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northisnotup · 2 years

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The Unknowable Adam Parrish vs. Harvard - pt 1

Benjy took a small, fortifying breath and knocked. He used his upbeat knock, a quick three beat rap.

The muffled voices beyond the door fall from clearly argumentative to inaudible.

There's no call of 'who is it/what do you want/come in!' because unlike the rest of their dorm, Adam leaves the door to his room locked, instead of just counting on the suite door for security. It slowly inches open, Adam taking him in before he opens it further. It's cautious, more cautious than anyone else Benjy has ever met, and he's always been wildly curious about where Adam must have learned it from.

"Hey, what's up?"

"Do you have a minute?"

Adam blinks, slow. "Sure," he smiles, after just a second too long. "I was just -"

"Ronan," Benjy gimanced, perching himself on the very edge of Adam's bed while Adam himself took the computer chair. It was a weird quirk, one of many, but Benjy hated sitting on other people's beds. It was too intimate, the things that went on in beds. Closeness, sex, sleep. On the whole, Benjy didn't really think of those parts of other people's lives, but when he was forced to consider them, they made his skin crawl. "Yeah, I heard."

Adam had the grace to look a little sheepish at that.

No time like the present. "That's actually why I'm here."

"Ah." Adam said. He looked fine, at ease. "Now's not really a good time."

Benjy sighs. He wishes he could put it off but knows it's better he do this now then let Adam be ambushed at dinner tonight. Gillian, impatient at the best of times, is reaching the end of her very short rope and Elliot is always happy to enable her to do her absolute worst behaviors. "It's never going to be a good time though, is it?”

“This is about Ronan.” Adam’s face does a thing sometimes. Benjy would say ‘sometimes when he’s mad’ but he doesn’t think he’s ever really seen Adam mad. Not really. He’s seen Adam irritated, frustrated, but those emotions always seemed blunted with some kind of…amusement. Like even when he’s tearing his hair out over a due date, it’s not serious enough to warrant anything deeper. But when Adam’s upset it’s like his face wipes clean of all emotion. His blue eyes go half-lidded and dark. Most of the time, Adam only looks like that after phone calls with his old high school friends, or when someone touches his tarot cards, or, lately, about Ronan.

As much as Benjy would dearly like to deny it, he nods. Wipes his sweaty palms against his jeans. “We’re just concerned.”

“We?”

Coward to the core, Benjy can only give him a trembling smile. “I thought you might prefer talking to me about it, instead of having Gillian reenact the Spanish Inquisition.”

“And then you could disseminate the information to the masses, saving me from having to have this very awkward conversation three more times?”

“Essentially?” It came out like a question.

Sighing, Adam glanced back at his desk. Textbooks, notebooks and laptop all open, though the screen was dark. “Alright.” Benjy almost wished he’d cross his arms or snap or give some clue as to what he was feeling. Instead, his hands were clasped lightly across his lap, face smooth as a mirror. It was the same assessing look he sometimes wore when the professor would post a particularly complicated question to the class.

Adam either loved challenges or hated them, Benjy was never able to figure out which it was. He also felt that, of all of them, he was the most uniquely unqualified for the task.

“We’re concerned,” he said again, the short talking points he’d made for himself disappearing as he grasped for them. “You said you broke up, but then you went to Virginia to see him? But you’re always fighting, and you stayed here over winter break and I don’t think I’ve ever heard you say you even like him, let alone,” he was conscious of his own babbling and the word ‘love’ being on the tip of his tongue. He recoiled from it so hard he bit himself. It was more words than he was ever comfortable saying all at once and embarrassment lit him up like a flash fire.

This is why he was glad to be friends with people like Eliot and Gillian and Fletcher. They didn’t mind him being the quiet one. They got that it took him a while to really figure out what he wanted to say.

And Adam, too. Adam, who handed him a paper cup of water and a kleenex.

Unlike the rest of them, Adam didn’t have a mini fridge in his dorm room, and rather than take up space in the communal fridge or his floor with a flat of bottled water, he invested in one of those refillable five gallon bottles with an electric pump on top.

They were all living in the past and, as always, Adam Parrish was light years ahead of them.

“Is that everything?”

“It’s like you’re a different person, with him.”

It hadn’t been what Benjy was going to say, but it was what he meant to say. What he’d been trying to say this whole time. The Adam Parrish with cold eyes who snarled into the phone and whose partner was labelled under ‘Shithead,’ with a profile picture of a cow paddy for honest’s sake, was worlds away from the Adam Parrish who’d found Benjy crying helplessly over a bombed Intro to Psychology quiz in the very furthest back study carousel.

“Relationships are complicated,” Adam said, sighing and casting another unreadable look back at his computer.

From anyone else, Benjy would have felt condescended to. From Adam, it felt like he was sharing a secret. It’s not like any of them really knew what a long distance relationship was like. Fletcher and Eliot hadn’t really dated, unless cybering with random’s met in chatrooms counted. Benjy didn’t think it counted, not as a relationship anyway. And Gillian had broken up with her highschool girlfriend as soon as she knew they were going to different schools.

“I have things I want to do, and Ronan’s got things he has to do.”

Benjy nodded. He remembered something about assets in Virginia. He knew Ronan lived there, but not much else. Really, they hadn’t gotten to pump Ronan for much information at all before Adam swept him away. He was big, muscled, and scary looking. Quiet. Shy? Perhaps? Definitely sarcastic. He killed at cards, and wasn’t thrown by the Club’s enthusiasm or complication. He wasn’t a cryer.

Benjy still wasn’t sure what had happened after that, but while Fletcher made it sound like a scene from a horror movie, Adam had been unruffled, meeting his theatrics with that same thousand yard stare that Benjy was on the end of now.

“It is hard finding a middle ground there, but we are both very stubborn.” The only thing that betrayed how uncomfortable Adam was with their conversation was his clipped sentences and dropped contractions. It is. We are.

“You’re happy, though?” Benjy asked, inanely. It felt like a stupid question, but it also felt like an obvious one. Like it was the question and one he had to ask.

Finally, the blank look cracked and Adam’s thin lips quirked into a small smile. “Yes.”

Oh thank goodness. Not noticing or caring that he had next to no more information than he started with, Benjy took his cue to finally get off Adam’s bed. “Good.”

At the door, he hesitated, unsure if he should apologize or warn Adam about the ‘Fifty Ways to Leave Your Lover,’ presentation that Gillian had started a powerpoint on. (She was entering what she very gleefully called ‘her slut phase’ and had recently decided that humanity had moved past the need for monogamy and that everyone should get on board with her decision. Fletcher scathingly called it ‘very Free Love of her’ and they’d been sniping back and forth whenever the topic was brought up.)

“I do appreciate the concern,” Adam cut him off, gently. “I know you guys don’t really get it, but I really did have a good high school experience, despite everything.”

Benjy smiled back. “Sounds magical,” he joked, fiddling with his watch band. He’d wanted a car for a graduation present, but with their eyes on Harvard, his parents had thought a watch would suit him better. A car that got parked in some secure lot over the school year and perhaps driven twice was not the status symbol he’d need to fit in here, they said.

“It was,” Adam agreed, voice far away. “We good?”

“We’re good.”

As the door closed, there was the unmistakable sound of skype unmuting. “Jesus and the cross, Parrish.”

Benjy froze. The lock snapped back but he still heard Adam, muffled, say “You could have had the decency to turn your sound off.”

“Are you saying I’m not decent, Parrish?” Ronan’s voice growled through the door and Benjy fell back against it. One one hand, he was quite glad that this was not the Ronan Lynch they met all those many months ago. The sheer force of personality would have flattened them. On the other hand, he was left with a distinct feeling that he had missed something, somewhere.

“You’ve never been decent a day in your life,” Adam snapped back.

And if the Crying Club couldn’t handle an uninhibited Ronan, Benjy had no faith in any of them, him very much included, in standing up to an Adam that sounded like that.

“Where is this coming from? It’s like you’re a different person-”

“You can fuck right off.”

“Say. The. Word.”

Benjy lept away from the door as if burned. Oh that was not for his ears. That was not for anyone’s ears. Mentally composing what he was going to say to the other three in his head, he forgot all about the slivers of information he might have gained and the cold something that lurked behind Adam’s eyes.

#my fic #north's fic writing #pynch #ronan lynch #adam parrish #the crying club #the dreamer trilogy

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lytefoot · 4 years

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I just read your commentary on how her friends only liking her for her brains is one of Hermione's biggest insecurities. And I'm still so sad that that bit of Hermione wasn't ever explicitly addressed in the books (also a bit jealous of Ron tbh). Would you have any ideas about how Harry addressing that with her would look like? (I'm still learning to like Ron so just Harry for now if possible?) I'm really curious on what your thoughts are on that. I love how nuanced your perspective is in meta.

It really is sad that Hermione’s personal fears and discomforts get so little treatment in the text, or really in the fandom. In a lot of ways, I feel like her inner life ends up muted because she’s meant to be an audience-insert--or maybe it’s just that I love to project onto her! Either way, the text does her a huge disservice by shoving her aside as The Annoying One in a lot of the interpersonal conflicts, or letting her shrink into a fountain of plot convenience in much of the last book. There would have so great if we got as in-depth an exploration of Hermione’s insecurities as we did of Ron’s, for sure.

(On the other hand, it would probably get as wildly misinterpreted as her quitting divination does--PoA is the closest we ever got to exploring Hermione’s inner life, and it... was obviously not clear enough what she was going through.)

We do see Hermione getting some assurance that Harry actually does like her in HBP, when he sticks with her during The Fight, but really, this is something that can only be addressed after the war is over--because as long as the war is on, they do need her brains and her attention to detail. (Hermione isn’t more necessary than any other member of the trio--but she is absolutely a vital member!)

The other thing is that Harry is real bad with dealing with other people’s feelings--though I think this is something he’s able to learn more after the war, when he doesn’t have the threat of Voldemort looming over him. Being out of school helps, too: after all, if Harry never needs to sit an exam again, he doesn’t need Hermione to help him study any more. Harry wanting to hang out with her when he could get by just fine on his own is honestly going to be a big help to Hermione’s self esteem.

I can’t really imagine a moment when Harry would put into words that he likes her for herself, rather than for her utility, but I can see little moments. Asking her to come along to something. “What? But I can’t help you with that!” “I know--I just want your company.”

That actually gives me an idea. Because like, I can see Harry asking Hermione to come with him... I don’t know, shopping in Diagon. Something for remodeling Grimmauld Place, maybe. And Hermione arrives with an entire binder full of home improvement research she stayed up all night that Harry looks at like “??? Hermione, you didn’t need to do that.” Pause. “Isn’t that why you asked me?” “No, I asked you because I want your company! You’ve been at school, we haven’t talked since Easter!”

The biggest thing that Hermione needs from her friends, though, to help her be more secure in their affection is just... sticking with her, even when she’s... shall we say... less than perfect.

I’m imagining Hermione’s First Big Ministry Cock-Up. (Because when you’re just starting your career, you will have a First Big Cock-Up, it will happen! And probably if you’re a young woman, especially a young woman from a marginalized group, you will be made to feel like it’s because you’re Totally Unqualified.) And Harry, who’s got a pretty good ear on the rumor mills at the Ministry, turns up in her office, where you know she’s locked herself in, and offers to beat up her boss, or, he doesn’t know, get him arrested or persuade Percy to “accidentally” disconnect his floo or something. And they end up sitting together on the floor of her office coming up with increasingly improbable revenge schemes and eventually Hermione laughs. And feels better because Harry’s on her side, even though she just embarrassed the nation in front of the ICW or something equally disastrous.

If the circumstances were right for them to have a big heart-to-heart about it, I think Harry would be kind of baffled by the idea that Harry didn’t like her. “Do you really think I’d have spent all that time in the library with you fifth year if I didn’t like you?” And Hermione’s like, “That’ was because you needed me to help you study for OWLs!” and Harry’s like, “Uh, no, I studied for OWLs because otherwise I wouldn’t get to see you ever. You’ve got that backward.”

Seriously the most important thing, to Harry, about Hermione helping him study was that, like, she was the first person who ever cared whether he studied or not, have you noticed that? Certainly the Dursleys never helped him with his homework! Hermione’s love language is acts of service, and even when it annoyed him, Harry heard “I’ve drawn up a revision table for you” as “I love you” loud and clear. And he absolutely studied with her in an attempt to show that he felt the same way, much more than to actually improve his grades. Hermione’s like, “Let us do our potions homework together!” and Harry’s like, “I hate potions homework, but you’re great, and if that’s what we’ve gotta do, then fine.”

But the most important thing is to continue being there, to continue to want her around, even when she screws something up, or when he doesn’t have a need of her for anything at all. Harry calls when he doesn’t want to ask a favor. He writes her long letters about Auror training the she’s back at school--including neat spells he thinks she’d be interested in, but also including getting told off for being sarcastic to the Auror trainer, and the embarrassing story about how Justin Finch-Fletchley completely kicked his butt in practice yesterday, and asking how she’s settling back into the castle--just, friend things. Inviting her to pub trivia night even when the questions were going to be sports themed and she’d supply not a single answer. Playing chess with her, on purpose, in the common room. Hanging around her when there’s nothing to be gained by it except her company.

The biggest reassurance Hermione needs from her friends is for them to continue to love her when the war is over and her presence isn’t vital to the effort. To sometimes want her to be around when they don’t want anything from her. To let her know that yes, absolutely they value her input and her thoughts, but they value her self as well.

(Please note: if I knew exactly what to say to someone who secretly believes that their entire value to themselves and others hinges on their being Smart and Correct and Useful, I wouldn’t need therapy.)

#harry potter #hermione granger #harry and hermione brotp

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matildainmotion · 3 years

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An invitation to MWMs May Special for Non-binary/ Trans Mothers and Carers, and/or Mothers and Carers of Non-binary/ Trans Children

Image by Xavier Singer-Kingsmith for Gray, Nicky Singer’s new book.

From Matilda:

In a month in which my son’s primary focus is the forthcoming arrival of his Lord of The Rings Conquest game and my daughter has just discovered Barbie, I am glad to be able to hold space for some less cis options in between.

On Friday May 28th 10am-12pm I will be holding a MWM Special for non-binary or trans mothers and carers and/ or mothers and carers of non-binary or trans children. I am delighted to introduce the two guests for this meeting: writer and mother Nicky Singer, and director and mother P. Burton Morgan. Please read on for their invitations below:

From Nicky:

My youngest child Xavier (now 24) identifies as a trans man. He is a dancer by training, filmmaker by inclination (shorts for Channel 4 and BBC Arts) and visual artist in the spaces between. I am primarily a novelist - though I have strayed on to the stage for the National Theatre and Glyndebourne. Xavier and I have been working together on my new novel for adults ‘Gray’ – with me on words and Xavier on pictures. The novel is a story of identity, boundaries, intimacy and that ‘place beyond language’ where some trans issues invite investigation. The journey is ongoing. The unexpected is every day. It’s not always easy. There’s joy. Here (above) is one of the illustrations from the book. I am interested in the personal, the creative, the political and how to keep nuance and complexity in the debate.

From P Burton Morgan:

We’re all of us artist mothers wrestling with imposter syndrome at one time or another I’m sure. I can’t be the only one whose work has shifted a bit during the pandemic. I was previously mostly a writer and director of stage work, now increasingly embracing film. But as we all push ourselves, or are unceremoniously shoved, out of our comfort zones we have to confront those pesky inner critics questioning our right to be there, to be taking up space doing something for which we’re wildly unqualified and painfully inexperienced. And so here I am today inviting you all to join me for a session on non-binary parenting / motherhood.

