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gentlemancrow · 3 years

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idk if you’re still taking requests so no pressure but maybe jmart 18 about jon’s scars? or,,, honestly however you wanna interpret that lol

Hehe bet you thought you weren't getting one. But of COURSE you're getting one! <3 HERE YOU GO!! Sorry it is late I am not a fast writer haha! This was a VERY interesting one to interpret and I got a little wonky and metaphysical there for a bit WHICH I LOVE and THE IDEA MIGHT HAVE BEEN A BIT LONG FOR A DRABBLE BUT! It's soft and I'm soft and I enjoyed this one SO SO MUCH ; w ; I hope you do too!!

Jon had Seen enough. Martin had decided that long ago. He had witnessed enough, been forced to witness enough, been the vessel into which literally everything had funneled into in an unrelenting typhoon of unspeakable, unfathomable horrific knowledge comprehensible only to him long enough that he damn well deserved the luxury of imperception. He had earned the right to not notice when Martin accidentally bought the wrong brand of chai, the one he insisted tasted like someone rubbed a stick of cinnamon on plasterboard and jammed it in a cardamom pod, but honestly tasted just like the one he preferred. The universe, whichever one they happened to be in now, owed him not realizing the buttons on his cardigan were one off until they were about to head out and Martin had to fix them, fingers humming with the warmth of him lingering in the cashmere every time. He deserved to forget his keys and then also have to go back to check that their flat door was locked twice, just to be sure. He deserved tossing cabbage in the trolley at the market, only to get home and realize it was a head of iceberg lettuce instead, and also he had completely forgotten the onion anyway so back he would have to go. Tiny and insignificant, patently human foibles that any normal person might tally up to a really rotten day overall and gripe about over a glass of Châteauneuf-du-Pape he had won as gleaming, pyrrhic badges on the ruins of his humanity yanked back from the claws of the yawning, devouring dark matter of the cosmos and stitched painstakingly back together with love.

But mostly Jon deserved to not notice the way people looked at him.

He need not see the painted-on expressions of strangers that ran the gamut from quiet pity, to voyeuristic curiosity, to outright revulsion that Martin could not help but see everywhere they went. They had no idea. Not even the slightest inkling of what, exactly, had composed that magnum opus of horror and pain scarred resplendently on his flesh, his bones, his sinews and synapses. To even try know was to go mad, the mind looping through and around and between consciousness and logic and love and fear and philosophy and metacognition until it squeezed into an ouroboros black hole singularity of dense unknowing that collapsed in on itself and perished in cataclysm. They had merely gotten lucky that being extruded through the plumbings of creation seemed to straighten out their fibers enough to be woven back into the fabric of reality, but they were too kinked and snagged and gnarled to ever lay fully flat again. And that was why they stared.

The invasive beings of Jon and Martin had come to mutual terms with it long ago, but they also knew they would be forever incongruous with an innocent world, with a world where they did not belong and that collectively looked at them both like an ontological cancer, benign but festering and ugly. They would never know the thing that crouched behind the stars with pointed knees and elbows that even then, groped to find their new world in the lightless vast, and Jon deserved to not perceive any hints of that either. He deserved their quiet, their peace, their wordless human acceptance.

Jon deserved to be innocently chewing a periwinkle-painted thumbnail in front of the ice cream counter, just as he was that gossamer spring afternoon, turning woeful and forever mismatched brown and green eyes at his husband and asking if he should get mint chip or rum raisin before deciding, actually, could he have a sample of the salted caramel ribbon first? He pointed eagerly at the various frozen tubs behind the glass with his gnarled right hand, where the fingers never did quite open or close properly again, and missed in his wonderment at the veritable cornucopia of sweet delights available to him the mingled look of pity and horror on the cashier’s face as she doled out samples at his request. Martin lurked protectively behind, silent, sentinel, seeing it all, a hot brand of fury boring its way through his chest as he glared icy blue daggers at the clueless young woman, who only compounded her crimes by complimenting the permanent white forelock in his ginger curls as she took his order.

Martin snatched his double scoop of rocky road and pralines and cream out of her hand with a withering scowl and said nothing. Jon, frowning in the dread shadow of Martin’s hushed wrath and finally deciding on just the mint chip, took it upon himself to pay while the poor young woman skirted around both their gazes. They took their ice cream to enjoy in the balmy sun on the metal patio tables outside the shop under a cloud of unspoken insults and slander which Jon was more than happy to pop open the conversational umbrella beneath before the downpour.

“Something wrong?” he asked solicitously.

“Nope. I’m fine,” came the curt answer, suspiciously also lacking in eye contact as Martin stabbed his pink spoon into the rocky road.

Jon’s mismatched eyes narrowed shrewdly. There was one thing that never escaped his notice, even now, and that was the painfully obvious way Martin always broadcast his inner hurts and the physical language of his turmoil he had become fluent in over the years.

“Okay, yes you are probably fine. And I’m guessing it has nothing to do with you actually, because you’re angry and you rarely get angry on your own behalf, which means it’s probably something to do with me or some perceived slight. What happened in there? Did someone make a snide remark about my eccentric ice cream selection? The long skirt on a warm spring day? Oh, no, I’ve got it. It was probably the earrings, yes? I knew I should have gone with the feathers instead of hoops, matches the outfit much better.”

The corner of Martin’s mouth quirked up in a hapless, crooked smile as Jon coaxed a laugh out of him, and he looked up into his gaze adoringly to grant him unspoken conciliation.

“No, no not at all. Nothing like that. It’s nothing, love. It’s not a big deal. Just low blood sugar or something. Just eat your nasty mint chip or rum raisin or whatever that unholy concoction is,” Martin snorted, gesturing at his cup.

“Liar,” Jon crooned with loving reproachment, reaching out to thumb a little bit of rum raisin on the tip of Martin’s nose as punishment.

Even breathed with such unfettered, undying affection, Martin hated that word. He hated how transparent he still was to the man he loved, how much he still truly saw him, saw through him. At least all it took to compel him now was a little melted ice cream rubbed clean off his nose and a winsome smile with love-puddled green and brown eyes.

“Okay, okay… fine,” he admitted with a resigned smirk and a sigh, “I don’t like the way they look at you. Okay? That’s all.”

Jon’s brow knitted together curiously.

“Hmm? Who? What do you mean?” he asked.

“Everyone!” Martin finally effused in frustration, “Everywhere! They look at you like you’re… like you’re damaged goods! Like you’re some pitiful beaten animal on the street, or worse, like you’re some sort of- some sort of um…”

“…Monster?” supplied Jon, lips pursed and lids drooping.

“…I wasn’t going to say that,” Martin stammered.

“What other word is there?”

“Fine, they look at you like you’re a monster. They take one look at your face or your throat or your… your hand. And I can just see it on their faces. They look at you like you’re a monster, and I hate it. You don’t deserve that. You never did! They don’t even know you! They don’t know what happened to you…! And sorry, Jon, but I get angry about it because it’s not fair, and I can’t exactly go about lobbing right hooks into the faces of everyone who even looks at you cross-eyed, now can I? Much as I’d like to…"

Jon went quiet as he listened, dabbling first in the rum raisin, then indulging in a little mint chip chaser, cocking his head to the side thoughtfully as he nibbled on the plastic spoon.

“Is that what you see?”

The color rolled out from Martin’s freckled cheeks along with the very spirit from his eyes in a fog, his entire mien awash in pallor.

“What? How could you say that to me? I would NEVER think that about you, Jon! How could you ever think I would think that? I-I know I said some awful things in the past about your scars, but I-“

“No no! Martin, no! Of course not! I know you would never!” Jon cut in, reaching across the table to snatch his hand and squeeze it reassuringly, rubbing his knuckles and over his wedding ring, “You misunderstand! I was asking if that’s what you see in their eyes?”

Martin clung to Jon’s hand, heart palpitating and breath easing.

“Oh…” he blurted dumbly, flushing with lively hues of reds and golds once more, “I-? Of course I do, what else could it be?”

“I don’t see that. I don’t see that at all,” Jon answered simply, “It’s… hard to describe but, damaged goods, disgust, morbid curiosity, those are all… Hard things. They have sharp edges. And when people here look at me, I don’t feel anything hard or sharp, it feels… soft? It feels gentle.”

Shaking his head, Martin frowned.

“Gentle? How is openly gawking at someone’s scars in any way gentle?”

“It’s just a feeling I have. I suppose,” Jon mused, thumbing at his beard with his free hand as he constructed an analogy that would make sense in his mind, “Mmm… Think of it like this. Humans, life, we’re all very visually oriented creatures, right? We respond to visual cues in our environments that are universally understood. We wear these rings so that everyone knows we belong together, just the same as bright colors usually mean poison, or how specialized feathers, or horns, or dewlaps and the like let others know they’d be a good mate, or how some things look like eyes or like entirely different creatures to scare off predators, and so on.”

The creases in Martin’s forehead only deepened in confusion.

“Okay sure, but scars aren’t a natural adaptation? We don’t look at scars the same way we look at pretty eyes on a moth wing or something.”

“I know that, that’s not what I’m saying,” Jon reiterated tenderly, “What I’m saying is I’ve always felt like my scars are a visual cue, but one that says to others ‘treat me gently’, because clearly I haven’t been. And it’s… well it’s been quite nice. You were about to tear that poor girl’s head off, but didn’t you see how she not only gave me about six samples when the sign clearly said two per customer, but then she also gave me the rum raisin ‘by mistake’ and then conveniently forgot to charge for it?”

“Wh-did she?” Martin gasped in shock, rewinding the transaction to remember that indeed, Jon had only asked for mint chip, but there was clearly also a generous scoop of rum raisin in his cup, ”She did… No I… I guess I didn’t notice…”

Jon let Martin’s hand go to cup his cheek pointedly in his scarred palm, running his thumb over the soft curve of his cheek and the spray of his ruddy freckles comfortingly.

“You want to know what I think? I think what you perceive as disgust or aversion or even pity is just fear, like you had. Fear of pain, fear of disfigurement, of fallibility. People are always afraid of seeing what can become of their mortal bodies, but that has nothing to do with me, or being disgusted by me. People are, at their cores, good and gentle, Martin. I know they are, we both do. They see me, my cane, my limp, my hand, my gray hair, my face, and they don’t even ask, they just know, on some primal level, that life was not kind to me. And so in some tiny way, like free rum raisin, they almost always try to give something back to me.”

Jon had known. He had noticed. It had never escaped his perception as Martin had assumed. Jon had known all along, but it was only Martin who still saw daggers in the smiles of strangers while he had taken the last vestiges of his powers irrevocably branded on his body and soul and sowed something delicate and beautiful and blossoming in his new earth. Martin had made a weapon. Perhaps no less delicate and beautiful, but still cold and sharp and deadly. The razor white edge of the sun through frigid fog.

“I’m so sorry, Jon,” Martin choked, his throat pinching shut with the threat of tears, “I-I had no idea…. I-I only thought…”

“It’s alright, please don’t cry, darling, you have nothing to be sorry for. I understand. You only thought you were protecting me. I protected you for so long, when you were desperate to do the same for me, to save me, but had no power to do either. Now you’ve got your turn to do the protecting in earnest, and honestly, it’s a… can I- can I say hot? Can I say it’s a hot look on you? Or is that weird?” Jon asked, tips of his ears blushing coyly.

Martin managed a laugh as he sniffed back the tears and thumbed both sets of lashes dry under his spectacles.

“It’s a little weird for you, in particular, to say it, just because it’s you. But I’ll take it.”

“I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

Perhaps then, Martin thought as Jon leaned over their whimsical little metal table outside an ice cream parlor by a park with a striped canopy above them and birds singing and kissed his tears away and then kissed his lips into a smile, that sharp things needn’t always be weapons. Perhaps his sword was, in reality, a spade, or a hoe, something to tend and nurture the new and fragile happiness Jon had tilled. Gentle things deserved gentle protection, and he was still going to devote every iota of his being to protecting Jon until the end of their days. After all, as they finally got to enjoy their slightly melted ice cream, Jon still dribbled a bit of rum raisin down his beard and carried on none the wiser. Martin let him go on like that, blissfully unaware, talking about Polyphemus moths and the myth of the cyclops and something about someone going about as Nobody, until he finally reached out with a napkin to attentively wipe it away.

Other than a gracefully paced ‘oh, thank you dear,’ Jon never missed a beat.

#The Magnus Archives #TMA #JonMartin #Jmart #Fan fic #Crow Writes #Ask Drabble #Fricklefracklefloof

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polyhexianchicken · 2 years

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1,11,19,20,21

I have so many questions about the giant chicken.

1) What made you pick up this character?

This is gonna sound odd considering those that know me closer will know me by my bright and positive personality, and my answer may be morbid buut:

I found his complexity of a character fascinating. When I first saw him, I didn't know he had Empurata, or what that even was. At first he also annoyed me a little bit with his selfishness, but once I actually got through the two comic series, I was completely enamoured of this product of neglect. Small tidbits in the comic made me go 👀, like Rung dismissing his self harming, the entire crew bar Rodimus wanting to punch him, the only reason they even took him being that he was too dangerous to leave anywhere else; after a while, all I saw in him was a lonely, broken mech completely engulfed in rage of the absoloute unfairness life had given him, all for wanting to make clocks.

I personally believe he was a different mech before Empurata, as the brash and violent Whirl we know in the comics wouldn't have been able to make a name of himself as a chronosmith with that behaviour. And it's just, really interesting to see how he interacts with others?

He tried to kill himself multiple times, and had a rather soft/uncharacteristic reaction to Cyclonus' self harming tendencies, to a depressed Trailcutter, even encouraging Rodimus, helping Chromedome with Rewind-

All, small blink or miss moments where you realise that this mech absoloutly cares about this crew, despite choosing most of his waking moments to cause harm.

But still, he keeps going. He's still trying to make clocks despite being unhappy with the results everytime, but he just. keeps. going. He has nothing left to loose yet he's still kicking despite being suicidal as all hell.

What made me actually of course want to write him, was that he was fun. He's unapolagetic, he's out there, he is impulsive and chaotic and I wanted to write a fun character.

Originally.

It then morphed to me wanting to explore how someone would behave if society absoloutly had hated this guy's guts since the beginning, and how a guy like that would react to genuine care he has not felt his entire life- how would that affect his psyche, his behaviours?

I find him incredidbly fun and interesting to write because he's so darknmorally gray. He does what he thinks is right, no matter if its a terrible choice or not. And hell, he's smart and strong. He cares about others, but being shunned by society has made him clumsy and unaware of his behaviour to others, so he may be saying something out of kindness but really it's hurtful.

He's absoloutly chaotic which is so fun to write because I finally have an excuse to be gremlin :3

11) Are there some things you dislike about how the show/series/etc. portray the character you have picked up? If so, what?

I am very biased because the writing he got was made me love him, flaws and all. I dislike that he's such an underused character, I really wish there were more morally gray autobots being given showtimes or deeper lore dive ins. I want to see more of him :<

I must say I do notice a trend in fanon where he's just portrayed as a mech who only knows violence and absoloutly nothing else, which is a pity because he is a well rounded character. Each one to themselves of course, everyone has their own interpretations :D!

19) Should people get into the franchise your writing from, yes or no?

YEP. It's wild, it's longwinded, yes, but oh my god do you get amazing insight to social structures, to CANON interpersonal relationships, immense history deepdive and a different light on the Autobot/Decepticon mecha. IDW More than meets the Eye and Lost Light are such good series to read I honestly can recommend.

20) If you could sum up your character with one sentence, what would it be?

He's an angry, violent, broken and distrusting mech with so much care still about others.

21) Which song do you feel describes your character the most and why?

AGHH there's so MANYYY I have!!!

I'll have to go with this one for now:

youtube

as the lyrics remind me of what I said before: He's been mutilated, violated and shunned by everyone around him, but he's still here.

Since I rarely find myself being able to talk about this Lemme ramble about the lyrics real quick:

I was born in a thunderstorm

I grew up overnight

I played alone

I played on my own

I survived

Now this is the first verses and already it reminds me of him being from a higher caste but finding himself not wanting to be what he was, and never, (I believe at least) having any actual support from anyone but himself. He's only ever had himself to rely on and he's come through it all.

I wanted everything I never had

Like the love that comes with light

I wore envy and I hated that

But I survived

The next ones remind me of his anger and violence after Empurata, and wanting everything he never had (he lost his home and ability to craft, alongside his body)

But he's still here.

