#this week murdered me so i had to draw appropriate art
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tired
#this week murdered me so i had to draw appropriate art#my art#batman#batfam#batfamily#batman comics#batfam fanart#batfamily fanart#dc comics#dc#dc fanart#jason todd#jason todd fanart#red hood fanart#red hood#dick grayson fanart#dick grayson#nightwing#nightwing fanart
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A little progress.
I'm working on "Infraction." My precious baby, uh.
This art is part of it in a way. Eileen Prince and Tobias Snape. When people are falling in love everything seems easy, but then life happen.
(I'd like to talk about how things are going with Infraction.)
I'm back on it since couple of weeks and working on it is intense (my brain is literally boiling). I don't think I ever planned a story for that long. The first idea has born 6th January this year. I was writing down (like crazy) everything I wanted to be in this fic. During first months it was chaotic and messy, but brought me so much joy. When I've had everything that (I thought) I needed, I wrote first chapters, yeah. And then shared them, because was so excited about all of it and just couldn't wait. Gosh.
Now I... hm... well, maybe not "regret" it, but I think, I totally should have wait. Why is that? First thing first, this story is not ready yet for being written in, you know, final version. It's too fat, lol.
I may want too much from it. There is a lot, like, seriously, A LOT of things to cover. First notes took me around 80 pages and it had many gaps in it (too much if you ask me). Things I needed to figure out and fill in, in the same time making everything work together. Because this Snarry is not sprinkled with crime. It's filled with murder, political shenanigans, family shiteshow and tough, not always appropriate, love. There are secrets and lies, blackmails and history that matter. Backstory of many people, whose actions over the years supposed to bring us to the point where we are now. And, you know, all of it gives me the thrill.
First time in my life I feel like a true Puppet Master.
So, couple weeks ago I started to write a proper outline, if I can call it like that. To put everything in order and, going from the very beginning, to fill all the gaps. To answer all the questions I was asking myself in notes. To figure out the missing clues, some details without I couldn't go further and with that - to find out how characters will change facing new situations. How they will grow (I really love this part).
Sometimes I think, "why am I even doing it?" I could just write some cosy, little fic where Harry and Severus' silly problems would be the main goal of the story. Like, focusing on them should be enough, right?
Why am I going for all the other things, if I just want them to shag and have their happy end after all? 😂
Well, if it's not for fun, I don't know the other reason. The level of excitement is just incredible. I don't know, if what I'm writing is good or bad. If it really has sense, because I've always seen myself rather as a potato, not as a great mastermind who can plot some good shite, you know. That said, "Infraction" feels even more challenging that I ever thought it will be. But I feel deep inside that I can do it. Going step by step where the main plan leads and... it just feels good.
I've started in October 1989. Now I'm in January 2011. It means that I managed to finish everything that happen before the fic starts, lol. And, actually, I almost covered the first part of the book. So, two more to go? Hehe. It'll take time, yes.
It's crazy how much I want to continue writing the main chapters, not only swim in the plan-phase. Drawing the series of "Muggle London" art helped me a lot with easing this itch. However, it's still there. I know, though, that I have to finish it. The whole outline, I mean. Without it, things can go south.
That said, I can't tell how long it will take. Couple weeks? Maybe months. This is really... a lot of work and I want to be proud of it. Even more so, because this fic means a lot to me. I know it may not be, you know, mind blowing or something. But I hope that giving it all my love, it could be, you know, not that bad for reading, hehe.
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blog 1. happy birthday
welcome to the new cat comic blog! if you're reading this on tumblr, hello! if you're reading this on neocities, i love you more. page looks pretty snazzy, right? check out the very pretty melankorin.net, this page looked a lot more plain before i ate that page's design aesthetic.
ok.
it just so happens that yesterday, the 13th of april, 2024, was cat comic's first birthday. this comic is officially one year old! goo goo ga ga! it makes me glad and more than little scared that i've been working on this for so long. it's my longest-lived project to date and still going strong, which means a lot coming from my bloody trail of abandoned projects.
what the hell is cat comic about?
cat comic is a story born out of a lot of my fears vis-a-vis my creative projects. it's a story about creation, whether that deals with art, identity, or culture, and about the history that doggedly stamps itself on any creation, and about the problems of indie projects. it's a story about a cat and a dog and some other various animals who get into lots of trouble, and it's mainly a story about the end of the world.
i think you can tell that there's a lot of throughlines to my other work (unfinished or otherwise), which is pretty thematically appropriate. actually, cat comic was originally reusing far too much of eyrie, an old comic idea of mine. eyrie followed an aspiring paladin and their little buddy as they made their way to the shining capital of a theocratic nation, delving into a mirror world that reflected public perception of things along the way. it was a pretty fun concept.
anyway, it informed a lot of cat comic's original premise—it began with an ascent from belowcloud to a shining city in the sky. huh... sounds familiar. like eyrie, it also dealt a lot with divinity, mirrors, and perfection (as in: perfection in the eyes of society, not cat comic's current sense of it). it's fun looking back at these early drafts of cat comic because you can clearly see all the influences i was pulling on, big or small. i was pretty fine with doing this because, as it pains me to remember, cat comic was to be a "fun" and "short" project where i could "do whatever". haha.
cat comic's changed a lot since then and it's also hardly changed at all. a lot of the original ideas are still there in the batter, but it's also evolved into something pretty different and much closer to my heart. and it will continue to change and evolve! although perhaps not quite so drastically as it has over the last year.
what's the plan with this thing?
i had a conversation with a friend a while ago (hiii ardenna i know you're reading this. love you) about our respective story projects and our problems working on them as single creators. i don't have a team for art or writing—it's all me, babey—and that means everything about this project is going to take what we in the industry call a "long time".
this time next year, i want to have a comprehensive plot. that might sound like a lot of time for not a lot of work but believe me i need it—i'm doing a bit of a unique format for this story and i want to put the time in to make sure i stick the landing with it. my secondary goals for the next year also include finalizing designs for all of the main cast and making sure they're all fleshed out... basically, by next year, i want to be able to start actually drawing the comic. i don't want to start drawing it then but, just, you know, be able to.
as of last week, i've handed in my senior project (and passed with flying colors, thank you), which means i can start turning my attention to things other than that. i've already talked a bit in my 2024 blog post about my plans for the year and how i would like to devote the rest of the spring to exercising my comic muscles. i would like to stick to this plan, despite the fact that school is trying to murder me.
right now, i only have vague ideas of what those exercises will be. once i'm completely done with my senior project (report handed in at the end of this month) i'll start workshopping them. again, my priority with them is not telling a story so much as working on coloring, panelling and figuring out my workflow.
and, apart from my year-long goals and season-long goals, i just want to flesh out these pages a little more. i kind of rushed getting these up because i wanted to hit the birthday (and i didn't even manage that LOL). i want to get some more of my brain bits out on canvas! but they never tell you how hard it is to figure out how much you want to share and how much you want to keep to yourself for now. i'm making little lists and i think i'm doing a pretty good job.
final notes (SAPPY WARNING!!!)
thanks to my friends (hi again) who are very excited about my comic. it means an immeasurable amount. friendship forever
and to everyone else... remember: birds can't fly with wet wings. goodbye for now!
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Get out your glitter leotards and pour some champagne in your cat mugs! 🥂 🍾 It’s time to celebrate Freddie! 🎉😸
🎊 Freddie Mercury Weekend 2021 🎊
❤️ 🧡 💛 💚 💙 💜
ABOUT THE EVENT
This weekend is a content creation event in honour of the man himself, the legend we all love, Freddie Mercury! Once more, everyone who is inspired by Freddie is invited to share their creativity with the fandom. You can write, draw, edit, record, even cross-stitch 😉 content for absolutely anything related to Freddie, any ship, any genre, any way you like. This is an indiscriminately inclusive, positive event. Everyone is welcome, there is no wrong way to be a fan of Freddie! (Except convincing yourself you're dating his ghost maybe. That's pretty wrong. And weird. Don't do that.)
WHEN? On the 21st, 22nd and 23rd of May.
HOW? On the above dates (or after!), post your contributions to the AO3 collection or alternatively on Tumblr, tagged ‘#fmw2021’ or/and ‘#freddie mercury weekend 2021’. If you post on Tumblr, please also tag @a-froger-epic to make sure you get a reblog from me!
❤️ 🧡 💛 💚 💙 💜
THE PROMPTS
You can be as free with the prompts as you like. They are here to inspire, there is no wrong way to write them! Change them around, mix them up, make them fem!Freddie, A/B/O, add your favourite ship. Anything goes! 😊
21st of May - 500-1000 word challenge!
We’re kicking off the event with ficlets and drabbles. First time writer just testing the waters? No need for an epic, just write a scene! No time to write but you want to participate? Surely you’ll find time for 500 words! 😉 Interpret these mini-prompts however you like (every one is a separate prompt, but you can combine them!):
Make-Up 💄 | Pain/Pleasure 👀
Strip 👕 | Ring 💍
Forbidden 🤫 | Delilah 🐈
Piano 🎹 | Dormitory 🛏
Outrageous 🎉 | Contentment 😌
Come Together 🎇 | Ballet 🩰
Piece of Art 🎨 | Leather 🧥
Cockring 🐔 | Kimono 👘
Petals 🌸 | Leotard 🕺🏻
Mustache 🧔 | Last Time 😔
22nd of May - Is This The Real Life?
A list of real event/canon timeline prompts from Freddie’s life. How real you want to keep them, however, is entirely up to you!
Down in flames
Freddie is 16 years old when he leaves boarding school. Does it have something to do with the school gardener, Sanjay? Did he flunk his exams or did he not even sit them? Is one thing connected to the other? Does he really find a boyfriend when he goes to stay with his aunt in Mumbai (then Bombay)? Either way, there’s the small matter of his parents finding out about all of it... (Sources: x x )
When Freddie met Kenny
Freddie is a guest on Kenny Everett's radio show in spring 1974. Freddie is living with Mary, Kenny is married. Two gay men, deep in the closet. To no one's surprise, they hit it off immediately. (Source: x )
But when did he?
At some point during his relationship with Mary, prior to his relationship with David, Freddie had already begun sleeping with men. But how and when did that first happen? Cottaging in London? On tour somewhere in the world? Your guess is as good as ours…
Flying High
Sex, Drugs and Rock n' Roll. Like all rock bands of their time, Queen doesn’t escape the copious amounts of cocaine in the entertainment industry for long. Somewhere on tour in America, perhaps, Freddie is first introduced to it. Where? How?
Hide your tears
Jim said that he tried to be strong for Freddie and only cried in private, so as not to burden Freddie with his feelings. But this time, he is found.
One-liners:
In 1969, Freddie doesn’t know how to cook an egg and neither does Roger (Source: x )
In 1977, Freddie meets Joe while on tour in Boston and starts dating him behind David's back
In 1990, Brian and Freddie work on 'The Show Must Go On' (Source: x )
In a year of your choice, Jim reminisces about his fondest moment(s) with Freddie
In 1976, Freddie and Mary end their relationship
In 1984, Winnie gives Freddie a wedding ring (middle of the post: x )
In the late 60s, Freddie agrees to model for an Ealing Art School fashion show, but panics and flees the runway (Source: x )
In 1974, Freddie is strip-searched upon arrival in Australia (Source: x )
In 1982, Freddie and Roger go shopping in Amsterdam (Source: x )
In 1978, Freddie swings from a chandelier - naked (Source: x )
23rd of May - Is It Just Fantasy?
A list of AU prompts to spark your imagination. Take them and run with them or change them up, just have fun!
Make your dreams come true
Freddie hasn't been very fortunate in his life, until he finds a very special oil lamp, and rubs it just the right way.
Beautiful stranger
Freddie meets an alluring stranger at a masquerade ball, who has more secrets than he can hide behind a mask. But Freddie has some of his own.
Thicker than water
Freddie agrees to a dreadful fate in order to save his little sister from the very same. Fortunately, he has friends who are more than willing to help him, but can they? Or are they, too, in danger?
Diamonds are a boy's best friend
Freddie is the prized jewel of the court, a skilled belly-dancer and entertainer, but he may also be plotting murder and getting away with it.
Almost Real
In a distant future, humans have all but done away with face to face interaction. Humanity largely lives online. Children grow up isolated and live with only their families well into young adulthood. Cybersex is the new normal, although some families take a puritanical approach for fear of addiction. One day, impossibly, a real life young man falls through the containment field in Freddie’s back garden.
One-liners:
This plane is going to crash (Freddie knew there was a reason he hated flying)
Shipwrecked on an island (Freddie could never bear to be alone, but luckily/unfortunately for him…)
Hunger Games AU (Freddie is so dead)
A terrible road accident (Everyone is so dead, or are they?)
Blind Date AU (Freddie's best friend is so dead for setting him up with this person… or are they…)
Bank robbery (but who are the robbers and who are the hostages?)
Magic AU ("Yer a wizard, Freddie!")
Film Noir AU (Secrets and cigarette holders)
Interior Design AU (Does the carpet match the drapes?)
The Bodyguard AU (“And I will always love yooouuuu…”)
❤️ 🧡 💛 💚 💙 💜
RULES & FAQ
⛔ Strictly No Hate ⛔
This is the NUMBER ONE RULE of the event, to ensure that everybody feels safe. No rudeness, provocations or hate aimed at creators or other commenters will be permitted, not on AO3 nor Tumblr.
Follow these steps if you receive a comment or ask that distresses you:
Do not engage. (You can take a screenshot as proof.)
Delete it. No ifs, no buts. Just delete it. (Don’t hesitate to block anon hate on Tumblr.)
Alert me ( @a-froger-epic ) or @aboutnothingness, who is lending me a hand to make sure all needs are attended, all questions are answered and everything runs smoothly. We are here to actively support you. We’ve got your back, and we will gladly talk to you and help you feel better.
If you choose to ignore this rule, your work may be removed from the event. We would hate to resort to that.
But what if one of the works has upset me?
Can the thing that upset you be tagged, but it wasn’t? Then please inform @a-froger-epic or @aboutnothingness, and we will bring it to the creator’s attention. (Remember to use the appropriate tags, everybody!)
Was the thing that upset you already tagged? Or is it perhaps simply the characterisation you find disagreeable? Then we suggest you click on the ‘back’ button, take a deep breath and remind yourself it's just fanfic.
Who can participate?
Anyone who is inspired by Freddie Mercury in any way shape or form. This event is open to all.
Can I combine prompts from different days?
By all means! We look forward to your futuristic Freddie-gets-kicked-out-of-boarding-school Maycury Film Noir AU. With leotards. Go crazy.
I'm not sure where my creation fits in, what day do I post it?
The days, like the prompts, are only suggestions. We don't mind when you post it, as long as you post it! Even if it's two weeks late!
Help, I've never posted fic before!
Don't worry, we've got you! (And more importantly, we've got AO3 invites!) @aboutnothingness is more than happy to walk you through the process of setting up an account and is also offering her services as a beta.
I’m still too nervous to participate!
You can post anonymously to the collection. You can disable anon comments on your work. You can disable comments entirely and just collect the kudos. You can close anon asks on Tumblr temporarily. But most importantly, we are here for you and we want you here!
❤️ 🧡 💛 💚 💙 💜
“I love the fact that I make people happy, in any form. Even if it’s just half an hour of their lives, in any way that I can make them feel lucky or make them feel good, or bring a smile to a sour face, that to me is worthwhile.”
- Freddie Mercury
#Freddie Mercury Weekend 2021#FMW2021#freddiemercuryweekend2021#fandom event#Queen fandom#Freddie Mercury#it's here!#REBLOG REBLOG REBLO-
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Aziraphale’s demon aspect
As voted by 246 people!
The winner is
Owl
with nearly 26% of the primary vote
many people added in their free form answers that they were imagining a barn owl specifically
Owl was the front runner the whole way through this survey, but most of the time by a very beatable margin. The 40 or so people who voted in the last night really tipped it over, it was a tight race! And the results are crazy split imo, a quarter of votes constitutes a win! I love the different opinions and ideas we all have so so much
Ram/sheep came in a hearty second with 16.5% of the vote
A very regal demon there.
After that it gets a little murky, so I’m going to share the second graph I made when is every animal that got more than 1% of the vote. So it’s the top six animals
Magpie and Lion holding strong! Then Moth and Goat looking very good
The second question let you vote for as many options as you thought were appropriate for Aziraphale! So, there were a lot more write-ins! It’s crazy!
I’m using google sheets so I can’t get it to show you every name, but the raw data will be in a read more so you can scroll through everyone’s beautiful imagination there
Again, Owl winds with a solid 20% of the vote. Ram/Sheep coming in with about 15%, followed by Moth, Magpie, Goat, Lion, then Tortoise.
Tortoise was 11th in the first round, tied with Snake (but pale), and managed to surprise me by coming through so strong in the second. Slow and steady, baby.
Nearly everyone who wrote in about Magpies told me that Magpies hoard stuff, so it’s nice to see the hive mind at work there!
Five people told me they were voting goat because of that one piece of art by @hollow-head that shows Aziraphale scaling a bookshelf like goats do cliffs. As an artist myself I found it legitimately moving that this one image had stayed with people so strongly. That’s just beautiful. Here’s an example of just one person’s comment
idk dude i just remember one person posted art of him scaling the bookstore shelves like those goats scale mountains and just eating his clothes while he reads it was so fuckin funny but anyway goat eyes are great or he could have lil stubby horns that r covered by his hair
One moth enthusiast took the time to give me a short essay on their choice of moth. I have included a portion of it, cos it was so great
So if I had to choose an insect, it would be a moth, preferably a Megalopygidae, also known as the Flannel Moth. They are fluffy, white-beige and look innocent and fluffy, but their larvae can cause painful inflammations. A poodle moth would also fit because it's almost pure white.
Here’s a flannel moth for everyone
and a poodle moth, which i honestly thought was a hoax but i looked into it just now and it seems legit? There’s not a tonne of proof, but the og pictures are from a scientists who stands by them, so like, wow
And then a DIFFERENT PERSON put this in;
the moth i had in mind is Acherontia atropos, in polish called Zmierzchnica trupia główka (meaning more or less "dusk death's head"). i have a whole symbolism planned out and stuff
Fucking, moth fandom come through!!
I’m vaguely scared of moths, fun fact. I don’t like the thick thunking sound they make when they hit stuff.
Here is the second round but with all the animals that got four or less votes removed for ease of viewing
the one segment there at 12 o’clock that google hasn’t labeled for me is Swan at 0.9%
I cannot believe I didn’t put swan in as an option, that’s all write-ins
So, to summarise, I suggest you take a lot of this with a grain of salt. It is not meant as an instruction to fandom or to railroad creativity. I have a narrow corner of the Good Omens fandom that I interact with, and while this quiz was up for a week I’m not sure it reached a great variety of people. About 250 folks filled it out, which was tonnes more than I expected and I love each and every one of you for filling it out!! But I have noticed that Owl was first on my list and in the free form answers the example prompt I gave included, “such as a breed of owl that specifically speaks to you,“ so I think it’s possible I did that unknowing bias thing that practiced survey folk know now to do. So, grain of salt.
I also think that if animals like Swan and Cat were in the list of options they’d’ve gotten more votes because the people who voted for those were coming up with it fresh themselves. I suspect people would’ve voted for them, but it just didn’t occur to them in the moment. In much the same way it didn’t occur to me in the moment I was writing this survey.
