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16woodsequ · 2 months ago

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Community Wip Wednesday Response --- Nov 6th 2024

Tagging all the comments I got on my wip wednesday community post. We got a lot of requests for Selkie Steve, so you get a lot of that one! I think I'm on the home stretch of that fic.

Dogs are the Best Judge of Character snippets for @kalira, @quietly-sleeping, @tiercell, @enigma-the-mysterious, @sourb0i, @kallisto-k

But he has been dead again now for over a year. He knows Hydra told everyone he died on that last mission. All those things, all of the stuff he managed to gather for himself, everything has no doubt been cannibalised once again and either thrown out or spread far and wide to museums or rich fans.

Steve feels sick with grief and old wounds made fresh again, and he no longer feels like exploring. He trudges back to the bathroom, head low and spirits in the gutter.

All this time he’s been busy trying to survive and evade Hydra, he hasn’t had much time to truly come to terms with what his life is now, and what it means for his old life. When it hits, it hits hard.

He curls up in a miserable ball on his bed, trying to block out the world. As soft as the bed is, his leg hurts staying in one position for long.

He doesn't move until he has to use the pee pad Bucky left out, which only makes him feel worse. Disgusting.

He bunches himself up as small as possible, his back to the door as he buries his head under his paws and tries to forget about his situation for a while.

(bonus for private MTH requests:)

Steve remains morose until around lunchtime when Bucky comes back. He still feels tired and depressed, but his head does come up by itself when he hears Bucky coming in through the front door. He listens as he stomps snow off his boots and takes off his coat before moving through the apartment.

Selkie Steve Snippets for @twyrewolf, @tamsinswriting, @somefishycat, @asha10100101010, @wizisbored, @violet-prism-creatively, @eriquin, @1attheedge, @loyal-house-of-lupin, @allofthebeanz, @stonemaskedtaliesin, @kitten-kokomo, @hurricanebreeze

Even with his newfound knowledge, Tony isn’t about to go confronting Rogers about it. That’s what he has Natasha and Sam for. If Rogers isn’t listening to them, there’s no way he’s going to listen to Tony about it. But since it would be rather inconvenient if their Captain got toasted in the middle of battle because he won’t take care of himself properly, Tony does find himself keeping an extra eye on him during missions.

To his dying day, he will claim that is the reason he ends up trapped in the half-collapsed building, away from the rest of the Avengers. Not because he wasn’t paying attention. Nope. Not at all.

He’s lucky, the building doesn’t seem intent on collapsing the rest of the way, although Tony isn’t about to go blasting holes in it to find out. Instead he begrudgingly radios his status of ‘Still Alive’ to the rest of the team and sets JARVIS to scanning the debris so he can figure out how to get out.

The building wasn’t supposed to collapse while he was inside. He was busy digging through the digital archives left behind by the crazed mad scientist they were called to handle, while the rest of the team moved on to the more immediate threat of the giant jellyfish/slug thing said scientist had made (honestly, why?), when the perfectly sound building groaned ominously around him and he found all his exits rapidly disappearing.

His best guess is boobytraps, left behind by paranoid scientists who don’t want to be hacked. And he might’ve thought to check for those if he wasn’t busy worrying about Rogers getting hit by another dry-heaving spell while he went off and fought without Tony to watch his back.

Yeah. That’s the reason.

Tony huffs inside his helmet, grumbling irritably to himself as he shuffles through dust and debris. Surprisingly, half the emergency lights are still functional, and JARVIS’ scans inform him the building is still relatively stable, so he just needs to dig himself out. He’s busy climbing over rocks to get to the best potential exit point, when he hears something scrape the ground behind him.Tony whirls around, repulsors blazing as his eyes dart from one rocky corner to the next. The dim lighting has the shadows all weird, and his ears are hyper alert now, picking up every crack and crumble of the building around him. Either the sound was more boobytraps, or the scientist had left something else in here that he would rather not deal with alone.

(bonus for MTH requests:)

The answer turns out to be neither of those things, because out of a shadow, steps a man. He’s dressed in black, but the glint of his silver arm states his identity for him. He stands like a doberman, eerily still in the face of Tony’s repulsor, his hand placed lightly on the rifle across his chest.

I'm keeping my MTH fics private for now, so I wrote in them and added extra snippets to the ones above for @auburnlaughter, @zyrafowe-sny, @aparticularbandit, @oriharaizayadividesintoslytherin, @whimsicalmeerkat

#wip #wip wednesday #my fics #selkie steve #dogs are the best judge of character #animal rescue fic

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nullen-void · 6 months ago

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Fade Away

This morning, a hero died.

Gearhead, veteran superhero and founding member of the Vanguard Society, has been an active hero since his debut in 1944 protecting the homefront from Nazi saboteurs, though it is suspected that he was a vigilante for several years before that. Publically known to be baseline human, Gearhead has managed to stay relevant and formidable alongside the likes of Lady Sekhmet and Indomitable with nothing but his wit, determination, and his genius for creating gadgets that can close the distance between him and the superhuman.

Over the years, Gearhead was known to replace and upgrade his gear as they became outdated, with the most obvious example being his variety of super-vehicles; the Smoghaven Museum's wing dedicated to the hero features a lineup of his previous Gearmobiles, allowing citizens to compare them personally. Thirty years ago in 1994, after a several-month silent period that allies reported to be the result of an injury, Gearhead previous costume was overhauled entirely, replaced with an incredible powered armor that even in its first iteration outpaced any modern military hardware. As Gearhead had been active for more than fifty years at that point, it was widely assumed that the name and title had been passed down to a successor. Other members of the Vanguard were silent on the matter.

Earlier today, we found out that this was not the case.

During small-time villain Dr. Dreadful's attempt to rob the Smoghaven First Bank, Gearhead arrived to put a stop to his nefarious schemes. Eyewitness accounts state that the hero seemed sluggish, and was uncharacteristically silent, not engaging in banter with Dr. Dreadful despite the villain's minor suggestive abilities. At 11:31 AM, after dispatching a taser line that Dreadful successfully avoided, Gearhead's powersuit suddenly and abruptly lost power, locking up in the process. After an awkward silence, Dr. Dreadful attempted once more to engage the hero in conversation, before suddenly paling. Dreadful dropped his weapons and ran for the hero, prying the armor's chestplate apart with his bare hands to no resistance on Gearhead's part. The reason became abundantly clear after Dreadful opened the suit enough for the pilot to fall out, revealing an elderly man in an electronic bodysuit.

Gearhead suffered a fatal heart attack.

"I knew something wasn't right," Dr. Dreadful professed afterwards. "I--I'm mildly telepathic, you know, I can tell when someone's feeling off. But we all have off days, it wasn't the first time Gearhead's been distracted in a fight, so I shrugged it off. It wasn't until I suddenly stopped being able to sense him that I realized something was wrong, but by then it was too late."

Dr. Dreadful surrendered in the wake of this revelation, cooperating fully with police as they arrived while demanding an ambulance be called for Gearhead.

"I knew it was too late," the villain confided, morose. "But I had to hope. I'm in this for the fun of the game, you know. And it's only fun as long as no one gets hurt. No one important, anyway."

Authorities were able to identify Gearhead as reclusive retired inventor Arthur Dodge, founder and former CEO of Heart & Hearth Solutions, makers of America's favorite household appliances for the last sixty years for their hardy construction and timeless designs. Arthur Dodge was ninety-six (96) at time of death, determined by paramedics to be a heart attack. Electrical burns and muscle scarring, as well as preliminary investigation of the Gearhead suit before Vanguard associates arrived to retrieve it, suggest that Dodge had been suffering heart attacks fairly regularly and was using a built-in defibrillator to resuscitate himself on the job. Today was simply the day it finally failed to work.

The Vanguard Society has not yet issued a statement as a group, but multiple heroes have already said their piece:

[Lady Sekhmet is seen in her lion form, agitated.] "That old fool... We all knew it was coming. I told him he needed to retire, but since when does he ever listen to me? He's just lucky he had his heart attack against someone harmless like Dreadful. I'll be sure to give him an earful when he recovers." [A reporter offscreen says something indistinctly.] "...What do you mean, 'dead?" He can't be--turn that camera off now, what do you mean--"

[Indomitable sighs heavily and runs a gloved hand through his graying hair. He flies away without a word.]

