#idk it just popped into my head apropos of nothing and here it is

[megabadbunny]

speechless

TenRose; all ages/mild teen. fills @timepetalsprompts​ general “Tenth Doctor month” prompt

***

He knows the instant the TARDIS touches the tarmac that something is wrong. (There’s no grinding of the Time Rotor, no sickly shuddering or sharp-flashing warning lights; it’s just wrong, in his chest, something squeezing and clenching where it shouldn’t. Guilt, he’d label it if he didn’t know any better, but the feeling is hardly helpful when he hasn’t a clue what he’s done wrong.)

The sonic makes quick work of the door—normally he wouldn’t, not here, anyway, but rapping his knuckles and pounding his palm on it didn’t work, save to elicit nosy or dirty looks from curious passersby. He flashes the psychic paper and mutters something under his breath about maintenance and steps inside the flat before anyone has time to question him. The flat, of course, is empty. Well, that at least explains why no one answered the door. It isn’t because of...other reasons. Admonitions about nosiness and boundaries and sometimes people need privacy, Doctor all crowd to the forefront of his mind, only to be pushed to the back as he scopes out the flat for clues. But the flat seems insistent on shaking him at every turn, betraying nothing of its inhabitants’ whereabouts. The message-taking pad by the phone betrays nothing; it’s new, fresh, no ghosts of messages past pressed into its pages. There are no new notes tacked to the fridge or washing-machine, though the latter has a funny little rattle when the Doctor walks by it (and two-minutes’ worth of the Doctor’s tinkering puts an end to that). The calendar remains stubbornly unhelpful as well, showing nothing but distant family birthdays and friends’ anniversaries and a series of red x’s tapering off after— The Doctor’s lips purse together, a dam stoppering the flow of curses trying to leak out. He heaves a frustrated sigh. It’s no twelve months instead of twelve hours, but it might as well be. He really is a rubbish pilot. But eventually that excuse will run thin, if it isn’t already riddled with holes. One day, she’ll stop forgiving him, and he isn’t so sure he can blame her.

(He almost forgets to re-lock the door when he stalks out, but he only almost forgets.)

A quick scan of the rest of the Estate returns no notable results, and no familiar faces greet him from the inside of the local chippies, or pubs, or store-fronts. Searching the library is a fruitless endeavor, as is an examination of the bus-station. The Doctor wanders up and down the streets for what feels like years but is, in truth, only a few hours, peeking inside games shops and bookshops and sweet-shops and Tesco’s and tailor’s-places and any place that hasn’t got the windows shuttered because where is she, where the bloody hell is she? And then a thought strikes him, something unpleasant indeed—he checked the bus-station, but that would be pointless if she was already gone. And if she’s gone... He swallows. He can find her easily enough; he’s only doing this the hard way out of some kind of silly penance. Finding her isn’t the problem. The problem is if she doesn’t want to be found. (After the other universe, after the black hole, after everything at Canary Wharf—maybe she doesn’t want to do this anymore. Maybe that’s perfectly reasonable. But, rather selfishly perhaps, where does that leave him? What is he supposed to do then?) It’s in a hair salon that he finds Jackie, getting her nails manicured and laughing gaily with a circle of likeminded and like-aged friends, all thoughts of ghosts and Daleks and Cybermen completely erased like they never were. But the second Jackie’s gaze land on him, her smile disappears, her eyes gone cold. Her friends continue chattering around her but she doesn’t join in the fun, doesn’t tear her eyes away from the Doctor’s. She raises a sharp-plucked eyebrow and points a lacquered fingernail westward. Go fix it, you twat.

She doesn’t need to say it for him to hear it, and he doesn’t need a physical slap to feel the shame burning his cheeks. With a curt nod in thanks, the Doctor turns on his heels and heads westward. Once he’s out of Jackie’s sight, he runs.