So people know, I got the ten or so animals that I put in the survey from searching the demon!aziraphale tag on tumblr, so it was all stuff that other people had come up with. I was trying to avoid my own bias, but i think in hindsight i could’ve done better!
Having said all that, this was all so much fun and the results are clear!!! Love a good owl!aziraphale
Imma continue to draw my boy as a ram, though. Cos this was all just for a laugh <3
numbers and a few more things under the cut
So some of these have half a vote ascribed to them. That’s for people who in their freeform answer said things like this;
ngl, that one post about him being a swan still makes me laugh
Mourning Dove. Though that Scallop answer was fucking brilliant
And I kinda made a judgement call that that wasn’t a vote, but it was kind of a vote. So I gave them half a point.
There were a few situations where people would write in a specific species. If I got more than one vote for the root animal I just grouped them together, but if it stayed the only vote then it kept the species. Cat got the most specific species mentioned, and in the second vote Bat had a few species mentioned (albino bat being my fave), but I ended up grouping them all just under Cat and Bat to give them a better chance of getting on the graph. There were probably a few other examples but I can’t think of them. The one exception to this is the person who wrote-in Duolingo Owl specifically. For that one I figured Owl is already pretty solid, and that’s just fucking funny, man
I was also pretty generous about some stuff. So, this person didn’t vote for Moose but they clearly regretted it so I added a vote for Moose in the second one where you could vote for multiples. They kept their Ram and Goat votes, of course, but I added Moose for them
I get very bastard energy from my demon az headcanons. Like f-ing shit up for a laugh more than anything, but otherwise indifferent. That's kinda why I like the ram/sheep/goat thing so much because it reminds me of indifference and random chaos. Or a moose. Shit, I should have written in moose
So yeah, it’s hardly a double blind study that’d stand up to any real criticism, but it was fun and I think the essence of it is fun!! Scroll through and have a read. Imma pull a few more of my fave write-ins and put them down the bottom cos it’s great. Esp the ones that only got one vote, the reasonings were stellar on some of those
Here is the first vote results, where everyone could only vote for one animal each
Owl 63
Ram/Sheep 40
Magpie 28
Lion 26
Moth 21
Goat 17
Swan 4
Eagle 4
Dove 4
Cat 4
Tortoise 3
Snake 3
Scallop 2
Rat 2
Rabbit 2
Mongoose 2
Badger 2
Shima Enaga 1
Shark 1
Porcupine 1
Orangutan 1
Mouse 1
Long Furby 1
Hippopotomaus 1
Goose 1
Duck 1
Dragon 1
Cow 1
Cereberus 1
Boar 1
Bee 1
Bat 1
Alpaca 1
Second Vote results, where everyone could vote for as many as they wanted
Owl1 82
Ram/Sheep 136
Moth 108.5
Magpie 98
Goat 96
Lion 72
Tortoise 61
Snake 37
Eagle 33
Cat 9.5
Swan 7.5
Lizard 4
Rabbit 4
Badger 3
Mongoose 2
Dove 2
Mouse 2
Squirrel 2
Bear 2
Raccoon 2
Capybara 2
Dragon 2
Bat 1
Long Furby 1
Rat 1
Boar 1
Goose 1
Peacock 1
Pangolin 1
Lindworm 1
Moose 1
Chinchilla 1
Duolingo Owl 1
Cackatoo 1
Crow 1
Cow 1
Alpaca 1
Dodo 1
Shark 1
Big Dog 1
Snow Leopard 1
Scallop 0.5
All voting was optional. To help explain how scallop lost 1.5 votes from first to second, I believe the people who voted for it in the first question just skipped the second cos they’d said their bit.
In terms of how many people engaged with the questions, Q1 had 245 answers and one skip. Q2 had 241 answers and 5 skips, and Q3 where I just let people talk at me if they wanted to had 84 answers and 162 skips.
So please enjoy my selection of free form answers. They all made me smile but putting all 84 in seems excessive to me, so I’ve chosen the ones that are either full blown mini essays or that make me laugh. It’s still a lot, this project brought me so much joy
-
Shima enaga - It's the hair man
Cow (aka golden calf)
Scallop. He is a snack.
Swan. Elegant but very capable of fscking you up. Mates for life.
basically anything that is both gentle in nature and fiercely loyal, territorial and protective (but prone to anxiety). Also hedonistic esp. with food. For all of these reasons, I think a dog would be the best choice.
Dragon with his hoard of books
it’s about the teeth. just too sharp and too many to be human. (comment from op here, this person voted for shark, just for context)
Turkish Angora cat. Magnificently fluffy, incredibly intelligent, love heights and will jump off crazy high things and land on your head, gloriously dignified until they see a string and run into a wall, love one or maybe two persons to distraction and want everyone else to fuck off, will drape themselves over their person’s shoulders and go to sleep, range from “will jump in the sea to hunt fish and has a murder pit full of seagulls they’ve massacred” to “will fall over at the sight of a baby bird”, very particular about food and will yell at you if you get it wrong. Also the breed that some asshole took three cats from and bred parent to child to make Persians. The cautionary tale has been acknowledged and we love our crazy smart, single braincelled children.
I usually imagine him as an owl because they are nocturnal (and we know that Aziraphale can easily stay awake the whole night reading). Also the image of an owl puffed up is kind of ridiculous and reminds me of him, of how an annoyed Aziraphale would look. However the options above have made me think that a lion would suit him very well, too. A lion or just a very BIG cat. I mean, he makes pleading eyes to get what he wants, likes to be confortable, is a bit of a bastard and often puts himself in awkward situations from which he needs to be rescued. He just... acts very cat-like in my opinion. Also owls and cats are both predators, but are usually imagined (or, at least cats are) as cute little creatures, just like Aziraphale is an Angel of the Lord (a Warrior, actually) but looks all soft and cute and huggable. I dunno. Maybe I just want to pet an Aziracat.
I love all the other people's thoughts about demon!Aziraphale, but what about the honey badger? I try to explain why I have it in mind for demon!azi: its name (I think it's funny, expecially in English because 'honey' can make you imagine it's something sweet (it is for me), while the 'bad' in badger can be an alarm bell (like 'be careful! It is not like it seems!')); its face (ok, who can say its face isn't cute? I think, and hope, nobody can, and like the name, it is a misunderstanding: as always, be careful, it's not like it seems!, I think demons can say something about demon!azi as like "you don't seem like a 'good' demon, you can't be, your face (animal and human) is too f-ing disgusting sweet to be a demon!", I think maybe even angel!crowley, at the beginning, can think something like this ("how in the world somebody so cute like you can be a demon?"), then he discovered how demon!azi can be a very talented demon sometimes, but in Crowley's mind azi is still his little cutie angry furry); its furry's colour (black=demon, white/grey/silver/idkitsname= color of demon!azi's wings, because even if he fell, I can't say no to his white wings 😭); it is a snake's predator (and in my mind angel!crowley is still a snake); its solitary life (demon!aziraphale is alone and he doesn't mind it, unless it's angel!crowley we're talking about, then our cute demon minds it); its behaviour (demon!azi, even if he's cute, can be a really very talented demon: honey badger is fearless and dangerous, it can fight bigger animals if there aren't other chances and it can't escape); its skin is very tough (except for a soft/safe spot, behind its neck if I remember well, that only angel!Crowley knows and sometimes he uses it to calm demon!azi down or make azi do some good deeds); its diet (it has a sweet-thooth, for honey in primis, but it can eat everything it wants... Doesn't it resemble demon!azi?); it's smart (search for Stoffle on your browser if you don't know)... Ok,I think I finish, sorry for the novel 😅
I tend to think of animals that meet three criteria: (1) they exemplify “faults” in his character exaggerated to “sins”—gluttony, greed/hoarding, sloth, (2) they are species that favor fawning or flight as a defense mechanism but can also be bold on occasion, and (3) blend very well or have a keen affinity with human society, specifically thriving in urban (i.e., city) environments. This is mostly because I can’t see “Aziraphale” in a reverse AU that doesn’t preserve some of his core traits as an angel (a little hedonistic, hoarding, anxious, etc.). So I like city-dwelling bastard animals with bonus points for relation to scripture, like a rock dove or a fox or an owl.
Owls aren't smart, and the pedant in me says not an owl. But, thinking on it, demon aspect, owls are perceived as smart, but designed as deadly silent predators, patient and solitary. So actually demon Aziraphale could take on more owlish aspects. I just like cockatoo better, since they are smart, and showy. Or a crow, although that does amusing things with Crowleys name.
god imagining him as a chimera is !!! (comment from op, there was this odd flurry of mythical animals being voted for one night. i think the survey hit a corner of fandom that leans that way. there was also dragon, another chimera, a griffon, and a lindworm all at the same rough time)
Magpies are great because they’re cute and fluff themselves up (go look at Sophie the magpie) and like hoarding their favorite things but also I’ve watched one just straight up kill another bird before because corvids are sneaky little bastards with no lack of a mean streak if they’re crossed
It’s the duolingo owl, I’m so sorry op but it just is. I genuinely don’t mean to clown on your post, but this take was delivered to me in a sleep induced haze and I believe it’s the god given truth. Demon Aziraphale WOULD try to make you learn a dead language and he’d go about it in a vaguely threatening way (comment from op, you’re so fucking right dude. also, shit like this is made for clowning, i’m with you 100%)
When choosing a demon aspect for a Aziraphale, I usually tried to keep in mind the artistic tradition of which animals are linked with demons. The Good Omens team seems to have drawn inspiration from that source because all the animals we do see are either reptilian or insectoid. Those species were often shown inhabiting hellish landscapes in Renaissance and Baroque paintings. However, Aziraphale never struck me as cold or slimy or hard like an exoskeleton. So if I had to choose an insect, it would be a moth, preferably a Megalopygidae, also known as the Flannel Moth. They are fluffy, white-beige and look innocent and fluffy, but their larvae can cause painful inflammations. A poodle moth would also fit because it's almost pure white.
Ok so the only reason I pick magpie is because those bastards are smart as hell but also know how and when to inconvenience the shit out of you, and if you gain their trust then they're absolute darlings but if they decide "nah, dont like ya" then you're basically done and you'll wake up every morning with shit on your car window. I also chose sheep/ram cuz I mean... idk it suits him. I don't remember my other choice but I'm sure I had a good reason.
I feel like a barn owl would suit him well but I'm not really sure why, I also think that a moth would suit him really well because of the whole "moth to a flame" thing and as a demon he would have gotten burned because of that attitude.
I write a reverse AU fic called Lambs to the Slaughter where Aziraphale's demonic aspect is an albino sheep! I imagine him as a mix between a wild Argali ram and the first woolly domestics. I chose an Argali because they're the largest species of wild sheep, but I wanted him to have traits of a domestic breed because he obtains his animal aspect from a sheep in Abel's flock which would be several generations down from the original wild species in Eden. I really think a sheep suits Aziraphale! They're an incredibly common animal and have been since they were first domesticated. Likewise, since the start of human history, Aziraphale has been living side-by-side with humans, providing for them, and protecting them. Due to how common they are, sheep are often unnoticed, which Aziraphale leans into. Crowley wants to stand out. He has a dedicated aesthetic and an obsession with human invention, where Aziraphale leans more towards simpler, known things and creature comforts. He fades into the background, and that suits him fine. He doesn't have to be outstanding to Heaven or to humans or even to Crowley -- it's enough to do his part, to trust in a bigger plan. People associate sheep (especially lambs) with innocence or ignorance which foils nicely to Crowley as the serpent tempting with knowledge, as well as with Aziraphale's own sharp mind and ongoing embers of faith in a system that is failing him, Crowley, and all of humanity. Sheep are, like Aziraphale, soft, cute, and hiding a hard-headed stubbornness and a surprising strength that makes them absolutely fearsome. Aziraphale is very much the sort to put his head down and push relentlessly forward regardless of the pressure and strain. Rams in particular have thick skulls to withstand the brutal force of headbutting one another in displays of dominance. While Aziraphale is clever, he's not above rolling up his sleeves and getting the job done, as messy and unpleasant as it might be (see: pulling a gun on the Antichrist). Also sheep are associated with Pan, a god associated with food, music, theatre, and the criticism thereof, which hit many of Aziraphale's personal interests and hobbies! I like the idea that in a reverse AU, the demon formerly named Aziraphale might be the original basis for Pan!
I wrote in Orangutan for the first question because if I remember correctly they are some of the most violent apes. Although I'd accept bonobo for him too. They fuck alll the time.
mothman aziraphale,,,,, thats it
Snowy owl, speremint's tortoise, and I just adore the goat.
moth - dusty and eats books
Long Furby the way Loni-Capri draws it.
I keep thinking about that Black Philip quote "doest thou wish to live deliciously" because... it fits so much with the general epicurean/hedonism vibe the Fandom has for him ... but in a demonic way and also I think a lot abt that art piece (already referenced many times probably but what the hell) of him climbing his own bookshelves, it's just so good!!
Albino Lion/white lion (matches his hair). I feel like maybe I should explain why I think Lion would fit him best, lol. Lions actually are rather sedate, inactive for 20 hours of the day (see: Aziraphale reading and unmoving- yes I pulled wiki for this to make sure I didn't spout anything terribly wrong, shhh) but also there's nomad lions. Lions that range widely and move around sporadically either alone or in pairs (*looks at Crowley after apoconope*) (pairs are more frequent among males who have been excluded from their birth pride) but also I think of lions as protectors, defenders, and what is Aziraphale if not that? If not an angel who fiercely protects humans, crowley, earth? (When he finally overcomes heaven and it's abuse) lions don't hunt unless they're hungry, don't attack unless they're defending. They've been known to sit directly next to jeeps full of people and just watch them, not attacking or being aggresive.
I saw art once (I have no idea who the artist is) of Demon!Aziraphale climbing his bookcases like a goat and absentmindedly chewing on his sweater while he reads. I felt like the goat aspect suited him perfectly.
Honestly I wrote Az with a rat aspect because, well, it fits who I see demon Az as. He's not super powerful but he is very consequential, like rats carrying plague fleas (this also describes how I see Az tempting). He tries to blend into a crowd, which is arguably one way rats survive, and can get himself into places/situations that should be impossible or super difficult. Like snakes, rats have been unfairly maligned by our culture for a long time, even though they are very social with their colonies, smart, affectionate, and generally good beans. Finally, male pet rats are known far and wide as the lazier of the sexes while the girls are super curious and adventurous.
Somehow his tartan pattern becomes either his colour scheme or his coat/feather pattern.
Eurasian eagle owl. A big, unapologetic grump of an owl that is soft as soft can be underneath. Possessor of the glare to end all glares to be used in such dire situations as being interrupted when reading or being told one has "had enough cake".
#demon!aziraphale#reverse omens#sleepy speaks#fandom vote#aziraphale's demon aspect#this was so fucking fun you all
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Say My Name (Ahkmenrah x Reader)
Description: You’re a harpist that gets noticed by the Prince, to your own terror. The prince is only trying to get your affection - but you simply won’t break the rules. You won’t even say his name. After all, it’s not allowed.
Prompt: Harp
Notes: Okay so recently (just now) I realized I can post my long fics! When I first came to Tumblr I couldn’t post them due to length, but now I can! I used to write big, long fics all the time, but it turns out people prefer smaller, more frequent fics, and since it takes me around three weeks to churn one of these babies out I’ll probably stick to my shorter fics. Gender neutral again, your name is Nour for historical reasons :) Also, I wrote this before I found out how Ahk was killed, so apologies. Enjoy!
AO3 Link: Say My Name
Word Count: 11.9k
It wasn’t your place to say a thing. In fact, if you did say a thing, you might get punished for it. Yet that was the partial beauty of him - if you mentioned your observations to him, and him alone, he would take it in stride. You hadn’t ever spoken to him before, never met him, but you’d heard rumours. Still, you continued playing your instrument, avoiding his gaze.
Celebrations such as this (a birthday) were one of your favorite things to do, despite how stressful they were. Constant pressure from superiors, a near command to memorize complicated music. Oftentimes, you felt you hadn’t picked the right career. Other times, you saw yourself doing nothing else.
The prince continued to stare at you, his gaze menacing. He hardly ever looked at you like that, or anyone for that matter. It led you to the conclusion that most likely, he was not directing his anger at you, which only raised more questions.
You were not allowed to leave in order to eat, or drink, or take a break. You and your ‘band’ were the best players that the palace had; thus the orders were to play till the last guest left. Because of this order, you could not ask the prince. You shouldn’t anyway, you knew that very well. You weren’t even supposed to look at him. Yet with such piercing eyes set upon you, it was a little hard to follow orders.
The birthday celebrations lasted long into the night, and you continued to play until the last guest left, leaving only the royal family. A mother and a father, friendly in stature and cruel in rulings, an elder son looking highly displeased, and a younger son, deep in thought.
“You may stop,” the Queen told you, and you did not meet her eye. You bowed low, packing your instruments up.
“Harpist,” the prince’s voice called you, and you turned, eyes fixated on the floor. It was beginning to look very interesting. “I’d like to discuss some things with you,” he said. His mother whispered something to him, and he whispered back, louder, though still indiscernible.
“Yes, my prince,” you said, bowing. You turned back around, eyes wide, face red with embarrassment. You finished packing up, and as your friends left, they pat you on the shoulders comfortingly. A weak way of apologizing for whatever fate you were about to face.
The prince turned down a hallway, golden robe trailing behind him. You looked around confused. Were you to follow him? His mother quickly gestured at him, frowning at you. You bowed quickly, following him down the hallway.
Torches lined the painted walls, giving light to the stories that had been etched there. Your eyes followed the stories, the marvelous art that you hardly ever got to see in your daily life. Eventually he turned into a room, and you followed, your instrument still in its’ case by your side.
He turned quickly around to you, watching as you set the case down. He caught your eye, and your eyes zipped down to the floor.
“No, don’t do that,” he said, practically floating over, lifting you by the chin so you could meet his eyes.
You’re pretty sure you might’ve blacked out for a good two seconds. You weren’t allowed to know what he looked like. You weren’t supposed to see his face, and by all that was holy you were not supposed to touch him.
“I need your advice,” he said, now heading towards the balcony. You did not follow him, thinking it would suffice that you could hear him from the large doorway. He did not seem to agree, as he beckoned you over. You bowed your head a little, following his command, soon standing at his side.
“Do you have any siblings?” He asked you, looking up at the sky. You stared at the ground as you spoke.
“No, my prince,” you answered simply, addressing him properly.
“Do not call me that,” he said firmly, and you watched as his hands gripped tighter around the edge of the balcony. You took a deep breath, feeling your body shake. “You may simply refer to me by my name.”
You nodded, though didn’t fully process his request.
“My brother,” he started quietly, tensing and intending his muscles. “I am worried he will do something rash. What do you suppose I should do?”
Why in the world was he asking you for advice?
“Pardon my questioning,” you said, knowing you shouldn’t at all be asking this, “but why do you request my advice? I am just a citizen.”
“That is exactly why,” he said, and he turned to face you. Knowing the demand before he pronounced it, you looked at him. You hoped the fear was not evident on your face.
“Why would the prince do something rash?” You inquired, tightening your grip on the railing.
“He has been angry recently. I’m not sure why, but when he gets angry for long periods of time, he tends to end up murdering people,” he said quickly, intaking a shaky breath.
“I think you’re stressed,” you said before you thought about it. He turned to you, looking a little surprised.
Ah, so this was how you were going to die.
