#and now they know they have the capacity to do something like that and be used like that and they're scared

[legalandnotease]

OK, you got me started.

Maybe you didn't know that. Maybe you honestly had no idea that you were saying something that is a direct attack against people who have gone through the exact mental illnesses Tony had and recognize his struggles as their own.

I have PTSD and depression and let me tell you something straight from the start.

Tony Stark does not represent me or anybody like me. Lose this ridiculous idea that Tony Stark has PTSD. He doesn't. He displays zero symptoms of PTSD.

He has anxiety at best, and is probably a narcissist. Yes, his actions and behaviour are very consistent with Covert Narcissism.

His "fear of loss" is the fear of abandonment, of no longer being able to control those around him.

His "my way or the highway" mentality, his inability to listen to or trust others, his paranoia and inability to accept responsibility.

All are massively consistent with narcissism.

...and before the Tony fans shriek, guess what the main cause of narcissism is? Childhood neglect. QUELLE SURPRISE! That said... His daddy being nasty to him does not absolve him being outright abusive to others. That is the excuse real life abusers use btw.

Whatever he has though: let us stop right now blaming mental health for Tony Stark's shitty actions. The idea that "trauma" absolves him is a harmful and dangerous idea which perpetuates negative stereotypes about mental health.

The sheer amount destructive and harmful things Tony does which cause mass death is what prevents him from being "representation" for mental health.

If Tony was anybody else... nobody would be saying he should not take responsibility for things which actively hurt and killed others because *muh trauma*.

Name a time when Tony was in a safe place to heal. I'll wait.

Every time he retired. He retires MULTIPLE times in between moves. Between Iron Man II and Avengers?

2 years.

Between Avengers and Age of Ultron

3 years.

Between AoU and Civil War

1 year

Between CW and IW

2 years

Between CW and Endgame

5 years.

That is a total of 13 years. Tony had 13 years of relative peace and quiet in which to get some self care and healing.

Compare that to Bucky who is confirmed as having PTSD and gets the sum total of 2 years to recover from 70 years of torture abuse, brain damage, trauma guilt and self-hatred. With NO support network. Unlike Tony, who had various people to support him. And Bucky has to contend with a fuckton of victim-blaming that Tony never did.

You literally just ignored the first part of OP's post, in which they noted that people constantly ignore Wanda's and Bruce's parts in Ultron.

These are excuses designed to absolve Tony of his responsibility for Ultron. Wanda did not mind control him: she gave him a vision.A vision he did not have to act opon. He chose to.

Tony was acting of his own free will and with his own agency the entire time. So was Bruce. This is why people blame Tony.

Unlike say,,,, hmmm I dunno Bucky who was literally mind controlled and had the very capacity for free choice and agency taken away from him, who was literally forced and tortured into doing things.... Tony was making a choice

(But isn't it WEIRD how people- usually Tony Fans) still insist on blaming an actual mind control and torture victim for his actions on the ground that "his body did it" - whilst trying to absolve the guy who was not mind controlled and had full bodily autonomy because "muh good intentions" and "muh trauma"

Yes, that's called victim-blaming.

You ignored how OP pointed out that the illegal arms dealing was Stane's actions, not Tony's, and that Tony shut it down as soon as he learned of it, saying "there are lines we don't cross.

Except... that's not what happened. Tony ran the company for 17 years as an adult. In all that time you're telling me he didn't notice his own stock going missing? He didn't notice the protests against his weapons being used on civilians in places like Sokovia?

The fact that it was only when he realized they were being used on *American soldiers* that he considered the line to have been crossed speaks volumes about Tony.

If he took drugs that were stopping him from doing his job as a CEO that is on him, not anybody else. Just like if somebody took drugs and decided to drive a car, you would not blame the car or the drugs.

Would Wanda not have attacked Tony's mind, then?

Since Tony was alreasdy planning to build Ultron even before he met Wanda, this bascailly makes no difference, but carry on.

Would Nick Fury and Black Widow have suddenly left him alone? Would he not have been dying from palladium poisoning?

How are Nick Fury and Natasha responsible for the stupid and reckless things Tony did when he thought he was dying. Did they make him do them? No. Thought not.

Would he have been able to suddenly change the route his company was taking without his friends turning their backs on him (which they did at first) and Stane trying to kill him?

Actually, yes. He's was the CEO, for goodness sake. He was also a grown-ass 38-year-old man, not a little kid.

You know he could in that capacity just fire Stane right? Right? As soon as he had evidence for his activities he could fire him on the spot? That's what CEOs can do? He could fire the whole Board of Directors if he wanted to.

But even if! Even if he went to therapy! Do you think therapy is a magical cure-all? Do you think people who go to therapy for PTSD suddenly don't have panic attacks anymore? That they don't get triggered, or fall back into their personal hells, or have days where they regress to who they'd been before therapy because healing isn't a straight line?

OK. Let;s talk about PTSD triggers.

People who are triggered may go into "fight or flight" mode. They may freeze. They may lash out. They may start having flashbacks. They may become depressed. They may become withdrawn.

What they do not do is take a highly dangerous object and use it to build abother hightly dangerous object despite warnings that it might be dangerous.

What they do not do is attack helpless unarmed people for 10 minutes with multiple weapons, pinning them against walls and attempting to blow their heads off.

What they do not do is ignore clear evidence for **years** of theft in their company, and ignore evidece their stock is falling into the wrong hands.

Nothing *repeat* NOTHING Tony does in the movies can be put down to him just being triggered. Blaming PTSD for Tony's violent and deliberately reckless actions is vile.

Honestly, shame on you for talking about therapy as if it's the cure-all for the world, as if every single problem life throws at people becomes butterflies and rainbows the instant a person talks to a professional about it all. As if Tony was The Main Problem of the MCU, and his capital sin was in not booking an appointment with a psychologist.

No, SHAME ON YOU.

People already think mental illness is an excuse for bad behaviour and Tony Stans are making this far worse with using conditions like mine as an excuse for everything Tony does.

Whether it be sexually harassing women

Building a murderbot

grooming and blackmailing a teenager,

or trying to murder an abuse victim in cold blood because he was upset about his disgusting daddy being killed.

How many people here, in real life, have mocked and derided Tony Stark as a character because he's a cis straight rich white man?

Let me tell you this right now.

Nobody would make excuses for Tony's actions the way they do if he was not a rich white male.

Just like in real life Tony can get away with things that anybody else would be thrown in jail for because he has money and connections.

Do you really think that poor people can get away with murder like Tony on the ground of abuse or trauma? No. They can't. They also can't get support or therapy. THEY will be persecuted and prosecuted, even for things they were driven to by desperation.

I am going to compare him to Bucky Barnes, fandom's favourite punchbag again because it illustrates this well.

One is working- class from a poor immigrant background who never had the power to say "no" or refuse to do what the high-ups told him. He was conscripted into into the army: if he refused to join up he'd have been imprisoned or worse.

He gets captured, experimented on, tortured, mutilated it, has his "brain put into a blender" and is forced to kill against his will?

What is the reaction? "He's still to blame. He chose to join up, he chose to go on that mission.... he could have escaped, he could have said no...."

Or "his body did it" as is the favourite excuse of Tony fans who want to entirely ignore the fact he had no control, autonomy or choice.

The other is a rich, priveleged guy with inherited money who had the best of everything. He is fully able to tell the government to go screw themselves, to refuse to do what he is told, and to buy his way out of any trouble he might get into.

He *chooses* to to drug himself into oblivion and drink himself silly when there are other options available. He chooses to do reckless things. He chooses to ignore the problems in his company. He chooses to go along with it because alternative is too hard.

He chooses to break multiple laws because his girlfriend is kidnapped. He chooses to mess with a highly dangerous supernatural artefact because he fears loss. He chooses to ignore advice, and people die. Over and over and over again because of his reckless actions and bad choices.

The reaction? "Its not his fault, he was manipulated" "its not his fault, he meant well!" "its not his fault, he's just trying to protect the people he loved"/

Its not about shaming: it is just a simple fact that rich white people can and do get away with the most henious things imaginable because of who they are. If Tony was poor like Bucky or black or Asian he would not be able to.

everyone always focuses on Sokovia and Ultron and Tony's involvement but no one ever thinks about how Bruce was also involved completely because they're both scientists. no one thinks about Wanda purposefully going in and digging in Tony's head, amplifying his PTSD and putting visions of all his friends dead in his head with the intent of making Tony create Ultron

Everyone always focuses on blaming Tony for the bomb that killed Wanda's parents but no one thinks about Tony being so shit faced he couldn't see straight at that time bec he was so deep in self-medicating his trauma that he could not even run his company and that it was Obidiah Stane that was the one in charge of the company and illegally selling the weapons that killed her parents

Everyone focuses on Tony selling weapons in the first movie but no one thinks about how it was Howard Starks company and that Tony was groomed from birth to run it and that he had tried multiple times to make something else of the company but was constantly shut down with guilt tripping until he was kidnapped and he forced the manufacturing to end

Everyone focuses on Tony being "conceited" and "arrogant" and not "caring about anyone but himself" but no one thinks about how every single action he makes in his movies are about protecting the people he loves and cares for. His biggest fear is his friends- not himself- dying. he goes into every battle he's in fully prepared to die and does make the sacrifice play many many times

everyone always focuses on what Tony did wrong, but no one thinks about how much he has grown and how he spends every single waking moment trying to be a better and better man who cares so deeply about everyone and is trying to protect everyone the only way he knows how- and that is with the brain and intellect that had been the only thing about Tony that was ever praised about

[divab0dy]

after party

patrick zweig x gn afab reader

contains: smut MDNI, awkward! pat, lowkey sub!pat, switch!reader, piv, unprotected sex, fingering, friends to fuckers, porn with very very little plot, 3kish words

authors note: this is my first upload to tumblr ever so i hope it all goes well and please give me advice of i actually suck or something

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you were at some dinner for some tennis thing. you had no idea honestly. just tipsy enough to not be paying attention to anything else around you. pat had invited you the night before, not having the capacity to remember even the important stuff.

someone had gotten some award for something at some tennis match, and you weren't sure that pat and art would be able to fill in the details for you either after that pregame. but it didn't matter, you were just happy to be there.

right now the party was winding down, the three of you celebrating with some marlboro reds out front of the venue.

"you ready do go?" pat asks, flicking his cigarette to the ground and stomping it out.

you reach up to take his hand as he pulls you up off the front stoop.

"will you guys walk me back? it's late." you ask.

"fffffuck no" art shivers. "sorry but i am running back to our dorm" he taps pat on the shoulder.

"i'll walk you" pat reassures. "i'll see you back at the dorm then" he turns to art as you guys walk.

"see ya" art says before turning and jogging across the street towards their dorm.

"he's so drunk maybe you should've walked him home" you smile.

"he'll make it back just fine, it's you i'm worried about."

"and why's that?" you look up at him, still walking.

"you just couldn't listen to me when i told you to bring a jacket could you?"

"please im fine, it's southern california."

"it's night and it's winter. and you're shivering."

"stop worrying about me, worry about yourself big shot. maybe next award show, you'll be getting the award." you smile up at him.

"yeah i don't think so" he slides his jacket off of his shoulders.

"no pat" you push it back towards him as he holds it out for you.

"okay good because it's really fucking cold." he slides it back on.

"i knew you weren't a gentleman."

"not to you" he laughs.

"oh pat i'm sure you take all of your women out before you fuck them." you sigh. "or men."

"i am not fucking art" he laughs. "i don't know how many times we have to have this conversation."

"yeah sure you're not patrick 'i'll see you at the dorm' zweig."

"i will! i will see him back at the dorm, what's wrong with saying that."

"i'll see you back at the dorm, ya know when my dick is inside you. pat we both know what you meant by that."

"stop before i decide to let you walk home on your own." he says playfully.

"sorry sorry no more talking about your boyfriend." you laugh. "isn't it kind of stupid to drink the night before a match?" you switch conversations.

