#same face syndrome too but that goes for the men as well (and their black hair and blue eyes) | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

yourfinalbow · 4 years ago

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Ack anon I'm sorry. Tumblr ate your ask and I'm 🔪 But I saved your ask to put on the Google Doc so don't fret! I have it!

“Hi Ghastie Ghast, I wanted to share a prompt with you lol. I decided to go more holiday theme’d because it’s never too early to get into the holiday spirit.

“Your favorite winter drink was back on the menu, so I decided to surprise you with it.”

Please enjoy this prompt lmao”

The nickname made me -_- but hi Little Gray Circle Dude With Sunglasses! Thank you for sending me this! I had fun writing it. I'm assuming you wanted a Destiel fic, so that's what I wrote! (Also bonus points for Saileen as a background ship?) I sort of strayed a little from the prompt and the tone gets heavier as it goes on… 👀 I also accidentally wrote more than intended, so you can read it on Ao3 if that's easier. (And maybe give it a kudos because you’re the best?)

Title: Black Coffee Derangement Syndrome

Ship(s): Dean Winchester/Castiel, Sam Winchester/Eileen Leahy.

(Basic) Tags: Fluff, Slight Angst, Domesticity in the Men of Letters Bunker, Established Dean/Cas, Established Sam/Eileen, Using black coffee as a metaphor for hypermasculinity, With a whip cream style topping of internalized homophobia. *Finger guns.*

Warnings: Coffee gatekeeping and small sections of fluff that are as sweet as Cas’s Starbucks order. Also I’ve been to Starbucks once. Maybe twice? (Also a single mention of a drug that's commonly found as white powder, the non-descriptive comparison of Sam’s stupid health stuff with emesis, and use of the name that the figurehead for Germany in WW2 bore, just to be safe.)

Rating: T? Maybe? For language?

Word Count: 9k+

Quick thanks to my awesome beta @walksinstarllight! They are a poet and a writing sorcerer (wizard without a hat), and the only reason this fic even makes sense so please go shower them in kudos. (You can find their work here.)

Another thanks to @internetintroverts, who described a peppermint mocha to me in like 300 words because I drink black coffee and know nothing of anything ever. You can find their work here! (There's an Easter egg of one of their fics in this one hehe.)

The first thing Dean did when Cas got back from the Empty was give him coffee.

Okay no.

The first thing he did was fall into Cas’s arms and grip that stupid trenchcoat until his knuckles turned white. Shaking and laughing with hot tears streaming out of his eyes, he told him he was an asshole for leaving him like that. And to never, ever do it again. With blurry eyes and all other thoughts hazy, he told Cas he could have it, he could have what he wanted. Whatever he wanted. He told Cas he loved him too.

But then the next thing was coffee.

Caffeine is a hunter’s number one best friend, and since Cas was human again, Dean knew Sam was going to come at him with his stupid green health drinks and herbal tea. As Cas’s knight in shining armour, (a title used by Dean and Dean only), it was his duty to protect him from the disgustingly liquified rabbit food.

Now he expected Cas to like black coffee, you know, like a normal person.

But no, oh no. Apparently, he was dating a heathen.

Dean had to actually rub his eyes the first time he watched Cas fix his own coffee. He stood in the doorway of the kitchen, mouth agape.

Cas was leaning on the counter, humming some song that Dean could neither recognize, nor would he approve of, thank-you-very-much.

(Ok it was Champagne Problems by Taylor Swift and it's entirely possible he's listened to it once or twice but he still doesn't approve of it, thank-you-very-much.)

He held his yellow and black striped, bee-themed ceramic mug Eileen had bought him in one hand, and the entire five-pound bag of cane sugar in the other. And there he stood, happy as can be, pouring it directly into his mug.

Dean rubbed his eyes again.

And not even like, a normal amount either.

He just kept pouring, and pouring, and Oh my god he’s still pouring. Dean thought. It would honestly be more believable if it wasn’t sugar at all, and instead was in fact Cas’s secret stash of cocaine.

Dean might actually have to put sugar on the grocery list after he was finished.

His thoughts traveled back to Ishim doing the same thing with his coffee, in the tiny little diner Cas had set up as a meeting place. Dean had barged in that day, not thinking of his brother mocking him, or the possibility of danger inside. His vision was as tunneled as his thoughts focused only on Cas, not caring about anything else.

By that time the following day, Dean thought they were both going to die. The bloody and uneven sigil on the wall, Cas no more than ten feet away. Not quite within a comforting reach. The room was spinning from the blow to his head, and he could barely make out the words being spat from Ishim’s mouth.

“You blast me away, you’ll blast away every angel in the room. I’ll survive. Castiel, on the other hand, he’s hurt. He might live, or he might just end up a bloody smear on the wall.”

He almost lost Cas that day.

The blood rushed to his ears as his instincts sought out the mark on the wall. Ishim had told him to roll the dice, but in his head he couldn’t look past the chance of rolling a one. Watching the acrylic cube bounce until it decided Cas’s fate. There was no dilemma, there wasn’t even a decision to be made. He would always choose Cas over himself. Silent acts of care he could never vocalize.

An inability to speak formed from fear and cowardice. Like a lion in his stomach scratching at the words until they fell back down his throat.

And it was that inability to speak that led Cas to think he was nothing more than a tool for the Winchester’s to use.

He almost let Cas believe he meant nothing to him.

Dean cleared his throat. “Mornin’ Sunshine.”

Cas set down the bag of sugar and picked up the pot, the glass making a small clink as it hit the top of the coffee maker. “Goodmorning Dean. Would you like any coffee?” He greeted cheerfully, turning around like he hadn't just put enough sugar to make a pound cake in his coffee.

“Uh.” Dean was still caught off-guard by Willie Wonka over there. “Sure Cas.” He took the coffee pot from his hand and muttered a thank you.

“So,” Cas started while Dean reached into the cabinet for his own mug. “What ingredient do you suggest I put in my coffee this morning?”

“Uh...I don't know man. I drink my coffee black.”

“Yes I know you’re boring Dean, but you can still help me not be.”

“Black coffee isn't boring it's-”

“Dean, if you say ‘manly,’ I will sit you down and make you eat only spinach and kale for a week.” Sam said, walking into the kitchen, hair still spiked up from sleep. He used one hand to sign the words, his other one occupied by Eileen, who was sleepily shuffling closely behind.

Dean looked aghast. “I would starve.” He attempted to sign his indignant response, hands moving sloppily while holding both his mug and the coffee pot.

“I think that's the point.” Eileen said, laughing. She looked at Cas. “Is Dean gatekeeping your coffee aspirations again?”

“Yes.” He answered, ignoring Sam’s laugh and Dean’s huff of exaggerated outrage.

“Have you tried cinnamon?” Sam suggested. “You like Dean’s apple pie, and that has cinnamon in it.”

“I’m not so sure about that, Sam. Dean told me not to ever take cooking advice from you.“

“And I stand by that.” Dean interjected suddenly.

“I can cook!”

“Ehhh…” Eileen’s comment bought her a look of betrayal. “Though Sam may be right on this one, you might like it.” She shrugged.

“See.”

Cas pondered the thought for a moment. “Perhaps I will then.”

“Do we have nutmeg?” Eileen said, breaking away from Sam’s grip to check one of the cabinets. He walked to the other side of the kitchen, intending to look through the spice rack, knowing exactly what his girlfriend was getting at.

“You better not mess up my damn kitchen.” He said quickly. “Or you're organising them all next time.”

Sam rolled his eyes, knowing full well Dean would never let him organise the kitchen. Eileen looked through them, carefully turning the bottles around until the labels faced her. She pulled out the cinnamon and clove while she was looking for the nutmeg.

“Found it.” Sam called from the other side of the kitchen, walking over and putting a hand on Eileen’s shoulder.

“Thank you.” She said with a smile, grabbing the plastic spice jars.

She individually tossed each one to Cas. “Use these, it will taste like a pumpkin spice latte.”

“And don't forget the milk.” Sam added.

Cas scrambled to catch the spices, successfully grabbing two of them out of the air, the third one intercepted by Dean.

“What’s a pumpkin spice latte?” He looked at Eileen before snatching the bottle of cinnamon from Dean.

“It's a famous drink you can get at Starbucks.” Sam answered.

Cas tilted his head to the side and squinted at him. “What's a Starbucks?”

“You know, the coffee shop Alex and Patience drag Jody to all the time.” Dean said.

“I’m pretty sure Donna drags her there too.” Sam added. “Something about girl’s date night out.”

“The one Claire says is for ‘basic bitches’?” He lifted his hands, forming air quotes as he spoke.

“Yeah.” Dean answered, quietly laughing. “That's the one. She’s probably right, too.”

Cas carefully put the different spices in his coffee, eyeing the mug warily. His light brown coffee now had specs of...stuff in it.

(And unbeknownst to him, there was also a small pile of sugar at the bottom, the coffee so saturated it wouldn't dissolve any more.)

Eileen laughed at the look on his face. “It's good, I promise.”

Sam turned to look at her. “How would you know? Most of the time you get hot chocolate and spike it with bourbon.”

“You’re the one who gets a Pink Drink.”

Dean choked on his coffee. “What?”

“It's strawberry and coconut milk, and it's delicious.”

“Sure it is Sam.” Eileen jabbed.

“So what I'm getting here is that not only have you two been to Starbucks often enough to have a regular order, but Sam gets something called a ‘Pink Drink’?”

“No…” Sam started, trying to find a way to defend them. “Sometimes we…”

“...Make our own drinks.” Eileen snapped her fingers as she finished for him, attempting to save them from the endless stream of good-natured insults Dean would throw at them otherwise.

“Well you two are a real Martha Stewart, aren't you?”

“Yeah, except she's a convicted criminal.” Sam attempted to snark back.

“So are you!”

Before either of them could respond, Cas shoved his mug into Dean's face. “You have to try this, Dean. It tastes like pumpkin pie.”

Dean carefully grabbed the hot mug from Cas and took a sip. He was right, it did taste kinda like pumpkin pie. He took another sip, letting the pleasant flavor sit on his tongue. The different spices mixed perfectly together.

“I mean it's… okay.” He lied.

Dean contemplated his pumpkin themed food options. “Though I would rather just have pumpkin pie.”

Cas took his mug back. “Fine. More for me.” He said with a smirk, mimicking the look Dean gives him every time Cas says he doesn't want anymore bacon, before taking another sip of the makeshift pumpkin spice coffee.

Dean smiled at him, setting his own mug down and moving Cas’s out of the way to pull him into a kiss. He could smell the nutmeg almost as much as he could taste the cinnamon on his lips.

“Mmm we should bake pumpkin pie tonight.” He said, pulling away just enough so he could talk.

“I would like that.” Cas answered. “All four of us could make pie. According to the 'mom blogs', as you call them, it would be a good family bonding exercise.”

“That’s right. And if they want any pie, they gotta help make it. That means more for us if they refuse.” He grinned.

“A win-win situation, really.” Cas smiled before tugging Dean close so their lips met again.

“I love you.” Dean muttered.

“I love you too.” Cas said softly.

Behind their backs Sam and Eileen were fake-gagging at their sickly sweet interaction, but secretly just glad the two of them had finally gotten over their stubborn (and oblivious) selves.

Sam was honestly overjoyed to see his brother finally happy. He would even go as far as saying finally willing to be himself, too. (Not that he would ever say this outloud. Sam can practically see Dean’s eyes roll farther back into his head than should be possible at the words.) All four of them had gone through more shit in the last few months than any normal person would in their entire life. They were all just lucky to be alive, and with that, learning how to savour the little moments of overly sweet normalcy.

(And the pumpkin spice-life Dean had secretly been longing for since they were little kids.)

So of course they were going to help bake pie.

---

“I want to try Starbucks.” Cas said the next morning, both of them still in bed.

Dean groaned, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. “Can I ask why, or is this one of those, 'I'll tell you later’ disasters like with the slime ingredients?”

“I want to try all the human things that I didn't get to try last time.” He said offhandedly.

Dean pictured Cas’s hurt face when he had told him he couldn’t stay, smile broken as Dean’s own heart shattered from the look the newly-human angel was giving him.

He wanted to tell him it was going to be okay, that Cas himself wasn’t the reason, but the lion in his stomach clawed the words down faster than even the thought of ruining Sam’s chances at survival could.

With a pang of guilt from the memory, Dean pulled himself closer to Cas and rested his head on the other man’s chest. He wrapped his arms around him, trying to preserve as much warmth and comfort as he could until they had to inevitably get out of bed. “Only if you let me sleep like this for thirty more minutes.”

Cas smiled. “Oh, are we making deals now?”

“I’d sell my soul for you.” Dean said cheekily, which earned a glare from Cas. “Believe me, I know.”

After a beat he went on. “Fine, you have a deal.” Before Dean could celebrate by tugging the covers over their bodies, Cas added another clause to their agreement. “But... in true Crowley fashion, you have to seal the deal with a kiss.”

Dean lazily threw his arms into the air. “Victory.”

He turned over, pulling himself upwards until he was just inches from Cas. Cradling the angel-turned-Winchester’s head in his hands, Dean placed his lips on Cas’s, melting into the touch as he felt the other man’s arms wrap around his torso.

When he broke away from the kiss, Dean found himself face to face with the most beautiful smile he had ever laid eyes on, one born from adoration and love. Cas’s eyebrows were slightly scrunched up, but for once it wasn’t a sign of confusion when met with some obscure eighties rock reference. It was a tiny expression of care, and it was one that was truly Cas. Not Jimmy’s, not even one Cas had picked up from him or Sam. It was completely and wholly Cas, and a completely and wholly human thing to do.

He realized Cas had been doing that long before the Empty stole his grace.

Dean smiled back at him, relaxed. Like taking in a deep breath after being under murky water for forty years. He brushed a loose strand of soft, brown hair into its place, before falling back into his spot and closing his eyes. “Crowley would be proud.” He whispered with a soft laugh, smile deepening as Cas joined him.

When their quiet laughter died out, there was a pause, air stagnant and in its own sleepy haze

“Oh and Dean?”

“Hm?” Dean turned his head to look at him, eyes not failing to glow with their unusually bright, green pigment. He took a deep breath, the lids of his eyes already started to slowly fall back down again.

“The slime wasn't a disaster. You enjoyed it.”

“I did.” He muttered sleepily, a loose smile forming on his lips as he drifted off to sleep. Cas laid there, running his fingers through the other man’s hair, contentment and admiration showing itself in every feature on his face.

This was more than he could have ever wanted.

---

“Dean. Dean wake up.” Cas was excitedly whisper-shouting in his ear like a kid on Christmas morning. It was exactly thirty minutes later, (he had counted), and Cas was ready to get moving.

“No.” He answered back, mimicking Cas’s tone.

“But you’re like a cat.” He teased. “You're on me and I can't get up.”

Dean sighed. “I can't believe I let you talk me into this.”

“It didn't take much convincing.”

Dean rolled over to give Cas a playful glare, but was met with the saddest puppy dog eyes he had ever seen, completely throwing him off his guard.

“I'm going to kill Sam for teaching you that.”

Cas just continued to give him that look.

“Fine.” Dean relented, sitting up with a yawn and thinking about how he will now never be able to win another argument.

“Get dressed.” Cas said excitedly. “We're going to Starbucks.”

“Hooray.” He gave a sarcastic laugh, but a smile creeped on his lips.

They walked out of their room together, heading towards the bunker’s library. Dean slid in one of the chairs, turning Sam’s still-open laptop around and waking it up.

Cas, meanwhile, turned to a random page of the lore book resting on the table and started reading in an attempt to pass the time.

The sound of Dean typing filled the air. “So, I just looked it up, and do we have to go to Starbucks?”

“Yes.” Cas said simply, not looking up from the book.

Dean groaned. “Cas there isn't one in the county, let alone Lebanon. That's probably why Sam and Eileen make their own.”

“Where's the closest one?” Cas asked, his blinding, blue eyes glaring at the back of Sam’s computer like he was trying to will the coffee shop to be near.

“I thought it was across state lines and in Nebraska at first, but it looks like there's a small one in a town called Washington. It's about 80 miles from here.”

“Let's go!” Cas excitedly straightened his trenchcoat and headed towards the door.

“Or, we could leave Starbucks to the fourteen year old girls.”

Cas turned back around and rolled his eyes. “Yes, I’m sure their entire demographic is fourteen year old girls, staff included.”

Alright, smartass. Dean thought, struggling to hide a smile.

Cas walked out the door, expecting Dean to follow.

“It takes an hour to get there, our coffee’s going to be cold by the time we get home, and it's freezing outside.” Dean muttered under his breath, but he grabbed his keys off the table and stood up, willing to follow Cas to the ends of the earth if it meant he would stay with him.

Not that he was going to enjoy this trip. In fact, he was currently doing the opposite of enjoying, and they hadn’t even gotten into the car yet. Starbucks. Starbucks. Really, Cas? Of all the places he wanted to go, it had to be Starbucks. He couldn’t want to explore humanity through Target or something?

Even Claire wouldn’t be caught dead in that place, with all the frou-frou toppings, elaborate drink mixes, and colourful, drizzled syrup. The people who go to Starbucks are the kind of people who like coffee that doesn’t taste like coffee. Teenage girls who might as well just be drinking whip cream, and that was without considering the seasonal drinks they fawn over.

Seasonal drinks that shouldn’t legally be allowed to be referred to as coffee.

Dean couldn’t believe he ever agreed to this, but still, he begrudgingly followed.

---

Using the GPS on Cas’s phone, (Dean said his insane directional skills helped out too), they found the Starbucks relatively easily once they were in the little town.

They parked the Impala, and Dean looked at the modern building. The green lettering contrasted with the tan plaster walls, spelling “Starbucks.”

He heard Cas get out, his feet making a crunching noise as they hit the gravel, and watched from across the top of the car as he started towards the coffee shop. Dean looked at the building warily, reluctance painted on his face.

Cas was telling him some random fact about a bird he saw, but Dean could only think about his reputation that was about to shatter like a vase dropping on tile floor.

Reputation with who? He didn't know.

Well, he had a vague idea, but chose not to let his thoughts wander that far.

It was okay. This was fine. He could swallow his pride and-

“Ooh. The peppermint mocha looks good.” Cas was reading the limited edition drinks on the drive-thru menu as they traveled across the parking lot.

Dean was going to barf.

They walked into the building, immediately hit with the overwhelming smell of excessive amounts of flavoured syrup indoused coffee. Dean glanced around the well-lit building, taking note of the many different people there.

(He wasn’t about to have any black-eyed minions reporting his Starbucks order to a very judgmental Queen of Hell.)

Cas pushed Dean’s protesting body into the line, looking pleased with the many different options written on the menu overhead.

He enjoyed the small touch of Cas’s hands on his back, moving him forwards to the line, but was grateful Cas was careful not to let them linger there too long.

He was still wary about doing… this, in public.

He knew Cas was patiently waiting for him to be ready, so he didn't know how to tell him that he might never be.

The teenager working the cash register interrupted his train of thought. “What will it be for ya?”

“I would like a peppermint mocha please.”

“Alrighty. And you?”

“I'll take just a black coffee.”

The barista looked unimpressed. “And your names?”

Dean grinned. “John and John.”

“No relation.” Cas added.

The barista just sighed. “How do you want me to differentiate the two of ‘em then?”

“Oh you can put ‘John Bonham’ on mine.” Dean replied.

“Comin’ right up.” Their tone didn't change, still just full of apathy that could only be perfected by the work of a burnt-out teenager.

Dean and Cas walked down to the end of the counter and towards the pickup section. “Now tell me, Castiel.” He stressed his partner’s name. “Who’s John Bonham?”

Cas sighed, but the corner of his mouth upturned in a grin. “John Henry Bohnham, affectionately referred to as ‘Bonzo’, born in 1948 and was most well known for being the drummer of the rock band ‘Led Zeppelin’.”

“Mmm very close, but unfortunately you forgot the word ‘best’ in front of ‘rock band.’” Dean smirked before leaning in for a chaste kiss.

“You should have said I was ‘John Bon Jovi.’” Cas said, smiling.

“Why? Because you’re only good at this sometimes?” Dean closed the gap between them.

As soon as their lips met, Dean pulled away instinctively, realization hitting him like a hunter with a bat as his eyes widened in terror. “I-I'm sorry, I didn’t...” His words faltered as he looked around at the people sitting in the coffee shop, all of which were paying no mind to them.

He felt sick, guilt gnawing at him from a pit in his stomach.

“Hey, it's okay Dean. You know I'm perfectly fine with public displays of affection, and no one else even saw us. There's no need to apologize.”

“Yeah-h.” He said shakily. Before he could figure out who he was apologizing to, a voice from behind the counter called.

“I have an order for a mister ‘John’ and ‘John Bonham’.”

“That's us.” Dean spat the words out quickly, turning around to take them from the barista’s hand. He rushed out of the door, the small tinkling sound of the welcome bell and the blood rushing to his ears drowning out the sound of Cas’s call from behind.

He sat in the front seat of Baby, knowing he was being childish. Dean took a shaky breath and tried not to think about it.

About what the hell he was thinking, kissing Cas out in public like that. The judgemental eyes- black or not- that were watching. He thought about what his father would say, mind instantly going back to a moment in his childhood he has tried to forget since it happened, wondering where he went wrong.

About the time John had caught him and Lee, ignoring the weak excuses Dean was stuttering out. Skipping town faster than they had done in years.

About how the left side of his face had been a yellow-ish purple for weeks following, and the sore spot on his arm from where he caught the pavement as he flew towards it.

About how he had told Sam he just fell on a hunt. “Don't worry kid, you should have seen the vamp when I was done with him.” He swung his fist around in slow motion, pretending to punch an invisible enemy as his little brother giggled in childish bliss.

About how John never looked at him the same. The disgust in his eyes, harsh words on his lips.

About how he vowed to never disappoint his father like that again, and their joint hatred for that part of him. Sometimes it felt like the only thing they could agree on.

About how somewhere, somehow, he had decided Cas was different. That he somehow didn’t count, and that losing him hurt so much, was such an egregious pain, he wanted as much of Cas as he was allowed to have. And how that was something insurmountable stronger than the twisted, sick feeling John had placed in his gut.

He remembered something Cas had told him once: “Hatred isn’t a natural trait, Dean, it’s a learned one. A baby isn’t born with the ability to hate, it’s passed on from one broken soul to another. Love, love however. That’s something different altogether.”

Cas’s hand on his shoulder pulled Dean out of his thoughts. “Hey.” He said softly.

“Hey Cas.”

“I love you.” He got in the passenger's seat, taking his coffee from Dean’s still frozen hand.

“I love you too.” He whispered absentmindedly, staring straight ahead and seeing nothing but thoughts from the past. His mind fighting an internal battle, logic telling him that what he had with Cas wasn’t wrong, and even though everything from fate to God had tried to wedge itself between them, it was still the most right thing he had. And he knew that, but his dad’s drunken, booming voice echoed throughout his head, telling him that he was dirty. Telling him the Winchester men had no place for someone like him.

“You better stop that now, boy. Bad things happen to you when you’re weak.”

At the time he had taken that as a warning, rather than a threat. But now Dean wasn’t so sure.

It’s not even that his Dad was particularly religious. He wasn’t told that it was a sin, or that he was going to Hell. Though it’s not like that particular statement would have been wrong. He thought with a bitter laugh.

While the thoughts in his head were screaming mercilessly, the drive home was in a simple silence. The only noise being Cas’s occasional sip, and the sound of soft fabric rubbing against skin as Cas moved his hand in small, comforting motions against Dean's back.

When they got to the bunker, Cas, who was genuinely impressed that Dean managed to drive them home without crashing into a tree, pulled Dean out of the car and gently shook him out of his self-imposed stupor.

“Your coffee's cold.” Cas said with a laugh.

Dean blinked a couple times, clearing the fog from his mind, before laughing along with him. “And who’s fault is that? You were the one who insisted on traveling across the state to get it.”

“Do you want some of mine?” Cas asked. “There's a little bit left, and I held it next to the heater. It should still be lukewarm.”

“No thanks, Cas. I can go make some in the kitchen.”

“But what if I want you to try it?” Dean glared at him. “Don't make me do Sam’s ‘puppy dog eyes’ again.”

“Okay, okay. You win.” He put his hands up, mimicking a surrender. “I'll try some of your stupid, Christmas cookie, candy-cane flavoured coffee thing or whatever.” They started walking towards the entrance to the bunker.

“Peppermint mocha?”

“That's the one.”

Cas laughed at him.

“Oh just, give it here.” Dean said. He took a long sip from the disposable cup. He could taste a vague hint of whipped cream mixed in with the coffee, its light fluffy texture sticking to the last swallow of smooth liquid in the bottom of the cup. The chocolate and espresso rested on his tongue, and the peppermint was strong and refreshing. He took another sip.

“Does that face mean you like it?”

Dean looked at him guiltily. “No.” He opened the bunker’s door and started walking down the metal stairs.

“Yes you do.”

“No, I don't.”

“You took a second sip.”

Dean reached the bottom of the stairs first, and walked over to the War Room table to set both coffee cups and his keys down.

“So? I was trying to make sure I properly understood the flavour. Since when is that a crime?”

“You wanted to properly understand a flavour you didn't like?” Cas walked up to Dean and pulled the nearest chair out to sit down.

“What are you two arguing about this time?” Eileen asked from the library.

Cas clenched both of his hands into fists, putting the right one on top of the other. He made small, circular, stirring motions with his right hand. “Coffee.” He signed swiftly, movements fluid.

“Ah. That makes sense.” She spoke the words.

“What makes sense?” Sam asked, walking in from one of the hallways, making sure Eileen could see his lips before speaking.

