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lovecorepatton · 4 years ago

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float away

AU: Astronaut AU Word count: 1486 Pairings: None Logan centric angst with a happy ending

WARNINGS: Unreality discussed in great depth Implied past child abuse Discussion of the vastness of the universe Possible description of a panic attack, I’m not exactly sure how to define it

Beta readers: @theintelligentfool, @remus-kinnie-on-the-loose

AO3 Link

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The observable universe is assumed to be 93 billion light years wide. A light year is about 9 trillion kilometers. The average human person is about 160 centimeters tall.

Logan Xīng was an astronaut. He’d signed up for it. Large sums of space had never really bothered him. Never registered. He was usually too busy surviving day-to-day when he was living with his parents, and once he was old enough to move, he did. Cut connections with them. Started living on his own, barely scraping by with a day job in construction and going to night school. He’d somehow scored an internship with NASA, and quickly escalated to a position where he would work on the International Space Station for a two year shift.

These were the events that led him here, approximately 254 miles away from Earth. It looked… small. Insignificant. Maybe it was. No, it definitely was. Humanity was simply a blip in the existence of the universe- one singular spark. And gosh, was the universe vast. It was almost comforting in a way- Logan was barely a quark on a cosmic scale. Not important enough to change the world. The grandness of it was safe, homey, to him. He wasn’t big enough to destroy anything cosmically.

But a part of Logan didn’t register anything as real. His surroundings, the people aboard that he’d known for 7 months or more now, the stars, the station. His past, his life: none of it was actually happening to him. He wasn’t the person interacting. He was an observer. Like a camera. People can interact with it, and sometimes it’s even programmed to respond in a way that mimics a sentient entity, but did it really happen? The camera didn't do that on its own volition. It learned to.

And it ran deeper than that- it felt like Logan was encased in glass, unable to break out without being hit with a tidal wave of repressed emotions. It affected his interactions- he didn’t really talk to that person. Was he sure that this was his body? How could he know what was happening was real?

The short answer? He couldn’t.

It wasn’t a new feeling, to say the least. Half of Logan’s life was buried away, no memory of it to be found. He walked around in a dreamscape. He’d read something about trauma affecting how people perceive reality, but for the life of him he couldn’t remember any trauma. When he was a child he’d constantly doubted what aspects of his life were real- Were the people around him really thinking, being? Did his room look like that yesterday? Did he remember that correctly, or did his brain make that memory up?

...He was trailing off. The stars. He was supposed to be thinking about the stars. He had to focus on this- the radiation was much clearer from here than on Earth and it could provide a valuable perspective on stars that were farther off. Farther than any human would ever realistically get. How could they ever know it wasn’t just an elaborate illusion? Space was incredulous, and there were a fair amount of conspiracy theories, were there not? Reality is entirely based on perception-- Schrodinger’s Cat, and all, or was Logan getting that wrong?

People like to imagine that they’re right in between the size of the universe and the size of an atom. They have an almost instinctual need to put ourselves in the center of things. But they aren’t. Honestly, they may be about the size of an atom in the universe’s consideration. It was ridiculo-

Okay. This- this wasn’t working. Logan needed a change of scenery. A break. Maybe he’d take a spacewalk.

Logan moved away from the computer he’d been working at, pulling himself through the halls and greeting his crewmates. Roman smiled at him, patting him on the shoulder as he passed, and Patton reminded him to get a bite to eat. He promised vaem that he would. He reached the airlock and donned one of the suits, fifteen minutes passing surprisingly fast. He wasn’t technically supposed to do a spacewalk unprompted, but a small breach of protocol wouldn’t hurt anyone, would it? It was really only a matter of personal safety. And no one cared enough about Logan for him to worry about that.

Logan opened the first door and shut it tight behind him, ensuring the safety of the rest of the crew, before proceeding to unlock the second door and float out into the vast, endless expanse of nothing.

It was fine at first- Logan just floated about a bit, even shutting his eyes and allowing himself to drift for a moment or two. Then the black in between the stars started getting to him. He felt his chest tighten, feeling behind him to make sure he was still attached to the station. He was. Right?

Logan turned around and almost didn’t register the station when he saw it. It didn’t really calm him down. He could fly towards it and it could vanish, like a mirage. He was alone- god, why did he come out here alone? Why did he come out here at all? He was on the verge of- well, something, for god’s sake!

He started trying to get back to the station, but his grip was failing on him and his hands slipped and he spiraled even further away from it, making desperate grabs for some sort of bar or grip or really anything that would stop him from flying away, but there was nothing. His vision started blurring and he realized a little bit too late that he was crying. God. He needed to cut it out or he’d drown from the water clumping around his face from the lack of gravity, which itself was such a strange concept, was it not?

Or, maybe he wouldn’t be able to navigate back, and- and he would end up stuck out here, until someone saw him, and… who knows how long that would take? Logan could run out of oxygen, or die of fright, or really anything horrible could happen. Oxygen- oh, god, he had his oxygen tank on, right? It was still there, as far as he could tell, but he wasn’t exactly inclined to trust his senses right now. And was it full? Maybe it wasn’t- had he checked? He did feel rather short of breath, after all.

Now that he thought about it, Logan was rather sure that the tank he had grabbed was near empty. If he recalled properly? He only had thirty minutes at most. He’d suffocate before he could even get back, he thought. Was it getting darker? Was he getting further away? He could’ve sworn there were more stars, and- and they were definitely brighter, right? Right?

Logan choked out a bitter laugh, rather convinced he was to die alone in space, of all places. Space. Was there a better place to die? Oh, probably… Though nothing came to mind. Maybe he’d be the first human to die in space, that’d be an achievement. Maybe someone would be proud of it for him. Maybe it’d be an embarrassment to the people who’d supported him. Maybe-

And everything went black.

“Logan? Logan! Shoot, you- you don’t think he’s hurt, do you? God, I don’t think mission control’s going to be happy with us if he is-”

“Virgil, calm down, he had a panic attack. He’s not hurt. Just rattled.” Janus’s voice came out clearly. He’d always been rather good at enunciation. Maybe he didn’t care- was that why he sounded so unconcerned?

“Well I hope he isn’t hurt, I need his help with an idea I had!”

“Remus, is this a realistic idea, or is it another laser eyes situation?”

“Jeez, Jan, you don’t need to be so meaaaan!” “Shut up,” Logan grumbled, covering his eyes with his hand and sitting up.

“Logan!!” Patton lunged at him, knocking him over and hugging him tightly.

“Patton- I can’t- breathe-” “Oh!! Whoops,” Patton giggled. “I’m glad you’re ok.” “You really had us scared there, star-spangled Bruce Banner,” Roman sighed.

“That was awful,” Virgil snickered.

“I’d like to see you come up with better, then!”

“Nah.” “What happened? Is everyone ok- what time is it?”

“You- you had a panic attack, we think. I only noticed you floating out there looking dead as a corpse when I was trying to gauge where the moon was. Roman did the rescuing- he went out there and plucked you out of the sky. You were outside for about 30 minutes. And it’s been an hour or so since we got you inside.” Janus looked at him pointedly. “And before you say you have work to get to, you have to take some time to recuperate. You wanna talk about what happened out there?”

Logan hesitated before answering. “Yes. That sounds… good. Thank you.”

#Logan Sanders #Logan centric #ts logan #ts fanfic #sanders sides fic #sanders sides #roman sanders #remus sanders #virgil sanders #janus sanders #patton sanders #tss fic #my fics

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nautilusopus · 4 years ago

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Why do you hate the remake? The ending?

AMONG MANY MANY MANY MANY MANY MANY OTHER THINGS

AHEM:

the ending

the way everyone’s character is botched

this goes triple for poor cloud and tifa because they literally aren’t allowed to have either meaningful character interactions or character development because they CAN’T because this is the first five hours of the game stretched into 40 hours so we can’t get into nibelheim yet because we have to “save” it

the fact that this is the first five hours stretched into 40 hours and thus is largely padding

the handling of sector 7, where we go from watching actual people we care about die to seeing literally zero people die at all and also we evacuated the slums so it’s cool

especially egregious considering the game made us do so many stupid sidequests in the (way too clean and sunny) slums to get attached to these npcs only to kill literally zero of them

they still kill barret though so they don’t have to have him fight jenova with everyone else because he’s not a REAL character, let’s get him out of the serious moments. except they can’t kill barret so he’s back immediately due to time bullshit, great

on a related note, the complete and utter lack of any real stakes

the way aeris has fucking future knowledge

the way the vii universe, due to the addition of Fate, now has the judas problem. if the planet can literally fucking control fate why didn’t it just keep jenova from landing? why didn’t it keep shinra from becoming a thing? the only answer is that jenova and shinra are intended to do the things they do and thus are actually under the planet’s control and are not accountable for their actions

the fact that this is sephiroth’s motivation now or something, instead of the actual personality he used to have where he acted as a foil to cloud with his inability to accept unpleasant truths about himself and instead creating a grand narrative for himself where he has not been victimised by unfair and unglamorous circumstances and responded to this by making bad choices

the fact that fate is now a concept in this game at all and how completely and utterly fucking insulting that is and how much of a disservice it is to everything the original stood for on a fundamental level. a game that was literally about how there is no inherent meaning in some grand scheme, and that on a cosmic scale we are insignificant and the planet doesn’t give two shits if we live or die, so therefore we must create our own meaning, small and irrelevant to vast forces like the inevitability of pain and death as they are, and that the meaning we create with other small and insignificant human beings is nonetheless something with value, and that in fact it is harmful to try and pretend there is some vast cosmic significance to your actions and that there doesn’t have to be because your life having value to you is enough, especially in the face of something as absurd as the inevitability of death and pain, now has fucking fate in it. actually, cloud DOES matter on a vast cosmic scale! everyone’s deaths do! and in fact those deaths are unnatural and you’re going to prevent them! hooray!

this is yet another narrative, following in the footsteps of harry potter and the new star wars trilogy, that pretends to be about a nobody going on to defy odds anyway only to turn around and say actually lol no they were special the whole time.

cloud’s handling in general even outside of that. aforementioned lack of development aside, he’s simultaneously way too chilly and way too casual with everyone, with the most meaningful interactions he gets to have being shallow fucking flirting with tifa and him walking around making put upon faces with aeris

the fandom thirst over literal sex traffickers

the fact that this was marketed as a remake when it is AT BEST a series reboot that relies on you having played the og to understand what the fuck is going on half the time

* the utter lack of reading comprehension among the fans that still somehow think they’re going to get other “iconic og moments” remade. did you fuckers miss the ending somehow? about how we’re doing none of that actually? about how they’re going to Defy Fate? you aren’t getting those moments. period. the entire fucking game and ending is literally about that. about how we’re going to Prevent All The Bad Things

the fact that the above was done because they clearly started out trying to actually remake the gam, realised they bit off more than they could chew, and then went LOL NO PROMISES at the last minute with some kingdom hearts bullshit that would let them wiggle out of any long term plot commitments at any time (and also shoehorn zack in because of fucking course he’s here too)

pacing pacing pacing. aside from the atrocious padding problems, you’ve also got sephiroth showing up and mugging the camera every three minutes, because he has to, because this is the first five hours of the game so they need to cram him in there anyway regardless of what it does to the story or no one will buy their stupid game. also they drop the “cloud was never in soldier lol” WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAY too fucking early, jesus christ. good to know any kind of subtlety is just out the fucking window entirely now

what they did to poor sephiroth, easily the worst handled character in this whole mess. sephiroth sweetie i’m so sorry holy shit

whatever the fuck they were doing with cait sith

taking a big old fucking dump on any themes and meaning the original had in general which i won’t get into too much because it would take forever but you can read more about that here

how they handled shinra and avalanche, or rather how they didn’t handle it and made everything as black and white as possible

jessie’s thirst is extremely annoying and i’m over it

the fact that the fanbase keeps trying to simultaneously go “no it’s only the first chapter of course there’s no explanations” in response to pacing criticisms while also trying to go “no no they had to make it feel like a full game” in response to massive fucking story changes that only served to bloat the pacing

because they can’t bring up nibelheim yet, in this forty hour game (but still have time to go Zack Is Alive Now Also There Is Fate) tifa has no motivation or personality or connection to cloud and barret to speak of. also where the fuck is her anger, holy shit. she regrets joining avalanche? she isn’t

the fact that the fanbase is not only fine with all these changes, changes which again are being made directly in the name of profit to the detriment of good storytelling, but also are even pushing this as the “intended, fleshed out” version of the story they always wanted to tell but couldn’t

bad soundtrack, fight me

midgar and especially the slums look boring

the turks are good now uwu

no Trail of Blood sequence. again, pacing issues. this was meant to be your introduction to sephiroth to set the tone and establish how dangerous he was and how he was the REAL bad guy, but because we’ve seen him every three seconds at this point the whole sequence got cut and it was one of the best sequences there was

the fact that the interviews repeatedly indicate to me that they don’t seem to understand that not every goddamn irrelevant detail needs an explanation (a problem they seem to have carried over from crisis core so that’s great) but that they don’t seem to care about things that DO need explanations and that zero genuine thought was put into the worldbuilding

the way barret’s treated as a joke by the narrative when he’s literally fucking correct

the obsession with Realism (TM) to the point where it creates more tone problems than it solves at times (cloud can fucking fly in cutscenes but can’t hop over a two foot fence)

LET CLOUD BE A DOOFUS YOU COWARDS

about the only character that made it out with their personality intact was aeris and even she’s gone and had her motivations scuttled so it doesn’t matter, yaaaaaaaaay

i can’t fucking believe the remake has made me AVOID fics with jessie biggs and wedge in them. before it was a marker of quality. look what you’ve done.

cloud has an apartment now instead of living with avalanche in the basement. this is also done in the name of Realism but also kind of sucks away the charm imo and makes it that much harder to buy any of these assholes as found family

the timeline of all of this no longer taking place over like three weeks is once again a result of pacing issues. i’m sure this won’t bite us in the ass at all.

god remember when we thought roche was gonna be the worst addition? simpler times

also roche

and yeah the whole ass ending, complete with homage to the ending of ffvii period with the weird doctor who brain tunnel that makes no fucking sense to be here and is only gonna confuse people who don’t know this is supposed to be a callback, and even if it was why is it here, you can’t just fucking copy/paste Famous Moments with none of the emotional beats or writing to back them up or lead into them, context MATTERS did you fuckers learn nothing from the travesty of hollow writing that was ffxv and especially prompto?

the fact that people are looking at this fucking travesty and just assuming the og is like this too and not bothering to play it either because they loved the remake (for some reason???) or because they hated it and now wouldn’t play the og if their life depended on it, which breaks my heart most of all. “the original is still there!!!” is a meaningless overture if people refuse to engage critically with it on any level at all, which as we’ve outlined is absolutely what is happening. this is what people meant when we said the remake would erase the og, and on multiple levels, whether it’s people assuming the og was always meant to be like this, or seeing no reason to play it, or once again failing to recognise what the remake very loudly screams in your face it’s doing and assuming that of course we’re getting a vii remake with all those moments we care about, this is what has been happening.

i can’t even fucking imagine what the northern crater scene is gonna look like now, IF we get one at all. and that’s a big fucking if

i know i’ve missed a lot of them but i hope this helps

#asks #man fuck the remake #Anonymous

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noonemonitorsmyscreentime · 3 years ago

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Ungodly

Because I, again, lost my goddamn mind I decided to write the fight from S15, ep19 from Chuck’s perspective, sort of. Like it’s from Chuck’s perspective but in the third person because that makes sense somehow. It’s like real short. And obvs fan fiction, but like commentary, maybe, idk. Anywaaay... enjoy?

