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dg-outlaw · 2 months

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Why No Love for Red Hood: The Hill?

I think it's all in the marketing and about what's being delivered versus what readers expected.

So I almost made this post on a reblog, but I didn't want to overwhelm that thread. Plus, I'm not sure if people get mad when someone does a long reblog on their short OG post? Anyway, the point of that post was that Issue 3 of 'Red Hood: The Hill' came out and no one's really talking about it, especially Jason/Red Hood fans.

I think the biggest problem (IMO) with this series is that someone wanted to write a story about The Hill and some new characters (which is fine), but like the 'Batman: The Hill' comic (which I think this series is sort of a sequel to), it's banking off a known character, Red Hood, to be it's selling point. "Come for the Red Hood, but stay for these other characters and their story." All fine and good, but a little deceptive when the marketing leans more toward it being a Red Hood (and new 'Outlaw' friends) story rather than one where Jason is a random guest star.

Series description:

In Gotham City’s early days, The Hill was one of Gotham City’s most dangerous neighborhoods, one that required the residents to band together to keep themselves safe when the police – and sometimes even Batman – wouldn’t. Now, as the Hill finds itself gentrifying, old habits die hard as the vigilante known only as Strike works with her team to keep the town safe—but she’s not alone. Jason Todd, one of the Hill’s newest residents, is more than happy to don the visage of Red Hood to help Strike keep his new home safe. But a new villain is emerging from the shadows. Will Red Hood, Strike and the Hill’s small militia of vigilantes be able to keep their home safe?

And this brings me back to the marketing and advertising of this series, especially versus the Batman: The Hill comic.

Obviously we can see the artistic parallels between these two covers (above). Overall, good job and nice throwback, but... there's a major difference. These two are not similar.

The first cover has "THE HILL" in bold, prominent text and Batman is in the background. This says that Batman is part of the story, but he seems secondary to whatever's going on in the foreground, which is mostly true to the story.

The second cover has "RED HOOD" prominent in the title with "The Hill" as secondary and smaller. Jason is also front and center with Batman looming behind him (who only just showed up at the end of issue 3. There's only two more issues left). The character of Strike, our new protagonist and The Hill's main hero, is down at the bottom and barely in-frame, further suggesting it's more about Jason (and maybe Batman) than The Hill or other characters. Again, clever marketing and nice design nod to the original cover, but deceptive when it comes to the series content. I don't necessarily blame the cover artist here as they might've been given a different brief on what the story was about and I get the fun throwback to the old Hill cover, but these covers are almost reversed in terms of Bat-character prominence.

In the original, Batman was more intertwined in that comic's story than Jason is in his series, which further adds to the audience letdown. If anything, this series needed to go with the coffee shop musician strategy: play a bunch of cover songs to win over the crowd and then slip in your original music (OCs) here and there. Once you have your audience hooked, go all out with your original stuff and then throw in 'Wonderwall' just for kicks and to keep them invested.

Ultimately, I think the biggest problem of this series is pacing and balance. The series needs more Jason to allow readers time to invest in the new characters, but as those new characters develop through their interactions with him THEN Jason can fade back as a partner character or just random character who comes in to help out. As it is, he's a guest star in series called, 'RED HOOD: the hill' with most of Jason's actions being 'day-in-the-life' stuff or a random action panel or two.

If anything, I think Red Hood #51 and #52 did a better job of establishing Jason as a main player, but also working alongside a new hero (Strike) and citizens of The Hill in solving a case. The covers above also display a more balanced composition and preview of what you're getting. Yes, you're reading a Red Hood comic, but there will be some other significant characters playing in this sandbox that you should care about and watch out for.

Sadly, I think the untrue message DC will take away from this series if it doesn't do well is that: (1) Jason is NOT an instant seller so let's shelf him because he couldn't carry this series (that he's barely in), and (2) readers don't like these new characters (most of which are BIPOC and/or LGBTQ), so let's ditch them and do more Batman stuff. 🤦‍♂️

And that's unfortunate because I think there's potential here had this series been executed in a better way. I see where the writer wanted to go with these new characters and they actually seem like an interesting and cozy bunch, but I feel like I'm stepping into an already established found family/friend group, but I don't really know them and I'm the outsider. So eventually I'll find a random distracted moment to quietly say bye to my friend Jason and slip out before anyone notices... like the socially awkward introvert that I am.

#jason todd #red hood #dc comics #batman #red hood the hill #dg outlaw rants #I want to like this series and I'll probably finish it just to see what happens #but I think there's a lot going on and it needed more time and room to breathe so readers could invest in these new characters #Yet if someone is loving it so far and Strike and the others inspire new fics-art-or-cosplay I'm all for it

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beansprean · 1 year

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My Familiar’s Ghost part 14

I love Derek and his animevision. Someone pls play super Mario sunshine with him.

Masterpost

(ID in alt and under cut)

1a. Close up of Derek in profile, sans glasses, slams back-first into a concrete wall with force enough to crack the stone into spiderwebbing chunks, grimacing in pain. 1b. Zoom out, Derek is being held up and against the wall by Nandor, who has his fists balled in the collar of his shirt. Eyes wide and snarling in rage an inch from Derek’s face, Nandor yells “Where is Guillermo?!” Derek stares back in anxious fear and holds onto his arms, anime tee stretched up to expose his stomach. 1c. Close up of Derek from the front, pinned to the cracked wall by Nandor’s fists in his shirt, one hand gripping Nandor’s forearm and the other waving in what he hopes is a calming manner. Looking nervously up and away, Derek responds, “Okay, okay! Man, chill out! I didn’t do anything! I mean I did, but like, nothing he didn’t ask for… What was I gonna do, say no to a guy who smells like that? I-“ 1d. Shot from over Derek’s shoulder, showing Nandor as a shadowy silhouette with burning white eyes, shaking with anger as he looms increasingly menacingly over Derek. Derek squints past Nandor to Colin standing behind him, who is shaking his head with wide eyes and waving his hand under his chin in a “cut it out” gesture. Comprehending, Derek changes course: “Uh, okay. Here’s what happened.”

2a. A big thought bubble from Derek starts off in a 90s shoujo anime style, showing a demure Guillermo opening his collar down to his chest and baring his throat, long eyelashes casting shadows on his cheeks and surrounded by sparkles and shoujo bubbles. 2b. A serious and suave anime Derek caresses Guillermo’s throat with his fingers, and Guillermo obediently bends his neck back for easier access. 2c. A close up on anime Derek’s mouth as he bares his fangs, ready to strike. Voiceover from present Derek reads: “We came back here, and he asked me to bite him…and then…” 2d. Back to regular drawing style, shot over Derek’s shoulder as he sinks his fangs into Guillermo’s neck. Immediately, there erupts a high pressure spout of blood shooting directly into the air. Guillermo’s eyes snap open wide. 2e. Derek pulls back, chin covered in blood, panicking and trying to cover Guillermo’s actively squirting wound with his hand as he shrieks “Oh G- oh, shit! What did I-“ Frustrated and angry, Guillermo snaps, “You hit an artery, you idiot!” Derek: “What do I do?! Oh fuck, you’re gonna die!” 2f. Guillermo: “Derek, you’re a vampire! That’s what-“ Derek: “Oh, right .” Guillermo sighs and grabs the back of Derek’s head, shoving his face back to his throat to stem the flow as saying “Oh, for! Put your mouth- just drink!” 2g. The flashback picks up again a little later, a sickly-looking Guillermo leaning against the wall of the storage unit drinking Derek’s blood from a plastic water bottle. His entire left side is coated in blood, as is the rear corner of the storage unit and Derek’s chin and front. Derek is standing by his coffin and gesturing to it awkwardly. Present Derek’s voiceover continues: “The transformation takes a while, I guess, so I offered my coffin for him to use. But I guess he had a place in mind already.” 2h. Reverse shot of Guillermo, looking very gray, as he stares incredulously at Derek and says, “I’m gonna go die somewhere…cleaner. In the foreground, Derek responds, “Ouch, dude.” The flashback ends.

3a. Back in the present, shot from behind Nandor as he lets Derek go, hair hiding his face as he shakes all over. Derek lifts one hand in a shrug and says “I assumed he went home, but… I guess not? I’m sure he’s fine, though, he never answers my texts anyway! Probably out there vamping it up!” 3b. Zoom out at the same angle, Nandor having turned on his heel and walked away, brushing past Colin and the viewer with a flap of his cloak. Colin turns to watch him stalk off with a concerned expression. Derek, generally incapable of reading a room, waves after him and calls out “Oh, uh, when you find Guillermo, let him know I have a switch now!” 3c. Zoom out further, beyond the storage unit, as Colin follows after Nandor without a word, leaving Derek standing alone in front of a severely cracked wall, hand still lifted hesitantly in a wave. Frowning, he trails off “If he ever…wants to play…” /end ID

#wwdits #my familiars ghost #nandermo #mlm #ghost guillermo #derek wwdits #colin robinson #nandor the relentless #guillermo de la cruz #what we do in the shadows fx #what we do in the shadows #blood tw #my art #fanart #image described #this one took 1000 years to id lol #mfg will be a little slower to update while qtp is being posted but there is tasty stuff coming

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pyjamaart · 4 months

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A looming presence... (A piece of fan art for Episode 11 of the Christmas Comeback Crisis)

Read more for an essay on all the memes and references ;)

So here it is. Finally. Only one month too late: This piece of CCC fan art I've worked on since the episode came out.

Sorry for the delay, but I just started at my new job this week and it's been a little stressful, so I didn't have much time to work on this. But now it's finally here!!! I gotta say, the hardest part by far was the background, lol. I didn't mean for it to escalate that much. At the end I was honestly running out of memes to draw.

I bet we can all agree that episode 11 of the Christmas Comeback Crisis was so worth the wait, right???? My god. Peak entertainment. I still can't believe I'm getting all this awesome lore and music for free, feels kinda criminal.

I'm so invested in this story, it's unreal. I can't wait to see how it will end. I can already tell it's gonna be pretty emotional. (And not to alarm anyone, but I have a slight feeling that the Voice is not gonna make it out of this story arc alive. I mean, after everything he's done, it's safe to say that he kinda deserves it. Of course I really don't want him to die, cause that would mean…….. Woodman would also have to die??? Otherwise the Voice will just keep coming back again and again because Woodman is keeping his memory alive…….. Oh man wait a moment….. I don't even want to think about that. Forget I said anything about this.)

Anyway, let's talk about this piece of art for a moment.

In the foreground, we have our brave protagonists. I really really like how Nozomi turned out, so I decided to make her my new icon from now on. Don't get me wrong, I love my old icon, but it's kinda zoomed out and you can't really make out any details when it's really small. So Nozomi it is. Meta Knights sword was shockingly difficult to draw, especially because I had to figure out how to draw it when he's holding it at an angle like that. Otherwise, drawing him was actually one of the easiest things about this whole thing. His design is really just two circles with some arms and armor. Figuring out how the circle tool in Gimp works has never felt this good. (Kinda crazy I can just draw him like this now, considering how obsessed with him I was when I was about 12-13 years old. Back then you had to download official renders of your favorite characters onto your computer, then print them out and hang them on your walls all around your room. Yeah I've always been like this.) Drawing Santa was really fun too, just his right hand was a little difficult. But that's just because I still can't draw hands in general. Maybe I should practice drawing hands more. (Naaaaaah I'm just kidding, I'll never do that.) Now that I'm looking at him again, he's also longingly staring at President Haltmann in the background. Doomed yaoi fr.

