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bright-whump · 3 years

Note

Hey! Love your writing! Are you comfortable with non-con writing requests? If so can you write a little bit of Malcolm/John Watkins non-con in the episode “Alone Time”? Thanks! (Also, you are one of the best whump writers on Tumblr in my humble opinion)

🥺💕🥰 thank you so much omg! this made me smile so much ahhh :3 and yes i am, and why yes...yes i can... (although i wasn't totally sure how nsfw you wanted so, i guess, lemme know if there should be a part 2 😌)

CWs: noncon touching, noncon kissing, implied/fade-to-black noncon, creepy/intimate whumper, mentions of religion

"You really are just...so pretty, little Malcolm. Did you know that?"

Malcolm doesn't move. Couldn't, even if he wanted to, and he definitely hasn't even the slightest urge. He wants to lay here, eyes closed, curled into himself on the cold concrete under the single ratty, torn blanket he's been granted if only to keep him alive and pretend he isn't awake. Convince John he isn't awake, more importantly, because he doesn't want to hear any more.

John speaks again anyway. He sees himself as the only one here worthy of saying anything at all. Malcolm is meant to be silent, to be obedient, to listen and nod and accept.

"I know you're awake. That hand of yours...tsk. It doesn't do that when you're not."

Malcolm tucks his arm closer to himself, but even then the tremor in his hand shakes the blanket, and now that he's moved the chains around his wrists start rattling too.

"Oh, Malcolm. Malcolm, Malcolm, Malcolm. What are we going to do with you?"

He hates the way John says his name. He hates the way John speaks to him. He doesn't reply, still, and tries to make himself even smaller as John's boots tap tap against the cement with every step, as he circles around Malcolm's body and Malcolm can hear every movement, spiking his heart rate higher and his breathing into panting, no matter how hard he tries to stay calm.

He can't anymore. After what must be days of taunting and torture and withdrawal from his medications, he just can't pretend he's okay anymore. He can't glare at John with defiance so strong it would make the man try to slap it off his face, because he can't willingly risk another blow to his aching, blurry head. He can't read John's face or his intentions when he's down here because he's so dizzy he can barely see at all, and he can't try to talk to him, to get to him, because John has proven again and again and again that he doesn't want to be reached.

He doesn't want Malcolm's help. He wants Malcolm's complete and utter submission, his repentance, and that's just not something he'll allow himself to give. He won't. He just won't.

They're coming for him. Gil, his team, his friends—no, his family—they're going to save him. He knows they will. He trusts them, more than anything. And they'd want him to be strong. So he has to be.

A hand strokes down his back, and even through the blanket and his shredded shirt it burns, scratches and pulls at the wounds that litter his body underneath. He gasps, biting his lip, and keeps his eyes squeezed shut as John pulls the blanket off of him and tosses it away.

Maybe he'll give it back when he leaves, or maybe he won't. Malcolm can't expect a single thing from a man with no set behavioral pattern, doing everything and then nothing, triggered randomly into bursts of violence and then kindness, feigned and yet real enough to have convinced him the first time.

It's not kindness. It's something else, something far more dangerous, and it gets worse each time. It gets closer to something he didn't think he had to fear, but that now, with the increasing intensity of unwanted 'admiration', as John calls it, he realizes is a very real threat.

John runs cold fingers over the back of Malcolm's neck, where only Gil's hand should ever be, and it, combined with a lack of barrier to the freezing air, sends a shiver so violent through Malcolm's body that a whimper escapes his cracked lips.

"Oh, no..." John murmurs, slipping a finger down into Malcolm's shirt collar. "What was that?"

Malcolm doesn't want to be as weak as he is. He hates it. He wants to do something, to break free somehow and escape, but he can't. He's tried. He's so exhausted, so goddamn thirsty, his mouth so dry that when he whispers, "Stop..." it's barely audible at all. It's almost like he didn't say it at all.

John reaches over, pulls him onto his back, and watches with unmasked joy as Malcolm squirms and then goes still again, gasping for air because just that has taken up all his energy.

"Hush. You're a strong boy, aren't you? You can take so much, can't you? Everything I give you...you just...take it."

He reaches up, and Malcolm flinches once expecting a blow, and then again when instead, far worse, John's finger swipes across his lower lip, then the upper, and then settles there, pressed against them. Malcolm can't even protest, because he's too afraid to open his mouth.

"No," John says, quietly. "You're not very strong at all, really. Look at you. Letting me do anything I want to you. Oh, your father would be so disappointed...everything he wanted you to be...everything he did for you..."

Malcolm debates biting him, gritting his teeth, and John pulls his finger away before he can, instead cupping his hand against the front of Malcolm's throat and pushing just enough to make him gag.

"I saw that. Naughty little sinner. You will respect your savior. And you'll repent for what you did to him. I'll make sure of it. It is my mission, after all."

He looks Malcolm over, head to toe, in a smooth sweep of his eyes that makes Malcolm feel more degraded, less human than ever in his life, and then breathes in deep through his nose. He brushes Malcolm's hair back with his other hand, and smiles down at him.

"And I'll complete it," he says, "whatever you make me have to do to achieve that."

Malcolm doesn't even have the chance to fully process the words before John leans over and kisses him. It shocks him, stuns him completely, and then the adrenaline that prickles his skin and runs cold through his veins gives him enough strength to yank back, to reach up to fight—

The shackles around his wrists dig painfully into his skin as the chain connected to the floor pulls taut, too short for him, in this position, to do more than lay them against his stomach, and Malcolm chokes out a cry of despair. He kicks his legs out, tries to turn back onto his side, but John holds him still by his throat, pins him to the floor by it and forces him to stay there until John is done and pulls back.

"My little Malcolm," he says, licking his lips. "I've wanted to do that for a very long time."

Unable to form a response, unable to breathe, somehow more terrified than ever before, Malcolm can only stare up at him. He yanks on his hands again, hard enough he feels the wounds already circling his wrists start to drip blood down his arms again, and John chuckles.

"Careful, little one...oh, but I know just how you never like to be careful."

He releases Malcolm's throat, lets him suck in a desperate, ragged gasp, and then kisses him again.

"Always walking right into danger..." His hand slips under Malcolm's shirt, and Malcolm's shout is muffled by another kiss. "Always doing everything you're not supposed to...always disobedient."

"Stopstopstop—" Malcolm manages to get out at last, shaking his head roughly, but it hurts him so much, makes him so unbearably dizzy he's nearly sick, and he's forced to stop again, blinking hard and begging things to stop spinning. "J-John, stop—"

"You don't leave me any other choice," John tells him, running his palm over Malcolm's belly, index finger dipping beneath his waistband. "You don't react the way I want you to, the way I need you to, otherwise."

"Please—" Malcolm gasps, grabbing onto John's hand with a grip too weak to cause any damage, even as he digs his nails in. "Please, w-what—what—I'll d-do anything, please, I-I'll—I'll be good, John, just don't—"

John pulls him a little more onto his side, towards John, so his hands are forced even further out of his way, his arms aching as they're awkwardly wrenched, and Malcolm brings his knees up and tries desperately to protect himself, to stop this.

"Don't act shy now," John says, starting to unbutton his shirt, to slide it off his shoulders, something he's done before to cut and whip Malcolm's skin but never like this. "You've done nothing but sin your entire life, all for God Himself to see. You betrayed your blood. You dedicated your life to it. You're a traitorous little whore, boy...don't pretend you have any shame or dignity left. If you did, you wouldn't have pushed me to this."

He leans over Malcolm, kissing over his jaw, up to his ear.

"I don't mind, though," he breathes, right into it, and Malcolm's trembling so badly his teeth are chattering. "I don't mind. My purpose is to teach you. To make you truly regret all you've done wrong, and then bring you back to the right path. I realize now that this is the only way to do it."

"It's not," Malcolm sobs, and he isn't sure how he's even capable of tears, but they burn his eyes and run hot down his face as he gives a last effort to get free and gets nowhere. He can't. He can't. "John, please."

"You beg so beautifully, little Malcolm...but only to get what you want. Your father spoiled you. This world has spoiled you. But not anymore. I'm here to give you what you need."

He nips Malcolm's ear, and Malcolm cries out for help, help he knows isn't going to come fast enough, and maybe that won't come at all.

Maybe, after this, he won't want it to.

"Hush now. Remember that this is all for you. It's all for you. You just need to learn...and then you'll understand. You'll know. You'll be forgiven, just like I was. We're His favorites, Malcolm...and you are mine."

#whump #malcolm bright whump #whumpblr #captivity #captivity whump #noncon touching #noncon kissing #implied noncon #creepy whumper #intimate whumper #bright.writes #txt

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samfraserlover · 3 years

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You Made Me Hate This City{Part 2, Fear Street 1994 fanfic}

𝘉𝘦𝘯 𝘞𝘢𝘵𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘴 𝘱𝘭𝘢𝘺𝘦𝘥 𝘣𝘺 𝘋𝘺𝘭𝘢𝘯 𝘮𝘤𝘥𝘦𝘳𝘮𝘰𝘵𝘵- ᴅᴇᴀᴅʙᴇᴀᴛ ᴅᴀᴅ

𝑉𝑖𝑣𝑖𝑒𝑛 𝑊𝑎𝑡𝑘𝑖𝑛𝑠 𝑝𝑙𝑎𝑦𝑒𝑑 𝑏𝑦 𝐶𝑜𝑛𝑛𝑖𝑒 𝐵𝑟𝑖𝑡𝑡𝑜𝑛- 𝑇ℎ𝑒 𝑚𝑜𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑟 𝑤ℎ𝑜𝑠 𝑡𝑟𝑦𝑖𝑛𝑔 ℎ𝑒𝑟 𝑏𝑒𝑠𝑡

Warnings: Bullying, blood mentions, homophobia, family death.