“They're arguing over coffee again.”

Sam glanced at both of them, before his eyes reached the two cups on the War Room table.

“Wait a second… Dean?” He looked at his brother, before turning to face his best friend. “Cas?”

“Yes, Sam?” Cas answered.

“Did you two go to Starbucks?”

“I don't want to talk about it.” Dean grumbled.

“Yes, we did!” Cas sounded way too excited to be referring to coffee. “I got a peppermint mocha, and Dean tried some and liked it.”

“I did not.”

“I don't care what coffee you like, Dean. What I do care about is that you went all the way to Starbucks, and didn't bother to ask if we wanted to come.”

“Not cool Dean.” Eileen walked in, shaking her head and hiding a smile.

“I might have thought about buying you two drinks, but there was no way I was ordering yours with a straight face.” He looked at Sam. “And it's an hour away, they wouldn't have been hot or cold or whatever they're supposed to be by the time we got here.”

“Well then we'll just have to go back, all four of us.” Eileen put simply.

“It's an hour away.”

“We know.” Sam added.

“Let me say that again, in case you weren’t listening. It's an hour away. For coffee. That isn't even that good.”

“I beg to differ, Dean.” Cas said.

“Yeah I'm definitely with Cas on this one.” Eileen agreed while Sam nodded along.

“No. There's no way I'm getting back in Baby to drive all the way to Starbucks again.”

“Fine. We’ll go get our own.”

“With what car?” Dean said, very sure of himself.

Sam snatched Baby’s keys off the war room table, which in hindsight was probably something Dean should have expected.

“Let's hope Sam doesn't have too many shots of espresso.” Eileen said, faking concern. “I would hate for your baby to pay the price.”

“Fine. I'll drive you.” Dean grumbled while Eileen double fist-pumped her win.

Cas looked very pleased with the thought of getting to try more coffee.

---

They left shortly after, the drive over painful for everyone except Dean, who listened to the same four songs on repeat the entire hour.

(It’s their own fault, really.)

---

“Can we please listen to something other than Bob Seger on the trip home?” Sam complained as he slammed shut the door to Baby’s backseat.

“You’re just mad you didn’t get shotgun.” Dean said, closing his own door. “Besides, driver picks the music, everyone else shuts their cakehole.” Sam mouthed the words along with Dean, having heard the speech a million times before.

Eileen and Cas got out, neither one of them had any desire to input on their squabble, and were instead engaged in their own, quieter discussion.

Both brothers continued to argue until they walked into the Starbucks.

“Ah. There's the scent of overpriced coffee I missed.” Eileen joked as she took her first breath inside the building, using her hand to waft the smell towards her.

“What are you getting?” Cas asked Sam.

“I want my usual, and Eileen, what are you having?”

“Hot chocolate with espresso shots please. This place doesn't sell liquor.” She shook her head sadly and Sam laughed. “Good thing I brought my own.” She winked at them, opening her jacket just enough so they could see the inside pocket and showing off her flask.

“Oh, now that would be a Starbucks I would go to.” Dean said.

“You two wait in line.” Sam pointed to Cas and Dean. “We’ll save a table.”

Dean looked like he wanted to protest, but they walked away before he had the chance. Cas leaned over towards him. “Don't worry. I'll order Sam’s.” He very conspicuously winked.

Dean smiled at his attempts of regular human interaction, before over-the-top winking himself.

“Can you order for us? I need to talk to Sam about something.”

“Sure thing…” Cas had to think before finishing his sentence. “...buckaroo.”

Dean outwardly cringed. “Keep trying, you'll get there eventually.” He patted Cas on the back, which was slightly moving in a chuckle.

It was good to see Cas filled with so much simple joy. Face creased from laughter rather than stress, he seemed so much lighter. Happier. It was only a small sliver of what he deserved, but it was something. Maybe he could live with driving an hour to get what he assumed was half-decent coffee.

“What would you like?” Cas asked him, eyes still filled with a sparkle that only comes from gaining something you thought you lost.

“Uh.” He thought about it for a moment, almost considering branching out into the unexplored terrain that was the dark green menu with small, white text, before shuddering at the thought.

“I think I'll take that expensive black coffee I didn't get earlier.”

Dean was not going to turn into one of those people, if he had any say about it.

Cas walked into the line, leaving Dean to scan the room, furiously waving Sam over when his eyes found their booth.

“Sam.” He sounded like he was trying to whisper, but his volume raised far higher than that. The patron closest to Dean gave him a look before turning back to their work.

“Sam, come here, it's urgent.” His brother turned to look at him, rolling his eyes before getting out of the booth.

“What do you want?” He said once he reached Dean.

“Sam. Help. What do I do?”

“About what?”

“About what kind of coffee Cas is having.”

“Oh god, Dean let it go. He's not going to only ever drink black coffee. Contrary to popular belief, former angels do actually have souls.”

Dean ignored the implications that he didn't have a soul, too distracted by Cas. “But look.” He motioned his head towards where Cas was standing, next in line to order. “He’s eyeing the weird fruity drinks.”

“Dean. It's Cas. The man’s favorite food is PB&J. What did you expect him to have, taste?”

“Alright that's rich coming from mister Pinkity Drinkity or whatever the fuck.”

“You walked into a Starbucks and ordered black coffee, I don't think I'm the wrong one here.”

“Wait, wait. Shut up. Quiet.” He hit Sam on the shoulder in a childish attempt at getting him to stop talking so he could listen.

“Ow. That hurt.” Sam muttered, before turning to watch Cas, which Dean was already doing.

“I would like to try a…” Cas methodically scanned the menu again. “A ‘Passion Tango Iced Tea,’ please.” The barista took no mind to the excessive air quotes.

“It's not even coffee.” Dean said to Sam, clearly distraught. He turned to look back at Cas.

“And your name sir?”

“Lizzo.”

Dean threw his arms up into the air. “I can't believe this is the man I love.” His voice cracked like he was holding in tears of anguish from listening to Cas order.

Sam just rolled his eyes at the theatrics. Right, and he’s the dramatic one.

“Aw. You're in love.” Sam held his hands up, forming a heart and mocking his brother.

“Oh shut up. What are you, seven?”

“Is Cas your gay thing?”

“You shut your mo-”

“What are we gossiping about?” Eileen whispered, cutting Dean off and causing them both to jump.

“We're not gossiping.” Sam said indignantly.

“Sam started it.”

“Jerk.”

“Bitch.”

“This is where I call you two ‘asshats’, right?”

“It's ‘assbutt.’” Cas said, walking up to them and catching the tail end of their conversation. “And that's my line.”

Cas handed them each their drinks, before excitedly trying his own. He put the plastic cup up to his mouth, almost missing the straw. When he swallowed the cranberry-colored liquid, his face relaxed in pleasure.

“I know this one isn't coffee, but it's really good.”

“We didn't get coffee either.” Eileen said. “So don't worry, Dean's the odd man out here.”

Dean glared at her before trying his own coffee, and well, it was coffee. The point of buying expensive caffeine still went straight over his head.

The four of them went over to their thankfully-still-available booth and sat down. Dean and Cas sat on one side, both instinctively choosing the side that faced the door, with Sam and Eileen sliding into the seats directly across from them. They sat there, talking about nothing in particular, and certainly nothing of importance, before falling into the natural art of storytelling.

Aside from killing monsters, that’s what hunters did best. Sitting around and sharing stories. As tiring and dangerous as their lives were, some hunts were worth sharing exaggerated and hyperbolic versions of, especially over drinks.

Sam’s favourite story to tell changed every time, and one would almost be inclined to believe that most of it wasn't real, but the wildest parts also caused the most merriment. (Dean pretended he hadn’t witnessed the whole thing, sparing Sam by not telling the other two how it actually went down.)

Eileen shared of her time in Ireland. “Foreign country, foreign monsters.” She said with a wink, telling of creatures neither Sam nor Dean had even read about.

Dean’s favourite story to tell, aside from the fact that he killed Hitler, was the time he got to solve a mystery with everyone’s favorite talking dog. And yeah, all three of the people that sat at the table had heard both many times before, but that didn't matter, it was still enrapturing to hear them again.

Cas had millenniums to choose from, but always found the most interesting hunts to be the ones with the Winchesters. He also had many hilarious stories about his adventures with Crowley, but he was less fond of those.

“I remember once, Dean went on a hunt with Dad.” Sam started. “Nasty vampire, it got a hit or two on Dean. I think you guys went with another hunter. Young. About your age, actually. Uh…”

He snapped his fingers, trying to recall the name. “Lee. That's it.” Dean looked up from the coffee right as Sam said it. “Do you remember him?”

Something flashed in Dean’s eyes, but his brother didn't seem to notice.

Cas, who was used to admiring every minute detail of Dean's expression and posture, didn't miss the ever so slight, yet sharp, inhale. Or the way he swallowed before speaking, trying to clear the small lump from his throat.

Dean noticed too, internally rolling his eyes at his own reaction.

“Yeah it's been a while, but I remember him.” Dean was blatantly ignoring Cas’s burning stare from beside him, and the fact that he had stabbed Lee through the chest just last year.

Cas made sure no one was watching before gently placing a hand on Dean’s thigh. Knowing it would comfort him from both intuition and experience. Dean stiffened under the touch, but after realizing no one could see where Cas’s hand was, he visibly relaxed.

“What happened to him?” Eileen asked innocently.

“Oh uh, a hunt I think. Most of us go that way, I assume he was no different.” Technically Dean dealt the final blow, but it was the entrancing call of the monster, greed, and the life Lee and Dean had both secretly wanted, that caused his former-friend’s downfall in the end.

“Yeah.” Sam said solemnly, suddenly lost in his own thoughts, most of which were riddled with grief.

They sat in silence for a few minutes, letting the weight of their many losses wash over them like a tidal wave.

One made of espresso and milk rather than the rough waters of the sea.

---

The ride back was more manageable, Dean allowing them one song choice each, complete with a warning to pick wisely.

(They all very cheekily chose the songs they knew would bother Dean the most.)

---

Full on coffee, cookies Dean bought for them at Starbucks, and brimming with contentment, (as well as the fact that they spent half the day in the car), Cas suggested to Dean that they “hit the hay” as they stepped back into the bunker.

They laid there in silence, breathing in scents of comfort, coffee, and each other, until Cas eventually drifted off to sleep.

Dean, however, continued to lay there. Thinking.

He remembered the first solo case John sent him on.

Something curled inside his gut.

They had been two nuns, their fate a product of hate crime. Put to death for simply being themselves.

Dean didn't blame them for coming back as ghosts.

He remembered the words - ones he would soon learn were slurs - that John would spit out like acid.

Or offhandedly toss like they didn't bear enough weight to shatter the window of a person's self-image.

It had taken him almost forty years to realize that very same window inside of him was in sharp, jagged pieces. Cutting anyone and everyone who came near.

It had taken Cas dying to start picking them up again.

He turned to look at the man next to him, relaxed and blissfully sleeping. His chest moved up and down rhythmically, and Dean slowed his breath to match until he fell into a surprisingly peaceful slumber.

---

When Dean woke up, the other side of his bed was cold.

He didn't panic, knowing full well that Cas probably ran to the bathroom, or was pouring another mountain of sugar in his coffee.

Losing Cas again to the Empty had ripped him apart, but months of spending every night with his partner left him with less nightmares and waking in cold sweats then he had since before Hell.

Dean also learned that his own presence was enough to fight off the demons of solid, black goo that plagued Cas’s head at night.

He was finally starting to understand why life seemed to lose all meaning when Cas was gone, and from there he could slowly start to rebuild both of them.

Dean heard soft padding noises as socked feet walked down the hall, and there was a knock on the bedroom door. "S'your room too, Cas. You don't have to knock." He laughed, words slightly slurred from just waking up

Cas walked in, wielding two mugs of coffee and a proud look shining in his eyes. “I made us coffee.” He said triumphantly, handing one of the mugs to Dean.

“I put chocolate and peppermint in your coffee.”

Dean fake-gasped. “You monster. Ruining the integrity of my drink like that.”

“I'm a human, you ass.” Cas responded, a smile tugging at his lips. “Besides, I know you liked mine yesterday.”

“I did not.” He said, discontentedly crossing his arms. “I only drink coffee that's as black as my soul. Darker than the night sky. Hotter than the bunker’s computer when it overheats. As manly as-”

“Oh, just drink your damn coffee.”

“Fine.” He groused. “But I'm not enjoying it.”

Cas raised an eyebrow at him, before setting his mug on the bedside table and sitting down behind Dean. The bed creaked underneath him as he leaned forward and wrapped his arms around Dean’s waist. “Is this why you and Sam never use umbrellas?” He joked.

Dean laughed.

Cas rested his head on the crook of Dean’s neck and whispered. “You know you don't have to pretend.”

“Pretend what?” Dean asked softly.

“You know.”

“That I don’t like flavoured coffee?” He said with a snort.

“Sort of.” Cas hugged him tighter. “No one’s going to think any less of you Dean. You’re allowed to like the things you like.”

“I know.” He resigned.

“John isn't here anymore.”

“I know.”

“I love you.”

“I know.” The words barely came out as a whisper, hot tears betraying Dean’s eyes as they silently leaked out and ran down his cheeks.

He tried to wipe the tears away, hearing his Dad’s voice in his head and knowing he was being stupid.

Dean couldn't help but think of himself as a small, living-room window, from an old, dilapidated house. Stained yellow with age. Cracking from wear.

He let the drumming of his Dad’s words in his head be drowned out by Cas’s voice.

He couldn't unwrap the fuzz from around him, so he didn't know what Cas was saying, ears seemingly filled with cotton. It was just the knowledge alone that he was there. That he was holding him and whispering comforting words into his ear. That even as a human he could heal Dean at his lowest points, and still see him as the brightest, strongest, soul.

You don't really know what a picture is going to be until it's done.

Maybe that window is a beautiful stained-glass portrait.

“Uh.” Dean cleared his throat. “What-what do you have?” He indicated Cas’s coffee by angling his head towards where it sat on the nightstand.

“I made iced coffee.”

Dean just looked at him, astounded, eyes widening. “You mean it’s not hot?”

“Yes, that's where the ‘iced’ in ‘iced coffee’ comes from.” He said very seriously.

They both sat in silence for the next hour, peacefully drinking their coffee and enjoying the presence of one another.

---

When they got out of bed and ventured into the rest of the bunker, they found Sam and Eileen in the library.

They were sitting in adjacent chairs, with Eileen laying her head on Sam’s shoulder and reaching for her water bottle on the table. They were reading a book together, but Eileen shook Sam indicating she had seen them walk in.

“Goodmorning.” She greeted cheerfully.

“Mornin’.” Dean pulled up a chair across from them, and watched as Cas did the same.

“What are you two reading?” Cas asked.

“The Men of Letters’s Bestiary.” Sam said.

Dean snorted. “Ah. Doing a little light reading are we?”

“We're thinking about filling in some of the pages.” Eileen added.

“Yeah, for all of the stuff they have here, it's surprisingly empty.” Sam continued flipping through some of the pages, most of which were blank.

“Heh. I should put you in that thing, Cas.”

Cas let out a laugh. “Right. Because I’m a good example of an angel.” The sarcasm was masking something else in his voice.

“If it makes you feel any better, you’ve always been my favourite angel.” Dean only realised how sappy he sounded after it came out of his mouth.

“Yeah, I’ve heard the rest of them are dicks.” Eileen added.

Cas smiled at that, seemingly back to normal.

“Right, well you three can do that, I'm off to the Dean Cave.”

“Or…” Sam started.

“We could go back to Starbucks.” Cas finished, nodding his head enthusiastically.

“Yeah... that's not where I was going with that, but I like where your head’s at, Cas. We should definitely go back.”

“Eileen?” He asked.

“Hell yeah.”

“Dean?”

Dean pressed his mouth into a thin line and glared at him. “Yes, sure, fine. But we're not making this a daily thing.”

“That's fair.” Cas agreed. “It's probably not very healthy.”

He went to grab his wallet and keys before Sam could start his speech on the nutritional value of green things, and Eileen snatched her water bottle off the library table as they all got up to leave.

---

Dean gave up on letting them choose the music after snickering and requesting “Friday” by Rebecca Black for the third time in a row.

(It wasn't even Friday?)

---

Dean stepped out and closed Baby’s door in the parking lot of Starbucks an hour later, kicking the loose pieces of gravel on the asphalt for the third time in two days.

“We might as well just live here.” He said, tone dripping with sarcasm.

“I wouldn't make that offer if I were you, Cas looks like he’d be totally on board.” Sam laughed.

Cas went and stood beside Dean as they started walking towards the building, smiling.

“What?” Dean asked, question genuine and free of all malice.

“Nothing.” Cas answered, smile not faltering.

His eyes revealed nothing but pure devotion for the man he was staring at. A silent promise, one without pressure, that he would be standing there, and Dean could take the leap anytime he wanted.

Dean was slowly inching towards the end of the diving board.

---

“I think I'll just drink my water.”

“Oh that's exciting.” Sam joked. “If I got you a lemon to go with it, would you be able to handle that?”

“Don't talk to me about my drink, when yours is a vivid green puke colour.”

“Hey, at least it actually has a colour. And a flavour at that.”

Dean couldn’t believe those words were coming from the same man who drinks exactly a hundred and one ounces of water a day. (Which, according to Sam, is the recommended amount for males, as stated by the Institute of Medicine.)

(Dean didn’t care.)

“Fine then.” She turned to look at Dean. “Get me the strongest thing on the menu.”

Dean laughed before turning to Cas. “Let's just go get in line before we suffer at the hands of the Leahy like Sam.”

Sam and Eileen went to look for a place where they could all sit again, playfully bickering the entire way.

While he was standing in line with Cas, Dean looked over at his brother, and found him and Eileen sitting at a small table in the corner.

Cas was still helping him learn ASL, so he caught parts of their conversation.

“If Jack is in every drop of rain, do you think he's in your water?” Sam signed, trying to contain his laughter.

Eileen pushed her water away with a look of disgust. “You’re lucky I love you.” She answered back.

“I know I am.”

He watched her silently laugh before turning back to look at Cas.

They really did have it good, didn't they?

“What are you ordering, Dean?”

Dean stood there silently, contemplating. He internally weighed his pros and cons, mind leaving the menu entirely. While there was still a lot of shit he had to work through, (shit he had been actively not working out his entire life), there wasn’t much of a decision to be made.

He would always choose Cas.

“You know what?” He reached out and grasped Cas’s hand firmly. “I was thinking about being less boring. What ingredients do you suggest I try?”

Cas smiled warmly, reaching the crinkled corners of his eyes. “They have a cinnamon flavoured one. That’ll be almost like apple pie.”

“Will it really?” Dean’s tone was dismissive, but there was a smile on his face.

“Yes, Sam told me.“

“Not that I trust Sam’s judgment, but okay, I think I’ll take one of those.”

“I'm going to have a real pumpkin spice latte this time.” Cas seemed very pleased with the aspect of buying something they could make it home, but Dean wasn't going to fault him for it.

The patron in front of them finished ordering, clearing the way for Cas and Dean. The barista from the first time they went caught sight of them and made a face. “Wait a minute. I think I know you two.”

“Yes, we came here yesterday.” Cas helped. “Well, we actually visited twice, but you weren't working the second time.”

“Right... John and John, how could I forget?”

“This time we're ordering for four though.”

“I would like a…” Dean squinted at the menu, looking for the cinnamon flavoured coffee. “‘Cinnamon Dolce Latte.’ And my devilishly handsome friend here will take the pumpkin spice version.”

“And what are the other two drinks and names?”

Dean whispered something in Cas’s ear. “I'll drink the coffee, but I won't budge on this one.”

“That's okay Dean, you’ll get there eventually.” He whispered back.

The barista looked unimpressed with them. Again.

Dean cleared his throat. “Ahem, sorry. The tall one with the stupidly long hair,” he pointed towards Sam, “is getting…” he trailed off before looking to Cas for help.

“I don't know, man. It was something sickly looking. Cold? Green? Possibly tea?”

“And Iced Green Tea Latte?” The barista suggested.

“That's the one. His name is Jimmy.”

“And the lovely lady sitting next to him would like the strongest drink you have. Her name is Robert.”

“Her name is Robert…?” He slowly pointed towards Eileen, sounding unsure of himself.

Or them.

“Yup.” Cas said.

Eileen gave a little wave from across the room.

He gritted his teeth in a very clearly fake smile. “Coming right up.”

They paid for their coffee and picked it up, taking the travel cups across the room and towards Sam and Eileen.

Cas took a sip from his pumpkin spice latte, gleefully smiling. “As much as I like trying different drinks, I think I might start just getting this one. It's my favourite.”

Sam leaned over to Dean, neither one taking their eyes off of Cas. “Should we tell him the drink is seasonal?” He glanced at Sam, before staring back at his partner, whose face was beaming like a literal ray of sunshine.

Dean’s face softened. “Nah. Let’s not ruin his moment.” He took a sip of his cinnamon coffee and damn, it was delicious.

Nothing at all like apple pie, but still delicious.

Cas walked over to him, making eye contact in a silent question. Dean nodded with a small smile, and Cas took his hand.

“I love you.” Cas whispered.

“I love you too.” He whispered back.

They didn’t whisper to hide, and it wasn't because he was ashamed. It was because that exchange was just for them.

Dean leaned in and softly kissed Cas.

Now that was to tell everyone in the shop that his devilishly handsome friend was spoken for.

Slowly, the sun would come out and shine through the stained-glass window, shadow portraying the picture of an angel.

And alright, fine, Dean could admit that he enjoyed the peppermint mocha.

He thought about it for a moment, before giving a light chuckle, realising something.

“What?” Cas asked, turning to look at him with a soft smile resting on his face.

“Nothing.” Dean whispered, squeezing Cas’s hand in his. He took a sip from his coffee, relishing in the warm and cozy flavour enrapturing his tongue.

He was only thinking that maybe, just maybe,

Cas had changed him too.

---

Bonus Epilogue:

Dean held the glass door open for the other three, and they all walked out onto the asphalt, laughing, and making their way towards Baby.

The street lamp overhead flickered, and all four of them froze.

“Did anyone happen to get the salted caramel macchiato?” Dean whispered.

---

-This fic on Ao3 (Kudos and comments would be greatly appreciated.)

-Writing Tag

-Ao3

-Request fics/drabbles/ficlets. (Please)

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angst-king · 4 years ago

Text

Class 1-R

(so this story is a bit different. So some of the students from class 1-A are now in a class called 1-R. This class was made for special students who may not be able to be in 1-b or 1-a due a condition, syndrome, or disorder. Bakugou is deaf with hearing aids, Midoriya is albino (wanted to try something different), Uraraka has good child syndrome, Kirishima is epileptic, Denki has torrets syndrome, Todoroki has anxiety, ptsd, and spastic diplegia a type of cerebral palsy, and finally selectively mute Shinsou)

It was the first day of school for the some of the students, most have already started but for these kids they're just now starting. Riding in the black out window tinted car, Midoriya sat anxiously twiddling his thumbs with his luggage in the back seat next to him.

"How are you feeling Izuku?" Inko asked "I-I'm okay j-just a bit nervous." Toshinori smiles and turned to look at his adopted son. "don't worry young izu, you'll do fine and even become a hero. you're in good hands with Mr Aizawa I promise." "th-thanks dad" Izuku looked hopefully to him with a sweet smile. "Izu you did pack your temporary bracelet right?" Questioned Inko who was pulling up to the school, she had asked this many times before they left. "yes mom I did, you even watched me pack it, and yes I have my make up too." "good, oh my gosh you're growing up so fast my baby~" She sulked earning chuckles from both boys as she parked.

Getting out of the car she got a text from Mitsuki. "oh Auntie Mitsuki just got here too." she announces "ooh that means Kaachan is here!" exclaimed an excited Izuku, he opens the door before being reminded that he needs his parasol by Yagi. Grabbing his dark green and black parasol, Izuku gets out of the car then strapping on his satchel bag that had a picture of allmight on it with the keychain. "Oi Inko over here!" Called out a certain blond mother, turning her head after looking a bit, Inko sees Mitsuki who runs over to her. "Oh Mitsuki there you are" The two women hug and smile gleefully at each other. Izuku grins at Mitsuki as Massaru and Katsuki come over. "hey guys glad to see ya" Greets Massaru, Katsuki just remains hunched over waving. "glad to see you too"

The group converse over how their children have grown up and over their achievements. "I'm honestly surprised Izuku's this excited, he was so shy and scared a year ago." "yup now he's getting a lot better ever since he heard that UA made a special program." "Katsuki here has been excited about it, even if he doesn't show it I can tell." Mitsuki smirked while ruffling her son's hair, he glared at her flinching a little.

As they talked more cars pulled up, a woman with white hair that had some red streaks came out and opened the door for a young boy with half red and white hair, he carried a scar on the red side. The young woman kept her hand on the boy's shoulder as he fidgeted with something in his hands. Seeing the group she leads the boy over to them and smiles adjusting her glasses. "hello is this the 1-R group?" Inko nods "yes this is, hi I'm Inko Midoriya, this is my son Izuku." Izuku looks to the pair and smiles "hello" "I'm fuyumi Todoroki, this is Shoto Todoroki, I'm his older sister." Shoto tried to hide behind Fuyumi but she just coaxed him out, he whimpers at her. "I like his hair, it very handsome on him." Complimented Inko, she knew what it was like to raise a self conscious son who's scared of people. Shoto looked down and softly bowed thanking her. "you're welcome hun" The longer they stood the more people came. Finally a rat like thing came out with two men who looked familiar to some of them, coming towards the large group with a young boy who had wild purple hair and a tired look on his face. The rat spoke first "hello parents and students, you must be the 1-R group?" They all nod "great, well I'm pleased to meet you, I'm principle Nezu, This is Mr Aizawa and Mr Yamada or Present mic and Eraser head, they will be your teachers. As you've been told 1-r is a course for special students such as yourselves, there will be students who are from 1-a which is a not separated Hero course, those are students who have been chosen based on behavior, and history with students like yourself. Now that the introduction is out of the way, why don't we get to the dorms you've been given. You will be rooming in the same dormitory as the other students of course, we separated the classes but we find it important not to separate them too much."

