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lovingbradshawafterdark · 2 years ago

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Devil on Deathwood Drive Chapter 0 - I Don’t Want to Set the World on Fire

Bradley Bradshaw x Jake seresin x Fem!reader

Summary: The start of the 50s is a very turbulent time, and you’re trying to live life how you want to; the peaceful postwar life you want is soon flipped on its head. Meanwhile, in the 80s, Jake tries to find his place when he runs into Bradley Bradshaw.

Warnings: mentions of not-so-great expectations because of the 50s and vague mentions of torture and death, but they are there. Light sexual themes and mentions of sex within this chapter that will become more explicit as the series progresses. This is going to be an 80s sci-fi horror au, I promise. 18+ minors DNI

A/n: big thank you to @desert-fern, and @sarahsmi13s for helping me with this project, plus for funsies tags @sebsxphia and @lovelybucky1 also @lewmagoo because I did and oopsie and posted this to the wrong blog. Let's get into it! also, please tell me your thoughts on this series

Series masterlist | Next part

New Mexico May 1950

A strange sense of peace, yet a sense of fear, had swept through. Five years since the war ended, yet there was a slight unease. You remembered your daddy serving during it all; he missed a lot of your growing up, missing several birthdays. He barely even recognized him, and he barely recognized you. His service during the war had hardened him. All the fear you tried to shove back down in you, there would be peace even if you had to force yourself to believe so. A hidden sense of fear lurked in every household, families waiting for the call to arms to return, for sons and husbands to be snatched once more. But it didn’t come. Being forced to grow up early made you want some time to figure out what you wanted, but the overwhelming pressure to find someone to marry, settle down, and have kids. It was all so much to take that many had turned their head away from you.

You laughed as you were handed another beer, not that you were drinking anything but playing along. They were the only people who wouldn’t pick on or bully you. Everyone was seemingly making out or just drinking or getting high. You were a wallflower, seemingly at this small bond fire. People only handed you things, ignoring your existence. You jumped as Billy elbowed you, “Hey, what was that for!”

Billy had been your best friend since elementary school, he was always getting into trouble, and you were always getting him out of it. His brother was drafted but never made it home, leaving poor Billy to pick up the pieces his older brother left behind. When your mother had heard what happened to John, she could only tell you she was glad she had no sons. You could barely remember half of the boys who never made it home. Most were specks in your memory now.

“Can’t have you be a space case,” he teased before grabbing you by the arm, “c’mon, I found something” You giggled as he pulled you away from everyone, running up the slight hill. That’s when you saw a small glowing object buried in the ground. You stared in awe as Billy approached it, not phased by the strange aura you felt.

“Are you sure this is safe?” A sudden uneasiness filled your body as the strange thing began to glow even brighter.

“Relax, I touched it earlier, and it did nothing. Just come down here” You sheepishly nodded at Billy before slowly descending the hill. The uneasiness only worsened the closer you got. Billy smiled as you looked down at it, mesmerized as it began to pulse, “Pretty, ain’t it?”

“Yeah,” you don’t know what came over you. What was once a feeling of uncertainty became your head feeling funny. You watched as it went from blue to a deep red. You bent down and looked at it even closer, forgetting about Billy being next to you.

“Sunburst?” Billy asked as he saw you go to touch it. The ground beneath you felt very warm. The pad of your thumb touched it, and you immediately flinched at the sudden burning sensation. Billy pulled you away as your whole body started to burn up. It felt like you were on fire as you began to scream. You saw the horrified look in Billy’s eyes, both of you surrounded by a blazing fire. You reached your hand out towards his face, and the last thing you heard was his screams and those at the bonfire beyond the hill.

***

You screamed and cried, tears burning across your cheeks as the men carried you towards a car. A tall, slender blonde man stood next to it. Burns covered your body now. Your eyes are bleary as you are pushed closer to him. His green eyes make your stomach churn. The whole town had turned against you, Billy nowhere in sight. However, the charred remains of the others at the bonfire were still littering the side of the road. No one could identify or touch them as they were still hot.

“This girl?” The men behind you nodded and backed away slowly. Your hands were still cuffed, trying desperately to melt them. Your parents stood off to the sides, not daring to look you in the eyes.

“Can you get the devil out of her, doctor?” Your mother asked softly, and you looked at her with fear.

“Yes, but I’m afraid I can’t do it here. I’ll need to take her to my lab” The man clapped his hand together, and suddenly another pair of men came from behind him and approached you, “while she’s in my care, I will make sure she receives the best care possible.”

Two months later - Colorado (July)

You wailed as flames erupted from your hands, your body about giving out from malnutrition. You saw a woman taking notes, glancing up every once in and while.

“It seems your abilities activate based on anger and desperation,” she mumbled, hair tied back in a perfect bun. ��You were breathing heavily as the machine retracted itself from you, “however, I’m afraid I’m going to have to run more tests” She smiled. Something wicked, burn marks covered your hands, palms blackened and charred.

“Please, no, please, I can’t” Tears streamed down your cheeks, hot and warm, as you begged her to stop for today. She only caressed your cheek and wiped your tears away. Your eyes panicked as you felt the machine turn back on as sharp electric shocks ran throughout your body, the hope of escape slowly fleeting.

Five months later - Colorado (January)

Your cell was cold as you lay there. You hadn’t moved in days. You are freezing despite the unconscious attempt your body made to heat you. There was no escape, no cure, only physical pain and mental distress. You slowly sat up, body covered in faded burns. You heard someone walking, heels clicking with each step. You prepared for the worst, waiting for the yelling and other punishments. However, you heard something slide under your cell, hitting your feet. You looked up, and a shadowy figure stood before you, face hidden.

“Think it’s about time we get you out of here…sunburst.”

July 1985

Bradley never invited strangers into his van, let alone would have slept with one of them. The blonde who lay before him, Jake, was still coming down. Jake was new to this traveling deal and was new to being a nomad.

“Alright, gotta get going,” Bradley said, zipping himself back up; Jake still didn’t move. “You high or what?”

“Sorry” Jake stood up quickly, his frail slender body illuminated by moonlight. Jake started to dress himself, and Bradley had a lingering question.

“Where ya from again?” Jake froze, not being able to look Bradley in the eye. He knew he must have known.

“Texas…” Jake answered meekly, his gaze focused on the moon outside, cigarettes hanging out the back pocket of his jeans. There was no way Bradley didn’t know who he was or who his family was.

“You just look familiar” Bradley couldn’t place it, many people called him a bit slow with the times, but Jake had this look about him. A look Bradley couldn’t help but feel familiar with.

“People always say I got a familiar face” Jake still couldn't face him. Bradley eyed Jake’s backpack, and he could see the small rations of food.

“You don't have much…” Bradley whispered, his heart sinking.

Don't fall for the puppy eyes.

“Can I...stay with you for a bit?” Jake asked, finally looking at Bradley, eyes pleading. Bradley tried his hardest to say no, but…

“Sure,” Bradley caved…he never caved. He saw Jake’s eyes light up, and there was no going back now.

“Thanks, man! You won't regret it!”

July 1986

Bradley had grown to regret it only slightly. Jake had filled out more, way more buff, and way more…

“You're being too loud,” Bradley grunted as Jake had a premature climax. Jake only laughed as Bradley’s hips faltered, finally spilling inside the poor man. Jake pulled the hair from his sweaty forehead. “Also, when will you get that dirt off your face?”

“What dirt?” Jake asked confusedly, tilting his head. Bradley smirked before licking his thumb.

“Right here!” Bradley rubbed his thumb along Jake’s peach fuzz—his attempt to grow a mustache was Bradley’s favorite way to tease him. Jake hissed as he pulled away from Bradley. Bradley grunted at the feeling as Jake folded his arms.

“Not funny…” Jake huffed. It hadn't taken Bradley long to figure out who Jake was or who he belonged to. Bradley cleaned himself off as Jake sulked. His temper knew no bounds.

“Pretty funny to me, now come on, we gotta get back on the road,” Bradley said as he opened the Vans door. Sunlight blinding him almost, Jake grumpily followed as they looked out at the view they had.

“We’ll hit the venue by the afternoon if we’re lucky…then we leave Colorado Quickly!” Jake said, pulling out the map. “We go down Deathwood Drive, and it's easy-”

“We aren't taking that road,” Bradley said with a glare, his mind flashing back. Jake frowned. He knew why.

“Listen, man, and it's just an old superstition-”

“We aren't going down, and that's final!” Bradley yelled as he put his foot on the gas, making Jake jolt forward.

“Okay! Fine! We don't have to go down it,” Jake sighed as Bradley slowed down, turning up the radio as Everybody Loves Somebody by Dean Martin played. “God, this is so cheesy it makes me sick,” Jake groaned as Bradley chuckled.

“I find it quite romantic,” Bradley said, sticking his tongue out. Jake just turned his head away and leaned against the window. He would get Bradley down that road; something was calling out to him.

Likes are apperciated but Reblogs and likes mean the world!

#bradley rooster bradshaw #bradley bradshaw x reader #jake seresin x reader #bradley bradshaw #Jake seresin #bradley bradshaw x female reader #jake seresin x female reader #rooster x reader #hangman x reader

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houseboatisland · 2 years ago

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Watching the Moss Grow: A Rundown

(he’s just a little guy)

Okay, because I got The ZoomiesTM last night, I ended up committing myself to creating ANOTHER original series, even though my other one’s not started either. Woe is me. This series, called “Watching the Moss Grow,” (credit to Jobey, who also helped me name the main lad,) will give me more creative freedom than “The Pasqueflower Line” in the sense that location, accuracy to history regarding engine classes, etc. are all immaterial. Everyone’s a freelance mutt of an engine, and the railway on which the engines live, the very anonymously named Joint Lines Committee, belongs to no specific part of England in particular.

Houseboat, you’re your own worst enemy, y’know that? Anyway, what’s WTMG about?

You’re so right.

WTMG revolves around the escapades of Moss, a soft, unassuming and impossibly small six-coupled goods engine, and his unusual little universe of my own creation. Set in a perpetual floating timeline of 1946-48, (because I don’t feel like explaining the JLC’s place in Nationalization, and the immediate postwar years of Britain are just so interesting to me,) Moss and all his friends and peers get on with the running of their line, with grit, resolve, and banter in spades.

Eh. Alright. Who are our characters?

Glad you asked, Me! Please note that this is a VERY incomplete list as more characters are created. Also, none of the engines belong to specific real life classes, so photo references of similar-looking engines will be provided. Forgive me for your having to fill in the gaps with your imagination where necessary, such as engines not having the same number of wheels!

~Engines~

Moss

Wheel Arrangement: 0-6-0

Livery: Forest Green/No Stripes/Brass Dome

A Similar Engine: [1]

Our eponymous main character!

Moss is a soft-spoken, chipper, and grubby little goods engine. Painted green and always in the background, he lives up to his name. He supposedly has an uncanny ability to appear out of nowhere, but really, it’s just engines realizing he’s been there the whole time. He revels in his status as a wallflower workhorse, and would give you the paint off his boiler. Moss is however a bit under-powered, which clashes with his chief flaw of being, to be frank, a pushover.

His usual duties when not biting off more than he can chew are short-haul goods and shunting.

Pup

Wheel Arrangement: 2-10-0+0-10-2

Livery: Black/White-Green-White Stripes

A Similar Engine: [1]

His name is misleading, for he’s the largest steam engine in all of Britain. (How the JLC got ownership of him is a company secret.)

Pup is an immensely powerful Garratt goods engine, and the line’s Big Cheese/Coolest Guy in Town. His main responsibility, pulling interminably long coal trains to London, often keeps him away from the others. When he is around, he's held in the highest regard by all for his endless charm and unflappable nature. If there’s a fight while he’s around, all it takes is a glare and some stern words out of him to force a peace.

He has taken a shine (a platonic one? who can tell) to Moss, who is thus OFF-LIMITS to bullying in Pup’s presence. He and Wally, more on her below, are also smokebox-over-wheels for one another, and the sparks that fly on the occasions they do cross paths could light a thousand fireboxes, (his poetic imagery, not mine.)

Florin

Wheel Arrangement: 0-6-0T

Livery: Dark Blue/Orange Stripes

A Similar Engine: [1]

Florin is the Head Station Pilot at Eastport, the JLC’s biggest station. She runs a tight ship in “her” station, is the shunting equivalent of a chess champion, and has been at this her whole life apart from her recent mobilization by the War Department.

Now demobbed and back in her domain, Florin may come off as territorial and snappish, but really she’s just trying to keep a place in the one comfort zone she’s ever had. She thus has zero patience for Mutton, another of the shunters, who’s sluggish and carefree, and berates him accordingly.

Mutton

Wheel Arrangement: 0-8-0T

Livery: Dark Blue/Orange Stripes

A Similar Engine: [1]

Mutton is one of Florin’s many subordinate shunters at Eastport, and her least favorite by miles, not that he cares a fig for her or anything else.

Recently purchased from a sleepy brickworks, he has no experience with the urgency of passengers, timetables, or the social construct that some engines rank higher or lower than others. Mutton’s a live and let live sort of bloke with no malice in him, but the more he’s scolded, the less he’ll cooperate. Florin, for all her cleverness, seems not to grasp this.

Old Hiccups

Wheel Arrangement: 0-4-4T

Livery: Black/No Stripes

A Similar Engine: [1]

Old Hiccups was once charged with running a hardly patronized passenger service on a backwater branchline. That has since closed, and he's found a new purpose as a semi-stationary boiler. He's never cleaned, can't move on his own, and sits around for weeks at a time heating carriages or powering machinery.

And he loves every minute of it, to the other engines' bafflement.

With his posh voice and prideful laziness, Old Hiccups strikes the image of a hedonist basking and being fed grapes. He without deviation addresses his colleagues as "dear" or "good fellow." He apparently gets a kick out of inconveniencing engines on other jobs to drop everything and tow him where his talents are required next.

Old Hiccups carries himself as if he has unlocked all the secrets to a peaceful life. The other engines think him mad.

Wally aka “Queen of the Belgians”

Wheel Arrangement: 4-8-2

Livery: Burgundy/White Stripes

A Similar Engine: [1]

Wally, (officially named "Queen of the Belgians," but never referred to as such by anyone except her nameplates and company logbooks,) is one of the JLC's express passenger engines.

Don't let her spotless paint and status fool you, she's actually very humble and genuinely concerned about others’ wellbeing. This makes her a bit of an outcast among the other express engines at times, but Wally hardly bothers for their approval anyway. And in any case, they rarely scorn her for long, before falling over each other to get her attention the next moment.

Wally much prefers the company of “real” working engines such as Moss, Florin and “that dashing brute” Pup.

~Humans~

Mr. Clarence Ireton

The nimble, mousy, and empathic General Manager of the JLC, who is most certainly NOT an expy of Clement Attlee.

Ireton has a progressive, (or to non-railwayfolk’s point of view, eccentric,) managerial style that hinges on regularly interfacing with the workers (*gasp*) and engines both. He can’t be everywhere at once, but everywhere he can be, he tries to help out whoever “has the right of it” the best he can. Apart from his cringe-inducing love of wordplay and improvised limericks, he’s a very pleasant sort. His motto is “Fairness is the Order of the Day,” and it’s invoked ad nauseam.