“I suppose you’re right,” he mumbled, looking to the ground as if he were ashamed. Why would he be ashamed in front of you?
He looked back up at you.
“Do you have any suggestions for stress relief?”
“My prince, I really do not believe this is appropriate-“
“My name?” He asked of you, and hesitantly, you obeyed.
“Ahkmen, this isn’t appropriate,” you told him flat out, no more beating around the bush. He nodded in agreement.
“Fun things are seldom ever appropriate,” he said with a smirk, grabbing your wrist and leading you back into the room. You might’ve blacked out again. He led you to his bed, where he sat, making sure you stood exactly in front of him. He grabbed both your hands, holding them in his.
“Would you mind playing your harp again, for me? A private performance,” he asked quietly, a tenderness you didn’t expect very apparent in his eyes. Hesitantly you nodded, releasing yourself from his grip and wandering over to your case. You took it out, wondering where you could sit in order to play it. Deciding against asking for a seat, or heavens forbid sitting next to him, you kneeled on the ground. The rounded end of the harp let it fall onto your left shoulder, and you plucked out a melody. The sharp and staccato sound was pleasant to your ears, but you’d heard a great deal of it already that night. You took some liberty, changing up a few of the tunes and chords, stroking the strings a tad different than usual.
“You play beautifully,” he commented near the end of your piece. You smiled up at him, before directing your attention back to the music, not wanting to lose concentration.
“Do you sing as well?” He asked, moving to lie back against the pillows of his bed. You shrugged. Yes, you sang, but you weren’t a singer. You told him this, and he told you to sing for him.
“If you don’t mind,” he added at the end. You nodded once more, starting on a lullaby that you knew very well. It was comparatively short next to your last piece, and when you finished, he asked you where you had picked it up.
“My mother used to sing it to me,” you informed him quietly, putting the harp back into its’ case.
“My mother sang me songs sometimes. Oftentimes it was other women,” he said, sitting up properly. “Sit next to me,” he asked of you, and you obeyed. There was no hesitation in your movements, realizing at this point he was trying to make your life difficult by bending rules that you didn’t have a desire to bend. The faster you listened to him and obeyed, the faster the night would end, and the faster you’d be able to breathe again.
“Spend the night with me,” he requested. You felt yourself mentally draw the line right there.
“That is not appropriate, my prince, I must leave now,” you said, hands shaking and voice reverberating your fear into him. You immediately stood up, briskly walking over to the door where your harp lay safely in its’ case.
“At least let me say good bye,” he said hurriedly, getting up after you. He grabbed your wrist before you could reach your case, pulling you towards him. You turned to face him, bright red and highly embarrassed.
“I will see you again,” he said, and your eyes immediately directed to his lips. He raised your hand to his lips, kissing your knuckles, watching you intently the entire time. You stopped breathing momentarily.
“G - good bye,” you said quickly, pulling your hand away, grabbing your harp, and leaving. You avoided the stares of palace workers and officials as you left, keeping your head down as you were taught to, until you reached more common streets.
You blacked out once you reached home, collapsing onto your bed.
Two days later, you’d achieve the same state of terror, or more, as you had two nights before. Palace guards showed at your door, giving you a notice that you were to present yourself to the royal family. Your roommate congratulated you, but you felt the opposite reaction was called for. Stress such as this was not a thing you handled easily.
Nevertheless, you presented yourself, with your instrument, as they had told you. A man you did not know, dressed extravagantly, informed you that you were to become a private musician for one of the princes. You nodded, sort of expecting that.
You respected the royal family. It wasn’t that which made you sour, or the fact that your servants quarters were shared with four other people when you originally lived with only one other person. You didn’t mind leaving your possessions behind.
Your problem was that you could get caught. The prince was the one being rash, doing things he aught not to do, things that could get him punished and you killed. Unfortunately, you had a thing about death, where you sort of didn’t want to die. Sounded a painful, unpleasant experience all around.
Later that evening, after mulling about in your new room alone, you were ordered to the young princes room. They never spoke his name, you noticed, and you realized how much worse that made the fact that you had called him by his name at least once.
You knocked once on the door, it being loud enough that you didn’t feel the need to knock again. A voice from inside called, ‘come in,’ so you let yourself in, announcing your presence with what was left of your dignity and professionalism.
He didn’t wear his cape or crown, but he kept his skirt and sported a light shawl.
“My prince,” you said simply, bowing. He chuckled, nearing you. You stood straight once again, keeping your eyes on the ground.
“Good to see you came back instead of running away. I told you I’d see you again.”
“What do you need, my prince?”
He frowned slightly, leading you further into the room.
“I thought we got over the formalities last night,” he commented sadly, still holding your wrists.
“What am I here for?” You asked once more. He sighed, giving in to your question.
“I told my parents about your music. They suggested you live here so you can help me with my, uh, stress, when needed. I thought it to be a good enough idea, and besides,” he leaned in a bit closer, “I wanted to see you again.”
“Are you currently stressed?” You asked, observing him with a calculated look. You shoved your emotions as far down as you could, hoping that would help for this evening.
“Yes, I’m afraid my brother has been a continuous worry to me,” he said, stepping away from you, beginning to pace the room. “He accuses me of awful things, and because it would be shameful for him to physically harm me, he has begun harming our servants and slaves. It’s painful to watch, and I can’t do anything about it. If I do, I will seem unfit to be royal, and I may be cast out. I can’t risk that.”
“Have you tried asking him what’s wrong?”
“I can’t do that. I thought of it, but he’s closed off, and even if he would tell someone he would never tell me. I don’t think he trusts me.”
“The trust of cowards is not something worthy to gain,” you said distractedly, looking at the patterned ceiling.
“Perhaps you’re right,” he said, stopping his pacing. “You’re really quite intelligent, aren’t you?” He neared you, standing in front of you again. You hadn’t moved from your position near the door.
“I have my uses,” you said, and he laughed, his smile delicate and very unlike who he currently presented himself as. You felt yourself weaken for a moment.
“Would you mind singing to me again?”
“Of course, my prince,” you replied, kneeling to open your case. He held a finger beneath your chin, raising your head to look at him. He towered above you in this position, a general air of dominance that made you shiver emanated from him.
“My name?” He asked quietly, his kind voice betraying his commanding exterior.
“Of course, Ahkmen,” you repeated yourself, weaker. He smiled, and left to lie on the bed. You resumed pulling out the harp, taking once more your kneeling position on the floor, the harp falling on your shoulder as you plucked at the strings. You tapped your foot to the beat, making sure that you didn’t lose your count. Every now and then you’d look up to the prince, watching his expression for any sign of displeasure. Each time he showed none, so you continued.
“What’s your name, harpist?” He asked, interrupting your playing. You shook your head a bit, getting back on track. You continued to play as you answered.
“Nour,” you said simply, concentrating deeply.
“Beautiful name,” he said quietly, sighing as he relaxed back into his bed once more. You took a deep breath, calming yourself as you kept playing. A few minutes later, he stood, walking up to you. He paused your playing, asking that you put your harp down. As always you obeyed.
“Come with me,” he said, and you again followed him. He led you out the door, and down a back hallway. The paintings on the walls disappeared, and eventually all the torches faded away. He continued leading you down more and more complex hallways, the structures confusing you. It hit you then that it would be very easy to trap you here, and that if someone wanted to kill you here, it wouldn’t be that hard. But, if the prince wanted to kill you, he could’ve done it in broad daylight.
You continued walking behind him until a small doorway appeared, lit up by the moonlight. You jogged a bit to catch up, watching him disappear down steps.
“It’s quite beautiful, isn’t it?” He called back to you, now practically running down the steps. You watched him, his eyes glued upon the river in the distance. He began running, you trailing after, weaving through the reeds that grew on the banks of the water. Eventually he stopped at the rivers edge, the sandy shore riding just above his sandals. You stopped beside him, panting, crouched down slightly. You weren’t used to exerting yourself physically. Apparently, he was.
“My prince, you must be careful, you don’t know what kind of animals could sneak up on you,” you panted, finally standing to your full height beside him. He looked at you, laughing.
“Don’t worry, much of this stretch is harmless. Too narrow to truly be a resting spot for anything dangerous,” he informed you, stepping out into the river. You froze, eyes wide as you watched him. As he continued, the water only came up to his mid calf, soaking his pants.
“Join me,” he said to you, facing you with a hand outstretched. You clenched your hands into fists, thinking about how awfully wrong all this was. You weren’t supposed to be here, not with him, certainly not by yourself, and you weren’t supposed to look at him. You weren’t supposed to touch him. He wasn’t supposed to deal with sorts like you. Lowly sorts.
You took his hand. Barely laying your fingers in his before he curled them tightly around yours, pulling you in. You stumbled slightly, regaining your balance in the water as it splashed up your legs. The moon reflected brightly in the water, but despite this you couldn’t see much of the details of his face. You could tell that he smiled though, his laughter echoing in the silent lands. However much you knew this to be wrong, you smiled with him, warm water coming up to your legs.
“See? Nothing wrong,” he said quietly, pulling you in closer and grabbing your other hand in his. All ease slipped away, and you choked up, staring petrified at him.
“We shouldn’t be here. You shouldn’t be doing this,” you said, voice high and shaky.
“Shouldn’t be doing what? Enjoying myself?” He raised a single eyebrow at you, judging you with a funny look in his eye. He was smiling.
Your fears came pouring out. They filled your entirety, boiling beneath your skin and itching to come out, like a rash upon your tongue.
“You shouldn’t… I shouldn’t be talking with you, I shouldn’t look at you, I shouldn’t touch you, I-“
“It’s not your fault. If anyone is to put blame on us, it will fall solely on me, I will make sure of it,” he told you quietly, an attempt to calm your fears.
“And what will happen to you then? You’ll be punished,” you choked out, feeling your throat swell up.
“All worth it to spend time with you,” he whispered, drawing ever closer. You took a step back, the water splashing up the back of your legs.
“Why are you so invested in me?” You asked, trying weakly to pull your hands out of his grip. He did not let go.
“Your playing enchants me, and the way you refuse to, well… bond with me, I suppose, is intriguing. Most people I’ve met jump at the chance to form a sort of relationship with me. Simply because of my standing,” he explained quietly.
You hardly believed people only associated with him because of rank. He happened to also be an incredibly nice person, as well as truthful and sincere unlike any royalty you’d met before. Not only that, despite what you continuously told yourself, he was very handsome.
“I hardly believe it’s only because of your royalty,” you said, voicing only half your thoughts.
“Why’s that?” He asked quickly, leaning in further, pulling you closer. He looked desperate, curious for your answer. You breathed deeply. He smelled of perfume. Of course.
“You’re one of the more benevolent royalty that I’ve met,” you said simply, not meeting his eyes. His eyes however, did not waver from yours, attention directly on you. Your skin felt hot beneath his touch.
“Is that why you won’t say my name?” He came chest to chest with you, the words from his mouth heating your cheek beyond what was comfortable.
“My prince, I am only here to play music for you,” you breathed out, weak and indecisive. Your gaze stay fixed on his shoulder and past, to the river shining behind him.
“You are here to help with my stress. That’s your job specification, and you’re doing a terrible job at it,” he laughed, his body swaying slightly.
“I think I would be better at it if you didn’t put me in stressful situations,” you retorted before you could think. Eyes widening upon reflection of what you just said, your breath caught in your lungs. An unpleasant tingle shivered through your legs, making you weaker than you already were.
“Don’t worry so much and you’ll be fine. I have to say you’re doing a wonderful job distracting me from my brother,” he told you, continuing to sway, moving your arms back and forth in some mock form of a dance. “Enjoy yourself,” he said, leaning in and whispering the words against your ear. You blacked out for two seconds again, before blinking, looking to his face, his eyes attracting you immediately.
He was scanning your face, a concentrated look in his eyes. He blinked a few times, sighing, before letting go of your hands.
“Let’s go back to the palace,” he said quietly, turning and leaving you calf deep in the water.
+
The sick pit in your stomach began feeling worse the longer you spoke with the prince. After three full moons had come and gone, you came to a comparison. It was a terrible comparison to make, and you’d never, ever voice it, but you felt as though you were being tempted by a demon. Play for him. Look into his eyes. Touch him just a little more. Call him by his name. Lean into the temptations and be damned for eternity, but stay away and you’ll suffer heartache worse than death.
You decidedly never crossed the border of touching him in any sort of way - no, anything that happened in accordance with that was entirely his fault. You never called him by his name. You tried your best not to look into his eyes, in fear of losing yourself within them. They swirled gold and foreign delicacies, new and familiar all at once.
You didn’t dare look at him.
“Perhaps if you become my advisor, I will be able to see you more often,” he pondered, staring up at the ceiling. He was lying next to you, in a pile of blankets of pillows, arms crossed behind his head. You played your harp quietly, not wanting to disturb his thoughts too much.
“You want to spend more time with me?” You asked quietly, astounded. You weren’t exactly an incredibly interesting person.
“Of course. You’re intelligent too, so it’s not like you’d give me terrible advice. The position wouldn’t just be for show,” he added at the end, looking up at you, before resuming his study of the ceiling.
“I do not believe commoners can become royal advisors. Or should, in the very least,” you said, trying to continue your concentration on your playing. You plucked a few wrong notes as the conversation continued. He didn’t seem to mind.
“It’s possible, and it’s not like you have to be a vizier or anything. That’d only happen if I became pharaoh, which would only happen if my older brothers died, which they hopefully do not,” he said, continuing on to describe what your life would be like if you became his advisor. You had a thought, but waited till he finished his spiel.
“My prince, is it not a bit redundant for you to have an advisor? You’re not making any political decisions, and-“
“Think of it more as a personal assistant,” he interrupted, looking up at you hopefully. You sighed tiredly, but nodded. He was quiet for a while after that, so you could continue playing in peace.
You were informed the next day that your job had been changed from ‘stress reliever’ to ‘personal servant/advisor,’ and that your quarters would be moved nearer to the princes’. It was quite the step up in the world, which was the last thing you needed, but the prince seemed to think otherwise. You were treated with an ounce more of respect, and at first you weren’t sure what to do with it, and your confusion only got worse throughout the day.
Apparently, when you’re someone’s personal servant/advisor (a job that has never existed before) you have to accompany said person everywhere they go. This included meetings, meals (where you weren’t allowed to eat), as well as important openings, surveying building and planting, and a good amount of educational programs.
Overall, a very tiring day, and you were very much ready to collapse when the moon finally shone.
You accompanied the prince back to his room, wondering how he kept his energy up. You quickly answered the question for yourself, remembering that he’d been doing it his entire life.
He must’ve noticed your state, dragging behind him but keeping your posture up despite.
“Are you alright Nour?” He asked, stopping and turning around to face you. You quickly nodded, trying to keep your eyes open. He looked doubtful however, eyeing you suspiciously.
“You don’t have to play for me tonight if you are this exhausted,” he comforted, resting a hand on your shoulder and trying to give you a sincere look. You didn’t look at him, still too afraid. Especially now, in public, with his hand on your shoulder, where anyone could see.
“I am able to play,” you said, shaking your head a bit, trying to clear out the drowsiness. He continued looking at you skeptically, but allowed you to enter his room, you once again taking your harp from its’ case. He sat in his new pile of pillows and blankets, closing his eyes, and losing himself in your playing. You blinked slowly, feeling a warm, fuzzy blanket come over your thoughts. Despite this you continued playing, trying your best to concentrate. Unfortunately you must’ve made some mistake, because you felt a hand on your wrist, and a voice penetrating the warm blanket that had come over your eyes.
“Nour, go to sleep,” he said, and you opened your eyes, your consciousness falling immediately into his warm and worried eyes. The whole world still felt fuzzy, as though you were half in a dream, the only thing fully grounding you being his hand around your wrist.
“I can play,” you said thickly, the words sounding as though they came from far away, but reverberated in your empty chest.
“No you can’t-“
You closed your eyes, just to blink, but ended up doing a lot more than that. You fell straight asleep, flopping forward onto the prince’s shoulder… unfortunately.
When you awoke, it wasn’t your assigned room. You then quickly remembered that you had moved rooms the day before, settling your worries. You were then further worried when you realized you did not own a golden vase, and the blankets you were given certainly weren’t this soft. You sat up quickly, feeling dizzy.
“Good morning,” the prince said with a soft chuckle, smiling at you from his bed. You felt about ready to throw up.
“D- did I fall asleep?” You asked hurriedly, ready to apologize as soon as he confirmed.
“Yes, but it’s not a problem,” he said, stopping you before you started. You gaped at him, horrified.
“Why didn’t you wake me up?” You asked, instead of screaming. His eyes widened, glancing sideways as his cheeks darkened. He rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly. You blinked again. Were you seeing this right?
“… I didn’t want to wake you,” he admitted quietly, head dangling embarrassed between his shoulders. You took a deep breath, trying to fully understand the situation.
“Okay. So… you let me sleep in your room all night… because you didn’t want to wake me up?”
He paused before answering.
“… Yeeeesss?”
You got up, dusting yourself off. You waved good bye to him silently, smiling awkwardly, ready to leave.
“Wait, don’t go,” he entreated, his hand moving towards you, still against his bedsheets. You turned to him slowly, practically shaking. You looked him up and down, deciding this was a terrible idea, before turning to leave once more.
“Please,” he murmured, his entire body pleading. You took a deep breath, looking at your feet. A feeble attempt to gather your thoughts. You couldn’t directly disobey him. It was bad enough that you turned away the first time - you didn’t think it possible for royalty to say please, or beg the way he practically was. So you turned back around, looking at him exhausted once more, before walking towards him, standing beside his bed. He smiled brightly up at you, the tenseness in his body completely evaporated.
“You glow perfectly in the morning sun,” he murmured, grabbing your wrist, before venturing up further to your arm. You nearly instinctively pulled away, fear coursing pain through your blood, but you stayed put.
“Inappropriate,” you chided quietly, highly embarrassed.
“I know,” he winked at you, smiling cheekily. You took a deep breath, nearly rolling your eyes.
“Do you know how to ride a chariot?” He asked you out of nowhere, still smiling up at you like you were a dream.
“No, I have no desire to,” you said, knowing that if it were time to fight for your pharaoh, you would physically be unable to fight. Thus, most likely you’d be put on different duty, like planning, or meal prep. The prince, however, looked a bit saddened.
“That’s a shame. I’m going riding today, if you wish I could teach you,” he suggested, tugging your arm lightly.
“Thank you for the offer, but I will stay here instead.”
He offered once more, and you once more declined. Leaving it at that, he redressed into looser clothing.
You stayed in your room for the time he was gone. There wasn’t much for you to do, and you had to stay on call in case someone needed you, so you mostly tried to write new songs. Still slightly new at it, the songs were a tad plain, but you were getting better.
When the sun was near set in the sky, you received a knock at the door. You quickly got up, and a soldier informed you that the prince had returned, and was requesting you in his chambers. You acknowledged, packing your harp up and heading down long hallways to his room.
You knocked, which was met with a small ‘come in.’ When you opened the door, the prince was sitting on his bed as usual, with a large, deep scuff mark on his cheek. You nearly dropped your instrument, staring at the red and black mark.
“No need to be surprised,” he smiled, before wincing and returning to a straight face.
“My prince, doesn’t that need attending to?” You had to physically stop yourself from walking over, digging your nails into the flesh of your leg.
“It’s alright. I fell off the chariot,” he explained, laughing as he thought back. He twitched slightly from pain, letting his face fall again.