I have made every single mistake

That you could ever possibly make

I took and I took and I took what you gave

But you never noticed that I was in pain

I knew what I wanted, I went in and got it

Did all the things that you said that I wouldn't

I told you that I would never be forgotten

And all in spite of you

And I'm still breathing, I'm still breathing

I'm still breathing, I'm still breathing

I'm alive (You took it all, but I'm still breathing)

These lyrics hit home so hard because yeah often he wonders if it was really worth it doing all of these things, he often believes he's made every wrong choice possible in his life, nobody notices or cares that he's hurting (in his optics and actually proved by others behaviour in the comics), but DESPITE all of that.

He's still alive.

#long post #jxjsjfjwe #(the whirly chicken)#(ooc)#(ask the chickenherder: me)#((AHH I WROTE SO MUCH CJSJFJS))#((I really love talking about him- ah. cjjsjf))

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lokidrabbles · 4 years

Text

Sweet-Scented Alien (Loki x Reader)

Loki has another difficult night and the reader takes care of him

A/N: Another Loki has really bad nightmares one shot! I know I kinda go all over the place with this one, but I tend to have a lot of ideas for Loki’s POV. However, I hope you all can enjoy! As always, Gender Neutral Reader!

Warnings: Suggested smut, but not really

The same nightmare continued to torment the Asgardian prince. The destruction of Asgard, the loss of his parents, and the Titan’s enormous grasp around his neck would resume like a broken record until a morbid snap in his neck would shove him awake into the real world.

He gasped for air as his body jolted him awake, frozen in place while his mind still processed the tangibility of his surroundings. He would instinctively reach to feel the back of his neck, an effort to make sure it still remained in tact. He still remained in one piece, and he considered himself unworthy of his blessings.

The mad Titan still lingered somewhere out there, in search of Loki, in search of unimaginable power. Loki had the fortune of being able to stay out of the Titan’s radar for this long, but the possibility still remained. He was out there, and Loki hid himself away like a coward, here with you, exposing you to the unimaginable danger.

Tonight’s was especially vivid, and he couldn’t imagine such a brutal way to be permanently discarded of. He quickly dug his nails into his forearm, making his pain evident for him to fully bring himself in focus. He attempted to stabilize his breathing, but his efforts remained futile for now. He avoided wanted to wake you up, but you were always sensitive about these things, and as if on cue, he felt you shift and slowly turn towards him.

“Hey, Loki. What’s wrong?” He heard you say softly.

“It’s nothing, I’m fine.” He responded hastily, but only to still catch his breath.

“You’re shaking. Did you have another bad dream?” He sensed your concern grow, feeling you sit upwards against the backboard of your bed.

It was difficult to admit he did. Not only did he detest seeing you worry about his well being, as that was his obligation to you, but he detested how vulnerable he appeared in front of you. He’d dread at the possibility of being perceived as weak, someone incapable of protecting you, all because of a dream.

“Please, I don’t need you to hold my hand constantly over this.” He responded, intending for it to come out as disconnected as he could.

“Loki, you’re literally shaking.” You said as a matter of fact. Loki soon felt the touch of your palm over his cheek, relishing in the warmness you provided. “You’re freezing too.”

Adrenaline rushed through him at the though of his body temperature dropping dramatically. You weren’t jesting about something this, and he knew his mental and emotional vulnerability must have triggered some part of his frost giant biology to act defensively. He needed to gain control ASAP, before something worse appeared.

“Err, I think I should just rest somewhere else, just so I won’t continue waking you up anymore. Perhaps, that couch in your living room?”

“What? Loki, don’t be stupid. I want you to stay here with me, especially if you had another nightmare like that.” You said while tugging at his forearm, seemingly disregarding his unusual coldness.

You were a fool, but his heart fluttered at your clinging. “Very well. However, I am a little apprehensive about resting. I honestly will stay up for the remainder of the evening.”

“Guess I’m staying up with you too.”

“You really mustn't stay up. You don’t enough rest for your human body as it is, no matter how much I lecture you about it.”

He could see you roll your eyes within the darkness. “You have to let me take care of you Loki, that’s part of the deal we had.”

“I don’t need to be taken care of.”

“Uh-huh.”

Loki felt the covers flying off of you as you rose up from your bed, padding gently across your floor. You made your way into your bathroom, flicking the lights on and beginning to rummage through your belongings.

Loki squinted at the sudden brightness, peering off the side to catch a glimpse at whatever you were doing. “(Y/N). You must come rest.”

“I will.” You exclaimed from afar. “But I got something for you first.”

Damn. “Stop with the foolishness. I told you I’m fine.”

You didn’t respond, and Loki could only hear you still rummaging. He focused his hearing to catch anything pertinent, before he would justly stomp into that bathroom, pick you up, and toss you back into bed. This was his own issue to deal with after all and he still cringed at the idea of having this mortal, this human, willingly tend to him.

His ears perked at the sound of a squeaking hinge, and then of running water. Oh no.

You slowly stepped out, your pajama sleeves rolled at the way up to your elbows. Your hair was still a mess, and the circles under your eyes suggested you definitely had not gotten enough sleep this night. But still you stood there, and even in your most dullest appearance, Loki still thought you were lovely.

“Okay, start getting naked.” You said through a yawn.

“Excuse me?”

“I’m drawing you a warm bath dummy. You’re sticky, and maybe you can relax more if your body warmed up too.”

The act of kindness was too sickening for him. Loki was a frost giant, and although he always maintained good homeostasis over his own biological temperature, he would always be naturally a bit colder than most aesir or humans. It wasn’t something to be saddened about, it was simply how he was. And yet, with your best efforts, you still desired to provide him with relief, even if it probably wouldn’t have any effect on him at all. It was all charming, and Loki had grown very unused to having someone mend his perceived suffering. Again, he felt his heart flutter at the notion.

“You cannot be serious.” He said flatly, a small piece of him hoping you’d still pester him about it.

“Come one, you’ll feel much better. And then after, I promise I’ll go back to sleep, deal?”

“Hmm. You strike up a difficult bargain, human. But very well, if it will get you off my back and get you some rest.”

You provided Loki with two thumbs up, sealing the verbal agreement. Loki groaned, pushing himself off the bed and beginning to discard his clothes. From the corner of his eye, he could see you leaning on the doorway into your bathroom, blatantly ogling at him and his bare body. Not that Loki really minded. In fact, he felt some sense of pride at how easily you’d become distracted at his nude form. Which of course meant you wouldn’t have eyes for anyone else.

“You’re staring.” He said teasingly.

“Guilty as charged. Now come on, before I start getting any more ideas.”

Loki trudged behind you into your bathroom, a heavy scent filling his nostrils immediately. It was sweet and nutty, and he immediately identified this scent as your own. There would be days, special occasions, where you would bathe in this sweet almond scent. He thought it was purposeful, for he would be unable to keep his hands off of you, rejoicing in the intoxicating smell gently coming from your hair and skin.

“You’re not getting nude as well?” He asked disappointingly.

“Good idea. But my tub is too small, and it wouldn’t be as fun as you’d imagine.” You reached over to grab his wrist, coaxing him towards your tub.

Steam began to tickle at his nose, and he raised a questioning eyebrow at the ridiculous amount of soap and foam rising. “This wasn’t necessary.”

“Sure it was, go ahead and dip in.”

He sighed, knowing he had to oblige in fear that you would become upset at him. He carefully took one step in, shivering at the sudden exposure to the searing temperature. The heat would soon cool off as soon as he’d emerge his entire body in, but of course you didn’t realize that would happen. Nevertheless, he slowly submerged himself (or as much as he could), enjoying the brief heat that engulfed his skin. He inhaled and let out a deep breath, sinking his hair into the bubbly water. The almond scent now fully took over his entire sense of smell, and he closed his eyes. He imagined this heat as your own, this smell as your own, covering him entirely.

You had perched beside him and your tub, seemingly not minding the water that had splashed over. You dipped a finger in, as if making sure the temperature was adequate enough for him. Another yawn escaped your mouth while doing so and Loki immediately took notice.

“You’re exhausted and you’re making it very obvious. Now, this was your own doing. I don’t want to be blamed for this in the morning.”

You waved your hand to dismiss his comment. “That’s not what’s important right now. How are you feeling?”

“A tad ridiculous with my knees protruding out like so. But yes, the water is quite nice.”

As sleepy as you were, he saw you beam with joy. “Good to hear. I’m hoping this means you’ll be more open to my methods here.”

“I’m only doing this so you’ll stop worrying and go back to bed.” Part of it was true, and the other part mostly involved still wanting to appease you.

“Oh stop it.” You said, playfully splashing some water at him. “Let me do this for you, it’s the least I could do after all you’ve done for me.”

That last part was hard to fully accept. Truly, he didn’t think he’d done much for you. Or at least, he interpreted it much differently than you did. He knew humans were very meticulous in their way of expressing love and care, and while he was no stranger to it, he was rusty about it. The closest thing that popped in his head was that time he carried you back home after you had gotten inebriated, but he was certain you didn’t want to hear about that again.

“You’ll have to forgive me, but that’s a bit of a stretch for my liking.” He said, dipping his head backwards into the water.

“What do you mean?”

“I’m just not sure if what you say is true. I can easily go inside your mind and find out for myself. But even so, I doubt I’d believe that.”

“Believe what, that you haven’t done anything for me?” You asked incredulously.

“I suppose that’s the curse I carry. You know, still being apprehensive about all of this.” He knew it sounded harsh, to even question his relationship with you, but a big function of this relationship was his honesty with you. He knew you wouldn’t cast him away with these words, but there was a speck inside of him that would be terrified of the notion.

He saw your lips twist disapprovingly, and then you shoved a chunk of bubbles right into his face. “You know, for being insanely intelligent, you can be pretty damn stupid too.”

His brows furrowed, shoving away the soapy residue from his face. “Not exactly what I expected to hear.”

“Loki, I’d like to safely think that us sleeping together, having sex, sharing meals, dealing with our worst attitudes on a daily basis, and screwing around with Tony Stark should at least suggest something to you.” You said aggressively. “You think I’d just let anyone call me a stupid human with no discernible reason.”

He opened his mouth temporarily to spew out an argument, but promptly sealed his lips once he noticed how irked you had become. He often enjoyed irking you about several things, but this wasn’t the best way to go at it. He could tell from your approach and body language that you were dead serious about it, and he genuinely wanted to believe that.

“You really need to get it through your head that you matter to me, like a lot.” You continued, standing up and reaching over to grab one of your towels. “I really don’t know how else to say it so you can fully understand.”

“Perhaps, there is something you could do. You know, just so I can understand better.” He said lowly, almost muttering it.

“Oh, and what exactly is that?”

“I’m going to need you to come closer. Come kneel beside me.” He said, his voice low and sultry.

A smirk appeared on your face, following his words and perching next to him and beside your tub again. He lifted his upper body, lather and water spilling all across his chest and arms and leaned into your lips. He heard a quick ‘oh’ escape from you, satisfied at how quickly you had responded to his actions. In one swift move, Loki grabbed your forearm, and yanked you into towards him. You cursed and fell face forward into him and into the now lukewarm water, splashing and making a terrible mess of all things. Loki saw how your legs flailed comically and couldn’t hold back the irresistible grin decorating his cheeks. You must have flopped around for a good minute or so until you managed to hold yourself up by your arms, hair and clothes absolutely drenched.

“Ehehehe.” He sniggered, loving the absolute look of indignation you shot at him.

“God, why do you have to be such a dick?” You muttered, along with some other offensive words.

“That’s it. That’s all I needed, I fully understand now. Thank you so much for that spectacle (Y/N). I believe I can say with confidence that I truly enjoy being with you as well.”

“You’re such a little shit, oh my god.” You lunged at him, making your best attempts to push his head underwater. “Why are you always making me fall for stupid shit?”

“Darling, please!” He exclaimed, grin still very present. “Please don’t end me in such a way. Not at least till you get rid of those soaked garments first.”

“No fucking way-”

“Ah, fucking? You’ve read my mind indeed. Well, if you are suggesting it.”

You groaned loudly, standing up, hair and clothes dripping wet. You stomped out in a fury, muttering things along the way which Loki could only catch as another clear ‘fuck you.’

He followed suit and rose from the water, tip toeing behind you while soap suds still fell from his bare body. The nightmare from earlier that evening would soon be long forgotten, and although Loki’s attempts at getting down and dirty with you wouldn’t be successful, there was something much more important at hand, something he’d fully come to realize with his little prank.

#loki #loki x reader #loki x y/n #loki x you #loki laufeyson #loki (mcu)#loki fanfic #loki fanfiction #loki drabbles #loki odinson

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vashak · 5 years

Text

The Catcher In The Rye

“Anyway, I keep picturing all these little kids playing some game in this big field of rye and all. Thousands of little kids, and nobody’s around—nobody big, I mean—except me. And I’m standing on the edge of some crazy cliff. What I have to do, I have to catch everybody if they start to go over the cliff—I mean if they’re running and they don’t look where they’re going I have to come out from somewhere and catch them. That’s all I do all day. I’d just be the catcher in the rye and all. I know it’s crazy, but that’s the only thing I’d really like to be.”

This is the famous passage from The Catcher In The Rye that gives the book its title. Here, the rye field is most commonly interpreted as the innocence of childhood, with the catcher in the rye being responsible for preventing the children from being tainted by the corrupt and superficial world of adults and losing their innocence.

When I read The Catcher In The Rye for the first time back in September, my first thought was “Oh my god… The catcher in the rye in Banana Fish is Eiji!” As the fandom often discussed at length, Eiji’s quiet presence helped Ash get in touch with his humanity after all that he’s been through. His unshakable faith in Ash and his heartfelt tenderness (as emphasized in the preface of New York Sense) helped preserve Ash’s innocence and prevented him from becoming the monster he thought he had become.

Besides the desire to maintain one’s innocence, one other parallel theme between Banana Fish and The Catcher in the Rye is distinguishing what is genuine and fake in life. It so happens that “phony” is one of the most often used words in The Catcher In The Rye. Throughout the story the protagonist complains about the people around him (mostly adults) of being fake.

“One of the biggest reasons I left Elkton Hills was because I was surrounded by phonies. That's all. They were coming in the goddam window. For instance, they had this headmaster, Mr. Haas, that was the phoniest bastard I ever met in my life. Ten times worse than old Thurmer. On Sundays, for instance, old Haas went around shaking hands with everybody's parents when they drove up to school. He'd be charming as hell and all. Except if some boy had little old funny-looking parents. You should've seen the way he did with my roommate's parents. I mean if a boy's mother was sort of fat or corny-looking or something, and if somebody's father was one of those guys that wear those suits with very big shoulders and corny black-and-white shoes, then old Haas would just shake hands with them and give them a phony smile and then he'd go talk, for maybe a half an hour, with somebody else's parents. I can't stand that stuff. It drives me crazy. It makes me so depressed I go crazy. I hated that goddam Elkton Hills.”

This quote from the beginning of the book reminded me of this exchange between Ash and Blanca.

Ash found something genuine in Eiji for the first time because Eiji saw Ash to be no different than himself. In his eyes, he was just a teenager. And Ash is just that: a teenager. He feels like one but is not allowed to be one nor matter how much he craves it. Except when he’s around Eiji. Then he can relax and let his guard down.

Blanca (thinking): “He” was like a lion’s child… Hiding behind an armour of a beautiful but blank expression, he hardly ever laughed.

But this young, lively American boy before my eyes was utterly defenceless, laughing like he didn’t have a care in the world. I couldn’t wrap my mind around the fact that it was really “him.” But then…

All of a sudden…

He took notice of my presence.

And his demeanour changed completely.

This is the face Ash shows to the world out of necessity. And it scares everyone off, except for Eiji because he could see through his façade.

In the last episode of the anime, Eiji’s letter and the promise he makes (“My soul is always with you”) comforts Ash in his final moments. The last scene in the episode where Ash dies with a smile on his face (whether he chose to die or succumbed to his wounds) tells us that he was happy and at peace because he had someone who genuinely cared for him, who caught him at the edge of the rye field. That’s why the last episode was entitled The Catcher In The Rye.

Now the first episode of the anime is named after another literary piece by J.D. Salinger: A Perfect Day for Bananafish. As this person predicts very early on in the series, if we are to draw parallels between this short story and Banana Fish, we reach a very morbid conclusion: Just like how the war veteran Seymour couldn’t adapt to living in peaceful times and shot himself in the head, Ash won’t be able to escape from his demons after all and end his own life. But the last episode being named “The Catcher In The Rye” offers a much lighter perspective. If we interpret the events of the last episode with what “catcher in the rye” means in the context of its namesake novel in mind, then Ash did escape his demons. Ash’s soul was saved thanks to Eiji and instead of falling off that cliff, he could fly, he was relieved. Eiji was Ash’s catcher in the rye.

