#ash is the loose inspiration for the cat in 'a piece of me that's always somewhere else'
Text
2020 fic recs!! [Part 1]
this idea was stolen from @iam93percentstardust cuz i just,,,thought that this year was absolute shit and it would be nice to make a fic rec list of fics from this year that helped me through it. this will be over a range of fandoms and ships, but all fics were written this year.
fics are ordered by the month they were published. ive tried to keep to five fics per month, but this is not obviously all the fics ive read that month - i just didn’t want to make this insanely long.
im releasing the first half of this on the 1st of December, and the second half on the 1st of January 2021 - because otherwise it would just get so long (and also so i will actually have fics for December)
happy reading!! hopefully you find fics on this you haven’t read yet
***
January
The cat is mighty dignified (until the dog comes by): @five-wow
Steve and Danny find them on the pillow in the corner of the dining area, where Eddie is on his side, ass half on the floor because the pillow is more cat-sized than lab-sized, and Pickles is nestled between Eddie’s front legs, essentially being spooned and looking very I-got-the-cream about it. Pickles’ head is tucked into the crook of Eddie’s neck and Eddie’s head slots perfectly on top of Mr. Pickles’, like a furry jigsaw puzzle.
“They’re cuddling,” Steve points out, unnecessarily.
Or: There is a love story unfolding under the McGarrett roof.
Captain ‘Socialist Rage Muffin’ America: @baffledkingcomposinghallelujah
It takes three months of dating Steve Rogers for Tony to understand why Aunt Peggy once shot at him in sheer frustration.
Alternately titled, Honey, I committed treason again.
The Best Laid Plans (Of Mice and Men): @arboreal-elm-ash-oak
His Dark Materials AU
It was Annalise who noticed their small visitor first.
“Tony,” the spider daemon said softly, skittering up the collar of his dress shirt, two of her eight legs resting delicately against his cheek, “Don’t startle them, but I believe we have a guest. Look, by the coffee table.”
Fourteen Million to One: @tunastorks
Six months after Thanos, six months after Tony’s death, six months after Steve returns to his own timeline, Tony Stark turns up on their doorstep.
Brewed Awakening: @iam93percentstardust
Two years after he comes out of the ice, Steve is drifting through life. On his teammate's recommendation, he decides to go back to school where he meets the grandson of an old friend. He finds happiness with Tony but Steve won't be in Boston forever and someone is out to hurt the Starks. Will Steve and Tony be able to reach their happily ever after?
February
the young, the reckless and the foolish: @bruciewayne
In most universes, they don't know each other, not in the slightest, or they hate each other, in a way that's perfectly logical for anyone who were to find themselves in a similar situation.
In this one, they've known each other since they were four years old and naively idealistic.
This is them over the years, against the odds.
a giant sign: @areiton
“Think you can get him to open the weapons division up again?” his CO asks, his voice hungry and Rhodey laughs because this--
“No. Tony hung up his weapons.”
“That’s not what the suit says,” his CO objects, and Rhodey shrugs.
Tony has always had rules, rules he expects the entire world to live by.
And then there was Rhodey, slipping under them.
my heart is driftwood, floating down your coast: @nethandrake
Tonight, there’s a stranger in his backseat. That’s not unusual.
He’s also sad. That’s not unusual either.
What is unusual is that the stranger is silent.
(One night, a stranger enters Steve's taxi. Nothing is the same again.)
Just A Cold: @/delighted
There’s a new text waiting for him. It’s from Steve of course, and it’s vaguely threatening as most messages from Steve are these days. Still Danny ignores it, and now he’s really playing with fire. Maybe it’ll burn the cold out of him.
Or, Danny’s sick, and Steve can’t stay away. The usual comfort fluff. With a little cameo from a gently meddling Grace.
An Unexpected Guide: @/Rachel500
Danny Williams has hidden his Guide status to keep being a detective, but his time of hiding is up when he unexpectedly finds his Sentinel, Steve McGarrett in the midst of a tragedy.
March
Why don’t we (Collide the spaces that divide us): @five-wow
When they finally catch sight of each other again through the milling crowds, they’re both a little worse for wear. Danny’s left side is covered in glitter and every time he brushes a hand over his hair, more blue and purple confetti rains down. Steve is- Well, Steve is randomly shirtless, which is all things considered not excessively remarkable, but he’s also covered in smudges of colorful paint and has a very nicely printed bloodred lipstick kiss mark on his cheek.
“What did you do?” Danny asks, because it looks like Steve had a lot more fun than he did.
Or: Steve and Danny accidentally end up in the middle of something entirely new.
A Little Unsteady: @finduilasclln
Written for the Tumblr prompt meme : "Hey! I was gonna eat that!"
Tony lashes out at Bucky for eating his dessert. Only, it really isn't about the dessert.
a national treasure: @starklysteve
Steve isn't looking for an apple and Tony decides his passion is to inspire young souls.
-x-
OR: the AU where Tony is a Youtuber and Steve is Captain America and somehow they still save the world together.
April
cycle through: @ambivalentmarvel
Twenty-five years ago, Tony Stark disappeared from his family home a month after the tragic deaths of his parents, Howard and Maria Stark, leaving a billion-dollar tech conglomerate without an heir and the world wondering what happened.
Twenty-three years ago, HYDRA gained another super soldier.
Ten years ago, Peter Parker’s parents died in what is ruled as a home invasion gone wrong but he knows was murder, plain and simple, because he spoke to the killer.
And in the present, Project Insight fails, and the Iron Soldier pays the price.
FOREVER-LOVE YOU-I: @/Eudoxia
Tony Stark is twenty-one when he loses his voice. It shouldn't matter, but in a world where the first words your Soulmate says to you are marked on your skin, it can be pretty damn annoying.
Especially for Tony's soulmate.
--
Companion piece to my fic Thumb, Index, and Pinky Extended. This is Steve's POV, with a few extra scenes, as a treat.
(Edit: Sorry if you guys get multiple notifications for this. I just realized (about two hours after posting it) that I fucked up the grammar in the title and I HAD to fix it. YOLO, I guess.)
come build a home out of me: @maguna-stxrk
Steve clears his throat.
“What if I went with you?” he asks nonchalantly, like his heart isn’t threatening to beat out of his ribcage.
Tony blinks a few times, looking at Steve, his mouth ajar. “As a— As my date?”
“Yeah.” Steve nods, feeling a little breathless.
“You don’t mind?” Tony furrows his eyebrows.
“I don’t. In fact, you can just tell them I’m your boyfriend. I’m sure they’ll back off, wouldn’t they?”
What.
“I— Huh?” Tony stares at him, brown eyes blown wide open.
What. What. What.
“Huh? Uh, I mean— You know, that way people will see that you have definitely moved on. Monica will see that you have moved on. Right?” Steve smiles, hoping that it masks his inner panic, because what?
Steve Rogers, what have you done?
i don’t have a choice (but i’d still choose you): @nethandrake
There’s a name inked onto his chest, a name written in an all-too familiar scrawl. And it’s— It’s—
Steve doesn’t realize his body is quaking until he’s tracing the tattoo with a shaky finger.
Because of course that is the name etched into the skin. Like a brand, a reminder for everything he has done. An appropriate retribution.
Anthony Edward Stark.
(When Thanos snaps half of the universe away, he unknowingly leaves the other half with soulmarks.)
ua haʻalele ʻoe iaʻu (a ua hoʻomālamalama ʻoe iaʻu): @just-fandomthings
"The truth is, I was shot in the chest and nearly died, and not even three days after I was released from the hospital, you up and left-- and of those two, I'm not sure which one hurt me worse!"
(Coda to 10x22 because come on, we all need a better ending than the one given to us.)
Title loosely translates to: "You left me in the dark (you lit me up)" -- inspired by the brilliant song "Say You Won't Let Go" by James Arthur
May
A Piece Of The Past: @hddnone
It had been so many years since Bucky had gone undercover in the Stark family's mob, he thought he'd gotten away clean.
Then Tony Stark slid into the seat across from him at his breakfast diner, and Bucky's boss has a new case for him.
the privilege of loving you: @starklysteve
“Why won’t you let me touch you?”
It’s a desperate plea, half-shouted and half-whispered, Steve’s voice cracking at the end. Tony stops in his tracks, halfway to the stairs. He doesn’t dare to turn back, and he really doesn’t want to fight, or to leave, to spend the last month of his life away from his husband and their son. But Steve can’t know, can he?
-x-
Or: Tony has palladium poisoning, but he doesn't tell Steve and Peter
your pillow feels so soft now (but still you must advance): @firebrands
When Bruce is 13, he decides to go to boarding school. It's an opportunity for him to learn about other people, and how to interact with them.
Bruce has the misfortune of meeting Tony Stark upon his arrival in Roxbury. Bruce is moving into his room, and Tony opens the door of his room to watch. He looks a bit younger than Bruce, hair wild and eyes bright. Bruce has never seen a boy like him before—handsome and confident.
Bruce doesn’t like it.
IMPORTANT: This fic has them meeting at 14, then progresses slowly until they’re 17. Includes underage drinking and kissing.
This is set before Bruce becomes Batman and Tony becomes Iron Man and I have no explanation as to how or why they just DO
Canonically, Bruce is 17 when he finishes school and goes around the world to train, so we're sticking with that
The Real MVP: @sword-and-stars (part of a series)
[“I have saved this Tuesday!” Sokka announces, rattling the bag upon reentry.
Zuko doesn’t even look up from his phone as he deadpans, “It’s Thursday.”
Okay, so Sokka is still having trouble getting his days right without checking. At least he’s gone back to sleeping at night! Going to bed at night is way easier when you have a cute, cuddly boyfriend who starts falling asleep around eleven o’clock. It also helps that he and Zuko are on solid gold butt-touching terms.
It’s been a while since Sokka has been on butt-touching terms with someone and it’s amazing.]
Or,
Sokka knows a guy, gets laid, and introduces Zuko to the merits of an afternoon delight.
When is a bed not a bed? (When you’re not in it): @riotwritesthings
There’s a tiny safe house, with one tiny window and one tiny couch.
And one tiny little bed.
June
Nice Fingers: @anthonyed
A single compliment given by Tony stirs Bucky restless until he caves in and asks him out on a date.
With Steve’s help of course (whether he likes it or not).
The Darkest Touch: @starkrogerrs
This is the story of how Steve finds that it has been ordained that he is to marry a monster he cannot resist aka the God of Love himself, Tony.
It's Cupid x Psyche retold, but with thrice the amount of porn.
The Night Shift: @weethreequarter
Welcome to the Emergency Department of San Antonio General where Dr. Tony Stark joins the team fresh from his most recent tour in Afghanistan and - much to the consternation of the other staff - strikes up an instant rapport with Nurse Steve Rogers. Meanwhile, new resident Bruce Banner refuses to give up on his patient, and Dr. Sharon Carter learns something from her own patients. Throw in a pissed off hospital administrator, Clint using the coffee pot as a mug again, and a major car crash and you have, well, just another night shift.
Wind Beneath My Wings: @iam93percentstardust
Sam first meets Tony Stark in 2005 when he joins the EXO-7 Falcon program.
In jest: @/apathyinreverie
“No, babe,” Danny shakes his head with a grin. “If the apocalypse were to go down while I’m elsewhere for some godforsaken reason, then you stay put and I’m coming to wherever you are.” His grin widens. “And I expect you to have cleared any aliens or zombies or whatever else might be messing with us off the island and to have set up a nice, comfortable military dictatorship for us to rule over by the time I get back.”
It’s a joke.
Of course it’s a joke.
Until it isn’t.
(A the-day-after-tomorrow-style apocalypse AU, where the world decides to end right when Danny is visiting one of the other islands with Grace. Because, of course, it does.)
#adi's rec list#mcdanno#stevetony#buckytony#brucetony#rhodeytony#zukka#samtony#january - june#there's so many different ships on this#and different authors#and it spans three fandoms#so hopefully you guys enjoy this!!