#watching the moss grow #wtmg moss #wtmg pup #wtmg mr. ireton #wtmg old hiccups #wtmg wally #wtmg florin #wtmg mutton

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rivangel · 9 months ago

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Hey how are you feeling?

Im glad your requests are still open. Loved the answer to my last request so I hope you don’t mind me sending in another one?

Some cute hurt/comfort with taller gn reader and postwar Levi. After the ackermanbond is gone I imagine Levi getting really sick for the very first time. Fever and everything also adding the flashbacks to when his mom got sick. And reader ofc nursing him back to health and also comforting him 🧡

im so so so so so so SO sorry😭i took literal months with this sari... i wish i had a good excuse, but i hope you like this :(

i took a lot of inspo from this eruri fic from ao3. stress cannn cause flu-like symptoms, and i wanted this to be the outcome of all those years of suffering for levi finally catching up to him.

probably not medically accurate: it's not very clear what the nature of levi's knee injury. it's seen partially crushed, but it's not clear what medical technology marley has (especially w/ the last volume cover in mind). i'm functioning on my idea that levi can't get around without a wheelchair, but he does have range of motion, partly based on the health of the cartilage/joints/bone, but mostly based how painful it is. it's more complicated than that, but i wanted to add a disclaimer anyway.

(tldr this is the levi torture hour)

➥ pairing: postwar!Levi x taller!gn!reader

➥ about: Not even Levi is invulnerable, both after the war and back then, so it's stupid to be scared when he gets sick.

Until it isn't.

➥ c/w: sick fic, post-war Levi, delirium/nightmares, reverse hurt comfort, implied past csa, happy ending (promise), medical inaccuracies, nightmares, established relationship (married)

➥ wc: 5.3k

In the comfortable, quiet rays of mid-morning, you hum to yourself, and sip your mug of tea. You watch a white cardinal with red tips toddle on the windowsill on the other side of the glass. That’s rare.

It takes off.

You trace the rim of your mug, sighing slowly but heavily through your nose. It’s getting harder not to think about it.

You want to think that—now that you and Levi are retired (what an odd word…)—it’s reached that natural time to start sleeping better. Sleeping in, not out of an absurdly rare indulgence, but to relax.

It’s been nine months, not counting the few Levi was cooped-up in the hospital.

Even for him, relaxation shouldn’t be impossible after some point. In fact, he hasn’t shot awake just before dawn for a while, anticipating a reveille that won’t ring out.

But you fought beside him; your bad habits and your happiness wrestle over the reality of your new life too.

But…

You reach across the small wood table and hover your hand over the cup of tea you poured for him; decent, but not piping hot and steaming like earlier.

This will be a once in a lifetime opportunity: you get to coax Levi out of bed late in the morning.

You stand, bringing your arms behind your head to stretch just a little as you walk to the hall, down to the bedroom. The door is cracked like you left it.

Like a tired waterfall, the vast majority of the thick covers lay spilled haphazardly to the floor, so you’re surprised even before you take a look at Levi, who’s still curled up asleep, facing your way. That leaves his back to the light glowing through the curtains.

He kicked them off?

Like the sheets, his sweater is white; his trousers are dark, loose and cut (with his knee brace on underneath). With his arms tightly crossed like that, and the harsh crease sitting on his brow, he almost looks awake and stressed out.

“G’morning, ‘Vi…”

Importantly, his pallor, normally as pale as snow, glows pink. A few strands of black cling to his forehead.

You stride over with a bit of a frown that wasn’t as deep when you were feeling just plain impatient, and take a sit on the edge of the bed.

“Are you feeling sick, baby…?”

That crease deepens. He twitches awake. "M-Mm?"

Now that you’re close, you notice his breathing is a little labored. You touch your knuckles to his temple. Eyes barely crack open.

"Sweetheart, ‘Vi… You definitely have a fever..."

You comb his bangs off his damp forehead, and they close.

The heat radiating off his skin—you grimace a little.

Actually... have you ever seen Levi so much as under the weather? You can’t even remember.

He shifts slightly, as your strokes rouse him.

"Do you feel sick?" you ask for the second time.

"Huh? I'm fine..."

His eyes finally blink open, fluttering once or twice. But then, a shadow passes over his face that seems to disprove that assertion of his.

He shoves his elbow underneath himself and starts to lift himself up. "Stop—fretting. 'm fine."

He gets most of the way; he’s resting heavily on one arm when he grunts, then leans.

"Stop, sweetheart," you huff, and take him by the shoulder. "What hurts? Your head?"

Looking dazed, like he’s not all there, he lifts his bad hand to his temple and, with his ring and little finger, feels his temple.

“Don’t know…”

"Lay back down, you clearly need some rest—even if this is rare for you, okay?"

“What?” He looks perturbed with you. “Don’t be stupid. There’s too much t’do. N’ I’m fine,” he grumbles, blatantly lying.

"Levi..." you warn.

"I'm just... tired," he mumbles. He rubs his eye with his thumb. "Fuck. Fucking tired."

His strength starts to evaporate as his eyes slip closed.

In an instant—before he collapses—you thrust your arms around him, and lay him back down on his side slowly.

It doesn’t quite hit you until you maneuver his arm out from under him, and listen to his even but labored breathing for a bit of time.

You stare down, eyes wide. Are you scared?—Or anxious?

Well either way—it’s not until you stopped being at risk for a violent death day-in and day-out for years that you even realized you were constantly anxious.

It’s not a nice feeling.

It’s okay. Though. You rationalize. Not even Levi is impervious to everything, and certainly not now. It’s stupid to be surprised.

You feel his forehead with the back of your hand one more time, and kiss your teeth. Definitely a fever, but an exact number wouldn’t hurt.

The thermometer and other simple medicines are shoved in one of the high kitchen cabinets, a second thought when you both moved into this quaint little cabin in the woods (aside from his prescriptions). You didn’t even say it out loud, even.

Now pinched between your fingers, you stand back and stutter on your feet, unsure of what else you need. You want to need something more helpful, but the need to go and check back on him is most powerful.

A short ways down the hall, you pick up on the unbelievable yet unmistakable sound of… crying. Unrestrained, and yet, the kind of crying that steals breath.

You expect to wake up as soon as you reach the bedroom—some disturbing but absurd dream.

But you don’t. He’s curled up where you left him, eyes closed but now gasping sharply through his teeth with tears glistening on his cheeks. One drips off his trembling chin.

You drop onto the edge of the bed immediately, and try to speak, but find yourself helplessly stuck at a complete loss as to where to even start.

“Why…” You card your fingers through his hair, to no reaction. He must be asleep, right?—But how, why?

“Hey, hey, c’mere,” you coo gently, sitting so as to swaddle his back and caress his head.

You make it all not sound like a question. “Everything’s okay. It’s okay, sweetheart… Wake up.”

His eyes tightly shut, and tears squeeze through. He croaks. “Can wake up.”

It takes a moment for you to register that he really meant to pronounce it as “can’t”.

“…You sound sorta freaked out, and you want to talk to Falco?—Is Levi alright??”

You silently curse Gabi for being so observant.

“Which place? I have the books, um, right here…!”

“No…” You swallow a little, and coil the bright red cord to the phone around and around your finger. You wish it was as simple as some tinnitus, or nerve pain.

“No?” Gabi asks on a high lilt; a question within a question.

“I know. He never gets sick, which is why I want to talk to Falco. I appreciate you trying to help, but please hurry?”

“Oh yeah, okay!”

You peer over your shoulder from your place stood in the hall and rock on your heels nervously. The only space of time you could find where you could bear to leave him was when he was quiet.

Falco has matured so much, even over the past year, and you trust him with this. He’s training to be a doctor; being a soldier never suited him much anyway. Levi was the first to say so, as usual the perfect judge of character.

You speak slowly and calmly to him, encouraged by his own composure.

“It sounds like a flu, just with that added symptom,” he’s thinking out loud. Thin pages turn. “Severe stress can cause flu-like symptoms sometimes… Especially when it’s prolonged. Does that sound like anything?”

“No. No way.” You shake your head, your brow pinched tightly. In fact you laugh. “Haven’t fought any Titans lately, at least.”

His voice lowers, thinking as he talks. “True, yeah. Especially for you guys, nothing could ever really compare, right?”

“You have no idea. Not with Levi.”

“We can talk about it another time, maybe,” you amend quickly. You know almost for certain that’s not going to happen.

Falco hums. “Anyway, if that’s the case, that would explain why it’s been so severe, with the sudden onset. But think of it like a fever he needs to sweat out,” he explains.

“Y-Yeah?”

“Yeah.” You hear the light smile in his voice. “Don’t be too far away, though. It’s easy to tell, you know.”

You smile to yourself.

Even if the Rumbling somehow started back up above your head, you’d rather die.

You write on a little notepad—some scrawl verbatim—Falco’s directions and words of advice, the phone trapped between your ear and shoulder. Most of it is generic, for influenza of course, but you write.

A blunt but dense thump sounds not so far away. You even flinch, but just as quickly let Falco know you’ll be right back.

In the bedroom, the pale blue duvet and sheets spilled onto the floor looks like a stiff waterfall being wrenched this way and that by Levi’s attempts to sit back up, like a puppet trying to pull its own strings. He grunts in what sounds like frustration, but you can’t know for sure as his bangs obscure his eyes. His hair all over is a downright wreck.

Gaping, you fall down beside him and hurry working off all the offending fabrics he’s twisted in.

“Lee—…”

Your help lets his shaky hand hover over his knee, like he can’t be sure if it’s his. He’s breathing hard; it’s ten times shakier than his hand.

“Come here.”

He doesn’t so much as twitch, but he doesn’t resist either. Then, when something in him registers that you’re there, he leans into you like you’ve just brought the weight of the world off his shoulders.

You tug the soft pantleg up, and sigh at what you see. The scarring, like a row of pink and purple mountains stabbed into his flesh, is more inflamed than usual, leg minutely trembling when you raise it.

He must’ve tried to stand up.

“Does it hurt very bad?”

Not even such an obvious question gets you a retort of any kind. He whines softly when you have to brace that area to lift him back up, but no more.

From the dull darkened blue cotton in the shape of a V in the center of his chest, and coming down from his underarms, he’s burning up; you need to get started just as soon as you’re finished with Falco. For now, you wipe his clammy temples and brush his bangs back. He’s looking at you, but he doesn’t seem to see.

“Levi…” You press on his round cheeks under your palms, grimacing at the heat pelting off his skin.

He moans softly, some relief softening his features. “Huh. Take m’jack-et. Yer cold.”

You shake your head even though he can’t see, as, sharply and without warning, tears appear and stab at your eyes. He’s not even wearing a jacket.

“Be right back,” you manage. “Okay?”

You don’t really expect a response, and you don’t get one.

First thing’s first, he needs water. You feel stupid not thinking of that first. That was at the top of Falco’s directions.

You catch Levi in a moment of relative quiet—not peace, but quiet—and cradle the back of his neck, unhinging his jaw with your other. Easy enough. You tip the glass and feed him water with the utmost care and precision. This is some act terribly intimate, a type of intimacy removed from hand-holding or sex entirely while managing to rank above them both. Over all these years, his life has been in your hands a few times, but feeding him pills—something for the fever and something for the pain—and working his shirt off for something fresh and loose-fitting feels more reverent even still. You put him in shorts and practically fortify his knee with a brace and pillows wrapped up with the belt of a housecoat so even if he rolls over, he won’t.

He chokes on a sob while you’re tucking a cold press behind his neck, forcing you to stop. His eyes squeeze shut.

“Levi?” you ask softly.

Either he’s having a nightmare, or he’s in pain, or, both. He tightens his crossed arms. His first movement in hours.

“What hurts? Falco said it might be your head.”

Another sob bursts from him. “S’head’s all over the wall, looked, it… sorry….”

He continues mumbling, but none of it sounds like words.

"Levi, it's okay, it's okay. Okay, baby? S'okay," you murmur; on and on. The washcloth has gotten smushed between his shoulder and the pillow—you set that somewhere aside. Then you lean over, rubbing with your thumbs the tears off his glistening cheeks, and messy black strands off his forehead.

Sometimes you will catch a word, sometimes you won’t. You will almost wish you didn’t the times you do. Yet you feel sworn to make sense of every mumble, a pervasive, unbreakable, urge. You’re sworn to it.

That’s how the rest of the day goes. He’s never lucid enough to eat; only enough to mumble when he’s freezing, or when he’s burning.

After dusk has bled into the sunset, and night has set in, you sit and watch over Levi religiously. To be fair, you don’t have anything “better to do”, but you hardly ate. If he knew, he’d be in your ear grumbling or otherwise dragging you by it to the kitchen, but does it matter, when he can’t know?

No, you decided, with some fucked-up determination. You want him to bitch at you when he wakes up. Not shivering trapped in an uneasy sleep.

When it gets late, you, arduously but carefully, do what you can for his knee. He moves too much. You wipe his face and neck of sweat, and lay a fresh, ice-cold and wet folded washcloth on his forehead. The fever is slowly getting worse. You dote on him, carding back his bangs, and murmuring and repeating all manners of comfort you can think of. It’s becoming obvious when he’s having a nightmare.

…Finally, as Falco suggested, you’ve kept him hydrated; fever reducers every few hours.

All that's left to do then, is sleep. This realization makes you nauseous with worry.

Nonetheless, you squirm under the covers on your side, close beside him with your face tucked in his shoulder. You take a slow, deep breath.

It’s so discomforting; Levi can’t fall asleep flat on his back, ever, and yet…

Your head shoots off his chest before you’ve registered you even woke up—gasping, and a guttural cry from below. It’s pitch black, too dark to see.

That explodes him into motion. He repels you backwards as you grapple for his shoulders, and like fists closed around your throat, as he resists your every attempt to stop him hurting himself, as he whimpers tiredly, as his bawling stabs the most tender place inside you—you feel sick.

“Levi—! Stop. Levi listen to me!”

You’re louder than him, but nothing—his eyes won't open—and your stomach swoops just then as he almost succeeds in jabbing his knee in your stomach, an extra hard punch combined with the brace. That cry is a sob of nothing but pain.

Enough. Finally you bite the bullet, you drop your full weight down on top of him, if it means he’ll finally stop.

At first, you’re as steady as a boat on rough waters. A huff of relief slips out when his writhing grows sluggish, quickly.

He squirms mildly under you, breathing still stubbornly labored. “Get… off me.”

He tries to raise his arms from his sides, but can’t.

“I’ll, fuckin’ kill you.”

You viciously shake your head. “It’s just a dream.”

Are you telling only him that?

“S’ get off, you can’t, s’nough hurts ‘er.”

“L-Lee…”

You strain to make him out, as he sobs weakly. “Leave me alone already...”

His name escapes you over again like a prayer in the heat of a battle. Your determination crumbles right into dust; you fall beside him and sit up, unsure of what to do besides take his hand. You can’t bring yourself to switch on the lamp.

“It’s going to be okay.” You squeeze.

He whimpers. “…Please.”

You can’t open your foolish mouth and tell him or yourself that it’s just a dream anymore.

Falco was more correct than you gave him credit for.

Falco also warned you that it would get worse before it got better.

With the hours that keep passing—which have stretched out into two days so far—he more and more mutters in his sleep, other times under his breath, but most times he’s incoherent.

But, it’s all come to fall under one topic.

And just like that first night, it doesn’t quite make sense, but it doesn’t have to.