With that the group are led to the dormitories that are shared by all the classes. Opening the large double doors for the group, the dormitories were empty of students since they were having lunch. Walking in Izuku closes his parasol, while adjusting his glasses that had clip on shades to protect his eyes. "This is the dormitory, it has kitchen, common room area attached, there are stairs and an elevator that leads to the floors of the dorms." The young purple haired boy then hands each student a slip of paper that had their room numbers and floors. "You are free to find your rooms and relax, tomorrow class will start for you guys around noon so this will give you time to adjust." Explained present mic, Nezu soon left the group. Izuku goes to the elevator with his mom dad, the Todoroki's. "Todoroki, wh-what room do you have?" Todoroki flinched a bit but looked at his paper "1273" Izuku smiles to him "hey I have 1274, we're neighbors that's gonna be fun." Todoroki didn't know why he smiled back, it wasn't something he usually did but the boy's joy seemed to be contagious. Meanwhile, the Bakugou's were in the elevator with who they learned were the Kirishima's, and Kaminari's and they were making good conversation. "S-so you guys li-like Pokemon too, my favorite is p-pikachu what about y-you?" Bakugou preferred to sign rather than talk, but if he felt like it he'd talk. He signed that he liked charmander, while Kirishima answered that he also liked charmander. They shared room numbers which it turns out Kami was a crossed the hall from Kirishima and Bakugou who'd be neighbors. Finally when they were all set up the parents wished their children good luck, took pictures, cried a little, and soon left. wow this was real they were now really in a hero class! Down stairs the group decided to hang out in the common room on the couch. "So we're finally gonna be training to be heroes, how are you guys feeling about this?" Asked Uraraka who seemed pretty excited "w-well I'm pretty happy but nervous at the same time. Kids like us are still looked down upon." Replies Midoriya "Well then we'll just have to prove those jerks wrong then!" Smiles Kirishima who bumps his fist together proudly, earning a nod from the group.

The group seemed to enjoy themselves, when the double doors opened and a large group of students came in and looked to the others. "who are you?" "are you guys the new group?" Multiple questions came and it seemed to upset Todoroki, and Shinsou. Bakugou grumpily responds "none of your fucking business extras" He wasn't loud but he got his point across, while Midoriya just apologized. "S-sorry about him, yes we're the new group." "Oh so you guys are the special group, class 1-retarded." Spoke one of the 1-b kids, he had blond hair like Katsuki but held in a more tame style. He did have an arrogant aura to him. The 1-R kids immediately looked down but one of them seemed to muster up some confidence.

"we are the special group, but we're not retarded, we're far from that." It was Kirishima but he earned a chuckle from the guy. "Oh please don't make me laugh, they just made a special class just to give you losers false hope, do you really think you'd become heroes." "ugh Monoma leave them alone they just got here give them a break" spoke a girl with long ginger hair, Monoma pouts at her. "but Kendou its true-" "Retared isn't something you should be saying to a group of special needs kids you know, that's just cruel." Spoke a voice that Kirishima found familiar, out came a girl with pink skin, and hair, she had yellow horns and eyes. She gasped to see kirishima and ran to him. "Kiri oh my god you're here!"

Tackling the red head who smiles back at her, they soon hugged. "omg you actually got in, I'm so proud of you!" She exclaimed like a proud mother. "Thanks Ashido" The two parted and the groups seemed a little confused. "Kirishima and I went to the same middle school together, when I heard that they made class 1-R I was hoping that Kiri could at least get into that at the most 1-A." The alien girl explained earning an understanding nod, Mina soon joined the group of special kids as most of the other students departed to their rooms or other spaces in the common area. When a blue haired male came over and introduced him self suddenly.

"Hello my name is Iida Tenya, I heard you guys are the new group that will be attending UA. I'm class 1-A's class representative, and I'm also a volunteer student for class 1-R, I also tutor classmates who may need extra academic help." the blue haired one seemed so formal which raised a brow to the group but they didn't question it. "well hello Iida, I'm Midoriya Izuku, glad to hear you'll be volunteering." He offered his hand to shake, which to his surprise Tenya shook. Mina then looked to Kiri "oh yeah I forgot I'd be volunteering in your class too, as will my friend Sero Hanta, and a girl named Tsuyu asui but she likes to be called Tsu." "ah okay great I wont be too lonely" announced kirishima.

#special needs class version of 1-a #bnha love children #deaf bakugou #epiletic Kirishima #Albino midoriya #Todoroki has cerebral palsy #Uraraka good child syndrome #Torrets syndrome Denki #Mute shinsou

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heli0s-writes · 5 years ago

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IV. I’m in the mood for love

Summary: Beyond the sass and the crass lies a tender moment Pairing: Steve Rogers x Reader x Bucky Barnes A/N: Maybe I wrote myself into a pickle? Idk but I teared up a little at the end. Also this is the most politics I’ll ever put in my work-- let’s keep it civil and chill if we disagree.

Foot in Mouth Syndrome Masterpost

It’s a miracle that you had worked up the courage to trot downstairs to return the only covering that separated two bare-ass naked men from your eyes. And not to mention yourself, who was only covered in a towel, too.

You make Steve stand so far around the corner of the doorframe that all he can do is stick out his hand. Bucky rustles the shower curtain impatiently and makes a comment on how “non-hyperverbal” you’re being and you’re too nervous to even respond back. When Buckyeye starts looking at you and the swinging white hem at your shins, you shoo him up the stairs before he gets any other bright ideas.

“Didn’t know you were such a prude.” Bucky comments later as you fiddle around in the kitchen, “But I guess it makes sense-- you still have those stuffed animals on your bed.”

You bristle and glare at him, “Just because you didn’t have a childhood doesn’t mean I can’t.”

It’s a little too mean, and you hear the venom that shoots right into him as soon as it leaves your mouth. “Sorry.” You comment. Damn it. He grew up in the fuckin’ Great Depression where everything was dusty and shit.

“Not all of us can travel the world eating caviar at the ripe age of four.” Bucky snarls. Ugh. Why’d he have to do that?

“Oh, fuck you.” You retort the same time Steve sharply calls Bucky’s name to reel him back in. It doesn’t work, as Steve knows, because when you and Bucky get into it—you get into it.

“You wish, princess. Wait, you’re such a goddamn prude, anyway--”

All Steve can do is cross his fingers and bark, “Buck!”

It’s too late. You’re across the room before Steve can say much else and you’ve launched yourself over one empty couch and straight into Bucky sitting on the other. The force knocks it slightly and it teeters before flopping back with a muffled thud.

Buckeye begins to run around in circles, unsure of the kind of play this particular moment is.

You have no idea what you’re doing, and you doubt you even want to—or can-- hurt him in any way, but you are so finished with his bullshit. You death-grip his hair as you jab both knees into his abdomen. Bucky moves to rip you off, but you clamp your teeth over his wrist and he yelps.

“Fuck you!” You scream, “fuck you so much! I—ow! I fucking apologized, you—Ugh!”

Buckeye, ever the perfect audience member, begins to bark to the rhythm of your screeching and aggressively nudges Bucky’s foot with his snout.

Soldat’s metal hand pushes your face back until its tilted up to the ceiling and further beyond, precariously suspended. The only thing keeping you from cracking your skull on the coffee table is your clinging to his hair. Steve’s concerned expression is upside down and his arms are outstretched, trying to determine the right configuration to pry the two of you apart. “Get that fucking! Aluminum foil finger the fuck away fr---”

“Shut up!” Bucky’s palm smashes against your mouth as his legs wrap around your back until you’re a squished human pretzel inside of him. You’re too crushed even to make any sounds and behind you Steve is sputtering vowels and consonants but not stringing together any real words. Finally, he nearly shrieks,

“Bucky! Jesus! You’re gonna actually kill her!”

Yep. This is how you’re gonna go, you think. The Winter Fucking Soldier has officially had enough of your bullshit, too, and he is going to bear-hug you to death. Who would have thunk it? Your fingers disengage and fall uselessly over his arms.

When time begins to slow and your soul starts to yeet itself from your body, Bucky blessedly lets go. “You’re bluer than I was in cryo.” He sneers.

Steve gasps, scandalized by the comment. For whatever reason, he’s covered Buckeye’s ears, too. You would send him an incredulous look, but you can’t feel your face.

With a pathetic whistle of air, you flop backwards and hang upside down over the couch, thighs gripped tightly by Bucky, heaving deep breaths until your lungs feel like they might burst through your rib cage. No wonder you are not a superhero—fuck the hubris, you are physically not built for this shit.

“I think I’m gonna vomit.” You mutter when Steve’s face begins to spin alongside your dog who slobbers all over your nose. Bucky yanks you up by the front of your shirt and the cough that blasts from your mouth goes right into his face. His smug expression twists into one of disgust and you take the moment to waggle your eyebrows suggestively.

Your sour mood has fled and now that you’re absolutely sure you cannot kick his ass—you return to the one thing you do know you’re capable of:

“Hey, baby. Is that a glock in your pants or are you just really happy to see me?”

To drive your point home, you bounce on his lap with a wide grin, wiggling your butt in exaggerated motions.

“Okay! That’s enough!”

Steve scoops you up and plants you back on the other side of the coffee table. “That’s too smart! Too smart!” He scolds as you pat your bottom and then curtsy. Bucky only huffs and crosses his arms, refusing to meet your gaze. Ha-ha. Winter Soldier, meet your match—Ass Woman. No, that just sounds like a porno.

“Alright, fuckers.” You declare, stepping over to the built-in bookshelf around the flatscreen and retrieving a leather-bound copy of The Wizard of Oz. “Ready for chili?”

They watch you open the front and stick your hand inside the false pages and retrieve a roll of bills. “What?” You ask nonchalantly. “Oh—shut up, Barnes. Like you guys really need me to pay back the vet fees. Technically, my tax dollars pay you.”

Steve shakes his head no. So, you casually toss him the roll of cash and then pull out another one.

“Jesus! Will you put these back?”

“Look,” You say, “For every month I don’t come home my mother puts another wad in this box.” You show them the pile of rolled bills, each encased in varying sizes of rubber bands. “She thinks it’ll ensnare me, but joke’s on her, the more I’m away the more there is to spend. She’s not very smart—a consequence of never having to think for herself.”

“And you’re fine with spending it?” Bucky ponders. The relationship you have with your family grows more confusing the longer they spend in your parents’ house. The memorabilia littered in your childhood bedroom seems to suggest that you aren’t completely detached from your family or your childhood. The way you respond to being home is paradoxical, too—disgusted at the excess one minute, reveling in it the next.

“It’s just fucking money. They make so much of it. I couldn’t bankrupt them if I tried. My father has offshore accounts in the fucking Caymans. I literally could not.”

They both pause before Steve speaks up, “Are you an only child?”

You frown. “No.” Then you aggressively push him by the shoulder and toward the exit, motioning for Bucky to follow. “It’s fucking Skyline time.”

Suddenly, you pause at the door and turn around to put both your hands on your hips. Looking both of them up and down, you shake your head impatiently. Steve is wearing his civilian Captain America outfit again. And Bucky, honestly, Bucky looks like someone cosplaying Bucky.

“Who dressed you?” You demand, exasperated, “You guys like, do spy stuff? It’s baffling to me that you don’t get caught immediately. Steve—khakis?”

Upon being admonished, he scoffs and looks around, “What’s wrong with my khakis?”

“Will you please tell him something?” You ask Bucky, who only rolls his eyes as if to say, you’re fuckin’ telling me. When it’s obvious that Steve’s poor choices are solely the result of him being an old fuck with no fashion sense, you mumble. “At least switch shirts. I’m going to take Buckeye out… please… fix this.”

When you come back, the sight of Steve wearing black and Bucky wearing light blue is so discomforting you cover Buckeye’s eyes. “It’s okay, boy.” You whisper loudly. Bucky flips you off but fixes the hem of the shirt he’s sporting. Steve—for whatever inexplicable reason, has decided to tuck… You quickly yank his shirt from his waistband and shake your head. “Christ, why are you like this?”

Untucked and uncomfortable in black, Steve looks at the menu as if the letters on it were runes from an ancient past. He doesn’t understand at all what Skyline Chili is or why it is. They’re coneys—this he does understand. But the rest of it—nope. Why would anyone ever need that much cheese? Bucky mirrors his sentiment by shutting the menu and crossing his arms.

The small bowl of oyster crackers in the middle of the table is being torn apart as you shovel handful after handful into your mouth. There is an inordinate amount of hot sauce sprayed on the top of the crisps, and you wipe your hands haphazardly on a napkin when you’re finished.

“Okay. You feelin’ spag or nah?” You ask, not even looking up. “Spagbol.” You continue, “Spag-y. SPAGHETS!” Then, in a terrible and very offensive Italian rendition, you pinch your fingers together and enunciate, “Its-a-spha-ghetta!”

Bucky slumps down into the booth until you stop. Steve puts his hand over his eyes.

“Why would you put chili on spaghetti noodles?” Bucky hisses.

The waitress arrives right after his question and you reach over to take his hands into your own— still reeking of peppers and vinegar from the hot sauce. “Shh,” You say almost tenderly, “Adults are talking now.”

“I hope you rub your eyes with that hand later.” Bucky snarls.

“I’ll cup your balls with it, instead.” You respond.

The waitress whimpers at the conversation she’s just stumbled into.

Six coneys arrive and as well as two plates of spaghetti. You explain to the boys that the Skyline specialty is steamed buns, mustard, special secret spice chili, raw onions, and hella shredded cheese. The noodles come with the same, sans mustard, and if you’re feeling extra frisky— beans. One plate is extra frisky today. Then you unscrew the cap to the hot sauce and shake the shit out of it onto everything.

They are bewildered at the sheer excess of American consumption as you shove almost half a coney into your face. Cheese flops down onto your plate.

“I think I’m gonna vomit.” Steve whimpers.

“Big baby, wimpy, Stevie can’t eat the cheesy?” Between mouthfuls, you’re still a dick. “Just try it! What are you, six?”

He glares at you and then sends a puppy-dog look to Bucky who already is lifting a coney to his face. You take another bite and watch them do the same.

Immediately, Steve coughs. Bucky starts laughing so hard he drops the pile of shredded cheese all over the table. You tuck into the overflowing plate of spaghetti, hot noodles melting the cheddar on top into an amalgam of gooey yellow. “I can’t do it.” Steve groans, “This isn’t right. This isn’t what God wanted.”

“God is dead, bitch.” You reply, “There is only Skyline Chili.”

“So what’s your deal?” Bucky asks from the couch.

The three of you have returned back to the house, winding down for the night. It’s eight now, and you’ve driven them around the city just to show them the sights. The gentrified downtown with its bustling crowd of young, white party-people interspersed with streets of dilapidated buildings and homelessness. There’s a bitterness to your voice when you talk about the changing scenery—but a kind of sadness, too. You admit you don’t really know the solution. The business brings in money to the city, but all the people left behind are really getting left behind.

You show them the more relaxed areas, like Over the Rhine and point out its massive brewery. You promise to take them there soon. There’s also the famous Cincinatti Zoo, and King’s Island, where you swear is better than where Steve wanted to go- Coney Island #2. There’s no point in taking him there, you declare when he starts to sputter, because he only wants to go to shit all over it, and because King’s Island is way cooler.

“What do you mean?” You ask back, flipping through the stations with your feet propped up on the coffee table. Steve and Bucky are sitting side-by-side under a blanket. There is a bowl of chips and hummus shared in their laps since Steve refused to eat during dinner and is now very cranky.

“All of this. Excess. Money. And then... you.” he waves to the house, then to you, sprawled out carelessly on a leather couch in mismatched pajamas. Buckeye’s head is faithfully in your lap, big eyes peering up at you, as if he’s waiting for an explanation too.

“You hating on my penguin top and pumpkin bottoms or what?”

“C’mon...” Steve beckons, knowing that your deflection is just another cop-out.

So, you groan, because they’re teaming up on you and after almost three months it’s bound to happen. They’ve told you so much about themselves already. You’ve learned all about the personal lives of the Commandos, the war stories, serums and experimentations, the cryo, the trial after the Triskelion... the blood, and sweat, and all of Steve Rogers’ tears.

“Well... it’s not as exciting as you think it is.” You mutter, tugging on Buckeye’s ear, finding the texture comforting under their persistent gaze. “Just a dumb girl born into an obscene family.”

But you tell them, truthfully and genuinely. Your family has old money- oil, or steel, probably both. As a result, you grew up in the lap of luxury, private schools, language programs, singing classes, dance lessons, horseback riding, trips to Europe and Asia, enormous birthday parties and a line of suitors as soon as you started growing breasts. The worst part, you admit, is that you loved it.

The picture they picked up in your room was from junior prom, and the date was a boyfriend- family friend- you’d been with for about six months, and he already planned on proposing. That was just how it was. Rich people marrying other rich people continuing the line of one-percenters.

Really, you say, your family was maybe the 10 percenter-range. As rich as maybe low A-list movie stars, not quite Jeff Bezos. But you know him, too.

“What changed?” Steve wonders out loud for both him and Bucky.

“Living in New York.” You half-smile at the memory of Union. “After Ohio State, I went to Union for my graduate studies and it blew my shit wide open. But that’s what happens when you start opening yourself up to other realities.”

You tell them about the immense struggle the first year at Union, feeling ostracized and realizing that your life is nothing like most peoples’ lives, and then beginning to frame your understanding of the world in a different way. You tell them you got mugged once and you felt like you probably deserved it.

“Then the election happened.” You sigh, and they both groan at the reminder. “As you know... it’s just been downhill and fucked. We had a big falling out here over Thanksgiving holiday.”

You didn’t come home in almost two years. You took out loans, you worked two jobs, took a full course load and wrote a thesis, and then went on to your Doctoral program. Your parents reached out to you and you eventually came half-way back into the fold.

“And spending their money?”

Most of the money you get you give to the local shelters. “That’s just direct action, baby.” You laugh. “We go at it, all the time. But you know, I figure... If I have to live in this shit world, might as well be a bastard about it.”

That earns a hearty chuckle from both your guests. “Jesus, that explains a lot.” Bucky grins as you nuzzle Buckeye and plant a kiss on his wrinkly face.

It feels so much better now that you’ve aired all the dirty, 1000-thread-count Egyptian cotton sheets.

Steve hops up from the couch and runs downstairs, “Be right back!” He yells. You and Bucky narrow your eyes at the trail he’s padded into the carpet. In the distance, you can hear his rummaging and then thumping footsteps back up into the living room. He’s perfectly in one piece, because he’s Captain Damn America and nearly flying up a flight of stairs ain’t shit.

“I figured this would happen.” He grins, holding up a metal flask. “It’s time to break out the Asgardian mead.”

The three of you are drunk on whiskey and space-juice, tumbling around the downstairs living room. You are banging on the piano keys, tapping out a stuttering and off-kilter rendition of The Magic School Bus theme song while they wrestle. Why is it that no matter how old boys get, they still love to wrestle? Around their legs is Buckeye, running around in circles and panting, like a racecar at the Indy—only making left turns, having the time of his life.

“Get a fuckin’ ROOM!” You scream, throwing another shot down.

“You mean your room?” Steve laughs back, head under Bucky’s arm, tapping uselessly on his ribs.

“Captain America, fuckin’ in my room. Carve that on my grave, baby.” You mutter, as the piano lid slams down and you take a bow, knocking the bench over with a crash. “Oops.”

“Thas direct action, baby.” Bucky parrots you, “You’re so fucking lame.”

Buckyeye leaps into the air and licks him on the face. “Fuck!”

“Yeah, defend my honor, Buck!” You whoop. “Not you!” You point to Bucky, who flicks you off with a cackling laugh. The sound of it flutters into your ears like a ghost- leaving cold trails down your back. Suddenly, you get an idea.

“Hey-- you guys on Twitter?”

They sit crosslegged on the floor flanking you as you scroll determinedly through what seems to be endless tweets. There are other tabs open, too, of compilations of these. Thirsttweets, you explain. The internet loves and wants to bone the hell out of Captain America. Some of them want the Soldier there too—just watching, apparently.

Steve is seventeen shades of red and a little bit of purple. Bucky keeps cursing under his breath and at one point, you think, is reciting Hail Mary. It’s a million times worse than your playlist.

Who’s Got the Biggest Dick in Baseball is nothing compared to captain america could spit into my mouth and id say thank you

“I would never!” Steve gasps. “Or that!”

The tweet in question says: ruin my life big dorito daddy

“What does that mean?” Bucky groans, a little ruffled by all the lewd attention Steve is getting.

“His back is shaped like a Dorito, duh. Don’t get jealous, big boy. You’re next.”

For whatever reason, Bucky’s tweets are way worse. Maybe it’s his persona—that redeemed baddie type of thing. People eat that shit up like chips and dip—and apparently want to eat him too.

As long as I have a face, Winter Soldier has a seat rearrange my guts, Sargeant Sexy When will James Buchanan Barnes put his fist in me? WHEN? I didn’t know I was into getting choked until I saw that metal arm.

You snort whiskey into your lungs in the middle of reading one out loud and spend the next five minutes with your insides on fire. Steve has his head in Bucky’s lap and there are tears coming out of his eyes both from Bucky’s clenched jaw and you, crumpled into a heap spewing amber.

A jazz tune belts out from the surround sound system. Steve has picked a Music Choice station from the seemingly endless list of cable possibilities and of course, being a nostalgic thing, chose Swingers — wait, Singers and Swing. Your brain is loopy with joy.

“Didn’t you say you took dance lessons?” Steve asks nonchalantly.

“Uh-huh,” you sigh on the floor, legs crossed over Buckeye as you pull him down on your tummy. Rolling side to side with you, your dog begins to groan and flop, aggravated at your antics.

“You know, Buck used to dance.”

“Uh-huh, you sure did, didn’t you, big baby?” You kiss Buckeye on the nose.

“Bucky. Bucky, not Buckeye.”

He returns from the restroom with his hair pulled away from his face, changed into a long sleeved soft shirt and sweats. “What?”

“You used to dance!” Steve urges with a flick of his wrist, “Get on out there!” He waves his finger to the carpeted living space where you are spread-eagled, trying your best to keep your dog next to you. Damn it, you want cuddles!

“You want me to lead her? Stevie, I couldn’t lead the girl to water if she were a horse.”

“I am not a whore!” You cry indignantly, shooting up from the carpet and knocking Buckeye over with a yelp.

“A horse! Jesus H. Christ, ya deaf!”

You probably are, you think, as the music slurs itself into one long whine. Bucky grabs you by the hand anyway, determined to prove some point to Steve. He turns you around until you face him and takes a second to start on the right beat.

It’s like a switch has flipped and he becomes all step and sway as he moves to the music, leading you, too. Some vestigial memory digs its way out of your muscles from all those damn dance lessons and your feet point and tap along with him, hips rocking when he spins you around and pulls you back. A grin slowly breaks across his face, big and lopsided, all teeth.

You feel like a little puppet in complete submission to him as he expertly uses the perfect amount of momentum to change your course.

Laughter bursts forth from your mouth as you whirl dizzily around Bucky, hands clamped tightly in both of his. The room is a blur of colors and the blue of Steve’s eyes, watching.

At one point, you stand hip-to-hip side-by-side and kick your feet together before he takes you by the waist and dips you low. You’re breathless as he laughs, mirroring your puffs of warm air from above, wild with motion— his hair slipping from behind his ear to hang over your forehead.

“Holy shit you got moves.” You proclaim as the song finishes and he tugs you up with a satisfied chuckle. A slower melody comes on and you move to return to the couch where Steve is sitting with Buckeye, but Bucky tugs you again, closer.

He places one hand behind your back, resting on the ridged thread-bare waistband of your pajama shorts, and the other one he holds up to his chest. You blink away the fuzzy spots from your eyes and peer at him, looking so far away even though he’s just inches apart. His expression has changed, dropping into something distant and removed and staring straight through you.

You see it now. He’s not Bucky anymore.

It hits you like a bag of bricks, that this is James Barnes, in all his glory as a beautiful Brooklyn boy. Out dancing with a girl. Laughing, just like this: bristled, square-jawed and cleft-chinned. Wide, pouty lips. Bright steel eyes. Before he was a soldier, he was just a boy.

Before he was The Soldier, he was just a boy.

His chest rises and falls slowly as he takes a deep breath. The crooning in the background is tender, melodic, with the singer’s sweet voice pining for her loved one accompanied by delicate plucks of a piano.

Once, too, he pined.

The tears in your eyes spill over when you press your mouth to his. Bucky lets go of your hands and you catch his face with them, instead, holding onto his head, fingers grazing his ears and neck and brushing away his hair. You kiss him as if he might be shipped out to war tomorrow. It hurts even more to know that he probably had a night just like this, in the arms of a girl he loved, right before his entire life changed.

And then, you tear away and look at the couch where Steve sits, chewing on his lip, red-eyed too. You sob uncontrollably when you rush around the table and into his arms. He wraps them around you, pushes his face down into your shoulder.

