#☆.⠀⠀⠀larger than life⠀⠀⠀⎯⎯⎯⠀⠀⠀⠀(⠀verse i !⠀)

[cagcd]

      Sympathy swells in a heart once too careless to understand.   A newborn sense of compassion which grew stronger by the hands of maturity and experience.   His father had never been an example he wished to follow,   never desired the responsibility for a life he may be the cause of its eventual ruin.   He had gotten close,   once,   too absorbed in his own world with one too many glasses to be made aware of an unconscious instance of neglect,   once   &.   Never again.   It was a wake up call much needed to restore a life he had nearly drove to an end of no return.   He sobered up,   took responsibility and vowed to be the father his own could never be.   A fault he's most grateful to despite the guilt,   for he is now aware of all that he could have missed in his daughter's life if self destructive tendencies were to go on.   And he's proud,   so immensely proud,   that the weight of that massive ego is reduced into non-existance when she was the topic of discussion.   Since the first time she rode a bike to the day she bested her mother in combat and earned her spot as commanding officer.   Still,   it would be a lie to say to his faith was blind,   that he hadn't felt concern to an unbearable degree at every scraped knee and bruise.   To lose one's only child,   he couldn't fathom the idea.

        ❛❛   What was he like,   your son,   I mean ?   ❜❜        Johnny asked,   curious but not as pushy as ever is his habit.   He only heard Hanzo utter his name,   but never once had he spoken of him,   too pained by the gravity of his loss to reflect back on the good,   on that same joy he must have had seeing his own flesh and blood excel in life.   He had often known something was amiss,   that that rage had a purpose   &.   Not some mere villainy of nature like the rest of their foes.   But it had never occurred to him how difficult it truly was until he had a family of his own to lose,   fame and fortune were always fleeting,   but family ?   No treasure could compensate for it.        ❛❛   If             you don't mind me asking,   that is.   ❜❜

@scorpiun // plotted !

[nostalgebraist]

I feel like I've had the same experience several times now: someone does a new translation of a non-English literary classic, and all the critics praise it to the moon, so I go and try to read it, and it's turns out it's just . . . bad? Like, really bad? And weirdly bad?

A while back, I wrote about the case of Pevear and Volokhonsky. Here's another example, which I encountered while doing background research for my novel Almost Nowhere.

----

One of my novel's major characters is a literary translator, famous for his rendition of the Persian epic poem Shahnameh ("Book of Kings").

To help me write this character, I tried to read the Shahnameh myself. I started out – where else? – with the translation that seemed to be the gold standard, and which was certainly the most critically lauded.

Namely, the 2006 translation by Dick Davis, in prose with occasional shifts into verse.

Here's how the Shahnameh begins, in Davis' translation:

What does the Persian poet say about the first man to seek the crown of world sovereignty? No one has any knowledge of those first days, unless he has heard tales passed down from father to son. This is what those tales tell: The first man to be king, and to establish the ceremonies associated with the crown and throne, was Kayumars. When he became lord of the world, he lived first in the mountains, where he established his throne, and he and his people dressed in leopard skins. It was he who first taught men about the preparation of food and clothing, which were new in the world at that time. Seated on his throne, as splendid as the sun, he reigned for thirty years. He was like a tall cypress tree topped by the full moon, and the royal farr shone from him. All the animals of the world, wild and tame alike, reverently paid homage to him, bowing down before his throne, and their obedience increased his glory and good fortune.

And here is the same opening, in the 1905 translation by Arthur and Edmond Warner (which I only discovered much later in the process of writing Almost Nowhere):

What saith the rustic bard? Who first designed To gain the crown of power among mankind? Who placed the diadem upon his brow? The record of those days hath perished now Unless one, having borne in memory Tales told by sire to son, declare to thee Who was the first to use the royal style And stood the head of all the mighty file. He who compiled the ancient legendary, And tales of paladins, saith Gaiúmart Invented crown and throne, and was a Sháh. This order, Grace, and lustre came to earth When Sol was dominant in Aries And shone so brightly that the world grew young. Its lord was Gaiúmart, who dwelt at first Upon a mountain; thence his throne and fortune Rose. He and all his troop wore leopard-skins, And under him the arts of life began, For food and dress were in their infancy. He reigned o'er all the earth for thirty years, In goodness like a sun upon the throne, And as a full moon o'er a lofty cypress So shone he from the seat of king of kings. The cattle and the divers beasts of prey Grew tame before him; men stood not erect Before his throne but bent, as though in prayer, Awed by the splendour of his high estate, And thence received their Faith.

Now, I can't speak at all about the source text. I have no idea how faithful or unfaithful these two translations are, and in what ways, in which places.

Still, though. I mean like, come on.

This is an epic poem about ancient kings and larger-than-life heroes.

This is a national epic, half myth and half history, narrating the proud folkloric lineage claimed by a real-world empire.

There is a way that such things are supposed to sound, in English. And it sure as hell isn't this:

What does the Persian poet say about the first man to seek the crown of world sovereignty?

Excuse me? That's your opening line? I thought I was reading a poem, here, not taking a fucking AP World Literature exam!

----

Postscript

Some of the critical praise for the Davis translation, quoted on the back cover of my copy (emphasis mine):

"A poet himself, Davis brings to his translation a nuanced awareness of Ferdowsi's subtle rhythms and cadences. His "Shahnameh" is rendered in an exquisite blend of poetry and prose, with none of the antiquated flourishes that so often mar translations of epic poetry." (Reza Aslan, The New York Times Book Review) "Thanks to Davis's magnificent translation, Ferdowsi and the Shahnameh live again in English.” (Michael Dirda, Washington Post) "A magnificent accomplishment . . . [Davis’s translation] is not only the fullest representation of Ferdowsi’s masterpiece in English but the best." (The New York Sun)

[gay-dorito-dust]

How about something about being a very soft and feminine person, strong independent in their own way, with Mizu. I like to think she is joins the party and acts as the “woman” for the group, and she just genuinely is a good person. I just want to see Mizu with someone who just cares about them.

This was way too long and whatever else you wanna call it.

‘You’ll die.’ Mizu puts bluntly.

‘I don’t care. I’m coming with you whether you like it or not.’ You shrugged, mind made up as you already have packed your essentials for the departure overnight.

Mizu closed their eyes, sighing deeply through the nose before opening their eyes once more to look directly at you with their usual stare. ‘I won’t be held responsible if you were killed unawares.’ They said but the fire of excitement and adventure within your eyes hasn’t faltered once.

Mizu can only wonder how they attract people of similar natures in one way or the other to trail after them like a little horde of stubborn ducklings; A question they’ll couldn’t quite find the answer for.

You have been prone to leave Mizu perplexed since your first met after healing them of their wounds after a particularly heinous fight. Your soft touches and kind encouraging words brought about uncertain feelings within Mizu. Making them feel as though they have somehow ventured off into unfamiliar territory, immediately sending them to act out in self defensive tactics.

Constantly looking over their shoulder, hand clutching at the hilt of their sword, ears and eyes honing in on every snaps of branches and the rustling of bushes, waiting for a potential ambushes or ransacking attempts. Anything that would put their life in any and all levels of risk.

Mizu found themself in a battlefield they weren’t well versed in whenever your face shone with a bright smile upon seeing them in the mornings, presenting them with the clothes they’ve entrusted to you to sew up the worn and torn fabric, seeing as how only you were the one with the tools and the experience for the job. Or how you would often help fix up breakfast for everyone but always end up making yours last, when Mizu asked about this, you just shrugged and told them that you’d rather survive off of scraps if it meant others having full, warm and satisfied bellies.

Mizu only scoffs at this, not thinking too much into your words, but their sharp eyes would immeditly notice the difference in the amount of food you gave them before looking at your own proportions; which was enough to satiate your hunger for the time being but it was obvious that you gave larger portions of food to them. Their eyes would soften somewhat at the gesture, knowing that your words were more than just words, only to harden afterwards when catching you given them frequent side glances.

You would also patch up reopened words that were in harder to reach for Mizu or Tiagen to get to by themselves , much to Mizu’s dismay at the thought of being in such a vulnerable and open position for sabotage. However under your watchful eye, Mizu had learnt over a long period of time to put their trust into you and your seemingly never ending well of talents.

‘Stop doing stuff that’ll only reopen your wounds,’ you scolded, finishing sealing up the last of Mizu’s wounds with a final stitch. ‘I’m staring to run out of thread and alcohol to disinfect the needle with the rate you and Taigen are going at!’ You added, putting your hands on your hips like a disappointed parent.