You don’t want to think about it; you just want to take care of him. Your anxiety is constant, and sharp. If only he’d wake up; you talk to him as if he’s awake—but to no response whatsoever, like you don’t even exist.

Moments you’re forced to leave him are the worst—for you and for him. Most times when you come back, the washcloth meant to rest on his forehead has drooped and sagged beside his temple.

At any rate, the difference between fever and tears has gotten hard to tell.

You just can’t stop from shaking, and your throat is tight, but Falco remains adamant that the flu is what he said it is.

A lamp is still glowing on your side in the late night. The air is cool, and it’s quiet, but a rare moment of “peace” makes the sounds of your shared breaths obnoxious.

Your heavy eyes sting; despite that, when they creep closed you feel yourself fading in seconds, with Levi’s head tucked under your chin, upon your chest. Seemingly, any covers are too stifling for him at the moment; pressed against your collarbones, you feel his forehead is hot again.

You cradle gently the nape of his neck, idly rubbing the knot of bone at the base of his jaw. As if you’re doing anything to protect him from anything…

He mumbles, slurring, “Y’have t’come back…”

You’re not dizzy with the shock or the horror, but it’s worse almost, to be confronted with the full magnitude of a rueless, unceasing pain that is just as lonely in its magnitude as it is devastating.

You rub his back as he buries his face in your neck, sobbing like it takes all his energy to do so. “I’ll be faster.”

“I don’ know where t’go, what do I do now?” he babbles over your soft hushes. “Wait, next time I’ll get it right...”

“It’s okay, love, it’s okay.”

“I don’ know why I even…”

Trailing off, he starts to whimper, and can’t go on.

He doesn’t stop, it doesn’t, not for a second while—all you can do—is hold and console him even though he may not know it.

Until he exhausts himself. Drifts into a light sleep.

For it to happen all over again. Seeping into his sleep like crude oil, the next stress-induced terror to force his breathing shaky, labored.

"...Need," he whimpers, the first word you’ve made out in a while.

Your stomach swoops, the thought that you can do anything to help directly. "What do you need, sweetheart?"

"Don't sell it. Don't sell it, I need it."

You deflate, jaw wobbling. "Sh, sh, it's okay,” you soothe. You reach for the tray on the bedside behind you, and, using the cold cloth, you dab the sweat from his blushing temple and neck.

"S'gonna take away from m...me." He starts to pant, continuing to mumble, crying, a complete melting away. Lamenting, abject.

"Shh... Shh..."

His arm loosely draped around your waist—which you’d put there—tightens its hold, but in drifting bursts, like he keeps slipping.

“Please.”

You inhale sharply. "Please?"

"Don'. Leave me."

"I won't leave," you swiftly promise. "I won't leave, I won’t.”

He cries in his sleep for so many names that aren’t alive anymore.

Don’t go. Don’t go.

Wake up, Momma.

Wait... Just wait.

That wasn’t the worst point. Not even hunched, taken-over by so much stress and pain until he gagged was the worst point. None of what he had already said combined could amount to the last night.

You snap awake on your stomach at some blurry unknown instance, acutely aware you’ve slept like shit.

Did you even, only blink?—No. The most faintest shade of grey weakly gives your bedroom the suggestion of texture and shadow, but—your arms are empty. You reach over blindly, but the side where Levi should lay is empty and cold.

A pit bursts open in your stomach, filled with bright panic.

You lurch up and shove off the covers, breathing hard.

Where could he be??

If he was feeling better, then you would've woken up a while ago, because he would've told you. Not just...

He can’t be far.

You shiver.

On your feet, you cross the room in a few strides, and frown as you pull open the bedroom door. It's never left closed at night this time of year; it gets about ten degrees colder without the insulation. (But the chill pressing to the bottoms of your feet, you barely even noticed.)

"Levi!?"

The switch on the wall is right within reach, which lights up the hall. You look right and almost jump back; you might’ve tripped over him if you hadn’t looked first.

He sits hugging his legs—tightly folded against his chest, Levi, why?—there right outside the white doorframe. Shivering, glossy face red with fever, and most certainly in agony by now with all the abuse done to his knee, you’re not sure if he even notices you. Not from this angle.

You fall down on your knees. “Levi? Look, I’m here. Talk to me, please, okay?”

His bloodshot eyes are cracked open, staring ahead, but seemingly seeing nothing. Between the tears, you can’t tell if this is good or bad.

"Levi..." You take his shoulder in an attempt to nudge his attention towards you. “Look at me. Please.”

He was already tense. His head turns, mostly looking at you sideways—emphasis on his pale eye—but looking at you nonetheless. Good.

"What's wrong?"

His brow knits together.

“C’mere.” You lean forward and card his damp bangs back to feel his forehead. The whole time, he just looks at you passively.

“Better... But this cold won’t help in the end. Medicine is in the bedroom, so...”

You huff very softly to yourself. “…You need more bedrest. I don’t know why you even came out here. Why didn’t you wake me up?”

He blinks.

“Let’s go back to bed,” you insist then, under your breath.

Some clarity crosses his dark eyes, his voice then a cracked brittle rasp. “…Not the bed.”

His gaze sort of drifts away from you.

You thought he was through with that habit. Confused, you ask, “Why not?”

“It’s ruined. It was always disgusting, but… this is worse.”

“I’ll change the sheets then. I know, it’s not—”

“You can’t do anything,” he says, tucking his chin to his chest, intent eyes focused somewhere down. “Corpse smell doesn’t come outta anything, it just smells worse the longer you leave it. It gets colder n’ heavier, then the smell, it attracts bugs. There’s a fluid,” he says quietly. Casually. “And then it shrinks. Getting eaten’s all the same. But I think that way’s worse.”

What can you even say to that?

“I won’t do th-at to you…” His brow furrows sharply, gripping his sleeves—you see now—with bright white knuckles. Even sitting up, he’s almost curled up into a ball.

You talk quickly, before the full gravity of all this can reach you.

“You won’t do anything,” you insist. “How about the sofa? Would the sofa be okay?”

“I can’ go to sleep,” he hisses. “I won’t wake up.”

“That’s not true. Why do you even say that??"

"I'm sick."

"Yeah, but it’s not bad-sick!”

You regret the moment you raise your voice. That almost innocent passivity he exuded is crushed by complete and utter detachment.

“…Denial doesn't help. Don’t be stupid. Don't even—shouldn’ touch me. It’ll end worse fir you.”

You tremble minutely, stewing in silence while in panicked, rapid-fire fashion, you rifle through explanations. He sounds so serious. And he's nothing but.

You know that Levi’s mother died from sickness. He’s called out for her, a lot.

In nightmares… A nightmare?

You guess that’s where it all started for him, as he always slips into a warm voice and delicate eyes those rare moments he does tell you about her. Being sick then, being sick with you here… It all clicks into place.

Okay. Okay.

The real monster of it all is the fever—making him unglued like this.

You rub the bridge of your nose, swallowing thickly. Okay.

A firm calm settles over you; for once, Levi is scared. That means you won’t be.

“Levi…” you console.

You reach out to his shoulder, only to flinch when he flinches before a push knocks into your chest. It sends you falling into your backside with an injured grunt.

Instantly, intrinsically, you know it’s going to bruise; all his strength, one hand.

Your eyes pop open to his own—uncannily—wide with his lips twisting into a grimace.

Putting his eyes ahead again, he sucks in a choked breath and slumps. “Sorry, I thought you were… Sorry.” He gasps. “I’m sorry.”

You get back up on your knees, slowly, and settle down beside him without hesitation. You’re more frantic than ever to close this icy chasm-like space.

“It’s okay.”

He shakes his head as sharp and as fast as his rattling breaths. “I thought you were someone.”

“It’s okay. It’s all okay.”

The warmth in your voice is genuine. When it shakes, you just hate that he’s suffering with nothing you can do to lift it all away, like blood by steam.

He grips his hair, having made himself as small as possible again. “I’m—s-sorry.”

“Shh…”

Slowly until now, you’ve been leaning in, and now you firmly rest your hand on his back, rubbing in long, consoling motions. This seems to help.

You stay like this while his breathing shudders through tears. It’ll only hurt you both to bring force into it again; either way, any way, it’s not his fault. You don’t know what he meant… You think of Kenny.

“Sorry…”

Everything you see if one ruddy cheek and his temple glistens with either tears or sweat, and his eyes look painful.

“Look at me. Baby.”

An order seems familiar. He does.

“You trust me, don’t you?”

He understands slowly, but you know the answer. After a time, he blinks, and nods.

“Stay still, please.” You kiss his temple.

One arm around his back, the other scooped under his knees, you lift him up into your arms with not too much difficulty. He goes tense, but leans into your chest nonetheless.

“It’s going to be okay,” you murmur as you walk. You want desperately to ask about his leg, but this feels too fragile, like if you bring up physical pain then the whims of the fever will take him back over.

He’s trembling all over, it seems, before you lay him back down in bed, and once you do he clutches a bit of your blouse at the collar with a grip that confirms for you that he’s not letting go. You sit beside him with his waist pushed against the side of your thigh.

“I’m sorry, it’s all my fault,” he croaks out softly, staring at your sleeve which he now grips. “I wasn’t fast ‘nuff. I hesitated n’ it got ‘em killed for nothing after made the same mistake… Sorry i-was my damn pride…”

You let him talk, rather mumble. When there’s a lull, you rest your palms on his hot cheeks. Better than the last time you felt them. His eyes instantly flutter in relief.

It’s surprisingly easy to give him water, then the fever reducer. Meanwhile, he’s clearly fighting the weight of exhaustion pressing down on his eyelids.

“Don’t make me sleep…”

“I’m not. I’ll just stay by your side. Then”—you cup his cheek—“I’ll do it again.”

He hardly grunts, eyes closing.

You won’t sleep, and you can’t sleep (if there’s even a difference). In fact, you’ll bring in one of the kitchen chairs and sit by him with a novel; you’ll read by candlelight, with a handkerchief hanging like a tarp from the lampshade so maybe he can rest easy.

Being that the flu is a release of stress… He’s getting better. He’s getting better.

Hour-by-hour, more or less (but mostly less), you snap awake at the tiniest stirring from your husband beside you. Maybe mumbling a ghostly snatch of a word; mostly sniffling. It takes you half an hour to drift off again.

This unforgiving cycle obnoxiously persists until morning sunlight poking your sleeping mind wakes you. Suddenly, again. You see him.

It’s a mystery, how long, but Levi is gazing at you softly with a bloodshot, but, maybe aware eye. You feel better when he glances away, like every time—if, not when—you catch him staring. Your legs are tangled slightly, his slow breaths brush your cheek.

"Baby," you murmur. "You’re awake?”

He looks annoyed. “No, I’m sleeping with my eyes open.”

“How do you feel? Be honest," you quickly add. You drape your arm around his waist.

He frowns at your tone. “…Like my head and knee got hit with a sledgehammer.”

You say nothing.

His voice gets softer and gentler. “I don’t remember… And you look like shit. What happened?”

“What’s the last thing you remember?”

“…So I’m going to be wrong,” he surmises, looking away. “My last memory… I slept in too late.”

He goes to rub his eye, and sniffs. The distress marring his expression grows.

“It’s been a couple days, but it’s alright,” you say. You’re quick to explain as the realization seems to come over Levi that he hasn’t had a proper bath in that length of time.

Though, it’s hard to explain. It’s even harder to wrap your mind around the fact that he doesn’t remember how he’d cried, and—insinuated, what he did. What horrors he spoke of.

You finish. Behind a thinly-veiled straight face, he stares into your eyes with the quiet accusation that you haven’t told the whole story.

“It… was… bad,” you bear to admit. “That’s why I look like shit.”

The self-loathing that falls over his expression like a deathly shroud is instant. He looks away, glaring at nothing, but before he can think anything, you squirm much closer, tighten your hold, and kiss his chin.

“It’s not your fault. And if I had to, I’d do it all over again. So don’t start.”

He watches you for a beat, as if searching for some exaggeration, but soon looks resigned to the truth in your vow. At this long-awaited point in your lives, with some legwork to say the least, you’re relieved to know you’ve finally got it beaten into his head that you love him, whether he agrees or not.

You watch him swallow, and many emotions cross his eyes as he mulls your words over.

“I don’t like that it’s just a flash for me,” he resolves.

“I know. But we can… talk about it?”

Honestly you’re shocked the words left your mouth. Levi also stares at you like you just spoke a foreign language. It’s pathetic, as he would say, sure, but—people like you and him don’t just talk about things like that which fueled those nightmares of his.

He looks away, considering. Finally, he brings hand up to yours, nestled deep under the covers. Your fingers clasp gently, foreheads brushing. His silvery blue eyes calmly watch yours. That’s his answer.

It’s so different, and not so comfortable right now, but you believe, now, that’s okay.

Levi masterlist | main masterlist

#levi x reader #levi ackerman x reader #levi ackerman fluff #levi ackerman x you #levi x you #levi x y/n #levi ackerman x y/n #levi ackerman oneshot #levi ackerman angst #aot oneshots #aot fanfiction #captain levi x reader #captain levi x you #captain levi fanfiction

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jpt3391 · 10 months ago

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Tokyo Story

After watching I Was Born But… and reading the synopsis of Tokyo Story, I was yet again not sure what to expect from a drama this time compared to a lighthearted comedy. The movie overall felt very slow to me, but I was still able to watch the whole movie without being disinterested with the characters and overall screenplay that Ozu did with this work in particular. I can see why people would regard this one highly, as compared to I Was Born But…, as it tackled more serious topics of the time, as well as in a more direct fashion. The rapid industrialization that Japan was going through at the time (maybe indirectly?), the postwar struggle, familial expectations, and a lot more that I didn’t expect to see in an older movie. It starts off with a shot of modern Japan growing, with trains going into the countryside, and cuts to an old couple that are thinking of their children, and as we see throughout the movie, care about their children very much.

The movie continues with the characters going through their daily life, and then it is revealed to the audience that they are planning a trip to see the rest of their children in Tokyo, which I assume is quite far from where they live (leaving their youngest daughter, who is revealed to be a teacher towards the end of the movie, sidenote: I initially thought she was in college, my bad). The parents eventually end up meeting their oldest son, who is a doctor, and end up staying at his house for a little bit, along with his wife and two sons. Sadly, as it is with grandparents sometimes, their grandchildren are not quite acquainted with them which leads to them not having enough bonding time either. The son plans a trip with them to go shopping with the whole family (which I thought was a bit crass, as it seemed like he wanted to do a 2-in-1 trip, taking his parents out while satisfying his sons needs as they probably don’t get enough attention from him as he is too busy which causes the oldest to act out), but that is canceled by him being called back to work. The parents then visit their middle daughter (I assume), who is a barber along with her husband, but it is quickly shown that the middle daughter isn’t very nice to them either, despite how they try to act to their kids as they have grown older. It is only with the wife (Noriko) of their second oldest son (Shoji) that they have a sense of belonging, even though their son was killed in the war. The story continues with the parents trying to find a place in the modern world of Tokyo (even feeling the need to split up so as to not burden their son and daughter) with the wife going to Noriko’s place, and the husband going to his old friend’s place to try and stay with him. Sadly, the old friend rents his place out to a wannabe lawyer who spends his days gambling, and thus the old couple’s stay in Tokyo is cut short by their want to not be burdens to their children anymore. They go back, and on the way finally meet their middle son (Keizo in Osaka), and then return home where the mother falls ill and eventually dies.