98 notes
·
View notes
Text
But You Can Never Leave [Chapter 8: The Light]
Hi y’all! Thank you so much for reading and supporting my writing. Each and every message/reblog/comment/etc makes me smile, and it’s a dream come true to get to share my work with you! 💜
Chapter summary: John shares a secret; Y/N excels at Scrabble; Brian makes peace; Roger suffers a misstep.
This series is a work of fiction, and is (very) loosely inspired by real people and events. Absolutely no offense is meant to actual Queen or their families.
Song inspiration: Hotel California by The Eagles.
Chapter warnings: Language, medical stuff, pregnancy (not who you think!).
Chapter list (and all my writing) available HERE
Taglist: @queen-turtle-boiii @loveandbeloved29 @killer-queen-xo @maggieroseevans @imnotvibingveryguccimrstark @im-an-adult-ish @queenlover05 @someforeigntragedy @imtheinvisiblequeen @joemazzmatazz @seven-seas-of-ham-on-rhye @namelesslosers @inthegardensofourminds @deacyblues @youngpastafanmug @sleepretreat @hardyshoe @bramblesforbreakfast @sevenseasofcats @tensecondvacation @bookandband @queen-crue @jennyggggrrr @madeinheavxn @whatgoeson-itslate @brianssixpence @simonedk
Please yell at me if I forget to tag you! :)
Medicine teaches you to be fiercely skeptical of things that seem too good to be true. Bodies fail—completely and inevitably, though the timing may differ—and patients lie. Medical records don’t, fingerprints don’t, track marks up the underside of an arm don’t, blood and paternity tests don’t, oftentimes the eyes don’t; but given half a chance, people will lie themselves right into the grave.
Those bruises, doc? Got ‘em from a nasty fall down the stairs. I’m lucky I didn’t break my neck!
Nope, never done drugs, not even a joint, I swear on my mother’s life.
I’ll give it up, I’ll go to rehab. Never again. I promise. I don’t want to die.
Doc, I don’t care if the timing doesn’t seem quite right. My husband IS the father. There’s been no one else!
That doting fiancé is flirting with the nurses. Those grown-up children who fluff pillows and dab away tears are asking about the will. That wife is never going to testify against her abusive husband. That addict is going to relapse again...and again...and again. Are there exceptions? Of course. But if you get in the habit of trusting people—of believing all those tantalizingly attractive, hopeful lies—it’ll break your heart six ways to Sunday. There is no perfection in medicine, and there are very rarely miracles.
And so during those first few weeks with Roger—as you watch him from the reeling crowd, from the other side of the tour bus, from across the restaurant table, from the tiny viewfinder of the Canon F-1—you can’t stop searching for the cracks, the shadows, the lies, the dark malignancies breeding beneath the surface. Because everything about Roger Taylor is too good to be true. He’s bright and he’s loud and he’s brilliant and he’s always smiling, always warm. He careens backstage after every show—you keep bracing yourself not to be disappointed when the novelty wears away, when it ends, but it doesn’t—pushing aside roadies and reporters, shouting “Where’s the love of my life? Where’s my Boston babe?” with the most absurd grin you’ve ever seen until he finds you, collides with you, scoops you up and spins you in ungainly circles as your toes skim the floor. Then he cradles your face in his scarred hands and kisses you, breathes you in, tells you everything about the show (even though you were there to see it) in a rush of pure, manic adrenaline. And you stumble into some dressing room together—or a hotel room, or a taxi, or a limousine, or an elevator—and finally it’s your bare thighs his palms are gliding over, your tongue tasting the Heineken and craving on his lips, and it feels impossible for that to ever change. Roger is too good to be true, that’s undeniable; but when you watch him with those doubtful, cautious eyes, you can’t find anything but light.
He wakes up at 6 a.m. to join you on a bayou tour in New Orleans, taps his cigarette over the moss-covered sides of the boat, points out the alligators with leathered skin and ancient yellow irises lurking in the depths. He walks Fremont Street with you in Las Vegas and makes you choose his numbers for the Roulette wheel, for his fate. He snaps photos of you on a sun-drenched balcony in Miami, roaring cobalt waves crashing in the background. He takes you to the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York City, the Art Institute of Chicago, the National Aquarium in Baltimore, the Philadelphia Zoo, Myrtle Beach and the Saint Louis Arch and the Santa Monica Pier. Because he was telling the truth when he said he could show you the world all those months ago when Queen was at Top of the Pops; he was telling you the truth about the list that’s etched into the rushing scarlet chambers of his heart.
When the American leg of the tour ends and the band gets a brief reprieve in London, you move into Roger’s paltry, disorganized flat and scrub away all the remnants of his past life: dust and empty cigarette boxes and women’s socks, ashes and copies of Vogue, a tube of lipstick that isn’t yours. You don’t complain, don’t even frown; you’re under no delusions that something eternal can be founded on resentment, on lies. And so you clear out the clutter and open the windows so sunshine and crisp spring air can breathe through the apartment, so you can both start fresh along with the bellflowers and delphiniums and roses and the tawny newborn ducklings scampering behind their mothers. You hang photos from the tour and John’s sketches on the refrigerator, place your Canon F-1 and pink conch shell from Ostia on the nightstand, litter the drawers with your own socks and makeup. You teach Roger how to sew (although he’s not much good at it) and how to treat blisters (although you’ll always be there to do it for him); and in return Roger teaches you how to trust, how to believe, how to stop searching desperately for faults in the light.
On the second day of April, Queen boards their flight to Tokyo. Brian settles into a plushy, billowing blanket and loses himself in an astronomy magazine; he’s an engaged man now, an honest man in the eyes of society at large...and, far more importantly, his parents. Freddie pens lyrics in his notebook, humming disjointedly, napping like a cat when the mood strikes him. Roger snacks constantly and tries to get John chatting, but John is particularly subdued today, preoccupied, prone to gazing unfocusedly at the clouds that drift by outside and wringing his hands.
And you think, as you peer down into the glistening sapphire waters of the East China Sea: Brian’s a willow tree, Freddie’s a lightning storm, Roger is wildfire...but what is John?
Something deep, something beautiful and strong and constant and hidden.
The ocean, you decide as Queen’s private plane soars over the quicksilver waves that conceal the abyss. John is the ocean.
~~~~~~~~~~
“You didn’t have to stay, you know.”
John is lying on his back under a small grove of cherry blossom trees outside the hotel, sketching grey outlines of petals and arcing branches in a new notebook. He hasn’t given any sign that he heard you coming, doesn’t turn his head to see you. You freeze, startled.
“How’d you know it was me?!”
“You have very distinct footsteps. Dainty, yet purposeful.” He sets aside his notebook and sits up, crossing his long legs. “Why didn’t you go to lunch?”
“Because you didn’t. You turned down ramen, and you never turn down ramen. I was worried. Plus someone has to make sure a roving posse of screaming Japanese girls doesn’t carry you off.”
That makes him laugh. The Japanese fans are inexplicably obsessed with John; or maybe it’s not so inexplicable, maybe they just have a better eye for quiet, unassuming wonders. “Always so thoughtful.”
You sit down beside him, open a pack of chocolate-flavored Pocky and offer John a piece, frown when he lights a cigarette instead. “That’s really bad for you. Seriously. You should quit.”
“At last. One thing you and Brian agree on.” He exhales a gale of smoke and peers up at the cherry blossoms.
“John?”
“Yeah.”
“You didn’t break up with Veronica, did you?” Chrissie and Mary didn’t mention anything about her tearful devastation, and you suspect they would have had John gone through with it.
He sighs. “I did not.”
“And...are we feeling...okay about that...?”
He twirls the cigarette nervously between his fingers. After a silence, he surrenders. “Look, I haven’t told anybody yet, but I’d tell you first anyway. So here it goes.” He glances over at you guiltily, gloomily, wishing he could disappear. “I didn’t break up with Veronica because she’s pregnant.”
Your jaw falls open. A half-eaten stick of Pocky rolls out of your mouth and onto the grass. She’s what? She’s WHAT?
“Please don’t be disappointed,” John pleads. “I’m disappointed in myself enough for both of us, believe me.”
“I...I...I’m not disappointed, John, I’m just...” You blink at him. “Oh my god.”
He nods, acquiescent. “I’m in complete agreement.”
You shake your head, gaping at him, stunned; and suddenly you don’t like what you’re feeling at all. Because it isn’t just shock and horror, it isn’t just apprehension. You hate the thought of him touching her, of her delicate white hands on him, of innocence stripped away and memories impressed into muscle, into soul.
Because you know she’s not right for him. Because you know he doesn’t love her the way he should. Because you want the best for him and always have.
Oh, there’s a comforting rationale; but is it true?
And then: You fucking hypocrite. Since when do you get an opinion on who anyone sleeps with?
“It must have happened in January,” John says miserably. “Right before we left for the States. She didn’t want to tell me over the phone...I guess maybe she thought if she did I’d never come back. So she told me as soon as I landed in London. And here we all are.”
You stare down at your shoes, trying to compose yourself. “What are you going to do?”
“There’s only one option.”
“Actually, there are quite a few. But I know you’d never consider them.” John’s father died when he was ten, and he never talks about it; which is precisely how you know it’s a wound that can’t ever heal, a gash that goes straight down to the bone. He would never leave his child, never banish them to some dusty, repressed corner of his consciousness while he moves on with a blissfully unencumbered life. You whisper: “I’m so fucking sorry, John.”
That snaps something in him, something he was choking back. He buries his face in his hands. “What the fuck am I doing?” he moans. “I’m twenty-three years old, I’m broke, I turned down loads of jobs, good jobs, as an electrical engineer, I’ve somehow become the bassist in an increasingly famous rock band...I mean, how the hell did this happen? How did any of this happen?”
“It’ll be okay,” you insist with newfound resolve. I have to save him. I have to protect him.
John rolls those soft greyish eyes, hopeless, distraught. “Sure.”
“It will be, I promise you. The tour is going great. I had my doubts about the band when I first met you, I’ll admit it, I didn’t know if there was a future for Queen. But you’ve made me a believer. You’ve made millions of people all over the world believers. The money will keep rolling in, Queen will finally start seeing some of it, you won’t be broke forever. You’ll have two more months on the road and then we’ll be back in London, and it’ll be on to recording the next album, more shows, more money...the hard times are almost over, John. You can do this. And I’ll help you.”
His brow furrows. “You will?”
“Of course. If it’s easier for Veronica, it’ll be easier for you. So I’ll be extra friendly, take her to appointments when you’re busy, help organize the wedding, babysit the littlest Deacon whenever she needs me to. We’ll get through this. I’ll be there to help every step of the way.”
“You’re happy, aren’t you?” he asks suddenly. “You and Roger. You aren’t going anywhere.” He’s reading you closely, sifting through your words and forced smile for something deeper.
“I’m happy,” you assure him. “You don’t need to be concerned about that. I’m staying with the band, I’m staying in London. Whenever Queen is home, that is.”
He nods, but perhaps that wasn’t exactly what he was looking for. He finally accepts a piece of Pocky from you and takes a bite. “Then I guess we’ll plan for a summer wedding.”
“You could do a double one with Brian and Chrissie.”
He laughs so hard he almost inhales the Pocky, then doubles over coughing. “I think Bri would rather slit his own throat, but a charming thought. Thank you for that. Bravo.”
You smile at John, genuinely this time. “You’re going to be an amazing father. I hope you aren’t worried about that part of it, at least.”
“Will you be their godparent?”
“What? Me?!”
“Yeah. Because, you know...” John averts his gaze. “You’d be the person I would want to raise them if something happened to me and Veronica. You’re the most dedicated, stubborn, capable, nurturing, remarkable person I’ve ever met. You’re my best friend. And maybe Roger’s your best friend and you’re his, and that’s all fine, that’s alright, but you’re still mine.”
“Roger is a lot of incredible things, but he’s not my best friend.” You lie flat on the grass and lace your hands behind your head, tracking the weightless snowy clouds as they float by above. When did we become adults? When did all of these rules catch up to us? “I would be honored to be your child’s godparent.”
John plops down beside you. “Don’t tell the others yet, okay? I want to wait until the tour’s over. I don’t want them to panic and think I’m leaving and try to replace me or anything.”