"it's an afternoon match, and i didn't drink that much, not as much as art."

"oh and here his name comes up again." you jab.

he laughs as you approach your dorm building.

"you wanna come in? i redid the place." you beam.

"yeah sure" you both enter the building and make your way up to your dorm.

"sooo this is the place... see i moved the bed. more feng shui or some bullshit."

"i like it." he seats himself on your bed.

"you gonna stay a while?" you wonder.

"yeah" he breathes, laying back on your tiny twin. "if that's okay" he adds, straining his neck to look at you.

"well you've already made yourself at home."

he laughs and sits up on his elbows. you take a seat on the bed next to him, sitting up higher, back against the wall. he turns to his side, still propped up on his elbow to look at you.

"you looked good tonight, i don't know if i said that already." as he speaks, he looks away.

"i don't think you've ever said that."

"i mean it you look good. not just tonight either."

you blush and look away. "you're drunk pat."

"no i'm not, i barely had anything to drink."

"don't... don't compliment me weirdo." you push his shoulder.

"sorry for trying to be nice." he sighs, turning away from you to look at the ceiling.

"you have literally not once complimented me."

"bullshit i compliment your backhand all the time. wish i fucking had it."

"i meant my looks, and your backhands good too to be fair."

"well you do look good, maybe i don't say it enough." he drops his head back on the bed.

"what's with the sudden rush of affection, hm?"

"i don't know, maybe i'm feeling extra nice."

"you look good too" you blurt, feeling the embarrassment immediately preceding your words.

now it's his turn to blush and look away, turning his head to the other side.

"what's a matter patty? can't take a compliment." your hand comes to cup his jaw and turn his head.

"don't..." he looks into your eyes.

suddenly you can't help the question that surges out of your chest. "why did you invite me patrick?"

he knows he can't lie to you. not when you're looking at him with those soft eyes. "i wanted people to think you were coming as my date." he breathes, eyes still laser focused on yours.

"was i?" you smile down at him.

"we're you?"

you ignore his question and lean in to kiss him, craning your neck.

you take his top lip in between yours, your noses smushing together. he sucks on your bottom lip before trying to pry your mouth open with his own. you get the point and let him in, his tongue immediately licking into your mouth.

as he sits up you take the hint and climb into his lap, pulling back.

"are we taking things too fast?" you lace your fingers into his hair.

"no, please no." his begging lips look so appealing.

a smile grows on your face. "good because i want you so fucking bad right now." he smiles in response. your hands tug at his shirt.

the top button of his polo is undone in an instant and he pulls it over his head. fuck he looks good.

your needy hands find their way to his chest trailing over toned muscles. its not that you haven't seen it before, its just that this is so, so different.

he takes the initiative, flipping you over onto your back, now onto top of you and you can't help but wrap your legs around him.

"how long have you wanted this?" you whisper, looking him in the eye.

"so long, please just let me..." and you can feel him pressing against your inner thigh as he trails off.

"you can do anything you want" you smile up at him.

"don't... don't tell me that." he takes your hand from his chest and squeezes it.

you smile up at him and sit up, sliding your shirt off.

"oh fuck" he sighs, leaning back down to kiss you.

the kiss is passionate, more rushed than before. tongues shoving into each others mouths as he shamelessly begins to rut against you. he pulls back, panting into your mouth.

"you need more pat?" you whisper.

"please" he groans, still grinding into you.

"why don't you take these off hm?" your fingers hook on his waistband.

"yeah" he breathes, shifting to tug them off. you sit up as he does. the room suddenly feels like its on fire and you're burning up watching him. it's nothing new, seeing him like this, he is a slut to be fair. walking out of the shower, or lounging around the dorm in the hot summer. but the way he's looking at you, soft, almost nervous eyes, and the way his chest is rising and falling so quickly is unfamiliar.

"can i..." he looks up at you suddenly, almost forgetting you were there.

"what?" he says softly, cheeks rosy.

"can you take these off?" you ask, grabbing at his boxers.

he lets out a low sigh and nods as he lifts his hips to tug them off. as gently as you can, you place a hand on his shoulder, afraid that if you move to quickly, he'll decide he doesn't want this after all.

deciding that if he won't ask, you'll just do, you start to unbutton your pants. he inhales sharply, watching you with careful eyes.

"you're so pretty," his helping hands come to assist you with the zipper, pulling your jeans and underwear down your legs.

"you too" shaky hands lace into his hair as you lay back down, pulling him on top of you.

"stop talking like that" he lets out a breathy laugh.

"talking like what?" you smile, hearing his laugh.

"like you like me" he says playfully.

"i do like you."

"well stop talking about it, it's making me nervous."

"you can touch me ya know... or is that going to make you more nervous?" you laugh softly.

"no" his hand finds your waist, stabilizing himself on his forearm next to your head.

"i didn't mean like that." you laugh and shake your head, taking his hand from where it is, moving it up to your mouth. as you push his middle and ring finger into your mouth you can feel him shiver. looking up at him with soft eyes, he fucking moans, watching you take his fingers in your mouth.

"oh fuck don't look at me like that."

popping his fingers out of your mouth, you giggle. "you don't want me to do anything."

"everything you do makes me nervous." he sighs as you guide his hand down.

"all the time or just now."

"all the time, it's just worse now because you can see my dick."

"that's making you nervous?"

"obviously."

"why? i like it."

"see that's what i mean... don't... don't say that." he sighs.

"i can't say i like you're dick when you're literally on top of me naked? patrick do you know that we're about to fuck?"

"stop talking you're making me nervous." he sighs, letting you continue to guide his hand.

"okay patty." you guide his fingers to press up against your clit gently, shuddering as he applies pressure. he moves his fingers down, prodding at your entrance. "fuck pat be gentle with me."

his eyes squeeze shut and he takes a deep breath. "yeah, okay." starting gently with his already wet fingers, he slides his middle finger inside of you, curling it.

as he hears you let out a breathy moan, he gains confidence, adding his ring finger. "is that... is that okay?"

"i didn't mean that gentle pat, i've fingered myself before."

"yeah... sorry." he continues, adding his thumb to rub your clit slowly.

"it's okay" your hands move to tug at his hair and he whines. "still nervous?"

"less" he sighs, his fingers picking up a rhythm.

"feels good pat..." you moan, your ees fluttering shut. he groans in response, speeding up the pressure on your clit but keeping his fingers at the same place.

"why didn't you say anything?" he asks, quietly.

"what?" you goan.

"why didn't you ever say that you liked me?"

"fuck- pat, i thought... i thought you didn't like me..." you manage.

"of course i like you."

"keep- stop... stop talking i'm close."

he nods, fingers speeding up.

"keep doing that please im gonna- fuck." you finish, shaking on his fingers as you let your orgasm wash over you, clenching down on him.

"fuck you're so pretty" he sighs, taking his fingers out. bringing his hands up to his mouth, he sucks on his fingers, letting his eyes fall shut.

"pat if you don't fuck me right now i'm actually going to strangle you." and how could he say no to that? how could he say no to anything when you look like that.

he nods. "i can do that... yeah."

wrapping your legs around him, you squeeze his waist with your thighs. as he guides himself to press against you, you both moan.

he starts pressing it inside, very slowly as you open up around him.

"fuck pat you're so big" you hiss as he nudges inside of you.

he pauses to squeeze his eyes shut at your words, needing a moment. he continues, slowly, his eyes flicking from your face to where your greedy pussy is taking him inch by inch, so, so fucking good.

he's searching your face for an ounce of discomfort and doesn't find any when he bottoms out.

"just... just stay like that for a minute please?" your face screws up, getting used to the stretch.

"yeah it's okay, as much time as you need." he sighs, so very grateful that you're asking him to stay put so he doesn't have to tell you that he won't last if he moves.

you take a moment as he breathes into your neck, panting softly.

"okay i'm ready" you breathe. he pulls out, as gently as he can, trying not to hurt you. he groans as you clench down on him, already overstimulated from your last orgasm.

"fuck you're so tight" he sighs into your neck.

you tug on his hair. "want to look at you" you whine. both of your eyes meet and he looks like he could cry as he ever so gently pushes back into you. "i can't believe it took us this long to do this."

"you should have told me you wanted this earlier." as he reaches for your hand, he keeps eye contact, grabbing your hand and squeezing it hard.

"you should have told me," your heals dig into the backs of his thighs, pushing him as deep as possible and he groans loudly. covering his mouth with your hand you whisper. "you've gotta be quiet pat, people are still awake," his pleading eyes meet yours.

"fuck i'm not gonna last if you keep looking at me like that" he keeps up with the same speed.

"then don't."

he groans, picking up the pace at your words. his hips meat yours over and over again. the only sounds in the room are your heavy panting, his breathy moans and the soft sound of skin clapping. breath fans over your face as he gains even an ounce of composure, something he so desperately needs. you can smell the natty light, the cigarettes, the gum. you can feel the callouses on his hands, the sweat, the neediness of his grabs. you can hear the moans erupting from his chest, somewhere deeper than anything you've heard of him playing tennis. it's all so real. you can feel it all at once and it's almost too much.

"fuck you feel so good, i can't believe you're letting me do this" his eyes never leaving yours.

"i can't believe you're fucking me like this... shit- i should have told you sooner, i'm sorry patty."

"fuck stop... stop squeezing me like that i'm not... fuck" he groans, his hips slowing down.

"what-"

"i don't wanna cum yet, i wanna get you there first."

"fuck you're doing so good."

he changes the angle as your legs pull him in. now he's hitting in all of the right places, the pleasure near doubling as he fucks you like he needs you. like if he doesn't you'll both die. like if he stops, you'll fade at his finger tips. he hits a particular spot that makes you squeeze his hand and gasp out a choked moan. he begins abusing it, like it's his to use, which it is. you'd let him do anything to you if he keeps looking at you with those soft blue eyes.

"fuck i'm so close" you gasp.

"please cum, i need to- need to feel it... fuck-" his hips are stuttering.

you reach your hand down to start rubbing over your clit at a rough pace, already so, so fucking close.

"i'm cumming pat fuck i'm-" your moans are pornographic as you shake and clench down on him, gasping for air as your body rocks with ecstasy.

"i can't- i can't pull out, fuck- it's too good, i'm gonna- fuck, thank you, thank you." his words are barely comprehensible as you can feel him cumming inside of you, chanting your name with his hips rocking into you as far as they can.

you sigh toying with his hair as he rides it out, hips lazily grinding into your body.

he practically collapses on top of you.

"was that okay? i'm sorry i can buy you-"

"it's okay i'm on birth control."

"thank you" he's pulling out and getting off of you, rolling to the side and suddenly you feel so fucking empty.

"for what?" you laugh.

"for letting me..." he trails off, becoming shy to his own words.

you laugh, not exactly knowing how to respond. "so how long have you wanted to fuck me?" you ask as you stand up.

"like two years... wait you don't think that's all i want right?"

you look back at him, cocking an eyebrow.

"i mean i like you, actually as a friend... wait no not... like i have romantic feelings for you, i want you, more than to... hook up with."

"aww," you throw on some old shorts, climbing back onto your bed next to him. "i like you too pat."

"okay good." he lets out a sigh of relief.

"i told you... like twice."

"i know but i just didn't want it to be something that you said in the heat of the moment, and didn't actually mean it." you slide under your covers, pulling them on top of both of you. the bed is so small that you're practically atop him, not unlike you were just 15 minutes ago.

"no never," you shift to your side, , letting him wrap an arm around you as you're now eye to eye with him. "you're spending the night right?"

"yeah of course."

"wow you're finally a gentleman, maybe next time i can even get the jacket." you flick your lamp off and shut your eyes.

"only if you let me take you out."

"mhm, anytime."

"goodnight."

"goodnight patty cakes."