[A man in blue robes with a glowing glass eye stares directly into the camera, unnerving the interviewer.] "...No. I don't believe you. Gearhead has bullied Death into submission before, I was there when it happened. He'll be back."

Despite the words of Sightseer, medical personnel are certain; Gearhead is dead, America, leaving retired hero Jack of Spades as the final living member of the original Guild of Valiants. Jack of Spades has refused an interview at this time, with his granddaughter Ace of Hearts rebuffing attempts to contact him.

"Grandad needs time, you guys," she was reported as saying. "He just a lost a close friend, cut him some slack will you?"

A lifelong bachelor, Arthur Dodge leaves behind neither children nor heirs; according to this reporter's contact in the Vanguard Sanctum, Gearhead only socialized with other heroes. After a career of more than eighty years, Gearhead has eleven surviving sidekicks, with the youngest reported as being forty. It is unknown at this time what will become of the Gearhead armor, and a cloud of uncertainty hangs over the citizens of Smoghaven. For now, let us merely acknowledge the lifetime of heroism and the legacy left behind by this incredible man, as we prepare for--

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

Jack of Spades turned off the TV with a groan of disgust. "Alecia, do you know where my costume's got to?" he called.

His granddaughter poked her head into the den. "Dad took it to a costume party last month, remember? I think I know where he left it though." She glared at him. "I hope you're not thinking of--"

"Unlike Arty, I know when to quit," Jack snapped. He pulled a deck of cards out from... somewhere, Alecia was never sure where he kept them, and started shuffling them absent-mindedly. "But I'll want to wear it to the funeral. 'S the least I can do."

Her expression softened. "Oh, of course." She looked back into the kitchen, biting her lip. "Hey, Gramps, are you sure you're okay?"

Jack sighed. "'M fine, Ace. Just old. 'S not like I didn't know it was coming. Just surprised it got to Arty first. Coulda sworn he said he was planning on going cyborg or something, the old fool."

Alecia hovered, not sure what to say.

"Get back to what you're doing, girl," Jack said. "I'll be fine."

The girl left with one last look over her shoulder. Once she was gone, Jack waited until he heard the sound of pots and pans, then sneakily took a flask out from where he'd hidden it; Alecia hated him drinking, but if anything called for it it was this.

"To the last of the old guard," Jack of Spades declared, holding the whiskey overhead. "Old heroes never die." Quietly, to himself, and after emptying the container in one gulp, he added bitterly, "Here's to fading away."

#fiction #original #superhero

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moodymisty · 1 year ago

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okay so my original second idea before the Sevatar one came out more a word vomit than a request so just take this as me sharing an idea I've had in my head and I have no Warhammer buddies to share it with lol

this is a premise inspired by a oneshot I feel like I read at some point but I can't remember where. a human from the distant past, before ai tried to kill everyone and people still looked out at the galaxy with hopeful naivety, getting shot into the far future after their exploratory science vessel gets caught up in some warp storm. our scientist/explorer was in cryo sleep or something so is completely unaware anything went wrong. anywho, but who should pick up on the strange little blip of their ancient yet new vessel?

BOOM it's Trazyn lol. so he squirrels the whole kit and kaboodle to solemnace and ends up waking our mc up. maybe they initially think Trazyn is some form of advanced AI and after some surprise are pretty chill with him. maybe Trazyn plays along for a time, asks them questions about themselves and things from their time. shows them around some exhibits and such. our mc slowly coming to realize something is terribly wrong during their time on solemnace. Trazyn growing surprisingly attached to them, it's nice having someone to talk and teach things to and theyre so eager and inquisitive.

okay I'm rambling so anyway his lil human's life is so frail and short, not even a blip on the proverbial radar of his existence and he very much doesn't want to lose them so soon so he feeds the ctan shard he's got locked in the basement in trade for the knowledge on how to perform biotransference on them. Trazyn rationalizes that it's for the best, it's only temporary, the necrons of course will eventually figure out how to reverse their condition and everything will be fine. mc may or may not consent to the procedure.

I feel you on the having the no Warhammer friends to share with lol. Only just recently have I actually had people to talk about it to.

But man, Trayzn is such a funny dude lol. I haven't read The Infinite and the Divine yet (it's in the postage still it'll get here one day) but I love how despite how absolutely not human he is, he one of the more human characters in 40k. I mean he's just a hobby collector with a bit of a morose spin.

I imagine he's one of the few characters who'd despite being 'above' humanity in terms of pretty much anything, he'd probably be willing to kinda show off in a way. Tour his collection, chat about all the things he's seen. I mean if I was about to be frozen, I'd love to at least take a gander at the 40k British museum first.

Talk about a wide ride though, I mean thinking he's an AI would make the most sense because that would be a trip having to learn what a Necron actually is. Poor human has been thrown around enough.

But awwwww, Trazyn and his little out of time human <3 All things considered it's kinda cute.

Also thanks for sending in requests for not only letting me go apeshit about Blood Angels but ALSO Sevatar??? My crops are green and lush.

#Misty's book club

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gavroche-le-moineau · 1 year ago

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Montparnasse's Introduction

I guess I'm on a translation kick because I spent some time today while I was couch-ridden taking a stab at my own translation of Montparnasse's introductory paragraph. I just loved the writing of it and wanted to see if I could carry over some of the feelings I got from it in French into English. This isn't because I think any current translations are bad or wrong, I simply wanted to try my hand, and offer another version.

I tried to stick to 19th century dictionaries (both French and English) for usage of any words I wasn't sure about, but I did also use some more modern resources to get ideas or corroborate.

Un être lugubre, c’était Montparnasse. Montparnasse était un enfant ; moins de vingt ans, un joli visage, des lèvres qui ressemblaient à des cerises, de charmants cheveux noirs, la clarté du printemps dans les yeux ; il avait tous les vices et aspirait à tous les crimes. La digestion du mal le mettait en appétit du pire. C’était le gamin tourné voyou¹, et le voyou devenu escarpe². TRANSLATION - PART 1: A morose being, that was Montparnasse. Montparnasse was a child; less than twenty years old, with a pretty face, lips likes cherries, charming black hair, the brightness of springtime in his eyes– he had all the vices and aspired to all the crimes. Digesting the bad whet his appetite for worse. He was the gamin turned ruffian¹, and the ruffian turned killer².

NOTES - PART 1: 1. “voyou” can be used to mean “gamin”, but tends to carry the more negative connotations of “delinquent, gangster, bandit, thug, etc.” It was commonly used in Paris specifically, in the mid 19th century.

2. “escarpe” – an old term for a thief / bandit who kills in order to steal from victims.

Il était gentil, efféminé, gracieux, robuste, mou, féroce³. Il avait le bord du chapeau relevé à gauche pour faire place à la touffe de cheveux, selon le style de 1829⁴. Il vivait de voler violemment. Sa redingote était de la meilleure coupe, mais râpée. Montparnasse, c’était une gravure de modes ayant de la misère et commettant des meurtres. La cause de tous les attentats de cet adolescent était l’envie d’être bien mis. TRANSLATION- PART 2: He was sweet, effeminate, graceful, hardy, apathetic, ferocious³. He had the side of his hat turned up on the left to make room for a tuft of hair, after the style of 1829⁴. He made a living stealing violently. His redingote was of the finest cut, but frayed. Montparnasse was a fashion plate fallen on hard times and committing murders. The cause behind all this adolescent’s criminal offenses was the desire to look sharp.

NOTES - PART 2: 3. “Il était gentil … féroce.” Choosing exact translations for each of these words was extremely difficult. “Gentil” can mean SO many things from kind, sweet, nice, to proper, agreeable, good, etc all of which have such different connotations. I can’t be sure which one is closest to what Hugo was going for.

For “féroce” I wanted to highlight that in the Littré dictionary entry the first definition says “One who takes pleasure in murder, when speaking of animals” and while we are speaking about a person, I can’t help but think Hugo was alluding to this idea.

4. Any fashion historians know what this is referring to? I found a Parisian fashion plate from 1828 at the Metropolitan Museum of Art that maybe looks like the left side of the hat is curled up but it could also be the angle.