‘If it displeases you so much to waste resources, then why bother healing me in the first place.’ Mizu responded straightforwardly as they slowly refitted their clothing on their body whilst trying not to reopen any wounds as to not waste the effort you put into putting them back together again. You huffed, knowing that Mizu was still a little on edge with you and the kindness you went out of your way to give them.

You didn’t blame them for being the way they were and only accepted this as their way of acting the only way they knew how and went to sit down next to them, remembering to keep some distance for keep Mizu from unwarranted contact. ‘It’s not the resources that I’m worried about. It’s you.’ You admitted, seeing Mizu look at you from the corner of your eye, looking as though they weren’t expecting that type of response to come from your mouth. That reaction only hurt your heart knowing that a concerning about of people lacked empathy towards their fellow man. It genuinely disgusted you at how easy it was for them to show you their back the moment you’ve outgrown your usage.

‘Me? Why?’ Mizu asked.

You chuckled humourlessly. ‘Is it a sin for me to be concerned about you? To worry about you whenever you come back from where ever you wander off to, suddenly unable to stand on your own two feet without collapsing from immense blood loss?’ Mizu reminded silent and so you took that as a sign to continue. ‘Am I expected to just stand there and not do anything? I’m sorry but I’d rather wast every resource I own on you because if it meant bettering your chances of survival, even if by a margin, then I’d do anything to make that possibility into a guarantee.’ You finished with a smile before getting up to your feet and leaving the room to give Mizu privacy and time to process your words.

Meanwhile Mizu was back to feeling those foreign emotions. They weren’t use to someone caring for them to the extent that you did, not without wanting something in exchange but Mizu noticed that you haven’t even once asked for anything in return for making them breakfast, sewing up their clothes, gifting them sharping stones for their sword nor patching up their wounds. All you did was take care of them and their every needs, so much so that they felt a weird warm within their chest at the memory of your bright smile that you gave them after everything.

You were sweet and soft but strong, firm in your beliefs and posses a strong independence. A true diamond in the rough in regard to everything they’ve bore witness to since childhood. Your attitude towards them was an extreme contrast to everyone else’s, it often caught Mizu off guard in the odd occasion but it wasn’t until now did Mizu come to realised how much their body ached to be tended and cared for by someone like you. They’ve persevered through the hardships they’re forced to call life and bore the scars of said hardships in a multitude of places upon their body, both new and old.

Mizu was use to being alone but now that you entered their life, they were starting to think that they don’t wanna be alone anymore but was a tad hesitant to make the first move on their own accord. If Mizu was grateful for one thing in life, it was the fact that you were in it and by their side for the indefinite future.

[ffsg0jo]

tw: suggestive and also pretend everything ended after gojo was unsealed and that everyone's alive !!

you shouldn't be feeling this way. the entire world was in disarray, still recovering from the aftershock of chaos and destruction stomping hand in hand through the streets.

but your husband had changed drastically. since escaping the prison realm, he'd gotten thicker, bulkier, his frame now matching his larger than life ego.

the way his t-shirt deliciously hugged and stretched against his biceps. the baggy, white martial arts pants (which are almost see-through in the sunlight) left so much to the imagination, and god, you couldn't stop imagining what was underneath.

the pretty little bow tying it all together was just calling you, begging you to untie it and sink to your knees, revering him the way he deserved to be. you wanted your husband so badly that you couldn't focus on any of the tasks at hand. major damage control and cleanup were needed, but your mind was only on your husband. it was pathetic, and you felt ashamed, but you needed him, entire world be damned.

it was like a switch flicked in your brain. the 20 days he was locked up, you spent it all in a constant state of panic and worry, fighting to stay alive and to keep your students alive too. and the moment you saw satoru, you were taken aback, rooted to the spot.

there he was, your satoru in all his infinite glory. as he ran and gathered you up in his arms, you couldn't help but slightly whimper at the feeling of his taut muscles pressing against your softer form. he felt so good against your body and finally in your arms.

satoru, well versed in your body language, immediately understood what was going through your head. the same could be said for him, too. he spent hours upon hours alone in the prison realm, his body devoid of your touch, aching for you. not a second went by where he didn't think about your lips pressed against his heated skin and indulging in your soft, silky, warmth.

he could feel the blood rushing south as he heard you whimper. satoru wanted to kiss you so bad, but he knew if he did, he'd end up taking you right here, right now in front of everyone.

he pressed a chaste kiss to the corner of your mouth, another stamped lovingly onto your hairline. satoru held your face in his palms, forehead pressed against yours. his blue eyes shining with unshed tears, mirroring yours. god, he missed his wife so much. his sweet, sweet girl.

satoru's gaze softened, drinking you in properly now. he sees the bags under your eyes and tear tracks engrained into your cheeks. his soul breaks, as he realises how devastated and hearbroken you must have been.

"i love you so much," he whispers, pressing a kiss to your soft lips. "and i'm not going anywhere, my love. i promise."

you couldn't stop yourself leaning up and capturing satoru's lips in a frenzied kiss, you both groaning at the contact. satoru angled your face closer to his, his nose pressing deliciously into yours. he deepened the kiss, gasping at the way you tugged at his slightly overgrown undercut. you took that as an opportunity to slide your tongue past his lips and lick into his mouth.

he tongue fought against yours, wanting to taste every inch of your mouth. the kiss was becoming way too heated. your body pulled flush against his, his hardening length pressing into your stomach, moans escaping both of your lips. satoru drank all your noises up greedily, savouring them on his tongue.

the sudden loud cough to your right made you both pause, realising where you were. collecting yourselves, you slowly pulled apart, a string of saliva splitting as you moved away from your husband, his hands falling to your waist.

you were both panting and out of breath, but that now that you'd gotten a taste, it wasn't enough. you needed to feel his bare skin on yours. you needed to be completely consumed by him. you needed more.

before turning to face his students' satoru smirked at you. you never thought you'd say this, but you revelled in that stupid smirk of his.

'patience' his darkened, lust-filled eyes conveyed, his hands squeezing your waist, 'we have all night'.

i am taking requests and writing fics for gaza. check the linked post out to find out more !!

© ffsg0jo 2024 — do not plagiarise, repost, modify, or translate any of my work, in any way shape or form; i will piss in your cereal if you do. all work belongs to me and me only.

[apoemaday]

Eurydice

by Carol Ann Duffy

Girls, I was dead and down in the Underworld, a shade, a shadow of my former self, nowhen. It was a place where language stopped, a black full stop, a black hole Where the words had to come to an end. And end they did there, last words, famous or not. It suited me down to the ground.

So imagine me there, unavailable, out of this world, then picture my face in that place of Eternal Repose, in the one place you’d think a girl would be safe from the kind of a man who follows her round writing poems, hovers about while she reads them, calls her His Muse, and once sulked for a night and a day because she remarked on his weakness for abstract nouns. Just picture my face when I heard -- Ye Gods -- a familiar knock-knock at Death’s door.

Him. Big O. Larger than life. With his lyre and a poem to pitch, with me as the prize.

Things were different back then. For the men, verse-wise, Big O was the boy. Legendary. The blurb on the back of his books claimed that animals, aardvark to zebra, flocked to his side when he sang, fish leapt in their shoals at the sound of his voice, even the mute, sullen stones at his feet wept wee, silver tears.

Bollocks. (I’d done all the typing myself, I should know.) And given my time all over again, rest assured that I’d rather speak for myself than be Dearest, Beloved, Dark Lady, White Goddess etc., etc.

In fact girls, I’d rather be dead.

But the Gods are like publishers, usually male, and what you doubtless know of my tale is the deal.

Orpheus strutted his stuff.

The bloodless ghosts were in tears. Sisyphus sat on his rock for the first time in years. Tantalus was permitted a couple of beers. The woman in question could scarcely believe her ears.

Like it or not, I must follow him back to our life -- Eurydice, Orpheus’ wife -- to be trapped in his images, metaphors, similes, octaves and sextets, quatrains and couplets, elegies, limericks, villanelles, histories, myths…

He’d been told that he mustn’t look back or turn round, but walk steadily upwards, myself right behind him, out of the Underworld into the upper air that for me was the past. He’d been warned that one look would lose me for ever and ever.

So we walked, we walked. Nobody talked.

Girls, forget what you’ve read. It happened like this -- I did everything in my power to make him look back. What did I have to do, I said, to make him see we were through? I was dead. Deceased. I was Resting in Peace. Passé. Late. Past my sell-by date… I stretched out my hand to touch him once on the back of the neck. Please let me stay. But already the light had saddened from purple to grey.

It was an uphill schlep from death to life and with every step I willed him to turn. I was thinking of filching the poem out of his cloak, when inspiration finally struck. I stopped, thrilled. He was a yard in front. My voice shook when I spoke -- Orpheus, your poem’s a masterpiece. I’d love to hear it again…

He was smiling modestly, when he turned, when he turned and he looked at me.