Then I did some reading and saw that other fans reversed these roles and thought of Ash as Eiji’s catcher in the rye (x & x), which works just as well. About that, let me quote something I wrote earlier to answer an ask.

“But throughout the series, Ash doesn’t only protect Eiji against danger [that threatens his physical wellbeing]. He also tries very hard to preserve his innocence. Notice how he doesn’t give Eiji a gun when they’re escaping from Golzine’s mansion because “one killer between the two of them is plenty.” And when they’re running away from Golzine’s men underground, he only reluctantly hands Eiji a gun because he himself is very weak physically. Come to think of it, Eiji never kills anyone in the series.”

Or perhaps, Eiji and Ash were respectively each other’s catcher in the rye. In a way, they saved each other. Eiji was feeling suffocated by his personal failures and found a new purpose in life when he met Ash. And Ash discovered that he was worthy of love without having to give anything back. Ash and Eiji brought out the best in each other and became each other’s strength. They protected one another body and soul. And they could be their true selves when they were together, just two boys playing in the rye.

The anime goes all out with the “catcher in the rye” symbolism in the second ending sequence, but the manga doesn’t make any references to the novel except for the artwork at the top of the post. However, the “That Summer” chapter (?) included in the ANGEL EYES artbook kind of gives me the same vibe.

#banana fish #the catcher in the rye #meta #analiz #yorum #banana fish manga #banana fish türkçe #english #şekerli

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unityghost · 4 years

Text

Shadow Play

Part 26 (generic quip about having no life) of Post-Asmodeus Sabriel Feels, my angst-tastic series about what would have happened if Gabriel had survived season 13.

Shoutout to Banjo the cat for helping me write this. She pressed many a random key with her paws, and voila. A fanfic. Thanks, Banjo.

Although Sam knew that Gabriel preferred to keep himself busy, there could be no denying an underlying sense of duty.

“You put up with me,” Gabriel had told him recently, with an air of factuality that twisted Sam’s stomach. “Come on, you can’t expect me to not pay my dues.”

Then he had gone back to his pile of crumbling manuscripts and continued to scrawl English translations onto a legal pad.

The attitude and dedication were not new, but Sam felt disturbed by how straightforward Gabriel could be about this sometimes: now and again, he spoke of his own burdensomeness with no emotion at all.

To Gabriel, Sam understood, that sense of being in the way could not have been more real. Once in a while, it seemed that he was simply trying to accept it - or, worse, that he already had.

One Saturday, early in the morning, Sam found Gabriel already in the library, poring over a stack of volumes which were organized in what looked to Sam like senseless chaos but which Gabriel seemed able to interpret - judging by the way he picked up one book, wrote something down, then leaned across the table to grab another and flip through its pages before readily picking up another book from what seemed an otherwise random location.

“Why are you up so early?” Sam asked Gabriel.

Gabriel did not look up from his work. “Why are you up so early, champ?”

“Are you, you know, all right?”

“Of course I’m all right.”

Sam waited for him to say more. When Gabriel remained silent, Sam said, “Yeah, okay,” and left.

He returned half an hour later with two cups of coffee from a few blocks away.

“Here,” he said, pushing one across the table.

Gabriel looked surprised. “Heya, what’s this, for me?”

“Yeah. You know that sort of upscale place a few blocks over?”

“If by ‘upscale place’ you mean ‘hipster meeting house,’ then yes.”

“Well, it’s a little overpriced, but it’s good stuff. I got you a cappuccino that might taste more like a milkshake based on how much sweet stuff I asked them to mix in. Seeing as you’ve been up since - ”

“Never mind how long I’ve been up. Thanks; that was nice of you. But I thought you didn’t like beverages in the library?”

“Yeah, not when my brother is the one with the beverage. Thanks for all the work you’ve been doing lately.”

Gabriel shrugged. Sam looked more closely at him.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

“Nothing.” Slowly, Gabriel lifted the cup and took a sip. “It’s pretty great.” But there was a peculiar expression on his face that, as Sam studied it, grew less peculiar and more familiar: the crease in his brow, the tightness of his lips.

“Gabe,” Sam said.

“What?” Now Gabriel’s eyes were bright and hyper-alert. “What is it?”

Sam sat down across from him. “Something’s bothering you, huh?”

“No.”

“You don’t have to talk about it, but please don’t lie.”

Gabriel waved a dismissive hand. “I’m tired. Ever since that djinn managed to cop some archangel blood in Idaho last week, I’ve felt like I’m recovering from the flu or something.”

"If you're so tired, what are you doing up?"

Gabriel didn't answer.

Sam sighed. “It’s just us, you know. I don’t think anybody else is even awake.”

“Oh please, Cas doesn’t sleep.”

“Well, he’s not here right now, is he? Gabriel, please just don’t feel like you have to hide anything.”

Gabriel closed his eyes. “There’s some stuff that’s hard to explain.”

“Maybe I can help if I have some idea of what’s going through your head.”

“Maybe. But it won’t make any more sense to you than it does to me.”

“Try me.”

“It’s not just that, though. It’s …” Gabriel struggled for a moment. “It’ll make me seem, um …”

Sam thought about suggesting an adjective - childish, psychotic, whiny - based on the laundry list Gabriel had already given him, but decided to wait instead. Sometimes, he observed, their conversations began as morbid rounds of Mad Libs.

“Ungrateful,” Gabriel finished.

Sam frowned. “For what?”

Gabriel avoided Sam’s eyes. “Everything. Asmodeus saw me as a Veruca Salt type. Never satisfied - always demanding more.” He swallowed, and Sam noticed that he had lost some color in his face. “Once in a while, though, he would surprise me with something nice. Food, or drink, or something to keep me warm. I guess maybe he wanted to prevent future bitching from his petulant toy.”

“I don’t know; sounds more like he was messing with you in some way, Gabriel.”

“Maybe.”

“Well, I don’t think of you like that, you know. Neither does anyone else.”

“If I’d been good enough,” Gabriel continued, as though Sam had not spoken, “He wanted to spend time with me - or so he said. He used phrases like ‘good boy’ and ‘sweet pet’ and - well, sorry if you already had breakfast. Look, Sam, the thing is, there’s no pleasure like the pleasure of a beaten dog whose owner sidles in to stroke its bruised spine.” Gabriel paused. “Except you’d think I would never want him near me, wouldn’t you?”

Sam hesitated. “Well, yeah.”

“Mm-hmm. But there was so much relief in those moments - relief at finally seeing proof.”

Sam squinted. “Proof?”

“Proof that what he was saying to me was true. You know, that I was lucky to be there with him - because he was the only one who knew what was good for trash like me. And because he was the only one who knew what that trash was good for. It was a healthy reminder that if I wasn’t his plaything, I’d be useless. And …” Gabriel broke off, making a conscious effort to slow his breathing. “It was my rightful place, Sam. Well - I know now that it wasn’t, but how was I supposed to figure otherwise when I was still down there with him?”

Sam wondered if Gabriel really did know otherwise now, but dismissed the thought.

“And,” Gabriel barreled on, “The euphoria of his affection was always punctuated by a sense of - of ‘Don’t screw this up, Gabriel, not now that he’s shown he can love you.’ But of course I always did find a way to screw things up. There was no pleasing the guy for more than a handful of hours at a time.” Gabriel lowered his eyes, surveying the coffee cup in front of him. “I tried harder at that than I’ve ever tried at anything else, Sam. Chalk it up to having no grace, no power. Or … or maybe I was just that bad at being good enough.”

“Hey.” Sam softened his voice. “I didn’t bring you the coffee because I want you to do anything for me.”

“I get it, I get it; you’re no Asmodeus. You really think I deserve good things.” Gabriel’s smile was cold. “Sam, do you really want to know what shot through my head when you brought this in?”

Sam nodded.

“I - ” But Gabriel paused. Seconds ticked by. Then he said, “I don’t know. It doesn’t make sense even to me.”

“Were you afraid, maybe?"

“I don’t think so, no.”

He was right, Sam thought: Gabriel did not look frightened. This time, there was something else laced through his features, something Sam had been meaning to bring up for a while.

Tentatively, Sam spoke. “Hey, um, Gabriel - do you remember that night a few weeks ago, where you woke up from the nightmare?”

“Oh, you mean that one nightmare I had that one night, that one time, amid countless hours of dreamless slumber?”

Sam sighed. “When you woke up screaming and everybody came running in.”

“No, Sam. Please, paint a more vivid picture so I can add it to my scrapbook.”

“Well, do you remember how I asked you if you … you know … if you missed Asmodeus?”

Gabriel bristled. “Yes. I remember that.”

“I mean …”

Gabriel kept his gaze averted.

“Gabriel,” Sam said quietly, “Sometimes I have the sense you wish that … that he could be the one to come and help. Not me.”

Gabriel shut his eyes. “Do you have any idea how that makes me sound?”

“Um … sad?”

“No. Thankless.”

“You’re still worried about being ungrateful?”

“Uh, yeah, no shit.”

“I’m not accusing you of doing anything wrong. I get it - sort of. I mean, he did give you everything you had, right?”

Gabriel barked what sounded less like laughter and more like a shriek of terror. “And he made mighty sure I knew it. Sam, I don’t want Asmodeus - I want you.”

In that moment, Sam thought he finally understood why Gabriel was disturbed and disgusted by the word “want.” There was something horrendously, nauseatingly powerful about how it sounded coming from Gabriel's mouth.

“Look,” said Gabriel, “It’s just - I - his love was in short supply, and he wasted it on me time and again, and I - I let him down.”

“He didn’t love you, Gabriel.”

“Don't, Sam. Don't say that, all right? I don’t like when you tell me he didn't love me.”

“I’m sorry, Gabe, but it’s true. You can’t think of his treatment as love.”

Gabriel turned away, but not before Sam saw tears in his eyes.

“Crap,” Sam whispered. “I’m sorry. It’s just that I don’t want you to think that the way he handled you is the way you deserve to be treated, that’s all.”

Gabriel shook his head and muttered something.

“What?” asked Sam.

Gabriel cleared his throat. “Um - I failed him.”

“No you didn’t.”

“I tried to be enough.” Gabriel seemed to be speaking more to himself than to Sam now. “I tried to be worth what he was offering.”

Sam reached out and took Gabriel's hand. It was an old gesture of comfort, one that Gabriel almost never rejected - and he didn’t now. “Can you listen to me for a second?”

Without looking at him, Gabriel nodded.

“You could tell me anything at this point, I think - and we’d find a place for it in everything else we’ve had to work through. Okay? If you came to me to say you hate him or miss him or whatever - I mean, I never felt anything like that for Lucifer. I can’t say I ever once felt like I missed him. But all that means is that Lucifer is different from Asmodeus, and I’m a little different from you.”

“Sure, if by ‘different’ you mean - ”

“I don’t mean ‘better.’ I mean different.” Sam squeezed his hand, half-hoping that Gabriel would reciprocate and feeling disappointed when he didn’t. “You need to let me know what’s going through your head even if I might not totally get it. I’m - I’m a little confused, maybe, but not shocked. I don’t have expectations about what you’re going to feel. Whatever you’ve got going on is just part of everything else, okay? Please just - just don’t be scared to bring it up. Even if you were to come to me and tell me you hated me, we could make it fit. We could figure it out.”

All at once, Gabriel went white and jerked his hand out of Sam’s. “I don’t hate you!”

Sam blinked, startled.

“I don’t hate you!” Gabriel repeated. “In what universe would I claim to hate you? Where did that come from?”

“Nowhere! I’m just saying you could confess something super weird and we’d still - ”

“I don’t hate you! Do you think I hate you?”

“No, Gabriel. That’s not what I think.” Sam tried to sound soothing, but the truth was that Gabriel’s reaction might be the exception: Sam was not, in that moment, sure how to incorporate it into the bigger picture.

“I didn’t want to make you think I hated you,” Gabriel insisted. “Jesus, that’s why I didn’t want to tell you about this; I didn’t want to say anything because Dad knows it makes me sound like the spoiled brat Asmodeus always told me I was!”

“Gabriel - ”

“Missing him is betraying you, and I know that; but not missing him is betraying him! Not that I’m worried about that, but - or I am, I think; I mean, I shouldn’t be, but - see, paying any mind to his feelings is pointless, but those moments of - of peace or safety or love or - Sam, they were important.”

“Okay. Hey, hey, listen, buddy - this isn’t about what you owe me. That was your home for a long time, so I get where you’re coming from. Home is home, even if it sucks. Don’t be so angry with yourself over it.”

“Please don’t use that word.” Gabriel’s voice trembled. “Please - don’t try and talk to me about home, okay? Because sometimes I think I want to go home, and then I remember that I have no clue where home is supposed to be - in Hell, maybe, as ludicrous as that sounds; or I guess having no home at all feels more like home than anything else.”

“Wait,” Sam interjected, “You think you don’t have a home?”

“Ah.” Gabriel held up a hand. “Pause. Footnote: there is no consensus among the many factions of my conscience as to whether I have an obligation to make this my home, or if I owe it to all of you to resist the temptation to let myself feel any such thing.”

Before Sam could reply, a new expression passed over Gabriel’s features, one that could not have been mistaken for anything but grief. His face took on the taut, ruddy sadness that Sam had only ever witnessed at memorials.

Slowly, Sam shook his head. “You don’t owe us that. Or anything else.”

Gabriel wiped his eyes. “Yeah, Sam. I do.”

“And you shouldn’t expect yourself to be able to pilot what you do and don’t feel about Asmodeus.”

“I’m not allowed to hope that things will at least make sense? No, of course not. I don’t know what I’m doing. Maybe I expect everybody else to know. Obviously I anticipate that you’ll have all the answers. Another example of just how right he could be about me.”

“What? What are you talking about?”

“Yeah. Spoiled brat, remember?”

“Gabriel, dude … you start going on about yourself like that, you’ll get worked up.”

“Because as you can clearly see, I couldn’t be any damn calmer.” Gabriel scrubbed a hand forcefully, violently, back and forth against his tear-stained cheeks. “I’m stating facts. Picture it: me, feeling anything like grief for him when I have so much more now? That tells you more about me than you should ever have to know. It speaks volumes. Nothing is ever good enough for me, and - and I’m not good enough to make up for always wanting more.”

Sam could now recognize the warning signs in Gabriel’s face - harbingers of delirious panic brought on by memories too heavy to swallow. He saw the pallor, the beads of sweat, the clenched jaw, and owlishly bright eyes.

“Calm down,” he told Gabriel, trying to sound firm without posing a threat. “You’ll make yourself sick if you don’t. Okay?”

“Hmm,” Gabriel offered.

“You’re safe, Gabe. You have to remember that.”

“You know what pisses me off more than anything else right now? What really, really pisses me off?”

“Yeah?”

“That I’ve already got myself too damn sick to even try drinking the coffee you brought. So there you have it; you’ve wasted time and resources on an undeserving son of a - ”

“You can have it later, when you’re ready.”

“I was happy to have it, and then I just - I - I went and screwed things up again.”

“You really didn’t.”

“Sam …” Gabriel lowered his head and ran both hands through his hair. “I … man, I like to think I have more good days than bad. Since imagination is fun and healthy, and I love to walk the deliciously tender line between being an optimist and being a bullshitter.”

“Nobody’s keeping tabs on how many bad days you have. And backsliding is normal. Not ideal, I guess. But normal enough.”

Gabriel snorted. “Great. Feels good to know that everything happening right now is par for the course and I should just roll with it. Sam, this does not feel like it should be normal. Ever. In any context.”

“Then let it be a new version of normal."

“Jesus Christ,” Gabriel muttered. “You know what, Sammy? Let me tell you something about this ‘new normal.’”

“I’m listening.” Truthfully, however, Sam was not sure he wanted to hear. Gabriel didn't sound like he intended to offer any uplifting anecdotes.

“The other night,” Gabriel began, “I had another stupid dream. But this time we’re talking actually stupid, okay? Not just bad, but total gibberish. And when I jerked awake after this circus, I tried to talk myself down: ‘You know your crippled semi-human psyche is playing unpalatable games with itself. Relax, sergeant; take a breath and shimmy your sorry ass back into the present.’ Well, guess freakin’ what, Sam? It didn’t work. I felt frozen and sick and terrified, no matter how hard I wrestled with myself over it. I was so scared just by this flash fiction that had nothing to do with anything at all.”

“What was it?” Sam asked apprehensively.

“A piece of crummy abstract art. There was a shadow on the wall, some formless dark shape with a whole slew of possible identities. One second I felt like maybe I was seeing Dean, then Castiel, and even Jack for a split second there. Not you, though - never you.”