“I love you guys.” You whisper, curled up in Steve’s lap, because the story of Steve Rogers and Peggy Carter was never explicit in the history books, but you know it too. “Oh God. I’m so sorry it’s like this. I’m so sorry.”

Steve forgets sometimes, that they were ripped out of time. He forgets the torment and tearing of Bucky’s entire being. They busy themselves in tomorrow and moving forward so much that they bury how the things that made them also broke them.

You are clinging onto his shirt, crying for him now, for both of them. Two handsome soldiers, living, dying, resurrected again. Having only each other to know and hold.

Sergeant Barnes of the 107th closes his eyes and presses his lips together. When he opens them, he is Bucky Barnes of the terrible, modern age once more. He crosses the room quietly, as he always does, as he was made to do. He sits down next to Steve as you look up at him with love and sympathy and so much sadness he can’t stand it. He links his hand in yours and smiles in a way that cracks your heart right open.

“Don’t get weird, kid.” Bucky whispers with moist lashes. Your laugh is strangled when it escapes your throat, all wet and whine as you squeeze his fingers tighter.

“I love you. You don’t understand.”

Steve breathes a sigh into your shoulder and rubs his damp cheeks on the penguin print of your sleeping shirt. From next to him, Buckeye looks up quizzically and gives his arm a long, slow lick.

“Yeah, yeah,” He mutters, swatting at your dog’s snout lovingly, lips pressed into your collarbone. Then, he kisses you too, tipsy and torn open. In the background, Julie London sweetly croons:

If there’s a cloud above and it must rain, we’ll let it.

But for tonight, forget it.

I’m in the mood for love.

Next Chapter

#marvel #mcu #steve rogers x reader #bucky barnes x reader #stucky x reader #steve rogers x reader x bucky #self insert #fanfiction #FiMS

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blackcatanna · 5 years ago

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Tales of the Reluctant Kazama Bitch Part 2: Edo Blossoms!

We left our would-be heroine galloping across the country, desperately clinging to the man who's repeatedly threatened to kidnap and impregnate her. However, all of this ickyness is forgotten in the face of a greater threat: her creepy brother and stepdad, who want to turn everyone into shitty vampires.

Chapter 1:

*Sadly scrolls past superior men to get to Kazama's portrait* :'(

If this route contains plenty of free Sen and Kimigiku, I will be less mad at it.

Wait, when you say, "abandon our horse" you are gonna come back for it, right?! RIGHT?!!? O_O

A deserted house, huh? Seems like a great place to have a nap and totally not get murdered by the spirits of the restless undead.

And, of course, Kazama just HAS to take a minute to be a bougie bitch, "Hmph. I would sooner call this a hut than a house."

"Just shut up, and sit tight." Classic Kazama.

Kazama going on about "The destructive force of humans" again -_- Pot kettle black. Bitch.

Wow, the Yukimura clan helped Tokugawa Ieyasu "usurp control of the country with military force." In my head, this takes place in the same universe as the Samurai Warriors series X_X

"You take me for some boorish creep, don't you?" Yes.

"I shall not lay a finger upon you until our marriage is finalized." That's great, provided that I get a say in whether or not we get married!

Amagiri is being helpful and practical and Kazama is just being extremely rude, stubborn and idiotic. X_X

"You'd better not bitch at all, got it?" Um, Kazama, you're the one who bitches about everything. Not me.

"The thought of Kazama rescuing me stood at odds with the initial impression I'd had of him as a crude, sadistic warrior who hated the Shinsengumi." Um, why can't he be all of those things? Just because he's a dick doesn't mean that he's going to let his precious brood mare fall off a cliff!

HAND HOLDING ALERT! THE ORGASMETER IS GOING WILD!!! PHYSICAL CONTACT INITIATED!

Hold up, female demons all have the same stamina as normal humans but males get superhuman endurance?! This is so unfair! -_-

Chapter 2:

Guess I'll never see my beloved Shinsen-gummies again :'(

Here goes Kazama again, shitting on the Shinsengumi for risking their lives because he can't comprehend the idea of anything being worth risking his own precious life.

"Kazama dismissed the Shinsengumi to a degree that I could only describe as willful ignorance." YES GIRL. GET HIM. "I had never met anyone so incapable of empathy." Most sociopaths find it advantageous to at least pretend to empathise with people. I guess when you're an all-powerful demon price, such precautions are needless.

Ooh! Can I please stay at the Shinsengumi's headquarters!

OH SO NOW MY OPINIONS ARE ASININE?!??!!! I THOUGHT THAT THIS HO AGREED WITH ME THAT FURIES ARE BAD!?

Wait, so now I don't want Kazama to kill my family of creeps? Y tho? I love my family but I still wouldn't let them commit stupid genocide. I guess she really believes that she can reason with them. We'll see how that works out.

I am enjoying this slice of Kodo backstory to hammer home how far he has fallen.

FOR FUCK'S SAKE!!! SO, IN THIS ROUTE, KAZAMA HATES HIM SO HE CAN'T PIMP ME OUT TO KAZAMA SO HE WANTS ME TO "MATE WITH" THE FURIES INSTEAD!??!? WTF!?!!

"Bitter, senile idiot" For once, Kazama is right.

Did Kodo just throw me at Kazama?! Stepdad of the year.

"Perhaps I'm being forward, but I see in you the virtues befitting the leader of the Yukimura clan." Stop, stop. My penis can only get so erect.

"You will feel better watching me peel the flesh from their bones with the swing of my sword." O_O Is this Game of Thrones now? Uh, thanks, I guess, for those words of, uh? Comfort?! What girl doesn't want to watch a guy dismember her family!?

Awe, tiny Chizuru's village burning memory :'( My heart! :'(

Shiranui "plopping" himself on the floor is a big mood :')

Nooo! The Shogunate is feeding the Shinsengumi to the furies?! :'(

Spider Kaoru being weird and creepy (literally) as usual.

Ugh, I thought we'd agreed to murder the fam?

Ooh! This house has pretty wallpaper!

Why couldn't Kaoru just live with me and Kodo for all those years?! Did Kodo just hand him over to those abusive fucks because he couldn't be bothered to raise a child who didn't have a precious vagina?

I love the scuttling sound that the minions make when they assemble! :')

Turns out, even Amagiri can't punch a fury to death X_X

DING DONG THE BITCH IS DEAD. Kodo just went so, so evil o_e

I've stopped listening to Kazama whenever he goes off on one of his rants about how all humans suck and are to blame for all of our problems -_-

When the nice music started playing, I expect to see someone I actually liked but it was just Kazama in a new outfit.

CALM DOWN, YOU THIRSTY WENCH! IT'S JUST A NEW OUTFIT X_X

"Quit wallowing in your self-pity for once." Wisdom?! From Kazama?!

"Do you remember the Shinsengumi captain named 'Harada'?" O_O Yes. What happened to him?! IS HE OKAY?!?? DID YOU KILL HIM!!!?!!!!?

NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO :'( :'( :'( </3

And so it begins. Hanging out with these fuckers while watching everyone I love die from afar </3

Awe, Shiranui and Harada became buddies <3 and now Shiranui blames his bad luck for Harada's death. :'( It's not your fault, Shiranui D'X

Kazama: "No time for tears." BEGONE, THOT. :'(

Chapter 3:

Bad news, huh? Bad news for me or for you, Kazama? >:(

*Winces in anticipation of more dead Shinsengumi members*

RIP Kondou. You were too wholesome for this cruel world :'(

Welp, looks like I'm chasing my beloved ho's across the country :D

Oh, Kazama thinks that I'm joking about trying to reunite with my long lost friends. You don't KNOOOW me!

"Harada, who was ripped to shreds at Ueno. No one's patting him on the back for dying like a wounded animal." LET ME AT THIS EVIL CUNT!!! HOW DARE HE!!! I JUST WANT TO SEE MY FRIENDS AGAIN!!!! DO YOU NOT POSSESS AN OUNCE OF RESPECT, OR TACT, AT THE VERY LEAST!?!!?

"All they'll ever be is a footnote in the annals of history. Their legacy is being spat on." "Kazama made a lot of sense." BITCH WHERE!!!????!

"I knew women were whimsied by delusion, but you are sitting at the top of the pile." -_- Are all demons this sexist?! I don't think I want to hang out with other demons anymore.

"You should go after him." Amagiri, why?! -_- I don't wanna! Let him stew in his own miserable juices.

He looks like a disgruntled cat.

OH, BITCH EXPECTED ME TO FOLLOW HIM. I should never have listened to Amagiri. He has no eyebrows.

We're in my burned out village, aren't we? :'(

OMG KAORU'S DEAD BODY IS RIGHT THERE O_O

"Why are you crying?" REALLY?!???!

This is v sad :'(

OH CAN YOU SHUT UP ABOUT HOW THE HUMANS ARE TO BLAME FOR EVERYTHING FOR FIVE MINUTES WHILE WE BURY MY BROTHER, WHOM YOU LITERALLY MURDERED. IF YOUR SO POWERFUL, WHY CAN YOU ONLY KILL?! YOU ONLY SAVED ME FOR YOUR OWN DISGUSTING PURPOSES. IF YOU TRULY SAW KAORU'S POTENTIAL TO BE A FINE LEADER, WHY WERE YOU SO QUICK TO KILL HIM?!? HUH!??! D'X

"He died just as he lived--alone" :'(

Kodo absolutely needed a good killing but I believe that Kaoru was redeemable. :'(

WHY ARE YOU ASKING HIS PERMISSION TO REMEMBER YOUR FAMILY THE WAY YOU CHOOSE!?!

"It was never my intention to reveal the history of the Yukimura clan to you." BITCH, WHO ARE YOU TO DENY ME THE HISTORY OF MY OWN CLAN?! >:(

"Impatience is unbecoming" Oh no, heaven forbid you lose interest in me! Not that that would ever happen to this thirsty whore.

"Obedience is a good look on you. You are well on your way to becoming the ideal life." LISTEN HERE YOU SMUG PRICK!!!!!! I WILL DIE BEFORE I EVEN CONSIDER THAT REVOLTING POSSIBILITY!!!!

Here we go, time for an orgy of sadness, courtesy of Amagiri! :(

"Okita has passed away from illness." Not surprising but very, very sad :'( Poor Okita, slowly wasting away while his world falls apart around him </3

Saito's MIA, which doesn't look good but, historically, he was fine so I can handle that, I guess O_O If he is confirmed dead later, imma be real mad. AND SAD. D'X

Nagakura is also MIA?! Big sad </3 I bet that Kazama is secretly loving this >:(

HEISUKE AND SANAN ARE FULLY DEAD!!?? D'X NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO This is too much sad. FFS, KAZAMA, YOU SHOULD HAVE LET ME SEE MY FRIENDS BEFORE THEY WERE ALL KILLED, YOU HEARTLESS WENCH! WAS YOUR PLAN ALL ALONG TO JUST WAIT UNTIL EVERYONE I CARED ABOUT WAD DEAD SO THAT I'D HAVE TO CLING TO YOU!?

"What about the others?" WHAT OTHERS?! Hijikata, Souma, Nomura? Is that it?! My family is DEAD, my friends are DEAD. Kazama doesn't see that as a problem because my fertile body is still intact but MY HEART IS BROKEN D"X

"That little dog's still got some bite, eh?" SHUT UP, JUST SHUT UP.

"Everyone's still putting up a fight, huh" Well, not everyone. Most people are dead but, uh, good on you for seeing this as a glass half full...

Ugh, why does Kazama have to come with me to Ezo?

STOCKHOLM SYNDROME STRIKES AGAIN.

Aaaawwweee Shiranui brought me Harada's spear D'X

Shiranui is so much better and kinder than Kazama :'(

HOW CAN KAZAMA GO THROUGH LIFE BEING SUCH A CUNT AND SCOFFING AT EVERYONE'S SINCERE BELIEFS. No wonder even his allies hate him.

Shiranui, stop with the kind, heartfelt words! You're making me cry D'X

"Shiranui was nowhere near as bad as Kazama" Truth.

"Isn't this just another worm you've let crawl into your insipid heart?" Wow, this route is actually making me like Kazama LESS.

Sendai is pretty.

WE MISSED THEM AGAIN?!!? NOW I'M STUCK ALONE WITH THIS ASSHOLE AGAIN!?!?

Wow, this CG is telling. Chizuru crying against Kazama's turned back.

Chapter 4:

Well, at least I get to stay in a mansion while I cry over my dead friends and family.

Omg, I'm basically Kazama's housewife X_X

Kazama's in a bad mood, huh? Did Hijikata die before Kazama could fulfill his promise to me? Useless man.

OMG, HE REALLY HAS MADE ME HIS WENCH!!! NO!!! DON'T FETCH HIM THE SAKE!!!!

"Fetch me a bottle at once." "I'm only going to grab you one, okay...? Drinking too much isn't good for your health." I'M DEFINITELY HIS WIFE!!! HELP!!!! HIW CAN I WAKE FROM THIS NIGHTMARE??!!

"Sake is more of a medicine than a poison, and as you've noticed, I'm ill. Make it three bottles." Aaaand my husband's an alcoholic X_X

"Hey, don't take your frustrations out on me. Also, it's only a 'medicine' when you drink in moderation--not when you're piss drunk." Yaass Chizuru! You tell that edgy thot!

"Humility is a more attractive colour on you. From now on, feel free to humble yourself by complimenting me however much you deem fit." That would be never. I cannot with This Bitch. Eat shit and die, Kazama.

Okay, now things are really sad. Still chasing my friends as they fight against all the odds D'X

Aaaaaah, the tension is killing me! This is going to be horrible D'X

SHIMADA AND SOUMA ARE ALIVE!!!

"I'm going to kill each and every one of you impotent bastards until there's none left. See you in Hell!" :') I've missed Hijikata!

WHY AM I CHASTISING SOUMA FOR STANDING UP FOR HIMSELF AGAINST KAZAMA!?

Oh great, now we're hunting for Hijikata's corpse. SADNESS INTENSIFIES.

"What about you, girl...?" First of all, SHUT THE FUCK UP. Secondly, the way he addressed me reminds me of my brother XD

ER MAH GERD!!! HE IZ KISSING MEH!!! O_O

"Although I'd wanted to scream, I couldn't." O_e Tha fuck?!?

WITH TONGUE!!!

Final Chapter:

Please let me not be married to Kazama X_X

"I was alone" Good start.

"This incessant urge to clean" Can't relate.

"Sadly, my father passed away." XD

Yaaaas become a doctor! You don't need no man!

However, tell me more about this cute medicine clerk ;)

Speak of the demon X_X

When you get sick of kindly old ladies telling you to find a man so you settle for some dickhead edgelord X_X

"He was his usual, callous self." Husband material X_X

Wait, I've been all alone all this time?! What about Sen?!? Why can I not have friends? :'(

"I've come to claim you." BITCH, I AM A STRONG INDEPENDENT (BUT VERY SAD AND LONELY) WOMAN!

"I will tolerate no resistance" O_O

"Kazama might have been a pain, but he was my pain" Uh, okay XD

So, I guess I do marry Kazama purely because he's the only person left alive who knows what I went through X_X . At least Chizuru developed... Not a backbone but... Almost a backbone. Maybe X_X I'm sure that Chizuru will make a lovely stepford wife but that make me kind of sad -_-

#hakuoki #hakuouki #kazama chikage #edo blossoms #i need to sleep #accidental wife #i still hate him #so many words #watch me cry over anime men

18 notes · View notes

jtsodergren · 5 years ago

Text

The Best of 2019

2019, what an exceptional year for movies! A great way to close out the shittiest decade! Here are the 50 best films I saw this year... click on the title to go to the IMDB page, and I’ll try to post a link to where you can see many of them. Also for the first time this year, I’m including MOM WARNINGS! My mom reads this list and sometimes actually watches these movies... so to save her some grief, sadness, or general concern for my psyche, there will be a NOT FOR MOMS!! warning where applicable... here we go!

50. STAR WARS - EPISODE IX: THE RISE OF SKYWALKER (Amazon)

People really hated this movie... I actually really liked it! Aside from the horses running around on the outside of spaceships (which makes no fucking sense... didn’t Leia get all space frozen exactly one movie ago??), it was a satisfying conclusion to a franchise I guess I don’t really care about as much as other people, so I was into it!

49. JOHN WICK: CHAPTER 3 - PARABELLUM (Amazon)

Quickly becoming one of the more well produced action franchises of all time. Probably two too many machine gun shootouts in this one for me (I get a little exhausted with gun violence), but the hand-to-hand stuff is brilliant and bloody and badass! Not to mention the deepening of the mythology and Halle Berry and her dogs. It’s a fun time, a welcome addition to the series, and I can’t wait for number 4.

48. QUEEN & SLIM (Amazon)

Billed as the black BONNIE AND CLYDE and from first time feature director Melina Matsoukas, this atmospheric tragedy is gorgeous to look at, delivers a pair of standout lead performances, and proves to have one of the more stressful final 30min of any of the films I saw this year, even if you know the inevitable conclusion is just around the corner.

47. UNDER THE SILVER LAKE (Amazon PRIME)

A wild Los Angeles noir story from the director of IT FOLLOWS. Plays like if David Lynch directed THE BIG LEBOWSKI, a weird, screwball whodunit. It’s a little long, and there are so many loose ends that seem to be thrown in just to fuck with the protagonist (and the audience), but it’s a really fun time and you’ll want to stay to the end to see it all play out. LA looks gorgeous too.

46. KNOCK DOWN THE HOUSE (Netflix)

Truly inspiring. Really shows how if you put your mind to something, believe in yourself and that you can make a difference, you can accomplish anything. Regardless of your political leanings, or how you feel about AOC personally, this is well worth your time and it has a great message for young people, especially those young women of color who might not think they can achieve great levels of success. It made me cry the happy tears.

45. LONG DAY’S JOURNEY INTO NIGHT (Amazon)

Best known for it’s remarkable 59min-3D final take, this hallucinatory journey through memory and dreams is mind-blowing and breathtaking. Hard not to leave this one feeling like you’ve been put though some kind of experiment that you don’t fully understand, but you’ll want to experience again. Highly recommended if you have access to 3D, or simply have some killer edibles and want to be thrown for a loop.

44. CLIMAX (Amazon PRIME)

NOT FOR MOMS!!

Speaking of being under the influence, holy shit is this film nuts! From Gaspar Noe, who if you’re aware of his work, you kind of already know what you’re in store for here. It’s been described as “FAME directed by the Marquis de Sade”... incredible dance sequences and audacious camerawork that slowly but surely devolves into hell. It’s a blast!

43. HAIL SATAN? (Hulu)

A fresh and funny documentary about a group of smartass Satanists exposing the hypocrisy amongst bible-thumping Christians who’d rather stomp their feet and be the loudest in the room than listen to anyone else’s perspective. Frustrating and entertaining in equal parts, this compulsively watchable film makes you want to scream at these Jesus freaks as much as you want to laugh along with the antics of these harmless, intelligent and organized troublemakers. An excellent time well spent.

42. FIRST LOVE (Amazon)

(Probably) NOT FOR MOMS!!

Director Takashi Miike’s yakuza action-comedy is the most accessible of his films I’ve seen (he’s now made more than 100 movies, which is insane), but that doesn’t mean it’s not a gonzo wild time at the movies. The violence is here in full force, but unlike AUDITION or ICHI THE KILLER, you don’t need a barf bag close by to enjoy it. It’s often hilarious and moves at a breakneck speed. Super fun!

41. THE DEAD DON’T DIE (Amazon PRIME)

Jim Jarmusch’s star-studded, droll zombie-comedy came and went from theaters without much fanfare, but provided me with plenty of laughs. It’s also the second of 3 Adam Driver vehicles to be on this year’s list. Bill Murray and Driver lead the way along with plenty familiar faces in cameos throughout (including the RZA in one of my favorite scene’s of the year). Classic Jarmusch... a meditation on death and mortality in his vintage style.

40. EL CAMINO: A BREAKING BAD MOVIE (Netflix)

Dude, Aaron Paul is a legit GREAT actor. Picks up right where the show left off, and I was on the edge of my seat and filled with anxiety just like I was during the best moments of the now classic series. It was good to hang out with my old friends again.

39. DOCTOR SLEEP (Amazon)

A box office flop due to poor promotion and a title people weren’t familiar with, this sequel to THE SHINING is based on the Stephen King book of the same name, which I read, and I can’t recommend it more. Great suspense, and fantastic performances from both Ewan McGregor and (especially) Rebecca Ferguson. It’s a dark and scary film that is a fun trip back to the Overlook Hotel... provided you wish to return there...

38. THE LAST BLACK MAN IN SAN FRANCISCO (Amazon PRIME)

About 90min into this beautifully shot film I was ready to lock it in as a possible Top 5 contender. Then the bottom fell out for me the last quarter of the movie and lost my confidence. No bother, it’s still wonderful enough to find a spot on the list and carry my recommendation. Young men and women watching their city change before their eyes, and wondering what the concept of “home” really means is a real challenge facing many people here in the Bay Area. This film does a fantastic job conveying that, for most of the film anyway.

37. THE PEANUT BUTTER FALCON (Amazon)

A bonafide crown-pleaser of a movie, and another example of the true talent Shia LeBeouf has and is capable of (more on him later). A young man with Down Syndrome escapes his assisted-living facility to track down his wrestling idol the Saltwater Redneck with the help of an outlaw and a social worker. Sweet, funny, and heartfelt... a feel good surprise.

36. A BEAUTIFUL DAY IN THE NEIGHBORHOOD (Amazon)

I didn’t cry nearly as much as I did during the excellent documentary WON’T YOU BE MY NEIGHBOR from last year, but if you’re a Mr. Rogers fan, you’ll still shed a few during this heartwarming film. Tom Hanks does his thing, and even though this movie is guilty of borrowing a little too much from the previous doc, it’s still a great showcase for the truly selfless and beautiful force of nature that Fred Rogers was. Bring tissues anyway.

35. CARMINE STREET GUITARS (In Theaters Now)

A love letter to both New York City and the art, joy, and love that goes into honing and maintaining one’s craft. Meanwhile the looming doom of gentrification hovers over the proceedings, never letting you get fully enrapt in the sweetness that these artists (and their many famous customers) exude when talking about and playing their one-of-a-kind works of art. A stunning and lovely piece for musicians and talentless fans of music alike.

34. HOLIDAY (Amazon)

NOT FOR MOMS!!

A tough, cold film with nary a character to actively root for... until after about an hour of icy behavior comes (no pun intended) a scene so shocking in its graphic and disturbing nature, people left the theater without staying for the final resolution. First time director Isabella Eklof pulls off the bold and audacious maneuver, all while making it seem like she doesn’t care whether you like her characters (or her film) at all. It’s a very fine balancing act, executed to perfection. But be warned... it’s rough.

33. AVENGERS: ENDGAME (Disney+)

What can I say? You saw it. It’s good. A bunch of Supermans fly around and blow shit up. A satisfying end (until the next 20 films).

32. MIDSOMMAR (Amazon Prime)

NOT FOR MOMS!!

A disturbing slow burn of a gothic horror film. Characters do hallucinogens while ritualistic religious murders and tribal mating practices threaten to ruin everyones existence. Florence Pugh is phenomenal (more from her in a minute) in a very trying roll. Doesn’t pack quite the punch of the director’s last film, HEREDITARY, but it’s still well worth the watch. But yeah, it’s disturbing.

31. APOLLO 11 (Hulu)

A fascinating look at the first moon landing from rarely seen archival footage and audio. Seeing it on the IMAX screen was intense and exhilarating, unlike narrative pictures like the severely overrated FIRST MAN. This isn’t my favorite documentary of the year, but it is an absolute lock to win the Academy Award for Best Doc of 2019. It’s a must see, a must experience.

30. HIGH LIFE (Amazon PRIME)

NOT FOR MOMS!!

French auteur Claire Denis’ bizarre, erotic sci-fi mindfuck about isolation and humanity is not for everyone, but is a brilliant take on the genre, and is yet another showcase for Robert Pattinson, who is quietly becoming one of my favorite working actors. Juliette Binoche also is on fire here and has what one critic calls “the single greatest one-person sex scene in the history of cinema.” So it has that going for it.

29. TRIPLE FRONTIER (Netflix)

A fully loaded heist film with no real bad guy, but instead a group of recognizable badasses in a Netflix-released action thrill ride. There’s absolutely no reason this should’ve worked, or even been half as good as it is, but boy is it good! Compulsively watchable, and rewatchable. If this were on Showtime as much as DEN OF THIEVES is I’d have seen it 30 times by now. It’s one of the most pleasant surprises of the year.

28. 1917 (Amazon)

An unbelievable visual achievement from cinematographer Roger Deakins and director Sam Mendes. The story isn’t the greatest war story ever told (are there great war stories?), but it’s shot to look like one continuous long take, sustained for 2hrs. It’s really an unbelievable feat, but doesn’t come off as gimmicky or distracting. It’s intense, beautifully staged, and sad. A big screen spectacle.

27. TOY STORY 4 (Amazon)

Woody and the gang are back, and the films continue to keep the dust from collecting. It’s still so much fun to hang out with this group of misfit toys. There was talk that after the incredible TOY STORY 3 this was just a money grab and was labeled unnecessary, but I found it to be a sweet, charming, and nostalgic trip I was glad I took.

26. HONEYLAND (Hulu)

My pick for documentary of the year comes from the mountains of Macedonia, where a woman named Hatidze lives with her dying mother making a living cultivating honey. When a family of shitheads moves into a shanty next door, what seems like a fix for her lonely existence becomes catastrophic as they disregard her teachings and threaten her livelihood. I was an emotional wreck throughout the experience and it goes without saying it’s a must-see. Gorgeous and heartbreaking.