“Just fucking leave me alone!” Violet was sick, in almost every way. she was homesick, wanting to be freed from the hospital, she was sick of missing her sister, being without Heather was like hell on earth, she was sick of the pain, sick of the staff, sick of the meds, and sick of her parents. “Come on honey, talk to us!” her mother yelled, her shrill voice making Violet wince. ”I won’t! I won’t when you don’t even care, about anything! I could have died, and I was seriously injured, almost bleed out. but the fact that you only care about your ”reputation“ that is always gonna be shit! We’re Shadyside you can‘t fix that, and your daughter died, heather. Don’t You dare forget about her, and don’t even think about apologizing, you can‘t fix everything with a simple ”I’m sorry I love you“ and Ice cream anymore.“ Violet snapped, leaving her parents dumbfounded. “How dare you speak to me or your mother that way!” Her Dad voiced but Violet was quick to reply. ”save it for your mistress dad.” ----------------------------------------------------------------------------- The pep rally wasn't exactly the place Violet wanted to be, she hated the pity looks, the postcards, the smiles and hugs when she knew half of these people didn't like or know her sister, they just wanted to seem nice, when none of them fucking cared, except for one, Kate Schmidt. Violet had known her for a while, and they were sort of friends, maybe even more. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------ Back on the bus, after the shit show, it was at the pep rally, when she got into a fight with a girl named Lee? Leigh? whatever the fuck her name was, she stepped out of line, Violet gladly put her back. “Hey, I heard that the slut Heather Watkins was killed by her boyfriend, is that true?” Violet was fuming, smoke coming off her ears, she walked up to the bully “Hey! you don't know me, why are you doing this?” Violet frowned, causing the girl to smirk back at her. “Because I can, hey, are you gonna take after your sister and get killed by your boyfriend? or maybe your girlfriend you fucking freak!” She spat. Violet smirked as Lee turned away, catching her attention. “Here's your answer!” Violet smiled as the girl turned around, dragging her fist across lees face. this caused a fight to break out, kicking and scratching, before Violet brunt Leigh with her blunt, she held it there, then she was picked up and pulled away by her friend, Simon. “hey Vee” he grinned. Vee grinned back at him, turning to spit on the bitch before yelling “Don’t talk about my sister ever again or ill be back, you fuck!”

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They had managed to drown out the chanting but got pulled from their thoughts when a car pulled up behind them, throwing cans at them. It seemed Deena noticed too because she got up to look closer, Violet by her side, both flinching when another can was throw. The men in the car were wearing skull masks, and Violet wanted to faint. as she started to fall, her head was dizzy and her body felt as if a ton of bricks were dropped on it. But she never hit the floor. turning she saw Kate, who was speaking but it was muffled, blurred. Violet felt like they were just submerged in the ocean, everyone playing the role of fishes underwater. She was sat down, and then soon after felt the bus stop. Deena's yells and cry's snapped Violet out of it, and they follower Deena, Simon, and Kate.

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“Sam? Sam holy shit what happened to you?” Violet cried out, concerned about seeing her former friend in the woods, bloody nose and crashed car. “We need to clear her airway, I got this,” said Simon before he asked Sam how many fingers he was holding up, causing Violet to smirk and chuckle. He’s such a doofus. after Sam was declared fine by Dr Kalivoda, she threw up blood, getting it on Simon, causing so to splash on them. “Oh my god, that is fucking gnarly.” Violet cringes, wiping some blood off of her sweater with her fingers. Sam croaked out a weak “sorry” before getting up, being led to the nurses and cops waiting by the bus. Violet tried to avoid the cops, the keyword “tried” as Sheriff Goode stopped them, and Violet let out a silent groan and turned to the Sheriff. “Hello Nick, how are you on this lovely evening?’ Violet asked, wanting to get on his nerves, maybe he would leave them alone. “I’d be better if you called me Sheriff Goode, but Violet this is the second crime scene you've been at, what is going on? are you ok?” Violet appreciated the concern but he rubbed the wrong way, they didn't trust cops. “oh yeah getting attacked, hospitalized, and watching my sister and best friend die right in front of me, All my fault right?” She spat, causing Nicks face to twist into a frown. “No Violet, that's not what I-” he didn't get to finish his sentence before she cut him off. “If you're wondering what happened, I saw the car, they were throwing cans, I saw the skull mask and freaked out, went into a panic, then the bus stopped, I snapped out of it and saw that the car had crashed. End of story, ok? Have a nice night, Sherriff Goode.”.

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#oc #simon kalivoda #kate schmidt #nick goode #deena johnson #fear street 1994 #sam fraser #ahs

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wonder-boy · 4 years

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Trapped

For @malclombright; From Prompt 65: “Look at me—just breathe, okay?”

“Mother?”

The Milton estate is quiet. There’s no sign of their house staff so Malcolm assumes his mother sent most of them home. She isn’t answering his calls. He takes another look through the rooms but finds nothing - no movement, no signs of life drifting through.

It’s unusually empty and the feeling in his gut tells him something is amiss.

He walks up the stairs and heads down the hallway to see his old bedroom. The door creaks on the hinges when it opens and he leans in to flip the switch by the frame. His room lit up in blues, everything left untouched, still in its place as if he never left. He smiles as the nostalgia floods in, picking up some of his favorite books off the shelf, going through the drawers, reminiscing on the better days.

He moves away from his desk to stand by his bed. He runs his fingertips on the soft sheets and thinks back to all of the bed time stories, the forts he made with Ainsley, and the feeling of his mother tucking him in at night.

Of course, he can’t forget the moment when things stopped making sense. When there were lapses in his memory but at the time, he didn’t understand why. Or why his father spent more time downstairs, working well into the night on a secret project the world wasn’t ready for.

The thoughts drive Malcolm away from his bed back to the hallway and down the stairs towards his father’s playroom.

After Watkins, Jessica boarded up his study again as well as the crack in the wall that led to the hidden basement. Even though he’s been down here before, anxiety always lingers in the back of his mind every time he walks down the steps.

The hall is empty. His mother’s storage is gone. Everything except the chest.

Malcolm’s heart sinks to his stomach. It sits at the end of the hall, untouched, still in its place as if he never left. As if he never got caught. He looks around the room, wondering if it was some cruel joke but no one pops out from the corners. He slowly walks toward it with caution, fixed on the unlocked latch that pulls him forward. His breathing fills up the room but he’s not aware of it.

He hears a faint cry emerge from the box that stops him dead in his tracks. His heart pounds in his chest when he hears her - Sophie - the case he’s certain he’s already solved the minute Eve walked out of his life. Something’s wrong. Malcolm starts to back away in a panic, stepping away from her despite her desperate pleas for help. He knows how this ends.

The second his back touches a wall, his right arm is twisted behind his back and a gag crushes his face, cutting off his air supply. Something's definitely wrong.

His muffled screams fall on deaf ears, frantically kicking in the arms of someone much bigger, stronger, holding him there. Malcolm tries to hold his breath until he can get some leverage but he trips and sputters, inhaling the sweet smell that brings back memories of his fath–

“Stop fighting, my boy,”

He whimpers in fear against his hand, the edges of his vision already blurring. “That’s it, Malcolm,” his father coos in his ear as his body gradually goes slack in his arms, no fight left in him. His adrenaline starts to fade as his eyes close and his head lulls to the side. Before everything goes black, Malcolm catches his haunting last words.

“Time to finish what I started.”

Malcolm wakes up screeching, his heart hammering, and his breath coming out in painful hitches. He can’t breathe. The sweet smell of the gag makes him dizzy and nauseous but immediately swallows the bile with a grimace. The heart monitor sounds off like an alarm, and Jessica runs to his bedside, gently laying her hand on his clenched fists.

“There, there, Malcolm, it was just a dream,” she soothes, “you’re safe. You’re safe with me.” His eyes land on hers like a deer caught in headlights, not entirely sure of what he’s seeing. He looks around the room then down in his lap; he’s in a hospital. His shoulders slack as he tries to work on his breathing but the residual fear keeps his heart from slowing down.

“What is this...” he pants. Jessica frowns, “You’re in the hospital, dear, don’t you remember? You were shot on a case and - oh, god.” Her eyes drift to his stomach in horror at the dark red patch seeping through his gown. “What–” She’s up on her feet, pressing the nurse call button and running to the door, swinging it open and calling for someone to help her son.

As if on cue, a handful of nurses flood his room.

Their hands are everywhere, startling Malcolm into a frenzy, undoing the work he’s done to get himself to calm down. “No, stop,” he mumbles but no one listens. The heart monitor sounds off again as he pushes a couple of the nurses who try to prod his wound to get a better look.

“Someone hold him down,” says a voice behind him, and sure enough, an arm reaches across his chest to lay him back down. When his arms are restricted, the faint sweet smell clouds his senses again and Malcolm starts to thrash in fear.

“I can’t get a good look if he’s moving,”

“His BP is rising,”

“He’s been cleared for Midazolam,”

He writhes around in bed, not bothered by the shooting pain in his side or his mother’s attempts to get his attention. “No - stop - get off me!” Two pairs of hands hold his wrists down and rest the other hand on his chest with enough pressure to stifle his movements.

“I’m fine, I swear. Please, just let me go!” He cries out, face scrunched in agony. His flailing gets him nowhere but he doesn’t slow down, straining his muscles to pull himself free.

Jessica nods and mumbles something to one of the nurses. She moves to his bedside with a sympathetic smile and a worried look on her face as she tries to run a hand through his unkempt hair. “Malcolm, I need you to stop moving, sweetie.” Her voice is eerily calm, almost as if she knew something he didn’t.

“What’s happening? Tell them to release me, mother.” She reaches to caress his face, her expression crumbling as the nurse walks behind her to his other side with something clear in her hand. “They have to put you under, Malcolm, so they can fix you. They can’t do that if you keep moving, dear.”

Before he could respond, something sharp pricks his right arm and his head whips around just as it leaves his skin.

“No...” he whispers.

A sedative.

“No. No no no - mother, you can’t do this, you can’t,” he mumbles, panic quickly swelling inside him. His breath becomes shallow in quick fearful gasps, hitching as his body starts to shake. Tears well up in his eyes and his lip quivers. Malcolm starts to hyperventilate as he vigorously shakes his head, trying to reach out to Jessica for help but the nurses won’t let him go.