What else? I noticed he hadn’t shaved. I waved once and was gone.

The dead are so talented. The living walk by the edge of a vast lake near, the wise, drowned silence of the dead.

[cagcd]

      He had always seen a glimpse of something raw   beyond the soldier's front that was lieutenant Blade.   Caught a fleeting softness to her smile at unexpected moments,   heard an occasional lightness in her tone at those instances of teasing when he was sure she was merely messing with him rather than to carefully express something so substantial.   Her external rigidity had never phased him,   for a man who enjoyed learning of the inner workings of others' personalities,   he knew there was more to it,   had always been eager to tread so dangerously a little closer,   bring out a smile or an eye roll if he can.   It was in his nature to be so loud and flirty,   he had tried to get his way with her during the first tournament,   but contrary to common belief,   he was the loyal kind,   even more so throughout the two years of war against outworld's invasion.   They only had each other to rely on,   and he had unintentionally felt himself being dragged closer   &.   closer to the point he would lie awake with nothing on his mind but her,   wondering if she felt the same,

   only to have his answer laid out so boldly. 

      ❛❛   You know   ...   ❜❜        Johnny groaned,   recognizing that tone of hers all too well,   she's teasing him again for her own enjoyment,   perhaps pleased to see the actor so short on words for once                  which was unheard of until now,   but he can't be blamed,   not when the impact of those years being delivered with such a quick blow.   He wonders how he's able to keep his wits about him,   from almost losing her,   discovering this strange powers   &.   now this vague but all too obvious admission of feelings.   He's strangely thankful that she would get him to shut up again,   he followed her lead once more,   as effortlessly as it was to breathe,   willingly this time now that the shock had worn off,   as brief as that lasted,   for this time she seemed to pour every ounce of every unspoken feeling and if this was a cartoon he'd have steam blowing out of his ears.   He smiled nonetheless,   eyes shut close as she drew even closer,   his arm around her tightening its hold while a hand cradled her cheek,   she had every right to be careful,   because from now on he would be too stubborn on letting her go.

   He doesn't think he'd be recovering from this as well,   he had the wind knocked out of his lungs so effectively that he needed a moment.   All he could is smile whilst leaning forehead to forehead,   a breathy chuckle sounding at her question,   that was way more than what he was aiming for but he'll be damned if he doesn't take it.        ❛❛   I didn't take you for a softie,   Sonya Blade.   ❜❜

Long ago--or perhaps in another timeline--Sonya had told Johnny that patience was a virtue. It was as close as she could bring herself to telling him that there was, indeed, a chance for him to get his way... but that it would require a Herculean effort, and even more patience beyond that. If courtship was a battle, then Sonya was a fortress that he had laid siege to using damn near every tactic in the book to conquer. Ultimately it was sincerity that had broken down the gate to allow hm entry to the vulnerabilities those walls protected. It was a huge risk for her to let him in, to let him close... but part of her knew it was the right decision, and it was growing larger and larger by the moment.

It was freeing to allow herself to feel what she had been denying for so long.

"Feel the same..?"

Amusement colored her tone as she chuckled softy to herself. She couldn't hold not being able to put feelings into words against him--shit, it was probably one of her biggest flaws when it came to matters of the heart. It was entertaining, though... and while the urge to further prod at his flustered state by asking for more specifics was strong, she recognized that doing so would be cruel. Besides, if he was going to tell her that he loved her, she wanted him to be at least partial brain capacity when he did it. That, of course, led back to how she was going to answer that question when words wouldn't do the trick...

It was surprisingly easy to guide him down into another kiss--it was as effortless as breathing, yet it filled her with the adrenaline that made charging headlong into danger something she secretly adored. And there was danger here, the kind that had her shifting her position without giving up that liplock so she was straddling his hips and doing her damndest to get close to him as if she'd die if she didn't. The previous kiss had been hesitant, exploratory. This one, though... well. Johnny would never be able to hear someone call Sonya frigid again and keep a straight face. It was only the need for oxygen that had her pulling away, her forehead resting against his.

"That answer your question?"

Her words came out in a breathless murmur against his lips.

[cagcd]

     It wasn't the idea of this man shaped spider which got him,   but that dreadful glow of dotted eyes that he had seen one too many times and still finds himself flinching effectively at the encounter,   what's with unearthly beings and glowing eyes ?   Couldn't anyone invest in a pair of sunglasses to save for an unpleasant fright at such an unholy hour ?   All Johnny wanted to do was drink himself out into the bottom of another bottle and forget,   but it seems every time he had planned on it something or someone comes to interrupt him so rudely.   He supposes that's what it must be like to have actual friends,   those who's mere presence can do a world of good without ever intending it,   but he would rather break a knee,   [   again   ],   than to admit that to Miguel of all people.

       ❛❛   Like that would stop you from crashing straight into one.   ❜❜        the actor scoffs at the suggestion,   seeing no point in attempting such,   and perhaps a little too confident in himself and his ability to all be the security system he ever needed,   but despite how much he tends to get on the man's nerves,   Miguel wouldn't go as far as try and do anything.   There was an unspoken friendship between the two,   wrought stronger by a mutual need to be free of all burdens or to simply drown in them without any sense of judgment.   He thought he was miserable tonight,   grown weary of the same broken record of soulless eyes and empty smiles,   all so beautiful   &.   grand to the eye in true Hollywood fashion,   except those with a keen eye and a soul yearning for what's real,   never to be found in the plastic mold that was stardom.   However now,   seeing that absent-minded look on his friend's face,   the way he would reach for the bottle regardless of his sensitivity for stronger taste   ...   asking for games,   a movie,   that's misery in it's true form.

       ❛❛   What side of the web did you wake up on ?   ❜❜        Johnny would ask but allows Miguel to roam his mansion freely,   bothered with the intrusion but never the kind to turn a friend away at an hour of need.        ❛❛   the games are on the shelf over there,   pick any movie you want too as long as it's one of mine.   ❜❜        he gestured,   not too encouraged on looking through them himself,   Cindy used to love board games,   made him and her guests play them all the time,   that was a time ill-spent.   He sighed at the thought,   turning to the kitchen while Miguel took his pick.        ❛❛   You want anything to eat ?   I think I have some leftover pizza.   ❜❜

@spidergene // [ ☆ ]

[ceilidho]

why is your brain so wrinkly i'm eating up your ideas and thoughts about the cod boys in the fallout universe.

just ghost being unapologetically unbothered in the wastelands, soap being a raider because he's a wild man that needs something to do, price as a CULT LEADER (i eat that up every time) and our poor vault dweller gaz i just UGH

Ghost just lives on his own, eats whatever he can, sells the remains of whatever happened upon his property in town, and then uses that extra income on RadAway. he's either full ghoul or just deformed and deteriorating, but in either case he still wears the mask, and in this 'verse the skull on it is real. a grisly little memento of someone who maybe got too close to killing him. he catches you wandering a bit too close to his property, dehydrated and hallucinating because you've been out on your own for too long and rather than killing you, he hogties you and drags you home. it gets lonely without a pet to call his own.

Soap is a scavenger/raider who's been travelling with the same band of raiders for several months. before that he was on his own for a spell and before that he was in a much larger group that dissolved due to in fighting (dissolved = bloodbath, very few made it out). when his group breaks into your vault and kills most of the people inside, he takes you as his own and guards you jealously, territorially. bites you in order to put his mark on you. he makes you bunk with him and gets vicious mad when you stray too far from him because it's not safe. it gets to a point where he's too paranoid to go on raids anymore because he can't trust you to be on your own and he also doesn't want you coming with them and getting hurt. tells the group he's leaving and goes to take you with him and when they refuse to let him take whats "theirs" (aka anything they took from the vaults), he snaps and kills all of them

Gaz is a vault dweller who volunteered to come to the surface after his community's vault door failed, forced to scour the wastelands and nearby towns for replacement parts. when he comes across you working as a freelance mechanic, extremely taciturn and hard to get to know, he can't help but bring you back with him when you help him acquire the parts that he's been looking for, convincing himself that kidnapping you is for the greater good. he'll be able to give you a proper life free of stress and scarcity back in the vault, and you'll be able to ensure that the door never, ever opens again.

Price is the overseer of a vault that over the years has gradually devolved into what most would consider a cult. it's only too bad that there's no one objective enough to label it as such. his vault is also part of a dual vault system similar to vaults 31/32/33, but the two vaults haven't had any communication in the last two hundred years, so the other vault has no idea what's become of Price's vault. it's only too bad that due to a catastrophic blight in your vault, you're the only survivor of a plague that wiped out your entire community, forcing you to enact the emergency protocol and contact the vault adjacent to yours. Price is quick to welcome you in with open arms, but you only start to feel a bit uncomfortable when the other inhabitants start making comments about how nice it'll be to have a new resident as they've been lacking members of "good breeding stock". you don't like the way Price hums in agreement when someone brings that up at the welcome feast.