“Good.”

“Yeah, absolutely fabulous. Except that that meant I wanted you. I wanted you immediately. I had this feeling that each one of the others was evil, corrupt, gruesome - hungry for some Gabriel meat. So when I woke up, all I wanted was you. I wanted you so damn much, Sam.”

Sam’s blood ran cold. “Why didn’t you come get me, then?”

“Well, because all through this titillating romp into dreamland, I was thinking that as much as I was dying to call for help, I had no right to pester you. You didn’t need extra demands from your pesky houseguest. The last thing you deserved - and before you get on my case about it, this is just what was going through my head as I was dreaming; I couldn’t stop it - was Little Orphan Archangel to come whining to you about how the people you loved and trusted were out to get me.”

“I wouldn’t have - ”

“So when I woke up, you think I was ready to drag you into my umpteenth midnight meltdown? You needed sleep. And me, having no dignity, no control, not an ounce of self-respect - I curled up in bed and started bawling and then I squealed your name over and over again into my knees as if I expected your spidey senses to tingle and you’d come to rescue me from my own dadforsaken self. But there was also a very real possibility - or at least it felt real, you’ve got to understand that - that I’d go looking for you, and you’d be rightfully pissed off that I hadn’t allowed this shadow bitch to take me away.”

Sam stood up. Alarm flickered across Gabriel’s face. But then Sam crouched in front of him and said, “That kind of thing, Gabe? That kind of thing where you’re actually hurting yourself just to save face, or because you have it in your head that you shouldn’t be allowed access to compassion?” He cleared his throat in a hasty attempt to keep himself together. “That counts as an emergency. Always. Even if it happens ten times a day.”

Gabriel looked discomfited. “Sam - ”

“Don’t sit there and let him do that to you. Please. When that happens, you need help and you can’t afford to pretend you can wait for it.”

“I - ” Gabriel turned his face away. “Sam - ”

“What? What about that sounds so impossible to you?”

“It’s - it’s like I’ve said, I can’t live up to what you’re looking to get from me.”

“Gabriel, for the last time, I’m not looking for you to give me anything!”

“No, you are; you want me to heal, and I don’t know if I can. I certainly don’t have it in me right now - not yet.” Sam saw tears in his eyes. “And I’m sorry for that. I’m a tough nut to crack open and I get that. I exhaust you, though. Now, that’s partly on you for feeding into this idea that you can make me better, but mostly I’m just a difficult patient. I keep fighting your efforts.”

“You’re not putting up a fight with me. You’re fighting Asmodeus.”

“Oh yeah? If I’m working so hard to get him off my conscience, then riddle me this: why the hell should I feel anything other than total revulsion for him? Why is it that I think to myself, ‘I’m terrified and alone and I hope he shows up to help’? I couldn’t justify that if you paid me. And you can’t make this shit up, Sam. This is raw nonsense straight from the mind of a lost cause.”

“You’re allowed to grieve. I can’t say I understand; I haven’t been there. But it isn’t weird that you’d miss him sometimes.”

“Yeah, well, maybe it wouldn’t be weird if you didn’t happen to be around.”

“You had him for hundreds and hundreds of years. And he was the only thing you had. He was everything to you.”

Gabriel groaned. “When you put it that way, it sounds so gross. It really does.”

“You can’t just replace everything you had with something new, and expect it to feel like home. At least not right away.”

Gabriel kept his gaze averted. No further tears had spilled from his eyes, although Sam could tell that, if Gabriel was going to put up a real fight, it was in response to the urge to cry.

“Please,” Sam said. “Please don’t keep yourself locked away when you wake up like that, or when you feel like something’s wrong. I’m right here; we’re all right here. We’ll connect the dots where we can, okay? But come on - I mean, who even really cares? It’s a language - sort of. Or not. Maybe just a bunch of made-up words that we can use to create a language of our own. Can we look at it that way?”

Gabriel jerked his head - not quite a nod, not quite a refusal. “Impressively well fleshed-out for an improvised metaphor, Sam.”

“I really hate the picture you just painted. I hate that you didn’t go looking for someone, anyone, just because you were afraid of being a nuisance.”

Gabriel shook his head. “I - Sam, I couldn’t get anybody else. It had to be you.”

“So I would’ve helped you.”

“And are you forgetting the very real possibility that it could have reminded you of your own experience in the pit?”

“I guess it could have, sure. It didn’t just now. But even if it did, can we maybe not pay that any attention unless it actually becomes an issue? For now, I want you to worry about yourself - not about me.”

“Perfect. Seeing as I’ve been provided explicit instructions to avoid worrying about you, it’s smooth sailing from here on out. Thanks, Sam. Now I don’t have to concern myself with whether or not you’re keeping your own head above water. And if the message isn’t clear, let me translate: shut up and let me care about you, you self-effacing dingleberry.”

“I’m serious. In moments like that, you have to put everything else on hold; you’ve got to look for help first thing. Like I said, it’s an emergency. Imagine if it were Jack. You’d want to - ”

“Stop right there. Don’t put that image in my head, and don’t compare Jack to me. He’s an entirely different species, Sam, and I’m not just talking about his human DNA.”

Sam raised his eyebrows. “Okay?”

“He’s not me, he’s nothing like me; there’s nothing wrong with that kid. I don’t even like that he has to breathe the same air as me - so don’t insult him by pretending like the two of us deserve the same treatment.” Gabriel’s face was flushed. “And now I can’t shake that scenario you just threw into my brain and it’s making me feel like I have to puke.”

“I’m sorry,” Sam told Gabriel, and meant it: he didn’t like the vision either. After a moment’s consideration, he decided not to address some of the more problematic themes wrapped in Gabriel’s protestations. So he went on, “It doesn’t matter to me how many times you find yourself in that position, okay? It’s just as important if it happens once a week or every night for a month, Gabriel. I promise one of us can help, and if it has to be me then get me right away. Text me if you have to; I keep my phone next to my bed. You won’t get better if you keep this up. You won’t heal if you let these feelings just rot inside of you.” Sam’s knees were aching from his crouched position, so he stood up again and sat back down, this time in the chair beside Gabriel’s. “You don’t need to abuse yourself the way he did. Asmodeus wasn’t giving you love or anything else that you needed. And now you’re hurting yourself more by throwing away the real thing because you think you shouldn’t have it.”

Gabriel’s face was hard and closed-off, but the tears finally slipped free and he turned further away in a limp attempt to conceal them.

Not even sure where the question was coming from, or why he was asking it, Sam said: “What’s scaring you?”

He anticipated silence, or a tense “Nothing.” So he was taken aback when Gabriel replied, “I’m waiting for your speech. Your tactful ‘you and I both know it’s time for you to leave the Bunker’ speech.”

Sam balked. “Excuse me?”

“No one’s accusing you of intent to actually do it,” Gabriel told him. “I’m just answering the question: that’s what I’m afraid of.”

“I’m not - ”

“I know. I’m still scared of it, and I’m sorry about that.”

“Nobody here wants you to leave. Especially not me. I want you to stick around until you get sick of us.” Sam wondered if Gabriel could hear the tightness in his own throat. “I’m not changing my mind about that because you feel like you miss Asmodeus; I can be better than he was.”

“You think I don’t know that already? I’m sad, not simple. But that's just the issue: you’re providing your best, and I’m not taking it like I should be. Come on, doesn’t it make you feel just a little bit unappreciated to hear me say ‘I wish Asmodeus could be here to help’?”

“No, but it makes me worry about how bad he screwed with your mind.”

Gabriel didn’t reply, and Sam didn’t press him. In the distance, he could hear people moving around - probably Dean getting coffee, or Jack getting cereal, or both of them.

“Listen,” Gabriel said finally, “I hope you know I can see the difference. You’re not him; you couldn’t be any less like him. You’d never, ever do to me what he did to me, and I hate that, and I love that. It’s just that he did give me something - something I don’t know how to describe, if it wasn’t love. I wish he hadn’t played those games with me, but he did; he played them like they were guitar picks and I was an out-of-tune six-string. And you’ve gotta understand - what was I supposed to do, you know? When I got those glimpses of kindness? How could I not give in and just - just be happy about them? How could I not be scared to death that he would change his mind? And how could I not hate everything about myself when he inevitably made it clear that that kindness had been a mistake?”

Sam realized he couldn’t speak, so he only nodded.

“But,” Gabriel pleaded, “I don’t want him. I don’t want Asmodeus, Sam; I want you.”

Sam swallowed. “Good. Because I’m here.” He cleared his throat. “Hey - since you’re in the swing of it, what else do you want right now?”

Gabriel leaned away. “What?”

“Right now. What do you want? Tell me.”

Gabriel floundered. “I - um. Nothing.”

Sam waited.

“Um,” Gabriel stammered, “The coffee, I guess.”

Sam passed it to him. “Might be cold.”

“I don’t care. But, uh - ”

“You want something else?”

“No.”

“You were going to ask.”

“I …” Gabriel shuddered. Sam had the urge to wrap a blanket around him. Perhaps after this he would offer to take him back to Sam’s own bedroom and let him get a few hours of sleep there.

Gabriel opened his arms.

"Oh," said Sam, and leaned forward.

Gabriel didn't speak, but he did relax into the embrace.

That was all the thanks Sam could have asked for.

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changeling-rin · 5 years

Note

Hi! I was wondering, what are your thoughts on the different Zelda games? Not a ranking or anything, just what did you like/dislike in each game/franchise as a whole? And how did you come up with the personalities of the characters for DL? Thank you!

Oof. Oh, you’re gonna make me Longpost, aren’t you. Yeah, okay. You asked for it.

Skyward Sword/Gen

-I both love, and hate, the motion controls. On one hand, I have never felt more epic than when I personally stabbed my sword into Demise’s head. On the other hand, I have never felt more frustrated when my wiimote would misinterpret my swings and I would subsequently die. Contrary to popular opinion, I actually like Fi. Her design is beautiful, her theme is gorgeous, and her goodbye to Link is one of the most beautiful yet heartbreaking moments in the entire franchise. The origin of the Master Sword, in my opinion, might be one of the best things to come out of this game.

Gen’s personality came about mainly as the foil to Lore and Dusk’s pre-existing dynamic. Lore is the spastic one, and while Dusk is definitely somewhat of the straight-man, he’s much more likely to roll with it unless it’s drastically damaging. Gen, on the other hand, will avidly apply common sense to anything and everything, and since Lore very rarely follows common sense, Gen morphed into his ‘conscience’, so to speak. His predilection for healing was a side-effect of me dying a lot in his game and spending more on Red Potion than probably anything else, and also because the group needed a medic and Gen was definitely the most take-charge character I had who would do that sort of thing.

Minish Cap/Speck

The Picori are the cutest things, oh my gosh. I do, however, suspect their violent and painful end in BotW - if they’re the ones who put the Rupees and Bombs and stuff in the grass, and there’s no such things in BotW… Aside from that! I adored the concept of shrinking down and having the entire environment change on you. It was such a unique way to make an old area new again. On the flipside, I loathed the Kinstone sidequest with a passion. I never did manage to match them all.

Speck was basically me saying to myself, ‘He’s a tiny person. How do tiny people see the world?’ And then he turned into a quiet, shy kid who tries very hard not to be a bother and looks at problems from a completely different angle than most people. This is why he always second guesses his words - he’s by far the most frequent user of ‘um’, ‘uh’, ‘ah’, ‘oh’, etc, and this is entirely on purpose. Tiny people, by nature, will do whatever it takes to make sure the bigger people don’t get mad enough to smush them - a bit morbid, I know, but if you think about it… This is also where his habit of stabbing the eardrum came from. Where most people wouldn’t even think of it, Speck just saw a really good access point and a whole lot of convenient fabric handholds to get him there.

Four Swords/The Four

I have actually never been able to get my hands on a copy of the original Four Swords game. I know. I’m a disgrace to the fandom. However, I have done extensive research, and I can say that by far my favorite concept is being able to deploy a Bow-Wow in the direction of my enemies. I literally cannot imagine it without cackling.

The Four were the result of me having two sets of Four Sword Heroes and desperately needing some way to tell them apart. It took a very long time for me to decide to play up the hive mind aspect, but once I did everything clicked for them. Rather than being split individual aspects of the original Link, the Four are literally a copy-paste of OG Link’s personality with only tiny variations between them, which led to the decision to make them somewhat quiet and awkward about their synchronization. People rarely accept what’s unfamiliar to them, and to be honest the Four probably have one of the more ‘tragic’ backstories. They may or may not have been chased out of a town or two due to a couple misunderstandings about the source of their hive mind. (My babies, I’m so sorry I did this to you I’m a terrible author whyyyyyyyy)

Ocarina of Time/Ocarina

By far, one of the most investing stories in a game. Ganondorf is fabulously evil, 10/10 would thwart again. Music, of course, is beautiful. The travel mechanic, on the other hand, I am not a fan of. Trying to get somewhere before getting the respective warping Song is tedious at best, and the sheer amount of time it takes for me to swap between Young and Adult Link is just… it’s a hassle, is what it is.

Ocarina is a little kid in a Big Person’s body, and I write him accordingly. He’s the wide-eyed boy in a brand-new world. He’s naive to a lot of things and oblivious to several others. He and Mask have a bit of an odd dynamic because of this - Ocarina will basically gravitate to wherever Mask is as a sort of unconscious instinct, under the unrealized assumption that Mask means protection. The ‘Little Brother’ mentality, if you will.

Majora’s Mask/Mask

THE MOON. THE FREAKING MOON. I will never be able to play this game without feeling vaguely stressed and unsettled the entire time and THAT FREAKING MOON is the reason why. Very compelling plot, 10/10, but WHY. Aside from that, the music is fantastic, Majora is Creepy To The Max and we so rarely get that in Zelda games so I am on board, the transformation masks are probably my favorite mechanic, and your heartstrings get yanked on several times with the Goron Lullaby quest and Mikau’s entire storyline.

Mask evolved directly as the opposite to Ocarina, with the caveat that he is directly aware of Ocarina’s unconscious ‘Little Brother’ mindset - Mask just happens to be sincerely uncomfortable with the ‘Big Brother’ role. He’s more knowledgable, more experienced, and this was done explicitly to be in direct contrast with the fact that he looks like a little kid. He’s Ocarina’s opposite in every single way, and it’s fun to have them play off each other.

Twilight Princess/Dusk

Probably my favorite game, art-style-wise. There’s some things that Twilight Princess does fantastically well artistically, not to mention that it contains one of my favorite characters of all time. Midna is awesome and there’s nothing that will convince me otherwise. I actually think the wolf mechanic is a really good way to make new problems within old areas - but I will admit, the bug hunts can be tedious. And that one escort mission can go jump off a cliff. But I adore everything about the concept of a Twilight Realm, and even though Ganondorf comes in and kinda shafts Zant out of the way, he’s fabulous enough that I can accept it. They are, after all, both marvelously evil.

Dusk’s personality came from me thinking back on everything that happens in his game and promptly deciding that: he either went a little insane to deal with it all, or he had the lowest level of crap to give that I’d ever seen. Obviously, I decided on the latter, and I’m very glad I did, because from there that allowed me to build the faux-duo-actually-triad leadership between him, Lore, and Gen that works so very well. I kinda ended up putting a little of myself into Dusk, in that he’s very reserved and will think about what he says before saying it. Of course, I had to incorporate the wolf somehow, and the way that was the most fun for me was to bring some of those traits over into his hylan form. One of these was me interpreting the howling mechanic as Dusk being a naturally good singer, and we all know where that led.

Four Swords Adventures/Red, Blue, Green, and Vio

The loss of the Bow-Wow hits me deeply, but we do get horses so that helps a little. Also, it surprised me a little how similar this game is to the predecessor, Four Swords. There’s a couple plot differences, Shadow Link is a thing, but for the most part it follows a very similar pattern and I kinda wish something different had been done. It’s fun having more than one weapon to swing around, but not quite as much without other people to play with. The one thing I have to say about Zelda multiplayer games is that, without actual multiple players, it’s just… not as fun.

I freely admit that large parts of Green, Vio, Red, and Blue’s personalities came directly from the FSA manga - particularly, the subversion of color expectations by having Red be the timid one and Blue be the aggressive one. You never see that nowadays, and I immediately pounced on it. Vio and Green had slightly less large chunks of manga personality, but I basically ripped their inner-group dynamic wholesale. Their individual interactions though, those are all me. Blue and Vio just seemed like natural bicker partners. Red’s Adorable Puppy face evolved out of the sheer amount of times the manga had him on the verge of, or shedding, actual tears. And Green naturally needed to be the exasperated leader keeping them all in line. It all just sorta flowed from there.