“They wouldn’t try to replace you, John.”
“No?” he asks doubtfully.
“No. Roger knows it, Fred knows it, I think even Bri knows it.” You reach out and weave a lock of his hair through your fingers as cherry blossom petals tumble in the breeze. “You’re irreplaceable.”
~~~~~~~~~~
“Sod,” Freddie mocks. “That’s the best you could do? Really? Sod?”
Roger flings up his hands in frustration. “Freddie, I’ve got like a million Cs!”
“You could have done cod,” Brian notes, sipping a cup of hot tea. “Cods, actually.”
Roger glowers down at his Scrabble tiles. “Fuck.”
“And I’m so delighted he didn’t!” You place your tiles, expanding on sod to make rhapsody. John high-fives you and records the points in his notebook. Freddie and Brian groan in defeat.
“What the hell is a rhapsody?!” Roger snatches the Official Scrabble Dictionary off the table and flips through it.
“It’s a, like a...” Freddie waves his cigarette, scattering smoke through the air. “It’s like an epic poem. Or an opera. With lots of bizarre, different parts all pieced together.”
“That sounds made up.”
Freddie cackles. “Darling, it’s a real thing, I swear!”
Roger locates the pertinent page in the Scrabble Dictionary and his shoulders slump. “Goddammit. Fucking...too smart...nerdy...college-educated...girlfriend.” He drags you into his lap and kisses your temple. “You’re lucky you’re cute. I don’t usually tolerate being conquered like this.”
Bri smirks from behind his teacup. “I rather think you conquered her, Rog.”
“Oh, a rare good one from Bri!” Freddie trills as everyone laughs, although John soon busies himself with clearing empty bottles and cigarette butts off the table.
“Yes,” Roger agrees. “Against her superior judgment, I finally won her over. Only took eight months. Which is approximately...wait, let me count...seven and a half months longer than it has ever taken me before.”
You trace your fingertips across his stubbled cheeks, his soft lips, his little dark blond tufts of sideburns. “No one knows how to say no to you, do they?”
“It’s impossible. I’m too charming. Blindingly heroic. Perseus in the flesh.” He kisses your forehead and steadies you, his hands on your waist, as the brakes squeal and the tour bus lurches to a halt.
Freddie leaps to his feet and claps. “Alright, darlings! Off to the new digs we go. Deaky, hand me my shoes, they’re under the table...yes, right there...and toss over Brian’s hideous clogs as well.”
You help the roadies and the band drag luggage into the hotel (no small feat, as the elevator is out of order), unpack your toothbrush and hairbrush and a floral-patterned dress for dinner, giggle as you listen to Roger’s feral, raspy singing in the shower. It’s something about loving a car, how perfectly on-brand for him. Then Roger goes to fetch Freddie and John for dinner while you find Brian. Bri is collapsed on his bed in a striped t-shirt and jeans, freshly-washed and dewy, gazing up at the ceiling in a daze.
You tap gently on the doorframe. “Bri? You want to join us for dinner? There’s a sushi place a few blocks away that’s a local legend, apparently. Lots of veggie options too.”
He looks over at you. You haven’t spoken about the argument since you had it two months ago. Brian sometimes grimaces or smirks or rolls his willowy viridescent eyes, but he never says anything; not to you, and not to Roger as far as you’re aware. “I’m sorry,” he says simply. “I may have been out of line before. Incorrect, even.”
“No need to apologize, Bri. I’ve forgotten all about it.” You haven’t, but there’s no reason for Brian to know that.
“I just want what’s best for you. For you to be happy.”
“I know, Brian.” You cross the room and take his long, moon-white, artful hands in your own. “I’m sorry.”
“You’ll be in the wedding party, won’t you? I know Chris will ask.”
“Of course. And I’ll proudly wear whatever dreadfully tacky and uncomfortable bridesmaid dresses she picks out.”
“Even if they’re a frightful shimmery green?”
“Oh god.” You swallow noisily. “I’ll still do it. And then burn the photos.”
Brian chuckles as he climbs out of bed. “In a stroke of luck, I suspect she’ll ask you to take the pictures. So you can avoid being in them as much as you’d like. And conveniently lose the unflattering ones.”
You study him thoughtfully. “Are you happy, Brian?”
“I am. Chrissie’s excited, my parents are thrilled, they’ll be sitting in the front row with the proudest smiles you’ve ever seen. Next comes a proper house, and children, and all the rest of it.” But something in those mellow olivey eyes is resigned, melancholy. His words from two months ago echo in your skull: It’s necessary. It’s self-preservation. Because sometimes the people who set us on fire would burn us alive.
“Do you still think about New Orleans?” you ask softly. About the woman he’d fallen in love with there before you ever met Queen, about the utopian passion he never quite stops searching for. Everyone has demons, secrets, shadowy trenches like cracks in porcelain; you’ve learned all about Brian’s. What about Roger’s? What about mine?
He shrugs, staring out the window at the dusky skyline of Yokohama. “Maybe I’ll always think about New Orleans. But that doesn’t mean I don’t have to grow up and start taking responsibility.”
“Responsibility,” you reply cynically, before you can stop yourself. “Is that all love is about anymore?”
“Not for you. Not for Roger. You both want your freedom, your adventure, your true and uncomplicated love. And you’ll get to keep it.”
For now. But you don’t say that. Instead, you smile appeasingly and gesture for Brian to follow you out into the hallway.
The others are waiting by the door to the stairwell: John in a smart grey suit, Freddie in his black-and-yellow jacket, Roger in sunglasses and a ridiculous leopard-print vest he’d dug out of a trashcan somewhere and precariously tall boots.
“At last, Nurse Nightingale and my darling Brian!” Freddie chirps. “Come on, I’m positively famished, and also I’ve bet five pounds that I can consume more sake shots than Roger and I could really use the dough.”
Roger pushes through the door, leading the way. “Prepare to lose!”
“Roger, please,” you implore. “New livers don’t grow on trees, and I can’t give you half of mine. I’m the wrong blood type.”
Roger laughs as he bounds down the steps, then whirls to grin up at you as he walks backwards. “Relax, Deaks will share! You’re type A, aren’t you John—?”
Roger’s heel slips and he plummets down the flight of stairs. He tumbles as the four of you shriek in horror and bolt after him, slams into the wall of the landing, ricochets off of it and plunges down the next flight as well. There’s blood, you think frenziedly as you descend, screaming Roger’s name. There’s blood all over the steps.
Roger, crumpled on the maroon-streaked landing, slowly unravels and groans. He glances down, appraises himself, then hammers his left fist against the concrete wall of the stairwell, roaring in raw agony and rage. “No no no no no no!”
“Roger—!”
And then you see it.
Roger’s right arm hangs uselessly, unnaturally, his snapped radius bloody and splitting through the skin.
#but you can never leave fic#but you can never leave series#but you can never leave#roger taylor fic#roger taylor x reader#queen fic#queen fanfic#queen fanfiction
98 notes
·
View notes
Text
CHAPTER THREE: Guidance
LittlePip wakes up to a brand new day. Which she never experienced before and we get some fun observations from her about.
I knew this was coming but I’m so relieved LittlePip finds one of Rarities dresses in perfect condition inside a locked chest.
The comment, that the dress is the prettiest and most cheerful thing she has seen since leaving is striking to me. She has had one terrible string of bad luck so far, but there are amazing things still waiting to be found.
Which is undercut somewhat by her discovery of the dead cats hung over where she slept. Absolutely terrifying. That doesn’t seem just for shock value, as it preoccupies our (and LittlePips) mind as she accidentally activates a land mine. Oops.
Watcher making his first appearing here, giving LittlePip life saving advice.
Raiders attack again. And we get LittlePips naive interpretation of grenades through a childhood memory of someone bullying her. This explains to us why she focuses on throwing the granade back next… killing her first pony.
We don’t get a lot of rumination on that yet though, as we get a scene break and LittlePip has managed to sneak out of Ponyville. What are these segmenting parts called, actually? Is it “Dinkus”? That’s a fantastic name.
The retelling of escaping Ponyville sounds like a stealth sequence in any video game, which I find amusing.
After a brief first encounter with a Bloatsprite - the mutated version of the Parasprites from the show - we reunite with Watcher and LittlePip get’s to have her first friendly conversation so far. (You might wanna count Velvet at the very beginning, but that’s up to you.)
“A friend.” I raised an eyebrow. “Okay, a passing acquaintance. But one that doesn’t mean any harm.”
This back-paddling is interesting. Why isn’t the “Friend or Foe” distinction enough here? My interpretation is that FoE takes friendship quite seriously. Since it is adopting “My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic”, in which friendship is the key to change the course of history, just the word “friend” has a lot of worth and meaning that can’t just be thrown around lightly. We don’t know it yet but the core mechanics of MLP, namely friendship and the Elements of Harmony, are still intact in this story.
Finding my apple, I levitated it up. “Thank you. And thank you for the warning about that… thing in the ground.” “Mine.” I blinked. “Y-you want my apple?”
I just want this on here.
We get some info on the Bloatsprite - mainly it’s name and that it is the result of something called Taint. Which, uh– and Watcher’s name. He is not a Spritebot himself, but located somewhere else and just hacks into them to interact with remote places of the world.
Finally he gives vital advice any newbie RPG player can use: Find better gear, learn about the world and make some friends! What? Yes, there it is again. Friendship.
For guidance LittlePip returns to Ponyville. Watcher told her a copy of the Wasteland Survival Guide should still be at the Ponyville Library. Twilight’s home! (Remember, we’re sticking strictly to the first season.)
I was convinced The Wasteland Survival Guide was a reference to an older piece of post-apocalyptic fiction, but nope, it seems to come from the famous quest line in Fallout 3. At least, that is what dominates the search results when I try to google it.
Quite some time is also spend on the horrific decoration, namely desecrated ponies. Mutilated and in pieces, stuck to the walls and hung from the ceiling. These displays of gore are reminiscent of how Super Mutants tend to gather in places with such bloody decorations in Fallout 3. That game reduced the Mutants personality from a faction, as they were in the previous titles, to little more than orcs. Which is a shame, as they mostly exist as canon fodder now. And help us get over killing them, it shows us with lootable sacks of gore that they deserve it.
The raiders here get painted in the same light and fulfill a similar role. As clear bad guys and somewhat as cannon fodder. Their psychology never gets explored much beyond “the Wasteland drove them mad”. They often even have ridiculous cutie marks, implying they have been born into being raiders and that being cruel is their special talent. Which, besides painting the saddest existence, is a shame, since they clearly form groups among themselves, can talk just fine and are/were, by all accounts, just ponies like anyone else. Except, they’re not. They have gone insane, mind you. They live in their own shit and sleep under fresh, dripping intestines. Because they’ve gone mad, you see!
My point with all that is, that the excessive gore in this scene takes away from my immersion, as it raises questions with no answers, and raiders holding slaves and killing ponies (without putting their corpses on display), again, would be fine enough to convince me of their evilness.
Watcher was playing LittlePip a little, as he knew it was also where a couple slaves are kept in cages. One of them is implied to have been sexually assaulted, which - while still despicable - at least makes more sense for raiders to do than the gore fest described earlier.
LittlePip glancing over the bottle caps the first freed slave offers her without a second thought is a fun touch.
Then a fight breaks loose!
I hadn’t just killed a pony–these raiders had given up any right to the title! These were not ponies, they were sick monsters that needed to be put down!
Which implies choice. Something I can’t imagine, choosing to be a raider like this, but fine. I’m sure plenty of FoE side stories go more into detail with raiders, FoE itself seems mostly comfortable portraying them as orcs most of the time. Until it doesn’t. But we will cross that bridge when we get there.
I didn’t realize until that moment, but I was mad! The pure evil of this place had shaken me to the core… and my core was furious!
Regardless of my feelings towards the raiders, Littlepip’s reaction to them has always been inspirational to me. I know, it leads to… problems later on. But joining in with unbridled rage of LittlePip is cathartic in ways I haven’t yet seen replicated somewhere else.