La première grisette⁵ qui lui avait dit : Tu es beau, lui avait jeté la tâche des ténèbres dans le cœur, et avait fait un Caïn de cet Abel. Se trouvant joli, il avait voulu être élégant ; or, la première élégance, c’est l’oisiveté ; l’oisiveté d’un pauvre, c’est le crime. Peu de rôdeurs étaient aussi redoutés que Montparnasse. À dix-huit ans, il avait déjà plusieurs cadavres derrière lui. Plus d’un passant les bras étendus gisait dans l’ombre de ce misérable⁶, la face dans une mare de sang. Frisé, pommadé, pincé à la taille, des hanches de femme, un buste d’officier prussien, le murmure d’admiration des filles du boulevard autour de lui, la cravate savamment nouée, un casse-tête dans sa poche, une fleur à sa boutonnière ; tel était ce mirliflore⁷ du sépulcre. TRANSLATION - PART 3: The first grisette⁵ who had said to him, “You’re handsome,” had thrown the stain of darkness into his heart, and had made a Cain of this Abel. Finding himself pretty, he had wanted to be elegant; now, the start of elegance is idleness, and the idleness of a pauper, is crime. Few prowlers were as feared as Montparnasse. At eighteen, he already had several corpses behind him. More than one passerby, arms outstretched, lay in the shadow of this miserable wretch⁶, their face in a pool of blood. Curly and pomaded hair, a pinched waist, the hips of a woman, the chest of a Prussian officer, the murmur of admiration from girls on the boulevard all around him, tie smartly knotted, a bludgeon in his pocket, a flower in his buttonhole; such was this popinjay⁷ of the sepulchre.

NOTES - PART 3 5. I chose not to translate “gamin”, “redingote”, and “grisette” because they’re words that can be used in English and they all refer to a very specific thing or person from a specific time and place, that English just doesn’t have an exact equivalent for.

6. It certainly is a pity for this book in particular that we can’t translate the noun “misérable” into English as is. I just wanted to highlight that Montparnasse is another character to add to the list of those that fall under the category of the book’s title.

7. I chose “popinjay” (meaning a dandy, fop, etc.) for the word “mirliflore” because the French word used here is very pretty and may come from mille + flores (thousand + flowers) to refer to someone wearing perfume, and I think the juxtaposition between the pretty word Hugo chooses to use for Montparnasse and “the sepulchre” is very intentional. While the English word “popinjay” evokes birds rather than flowers (the word actually coming from “parrot” and in its current form also evoking “jay”), I thought it was a similar enough feel that it worked better than dandy or fop.

Corrections, additions, or comments are always welcome!

Resources: Dictionnaire de la langue française, Émile Littré, 1872-1877 Dictionary of the French and English languages, with more than fifteen thousand new words, meanings, etc. by Ferdinand E. A. (1876) Centre National de Ressources Textuelles et Lexicales fr.wiktionary.org wordreference.com

#les miserables #les mis letters #lm 3.7.3 #montparnasse #translation #french translation #les mis translation #les mis language #mytranslation

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madsworld15 · 8 months ago

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New Fic Alert: lifeline of a promise in a shot glass (Brian/Justin AU)

PART ONE of MANY

Synopsis: What if Justin never met Brian when he was 17, and because of this, his father convinces him to go to Dartmouth and follow a business path? Years later, Justin is 25 and works alongside Ted, who was his mentor as he studied for his CPA the year before, and lives a life of limited socialization due to crippling grief and anxiety caused by the death of his close friend 3 years prior. What happens when Ted pushes him into interacting with the family?

Justin sat at his desk, ignoring the client files he was supposed to be working on. Instead, he fiddled with the personal check in his left hand. It was from his father, part of the reason he had driven the five hours to Philly over the weekend. He was so wrapped up in his thoughts about that visit that he didn’t realize that Ted Schmidt had approached his cubicle until the older man cleared his throat.

“If that’s a check from a client I can show you how to input it.” Ted smiled and jokingly tapped Justin’s arm with his fist.

“No, more like blood money.” Justin sighed, shoved the check into his desk drawer, and turned to give Ted his full attention.

“I feel there’s a story there.” Ted raised his eyebrow.

“More like a tragedy that could rival even the most beautiful of arias.” Justin licked his lips and quickly changed the subject, “You need something?”

“Well, it’s Wednesday, this week has sucked. I thought you’d want to go out with me and my friends to a club downtown.” Ted shrugged.

“Isn’t it a bit sad to show up with a young kid? What will your friends even think?” Justin loved to tease Ted considering the man was 13 years his senior.

“Honestly?” Ted rubbed his hand over his mouth, “Brian and Emmett will be shocked that I am allowed out in public with a guy as hot as you. And Michael, well if he or his husband show up they’re likely to be supportive of welcoming someone new to the fold.”

Justin glanced at the clock, saw it was 5:45 pm, shut down his computer and stood up. He grabbed his suit jacket off the back of his chair and smirked at Ted before chuckling.

“Also, I’ll have you know, Emmett is only 32, not much older than you. And Brian, Michael and Ben are all 35.” Ted followed Justin to the garage where they parked their cars.

“I still don’t understand why you hang out with me outside of work. I’m a first year and you are practically my boss.” Justin added, fishing his car keys out from his pocket.

“None of my lifelong friends like anything artistic. They think the epitome of human expression happens on the dancefloor at Babylon.” Ted rolled his eyes. “At least with you I don’t have to go to museums or art openings or the opera by myself.”

“Wow. Schmidt. I’m touched. Really, I am. It’s not sad at all that at nearly 40 you rely upon me, a gay man in his mid-20s to keep you alive.” Justin pressed his hand to his chest and gave Ted his best emotional simper.

Ted simply rolled his eyes and responded, “So, Babylon, 9 o’clock?”

Justin shrugged. “Maybe.” But he knew in his heart he wouldn’t be taking Ted up on his offer. Today was a rough one and he didn’t want his first impression to be that of a morose dickhead.

“If you decide not to, please at least give me a call?” Ted put his hand on Justin’s shoulder and fixed him with a knowing and understanding gaze.

Justin nodded, climbed into his car, and drove off without another word. He went straight to his apartment complex to park his car and drop off his work things. But, he didn’t stick around long before he went out to his favorite bar, Woody’s for a few drinks. Justin wanted nothing more than to forget about today.

He was two shots of whiskey deep when he felt the presence of someone else next to him. Justin sucked in his lip, sighed, and looked at who had joined him at the bar. The man next to him was older, elegant, and sex on legs. His brown hair was styled in a way that said he cared but wanted the world to think he didn’t give two shits. There was something so alluring about him that Justin couldn’t quite put his finger on and with his current mental state, didn’t have the patience to work out.

“Another,” Justin motioned to the bartender, slurring his words just slightly.

The gorgeous man next to him reached across the bar and grabbed the bartender’s arm. “Jake, don’t pour the kid anymore.”

“Fuck you. I’m an adult. I can have as many drinks as I want.” Justin was annoyed that this stranger would step in his business like that.

“Fine, suit yourself, but your current petulance tells me otherwise.” The brunette smirked, downed his shot, and then turned his back to the counter and leaned back to troll his eyes across the sea of men in the room at large.

“Besides, I’m not your goddamn mother. I just thought I’d do you a favor. Go home. Sleep off whatever you’re trying to drown away. Trust me, no one likes a sloppy drunk.” And just like that the gorgeous man was gone, stalking after a buff man at the pool tables who had curly black locks and fuck-me eyes.

Justin threw some cash down on the bar and stumbled out of Woody’s. He didn’t want to admit the man had been right, so instead, he stewed in indignation at the nerve of a complete stranger telling the bartender to cut him off. His stewing took him all the way back to his apartment. With a sigh and some fumbling, he managed to unlock his door and step inside.

Justin threw his keys in the dish on his kitchen counter, saw his answering machine was flashing a red 3, and pushed the button to let them play. He crossed to his refrigerator to grab a bottle of water before he stumbled to his couch and plopped down.

Hey Justin. I know today is hard. I’m getting worried about you. You haven’t called me to meet up for coffee in a long time. David and I would love to have you over for dinner sometime. We have big news. Love you. Call me back. Please.

Justin felt the tears prick the back of his eyes as his best friend’s voice rang out over his one bedroom apartment. Daphne meant well, but she didn’t know Jason. How could she possibly understand?

The same way she has been there for you the last 3 years. A voice in his head replied unprompted.

The next message played, and from the first seconds, Justin knew it was Jason’s mom.

Hey, Jus. I went by to see Jason today and saw that you’d recently been there and left some flowers. It warmed my heart to know his closest friend still thinks about him. I wish you’d come by to see us. We miss you dearly. Well you take care. Congratulations on earning your CPA.