Link to the Past/Lore

The originator of such musical classics like Kakariko Village, the Dark World theme, and Zelda’s Lullaby, and I thank this game for making these songs so good. I adore the way that the Dark World can take the entire freaking country of Hyrule and turn it into something completely new. But there were some times where I wasn’t sure where to go? I don’t know if it was me or not, and it could have been. I might just be bad at inferring destinations.

Lore is the direct result of being the target of four entire games, and me thinking to myself, ‘Now how does a normal person deal with something like that?’ The answer was, of course, that they throw normality out a window. Lore is my way to have fun, and also to let out every random impulse I’ve ever had but never acted on. In a way, Lore is me, but without all the inhibitions. Sometimes he ends up being a direct conduit between my brain-thoughts and the page. That aside, I also gladly seized the opportunity to bring something different to the group, which is how the different languages came in. He’s the only Link who actively, within his games, visits other countries, and there was no way I could pass that up.

Oracle of Ages/Oracle of Seasons

They remind me of Pokemon titles. “Here’s these two games! With the exception of some minor details, they’re exactly the same! Combine them for a special surprise!” I do think the Subrosians are adorable though. And of course, shout-out to Veran, the only explicitly female villain the Zelda franchise has ever seen. Maybe someday you’ll get a friend to help you out in that testosterone-filled mess. Maybe someday.

Link’s Awakening

Far sadder than I anticipated it being. Also, the Bow-Wow returns! Clearly the best thing in the game. On the bad side - I don’t remember which one it was - there was this one dungeon that just… for the life of me I could not get it to make sense in my brain. I don’t know why. I also don’t remember what the solution was. Very engaging story though, the Windfish mystery kept me engaged right up to the Big Reveal.

A Link Between Worlds/Sketch

The painting mechanic is just. It’s so clever. The entire landscape is transformed with a single dimension shift and I loved it. I was kinda skeptical about the same map as LttP, but then Lorule happened and I was pleased enough with that to accept it. Ravio and Hilda are fine additions to the LoZ family and I wholeheartedly accept them - also, the Lorule Castle theme is one of the best songs in the franchise, fight me. One thing I do remember is this one boss battle, I think with some sort of Manhandla plant? It took me at least ten or so tries to get past that thing. Really didn’t enjoy that one.

Everything intentional about Sketch evolved from his painting ability, this being his phobia of water, his tendency to use stealth in a confrontation, and his continued sidetracking with artistic ideas. At some point though, he turned into one of the most sarcastic Links in the bunch, and I’m really not sure how it happened. But it seemed to fit him for whatever reason.

The Legend of Zelda/Realm

I regrettably have not been able to get my hands on this one either, but I have watched a play-though. My observations are as follows: Where is the map. How did anyone figure out where they were going in this game. I don’t understand how that wall was supposed to indicate it was bomb-able. How did people play this game without getting too frustrated to continue. On the bright side, the dungeons seemed to be very well-laid-out, and the bosses, while repetitive, were pretty memorable. I suspect I would get lost within the first ten minutes, though.

Realm is directly based off of my above observations. I am firmly of the opinion that absolutely nobody can make it through the original LoZ game without getting lost at least once, and this resulted in Realm’s absolutely abysmal sense of direction. Consequently, I made him hopelessly optimistic and cheerful enough to make the sun jealous, because the only person who could put up with those sorts of mishaps is the person who can just get right back up and keep going. Also, the fact that I myself and severely directionally challenged means that writing Realm comes very easily.

The Adventure of Link

I have not played this one either. I apologize. That said, I dislike the switch from top-down to 2-D scroller. In comparison with literally every other game in the franchise, AoL feels the least like a ‘Zelda’ title. Though, for the invention of Shadow Link, I award at least few points.

Wind Waker/Wind

It’s adorable. It’s somehow a very dark and serious game disguising everything behind a cute and cartoony art style and even though I can recognize it I don’t actually care. The story is engaging, Tetra is the Best Pirate, and the ocean makes it feel so big. I do think the sailing mechanic can be a bit time-consuming before the warp travel kicks in, and I actually feel like Ganondorf went down too easily, maybe?

Wind is based off of sailing, basically. I took the amount of time it takes him, in-game, to get places and decided that he has the patience of a saint. Also the bafflingly ability to stay awake for three days straight, but that hasn’t come up in DL, so. Because of this, he’s usually pretty content to let conversations evolve without much input from him, unless he’s got something important to say. And of course, he’s got the Wind Waker, which resulted in me making up an entire magical classification system to explain why he’s so good at controlling the weather, accompanied by an entire chapter-length head canon about the relation between the weather and music. Ironically enough, for all that Wind has no instrument of his own, the fact that he’s a conductor means he’s actually the most musically talented of the whole group.

Phantom Hourglass

I wouldn’t call it a worthy sequel to Wind Waker, but I honestly don’t think it’s too bad - with the exception of the Temple of the Ocean King. First time, it was kinda fun. Second time, less fun, Third time, getting repetitive. Fourth time, getting annoying. Fifth time, and I was really done with that mechanic. The remixed Sailing Theme was good though, and once I got past Linebeck’s surface personality I liked him pretty well too.

Spirit Tracks/Steam

I have never played this one, but the concept seems fun. The riding-a-train song is amazing. This Zelda is probably the most fleshed-out that the character has ever been, and I dearly hope she can take the position of ‘companion guide’ again someday. Or maybe even ‘protagonist’, who knows? I do dislike how vague Malladus is, because as the Final Bad Guy I feel like he should have been solidified more than just “Demon sealed a long time ago”. And to be honest, why Trains? It just seems so random.

Steam, like several other Links, is based around his gameplay. As an engineer, he’s a pretty hands-on type of person, which is why he frequently gets distracted with the inner workings of other Links’ items. And due to the fact that Trains require very little input to control and a lot of travel time, he’s the least physical of all of them. This basically means that he runs the slowest, hits the lightest, and will likely bring the least to the table in a fight. This is one of the reasons I gave him the ‘I Like Trains’ summon, because even if he himself can’t hit very hard, his Train sure as heck can.

Oh my gosh I think this took me a solid hour to type out, I hope you’re very happy with this response Anon ;)

#Changeling Answers #Opinions #Headcanons #I had a lot of fun with this but my gosh writing it out took forever #Anonymous Replies #All the DL Links #Dimensional Links

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cosmicpeko · 5 years

Text

Tool ㅡ Chapter 3: Love

Word count: 1,437

OTP: Fuyuhiko Kuzuryuu x Peko Pekoyama | Danganronpa 2

Additional characters: Sato | Danganronpa 3

Story type: Fanfiction

Short summary: Peko Pekoyama dives into her most precious memories in an intimate journey to self-love, trying to live with emotions she can’t control and to discover what it’s like to be a real person. More notes at the end.

Read on AO3

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Quick notes before you start: This is something that canonically happened in Danganronpa 2 and 3, so this might be a little spoiler for some of you (sorry! I needed to follow a real timeline). Other warnings: semi-graphic depiction of violence, slightly gore. Enjoy!

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My thoughts reminisce: I am a tool. I was brought to this world to be by his side; I shall fulfill my purpose.

I see blood. All around. All on him. All on her. Who was her. What was her. The remains of a pathetic figure laying on the cold floor. Where she belongs. Where she will always belong. The glimpse of life slipping between her hands. Falling from her open skull. Dripping from her forever unblinking eyes.

Him. Young Master ㅡ he is standing tall, near the body. Wide eyes. Far from reality. Far from himself. He is searching for pride and honor to justify himself. Before her. Before God.

Floor as slime ㅡ I hear my own heartbeat. Eardrums shattered. My body and my heart are ready for action. Leaving nothing for thoughts. Readiness ㅡ is an unconscious mechanism. Fists closed.

« You had to call me for this, Young Master. You had to command me. This is what I should be here for. » Unhealthy explosion of emotionality that clouds my judgement ㅡ I've felt this before. I know this. I don't need this. I don't want this. I inhale. Then exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale.

« I killed the bitch. »

Exhale.

« I am the one who did this. » Green eyes reveal total emptiness. Freckles that tasted of summer on his skin now resemble black stains on a pale white board. Pools of blood are where his watch is headed to. He's not here. « Young Master, please refrain to look at the corpse. » I did not intend to be this morbid. « Listen to me. We're doing this togheter. Please... » Useless is every word I call aloud to divide him from the unsettling view. They echoe between the walls of an hollow corridor.

Inside the girl's own house.

She was alone. And she knew. She saw it coming, every day. Every minute. And I, myself, knew it too. I was preparing my sword, every day. Every minute. I knew my own fate. I knew my mission. I was ready to kill.

But I failed.

I let my Master take responsibility for something I had to do first. Killing people is not his job, and it didn't have to be. I am so afraid to lose him ㅡ I start to panic.

I would tear each and every limb of my skin just to fit all of his pain inside me. And free him from it.

Quick thinking. In a hurry, I enter her own room ㅡ not a moment to stop to look at her possessions. At her smiling pictures hung on the wall. Not for a moment I am moved by her scent, still lingering, present, between the sheets I am stripping the bed from.

She has no value to me.

The only priority is dividing the body from my Master's watch; preparing and delivering it to the Kuzuryuu family as prize for the vengeance, second. Offering some first-hand preparation to the pitiful corpse, her own sheets I tuck her lifeless self with. Laces ripped out of my shoes, tight around her.

It takes all my will to have respect for the dead.

Clothes drenched in blood, I approch my Master again. I dare to move before him. « Young Master, please look at me. Please. » I find myself quivering as I keep staring at his eyes ㅡ drained. Hands slowly reach for the bloody weapon, trying to take it from him. He's gripping it. Holding onto it for dear life. Breathless. I shake his shoulders, obtaining just some uncomprehensible muttering. His body tensing as if it's turning into stone.

I don't realize I've been biting my lips until I had my own blood resting on my tongue. Quickly suck it off. Swallow. He can't stand more blood than that. Thought I could block the view, but he's seeing through me.

Or he's not seeing at all.

« I did this for Natsumi. » His words snap me out of it not even a second before I totally went berserk. Stop the thinking. Focus. « I cracked the bitches fucking skull. With this baseball bat. » The muttering suddenly transforms into precise and lucid statements.

Inhale. Exhale.

« Fuyuhiko, » gripping his arms, « Say it. Many times. » The approach is stupidly risky. And my only chance. « As many as you need. Please. » The stake is high. I'm inducing the trauma, attempting to unlock his brain. For the first time, I am not sure of the outcome. I have to try. I have to save him. For I know, and remember, how it is not to be saved.

His lips start to tremble again. « I killed Sato. » His chest rising. « I killed her. I killed Sato. » « Yes, » warmth under his skin. « Yes, you murdered her, Fuyuhiko. You took her life with one single blow. » He is looking at me with wide eyes. Hollow. Struggling to reach out to me. Pure horror. « I killed her. » he repeats, « I killed her. » he quivers, « ...I killed her. » he takes more than a pause to breathe. Sour tears.

« ...I...I... »

He finally realizes.

« Oh my God...Peko... »

One instant.

I grab his entire body. Push it onto mine, embrace it. Tight. As I break any formality between us just by making him feel my body against his ㅡ his entire being crumbles. He cries so loud he shouts. He grips my clothes on my back. Loosing them. Marking my skin with his nails as he's trying to climb his way back to reality. Ribs shaking so much I am worried he could break them just like this.

I am witnessing my Master searching for my protection for the first time.

I do not know what is he trying to reach for until I feel it exploding inside me. Waterfalls ㅡ I cannot help but crying, as I realize too, holding my Master's body entirely, I want to be with him forever. How painful it is ㅡ to hear his sorrowful cries, to feel his bones cracking under my touch. How beautiful it is ㅡ to feel what they call love. I hide within the softness of his blonde hair. I inhale his perfume, feeling it overpower the smell of blood around us. I hear no sound, other than the pace of his breathing, slowing down.

The world is straying further from this moment.

« Look at me. » I whisper, aiming to better calm him down. Hands grab his face softly. Slowly rise his head little low to my own.

Fool me ㅡ I was not ready.

I'm choking on my own breath. Air blocks in my lungs, in my stomach. Then leaves me. Subtly. Eyebrows frown in a blink of time. My eyes, filled with a unique kind of light ㅡ the same which I witness, appearing in his. He's so close, I feel him stealing my soul. « I will protect you, Fuyuhiko. » A promise freed from any written fate ㅡ for a moment, I am human. I possess human will, human warmth. I am human just enough to be with him. Just to let him feel me. To be home for him.

« We ain't fit for this, Peko. This whole yakuza vengeance shit. » I swallow more breath as I hear him talking. His voice scratching his throat on the way to me. « We leave right now. We close accounts with my dad, then we fuckin disappear. I was never fit for this role anyway. I'm a coward, to the core. » He does not fully realize, cloudy mind ㅡ he is the only one left for his family. A duty is to be fulfilled, higher than mine, higher than anybody else's. I know better than my Master knows ㅡ you can not escape that bound. Some things are to be done, and we, what are we if not desolate pawns, my dear Fuyuhiko, what is our value in a greater scheme? What is the meaning of our life, if not to suffice the roles defined for us? Is it even possible to escape it ㅡ do we find salvation in what we feel?

« Let us dispose of the body first. » « Peko. Say you will run with me. Say it. » As I lose myself in sweet caressing his skin, My heart breaks in a million pieces. I would run with him forever. ...

« I will follow your orders, Young Master. »

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Ahhh ~ our wonderful lady finally realizes she actually WANTS to be with Fuyuhiko... it’s not a duty anymore... ahhh my shipper feels ~

I seriously hope this chapter did not disappoint you. Disjointed narration is soooo difficult when you want to describe lots and lots of details in your heart, like, Sato’s home, the terrible smell of blood, or how Fuyuhiko’s embrace felt like... ╰(▔∀▔)╯

Please support the ff both here and on AO3! Only a few chapters left!

Next chapter hints: it’s going to be VERY complex, VERY abstract, VERY hard to read. Like a Picasso. It will leave a huuuuge space for opinions and interpretations. Two major characters will be starring the story as well. Someone you might love or hate... +__+

See you on chapter 4!!!