[acepalindrome]

Based on The Flame Eternal, it’s canon that Johanna will go places and do things she’s doesn’t want to if she thinks Emmrich needs protecting. She’ll bitch and complain and act like he forced her, but she’ll do it. Somebody has to make sure he doesn’t get himself killed.

After multiple unsuccessful attempts to get Johanna to come with him to parties by way of pleading, bribing, trying to convince her that she’d enjoy it, and pulling the old ‘it would make me ever so happy if my best friend in the world came with me,’ Emmrich decides to appeal to Johanna’s protective side AND her love of vengeance by mentioning that one of the attendees at the party will be that motherfucker who publicly humiliated Emmrich at the Post-Mortem Communications Conference by falsely accusing Emmrich of plagiarism.

It was, of course, complete hogwash. Anyone who knew Emmrich even in passing knows he would sooner die than stoop to plagiarism, and that’s from the guy with severe thanatophobia! The guy making the accusation, on the other hand, had clearly borrowed very generously from Emmrich’s paper on the capacity for literacy among spirits, so he was definitely trying to cover up any suspicion coming his way by throwing Emmrich under the carriage. The accusation was dismissed fairly quickly and the damage to Emmrich’s reputation was mostly repaired in a few months, but the bastard in question got away with a mere reprimand because he knew enough people in the right places to claim that it was just an honest mistake.

Emmrich was furious and more than a little hurt that a colleague he thought he got along decently with would do something so cruel. Johanna, on the other hand, was ready to spill blood over it. Plagiarism is already an offense that should be punishable by death, in Johanna’s opinion, but accusing Emmrich of such a vile deed? Johanna’s best friend favorite rival and best lab partner? Unforgivable. Death is too good for him. She is not letting Emmrich go this this party without her. What if that piece of shit tries to pull something again?

She’s so fired up and fuming about the whole thing that Emmrich is able to drag her out to buy new clothes for the party with him, and she only complained about half the time! The rest of the time was spent scheming about exactly what she’s going to do if that fucker tries anything, but this is progress. Yes, yes, you’ll stab him with an hors d'oeuvre fork if he breathes in my direction, but what do you think of this waistcoat? Is the pattern too garish?

He realizes that perhaps this technique of getting Johanna to go outside her lab wasn’t the best, because she isn’t socializing at all. She’s just lurking by the buffet, aggressively eating fancy cheeses and glaring at That Guy from across the room. Later Emmrich catches her trying to slip something into his drink.

“Relax, Volkarin! It’s not poison, it’s just concentrated Nevarran dragon pepper extract. It won’t kill him, but he might wish it did when he feels like he’s shitting out fire later! Now go mingle on the other side of the room so you have an alibi if anyone tries to pin this on you.”

Emmrich is a man of morals, but he’s also a man who thinks psychologically torturing someone for selling him a fake charm is acceptable, and someone who thinks this bitch got off way too easy for what he did. He casually goes off to chat with some friends elsewhere and keeps pleasantly sipping his wine when there’s an agonized scream and great deal of commotion across the room. The criminal ends up turning over the punch bowl in his haste to try to extinguish the fire in his mouth. Oh my. What shameful behavior at a party.

Johanna decides she’ll go to the next party Emmrich invites her to. If he wants to invite her. Whatever. She doesn’t care what he does. Obviously.

[zalrb]

Okay I've just discovered your Nick and June posts and I am OBSESSED!!

Here's something interesting that I'd love for you to expand on.

In 5x10 when Nick punches Lawrence, I think that's the first time in 5 seasons that he's actually lost his cool. Alot of his emotions are telegraphed on his face in beautifully subtle ways, but with the punch, it's the first time he's had a real external reaction that he just want able to control. It's super interesting to me!!

Thank you! If you haven't, you might want to watch my edits of them too! They're always fun for me to do so I encourage people who want to watch them to watch them! Playlist of all the vids is below:

And you're right about 5x10! Absolutely. I think the outburst is a combination of a couple of things.

1. This isn't the first time June's life has been in danger but it is the first time that Nick wasn't there in some capacity to, if not prevent harm

or help her escape

then save her life

Even when she's being tortured in 4x03, he knows where she is, he has an idea of what's happening

and he's doing everything in his power to make sure she gets out

In 4x05, he doesn't know where she is, but he's keeping tabs as best as he can

and he didn't think he would need to have that in Canada, he thought that she was finally safe and when he did get an inkling of danger, he tried to do what he always did with a person he at least somewhat trusted

and it didn't work, he wasn't there, he couldn't help

and her safety is of paramount importance to him

That feeling of devastation for him must've been astronomical.

2. I think all of this was exacerbated by the fact that this season was spent with Nick actively working against his own emotions rather than simply hiding them. Even though he was taciturn or silent and had to communicate with a shift in his expression or a movement or a subtle gesture, he never attempted to repress his love for June, he never tried to lie to himself about her and now, he's doing his best to lie to himself, and repress his love, and be honourable to his wife and, the instinct, and the impulse to be with June, to overtly, expressly love her is there, it's very much there, but he ignores it

and that must've felt like suffocating

that these two things that each contain a multitude of other nuanced things converge and the only way for him to react is with an outburst of emotion

plus there's the fact that, when given the opportunity, Nick hits the men who have harmed June or put June in harm's way :)

Those are my thoughts on it anyway!

[lunaandco]

anatomy studies; part one

pairing: pedri x ofc

summary: vic needs a model. pedri is very quick to offer his help, even if her brother does not approve.

taglist: @htpssgavi ; @joaosnovia

masterlist // series masterlist // I do not take requests

Pedri ignored the conversation he was supposed to be having with Ferran just to stare at Victoria Casadó. She was currently arguing with her older brother about something, both of them standing a bit apart from the group. It was moments like this that Pedri could take advantage of, in order to avoid setting off Marc's protective instincts, that made it almost impossible for a guy to approach her.

Vic was a pretty girl, with long silky hair, the same colour as her brother—although she was not balding like he was. She was also a third year art student, so it wasn't uncommon for Marc to have to skip a boys night out because she had forced him to model for her.

Pedri would never understand why Marc complained so much about it, he would do anything to be looked at by Vic in any capacity.

"Stop staring," Ferrran said, not even looking at where his friend's gaze had been lost. "Marc is going to catch you and you're a shit liar. Everyone already knows you want to smash his sister, he won't take long to realise soon, too."

Pedri blushed furiously.

"I wasn't..." he protested. "I do not..."

"See? You suck at lying."

Ferran had that shit eating grin he only displayed when he knew Pedri could not argue with his teasing.

"Do you know what they are arguing about?" Pedrihad been caught in the traffic on his way to Lewandowski's house, and he had missed the beginning of the hangout.

"Vic needs an nude model for her next assignment and she does not want to use Marc."

"Why?" he asked. "She always uses Marc when she has to draw men."

"Exactly because of that. She needs a bit of variety. And, well, she's supposed to do a slghtly erotic piece. You might understand why she doesn not want her older brother to be the model."

Pedri blushed again.

"Then who..."

"She wanted to ask today if any of us would be down for it, but Marc doesn't—"

"Want any footballer getting any ideas," finished Pedri. It was too late for Marc. Pedri had already gotten many ideas.

He strolled around the garden, casually aproaching the siblings, pretending it was a total coincidence to meet them at that point.

"Hey, how are you two?" he asked, making eye contact with Vic. She smiled shyly.

"Actually, not too well, my brother is being annoying," she told him.

"Older brothers," Pedri sympathised with her struggle, dramatically rolling his eyes. "It's like they only know how to be annoying. What are you tormenting the poor girl with, Casa?"

"He doesn't want me to draw any of you," she puted, her honey colored eyes looking at him through her lashes. "But it's so boring to always paint him..."

"I can be your model," he offered, smiling. "Casa here knows how trustworhty I am, right?"

"Well, yes, but..."

Vic's squeal of happiness interrupted Marc's complaints.

"Thank you, Pedri!" she said, throwing her hands around his neck in a hug.

"But it's supposed to be nude!" protested Marc. Pedri winked at him.

"Don't worry. i'll take good care of her, I promise."

Marc clenched his jaw, but even he knew not to make a scene about somehting like this in Lewandowski's garden, with all the team and families around them. Meanwhile, Pedri enjoyed the warmth of Vic's body pressed against him for the duration of the hug, being exactly as interested on her as Marc feared.

💙❤️

Should I shave beforehand?

Pedri texted. Marc had refused to let him get Vic's number, but had allowed him to follow her on her private Insta, which meant he had now access to a couple of pictures o her. He might have put one of those as his lockscreen.

No. Vic replied. I actually would rather you had a little bit of hair. You know, to practice the shading.

Because of that Pedri left his chest hair alone, He made the trip to the Casadó's househould, his heart beating fast and his legs weaker than after a Champions League game.

Marc opened the front door for him. Pedri's heart dropped. He should have known that he would insist on not leaving then alone for the duration of the session.

"Marquito stop being so paranoid," Vic complaned when she saw that her brother was following Pedri inside of her room. "I'm not a Victorian maiden and he is not going to take away my virtue or some shit," she said. "Get lost or I'll tell mom you're sneaking your girlfriend at night. See what happens then."

Marc grumbled, but the thrat landed true, and he retreated slowly.

"I'm sorry for my brother, he just worrues one of you will break my heart or somehting."

"I can tell. HE cares a lot about you," Pedri said, standing awkwardly in the middle of the room.

"it gets asphixiating," Vic concluded. "I... I'm sorry, we can stop this if you're uncomfortable."

"Don't worry about it," Pedri said, but he was sweating nervously. What if Vic didn't like his body?

"I need you to take your clothes off," she explained. "All of them. You can lay on the bed if you want."

Pedri gulped, but took off his hoodie first, and then his pants. Vic had turned her back on him, giving him a modicum of privacy, while she sorted out her materials. Once he was completely nude, he sat on the soft bed.

Pedri felt like he was going to hell. He was laying in his crush's bed, completely naked and surrounded by her scent, something between oil paint and tulips, but he coukd not let her know how much it excited him.

Thinking of this moment, Pedri had not considered the possibility of getting a boner, but as Vic finally turned, he found himself beging his dick to cooperate.

"Is this alright?" he asked, acomodating his back against the pillow.

"Yes." Vic said. "But I need you to bend your leg... no the other one. That's it."

The arms were more complicated. Pedri did not understand Vic's directions, and she ended up having to swallow up he rshyness and move them exactly whener she wanted. Pedri pretended as if his skin wasn't crawling at hte thought of her touching him.

"If you're cold or need a break just tell me," Vic indicated as she finally settled on her desk and grabbed her sketchbook. "I'll be as quick as I can."

💙❤️

Pedri wasn't sure how long it took. Marc went into the room at least five times, with the excuse of bringing water and snacks, but Pedri knew he was just checking that nothing he didn't approve of happened.

The sunlight was gone and Vic was cracking her back.

"We're done," she said, standing up. "Here, she gave him the finished drawing, which made Pedri blush. He looked sexy. the body he had always considered too skinny, too bony to be actually atractive on its own, without the addded perk of his footballng ability, was now staring back at him, shaded in charcoal and looking as beautiful as ever.

"Thank you," he said. Even his dick, which had cooperated with him, thank God, looked pretty, nestled between his thighs. The hair she had told him not to shave reflected its coarse texture, even if Vic had not touched.

"I should be the one saying that," Vic joked awkwardly. "Here, you can have the sketches."

She gave him some sheets in which he could also recognise himself, albeit less detailed and the traces lighter.

"I mean it," he insisted. "Thank you."

Vic's eyes slid down the curve of his shoulder. After two hours of being profoundly stared at, one woukd think Pedri would have gotten used to Victoria's eyes upon him, but he still shivered.

"Shit, I am so sorry, you must be freezing!" she said, leaping back and picking up his clothes for him. "I am so sorry," she repeated, "I'll leave you so you can dress properly.

Pedri opened his mouth to say something, but his voice got caught on his thoat as the door of the room closed behind Vic.