“You should clean it in the very least,” you suggested, setting your instrument on the floor. You turned to the door, ready to fetch some water and a cloth.
“You worry too much,” he said as you left, fetching a tight basket of water and an old but clean cloth. You returned a few moments later, setting the supplies on his bed where he sat. He looked at you expectantly, tilting his head slightly. You fidgeted, muscles twitching as you tried to stay calm.
“If you’re so worried, you should do it,” he closed his eyes, ready for you to clean him, “I doubt you’ll accept anyone else doing it.”
You sniffed indignantly, a little ashamed and a little embarrassed. More embarrassed than anything. Nonetheless, you dipped the cloth into the clean water, wringing it out once you pulled it out. You dabbed at his skinned cheek and jaw, trying to make sure it didn’t hurt. The mark reached to his ear, behind the lower part of his crown. You thought of asking him to move it, or moving it yourself.
“Um, my prince, could you remove your crown?” You finally asked hesitantly, still trying to removed the dirt from the visible mark on his cheek. When you removed the rag he nodded, taking off the golden ornament and setting it on the bed. Biting your lip you took a deep breath, once more setting to clean the rest of the scuff.
Finally you dropped the cloth into the water, setting the basket on the floor.
“Done?” He asked, smiling pleasantly at you. In a minute motion you nodded, turning quickly away. You bent down by your instrument, getting ready to play for him once more.
He stared at you for a while as you played, his face straight and his emotions unidentifiable. It put you on edge, as most of the time he was rather see-through. You kept playing despite your worries.
As night came, he did not tell you to stop. You were starting to get a little tired, but you continued playing diligently. The sounds outside the room subsided, silence enclosing the space around and between you and the prince. He shuffled on the bed, lying down, his eyes closed in deep thought.
“I think I’m in love with you,” he said, piercing soft silence that had lasted so long before. In your shock you struck a wrong string, the dissonant sound making you curl in on yourself. However, you didn’t find yourself too surprised - his actions indicated he had to have felt something different with you.
“I am aware,” you said quietly, picking up another piece. You steadied your hands, trying to play the right chords once more.
“In that case,” he said, clearly annoyed at your passiveness, “you should also know I am free to marry who I wish, and I want to marry you.”
He stood, legs swinging off the bed and waltzing over to you. He grabbed your wrist, stopping your playing and pulling you upwards. Your harp shifted, falling to the ground, softened by the pillows surrounding you.
“I want to marry you,” he repeated softly, breath hot against your face. He leaned in close to you, his eyes hooded, desperate for you to just touch him.
“I can’t,” you said hurriedly, the words coming from pure instinct. You felt your hands shaking in his grasp, terrified by the whole situation.
“Why?” He whispered, face contorted near tears. You hummed uncomfortably, a meager sound in automatic reaction to his sadness.
“I have to go,” you rushed out, ripping yourself from his grasp and running out the door.
Why did this keep happening?
Your tiresome night was not to come to an end, as you ran into someone in the hallway. You fell to the ground from the impact, profusely apologizing to whoever it was you hit.
“Aren’t you that servant my brother’s traipsing around with?”
Fuck, this must be the prince’s eldest brother.
You did not meet his eyes, instead keeping your body in a bowed position.
“Yes, my prince, he has requested it,” you answered obediently.
“You’re rather acquiescent, aren’t you? Such a small thing,” he commented, and you felt his stare on the back of your neck, harsh and cruel. He pressed two fingers to the back of your bowed head, pushing you so you looked upwards at him. Out of fear, you allowed him to move you as he wished.
This was your first meeting with the brother you’d heard so much about, and he was nothing like the prince. His eyes pierced you, emotionless and senseless. It made you long for the warmer, welcoming man you had run from.
“Hm. When I become pharaoh,” he spoke as royalty should; proud, and succinct, “I should make you serve me instead. Most of the servants I get are defiant and rude. You’d be quite the change.”
“Yes, my prince,” you said, too afraid to say anything else. Too scared to mention the fact that the prince that currently owned you would not give you up very easily.
Distantly you heard feet running down the hallway, halting before you and the older prince.
“Kahmuh,” you heard him say, voice practically unidentifiable with the vindictiveness in it.
“Ah! Brother, here’s your, uh, thing,” he said, flicking your head towards his brother. After, the older prince turned and left, his stride confident and domineering. The younger rushed to you, kneeling in front of you.
“Did he hurt you?” He grabbed your face, turning it and inspecting for wounds and marks.
“No,” you mumbled, looking down. He was so human compared to his older brother.
“Did he say anything to you?” He inched closer, looking worriedly at you. His hands moved to your shoulders, gripping them tightly.
“He said that… he wanted me to be his servant when he becomes pharaoh, because I’m obedient,” you said hesitantly, hoping that the prince wouldn’t do anything rash in retaliation. Instead he grimaced, and you watched as his muscles tensed.
“If only he knew you’re the exact opposite of that. You just follow rules. You won’t bend them, not for me, and definitely not for him,” he said, his tone bordering on venomous. He helped you up, patting the sides of your arms awkwardly once you stood.
“Spend the night with me?” He asked haltingly, giving you a look of it’s alright if you say no.
“You know I can’t do that,” you answered quietly, hoping to convey that maybe, you wished that you had the confidence to bend the rules just slightly.
“I’ll walk you back to your room,” he said, ceasing all contact with you.
“Do you know where my room is?” You asked, walking beside him, instead of behind.
“Uh… no,” he answered shyly, laughing quietly. You smiled cordially at him. The walk to your room was silent, a few people flitting by but besides that, lonely.
“Thank you, my prince,” you bowed your head respectively, before turning to open your door. He held your hand, keeping you there as he spoke.
“You’re welcome… my love,” he answered gently, letting your hand slide out of his.
You stood outside your door, dumbfounded as he left, watching as he disappeared around a turn.
My love?
+
Four more full moons passed. Overall, you must’ve been working for him for seven moons, which was quite a while, looking back. A few days ago the Pharaoh and his Queen had announced that the throne would have to be passed soon. You gave them around a year to actually hold to their statement.
It was to your surprise that, a few days later, the Queen called you to her quarters. You had been playing for the young prince, when a messenger directed you away. You bid a quick good bye to the prince, heading where the messenger took you.
Her room was larger, shared with her husband, who was not present. It was only her, pacing back and forth in her room, rubbing her hands together anxiously.
“Harpist, good,” she said, upon noticing you, directing you inside. She sat you on a chair, and you thanked her.
“What do you think of Ahkmen?” She asked you, finally stopping her pacing, looking directly at her. You kept your eyes on her feet, always remembering your place.
“He is a kind man, overtaken with emotion and confused, but that is expected of someone so young. He’s benevolent and wise beyond his age,” you answered, attempting to summarize your observations of him over the past half year.
“You’ve met my other son, correct?” She asked you, and she began pacing again. You confirmed. At this point you’d met him a few times, none of the meetings being entirely pleasant. He seemed to favour you though, which you hoped would continue. You still had a thing about dying.
“What do you think of him?”
You swallowed. Would you really dare speak ill about a woman’s son, especially a queens’?
“He is brave, and well, succinct. He knows what he wants and he achieves it. He’s ambitious and also overtaken with emotion, though the emotion is… not kindness,” you ended hesitantly, starting to fidget just like the Queen was.
“I know you are a commoner. My youngest son has told me about you, and he says you follow rules and tradition no matter what someone of higher power says. But now, I need you to be honest with me,” she kneeled before you, looking you directly in the eyes.
This had to be incredibly important, for her to kneel, let alone in front of you.
“Who is fit to be king?”
Your mouth fell open. You weren’t qualified to answer this. Was the fate of the entire kingdom resting on you now?
“My Queen, is it not appropriate for the eldest to take the throne?” You asked quietly, knowing the answer already.
“Yes, but… Kahmuh has been doubtful in all essence of the word. He is violent and rash, he does not think over his decisions. If it were a choice the obvious choice is Ahkmen, however it isn’t right. It’s never happened before, so I thought the advice of a commoner might be of some use.”
“Your youngest son would be the best choice,” you said. Given the choice, you’d choose him every time.
“You don’t think the citizens will be outraged?”
“I suppose you could… lie, if you’re worried about it,” you suggested, choosing your words carefully.
“What kind of lie could you or I come up with that would soothe their worries?”
“Could say that the Gods chose him. Which is technically true,” you added that at the end, seeing her eyes widen with horror. She took a deep breath.
“You’re right. You’re very wise for a commoner. Dismissed,” she said, standing up. You bowed, thanking her for the time spent with her, and left.
When you returned to the prince’s room, he asked what she needed you for. You thought about telling him the truth, but instead you lied, saying that she was simply checking up on how her son was feeling through the person spending the most time with him. He believed you, and you resumed playing your music.
“Why can’t you marry me?” He asked you, lying next to you in his large splay of blankets and pillows. You sat on the edge of his cushioned area, a blanket to soften the floor for your knees.
“It is prudent to marry within your social class,” you muttered, voice quiet as you still tried concentrating on the task at hand.
“In that case, do you wish for me to marry my brother?” He laughed, before sticking his tongue out and gagging.
“Please don’t,” you chuckled.
“I’d still like you to know that since I’m not becoming Pharaoh, I can marry whomever I want,” he teased, poking you in the shoulder. You rolled your arm back, shaking him off. You thought back to what the Queen had said - if she was to give you credit and follow through your advice, he would be Pharaoh, and that’d be a big problem.
“You can’t assure that you won’t have to become Pharaoh some day,” you said quietly.
“Are you planning on killing my brother?”
“Not yet,” you gritted under your breath. He laughed, rolling onto his side. He stared up at you, a subconscious smile on his face.
“My love, you mustn’t worry. He will become king, not I, and I will be able to marry whomever I please, and whomever I please will be you,” he still smiled at you, sure that he was correct. “As long as you’ll have me,” he added quietly after a beat of silence. You cautiously nodded, aware that while he valued your opinion and input, he could simply force you to marry him. Though knowing him as well as you did, you didn’t think him capable of something like that.
“I don’t think I’m fit to rule,” he sighed a few moments later, letting his hands intertwine behind his head to cushion him. You gave him a quizzical look, silently requesting for him to continue his thought.
“I’ve never been good with fast decisions, and as you might’ve realized I’m terrible under pressure,” he said very matter-of-fact like, sighing dejectedly as he finished. “I’m just not fit to rule.”
“Given the opportunity and right people, anyone with a kind heart and brave soul is fit to rule,” you hummed, letting your fingers pop more gracefully as they plucked the strings.
“That would mean you’re fit to rule,” he said offhandedly, rolling his shoulders back.
“Afraid not, my prince. I’m a coward in my soul,” you laughed, but it was partially true. You’d never break a single rule.
“Perhaps so. You’re not willing to break a rule that isn’t even real, but your kindness more than makes up for it. Besides, with how pretty you are, I’d let it pass,” he casually flirted with you. He was beginning to do so often, and with increasing smoothness. It seemed as though he was really coming out of the shell you really wish he’d go back into.
“Uh - thank you, my, uh, prince,” you stammered. “Do you have any plans for your birthday?” You quickly changed the subject.
“My parents are throwing another party, not much else. I would very much love it if you attended.” He looked up at you expectantly.
“Of course, my prince. I was the harpist at your last birthday, I would be happy to reprise my role.”
“No, I meant as my… partner. My plus one.”
You paused, thinking over the implications if you were to arrive with him, as his equal.
“Who will play harp then?”
“We’ll find someone else, though they won’t be as good as you, I would prefer you to stay at my side,” he said, sitting up and turning to face you. Your skin burned, nerves tingling as you imagined events of the night playing out. You’d probably be expected to do a lot of things you weren’t raised to do.
“Please, my love?” He wrapped his hand around your wrist gently, and his calm demeanor seeped through the contact he made with you.
“… Of course, my prince.”
+
Two months had passed since that eventful day, where you’d learned that the Queen was doubting her older son, and that you were to attend a royal party as a guest, not an employee. The prince had done to the best of his abilities, as much as he could to soothe your nerves. You hadn’t told him about your anxiousness surrounding the event, but it was easy for him to pick up on it. To help you, he educated you on the different replies to various things. You’d mainly learned that staying silent and by his side would make people avoid talking to you. After all, if you stayed with him, most people would be too enamored with him to notice you, and if they did, they’d probably ask the prince who you were and not you. After a few days of his etiquette training, you’d felt a little better.
Around evening when you and the prince retired to his room, he had been called up for a surprise meeting. You were instructed to stay in his room, so you did, tuning your harp and waiting for him to come back.
He did, a long while later, his shoulders drooping and eyebrows furrowed.
“Nour,” he sighed, rubbing his face as he walked forward. He came in front of you, bending to his knees before planting his face in your shoulder. His arms came around you, tired and slow, but tightly encircling your waist.
“My prince?” You questioned awkwardly, unsure of where to put your hands.
“They’re thinking of breaking the rules. Of giving me the throne,” he whimpered, voice muffled by your body.
“That can’t be so awful,” you murmured, ultimately deciding to rest your hand on his back and head.
“I can’t marry you,” he partially whispered, pressing himself into you further.
“Oh,” was all the tiny sound you could muster. Was that really what he was worried about?
The two of you stayed intertwined on his makeshift nest of blankets and pillows. You, with your heart beating straight out of its’ hole, and him, with his face pressed tight against your body, crying ever so slightly. It gave you time to think of a plan.
“I might regret telling you this, but I have an idea,” you started off slowly. He didn’t move, or make any noise, so you continued.
“You could marry me now,” you said, feeling much more stressed and yet less anxious with the thought now in the open. Open for judgement, yes, but also for accepting, and which one terrified you more you did not know.
He removed himself from you, mouth slightly parted and wide eyed. He then knitted his eyebrows together, cocking his head to the right.
“You’d do that?” His tone was quiet and uncertain, unbelieving and a half whisper.
“If you married me now and you or I decided that it wasn’t a thing we wanted, we could later divorce. However if you let your father announce you as Pharaoh before we are married, it would not be allowed. It’s simply…” you trailed off, unsure of where you were headed.
“The logical decision, to help with my stress?” He smiled shyly. You laughed awkwardly, and nodded.
He leaned forward, looking like he was about to kiss you. Instinctively you pushed him away, heart beat increasing once more.
“It’s just a place holder. Nothings changed. I still don’t think I should even be looking at you,” you quickly relayed to him, hoping to make him realize that you didn’t want to act married.
“Alright. I will kiss you one day though,” he reminded you with a teasing lilt, raising your hand to his mouth, kissing you with a touch that was barely there.
“It appears you already have,” you replied, thinking back to the many times he’d kissed your hand. You knew it to be a sign of utmost respect, and it had confused you when he first did it. Now, you were far more accustomed to it, though you still didn’t approve of it. You supposed he had a right to whomever he respected.
Three days later, he’d convinced you that it was okay to tell his parents. You were hesitant for obvious reasons, but he assured you there wouldn’t be harsh consequences. Unfortunately, he wanted you to be there when he broke the news.
So you stood behind him, shaking, going into a mild cardiac arrest.
“We’re married. It was my idea,” he started with, which was very outright, and you wanted to berate him for that.
“… Married?” His father confirmed. You hadn’t ever spoken to him before, but he had a commanding voice. He, like his eldest son, had a posture, an air about him that simply made him fit to rule.
The prince nodded. His parents exchanged looks, before their eyes fell on you.
“You are?” His father asked, eyes burning your skin.
“My name is Nour. I was the harpist for many of your parties. I have been the youngest princes’… stress reliever,” you answered, attempting to be succinct. You kept your head down, a sign of submission and respect.
“Oh, you were his whore?”
You spluttered, face turning red as you made flabby attempts at defending yourself.
“No, father, Nour has helped me to calm down through music… not, uh, sex. Nour won’t let me touch them,” the prince stepped in to defend you, and at the same time, completely discredited your claimed marriage.
“You two wish to be married, yet you’ve never touched each other? Just, holding hands?”
The Pharaoh seemed confused. He turned to his queen once more, before looking at the two of you again.
“I’m very adamant that I not be touched until marriage. It is a simple personal preference,” you said quickly, coming up with the explanation on the fly. You begged to whomever would listen that it would suffice. Still your eyes were trained on his feet, simply to avoid accidentally meeting his eyes. Despite this you saw him shrug helplessly, waving his hand at his son.
“Alright then, whatever. Why are you telling me this then? Do you want a celebration?”
“Y-“ The prince started, being promptly interrupted by you.
“We’d prefer to keep this quiet for a little bit,” you quickly requested, still keeping your head down. The Pharaoh grunted something, dismissing you quickly. The prince grabbed your shoulders, rushing you out of the throne room and down a quiet hallway. It was open, with large pillars replacing a wall, allowing you to see the city.
“Before you ask, I thought it would be best to have a celebration when we actually get married, if we do,” you told him, which made him finally stop pushing you ahead. He pushed you into a wall, trapping you between his arms. For a moment you were scared, but he was smiling for some reason.
“I care what you believe more than anything, but for right now, I don’t care. We’re married,” he laughed, pressing his forehead to yours. He looked elated, and it made you scared, but it also made love rush beneath your fingertips, spritzing out in the form of a desperate need to touch him.
He reacted before you did, leaning in as slow as he could, still smiling. As he neared your lips, you caught onto a rather scandalous idea.
“Oh my prince, what are you playing at?” You asked coyly, giving him a coquettish grin. For a split second you saw confusion paint his face. You grabbed his wrist, pulling him back into the wall. You switched places with him, pinning him to the wall. There was the unfortunate bit where you were quite a bit shorter than him, but his knees buckled beneath him, bringing him lower than you. Mimicking some of his first actions against you, you pressed two of your fingers beneath his chin, moving him so he looked you in the eyes.
His eyes were wide, staring into yours with happy anticipation. You could almost see him mentally devouring up the attention you were giving him.
“We both know it goes like this,” you whispered, words dripping with amorously inviting intentions. He seemed to melt further into you, smiling with a blissed out look. You were sure if you simply left him like that, he’d only find you more inviting.
So you did.
You ceased all contact all at once, leaving him breathing heavy with wide eyes. You smiled innocently at him, and continued down the hallway. A few minutes later, he finally caught up with you, looking embarrassed but more professional.
“Nice play my love, but I’ll get you someday,” he whispered into your ear, still walking behind you. You just let out a giggle, wondering if he really had it in him.
“Of course, my prince,” you smiled at him.
The two of you returned to his room, feeling much less stressed about the whole situation. However, he asked that you not play the harp. Instead he wanted to simply sit with you, and you agreed as if you had any other option. He led you to the nest of pillows and blankets you were both too familiar with, sitting you down across from him.
“I could write endless poetry about you,” he said dreamily, leaning in and taking your hands. You flushed red, attempting to stammer out a reply.
“Uh- um, t-thank you? I’m hardly deserving,” was what you got out, not meeting his eyes out of embarrassment.
“Nour, you must realize that at this point you are my equal. You can look at me,” he lifted his hand to your cheek, pulling you back to face him, “and you can touch me.”
This was true. Now the only thing stopping you was your own inhibitions, and to you, it felt like enough. When for a few moments you did nothing, he sighed, dropping his head onto your shoulder.
“Whatever you wish, my love,” he murmured, falling back and away from you.
Before you fully knew what you were doing, you pulled him back, sitting yourself in his lap. He looked surprised, staring at you expectantly. Hesitantly, you ran your hand through his short hair, your heart rate increasing as he continued staring at you.