Speaking of the background, let's talk about that next. There's obviously the title-giving "looming presence" the Voice. I had his hands completely in the background at first, but I thought it looked cooler when they were hanging threateningly around Santa's shoulders. (You may ask yourself, 'man these hands look kinda alright for my usual hand drawing standards', and that is because I traced over pictures of my own hands. I love "cheating" at art.) I also gave him his stupid little bow tie and the colored buttons on his suit sleeves. Not only is that kinda my trademark for drawing him at this point, it's also supposed to show, that under all the threats and the evil villain persona, he's just kind of a loser. A real (male equivalent of a) girlfailure. That's why I made sure that half of the things shown in the background are there to make fun of him a little. I love the Voice dearly, but that's just what felt right.

And now let's get to the actual main course of this essay. I probably spent half the time working on this on the freaking background. I'm just gonna start in the top left corner and then go down each column and explain what each of these mean or what they reference. (Since there are some quite obscure ones in there.)

Let's start with the two ponies in the very top left. They're actually ponysonas of Nozomi Tojo (left) and Takane Shijou (right). Nozomi is an earth pony and has a tarot card as her cutie mark, specifically the ace of cups. Takane on the other hand is a unicorn and has some musical notes as her cutie mark, which you can't really see. I don't know enough about the Idolmaster to think of something more meaningful for her, sorry. ;)

Under that are Susie Haltmann and her father, President Haltmann. They were (after Woodman) the first characters I wanted to draw into the background. Susie has this black bar covering her face, since she was never really there to begin with. The whole story line with her father wanting to bring her back was actually so freaking sad. And when the Voice killed him in episode 11 and that image of Susie flashed on screen as the last thing he saw before he died….. Oof……… That's also why I drew that cursor looming next to her "window" about to click on the closing button. Haltmann himself is also the only character in the background to actually leave his little window, wanting to reach his daughter. He's also glaring at the Voice for causing him all of this grief and anger in the first place with his false promises.

Then there's…. ahem, "Hot robots in your area". With drawings of a random unnamed robot and Mettaton from Undertale. Which the Voice has apparently bookmarked. This is just a head canon, but I like to think he has a thing for robots, lol. ;)

Oh and on the left next to that on the very first column is Simpleflips' logo. Shoutouts to Simpleflips indeed.

Onto the next column. At the very top is Haruka Amami (also from the Idolmaster), who played a pretty huge role in the CCC, especially in the latest episode. That moment at the very end where she saved Grand Dad from certain death was just fantastic. Absolutely goated scene. She's kinda pressing her face against the window she's trapped in. I hope you can even see that from far away, haha.

Under that is one of the more obscure references. It's from a King for Another Day video, specifically one titled "The Hobart Hootenanny - SiIvaGunner: King for Another Day". It's a slideshow made of beautiful Hobart pictures. One that struck me personally the most was a little family picture of Hobart and the rapper Eminem, who was also a contestant in the KfAD tournament, looking lovingly over their son sitting in a cradle. Eminem is seen saying "Our son is beutiful". A truly touching photograph indeed. In that same slideshow is also another scene of Hobart together with the Voice, but we'll talk about that one later.

The next one is a reference to the CCC side story "I wanna thank me" and shows a pie chart with the election results that were discussed in that episode. Under the pie chart itself is a little box containing all the different parties and showing their respective percentages. On the left is a poster for the "Poké Poké Literature Party", showing Monika's head with the words "Just vote Monika" at the top of the poster. The words (and Misha.) are scribbled on the bottom, lest we forget that she's not running this party alone. This side story was first featured in the Christmas Comeback Crisis Watchalong in 2020, which was actually the first time I watched the CCC in its entirety. It all went downhill from there. ;)

Then there's the Voice's… thing? Object? Weird apparatus where no one really knows what it does or what its purpose is? Every time we see the Voice sitting in his office, this thing is sitting on his desk right next to him. There's been loads of jokes about its purpose. They've all been made before. I'm not going to repeat them. Only the Voice himself truly knows what this thing does. Probably. Could just be a decorative piece of art.

Then we have something veeeery self indulgent on the next column. It's Aquaman from Megaman 8 (With a not so subtle skull right next to him). You should all know by now that I'm the founding father of the Aquawood ship. And I also have the head canon that Woodman and the Voice are very divorced. Interpret into this whatever you want.

Next to Aquaman is the internets' favorite panel from the web comic Tails Gets Trolled. I fucking love that comic. If you haven't read it in its entirety, I highly recommend doing it. (Though be warned that it contains some pretty heavy topics, many many slurs and a plethora of gore.) Okay, maybe I don't recommend reading it. (Just read it with all of that in mind.)

Under that is a personal favorite joke of mine. It's supposed to be Spotify, with a playlist open that I created some time ago. I called it "Die Pizza Playlist" (Remember that die in German is just "the") which I always listen to when I'm baking my own pizza. Highlights include "Pizza" by Antilopen Gang, "Pizza Heroes" by Lemon Demon (You can actually see the album art for Spirit Phone on the left of the playlist.), "Pizza Pizza Pizza" from the Ratatouille musical and so on and so on. The first song in the playlist is obviously "We like pizza" by the Pizza kids, which is even playing in the image. On the side are two more music artists, at the bottom is the image for the Veggie Tales soundtrack, which also featured a song called "Pizza Angel". And over that is Mitski. I just feel like the Voice would listen to her music. Do not question me on this.

The audience laughs at the funny 7.

On the Voice's left shoulder sits a single green bean. It's flashing you a cheeky grin and a peace sign. While I didn't intend for this to happen, I accidentally referenced my own Woodman birthday gallery art from two years ago, where the bean also sits atop the Voice's shoulder. I know that next to "Yankin'", the bean is one of the most hated memes on SiIva, but I think he's just a silly little guy! :D

Let's head on over to the next column. Seems like the Voice has an incoming call from one of his guards, but he's ignoring it as he has more important things to do, like hovering intimidatingly over Santa Claus.

Next to that window on the right are the Voice's messages. I almost wrote "messanges". That would have been embarrassing, thank god I caught that in time. This is also (yet again) a little self indulgent, since the Voice apparently has the last message he sent Woodman pinned to the very top of his messenger app. His big triangular head is blocking most of it, but since I'm the artist, I can tell you exactly what it says: "Please call me back", which was sent on February 1st 2023, the day "The Disappearance of Woodman" was released. Yeah, I'm still very upset, how could you tell? :( Under that is a message to his trusty pizza guy asking for a pizza with extra cheese.

Next we have two of my favorite memes on the SiIvagunner channel (My absolute favorite being "Funny budots", since I never wrote that down anywhere.), one being Frisk Undertale becoming uncanny and the other one being the goat. I don't really know how to describe the goat, but apparently it was crafted by the same artist who made the stoned fox that's also very popular online?? I may just be stupid, but I didn't know about that until I looked up a reference for the goat. Since it often appears alongside Undertale and Deltarune, many have made the assumption that this is what Asriel would look like in real life. That's why Flowey is there next to it with an equal sign. Whoever drew up that calculation wasn't really sure of their work, which is why they drew a question mark right next to it. Between Frisk and the goat is a little Soul, also from Undertale/Deltarune.

Onto the next column, where I'm dropping very subtle hints that a specific character in this image might like pizza. Or might even be a little obsessed with it. On the left is a list with the contact details of three well known pizza chains, on the very top is Sonic the Hedgehog who just recently became a brand ambassador for Totino's and on the bottom right of this section is a flyer for some kind of pizza sale.

The next window contains my favorite joke of any rip on the entire SiIvaGunner Youtube Channel. "Peepoona 5. Let us shart the pants." Just typing this out is making me die of laughter yet again. (The rip in question is "Our Beginning - Persona 5".) But as you all know, I am very into toilet humor. That's why Aquaman is one of my favorite robot masters. And why I'm such a big fan of Youtube Poop. And why I watch Minion fart gun religiously. But enough of that, you get what I'm trying to say. I love funny poop jokes. That's why this is here.

Oh man. This next one is why I wanted to write this very detailed essay in the first place. A reference so obscure, even I can't find its origin anymore. And believe me, I tried. Thankfully, I took a screenshot of the original comment thread this was based on. A user called "The New Guy" commented on a SiIvaGunner rip, something along the lines about how much they enjoyed this specific rip. At the time, the comment had 920 likes, so I'm guessing it must have been a pretty popular video. (The comment should also be about 4 years old now?) Anyway, under that comment, someone asks them what their profile picture was from. They simply answered "wagon", since that was exactly what their profile picture showed. Someone on the SiIvaGunner team must have found this exchange so funny that they commented "wagon" as well. And that's the origin of this joke. If anyone knows which rip this is from pleeeeaaaase tell me. I need to know.

I don't think I need to explain who the next guy is. Just the love of my life. I specifically drew Woodman in his getup from the Nuclear Winter Festival, since that was the last time he appeared on the channel. He's looking kinda concerned in the general direction of the viewer, for obvious reasons. And right under him is his trademarked >:] emoji.

And last but certainly not least, the final column! Now I finally get to talk about this other scene from the Hobart Hootenanny. It shows Hobart and the Voice having a romantic stroll at a beautiful beach, while the sun is slowly setting in the background, making the water shimmer with its breathtaking colors. Okay, the last thing didn't really happen, since it's a shitty MS Paint drawing, but I like to imagine it did. Maybe I should draw a remake of this image one day. Now I'd like to quote the video in question: "A man and Hobart were walking together on the beach. He looked back and saw that in his times of sadness and need, there was only one set of footprints. He asked Hobart why he would leave him in his time of most need. Hobart simply turned to the man and said, VVVVVRRRRR SRRRRR RRRRGGGHHHH--" (Thank you SiIva Wiki for the transcription.) Now I don't think I need to explain why I drew Hobart in a bikini top and fishnets. The question answers itself.

The next image is actually quite easy to explain. It's mm5charge and smol Maki. In another universe, Chargeman and Maki might have been integral to the SiIvaGunner lore. This specific image is just stolen from my piece of fan art called "Megaman 5 Brainrot (featuring Acidman)", which I posted in 2022. I still head canon that Megaman and Love Live take place in the same universe. Just because I think it's funny. And because I want to see funny robot masters interact with the girlies from Love Live. How do I explain this? It's like…. balancing out the world? The robot masters are almost all male (with a few exceptions) and the characters shown in Love Live are all female. How would Thanos say? "Perfectly balanced, as all things should be." Don't question my cool head canons, okay?

After that we have a poster featuring the Jazz Cats! I really really love the little animations that showed their backstory when KfAD2 first came out. I don't know if it's okay for me to say this, but I also really really enjoy the song "But Not You" written (in universe) by Doge and Naxx. The text is veeeeeeery questionable, but man, does it sound good regardless… And shoutouts to wolfman1405 for the heavenly vocals.

On the right of that is a missing poster for Wade L.D.. Nothing much to explain here I guess.

Left of that is the Voices shopping list, which lists flour, oil, yeast… Wait a minute…. All of these are ingredients for pizza dough! Guys, I'm beginning to think that this guy might like pizza.

On the very bottom of this column is Mario 7 Grand Dad himself, who has his hostile gaze directed at the Voice. I would be pissed off too if someone kept me locked in a glass tube for 7 years.

The last little window just shows the Vineshroom with the words "fecal funny" written under it.

And with that, it is done. The entire background thoroughly explained. (I may have gone a little overboard this time.)

It's been a while since I posted new art, huh? In the meantime, a lot has happened. As I said before, I started a new job, got a tattoo of Woodman on my leg (best idea I've ever had btw) and I also started watching MLP, which explains the Love Live / Idolmaster ponysonas, lol.

And that's all I wanted to say. I hope that the next piece of art isn't that far off. Jenny out. (I think this might have been the longest essay I've ever written here. I'm so sorry. By which I mean, I'm not sorry at all. I'm not forcing anyone to read this.)

#welp im one month too late #but better late than never #i put my giant ass essay under the read more this time #open with caution its extremely fucking long because i got a little carried away #siivagunner #the voice inside your head #santa claus #nozomi tojo #smol nozomi #meta knight #president haltmann #susie haltmann #thats it im not tagging all of these guys #christmas comeback crisis #if you saw this posted to the wrong blog no you didnt #jumpscaring kirby fans with siivagunner art is my favorite hobby

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bluewritesao3 · 3 years

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Guilt or a shitty job?