I am as out of my depth here, as I am in my newfound role as a film-maker because I only came out as non-binary last year, and unlike my trans sibling who has been vocally active and activist in their writing and general change-making around trans awareness and trans support for years, I am still taking baby-steps in putting words out into the world that combine my gender politics with my own gender identity and/or gender presentation. Like many enbys I’m still struggling to feel ‘trans enough’ to take up space on trans/NB platforms (which this is of course one). I’m also at great pains to point out that my unique situation (coming out as NB in my mid… ok late… thirties, after already having two children) is going to be so very different to parents/mothers who come out much earlier. I’m also married to a cis man so on a day where I choose to present more femme, or just less androgynously, we can pass as a ‘conventional’ heteronormative couple, which makes life less challenging in the small rural village where we live.

So after that uncharacteristically hesitant opening let me ask some provocations which maybe we can explore together in the session. I sure as hell don’t have the answers, but maybe collectively we can grope our way towards something resembling solutions.

Pronouns. I prefer they/them but apart from my 8 year old who has assimilated that change wholeheartedly (perhaps because he has inherited his mother’s love of, and precision with, language) everyone else reverts to ‘she’ unless I remind them. That is perhaps just part of the deal with changing your pronouns later in life. Especially for family and folk who’ve known you for decades, it takes time to change.

I still use the word ‘mum’ and ‘mother’ to describe myself, but also sometimes simply parent. For me the term 'mum' is a role, almost independent of gender. But I know other parents use other terms. And although I do still use my birth name ‘Poppy’ I now work professionally entirely under P Burton-Morgan.

So that's one thing to discuss - embracing evolving pronouns and names.

What else… gender presentation. Since making peace with who I am, and where I feel at home, I now always identify as non-binary or gender queer but I sometimes still present in a more feminine way, sometimes because that’s how I feel that day and also, if I’m honest, to avoid conflict and micro aggressions in situations and scenarios where I know my queer identity is going to be problematised. Sigh.

Conversely both my children currently identify very happily as male but because they have been raised in a household that eschews traditional gender binaries in terms of clothing they often wear leggings, sequins, nail varnish, and one of them has long hair cut in what many would describe as a ‘feminine’ style. We obviously move in (thankfully) liberal circles but they’ve rarely been challenged on their sartorial choices, and I remember the nursery used to be wonderfully supportive when one of them would come to pre-school in a beloved pink tutu. Sarah Jessica Parker eat your heart out! Just the other day we were in the playground when a child asked my eldest if he was a girl or a boy, but with no judgement, simply trying to ascertain the facts. And he equally matter of factly answered that he was a boy and they carried on playing in the sand.

I wish my experiences were similarly straightforward. But partly that’s why I don’t bother correcting people when they slip up with my pronouns - sometimes there’s more anxiety induced by people trying to get it right and walking on eggshells around me, over emphasising the ‘they’ and then furiously fumbling to correct themselves when they say she. So I just try to be chill about it.

At the end of the day, as an NB parent, or a parent of an NB or trans child, we all want the same thing - acceptance. Queer identity will only ever be a greater or lesser part of a larger identity. For few (maybe none) of us is it our defining feature. And as well all know from inhabiting the dual roles of mother and artist - the nature of our multi-layered messy lives is that our identities may overlap or even conflict with each other, we all contain multitudes - but we are not defined by any one aspect of our complex selves…

So join me in a gentle exploration of these overlapping messy parts of ourselves and let's see how we can support each other and what wisdom we can discover.

To book your place on the meeting (places limited) please go here

And for any questions please email [email protected]

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yodawgiherd · 4 years

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Scars that time can't heal

>>>Read on AO3<<<

Rating: M Setting: A modern AU, an Ex-Soldier Mikasa dealing with her inner demons.

I've got this idea to do a short story in what is basically the setting of my main fic with just a few modifications. It's something new, and I would really love to hear what you guys think about it. If you like it, I might do a continuation, as this thing could certainly be expanded. Thanks a lot and Enjoy! :D

Lights. Voices. Pain.

Every breath Mikasa took prompted a thousand needles inside her to prick and tear, to create more and more of the suffering. She would cry if she could. She would scream if she could. But she couldn’t.

Mikasa couldn’t do anything.

They were taking her somewhere, formless faces and blurred figures, talking in voices that were drowned in the rush of blood in her ears. It wasn’t that hard to realize what was happening to her. Mikasa was dying, plain and simple.

A figure appeared to the right of her, catching up to the others, a face that seemed somewhat familiar. Could it be… ?

“Jean?”, Mikasa rasped, every syllable dearly paid for by more pain.

The figure leaned closer, revealing its face.

“Mikasa! Mikasa can you hear me?!”, his hand grasped hers, tightly squeezing the numb fingers, “Hang in there!”

She wanted to tell him to shut up, to just let her die in peace, but another coughing fit overcame her. The movement stopped. Hands lifted her for a moment before depositing the hurt soldier on a proper hospital bed, already smelling of someone else’s blood which soon mixed with the stench of her own, still gushing from the wounds on her body, leaking through the impromptu bandages. Mikasa could see Jean’s head moving from left to right as he looked around, desperate to find someone that would help her, but to no avail. She wasn’t that surprised, the sudden attack took them completely by surprise, catching the US military with their pants down. There must have been dozens of dead, hundreds of wounded, and Mikasa wasn’t that important anyway. Soon, she would be just another casualty of war.

Out of nowhere, another shadow fell over her, as gentle hands ghosted over the bandages.

“What happened?”, a new voice asked.

“A grenade, we didn’t see it coming. Exploded right next to us and….”, Jean’s response was rushed, but quite accurate, “Shrapnel tore into her, fragments…”

“God damn it,”, swore the new voice, “I’m not qualified for this, someone else has to…”

“I’ll take care of her.”

A new voice, young but somewhat rough. Mikasa couldn’t see the speaker, the only thing she could see was the burning tip of the cigarette in his mouth.

“You? Didn’t you hear the captain?”, the unqualified medic cut in, “You’ve been awake for over 24 hours, get some rest before you kill someone!”

“I said I’ll take care of her,”, said the cigarette, “Now either help me or get out of my way.”

The first shadow still lingered, not ready to give up.

“Listen, there’s no one else available to help her. Look at those wounds, if we wait, she’ll die.”, the rough voice dropped an octave, pleading, “Please, help me save her.”

“Fuck. FUCK. Fine!”, the first guy finally gave in, “What do you need me to do?”

“Take off her clothes, get some local anesthesia…”

“Local?”

“We can’t put her under, if she goes to sleep…”

“I won’t wake up.”, Mikasa finished for the rough voice, weakly.

Her head was swimming at this point, the only thing that was keeping her anchored in reality was Jean’s grip on her hand, feeling so warm against the coldness that began to spread its fingers through her body. The second shadow leaned over her, the burning cigarette tip bright as a sun.

“Hey there marine.”, said the rough voice, accompanied in the background by snipping of the scissors, as the other guy was working on removing the ruined remnants of Mikasa’s uniform, “What’s your name?”

Even saying her own name was a task that felt impossible.

“M-Mik…Mikasa.”, she finally pushed out. So tired.

“That’s a beautiful name, soldier. Can I drop the formalities and call you Mikasa?”

She nodded, her bloodied lips turning slightly up. It was funny, being talked to so formally at her own deathbed, but she really liked the way the cigarette pronounced her name. He didn’t choke on the second syllable, as a lot of people do, even Jean had trouble getting it correctly at the start. Not this guy though, whoever he was, he aced it the first time around.

“All right,” he continued, “Now do you know what’s going to happen?”

She swallowed, the coldness spreading further from her wounds. They used to burn, just fifteen minutes past, but the agony was gone, replaced by cold numbness. It wasn’t hard to guess what was going on.

“I’ll die.”, she stated.

The burning tip swung left and right, as whoever was smoking it shook his head.

“No, you’re not going to die, I won’t let you.”

There was a sharp smell of disinfectant in the air. A snap of latex, as the cigarette guy pulled on a fresh pair of gloves, saying something to his assistant before turning back towards her.

“I’ll pull those fragments out of you, sew you up, and you’ll be better than ever. All right?”

“You can’t… there’s too many.”

The rough voice didn’t even waver as he replied.

“I can do anything I want.”

The cigarette disappeared, replaced by a surgical mask most likely. An instrument exchanged between the two shadows, and a gleaming point neared one of the deep cuts on Mikasa’s body, ready to dig in in search of the invading metal. But before it could make contact, she spoke up again, in a small voice, the fear and lightheadedness taking over.

“Is it going to hurt?”

The instrument stopped, and even when Mikasa couldn’t see his face very clearly, she knew that he was looking straight into her eyes when he replied.

“Like hell.”

Then, the former cigarette smoker pushed the thing in, and the agony returned, most of the world disappearing behind the veil of Mikasa’s pained scream.

Eyes shooting open, she sat up, heart beating wildly in her chest. The way it hammered against her ribs was soon joined by the well-known hammering of a hangover, making Mikasa groan and massage her temples. Well, she wasn’t falling asleep again, that was for sure. Standing up from the bed her foot nicked the bottle next to the bed, empty thank god, and it whirled away before hitting the wall and remaining there, glistening in the moonlight. She could hear music, coming down from below, a certain disadvantage of living above a bar, but hey, she didn’t have to rent. Worth it. Hoping that the headache will recede soon, Mikasa set out for her bathroom, carefully finding her way between the heaps of clothing, empty bottles and other trash that she had to finally get rid of. Reaching the sink, she splashed her face, taking a moment after to look into the mirror.

A visage stared back at her. Pale skinned, boyish short dark hair matted by both sweat and water, dark circles underneath her eyes. Goddamn it, she really did look like shit. The nightmare still lingering in the back of her mind, she inspected the old scar beneath her eye, frowning at it. Everyone said that she was incredibly lucky, if that particular shrapnel fragment flew just a tad bit higher, she would have lost the eye. Lucky huh. Taking a step back, Mikasa knew what she will see but it was still a bitter pill to swallow.

What was merely a nightmare now was a reality, just a few years back. The scars were there, spread across her body, reminders of all the places where the fragments cut into her. She should have died there, on the table, bled out or something, but whoever that cigarette guy was saved her life, pulled her back from the dead. He was no magician though, and making the scars disappear was impossible. They were forever etched into her, a web across her skin, spread everywhere. Mikasa was not scarred only on her abdomen, but over her chest too, and the metal even cut into her legs, grazing the thighs. She liked saying that she came to terms with her injury, but sometimes it still saddened her, the permanent reminder of the explosion, destroying what could have been…

With a sneer, Mikasa turned away from the mirror. What a crybaby she was. Why would It matter that her body was scarred? It was only cosmetic, none of the fragments hit any important muscles or organs, her body was still in peak condition, if not too pleasant to look at. There was no point if thinking about it, she reminded herself, for what felt like a hundred time. It didn’t matter. It didn’t.

Returning to the bed, Mikasa checked the bedtime clock, seeing that there was still plenty of time before her training session. But as sleeping was not an option, she decided to just say fuck it and go anyway, get in a few hours of her own training before Louise comes in. After all, she did have the keys to the gym. Grabbing her leather jacket from where it lay on the only chair in the room, Mikasa took her bike keys and made her way out of the door. Passing the bar, she saw Jean leaning over the wood and talking to some girl with a huge grin on his face, handling it perfectly as usual.

It was a risky idea that they had, pulling all of their money together and buying this place after leaving the army could bite them in the ass, and it was purely Jean’s doing that it didn’t. While Mikasa was only the initial investor, she didn’t do shit for the bar, while Jean was the owner, barman, waiter, accountant, and everything that the establishment required. He handled it all on his own and literally carried the place on his back without a word of complaint. Honestly, he was the best business partner Mikasa could ever ask for.

The gym was exactly as dark as one might expect at three in the morning, and the parking lot in front of it nicely empty. Stopping her bike at the best one, closest to the entrance, Mikasa once again realized that there were still no designated places for the staff. She really should talk to Levi about it.

“You were so amazing! You did like boom, left hook, right hook, and that kick!”

“Louise, please, can you focus on your set?”

“Oh, right sorry!”

Rubbing her forehead, Mikasa watched the younger girl struggle with the weight, doing her best to push it upwards. Being a personal trainer to Louise could be mentally taxing, but she paid so well that Mikasa was willing to put up with it. They came into contact in the weirdest possible way too. After coming back from the war, scarred in both mind and body by the experience, Mikasa had certain anger inside her, one that desperately needed to be let out. And punching the bag didn’t quite soothe her. Yet before she could do something she would come to regret later, Levi approached her with a proposition. There were underground fights taking place in the city, mafia organized, where anyone could enter and beat his opponent nearly to death. Levi took part in those too, back when he was younger and desperately needed the cash to keep both himself and Mikasa out of poverty, and now offered the same chance to his sister. In short, she took it.

Mikasa was doing martial arts basically ever since she learned how to walk, desperate to protect her remaining family after the tragic demise of her parents. Under her brother’s tutelage, she became quite the menace, a fact that came in handy during the fitness tests in the army. Now in these illegal fights, she could finally fully unleash herself. They kept coming at her, because who could ever lose to a girl, right? And she kept beating them, one after the other. It felt great, it allowed her to let out some steam, and it paid well. The dream scenario, really. Those fights were also where she met Louise, her adoring fan.

Louise was a spoiled rich girl desperate to keep herself entertained. She tried everything, every drug, every kind of alcohol, every guy or girl that would go to bed with her. But none of these filled the void inside her chest. That was until she caught wind of the underground fights and went to see them for herself. As luck would have, right the first fight Louise attended was Mikasa’s, and ever since the girl saw her knock the lights out of a hulking beast of a man about three heads taller than her, she fell in love. First thing in the morning, Louise tracked Mikasa to Levi’s gym where she trained and begged her for so long until the former soldier caved in and agreed to train her. That was their partnership. Louise attended all Mikasa’s matches, tirelessly cheered her on, and had personal training sessions with her, endlessly talking about the fights her idol won.

“Do you have any action today? Or tomorrow? Or this week?”, Louise was basically bouncing on her toes with excitement, her sweaty face giving away just how much she loved watching Mikasa fight.

“I don’t think so,”, the raven shrugged, “Gotta check my email after we’re done here and…”

“You have to let me know if there is anything. You will, right? Please?”

She sighed.

“Of course I will, don’t worry. If it wasn’t for you, who would hand me my towel after a match, right?”

How such a simple compliment could make Louise smile so brightly was a mystery to Mikasa, but she had no intention of bursting her trainee’s bubble of happiness.

The bar was basically empty when Mikasa came back from the gym, but that wasn’t much of a surprise. Most of their business happened in the late hours anyway. But how Jean managed to look so rested and ready while being up to the early hours of the morning, now that was not normal. He greeted her with a radiant smile, moving behind the bar with practiced movements. Jean made it look so easy.

“How was your fan meeting today?”

“Grand as always. How’s the bar holding up?”

“Well, I don’t mean to alarm you, but there’s someone special today. Your six .”

Carefully, Mikasa turned her head to the indicated direction, seeing a man sitting by himself. She couldn’t see much of him, just a long hair tied back into a ponytail and his broad back. Looking back at Jean, Mikasa raised an eyebrow.

“And he’s special because….?”

“Because I believe he’s just your type.”, the barman gave her a wink, “Why don’t you head over and talk to him, he looks so sad, sitting there all on his own…”

“Jean.”, Mikasa sighed, “Could you stop trying to hook me up with people?”

“Why should I? Mika, you’ve been alone for years, why don’t you live up a little?”

She frowned at him.

“I do live it up.”

“Getting drunk by yourself every night doesn’t count.”, Jean reached over the bar, putting a hand on her shoulder, “You’re my best friend, a great girl too, and it would make me so happy if I’d see you smile for once.”