***

He feels more than a little stupid when he finally finds her. But of course she’s here—with a busted-up machine, where else was she going to get her washing done? The Doctor just stands and watches her for a moment, taking her in amidst the unnaturally bright laundromat lights. She looks terribly bored from her lonely perch atop the yellowed old washing-machine, her eyes half-shuttered, her hands clasped in her lap. Previous experience tells the Doctor that she should be reading a trashy magazine right about now, or maybe a book pilfered from the TARDIS archives, or painting her nails or noshing on a treat if she’s not gone from the laundry room altogether, watching a film with him in the library or keeping him company while he tinkers under the console or lying atop the grass with him in the garden, making up new names for all of the constellations she doesn’t recognize, even some of the ones she does— Another customer pushes past the Doctor and he startles at the harsh clang of the doorbell. So sure he’s about to be discovered, he throws a glance at Rose that’s somewhere between nervous and hopeful, but she doesn’t look up. She doesn’t even twitch. She just...sits. Oh, no. She’s not bored. She’s numb. She’s good and properly numb. And it’s good and properly his fault. The guilty-feeling from earlier bubbles unpleasantly in his gut. He should go in there. He’s got to go in there and explain things, namely himself, as much as he can bear to. He can’t let her think he’s angry with her, even if he sort-of is, in a way that’s got nothing to do with her. He can’t let her think he just left her here, at least not for longer than he intended, which wasn’t really very long at all, not even by her standards. He can’t let her think she did anything wrong, nothing besides loving him, anyway. (She shouldn’t; she really, really shouldn’t. But that doesn’t appear to be stopping him, either.) It isn’t until after the newcomer dumps their washing into a machine and goes through the motions, the detergent and the coins and the buttons and the swearing and the top-of-the-machine-pounding and the pressing of buttons again and then the eye-rolling and the muttering and the leaving, that the Doctor manages to pull together the last remaining threads of his courage and pushes open the door to the laundromat. Slowly, Rose’s gaze sharpens, traveling from their stare into nothingness over to where the Doctor stands, taking him in from the floor up, battered Chucks and pinstriped suit and fists balled in pockets and coat settling around him as the door bangs loudly into place. Neither of them twitch, too fixed on each other as the washing-machines whirr and clang and generally make a ruckus. Opening his mouth to speak, the Doctor steps forward, but Rose turns away. He falters. That’s sort of a universal sign, isn’t it? The unmistakable broadcast of I don’t want to talk to you. Fists clench tighter in his pockets before loosening, relaxing. Fine. They don’t have to talk. It may be his typical modus operandi but he has other ways of doing things, too. A regular problem-solver, him. The Doctor crosses the laundromat in several long strides and before Rose has a chance to react, he envelops her in a tight, breath-squeezing hug, his hands wrapping around to either side of her ribcage. Surprised, she tenses beneath the embrace, but relaxes into it soon enough, her own arms coming up to limply encircle him. He tightens his hold on her and nudges her elbow with his—snugger, as if to say. A real hug. More. Rose complies and the Doctor imagines he can hear her slight little smile. Tension eases from his shoulders and he turns his face toward her, into her neck, at this height. He feels rather than hears her swallow, senses the uptick in her breathing, her heartrate. For all their hugging and hand-holding and waist-grabbing, it’s still a surprisingly intimate gesture, and a vulnerable one, whether she recognizes it as such. But fortunately, blessedly, she must, because soon she’s leaning into him, burrowing into his shoulder while one hand buries itself in his hair. He needed time, he thinks he should tell her. To clear his head, to sort his thoughts. To give her a bit of a break, room for her to visit her mum. To reconsider if this is what she really wants. He needed time to come to terms with the fact that— His eyes clench shut against the memory, against the hurt that blossoms with it. I almost lost you. He steps back with every intention of delivering the apologetic plea hovering on his lips, only for Rose to lean forward and press her mouth to his, swallowing any words that may emerge. (Thankfully, his hands only flail about uselessly for approximately 1.03 seconds before flying up to her face, holding her close when, flushing and suddenly uncertain, she tries to pull away. But surely his hands holding her close will let her know she has nothing to be ashamed or uncertain about; surely his trembling arms and desperate mouth give him away.) Both of them jump at the washing-machine buzzing impatiently beneath Rose, letting her know in no uncertain terms that it has completed its cycle, thank you very much. But Rose just laughs shakily and pulls the Doctor in for more, and it’s sort of funny, isn’t it, all of time and space at their disposal and their first proper snog takes place in a dingy old laundromat on unremarkable old planet Earth. It would have been much more romantic to take her somewhere exotic and new, somewhere with a triple-sunset or a glass ocean or rainbow-luminescent flowers unfurling their petals toward the inky midnight sky. But she’s kissing him, she’s kissing him, and it feels like a promise, one he’ll gladly take no matter how little he deserves it or where she gives it to him, romance be damned. (Later, he’ll tell her anything she wants; right now, this says everything they both need to know.)