Summary: You join the mandalorian on a vaguely described job to the back water planet of Vispoc, that holds far more than originally anticipated leading to a very much needed history lesson and some emotion

Warnings: I think this gets angsty towards the end (I’ve never written angst before so bare with me pls) . talk of consumption of fogs, Talk of canon events like order 66 and the empire. Talk of Jedi stuff.

Taglist: Let me know if you wanna get tagged. Send me and ask or DM

Word Count: 3.5k (this was meant to be a dabble)

Masterlist | Cross Posted on A03

Gif credit: @johnboyuga

Kneeling on the floor of the Crest, you meditated in the quiet of the ship with the less then talkative Mandalorian hidden away in the cockpit and the miniature Grand Master Yoda safely tucked away in his hammock. The quiet offered you the peace you needed to gain a greater control over your thoughts and emotions. “Peace. Serenity, Harmony. We must master ourselves before we can hope to master the force.” You muttered your last masters teaching to yourself with closed eyes basing in the steady silence.

As the ship jolted and rocked beneath your knees, you centred yourself more ignoring the shifting metal biting into your knees. When you’d found the right peace and began to slip into a trance, the heavy thunking of boots echoed through the ship throwing you out of your almost trance-like meditation. “How far out are we?” You asked still knelt on the floor with your back still turned to the shiny Mandalorian.

He passed by almost too quietly, looking less shiny in the artificial lighting of the ship, you heard the quiet noise of the baby’s little sleeping compartment opening. “A hour at least,” He said distorted by his helmet as as he ducked down into that you originally assumed was the Mandalorian’s sleeping space and was now the child’s. “We’ll be landing in a few.”

You sighed and pushed off of the floor, wiping your hands on the course weave of your trousers. Watching the Mandalorian always surprised you that a man covered in impenetrable mental could be so careful with a baby. The Mandalorian carefully fished the child from his little hammock and situated the groggy blue bundle into the crook of his arm. You smiled at the sight, the child had a strong connection to the first and had a tendency to project life events into it, you’d originally assumed that he was doing it intentionally while the Mandalorian was away. The more you asked the child about these events the more he would immediately perk up and begin babbling as if he was glad you asked. “What’s the planet like?” You asked out of simple curiosity because it wasn’t like there were any windows in the hull of the Crest and since taking off you didn’t know any details other than the Mandalorian found work.

“Find out for yourself,” The Mandalorian muttered, you could see he was far more focused on the child than anything you had to say. “Going to need you for this one anyway,” He added retreating back up into the cockpit with the child in hand, you followed quietly without knowing why the Mandalorian was traveling to the planet of Vispoc but you’d agreed to help the Mandalorian with whatever work he had going it was mainly babysitting but you’d fallen in love with the little green gremlins upon first meeting.

Ascending into the cockpit, the pair of you worked like a well oiled machine so that the Mandalorian was able to take off and flue without any interference with the child. Staring out of the window, you stared at the slowly approaching planet. It looked as if a large part of it was made up of water spotted with green land masses and white spieling clouds obscured quite a bit of the water and land masses. “Looks safe enough. Don’t want repeat of Trask.” You muttered stroking one of the child’s large petal shaped ears.

The child cooed quietly as he played with his favourite control level knob, slowly turning it in his little clawed hands. Out of the corner of your eye you could see the swirling clouds wind in tighter on themselves like an incoming hurricane. “Slightly observation. Might wanna avoid using the jetpack when we’re planet side.” You warned side-eyeing the stoic lump of beskar casually tilt his helmet and give the planet a brief second look before pushing a few buttons.

“Says it’s water-rich and windswept. Got no major populations or star ports.” The Mandalorian uttered helmet barely picking up on the words as he looked at one of the screens embedded into the ships control panel. “Gonna be a bumpy landing.” He added and you took it as a sign to buckle your seat belt and clung to the child, his little arms raised in excitement when a few alarms began sounding as the Mandalorian began the bumpy decent onto the planets surface.

The closer the Crest go to the planets surface the more you could feel the planets attainment to the force. At first you thought it was the child of the winds you were sensing but it felt older like an ‘accumulation of energy’ as your late master called it when somewhere or someone had a strong connection to the force. “Do you feel that too?” You asked the child and received a delighted squeal as the Crest was battered by the winds and thrown to the left.

Glancing out of the window at the fast approaching planet, you began bracing for an impact just like the frozen tundra wasteland the new republic had chases you both into. The control panel flashed and alarms beeped in time with your pounding heard as the Mandalorian yanked on the ship’s controls, slapped various buttons and flipped switches with a level of blind accuracy you’d only seen from your fellow Padawan’s during group training or sparing practice.

As the Crest touched down on the rusted abandoned hanger, a withered painted sign proudly pronounced the planet’s name, Vispoc, while another clearly announced that the planet had some affiliation with the republic before the Empire came to power. You breathed a sigh of relief and drew in the clam the sense of peace you’d tried meditating on hours ago. “You good?” The Mandalorian asked sounding a little breathless and gently smoothed down the child's wispy white hairs, who’d seemingly enjoyed himself, maybe it was the sudden flashed of the escape pod that had put you on edge or maybe it was something entirely different. “Looks abandoned.” The Mandalorian observed taking in the dilapidated hander and strips of torn fabric hanging off of stacked cargo boxes.

You nodded shakily and began unbuckling yourself with the wild settled on your shoulder in preparation of you having to single handedly climb down the ladder into the cock-pit. “I’ll feed him then we can go. Okay.” You told to the mandalorian and leaving him to do whatever was needed in the cock-pit before the three of you ventured out into the cold of the planet. As you began your decent into the hull of the ship the child began to gargle a little at the mention of being fed. “Stars you’re a hungry thing aren’t you.” You commented as your feet touched the grated metal in the full.

Settling the child on top of the largest cargo crate as you set about mashing up one of the ration bars and rehydrating it with a little water from a flask. Ration bars and recycled water was not a good combination and you could attest to it seeing as it was the only part of your diet for at least a year after the purge. While you worked the child babbled and made grabby hand towards the small tin rectangle you held in your hands even though he was sending images of a particular frog with blue and black stripes he’d probably seen before you arrived through his connection in the force. “Sorry bud. We don’t have any blue and black striped frogs or any amphibians at all.” You joked and offered him a spoon of mushed up, rehydrated ration bar, he took the first spoonful without an issue but after the second and third you think he’d began to realise that it wasn’t a froggy mush.

He quietly grumbled aloud to himself in his own baby garble and frowned as a new spoon of ration bar mush was presented to him. “Listen, maybe I can convince your Dad you get some froggy pets.” You promised as you tried to sooth him by motioning towards where the Mandalorian was still hauled up doing post flight checks. “Then you can hunt ‘em yourself.” You added hopefully appearing the small grumpy child and offered the spoon again.

As if he’d actually considered it the child made a noise of agreement and began wolfing down every spoon of ration bar mush fed to him. “Y/N, you really shouldn’t promise him such things.” The mandalorian’s modulated voice came out of nowhere in true Mandalorian fashion causing the baby to immediately perk up as if he’d been given a stim-canister. “I have too many pets as it is.” The Mandalorian added as he pulled open the locked metal cupboard where he kept all his weaponry and began to load himself up as the Crest’s ram opened up with a mechanical whirling.

Depositing the child into his little cloth bag, “This looks questionable at best.” You muttered taking in the silvers of landscape revealed to you by the slow opening of the Crest’s ramp. Standing at the mouth of the ship, you slowly scanned the landscape, the hanger the Mandalorian had parked in seemed derelict from years of abandonment and seemed perfect for a smugglers crew to hide some coveted cargo. Noticing the out-cropping of a large temple-like structure was peaking out from behind the large mountain looming in the foreground.

“Here,” The Mandalorian said holding out the hilt of your Lightsaber, the cold sunlight glinted off of the dull weathered durasteel illuminating some of the symbols carved int other space between the emitter and the switch. “Might need it.” He nodded to the Lightsaber he’d once referred to a laser sword.

Reaching for the long metal hilt was a lot harder than you originally anticipated. ‘This weapon is your life.’ Your late asters words echoed in your head. Feeling the Mandalorian’s visor trained on you was almost burning its T-shape into your face. With a shaky hand, you firmly grasped the all to familiar leather wrapped hilt of your lightsaber and just held it trying to become comfortable with its weight again. It’d been the same as the one you’d built when you’d been selected as a Padawan and taken part in the gathering on Ilum. You were sure your hesitation was as clear as Vispoc’s oceans. “If my master could see me now. Hesitant. They’d be so disappointed in me.” You explained shakily, your late master never got ashamed or angry when you put a foot wrong or hesitated but they were always disappointed when something sailed or went wrong. As you hooked it onto your repurposed belt and gun holster, the child snorted as if he was getting impatient with all the waiting around.

Descending the ships ramp, the weight of the baby on your left felt like nothing compared to the history of the weapon hanging on your belt rhythmically bouncing as you walked. With the Mandalorian at your side, the both of you approached the village at a slow speed, only stopping when the winds picked up significantly and blew particularly hard. The dark rock bit into the palms of your hands as you shuffled along the mountain trail, hand on the wall searching for something to steady yourself when the winds blew. Farther up the trail the Mandalorian waited quietly but impatient, you could see where the child’d picked it up from, as if the winds didn’t bother him in the slightest and you was convinced that it was all the beskar that was weighing him down.

With your free hand holding the child’s side bag closer to your body, you had a much clearer view of the temple-like building that was peaking out from behind the mountain. Two large stone pillars flanked a set of double doors. Above the doors harsh winds swirled around one another like a brewing hurricane, in front of it was a raised dais with set stair leading down to what you assumed was the ground. Feeling the force trying to pull you in the direction of the temple, you brought up your shield again forcing the pull to detach itself from your being. “That part of me is too scared to even think about going there. Just yet.” You muttered into the wind and gently patted your Lightsaber as if you was trying to reassure yourself that you’d have to work up the courage to visit a temple again before became part of the living force.

Once on the move again the unlikely pair came to the mouth of a mountain-side village. A small handful of the homes seemed to be build from cylindrical walls and topped with dome roofs, the whole place felt restless with the scrapes of brightly painted fabric banners whipped around in the significantly more gentle wind. Other homes were built in close quarters with one another jutting out slightly from the sides of the mountain, they followed the natural lines of the paths and the mountain faces. “What or who are we looking for, Mandalorian? ‘Cause this place looks abandoned.” You asked glancing around the village and grimaced when you caught sight of the warning on the wall signed with a blood red imperial symbol.

The mandalorian sighed deeply as if he knew the whole trip was a bust. “He said it was in the village. Maybe there’s multiple villages.” He cursed clearly frustrated as you allowed yourself to slump down onto an outcrop of stone that seemed like a good place to sit.

“I doubt whatever you’re looking for is still here, Mandalorian.” You muttered promptly gesturing to the bright white grimy sighs screwed to the side of one of the cylindrical homes. It clearly stated that the village now belonged to the empire and all the occupants were in evacuate immediately or be arrested. “No doubt all the villages are under Imperial hold regardless of size.” You added gently offering the baby some of the jerky you kept in one of the bouches tied to your bed.

“Come one we’ll try the next on.” Was all the Mandalorian said before speedily continuing down the trail.

Watching the Mandalorian’s gate, You could see the that everything was beginning to weigh on him because it was much long ago that he’d found out he was raised by religious zealots and you’d honestly contemplated leaving there and then given the Jedi’s history with that particular groups of Mandalorian’s. Even if you’d spent almost 3 decades in hiding the teachings of your late master wouldn’t relent, emotions only clouded one’s judgement.