#toolFF #read it on ao3!#I guess it's better #danganronpa #danganronpa 2 #danganronpa 3 #kuzupeko #Fuyuhiko Kuzuryuu #Peko Pekoyama #romance #character development #otp #fanfiction #ao3 writer #author #writing #hope you'll like it

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rorykillmore · 5 years

Note

turning this back on you but are there any totally new things you've really enjoyed this year?

okay as a screenwriting major i am cONSTANTLY driven to consume new content so let me try and think what i’ve really enjoyed this year. i’ll probably forget a lot of stuff

well obviously you already know i’ve gotten into spop! after ages of just avoiding it because i didn’t want to deal with the seemingly voltron-esque fandom. and i’m glad i eventually got around to it because i ended up really really enjoying the characters and the worldbuilding and it’s honestly so COOL to see a kids fantasy show done by an lgbt creator and just… how that influences so many small things i might’ve taken for granted

i also recently watched the boys on amazon prime. it’s kind of like this gritty… superhero deconstruction, i guess?? in a period of time where i kind of feel that superheroes… need to be deconstructed. anyway it is EXTREMELY edgy but, again, i really liked the worldbuilding and what it was trying to do and it pretty much gripped me from start to finish

oh aaaand over the course of the summer i did finally get around to checking out the killing eve novels! which was a really fun experience just, comparing and contrasting them to the show. they don’t have like… the show’s effortless charm and humor but they are REALLY fun spy thrillers with a very interesting, different interpretation of eve and villanelle as characters. the author wrote them eventually running away together and apparently frequently posts on twitter about how they’d probably own cats instead of having children. and he gave eve two pet pygmy goats, thelma and louise (collectively known as “the girls”). so really luke jennings is my kind of guy.

oh speaking of, i also checked out fleabag, which is phoebe waller-bridge’s other most beloved show. it was… god, i feel like i cannot do fleabag justice by pitching it in only a few lines, but i feel like it’s something everyone should watch. it’s just… so funny and unapologetic in that way pwb is so good at, but also incredibly poignant and bittersweet and intelligent. like just. QUALITY quality television. fleabag is so good. and it’s a very short watch

i also (gasp) watched rwby this year! which i probably never would have done on my own (and no, @ everyone you’re still not allowed to rec me anime just because i liked it.) but i have some rp friends who are big into it and a couple of their portrayals just… really made me fall in love with the characters, so i decided i wanted to see them in canon! as you know im the kind of person who like, TOTALLY glazes over during extended fight scenes, and it has a lot of those, but i ended up being fond of it anyway just cause it has so much… heart and lots of COOL LADIES with focus on their relationships

movie wise i think my favorite thing that’s come out this year was midsommar, which is by the same guy who did hereditary. it’s sort of this… folk horror/fairy tale/break up movie/revenge fantasy combo and i don’t really know how to rec it because ari aster’s movies are SO intense on so many different levels, but is a GORGEOUS, visceral film that i really connected with and also just drooled over a lot from a filmmaker’s perspective,

then my favorite new thing to come out of hbo this year was chernobyl, which… hoh boy, chernobyl. what can i even say. it’s such a well made, respectful, NECESSARY retelling of a very important event in human history that’s still… very relevant in so many ways today. it’s just harrowing to watch at times but it’s also one of those things where i’m like, in awe of how good it is, and i LOVE just… idk, learning about history, so i was big into it

brief shoutout to slasher solstice which i just remembered existed. i guess i’ll count it as a new thing because slasher is like, an anthology series, so totally new story. it was some dumb campy bullshit but i had so much fun watching it

oh my god. and that reminds me i have to include. DEMONS. sorry for putting that in all caps and bold, i realize that looks kind of threatening. i was just gonna mention “yeah josh and i have been watching some more dario argento movies lately” but no i need to mention demons specifically, which is like, one of the funniest, campiest, gory horror franchises from the 80′s i have ever fucking seen in my life. these movies are so. SO weird. and silly. but i’ve been like fucking obsessed with them ever since we sat down and watched the first one

uhh what else… i started luther and enjoyed what i saw of it a lot, i should watch more of that…

oh to include a podcast, i’ve been listening to this podcast will kill you on and off! it’s done by two med students and each episode is about a different infectious disease and i know that SOUNDS weird but listen i am learning SO much. did you know that wwii was in part indirectly caused by the spanish influenza pandemic? did you know that werewolf and vampire lore was largely drawn from people’s fear of rabies? did you know that the smallpox vaccine was the first one ever created and before that, people didn’t think vaccinations worked? NOW YOU DO. it’s kind of morbid but i’m like, SO interested in the history of disease and how it affected human society and it goes into a lot of that kind of stuff

#anyway im probably still forgetting stuff but ill leave it at that.#THANKS STORM #xivuuarath

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ifbrd · 6 years

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Dark Animaniacs Theory

because this is my idea of fun XD

Disclaimer before I begin:

A few days ago, I made a post asking if Tiny Toon Adventures and Animaniacs take place in the same universe and if we could apply the logic of one show to the other. Most of the notes of this post were likes, which given my post was in the form of a question, doesn’t really tell me people’s thoughts on the subject. (I assumed anyone who liked it either agreed with me or was liking it because they wanted to know the answer too and that was their way of saving the post to check other people’s responses later (I’ve done that)) I did get one reply from @viridianvenus that said:

i always thought the canon was that everyone was actors who were well aware that they were on a tv show. Therefore you can never really tell what's 'real' and what was just part of their show

Which is a good point and even with my two interpretations of this show, (see here) they both incorporate this idea in some way shape or form.

So, with that being said, I would like to clarify beforehand which interpretation/logic I am applying to is the first one I talk about in the post above. And if you don’t want to read it, I’ll sum it up real quick: the logic is that it’s in the same universe as Who Framed Roger Rabbit and the idea that toons come to life and are actors for their cartoons applies to both, and because of this, the idea that the Warner Siblings were locked up in the water tower for 60ish years is canon. It’s also important to note that like I suggested above, this theory involves the idea that Tiny Toons takes place in this universe as well, and the logic of that show also applies to Animaniacs.

So, keep this in mind as you read this theory. If you agree with the logic this theory stands on, I hope I blow your mind! If you don’t agree with this logic, then this entire theory is a moot point, but hey, maybe you’ll still enjoy it!

Anyway…

I’ve been going through the episodes of Animaniacs that give us insights into the Warner siblings’ past, (wanting to create a timeline for them, but that’s a whole other thing) and of course I can’t do that without watching their 65th-anniversary special. While watching that episode, I came across a line that I previously didn’t bat an eye about, but all the sudden seems a little suspicious.

The line in question came up while various characters were giving testimonies about the Warners, specifically talking about when the kids got locked up in the water tower. The line came from Plotz: “They’d spend the rest of their lives in that tower…alone!” Perhaps I’m simply reading too much into this, but the wording of “the rest of their lives” seems to imply the studio assumed the Warners’ lives would eventually end. And given everything we know about toons in this universe (regardless of whether or not you think it is connected to WFRR and TTA) the concept of them dying seems to be something next to impossible, especially since many toons we see haven’t aged since they first came to life. Then I remembered the logic of Tiny Toons, that toons will age if people stop watching and laughing at their cartoons.

And then suddenly I remembered a little line from the News Reel opening. “The Warners’ films, which made absolutely no sense, were locked away in the studio vault, never to be released”

This happened at the same time the Warners themselves were locked up, so there would have been no way for them to get anyone to laugh at them.

Combine this with the suspiciously morbid line of “They’d spend the rest of their lives in that tower…” and I have come to the unsettling conclusion/theory that the studio basically tried to kill the Warners by forcing them to age.

Now I do have some ideas on what the opposing arguments will be to this and rebuttals to some of them, so let’s cover those:

Opposing Argument: Slappy has stated many times that no one dies in cartoons (and let’s be honest, she’s the cartoon expert, she would know), so while toons may age from people not watching their cartoons, that doesn’t necessarily mean they will ever die from aging.

My thoughts: An excellent point. It’s certainly hard to suggest the idea that Slappy doesn’t know the cold hard facts about cartoons and the logic in them, but I do have a rebuttal to this,

My rebuttal: There is one episode in which Slappy attends a funeral for Walter Wolf, and yes, I am aware Walter was faking to get revenge on Slappy, but the important take away from that episode was the number of people who attended his funeral. There was a large group of people who did genuinely seem to believe that Walter did die. This doesn’t necessarily prove that toons can die from old age, I admit, but it could suggest that. However, it could also suggest that they just didn’t know if toons could die from aging yet. Perhaps it was unheard of until Walter “died”, and they all just went, “oh, I guess toons can die from old age” which to me says that they at least understand it’s a possibility, even if it hadn’t happened yet. If it was a known fact that toons couldn’t die from aging, no one would have attended his funeral, they all would have known he was faking. I would even dare to argue that in this episode, even Slappy believed that Walter was dead until she saw him up and moving (she just didn’t really care that he was dead because ya know, it’s Slappy), but the rest of you might disagree with me there. Either way, no matter how you look at it, it seems that the general population at least acknowledges that toons dying from old age is a possibility.

Opposing argument to my rebuttal: But, as viridianvenus stated, it’s a show within a show, so there’s no real way to tell what’s real and what’s part of the show, this is especially true when dealing with other cast members’ cartoons.

My thoughts: Good point, no rebuttal to that one.

Opposing Argument: Even if it’s true that toons can age from not having people watch their cartoons, that doesn’t mean the studio actually knew that. If toons started becoming a species as animation was invented, then at the time the Warners and their cartoons were locked away, there wouldn’t be any toons that would have aged enough, if at all, to have proven that this is how aging works for toons. Even if this was a known fact at this point, that doesn’t mean it was a well-known fact. It may have been known by some, but not necessarily known by the studio.

My thoughts: These are all very good points, and I have no rebuttal for this one.

Opposing argument: Even if it was a well-known fact that toons aged by having their cartoons not be watched, and even if toons can die from aging, that does not mean that the studio’s intent was to kill the Warners. Because even if the aging could have been proven by the mid-1930s, there wouldn’t have been enough time to prove that toons could die from aging and perhaps this is something they didn’t learn until later.

My thoughts: A very good point indeed, I have no rebuttal, but I do have a thought I would like to add to this idea: this could potentially explain why they let the Warners out to do cartoons every once in a while, like with their wartime cartoon and their being lent out to competing studios. Perhaps the studio discovered that toons could die from not having their cartoons watched, and the studio realized what they could have been unintentionally doing to the Warners and decided to give them just enough cartoons to keep them alive.

And the thing about these arguments I’ve thought of, while they do offer a potentially likely alternative, they dont seem to actually debunk the theory...

Another thing: Even if the studio wasn’t trying to actually kill the Warner kids through aging, that doesn’t negate the fact that this certainly was something that could have happened to them.

There’re probably more arguments against this theory, but I couldn’t think of them, so it’s up to you guys to let me know what you find or remember that debunks it!

Now if it is true, I have two questions:

1. How is it that despite these efforts, the Warners seemed to have not aged a day? Yes, there are the cartoons the studio let them do while they were out of the tower, but would those have been enough to keep them young for several decades until the next batch of cartoons? Or were there other cartoons the studio let them do that we never got to see? Or was it just them having to be let out every few years so the tower could be fumigated enough to get enough laughs for them to stay young. Or did they perhaps actually age, while in the tower, and then when they got released and got more people laughing at them, reverted back to their child states, and maybe that’s why they are able to make so many adult jokes, because there were periods of time when they were adults.

2. Do you think they ever caught onto this? Do you think they ever connected these dots and went “holy crap this studio is trying to kill us!”?

Yes, I know I’m probably just over analyzing and over thinking a silly cartoon that’s meant for nothing but to make its audience smile, but ya know what? Dark conspiracy theories make me smile so it’s still doing its job!

#animaniacs #animaniacs theory #yakko wakko and dot #yakko warner #wakko warner #dot warner #thadeus plotz #i like how i said i have rebuttals to some of them but then i only had one rebuttal #honestly this theory kinda scared me a little #im trying to make a timeline for a fanfic i'm planning #and instead i find this #and part of me feels compelled to bring this up in the fanfic #but idk how that would work so i may just ingore it #but that will be hard because the fanfic follows the exact logic and interpretation that this theory does so idk #hope you enjoyed me ruining this show for you!#i've read this over so many times and i still feel like im forgetting something or have a grammar error in there :/

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ivanoconnorhorrorbooks-blog · 6 years

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Despite many able to argue that attempting to rank the talents of Stephen King in a 'Best Stephen King Books' type-article is a foolish battle, I am going to give it a go as it's a great excuse to get my King collection out. First time King-readers will also hopefully benefit from this, as let us remember that the great Stephen King has published over 60 books by the age of 64, and with the inconsistency that inevitably brings - reading the wrong novel first might put you off King forever. And oh what a crime that would be! Here goes - My personal 13 best Stephen King books.

The following best Stephen King books list is based on a broad number of criteria, including the number of sleepless nights caused from the nightmares that swiftly followed reading the books...

13- Misery

Misery was one of the first King stories that I got my hands on, and I remember reading it from start to finish over the span of no more than three nights. It makes for a fantastic introduction to Stephen King's writing and I thoroughly recommend it as a potential first King novel to read. Misery is the chilling story of an author named 'Paul Sheldon' who has spawned a series of popular stories about a woman known as only 'Misery'. Paul Sheldon decides he wants to write about something new, so he kills off the character known as Misery. On his way back home he has a car accident which overturns his car, leaving him knocked out. He then awakes to find he has was saved and being looked after by a strange woman named 'Annie Wilkes', who also happens to be his number one fan. Annie is not impressed with Paul's decision to kill off Misery, and so Paul, who once wrote to make a living, is now writing for his life. A truly fantastic story, which admittedly should be avoided if you are weak at heart, as there are some tremendously vivid and terrifying gory scenes.

12- The Green Mile

The Green Mile is a highly acclaimed novel that was originally published over six short separate instalments, each being released a month after the other and ending in a nail-biting cliffhanger. Those were the days...

Many have you have probably seen the movie-adaptation in which Tom Hanks stars, need I really say more? Unlike many other movies based on books, the movie is a loyal and strong interpretation of the book accompanied by remarkable acting. However, despite being a great movie, the book is still king (pun unintended) thanks to the many twists and sub-plots that did not make it into the movie. The story is set in the 30′s and tells the emotional tale of the experiences of prisoners on death row and the guards. The green mile is wonderfully well-written - you feel part of the fictitious world that is full of oppression and segregation that leads to multiple memorable thought-provoking and moving moments. Who said Stephen King can only write horror gems?

11- Bag Of Bones

Bag of Bones is possibly King's most ambitious attempt at having a love story. Similar to The Green Mile this is another of Stephen King's novels that doesn't strictly follow his early horror style of writing, and as such is not as popular as some of his other work. Which is a shame, because if given the chance, this is another truly wonderful ghost story full of twists and vivid characters. The main character is, as you've come to expect with King, a writer called Mike Noonan. Mike's wife suddenly dies and causes him to have a severe case of 'writer's block'. In order to get over his writer's block he returns to his summer house, where he discovers that his wife was on the trail of something highly sinister. With countless twists and turns concluding to a haunting ending, you will undoubtedly be left as breathless and mentally exhausted as I was. Great read...

10- Firestarter

Firestarter is perhaps one of Stephen King's lesser known novels and doesn't often feature in lists of the Best Stephen King Books. It might have something to do with the underwhelming reaction people had after seeing the movie-adaptation - many people see films and then read the book if the movie was any good. Whatever the reason is, a lot of King fans are missing out on a very good story which they would surely love. Firestarter is the tale of a father and his young daughter with pyrokinetic powers, who have to constantly be on the run from a government agency trying to capture the young girl to use her powers for their own gain. The plots are cleverly connected and the likeable characters make you genuinely care for their well-being. Recommended.

9- The Dark Tower Series

The Gunslinger is the first entry of King's The Dark Tower series and follows the protagonist, Roland, on his quest to the Dark Tower, but before he can get there he must locate his enigmatic antagonist that he kindly calls 'The Man in Black'. King took twelve years to write this book, but came up with the epic first line while still at University: 'The Man in Black fled across the desert, and the Gunslinger followed', gripping start for sure and there's a great deal more of it as you discover how Roland is capable of extreme violence, yet somehow still manages to come across as kind. A great start to a great series and a must-read for any Fantasy/Western book-lover.

8- Pet Semetary

Pet Sematary (purposely misspelt) is one of King's most enthralling and chilling novels. I read it for the first time when I was 14 and the disturbing nature of the story hindered the quality of my sleep for weeks (months?), I wasn't able to pick it up for several years, and for that reason I would wholeheartedly recommend this novel to every horror-lover. The story starts out when the Creed family, a happy family of four and a cat, decide to move house. In their new home, unspeakable evil things start to happen and are certain to keep you on the edge of your seat. Thoroughly frightening and definitely not one for the faint-hearted.

7- It

It is the story of a sleepy town in Maine, called Derry. Every three decades, mysterious and unspeakable evils occur, first come the rare sightings that are quickly followed by a series of murders of young children. The local residents refer to the being that causer of these acts as It, and not much is known about It, apart from the fact that it can shape-shift and appears to each person as a combination of their worst fears. A group of outcast teenagers decide to take a stand against the ultimate evil, and as adults return to Derry three decades later to fight It. The beauty of this book is in how King sets the mood of the story, by making It live in places within our very own homes that we take for granted, such as drains and sewers and the strong chemistry between the main characters as they are naturally gravitated towards each other due to their outcast status.

6- Different Seasons

Different Seasons is a collection of four different stories that saw one of Stephen King's first attempts at writing something not strictly-horror, however do not despair, there are still plenty of gory moments to keep the hardcore fans satisfied - Starting with Rita Hayworth and Shawshank Redemption (Hope Springs Eternal) which tells the story of an innocent man in prison convicted of murder, plotting his escape. With fantastic characters and a gripping story, it is a great start to the book. Many people will be aware of Frank Darabont's adaptation of the book into a movie which revels in the brilliance of the story - Shawshank Redemption, however this should not be the only reason to pick up this book, the rest is just as good. The second story in Different Seasons is called The Apt Pupil (Summer of corruption) and is about a seemingly normal teenager who discovers that a local resident is a war criminal, and causes him to develop a morbid curiosity about Nazi death camps. The third story is called The Body (Fall from Innocence), which is the touching story of four teenagers who are dared to go into the woods to confirm the existence of a dead body, and ends up becoming a coming-of-age story. Finally we have the macabre The Breathing Method (A Winter's Tale) which tells of an unmarried and pregnant woman determined to give birth, no matter what... All four stories are severe page-turners and will have you go through a range of strong emotions. Highly recommended for a rainy day.

5- Carrie

Carrie, as you are probably aware already, was Stephen King's first novel and kick-started his incredible career. It is hard to believe that this masterpiece was a writer's first published work, and the popularity and cult-status that it created still remains intact to this very day. Carrie takes you into the world of a lonely and tormented teenage girl who has problems both at home and at high school. Unable to connect with anyone, Carrie finally snaps and unleashes her rage using violence mixed with her telekinetic powers, causing havoc in the usually quiet small town.