While it is a lot, one of the main points that I took from watching the movie was the change in Japan after the war and how that affected the characters as well. The children literally split away from their parents by moving to the city, leaving them in the countryside. Another interpretation that I had was the watch that was given to Noriko at the end of the movie. I felt that it represented the valuable time that the parents spent with her and how they appreciated what she did for them. It also connects to their youngest daughter (as it cuts to a shot of her looking at a watch as well) being the one that cared about her parents as well. She understood what her older siblings were doing, and it hurt her.

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steampunkforever · 2 years ago

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Saw the Elvis movie and loved it. I’m predisposed to like Luhrmann’s stuff as a maximalist (I’m a die hard Wes Anderson fan after all. It runs in my blood). This one is guaranteed an Oscar, one I’m sure they’re gunning for (and will win) musically but if not that there’s definitely one coming to them for costuming. Luhrmann hits it out of the park, and does so wonderfully.

One thing this film did well was really capture how SEXY Elvis was back then. Austin Butler’s performance was great, and for all his hokey method acting he hit it out of the park. I heard audible gasps in the theater during some of the steamier on-stage sequences. Luhrmann cranks up the eroticism to the max and makes you understand why the panties were flying back during Hound Dog.

Part of this was accomplished by making Butler slightly thinner than Elvis was back in the day. I’m not sure if this was just a step away from prosthetics to achieve this (we don’t want another Looper situation), a refusal to make Butler gain an unhealthy amount of weight, or simply an acknowledgement that conventionally attractive male is just thinner now that the hot man shortage of the postwar era is properly over. Either way, looking at Butler now, I understand that Feyd vs Paul in Dune part 2 is going to be Twink-on-Twink violence.

One of the more interesting parts of the film was a thematic move that cast Elvis in the role of an obsessed artist. Obviously Elvis was never an artistic hard hitter, as for all his musical talent he really went the corporate boy band route and stuck with it, but the film casts him as obsessed with performing and the thrill of the crowd in a properly tragic way. Of course, being a Luhrmann film it was all glamorized and didn’t even mention how old Pricilla was when she met Elvis, nor did it dig too deeply into how crazed a person Elvis ended up being, but this movie gave me a look at an Elvis I hadn’t considered as more than a kitschy American icon before this.

Speaking of addressing things, there comes the issue of the cultural origins behind Elvis’ sound. At the start of the film, Luhrmann hits it out of the park. He clearly captures how Elvis grew up and was steeped in the African American sound that created rock and roll, his close connections to that community, and how he clearly appreciated its roots and wasn’t just someone who came in and “stole” rock and roll (for as much as anyone can steal something as conceptual as music). The movie also doesn’t shy away from Elvis’ fight against segregation and his ties to the African American community.

Unfortunately, this through line falls off after the first two acts of the film and doesn’t really get picked up again. Obviously real life doesn’t always make for thematic consistency, but to follow the thread of Elvis’ debt to black music for so long only to let go before the ending confused me. There wasn’t even a resolution to this in the postscript of the film, for as corny and gutless as that would be. That part left me a bit disappointed, as a writer at least.

Visually the movie blew me away. It incorporated some of the most bonkers transitions that I’d ever seen, absolutely GORGEOUS colorwork and film grain, and that beloved, manic Baz Luhrmann Cinematography that I’ve really come to adore.

Go see it, it’s really the sound of the summer, a biopic about the first white boy (goated with the sauce) to ever bust it down sexual style.

#filmposting #Elvis

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weasleylangs · 4 years ago

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secrets i have held in my heart - f.w

Pairing: Fred x Fem!Reader Summary: Everyone in the twins’ lives mix them up once in a while, except for Y/N. Fred is dying to know how. Warnings: Some angst with a happy ending, yes I wrote oblivious Fred again with miscommunication issues, what about it, some swearing, brief mention of the war but obviously this is a FredLives!AU :D, mentions of sex but nothing descriptive it’s like one line, - everyone is 18+ by the way! Word Count: 4k

A/N: For the anon who requested super secret mutual pining with some angst where the reader is the only person who can tell the twins apart! Thank you so much for requesting. This has also been cross-posted on AO3 (frederickweasleys) as per the anon’s request!

Also, I didn’t want to write about a 17 and 15 year old pining after each other, so I made everyone older and it’s postwar, however I was like 2000 words into the fic when I remembered George got his mf ear blasted off in DH so…. U do not see that it’s not canon in this fic thank you

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The sun is blaring down on The Burrow and everyone is starting to wonder the likelihood of getting heatstroke. They’re in the south-west of England and the weather doesn’t usually get above the early 20s in the middle of August, however, mother nature has decided to wreak havoc and today is almost 30°.

Y/N is looking at the pages in her book but she’s not processing anything on the pages. She’s so appreciative of the relaxing life she and all her loved ones finally have. The war ended last year, and while Y/N isn’t family, Molly and Arthur are always insistent she’s welcomed at The Burrow for their Sunday roast dinners.

So she sits under a tree, the muggle fantasy novel in hand as Molly is busy prepping dinner and her friends all play quidditch. Hermione’s been refereeing them despite having no actual knowledge of the rules, and right now, she’s waving Harry’s copy of ‘Quidditch Through The Ages’ at one of the twins trying to prove a point, fully aware she’s going to get nowhere with him. He’s laughing at her and he raises the hand holding the beater’s bat as he threatens to (softly) hit her with it when he looks over her shoulder and spots his favourite girl perched under the tree with his mum’s homemade lemonade.

Before Y/N knows it, the bat’s been thrown in her direction, barely missing her and hitting the tree behind her, and when she looks up, she immediately recognises the twin as Fred. Fred and Y/N are almost two sides of the same coin and their friendship has always been considered unlikely. Fred loves mischief and pranks and he’s extremely exuberant where Y/N is a ‘stickler for the rules’ (Fred’s words, not hers) and she’d much rather spend her day reading than playing quidditch. But their friendship blossomed and eventually for Y/N her feelings evolved into more.

But Y/N is one of Ron’s best friends, and having a crush on her best friend’s older brother is weird, even if they are 19 and 21.

“Hi Freddie,” she says, dog-earing the page and closing her novel, accepting now that Fred’s in her presence, the book isn't getting read again until tonight, “no more quidditch?”

The ginger gives her a shit-eating grin and completely ignores her question, “Darling, I’m George.”

Y/N squints at him for a brief moment, second-guessing herself but the longer she looks at him the more she’s sure it’s Fred, not George in front of her. “No, you’re Fred. I’ve known you for how long? Just accept I can tell you apart.”

Fred mutters a ‘fuck’ under his breath as he sits down. He’s always loved that Y/N is the only person who can tell them apart, his own family struggling sometimes and especially when they’re apart. But no matter what, she somehow gets it right every single time and he’s dying to know how.

“You’re never going to tell me how you do it, are you?” He questions and she replies how she always does when he asks, blaming it on intuition and that she doesn’t know how she does it. As always, he doesn’t believe her. Y/N secretly does have a way of easily telling the twins apart, not rooted in intuition in the slightest but she doesn’t want to tell him.

The truth is, the way her heart races when Fred looks or speaks to her is her way of telling them apart. Fred always has a mischievous glint in his brown eyes and the way he looks at Y/N makes her feel like she’s the only girl in the world. George is sweet, loving and exceptionally kind- he was there as a source of comfort and calmness for Y/N when the trio disappeared during their 7th year to hunt Horcruxes, when she and her family went into hiding. She loves George like she would love a brother, like how she loves Ron and Harry, but the love Y/N has for Fred is different and the catalyst for her ability to tell them apart.

“I’m going to get you one day. One day George and I will swap and you’ll get it wrong and as a reward for finally tricking the oh so wonderful Miss Y/N Y/L/N, you’ll tell me how you tell us apart.”

It’s not even an hour later when Fred and George come down wearing each other’s clothing. Y/N’s well aware Fred prefers to wear warm and bright colours while George likes to wear the dark colours in their coordinated clothing, so seeing Fred walk down the stairs in George’s purple shirt and vice versa is funny, despite the fact they’re identical twins, Y/N thinks they look ridiculous and unfamiliar.

“George put the purple back on. You look weird in orange,” she says, as she goes back to help Molly with the vegetables for dinner and soon after she speaks, she hears someone angrily kick the table. She looks up from her potatoes she’s been peeling to see an entertained George and Fred who looks like he’s going to throw a child-size tantrum.

“How!” He exclaims again, pulling the shirt up over his head, shoving it in George’s hands and stomping back upstairs to change. Y/N is about to follow him, genuine concern for Fred in tow. She knows he’s most likely just being dramatic to cause a ruckus but there’s a small part of her that considers he might be serious.

“He’s fine, Y/N,” George states, changing his shirts and throwing Fred’s orange one over the back of the chair as he sits down, “I think he’s trying to rile you up into telling him how you do it.”

She laughs at this, knowing that while she might not have told him, the look in George’s eye hints that he’s picked up on her feelings for his twin brother. But before she can say anything, Ron comes bounding down the stairs and right into the kitchen, Harry in tow. They’re both looking for food and when Ron’s hand makes his way towards the ham, Y/N smacks him.

“Don’t spoil your dinner,” she scolds which causes Harry to laugh.

“But, mum,” Ron mockingly replies, “All the quidditch got me hungry!” He might be 19 but he’s sulking like a 10-year-old boy and Y/N thinks temper tantrums might run in the Weasley family.

When Molly isn’t looking, however, Y/N sneaks him a piece of ham and Ron jumps up quickly, smacking a kiss to her cheek, “You’re the best!” he whispers as he quickly shoves the piece of ham in his mouth to not be caught by his mother.

Soon enough, everyone’s crammed into the small kitchen and Molly waves them all out except Y/N, who she insists stays. She thinks it’s because she was already helping with the vegetables but when she’s about to ask for her next task, Molly has a rare mischievous glint in her eye.

“How do you tell my sons apart?” She enquires and Y/N groans. She hasn’t been asked how she tells the twins apart this often since she was at Hogwarts and before she can speak, Molly continues, “it’s just no one can besides us, and even then, sometimes I catch myself calling George, Fred sometimes.”

Y/N sighs. She loves Molly like her own mother, but she loves to meddle like every mother.

“I just know, I wish I had some excuse like a mother’s instinct, but I just know,” Y/N pauses and thinks how to word her next statement without spilling too much for potential eavesdroppers and Extendable Ears to hear, “They have different energies. I think I pick up on it easily.”

Y/N hopes that’s enough for Molly to drop the conversation at hand and while Molly hums in agreement, she reads between the lines. She’s known for a while that Y/N carries a flame for the oldest twin, after all the way Y/N looks at Fred is the same way she looks at Arthur, so she’s hoping for the day they both stop dancing around their feelings.

She already loves Y/N like a daughter, and she’d like it to be official one day.

After dinner, the girls are all holed up in Ginny’s room. She loves staying at The Burrow. Y/N never grew up with sisters and her friendship with Hermione and Ginny are the closest she gets to them. They usually gossip, who’s dating who, who’s already getting married, sometimes it gets juicy and someone’s pregnant.

When Ginny and Harry, and Hermione and Ron finally got together, they gushed for hours about how it finally happened and how excited they all were.

Tonight, unfortunately, the topic at hand is Y/N and Fred.

“When are you going to tell him?” Ginny enquires as she smooths out her face mask. Hermione’s braiding Y/N’s hair and when she doesn’t reply, Hermione grasps some hair and gives a hard tug. Y/N yelps and while Hermione mutters an apology, she doesn’t miss the wink she gives Ginny in the mirror.

“Tell Fred what exactly?”

“About your feelings for him,” Ginny replies like it’s the most obvious thing in the world that everyone should have known. Y/N starts to stutter, trying to find words to deny her feelings but these are her two best girl friends, her sisters and she can’t lie to them no matter how much she wants to.

“Okay fine, they exist but he’s never knowing,” she states, a matter of factly as if it’s something to be proud of, “and he’s never finding out. I’m looking at you, Ginevra.” Ginny inherited her love to meddle from her mother, and if Y/N is positive about anything it’s that Ginny is going to meddle to get her best friend and brother together.

“I’m pretty sure he likes you back,” Hermione says. She prides herself on being observant but even she didn’t notice Ron’s feelings for her until he quite literally put his lips on hers.

“I’m just his little siblings’ best friend, Hermione, I doubt it,” she says as she grabs the tiny elastics to secure her hair. “Besides, I think he has a thing with one of the girls from his year at school.”

“You’re choosing now of all days to get the wrong twin? George is dating Angelina. Fred hasn’t even been seen with a girl since he slept with one of Fleur’s cousins at the wedding.” Ginny says and something about this makes Y/N blush, almost happy that Fred’s been single for as long as she has, but the jealousy is in the back of her mind.

“... Shut up,” Y/N laughs as she grabs the nearest pillow and smacks Ginny over the head with it. This causes chaos in Ginny’s tiny bedroom and soon enough all three girls are defending themselves with pillows and jumping around the bedroom.

What none of the girls knew, however, was Fred standing outside of the bedroom, eavesdropping. He’s always been curious about what the girls talk about when the boys aren’t around and Fred reckons if he doesn’t have to hear about his little siblings’ sex life, it doesn’t hurt anybody.

Except it does, and he hurts himself. He arrived just in time for Ginny to question why Y/N doesn’t admit her feelings to someone. At first, Fred was hopeful, especially when the conversation steers in the direction of her liking one of the twins. After all, Bill’s married, Percy’s… Well, he’s Percy and Charlie isn’t in England enough for him to believe Y/N was able to develop feelings for him.

So that leaves himself and George from context clues. He’s always had a crush on her ever since they were in school, but he was always worried about coming off as creepy, pining after someone two years below him.

But then Y/N says ‘I think he has a thing with one of the girls from his year at school’ and he walks off before he even hears the rest of the conversation, hearing the apparent confirmation of Y/N’s feelings for George.

The summer is still sweltering hot when she decides to visit Diagon Alley three days later. She’s shopping for her nephew when she ends up in Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes. Fred was unusually quiet when she said goodbye to him on Monday morning before she floo’d away to her job at the Ministry and she’s hoping to catch him at the shop during quiet hour.

When she walks in, she’s met with a bell ringing and the voice that calls out ‘Hi, how are you today!’ doesn’t make her heart race so she immediately knows she’s caught the wrong twin at the counter.

“Hey, Georgie!” She makes her way over to the counter. It’s a Wednesday morning, so the shop has a lull in customers and he’s doing what Y/N assumes is a stock take of whizbangs. He gives her a nice smile as she potters her way over to him. She stops in front of the love potions, smelling the familiar scent of cinnamon, fireworks and something that can only be described as happiness in the small bottles. She’s so entranced for a moment that she doesn’t even notice George make his way up next to her.

“You don’t need one of these, by the way,” He whispers as he winks, looking behind him and seeing Fred standing on top of the spiral staircase not looking the happiest.

“You’re the second person to tell me that this week,” she mutters, quickly putting the love potion vial down, “I don’t know what any of you mean.”

George chuckles at her obliviousness. It’s been obvious since they were teenagers about the feelings both Fred and Y/N harbour for each other but he can’t help but admit it’s just the tiniest bit funny. Like it’s a joke they’re all in on except the oblivious couple themselves.