He dressed quicly, and grabbed the sketches Vic had gifted him again. In the corner, scribbled, there was a phone number and a note.

Don't tell Marc.

[stevie-petey]

Hi! I love your writing, it’s seriously impeccable. I was wondering- remember the part where you wrote in the first chapter for season 4, where Chrissy gave reader a daisy (or daisies ?) when everything happened in season 1? Whenever you can, I was wondering what that would have looked like, like a mini little blurb.

:}

yes !!! chrissy was a sweetie i like to imagine her and bug were friendly and admired the other from afar </3

enjoy !

"excuse me?"

youre in the library trying to catch up on all the work youve missed these last few weeks, and youre so lost in your readings that you jump when you feel the girls hand gently tap your shoulder. "jesus!"

the table thuds, knee coming into contact with it in your terror, and your heart stops. memories of the demogorgon still fresh on your mind, any touch from someone sets you into a spiral.

"sorry!" the girl squeaks in embarrassment, and when you look up, you see chrissy cunninghams cheeks flushed. "i-im sorry! i didnt mean to scare you, i promise-"

your heartbeat settles. placing a hand on hers, you placate chrissys anxious thoughts. "its alright. no harm done." you smile at her, winking, hoping to dispel any remaining tension. "just a bruised knee."

yet chrissys face pales now. "oh, no. thats even worse. i really didnt mean to make you jump like that."

"it really isnt your fault." you reassure her again. "honestly, anything these days makes me jump."

"because of will?" chrissy asks you before she can stop herself. she flinches at her own question, similar to a small deer scared of its own shadow, and your heart aches for the girl before you. "i-im so sorry. that was a rude question-"

"would you like to sit?"

its not that you interrupt chrissy because youre bored of her. you interrupt her because you know what its like to spiral into anxious thoughts and uncertain boundaries. chrissy has been your classmate for years, but the two of you were always divided by a line created by social hierarchy. she chose cheerleading, and you chose jonathan.

but despite this divide, youve always watched chrissy in awe. shes kind. kinder than anyone youve ever met, and her soft demeanor juxtaposed the charisma needed to become head cheerleader at only sixteen. and yet youve never seen her cruel to anyone.

"well?" you beckon chrissy towards the seat next to you. "since youre here, might as well keep me company, right?"

chrissy nods, silent, and softly sits down. everything she does is soft. she smells of rosebuds and her doe eyes remind you of your childhood.

as she sits, you notice something white poking out from her bag. curious, you peer over the table. "whats in there?"

she stiffens at your questioning. everything you seem to do frightens her in some capacity. as if shes afraid any minute she'll upset you, and you try not to read into it, you really do, but her shy demeanor concerns you.

"chrissy," you gently grab her hand, eyes finding hers. shes warm to the touch, skin as soft as she is. "im just an annoyingly inquisitive person who cries watching ants get stepped on."

she laughs, and the cadence of it rings like bells. "ants?"

"im fond of bugs." you shrug at her, only knowing the true meaning behind your words.

she doesnt question you, though, and instead loops her arm through her backpack and places it on the table. you watch her with patience as she unzips it, unsure what she's doing, until she's pulled out freshly cut daisies.

you gasp. the flowers are lovely. "theyre beautiful!"

chrissy smiles shyly. "theyre for you, actually?"

"me?"

"mhm," she hands them to you, a sudden boldness to her once petrified nature. on her face is a proud smile, eager to have done this one nice thing for you, and for a second you see your reflection in her eyes. "here."

you hold the flowers close to your chest. they smell like spring and laughter. "i... why?"

"theyre for you and will." chrissy fixes one of the stems, delicate and deft. "when i heard about his disappearance, when he died..."

its your turn to look away. the reminder of seeing what you thought was wills lifeless body only days ago. how small he looks now in the hospital bed. how els body isnt next to his.

chrissy clears her throat, anxious she's upset you, and tries to ease the sting. "but hes alive now, and i figured you and him could use some flowers after everything youve been through."

she picks at a daisy, watches the small plant with fondness. "flowers. funny how something so frail can bring so much hope."

something about the way she says it, the way her words twist, makes your throat close up. pressure builds behind your eyes and you have to quickly wipe them before chrissy sees and starts to worry again.

"thank you," your voice cracks. "i... will hates how dull the hospital walls are."

chrissy laughs, leaning into you, and you cant help but laugh with her as well.

[kyleemclauren]

The idea of a "patient-led" hospital is an idea from the mad pride movement. The idea is that patients vote on each other's confinement & general diagnosis, in most incarnations alongside the nurses and physicians. It acknowledges that sometimes someone does need to be kept safe from themselves or others, but that retaining this control under lock and key of any kind of centralized hierarchy is potentially dangerous - The patients can let each other out. I have been hospitalized involuntarily with bipolar one episodes, the carceral tradeoffs of the system are fair, as far as I am concerned. It was good that I was kept in a confined situation for the duration of my episodes, it was bad that I had to navigate a corrupt and perilous system to be released. I'm not worried about the technical label of prison or not when I'm always being offered a fair and open exchange for freedom.

For the purposes of a brief "get this person out of a situation", the sort of thing that would normally be handled by "the drunk tank" or similar, this is a principled way to enact a 24-72 hour hold without subjecting the person to the arbitrary authority of an officer; (separate reforms exist here re: officer authority, outside the scope of this post.) This person is likely experiencing some kind of mental health crisis in many of these situations, being emotionally overwhelmed and losing your shit is a mental health problem.

For longer term situations, this comes up frequently in the setting of parole requirements, and regular checkins are often enough. The broad outlines of the needed surveillance apparatus already exist, their use continues largely as used now. If the person is determined to resist to the point of exhausting all other options, however, I do not oppose literally dedicating a full time official to follow them around. If you fuck up badly enough, and this is pretty damn badly, a police officer will be in the room with you 24\7 while you live your life. If they do commit a crime, the officer\official following them bears responsibility for not preventing it. If this has privacy implications for people around them, then those other people need to consent to the loss of privacy for the followed individual to participate. Exclusion from activities is a perfectly reasonable aspect of punishment; there are lots of times in the ordinary world where individuals are unable to go somewhere because of their current condition (eg, not being able to enter a restaurant because they have their dog with them.)

If someone refuses to go to rehabilitation, then rehabilitation will come to them. A therapist will be sent to their house. They are someone who likely needs a degree of therapy to even begin to accept the social contract they exist under, and there's no reason that needs to take place at a location outside of their house. Something that might not be apparent to a lot of people who have not been involuntarily confined (for mental health reasons, I don't know about criminal proceedings) - the worst parts of confinement are not the other patients, it's the mandatory counseling.

I'd like to make a subtle distinction here: This is a second place where I accept a type of confinement that I do not consider carceral. My specific working definition of incarceration is the act of throwing someone into a confined area to experience time as a punishment. It is a way of locking you up for the purpose of forgetting about you. If there is someone there with you, another human interacting with you in an official capacity, you are not incarcerated, you are in a mandatory meeting. 'Mandatory' means mandatory, sorry to the creepy stalker, they can't just leave the session.

What I am proposing is not gentle. It is a severe and incredibly invasive punishment, reserved as a show of force to those who refuse to behave. It just offers a clean and simple escape should you decide you'd rather comply, a fair carrot and stick. The outlines of this system are partially based on what happened to an acquaintance of mine, a factor one psychopath. That's the one where you're brain damaged from birth to have no conscience. They had murdered about a dozen pets, and were caught preparing a murder kit they were intending to use to kill a homeless person (for their own sexual gratification). They were studying to get a degree in criminal forensics, to help them get away with it. Scariest person I've ever met, totally flat expression, and very smart. This person had fucked up badly enough to be subject to this kind treatment.

They served their time, and were released under observation. They were watched like a *fucking hawk* afterwards. The conditions of their existence were incredibly restricted, even as they retained their freedom of movement (subject to exclusions from areas, not confinement to a particular one.) Officers had to approve their housing situation, phone apps, visitors, everything. They were given absolutely no privacy (beyond what would be expected in prison), but they were ultimately allowed to exist outside and have housing, a phone, visitors, etc. The unstated purpose of this monitoring was to be so invasive that they would fully internalize the idea that the consequences of trying shit again were absolutely not worth the attempt. This treatment was successful, as far as any of us could tell, and it those few initial weeks seemed genuinely more effective at reforming their behavior than the years they spent in prison. It certainly was on a reform-per-minute basis.

A common mistake people make when designing non-carceral systems is to attempt to make them non-punitive: This does not work. There are individuals who will only respect your ability to force them to comply, and this requires a show of force; it just does not need to be incarceration. Long-term paternalistic management sucks, in a horrible water torture kind of way, and this trait is under-appreciated because used properly it can be pleasant and produce genuine benefits. Someone with (eg.) severe executive functioning issues may find their life improved by being in this situation. Prison, on the other hand, simply becomes a new normal you endure while your social ties to the outside world die. A stalker released from prison after six months will quite possibly break their restraining order immediately, especially after ruminating on their target for half a year. A stalker micromanaged into understanding exactly what is wrong with them will never, ever want to deal with that again.

"I'm tired of everyone asking me the same questions about my political stance" is a complaint that works better when you give actual answers to those questions.

[thisishangingrockcomics]

Hi happy Sunday I’m having a coffee and a cigarette right now and just sort of processing and marinating. There’s a little more context I want to add as coherently as I can.

So, a little additional note to my last post which I would encourage you to read and share (even if you don’t like me, which is fine you are very much allowed to dislike me I’m my own flavor of polarizing and unlikable and certainly made plenty of mistakes in my twenties) if you are involved in music in any capacity and have not already— 

I have spent the past few months sniffing out and confirming that the person who I suspect is behind pretty much the majority of public cancellations of meaningful personal and professional consequence from the past decade also has and runs thousands of Reddit accounts under different aliases, alts, personas, identities, activity levels, post histories, account age, and likely mods a lot of big subreddits as a means to control narratives, approve themselves as a user to validate certain claims, and groom public impression. This I can prove beyond any shadow of a doubt. They own hundreds, if not thousands, of YouTube accounts as well and run a lot of the major “curation” and distribution YouTube channels like David Dean Burkhardt among many others. They have thousands of SoundCloud accounts as well which they use for many reasons but mainly to game the algorithm. This is all stuff I can prove many times over. How they are able to do this is a little bit beyond my comprehension at the moment but I know they are adept at machine learning, running open source scripts, gaming algorithms, and it’s likely something like that or a combination thereof including the use of a personal server is going on. They also admin lolcow. 

I don’t know enough about Twitter or instagram or Facebook to really assert any presence they may or may not have there because I don’t use them except to say that this person has used fake accounts representing false identities on Twitter many times to enact cancellations, mainly in that of The Orwells but others too, and Instagram to interact with men under false pretenses. Their own Twitter account was the start to me understanding and appreciating the scope and scale and severity of their manipulation in music, music journalism, and creative spaces. 

I note the Reddit stuff to encourage you not to take anything said in cancellation threads as any sort of gospel truth let alone personal account from a real life person engaging in good faith. 

Beyond what I already know to be true regarding the fictionalized nature of a lot of cancellations from the past decade, the amount of control this individual has been able to accrue on the internet is unprecedented and I feel cannot be overstated. 

I would encourage you, if you are a creative in any sense of the word and work in creative spaces or rely on the internet and its platforms to do so, to actively try to confirm the people in your orbit are representing their actual real identity and engaging in good faith and always question the motives of someone trying to get you to hate or ostracize another creative. We ultimately all occupy presence in these communities because of the values we have in common, not the things we don’t.