“Mom...mom, please don’t,” he chokes on a sob between breaths, “don’t send me back there, please. Please don’t send me back to him,” he panicked breathing became loud and ragged as he cried harder, delirious as the drug worked through his bloodstream.

She felt absolutely horrible. Jessica felt helpless when she saw how scared he was; she felt even guiltier knowing she’s the one who even made the call. The sheer terror in his eyes brought her back to a time where the night terrors manifested, and tore through him until he was sobbing in her arms in the middle of the night.

She ached to hold him now. To wipe the tears from his face, to tell him everything’s going to be alright; she couldn’t do that now. She had to sit and watch her son suffer at the mercy of his own mind. The hurt in her heart makes her reach out anyways, her instinct to try and comfort him as much as she could.

“Look at me, Malcolm,” she gently held his face between her palms. “Look at me—just breathe, okay? Everything’s going to be fine, my love.”

He tried to shake his head but it kept swaying. “He’s going to kill me,” he whimpers, forcing himself to look at her dead in the eyes, “and it’s all your fault.”

Her smile fades. Malcolm’s eyes flutter open, trying to fight the effects taking over but it’s no use. His brows knit together in anger, then dissipate into something resembling fear when his vision starts to go black and his body finally relaxes against the hands of the nurses watching him.

They start talking among themselves as they figure out how to manage the bleeding. Jessica tunes them out. His words don’t sit right with her; the pain in his voice was unnerving. She knew where his hurt came from. He felt betrayed.

Once again, she failed to protect him.

So, when he came to, Martin is there, smiling from ear to ear with the biggest predatory grin on his face.

“Now, where were we?”

#happy prodigal monday!#i leave you with this #prodigal son #ps fics #prompt #malcolm bright #jessica whitly #martin whitly #i hate his ass so much #also if you wanna leave some prompts pls do!#adding the read more bc this is kinda long #my fic

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allyvampirelass29 · 4 years

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Take the Night Road Home

Take the Night Road Home A NOS4A2 Review By: Allyssa J. Watkins

How black is your soul? She took the Shorter Way to the Night Road A chink of glass and a sarcastic toast A chill in the air as he feels her approach Knives drawn in a parking lot Gasoline Fire and Eyes of Black Frost Drunk Whore Mothers are best left forgot To kill her is a kindness Her son, his to soothe Chin up, Victoria I'm the best thing that ever happened to you........

HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO ME!!!!!! Yes, this SPECTACULAR episode is extra special for me, not only because it was a delirious joy and rare return to form, but because it premiered on July 5th, 2020, my thirtieth birthday, and MY GOD what a TREAT!!!!! Yes, while last week's episode felt like a rotten trick, The Night Road was an absolute treat, with the ooey gooey, chocolatey center, of Vic FINALLY facing off against Charlie!!!! I'm MESMERIZED, I am in LOVE with this episode, and the second it ended, I danced around my living room and started it over again!!!! I feel like gushing, after one HELL of a DREAM DATE!!!!

PARNASSUS!!!!! Oh you guys, ever since the first Parnassus episode, I have been dyinggggg to go back to this surreal nexus of Creative Thought, this funny little pub, where the darker Strong Creatives gather and commiserate!!! I must say, I was so refreshed to find Abe infinitely more agreeable and interesting than the bitter, mouthy, nihilistic, sexist fiend who "greeted," our Man Manx, on his last visit! Charlie is as snarky and charming as ever, and I swear Zachary Quinto grows more BEAUTIFUL, and alive with dark allure each new episode!!! So much intrigue in his and Abe's conversation, and I loved this new mystery of The Hour Glass..... So many new threads, I don't know which to pull first!!! Being in the dark can be such fun!!! I also thought that was so witty of Charlie when he said, "That's the spirit, Abe," with a sneaky smirk, as Abe said, "I wish you had died, Chuck." I liked him calling him Chuck, I thought that was cute, and I really ache to know more about their bizarre friendship, and this apparent debt Abe owes Charlie!!!

My absolute favourite scene was the Knife Fight in the Parnassus Parking Lot, and it was there I realized what had been so obviously lacking in the first two episodes. Charlie and Vic...... Full strength and face to face. That seething hatred, that electric chemistry, the fire and frost, the reveling rivalry. The dark flirtation as Charlie tells Vic he's the best thing that ever happened to her. To her son. GOD, it was ambrosia for the soul!!! Speaking of souls, I loved Charlie's coyness, haughtily asking Vic what darkness had seeped into her soul, and then telling her exactly why she was able to access The Night Road. He took such pleasure in it, scolding her about children born out of wedlock, and drunk whore mothers, flinging her down to his level, maybe even putting his own moral compass slightly above hers. The responsible father, and the screw-up teen mother. Their banter was phenomenal, and smouldering, I couldn't get enough, Vic telling Charlie she'd sacrifice her life to stop him, and Charlie simpering sadistic, saying he'd gladly take it from her, for the sake of everyone she loved so they wouldn't have to hurt anymore. WOW. I was like this is it, THIS is the NOS4A2 that I fell in LOVE with!!!! Yes, I was a bit glum that the fantastic tease, didn't lead into an all out skirmish, and bar brawl, but patience Pets, the season's only just begun, and I appreciated them leaving us with wanting more.

Charlie's coaxing encounter with Wayne was absolutely adorable!!! I grinned the entire time, ridiculously blissful, and I loved how touched and surprised Charlie was when young Master Wayne asked if he was feeling better!!! Sweet Baby!!! Aaaaaah and how CUTE was that when Charlie wagged his finger in gentle reprimand, reminding Wayne it was bad manners to abscond without saying a proper goodbye!? My heart twittered warily when Wayne took the candy cane, and I saw all the presents, and a brand new basketball inside the Wraith, but something told me it was not going to be that easy, after all Wayne is his mother's son. My suspicions proved true, as Charlie was thwarted even by the Littlest McQueen, failing to have said a rather important password. I giggled, adoringly, as Charlie tried to wave it off saying, "There are no passwords in Christmasland," but our sharp little lad, was much too clever for that, and took off running!!! I LOVE WAYNE, I LOVE this darling, beautiful little boy, and his precious curls, and deep, inquisitive eyes. Charlie having two quick McQueens to foil his dastardly plots is just too much fun!!!

Much less fun however, was the knock down, drag out, fight to the near death between Lou Carmody, who has to be the COOLEST, nicest, most congenial guy in the WORLD, and that BASTARD Bing Partridge!!!! I don't think I took a breath the entire time, and I was like I SWEAR Bing, if you FREAKING hurt Lou, you will incur my WRATH, you CREEPSTER Son of a BITCH!!! I absolutely LOVED the hidden message he left for Vic, Lou earning serious fanboy cred with the AWESOME Obi-Won reference, and I take it back, what I said about him being Vic's sidekick, because that teddy bear of a man was a BADASS Hero tonight, beating the hell out of Bing, and single-handedly saving his son from Manx's clutches!!!!

I also felt redemption was in order for Vic's parents, as shockingly they're doing better than Vic herself!!! Chris is sober even, finding solace from his demons in the woods, and the heartbreak on his face when he finds Vic's stash of minibar bottles in her pockets, is profound. He blames himself. His little girl inherited her Old Man's coping mechanisms, and nothing terrifies him more. I loved that he kept her sketchbook too, as a way to keep her close. Linda though, WOW what a change, Linda is a new woman!!! Gone, is that pale, schizophrenic shell of a battered wife. She's got a new hairstyle and a confident, secure attitude to match. It was such a nice shock to see her thriving, in a new relationship, full of good advice for Vic, and I think she's ready to heal, both from the pain she endured, and the pain she's caused. You go, Linda!!!

Speaking of Mothers........ Hold onto your Santa hats, Kids, because Mrs. Manx LIVES!!!! Millie's shocking discovery that her mauled mother, or at least a glazed-eyed apparition of her, still haunts her old house in Christmasland, stole the air from my lungs!!! WHAT has Charlie been up to beyond the borders of his merry inscape!? Crafting Sleigh House from memory, along with raising his own murdered wife!? My GOD, this episode came to WIN, going hard, even until the end!!! I have a theory that Cassie Manx has everything to do with why Charles has requested an introduction with the infamous Hour Glass Man, whom I suspect can alter time. I think Charlie wants to reunite the family Manx, bring back his wife, which in itself is a dizzying revelation, because I thought he ached to be rid of her long before that first AWFUL trip to Christmasland. I'm excited to see if I'm right, wondering at where they're going with this, and how Cassie will come back into the story. Could she love our Charlie again even after the atrocities he loosed upon her? I think maybe so....... I would. To love Charlie Manx once, is to LOVE him forever.

The Night Road is NOS4A2 at its coming-out-swinging best, and I feel like, after a few rocky patches and speed bumps from the previous scattered episodes, Season 2 is back on track and set to be BETTER than anything we've EVER seen before!!! My BEST BIRTHDAY PRESENT EVER, and I'm so happy I took the Night Road Home, back to the unique and enthralling, spine-tingling fun storytelling that I LOVE!!!! Thank you Charlie, tonight was the PERFECT date I've been WAITING for!!!! Same time, next week, Handsome?

#nos4a2 review #nos4a2 #charlie manx #vic mcqueen #bing partridge #lou carmody #wayne mcqueen #the night road

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the-empress-7 · 4 years

Note

We can all comment while tagging the accounts. The posts are horrible, the videos are dizzying. It's such a turnaround from the posts of the past months. The FA Cup is HUGE but the coverage, wth. I'm sure there are people tracking that. David Watkins might be deliberately sabotaging them if he's loyal to the Sue-ssexes. He was there at MMs ringless papwalk after Natl Theater.

Was he really? I did not know that.

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garbotuesday · 5 years

Text

Spontaneous

Went through my computer and found this half-finished WIP, and decided to un-WIP it. I like writing one-shots lol. Also this is the first time I’ve ever written any stevetony or superfamily. I’m surprised how much I liked it!

The moment the door slid shut behind them and Tony heard the sweet hydraulic kiss of the door's edge meeting the wall, he could've cried. He was tired deep down in his bones, in a way that only a full day's rest could fix. Steve fell into step next to him, and the two collapsed onto the couch and leaned into one another.