“Jean…”, she drawled, but he didn’t let her finish.

“I know a girl who needs some fun when I see one and take this from a guy you used to date, you definitely do.”, he squeezed her shoulder, “Just go talk to him, okay? And if he’s an asshole, then well….”

Letting go of her, Jean flexed his impressive musculature.

“I’ll set him right.”

Mikasa couldn’t help but giggle at that.

“You think I can’t handle him on my own?”

“Please, I’ve seen you fight. I know that you can kick anyone’s ass.”, he said, “I’m just saying that should you need backup, I’ll be right there.”

She knew that Jean wouldn’t stop nagging at her until she gave in, so Mikasa decided to just skip the persuasion phase and do it. Pushing back from the bar, Mikasa smiled at him.

“Thanks, Jean, I appreciate it.”

Walking over to the guy, Mikasa felt a tingle of nervousness up her spine. How does one flirt again?

“Hey.”

Nailed it.

The man looked up, his startlingly green eyes boring into her.

“Hey yourself.”, his gaze traveled all over her, settling back on her face, “Can I help you?”

Riiiiiight.

“I… Uh… I mean….”

You know what, Jean was an asshole. Luckily, before she could embarrass herself further, he offered her an out.

“Can I buy you a drink?”, he asked.

Accepting the invitation, Mikasa sat down, finally taking a good look at him.

“Name’s Eren,”, he said, “If you care to know.”

That made her smile.

“I do. Mine’s Mikasa, by the way.”

“Nice to meet you, Mikasa.”

He had a nice way of pronouncing her name, the way it rolled off his tongue reminded her of someone, but for the love of God couldn’t remember who. With one shot inside her and one more on the way, Mikasa once again picked her brain for a line, something that would say that she’s interested in the guy. She was, to be honest, he had a nice face, pleasing if a bit raspy voice, and from what she could see he was rather well-built too. And the eyes, Mikasa really liked the eyes, the emeralds made her feel all giddy inside.

“So…”, she cleared her throat, “What’s a good-looking guy like yourself doing here all on your own?”

Eren’s face split into a huge grin.

“The delivery of that was amazing, you do that often?”

“Eeeh, not really…”

The bastard had the audacity to be smug.

“Oh? I couldn’t say.”, he said, the irony oozing from his words.

No matter how awkward she was, however, Eren didn’t seem to mind, and their conversation flowed. Somehow, they managed to completely avoid talking about themselves, and even when it was dark outside and the bar began to fill, the only thing they knew was each other’s names.

“I hate to be that guy,”, Eren said, looking over her shoulder, “But I have to ask, is the barman your boyfriend?”

“My boyfriend?”, following Eren’s gaze, Mikasa saw Jean cleaning the glasses with the most innocent expression he ever had. “No, not that. He’s my ex.”

“And you parted on good terms?”

“The best. Why?”

“Well, he keeps throwing glances our way, so I’m just wondering if I’m not hitting on someone’s girl.”

“Oh, so you’re hitting on me now?”

A small smile appeared on Eren’s face.

“What if I am?”

Instead of an answer, Mikasa returned his smile, downing her shot right after. The place was popular, and they were quite a few drinks deep at this point, so it was getting increasingly hard to understand what Eren was saying. It was annoying.

“How about we take this upstairs.”, Mikasa suggested, “I live right above the bar and…”

The realization of what she just suggested struck her, and she was left staring at Eren’s face, who looked back at her with an unchanging expression.

“Are you sure about that?”, he said, slowly, making sure that she understands.

She did, but no reason why to back down occurred to her. Jean was right, after all, she would like to have some fun.

“Yes.”, she held his gaze without flinching, “Yes I am.”

Seemingly on board, Eren nodded, finished his drink and stood up.

“We better get going then.”

It felt rather unreal, leading him up the stairs. The last glimpse of the bar showed her Jean, who was giving her a thumbs up, making her frown at him. The key jingled in the lock as Mikasa pushed the door open, silently cursing in her mind the fact that she still hasn’t cleaned up her apartment. Luckily, Eren didn’t seem much interested in the place, as his hands almost immediately found her hips and then he was kissing her, her lips hungry on hers. Judging from how quickly he coaxed her mouth open, Eren was an experienced kisser, and his tongue knew what to do. Mikasa moaned weakly, her legs feeling like jelly, drunk on both alcohol and him. Fuck, she really wanted this, needed this. But when Eren’s hand went to her shirt, trying to lift it up, the sirens went off in her head.

No, she couldn’t let him remove it, he would see the scars if he did. And there was no way he wouldn’t get disgusted by what she was hiding. With a shove, stronger than intended, Mikasa pushed him away, much to Eren’s surprise.

“What is…?”

She didn’t let him finish, turning around instead and bending over the foot of the bed, offering him her backside. Face down, ass up, that’s what men liked anyway.

“Do me like this.”, she ordered, looking over her shoulder, “Come on.”

It was a damn sexy ass, Eren had to say.

“Yeah…”, he nodded, quickly catching on “Okay…”

With their combined efforts, they undid Mikasa’s belt pushing down her pants and underwear just enough. After that, Eren was quick to find a condom in his wallet, pulling down his zipper and putting it on with practiced movement. He really was no beginner in this. Not that Mikasa cared, however, all she craved was to feel that nice, big cock inside her, so wiggling her hips, she all but purred at him.

“Are you gonna stare all evening or are you finally going to fuck me?”

Eren chuckled behind her, his hand moving over her exposed firm flesh.

“With an ass like this, only a fool wouldn’t take that invitation.”, the thrust took her by surprise, as Eren buried his whole impressive length inside her in one move, forcing her to cry out. His mouth at her ear, he growled.

“And I’m no fool.”

Quickly overwhelmed, Mikasa couldn’t do much, only moan and fist the bedding as Eren fucked her, hard and deep, her eyes rolling back. It was too much, too much, and her world was coming apart at the seams. Demonstrating a surprising amount of self-control, Eren always slowed down when he was close, mindful of her pleasure, a trait not that common during a one-night stand. It gave her ample time to build herself up, writing around on the bed while he kept thrusting at a steady pace, fully in control.

“You’re so fucking tight, it feels so good,”, he whispered into her ear, his voice deep and primal, “I love the way your pussy massages my cock, baby.”

His tempo sped up again, the sound of skin slapping skin mixing with the increasingly loud moans he forced from her. Muscles winding tighter and tighter, Mikasa was on the brink, just waiting to be pushed over.

“That’s right..”, he growled, pinning her down to the bed, “Cum for me! I want you to squirt all over my cock.”

As if her body followed his orders, Mikasa came, muffling her scream into the bedding. And still he wouldn’t stop, fucking her through her orgasm, milking all the pleasure from her quivering, dripping pussy. She was completely done, feeling fucked beyond imagining when Eren couldn’t hold back anymore, coming inside the rubber with another groan. Quick to pull out, Mikasa whimpered a bit at the sudden feeling of emptiness. She was slumped on the bed now, nothing holding her up, warm and completely satisfied, much more content than she felt in a long, long time.

Eren was moving around, discarding the condom and zipping up his pants, suddenly restless. If Mikasa didn’t have her face squished in the bed, she would see that his face was filled with something close to regret, a clarity that wasn’t there before.

“I… I think I should go..”, he said, eyeing her fallen form.

Mikasa shrugged, not really caring anymore. Tired, exhausted by his intensity, by how well he fucked her, she was sure that this night’s sleep would be peaceful, the nightmares wouldn’t come. Mikasa got what she wanted, and the desired fun was much, much better than she ever expected, positively blowing her mind. She used him, more or less, used this random guy for her pleasure, and now that he’s done his thing the fact that he was leaving on his own was amazing. Didn’t even have to throw him out.

“Just close the door behind you.”, Mikasa yawned, turning around on the bed and pulling the covers over her body. She could remove her clothes later, once she will be alone and there would be no chance of Eren seeing her scars. No need to scare the guy, he served her well.

“Right… I…”, a sigh, followed by silence. Whatever he wanted to say, Eren ultimately decided against it, and hearing the click of the door, Mikasa knew that she’s alone.

Again.

#snk #fanfic #eremika #oneshot #modern au #soldiers

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calleo-bricriu · 4 years

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What I want to see is what over 100 years old Calleo and his cards have to say about Voldemort.

The hell do I need cards for that for? I could just tell you outright but, then, I’m sure you’d be back at me going on about how that’s no fun at all.

In the distant past, they’d described him as a bullheaded, reactionary wank cloth who’s prone to having violent tantrums when he doesn’t get his way–I’m condensing that down rather a lot but that was the gist of it; perfectly charming sort until he gets the idea that you think he’s roughly as interesting as watching paint dry.

But, hey, people change and maybe when he’s ready to try again he’ll have improved somewhat.

Which, in his case, would more than likely manifest as just becoming more wildly unpredictable with his meltdowns and moods but, you’ve asked my cards, not me, so here we go.

I wonder if he still does that thing where he tries to go as long as humanly possible without blinking because he could do it indefinitely with a little transfiguration and charms work.

Where was I?

Ah! The cards.

(( Larger resolution image is here. ))

Hermit’s pretty self explanatory; he’s been isolated, and should you find him and ask him he’d likely tell you that it was on purpose and/or for the purposes of enlightenment, introspection and contemplation–hopefully around why he didn’t account for basic defensive Blood Magic but, most likely not that. I know I don’t like to dwell on it when I miss something basic, I like to forget I did that and move on while also keeping it tucked away in the back of my head so I don’t do it again.

I’m going to go ahead and ignore that, all around, when the Empress shows up it she often signifies a pregnancy and considering Voldemort, unless he gets incredibly creative with trying to get himself back into a body (or just possesses the first thing he can manage that’s human) is not likely the sort to be able to get pregnant, which leaves the third option of someone else…letting him…do that to them.

It can also mean that he’ll just make an effort to be a little more creative and inspirational to anyone stupid enough to show up for a second round and with his recruitment efforts but if I had to have the mental image of somebody not only fucking Voldemort but letting him knock the up so the rest of you–and I say the rest of you because I don’t know specifically which one of you asked for this reading so you all get to suffer.

And I don’t think it’s that second one as the Ace of Cups revolves around beginning again which, fair, if you’re half-resurrecting yourself–but it primarily focuses around fertility and pregnancy. Someone is going to let that man knock them up.

Ew.

Getting away from that horrifying set of mental images, the Eight of Wands indicates he’s going to be about as good at being patient and planning things out (complete with contingencies or alternate plans in case the main one fails) as he was the first time around which is to say, not at all. However, since the Ministry is staffed largely by what I can only assume are tranquilised bonobos in suits, nobody here is going to care. Or notice. I’ll notice, I’ve already noticed, but I have enough benzos from Muggle doctors that I legitimately do not care.Or, if they do notice, they’re going to pretend they haven’t so all the progress speed, action, momentum, all that nonsense, is only going to seem speedy to the people who haven’t been paying attention.

The rest of us will have seen it slowly coming since roughly 1982.

He’s got abandonment issues head to toe based on the Eight and Five of cups, which is a large part of what makes him dangerous as, instead of focusing on the cups that haven’t been knocked all over the place and using those to rebuild, all he’s likely to focus on will seem, on the surface, to be a political revolution but that’ll just be a thin and fragile veneer covering the fact that he’s a desperately lonely, fundamentally unhappy, nearly always frightened basket case and that manifests (as it often does) in violent outbursts and an undercurrent of wanting to make everyone else suffer the way he feels he was made to suffer.

That’s not even all that uncommon, you can see it to a much lesser degree anywhere in Knockturn if you stay there long enough or visit often enough.

Queen of Swords is likely to turn out to be his most dedicated defender, coming from a point of power obsession and pity, though if she’s got any brains she won’t ever mention she pities him as it might get her killed, and wants nothing more than to shield and protect him, keeping him from harm; also indicates that she’s married–well, it mentions it in the inverse as a divorce, which would make sense if she’s one of those sorts that were pushed into a family alliance sort of marriage that she never particularly cared to be a part of to begin with.

And, at some point, he may be able to shake off all that flailing about to somehow manage to convince the general public that he’s not that bad, and he’ll do so through gratuitous shows of generosity, charity, investing in community (the community he envisions, at any rate; some of you will have to be his diversionary scapegoats, after all), and while everyone is distracted by someone who’s likely to be able to walk into the Ministry and buy them off with false gratitude, making them feel valued, paying them well, displaying what comes off as fairness unless you scratch the surface, he’ll get to work doing what he wanted to do in the first place.

And what does he want to do in the first place? Get himself into a position where he’s well liked, respected, viewed in a positive light, as a good leader, as someone who is successful, committed, has clear goals, and will lead the Ministry to greater things. This is someone who wants to be loved without having to leave himself vulnerable in the process.

For awhile, he’ll get it, and it’ll seem solid.

It won’t last, however, not for long, because that Eight of Swords is going to leave him feeling trapped, restricted, and lashing out at anyone or anything who he even suspects of holding dissenting views through harsh punishments, executions, imprisonments, persecution, “trials” in front of the Wizengamot that were rigged from the start, and at that point he’ll be at two distinct paths he can take.

I do love the Two of Wands for letting things go in different directions.

First potential path: If he goes that route, he’ll be able to leverage what little political and social capital he’ll have left after that mess I just described and, with a little creativity, should be able to pull it all back together in a way that cements his socio-political views as the new, accepted norm and any rebellion against it won’t be able to gain the following it’d need to challenge him for decades to come.

Second potential path: Nine of Swords circles back to the Eight of Swords, only more intense. Terror, not just fear, seeing enemies everywhere, being the subject of gossip, the narrative of which he will not be able to control as it will be a moving and largely invisible target that is perfectly willing to martyr itself if it means his downfall. As a result, he’ll fall further and further into paranoia, nightmares, despair, and stress, leaving him with an inability to cope with the reality of the situation which will only circle back to him lashing out at anything that comes within range, regardless of who or what it is, and when he hits his breaking point he isn’t likely to survive it.

The card between those two paths, as I was curious as to which route the deck thought he’d take, is a reversed Star.

Hopelessness, despair, the inability to take responsibility for one’s actions being what led them to where they are, lack or loss of trust in those around him and in himself, feeling as though everyone, even his closest followers, are plotting against him.

Considering that, I suspect he’ll go the second route to hang out with the sword filled guy in an egg costume.

Let’s see if one overarching card will give some closure here, shall we?

Regret, refusing help from those who legitimately want to give it (back up a bit and re-read the bits that mention paranoia) because, as surprising as it may seem, there are people who genuinely do care for him–in their own, strange way–disillusionment, becoming even more self-absorbed and depressed, focusing on the fantasy in which he’s–apologies, but I’m going to jump back to how two of my former Archivists often described him–seen as something greater in terms of charisma, success, skill, and political success than Grindelwald.

I watched that mess rise to power and fall from it spectacularly, and my memory has more than enough clarity to state with certainty that the only things I’ve seen that Voldemort is better than Grindelwald at are:

1) Keeping himself out of prison.

2) Being ballsy enough to apply for that Defence Against the Dark Arts position looking the way he did when he got that interview. He had to have known what he looked like, unless he doesn’t cast a reflection anymore and nobody told him how off he looked. Just to note, it’s not that I think he’d have been unqualified for the position so much as he may have come off as only wanting it to use as a recruiting platform which is–one of those things you really need to hide until you’ve got tenure, or at least a signed contract.

3) Being repeatedly thwarted by children yet still having followers willing to both overlook it, stand there with a straight face while he probably blames his wand for it (because they all do, you find any Wizard over 60 that has a spell fail and the first thing you get is some variation of, “I swear this has never happened before! It must be the wand acting up!”), and continue to follow him despite the fact that all they’d really have to do is walk away and start telling people what he’s really like and it’d kill any chances of recruiting anything with any skill or ability to follow through.