Hours down the line, you and the Mandalorian had traded off the task of carrying the child. The mandalorian now had the child’s side bag slung safely across his body with the child filling the safe space between both you and him.

The pair had visited multiple villages across the planet, even come across a largely developed town that yielded little to no information about whatever if was the Mandalorian was looking for. You suspected that whatever he’d been tasked the retrieve was inside of the temple-like building you’d seen when visiting the first village. The force connection was only growing stronger and carried whispers with them, they gently scabbed the very edges of the shield you had built after feeling it at its strongest for the first time. The child clearly wasn’t as effected as you were, maybe it was because he hadn’t had as much training, you weren’t sure but it worried you given that the child was 50 and just about had a grasp on lifting things.

Sitting in the cantina listening to the quiet chatter and howling winds, you carefully fed the baby spoonful after spoonful of bone broth. Subtly trying to watch the Mandalorian out of you peripheral you watched him fidget and continuously open and close his fist almost like he was waiting for someone, antsy was the word your brain suppled you with. “What exactly is it we’re looking for?” You asked gently wiping away any spilt broth from the child’s face. Waiting patiently, you took a sip of the water from the cup in front of you and watched the Mandalorian silt his helmet as if he was contemplating telling you what exactly they were doing on this windy hellhole. “You said you’d might need me. That implies that it’s something Jedi related.” You surmised slowly piecing together the small fragments of information you’d collected on the journey from one village to the next.

“It’s Jedi. I just don’t know where to look.” The Mandalorian huffed laying his hand flat on the table. “I’m open to suggestion,” He added allowing his shoulders to drop a little like he was relieved to share the job with you. “The Jedi are a mystery at most. Why doesn’t anyone know anything?” He asked sounding completely lost and a small part of you was itching to teach someone about the ways of the Jedi but the much larger part of you that was acting purely on instinct screamed that revealing such information would only get more killed.

Swallowing the lump in your throat, you slowly began drawing circles on the table avoiding the black t-visor staring straight at you unrelenting. “Because we’ve been wiped from history,” You began to explain hearing the child whine a little but you pushed on. “Our temples had fallen into disrepair or burned to the ground. The Empire sentenced us to death and denied a trial.” You explained farther remembering all the time you’d spent running and begging for your life, all those you’d cut through just to survive to see the next sun rise.

Without seeing the Mandalorian’s face, you couldn’t tell what expression he held, sometimes you were envious of the emotionlessness the armour offered him but he sat silently and listened as you rambled. Casting a quick glance around the cantina because anyone worth their information knew that cantina walls had ears. Always. “As the Republic fell the Empire rose and wiped us away with it. Anyone that’s still left knows better than the out themselves.” Memories of the great purge flashed across your memory, the stand-off between your late master and the commander and the clones chasing you across the length of the republican cruiser. It’d be enough to put any 12 year old into hiding and to never some out again. “Our relics became decoration and prices to be won. Our Lightsaber’s were another’s trophy.” You babbled nervously as you ignored the small green hand of the child clinging to your sleeve or the forced wave of calm being pushed onto you by the child.

The Mandalorian tilted his head noting that he was listening and absorbing all the information you were providing him with, the way he stared at you when you finished simply said ‘but why?’ and in all honesty you couldn’t give him an answer. “The thing I’m being paid to find. Theres a possibility that it’s Jedi.” He explained and you’d never felt such a strong urge to fling someone across the cantina and through your blooming anger, you nodded in understanding that the Mandalorian needed to make money some how and if it wasn’t chasing bail jumpers or debts half ways across the galaxy it had to be something Jedi related. Maybe this was the biggest fuck you to the Jedi from the Mandalorian’s. “If I’d known I wouldn’t have taken the job.” He added guilt dripping from the words even if they were mechanical.

“Is that why you gave me my saber back,” You began planting elbows on the table quietly seething with something akin to anger. “Out of guilt for taking the job?” You questioned staring directly into the black abyss of the Mandalorian’s t-visor. “Be clear with me Mandalorian. Was it guilt.” You demanded anger flaring a little, knowing full well that the Mandalorian had been adamant on him keeping your Lightsaber locked up out of harms way or at least till he trusted you to carry it and keep it out of the kids reach.

“We should go.” was all the Mandalorian said as he rose from his seat, took the child and excited the cantina to go back out into the drab wind-swept landscape leaving you sitting alone at the table looking for the peace you’d been able to find before landing.

Gingerly resting a hand on the hilt off your Lightsaber and glanced around wondering if anyone had noticed it on your person. “Memories of an old friend.” You whispered dropping the shield and walking out of the cantina, the Mandalorian stood of to the side holding hands with the smaller version Grand Master Yoda. The pull of the force called to you in a way that you’d never experienced since the gathering on Ilum and being on the surface of coruscant. “If we’re going to a temple. Stay close and ignore the whispers.” You warned and set of in the direction of the temple wishing the spirits there were at least laid the rest and not running rampant through the temple.

#Din Djarin x reader #din djarin x jedi!reader #jedi!reader #the mandalorian x reader #the mandalorian #Din Djarin #Blue writes instead of doing uni work #blue writes

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oldfashionedmoth · 3 years

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Lonely Voldy

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Lightening streaked across the blackened sky, illuminating the twisted shapes of trees in the foreground. Rain bitterly thrashed against Lucius Malfoy’s face as he hurriedly strode down the garden path. The sharp pain in his forearm pulsated even more intensely, stirring a greater sense of nervous urgency in his belly. Truth be told, he had been feeling more and more conflicted about his allegiance to The Dark Lord as of late. Narcissa had been so worried about their son, Draco, showing interest in joining the rebellion, and Lucius’ own participation in the Dark Lord’s plans had become a source of conflict in their marriage. Lucius longed for the simpler times, before His Dark Lord’s return. He pinched the bridge of his nose and tried to steel his thoughts.

“Don’t give him any reason to suspect your reluctance,” he said to himself.

The Dark Lord was very accomplished at occlumency, and any sign of disloyalty would have been disastrous for himself and his family. He could almost taste the passion and vigor with which his master had cast the summoning spell, that made his dark mark glow. He felt that this night was different somehow. So much was riding on this evening going well. His master needed his assistance, and he was going to answer the call.

He cursed under his breath as he approached the obscured house. A series of charms and hexes had prevented him from apparating any closer, and the 5-minute walk in the tempestuous storm had soaked him to the bone. He paused in the doorway, wiped his limp, soggy hair out of his face, and knocked 3 times. The door opened a crack and two beady eyes peered out, warily. Lucius’ lips receded in contempt. “Step aside, Wormtail, before you lose your other hand,” he sneered, forcing the door open wider. Peter Pettigrew retreated into the darkness of the foyer, allowing Lucius room to step inside. As his eyes adjusted to the dim lighting, he could see that he hadn’t been the only one summoned by His Dark Lord. To his left stood Hogwarts professor, Severus Snape. That was to be expected. Snape had recently regained The Dark Lord’s confidence, and had become one of his most trusted advisors. He and Lucious had once been good friends, but they seemed to have drifted apart over the years. He thought, perhaps, he would try to re-engage with Snape. Having an ally close to the top could prove to be advantageous to his own position, and in turn put Narcissa’s mind at ease. More surprisingly, Lucius noted that Barty Crouch Jr. was also in attendance. Poor chap. He had become a shell of his former self, ever since that blasted Cornelius Fudge decided to bring a Dementor into the courtroom during his trial. Barty stood now, facing the corner, eyes unfocused and unaware of his surroundings. Such a pitiful waste of talent. He had been a very promising young wizard, and an asset to His Dark Lord, to be sure. It was so sad to see what became of him since receiving the Dementors kiss. The door behind Lucius sharply flung open, and a hulking figure stepped inside. In a swift movement it grabbed Peter by the back of the neck, lifted him to meet his own shadowed face, and grumbled, “I knew I smelled a rat!” Severus sniffed and muttered under his breath, “And. I. Smell. Wet. Dog.” Fenrir Greyback snarled, dropped the sniveling Peter to the floor, and turned to loom over Severus, menacingly. Severus stood his ground, unflinching. A long serpentine hiss emanated from the shadows, breaking up the scuffle. Nagini, The Dark Lord’s faithful boa constrictor, weaved herself around the men’s feet, heralding her master’s entrance. The parlour doors pitched open with gusto as his eminence rushed forward, robes billowing behind him. “Gentlemen, you’re LATE! I expect you have a good reason for keeping me waiting?” Lucius could feel the butterflies in his stomach grow. He hated to disappoint his master. The repercussions could be disastrous. He could sense the others shift uncomfortably beside him, indicating that they felt similarly. No one wanted to be singled out, and on the receiving end of His Dark Lord’s wrath. “Come! We have much to discuss.” Voldemort said, ominously, before he abruptly turned and disappeared into the parlour. Lucius gulped and hesitantly followed the group. They entered the parlour to see six sleeping bags laid out in a semicircle around the hearth of the fireplace. “M’Lord. What. Is this?” Drawled Severus “How long have I known you Snape? Years? Decades even? But do we even really *know* each other at all? What’s my favourite colour, Snape?” Voldemort queried.

“M'lord?” Snape replied.

“My favourite colour. What is it?”

“Green, perhaps?”

“WRONG! It’s crimson! The same colour of the blood of the innocent, whom I shall slaughter, in the quest for ultimate power! See, you’d know that, if we hung out more.” said Voldemort “I decided we needed a bit of bonding time. The six of us. A bunch of dudes, getting to know one other, just, chillin’.”

“And. The sleeping bags?”

“Well, I thought it would be fun if we pretended we were camping. We can roast marshmallows and tell spooky stories.”

Severus, Lucius, Peter, and Fenrir all began to snicker at their Lord’s perceived sarcasm. Barty remained emotionless, swaying in the doorway.

“IMPERIO!!!!” Voldemort exclaimed, waving his wand over his guests. Involuntarily, the men found themselves choosing a sleeping bag and sitting around the fireplace. Even Barty, lumbered into place.

“Sorry about that,” Voldemort said, releasing them from the curse. “I didn’t want to bust out an unforgivable curse, this early in the evening, but my patience runs thin for your reluctance to follow orders! Somebody make me a s’more!”

Peter scrambled to put a marshmallow on a skewer for his master. The others sat in awkward silence.

“Ahh, this is nice, isn’t it?” pondered Voldemort. “It’s been a while since I enjoyed a campfire. We used to have a bonfire quite often, you know. Quirrell and I.”

Voldemort bit his bottom lip, and swallowed the lump in his throat.

“Ahh, Quirrell. He used to tell the scariest stories! Kept me up at night. Would you like to hear one?”

Barty stared listlessly into the fire. The others exchanged puzzled looks.

“Ok, once upon a time there was a boy named Tim, who lived in an orphanage. One night, he heard a strange noise on the staircase outside his room. Pat-pat, pat-pat, pat-pat. It seemed to be getting closer. Pat-pat, pat-pat, pat-pat. He soon heard the noise right outside his room. Pat-pat, pat-pat, pat-pat. Terrified, Tim hid under his bed. Eventually he could hear his bedroom door open. Pat-pat, pat-pat, pat-pat. The creature waddled towards Tim’s bed. He could see its little toes, coming closer and closer. Pat-pat, pat-pat, pat-pat. Suddenly it bent down and looked under the bed, at Tim. It was a…BABY!!!”

Voldemort jumped at Lucius, imitating a child’s giggles.

Unimpressed, Lucius asked, “Is that it?” as he recoiled away from His Dark Lord’s tickles.

“Yeah. Quirrell used to tell it better than I do.” replied Voldemort wistfully.

“Where’s the scary part?” asked Peter.

“It was a BABY! Babies are terrifying.”

“No. They’re. Not.” retorted Snape.

Barty continued to watch the flames in the fireplace.