“Welcome home, sirs,” Jarvis intoned, dimming the lights without needing to be instructed.

“I'm going to rest here for a sec,” Steven said, toeing off his boots and letting them fall to the ground. “Then I'm going back to our room to sleep for another seventy years.”

“I'll join you,” Tony said with a soft sigh. The two men sat on the couch quietly and just breathed for the first time in almost three days.

“Jarv,” Tony slurred out, already half sleeping. “Peter?”

“I'm sorry, sir?”

“Peter. Where is he? I want to say hello and goodnight to the little squirt before I sleep the rest of my life away.”

“Peter instructed that you should call him when you returned home,” Jarvis said. “He isn't in at the moment.”

Steve grunted. “Probably out with Ned.”

“Alright.” Another ripping yawn tore through Tony's face. “Jarvis, call Peter. Put him on speakerphone.”

Both men settled more comfortably into the couch, stretching their legs out onto the glass table in front of them as the sound of a ringing phone echoed overhead. Tony deliberately scooted into Steve's space and rested his head on Steve's shoulder. Steve snorted and lolled his head to the side, laying his cheek in Tony's hair. Tony resolved that as soon as they hung up with Peter, they were going to shut their eyes and sleep right then and there on the couch, his back be damned.

Peter picked up after three rings. “Hey, Dad,” he said casually. “Welcome back.”

“Hey, kiddo. Jarvis said to call you when we got back. Where ya at?”

“Where's Pops?” Peter asked. “I'm here, Pete,” Steve said.

“How did the mission go?”

“Well enough,” Steve answered flatly. “Fury was pleased, at least.”

“You sound dead on your feet,” Peter said with a light snort. “You been debriefed yet?”

“Debriefed, fed, and showered,” Tony answered. “Now the only thing keeping us from going into hibernation for a season is you, kid. Where are you?”

“Wow, showered already?” Peter asked. “Fury must have been very pleased to roll out the red carpet like that.”

Tony opened his eyes. Peter had pivoted off of the question twice now. “I notice you haven't answered my question yet, Pete.”

Peter was silent for a moment. Steve heard him take a slow, shaky breath. “I'm not ignoring it, I just...wanted to make sure you didn't have to go back to work first.”

“Peter,” Steve said, raising his head off of the back of the couch a bit. “Where are you?”

“I will tell you,” Peter said slowly, his voice rising in the verbal equivalent of holding up a finger. “But first I need you to know that I'm fine, okay?”

Tony and Steve were both sitting up now. “Peter,” Tony said, more sternly this time. “This isn't funny. Where the hell are you?”

“I'm at St. Olga's Hospital,” Peter answered reluctantly. “My, um...my lung collapsed.”

0-0-0

There were undercover SHIELD agents in the hallway of the hospital guarding Peter's room when Tony and Steve came barreling toward them. To their credit, they didn't flinch away from the furious gazes of the two men while they staunchly asked for identification.

They both rocketed inside the room and stopped short just at the edge of the bed. Peter was there, sitting up slightly but looking absolutely spent in his blankets. He was wrapped in the hospital blankets, but also his favorite blanket from the Tower, the soft one with the big yellow duck on it. Someone had got it for Steve as a joke and Peter had never given it back.

There was a pulse monitor on his finger leading to a machine that loudly counted the beats, a nasal canula that went into Peter's nose, an IV, and an ominous looking tube that disappeared into the blankets. Tony felt bile rise up in his own chest. His kid was sitting here covered in a million fucking wires and he hadn't even been given a phone call. A glance at Steve's stoic face told Tony that he was feeling much the same.

Peter looked blearily at the two of them. “Sorry,” he said softly.

Tony took a step forward and grabbed the railing of the bed, forcing himself to breathe and not pass out. “Why sorry, Bambi?” he struggled to get out. “Not your fault.”

Peter shrugged. “You both look pissed. Usually saying sorry does the trick.”

Steve came forward and ran his hand through Peter's hair. Some defensive part of Peter's expression melted and he leaned gratefully into his father's touch.

“You have nothing to apologize for,” Steve told Peter. “You're not the one we're angry with.”

“I'm going to strangle Fury,” Tony said, voice thick. “There's no way that one-eyed bastard didn't know you were laid up in a hospital room, and he just let us get on with the debrief without telling us.”

“I would advise against making such idle threats in a hospital, Mr. Stark,” Fury drawled, looking bored in the doorway.

“Idle?” Tony asked, giving Fury a look that would have made a lesser man flinch. “If you would like to see things get very fucking real, continue to stand in the doorway like this isn't your fault. I dare you.”

Fury rolled his eyes and took a very bold step inside the hospital room. “For you information, Tony, this isn't my fault. It isn't anyone's fault, as this gentleman is willing to explain to you if you're willing to stand down.”

Only then did they notice the small man in the lab coat so slight and unassuming he'd been completely eclipsed by Fury's presence. Tony didn't break eye contact with Fury, but he did make the effort to unclench his fists.

“Hey, Dr. Watkins,” Peter said in a voice that was little more than a whisper. Tony and Steven both looked at Peter in concern. Their son was clearly exhausted and very pale.

The doctor smiled at him as the came forward and looked over the monitors on Peter's left. “Hello, Peter. Dads, it's nice to meet you.”

Tony was in no mood, but Steve made polite effort and shook Dr. Watkins' hand. Dr. Watson gave launched into a quick rundown of what was going on. It was called a spontaneous pneumothorax. Apparently a hole had opened in their son's lung, and thus far, there was absolutely no telling what had caused it or if it would happen again.

He left both men to wrestle with that while he turned to Peter with a wizened smile. “ And how are we feeling this afternoon? Better or worse than yesterday night?”

Before Peter could answer, Tony's voice whipped across the small room at the doctor furiously. “What happened yesterday night?”

“Oh, another small hole opened up on the left side, a few centimeters below the first one,” Dr. Watkins said, taking a step forward and pressing two fingers gently into Peter's side. Peter's face went even whiter and he let out a sound so pitiful Steve instantly reached for his hand.

Dr. Watkins' made a small noise of disapproval. “I had hoped that would feel better by now,” he said gently. “If it's still causing you that much pain, we can up the drip a bit more.”

Peter shook his head, keeping his eyes closed. “It makes me dizzy,” he said with a grunt. “Don't want to throw up any more today.”

“Okay,” Tony said, clapping his hands together once. Vomiting, IV's, not one but two holes in his son's lung – it was enough. Tony wanted him home, now. “No need to worry about the IV, Peter will coming home with us now.”

Peter looked up at him and blinked owlishly the way he did when he was sick, one eye at a time. Dr. Watkins' brow furrowed. “I can't sign off on that currently-”

“We have our own private medical facilities,” Steve said, gripping Peter's hand tighter. “And an ever-present rotating staff of medical personnel.”

Dr. Watkins lifted a brow and looked over to Fury, who nodded once. Dr. Watkins nodded slowly and turned back to Tony. “Then may I speak with these doctors before I release him? There are a number of delicate points they must be aware of to treat him effectively.”

Tony robotically rattled off a phone number that would go straight to Cho's office. Dr. Watkins promised to be back in no time, heading out to make the phone call from his office. It wasn't necessary, there was a phone right by Peter's head, but a man smart enough to get a medical degree was certainly smart enough to read the rising tension in the room.

Tony turned to Fury, who still looked unimpressed in the face of Tony's anger. “I just want to know,” Tony said slowly, “why we weren't informed.”

Fury made a bitch please face at him. “I'm not the one to ask,” he said, pointing at Peter with his chin.

When both men rounded on their son, Peter flinched. “Um-”

“In any case,” Fury said, cutting Peter off. “I just wanted to be sure you were still alright. Romanov and I have to go through the flash drive to see if anything else needs to be done to secure the information they took.” He tipped his head at Steve and Tony. “I'll be in touch if we need you.” Then Fury, too, was gone.

Peter, cold though he was, began to sweat when the door shut and it was just him and his parents. They both stared at him, jaws set, waiting for a well thought out, rational explanation he didn't have to give. He gripped the gown he was wearing underneath the covers in a tight fist.

“I'm not sure what to say,” he finally said when far too much time had passed.

“Apologize now,” Tony snapped. “Be sorry now.”

“How did you even manage to keep this from us?” Steve asked.

Peter shrugged helplessly. “When I woke up here, Fury was sitting there. He told me they were going to put together some kind of task force to find you guys, but I...I told him not to.”

Tony put his hands on his hips and looked down at his shoes, a sure sign he was holding onto his patience by the skin of his teeth. “Why?”

“Because your operation was delicate,” Peter said desperately. “You couldn't have communications anyway, that part of Greenland being so remote, but you wouldn't have been safe if he had tried to get someone to you. What if someone followed the task force and then the mission was compromised? I was in a hospital, Dad. It could wait.”

Tony slammed his fist into the guard rail of the bed. Peter jumped, then winced. Tony seemed not to notice.

“Perhaps its slipped your mind, or perhaps you need to be reminded, but in either case, allow me to explain; you are our child, not the other way around. You don't get to decide what we know about your health when it goes sideways, and you sure as shit don't get to withhold something like this.”

“Do not swear at him,” Steve said, low and dangerous and so suddenly ferocious everyone in the room flinched back. Tony blinked at Steve, stunned, before swallowing and looking away.

Steven turned back to Peter, who also looked mortified, and put a hand on his son's cheek. “Pete,” Steve said tenderly. “Please. What your father is trying to say is that you don't need to worry about us when we're on missions. You are our first priority, and you always will be. It isn't your job to keep us safe, but it is our job to keep you safe. We have each other's backs out there so we can both have yours when we come home. Do you understand?'

Peter's lip trembled, and a few tears managed their way out before he could swallow them back, but he nodded. Steve pulled a soothing hand through Peter's hair and stood. He gave Tony an indecipherable look.

“I'm going to talk to the doctor,” he said. “Be nice.”

Steve walked out to find Dr. Watkins, and Tony and Peter looked at each other uneasily.