“My love?” He asked in a hushed voice, full of tension, and yet excitement as well.
“My prince,” you responded, your voice holding the utmost reverence and adoration. Once more his hand came to rest on your cheek. He eased you closer, letting you follow his hand of your own accord. It seemed incredibly like him to allow you to take control in such a situation as this.
At long last you relaxed in his touch, melting into his hand with a sigh and closed eyes. You heard him chuckle just slightly, felt him leaning in and felt his nose press into your cheek.
He was letting you make the final move.
You did just so, moving forward not even a centimeter before you felt his lips upon yours.
The tension in your muscles, the tension that had been there since the moment you stepped foot in the palace, faded away. The longer he stayed there, moving his lips against yours, the more anxiety faded away, being replaced by unending need and laudation. The fondness you felt for him consumed your entire being, burning in your blood and electrifying your movements against him. Your hands found a resting place on his shoulders, pulling him ever closer to you. Everything else besides him felt numb, your senses existing only to feel him.
He sunk deeper into you, hands coming beneath your shawl. You leaned away, landing you on your back with him above you.
“You’re beautiful,” he murmured, leaning down to land soft, open mouthed kisses on your neck.
“You’ve mentioned that,” you breathed out, eyelids fluttering shut as he worked away. You felt out of place, confused, and unsure of where to put your hands. Ultimately he took charge, holding your hands in his and holding them above your head. His fingers threaded into yours, and he came up to kiss you upon your lips.
“I don’t think I’ve ever told you how beautiful you are,” you said as he removed himself from you, sitting on his knees. You followed his actions, coming close to him, settling your hand on the back of his neck.
“I’m not sure how,” you gave him a curious look, “but you seem to glow, whenever I see you.”
“That’d be the moonlight,” he teased.
“I think it’s actually just you,” you murmured, leaning in for another kiss. He hummed pleasantly, chasing after you when you tried to pull away.
“I’ve hesitated to say this until now but I truly love you. I’m sorry I haven’t said it before, I -“
“Was following the rules?”
“Yes,” you said in a hushed voice, hoping he’d understand. He shifted, moving his body so you could sit in his lap, before pulling you into him.
“I know. I admire you for it, you’ve got quite the tenacity to disobey orders just to obey rules,” he smirked, teasing you. You giggled quietly, pressing a sweet kiss to his lips.
Finally, everything felt correct. Maybe it was just because you might’ve been a massive prude, but there was the fact that if you were a massive prude, you would’ve waited until a wedding celebration to kiss him. So maybe you were just an avid rule follower. Either way, this time it felt right to touch him, so you did just that.
It was the first time you spent the night with him, both of you asleep in his bed.
Surprisingly, not much changed. Per your request his parents had not told anyone, so no one treated you differently than they had before. A small part of you appreciated that, and the other parts didn’t especially care. Planning for the young prince’s birthday celebrations continued, with you sometimes included in such planning.
Despite recent events you were still nervous about being his ‘plus one.’ It would be making a statement, something you never liked to do, though the statement was more on his behalf, not yours. Nighttime was often the only peace you got, what with daytime being hectic and stressful. Most evenings you played for the prince, whom you still referred to as the prince in your head. Usually out loud, as much as it bothered him. You’d get there eventually, you told yourself.
Sometimes he’d sit behind you, playing with your hair, landing soft pecks on the back of your neck. It was incredibly distracting for your playing and incredibly welcome by your heart.
“I love you,” he said, a thing he often said simply to remind you. When you were feeling especially shy, you’d reply, “I know.” However, during your more normal or confident days, you’d respond, “I love you too.” You had a feeling he preferred the latter.
“How are you feeling? I know there’s been a lot going on,” he asked quietly, threading your hair between his fingers. He tugged at it every now and then, and you wondered if he was trying to braid it.
“I’ve been alright. I got measured today for my clothes, for your party,” you told him in a calm murmur. The quiet moments you shared seemed to be the only time there weren’t voices yelling in your ear.
“Do you like the design?” He asked, tugging at your hair before releasing it.
“I didn’t see it,” you said with a soft laugh, stopping your music for just a second before resuming. He kissed just below the ear as you began, causing you to miss the chord entirely.
“Your affections ruin my playing.”
“Isn’t that the best way to ruin it?”
“There’s better ways.”
He laughed, wrapping his arms around your stomach. He pulled you away from your harp, dragging you into his embrace. You smiled, relaxing into his arms. Your harp, luckily, landed on a bed of pillows.
“I love you,” he murmured against your hair, kissing your head.
“I love you too,” you said, turning up so he could kiss you properly.
+
The celebration was, in your opinion, loud. In your sort-of husband’s opinion, it was joyous. The food was wonderful, you did admit, a good chunk of dessert being made out of sweet honey. Too many people for your taste, just the right amount for his taste, and too little for his parents’ taste. The entire time you sat by his side, people gave you odd stares, but said nothing. His parents didn’t say a word, but greeted you with a curt nod, which was a lot more than you were expecting.
“To the eighteenth birthday of the new Pharaoh, Ahkmenrah!”
The entirety of the table that stretched from one end of a very long hall to the other end of the very long hall raised their glasses. Wine sloshed within the cups, sometimes pouring onto the table. You raised yours careful not to spill. You hadn’t drank that much anyway.
As the hands lowered all took a sip or gulp from their drinks, and promptly after that, the Prince turned Pharaoh collapsed onto the ground. The chalice in your hand crashed onto the table as you knelt hastily by his side, turning him over and shaking him, desperately trying to get him to wake up. Your fingers tingled with pin pricks, all the blood rushing to your head and thumping loudly like the drumbeats of the reaper.
He was carried away from you, and in your own misery you missed the calamity. When you returned to yourself, aware of your own body, you found yourself still kneeling on the floor of the dining hall. It was empty save for a few servants cleaning up the table, and Ahkmenrah’s parents. You felt an empty hole in your torso, as if someone had plowed a log straight through your body.
His father set a hand on your shoulder, telling you to get up and stay by his side. You obeyed without question.
You sat by his bed, grasping his hand. Healers stood on the other side of the bed, putting some sort of ointment into his mouth.
With sluggish movements his head turned to you, lips purple and cracked. His eyes seemed to sink into his skull, eyelids blinking slow and red.
“My love,” he murmured, his voice hoarse and cracking under the light pressure. You kissed his knuckles, holding them tighter.
“You’ll be alright, my prince,” you assured him, glancing up at the healer as you said this. He made a small shrug motion, giving you a worried look.
“No I won’t. Don’t… worry, about me? Don’t worry,” he said to you, trying to raise his arm to your cheek. He couldn’t bear the strain, so you leaned down, pressing your cheek to his open palm. The edges of his lips turned up slightly, smiling as much as you assumed he could physically stand.
The healer left the room, coming back a few minutes later with his parents.
“It’s poison,” he informed them quietly in the corner of the room. His mother gasped, hands coming up to cover her mouth. Your mouth automatically fell open, eyes widening in worry as you looked back down at the prince.
“Your brother,” you said, knowing it must’ve been him. No one else hated him, at least not as much as his brother did.
“I know,” he murmured, trying to swallow. It hurt him, you could tell by the way his eyes closed and his brows knitted tightly together as he winced.
“I will -“
“Don’t. It’s not your job. He will be brought to justice, not by you.”
You nodded, gripping his hand tighter.
“My love,” he rasped out, “be at peace, for I am at peace.” His lips barely moved before he lay still. His eyes remained open, and his head relaxed towards the ceiling.
You numbed entirely. Your hands went cold, and his hand dropped from your cheek with a graceless thump.
And he lay still.
And he did not move, not for hours, not until people moved his body for him, moving him away from both his parents and your eyes. You stayed, kneeled next to his bed for longer than you knew.
Publicly you weren’t married to him. Publicly you were his servant, and that meant you could be buried with him, whether you wanted to or not. You weren’t sure what you preferred.
You didn’t get the time to think it through. He was buried, and his brother became King in his stead. True to his promise, he kept you as his servant. You weren’t allowed to be buried with the prince, and for a while, you served the Pharaoh well. For a long while, and many moons passed before you couldn’t bear more.
It wasn’t until grief consumed you that you changed your situation. His parents had died months back, and whether they were murdered or not you didn’t know. They got proper burials, alongside their son. The world had nothing left to give you, and the Pharaoh was cruel and unjust. You saw clearly now why his mother seemed so worried. You had originally thought that no one could be as inhuman as he was, and now you were wrong. And now you had to end it.
+
It wasn’t until you died that you awoke again. You’d killed yourself in Egypt, and found yourself awake years into the future, locked inside a half rotted wooden sarcophagus. Besides the tight encasing, the worst part was the dank smell. That had to be expected, after you realized that you had definitely been in that sarcophagus for well over a thousand years, and your wrappings were covered in dust and rot.
To your immense luck it wasn’t pitch black. The wood had rotted through enough to shine small specks of light into your coffin, and due to this whenever you awoke, you could see through to the other world.
You awoke and fell straight asleep and the same time every day. When you awoke, you shifted to a hole, and with your wrappings coming off just slightly below your eye, you saw people. All kinds of people - locked up in glass containers and wearing silly looking clothes. If they weren’t in their own casings they moved around, banging on the glass to be let out. None of them could fully speak, but the throat bleeding screams behind their wrappings was enough to make your blood run cold.
Sometimes, you’d see people not in wrappings, and not encased in glass. They wore dark blue clothing, and they looked old, with pale, white skin.
It made you wonder, very often (when you weren’t panicked about never getting out, and suffering eternity locked away), where you were. You had realized you were in the future, but how? How were you alive? Why were you still in your coffin, and why were you surrounded with glass? Most importantly, how did you wake up?
Ages later you were still in the same place. You lost count how many times you woke up, just to never be released, and fall back asleep. The funniest thing was, you were never tired when you fell asleep. You just did, as though it were instinct.
It was that evening that absolute chaos ensued. Something had happened - there was only one man in dark blue clothing, and he looked frightened. The screams of those around you grew louder, and soon the man was gone with a start.
This pattern of the man running through the room continued for a few more nights before peace came about once more.
A few more nights later, the screaming stopped. Two men spoke together outside in a language you couldn’t understand, but it seemed to be civil, if not worried. One of them got passionate, but was eventually calmed down.
Then a lock clicked.
Fresh air seeped in through the holes of your own prison.
And your lid opened.
You still wore your wrappings, so it was a little hard to see anything. Cloth kept your hands tightly bound to your chest, and when the two men you could barely see noticed that, they helped. Eventually your arms were torn free, quickly followed by the wrappings around your mouth.
You breathed truly, fresh air for the first time in longer than a century. Unfortunately, your eyes were still covered, so it was a bit musty.
“Um,” one man said, mumbling something garbled that you didn’t understand. Hands came behind your head, and for a moment you flinched back, but he slowed. With more care he came up from behind, slowly unwrapping your age old prison.
You blinked as harsh light filled your eyes, cringing away. Before you could fully see arms wrapped tight around you, pulling you out of your casket and holding you tight to a body, clothing and jewelry pressing tight into your skin.
“I - I’m sorry?” Was all you could think to say, eyes finally being able to see. The glass around you was gone, and you saw in full vision the others who were encased. They too were out, some more violent and confused than others, who seemed to also be from Egypt.
“Nour,” he mumbled, a cold sort of crown chilling your cheek. The voice, knowing your name, speaking it with such blessing, sounded too familiar. You tried to form words, but found yourself at a loss for them, resorting to confused mumbles and noises.
Over the mans’ (who was still hugging you) shoulder you saw another man, white skin, younger. Dark hair, strong brow, and looking incredibly awkward. Upon seeing that you noticed him, he waved awkwardly, saying something in another language.
“What’s happening?” You asked weakly, hoping the man who was hugging you understood your language.
“Oh, my love,” he murmured, lips brushing against your neck as he pulled back.
“My prince?”
#ahkmenrah x reader#ahkmenrah#night at the museum#rami malek#ahkmenrah x male reader#ahkmenrah x female reader
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Love & Anarchy: Chapter 26
AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH I CANT BELIEVE ITS ALREADY 2021 AND THAT WE’RE ARE IN THE LAST CHAPTER OF THE SECOND PART OF L&A :’) ace, this is a chapter i was EAGER to post, as you’ve been asking for it since chapter one; here you got it xd i loved writing this chapter SO MUCH, as i hate this character as much as you do xd anyways, i must stop talking and you may start reading this chapter. hope you had a nice beginning of the year! <3
REMEMBER THIS AU HAPPENS IN THE SAME UNIVERSE THAT THIS ONE
Find out what this AU is about here
Masterlist
WARNING: this chapter includes murder, violence and blood.
Tag list: @healing-winston-pratt @honey-hippie-harper @obsidianfr3sk @nodrianbcyes @everyone-has-a-nightmare @magykaldealings @redassassin @cerenoya @cassin-the-assasin @cindersnightmare
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8,226
Part 2: A teen named Ace Artino
17 years old Alec
Alec had something to do.
Actually, he had many things to do, but above all of them, one.
Gatlon City was a great disaster, the most beautiful and chaotic orchestra Alec had ever experienced. The message had worked like a nuclear-social bomb. The streets looked like Troy, drenched in blood and horror and violence and art made of these blood. The riots spread like a virus; one day, the suburbs were ‘peaceful’ and the next one, there were corpses in the front yards of the houses. The news channels had stopped broadcasting the news about the Anarchists and their cause, not to spread it, although it was already too late.
The damage was being done.
Alec was walking down the street, with his helmet not in his head, but kept in a backpack that Leroy had lent him instead. He could not wear the helmet on the streets if he intended not to catch people’s attention or draw violence to himself, so he kept it safe against his chest, like a second heart.
What would he be without that helmet?
Nothing.
At all.
He inhaled and quickened his pace. Around him, everything was distant screams, joint silences, assaults, uncontrolled policemen, free prodigies and dead prodigies. The cars passed at full speed, desperate to escape from that crazy circus, but two blocks were enough until they crashed with another car whose owners were as desperate to run away as they were. People were beginning to accumulate fear, while every day more and more prodigies were seen using their powers as the free beings they were. Alec's chest always swelled with pride at the sight of eight-eyed humans returning boulders, wind elementals generating whirlwinds, and even his Anarchists, spreading chaos and inspiring more prodigies to join his fight.
Alec had never felt so much hope in his life; it was as if each one of the chains that bounded him were breaking suddenly, letting him levitate a little more. His school closing its doors due to an internal riot, crack, a few inches above the ground. Gatlon’s park populated by vengeful prodigies, crack, a little higher. His Anarchists fighting the police and the military, beating them, crack, he was about to touch the sky with his fingertips.
But a chain was still there.
And he was going to get rid of it.
He finally reached the apartment at Drain Way and Southwest 435, hid over the entrance, and forced the glass door open with his invisible hands. He would destroy it, when he left that sty, to never come back.
He walked down the hall, each step rumbling in his chest, until he reached the elevator. Summoning it with his mind, he slammed it down, opened the metal doors, and got in it. Like someone throwing a ball into the sky, Alec took the elevator up in a second.
Until he reached the apartment where his father and brother lived.
And where, until a few weeks ago, he did too.
He got out of the elevator, went to the door of his old apartment, and before entering, he put on his helmet. He gradually felt how everything around him existed and how he could manipulate it as he pleased. He straightened his back, took a breath and a decision, and kicked the door open with an invisible but equally violent kick.
He minimally entered the apartment, and slammed the door with his invisible hands, locking it. The general view of the apartment was just as deplorable as the last time Alec had been there. The armchair full of stains from different origins, the individual plastic table, the kitchen with a mini freezer and a microwave, the hallway that led to the bathroom and the bedrooms. Alec hated every inch of that hell.
He inhaled and looked ahead.
Dante Artino was sitting in one of the only two chairs in the apartment. His image was as intimidating as ever: the spread legs, the hunched back, the empty beer bottle in one hand and the lit cigarette in the other, the rough and unshaven beard from who knew when, the red eyes, the mouth forming a contemptuous grin, the growls in his throat.
All his life Alec had flinched at that image and waited for the first blow.
But not this time.
He straightened his back even further and, with his mind, he pulled five leather belts from his backpack. He unscrewed them in one stroke and threw them at Dante like snaking whips; they wrapped around his legs and arms, exerted pressure, and brought him to his knees to the ground. A belt pulling each leg, each arm, and of his neck, keeping him still.
Alec untied his father's belt with his mind, and drew it to his hand like a magnet.
He unrolled it.
He looked into his father's eyes.
He tensed his jaw.
And he struck the first blow.
One by one, he took revenge for each bruise, each tear, each plea, each trauma that this man had generated on him. A whip on the cheek, another on the temple, one on the arms. The other belts tugged and tugged on Dante Artino, making sure he didn't move an inch. The man gasped and spat blood but said nothing at all.
That frustrated Alec.
So he insisted.
He raised his right arm even higher and dropped it with a brutal lash over Dante's left eye.
Blow for blow.
“Bastard,” Alec growled and whipped him once more.
Insult for insult.
“Useless rat.”
He pressed harder on Dante's neck.
“Asshole.”
He pulled on his arms until they were dislocated.
“Parasite.”
He broke his legs.
“Villain.”
He gave ten alternating lashes on each cheek.
Hit for hit, insult for insult.
He stopped for air.
He didn't gasp, he didn't hunch over.
With his invisible hands, he drew the belts towards him, causing Dante to hang in the air, like he did when he was a child, in the same position.
Alec spat at him.
“You ruined my life,” Alec muttered, looking at the person who called himself his father in the eyes.
Dante laughed cheekily.
“You ruined your life, useless rat,” he replied, and Alec's anger was heightened by his bewilderment.
He twisted the leather belt, tightening it around Dante's neck further.
“I’m. Not. An. Useless. Rat,” Alec emphasized, with every tug and pressure exerted on Dante's body.
“Yes. You. Are,” Dante replied, in the same way. He was hanging and he still found the strength to harass his son.
Alec roared angrily, outraged.
“NO, I’M NOT! I’M A GOD; I’M THE VOICE OF THIS AGE!”
Dante frowned and gathered all his strength to return his son's spit, only his was impregnated with blood and alcohol.
“You are just an useless bastard that evolved into a mad villain with aspirations of an impossible greatness.”
Alec squealed, enraged.
“I’M NOT MAD! I’M NOT A VILLAIN! I NEVER WAS, I AM NOT, AND I’LL NEVER BE, THOUGH YOU CALLED ME THAT ALL MY LIFE, YOU BASTARD, YOU ASSHOLE, YOU...!”
Dante didn't lose his cool calm when Alec ran out of insults obscene enough to describe him appropriately, and he replied, with a superior smile.
“Yes, you are. And I’ll always despise you because of that.”
‘Enough’, said Alec's trigger.
He was not mad.
He was not a villain.
He was a god.
And gods gave their verdict.
He did the same.
He let his mental hands lose control as he directed all his fury to them and they pulled so hard on the belts that Dante's head was separated from his body in the blink of an eye.
The head rolled on the ground, leaving a trail of blood, as satisfying as it was macabre.
Dante Artino was dead.
And his own son had murdered him.
Just like he deserved it.
Alec did not feel an inch of guilt; he just felt thirsty. He wanted more, more blood with which to satisfy his appetite for revenge after having lost so much to that man and many more. He needed to see suffering in those who had made him suffer, agony in those who had ruined him. That act of justice had not satiated him, no matter how much he had prolonged and squeezed it to get the most out of it.
