#i already have part of it and its fear but i originally just added the skin mask to make her weird and now i need an actual reason | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

bellaxgiornata · 1 month ago

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Life Worth Living |Chapter One|

Pairing: Matt x mutant!fem!Reader Word count: 6.7k [Series Masterlist] [Matt Murdock Masterlist]

tags/warnings: 18+; dark themes/content, canon typical violence, emotional hurt/comfort, PTSD, smut, plot twists, fluff and angst, torture, mentions of sexual abuse, canon divergence, Reader has a fake name & is Matt's neighbor

Summary: All you'd ever wanted was your freedom–a chance at a "normal" life. Under the simple guise of Olivia Allen, you move to Hell's Kitchen in New York in an attempt to escape your past, but your past can't stay buried when your powerful and dangerous ex finds you. Forced to come to terms with who you are in order to protect the life you've built, you eventually learn there's secrets about yourself that you never even knew...

a/n: Some of you may recognize this as an old Matt x OFC fic I wrote a few years ago that's been on hiatus forever because I don't write OCs anymore. I'm completely overhauling this series and rewriting it now (I ripped out a few things and added over 1k to just this part). There's things I disliked about the original and I'd been contemplating back and forth on rewriting the series with a Reader, so now I'm undertaking the project since a vast majority on a poll I posted were interested. The original already stood at 240k, so there's a lot of content I'm polishing/rewriting. As always, feedback and reblogs are always appreciated!

Tag list: @kmc1989

Multiple leather straps were buckled over your wrists, ankles, and neck, the thick cordage keeping you secured to the reclined leather chair. Eyes darting around the familiar sterile room, the straps pressed against your skin, gripping tight like strong hands. There was a faint tremble running through your body in anticipation of what was about to happen as Doctor Barlowe finished placing the final electrode to your forehead. Focusing back on her, you desperately attempted to catch her eyes behind those thick, black glasses she always wore.

“Please,” you begged softly. “I don’t like this one. Please don’t make me do it again.”

Her hands paused for just a moment, fingers lingering against your skin. Her eyes shifted from where her hands had paused along your temple to your face, an unreadable expression on her own.

“Please,” you tried again. “I’ll–I’ll try any of the other tests, I swear. Just not this again. It…it hurts.”

“Now, now, hush 647,” Doctor Whitlock’s harsh voice echoed through the room.

The door closed with a solid bang behind him as he entered the testing room. Seconds later, he appeared just beside the place where your legs were strapped down to the chair. His expression was serious and stoic like always, not the slightest hint of sympathy anywhere on him.

“You know why we do this,” he told you.

Swallowing hard, the usual anticipatory fear began to swirl in your stomach as Doctor Barlowe took her place at the nearby machine. Turning your head against your chair, you saw a metal cart with a surgical tray placed on top. You recognized the two syringes filled with a familiar vibrant orange liquid laying in the tray, your eyes now fixated on them. Uselessly, you tugged at your restraints.

“647, let’s not make this more difficult than necessary, hmm?” Doctor Whitlock hummed. “You know what you have to do if you don’t like the pain.” He crossed his arms over his chest, the ID tag on his white lab coat obscured at the gesture. His eyes focused on Doctor Barlowe from where she sat at the machine beside you. “Administer the first dose of MGA.”

The younger doctor lifted one of the syringes and slid her chair across the tiled floor, coming to a stop beside you. Eyes snapping shut, you felt the sting of the needle in your forearm as she injected the first dose. Shortly after, the telltale burning raced its way up your right arm, igniting like wildfire in your veins. Your eyes clamped shut even tighter as your head slammed back onto the leather of the chair, a pained whine escaping your lips.

“Why don’t we increase the voltage a bit this time?” Doctor Whitlock mused aloud to Doctor Barlowe. “Maybe that will be the bit of motivation it needs.”

“No,” you pleaded between gritted teeth. “Please.”

“You can end the pain yourself, 647,” Whitlock answered. “If you don’t want to feel the shocks, stop them. Use your mind.” There was a pause before the sound of footsteps approached the other side of you, then Whitlock’s voice issued the order. “Begin, Barlowe.”

Sharp, burning pain immediately jolted your brain, your body abruptly tensing at the shock as the electricity coursed through you. Arms and legs straining against your restraints, the leather bit sharply into your skin. As your back arched involuntarily off the chair, your airflow briefly halted as the restraint around your neck bit so deep into your throat that the passageway momentarily closed. For a moment, you hoped you'd pass out just to have an escape.

But then a few seconds later–though it felt far longer–the pain disappeared and your body momentarily slackened in the reclined chair. Tears were stinging behind your closed eyelids as a light sheen of sweat began forming across your body. Breathing heavier, your veins still feeling as if they were on fire, your head weakly rolled to the side.

“Hmm,” Whitlock hummed thoughtfully, eyeing the monitor beside Barlowe. “It is showing more brain activity with the increased voltage this time.”

“There’s definitely a noticeable increase from the last time,” Barlowe agreed.

“Please, stop,” you whimpered. Eyelids fluttering open, you glimpsed Whitlock rubbing his chin in thought, his focus still on the monitor. You knew it was useless to beg because they never listened to you, but that didn’t stop you from trying. “No more,” you choked out. “Hurts.”

“Try again,” Whitlock ordered, disregarding you. “Increase the voltage.”

When another rush of electricity went racing through the electrodes on your forehead, a scream shot out of you before your body seized up at the pain. Your mouth clamped shut as bright white flooded your vision behind your closed eyelids. The pain was so strong, so pervasive, that you couldn’t think or feel anything else.

Eventually, the shock dissipated and a ringing filled your ears in the absence of the pain. Disoriented and worn, it took a moment for you to make out what the voice beside you was saying.

“It’s bleeding, sir,” Barlowe pointed out.

“Just bit its lip, it’s nothing serious,” Whitlock replied simply, his voice cutting through the ringing in your ears. “Though I suppose you should get the gag again, we don’t want it to bite its tongue off next.”

There was a rustle of movement in the room as you lay strapped to the chair, your body exhausted from the electrical shocks. Tears were freely rolling down your cheeks as you stared up at the white ceiling with its blinding bright lights above. Barlowe’s face came back into view, the clear mouthpiece they often shoved into your mouth when the electrical shocks had first begun now in her hand. Eyes widening, you sent her a pleading look, attempting to shake your head, but she kept her attention focused on the lower half of your face. Her gloved fingers roughly wrenched open your mouth before she forced the uncomfortable plastic inside. Choking back a sob awkwardly around the contraption, the hard edges cut into your gums.

“Let’s continue, shall we?” Whitlock said.

The electrical shock once more shot through your body before you seized on the leather chair, a strangled noise flying from your throat.

A scream escaped from your mouth before you bolted upright in bed, chest heaving as your breath came in hard. Momentarily confused and panicked, it took your brain a few moments to recognize that you were laying in your bedroom and not the testing room that often plagued your nightmares. A light sheen of cold sweat covered your body as you lay tangled up in the dark gray sheets of your bed.

It was only a dream–a memory.

“I’m in Hell’s Kitchen,” you murmured to myself. “Not The Facility. I’m home. I’m safe.” Closing your eyes tight, you drew your legs up to your chest, wrapping your arms tightly around them. “They can’t hurt me. Just a dream. Wasn’t real.”

Trying to focus your attention on your breathing, you inhaled slowly and held the breath. You counted to five before exhaling it out long and slow. Repeating the process, you continued for a few minutes until your breaths gradually became more even and controlled. Slowly, you felt your body begin to relax back into a calm state. When you opened your eyes again, wiping a hand over your sweat-dampened forehead, you began to disentangle your legs from how they��d twisted into your sheets while you’d been thrashing in your sleep.

Reaching over to your nightstand, you grabbed your phone. The screen lit up in the darkened bedroom, causing you to squint your eyes while they took a moment to adjust. It was only 5:37 in the morning–still early. Setting your phone back onto the nightstand, you rubbed the heels of your hands roughly against your eyes. You’d calmed down from that dream, but you were certainly too wound up for sleep now. With a huff, you threw the sheets off of yourself and swung your legs over the side of the bed. Raising your arms up over your head, you felt the pull of muscles as you stretched before making your way to your dresser. Opening the middle left drawer, you dug around for a sports bra and a pair of leggings.

Beginning to change, you removed the loose tank top that you’d been sleeping in over your head before slipping on the sports bra. Swapping your sweatpants for black leggings, you tugged them on before crossing the room to your closet and pulling the door open. Eyes landing on the navy track jacket hanging there, you pulled it out and tossed it on. Afterwards, you headed back to your nightstand and grabbed your phone before sliding it into the pocket of your leggings. You grabbed your earbuds next before heading out of your bedroom and down the short hallway outside of it.

The living room of your new apartment was still covered in shadows cast from the lights just outside of the large loft windows. Outside, the sun still hadn't risen quite yet, leaving the city dark and quiet–or as quiet as it could be for Hell’s Kitchen. Pausing by one of the large windows, you took a moment to enjoy the beautiful view of the city that you had from up on the sixth floor. This place hadn’t been cheap to rent, but it was worth it for that view while you worked–a vast difference from your life spent nowhere near a window.

But that’s not what you wanted to think about.

Sliding the earbuds into your ears, you turned and walked over to the entryway hall, stopping to lean against the wall before tugging on your running shoes. Before stepping out of your apartment, you grabbed your keys from the console table near the front door. Taking a moment, you locked the door behind yourself as your mind focused on only one thing.

You knew what you needed right now–an escape. Something to clear your head and refocus yourself. To keep your mind level for the day. As you headed down the end of the hall and pushed the call button for the elevator, you knew that a quick jog would do exactly that.

While you waited for the elevator to reach your floor, you pulled your phone back out and spent a moment looking for something to listen to during your run–something to distract yourself from your thoughts. A minute later, the elevator doors opened and you stepped inside, pushing the button for the lobby before slipping your phone back into the pocket of your leggings. Music began to play through your earbuds, but as the elevator lurched downwards, the jarring movement somehow caused your dream to resurface. Wincing, you raised a hand to rub at your temple as the memory of those shocks returned.

“If you don’t like the pain, 647,” Whitlock chided, “use your mind. Make it stop.”

Shaking your head back and forth rapidly, you tried to push the sound of his voice out of it. That was not what you needed right now.

“No,” you muttered to yourself. “No, you’re not here. Go away.”

“You were born for this. This is your purpose,” Whitlock’s cold voice said. “Be good and sit still or we'll get the restraints.”

Your jaw clenched at the memory of his voice, tooth grinding hard against tooth as your nails dug into the palms of your hands. The elevator doors opened with a ding that barely registered around the music playing in your ears as a mixture of emotions welled up inside of you. Stepping out of the elevator and into the lobby of your apartment building, you moved with a determined purpose straight for the exit. The second you were outside and your feet touched the sidewalk, you took off at a run.

Pushing your legs past their limit, you felt them beginning to burn after you'd been running for a while. But you ignored the pain building inside of them, your focus only on your breathing and the music in your ears. Everything else faded out around you–which was exactly what you needed right now. As close to nothingness as your mind could reach.

It wasn’t until it felt like your lungs were on fire inside of your chest that you finally came to a stop. Breathing heavily, you threw your hands up over your head in order to catch your breath while you walked at a brisk pace, your heart racing inside of your chest. You could feel a sharp pain in your left hip with each step, but the pain only served to further ground you in reality.

Just above the multitude of skyscrapers looming over you, the sun began to peak its way up over the city of New York. All the dark shadows of the night gradually were replaced with the beautiful orange glow of the morning light. And with that change from dark to light, you shoved your fears aside and took a right turn, heading back towards your apartment building. You’d need to sit down at your desk and start work in almost an hour, but you wanted a shower before you settled down for the day.

The walk back to your apartment had taken just under fifteen minutes since the traffic had picked up with the rise of the sun. With a clear head, you made your way through the lobby and back to the elevators, grateful when a man exited one and left it empty. Stepping inside, you pushed the button for the sixth floor before leaning against the wall of the elevator, running a hand across your forehead as it began its ascent to the top floor.

Retrieving your phone from the side pocket of your leggings, you turned off the playlist you’d been listening to before taking the earbuds from your ears. You felt better after that run, your mind and body both relaxed and that nightmare mostly forgotten. Which was what you’d needed to keep yourself calm and level today. You didn’t need to get emotional. You didn’t need to give into fear.

You were safe here.

When the elevator doors opened, you pulled your keys from the other pocket of your leggings, focused on your task of getting back to your apartment. Vaguely you were aware of a man knocking on the door across the hall from your place, calling something through the door. Out of politeness when you neared him, you sent him a smile before turning your attention to your own apartment door.

“Hey, you’re the woman who just moved in, right?”

Pausing at the man’s voice as you’d stopped in front of your door, your hand with your keys hovered over the lock. Your mouth twitched as you stood there with your back facing him, not having expected him to acknowledge you.

Normal people make small talk, you reminded yourself.

Letting your hand drop to your side, you plastered a friendly smile onto your face before turning around. The man who’d addressed you was unfamiliar to you, your eyes scanning over his shoulder length blonde hair and the bright, friendly smile on his face. He was dressed in a white shirt with a light blue tie, a gray suit jacket and matching gray slacks. In his hands he held a tray with two coffees and a brown paper bag that you assumed held some sort of breakfast food judging by the smell.

“Yes, just last week,” you answered him.

The man adjusted the bag and the tray of coffee in his hands before he crossed the small distance between you both in the hall. He held his now free hand out towards you, the friendly smile still drawn wide over his mouth. Eyes dropping down at the movement, you eyed his hand warily.

“My name is Franklin, but everyone usually calls me Foggy,” the man said.

He seemed either unaware or unconcerned with your stillness and hesitancy. Clearing your throat, you slowly extended your own hand towards his before giving it a brief shake.

“Olivia,” you replied.

It was a fake name, one you’d chosen for yourself not too long ago. It had seemed simple and you’d liked it–and you’d never had one before it.

Foggy’s smile somehow further widened in response. “Nice to meet you, Olivia,” he greeted warmly. “I was actually just waiting for my friend, Matt–he’s your neighbor. We work together.” He paused for a moment, straightening up as he readjusted his hold on the food and coffee in his hands. “We just started up our own law office, actually.”