“I didn't mean to yell,” Tony said, eyes down as he tapped the guardrail of the bed. “I'm not angry with you. Well, I am, but I can't be right now.”

Peter hiccuped a laugh and then winced again. Tony took Peter's hand. “What is it that's hurting you?” he asked, concern pulling at his features.

Peter sighed a long sigh that seemed to deflate his whole body. “Everything. I'm so tired.”

Something in Tony twisted at hearing how his son was so clearly miserable. “We're gonna get you home soon,” Tony said, squeezing Peter's hand. “Dad and I can make you dinner, and we'll all get to sleep in our own beds. How's that sound?'

Peter snorted. “Fucking excellent.”

“You know how your dad feels about that kind of talk.”

“Let me get away with one, I'm sick.”

0-0-0

They brought him home in an ambulance.

It didn't matter that Peter was coming home, nor did it soothe Tony to see the woman he'd handpicked coming toward them with a confident, determined look on her face. It was still Peter coming out of an ambulance on a stretcher. Tony's world still didn't make sense yet.

A team of doctors moved Peter from one stretcher to the other and whisked him away to the medical level. There Peter was hooked up to the same bevy of machines he had been attached to in the hospital, but he didn't look quite as small and scared as he had at St. Olga's. Once all the tubes and wires were in place, they replaced all Peter's blankets and put Discovery channel on the ensuite TV. Peter was out in minutes.

Steve collapsed into the second bed next to Tony. They had set Peter up in the only double occupancy bedroom they had, so everyone could sleep at the same time. “Have I ever told you how brilliant I think it is to have a medical facility in our house?” Steve asked, slurring his words with sleep. “Because it is.”

Tony smirked. “Do you remember when we used to do this when he was a baby? He'd fall asleep and we would scramble for our own blankets and pillows so we could drop next to the crib, get a snatch of sleep before he woke up again.”

He felt Steve shake the bed with silent laughter next to him. “The good old days,” he said.

They both sobered for a moment, both thinking it but unwilling to say it; and now their son was old enough to keep them out of the loop. Now their son would hide the truth from them, if he thought he needed to.

“What did we do wrong?” Tony asked softly. “To make him think he needed to keep this a secret?”

“Nothing,” Steve said with a snort. “We raised a good kid. Not only a good one, but a self-sacrificing one. We can be mad at him all we want, but even we can't deny he was only following our examples.”

“I fancy myself a rather selfish man, and I'm sure most would agree,” Tony said with faux haughtiness. Steve snickered into Tony's shoulder.

“We've both made plays to save a city that could have ended with us dead,” Steve said quietly. “I went down and you went up, but we both were willing to sacrifice to keep them safe. Fight me on it all you want, but he gets that from us.”

Tony thought about one of the last calls they'd made in Greenland, to split up instead of staying together. Tony had been against it, and if it had been his call to make, they've have kept the unit together, but he hadn't wanted to hamper the mission with his need to keep Steve close. They'd split, and they'd found the enemy, but each team of Avengers had been outmatched by what they found and they'd nearly lost the battle. Steve had a neatly healing line of stitches across his back for their trouble.

If they'd done it Tony's way, how many fewer days would it have taken to find what they needed to come home? How many fewer days would their son have spent in the hospital, scared, small, and cold against hospital sheets?

“I want to make a motion,” Tony said, bringing up one hand. “The three of us need to be a little more selfish.”

“I second that,” Steve said with a sigh.

“Thirded,” Peter slurred, surprising them both into quiet chuckles. “Th'motion passes.”

Steve put his head on Tony's shoulder and they both watched their son slacken back into sleep.

“Look at him,” Tony murmured to Steve just before he himself went down for the count. “Asleep like his ass isn't grounded for the next six months.”

“Be nice, he's sick.”

“Fine. Four months, then.”

#irondad #irondad & spiderson #superfamily #stevetony #fic #oneshot #sickfic #a youtuber i like recently went through this #and i thought 'wow that sucks'#and my little gremlin brain went 'ONE SHOT'

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johnnymundano · 5 years

Text

Starship Troopers (1997)

Directed by Paul Verhoeven

Written by Edward Neumeier

Based on the novel Starship Troopers” by Robert A. Heinlein

Music by Basil Poledouris

Country: United States

Language: English

Running Time: 129 minutes

CAST

Casper Van Dien as Pvt./Cpl./Sgt./Lt. John "Johnny" Rico

Dina Meyer as Pvt. Isabelle "Dizzy" Flores

Denise Richards as Lt./Capt. Carmen Ibanez

Jake Busey as Pvt. Ace Levy

Neil Patrick Harris as Col. Carl Jenkins/Nazi Doogie Howser

Patrick Muldoon as Lt. Zander Barcalow

Clancy Brown as Career Sgt./Pvt. Zim

Michael Ironside as Lt. Jean Rasczak

Seth Gilliam as Cpl. Sugar Watkins

Bruce Gray as Sky Marshal Dienes

Marshall Bell as General Owen

Eric Bruskotter as Private Breckinridge

Brenda Strong as Captain Deladier

Christopher Curry as Bill Rico

Lenore Kasdorf as Mrs. Rico

Denise Dowse as Sky Marshal Meru

Amy Smart as Pilot Cadet/Lt. Lumbreiser

Dean Norris as Commanding officer

Rue McClanahan as Biology Teacher Who Looks Like Rose From TV’s Golden Girls, Because That’s Who She is.

(NB:This is a repost of very early post I did as the original mysteriously disappeared, apparently. Well, here it is again. And I can keep reposting it if it keeps mysteriously disappearing.)

I love me some Starship Troopers, even if it is apparently a movie that’s too clever for its own damn good. Or too stupid. It’s hard to get a fix on really. I first watched this when it came out in 1997 and everyone was saying it was a load of dumb, woodenly-acted shit. I last watched it in 2018 on a visit to my aged parents with my son. All went well until Doogie Howser came on dressed in a black leather trenchcoat, jackboots and peaked hat. “Oooh, they’re like them Nazis!”, said my elderly mum. We were about 110 minutes in; the movie was almost done. Yes, mum, Nazis. Well spotted.

My mum’s old but she’s no fool. Audiences accept what you show them as normal unless you explicitly show them it isn’t. And so, yes, some people may think Starship Troopers is a gung-ho war movie, which it is. Except, you know, for all the bits which undermine that. Which is most of it. Like all the ex-soldiers having limbs missing or disfiguring scars, even while they expound the magical problem solving abilities of violence. “The Troopers made me what I am today!” declares the recruiting sergeant, before pushing back from the table to reveal his lack of limbs. Too subtle? Not subtle enough? Who the hell knows these days? Then there’s the cheesy Vid i-dents peppered throughout the movie, all jingoism and jackboots, but when the recruits finally get stuck in it’s all screaming and gore and mercy killing and retreating and, well, war and hell and all that mad animal jazz.

Sure the main cast are ridiculously photogenic; all teeth, jaw and advertisement quality hair. And then, another joke, the movie casually tosses them into a hellishly whirring blender. And the FX of the blender remained (to these eyes) convincing. The spaceships were teutonically drab and thuggish, the uniforms were all (yes, mum) Nazi-esque and the swarm bearing down on the fort remained a heart in throat moment. Visually, Starship Troopers has weathered well, I think. Acting highlights may belong to seasoned old salts like Ironside and Brown, while the gorgeous younger characters are often criticised, but I think that’s harsh; Casper Van Dien starts off a gormless, pampered lump but convincingly becomes a committed killing machine; Denise Richards is peppy and love-torn which is two things more than she’s usually asked to do, Dina Meyer is the best of the young bunch being peppy, love-torn and also a killing machine, without any gormlessness.

Look, they are supposed to be vapid and puppyishly enthusiastic. Idiots, in essence. It’s a fascist society, so it breeds idiots. “IT’S WAR!” bellows the vid-screen. “LET’S GO!”, cheer the idiots. It’s a fascist society, so all it breeds is cannon fodder. There’s little suggestion what this fascist utopia gets up to when there isn’t a war on. But then, maybe that’s intentional. In a fascist utopia there’s probably always a war on. There’s probably been so many wars that now the only things they can go to war with are insects on the other side of the galaxy. A fascist society churning out genetically unsettling youths by the million, and all they can think to do is throw them at insects with arse cannons that fire blue poop into space, or just stab, stab, stabbity-stab anything that moves. “They’ll keep fighting and they’ll WIN!” They sure will. Forever. Verhoeven knew of fascism from personal experience, so it’s no surprise that Starship Troopers says “F*** fascism”, but maybe not loudly enough. But then you can’t ever say “F*** fascism” loudly enough

#Movies #Starship Troopers #Science Fiction #Satire #Dina Meyer #Paul Verhoeven #Denise Richards #Casper Van Dien #1997 #The 1990s #United States

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timehealsfanfictionbka · 5 years

Text

Time Heals.....Chapter Nine

“Tiana Sweetheart, I wish I could tell you what was going on but I don’t know myself,” Joyce said before taking a sip of tea, “For as long as I’ve known them to be friends, they’ve always had this little silent connection going on.”

“You mean secrecy.”

“I mean it depends on how you look at it.”

“How else am I supposed to look at it? The little silent conversations with nothing but expressions. The way he acts whenever she comes around, either something has went on or something is going on and I don’t like it.”

“Have you asked Chris about it?”

“I have but he says it’s nothing.”

“Then maybe it is nothing and you’re just reading too much into it. Tiana, the Chris you know is so much different from the Chris everyone has grown up with. How he is acting is how he’s always acted.”

“Then why didn’t he act like this in Paris?”

“You’ll have to ask him.”

Tiana just shook her head in disgust. It seemed like everybody knew something she didn’t and nobody was willing to clue her in.

Tiana went to speak when Joyce grabbed a remote and turned up the tv.

“This is Channel Five news reporting live from a crash site on I-45. It appears that two school buses have been hit in a three vehicle collision. The third vehicle, a 18 wheeler, seems to have lost control and pushed one bus into the other. No fatalities at this time but major injuries to the students have been reported.”