25. LITTLE WOMEN (Amazon)

I have never read the book, nor seen any of the film adaptations, so I went in blind to this lovely film. Director Greta Gerwig follows up the phenomenal LADYBIRD with this Altman-esque rendition of the widely beloved literary classic. I found it exceptional in its execution and performances, including the previously mentioned Florence Pugh, who is a knockout. A wonderful addition to the ever-growing stable of Christmas films I look to enjoy during future Decembers.

24. GREENER GRASS (Hulu)

It’s as if Tim & Eric made BLUE VELVET. Bizarre, outrageous, gross, and a guaranteed future midnight movie favorite. My sides hurt. A satire skewering upper-middle class suburban soccer moms and dads alike. Babies are given away. A boy turns into a dog. Everyone has braces. There’s a creep on the loose. It’s wild and flat-out hilarious literally from start to finish. Almost too many jokes to keep up with. Watch it! Bring weed.

23. RELAXER (Amazon)

NOT FOR MOMS!!

Speaking of gross, this film is disgusting, but in a good way. A satire about lazy consumerism and self-destruction. It’s a short hang, thankfully, but if you can stomach it to the end (remember, it’s nasty) you’ll be rewarded with not only a hilarious dark comedy, but also an unexpected haymaker of sadness you didn’t see coming. It’s a pretty impressive feat, and an overall success. But, yeah, it’s fucking gross.

22. AD ASTRA (Amazon)

APOCALYPSE NOW in space starring Brad Pitt. If you need more information than that, I don’t really know what else to do for you.

21. SLUT IN A GOOD WAY (Amazon PRIME)

(Probably) NOT FOR MOMS!!

A black-and-white raunchy French arthouse teen comedy that gives a middle finger to the double standard set by the equally raunchy teen-boys-will-be-boys genre. It’s so much fun, and honest, and the actors are such natural talents you forget the subject matter is at times shocking (only because of said double standard) and just go with it. I think it’s just wonderful. Seek it out!

20. US (HBO)

Jordan Peele’s excellent follow-up to GET OUT. Doppelganger home invasion terror with a killer twist. To describe more would be to risk giving something away. I’ll just say that Lupita Nyong’o is my pick to win her second Oscar, this time as Best Actress, here in a dual role. She’s incredible. If you haven’t seen it, try to go in blind, you’ll be rewarded.

19. THE FAREWELL (Amazon PRIME)

A heartfelt homecoming film about family, culture, and how the things we don’t say can be just as strong of a show of love as the things we do say. It’s sweet, tender, and bursting with personal flare and emotions from director Lulu Wang. Awkwafina also curbs her more manic and loud tendencies as a performer for more quiet, thoughtful, and somber choices. She’s phenomenal.

18. KNIVES OUT (Amazon)

A clever ensemble whodunit that’s just as funny and smart as it is mysterious. Everyone across the board delivers as the assorted motley crew. The film rewards repeat viewings and Daniel Craig knocks it out of the park, stealing every scene he’s in, reminding us all what a fantastic actor he can be when he’s not sipping the Vespers.

17. BOOKSMART (Hulu)

The female SUPERBAD is the elevator pitch, but this coming-of-age gem is really unlike any other example in the genre. They’re privileged, uber-smart, and have never partied. Yet they have the same neuroses as any other teen scared to death of what to do next or how to be normal. It’s also fucking hilarious. You wanna hang out with these girls and at the same time bury your head under the covers because you feel their pure terror/embarrassment. It’s a blast.

16. THE MUSTANG (Amazon)

Starring Matthias Schoenaerts, one of the finest actor’s working today, this understated and emotional drama about rehabilitation and redemption floored me upon first viewing. It is a gorgeous film. You’ve probably seen stories similar to this before, but rarely is one told with such compelling conviction. A borderline masterpiece.

15. HONEY BOY (Amazon PRIME)

Remember a few years back we had the McConaissance, where everything Matthew McConaughey did was solid gold after years of middling bullshit? I’m calling it right now: Shia LaBeouf is about to have the same thing. He wrote the script and plays a version of his own father in a brutal version of his own fucked up childhood as an up-and-coming child actor. It’s heartbreaking and absolutely riveting. I’m hoping he gets an Oscar nod, but regardless I implore you to seek this film out, he’s incredible.

14. MONOS (Hulu)

(Probably) NOT FOR MOMS!!

A bizarre, bewildering, chaotic, and unsettling film. Some of the most beautiful photography I saw on the big screen this year, yet some of the most surreal and disturbing imagery as well. It’s a militarized, Latin American LORD OF THE FLIES with commentary on tribal behavior and violence. It can be a tough sit, but boy is it beautiful.

13. DOLEMITE IS MY NAME (Netflix)

What a wonderful, welcome surprise! Eddie Murphy in an awards caliber performance as Rudy Ray Moore, the multi-hyphenate performer who created the alter ego Dolemite, spawning a film franchise and many legendary comedy albums. It’s obviously hilarious, and a great behind-the-scenes biopic, but also shockingly sweet and heartfelt, even between all the cuss words. I even teared up a couple times. The 3rd best thing Netflix released this year (more on that in a minute).

12. JOKER (Amazon)

You already saw this.

11. THE IRISHMAN (Netflix)

It’s far too long. It could’ve done with being cut as a three part miniseries or special. There’s about 45min worth of scenes that are quintessential DVD bonus features (I’m looking at you Action Bronson), but goddamn if it’s not Scorsese doing his Scorsese thing. It’s a gangster film, but it’s also a meditation on aging and death. Pesci is incredible and Pacino steals the show. Sure, the de-aging thing is distracting, the curb stomping scene is embarrassing. But still, I mean... IT’S MARTIN SCORSESE!

10. PAIN AND GLORY (Amazon)

Pedro Almodovar’s most personal work to date, a tale about making art and the loneliness of love. If you are unfamiliar with his work, this is a great jumping off point. His movies can be challenging and dark, but this film has such joy and hope amongst the heartache. The final reveal, while not earth shattering on paper, is nonetheless so moving it left the screening I attended without a dry eye in the place. It is his best film yet.

9. THE LIGHTHOUSE (Amazon)

From the director of THE WITCH comes another type of gothic horror, this time with the legendary Willem Dafoe and the (already mentioned) brilliant Robert Pattinson marooned on a lighthouse rock alone to drive each other completely insane. It’s hallucinatory, violent, disorienting, and flat-out brilliant. If it weren’t for another guy we’ll get to in a minute, Dafoe would be a lock for Best Supporting Actor here. It’s a slightly challenging film, with the period style mariner dialogue, but it’s just as funny as it is terrifying.

8. JOJO RABBIT (Amazon)

A beautiful, touching, funny, crowd-pleasing comedy about a little Nazi whose imaginary friend is Hitler. Yep, your read that correctly. There are about a million reasons this should absolutely not work. Yet, it’s one of the best theater going experiences I had this year. A must see... ESPECIALLY with Mom!

7. MARRIAGE STORY (Netflix)

The best written and acted film of the year, and the third Adam Driver vehicle to appear here. Sad but honest. Touching but brutal. It’s awkward and a bit of a bummer, but there’s such great work being done here, in front of and behind the camera. Noah Baumbach is a force of nature, and has yet to make a film I was even iffy about. He’s the real deal and this might be his masterpiece.

6. WAVES (Amazon)

Speaking of auteurs, Trey Edward Shults is now 3/3 on features after the brilliant KRISHA and IT COMES AT NIGHT. Here he follows a middle-class black family, led by a domineering father, through a tragic moment in all of their lives. The first half deals with the son’s story, then abruptly switches to the daughter’s life post said event. It shouldn’t work, yet somehow manages to be one of the most emotionally affecting pieces of art I saw this year. The camera never stops moving, constantly swirling and whirling and you can’t help to be sucked up into it. It’s a beautiful tragedy.

5. LONG SHOT (HBO)

The biggest and most pleasant surprise of the year. An opposites-attract rom-com with more brains, bite, social commentary, and laughs than it has any right to have. Easily the most fun you’ll have with (almost) the whole family... there’s a lot of cum jokes. But don’t let the vulgarity dissuade you! It’s a total riot with just the right amount of sweetness to balance out the saltiness. I love love love this movie.

4. THE ART OF SELF-DEFENSE (Hulu)

What starts as a strange, dark comedy morphs into a FIGHT CLUB-esque thriller with allusions to disturbingly toxic masculinity and an offbeat take on what it takes to “be a man.” It is laugh-out-loud hilarious, and expertly made, while really having something to say, and it says it in a way I’ve never really seen before. It’s not surprising this didn’t get more attention, the characters are truly difficult to relate to, let alone root for, but as far as originality goes, you’d be hard pressed to find anything this year much better than this.

3. UNCUT GEMS (Amazon)

(Probably) NOT FOR MOMS!!

The cinematic equivalent of being locked in the brain of a lunatic having a cocaine-fueled anxiety attack. If that sounds like fun (AND IT IS!!!) then this is the film for you! Oh, and Adam Sandler is going to be nominated for an Oscar for Best Actor. For real. It’s a chaotic, stress-filled masterpiece.

2. ONCE UPON A TIME... IN HOLLYWOOD (Amazon)

My favorite filmmaker’s 2nd best film. A personal story about the love of film during the late 60s, a time of dirty hippies and Charles Manson, as well as the passing of the torch from old Hollywood to the “golden age” of cinema. It’s a fairytale of sorts, with Tarantino’s trademark flare for spontaneous violence and mining multiple genres to make his most mature work since PULP FICTION. I’ve been rewarded with new takeaways upon each subsequent viewing, and my love and appreciation for it only grows and grows. Brad Pitt is a lock for Best Supporting Actor, he’s magnificent. It was always going to be my #1 with a bullet no matter what, because it’s just that great...

1. PARASITE (Amazon)

...but then Bong Joon-ho, the master of new Korean cinema unleashed PARASITE. Not only is it the best film of 2019, it’s one of the best films I have ever seen. Like EVER ever. He is in such astonishing control of his craft it’s hard not to sit back and marvel and the sheer skill on display. You can be laughing one moment and then recoiling in horror during the same breath. He’s using multiple genre tropes, incredible set design, pitch perfect acting/writing, and such exquisite planning you can’t possibly know what’s in store for you from one scene to the next. It is an absolute masterpiece and if it doesn’t sweep every category it’s nominated for at this year’s Oscars, it’ll be a travesty. If you have even a passing interest in film as an art form, the power it can wield, and the messages it can convey, you owe it to yourself to see this film. It’s perfect.

Well, there it is. Thanks for reading any part of this. Now go see PARASITE. I love you.

#movies #top50 #2019 #movies of 2019

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babygirlstm · 5 years ago

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❝ baby's all dressed up with nowhere to go, that's the little story of the girl you know. relying on the kindness of strangers, tyin' cherry knots, smilin', doin' party favors. put your red dress on, put your lipstick on, sing your song, song, now, the camera's on. and you're alive again. ❞

full name: angela katerina salazar

nickname(s): angel

age: twenty-three

date of birth: december 24, 1996

gender: cis-female

orientation: panromantic pansexual

education: high school graduate

occupation: actress / mistress

suggested escort fc: thomas doherty, jacob elordi, daniel sharman, milo ventimiglia, herman tommeraas, ask about other fcs.

physical appearance

face claim: cindy kimberly

hair colour: dark

eye colour: brown

height: 5′7″

weight: 55kg

build: slim

tattoos: none

piercings: just her ears

clothing style: little black dress. high waisted jeans and short. crop tops. heels. skinny jeans. mesh shirts. boots. velvet dress. leather jackets. stockings. lingerie.

personality

label: the vixen / the vainglorious

positive traits: confident, hardworking, adventurous, daring

negative traits: vain, impulsive, self-indulgent, materialistic

goals/desires: to become a timeless actress

fears: to fade away like all those actresses that came before her

headcanons

born into a suburban household in the los angeles county, angela didn’t exactly have the best childhood. her parents were pretty much absent all the time, leaving her oldest sister to act like the mom to the five siblings. she was the middle one, so she also has that middle child syndrome on top of her abandonment issues when their father left them. her mother began dating, but none of them really lasted that long. who would want to deal with 5 kids anyway?

angela was scouted by a talent agent when she was 12 years old. the young teen hasn’t even really thought of becoming an actor, but they told her that she definitely has a face that could go big in hollywood one day. back then, she was still easily manipulated and with just some sugarcoating, they got her into working for that talent agency. she started with some commercials here and there before she got her television break in a teen series when she was fifteen. think skam/skins/euphoria. that series ran for only three seasons, but it was more than enough for her to gain a fanbase of her own and to be recognized for her talent. she may be conceited and self-assured, but she definitely makes up for it to what she brings on the screen.

while doing that show, she also did some indie films here and there until she finally got cast in a big production. it was an open casting and her manager had her auditioning for the lead role and thankfully, she got it. it was one of those young adult books turned into movie and it certainly boost her rise to stardom. though as she gain more acting roles and became more known, it also got in her head more. everyone who works with her pretty much knows her as a primadonna, but no one could really speak up about it because she’s the star of the show.

angel is her screen name so she mostly goes by that now.

angel loves to be adored. she likes having the spotlight on her and pretty much the epitome of vanity. once she got a taste of stardom, she couldn’t quite get enough of it. however, with that comes the cons of having her privacy always invaded. she coudn’t even date someone without it being all over the tabloids. that’s why she ended up coming to the garden. she heard that it was a good place to relieve her stress. the actress has only been here since january and she’s not always present. only when she has some breaks and much needed vacations.

angel is a switch when it comes to her sexual inclinations, she can never go full domme or full sub. she loves a good amount of power play and being worshiped. she’s also very into public and risky sex, especially in places where they might get caught. and just like the actress she is, she enjoys being filmed as well. definitely has a number of sex tapes out there and some might have even been leaked, but her pr is good at damage control.

wanted connections

one thing that angel would really love to have is a fan tbh??

also if your babies are from the entertainment industry, they could be friends??

or even just friends in general who could stand her narcissistic tendencies

but also enemies/rivals/frenemies

give her some exes too or even some publicity stunts

some regulars of hers as well. when it comes to women, she loves those that aren’t purely submissive and could give her a bit of a fight or even try to dominate her. while for men, it’s pretty much the same.

or anything you have in mind tbh.

ooc

as always, just give this a like or hmu if you wanna plot with my bby.

#garden:intro #【 004. — she turned her tears to diamonds in her crown ; 𝓪𝓫𝓸𝓾𝓽 】

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saraschriefer · 6 years ago

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SIRI HUSTVEDT Notes on Seeing

1 To look and not see: an old problem. It usually means a lack of understanding, an inability to divine the meaning of something in the world around us.

2 Cognitive scientists have repeatedly conducted the following experiment and, without fail, they come up with same results. An audience is asked to watch a film of two teams playing basketball. They are given a job to count the number of times the ball changes hands. I have done this, and one has to be very attentive to follow the motion of the ball. In the middle of the game, a man wearing a gorilla suit walks onto the court, turns to the camera, thumps his chest and leaves. Half the people do not see the great ape. They do not believe that he was actually there until the film is replayed and, indeed, a gorilla strolls in and out of the game. Nearly everyone sees the gorilla if he is not given the assignment. This has been named inattentional blindness.

3 Writing at my desk now, I see the screen but this sentence dominates my attention. In fact, my momentary awareness that there is much around the words distracts me: the blue screen of the computer beyond the white edge of the page; various icons above and below; the surface of my desk cluttered with small Post-it squares which, when I turn my head, I can read, “Habermas 254-55”, “Meany et. al, implications for andrenocortical responses to stress” scrawled on pink paper (residue of arcane research); a black stapler; and countless other objects that enter my awareness the moment I turn to them. What is crucial is that I don’t turn to them. For hours every day, I have little, if any, consciousness of them. I live in a circumscribed phenomenal world. An internal narrator speaks words and dictates to my fingers that type automatically. There is no need to think about the connection between head and hands. I am subsumed by the link. Were another object suddenly to materialize on my desk and then vanish, I might well have no knowledge of either its appearance or disappearance.

4 Once, in an unfamiliar hallway, I mistook myself for a stranger because I did not understand I was looking in a mirror. My own form took me by surprise because I was not oriented in space. Expectation is powerful.

5 There are days when I think I see an old friend in the street, but it is a stranger. The recognition ignites like a match and then is instantly extinguished when I understand I am wrong. The recognition is felt, not thought. I can’t trace what created the error, can’t tell you why one person reminded me of another. Was the old friend a subliminal presence in my mind on that particular day or was the confusion purely external—a jut of the chin or slope of the shoulders or rhythm of a walk?

6 We do not become anesthetized to horrible photographs of death or suffering. We may choose to avoid them. When I see a gruesome image in the newspaper in the morning, I sometimes turn away, registering in seconds that looking too long will hurt me. People who gorge on horror films and violent thrillers do it, not because they have learned to feel too little, but because they indulge in the limbic rush that floods their systems as they safely witness exploding bodies. It seems that these viewers are mostly men.

7 We feel colors before we can name them. Colors act on us pre-reflectively. A part of me feels red before I can name red. My cognitive faculties lag behind the color’s impact. Standing in a room my eyes go first to the vase of red tulips because they are red and because they are alive.

8 My mother once told me about coming home to find our cat dead on the lawn. She saw the poor animal from many yards away, but she said she knew with absolute assurance that it was dead. An inert thing. An it.

9 Photographs of the beloved dead draw me in. I am fascinated. There is the good, dear face, one that changed over time. It is the picture that preserves the face, not my memory, which is befogged by the many faces he had over the years. Or is it the single face that grew old? Sometimes I cannot bear to look. The image has become a token of grief. And yet, there is nothing so banal as the pictures of strange families. After my father died, I found Christmas cards with photographs of unknown people among his papers—happy families—grinning into an invisible lens. I threw them away.

10 Galvanic skin response registers a change in the heat and electricity passed through the skin by nerves and sweat during emotional states. People in white coats attach electrodes to your hands and track what happens. When they show you a picture of your mother, your GSR goes up. Meaning in the body.

11 Is our visual world rich or poor? There are fights about this. People do not agree. Philosophers and scientists and other academics ponder this richness and poverty question in papers and books and lectures. Human beings have very limited peripheral vision, but we can turn our heads and take in more of the world. When I’m writing, my vision is severely limited by my attention, but sometimes when I let my eyes roam in a space, I discover its density of light and color and feel surprised by what I find. When I focus, say, just on the shadows here on my desk, they become remarkable. My small round clock casts a double shadow from either side of its circular base, one darker than the other, a gray and a paler gray. There is a spot of brilliant light at the edge of the darker oval. As I look, this sight has become beautiful.

12 Why is a face beautiful?

13 If an image is flashed too quickly to be perceived consciously, we take it in unconsciously and we respond to it without knowing what is happening. A picture of a scowling face I can’t say I’ve seen affects me anyway. Scientists call this masking. Blindsight patients have cortical blindness. They lose visual consciousness but not visual unconsciousness. They see but don’t know they are seeing. If you ask them to guess what you’re holding (a pencil) they will guess far better than people who are truly blind. Words and consciousness are connected. How much do I see of the world that never registers in my awareness? When I walk in the street, I sometimes glimpse a scene for just an instant but I cannot tell you what I have witnessed until a fraction of a second later when the puzzling image falls into place: that furry thing was a stuffed animal and a little boy was dangling it from his stroller. The lag again.

14 We are picture-making creatures. We scribble and draw and paint. When I draw what I see, I touch the thing I am looking at it with my mind, but it is as if my hand is caressing its outline. People who stopped drawing as children continue to make pictures in their dreams or in the hallucinations that arrive just before they go to sleep. Where do those images come from? I dreamed grass and brush and sticks were growing out of my arm, and I got to work busily trimming myself with a scissors. I wasn’t alarmed; it was a job handled in a matter-of-fact way. If I painted a self portrait with bushy arms, I would be called a surrealist.

15 Some people who go blind see vivid images and colors. Some people who are losing their vision hallucinate while awake. An old man saw cows grazing in his living room, and a woman saw cartoon characters running up and down her doctor’s arm. Charles Bonnet syndrome. Just before I fell asleep, I saw a little man speeding over pink and violet cliffs. Once I saw an explosion of melting colors—green, blues, reds, and then a great flash of light that devoured them all. Hypnogogic hallucinations. Freud said dreams protect sleep. At night the world is taken from us and we make up our own scenes and stories. When you wake up slowly, you will remember more of that human underground.

16 Deprived of sight, we make visions. Seeing is also creating.

There are things in the world to see. Do I see what you see? We can talk about it and verify the facts. Through my window is the back of a house. One of its windows is completely covered by a blue shade. But if I tell you I see a flying zebra you will say, Siri, you are hallucinating. You are dreaming while awake.

18 Sometimes artists can make a hallucination real. A painting of a flying zebra is a real thing in the world, a real thing to see.

19 Why do I not like the word “taste” when applied to art? Because it has lost its connection to the mouth and food and chewing. I don’t like the way this picture tastes. It’s bitter. If we thought about actual tastes, the word would still work. It would be a form of synesthesia, a crossing of our senses: seeing as tasting. But usually it is not used like that anymore so I avoid it entirely when I talk about art.

20 Looking at a human being or even a picture of a human being is different from looking at an object. Newborn babies, only hours old, copy the expressions of adults. They pucker up, try to grin, look surprised, and stick out their tongues. The photographs of imitating infants are both funny and touching. They do not know they are doing it; this response is in them from the beginning. Later, people learn to suppress the imitation mechanism; it would not be good if we went on forever copying every facial expression. Nevertheless, we human beings love to look at faces because we find ourselves there. When you smile at me, I feel a smile form on my own face before I am aware it is happening, and I smile because I am seeing me in your eyes and know that you like what you see.

21 I am looking at a small reproduction of Johannes Vermeer’s Study of a Young Woman, which hangs in a room at The Metropolitan Museum here in New York. It is a girl’s head and face. I say girl because she is very young. From her face I would guess she is no more than ten years old. When I look up the picture in one of my books on Vermeer, I see that there it is called Portrait of a Young Girl, a far better title. We should not turn girls into women too soon. She is smiling, but not a wide smile. Her lips are sealed. My impression is that she is looking at me, but I cannot quite catch her eye. What is certain is that she is answering someone else’s gaze. Someone has made her smile. She is not a beautiful child; it is her looking that is beautiful, her connection to the invisible person. There is shyness in her expression, reserve, maybe a hint of hesitancy. I think she is looking at an adult, probably the artist, because she has not let herself go. She looks over her shoulder at him. I have great affection for this girl. That is the magic of the painting; it is not that I have affection for a representation of a child’s head that was painted some time between 1665 and 1667. No, I feel I have actually fallen for her, the way I fall for a child who looks up at me on the street and smiles, perhaps a homely child, who with a single look calls forth a burst of maternal feeling and sympathy. But my emotion is made of something more; I remember my own girlhood and my shyness with grownups I didn’t know well. I was not a bold child and in her face I see myself at the same age.

22 In some of Gerhard Richter’s painted-over photographs, he painted over his wife’s face and parts of her body. He covered the bodies of his children, too, in snapshots of them as babies and growing children. In these gestures, I felt he was keeping them for himself, keeping the private hidden. Other times, he framed them with swaths of color, turning them into featured subjects. I love those pictures.

23 Mothers have a need to look at their children. We cannot help it.

24 Lovers have a need to look at each other. They cannot help it.

25 Several years ago a friend sent me a paper on mirror neurons. They were found in the brains of macaque monkeys. When one monkey makes a gesture, grabs a banana, neurons in his premotor cortex are activated. When another monkey watches the gesture, but doesn’t make it, the same neurons are activated in his brain. Human beings have them, too. We reflect each other.

26 Looking at pornography is exciting but loses its interest after orgasm.

27 Reading the end of James Joyce’s Ulysses when Molly Bloom is remembering is erotic because she gives permission, gives up and gives way, and this is always exciting and interesting because it is personal not impersonal. Isn’t it strange that looking at little abstract symbols on a white page can make a person feel such things? I see her in his arms. I am in his arms. I remember your arms.

28 When I read stories, I see them. I make pictures and often they remain in my mind after I have finished a novel, along with some phrases or sentences. I ground the characters in places, real and imagined. But I always remember the feeling of a book best, unless I have forgotten it altogether.

29 I do not usually see philosophy with some exceptions: Plato, Pascal, Kierkegaard, and Nietzsche because they are also storytellers.

30 Some people cannot make visual imagery. They do not see pictures in their minds. They do not turn words into images. I didn’t know such a thing was possible until a short time ago. They see abstractly. They remember the symbols on the page.

31 “I see” can also mean “I understand.”

32 There is a small part of the brain called the fusiform gyrus that is crucial for recognizing faces. If you lose this ability your deficit is called prosopagnosia. It happens that a person with brain damage looks at herself in the mirror, and believes she is seeing, not herself, but a double. It seems that what has vanished is not reason, but that special feeling we get when we look at our reflections, that warm sense of ownership. When that disappears, the image of one’s self becomes alien.

33 I look and sometimes I see.

#siri hustvedt #notes on seeing #writing

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loretranscripts · 6 years ago

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Lore Episode 3: The Beast Within (Transcript) - 6th April 2015

tw: murder, rape, death of children, bodily mutilation, cannibalism, graphic descriptions of violence, ableist language, disease, werewolves

Disclaimer: This transcript is entirely non-profit and fan-made. All credit for this content goes to Aaron Mahnke, creator of Lore podcast. It is by a fan, for fans, and meant to make the content of the podcast more accessible to all. Also, there may be mistakes, despite rigorous re-reading on my part. Feel free to point them out, but please be nice!

