I Don’t Know The Fandom But This Artist’s Stuff Is Amazing! ❤️❤️❤️🙏 Love The Washy

It is good to support them! Leave a comment or a like or a reblog. But it is not your obligation to do so - because when creators make content, we don’t just do it for you, we do it for ourselves. If you read what I write and don’t leave anything, that’s perfectly fine with me. Writing fanfiction is not a service, you don’t need to feel like you have to repay us in reblogs or likes. But reception (positive reception) really gives that extra boost of energy, so if you can spare the time that’ll be awesome.

👏🏻 support 👏🏻 creators 👏🏻 or 👏🏻 they’ll 👏🏻 lose 👏🏻 motivation 👏🏻 to 👏🏻 create 👏🏻 things 👏🏻

A Confession about Writing

Sometimes I feel that my writing will never be good enough for my own standards. I want to be the next Neil Gaiman, the next Stephen King, the next best-selling writer.

When I read fanfics that others have written and posted on AO3, that are SO incredibly good, there's this sense of moroseness that comes over me, the fear of what if they're younger than me but are already leagues above me?

When I read works from people my age, it always amazes me how beautiful their writing is, how I can never replicate their imagination or their style. Then I have this odd feeling - it's almost as if you're standing on the balcony and the cold night air is blowing over you, there are white lights and unfinished concrete condominiums spread out across your view, and the entire world is silent and unmoving, and there are neither moons nor stars in the sky.

When I see a writer with enormous passion - that terrifies me. That's intimidating to me. Because what if I run out of steam before they do? What if for every thousand words that I write, they can write three thousand more? What if they get to live my dream before I do?

Whoever is reading this, and has ever felt the same way...

Show your fellow writers some love! Even if their stories seem like a thousand-meter wall you can never scale... or a lone flag on a faraway planet out of your orbit. Because your story, the one you think looks like a small patch of wilted daisies, is that shimmering heat-mirage in someone else's desert, that untouchable bloom in the midst of radioactive nuclear waste. Your story may not appear so, but trust me, to someone out there, it is colossal. It is unimaginable. It is a deity.

Who knows if I'll ever reach the likes of Stephen King, of Neil Gaiman? I feel foolish, even now. "Oh I'm just a regular 'ol person writing silly fanfiction, how can I ever elevate myself?" But to hell with all that shit talk. I will write my own stories. I will write the stories of everything else. And I'll live pursuing this craft.

THE FINAL PART (Part 3) OF MY WALKERBARON ROADTRIP SERIES WILL BE OUT TOMORROW

ITS THE SADDEST INSTALLMENT YET

STAY TUNED FOR HURT PEOPLE HURTING EACH OTHER

The next one will have a LOTTTTT of disclaimers and warnings so uhhh watch out

@nervous-disaster I hope you enjoy! Thanks for bringing the hype to my writing! ❤️🍀🍀🍀

Interviewing Helmut Zemo, Prince of Sokovia

Written under the discord prompt: bird, peach, leave 🍑🦅🏃‍♂️

I had the great honour of interviewing - no, even being in the presence of Sokovia's Prince. He is rather fondly addressed as the Boy King by his fellow attendants, and Teufelchen (Little Devil) by his playmates.

There is not one person in America who has not heard about the great nation of Sokovia. The mammoth cereal brand Sok-Oats comes to mind, as well as Washington DC's obsessive mania over the gigantic feathery dreamcatchers that are infrequently gifted to them as a show of solidarity. I myself have one hung over the bed as a mantlepiece. However, this is not all.

Rather interestingly, Sokovia is one of the two remaining nations with a population of over 80% winged-folk. The other is a small island a few miles off to the north of Ireland, Jarthun Landon. Its size comparable to the Vatican City - the size of a pea compared to the likes of the USA.

Sokovia is a different story. Though less industrially developed than the USSR in 1917, it still resisted both the alluring grip of Communism and our very own Marshall Plan in the aftermath of the cold war, a near impossible undertaking. What resulted was a country ruled under a rather democratic-leaning monarchy (not nearly as tyrannical as old British imperialism).