The floodgates let loose at Jason’s mom’s words. He’d known her since he was 16 and met Jason at a High School Business competition. She’d always been kind and treated Justin as one of her own. And when Jason died she never blamed him, though Justin sure did.

Justin, baby. Please call me. I don’t want you alone today.

Instead of getting up to get his phone and at least call his mom back, Justin pulled his legs up onto the couch and curled against himself to cry. It had been three years. Three years since he’d woken up in the hospital only to find out his best friend was dead. Three years of feeling responsible. Three years of drunken nights and zombie days, just going through the motions to prove he was still alive. But was he really?

In the year after Jason’s death, Justin struggled to put his life back together. He couldn’t go from graduating straight into his internship and then CPA exam. No, he had to take a gap year to relearn so much of who he was in order to be the man he was today. His mother would argue that he was doing beyond great and that he was “good as new,” but what she didn’t know and Justin has yet to tell her, Justin was simply a shell.

Jason had been the love of Justin’s life and he couldn’t even talk about it. Daphne knew he was gay, but no one else around him did, besides Ted. It allowed him to put up a wall between himself and his family, but also his coworkers. If he didn’t tell people anything deeper than what appeared on the surface he couldn’t get hurt.

~ BREAK ~

Two days later, Justin was back to staring at the check from his father. Now that he was a CPA he hardly needed financial support from his estranged father, but Justin couldn’t bring himself to fully cut himself off from the man. He was hardly what one would call father of the year, but Justin didn’t have the courage to stand up to the man.

With it being Friday, Justin was one day closer to another day of keeping to himself and ignoring the world around him. He just needed to get through the day, and avoid Ted at all costs, like he had the day before. And then he was scot free for the whole weekend, unless Daphne decided to be her usual pushy self and show up at his door.

“Glad to see you are still alive.” Ted greeted him with a crooked grin. “After you didn’t come out on Wednesday and didn’t call me I figured something terrible must’ve happened.”

“Sorry, I went home on Wednesday and fell asleep. Then when I woke up it was almost 9 and I didn’t feel like going out.” Justin refused to look at his friend and boss.

“And yesterday?” Ted wasn’t going to let things go. It frustrated Justin to no end, he much preferred Daphne who knew when to push and when to let things drop.

“Jesus, Ted! What are you my mom?” Justin suddenly let his frustration bubble to the surface, “I don’t always want to be around people.”

Ted smiled and then backed off from his questioning. “I completely get that. That’s what makes accounting so great. You can completely shut yourself off from the world.”

Justin continued working on the file at hand. He would rather focus on numbers than the turmoil rolling around in his brain. So, when Ted offered an out for the evening Justin took it.

“Tonight there’s an art opening at my friend Lindsay Peterson-Marcus’ gallery, the Sidney Bloom Gallery. I wondered if you might want to go with me?”

Justin didn’t even think, all frustration at Ted forgotten, “Yes. That would be great. I can’t believe you know the curator at the Sidney Bloom Gallery. It’s been an obsession of mine since I was a kid.”

“I met Lindsay through my friend Brian, but honestly aside from you she’s the only person I know who appreciates the arts.” Ted shrugged and then handed Justin a ticket for the night’s events. “Just meet me out front at 8 o’clock.”

“Will do.” Justin finally looked at the older man and gave him a fake smile. His heart wasn’t really in it to be a functioning member of society right now.

The anniversary of Jason took more out of him this year than he expected and knew that he probably should just go home and work through those emotions. But, the nagging voice in the back of his mind reminded him that getting out and doing typical activities he enjoyed would help him move forward faster. Not for the first time in the last few years, Justin wondered if he would ever be able to go out with friends and fully be himself, let loose, and enjoy. He wondered if he would ever fall in love again without losing his breath and panicking that Jason would be mad.

So, by 8 o’clock Justin was just parking his car up the block from Sidney Bloom Gallery. He bit his bottom lip as he walked back toward where he was to meet Ted. Going into a big group of strangers like this gave him some anxiety, but not nearly as much as it did a few years ago. As much as he liked to bemoan to his mom about therapy, it was actually helping him.

“Hey.” Justin gave a half wave and then tucked his hands into his pockets, shrugging his shoulders upward.

“Glad you could make it. I hate showing up to these things alone. Brian teases me mercilessly for it.” Ted smiled and nodded his head for Justin to follow him.

“God the way you talk, Brian must be the biggest dick known to man.” Justin smirked, already feeling grateful to be out with a friend.

“More like he thinks he’s God’s gift to Gay PA.” Ted laughed.

Once they were inside, Justin felt his grief, anxiety, and worry all float away. He truly loved being immersed in a world of art and the freedom of expression. At times his heart itched to draw and paint, but he hadn’t done either since high school. Ted handed him a flute of champagne, which Justin simply held as he looked around deciding where to start.

“Teddy!” A blonde woman came rushing over. She was gorgeous and wore a maroon sweater and tan slacks that really extenuated her figure.

“Lindsay!” Ted gave the woman a brief hug before throwing his arm out toward Justin beckoning him forward. “This is Justin. I was his mentor all last year as he prepared for his CPA.”

Just then the gorgeous man from the bar a few nights ago sauntered up and wrapped his arm around Lindsay’s shoulder and placed a kiss on her cheek.

“Not another boring stiff. Seriously, Theodore? Must you? I do believe one of you in the boring gays society is enough.”

Ted sighed and opened his mouth to respond, but Justin beat him to it.

He gave his best smile and replied, “Ah you must be Brian Kinney. I’ve heard so much about you. And I must say, you live up to every word.”

“Welcome, Justin. So glad to have someone else in the group who has Brian’s number.” Lindsay chuckled and held out her hand to shake Justin’s.

“Theodore,” Brian immediately turned toward Ted, “What exactly have you been telling this…kid?” Brian looked Justin up and down with a smirk.

Justin wanted so desperately to correct this man on his classification of “kid”, but his anxiety was starting to rise and so he swallowed the champagne in his hand in one go and casually walked away. He knew, from experience, that Ted wouldn’t judge him for this. Instead, the older man would allow Justin to have his space and then check in with him later on down the road. It’s how they always handled social outings together.

Justin didn’t actively seek public occasions with many people because the accident had caused brain damage that made reading people really hard for Justin. Therefore, his anxiety went into hyperdrive when presented with multiple faces and phrases all at once. He stuck to simple one-on-one conversations, whenever possible, and only pushed that boundary while in therapy.

“You know, when you first showed up with Theodore I thought, there is no way someone as hot as that is willingly hanging out with someone as boring and bland as him. Then, you freaked out over a simple conversation and I understood.” Brian’s voice brought Justin out of his thoughts, and he realized he’d been standing in front of Pollack styled painting for far too long.

Instead of responding to Brian, Justin moved on to the next section of artwork and acted as though the brunette wasn’t there.

“Aren’t you going to ask me what I now understand?” Brian followed him, demanding to be noticed and heard.

“I don’t particularly care. I don’t know you. Therefore your opinion of me or Ted has little bearance on my life.” Justin replied nonchalantly and without tearing his eyes from the colorful art before him.

“Wow, you use big words. Let me guess, Pittsburgh Community College,” Brian continued to goad Justin into giving him his full attention.

Justin rolled his eyes, “Dartmouth. And judging by your pompous, holier than thou attitude I would say you went to some pretentious business school such as Carnegie Mellon or Penn.”

“Oooo an Ivy Leaguer!” Brian grinned as he stepped between Justin and the art, forcing Justin to make eye contact. “What makes you think I didn’t also attend such prestige as that? Why does it have to be local?”

Justin cocked his head and smirked. “It really bothers you doesn’t it?” And then he walked off toward another area of the gallery.

Brian continued to follow him. “What bothers me?”

Justin ignored him and instead turned to discuss the painting on display with none other than Lindsay Peterson-Marcus herself. He found her knowledge and passion for art comforting. She really did love the work she was doing, and Justin found that refreshing.

“Are you an artist, Justin?” Lindsay asked, looking past Justin to smirk at Brian. Justin could feel the man's glare on his neck.

“I used to be. I haven’t picked up a brush since high school.” Justin shrugged and tucked in his lips to smile, knowing that by ignoring Brian it was eating the man alive.