Essentially this is someone who, for a decade, has used the internet and what happens online or more accurately what they are able to assert online to dictate reality instead of the internet being a reflection of what happens in real life. I think they were able to do this largely in part because the early 2010s saw a death of the “blog” era, hipster runoff, Williamsburg indie, and an entire shift of the internet from personal blogs and websites to streamlined platforms and social media. A lot of the bands, artists, and musicians who came of age after maybe 2012 or 2013 saw themselves operating in a very different wheelhouse with different rules, internet literacy, and more online based means of connecting personally and professionally as opposed to in person community based. A lot of musicians grew up using /mu/ — it was the most tepid board on 4chan, it was never dignified as NSFW, it was the least racist board because of all the hip-hop heads. A normal /mu/ user would never have thought that using it was some sort of criminal or cancellable offense, this individual got Whirr cancelled in 2015 and by doing so asserted engagement with that space as being inherently sort of nefarious (it wasn’t I used to hang out there it was all very, very mild), I believe they were also responsible for getting a member of DIIV kicked out for the same reason.

I’m sure I’ll say more but for now I’m going to log off for a week or two. 

[kwondotcom]

finally, finally built the emotional capacity to annotate something in the orange. on bsk's birthday, i said "the best thing you can do for yourself today is to read this fic." over a week later, it still stands true. this is one of the best pieces of work you will find not only on svtblr, but on the internet as a whole. i believed it then; i believe it now. 🍊 spoilers under the cut.

an anonymous assumption that was made about viv some days ago was whether she has a background as a film major, and her answer was no; she's just recently read the past lives script (lol). could've fooled me. this was a stellar device used for getting into the characters' head and describing them, and the eventual payoff of it just makes the story all the more heart-wrenching. on a more personal note: as a communication major who spent four years writing movie scripts? this shit was good.

the mark of a good apocalypse fic. how deep does the lore go? naming the phenomenon 'the Blight' and establishing it throughout is insane work. the information is bread crumbed. enough to keep you guessing. but in this first paragraph alone— extinction, famine, inflation— the domino effect of everything feels ominous. having seungkwan and the MC discussing [shotgun] marriage afterwards feels like a smoke screen. 'look, the world may be ending, but there is a young couple asking hypothetical questions and falling in love.'

absolutely devastating, by the way. i'm a big believer of love in the small moments, and there's just. something distinctly tender in how this is navigated. the images of walks home, shaky confessions, button exchanges. and the hints of what's happening, what's to come: mild dust storms, a barren world. this is a masterclass in writing, and it is genuinely so insane to me that i am getting to read this for free.

there's much to love in this passage. MC being right about the wires being good for barter. the passages that explain how the camera came to be. and just— all the premise in the world for why their love is so beautiful, how their affection persists. MC being a 'former writer' prepared for the zombie apocalypse is a nice touch.

[CAR CRASH] [GLASS SHATTERING] [EXPLOSION] “OH MY GOD” [BABY CRYING] “WAAAHH WAHH” [YELLING] “HELP MEE” [POLICE SIRENS] WEE WOO WEE WOEOO [YELLING] [HELICOPTERS] ‘WE’RE REPORTING LIVE-‘ [EXPLOSION] ‘MY LEG... MY LEG!!’ [BABY CRYING] “AHFUCKK SOMEONE HELP US” [REPORTER REPORTING]

both of the translations i found absolutely wrecked me. the first translation offers a specific kind of pain. the thought of the newlywed; longing for someone; a crying heart; if he cannot come, i will send my heart instead— after knowing MC is referred to as 'my heart'? and the second translation gives us tears of farewell; the trace of someone; how can old wounds be renewed? i'm a believer that everything is intentional, that nothing is left up to chance, especially when it comes to writing, and viv just bowls you over with the sheer thoughtfulness of a detail like this. i can't even begin to discuss the juxtaposition of a beach ruined by things like plastic and trash vs. bullet shells and shrapnel. the couple then running to be in the water together; the footage, partially obscured? i can't help but wonder how much of this is intentional. we've been privy to their romance so far, but this moment— what might be considered A Last Good Day, even, since this is d-4— isn't even perceivable in its entirety. there is only so much that we can see about their relationship on-/off-screen, both in a literal and metaphorical sense. i compound a couple of later scenes here. direction to hold an image of joy, in a mokpo beach (my god, viv; you are vicious) that is untouched by tragedy; uncertainty of whether the filming was accidental or intentional.

anticipatory loss, only for the loss to be one so unexpected. once again, i'm amazed by the amount of detail in the world-building— how viv outlines the conscription and the emotional aspects of it. how do we even begin to prepare for loss? and how do we live with the knowledge of how much we're about to lose? isn't that just the entirety of life, really? knowing that we are always going to lose one thing or another. in response: we hold things tight. we look, and memorize, and catalogue. it reminds me of the popular quote: "everything i've ever let go of has claw marks on it."

i was struck between the eyes by the violence of that act [cutting any scenes], because this very much feels like the crux of reconstruction/memory/narrative. seungkwan is in charge of what will be remembered; how the MC will be remembered. i adore the ambiguity of whether the scenes reflect a stitched-together film or whether we're following along seungkwan's review. equally, there's just something gutting about this playing out in some perverted version of what MC and seungkwan joked about i.e. a world with electricity, where seungkwan had free reign to do what he wanted with all the gathered clips.

not thieves, just travelers. expecting last words and getting the ghost of a kiss instead. your eyes, only ever kind. there is so much to love here, so much to adore in the stylistic, technical sense, but what comes to fore for me is this: viv's respect for the dead/dying. an honorable death in its own right. unjustified, still. devastating, always.

i will be honest. it's nearing 4 a.m. as i wrap this up (annotations were done in non-chronological order lmao), and i feel my coherency waning. i know enough to say that these were some lines that felt like a literal gut punch. the idea that our writer!MC and filmmaker!seungkwan can still nurture creativity. to love and be loved. the thought that MC always smiled at seungwkan over the camera. love. loss. a heart's a heavy burden. and you were seungkwan's heart, weren't you?

i think, in my initial read— struck by grief of the fic lol— i'd skipped over seungkwan's line here. twice as many stars as usual. let's look up together. this scene takes place in a corn field, presumably the night before the Incident. two-headed calves don't survive for very long; most pass away in less than 24 hours, their deformities taking a toll on their lifespan. the poem has always tugged at my heart, because at its core it talks about finding so much hope, and light, and love, in a short lifespan. and is that not the case of seungkwan and MC? twice as many stars. some beauty and peace despite being doomed from the beginning. all any of us have is however long we have.

ending this with two of my favorite poems on grief. a discussion i've had time and time again is whether a person can be complimented on their ability to write grief. is it a insult, to be told that you write about grief well, when it takes an acute understanding of loss to be able to pull it off? i haven't figured that out yet. and so i conclude, instead, with this. grief's familiar rooms and how it reminded me of the scenes wherein seungkwan is rewatching the clips (pulling at its buttons / that are not answers); poem and how, by and by, it reminds me of this gorgeous piece as a whole. i'm changed in inexplicable ways because of something in the orange, and i'm not exaggerating. how lucky are we to be in a time where writing like this is free to read; how grateful am i to exist in viv's orbit, under the same starry skies. the poem story ends, soft as it began, —

something in the orange

summary. remembrance is also reconstruction. reconstruction presupposes loss. a meditation on memory, narrative, and grief. and, of course, love. pairing. boo seungkwan x gn!reader genre/tags. ANGST, (semi-graphic) major character death, interstellar au-ish (just the blight), non-linear narrative, blurred fiction and reality if you squint (sorry I reread goodbye eri while writing), unbeta’d (mistakes are my own) wc. 5k suggested listening. love wins all, iu // 消費期限, seventeen // triassic love song, paris paloma // eight, iu prod. & ft. suga // yawn, seventeen // something in the orange, zach bryan (or niall's cover)

notes. midnight in korea now; happy birthday kwannie! this is very experimental, and admittedly i'm not fully satisfied w it, but I didn't know how to change it atp. sorry boo, it's your birthday but i give you pain. as always, reblogs are appreciated and come say hi if you're so inclined 🫶🏼

D-17 EXT. SEOUL TRAIN STATION – KOREA – DAWN The sun rises over the ruins of Seoul Station. The air is clear of smoke and fog. A shot of the sun peeking over the heap of steel, glass, and cement that once served as the station’s framing. The train tracks run to the far horizon, to the left and right of the frame. Pan to YOU (young-looking though age is ambiguous, former writer, love of SEUNGKWAN’S life) squinting at an old, battered map of Korea’s train lines, and a compass. You’re wearing battered jeans that are slightly too big, boots, and a sturdy leather jacket. Behind the camera, SEUNGKWAN (male, young-sounding though age is ambiguous, former video producer) narrates.                 SEUNGKWAN (O.S.)         BOO-log number 529. We’re now figuring out how to get to Mokpo. Neither of us are any good with directions, but my partner decided that we could try following train lines since the none of them are running anyway. You look up at the sound of his voice, noticing the camera.

                YOU             (exasperated, but fond)         Kwannie, are you filming again? We have 30 batteries, but not all of them might be working. You might need to save battery and memory if you want to video the view of Jeju Island.                 SEUNGKWAN (O.S.)         It’s okay, I really just wanted to record us before we start. Once we’re walking, I won’t use the camera as much. And I have twenty other SD Cards!                 YOU             (not surprised)         Okay, we’ll definitely figure something out for the batteries, then.                 SEUNGKWAN (O.S.)         Yeah. Now— Seungkwan’s voice changes to a more formal tone, as though he were imitating a newscaster.                 SEUNGKWAN (O.S., CONT’D)         What are your thoughts as we start our newest adventure? The camera catches your grin. You follow along, changing your tone to an impression of those backpackers in TV documentaries.                  YOU         Um, I’m excited to see Jeju-do, even from afar, because it’s part of Seungkwannie, and we had our honeymoon there. As long as we’re careful, I know we can do it. If we’re lucky, we may even find someone who can bring us across. Beat. You look ever so slightly awkward in front of the camera.                 YOU (CONT’D) Wait, here, give me the camera. I’ll record you this time. The footage shakes, briefly showing a tiled floor, then train tracks, before panning to a blurry face. The camera shakes for a moment before the image comes into focus, revealing a beautiful young man with dark hair. Seungkwan does a better job at the “interviewer voice”, but you’re no slouch either.                 YOU (O.S., CONT’D)         So, Seungkwan-ssi, what are your thoughts as we embark on a new adventure?                 SEUNGKWAN             (genuine)         I think it’s about to be wonderful.

D–2183

When the Blight started, both you and Seungkwan were in high school. Though only having known you since that start of your third year, you’ve quickly wormed his way into his life—visiting his house, having dinners with your family, and he even managed to force you into joining the badminton club with him.

Bees now officially extinct, the news proclaims, an effect of the ravaging of nearly all plant life. Asia in particular has suffered; the widespread rice shortages due to it becoming impossible to grow resulted in widespread famine. The extinction of plants used for feed, made food prices across the board skyrocket. Corn, it seems, is the only crop that can resist the Blight—and the rest of the world now has to adjust its staple food to mimic the old Americas.

“Seungkwan.” You prod his ribs.

“Mm?”

“What would you do if the world ends tomorrow?”

“Marry you.” You laugh, until you realize he isn’t joking.

“What?” Your voice pitches to an incredulous squeak.

“Marry you,” he repeats.

“Why, though?”

“I always wanted to get married,” Seungkwan replies, after a moment of pondering. “And if the world ends tomorrow, as of today you’d be my best candidate for marriage.” 

For a moment, you just look at him, eyes tracing over his features. Your steady gaze makes him shift, uncomfortable, wondering if he said something wrong. Eventually, you shrug, though there’s a twinkle in your eye as you quirk a smile at him.

“While I don’t support shotgun marriages, I’d make an exception for you and the end of the world.”

His breath catches, heart stuttering as he tries to parse your answer in his head. “Wha—you—”

“Come on, Seungkwan, don’t dish it if you can’t take it,” you groan, flopping sideways to plop your head against the armrest. Your legs tilt as you do, your foot brushing against his calf. He tries not to jolt at the contact.