(what do you know, they do shoot with their tongues!)
Figuring out how horses shoot firearms is… it’s own entire discourse I am not very interested in. But it’s fun to see what ideas FoE brought to the table. And it’s even more fun to see high quality concept art of tongue-triggered pistols for the Fallout: Equestria fan game Ashes of Equestria.
The fight is fun, with brisk and clear descriptions and punctuation of humor (“Shouldn't you ponies be smarter than this? You live in a library!”).
LittlePip gets shot but finds the Fluttershy branded medical box. Love that decision. Also our introduction to healing potions – they work like Stimpaks from Fallout, but are actually more believable because magic actually exists!
I was even more pathetic with melee weapons than I was with guns.
Love that RPG progression being set up here.
It was a zombiepony!
Don’t be mean to ghoul Ditzy Doo. Don’t ever be mean to ghoul Ditzy Doo.
I can’t really place the note about why someone might need binoculars in a library. I assume it’s a MLP reference but I’m lost on that one.
After another short lived meeting with mines the fight is over and LittlePip decides to loot the bodies for armor. The bloody, tattered armor. To be fair, it is the best armor she has come across so far and we do stuff like this in RPGs all the time.
She finds bottle caps again and chooses to ignore them this time. Great tease. Love it.
She finds and identifies radigator meat. I’m not sure she should know their name at this point, but whatever. The narrative framing allows it.
Lastly, she confronts the sniper that has been on the balcony of the library the entire time. Here we get a better glimpse at AngeryPip, surprising herself with her audible confidence and malice. It feels like a different character, but since this is portrayed as a extreme situation this seems more adrenaline fueled to me, rather than pathological.
Leaving the library, LittlePip has a combat shotgun, an assault rifle, a revolver (which gets lost in the next scene), a knife and now a sniper rifle. Impressive for this early in the story.
An alert flashed on my PipBuck. Checking it, I discovered that it had labeled the gazebo in front of me: The Macintosh War Memorial.
First, harrowing. Love it. Secondly, I love the inclusion of the gazebo, which has to be the one we can see in the show. It’s cool to see how many elements of the show actually made it in here. Pretty unobtrusively too.
The Memorial specifically names Big Macintosh and his sacrifice. It’s obviously unclear how much of the story was prepared in advance, but the way the war started 200 years ago must have been among that. We get to learn later what Big Mac’s role in the war was.
And we end with LittlePip picking up “The Wasteland Survival Guide. By Ditzy Doo…”
Level Up! New Perk: Bookworm. Kinda nice how we went to the library this time, got a book out of it, the quote at the beginning was “Books! I’ve read several on the subject.”… So, this one feels more than earned.
10 notes
·
View notes
Text
Sparagmos: First Draft
To celebrate me reaching 32K with my WIP, here’s a bunch of drabbles which inspired the initial first draft. I might reuse one or two scenes, but not the stuff with Darth Zhorrid. Both Yen and her master has changed a lot through my second revision of the fic too, and so has my writing style. Enjoy!
Darth Kharopos knew damn well that he was intimidating. He must be, lest all the other Darths devour him whole. He was also acutely aware of the effect he had on Yennevyr. It was almost amusing, the sudden change in her posture, her back snapping straight the moment he stepped into the room. Her deference towards him, the soft words and lowered eyes. Was she eager to please, or eager to survive?
From her quick feet and mind, he thought it was the latter. Self-preservation was a necessary trait among the cutthroat Sith, but for his apprentices - his legacy - he wanted more. He thought with her keen eyes and her outsider’s perspective, she’d be able to see the Empire for what it was. To see beyond the rabble, beyond the rat’s race and see what truly mattered. Instead, her eyes were puffy and pink, the next morning they met during saber practice.
Pathetic.
And it wasn’t a one off occasion too. Every time she’d come back from a particularly grueling mission, her mind was elsewhere, her blows lacking the conviction he’d expect from an acolyte worthy of being called his apprentice.
Drawing his attention back to the current practice, he swung a saber at her, the saber deflected mid-swing by a well-placed parry. He stepped aside, and noted how her feet were firmly planted into the ground, readying the body to absorb the weight of a heavy thrust or jab. A defensive stance- again. Must he truly hurt her for her to finally switch to the offense?
The tip of her saber was shaking, her stamina running low.
With the ease of swatting a fly, Darth Kharopos knocked the saber out of her hands. Scowling, he walked away, not pausing to glance back..
*******
Something was different. Clearly, something had changed.
Yet, it was less of a change or a growth and more of a pot bubbling over, the pressure and the heat exploding, the fragile cage of a badly crafted glass teapot cracking, its jagged shards flying into the wall before smashing into sharp little pieces.
Something flared in her eyes and her single red blade came to life, slashing in his direction.
He stepped right and striked left. She jumped back, moving like a spooked jungle-cat, before bouncing back forward with an unexpected speed and thrusted her saber towards his form. He blocked her, catching her blade with the end of his own. Her stance buckled under his strength, and so she slid her saber away but not before suddenly twisting her grips - shifting form, right in the heat of combat, inches away from her enemy - and plunging the blade into where he stood. Darth Kharopos spun his double-bladed saber, creating a quick shield that deflected away Yennevyr’s weapon.
The weapon flew out of her hand.
He felt her clearly. Frustration. Loathing. Wrath.
Their force bond was never this strong, but now he could feel her closer than ever. The way her heart raced, the blood thumping in her ears, her ragged breath and barely held back sobs- it was a dam broken loose, her force presence like a whirlpool throwing the cold serenity of his mind into chaos. Decades of careful restraint and calculating control kept him from drowning in the waves of her emotions.
Yennevyr, with her lithe form and dancer physique, sent a butterfly kick towards his head. Darth Kharopos reeled back. He could’ve blocked her again, that he was more than capable of- but his senses were screaming, alarm bells ringing.
With that distraction - that uncharacteristic distraction, that daring, was so different from the cautious acrobat who used to dance in and out of his range - she summoned her saber back, the hilt smacking into her palm with a loud slap. Fluid like water, she leaped and swung the saber like a guillotine axe above his head. Eyes wide, Darth Kharopos raised his saber up to form a cover, digging his feet into the sand below as the impact hit him. Yennevyr was not relenting.
Her eyes were scarlet. Those amber orbs now glowed red, the color looking like freshly spilt blood against her snow-pale skin. It reminded him of the first time he saw a total lunar eclipse: the moon bled red, as if someone had stabbed its white soil and the wound began gushing glistening ruby.
He let her hit him.
*******
Despair was an emotion Darth Kharopos never experienced, not truly and certainly not personally. Whether that was an indication of mental strength or privilege, he didn’t know.
Lord Atala’s death hit them all hard; the empty space where his mother once stood still felt like a void. Darth Kratais second marriage with Darth Labrys could never fill that gnawing, missing hole, but the woman’s hands were tender and her gaze was warm and when she whispered words of comfort to him, it felt like he had a mother again. Her presence had gentled his father’s severe disposition, and when she brought about his half-sister - Tatyan - into the world, the younger Sith Pureblood felt like a tiny bird fluttering in his palms. She truly was worth protecting.
When his father passed, it felt like a bad dream had come again.
Except this time, mother was grieving and Tatyan was bawling and they all cried together.
“Never show weakness in front of outsiders”, Darth Labrys said. “But here, we’re family.”
Because of family, he’d never known despair.
He was used to inflicting it upon others, though.
Hearing prisoners beg for death, attempting to gouge their eyes out as if the act could wipe away the vision of seeing their loved ones writhing as lightning tore through them, was something he’d grown accustomed to. He saw it coming like a holofilm in slow-motion: the moment where a war veteran’s mind was about to break, their will and determination ready to be shattered into dust at just a single jab. He always made sure their descent into madness was quick- no need to prolong the suffering. Genuine torture was only reserved for the worst of his enemies. It was satisfying, forcing some arrogant Republic general to their knees and making them scream, or exposing some tough Jedi for the weakling they were, like ripping open a bandage to reveal the ugly pus beneath.
How then, had he become so numb to the agony of others, that he missed seeing the same signs in his apprentice?
She was in despair, so upset she wished she’d died.
The circular burns on her arms looked like the ones he was used to inflicting upon Republic foes. It was an easy interrogation technique: stamping a recently deactivated lightsaber onto bare skin, the still-hot metal like a sizzling brand. And when he gazed into her eyes (oh sweet Yennevyr, when was the last time he truly looked at her?), they were dead. Empty glass orbs that had given up on life, if only her heart would just stop beating and give up on her too.
“Do I disappoint you, my lord?”
There was no mockery, no snippy retort in her voice, only pain.
*******
“I’ve always wondered how the law would work out in the long run,” Darth Labrys said, her voice lilting through the holocall. She was referring to the law to bolster Imperial ranks with worthy slaves and aliens, the law which also applied to the Sith. “You can’t expect a slave or a foreigner with no background, no exposure to Sith culture or history to integrate smoothly into Sith society without intervention, much less demand top performances from them.”
Not to mention the consequence of overwhelming power suddenly awakening within someone never taught to wield it, Darth Kharopos thought. The dark side was intoxicating, and one could lose themselves to everything from bloodlust to misery.
“I’m not advising you to go easy on her… but do be understanding, Tyrkos.”
His mother warned that even with the best medicine or therapy available, it would take time, and heavens knew that the Sith journey was already difficult enough, requiring one to fall apart and be reborn from the ashes, to kill who you were for what you could become.
Trust between Sith, especially master and apprentices, was rare. Now, he doubted she’d ever place her faith in him beyond hoping to one day take his place.
*******
Is this how I die? Darth Kharopos thought.
Every breath felt like hot knives stabbing his lungs. The rebreather was dying on him, for he could taste soot in his mouth. Collapsed against the cool floor of his hideout, back leaning against a bloodied wall, his apprentice loomed over him. How embarrassing, for his apprentice to see him so helpless.
“What’s the meaning of this?” she cried out. “Master!”
He thought he’d take that secret to the grave, to ensure that the fallout was minimal. Sith Pureblood, heir to the Rosokor family, involved in a light-side conspiracy. Should he be exposed, the Dark Council would have his mother’s and sister’s heads.
He pleaded for her to understand.
And if she didn’t, he wouldn’t blame her.
Her left hand clutched his holocommunicator where the damning evidence of his treachery laid, and in her right hand was the scarlet lightsaber, poised for execution. In the months under his tutelage, she’d grown into a stunningly beautiful Sith assassin indeed.
He closed his eyes.
“Tell me how to help.”
In shock, his eyes snapped open.
Her eyebrows were scrunched up but whether in anxiety or concern, he could not tell. There was a flush in her cheeks, and wildness in her eyes. Against his every expectation, Yennevyr chose mercy. She chose a chance at the Light. She chose him.
Master, did you not choose me, on Korriban? You saw something in me. I see something in you, too.
*******
Yennevyr hated mopping up blood. She had watched her late father’s maids do it all the time, his underlings scrubbing a crime scene clean. She later played the role of the domestic servant, doing the same back when she was enslaved under the Hutts, whether it be with spilled drinks or bloodstains from a brawl. She wasn’t afraid of blood- the coppery stench just smelled revolting.
Her master bled liters, the liquid forming sticky pools beneath his broken body. Sealing the wound wasn’t too difficult once she found the medkit, although her clumsy handiwork would definitely leave a scar. What was even more concerning was her master’s breathing, the fact that it sounded agonizingly labored and worryingly irregular.
With effort, they managed to haul their way to the hideout’s medical wing before he slipped into unconsciousness.
When his armor was stripped away and it was only his form in plain robes on the simple bed, her master looked more exhausted than she’d ever seen him. Heavy fatigue was written all over his sleeping face. It reminded her of those times she woke up especially early to see the Kaasian sunrise, the soft orange peaking through grey, stormy clouds. Some days, she deduced how master had been running some secret errands the night before, and she’d spot him limping home, his feet dragging, with an uncharacteristic slouch burdening his usually proud posture. Logically, she knew her master was no more or less a person than her, but to glimpse him tired and worn out had shocked her.