“You can’t defeat GOD!” thought Chuck as he kept punching and kicking Sam and Dean. He was finally going to make them show him the respect he deserves. How dared two little insignificant humans mess with his story? They were his toys to do as he saw fit. He kept trying to fix them and yet they were constantly broken. At what point do you give up on trying to make them work?

Chuck couldn’t believe his eyes when he saw those two Winchester bastards rising up after each blow. The constant defiance had lost its cuteness a while back. What would it take to finally beat them?

They could barely stand and had to use each other for support. Together they couldn't make for a whole man and yet, they still chose to try and be two. It really wasn't a fair fight. "Why are you smiling?”

“Because, you lose.” Sam Winchester’s bloodied face was defiant. Maybe he had punched the sense out of the younger brother. Lucifer would have been disappointed to find out that the one who finally broke Sam Winchester had been his pops. But Sam wasn't looking at him. His gaze was fixated on something behind him.

Ha!

Jack. Poor kid was going to see his adoptive dads being beaten to death before he, himself… well, not meet his maker-- before he, himself, would be silenced for good. And with the brothers gone, it would also stick.

What was that silly little child going to do? There was no angel daddy to trade his life for him, his actual daddy, the supposedly new favorite son was soundly sleeping in the empty and his two mommies were in Heaven. This kid did not have a great track record with keeping parents alive. He killed all his moms and all his dads died for him. In any case they will soon. Chuck supposed that the Winchesters could wait a while longer for the next punch. “Hey, Jack.”

He slowly closed the gap between them. The kid was just staring at him. This was too easy. How much fighting had they done and how much pain had they suffered to bring the boy back, and he was just standing in front of him, not even a weapon in hand?

The kid was a great story beat and Lucifer really threw him a curveball by becoming a father. Jack had outlived his narrative expectation to a greater extent than Chuck would have thought possible. He had to admit that his grandson was, as late story additions go, a good one in spite of his cliched beginnings. But how many kids with abusive fathers and dead mothers can you have before it all gets too tedious? He was so innocent, so pained, so tortured and so, so very and thoroughly annoying.

Chuck snapped his fingers expecting the boy to dissolve in a delightfully fine mist of pink. After all, how many times did he need to get rid of the kid to finally make it stick?

Nothing happened. Jack was still in front of him, mirroring his look of disbelief. He'd give him that just like all the men in his life, he was hard to get rid of. Chuck snapped his fingers once more. Again. Nothing. Jack was still in front of him, but he could see that something was changing in the child. He took a step closer to god.

Snap. Nothing. Step. Snap. Nothing. Step. Snap. Nothing. Step. Snap. Nothing. Step. Snap. Nothing. Step. Snap. Nothing. No more steps left.

The boy put his hands on each side of Chuck’s face while his eyes glowed and the veins in his body became illuminated with a powerful gold light. Chuck had known this feeling before; this incredible river of power leaving him was the power needed for the Creation. But, it was at the same time different; he was not merely being drained of power, he was losing it, never to be replenished again.

It was agony. It was his hell. It was never ending.

When the last flicker of power was consumed Chuck fell to the ground trying to catch his breath. He had never felt so weak. He had never been this weak. He would always be this weak.

He heard a snap and prepared to be disintegrated. Instead he saw Sam and Dean healed.

Sam picked up his book that now lay open on the ground. “What… What did you do?”

Dean Winchester looked at him from above, his face half illuminated by the warm sun, each feature of this perfectly crafted weapon was sculpted and majestic “We won.”

“So this is how it ends. My book.”

By the time he finished his words Sam had arrived near him, book open in hand. “See for yourself” he said as he threw it in front of him.

The pages were blank. There were no words. “There’s nothing there.”

“Oh, there is, but only Death can read it.” Cold chills moved up and down Chuck's body at the younger brother's words. They hadn't known how to beat him. He knew that it was time for the victory monologue. He needed an explanation. And, boy, did the brothers deliver one

!“That’s right. So we had to come up with a plan B. That wasn’t too hard though when we realized that Michael really is a daddy’s boy. See, he didn’t take it too well when he found out that you asked Lucifer for help. Oh, he was desperate to be the favorite again.” Dean stated in a cold voice, some disdain directed to Michael. It was natural after all, one iteration took his body for a joyride of murder, mayhem and world domination and the other tricked and used Adam to bring about the end of times.

“Since we couldn’t read the book we had to come up with a story about finding the spell, which we knew Michael would feed straight to you” Sam continued. “All that prep work we did to turn Jack into a cosmic bomb? Well, it turned him into a… a sort of power vacuum. He’s been sucking up bits of power all over the place. So, when the two heavyweights -- your boys-- showed up to duke it out, oh-hoh! That charged him right up.” Oh, if only his children had managed to work together all of this could have been so different. With Michael and Lucifer by his side Sam and Dean would have never won.

“See, we knew Michael would warn you and you’d show up here. And you did. And you killed your own son.” This was the fatal mistake, Michael should have been punished last. John Winchester had it right, kill the spirit, not the body.

“And you beat the crap out of us. Releasing all kinds of power. God power.” “Jack absorbed it all. It made him...”“Well, it made him unstoppable.” Dean finished the explanation.

Chuck can’t help but laugh. “This… This.. This is why you are my favorites.”

Sam, Dean and Jack look at each other wondering if Chuck understood anything of what he had been told or if his mind had gone alongside his powers.

“You know, for the first time I have no idea what happens next. Is this where you kill me?”

It’s easy to see on Sam’s face that it's a tempting idea and one that had been given some thought. He looks at Dean, on whose face only disgust is shown. “I mean, I could never think of an ending where I lose. But, this, after, everything that I’ve done to you… to die at the hands of Sam Winchester… of Dean Winchester, the ultimate killer...”

Both brothers got a long look from the former god when he said their names. In turn they exchanged a glance, cold fury shone in Dean’s eyes, while Sam’s bore a much somber look of sad pensiveness. A quiet conversation was taking place. Sam would follow Dean’s lead, who now held Chuck’s fate in his hands, in what, the former Supernatural writer, felt was an ironic twist.

Chuck laughed in a last attempt to taunt the boys, to make them dance to his music “It’s kind of glorious.” He knew how to push their buttons, he’d done it for so many years. They were as close to a perfect creation as he had ever come. “Sorry, Chuck.” was Dean’s verdict, who moved right along to sentencing.

Chuck cowered in fear. Dean had no weapon in his hand, no magic gun or special knife. No stakes or arrows or even grenades. Death had to come by hand. But it didn’t. “What? What?”

“See, that’s not who I am. That’s not who we are.” They are free of him. Killing is not the only option anymore.

“What kind of an ending is this?” The last sliver of control that Chuck had over his precious Winchesters faded away.

They are his creation! They are not his favorite when they act in unexpected ways that don’t benefit him. Or his story. A little death, then straight to Heaven for some peace and quiet and relaxation. He deserved it. He only knows how much.

“His power. You sure it won’t come back?” Sam asked the kid. “It’s not his power anymore.” Jack replied truthfully.

Sam gives a short half smile to this. What Jack said is good. “Then, I think it’s the ending where you’re just like us and like all the other humans you forgot about.”

“It’s the ending where you grow old, you get sick and you just die” despite Dean’s mercy, it was clear that it would have given him great pleasure to make Chuck feel a fragment of what the men in front of him had endured for his amusement, but he took content in knowing that Chuck’s own creation would do the job for him. The world would save Dean from killing after all the killing Dean had done for its sake.

“And no one cares. And no one remembers you. You’re just forgotten.” The final blow delivered with steel precision right in Chuck’s, now human, heart had been made by Sam.

The trio moves towards the Impala leaving him in dust. “Guys… Guys.. wait.”

The engine revs and they drive away to the sound of Chuck’s begging “Guys… Guys! No, wait… G-guys… Guys, wait! Guys, wait! Guys, wait! Wait! Wait! Wait! Please, wait! Guys!”

Chuck falls into the dust sobbing.

He has no one. He’s all alone.

“

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like-i-need-a-hole-in-my-head · 4 years ago

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100 good questions to ask your friends at 4:02 am when you can’t sleep (can also function as an asks list)

Are you bothered by your cosmic insignificance? no

Do you mourn for a place or person you’ve never known? yes

Do you really think there is somebody for everybody? no

Do you place any value in gender roles? I don’t place any value in gender.

Do you have to be related to be family? Definitions in advance, please.

Are your platonic relationships just as valuable as romantic or family ones? Me personally? No.

Are you in love? Do you want to be? Yes. Yes.

Do you think you can put love into categories (family, platonic, romantic, etc.) or is it just one general sensation? Categories.

Would you be happy with a life without romance? No

Are you always going to be a little in love with somebody? Yes

Would you change your appearance if you could? No except to be invisible to enhance my already considerable spying powers

Do you have the feeling you’ve lost something you might have had in another life - whether it be a person, a place, a world, a language, etc.? Yes

Do you believe in reincarnation? Yes

Would you want to be reincarnated? It’s a bit late to ask now

Do you think you’re special, or just another person amongst billions? Can you be both? Yes and yes

Do theoretical ethical debates have any value? Is it important people discuss ethical dilemmas, e.g. the trolley problem? Yes and yes, but understand the value of considering your own values and don’t take it too seriously.

Did you have imaginary friends? Do you still have them? No and n/a

Are you religious? Do you think your religion is ‘correct’? No and no

If you aren’t religious, do you wish you were? Why? No and why would I want to be?

Do you want a grand adventure? Another? Depends on if I get free ibuprofen

Do you have somebody, whether it be a friend or stranger, who you think you could have loved if the circumstances were different? No. I love you for what you are, not what you could be.

How long does it take you to fall in love with somebody? Is the sensation of ‘falling in love’ or ‘being in love’ better? How long is a piece of string?

Is love about convenience or something more? Can it be about both? Wha? Love is anything BUT convenient

Do you think you really understand your gender and sexuality? yes

How fluid is your concept of gender and sexuality? I don’t care so I guess that’s fluid?

What’s the most life-changing choice you’ve made so far? To continue living

Are you afraid of growing old? Older? No.

Would you want to live forever? How about for a billion years, a million, a millennium, a century? No.

Do you believe in some form of god/s? Some form? yes.

Are your choices fated or of your own free will? We make our choices in the circumstances in which we find ourselves.

Do you have a hunch about how you’re going to die? I hope not.

Do you believe in star signs? For entertainment

How old do you have to be to be considered an adult? I was an adult when I was 6

Was your childhood happy? Yes

What are you missing from your life? Discipline

Have you ever met someone who had a very similar personality to your own? Did you get along? No, people like me are too sensible to hang out with people like me

Do opposites attract? Depends on if you’re a person or a magnet

Is your life what you expected it would be five years ago? Holy shit no

Do you know what you want out of life? No

What makes a person ‘good’? Are you a ‘good person’? Actions (vs intentions). I’m pretty good.

What fundamentally matters to you? Whether you leave me alone when I need to be left alone and whether you can tell whether I just want to be alone vs need to be alone.

Is freewill an illusion? Depends on the scale.

Do you create art? How do you define art? Do something that makes someone feel something.

How often do you lie? Is all lying inherently bad? Are you generally truthful? I’m pretty honest but I lie by omission and can get very technical when I need to be. Lying by itself, like any aspect of language, is neither good nor bad.

Do you want to be remembered after your death? What for? No.

Is true world peace ever possible? Sure. We just need a dictator strong enough to subdue everyone. No more fighting. Peace does not mean people won’t suffer.

Do you have to suffer to truly understand the human condition? What is the human condition? How can you really experience it? ffs just be human

Are you free? Will you ever be? Can anyone be truly free? Freedom is overrated and misunderstood.

Do you hold yourself to higher standards than you hold others? I hope so

What do you expect from a friend or partner? Just understand me

What question could you ask to find out the most about a person? Are you willing to complete this questionnaire?

Do you justify all your beliefs or have you just inherited/absorbed some? Inherited but contemplated

Which beliefs do you have that is most likely to be wrong? That any of this matters in any significant way

Can humans really understand the complete nature of the universe, space and time? We don’t know the complete nature of the universe space and time so how can we understand it?

Is a conscious what makes someone a person? A conscience? No.

What do you think about artificial intelligence? I think it’s often conflated with machine learning

Do you thinks humans are obsessed with escapism (books, video games, movies, etc.)? Are you looking for an escape? Do you think that’s a bad thing? Yes. Yes. No.

Are we eventually going to ‘run out’ of new combinations for music, art, language, etc.? Is there a limit to human creativity? No. No.

What do you think the next era of music will be like? No idea and don’t want to predict it.

What do you think the next era of fashion will be like? No idea and don’t want to predict it.

Do we live in tumultuous times, or do they just seem so strange because we’re living in them? These are objectively tumultuous times, IMO. Other times have been more tumultuous.

Would you want to meet a clone of yourself? Would you like them? No and no.

How confident are you, really? Confidence is A+, self esteem is C-

How consistent is your perception of time? Depends on how cold it is

What age should people be allowed to vote? Should children and teenagers be allowed to vote? Vote on what?

How do you feel about the idea ‘an eye for an eye’? It’s lazy justice

What’s the worse thing a person can be? Hopeless

How do you feel about monogamy? I approve

Can you be in love with someone and still fall in love with someone else? Yes

What’s the tragedy of your life? Bias towards inaction

Would your life make a good play? Definitely

Should people be prosecuted for crimes that weren’t considered crimes at the time? Generally no, but technicalities should not impede justice

Would you fight for your country? Do you feel a sense of loyalty to your nation? I do in my own way. Yes but I wonder why sometimes

Do you believe in gender equality in every aspect? Yes, unless equal means the same.

Do we have a moral obligation to care for others? To what extent? Yes. As much as is needed.

Do you crave approval and/or praise? Waaaaaay too much

Is there comedy in all tragedy and tragedy in all comedy? Yes.