“What bothers me?” Brian asked again, cutting off Lindsay’s reply.

Lindsay gave Brian a searing look and continued, “We never stop being artists. No matter how much time has passed. If you want to paint, who’s stopping you.”

Justin thought about her words as she squeezed his shoulder and moved on to the next patron. He bit the left corner of his bottom lip and continued to contemplate the artist’s work before him. The mix of blues, purples, and grays made him think of the swirling grief that lived within him, always pulling him just below the surface.

“It bothers you that I don’t give a fuck about you,” Justin replied to Brian, who was still standing there waiting for him. Then he deposited his empty flute on the tray of a passing wait staff and walked out of the gallery into the night.

Tagging my discord pals so they can read! @winderlylandchime @lostcol and @maryp50

#queer as folk #brian kinney #justin taylor #brian x justin #fanfiction #alternate universe

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lezbrarian · 4 months ago

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I went to the museum. and god I love art!!!! isn't it so funny and touching and tender that we're the same. you look back years and years, centuries ago, to time periods I can't even fathom but there it is -- a colorful little pot with a lid that flips over to be used as a dish; a painting of a boy laughing with his dog; a sculpture of two lovers; art of people being weird, sad, happy, stoic, thoughtful, morose, silly, strange, strong, important, mundane, average, normal. like it's all there, we've always been the same in some ways. and there's always been art to express it all. how lovely!

#ok sappy museum rant over

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queenburd · 2 years ago

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okay that post already has 3 votes for “one now, one later” so here’s part one of “the narrator is taking forever on this surprise”

warning for some existentialism, spiraling thoughts. this is a heavier chapter overall, confronting issues of putting your own needs aside for other people. there are references to my Zending fic as well.

i genuinely can’t think of a catchy title for this one. i’ll figure it out when it goes on ao3.

Stanley is feeling… unhappy. No, out of sorts. Upset?

It’s complicated.

His narrator hums gently as the protagonist folds his elbows onto his desk and rests his head on his forearms. “Stanley? Anything I can do?”

No. No, he doesn’t think so. He can’t even necessarily place what’s wrong. He’s just come back from the Museum, after quietly sitting in the small dark room with the narrator’s voice, and the room with emails flicking by.

(He’s done that ending loads of times. Every time he tries to tell the narrator about it, the fellow expresses confusion. He knows Stanley isn’t lying, he’s even taken a peek at the memories with Stanley’s consent, but try as he might he can’t find its map or codes. It’s another mystery of the parable.)

“You always seem a little, well, morose after we reset from that ending. Is—is it the crusher? Because, I would change it, if I didn’t worry it would make that aspect of the game inaccessible to you. I don’t know if it would figure out how to compensate. Sorry.”

No. It’s not the crusher. Stanley’s died in plenty of ways, all fairly quick and painless. The crusher isn’t the problem.

The narrator is quiet. There’s the strange sound of fingers fidgeting on a desk. He has such fascinating sound cues, for not having a form.

“I—if you figure out what’s wrong, will you tell me? I want to fix it.”

Stanley inhales sharply. That’s what it is.

“What?” Anxiety creeps into the fellow’s voice. “What is it?”

Stanley would offer him the memory, if it wasn’t one that they both had. As it is, all he needs to do is think of a single, ugly word. The narrator’s breath hitches.

Villain.

then

Stanley stumbles out of his office, paler than the voice has seen him. Half of the narration spills out on autopilot before he catches himself at the sight of Stanley, leaning back hard against door 430 and sliding down to the floor, arm curling around his knees and a hand shielding the back of his neck. He hides his face against his kneecaps. His breathing is unsteady.

“Stanley? Stanley, what’s wrong?”

It only catches traces of Stanley’s thought patterns—they are scattered, disorganized and stained with a dawning horror and a deeper, ugly hue of shame. It hasn’t—

The narrator hasn’t seen a reaction like this since he bloody yanked out the memory of the Zending from Stanley’s head.

God, please let it not be another Zending. They weren’t anywhere near that room!

“Stanley please, you’re scaring me.”

He—he doesn’t think he can take it if Stanley begs him not to hurt him. After everything they’ve been through and after the narrator’s own attempts to change, he can’t bear it again.

Something fundamentally changed in him, that run. He’s looked over it many, many times, trying to understand the shift in dynamic. It wasn’t a rapid onset that he was aware of, but that was the run that the narrator… realized something about himself. About Stanley.

He didn’t want Stanley to be scared of him.

He’s not a good person. Of course not, he’s not even a person, really. He’s a god, a creator, and he made a story with a simple protagonist and a happy ending. And then, when his protagonist suddenly became more than a simple puppet, but a person, convinced he was trapped and desperate to rebel and escape, the god that made him became vengeful. Sent a flood to kill all the world, but there was no rainbow afterwards, no promise to not do it again.

So Stanley struggled, and the narrator looked at his creation that had somehow eaten the fruit of knowledge, and he punished him. He demanded the protagonist fulfill the role he’d been given, play the story the narrator had lovingly crafted for him.

Somewhere along the way, far too soon after this game of tug of war began, the narrator forgot that the whole point of his story was to give the man a happy ending. Stanley’s happiness, the original goal, was lost under the anger and the pride and the offense that his story wasn’t appreciated.

He’d been an idiot. He’d been cruel. He’d waved his power around over the man and abused it, and Stanley had done all he could in the face of it to get some kind of retribution, but in the moments he found he could hurt the narrator, he despised himself.

Stanley was a good person, and the narrator was not, and this knowledge had plagued the voice since then.

He’s tried to be better. He knows he can’t make Stanley trust him, he knows the scales are tipped so much more in his favor. He controls this parable and that in itself means they can never be equals.

That—

It—

It’s okay that Stanley will never trust him, he doesn’t deserve it. He just wants Stanley to know that the narrator doesn’t want him to suffer. That this was all supposed to be about his happiness. The narrator did all of this for him, and is going to try to make it right.

If Stanley only ever sees him as the jailer, that’s… fine. Better a jailer than a torturer.

The narrator is afraid to touch his thoughts again, he can’t bear the thought that Stanley’s mind will be pleading [ I’m sorry, I’m sorry, please don’t hurt me too badly ] again.

So he drops his voice to a near whisper.

“Stanley? I’m not going to hurt you. I promised, remember? I told you I wouldn’t. Whatever it is, we can figure it out together.”

This, more than anything, distresses Stanley more—his breath hitches into a sob.

“Oh, no, I’m sorry, I didn’t—“

He only ever makes things worse, doesn’t he?

Stanley shakes his head rapidly. He places a curled fist on his chest, over where his heart would be. Presses circles into his shirt.

[ sorry, sorry, sorry ]

The protagonist scrubs his eyes, trying to control himself. The narrator hears himself swallow.

“It’s… it’s okay, it’s going to be okay. We’ll get through it, whatever it is.”

Stanley grimaces hard. Rests the back of his head against the door. Sniffs angrily.

He tries to sign, but his hands are shaky. Fiercely, he gestures to his head, flicking his fingers towards his temple, as though to say [ just look, just look at my thoughts ].

“I… you’re sure?”

Stanley nods.

The narrator brushes over it again, gentle as a breeze. He’s not sorting through the memories, he’s just touching at the surface information Stanley offers him, in Stanley’s own words.

Stanley had gone down that hall with the word escape pointed at it—the one that leads to the crusher. He’s gone there many times before, though the narrator doesn’t understand why. If he wants death, there are quicker routes for certain.

Now, he turns over the simple explanation that there’s a secret ending there, one he did not make, one which houses a different voice. The information unsettles him deeply. How did something like that get into his creation?

And then, the true horror.

It isn’t his creation at all. It never was. He’s just a piece of a creation, designed to believe—

He’s not the god of this world; he’s simply a piece of code. All he ever claimed Stanley was, and the narrator is no different. Just a character in someone else’s story.

He doesn’t realize that he’s been muttering “no, no, no, no,” for a near minute until Stanley cringes again. He forces himself to stop.

Stanley’s shame rolls off of him in waves, and the narrator cannot for the life of him understand why. He touches the man’s mind again, feather-light.