She spent the night by his side, the implications of her actions becoming clearer with each passing moment.
To reform the Sith society from inside out, she thought. A lofty dream. When did I become such a cynic?
With curious eyes, she glanced at her master’s resting form, the sound of his still ragged breathing filling the room. She wouldn’t even need a lightsaber; all she had to do was wrap her hands around his neck, and squeeze. She wondered if suffocation felt like sleep.
Oh, will I ever see you this vulnerable again?
Instead, she gingerly placed a palm on top of his limp hand, entangling her fingers with his. His hand was warm.
*******
After the suspicious death of Darth Jadus, Darth Zhorrid - in her sick ways - sought to consolidate her position as a Dark Lord of the Sith.
As if the Council would stand her, Yen scoffed. After they’ve sucked her dry of whatever knowledge Jadus may have passed down to his daughter, she’s dead.
It was no secret that her master disagreed with many of the actions taken by Darth Jadus, but he’d always respected the chain of command, bowing whenever the Dark Councillor requested his presence, amicable before his superiors. This time, however, Darth Zhorrid asked for her master and would not expect anything less than absolute submission.
“Wait outside, Yennevyr. Do not interfere no matter what happens.”
Many may claim force cloaking to be an act of defense, like the Jedi Shadows who’d rather sneak past their foes than needlessly spill blood. Perhaps she truly was like that, in the past. Eager to run, to dart in and out unseen. Conflict-avoidant.
But a cloak was also a tool, like a viper’s green scales that blended into the grass, obscuring fangs and venom. To take it a step further: force cloaking was manipulation. It was to force upon someone a false visage, to bend the mind of onlookers to the point of them rejecting the evidence of their own eyes, denying the existence of a sword pointed at their head. On Korriban, Yen had figured out how to twist her force cloak, inverting it so that her opponents’ visions were plunged into darkness and the world became invisible to them.
It only took hearing her master scream for the first time for her cloak to become a dress.
The scent of ozone reeked through the semi-closed office door. By god, no matter how many times in the past she’d angrily fumed - fantasizing of sweet it would be to give her master a taste of his own medicine - actually hearing her master who had just barely recovered from his previous ordeal now screaming under the powers of some bratty Darth who probably did not even deserve that title...
Yen’s hands curled into a fist, and she was surprised by the anxious lump that formed in her throat. She took in a sharp inhale and when she breathed out, the Force coiled around her like serpentine tendrils, slick and cool. Shadows rested around her shoulder blades like a fashionista’s scarf.
Or for her enemies, a noose.
When her master stumbled out of Darth Zhorrid’s office, a hand clutching at his side, she took the opportunity to peer into the slit of the half-opened office door and caught the Dark Councillor’s sadistic gaze. Yen gave a smile.
*******
Yen had always been good at force cloaking. But this time, instead of projecting the lie of invisibility, she’d chosen an illusion- a glamour, a mirage. To project something false into the world required unwavering will and mastery over that image.
Her mask was fueled by hatred.
Never had she thought she’d one day hate anyone more that she hated the Hutts or herself, until she met Darth Zhorrid. That pathetic mix of insecurity and sadism was infuriating. She had read up on Darth Jadus’ treatment of his daughter. It took everything for her not to barge into that office and wring that sick woman by the neck and ask her if she thought she was the only one who had ever faced abuse. Everyone faced pain at some point in their life. Suffering was the story of all beings, especially so if you were Sith. Yet, when she hated herself, Yen only hurt herself. Unlike Zhorrid, she’d never tortured others as a way to lessen her own pain, to hide her weakness.
And for that, Yen wished Zhorrid was dead.
But not before providing use for her and her master, of course.
Wearing the Force - the fabric of the universe - as if it was a garment, was an act of complete domination. With a smile, she had sparked a flame of interest within Zhorrid. With a light touch of her fingers, she’d quicken or calm the Dark Lord’s pulse, the woman’s heartbeat hers to command at her pleasure. In a blink of an eye, Zhorrid would forgive her master for any misdeeds he’d supposedly done, and most importantly, Zhorrid would leave him alone.
Why pay attention to some grumpy old Sith when the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen was standing there in front of her eyes?
A drugged cupcake ready to be eaten.
Darth Kharopos felt his stomach sinking when he received the holocall requesting that Yennevyr go meet Darth Zhorrid in her chambers. His muscles tightened, as if readying for battle. He wasn’t scared of that snooty brat; anything she threw his way he could take. But Yen, his student, his ward, his protege, his apprentice-
She was smiling.
The Force swirled around her, draped all over her form like a dress blowing in the wind. It was as if she wore a robe of woven flesh, of slithering serpents and tendrils that wrap and cling and coil. There was a gleam in Yen’s eyes, her russet eyes mirthful, radiating confidence. The last time he remembered seeing his apprentice so self-assured was when he was bleeding on the cool tiled floors, her red lightsaber hanging over his head like a bloody guillotine.
“My lord, I am every bit your apprentice. Trust that you’ve taught me well.”
When Darth Kharopos was later summoned to Darth Zhorrid’s office, Yennevyr sat on Zhorrid’s lap like an overpriced poodle. What Zhorrid did not see was the undulating threads latching onto her, their ends sinking into Zhorrid’s skin like a snake’s fangs, or parasites whose teeth pierced her bloodstream, draining her dry.
“Ah, you’re here, Darth Kharopos,” Zhorrid said with a grin. “Very good, you look very nice indeed, perfect for the job.”
Darth Kharopos only nodded, his eyes glued to Zhorrid’s pale hand which stroked Yen’s hair as if she was some exotic pet.
“I need you to look into two places: Belsavis, and the Arcanum.”
Belsavis was a tightly guarded secret he was privy to knowing, but his heart skipped a beat when he heard the name ‘Arcanum’. The Emperor’s property. Jedis have died to get a glimpse of the space station, and there were words of a rogue Dread Master recently robbing the place. Was it even under Intelligence’s jurisdiction?
A squeal snapped him from his thoughts.
“So you do know about the Arcanum!”
Her voice went from a slimy purr to an abrupt shriek. He felt a hard shove and invisible cold fists pinning him to the wall. His legs hung in the air, and he glared at that wretched woman.
“My lord,” Yennevyr murmured, her doe-like eyes widening at Darth Zhorrid. “My master’s a Darth of Imperial Intelligence. Is it not his role to know all that is going on?”
The pressure released and soon he was free. Zhorrid made a noise of agreement, muttering ‘Yes, yes… you’re right, of course.”
Zhorrid began ranting, a semi-coherent monologue punctuated with giggles and sudden screeches on the unfairness of her fate and the need to prove her worth to the Dark Council. Before her anger boiled over, a force tendril planted soft kisses on Zhorrid’s lips, quieting the woman’s anxiety in one swift move.
When the Dark Councillor appeared distracted, Darth Kharopos broke eye contact and glanced at his apprentice. He suppressed a shudder, seeing the predatory glint in Yennevyr’s eyes. Everyday, they grew more scarlet.
You will drink my words, or I will pour them down your throat.
*******
Belsavis he took care of alone, but as per Darth Zhorrid’s orders, he allowed Yennevyr to accompany him on the mission to the Arcanum. It was perfect: with every eye glued to the young rising-star commander, a Sith not-yet-a-lord with the bewitching presence of a black hole, nobody noticed him slipping away, leaking whatever information he could find on the Emperor to Republic SIS. His heart thundered the whole way, but every time he looked at Yennevyr - black hair tied up in a bun, a saber and light armor ready for combat - he felt like he could breathe easy again.
The mission was a success. They tracked the thief, Lord Tagriss, down to Ilum. His dualsaber stabbed a hole in the Sith Lord’s chest, and he felt his apprentice’s pride flared through their bond the moment Lord Tagriss’ dead husk fell into the snow.
When they returned home, she was ready to be a Lord.
“From this day onwards, you are known as Lord Soteira,” he declared, his apprentice kneeling before him. “It means savior.”
His apprentice stood up. When she looked at him, something swirled in his chest.
You honed my blade and sharpened my edges until they are lethal. You scrubbed away the rust, and revealed the blood-soaked truth. Master, don’t feel guilty thinking you turned me into something I already wasn’t. I’ll try to reach for the Light as you want me to, my lord, but don’t pity me if I fail.
3 notes
·
View notes
Text
@anthropologicalhands here you go! thanks for the ask ✨
hilariously, i p. much can’t write unless i have a title in mind? it seems to shape the story as i go, so i typically end up stealing song lyrics as soon as i have an idea, if only to put myself out of my misery. anyway! atla, twd, rdr2, ac: origins, dc, and pitch under the cut!
in our bedroom, after the war
post-series atla zutara au wherein i geek about politics and reconstruction and consequences, and also break zuko into tiny sad pieces before katara gets to smooch him. also there is a dragon.
and wept for break of day
twd au: post-coda, (loosely) inspired by the short story “bullet in the brain”; eventual bethyl
Mass hallucinations, one broadcaster said. String theory. The collective unconscious. Just a whole buncha scared fools, grasping at straws while the world reels, trying to understand something too big and too ugly to ever understand.
She sits there in the dirt, numb and shaking, hands clenched so tight that her nails bite deep into her palms. She presses harder, carving sharp little crescents into skin that’s not nearly as callused as it should be.
The world feels like it’s falling away beneath her, spinning out wildly, carrying her someplace foreign and strange. Her skull throbs and aches. There’s no scar on her wrist. Beneath the dirt, her nails are painted cornflower blue, bright and vivid as a summer sky. The dead don’t walk.
But they did, didn’t they?
I lived it. I remember.
it ain’t no sin
twd au: beth wakes up during her abduction and it gives daryl time to reach the car, and then daryl and beth bang about it
She doesn’t hear the familiar twang of the bow, but when the word chokes off into a gurgle of blood and the graceless thump of a body hitting the ground, she knows.
Daryl comes sprinting out of the darkness, quiet as a hunting cat. The driver’s side door swings open, the cop’s buddy stepping out to try and salvage the situation. Daryl fires, reloads, and fires again, so fast her eyes can’t follow it. She’s so dizzy that it seems like one smooth motion. One breath, just long enough to aim, and then the arrows are gone and Beth and Daryl are alone in the night. The men are dead.
Good, she thinks fiercely, angry and shaken and still unable to stand. Good.
He goes straight to the bodies as she finally hauls herself onto the grass, listening as he yanks the bolts free. Three awful squelches; visceral, obscene. She gags again, and then Daryl is there, dropping to his knees beside her.
“Y’alright?”
late for the sky
rdr2 au: arthur/sadie, set immediately after the massacre at hanging dog ranch
“You didn’t have to stay,” she calls. There’s an ache in her voice he doesn’t know how to parse.
“Sure.” He leaves it at that, no fuss about letting Freyja rest, about needing to catch his breath, though neither would be a lie. There’s no room for chatter; the air between them is full up with grief.
“Sure?”
No meat on that bone, but he can see her chewing it over all the same, worrying at it. Sadie Adler, shaken. If he held a mirror up to her face, he’s half-afraid he’d see fire. Smoke, ash, the orange blaze of a cabin as it burns to cinders.
The memory sends a chill skittering down his spine, a cold knife that lodges somewhere near his heart.
He ain’t the only one held hostage by that particular cruelty. Still knee-deep in the river, Sadie shivers. The water keeps running red around her, blood flaking off her hair and skin, melting into the current, soft as snow.
this loneliness won’t last
rdr2 au: arthur/john/abigail post-game fix it fic
There was heat pouring off John. A droplet of sweat trailing down his cheek. He smelled like salt and sunbaked earth. The thought skimmed through his mind like a water on a pane of glass, crystal clear and out of reach all the same. Then John’s mouth crashed over his, and Arthur had no thought left.
He couldn’t help himself. He bent into John like a windswept tree, looking for shelter. Looking for relief. John pulled him in, held him close, hands fisted in the worn fabric of Arthur’s shirt. Need kindled in his blood, bright and sharp and burning, and he stiffened. Pulled away. John wouldn’t have it. He pulled him back in, nipped at his mouth, trailed fire over his skin, kissed him like Arthur was his to keep.
