#SO THAT WAS AN INTERSTING FACT I NEVER CONSIDERED

[briyourmotherdown]

cool water ★ part I

James Hetfield x fem!reader

★ everyone is running from something ★

Words: 6.7k

Warnings: i know nothing about arizona and it shows. VERY incorrect timeline. mentions of rehab and alcoholism. james is a moody prick. 18+ in the future but part I is PG minus some swearing.

A/N: so i'm asking you all, please, PLEASE be kind to me because this is the first fic i've written in well over a year and the first metallica one I've ever posted. this is so unbelievably self indulgent it's insane. title named after a marty robbins song because that's where this whole idea stemmed from. i tried not to use y/n because i know some people hate that jhskjfhkjhfthftdhftkj. also i really really hope the fact that rehab is in here isn't a trigger or upsetting to anyone!!! it just makes sense for the plot. it's also very inspired by the some kind of monster documentary. this will probably be a shorter fit made up of a few parts but it may take a while since i'm literally about to graduate uni and i'm drawing in assignments. anyways i hope you enjoy <3

parts: (1), (2)

★

  A few states over, a little over a thousand miles and a few days long trek away, lies a life– packed crudely into a beat up Subaru with too many miles on the metre to go about adding another thousand. The air conditioning unit cracked out one state back, leaving only the rolled down windows to offer any sort of reprieve against the Western American summer heat. The unknown lies in the interstate ahead, yellow lines and road signs guiding you closer to your next destination. Only the front windows are open, the rear windows obstructed by precariously stacked belongings in unsealed cardboard boxes and garbage bags balanced against the glass. To roll them down would mean losing a good chunk of your clothing. 

   A map is sprawled out open on the passenger seat, red lines and circles marking the last stretch of your journey into Yuma County, Arizona. Golden light pours over countless acres of sprawling farmland ahead of you, the setting sun glaring into your eyes beneath your sin visor as you drive with one hand on the wheel and the other propping your head up against the open window. Your yellow Subaru is the only vehicle for miles, alone on the barren road as the sky fades into an inky blue. It’s eerie, being this alone. Eerie as you turn down yet another country lane, rolling the windows up. Eerie as you make sure the doors are locked and the gas tank full. Eerie for a girl who’d only left the city twenty-four hours prior, where such silence and solitude was such a rarity that you never stopped to consider what it felt like to actually be completely alone. 

   The night is still when you reach a stop sign, the hiss of crickets and cicadas audible even from inside the car. There’s no breeze that rustles the trees, nor a cloud to taint the clarity of the starry night sky. You feel as though you should be quiet and hold your breath, goosebumps raising on your skin. They only begin to subside when your headlights illuminate a sign reading Palo Verde Ranch. 

   Tires kick up dust as you roll down the tree-lined passage, inching closer and closer to where you will spend the next summer, checking the map one more time and breathing a sigh of relief when the trees part way to an opening. The ranch and lodgings look the same as the pictures in the brochure you were given, apart from being shrouded in a heavy darkness from the night. The porch lights are on, along with a few lamp posts circled by moths and mosquitoes. Pulling into an empty space next to a pick-up, you kill the engine and rest your head back against the headrest. The roar of the crickets seem even louder as you sit silently in the driver’s seat. 

   With a few final taps on your steering wheel with your fingers, you heave yourself from sitting position and stretch your aching legs, lifting your arms above your head before grabbing your suitcase from the backseat and forgoing the rest until tomorrow. It’s far too dark to go about it now. Boots crunch on gravelly dirt as you make your way to the lodging house, reading the brochure once more to check where the key is kept. It lays underneath a small terracotta pot, placed upside down and completely indiscrete. It makes you smile to yourself when you lift it up to examine it against the porch light– a small, metal cactus keychain hanging from it. You smack a mosquito from your arm as you unlock the door. 

   With a creak, the door opens up into the lodging house, though to you it seems more like a bungalow that had been converted into some sort of bed and breakfast. There’s a small kitchen to your left, under-cabinet lights casting an amber glow over the linoleum countertop and laminate floors. You take note of the humming refrigerator before turning to your right to examine a quaint sitting area, equipped with a floral printed sofa straight from the 1970s and a chestnut bookshelf housing a sparse assortment of books and magazines. It reminds you slightly of a waiting room– pretending to be lived in as to put you at ease. 

   Straight ahead lies the hallway, two doors on the left-hand side and three on the right, one of which has been left ajar. Upon further inspection, with slow, easy steps, you come to realise that it’s the bathroom, nose scrunching up slightly at the prospect of having to share one bathroom with multiple other people. On every door is a hand painted number, accented by flowers painted on in pastel colours. Very Bohemian, you note, eyeing the beaded curtain that hangs in the windowsill of the window at the end of the hall. Dim light spills from underneath doors three and four, but the other two remain dark. 

   Your room number is two. 

   Opening the door, you flick the light switch on before closing it behind you, a small puff of air escaping from between your lips as you take in the room. It’s cozy– genuinely, unlike the sitting room from before. It nearly reminds you of the room you’d grown up in, or, at least spent the earliest years of your childhood in. A golden oak bed sits against the wall in one corner of the room next to the window, fitted in cream and pale green floral patterned sheets. There’s a dresser-vanity and a wardrobe of the same golden oak, and a small nightstand next to the bed. On it beneath the small tiffany lamp lies an unopened note and a small plush teddy bear. 

   Tears fog your eyes as you sit on the edge of the bed and drop your suitcase at your feet. It feels so familiar– like a distant memory of a time in your life where things weren’t so turned upside down. A time when you weren’t running from something. Clutching the teddy bear against your chest, you open the note– a sweet, handwritten one from the owner of the land, welcoming you to your home for the summer. It tells you of breakfast in the main house at 10am, that there are fresh towels in the wardrobe, and that the vanity drawers tend to be a bit fiddly. 

   With a watery sigh, you blink up at the ceiling to clear your cloudy vision, flopping backwards onto the bed.

★

   James knew that he needed a distraction. 

   He knew better than to be around all the same people and places from how he was before. Breathing the same California air he knew and once loved now feels too thick in his lungs, like some sort of poisonous gas. 

   He knew better than to be around reminders. 

   Due to his therapist’s orders, James was to go somewhere different for a little while. In his words, to “relax, be at one with nature”. He had spread a pile of pamphlets across his desk, closing his eyes and laying his pointer finger down on the first one it came in contact with. Arizona didn’t seem to appeal to James’ bandmates as much as it did to his therapist. They had a hard enough time communicating as is, too many alcohol-fueled yelling matches only worsened by the unmade upcoming album that loomed over their shoulders. James wasn’t sure how he could make the album to begin with, not while he was walking this tightrope. If he was constantly teetering on the edge, how could he be a productive member of the band? 

   Part of him didn’t want to go. Running away from it all felt cowardly, as though he’s weak for not being able to handle what once was so normal. A few drinks at the bar with friends turned into something else, something monumental. Gigs, rehearsals, afterparties, bar to bar to bar to bar. People who once gave him comfort now only serve as reminders of how he has ended up. 

  His PA booked his flight and had his truck sent to meet him at the airport. His intentions were clear– he would spend a few months working on the ranch away from anything that might tempt him, and then he would return home in autumn and attempt to clean up the mess he had left behind. The mess in question haunted him on his flight, tension aching behind his eyes as he rubbed at them. Divorce papers. A band that might hate him, left hanging and waiting for him to get his shit together so that they can release another album. Loose ends, after loose ends. Mouth set in a straight line, he realises he’s clenching his fists, blunt nails pressing into his palms. 

   Settling in was fairly easy. There was only one suitcase to unpack, clothes folded neatly into the dresser and notebook placed haphazardly on the nightstand– blank paged and unopened. For a few days it was only him in the lodging house, resting and rising in silence, eating a bowl of cereal by the kitchen window before heading out to work on the ranch with Wayne, the owner’s husband. Wayne is a shorter man, or at least much shorter than James, with salt and pepper hair he keeps hidden beneath a straw hat, and a laugh that often turns into a smoker’s cough if your joke is good enough. Wayne is friendly and a hard-worker, unafraid to put James to work too. 

   A few days later, a couple more lodgers began filtering in, two men who based on their accents, come from the south. They didn't spare James a second glance, and James gratefully did the same in return. There was no need for making friends.

   When you arrived it shook up his routine. He now had to wait for his morning showers, entering only after you had spent far longer than he would’ve liked, only to be met with fogged up mirrors and the scent of vanilla and jasmine. He could hear music playing gently through the thin walls, some shit from the 70s that he wasn’t into, and he’d have to put up with the way you’d softly hum along. Truthfully, he avoided bumping into you at all costs. There was no concern of seeing you at breakfast or dinner– he skipped them in favour of some cheap crappy microwave meal– and he worked more on the ranch with Wayne while you settled into tending the vegetable garden. 

   Avoiding you seemed like a waste of time, however, because you didn’t notice him anyway. You always seemed too lost in your own head, focussed entirely on pulling weeds to notice him walking back and forth by you, carrying bags of feed. He didn’t offer a greeting, or even his name, but then again neither did you, and he was more than happy to keep his distance. 

   Your name only came up one day as James was sitting with Wayne. They’d both spent hours of the morning tending to the stables in the intense heat, James doing most of the heavy-lifting, and took refuge under the shade of a large tree. After collecting a few random chopped logs and sticks, James took out his pocketknife and began carving. Wayne spoke of plans to make his wife a wooden sculpture of a cactus for their front porch, with James silently shucking away at the wood to bring it to a sharp point. 

   In the distance you’re harvesting crops from the vegetable garden, wearing denim cutoffs and a t-shirt with the sleeves torn off. From here James thinks he can spot the image of Garfield printed on the front. He stares for longer than he should, eyes trailing down the expanse of your bare legs, and admittedly, over your behind when you turn and lean down to grab a shovel. 

   Wayne breaks through the intensity of his gaze by saying a name, the glass shattering when James averts his eyes and returns to sharpening the wooden shiv with care. His finger slips against the grain and he winces, plucking the splinter from his thumb, “That girl. She’s here from Seattle.” 

   He remains silent, lip twitching with a hint of annoyance at the older man’s intrusion. Yet he lets your name settle in his mouth, silently testing the way it feels on his tongue. Aware that he was caught, he keeps his eyes trained intensely on his craft to avoid Wayne’s gaze. 

   “Pretty, ain’t she?” Wayne muses, stripping bark from an ash log and looking at you in the distance as you pick weeds from the cauliflower beds, “We don’t usually get people like her out here,” he turns to James, simpering, “Don’t usually get rockstars ‘neither.” 

  He turns away to continue stripping the log and James uses the moment to steal another look at you. The sun beats down on your back and you wipe sweat from your brow with your bare forearm, pushing a few loose hairs back that had fallen from your ponytail. There’s a half empty sack of compost on the ground by your feet that stains the tips of your gloved hands. You look tired, standing back from the garden bed to study your handiwork before tilting your head all the way back to soak up the sun, hands on your hips. When you turn and glance in James’ direction, squinting your eyes through the heat mirage, he averts his gaze, once again all too aware of Wayne and the way the man lifts his hand to wave dramatically at you. 

   He doesn’t look up to see if you wave back. 

   He sees you again that late afternoon, in the same way he always sees you— in small vignettes, in short scenes that make him think momentarily that you might just be a figment of his imagination. He sees you walking past him with a crate full of lettuce, too focused on not dropping any from the heaped pile to pay him any notice. He sees you when he walks by the wire fence, where you’re being walked through the steps of feeding the chickens in the coop. He sees you now, entering the same house he’s staying in, the same one he’s walking to, only a few paces behind. 

   But still, you seem to pay him no mind, as if he’s a ghost. He thinks he might be one if it weren’t for the acknowledgment of Wayne and his wife, Marie. The other workers don’t much like him, interpreting his silence as him being a stuck up rockstar. He wonders if it’s for any reason that you don’t notice him. Does he skulk around too quietly? Sure, he’s not been the most conversational since he’s been here, but he’s sure you would’ve at least noticed him.

   It really bugs him. 