He still needed other people's pain to avenge his.
Alec smiled, kicked Dante's head like someone would kick a ball to make a score, and left the apartment.
He would find it in the streets.
#love & anarchy#love & anarchy au#ace anarchy's backstory#ace anarchy#a teen named ace artino#ace artino#alec artino#alec james artino#dante artino#marissa meyer#my au#au#renegades au#renegades#before renegades#my fic#fic#tw: blood#tw: murder#tw: violence#renegades fandom
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Every day I’m reminded of just how strange the Supernatural fandom is. Not in the way that’s like “omg they’re so quirky and weird, they like murder and death and satan” just...strange.
I’ve only been here for a little while compared to a lot of other people, and there are still some people that act like people used to in 2012, but there also people who have been here SINCE 2012 and they have grown over time. In other fandoms that are newer and decidedly smaller, there will usually be only a handful of really incredible artists.
People that can make comic style characters that just leap off the page. People that draw so realistically you can’t tell if you’re looking at a painting or a photo. The people that write fics that twist your heart into knots, people that edit videos into music videos that look like they’re made professionally (and technically speaking, a lot of them are).
Usually in a fandom there will only be a small handful. Maybe for the bigger, older, more popular ones there’ll be more, but Holy. Shit.
There is nothing, NOTHING, that can prepare you for the sheer volume of art that has come out of Supernatural. There are so many fics on AO3 that if you search up all Supernatural fics at once, it doesn’t even let you look at them all. THERE ARE NOT ENOUGH PAGES to hold the entirety of the Supernatural writing community. And while I’m at it, I’ve been here a few years, religiously scrolling through pages of content, and I still seem to find new artists every other week. Artists that draw incredible stuff, who have been here for years, but that I’ve only just seen recently.
The Big Bangs, the Mini Bangs, and everything in between? I thought that was just a common thing in fandoms, but I don’t know any other fandom that has that kind of massive collaboration, that kind of community feeling. I know if I saw someone wearing Supernatural merch, I would feel comfortable just going up and asking about it, and if someone in the fandom did that to me I wouldn’t even be weirded out. It really does feel like a family here.
I could go on. Needless to say, this fandom is an anomaly, one for the history books. Maybe it’s a product of the show we watch, the emphasis not just on born family, but the family you find along the way. Maybe it’s because the show is so old that the people who may have been average writers or artists in the beginning have had time to hone their craft, to the point where they can actually make a living off of it. Maybe there’s no real reason here, just chance and the appeal of a mediocre genre-hopping show.
And Supernatural isn’t a perfect show. I wouldn’t say that at all. It’s got technical problems, weird acting and writing moments, and in its early days especially, a lot of the usual problems with horror, like just not having any women or bipoc other than minor characters and a handful of cultural appropriation. (Looking at episode 2 and 8 of season one, but there’s more than that) You could accuse them of queerbaiting and for a multitude of reasons you’d be justified in doing so. There are a lot of problems.
But I notice that every now and then, even with all those problems, there are moments that surprise you. Moments that leave you crying, hurting in places you never knew you could hurt in. Moments of joy, of pure uncut nostalgia, of laughs and the occasional meta joke at their own or at our expense.
And maybe this fandom is an anomaly because of that. Because this fandom has Problems. There’s writers out there who can’t take criticism, rampant art theft, and some questionable shipping (not just talking about one ship here either, we’ve all done bad). We’ve had discourse and hate wars, and at the end of it all you’re left wondering why people stuck around.
It’s because of those moments. A fic that makes you cry your eyes out at 2am, art that leaves you gasping for breath just looking at the effort that went into it. The feeling of seeing collaborations and crossovers of all sorts and thinking, knowing, that we are not alone. That no matter how niche our talents, how strange our infatuations, we are a Family.
Because Family doesn’t end with blood.
Keep fighting you guys.
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Reflections in Rooms
Summary: Roman and Remus are both aware that their rooms aren't exactly what people expect from them if anyone visits.
When Patton visits his reaction to mistaking Remus's room for Roman's was something neither of them could have predicted.
Authors Note: I wanted to write something last week and began this with no clue where it was going. Today I finished it and still have no clue where it was going for the entire story. Sorry if it’s bewildering at all. I’m just playing.
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If you live in a room for long enough it becomes a reflection of you in a way people very often won’t understand.
Both Roman and Remus realised this as almost every time a friend came over they’d assume the wrong room was theirs.
Janus visiting was the first time they recognised why it happened. Their remark upon being corrected had been “But you’re so chaotic and have no regard for anything being organised. How on earth can this be your room, Remus?”
Roman was not sticking around to hear the lecture over how organised any important movements were nor how the things Remus hated and rebelled against were conformity and that was never synonymous with organisation. He already had the lecture memorised in case there was ever an instant of a their friends calling while they were out.
“This isn’t quite what I’d expect by a Princes bedroom, Roman. Have you seriously been hiding all the interesting things you love for all this time?” Virgil groused, when he first visited. They’d become friends through a creative writing club and had planned to work on a story together that evening. “Seriously we could have been rocking out together to these bands and you cannot say that you didn’t think I’d like them. Just look at me!”
At least Virgil’s confusion was different to the reactions Roman had gotten before. A few of his friends had gotten very worried over how low some of the snippets left on his desk suggested his self esteem was.
The reaction both brothers were stunned to witness was Patton’s when he first followed Roman home. They’d gotten talking near the end of the work day and it just felt right to invite him over to carry on chatting together and perhaps share some of the creations that he hadn’t shared with the team at work.
Roman had gone to make drinks, giving Patton directions to his room upstairs while he did so when he heard the yell. “Roman your friend isn’t letting me go! What on earth do I do?”
“Let him hug you and then direct him to my room, maybe?” He called back, raising an eyebrow at that reaction. Sure, Patton usually liked to hug everyone in greeting but refusing to let go of Remus was the opposite of how people usually reacted given the unfortunate scent that surrounded him.
“Still not going to free him. This is my new best friend now. He likes kittens!” Patton yelled back before one of his apologetic sounds could be heard, presumably as Remus corrected him to the pronouns for the day.
Once the drinks were finished Roman was finally able to find out what his friend meant. His sibling usually focused on oceanic creatures rather than anything on land so something must have changed.
“I'm drawing catfish, not kittens or cats or anything like that. What's your name anyway?” Remus was explaining, although the picture did currently only have a cats face on it. Patton was hanging off her back, only just letting Roman see the lilac choker that clarified her pronouns.
Entering the room Roman snickered a little, already knowing that from how Patton spoke some of Remus's drawings would probably cause concern. “He's Patton. What's it going to look like when you add the body and colour?”
“It's gonna have mangled limbs of twisted together legs and fins, and a scattered red and yellow mottled pattern mixing fur and scales all over its body. I need to make the eyes bigger though... or smaller, fish have small eyes right?” Remus described already turning to search images of fish so she could decide what size the eyes should be, clearly having decided to ignore Patton hanging onto her.
“Nooo.” Patton whined, reaching clearly with the intent to take the sketch and protect it from Remus's plans. “Pretty kitten.”
Remus still nodded, pushing the drawing out of reach and pulling a folder from beside her desk up. “Yep, it'll be a beautiful kitten, just like these ones.” She insisted, show casing her variety of finished artwork to Patton cheerfully ignoring any upset noises.
Roman was only just close enough to see the pages being turned, but had already seen his sisters art after it was completed enough to know the pages. At the start it would be trips into uncanny valley, all the things Remus saw in robotic attempts to recreate humans or poor game and film CGI designs of people sketched out again as she tried to work out what was so off about them. Then the pages would turn to gore, murder scenes they'd heard described in various books and news broadcasts that she wanted to imagine more vividly. Those ones had Patton almost crying and rushing Remus to move past them without giving any sources or descriptions of her thought process.
After the gore Remus had pages of just normal ocean life as she had wanted to perfect how light works under water before allowing herself more creative attempts. It was her latest project and she'd only moved onto creating her own designs of underwater animals in the last few months.
That was where Roman decided to interrupt again, “So have I lost my friend to you for the evening? I can head back to my room now, if so.”
“Don't be jealous cause I'm more interesting than a Disney fan, Prince Pukey.” Remus immediately countered, raising an eyebrow as she turned. “But you're more than welcome to take your friend back anytime if he'll let go of me.”
“Your friend too, Remus. You are my new kiddo and I need to see everything you've been creating. I love the sharks. They look like puppies, not as terrifying as the movies make them.” Patton tightened his grip, still hugging or clinging to Remus as though she'd run if he let go.
The siblings blink for a moment, Roman stunned that this guy from work essentially has declared Remus as a friend after knowing him an hour and Remus because this guy just walked into her room, seems aghast at any pictures of injuries, war or fighting but has basically just adopted her too. “Where on earth did you find this maniac, Ro, and are there any other I need to prepare to be adopted by?” Remus asks after a moment, folder forgotten in her hands.
“Work. Logan is my main other friend there and they aren't really the adopting type. They will probably criticise any creation scientifically though so I'm trying to avoid inviting him home.” Roman muttered, still taking in what had happened. “Padre, you have literally yelled for hours over anyone suggesting something close to the things Remus has been showing you when we're at work, what...?”
“We make shows for Kids, Roman! That's not an appropriate place for this type of stuff, but there's nothing wrong in Remus exploring such dark subjects as long as she let's people walk away if it gets to be too much.” Patton scolded lightly, grinning as soon as Roman shrugged in response, letting the explanation be left at that.
Patton never did get to see Roman's room on his first visit to their home, but he did make a new friend that he might never have met otherwise.
#creativitwins#roman sanders#remus sanders#patton sanders#genderfluid remus#mentioned nonbinary logan#mentioned virgil#mentioned janus#making friends#human au
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CW for discussion of gun violence, murder, racism, and homophobia:
I now have had the experience of having a former student who was murdered.
Early this morning (aka "last night" as far as my sleep patterns are concerned), I found out that one student that I'd taught during my brief time as a 7th and 8th grade teacher had died a week or so ago. That he'd been murdered, apparently shot in his own yard/drive way in a drive-by by some twenty-year-old who later turned himself in. My former student was 17, just a week away from his 18th birthday.
My mom mentioned to me as the news was on that a student from the high school adjacent to the junior high I'd taught at had been killed. She didn't know if he'd been "one of mine" or not. So I googled. His name seemed familiar--his nickname sounded really familiar--and I knew his face. So I did something I hadn't done since September of 2016: I looked at my old seating charts. And there was his name in my first block class.
First block was a pain for me. That is putting it mildly. But I don't remember him as one of the bullies, just as a kid who'd rather spend the class period goofing off. And from everything I read about him, he was growing up to be a decent guy--always looking out for the needs of his friends, excelling in basketball, and looking forward to a future of playing college basketball. He was his mother's only child, and she'd got home almost right after he got shot.
I'm saddened, but mostly I'm angry. Neither of those two words are strong enough, but they're the easiest way to describe something far more complicated.
I'm angry that this teenager I knew briefly as a 7th had his future and his life stolen from him. I'm angry that his mother saw her only baby die violently and far too soon. I'm angry that the 20-year-old who killed him made the decision to do a drive-by. I'm angry for all the young people at that school who had their friend and team mate ripped away from them.
And I'm angry about how the year I tried to teach was set up--"the game was rigged from the start." That year, students and teachers were set up for failure from the word go. From a brand new discipline policy which was good on paper but which hadn't been given time to be implemented in anything resembling a workable fashion to our school--and others--getting selected via raffle or drawing or some other Hunger Games type shenanigans to test out a new critical-thinking-focused English/Language Arts curriculum which was clearly designed for class sizes far under the 30+ students we averaged with an expectation that students were at reading level (which most of our students were not) which turned our lessons into part literature class, part history class (the book for 7th grade had the Sudanese civil war as a background, and the one for 8th grade was in poetry from in addition to having the Vietnam war as its backdrop).
In addition, we had a principal who was out of his depth and out of touch with the reality of our school's...well, reality. We were all struggling with so many new things, and he felt it appropriate to tell us all in our first faculty meeting that he didn't feel that any of us deserved our upcoming paychecks.
The school system did us all dirty. The state did us dirty (which is sadly not a new thing in Alabama). Most of all, the white people who had set up and partitioned off the city hundreds of years ago, and then decades ago, and continuing into the present and future did those kids dirty. That year the city was supposed to reach 100% compliance with desegregation. The 2016-2017 school year. I doubt it did, because of its location and the nature of districting. I had maybe four white kids and maybe three Latine kids in three classes of around 30 kids a class. That was pretty reflective of the total school make-up. Because the school wasn't really near integrated neighborhoods. Because of how the city had been sculpted over the years by shitty white people and by probably some well-meaning but clueless and ignorant white people.
So I'm angry that because of the history and current reality of the state of Alabama, those kids were set up for a shitty first year in a new school. And I, in turn, was too.
The day I told my administrators I had to quit, the principal ask me "who told me" to do a mini lesson about respecting people's differences. A lesson I had thrown together because I was tired of feeling that no one wanted to do anything about the homophobic bullying that I was dealing with in my first black class, or the bullying I had to handle in my other classes. The lesson was to try to combat students' bullying of other students, but I was tired of getting bullied myself for being gender nonconforming (because at the time, I hadn't fully realized that I'm trans and nonbinary).
I was the second English teacher to resign before October.
I can only hope things got better for those kids, both the bullied and the bullies.
The school eventually--maybe the next year, I don't remember--got a different, more experienced principal.
But I'm still angry that that situation existed the way it did.
And I'm still angry that a former student who was growing into a responsible young man was murdered.
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COMICS BLOGGING OF A RAMBLING AND DIGRESSIVE SORT
I am embarrassed to admit it, but I do believe I buy things as a way of coping with my own uselessness. I’d like to attribute a universality to this character flaw, and claim everyone spends money on things they don’t need to fill some sort of existential void at the center of their being. My habits are relatively healthy, some people get shitfaced in response to the stimuli that makes me simply want meat, cheese, and carbohydrates. I have at various times read books at a pace comparable to eating, where everything got finished to make way for something else, but just because “reading books” is viewed as something good for your brain doesn’t make the act of buying them feel any less like a bit of brainless consumerism, especially when one is broke, and a global depression looms. Still, considering my worries that the postal service and retail outlets might go away if we do not support them and this will make life even more unbearable I convinced myself now was not the time to be a spendthrift.
All this is to explain why I bought a handful of comics I wasn’t sure I even expected to be good. Namely, I bought a bunch of issues of Alan Moore’s Tom Strong that I wasn’t sure whether or not I’d read before. I intended to parcel them out and savor them, but when I buy snacks at the grocery store, they get eaten faster than the vegetables. I bought these, along with some other single issue comics, from wowcool.com. From Powell’s, I preordered the first volume of Taiyo Matsumoto’s Ping Pong, which should arrive in a few weeks. I also ordered a few new releases direct from Fantagraphics.
Most notable among these is the Olivier Schrauwen/Ruppert And Mulot collaboration Portrait Of A Drunk. I’m on record as liking all the artists involved, and this one demonstrates why pretty clearly: While Olivier Schrauwen specializes in comedy about dumb guys, itself a form close to my heart, Ruppert And Mulot are darker and meaner, so here the dumb guy is an indifferent murderer. Being set in a pirate milieu allows for pretty amazing sequences of action and hallucination to flourish, their skills at color and composition tie it all together. Highly recommended. The back of the book announces Fantagraphics will be publishing the Ruppert And Mulot books made in collaboration with Bastien Vives starting next year. Hopefully I will end up reading comics by people other than my known favorites this year, but during a period of belt-tightening, there’s no guarantee even one’s favorites will live up to the increasingly-burdensome expectations put upon them.
Still, those Tom Strong comics outperformed my expectations. I believe I discussed how much I like Chris Sprouse’s work when I wrote about Alan Moore’s Supreme run, but let me reiterate: There’s a handful of comics Sprouse drew in the early nineties (A Batman annual with a Two-Face story written by Andy Helfer, an eighty-page Justice League Quarterly story, the first few issues of Legionnaires) which are emblematic of a certain DC Comics skillset I really value: This George Perez style ability to draw a lot of characters, rendered with this Jose Luis Garcia-Lopez spareness, this Kevin Maguire sense of facial expressions, a certain openness to the faces which is youthful and attractive and optimistic. There’s something similar to Graham Nolan’s art too: I don’t know how much other people like this stuff, it’s not really “cool” or gnarly looking, but there’s an unobtrusive cleanliness I associate with the DC “vibe” of this era, which I find vastly more appealing than the sort of post-Image-studios runoff that was their standard look more recently. As much as I love a good stylist, his is a good house style variant. Considering that, it rules that Tom Strong is what Chris Sprouse is known for. Those early nineties comics all have a lot of panels per page, but Moore, working in a post-Image mode, lets him breathe and do action sequences. He’s not an explosive artist, his drawing has this sort of style-guide quality to it, that feels perfect for the sort of “platonic ideal of a mainstream genre comic” tone that their collaborations aim for.
Reading these comics, I realized a few things: One, I hadn’t actually read them before. Two, they’re twenty years old. The years have been kind to them, in that I spent them aging, and while I was really into Top Ten and Promethea as a teenager, I still suspect that if Tom Strong is your favorite Alan Moore comic you are probably a dad. There’s a heavily nostalgic quality to all the genre pastiche going on, and its anchored by this character who is pretty upstanding, possessing this sort of all-seeing but benevolent competence aspect, and the storytelling affirms his liberal values. Peaceful coexistence is treated as preferable to violent conflict. It’s the work where Moore’e desire to issue a corrective to what he sees as a negative influence he had is most evident, it genuinely seems to be trying to be morally instructive to a young audience. I don’t think any of these things are bad, but it’s pretty easy to see how, reading the issues as they came out, many of them would register as somewhat bland. I seem to recall comic book writers at this time like Warren Ellis, Grant Morrison, and Mark Millar all deriding what they called “dad comics,” not necessarily talking about Tom Strong, as a way of hyping up their own efforts, many of which I followed more avidly at the time but do not expect would hold up nearly as well. (There’s an issue that’s a homage to old Captain Marvel Family comics, featuring a few pages of Kyle Baker art, I particularly enjoyed.)
After being reminded that Moore is a great writer, and never forgetting for a second we live in dark times, it felt appropriate to read From Hell again. I texted a friend and found he had started rereading it at the same time. I don’t consider it Moore’s masterpiece the way that contrarians that don’t want to give the nod to Watchmen do. While the darkness feels organic to the subject matter in a way it often doesn’t in Moore’s eighties superhero work, I do feel the whole “Jack The Ripper gives birth to the twentieth century” thing is a bit of a reach. I believe I will end up reading some of Eddie Campbell’s solo comics before quarantine is over, I am impressed by how organic the pacing feels, how natural it progresses while largely avoiding calling attention to Moore as a writer. The skill set that enables Moore to do a densely researched historical conspiracy thing is evident when he does a genre serial. Many of the elements in Tom Strong do not feel like they are imagined from whole cloth so much as they feel appropriated from various sources and then connected into this larger whole. The “peaceful coexistence” remit of Tom Strong allows for a structure where stories that seems tossed-off come back into play as plot elements. You rarely receive this kind of payoff from extended serials, but it’s built into the structure of screenwriting, and it is satisfying to retroactively realize like you weren’t having your time wasted when you thought you were.