He wanted to run and hide. He wanted to stay right where he was and live in this moment forever. But then it was over: John stepped away, breathing hard. His fingers were still wound in Arthur’s shirt. He let go like it hurt.
“Don’t leave,” he said, staring at Arthur like he could sear the words into him. Make him stay through force of will alone.
And then he was gone, just like always, just like before.
pieces rendered
ac: origins post-game, post-dlc bayek/aya fix it fic
Amunet, he reminds himself, wincing at the cool bite of aloe against raw skin. It is hard to remember in moments like these, alone in the twilight dimness of the cave mouth, safe from the eyes and ears of those who have only ever known her as a Hidden One.
She is Aya in his thoughts, sometimes, no matter how well he guards his tongue. When the world slips and the ache of all he’s lost will not subside, that is the name that rises in his heart. Wife, lover, friend. Mother of his child, the woman he once thought would walk beside him in this life and the next. Aya.
Amunet is the shadow of a wild wind, always blowing away from him. “North,” she told him once, “to set the sea aflame.”
She did. She does.
Perhaps someday he will come to terms with that.
stolen car
sprawling fic series that explores the batfam universe through the lens of jacy petra todd, the second robin. the bad robin.
She holds a gun to a rapist’s head and presses the muzzle into skin hard enough to leave a mark, hard enough to make the piece of shit kneeling in front of her whimper.
They’re in a warehouse out by the docks, in the corner of a shadowy park, in some shitty back alley, trash piled up in careless heaps and the rats ignoring them. It’s nothing they haven’t seen before. There’s blood on the ground. There is always blood on the ground.
“Please,” they say, “please, don’t do this.”
“Come on,” she says, laughing. They hate it when she laughs. The helmet distorts her voice, turning it harsh and metallic, until the sound of it is like a knife under their skin. It is a weapon like any other; she is not afraid to use it. “Beg some more. See where it gets you.”
They cry, or retch, or shake, big tough men learning what it feels like to be powerless. Sometimes they piss themselves, the sharp odor of urine burning against the stink of blood and gunpowder.
The Bat may rule Gotham, but Crime Alley is the Red Hood’s haunt, and her lines are hard and fast. Everyone in the city knows what happens when you cross them.
“Please,” they say, staring up at her, searching flat red metal for an ounce of mercy. They never meet her eyes. Instead, they look where a mouth should be, and beg, just like she tells them to. “Please, please, I won’t do it again, I’ll never do it again, please!”
The gun doesn’t waver. Gotham beat the softness out of her wayward daughter years before Batman ever found her, before Robin ever fluttered into the Joker’s path, before she seared and burned and screamed her way back to consciousness in the Lazarus Pit.
“No,” she tells them, voice like a knife, gun steady in her hands—
stone by stone
sequel to no burden that will not float away featuring shitty coffee, former robins being bad at feelings, and the current robin judging them for it
[fire from fire]
[redacted] au where [redacted] dies and [redacted] snaps
She walks through the streets like a reckoning. She does not sing.
with a hawk above you crying
wonder woman fic inspired by emmylou harris’s michelangelo
last night i dreamed about you / i dreamed you lay dying / in a field of thorn and roses / with a hawk above you crying / for the warrior slain in battle / from an arrow driven deep inside you long ago—
Diana finds Antiope, and loses her, and finds her again.
you know the time is now
pitch, mike/ginny, mid-season onward au where they actually have to deal with their feelings
after all the bullshit surrounding the all-star game, mike decides he needs to take a step back, distance himself a bit from the ginny baker madness. so of course the first thing he does after the all-star game is get into a brawl. he can’t even blame it on some sort of convenient rage blackout. he makes a calm, rational decision to follow the fucker up the first base path, and calmly, rationally punches him in the face while ginny watches, stunned, from the mound.
varitek a-rod brawl whomst???
ask me about my wips!
3 notes
·
View notes
Text
Simone Snaith: Interview
Simone Snaith has a lot of books written and they are wonderful (I have written reviews on them all: Faireville Woods Series, The Indigo Stone, and Into the Drawing).
All of the books can be found at Amazon and I recommend buying them if you have not already.
**I was really happy and excited that Ms. Snaith had taken me up on answering a few questions for the blog. They are wonderful responses, and I want to thank her for taking time out to do so.
Q & A
You have written a few books, one being a companion series (From the Ashes and Through the Eyes: Faireville Woods) and the rest standalones. Which are your favorites to do; series or one book a piece?
I prefer both writing and reading stand-alone books, most of the time. I like the idea of leaving the reader to imagine his/her own version of what else might happen in that particular fictional world. And I like having that freedom myself after finishing reading a book. There are some exceptions though; I eagerly read all of A Song of Ice and Fire and the Harry Potter books.
If I recall, there is not many/if any love triangles in your books. Do you hate them/love them or consider them unnecessary?
I absolutely hate love triangles! I think they are widely overused as a plot device and also, they’re not even very realistic. I’ve never been in love with two people at the same time, and neither has any of my close friends or family members...
Do you have a favorite book that you wrote?
I think my favorite is “The Indigo Stone.” I love a good, fish-out-of-water adventure story with a romantic subplot, and I feel like I achieved that with that novel. “In The Drawing” is the most personal, however; Genevieve is loosely based on a younger version of myself.
Do you have a favorite character from your books? What made you love that character?
It might be a tie between Eine from “The Indigo Stone” - because she is a tough survivor, but in a matter-of-fact, unshowy way – and Lundy from “From The Ashes,” for her kind heart, and her love of books and music.
How did you come up with the idea for your books?
They often spring from images that pop up in my head, or just scraps of ideas. “From The Ashes” was a very old story idea of mine, but one of the first images I had was of Harlan in Lundy’s window. I had a dream about the spinning contraption that Eine is strapped into by Indigo, and “In The Drawing” definitely started out as just the idea of vines growing over a building overnight.
Can you give us a hint to what we should be expecting in your next book?
“Between The Water & The Woods” is scheduled to be published by Holiday House in the spring! It’s a YA Fantasy that involves monsters, magic, and machines. 😉
Where do you like to write?
I usually write at my desk at home, but I also write on my Kindle Fire when I’m out and about.
Do you decide character traits before you sit down to write the book, or as you go along?
There are usually some that I know beforehand, but others that develop as I go. That’s one of the exciting parts for me.
If you could give a young writer any tip, what would it be?
Keep going until you finish the first draft, and THEN go back and edit. Don’t keep stopping and second-guessing things. A lot of the writers I know have trouble finishing even that first draft.
If you weren’t writing, what would you want to be doing for a living? What are some of your other passions in life?
My other passion is music, so I would be focusing more on that if I wasn’t also a writer. I currently sing and write songs in a band that plays locally in L.A.
What do you love about being an indie author?
I love the fact that many indie publishers accept unsolicited manuscripts! While literary agents are obviously amazing, they are also gatekeepers, in a sense. If you can’t find one who is excited about your current book, then you’re stuck, because the major publishers will only accept submissions through them. With my self-published books, I liked having control over the book cover and design, and also receiving the sales notifications directly in my inbox.
What is the oddest thing you’ve found yourself researching for your books (if any)?
The most recent (unpublished) novel that I wrote is about a girl whose parents work in the space program, and who starts dreaming that aliens are contacting her. So I went on a tour of the Jet Propulsion Lab here in L.A., read about the Cassini spacecraft and Mars Rover online, and talked to a family friend who works for NASA! I had to figure out how my main character and her friend could do something technically minor that would alter her parents’ spacecraft mission.
Any tidbits you wish to share for inspiring or other indie authors?
If you truly love writing, then keep pursuing it forever and ever. There are many routes to publishing now and you can keep trying them all.
RANDOM Q & A
Which would you pick- (fame, money, happiness, or easy inspiration)?
Happiness, which would give me plenty of inspiration!
How many drafts from first to final?
For myself, usually only 2 or 3, but their have already been more than that for “Between The Water & The Woods.” I’m still in the editing stage with Holiday House.
Do you fit any author stereotypes (Cat owner? Coffee/tea Addict? Messy handwriting? Recluse? Late night writer? OCD spelling/grammer (i.e. hate others who don’t use it properly or even yourself)?
Haha, I fit all of those except for “recluse” and “late night writer!” I prefer to write in the morning, although I certainly don’t get up early, and I do like to get out often. I have a 21-year-old cat who is my true love, and I’m definitely a coffee addict and spelling/grammer Nazi. My handwriting only gets worse as I get older...
What is your biggest pet peeve?
Probably when people are unjustifiably rude. I work in retail, so I see this often, unfortunately. I’m a stickler for basic manners.
What is one thing you love and could not live without?
Rock ‘n roll. <3
****Those answers are wonderful, amazing and the tidbits for writers is a must read! Always helpful to add insight for others. I love the NASA information and I bet it was really cool to do. Manners are a must for me as well, sad to think we are losing some of that. I don't know about you readers, but I'm going to be checking out Ms. Snaith's music now and reviewing it up. Love that she writes music as well!
4 notes
·
View notes
Text
WEBCOMICS
I think I broke my links page with too many links, so it’s about time I made a rec post for some of my favorite webcomics! MAYBE YOU’LL FIND SOMETHING NEW TO LOVE.
This will always and forever be an incomplete list as I am always finding/looking for more stuff to read. I’ll probably reblog it every so often when I add more.
COMPLETE:
Lady of the Shard by Gigi D.G. - I still haven’t gotten to Cucumber Quest but you had better believe I read this the day it came out. Follows a temple acolyte who is in love with the goddess she serves, and all the complicated turns of events that come out of this. Drawn in a loose, experimental pixel art style that makes it all the more immersive to read.
The Less than Epic Adventures of TJ and Amal by E.K. Weaver - Eisner-nominated gay roadtrip romance you’ve probably already heard of. Some of the best character acting I’ve ever seen.
The Muse Mentor by Amy King - Artistic muses (and one vague notion) try to find their purpose on the astral plane, which happens to look sort of like a cute fantasy version of San Francisco. A sincere and kind-spirited read, highly recommended if you struggle with feeling adrift and inadequate. Also, many drawings of delicious-looking food.
Power Ballad by Molly Brooks - I just started this but it’s really fun and funny. A masked vigilante/pop star’s personal assistant develops a crush on her boss. It’s gay, it’s got superheroes, and it’s complete!
IN PROGRESS:
Agents of the Realm by Mildred Louis - I had a couple false starts getting into this one, not having grown up on Sailor Moon, but then I picked up the first volume at a con and I’m really enjoying it. The unclear, complicated intentions of the mentor figure(s) are intriguing, and I love how the artist draws faces, especially funny reaction faces.
Alice and the Nightmare by Misha Krivanek - A magical uni/boarding school piece with super cute art, compelling mysteries, and a Lewis-Carroll-inspired world that’s fresh and fun I.E. not another Hot Topic rehash. FINALLY.
Away to Nowhere by Ezra Shape - Monsters and magical beings adapting to life in our world (or a world like ours)--currently just scratching the surface of what seems like some really cool worldbuilding. Features Zio, my nonbinary dragon grandma.
Balderdash by Victoria Grace Elliott - Cute coming-of-age witch adventures. Beautiful colors and a richly-textured world. FOOD. So much good food.
Banquet by A. Szabla - [coming soon]
Beauty by Eric J. Lee and Rhiannon Rasmussen - From the about page: “Bugpunk Beauty and the Beast” and honestly WHAT MORE DO YOU NEED TO KNOW. Okay I’ll tell you some more: There’s a baroque alien bug civilization rendered in incredible detail. It’s gorgeous.
Blackwater by Jeanette A. and Ren Graham - Episodic supernatural comic set in the small fictional town of Blackwater, Maine. Just started, but the art is extremely polished, expressive, and atmospheric, and the characters are cute. Also it’s queer and full of monsters. Sold.
Brainchild by Suzanne Geary - Paranormal mysteries on a college campus with supremely cool monster designs and great art. The monsters: So cool. I also really like the attention to fashion details on the characters--you can tell a lot about each of them by how they present themselves.