   For a man whose profession is to be seen and to be heard, he typically really likes fading into the shadows in his everyday life. There had been too many days of butting heads with Lars, too many arguments with his ex, too many paparazzi, too many expectations of him. He was only one man, and he knew he was too fucked up to be a role model for anyones kids. Before he entered rehab, he enjoyed the anonymity of a small town bar and the way no one knew who he was there. If they did, they didn’t care, clinking pints with him over the bar as if he was just another one of them. And even though Wayne and Marie do talk to him and put him to work, they still treat him like all the others staying on the farm for the season. And he does enjoy the fact that Wayne and Marie seem to pay him no mind, as well as the other workers. 

   But when he really thinks about it, he doesn’t like slipping into the shadows as much as he thought he did. Perhaps it’s his ego talking, but he at least likes being acknowledged. 

  It was as if you didn’t even know he was there. 

  It bugs him as he opens the door behind you after you’d let it close, watching you saunter down the hall and into the room only a door away from his own, not offering a glance as you shut it behind you. It bugs him as he makes his way into his own room, sitting at the edge of the bed and rubbing his hands over his tired face. It bugs him even more when he hears your door open and close again, squeaking on its hinges, followed by the click of the bathroom door and the rush of the shower turning on. 

   You claimed the shower before he could, as you always seem to do. Only today he had worked hard, back sore and legs aching with strain. Annoyance twitches at his lip but he tries to brush it off, taking deep breaths, groaning lowly as he lays back onto the bed. The day's work sits heavily in his bones and he shifts uncomfortably. He feels grimy, a layer of sweat having dried on his skin, sticking the Arizona desert sand to the hairs on his arms. He grimaces and tries to brush some off.

   Minutes pass while he waits for you to finish in the bathroom, then more, and after thirty minutes he’s grown more and more impatient with you, rising from the bed and storming into the hallway. He doesn’t take any time to notice that the shower has stopped running, the blood rushing too loudly through his ears, and as he’s about to aggressively rap his knuckles against the door, it swings open. You jump back with a start when you see him, his fist raised and face twisted in irritation. 

   Momentarily, he’s stunned, face contorting into an expression that matches your own as his eyes trail over your form– wet hair against your shoulders and fresh skin dewey with what he assumes is lotion. You’re gripping your towel tightly in one hand, the other clutching a toiletry bag. 

   As he lowers his hand, he realises that this is the first time you’re noticing his existence. Wide eyes glimmer up at him shyly, lips parted from the shock of opening the door to a man standing angrily directly on the other side. 

   With that realisation comes another—actually, two realisations that took him possibly too long to register– the fact that you’re almost naked, and he’s blocking your way out of the bathroom. Embarrassment nips viciously at the back of his neck, tinting the tips of his ears pink as he takes a step back. 

  James has never been good with embarrassment. His ego always gets in the way or gets him into trouble. Sure, it has won him many arguments, much to the chagrin of his opponents, but it has also gained him the title of an egotistical asshole to many people. Whenever James becomes embarrassed, the outcome is always the same– confrontational, cruel, unnecessary words he doesn’t really intend to say bubble up in his throat before he has any chance to stop them. 

   “Knowing that there’s only one bathroom, you should be more aware of how fucking long you take.” 

   He snaps his mouth shut the second the words are out, lips pressing together in a firm line. You raise your eyebrows at him, taken aback at the gruff rudeness of his tone. 

   You want to say something. Some witty comeback or even something to match his hostility, but your tongue struggles to find any words. Words have never come easily to you in the first place, always choosing to be quiet unless you’re around people you know, but they especially don’t come when you’re half naked and an angry, 6’1” man is towering over you. 

   All you can muster is a small, “I’m sorry.” as you push past him and retreat to your room. 

  James is paralysed in his spot, the increasingly familiar scent of vanilla and jasmine wafting over him from the bathroom as you walk away, listening to the door slam behind you. He’s not sure how long he stays standing in place, fists clenched at his sides with frustration directed at both you and himself. With a defeated sigh, he locks himself into the bathroom, turning on the shower. Once he’s stepped in he wastes no time in pressing his forehead against the cool tile, cursing himself for not being able to hold his tongue. 

   James really wants to spend the evening the same way he’d been doing, skipping dinner and smoking a cigar out on the front steps, but Marie had taken notice and when she bumped into him earlier in the day, had all but forced him into promising to come to dinner tonight. It didn’t sound appealing at all. It felt like fucking summer camp, having to sit around a big table with everyone staying at the ranch and talk about your day and the work everyones’ been doing. He’d quite honestly rather starve. 

   It didn’t help that he assumed you would be there. 

   He had made up his mind that he disliked you. The annoyance of  the way you’d practically ignored him for a week seems to only have increased with the duration of your shower. It was like you had no consideration for anyone else and didn’t look past the tip of your nose. He didn’t want to eat at the same table as you for that reason, is what he told himself. Not because he saw you in your towel and was so unnecessarily rude to you, no– James doesn’t do embarrassed. 

   He’s taken a nap directly after his shower, waking up even groggier and in an even worse mood, throwing on clean clothes and making his way down to the main house where Marie would be making dinner. The front door is already open when he gets there, and he takes an already exasperated breath before entering, 

   The smell that meets him is already mouthwatering, as much as he hates to admit it, and for a moment it makes him question why he’d skipped out on dinner for the past week. Wayne greets him as he walks in, already sitting around a large wooden table with a few men he recognises from around the ranch. Wayne has a cigar attached to his mouth, bobbing as he talks. 

   “James!” He exclaims, raising his hands in the air to greet him warmly, “Come on in, you should meet my guys.” 

   James nods curtly, having already met them in passing and discovered they didn’t much like him. But he puts up with it for Wayne’s sake, standing over the table but not sitting down, nodding in acknowledgment as he introduces everybody. They seem nice enough, greeting him with smiles, apart from two men at the end of the table who don’t so much as return James’ nod. They’re Dylan and Wes, the other two lodgers in the house. They offer him forced smiles, but James can see that the second Wayne turns his head to speak to someone else, they narrow their eyes in his direction. For a moment he wonders if you’d met them– if they treated you in the same way or if you hadn’t even noticed them in the same way you did him. 

   With that thought, Marie comes bounding in, wielding a wooden spoon in one hand, “James!” she grins, “I’m so pleased you came,” 

   She diverts her attention to Wayne, smacking him on the shoulder with the wooden spoon and scolding him in Spanish. The cigar between the man’s lips threatens to fall, but miraculously remains sturdy as he says something back, a sheepish expression on his face. 

   Marie rolls her eyes and turns back to James, “You, help me in the kitchen because my bum of a husband apparently has better things to do.” 

   Any other time James may have cringed at the idea– he’s not the best chef– but now, as he turns to glance at Dylan and Wes who stare at him with a look of contempt, he takes the out and follows Marie into the kitchen. 

   The moment he enters, his eyes land on you where you stand chopping vegetables at the butcher’s block island. You’re not looking at him yet, too focussed on dicing a tomato, and he takes a second to look at you. Your hair has dried, thrown back into a ponytail while you’re cooking, and you wear a white cotton sundress with thin straps that contrast against your skin. It’s different to how he’s seen you dressed, in denim cut-offs and cowboy boots, and for a moment he’s halted in the doorway to watch you. 

   “Could you shuck this corn?” Marie asks James, and your eyes finally snap up to look at him, trailing over his attire before you quickly go back to chopping. 

   He clears his throat with a small sure, taking his place across from you at the butcher’s block. You don’t dare to look up at him again, hoping that he doesn’t see the blush that tints the tops of your cheeks. 

   “You’re both very quiet, you know that?” Marie laughs, stirring a pot both metaphorically and literally, “Come on! Talk to each other.” 

   A short silence follows, painful and uncomfortable and it makes your skin crawl, clearing your throat and daring to glance at James. You break the silence by offering your name, extending some sort of peace offering.

   He doesn’t seem to extend the olive branch in return. uttering a gruff, “James,” as he shucks another ear of corn. 

   You nod, You’d hoped that he’d say more to make you feel less nervous, hands shaking slightly as you hold the knife. You knew his name already– Marie had told you a few days ago when she caught you staring at him while he repaired the broken gate near the stables– shirtless.  He had been sweating, lugging planks of wood from the shed on the other side of the lot, tattoos and bare skin glowing. Marie had snorted at your pink cheeks and made a smart comment about how he could fix your gate– whatever that meant. You’d been stealing glances at him since, averting your gaze quickly whenever he would begin to turn his head.

  You soon became aware of his dislike for you, and other than the earlier shower incident, you can’t think of why. You tried to stay out of his way as much as possible, which wasn't hard considering he hadn’t showed up to dinners so far, and always kept to himself except for when he was working with Wayne.

   It really bugs you. 

   You sigh when he doesn’t say anything else, glancing at Marie who’s back is to you as she leans over a large pot of stew, hoping that the heat of your gaze might burn just enough for her to turn around and save you. No dice. 

   “I–” You begin, “The gate looks really good.” 

   Instant regret rushes over you as a look of confusion paints his features, brows furrowed. You rush to explain, “The- the one by the stables, I saw you fixing it. It looks really good. I haven’t had to scale the fence to get through since.” 

   You embellish your compliment with a breathy laugh, audibly nervous, cursing yourself at your ability to make things so much worse. He didn’t return the laugh, and in fact, it seems that somehow your compliment had soured his expression even further. 

   “Thanks.” He deadpans, averting his gaze from yours and back to the corn. 

   You sigh, chopping another tomato. 

   Meanwhile James is internally kicking his own ass, unsure of why he can’t be fucking normal, intending to say one thing and actually saying another. He watches you from his place across the counter, the concerned furrow of your brow, pinched in the middle, to your nimble fingers diligently doing what Marie had instructed you to do. He feels a flash of guilt in the pit of his stomach. Maybe he misunderstood you. After all, you had noticed him– the gate was proof of that. Maybe he wasn’t as invisible to you as he thought he was. But that still leaves one question unanswered– if you noticed him, why did you intentionally ignore him? It’s silly and it’s childish, but it’s enough for him to continue on with his negative opinion of you.

   Time goes by wordlessly between you both, Marie instead taking the time to explain everything she was doing in detail, sure to send both of you home at the end of the night with the recipe for Birria engraved in your brains. Time passes this way until the table has been set and the food is ready, Marie ushering you both out of the kitchen and to the dining table. 

  The only three empty seats are lumped together, one of which is at Wayne’s side. It would be rude to sit where you know his wife would be sitting, so you take the next one with a small frown, waiting for James to take the one next to you. You’re aware that he’s not happy with the arrangement, and for a moment you wonder if he would take Marie’s chair, but he doesn’t and instead fills the vacant spot on your other side.  The table is tightly packed, and due to James’ frame, he has to keep his shoulders pinched together slightly to avoid rubbing them against yours. It’s nearly insulting, watching the amount of effort the man puts into not touching you, rolling your eyes to yourself as you eat the food Marie (and you and James, but mostly Marie) had prepared. 

   “So…,” 

   The mention of your name has your head snapping up, paused with your fork halfway raised to your mouth to look around at who had said your name. Your eyes fall on Dylan, who’s sat at the table directly across from you. You’d only met him once before and hadn’t really been able to form much of an opinion on him. He’s around your age, maybe a bit younger around twenty-three, with shaggy brown hair he let fall over his blue eyes and a smile that had a tinge of something you couldn’t quite put your finger on. He had helped you reach a pair of garden shears from the top shelf of the shed, and all you’d talked about within that span of two minutes was your names and where you were from. 

   “Hm?” You hum in acknowledgment.

   “You mentioned you’d stayed in Europe for a while, what was that like?” 

   You recognise the invitation of small talk, and you’d be thankful for it if it were just the two of you, but as everyone’s eyes settle on you for your response, you feel a little put on the spot. 

   “Uh, yeah, it was really cool,” you swallow, “Beautiful architecture.” 

   It’s a lame comment, and you're aware of it, but you're not sure of what else to say at the moment. Dylan nods slowly, eying you up and down in a way that makes you squirm nervously. 

   Wayne comes to your rescue, “James, have you been to Europe? I imagine y’have.” 