[cagcd]

      The weight of those long years in seperation had always been present,   never forgotten for a minute,   a rock that had dragged him along into the depths of the darkest seas.   How long had he felt like drowning ?   as if the very air he breathes could never quite reach his lungs ?   Until now he still feels that weight pressing to the point of suffocation,   when the words he had wished for so long to tell her should be liberating,   he felt as though the air had been sucked from the room,   chest tight,   throat in a knot.   He's somewhat relieved nonetheless,   she seemed as though she had woken up from an illusion by her own design,   broke through whatever barrier that had                  for most of her life                  took her willingness to live for herself rather than others.   Always the martyr,   cursed to live in a constant state of purposed detachment from those she loved to ensure their survival.   But what of him ?   Who found no sense in that endless struggle if it wasn't by her side ?   To lay the blame,   say who hurt who the most,   it's a game he never wanted to be a part of,   [   had his fill from since his first marriage   ],   &.   regardless of all that had passed between them,   he doesn't hold any grudge against her,   only a deep melancholy born from watching the woman he loved proceed to live a life she isn't truly living.

        ❛❛   It's                   okey,   I've done my fair share too,   I'm sorry for that as well.   ❜❜        he says,   dismissing her apology with a shake of the head.   It wasn't an apology he was seeking,   not for her to tell him he was right to satisfy his ego or heal a wound that's been left open.   He wanted nothing more than her happiness,   whether it included him it not,   if she could find a sense of tranquillity away from the constant war she had forced herself to endure inwardly,   it should be enough   ...   no,   it's a fool's attempt to sooth a bleeding heart.   For his love for her had still burned within him as fiercely as the first moment it ignited,   the same love that clouds his senses,   overwhelms his being to the point that he feels sick to his stomach with longing.

   For that,   Johnny spoke his mind,   laid his heart out as he had the first time in the Jinsei chamber,   leaving himself in a vulnerability only she got to witness in its fullest.   There was so much that was left unsaid in their eagerness to get away,   a regret he held in his heart ever since   &.   desired nothing more than to fix. I love you,   I could never hate you,   I'll be patient for as long as you want me to                     could it have been any different if he bit the bullet back then and gave her that comfort of mind ?   Perhaps,   there's no point of dwelling on the past,   he agrees on that point,   and is aware how he spent too long looking back than to move forward.   It was difficult to consider leaving her behind,   pretend as if she never mattered anything to him when he hadn't loved anyone as much as her,   the more it hurt the more he knew it was real,   a heartache he'd rather hold onto than a shallow happiness with someone else.   Taking accountability was a step that needed to be taken from both ends.

   What now ?   He wonders,   that familiar silence passing between them.   Discomfort grew with every stretching second,   it felt as if they would stand there in limbo for days on end.   He can't think of anything to say,   to fill in that gap of those long years in one sentence,   for a man who always seemed armed with the right words,   he was quite speechless.   Her touch breaks through the heavy mist of his mind,   slow   &.   hesitant until she gathers up the courage to seize his figure into an embrace,   choosing to be the one to cross the distance that was keeping them asunder ;   a final barrier he was the one to keep up,   aware that he would break without its protection.   He reaches forward almost automatically,   grabbing at her waist to bring her closer to him,   lifting her up over the table and into his arms,   which tightened around her instantly,   head buried into her shoulder.   Then,   and only then,   that this boulder-like weight finally lifted off his chest.   He has her now,   he's not letting go,   never again.   He let out a shaky breath,   tears stinging at the corner of his eyes.

        ❛❛   I still love you since the first time you pinched me in the face.   ❜❜

"We..."

A hard swallow. He was absolutely right--she was terrified in the moment. Terrified of failing to mend what was broken, terrified of losing the future that was still possible between them--terrified of being so exposed in spite of how little physical modesty mattered to her. There was no going back to the fortress that was General Blade now, no retreating into cowardice--not if she wanted him to climb over that Goddamn table that separated them.

But then again... why did he have to be the one to make that move?

For so much of their relationship, he had been the one that was willing to bend--and at more than one point, he'd bent so far that he'd broken beneath the strain. Her inflexibility and rigidity had been one of the biggest problems in their marriage on her end and if she wanted things to improve? That unwillingness to yield was just--not going to cut it, not if she wanted to do all she could to prevent past pain from repeating. Fingertips rested upon her side of the table as she leaned forward herself.

"We can't keep shoulding all over ourselves about the past. It's just--it's holding us back since we can't change any of it no matter how hard we wish we could. But..."

Sonya took a deep breath and shook her head.

"No, fuck 'but'. It was wrong of me to keep you at arm's length for so long, denying what I felt because I was scared of hurting you again when all it did was hurt you worse--hurt both of us worse. I'm sorry."

Those two words... God, it felt liberating to say them, to begin to take accountability for her mistakes. Even if they lived hundreds or thousands of years, she would never feel like she's apologized enough--but she needed to remember her own words and focus on the future she wanted to share with him. Judging by how he was looking at her with his heart in his throat, he wanted the same thing she did--and just as desperately at that. She was fairly sure he missed her--it was writ large over his features every time they were in the same room--but she couldn't assume. No, she needed some sort of confirmation she couldn't deny.

What he said next was the proof she needed.

Tears crept into the corners of her eyes unbidden when he delivered another of those too-good-for-Hollywood lines--the most impactful one since that night in the Jinsei Chamber. What made it so impactful was the utter and absolute absence of pretense or showmanship. The man who stood before her was the one so few got the chance to experience, and being privileged enough to see it exposed was... no, she couldn't find the words to describe how she felt.

"I--"

She did her damndest to try, but a single letter was all she could manage--and in a moment of instinct, she defaulted to the mode of communication that she was marginally more comfortable with. It was awkward as all Hell, reaching for him across the table like she had to... but as her arms encircled his shoulders and she found herself all but climbing over the desk to draw him near, her actions spoke volumes--and once she was back within his orbit where she belonged?

"I never stopped loving you, not for a minute."

The words she needed just tumbled free of her lips.

[koimethehorizon]

Fionna and Cake theory: Simon the Artist

Nothing like a good old creative panic attack.

Fionna and Cake good. Haven’t been excited about a show like this in a long time, though it being a part of Adventure Time does help quite a bit. I was holding on to some cautious optimism for the show when it was announced as yet another big IP series covering the multiverse (still waiting to groan at THAT scene where Prismo has to explain to us about there being infinite universes), but as usual, Adventure Time’s crew continues to surprise me with its creativity, humor, and thematic resonance.

The most striking part about Fionna and Cake so far is just how deliberately the show wants us to differentiate it from the original Adventure Time.

We’re getting shots where Simon pops an artery from his arm, a theme song that explicitly talks about suicidal ideation, discussions of rent and financial problems, and curses no longer disguised with AT’s usual dialogue. Adventure Time has always had violence, thematic density, and juvenile rating pushers, but they were always reserved at small points. Meanwhile, these are factors that are just casually shown and discussed in Fionna and Cake every 3 minutes or so. This is not an all-ages miniseries, it’s for young adults. (hint: this will be relevant later)

Let’s get right into it. This is much less a speculative lore theory and more on what thematic direction the story may be going.

Before we do, let’s get this out of the way first. This theory assumes that the current Fionna and Cake world is all a part of Simon’s head and not merely a separate multiverse, which… I’m certain is fact for the following reasons.

The immediately obvious piece is that Fionna and Cake was always the Ice King’s fanfiction. Now if you’re versed in AT’s continuity you’re probably going to be asking about the red light in Fionna and Cake + Fionna and… I’ve no answer for it unfortunately. It’ll probably be relevant later in the series and possibly age this post like milk but for now, we’re not here to focus on the how, but the why.

Second is that the intro and the ending of Ep 2 literally show Fionna’s world spilling right out of Simon’s head like an animated world out of a frozen brain. If that isn’t clear enough-

Didn't realize this until writing, but these glasses are just plastic made to look like Betty's

There’s no other explanation for this other than that this world is artificial or influenced by Simon in some sense. Fionna even specifies that the statue went under renovation 12 years ago, but nobody seems to know who it is. Considering how Finn looks in the episode, it’s likely that it’s been that long since Betty’s sacrifice in the finale.

With that out of the way, here it goes.

The reason Fionna and Cake exist in the first place is because the creators found Natasha Allegri’s genderswap designs charming and wanted an in-universe reason to use them the Ice King wanted to create trashy, wish fulfillment through art. It was a phase.