“Oh my god, I’ve got to call Robyn.”

Robyn clenched her hands together as she waited for the emergency room doctor to bring her some more news. Once she saw the mangled buses on I-45, it took everybody to keep her from running to the wreckage. How she managed to drive herself to the hospital, she didn’t know but here she was. Waiting. And waiting. It had been close to an hour since they brought a majority of the kids here. From first glance, her daughters’ injuries seemed minor but after two seizures they were worried the girls might have suffered more internal damage than they originally thought. Her mother had just arrived a few hours ago for a surprise visit but she was still at the house. She didn’t want Robyn driving around with her nerves being as bad as they were. For the first time in a long time, she really missed Michael. She wasn’t prepared to have to deal with anything like this by herself. That man had been her calm and she didn’t have anyone to be that for her anymore.

“Robyn.”

She looked up and before she could control herself, she launched herself into his arms.

Chris held her tightly and gently stroked her hair, “it’s ok, Bajan Girl. It’s gonna be ok.” Chris held her tighter as he felt her start sobbing into his chest, “I’m here, Baby Girl. I’m here.”

Tiana frowned as she walked into the hospital behind Joyce and Monica. The two matriarchs had paused in the middle of the doorway and she couldn’t see what was going on and what everybody was looking at. Gently pushing her way to stand beside Joyce, she felt her heart drop into her stomach as she saw Chris and Robyn hugging tightly in the middle of the emergency room.

It took a few minutes before Chris could coax Robyn to sit down but even then she wouldn’t let him go. Keeping as tight of a grip as he could, he moved them back to the waiting room chairs and rested his chin on top of her head after kissing her temple, “Everything’s gonna be ok. Just breathe. It’s gonna be ok.”

As the emergency room doctor, Dr. Watkins, walked over to Chris and Robyn, Joyce, Tiana and Monica also made their way over. Monica grabbed her daughter’s hand as Chris still had his arms wrapped around her. It appeared the girls had developed blood clots from the accident and they would need surgery in order to remove them.

“Once we’ve gotten them stable we can do the surgery, tomorrow at the earliest but we do have a slight drawback,” Dr. Watkins said.

“What would that be?” Robyn asked softly.

“We have a shortage of donor blood of their blood type.”

Robyn sighed, “that’s gonna make it more difficult, isn’t it?”

“Not too difficult but it could complicate things considering where the clots are located. We can test any family or friends who want to volunteer.”

“I can be tested,” Chris interjected.

“Chris, you don’t have-”

Chris shushed her, “it can’t hurt to see if my type is a match and I’m not afraid of needles. Let me do this, ok. We just want them to get better.”

Robyn nodded her head.

Chris followed the nurse into an empty exam room and sat down on the bed. She turned to prepare the blood drawing equipment, “have you donated blood before?”

“No. First time but I’ll be fine. I have a high tolerance for pain as you can see,” Chris replied referencing his plethora of tattoos.

The nurse chuckled, “True. Well it’ll be fairly quick but I want you to stay here for a few minutes after I’m finished, people get very lightheaded and dizzy after giving blood.

“No problem.”

Before he could even think about it, it was over and the nurse left the room.

About fifteen minutes later, she came back to check on him with juice and some cookies in hand, “this should help too. The girls are very lucky to have family members like you.”

“Oh, we’re not relatives. Just a friend of their mother.”

“Oh,” the nurse paused and Chris became suspicious, “what would make you think we were relatives?”

“Nothing, I just assumed because you seem so close that’s all.”

“Ma’am, did something happen with the blood testing? Something I should know about.”

“Well, we were doing routine testing to make sure everything had the best chance to go well and well-“

“Can I see the results please?”

“Mr. Brown, honestly it’s nothing.”

“I would like to see the test results, please.”

The nurse sighed and handed him a piece of paper, “it was just a set of rush results to make sure you were a good match and well-“