   The man beside you freezes, and he’s close enough that you can feel the tension, shifting in his chair. His bicep rubs against yours for the first time and you inhale quietly.

  “Yeah,” he sniffs, “Been a few times.” 

  “You been there on tour, I imagine?” 

  This piques your interest, eyes flitting to look at James profile. His jaw is clenched as he nods, “That’s correct.” 

   “On tour?” You ask. 

  He turns to you, and the intensity of his eyes this close up almost makes you regret asking. He nods, “My band tours here and there.” 

   “Ha! Understatement,” Wes snorts from across the table, southern accent strong through his laugh, “Mr. Big Shot over here has toured a whole lot more than just ‘here n’ there.”  

   He holds his fingers up in air quotes to emphasise his words, and you’re left confused. Mr. Big Shot? You thought James looked slightly familiar, but couldn’t place from where, so you’d just brushed it off as nothing. You turn to look at him again, studying his face and racking your brain to think of where you might have seen him before. It would make sense for him to be in a famous band, but which one? And why would someone in said famous band be out here in the middle of nowhere? 

   “What band?” You ask, ignoring Wes. 

   James looks uncomfortable, “Uh, Metallica.” 

   It’s as if bells go off in your head, piecing it all together and finally realising where you've seen him before. It wasn’t just one place you’d seen his face, but many. He’d been everywhere, on MTV, on the front covers of magazines on the newsstands back home, on billboards– dare you say Wes wasn’t too far off by calling him a Big Shot. 

   “Oh,” is all that comes out despite the revelation– despite the fact that you’re now painfully  aware of how famous he is. Your pre-existing nerves have only worsened with this newfound information, struggling to get a bite of your food down, wincing. 

   James, however, takes your lack of response and pained expression the wrong way and gets on the defensive, scoffing into his glass of water before slamming it down. The entire table goes quiet, and he doesn’t miss the way you flinch at his action, momentarily pausing to meet your gaze. Your eyes are wide as they lock with his, confusion written all over your face.

   He pushes his chair back from the table and stands up, “If you’ll excuse me.” 

   You watch his back as he retreats through the front door, letting it slam behind him. You flinch again and turn to look at Marie, who’s sitting next to her husband with a distraught look on her face. Sighing, you stand up and place your napkin on the table.

   “Dinner was absolutely wonderful, Marie, please excuse me.” 

   Marie flashes you a sympathetic glance as you walk to the door, and despite their chittering you don’t care to look at the expressions worn by Dylan and Wes. Instead, you make your way out of the house and down the front steps. The evening has finally matured into darkness, the pathway to the lodge lit only by lamp posts and strings of fairy lights that Marie had just put up earlier today. You’re not sure where to look for James, or even if you should be looking in the first place. If you truly are the cause of his bad mood, surely you’d be the last person able to talk some sense into him; but curiosity eats away at you, the need to fix whatever you’ve done gnawing at your stomach.

   It doesn't take too long to find him, sitting on the front steps of the lodge, mostly shrouded in shadows except for the orange cast of the fairy lights. 

   “Hey,” you offer carefully, slowing your pace as you near him. 

   You debate whether or not to sit next to him on the stairs, thinking it might piss him off if you do, but awkwardly rocking on your heels feels even worse. You take a seat next to him with a light huff, making sure to keep your arms from brushing against his like at the dinner table. He’s smoking a cigar, the burning tobacco lighting up his face ever so slightly on each inhale. Though he doesn’t verbally acknowledge your greeting, he doesn't leave either. As if he’s waiting for you to say something worth his while. 

   “I’m sorry, you know,” you offer softly, “I’m not quite sure what I did to upset you, but whatever it was, I’m sorry.” 

   He remains quiet, the sounds of the crickets and cicadas deafening. You exhale a sigh of defeat, tilting your head up to glance at the vast array of stars in the clear sky, counting the brightest stars until you lose your place. 

   James isn’t quite sure what to say. The longer he’s left to sit with his thoughts, the more he doesn’t understand what you’ve done to bug him so much. There’s been an explanation for every misunderstanding so far, leaving no reasons for his disdain, yet for some reason he just feels immensely frustrated by you. It’s something he feels under his skin, fizzing in his blood uncomfortably. He’s starting to wonder if it’s even got anything to do with you to begin with, or if this entire trip out to the desert has backfired and he’s got too much time and space to think about his life. Stress eats away at him, bubbling up slowly. 

   “I’m sorry about hogging the shower,” you ramble, “I didn’t realise you were waiting for it and I just got kinda…kinda lost in thought, I’ll hurry up next time.” 

   Nothing. It’s radio silence on his end, the air so thick that you feel it clouding your lungs along with the smoke from his cigar. You can’t stop your mouth from running, ”And it’s really cool that you’re in Metallica, I um, I don’t really know much about you guys but-”

   “You can stop,” he interrupts, the stress bubbling over, your face flaring with heat you’re glad he can’t see in the lighting. ”I don’t really care, honestly.” 

   He looks at you for the first time in the last five minutes, emotions flat and guarded, and for the first time since you’d met him, you feel your own anger rise up in your stomach instead of nerves– frustration, annoyance, fatigued with his attitude. 

   “Look,” you stand up, “I don’t know what I did to deserve this, but I’d appreciate it if you'd stop being a total dick.” 

   He puts out his cigar, standing up to tower over you, not letting you have the upperhand of being taller than him. He opens his mouth to speak but you don’t let him. 

   “All day, you’ve been awful to me, and we just met. I don’t get it, what’s your problem?” 

   He scoffs, “I have a whole fuckin’ list of problems, sweetheart, don’t feel special.” 

   You stare, dumbfounded, arms crossed over your chest, “Yeah? And what about it?” you challenge, eyes narrowed, “Why do you think I’m here, huh? We’ve all got our shit, we’ve all got things we’re running away from, what makes you think you can treat me like shit for no reason? Because if this is how it’s going to be all summer then I’m already real fucking tired of it.” 

   Cicadas are the only thing you receieve in return, the chirping filling the empty space between you and James. There’s nothing. There’s no apology to speak of, not even any retaliation. His face is void of emotion, hands dug into his pockets as he stands and stares. 

   His stare is intense and unmoving, but there’s something hidden behind it. It’s almost a sort of hollowness, as if this is something he’s been through a billion times before. It almost makes you falter, trying your hardest to search his eyes for any clues as to what he may be thinking. But his eyes are still those of a stranger’s, and you can’t place exactly what it is that he’s thinking. Shaking your head, you finally back down, taking a step back. 

   “I came here to apologise, and I did. I have nothing else to say,” you turn to the lodge and step towards the stairs, “But Marie didn’t deserve that shit you pulled tonight. I think she at least deserves an apology.” 

   The words hang between you in the night, heavy and oppressive. There’s a moment where your fingertips hesitate over the doorknob, casting one last look in James’ direction in hopes that he would say something. But he’s remained stoic, gaze set hard towards where you’re standing, hands shoved into his pockets. Shaking your head again, you step inside, leaving him in the dark. 

   Only when you’re gone does he rub his hands over his face and swear under his breath. With a sigh that holds the weight of the world, he takes begrudging steps back towards Marie and Wayne’s house. 

★

A/N: god pls bear with how slow and badly written this felt. anyways i hope you enjoyed jsdhgkjshdkjhgsdjg

[do-not-reply11]

 A Heartfelt Message

(FIND THE FULL FIC ON MY WATTPAD @do-not-reply)

Grover Underwood x reader

The call of the Gods is a hard harrowing journey in itself. You should be halfway across America now that you've crossed the South Dakota interstate boundary, but your journey is far from over. The possibility of seeing Grover once this is all done is the only thing keeping you going. There had been a major disturbance of the peace, and thus your quest to sort out the problem was born, as the source had originated in a place where no Gods land.

You weren't the greatest public speaker, so when Chiron initially approached you about the quest, you weren't interested in accepting it. As a representative of the Gods and the half-blood camp, you would be speaking on their behalf while submitting to any consequences that came with your position. Monsters and creatures alike were growing excited to see which would fall first as the debate about the possibility of war intensified, with humanity at stake. Therefore, it was more beneficial to toss a demigod in their place and wait for something bigger to bite.

You were assigned to go alone, which is even worse. Though, you're not much of a leader in a way that you could lead a troop into the heart of America or keep watch. Not that you weren't the best at interacting with people; in fact, back at camp, you're considered a social butterfly when you work out with the kids from the Athena cabin or race around the chariot tracks with the kids from the Demeter cabin.

The quest had led you to Minnesota in the back of a moving truck that was for a renaissance circus that was relocating, and you were wedged between two sacks of coffee beans and using a wooden box labelled as FRAGILE  as a headboard.  The aroma of coffee beans fills the air, and as you find yourself alone, your thoughts always turn to Grover—his lovable smile, his kindness, and his goofy jokes. You worried about leaving camp without telling Grover about your journey and not being able to tell him about it beforehand. He's the only person at camp who has never kept secrets from you. He was an open book, yet you have kept this selfish secret to yourself. Exhaustion licked your eyelids. You were gradually falling asleep to the sound of the truck's wheels dragging over gravel roads. Yet, when you hear the familiar shimmer of water rippling, you're wide awake. For a hot second, you think it might be Chiron checking in on how the quest is going, or maybe giving you a heads-up right before you get to your final stop. You groan in frustration, already sick of this journey and its stupid rules. Staring at you from the other side of the portal isn't the camp activities director, but him. It's Grover. 

"Hey, Grover—" You start, rushing to push yourself up against the coffee bags, but the look he has on his face freezes you in place, and you practically melt back into the crevice of the coffee sacks. You notice straight away that he's been picking at his horns again. You remember the first day you met Grover while on the chase of a curious beast who had caught your interest, and in turn, led to run into him when you genuinely ran into Grover face first.

"Are you in the back of a truck?" Grover's eyes have sunken in and stress lines crinkle his youthful face, now sporting a look of torment. He calls your name so soft, "Where did you go?" And your heart sinks. "I thought we were friends..." 

"We are." You reply in earnest, but it's too late and your heart is beating out of control as his glare sharpens through the shimmering rainbow. 

"Friends don't just disappear without a word. They don't go off on a quest without telling anyone, let alone vanish into thin air for an entire week!" His voice rises, matching the strain that is beginning to develop in your shoulders as your body begins to tremble violently. The pain in his voice almost forces you to smash through the wall that separates you from the driver's seat and order them to turn around. "Why didn't you tell me you were leaving?"

You open your mouth to explain, though nothing comes out. Unlike your defensive nature to retort, there was no reply coming to your mind. No banter, no excuses, though you had none. You knew you should've told him. Of course, you should have, but how could you? He has so many responsibilities, and you... you couldn't burden him with this. The guilt gnaws at you as you fumble for an excuse. "Why didn't you tell me you were leaving?" Grover repeats, and this time, there's no stopping the hurt that spills into his voice. "And why did I have to find out from Chiron, of all people?"

[marta-bee]

Rachel Maddow's recent piece on J.D. Vance reminded me of an intersting fact about him. I don't really buy her analysis for why Trump chose Vance for V.P., but I also don't want to do a deep dive into that. Rather, let's talk about the Tolkien element.

See, among other things Vance was a venture capitalist who was groomed by Peter Thiel, the ultra-rightwing even bigger venture capitalist investor who among other things provided some early funding for Facebook. His views on freedom and the common good aren't so far from Elon Musk's. He's also owned or invested in companies like Palantir, Anduril, and Mithril; Vance himself is part-owner in another investment firm, Narya.

Apparently the Tolkien schtick is a bit of a thing with the far right.

I'm not surprised; I've certainly heard of a certain kind of fan who ties Tolkien's good guys to a kind of northern-European heroic past. And I'm not blind to where that reading comes from, if you plot Middle-earth on a map you can draw some pretty racist one-to-one connections. Shire=Englad, Rohan=old Germanic highlands, Gondor=.... Italy I guess? or Greece? some sort of Mediterranean high-classic society? And the less said about Harad, Easterlings, Druedain and Orcs in this analogy, the better, obviously.