Are you ever going to be satisfied? I hope not

When you are sad, do you listen to music that conveys your emotions or music that makes you happy? I live for sad music and fucking wallow in it

Is your music organised by mood or sensation or do you just listen to everything at any time? My music is organised by geography and time and whether I’m on a motorcycle or boat

Would you marry a friend if they needed you to (e.g. for citizenship)? Unlikely

Are you a deep person? I’ve been told so, but <shrug>

Given the chance to live your life on Mars, with no hope of returning to Earth but with the promise of scientific discovery and glory, would you take it? Don’t care about glory, but if the scientific discovery were useful and I were the only one who could do it, yeah.

Are you who people think you are? I can’t read minds.

Do you think you would be happier if you had been born a different gender, sexuality, race, ethnicity, nationality or religion? You will kill yourself if you go down rabbit holes like this.

What’s your toxic trait? Are you trying to improve yourself and fix it? I disengage. Nope.

Do you anger easily? Yep.

Are you a jealous person? Yep.

If you lost all your memories, would you have the same personality? No.

Given the chance to reset your life (with none of the knowledge you currently have), would you take it? Probably not

Is hate as strong as love? Who do you hate? Hate is as strong as loyalty. I don’t hate any person, I hate what certain people do.

Do you speak multiple languages? Which do you dream in? What language would you want to learn? Yes. I mostly dream in English but also some of the others. Arabic.

Do you draw meaning from your dreams, or do you disregard them? Consider and then disregard

How would you describe yourself when you love? Do you love forcefully, unconditionally, gently, quietly, desperately? Fiercely, loyally, unconventionally

Is unrequited love real love? Yes unless you think love has to be reciprocated, which is incorrect

Is your perception of yourself similar or the same to how others perceive you? I can’t read minds.

Are you overly analytical? hahahahahahaha “overly” does not come close

Do you ever feel that you are really a terrible person, and only act good out of societal or some other obligation? I think everyone feels this way unless you’re not human

Do you believe in magic? Are you superstitious? Yes and yes

What belief do you have that isn’t logically grounded, but you still firmly believe in? People are inherently good.

source

I hate long posts / I know this isn’t how it’s supposed to be done / I’m on vacation folks / saving you time

#personal

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lacquerware · 4 years ago

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Sekiro has one big similarity to Bionic Commando, and it's not what you think

Spoiler Warning: Sekiro, Bionic Commando (NES)

Progress in Sekiro is meted out through challenging boss fights and punctuated with scenic, relatively safe traversal sequences that enhance the sense that you’re on a textured journey that’s headed somewhere. Fairly early in the game, after you’ve found your initial footing and conquered a few lifebars bearing fancy names, the game pulls a fast one on you: As you’re scaling some cliffs to get to the next part of the game, a snake roughly the size of Godzilla glides into view—filling your view—and looks at you like you’re the last donut hole in Boston. What was supposed to be a rejuvenating slice of downtime is suddenly the most stressful situation Sekiro has placed you in so far. A harrowing stealth sequence ensues, where you must divide your time between hiding and madly dashing for the next hiding spot.

Eventually you escape into a cave and get on with your life without confronting the beast, but a new seed of anxiety has started to sprout; eventually you’ll have to confront this thing. It’s Sekiro’s way of shaking the confidence you’ve spent the first chunk of the game building. “You think you’re all that because you beat an eight-foot ogre who started the fight in shackles? Sit back down, insect.”

From then on, the Great Serpent becomes a sort of sinister mile marker, dividing your journey broadly into acts with recurring reminders that your successes don’t mean you’re not still a tiny worm on a giant fucking cosmic hook. At one point it ambushes you on a rope bridge, leaving you floating helplessly in the water below. Another time, you find its shed skin adorning the scenery.

In my many hours and playthroughs with Sekiro, I’ve come to learn that there is some variation to the order in which the game’s key events may unfold, but on my first playthrough, I’d done just about everything possible before finally emerging from that Sunken Valley cavern to find the Great Serpent nestled asleep on a cliffside a few hundred feet below. I’d acquired the Mortal Blade as well as all the ingredients for the Fountainhead Incense. The dreaded Guardian Ape was dead, then undead, then dead-dead. It was clear I was about to enter a new, late phase of the game, but then there she was, once again laying watch over my only path forward.

I edged forward on the overlooking wooden beam, scanning for grapple points or other escape options. There were none, but I was startled to find I could lock onto the slumbering Serpent’s head. Ah, I thought. This is the fight I’ve been dreading all along. Nothing left but to walk the plank and wake the dragon. I gulped, wiped the sweat off my palms, and dove . . . .

As I plunged, I was again startled to see the familiar red smudge of a Deathblow opportunity appear on the Serpent’s head. I spewed some fragments of syllables as my finger scrambled for the R1 button. It registered and Sekiro readied his sword in midair. Unexpected as this was, it occurred to me that many boss fights had begun this way, with a Deathblow opportunity that knocked off one of the boss’s multiple life bars. There was no special reason to think this would preclude a grueling fight, until, that is, Sekiro tore his sword through the Serpent’s uncaring reptile brain, drenching the entire landscape in a downpour of strawberry rhubarb jam and leaving the Serpent a dangling dead decoration. The fight was over before it had begun.

I’ve already commended Sekiro for being FromSoft’s first game in the “Souls” template not to be centered around discouragement, but this dramatic display of leniency was downright motivational. It was like your drill sergeant surprising you with a pizza party instead of the expected twenty-mile march.

“It’s fucking dead?!” I said out loud to my wife in the other room.

“What’s dead?”

“A snake in a video game.”

“Oh.”

But to me it was astounding. This colossal demon, whose prime function up to now had been to keep my confidence in check, had now fallen to my little blade in one of the most spectacular shows of player triumph I’d seen in my more than thirty years of gaming. What I’d thought was the game’s way of saying “You’ve haven’t accomplished as much as you think you have” was ultimately the game’s way of saying I’d accomplished more. Even this impossibly large beast, this divine manifestation of terror itself, which had made every other adversary look puny and insignificant, was now dead. What a shot in the arm! There was no stopping me now.

After finishing Sekiro, I realized this moment had been instrumental in creating the lasting impression that, unlike Dark Souls and Bloodborne, Sekiro never seeks to discourage or punish. It also contributed heavily to the dynamic contour of the whole experience, which is a major thing I think Sekiro has over my beloved Nioh. It aspires and succeeds at being more than a game with a predictable loop—it’s an odyssey of diverse sights and experiences, and the Great Serpent kill feels like the centerpiece. My favorite moment of Sekiro.

Some time later, I had a shower thought: Bionic Commando on the NES, one of my all-time favorite games, had done something very similar more than thirty years prior. The Japanese version of the game includes Hitler’s Resurrection (ヒットラーの復活) right in the title, but in America it’s not until the climactic showdown that you even know it’s a game about defeating Hitler. Until then, your ostensible adversary is Generalissimo Killt, an imposing, sneering, decorated man with all the trimmings of a fictional fascist. He taunts you face-to-face early on in one of the game’s RPG town-esque neutral zones, where you have no recourse even though your bionic arm could surely crush his skull like a grape in a condor beak.

When you finally meet again, Killt stands regal before a towering stasis chamber with a human figure floating within. He says something menacing about “Master-D” and a “revival device,” makes a threat on your life, and then the encounter is cut short by an apparent electrical malfunction. With a powerful jolt, the device unceremoniously kills Killt before he can even try to make good on his threat.

The floating figure within the chamber slowly emerges and speaks. Despite his censored name, the pixelated portrait that accompanies his dialogue box is unmistakable—an eerily lifelike rendering of Adolph Hitler. I was six or seven when I first witnessed this moment, but thanks to Mom’s yearly Yom Kippur tradition of breaking out the Holocaust picture book, Hitler’s stony visage was already imprinted upon my brain. He was my boogeyman, the subject of recurring nightmares, and now somehow he’d invaded my video game. This real-life association made him formidable in a way no other video game villain could touch (no, not even Mike Tyson). It was personal and terrifying in a way no game had been. In an instant, the stakes of this adventure soared sky-high. Hitler was the Great Serpent, a terrible titan sent to ambush your confidence.

After his grand entrance, Hitler unleashes upon you the “Albatros” [sic], a hulking, amorphous war machine outftitted with rhythmically spewing flame vents and a pulsating organ. A tense fight ensues, putting your swinging and shooting skills to the ultimate test. Finally, the Albatross explodes in a screen-filling spectacle of pyrotechnics, and you emerge on an elevated precipice just in time to hear the dying words of a wounded comrade, Hal: Hitler is getting away in a chopper, and it’s up to you to stop him. Even the ultimate test had fallen far short of stopping this monolithic evil.

Hal hands over a bazooka and instructs you to aim for the chopper’s cockpit as you leap from the precipice. You edge forward, scanning for grapple points. You gulp, wipe the sweat off your palms, and swing . . . .

As you plunge, you fire off a single shot. It strikes the glass. You land.

“Your number’s up! Monster!”

Now bear in mind that up to this point, only the weakest enemies in the game had died in one hit. And this wasn’t just any adversary; this was the biggest possible bad. As with the Great Serpent, there was no special reason to think this one shot would preclude a grueling fight, until, that is, Hitler’s cranium exploded in a starburst of strawberry rhubarb jam, the gory detail intricately rendered in four disgusting frames of diverging skin, teeth, and eyeballs.

The fight was over before it had begun. What appeared at first to be a demoralizing escalation of the game’s peak, was in fact a spectacular way to pat you on the back for making it this far. It's like they shoehorned Hitler into the game at the last minute just to let you blow his head up. For a little Jewish kid, that was just about the tastiest proposition a video game could offer.

The more I ponder these two moments, the more they feel like twins. The dissonance of the antagonists’ grandeur with the world they inhabit. The ease with which you reveal both to be false gods. The extreme use of gore to convey the weight of your achievement. They even both hinge on a do-or-die attack performed in free fall. Considering Sekiro also stars a grunt with a bionic arm, I have to wonder if there weren’t some Bionic Commando fans involved in its conception.

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seeaddywrite · 6 years ago

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so, based on the poll i gave this afternoon, & on the fact that this could easily stand alone, if it had to, i’m going to post now. this can stand alone as it’s own scene, but it will be part of a bigger series called aftermath. [I’m guessing five parts max, but we’ll see how it goes?]

this is Michael & Isobel, a week post-finale. heavy emphasis on Malex, though Alex does not appear in this fic. warnings for grief & canonical character death, & mentions of Michael/Maria, because you have to acknowledge it to change it.

many thanks to @soberqueerinthewild who made sure i didn’t repeat myself a thousand times & helped me make sure michael’s thought processes seemed true to character! <3

The glass doors and the surrounding wall at Max’s house are still wrecked.

Michael surveils the situation with a critical eye, mentally adding up what it’ll cost to fix it, and a timeframe. He’d come here to lock everything down, to make sure that Max’s house and belongings would be safe and waiting for him when they figured out this resurrection stuff and could remove him from the pod. At least, that’s the excuse he’s using, and a more honest version of the one he gave Maria when he left her this morning. They’ve been together for less than a week, and already, the lies are piling up between them. About his magically healed hand, about what really happened to Max, about why he and Isobel are suddenly so tight with the newly-reunited Ortecho sisters — and of course, Rosa herself, and how she could possibly be standing in front of Maria at all after ten years of death.

He does his best to keep it as honest as he can, but Michael doesn’t want to drag Maria into the mess that is their lives, even if the others would go along with it. With her mom, and everything else going on in her own life, Michael’s pretty sure it would be too much, even as strong as DeLuca definitely is.

And, even more selfishly, he wants her as far out of it all as possible because Michael went to her for her normality. For the simple, flirtatious affection between them. She doesn’t know what he is, or have a father who is the cause of some of the most painful moments in his life. Maria doesn’t come with post-traumatic stress or the idea that Michael needs protection from her. Being with Maria is as easy as breathing, normal. And isn’t that what everyone wants? Isn’t that what Michael wants?

There are some moments, the better ones, usually when he’s pressed up against Maria’s naked skin, that he can say ‘yes.’ This is what he wants. Simple. Affectionate. Great sex. Something that lets him think clearly when she’s around, and something that doesn’t make it hard to breathe when she’s not. Other moments, though — most of the days, when he’s so feeling so empty and desolate without Max’s presence in the back of his mind that he can’t stand it, or the moments when his mother’s last words echo above the noise in his head, that’s not what he wants. He wants rough, adrenaline-pumping sex, with a connection so deep that it can only ever be terrifying and awe-inspiring. He wants something cosmic, something so impossibly overwhelming that all he can do is enjoy it in the moment and hope that when the inevitable crash comes, it doesn’t break him.

Deep down, beneath that new desire to be normal, Michael wants the same fucking thing he has since he was seventeen and learning how to truly trust a human for the first time.

He wants Alex Manes, God help him.

It’s the first time he’s allowed himself to acknowledge that truth since deciding to go to Maria, and Michael shoves it away almost violently. He puts himself to work picking up the debris and remnants of the wall still littering the ground, and unwillingly allows his thoughts to drift to Max, because that, at least, is a hurt he understands. It’s inevitable; he knew coming here that there would be no way to avoid thinking of his lost brother while standing in his home, and Michael feels the disconnect keenly. He’d never noticed the connection between himself and Max while they were alive — not aside from the usual flashes when the other man was in danger. It’s strange, that he couldn’t notice it until it was gone. Michael felt alone in his own head, more isolated than he’d ever been — and he’d found himself reaching for the connection he shares with Isobel more than once in the last week, trying to ground himself.

Whether he likes it or not, Max has always been a grounding presence in his mind, and Michael doesn’t know how he’s supposed to get used to living without it. Even as he resented the hell out of his brother, he’s always understood that he was there. Maybe he didn’t always understand, and maybe he could be stupid and oblivious as hell, but Max is Michael’s brother, his family, and Michael will not forget that again.

When he’s finished gathering trash, Michael takes the replacement siding and glass he’d bought from the bed of his truck and begins the process of fixing the hole in the wall. As he does, images of their fight flash through his mind; what had hurt so much in the moment seems distant now, insignificant. Tossing Max through the wall was on him, so he’s going to fix it. It’s the least he can do, since Max’ll need his house when he comes back —

Michael swallows, shoving back the wave of grief that threatens when he remembers that Isobel’s plan is a long-shot, that it took years for Max to become powerful enough to resurrect Rosa Ortecho, and he’d had the extra shot of power from killing Noah. They’re not murdering anyone; Max would never forgive them if they did it just to bring him back, and Michael doesn’t think they could go through with it. Not really.