Head tilting curiously to the side, you raised a brow as you silently studied him. He seemed genuinely friendly, albeit very eager to connect with you. You weren’t entirely sure why. From your experience, most people in the city weren’t this forthright. But before you could respond, the apartment door behind Foggy opened and drew both of your attention. You spotted the white cane before you caught sight of the man emerging through his apartment door. Your neighbor, you assumed.

“Ah, buddy, there you are!” Foggy exclaimed, turning and making his way back across the hall to his friend. He watched as the man locked his door, shifting the tray of coffee and bag of food in his hands once again. “I was just meeting your new neighbor, Matt,” he told him, his warm gaze returning to you across the hall.

Your neighbor’s head turned in your direction, the red glasses covering his eyes glinting in the overhead lights at the movement. For the briefest moment, his expression was entirely unreadable at his friend’s comment, but then a slow, friendly smile spread over his lips.

Something strange happened in that moment as he smiled at you. You felt an odd, soft vibration pass over your skin–as if you could feel him looking at you. Breath catching, the hair on the back of your neck slowly rose as a small shiver tickled its way up your spine. His smile briefly faltered before he recovered, your sharp eyes catching the minute movement.

“Were you now, Foggy?” your neighbor asked. That smile remained on his face, though it seemed slightly altered now. “I haven’t had the pleasure yet.”

You stiffened when the man took a few steps in your direction, his cane lightly tapping along the floor. What he’d said was true, you hadn’t met him yet despite having been living across the hall from him for a week already. Though you had heard some loud banging late at night coming from his apartment on occasion, you'd yet to actually cross paths with him.

“I’m Matthew,” he said, stopping just before you and extending his hand in your direction. “But you can call me Matt.”

Eyes trailing down his face, you found yourself distracted by how attractive he was, your gaze scanning what wasn’t hidden by his dark glasses. Gradually, your eyes lowered, taking in the sight of his broad shoulders and the muscles of his arms and chest that were noticeable even under his black suit coat. Eventually your eyes dropped down to his awaiting hand.

Swallowing thickly, still aware of that strange tingling along your skin, you extended your own and wrapped it around his. His hand was warm and calloused as he gently shook yours, the sensation causing something odd to stir in your chest at the contact. You’d never felt that before.

“I’m Olivia,” you offered softly, still confused by him.

“Well, Olivia,” Matt said, a small grin tugging at his lips as he released your hand, “it’s a shame it took us so long to meet.”

Behind Matt, you caught the way Foggy rolled his eyes at his friend. “Can you not charm every beautiful woman you meet? Just once?”

You felt your cheeks heat at the implication in Foggy’s words, your attention shifting back to Matt as he chuckled. He looked over his shoulder at his friend, that grin still on his mouth.

“I do not charm them all,” Matt disagreed.

“You do and it’s weird, man,” Foggy countered. He looked past Matt, focusing on you with a conspiratorial look as he cupped his hand still holding the bag of food awkwardly around his mouth before he whispered, “It’s like his super power.”

“Flirting with beautiful women?” you questioned in confusion.

Matt laughed loudly in response, the warm sound filling the hallway. Foggy rolled his eyes, a smile returning to his face as he lowered his hand back to his side.

“No,” Foggy answered. “Knowing that a woman is beautiful is his superpower. He always somehow knows.”

You shrugged in response, finding these two men to be more enjoyable company than you’d first anticipated. “I wouldn’t exactly consider that a superpower. Seems a little useless.”

Foggy’s eyes lit up with curiosity immediately, a look of interest washing over him. “What would you consider the most useful one then? Because I personally think–”

“Fog, we should probably let Olivia go,” Matt said, cutting his friend off.

Foggy’s face fell, his shoulders dropping a bit. A sympathetic smile spread over your face in return. You were surprised to admit it, but you found yourself a bit disappointed that they needed to go. But unfortunately, so did you.

“I do need to actually get ready for work myself,” you agreed.

“Right, I’m sorry,” Foggy said, gesturing to your workout clothes. “You just finished a workout, you probably want to have a chance to shower without being late.”

“Well,” you admitted, “I work from home so I doubt I’d be late. But yes, I would like to grab a shower first.”

“Either way, we shouldn’t keep you,” Matt said, a charming smile on his lips.

Biting the inside of your cheek, you smiled at them as the three of you exchanged goodbyes. While they headed down the hall towards the elevator, you turned around and unlocked your apartment, finding yourself missing the interaction already. It wasn’t often that you had an opportunity to connect with others.

By the time you’d gotten back into your apartment, you had a half an hour to quickly shower and dress before you needed to be logged onto your computer. Getting ready in a rush, you moved as if on auto-pilot, though your mind kept wandering back to those two men you’d just met. More specifically, your mind kept returning to your curious neighbor who quite literally made your skin tingle. You’d never before met someone who could do that before and you didn’t know what to make of it.

Once out of the shower and dressed, you headed back to your living room and over to your desk that was situated between two of the large windows. Your computer and dual monitors sat atop the oak desk, the surface of it featuring a herringbone pattern you’d been drawn to when you’d first seen it. Beside both monitors sat a pothos plant and a few potted succulents–because you'd developed a fondness for plants.

Reaching your hand out, you turned on your computer before setting your phone down on top of your desk. You still had a few minutes before you needed to be at work, which meant your run hadn’t made you late today. Settling into your computer chair, you began to pull up a handful of programs, logging into them and letting them start. But as you did, you could feel the exhaustion in your body from waking so early and your eyes shifted towards your kitchen. With a sigh, you pushed yourself out of your chair, deciding you’d make yourself a coffee before really starting the day.

Absently you set to work in your kitchen, grinding the appropriate amount of fresh beans into the portafilter before tamping the grounds down while your espresso machine heated. Then you slid the portafilter onto the machine and reached up onto one of the open shelves above you, grabbing down a mug to set underneath it. A double shot of fresh espresso began to pour out, the comforting aroma filling your apartment.

As you waited for the espresso to finish, you headed back into the living room and picked up the television remote from your coffee table. Switching on the television mounted along the wall, you settled on the news. There was a fluff piece currently on, discussing a new local business that had opened up today. Increasing the volume, you turned and stepped back into the kitchen and began to finish making your morning latte.

A few minutes later, with your morning caffeine dose in hand, you were ready to focus on work. You walked back over to your computer chair and set your mug onto a coaster before making yourself comfortable. Pulling up the first email of the day, you began to skim through it, responding to a co-worker of yours before moving onto the next email. As you worked, you listened to the background noise of the news until a particular story caught your attention.

“Breaking news on last night’s murder in Hell’s Kitchen,” the reporter on the television said as the news segment changed. “The woman responsible is now in police custody. Hope Shlottman is currently under investigation for two counts of murder–both of them her very own parents. The young athlete shot them both dead in an elevator last night, and despite video surveillance, she is still claiming to not be responsible for their deaths. Her defense? She says that a man told her to kill them.”

Tensing at the reporter’s words, your head slowly turned towards the television still playing across the room. There was a video of a young blonde woman being dragged out of an apartment building in handcuffs, blood covering the front of her. She was crying, her face red and splotchy with a twisted expression of genuine grief drawn over it. She kept repeating over and over: “It wasn’t me! He told me to do it!”

A cold chill ran down your spine as you sat there staring at the screen. The hairs along your arms rose, a prickle of fear running through you. Breath coming in a little sharper, you glanced around your apartment, eyes sweeping around the entirety of the space. There was no one else here, though. You were alone.

Coincidence, that’s all, you told yourself.

Rising from your desk, you made your way back over to your coffee table and snatched the remote from off of it. With a hard press to the power button, you turned the television off, your apartment falling silent once more. Pausing for another moment, you looked around your living room and kitchen, both bathed in the soft glow of morning light.

No one else was here.

Walking three blocks while carrying six full bags of groceries by yourself wasn’t easy, but that’s what happened when you spent the past week putting off doing any real grocery shopping. You’d only grabbed a few things for quick meals, choosing to order takeout most nights instead of cooking. But after work, you’d gone for yet another run to ease that feeling twisting in your stomach, and on your way back home you’d decided to stop to grab groceries.

Now, you found yourself struggling to navigate your way into the elevator with three large and very full grocery bags in each of your hands. Pushing the button for the sixth floor with your pinky finger, you willed the doors to hurry up and close. The plastic bags were threatening to cut off the circulation to your hands at this point.

Almost there, almost there.

Huffing a relieved sigh when the elevator reached the sixth floor, you groaned a second later when the doors felt like they were opening slower than normal. But as soon as you stepped out of the elevator, you paused. At the end of the hall was the blonde lawyer you’d met just this morning–Foggy, if you recalled correctly–and a pretty young blonde woman in a dress standing beside him. They were banging against Matt’s door and laughing loudly, and it was clear that the pair of them were obviously drunk. With a resigned sigh, you knew you wouldn’t be able to avoid them, so you set off down the hall towards your apartment.

“Come on, Matt!” Foggy shouted, slamming his hand against the door.

The young woman loudly shushed Foggy between giggles, resting a hand lightly against his shoulder. Smiling wide, Foggy reached out a hand in return to her as he stepped back, waving at the apartment door.

“You try,” Foggy slurred to the woman. “Maybe he’ll listen to the pretty girl.” He leaned towards her and attempted to whisper, “Pretend I’m not here.”

Your brow quirked as you neared the pair of them. He'd just been banging on the door, there was no way she could pretend he wasn’t there. Unable to stop yourself, a small, amused smile slipped onto your lips as you neared your apartment door across from them.

“Matt,” the young woman called out, her voice cracking a little at the pitch as she leaned her weight against the door. “It’s Karen,” she continued, voice slurring. “And I’m very, very sorry about this. If I were you, I would not come to this door.” She paused, glancing at Foggy and giggling before she continued. “But I think I also drank the eel.”

Clearly forgetting the part about wanting to pretend he wasn’t present, Foggy began shouting again beside the woman known as Karen, his attention so fixed on the door that he hadn’t noticed you across the hall as you came to a stop in front of your own. Attempting to carefully set all of your grocery bags down so you could pull out your keys, you couldn’t help overhearing the commotion behind you.

“And we are now filled with mighty eel strength,” Foggy shouted, pounding on the door again as Karen broke into yet another fit of giggles. “Matt! Come on! We’re staying out until sunrise!”

A soft gasp came from across the hall just as you managed to slip your key into the lock.

“Oh, no,” Karen breathed out.

As you unlocked your door, you heard Foggy’s distinct voice call out your name.

“Olivia!” he exclaimed.

Eyes widening, you pulled your key from the lock, shifting your head over your shoulder towards the pair. Foggy was already stepping across the hall towards you, roughly clapping you on the shoulder.

“Do you know if Matt is home?” he asked.

A breathy laugh left you before you looked over at the door they’d been yelling at for a few minutes now. “I mean, he’s blind and not deaf right?” you replied. “I’m pretty sure he’d have answered by now if he was home.”

Karen let out a laugh from her place against Matt’s door. “She has a point,” she said, pointing a finger at you.

Foggy’s eyes dropped down to the bags at your feet, his brows furrowing for a moment. Then an overexaggerated look of surprise flew across his face.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t see you were carrying all of those!” Foggy exclaimed.

Without warning, he began quickly scrambling to take the grocery bags from off the ground, lifting them into his own hands. You stood there shocked, but Foggy completely ignored the dumbfounded expression on your face.

“Foggy, you shouldn’t just–” Karen began, but she broke off on a laugh at his overeagerness and didn’t finish her thought.

“Let me help you bring these in,” Foggy said, somehow holding all six bags in his hands as he looked up at you. “It’s the neighborly thing to do.”

Your lip tugged upwards at his words, a hint of a smile ghosting over your mouth. “But you’re not my neighbor,” you pointed out.

Foggy only sloppily waved a hand at your words, your eyes going wide as it looked like one bag was dangerously close to tearing.

“Potato piñata” he answered simply.

Looking over at Karen who had taken a few steps closer, you hesitated and contemplated the offer. They seemed harmless enough, just incredibly sloppy drunk. And it did feel nice to not be carrying six bags.

“Alright, fine,” you relented, turning and opening the door to your place. “I appreciate the help.”

Waving a hand at your opened door, you allowed the pair to enter first. You followed in behind them, closing the door after yourself and tossing your keys onto the console table. Karen and Foggy had already made their way into the kitchen, the pair laughing about something as they disappeared around the corner.

When you finally made your way around the entryway hall, you saw Foggy had already placed the bags he’d brought in onto the kitchen counter. He was pulling items out and curiously scanning them in his hands as Karen leant against the breakfast bar, her chin resting on one of her hands. But when you entered the kitchen and her eyes met yours, she stood tall and held her hand out towards you.

“I’m Karen,” she introduced herself, a friendly smile on her face despite the way her eyes were glazed over from the alcohol. “Suppose that’s important.”

You reached out, accepting her offered hand. “Olivia.”

“They mentioned you this morning,” Karen said as she released your hand.

Stepping over towards the counter where your grocery bags were at, you looked curiously back at her. “Who mentioned me?” you asked.

“Foggy and Matt,” she replied.

Your eyes turned slowly towards Foggy, watching the way he was eyeing a head of cauliflower in extreme interest. His cheeks were pink and you couldn’t tell if it was from the alcohol or embarrassment at what Karen had just told you. Slowly, your gaze traveled back to Karen who was grinning. Leaning against the breakfast bar, mimicking Karen’s relaxed posture, you found yourself unable to resist asking her for more information–you hadn’t forgotten the way your skin had oddly tingled when Matt had ‘looked’ at you earlier. That wasn’t normal.

“And what’d they say about me?” you asked.

She leaned in towards you as she spoke, that smile still on her face. “Apparently Matt thinks you’re sweet. And interesting.”

Feeling your palms beginning to nervously dampen at her words, you absently wiped them against your leggings. You knew that information wasn’t important. You didn’t do relationships. You’d only been in a relationship once and–well, you weren’t going to think about him. But apparently your racing heart and the heat creeping into your cheeks didn’t appear to care about that fact with what Karen was telling you about your handsome neighbor.