I do wish these tech-bros cosplaying as heroic white-saviors would read a bit of the Silmarillion. (When is that not the case?) Or even The Hobbit, because the idea that evil folk are centered in what we might think of as Arda-Africa and Arda-Near Asia just doesn't hold up. Smaug attacked Erebor from the North. Angmar, as in Witch King of? Also from the far North. Similarly for Angband, Morgoth's fortress in the First Age. And without looking it up, I'm pretty sure Ungoliant -- you know, the devourer of light, the giant spider allied with Morgoth when he destroyed the Two Trees -- was from the wastes to the far north of Valinor. So much for a fantasy of Nordic white power resisting the corruption of the hordes.

Which isn't to say Tolkien didn't have his problems with race, he clearly did. But this idea that the heroes of the Free Peoples of the West were all from fantasy-northern Europe is so very simplistic, it makes my teeth hurt. The closest I can get to this read of Tolkien is that all Middle-earth was meant to be northwest Europe, but that would include the free folk and the baddies alike. Minas Morgul is right there across the river from Minas Tirith. Ditto Dol Guldur and Thranduil's halls. Ditto again for Rohan and Isengard. The map just doesn't line up the way these idiots need it to, to make this fantasy work.

(Never mind anyone trying to put Tolkien on the side of historic-Nazism is just cuckoo bananas. Do I really need to dig out Jirt's admittedly hilarious response to his German publisher demanding he certify if he was of Aryan blood?)

But as fun as it is to bop the far right on the nose again and again, I think this focusing on literal racism misses the bigger point. I think a lot of the far-right drawn to Tolkien and other similar fantasy writers see the wolrd in rather apocalyptic terms: an existential threat to their civilization and everything they consider noble, a need for a hero to stand up against this age's Sauron. War must be, etc., etc.; and the stakes are so high, any niggling concerns we have about the proper way to obtain and exercise power must be overlooked. Our noble leader is the only one who can protect us against the encroaching darkness, and anyone who would stand against him might as well be an agent of Mordor.

The thing is, that doesn't sound like Gandalf, or Aragorn, or Frodo. If anything it reminds one of Denethor, who "saw in all the deeds of that time only a single combat between the lord of the White Tower and the Lord of Barad-dur; and mistrusted all others who resisted Sauron, unless they served himself alone."

Assume the Right is correct that we're facing an apocalyptic struggle against... entitled socialism-enabled laziness, or moral relativism, or multiculturalism, or wokeness, or whatever exactly it is. That people aren't doing noble and worthwhile things, they aren't working hard to build something that's worth preserving, that we are slipping into laziness and hedonism and whatever else and we're certainly not embracing virtue. If that was true, it's something I'd like to fight against. But the point of the far right, of Vance and Trump and all the rest, is it takes a singular hero to fight that fight for us. That we need to be marshalled and gathered under a single banner and commanded by a single voice.

There's no room for Smeagol to find the ring in the marshes of a certain riverbank, or for Bilbo's riddle-games, or for a decent Baggins of the Shire to stand up and say: I will take the Ring to Mordor, though I do not know the way. There's no room for chance meetings, or chance in any form; or for grace, or eucatastrophe, snatching joy from the jaws of despair.

And the thing is, Denethor was wrong. Not just because it wouldn't have worked, but his narrow vision came down to "mere politics," doing what must be done rather than what was truly right. That's kind of central to the narrative. It hurts me deeply to say that, because I'm usually so keen in my defense of him, and I truly do believe he's one of the most unfairly maligned characters in LOTR. But it's also true that the War and the necessity of Gondor's survival, the palantir and even his pride has really twisted his character, and he's just not capable of coming back from that. Gondor wouldn't have survived without him, I don't think, but precisely becuase of the way he had to shape himself to make that survival possible, there's very little place for him in the Gondor-to-Come. Moses didn't make it to the Promised Land, either.

J.D. Vance is no Moses, or even a Denethor. He's certainly not an Aragorn. And as for Frodo, if Vance would even deign to see himself as one of the Little Folk? Fuggedaboutit.

I'm rambling. This is my barely-edited, first-flush response to how wrong the idea that Tolkien's legendarium could be telling the same story as Vance & Co. I mean, I get it, I do, but also they're so very very wrong. The fact the wrongness is so blindingly obvious should probably tell us all something.

I would pay good money, though, to see him try to defend Elrond's letting Isildur walk away with the One Ring. Colbert should really get on that.

[tinkertoysdamn]

Stereo Hearts - We Built This City' Verse

Loki shuddered in irritation.  Things were progressing on the overall plan but the rogue Time Agents still needed help, specifically they needed raw muscle.  Mobius had made a suggestion, a good one in fact, but Loki was unhappy with it.  “I can’t believe we are considering this.”

“She was damn useful on the last mission.”  Mobius pointed out.  Thora Odinson had been not merely useful, but the powerhouse behind that particular success.  The fact that her presence had also annoyed Loki to no end was a bonus as far as Mobius was concerned.    

“Yes but she was also–”  Loki’s face screwed up in distaste.  “Pining.”  He spat out the word with great vitriol.  “Obviously.  Obnoxiously.”

It had gotten a little out of hand.  “Maybe if we pull her from another part of the timeline,” Mobius suggested.  

Loki lit up.  “Excellent idea.”  He clapped his hands together, pleased.  “Perhaps after some distance from those blasted Guardians, she’d be more tolerable.”

Considering how Loki had whined to Mobius about his own long-lost Sylvie, Mobius thought the trickster god was being a bit hypocritical.  Still—  “Here’s a good spot,” Mobius said, looking over his Tempad.  “It’s a few years later.”

Now fully on board with the idea, Loki’s eyes glittered.  “Do it.”

Once again, they teleported onto a spaceship, but this one was considerably larger and of a different make then the one they’d been on before.  “Good,” Loki muttered, “perhaps she’s taken up with new companions.”  

Then they heard the music.  It wasn’t nearly as old as that dreaded Pina Colada song, but it still made them pause.  It was entirely possible that Thora was traveling with others who liked Earth’s music, but it was doubtful.    

“Where’s it coming from?” Mobius whispered.  

Cautiously, they made their way down the hallway, ready for anything.  Except for perhaps that.

Up on a repair catwalk where two figures, one was partially buried in a vent, her fluffy tail peeking out and the other was Captain Brandy Quill.  Considering her state of dress, she had not been expecting company.  She was in a tank top and shorts, work gloves in place as they worked in tandem on a repair.  Every once and while she’d exaggerate a hip swing or a movement to dance along.  

Over the music Loki and Mobius could hear Rocket and Quill singing.  Judging from how they split up the duet, it was clear they had some practice.

“Appreciate every mixtape your friends make.  You never know, we come and go like on the interstate.”  Rocket’s voice was less than musically inclined, but it was earnest, carrying through the ship.  

Loki and Mobius lurked, not certain if they should draw attention to themselves or should sneak away without interrupting.  If they were careful enough, maybe they could avoid the wrath of the Captain entirely.     

It was then that the song shifted to the bridge.  Quill elected to stop her repair to tug on the mechanic’s creeper to get Rocket out of the vent, only to belt more of the song at her.  

“I only pray you never leave me behind—”

Rocket snickered under her breath.  “You always get so dramatic at this part.”

Quill was using her spanner as a microphone now.  “Because good music can be so hard to find.”

Rocket grinned.  “I should be filming.  Thunder Head would love this.”  

“I take your hand, hold it closer to mine.”  Quill was eating this up, chewing up the song and spitting it back out again with sheer unadulterated joy.  She tilted her head back, letting the spirit and lyrics pour out of her.  

“Thought love was dead, but now you're changing my mind!”    

“Okay,” Loki admitted to Mobius.  “She’s actually pretty good.”  Then he ducked as the spanner nearly collided with his head. 

Mobius jumped at the sound.  “Oh my god.”  

The music cut off.  Quill stared down at them with righteous anger.  “Don’t you dicks ever call?”

“Captain,” Loki tried to put on his most obsequious charm.  “Pardon the intrusion but this is only the second—”

“Fourth.”  Quill held up four fingers.  “Four times you flarking jerks have done this.”

“We’ve only been here twice,” Mobius said.  “I think I’d remember the other two.”

Rocket and Quill shared a disgusted look.  “Time travelers,” Rocket complained.  “At least it’s not in the middle of dinner this time.”

“Or when Tetrina’s trying to take a nap.”  Once again, the best friends shared a look, but this time one of a remembered agony.  

Things were getting off track.  Loki attempted to regain control.  “We’re here for—”

“We know.”  Quill pressed a button on her com-unit.  “Thora, your not-brother’s here again.  Collect him before we throw him out of the airlock for real this time.”

“Always with the airlock,” Mobius muttered.  

Quill wasn’t having it.  “Stop showing up unannounced and it won’t be a problem.”  

Less than a minute later, Thora barged into the room, already outfitted in her armor, her ax at the ready.  “Where are we going today?” Thora asked, beaming. 

“You seem awfully eager,” Mobius said.

“This is our fourth quest together,” Thora said.  “Why shouldn’t I be?”

Out of the corner of his eye, Loki could spot Quill making a “I told you” gesture. 

It seemed that his partnership with this variant of his brother would continue into the future.  Someway, somehow, Loki wouldn’t drive her away.  Loki found the thought more comforting than he would care to admit.    

“This shouldn’t be nearly so perilous as before,” Loki told her.  “But we need your strength regardless.”

“Excellent.”  Thora was more than up for the challenge. 

“Don’t bring her back full of holes this time,” Quill shouted down at them.  

“No promises,” Mobius said, dialing up the Tempad.  The Time Agents and Thor stepped through the portal, dodging any verbal barbs that Quill had left to throw at them.

As the portal closed, Thora said with a wide grin, "She's my girlfriend now."

Loki pinched the bridge of his nose. It had begun.

My heart's a stereo It beats for you, so listen close Hear my thoughts in every no-ote Make me your radio And turn me up when you feel low This melody was meant for you Just sing along to my stereo

[nietr]

Okay, if your interests lie in the occult, the esoteric, alchemy, magick, and all of those kinds of things in general and also find the Team Silent Silent Hill video games along with other things like, environmental storytelling, symbolism, and even psychiatry/psychology a big interest of yours and you have never watched Reinstall Paul's analysis and unpackaging of these games (in this case, the second installment), then boy do I Have a treat for you.

This is not your typical analysis of Silent Hill monsters and basic surface level deconstructions of said monsters and themes.

This is a very deep dive into just how how much of a masterpiece these original silent hill games were and how much blood sweat and tears went into creating such a profoundly deep game that most would just consider a "spooky game with spooky settings." and a walk through of the deepest yet most subtle symbolic things and pretty deep meanings behind the most seemingly minute things in these games most people would completely miss due to the fact that they're not even closely initiated in the most surface level of esoteric and occult concepts and symbolism.....

If you're interested in Silent Hill, and all of the things I just posted above, please give this dude's videos a minute of your time because it might blow your mind.

I've never in my life became a patereon for anyone nor donated to any other streamers for anything and yet chose to pay for this dude's deconstructions (videos early) because I found them so profound and so interesting and worth the couple of dollars considering the time and effort put into these breakdowns.

imo this is undoubtedly the smartest and best silent hill content creator even if he doesnt have a hundred hours of gameplay videos. This is a simple case of quality > quantity.

imo, best silent hill youtube content to ever exist. give it a chance if youre intersted in any of this... its worth it.

(btw he also has similar videos for silent hill 1 and 3 and this is just the first video out of a whole playlist for the second ilstallment.

Here is the full playlist (X) [for silent hill 2]

[woozapooza]

The Sopranos: The Verdict

Wow. That was a show. A very good show. Very cynical and depressing, very funny and endearing.

Early on, my impression was that the show was sort of poised between episodic and serialized storytelling. But ultimately, one of my favorite things about the show ended up being how continuous and coherent a story it told. Characters remain relevant long after they die. Lines spoken in season one are deliberately echoed in later seasons: in the pilot, Carmela tells Tony that he’s going to hell, and in “Whitecaps” he throws that back in her face; in the season one finale, Tony tells his kids to “remember the little moments like this that were good,” and in the series finale AJ reminds him of that advice. I love stuff like that. It makes the story feel so alive. 