Wilhelmina Zemo was a Queen who carved her name onto to the wall of fame in history, lying beside the likes of Germany's Otto von Bismarck, China's Sun Yat-Sen, and Britain's Winston Churchill. After taking the throne of Sokovia, she sent the country into a transition into statecraft (ie. strategies for securing national interest in the international arena). In eight years, she had built up a missile defence system modelled after Israel's Iron Dome.

However, the world was encountering another change. With a slippery launch into the 21st century, wings were starting to be seen as clunky, primitive contraptions rather than the sky-soaring, apex-predator tools as they once was. What was once regarded as a second limb for us had now become a burdensome weight, lead weights rather than a propellor. To quote the infamous poet Allen Duten, "Wings are the tools of destruction, of anarchy. They are unnatural. They represent elitism, classism, every antithesis to meritocracy. Would we turn those with chicken wings into poultry? Would we give a gun to every eagle-winged and tell them- 'off you go, this is what you were born for'?" Mr Duten's concerns were understandable, given that he himself had been born with the wings of a dodo bird.

Eons ago a kilometer square of air space could safely hold no more than twenty free-flying avian-folk. Now, it can hold three planes, and one plane can hold three hundred.

Additionally, after WW2's atrocities with Nazi Germany, it was understandable that eagle wings fell out of style as fast as the toothbrush moustache.

Wilhelmina's son, Heinrich, anticipated this change and prepared Sokovia for a long hibernation of isolationism. The monarchy was determined to preserve the avian-folk. While the rest of their world's wings grew small and brittle and shrank (suffering a fate similar to the tailbone), citizens of Sokovia preserved their original lifestyle and never underwent a similar change.

Currently, this country the size of Singapore, faces a slow population decline. Today, I will dive deep into the heart of Sokovia and figure out some of the most controversial questions involving this nation.

Heinrich's son, the sixteen year-old Helmut Zemo (aptly named after his grandmother - both their names translate roughly to helm or protection in Germanic) has reached out to me to hopefully answer some of those questions.

--------

As soon as arrive at Sokovia, I was escorted in a black military truck to the palace. Sokovia forbids all filming, so unfortunately no footage was captured.

A young man greets me. From the photos, I already knew what to expect - yet he still took me by surprise. He had no suit nor tie nor fur collar coat, nothing but a wide-brimmed hat and liquorice curls of amber-brown hair below that. Yet this young man had all the makings of a young royal - his eyes were nearly black in their intensity, and the catlike curl of his lips graced him with an enigmatic, inscrutable air. He gazes at me like observing an exotic creature, then steps to the side to converse with the guards in hushed whispers and minute gestures.

Of course the second thing I noticed about him were his wings. The Sokovian aristocracy was a long line of Eurasian magpies. And before this, I had never known that a magpie's feathers had that iridescent shimmer, now magnified to match the scale of a young adult, which shifted from purple to green to blue with every rustle and twitch. A joyful fluttering of the wings by the young prince revealed a stark white underside.

"Come with me," he says, and walks into the shade of the palace gardens, his feathers fading in their colour, a layer of vibrating black oil spilling over his shoulders and down to the back of his calves. It is times like this that I wonder whether we as a species were rather foolish to lose these magnificent gifts of nature.

"Did you enjoy the journey here?" The young prince asks me. His voice is clear and sweet, with the compelling style that is distinctively crafted for nobles and royalty. Faced with this gentle question, I felt a sudden urge to both reassure and impress him.

"I thoroughly did. Sokovia is even more beautiful than the pictures," I added, feeling rather pleased with my lie.

Much to my surprise, the young prince let out a silvery peal of laughter. "Nonsense. As soon as you came out of the airport, we stuffed you into a windowless shuttle bus for three hours. You must be tired."

He left me in the dust, completely bewildered. This was not the innocent cherub of a young prince that our media depicted him as.

"You're different from what the papers depicted," I told him dryly, feeling very foolish from stumbling into his trap.

The little prince slowed his pace and narrowed his eyes (although I spied a dangerous little smirk dancing on his lips). "Well, you're here to set the lies straight, aren't you?"