Demon Street by Aliza Layne - All-ages fantasy adventure starring queer kids with magic powers! Great use of vivid, saturated color to set otherworldly scenes. Excellent queerification of folkloric tropes.
False Edge by M. R. Shaw - Just started, but a long-awaited comics debut with fantastic art. Features adorable big-cat shapeshifters. Warning, it’s supposed to get nasty (there’s an advisory page with specifics when you start).
Feast for a King by Kosmicdream - I just started this (”just started” = 300+ pages in) but HOLY CROW it’s one of the most bizarrely creative comics I’ve seen. Warning for like, unrelenting gore/body horror (and eventually monster sex I think?) Gotta admire the scope of this one.
Galanthus by Ashanti Fortson - [coming soon]
Goodbye to Halos by Valerie Halla - Fantasy/action-adventure with an all queer-and-trans cast! Huge-scale, trans-dimensional cosmic plot stuff. The art is supremely cute and the color design is fantastic.
Harlowe Vanished by Amy King - A lonely teenage girl accidentally finds herself in some kind of oceanic fantasy world! Scary military stuff is going down! BEAUTIFUL scenic art and a colorful cast that we’re currently just getting to know. The latest from Amy, who did The Muse Mentor, rec’d above.
Heirs of the Veil by Phineas Kaldinski and Jassy Klier - Urban fantasy with lots of cool magic, a queer cast, and amazingly detailed environments that feel lived-in and full of history. Can’t wait to see where it’s going.
Hilga from Below by Val Wise - This just started but that means I’m COMPLETELY CAUGHT UP on the archive and so far I can tell that it has: Excellent colors, a cute dog person, a fallen angel or alien or something, and some really unsettling stuff lurking under the surface.
How to be a Werewolf by Shawn Lenore - Another one I just started, but really enjoying it so far. After twenty years of isolated lycanthropy, an urban werewolf is mentored by the first of her kind she’s ever met, amidst a mysterious lurking threat to their kind.
Kidd Commander by Aria Bell - This is the most fun I’ve had reading a webcomic in a long time. Kidd Commander is an epic shonen-style adventure with an immensely likable cast. Seriously, I love every last one of the characters, and their perils and triumphs and misunderstandings hit me right in the emotions like a ton of bricks. I’m probably gonna cry at some point in this comic. I KNOW I’m gonna cry at some point in this comic. But it’s also hilarious, with really well-timed comedy beats and expertly deployed reaction faces. The world also feels HUGE and full of interesting lore. This is just one of those ones where you can tell it’s an absolute labor of love and the creator enjoys every minute of making it. I could gush about KC forever. But I won’t. This time. I’M DONE.
Kids These Days by Noora Heikkilä - Fresh webcomic from the creator of Judecca and Letters for Lucardo, which, if you’ve read either YOU’RE FREAKING OUT TOO, RIGHT. It’s about a group of young adults in the eighteenth-century-flavored city of Osk, refusing to fit the molds society has created for them. And it’s already great.
Killjoys by Woods - Criminal mayhem set in a squishy cartoon circus toyland. Had me at “Fluffy hot-tempered clown bunny with they pronouns, in a suit.” Something about this one speaks directly to my id.
Kill Six Billion Demons by Tom Parkinson-Morgan - SPRAWLINGLY EPIC action-adventure in hell with vast-scale environments that will make you fall to your knees weeping. Also, like everyone in it is super hot and also a monster or some kind of divine construct. Violence. Lots of that.
Larkspur by Grace Mulcahy - Post-apocalyptic action/crime/comedy piece centering on girl gang rivalries. Everyone is some kind of really cool-looking post-radiation mutant. Lush, vibrant colors set against dark comedy. Warning for some sex trafficking stuff at the start (not explicit) and general CRIME/VIOLENCE.
Log Date by H. Kasof - [coming soon]
Monster’s Garden by Ash G. - Urban sci-fantasy about a misunderstood prizefighter (who happens to be a lizard-man) who just wants to be left in peace--but is suddenly faced with the challenge of caring about others and having them care about him. Full of cute and sympathetic characters.
Monster Pop! by Maya Kern- Light and fun college dramedy with a cast of colorful monsters (and some humans), including a cyclops, gorgon, and witch. The art is super cute. Queer and trans characters!
Never Satisfied by Taylor Robin - A group of flawed, complicated teens compete for a prestigious role that is basically something like State Wizard. The characters are SO GOOD, sympathetic across the board even when they’re being misguided jerks, and the comedy highs and dramatic lows are equally prime. The main character is nonbinary and they are my sweet, emotionally stunted child.
Oglaf by Trudy Cooper and Doug Bayne - Everyone’s favorite bizarro-comedy-porn medieval fantasy comic. NSFW, as if I had to tell ya.
Parhelion by R. Smith - Sci-fi adventure featuring a huge and hugely-gender-various (and queer) cast with a lot of choice trope subversions. The writing is super witty and I find myself laughing out loud a lot.
Puu by Ashkay B. Varaham - An own-voices slice-of-life webcomic about gay/trans roommates and the people connected to them, set in India. Look, I am a huge goopy romantic and this comic has EVERYTHING that feeds my soul.
The Sea in You by Jessi Sheron - Lonely, environmentally-conscious goth girl with a jerk boyfriend makes the acquaintance of a MUCH BETTER (girl?)friend in the shape of a mermaid. Another one with very cute art and an interesting, creative mermaid design. Everything teen me ever wanted in a comic. Warning for the boyfriend being an emotionally abusive jerk.
String Theory by Dirk Grundy- Probably the comic I’ve been reading the longest. Sci-fi/post-apocalyptic/alternate history/crime stuff centering around morally sketchy characters on their path(s) to super villainy. The art is frigging phenomenal and the comic has been going for like, ten years so if you wanna see some art evolution, check it out. Laurence is my fave.
Superpose by Kieran and Han - [coming soon]
Unconvent by Emil N. Tót - Romantic historical fiction about queer nuns in eighteenth century Brazil! I like how simple and straightforward this comic is. We are promised happy endings. (Update: Unconvent is now on indefinite hiatus but the author has started a new comic, Dead Scholars’ Whispers)
That’s it for now! Let me know if I screwed up any of the links or attributions.
96 notes
·
View notes
Photo
Art School | Q&A w/ Andy Kehoe (PA)
We’ve been following the magical and mystical works of Pittsburgh based artist Andy Kehoe for some time, and we’re excited to have him for our latest Art School Q & A. Through his own unique visual language, Kehoe creates mesmerizingly imaginative and otherworldly places where his mysterious inhabitants venture into mystical interactions with the “awe and grandeur of nature.” We chatted with this brush wielding wizard on various topics from his upcoming show at Thinkspace gallery, his process of creating some of these resin layered works to how he recently delved into the world of Magic the Gathering!
Photographs courtesy of the artist
Hey Andy, tell us a little about yourself.
I’m just your typical run of the mill Korean/German/Irish-American trying to survive the mean streets of Pittsburgh with nothing but luscious head of hair, a foolish dream, and a sharp knife that thirsts for the blood of my enemies.
In non-wise ass terms, I’m an artist that lives and works in Pittsburgh, PA. I share my house/studio with my lovely, awesome wife, Ash, and our insufferable furry children comprised of one dog, Gizmo, and three cats, Gremmy, Sir, and Mia.
Last year is finally over, what were some of the highlights? What were your favorite projects or shows?
I had an absolutely insane year of art making in 2016. It started in June with my most recent solo show, Fantastical Romanticism, at Jonathan LeVine Gallery. That was immediately followed by 3 group shows in the Fall. Then came the holidays, which are always a super hectic time for me with print sales and the usual holiday madness. It’s safe to say that 2016 was the busiest year of my life and, though it was very rewarding, I was glad to see it come to an end.
My LeVine show was definitely a career high point for me. I put so much work into that show so it was great to see it all come together in the end. I wanted the show to be big and super detailed, so that added up to many sleepless nights. And man, was it down to the wire. I had so much going on in the last month and I remember looking at my notes and my crazy person dry erase board thinking, “My god…What have I done? How the holy hell am I going to pull this off?.” After fighting back the urge to violently vomit and weep, I just had to take it step by step and hope for no unforeseen delays. When working on multiple pieces at once, my goal is to get all of them to a point in which I’m comfortable I can finish them in the last month of work. So when a piece is pretty close to completion, I’ll put the piece aside and focus on those that need more attention. Usually, a large majority of the pieces get finished in the process.
For this show, I had to keep bouncing between pieces and almost all of them needed to be finished in the last few weeks. It was an intricate and chaotic act of juggling to get them all done in time. I’m still unsure of how I actually pulled it off.
Any new and cool places you haven’t shown that you got to show at?
I also got to show some original work in Australia for the first time which was a real highlight. It was a smaller group show at Outré Gallery in Melbourne. I got to share the gallery with the super talented Femke Hiemstra. How cool is that? It seems like I have a surprisingly strong following in Australia. In fact, almost half my print orders these days get shipped to Australia, which is unbelievable. Thanks Australia! My show there sold out and I’m hoping this leads to another bigger show and an eventual journey to Oz.
What a truly insane year for you, so how is 2017 shaping up? I know you mentioned you have a new show at Thinkspace coming up. What can you tell us about it?
I started 2017 by taking time, collecting my tattered wits, and beginning the process of catching up on every other aspect of my life that I had neglected during the art making fury of 2016. It’s crazy how much of your life will fall behind when you’re deep into the final stages of a show.
Now I’m working out some of my initial concepts and prepping a bunch of panels for the Thinkspace show in September 2017. My last show with Thinkspace was in Miami for the Art Basel fair madness, so this will be my first show at the actual gallery in five years. I’m excited to come visit the LA area again. The show opens on September 30th, so if you’re in the area, stop by! (We will!)
What’s your process like for creating concepts for your shows?
The beginning of a show is all about trying to wrangle some strange, loose ideas out of the ether and wrestle them into some form of practicality. I spend most of this time with headphones on, staring at a blank, freshly gessoed panel while mulling over those concepts until something starts to form. Seeing the blank space where the painting will be helps me visualize the idea. It’s pretty amazing how deep and detailed your mind can get when you focus and concentrate hard enough. Maybe this could be considered some weird form of meditation. There was a time where I felt pretty guilty about spending a whole day just staring and thinking and jotting down random ideas. Now I know this is a step in the weird process I have for making my work.
Once the paintings start to take shape, I’ll finally reach a point where I can dedicate hours to straight painting. Then it’s on to listening to a whole lot of audio books and podcasts.
How many audio books / podcasts did you burn through for your last show?
For my last show at Jonathan LeVine, I listened to upwards of 20 books in six months. I listen to a smattering of contemporary fiction and nonfiction, but the largest portion of my reading/listening belongs to the Fantasy & Sci-Fi genre. These stories are world building in written form and listening to them never ceases to stoke and inspire my own imagination.
When you are working on your various pieces - do you work on them start to finish or several paintings at a time? How do you manage it all?
As for my process, I always work on several pieces at once so there is no down time while pieces are drying. The beginning of a show is the toughest part for me. Trying to flesh out a dozen ideas and then plan out the different layers for each individual painting can be overwhelming.
I have a big dry erase board that looks like something your conspiracy theorist uncle would have hidden away in his tool shed in the woods. I use it to keep track of what layer I am working on with each piece, and for little notes about possible techniques and concepts that can be utilized. I also have a sketch book that has my initial concept sketches along with lot of notes. One thing I know about myself is I need to sketch and write ideas down or it’ll likely be lost in the void for all time. When you make a living off of your ideas, it’s of paramount importance to record them when they come. Inspiration can hit at the strangest times.