***

[legionofpotatoes]

we decided to watch all story cutscenes from the new resident evil village videogame on a whim, since it’s not really our cup of tea gameplay-wise but seems to be this massive zeitgeist moment that made us morbidly curious. And I know how much everyone cares about my thoughts on things I know very little about, so. let’s get into it huh gamers. and yeah spoilers?

for context, I’ve only played resident evil 4 and a small portion of 5. I also read the wikipedia entry for 7’s plot recently. all this to say I was only vaguely aware of how tonally wacky the series was going in

I also completely gave up following the plot of the mutagens’ soap opera, so that paid off in spades here as you might imagine

anyway so that baby in the intro. that baby’s head is just massive. humongous toddlerdome. when ethan finds the baby’s head in a jar later on. there is no way that head would fit into that jar. bad game design. no not even game design. basic stuff. one hundred years in prison for jar modeler

if I see a single functional hetero marriage in video games I will cry tears of joy. I understand their misery is kind of The Point irt them badly working through the hillbilly romp trauma but like. sheesh. at least set that up as an emotional story goal the plot will help resolve. but nope they start off miserable and it goes nowhere

I know I know the mia thing has a huge wrinkle in it but like. not really in terms of dramatic function?? set up a happy end to the re7 nightmare (miranda can keep up appearances for all she cares) and then take that all away from angry griffin mcelroy for manpain. it will still absolutely work to set up the dramatic forward momentum. why throw in this cliche Hollywood Tension in their marriage if you’re not going to address it oh maybe because it’s normalized as automatically interesting because nuclear families are a self-propagating pit of a very narrow chance at emotional happiness relying on social stigma to preserve their empty function oops my baggage slipped in yikes abort mission

I called him griffin mcelroy because I saw his face on twitter and. yeah. I will continue to do this occasionally. my house my rules

... fuck the reason I’m hung up on this is specifically because the rest of the game is so tonally dexterous (which is a shining point to me! more on that later!), and yet they felt weirdly compelled to create the aesthetic trapping of a family-at-odds trope without following it through too well. a sign of both the good and the bad stuff to come

but listen the real reason why I wanted to talk about any of this is to nitpick the fascinating backwards-engineered nucleus of the entire thing; in that this game essentially creates a melting pot of just SO many disparate horror tropes and then makes a no-holds-barred unhinged effort at weaving thick lore to piece them all together. it is truly a sight to behold. like straight up you got your backwoods fright night situation, your gothic castle vampires, your rural-industrial werewolves, and don’t forget your bloated swamp monsters over there, with then a hard left turn into robotic body horror, and the entire ass subgenre of Creepy Doll writ large, and the bloodborne tentacle monsters, and a hellboy angel bossfight, which rides on the coattails of a mech-on-mech pacific rim bonanza, and just jesus henry christ slow down

almost all of these are textural hijack jobs that don’t really get into the metaphor plain of any of those settings but the game sort-of makes an argument that the texture IS the point and revels in it. It is kind of admirable almost. The same reason why the intro felt boxed in and unmotivated is also why the rest of the game just blasts off of its hinges to the point of complete and self-indulgent tonal abandon. I kinda loved that about it. lady dimitrescu made sure to hold her hat down as she bent forward in mahogany doorways and then suddenly she’s a giant gore dragon and you settle in your temp role as dark souls man with Gun to take her ass down. Excellent??