“He’s met me for all of five minutes,” you casually pointed out.

You pushed off the counter, focusing on putting away groceries now. Though you couldn’t completely ignore the way something pleasant unfurled in your stomach at her words.

“Well, Matt told us that he’d been trying to find a chance to bump into you in the hall for days now,” Karen continued, her smile growing wider.

Your hand momentarily paused on the fridge door, her words catching you off guard. Opening it, you knelt down and began unloading some fruit from a grocery bag into the fruit drawer. He’d been wanting to meet you for days?

“He said he’d…overheard you screaming a few times at night,” Karen added, her tone abruptly switching to something a little softer. “Said he’d wanted to check on you but that he didn’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

You swallowed hard at that information as you placed a bag of apples into the drawer. He’d heard you in here? Crying out in your sleep? That did make you uncomfortable.

“Sounds like he’s paying far too much attention to my apartment,” you commented.

Foggy appeared beside you, cauliflower still in hand. He held it out to you and you took it, placing it in the appropriate drawer before he began handing you more vegetables from a bag on the counter.

“I told you,” Foggy began, his words still partially slurred. “He always knows when there’s a pretty girl. And usually he’s a sucker for the ones with questionable morals,” he told you, “but I think he’s got a bigger soft spot for damsels in distress.”

Snorting at his comment, you glanced up from your position on the floor in front of the fridge. “I am not remotely a damsel in distress,” you replied.

“I don’t know,” Foggy said, his tone already taking on a note of disagreement. “You are a young woman.” He waved his hand at you as if to prove his point. “And he says he’s heard you screaming a few times in the middle of the night–”

“I get nightmares,” you cut in defensively.

Foggy raised his hands in a placating gesture at your words. “I’m just saying, you sounded in distress. Ergo–damsel in distress.”

You let out a quiet, frustrated grunt before getting off of the floor and closing the fridge door. Making your way back to the counter with the grocery bags, you began grabbing more items out and putting them away in the pantry cabinet next.

“Unfortunately for him,” you began, trying to sound disinterested, “I don’t do relationships. Or one night stands. Especially not with…guys like him.”

“What’s that mean?” Foggy asked.

Closing the cabinet door, you turned and focused on him and Karen. They were eyeing you curiously now, both of them wearing serious expressions on their faces despite the alcohol in their systems.

“Flirts,” you answered simply.

A sheepish look crossed Foggy’s face at the word, slowly nodding his head. “Yeah, I’ll admit, Matt is pretty popular with the ladies.”

“Yeah, not my type,” you stated flatly.

Clearing the grocery bags from your counter, you could feel both Karen and Foggy watching you. You expected them to pry further about your dating history, or to question you more about Matt. But you were surprised at what came out instead.

“You want to come out with us tonight?” Karen asked you.

You paused at her question, not having expected it. Meeting her gaze with a raised brow, you stood across the counter from her.

“It’s just, I don’t feel like being alone in my apartment right now,” Karen said, the words practically spewing from her when she saw the look on your face. “And we were planning to stay out until the sun rose. Matt said you just moved to the city this past week, so I’m guessing you don’t know anyone here yet. So,” she paused, catching her breath before asking again, “would you like to come out with us?”

Biting your lip as her invitation hung in the air, you saw the hopeful look Foggy was sending you. It was true, you didn’t know anyone in the city. And having friends would be nice, it was something you didn’t usually get to have. But you also weren't great at relationships–the lack of experience from growing up in The Facility made sure of that.

But it was something you’d always wanted. A normal life. Friends. Maybe someday a normal, healthy, safe relationship. And you’d truthfully been antsy in your apartment all week, unable to really settle. If you stayed in, you’d most likely just go to sleep soon. Probably wake up from another nightmare covered in sweat and spiraling mentally.

…or you could go out with these two seemingly friendly individuals and attempt being “normal” for once.

“Yeah,” you answered slowly. “I’m not doing anything right now.”

Foggy pumped his fist into the air while releasing an excited noise that startled you, causing you to jump on the spot before a light laugh fell out of you. You definitely liked him. Across the kitchen counter, Karen let out an excited gasp, clearly surprised you’d given her that answer.

“Really?” she asked.

You shrugged a shoulder. “Sure, why not,” you replied. “You’re right, I don’t know anyone here. Might be nice to make some friends.”

“Yes!” Foggy exclaimed. “I can absolutely, positively assure you that you will not regret making friends with us.”

Somehow, you had a feeling he was right.

#matt murdock x reader #matt murdock x you #matt murdock #matt murdock angst #daredevil

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the-s1lly-corner · 10 months ago

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Drawing each other (Slasher edition)

help im getting good ideas for writing but idk what fandoms to write it for so uhuh... i guess writing for the mains ones i write for! woo yeah! characters: jason voorhees, brahms heelshire, bubba sawyer, thomas hewitt, Michael myers notes: reader is GN, admin did a coin clip on whether or not the reader is an artist cws: none

JASON

sometimes sitting in the cabin all day can get a little boring, you were the one who brought up the idea of drawing each other

neither of you are particularly good at drawing but that doesnt mean the two of you arent going to have fun

hes a little embarrassed to show you his drawing of you, hes hesitant to turn the paper around to show you

you didnt have much access to many drawing supplies, a lot of what you already had was crayons and colored pencils stolen from the camp, as well as the paper

he doesnt care if the drawing doesnt look the best, hes in love with just about anything you do or anything that has to do with you

he keeps the drawing folded up and tucked in his shirt pocket!

BRAHMS

hes actually pretty decent at drawing, using that to spend his time when hes not watching you from the cracks in the walls

on top of that hes pretty confident in his ability

you, on the other hand.... i dont think he would make fun of your work, but its clear that theres only one artist between the two of you

keeps the drawing you make of him in his little hiding place in the walls

takes a long minute to look at your drawing of him, its hard to read what hes thinking in that moment

more than proud of his drawing of you, you likely have to remind him to hurry up.. hes going to spend a lot of time on it

will expect a compliment for his work- and dont think he wont compliment your work either!

MICHEAL

you got the idea while doodling random stuff in your sketchbook, deciding to take this as a moment to do something together

he doesnt get it at first but hes... probably... not going to just walk away from you

a decent artist himself, he doesnt draw often but its clear he knows some of the basics of art

very quiet while the two of you draw but its nothing new

exchanging your drawings goes without a hitch, and hes sitting there looking at your paper for a long moment... he doesnt give much of a reaction... but you do notice him tucking the paper into one of his pockets

he doesnt care if you keep his drawing or not, however you sometimes find him looking at his art if you display it somewhere

BUBBA

hes not very good at drawing, he never really gets the time to sit down and doodle- on top of that he doesnt know what to draw most of time, when he does have the time and thought to try!

loves anything you make, you dont have to be a good artist either, hes going to take in every little detail of the art

is this how you see him?

if youve added additional stuff such as sparkles or hearts, hes going to be staring even longer... thats so sweet, you like like him?

of course he already knew you did, youre both dating but seeing stuff like that in passing always feels nice

very protective of the drawing out of fear that his brothers may tamper or destroy it- at best they (namely nubbins and choptop) may tease him

THOMAS

like his original counterpart, thomas doesnt draw all that often so he hasnt built up the skill... but that doesnt mean he isnt going to try to draw you how he sees you when you sit him down to do this activity with him

takes a long time to get all the details right, doesnt want to make you look off or worse, offend you if he messes something up

you can draw him with or without his mask, but its clear that you put care into the drawing, regardless of skill

loves it so much, hangs it on the wall in the basement so he can look at it while hes working... its like a little motivational thing for him! he protects his family, and youre part of it.. he does this for you!

a little hesitant to give you his drawing, but lightens up at your delight for how he portrayed you

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twstfanblog · 11 days ago

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*~Mafia AU~* pt.1

A/N: I know I said I was gonna focus on the Manhwa AU, but this story has been burning a hole in my frontal lobe for actual weeks. So you're getting this first! This is actually a bit of a collab project with @cardsweetheart. She's been consumed the second I mentioned the AU and has been making Pinterest moodboards and playlists are on the way too! If you'd like to be added to the taglist for this story, just let me know in the notes or by dm. Enjoy! Pairings: Alluded Crowley/Crewel (They're already divorced) WordCount: 2.1K Warnings: Aggravated Assault, Gun Mention, Breaking and Entering

Being a waitress wasn't the best job Yuu thought she could get. It was also far from the idle life her parents would have expected for her. But, the tips from the snobbishly upscale bistro helped her pay for her college courses, which was all Yuu needed them to do. So as she dragged herself up the flight of her apartment stairs, heeled foot aching and sore, she couldn't say she hated her job.

Yuu could barely find fault with her life as a whole. Of course, there were minor issues, as all existence brings. Her parents were divorced; the bitter, petty competition to see who she loved more continuing far past her elementary school days and well into her foothold on adulthood. Though both were wealthy, neither had the idea of making her a college fund. Each of them trying to get her to agree to some type of indentured servitude with parental flair. But, the city she lived in was bustling, a stream of diverse people flowing in and out as frequently as breathing. It was also filled with crime, so much crime. Like a comical amount of mafia crime. A fact so glaring that both of her dads sent money every month.

One part to bribe her into favoring them over the other, but it was mostly to give her the incentive to move to a better part of the city. Her apartment complex was old but holding strong, minor renovations over the years keeping it up to code without sacrificing its old charm. Yuu could proudly state her unit had all of its original windows still intact, she just couldn't open them more than two inches.

And while her dads would love if she lived in a new development; one with shiny appliances, maybe a community pool, and actual security measures. But, Yuu knew her complex was the safest place to live. It was nice, comfortable enough that anyone could live in its walls. But old enough that no one really wanted to deal with it. New generation mobsters always too cautious to try to stake a claim on the building, never knowing if there was someone dangerous already waiting. Peace from the mobsters meant peace for the residents, no one wanted police in such a placid ecosystem. So, no matter what time of night she managed to climb the flight of stairs, she knew that her building was a safe zone.

Or she would have if she wasn't punched across the face the second she walked into her apartment.

Yuu hit the ceramic tiles of her kitchen hard, the contents of her purse spilling out. The warmth of blood trailed down her nose and over her lip, almost burning against her fear-stricken, clammy skin. In the dark, she crawled to hide behind her small island, panic spiking at the feeling of a large hand just barely missing her ankle. As she pressed her back into open shelving as though it would hide her, Yuu listened to the intruders speak to each other in the dark.

“-didn't you shoot? She's like…I think she's hiding now.”

A second voice spoke out, the sound of something metal being fumbled in his hands, “Shut it, she's home way earlier than intel said she'd be. Plus, didn't you listen? We're supposed to have a conversation before punishment is given.”

The first man stutters lightly, “S-still, why weren't you ready?”

“Oh, like I'm gonna be around you with a loaded gun again.” The sound of metal stops, the cold click of a pistol loaded filling the silence, “Go grab her, boss only gave us one bullet. Since what happened last time.”

The first voice grumbles, walking closer and stepping on the items of her purse with no remorse. Yuu reached blindly into the shelving space, the sound of her pots and pans clanging together before she grabbed onto the handle of her small soup pot. She swings blindly, the sound of the lid flying off into the darkness as she heard the meaty ‘THUNK’ of the saucepan hitting the intruder’s knee.

“FUCK!” He falls back, the clattering of her countertop items being jostled loudly in the space. A dish falls to the ground, shattering, “My fucking knee!”

He was on her before Yuu could crawl the short distance to her bedroom door. His body heavy as a hand gripped her ponytail to painfully yank her head back. She swings again, the saucepan just barely making a second hit. She wiggles and squirms under him. Turning around under the man's straddle to fully swing at where she thought his head was. Another ‘THUNK’, the almost comedic sound over shadowed by the man slamming face first into her fridge right beside them. Magnets falling in the dark, clattering noisily on the tile.

“Juice, are you losing over there?”

“She's got a —THUNK —FUCK. She's got a pan!” He punches down, fist catching against her cheek in a brutal move that filled her mouth with a coppery taste.

“Ugh. Yeah, yeah. I'm coming to help —THUNK— SHIT!” He went down hard, the saucepan hitting him directly on his knee as Yuu started to swing the pot around wildly.

Yuu could barely get from underneath the first man, fingers fumbling wildly against the grain of their bedroom door looking for the handle.

A hand grips her ponytail again, catching more of the hair against her scalp then the free strands, pulling harshly to throw her down back to the kitchen floor.

“Fucking bitch. To hell with talking-”

Yuu braced herself, curling up and moving the pan to shield whatever vital areas it could. Instead of the deafening sound of a gun firing close range, the click of the lights blinds them.

Silence rings out in the room, Yuu slowly blinking her eyes open against the light to look around.

Standing above her was a redhead, red eyes wide as he pointed a shiny black pistol at them. He was in all black, tasteful button-up, pressed slacks, and leather gloves with a bright red heart pin clipped to his collar. He stepped back, raising his hands as though Yuu was the one with the gun, “Shit…” his gaze turned to someone behind them.

Turning around at the sound of footsteps, Yuu saw the first man and could only grimace. He was dressed the same as the redhead, a blue spade pin on his collar instead. His hair was messy, turquoise eyes edged with runny black smudges of eyeliner, one eye swelling shut and both sides of his face bruising horribly.

The spade man looked away from them, shaking his head at his partner, “This isn't Mandy.”

“No? You fucking think?” The redhead growled out in annoyance. He groaned, his free hand running down his face and smearing his eyeliner. He stepped forward, a hand reaching out to her.

“Don't!” Yuu pulled her arms back, ready to swing the saucepan on the redhead if he came closer.

He raised his arms again, voice shaky as he eyed the pot with distrust, “O-Ok. Enough pot swinging, my other knee won't make it…”

“Um, miss?”

Yuu whirled around, almost falling seeing the second man had stepped closer, “I will fucking-”

“Sorry.” He pulled away, hands held in front of him, both to show he was weaponless and to shield himself should she attack again. He bows his head, eyebrows pulled in remorse as he spoke, “We…we have the wrong room. We're so sorry for the rudeness we've shown you.”