“Our DNA is a match.”

~~~~~~~~~

“Ms. Fenty, Mr. Brown would like to speak with you,” the nurse said softly. Robyn looked up with a pensive look on her face. Joyce frowned, “is something wrong, Angel?”

“I hope not. Did the test come back negative?”

“No, it’s about something else.”

Robyn’s brow furrowed as the nurse gave her a look. She caught the hint and started to look around for an escape. There wasn’t really anywhere for her to go in the hospital but she didn’t want to have to address this with everyone here.

“Robyn…” Joyce said softly, “did you want me to talk to Chris?”

“No, I think I know what this is about.”

Robyn took a deep breath and left in the direction she saw Chris go into earlier. He was sitting in an empty examination room and didn’t bother to look up when she walked in, “close the door.”

Robyn closed the door behind her and moved to lean against it.

“I’m only gonna ask you once and don’t lie to me,” Chris said darkly.

Robyn gulped.

“Are these my daughters?”

“Chris.”

“Answer the damn question. Are Erin and Erica my daughters?”

“Yes.”

“So why the fuck didn’t you tell me this?”

“Chris, it's not that simple.”

“What the hell do you mean it’s not that simple?”

“First off, lower your fucking tone. Secondly, did you forget we had sex the night before you got married to your precious Tiana? How the fuck did you expect me to say anything without it causing an issue?”

“That just would’ve been something I would have to deal with but seriously, a pregnancy, Robyn? You keep that from me, of all people. You know how much I want children.”

“Chris, I was trying to protect you.”

“No, you were trying to protect yourself.”

“You know what, you’re right. You can’t imagine my fucking horror when that doctor came and told me that I was pregnant. You cannot imagine what it felt like to have to watch my body go through all these changes and I was fucking alone. Not one person to help me especially not the person who put me in this situation. You were off living your perfect little life in Paris while I had to deal with a pregnancy you contributed to.”

“Robyn, how was I supposed to help with something I didn’t know about?”

“How about if you weren’t such an insensitive dick, you would’ve been told?”

“Robyn…”

“No. Don’t Robyn me. Can you imagine what I felt like watching you get married when you were just laid up in my hotel bed less than 24 hours ago? Not for one second did you think about how what transpired between us would affect me. Did you even give a fuck?”

“Of course I did but what was I supposed to do? Not get married?”

“Definitely not act like nothing fucking happened and things were just to return to normal.”

“Robyn, it was a mistake. It wasn’t supposed to happen.”

“That doesn’t change the fact that it did happen. I was in love with you and you fucking knew that! I put aside my feelings because I wanted you to be happy and I wanted you to live your life well and having you as my friend became enough for me because at least you were there. I had no plans on sleeping with you as I’m sure you had no plans on sleeping with me but you can’t expect me not to feel some kind of way when you get up in the morning, shower and walk out with not one word to me like some kind of cheap fucking prostitute. That fucked me up, Christopher! Then to find out 8 weeks later that I’m carrying your children and knowing you won’t be there. You can’t imagine how that feels.”

Chris’s face softened as he watched Robyn’s body language shift, “Bajan Girl, please don’t cry.”

“Don’t call me that, you don’t have the right to call me that anymore.”

“Look, maybe I went about this the wrong way but how could you not tell me about this?”

“Chris, you hurt me and I didn’t want anything else to do with you. I didn’t expect to be pregnant and for a while I was hoping the doctor made some kind of mistake but when I accepted the situation, I realized that I needed to move on and the only way to do that was to cut all ties with you.”

“Even at the expense of the kids?”

“You weren’t gonna be around for them to know any different so I wasn’t gonna worry about it.”

“So you just let everyone think Michael was the father of the girls?”

“Michael knew he wasn’t their biological father, his family knew and people on my side knew.”

“So who do they think the father of the girls is?”

“They don’t know. I never said anything, just let them know they came about from an unfortunate one night stand and left it at that.”

“Is there anyone on their birth certificates?”

“No. Since I wasn’t technically married when they were born, I wasn’t required to put Michael on it. All of their legal information is blank regarding father’s information.”

“Were you ever gonna tell me?”

“No.”

“Were you ever gonna tell the girls?”

“Yea when they were a little older.”

“And if they asked about their father?”

“I’d tell them the truth and leave it at that.”

“So my family has no idea.”

“As far as I know, no.”

“Robyn, this is crazy.”

“This is about survival. You screwed me once, I wasn’t gonna allow you to do it again. So if I had to take this secret to my grave then that’s exactly what I was gonna do. My daughters’ happiness and my peace was more important than you and your bullshit. Michael was a blessing to them for as long as he was on this earth and I could depend on him. You, on the other hand, I was over and done with.”

“Robyn, I was never given a chance.”

“You didn’t deserve one.”

“Because I didn’t want to be with you?”

“Nigga, don’t flatter yourself. I never wanted you to be with me. I wanted you to act like a decent human being and not a complete and total asshole. I wanted you to be my best friend and give a fuck about my feelings. That’s all I’ve ever asked of you.”

“Robyn…”

“No, fuck you. How dare you say some shit like that to me?”

“What else am I supposed to think?”

“You’re supposed to listen to what the hell I’ve been saying to you these last five minutes. Our time has come and gone, I’m not even thinking about you in that matter and haven’t thought about you that way in the last 8 years. I told myself, don’t be petty, be his friend and maybe, just maybe he’s changed but from what you’re showing me right now, you definitely haven’t.”

“We’re getting off topic. I got fucking blood results in my hand telling me those two little girls lying in those hospitals beds are my daughters. Daughters I’ve never gotten a chance to know or help raise.”

“You wanted to know why I didn’t tell you so I told you why. What do you want from me?”

“Are you gonna allow me to be in their lives?”

“I honestly don’t know.”

“Why not?”

“I really don’t want to open this can of worms.”

“Considering our circumstances, it’s a little too late.”

“So what are you gonna tell your wife?”

“The truth. What else can I tell her?”

Robyn groaned and tugged at her hair, “why the fuck couldn’t you just stay in France? Why’d you have to come back?”

“Apparently, I needed to come back because this is fucking crazy.”

“God, I swear I can’t stand you. You always do this to me.”

“What?”

“Turn my fucking life upside down. First the sex then me getting pregnant and now this. I just can’t deal with this right now.”

“Robyn, you don’t have that option anymore. Pandora’s box is already open, everything is eventually gonna come to light.”

“Ugh… Well my life is already fucked. What do you want to do?”

“I just want to get to know my daughters. I’m just asking for a chance to be in their lives.”

Robyn sighed and ran her hands through her hair, “ At least give me until they’re more stable. I don’t want to stress them out or anything.”

“I can go with that.”

“What about your wife?”

“Do you wanna tell her first or wait until after we tell the girls?”

“It’s up to you. I’m just over this whole situation right now.”

“I guess I’ll tell her once we leave here.”

“Ok. I wanna say sorry for you finding out like this.”

“I’m not. I doubt if this didn’t happen, you would’ve ever told me.”

“I’m not gonna lie and say I would have.”

“Robyn, did I really hurt you that bad?”

“I don’t think you’ll ever understand how bad you hurt me. You just don’t know.”

Robyn took a deep breath, “Ready to face the masses?”

“Ready when you are.”

#chrianna #timehealsfanfiction

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waltb31 · 5 years

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New York Folks! If you like great jazz, check out Bobby Broom’s Organi-Sation LIVE at Dizzy’s Coca Cola club at the Lincoln Center! February 20th! 7:30pm and 9:30pm #NewYork #BAM #Jazz #Blues #Soul #GuitarOrganTrio #Repost @bobby.broom ・・・ NEXT WEEK > Feb 20th at Dizzy's Club in New York City! The beautiful venue at Jazz at Lincoln Center. Bobby Broom Organi-Sation: Soul Fingers. Their debut recording, "Soul Fingers," has been a national jazz radio favorite for three months straight! Come experience the swing, groove and soul of Broom's guitar and his Organi–Sation, featuring Ben Paterson, Hammond organ and Kobie Watkins, drums. Bobby returns home and to play in the old hood. Shows @ 7:30PM + 9:30PM. Online Tix > https://bit.ly/2SxLyTS @bobby.broom @dizzysjazzclub @benpatersonmusic @kobiewatkins @doubledownpdx #BobbyBroom ##BobbyBroomJazz ##BobbyBroomGuitar #DizzysClub #DizzysJazzClub #BobbyBroomOrgani-Sation #BenPaterson #KobieWatkins #NYCJazz #JazzatLincolnCenter #NYCLiveMusic #DDPMusic https://www.instagram.com/p/Bt16KESA9eC/?utm_source=ig_tumblr_share&igshid=vlowlilkmjg

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insideedensgate · 6 years

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Life can be so fickle (indeed)

character study (1/?); john seed

1790 words

John had always been afraid. He never wanted to admit it, but he always felt terrified in a way.

He understands it well, when people tell him of their fears.

He understands it well, how to let them face their fears.

He is no monster. He is more like a widow, fat and fed, waiting in her web. He is their biggest fear.

june 1986

John Seed was born on a sunny day mid June, birds chirping and the air inside the small bedroom was sticky and hot.

The labour has been problematic and the first thing he sees of the world, full of opportunities and love, are the cold eyes of his mother, starring down on him.

His cries flood the room and shake the house, his brothers impatiently waiting outside the closed door.

“I say it's girl”, his oldest brother whispers, ear pressed on the door, “Joseph? Joe, c'mere!”

John's older brother hastily slides down the window sill, the young couple from down the street who's wedding was today and who he was watching, long forgotten when they entered the room.

december 1990

Winter in the Seed household is cold, deadly even. John has learned that early in his life. Sometimes, the heater is broken. Sometimes, Old Man Seed is too drunk or too lazy to buy new gas. Thus, they freeze. They don't have any money left for warmer clothing.

“Stop complaining”, his mother says when her four year old son, blue lips and pale skin, tugs the end of her skirt slightly. His fingers hurt from the cold. It creeps into his bones, numbs his body. He should be afraid, afraid of dying or pneumonia. He isn't. He is used to the cold.

Jacob stopped going to school last month. John is glad, that he has someone to play with.

The couple that got married four years ago dies in a car accident that night. With them, all colour leaves John's world, dives it into ice cold blue.

march 1996

The air in the gym is sticky. John thinks it stinks, of greasy teenagers and sweaty shoes. He stands there, bare chest in front of his teacher.

“It is nothing, Mister. I just fell down the stairs, how often do I have to tell you this?”

He knows it is a lie. And for a mere second, he can see it in his teacher's eyes. They believe him. Trust him.

Then it's gone.

“I am going to call your parents, John.” He knows it, now he is lost.

january 2002

John doesn't know where they are. He misses them. It hurts.

“Tell me of your sin, my son”, Mister Duncan says, stroking his hair. It is no gentle touch. It burns.

There's no escape. Nowhere to run.

But John doesn't have to. He can lie, lie until the pages turn blank and the trees loose their leaves.

Until he seems them again.

“I got drunk in third period history.”

“With whom, my child?”

“Stephen and Mary Ann.”

“Then we should atone you, shall we?”

He has forgotten his own name. He has forgotten Georgia. They burning sun when he and his brother used to play on the streets, running through the woods.

He forgot it all, he lost it all.

He'll never forget them.

All that is left now, is the perfect shell of John Duncan.

He never wanted to kill someone so badly in years.

september 2006

He is drunk, third period, family law. He and Robert, one of his class mates, are sitting together. They have late lunch.

It is already cold outside, because it is always cold in Connecticut. Every winter, the cold burns in his bones and he curses Old, dead Man Seed for never buying new gas when they needed it. He takes another sip of the expensive liquor, feels it burn and sting in his throat.

It hurts so good. Robert snorts a line, hands the white powder over to John.

“And so she said to me “Do you really think you can fuck that girl -”, he tries to listen to the pathetic stories they tell him. Maybe Jessica and her affairs will have some use. He makes a mental note.

april 2010

“Mister Seed? It's Miss Watkins, secretary at Yale University Law School, New Haven, Connecticut. Mister Duncan asked me to contact you.”

The young lady smiles up at John, who is standing on the other side of the counter. The Duncan shell smiles back.

He hears his brother's voice muffled through the phone's speakers. It sounds rough and weary, vigilant in a way. It hurts him. For a second, he feels empathy again – real empathy tingling in his stomach. It hasn't for years and it makes him dizzy, his vision fading for a mere second. Or maybe it's just the cocaine.

“Jacob?”, he says as he holds the phone to his ear, “It's me, John.”

He doesn't want to be alone any longer. He doesn't know where Joseph is, God have mercy on him. He just wants his brother to be here, to be there when he graduates from college.

june 2010

Jacob did not come.

John tries to swallow the lump in his throat and braces himself with pride against the pain.

Jacob said he had no money to fly across the country.

John's offer to pay his flight and a hotel room has been left without answer.

He looks at his professor when he hands him his diploma and the Duncan shell smiles.

Smiles at Sarah, 28, sitting fourth row. She doesn't smile back.

John bets she only smiles when she sits on the cock of that old guy.

The shell's smile grows brighter, and John laughs.

may 2013

When he looks into the mirror, he doesn't know who he is looking at.

He reminds himself of a chameleon. Shape shifting. Concealing himself.

He not only learned how to do it, he knows how to do it. It has become a sort of an instinct.

Natural selection, evolution.

Did it already became a a part of him?

John doesn't know who he is.

Tick.

He has money.

A lot of it. Too much.

He hates what he is, what he stands for.