“I’m sorry!” He pouts, trying to calm the uneven fluttering of his heart. You laugh, shifting your lean in the opposite direction, so your head lands on his lap. Despite having done it a thousand times before, he traces softly the way your hair falls, admiring the way its color contrasts with the color of his pants.

(Looking back, he’ll think about how that day changed things, even just by a little bit; how his gazes grew longer, noticing more how the sunsets glowed against your face as you walked home together every day, painting you golden. How you’d both gotten used to creative ways of shelter when mild dust storms come, thanking your luck each time that you had gotten home before it truly began.

He’ll think about how, a year from that day, he kissed you as he walked you home for the last time before you enter your separate colleges, swallowing the teasing took you long enough from your lips as he finished his shaky confession. 

He’ll think of how you exchanged second buttons like those characters from that anime you liked did, and the quiet promises to make things work even as the world seems to turn more barren than both of you can follow.

He’ll think of how three years from then, he gets on one knee, to your tearful yes and salty kisses. Your small marriage, with just your families, batchmates, and some professors, followed by a beautiful honeymoon in Jeju. Despite it all.

None of these decisions had anything to do with the end of the world, but you and Seungkwan made them, nonetheless.)

D-9 INT. A TENT – A TRAIN STATION SOMEWHERE BETWEEN SEOUL AND MOKPO – NIGHT The footage is grainy due to the lack of proper lighting; the camera shakes as Seungkwan seems to be trying to balance it on something. The tent is quite cramped; the inside is sparse, with only two sleeping bags and your knapsacks—Seungkwan’s with two camping pans attached with a carabiner.  The leather jacket you were wearing is now resting on one of the bags. You have both swapped your sturdy day pants for more comfortable, albeit worn, sweatpants. Out of context, it looks like a vlog filmed by two campers on a hike. The camera steadies as Seungkwan moves away. He moves to sit beside you. There is an easy intimacy as you thread your fingers together, almost mindlessly.                 SEUNGKWAN         BOO-log number 531. We passed by a sign that said Nonsan. That means we’re probably halfway there.                 YOU         We made progress better than expected, didn’t we? I estimated at least two weeks.                 SEUNGKWAN             (nodding, excited)         I thought the train tracks would have been ruined, since the stations are, but they’re surprisingly reliable.                 YOU         It’s true; of course there were times when we had to find our way around the tracks, or climb above anything that fell down over it, or go through some cornfields, but mostly, it seems we’ve been lucky.                 SEUNGKWAN         By the way—everyone, it looks like we’re in a tent in the middle of nowhere, doesn’t it? Don’t be fooled, we set this up in a convenience store.                 YOU             (laughing)         You ruined it! Now we can’t be funky backpackers with a tent on the train tracks.                 SEUNGKWAN             (playfully lecturing)         It’s good to be truthful, you know. What if kids watch this someday? We have to be good moral people.                 YOU             (with the remnants of a laugh)         Okay, okay. We set this up in the Seven Eleven inside one of the train stations. Abandoned, obviously. We made it in right before the dust storm hit.                 SEUNGKWAN         Another good news today is that we managed to barter something for food.                 YOU         Yeah. This one engineer or something—I think he’s a veteran? But we saw him tinkering on his porch and offered a trade, his corn for our cables, and now we have dinner.                 SEUNGKWAN             (joking)         It’s not jokbal, but it’ll do, I suppose.                 YOU             (groaning)         Oh my God, what I’d give for some jokbal right now. With bossam. And soju. SEUNGKWAN         I’ll be dreaming of that tonight.                 YOU         Anyway, everyone, we’ll end the log here, so we have enough batteries for a nice long BOO-log at Mokpo. Both you and Seungkwan wave your corn (dinner) at the camera. You reach forward, covering the lens with your palm. The clip ends.

D–20

Seungkwan walks around the house. He’s doing his last checks, checking between what’s in his bag and what’s in the rooms to parse if he’s missed anything—batteries, your wallets, matches, passports, birth certificates, first aid kit, water bottles, toothbrushes, all the canned food in the pantry, the sturdiest kitchen knife you both owned (wrapped in two layers of cloth), the Swiss knife he was gifted a few years back, flashlights, a whistle, and all the carabiners and hard cash you had were already packed.

He finds you in your shared bedroom. There are a bunch of wires there, evidently cut from various appliances. You’ve wrapped the cables as neatly as you could manage. On the bed, you’ve laid all your dry-fit shirts and the sturdiest pairs of pants you both have. Then, from the dresser, you’ve collected the most expensive jewelry the both of you own—well, all of them, but you separated the expensive ones in another pile. He points to the latter.

“What’s that for?”

“If cash fails, maybe gold won’t. I don’t know, just in case the currency collapses. But they’re worth bringing all the same.” Also, you hold out copies of both your health insurances. He opens his knapsack and quickly stuffs them in the same place as your other documents.

“Last resort kindling?” Seungkwan offers, showing the cluster of documents in his compartment. The remark draws a quick breath of a laugh from you.

“Probably.”

“How about the wires?”

“You never know when we’ll need some emergency engineer bullshit; plus, if it comes to it, the wires will probably be better barter material. Before you ask,” you hold up one hand, “I edited a zombie novel a few years back. But if that kid was pulling out of his ass, we’re fucked.”

Despite your disclaimer, the no-nonsense, matter-of-fact way you’re handling the situation makes something settle in him, as though all he needed was an anchor amid the chaos. He pulls you close, placing a kiss to your temple. The tension in your body melts as you press against him. For a moment, Seungkwan just holds you. A temporary anchor before you need to move.

Turning to him, you offer a quick peck to his lips before holding up his trusted camera bag, worn as it is. “Bring it,” you tell him firmly. “We need a little bit of happiness. Get all the SD cards you have, too. In case we just never leave Mokpo. It’s small enough to stuff in our pockets.”

Seungkwan can’t help it; he grabs your face and kisses you. The camera bag sits between you awkwardly, but he doesn’t care. He savors this, the familiar taste of it, the contours of your face that his hands have long since memorized. You pull away, but not before kissing his lips again, then his nose. He’ll never quite get used to the way you look at him, as though there is something new to love each time.

“We’re gonna be okay, my heart.”

D-4 EXT – A LONG STRETCH OF BEACH – MOKPO, SOUTH KOREA – SUNSET The camera captures a breathtaking sunset. The sky is a wash of oranges and pinks, the clouds purple yet lined in the light of the sun. Mokpo is on the southwest side of Korea; the view of the sunset is particularly beautiful, as the sun sinks down into the sea. There are faint silhouettes of islands both near and far from the shore. The waters are tranquil, and there are no sounds except for the steady wash of the waves on the shore.

The shot slowly pans to you. Your expression is tranquil, despite the dirt and tears across your clothes.                 SEUNGKWAN (O.S.)             (soft, so soft you don’t hear)         Pretty.                 YOU             (clueless)         Hm?                 SEUNGKWAN (O.S.)         Nothing. Can you see Jeju Island from here?

He already knows where it is.                 YOU             (laughing softly, a little sad)         To be honest, I don’t know which piece of land I’m seeing is Jeju. A finger appears at the edge of the screen.                 SEUNGKWAN (O.S.)         There, that’s Jeju. Right behind the blob that looks like a hat.                 YOU             (squinting)         Oh! Right, that’s what it looks like. Beat.                 YOU (CONT’D) The view is beautiful. It’s been so long since I’ve seen the sea. Seungkwan hums the opening to Tears of Mokpo. You don’t recognize it until he softly begins to sing the opening lyrics.                 SEUNGKWAN (O.S.)             (singing)         사공의 뱃노래 가물거리면…                 YOU             (laughing outright)         That doesn’t have anything to do with Jeju! He sings louder just to spite you. You playfully roll your eyes. Bending down, you unlace your boots and take off your socks, sinking your bare feet into the sand with barely-concealed relish. Seungkwan stops singing as he knows what you’re about to do.                 SEUNGKWAN         Careful; don’t step on anything sharp. As you move forward, the camera follows you. It is revealed that the beach is not so picturesque. The sea seems to have dried up some, and even here, bits and bobs of life float on the surface and linger in the sand.

There are the usual culprits: plastic bags, empty cans of alcohol and soda, and snack wrappers. Yet visible also on the camera are the following: bullet shells, shrapnel, a chair leg, a ragged pillow, and a cracked desktop monitor. As all this is visible, the camera centers on you laughing, splashing in the saltwater and enjoying the breeze in your hair.                 YOU             (calling; audio faint)         Kwannie! Come here! A beat. The camera zooms in on your face.                 YOU         Kwannie, come on! Hurry up!                 SEUNGKWAN             (proximity makes his voice loud)         Okay! A rustle. The camera is laid down, cloth (Seungkwan’s jacket) obscuring part of the footage. After a nudge, the cloth disappears from frame. Another figure, barefoot, joins you.

D–119

Jeju has officially been declared abandoned, lost for some other country to use as farmland. The radio announced the treaty ratification today. Seungkwan is a spectre around the house, listless and heartbroken. 

Months ago, when the conflict began to escalate in earnest, he began whatever arrangements he could to ensure his family was safe, moving them as near to the farming areas as he could manage and encouraging them to share whatever techniques they knew could help former cities now learning how to farm. The news does not make the sharp pang of grief dull any less.

He is at the age when he is to receive a conscription notice; Korea has since shifted its system to split soldiers into those who will either fight on the front lines of the Resource Wars, or serve by tilling the land and ensuring that there is enough corn for the population, however dwindling. There is no guarantee on which one he is to get, even if he did register himself as head of household (and should hypothetically be assigned the latter), but he is due to receive news in a few months’ time.

The promise of the notice hangs over both your heads. In the mornings, you spend ten more minutes just looking at him, as though you were memorizing the shapes and contours of his features. At night, he curls into you more tightly than before; once you’d have complained that it was too hot, now, you simply wrap your arms around him and let him sink his face into your hair.

“Hey, Seungkwannie.”

“Mm?”

“Let’s go on a trip.” The hand mindlessly running through your hair falters. 

He pulls away, looking at you with a furrowed brow. You keep your head low, pressed against his chest. “What?”

“Let’s go south. Yeosu, Mokpo, whatever, just near the beach, as close as possible to Jeju. Just…just see it, even from afar.” At his silence, you barrel on. “If we walk enough, we can make it in two weeks—a week if we can hitch a ride with one of those crop trucks or something—and then just another two weeks back, if we don’t settle in Mokpo outright.” 

“Food—”

“I can pack us as much as I can. We’ll need to ration, and possibly trade, but we can do it. The treaty is in place, and it’s most dangerous up north right now. Going south isn’t as big of a risk, and the weather has been looking good lately.” Finally looking up, you cup his cheek, tracing the skin with your thumb. He presses his lips to your wrist.

“It’s okay if you don’t want to Kwannie. I just thought you might want to say goodbye.”

“I…” he falters. It’s tempting. Unbearably so, despite the nagging at the back of his head that it would be better to leave it at that, keep his memory limited to the days you spent there dodging dust storms and falling in love. He doesn’t know how much it’s changed. How much the ocean might have even dried up. He doesn’t know if he can stomach to see it. “Give me a few days to think about it?”

“Of course, Kwannie. All the time you need.”

D+29

Seungkwan’s life has been demarcated into two. Before, and after. He goes through the motions of the government-run fields: waking up, clocking in, eating breakfast, tilling the soil, weeding, lunch, the occasional drills in case they were still expected to fight, transporting corn from one warehouse to another, dinner, sleep. Repeat.

Not a lot of people are here; many prefer to till fields they own, or collectively own; for once, agrarian reform straightened itself out at the start of the Blight. Yet with the dwindling population—slowly withering family trees—those lands acquired by the government grew.

Sometimes, Seungkwan thinks of home. He was lucky enough that the head of the center, Seungcheol, was kind enough to register his name as part of the deployed cadets under his supervision, despite the incomplete paperwork he had when he stumbled into his field, frail and dehydrated from lack of food and water.