It was at this moment that the nickname Teufelchen started to make sense to me.

If in Thunderbolts, Zemo and Walker team up (WalkerBaron), I’m headcanonising:

- Walker calling Zemo a ‘lil bitch’ on the daily

- Walker raising his shield to protect the both of them from falling debris and Zemo just standing under the shade in mild wonder

- Zemo bitch slapping Walker

- Walker pours Zemo’s finest wine into a cut to ‘disinfect’ it, Zemo letting out an unholy screech, and downing the entire bottle in response

- Zemo bitch slapping Walker again

- Walker trying to undermine Zemo’s authority by looming over him, Zemo responds by purposely walking in front of him and suddenly stopping just to make John crash into him

- Zemo calling Walker ‘Agent’ instead of ‘US Agent’ out of spite

- Zemo sidestepping John’s advances like siiiiiike we gotta be pRoFfEsSiOnAl

Then later justifying their relationship by saying “It’s a mutually beneficial exchange.”

- Zemo always trying to discreetly keep John in his peripheral vision, because that man was his temporary protection and lifeline

Bonus:

Zemo tries to guide Walker down a bad path to justify killing him eventually. Walker takes the bait. But little does Zemo know, the man drags Zemo down alongside him, topples Zemo’s little moral pedestal right into the depths of depravity.

Now that’s a relationship I’d love to explore.

To the person who was once called @niki-fucking-lauda, even though your account is deactivated now, I’m happy for you and I hope you’re in a better place off tumblr.

If you still happen to see this, all the best and good luck.

🍀

First chapter of my Shang Chi/Wenwu fic is on AO3.

Uhhhhhhh if you ship, check it out.

If you don’t, don’t come for me.

Oh boy it’s a slow burn and it’s gonna be a long one.

Saved.

So, let me guess— you just started a new book, right? And you’re stumped. You have no idea how much an AK47 goes for nowadays. I get ya, cousin. Tough world we live in. A writer’s gotta know, but them NSA hounds are after ya 24/7. I know, cousin, I know. If there was only a way to find out all of this rather edgy information without getting yourself in trouble…

You’re in luck, cousin. I have just the thing for ya.

It’s called Havocscope. It’s got information and prices for all sorts of edgy information. Ever wondered how much cocaine costs by the gram, or how much a kidney sells for, or (worst of all) how much it costs to hire an assassin?

I got your back, cousin. Just head over to Havocscope.

((PS: In case you’re wondering, Havocscope is a database full of information regarding the criminal underworld. The information you will find there has been taken from newspapers and police reports. It’s perfectly legal, no need to worry about the NSA hounds, cousin ;p))

Want more writerly content? Follow maxkirin.tumblr.com!

👏👏commitment right here, folks. I will be reading the docs just to firm up my characterization of JW for the fic I’m working on

John Walker: a study in story framing, character archetype, established canon details, and audience manipulation

There’s been a ton of discourse surrounding the character of John Walker, everyone has a lot of opinions. But having read many articles, posts, tweets, and watched reaction channels and video essays, I have found a common theme among them: a fundamental misunderstanding of the character due to the story framing.

In fact, the character of John Walker that exists in fandom discussions is more of a projection of what people think he is and what people want him to stand in for rather than the actual canonically established character that exists in the story of The Falcon and The Winter Soldier. This is why I have decided to write this post along with an episode-by-episode breakdown, because I think John Walker the character has been completely eclipsed by John Walker the symbol, lost underneath the iconography that he’s been associated with and not really given a fair look as an individual person.

I should make it clear upfront; it is not my intention with this to tell people how they should feel about a character. Whether you agree with my points or not doesn’t really matter. My hope is that this at the very least provides you with a different perspective on the character and his motivations. Maybe have you consider him in a new way.

So, let’s start from the beginning.

——————————–

EPISODE 1

Story framing is important, it effects our perspective as an audience, and it is deliberately controlled by the writers and filmmakers to manipulate certain emotions and impressions out of us. The Falcon and The Winter Soldier expertly does this from the very beginning by framing John Walker immediately as someone whom we should not want.