“Ok well, what if it was a murderous baby, coming to kill you? Pretty scary then, right?” questioned Voldemort.

“No, babies are pretty easy to overpower.” Said Fenrir.

“That’s what you think!!!” screamed Voldemort. “Forget it! I had enough of the spooky stories. It’s not the same without Quirrell, anyway.”

After a moment of uneasy silence, Voldemort exclaimed, “I know! Let’s make prank Floo calls. I’ll go first!!”

He put on a Deatheater mask to disguise himself, threw a handful of Floo powder into the fireplace, and stuck his head inside. In the flames, the image of Bellatrix Lestrange could be seen.

“M’lord, is that you?”

“Is your muggle food storage device running?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Is your muggle food storage device running?”

“M’lord I know it’s you. I can see Nagini in the background.”

“You better catch it!”

“M’lord, we’ve been through this. You’ve gotta stop calling me like thi…”

Voldemort cut off the connection before she could continue, as he hysterically cackled at his own joke.

“Ok Fenrir, it’s your turn.” He said, tossing him the mask.

“Fenrir smirked and donned the mask. He threw the Floo powder into the fireplace. This time Lucius’ wife, Narcissa, came into view.

“Hello?”

“I want to speak to Amanda Shagg.” He said gruffly.

“I’m sorry, you must have reached the wrong home. There’s no one here by that name.”

“Are you sure? I think you’d know Amanda Shagg, when you see ‘em.”

“No, I don’t know Amanda Shagg.”

“Well look no further, Darling. I’ll be right over.”

“What the Hell! That’s my wife!” Lucius exclaimed angrily. He grabbed his pillow and smacked Fenrir across the face with it. Fenrir retaliated.

“PILLOWFIGHT!!!!” cried Voldemort gleefully. He quickly charmed all the pillows to fly at Fenrir’s face, all at once.

Fenrir emerged from the pile of pillows and feathers, holding his mouth. “My tooth. You knocked my bloody tooth out! It was the gold one too!” He frantically searched, on his hands and knees, for the gold tooth.

“C’mon guys. You’re all being a total snoozefest. You know what we need to liven up the party?”

“Copious amounts of. Alcohol?” asked Snape dryly.

“No. Well, yes, maybe? But no. I was thinking a parlour game!” Voldemort shouted. “Quirrell and I used to pass so many hours together playing games. My favourite was when I’d close my eyes, and he’d hide somewhere in the house. Then, when I opened my eyes, I had to guess where we were. Haha. Good times, good times.”

“M’lord, it’s really getting late. I should be heading home soon.” Lucius said.

“Oh no, you’re sleeping over all night. That’s what the sleeping bags are for,” snapped Voldemort. “Besides, you wouldn’t want to miss us putting Wormtail’s hand in warm water, so he pees himself, do you?”

Peter looked up incredulously.

Barty flopped back into the pile of pillows and stared at the ceiling. “Let’s play Sardines. It’s like reverse hide and seek. I’ll go hide, and you all have to come find me. If you do, you have to hide in the same spot with me, until the last person finds us. Ok, count to 100, then come find me.” Peter dutifully began counting as soon as his master had left the room. Fenrir smacked the back of his head.

“Don’t be such a brown-noser, Rat! Let’s get this over with.” Together, the men set out to find where their master had hidden. Fenrir looked behind curtains; Peter looked behind doors; Severus looked under furniture; Barty wandered aimlessly; Malfoy discovered a dark ebony armoire, trimmed with carved wooden serpents, and decorated with an ornate crystal door handle. Lucius jerked his head towards the cabinet, and gestured to his fellow seekers that they should check in there. “You found me!” exclaimed Voldemort, as the gang threw open the door. “That was quick!” “Good, game over,” said Fenrir, turning to leave. “Not so fast. You all have to hide in here, with me, until the last person finds us.” said Voldemort. “We ARE all here” said Snape. “Nope, Barty hasn’t found us yet. Quick, get in before he sees us.” The four seekers piled inside the armoire. Peter’s head was in Fenrir’s armpit; Fenrir’s elbow was in Lucius’ ear; Lucius’ knee was in Severus’ rear; and Severus and Voldemort stood cheek-to-cheek.

“Something. Smells. Like garlic,” remarked Snape.

“Yeah, some of Quirrell’s old turbans are hung over there.”

“You haven’t gotten rid of them yet?” Lucius questioned.

“No, Malfoy! I just…haven’t got around to it, yet.” Voldemort replied. “W-we aren’t going to stay crammed in here like this, until Barty finds us, are we?” Peter whimpered

“That’s the name of the game, Wormtail. We’re crammed in here like…SAR-DINES!” Voldemort said, chuckling.

Does Barty even know he’s meant to be looking for us?” asked Lucius. “This is. Madness.” complained Severus, “There’s just. Not. Enough room. For five of us in. Here.”

Severus quickly cast an Undetectable Extension Charm, making the inside of the armoire grow in size, while leaving the size of the exterior unchanged. Each wizard retreated to an opposite corner, as far apart as possible, with Voldemort left standing in the middle. “Hey man, that’s cheating,” Voldemort warned Severus, “Good job. I like your gumption.” “I-I think I hear him coming.” Peter squeaked

The others quieted to listen for the approaching Barty. They could hear him shuffling along the floor, and bumping into walls. Fenrir began whistling and PssPssPssing, to draw him in the direction of the armoire. Eventually, Barty poked his head inside the cabinet and commented, “Bigger on the inside,” before stepping inside and closing the door. “Ok gang’s all here. Let’s go.” Fenrir gruffed, reaching for the door handle, which was no longer there. “The braindead fool must have ripped off the door knob!” Bellowed Fenrir, blaming Barty. “Bugger this! I’m not being trapped inside this box with you lot, all night!” He reached for his wand and blasted the doors open. “Alright then,” said Voldemort, “A bit overkill, but ok. Let’s just go to bed then, shall we? Crankypants!” He led his guest back to the parlour yelling “Last one back is going to marry Dumbledore!”

Eventually, they settled into their sleeping bags and turned off the lights. All was still, except for the crashing storm outside. “Hey, Barty. You asleep?” Voldemort rolled onto his tummy, rested his chin in his hands, and kicked his feet in the air behind him. “Truth or dare?” Barty stared blankly at the ceiling. “Alright, TRUTH!" Voldemort continued, unperturbed by Barty’s lack of response, "Who was the last person you kissed?” Barty’s head lolled to the left. “Oh jeeze, was that insensitive? I forgot about the whole Dementor thing. Sorry, my bad!” Voldemort said, “Ok Barty, now it’s your turn to ask someone.” Voldemort placed his hand on Barty’s chin and began moving his mouth up and down. In a high-pitched voice he said, “Snape, truth or dare?” Severus did not reply. “Who do you have a crush on?” Voldemort asked, via his Barty-puppet Snape remained tight-lipped. Peter began to tease. “I know who he used to have a crush on. I bet he still holds a flame for her too. L-I-L-Y!” “Lily? Didn’t I kill her?” Voldemort mused, as he let go of Barty’s head, and grimaced at Snape’s stone-cold face. “Uhh, hey, sorry about that, man. Tough break!” After a pause he continued, “Ok Snape, it’s your turn to ask someone.” Snape hesitated, but thought better of challenging Voldemort.

“Malfoy. Truth. Or. Dare?” “I don’t know. Dare?” Lucius offered, exasperated. “I. Dare you. To. Let. Me. Brew you a potion. Which you. Must. Drink,” Snape suggested. “Very well then,” Lucius replied. Snape got up, entered the kitchen and went to work making Lucius his potion. “Ok” said Voldemort said to Lucius, “Your turn to ask someone.” Lucios sighed and said, “Wormtail, Truth or Dare?” “T-truth,” Peter mumbled. “Are you REALLY loyal to our Dark Lord?” “I, umm, well, y-yes, of c-course,” stammered Peter. “Wormtail knows better than to cross me. Don’t you Wormtail?” Voldemort warned, raising his wand to touch the tip of Peter’s nose. “I, would n-never!” Peter cried, as he shielded his face with his hand; the light glinting off his silver fingers. “Umm, Snape, how’s that potion coming?” Malfoy called out, hoping to break the tension. Severus entered, holding an ornate goblet filled with a bubbling concoction. “This. Will have to. Do,” Severus said “It’s not quite. Finished. But I seem. To have. Misplaced my spoon.” He handed Lucius the cup. Before he could take a sip, the group were startled by a loud *thooonk* “MY HAND!” cried Peter, lifting the empty stump where his silver hand once sat. A mischievous little niffler scampered off with the hand, but not before looking back and flashing a hint of gold in its mouth. “My tooth! The little bugger’s got my tooth!” roared Fenrir, lumbering after the rodent. Fenrir, Peter and Nagini frantically attempted to catch the niffler; crashing into furniture and knocking over knick-knacks. “Drink up.” Severus said to Lucius, with a wink, and whispered more quietly, “Trust me.” Curious, amongst the pandemonium that the fleeing niffler had caused, Lucius took a sip of Severus’ potion. Immediately, a long rattling wheeze escaped his lungs. The feeling of drowning overcame him, and he began to gasp for air. “Oh Darn. I must have. Mixed up the shiitake mushrooms with. The death-cap mushrooms. I seem to have. Accidentally brewed. Death-Cap Draught.” Snape said, to the room. Lucious’ eyes widened in horror. “I have a bezoar. At home. We’ll have to. Leave. Unfortunately,” Snape continued, with a slight smirk. “Oh, if you must!” lamented Voldemort “We’ll have to re-schedule our team building exercises for another time then. I hear paintball is a hoot.” Peter and Fenrir paused their pursuit of the niffler, to gawk at their master.

Severus, stared at him dumbfounded.

Lucius continued coughing and retching.

A single drop of drool fell from the corner Barty’s mouth. “No? How about lazer tag? Less messy.” Voldemort looked at them with an excited grin, “Or I know! How about one of those breakout rooms, that’s all the rage with the muggles? We could go in there and alohomora that shit. We’ll have it solved in record time, and the muggles will think we’re geniuses! I mean, I actually am a genius, but you could be too! C’mon man! What d’ya say??” “Gotta catch that niffler,” Peter and Fenrir say together, edging for the door.

“Must. Be off. Before Malfoy. Bites it.” Snape quips, grabbing a handful of floo powder.

Lucius clutched at Severus’ robes, while panting for air.

Barty’s head drooped to his chest. As the others left, Voldemort approached Barty, sitting on the floor.

“Well, I guess it’s just you and me now. Hey pal?” Voldemort said, giving him a nudge.

Barty fell over. Voldemort propped him back up, into a seated position. He placed a marshmallow on the end of a skewer, poked the skewer in the crook of Barty’s elbow, and positioned the marshmallow towards the fire. He then slowly turned, and slid himself down to the floor, back-to-back with Barty. He leaned his head back, to rest against the back of Barty’s head, and sighed. Almost as a whisper, he began to softly sing.

”I am happy as a squirrel, as long as I’m with Mr. Quirrell…”

#harry potter #a very potter musical #voldemort #lucius #professor snape #barty crouch junior #fenrir greyback #peter pettigrew #crack #lonley #slumber party #niffler #truth or dare #sardines

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imamotherfuckingstar-lord · 5 years

Text

Not Her

Daryl Dixon x Reader

Warnings: mention of child abuse.

A/N: this took me three days to write, I’m proud of it.

Summary: Your sister tortured Daryl – he wants to be the one that kills her, but you beat him to it. Where do you go from there?

The room was small, and it smelled like vomit and piss. Everything was dark, except for the little dim of light that came from under the door. Daryl sat still, listening to the sounds of footsteps, getting ready for whatever torture was coming his way. Sometimes it was Dwight, the asshole, coming in with a sandwich – trying his best to antagonize Daryl, but it hardly worked. He did is best to not let it get to him, but the women?

She was something different, real mean.