Fuck. Fuck, no, please-

The redhead had stepped closer, barely containing his eye roll as he knelt beside her. His expression perfectly sliding into apologetic, “Our most sincere remorse, Dear Miss. And we've been so rough with you.” He tilts his head, his free hand reaching over to grasp her chin lightly, “A pity, as you were so pretty-”

“Ace.”

Ace glared so hard at the second man Yuu was afraid he was going to use the gun still clutched tightly in his hand. Whatever silent conversation they had made the unnamed man stand up, wordlessly walking toward her blood-spattered fridge. Ace turned back to her, a pleasant smile on his face as he semi-forcibly held her hand. He gently kissed the air over her skin, never breaking eye contact.

“On behalf of the Heartslabyul family, we offer our sincerest apologies.”

Fuck…

Ace stood, bringing her up with him. Her steps were wobbly as he led her into her own bedroom, a gentle hand burning and heavy on the small of her back. He never let the gun go, even when he guided her to sit on the edge of her bed. With his smile still set to ‘pleasant’, Ace knelt before her, like he was an adult trying to calm an overreacting child.

“Now…we've gotten off on the wrong foot, and I will take responsibility for that. But, we are looking for a young lady around your age. Would you happen to know a Mandy, Dear Miss?”

“...” Yuu could feel her hands shaking, gripping tightly to the pot handle with both hands. It was her only means of protection and attack, her nervous gaze glancing down at the still very loaded gun in Ace’s hands.

He takes notice, rolling his eyes subtly, but places the gun down. He waves his hands to show he had nothing, “May we please have a conversation now? We would like to find Mandy before the night is up.”

At her continued silence, Ace could only chuckle, “Very tight lipped, that's a good quality to have. But you must understand. We can't have liars associating with our family. Mandy's information told us she lived in this unit. But that's not true, is it? It'd do no good to have falsehoods about ourselves…”

Movement at the doorway brings Yuu's attention to the second man, half standing in the open space and giving her a stern glare. The silent warning of what could happen if she kept denying them info.

“...” Yuu sighed, looking away from Ace and the other man's eyes. Her words soft and stilted, “Mandy lives in the building still. I don't know what floor, though; we don't talk, I just got her mail for a month. Your…your info might be old. She used to live in this unit. But she moved into a newer one around last Spring?”

The info seemed to make the second man angrier than ease whatever distaste he held. Ace himself had gained an annoyed expression before he clicked back into the air of customer service.

“Thank you so much for this information, Dear Miss.”

Yuu jumps back, the second man stepping into the room and right up to her legs. Though she tried to crawl backwards on her bed, Ace grips her arm and pulls her back to the edge. She closes her eyes, braced for another punch or whatever they had planned to knock her unconscious. Instead, she felt the soft and worn texture of her kitchen tea towel, warm water delicately dabbing at her bloody nose.

Spade actually looked remorseful, doing his best to be as gentle as possible while Ace held her still. His eyes briefly met hers before looking away, his expression turning even more pitiful, “Our most sincere apologies, Dear Miss…”

Once the blood on Yuu’s face was gone, the two men finally pulled away. Ace stood at the doorway, customer service smile still on his face, while Spade sheepishly handed over her purse with another muttered apology.

Ace tilts his head and waves, “Goodbye, Dear Miss. Though, I don't think I have to tell you…this whole mess should stay between us three? We've all been a little roughed up tonight, but there's no need to get the police involved, right?”

Yeah, because she'd be the dumbass to think the police would help her with one of the city's most legally protected mafia families. Obviously.

Yuu shakes her head, “I understand. Just…lock the door on your way out…”

Ace laughs while Spade nods his head, eyes firm in their dedication of her task. Ace nods, leaning down and picking up the gun. He moves quick, seeing Yuu tense the moment she realizes what he's grabbing, placing it in the holster at his side.

“Will do, Dear Miss. Have a good night.”

And with the same amount of surprise they appeared, they were gone. The click of her metal door locked and closed doing little to ease her mind. Her hands start to shake, the pot slowly slipping between her fingers and hitting the carpet below. As the adrenaline fully faded, Yuu could feel her body start to crumble, the pain and taste of blood still vibrantly present on her tongue. As she fell back on her bed, breathing forcibly slowed, she did her best to calm herself.

Only to bolt up, flinging herself off of her duvet and hard onto the carpet. Scrambling out to the small living room, her thoughts raced.

‘Where's Grim?’

#twisted wonderland #twst #disney twst #twst wonderland #mafia au #yuu oc #ace trappola #deuce spade #tw gun mention

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pomefioredove · 9 months ago

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Noble Bell ; prologue

what if you were sent to Noble Bell College instead?

type of post: (possible) series characters: rollo (barely mentioned), original characters additional info: reader is gender neutral, this is largely my own vision, I wrote this all in one sitting and it shows LOL, word count: 3.1k author's note: after several failed drafts, I decided to just write my thoughts on noble bell as a story. do tell me what you think and if I should continue, if you have the chance!

prologue | the king of truands, 1 | the king of truands, 2 |

It appeared as if, for all its hundreds of years of life, very little of Noble Bell College had changed.

The original face, or what is left of it at this time, is almost indistinguishable from the prints of great artists who lived when the City of Flowers was still but three parts of one whole. If it were not for her clothes, those great banners of cotton which hang from her walls and surround her like the ruffles of an unflattering dress, that which cradle the insignia of a college in wine-colored hands, that pointed fleur de lis in gold, Noble Bell College would be the very picture of her younger self.

The halls which extend from one end of her body to the other like the grotesque wings of a pigeon were added after the University, which had once been confined to its own division on the left side of the River Soleil, had consumed the island of the City, that which had, at one time, cradled twenty-one of these magnificent buildings, and now had only one. Noble Bell became a skeletal reminder of its medieval past.

Now, what was once a ground of solemnity and penance, and other ancient things, had given a painful birth to a different sort of self-punishment, that of academia. Noble Bell dawned its new clothes and its new name, and became a home of scholars, a place of enlightened thought. The island that had once been a sanctuary for the sacred became its final resting place. The College was built over hallowed ground.

The body of the Gothic building had gone, in some parts, untouched, however, the later additions, done in the style Haussmann some hundreds of years after, coil around her like the chains of a falsely accused prisoner, or the noose around a beggar's neck.

Statues on the face, neglected, crumbled into dust. The colored glass in the lecture halls were replaced with white windows for better light. Every hundred years, some haughty new headmaster would consider cutting down the building herself, and putting something new and ugly in her stead.

Nothing would ever come of it.

It is important to note, dear reader, that though the past of religion and superstition had been abandoned by the scholars of Noble Bell in pursuit of the enlightened future of thought, with it went only the body, not the soul.

The students of Noble Bell began to look upon their history with pride, rather than disdain, and thus the construction on the lady ceased, and the reconstruction started up. In some aspects, it was too late; the medieval glass had already been sold and repurposed into bottles which floated at the surface of the Soleil, the stone turned to dust and carried into the wind.

This romanticized past was tainted with a bitter guilt, one that struck even the proudest of freshmen when they met the eyes of the statues which guarded the building and her history. A sense of possession consumed the heart of the student body, and, thus, a gate was built. It was sanctuary no more.

A romantic would tell you that it is the love of the people that kept the heart of Noble Bell alive.

This is not true; it is guilt.

To the wise man, the realist, the freshman who feared the eyes of the statues, the traditions that carried on were as meaningful as digging up a rotting corpse and putting it on trial. Without the superstition, it was a delusion, a pathetic attempt at absolution for the sins of the scholar and the printing press.

Enlightenment became repulsive to him.

What was in the hollow halls of the Haussmann was never alive, and what had survived the purge of time and man was hidden in the bell tower for few to touch.

To the wise man, the only absolution of sin was through the fire.

Your heart wakes you before your body.

That is to say, the feeling of dread, of knowing you are somewhere you shouldn't be, comes before the biting cold and the splinters pressing against your back.

The inky water surrounding you in three directions (the fourth being the stone mouth of the river) nearly cradles you back to sleep. Your rest was quite comfortable. You can't remember the last time you slept like that.

Your mind is the very last to wake, and it is what finally forces your body up in a sudden jolt, uneasily rocking the boat which had become your manger.

You grip both sides until it steadies, which gives you enough time to adjust to the dark.

One thing becomes quite clear: This is not where you fell asleep.

Then, another: This is not what you were wearing before.

The delicate fabric, hand-dyed in wine and blood red, is like nothing you own. Where had these come from? Surely, not your closet.

And, more worrying: how did you get in them?

Take a moment, if you will, to look beyond the black water of the river: next to you, on your right, is a stone embankment, with a short ledging that extends only to a single flight of stairs. The wall is so high you cannot see above that.

Now, look behind you: there is one fabulous bridge, also of stone, arching above the water in a mesmerizing pirouette. Warm light spills from its sides and dances on the inky waters below.

Ahead of you is only more river and stone.

And then, on your right again, is screaming.

You had heard screams before, but none like this. This is bloody murder, save me screaming, the sort that makes you jump and run to its source without thinking first.

You climb out of the trembling boat, the sound of your footsteps scuffing against stone following you across the landing and up the steps.

Yet again you are stopped.

Rising above the embankment of the river as if ascending to heaven itself, reaching through the thin evening clouds and into the stars, are two magnificent bell towers.

Your steps slow, and then stop at the peak of the stairs to admire the body of the building, illuminated by street lamps and candlelight, blanketed in a fog of distant laughter.

You have never seen such an unearthly sight.

If not for the screaming, you could have spent days there.

But you are motivated once more to follow the strange sound, and, perhaps, find out where on earth you are.

Like a princess in a tower, the building is guarded by a rather impressive gate, not done in the style of the place itself, but sightly nonetheless. If it were not already left open and vulnerable by some obvious human error, you might not have found a way in.

The sound of your footsteps follows you across the stone, and you stop at the base of a staircase that would have led you to a set of inhuman wooden doors.

And... there is a goat.

A pretty, white little thing, with a bow around its neck.

it turns to you as you stop, and it makes that same screaming noise, and then bounds off around the corner of the building and into another, attached at its side.

"Wait," you say.

Though, your feet move before your mouth, your mouth before your mind, and you suddenly find yourself following this odd twist of a white rabbit.

The delicate thing leaps through an opening in the side, and you climb in after it, chasing it down open-air hallways that remind you all too much of an old monastery.

The goat bleats. "Wait!" you say. "Where is your owner?"

It bleats again, and it almost sounds like a laugh. How strange...

You tumble down corridors and halls, turn corners, ignoring the sound of laughter and cheering that is growing ever so close, and, all at once, you stumble out into the warm light of a party, crashing into something cold and metal. The goat disappears in the crowd.

Everything is silent.

You can see nothing but feet from where you fell, and a hundred hems of wine and blood red. Your clothes.

"Who is that?" someone asks.

"They weren't at orientation,"

"How could anyone be late? That's never happened,"

"They don't look like a student of Noble Bell..."

Student? So this is a school?

"You," a voice says, much colder and sharper than the others, like a winter breeze. "Get up."

You are in no place to disobey.

You stand, uneasily, and, much to your displeasure, every head in the crowd is turned towards you. Whispers dance amongst the students, glances are exchanged, looks ranging from confusion to disdain.

There is only one face you cannot see. At one distant end of the courtyard, there is a stage, dressed in reds and oranges, and on it, four actors. They are as still as the crowd, seemingly having abandoned their play in favor of the mysterious stranger.

The person in question, then, is actually below them, whispering something quite loudly, but you cannot make it out at this distance.

"Your name?"

You turn back to the wintry voice.

This man, you notice, is dressed differently from the others. He's in all black, from his boots to the cloak around him, even his hair, which flows around his shoulders, is as inky as the cold water of the river you had woken on.

"My name?" you ask.

He scoffs. "It is a simple request,"

"Shall we return to the mystery?" a weak, artificially high-pitched voice calls from the front of the crowd. "I'd like to see the mystery continue!"

"Quiet, Gregoire," the man in black snaps. "Now, who are you to come so late?"

"Late to what?"

A few murmurs ripple through the stillness of the crowd.

He sniffles, turning his nose up at you. "You do not know where you are?"

"No,"

Someone begins to whisper. "Do you think they're from-"

"Quiet!" he demands. "This is clearly not a student of any arcane academy I know of."

"They're wearing our robes!"

You look down at yourself. You'd almost forgotten about that.

The boy narrows his eyes. "How did you get here?"

"I don't know. I woke up on a boat,"

He sighs. "What part of the city are you from?"

"...The city?"

Another moment of whispers and stares. The crowd seems to have all but forgotten the play happening at the mouth of the courtyard.

The man in black puts his hands on his hips. "Yes. Now, what division are you from? The old university? The Ville?"

"I, um... none of those,"

"The outskirts, then?"

"No. What city is this?"

His brow furrows, and he crosses his arms. At the very least, he no longer seems angry. More... thoughtful.

"What country are you from?"

You tell him, and he huffs.

"There is no such place. None that I have heard of,"

The same voice from earlier returns. "Perhaps we should wait until after the mystery has concluded-"

"Gregoire!" the man in black snaps, "We know it's you! Quiet, for once in your life!"

"...Very well,"

He grumbles, massaging his temples, and then turns back to you. His eyes are as sharp and focused as his voice. They're dark, almost black, with the faintest gleam of red. He's wearing a lot of eyeliner, you think.

"Come with me. If you are telling the truth, then you will have nothing to fear,"

"There is no such place,"

"That's what I said!" the boy exclaims, swiping the atlas off the desk.

The headmaster of this school is old, much older than you are imagining now, thought perhaps it is not the fault of age, but of weariness.

"Control yourself, Monsieur de Neige," he says, looking longingly at the book whose pages are now scattered across the floor.

The boy grumbles, giving you a nasty side-eye.

"What will we do with them?"

"What else? They will stay here until we can find an answer. I will reach out to my colleagues at the other arcane academies and see if they have any council,"

"Stay here?" he snaps, standing from his chair with such force that it goes flying backward, narrowly missing you from where you're standing against the wall.