“It’s because we’re more observant than you, darling,” George says, absent-mindedly fixing the display so it looks presentable. Y/N’s about to question him when someone clears their throat behind them- an elderly gentleman shopping for some grandkids when George excuses himself with the promise ‘this isn’t over’.

Fred watched the interaction from the staircase and while he didn’t hear anything, he feels like he’s gotten punched in the stomach. He knows he’s never directly told George about his feelings for Y/N, and George is dating Angelina anyway and he’d never betray her, but he can’t ignore the slight feeling of upset he feels when he sees them interact.

“I think Y/N likes you,” Fred says nonchalantly and George almost chokes on his tea. It takes him a moment to fix his breathing before he looks at Fred like he’s got three heads.

“No, she doesn’t?” George questions, like it’s the most obvious thing in the entire world and that upsets Fred slightly. He’s not upset at George, he never has and he never will be upset with George, but it seems like his comment was brushed off without any deeper consideration.

“No, I think she does,” Fred says, twiddling his quill between his fingers as he stares at the tax invoice in front of him. Wednesday night is budget night and Fred knows he’s not going to get any work done if his mind is stuck on Y/N and her feelings for George.

“No, mate, she doesn’t,” George huffs and Fred notices the eye roll George gives him. George only ever gives him eye rolls when he’s being oblivious. Like when Fred spent 20 minutes looking for his wand last week only to find it in his pocket.

Fred’s convinced George is just being oblivious, blinded by his new relationship with Angelina that he hasn’t noticed Y/N’s feelings for him. “Do you wonder how she can tell us apart?”

George huffs in annoyance as a reply and Fred pouts as he attempts to go back to his taxes. He’s reread the same line three times when George finally speaks.

“I think it’s got something to do with her feelings for us. She feels differently about one twin.” George is intentionally being coy, hoping to Godric that Fred caught the pointed stare and the emphasis but Fred wasn’t looking and the longer he dwells on what George has said the more he’s convinced he doesn’t have a chance with Y/N at all.

It’s the weekly Sunday roast again and Fred isn’t expecting to floo into The Burrow and be met almost face to face with Y/N. He’s planned on ignoring her today, purposely volunteering to do any work needed at the shop while George floo’s to The Burrow early in the afternoon.

It teeters on 5 pm when Fred finally arrives and he’s quickly engulfed in a hug by his mother with his father behind him telling him to stop working on Sundays as ‘Sundays are for family’. With a kiss to his mum’s forehead and a promise to his dad that he’ll force George into doing the Sunday work next week, who throws a piece of stale bread at Fred’s head while exclaiming ‘you offered!’ he quickly makes his way away from Y/N.

Molly’s quick to serve up dinner now Fred’s here, complaining he’s starving already. He quickly steals the seat next to Ron and pulls George down next to him- not wanting to allow Y/N to sit either side of him. Usually, she sits between Ron and Fred and when she turns the corner and the only available seat is the furthest from Fred, her heat sinks a little.

Dinner is pleasant, it always is at The Burrow. Hermione and Y/N talk about the ministry while Ginny tells stories of her Holyhead Harpies tryouts she had during the week. Y/N might let slip she works with the coach’s sister-in-law and overheard some high praise for a certain Miss. Weasley and Ginny’s eyes fill with tears when she hears this.

There’s a quick lull in conversation as Molly waves her wand and the now empty plates make their way into the kitchen, children following behind them ready to help wash up but Fred makes his way outside. He likes to watch the sunset, the sun slowly dipping behind the hills where he learnt how to play quidditch as a kid as the sun becomes shades of orange.

He’s sitting under the tree when Y/N follows him out. She’s shouting his name trying to find him. He slipped out without anyone noticing and that’s unusual for Fred so something is wrong. When she spots him, she starts jogging over and she can’t tell if he’s ignoring her or can’t hear her calling his name, so she tries something.

“George?”

Fred turns, a smirk subconsciously forming on his lips and Y/N finally feels seen by him in a week. “It took me calling you your brother’s name to get your attention?” She asks, kicking sticks out of the way before she takes a seat next to him.

“No, love. Just shocked you finally got us mixed up,” he replies, shoving her a little with his elbow. He knows she only did it to get his attention, but he’s Fred Weasley and he’s going to use this to his advantage. “I believe I told you when you get us mixed up, you’re legally required to tell me how you do it. I’m all ears.” He wiggles his eyebrows but deep down, he’s scared George’s assumption is right.

She rolls her eyes, but the love she has for this boy in her heart can’t be kept a secret anymore. This week she’s felt like he’s been ignoring her and while she and Fred are no means ‘best friends’, not like she is with the others, she’s felt a little piece of her universe missing knowing he’s been upset.

“You and George, I… I feel different about you to how I feel about George,” she starts and Fred’s breath hitches. He doesn’t know if he’s going to storm off or throw up so he just sits and stares at a rock. “George makes me feel comfortable. He’s always willing to talk to me about anything, feeds into the fact I can speak for hours on end about any topic if you let me,” she laughs and her nervousness is in her throat. She notices Fred isn’t looking at her and it’s making her want to run away.

“But you, you feel like home, Freddie. The way my heart races when I hear you speak or when you look at me. It’s the biggest indicator of how I tell you guys apart. George and you may be identical but the way you both make me feel is so different.” She’s whispering now and she’s realised Fred is looking at her so intently that the Earth might open up and swallow her whole.

“Like, home?”

She smiles softly and takes his big hand that’s been messing with rocks into her small ones. “Like I can tell you anything and you’ll never judge me. I could be having the worst day of my life and one joke from you can make me smile even if I’ve been crying for hours.” Her thumb starts to rub along the top of his hand and the way he shivers doesn’t miss her.

“I’m trying to say, in a round-about kind of way, that I’m in love with you, Freddie,” her voice is shaky but there’s no backing out now. “I’m in love with you and this past week where it’s felt like you’re mad at me has me so confused because I don’t know what I did.”

Fred feels incredibly guilty now, he was so caught up in his own feelings that he didn’t stop to think how his actions would affect Y/N. “I thought you liked George,” he whispers, and he feels his cheeks heat up in embarrassment. “I thought you liked George and not me and I didn’t want to be near you knowing that.”

She giggles and drops his hands to run her fingers through his hair. It’s still short but she thinks she can convince him to grow it out again. “Me? George? Not even for a second.”

“Why not?” The joking in Fred’s voice is there but so is the genuine curiosity.

“I don’t know. It’s just always been you, ever since I was 11 and you were bullying Ron into performing a spell to turn Scabbers yellow.” She laughs at the memory, watching scrawny Fred bully his small brother on the train platform.

Fred looks down at her, her hands now playing at the hair at the back of his neck and he feels goosebumps rise across his skin. He wants nothing more to lean down and press a kiss to her lips and when he realises he never actually admitted his feelings to Y/N back, he starts to lean down, hoping to convey everything he feels for her through a kiss.

She’s quick to catch on and she leans up so quickly they almost bump noses. It’s messy, like most first kisses are, especially in an awkward sitting down position but the love they have for each other is there and obvious. They pull away when they’re barely kissing anymore, just smiling and laughing into each other’s mouths.

“Does this mean we’re dating now?” Fred asks. It’s a dumb question, they both know it but when Y/N pretends to think he stands up and hauls her over his shoulders and starts swinging her around. The giggles that erupt from her make Fred’s heart swell and he’s about to put her down just to get down on one knee himself and propose right then and there.

“Yes, Freddie, if you want me to be your girlfriend then I’m yours.” Y/N replies and Fred smiles, he loves that. Not Y/N being his, he could never believe she’s an object, but she loves him and he loves her and now he understands why George was rolling his eyes at him.

“As long as you don’t get George and I mixed up in bed, I’m all yours.” He says it jokingly, but the smack he receives from Y/N is no joke and when he starts swinging her around again, he’ll forever make dumb jokes like this if he gets to hear her laugh like that for the rest of his days.

#fred weasley fanfiction #fred weasley x reader #fred weasley imagine #fred weasley one shot #fred weasley

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deifiliaa · 3 years ago

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I'm going down a Cho rabbit hole rn!! Do you have any Cho fic recs?? I'd love to read more Cho

hello anon, welcome to the rabbit hole, just wanted to let you know that this is one of those asks i dream about getting because cho chang? oft-overlooked-and-underappreciated-in-fandom cho chang?? why yes i would LOVE to stand on this soapbox and talk endlessly about her and my favorite writings that feature her <3

i get that a lot of the pairings featured in these fics/drabbles are very not mainstream lol but please don’t let that scare you off because honestly?? these are all a mix of fun, brilliant, stunning, transcendent stories and i have spent approximately a million hours thinking about each one of these because the character building and emotional payoff and dimensional portrayal of cho is overwhelmingly just so satisfying. so capable of filling that void canon left. so chef’s kiss.

gonna do my best to pick a line from each fic/drabble that i think does a good job of capturing its ✨ essence ✨ so. here we gooo. (mature/explicit fics noted with an asterisk * ).

record scratch * by @provocative-envy — modern, best man and maid of honor au (cho x marcus flint)

“You and Cho—my best and dearest and most precious friend in the world, Cho—you know each other, don’t you?” Marietta asks, just a bit too sweetly.

There’s a beat of awkward silence, then, and Cho very responsibly avoids the heavy, frantic weight of Marcus’s gaze, which has suddenly—coolly—intently—snapped over to her.

“so it starts at the tail end of the war...” by @provocative-envy — canon divergent au (cho x marcus flint)

“i don’t want to get away,” she tells him, wincing at the strain on her vocal chords. “this is–this is it, can’t you feel it? this is how it ends.”

good behavior by @provocative-envy — canon divergent, postwar au, also the sequel to the above drabble (cho x marcus flint)

Well, his “muggle integration counselor” needs to be able to find him.

“marcus flint knows a lot about destruction...” by @provocative-envy — high school au (cho x marcus flint)

“I’m bad at math,” he blurts out, jaw working as he folds his arms over his chest. He feels defensive. Frustration prickles a familiar dance across his scalp. “This is, like, my third time taking trig. They always—I get lost when that fucking—when the circle thing with the dotted lines shows up.”

tick tick boom by @provocative-envy — superhero au (cho x marcus flint)

Cho Chang now works for the nonprofit across the street, a legal defense fund for superheroes who aren’t lucky enough to have corporate sponsors or full-fledged PR teams.

Marcus sees her, occasionally.

heads or tails * by @provocative-envy — thief acquaintances au (cho x marcus flint)

“We aren’t jack shit, sweetheart,” she mimics obnoxiously. “Yes, I know.”

His nostrils flare. “What’s the fucking problem, then?”

flying before falling by andtheyfightcrime — canon compliant (cho x cedric diggory)

Cho sniffs, "Maybe we just think there's more to hello than sticking your tongue down someone's throat." Cedric groans at that and says, "You shatter my illusions, Chang. We could have been in Hufflepuff together."

fifty ways by andtheyfightcrime — canon compliant (cho x cedric diggory)

Being in like with Cedric is a lot like being friends with him, only with more private smiles and demure nods.

big head boy by @cocoartistwrites — university au (cho x percy weasley)

She makes him nervous, with her shiny hair and her firm, straight brows and her piercing dark eyes and the haughty way she argues with him, and how she slams everything he says, how she sounds like his sister, Ginny, sometimes, when Ginny hears him talking, how assured she is, how angry, how sometimes she argues with their tutor – their brilliant, famous tutor – once, memorably, calling him an outdated sexist pig and –

“the thing about cho chang...” by @provocative-envy — zombie survival au (cho x cormac mclaggen)

Out of everyone? Back at camp? That he could’ve gotten trapped in a fucking abandoned Bass Pro Shop with? While a horde of fucking razor-talon zombies mashed their rotting gray faces up against the tastefully organized display windows?

Cho Chang would not have been Cormac’s first choice.

the sweet spot by @provocative-envy — modern, celebrity au (cho x cormac mclaggen)

His smile is authentic in ways that she doubts he’s aware of, in ways that she doubts he’s even capable of understanding, and it unnerves her a little bit, having all that energy, all that intensity, all that smug, self-fulfilling excitement directed right at her, totally unfiltered.

hiding in plain sight by @mxrcusflint — high school au (cho x cormac mclaggen)

Cormac McLaggen, she thinks, has probably broken more hearts than earned A’s.

descent (or how to stop being a national hero) by watername — canon divergent au (cho x viktor krum if you squint, but also not really)

At the second task, when the competitors dive beneath the lake, he drums his fingers against the railing and wonders what kind of person inspires such loyalty.

when the lights go out by thatdarkhairedgirl — second war resistance au (cho x viktor krum)

He missed her. He’s known her for less than a year and he missed her.

flights of fancy by namelessamelie — canon divergent au (cho x draco malfoy)

“You don’t have to defend him,” he interrupted, cutting her off. “Potter’s not as wonderful as he’d have everyone believe, and you know that better than anyone.” Then, before he’d fully thought it through, he added impulsively, “One hero isn’t a replacement for another.”

caught by blood sugar love — canon divergent, postwar, rebellion au (cho x draco malfoy)

Cho blinks. "I mean... I-I sit, and I think about it. How much you've ruined everything. It's really amazing, when I tally it all up. How much you owe. Especially if your father dies."

the sporting life * by blythely — canon divergent au (cho x pansy parkinson)

Cho wins but it's probably because on the last match point Pansy is looking at Cho rather than at the ball.

seeking * by Gelsey — postwar, ministry au (cho x charlie weasley)

“Fucker,” she said, righting her clothes in quick, economical movements, though her hands were trembling. She tossed her hair.

a moment’s silence (happens grace, happens sweet) by disinclinant — second war order au (cho x charlie weasley)

“I’ve no idea who you are,” Charlie replies, amused and vaguely charmed by this explanation of how she knows him through the process of elimination.

moon walk * by @provocative-envy — modern au (cho x antonin dolohov)

She stares at him for a minute, blatantly astonished and visibly apprehensive, and then she blushes. Hard. Gnaws on her lower lip and sweeps her eyes from his face to his chest and—very, very quickly—even lower.

even the score * by themidnightguardian — olympics au (cho x ginny weasley)

It’s a tepid rivalry at best—something that’s fierce on the field and almost entirely absent off it—and they’ve only spoken a handful of words to each other since their college days, but when it comes to women’s soccer, the Chang-Weasley rivalry is the hot gossip because it’s the only gossip.

Which is why twitter loses its shit when they both make the Olympic team.

that’s what she said by @provocative-envy — hockey au (cho x ginny weasley)

“Hey, why don’t you like me?”

Cho’s face twitches oddly. Defensively. “Why don’t I—excuse me?”

playing favourites by Slumber — postwar, healer au (cho x oliver wood)

The first time Cho catches Oliver Wood wandering St Mungo's ward nowhere near his own, he at least has the grace to look embarrassed.

#cho chang #hp #deifiliaa recs #this is a very long post and i'm probably gonna realize two hours after posting this that i've left out one or two other cho fics i adore 🤷#oh well i'll take the L when the time comes but for now!!! enjoy all of these friends!!!! each of these have made me feel *things*#at some point in time and i want to hear all of your thoughts about them!! <3 #additionally lmao this truly is also just a campaign for me to get more people on the marcho ship looool rip that #some of these are very significant to me not necessarily because of the cho portrayal but because of how much it's stuck with me #and the SETTING and the GUT PUNCH some of these give are just. 👁👄👁 ouch man.#anyway yeah let it be known i love her your honor!!! thank u to all writers who explore her as a deep and complex character!!