this rhino rampage impulse to gobble up every horror aesthetic known to man comes to head when the game wrestles with its FPS trappings in what is the most hilarious solution in creating visceral player damage moments. Since most cinematics and the entire game is in first person, that leaves precious little real estate for the devs to work with if they really want to sell griffin’s physical crucible. To wit. This dude’s forearms. Specifically just the forearms. They are MASSACRED throughout the story. The poor man lives out the silent hill dimension of a hand model. by the end cutscene he looks like a neatly dressed desk clerk who had decided to stick both his grabbers into garbage disposal grinders just a few hours prior. like in addition to everything else it manages to rope in that tinge of slapstick violence into its general grievous genre collection except this time it IS for a lack of trying! truly incredible

but wait his miracle clawbacks from everything his poor paws go through are retroactively explained away, yes, but far too vaguely and far too late to console me as I sat and watched everyone’s favorite baby brother reattach an entirely severed hand to his wrist stump by just. placing it on there. and giving it a lil twist ‘n pop terminator-style. and then willing his fingers back into motion right in front of my bulging eyes. this game just does not care. it does not give a shit. and boy howdy will it work to make that into one of its strongest suits

cause generally speaking resident evil was THE premiere vanilla zombie content destinaysh for like a decade, right? and as the rest of the world and mainstream media started encroaching and bloodying its blue ocean it went and just exploded in every single conceivable horror trope direction like a smilodon on catnip. truly, genuinely fascinating franchise moves

yeah the big vampire milf is hot. other news; grass... green. although I do love the implication that her closet is just identical white dresses on a rack. cartoon network-level queen shit

apropos of nothing I’ve said there’s also this hobo dante-devimaycry-magneto man, and I can’t believe this sentence makes sense. anyway he made that “boulder-punching asshole” joke referring to chris redfield and it was probably the only easter egg that really landed for me and boy did it land hard. I have not seen him punch the boulder in re5, mind. I had only heard about how funny it is from friends. and here this dude was, probably in the same exact mindset as me, trying to grapple with that insane mental image. with you on that ian mckellen, loud and clear

I advocate vehemently against the shallow pursuit of hyper photorealism in art direction but I gotta admit it works really in favor of immersive horror like this. the european village shacks especially gave me super unchill flashbacks to my rural countryside retreat in western georgia. I could smell the linoleum dude. not cool

faces are weird in this game. can’t place it. nice textures, good animation, but the modeling template is... uuh strange? and the hair. it has that clustered-flat-clumpy look that harkens to something very specific and unpleasant but I just don’t know what. sue me

griffin’s mental aptitude to take all this shit in stride and end every seemingly traumatizing bossfight involving some fucking eldritch being yet unseen through mortal eyes by essentially throwing out an MCU quip is just. What the fuck dude? I mean that was funny how you casually yelled the f-word at a god damn werewolf that you considered a fairy tale an hour ago but are you like, all right?? it was swinging a sledgehammer the size of a bus at you, ethan

oh oh the vampires are afraid of cold and your last name is winters. I get it haha

Pro Gamer Nitpick: boss fights seemed a bit unnecessarily long?? idk why the youtuber we picked decided the ENTIRE propeller man fight counted towards the vital story scenes he was stitching together, but man mr big daddy lite there really had some get up and go huh??

why are they saying dimitrescu.. like that. is it really how you say that word or is the english language relapsing into its fetish for ending every single word with a consonant at all costs

I’m not saying it’s a dramatic miss of a twist in context of all that’s going on, but the “you died in the last game actually and have been DC’s clayface ever since” revelation is low-key. it’s. it’s just funny to me, I dont know what to say. century-old god-witch fails her evil plan after she mistakenly removes heart from what was definitely NOT just some white guy with eight fingers after all

chris realizing he’s about to become the player character and immediately swapping out his tsundere trenchcoat for the muscletight sex haver sweater

the little bluetooth speaker-sized pipe bomb he taped to his knife was nuclear?? really??? I must have missed something because that is just too good. I buy it though I totally buy it. chris just got them fun-sized nukes in his car trunk for, you guessed it, Situations

anyway this is all for now just wanted to briefly touch on how unexpectedly funny and tonally irreverent this seemingly serious game turned out to be. did not articulate any cathartic story beats whatsoever but my god it had fun connecting those plot points. he just fucking put his severed hand back on his stump and it Just Worked todd howard get in here

