them across the table with his burger in his hands and shakes his head. No salad on his plate, Dean notices. They talk but about—nothing. Uncle Dean asks if the Broncos ever won the Superbowl again and Dean tries to dredge up an answer. Dad asks what his wife did for a living. Dean wants to ask things and doesn't know how. There's time, he knows, but for now all he can do is—watch. Dad leaning back in his chair with a beer, smiling at him while Uncle Dean tells some probably well-worn story about trying to fix the Impala in a rainstorm, and Dad was pissed for some reason and so kept handing him the wrong tools. "It was too dark to actually read the grip numbers," Dad says, patient like it's the hundredth time, and Uncle Dean says back, immediately, "Who needs the numbers? You can feel the weight in your hand!" Old arguments, well-worn, in the well-worn house. The way they move around each other, washing dishes, putting plates away. The way Dad's eyes will jump across the table, half a second before Uncle Dean's even opening his mouth, a smile already waiting to be pushed back down.

When it's night he says he should get back to his wife. "I'd like to meet her," Dad says, "some day."

"Gotta see who's willing to put up with a Winchester," Uncle Dean says, eyebrows waggling.

Dad sighs but nods, too. Dean gets folded into a hug, there under the tuck of his arm, and then he hugs Uncle Dean, too, impulsive and just—wanting to, feeling like a kid. Uncle Dean startles but hugs him back right away. "You're good, kid," he says, quiet against the side of Dean's head, and Dean nods and says, "Thanks," for more than he can say other than that, right then on this particular day, and then he gets into his car and pulls away from the house and looks back to see Uncle Dean gripping Dad's shoulder again while they watch him move away—and when he's home, after a blurring drive that's long enough for him to settle himself, he comes up the stairs to where his wife's warm in bed and slides in beside her and she says, sleepy, "How was it," and he says against her hair, "Perfect," because—it was. It was perfect.

Dean comes alone to their house twice more, on days when he needs it and doesn't see a reason not to. He brings his wife, the third time, and Dad's extremely polite and Uncle Dean asks her about engineering and Dean enjoys it, from the couch, while she gets the same interrogation he did, and they're driving home with her at the wheel, his eyes on the passing trees, before she says, "They're an interesting couple," and it doesn't strike him, for what may be a mile of blurring distance, why that sentence wasn't quite right.

It should be a shock. It isn't. That it isn't should, itself, be a shock, but he sits with it for a few days, the easy rhythm of heaven sliding around them.

He goes to see his mother, finally. She's in a place on a lakeshore. Her first husband, kind but remote, giving them space. She presses his hands between her own and he goes through the list of answers to all her questions, smiling, feeling déjà vu, and then says, cautious, that he's been to see Dad. "Oh!" she says, and doesn't seem upset. "How is he?"

"Good," he says. They never married, his parents—Dad had told him, much later, that it just didn't occur to him to ask—and he knew they didn't resent each other, but there wasn't much closeness there. He didn't realize how little until he was married himself. Still, he's cautious as he says: "He and my uncle have a place. Uncle Dean, you know?"

Mom sits back in her chair. "Well, then," she says, soft. She's youngish, too. Fifty maybe, her hair shot with grey. "That sounds about right."

He doesn't know how to ask but there's no way to do it other than just—to ask. "What do you know about him?"

Mom smiles, slow, and looks out at the lake. "Honey, your dad's a good man, but I think you know as well as I do that he doesn't give a lot away." Dean follows her look. A boat, far out on the water. Not close enough to hail. "He didn't talk about his brother, much. That said more than I think he knew it did. All those pictures. Well, you remember." She shakes her head, looking down at her lap. "I resented him for a while. A dead man. Silly of me. But then I suppose your dad could have resented Luke, if he'd—cared more. Sorry. That sounds like I'm angry, but I'm not. There just wasn't much left in Sam, that's all. He loved you and he loved someone that wasn't here anymore and there just wasn't room for me, or at least not room for what I needed. I wished I could've known him. Dean, I mean. I would've understood your dad a lot more, I think, but then—I don't think I would've ever met him, if Dean were around."

When he gets home he pulls a book off the shelf. Frail, the spine cracked badly. Supernatural, the first book in the whole series. When Dad was at college and the whole thing started. He sits on the floor by the bookshelf and lets the cup of tea his wife brings go cold on the rug, and reads again and again the scene—coming down the stairwell, finding the car in the garage, going through the details of the voice on the tape, on where their dad (Dean's grandfather) could possibly be, and Dad says there's this interview he can't skip. His whole future, on a plate. In the story, it's Dad's point of view, and he looks at Uncle Dean and Uncle Dean smirks, and Dad thinks, This is exactly what I was getting away from. Dean drags his thumb over the page, looks at the shelf. All those books. All the years in them, and the horrors in those. Hell, and apocalypse, and none of it euphemisms or easy metaphor. All the things Dad wanted to get away from—and then all the years, after, where he stayed exactly where he was. And then—a lifetime later—to come back home to a house, with a blue door, and his eyes not bothering to follow his brother as he leaves a room, because he knows without doubt that he'll be back.

In bed, he asks his wife, "When do you think the kids will get here?" and she turns over and stares at him, and says, "Hopefully not for years?"

He shakes his head, folds his arm under his head. "Duh," he says, and gets her to punch his chest lightly. "Ow. I meant… I don't know. What do you think their lives will be? Like… who will they be? I can't even imagine."

She stops trying to lightly beat him and goes thoughtful. Her thumb finds the little scar on her chin and rubs it, as is her habit, and her eyes slip over his shoulder to the distance. "They'll be—them." He raises his eyebrows, and she shrugs, rolling closer. "I mean, what do you want from me? I knew Abbie for fifty-one years and I still think that girl's a mystery. When she's… probably a grandmother herself, now, I guess. Is she still at Notre Dame? Are she and Andre happy? Are the boys healthy and do they like each other, and did she ever get Jacob to stop drawing cartoon dicks on the walls?" Dean laughs—god, he'd forgotten that—and she smiles at him, props her head on one fist. Says, softer, "Did she live the life she wanted to have? I don't know. I guess when she gets here we can ask her, but we'll never…"

No, they'll never. Dean touches the scar on her chin and she focuses on him, instead of some other world they're no longer privy to. "It's a venn diagram," he says, after a moment. "All of us. Abbie, overlapping with you and me, and then us overlapping with our parents, and on and on, all the way back. I guess we don't get to know what's outside the center parts."

"Even if there's a hundred and four crappily-written books about the other parts," she says, raising her eyebrows, and Dean shrugs, caught. She grins, shaking her head at him, and then squirms in close, tucking in under his chin. Kisses his throat, sighs. "Why not stop at a hundred? Seems random."

"I don't know, maybe the publisher wanted him to stretch it out," Dean says, and she hums, and puts her nose on his collarbone to settle in. He smooths her hair back, away from her shoulder. His favorite book is Swan Song, probably. The final one, as far as most people knew. His dad, the hero, saving humanity and the world, but that wasn't the best part. The best part was the army man, stuck in the door. His dad, looking at that, and meeting his brother's eye, and that being—enough. Just that, and all the life it represented. Enough.

"Venn diagrams," he says, aloud, quietly.

"Yes, you're very brilliant, Dr. Winchester," his wife says, mumbling. "Now go to sleep."

He kisses her hair, and does.

#ffcc #wincest #dean jr #my writing #this is again just sort of a collection of paragraphs #and it's--mostly what you asked for i think?#but mainly it's me musing about the unknowability of parents and children #so uh #that's what i was able to manage #hopefully i'll remember how to construct a story soon lol

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