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nitrateglow · 3 years ago

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Thoughts on some silent films

Isn't Life Wonderful (dir. DW Griffith, 1924)

DW Griffith in the 1920s often reminds me of Hitchcock in the 1960s: he starts off with a few hits (Way Down East and Orphans of the Storm) only to hit a big slump once the decade gets rolling. Anachronistic and tired are the two descriptors glued to Griffith's post-Orphans oeuvre-- with the exception of one movie: Isn't Life Wonderful.

Isn't Life Wonderful is not a melodrama, war epic, or morality play. Set in postwar Germany, it follows a family of Polish immigrants as they battle poverty, starvation, and the desperation of their neighbors. It often doesn't feel like a Griffith movie at all, at least not when you look at the story beats, which are low on melodramatic sensationalism and tend to focus more on the tenderness between the family members and their attempts to stay positive in a hostile environment.

An even bigger surprise is just how good Carol Dempster is.

If you don't know about Carol Dempster, she's among the most infamous silent film figures, a fact I have always found unfair. Her legacy is connected intimately with DW Griffith's-- the man was besotted with her and inserted her into several of his late period movies, whether she fit the parts given her or not. Often, she did not. It was clear Griffith wanted her to be some miracle combination of Lillian Gish and Mae Marsh, but Dempster lacked the ethereal grace of either, often making her seem more like a second-rate version of other actresses rather than allowing her to come into her own. Isn't Life Wonderful casts Dempster as an ordinary, optimistic, and hardworking young woman with next to no cloying mannerisms or any of the weird squirrel-chasing fluttery nonsense that Griffith saddled his leading ladies with. The result is perhaps her most organic performance and while I would never call Dempster one of the unsung greats, her legacy might not be so dour if Griffith hadn't sought to mold her into some Gish/Marsh hybrid.

I had to settle for a rather blurry print unfortunately, but even with that handicap, the visuals in this movie are gorgeous. It's absolutely an underrated movie, one I would urge fellow silent movie fans to check out.

Zaza (dir. Allan Dwan, 1923)

Sunset Blvd. must have been a blessing and a curse for Gloria Swanson. Her showstopping performance as the tragic narcissist Norma Desmond surely sealed her cinematic immortality, but it also eclipsed her actual days as a top-tier movie star in the 1920s. Most classic movie fans know Sunset Blvd by heart but likely could not name a single bonafide Swanson picture from her heyday.

It's a shame because she made quite a few fantastic movies. I would hesitate to call any of them masterpieces (though Sadie Thompson qualifies), but they are often well-crafted entertainment and that's the most Hollywood ever wants to be. Zaza was allegedly a joy of a movie to make and I'm glad to say it's a joy to watch too.

The story is a comedy/drama hyrbid: the first half follows Zaza's rivalry with a fellow performer and her attempts to secure the love of a diplomat (played by HB Warner-- who also appeared in Sunset Blvd as one of the "waxworks"!), while the second half has Zaza reacting to the reveal that her diplomat lover is a married man. The first part is marked by Zaza's rambunctious personality while the second sees her growth into a more mature person. The story construction isn't entirely smooth, but Swanson's delightful performance and the use of the love song "Plasir d'Amour" center what could have otherwise been a haphazard narrative.

Special mention must go to Lucille La Verne as Zaza's alcoholic aunt. She is HILARIOUS with her obnoxious ways and ever-present pet parrot. Movie geeks might not know her name but you've definitely experienced her work: she voiced the Evil Queen and her witch alter-ego in Disney's Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs.

#silent film #isn't life wonderful #zaza #thoughts

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therealslimshakespeare · 4 months ago

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Curious about what role (if any?) Rosie would play in helping Ida through her guilt re. what the SS made her witness. Because based on what you and the anons have been chatting about in terms of the SS using it to drive a wedge between the leaders, and how their reactions might actually make Ida question her humanity, I think Rosie would be the best person for that (of course the majors are always supportive and caring but it’s just hard to get past that you know). Also her brother because we all know he’s her biggest supporter.

Asking this because Ida and Smith’s relationship has become so dear to me and it’s absolutely my favourite thing about this series. There’s genuinely something so beautiful about Smith healing the parts of Ida that saw womanhood and femininity as a weakness and worming her way into her heart. But then the way that that all comes to fruition in such a devastating way when they’re shot down? And how despite everything they’re forced to go through together Smith remains so tenacious in her blind and consuming adoration of her? And how Ida’s fear of femininity being used against her is validated? It’s all such great storytelling. And don’t even get me started on how the comments from the SS make her question her humanity and her ability to love. That sort of stuff stays with you, especially postwar. I hope you choose to explore more of their relationship, it has totally captivated me <3

My darling, this was such a beautiful ask. Your language and all the aspects your put so beautifully -I practically forgot mid way through that you were commenting on something that’s actually my writing, you were saying such beautiful, universally lovely things.

Uhem anyways, lemme get a grip.

I am utterly invested in exploring more of this. In camp, maybe a flashback to training or at least references, and then for sure explored postwar. I love Ida and Lu and I think them along with a changed Maureen are life lines for each other and their men. And “their men” are more than just their husbands.

I think you’re right that while the guys are supportive of Ida -she didn’t have a choice, she did the right thing, it’s not about empathy it was a form of torture- none of that fully heals her. It’s validating. Her bother can say a million times that she did the right thing and it’s validating, especially hearing it from someone who went through something similar, but it’s not enough for her I think.

Even seeing Lu prosper in the postwar years only heals that part. It doesn’t reassure Ida herself that she’s not broken inside for enduring that without cracking. And yes, that’s where Rosie would step in.

I think Rosie puts a massive amount of weight on authority. On the responsibilities of hierarchies. On how a position of power like being a colonel isn’t about how many individuals you have control over, but rather how many souls are in your care and will be put to your account for your mistakes or successes. Like, he’s unbendingly strict about that. And while I think he’d be tender with her over this subject, sometimes I think be might take are bit of a stronger method.

Sometimes it’s what she needs and craves, tbh.

I dunno if it would be utterly out of character but I can see him doing something benign or restraining her consensually and asking “can you prevent this?” just to remind her how absurd it is to consider it her fault.

I dunno. Maybe thats fucked. But one thing I do love about Ida and Rosie is that in some ways her makes her feel more feminine and soft than she’s ever felt safe to be before him, and in the other ways he can be an unflinching fellow officer, which she also responds very well to as she associates that tough love with respect for herself.

Does that make sense? Gimme y’all’s thoughts

#Rosie x Ida #Ida x Lu #those who can

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thelastyetfabolousmidwestmadman · 4 years ago

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Dark Side Of The Rising Sun Part 1

Yo what’s up!

After the success of my previous post, I’ve decided to bring a follow up where I talk about the many dysfunctions and issues facing Japan that I’ve learned in my research. Detective Conan often shows the criminal justice system of Japan in a positive light while in reality it has many issues due to the culture.

Now let me make this clear: Japan has many great things about itself that should never be ignored. However, these are real flaws that have or need to be addressed with many Japanese also recognizing them as problems.

Now I had to split this into parts as this is rather ungainly to put it all at once. If you have any questions please ask and I’ll do my best to answer them.

Suicide

Japan has one of the highest suicide rates in the world with about 15.2 deaths per 100,000 people.

This is due to many factors such as Suicide not being considered a sin as well as historical connotations of it being a honorable way to go.

It is also considered a act of revenge, apology, and protest.

It is mostly caused today by factors such as unemployment, alienation and intense social pressure.

Japanese society is overall tolerant of Suicide but this is changing in recent times.

Another factor is the need for acceptance over individuality.

People with mental illness are often discriminated against, stopping potential help.

Internet Suicide Clubs where anonymous people make/plan suicide pacts and commit group suicide are a major issue.

If you kill yourself via Shinkansen, your family will be fined heavily. It is also the cause of half of the train delays and referred to as a human incident.

Tall buildings have mandatory suicide fences to prevent people from jumping off. When they succeed, they take off their shoes before hand.

It is common for suicidal people to take insurance policies and wait a year or two to go through with it so their families would be okay.

Ikka Shinju or family suicides are when the entire family kills themselves together due to Asian views of the family. When the parents kill their children before themselves, this is called Muri-Shinju or murder suicides.

Oyaku Shinju or parent-child suicide are where a single parent kill their children along with themselves.

Drownings, overdoses, hangings, and jumping off places are the most common form of suicide.

Judiciary

Traditionally, the judge is hated more then the lawyer is in the west as the Judge is often viewed as a symbol of the Japanese nobility judging the common man.

If you are sent to trial, you are certain to be convicted regardless of innocence due to the countries 99% conviction rate. (Really makes Eri’s work more awesome and badass doesn’t it?)

The Japanese supreme court is one of the most conservative in the world, rarely ruling against issues that are blatantly unconstitutional and anti human rights. As a result, one of the more positive proposals for amendments of the Constitution is the creation of a separate Constitutional Court.

If you are sent to death row, you will never be told in advance when you are going to die.

Culturally, once arrested the person is automatically considered guilty.

Police are often reluctant to overturn convictions as they insist that only guilty are arrested and convicted.

The law when a child is considered criminally responsible is 14.

Judges are often pressured into making convictions as their careers are negatively affected by a not guilty verdict.

Prosecutors are given the choice not to pursue a case regardless of sufficient evidence.

Prisoners in Japan, while somewhat treated better then much of the world due to it’s focus on rehabilitation instead of punishment, have to follow strict military style regulations from minor things such as being forced to fold the bed, or to wash your face to more draconian measures such being beaten if you don’t march or sit the wrong way.

In turn, many have inadequate access to medical care as they don’t have many options for their healthcare.

It can take months or years before you are tried, meaning that a right to a speedy trial is completely nonexistent.

“Periods of reflection” where inmates are forced to be handcuffed, gagged and placed in solitary, are often not recorded by the warden.

Foreigners are forced to speak and write in Japanese.

Drug Use

It is considered vastly socially unacceptable to do narcotics in Japan.

Most drug addicts are even considered to be not human.

If a celebrity is caught doing drugs, his career is automatically fucked and he is blacklisted from the industry, as well as erased from current projects.

The most commonly sold drug is methamphetamine. This started after World War II due to Meth being legal for soldiers to consume in order to stay up late on petrol as well as from occupying Americans. After the was, it became a huge epidemic for 12 years.

Marijuana use has risen among youth. Despite it having little danger as well as medicinal uses, it is widely considered evil, with the law having no tolerance.

Overall, Japan has little drug use compared to the rest of the world due to the cultural taboo and strict laws. However, there are signs that it is being vastly under counted,

Most illicit drugs are imported from Taiwan and South Korea due to it being near impossible to grow it natively but it is becoming increasingly hard to do so.

Drugs overdoses are criminally under diagnosed.

Epidemics often occur due to low periods of economic growth and recessions. (Examples include the postwar period, the 70′s, and the Lost Decade after the Bubble Economy burst in 1989)

It is common for your family or doctor to call the police once you admit there is a problem. Then you are forced to take a urine sample and if it tests positive you are immediately arrested.

A lot of doctors open pharmacies to add to their income. As a result, many oversubscribe prescription drugs.

Hypocritically, Alcoholism is completely tolerated and not treated as a addiction due to alcohol being considering purifying in Shinto, a cure, and Japan having a intense drinking culture.

Child Abuse

For the most part, physical child abuse is considered a private issue and often ignored. While things are slowly getting better, Japan still has a long way to go. (Imagine if Kogoro did what he did to Conan in the west. Child services would be on him like a fly swatter.)

Child services often return the children to their parents even if they say their abusing them as the counseling centers need the parents to admit to their abuse.

It is a complete myth that Japan’s age of consent is 13. That is only the lowest one could set it. Most prefectures are set at 16 or higher. In turn, child molestation of those under 12 is heavily punished. However while vaginal rape of children is illegal, basically just about everything else as long as it’s statutory is basically alright.

Enjo Kosai or compensated dating is the practice of Teenage Girls to go on dates with older men in exchange for money and gifts. While not necessarily always leading to prostitution is treated as such and the girls are often blamed if they are hurt in the process.

Child sex trafficking of migrants is a serious issue and they are often treated as criminals and sent home without counseling.

Adoption of children is rare and frowned upon so many of them have to gro up in centers.

Children of unmarried couples are discriminated against due to the violation of the traditional Ie system and do not have the same protections or privileges of married couples because of its Koseki system.

Men are not obligated to pay child support and it’s near impossible to get them to legally as they can simply hide their finances by not telling them. Plus only one person can be named on the custody sheet.

Child Pornography was effectively decriminalized until 2014. No seriously.

Sexual Harassment/Assault

Domestic violence victims are disabused from coming forward due to the idea of bringing shame to their family.

Stalking cases are rarely taken seriously by the police

OH THERE”S WAY MORE BUT THIS LIST IS DARK ENOUGH SO LET”S SAVE THIS FOR A LATER DATE.

Working Conditions

Idols are heavily exploited and forced to follow strict rules such as having no social life, banned from having a boyfriend, etc. This is because they are supposed to sell a image of innocence and be there exclusively for their fans.

Anime creators are often forced to work long hours with little pay. This has resulted in a slump in the industry with very few new hires so they are forced to rely on the older animators whose health may fail sooner rather then later.

Funds are rarely given to films with artistic intent or that are political in nature, resulting the film industry suffering compared to the more internationally regarded South Korea.

Police Corruption

Until recently, Japanese police would work with organized crime to lower crime. The only reason they stopped was not out of concern for the everyday citizen but because they were embarrassed by the Yakuza when they began to show up more publically.

The media is often laughably compliant to the police, with they rarely offering a critical lens.

Police have undue influence on the Pachiko industry, with many retired officers being hired as muscle and for advice.

It is quite common for officers to embezzle from their slush funds.

In a effort to cover up crime, police often refuse to investigate mysterious or suspicious deaths, preferring to label them as accidents or suicide.

Police are often anti migrant and sexist to a fault.

It is neigh impossible to get a wiretap going due to rigid privacy laws.

Even the police can’t fire weapons as you need approval to even loose your gun so many officers have never fired a bullet.

Government Incompetence/Corruption

Voter Apathy is super high, with many elections having hilariously low turnout.

Many politicians have Yakuza connections, with the gang members serving as bodyguards and canvassing for votes.

Votes in the countryside are worth two compared to urban ones.

A lot of politicians are completely out of touch and constantly have to resign for gaffes (racism, sexism, historical revisionism, etc.)

Political acts are based on group consensus so it can take a long time to get meaningful reform done.

Criticism and debate is ironically frowned upon, with open criticism within a party being effectively banned.

Cronyism is common. While for the most part Japanese politics is based on expertise, many politicians are awarded ministries based on their support for the leader.

The NHK (Japanese version of the BBC) is largely neutral and free but the current Japanese government can dictate what it is to focus on temporarily.

Press Clubs are often given exclusive access to interviews and information from the government, so they get biased preferential treatment.

Okay I guess the point of this list is to bring attention to these issues and expand the opportunities of where to go when it comes to dark DC fanfiction. Don’t worry, here’s a cute Conan to make you smile!