4- Salem's Lot

Salem's Lot was Stephen King's second novel, following the hit that was Carrie. It was released in 1975 and immediately became another massive hit by terrifying even the most hardcore of horror readers. The protagonist is author Ben Mears, plagued by personal demons, decides to move to an old mansion in Jerusalem's Lot in a bid to rid himself of them and write a new book. However, Ben quickly discovers that things are not as they seem, and that his home town are under siege by the dark forces of evil. This is a vampire novel, but unlike the recent wave of romantic vampire stories around, these vampires are not friendly or charming at all, they are pure evil. The characters are, as expected, well-developed with believable back-stories that will keep you engaged and highly interested.

3- The Dead Zone

The Dead Zone comes in at number seven on this Best Stephen King Books list and is a book that I personally was mysteriously put-off reading for a very long time, I still do not know why that was, but I was very mistaken to not pick it up sooner. It was King's fifth published novel and is one that Stephen King himself later admitted to being one of the few novels that he plotted and actually liked. The Dead Zone is a fast-paced story about a man called Johnny Smith who after a terrible accident is left in a coma for several years. When Johnny finally awakens, he quickly discovers he has obtained the unique ability to limitedly see into the future of people he touches. With this new power and strong desire to use them for good, he unwittingly foresees terrible events. What makes The Dead Zone so special is that the writing is controlled and well-paced, but above all the character development is fantastic.

2- The Shining

The Shining is a chilling story that follows the dysfunctional Torrance family with a sickening past plagued by alcoholism and abuse. The father of the family, Jack, was a teacher until the day he spotted some of his students damaging his car and ended up punching them. After losing his job, the family are forced to move to a far away and isolated hotel, as that was the only place that would offer Jack a job. During a terrible winter the Torrance family are snowed in and forced to look after the hotel on their own, initially things seem under-control, but as the iconic 'All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy' statement, all is not well... There are not many characters outside of the family of three, allowing the novel to provide vast amounts of information and back-stories to all them, leading to stand-out character-development, which must rate among Stephen King's very best.. One of my favourite novels ever written and an absolute must-read for any book-lover - even if you have seen the critically-acclaimed movie starring Jack Nicholson.

To conclude our Best Stephen King Books list, I leave you with the book that marked me the most and despite giving me countless cold-sweated and sleepless nights, I read at least four times. A true premier horror classic that will remain in every horror and King aficionado's library forever:

1- The Stand

The Stand is a book that most readers are familiar with. Initially I thought that having to state a number one for a best Stephen King books list would be a tough task, but after remembering The Stand, it was the easiest one of the list. The story starts in the early 90′s in the California Desert, where a deadly mutated flu virus created by the U.S government manages to escape from a biology testing laboratory through a contaminated guard by the name of Campion. Unwittingly, this panicky character sets off a domino effect where 99% of the world's population is rapidly killed off by the deadly virus. The only survivors are those lucky (or unlucky) ones that happen to be naturally immune to the virus, but they are terrified and forced to survive in the depressing and desolate landscape. What follows is an incredible story of desperate struggles filled with humanity and real depth. This is possibly the best horror book I have ever read and if you have not read it yet, what are you waiting for?

That concludes this Best Stephen King Books list, and I wish I could have included many more, a few notable absentees that I'd like to mention are: Skeleton Crew - A collection of stories, The Long Walk - 100 boys meet for a race, if you break the rules you get a warning, exceed three warnings and what happens is truly terrifying and lastly Christine - The story of a teenage boy who falls in love with Christine, a rather 'special' woman.

Stephen King's vast imagination is one to be jealous of. King's delicious talent for story-telling makes his novels tremendously engrossing, and his ability to weave and connect his worlds with the vague perceptions we have of our own is remarkable and causes us to have strong feelings and even desires that these tantalizing worlds could actually exist in an alternate universe somewhere. If you have never picked up a Stephen King book, I couldn't recommend strongly enough to research the one that might initially suit you best and let yourself become absorbed by the incredible worlds of the King.

#BestStephenKingBooks #FactsStephenKing

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imjustthemechanic · 6 years

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Natalie Jones and the Golden Ship

Part 1/? - A Meeting at the Palace Part 2/? - Curry Talk Part 3/? - Princess Sitamun Part 4/? - Not At Rest Part 5/? - Dead Men Tell no Tales Part 6/? - Sitamun Rises Again Part 7/? - The Curse of Madame Desrosiers Part 8/? - Sabotage at Guedelon Part 9/? - A Miracle

At some point you guys are going to figure out my inspiration here...

If Natasha hadn’t already been sure that the mysterious man would turn out to be another Barnes, Sir Stephen’s reaction would have confirmed it for her – he stopped dead, the colour draining from his face even though it couldn’t have been that much of a surprise to him, either. That gave the mystery man the chance he needed, to pull himself out of Sir Stephen’s grip and run.

But while Sir Stephen wouldn’t hurt even a ghost of his old friend, Natasha had no such compunctions. She ran up and did a cartwheel, springing onto her hands to wrap her legs around the man’s neck, and letting her momentum keep her going so she slammed his face into the ground. Before he could get up, she had an arm across his throat and tightened her hold, until he was gasping to breathe.

“Who are you?” she demanded.

He didn’t reply. The man did look unsettlingly like Jim Barnes from the train, although his hair was a little longer and he didn’t have the stubble. He was gurgling and clawing at his neck as if he didn’t have enough air, but Nat knew better. She was well aware of exactly how much violence she could apply without actually hurting somebody, and his chest was still rising and falling just fine.

“Who are you?” she repeated. “You’re not Jim Barnes and you’re sure as shit not Sir James Buckeye, so who the hell are you?”

He disintegrated.

Nat had been leaning against him, and nearly fell on her face as his body turned to ash and his empty clothes dropped to the ground in a puff of gray dust. Had she killed him? Had she somehow applied too much pressure? Had she applied it in the wrong spot? Was she out of practice? Or could these men – or perhaps whoever was controlling them – simply decided it was time to self-destruct?

“You have killed him!” Sir Stephen exclaimed, running up to grab at the empty clothes.

“Not on purpose!” Nat protested.

Sir Stephen held up the man’s leather vest and shook it, but only a few flakes of ash fell out. “You strangled him!” he insisted.

“I did not!” said Nat. “He could breathe fine, he was just being theatrical!”

“So you say, and yet he lies dead at your feet!” Sir Stephen stood up and poked her in the chest.

She slapped his hand aside. “He is not your friend Buckeye!” Nat snapped. “I don’t know who he is but he’s not your friend!”

“Guys!” shouted Sam, bellowing to be heard over both of them.

They stopped shouting and looked in his direction, and both remembered Clint. Sam was now kneeling in the bottom of the moat ditch next to Clint, trying to stop him bleeding. His shirt was dark with blood, and there was more on the grass around him.

“Can you help him?” asked Nat.

“Not here,” said Sam. “He needs to be in a hospital, now. Did you call an ambulance?” he asked Allen.

“Yes,” Allen said, “but I don’t know how long it’ll take them to get here.”

Madame Desrosiers bit her lip, then shook her head. “There isn’t time,” she said. “He will die.”

“Well, aren’t you a ray of sunshine?” Sam grumbled.

“Do you want to help him or not?” Desrosiers asked. “Bring him here.”

“What are you going to do for him?” Sam wanted to know.

“I’ll explain after I’ve saved his life,” she replied. “Do you want him to die, or don’t you?”

It was probably more morbid curiosity than anything else, coupled with real fear for Clint’s life, that made Allen and Sam pick the man up and carry him out of the moat and back to the remains of Desrosiers’ RV. These looked dangerous, and Laurent’s body had not yet been removed from the driver’s seat, but Desrosiers herself climbed the steps and went inside, and directed them to sit Clint down in the bathroom’s tiny shower stall. Allen grabbed a towel and folded it up to make a pillow.

There, Sam cut Clint’s shirt off to expose the wound – it was deep, with bone visible inside it, and still bleeding. Clint himself was gray-faced from blood loss, semi-conscious and breathing shallowly.

“Out of the way, please,” said Desrosiers. She knelt down and moved Clint slightly so he was curled on his side, then opened a small bottle. This was made of opaque white glass, and was the right size and shape to have once held some kind of liqueur, but it had no label. Desrosiers tipped it, and some kind of liquid, thick and slightly yellowish like half-set gelatin, oozed out and into the injury. The way the substance moved looked eerily as if it were alive and purposeful.

“There.” Desrosiers capped the bottle again and moved aside. “Bandage him up.”

Allen handed Sam a second towel, and Sam began tearing it up to make bandages. “What’s in that stuff?” he asked Desrosiers.

“That’s my secret,” she replied.

“I’m a doctor,” Sam insisted. “I need to know what sort of substance you’re exposing my patient to.”

Desrosiers was unmoved. “A substance that will save his life, or at least prolong it until his body can save itself,” she said. “He was injured trying to stop the assassin, and I appreciate that, but I can’t tell you anything else.”

The others stayed gathered around the narrow bathroom door, as if they thought their attention was the only thing keeping Clint alive. Natasha, however, realized she now had an opportunity to look around while Desrosiers kept her eyes on her patient. She hated to look like she didn’t care about Clint, but they might never get another chance like this.

So while everyone else stared or argued, Nat slowly backed up and began looking around the bedroom. There wasn’t anything immediately unusual about it, but she did notice that there were no framed pictures in it. That was odd – most people liked to keep images of their family and friends around them.

On the dresser were several books, in various languages. Some were concerned with medieval architecture and furniture, which Wainfleet had said was Desrosiers’ area of expertise – between that, Egyptology, and medicine, it seemed she was quite the polymath – but others were odd. There was a copy of The Da Vinci Code, and books in English, French, and German on topics as varied as the interpretation of the tarot, the history of science, and a travel guide to the Greek islands.

On the bed, partially hidden by the coverlet, was a computer printout. Nat gently moved the cloth back to see, and saw it was confirmation of the purchase of a plane ticket from Chateauroux to Athens.

“Oh, my god!” exclaimed Sharon.

Nat carefully put the bedclothes back and went to stand on her tiptoes and see what was happening. She found everybody at the bathroom door as astonished as Sharon – and well might they be, because Clint was sitting up and blinking.

“No, don’t move yet,” said Sam, trying to push him back down.

“What happened?” Clint asked hoarsely.

“You were stabbed,” said Sam.

“What, again?” Clint looked up at Allen Jones.

Allen held up his hands. “It wasn’t me!”

“It doesn’t hurt,” Clint observed. He felt his way down his chest to his bandaged abdomen, then began unwinding the bloodstained towels.

“Don’t do that!” Sam protested.

But Clint pulled them off – and to everybody’s shock, underneath them was very little evidence of a wound at all. The blood wiped away easily, leaving only a thin line a little paler than the skin around it, though it did not otherwise resemble a scar. He was clearly in no more pain, and the effects of the blood loss were gone. It had only been a few minutes.

The sound of sirens told Nat that the ambulance had finally arrived. She glanced out the window, and found Madame Lefevre running up to meet the vehicle. The driver opened the door to talk to her, and paramedics climbed out to deal with the body of Laurent the driver.

“You guys,” Nat said, “I think maybe we should go back outside before they come looking for the stabbing victim somebody has doubtless mentioned.”

“Where’s my shirt?” asked Clint, looking around.

It was still lying in a blood-soaked heap in a corner of the bathroom. Sam unzipped his University of Edinburgh sweatshirt and handed it to Clint. “Wear this,” he said.

Back outside, somebody offered them coffee and Natasha calmly told the paramedics that rumors of a stabbing had been greatly exaggerated. The Gendarmerie and the coroner showed up to take statements about the ‘accident’ and photograph the scene, and the CAAP sat down with Madame Desrosiers in the now-empty mason’s lodge and tried, by the light of a flashlight, to get some answers out of her.

“What did you do?” Sam asked.

“Nothing you need to know about,” she said. “I need to leave, or I’m going to miss my aeroplane.”

“Your driver just died,” Sharon said. “Doesn’t that mean anything to you?”

“It does,” Desrosiers said. “I’m very sorry about it, but I have something I urgently need to do.”

“Then you’d better tell us what that stuff was, because you’re not leaving here until you do,” Sam said. “Don’t say I don’t need to know, because I do! I’m a doctor, and that will save lives!”

“In this world, half the people who need it would refuse to have it anywhere near them,” Desrosiers scoffed.

“It’s magic,” said Sir Stephen confidently, “but it’s not magic I know.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Desrosiers told him. “It’s not magic – it’s the opposite of magic. Magic is inherently destructive. It bends nature out of shape, forcing it to do unnatural things. I don’t do that. I use nature. I learn its rules and work with it rather than against it, to produce a desired result.”

It took Natasha a few moments to work through that description and figure out what Desrosiers meant by it. Sam did the same, and then looked boggled by the answer he arrived at. “That’s science?” he asked.

“If you must know,” said Desrosiers, “it’s alchemy.”

There was a long, uncomfortable silence. Natasha thought about the books she’d seen in the bedroom… those could well belong to a would-be alchemist. Then she thought of the mummy, and the apparently urgent trip to Athens. But for the moment, she kept those thoughts to themselves.

“You’re an alchemist,” said Sharon skeptically. “Does that mean you can turn lead into gold?”

“I can if I want, but as frail as the economy is nowadays, I prefer not to,” Desrosiers said. “Now, I’ve no doubt you have to submit a report to some office or other, so I’m going to tell you what I did with your friend, and in exchange I want it left out of your report. You came here looking for me, you saved my life, and I left, knowing nothing of the sarcophagus except that I’m furious with your underhanded countrymen and I’m suing the rail company for the value of it. Understand?”

Among things the CAAP lacked were procedures, and so none of them knew if they were going to have to submit a report. It was a good carrot to dangle, though, so Nat nodded.

“Deal,” she said.

#fanfic #steve rogers #natasha romanov #sharon carter #clint barton #sam wilson

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genericpseudonyms · 6 years

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memento mori - 3.6.2018

I remember sitting in the living room. I was four or five, staring at the windup clock on the wall. The pendulum swung back and forth, back and forth. I did this for hours. My father walked past, and for once, he noticed me.

“What are you doing?” he said.

“I’m thinking Papa.”

That made him laugh. “What do you have to think about?”

At that age, you don’t have the words to describe thoughts or feelings beyond happy, angry, scared, or sad. So I shrugged and he lost interest.

I still stare at clocks sometimes. Mostly when I’m trapped somewhere, waiting for something. I retreat inside myself and watch as the second hand ticks and ticks and ticks until it’s back where it started.

It’s a bad day to walk in a miniskirt. The winds are fierce and it’s sleeting. I’ve been so eager to declare winter over, I’m only wearing my thin leather jacket. Still, I have a perverse love of walking through storms. I like the way the wind whips through my hair and the rain soaks through my skin. At the stoplights, I like to close my eyes and feel Mother Nature remind me that I am mere flesh and blood.

I’m sinking into one of my trances. This happens if you leave me alone with my thoughts too long. I’m supposed to meet H at Bluestockings on Allen St. A sensible person might’ve rescheduled. We are not sensible women.

My phone buzzes in my pocket. H says she’s on her way, but I am already there. Five minutes past our agreed meeting time, but we are not punctual women either.

‘Happy browsing!’ her text reads. I’m not mad in the slightest—there’s no place I feel more at home than in a bookstore. I try not to believe in fate, but I do believe the universe will find ways to put the right books in your hands when you need them.

I am wet and dripping from the storm. At some point, I slipped on the curb and landed myself in a freezing puddle. But at least my hands are dry. Frozen, but dry. I walk down the aisles and let my fingers run across the spines. I know I shouldn’t buy anything—my to-read pile is enormous and I haven’t been able to focus on any novels for over a month. Books have always been my truest and oldest friends, so it’s been painful.

My hands stop at the Trauma and Violence shelf. Bluestockings is a radical feminist queer bookstore, so the shelves are stocked with titles I’ve never seen before. Usually I stick to science fiction, fantasy, or memoirs, with a smattering of magical realism and lit-rah-cha. But in this instance, my hands stop at Trauma and Recovery by Judith Herman, MD. I flip through the pages and end up at Chapter Five: Child Abuse.

I read, and it feels like someone has drawn a map of my mind.

“Abused children discover at some point that the feeling [of abandonment] can most effectively be terminated by a major jolt to the body. The most dramatic method of achieving this result is through the deliberate infliction of injury.”