I also ordered from Wowcool the Dunja Jankovic comics Sparkplug put out circa ten years ago. They’re very cool, reminiscent of Anke Feuchtenberger and Gary Panter, slowly shifting their sense of texture over multiple pages, so that while I don’t think I realized at the time these comics were released that they’re very well-drawn, it is obvious when you actually read them. I anxiously await her “Richter’s Game” minicomic being translated into English, though obviously this is going to be a tough year for self-publishers selling zines with widespread show cancellations. My hope is that Fantagraphics’ Now anthology will just start running work by people like Dunja, Alyssa Berg, Nick Norman, and Beatrix Urkowitz, but maybe there are good reasons for that not to occur. Maybe anthology pages can’t compete with the profits one stands to gain from self-publishing, or maybe my own idea of what I consider my broad-minded and catholic tastes would not actually appeal to large sections of the indie comics market, the same way my idea of what I consider “good” in mainstream
comics is actually far too nostalgic a model for the aesthetic preferences of the market as it currently stands. I offer these recommendations solely as another way of coping with my powerlessness.
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Justice League Spectacular #1 (1992)
Just off-panel: Bibbo's ice cream truck.
I probably shouldn't be reading this or Justice League Quarterly before I read the Giffen/DeMatteis Justice League but what can I do? That's the order they were placed in the short box! It would be a different story if free will were not an illusion but since it is, my hands are tied. It's either read this or, um, I don't know. Die from a temporal paradox? I won't risk it!
I was looking through a bunch of my old writing and art last week and discovered a bunch of the kind of sentimental and sort of intellectual crap young people write. It's the kind of stuff you hide away and never show anybody ever and hope that when you die, it'll just get tossed in a dumpster with your old porn and Magic the Gathering cards. But it got me thinking about how brave I am! So brave! The kind of brave you wouldn't hesitate to call some jerk who signed up for the military because he couldn't live as a civilian. No, no. More braver than that! And being this super brave kind of person, I thought that maybe I should share some of this old poetry with everybody!
But not yet! You have to work up to being truly brave! So instead, I'll share this piece of artwork I did that was supposed to be the first in a lengthy and disgusting series. It's of Lord Fondlerot, a character I created for the Dwarflover online comic I used to do. He was really into fucking things and I thought, "Hey! I should do a series of drawings where he fucks every creature in the monster manual!" But instead of doing an entire series, I drew one picture and grew either bored or disgusted with the concept. So here's that one picture:
Lord Fondlerot fucking an Axebeak.
Now you're probably wondering just how terrible my poetry must be if I'm opening with that! Well, you'll see soon enough!
This issue begins with Sue Dibny still alive and visiting a Florida theme park with her husband, The Elasticated Man. Wow, remember when Sue Dibny was killed and all the heroes freaked out about their secret identities and considered doing intense brain damage to every single person who ever knew any of their identities until they found out that The Atom's ex-wife Jean Loring had gone cuckoo for Atom's cocoa puffs? She wanted them back so bad that she began threatening and murdering the loved ones of all the super heroes. It was the kind of story DC sometimes does where you read it and think, "Well, the twist at the end of that mystery was definitely worth the destruction of the most stable marriage in the DC Universe and also the death of Firestorm and Captain Boomerang! So good!" I mean it doesn't make you think that. It makes you think the exact opposite. Tom King would eventually do pretty much the same thing in Heroes in Crisis but instead of Jean Loring fucking up by accidentally killing Sue Dibny and murdering more people to cover her tracks, Wally West fucks up and kills Poison Ivy and some others and then tries to cover his tracks. But at least Tom King's had all of those entertaining scenes where the heroes are doing therapy and we get to see how much they're all suffering from PTSD. That's always a fun aspect of super heroes we never get to read enough about.
Dammit! I keep doing it. I meant it was the opposite of fun! Although I still liked it because sometimes I just like seeing other people in pain. Not in a sick perverse way where I pop a boner or something! Just in that way where you sit around all day thinking, "My life is terrible and everything is wrong and I hate my parents for bringing me into this wretched existence and the only thing that might make me feel better is to learn that Superman sometimes feels the same way."
Oh, remember when Tom King was writing Batman and he had that two issue Booster Gold arc where we got to see how fucking insane Booster Gold was from living through all of those horrible, wretched, dark alternate timelines? And the only way he can deal with the trauma and the PTSD is by making a joke out of everything? I'll have to think of that as the canon Booster Gold when I'm reading Giffen and DeMatteis's Justice League. Maybe it'll make all of Booster and Beetle's inappropriate joking more appropriate.
Back to the story, Sue Dibny, alive and well, and her husband Ralph "The Elasticated Man" Dibny are busy showing a bunch of European diplomats around the non-Disney World theme park.
See? You can tell they're European because they're all smart and shit.
The first stop in the park is to Alice's Wonderland where the diplomats are attacked by the Royal Flush Gang. They are a gang whose theme is playing cards and not expensive toilets. Their powers are the ability to ride on gigantic cards and to make poker puns.
If looking good in tight fitting costumes is also a power, it's my new answer to the question of which super power would I choose..
Ten's outfit reminds me of the days when nipples were allowed to show through tops without being erased away through some kind of editing software. The 70s were a wild decade! Sure, there were also nips on television in the 80s but the 80s, generally speaking, sucked and were a huge contribution to the downfall of America.
The King of Spades mansplaining their entire concept to the Queen of Spades.
It's true that the royal flush beats any other poker hand but I doubt Superman is going to surrender after this concept is explained to him because, in the end, they're not fucking playing poker.
It turns out Maxwell Lord paid the Royal Flush Gang to make a little trouble so the Justice League could beat them up and get some media attention. But the Justice League has apparently broken up and The Elasticated Man just isn't hero enough to save the European delegates all by himself. He might have been if the Royal Flush Gang had done what they were told and not really fight back. But why would they do that?! Wouldn't they still be in trouble with federal agents?!
Booster Gold finds Blue Beetle busy pouting in the old Justice League cave headquarters. Booster has decided to try to cheer his old buddy up although why wouldn't Booster just travel to a timeline where Ted Kord is already cheered up? Is that how time travel works in the DCU? Or did Booster already try that, it went horribly sideways, and now he's a little more fucked up in the head when he returns to the "real" timeline?
For some reason, Ice and Fire have also come down to the cave. Probably to accidentally go on a double date with Booster and Beetle.
Booster and Fire and Beetle and Ice hear a news report about the Royal Flush Gang and decide to go save Ralph. Superman also hears about the situation and heads to Florida where he's almost immediately defeated by The Royal Flush Gang. Not because they're dangerous and competent super villains but because some mysterious benefactor has give them weapons capable of knocking out Superman's powers. Maxwell Lord is not that benefactor so who could have done it? Certainly not Guy Gardner, right?! What would he want with getting the Justice League back together. Isn't he busy being Warrior or something by this point?
Power Girl, Metamorpho, and Guy Gardner all join in on the fight. The guy behind it all is that Weapons Master dude who is desperate to get a new weapon for his arsenal: a Green Lantern ring. The attack on the Royal Flush Gang fails to get him the ring so he decides to attack directly. But not in this issue! He has to wait for a regular series issue.
Ice uses Guy's ring to contact Hal Jordan because somebody finally decided this Justice League wasn't really a big league Justice League. Everybody reading it knew it for years. But I guess Dan Jurgens was assigned the task to get a new, more believably powerful League together. So Hal Jordan flies around to pick up some new members to save the day. He chooses The Flash and Aquaman which seems about right. But he also chooses Crimson Fox which seems like sliding backwards into goofy Justice League territory. Not that I totally approve of Aquaman but I have to admit he's a "serious" choice for the League.
Doctor Light also joins the party. Although why she'd keep the name of a pedo, I couldn't guess. Just become Lightwoman or something. But no! Once some jerk earns their doctorate, they just have to demand to be called Doctor.
I'm sorry. I was too distracted pointing out that Doctor Light joined the fight and how her namesake was a pervert to comment on Metamorpho acting like a huge fucking pig.
Crimson Fox beats up some guys dressed as cards and admits that she's a boring idiot whose favorite part of the game is shuffling the cards. I understand the need to think up some kind of goofy one-liner when you go into battle but shouldn't you at least try to think up one that doesn't make yourself sound like a pathetic asshole?
Weapons Master's plan failed but he figures he has enough information to get Green Lantern's ring next time. He'll then sell it to a Dominator for a few bucks and maybe some slaves.
The big hitters talk it over and decide they should start a new Justice League without the approval of the United Nations. Yeah! Who needs some stupid Earthly authority when you've got an invulnerable Kryptonian, an all powerful space cop, and the king of the seven seas! All they need is a Greek Goddess and a mentally ill furry with a long history of violent behavior and they'll have the big team back together! Booyah! I mean, without that stupid Booyah shit because Cyborg is basically a toaster at this point. Maybe. I don't know! What am I, Johnni DC, Continuity Cop?!
The heroes make one more decision: split the group into two Leagues. So once again, they're forming Justice League America and Justice League Europe. How come I don't remember this shit?! Did the comics get canceled in '92 and then immediately fired back up? I don't seem to remember two different incarnations of these teams. Maybe I should have stored my comic books in chronological order so it would all make sense.
Justice League Spectacular #1 Rating: C. I just read the letters pages and it looks like this comic book takes place between JLA #60 and JLA #61! So editorial decided the teams needed to be shaken up and the best way to do it was to disband the League in the regular series, have a special one-shot comic that gets them back together but with a different roster, and then send them back to work in the next issue of the regular series. I guess I should just shove this comic book into the middle of the regular series so when I reread it all again in my 80s, it'll make more sense! Let's close with the worst drawing of Aquaman I've ever seen:
Actually, he looks a little bit like Grunion Guy.
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hmm, got any nice hcs or ideas you haven't gotten to talk about in other asks?? I'm still reeling from the magic/ians shitstorm that happened this week, cute stuff would be welcome(if you want to of course)
i absolutely do!! i don’t follow that show so i’m not sure what happened but i can absolutely provide soft and random content!!
Diego is the person who, when he had food that is bite sized, will toss it up in the air and catch it in his mouth. He will do this for everything, and yes it IS to establish dominance
i have a lot of thoughts about the family converting that depressing ass courtyard into a big old garden with flowers everywhere and maybe a vegetable garden/herb garden that Grace could help tend to and the kids could all sit out there and relax
i have a lot of thoughts and feelings about Five and flowers and appreciating green and growing things because i’m treating the ash in the apocalypse as being like, post a bunch of massive volcanic eruptions that kill a whole lotta shit and fuck up crops and plants hardcore and idk if 40 years is enough to recover because sometimes it can take hundreds of years to recover from that
okay this is a sad one but I headcanon that the first time Klaus really thought about the future was in a cot surrounded by the noises of the jungle and men snoring as he and Dave whispered back and forth about things they wanted to do after the war, where Dave would smile and tell Klaus about this little diner that wasn’t too far from his house growing up that made the best pancakes in the states and that one day Dave was going to take Klaus there, or about the ice cream place downtown that was just to die for, or the roller rink where Dave had all his birthday parties growing up and and and - just all the places Dave wanted to share with Klaus, all the places he planned on taking him, on showing him - and that’s the first time Klaus started actually planning towards a future, his future, their future
(at some point, Klaus does end up going to Dave’s hometown. Diego offered to drive him, but it ended up somehow being a family road trip. The roller rink closed down. The ice cream place is also closed, in its place is some fast food place. But the diner is still there, somehow. They all go in and Klaus cries into his pancakes when they arrive because this was something Dave had wanted to show him, a moment Dave had wanted him to have, and it aches aches aches)
Klaus 100% finds some buddies from his squad who are still alive who are absolutely gobsmacked to see Klaus because they 100% just assumed he’d cracked when he told them he was from the future and all that but here Klaus is, plain as day, and they’re all fucking thrilled to see him and are good
one of them shows Klaus pictures from a protest where the whole squad had shown up in Dave and Klaus’s names to advocate for gay marriage being legalized
also when Klaus tells them about time travel bullshit and is all “blame my brother” he absolutely 100% introduces Five to his war buddies and I genuinely can’t decide if this was a brilliant or terrible idea because Five is an old man who would absolutely get these old war dogs black sense of humor but also they would look at this child who looks around their grandkids age or whatever and be like “hmm. we’re adopting klaus first of all, on principle. we’re also adopting you. actually just. the whole family. all of you. you’re all traumatized infants, and any family of klaus is family of ours”
the whole family gets an squad of old veterans who are taking them all under their wings whether they like it or not tbh and they’re all chronologically older than Five anyway so respect ur elders son
HMM another headcanon i haven’t talked enough about is my artist!Five headcanon where, because Five feels a need to keep his hands busy, he turns from writing equations to drawing. He also did it in the apocalypse though, usually with a stick and a patch of dirt or something. Just doodling, scratching lines into dust and improving
this is basically just me trying to get my idiot son to do art therapy and start drawing and be really good at in and also end up sketching his siblings a whole lot (not always his siblings as they are now, but as they are in his memories: thirteen and fresh faced and the last time he saw them alive because the only other memory of them he had to cling to was the memory of their dead bodies for forty five years)
i have a random headcanon that Vanya fosters kittens in her spare time for no reason other than the fact that i like it and i like kittens and also i have a scene in my head where she hands a teeny baby kitten to like, Luther or one of the others and they’re just transfixed by how illegally tiny these kittens are what the heck
Klaus is the sibling who, when washing his hair with shampoo, spikes it into a mohawk for no reason other than simple zest for life. He also sings in the shower, and i’m talking like operatic singing and he’s certainly going to try and hit all those high notes. He won’t manage it and WILL sound like he’s slowly being murdered, but he’s certainly going to try
the first time he does this in the house three of his siblings bust into the bathroom convinced the commission came back and klaus is startled and screams and when he finds out why they busted in is all offended like “clearly i am the only sibling with CULTURE so FUCK YOU ALL”
i have so many headcanons about Claire and Five tbh for no reason other than the fact that i think they would be a terrifyingly chaotic duo because Five is 100% willing to just go with whatever Claire has plans for and absolutely no frame of reference for what is an isn’t appropriate for a child to be doing so when Claire is like “hey how fast do you think i can slide down the banister” five is right there going “hmm idk but i’ll time you if you want”
five and claire, showing up at the picnic covered in mud and soaking wet, holding frogs: what’s up everyone we caught dinner
klaus buys the whole family matching heelies because i say so and because it seems like the kind of impulse purchase that Klaus would make tbh
i feel like klaus instigates a lot of childish activities that the whole family ends up participating in. Why yes, Luther, we have taken over the entirety of the living room to build this big ass box fort. Why no, Luther, you aren’t allowed inside it and if you come close we WILL pelt you with these scrunched up balls of paper we have decided to use as ammunition. I can assure you that Diego is just as accurate with paper balls as he is with knives, Luther
this has ended up being a lot of Klaus but look if you think Klaus doesn’t demand that Luther give him piggybacks and carry him places then you’re just wrong because he would also demand that of every single sibling and will throw himself at them regardless of whether they’re actually capable of holding him up or not (Vanya is,, deceptively strong surprisingly enough)
Five, like a cat, will splay out and lay in patches on sunlight in the house. Maybe he could have been left alone about this habit, but Klaus decided to start doing it as well in solidarity and now the others end up tripping over one of their brothers limbs entering a room and end up on the floor swearing up a storm
okay that’s all i got for now
come back later and u may receive more Random Headcanons a la moi
#ask me#anonymous#tua#the umbrella acadmy#luther hargreeves#diego hargreeves#allison hargreeves#klaus hargreeves#five hargreeves#number five#ben hargreeves#vanya hargreeves#claire hargreeves#tua claire#my headcanons#misha has been laying on my arm this whole time by the way#he likes to make my life difficult#i love u misha but please i'm trying to type
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Here’s the final part of this story for Day 7 (Free Day) of @lardo-week! Please excuse any typos, but I am falling asleep as I type. AO3 version goes up tomorrow. I had good intentions, but Benadryl.
(Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6)
Read the entire thing on AO3
Chapter 7 - to arrive where we started
"We shall not cease from exploration
And the end of all our exploring
Will be to arrive where we started
And know the place for the first time"
–T.S. Eliot
A year after Lardo graduated, her bà ngoại moved into a retirement community. It wasn't quite assisted living, but assistance was available.
At first, Lardo's mom looked at it as a failure on her own part. As a dutiful daughter, she should be the one to look after her mother in her old age just as her mother had looked after her during infancy.
Lardo knew all too well what it was like to struggle with the idea that what you thought you should do wasn't always the right thing to do.
Bà ngoại had laughed aside the idea as she patted mom's hand. "We would murder each other, my precious girl. Besides, I'm going because I want go and before I have to go. And all of my friends are there. I'll be able to play cards every day, if I like."
Oh, yes. Cards. Lardo had seen bà ngoại at the card table. Bà ngoại at the card table was like Lardo at the pong table.
It didn't take much imagination to see a younger bà ngoại kicking everyone's asses at flip cup.
Scratch that. It didn't take much imagination to see bà ngoại kicking everyone asses now.
"What are you smiling at, child?" Bà ngoại asked with an innocence that fooled absolutely no one.
"The way you're going to totally dominate the canasta table. So, do you need any help moving? I know some big strong guys who owe me a favor or five."
And so it was that all four foot ten of bà ngoại led a procession of current and former hockey players down the halls of the Fern Hill Retirement Community. Lardo wasn't sure what grapevine had been called into play, but all of her bà ngoại's friends had found some reason to pass through that part of the building.
Later, Lardo would swear she saw one woman fan herself like she was Blanche from the Golden Girls.
If the smugness radiating off of bà ngoại could be converted into energy, all of Boston would be shining like the sun.
Bà ngoại had few enough things that none of the guys had to make more than two trips. Ransom and Holster took their leave as soon as they were done, as did Snowy, but from the look of things, Tater had gotten himself adopted by a couple of elderly Russian widows, while Bitty had locked in on the community's most avid bakers as if he were a butter-seeking missile. She wasn't sure where Jack and Shitty had gone off to, but they could look after themselves.
The larger pieces of furniture had been set where they needed to be with little fuss (except for one carved wooden table which had to be set just so), and all the boxes were placed in the appropriate spots as decreed by Lardo's clipboard.
"Do you need any help unpacking, bà ngoại?"
Bà ngoại waved her off even as she dug into the one box that she had carried herself. "No... actually yes. I would love it if you got my bed made up. I have a few things I need to do before I can call this place home, and then I think I will take a nap."
It didn't take long to find the sheets and make the bad, thanks the clearly labeled boxes. When she returned to the living room, she smiled to see the old photo of her ông ngoại already set up on the carved wood table, right where it belonged, surrounded by the familiar vases, bowls, and incense burner.
But bà ngoại wasn't done with whatever it was she needed to make this place a home. She held a large framed picture to her chest and was clearly deciding between two possible walls.
"There, I think," bà ngoại said, pointing to the wall next to the kitchenette. "Can you help me hang this?"
This was a framed picture of a blobby, spiky animal—supposedly a triceratops—in faded pinks, yellows and oranges. It was an unskilled drawing, but Lardo could see the beginnings of a sense of color, of form, of light.
"Yeah," she said, voice thick. "Let's do this."
There was measuring, and marking, and squabbling, and a couple of bent nails, but eventually the picture was up.
"There. Now this is home," bà ngoại declared. Her late husband's photo and her granddaughter's drawing were both where they should be, and apparently that was all it took.
Lardo hugged her gently, remembering when bà ngoại had been the taller one and she was the smaller one.