Ask anyone in the mental health profession about full moons and you’ll get a surprising answer. They’ll respond with something that sounds incredibly like folklore and myth. The full moon has the power to bring out the crazy in people. We’ve believed this for a long time. We refer to unstable people as “lunatics”, a word that is Latin. It’s built from the root word luna, which means “moon”. And for centuries, has operated under the conviction that changes in the luna cycle can cause people to lose touch with reality. Just ask the parents of a young child and they’ll tell you tales of wild behaviour and out-of-the-ordinary disobedience at certain times of the month. Science tells us that just as the moon’s pull on the ocean creates tides that rise and fall in severity, so too does our planet’s first satellite tug on the water inside our bodies, changing our behaviour. As modern people, when we talk about the full moon we tend to joke about this insane, extraordinary behaviour. But maybe we joke to avoid the deeper truth, an idea that we are both frightened and embarrassed that we even entertain. For most of us, you see, the full moon conjures up an image that is altogether unnatural and unbelievable. That large, glowing, perfect circle in the night sky makes us think of just one thing: werewolves. I’m Aaron Mahnke, and this is Lore.

Science has tried many times over the years to explain our obsession with the werewolf. One theory is a disease known as hypertrichosis, sometimes known as “wolfitis”. It’s a condition of excessive, unusual body hair growth, oftentimes covering the person’s entire face. Think Michael J. Fox in Teen Wolf. Psychologists actually have an official diagnosis in the DSM IV handbook known as “clinical lycanthropy”. It’s defined as a delusional syndrome where the patient believes they can transform into an animal, but the changes only take place in their mind, of course. Delusions, though, have to start somewhere. Patients who believe that they are Napoleon Bonaparte have some previous knowledge of who he was. I think it’s fair to assume that those who suffer from clinical lycanthropy have heard of werewolves before. It’s actually pretty easy to bump into the myth, thanks to modern popular culture. Werewolves have been featured in, or at least appeared in, close to 100 films in Hollywood since 1913.

One of the earliest mentions of something even resembling the modern werewolf can actually be found in the 2000-year-old writings of the Roman poet Vergil. In his Eclogue 9, written about 40BCE, he described a man named Moeris, who could transform himself into a wolf using herbs and poisons. About 50 years later, Gaius Petronius wrote a satirical novel called, appropriately, Satyricon, which I think is basically the equivalent of Stephen King writing a horror novel called “Frighticon”. In it, he tells the tale of a man named Niceros. In the story, Niceros was travelling with a friend, and when that friend suddenly took off his clothes, urinated in a circle and transformed into a wolf right before his eyes, before running off toward a large field of sheep. The next day, Niceros was told by the sheep-owner that one of the shepherds stabbed a wolf in the neck with a pitch fork. Later that day, Niceros noticed that his friend, now returned to the house, had a similar wound on his neck.

In the Greek myth of the god Zeus and an Arcadian king named Lycaon, Zeus took on the form of a human traveller. At one point in his journey he visited Arcadia, and during his time in that country, he visited the royal court. The king of the land, Lycaon, somehow recognised Zeus for who he truly was and tried, in true Greek form, of course, to kill him by serving him a meal of human flesh. But Zeus was a smart guy, after all, and he caught Lycaon in the act, throwing the mythological equivalent of a temper tantrum. He destroyed the palace, killed all 50 of the king’s sons with lightning bolts, and then of course cursed King Lycaon himself. The punishment? Lycaon would be doomed to spend the rest of his life as a wolf, presumably because wolves were known for attacking and eating humans, and he tried to serve human flesh. Most scholars believe that this legend is what gives birth to the term lycanthropy: lukos being the Greek word for wolf, and anthropos, the word for man.

Werewolves aren’t just a Greco-Roman thing. In the 13th century, the Norse recorded their mythological origins in something called the Völsunga saga. Despite their culture being separated from the Greeks by thousands of miles and many centuries, there are in fact tales of werewolves present in their histories. One of the stories in the Völsunga saga involves a father and son pair: Sigmund and Sinfjotli. During their travels, the two men came across a hut in the woods where they found two enchanted wolf skins. These skins had the power to change the wearer into a wolf, giving them all the characteristics that the beast was known for: power, speed, and cunning. The catch, according to the saga, was that once put on, the wolf pelt could only be taken off every 10 days. Undeterred, the father son duo each put on one of the wolf skins, and transform into the beasts. They decided to split up and go hunting in their new forms, but they made an arrangement that if either of them encountered a party of men over the certain size of seven, then they were supposed to howl for the other to come join them in the hunt. Sigmund’s son, however, broke his promise, killing off a hunting party of 11 men. When Sigmund discovered this, he fatally injured his son. After the god Odin intervened and healed him, both men took off the pelts and burned them. You see, from the very beginning, werewolves were a supernatural thing, a curse, a change in the very nature of humanity. They were ruled by cycles of time and feared by those around them.

Things get interesting when we go to Germany. In 1582, the country of Germany was being pulled apart by a war between Catholics and Protestants, and one of the towns that played host to both sides was the small town of Bedburg. Keep in mind that there were also still outbreaks of the Black Death, so this was an age of conflict and violence. People understood loss – they had become numb to it, and it would take something incredibly extraordinary to surprise them. First, there were cattle mutilations: farmers from the area surrounding Bedburg would find dead cattle in their fields. It started of infrequent, but grew to become a daily occurrence, something that went on for weeks. Cows that had been sent out to pasture were found torn apart. It was as if a wild animal had attacked them. Naturally, the farmers assumed it was wolves, but it didn’t stop there. Children began to go missing. Young women vanished from the main roads around Bedburg. In some cases their bodies were never found, but those that were had been mauled by something horribly violent. Finding your cattle disembowelled is one thing, but when it’s your daughter or your wife, well, it can cause panic, and fear, and so the community spiralled into hysteria.

Now, we think of historical European paranoia and we often think of witchcraft. The 15th and 16th centuries were filled with witch hunts: burnings, hangings, and an overwhelming hysteria that even spread across the Atlantic to the British colonies, where it destroyed more lives. The Witch Trails of Salem, Massachusetts are the most famous of those examples, but at the same time, Europe was also on fire with fear of werewolves. Some historians think that in France alone, some 30,000 people were accused of being werewolves, and some (hundreds, they say) were even executed for it, either by hanging or being burnt at the stake. You see, the fear of werewolves was real, and for the town of Bedburg, it was very real.

One report from this event tells of two men and a woman, who were travelling just outside the city walls. They heard a voice call out to them for help from within the trees beside the road, and one of the men stepped into the trees to give assistance. When he didn’t return, the second man entered the woods to find him, and he also didn’t return. The woman caught on, attempted to run, but something exited the woods and attacked her. The bodies of the men were later found, mangled and torn apart, but the woman’s never was. Later, villagers found severed limbs in the fields near Bedburg, limbs from the people who were missing. It was clear that something horrible was hunting them.

Another report tells of a group of children playing in a field near the cattle. As they played, something ran into the field and grabbed a small girl by the neck before trying to tear her throat out. Thankfully the high collar on her dress actually saved her life, and she managed to scream. Now, cows don’t like screaming apparently, and they began to stampede. Frightened by the cattle, the attacker let go of the girl and ran for the forest, and this was the last straw for the people of Bedburg. They took the hunt to the beast.

According to a pamphlet from 1589, the men of the town hunted for the creature for days. Accompanied by dogs and armed for killing, these brave men ventured into the forest and, finally, found it. In the end, it was the dogs that cornered the beast. Dogs are fast and they beat the men to their prey. When the hunters finally did arrive, they found the creature cornered. According to the pamphlet, the wolf transformed into a man right before their eyes. While the wolf had been just another beast, the man was someone they recognised. It was a wealthy, well-respected farmer from town named Peter Stubbe, sometimes recorded as Stumpp. Stubbe confessed to it all, and his story seemed to confirm their darkest fears. He told them that he had made a pact with the devil at the age of 12. The deal? In exchange for his soul, the devil would give him a plethora of worldly pleasures, but like most stories, a greedy heart is difficult to satisfy. Stubbe admitted to being a, and I quote, “wicked fiend, with the desire for wrong and destruction”, that he was “inclined to blood and cruelty”. Now, to sate that thirst, the devil had given him a magical belt of wolf skin. Putting it on, he claimed, would transform him into the monstrous shape of a wolf. Sound familiar?

He told the men that had captured him that he had taken off the belt in the forest, and some were sent back to retrieve it, but it was never found. Still, superstition and fear drove them to torture and interrogate the man, who confessed to decades of horrible, unspeakable crimes. Well-known around the town, Stubbe told his captors that he would often walk through Bedburg and wave to the families and friends of those he had killed. It delighted him, he said, that none of them suspected that he was the killer. Sometimes he would use these walks to pick out future victims, planning how he would get them outside the city walls, where he could, and I quote, “ravish and cruelly murder them”. Stubbe even admitted to going on killing sprees simply because he took pleasure in the bloodshed. He would kill lambs and goats and eat their raw flesh. He even claimed to have eaten unborn children, ripped straight from their mothers’ wombs.

The human mind is always solving problems, even when we’re asleep and unaware of it. The world is full of things that don’t always sit right with us, and in our attempt to deal with life we… rationalise. In more superstitious times it was easy to lean on old fears and legends. The Tuberculosis outbreaks of the 1800s led people to truly believe that the dead were sucking the life out of the living. The stories that gave birth to the vampire mythology also provided people with a way to process Tuberculosis and its horrible symptoms. Perhaps the story of the werewolf shows us that same phenomenon, but in reverse. Rather than creating stories to explain the mysteries of death, perhaps we created the story of the werewolf to help justify the horrors of life and human nature. The tale of Peter Stubbe sounds terrible, but when you hold it up to modern day serial killers, such as Jeffery Dahmer or Richard Trenton Chase, it’s par for the course. The difference between them and Stubbe is simply 400 years of modernisation. With the advent of electrical lights pushing away the darkness and global exploration exposing much of the world’s fears to be just myth, it’s become more and more difficult to blame our flaws on monsters. The beast, it turns out, has been inside us the whole time.

And Peter Stubbe? Well, the people of Bedburg executed him for his crimes. On October 31st, 1589, (Halloween, mind you) he was given what was thought to be a fair and just punishment. He was strapped, spread eagle and naked, to a large, wooden wheel, and then his skin was pealed off with red hot pinchers. They broke his arms and legs with the blunt end of an axe before finally turning the blade over, and chopping off his head. His body was burnt at the stake in front of the entire town, and then his torture wheel was mounted on a tall pole, topped with the statue of a wolf. On top of that, they placed his severed head. Justice, or just one more example of the cruelty of mankind? Perhaps in the end, we’re all really monsters, aren’t we?

Lore was produced by me, Aaron Mahnke. You can find a transcript of the show, as well as links to source material, at lorepodcast.com. Lore is a bi-weekly podcast, so be sure to check back in for a new episode every two weeks. And if you enjoy scary stories, I happen to write them. You can find a full list of my supernatural thrillers, available in paperback and ebook format, at aaronmahnke.com/novels. Thanks for listening.

#lore podcast #podcasts #aaron mahnke #werewolves #peter stubbe #germany #peter stumpp #vergil #eclogues #serial killer #folklore #transcripts #3

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katrinapavela · 7 years ago

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Olivia Pope: When Keeping It Real Goes Wrong (#Scandal S7)

NB: This essay is now available as a free PDF download

Olivia and Mellie had a riot of a scene in “Pressing The Flesh” (702), which I enjoyed, but was not the one that left the most indelible impression. The presidential bedroom scene was filled with pithy quips about the sexist double standards befalling women in powerful positions, and the crucible of expectations in which they are enmeshed. It was also a reminder that being in those spaces does not make them original, just rare. I bring up that scene because the themes it contains are connected to the ones in another scene that impressed me. They are themes which this essay explores: the meaning of success for women in patriarchal institutions; and a denial of feminine values being the price of power in those spaces.

Olivia walks into a male space (the bathroom) with ease, comfortable inhabiting spaces not created with her in mind. She is there to leverage blackmail against President Rashad, should he not wish to comply with the proposed nuclear treaty. For the second episode in a row, Olivia threatens the adolescent family member of a man to get him to play ball. Her father, former Command, spent a lifetime playing this kind of ball, and even once had it played against him. The man she still loves had this kind of ball played against him. Even she has had this type of ball played against her, both as the leveraged ‘object’ (kidnapping), and the leveraged ‘subject’ (S3-5). Having earlier told Mellie that being in these positions of power does not make her original, Olivia, in this moment, lives up to her own words. She believes her end is right, no matter how dark the means, she is justified. There is nothing original about her behaviour in this moment. Chiefs of Staff and Vice Presidents before her have gone down this same road. I’m sure they were all self-righteously convinced. Self-delusion is a heck of a thing. Yet, Olivia imagined that as head of B6-13 and HBIC in the White House, things were going to be different. She would be the key to setting the nation on the right path, and Mellie was her conduit. She, as her father proclaimed of himself, was the lynchpin in making “democracy possible” (302). Now that B6-13 was under her wing (the source of the blackmail), she couldn’t lose. Or could she. She gets called “The Devil”, something her father, Rowan, has been labelled (“Even the Devil Deserves a Second Chance” (507)). Rashad turns Olivia’s own words back to her (like a mirror):

“You’re right, Ms. Pope. Actions do speak louder than words. And this? This tells me your country is still sticking its nose where it doesn’t belong your actions tell me America is still sticking its nose where it doesn’t belong.” When Olivia warns President Rashad not to let his pride get in the way of progress (this, too will come back at Liv), He tells her that Ambassador Marashi warned him about her as the devil who threatened his child. This, Rashad says, “tells me everything I need to know about your character”. Rashad leaves. Having failed with this blackmail attempt, a dejected Olivia catches a glimpse of herself in the mirror and quickly looks away, hanging her head. She is unable to look at her own image in the bathroom’s mirror:

Destination Syndrome

Olivia: “I am a person. I am not a hen. I am not a prize… And I have a business to run, people to support. A life to lead. A desire to wake up and face myself in the mirror every day. Oh, and oh…once I fixed a presidential election, and I’d like a chance to right that wrong. …This is not about you. My whole life is not about you. I have goals. I have DREAMS! I did this for me. …I have to take care of myself. I have to protect my people. I can’t spend all my time worrying about you. This whole house worries about you: what you want, what you need. It has to be about what I want and what I need.”

Ever since I wrote about the scene above from “We Do Not Touch the First Ladies” (312), I have waited to know what Olivia dreams of (we’ve seen it three times (406, 410, 610). Waited to hear, or see her goals defined (is she there yet?). Waited for the moment she looks in the mirror and feels good about what is reflected back at her. We’re both still waiting.

Two things stick out for me, in the present, from Olivia’s words above: the mentioning of personhood and self-care, as well her relationship with Fitz needing to be about her emotional needs as well. But Olivia has never been able to articulate what she wants, and certainly not to Fitz (while he was president), so fulfilment was not possible in that regard. She runs before she can ever reach that point. Secondly, as I outlined in my pre-season 7 video, Olivia no longer feels like a person to me, nor to some of the characters in the show. She’s missing now, Quinn reminded us in 614, and upon which even self-centred Mellie picked up (“She’s there, but she’s not there” (519)).

Olivia has now helped someone else realize their dream of being the first woman POTUS, but is CoS her dream? Or is it a path she was encouraged to pursue as the only option to take back her power? In many ways, Olivia is still trying to recover some sense of self she once knew, before the original sin of Defiance. The presidential election she colluded to steal, led to two subsequent elections she did not earn. But much like America’s unwillingness to contend with its original sin (slavery) as the root of its continued racial problems, Olivia will never recover some authentic sense of self, or be able to look herself in the mirror until she tackles the ‘why’ of Defiance. The ‘why’, as I have suspected since S2, is not really about her version of loving Fitz (though she did/does). As she says to Fitz in the The Decision (610)’s alternate universe, “[I didn’t agree to fix the election because] it would have destroyed us”. And while that understanding is developed by Olivia after the fact, I cannot help think, subconsciously, that in choosing to Fix the election, Olivia chose power and chaos (a think that stokes the fire of the Popes (512)). The why of Defiance was connected more to Olivia’s lack of self-knowledge and the replacement of that with external goals. Olivia wanted the White House back then, badly. Her life circumstances had not damaged her enough to actually murder for it back then (517, 616). She has wanted the White House since law school (504), so she could impact policy and affect change. This woman does not like to fail when she sets herself a goal. It brings her shame.

Olivia now has the position she has been coveting, one which she complained was taken from her by Fitz (520). To boot, she has inhabited a second position (Command) to ensure that no one can take anything from her ever again. But Olivia has still been taken from herself. Emotionally disemboweled and disconnected, there is no balance to her power in the present. This has been the case ever since her kidnapping, the very purpose of which was to render her an object, not a person (410). With her PTSD having gone unaddressed, Olivia has instead filled her life with a fake world in which she will never feel internally validated, but instead be too consumed with perpetual chaos to ponder this lack of satisfaction, let alone making it a priority to address.

Maya: “You sure do love a problem. You’re so vain. It’s always about you, isn’t it? The problems you create, so you can solve them. The power you wield, so that you can feel important. Did your father and I not tell you you were special enough when you were little? Did we not give you enough hugs? Baby, this uppity fantasy world you’ve decided to be a part of, it’s not real, Boo. You need to come on back down to this planet where the world doesn’t revolve around you…” (You Can’t Take Command, 422)

Olivia has made it so the world does revolve around her, by becoming its sun and moon. Even the men with whom she exchanges sex for stress relief are to revolve around her. Even the new president has a similar charge in Olivia’s envelope filled world:

She’s the boss. She sets the rules.

Olivia may inhabit ultimate positions of power inside the White house, but she does not have control over the White House, it has control over her. Her power in these roles is illusory. But if we stay with the idea that Olivia ‘has it all’, the question now is: upon reaching the peak of this mountain, is there some other destination she is trying to reach? Does she imagine that once she’s done with the go-round at the White House in 4-8 years, that she will suddenly be a person capable of being her authentic self with another, let alone with herself? There will be opportunity costs.

Olivia is brilliant, beautiful and impeccably put together, but she is mostly façade. Happiness and satisfaction are states of being that manifest within, not destinations which one can reach. Wherever Olivia goes, she will always be there. As historian, Thavolia Glymph says, “…freedom is often reified as a ‘thing’ or ‘place’ that one can ‘obtain’ or ‘go to’. But freedom is not separate from the understandings and intuitions of those who seek it”[1]. Claiming the full humanity of her black femininity cannot be relegated to the White House alone. No one in the previous administration found freedom there, except FDR in that pool. But it is gone now, and it makes me wonder if Olivia ever felt emotionally unburdened when she swam. Does she still do it now, or is she too emotionally disconnected to bother. I hope to find out.

A Witness to Her Life

In a short video, Yours and Mine[2] , Beyonce talks about needing something real in order to make her many accomplishments matter. That without that witness to one’s life, accomplishments fail to validate one’s life. Without something real, people are more compelled toward addiction (chaos). I thought back to 701, when Olivia is having dinner with Rowan. While it was delicious to see the tables turned in some ways, Rowan has never been a witness to Olivia’s adult life. He cannot behold her because his relationship with her is grounded in incessant scrutiny and manipulation. She receives his instruction and dictation about achievement and black excellence, but not emotional support.

Alice Walker, reflecting on a speech she gave, in 1979, to a room of largely Black women, concerning our alarming suicide rates, laments “Not one of them said one word about why young women of colour were killing themselves. They could take the black woman as invincible…, but there was no sympathy for that which ended in defeat. Which meant there was no sympathy for struggle itself—only for ‘winning’”[3]. In The Last Supper (408), Rowan says something similar to Olivia:

Rowan: “I haven't been a perfect father, Olivia, I know that. I want you to know that I know that. I want you to know that I've always wanted the best for you. I wanted you to be the best. Because, to me, you always were. Now, I... I didn't have a... a role model for how to be a dad, and I stumbled. I know that. I got angry when I shouldn't have. I focused too much on how you did rather than how you were doing it. I didn't say enough how important it was to me, when you were trying, that you were struggling, because it was. Because I should've understood because that's what I was doing. Trying. And struggling.”

As poignant as it reads, this, too, is a manipulation of his because this acknowledgment Olivia has long sought is used as a preamble to murder, and proof of his continued need for her obedience. He tells her to never choose another man over him. How can Olivia be the ‘best’ if it is only defined on Rowan’s terms and not her own. He cuts off every path that doesn’t lead to him being right. Though Rowan is the one seemingly under Olivia’s thumb as Command, he is still dictating limitations for her about what she can achieve and who she is able to be. Their relationship is anchored in fear; fear of failure. One cannot see or be seen in such a relationship. One cannot grow in such a relationship.

Jake, too, cannot be a witness to Olivia’s life. He has literally been created by Rowan (518), and insinuated into Olivia’s life as an extension of Rowan, to infiltrate that which a father should not control: his daughter’s sexual and romantic life. (This is the reason for the incest references that proliferate the second half of S5). Olivia cannot keep it real with Jake because he is fake. She doesn’t even know his real name or backstory! From their initial meet-cute in 214, to their short-lived ‘convenient, safe, secure, easy’ (sounds like a Staples commercial) arrangement (701), Jake’s purpose in Olivia’s life has always been predicated on a denial of the real.

Having someone who truly sees you is one of the most powerful things you can experience. This means a person who sees your faults, struggles and inconsistencies and doesn’t use them against you, but, through grace, supports your striving to be better. Supports your efforts to contribute something good to the world, and not just selfishly to their own life. The generosity of such a person can make you feel safe. There is liberty in this kind of safety because it is shelter, not confinement.

We can connect with people on multiple emotional levels, but what matters is the authenticity of those connections. Olivia may no longer be spinning, but does she know the difference between spin and the truth anymore? Whether at OPA or the White House, Olivia’s job is public relations. It is her responsibility to make things seem other than they really are. To mask and evade. Because she fears that which is within (because she cannot control it), she sometimes brings the spin of her public relations to her private relationships. Olivia has no truth in her life right now. Everyone in her life is being kept at arm’s length, and probably in the misguided belief that this is how one conveys authority and power. You know, being a ‘boss’. Even during “family” time with dad, Olivia instructs Rowan to ask her about work. Because, what else is there for her? Her life is busy, but not full.

A consistent criticism I have of Olivia Pope is that she has no friends. No emotional anchors. She shares her life with no one. Everyone in her life is connected to her work. Fitz, as a now ex-president becomes the exception, for the first time. He doesn’t need intervention and handling anymore. We’ll see where that leads for Olivia.

I used to fear that Shonda would make Olivia into Christina from Grey’s Anatomy—a character whose true love was her work. I am not saying that a woman enjoying her work is wrong, or that she needs a romantic other (side note: a woman wanting the love of a man does not make her less strong, or less of a feminist because no one says that about women who have romantic relationship with other women). I realized Shonda likely won’t make Olivia--her first lead black woman character—into Christina, because Olivia’s greatest satisfaction does not seem to come from the work she does, though she finds in it purpose and direction. Besides, Christina did have a witness to her life: Meredith. Shonda has referred to Olivia and Fitz as the Meredith and Christina of Scandal[4]. Theirs is the central, meaningful relationship on the show. It’s real. Olivia’s current world has purpose and direction, but it is one constructed to replace what’s real.

Patriarchal Fear of the Feminine

Audre Lorde, in her work on feminism and intersectionality, frequently talks about women identified women (WIWs). This is not necessarily a reference to lesbianism, or even to feminism. WIWs are women who are connected to and value the feminine within themselves and others. It is also possible, though much more rare, to find women identified males. Far more common are male identified women. A society that values (white) male attributes and (white) maleness as the default of humanity compels women and gender queer people to adopt these values in order to survive, or be valued by society. Some feminist rhetoric, particularly ones lacking an intersectional frame, advocate for a lot of male, patriarchal values to be embodied by women as the path to personal success and liberation. But, in the words of Audre Lorde, “The master’s tools will never dismantle the master’s house”[5] . Investing in the master’s tools simply ensures that (white) patriarchal values remain primary: profit, property, and violence and domination as stand ins for power.

Olivia is barely a woman identified woman these days. She is primarily a male-identified woman (so is Mellie, for the record). The speech she delivers to Mellie in the Oval (701) is a most recent quintessential example of labelling something feminist because it is said by women in competition with men.

What that speech establishes is Olivia’s domination (as the boss), which requires Mellie subservience as a soldier who carries out her orders (“you do not ignore me”; “I am always right”). This, Olivia, declares is the only path to success for the first female president. Success is manifested in Mellie becoming a statue people can gaze upon. To top it off, both women are wearing pantsuits, which we, as the audience, are supposed to take as a nod to Hillary Clinton. However, the nod to her is aesthetic and superficial because HRC is a woman identified woman. Her definition of success is about the difference she can make in peoples’ lives, not the monuments that would be erected in her name. Olivia used to be focused on giving people second chances (308), but that now seems obscured.

Olivia is disconnected from herself because she has been raised, primarily by a man who, scorned by love and damaged by white supremacy, came to see the rejection of the feminine, through the embrace of patriarchy, as a path of success for black people in America, despite its terrible historical track record. He has even bragged about the fact that he was raising his daughter to feel as entitled to the world as any white man (504). We should all feel that the world is ours instead making ourselves small under dominating structures. To summarize a quote from Crissles of The Read podcast, Black people are not trying to be whit. I don’t want to be a white man, but I don’t want to be punished because I am not one either. Rowan’s way of teaching his daughter to feel this entitlement was to behave in destructive ways like white males, for whom the end always justifies the means. His values, and definitions of power and weakness are an infestation in her life (much like the character Jake in this show):

Rowan: “you can either stand there like a 12-year-old and lecture me about morality or, even worse, rat [me and Jake] out in the name of justice or you can take your cue from us and get yourself some power... Real power... 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue power. You think you have that now, but you're standing on the sidelines, screaming at the referee like a sad, drunk parent at a high-school football game. If you're okay with that, by all means. But I know my daughter as I know my son, and I know that won't suffice.” (It’s Hard Out Here for a General, 510).