Definitely changed that image for publishing.

Simon can argue if they’re good or bad but it’s undeniably his art. It’s not just a portfolio he left behind in a closet, it’s an experience that was shared with a larger audience.

And even if wasn’t liked at first, the citizens of Ooo seemed to have come around to it. And some of them love it!

Whether Simon likes it or not, he has a fan base that is so endeared to the story he made all those years ago that they demand he makes more. Why let a good story, loved by many, go to rest when you still have some life and creativity left in you?

Can't move on in more ways than one.

Except, the problem is that Simon isn’t Ice King anymore. He’s aged out of it.

His real passion is history, he's an adult who who finds passion in the mundane and antiques from the past. And frankly, there isn’t much room for wish-fulfillment and fantasy anymore. Simon has responsibilities. He has a job and a daughter in a world that is moving faster than he can process.

And where Ice King wrote about looking for love, Simon has already had it.

And lost it. His mind isn’t focused on the rosiness of finding new love, it’s grieving the one he already thought was the one.

Wasn't he supposed to be good with kids?

Despite his new life experiences, all his peers seem to want from him is to make more of what they’re familiar with.

A story made from wants and wishes that he doesn’t even have anymore.

A story that was literally made by someone else at a different time. It’s a fiction he cannot connect to anymore, art that he’s embarrassed by. Yet also jealous of. Because at one point, the body Simon used to be in understood what exactly was missing from his life and could express that easily.

Seeing it again is like experiencing a retrospection of a cringey loser you don’t want to imagine having ever been. It’s not you anymore, and you don’t want to be reminded of that.

Because despite him having a new creative passion, no one seems to care about that. All they want is Fionna and Cake. And what is more lonely than other people misunderstanding what you’re trying to express?

If I failed to make it clear somehow, my theory is that: Simon’s relationship with Fionna and Cake is a metaphor for creators growing out of their art. And this new Fionna and Cake world is still comfort art born out of Simon’s current desires and perceptions.

The snippet subtitles this “child holding a phone”. I guess I’m wrong. Essay over.

Episode 1 and 2 both have direct parallels with each other. They’re both about a protagonist who are feeling displaced from their world, living a phase of losing a significant other, leaving a thankless job, wearing a mask of stability in front of the people they care for, seeking a guru at the heart of the forest, and concluding that they no longer belong in their current world.

But more importantly, Fionna and Cake (the characters, the world, and the show) are no longer for an all-ages crowd. Fionna and Cake now feature young adults, curses, gore, alcohol, partial nudity, financial issues, morning routines, mid-life crisis, and overt suicidal ideation. These are the feelings that Simon relates to and possibly desires to express through art. Thus, his story and our new miniseries have warped that way.

Am I overthinking this? No. How dare you assume that.

Is equating the unconscious writings of his dementia-ridden self to Simon as his younger self seem a bit odd? ….Kinda. Again, it’s not the how but the why that matters in this case. I'm NOT crazy, I have proof that there is some acknowledgment of this directly in the show.

Rewatch the bar scene and apply this reading of the episode to what Simon says there:

“Your old stuff, Fionna and Cake, honest to glob my man, is an inspiration to me.”

“My old stuff, I don’t really want to talk about my old stuff…”

“Why not? You should be proud! You wrote an entire extended universe in a fugue state if you think about it.”

"Simon cringes"

If you have ever shared art with a group of people in the past, you’ve had this conversation.

Not likely, not possibly, no perhapses. You HAVE.

And Fionna and Cake being an epilogue to a massive award-winning, near-decade-spanning, cultural sensation 5 years after it ended, might result in its creators feeling very retrospective about what audiences want from them now.

And how difficult it’s going to be to tell new experiences and tones from what’s come before. Also, come on. “Extended Universe?” That doesn’t sound like Fionna and Cake. That sounds a lot like something else.

Again, seems bad with this kid.

One of the more profound shots in the main trailer for the show features the inconspicuously Finn-like kid crouching at her Fionna and Cake book in Simon’s trash. I believe this character is going to have a major role in two ways. Convincing Simon to be proud of what he’s accomplished and/or embracing that Simon wants to move away from his original work in order to create something new, or perhaps more likely, reinvent Fionna and Cake into what Simon relates to now.

We’ll just have to see what Simon thinks of his new Fionna next week.

PS. Talking as a fan now, WHAT IS UP WITH THE 1000+ TREEHOUSE IN THE INTRO?!!! ARE WE REVISITING THIS TIMELINE AGAIN?

SOMEONE TELL ME NOW!!!

[wedriftlikelonelyplanets]

Imagine Landoscar having a fight about their weird situationship and lestappen take the opportunity to have Oscar for themselves since they've always been interested, making sure Lando knows, and when they do it, Oscar moans Lando's name the entire time, which they're all into ofcourse so max records it and sends it to Lando.....so that idiot can man up and take his man....

c:

ANON

OH ANON, I hope you're proud of yourself you have once again made the brain go brrrrr. This wouldn't happen in like canonical GITHHHW verse, HOWEVER it's fun to think about it as a spin-off.

PLEASE APPRECIATE this drabble under the cut. USFW warning for phone sex (kinda?)

Lando's fucking miserable, sprawled out on the couch, he doesn't think he's understood a single word of the fucking anime show that he queued up on Netflix. Can't stop thinking about Oscar, the jump of his jaw, his clenched fists, "Lando, can you just fucking listen to me for one second?" desperation bleeding into his tone. "Can we talk about this?"

Lando wasn't ready. Doesn't know if he is ready to commit to a relationship with the teammate he's worried is going to edge him out of the team. He already knows his feelings for Oscar are larger than life, but there's an inherent level of vulnerability that comes with admitting them. Doesn't want to feel like a sad, drowned cat in the rain when Oscar admits he doesn't feel anything near the same.

Though, he supposes, that's likely impossible, when Oscar just fucking walked out because Lando was refusing to define things.

He's not used to seeing Oscar angry, it's another piece of the puzzle slotting into place of the things he knows about Oscar. That even his anger is a subtle thing. Tense jaw, a squeeze of his hand on the back of his neck tight enough to mark red crescents into the skin, long sighs, narrowed eyes. Thinks maybe the only other time he's seen Oscar prettier is when he's laid out underneath him begging to come, or when he's standing on the podium with that first place trophy in his hands, eyes glowing.

He buries his face in the throw pillow with a pathetic sound, half-sob, half-whine, wants to pull out his phone and apologize, but there's pride in the way. The insurmountable barrier. He wants Oscar to come running back to him, not the other way around. Wants Oscar to realize what he's missing.

His phone vibrates insistently on the coffee table, and he ignores it until it stills. He glances at it with teary eyes, with a sniff, hopes that it rings again. It does. It's not Oscar though, it's a facetime request from Max.

He wants to ignore it. He's not in the mood to fucking talk to Max right now, to listen to him talk about iRacing, or whatever fucking race shit he wants to bring up. He's not in the mood for a debrief. Isn't even in the mood to be social, unless it's downing shots at Jimmy'z.

He lets the phone fall silent a second time, thinks it's the last of it, shifts on the couch and reaches out to check the notifications, despite the fact that he knows it's just going to be the two ignored FaceTime requests from Max.

A text from Max pings through as he opens his phone.

Answer your fucking phone, mate

Then the FaceTime starts again. He tilts his head back, swipes away the vestiges of the tears that he felt gathering earlier, and composes himself. Takes a deep breath and lets it out. Swipes to answer, and is met with Max's face, smile canine and sharp.

"Are you missing something?" there's something assured in his tone of voice, almost superior, and Lando's confused for a moment, head tilted as he focuses on Max. He almost misses the background noise, almost misses the brief shift in the camera, of Charles' face, head tossed back. Almost misses the soft murmured whine of his name.

"Lando," It's Oscar's voice, Lando's name punched out of him breathlessly.

"What the fuck, Max," Lando's tone is sharp, hand clenching into a fist where it's settled in his lap.

"He came to us, asking so prettily for it. He's lovely, Lando, really," Max's voice smooths into something a little softer, adoring, glances back at the scene behind him. His eyes soften immediately, as Charles leans over to press a kiss to his lips. Stays like that for a moment, before he returns to the task at hand. "Very good at listening to instructions,"

"He is not saying anything other than your name," Charles voice is soft from the background, "Isn't that right, mon petit?" Charles is presumably asking Oscar, where Lando can't see him. Hears the whined "Yes," in response to the question, and curses his traitorous cock when it twitches in his sweats.

"Even when I'm fucking him, it's your name he is crying," It's punctuated by the sound of skin against skin, and Lando can't help the whine that escapes him.