Favorite character: without a doubt, Dr. Jennifer “Toodle-Fucking-Oo? What the Fuck Was That?” Melfi. I love her dedication to her work; I love her stubbornness; I love her professionalism; I love when her attitude gets in the way of her professionalism; I love her composure with her patients; I love how fiery and messy she can get when she’s not with her patients; I love her emphatic way of speaking; I love her thrill-seeking streak. I love her moral compass. She doesn’t always heed it, and you can disagree with how it’s calibrated, but it is calibrated nonetheless. Am I mixing metaphors? Can you “calibrate” a compass? Whatever. I love her. I could go on and on about her, and I will do so in future posts (for example, I WILL be making a post about The Blue Comet at some point because oh boy do I have thoughts about that episode), but to wrap up this bullet point: she’s one of the greatest characters I’ve ever met. 

Second favorite character: Christopher “I’ve Been Totally Fucking Ostrafied” Moltisanti. Nearly everyone on this show gives glimpses of who they could have been if they’d grown up in a different environment, but in few characters are those glimpses as tragic to me as they are in Christopher. He has a great capacity for violence and recklessness and selfishness, and the life he’s lived has nourished these traits, but there are many signs of who he could have been. There’s his passion for screenwriting. There’s the fact that, however briefly, he considers running away with Adriana in “Long Term Parking.” There’s his fight against addiction, which might be the most impressive effort anyone on this show makes to change for the better when everyone and everything around them is dragging them down.

Third favorite character: It’s gotta be Tony. It’s just gotta. He’s despicable, but he’s not evil. If he was evil, the show would be boring and pointless.

Johnny Sacrimoni is a serious contender for fourth place, and I don’t even know why. I just couldn’t get enough of him.

It’s hard to rank the characters because almost all of them are just SO fantastic in one way or another. The one main character I just didn’t care about was Junior. He just wasn’t interesting to me. But his last scene still made me really sad.

In my mind I have a small canon of Dynamics, which is the word I use for relationships that are (1) extremely important to both the characters and the story and (2) too complex to be given a simple label such as friends, enemies, lovers, coworkers, etc. I am officially declaring Tony and Dr. Melfi a dynamic, so congratulations to them. Tony and Christopher are something very close to a dynamic as well, though they’re disqualified due to being family. (I have a bunch of arbitrary rules for what counts.)

Two most confusing things about the show: 1. The interstate mob politics were often hard for me to follow. 2. There were soooo many characters, I could never keep them straight. I actually have no idea when certain major characters made their first appearance because it took me such a long time to learn their face and name.

I hope Carmine held on to his realization that happiness is worth more than power. He could be the one person to actually change their life. I hope he’s thriving. I hope he’s got more films under his subspecies. 

EDIT: One thing I forgot to say: I don't think I ever cared about a single one of Tony's mistresses.

I could have used less gratuitous nudity, especially since it was almost always women. Honestly, the gender disparity was more annoying than the gratuitousness. Either the women shouldn’t have to take their clothes off so often, or the men should start pulling their weight!

Overall grade: I really, really wanted to give this show an A+. Even after it moved my beloved Melfi to the sidelines, I was still going to put my personal feelings aside and give it an A+. But then in one of the show's few instances of clumsy storytelling, it fumbled her last episode, and I can’t excuse that. It's possible one day I'll forgive it for its sins and bump it back up to A+, but for now, it gets an A.

[emelinstriker]

Okay i'll be honest, i'm watching It and got curious. What if reader is a victim of this creature?

I mean, in romantic route reader would be a survivor of Pennywise and now has to go back to Derry to fight the monster with her friends once more(because he wasn't intersted in playing with any of his other victims besides the main cast).

And in platonic...something i need to check: the champions would be able to meet reader when they're a child, right?

Anyway back to the platonic way, like they're a child that survived something traumatic, maybe their sibling dissapeared and none of the adults seem caring enough to search, they have a monster that changes into thing they are afraid the most, is invisible and untouchable to adults, controls the adults, and wants to eat them.

I can speculate that it will be especially scary for Mk considering that he's afraid of spiders and (book spoiler) Pennywise is a spider-like creature.

Ps. Love your AU. And sorry for the long rant.

So lil note beforehand: I've never watched/read It myself and have only seen some clips of the movie, so I ain't well-versed in all that could/would happen with the servants around for specific moments.

That being said, the Reader would generally have their own protection squad scenario going on regardless of how/when they meet the champions tbh. Others may not believe them if they say they're basically being hunt down, but the boys would believe them whether they can see the creature of not. They can tell through their bond that their Master's fear and anxiety is real, after all. And they'll make sure of their Master's safety and comfort.

Mink would probably provide the best type of protection though, all things considered. Alone due to what he is, can do, and the fact that sucking the Reader into the scroll is like the ultimate last defense.

[ask-cookie-run-rarepairs]

FIRST OF ALLL HIIII SORR FOR THE BOTHER BUT I NEED TO SHARE THIS RARE PAIRRR.

Matcha×Truffle or MossyCobweb as i call it a total of never cause no one cares for the ship but me and no one cares for matcha but like 2 ppl [me and some rando] so i wanna ask what would you rate this ship....and how do u rate them?

Hello! Sorry for the super, super late reply. It was my first time running a blog and first time going to college, so I was extremely burnt out about a month ago and just...forgot about the blog. Again, I promise that I will not throw a random hiatus without a warning in the future. Again, I'm sorry.

Funnily, I was looking at Matcha earlier today and I manage to stumble across a comic creator image for Matcha x Truffle. I was literally thinking to myself: huh, what an interesting ship!

If you mean rating them as in giving a numerical rating, I will give them a 5/10 personally. I see why they are shipped: both of them are eccentric (and elderly?), and that's cute. It's just that their aesthetics together does not really match my taste--or maybe more importantly, I can barely see Matcha with anyone romantically. HOWEVER, I do wish the best things for Matcha and Truffle! They both deserve lots of love in-universe because they both feel very isolated from other cookies.

Anyways, if you mean rating them as in giving pros and cons, here they are!

Pros:

Friendly elderly people hanging out in creepy mansions (v i b e s)

Misunderstood by the outside world; bond together to heal their loneliness!

Potentially super intersting plot where Matcha shows up randomly one day to Truffle's mansion because she was abandoned by DE. Truffle takes her in and realized that Matcha barely talks (canon) and seems naive about common sense (this is just a headcanon), and slowly bonds with her

Matcha likes plants (Herb's relationship chart), so she can decorate Truffle's mansion (cute!)

Cons:

Honestly all cons are subjective, and I kind of already gave me reasons above

I guess objectively, they are a rarepair? But the fact that I'm running this blog clearly means that I don't consider being a rarepair a bad thing lol

You need lots of imagination to justify how they'd meet (not a bad thing imo! I love imagining headcanons and scenarios)

Yeah, I hope this answers sufficiently! Feel free to DM me to chat more about the ship or send another ask!

[ellies-cycling-notes]

Day 1: Narragansett to Long Island

Distance Covered: 82.27 miles

Total Time (including rests): 9:54 (7:14am-5:08pm)

Time spent riding: 7:04

Average Speed: 11.6 mph

Apples Eaten: 3 (fuji - 6/10, granny smith - 7/10, fuji - 7/10)

Overview of the ride itself:

Today's ride was split up into 2 parts: I first had to bike down to the Cross Sound Ferry in Connecticut (approx. 43 miles), then I took the ferry to Long Island and had to bike to my campsite (approx. 39 miles). I will refer to these as the pre-ferry and Long Island parts of the ride, respectively.

The pre-ferry component of the ride was more pleasant for 2 reasons:

1) it's the first part of the ride, so I wasn't that tired for it

2) There wasn't much shade in the Long Island portion, and it was HOT today. I almost considered stopping to get cold water when I was only 5 miles away from my campsite.

The pre-ferry part had one large comparative downside, though: it was really hilly. I think it would've made the fact that I was already tired so much worse if it had been the second half of the ride.

During the pre-ferry part, I took a snack/early lunch break around 20 miles in. I then obviously took another break for the ferry ride (it was about an hour long). During the Long Island part of the ride, I didn't take any breaks and just biked all the way to my campsite.

That's it for the bookkeeping, now for the fun part: thoughts, ideas, and things I noticed on the ride!

Bike Roads Terminology

I spent a lot of time thinking about this at the beginning of the ride, because I realized I'm going to be referring to certain types of roads in this blog, it'd be good to have a description of what I mean when I use those terms.

Disclaimers: (1) these are not official terms for types of roads, they're just terms I tend to use (2) my usage of these terms may not be consistent and is subject to change (3) there may be roads that do not fall into one of these categories; that's fine, these categories are neither holistic nor rigorous

Key:

Name/Road Type - Definition - Difficulty Level (# out of 10) (this number represents how much I don't want to ride a road of this type - thus, a lower number is better) - Reason for Difficulty

Road Types:

Highway - Interstate roads, wide lanes, cars going 70+ mph, will sometimes have wide shoulders you can bike on; are usually named something like I90 - DL: 9 - Highways are some of the most unpleasant roads to ride on; cars going way too fast and there's no good place to ride; luckily, bike routes will practically never have you actually riding on a highway

State Road - 2+ lane roads, usually have a speed limit of 30 or 45 mph, or, in rare cases, 60 mph; aren't super busy; will sometimes have rather wide shoulders that can serve as bike lanes; these are often roads that are named things like Route 9 - DL: 4 or 7 - Not the most pleasant, but not hard to ride on; the two different difficulty levels are for whether or not there is a wide enough shoulder that it can be treated as a bike lane

Side Road - These are roads that exist mostly in more rural areas, are usually 1-2 lanes, and are notable for having a lot of connections to driveways of houses. Oftentimes I'll refer to side roads as state roads and vice-versa; this is because they have many overlaps of features; cars usually have a speed limit of 15 or 30 mph, or rarely 45/60 mph. A notable difference between these roads and state roads is that side roads are more likely to be hilly and curvy; and side roads will typically have street names such as Collins Road - DL: 4 - while there are usually much fewer cars on side roads than state roads; the hilly-ness of side roads can make them be much more unpleasant at times; this is issue is amplified by all the baggage loaded onto my bike for this trip

City Street - roads in cities; what more needs to be said? Speed limits can range from 10 mph to 30+ mph - DL: 2-8 - while never as dangerous as highways, city streets can greatly vary in difficulty due to many reasons, including (but not limited to): amount of traffic, smoothness of pavement/number of potholes, rudeness of cars, pedestrian traffic, speed limit, and existence of bike lanes

Main Street - this is a subcategory of city streets. When I refer to city streets, I am usually referring to them in cities or other large urban centers. Main streets specifically refer to a central street of a small town; while they do not have bike lanes, they are usually much more pleasant than city streets. I call them Main streets because that is often what they are actually called - DL: 3 - Main streets are pleasant to ride on, and the cars on them are usually rather nice; the only downside is that they are not built with bikes in mind, so oftentimes the pavement isn't the best

Bike Trail - Paved roads that are specifically there for bicycles (and sometimes runners). These trails are often completely out of the way of cars, and sometimes follow old railroad trails that are no longer in service - DL: 1-2 - these are some of the best roads you can ride on; they sometimes get difficult if there's too much traffic or the pavement isn't well-kept, but the advantage of being able to ride without worry of cars on mostly flat ground more than makes up for the disadvantages

Hiking Trail/Gravel Road/Off-Road - I'm grouping these together, because all that matters is that these are all types of road I would be fine riding a mountain bike on, but because I have a heavily baggage-laden road bike on this trip, I want to avoid them as much as possible. They usually have very little traffic, but very poor pavement, either dirt, gravel, or some other soft or grainy material - DL: 8 - still better than highways, but otherwise the worse (see my initial rant)

Shoulder - This is not a type of road, but rather a part of the road. It mainly exists on highways and state roads, as the space for a shoulder on other car-based roads is often taken up by parking spots. It refers to the section past the white line that defines the border of a road. Sometimes it's miniscule, taking up only a foot, in which case you have to ride in a car lane, and sometimes it's larger than a car and makes a decent bike lane. On highways, the shoulder is often intentionally rough so that if a car accidently drifts onto it, they'll notice and readjust themselves. - DL: N/A

That's all of them for now! For reference, on today's ride, the pre-ferry part was an even split of mostly state roads and side roads, with a small number of bike trails. The Long Island part had a large number of state roads, a smaller number of side roads, and a tiny amount of gravel roads.