With two good hands — and fuck, if that isn’t going to take a while to wrap his head around — Michael sets about replacing the sliding glass doors. It’ll take some time, but Michael’s got nowhere to be, and he can’t leave this place. Not with Isobel curled up on Max’s couch, determinedly trying to tap into whatever part of her brain would allow her to bring their brother back from the dead. Michael hasn’t had the heart to point out that it’d taken Max’s life to resurrect Rosa. And no matter how much the emptiness in their lives might hurt, Michael’s never going to let Isobel pay that price.

He’s been sawing and installing for just over two hours in silence when Isobel shrieks in frustration, causing two of the lamps in the living room to shatter. Michael glances us, sweeps the pieces telekinetically into the trash, and returns to his own work without a word. He’s used to these outbursts, by now. Isobel’s had a lot of them. And talking or trying to help never works, so Michael just keeps his mouth shut.

Apparently, that’s not what she wants this time, though, because a moment later, she’s standing in front of him, her hands on her hips and eyes brimming with fire that Michael hasn’t seen from her since the day they lost their brother. Isobel’s a shadow of her former self in the wake of all of her losses, looking wraithlike and small beneath one of Max’s old hooded sweatshirts, and there’s no makeup caking her skin to cover the redness of her eyes or the deep shadows beneath them.

“Hey,” he greets uncertainly.

“You told Max you wanted to be happy,” Isobel says out of nowhere. Michael blinks a couple of times to try to make sense of it, then reluctantly places the saw back in his toolbox. Apparently, they’re talking now, though about what he hasn’t quite figured out. “You told him that it was time to move on and be normal, and be happy.”

Michael stares at his sister silently, because what the hell does she want from him? He knows that’s what he said. He doesn’t need an instant replay. But he knows that Isobel wouldn’t say anything without a point, and something in the back of his mind tells him that he should be wary of whatever it is that she’s driving at.

“This isn’t happy, Michael. You’ve been here, or with me, and —” her lower lip quivers, and Michael stands up to touch her shoulder. “Well, I’m not exactly the right person to help you with happy right now, am I?”

Michael processes that slowly, and frowns back at Isobel. “Like I’m going to take off and leave you alone,” he scoffs, the soft circles he’s drawing on her shoulder belying the roughness in his voice. “It’s you’n me against the world for right now, Iz. I’m not going anywhere.”

But the blonde is shaking her head before he’s even finished, looking more like herself than Michael has witnessed since the evening they realized that Noah’d been playing them for fools for the last ten years. “But you should,” she says firmly, pulling away from his hand. “You can be happy. You finally have the chance, with Maria, and Max wouldn’t want -”

He’s been holding too tightly to control, the past week, and the iron band he’d put around his emotions snaps when she pulls away from him and mentions Maria, of all fucking things. Like sex and a hug is going to fix the aching emptiness inside of him, or the overwhelming grief of losing a mother and a brother all in one fell swoop. As always, anger is his default, his one and only defense against the world that hated him — and later, Michael knows he’ll regret lashing out at Isobel, but for now, she’s the only one there. The only one he can trust to always come back, no matter how awful he is.

“Max is dead, Isobel,” he snaps back, and hates himself a little for the anger in his voice. He regrets admitting that he’d been with Maria, when he felt Max die, or telling Isobel that he wanted to try things with her — because now, looking back, it’s so fucking obvious that it was never going to work. “I didn’t care what he wanted when he was alive, so I don’t give a shit what you think he’d want now that he’s gone!”

Instead of deflating after the eruption, Michael’s fury only continues to build. And it’s not just Isobel; it’s everything. It’s Alex and his god-awful timing, and his psychotic, genocidal father. It’s Liz’s happiness to have her sister back, even when it cost them Max. It’s Max himself, and his goddamn savior complex — and how is it fair to be pissed at the dead? But Michael is. He’s furious with Max for doing this, for not listening to Michael or Isobel and fucking sacrificing himself to bring back Liz’s sister — did he seriously think that Liz needed Rosa more than Michael and Isobel needed him? Did he think that having her sister back would replace the love of her life? Did he think it was some sort of necessary penance for that night?

There are so many questions Michael may never have the answers to, and it only infuriates him all the more. He should know. He and Max were best friends, once. Inseparable. The keepers of one another’s every secret, until Rosa. There had even been a time that when Michael was scared or hurting, Max was the first person he sought out — but it hadn’t been that way in a long time, and the regret was poisonous. And Michael hates Max for making him feel that, too.

Isobel’s crying in earnest as the sheets of plywood around Michael begin to shake with the force of the maelstrom raging in his chest, and he has to turn away to breathe through it before he ends up ruining everything he’d fixed that day. It’s hard, almost impossible, but Michael’s had a lifetime of keeping his powers hidden under pressure and threat of exposure, so eventually, physically, everything regains its place. Inwardly, Michael’s fairly sure nothing in his mind will ever go back to the way it’s meant to be.

“I’m sorry,” he mutters, still facing away from Isobel. “I just —”

Isobel’s only response is a hiccuping sob. There’s no snark or sarcasm, no dry rejoinder like, “Maybe you’re just an asshole,” as he’d half-expected. The silence is by far worse. Slowly, Michael turns back to face his sister, shame and guilt adding themselves to the storm brewing inside of him.

“I’m mad at him, Iz,” he admits, swallowing around the lump building in his throat. “And I actually fucking miss him, and I can’t —” Michael rakes agitated fingers through his tangled hair and tries to figure out the right words, but all that comes is a psychic outpouring of everything that he can’t keep contained anymore. Isobel stands firm and takes it all, her expression shuttering until she’s as still and blank as a marble statue. He hates that he’s doing this to her, that he’s the one adding to her suffering, but as always, Isobel is a safe place for Michael to crash-land. Even when she’s the one who really needs the support.

When it ends, Michael feels hollowed out and empty. Drained physically by the emotional onslaught. He slumps to the floor in the middle of Max’s kitchen and draws his knees into his chest to hide his face in them. Drywall dust and splinters of the old wall still litter the tile around him, but Isobel slides gracelessly into position at his side anyway, ignoring the mess.

A soft hand finds its way to his back, and Michael inhales sharply, but doesn’t pull away. “I’m pissed at him, too,” Isobel tells him quietly. “And I miss him so much that I can’t breathe when I think about it.” Her breath trembles, as if an example of her words. “And I’m always — I’m always cold, now. I’ve never really been alone before, you know? Max was always there. And then Noah. And now I’m …”

“Still not alone,” Michael says, though it feels like a poor substitute, him for Max and a husband, even if he was always a liar and a killer. But it’s the truth.

Isobel smiles wanly, and nods. “I know,” she says, and presses her shoulder against his. “Can we talk about you, now?”

Michael groans, and finally lifts his head from his knees. “Thought we just did,” he says, but he’s already resigned to allowing Isobel to speak her piece. There’s no stopping her once she gets an idea in her head, and at this point, Michael would do just about anything to make her stop crying.

“Not about you and Maria,” Isobel points out, and Michael can’t help the wince. He expects surprise at the reaction, but his sister only nods once, like she’d been expecting the reaction. “I thought so. It wasn’t what you thought it’d be?”

Michael shakes his head, and answers honestly, “It was exactly what I thought it’d be. Easy. Normal. Comfortable.” he pauses, thinking through how to explain it, both to himself and to Isobel. “But — I told you a while ago that I was tired of secrets, and there’s so much I can’t tell her. And it’s not — she’s not —”

“She’s not Alex Manes,” Isobel finishes, one eyebrow quirked.

This time, he shakes his head a little harder. “It’s not just that. It’s not like I don’t care about her, because I do. But…” God, this is all so hard to articulate, and he know he looks like some kind of sleaze, dating someone while he knows good and well that it’s not going to work. He doesn’t want Isobel to see him that way, but he doesn’t want to lie to her, either. Not now. “I see Liz, and the way she’s trying to be happy with having her sister back. And how much she still wants Max, you know? No matter how much he fucked her life up, or hurt her — she still loves him. Is still fighting to bring him back. And I thought I wanted Maria, but I really just wanted something that didn’t hurt, you know? Something that didn’t scare the shit out of me. But it turns out that love’s pretty fucking scary. Letting someone in, letting them really know you? It’s like falling off a fucking cliff, and I —”

“And you want Alex Manes to be the one to catch you,” Isobel supplies, and to his surprise, there’s a small, sad smile on her face when he looks at her. “I know, Michael. And I think maybe I gave you bad advice, when I said we needed to stop looking back.” She swallows, and her slender fingers wrap around the inside of his arm, clinging tightly, as if Michael is anchoring her to reality. “I need to stop looking back, at Noah. Because he was a murderer, and he used me, and he was never the man I thought he was. But Alex isn’t a monster — right?” She looks uncertain, and the idea that anyone can even think Alex’s name in connection with the word monster at all is abhorrent.

“God, no,” he tells her vehemently, curls bouncing with the force of his head-shake. “His old man is, and he’s tangled up deep in a government project full of ‘em, but Alex isn’t like them.”

“Okay,” Isobel says thoughtfully. “But he keeps leaving, right? That’s what you’re scared of?”

Michael wants to tell her he’s not scared, but that makes him sound like a teenaged boy with an ego, and he’s above that. At least, he hopes he is. “His dad messed him up,” Michael says frankly, with only a pang of guilt for saying that about Alex. “When he broke my hand in high school, Alex just — Alex couldn’t fucking handle it. He enlisted, he left, and I thought it was done. But he kept coming back while he was on leave, and every time, I thought we were good. And every time, he left, and I didn’t hear from him until the next time he was knocking on my door.” Michael’s expression is pinched, and he wants this subject closed. “I didn’t even know he’d lost a leg until he showed up to take over the land on the ranch. And we just fell into bed, I didn’t ask questions — and then he walked away again.”

His eyes have drifted closed at some point, and Michael forces them back open and looks at Isobel. “And now he knows everything. About my mom, about our secrets, about everything, and I don’t think I could take it if he walked away again.” He scrubs irritably at a tear that’s escaped and tracked down his stubbled cheek; he can’t be embarrassed, because neither he nor Isobel are at their most emotionally stable right now, and they’ve spent the better part of the week crying. “Because this time, he knows me, Iz. If he walks away, it’s gonna be because I’m not what he wants, or I disappointed him somehow, or I’m too much, or not enough, and how am I supposed to deal with that?”

Isobel doesn’t have a response, and Michael didn’t expect her to. But she does take his hand, the one he’s still used to calling his bad one, and tangles their fingers together tightly. “But what if he doesn’t walk away?” she asks, after a long, terribly silent moment in which Michael barely resists getting up and putting himself back to work. Physical exhaustion might be enough to get him to sleep, something he’s been sorely missing the past several days, and it’s so tempting to work himself until every muscle aches, to use his telekinesis until he sweats and passes out — but he can’t do that to Isobel. Not yet.

“Noah never loved me, Michael. I was always just a means to an end with him, or a … a weapon.” Horror shows in Isobel’s eyes, like it does every time she remembers what was done to her, and Michael doesn’t have any idea how to help. “And I’d do just about anything to have someone who loves me as much as Liz loves Max, or as much as you love Alex.” She holds up a hand, stopping Michael from insisting that Isobel is his family, and he loves her more than anyone — and yeah, he guesses that’s fair. Platonic love is important, and the three of them have always depended on it. But it’s not the same. Max had never been happy, without Liz, no matter how Isobel had tried to be there for him. And Michael — well, part of him went to Baghdad with Alex Manes, and he doesn’t think he’ll ever get it back. So he gets it, that Isobel wants that for herself.

“All I’m trying to say is that if I had that in my life? I wouldn’t be wasting my time looking for easy, or safe. I’d fight tooth and nail to keep it.”

And that’s Isobel in a nutshell, Michael thinks. She fights for what she wants, and she’s so fucking strong. That’s why she’s sat in the living room in Max’s house for the past six days practicing with her powers to become strong enough to bring him back. It’s why she’s held it together, despite two devastating losses, and why she’s still sitting here, holding Michael’s hand when she should be the one falling apart. It’s a little humbling, and puts things in perspective for him more than any of her words managed.

He nods, once, and sucks in a deep breath. Isobel’s right. At the very least, Michael knows he can’t keep pretending with Maria. She deserves better than that, especially from him. She deserves her own cosmic romance, one that will scare and thrill her as much as Alex has done for Michael. And he’s going to put a stop to this thing between them before it has a chance to grow, before either of them ends up seriously hurt, because he wants to keep her in his life. Michael’s short on friends; he doesn’t want to lose this one.

And maybe, after they’ve figured out whether or not they can bring Max back, and after they’ve managed to come up with an explanation for Rosa Ortecho’s sudden reappearance and keep themselves safe …. and after he’s sure Isobel can be alone for a while… maybe, just maybe, it’s time to go see Alex.

#my fic #post-finale #isobel & michael #malex fic #[alex not in story #but heavily referenced and discussed]#roswellnm fic #X. Aftermath

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thewhiterabbit42 · 6 years ago

Text

The Other Side

Pairings: AU!Gabriel x AU!Reader

Summary: Survival wasn’t all there was to life in the apocalypse, and you were lucky enough to understand this.

Word Count: 5628

Tags/Warnings: smut, oral sex, vaginal sex, fingering, multiple orgasms, edging, friends with benefits, sleeping with the enemy, secret / forbidden affair

Written for: Anon - kiss request - tripping over objects / furniture and @spnkinkbingo

Square Filled: Biting

You hated using the tunnels. They always felt cold, unnaturally so, and smelled the way you imagined a tomb would: damp, earthy, filled with stagnant air and the ever present possibility of entrapment. It wasn’t that you were claustrophobic, so much as you really disliked the idea of being put beneath the ground. Especially alone.

They were the only way to get in and out of the colony unnoticed, however, and discretion was key. Mostly because Bobby might blow a gasket if he knew just how often you left on your own, not to mention the aneurysm he'd get when he found out the reason behind it.

Thankfully, the passageway you needed was short, and before you knew it, a fresh breeze was once again nipping at your cheeks. The barest whisper of something trickled across your senses as your feet guided you down the path, causing the cool night air to fill your lungs at a faster rate.

Your pulse lost its steady rhythm, and you stopped dead in your tracks. Your head tilted slightly, your instincts kicking into overdrive, but your hand never drew the blade on which it rested. You were far from alarmed, even as the rustle of wings sounded directly behind you.

“You know, if I was one of my brothers, you’d be dead right now…”

“You know, if I was anyone else, you’d spend the rest of your morning in the principal's office for misuse of emergency exits.”

The early morning sun blinded you, making it impossible to see the figure waiting for you just outside the tunnel doors. Exhaustion clung to your mind, preventing the familiar voice from registering. You whirled, unsheathing your blade, your muscles readying to strike.

Recognition override your adrenaline at the sight of your best friend’s face.