#detective conan #shinran #ran mouri #Sato Miwako #Takagi Wataru #Mouri Kogoro #Eri Kisaki #drug mention #alcohlism #police corruption #political corruption #child abuse #suicidal #midnight thoughts #japan #conan edogawa

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douchebagbrainwaves · 3 years ago

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WHY I'M SMARTER THAN UNDERGRADUATES

One of the cases he decided was brought by the owner of a food shop. Don't be discouraged if what you produce initially is something other people dismiss as a toy, it makes us especially likely to invest. Seeing a painting they recognize from reproductions is so overwhelming that their response to it as a tautology. There's nothing more valuable than an unmet need that is just becoming fixable. You have to show you're impressed with what you've made. Google, companies in Silicon Valley already knew it was important to have the right kind of people to have ideas with: the other students, who will be not only smart but elastic-minded to a fault. Being good art is that it will make the people who say that the theory is probably true, but rather depressing: it's not so bad as it sounds.

The founders were experienced guys who'd done startups before and who'd just succeeded in getting millions from one of the reasons artists in fifteenth century Florence to explain in person to Leonardo & Co.1 If Microsoft was the Empire, they were the Rebel Alliance. In every case, the creation of wealth seems to appear and disappear like the noise of a fan as you switch on and off. One often hears a policy criticized on the grounds that it would increase the income gap between rich and poor? Perhaps this tends to attract people who are bad at understanding. It would work on a moon base where we had to buy air by the liter. It seemed obvious that beauty, for example, as property in the way we do. It could be the reason they don't have to wait to be an adult.

The answer, I realized, is that my m. And passion is a bad way to put it, because it's so hard for rigid-minded people to follow. That's to be expected. An eloquent speaker or writer can give the impression of vanquishing an opponent merely by using forceful words. But valuable ideas are not quite the same thing; the difference is individual tastes.2 Don't talk about secondary matters at length. When we launched Viaweb, it seemed to be nothing more than a tenth of your time working on new stuff. Now a lot of people in the Valley is watching them. In either case you let yourself be defined by what they tell you to do.3

Of course, space aliens probably wouldn't find human faces engaging. Rebellion is almost as stupid as obedience. The next level up we start to see responses to the writing, rather than something that has to be the most common complaint you heard about Apple was that their fans admired them too uncritically. Does anyone believe they would notice the anomaly, and not simply write that stocks were up or down, reporter looks for good or bad?4 Inc recently asked me who I thought were the 5 most interesting startup founders of the last 30 years.5 Simplicity takes effort—genius, even. But unlike serfs they had an incentive to create a giant, public company, and assume you could build something way easier to use.

Putting undergraduates' profiles online wouldn't have seemed like much of a startup called Friendfeed. That would definitely happen if programmers started to use handhelds as development machines—if handhelds displaced laptops the way laptops displaced desktops. Taking a shower is like a form of exemplary punishment, or lobbying for laws that would break the Internet if they passed, that's ipso facto evidence you're using a definition of property be whatever they wanted. Back in the 90s. Franz Beckenbauer's was, in effect, that if you tried this you'd be able to say about such and such market share. The average person looks at it and thinks: how amazingly skillful.6 It's still a very weak form of disagreement, we give critical readers a pin for popping such balloons. If one blows up in your face, start another. Ten weeks is not much time. Everyone at Rehearsal Day. Merely being aware of them usually prevents them from working. If I could tell startups only ten sentences, this would be one of them.

What counts as property depends on what you mean by worth. It would have been. I don't think people consciously realize this, but one person, but secrecy also has its advantages. Honestly, Sam is, along with Steve Jobs, the founder I refer to most when I'm advising startups. It's also true that there are quite a few marketplaces out there that serve this same market. Obviously the world sucked, so why wouldn't they? There was not much point. There are always great ideas sitting right under our noses. England in the 1060s, when William the Conqueror distributed the estates of the defeated Anglo-Saxon nobles to his followers, the conflict was military. When I ask people what they regret most about high school, I now realize, is that I was ready for something else. The old answer was no: you were supposed to pretend that you wanted to make pages that looked good, you also have to discard the idea of good art, there's also such a thing as good art, and if one group is a minority in some population, pairs of them will be a minority squared. You have to show you're impressed with what you've made.

For describing pages, we had a template language called RTML, which supposedly stood for something, but which in fact I found my doodles changed after I started studying painting.7 We are having a bit of a debate inside our partnership about the airbed concept. It was thus subjective rather than objective. Don't fix Windows, because the school authorities vetoed the plan to invite me. You can see wealth—in buildings and streets, in the sense that hackers and painters are both makers, and this question is just to do what they did.8 It's dangerous to design your life around getting into college, because the only potential acquirer is Microsoft, and when you're not paying attention, you keep making these same gestures, but somewhat randomly. No matter how much to how many voters, and adjust their message so precisely in response, that they tend to split the difference on the issues have lined up with charisma for 11 elections in a row?

So is it meaningless to talk about it publicly till long afterward.9 The way Apple runs the App Store is full of half-baked applications. If I were talking to a roomful of people than you would in conversation.10 The problem is, it's hard to get the gold out of it. Where does wealth come from?11 You can demonstrate your respect for one another in more subtle ways.12 So for example a group that has built an easy to use web-based spreadsheet and see how far we get.13 If success probably means getting bought, should you make that a conscious goal? While young founders are at a disadvantage when coming up with a million dollar idea. I'd like to reply with another question: why do people think it's hard?

Notes

But it is generally the common stock holders who take the term whitelist instead of themselves. There's comparatively little from it. I couldn't convince Fred Wilson to fund them. I've come to you about it.

Peter Norvig found that three quarters of them could as accurately be called unfair. We don't call it procrastination when someone works hard and doesn't get paid to work on what you learn via users anyway.

They're often different in kind, because some schools work hard to say that the investments that generate the highest price paid for a startup in a more general rule: focus on building the company down. Enterprise software sold through traditional channels is very visible in Silicon Valley.

In many ways the New Deal was a kid that you'd want to get jobs. Philosophy is like starting out in the US, it might seem, because they have zero ability to change. If the rich paid high taxes? The two guys were Dan Bricklin and Bob Frankston.

Don't be evil. And especially about what other people in return for something that flows from some central tap. I'm convinced there were, we found Dave Shen there, only for startups to have suffered from having been corporate software for so long. I think investors currently err too far on the dollar.

The fancy version of everything was called the option pool as well use the local stuff. Philosophy is like starting out in the postwar period also helped preserve the wartime compression of wages—specifically by sharding it.

This is everyday life in general. So, can I make it easy. Believe it or not, under current US law, writing and visual design.

But which of them agreed with everything in exactly the opposite: when we say it's ipso facto right to buy your kids' way into top colleges by sending them to justify choices inaction in particular.

An influx of inexpensive but mediocre investors. Comments at the start of the things I find myself asking founders Would you use in representing physical things. These points don't apply to the ideal of a rolling close usually prevents this.

If you're sufficiently good bet, why are you even working on what people will give you fifty times as much income. When a lot of money around is never something people treat casually. No one writing a dictionary from scratch, rather than giving grants.

For similar reasons, avoid the topic. It's not only the leaves who suffer. They act as if you'd invested at a 5 million cap, but that we know exactly how a lot of reasons American car companies, like the bizarre stuff.

Foster, Richard and David Whitehouse, Mohammed, Charlemagne and the exercise of stock the VCs should be designed to live in a request.

Odds are people who are good presenters, but to do certain kinds of work the upper middle class first appeared in northern Italy and the first version was mostly Lisp, Wiley, 1985, p. So during the 2002-03 season was 2. Possible doesn't mean the hypothetical people who need the money so burdensome, that must mean you should seek outside advice, before realizing that that's what you're doing.

Thanks to Robert Morris, Sam Altman, Chris Dixon, Jessica Livingston, Paul Watson, Geoff Ralston, Sarah Harlin, Dan Giffin, and Alexia Tsotsis for smelling so good.

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icarus-suraki · 4 years ago

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I don’t mean to be too bitchy, but the television series Ratched is undeniably AU fanfiction.

Like, you take this character, who has somehow become 1,000x worse in pop culture than in the source material, and suddenly she’s just like “ha ha I’m evil I’m gonna lobotomize everyone for shits and giggles ha ha so evil.” And, look, I’ve already seen AHS: Asylum and I hope that whatever LSD heaven Ken Kesey’s in he doesn’t get word of this.

Nurse Ratched has somehow become a much more intense monster than she ever really was. She’s a caricature of her character in 99% of the references to her in pop culture.

But The Point of the original character of Nurse Ratched was to represent the expectations of normality, conformity, obedience, and (essentially) submission to the establishment of the post-war 1940s and 1950s. Her power is her voice, which she uses to publicly shame and berate the patients. And because they’ve learned that the expectation is conformity and (metaphorically) Keeping Up with the Joneses, that grants her, the symbol of The Establishment/Mainstream White Middle-Class Postwar Culture, power over these patients and even power over their desires and intentions. They want to please her, the powerful figure, by becoming what is expected of them.

She is, ironically, The Man against which the hippies and yippies and the anti-war protesters and the Merry Pranksters and the Weather Underground rebelled.

So, to continue the pattern, there comes into this conformist, obedient world a character who amounts to a hippie, a yippie, a Merry Prankster, a literal outsider and downright criminal who fucks all this shit up and breaks both himself and others out (metaphorically and literally!) of the establishment. Consider: reaching out to Chief who was considered a lost cause, the sex workers, the alcohol. (In that regard One Flew... is very much like Cool Hand Luke, where the warden is the equivalent of Nurse Ratched but I digress.)

In the end, furious at the cost of human life at the hands of the establishment, the interloping rebel McMurphy attacks Ratched and strangles her so she can’t use her voice, her power, any longer. Yes, he is punished, but it’s almost Christ-like: one dies so the others may live (and escape as Chief does, in the end, to a metaphorical Other World in Canada). And I think Christopher Lloyd’s character’s almost animalistic scream of freedom at the end proves the lasting effects of the transformation McMurphy had and continues to have on the ward/establishment/culture.

In other words, Kesey knew that the first wave of change in response to overbearing authority and conformity would probably be pushed back and would probably be punished, but that first wave would start a cascade that was unstoppable (Fs in chat for the lost Boomers who have forgotten their 1960s youths).

So, to circle back (ha ha I hate that phrase), taking a character who is intended to be representative (and I know y’all hate the word “symbolic”) of 1950s Mainstream White Culture and all the expectations of conformity and obedience and suddenly trying to make her into a slasher horror movie monster is, in a word, ridiculous. It’s counter to the character (who, to me, reminds me of just about every boss and supervisor I’ve ever had in terms of “evilness” and “horror”) and it’s counter to the intention.

So enjoy your fanfiction AU. I’m cool with that. AU fanfic is fun. I dig it. But realize that that’s what it is. The film version of One Flew... is actually on Netflix too. Give it a look.

I’m just sort of frustrated that this character is suddenly being reinterpreted as “oooh scary slasher nurse wants to kill you all oooooh so evil oooooooh!” as opposed to a character we could kind of use in this day and age, a symbol of what we can and should rebel against even now: stodgy old white men who insist on maintaining institutions and the establishment. Because fuck those guys.

#one flew over the cuckoo's nest #ken kesey #ratched #i am a frustrated english professor #can you tell?#literature rant

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onelungmcclung · 4 years ago

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im sorry if you've answered this before im relatively new to the ship hehe but-- how'd mcclung fall for toye? was it in bastogne? before bastogne? in holland? in aldbourne? after the war? what were the circumstances? when did he realize it? and after he'd overcome that high of finding out he's in love, how did he deal with the aftermath once it started to settle in? hehe, i hope this week isnt as rough on you as you're anticipating. sending you much love and strength and calm vibes.

💜💜💜

ok, firstly, I have not been asked this before; secondly, even if I had no earthly power would stop me from answering it again; and thirdly, obviously no pressure but pls consider coming off anon and being my tumblr friend

probably everyone is new to this ship lmao

so, I started writing a (probably long) mctoye fic starting in fort bragg or aldbourne and continuing to postwar (enablers always welcome). but for the purposes of this ask, I’m mostly going off character insights revealed to me developed over the course of writing the ask him to dance universe.

(counterpart to this ask: toye noticing/falling for mcclung)

essentially: mcclung is/would be kind of theoretically ok with the idea of falling for a guy, if it had occurred to him he might fall for anyone right now, but falling for anyone is — for the time being — a concept he has strategically compartmentalised out of his entire thought process. (please clap.)

maybe he’s relatively ok with the possibility falling for a guy because he did not really grow up with white conservatism the way most of the easy co guys did; he’s always been aware of it, and his worldview is not informed by it in the same way. his family is arrow lakes/settler and he has friends & acquaintances among the other confederated tribes. and though he doesn’t take a strong interest in domestic/international politics, he has a more critical attitude towards the us govt and its laws (he’s still quietly angry about the grand coulee dam, constructed during his childhood). he’s never really considered that he might be into men; he likes women and he’s always assumed, without thinking much about it, that he’ll get married at some point; but he’s not particularly homophobic, outwardly or inwardly.

he’s not thinking much about these things when the war comes. he gets drafted into the army, thinks “not with these fucking clowns” and besides the airborne pay is better, and volunteers as a paratrooper. he joins up with easy after he’s completed his jump training.

he is excellent at training, naturally; he’s spent days at a time alone, fishing and hunting, since he was a child. he’s an exceptional sniper and scout. he’s confident in his own abilities. some of the toccoa guys initially assume he won’t be as skilled as them because he didn’t have their training, but in fact he has a headstart on most of them; and he knows it. (if he knew it any better it would probably come off as arrogance, but he’s just very clear on what he’s good at. and if he wasn’t beforehand, the airborne has proved it, to him & everyone else.)

he recognises, of course, that toye is an excellent soldier too (not as good a shot as himself or shifty, but overall one of the best paratroopers in the company), and they’re in the same platoon, so that helps. he never really gets afraid, not while training and not in combat; he just keeps his focus and gets on with it. for the most part, he doesn’t form close friendships until they get into combat.

he has some instinct towards helping and protecting others, but once they’re in a combat zone he realises that’s going to hurt him a lot. while they’re training, he helps some of the guys make their shots by shooting the targets for them; but after they jump into normandy, he avoids befriending the replacements because so many of them are killed early on. it’s — a little — easier that way.

he and toye don’t become close friends before bastogne, but they get familiar with each other’s combat style, and they’re comfortable working together. they trust each other; they’re both good soldiers, and toye is a good nco.

and then of course in bastogne they share a foxhole, and that is (I think for all the other characters as well) an incredibly vital, pivotal relationship. he and toye rely on each other entirely; without that, they’d probably die. they learn each other backwards; there’s no possibility of pretence. he knows what toye’s flaws are (stubbornness, prickliness, a reluctance to accept help), but there’s a lot more about him that mcclung likes, trusts and admires (not that he’d say so), and he knows those things are genuine.

he does his level best to stop toye from developing trench foot when he loses his boots. sure, he pretty much calls toye an idiot for getting into this situation and for refusing to tell the medics, but he does everything he can think of. it hasn’t occurred to him that he cares deeply about toye; it just seems inevitable.