He didn’t know her name, but her eyes said enough; she enjoyed the ridiculing and the beating, good at it too. He hated her the most, downright rotten woman – years ago, he would have never thought a woman could be so cruel, but the world had shown him otherwise about a lot of things.

Sometimes she said hello by kicking him in the side, tossing down a container of what he assumed was urine on the ground next to him. Other times she’d bring in a new device to see how deep she could press against his skin, he never screamed though, grunted a bit but he held up. Daryl was strong like that and he decided after one of her sessions, that when it was all said and done, he’d get her.

He’d get her.

….

Daryl gripped his gun, heart pounding with anticipation. The Saviors, they held their own guns pointed at the mixture of the three communities he stood with, and he waited for the signal.

He wanted Negan dead, for Glenn, Abraham, and the others. Then there was the burning part of him that wanted Dwight and her dead, and he wanted to do it himself. So, he waited and when the Saviors fired first and fell back with self-inflicting wounds, he jumped at the chance with the others. Rick screamed from them to press forward and Daryl raced, gun drawn. He shot several of the bastards down and every chance he got, he looked for her. Knowing it was a long shot, he kept venturing, shooting and stabbing, grunting and winning. Until he saw her.

She was standing next to Dwight, who was now in the same getup he had once wore as a prisoner – it was what he deserved, and he knew deep down, where he didn’t want to look, that it was enough punishment. He looked like shit and that made Daryl feel good, but he pressed on, striking down those who tried to kill him. He snuck up behind the car she stood in front of, her hand firmly on Dwight’s shoulder, a gun pressed against his side as she smiled. It was disgusting, it was infuriating, and he wanted her.

Not wanting to wait any longer, he started towards her but stopped when she moved. Someone had called for her and when she looked over her shoulder, she was shot in the chest. Instantly, she fell over, letting go of Dwight, who looked on in shock. Daryl grunted in anger and rushed over to the pair, kneeling to turn her over.

He wanted it badly, to be the one that killed her.

“Shit,” he muttered, looking up at Dwight, whose eyes were fixated on the person who shot her down. Daryl’s eyes followed his direction and his heart dropped, it was her. Same face, same body, but the eyes were different. Warmer, kinder, and full of regret.

…

You saw her, holding onto Dwight.

She had lost her way along time ago and you just wanted out, and Rick’s group winning, that was the way out. You knew there were good people among the Saviors, people with families that were just trying to stay alive, but her?

She was too far gone.

The gun shook in your hand, tears rolled down your face as you aimed it at her chest. The humane way would have been a head shot, but you saw what she had done to so many and it was what she deserved. You had to be the one to do it, you were the only one that loved her.

“Bianca!”

Her name felt warm leaving your mouth, and you wished it was like when the two of you were kids; the late nights under the covers, when Dad was asleep, talking about growing up and leaving home – that was the big dream then. Too many things happened between then and now, and you knew Bianca’s time on Earth was over. Negan had twisted her up and made her into someone you didn’t recognize, someone you feared. You wanted him dead, but that was Rick’s dibs, and you knew, after seeing all the Saviors hurt from their own bullets, that his group was going to win. Which meant she had to go, because there was no way she could change, not anymore. Bianca would always be loyal to Negan, she would always rebel against Rick and try to recruit others into that way of thinking – and that was not going to happen, peace and fairness had to be the endgame. It had to be.

She turned, her eyes connecting with yours instantly and you didn’t give her a chance, because you knew if she had gotten a word out, she’d find a way out. Instead you pulled the trigger and she went down, and your heart broke. Your chest heaved as you gazed around, seeing that Negan was losing, and you felt light for the first time in a long time. Things were going to change, and you wanted to be part of it all.

“Shit.”

The relief left you when you saw a man kneeling beside your sister and Dwight staring at you with wide eyes, causing you to snap out of whatever self-fulfilling peace you were feeling. Moving down the gun, you walked over to Dwight and pulled out a knife, cutting him loose. He stared at you, his breathing steady as you handed him your second gun.

“We were never supposed to be here,” you said to him, pushing the weapon into his chest.

“I know,” he answered, taking it. Your face dropping when he pointed it up and for a moment you thought you’d be joining your sister, but he shot over your shoulder. “We have to make it right.”

The two of you shared a knowing look before he walked off and you turned to the man as he rolled your sister over. She looked like she was sleeping and a part of you wanted to shake her awake, but that wasn’t going to happen – it hit you then, the severity of what you had done.

You fell to your knees and touched her arm, crying when it felt cold. The man stared at you and you glared up at him, asking what he wanted.

“I wanted her.”

It was evident in his eyes that he had been one of Bianca’s victims.

“I’m tired of apologizing for what my sister has done,” you sighed, handing over the knife you used to cut Dwight free. “But I had to be the one to kill her, just make sure she doesn’t turn, please.”

He looked at you, eyes focused on yours before taking it, watching as you stood up.

“I’m going to surrender, I want to start new.”

“So, what? She the evil twin and you the good one?”

His voice was raspy and accusatory, but you let out a tired chuckle and walked away. You just wanted to sleep, have a good rest – the last time you slept well was when Negan, who rarely went on runs, found Bianca and you on an outpost scout. He was charming, but you saw right through it. Yet, he promised a bed to sleep and safety exchange for work. Bianca was in from the beginning and you couldn’t say no to her, so the two of you went with him. That night, he brought the two of you to a room, and congratulated you on the new world life – you didn’t know what he meant, but you found out soon enough.

You walked over a hill, gun holstered as you came across a large group of Saviors, kneeled on the grass with their hands up. It was over and you looked up at the sky, letting the cool breeze wash over you like baptism water, it was time for a new start.

Joining the rest, you got down and watched as Rick slit Negan’s throat. You were happy, everything felt right until he called for a man to save him, and the screams of a broken woman filled the air. For a moment, a split second, you thought about running down and killing Negan yourself, but then Rick told you and the other Saviors to stand up and put your hands down, and then he spoke.

He spoke from the depths of his heart and each word hung over yours as you realized he was right, things needed to be at peace – everyone was tired, everyone just wanted to live. The dead should be the only fight worth fighting, and all you had was each other. It changed right then, you could feel it in the air and as the sun rained down on everyone, the walkers looming far in the foreground – everything transformed.

……

One year later

The car came to a stop in front of the gates of Alexandria, your back pressed deep into the driver’s seat. It had been a few long days spent at the Sanctuary, upholding an election for a new spokesperson to collaborate with the other communities. The collective thought was to reelect a leader every year, the scars of Negan ran deep. After his fall, you had stepped up.

“I’ll take the others home,” you yelled from the back of the crowd, moving past people to get to Rick. He watched as you approached him, and when he asked what the plan was, you smiled. “We’re going to rebuild the Sanctuary, the right way this time. Most of us never wanted Negan’s way, we were just surviving. We have a lot of strong people, people with skills, and we have crops. We can start a trade route to and from the communities.”

Rick nodded, holding out his hand. “And we’ll be happy to help you out in anyway. The first thing we’ll do is help bring back the bodies to the Sanctuary, I know there were some good people who died here that deserve a proper burial.”

You took his hand and shook it. “We appreciate it.”

It was Aaron who opened the gates, like the first time except he had a smile on his face this time around. He opened it up and you drove in, parking off to the side. You grabbed the green backpack off the passenger seat and got out of the car, giving the man a hug as he welcomed you.

“How was the election?”

“Good. The people spoke and picked Alejandra, she’s going to be a great leader.”

“So, does that mean you’ll be moving here fulltime?”

You shrugged. “I suppose. It will be nice to not have to be in charge for once.”

Aaron smiled, motioning for you to follow him – the two of you started walking further into the community, going over what you had missed while you were gone. Rick and a few others were out on a scouting location run, and you nodded.

“Don’t worry, he’s here,” Aaron teased, nudging you playfully. “He knew you’d be back today, so he opted out.”

Ignoring his teasing, you kept walking – each step brought relaxation to your soles. It had been a long year, getting people to work together, growing crops, running the Sanctuary in a fair way, and trying to have a persona life in between. You were glad to be let off the hook, although you appreciated the support the others had given you, that he had given you.

“I’m going to go see him,” you hummed out, stopping in front of a house.

Aaron gave you a wink and told you to come by his house afterwards. “Rick wanted me to get a rundown of what the Sanctuary needs from you.”

Agreeing, you waved him off before stepping up to the porch of the white house. You walked up to the door and knocked on it lightly, but a raspy voice came from around the porch. Smiling, you turned to see Daryl standing there.

You moved down on the grass and touched Bianca’s hair, it was soft. Tears left your eyes and you wanted to sob, to break down, but now wasn’t the time. It was a new beginning and all you wanted to do was bury your sister and get some decent sleep. It made you sound cruel, maybe you were like her…

“Need help burying her?”

Looking up, you saw the man from earlier. “Yeah.”

…

You had decided not to take her back to the Sanctuary, but to bury her out under one of the trees on the hill where the fight began. He had borrowed a shovel from someone who was using it as a weapon and the two of you took turns digging a hole. Neither of you spoke, he barely looked you in the eye, not that you could blame him. You were a living reminder of what your sister did to him, and yet, here he was helping you bury her.

“I hated being a twin,” you said out of nowhere, causing him to look up at you. He just stared, waiting for you to go on. “Nothing was ever just yours, and the two of us, we were nothing alike.”

He didn’t say anything.

“When we met Negan, Bianca believed the bullshit ideology he was selling.”

“And you didn’t?”

“Fuck no,” you laughed, reaching for the shovel. “I’ll take over.”

“Nah,” he said. “I got the rest.”

Not arguing, you stared down at your sister and sighed. “Our dad was this tough son of a bitch, beat the shit out of us when we got out of line. Bianca, she learned early on to fall in line, I’ve always been the rebellious type.”

“So, you just took the beatings?”

“Yeah,” you whispered, not knowing why you were divulging all this to a stranger. Maybe you felt like you owned him an explanation or maybe because it just seemed easy. “All that mental shit was far worse, its easier to get the physical abuse.”

“Hmm,” he nodded, finally looking you in the eyes. “I get it. I get that you aren’t her, and I think you’ll lead your people to do good.”

“I hope so,” you laughed, shaking your head. “I’m Y/N, by the way.”

He stopped shoveling and tilted his head slightly to the left, giving you a small nod. “Daryl.”

“Hey,” you smiled, walking up the man.

Daryl pushed from the roundabout porch and walked up to you, asking how everything went. After Negan was put into prison, you had a discussion with Rick about the logistics of things and he asked Tara to go with you, but Daryl stepped up. You were surprised at first but the two of you left with the former Saviors in tow. He mostly kept to himself but was always there to deal with those who caused trouble. You had found out pretty quickly that you had to have patience with Daryl, and when he finally started to come around, the two of you connected even more. Nothing romantic at first, just friendship and a mutual respect – it hurt you a bit, because you had started to have feelings for him and things hadn’t progressed, but you realized Bianca might have been still interfering. How could he ever see you in that way, when your twin sister tortured him to no end?

Daryl stood in the back of the room as you addressed the group of people, it was a weekly meeting you had implemented to discuss concerns and needs of the community. He watched as you spoke gracefully and listened to everyone’s suggestions and worries – over the last few months you had become a fair leader and he started to notice a change in the way he felt. His eyes always found you in a room full of people and he constantly, without realizing it, gravitated towards you.

“We’ll be going to Alexandria for the trade exchange, I’m going to need a truck filled with crops and a few volunteers to make the trip.” Several people spoke up and you smiled. “Thank you. That’s settled. I appreciate all the hard work guys, now go enjoy some lunch.”

You stepped down from the staircase and Daryl hung back as you greeted people, answering questions or just saying hello. He watched your face, and for the first time, he didn’t see her. Not one bit. Not her twisted smirk or the look of wickedness in her eyes, no, he just saw you.