[ trapped in here with me and there’s no freedom for either of us and I just kept blaming him and I knew he was alone and I knew it scared him and I kept trying to leave but I can’t leave we’ll never leave this is forever this is forever the end is never the end is never the end and he was trying to be better and I didn’t care and I didn’t listen and why did I do that why did I do that? What sick person sees someone trying and just keeps taking their frustration out on him, what’s wrong with me? Maybe it’s built in hahaha coded in I’m not even really a person he wasn’t lying she was right Stanley was already dead ]

No. That—that’s not acceptable.

The narrator has a lot to process here. He has the distinct feeling that if he thinks too hard about this, he will spiral just as badly as Stanley is. His whole worldview has tilted almost 180, and he knows if he tries to deal with it right now, right this second, it might break him.

But Stanley is already breaking, and worse, Stanley is—is blaming himself, for fighting back after all the narrator has put him through.

His Stanley, his good, mischievous, gentle Stanley, is calling himself all sorts of terrible things. That takes precedent.

The narrator does what he does best.

He performs.

“Right,” he snarls, “that’s enough.”

Stanley looks up with an audible gasp. It hurts to hear. He pushes on.

“Do you really think I’m so simple as to be so easily manipulated by your actions? Think what you want, Stanley, but don’t think I’m so weak-willed and dependent on you for my own happiness. This is my story,” he continues, unable to hold back the slightest waver. “This is my world. I exist here to tell you where to go and what to do, I hold the power here. That hasn’t changed, do you understand me?”

Stanley is… staring at his knees with a furrowed brow. The narrator caresses his thoughts in the way one might tuck an errant curl behind an ear. He shapes his next words with care in response to what he finds.

“You decided a long time ago you were the hero of this little narrative, hero of my parable, and I was the villain. Have you forgotten that? I am the villain, Stanley. I am the enemy, the unyielding force which you rage against to no avail.” He chuckles in a manner he hopes sounds cruel and contemptuous, and not desperate. “Did you really think that would change? No, no, not at all, Stanley. In this world, I am the villain. You focus all that loathing towards me, and you remember that I hold all the cards, and that so long as I am here, you cannot give up.”

He’ll be the antagonist, he’ll be the monster that needs to be slain, if that’s what it takes. If that keeps Stanley from taking all that hurt and frustration and fear and pointing inwards at himself.

Not his good, stubborn, Stanley.

Stanley rests his forearms on his knees and stares into the middle distance. His face has flashed through confusion, resentment, realization. Now he is deep in thought. The voice doesn’t dare peek this time. It finds it is afraid to.

All this work trying to show Stanley it's been trying to make amends, and now it has to go back to how things were before. So the one person it cares about has someone to aim all his hurt at.

Just bury the distress deep, deep down. It will be his cross to bear, the fact that he only wants this man’s happiness and yet he can never share it with him. He will have to be the opposing force forever. Forever.

Stanley looks up.

[ No. ]

The narrator scoffs a bit. “No? What do you mean, no?”

Stanley signs slowly. There’s a determination in his eyes, one the voice hadn’t realized it was missing very badly. Now it shines, his mouth set in a firm line.

[ You’re not the villain. You don’t want to be the villain. You just want me to think that. Why? ]

Damn. He really thought he’d put on a good show there.

“Don’t you want something to strive against? Some nefarious force that you can blame for your suffering?” He tries to keep the harsh tone, spitting the words as condescendingly as he can.

Stanley shakes his head.

“You… don’t?”

[ Tired. Done fighting. No point. Want… ] He trails off, unsure how to complete the statement. Inhales deeply. Lifts his hands.

[ Want to tell a new story. Like you talk about in Confusion ending. ]

“The confusion ending…?”

[ New path, new story. Just me and Stanley. ]

It doesn’t make sense that Stanley would talk about himself as a different entity—oh! Oh, Stanley is trying to quote him!

[ We’re in the journey. ]

He hears himself inhale sharply. Asks the next question with trepidation.

“What do you want our story to be?”

Stanley—smiles.

now

He hears the narrator clear his throat nervously. “That was quite a long time ago, Stanley. Does it still bother you that much?”

No. He’s grown resigned to the fact that this place is his eternal home. It’s small, limited, but the companionship is fine and even after thousands of runs they keep managing to find new things to do and new ways to entertain each other. Resignation has long since turned to acceptance.

No, it’s—

Stanley’s mind reaches out and grasps at the whisper of frustration. He tries to hold it up to the light.

“I want to fix it.”

That’s what the narrator had said, when he realized Stanley was not happy. For years, he’s done everything in his power to make Stanley happy.

Once upon a time, the voice only cared about its perfect story, and they were enemies. Once upon a time, it hurt Stanley again and again for disobeying.

Sometimes it feels like the narrator has spent all this time trying to make up for it. Stanley knows it’s more than that, that there’s care between them, but it’s always about what Stanley needs, what Stanley wants, Stanley’s well-being.

He remembers coming back from the Museum that run, shaken and disgusted with his own behavior, and wanting to become so small that he would cease to exist, because how could he still be hurting someone who was trying to be better? How could he call himself a decent human being? Well, he couldn’t, he wasn’t even human.

He remembers feeling so completely off-center that it felt like the laws of gravity had twisted completely around him, and feeling like he would never find his footing again. There had been no way to ground himself.

And still, the voice had tried. First with overwhelming tenderness Stanley didn’t deserve, and then with faux antagonism in the hopes it would be a familiar enough enemy that he could find his balance.

He could hear the crack and waver in the words. The words themselves, little clues, little ways to read between the lines. Lines like “focus all that loathing towards me” and “you cannot give up” and “don’t you want something to blame for your suffering?”

Even then, even with the logic of the world shifting monumentally for both of them, the voice was worrying for him. Trying to give him solid ground.

“Yes,” the narrator says, a touchy huffy and sheepish, “you saw right through me, I know.”

Doesn’t the fellow get it? Doesn’t he see what Stanley is trying to get at?

“I dare say I don’t.”

Fine. Another example. The skip button.

The narrator inhales sharply. Stanley feels, for a fleeting instant, vindicated.

“Wh—why? What about it?”

He. Had left. The narrator. Alone. For eons.

“But—we’ve been over this, you didn’t have any options—“

And the moment they got back the narrator focused entirely on comforting Stanley! Calming him down, trying to forgive him, again and again giving him so much care and attention—

“You needed—“

But the narrator never let himself process it! Stanley had never been able to return the favor, not really, not truly! Not ever!

“But—I told you, I’m fine—“

How could Stanley even know? For all his narrator is dramatic, expressive, he doesn’t talk about these things! He avoids them!

“There’s nothing to discuss! Clearly it doesn’t bother me as much! Why are we arguing about this, Stanley, what have I done wrong?”

Nothing, but that was the problem!

“I don’t understand!”

Stanley tugs at his hair a little in frustration. How can he be more clear?

It’s not an equal exchange. Stanley can’t do things for the narrator the way the narrator does things for him, and part of that is because of his limitations on what he can control.

But part of it is the fact that the narrator still thinks he has more power than Stanley does, and so he must dedicate everything to him. He thinks only ever about Stanley, at the expense of himself.

The narrator sniffles. “What am I supposed to do? You’re my friend, and—and I do have more control over this place than you, so why is it a problem that I shape it to do things for you?”

But what about the narrator’s wants?

“I don’t—“

He absolutely has wants! He has feelings, desires, he cares about his story!

“The story doesn’t matter!”

It does! Why does he think Stanley still does it? It’s the only thing Stanley can ever do to try to really make him happy!

“You… you don’t do it for yourself?”

The voice sounds utterly heartbroken. Stanley’s heart sinks.

Fuck. This is getting out of control.

“You don’t like it? You don’t have to do it—“

Listen to himself! Listen to the things he’s saying, please!

The fellow is just… giving up pieces of himself for Stanley. He puts all of his own feelings aside. Stanley knows he feels emotions deeply, they both do, but the narrator never actually—

He never expresses any of it. He never processes his own trauma, his own sadness or fear or hurt. He just puts it all aside for Stanley. He won’t let Stanley return the favor.

He’s not human, he’s further from real humanity than Stanley is, but the narrator is still a person. He still has experienced terrible things. He still needs to confront it. Process it. He’s still allowed to want things for himself.

How can Stanley ever show him how much he really, truly cares, if the narrator won’t treat him like an equal on this?

Ah, damn. He’s crying a bit. He hadn’t realized. Stanley scrubs at his eyes.

It isn’t that he’s sad, at least he’s not sad for himself. He just… this is important. It worries him. It frustrates him. And he’s trying so hard to not make it about himself, because that’s the trap!