"They are not a student of Noble Bell. They are a stranger! Who knows what they might-"

"Now," the headmaster sighs. "I know we are a... private institution. But a long time ago, this building was a sanctuary for outcasts."

He grits his teeth. "I am not willing to risk the safety of the building or its students for an act of pity. You should know that I take my duties as vice president of the student council quite seriously-,"

The corner you'd been backed into was starting to feel tighter and tighter. If not for the conversation, you'd-

Out of the corner of your eye, you catch the heavy wooden door of the office opening, but a sliver, and something white just outside.

Your eyes widen. You glance between M. de Neige and the headmaster, and, in the throes of their heated argument, you slip out into the dark hall.

"You," you say, putting your hands on your hips.

The little goat bleats. It doesn't seem very guilty.

"You led me there on purpose, didn't you? To create a diversion? What did you want?'

It stomps and scuffs its hooves against the stone floor, and with another little bleat, it turns around itself to show you something.

Your eyes soften.

There are two apples on the floor beneath it, both bruised and wrinkled, but good nonetheless.

"For me?"

You stoop forward and take one of the browning fruits off the cold, dirty ground, and slip it into one of the wide pockets of the robe. The goat chuffs, clearly pleased, and not even you can help but smile.

"Let's go, then, shall we? I want to get out of this place,"

The hallway is pitch black, the moonlight subdued by clouds and softened by the thick windows, but you can still make your way around quite easily.

You start heading in the direction you came, your new (and only) friend in tow, when the sound of footsteps scuffing against stone follows you.

You turn, eyes wide, expecting M. de Neige, or worse, but there's only a flash of gold and then quiet.

"Who's there? Come out, now, or... my goat will gouge you!"

The little animal stares at you, mouth hanging open in bewilderment, but it seems to work, anyway.

A boy, taller and thinner than M. de Neige, comes out from around the corner with his hands held up. Even in the dull silver light of the hall, you can make out the color of his eyes. Green. His hair is blond and reaches his chin, and is rather unkempt, curling and sticking out at odd places. His straight bangs are clearly cut by his own hand.

"My-my apologies. I did not mean to frighten you. I was only curious,"

You sigh. It's the voice from the orientation festival, the one M. de Neige called Gregoire.

"Well, don't be. We're leaving," you say. "Now... which way is out?"

"There are more than one, if you know where to look,"

You narrow your eyes at him and he goes pale.

"I-I only mean that there are many ways out into the streets, but you wouldn't want to be alone in the city after curfew,"

"I think I can handle it,"

"It's unsafe,"

"Is it?"

"Veritably,"

He doesn't seem to be lying, at least. You let your arms fall to your sides with a sigh.

"But I can't stay here. This feels like a prison,"

"It may," he nods. "It is stone walls all the same. But you don't have to stay here. The dorms are but a short walk away."

The goat bleats, and you agree. You're not sure whether you can trust this man or not, yet.

"What's your name?"

He seems to stand a little straighter, almost eager to talk about himself.

"I am the author Pierrot Gregoire, whose mystery was presented in the courtyard this evening,"

You seem to recall his voice again, his back turned to you in the crowd, as if he were infinitely more interested in his play than the commotion.

"I remember you," you say, sticking your hands in your pockets. You feel around the apple you'd put in there earlier. "Sorry I ruined it."

"The people were losing interest either way," he sighs and hangs his head. "My poor mystery..."

You glance at the little goat, and it chuffs back, nodding its head towards the end of the hall as if telling you to make a break for it while he's distracted.

You can't bring yourself to.

"Here," you say, handing him the shriveled apple. "We're even, then."

Pierrot's entire disposition changes; his face lights up with a childlike joy that makes it seem as if he'd completely forgotten about his woes, and he cups the apple in his palm with reverence.

"Oh... thank you," he says, finally. "I will take you to the dorms."

The evening had grown cold and windy since your spectacle in the courtyard.

The robes, at least, are warm enough to keep you comfortable, although you feel a pang of sympathy for the poor goat, who has only its fur, and, in a way, for Pierrot, whose robes look worn and beaten and strangely burnt.

"You can stay with me in the spare house," he says.

"You don't stay in a dorm?"

"My housewarden threw me to the streets months ago,"

He says it merrily, with that same smile, but there's an underlying sense of bitterness. You don't ask about it again.

Pierrot brings you to a small, dark building at the very edge of the island. Once again, you are surrounded by inky black water.

"Here," he hums, lighting a single candle as you walk in. "It's not much, but better than the sewers."

"You've slept in the sewers?"

He shudders. "I don't want to talk about it,"

Once an adequate amount of candles are lit, he pulls up a chest for you to sit on, and takes a seat on the floor across from you.

You sigh, letting out the stress and tension you'd been carrying in your chest in a single breath.

It felt much later than it truly was.

"That is a pretty creature of yours," he says, nodding at your goat. "Does it have a name?"

"Hugo," it says.

Both you and Pierrot go silent.

Then, finally, you shout.

"You can talk?!"

#noble bell college #<- for organization #noble bell #queued

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kkenma666 · 10 months ago

Text

(방찬) bang chan.. my dear

gender neutral reader

angst w happy ending, messy break up, miscommunication

the door opened slowly, blonde hair peeking in. chan came home expecting to see you waiting for him on the couch as always but was instead greeted by a dark room and cold silence.

weird.. he thought to himself. maybe you were just tired and went to bed. yeah, like you would always do lately..

he can't lie, he missed you waiting for him on the couch, a blanket draped over your body as you tried your hardest to focus on whatever was playing on the tv.

the way that your sleepiness would instantly disappear the moment you saw him, you immediately springing from your laying positions to greet him with a warm hug.

in fact, he noticed how your hugs had become shorter as if you were forcing your arms to wrap around him. the warmth you used to radiate is now gone.

he also noticed how your kiss which was filled with love and passion was now nothing but a quick peck on his lips.

it can't be.. can it?

chan splashed his face with water, trying to rid himself off of the negative thoughts. it's normal for every relationship to have its ups and downs. this will only be a temporary obstacle in your relationship.

or so he thought.

lately, he's been forced to work overtime causing him to come home later than usual. his work also has been piling up, from one piece of paperwork to another.

chan let out a loud sigh as he shut the door closed, wanting nothing more than to lay in bed and sleep all day long.

he wasn't expecting you to be there waiting for him, yet a small part of him still expects you to be there waiting for him.

he walked through the cold hallway, his hands twitching to get hold of you in his arms. god, he missed your warmth.

yesterday you were suddenly so.. loving with him. his fear was proven wrong as he realized that maybe he was just being overdramatic.

you even gave him a sincere and long hug after weeks of seemingly insincere ones, spouting about how much you love him, to the moon and back.

however, he was shocked to not find you on the bed dozing off. weird.. its fine, you're probably just in the bathroom right? he stormed off to your shared bathroom to find you also not there.

where could you be?

he tries not to overthink, his hand immediately grabbing his phone to dial you up. maybe you just went to the nearby convenience store.

only for his fears to worsen when he saw how he had been blocked by you.

he immediately searched the whole house for you, just now noticing how most of your stuff is already gone. " no no no.. oh god. i fucked up. "

⊹₊⋆

the grandeur hall was filled with people with status and wealth. their clothing and their mannerisms already proved that they were a level above.

each of them all held their bidder number, hands itching to take home the next prize that was soon to come.

finally, a big painting rolled out, all eyes focused on it.

" ladies and gentlemen, this is out last item of the day. this is one of yn ln's precious new work! with this being the last one sold for this specific collection. "

the massive painting revealed an abstract drawing of two figures hugging, one's face was buried into the other's neck, with his broad shoulder facing the viewer.

you watched from the balcony above, swirling your champagne. a sad look in your eyes as you think back about the inspiration for the painting.

it was an abstract depiction of the last hug you and your past lover shared. he was also your very first and last lover.

the painting was mainly blue and white, to resemble the somber mood. though you added in a few golden touches.. a sense of hope that one day the two of you could start over.

after the breakup, you still very vividly remember how he asked you for one last hug before you went. he clung to you like a koala, knowing if he let go he would lose you.

you originally didn't intend to sell the painting, wanting to just let it rot in your studio. though you couldn't handle seeing that massive painting every time you were in your studio.

so you auctioned it off.

after that breakup you decided to move back to australia, opting to focus on your painting career and building a name for yourself.

and after blood, sweat, and tears here you are. wealthy scums all itching to buy your painting, no matter how overpriced it was.

you took a sip from your glass as you watched your favorite part, the bidding.

" 3.5 million! ", it started off strong.

" 5 million! " one chimed.

" 8 million! " another.

" 10 million! " and another.

today was a bit more competitive than the other days, every one of them determined to get that painting of yours.

the biddings went on till a woman bid 50 million. moments when on, no other bidders put up a fight as if they feigned defeat.

" 70 million. "

gasps and murmurs could be heard from around the room. you nearly spat your drink out when you heard that.

no way was someone willing to spend 70 million on a random painting that only you and maybe your ex would understand. unless..

" ..then it's sold to mr. christopher bahng for 70 million! "

applause filled the room but that was all muffled as you could only focus on the man down below. your mouth was agape as your champagne glass slowly started slipping from your hand.

after all these years you never expected to see him again. much less buying a painting about both of your tragic endings.

the sound of glass shattering shocked the audience as they all clutched their pearls in fear a thief broke in.

but soon they began clapping again once they saw you, the artist themself, standing above them with a shocked look.

you quickly composed yourself and tried to play along, giving courtesy to the crowd.

yet your eyes were locked onto one person only. the very man who bought your painting.

he also applauded you while giving you that same gentle smile he would always give to you.

you quickly exited the room, needing a breath of fresh air to refresh your cluttered mind. he was back in australia and had just purchased one of your pieces.

the very man you've been avoiding.

after all this year of you healing and focusing on yourself, just for him to show up again. but were you really healed?

your mind still wonder back to him no mater what. no matter how long time passed his face kept appearing in your head. the bittersweet memories of your relationship replaying like a broken record.

" ugh fuck. do i have to attend the after party with him in it..? "

⊹₊⋆

christopher banhg was the only thing on your mind that night.

you dreaded coming to the after-party in general. the thought of having to entertain thos rich snobs for hours on end just did not seem appealing at all. and add your ex into the mix and congrats, your head feels like it's about to burst open!

but you can't lie about how your heart beats faster whenever you think of meeting him. just the sheer thought of stumbling into him gets your heart racing and you dont know if its in a good way or the bad way.

you tugged on your clothing, sweat already starting to form from how nervous you were. you fixed your hair and fixed the makeup on your face.

you can't believe this.

you usually never really tried this hard when going to an after party but here you were. all dolled up just because your ex was here.

' it's okay. you're just doing this because someone paid 70 million for your work.. that's a pretty high price for something you originally wanted to throw away. '

a stuffed smile plastered on your face as you conversed with random people. the ladies' hands touching you all over without consent.

all you wanted to do was go home and lay in your bed. yet you know you can't go back because you haven't seen hum yet.

" today's auction was another successful one, yn! " you bowed your head in response. " of course. with loyal bidders like you all my works are bound to sell with a high price. " laughters was shared among the patrons from your comment.

" yes yes, we will loyally wait for your next bid. "

your cheeks were starting to hurt from straining a smile all night long, maybe he didn't even come to the after-party. maybe you were just delusional.

an all too familiar laughter was heard behind you.

your head spun around way too fast for your own liking.

your eyes intertwined with his after god knows how long. you took in his features and realized he looked all the same. the only thing that changed was his hair and how he looked older and somehow more attractive.

" oh mr bahng! i didn't take you for a bidder. especially on that would spend 70 million in a night alone. " one of the men spoke. he chuckled, his dimples showing while shrugging. " pocket change. "

you were standing before him and the rest of the group, the random ladies still latching onto you. you tried to take this chance as an escape.

you nudged their hands off of you, " well, i will get going now. still have others to entertain. " a nod of understanding were sent to you. you tried to rush past him, only for him to hold onto your wrist.

" a word with the artist? "

⊹₊⋆

you guided him to the second floor that's only accessible to you and some of your staff. you presented him with your favorite spot in there, the balcony.

it offers a breathtaking view of the night sky, with stars sprinkled in the dark blanket. below it was the city lighting up the night. further proving how the city doesn't sleep at night.

he stood behind you, gathering up what to say to you. you yourself didn't even know what to say to him. all those countless nights spent thinking about him just for you to not be able to look at him in the eyes.

" i see your career's going well.. i've always known you'd make it big. " a soft smirk crept up on your face. god he's still the same, isn't he?

" well look at you now mister big shot. " you finally had the courage to turn around to look at him in the eyes and oh, you might get lost in them. the breathtaking view of the night sky could never compete with his eyes.

bang chan stared at you in silence, his dimples poking through his milky white cheeks. he never forgot what you looked like since the day you left him, clinging onto whatever's left of you as if his life depended on it.

the two of you stared at each other, anticipating breath. both of you were twitching to ravage one another but you knew it was so so wrong, yet so tempting.

that is until you crashed your lips onto his, perfectly molding into his. it was as if it found its long-lost home again, so foreign yet so familiar.

his hands immediately found their way onto your waist, your hands snaking around his back and onto his neck. you gripped him as if he would disappear if you were to let go. who knows maybe he might.

time went by so slowly, as if the earth stopped spinning just for this moment alone.

you pulled back first, drowning yourself in oxygen. you didn't even know what to say to him, only holding him close as you breathed in his scent.

" i miss you, my dear. "

please read!!

so this might be my last kpop fic on this acc but idk yet since i still have one last one in my draft that i might post but here's a sneak peak to my writing for the new followers uwu

#tehhyunie writes!!#kpop x reader #skz x reader #skz x male reader #skz x gn reader #skz angst #bang chan x reader #bang chan x male reader #bang chan x gn reader #bang chan angst

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traceytonight · 6 months ago

Text

Tracey rambles about Tron Ares again

Tron Ares fills me with so much dread, each passing day is like a countdown to the death of a franchise I care so much about.