Lardo had been Larissa back then, a little girl who had loved dinosaurs almost as much as she loved her bà ngoại.
"Do you remember how you always said you wanted to be a paleontologist when you grew up?"
Lardo sort of remembered that, but what she actually remembered was—
"You always used to get so mad when your parents told people how you used to pronounce it!" bà ngoại said gleefully.
"Arrrgh!" Lardo cringed in embarrassment and tugged at her hair. "They said it was cute! I hate being called cute!"
The way bà ngoại smiled said that she knew damned well just how much Lardo hated it—and found it cute.
"I remember how much you loved making up stories with your toy dinosaurs. Do you still have that big plush one?"
"Mr. Steggy?" She scoffed. "Heck yeah I still have him!"
"Good. I thought it was a little sad when you stopped being so interested in dinosaurs."
"Mr. Steggy is forever. And now I'm into ducks, which are, like, stealth dinosaurs."
She still remembered the little thrill when she learned that dinosaurs were still around in the form of birds.
They hadn't gone extinct.
They just weren't what you expected them to turn out to be. But they were still there.
She hugged her bà ngoại goodbye and went to collect her boys.
The others assumed that her thoughtful mood on the way home was due to the idea of moving her grandmother into a retirement community, but that was only part of it.
She thought about all the times her family asked her what she wanted to be when she grew up.
At first, she had wanted to be a paleontologist the way other kids wanted to be astronauts, back when it wasn't the reality of the job you wanted but the cool factor of ACTUAL MONSTERS or SPACESHIPS.
Then, there was the dream of being an artist.
And fuck it, she was an artist. She just also happened to be an equipment manager for a professional hockey team, a job that wasn't in any way, shape, or form on her list of dream jobs at any point ever.
But, via a 'happy accident,' George had mentioned something to Thirdy about needing to train up a replacement for Stu, and Thirdy had said something to Marty, and...
And because a previous 'happy accident' had led her to Jack and a job that got her away from that miserable deep-fryer, here she was.
She had taken to the job like a duck-billed dinosaur to water. It hadn't taken long for the team to take to her. Of course it helped that Jack already loved her, Tater already adored her, Snowy already admired her, and Poots already (rightfully) feared her.
She was jolted out of her musings when Jack pulled up in front of Haus 2.0.
"Later, gator?" Shitty asked. Lardo didn't say anything, but gave him a lingering kiss.
With training camp starting up soon, it made more sense to crash with Jack and Bitty during the week. In another year, she and Shitty would probably be ready to find a place of their own, so it didn't make sense to move into our out of either place completely.
Jack and Bitty had to go on a grocery run, which Lardo suspected was an excuse to give her some alone time.
Jack was a good bro, really he was.
Lardo let herself into the condo. The picture hanging next to the kitchen pass-through was familiar enough that she didn't usually notice it anymore, but now she stopped to look at it.
Bitty had declared that Still Life With a Fuckton of Jam was one of his favorite graduation presents, and the fact that he hung it by his beloved kitchen said more than a 'thank you' ever could.
She passed by her Junior Show sky-scape as she cut through the living room. She loved that it was owned by someone who saw it being made and who wanted to hang on to the memory of the making of it.
No, this wasn't what she pictured when she thought about being an artist when she grew up, but that dream was still very much alive. Just not in the way she had expected it to be.
It was better. She would never say this out loud, because it would completely nuke her cred, but it was all tangled up in love.
Even when she was doing work for hire, it was still about the people. She still went to the Macey's used bookstore where the steps she had painted enticed young readers up to a nook furnished with cushions and hidey-holes. And every time, Macey still gushed about how she had wanted a staircase like that in her bookstore ever since she saw one as a child, and now she had the store of her dreams, and wasn't it wonderful?
She was halfway through another commission, this one for a friend of Snowy's who needed a re-do on his mask after getting traded to the Aeros. Jukes was super-psyched about the retro-futurist space-themed design she was doing in the Aeros' silver and red, so psyched Lardo half-suspected that kid-Jukes would have said he wanted to be an astronaut when he grew up (possibly a hockey-playing astronaut—he was Canadian, after all).
Snowy had taken one look at the design and had declared that by the end of the season, Lardo would have a three year waiting list, and that if he weren't so superstitious about his current mask, he'd be next in line after Jukes.
Having another job (one that she loved) gave her the freedom to pick and choose the art she wanted to do the way she wanted to do it and for the people she wanted to do it for. One day, she might be able to do it full time and she really hoped she would get there.
The important thing was, she was an artist. It was an essential part of who she was and who she would be, just like Bitty didn't need to own a bakery to be a baker.
She flopped down on the bed in Jack's guest room (which was already halfway to being 'her' room). She was exhausted enough to want to nap, but too keyed up to do so.
So, she picked up her bedside sketch pad, flipped to a mostly empty page, and began doodling.
She started with a triceratops.
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Supernatural: Atomic Monsters (15x04)
I love it when Supernatural goes meta. Seriously, I don't think I've ever seen a show do it better. It's goofy and yet still thematically appropriate. And it's respectful of the once-in-a-lifetime fandom experience of being a person who watches Supernatural. Who grows up watching it. Let's talk about it.
Cons:
There is one thing that this show can't make its mind up about, and it's when it's cool to murder people. Like, yeah, the kid in this story was a vampire who had killed a young woman and was worried about losing control and killing again. But this episode also featured a (kind of) return of Benny, reminding us that vampires can be allies and friends, too. We've done this so many times over the years - Sam and Dean have had many debates about whether well-meaning monsters can control themselves enough to be left alive. And they've allied with people who under normal circumstances they might have just killed. Rowena. Crowley. Benny. Even Cas, if you want to get technical about it. It was painted as extremely tragic that the young man in this episode had to die. But I wanted there to be at least a conversation about it beforehand, where Sam and Dean said that yes, a normal life probably wasn't possible... but death wasn't the only option. If we can't live in the middle-ground, where exactly are we going with all of this?
I'm not surprised that Dean and Sam didn't talk about Cas in this episode. It makes sense because Misha can't be in the whole season, and Destiel just broke up in episode three. They're going to draw this sucker out just a little bit. But yeah, on a selfish note, I admit I was hoping for at least a mention. Maybe Sam could remark that Dean's good mood seems like a front, given how upset he's been about Cas. Oh well. I'm choosing to remain optimistic.
Pros:
The monster-of-the-week story was not one I'll be remembering as a favorite or anything, but it worked as a nice mirror to poor Sam's state of mind. Obviously he's sad about Jack, sad about Rowena, feeling really low about things in general... but he's also having terrible nightmares about turning evil and killing his brother. And now here we have a story about a monster who is afraid of hurting his loved ones, and who chooses to die to protect others. That's a very Sam-Winchester-y choice to make, and I know for a fact that Sam would rather die than hurt anyone, especially Dean. So the foreshadowing here was clear, even if the details of the case this week weren't especially memorable on their own merits.
And that dream at the beginning... I loved the cool lighting, the fight choreography, Dean's signature "cupping the face of my dying boyfriend loved one" move... all of it was wonderful. Jensen's directing really shone in that opening scene. And Jared played Evil!Sam so well. The fact that they brought back his psychic powers, the demon blood, and used it to frighten Sam about what he might become... all of that stuff was golden. Poor Sammy. There's a great moment before they leave for the case when Sam suggests that Dean call on another hunter, and Dean insists that Sam needs to come along. You just know that Sam is scared of hurting Dean, or of being off his A-game and causing problems. The poor darling!
The impala brotherly moment at the end was really powerful, and showcased to me how far these boys have actually come. Dean is open and honest, saying that he wants to help Sam out of his funk, that Sam helped him to believe that what they do still has a purpose, and still does some good. Sam is then honest about his own feelings right back, saying that he can't let the past go, that he still thinks about Jessica, that sometimes it all catches up to him and he feels like he can't breathe. And then, as if wanting to appease Dean and brush past the conversation, he says "maybe I'll feel better in the morning."
The Dean Winchester of earlier seasons would have let it go, stayed in a place of denial, and moved right on. But this Dean Winchester says to his little brother: "And what if you don't?"
Sam doesn't have a good answer for him, but just the fact that Dean asked shows huge character development. As far as the boys are concerned, Chuck is gone. They are free. Now they can work on their emotional well-being. They can decide what the rest of their lives look like. And as a start, Dean wants to help his little brother, and he doesn't want to shy away from the rough parts of that. I am enamored with the character development here.
But let's pivot and talk about that meta goodness. We see that in the years since we last checked in with her, Becky has gone through extensive counseling, and has gotten married and has kids. She is also still an active member of the Supernatural fandom, selling art on Etsy and writing fic. Let us just track the way that this show has talked about its fans over the seasons. In the beginning, Becky was a manic, obsessed, crazy fangirl who literally drugged Sam and forced him to marry her. Over the years, however, they have taken a different tack, treating the fandom with respect, especially in episodes like the 200th. And here, we circle back around. We have an acknowledgment that this show has been on for fifteen years, that some of the teenage girls who fell in love with it when it first started, are now grown adults with careers and families. And that these grown adults might still love the show as much as ever, might spend their time online chatting with other fans, working hard on fanfic, turning their passions into lucrative careers. And this is not mocked or derided in any way. I was gobsmacked by how respectful this interpretation of fandom was, and was so, so pleased to take a look at an old character and show real change and development.
This episode also firmly telegraphs something about the theme of this final season of Supernatural. The year 2019 has been rough for me, in terms of beloved franchises choosing to go the "dark" and "grim" and "realistic" route, what with your Game of Thrones and your Endgame and your killing off of beloved depressed bisexual characters (ahem Magicians ahem). There was a not-so-small part of me that feared that Supernatural was going to go the same direction, ending the story with some dark tragic ending, because it's the cool thing to do or whatever. But after this episode, I'm fairly confident that's not where we're headed. Chuck, our villain, wants to end the story as a tragedy. But Becky, the audience avatar, tells him exactly how much the fans will hate that. And Sam and Dean have always been about free will, in the face of insurmountable odds. So it's looking like the boys are going to earn their happiness this season. And I'm very much all about it.
I feel like there's a lot more I could say about Becky and Chuck, but I'll leave it at that. This episode had a lot of really great stuff going on in it. For once, the C-plot episodes make sense for Sam and Dean, because they truly don't know that the bigger threat is out there. We get the nostalgia factor with returning faces like Becky and Benny. We get meta-commentary on the nature of storytelling and endings. We get Sam having sinister dreams and actually confronting his own depression and trauma. I'm a pretty happy camper!
8.5/10
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By Alexis Soloski
When we last saw Veronica Mars, the greatest private investigator Southern California has ever birthed and tanned — shut it, Philip Marlowe — she had ducked a corporate law job and returned to Neptune, her beachside hometown, resolved to defend the weak, defy the powerful, wisecrack with the best of them. Happily ever after, on her terms.
But why be happy when you can be hard-boiled? As Veronica’s inventor Rob Thomas said, “Happy and noir don’t go well together.”
“Veronica Mars,” a snappy, sophisticated crime drama about a high school P.I., debuted in 2004 and ran for three critically celebrated but lightly watched seasons, first on UPN and then on CW, returning in 2014 for a fan-funded movie.
That seemed to be the end of it. Its star, Kristen Bell, continued a successful film and TV career. Thomas went on to create and run “iZOMBIE.” But you know the noir trope where a character thinks she has outrun her past and then the past comes on at a sprint? It applies.
In a genre-appropriate twist, the show is back, revamped for the streaming age. An eight-episode fourth season will drop on July 26 at Hulu, where the first three seasons are already available.
Reboots and revivals are as thick on the ground as Neptune beachgoers. A long-gone show that returns after so many years with its original cast, led by Bell’s Veronica, and its distinguishing style (think Dashiell Hammett after a few blender drinks) mostly intact? That’s rarer, and not without its dangers.
Continuing a beloved series after so many years risks tarnishing its legacy. (If we’re being honest, the uneven third season was risk enough.) Besides, how do you make a show about a child prodigy when that child prodigy can apply for a fixed-rate mortgage?
The season’s big mystery, according to Thomas: Is a 30-something Veronica Mars “an interesting enough character on her own to continue to attract fans?”
A few weeks ago, I met Bell on a gloomy June afternoon in her trailer on the Universal lot, an overheated box befrilled in demoralizing beige. She was in the middle of a shoot for her other show, “The Good Place,” and had two caffeinated drinks going, which partly explained the pep. (The messianic zeal she feels for Veronica explained the rest.) In her costume, a lilac sweater over an embroidered blouse and green chinos, she looked about as noir as an Easter basket.
And yet “Veronica Mars,” she said, is the show that launched her, that shaped her, that taught her comedy and responsibility and a commitment to social justice. She will quit it, she said, when everyone in Neptune is dead.
“That’s when I’ll do it,” she said, pushing her cane-sugar soprano into a lower register. “That’s when I will let her go: When the last body is buried.”
“Veronica Mars,” which The Times described, on a list of the 20 best TV dramas since “The Sopranos,” as “a peerless blend of neo-noir mystery and teenage romantic drama,” was always a show ahead of its time. Its heroine, 17 when the show began, looked like a Barbie and scrapped like a G.I. Joe. She was as quick with a comeback as with the Taser she called Mr. Sparky, but still vulnerable to problems personal and systemic.
More politically minded than your average teen soap, “Veronica Mars” had love triangles and cliffhangers and, from its first episode, a sustained interest in wealth inequality. In its depiction of gendered violence, it anticipated much of the #MeToo conversation.
“It continually kept questions about gender inequality in view,” said Susan Berridge, a lecturer in media at the University of Stirling who has written about the series. “There were so many story lines involving sexual violence and other forms of gendered abuse that it became impossible to see these issues as one-off aberrations.”
If you don’t identify as a Marshmallow, the name ride-or-die “Veronica Mars” fans adopted, here’s the back story: A onetime popular girl, Veronica became an outcast when her best friend Lilly was murdered and Veronica’s father, Keith (Enrico Colantoni), then Neptune’s sheriff, mistakenly accused the town’s most powerful man. Keith lost his job and his home. Veronica’s mother deserted the family. Her former friends ostracized her. During a party, she was drugged and raped by persons unknown. At some point she gave herself a terrible haircut.
“It was an adult show about a teenage girl,” Mr. Colantoni said, speaking by telephone. “This wasn’t ‘Saved by the Bell.’”
During the first two seasons, Veronica would solve episodic mysteries while also seeking justice for Lilly and for herself. The third season, which brought Veronica to college, dispensed with the case-of-the-week in favor of longer arcs. It also assigned Veronica a nice-guy boyfriend, Stosh “Piz” Piznarski (Chris Lowell), though most fans shipped her and the poor-little-rich-boy Logan Echolls (Jason Dohring).
Facing cancellation, Thomas tried to interest networks in a revival that saw Veronica working for the F.B.I. No one bought it. Presumed dead, “Veronica Mars” was briefly resurrected when Thomas decided to try crowdfunding a movie. He raised $2 million in less than five hours, drawing the highest number of donors for any film or video project in Kickstarter history.
“Veronica Mars” the movie may not have been a masterpiece — The Times called it “a likable, unmemorable, feature-length footnote” — but it melted the gooey hearts of most Marshmallows. Thomas and Bell could have let their gumshoe-made-good ride into the sunset in her secondhand car, placating the fans with the occasional tie-in novels Thomas co-writes. (“‘Co-writer’ is being generous to me,” he clarified.)
But last year, Thomas called Bell and asked her if she would consider playing Veronica again. It was a big ask: Bell had already committed to a final season of “The Good Place” and a “Frozen” sequel. Also, noir involves night shoots and Bell has two young daughters, which means a lot of missed bedtime.
Weighing the commitment, Bell recalled asking herself, “Do I want a world where my daughters know she exists? Or do I think there’s enough out there for them to look to?”
“I didn’t,” she said. “And I thought, yeah, I have to do it.”
And — “this is going to sound so corny,” Bell added — she still needs “Veronica Mars” in her life, even after all this time and all her success. The show gives her a place to put both her anger at a world that is still unequal and unjust, and her faith that individuals and communities can make it better.
“Just knowing Veronica exists has allowed me to pull strength in certain situations,” she said.
This installment picks up five years after the film ended, with Veronica sleuthing alongside her dad at Mars Investigations and living, reward check to reward check, in the oceanside apartment she sometimes shares with Logan, now an active-duty naval intelligence officer. There are a few B- and C-plots, but mostly Veronica works just one case involving a series of bombings threatening Neptune’s spring breakers.
Thomas and Bell, an executive producer, chose the eight-episode format partly because that’s all Bell’s “Good Place” schedule allowed, but also because they were impressed by what shows like “Fargo” and “Sherlock” were able to do in short seasons. They sold the show to Hulu, which was also able to acquire the past seasons. Craig Erwich, Hulu’s senior vice president of originals, described the revival as “an opportunity to see a beloved character grow up.”
Unlike the movie, this new season doesn’t pander — a few Marshmallows may feel scorched. The emphasis on wealth inequality and structural bias is, if anything, starker. The moral palette is grayscale, and the tone (Thomas described it on Twitteras “Hardcore So-Cal noir”) is dark, though maybe not that dark. “There are a lot of jokes,” Thomas said. “I don’t think we can go full ‘Handmaid’s Tale.’”
Though the earlier seasons of “Veronica Mars” shot in San Diego, the show relocated its exteriors to Huntington Beach, nearer to Los Angeles, where Bell lives. Certain sets, like the Mars Investigations office, have been faithfully re-created and shouldn’t upset continuity hard-liners, though Thomas is wary of checking his Twitter feed once the episodes drop.
The dialogue has stayed slangy. “What’s with the fakeloo, our mark’s no Jasper,” Keith scolds Veronica in the fourth episode. (Among this season’s writers: Kareem Abdul-Jabbar. “It never got normal,” Thomas, a basketball fan, said worshipfully.) And Veronica can swear now, though not much. The sex scenes are a little more explicit, the relationships a little more complicated and the emotions real, just like they used to be. “Even when we were teenagers, we all meant it,” Dohring said.
Here’s the big change: A former child prodigy who could out detect men decades older, Veronica has become age appropriate, maybe even immature when it comes to her personal life. (If the series followed real time, Veronica would now be about 32, but these episodes edge her into her mid-30s, closer to Bell’s age.) Thomas wondered if her superpowers — her bravery, her righteous anger, her lack of interest in what others think of her — would seem as impressive on an adult woman. (Speaking as an adult woman: Yes.)
I spoke to Thomas on the telephone a few hours before I met with Bell. Before we hung up, I asked him what he thought I should ask her.
“Ask for her window of availability in 2020,” he said. “That’s what I want to know.”
So I did. Bell told me she had set aside a few months next spring to shoot a follow-up. “As long as people want to watch it, I will do it,” she said. (Hulu is “definitely open to the discussion” about making more of the show, Erwich said.)
But here is what I wanted to know. As a viewer, I’d grown up with Veronica, too. And I’d looked to her as a character who had survived trauma and had accepted how that trauma had changed her, without ever having to sacrifice her humor or her mean-street smarts or her self-confidence. “Veronica Mars was this girl that other girls and boys could look to as an option of what to do with pain, and how not to let it sink you,” Bell said.
So would she ever get that pony? Would we ever see her happy?
“I don’t think we want to,” she said, speaking as Marshmallow in chief. “We want to see her match lit. We want to keep her fight in her. When she’s truly content, the story will be over.”
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