4) Talking to snakes, allegedly. Not entirely sure how useful that skill would be but I suppose snakes probably have some interesting things to say now and again.

At any rate, Four of Cups almost guarantees he’s going the Nine of Swords route so it’ll get a bit hairy for awhile but whatever grip he gets on anything is going to be tenuous at best and even holding onto it with both hands his reach is likely going to exceed his grasp.

I never like to see raw talent wasted like that, and he does possess a great deal of raw talent as well as the intelligence to have made it, with right people around him, into something spectacular; it’s just been–misapplied and left in the hands of people who never did have his interests at heart, and it’s easy to take advantage of a kid like that. See it all the time in Knockturn.

Pity, really.

#v: ftbawtft #probably around #1994 #voldemort #(Old Calleo has Negative Fucks to Give about round three with a dark lord)#hp rp #tarot #divination

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ralsdonlihyd1971-blog · 5 years

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A bit too meta for me. Plus then we get no Lantern King resolution. And you killing Nyrissa as a joke when she can be saved and redeemed. This is why the older generation and people inept with technology so easily trust Trump. All the information they have to go on is what Trump says and what Fox says. It no wonder they believe the things they do and I seen first hand through family members how manipulated people beliefs can be.. Personally I absolutely have wonderful results going all out once every 2 3 weeks and keeping things simple otherwise. Let me caution you though that this isn't really a pennies on the dollar type thing. 구미출장샵 While it would cost me a lot more to have someone else do my face, the products and the gizmos don't come cheap. Is the blogger opinion consistent over a span of time? So, just like how unqualified praise for every single product is a red flag, so is wildly changing opinions over very short spans of time. I seen blogs where one moment the blogger is ranting about how parabens in a product are bad and she hates them (because the product being reviewed that day is a paraben free one that she absolutely loves), and then a few posts later she is offering the same absolute love for another product she is reviewing that day that has parabens. Or, one day a blogger is in love with a very thick and oily product for very dry skin, the next day she is in love with a very thin, drying, alcohol containing product for very oily skin. Provides radiance and fixes all 구미출장샵 blemishes and its so popular because its a miracle product.Facial Treatment Essence is enriched with more than 90 percent Pitera the main ingredient used to enhance the skin renewal process plus nourishing vitamins, amino acids, minerals, and organic acids to promote a healthy skin cell renewal cycle. With daily application, this essence moisturizes, improves texture and clarity, and contributes to a more beautiful, balanced, and glowing complexion. I in my 20 and have (well had) problematic very acne prone skin that was dehydrated oily. Enter the idea of going to Sylhet (for lack of a better idea :p). Very quickly we made our plans and executed them, least we backed out of it. I quickly bought bus tickets (One way A/C: Tk. Sorry, but pilaf is already in English, and probably many other languages as well. Tajiks call it "palav", and I sure the Uzbek word is very similar. Russian have, unfortunately, renamed everything in countries like Tajikistan. Almost never skip time. Try to adventure in a reasonably time efficient fashion if you can. You want to make sure that every free 14 day block can be used to either rank up an advisor, claim a region, or eventually upgrade a region. A market softens the top end of the market gets hit really hard. That $5 10 million sector, when the market softens there is no market, 0.1 per cent of the population can afford to buy a $5 million property. People can afford a $500,000 property than a $1.5 million property. The Sandman's first foray onto the page was in 18th century German dictionaries, which briefly described the German idiom "der Sandmann kommt" "Sandman is coming" which was used to tease particularly sleepy looking children. "Der Sandmann" begins with an exasperated nurse telling a story about a mythical creature who throws sand in the eyes of little children who won't go to sleep, causing them to fall out of their sockets. The Sandman then collects the eyeballs in a sack and carries them to his home on the dark side of the moon, where he feeds them to his children.

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royal-writer · 5 years

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If I could change the past,

there’s only one thing I’d do I’d have done a better job to take care of you

Months. It had been months since he’d last laid eyes on his childhood home. Months since he’d seen people of Briarton who had since returned to their homes and shopswith windows open to let in the gentle breeze. Months since he had smelled the scents of the woods he hunted and ran through all his life; the gardens ripe with fresh vegetation and blooming flower ready to burst into fresh fruits. Months since he’d heard the chatter of many of those he’d known his whole life and the songbirds chirping along the homely eaves. Months since he’d had the mouth-watering taste of deer steak seasoned and cooked just as he knew it should be at the Boar’s Tusk.

Months since he’d felt the thin arms flung around him in a hug that was familiar. A rush of emotions in so many tiers. Laughter bubbled up close to his ear and he grinned wildly with excitement; holding to the young woman with wild flowing hair and the same innocent childhood likeness of amazement.

“Amon! I’ve missed you so much!”

“And I’ve missed you more!” he rejoiced, hoisting her up into the air where her gasped laughter in excitement raised in tone. She squealed and kicked and struggled, but the moment he placed her back upon her feet she was clinging to him once more. Urgent for his attention, she nearly climbed upon him with her fits of giggles.

He tightened his arms around her. For a brief moment, it felt too unreal. And even as he relaxed his grasp, his hands warmed her backside in soothing little circles as her laughter died away and she panted for air in a breathless state of jubilation.

“You haven’t possibly missed me more,” the girl chided, looking past him with a warm smile. “You’ve had your friends with you.”

He quirked an eyebrow, and lowered his voice as he whispered accusingly, “And you haven’t had the ladies with you while I’ve been gone?”

She wrinkled her nose, and stuck out her tongue at him in response. She shoved playfully at his chest so he released her his grip entirely. Even if he was not ready to. But he never really felt ready to let go of his little girl.

“You smell like a bear,” she joked.

“Marie,” Amon threatened; a teasing scold in his voice as he clicked his tongue. “Where are your manners?”

The young Farthing woman beamed up at him. There was starlight in her eyes; mischievous but loving in all the ways he knew. There was still a wonder of girlishness in her actions. She grew and matured; her hair longer, her face less full and rounded like a babe, but no matter how much time passed, he still saw all the years as they’d passed and all the stages she’d grown through. He still could see the frightened, shy little girl barely standing at his knees to who she was now.

Her eyes peeled past him to those standing a polite distance behind him. She raised a hand in polite greeting towards them; wiggling her fingers.

Unable to keep their silence any longer, Adela decided chime in with amusement: “Don’t worry Miss Marie, we’ve become accustomed to his bear-smell.”

Screwing up his mouth in a form of unpleasantness, Amon turned back to look upon the snickering faces of the others. The sourness didn’t remain long on his face however; glimpsing over upon Marie to see her giggling shamelessly once more.

Expelling a sigh, he motioned with his hand towards the door with a vague smile on his face.

“Shall we head in?”

“Yes!” Abernathy shouted. He immediately looked sheepish from his bellowing tone as he hurried ahead of the rest towards the front door. His tone was quietly murmured while passing by: “I still have first claim to the bath.”

Amon chuckled, hearing the muffled snorting of Marie trying to withhold her snickers once more. He ushered her inside after the rest of them with a wave of his head. With a final shake of his head, he turned in as well to shut the door softly behind him; grateful to be back at the manor for the first time in what felt like eons.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Nibbling nervously on her lower lip, Essätha turned her gaze over to Aylin. She stood high on her tiptoes to better watch and see what he was doing. He tossed various handfuls of herbs upon the large roll of meat that the housemaids aided in seasoning and rolling around. Their chatter was absent of what they were doing; everyone acting on a basic form of instinct with the dark-elf acting as though he had been a part of this room and among these women his whole life.

How come Aylin knew how to cook? It wasn’t fair! He was from some well-off enough family that he likely didn’t even need to learn the art, but he was going about the business of it in the form of second nature. A sprinkle of this, a dash of that, and folding items into things and stirring pots only to offer a taste and listen to the girls swoon.

“Oh Miss Essätha, the corn!”

She turned her head, giving a shriek to see that the yellow stalky ears she’d been instructed to place near the kindling flames to blistered were, instead, blackening beneath fire. She yanked hold of their tough ends; flinching from the heat as she pulled them over to the counter to pat off the embers and flames still crackling over the kernels.

Her eyes moved to the women in the room, and her face reddened. Some blinked back at her, or turned to each other in exchanged glances. To see someone so unqualified to be in the kitchen and so embarrassingly incapable had to be excruciatingly difficult and a testament to their kindness.

A jolt ran down her spine. She cast a glance over to the tender voice who had given the cry of alarm, and offered a nervous smile.

“It was an honest mistake, Miss Essätha,” Marie offered sympathetically. “I can fetch a few more and try again.”

The chatter began to lift once more into the air behind her. She fidgeted with hands anxiously, giving a nod. Humiliation still burned against her cheekbones and radiated over her face, nearly making her eyes water.

“I’m afraid I’m not much of a chef,” Essie admitted with a defeated sigh. “My mother was unable to pass on much of her skills to me in the time we had. I’ve been more reliant on a fast meal since. I apologize for ruining your bounty-”

The young woman gave a small shake of her head. “That’s quite alright; it’s only a few ears of corn. I’ll go fetch up some more-”

“I’ll help. I-If that’s alright.”

“Of course, Miss” the young girl replied with some surprise. “But it’s no trouble. If you feel uncomfortable in the kitchen, I can-”

“I insist.”

“If you’re sure. Would you be alright if I lend you a hand, Miss Essätha?”

“That would be wonderful,” she stated with a tug of relief at the young woman’s patience and understanding. “Thank you, young lady Marie. Perhaps I’ll fair better with a more suitable teacher hovering near me.”

Marie offered a sweet smile in response. A touch timid by the compliment, but she nodded nevertheless before leading her out of the kitchen. Probably to the brief comfort of the other handmaids in the room, who were tired of seeing such a faulty excuse for a woman try helping. But it was difficult to just sit back and watch everyone else do all this work; she was a grown woman, and more than capable of taking care of herself. By all the gods, she was going to prove she was capable of something; anything more than just having a natural talent for magic.

She was capable of more than just that. She had to be. Right?

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

From a distance, Marie could see the crinkles around the woman’s light brown eyes with focus. She looked up, back down at what was in her scale-patched hands, and back up again. The curled tip of her tongue revealed itself briefly; poking out of her mouth in a humorous sign of concentration before peering back down past her flyaway strands of black hair to her project.

From Essätha, Marie looked over to where Adela, Pri’cha, and Sulhadur were. The Tiefling and Thri-Kreen were talking away with glee and delight. Adela would grow quiet long enough to whisper upon the cloth in her hand; where stitches mended themselves into a garment once more within her hands. All signs of wear and tear were suddenly nonexistent from Sulhadur’s apparel as the Dragonborn remained nearby, flipping through the pages of one of Amon’s novels on Bahamut.

“My word Sul, maybe you need to learn Mending; your horns are tearing through your new shirts!”

“They aren’t made for Dragonborns,” Sulhadur helplessly replied to the pink-toned woman.

“Perhaps his head is getting too big?” Pri’cha teased gently, chattering with amusement at the playful scowl the scaly crimson man passed as he tossed a decorative pillow her way.

While they giggled, Adela looked up to catch her eye. She grew scarlet upon her face, and cleared her throat as she grabbed the pillow to fluff it and place it neatly beside her.

“Apologies, Miss Marie-”

Marie shook her head, smiling lightly. “No trouble; they need to be beat of dust anyway.”

An uncertain giggle passed over the Tiefling. She went uneasily back into conversation with the little cleric of Pelor as the Paladin began to rearrange the cushions once more to a more suitable display. Not the way Marie would have laid them out, but he seemed just as shy to be caught having goofed around in the lavish household.

She passed through the room silently the rest of the way, only bothering to look back to see the troubled look on Essätha’s face as she held up the garb to study. The stitching was a bit lopsided, but as she gave it a sharp tug, it held strong against further splits. Her face swelled with a color of pride before Marie turned the corner out of sight.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

It wasn’t as though she was trying to keep an eye on Essätha, but the moment she’d spotted her heading down the hallway, Marie followed. If the sorceress was looking for something, perhaps she could help. If not then at least she could speak to her about how she managed to hunt up so many ducks for their dinner. It was an amazing accomplishment, especially when she’d only gone out alone to do so.

She watched as Essie paused, turning her face down to the floor. With a scoff, the Yuan-ti woman bent down to touch the floor where a scuff mark was against the wood paneling. A bloom of shadowy violet magic escaped her hands; spiraling out like the petals of an orchid and embedding itself into the floor. When she removed her hand, the stain of black was miraculously gone.

A satisfied little smile ghosted across the woman’s face. Marie found herself frozen, an unexpected grin upon her own face. She was supposed to be an honored guest, and here she was cleaning up messes as though this was her own house.

All of Amon’s guests were exceptional. Essätha was just as easy to like as all the rest; passionate, kind, strong. She was always trying her best and pushing herself to do better. There was no competition in her actions; she watched from a wary distance and seemed strangely homesick, as if something was lacking.

Marie hesitated as the woman stood, and snapped her fingers. A faint fragrance seemed to lift from seemingly nowhere at the crackle of magic that sparked off her her fingertips. She sniffed a few times, before it came to her why it was so familiar. It had been so long since she’d had Amon around, that his cologne didn’t register to her immediately. How baffling for the woman to conjure that of all things.

The door to the master suite’s sitting room opened and the Farthing girl shrank back. Amon would berate her for spying as she was, peering behind the doorframe from the balcony area, but it felt somehow wrong to intrude as he stepped out of his room and but a few feet from Essätha.

“Oh, Essätha-”

“I- I’m sorry m’lord I was just- going to fetch something from the room…”

Her eyebrows knit together at the breathless strain in the woman’s voice. Not wishing to be seen, Marie shrank back into the shadows of the doorway to continue eavesdropping, with barely passing her regard around the frame to watch.

Amon murmured something she could not catch, and held the door open for Essie. They passed a glance to each other; their faces slightly flushed.

Marie clasped a hand over her mouth to hold back a squeak.

She’d seen a similar look upon Amon before. He’d looked at some of his other lady friends that way, before.

But there was a withheld intensity in his regard. A secret in the light of his eyes as he smiled effortlessly at the woman, who met his gaze unflinching. There was a confident air that moved over her despite the shy smile and flirtatious way she looked up at him beneath her eyelashes as she passed by. It was like when Amon had been teaching her about magnets, and she’d watched the two come clicking back to each other each time they were pulled apart. Try as she might, the pair always came rushing together.

As the door closed behind Essätha softly, Amon raised a fist to rest gently upon the heavy oak door. He released a sigh. It was both heavy with longing and dreamy all at once.

Before she could be spotted, Marie flung herself out of the doorway and against the wall. Her hands were still positioned over her mouth as she glanced up to the enormous dragonic skeleton that hung above the dining room and dance area, and slowly dropped her hands down.

The sound of Amon’s boots were moving. She froze, and then relaxed to hear the opposite door to the library open instead as he went on his way through the estate.

Suddenly too many things made sense all at once. The way his eyes would slide over to Essätha during dinner. The offered hand to help her up off the sofa (who couldn’t get up from a couch on their own?). He kept his posture lax but reserved; turning away from her at first but gradually his body language moved to match where his face turned towards the longer they were in the same room together.

She couldn’t decide how to feel about it all. Amon had always been a cool gentleman, but any lady he ever brought home would leave calling him ‘frigid’ and ‘detached’. They couldn’t see the man she came to know; wise, caring, gentle, fatherly. They saw his walls and his barriers over time, and none of them could scale them. None of them could chase him long enough to see the man beneath the portrait of perfection.

There was rest in the way he looked at her. Comfort. Soothed. The calms of storms passed, and he appeared unscathed. Interested but refraining himself.