Home remains now only in his memory, and in every replay of the Christmases he captured on camera. The soil is more unforgiving than before; it distracts from the loneliness.

EXT. A SMALL FIELD, WEDDING VENUE – DAY The wedding is humbly decorated with dried corn leaves fashioned into flowers, as there are no real ones anymore (none within the budget, anyway). Guests came as they are, though everyone has made an effort to clean up more than usual. It is currently the reception, and the speakers are playing a quick beat. The guests are dancing, laughing, and cheering, though their movements are blurry and almost smeared onscreen (step-printing effect). In the middle of it, you stand, the only still figure in the frame. You’re smiling softly to someone behind the camera, very clearly in love. Cut to Seungkwan, in a similar position, the guests around him dancing as but blurs. He is wearing a similar expression. He begins to walk forward.

You meet in the middle, still the only clear figures to the camera, and begin to dance.  As though the dance were a spell, the surroundings cut to: INT. A MEDIUM-SIZED LIVING ROOM – NIGHT EXT. SEOUL STATION, IN RUINS – DAY INT. YOUR TENT (MAGICALLY ENLARGED) – NIGHT EXT. LONG STRETCH OF BEACH (UNPOLLUTED) – MOKPO – SUNSET Hold this image for a moment. The sea laps at your ankles. The bottom of both your garments brushes against the saltwater, but neither of you seem to notice. Both you and Seungkwan close the gap to meet in a tender kiss. Suddenly, cheers. You part, and are back to: EXT. A SMALL FIELD, WEDDING VENUE – DAY The newly-married couple smiles and waves. The bottom of their garments are damp.

D+167

It seems surreal to have all the batteries he wants, and even a computer where he can replay all his footage—more than 4000 hours’ worth of it. It took a few months of work to earn enough credits and rank to access it, but Seungkwan pursued the goal with single-minded purpose. There is enough electricity in this center to run a few computers, and Seungkwan is its most regular customer, painstakingly going through each clip on the dozens of SD cards he has.

For footage so far back, from when you had just been married, there are parts where he no longer remembers what happened after the clips end. They remain in his memory as but colored ghosts, warm-tinged with nostalgia. Cabinets that would never be opened again, now filled, in his dreams, with infinities.

The house of his memories blurs with the house of his oneirism. In both, he subsists on sleep and daydreams. But memory will betray; it won’t tell him if the house he remembers has been altered by each remembrance. So he watches his videos. He walks through his house, now only alive in video and reconstructed by memory. He sees himself and he sees you, in all the different iterations you both were. Wonders if he could stitch both into narrative. Wonders if he could even bear to cut any scenes. He’s never thought about the violence of that act until now.

Inventories do not just catalogue possession; they also measure the potential of loss. It was a quote from one of your writing workshops, discussed over a late dinner. You could still afford some meat then; Seungkwan had saved just enough for a small slab of cured pork, which you would cut tiny slabs from for both of you to enjoy before bed.

He has five minutes left of his designated slot with the computer.

Seungkwan watches, and he catalogues.

D=0

Seungkwan only remembers in flashes—a gunshot. A scream. It’s only when he replays that moment in his mind that he realizes it was his voice. Barely a thud as your body is cushioned by the corn leaves. Dark red liquid, somehow both grainy and slippery on his hands as he drags you into the thick of the field, away from the path, trying desperately to stem the blood while minimizing your trail. Until finally, he collapses, feet unable to bring him a step further.

More flashes—your eyes, only ever kind. Even at your last moments. The way you hold his hand and place it over the pocket you keep his SD cards, as though reminding him one last time. The way your eyes search his face, first desperate, and then resigned. The way he leaned in when you opened your mouth, to hear your final words, only to feel the ghost of chapped lips brush against his ear. The gush of blood that dribbles past your mouth that tells him you’re gone.

(The Resource Wars felt like more a backdrop than anything else; you had come this far without any altercation. Yet even as you screamed that you were not thieves, just travellers, the gunshot rang. 

The cornfields weep with him as he leaves you behind, SD cards clutched in his bloody hand.)

D–4

TIME CUT TO: It is twilight, now. The camera is trained on the horizon. The sun has fully set, and night is beginning to settle in the sky. Only the barest hints of orange remain. The footage has already become slightly grainy due to the lighting. Neither you nor Seungkwan are on the camera. Instead, voices are heard while the darkness arrives. It is not evident whether the footage was taken accidentally, or on purpose.                 SEUNGKWAN (O.S.)             (softly)         I’m glad we came. Really, even if we couldn’t get to Jeju. I’m glad. I’m glad it’s with you.                 YOU (O.S.)             (just as softly)         I’m glad too, my heart. You filmed the whole sunset, didn’t you? Start to finish?                 SEUNGKWAN (O.S.)         Yeah. Yesterday and today. I have so much footage that I don’t know what to do with.

Breath.                 SEUNGKWAN (O.S., CONT’D)         Actually, that goes for all the BOO-logs. Even the ones from high school and college.                 YOU (O.S.)             (surprised)         You never tried editing them?                  SEUNGKWAN (O.S.)         I have, but what then? There are hardly any theaters now. Nowhere else to post. And electricity is expensive.                 YOU (O.S.)         Okay, but if we both die, what do you think’s gonna happen to this camera? Seungkwan is many things; a prideful badminton player (before the Wars stopped sports events), a videographer, casual vlogger, and a corn field worker. You are also many things; an editor (before your company closed from too little employees), author, copywriter, and occasional tiller.

Both of you still enjoy nurturing sparks of creativity when they come.                 SEUNGKWAN (O.S.)         Mm. someone picks it up and it gets immortalized in a post-war museum. And our videos will be a special feature.                 YOU (O.S.)         Oooh. And the war museum would be on a spaceship, with funky gravity and new plants and meat the astronauts domesticated from a different planet.                 SEUNGKWAN (O.S.)         And there’s a new jokbal. Call that out of this world delicious.                 YOU         Stop! Despite the terrible joke, you both laugh, then let the conversation drift into comfortable silence. The sun has fully set. Nothing much can be discerned visually from the footage.                 YOU (O.S., CONT’D)         Hey, Seungkwannie.                 SEUNGKWAN (O.S.)         Mm?                 YOU (O.S.)         If you had the chance, like computers and steady electricity, would you edit all the BOO-logs into a short film?                  SEUNGKWAN (O.S.)             (skeptical, but thinks about it seriously)         What would the plot even be? A married couple traveling to Mokpo, dodging dust storms and chasing each other through cornfields? Watching the stars at night?                 YOU (O.S.)             (earnest)         Yeah! Or, y’know, make it semi-autobiographic, like two lovers wanting to visit where they first had their honeymoon. Or maybe I’m sick and you want to take me to the sea one last time? The footage earlier could fit with that storyline.                 SEUNGKWAN (O.S.)         Don’t even say that!                 YOU (O.S.)             (laughing softly, apologetic)         Sorry, sorry. But if you do make a short film, I want to be the first to see it. It’s been so long since I’ve seen you work.                 SEUNGKWAN (O.S.)         What about you, then? Would you write a book about us?                 YOU (O.S.)         Oh, definitely. And you’d be the first to read it. The footage cuts.

D+182

Seungkwan replays the footage again. Beside him, Vernon fiddles with a pen.

“What do you think about making this a short film?” Seungkwan asks. 

Vernon stops. 

Seungkwan may be their newest addition, but the rest of the crew has grown protective. He brings light to their conversations, effortless in his ability to entertain and bring laughter. Mingyu asks him of his favorite foods, especially the ones he misses from Jeju, even if recreating them is near impossible. Seungcheol reprimands anyone who tries to bully him into giving up his share of rations. Junhui has begun to joke more, noticing how Seungkwan seems to be particularly into his humor. 

Yet everyone recognizes the sadness that still clings to his heels.

Vernon looks, for a long moment, at the monitor, frozen with a picture of a smiling face he’s never known—never personally, only ever through the screen and Seungkwan’s stories, always shared in quiet whispers in the privacy of his room.

He knows, though. Knows that this person was real. They loved, and were loved. It speaks in how the camera follows whoever is in the frame. The cuts of certain clips, as though either the person behind the camera joined their partner or had a moment that could not be captured in film. Most of all, it was the way whoever was in the frame would, without fail, smile at the person behind it. 

“I think,” he replies, choosing his words deliberately, “that you are in a unique position to dictate how someone is to be remembered by those who never knew them. And…” he hesitates, wondering if two months of these quiet conversations is still too little to be so candid with his friend, especially when talking of loss.

So, so much loss.

Seungkwan answers that question for him. “It’s okay, Vernon-ah.”

“…Well, I just wanted to say that it’s a burden to bear, is all.”

EXT – A CORNFIELD UNDER THE STARS – NIGHTTIME The stars have emerged, visible in all their glory. After the start of the Blight, when the population began to dwindle, electricity and many other resources became scarce. Much of the light pollution that was once a problem has disappeared. Brilliant dots twinkle overhead. To you and Seungkwan, it could pass for the Milky Way. The POV seems to be at a low point; stalks of corn are visible at the edges of the frame. Yet the stars are bright, captured exceedingly well.

You’re softly speaking aloud Laura Gilpin’s The Two-Headed Calf. It was one of the poems you memorized in college, as a creative writing major. YOU (O.S.)             (as though from far away)         Tomorrow when the farm boys find this freak of nature, they will wrap his body in newspaper and carry him to the museum.

But tonight he is alive and in the north field with his mother. It is a perfect summer evening: the moon rising over the orchard, the wind in the grass. And as he stares into the sky, there are twice as many stars as usual. Long beat.                 SEUNGKWAN (O.S.)         Twice as many stars as usual…let’s look up together.                 YOU (O.S.)         I see the stars, my heart, but I’m tired…

A breath hangs in the air. Some rustle of cloth, as though someone had adjusted so you fit together. A soft sigh.                 YOU (O.S.) Good night, Kwannie.                 SEUNGKWAN (O.S.)         …Good night, darling. End.

note. are the screenplay bits from the short film? the raw sd card clips? his memories? distorted memories? guess we'll never know. nonlinear bc grief is nonlinear. pls tell me your thoughts (even/esp if u didn't get the story lol) take care of yourselves always <3

[mcytegg]

as a zamcvit enjoyer im winning now i think. the roles have reversed. 4c is the one yearning for zam now ^-^

[greenerteacups]

oooh please someday tell us what you think of GOT

oh, no, it's my fatal weakness! it's [checks notes] literally just the bare modicum of temptation! okay you got me.