He pushed away from the wall he was leaning on when you approached him, a warm smile on your face. You asked if he thought your little speech was too kumbaya and he shook his head.

“Nah, they need that.”

“Good,” you grinned even wider, reaching over a hand to his shoulder. He stilled for a moment until his body relaxed and when you asked if he wanted to get some lunch, he said yeah.

“You made it.”

“I did, everything went good. I’ll have to make a few trips in the following weeks to make sure everything is okay, but I’m officially off the hook,” you laughed, moving closer to him. He stood inches from you, nodding as you went on about the trip back – his head dipped down next to yours, his left hand slowly reached the tip of your fingers.

“You made it right with your people, you deserve a damn award.”

“I can’t do this, Daryl,” you exhaled, placing both hands on the table. You had just dealt out punishment for two men that didn’t want to follow the new rules, they both were given a few supplies and asked to go. “I’m going to turn into her.”

Daryl snapped his head up from the supply list he was reading. “Like hell you are. You ain’t her, never been. Those two assholes were causing trouble for weeks now, they can take that shit to the road.”

“I can’t do…I’m afraid…” your words faded as tears fell from your eyes, until a warm hand touched your back. It was just the two of you in the room, but it felt like you were the last two people on Earth. This was the first time he had touched you on his own accord, and it made you feel closer to him.

“Has it been a year yet?”

He scoffed playfully. “You got a couple of more months left.”

“I can’t do this alone,” you whispered, head hung low. It was a lot to take on, and in the beginning, you wanted it badly, needed it to work. And it had, for the most part, but now you were second guessing your leadership skills.

Daryl’s hand moved up to your shoulder, where he grasped it lightly. “I got ya.”

After that, he did. He was the one to back you up and reassure you when doubts built up in your head, Daryl had become your person. Then it happened, out on a supply run. He had said you didn’t have to go, now that you were the leader, but what kind of example would that have been? So, you went. Things got dicey and the two of you were separated by a small horde of walkers. You fought hard through the dead, but one had gotten a hold of your bag but before he could take a bite, he was on the ground.

Daryl stood there, chest puffy, knife in hand. The walkers were all dead and when you saw him there, you lost it and ran into his arms. It wasn’t like you hadn’t be in a bad spot before, you had fought many times against walkers but this time it was different.

You trembled in his arms, afraid you had lost him.

He held you tight, his heart pounding away. “Shit. I thought I lost you.”

“I deserve an award? Like one of those cute metal ones with a blue ribbon?” you teased.

He scoffed, pulling you into his chest and placing a kiss on your forehead. “You’re ridiculous.”

Leaning back, you stared at him before smiling; he had been the one person you thought would never want anything to do with you. You were the face of his torturer and maybe it was twisted in some way or maybe, maybe it was how life was now. Maybe it didn’t really matter, because the two of you found something in a world full of cruelty and hope – and that was enough.

“Yeah, but you got me, right?”

Daryl stared into your eyes for a few seconds, not understanding how he could have ever, even for a second, think you were anything but kind, thoughtful, and warm. He was a fool to ever think that, but he was glad he had you now.

“Yeah, I got ya.”

#daryl dixon #daryl dixon x reader #daryl x reader #daryl dixion imagine #walking dead #the walking dead #twd #daryl

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sailorrrvenus · 5 years

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When You Feel Your Reputation as a Photographer Slipping Through the Cracks

There are a great number of differences between professional photographers and those that shoot only as a hobby. Surprisingly enough one, of those differences isn’t always talent. There are many amazing and talented photographers that shoot for a hobby and they take my breath away.

Being a professional photographer doesn’t always mean being a great artist. Regardless, your reputation for getting s**t done does matter and that reputation is everything.

With that in mind, one difference between a working photographer and many nonworking photographers is the ability to get the shot under pressure. Most importantly a professional needs to “know” that they will get the shot. You can never “hope” that you will. This is what our reputation rests on. If a hobbyist doesn’t get the shot it can be disappointing but it will never be a career-ending disaster. They can always come back and try again when they have the time or inclination.

Nothing Was Working As It Should

This is the story of one instance where nothing was working as it should. First off, the amount of time I had to get the shot was short. From start to finish, including setting it up, I had less than one minute. I’ve actually learned this from looking back at time stamps on my photos. In the end, I wound up having only forty-one seconds from start to finish to land my hero shot. Now that’s what I call a damn mini session!

Anyway, for the last 9 years, part of what I do is shoot campaign advertising for US Congressmen, Senators, and other politicians. In February of 2016, I was shooting a commercial for Lloyd Smucker. At the time he was running for a seat in the 115th United States Congress to represent Pennsylvania’s 16th Congressional district. This is where our story starts.

The Day Didn’t Start Off Bad

The day didn’t start off bad. I can say for certain that Lloyd was the bomb! He was amazingly photogenic and working with him was easy as pie. It’s almost as if the photos just made themselves. I firmly believe that the most important aspect of getting a great photo is when your subject is relaxed. Well, Lloyd was relaxed if nothing else. Where many people would rather have a shotgun wound to the head than have a photo snapped of them, Lloyd didn’t seem to mind. In fact, it was more like he could have cared less if I was there or not. Now, I don’t mean this in a bad way but a good way. I wish everyone that I photographed was as nonchalant about the process as he was.

Part of any good political campaign photography is that it’s real. Not only does it need to be real, but it also has to look real. This stuff can’t be staged. This is where Congressman Smucker excelled. He did his thing, I snapped a few photos and it was magic!

Even so, we worked a pretty grueling pace that chilly February day. In total, we shot for 8 hours at 7 different locations and 18 different sets. Frame after frame, shot after shot Lloyd was a trooper.

Then came the nightmare. It was time for the “hero shot” and this is where I felt my reputation slipping through the cracks. Abject self-loathing and the prospect of no more gainful employment was looming over me like a dark cloud. Nothing was working as it should and this all-important photograph was going to be an epic fail!

The Hero Shot

Of the many locations we shot that day one of them was a steel plant. While we were there, we didn’t stage many scenes or ask for special treatment but when one of the steelworkers started cutting an I-beam, everyone knew that the sparks flying off of it would be perfect for the background of an industrial shot. The first cut had already been made and there was only one more left to make. It was decided that we should shoot the “hero shot” in front of it as it was being cut. There’s just something about fire flying through the air that brings out the pyro in all of us! This was going to be the shot that rocked!

Yeah, Right!

With that in mind, we set Lloyd in front of the scene. The video crew had already done their thing so the grip, lighting guy, was still holding one simple incandescent light on our subject more for effect than anything else. As the steelworker was getting ready to finish his second and last cut I didn’t have time to arrange for fancy lighting. The grip crew had their truck parked good 100 or more yards away in another part of the plant so that option was off the table. We had to work fast and use what we already had on hand. As torch started cutting through the I-beam and sparks started to fly I guessed my exposure and snapped a test shot.

My Exposure Was Way Off!

My guess was way off and the cut was in progress! Lloyd looked great but there was way too much light from too many spectrums. The overhead lighting from the fluorescent lights produced a nasty, unflattering green cast with little or no contrast. The large windows in the background were blowing my highlights and overexposing the entire background. My shutter speed was to slow and rather than capturing cool sparks flying from the torch all I got was a white mess behind my subject. On the inside, my heart sank, but on the outside, I remained cool and composed.

Tick Tock

God, I hate chimping each and every frame I shoot but this time there was no choice. I had to see the results I was getting and make quick corrections to compensate for them. There simply was no time to even walk over and take a reading with a light meter! I had to shoot.

My first shot was at ISO 800, 135mm, f/2.8 at 1/100 sec. I knew the only way to capture the sparks in the background was to speed things up so I bumped my shutter speed up to 1/250th of a sec. Still no good! Tick tock, tick tock. The clock is running out of time.

The background is starting to look a bit better but Lloyd was in the dark. He was little more than a silhouette and the sparks behind him were still overexposed and nothing more than a hot mess. This was not going end well! I had a sinking feeling deep in my stomach. Even so, I remained cool as an ice cube on the outside, but only on the outside.

I Had To Capture the Sparks

Having a dark and underexposed foreground and subject or not I had to shoot a fast-enough shutter speed to capture the sparks and freeze them. I wanted them to appear as balls of fire flying through the air. With that in mind, I bumped my shutter speed up to 1/320. This would certainly make my subject even darker but it should freeze some of the sparks behind him.

If I could capture the sparks then I could correct the image in post. So much for that “getting it right in the camera” garbage we all like to talk about but there was no other choice. It would have been fine for journalism or even an editorial photo where we do what we need to do. Getting the shot is the most important thing. Of course we want great photos, but in editorial, it’s often better to get the shot, any shot, than nothing at all and technical precision isn’t always so important. The difference was that this was not editorial. This was an advertising campaign and precision is everything.

Tick tock, tick tock. The steelworker had nearly finished making his cut!

Pretend This is the Damn Marine Corps!

Super fun thoughts were rushing through my head. Stuff like, “It’s been a great ride but my days of shooting political candidates were over. Word would go out and no one would hire a has-been loser that can’t grab a simple photo when the pressure is on.”

I snapped my shot and PRESTO! It worked!

The photo was dark but I could work with it. Sadly, the ever-relaxed Lloyd, for which I was so thankful all day, just didn’t work for this photograph. He looked more like he was kicking back on the block having a grand old time. I didn’t need a friendly, happy subject. I wanted a badass!

Dude! Pretend this is the damn Marine Corps! Tick tock. One more frame. I needed just one more frame but the last cut is almost finished. I told Lloyd, “Dude! Pretend this is the damn Marine Corps! Drill a hole down through the center of my lens with your eyes. I want you to be the most hateful son of a b**ch that ever lived!” It had to work. If it didn’t the whole set would be a bust and the campaign needed this shot. I needed this shot!

Thirty-Eight Seconds into the Shoot

Thirty-eight seconds into the shoot, I snapped my last frame. It was dark as hell, the tonal curve was flat with nearly no contrast, and the color was s**t because of the mixing of four different colored light sources. Even so, the sparks from the torch were in the frame the way I wanted them. Three seconds later and the cut was finished. There would be no more chances to get it right but with a bit of Photoshop magic things could still work out.

My Reputation Was Saved

In the end, Lloyd never did look like, “The most hateful son of a b**ch that ever lived.” Perhaps it’s just not in him. I can’t say but he did look stern enough for the shot to work. My clients loved the final shot and my reputation was saved. In fact, as the photos started being passed around the political circle I was quickly picked up for two more gigs. Both were special request looking for me by name. One for another Congressional run and the other for a Senatorial campaign.

Sadly, even now, I’m still not satisfied with the contrast and color of the image. Though Photoshop is a fantastic tool it’s not a silver bullet that will fix everything. Junk in still results in junk out but I am happy with the overall result and more importantly, I get to keep on working!

Hero shot of Congressman Lloyd Smucker. This is the one single photo that placed my entire reputation as a photographer at risk.

About the author: Barry Kidd is a corporate, commercial, and political photographer based in York, Pennsylvania. The opinions expressed in this article are solely those of the author. Kidd specializes in political photography shooting campaign advertisements and public relations to the candidates. He also shoots corporate and commercial photography. You can find more of his work on his website, Facebook, and Instagram. This article was also published here.

source https://petapixel.com/2019/04/16/when-you-feel-your-reputation-as-a-photographer-slipping-through-the-cracks/

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pauldeckerus · 5 years

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When You Feel Your Reputation as a Photographer Slipping Through the Cracks

Being a professional photographer doesn’t always mean being a great artist. Regardless, your reputation for getting s**t done does matter and that reputation is everything.

Nothing Was Working As It Should

The Day Didn’t Start Off Bad

The Hero Shot

Yeah, Right!

My Exposure Was Way Off!

Tick Tock

I Had To Capture the Sparks

Tick tock, tick tock. The steelworker had nearly finished making his cut!