Notes on the Ride Itself

Gold Star Memorial Bridge Bike Path is closed - it's the only 1 bridge anywhere near New London (where the ferry to Long Island is), and I couldn't bike across it. Luckily, there was a shuttle that could carry my bike across that comes every 30 minutes, but for the like 10 minutes between learning about the closure and discovering the shuttle, I was really stressed out, because I didn't know if I'd be able to make it to the ferry in time.

I had an opposite feeling not 30 minutes later when I arrived at the Ferry port at 12:05 (my ferry ticket was for 1pm), and the guys at the dock told me I could just get on the 12pm Ferry which hadn't left yet. This didn't really affect my plans much, except for the fact that it meant I didn't have to idle around at the port for an hour, and would instead have an additional hour at my campsite in the evening. This also ended up giving me more time to work on this post :) !

Small things I saw/experienced on my ride:

a deer: it was on the shoulder of the road, maybe 20ft ahead of me. I wanted to take a picture, but it noticed me and ran into the woods before I could

an upside-down construction sign: this was an orange construction sign where the metal pole that served as the base of the sign was standing upright, and then at the top of the pole there was a orange rectangle, on which all the words (which were construction details) were upside down

shakiness: for the first 30 minutes (maybe longer) of my ride, I was still getting used to the balance of my bike with my luggage, so I was rather worried I'd tip over. This shakiness largely contributes to why I do not want to ride on any gravel road/etc. if I can avoid it

the cemetery: for some reason, my Google maps suggested I take a shortcut through a cemetery on Long Island, so I spent a good 5-10 minutes riding through an empty cemetery before getting back on actual roads. The funniest bit of this is that it really wasn't even much of a shortcut, it saved a minute, tops.

Old Main Road: this is another Google maps strange occurrence. In Long Island, there's a long state road called Main Road, which my route followed along for a good portion. However on a part of the Main Road (around here: https://maps.app.goo.gl/cgfphLKsKeJnXKBY8 ), Old Main Road splits off of Main Road and then rejoins less than a quarter mile later. This happens twice in quick succession. The strange occurrence I was referencing is that both times Google Maps suggested I take Old Main Road, even though that route would be slightly longer.

large roadkill: on the ride, there was a rather large roadkill I saw (the size of a large cat). I almost ran over it, and didn't get a good enough view to figure out what animal it was.

private communities/streets: on the ride, I saw a lot of places that were either private communities or private roads for residents only. My favorite, though, was the Oakwood communities. I'm biking along, and up ahead, I see a sign that says "Private Road - North Oakwood Residents". I'm like, fine. But then I turn my head, and on just the other side of the road, a sign says "South Oakwood Private Community". I latched onto those 2 communities and spend the next several minutes of my ride thinking up imaginary feuds that may exist between these 2 near-identical communities across the street from each other.

Post Ride Notes:

I did about 20-30 minutes of yoga after finishing my ride, which seems to have really helped my sore body (especially my back, which was really hurting at the end of the ride).

Camp setup went well (there might be some pictures in another post). My campsite doesn't have a shower, but it does have potable water, so I might soak my head at the very least (I have not yet, as of writing this post).

I have eaten 3 PB&J sandwiches today, and I haven't even had dinner yet (as of writing this, again). I expect I'll probably start getting tired of them in a few days, so I might need to switch up my meal prep (probably after Philadelphia or maybe DC).

Design Notes:

I spent a lot of the ride today thinking about the blog itself, my road classification system, and being stressed out about whether I can actually do this, so this section is rather short. I hope it will be longer in future posts, as it's the part I enjoy thinking about/writing the most.

Why I'm not good at Narrative Design:

I spent some time on my ride today thinking about Narrative Design. I think it was brought forth from the fact that I've been reading a lot of works recently, of which the quality of the narrative varies greatly. I like to think in terms of systems, but I can't create a holistic system that describes a person, which makes it really hard for me to do narrative design on a character level. On the other hand, I don't have the same issues with designing worlds, because I'm able to start by designing the mechanical systems of that world, and then other aspects sprout forth from that. A good example of this is fictional histories. Because these histories can be broad strokes, I don't have many issues designing a general system from a world, and then basically determining how I believe history would play out if that world worked according to that system. That's also probably why I so often have issues with worlds in media that have magic, because they're often just based in some time period of human history "but with magic", without taking into consideration how the existence of magic would have affected the development of that world. The issue I have with doing the narrative design of characters is sometimes similar. I often know one note which I want a character to hit, but everything else is left as a blank slate and never really filled in.

That's all for tonight! Some of this is written as I thought it up on my ride, some of it was revised to make more sense, and some of it probably still doesn't make much sense. Hope y'all enjoyed these random trains of thought!

Today's Pics -- Next

[scruffyplayssonic]

Are the ArchieSonic comics actually an 80's/90's syndicated cartoon? Episode 25: Hero and villain reluctantly team up against greater foe 

H’okay, welcome back to my look at the ArchieSonic comic series, and how it shared a lot of the same story tropes as a typical ‘80s or ‘90s syndicated cartoon! I’m all rested up from my Christmas break, and I hope you are too because we have more ArchieSonic tropes to talk about! So, what’s on the menu for today?

Episode 25: Hero and villain reluctantly team up against greater foe 

Ahhh, another classic trope. We got this one several times in ArchieSonic, the first one being pretty early in the series, in Sonic #19’s “Night of 1,000 Sonics.”

In this story Sonic once again had a run-in with an alternate dimension version of himself, this time coming from a universe where Robotnik had turned all the Freedom Fighters into cyborgs.

This had given the Freedom Fighters the power to overthrow Robotnik, but at the last minute the evil doctor had roboticised himself and managed to destroy everyone except the cyborg Sonic. That Sonic had fled to the Cosmic Interstate looking to recruit more versions of himself against Robo-Robotnik, who now threatened every universe, not just his own. So the good guys went on a recruitment drive, picking up every alternate Sonic they could find.

Robo-Robotnik took advantage of this to try and destroy every Sonic while they were gathered in the one place, but that’s when the local version of Robotnik showed up, annoyed about Robo-Robotnik invading his turf. After taking out Robo-Robotnik’s shadow swatbots, Robotnik proposed an alliance with the Sonics and pointed them in the direction of a weapon that he thought Robo-Robotnik might try to use against them: the giant’s hand.

Of course, Robotnik was intending to stab the Sonics in the back (that would take a lot of knives) and steal the weapon for himself.

But we never got to see that happen, because Robo-Robotnik formed an alliance of his own and sent Evil Sonic to steal the giant’s hand out from under the other Sonics’ noses. 

…that gauntlet looks kind of familiar, don’t you think? Anyway, Robo-Robotnik transformed the giant’s hand into a mech named Giant Borg, the Sonics teamed up to destroy it, and Robotnik was overpowered when he tried to take the Giant Borg pieces for himself.

And they lived happily ever after (at least until the Giant Borg was resurrected in the Sonic Underground Crossover Chaos story).

One other entity that resulted in a temporary alliance between the heroes and the villains is Enerjak. In fact, Enerjak was considered such a threat that the heroes and villains teamed up against him on more than one occasion! The first Enerjak that we met in the comics was Dimitri, and as I’ve discussed in previous posts, was exiled to space prior to being brought back as part of Mammoth Mogul’s plot to steal his power.

After disintegrating Knuckles, Enerjak led the Dark Legion on an invasion of Echidnaopolis. So dire were the circumstances that Police Chief Constable Remington asked the dingo leader General Stryker for help fighting them back. Considering that the echidnas and dingos were feuding races that had been forced to live together after the dingo city was destroyed by a side effect of Robotnik’s Ultimate Annihilator, this was an extremely uneasy alliance. However they managed to work together and repel the invading Dark Legion.

…briefly. :P But the Dark Legion became the least of their problems after Mammoth Mogul absorbed Dimitri’s power. After the Super Team Sonic turned the odds back in their favour, Stryker joined the heroes in fighting back.

Much later down the road the echidna scientist Doctor Finetevus resurrected Enerjak, but this time chose Knuckles as its vessel. This once again resulted in an alliance between the heroes and villains, with Sonic this time coming to Eggman seeking an alliance.

Eggman obliged and came back with the Egg Fleet, hitting Enerjaknuckles with teleportation rays that sent him to Eggman’s Egg Grapes.

These were designed to turn Enerjaknuckles into a living battery that would power his city and weapons that he would build to use against Sonic. Sonic was annoyed and yelled that kidnapping Knuckles hadn’t been part of their deal, but he himself admitted that Eggman had lived up to his bargain and technically “not betrayed them directly.”

It didn’t really matter though, because Enerjaknuckles escaped and decimated a large chunk of Eggman’s city.

In the end it took the combined forces of Locke sacrificing his life to break the hex on the Master Emerald and Super Sonic physically beating the negativity out of Knuckles to “open his heart.”

There were a couple of other team-ups in the comics too, such as when Sonic and co. teamed up with Fiona and the Destructix, but I’ve already talked about that one. There was also the Xorda attack and when the characters were abducted by Car-Heem of Wheet. But those two examples fit into categories I’ll be talking about in the future, so I’m skipping those today. In fact Car-Heem is whom I’ll be discussing in my very next post, when I discuss “Hero and villain glued/chained/otherwise stuck together and begrudgingly cooperate to gain their autonomy. 

In the past I’ve been trying to post these daily, but I’m afraid I have a lot on my plate at the moment and that this project has involved a lot more writing than I anticipated. So I’m not going to promise daily posts any more, I’ll be uploading them when time permits for the foreseeable future. So as always, leave a comment if there’s anything you’d like to tell me about this series or if I missed any other hero and villain team-ups. See you soon!

[bergeronprocess]

Favorite place visited in 2024: Asheville, NC

I’m not much of a beach person. I like to take pictures of beaches, and I like to pick up cool seashells, but I do not enjoy swimming in the ocean. I’m really more of a mountain person, which is for the best considering Atlanta is nestled right at the base of the Appalachian Mountains. But I had never made it up the (relatively) short drive to Asheville - until this April, when my husband and I went up for a long weekend that coincided with Wrestlemania.

We eschewed the interstates and drove up on US highways, winding our way past sweeping mountains and through cute little towns. On the recommendation of Atlanta magazine, we ordered a picnic basket from a downtown Asheville bakery (The Rue) and took it up the Blue Ridge Parkway to eat a meal with a hell of a view. We swam in the indoor pool at the hotel and went to a cute, if tiny, Japanese restaurant. We played pinball at a retro game bar and went to Cook-Out because you have to go to Cook-Out when you’re in North Carolina - it’s from there! And then at night, we’d crack open my laptop and plant it at the foot of the hotel bed and watch both nights of Wrestlemania. I remember trying very hard to fight back sleep so I could actually watch the main event with Cody Rhodes and Roman Reigns. 

It was such a blast and a great way to take a cute little long weekend trip. As soon as we got home, I was already thinking about going back.

Only a few months after our visit, Asheville was hit hard by Hurricane Helene. We were actually expecting Helene to impact Atlanta more than it did - instead, that bitch took a hard turn and decided to thoroughly drench the mountains. In the aftermath, I donated to a GoFundMe focused on delivering crucial supplies to affected people using whatever method it took, especially helicopters. I also purchased a selection of chocolate treats from the delightful French Broad Chocolates. I’ve been thinking about Asheville a lot since the hurricane. 

Also a few months after our visit, the truck we drove to Asheville was totaled in a car wreck. It was the first brand new car my husband had ever bought, and in fact he had custom ordered it to make sure he got the color and features he wanted. Then he waited quite a long time for it to be built and delivered because he purchased it during that difficult period when car manufacturers had trouble building cars due to microchip shortages. He adored that truck and the wreck was devastating - but in the end, the truck did what it was designed to do and protected him. He came away from the accident with little more than a minor injury to his wrist, an avulsion fracture. Just today he’s had his cast removed! 