“Jesus, Wes!” You clutched the weapon to your chest, as if that would calm the frantic beating of your heart. “That’s a good way to get yourself stabbed.”

“Is that anyway to greet someone bearing gifts?” He asked, immediately holding up an old, faded travel mug. You pursed your lips, tucking away your blade as you tried to even out your breathing. You were relieved he was the one catching you sneaking back in over the fact he’d prepared a peace offering.

Your eyes flicked down, curiosity brimming. “I suppose it would be awfully ungrateful not to accept.” Wryness lifted both your tone and the corner of your mouth as you took the mug from his hands.

“If I were you, I’d drink up. Bobby’s been waiting for you since dawn.”

Shit. You’d forgotten you’d asked to meet with him.

You glanced over to find an odd look on your friend’s face.

“What?” You resisted the urge to glance down the front of you and make sure nothing was compromised. You continued to hold his stare, noticing there was something different about it, something you were too tired to tease out.

There was more to Gabriel’s presence tonight. More tension, perhaps. More energy. Or maybe there was just more of him. It carried over into his touch, that something extra feeling awfully possessive as he grabbed you by the waist.

“Since I know you’re not stupid, I can only assume you either have something terribly wrong with your sense of self-preservation, or maybe, just maybe, you somehow knew it was me...”

It wasn’t quite suspicion that colored his tone, but you also wouldn’t call it concern. What was concerning to you, however, was how guarded he was. It was as if something was brewing inside him, something that was strong enough to churn everything he kept buried up toward the surface.

“I’m having a torrid love affair with my mortal enemy…which do you think it is?” You said dryly, hoping some humor might help diffuse whatever was going on.

“Hmmmm.” He sounded less than convinced, but as his hands slipped beneath your jacket, his focus shifted. Fingertips teased tiny circles along your skin, sending small sparks of excitement through your system.

You held your breath, concentrating on him and only him; the feel of his touch, the heat of his chest on your back, the way he smelled of different air and clean rain, suggesting he had come from someplace much further away. He was your escape, and you wanted nothing more than to become lost in him.

You felt yourself slipping away as he traced the tip of his nose down behind your ear, his breath unfurling warmly against the shell of it.

“Close your eyes and open your mouth,” he ordered. You were tempted to make a remark, but that little extra edge to him had you doing what you were told. He placed something small and square on top of your tongue, and it only took a moment for a delectable combination of sugar and cocoa to soar across your taste buds.

“Oh —”

“— God, this - is this…” You stared at Wesley, wide-eyed. “Where the hell did you find whiskey?” The look you pinned him with really said who did you have to kill for this?

“Thought you’d like that,” he grinned, patting you on the shoulder before passing you. You stared at his back a few seconds, your brain unable to comprehend the magnitude of his gift. It took a few moments to recover, and you were thankful he was in front of you as you awkwardly shuffled to catch up.

Your moan was as decadent as the long lost flavor spreading inside your mouth.

“... you like that?” He murmured, nuzzling along the side of your neck as he allowed you time to savor the surprise.

You couldn’t remember the last time you had real chocolate. Candy, sweets, anything without real nutritional value was overlooked once the fighting began. Then, once everyone realized this was really the end, treats became so uncommon they surpassed the value of gold and silver. In some places, they had become the only valuable piece of currency.

Now they were as rare as toilet paper, and you couldn’t believe the things people were willing to do for a chocolate bar.

“What would you do for one?” Insinuation danced through his tone, and you finally turned around to greet him properly. What you saw, however, had you stilling.

Gabriel’s eyes glimmered in a kaleidoscope of sentiments and colors. Greens and golds vied for dominance against a backdrop of heat. He was beautiful. Breathtaking. Perhaps one of the few truly magnificent things left in this world.

And for whatever reason, he found you deserving of his time.

“I can’t - this is too much,” you insisted, holding the cup back up to him. “I don’t deserve this.”

Wes might have been your closest friend, but things like this went beyond bestie status. If anything, you should have been procuring him impossible items for looking out for you.

Especially when he had to know whatever you were doing outside the colony was at least seven shades of questionable if not outright forbidden.

He glanced sideways at you, and your brows pulled together beneath his scrutiny. You still weren’t able to get a pulse on him, which was strange. Normally, you could both tell where each others’ heads were at.

“Oh, don’t worry, there are strings attached,” he informed you. “You’d think if we took anything from the military, it’s that the whole don’t ask, don’t tell method doesn’t really work worth shit.”

You footsteps froze, your entire system lurching to a stop with them. “Wesley…”

You didn’t want to lie to him. You weren’t certain you could after all you’d been through together, but most of all, you didn’t want him to share the burden of your secrets.

As if sensing the weight behind things, his hands shot up in surrender. “You don’t have to tell me. In fact, the less I know right now, the better.”

It wasn’t hard to read between the lines. He was catching flak about you. Then again, when wasn’t he?

“You just need to promise me you’ll come back.” He placed a hand on your shoulder, squeezing lightly. The contact combined with a stare that was far more direct than usual had you floundering.

Unsure of what to do with his concern, you went straight to your family's specialty.

“If bribery of this caliber doesn’t convince me to, nothing will.” You slipped your arm through his, tugging him away from the main path and diverting your course toward a secluded hill that ran along the edge of the colony.

You never knew how to handle these moments. It was never easy seeing Gabriel for what he was. It only reminded you how completely different you were.

He was infinite, whereas you were nothing, an insignificant speck on the cosmic timeline that would eventually fade away. You never felt worthy, even if it only came down to him needing a body with which to find pleasure.

His eyes suddenly narrowed, and your forehead wrinkled down the center. It wasn’t until you blinked that you realized what the problem was. A drop of moisture slipped past the confines of your lashes, slowly trickling down your cheek.

You didn’t understand how he could move you to such emotions so quickly when you spent most of your days struggling just to feel. It was just another bewildering piece to the enigma that was Gabriel.

“What have I told you about that?” He chided, a juxtaposition of hard and soft forming between his disapproving look and the gentle way he brushed away the streak with his knuckles.

“What have I told you about going AWOL?” Bobby scolded, not bothering to turn around from his place at the edge of the overlook. You moved next to him, taking a large swallow from your mug as you avoided the cantankerous side-eye he sent you.

No wonder Wes had opted to wait for you at the bottom of the hill. There was more bear than man present this morning.

You knew better than to jump straight into anything when Bobby was like this, and you took some time to admire the view of the colony. Everything seemed ordinary on the surface. People ambled through the center, going about their business. The previous bustle had slowed, and the bodies weaving in and out of the structures took on an ambling, weighted shuffle.

His stare eventually settled on you, lips pulling thin with appraisal. “You look like this is the last place you need to be.”

“I’m fine.” It was an automatic answer, a mistake, one you didn’t realize until his gaze intensified. “I didn’t get much sleep.”

You knew it was better to give him something rather than stonewall him, and you hoped the amendment was enough to appease him.

“We have everything we need for it and then some: beds, linens, walls, protection… and yet it always seems to be one of the things shortest in supply.” He paused, his eyes scanning the grounds some more before he continued. “You still haven’t said where you were.”

You burst through the door to the supply shed, wincing as a thunderous crack echoed through the valley. It was the third time this year you’d damaged something. Bobby was going to be so pissed.

“Gabri-mmph,” his lips smothered yours, cutting off your protest.

Shhh you heard his voice in your mind. You want to alert the whole neighborhood we’re out here?

His mouth released yours, allowing you a brief reprieve for your burning lungs. An infuriating smile pressing against your skin as he teased his way down along your collarbone. His hands fisted the sides of your shirt, and you wished you’d remembered to fix the zipper on your jacket. The last thing you needed was to have to explain why you were traipsing around at the end of winter missing vital layers. Again.

“Fuck you,” you breathed, your fingers weaving through his long, wavy strands of hair. When he lunged for your throat, hungrily devouring your skin with teeth and tongue, you tugged in an attempt to keep him focused.

An amused, albeit dark, chuckle rumbled in the back of his throat. “That’s the plan, sweets.”

He captured your lips again, reigning in his ardor as he nudged you back through the small building. You stumbled over piles of wood, scrap metal, broken pieces of furniture that might yet still serve a purpose, and you had to cling to him just to remain upright.

Your luck eventually ran out, and your foot finally hit something that refused to give, sending you tumbling backwards so quickly even he wasn’t able to stop it. Pain flared along your spine, and once your surprise wore off you realized you’d fallen against an old bookcase.

It was as good a spot as any. Gabriel shrugged out of his jacket before running his hands beneath yours and pushing it over your shoulders. You let it drop to the ground, eyes riveted as he tugged his shirt over his head. His skin looked flawless in the moonlight filtering in through the windows, your gaze trailing up his lean, defined frame to the tousled, tawny locks hanging down around his face.

Perfection you thought, and the air left the room in a sudden rush.

“I needed some air,” It wasn’t a total lie. It just wasn’t the only thing you had needed.

Strike two Bobby’s face said as he gave you a long look.

“Different air?” He asked skeptically. You shifted your weight from one foot to the other, doing your best to ignore the way he stared. You knew he didn’t have a clue about anything, or else he’d be confronting you.

“I just…” You fumbled for a better explanation, one that didn’t cross the careful lines you were trying to maintain between keeping him in the dark and outright lying to him. The latter didn’t sit well with you, but you had nothing else to offer him this morning.

Except maybe some of your whiskey, and there was no way that was happening.

“... needed some air,” you repeated, taking another sip and finally glancing up at him. You aimed for neutrality, hoping you could suppress how guarded you really were.

“One of these days, kid, you’re going to tell me what that means,” he said, finally letting the issue drop.

“One of these days, we’re finding a bed,” you insisted, your hands gripping the sides of the bookcase as you all but prayed the thing didn’t collapse on you.

Gabriel had ravaged the thing, sending pieces shattering in every direction in his haste before hoisting you up on the highest shelf left, ensuring he had a place to ravish you. The setup was far from sturdy, the entire frame creaking and wiggling with every movement. You did your best to stay still as he buried his head between your thighs, whereas he tried his damndest to get you to writhe as much as possible.

“God, you’re such an ass,” you moaned, your feet digging into his back to keep your hips from rocking into his face. You wished you could have the same effect on him, that you could make him dance to whatever tune you created, from fast-paced to slow to everything in between. Yet, it was always him playing your body while you simply went along with whatever symphony he orchestrated.

You wished you could tell him now. You wished Bobby could understand that you left the walls of the camp because there wasn’t enough inside of them anymore. Only he wouldn’t.

His first reaction would be to make sure you weren’t bewitched. Once convinced your mind had not been compromised, he’d move on to coercion, insisting there must be something the angel was holding over you. It would take him some time for his denial to wear off, but once it did, then he’d think you were a silly little girl in way over her head.

Or a complete dumbass.

You weren’t sure which would be worse.

“So… I can only imagine what you want to talk about,” he began. “We got angel attacks getting closer by the day. Outposts being discovered and overrun. They’ve fractured our communication lines with the outermost colonies. There’s that damn flu making its rounds, the fact that our last four supply runs came up all but empty, and I’m sure if we looked hard enough, we could even find a spy or two…”

In other words, you better not be there to waste his time.

“Subtle,” you remarked. “And while I understand you, and the others, have very important things to worry about, I would hope the happiness of your people would be among them.”

His eyes swung to you, hard and measured. This wasn’t the first time you’d picked this battle, and he wasn’t any more thrilled to be doing it than you were.

“Hate to say it, but it’s the apocalypse. Nobody’s supposed to be happy.”

You knew you were walking a fine line. You understood his priorities. He and the other leaders had an overwhelming burden to shoulder, but sometimes they lost sight of the things that went beyond crises and survival.

“Should I quote you on that?”

You could practically feel the burn of his stare searing through the side of your head.

“We’re doing the best we can with what we have.” End of discussion.

You hated when he tried to shut you down, like you were still some naive child with no idea what life was like beyond the walls.

“Are we?” You demanded. At best, the place was a refugee camp, rather than the rebuilding of civilization they claimed. Everything about it screamed temporary. Many of the structures remained open. Only the sick, injured, and most vulnerable were afforded four walls and a roof. The rest of you made do with improvised lean-tos and tied down canvas, and even you had to admit to feeling a little salty that some of your supplies saw better quarters than the rest of you.

You made do because you had to. Because three figureheads was enough to keep a pulse on the entire place, but not nearly enough to keep ushering people forward. Even with your help, with Wes’ and a handful of others, the tide had grown stagnant over the last several months. People were drowning, and nothing good ever came from feeling like one’s head was trapped beneath the water while the surface drifted further and further away.

The only reason you weren’t losing your mind was because you had an archangel that had no problem helping you misplace it.

Fuck, he was so good at this. That tongue of his knew just how to move, just how much pressure to use, just what pace to set to get you to unravel. His fingers moved within you, and they, too, knew exactly when to curl and hit that sweet spot. You’d never known any man to pay this much attention to what you liked, and you wondered if it had anything to do with the fact that he wasn’t one.

He tried to draw it out for you, bringing you right to the brink before easing you back again. It was amazing and agonizing all at once.

“Gabriel,” you pleaded, hands raking through his hair, nails scraping across his scalp as another wave of pleasure rolled through you. You rocked yourself forward, ignoring the precarious groaning of the wood, unable to see past anything but an increasingly blinding need for him to pull that final stitch and let you come undone.

“Sing for me my little songbird,” he murmured, his voice deep and husky with arousal.

“Can’t,” you panted. It was risky enough just being there with him. You didn’t need some half-cocked night patrol bursting in because the archangel needed his ego stroked.

Refusing him was clearly a challenge, his fingertips stroking your g-spot with more vigor. Your head dropped back against the wall, a half-strangled moan catching in your throat.

“Gabriel—“” your argument cut short with a whine as he all but stopped, his touch slow, feather-light -- maddening -- and you watched as your release slipped away once again.

“You will sing,” he insisted, his face breaking away from your sex to nibble tantalizingly along your inner thigh. “Even if it takes me all night to convince you to…”

“I have all day to talk,” you reminded Bobby. “Do you?”

You glanced back down at the activity below, taking another long pull from your mug. You let the liquid roll around in your mouth, savoring the taste, allowing him time to decide how he wanted this to play out.

“If you got a point, then make it.”

You nodded, but said nothing, eyes riveted to the instructional building where all the kids spent their days learning useful things. Trades. Survival skills. Tactical strategies. How to properly handle an angel blade.

“Listen,” he rounded, patience reaching its limit in the steady flush creeping up his neck. “We got five graves that need to be dug this morning, so I suggest --”

You held up a finger to him, cutting him off. “Just a moment.”