"Do you want to see?" Max asks, and Lando nods, on autopilot. Max switches the camera view, and it's enough to make Lando breathless. Oscar's lying on his back, chest flushed, eyes teary, legs wrapped around the narrow dip of Charles' waist, mouth open. Thoroughly fucked out and then some. His cock is hard, flushed and red, leaking pre-come all over his abdomen.

If Lando squints, he's pretty sure he can already see come streaked across his chest.

His fingers are fisted helplessly in the sheets, head tilted back as Charles fucks into him, as he whines. "Lando, please," Lando's name a sob on his lips.

"Jesus fucking Christ, Oscar," Lando's voice is almost reverent, "With them and even then you can't stop thinking about me?"

Oscar's eyes fly open at the sound of his voice, he meets Lando's gaze from the impersonal barrier of the cell phone, and with a particularly well timed thrust from Charles, he's coming all over again. Back arched, come streaking over his chest, tears glistening in the corners of his eyes. "Lando, Lan, oh my god," Lando's name a chant on his lips.

"I'll be over for him in a few,'' is Lando's snarled response through the phone, and he hears Max's sharp laugh before he hangs up.

Is glad he's got the browser tabs open on his phone for a few select toys, because no one else gets to have Oscar after this.

[cagcd]

     He knew the Lin Kuei was the rigid sort,   but not to the extent of having zero-to-no-taste.   Sure,   his early movies were poorly made,   somehow surviving the years on a tight budget and badly written scripts,   turned into favourites despite how awful they were,   the dedicated fans had a way of overlooking those flaws,   which was completely beyond him.   Admittedly,   Ninja Mime was a flop in the US,   but a great success in France,   that caused an overwhelming demand for more.   Johnny liked it with all its series,   it wasn't for the acting itself that he was sometimes drawn to a role but the ability to produce good fighting sequences   &.   introduce something new whether it was silly or not.   A matter of personal taste none of his friends or other kombatants seemed to understand and used that movie in particular as the main target of mockery,   but anyone who knew Johnny cage,   he would rather defend his reputation in all it's all failures till his very last breath than to be silent like in his school days,   never again.

  To say someone ever had a personal vendetta against him wouldn't be out of the ordinary,   such was the case with martial arts professionals turned actors,   there was always someone out there wanting to prove his skills were all make-belief,   edited and beautified with effects.   However,   to say either of the enemies of his career would be bitter to the point of holding a grudge for years was a new occurrence,   he would be impressed if he hadn't been so deeply offended.        ❛❛   Sour much,   are we ?   ❜❜        the actor retorted,   unphased by the threat Cyrax had posed.   It was true,  his ego would survive the mere loss of $8,   fortune had long since lost its appeal to him and he was happy spending it on others than himself.   But it was a matter of principle just as it is for Cyrax,   there's no way he's going to bend his knee to cater his distaste.

        ❛❛   You know,   normal people would ask for a refund from the theatre not the actor himself,   besides,   you went ahead and watched It,   you didn't like it ?   That's a you problem,  and a bad taste on your behalf.   I'll give you one advice though,   next time you get an upgrade,  ask them to pull out that big stick up your ass,   would do you a world of wonders,   trust me.   ❜❜

@maximummuses // [ ☆ ]

[darklordofthesimp]

Reconcile (John Price x Reader)

Anything Verse

Summary: When a Task Force 141 sniper is rushed into your surgery at the end of your shift, you know you're in for a rough night.

A/N: OOOH a Price fic?? In the Anything Verse?? Wish me luck. I'm so sorry if he's OOC I know nothing.

Category: Angst || Hurt/Comfort

Warnings: Description of Injury, Allusion to PTSD, Swearing.

The day you met Captain John Price was not a good day. It had been one of the worst shifts of your career, actually.

"Get them straight into surgery!" 

You were no stranger to the horrors of war. Every twisted wound, every deformed face, every tragic passing of a young soldier reminded you of why you enlisted. 

"Vitals are dropping!" 

You remembered the trolley squeaking as you rushed a twisted, limp body to surgery. The shouts of your nurses all worked in tandem to inform you of the signs that this soldier was dying before you. 

"Birdy!" 

You recognised the callsign, horror prodding at your lungs. Forcing down your realization, you focused on the man screaming behind you. He was larger than life, bounding down the hallway after your team. He bellowed the callsign again, his voice desperate as it climbed over the chattering of your medics, begging for a response. 

The body on the bed said nothing. 

"They're critical!" 

The body on the bed barely breathed. 

As you disappeared into the surgical ward, your heart held captive by anxiety, you risked a glance over your shoulder. 

The man's eyes were bloodshot, wild in a way that only love could cause. There was a soldier who held a firm hand to his chest, reminding him that 'Birdy' was going somewhere he couldn't follow. 

His gaze followed the trolley until the doors closed on him. 

John Price had been watching on with the eyes of a man that was already mourning. 

____

Twelve hours. 

Twelve hours spent trying to save a life because of miscommunication

The team had been swapped out on the sixth hour of surgery, your secondary group scrubbing in at around 0100 hours. You didn't take the break. 

Your hands shook as you pushed the doors open, emerging from the surgical ward like you'd just crawled off the battlefield. Your knees were weak, barely holding your body up as you trekked down the hall. 

Images of the crumpled sniper flashed across your vision like a stop motion film, reminding you that although you'd saved their life- this wasn't the end of their struggle. Your heart bled for them, bled for the person that they would have to become to survive this. 

"How are they?" The words attacked you from the side, throwing you off balance as you flinched away. Trying to catch yourself, your arms flailed and a gasp ripped from your throat. You were dizzy, exhausted and low on all forms of fuel, you were definitely going to hit the deck like a sack of shit. 

"Jesus-" A pair of rough hands shot out to grip your shoulders, pulling you upright and steadying you on your feet. You raked in a breath, tilting your head up to glare at the culprit. 

It was the man from earlier. 

"You fuckin' serious?" You tried to straighten up as you growled the words but there was no venom behind them. You didn't have the energy for that, and as you looked into the haunted eyes before you, you knew that he didn't have it either. 

"Sorry." It was muttered as an afterthought, bloodshot eyes barely focused on your features, as though he was looking at you but not actually seeing. "Is Birdy okay?" 

You sighed deeply, scrubbing at your eyes with the heel of your palms. If you rubbed hard enough maybe you could chase away the crippling exhaustion. 

"Yeah," you rasped. "Someone really did a number on 'em though." 

The man's face grew stormy at the words, his jaw clenching. You knew then that there had been no justice for the sniper, that their assaulter had escaped the clutches of the infamous 141. 

"I want the report." The man stated simply, his tone carrying the familiar weight of authority. 

You raised an eyebrow. 

"Are you Birdy's chain-of-command?" You queried, crossing your arms over your chest. 

"Captain John Price," he nodded. 

John Price. 

He was something of a legend within the unit, the forefront of Task Force 141- the leader. You would have been in awe had he not looked like a pathetic shell of the man he should have been. 

Your eyes trailed his figure, stopping at his hands with a startled gasp. 

"Whose blood is that?" You stepped forward, suddenly on alert. You dragged your gaze over his shocked features, analyzing for injury and wounding. 

"Bit of mine," he rasped, eyes wide as he took in the state of his skin, "...mostly Birdy's."

You could have left him there. Your shift had been over 15 hours ago and you were planning on going home and stuffing your gob with whatever you could get your hands on. 

The Captain wasn't your responsibility. 

But the broken man before you was.

"Come with me," you murmured softly, taking a step towards the door. Price didn't move, that thousand yard stare drifting over the entrance to the surgical ward. His body might have been here but his mind was far away. 

You'd seen it millions of times, yet every instance still rips on your heart. 

Gently, you wrapped your fingers around his wrist. Cerulean eyes snapped to meet yours, wide and hard. He gripped your offending limb with his free hand and your heart hammered in your chest. The Captain was fresh from war, blood smeared across his jaw and dried under his nails, he was unpredictable. 

Your hand trembled in his but you didn't loosen your grip. 

John Price was a large man, broad shoulders and a presence that demanded your attention. He was a combatant, he'd been through hell and back and willingly made the journey thousands of times. 

When you dealt with soldiers like this, there was always a security detail to protect you in case they snapped. It was common, it was understood- survival instincts and adrenaline doesn't just disappear overnight. 

But you were alone. 

And Price's grip tightened. 

"John," you whispered, trying to keep your voice steady but failing. The words wobbled and your body tremored but your gaze remained consistent. Your eyes appealed and pleaded, fixated on the bright blue of his own. "John, let me help you." 

His eyes flickered down to see where he held your hand. 

Then he released a breath. 

"I'm so sorry," Price murmured, broken and small. 