He purchased a used hatchback from a coworker after his truck was officially totaled and he enjoys the car. It’s got a stick shift and it sips on gas like it’s drinking a little tiny espresso. We are now a two-hatchback household since I have my Subaru. For Christmas, I made him a photo book with memories of his truck, including lots of pictures I took of it on the side of the Blue Ridge Parkway.

Even though they’re still in the process of recovery, and this process is going to take some time still, I am looking forward to visiting Asheville again someday.

[saturnine-saturneight]

And evens for Aaron. You can do as many or as few of these as you like ofc

I can and I will do all of these. THANK YOU!!

For the weirdly specific character building ask meme

2. How loosely or strictly do they use the word ‘friend’?

He uses 'buddy' and 'bro' very loosely, but the word 'friend' rarely comes over his lips. Ron keeps up a deliberate veneer of joviality, because he finds that life is a lot more fun when you pretend that you have zero worries in the world, and because he's allergic to genuine human connection. So he plays fast and loose with liking people, but if he calls you a friend to your face, you know it's serious.

4. What’s a hobby they used to have that they miss?

He used to watch competetive sports way more often before he started spending all of his time cooped up with Nat. He still watches Dayrunning with headphones on sometimes, but Nat finds it annoying when he gets too hyped up about firing people on through the screen.

6. What’s their favorite [insert anything] that they’ve never recommended to anyone before?

Ron is very protective of his life before everything went to shit for him. He keeps those memories close to his heart, and feels like sharing them and getting someone else's opinion would diminish them. He has favorite childhood foods, favorite places he still visits in his sleep sometimes, and even favorite people he would never utter a word about.

8. How loose is their use of the phrase ‘I love you’?

He's from a place where that phrase holds a lot of weight and has never said it to somebody out loud before. The only person he'd ever consider saying it to is his teenage best friend Téo who he has awful complex feelings for (and has for years), but, tragically, Téo is straight.

10. What fact do they excitedly tell everyone about at every opportunity?

He's not the type to infodump, because this involves sharing what he's passionate about, but he's fast to pull out a magic trick and show off his sleight of hand.

12. What’s something that makes them laugh every single time? Be specific!

Carnage and destruction that doesn't involve other people's harm or suffering. Adrenaline kicks. Setting things on fire. Explosions. He loves to rush down the interstate at twice the recommended speed limit and hang out the window whooping.

14. How do they put out a candle?

By licking his fingers and snuffing it out between his fingertips.

16. What kinds of people do they have arguments with in their head?

Although he's in remission at the start of Twin Suns, Ron is schizophrenic, and when he gets stressed enough, internal arguments turn into external ones. Mostly, this is a disembodied voice that he argues with over all of his wrongdoings and missteps. He also obsesses over social situations where he feels like he failed, and replays them in his head, trying to get a different result out of it.

18. Who do they love truly, 100% unconditionally (if anyone)?

Haru and Téo. Nat wishes they were on this list - thinks that they are. They used to be.

20. Who do they like as a person but hate their work? Vice versa, whose work do they like but don’t like the person?

Ron doesn't care about celebrities, famous authors, or the like. He's way too far down on the social ladder to care about what some bougie asshole is doing or whether they're hitting all the right notes in interviews. For all he knows, none of them would see him as anything more than dirt under their nails. So he reads/watches/listens to or otherwise enjoys whatever he wants.

22. What simple activity that most people do / can do scares your character?

Entering a room without checking for surveillance. This has practical reasons, because him and Nat talk about a lot of things in private that would get them into deep shit if someone recorded them.

24. Did they take a cookie from the cookie jar? What kind of cookie was it?

He has a major sweet tooth! Anything with citrus, bonus points if it has a filling and an interesting texture.

26. How would they respond to being fired by a good boss?

Exasperation, trying to bargain, then walking off with his tail tucked between his legs to drown his disappointment in cheap soda and video games. There will be other jobs, but losing one that's not annoying to do stings.

28. What do they tell people they want? What do they actually want?

What he tells people he wants are freedom and a life of hedonism. What he really wants is a soft place to land. Something unshakeable to fall back on. He's tired.

30. When they make a mistake and feel bad, does the guilt differ when it’s personal versus when it’s professional?

He's generally self employed and only answers to himself and to Nat, so the professional is always personal. This doesn't make making mistakes any easier. But, in contrast to Nat, Ron is good at owning up to mistakes, apologizing, and trying to make up for them.

32. If they committed one petty crime / misdemeanor, what would it be? Why?

Hahahahaha. Ha.

34. How do they greet someone they like / love?

Depends fully on the other person and their boundaries! Fist bumps and a hug for Téo, a what's up at a respectful distance for Haru, and a loud AYYYY and a fist to the shoulder for Nat.

36. Who do they keep in their life for professional gain? Is it for malicious intent?

Malice isn't something he cares for or spends a lot of time feeling. He keeps a lot of professional connections out of necessity, people he can hit up for jobs or favors, even when he doesn't particularly like them. That's life as a petty criminal.

38. What hobby are they good at in private, but bad at in front of others? Why?

Drawing. He's a pretty decent artist (mostly furries and mechas), but gets a major allergic reaction when other people watch him draw or see what he made. He just really, really hates sharing his inner life with other people.

40. How do they respond to a loose handshake? What goes through their head?

If your grip is weak, he will make fun of you inside his head and think you're a wimp.

42. If invited to a TED Talk, what topic would they present on? What would the title of their presentation be?

There's a TED talk I enjoyed and try to reference when I write him, through the eyes of a thief. Assuming there would be no consequences for him, Ron would be very into the idea of explaining just how easy it is to break into places.

44. What language would be easiest for them to learn? Why?

He's already ESL, and has also picked up bits and pieces of both Chinese and Japanese from Haru. It would be easiest to build on that.

46. Are they a listener or a talker? If they’re a listener, what makes them talk? If they’re a talker, what makes them listen?

He strikes a pretty even balance. When he talks, it's preferably about things of no consequence, small talk, gossip, whatever. He's a good listener when it comes to more personal things, and is a solid shoulder to cry on, even if he can be awkward at times and doesn't really know what to say. Try to get him to talk about his feelings though, and he will climb out a window to escape.

48. Who would they say ‘yes’ to if invited to do something they abhorred / strongly didn’t want to do?

Basically all of his friends, followed by biblical amounts of complaining. He loves hanging out more than he loves his peace of mind, though.

50. What belief / moral / personality trait do they stand by that you (mun) personally don’t agree with?

I care about laws and rules a lot more strongly than he does.

52. Do they act on their immediate emotions, or do they wait for the facts before acting?

He always tries to think twice before acting, and get at least some of the facts. Ron keeps his impulses under wraps for the most part, with the exception of his flight response, which can strong arm his brain occasionally.

54. What’s their instinct in a fight / flight / freeze / fawn situation?

Freeze first, almost always, even if it's just for a split second. Then flight if he's alone and fight if he's not. This order of operations, combined with his penchant for pissing people off, has gained him the occasional fist to the face, and is the reason why he's missing his left eye.

56. If they’re scared, who do they want comfort from? Does this answer change depending on the type of fear?

Fear makes him want to curl up alone somewhere in a hole, clutching a weapon. He has a hard time seeking comfort. When the dread gets existential enough, he hits up Téo for a good talk, though Téo has been checking his phone less and less.

If it's a material problem that needs to be solved and Ron is scared out of his mind because he has no idea how to approach it, Haru gets a text. She's set a special ring tone for him and responds in ten minutes or less, without fail.

Nat isn't a very comforting or helpful person, even when they try. They're a lot better at providing a distraction.

58. How many hobbies have they attempted to have over their lifetime? Is there a common theme?

The majority of his hobbies involve some type of skill that he can build, and then either show off in company or use to scam people or get him out of sticky situations. He's given ventriloquy a spin, can imitate a few bird calls, regularly practices new magic tricks, and is working on his impersonation skills on the phone. He also whittles things out of wood or bone, which is his current creative outlet. That's not for anyone else, though, that's just for him.

[almaqead]

"The Payment." From Surah Hud, "The Notice."

The People of Iran are free of an imposter, a serial killer from an alien world sent by Iblis to raise hell on earth all around them. Ali was good to me when I first began exploring the Quran, for this, I knew Allah was on the side of the believers.

Ali, if you read this, thank your your faith in me. I hope for a generous return to you and the Republic in return.

11: 25-35:

Surely We sent Noah to his people. ˹He said,˺ “Indeed, I am sent to you with a clear warning

that you should worship none but Allah. I truly fear for you the torment of a painful Day.”

The disbelieving chiefs of his people said, “We see you only as a human being like ourselves, and we see that no one follows you except the lowliest among us, who do so ˹hastily˺ without thinking.1 We do not see anything that makes ˹all of˺ you any better than us. In fact, we think you are liars.”

He said, “O my people! Consider if I stand on a clear proof from my Lord and He has blessed me with a mercy from Himself,1 which you fail to see. Should we ˹then˺ force it on you against your will?

O  my people! I do not ask you for a payment for this ˹message˺. My reward is only from Allah. And I will never dismiss the believers, for they will surely meet their Lord. But I can see that you are a people acting ignorantly.

O  my people! Who would protect me from Allah if I were to dismiss them? Will you not then be mindful?

I do not say to you that I possess Allah’s treasuries or know the unseen, nor do I claim to be an angel, nor do I say that Allah will never grant goodness to those you look down upon. Allah knows best what is ˹hidden˺ within them. ˹If I did,˺ then I would truly be one of the wrongdoers.”

They protested, “O Noah! You have argued with us far too much, so bring upon us what you threaten us with, if what you say is true.”

He responded, “It is Allah Who can bring it upon you if He wills, and then you will have no escape!

My advice will not benefit you—no matter how hard I try—if Allah wills ˹for˺ you to stray. He is your Lord, and to Him you will ˹all˺ be returned.”

Or do they say, “He1 has fabricated this ˹Quran˺!”? Say, ˹O Prophet,˺ “If I have done so, then I bear the burden of that sin! But I am free from your sinful accusation.”

Commentary:

The world was not meant to drown in a flood or be warned continuously. We do not need to be threatened by God or argue the reasons He gave the Quran and the religion to mankind.

Muhammad said never to argue with the believers or force them to prove God's Mercy is authentic, only to trust God will lift the burdens of those who trust them and bring heaven's treasures down to them.

May the death of the oppressors bring new life down to all the free people. Just as the Quran says, it is the believers who will lead the way:

' O you who have believed, prescribed for you is legal retribution for those murdered - the free for the free, the slave for the slave, and the female for the female. But whoever overlooks from his brother anything, then there should be a suitable follow-up and payment to him with good conduct. This is an alleviation from your Lord and a mercy. But whoever transgresses after that will have a painful punishment.

 And there is for you in legal retribution [saving of] life, O you [people] of understanding, that you may become righteous."

Now that the bastard Mormon dog Raisi is gone, Iran can begin to integrate its domestic and interstate policies within a legitimate constitution, put an end to the sanctions binding its potential, and ensure the blessings God intended to shower on its people begin to fall.

[glorioustidalwavedefendor]

The two hour video is by hbomberguy and titled:

Sherlock Is Garbage, And Here's Why

and it is glorious

Go watch it XD

Also, yes, do yourself a favour and

Anyway - go to YouTube and search “Jeremy Brett as Sherlock Holmes” and clear your brain of Moffat.

While I personally think like with the doctor there has never been a bad actor playing Sherlock Holmes ... there are better and worse adaptions out there

The Grana adaption with Jeremy Brett is one of the best ones out there

The show run for 10 seasons and did pretty much almost every sherlock holmes story that is out there?

ANd jeremy Brett was BORN to play sherlock holmes

I love him!

He is amazing AND Jeremy Brett did fight tooth and nails on set to keep the stories as close to the originals as possible <3 <3 <3

ALso, his character is allowed omething that sherlock holmes rarely is allowed ... he is allowed to be kind ...