[regular-lord-reckoner]

okay so there’s this guy i’ve known since like elementary school (and before you jump to any kind of conclusion, he’s gay so just...chill) and i mean...we know each other i guess? in a really loose sense of the word because we’ve had some classes together and we were in choir together but we were never like...close friends by any means 

but all of a sudden apropos of fucking NOTHING he keeps messaging me on facebook 

it’s mostly like...some political shit, like the newest stupid thing trump’s doing and yeah, i post some rants now and then but i dunno if he’s expecting that i’m going to take one look at whatever article he’s sent (which i’ve likely already seen) and i’m just gonna...produce some content or launch into a whole discussion but like...no, dude, that’s not how that goes 

but i’m not a complete asshole so initially i just kinda responded like “yeah, wow that’s messed up, can’t believe he’s in charge” etc., etc. 

okay so jump back a few weeks to when my body decided “hey bitch, FUCK YOU” and i ended up in the emergency room with another fucking kidney stone 

and i posted that, like i checked in on facebook as being in the hospital and everything 

and even after that, i had various comments on shit of people who i am actually close to who were checking in on me and i was giving updates about how the stone hadn’t passed yet and how i was still dealing with pain, etc. 

and during this whole very public endeavor this dude is still sending me these articles and shit, he sends like two in a row, and then when i don’t respond in a timely fashion he’s like “thoughts???” 

so i never responded 

because seriously? fucking seriously, dude? 

i’m only over here in pain that i’ve heard is comparable (if not worse) to labor pain but yes, let me fucking drop everything to comment on yet another fucking article you felt compelled to send me even though i’ve already seen it 

and so even though i never answered that one he still sends me ANOTHER yesterday

same shit, i think this time it’s trump tweeting that stupid video of him “beating up cnn” or whatever and right after that he’s like “I think you’re the oldest friend I have” or something like that 

and again like...i don’t respond because i’m just...yeah, no 

and then fucking TODAY he sends another message like “sorry, that was random. but what grade did we meet?” 

like...dude, fucking S T O P

because here’s the thing like...either i don’t want to talk to your ass or i can’t right now and you need to fucking deal either way 

contentiously sending me messages isn’t going to do shit but irritate me either way 

i’ll respond in my own time, thanx

and obviously there’s a part of me that’s not a total heartless bitch and an asshole that says, y’know, he’s probably dealing with something right now and could use a friend, especially if he’s reaching out this far to someone he doesn’t know that well 

but at the same time...that’s 10000% not my problem. 

and more to the point...if you can’t even fucking pretend to give a shit about me, why do i owe you the emotional labor of stepping up to the plate in your hour of need? 

he thinks he’s gonna win my favor by kissing my ass or making it out like we’re super good buds but like...my dude, you don’t fucking know me and i don’t know you 

we’ve been pleasant to one another because we’ve been forced into situations together, but i promise you...you don’t fucking know me. And vice versa 

Because more to the point like...if i’ve come to realize anything it’s that even the emotional labor i do put in for people i do know and care about hardly ever amounts to shit, y’know? 

whatever may or may not be happening with him is unfortunate and i’m sorry for it, but how fucking unfair is that to just...waltz up to someone you barely fucking know and try to coerce them into doing that hard work while offering absolutely nothing in return? 

and i’m not saying he’s gotta buy me things or give me anything tangible but like...if you can’t even just...give me some space and are already stepping all over my boundaries what right do you have to me? 