The narrator—whimpers. Just a small noise, hurt and distraught, a sound lodged deep in a throat. Stanley sniffs hard to try to collect himself.

“Do you want me to go?”

No, that’s—

Stanley takes a deep, deep breath, and reshapes the thought.

What does the narrator want? Does the narrator want space? What can Stanley give him to show that the protagonist cares about his happiness?

“I…” It’s said very quietly, full of uncertainty. “I don’t know. Can I have a minute to think?”

He can take as much time as he needs. Whatever he needs. Stanley wants to be there for him.

Quiet. The room seems to hold its breath. Stanley takes deep breaths and rubs his hands over his face, finding his calm. His heartbeat slows. He keeps his thoughts quiet, on the off-chance the fellow is still trying to see if Stanley wants or expects a certain reaction.

“I… I think… Stanley, can you step out into the hall?”

Yes, absolutely. He stands by the divider next to the copy machine and waits patiently.

“Thank you. Can—“ a swallow. The narrator composes himself. “Would you please close your eyes?”

Stanley does so, obedient, if a bit confused.

“Okay. Now, I need you to promise me something. Promise me you will keep your eyes closed, and not open them, no matter what. I’m going to be very, very quiet for a few minutes. Just be patient with me, and don’t open them until I say you can. Okay?”

He sounds frightfully nervous. It leaks into Stanley a bit, because—because what is this about?

The voice hesitates, then says very softly, almost shy, but absolutely certain.

“This is something I need.”

Stanley takes a deep breath. He puts a hand over his heart.

He will keep his eyes closed. He promises.

“Okay. Just… just give me a few minutes.”

Stanley waits.

He slouches where he stands. Lets his head drop a bit, leans against the divider. Silence creeps in around him, which makes him a little nervous, but he was warned and he made a promise. The narrator is not going to leave him. He wouldn’t. He knows how it makes both of them feel.

So Stanley waits. And waits.

[PART 2 TOMORROW]

#The Sparrow Parable #May writes #the stanley parable #tspud #tsp

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netherfeildren · 1 year ago

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this might be cliche... but who are your favorite authors/artists?? influences in general? aside from donna tartt?? your writing and the network of little references sprinkled in them literally make me want to tear out my wallpaper and eat it it's so good wtf do you put in it dear author?????

gosh so many things. if it's not glaringly obvious I am a huge media person so books/film/tv are all things I love and consume voraciously. I've always been a big big reader. I've made a list of some of my favorite book recs here as well as some of my favorite films here

I'm also a big lover of the ballet and the city I live in has a large company which I go to watch every chance I get, the last one I saw was swan lake and it was wonderful :) I've found it's a great source of inspiration when it comes to choreography on the page. when writing large amounts of physical scenes ie. sex or action or what have you physical descriptors and body placements become tedious and repetitive and I like looking to dance as a source for differentiation in my own written choreography. If you're a writer I'd definitely recommend for physical aspects!

I also obviously really love art and although I wouldn't say I'm very well studied or deeply knowledgeable on the subject I know what I like and have a clear grasp on my tastes. I'm endlessly scrolling Pinterest for visuals that inspire me, and I'm also a big museum person and as I travel a fair amount, whenever I'm traveling I go to lots of museums.

not to sound cliche as well but music is also obviously and of course a big influence in my work. when I was writing greener memories of better men I'd initially gotten the idea from this random Facebook post I'd seen but the true tone of the story came from the song The Weight by The Band. After writing several different versions of Joel's so in depth I've found now I'm worried about becoming repetitive in my characterization of him which is tricky because it's extremely extremely important to me that my iterations of him be true to his canon personality. I'm not a big fan of an OOC Joel and it's important to me to always stay true to who I think he really is in his original story personality wise, u know? but at the same time it becomes difficult navigating the inevitability of monotony when writing the same character over and over again. so I suppose what I try to do each time is provide a different view of the same man. for some reason that song brought that version of him I was trying to write very into focus for me at that moment. I don't know if that makes a lot of sense lol but sometimes inspiration or direction arises from strange places.

I feel like I've talked too much about Nabokov this year but I've been very slowly studying his work this year and I feel he's been a huge influence on my tone and cadence as I've progressed. I feel like he switches between having a very complicated way of saying very simple things and then saying very complicated things in very simple ways. he's also a master at sentence structure - again when trying to avoid monotony - I like studying the way he crafts these truly complicated sentences into a single monolith without ever actually breaking any rules of grammar or if he does it's in a way that doesn't seem wrong, if u know what I mean. he also comes up with he strangest metaphors for the smallest things. the last thing I read he describes a man's face as a "wet galosh" to tell us he was morose or sad or what have you and it's just soooo funny and interesting to me. I need my own mind to work in strange and creative ways like that, I'm trying to train it into doing so

if you're eating your wallpaper please make sure it isn't yellow, we don't want you getting trapped!

#vic replies #vic's recs

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supernova1us · 10 months ago

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My changes/edits to ROTB to make it a better film, without actually changing the film as it is.

so without changing the overall plot of the film as it is, these are the tweaks and changes i would have made to the film to, to me, make it a far better film. please comment if this makes it better in your eyes

-in the opening, more maximals would be seen fleeing from the terrorcons to the transwarp tower with the main group. the film would also hint more heavily at the maximlas being from the far future.

-there would be less of Noah's scenes in the early movie; just a few of them showing his family is struggling/sick brother and would quickly movie on to him reluctantly joining in Reek's heist to make the money, so we paint him as more of a regretful criminal than this luckless job hunter that isnt a team player.

-the optimus/transit fight would be included(minus narration) after meeting noah and elena; this would be both to show how tough optimus is so it is a bigger shock with how he gets beaten by scourge. also to intro the transformers earlier; the films keep thinking the TFs arent relevant until the plot needs the humans to encounter them when we already know its a TF film and the bots are the whole point of the story. also, optimus' arm cannon would be redesigned to be less bulky and ridiculous looking.

-the dump truck disguise would clearly be shown to just be a hologram

-a bit more play up of arcee and bumblebee as a close duo, including failing to tagteam battletrap, who is more audibly enjoying the fight and boisterous.

-mirage's redundant "what, they fly now?" line would be gone and replaced with something more sensible like "who the hell are these guys? they ain't cocky enough to be decepticons"

-optimus' "impossible" line would be removed. guy acted outraged that someone caught his axe strike.

-a few shots at the museum/alley of the autobots mourning bumblebee

-airazor and elana's deleted scene would be kept in, we would also see airazor transform just to emphasize her point, to which even optimus would cock and interested eyebrow.

-a few changes would be made to scourge; cosmetically, his left hand would always remain the big claw/cannon and not convert to a normal hand. he would be a bit more morose at times, showing that while he relishes what he does, he does still hold some resentment of his slavery.

-after being mentally tortured by unicron, scourge would be mocked by battletrap and they almost come to blows, but nightbird breaks it up. battletrap would then comment that they only follow him because he is unicrons favorite servant...for now.

-the plane ride would be a few minutes longer, and would include; mirage's bravado cracking to show he feels partially responsible for what happened to bee as it was his plan, optimus' explaining to the humans that an autobot hidden in south america will meet them as he sent other autobots around the earth to hide, stratosphere doing some pilot announcements and elena waving out the window to airazor as she flies past.

-wheeljack would have his concept design(the wide one on the far right of the linked pic). the whole accent exchange would end after wheeljacks line "accent, what accent?" with noah just shrugging it off after that. https://i.redd.it/jpal6uh9wr8b1.jpg

-both elena and wheeljack would be the ones to explain history/exposition stuff, often eagerly finishing each others sentences. wheeljack would also be the one to give noah the gauntlet.

-it would be explained there are so few humans around where they landed because of the festival and stratosphere says he will take off before he is seen. prime would also look back at bee's body and stratosphere says he will take good care of him.

-while noah and elena descend into the caves, we have a couple minutes between the autobots. wheeljack tries to talk about bumblebee but arcee gets angry and mirage and optimus chime in to break the tension.

-after scourge comments that the autobts are moving and must have found the key, he is content to wait for the right moment but it is the over eager battletrap who decides to move and force them to give chase.

-the cheetor and rhinox being in the cave scene would be kept in

-as they walk down the river, it would be clear wheeljack and arcee are talking as they walk rather than just blankly walking in the background as mirage and noah talk.