This was different, Marie realized rather swiftly. Something about this was different.

And she had to find out why, and what it all could mean.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

There was chatting going on in the lounge area by the kitchen. Curious, Marie rapped upon the door to hear a hush befall previous giggling and boisterous laughter.

“Who is it?” a voice sang.

“Uh… m-me?” Marie echoed, dumbfounded. “Marie.”

The door opened. For a moment, she couldn’t make out who this person was. Short, a daring and bold look about their wild eyes, and braided hair. Then it clicked; and beneath the dense poof of curls she could recognize what once was a poofy nest that usually rested in a large and somewhat knotted ball on top of the girl’s head.

Ravamora reached out, taking hold of her hand to usher her inside. Marie fumbled through the door as it opened and shut behind her, spotting a large portion of the house staff sitting upon the sofas and floor. Their expressions turned mortified and shameful upon being seen; some dressed casual, others in nightgowns and other attire. Each and every one had their hair done in various styles, and some were even wearing makeup.

Puzzled, her gaze fell upon the group of women sitting criss-cross on the floor. They were threaded in a line; each holding sections of hair with Essätha in the back, beaming ear to ear as she formed a dutch-style braid upon the woman before her. Others had pull-throughs, waterfalls, rope-twists, and the standard three-strand.

Despite half the room freezing like mice beneath the gaze of a fox, Essie tossed her hair back and squealed happily upon seeing her. She quickly swung around the last sections of hair; a bit sloppily, and wrapped a piece of ribbon around as she motioned to Rava.

“Would you mind making a bow here, Rava? I’d like to get started on Marie next.”

Marie immediately threw up her hands, offering a nervous giggle as she murmured, “Oh no, that’s okay you don’t have to-”

“Oh,” the Yuan-ti remarked, halfway up already as Ravamora plopped down where she last sat. She ran a self-conscious hand over her clothes, taking out the creases as she did so.

A surprising and grumpy voice rose up from the corner, holding a goblet of wine as Penimra piped up, “If I was succumbed to the fate, so must the rest of you!”

“Penimra, you willingly jumped into the room and let us braid your hair,” Rava countered.

“I did no such thing!”

Ignoring the ongoing banter, Marie looked upon the disappointment within the lady’s face. She offered a friendly smile, and took a step forward as she exhaled nervously.

“Alright, Miss Essätha. You may try.”

“Are you sure-?”

“Yes, I’m sure.”

Essätha gave an eager squeal. Taking hold of her hand, she carted Marie over to the nearest couch, where the women scooted over to make room. They appeared somewhat nervous; the color staining their cheeks brighter than the rouge they wore.

A brush slowly began to comb through her hair. She fidgeted, trying to remain still as everyone began to gradually carry on hush conversation once more. Their voices began to rise steadily the more they exchanged words, and still the brush whispered carefully through her hair.

“Your hair is so soft,” the woman sighed. “You take really good care of it.”

“T-Thank you, Miss Essätha.”

With a click of her tongue, Essie began to part her hair into sections. “You know, Essätha works just fine for me. I’m hardly a ‘miss’, a bit too wild for that. But whatever you feel most comfortable using works fine for me.”

Marie remained quiet. A slowly lullaby hum she didn’t recognize emitting from behind her, in soft syllables as her hair was twisted and carefully pulled tight. She remained carefully still as it was twirled around and maneuvered so not to yank on her scalp or tangle the strands as they were weaved and interlocked together.

“You know m’lord’s missed you a lot,” she finally eased in.

A grin she couldn’t withhold appeared. “I know. I’ve missed him just as much.”

“I’m sure,” Essätha murmured. “He’s adores you. Can’t speak enough about you. Not a bad word to be had. You seem like quite the capable mathematician and scholar.”

“He exaggerates,” Marie answered; her voice small and timid as she blushed.

“I don’t know, I’d be inclined to believe him. You seem rather smart to me; only to be matched by a very pure heart. Briarton’s lucky to have you here; as are its people and everyone in it, from the manor to the bakery and beyond.”

“He tells a lot of stories-”

“Can you blame him? Lord Amon’s just proud, as he should be. You are a remarkable woman young lady Marie, and you should be very proud to carry that on your shoulders. Talented, a fun sense of humor, and clever.

She blinked rapidly, trying to find the words to say. Her head turned, following the layered fishtail braid that was set to fall down her shoulder before looking back at the brimming joy of the woman looking back at her.

“I try my best,” she stated simply; fiddling with the strands of the green ribbon through her fingers.

Essätha scoffed gently, patting her leg. “Humble and modest. I bet the baker’s son likes that about you too, hmm?”

Marie felt the sweltering heat enter her face, and gaped as the woman began to laugh. She didn’t know what was more alarming: the fact that Amon had apparently been spilling everything about her to his friends, or the conversation.

“Thank you.”

“Hmm? Oh think nothing of it dear; I’d be happy to do your hair any time.”

“N-No I mean… thank you. For the kind words.”

For a moment, Essie stared blankly. Then her smile reappeared; soft and lighthearted.

“Well you have quite the positive impact on everyone around you,” the Yuan-ti whispered quietly. “You’ve brightened the smiles on everyone in the manor my dear; you deserve recognition. Beauty is a nice quality to have, but it shines much better on the inside, and you carry both exceptionally well.”

Marie flushed, giving a short giggle.

She now understood.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Moving towards the maidens quarters, Marie froze as she spotted someone moving out from the shed that lead into the courtyard. She waited with a hand on her hip as Amon moved to pass her by, trying to move swiftly as he did so.

Not swift enough.

She began to cackle, wheezing as she pointed to his hair.

“She got you too!”

Splotches of red appeared on his face. The nobleman erected his posture, turning a narrow-eyed glance her way as he tried to hide his smile. His lips quivered however; and her rolls of laughter couldn’t cease. Tears streaked down her face, looking at the tiny braid twist hanging near his eye.

“Essätha has quick hands,” he defended, pretending to scowl. “Now shouldn’t you be in bed, young lady?”

Flinging her head to the side, the fishtail swung around to slap Marie in the face. She blew loose strands out from her mouth, countering him with a defiant: “I’m a woman now Amon. I can go to bed when I please.”

“Still a sassy pants,” he accused. “But I can see your eyelids drooping. Go get some rest.”

She stuck her tongue out, sniggering to herself as he rolled his eyes and chuckled softly to himself. He moved to glide past her, keeping his right arm strangely stiff as he passed.

Marie turned for the door, stopped, and glanced back.

As Amon slipped into the kitchen, she could see the untainted white of a peony carefully held by the stem in his grip. It disappeared, along with him as he shut the door behind him.

With a hand placed over her chest, she sighed softly at the romantic gesture. Certain she knew where he was going with the single bloom, Marie stepped into the maidens quarters, and shut the door behind her.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

“You’re leaving so soon?”

Amon didn’t look her in the eye. He seemed to study his satchel filled with goods, rather than make eye contact with her.

“I’m afraid so, sweetheart. We’re only passing through for a few days to catch some rest.”

She gave a little nod of understanding. Her heart felt as though it shrank within her chest. An aching sorrow and longing for him to stay. Still she contained a tiny smile for him as she reached out, gently resting a hand over his shoulder.

“You do look happy spending time with them.”

The Briarton Lord gave a quiet snort, casting her a glance as he placed his folded clothing within the bag.

“What are you saying? I required an improvement?”

Leaning against the bedside, Marie rolled her eyes up as she gestured with her shoulders uncertainly.

“No and yes. You just seemed rather stagnant lately Amon, I was worried…”

The top flap of the bag flipped over. Her eyes moved over, seeing as he briefly clinched his knuckles to a bone-white before relaxing them. She cast a worrisome gaze up to his, frowning despite his loving and warm features.

“It’s my job to worry about you, Marie, not the other way around.”

Ignoring the sorrowful note in his voice, she merely tilted her head back to his sack. Her hand reached for the flap, flicking it open as she reached for the set of socks he’d forgotten to grab at the end of the bed to squeeze inside.

“What do you think of Miss Essätha?”

The slightly exasperated look on his face watching her correct his mistake vanished. Amon reached up, scratching the side of his beard thoughtfully as he took great care and time devising his answer.

“She’s… quite charming,” he stated slowly. “Why do you ask?”

Marie ran the leather folds together, latching the top into place. “Just because.”

“Marie…”

“You stare at her a lot,” she blurted; unable to hold her tongue as she whirled on him, pointing a finger towards his chest.

“Admit it. Admit that you like her.”

His jaw worked. The brooding darkness of his eyes were shut off as he clenched his teeth tightly together. A hand reached out to her, attempting to lower her hand.

“Marie-”

“Why do you do that? Why are you holding back? Does she not make you happy? What are you worried about?”

He sighed, ruffling a hand through his hair before dropping it by his side. His eyes averted; unable to stare at her.

“It’s… complicated. You shouldn’t-”

“Is it because of me?” she drilled.

“What?” Amon stammered, reaching for her. “Sweetheart no, that’s not-”

“I don’t understand, Amon. You’ve tried courting lady’s before; what makes Essätha different?”

He groaned. In so little words, it was the sound of a parent unable to express to their child the spectrum of a world they didn’t know. Or in the very least, a thousand layers of secrecy built up upon one truth.

“Many things,” he finally admitted, raising a hand for silence when she came close to interrupting.

Marie stood passive, but crossed her arms in front of her chest. The lack of explanation was maddening.

“It’s complicated,” Amon repeated gently. “Essätha is unique. We come from very different, very unusual backgrounds.”

“But she makes you happy,” Marie pointed out.

A ghost of a smile crept up his face that he couldn’t deny. “She does.”

“Then are you just making excuses to stop yourself from telling her, because you’re scared of the outcome; that you might get hurt, or because you really believe that all these differences are stopping you?”

He stared at her. A wordless shock. Mouth opening and closing, he swallowed hard against his adam’s apple. The smile began to reappear on his face steadily; quirking at an angle.

“When did you become so wise?” he teased.

Marie beamed at him, gently patting his chest. “I learned it from you.”

Scoffing with disbelief, he reached out to grab hold of her and drag her in to a tight hug. A large grin spread across her face, gently patting him on the back.

“Besides, she likes you too.”

Amon suddenly stiffened against her. He gave a faint chuckle; almost nervous, as he murmured, “Yes, I believe she does. But that doesn’t mean she likes me enough to go steady.”

Marie rolled her eyes, happy to know he couldn’t see her do so. If he couldn’t see how devoted she looked at him, maybe it was time to start having his eyes checked to wear spectacles. Instead she patted his back lightly as they embraced, making only one, tiny little taunting remark.

“If Miss Essätha had been able to put up with your bear-smell this long, then she’s a braver woman that most.”

The hug that held her squeezed tighter and she squealed, trying to break free. But there was no freedom as she was crushed in a bear hug; squirming desperately for freedom.

“Looks like you’re going to smell like a bear now too!”

“Noooo Amon, put me down!” she laughed wildly, legs kicking. Her shouts of alarm did not grant her freedom as she thrashed, and even when she did break free, he grabbed her again and began to tickle her until she was collapsing against the side of the bed, tears strolling down her cheeks and trying to shove him off.

It felt good to laugh that hard. It felt like she hadn’t done it in years; or at least, since he’d left. And though she was going to miss him, she knew that before long he’d be passing through again. Then maybe, the next time or two, he’d stay again.

And maybe things would be different, or just the same. She’d have to wait and see.

But she had an awfully good feeling about what the future would hold.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

The sun had finally broken dawn. She hadn’t gotten up in time to eat breakfast with the gaggle of people Amon had brought with him, but Marie had thrown herself together enough to set foot outside and see them loading up their refurbished wagon to set out.

They each gave a parting farewell to her and the staff. Some were more elaborate than others (Essie’s kind speech), or more dramatic (Penimra’s flair as he’d thrown his feathered boa around his neck and trotted off), but they each seemed mostly heartfelt.

She clung to Amon the most as he whispered his goodbyes in her ear. The gentle love she’d always known as she clung to him, swallowing the threatening tears at the idea of him departing again. She held strong though; just as he always was. A calm demeanor but a slice of regret and hurt in his futures to let her go again.

They all began to pile into the back of their cart. Marie watched, arching an eyebrow as Amon offered a hand to Essie to help her up. His eyes remained on her a fraction longer than necessary; that same softness in his eyes she’d witnessed in the hall. As he turned to head back to where Maestro waited for him, he caught her staring. A mixture of humiliation and slight irritation morphed on his face.

As he carried himself towards the mare, her attention turned back towards the Yuan-ti. As she situated herself a spot on the cart, the tawny color of her eyes flickered over to watch Amon. When she turned away again, a pink color was on her face and she was staring off in the distance with a smile.

Marie raised her hand, grinning as she waved it back and forth as their equines began to trot down the road. Much of them called out in farewell in answer to her own as they disappeared down the way.

Her hand dropped to her chest. A quiet ache of misery to see Amon go again; even as he circled his horse around a few times just to continue waving back at her where he could be seen.

But he’d come back alright. Essätha promised that to her the first time, and she had kept her word. She had stated the same this morning in her farewell, and she believed her completely. How could she not trust her? The way she stared after Amon; hope and pining with a dash of wishfulness, there was not a doubt in Marie’s mind that everything was going to be just fine.

#eci artz #Essie rw #amon illiad #hints of essamon

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braindamageforbeginners · 6 years

Text

Neuralgia/ADA/GOP-On-The-Run

Cycle 7, Day 19

First of all, next week’s my “week off,” which is usually just a blood-draw, however, because it also marks Dad’s birthday, which he’s intimated is supposed to be A Party of Special Magnificence, so I’ll be in the greater SoCal area during my “off week,” and, with my brother at hand in a festive mood, there’s a chance I won’t come to my senses until November. So, unless something goes spectacularly wrong at next week’s blood-draw, there’s a chance I’ll only update/write about random goings-on, or Dad’s giant, dragon-shaped firework (that isn’t a euphemism, I’ve been explicit that I want to see wizards, halflings, the whole deal).

Today, however, I’d like to draw some attention to my own physical disabilities (such as they are), why large chunks of the country aren’t ADA-compliant (I don’t even mean in a paved sense), and your very corrupt, local congressman, if you’re from a rural area (almost guaranteed).

So, even though I am automatically, federally-qualified as disabled (look it up under “compassionate allowances”). However, 80% of applicants eventually get disability coverage because - here’s a shocker - when people can’t do their jobs or survive normally, that tends to be noticeable, unless you have an extremely advanced neurodegenerative disease (in which case, you get to be president). And when I applied for disability, no one was, shall I say, directly unpleasant, but I got the very distinct impression that everyone would rather be doing something else. It wasn’t until I actually wrote my own condition down and told the social security rep to call their boss and give them that diagnosis that I got a bit of an attitude change. So, most disabled folks tend to be somewhat sensitive about it, because it is a pain in the ass (sometimes literally) and society is very much stacked against us. I actually wouldn’t even have given it much thought unless I had to fill out and file paperwork on it. Again, be kind and patient (that’s the general message), and don’t assume. I prefer to be called “crippled,” because I feel that word accurately captures both what happened to me, and and how it’s effected me.