i dunno. and maybe nothing at all is going on, because honestly if memory serves me correctly he just kinda...does this. if you give him an inch he’ll run a full marathon with it 

and i feel bad because maybe he just...doesn’t get it? maybe he doesn’t realize that’s not how you actually build friendships and shit, but i know there’s at least one girl (it may be his cousin, i’m not sure) that he’s actually been friends with for a long time so i mean...he at least can understand that, but it’s like...people he’s just known for a long time and had a few positive interactions with are not your good, good friends, i’m sorry

and maybe he just thinks i’m a neat person and wants us to be closer but again like...this isn’t the way at all that you go about that shit with me 

my actual friends will sometimes send me things either to get my reaction or to have a discussion and i don’t mind because chances are it’s actually something relevant to my interest or it’s something i haven’t seen but need to or just something along those lines but even still like...if i don’t respond right away there’s no pressure

there’s no follow up “thoughts?????” like an hour later or whenever. there’s no next day message still trying to prompt a response out of me. 

they can literally see me still online doing other shit and just...get it. that i need space and that’s respected and i do the same 

and i get it, i do. it’s been hard for me to not get nervous and panicky when i send someone a message and they don’t respond because i’m like “oh no, that was really stupid, i bet i’m annoying them, oh god why do i even speak, they’re ignoring me now, they hate me, FUCK” but it’s worth doing to realize your feelings don’t always come first and sometimes that other person just isn’t in the headspace to answer a message right now and that’s okay 

i just...i dunno. i feel bad, i do, but i think i’m gonna have to just...ignore him because again, if i respond it’s encouraging him and he’s just going to keep doing this and i just...can’t, i’m sorry 

he’s a nice enough guy, but i do know him well enough to know i don’t want to be closer friends with him, our personalities don’t mesh like that and i just...i can’t, my dude 

i don’t think anyone fully grasps or realizes just how fucking damaged my ability to connect with other people is 

i get by, i can do casual acquaintance bullshit like a mother fucker 

and i can maintain a precious few close relationships 

but apart from that? nah, man 

and i realize that’s my own thing, that’s no one else’s problem or fault but...that’s exactly why i don’t go banging down the door of people i barely fucking know and insisting they be friends with me 

i’ve been depressed my whole life, i’ve been dealing with anxiety for probably longer than what i’ve even realized, i’ve been paranoid for a long time, and given just...a lot of shit (some of which is indeed traumatic) that’s happened to me i have HELLA BAD trust issues and that makes maintaining relationships a fucking struggle 

because it’s already bad enough that the little goblin that lives in my head is constantly like “you know this person could walk out of your life at any time and there’s nothing you can do about it, right?” or “this person you love could just fucking die and you’d be helpless to stop it” or “this person might secretly hate you, but of course they’ll never say so because it’s not as fun that way” or just...whatever paranoid, abandonment-issued fueled thoughts it feels like coming up with 

i literally LITERALLY don’t have it fucking in me to saddle up with another person and try to share whatever weight it is they might be carrying 

and that’s shitty, that’s selfish, that’s horrible and i know that. i do 

decent people don’t just turn their back on someone who is probably crying out for help but luckily i don’t think of myself as a decent person anyway so...there’s that 

i just...can’t. i really can’t. 

and i hope maybe someone else that he reaches out to will be more capable, i hope maybe he picks up on the hint as i don’t reply to messages, but i just...can’t 

it’s hard enough for me to respond to people i am close to, y’know? not always, but like...sometimes i see a message pop up and my brain’s like “yeah, i can’t fucking do this, i can’t handle this right now” and it’s not because of the person it’s just like...i can’t perform the way this person needs me to. i can’t be that person, i can’t be myself right now, i’m completely numb, i have no access to any of my emotions and i don’t have it in me to even pretend like i do right now 

and again like...that’s obviously my own shit that i should get help for because i know that’s not healthy but that’s how it is right now and i’m not really in a position to fix that at the moment 

because even the things i could do just...on my own are still steps that are way, way too big and i’m just too fucking tired and bruised to do it, especially when there’s this other huge part of me that’s like, “why does it matter if you do end up losing all the friends you have? you don’t deserve them anyway” so...there’s that 

idk

i’m not looking for validation or reassurance, i’m just...really aggravated about this and i realize i’m probably in the wrong, again like...i should be more compassionate and i should put all my shit aside and just...try to help this poor guy because maybe he’s even worse off than i am, but there’s this other part of me that’s just like...why is that my responsibility and why should i do that for someone who doesn’t actually seem to care about me, but just wants to use me as a glorified sounding board?