Because the music is mournful and ominous despite the celebratory occasion shown on TV.

Because Sarah is upset.

Because Sam has his fists clenched and is unhappy and suspicious, and then closes his eyes in upset.

Because when dialogues like this is delivered, the show is purposefully playing into real life iconography and feelings that already raises our hackles.

Because Sam retired the shield and the hero position, so when someone else seemingly carelessly and casually steps in waving like a propaganda piece with a gun on his hip, and a grey flag symbol that looks so close to the thin blue line flag used by cops, there is something unsettling to us even if we didn’t consciously pick up on it, we just know that it goes against what we want and what our main protagonist wants. 

Because this strange person in a Cap costume winking looks like a jerk. We didn’t ask for this. 

As it’s always said, first impressions are important. How someone first perceives you decides how someone might judge anything that you do. If someone thinks you’re an arrogant jerk, then anything you do will be colored by that impression and they will never think well of your intentions. But if their first impression of you is kind and caring, then any mistakes you made is automatically given leeway because your intentions would be well considered. And in one fell swoop, the show firmly planted into the minds of every single person watching that John Walker is an arrogant jerk espousing propaganda no one wants and everything he does is automatically suspect and questionable. 

In fact, they even go the extra step to make that very clear by how the cast credits is used. Notice the difference between the image of Walker in Episode 1 and Episode 2-6?

The red mark over his eyes, blocking him from us, not only feels foreboding, it feels as if it’s warning us. 

So, when I say that John Walker was from the beginning set up to fail, it’s because he was, the story intended for it to be. We have to hate, question, suspect, and think the worst of Walker in order for Sam’s eventual reclaiming of the shield to mean anything or have that emotional catharsis. Because nobody wants to see Sam take the shield from a nice dude, it would be bittersweet or even mean, but if the story tells us that this guy is someone we can dislike or hate right off the bat because there is something vaguely “bad” about him, then we would root for Sam to take that shield.

There is a reason we don’t get Walker’s perspective at all in his introduction. He’s just this stranger we’ve been programmed as an audience to hate. We are not treated to Walker waiting to go outside and feeling nervous, or Walker doubting himself or perhaps even not wanting to take up the shield at first when it was given to him. The purposeful lack of his perspective is done so we only feel the weight of emotions from the Wilsons being upset, because we must relate to the protagonists.

Walker is not the hero of this story, he’s not the protagonist of this story, if he was, then the story would have framed his unveiling as Captain America in a completely different way, and we would have been treated to a sympathetic look at what he was feeling about taking on the shield, we would have had an inside look at his mindset before he walked out there and looked into that camera and winked. But because we the audience lack that important context that was deliberately kept away from us, our views on Walker formed and solidified without it, and then we all stewed on those feelings for a whole week. 

By the time Episode 2 rolled around to open with Walker’s perspective, the damage was already done, it was too late, because people had already made up their mind about what kind of a person he was, and even those who might have given him a chance was just waiting for the other shoe to drop. 

The show had very clearly made sure that John Walker was always going to have an uphill battle in the eyes of the fans, however fairly or unfairly. And that deliberate and purposeful removal of his perspective and context would be the key to how the character will be misread. Because the reality is, Walker hasn’t even done anything wrong yet and people have already made assumptions just because of one wink, just because of his mere presence. There was no objective consideration that Walker winked because he understood having to put on a cheerful public facade, no consideration that he could have been told to play along nicely for the cameras and directed to look there and wink, no consideration that he didn’t ask for this job but was ordered to do so and is as much a “victim” of the government as Sam. Because the show had already used every trick in the book to make us feel bad and ominous about his presence, the audience would automatically assume the worst.

CLICK THIS LINK TO CONTINUE TO EPISODE TWO AND THE REST OF THIS 219 PAGES AND OVER 28K WORDS ANALYSIS

Holy shit. Holy fudging shit. This is so good and poetic. WTF. Do you have golden fingers because this is amazing. WHAT THE ACTUAL HECK THIS IS SO GOOD? AHHHHHH??!?! Dude i- i just... i... THE WAY YOU USE WORDS IS AMAZING DUDE I WISH I COULD WRITE LIKE YOU

Last Rites. Zemo. Angst. His fate is inevitable; no matter where he goes, he is driven by loss.