The producer, title & main character, is literally Joker Morbius alleged pedophile since the early 2000s himself Jared Leto. That alone ruins the movie for me, and yet every following bullet point makes everything about and around it so much worse.

-Premise is explicitly "What if the Grid came to the real world".

NO, the interesting part of the series is THE GRID, where all of the deeply meditative commentary about our world and visually interesting splendor is supposed to be! Yes we had the lingering plot thread of Quorra coming to our world, however;

-Nothing directly tied to Tron Legacy is specifically being followed up

So no seeing where Sam Flynn could have taken Encom, no Quorra adjusting to our world, No Edward Dillinger Jr scheming with the resurrected MCP; But most disrespectfully of all, they didn't even bother to get Bruce Boxleitnter back, THE GUY WHO PLAYS TRON (and Alan Bradly & Rinzler). The one guy who actively loved this series and campaigned for a Third Tron film for over a decade, and previously Tron Legacy for even longer. But you know who they are bringing back?

-Kevin Flynn is back

THE GUY WHO FUCKING DIED IN THE LAST MOVIE. Undermining the noble sacrifice that was integral to the core themes of the film.

And just today we got this:

This is so far from an advancement design wise of the Light Cycle from either film. None of the simple shape language of the original. None of the sleek visual melding of human & technology of Legacy. While the light cycle was always cool for being a futuristic video game-ass motorcycle, its was just one of the multitude of visual elements that served the thematic purposes of Tron flawlessly.

Meanwhile, this not only physically separates the driver from the cycle, they further emphasize it through all the little gaps where there were none on either prior design. They so easily could've had the red line on Ares connect into the obviously aligned part of the bike.

Even if this is meant to show the separation of the programs from the grid for some thematic element we're unaware of at the moment, we're already going to be getting a lot of that considering the movie takes place in an average ass city.

Also, to be truly nitpicky, it looks really uncomfortable to sit in & I don't like all the added greebles.

To circle back around, what I really hate about the cast, besides the obvious one, is that there are a lot of actors who I think will work extremely well in the world of Tron. Greta Lee, Gillian Anderson, Evan Peters? Inspired casting choices.

Meanwhile production wise we're literally taking David Fincher's collaborator trifecta. Jeff Cronenweth (Cinematographer), Tyler Nelson (Editor), and Trent Reznor (Composer, backed up by Nine Inch Nails) all worked on The Social Network, another one of my favorite films. Jeff is literally the son of Blade Runner's cinematographer, Nelson was co-editor on The Batman, a film with incredible pacing thanks to their hardwork, and while I'm not the most familiar with Reznor's full body of work, I've sincerely liked everything I've heard and think in conjunction with Jeff & Tyler he will make something fantastic and fitting for the tone of this film.

However, the screenplay is done by the writer of Harry Potter & the Cursed Child, and is being handled by the director of Pirates of the Caribbean 5. Choices that feel at odds with the prestige praise I was just handing out a paragraph ago.

Theres so many good elements that are eclipsed by its central glaring protagonist, seeming lack of the interesting setting/designs or integral thematic elements that I look for in Tron, and lack of expectation regarding the choice of director & writers.

Because my two greatest fears are not about if the movie is awful and destroys the franchise as I'm expecting it could, it's either:

What if the movie is genuinely good? Well acted and performed, somehow actually has the same level of philosophical inquiry that Legacy & Identity have? How am I gonna face that reality with the enormous horrific issue starring in it?

What if the movie is bad in everyway that I think it will be, but does financially and/or critically better than the first two? The franchise is not killed again, but revives and bases everything going forward around this awful outlier in the series?

Unless this movie fails so horrifically that Disney wants to scrub it from existence, as they tend to do, the future of any Tron media will undeniably be forced to cohere itself to the existence of Ares.

If you want something that actually expands on the musings and universe of Tron, play Tron Identity. A game so lovingly crafted for fans of those elements of Tron as a connected series. And I know this factually, as the writer of the game itself (who also created Thomas Was Alone) watched my twitch stream of it and confirmed my ramblings about the deep seeded lore and intent of design of the TREES that appear in the game. Only one example of the incredible attention to detail the game delivers on. Plus its also getting a sequel that unlike Ares, I'm awaiting with bated breath.

#Tron #Tron legacy #Tron Ares #Tron Identity #Im so sorry I needed to get this out of my head lol

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thewheelweevils · 2 months ago

Text

I Tried Saying Enough Good Things About Season 3 Episode 4 And The Eternities Gaped Open Before My Disbelieving Eyes

I am a book reader. A reader of books, if you will (and I think you will). The Wheel of Time series on Amazon Prime has been a very emotional journey for Me, Reader of Books.

On the one hand, it has been amazing. The acting, costumes, score, writing. But a small part of me was kind of sad: it wasn’t the book series I had fallen in love with. For the first two seasons, it was kind of telling a story vaguely parallel to the story told in the books, and as much as I was enjoying it, it wasn’t quite THE STORY that I wanted told, the story that captured me as a 12 year old holding that big honking book.

Season 2 was even better, stronger, building on what worked with Season 1 but noticeably still telling an altogether different story from the books, with characters who shared the same names and some of the same story beats but otherwise entirely original characters compared to the folks I loved in those books—their motivations, fears, joys, successes, failures, just altogether different. Show Rand and book Rand share the same name and perhaps even look a lot alike, but they were just entirely different people.

And then Season 3 started.

Suddenly everything was different. It was … well, it was exhilarating. It was the book. It was the story, the characters, the sheer awesomeness of what is unique about The Wheel of Tome from the books. Suddenly we were following something very like the story I had fallen in love with. The characters were suddenly very recognizable. Each episode made me more delighted than the last.

And then came episode 4.

Without spoilers, I will say this: it is this point in the book that made The Wheel of Time special, unique from any other fantasy book out there, from any other story anyone else was telling. The sequence told in episode 4 is an incredible, stunningly well-adapted rendition of the best part of The Shadow Rising, Wheel of Time Book 4, the most pivotal moment in the series where it ceases to be anything like the somewhat Tolkienesque world we are introduced to, where it truly becomes its own thing. It is seeing what Rand and Moiraine see that we realize what this whole thing is about.

And they knocked it out of the park. I am floored. I don’t know what I can say or add that hasn’t already been said or added. At the end of the episode, I just sat there, filled with … what? Awe? Satisfaction? Relief?

I was just overwhelmed. The most important moment in the books, arguably, is that sequence, because the rest of the story—an additional 11 books—hinge on this moment, build on this sequence, and they absolutely nailed it.

And finally I feel like this thing I have loved for so long is properly and truly shared with everyone who hasn’t yet read the books. I couldn’t be happier with this episode.

#wheel of time #wot #the wheel of time #wheel of time prime #wheel of time season 3 #unreasonably attractive fandom #rand al'thor #moiraine damodred #rhuidean

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dallasgallant · 9 months ago

Note

PLS TALK MORE ABT SODA ANGST! I NEED MORE APPRECIATION OF HIS STRUGGLES AND TURMOILS

Soda struggles-

This came out a bit more headcanon-y than I originally intended but all of these are an extension off of what’s said/implied in canon itself so not necessarily. It’s not a meta, sorry but I may come back to do one of those

Sometimes the pressure does mount up for him. He feels like he’s about to explode, he wants to do more. But he can never talk about the stress on himself as he knows how impossibly hard it already is on Darry but is aware what they shoulder isn’t as equal as he wants. He knows both Darry and Pony would start to feel guilty and blame themselves— they shouldn’t it’s not any of their thoughts. So he doesn’t talk about it.

He wants to help more, part of soda almost wishes it was as easy as just chores. A lot of the emotional brunt of things lands on him particularly— it’s sort of motherly and it’d be hard. Yeah he’s a bit more emotional but he’s still a guy- still raised in the same mindset as the others and now he has to keep digging this softness out. Sometimes it feels so forced and Sappy and he hates it—

Soda wants to be nice. He wants everyone to get along and stick together and he can feel himself becoming a pushover. That he’ll do anything just to make it feel like everything is fine.

He said he was happy working at a gas station… and he meant it! He’s fine being what he is, staying blue collar. He’s never had these grand ambitions in life- he’s moment to moment. He’s not a deep thinker “intellectual” yearner type like his brothers.

Sometimes though, comparing himself to them makes him feel genuinely dumb. Another thought he would never voice because his brothers would blame themselves. It’s not their fault and he’s not dumb- he’s just not book smart. He’s emotionally and street smart… which frankly on their side of town is a little better to be, you’ll be happier anyway.

Adding to this- all this talk of college and getting Pony out makes him fear abandonment. That one day the stars will actually align and his brothers will leave him behind (now he knows they wouldn’t but the way they talk sometimes like everything is so horrible and they’ll leave everything behind… makes him feel like that)

Hes a lot like Twobit! Only instead of focusing on laughing he’s smiling or making others smile. A lot of it is genuine don’t get me wrong but a lot of it also stems from bottling emotions, coping -> they both do toxic positivity

Don’t mistake that he’s nice/sweet for passivity. Its not hard to get under his skin, he fights a lot (canonically)

Soda hates how they don’t really talk about their parents. When they do everyone freezes up and just sort of sits there with a long stare and he can’t handle it. He’s the kind to talk about and adore and compare and want— he feels things differently than both of them. Pony and Darry are more a like than they think and sometimes it’s harmful.

Controversial and purely headcanon/interpretation but I don’t think Sandy cheated. Too me it’s a greater emotional impact if it is his and they’re being kept from communicating. Torn apart puppy love etc - either he lied to Darry to seem more responsible or Darry lied to pony to protect a “innocence” pony knows soda doesn’t have

#the outsiders #outsiders #outsiders 1983 #outsiders book #outsiders novel #charecter study #headcanons? a little bit #angst #sodapop curtis #soda the outsiders #outsiders meta

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fcthots · 2 years ago

Note

I'm literally tearing up this morning at the idea of Tim sitting in the cave, trying to get some important work done like usual when suddenly a wave of darkness ascends upon the cave. Like something out of a horror movie, dread washes over Tim as he fearfully creaks his head around to see Gus sitting on the chair, looking over Tim's shoulder—MENACINGLY.

I had so much fun writing this.

It was 5 am and everyone else had gone to bed. There was a fear gas attack and while no one had been unable to put on their rebreather, the manor was still on lockdown, though, just to monitor in case of any delayed effects. Tim wasn't supposed to be on the batcomputer but it was important! He was doing research on the new chemicals Scarecrow had added to his toxin and if their addition changed the effects of the formula as compared to the original. As it turns out, he was right. It seemed that now prolonged exposure could cause delayed effects. Fuck, Tim loves being right! He starts recording any other new effects the toxin may have.

A chill hits him. The hairs on the back of his neck raise. He can feel eyes with malicious intent watching him. After being robin for so long, he knows what the stare of a real threat feels like as it watches its prey. Fuck. Someone must have gotten into the cave. He thinks of yelling for Kon, but Kryptonians can't hear into the cave. His family is all asleep in their respective bedrooms, and there's no one that can get to him in time. He hasn't acknowledged their presence yet, so he could pick up his phone and pretend to send a funny text to a friend but actually text the other bats, but that could also backfire if his intruder swooped in while he was vulnerable.

Deep breath in. Deep breath out. Maybe his rebreather was cracked. Maybe this is all just delayed fear gas effects. Maybe one of his siblings hadn't handed all of their gear off to be washed and he's just getting a mini whiff of the gas, and that's why he feels the eyes of a predator on his back.

He hears something rustle.

Ok, so not a hallucination, probably. Auditory hallucinations usually take exposure to copious amounts of gas, but maybe this was all part of the new strand.

He could feel them getting closer. He slowly wraps his hand round a battarang that was left on the desk. He can't see anything in the reflection of the screen. On the count of three he has to turn around and face his opponent.

Three. Fuck, he's exhausted.

Two. He's too tired to be doing this.

One. Bruce is gonna kill him if he dies.

Go.

He turns around and stands all in one motion, staying as low to the ground as possible. He doesn't have long to take in all of his surroundings, so he does it quick. This would be so much easier if he had his mask, which can track the heat of body signatures, but he took it off so Alfred could clean it. He really hopes Alfred isn't the one to find his body.

He doesn’t see anything in his immediate line of sight. He keeps his body moving, so he's a harder target. He looks everywhere else. Nothing. Maybe it's an LOA assassin. Ra's needs to get off his dick already.

But he looks even in the spots where a ninja would be trained to hide, and... nothing. Nothing at all. An alarming amount of nothing. By his calculations there was an 85% chance that it wasn't a hallucination. He drops his fighting stance. He did forget to factor in his sleep deprivation...

As soon as his guard is down, he is immediately attacked from behind. He whirls around and drops back into a fighting stance. His training kicks in. Don’t look at the affected area first, look at your attacker first. He ignores the pain in his leg and looks to where they would have to be standing and...nothing. He looks down to his leg.

Fucking Gus.

"Get off of me, asshole!! Why are you even here? Can Jason seriously not sleep without his cat fucking night?" Tim tries to peel Gus's claws out of him where Gus's limbs are wrapped around his leg. "Ow! Fuck! Don't bite me! This is why I don’t pet you. Get. The. Fuck. Off. Of. Me."

He finally tosses Gus off his leg and Gus runs away impressively fast for a cat if his size.

Tim yells out across the batcave, "I never thought I could hate a cat until I met you!"

#saph’s love letters #jason todd #jason todd x reader #saph’s thots #red hood #red hood x reader #jason todd imagine #jason todd x you #39yuki #red hood imagine #red hood x you #jason todd crack #gus the cat #jason todd x reader crack #red hood crack #red hood x reader crack #crack

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th3-ratk1ng · 2 months ago

Text

UNDERSTANDING SLASHFIC (CONTINUED)

DISCLAIMER

Before I start, I do not own Slashfic or any of the characters involved. This is my interpretation/take on the events that happened so far. Most, if not all, of this post is headcanons to fill in some gaps and plot holes. If you are new or don't want any spoilers, don't continue reading.