A few seconds later, a set of doors swung open and everyone between the ages of six and sixteen came filing out. Gaunt faces peered out from beneath worn and weathered layers, bodies shuffling obediently to the area a handful of adults were shepherding them. This was their time to take a break from their studies, to be children, and yet, nothing about their movements suggested they were.

There were no bursts of laughter, no lighthearted giggles or shouts, no excitement to be free from such menial tasks. There wasn’t an ounce of playfulness within the group, only solemnity and silence that was mirrored by the adults overseeing them.

“What do you see down there?” You questioned.

Bobby was many things, but he wasn’t an idiot.

“Point made,” he conceded. “Some days it’s like half of them already think they’re dead.”

“Can you blame them?” You made a wide sweeping gesture to the entire grounds. Everything had a purpose, a function, just like everyone in the colony had a role. Some days it felt like you were all just cogs in one big machine that did nothing but demand you keep running regardless of all the death and discomfort.

“It may not be paradise, but it’s the best we can do.”

“Is it?” You pressed, unwilling to let the same cliche arguments drive the conversation. “They need a way to let off steam. Some form of entertainment, an escape, something.”

“I’ll get right on putting in a jungle gym after I bury our dead and explain to their children why their parents died from something a few Tylenol could have fixed.” Sarcasm bled heavily into his words, and you could tell you were losing him. “You want to help these people? Find us some medical supplies. Build us a clinic that doesn’t kill as many people as it helps because we can’t sanitize it properly. Guarantee us one god damn supply run that doesn’t end with somebody not coming home!”

He had a valid point, but it only strengthened your argument that much more.

“I’m not saying we ignore those things. What I’m suggesting is we don’t overlook them. Lift the sanctions on what people can bring back,” you insisted. “Simple things like books, magazines, porn.”

Actual liquor so you didn’t have to drink things that tasted like they were one bad batch away from blinding you.

Stars overlaid your vision, though it wasn’t quite how you anticipated. The bookshelf emitted a final, dying groan before giving beneath your weight. Gabriel lunged forward, pinning you to the frame with such speed that your head slammed unceremoniously back against it.

“Shit,” he muttered, fingers hastily tapping the side of your head. “Don’t check out on me yet, sweetheart.”

The ache in your skull immediately faded, and he waited for you to lock your legs around his waist before shifting your weight entirely onto him.

“Can we do things my way for once?” You asked as he moved you both away from the new pile of kindling.

He made a non-committal noise, turning to assess what other options were available for you both to get back to business.

“You know, where we don’t break anything, myself included?”

“Ha, ha, chuckles.” Sarcasm dripped from his words, though gold was more heated than anything when it pinned you beneath a look. “I have yet to hear any complaints.”

That’s because you knew better than to look a gift horse in the mouth.

“Unless…” He prompted, almost daring you to say something to contrary.

“No complaints,” you confirmed, stepping down to the floor. “Though it would be nice if you let me lead for a change.”

He was always the one calling the shots. For once, you wanted to be the one in charge.

Your hands smoothed up his chest before nudging him backward, and his brow shot up in a clashing combination of warning and curiosity. He allowed you to guide him toward the center of the room until something pushed into the back of his thighs. You reached behind him, ripping a sheet off an old, worn desk before playfully shoving him on top of it.

“Permission to climb aboard the Gabriel Express?”

He rolled his eyes so hard he must have pulled something, but there was no mistaking the twitch of his lips or the way some of the darkness receded from his stare.

“Do you actually have anything important to discuss, or are we planning to ride the unicorn and sparkles train straight into the station?” Bobby demanded after you went another heated round with each other.

The knuckles around your mug turned white, and you realized no amount of good whiskey was going to let you keep your cool with him today.

It was like talking to a brick wall. Nothing you said made a difference, but you forged ahead, unwilling to let it drop this time. The more you debated, the more you realized the only common ground between you was the sheer stubbornness you both possessed. Any minute now, a bell was going to go off and you were going to be ushered into your separate corners.

That, or one of you was simply going to murder the other one.

“What's the point of living if all we're going to do is survive?!” You shouted, your control dissolving as your words echoed across the valley.

One day you were going to make him lose control, but tonight was not that night.

He wouldn’t, or couldn’t, give it up, his hand tight in your hair, baring your throat when he wanted it, dragging your mouth back to him on a whim, keeping your lips locked tight until you thought you might suffocate beneath his hunger.

He let you set the pace, but the way he sat stock still beneath you resonated as more of a power move. Be careful what you wish for, sweets, that smirk of his whispered as he made you do all the work.

You took it as a challenge, doing everything you could to make him regret that decision, whether it was rising up and taking him in at a painfully slow rate or bringing him close to the edge before backing off the same as he had with you.

Bit by bit, he started splintering, the need beneath his hands increasing as he tried to undo you. You focused on the burning ache of your muscles, refusing to allow him to drag you over the edge yet. A flush spread through the length of you, sweat breaking out across your skin. Whose resolve would give first, you wondered?

Your face filled with color, less from your outburst and more from the way Bobby looked on the verge of shattering.

“Is that how you feel?” The quiet uncertainty beneath his words didn’t suit him. He was the one with the unapologetic loud mouth. He was the one filled with anger and bite. You were supposed to be the one that took the edge off things.

“Bobby --”

“Don’t Bobby me, young lady. You tell it to me straight.” His face was all stern lines and gravity, and you suddenly felt like the time you’d gotten caught beneath the gym bleachers, not only with some boy but the wrong one.

“No,” you told him. “I don’t because it’s enough that I have people who take care of me.”

You never knew how often Gabriel had your back. When you came, screaming his name and clenching so hard on his cock even he couldn’t hold back a cry, someone should have come running.

No one did.

You weren’t in any state of mind to question why, but, unbeknownst to you, he’d undone just enough of the grounds’ warding before you arrived so he could soundproof the building. He’d never admit to it, and if you ever did ask, he’d simply pass it off to unusually accommodating acoustics.

Had you known, it would have made losing your standoff a little less grating. Your pride was used to it, though, and begging him to fuck you when your legs began to tremble wasn’t really anything new.

He stilled, hands moving behind your thighs to help you ride out your pleasure exactly the way you wanted. When you were done, they moved up your backside, helping himself to a generous handful of your curves. He rolled his hips into you, giving slow, lazy thrusts that buried him in you to the hilt.

“You should see your face when you come,” he rasped, mouth ravenous along your neck. That extra something within his presence returned, removing the chill from the air and causing it to swelter.

You couldn't imagine the view was as nearly as magical as he made it sound, but who were you to argue with someone that much older than you?

“So make me again,” you challenged, emboldened by whatever was causing his energy to spill out so palpably. Your teeth sank into his lip, drawing it away from his mouth in a wholly uncharacteristic and ungentle way.

He grunted, fingertips digging into your waist before he started pounding away at you in earnest.

And make you come again, he did. With one leg over his shoulder, then both, and lastly on your back when your legs could barely move, hitting so hard and deep that every thrust was followed by your sharp cries of satisfaction.

When it was finally his turn, his eyes flashed bright with flames of gold, a gutteral noise tearing through him so fiercely the vibrations carried over onto your body. You yelped as teeth unexpectedly sank into your shoulder so hard you were surprised when there wasn’t any blood.

“Fuck,” he growled, collapsing, the weight of his body trapping you against the desk.

Instead of leaving right away, he lingered, leaving himself buried inside of you as your breaths began to slow. You weren’t sure when you fell asleep, only that it didn’t take long. He never stayed more than a handful of minutes after, and you were glad not to be conscious of it. Every time left, you felt empty, physically and ways that ran so deep you didn’t want to think about them.

You awoke a handful of hours later to ray of light spilling in through the dusty windows. You were already dressed and covered in a dusty quilt that could have been tucked away in some obscure box, though you knew it hadn’t, and you might have questioned whether the night had really happened if he hadn’t left a few gifts behind for you to remember it by.

“But other people aren’t as lucky, and some people just need more.” You paused, watching two individuals square up against each other over what amounted to a shoulder brush. “Some people need to get laid or take matters into their own hands.”

Bobby made a face. “Not much standing in the way of that.”

You fixed him with a look that said there’s plenty.

“Books. Magazines. Porn,” you repeated. “Start there, and I guarantee you'll see a difference.”

Shouts rose up from below, and you knew it was only a matter of time before fists started flying. You frowned, knowing you both should get down there before the two idiots broke each others’ noses again.

“You’d think they’d just learn their lesson and steer clear of each other,” he sighed, as tired of their antics as you were.

You smirked. “Maybe they would if they had some Playboys.”

He winced. “For the love of anything good left in this world, can we please stop talking about porn?!”

You stepped back, attempting to hide your mirth as you took one last sip from your cup. You turned to head down the path, but before you could, he grabbed you by the arm.

“You’d tell me if you ever felt that way, right?” Blue eyes pinned you beneath the look, the one reserved to scare the shit out of anyone dumb enough to mess with you, and these rare moments in which he needed you to believe he actually could see through you so you wouldn't lie.

You slipped your hand into your pocket, an ache flaring across your shoulder as fingers came in contact with something. The lining to your jacket muffled the sound of the crinkling wrapper as your thumb skimmed over the nearly whole chocolate bar, pausing to worry over the small indent where a piece was missing. It brought a smile to your face as much as the bruise and warm whiskey in your belly.

“Don’t worry, dad,” you assured him. “I’ll be just fine.”

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#gabriel x reader #au gabriel x au reader #gabriel #spnkinkbingo #supernatural fanfiction #supernatural fanfic #gabriel fanfiction #rabbit writes #lemon

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life-love-geekculture · 6 years ago

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SPN 14x20: a few (i.e. many) thoughts

Writers lie.

But, they lie in order to tell a greater truth.

At least, that’s how the proverbial wisdom goes anyway. After this episode, however, I’m not entirely sure I know what Chuck’s truth is supposed to be.

“Endings are hard. Any chapped-ass monkey with a keyboard can poop out a beginning, but endings are impossible.”

That’s my all time favorite quote from the series. Along with the addendum endings are a raging pain in the ass. Ever since his introduction, I’ve always felt an affinity for Chuck’s character. He’s a writer. So am I. He vocalized a not insignificant part of that experience. Reconciling the pain characters you create and love have to go through to get them from point A to point B. The difficulty in wrapping up a story. Hell, critics. It’s one of the reasons Metatron always drove me a bit nuts during his play at godhood. All of the technique, but none of the artistry.

I guess what I’m trying to get at is Chuck’s turn to villiany hurts a little. It’s brilliant beyond all belief, don’t get me wrong! What better way to get across the theme of free will on a meta-narrative level? But within the SPN universe it just feels anti-thetical to the story he’s been “telling”. An honest to god betrayal of it.

Don’t get me wrong. I can buy the avoided apocalypse (the first one at least) was Chuck’s intent all along. He wanted Sam and Dean to choose family. He created free will so it could be used. It plays seemlessly into the parental metaphor they’ve also attached to him. The kids have got to grow up sometime. And part of growing up means cleaning up your messes on your own. Which the Winchesters do...a lot.

This sudden shift in attitude,though, just doesn’t make sense to me. It’s less writing an ending as crumpling the document and throwing it away. If the multi-verse is supposed to represent drafts, then Chuck is the kind of writer who keeps ahold of them because some element in one could make another better (and now bringing all the alt-hunters back make sense on a meta level and my head hurts). The point is, if SPN is his final draft or his favorite why destroy it?The characters’ didn’t do what you wanted ? That’s half the fun of being a writer! The unexpected twists of creation! Inspiration turned to life! It makes no sense.

And so I tried to look at it from the God-angle perspective and it still doesn’t make sense. Chuck doesn’t change. Like he told Lucifer he’s pretty much the same as he’s always been. Yes, there’s the Old Testament’s wrathful side. The fire and brimstone and punishment, but even in the Bible that’s balanced with compassion and forgiveness. There’s the Chuck whose solution has always been: build a bigger box. The one who fought for creation to be born. Not made, born. The one who could be reasoned out of apparent wrath because the point was the lesson (the truth) he was trying to get across. And then I remembered his exchange with Castiel...

Chuck: See this is why people need to lie. It’s good. Keeps the peace, you know?

Castiel: Seems like an odd stance for...you.

Chuck: Is it? I’m a writer. Lying is kinda what we do

Chuck is God’s lie.

That is, it’s the mask he wears to keep the peace. It’s his way of walking away and letting the kids learn (and in many ways blossom) for themselves while still supervising. It’s something Metatron calls him out on when they meet in season 11 to discuss Chuck’s autobiography. Specifically, Metatron notes the emphasis on time spent in the Chuck persona was being used to hide the truth. And, it’s a truth Chuck readily confesses to Sam in the Bunker.

Jack told the universe to stop lying. Chuck comes back immediately in full father-mode. The father who demands obedience over the growth of the children (hello, season 1 & 2 parallels). These are not coincidental. Now, sure Chuck could fix creation, but could he do the same for himself? Evidence suggests...not so much. And, based on the look Billie gives Jack in the Empty, the kid done fucked up something. That was not a happy look.

So where does this leave us?

Well, with a zombie apocalypse in the immediate future and lots of ghosts to deal with next. More importantly, though, it looks like the boys may be on a mission to stop or save God himself. It’s...it’s a hell of a way to go out. The writer in me is very proud.

Before I wrap this up, though, a few thoughts on TFW 2.0:

First, I called it with Dean. Again, not a surprise. As I said, he needs to get to the edge before he can back off from it. That said, this episode wasn’t without some painful moments for him. As some of you may know, I’ve started rewatching and reviewing old episodes of SPN in preparation for the series finale. A bit serendipitous given recent events, but as part of that I rewatched episode 1x03 recently. Dean’s speech about Mary being his hero is so similar in tone to the speech he gives Lucas (the kid with the psychic link to the lake ghost) about his belief in Mary wanting him to be brave. It physically hurt to watch. The facade hiding the pain of Mary’s second death publicly cracking in a way similar to the facade hiding the pain of her first. But it also made me really excited to complete this review series and pull out those hidden parallels. Also, don’t think for a second I won’t point out how much of a nerd Dean really is. I have said it for years and now I feel vindicated!

On a more serious note, I don’t know what to say about Jack. Seeing him dead hurt (the only tears I shed in the finale to be honest). But this season left off with so many unanswered questions. Just how powerful is this kid? What are the Shadow and Billie planning? What is with Halucifer 2.0? How the fuck do souls actually work? And I’m still trying to get my head around his self-prophecy to Cas. A perfect world has always seemed, again, anti-thetical to the point of the story. The power of choice means things can’t be perfect and the only way to bring about perfection is to rob creation of choice. It’s a constant battle the Winchesters have had to fight. I’m cautiously intrigued to see how this storyline is going to be fulfilled.

So let’s talk about Sam. I knew the kid was in a bad place going in to this episode, but...DAMN!