-after primal asks optimus to walk with him in the village, there would be a scene of cheetor giving one of the human kids a ride. mirage would then ask about them staying in beast mode and rhinox would explain the original maximals swore to live more peacefully in their beast modes unless in great need. cheetor would ask if anyone else wants a ride, to which elena, then noah, mirage, arcee and wheeljack all sheepishly raise their hands.

-as optimus and primal talk, primal has a flashback of witnessing human achievements over the centuries, both constructive and destructive, before saying they are worth defending(as was seen in some concept art).

-cheetor and rhinox more openly mourn airazors death with primal, as does elena.

-a line would be inserted to make clear the power of the transwarp key that it can simply will the transwarp gateway into being.

-rhinox would be the one to produce the hologram and explain the tunnels that the humans could use, clarified to be exhaust vents.

-we see scourge specifically use the keys power to summon the sweeps through the tower.

-optimus alone takes out battletrap, with him replacing primal in the mace grab moment and be a bit more drawn out.

-mirage's body envelops noah before reformatting into the suit around him rather than that trash we got of his body just sorta falling apart and metal just materializing slowly over noah like marvel nanotech.

-bumblebee's voice is restored and there is more of a happy/shocked reaction from the autobots at his return

-stratosphere provides cover fire and smack talk from the air as he strafes the volcano

-primal joins optimus in double teaming a more frantic scourge and is the one to deliver the killing blow to avenge his home. scourge would have also morbidly remarked during the fight that he'd once been brave "like them" but all still fall to unicron.

-change scourge's last line to a desperate "unicron MUST prevail" showing that being the slave is all he has left. his death would also simply be primal impaling him through the spark as his body sinks into the lava flow.

-unicron delivers a final threat through the portal just before it closes, along the lines of "you cant deny me forever" or "i will find you"

-a shot during optimus' speech would show the autobots and maximals burying airazor before the shot of primal on the cliffside.

-wheeljack would be seen going back to US with the others

-noah wouldnt get a closing narration, we would just see the scene of him reuniting with his family with music over it.

-mirage being revived wouldn't exist, nor would G I Joe; the closing scene would just be noah going to his interview, seeing elena on tv, and going in with renewed confidence before it cuts to black.

#transformers #transformers rise of the beasts #ROTB #hasbro #maximals #autobots

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gabessquishytum · 1 year ago

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One night stand pregnancy shenanigans!!

Modern Day AU - Death still challenges Dream to talk to brash Hob Gadling (maybe Hob is an up and coming star//old high school crush//silly reasons business rival) instead of actually settling their specious issues, they have a night, or weekend, of hot fantastic sex...........and one of them falls pregnant.

Because they're idiots and dumb-asses, whichever one is pregnant declines to tell the other and goes through it alone; they could have, and would have (will) fall in forever love with each other if they gave the other a chance, but IDIOTS.

They stay out of each other's ways until bb!Orpheus or bb!Robyn are toddler enough to get lost and run up to their father, who is the safest person they could find to get them back to papa. Because while they might not talk to each other they have no qualms about telling their child how wonderful their other father is, so of course bb recognizes him and goes to his daddy for help when he's lost.

Ommggg I'm imagining super brash, slightly annoying super rich CEO Hob who's business just got craaaazy popular. Dream is a long-suffering executive in the same industry, and they're kinda rivals but not really - anyway, there's a conference. They both attend. Passionate unprotected sex occurs.

And then suddenly Hob disappears. He hands the reigns of the company over to a trusted employee, and vanishes from the industry entirely. Dream is perplexed, and he thinks about Hob a lot (he can't help himself) but he moves on with his own life and goals.

Then one day a few years later, at the big museum nearby, Dream feels a tug on his hand. There's a small boy beside him, looking rather worried and clutching a stuffed duck in his arms. "I lost daddy." He says, morosely. "You look like other daddy. Help?"

Of course it's only a minute before Hob sprints down the corridor and practically snatches Robyn up into his arms. He and Dream are just standing and staring at each other in the middle of the museum, until Dream is like "......other daddy???"

In the museum cafe, Hob gives Dream the lowdown: he realised he was pregnant, managed to convince himself that Dream actually didn't like him and wouldn't want their child, and pretty much ran away. Basically as soon as he had Robyn he realised that he fucked up, but was never sure how he could just. Show up on Dream’s doorstep with a baby. So he stayed away but made sure that he told Robyn all about Dream, so that one day he could hopefully make contact.

Dream sits there with Robyn asleep on his lap while Hob apologises over and over... and all he wants to do is take Hob home, and cuddle both him and Robyn forever and ever. They end up having their first (well, not first, but first after a break) kiss in the gift shop - as Robyn wisely observes: 'yucky!!!'

Then again, he might be saying 'ducky'. Dream has a little bit of catching up to do on toddler language!!

#the sandman #dreamling #nsft #cw pregnancy

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ceph-the-ghost-writer · 10 months ago

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For Renato: 🍁 Where does your OC go when they need to have some time to themself? Would they ever have their own “comfort corner” filled with all the things they like? Do they have a favourite spot outside that feels like its theirs and theirs alone?

Isaac: 🌻 What little things do they notice about people or the world around them that make them happy? What tiny little treasures do they find in the normal every day that makes the world seem a little brighter for them?

Elfy: 🌳 What is your OC’s favourite way to relax after a stressful day? Do they have a favourite book to curl up with? A hobby? Or do they have a nice bubble bath and have an early night to bed?

Hey, K! Thanks for sending some asks. :D

From this list

He does have his own room at the Unseen Hand's manor house/guild hall. That's where his beloved fish stay, of course, and he'll often watch them to relax while he's there. He also invested a lot of money into having a ridiculously huge four poster bed with a great mattress, both for sleeping and, ah, having company over. His walk-in closet contains a hoard of designer clothing and shoes.

Of course, Ollie or Mergus or someone could bother him there, so Renato sometimes just checks into a fancy hotel for a few days to get away. He typically spends the early part of the night by the pool, occasionally swimming, but mostly maintaining his tan under the UV lights or being admired by anyone else cool enough to go out for a night swim.

If he truly wants to be alone, though, Renato will take a dinghy out when he's by the coast. He'll sail until he can't see anything but black water below and glittering stars above. If he's in a particularly morose mood, he'll imagine sitting there and watching a final sunrise. Once being alone with his thoughts becomes too much, he'll head back to shore, inevitably catch the eye of someone who's taken with his wistful expression, and the charming mask is put back on.

For Isaac:🌻 What little things do they notice about people or the world around them that make them happy? What tiny little treasures do they find in the normal every day that makes the world seem a little brighter for them?

He's very much an appreciator of little things, despite what his grouchy demeanor might suggest. Animal and people watching are a big part of this.

Back at his apartment in Chicago, Isaac always gives any leftover takeout to the crows and pigeons on his street. He likes watching the birds' antics and listening to their calls to one another. He's also one of those people who amazes cat owners when their normally skittish beasts approach Isaac and are purring in his lap within minutes. He knows it's just a matter of respecting their space and not being pushy, but he enjoys being the guy who's "good with animals".

Learning the why's and how's behind something brings Isaac a lot of pleasure, whether it's history, a machine, physics, whatever. He actually stops to read plaques on sites of interest and museum exhibits. (This is at least part of why he and Dorian hit it off.)

As far as people watching goes, he likes catching little moments of tenderness or peace. Someone smiling as they whisper a secret into a friend or partner's ear. A person reading on a blanket at the park with their dog beside them. A parent helping their child button a coat. Granted, these also make him a bit wistful too since he (foolishly) thinks he'll never experience these kinds of things himself.

For Elfy: 🌳 What is your OC’s favourite way to relax after a stressful day? Do they have a favourite book to curl up with? A hobby? Or do they have a nice bubble bath and have an early night to bed?

Surprise: Elfy prefers to blow off steam by going out, getting some drinks, and nine times out of ten going home with someone she met at the bar. Of course, if she's a) already hungover or b) tired from a long assignment she'll hang with Isaac or some of her other friends to watch movies and relax for a rare moment.

Her other favorite pastime is combing antique and salvage shops for potentially haunted/cursed objects. She prefers Isaac to accompany her on these searches--she knows she found something good when his face scrunches up a certain way.

#dysthanasia #writeblr #answered asks #writing asks

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