To that, I also get passing privilege, because I can walk (though steep stairs and long sprints are out), and you’d only tell my left side is off if you were familiar with me. So, a neurologically-mangling injury usually occurs in one of two ways, externally (or externally-derived), which is usually what you associate with disabled vets, or internally (either due to clot, stroke, or cancer/tumor).. In the former type, you’d see nerve damage below the injury point. In the latter type, it’s a little harder. Everything in the brain is integrated - physically - it’s a little harder to keep track of the higher-order, Wile E. Coyote (Super Genius) functions, especially since you develop new neural pathways throughout your life. But, just for the physical functions, damage to the brain occurs on the opposite side of the body, and it’s a half-body thing (most of my left-side is unreliable in the right circumstances, but for day-to-day use, it’s just the lower leg and lower arm). And these can be anything from noticeable motor impairments to, in my case, “diminished sensation.” Again, I’m just speaking for myself, but neuralgia - the reduced/lost sensations and/or pain of nerve damage - is a killer for folks like me. In my own case, if you’ve ever had minor oral surgery or a filling where the dentist got a little careless injecting the novocaine, you’ll be familiar with the numbness issue. Your muscles worked just fine, but without sensation, it’s hard to orient them enough to get them to work. That’s a rather extreme example, and it’s not terribly accurate for me, but it’ll give you an idea of what I’m talking about. Again, unless you know me, it’s kind of hard to spot me (I only hobble on inclines). Unless you knew I’d been trained as a pianist for a number of years when I was much younger, you’d have a tough time guessing my left hand has trouble with buttons. And, fortunately, the legal definition of disabilities isn’t limited to “patient is mostly-functional, but severely reduced by previous-standards.” (I also really do spend an hour or two in the gym every day, if only because I want a body capable of absorbing and metabolizing every last damned drop of marizomib they can pump into me)(which, come to it, is probably some sort of admission of addiction). I am, however, going to start referring to my left arm as “my Grendel arm,” because, if I’m attacked by Vikings, I intend to let that side take the damage (again, it won’t be as painful because of that “reduced sensation” problem I run into when I’m very tired)(and, hopefully, when I’m on fire and being attacked by Norsemen seeking retribution for

Speaking of legal issues, now’s a good time as any to point out that vast swathes of the country are near-impossible to live in if you’re, let’s say, medically-compromised. Now, I realize that I’m a very special, special-needs patient/citizen in that my existence is dependent on technology that’s beyond the ragged, bleeding edge of most hospitals - most states, as it turns out. But that’s going to be true of just being able to access decent care in most places, even for something relatively simple, like the heart disease currently building up in the Boomers. And I bring that up because, in most places, your elected federal officials are actually working against your best interest. Frequently with your consent. And these are, in my experience, always in rural districts. The party of your representative isn’t an issue, I’d bet; the issue is whether you live in a zip code with a population density closer to Los Angeles, or Maine. Americans (or, health-industry lobbyists) made a hullabaloo about Obamacare (or, as it’s formally known, the Affordable Care Act - the ACA). However, for people like me, it did help knock down things that will kill Grandma and Granpa, like lifetime limits (I’ve reached and exceeded those probably ten years ago), and - this is big - prior conditions. These are both weasel terms used by insurance companies to reduce patient numbers. Again that wasn’t a major issue for me until an orange-haired idiot came into office, promising to change all that. At the time - these were in the intertumor years - I was living in Utah. Here’s an important thing to understand when someone is actively working to undermine your life expectancy; they’re not going to be honest about it. And, in my experience, elected officials from rural areas tend to have more in common with Boss Hogg than they do Mr. Smith, but that could be because the first Congressman I met “representing” me was Jerry Lewis (that was his nom de guerre)(but not his real name)(also not his real hair), who was almost hilariously sleazy, and consistently plagued by corruption accusations. Which, uh, I think, describes almost all of the Congressmen who represented that district. So, you can imagine my complete lack of interest at being pushed and prodded and shoved in front of a congressional underling at the sitting Congressman’s office (this was Chris Stewart - or his local office, BTW).

We will ignore the odd decorating decision to include a large photo of a bomber with an explosion on it - I guess it’d been made by a constituent. We were met by - as expected - an office underling. The hiring and firing and promoting of office staff in small districts is usually pretty sordid. That’s not some sort of slanderous accusation; all professional politicians are legally prohibited from directly employing their companies or family members. Most, like Ron Paul, figure out a workaround until those pesky Congressional Ethics reports come out. The assistant in front of us assured us - in the wake of GOP populism that’d swung in just a few weeks earlier, that the Congressman didn’t like his job, only did it because no one else was stepping up, and was all in favor of term limits and revolving door policies - basically, the sort of pep-talk I always look for in the medical industry when looking for a well-qualified specialist (”Yeah, he’s great at his job, but he dislikes it and is only waiting for an opportunity to get out.”). The assistant was not the Congressman’s chief adviser on health care (I can only assume that was some wildly unqualified lobbyist from Pfizer, but that’s pure speculation). You know what really sends out a message of professionalism and receptiveness to constituent needs? When a constituent calls to schedule an appointment to voice concerns regarding health legislation, and the person qualified to answer such things isn’t in the office. Anyway, even though the assistant didn’t have any answers to most of my questions, he assured us that the congressman didn’t want to cut anyone’s insurance, but thought that a free market - the standard BS filler that comes from someone who has never been thrown out of a hospital (yes, this happens, folks, it made headlines in Baltimore a few years ago). Upon later checking, the assistant had actually actively lied about both issues, based on the Congressman’s actual voting record. Again, I don’t think he’s alone, I just think rural Congressman who coast on for a career based on name recognition aren’t used to an informed, angry public making proper inquiries. At least have the guts to tell me it’s more immediately profitable to kill me than to keep me alive; we’ll have to agree to disagree, but I get it. To make a long story short, because of Utah’s combination of hilariously inadequate insurance coverage for people like me, and my stubborn refusal to settle for less-than-best when seeing neurology specialists, I’m no longer a constituent. Thank you, sir, you ran me off your land, kudos. But I’m certainly not alone. Again, the Boomers are at an age where they’re going to be dropping dead of heart disease, cancer, etc. That’s not some dire, emo warning, either, it’s just that they’re all in their 60′s or above, and, until 2013, almost half of the US was either uninsured or disastrously uninsured. I think the HMO system will last two dozen cases of wheeling grandma and grandpa into the cold street before it comes to an end. But what the hell do I know? I’m just a sick person who’s had to learn insane amounts.about the health insurance industry and pharmaceutical companies to make it this far.

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johnboothus · 3 years

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11 Years of Untappd: How One App Gamified the Relentless Pursuit of Novelty

On Jan. 20, Gregory Avola announced he was stepping down as chief creative officer of Untappd, the online beer platform he helped found and then actively ran for a decade. This, Avola writes, is driven by a lifestyle change, and he will remain at Untappd’s parent company, Next Glass, as executive advisor. As when software developer Next Glass purchased Untappd in 2016, and then joined it with newer purchase Beer Advocate in 2020, this update is stirring up conversation and reflection on Untappd’s impact on beer culture.

Such reflection yields a mixed bag. In the 11 years since it launched, Untappd has facilitated a wider-reaching community in beer. It’s helped users find beers they otherwise wouldn’t, and, therefore, has helped breweries reach new customers. Some, however, feel that Untappd has fueled “ticker culture,” and that its rating system is a breeding ground for biased, baseless ratings that only favor hype beers and often hurt breweries. Beer’s relationship with Untappd might be complicated, but Untappd’s role has proven undeniably significant.

Foursquare for Beer

Avola created Untappd with Tim Mather in 2010. Perhaps surprisingly, he wasn’t all that into beer when he started working on the app.

“My main interest was in communities and building social platforms to connect people in different ways,” he tells me in a recent call. Avola and Mather used Foursquare as a model — which the press ran with — but, as Avola puts it, with more focus on what those check-ins could do. “No one cares if you’re checking in at a grocery store,” he says. “But people checking in at bars, saying what they’re drinking, that starts connecting people across the globe.”

Avola wanted to take the inherent social aspect of craft beer and grow it online. At the time, there were only BeerAdvocate and RateBeer, both representing an older generation in beer. Untappd arrived at the party hot on the heels of IPAs becoming a thing people traveled and waited in hours-long lines for, a ready and willing platform for drinkers to discover, share, swap info, and, by checking in that they were at those hype breweries drinking those hype beers, brag. In a way, and as was Avola’s intention, Untappd became a wide-scale, virtual tasting room where beer geeks could talk shop but, coming from different cities and even countries instead of different barstools, they could introduce each other to new brews. Avola says that at the time he was living in New York City and learned what Fat Tire was when Mather, living on the West Coast, checked it in.

The Next Generation of Beer Raters

Whereas BeerAdvocate’s pages were filled with long, thoughtful beer reviews, Untappd catered to a generation of beer drinkers that was always on to the next and wanting an app to keep up. This is why Untappd is credited with — or blamed for — “ticker culture.” After all, while Untappd was still in its infancy, The Alchemist was able to survive closing its brewpub after Hurricane Irene by pumping Heady Topper out of its production brewery. There’s no telling if this could have happened had Untappd been in its prime, fueling beer seekers to move on in search of a hot IPA they hadn’t already tried. Indeed, within a few years, the script had flipped. How to be a beer nerd went from having a discerning dedication to select brews to relentlessly trying every new beer released. The proof of your beer cred was in your Untappd portfolio, where millions of fellow users could marvel at the sheer breadth of hype beers you’d checked in.

“Ticker culture represents an emphasis on breadth of experience over depth,” says Alex Kidd, of Don’t Drink Beer. “The pour sizes seem to diminish, the style ratings seem to be heavily skewed as a result, and the check-ins seem to be a system of accomplishments predicated on consumption over contemplation.”

At best, it could be argued, ticker culture catalyzes beer sales by keeping drinkers motivated with the thrill of the hunt. At worst, it can be an arrow through the heart of brewers’ ability to create and diversify their offerings, since the haziest IPAs, slushiest sours, and most candy-packed pastry stouts are going to win ticks every time over a loving homage to an English mild. This can also hurt beer sales for breweries on an individual basis, if they decide to commit the cardinal sin of making the same beers and therefore lose luster in the eyes of tick-seekers.

“I don’t want to be an old crank who decries ticker culture, but I really can’t imagine what positive impact it could have on anything,” says beer writer Will Gordon. “The most obvious downside,” Gordon continues, is too many people “stumbling around juggling flights and phones in their mad dash to overrate beers that are either too sweet or too sour.”

“Ticker culture is negative, full stop,” says Gage Siegel, founder of Brooklyn’s Non Sequitur Beer Project, citing people buying cases of beer just to flip and festival-goers trying to cram in 100 different beer pours in three-hour time slots as less-than-ideal results. “Ticker culture certainly doesn’t start or end with Untappd, but I’d say they did a lot to normalize it [and] make it easier to participate in.”

An Inevitable Evolution in How Drinkers Engage With Craft Beer

The ticker-culture discussion never happens without mentioning Untappd, but it’s important to clarify: The app did not create ticker culture. It has aided what could be considered human nature in an industry exponentially exploding with new options every year. One could get bogged down in a chicken-or-egg quandary: Do breweries continuously push the envelope to meet the demand of tick-hungry Untappd users, or are tick-hungry Untappd users tripping over themselves to keep up with the constant deluge of hop innovations and wacky adjuncts? It’s a two-way street, and Untappd provides the platform for everyone to talk about it.

“Untappd serviced ticker culture, but I feel comfortable saying it would have happened anyway,” says beer and spirits journalist and author Tara Nurin. “Across any number of industries … younger generations are more peripatetic. … It’s about what’s next, what’s new, and that plays out very profoundly in beer.” Nurin has mixed feelings about the way Untappd has arguably “gamified” beer. On one hand, it’s a great push for people to try new things. On the other, it could disincentivize people revisiting brews.

“I do think the novelty effect can be harmful to breweries,” says beer writer Carla Jean Lauter. “The pressures of ‘newness’ have led to some of the proliferation of extremely similar beers (e.g., having eight IPAs on tap at once) to try to give something new, rather than to just provide the best.”

Subjective and Unqualified: How Ratings Affect Breweries

Whichever side of the fence one falls in the ticker culture debate, one specific aspect of Untappd’s rating system that helps propel it is especially murky: the subjectivity. Even the industry insiders we spoke with who generally like the app acknowledged that the ratings are far from uniformly trustworthy. Many users skip actually commenting on their beers in favor of punching a number of “caps,” from zero to five. These ratings are obviously completely personal and often offer no explanation, yet, as Siegel points out, they’re considered by beer buyers at stores and bars as well as consumers weighing their beer options. The problem is, what a “3” or a “4.5” means can vary wildly from one person to the next. There’s no agreed-upon metric.

“I’ve just never put faith in numeric ratings of beer,” Lauter says. “In Untappd’s case, there’s also the twist that many people for a long time treated the reviews as their own personal tastes. ‘If I don’t like pineapple on pizza, and I order a pineapple pizza, I give it one star just to remind myself: Yep, still don’t like that.’”

The range of expertise among Untappd’s millions of users may range from from zero to cicerone, but on average, these ratings aren’t coming from people with beer-judging criteria. In some cases, this can be great, as it levels the playing field for anyone who’s enthusiastic about beer. It can be not so great but harmless if you remember to take rankings with a grain of salt. Or, it can do a bit of damage to some breweries.

“Some people develop an over-inflated sense of self because of their amount of check-ins, and they think this makes them some sort of expert despite the fact that they have no formal beer education,” says Paulina Olivares, Sacramento Pink Boots Society chapter leader, who notes that this issue isn’t exclusive to Untappd. Olivares says she’s stopped rating beers on Untappd unless it’s a “5.”

Of course, subjectivity as a concept also isn’t something Untappd created, but for all of its positive features, the app has become such an authority, and the microphone it therefore gives to biased, careless, and/or ungrounded opinions can now in some cases actually affect whether a brewery’s beer makes it onto shelves. A beer might not get a high rating from the Untappd masses because it isn’t hazy or dank enough, even if that wasn’t the brewer’s intention, and many retail outlets take those ratings into consideration. They could therefore decide against selling what could be a perfectly great beer. And this can create pressure on breweries to stick to what lights up the ratings board on Untappd.

As Avola points out in our call, this is rating culture. It happens with everything from restaurants to dry cleaners on Yelp. And yes, it even happens to Untappd itself in the form of one-star, “this-app-sucks” reviews in app stores based on one-off experiences with little context. Avola says he understands that it’s frustrating for breweries to see their beers rated poorly, beers they put a lot of effort into. These subjective rankings, though, are a by-product of Untappd’s main goal to help people share what they’re finding and drinking. The downsides of this are something Avola says really can’t be policed, but that he hopes can be mended as Untappd continues to evolve.

A Platform for Visibility, Discovery, and Nostalgia

On the flip side of the biased ratings are some of Untappd’s key tenets. There is community on a global scale, more relevant now than ever as most beer drinking is done at home, and poised to only become more crucial as beer culture and even beer retail grow online. There is increased visibility, discovery, and access between users and breweries.

Plus, as many users report, Untappd is a helpful tool for tracking one’s own beers: It’s less about a rating for others to see, and more about actually being able to organize and remember brews you loved and brews you didn’t love. This becomes increasingly helpful as the number of options in craft beer only grows and styles bloom into sub-styles and hybrids year after year.

“I do feel like more and more people are using it just to keep track of what they’ve drank versus tracking ratings,” says beer Instagrammer Valerie Delligatti, who appreciates being able to remember what she’s sampled from breweries to (pre-pandemic) bottle shares.

This is even a helpful professional tool, as beer writers can track and sort brews they try and report on, something beer writer and “former semi-professional blackjack player” Mike Pomranz values, noting that even if it weren’t free, he’d pay Untappd for this feature. Checking in beers creates your own library to refer back to whenever needed. “When I check in beers … I am thinking about what I’ll want to know later,” Pomranz says. “So, someone asks me for a good IPA in Arizona. Well, I haven’t been there in a while, but I can filter IPAs produced in Arizona and then sort those by rating, and then read my notes and boom, I have the perfect beer ready to go.”