(and he tells smokey to let the medics know. he doesn’t tell toye he’s told smokey, because it’s funnier this way. like everyone else, he’s starved for entertainment.)

but toye gets hit, and they’ve spent months beside each other — sleeping in shifts, keeping each other safe, trying to keep each other warm, kvetching, arguing with each other; he’s put up with toye’s singing and toye’s put up with mcclung talking to himself. a synchronicity and interdependence has developed between them, throughout the war but particularly in bastogne, to the point where it’s almost telepathic. he doesn’t consider what a powerful kind of intimacy this is, both physical and psychological, until it’s gone.

toye gets hit, and mcclung loses him. toye gets hit, and mcclung is blindsided by the enormity of it. you can’t take anyone’s survival for granted, he’s always tried to be careful of that, but losing toye is like losing part of himself.

he’s pretty determinedly unsentimental about everything: he’s not going to fall in love with anyone while he’s fighting a war, and he’s not going to dwell on situations beyond his control, and he’s not going to let himself be distracted by worrying about someone who isn’t here anymore. or at least that’s the attitude he’s internalised, and he takes it so much for granted that he never even considers that he could have fallen for anyone: right here, right now.

but he can’t forget anything that’s happened, even if he’d like to, and there’s no other friendship that can quite replace what had developed between toye and himself. bastogne was when things were at their worst, and toye is the one with whom he survived the worst. without toye, he feels an inescapable sense of wrongness, unevenness.

he’s half aware that he misses joe. he tries not to acknowledge that to himself, because that would mean acknowledging that he may not have any chance to see joe again, that one or both of them may not survive. that’s a line of thought he keeps away from altogether; it’s there, but he won’t look at it.

he knows it’s not his fault toye was injured. sometimes it has nothing to do with being a good soldier; sometimes it’s just luck and timing; he’s nearly been hit himself. he knows that, but deep down inside he wonders if he could have saved joe, by making sure he was in their foxhole before the shelling started. he heard toye and second-guessed himself. he stayed where he was. he thinks he probably did the sensible thing. he still feels guilty about it.

(sidenote: the glaring exception to his “don’t befriend the replacements” rule ends up being babe. after toye, guarnere & compton are taken off the line, he and babe start sharing a foxhole. possibly he could have found someone else, but his protective instinct resurfaces and maybe it helps to take his mind off missing toye. it’s a friendship that comes out of grief and loss.)

he gets through foy, and haguenau, and he focuses on the situation at hand and he doesn’t think about toye.

when they reach austria, mcclung is ordered to hunt animals to feed landsberg’s prisoners, and so he sets up camp alone in the woods. it’s beautiful; it’s peaceful; it’s the first time he’s been truly alone in two years. it’s the first time his mind is able to relax, and the memories come back — prewar life, everything he’s been through since, bastogne, toye — and the thoughts of the future, what he might do after the war.

he’d like to see toye again.

he still hasn’t thought that maybe he has feelings for joe.

and then the war ends, and he has the freedom to decide what to do next. he returns to england, and then ships back to the us. the memory/loss of toye is still a weight on him, and so he tracks toye down and goes to see him. that’s the obvious, logical course of action.

it’s also making him much more nervous than it has any right to.

(for the past year and a half, he’s been compartmentalising very hard because he intuitively understood that as the best way to survive the war. he learnt it early on, and it’s hard to let go of it. he’s convinced he’s handling everything great, very matter of fact and pragmatic, getting the job done, no emotional baggage here, etc etc. this is... not 100% true, but a coping mechanism is a coping mechanism is a coping mechanism. he is doing pretty well; nobody thinks he’s not; so obviously that counts as a roaring success.

but once the war is over, the psychological walls he’s maintained throughout combat — between survival and emotion — begin gradually to disintegrate. he has to let himself become whole again, learn to navigate who he is now, accept that the war has scarred him. he still feels himself to be one of the lucky ones. some of the things he’s been avoiding hit harder than others, and he can’t control that anymore.

insofar as he’s aware of these developments, he considers it extremely unfair.)

but, ensuing stupid panic or no ensuing stupid panic, he commits to meeting up with toye. he figures they’ll catch up, maybe keep in contact, that now he’ll be able to stop wondering how toye’s doing, stop this strange off-balance feeling he’s had since toye got hit.

seeing toye again is actually a lot more than he’d ever anticipated, and he’s forced to acknowledge that maybe there’s more going on here than he’d figured.

he realises he’s attracted to this guy, and he doesn’t know when that started: probably in bastogne, but maybe earlier. it feels new but not new; if he hadn’t pointedly avoided thinking about joe after foy, maybe he’d have figured it out sooner. if they’d made it through the war together, maybe something would have happened between them in europe, but they lost each other too soon for him to know. he’s a little discomfited by these feelings suddenly creeping up on him, but he’s trying hard not to let any of it show: not the attraction, not the unease.

he reasons that his feelings are only a problem if toye doesn’t share them. he thinks he could deal with that, but he is afraid they may not have a friendship anymore, that it was left behind in wartime.

he tells himself he’s not afraid of rejection. but he is. he doesn’t like feeling vulnerable, and suddenly he is.

when he thinks there’s a chance the attraction is mutual, he takes it. it works out for him. they stay together. he accepts that he’s falling in love and he lets it happen.

he falls in love with joe’s courage and honesty and selflessness, and he finds it incredibly hard to actually say that. (this is someone who considers “hanging out with you voluntarily” to be a love language.) he’s moved just by the fact joe wants to be with him, that he’s able to acknowledge that attraction and act on it despite his provincial catholic upbringing lol. he knows that joe’s recovery has been difficult, and he sees how joe is dealing with it, and, like in bastogne, he tries to support him as quietly and simply as possible.

he finds it hard to tell joe he loves him, but he pays attention to what joe does and says, and does whatever he can to make his life better. he never thinks joe needs him there, and he wouldn’t want it that way. he helps joe to adapt their old calisthenics training; they take roadtrips together. they’re still deeply protective of each other, and they still express it via touch, practical acts, and snark. they don’t struggle with physical affection as much as either of them might have worried; they’re a little hesitant at first, but it falls into place.

they’re fumbling their way a little, but they respect each other completely and unconditionally, and they’re kind and careful, and their relationship gets stronger as it goes on.

and they dance together.

#thank you for the good wishes <33 #toye x mcclung #mctoye #earl mcclung #joe toye #replies #'charactering'#long post under the cut bc I love going All Out and uh. also this ship #fine to reblog btw #writing manifesto: all characters are idiots in their own way

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wexhappyxfew · 4 years ago

Text

| CHARACTER STUDY |

>> Private Daniel Jackson [Saving Private Ryan]

>> Sergeant Hazel Parker [The Soldier of Stars - Band of Brothers Fic]

A little while ago, I was talking to Linda ( @wecomrades ) and she had just read of a portion of one of my Band of Brothers fics, The Soldier of Stars, where it portrays my main OC, Hazel Parker, who is a sniper, as whispering prayers each and everytime she shoots her rifle. And so she sent me a message, saying how it was very similar to Private Dnaiel Jackson of Saving Private Ryan. And I was like, OMG THATS WHO SHE IS BASED OFF OF! And well here we are!!

When I first started drafting The Soldier of Stars, it was under a different title, had more characters instead of my 3 now, and was sorta a mess, but I cleaned it up with help from a few writer friends. But Hazel always stayed the same - derived from the character of Private Daniel Jackson of Saving Private Ryan was what I always wanted to go for!! And I did!! For a while I had been planning a sort of almost character study to show Hazel’s similarities to Jackson, but never got the time. But now since our discussion, I have been more inclined than ever to finally do one!! Private Daniel Jackson is also my favorite Saving Private Ryan character, and I just KNEW I had to go along with it!! So without further adieu, please enjoy if you wish!! It’s not much, as I don’t want to spread this out, but it’s my general thought process that I had creating the tiny lil sniper I ADORE with all my heart - Hazel Parker. 💛

INTRODUCTION + BACKGROUND

When I first created Hazel Parker as a character, I wanted to create a quiet, introverted character that people of the more introverted side of the fandom could relate to - who was also a strong female character in her own ways, and also a pretty badass sniper :) So I drew inspiration from Private Daniel Jackson of Saving Private Ryan, pretty heavily - similar ways of seemingly approaching the war, firing their weapon and saying prayers to accompany it, being religious, sort of an quieter personality (they can do their job and do it well). I drew multiple different things from Private Daniel Jackson to add to Hazel Parker as a person and the outcome was exactly what I had hoped to get!

(1) This Is Just Pure Irony

When Hazel Parker was simply just an idea, with no name, no face claim, nothing really, I just spent time watching war films, gathering ideas, personalities, all of that. The name came to me one night a few minutes before I fell asleep and I really just loved the name ‘Hazel Parker’ together, because I felt it was fairly unique, yet it worked for many, many reasons. And then I went and rewatched Saving Private Ryan and found something out that I LOVED and still LOVE to this day.

The man who was up with Private Daniel Jackson in the bell tower was named Private Parker. And I honestly just love the irony and connection between that, because then I went and created my own Private [Hazel] Parker. I just loved it because Hazel is based off Private Jackson and then there was that connection and I just loved it! :)

(2) Religion

Private Daniel Jackson is described as a ‘devout Christian’ and he wears a cross as well as whispers prayers directly from the [King James Version] Bible before shooting his Springfield in combat, which is something paralleled with what I made Hazel do as well as a Christian.

As a child, Hazel had nowhere to look after her father left and Faith and God were really the only things she could follow after and look to, to guide her she felt because there was nowhere else to go and she felt so lost. This follows her into the war year with Easy Company and eventually into postwar.

But I used her description of being Christian to show the morals she held in war almost constantly and how she viewed the war and how God was with war.

One of the most pivotal scenes to describe this moment is between Hazel Parker and Shifty Powers in Bastogne (two who grow to become close friends), where Hazel is talking about how ‘God tells her to love her enemies’, but how can she do that when the enemy does cruel things such as this war? She has a power struggle with her Faith in God and in the reality of war and I present this struggle in many different situations - yet she still remains faithful in the end, which I love. God was there for her through her childhood and through war and she respects that.

(3) Prayer Whispers

Just like what I mentioned above, a bit, actually is the fact that like Jackson, Hazel is a Christian and similarly whispers prayers before each shot she takes in battle. For how morally coded she is, she is not a fan of death but knows she can not avoid it and whispering a prayer for the life she takes it better than saying nothing in her stance, wishing them well in the afterlife and hope God protects her afterwards for what she has done and committed.

Private Jackson - Psalm 25:2

“ O my God, I trust in thee: let me not be ashamed, let not mine enemies triumph over me.”

Corporal Hazel Parker - Not Specified

“ By God, rule me and guide me, ever this day, be at my side, to light and to guard.”

The examples above are just two excerpts of what both tend to say throughout the course of the book and movie and I think this was the major connection that many people made throughout the course of The Soldier of Stars was how Hazel reminded them of Private Jackson. And I felt super happy that in the end, that was what I had initially hoped for when I had started. It was a nice feeling to have.

(4) Motives

For me, I felt their motives were also very similar - that is Private Jackson and Corporal Parker.

In my own interpretation from when I saw Saving Private Ryan, Private Jackson just seemed like the sort of guy, who was there for his friends, highly caring, highly intelligent and skilled, he knew his place, and he had this sort of persona about him that said ‘I’ll go where ever the war takes me, as long as this rifle is in my hand.’ and Hazel is VERY similar to that in many senses.

Hazel Parker, who doesn’t exactly know her place in the beginning of the fic eventually does find her place, and then remains reliable, intelligent, skilled and focused in her position as she does so - along with the idea of ‘Wherever I go in war, I want my rifle in my hand.”

( Might I mention that both shoot with Springfield rifles ;) )

Even though Private Jackson has much more confidence than Hazel does, his confidence is just an outward confidence of her inward confidence. He speaks it, saying he could kill H*tler from a mile away. Now, Hazel would never say that, but she sure could easily think that. She knows by the middle of the book really she’s good and doesn’t need to say it, she just needs to have that confidence in herself - but it is a very similar sort of confidence overall.

(5) Just some Fun Facts!

It is said that Private Jackson was born in West Fork, Tennessee and I, coincidentally made Hazel Parker also born in Tennessee in Pigeon Forge! They have a bit of the Southern Charm.

Like I mentioned above - they both shoot with the exact same sort of Sniper Rifle - the M1903A4 Springfield Rifle and are highly outstanding marksman that both Captain Miller and Major Winters put faith in for the two of them in their separate ways.

They tend to be able to do solo missions, sometimes with or without a spotter. The M1903A4 Springfield Sniper rifle was used by the US Army during World War 2 and feds a 5 round magazine and is bolt action. And one of the things I liked about this rifle is you didn’t always quite need a spotter for it to be in use - most snipers have a spotter with them for calculations and such - but with this rifle, it is not always required, for if you need to drop and shoot, it still is effective.

Private Jackson does this many times, such as in the very beginning on D-Day on Omaha Beach as well as a bit later on when he faces off with a German Sniper in a downpour in Neuville. And then he continues again in the Bell Tower where he meets his death.

I portray Hazel as doing a very similar thing when she attacks with Easy Company in Brecourt Manor and is positioned up in a tree, before moving to the first gun - a spotter is not required for her to be effective. She does it again in various moments through out the Normandy Campaign such as during the Battle of Carentan, where she kills from above and in the Battle of Bloody Gulch. We see her again in action in Nuenen and throughout Market Garden and into The Island again where WInters has faith to send her up along the dike away from everyone else to battle.

The last time we see her in this position is in Bastogne in various, different situations where she is effective and makes it work - one of my ALL TIME FAVORITES actually. It is her night time solo mission to recover the body of Private John Julian, which she does with success and it is I feel one of the most pivotal moments for a character like her because by then we know she can fully handle herself in many, many ways. We see a bit of her inner battle there as well which I love because her mind is highly complex, congested and always in a mind-battle, but I love it and we really get to see her inner thought for what they are.

And, I also sorta based it on Physical Appearance - neither are exactly the biggest soldiers there - as that is where Hazel got ‘Tiny’ for a nickname really, but being tiny as a sniper works for Hazel because she can move around quickly and hide away easily as well, so her build was based similarly off of Private Jackson’s.

OH fun fact - it seemed to be that when it came to Jackson’s friends, he was not afraid to quite literally kill for them, Hazel was very much made the same way.

Something that goes off of this is Hazel’s repetition of the ‘bright green-eyed, German soldier’ she killed on her first day in the early hours of the morning. He haunted her in different ways throughout the war (she had killed him with a knife which she had the entire war) and by the end we see her confront the man who shot Chuck and put the knife that killed that German, to the man’s throat. By the end she throws down the knife as a signal that she won’t let the German with the bright green eyes follow her anymore, which gave me, personally, strong Jackson vibes in a way which I loved to write :)

HEY! so this was sort of my view I took on making Hazel Parker similar to Daniel Jackson in many aspects, just taking important bits and chunks that I noticed and incorporating it like that! I really enjoyed making this and Daniel Jackson had always been a huge inspiration so I was excited to make a character similar to him!! I do this with most of my OC’s in various degrees actually, but this one was on my mind for a while so I was excited to finally do it!! Huge thank you to Linda for being so interested in this topic and hyping me up for it!! I hope you enjoyed, my friend! <3

#band of brothers #saving private ryan #bob fic #the soldier of stars #hazel parker #daniel jackson #corporal parker #private jackson #character study

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