Pretend This is the Damn Marine Corps!

I snapped my shot and PRESTO! It worked!

Thirty-Eight Seconds into the Shoot

My Reputation Was Saved

Hero shot of Congressman Lloyd Smucker. This is the one single photo that placed my entire reputation as a photographer at risk.

from Photography News https://petapixel.com/2019/04/16/when-you-feel-your-reputation-as-a-photographer-slipping-through-the-cracks/

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nofomoartworld · 7 years

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Art F City: L.A. Art Diary: Week One

Brian Lotti, “The Great Outdoors”. Collection of Nicola Knight.

Wednesday 6/21

I am on a plane, wondering how it is possible that I have never been to Los Angeles before. I’m trying to synthesize all the conflicting reports I have received over the years about what to expect. Looking out the window, it strikes me that the only truth is that L.A. is unknowably vast.

The sprawl is a morphology utterly unlike the East Coast megalopolis—with its familiar semilinear logic of defined centers and hub-and-spoke suburbs. L.A. instead resembles an endless circuit board poured into the topography. The way the components relate to one another is a mystery—an endless grid of houses, oil derricks, highrises, strip malls, office parks, improbably massive warehouses, and meandering freeways repeating without any discernable pattern or hierarchy. Somewhere in the anonymous mix I know there are countless galleries, studios, and private collections. L.A. feels like a treasure hunt. I have never driven a car in my life. I’m intimidated.

On the phone at LAX, my friend is aghast at my plan to take the train from the airport and make my way to Hollywood via transfers to the subway. She insists I allow her to call me an Uber. Over the course of the over-an-hour-long ride through traffic the driver repeatedly mutters that he regrets accepting the fare. We’re both white-knuckled as we make our way up a series of narrow, winding roads in the Hollywood Hills, where houses cling to cliffs on stilts.

Jordan Kasey, “Shapes Person on the Beach,” 61.5″ x 108″, 2016. Collection of Nicola Knight.

I am staying with Nicola Knight, an art advisor, and her home is a testament to her niche skills in the trade—the walls are hung with a mix of work by professional contacts and emerging painter friends from our days back in Baltimore. It’s all the kind of art I would buy, visually striking with a sense of tension. In a stairwell, I’m seduced by the bright colors of a washy Brian Lotti L.A. streetscape. Staring at the big painting in the small space from below, it takes me a minute to realize the festive palette is owed to the colorful tents of a homeless encampment in the foreground. She has countless smaller works from D’Metrius John Rice, a large abstract painting by Seth Adelsberger, and dozens of works from other artists I hadn’t known. In her dining room, a reclining figure by Jordan Kasey sprawls across a canvas nearly as long as the table, her face a muddy smiley-emoji mask. Looking at the larger works, I imagine art handlers attempting to navigate a clumsy truck up the precarious mountain road and get a flash of mild panic.

Later, we’re sitting in another collector’s modernist home a few hills over. The few non-glass walls are tightly-packed with paintings and photographs, with others still wrapped leaning against them, obscuring what’s underneath. There’s a Nick Cave sound suit casually hanging out in the corner. While I’m trying to identify the works through the pile and packing materials, a woman looks at my worn and patched jeans and asks, “So did you used to be an actual punk rocker or something?”

I pretend I didn’t hear her and instead gesture to the wall, “Wow, it seems like everyone in L.A. has such a great collection!” As soon as I say this I realize how dumb it sounds. I have only been in two homes in the few hours I’ve been in town.

“Yes, it’s true!” she replies.

Friday 6/23

Conor Fields, “Tide Pool” (center) with Isabell Yellin, “Hug me, Hold me, Don’t Let Me Go” (left).

We show up customarily last-minute to an opening at Skibum MacArthur, a gallery in a hangar-like building of artist studios known as Tin Flats. The group show, Detour West curated by Lourença Alencar, feels appropriate to the industrial setting (nestled out-of-the-way between a highway and the concrete ditch of the L.A. River) and the provisional, at times surreal, landscape of the city at large. A Conor Fields installation, “Tide Pool”, is impossible to miss entering the space. Murky black liquid is pumped between a barrel and a cinderblock basin—a sinister tar pit mirrored by Isabell Yellin’s large, droopy leatherette and acrylic works.

Stephen Neidich, “Al Pastor” (foreground) with Andrea Marie Breiling, “In and Out”.

The mechanical whirring of Stephen Neidich’s assemblage “Al Pastor” echoes throughout the space. It’s a clanking rotisserie of industrial detritus. It’s oddly hypnotic, and I almost overlook three small drawings on Tyvek in the corner, also by Conor Fields. They delicately depict signifiers of suburbia—”googie” billboards and rolling hills—in green pointillism evocative of grass lawns. Or perhaps, given the material, astroturf. I think of those creaky oil derricks looming behind golf courses and McMansions. Los Angeles is far stranger and more worn than I had anticipated, and this show gets at the endearing awkwardness of its contradictions.

The sole exhibition text comprises this passage, nearly each word footnoted to a strange piece of local trivia or short poem:

“I live in Los Angeles and I’ve had seven heart attacks, all imagined. That is to say, I was deeply unhappy but I didn’t know it because I was so happy all the time. I have a favorite quote about LA by William Shakespeare. He said: ‘This other Eden, demi-paradise, this precious stone set in the silver sea, this earth, this realm, this Los Angeles’. Anyway, this is what happened to me. And I swear it’s all true.”

Including the footnote:

“Oil and water: naturally occurring substances that are both essential to the life of Angelinos. One is life giving and an essential element and the other is burned at a careless rate on an hourly basis. The five artists at Tin Flats—Andrea Marie Breiling, Conor Fields, Chandler McWilliams, Stephen Neidich, and Isabel Yellin—came to LA, this land of oil and water, from elsewhere, each with their own dreams, loves, and baggage.”

A friend drives us to a friend-of-a-friend’s going-away party on the roof of a pre-war highrise downtown. Nearly everyone is also from somewhere else (our hostess, a chemist, was moving back to Berlin). A group of these transplants happen to be art writers as well. They had just come from the opening of Los Angeles’ new tallest building—an affair accompanied by commissioned artworks ranging from site-specific installations and ice sculptures to Korean opera, performance art, and lasers. They say it was all terrible. Looking out over the newly-crowned smoggy skyline, I get my first glimpse of L.A. that looks like Blade Runner.

Saturday, 6/24

I have been told it’s a long wait for an appointment to see the Marciano Arts Foundation, a new private museum funded by the GUESS? Jeans fortune. Miraculously, I manage to score two last-minute tickets. We arrive 45 minutes late for our time spot thanks to traffic, but the staff seem to have expected that. The museum is housed in an old Masonic lodge from 1961 that looks vaguely like a kitschier version of a Nazi office building, and the bizarre and storied context informs a lot of the work that’s been acquired for the inaugural show, curated by Philipp Kaiser.

The exhibition is a triumph—and one that never seems to take itself too seriously at that.

Installation View: Ryan Trecartin and Lizzie Fitch, “

Ryan Trecartin and Lizzie Fitch, for example, approached the Marcianos in 2014 and proposed a residency within the vacant structure for several months before renovations began. The end product is a multi-channel video installation installed in a tent that harkens to the apparent “slumber party” vibe of the residency—when a rotating cast of drag queens and art weirdos ran wild through the cultish bunker of a space. The piece recalls some of Trecartin’s best work (even Zoe the documentarian character from “A Family Finds Entertainment” makes an appearance.) It’s fun and punk and delightfully unpolished. At one point the mischief-makers throw caterpillar-like rows of chairs from the balcony of the theater (which once sat 2,000 people. Sadly, the city forced the foundation to remove the auditorium because they couldn’t provide enough parking to accommodate audiences that large, despite the fact that there’s a multibillion-dollar subway line being constructed under that avenue). I’m reminded of the anarchic theater-squatters in John Waters’ Cecil B. DeMented, and the installation reads like an invitation to join in their rebellious sleep-over.

The Masons also left behind a treasure trove of props and sets from their theatrical religious/political rituals (some of which are on display in a small gallery off the mezzanine, such as the above sign). Others have been incorporated into a massive, immersive apocalyptic installation by Jim Shaw, The Wig Museum, alongside original works by the artist from both the Marciano Collection and his own [more about this, and the permanent collection, later]. Some works in the collection coincidentally feel site-specific, such as a massive wall piece from 2010 in which Cindy Sherman dons ritualistic garb, which was offered to the foundation a few years later, after they bought their equally esoteric bunker of a building.

Surpassing all expectations, The Marciano Foundation ends up being one of the best art-viewing experiences I’ve had in recent memory. For a private museum focused on one collection, the exhibitions feel playful and surprisingly artist-centric. I’m told the Marciano brothers have opened the space to artists to experiment and respond to, and in several instances end up acquiring the results. It’s a strategy that’s worked well.

Alex Israel, “Valet Parking,” 2013/2017. Oil Ppainting on wall.

Most of the works on view are exemplary of each artist in the collection’s best practices. A series of trompe-l’œil oil paint murals by Alex Israel wrap around the mezzanine of the lobby, and it’s probably my favorite work I’ve seen by the artist. The piece, “Valet Parking”, recreates elements of an L.A. streetscape (parking meters and signs, sandwich boards advertising tours, street trees, etc…) without buildings or people. Nearly every component feels lovingly resolved, and appropriately like an update of the Mason’s hand-painted theatrical backdrops.

One chamber of Jim Shaw’s haunted-house like installation “The Wig Museum”, incorporating apocalyptic set pieces left behind by the Masons alongside original works, such as his anarchist strip mall backdrop and cutout figures.

I think of the show I’d seen the night before, and how much the idiosyncrasies of Los Angeles end up being the subject of exhibitions or conversation here. There’s a certain snobbery I’ve encountered where non-Angelenos describe the city as a suburban “non-place”, and it’s reassuring to see artists and curators celebrating all the things that make L.A. singularly off-beat—from the vibe of a post-apocalyptic “American Dream” to hulking mid-century ruins left by secret societies. I find myself suddenly tempted to join a cult.

Sunday 6/25

That’s Hogwarts Castle, as seen at Universal Studios from the Hollywood Hills. I’ve been calling it “Smogwarts”.

I share another impossibly long Uber ride to Venice Beach with a local artist. He tells me that he’s frustrated because he never gets shows—collectors buy directly from studio visits, but he hasn’t exhibited through a gallery in years. I think that’s not such a bad problem to have, as far as problems go.

Monday 6/26

Google maps walking directions led me here. I’m not good at LA.

A post shared by Michael Anthony Farley (@ellende666enerate) on Jun 26, 2017 at 5:52pm PDT

I decide to venture out on foot. My Google walking directions lead me down a sidewalk that dead-ends with a crosswalk to a highway median. Never have I felt more like the hapless tourist Simone De Beauvoir described in “America Day by Day”, when she attempted to cross the West Side Highway to reach the Hudson River on her first visit to New York City. I’m equally embarrassed and afraid I’m going to die.

I think of Reyner Banham (author of ” Los Angeles: The Architecture of Four Ecologies”,) and his famous quote, “like earlier generations of English intellectuals who taught themselves Italian in order to read Dante in the original, I learned to drive to read Los Angeles in the original.” I, on the other hand, am too stubborn to call an Uber and press on into my own circle of hell.

A harrowing 45 minutes later I’m in the more pedestrian-scaled streets of Hollywood. Fully embracing this hapless tourist persona, I use Yelp to look up “art galleries” and “museums” within walking distance that are open on Mondays. The closest is the Psychiatry: An Industry of Death Museum, which promises multiple exhibits (with video) and is run by the dubious-sounding “Citizen’s Commission on Human Rights.” The other is the Museum of Broken Relationships Los Angeles.

L.A. (and in particular, Hollywood) is weird as fuck. And maybe, just a little lonely.

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