Becasue sherlock is kind ... and he does not really understand vanity ... if he makes a mistake he never bothers to waste time to cover it up

In "the adventure of the yellow face" he even tells watson:

Watson, if it should ever strike you that I am getting a little overconfident in my powers, or giving less pains to a case than it deserves, kindly whisper 'Norbury' in my ear, and I shall be infinitely obliged to you.

He accepts the fact that he is only human with ease and humility ...

I love him so much <3

By the way, I really wish we could have an adaption of "the sign of four" (my favourit) by an Indian writting room, I personally feel like that would be very intersting and would make the story very current even if the adaption was a period piece

Because you can do sherlock holmes deep if you so choose ... but no one wants to do that ... they just want to do him "edgy" ...

On that note

I personally would like to see "the house by the copper beeches", "the solitary cyclist" and "the specled band" in the context of "me to" and a female/queer writting room, ... I will nevet get that, mind you ... but it would be glorious ...

If you wnat something of the beaten path I'd say

Which has ages suprisingly well

Which hasn't aged that well ... especially considering one side character tha is either a trans women or a gay man dressed as a women (it is never really made that clear)

I personally feel like it is watshable if you cut the movie some slack. since the character is usually not the but of the joke ... buuuuut YMMV ...

honestly it was a red flag when bbc sherlock went “well obviously the word written in blood isn’t the german word for revenge, it’s clearly the beginning of the name ‘rachel’, what absolute idiot would fail to see that” when in the original novel it is, in fact, the german word for revenge, which sherlock points out gleefully to a roomful of policemen who all figure it’s the beginning of the name ‘rachel.’

and by red flag I mean it was a clear sign that the adaptation was trying to one-up the source material, instead of engaging with it with love.

[docholligay]

For prompt mornings, Rei and Hanukkah, burning through the night? (I have some vague recollection of you saying something about Jewish Rei a very long time ago, though I’m not certain I’m not misremembering)

You remember correctly, but I’m shocked you do! It was an answer to an ask a LONG LONG time ago, about if I had to pick a Senshi to be Jewish who would it be? Anyway, this took a lot of consideration, and is also partially based on @keyofjetwolf‘s drawing. 

Rei set the shamash candle in its place, and looked down at the menorah in front of her. She had always wondered if her connection with the fire had come from this tradition, this story. She had always loved it, how everything had been defiled in the temple, how the oil should never have burned on and lasted, but it did, and from that moment on, the Jewish people saw more in the flame than light. There was a miracle and promise contained within, and Rei sometimes felt she saw those glimpses of the future in that same gift, that she felt herself in the oil that refused to give.

She had never mused on the number of candles before, or how they lit, but her life tending as it did now, she could not help but think of it in that way. Her grandfather had laughed good-naturedly at her insistence that she have a menorah in her room this year, when she had always kept it in the common area, but he did not try to stop her.

He understood so many things, and supported her keeping her mother’s traditions alive in so many ways, but this was another thing entirely, this was something she could not share.

She looked down at the strange menorah, now blazing in her window. Nine candles, each of them different. It would have seemed silly to anyone else, and did to her, enough that she didn’t want to share it with Usagi, the sparkly pink candle in the middle of her menorah.

Mina, that curvaceous orange candle, would have balked a little at her being the one to light the others, and Michiru’s elegant teal candle from Barney’s New York would have rolled her eyes in the most elegant way possible. But it was true, whatever their protests, or at least it was true to Rei, and it was her menorah, and her Hanukkah, and her memory.

Individually, each of them lit only a small corner, but together, they lit a brilliant torch that flung light all through the room and out into the streets. Rei had not realized how much of her life had been spent in darkness before she had found them, all of them (though she might never admit that to the tall, thin candle she’d found on discount) and now how she saw all the world in so much more light. How they brought that light to others. And how Usagi had lit them to their best selves.

And they would burn through the night, as long as it lasted, and though people might never know where the light that guided them had come from, Rei would look at each of these candles, and see how it had lit a path for someone. Rei had always thought it would be her bright torch, and her great fire, that would light the world, but this was so much sweeter.

This was her truest miracle of all.

[jakeyuni]

when two broken hearts collide | y. jungwon

“that’s all you’ve ever wanted, to be loved.”

SYNOPSIS: jungwon’s heart was just as broken as yours was. that’s why the universe urged him to find you at the right place, and the right time, when you both needed it most.

PAIRINGS: jungwon x gn!reader

GENRE: angst, fluff *happy ending!*

TROPE: strangers/friends —> lovers(?), hs au

WARNINGS: profanity, reader feels unlovable and has self esteem/self image issues, crying, mentions of betrayal, rumors + heartbreak

WORD COUNT: 1.9k+

PLAYLIST: freakin’ out on the interstate — briston maroney, sign of the times — harry styles

AUTHOR’S NOTE: i really thought this idea fit jungwon the best. this fic is honestly really self reflectant of my own emotions but writing this really did help me. i hope you all like it :]

yang jungwon had gotten his heart broken, and so had you.

jungwon felt like his heart would implode any second now. tears ran down his cheeks as he ran to the boys bathroom in hopes of crying out all the anger and remorse he was feeling.

you, on the other hand, let out choked sobs into your best friend’s chest as she shushed you and stroked your hair, telling you everything would be okay. when in fact the both of you knew that, no. everything would not be okay.

you wanted to be alone, truly. the warmth your best friend’s arms gave you was reassuring, but you really just needed to cry it all out by yourself. and the stares from people that were passing by you in the hallway weren’t making you feel any better.

you separated from your friend, telling her you needed to take some time for yourself. she simply nodded her head and rubbed at your sides before you began walking to your special place: the school bleachers.

you wiped off the snot and remaints of tears that continued running down your puffy face with your sleeves — despite knowing that wiping your face wouldn’t do your presence any justice.

the breeze was cool as it hit your face, accompanying the cold tears that stained your under eyes. you smiled softly at the refreshing feeling. everything felt so surreal and you just wished you could disappear for a moment.

your feet dragged along the pavement while you walked to the closed off space beneath the bleachers. there were students playing some sports considering it was your break period, but you managed to slide into the area without being noticed by anyone.

you curled your body into a ball, complete shade covering the previous light that shined on your melancholy figure. why me? why is it always me?

your question would never be answered because you truly didn’t know why it had always been you. you were never anyone’s first option. if you liked someone, they ended up liking one of your friends, anyway. you didn’t even know why you bothered trying with love anymore.

that’s all you’ve ever wanted, to be loved. if only you knew why finding love and being loved by someone would be so fucking hard. you couldn’t help but wonder if you were the problem. if you were simply that unlovable?

as you overthought everything about your worth while processing your emotions, jungwon’s back was glued to the back of the bathroom stall. his tears had stopped, but the quivering of his lip wouldn’t come to a halt. he had to muffle his own mouth to make sure no one heard him trying not to break down. he felt pathetic.

his emotions were so valid, though. i mean, how else was a boy supposed to feel when he found out that his best friend since he was a child, had betrayed him? jungwon’s best friend had spread a terrible rumor about him: ‘jungwon says disgusting things about girls and even rates them, his friend told me so himself!’ jungwon had heard from a student who was gossiping to his group while he was was walking to lunch. he remembers the way he stopped in his tracks and ran running towards his previously best friend, only for him to shun him away and act as if though he didn’t exist.

now none of that was true. jungwon was an absolute sweetheart, he was just lovesick and craved love like no other. a lot like you did. which is why he felt like the world was swallowing him whole when he found out that his best friend had spread such a lie just because he wanted the girl that jungwon had hopelessly been crushing over for the past couple months.

but at what cost did he start the rumor? were their years of friendship and love worth it? all for a girl, for a rumor? jungwon’s reputation was ruined, his image, everything. people gave him dirty looks everywhere he went. and he wanted noting more than to be told that this terrible time would pass. even if it felt never ending.

jungwon peeled himself off of the door, he faced himself in the bathroom’s mirror and fought the urge to let out a sob. he stretched his arms over either sides of the sink and bent his head low, eyes daring to look up into the mirror, but he shook his head, lowering it down to stare at the faucet as his eyes watered.

no, i’m done crying. jungwon stormed out of the bathroom. he knew he couldn’t keep crying between periods and holding in his emotions during class, just to go home and weep, then repeat the cycle all over again. every. single. day. like he had been doing for the past week.

he too, was headed for the same exact spot you were currently sitting in. neither of you caught each other in the spot, because you only came to it when you needed it most.

today, however, was different. today, would be the day the both of you would discover that the delicacy and raw aura that engulfs the spot beneath the bleachers; hidden away from the rest of the school to see, has always been shared by the both of you.

as you heard footsteps approach the area, you immediately backed up into the brick concrete wall, hoping whoever it was — was not coming your way. you didn’t need anyone bothering you right now.

your face of dismay turned more sour the moment you saw a shocked, but familiar — face peak into the foreclosed area.

“oh, i’m sorry, i didn’t know anyone else came here,” jungwon uttered. he knew who you were, and you knew him. it’s just that, until now, either of you hadn’t really got the chance to talk to each other. besides making eye contact in class every now and then, the two of you were strangers.

you didn’t want to seem prude, considering jungwon’s face looked just as puffy as yours. and the way his voice cracked upon seeing you, you assumed that jungwon needed to be under the bleachers just as much as you did.

you shook your head. “no, it’s okay. sit down,” you advise as you scooch over to your left some and pat the now empty space beside you, offering a soft smile as jungwon’s eyebrows raise and he settles himself next to you.

it’s awkward for a couple of minutes. neither of you saying anything to each other despite the tension in the air being so thick you could cut it with a knife. it was as if you didn’t need to say anything; the both of you knew that the other was obviously going through something difficult.

nonetheless, the silence was replaced with the sound of the cement scratching as jungwon moved closer to you as he turned his body towards yours a bit. you were a little shocked but lifted your head from the wall behind you, staring at him questionably.

“today doesn’t seem to be our day, huh?” jungwon chuckles.

“no, not at all, to say the least,” your chest vibrates and you shiver not only because of how cold the atmosphere had gotten, but also because of the image you suddenly pictured of you bawling your eyes out ten minutes prior.

jungwon takes notice of your shivering form and he takes off his jacket to drape it across your shoulders, looking at you to see your reaction.

you begin taking it off of your shoulder and shake your head at him, trying to assure him that you’re okay, but he insists. “hey, just wear the jacket, alright? i’m happy to give it to you, it’s comforting to be with someone else right now.”

you blush at his words, he was such a gentleman. and you found it funny, really. the way you wanted nothing more than to be alone, but right now, you didn’t as much mind jungwon’s presence; because him being there with you was as warm and comforting as the sun shining on your beaming face.

you hum in response. “i like you being here, with me … y’know? i really needed this.”

jungwon looks at you to see you biting your lip, anticipating his response. as his eyes traced upward from your lips, to your nose, to your eyes, he noticed that they were watery. jungwon shushes you just as your friend had done earlier, but this time so quietly, that it’s barely audible.

he grabs ahold of your hand and rubs his thumb over the back of it. you sniffle as a tear runs down your cheek and you blink away the rest, not wanting jungwon to worry. you take jungwon’s other hand and do the same as he was doing to you, then finding it in you to rest your head on his shoulder.

he looks down at you and smiles, you were so pretty and never would he have thought that he’d be in this situation with the person he always admired from afar, but never found the confidence in himself to take things further. he thought he would have to stick with the intense eye contact that would occur between you both for the rest of his high school life.

“i’m not crying because i’m upset, well at least not anymore. it’s because i appreciate this,” you look up at jungwon and he pauses before speaking.

“i can tell. i think it’s because this — i mean, us being here, together, distracted the both of us from whatever we were thinking about so intently before.”

you wrap your arms around his waist and move closer, he gives in and puts his chin atop your head ever so softly. and in this very moment, for the first time in a long time, you felt so loved. and it was all because of jungwon; you swore you wouldn’t let this go, you wouldn’t let him go. not after this.

no more words had to be said because no matter the rumor, or the desperation of tenderness, all was fulfilled when you and jungwon were together. you were now his, and he was yours, even if it wasn’t audibly pronounced.

the way your figures clung onto the other before you walked back hand in hand to your next class, was all that needed to be in order to play out what the two of you were: two previous broken hearts that were now mended, together. forever.

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