I’m pretty solidly in the camp he wasn’t intending to kill Chuck with that wave of multi-dimensional hoo-haa. Sam’s only ever been that bad of a shot during the trials when he was sick. Still the fact he even tried it...This might be the one thing I can’t forgive Dean for this season. Even when the boys have been at their worst, Dean still allowed Sam to talk.To get his grief out. There’s been no relief since Mary’s death and Sam’s journey has inevitably played into a point I made reviewing Absence(14x18). The boys are used to dealing with death as a matter of consequence, not an accident. Which is why Sam is currently blaming himself for what happened. While it’s true Jack’s storyline for the season contributed towards Mary’s death, it’s something that could have happened regardless of if he had a soul or not. There’s no cosmic choice involved. But add it to the list of things that have gone wrong this season, and it makes sense for Sam to shift the blame to Chuck when he realized he’s been watching and apparently not doing anything (something we’ve known about Chuck for practically forever).

It’s something people do when bad things happen all the time in the real world. Chuck could have been less of an ass explaining why he couldn’t help, but he’s sorta not...wrong. Assuming he didn’t interfere with Jack to kick this mess off (and I hope to God that is not the case), it all goes back to free will. Sometimes bad things just happen. Sometimes Someone makes a stupid mistake in the heat of moment, and you just have to live with the aftermath. That said, I just kind of want to wrap the moose in a bunch of blankets and keep him protected in the Bunker forever and...

And so finally, we come to Cas. My sweet, awesome fucking angel/best dad in the whole universe. Cas wins the whole season! Give him all of the awards! The poor angel has been putting out fire after fire and I love him for it as much as I’m still terrified for him. It does crack me up a little that everyone got so pissed at the boys last episode for the Ma’lak box, and yet Cas is literally thinking of putting Jack in the Cage this episode. Like father, like son I guess. Yet, it’s clear his intention is to save him. Cas isn’t blind to the danger Jack poses, but his aim is to just contain him till a cure can be found. Not a great solution but the only one we have at the moment. And can we talk about that scene in the graveyard! Perfect imagery of a father being strict but compassionate towards his son who screwed up. All of the awards! All of them!

#supernatural #spn #spn spoliers #moriah #spn 14x20 #I didn’t mean to write a novel #spn: a few thoughts #spn in review #chuck #castiel #dean winchester #sam winchester #jack winchester

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needlefac · 3 years ago

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I Travelled back to home Bolton this weekend (09.07.21) and its a big deal. I've been fully out as trans just less than one year. I have only seen my mother twice and my father once in that time. My uncle, cousin and her twin boy and girl are coming up from down south to see me too. I was nervous to say the least. This is just my diary of the weekend and I hope it resonates with some of you. Family can be difficult and I know my experience isn't unique but I feel like sharing this is necessary. I feel weird being in my old room. I was so sad here sometimes. I can see marks in the wall where I literally punched it. My mum has papered over it (no need to over egg the metaphor there) and she calls it the “guest room” now. I’m a guest in my own memory. Mum was digging out some old photos and I look miserable in most of them. Even at weddings, no especially at weddings. I mean, who’s the bitch in the frock getting all the glory! Oh yeah, it’s my sister. It wasn’t always bad here but I did have to run away to be who I am. I know that “small town boy” thing is a cliché but it’s totally true. Bolton is a dead town if your interests include techno, contemporary art and wearing latex. (Not necessarily in that order) It’s 01.45 am. The glow on the horizon from this window is Manchester. Only 15 miles away but a world of difference. I’ve only been back here 5 hours and I’m looking at that perceived emerald city like I used to. I’d tune into Kiss 102 and listen to the city until I was old enough to get there at night. The 0161 wasn’t always the answer but it allowed me to be Freda. When I got here today my dad was in bed. I took that a bit personally. He’s not seen me since Christmas, he could have stayed up a bit. I don’t know if he’s avoiding me or just tired. I’ll find out tomorrow, I suppose. My mum acts like everything is ok no matter what. There could be a hurricane coming at the house and she would just close the curtains and say “let’s deal with it later when we’ve all calmed down”. I wanted the hurricane so badly when I was young. I should stop over thinking this. I’ve had wine. I can’t sleep. I woke up early because my eyes were all crusty and itchy and my breathing was shallow. Then I realised the pillows my mum had put on the bed were feather and I'm slightly allergic. So that wasn't the best start but like everything about Bolton, I'm slightly allergic. My mums first concern of the day was picking up a bag of compost form the local hardware place, Maher's. In my mind I hear her say, 'I need some dirt from Mars'. Which causes the first laugh of the day. She needs me to do things like this for her because my dad can no longer drive due to a stroke he had 2 years ago. Anyroad, l wait outside Maher's for my mum and a burly lad in an England shirt brings out 3 bags of compost and says to me 'where do you want this, love?'. 'In my boot, love. Where all the shit goes', I say. When my mum comes back to the car l say 'oh he was cute', mainly to test her tolerance and also because I'm an idiot. Mum simply said 'football is going home'! So when we got back to the house my dad was up and shuffling around like he does. He's interested in the camera drone l bought. He wont say anything about me being trans or call me Freda. It doesn't even bother me. The fact he wants to learn to fly a remote control camera over next doors house is much more fun in that moment. He crashes it into the tree and he shouts 'mission abort mission abort'. Yeh, that's how l feel about coming to Bolton most of the time. My dad was in the RAF as an aerial photographer. I knew he would enjoy this but he was getting all too technical for a 80 quid plastic toy off amazon. I don't know what 'triangulation of trajectory' is. I always feel like Bobby Hill in these moments (my dad was actually a salesman for Calor Gas and sold propane and propane accessories for a while). Anyway, I think he appreciates that I found something to break the ice, even if he wont say she/her or call me Freda yet. I had to get out of the house before my cousin and her children turn up. She knows all about my transition and is very supportive but l haven't seen her for 5 years and it will be the first time I've met her twin boy and girl who are 7 years old now. The main reason for getting out was to explore Bolton town centre. Somewhere I've not been for quite some time. I went to one of my old haunts, The Olde Man and Scythe which is one of the oldest pubs in England, going back to the 13th century. They used to hang traitors outside here during the Civil War. So I decided to sit out side there reading Majesty Magazine sipping a gin and tonic in the Sun. Imagine living in a time when a culture war raged and people were divided along binary political lines and everyone was expected to take a side? Just imagine! I've never felt more fully actualised as a person as when a drunken fool approaches me and says 'oh you look nice, love. Can l steal a roly off you'. Yes, I'm truly validated as a woman now. This is it! No amount of psychological counselling can top this. As l lick the cigarette paper and make eye contact with this feckless tosspiece I'm reminded of how precarious my situation is if he clocks me. Is he going to read me? No he's too enthralled by my wide staring eyes, the silly sod. My next stop was the Bolton Museum and Art Gallery. There is an Egyptian room which l love. So, naturally took some photos to align myself with Queen Nefertiti and all my delusional fantasies of being some sort of mythical goddess. The thing that interests me most about this is the cotton industry connection. In my artwork and performance staging l take a lot of influence from the industrial revolution. The fact that Egyptian cotton was instrumental in that is something that creates a timeline we are all insignificant on. Its both cosmic and visceral, esoteric and factual. Seeing those cotton spinning machines alongside the astrological ambitions of ancient kings is so centring to me. An absolute connection of Heaven and Earth. From the universe of stars to the factory floor, Everything was built on immortality ambitions of industrialists and cotton in this town. I had to come down a bit from that museum experience. Whoever is curating that needs some sort of award. I had to get ready to meet my cousin, Sarah who is just one month older than me. We have lead parallel lives . Her Mother, my dad's sister moved away down south when she met her husband. They live in Wiltshire and she was educated in a way l wasn't. I've always had memorable moments with Sarah on the rare times we have spent together over the years. In some ways she was the girl l wanted to be when l was young. I was never jealous of her or held any bitterness but l remember wishing my parents would talk to me in the same way Sarah was. It just seemed to make more sense to me how her needs were met. It might be hindsight talking but I genuinely wished all the gifts for Sarah were the gifts for me. I was getting ready in my old bedroom and just trying to make myself look normal. Not some over done drag race also-ran. I've got pretty good at doing a 'day look' but even my day look is still scraping on foundation like Polyfilla! My mum came in saying 'that dress makes you look fat'. Thanks mum. This is just my mums way of trying to be funny. She said my neck looked naked and l wasn't sure what she meant. She went off to her bedroom and came out with a string of beads that looked like snooker balls on a rope. (yes, I exaggerate for comic effect). As she was hooking the necklace to the back of my neck l was held in a moment of mother/daughter interaction that produced a tear from my eye that l just didn't want to show. Time stopped there in that moment like every time that didn't happen in the past happened then in one consolidated event of simple love and I pretended to be more annoyed that I'd have to reapply my eye liner. So I drive with my mum and dad in the car to meet Sarah, the twins and my Uncle at the restaurant in the West Pennine Moors of Bolton. Its been such a build up this moment and now there is no bottling out. I'M here, I'm Freda and they are just going to have to deal with it. I see my cousin rolling up in their 4x4 super posh child transporter and the kids get out first and run up to me and l don't know what to do when they say 'hello aunty Freda'. I know they have be briefed, l know Sarah has told them to do this but even so those words feel like gold. Sarah says I look great and l bloody-well do, to be fair. No one mentions or brings up my trans-ness and while its noted my dad is the odd one out in not calling me Freda I notice the support is on my side. One of Sarah's children whispers to the other while looking at me. I say 'are you two ok there' and they say 'we like the drawing on your arm'. Its telling that the only thing they notice about me is the tattoo. I'm sure they have more to ask in time and I'm so glad they have a mother who is relaxed and open enough to answer any questions they might have in future as they grow up. I'd like to think my presence and influence is a good one. This wasn't the big deal I'd been building it up to be but my mum continues to embarrass me with her ways. She bought Sarah and the kids a few gifts which were in the boot of my car. While she was giving out all these lovely things she said to me 'Freda, don't forget that bag of compost from mars, ill save some for you'. Thanks mum. Bye bye Sarah. Don't leave it so long next time. I Drove my parents home and said my goodbyes. My dad didn't say much, just 'be careful with the drone. if you fly too high it will go out of out control'. I know dad, l know. Freda's come home.

#transgender trans comingout

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ryanmeft · 7 years ago

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Star Wars: The Last Jedi Movies-at-Home Review

Star Wars: The Last Jedi completely changes everything about the franchise, a fact which some will love and some will hate. One thing I feel confident in saying is that if you think the previous sentence is true, the odds of you being a middle-aged fanboy who still believes busy adults should be thinking more about the term “Midochlorians” are high. The reality of Rian Johnson’s entry into the once-iconic toy-generation engine is less dramatic: a few insignificant background details have been altered, once-thrilling space opera has been replaced by a plot revolving around running out of gas, and otherwise the movie is the same old Star Wars. Like The Force Awakens, it is still tied firmly to the original trilogy. Unlike The Force Awakens, it’s not very much fun.

I don’t honestly remember how part seven ended, and before you rush off to remind me, you should know I don’t remember because I’ve had better things to do since 2015. I don’t think it left off with the rebel fleet, led by the now departed Carrie Fisher as Leia, running out of oomph, but that’s where we start this entry. Actually, correction: we start with hotshot space pilot and bad Han Solo impersonator Poe Dameron (Oscar Isaac) lobbing grade school insults at Imperial Commander somebody-or-other (Domnhall Gleeson) to distract him from the fact that he wants to blow up their ships. I know people who were personally offended by the glib tone of this scene, but I didn’t mind, because quite frankly it was still more polite, mature and useful than trying to have a conversation about the franchise these days. He does blow up the ship he wants, loses 95% of the Rebel ships in the process, and wonders why they don’t declare him a hero.

If you somehow like Poe, don’t worry: the other characters eventually fawn all over him, because this movie has so many gaps of logic it is officially a registered Libertarian. Witness the scene in which Leia is temporarily unable to command. An officer prepares to announce her replacement. The camera pans around the room, lingering on familiar faces, right before the new commander is announced as…a supposedly legendary Admiral who we’ve never seen or heard of before this exact moment. Sure, she’s played by Laura Dern, and having Laura Dern in a movie is usually a good enough motivation for anything (see Downsizing for another example), but the film is riddled with such random and inexplicable introductions and asides. During the opening space battle, the cameras of longtime Johnson collaborator Steve Yedlin linger on the protracted heroic death of a woman whose importance is not explained, and who is later revealed to be a foil for terrible new character Rose (Kelly Marie Tran). Rose is also there to be Finn’s (Jon Boyega) pointless love interest. They have a mildly interesting subplot on a planet where the locals made their bones by double-dealing weapons to both sides, and Boyega once again proves he’s got the most interesting character of the three new stars, but his story is robbed of any pathos by a moment so ridiculously stupid that I’ll let you discover it for yourself. I never, ever question the logic of a movie about magic sword knights in space, but The Last Jedi is, in this regard, ambitious.

Throughout all of this, the dialogue is so vapid and empty that it could only have been written by corporate committee. Compare it to the original Star Wars, which I re-watched afterwards for the first time in over a decade. The dialogue there was hokey and at times a bit workmanlike, with stilted delivery, and is mostly quotable through cultural accretion rather than any inherent quality. What it has is the sense it was written by a bunch of big kids who grew up on Flash Gordon and were having a ton of fun. The Last Jedi feels dictated by people whose primary interest was in appealing to as many demographics as possible, and as anyone experienced with spinning a good yarn knows, stories that are made for everyone are really made for no one.

Where the film comes alive is when Luke Skywalker is on screen, and I can honestly say I never expected to write those words. For all that he’s iconic, he was the dullest of the three main heroes in the old films. Here, he turns out to be the one and only part of the movie that feels like anyone really believed in it. Played again by the now obviously aged Mark Hamill, he resides in exile on a planet with only one island, inhabited by a frog-like race that seems to live to maintain it. Here are the remains of the first Jedi temple, a fact which could really be spun out into something fascinating if Disney were remotely interested in things that are fascinating. Luke has given up on the Jedi Order for reasons that are, if not really gripping, then more compelling than anything else the story offers, but like a true believer he still carefully guards the original religious texts. I wondered through most of the film how much better it would have been if the rest of it were this inspired. Unlike Harrison Ford’s obligatory, phoned-in final outing as Han Solo, appreciated somewhat by me at the time but which I have since recognized as pure fan service, Luke’s return feels like it adds something not just to this film but to the franchise.