Knowing the first layer will be coated in resin and set for all eternity can make me a bit hesitant to jump right into a piece. Painting the first stroke is always the hardest thing for me. I’m not sure why there is no much trepidation on my part, but I need enough of a resolved concept before I can jump in. To keep my sanity during the first stages, I’ve learned to keep it kind of loose conceptually and to let the painting form in a more organic way. Many times I paint the background and decide to change the placement or scale of a character, or to alter the original composition completely. Sometimes, when the world starts to build up and materialize, I’ll see something else inhabiting that landscape so I’ll readjust and change the piece accordingly. Some of my favorite paintings come from lending fresh eyes to an incomplete piece and being willing to go a different direction with it. Working with the resin kind of lends itself to that way of thinking, since you have so much time in between each layer. But at the same time you have to make a final decision because, once the resin is poured, there is no going back. That finality can be really daunting, but being forced to make a decision and move on is very helpful for me.
Has your technique with working with resin changed or evolved?
I am continuously experimenting and evolving that technique. For my most recent work, I started working with less layers and moving toward making my resin pieces less deep. The resin itself has become more of a painting tool for me. The paint effects and textures that I can achieve with the epoxy resin are why I love working with it, more so than the depth effect that initially drew me to it. There is certainly still a great deal of depth in the final product, but I don’t want that to be the primary focus of the work. I’ll still be doing some deep pieces to incorporate sculptural elements but, for the most part, I’ll be treating them more like traditional paintings.
How about traditional painting? Do you still find yourself working w/ oil and acrylic?
Speaking of traditional paintings, I’ve also been getting back into straight oil and acrylic paintings which has been very gratifying. I forgot how much I missed the opportunity to go back and work on the background. It’s been interesting to take all the lessons I’ve learned from working in layers of resin and applying them to a more traditional medium.
In your works, your dreamy and magical environments are very much characters themselves. What aspect do the landscapes / dreamy realms play in your paintings and/or in your imaginary worlds?
The world itself is, in many ways, the most important aspect of my work and what I think about the most on a day to day basis. The awe and grandeur of nature is a prevalent theme for me and one of my greatest inspirations. Because I work in resin layers and work back to front, the vast majority of my pieces naturally start with the background. These nascent steps into the environment are the first thing I have to plan out and are the first elements of the piece to get fleshed out. The development of the initial background layer effects the direction of the entire piece.
There is a symbiotic relationship between the characters and the environment. The characters tend to be products of their environment and many times the environment is physically part of the character. This is sometimes apparent in the patterns of the clothes they are wear or maybe by the surrounding fauna actually growing on them. This harmony is an overarching theme for me, but a lot of that also has to do with the technical process of making the piece. As the world builds, the characters enter and evolve with the painting and the world gets more and more defined.
What’s something you think people might not know about an artist or mostly about what you do as an artist?
Being an artist and working for yourself is, of course, very gratifying. But, it also has much of the mundanity of running a small business. There is rarely a day when I get to wake up and just be creative and paint all day. I feel like there is a romanticized notion of an artist rolling out of bed, smoking a joint in his/her paint-spattered bathrobe, and being manically creative in the studio all day. While that’s true some days, most of my days are filled with emails (which I was bad about and now I’m getting worse), print shop issues, inventory, book keeping, and general life duties. These are truly mundane tasks, but you need to utilize every tool you can to sustain yourself in this crazy line of work.
What would you say to folks who want to walk down the art path? 'Abandon hope all ye who enter?’ or ‘Jump into the Fire’ ?
Be patient and create as much as you can. It takes a lot of time and a lot creating to come into your own in terms of technique and overall artistic purpose. Seriously, just make work. A lot of work. Making piece after piece is the only true way to refine your vision and help you determine what and why you want to create. Never stop challenging yourself, learn from each piece, and try to carry those lessons forward.
Share your work as much as you can. The internet is a powerful tool and your work can reach parts of the world you would never imagine. My following in Australia didn’t come from a huge exhibition or an article in a major arts publication. It came people seeing and sharing my work on the internet.
Getting the opportunity to showcase your work is usually the hardest and most frustrating part for aspiring artists. There is no set way to do it. So if and when you get that opportunity, make it count and take full advantage.
Also, don’t let “making it in the art world” be your top motivation for creating.
In terms of art, what are things you admire or appreciate when you go to someone else’s show or view another fellow artists’ pieces?
I’m always drawn to work that is imaginative and genuine. I appreciate attention to detail and an overall care for the work. You can tell when someone really cares for their work and wants it to be the best representation of their particular artistic vision.
Technical prowess and craft is something I admire immensely, and something I strive for myself, but it has to be a whole package of vision and mood. I love work with a sense of mystery that can evoke a feeling of wonder and awe. I want to be able to stare at a piece and get lost in it for a time.
How do you stay balanced with art and non-art activities?
All of my current non-art activities are intertwined and share a mutual need: A need for actual human interaction. (Besides finally getting to indulge in some long desired interests.)
It’s easy to get wrapped up in adult shit. Work shit, wife’s school shit, house-work shit, all sorts of errands and shit. Lots of shit nonstop all of the time. When you work in a home studio, your personal life and your work life coexist in the same place. Unsurprisingly, it can all start to melt together and become your whole world. When you go to a day-to-day job, even if you despise some of your coworkers, at least you get to see other people in a different space out there in the real world. My coworkers are a dog and 3 cats. Though they do get up to some crazy things and the studio is full of tantalizing gossip, there is a definite void of human contact. It is always crazy to essentially work alone for months and then get thrown into the chaos of an art opening. Suddenly, I am surrounded by an overwhelming amount of people wanting to ask me about my work. Basically, something needed to change before I became an unsociable recluse.
Definitely can see that, so how do you un-wind after a full studio day?
After working all day, I typically hang out with friends virtually via video games, but I really needed something tangible. So I started a board game day and got a group of friends to join me at my house and it was marvelous and fun. I love board games. My favorites are Betrayal at House on the Hill, Lords of Waterdeep, and most recently, Scythe.
Then I decided to take it up a notch and start a D&D campaign with those friends. I’ve always wanted to get back into D&D and I figured the best way to do it was to learn the new 5e version, become a DM, and start the whole damn thing myself. One thing about me is when I decide to get into something, I get pretty obsessive and go all in. I spent every second of free time researching it and learning all the rules. I learned to make charts and tables in MS Word and Excel so I could produce a whole laminated quick reference guide binder for all my players. Having a large format printer also came in pretty handy as I was able to make huge maps for the all the places I would be taking them. It turns out having a strange imagination and a deep love of trolling your friends is a good recipe for being a successful DM. Making stories is a lot fun for me and having those stories played out by your creative and somewhat twisted friends is super rewarding… and super hilarious. The tales I could tell of these adventurers and their deeds would make an bugbear blush. I still think of them every once in a while and chuckle to myself.
Dude I love it, you went deep into gaming. Last time we emailed, you mentioned you were competing in Magic the Gathering. How did that all come about?
Having friends over for those activities was fine and awesome, but I still wasn’t leaving the comfort of my familiar confines. So, a little over a year ago, I started playing Magic the Gathering and I’ve become a bit obsessed. It’s something I’ve always wanted to explore. I love card games and love the art attached to the game. The gameplay itself involves a lot of strategy and improvisation which I find mentally rewarding. I love that there’s so much personalization when it comes to crafting a deck and people can play it so many different ways.
And, very importantly, it gets me out of the studio and I get to meet new people and have some real human contact outside of my familiar studio/cat world. The Magic community has been very gracious and inviting to am aspiring player such as myself, and I really appreciate that.
Any other non-art activities you’re looking forward too?
I hope to start traveling a bit more in the coming years. My wife Ash has been in school for the last 4 years getting her Doctorate and she graduates this year! Hurray! She will be a nurse practitioner with a much better schedule. She’s had to continue working as a critical care nurse while also completing a massive workload for school, so besides being a total badass, her schedule has been far from flexible. We definitely love to travel and I look forward to our many future adventures together.
What’s the best art related advice you’ve ever gotten? What wisdom can you share with folks?
The best advice I ever got in regards to work was from my Illustration Concepts teacher at Parsons, Jordin Isip. Well, he gave me a lot of good advice over those 2 years, but the one that especially resonated was his advice on building a visual language.
In the Illustration department, every one of us was pretty obsessed with what our unique “style” was, and what would set our work apart from all the other illustrators out there. This is obviously a ubiquitous issue with Illustration students, so Jordin addressed this concern right away.
Right, aspiring artists are still concerned with finding their own style. What did he say?
Essentially, he told us to not concern ourselves so much with where we’d end up in terms of our style, but to take a little bit from each piece we make and start to build a unique visual language. You start small with letters and words and build up to sentences and paragraphs. Eventually you’ll be speaking your own visual language fluidly with more and more elegance. I think that’s a great way to look at it, and it really worked for me. I still continue to follow that lesson to this day since it’s something that will always continue to evolve and grow.
How about the worse given?
I’ve been wracking my brain over some horrible advice I’ve gotten over the years, and I honestly can’t think of any that really stick out. Even if it’s bad advice, it’s usually well intentioned and not something to take personally.
Okay, completely switching subjects, what are your FAVORITE Vans?
I love the classic look for the laced and slip ons. Plain with no stripe.
Finally, any last words, shout outs, and/or random words of wisdom?
I just want to thank you guys for reaching out and giving me the chance to spew my nonsense!
Website | Instagram | Facebook | Shop
50 notes
·
View notes
Text
From The Volcanic Ash Covered Keyboard of Nick Kleiner | 4
Dear Anne,
Landing back in San Jose on Saturday, I quickly had to get my feet under me once again. Many people told me that San Jose was not with a visit, and I can understand where they are coming from, the town is dirty, not a lot to see or do, etc. However I found it charming in its usefulness. Parks, museums, and markets fill the space with a surprising amount of thoughtfulness. Costa Rica is known for its natural beauty, not its cities and I think this leads to the lack of excitement surrounding San Jose.
On Monday, I made a snap decision to take the bus out to La Fortuna and Volcan Arenal, about five hours north lof the city. I was excited to explore more about what this country had built its reputation on, natural resources and pioneering eco-tourism. After a stomach churning bus ride into the mountains, I arrived in La Fortuna at the base of the very impressive dormant Volcan Arenal. Knowing I wanted to get into nature, I signed up for a guided trek to the top of Cerro Cherto, the volcano next door to Arenal. Now, when I agreed to this adventure, I was under the impression that we would have a short walk to the top of the dormant volcano and then a dip into some hot springs afterwards. So a logical footwear choice would be my lightweight and airy Toms.
Little did I know we were hiking a full-on volcano with a nearly 4,000 foot ascent. When I learned this piece of information, miles from my hiking boots back at the hostel, my kind began to race with anticipation. How on EARTH would I hike this thing in Toms?
On the way up, I did just fine. Moving with cat-like ease as my feet were not hindered by heavy hiking boots. Our guide pointed out ant-eaters and a variety of flora and fauna. We were also able to walk through the cloud forest that is always present about halfway up the mountain. At the top, we explored the rim of the old volcano and then ventured down into the lake that now rests in the crater where lava once flowed from. It was an awe-inspiring moment that again, made me feel incredibly small.
One the way down I did not fare as well as going up. My toms suddenly became ice skates on the loose dirt and mud. I managed to only fall once, but after that I clung to stray branches and roots like a child to it's mother. Needless to say I was thrilled to make it back to the bottom in one piece. Though my Toms were a little worse for wear, I gave them a nice bath and they look like new.
Afterwards, on our way back to town, our driver pulled to the side of the road, gestured towards a small path and told us he would pick us up in two hours. After the short walk, we found ourselves in a sort of aqua-narnia. Warm water splashed around out feet as we walked under a bridge and upstream. On the other side of the bridge we found more than a dozen other people lounging about in a smattering of pools and flows naturally created by the river. This water came from the same source that supplied all of the five star resorts' hot spring water as well, we were just paying a fraction of the cost. As the sun went down, our driver eventually retrieved us from our relaxation and brought us home.
- Nick
Travel | Adventure | Explore
Current Location: San Ignacio, Belize
0 notes
Last Seen Blogs
hipicodelbosquecuu
Club Hípico Del Bosque De Chihuahua
whore4batfam
"Like. Batman doesn't need me to defend his honor. But I will"
workt
.
stefanycavanzo
Hic Iacet Pulvis, Cinis et Nihil