You offered a genuine smile, breath settling as relief flooded your chest. "You're okay, John. Come with me."

You told yourself to say his name often, reminding him of who he was and where he was. It was your job to ground him, to patch him up- body and mind. His grip on your hand loosened but he didn't let go completely, his shaky inhale telling you that he was overwhelmed. 

He wasn't used to being rattled.

Captain Price wasnt supposed to ever get rattled. 

John followed you into your office, letting go of your hand to close the door behind him instinctively. Your heart skipped a beat at the sudden isolation, you weren't meant to be alone with a volatile patient. When he turned to face you, he raised a brow at your hesitance. 

"Would you prefer I kept the door open, Doc?"  

You swallowed thickly, controlling your breathing as best as you could. 

"It's not a problem," you lied. 

There was a soft snort, the first sign of humor you'd seen in him. John opened the door back up,  resting it gently against the stopper as he offered you a meaningful glance.

"For my ease of mind," he joked dryly. 

Your lips twitched upward and you ducked your head.

 "Thanks," you whispered quickly before clearing your throat. "And they call me Saint. Not Doc."

"Saint," John trialed the word on his tongue. "Fitting."

You rolled your eyes light-heartedly before gesturing to the tap and basin at the back. "Clean up a little while I prep."

The Captain offered you a nod, sobering as he moved to the sink to scrub the blood off his hands. You prepared your equipment, pretending not to notice the way his body shook as scraped the blood off his skin. 

He was there for longer than he needed to be but you didn't push. You wouldn't rush him, there was nothing more important than letting him watch the crimson stained water disappear down that drain. The way he stared at his hands, those unsoiled palms raised upright, it had you thinking that he could still see his sniper's blood tattooed across his fingers. 

When John finally sat down, his face was drawn and solemn. You took in a sharp breath, taking the anti-bacterial wipe and approaching the Captain slowly until you were inches away. 

His gaze lifted to watch you through his lashes, the scent of gunpowder, sweat and blood rolling off of him in waves. You were used to it, it was a smell that you'd gotten used to over the years. 

"I'm going to wipe the blood from your face and sanitize your wounds," you stated clearly, breath trembling as his attention fell to your lips. 

John said nothing for a long moment, leaving you inches from him, praying to God that he wasn't going to snap. 

"Yeah," he finally rasped. 

You set to work, ignoring the way his eyes followed you emptily. You wished there was emotion  behind it, you wished you could say that he was leering, but the Captain was watching you work as one would watch a plain car go by: no thoughts, simply caught by the movement. 

Thousands of conversation starters fought for use, they begged to be spoken out into the small space between you. All of them fell short, nothing could drown the silence of his grief. 

"Will Birdy recover?"

You were startled by the question, fingers brushing against the heat of his skin as you flinched.  His eyes were glued to yours. They waited hungrily for a response, watching carefully for any indiscretions that could give away a lie. 

"Yes." You replied simply, moving to continue your work. 

"Saint." The Captain's fingers reached upward to grip your wrist gently, lowering your hand from his face. You took in a sharp breath, eyes narrowing. "That's not what I was asking."

The look John gave you was intent and revealing, stripping the veil from your answer. You were bare for him to see, inches away with no room to hide from his gaze. His hand was hot against your skin, burning every square inch that he held. 

You knew what Price was truly asking. You knew that you'd hadn't answered the question he was offering, hidden behind smoke and mirrors. 

Will Birdy forgive me? 

You sucked in a breath, bringing a hand to softly rest against his shoulder. 

"Yes," you said again.

 Only, this time, you lied. 

[inexplicifics]

I love Milena, but she's been getting lots of showtime. Do you have any snippets featuring one of your other ladies - maybe Adelina, Livi, or Julita? And do you have any that are just silly and FUN - I reread your story about a wild griffin adopting Serrit the other day, and it was AMAZING.

Well, here's an Adelina snippet from the Wolfblood 'verse:

The Wolf-Lord is still very imposing, though. He’s not as tall as some of his companions - Lambert is taller, actually, and slightly brawnier, and the big scarred man who Adelina is guessing is Eskel is also both taller and broader than his lord - but there is something about him that makes him seem larger than life somehow, more real than anything else around him. And then he turns and looks at Adelina, and she staggers under the weight of piercing golden eyes. Oh, gods, it’s like he can see right down to her soul, see every flaw and failing she has ever had. She feels like she might burn up under that fiery gaze, burn to ash and blow away at the slightest gust of wind. And then he blinks, and tilts his head in a tiny nod, and somehow the weight of his gaze…lifts, or lightens, until he is only very very uncanny instead of truly otherworldly. “Wolf,” Coën says. “This is Queen Adelina.” The Wolf-Lord nods again, and to Adelina’s vast shock, the first words he says to her are, “Thank you.” Adelina blinks at him, completely at a loss for words. His lips curve in a hair-thin, near-invisible smile.

I'm not sure I have anything else in the works that's as purely cracky as the griffin fic, but here's an exchange I'm fond of from a Laiden modern AU:

Lambert hears the door creak open, and doesn’t think - just rolls out of bed, shoves his feet into his shoes, grabs the bat he keeps between the bed and the nightstand, and heads for the door with the bat held high. The man standing in his front hall with a set of lockpicks in his hand looks very surprised to see him. “What the fuck, dipshit?” Lambert bellows. “What the hell!” the burglar hollers back. “Why are you in my apartment? Why are you naked, oh my gods -” “It’s my fucking apartment!” Lambert snarls. “You just broke in!” “Of course I broke in, my key wasn’t working!” “Your key wasn’t working because it’s not your fucking apartment!” The burglar - possibly not a burglar, or if he is, he’s the most incompetent one Lambert has ever met - blinks at him. “It’s not?” “No, it’s not! It’s mine! Which is why I was asleep here!” “You sleep in your shoes?” “No, who the fuck sleeps in shoes?” “I don’t know, you’re the one who’s not wearing anything else!”

[the-cat-and-the-birdie]

In the past, I’ve spoken AT LENGTH about Hobie Brown’s dialogue lines, and it’s because I think every single one of them are interesting on their own level - each telling us more and more about his character.

I’ve almost gone through them all - ALMOST. But if there’s one line that I find to be super interesting - and super misunderstood - it’s this one.

What does Hobie mean by - “Eh, What of it?”

It’s one of his shortest lines, but I think those four little words can tell us a lot about Hobie, not because of what he said - by WHY he said it.

Often when people reference this line, they say that this shows that Hobie is unaffected or apathetic to canon events - either as a whole, or his own. We usually assume that this is some insight into his background in some way.

But I think this might be something else. Would you believe that this line was him looking out for Miles?

It’s been a while, but hear me out on this. So the question I’m answering today is - ‘Why does Hobie say this? And what exactly is he trying to tell Miles?’

[A SHORT-ish essay where I break down one of my favorite of Hobie's lines. Because I miss writing essays lol]

---------------------------------------------------------

Now, I know we all know the context of this scene - we’ve probably seen it dozens of times now - but I just want to reiterate why we’re here in this moment and what’s happening, just so we can begin to get inside Hobie’s head.

The scene takes place shortly after Miles meets Miguel, and in order to explain, Miguel gives Miles a seemingly rehearsed speech starting with ‘This is Everything.’ The ‘Everything’ speech is a basic introduction to the Spider-verse, to canon events and how they bind all Spider-people together.

At this point in time, Miles has not mentioned his father or his incoming canon event. And Miguel has made no indication that he plans to tell Miles that he’s an anomaly - there’s no reason to, so long as Miles plays along.

So from what we can tell, this speech is something every Spider-person gets.

But what exactly is Miguel trying to do?

I think it’s safe to say that The Spider Society is a cult of personality in many aspects - but not towards Miguel - but towards Spider-man as an entity or, more accurately, an identity.

And in this moment, he’s trying to portray the personal tragedies of Spider-people as a part of a bigger narrative. Miguel is showing recruits that their trauma is not just an individual scar, but a collective one shared for the greater good.

Sounds cultish? Well, because it is. There are many ways you can explain this, but I think Psychology Today’s article ‘Understanding Cults’ says it best.

What does that have to do with Miles?

Miguel is showing Miles his trauma along side all others as a way of ‘creating’ or solidifying his new identity as Spider-man, in order to suppress his own identity as Miles Morales. In order for Miles to submit to canon events for the ‘greater good’, he must choose his identity as Spider-man over his individual identity of Miles Morales.

He shows Miles’ his own canon event, beside dozens of other Spider-people facing the same trauma, in order for Miles to feel included, apart of something bigger than himself. This, of course, is a common tactic of real life cults - the prevailing idea that the victim is apart of a larger, inescapable - often religious - narrative within the universe.