NOTES

Ok, so boom, welcome back to my incoherent rambling. In this post, we will tackle the overall timeline of events. As we all know now, the writers are a “get new information every few episodes, but don't explain it fully” type. Which isn't so bad cause now I have something else to consume my time with :D. Honestly, they have so many plot lines going it makes my head hurt trying to make sense of it. So we will be starting from the very beginning, then working our way up to the present day. I will be adding some information to make things make sense (also, I just love lore). think of this as an au if you have to, connected to the original source material but a little different. Pls don't bully me to hard if this is shit lmao.

WORD COUNT:1567...

BACKGROUND TIMELINE

Ordering events in the order they first happen in

♡- English settlers arrive on what would later become Camp Nevermore, and native American tribes warn them of the incoming danger of the land if they don't leave. However, the settlers take this as a threat against their colony, and tensions begin to rise. Some of the settlers began acting more strangely, turning to violence more leading to a so-called “disease” spreading across the town. It is not a disease, but rather mass hysteria as the settlers begin to distrust one another. This preps the settlers to be consumed by an entity due to fear and violence, allowing for the entity to spread through them like a virus till there is no one left. In their daze, the last of the townspeople carved the word WITIK (correct me if I'm wrong, I forgot what the actual word was). Which was the last thing the entity whispered to them before they were taken. One of them was Leather's ancestors however, their children were able to make it out before the entity was able to become too strong.

THE GENTLE GIANT

♡- When Leather's ancestors returned to the town to visit their parents (one of the settlers), only to be greeted by silence and an empty town. The only thing that was left behind to prove the existence of people was the notebook of their parents. Detailing the strange happenings around the town. This would be one of the only surviving records of what happened to the settlers. When this was discovered, the children at first did not believe the writing, chalked it up to be some sort of fantasy instead of fact. As time goes on, Leather's ancestors and family become more paranoid, fearing that whatever took the original settlers would come back for them. The paranoia steadily grew over generations as tales of the entity circled the family. Talks of witches and the demons they worked with were at the center of these stories, thought to be the cause of the mass disappearance and strange occurrences around the early settlement. Culminating in the brutal killings of these supposed witches to “cleanse” the family bloodline. We know now that this did not work, and fed the entity, giving it more power through the family’s depravity.

♡-The Dunlaps, not being part of the early English settlers, came to know of the entity through unconventional means. Seeking out a force that could bring about their prosperity, though they already had it. The Dunplaps were never known to be the generous type, lying, cheating, and stealing their way to the top. The earlier ancestors were subcouncioulty riddled with greed and were known through history to be opportunists. However, Peter and Deborah wanted more power and wealth, so they struck a deal with the entity. To provide a vessel in which the entity could infect with its hatred for humanity and violence. Bringing about more panic and fear for it to feed on and grow stronger. And thus Michael was born. Peter and Deborah didn't want to give up their first daughter. Resigning to have another child to save her from a fate like that, only to fail in protecting her from the vessel. Even though Peter and Deborah didn't have much thought of Michael deciding to keep away from them for their safety, they began viewing him with hate and resentment after the death of his sister. Sending him away in a secure facility so they could pretend they didn't exist. Only interacting with him to keep up appearances.

THE CURSED SON

♡- As a child, Michael couldn't help the dark whispers and unmovable urge to hurt people. For the most part, he didn't grow any attachments to anyone or anything. Except for his sister, who treated him with unshakeable love and kindness. Something he had never experienced from his “parents,” who were cold and dismissive in contrast. Michael would often see his sister showered in love and praise by their parents, at which he felt nothing but curiosity. he often wondered what was so different about him that he couldn't even get a smile from them. As Michael began to grow older, the violent urges in him became stronger and stronger. The day of his sister's death was a normal one for him. One moment, his sister was telling him a story, the next she was cold and unresponsive. he couldn't tell you what happened even if he tried. Michael feels something akin to guilt over this; it eats at him. So much so that anytime his sister is brought up, it pulls an immeasurable amount of rage out of him.

LAMB TO THE SLAUGHTER

♡- Jay wasn't chosen by the entity or created to be a vessel; he just had the misfortune of being at the wrong place at the wrong time. He was only a baby when he was taken from his parents. Carol had stalked his family for days before his abduction. Jay's parents had set upon moving to a bigger house to raise their baby in. It was beautiful with a lush green landscape and a perfect view of the woods… their new life seemed perfect, sure, a few odd things were happening around their home. But it wasn't anything too serious to worry over. Until in the dead of night their baby boy was stolen from his crib, there was no noise to indicate someone was in their home, he was just gone… and despite his parents ' best efforts was never seen again.

♡- Carol had lived off the grid for years before the entity began to trickle into her mind. She would be convinced that she's in constant danger and exchange for her eternal safety and magical power. Leading Carol to believe that the entity was her saviour and would protect her from anything that would come her way. The entity would convince her to raise a vessel, and would get her in contact with the Dunlaps for help and to erase any trace of Jay that existed. This would give Carol power in the black magic cult way. Allowing her to tamper with the environment around her for her benefit. Ensuring that Jay and her schemes would not be discovered by the local authority. Jay would be different; he wasn't born with the darkness, only raised alongside it, leaving what little empathy and humanity intact. Due to Jay's isolation, he didn't learn to speak to other people normally. Carol treated him like he was dumb, so he genuinely believed he was. This worked in Carol's favor, making sure that Jay would never question her.

♡-The abandonment of Joey's father, followed by the death of his mother, would leave him vulnerable. Often retreating to the projection booth of the theater he worked at for any sort of comfort or solace. Remembering his earlier years with his mom and the overwhelming guilt of how he treated her. On one of these days, he made his way up to the booth to see someone else there, someone whom he hadn't seen before. Lisa was a new hire at the movie theater and was working that night with him. Joey was closed off at first, but as the night went on, they got a little closer. He found himself in deep conversation with Lisa and couldn't help but feel a little comforted by her. Over time, they got closer, and Joey's view of Lisa soon became an undeniable crush. Maybe he felt the same comfort that came from his family before it was broken. Although he tried his best to keep it hidden until he could work up the courage to confess. One night, when they were both in the projection booth, Lisa opened up about the sorority that was blackmailing her. This filled Joey with rage, but Lisa proposed a way to get rid of this problem. And Joey was too in love to refuse.

GOOD OLD FASHIONED LOVER BOY

♡- bullying, blackmail, and the overwhelming desire for revenge led Lisa to nevermore. However, she didn't feel much of the entity's presence at first until she heard it whisper promises of protection and power. Lisa would grow curious about the history of the haunted campground and do some digging. Leading her to a dark past and cult activity, growing more and more infatuated with the power of the entity. When an idea would come to her, to use the influence of the entity to free her of the sororities' blackmail. Stumbling upon a grimoire gave her the perfect opportunity for her revenge. Of course, she couldn't do it all alone. Seeing Joey's vulnerability, Lisa would emotionally manipulate him into helping with her plan. Gotta hand it to her, she's an excellent manipulator. She was able to convince Joey to abandon any sense he had. Lisa enjoyed the power she had over Joey, and his blind faith and devotion. Joey believes that what he was doing was right, that they deserved it for all they've done to Lisa. Maybe this would prove to her his devotion and care; maybe Lisa would feel the same as he does. So Joey went along with Lisa's plan, doing most if not all of the dirty work for her. Up until the night Lisa went through with her plan. You would have thought she had shot him through the heart the way it was shattered by Lisa's betrayal. Leaving Joey to wonder if he ever meant anything to her other than a means to an end.

I hope you enjoyed reading as much as I enjoyed writing. Be kind to others and to yourself cya💗

#slash fic #dorian app #dorian slashfic #slashfic dorian #jay slashfic #leather slashfic #ghost slashfic #mike slashfic #slashers #damien slashfic

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physalian · 6 months ago

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Wicked (part 1) was a solid adaptation

Saw Wicked last night. Only seen the musical once and for a movie longer than both halves of the original combined, the extra added minutes aren’t wasted. I can't exactly praise a movie for storytelling when its legwork was done near beat-for-beat already in the musical, and in the original book, but if you haven't or won't see anything except this film: Yes, it has a very good story.

But I want to talk about what I think is the best example of a “maybe they weren’t so terrible after all” villain redemption retcon, of which Elphaba is kind of the poster child of this whole trend. Why she works, and why something like Cruella did not. Not specific to this version at all.

Quick synopsis: Wicked is an alternate telling of the events before The Wizard of Oz, the backstory of the Good Witch Glinda and the Wicked Witch of The West. It is not the story of how good triumphed over evil, how Elphaba devolved or perhaps was always mean and nasty and underdog Glinda saved the day.

Instead, it’s a deeply political (and whoo boy is it relevant today) smear campaign against the disenfranchised and the minority population of Oz—the talking animals. Elphaba is the underdog, an up-and-coming bright-eyed sorceress taken under the wing of her magic school’s legendary professor, with hopes to one day meet the Great Wizard of Oz. There she meets mean-girl Galinda and for about half a classic mean-girl storyline, the two are enemies. Galinda makes amends, the two become friends, and they go together to Oz to meet the Wizard…

Who is an even worse man behind the curtain than in the ‘39 movie, a charlatan and a fraud, who, when Elphaba refuses to let him abuse her magic to scapegoat the talking animal community, launches said smear campaign, turning Elphaba into a pariah. Galinda (now Glinda) stays behind as the events of Wizard of Oz play out, using her socio-political savviness to help Elphaba where she can. Oh, and the melting? Well, the Wizard isn’t the only master of illusions.

—

The ingredients are all there for a ridiculously base “girl boss” plot about this OP Mary Sue who just will not get taken seriously by the ugh “men” around her (and this is absolutely a feminist storyline screaming high notes from the rooftops) until she shows them all they’re idiots and fools and she’s amazing. The bullying classmates, Glinda’s narcissism, Elphaba’s unprecedented raw power with magic.

Except it has the one thing so many recent “girl boss” movies don’t: You like Elphaba and she’s not perfect, and, you like Glinda (eventually). She’s not arrogant and flawless. She’s introverted and can come off as rude and unfriendly but she just lacks foundational relationships to help her socialize, and in the face of the shallow dipshits at her school, she has every reason to be rude and unfriendly.

Glinda, too, is naïve, but not cruel, save for one moment where she immediately owns up to it once she realizes how badly she screwed up, risking the thing she cares about most—her reputation and popularity and likability—to help a girl who selflessly gave her the other thing she cares about most: The chance to also become a sorceress.

But most importantly: Elphaba is a victim, not the architect of so much of this story. Mary Sues do everything right without any effort, they don’t struggle, they don’t overcome any fears or prejudice or limitations. Elphaba isn’t the one loudly and proudly demanding an audience with the Wizard. She isn’t going around praising herself and her abilities. She has a lot of power, but never learned how to use it, and she doesn’t luck into her story, she’s explicitly, strategically manipulated into her role.

She'd be more of a Mary Sue if the Wizard's offer was genuine and he was actually a good person, then she really would have lucked her way into fortune by virtue of being inexplicably adept at magic. But she's not, and he's not.

The story manages to build her up without dragging everyone else down. Nor does she "turn evil" because the Wizard doesn't respect her for being green, or a woman, he doesn't give a shit, he just wants what she can do for him. She "turns evil" because they have deeply different philosophies and he's standing in her way and she has no other choice but to flee and become a fugitive. She chooses this, the Wizard doesn't kick her out.

But even before that, Elphaba does become popular, her shallow classmates do start to like her (disproving any notion about how the world will hate her no matter what she does, so fuck ‘em), Glinda does actually have a heart and she is smart, just in a very different school of thought from Elphaba. The influence of the Wizard is just so strong that of course they’re going to believe his lies.

It’s not a story about how “this villain was actually the victim of a Tragic Backstory and you should feel bad for them because it’s even sadder than the hero’s” it’s “this villain was actually the victim of a smear campaign, and the heroes are still heroes, but here’s the other side of who they were fighting”.

But it also works because of the story that it is. Ignoring the actual Oz books (and there are many of them): Precedent already exists in the ‘39 movie—the Wizard is already revealed to be a charlatan. Wicked doesn’t rip up the old script, tell you you’re wrong, and then plop in a whole new story that fucks the continuity. Nor does it ask you to change your mind about a villain who doesn’t really deserve redemption in the first place, like, say, one who skins puppies to wear their fur. Instead, it digs into the fissures that were already there and pulls up the rocks to reveal what’s underneath.

And, Elphaba knows she’s going to be seen as a villain, but she’s not happily engaging in “villainy”. She’s doing what she thinks is right, something the audience should agree with, and is choosing to become a pariah to get her way. She never becomes a “villain”, just the antagonist to the hero’s journey, and I don’t remember the ’39 movie perfectly, but “this little rat from another world dropped a house on my sister and is on her way to kill me, too” would make one justifiably upset.

But overall, it’s just a story with layers and nuance that’s sorely missing in its contemporaries, and, like I said, deeply political without strawmanning either side (wellllllllll...). And, it respects the source material.

I also don’t remember the first Maleficent that well, but I think that also did a good job? Back when the live-action remakes weren’t all hot garbage.

So. Yeah. You want to write a powerful female character very explicitly being a feminist icon (and the consequences that come with it)? Elphaba is the perfect example.

#wicked #wicked 2024 #strong female character #movie review

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queerprayers · 1 year ago

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hi ! i hope you're doing well, and i just wanna say first that i love your blog and it just radiates comforting vibes :)

i wanted to ask for some advice. i chose god over a year ago after having this push-pull thing with him for almost ten before that. most of my issues with actually accepting him came from ideas i had about him from his more conservative/evangelical followers, which i began to debunk for myself after figuring out that god, not them, was who i wanted.

so i've been sticking to the old testament, mostly. i found god in there, grew to love him because of it, and it's just a beautiful text, but also there are far fewer conservative dogwhistles in there than there are in the new testament. the new testament is hard for me to look at, and i feel guilty about it.

and its like- ive grown up with jesus my whole life. my parents are methodist, i was raised methodist. but i've never felt very close to him, thanks to those who twisted his verses about love and kindness into weapons against people like me. i read these verses that mean so much (john 3:16 and the like) and all i get out of it is a crawling sense of dread. like the associations are Bad, and it seeps through the whole new testament.

all this long-winded nonsense is basically to say that somebody got their hands all over the new testament and now i look at it and it is just barren. have you ever experienced something like this? any advice on how to,, reclaim the new testament or something? (thank you so much for reading this holy shit it's long. sorry about that)

Thank you beloved, I'm glad you're here! No such thing as too long here, I promise—well, there might be on my end. (You've been warned.) I'm overjoyed that you've chosen to pursue God—separating what you've been told from what you seek to believe in is such a hard thing to navigate.