Morality and justice are for 12-year olds (the age of Olivia’s arrested emotional development). Running the world is true power. Parenting and other identities are weak. Again, the master’s tools will never dismantle the master’s house. For black women to define success in the same terms as white patriarchal men is a means to their destruction, not liberation.

Rowan finally showed Olivia respect when she had gotten into the Oval again (“and you didn’t do it as First Lady” (614)). To him that Oval is the source of real power. It is no accident that it has only been inhabited by men—real and fictional—before Mellie. Previously, he praised Olivia’s ability to fleece power from Fitz when she was in the White House, instead of imagining a situation in which, gee, power is willingly shared. As I have said before: “Rowan’s comments often interrogate Olivia’s black feminine identity (the questioning and manipulation of her sexuality), seeking to have ultimate control over the representation of that identity and those with whom it is associated”. Rowan le Olivia down this path with Mellie (510). And in the absence of any other kind of power, Olivia held onto it like a life raft (“This all has to mean something. Otherwise why did I do this to you [Jake]? To myself?” (605).

Olivia has no female relationships that are not connected to her job, and her primary relationships have been with men. Most importantly (for me), she has no black women in her life. Having been abandoned by her mother, who was kept captive as punishment, by Rowan, it is obvious to me the dearth of Maya’s presence has left a lacuna in Olivia’s life, which has been filled mostly by maleness, to her detriment. She is outwardly successful, but inwardly she’s lacking. The lack of, specifically black, feminine presence in Olivia’s life is directly connected to her fear of real commitment to Fitzgerald Grant.

I know what you are thinking: girl, how the hell you figure that Olivia’s missing black mama has anything to do with choosing some white man? Let me explain.

Fitz as Symbolic of the Feminine

Self-knowledge has been a process for Fitz, and he is still coming into his own. I would not have expounded upon his femininity as a strength a few seasons ago. Though he has always been emotional, in the early seasons, he and the circumstances of the Olitz relationship were often too emotionally intense to sustain. However, his sense of self is no longer tethered to Olivia, he’s in a better position to emotionally support her. Consider this essay a plate of potato salad, from the cookout, that I am bringing to him.

Fitz has grown to embrace the feminine within himself. In a world that values his identity above all others, it is feminine qualities upon which he draws, internally, for strength, support and growth. His rejection of his father’s brute definitions of success and masculinity, as well as his unapologetic emotional centre are evidence of this for me. He cares for Olivia’s well-being, safety and happiness, often the only person to enquire about these things. And he does this even when their relationship was platonic. The giving of Doux Bébé (417) and his rescue attempts during her kidnapping (410-13), thwarting her plans to martyr herself for her father’s crimes (611) serve as just a few examples. As the most consistent feminine presence in Olivia’s life, he has been the only one to penetrate (no pun intended) something real and truthful inside her

Fitz has connected to an erotic power inside Olivia that has little to do with his magic stick. It has to do with the desire for home and a domestic aspect to her life. A place where she can practice authentic love and feel safe. Vermont is a metaphor for that, not necessarily a literal space in which those things will be realized. Wanting those things is not the same as confining one’s life. It is a recognition of the expansiveness of the interior life, and of private identities that are not conjured through public or representational roles. It is a space of retreat and self-determination. In Out of the House of Bondage, historian Thavolia Glymph explains that during Reconstruction, black women “pursued citizenship, land ownership, femaleness (denied through white patriarchy), and private leisure time. ‘Most of all,’ writes Glymph, ‘they claimed the right to determine for themselves what all of this meant’ (Loc. 4105). These acts of reclaiming the self had far-reaching political and socio-economic consequences, the echoes of which are still felt today.”[6] Formerly enslaved women attempted to live and define, in confining political circumstances, full public and interior lives, which were denied to them for so long.

As Audre Lorde tells us, the erotic is our deepest desire, and it comes from a deeply feminine place. It is connected to community, not denial and ascetism. The erotic is not to be confused with sensation, a plasticized version Olivia has tried out in several models (Jake, Russell, Curtis, even Edison). The erotic’s power is so great, that Olivia repeatedly runs from it. It is not accident that a woman raised to prioritize male modes of success would be afraid of embracing this type of feminine power. Olivia has been taught to fear the feminine and devalue it as weak, and it is partly because society sees it as weak. As I said earlier, living in such a society, women are compelled to reject feminized traits, making themselves small or more male-oriented just to survive. In her television interview about her relationship with President Fitzgerald Grant (505), Olivia repeatedly indicates that falling in love with him was a weakness. It disrupted her life and threatened her success.

Of the interview, I commented that “by painting to the public her love affair as an unfortunate failure on her part, Olivia cast herself as a woman who had fallen prey to cupid’s fate. Her resilience, her strength were no match. She’s already wrestled, so please don’t ask her to try again. She’s incapable of not loving Fitzgerald Grant. Loving is the one thing outside her grasp of control. The chink in her armour.”

So, loving is a failure. It is a flaw because it is outside the sphere of Olivia’s control (“You can’t fix the fact that I love you”—Fitz, 220). Olivia’s life is about control, the exercising of which shows domination. And domination is what? A means of showing power. Women are often to ones taught to aspire to love while men are not. hey are taught to acquire property, including women and children. We see a gender role reversal (in some ways) with the Olivia and Fitz character. However, the devaluation of love as a feminine quality, whose value pales in comparison to political power, is still very present. Olivia chose the latter, and so did Mellie. In this world, love isn’t power; it threatens it, as Olivia so reminded Mellie, after some bow chicka wow wow with Marcus (602). I do not blame Olivia for thinking this way. These values have been instilled in her by a man and a society that does not value women, or their feminine traits, except where it helps men: managing the home, bearing children, sex. Olivia was kidnapped, treated as a bargaining chip, threatened with rape, and treated like a problem to be eliminated, all because of love. Since then, Olivia has grown to see loving Fitz as a kind of sacrifice that limits her potential.

Maya and the Black Feminine Absence

Rowan put Maya in a cell and literal hole to contain her, though he supposedly loved her. Once her black feminine presence was relegated, Maya’s absence from the home led to Rowan sending Olivia away, never to live there again (301). Olivia never had a sense of ‘home’ after that. Olivia, therefore, did not grow up to value anything domestic, especially as a necessity from which everyone has benefitted, but few value, including many women. Maya worked and took care of Olivia (306), as many black women have had to do. With Maya’s removal from the home, Olivia lost an important role model at a crucial juncture for transitioning from adolescence (she was 12) to womanhood. Her values were replaced by those of the people inhabiting the fancy white, European boarding schools she was made to attend. Sure, she gained social and cultural capital, but she lost something, too.

First Ladies Problems

I did not want Olivia living in the East Wing when she and Fitz were together in season 5. I thought it was too much, too soon. However, I am also convinced that much of Olivia’s argument with Fitz in 509, and subsequently casting him as the villain in their breakup, was profoundly dishonest in some ways. It still bothers me more than I am comfortable admitting. Then I thought about the immense power fear has over people. Here’s a revolutionary idea: what if Olivia found herself liking some aspects of being First Lady, and was afraid of the threat to who she thought she was, and what she’s been taught she should become? She even said she was good at it. I don’t like being good at things I hate. I go out of my way to be bad at them so no one expects me to do those things (shhhh, don’t tell my wife).

Olivia tells Mellie in 511 that she left the White House (and Fitz) because she was scared. But, she starts wearing dresses after leaving the WH; replaces her bed with a four-poster one like the one in the East Wing; she regales Vanessa, Jake and Rowan about the details of a cake she buys from a bakery (514). These are all influences from her time in the domestic realm of the East Wing. Olivia has fetishized normalcy and domesticity as something she is incapable of, since she pushed Stephen to propose to Georgia (101). She is afraid of her own desire.

Think about it. Rowan mocked and shamed Olivia when she told him Fitz wanted to make her his First Lady (301). He told her that was a useless position, and that Secretary of State or Chief of Staff were much more valuable. Mellie, in typical white feminist form, grew to see it as the seat of her oppression (503), even though she aspired to the position since the age of ten (208). She tells Olivia to expect the same confinement (503), which pissed me off because it assumed Olivia wanted what she wanted. Mellie picks interesting times to assert her difference from Olivia, and her sameness at other times.

In a great bout of irony, now that Olivia is Chief of Staff, she still has to field typical FLOTUS questions because there’s no one in that role. Why doesn’t Olivia, as Chief of Staff, insist on hiring someone to help the WH Social Secretary?

Instead she complains to Cyrus that she has to pick out China patterns. Hmmm, like she was doing here

While it is an antiquated position, my point is that the FLOTUS position is not without importance, but it is devalued specifically because of its association with the feminine. It is the feminine for which women are persecuted, even as men’s self-actualization is tied to this very thing. Perhaps they are simply resentful that not everything is within their control.

Fitz and the life associated with him is but one representation of the erotic. Olivia has to embrace this power within herself before she can engage Fitz as a witness to her life. To get there requires reconciliation of feminine, masculine and queer identity traits as powerful and valuable assets she possesses, not just her intellect. Contrary to the Enlightenment thinkers, mankind is more than a thinking, rational being. She is an emotional one, too.

Reconciliation of the Self

Accomplishments and other people cannot make you happy. That is a job that can only be fulfilled by the self. If happiness is internally derived, and comes from accessing the truth of our feelings, then happiness, too, is a feminized feeling. In a world that values power in terms of domination (‘big dog’ status), violence (blackmail and threats), and the ability to withstand pain (pushing things down with alcohol and sex), it is no wonder Olivia does not value it enough to make happiness a mission she pursues.

Maya: “I could not make you happy because happiness was not the mission”—(Tick Tock, 615)

Olivia cannot define what she wants because wanting is desire. Desire comes from a space of truth within us. It is a spiritual place. Olivia’s self-abnegation means she has pushed that away, thinking it leaves her power open to vulnerability. In addition to telling us that the aspiration to feel nothing is a place of “grave immobility” (it leaves you stuck)[7] , Audre Lorde also tells us that Black women, in America, have traditionally had compassion for everybody else except ourselves[8]. Olivia’s own mother conjured a similar sentiment:

Maya:“Damn shame. I tell you... being a black woman. Be strong, they say. Support your man, raise your man, think like a man. Well damn, I gotta do all that? Who’s out here working for me, carrying my burden, building me up when I get down? Nobody. Black women out here trying to save everybody and what do we get? Swagger jacked by white girls wearing cornrows and bamboo earrings. Ain’t that a bitch? But we still try. Try to help all y’all. Even when we get nothing. Is that admirable or ridiculous? I don’t know.” (Tick Tock, 615)

Olivia still thinks its admirable enough to stake her very sense of self on it. But it will be ridiculous if she doesn’t let anyone else share her burdens and her joy.

I think I know a guy. Facetiousness aside, I also mean this in terms of friendships, familial relationships and the relationship with the self—the most important one.

Let me summarize Mahatma Beyonce again[9]. She says that everyone is not good at everything. Even the great Olivia Pope. Depending on one other is what we are meant to do as humans, for we do not thrive in prolonged isolation. Olivia is not accessing an entire part of herself to which she is entitled. Beyonce goes on to expound that when you grow up, you’re no longer afraid of going to certain places, in your mind and your body, that may make you feel uncomfortable. You’re no longer afraid of the unknown. And it all starts with looking at yourself in the mirror and liking the person staring back at you. I want that for Olivia. I hope she still wants it for herself.

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Enjoyed this essay? You can download a free PDF here:

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[1] Glymph, Thavolia. 2008. Out of the House of Bondage: The Transformation of the Plantation Household. loc. 320. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Kindle.

[2] Beyonce. 2014. https://youtu.be/x4pPNxUzGvc. Video

[3] Walker, Alice. 1979 “Looking to the Side and Back”. In Search of Our Mother’s Gardens: Womanist Prose. (1983). Loc. 4467-4555. San Diego: Harcourt Brace Jovanovich. Kindle.

[4] Entertainment Weekly, September 2015.

[5] Lorde, Audre. 1979. “The Master’s Tools Will Never Dismantle the Master’s House.” Sister Outsider: Essays and Speeches. 1984. Freedom, CA: The Crossing Press Feminist Series. 110-113.

[6] Glymph, Thavolia. 2008. Out of the House of Bondage: The Transformation of the Plantation Household. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. In Pow, K. 2018. Forthcoming article.

[7] Lorde, Audre. 1979. “Uses of the Erotic: The Erotic as Power.” Sister Outsider: Essays and Speeches. 1984. Freedom, CA: The Crossing Press Feminist Series. 53-59.

[8] Lorde, Audre. 1979. “Sexism: An American Disease in Blackface” Sister Outsider: Essays and Speeches. 1984. Freedom, CA: The Crossing Press Feminist Series. 60-65.

[9] Beyonce. 2014. https://youtu.be/x4pPNxUzGvc. Video

#Scandal #Olivia Pope #Fitzgerald Grant #Mellie Grant

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dudence-blog · 7 years ago

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Dear Dudence for 13 February 2018

Wow, it’s been like a month. I’d apologize but, honestly, I do think for fun and the time I spend reading, thinking, and writing had to come out of time spent with family, work, or school. Also, I realized I needed there to be something in the NuPru source which made me go “ugh, that is just wrong.” Maybe some Stockholm Syndrome has kicked in and I see her point of view on things I used to disagree with, and life is too short for me to get too wrapped around the axle about something written by a lesser advice columnist. So, with the non-apologetic apology it’s off to the letters.

I live in a condo that has a gym, which I frequent. Unfortunately, another gym rat in the building smells very bad. She might not care, or she might not even notice; I’m not sure. But the gym is small, and the stench is so unpleasant that it makes me cut my workout short. (We’re usually the only two there at the same time.) What’s the appropriate way to say something? Or should I just avoid confrontation and file a gentle complaint with the property manager?

Dear How do I Tell? Do you want a condo war? Because this is how you get a condo war. The gym is one of the few parts of modern American life where the natural human funk can be reasonably expected to be tolerated. I’m also impressed because you’ve managed to make something I thought was pretty sad: religiously working out at the apartment “gym” and make it even sadder. Religiously working out at the apartment gym, and sharing it with someone who now really resents you. I get it, some people can really get a good stink going on, or they might wear those fancy moisture-wicking fabrics which need a bit of extra cleaning to get the odor-causing bacteria out, or there might be some cultural differences in personal hygiene, or you could be frequenting the gym to spend 15 minutes on the ellipitcal’s lowest setting while she’s in there for an hour trying to find extra weight to put on the machines because they’re just not enough. This is a conversation which has a 45-45 shot of either her being shamed into doing something to make her merely-normalish-stink or she goes to the mattresses on you. The remaining 10% is that she either has a medical issue and she knows she stinks like that, which is why she uses the private gym where she lives and not a real gym, or she’s from France and you’re a racist for suggesting she stinks.

Well, the hard part is over. My boyfriend of two years and I are breaking up. It’s excruciating, because I love living with him. He is clean, polite, funny, a kick-ass cook, and handles conflict well. But that just makes it harder that he’s not very affectionate. He doesn’t share much of himself emotionally, or put his arm around me anymore, or initiate sex. I could almost have dealt with it, but when I told him I needed him to take sex more seriously or it would end the relationship, he didn’t make any changes.

Dear Breakup Lite, I’m really glad that you and your soon-to-be-ex have had such a mature break-up. I know they’re hard, especially when they’re someone you care about, but when you’re incompatible on something as fundamental as… wait… I’m still reading your letter… wait… what… oh… oh no…. oh nonononononono honey… don’t tell me you… ohhhhhhhhhh. Sweetie… listen… I really hate to be the one to break this to you, but your ex-boyfriend is going to make some other woman (or man, it’s 2018 afterall) very happy. But your idea of “I’m going to let him go free to bang other people so he learns how to bang me better” is going to blow up in your face.

I am a white woman married to a black man. We live in a mainly white town, and I grew up knowing racism was alive and well in our town. I have a few friends left from high school but have abandoned many due to their racist views. One of my friends, “Melissa,” has never said anything overtly racist in my presence, but every single man she has ever dated has been a racist who proudly shared his views on social media. She is now pregnant and is trying to reach out for support, as she is not with the father and doesn’t have many close friends or family. Meanwhile, she recently started dating another guy who posted racist comments on social media last week.

Dear Covert Racism, how hard-up for friends are you that you’ve remained friends with someone you think, covertly, is biased against your husband because of his race and are now trying to figure out how to exploit her desperation for support during a pregnancy where the father of the child has abandoned her to confront her about your your beliefs? I mean, of all the ways “my racist friend dates racist men and she’s asking me for help,” could go I think I’m most surprised by “how do I explain to her that I think she’s racist?” Are you going to blow off her request for support unless she recants? Are you going to support her through her pregnancy regardless of her dating choices? What sort of saint, or demon, decides “This chick is pregnant with another man’s baby, I’m going to date her,”? But, you know what, one of my guiding principles as Dudence is that I answer the question asked. And, to that end, you stop talking to Melissa about the racism of her boyfriends, but about how that makes her look to you. You talk about how you condemn her boyfriends as racist, but you don’t talk about how you’ve told her that makes it look like she is one too by letting it slide. Or, in her case, letting is slide in and out and in and out (OH!). I’m sure the isolated pregnant lady will take your criticism to heart and will handle it with grace, aplomb, and will be thankful for your help.

I was a professional dancer for about six years before I was in a car wreck that ended my career. Since then I have married and now work at a nonprofit. I was contacted by a friend who introduced me to several gifted but underprivileged dance students. I saw myself in their talent and struggles. I have taken a few on as a personal instructor and coach. I do this on my own time and pay for it from my own pocket. When my sister-in-law heard I was teaching, she got it into her head that I should include her 7- and 8-year-old daughters for free because I am family. I told her no over the phone, and then she drove over with the girls in dance gear. I told her no again and refused to let her in the door. She threw a fit and since then has been blasting me over all social media and got the rest of my in-laws on her side.

Dear Private Lessons, your problem is ceding the narrative your sister-in-law. Well, the root problem is your sister-in-law has an outrageous sense of entitlement, but let’s deal in tactics because it’s easier. So now you are the selfish monster who isn’t willing to help your own kin while giving yourself freely to strangers. You have two allies in this fight and it is time you called in whatever favor you have with them. First, you say you’re close to your mother-in-law, and even if her discussion with you was supporting her daughter, it is a reasonable tone and there is room for discussion with her on it. Explain to your mother-in-law your reasons for who and why you’re teaching. If you need to embellish it a bit by over-stating the time commitment you’re making then do so. Or, and I like this option, figure out how much you’d charge for the lessons you’re providing, increase it by 50% because that is the premium you charge to mix business and family, and then double that because your sister-in-law is a bitch and that’s your “bitch” surcharge, and inform her you’ll happily give your nieces lessons. Do like Neil Gaiman and charge enough to make it worth your while. Sorry, I got off on a tangent here. So, back to your mother-in-law. What you want to do is at least get her to see reason, understand your position, agree it’s a reasonable stance and that she’ll at least get the rest of the family to back off. And if she doesn’t come around to your point of view you’re no worse off. Your other ally, and the one you need to be willing to go nuclear, is your husband. Is he so far off the grid he’s unable to get internet at all? Because if he’s not you need to get him into whatever Facebook group your in-laws are using and tell them to shut the fuck up because this situation is not your fault; he supports you completely, and his sister is off the fucking path causing this drama.

I have been involved with a man for almost a decade. He is wonderful to me, extremely loving and attentive, and even helps me with projects around the house. We see each other several times a week, vacation together twice a year, and have a great time when we are together. We plan a future together. The problem? He is married. His wife left him for another man, which is when we got involved. She came back after she was dumped by that guy and begged to be taken back. She promised she would be kinder to him and even get a job to help out around the house, but she didn’t. She mainly sits around the house and watches TV. My guy doesn’t kick her out because he has a heart of gold and she literally has no friends and nowhere else to go, and if they divorced she would get half of his net worth. Plus, he obviously has a lot of freedom.

Dear I Should Feel Bad, I don’t think you should feel bad about what you’re doing. You’re not the one violating wedding vows after all. I think you should feel a bit bad that you’re getting played like a fiddle. You want to bang some married dude, you go on with your bad self. You want to be some guy’s Nobody, you do you. You want to be Linda Davis to Reba McEntire, it’s a free country. But you need to do it aware of what you are, and I don’t think you are. Being independent and self-sufficient doesn’t make you immune to played. He has not spent 10 years married to this pathetic, friendless, helpless woman out of the kindness of his heart, nor out of fear of losing half his wealth. Don’t feel bad that you’re someone’s mistress; it’s a position (snicker) with a glorious history. Feel bad that you don’t recognize that you’re a side piece.

My sister-in-law cannot control her daughter “Ally.” Her father died a few years ago, and since then Ally has made it her mission to make everyone around her as miserable as possible. She started sleeping around at 13, had an abortion at 14, and got pregnant again at 15. She has no clue who the father is. She had the baby, only to abandon him and run away for a month. She has been suspended and failed so many classes that her education level is of a seventh-grader at 16.

Dear Niece my heart breaks at this story. That there is the teasing possibility of a happy ending, but the knowledge that there are so very, very many ways it can go completely sideways, and it being a story with no villains. So, let’s go ahead and get to answering your question. First, you have to accept this might be a situation where you can’t get it through to your husband. It’s his sister’s daughter; his own blood. He could very well believe that he can be a moderating influence in Ally’s life, or, at the very least, alleviate some of the burden on his sister by taking some of the stresses she’s feeling off her plate. So, after you’ve established for yourself whatever boundaries you need, and the consequences for violating them, I really think you only have one course of action. You need to pull your spousal privilege card and say “no.” You can make a rational appeal to your husband; Ally is just going to be able to get into different kinds of trouble, you’re not able to give her the support she needs, etc etc, but it’s running into a buzzsaw of a brother wanting to help his sister. I don’t like that course of action because it’s got a high risk of, undeservedly, making you the bad guy. But if your husband is otherwise set to do this then I don’t see any other option. Now, if you’re open to being persuaded that Ally isn’t beyond help then may I suggest your husband goes to his sister and Ally for a bit and see what is going to be involved in taking her in, but in her own environment. If your husband’s influence is going to be a positive in her life, it will be so whether she’s in her mother’s home or yours. And, maybe, your husband getting some first-hand experience dealing with her in a guardian way will disabuse him of what he’s capable of offering, or will assuage you that it is a course of action which can work. Regardless though I think it would be good for all parties involved for you to not write off a grieving child as hopelessly broken at 16.

I got pregnant as a teenager and gave the child up. The child is now grown and knows who I am. We don’t have much of a relationship; his family is his family. But that’s not exactly my problem. When the situation was fresh, I was quite open about it. However, as time has passed, and I’ve moved away from the friends that were close to me when the trauma was occurring, I have less desire to talk about my teen pregnancy and subsequent failure at parenting. As I’ve grown into myself, I’ve decided against starting a family. I haven’t told anyone about the child (now an adult) in almost a decade. I’m in my late 30s now and am trying to date after taking many years to focus on myself. I’ve moved far away from “home,” started a new career, and am getting to a decent place. The problem is my naked body.

Dear Childless with Stretch Marks, have you tried banging doggy style? Sorry, that was trite but it really was the first thing that came to mind when you said you don’t like exposing your abdomen during sex. I’m really shocked that BadPru got through two paragraphs of response to you without once suggesting you see a therapist. Because, honestly, it sounds like your situation is one where the services of such a professional would be valuable. A very important part of a generally healthy life is being cut-off to you because of how you feel about something which transpired two decades ago. This is an issue which calls for the help of someone with skills beyond “Failed Humor Website Founder” or “Dude Whose Muse is Hate-reading a Failed Humor Website Founder”. You might might find that spending some of your cosmetic surgery money on someone who can help you deal with the emotional issues surrounding your feelings about yourself will go a long way to help you deal with the cosmetic issue the surgery was to address.

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justanothercinemaniac · 7 years ago

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Epic Movie (Re)Watch #168 - X2

Spoilers Below

Have I seen it before: Yes

Did I like it then: Yes.

Do I remember it: Yes.

Did I see it in theaters: No.

Format: Blu-ray

1) The opening monologue is given a little extra this time around, with one line in particular standing out to me:

Xavier: “Sharing the world has never been humanity’s defining attribute.”

2) John Ottman replaces Michael Kamen as the series’ composer this time around, which makes sense considering he is Bryan Singer’s go to composer/editor. The main theme he crafts for X2 is probably the best in the series (although my personal favorite has to be Henry Jackman’s score for X-Men: First Class), capturing the sense of fun and excitement that comes with a comic book film while also being a tad foreboding. With Singer’s return to the series in 2014′s Days of Future Past, Ottman returned as well and made the theme from X2 really the theme for the X-Men series.

3) The White House attack is a strong opening set piece. It has incredible action, using the character of Nightcrawler and specifically the visuals his powers have remarkably well. It pulls the audience in with immediate conflict and kickstarts the film wonderfully.

4) The school field trip early in the film is also another strong start to the film, but for different reasons. It’s been three years in our time between X-Men and X2, meaning for those of us who haven’t watched the film again (and who have poor memories) we need a little reminder of who these characters are. The field trip does that well, reminding us not only of the Xavier school’s characters and dynamic but also establishing new ones elegantly like Bobby & Rogue’s relationship/Bobby & John’s rivalry.