I close the book, and buy a cup of tea.

I sit down, and start from the beginning.

H shows up forty-five minutes late. By then I have read the history of PTSD and how it manifests in women who have been raped.

It is both validating and condemning. Yes, I think to myself. I am profoundly broken. I will never be unbroken. I wonder if I should buy a warning label and paste it onto my forehead.

But it’s easier to push those thoughts away now that H is here. I emerge from the well of my feelings and my shoulders are lighter. We chat about things. Some light, but others real. We talk about her depression and how confusing my bisexuality can be sometimes. About how hard it is to live with narcissistic parents and how to erect boundaries. We discuss the patriarchy and then we get on the topic of tattoos.

“It was in college,” she says. “Someone asked me, ‘So H, when are you gonna get inked?’ And that’s when I said never because I hated it was expected of me.”

We are the same in that way. I’ve been told what to do my whole life that nowadays I often do the opposite of what I should out of spite. My therapist says it’s borne from my need to define things on my own terms. I just think I love to make things difficult for myself.

“I’ve always wanted one,” I say. “The only thing stopping me is the look on my mom’s face. I’m still struggling to give myself permission to do the things I want.”

“Do it,” she says. “You absolutely need to do it.”

“Yeah,” I say. “I know. I already found an artist and have a concept.”

And there. I’ve done it. I’ve opened Pandora’s box.

“Oh? Tell me.”

So I do. I tell her about the image I have in mind. I explain how I want it to be a reminder of how I once almost killed myself. How I don’t want to ever get to that point again. She stays silent throughout and anxiety floods my veins. Suicide is one of those things people would rather not talk about. It’s always a tragedy when it happens, but it happens because we do not talk about it. We can reblog to save a life with suicide hotline numbers, but it’s not something we acknowledge affecting people in our actual lives. We don’t bare souls outside art, and art is up for interpretation.

I motion to the scars on my left hand. The one that has no less than six scars from a serrated knife.

“For years this reminded me that I don’t want to die. Not really. I was so ashamed when I saw how my sink was just full of my own blood. I stitched myself up, didn’t even go to the hospital. I could see the tendons in my hand and everything.”

I am waiting for her face to change. It happens, more often than I’d like. You invite people into your conquered darkness and it’s too much. They nod understandingly, and then gradually leave your life. It sucks. It doesn’t hurt any less each time it happens. It’d be easier not to say anything, but I believe in honesty.

H is a dear friend, and I want her to know. I want to believe in people and I want to give them a chance.

Her face doesn’t change at all. Her eyes are fixed on mine and inside, my heart beats a sigh of relief.

“Recovery is hard,” I say. “Sometimes I feel like I’m drowning and these scars don’t really work as a reminder anymore. So I want that tattoo to remind me that eventually, I have to die anyway. Memento mori and all that. I might as well make the most of my life before then.”

“I think you deserve that,” she says. She goes on to tell me about the time she wanted to die too. And I breathe.

It’s easy to forget that you are not alone.

My best friend says her greatest fear is that she’ll come home one day to my dead body. My heart sinks because I know exactly what she means. I’ve just told her that weeks ago, when she was in the shower and I was feeling low, I took the paring knife and traced my old scars. I pressed the blade to my hand. Hard enough to sting, soft enough so it wouldn’t break skin. I did it until the fog in my head cleared—until I could remember who I was and why I didn’t want this at all. Then I put it back, went to bed, and promptly decided to forget it ever happened.

The only way to survive a totalitarian, neglectful, abusive childhood is you learn to show people exactly what they want to see. She knows me well enough to know if everyone pressures me to be better, I will pretend I am better. Because that’s how it’s always had to be.

She knows if I want to kill myself, if I really really want to kill myself, no one can stop me.

“You owe me a few more decades,” she says one night. “Don’t make me go to therapy for the rest of my life.”

She’s right. She would be the one I choose to find me. For over half of my short life, she’s been my one constant. There’s no one I would trust more with that gruesome task.

But I’m not so far gone to do that to her. Still. I resent that people try to convince me I ought to live to spare them grief. That my memory would haunt them forever.

I don’t believe that’s true. Everyone is forgettable. I have always stepped lightly on this Earth—the wreckage I leave behind would be minimal.

Human hearts are resilient. Whatever scars I leave, time will inevitably heal.

It makes me think about a passage from my favorite book, Cloud Atlas. There’s a bisexual composer who puts a bullet through his head when he finishes his life’s work. Suicide, he says, isn’t cowardly at all. It requires great strength of mind. It’s not selfish, he insists. What’s selfish is asking someone to endure an unbearable existence simply because you don’t want to deal with the aftermath.

I don’t agree with the passage, per se. But I understand it.

“If I was going to do it, I wouldn’t have told you any of this,” I reassure her. "I’m telling you because I want to live. Desperately so. I’m just not always sure I’m strong enough to make it.”

“You’re so goddamn stubborn,” she says. Her eyes are watery. “I’m counting on that to keep you alive.”

We sit in silence. I think we both want to believe it because the alternative is too morbid to contemplate.

“You know,” she says, “You don’t always have to be strong.”

“Yes I do,” I say.

The way I see it, I have two choices. I either keep fighting, or I end it now and give the people I care about more time to forget me.

I’m sitting alone in my room on a Sunday morning. My dog is sleeping beside me, her fur is silky soft and she whines when I scratch her behind the ribs. She’d miss me I think, but I know she’d be taken care of.

If I were inclined, I could do it now. I could write out my note and swallow all my pills in one go. Or I could stick my head in the oven. Very Sylvia Plath. Or I could slit my wrists and go for a soak in my freshly scrubbed tub. I could jump into an oncoming train—I’ve seen it happen before in Tokyo. I was in the car when a man jumped. The impact threw me off my feet and when I looked up, his blood was splattered all over the windows. The smell isn’t anything I’ll ever forget.

My door is open and I can see the knives in the kitchen from my bed. I know I am fully capable of doing all those things. But I won’t. Not today. Hopefully, not ever.

I have the words my four or five-year-old self didn’t. Time moves in circles. The same people come in and out of your life. The same feelings leave and return, over and over again. Life is paradoxically too short and too long all at once. Nothing lasts forever, and yet if you wait long enough, the things you lost will return. One day I will die—it’s just a matter of whether or not I have a hand in it.

Soon, I’ll pop my headphones in and go out for a long, long, long walk. I’ve never been to the Brooklyn Botanic Gardens and it might be nice to wander and breathe in all that life.

After all, the world is wide, and I have only seen a fraction of it.

#spilled ink #spilled thoughts #tw: suicidal ideation #tw: abuse #my writing #prose #writers on tumblr #excerpts from a book I'll never write #memoir #diary #thank queue

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mayalaen · 7 years

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10 questions 10 tags

Rules: Always post the rules, answer the questions given to you, then write 10 questions of your own, and tag 10 other people.

@perfackles tagged me in this one. Thank you!!

1) Which film do you think you’ve probably seen the most number of times in your life? All Over the Guy. I know for certain I’ve seen it more than any other movie because I’m not the type to watch movies over and over again, yet that one I watch at least 2-3 times a year because it makes me feel good :)

2) What’s your favourite genre of TV shows? Anything horror related is good, but my favorite stuff tends to be dark with some drama and maybe gross stuff too, so Dexter and Supernatural and Wentworth and Six Feet Under and... well anything that’s got that morbid twist to it? Yeah, love that shit!!

3) You’re given a magic crown and can use it to make one law the whole world must follow: what metal is your crown made of? what law will you set forth? It’s made of anodized titanium :D and my law is: if it hurts somebody else (and not in an “oh, you’ve upset me greatly how dare you!?” kind of way), don’t do it. Simple, yet fixes a SHIT TON OF PROBLEMS.

4) What’s the location for your dream holiday? My home. I don’t like vacations :D

5) I’m blaming @braezenkitty for this question: What’s the worst lube you can think of for fictional characters to use? Blood. I love to read about it anyway because I love blood play, but I’ve tried it and... NOPE. Not only does it dry super quick and become sticky, but even when its wet it has almost a grainy feel when you’re using it as lube.

6) Which is your favourite season? (We’re talking weather, but interpret as you like) Season 1 and 2 of SPN :D Weather? I live in the desert, so winter is my favorite, which is closest to everyone else’s summer.

7) What was the first album you ever bought? Ready for this one? Rick Astley’s Whenever You Need Somebody. My family is extremely into music (on both sides of the family) and I wasn’t really showing an interest until suddenly when I was 9 years old I went nuts listening to my parents’ records (mostly Cat Stevens) and decided I wanted to buy my own music. They couldn’t have cared less it was a pop singer -- they were just thrilled I was finally interested in music.

8) Who was your first celebrity crush? Jameson Parker from Simon & Simon. Saw the show on reruns and found him very hot when I was around 9 or 10.

9) If you were an angel, which bird would you want your wings to take after? Blue Jay or Crow

10) You’re given funding to spend on creating the world’s largest version of a food item to enter the record books, what’s that food item going to be? Pizza, and then I’d insist upon having a big pizza part, which I wouldn’t attend because I hate parties, but I don’t want the food to be wasted. I’ll take some home with me after creating it :D

My 10 Questions: 1. What time did you go to bed last night? 2. If you could be an animal for a day, what animal would you choose? 3. What is the most played song in your playlist? 4. What is something everyone looks stupid doing? 5. What kids’ movie scarred you for life? 6. If you were arrested, what would your family and friends assume it was for? 7. How many chickens would it take to kill an elephant? 8. What inanimate object do you wish you could banish from existence? 9. What movie would be greatly improved it was a musical? 10. If animals could talk, which one would be the rudest?

Tagging: @perfackles (because there’s new questions) @castakemetochurch @snovolovac @treefrogie84 @shipperslist @franks23 @rosemoonweaver @kay-cas19 @chiisana-sukima @caseofunderjoy

No obligation to play!! And if you want to play but I didn’t tag you, consider yourself tagged and please tag me back when you post :)

#tagging games #about me

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parkersrevenge · 7 years

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Send a Ranger! Pt. 2 of ?

Caleb’s first day of work went rather well, in the overwhelming way that first days always tend to be. The hangover didn’t help either, but that part was worth every painful throb to the temple. The evening with Ben wound up being more fun than he had in a long time. Besides, as much as they sucked, Caleb was a bit of an old pro at handling them. He filled out the paperwork with only minor difficulty, and sent an amused text to Ben as soon as he was out of the administration office- “They said they reduced the amount of paper to help save the trees or some shite, but I swear my packet was like 50 pages long. If this is saving the trees, I’m amazed we have any of those left.”

With paperwork complete, he made his way back to what would be his own offices and sat down with the supervisors to set a fixed schedule for his first week. Training at all the duty stations was the main point on the agenda, but he’d also have to order uniforms, get some lessons on the park and interpretation itself, and take the computer ethics course. He texted Ben a complaint about that, and Ben sent an evil looking emoji right back. Bastard.

Of course, none of this was really new to him. He had been a ranger out west for three seasons, working in the woods and trying his damnedest to make sure no one got eaten by a bear. Or a hot spring. Turns out those were becoming an increasingly common problem. You wouldn’t think “eaten by a hot spring” would be a concern on a fun-filled family vacation, but if anyone bothered to read the signs posted literally everywhere, that fate could easily be avoided. At least, that was the thought Caleb had on a near daily basis while he was working out there.

People and signs. Do they view signs as the enemy, to be defied at all costs? Or do signs just turn invisible as soon as someone enters vacation mode? There was valid hypothesis in there, somewhere, and Caleb wanted to test the theory out the next time he went on a trip.

In either case, Ben would get an earful of that rant soon enough, Caleb decided. He liked ranting, and Ben seemed like a perfectly wonderful person to rant to. Something in him just screamed “I am a calm person”. Or… something in him talked quietly. Screaming seemed rather counter-intuitive, come to think of it.

It was decided, after lunch, that the best way to close out the day was to observe one of the rangers doing a rove down on the beach. Caleb was thrilled at the chance to actually be outside, and hurried out to meet the ranger in question. He saw him a few yards down, talking to a group of young boys. It was only when he got closer that he saw one of those six-pack plastic rings in the ranger’s hands and heard what was being said.

“Now, let me put it to you this way… how would you like it if I walked into your home and just started making a mess? Throwing your clothes everywhere, spilling drinks, hiding your xbox controllers, turning off your wi-fi?”

The ranger’s voice was slow and quiet, but with enough of a bite to it that the kids around him looked rather guilty. “I wouldn’t like it,” one of them replied meekly, not meeting his gaze.

The ranger glanced up at Caleb, giving him the faintest smirk, then turned to face the kids once again. “I figured as much. Well, this beach is the home to hundreds of different animals. Do you think they like you messing up their home?”

A dejected chorus of “no’s” rang out, and the ranger nodded gravely.

“Exactly. Now I know you didn’t mean any harm, but these rings are dangerous and should not be thrown around. Birds and fish get caught in them, and most aren’t lucky enough to be rescued. I know the rules sound lame, but we have them for a reason, alright?”

The kids nodded, shuffling their feet awkwardly, waiting for the lecture to be over. The ranger sighed, knowing there wasn’t much else to be said, and sent them on their way. Rolling his eyes, he turned to give Caleb his full attention at last.

“Do you need a knife to cut those rings, man?” Caleb asked.

The man looked him over, studying him carefully. “It would be much appreciated, yes.” He handed the plastic over, and Caleb went to work cutting the loops with his pocket knife. The ranger crossed his arms, not saying anything else.

Caleb didn’t see anything rude in it, as he figured the man was just shy. Shrugging, he continued, “That was a fun lecture I overheard! I think you scared the shit out of them. Or at least guilted them into submission.”

“Thanks. I’m not too bad dealing with children. They generally don’t want to do wrong. They’re inherently sweet, until they start screaming over whatever it is they scream over. It’s the teenagers I have the problems with. I have no idea how to handle those. Not even when I was one.”

Caleb laughed, closing his knife and glancing around for a recycling bin. “I’m actually not too bad with teenagers. You just have to be really sarcastic and morbid around them, and they seem to appreciate it.”

“I’ll try to keep that in mind,” the ranger replied, still a little coolly, but clearly trying to appear relaxed. “If I’m being honest, I’m not too great with adults either.”

“Ah, if ever there was a job to help with that, it’s this one, I think,” he continued, happy to see the man at least trying to continue the conversation. “I’m Caleb, by the way. I’m the new seasonal. I think I saw you this morning, but they shuffled me right to admin.”

With that, the man’s demeanor began to shift entirely, and he smiled genuinely for the first time.

“I’m Rob. You just moved into park housing yesterday, yes?”

“I did! The only people I saw was Ben and Anna, though.”

“Ah, yes, I was out last night, got back late. Heard some talking, but thought better than to disturb it. Besides, I was tired… so you’re Ben’s new roommate, then?”

“Indeed I am!”

Rob paused, clearly pondering something. “You’re our newest house mate. We should hold a council of war tonight and get you acquainted with everyone.”

“Council of war? That sounds a bit extreme, doesn’t it?”

“Oh, hardly. Anna, our den mother, will welcome you to the fold in her most charming way over a group dinner. We’ll probably order pizza or something. Get some fake candles lit to pretend to be classy. You’ll meet the whole gang, get the house rules, and then the war aspect will probably begin.”

“What do you mean?”

“There’s always some drama, it’s just a matter of what day of the week it is. If I have to place a bet, though, this early in the season it’s probably going to be Abe and Anna finding something hopelessly stupid to bicker about. My only consolation is I don’t work with them at their park. Their drama must drive the rest of the staff insane. I don’t know how Ben does it.”

“What exactly do they bicker over?”

“Everything, really. I think they both enjoy it, too. Separately, they’re perfectly fine and even fun, but together? It’s clearly not a situation that can last.”

“The living situation?”

“The fucking.”

“Wait… what?”

“They’re… together. Usually. I think they broke up right before last season ended, but got back together when he came back last month? Or maybe they got together over Christmas break. It’s hard to say, with them. In any case, it’s an important lesson learned. Never date a co-worker, Caleb. Abandon all hope ye who enter there,” he sighed, shaking his head.

Caleb nodded, letting out an amused whistle. Where Rob clearly saw misery, Caleb saw an endless source of entertainment. It was only day one, and this was already looking like the start of the most amusing summer of his life. Especially since, Caleb noticed almost immediately, Rob seemed a bit too invested in Abe and Anna's relationship in the first place.

[ao3 link]

#personal post #my writing #Send a Ranger #park ranger au #Tallster #featuring Rob Townsend because I love him ok?#Caleb Brewster #Benjamin Tallmadge #Robert Townsend

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