Two roads diverge and in one moment, Zemo and the Baron split apart. There’s Zemo on one side of the great divide, watching his whole world crumble around him. There’s the Baron who said fuck the mission and took his family on holiday someplace far away and quiet; he hears the breeze sighing in the long grass and holds his wife just a little closer.

What could’ve been. What could’ve been. What could’ve—

It’s a sigh like a dying curse and Zemo hears it every moment of every day. It flavors his coffee and wraps around his ankles to bind him in his cell. It tells him listen, when she said she felt so scared, what did you say?

(I’ll be home soon)

But there is no home, not anymore, not since he stood on the threshold of the end of — not the world but his world— and saw the ruin of everything. What is a man without a country? What is a man who smiles despite the knife in his gut?

The Baron watches the seasons change across the wasteland and he sees his son grow up. He says all of this is yours, every stone and every blade of grass. He hears about the city’s fall and is somehow unsurprised; Avengers are synonymous with ruin, with trails of destruction left behind while they retreat to their tower and lick their wounds. The Baron says all this is yours, every smear of blood and every shadow; when I die— not if, but when— don’t follow. Build a better world. He says— he says— but all his words are wasted.

Our father, who art the source of malice, gathers every thread and pulls us close. We pray the devils take us, for they at least are honest; they at least have made no promises.

And here comes Zemo with a face like a summer storm, wild and torn by thunder, all his ghosts around him like a mantle and if he smiles it’s only because he senses his nearness to the other side. He walks like a man who has nothing to lose because he doesn’t — his heart is gone, all the bones of his dear ones buried in the earth far from home because the family crypt was crushed and all its many sleeping dead thrown about like so much straw. Here comes Zemo with his gloves and his coat and even if he hides his face his eyes are still there, dark and piercing, every blink an indictment and every tear a curse.

Here comes Zemo, the trinity of ghosts: father, son and spouse; he sees the other side and doesn’t wonder why couldn’t it be that way because there is no time; he sets his plans in motion and shepherds them to the outcome he wants (the outcome he needs; he has the grief of love, of lovers, of someone who’s only ever known violence as a tool, who doesn’t fear death or pain but only the shards of his shattered heart that pierce through him)

Our father, who shows us the back of his hand, who curdles our milk and picks the lashes from our eyelids, our father, who shows us a door that’s locked and barred—

The Baron sees his people scattered, broken; he traces the threads of their dissolution back to the source, which is the Tower; he hears their cries for mercy and for aid and somehow, somehow, he is the last of their royalty, the last one with enough pull to do something (enough money squirreled away, at least, and the implacable cruelty needed to show no mercy). He says I’ll be home soon and goes to carry out his duty. If I let it go, if I let it go,

(We’ll be together)

We will never know peace. We will never know the satisfaction of looking at the stars without wondering who will descend to tear us apart.

When the Baron returns with blood on his hands (how they fought, but cleverness and tech and all the money in the world are no match for the calculated rage of a man who kills to protect, who will ruin angels to tear their prying eyes from those he loves)— when the Baron returns—

(I’m home)

—it’s to a quiet house and blood on the walls; the last of those he loved now dying on the floor and there’s a message. There’s always a message. You couldn’t protect us. So many dead, and when we looked to you, you’d fled. And then you left to chase your dragons, but the wolves slipped through your door. The Baron doesn’t cry. He can’t cry. He buries his dead and closes up his country house; he will find those responsible and share his suffering.

Our father, who maketh us to lie in green fields, who draws the stars down to drive them through our flesh. Our father, who pulls fate’s threads and cuts them free. Our father, king of filth and decadence.

Zemo lets his beard grow and thinks about what could have been. It’s a petty, weak indulgence and it makes him ache; it makes his hands twitch with the need to hold a gun again, to act, to move. He reads, he listens to the radio, he waits. He pushes the sleeves of his hoodie up and leans against the bars.

Zemo has a visitor. He sees his way out and he smiles his crooked smile.

Our father.