In this moment, Miguel is trying to thread Miles into the fabric of the Spider-verse, in hopes that in doing so - Miles will be more inclined to submit to the tragedy of canon events.

In short, he wants Miles to feel guilty and sorry for those around him.

And it’s working.

Let’s look at the sequence of events in this moment. Miguel introduces Miles to ASM-90, the Death of George Stacy. As soon as he hears the words ‘Captain Stacy’ - Miles looks to Gwen. We can see the concern on his face, and the somberness on Gwen's. Already he is starting to feel the weight of the others’ emotional reactions.

Next, he looks to his most trusted person - Peter B.

Already, Peter B. is facing away, clutching Mayday to his chest. We don’t just get a shot of Peter B’s back - but we also get a shot over Peter’s shoulder. And we see Miles, and his growing worry. This shot signifies, to me, that this moment isn’t just about the canon events of each character - but Miles’ emotional reaction to it.

Miguel’s tactic of guilt-tripping his working. Because look who speaks next.

Miles says to Peter B. - “That happened to you?” - But it’s not Peter who responds. It’s Jess. Undoubtedly, Miguel’s biggest ally in the room. Jess says to Miles -

“And me.”

Jess works for Miguel. And in that moment, it seems like she’s trying to drive home the point that this whole presentation is about. I mean, think about it.

If we are to believe that this speech is a routine one, given to new Spider-recruits to tell them about the existence of canon events, then Jess saying this ALSO isn't unique to Miles. Her saying this, her reiterating Miguel's underlying point in all this -

‘We’ve all faced your trauma - we’re all like you.’

In this moment, we don’t ever SEE a shot of Jess’s canon event - because that’s not the point. We see Miles’ reaction, because that’s what this is truly about. Miles’ feelings, his emotional connection to these people, in order to manipulate him into empathy - and conformity.

But then we get to Hobie.

“Eh, What of it?”

As always, Hobie stands out of the crowd. 

He’s always the one to think differently and to choose his words carefully. And we know for a fact, he’s always on Miles’ side.

When we watch this moment, many people assume it’s some insight to his background. That maybe Hobie was responsible for his own canon event, or have grown apathetic to the idea as a whole. And while those are interesting theories - I think the answer is much simpler.

Hobie isn’t saying “What of it - what happened to me isn’t a big deal.”

He’s saying - “What of it? What does any of this have to do with YOU?”

Think about it, most times we say ‘What of it’, it’s meant to mean ‘what relevance does that information have?’ or even ‘why does it matter?’

Let’s look at an example. Let's say someone eats your friend’s powdered donuts, and your friend questions the group, looking for the culprit. Someone might say ‘X, your favorite food is powdered donuts!’ X might say ‘Yeah, and what of it?’ - as in ‘Yeah, but what does that have to do with anything?’, as a way to show that the information being mentioned is true, but also doesn’t affect the situation.

And that’s exactly what I think Hobie is saying.

Hobie isn’t downplaying his own trauma but saying ‘What of it?’, he’s telling Miles - “Okay, but what does all of this have to do with anything?”

What does their canon events have to do with Miles, and his feelings? Why should Miles have to take on their trauma and their pain, when he just got there? 

Hobie knows that Miles followed Gwen, and that him and Gwen care about each other deeply. Upon their reunion, Hobie can see that Miles looks up to Peter - he knows that seeing them in emotional pain hurts Miles too.

And Miguel knows this as well. Miguel probably knows that the best way to convince Miles is through Peter, and Gwen.

But that shouldn’t matter. Miles shouldn’t have to relive their tragedies in his own life just because they went through it. He shouldn’t feel guilty for trying to be different or choosing his identity over the mold Miguel is presenting him.

Sure, Hobie might’ve been hurt in the past. He might still be hurting - but this isn’t about him, it isn’t about any of them.

It’s about Miles, so what does his pain have to do with it? Why should Miguel get to bring up their trauma, and make them rewatch it, for the sake of pulling Miles’ heartstrings?

Why should Miguel get to weaponize their canon events for his agenda of getting Miles to conform? What they’ve been through has nothing to do with it. And Hobie knows this.

So literally, ‘What of it?’

In this moment, Hobie isn’t focused on himself - he’s focused on Miles. So when he says ‘What of it?’ this isn’t a comment on his past experiences, it’s a comment on Miles’ current predicament.

‘Yes, that happened to me, but what does this have to do with you, Miles?’

This interpretation follows the characterization we've seen of Hobie this far.

All of his words to Miles are chosen carefully, all of his words are there to back Miles up - and support him in some way. It’s all Hobie’s thinking about.

And we can see it in Hobie’s face.

Back to the scene. Jess says “And me.”

For a second, Miles’ eyes lingers on her. But after a moment, his eyes goes to Hobie. Hobie, the guy Miles has already decided is cooler, more level headed, a friend of Gwen. Already in this moment, Miles it looking to Hobie’s reaction because he no longer sees Hobie as a threat. In this moment, he’s looking to Hobie for support.

But look at Hobie’s face.

For a moment, he looks visibly somber. For a split second, we’re shown the emotion on Hobie’s face, he’s looking down, lost in thought. [I'm screaming iAHHH i want to know what happened to him SO BADLY he looks so sad :((( I'm gonna cry but also I'm editing this drunk so I'm extra emotional :((( Sad Hobie :((((]

And then he realizes that Miles is looking at him.

But why would the animators show us that, if he truly didn’t care about his canon events? What would be the purpose of this shot?

I believe this split second shows that maybe, just maybe, Hobie does have scars from his canon events, ones he still thinks about, ones that still illicit and emotional response from him.

But when Miles looks at him, immediately, his expression changes.

He tucks away his feelings and returns his attention to Miles. He chooses to set aside his aside his trauma, to play it off and hide it away, because he knows that if he doesn't - Miles will internalize that pain, and that guilt.

In that moment, Hobie can tell that Miles is looking to him for some reason. And that reason is support.

In that one moment, Hobie takes the chance to push his own trauma aside - to be the voice of reason for Miles. The voice to tell Miles that ‘whatever happened to us, has nothing to do with you’.

By saying "Eh, What of it?"

These four words, often thought to be Hobie playing it cool, could be so much more.

It could be one more push to Miles to choose his own path - and it echos back to Hobie’s first monologue to Miles:

In this moment, Hobie chooses to remind Miles, that this isn't about them, or what any of them have been through.

It's about him, and his independence. Hobie is imploring Miles to reject Miguel's narrative - to reject the collective identity of Spider-man.

Because to Hobie, that's what being Spider-man means. Independence, and individuality. He doesn't want Miles to carry his burden, or anyone elses.

And I think this line is the perfect example of that, it shows the depth of Hobie's dedication to Miles, and what Hobie believes in.

________________________________________

In every scene, in every shot, and every line - Hobie is looking out for Miles in anyway he can. And although this theory doesn’t tell us much about his past, it re-enforces who Hobie is as a character: an agent of good and a driving force in Miles’ story.

Maybe Hobie does have canon events he’s still grappling with, and skeletons in his closet. Maybe we’ll one day understand the meaning of his blue laces. But in that moment, none of that mattered. This is Miles’ story, not theirs’, and Hobie knows this.

And that’s true punk tactics. I love Hobie Brown so much i could cry AHHHHHHHHHHHH

_________________________

SOOOOOOO I know it’s been a while but if you read this far - THANK YOU SO MUCH. Sorry if I’m a bit rusty at this, but this is something I’ve been wanting to write about for months now! And Im SOOOO happy its finally done GOLLLY JEEEE

Anyway, here’s Hobie. Bless up.

(right is actual photo of me writing this drunk as hell in my bed lmaooooo im so turnt right now Im sorry if this dont make sense anywayyyyy hes so fine whys he so perfect Hobie I Love YOuuuu wtfffff)

BYE.

[yukipri]

#i had to find this post again#i just saw it #it was incredible #my spouse and I held each other in the parking lot and sobbed#there are so many war films but so few post-war films #all of it the ugly side and the attempts to rebuild after the complete and utter destruction #the ptsd and starvation and guilt #but it is still an overwhelmingly optimistic film #the war isn't over until you LIVE #Never having been to war is something to be PROUD OF #the danger of war is always present but you must rebuild anyways and not forget that life is precious Tags via @inquisitorius-sin-bin

All true and yes you should say it!!

HOLY FUCK. What a movie. Just what a movie. Holy fuck

(Or, it was incredible. Absolutely blew my socks off. Please go and see it. You do not need to have watched anything else in the franchise, it's completely standalone (though it very much retains much of the symbolism of the original and other films). Especially go see it if you like kaiju films. But it was such a good film about humanity and hope. Just incredible. Go and see it.)