This also creates a sort of scrapbook for craft beer lovers. “I personally love the nostalgia of looking back and remembering where [I was] when I had a certain beer,” says craft beer drinker and wellness coach Amanda Steele. “That’s kind of my favorite thing about Untappd.”

Beyond this core tracking function, Nurin notes that by the same token as Untappd possibly deterring users from returning to beers in favor of trying new finds, it can just as easily be a conduit for users to remember beers they love. While we spoke, she scrolled through her feed and found promos poised to remind users that a beer they loved once is on sale, or a bar they forgot about is doing a great happy hour. Speak with enough users and it becomes clear: Untappd has definitely, if inadvertently, provided a stage for ticker culture and its disadvantages for breweries. But it’s also achieved its goal of creating a virtual community for beer drinkers, and it’s proven itself quite the handy tool for tracking a whole wide world of beers.

The Future of Untappd

All that remains is to see how Untappd continues to evolve, especially in this new, increasingly online chapter, and how beer culture will evolve alongside it. One safe bet is on Untappd increasing its attention to international markets: In 2020, the app saw growth in European cities where it saw declines in the U.S.

In December, Next Glass also acquired digital beer magazine and event producer Hop Culture; according to Hop Culture founder and now creative director at Next Glass Kenny Gould, we’ll be seeing further integration of Next Glass acquisitions Untappd, Hop Culture, Oznr, and Beer Advocate, playing to the unique contributions each of these has made to beer culture. “I think we’ll continue to see the development of a digital craft beer community,” Gould says, “with more content, sales, and connections happening online.”

The article 11 Years of Untappd: How One App Gamified the Relentless Pursuit of Novelty appeared first on VinePair.

Via https://vinepair.com/articles/untapped-impact-craft-beer/

source https://vinology1.weebly.com/blog/11-years-of-untappd-how-one-app-gamified-the-relentless-pursuit-of-novelty

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wineanddinosaur · 3 years

Text

11 Years of Untappd: How One App Gamified the Relentless Pursuit of Novelty

Foursquare for Beer

Avola created Untappd with Tim Mather in 2010. Perhaps surprisingly, he wasn’t all that into beer when he started working on the app.

The Next Generation of Beer Raters

An Inevitable Evolution in How Drinkers Engage With Craft Beer

Subjective and Unqualified: How Ratings Affect Breweries

A Platform for Visibility, Discovery, and Nostalgia

The Future of Untappd

The article 11 Years of Untappd: How One App Gamified the Relentless Pursuit of Novelty appeared first on VinePair.

source https://vinepair.com/articles/untapped-impact-craft-beer/

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kingofthewilderwest · 6 years

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We better get some drago closure. New villain? Ok. But please, drago closure.

I absolutely agree that there needs to be Drago closure. The ending of HTTYD 2 does not end with the defeat of Drago, his power, and his ideas… only drawing him away temporarily from Berk. Drago has lost a battle, not a war, and his unique exit from the movie’s end more than suggests he’s not finished with Berk yet. I also believe that the creators are well-aware of this need, too, to finish telling Drago’s story. In fact some of the earliest interviews with Dean DeBlois about HTTYD 3 touched upon Drago��s role in the final film:

DeBlois: You have to wait until the third film to actually see where Drago’s character goes, because he’s a lot more complex than he’s presented in this second installment.

Since Drago was originally intended to be the villain for HTTYD 3 and not HTTYD 2, his early introduction means that DeBlois is well-aware his character hasn’t shown his full potential yet. Which means there’s more to come. If DeBlois is talking in 2015 about where Drago’s character is headed, that means that Drago’s role has been planned well in advance, and there’s something very intentional to be done with him yet. Even with the script revisions that inevitably happened since 2015, I think it’s safe to say this is one idea that DeBlois won’t drop: the complexity and fulfillment of this villain they introduced in the second film.

I also suspect that Steven Spielberg wouldn’t make such laudatory comments of HTTYD 3′s final draft if some huge plot hole like Drago’s resolution were missing:

Spielberg: I cannot believe what I just read - and I had a problem reading the last part through my tears. It’s a complete unqualified classic and better than the original. I’ve never witnessed this kind of transformation from the last two drafts I made to this one.

So it’s entirely possible that changes have been made to Drago since the first two drafts, but it’s also the case Spielberg has been reading How to Train Your Dragon 3 scripts since the start, giving advice, lending his ear to the creative process. But given as we hear HTTYD 3′s growth has been a profoundly, extraordinarily positive one, I doubt that means they’ve backtracked in concern of answering major HTTYD 2 plot points like what will become of Drago.

I am also surprised and curious to hear about a new HTTYD 3 villain, Grimmel the Grisly. I’m not certain what role he will play or how his presence will mesh with the other villain we haven’t finished confronting as of HTTYD 2. Maybe this means Drago’s role and complexity have been reduced and he will only be in the first arc of the film, and the majority of the film is dedicated to a three-dimensional Grimmel (but they’ll still give us the closure we need for Bludvist). Maybe Grimmel will overpower Drago and we’ll see a new kind of Drago throughout the film. Or maybe we get lots of Grimmel and Drago throughout HTTYD 3 - Grimmel could even be an ally with Drago. Who knows? We have so little information of who he is, what he does, and what role he will play… it’s all so up in the air for us fans to try to speculate upon.

Yet news repeatedly confirms over and over and over again that HTTYD 3 is written outstandingly. To bring yet another exciting testimony is Jay Baruchel’s report:

Baruchel: I’m not allowed to say anything. This is what I’ll say, and for whatever it’s worth I do swear that this is not just promo nonsense. It’s by far, the strongest of the stories. It’s the movie that the series requires and deserves and it’s the rightful third chapter or third act, I should say. I don’t think anybody will be disappointed.

HTTYD 3 is the strongest of the stories and I have no doubt this means that everything will be in its perfect place. I mean, the first movie everything was in its perfect place, so saying HTTYD 3 surpasses that is wildly incredible. Yet that’s the consensus from everyone who’s experienced the third film! The writers have had a gloriously long time to write and tweak How to Train Your Dragon 3, allowing it to become this classic we hear it’s going to be. I know many fans have been upset HTTYD 3 has been pushed back from its original release date several years, but what it looks like has happened is… this has allowed the movie to be refined into something incredible. We’re getting an amazing movie exactly because the creators have had the time to construct all its elements together seamlessly.

How they handle Drago, how they handle Grimmel, how they handle everything… it looks like it’s going to be done with great thought and beauty. I have no idea how they’re going to balance Drago and Grimmel. All I could do is make wild guesses. But at this point, my faith is entirely in the hands of the DreamWorks team. I’m not worried one bit about how they’ll tackle Drago. I trust that they are going to move me from start to end of this animation, and I’m going to step away from the theatres in awe and bliss.

#httyd 3 spoilers #httyd 3 #httyd3 #How to Train Your Dragon 3 #Grimmel #Grimmel the Grisly #Drago #Drago Bludvist #analysis #my analysis #ask #ask me #awesome anonymous friend #anonymous

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dearophelia · 7 years

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12 for Victoria/Liam/Jaal?

12 - Leaning on a shoulder. 1300 words (because I have no chill at all), mostly of Tori/Liam (still with important bits of OT3!) because that’s how this one fell.

Becoming Pathfinder hasn’t been great for Victoria’s anxiety and panic. Somehow, she’s managed to keep this from her boyfriends for a good long while. Until she can’t.

***

Boots crunch on the sand beside her, andsomeone sits down in the small shade of the Nomad. He tosses a rock away,and she cracks one eye open.

Liam.

She closes her eye again, rests her foreheadin her hands, and concentrates on her breathing. Good air in, bad air out,something the owner of her favorite bakery said to her once, when she came infor a fifth evening in a row to buy herself a Made It Through A Crap Daycupcake. Good air in, bad air out. The meds should kick insoon.

It wasn’t even anything specific. Just onetoo many fights, one too many kett that got too close, not enough sleep, threeemails from Tann, a reminder from Lexi that she’s working too hard and noteating enough, SAM pointing out a mining zone just as she drove past it. All ofit would be fine on its own, but together - she felt it rising in that lastfight, a wave of adrenaline unrelated to gunfire surging up inside of her, bringingwith it an all-consuming urge to just panic. She’d tried to channel itinto the fight, maybe blow off the steam by shooting a couple kett in the face,but it hit too fast too strong. At least she was able hold it at bay until afterward.

Liam puts his hand on her knee. “Youokay?”

Victoria sits up a little, leans against theNomad’s wheel, and takes a long sip from her water bottle. The water’s crispand cold, refreshing and centering as it slides down her throat. A soft blanketof calm starts to settle over her, starting in her chest, slowing her heart andher breathing, and gradually spreading outward. She can almost feel themedication transported through her veins. Much better.

“Yeah,” she says quietly, though she isn’t totally there quite just yet. “Thanks.” She takes another drink.

“That happen often?”

She turns to look at him. She thought she hidit well, but - of course he knows the signs of a panic attack. Crisis responseisn’t lacking in panic. His voice is gentle,concerned not accusatory, and she shrugs. “First one on the field,”she admits. “And it’s happening less elsewhere now that Cora’s taken overmost of the bullshit.”

But happening less now implies happening a lot before, and Liam’s smart enough to know that.

He squints at her and then moveshis hand from her knee, settling his arm around her shoulder. He tugs herclose, his armor clanking against hers, and presses a kiss to the top of herhead. “Why didn’t you tell us?” Still gentle and concerned, and shewonders how he does it. From almost anyone else, the question would sound mad,maybe even hurt. But he just sounds worried.

Victoria shrugs. “Hi, I’m thePathfinder, and I’m having daily panic attacks because the fate of the entireInitiative has landed on my wildly unqualified shoulders, and I don’t know whatthe fuck I’m doing.” She gives him a wide, fake smile, and then rests herhead on his shoulder. His armor isn’t that comfortable to lean against, butit’s nice sitting here with him.

Liam smooths out her hair. “Lexi giveyou meds?”

She nods and tugs his arm a little tighteraround her. “Right thigh compartment,” she says, patting it.“Also nightstand drawer.” She’s only had a few attacks here that wereso overwhelming she couldn’t even process you have pills for this and shouldtake some. Luckily, SAM spoke up, but SAM can’t hug, SAM can’t hold, andher father certainly didn’t program SAM to talk anyone down from a panicattack. She got her meds okay, but it was a rocky rest of the evening. Havinganother person - a boyfriend who hugs, who holds, who might have a clue how totalk her down from a panic attack - know where to find her meds would be nice,if ever things started to get totally out of hand.

Well. Ideally things wouldn’t get totally outof hand, and ideally she wouldn’t need any help at all - pharmaceutical,artificially intelligent, or otherwise. But after thirty-odd years, she’slearned her mind well enough to accept that, as badly as she wants it, ideallysimply isn’t going to happen.

“Got it,” he says. He links theirfingers together and gives her hand a little squeeze. “Let us know if wecan do anything?”

She wants to make him promises. Wants to tellhim of course, absolutely, wants to tell him that she’ll always saysomething, always ask for help. But her mind can be cruel to her sometimes,cruelest of all when she needs help. The best she can give him is, “I’lltry.”

He seems to accept that, and leans his headagainst hers.

Her hardsuit scrapes on the rocky sand as shescoots a little closer to him. His armored shoulder may not be the mostcomfortable to lean against, but he sure is solid. Stable. Calm. He tightenshis arm in a sideways hug.

“Where’s Jaal?” she asks after awhile, finally calmed enough to notice that he’s missing.

“Went off to scout ahead,” Liam says.“Figured both of us would be too much.”

“And you lost the coin toss?” shegrins.

He shakes his head. “No,” he sayssoftly, brushing his fingers down her arm, though neither of them can feel it.

The terrible joke dies right there onVictoria’s tongue. That single syllable contains so much care and concern, morethan should be allowed for a word with only two letters. He presses a kiss toher temple, and whispers so softly she thinks he doesn’t mean to say the wordsout loud at all, we would never toss a coin about you.

Victoria blinks. They’ve been together a few weeks now, after months of dancing around it, and Liam and Jaal both never stop surprising her with how strong,how intense, how everything they feel for her. It’s a little overwhelming, but the good kind. Not the kind that threw her into a panic attack mid-charge.

“Probably best not to learn Care AndFeeding Of Your Human Girlfriend in the field on the fly, huh?” she says.

Liam smiles. “Something like that.”He shifts a little and fusses with an armor pocket. “Speaking of,” hehands her a protein bar.

She opens the packaging without lookingat it and takes a bite. “This is disgusting,” she says, around amouthful of somehow both chewy and dry snack, but she chews andswallows anyway. The doctor in her knows that she needs to eat something, evenif her tastebuds are screaming in horror. She looks at the wrapper: bananachocolate oatmeal. It tastes remotely like none of those things.

“Take it up with requisitions,” hesays.

“I will,” she says, and takesanother bite. “What’s the point of being Pathfinder if I can’t even getthe good protein bars?”

Liam laughs. “No point at all.”

They sit in silence while she finishes therest of the bar, and washes it all down with half a bottle of water. She spiesJaal climbing over a nearby hill, his silhouette nearly glowing in the settingsun. His rofjinn is an even brighter blue for the red rocks behind him.

“You good?” Liam asks her as Jaalwalks toward them.

“Yeah,” she says, because she is now.“I’m good.”

#I. AM. NOT. PROJECTING.#(if i say it enough times it'll be true right?)#liam kosta #rydaaliam #victoria ryder: don't threaten me with a good time #torific #ot3:the most stable shape #s:mea #s:words #s:2017 #ultramidge #oph answers

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mostlydonts-blog1 · 7 years

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Riding the Denial Train

(When Everyone Knows You’re Gay But You)

Maybe I'm not gay. Most of us have thought these very words at one point or another in our lives, for whatever reason. Perhaps you grew up in a community where homosexuality was frowned upon or downright wrong, maybe you're just super NOT interested in the hardships that come with being gay. Or maybe you're just straight up uncertain on the subject, who knows. You might not be gay. I'm not here to say if you are or aren't, I'm just here to impart my wildly unqualified insight on the matter.

I went through this very issue, debating whether or not I was actually gay; if I was full on gay or just kinda gay sometimes. I held fast to the Bi label like my life depended on it. Like it was the safety raft that kept me afloat from drowning in a sea of gay. I'm not going to lie to you guys, it was a cop out. It was a little bit of fear, and a whole lot of "this will blow over soooo much easier with my mum." In the end, it wasn't fair to anybody, not to me, not to my mum, and certainly not to, well, we'll call him Crayon. I'd explain the Crayon name, but I promise it's not endearing, and it really won't make any more sense than it already does.

Crayon and I dated for about five months, which, wow, typing this out is just BLOWING MY MIND right now. Fives whole months, and I have only a handful of memorable moments with him. If that doesn't tell you something, you're not paying attention. I really wasn't paying attention. I was in a cloud of Bi-induced denial, thoroughly enjoying that I could tell people I had a boyfriend, but thoroughly NOT enjoying said boyfriend. Poor Crayon, I really feel like a dick looking back on it, and if I thought it would do more good than bad, I would find him and apologize properly. He was a good guy, really. Kind and generous, he was the perfect gentleman who ran ahead to open doors for me, offered to install this mega cool new stereo in my car, and was a nerd in all the ways that meshed with my own. He was also the manliest guy I ever met; six foot seven, played Left Tackle in football, worked at a Big and Tall suit store (which, yeah, waaaaay better fashion sense than me), crystal blue eyes, and always smelled really good.

If this guy could not do it for me, no guy ever would. I knew that. So I waited. I waited, and waited, and waited. And then? Waited some more. Surely I HAD to feel something for Crayon eventually, right? Surely this perfect male specimen would incite SOME excitement one of these days. I would WANT to hangout with him, I would stay up to the wee hours of the morning just to keep talking to him, I would eventually stop having to psych myself up to kiss him. "You can do this, you got this, it'll be quick, in and out and on our way."