I'm gonna be honest, this is such a refreshing question and I'm glad that you're asking it. I overwhelmingly hear the opposite from Christians—that the New Testament is easy and loving and comforting, and the Old Testament is scary and violent or whatever. I always want to ask first, what their opinions of Judaism are, because that's a red flag to me; and next, have they read the NT? It isn't easy and it isn't always comforting, and I think too many Christians only read the parts that they think are. The fact that you're recognizing those hard things and wanting to deal with them is a beautiful thing—we should take these texts seriously enough to criticize and struggle with them.

First of all: You have no need to feel guilty for what other people have done with holy things, or for your emotions. You have not done something wrong by carrying this hurt with you. What we feel is not in our control—but we can listen to it. Let this be a movement of desire, not of guilt. You're seeking God past the dread. You want to grow enough that the ideas people have taught you don't stand between you and what you want—and you've already done so much of this growth. I believe that you can keep moving in the direction of God, and find God in more and more places. But you don't have to pretend it's not hard. And if it was easy I'm not sure that would be a good thing.

Your experiences and associations and discomfort and fear—they're your history and they're also the history of the text. I'm sure you've heard people say "Don't let stuff like that turn you away from the original meaning of the verses!" Or "Jesus didn't mean that!" But of course the verses hold weight. They've had baggage before they ever got to you—two thousand years of it. Hold space for the fact that they've been used to hurt you and others. That's not meaningless—it's part of the meaning now. People who claimed their destruction was what Jesus meant have added to the history of Jesus and the text—and people who created love and beauty in honor of those verses have also added to these histories. We can learn about the original meaning of the text, but we cannot erase or ignore the meanings that have existed over the years. Go into this without guilt or pressure or expectation, and bring the anger and confusion and bad experiences. The text is strong enough to handle them. God is strong enough to handle them.

I want to acknowledge that finding God in the Hebrew Bible and existing there with Them is a beautiful thing. You don't have to equally relate to every single part of a religion to create a home there. Of course I hope that you grow new connections with the NT, but if it's never the same as the OT, that's not a flaw or a failure. None of us can find all the places where God is present and hold them all equally. Our brains aren't big enough for that. You have created a beautiful connection with God, and I hope that you know that there are so many fulfilled, faithful people who have not, and will never, experience God in the NT. Of course these people generally aren't Christian—and that's obviously a choice you can make—but I hope that knowledge reminds you that you aren't doing anything wrong. You have a duty to God, not to religion. And you certainly don't have a duty to the ideas you've grown up with or translators or interpreters or even to Biblical writers. We enter religion to learn and create community and to fully live out our duty to God—religion serves us, not the other way around.

I love that you brought up conservative dogwhistles because this is a point that, again, I've heard more people fall on the other side of! More people have a problem with the politics of the OT, for lots of reasons. The NT was written much closer to our current point in history, of course, in a time and culture much more familiar to most of us than Ancient Israel. The Roman Empire's language and government and philosophy has influenced the world immensely, and I think for most people it's therefore easier to exist in/relate to/project on. For you, though, this might be having the opposite effect. The fact that the Roman Empire is closer and more influential to our culture may make you more aware of its injustices and biases. Conservatism as we know it is much closer to values found in the Christian scriptures than the Jewish ones partially because it's more culturally and politically similar to ours. (Think about how many far-right people idolize the Roman Empire! And of course, think about how many conservatives are Christians.)

I'm assuming, because you're someone who notices politics in texts, that you've probably confronted things in the OT that you've had to process and put in context and perhaps still struggle with. I know that you've been met with violence and patriarchy, and that you've read verses that you probably know have been used to justify racism, sexism, slavery, and homophobia. Perhaps you've come to these chapters and said something like, "Wow, this has been used for a lot of evil, and this is something I have to deal with, but I also want to give grace to the culture that existed this way and told these stories, see the times that systems like patriarchy are challenged and changed over time, and use this for good and liberation in my own life." Maybe this is easy for you, or maybe it's taken a lot of strength.

Barbara Brown Taylor talks about "shadow languages" in her book Holy Envy (which I recommend)—languages in the Bible that assume things, that carry with them narratives we need to look out for. She identifies the language of contempt, the one of social hierarchy, the one that glorifies suffering for suffering's sake, the one that divides reality into opposed pairs. She tells us that "the purpose of staying on the lookout for languages like these is to prevent them from becoming uncontested parts of the Christian worldview. Every time I run into one of them hard enough to hurt, I turn around and look in the opposite direction, where there is almost always a counternarrative in scripture, just waiting for someone to notice it."

I think about how slavery is not abolished in the Bible—it has not been abolished ever. At various times in history, it has been taken for granted, challenged, uprooted, and changed form. Why are the ancient Israelites freed from captivity and go on to enslave people? Why does God move them to chip away at slavery but not fully eradicate it? Why does Paul say there is no slave or free under Christ Jesus, but preserves the social hierarchy inherent to that statement? It angers me that oppression is never abolished completely and immediately, but I also know that's not how people (or true stories) work. We take a lot of things for granted—and that leads many people to conservatism. I love Paul's writings, and I also know that his greatest sin (like many of us) was believing God's love liberated only as far as his imagination. He could imagine a God who loved the enslaved, could imagine a world in which their souls were equal, but could not imagine a world without slavery. He could imagine a spiritual equality of men and women, but not a social one. The gospel writers could worship a Jewish man as God, honor the scriptures he quoted, and add no nuance to the Jewish leaders who opposed him. They could imagine a messiah coming from Judaism but could not give grace to the Judaism around them.We all have failures of imagination, and we are always wrong. (Thanks be to God.)

I am not in the business of excusing harmful systems. I don't think you should do this when tackling the NT—I think you should challenge it and accuse it and dismantle it. But I also want you to remember the grace that you have brought to the Hebrew Bible. You have found God in a text with a lot of hard things and a lot of beautiful things—I bet you can do it again. Maybe it's more personal this time, maybe it's closer to your culture, but you have the skills. And maybe this is gonna make you go back to the OT with harsher eyes—so be it. Be curious about how this changes your relationship with history—humanity's and your own. However you understand conservatism, you can find it in both parts of the Christian Bible. And you can't take away the ways people have furthered that. But you can see them, and you can build relationships with the stories, knowing that your imagination can go further—and God's goes further still. You have been taught by bigoted people and a bigoted world, and you know it. You already know you want God, not them.

So what do we do when someone got their hands all over the New Testament? I love that question, because they absolutely have. They're still doing it. Someone got their hands all over the OT too—actually, probably more and worse someones seeing as it's a Jewish text and Christian hands are inherently meddling. But this is all part of the text's history. However much we believe God was involved, people wrote in their own language and from their own culture. The curation and copying and collecting and translating and analysis inherent to the Bible's existence (it didn't spring fully formed into the King James Version) are people's hands. We can't take that away—and in fact, we needed their hands for these texts to get to us.

Reclaiming the Bible for me has not included pretending those hands don't exist—especially when they're personal. What it has included is prying some of those hands off to see God underneath. The thing about that, though, is that it gets our fingerprints involved. You can't reach into a text and find God without getting your hands dirty. There is no pure holy text in this life. The NT that you're reading—unless you're smarter than me—is already translated. You can learn to read Greek, you can study history, but you're gonna be doing it with your own hands. While you're finding God in the text, accept that even if you go all the way back, the original writers' fingerprints are on the very first copy.

Let this move you to know that none of it is empty. I acknowledge the barrenness you're describing as the only thing you can see right now—but know that even if this is overwhelming, it's proof that the text itself is full. The fact that so many people, for good and evil, have touched it and transformed it, the fact that you desire connection with it, means that it is not empty. There would be nothing there for you to want to reclaim—but you're asking.

I think it would be really interesting for you to find the humanity in the gospels. Look for the people. Yes, these are characters told and retold—you can see the fingerprints—but they were people first. Look for people reclaiming and messing around and taking cultural things for granted and challenging other things—and live in it with them. Don't approach any of it as a solid text that exists—look at it as a living, breathing text that we all tear into. And, yes, this means people are going to twist it almost beyond recognition, but they do not have a monopoly on joining the story—you bring your experiences and your biases. Be human with it, the way that I'm sure you are with the OT, which is full of flawed, evil people who sing beautiful songs. Be human with them.

Enlarge your theological circle. Read liberation theology, queer theology, disability theology. Read the Quran, which is an amazing time that people got their hands on the NT (as well as having its own history of violence). Find different, beautiful hands that tell these stories in new ways. I can't promise you'll find beauty—that's such an emotional and personal experience. We can't force beauty out of anything. But other people have found and created beauty, and we can experience it secondhand—through stained glass, a musical, a movie, a song, a poem—not because their eyes are better than yours, but because they're also honest.

Barbara Brown Taylor (again in Holy Envy) recounts wisdom from a visiting imam, who "explained that the long lineage of Muslim scholars who have worked collaboratively for centuries to interpret the Quran in the most humane ways are more to be trusted than those who spill blood based on their own readings and ambitions." There are always other traditions, and when all we can see is a weapon, there are those who will unclench our fists.

I would encourage you to make sure you have a NT text that has footnotes to tell you when someone is quoting the Hebrew Bible. The NT is in relationship with, building on and interpreting and philosophizing about, the OT. If you are coming from the OT, bring those verses with you, the same way Jesus and early Christian writers did. The New Testament as a body of work did not exist for the first Christians—the scriptures they had were the ones you have connected with. You're in such good company. Look at how easily Jesus quotes scripture, the verses he adds on to and interacts with, the prophecies he sees himself in. Look at the sacrifice imagery that the gospel writers use to talk about Jesus—assuming that the reader will be familiar with these themes. Even within the OT, we can see later Jewish prophets criticizing and conversing with earlier verses—humanity is constantly in conversation with itself and God. You have such a good foundation for understanding this relationship.

The other good foundation you have? Wrestling with a text. It's the ones we're in community with that are the ones we're most often in conflict with and hold to the highest standards—for Jesus, this was the Jewish community he was a part of, and for you, this might be the NT. Have beef with your own scriptures and communities and religious leaders—reclaiming and wrestling are what the gospels are about. Acts and the letters in the NT are continuously debating the relevance of various OT verses. Do hard work on a text, and do it in good company.

Carry with you the scriptures you love as you travel into unfamiliar or painted-over territory. Know that you have something to come back to, however far you g0. While wading into waters you don't understand, you know that there's land under your feet—and you know that it's land that Jesus valued, that all the people in the NT valued, even as they wrestled with it. The first verses of the NT are a genealogy from Abraham to Jesus's adoptive father. Christians see this all as one story—whether you believe that right now or not, the human story is constantly moving, and God is your solid ground.

Jesus set down a foundation on that rock of God and Christians have added bricks to it and torn stuff down and messed around and burned it and kept building it—but you know there's God under it, because you've seen Them. So when you read Paul awkwardly shoving some bricks together and think, "That's not how I would build a community…" know that God's under there. When you read Peter denying Jesus, know that his name still means "rock," that you can still create solid ground after everything. You know where God is, and also, our lives are ever-expanding journeys of finding where else God could be. Yours looks different from the Christians who consider the NT to be that same rock, but that's okay! It's okay if the OT is a firm foundation for you, and the NT is one of the bricks. Look for God in those awkward bricks, which I know you can do because you've already done it. King David wrote the most beautiful songs I know—you don't ignore his murder and rape, you honor the whole story.

John 3:16 is a much-loved verse—but it being more important than other verses is a construct. You don't have to like it—in fact, the context of this is Jesus talking to Nicodemus, who doesn't understand what he's saying. Jesus is very familiar with confusion and even anger as a response—and he even seems to seek it out sometimes. Nicodemus comes to him as a genuine student, and Jesus starts going on about being born again, something that his new student seems to have no foundation for. Oh, to be a confused new student rather than someone whose had "being born again" held over my head! I wish I could come to the idea with no baggage! I wish I had no foundation for that idea, so I could start over—which would, perhaps, come closer to what Jesus is saying than any evangelical teaching.

Take care, keep trudging. Whatever path this brings you to, whatever communities you end up building, know that with God as the foundation, even awkward haphazard fingerprinted ripped-up texts can tell stories that we need to hear. I can't take away the associations you have with these texts, but I can pray you create new ones. Learn new songs, meet new characters. Get your hands messy.

Don't force a positive relationship—what people have done with the text is a barrier to you right now, and this might be more of a journey with a barrier than a going through it. There are pieces of barriers I've broken open that come with me when I revisit those verses. You already have a more honest relationship with all of this than so many others, and you have the skills already to know that it is God, not the world's followers, that you want.

I hope this wasn't long-winded nonsense, and I hope something here resonates. The short answer (which I probably should have put at the beginning) is that yes, I've experienced something like this. The year I couldn't read the Bible without panicking, I cried while watching The Prince of Egypt. In the years after that, I almost came back to it like I was converting—reading the basics, starting from scratch. Growing up and becoming purposely Christian (rather than your parents exactly) is a kind of conversion, and you have to reclaim the texts, and ask God to reclaim you as you are now.

Isaiah 55:10-11 tells us that God's word pours out like rain, and never returns empty. It sticks with us until something grows inside us. And John begins his gospel by telling us that the word became flesh and made his dwelling among us. This is a living word, one that cried and got angry and fell in love with his friends and participated in a culture and wrestled with God's will and interpreted scripture and was a person with us. You'll have to forgive Christianity for being so human—God did it first. God got his fingerprints all over us, and we wrote texts that have God's living breathing word—and also our messy hands. Thank God for your hands, and the love that they will bring.

<3 Johanna

#gonna be so real this was 11 pages on google docs and i got it down to 6. so if you think this is too long just know this.#asks #bible study

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