SO. in order to tell what's wrong with game of thrones you kind of have to have read the books, because the books are the reason the show goes off the rails. i actually blame the showrunners relatively little in proportion to GRRM for how bad the show was (which I'm not gonna rehash here because if you're interested in GOT in any capacity you've already seen that horse flogged to death). people debate when GOT "got bad" in terms of writing, but regardless of when you think it dropped off, everyone agrees the quality declined sharply in season 8, and to a certain extent, season 7. these are the seasons that are more or less entirely spun from whole cloth, because season 7 marks the beginning of what will, if we ever see it, be the Winds of Winter storyline. it's the first part that isn't based on a book by George R.R. Martin. it's said that he gave the showrunners plot outlines, but we don't know how detailed they were, or how much the writers diverged from the blueprint — and honestly, considering the cumulative changes made to the story by that point, some stark divergence would have been required. (there's a reason for this. i'll get there in a sec.)

so far, i'm not saying anything all that original. a lot of people recognized how bad the show got as soon as they ran out of Book to adapt. (I think it's kind of weird that they agreed to make a show about an unfinished series in the first place — did GRRM figure that this was his one shot at a really good HBO adaptation, and forego misgivings about his ability to write two full books in however many years it took to adapt? did he think they would wait for him? did he not care that the series would eventually spoil his magnum opus, which he's spent the last three decades of his life writing? perplexing.) but the more interesting question is why the show got bad once it ran out of Book, because in my mind, that's not a given. a lot of great shows depart from the books they were based on. fanfiction does exactly that, all the time! if you have good writers who understand the characters they're working with, departure means a different story, not a worse one. now, the natural reply would be to say that the writers of GOT just aren't good, or at least aren't good at the things that make for great television, and that's why they needed the books as a structure, but I don't think that's true or fair, either. books and television are very different things. the pacing of a book is totally different from the pacing of a television show, and even an episodic book like ASOIAF is going to need a lot of work before it's remotely watchable as a series. bad writers cannot make great series of television, regardless of how good their source material is. sure, they didn't invent the characters of tyrion lannister and daenerys targaryen, but they sure as hell understood story structure well enough to write a damn compelling season of TV about them!

so but then: what gives? i actually do think it's a problem with the books! the show starts out as very faithful to the early books (namely, A Game of Thrones and A Clash of Kings) to the point that most plotlines are copied beat-for-beat. the story is constructed a little differently, and it's definitely condensed, but the meat is still there. and not surprisingly, the early books in ASOIAF are very tightly written. for how long they are, you wouldn't expect it, but on every page of those books, the plot is racing. you can practically watch george trying to beat the fucking clock. and he does! useful context here is that he originally thought GOT was going to be a trilogy, and so the scope of most threads in the first book or two would have been much smaller. it also helps that the first three books are in some respects self-contained stories. the first book is a mystery, the second and third are espionage and war dramas — and they're kept tight in order to serve those respective plots.

the trouble begins with A Feast for Crows, and arguably A Storm of Swords, because GRRM starts multiplying plotlines and treating the series as a story, rather than each individual book. he also massively underestimated the number of pages it would take him to get through certain plot beats — an assumption whose foundation is unclear, because from a reader's standpoint, there is a fucke tonne of shit in Feast and Dance that's spurious. I'm not talking about Brienne's Riverlands storyline (which I adore thematically but speaking honestly should have been its own novella, not a part of Feast proper). I'm talking about whole chapters where Tyrion is sitting on his ass in the river, just talking to people. (will I eat crow about this if these pay off in hugely satisfying ways in Winds or Dream? oh, totally. my brothers, i will gorge myself on sweet sweet corvid. i will wear a dunce cap in the square, and gleefully, if these turn out to not have been wastes of time. the fact that i am writing this means i am willing to stake a non-negligible amount of pride on the prediction that that will not happen). I'm talking about scenes where the characters stare at each other and talk idly about things that have already happened while the author describes things we already have seen in excruciating detail. i'm talking about threads that, while forgivable in a different novel, are unforgivable in this one, because you are neglecting your main characters and their story. and don't tell me you think that a day-by-day account tyrion's river cruise is necessary to telling his story, because in the count of monte cristo, the main guy disappears for nine years and comes hurtling back into the story as a vengeful aristocrat! and while time jumps like that don't work for everything, they certainly do work if what you're talking about isn't a major story thread!

now put aside whether or not all these meandering, unconcluded threads are enjoyable to read (as, in fairness, they often are!). think about them as if you're a tv showrunner. these bad boys are your worst nightmare. because while you know the author put them in for a reason, you haven't read the conclusion to the arc, so you don't know what that reason is. and even if the author tells you in broad strokes how things are going to end for any particular character (and this is a big "if," because GRRM's whole style is that he lets plots "develop as he goes," so I'm not actually convinced that he does have endings written out for most major characters), that still doesn't help you get them from point A (meandering storyline) to point B (actual conclusion). oh, and by the way, you have under a year to write this full season of television, while GRRM has been thinking about how to end the books for at least 10. all of this means you have to basically call an audible on whether or not certain arcs are going to pay off, and, if they are, whether they make for good television, and hence are worth writing. and you have to do that for every. single. unfinished. story. in the books.

here's an example: in the books, Quentin Martell goes on a quest to marry Daenerys and gain a dragon. many chapters are spent detailing this quest. spoiler alert: he fails, and he gets charbroiled by dragons. GRRM includes this plot to set up the actions of House Martell in Winds, but the problem is that we don't know what House Martell does in Winds, because (see above) the book DNE. So, although we can reliably bet that the showrunners understand (1) Daenerys is coming to Westeros with her 3 fantasy nukes, and (2) at some point they're gonna have to deal with the invasion of frozombies from Canada, that DOESN'T mean they necessarily know exactly what's going to happen to Dorne, or House Martell. i mean, fuck! we don't even know if Martin knows what's going to happen to Dorne or House Martell, because he's said he's the kind of writer who doesn't set shit out beforehand! so for every "Cersei defaults on millions of dragons in loans from the notorious Bank of Nobody Fucks With Us, assumes this will have no repercussions for her reign or Westerosi politics in general" plotline — which might as well have a big glaring THIS WILL BE IMPORTANT stamp on top of the chapter heading — you have Arianne Martell trying to do a coup/parent trap switcheroo with Myrcella, or Euron the Goffick Antichrist, or Faegon Targaryen and JonCon preparing a Blackfyre restoration, or anything else that might pan out — but might not! And while that uncertainty about what's important to the "overall story" might be a realistic way of depicting human beings in a world ruled by chance and not Destiny, it makes for much better reading than viewing, because Game of Thrones as a fantasy television series was based on the first three books, which are much more traditional "there is a plot and main characters and you can generally tell who they are" kind of book. I see Feast and Dance as a kind of soft reboot for the series in this respect, because they recenter the story around a much larger cast and cast a much broader net in terms of which characters "deserve" narrative attention.

but if you're making a season of television, you can't do that, because you've already set up the basic premise and pacing of your story, and you can't suddenly pivot into a long-form tone poem about the horrors of war. so you have to cut something. but what are you gonna cut? bear in mind that you can't just Forget About Dorne, or the Iron Islands, or the Vale, or the North, or pretty much any region of the story, because it's all interconnected, but to fit in everything from the books would require pacing of the sort that no reasonable audience would ever tolerate. and bear in mind that the later books sprout a lot more of these baby-plots that could go somewhere, but also might end up being secondary or tertiary to the "main story," which, at the end of the day, is about dragons and ice zombies and the rot at the heart of the feudal power system glorified in classical fantasy. that's the story that you as the showrunner absolutely must give them an end to, and that's the story that should be your priority 1.

so you do a hack and slash job, and you mortar over whatever you cut out with storylines that you cook up yourself, but you can't go too far afield, because you still need all the characters more or less in place for the final showdown. so you pinch here and push credulity there, and you do your best to put the characters in more or less the same place they would have been if you kept the original, but on a shorter timeframe. and is it as good as the first seasons? of course not! because the material that you have is not suited to TV like the first seasons are. and not only that, but you are now working with source material that is actively fighting your attempt to constrain a linear and well-paced narrative on it. the text that you're working with changed structure when you weren't looking, and now you have to find some way to shanghai this new sprawling behemoth of a Thing into a television show. oh, and by the way, don't think that the (living) author of the source material will be any help with this, because even though he's got years of experience working in television writing, he doesn't actually know how all of these threads will tie together, which is possibly the reason that the next book has taken over 8 years (now 13 and counting) to write. oh and also, your showrunners are sick of this (in fairness, very difficult) job and they want to go write for star wars instead, so they've refused the extra time the studio offered them for pre-production and pushed through a bunch of first-draft scripts, creating a crunch culture of the type that spawns entirely avoidable mistakes, like, say, some poor set designer leaving a starbucks cup in frame.

anyway, that's what I think went wrong with game of thrones.

[numberonetribble]

Stuck at my mom's house until the 27th, can't finish the comic I was working on until then :( here's a rough Cowboy!pinup sketch of Bumblebee and some Breakbee + Piston angst:

[reidhalstead]

All he can think is, good. A flutter of mild satisfaction that she's got something right in the insanity of her mind. He won't care for someone who let him rot in his own grime for months. But all his snarks weren't supposed to have answers. Fuck. I. Don't. Care. He isn't sure how many ways he can say it to her. He knows one language at best, with a questionable amount of two more. Reid doesn't think he has the capacity to try in another.

It practically stings when she tears the remnants of an open shirt off his back, breaking open scabs of blood, long healed under. He's all scarred up by the verbena that's grown familiar with his system now; they're not allies, but it burns a little less each time his body wages its internal war. He won't look at what its left behind, between crass bullet holes and jagged lines.

He's stony as she washes the layers of debris from him. "Maybe I do like him, after all." Reid remains pissed she turned him too. Because at least they'd give him an end and not an eternal unlife. Nisha's got the tendency to drone on, veering off on tangents of lore that Reid doesn't need, nor want. It doesn't help him. He knows Markus is one of Nisha's old flames or whatever. He notices the quiet then too, the ghost is gone. Is it a new day; has he grown tired? Eleazar might not have noticed because he's almost absent in his awareness after. He's stopped recoiling or flinching at her touch because it'll change nothing. Stopped thinking about sensation at all, really, beyond tension and aches.

There's no argument about the chains, just a glare that nearly elicits a scoff at how she might be afraid he's got enough strength to escape her, even if he tried. Nisha's infuriatingly gentle. He's used to her harshness; her nails cutting his stomach open. He knows that tiredness. Here, he just lets it happen.

But to talk about the apartment; the wreckage of more than she ever deserves to know, he realises she's gentle in her movements because her tongue is a weapon just as sharp.

Reid doesn't react, he's spent hours and weeks playing scenes in his head; a self-torment he's tried to cease by burying his fingers in his scalp, or in the ribcage, testing to see how far he might get his heart dislodged before Nisha might catch him in the act. Why would she attack you? "That's what they do." He mutters as though she's stupid for thinking any different. "We're not friends." It's with bite, raspy as he shifts underneath the weight of her washing his flesh. Reid's near her face when he hisses: "Hunters don't befriend monsters. She's dead. Because I'm on the wrong side of the war now."

"I am completely aware that you don't care, Reid." Nisha said as she stared at him with a somewhat vacant gaze. Her mind threatened to tug her backwards -- decades away from here. She wasn't looking for sympathy when she'd decided to bring up her own sire. She, instead, was trying to show him that she was not evil. Well, not in the way other's could be with him.

Two months in a basement of an abandoned house was nothing compared to what her own sire had put her through. Decades. Centuries. And Nisha was doing Reid a favor by placing him there. She'd nip it in the bud before it got worse; teach him a lesson so that this didn't happen again in the future. A blip in the timeline of his life that would last forever, thanks to her.

"He wouldn't be, actually." Nisha said as she ripped his dirty shirt off of him, tossing it to the side. She then pulled out a towel and some bottled waters from the bag, pouring the water on the cloth and then she ran it over his skin. Her goal was to get most of the grime off before she put the new shirt on him."He'd be extremely pissed that I turned another vampire." Nisha ran the towel over his neck. "He'd have probably killed you." A pause. "Or, well... that's what I thought. He made sure I knew that he killed Markus but... He's still alive, clearly. I'm not quite sure what happened with that." Her and Markus had yet to discuss much.

"I'll take the shackles off, one at a time, as I help you redress." She said as she guided the wet towel down his arm, siping most of the dirt from his skin. "I think that a Hunter attacked you." Nisha said, softly as her eyes lifted to meet his. "I know her scent. It's been all over you for a while now and I've met her before. But I also know that you associate yourself with Hunters. So, if my assumptions are correct, you two were friends, at the very least. So why would she attack you?"

[moonchild-in-blue]

I haven't really done much art for tumblr (at all) lately, cus life, but! Here's a lil something I've been working on (it's a Xmas gift) 💙

(also peep that lil January calendar painting 👀 i did mini squares for each month for myself, because I need to have a physical one always, and they each have their own colour 🥺)

[intertexts]

i sgould get really into quiltin.g.

[jackass-jones]

Really into the episode of Ouran where this girl confesses her love to Mori but he doesn’t feel the same because he’s into Honey and the girl’s reaction is just like YIPPEE I LOVE YAOI THATS SO COOL FOR YOU YAY 🥰