It’s just too bad Johnson had to nearly foul it up by taking Rey’s story to the least interesting place possible. Rey is, if you recall, the new Force-wielding hero of the series, and she travels to the Skywalker Cosmic Bachelor Retreat to try and get Luke to train her. Their scenes together have zip, including a particularly funny moment, and for a while we think the movie will really go somewhere with Rey’s temptation toward darkness. It does not, because that would cut into merchandise sales. Instead, Rey heads off to confront Kylo Ren (Adam Driver) and his boss Supreme Commander Snoke (Andy Serkis), whose head looks like someone did something very painful to another part of their anatomy. Back in my review of The Force Awakens, I called Kylo and Rey the new additions with the most potential. I also said I could not give the series credit for future movies, and I have been proved right. Almost every bit of interest the two characters had has been flushed in favor of completely generic paths for their stories to take. The one revelation I thought added something new to Rey will doubtless be retconned for something duller when J.J. Abrams takes the reins back with the next installment. I think Daisy Ridley has a bright career ahead of her, and after seeing her in two Star Wars movies, let’s just hope it’s still ahead of her.

The new Star Wars series has schizophrenia. On the one hand, it wants to hew so closely to the original films that it refuses to break from them even in spin-offs. On the other, it seems determined to give fans what they have long desired by all but erasing George Lucas from the series he created. There is none of his life here, or his boyish, innocent wonder. There are no Mos Eisley cantinas, no strange alien jazz bands aboard floating slave ships, no underwater cities or rolling droid armies. There is nothing to match them, either. This latest entry neither moves the series forward nor captures the boundless magic of the past. No one could come in on The Last Jedi and ever think this was a series born from a crucible consisting of Kurosawa, Robin Hood and Joseph Campbell. In the quest to make it inoffensive to anyone not obsessed with continuity, it has finally been made lifeless. For all the complaining people still do about the prequels, they were at least films a human being wanted to make, done how he wanted to do them, with influences and ideas and innovations. The words “A Long Time Ago, in a Galaxy Far, Far Away” feel like farce now, applied as they are to a film with very little of the all-too-human emotions that generations of wide-eyed children invested them with.

Verdict: Average

Note: I don’t use stars but here are my possible verdicts. I suppose you could consider each one as adding a star.

Must-See

Highly Recommended

Recommended

Average

Not Recommended

Avoid like the Plague

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gloieee · 4 years ago

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Limbo

Started this post sometime early July and could not finish in classic fashion because the heaviness weighed me down TOO much for me to continue writing. Usually for me writing is catharsis, but this time it felt laborious because it meant I had to sit with my emotions even more so than during my day-to-day (which was already too much to handle). It was hard for me to even listen to these songs then because it made my entire being ache. Yet, of course, cause I loved the pain, I did and anguished in it to paralysis. Most of these thoughts no longer resonate with me, to a surprising extent, but am attempting to pay respects to the pinnacle and hopefully, the conclusion of a long year+ of distress. Here goes, Limbo.

8/12/2020

_______________________________________________________________________

Good News – Mac Miller

I spent the whole day in my head Do a little spring cleanin' I'm always too busy dreamin' Well, maybe I should wake up instead A lot of things I regret, but I just say I forget Why can't it just be easy?

I think this sums up my days better than any of my own words can. These couple of weeks have been exactly this—spending whole days in my head (doing little else sometimes gleefully, sometimes woefully) attempting some “spring cleaning,” then going on some tangent on things I should fix in my life, attempting to constructively go down memory lane, then things getting too much and wondering the forever questions, “why can’t it just be easy?”

Regret has become a salient gateway word into my life these past two years, not always consistently, but at least with some regularity. It feels especially shocking cause it really had so little presence prior to this. I suppose, some may say that before a certain age, there are no real consequences to one’s actions, hence, no need for regret. But under that logic, I don’t think at 26, I’m that old either, so I wonder what happened at 24 that began this trajectory. It seems extremely fitting that I couldn’t finish the blog post for “Mistakes” in May 2018, because to be frank, since then, a tinge (or more) of regret has persisted in my days. There have been some lateral moves for sure, but never a vertical move past the regret. Continuing on this thread of analyzing my own past actions, it also appears fitting that I started that 2018 playlist with Unhappy by Outkast/ Big Boi because regret rings profoundly (maybe only) when you’re unhappy with your current state. You don’t see a happy woman ruminating on a thought exercise of what could’ve been. At the time, I included the song based on feeling, (as with everything on this blog), but never really discussed it.

Might as well have fun 'cause your happiness is done When your goose is cooked

I suppose this was pretty much how I lived my life this past year. I’m trying not to say it as a bad thing, cause it isn’t necessarily, and I have a tendency to romanticize tribulations. I had a lot of fun, even though at moments I got pretty millennial REKT in the process. It’s less the fact that I had fun (and was very healthy (physically)! Which I am grateful for), but that I had little else. I didn’t feel very fulfilled or feel like I knew myself, or my values, or even what I wanted. I lived nonchalantly, maybe even a little numbed, and got wrapped up in a LOT of distractions. Admittedly, it was nice in the moment to care about such light things, to not have to deal with so much heaviness. I remember reveling in it, in my personal conversations and on this blog as well.

Yeah Right by Joji is my past year in LA told from the perspectives of cynics (aka Me). It’s a simple, almost grossly millennial song. Despite the extremely self deprecative lyrics, I love how the melody feels like a calming, boppy afterthought. There are moments in the track where you’re just super down in the dumps, but also moments when you’re singing with a lopsided, wry, self-taunting smile on your face.

Yeah Right – Joji

Imma fuck up my life We gon party all night She don’t care if I die Yeah I bet you won’t try But you know I don’t mind

I don’t think my motives were ever as extreme or bleak as “imma fuck up my life” but the general sentiment rings true. There was definitely a pervasive detachedness to my days, and a total lack of “trying”. And a lack of minding over that fact.

Yeah, you know I feel right Yeah, you living right now She don't ever pick sides

I unfortunately discovered Joji during the small insanity of quarantine, and of course blazed through all his interviews. I hadn’t fully realized how not picking sides in my life and going along with the flow belied a sense of numbness or ambivalence. This is so how I’ve been feeling/ felt about so many aspects of my life—career, relationships, values, lifestyle. I couldn’t choose anything because nothing pulled at me. I remember telling a friend that I’m at a point of ambivalence where if I had two research projects I would not be able to pick which one to pursue because they would feel all the same to me. I feel almost no sense of what interests me.

Yeah, you bet I go to see you when I'm feeling like a drum without a beat Yeah, you dance so good And I think that's kinda neat

I am/was truly a drum without a beat, just noticing some insignificant thing of slight interest and noting “that’s kinda neat.” Really not a reason to go after a girl/ relationship in the slightest, but I get how it’s all that could be mustered at the moment. And then you shrug and run with it.

Another millennial moment of wisdom from Joji about this song:

It’s not productive but it’s not destructive. And that’s how a lot of people get stuck, in relationships and in life in general.

This was exactly what was happening during the year. I was not productive AT ALL, but I was still passing, still technically going through the motions, going through the hoops. Life was happening. And I was stuck.

What you know about love? What you know about life? What you know about blood? Bitch, you ain't even my type

Honestly not super sure how it relates, but to these lines. Joji explains:

I mean, the way I see life is like, no-one’s special. You’re not born special, if you’re lucky you’re given a certain set of skills and a certain set of resources and you run with them, and then everyone dies. So as long as they know that, and they’re not thinking in a God’s plan sort of way... So just stuff like that

This was interesting as this summer as I was trying to figure out my path and my direction, and grappling with whether I wanted to try to pursue things that I thought I should/ kinda wanted for extraneous reasons/ seemed practical and logical and well desired vs. what I may be better at/ what I knew I wanted before. And there was definitely this idea of a (lost) calling, a larger cosmic reason that I had blindly chosen this much harder and guilt-inducing path. Something that may make it all make sense. I was extensively looking back on my past self and aspirations. I felt like I had forcibly given up things that made me me without gaining the practical traits I had so envied in others; I had become a boring medical student who wasn’t even super productive nor good at medicine. I was obsessed with this idea of a passion, this abstract thing that I seemed to have perhaps had the inklings of at a certain point, but seemed to have lost entirely, all after having sacrificed much to pursue it. It was refreshing to see someone who is an artiste (hohoho) saying these things, since (successful) artists seemed to be the only people who were truly special or passionate enough in what they did, in that they had risked so much stability, and had made it.

Returning to the song, I love how all these serious questions are raised only to be followed up by a super petty “bitch you ain’t even my type.” And indeed, my many deep queries have no conclusions and I find myself returning to the minutiae of daily life.

Back to Good News. The utter exhaustion and endless circle of rumination on past days, a desire to fix the pattern, slight hope, and inevitable resignation Mac sings of make me close my eyes to take a deep breath. His tracks from Circle capture so well the fluctuating inner thought processes of those who are struggling to dig themselves out of something beyond their control:

When it ain't that bad It could always be worse I'm running out of gas, hardly anything left Hope I make it home from work Well, so tired of being so tired Why I gotta build something beautiful just to go set it on fire? I'm no liar, but Sometimes the truth don't sound like the truth Maybe 'cause it ain't I just love the way it sound when I say it But I heard that the sky's still blue, yeah I heard they don't talk about me too much no more And that's a problem with a closed door Then I'll finally discover That it ain't that bad, ain't so bad

The coexistence of heaviness and hope is what I’ve always loved about Mac. I’m obsessed with duality, contradictions, and being conflicted because I think it’s what I have so struggled with for my young adult life (Joji also mentions this is a driving force behind his songs). Also, I think inconsistencies are just something that is so humanizing about people. It’s no wonder that my favorite works of art attempt to dissect or observe dualities—The Unbearable Lightness of Being; the esoteric song by the lead singer of a small Korean indie band that I had to pay 50 cents to download and save on my desktop cause it wasn’t on youtube (it is now huzzah). A minor tangent, in the aforementioned song Jo Woong implores someone to tell him what he did wrong because he sure as hell can’t figure it out. And a line that has stayed with me for years: Aren’t people’s fronts and backs inherently different? Or is it just me that’s lacking something... It’s a play on a Korean saying, but it points out the inconsistencies in people in an aching plea for understanding and sympathy. It’s what too many plagued, conflicted individuals are hoping for.

내가 뭘 그렇게 잘못했는지 모르겠어요 누가 �� 잘못 안다면 얘기 좀 해줘요 사람이 원래 앞뒤가 맞지가 않잖아요? 아니면 나만 이렇게 모자란가요

When I listen to Mac with a clear head, aka not in the throes of depression, I hear the hope in his voice and lyrics. It strikes me and warms my heart even more because I know that the hope has shined through despite the darkness. But when I’m on the other side of the equation, I hear how deep the sadness and pain is, and how the hope is not enough to overcome that. It’s almost worse because I know the hope exists, and yet I can’t get there. It feels like a failure.

Everybody- Mac Miller

Everybody's gotta live And everybody's gonna die Everybody just wanna have a good, good time I think you know the reason why Yeah, sometimes the goin' gets so good Yeah, but then again, it get pretty rough

The fatalism of this song coupled with Mac’s slight falsetto embodies a type of pain that is ineffable. The back and forth of things being good and rough reminds me of an addled and empty-eyed shrug.

Surf – Mac Miller

And the days, they go by Until we get old There's water in the flowers, let's grow People, they lie But hey, so do I Until it gets old There's water in the flowers, let's grow Yeah, well Sometimes I get lonely Not when I'm alone But it's more when I'm standin' in crowds That I'm feelin' the most on my own And I know that somebody knows me I know somewhere there's home I'm startin' to see that all I have to do is get up and go

Surf speaks more quietly of possibility even during dark times. The faint sense of having known at a certain point that someone knows you and gets it, and that you could feel at peace again, like in a home of sorts. The desire to grow, the slight feeling that maybe, it we let go (of societal perceptions, of greed, expectations?), something could change. But in the here and now, it’s just a sense and not a reality. A hypothetical thought that has not yet passed the threshold for action:

Gotta get goin', goin', goin' before I'm gone

A break from the melancholy for a throwback to myself, which made me chuckle as well as feel a sense of wistful nostalgia. This short and sweet track seems like the perfect modern-day ode to me. My conflicted state of being in awe of and yearning after impractical aestheticism but simultaneously being terrified of and slightly disgusted by the indulgence and recklessness of art and its values has led me to eschew it as a profession but try to implicate myself in it in other ways. I think one of the slightly problematic ways this has manifested is not pursuing art in my own life, but seeking to be a muse in other’s’ artful endeavors. I’ve definitely probably contributed to the problematic male gaze I’ve written papers on, but in all vulnerable honesty, that is how I’ve been in the past. The redeeming qualities of Kota’s muse reminded me of the past, some of the qualities that I had prided in myself. I woefully feel as though I have lost all these qualities--Doing my own thing, riding my own wave, not being affected by others’ values, particularly the more superficial ones, being grounded, reading (hah, but never self help), low-key taking care of my life, knowing what I want.

She – KOTA the friend

She do her own thing, she ride her own wave Only twenty people on the 'Gram that she followin' Only post work, she ain't tryna be a model chick She believe in white wine, feet up on the ottoman Low-key, got her own business and she mindin' it If she get your number, you'll be lucky if she lock it in She hella grounded, but the plane trips to BnB stay booked Told me I should read the Four Agreements, it's a great book Cracked a little smile and she threw me back the same look, yea

Slowing it down, this song sounds like a warm afternoon sunset on a lake in New Hampshire that’s not even sad. Which is rare for me since I find sunsets heart-wrenchingly empty most days.

Hand Me Downs – Mac Miller

Get away to a place where the lakes such a great view Leave the bank, couple hunnid thou' I made it, but I hate once I build it I break it down Might just break me down And all I ever needed was somebody with some reason who can keep me sane Ever since I can remember I've been keeping it together but I'm feeling strange

As long as I could remember, this is what I wanted. Yet in recent months, I’ve felt so confused about what I want. I’ve been feeling strange, and things don’t seem right, with no proper conclusion:

Get away when it ain't really safe and it don't seem right But what's new? You get used to the bullshit, the screws they go missing It's likely they might be but...

I almost wish that there was something I distinctly missed, since that would at least show that I cared about something. But to be fair, wanting the wrong things have led me down many wrong turns in the past, so maybe this blank slate is not so bad. I’m so very unsure of what I want, but I suppose I just need to keep it up and act like I do* want something. That’s been the conclusion for this past year. It’s sometimes nice and fine, sometimes so difficult, and I’m in the latter end of the spectrum now, but perhaps it’ll click eventually. In the meantime, the detached voice of Giveon soothes me that I’m not only lost soul goin back and forth on the lost young adult pendulum:

Like I Want You – Giveon

I guess I'll just pretend until it all makes sense Like I want you You, ooh, ooh Even if it's true, ooh (Even if it's true)

Early-ish July 2020

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