John doesn't know how to cure that.

Tick.

His skin itches.

He needs it.

The sex, the rush of cocaine pumping through his veins.

John doesn't know if he's strong enough to resist it.

Tick.

All he can hear is the thumb of his heart against his ribs and a clock ticking at the back of his head, reminding him of the time that is running through his fingers like sand.

It is like he's lost.

John doesn't know how to be found anymore.

august 2013

It is the first time he sees them again after so many years.

Well, not alive. He very much just sees their tomb stones.

He spits on their graves, he can't behave, doesn't want to.

He thinks back, at his first time in Georgia where he grew up, and suddenly he thinks of the young couple that lived down the road. He loved watching them sitting in their garden, so happy and so in love.

They were his age when they died. They had nothing and still were so euphoric. All things have to end some day.

He has it all and he desires the whole world to end.

In a way, all the pain came the year they passed away. He doesn't believe in a connection, he really doesn't – he's not that foolish, but he still searches for one. Just a few seconds.

There has to be a way for it all to makes sense again.

In the end, he always comes to that one conclusion. There isn't.

When they left, all the beauty he had ever been able to witness was ripped away. More ripped apart in the crashed van, blood and broken limbs. From that day on, there was silence and clouded skies. He envies them.

He spits again.

november 2013

At least he is back home now. Sunny Rome. Beautiful Georgia.

Joseph looks horrible, John thinks, dark circles under his eyes, a maddening calmness in his eyes.

Jacob shakes most of the times, sometimes he even screams without reason. He polishes his military decorations twice a day, pathetic, John thinks.

It hurts him. Badly.

Joseph often writes on the walls, some nights he can't stop himself.

Jacob vomits once a day, most nights he can't help himself. No one does.

But he loves them. Dearly.

The only bit of love he'll ever allow himself to feel again.

july 2014

As Joseph pulls her back out of the water, John can see it.

The thin material of her white dress clinging to her body, wet and transparent.

Holly is her name.

And John wants.

He takes. He always took and he will always take.

It is so much easier than giving.

He tells himself that it's nothing. No love. Nothing.

Love destroyed him, that woman wouldn't.

october 2015

It rushes through John's veins, like the substances he has so long forgotten about.

Yes.

He carves the next letter into the cultists back, making his flesh spring open and bleed onto the floor.

“We should atone you from your sins, shall we?”

His own voice rings in his head. It scares him, but it feels good.

He keeps going.

january 2018

Joseph says they're ready. Something is coming, The Collapse is close.

John anticipates it, he is prepared.

He wants it to end. He wants everything to end.

He wants the world red and burning and bright in the light of pure atonement.

He wants to see them suffer, choking on their lies and their disgusting lives.

He wants to see the world crumble before his toes.

He hates it so much, everything that is on the outside. He hopes Eden is better to them.

march 2018

Every breath burns and stings, it feels like his lungs are torn apart by the simple process of breathing.

There it is again, the ticking sound of the clock. Slow. Steady.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

He knows it is going to be pure, divine silence soon. He embraces it.

Thumb. Thumb. Thumb.

John is not afraid. John is not terrified. John has no fear of missing out, John is not clinging to his life. As he stares into their eyes, he can seem himself for the first time.

Ironic, he thinks, how eyes may be the mirrors to the soul. Who knew it would be mine I see, not theirs?

The thumbs stop, the clock stops ticking.

John Seed knows exactly who he is, as he takes his last breath.

#edenswork #john seed #far cry 5 #character study #john character study #jacob seed #joseph seed #old man seed #seed siblings #seed family #the duncans #duncan family #john duncan #holly #holly eden's gate

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queenhosana · 3 years

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I don't know who THE FUCK a KaShiya Watkins is, but If I make these calls and find out MY CHILD'S social security number is active I'm going to EVISCERATE this nigga. The regret and fear he currently feels for losing the BEST supply he's EVER had or seen is NOTHING compared to the natural disaster that's guaranteed if this shit checks out. For the uneducated flying monkeys that been monitoring & reporting on me: It means I'm going to send that nigga back home to the cage he came from and loves so much. Visit him while he's local, because that ass bout to be shipped to anywhere but here or where I'm going. Y'all already fucked with my daughter's head and negatively impacted her life severely by fucking with me and I've let y'all live. Y'all REALLY don't know me... I'll really take you and go pay my debt to society. 'Bout KaShiya HaShauna St Rose?!?! I said what THE FUCK I said. BITCH, I KNOW YOU LYIN'! WHOOOOO?!?!?! I make NO promises. I tell you what's gonna happen and then Abba makes it happen. He DOES NOT play about me. And the power and authority I walk in make my words HEAVY before Him AND man. Check my resume. Keep mistaking what I'm going through for who I am. This is all just my dues for what's to come. Keep watching. Ain't NO WAY I can keep this from her daddy. NOT the kind of drama I need, but you better PRAY to your non-gods that he don't hop a plane to Boston when his daughter calls him, because SHE'S PISSED and she's a daddy's girl and that nigga soft as butter for her. He don't look like much, but he's a problem you DON'T want to have. Y'all think y'all gangsta? Y'all a bunch of grown ass kids playing cops and robbers with real life. A bunch of narcs that done found y'all ultimate supplies. But I'm praying for them women to see the truth before what I've seen about each of you manifests. Let me go pray to identify that other person that was with 'em. You bitches been singing about niggas is snitches? By the time I'm done with you, the snitches Y'all been gonna finally be on paperwork, cuz y'all gonna be singing on eachother to avoid the burial you're about to receive. Now run and tell that. 😡 Dizzie & Dom... Sry... 🙏🏾 https://www.instagram.com/p/CSPBodKnC_BLOGu198KlIP2EMRfFKCOT-mMV1o0/?utm_medium=tumblr

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kentonramsey · 3 years

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There’s No Place For Logomania In A Post-Pandemic World – Here’s What’s Next

Ever since our obsession with logos first reached its peak during the 1980s era of excess, associated with Versace’s opulent Medusa head and Dapper Dan’s DIY luxury bootlegs, logomania has yo-yoed in and out of fashion. Its stranglehold continued well into the ‘90s and early noughties, with brands like Fendi and Christian Dior stamping their insignia on everything from handbags to puffer jackets and turning the logo itself into a design aesthetic.

Then the 2008 financial crash happened and the pendulum swung away from flashy logos and brash displays of wealth. The crystal-encrusted Juicy Couture tracksuits and monogrammed It bags beloved by everyone from SATC’s Carrie Bradshaw to Victoria Beckham suddenly fell out of favour, replaced by the understated tailoring and discreetly logoed handbags of Celine, which, under the reign of Phoebe Philo, ushered in a new era of minimalism.

By the mid 2010s, however, logomania was once again reaching the dizzy heights of the ‘90s, fuelled by the arrival of luxe streetwear brand Vetements, whose tongue-in-cheek designs (remember the DHL logo T-shirt?) proved catnip for the street style set. Following his appointment in 2015 as creative director of Gucci, Alessandro Michele’s irreverent and playful take on the logo – spray-painting “Real Gucci” onto bags and poking fun at counterfeits – breathed new life into both the brand and the logomania trend.

But now that we’re living through a global pandemic, with our economy teetering on the brink of recession, is logomania cooling down? According to the data analytics firm Heuritech, which uses AI to analyse Instagram posts and comb trends, posts featuring luxury items were down by 40% during the first lockdown. After all, flaunting your Dior saddle bag while many are losing their jobs and livelihoods might be considered a little tone-deaf. And with the pandemic shrinking our wardrobes to a tight rotation of pyjamas and comfy loungewear, there’s no doubt our priorities have shifted, with more of us choosing to spend our money on interiors and buying bougie candles instead.

“The ’90s sports-driven logomania trend is definitely starting to wane,” says Hannah Watkins, senior prints and graphics strategist at WGSN. “Branding is no longer brash but instead executed in more sophisticated and subtle ways.” These subtler forms of logo-ridden fashion are exemplified by the French label Marine Serre, which was crowned the “most wanted logo of 2020” by the global fashion shopping platform Lyst. Much like Burberry’s iconic check, Serre’s turtleneck tops and bodysuits – beloved by celebs such as Dua Lipa and Beyoncé and influencers like Camille Charrière – are instantly recognisable thanks to her signature crescent moon print, which, to those in the know, conveys the same status as a logo.

“She has a strong winning formula that carefully balances an iconic and recognisable moon logo that has been donned by celebs and influencers globally, with a directional and creative design aesthetic seen in her ready-to-wear collections,” explains Holly Tenser, womenswear buying manager at Browns Fashion. It’s not merely Serre’s celebrity fanbase which has helped catapult the brand to fame – she is also leading the charge for sustainability in fashion, with upcycling accounting for around half of her collection. “She perfectly encapsulates that sustainable fashion can also be beautiful, creative and cool.”

Christopher Kane’s “More Joy” capsule collection, which includes T-shirts, iPhone cases, face masks and even baubles stamped with the cheer-inducing logo, also proved to be incredibly popular in a year where we were feeling rather joyless. “People are looking for ways to lift their spirits and nothing does this better than a positive slogan or a conversational print,” says Watkins. “These items are an antidote to the current climate and offer a sense of fun and optimism in a challenging world.”

The appeal of the “More Joy” line also lies in its accessible price point (face masks and tote bags cost £30), which offers fans a way to buy into the revered Christopher Kane brand. “I think the demand for logos is shifting between the brands, however there’s still a healthy appetite for logo product,” Tenser says. “Logo sales are generally driven by the more casual elements of a collection such as jersey T-shirts, sweatshirts and accessories, all of which align with the shift in demand for comfort items. They also tend to be the entry price point and offer a way of buying into the luxury power brands we all know and love.”

The demand for Marine Serre’s bodysuits and Christopher Kane’s More Joy collection – as well as the smattering of logo-laden pieces on the SS21 catwalks, from neon Chanel-stamped tees to Celine logo baseball caps – shows that we continue to be seduced by a logo, global pandemic or not. Why do we love them so much?

“Logos are a form of visual communication that enable the wearer to align with the brand’s identity and allow observers who speak that language (i.e. recognise the logo) to align the wearer to that identity,” explains Professor Carolyn Mair, behavioural psychologist, author of The Psychology of Fashion and founder of psychology.fashion. “By wearing an item showing a logo, a wearer is showing that they support and share that brand’s values.”

The idea that we might wear logo-emblazoned garments not because of their intrinsic value but because we want to impress others can be traced back to Thorstein Veblen, who coined the term ‘conspicuous consumption’ in 1899 to describe the practice of rich people acquiring material possessions to flaunt their wealth and social status. Nowadays, contemporary, flashy logos are often snubbed by the elite, who have steadily gravitated towards inconspicuous consumption to signal their wealth (think brands like The Row, Bottega Veneta or Loro Piana, which trade in ‘quiet’ luxury). Ever since the EastEnders actor Danniella Westbrook was photographed wearing head-to-toe Burberry while carrying her Burberry-clad toddler and pushing a Burberry stroller back in 2002, diminishing the check’s cachet, there has been a certain degree of class snobbery levelled against the logomania trend.

For the younger generations who are trapped in precarious, low-paid jobs and saddled with student debt, logos are not so much a way of signalling your wealth as they are a badge of identity. “In times of uncertainty, we look for behaviours that we have some control over and how we dress is one of these,” Mair says. “Wearing clothing showing logos can help us feel aligned, provide a sense of community and also give the opportunity to broadcast our personality, identity or even political preferences in some cases.”

Today’s most coveted logos carry clout thanks to their social conscience. Take Telfar, the Black-owned unisex brand which champions inclusivity in fashion with its motto “It’s not for you – it’s for everyone” and counts Democratic congresswoman Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez among its fans. Its logo-embossed vegan tote became the most sought-after bag of 2020, redefining the luxury It bag thanks to its affordability (retailing at £115 to £195 depending on the size). Telfar, by symbolising representation in a notoriously elitist, white-dominated industry, and Marine Serre, in her unwavering commitment to sustainability, are both redefining the logo as something to be worn loud and proud.

In the past, difficult times often inspired a mood for subdued fashion but the demand for logo pieces shows no sign of abating this time around, though Tenser believes we are more conscious in our choices of labels to flaunt. “People are more interested than ever in brands’ values and beliefs,” she says. “It’s not enough to make beautiful clothing, people want to know that there have been efforts to produce sustainably, that the brands care about their environmental impact, that they stand for the right social causes and speak up and use their voices to direct change.”

Like what you see? How about some more R29 goodness, right here?

Who Influences Us Now?

Telfar's Tote Is The Most Important Bag Of 2020

WAGs Turned Designer Handbags Into A Hun Staple

There’s No Place For Logomania In A Post-Pandemic World – Here’s What’s Next published first on https://mariakistler.tumblr.com/

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