Alas, the psyching never stopped. It never got easier. I would ask for rain checks for our dates because I didn't have the energy to look up at this big endearing WALL of a dude and tell him "yeah, I'm totally into this. No, I'm just distracted. It's not you. Super happy. Yup." He knew. I'm not a convincing liar. In fact, my go-to lies often involve racoons and squirrels or are just too in depth to be believable. "I don't see how the humidity percentage of August in 1987 has ANYTHING to do with you being late for our date, babe."

Amidst all of this, I had my sister (this chick, don't even get me started on her) sitting on the sidelines with THE most deadpanned look on her face, trying to tell me that I'm gay. "Crayon's a good guy, don't you think you'd be into him by now?" or "You have more plaid in your closet than he does, girl. Newsflash." and my personal favourite "I don't know how to make this any more clear than it already is: you. are. gay."

By the time February rolled around, we both knew the relationship was coming to an end. Well. I knew. I hope he knew. (Crayon wasn't my first boyfriend but he was my first serious relationship, so I was not experienced in how to humanely end things). I promised myself I wouldn't ghost on him, I stayed up entire NIGHTS lecturing myself over the issue. Decent people don't ghost. I'm a decent person. I would be CRUSHED if someone ghosted on me, there was absolutely no way I would ever ghost on someone else. I was raised better than that.

(I've ghosted five people now in my pathetic little dating life, and I feel HORRIBLE about it, okay?!)

In my defence, Valentine's Day was RIGHT around the corner and there was no way in Hell I was entering that holiday while still dating Crayon. Besides the daunting realization that he was probably going to broach the subject of Hankey Pankey (kindest, sweetest guy, but a guy nonetheless/ he'd been steering the physical aspect of our relationship and had recently taken a sudden and sharp veer towards tawdry), I felt like this gave me a timeline. A deadline, to be more specific. A goal. End it before Valentine's Day. Simple. Right up until the actual "ending" part, that is. Turns out breaking up with someone is much harder than it looks.

"Babe, hey. C'mere, Crayon, we gotta talk, dude. I got some news. You're not gonna like it. Um, so, it turns out I like girls."

"Duh. You're Bi. I already told you, I think it's great. So we're going to see Deadpool, right? That's our Valentines?"

"No, no... no. Just girls. Only."

"Only sometimes?"

"Only always, man."

"Haha, same! So Deadpool? We should do dinner first too."

"You're not LISTENING, Crayon, I'm trying to tell you that I'm g-wait, that new place that just opened up around the corner? Hell yeah, dude, I'm down!"

Most conversations ended like this. Part of me hopes he actually did know what I was trying to say and purposefully distracted me as a last ditch effort to keep the relationship going, but most of me knows my goldfish level attention span has gotten me into hot water more often than I like. So I did what all cowardly procrastinators do, I stopped answering his texts and messages, I put off dates and hangouts and never rescheduled, and waited for the glorious morning I woke up to "No New Messages". The fact that we never actually hungout at my place, that I had my own car and always met at his place, was my saving grace. He didn't know where to look for me.

DO'S AND DON'T'S: Yeah, how about you DON'T be a dick, and tell him you're not into him. Stop lying to yourself, stop jerking him around, and DO know it's okay you don't like him. You're not obligated to like anyone, and in the end, you're only making a mess for yourself. Also, potentially ruining his life, but we're gonna assume he's totally okay and married to the love of his life now.

#denial #gay #lesbian #bi #poor crayon #still super sorry #saw deadpool anyway #feel free to ask for details

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theliterateape · 5 years

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A Job Interview as Full Contact Combat

By Don Hall

“Are you moving to Vegas for a job?”

A common question and the answer is two-fold. No, I don’t have a job here yet — I am definitely that brand of bold or stupid who leaps first and hopes the landing doesn’t shatter my femur. Yes, I moved here for the work in that Vegas is about events and that’s the resume I’ve built over thirty years.

I had some interviews even before we found our place to live and that was heartening. I’m working with a Freelance Rep company as well and that’s a good thing. I spent the first two weeks here unboxing and getting moved in. Now I spend each day applying for gigs (both full-time and freelance, both one’s I’m imminently qualified for and one’s I’m completely unqualified for but sound fun), making connections with folks here I should know, and learning the city.

I was surprised when I got a call for an interview for a Special Events Managing Position (set up and managing of front of house, green rooms for talent and VIPs, merchandising, etc.) for a major sports organization based in Vegas. I’m not a sports guy. Don’t watch sports, don’t follow sports. Not my bag. This company, however, is a bit of a big deal and the pay was a bit ridiculous so I said, “Why not?”

The first interview went great. I wore a suit and tie, I was over-qualified but not by a lot, I had them laughing the whole time. While I had almost no direct knowledge of the company’s sport I had the job itself soaking from my pores. The questions were pretty standard and my approach is to tell stories that exemplify what they’re looking for based on those standard questions.

Hugo, the boss in charge, was a bit intimidating. Wearing what looked like a $5,000.00 suit, underneath was a guy I guessed was both ripped and likely had a number of jailhouse tattoos. The guy looked like he could rip off his shirt and consume me whole without even bothering to chew. But he liked me. He laughed at my quips. The interview felt more like a conversation at a bar and the others in the room followed his lead.

I left feeling solid. If I wasn’t being strongly considered for the gig, I had completely misread the room. As I’m understanding things in Vegas, most of the Events jobs I am either wildly over-qualified for, strangely under-qualified for, or a 53-year old white guy. I have no beef with any of these reasons to knock out of consideration — I know what I can do and have no problem not getting hired for a job I’d dislike anyway.

Sure enough, I was called in for a second interview. Hugo e-mailed that I could dress more casually (“I’m not wearing my $5,000.00 suit so you can wear jeans.”) and that he was looking forward to it.

It was in the same conference room as before except this time, there were three chairs where before there was one. On the left was a 35-40 year old woman of Asian descent. I came in, introduced myself to her and sat down. She was not in the mood for chit-chat, so we sat in silence until the crew of four dudes came in and greeted us. A couple of off-the-cuff remarks and we’re all smiles.

The door opens one last time and in walks Olivia Munn. I mean, not the actual Olivia Munn but a tall, thin woman who looked a lot like Olivia Munn. Dressed like a stripper with money. I mean, this woman was breathtaking and knew it. All four dudes stood and greeted her like royalty had entered the room. She sat to my right.

I’ll admit to a bit of sexist bias entering my mind at the moment. I looked to my left and she was fairly low key and quiet. I looked to my right and automatically assumed a woman this put together couldn’t possibly be smart and she looked about twenty-five so I had her on experience.

After a moment of pleasantries (“We understand this is an unusual interview model…”) the melee ensued.

“Kim,” the boss began. “Let’s say you’re dealing with an event and you’re working the VIP Green Room. A high-powered guest is upset that the beverage options do not have his requested liquor and you are juggling with the ticket office who are having problems with a large group. What is your strategy?”

Kim answers quietly but her answer is solid. Logistic while prioritizing both the VIP and the large group. t’s a good answer.

“Don,” the focus shifts to me. “What do you think of her answer?”

What? Do they want me to criticize her strategy? In front of her? Is this how this is going to go?

“Uhm. Well, I think she just about nailed it. I suppose I might change the order of service depending on who the VIP was and how big a deal he was to the organization but otherwise, she seems spot on.”

“Olivia?”

Madame O was not surprised by this method (or didn’t show it at all) and immediately shredded Kim’s answer without hesitation. She obviously knew the culture of these events and my bias was shattered like a rotten cantaloupe as it became immediately apparent this super model sitting to my right was blisteringly smart as well. She knew her shit cold.

This process went on for about 30 minutes. Kim was really not into it and her discomfort and disdain was obvious. Olivia-Light was completely into it and her razor sharp answers and merciless critiques of both Kim’s and my answers was absolutely carnivorous. I straddled the line — I knew I couldn’t go for the jugular with either because one was laying down for the fight and the other was a fucking goddess with a verbal bludgeon. I couldn’t go with experience because that’s ageism and she obviously knew far more than I abut the company. The hiring quartet couldn’t stop looking at her like a group of teenagers in front of game of Fortnite.

So I kept it light, I tried be thorough but made jokes despite the fact that no one was staring at my tits.

“So, why should we hire you instead of the other two candidates?”

Kim was finished ten minutes before so her answer was less than enthusiastic. The Munnster basically called Kim a doormat and me an old man. My answer?

“I think Kim is super qualified but I get the sense she is more a logistics person than a customer service type. And, no disrespect intended,” and I referenced the hot body to my right. “She is going to be very distracting to work with.” Everyone laughed except for Boobs McLegs.

As we all were leaving, I pulled Hugo aside and handed him my sexy new MOO business card.

“Thanks for the interview. That was weird. If, for some reason” and I glanced at the Sports Illustrated Cover still holding court with the other three. “I don’t land the gig, I’ll be here in Vegas and would love to work with you if the need arises.”

It sounds defeatist but, c’mon. I would’ve hired Olivia. She was awesome.

#Las Vegas #interviewing skills #Olivia Munn #job search

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atanih88 · 5 years

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FIC: Piece by Piece - Chapter 7 (Marvel MCU, Tony/Peter)

Title: Piece by Piece Pairing: Tony Stark/Peter Parker Rating: Explicit Chapter: 7/13 Summary: Three years after the end of the Infinity War, the world prepares to celebrate its third anniversary of freedom. The world doesn’t realize that the heroes who fought for them are a little broken. But hey, maybe broken together, is better than broken and apart.

Notes: Written for Marvel Big Bang 2018 and originally posted on my AO3. Go there for full fic. Will be posting one chapter a day here.

CHAPTER 7

Tony hears Pepper’s sigh from behind him. He closes the door to the office.

‘You could’ve just called me back. Or better yet, answered your phone. It would’ve saved me the trip over here.’

Tony stares blankly for a second. He hears the sound of Pepper opening up her bag, a stack of papers—no doubt some form of paperwork torture in retaliation for him dodging her—hit his desk. Still, it’s taking him longer than usual to get with the program and Tony frowns at the door.

‘Tony.’

He spins around, clasping his hands behind him. Pepper’s glaring at him, hand on hip. All that’s missing is the impatient tapping foot. If looks could kill—

Well, if looks could kill Tony probably wouldn’t have survived for as long as he has but that’s a different story.

‘Sorry, what was that? I’m a bit distracted lately.’

At that, she softens, hand dropping back to her side. ‘I understand that. I know this isn’t exactly an easy time for you. For all of you—’

‘So.’ Yeah he’s not really feeling up to talking about his feelings. Least of all with Pepper. So he pretends he doesn’t notice the way her back stiffens, or the way her lips fold together, as if biting back her frustration. He wanders over to the desk and peers down at what really is a stack of papers, he looks back at her. ‘Is this punishment? You know,’ he makes a whirling motion with his hand, ‘for not getting back to you in a timely fashion? Death by pen? Death by signature? Death by drilling boring words into my brain? I have several wildly expensive and exotic fruit baskets at my beck and call as apologies.’

She gives him an unimpressed look. ‘You need to stop sending those to people. Usually when you piss someone off, Tony, they’re not really in the mood for exotic fruit apologies.’

‘Oh, I don’t know, I think you haven’t tried my upgraded fruit basket apologies—’

‘Tony.’ Pepper sighs. ‘Your speech deadline for the unveiling ceremony was over a month ago—’

‘I’ve been busy,’ Tony says, leafing through the papers with no real curiosity, ‘people to see, sciencing to do, genetically altered teenagers to check in on.’ He drops the papers back, shrugs and pushes his hands back into his pockets. ‘What can I say? Billionaire life is hard.’

For a moment Pepper looks him right in the eye. She draws in a breath like she’s about to say something. Stops. She looks away, shaking her head and rests a hand on the desk.

‘How’s Peter doing?’

He crosses his arms over his chest and sits on the corner of the desk. ‘Getting a bit fond of our resident spider-boy? Heard you went to speak to his aunt.’

Pepper rolls her eyes. ‘Yes. I’m generally the one who steps in to sort things out when people are being idiots. In this case, you were both being idiots. I stepped in.’ She narrows her eyes on him. ‘Peter said you slept last night.’

That brings back something Tony’s been really good at not thinking about all day.

Sleep rumpled hair, reddened cheeks and hazy eyes. The warmth of someone else’s body, solid yet pliant pressed to his chest. The subtle smell of sweat and a calloused hand touching him, casual, familiar, affectionate.

Tony clears his throat, eyes jumping back up to Pepper when he realizes he’s been silent too long. He rocks back on his feet. ‘What was that?’

‘Peter. Parker. He said you managed to get some sleep last night.’

‘Keeping tabs on me?’

‘Just… I worry,’ she says. She fixes her attention on her bag, snapping it back closed and slinging it over her shoulder. ‘Make sure you have your speech ready by the end of the week, the White House admin team are waiting. And I need you to look through these, there are a couple of things I need you to sign off on. Please, try to get this done by tomorrow.’ She heads for the door. ‘And pick up your phone. I want to see that speech before you send it off, Tony.’

‘I’m sorry,’ he says, ‘are you back to being my PA oooor…?’

Pepper opens the door. ‘You couldn’t afford me. Speech, Tony.’

Tony stares at the closed door for a while. Then he settles on the edge of the desk, speech forgotten and mind back to where it’s been for most of the day.

Peter Parker.

The funny thing is, what’s throwing him isn’t even Peter Parker and the morning boner or Peter Parker and the shirtless chest or Peter Parker doing all of this in Tony’s home. In Tony’s kitchen. In Tony’s bed. So it’s not Tony’s actual bed but it’s a bed in Tony’s house and so, therefore still Tony’s. Kinda.

But that’s not the point.

No. What bothers Tony is that easy comfort of lying next to Peter in bed, of Peter’s familiar smell, so out of place right under Tony’s nose and of the way that Tony really would’ve been happy to lie there for another hour, all easy warmth and oddly enough calm, with Peter tucked against him.

It’s still short-circuiting Tony’s brain a bit.

It’s not that Tony can’t sleep. Tony can. Tony dreams. Ever since he was taken captive they’ve been there. But he’d gone to bed. He’d had Pepper at his side and he’d known, he’d been able to tell himself that they were only dreams then.

Then Sokovia happened.

And for all his genius, for all that Tony can take anything and break it down to its smallest components and put it back together bigger and better, he can’t tell himself when he dreams, that it isn’t real.

Because so much of what he’s dreamed of has come true.

He doesn’t talk about it and god knows the shrink SHIELD tried to force on him had given up after the third session in a row of Tony feeding him sarcasm and bull. He’d talked. He just hadn’t said anything important. Tony has had enough people mess with his head, so he’ll pass. Even if they are paid professionals.

Maybe now he prefers to spend his time in his workshop, letting his mind turn over puzzles and creating. It’s easier that way, when his thoughts are speeding so fast his emotions can’t catch up long enough for him to feel anything. And that’s Tony’s element, that’s where he feels in control. Jerking awake at the start of every dream gets old after a while.

So, yeah. Tony doesn’t really go to bed. And when he does, he doesn’t sleep, whether by himself or with someone else.

Except with Peter Parker it seems.

He rubs a hand over his mouth and drops it back to his side.

Tony considers calling Bruce. Despite what Bruce says, he does pretty well as Tony’s unofficial, unqualified therapist.

In the end he doesn’t do that. He doesn’t sign the papers either.

The door snicks quietly behind him as he leaves the room.

#tony stark/peter parker #starker #marvel mcu #slow burn

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