5) Jean has a bit more to do in this film, and I like that.

Although it can occasionally take a backseat to the main plot with Logan and Stryker, Jean has much more internal conflict in this film. Something has changed in her since Stryker’s island, something is off not only with her powers but her as well. Giving her a much more internal and personal conflict to deal with than she had the first time around. It’s a treat to watch.

6) Aaron Stanford as John Allerdyce/Pyro.

Pyro serves more as a foil to Bobby’s Iceman in this film, but that doesn’t mean he’s not well written. There are moments as the film progresses where you can see his fear, his vulnerability. You come to understand why he is the Xavier’s school obligatory psychotic jackass, while he also forms an interesting trio with Bobby and Rogue that does NOT equal a shoddily written love triangle. This is a strong introduction to Pyro, with hints that there’s more to him under the surface. Too bad he wasn’t further explored in The Last Stand.

Xavier [after Pyro lights up a cigarette and Bobby has to freeze it]: “Now the next time you feel like showing off, don’t.”

He’s talking to Pyro, right? Because it always seems like he’s looking at Bobby when he says that which is INCREDIBLY shitty of him because Bobby was trying to solve the problem. It makes more sense if that’s directed at Pyro.

8) Brian Cox as William Stryker.

Brian Cox is absolutely phenomenal as William Stryker, a villain who is much more outright despicable than Magneto. There’s a surprising charisma to him, something about his performance that just makes him interesting to watch. You understand his bigotry but you still hate him for it. He’s also wildly intimidating as the baddie, less for his physical prowess and more for his intellect/his determination. You know you do not want to get in his way. The true villain of this piece (with Magneto working more as an ally this time around), Stryker raises the stakes incredibly in this film and I love that.

9) Rogue + Bobby

(GIF source unknown [if this is your GIF please let me know].)

The relationship between Rogue and Bobby is actually one of the highlights of this film, largely based on the chemistry Anna Paquin and Shawn Ashmore have with each other. There is also an inherent conflict with Rogue being in a relationship with ANYBODY due to the nature of her powers, and the exploration of that conflict here is done well. It shows that even as she grows more comfortable with who she is there’s a problem there. She still is isolated, a conflict which will come to a head in The Last Stand (although not exactly as well as I had hoped).

10) The abuse Magneto goes through by the hands of Stryker becomes all the more horrifying when you remember that her survived the Holocaust. He has already been through this kind of torture and treated like an animal as a child. The saddest thing about that is Magneto was justified in his fears. Not necessarily his plan for murder, but fears.

11) Logan’s personal conflict is really at the forefront of this film.

Logan [after visiting Alkali Lake]: “I need you to read my mind again.”

It is his conflict, his stakes, which are the emotional bedrock for this film. This question of exactly who he is, what he’s done, what he’s capable of doing, and if that will effect the relationships he has formed with the team now, these relate to everything else and are put sharply into focus by the presence of Stryker.

12) So. Many. Easter eggs!

13) Kelly Hu as Lady Deathstrike.

Unfortunately Deathstrike isn’t really much of a character in this film. She has only one line of dialogue and spends the entire film under what we can probably now call “Hawkeye Syndrome” (where a character loses their personality because they are under the mind control of a villain). She is as much a victim of Stryker’s as Magneto, Cyclops, or even Wolverine (ESPECIALLY Wolverine, considering the fact she went through the same procedure he did) but these things are hardly explored. Kelly Hu brings a great physicality and intimidation to the performance role, making you believe she is someone who can take on Wolverine and possibly win. But unfortunately the writing doesn’t support any sort of individual character.

14) Alan Cumming as Nightcrawler.

Possibly the best new addition to the film, Cumming gives a remarkable performance as the blue skinned teleporter. He is able to take the physicality inherent with being something a little different than human, a little more animalistic, and make Nightcrawler totally believable. The ever constant sorrow of Nightcrawler is also always present through Cumming’s performance, but this doesn’t keep him from being warm and funny when he needs to be. Cumming’s Nightcrawler I think is my favorite part of this film and it was a shame to see him absent in future films.

15) Logan being in charge of the kids is absolutely great. It puts him in a situation he is not all that comfortable with and shows (both to the audience and himself) who he is when others actually depend on him (an idea/conflict which will be present for the character throughout the film).

16) Well if this isn’t one of the main themes of the film:

Bobby [about Rogue]: “It’s not easy when you want to be close to someone but you can’t.”

With them it’s because of Rogue’s mutations, with Logan it’s because of his own desires to figure out the past outweighing any desire to be with someone.

17) If you replace “mutant” with any other minority which faces oppression in America (the LGBT community, the muslim community, the black community, etc.) the actions by William Stryker and the government which okayed it are a little too close to reality for comfort. He brought guns into a school full of mutants to keep them down. In 1957 the governor of Arkansas refused to let black kids into a school (The Little Rock Nine) and used the national guard to do so, for example. During WW2 Japanese families - just because they LOOKED like people who attacked Pearl Harbor - were hauled into concentration camps just for things outside of their control. This is not fiction, unfortunately. This is all too close to reality.

18) Seeing Wolverine tear through the gunmen at the school is not only cathartic but an excellent showcase of his abilities as a fight. ESPECIALLY when he comes flying off of the balcony towards the end.

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19) I touched briefly upon the conflict that comes from the relationship with Logan and Stryker, but I think it’s worth mentioning again. Suddenly all the answers Logan is seeking are right in front of him and he is DESPERATE to get at them. But he ends up choosing his responsibility to Rogue, Bobby and John over his need for answers. I think that speaks greatly to the kind of character he is but also keeps that conflict strong for the rest of the film.

20) Nothing sets me on edge more than this.

Stryker [to Xavier, about Cyclops]: “I’m just giving him a little re-education.”

That word turns my stomach, re-education. It’s never used well. The fact that Stryker GAVE HIS SON A LOBOTOMY doesn’t make me like him anymore. I’m rooting for this bastard to die.

21) One of the key moments where we begin to sense that there’s more to John than what’s on the surface is when he looks longingly at Bobby’s family photos. That’s a side to him we never really explore, here or in The Last Stand, unfortunately. But it’s there. That painful past.

22) Bobby’s coming out to his family.

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One notable line that happens outside of the clip (but while he’s coming out) is:

Mrs. Drake: “Have you ever tried not being a mutant?”

The filmmakers worked with Ian McKellen (who is openly gay) to help make the scene more like a "typical” coming out scene to a family. That makes the reactions Bobby’s family has all the more heartbreaking, particularly how quickly his brother gives into fear. Suddenly - because Bobby is different - he’s no longer his brother. He’s an “other”. He’s a danger. Their entire relationship is undone by that fear and it’s heartbreaking.

23) This always felt wrong to me.

Nightcrawler [after Storm says they can be safe at Xavier’s school]: “Save from what?”

Storm: “Everyone else...Sometimes anger can help you survive.”

Nightcrawler: “So can faith.”

I may be wrong, but Storm never strikes me as someone who has relied on anger to survive in the comics. She has it, sure. She’s a human being with human emotions. But I’ve never understood it to be a driving factor.

24) The police respond with EXCESSIVE force when coming to Bobby’s home. His brother tells them there are mutants there who won’t let them leave, and they break out the swat units. Before they even know their powers, before they know if they’re an actual threat, mutant/different = dangerous. One police officer shots Logan point blank in the head, straight up murdering him if it weren’t for his mutation. Again, a little too close to real life for comfort.

25) When Pyro attacks the police he is acting out of fear more than self defense. Self defense would have been knocking the guns out of their hands not causing big Michael Bay explosions. It’s a key difference that helps us understand his character.

26) Similar to the note I made in #24, the fighter jets are incredibly eager to shoot down a jet they know has children on it. One that they do not know if it has weapons capabilities or is even a threat. All they know is that mutants are on it and mutant/different = dangerous/afraid. As I said in #24, a little too close to real life than it should be (which is not a criticism against the film but against real life).

27) The camp scene is the calm before the storm. It is pure character development/conflict and I freaking love it. Logan makes his move on Jean while she addresses his isolation and inability to stay, Mystique makes a move on Logan and addresses his motivations, and we even get this moment with Nightcrawler and Mystique which is an incredibly powerful message.

(GIFs originally posted by @sbstianstans)

28) Go get them Rogue. Please.

(GIFs originally posted by @nojillnolife)

29) You want further proof that William Stryker is a despicable piece of shit? He wants to test his mutant murder machine on children. Because they’re not children to him. They’re animals. They’re others. So fuck Stryker.

30) I love Mystique’s attitude right here.

31) I mentioned before that Lady Deathstrike is a character who’s just sort of there, and it gets to the fact that some of the smaller problems this film has will just become overwhelming by the time The Last Stand comes around. Notably the fact that Cyclops - leader of the X-Men in the comics - has probably about 10 to 15 minutes of screen time in an over two hour long film, and for a lot of that he spends it under Hawkeye-syndrome. It’s fine in this film, I think, because it makes room for a more interesting plot. But then nothing happened with him in The Last Stand. The same can be said of Rogue, who is this badass heroine in the comics who can fly. And over X-Men and X2 she’s growing into that but then by the time The Last Stand rolls around she doesn’t do anything. I have to watch myself right now or else I’m going to get into notes I should really talk about in my The Last Stand recap.

32) I mentioned before that - despite how she’s not much of an individual - Kelly Hu brings a great physicality to Lady Deathstrike. This is best seen in her fight with Wolverine at the film’s climax, which is an amazing set piece. And you can see that Logan KNOWS she’s a victim right after he kills her, but we never got to see much more than that.

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33)

Stryker: “If you really knew about your past, what kind of person you were, the work we did...”

Um, buddy. You’re a boldfaced liar, as seen by X-Men Origins: Wolverine (but more on that in recap #170).

34) Logan has the choice to go with Stryker and get the answers he so desperately seeks, to learn about his past, but he choses to stay with the others. He choses their needs over his own and that’s what makes him a hero. That is what resolves his conflict in this film. The decision that he doesn’t need to know who he was as long as he figures out who he is NOW.

35) So...Jean’s death.

I have some mixed feelings about Jean’s death. I don’t think it’s a bad story decision by any means, in fact quite the opposite. I think it makes sense for her character and is a totally selfless act with real emotional consequences, I think it’s a good decision. But also if I think about it...I don’t really know how (if?) it ties into her personal arc throughout the film. But I’m also someone who puts characters over plot usually so that is very much a personal taste for me.

36) What Charles says when he meets the president:

Xavier: “My names is Charles Xavier.”

What I wish Charles had said when he met the president:

Xavier: “You authorized a military operation to invade my school.”

37) According to IMDb:

The final scene in Xavier's mansion with Cyclops, Wolverine, and Professor X was shot at Shepperton Studios in London, simply because Hugh Jackman was shooting Van Helsing (2004) at the time, and the producers released him for only one day to do the final shooting of X-Men. The reason Wolverine's hair looks higher than usual in this scene is because Jackman had long hair for Van Helsing, and had to wear the Wolverine wig over a lot of hair.

38)

Student: “Professor? Is everything alright?”

Xavier: “Yes, I think it will be.”

X2 is the strongest film out of the original X-Men trilogy and - in a lot of ways - still the film all other X-Men films are judged against (well, not Logan or Deadpool). It does well to develop most of its original characters while also including the wonderful introduction of Nightcrawler and Stryker. Whatever small issues I may have with the characterizations of Cyclops and Lady Deathstrike are not enough to undermine the excellence of this film. It is well paced with strong character writing, has an intriguing plot, while also holding some truly great action set pieces. In my opinion it is one of the standout films of the superhero genre.

#X Men #X Men 2 #X2 #Hugh Jackman #Famke Janssen #Epic Movie (Re)Watch #Alan Cumming #Brian Cox #Kelly Hu #Rebecca Romijn #Movie #Film #GIF

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reesebird · 6 years ago

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How Do You Talk to An Angel? The Plight of Parents Raising a Special Needs Child

“How Do You Talk to An Angel” was a one-hit wonder of the Heights musical group. It could also be a rhetorical question that enlists answers from various schools of thought. This article is not about music and musicians. It is not about heaven and paradise because it has “angel” in the title either. It is about real life events that befall real people here on earth. You may know some of the people very well. They may be your acquaintances, neighbors, co-workers, members of your place of worship; nevertheless, these are people you know. You might even be one of them.

Let me preface this piece by saying since no human is perfect, we all have special needs; we each have our own handicaps or disabilities, so to speak. The degree of specialness may vary.

When faced with one of life’s complexities to the point mini juru nwa awo onu (one is rendered speechless), I resort to this statement: “life is something”. In December 2010, I accompanied someone sick to a special medical facility here in Austin, Texas. What I witnessed that fateful day rocked my core. There were husbands helping their sick wives, parents attending to their stricken children, some as young as two years old, adult children helping their ailing parents. Then there were people who looked healthy on the outside but are in for the fight of their lives. All the sick people there were fighting cancer.

As I struggled to take in the strange environment while remembering to breathe so I don’t pass out from nausea, I asked myself, could it be possible that a few city blocks from this treatment center, there are healthy husbands and wives engaged in all-out divorce battles? Couple these once-madly in love couples be wishing the other death and sickness now? Could a brother be so jealous of his sibling that he wishes him or her harm? Could arguments over irrelevances be robbing some families from treasuring today? Could these feuding folks witness this other hospital scene over here? Do we always acknowledge how precious and precarious life is? Life is truly something!

Whether you an agnostic, Atheist, Christian, Ethicist, Hindu, Jew, Moslem, Pagan, etc. you sometimes arrive at a point where you question your belief and wonder if the alternative is a better choice. It is at the point you could rhetorically ask, “how to you talk to an angel?”, any angel of any faith that will give you answer to the pointed question you ask.

How does someone raise a special needs child and remain sane? How? While you ponder that question, let me compound it by asking what type of higher power (Father, God, god, Allah, Buddha, Juju, Idol, Maker, Almighty) allows such hardship to befall mortal beings who have done nothing to be so deserving? Finally, if the parent(s) deserved it for whatever reasons that did not merit forgiveness, then why bestow such heavy crosses on innocent children? As the Supertramp put it, ” There are times when all the world’s asleep, the questions run too deep for such a simple man”. Think about it; don’t just brush it aside by saying “it’s just part of it, that we’ve got to fulfill the Book”, or the Lord will not allow you to tempted beyond what you can bear. To the naked eyes, some of these loads are pretty Sisyphean and are calling for any angel to come lighten these massively heavy loads

Sadly, some men and women of the cloth have taken advantage of the stricken at their weakest point. A good friend summed it up by saying, it is what is “behind” the place of worship that is more important: the kindness to others, assisting people you don’t expect to return the help to you, standing up for people who cannot stand up for themselves, remembering your former teachers, helping people in need both here and overseas, aiding an employed person find work and hope, flashing smiles to brighten sad faces as you pass by, cleaning the windshield of the elderly woman or man next to you at the fuel station. Telling that embarrassed waiter/waitress who just dropped your food on the ground that it is OK and that you’re glad he or she did not get hurt. Knowing, if you are in power, that “no condition is permanent”. And being kind to people you meet on your way up because you will meet them on your way down where they will remember you by your record.

What makes this article more difficult to write is, I am a mere outsider looking in. I have not lived the life of caring (on a daily basis) for a special needs child or parent or wife or sibling. While I am thankful for not being in any of those shoes, I do not feel those who are doing this true labor of love work are less fortunate than the rest of us. In every previous article, I start out stating a problem, discussing that problem, and tabling solutions the reader can use to solve that problem. In this case, I have no solutions. In fact, I am asking the reader how does one go about helping caregivers or parents of special needs children? While the Internet is full of what appears to be excellent information on this subject, only first-hand practical solutions will suffice.

If someone you know goes to a hospital to deliver a baby and comes home with a special needs child, how do you go about supporting that family in deed, not just with words, if you have not been in this situation before?

As often the case, families who have had to carry these extra heavy loads tend to have extraordinary powers and resiliency of coping. They develop Sampson-like strength of dealing with life without asking or wanting anyone to feel sorry for them. They seem to feel it is their cross and they are going to bear it with grace and without leaning on friends and family. And if you are that friend or family of the caregiver or parent, how do you get in a word in edgewise, so to speak… how do you begin to show you care and want to be of help without stepping on the toes of same people you want to aid? How?

Do you offer to help take care of the child while the parents take a break, albeit for a few hours? If the parents allow you to do so, would you know what to do and how to take care of the child? Is helping one day a week or a month good enough? Are you really strong enough for this task, in other words, can you handle it?

If you have not witnessed a snippet of how difficult it is to care for a special needs child, next time you are in a public place (park, bus, hospital, etc) keenly observe what it takes to get that 8-year old child with Cerebral Palsy in or out of a vehicle just one time. Then imagine if the parents can’t afford a vehicle as the case in many developing countries and here in the United States. To add salt to injury, Nigerian well-to-do parents who happen to have special needs children are often accused of using their stricken children for black magic money machine (ogwu ego), due to sheer ignorance. Growing up in Nigeria, many people used to believe that stuff. Birth defects and cancer afflictions in the middle and upper income families were erroneously attributed to this money machine nonsense. This stereotype makes it possible for society to piles on these innocent people like they were the Witches of Salem instead of affording them the compassion they crave.

Imagine the unfortunate stare and shame of the whole situation day after day?

Think about what that parent of a down syndrome child was goes. Then imagine that scene repeated day and night, seven days a week, fifty-two weeks a year and years on end. Imagine being that parent, my friend!

The essence of the above vicarious exercise is not to create the misery-likes-company feeling of seeing people who are worse off; I totally reject this notion. Rather, the goal is to foster empathy and humility and gratitude and to treasure every moment we have because it could easily be worse. Also, we need to accept the fact we may not have done everything to deserve our good fortunate or the challenges in our personal lives. No, they did not bring these evils on themselves.

The simple act of going to the grocery store or the doctor’s office or to the park entails Pentagon-War-Room logistics. The caregiver has to check off things on a long list. Some things will have to be planned way in advance with every t crossed and i dotted. Even normal fun-filled family vacation becomes another Mission Impossible for those who can afford to go on vacation. Then there are parents who have to do these things and still work demanding jobs outside the home. Some work for bosses who either have no clue or don’t care about what these caregivers are going through in their home lives.

Then there are cases where the heavy load befalls a happily married couple and after bearing it for some time, one of them gives up and leaves because he or she can’t take it anymore. Sometimes both decide their child is better of in a home or institution. Either way the parents live with the heavy hearts of thinking they did not do enough for their special needs child. Who are we to judge any parent or situation, especially when we have no idea of how hard a road that is?

Parents of normal kids and special needs children have it tough too. The normal children may feel they receive less attention than their sick sibling. This may create the Prodigal Son-like jealousy. The normal children may also feel burdened by helping take care of their sibling or even the uneasiness or awkwardness some people feel being around people who are different. Parents can be caught in the middle of all these family storms with no escape hatch.

There are lessons we all can draw from this topic: treasure everyday and count your countless blessings. Regardless of how bad you think life is today for you, don’t make it worse, because it could be worst.

I don’t even know where to begin to write about parents who have had the unthinkable task of burying a child, especially parents in Diaspora whose children passed away. Whether the child was laid to rest here or in motherland, the child is resting in peace. It does not really matter where one is buried as long as the person is rested in peace. Either by choice or by circumstances, many of us (including the big wigs back home) will meet our Maker abroad. The big wigs will likely be on their last medical trip overseas when they kick their bucket. They could help themselves and the masses today by establishing in Nigeria the same first-class medical facilities they seek overseas. But would they?

For some of these parents whose only child or only daughter or only son passed away, take heart! The parents can legally adopt another child or daughter or son, not to replace the irreplaceable one, but to help fill the void. If you have other children be they all boys or all girls, still count your blessings. Don’t be so consumed in mourning the dead that you forget to be appreciative of the living. There are childless parents who want a child… any child in any condition.

Also, there perfectly normal parents with normal children who adopt special needs children, like the Orlando Magic Basketball General Manager Pat Williams. There are parents of dead children who wish their children were alive and severely disabled. There may be parents of critically challenged children who want to end it to save their children from the pains. There are perfectly normal families that have all perished in an accident or crash. This happens all over the world all the time to people who did not do anything to deserve such fate. Life’s something.

So to parents and parent-to-be everywhere, be grateful for what you have. If you are blessed with only girls and you long for a boy to carry on your family name, can you (in the wise question of my friend Fidelis Okonkwo, M.D.) please tell me the first name of your great grand father who was a boy? And can you positively identify his grave? If you can’t name (or ID the grave of) your all-important great grand father, then relax and be happy! Being male or female does not matter after a while after all.

If you have only boys and wish for a girl to care for you in your old age the way only a daughter can, chill out! Boys can care too. So what your child made A-minus instead of the A-plus you wanted? Big deal your child scored less points in a game than you expected? So your week or day has been too routine and boring for your liking because everyone is healthy and normal in your family? Well, do you know getting into a serious car-wreck or your child getting sick can really excite your life and get you jumping and your days hectic and less boring? Boring can be great!

So when your child comes home from school in one piece, but just hungry, I say, rejoice! When your wife comes home whole, overjoy! When your husband arrives home safely, forget any arguments of the night before and say a little prayer of gratitude. Should you make it a point to hug each member of your family the first time they walk-through the door everyday? Do we really have time to ignore, disrespect, and not smile at people we are supposed to love? Should one divorce the spouse because he or she has a chronic illness; or that one now makes more money than the spouse? Should one parent ever cause their child to disregard the other parent?

In the heat of the moment and the battle, it is easy to sometimes forget how good we have it. For a majority of us, what we term our bad days are better than some people’s best days! Let us keep that in mind as we treasure the best times of our lives which is NOW. That might be how we talk to an angel of our faith.

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hellstate--rp-blog · 8 years ago

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↪ b a s i c s ;

N A M E: Nikita Lauren Charles A G E: 33 P L A C E O F O R I G I N: Dallas, Oregon G R O U P: None F C: Sonequa Martin-Green

❝ The world is full of painful stories. Sometimes it seems as though there aren’t any other kind. ❞

↪ p e r s o n a l i t y ;

P O S I T I V E T R A I T S: straight-shooter ; heroic N E G A T I V E T R A I T S: sardonic ; self-deprecating

↪ b i o g r a p h y ;

L I F E B E F O R E T H E O U T B R E A K:

The one thing that young Nikita knew, when she was asked as a girl what she wanted to be when she grew up, was that she wanted to save lives. A serious and inquisitive child with a lot to say, she was still plagued by inattention and, though a smart girl by all means, she was not always the best at scoring high in classes. Her stoicism made the ADHD a tough diagnosis and it wasn’t until she hit fifth grade that anybody suggested it to her mother. Classes demanded that she focus, sit still, and keep her eyes front–difficult tasks for a young girl. In her age, they didn’t make special dispensation for kids with attention issues. Ethel Charles would sure as hell have no daughter of hers hooked on those drugs, but that resolve faded as easily as the breath that carried the promise as years went by.

Adderall helps. It’s Nikita’s dad, Ferdinand “Freddie” Charles, who finally caves. Nikita focuses. Her grades aren’t perfect, but she makes an effort. She plays some sports, does a school play or two, but nothing seems to stick. She’s always felt like there’s nothing in the world she’s perfect at and her varied interest pull her in a dozen different directions. It isn’t until she takes the ASVAB that Freddie considers the benefit a military career could have for her. He loved his time as a marine. He knows the kindness in her heart that lurks beneath a strong face and clenched fists. The more they talk about it, the more excited she gets. Who wouldn’t want to save lives for a living? They talk all night while, Freddie gets out his old photo albums of his time deployed and Ethel braids her hair. It’s only in retrospect that Nik can remember how perfect that moment was.

Navy Corpsman: a five year enlistment obligation. It’s an easy thing to do and when she graduates in 2003, she follows the ceremony with a straight shot to bootcamp, She wants to be where the action’s at and so she grinds through corpsman school. It’s not glamorous, but it’s good work and it’s practical ( it means something ). She doesn’t believe in the war when she goes in, but she believes in honor and she believes in saving lives. ( At the end, she’ll wonder what she believes ). She does two tours in Iraq. It’s a mess of a place of hot sand, smart asses with unintelligible accents like Gambit from the xmen cartoons she grew up on and angry men whose adopted families can never fill the hole of birth parents in a land so far away. These men do more for her then she could ever ask. It’s through thick and thin. She’ll miss them most when she gets home and things fall apart.

When she comes home for good, it’s not like Vietnam, but it sure as shit isn’t WWII either. The mother, who had sent her cookies on her birthday to some burning desert where her daughter sometimes laid awake wondering if she’d die, has early onset alzheimer’s. She can’t keep her hands on a job, but her parents don’t mind. As Ethel gets worse, Freddie needs the help more and more. So Nik stays and does what’s right and Freddie tries not to let his heartbreak when he hears her reassembling her guns in the middle of the night. He tries not to let it bother him when he wakes up and she’s standing over their bed, seeing him but not truly seeing him, hoping to protect them from invisible threats ( family comes first of course ).

The first time he wakes up to her in the room with a knife, he makes her go to the VA for a mental health evaluation. She’s honest there, but guarded. She thinks if she hasn’t fallen apart, she’s got her shit together. Christ, she takes care of her mother well enough, doesn’t she? Nik thinks all they’ll do is refill her adderall and send her on her way. Instead they brand her with new letters. PTSD. Chronic Pain Syndrome. These are conditions from which there is no cure.

Nik’s from Dallas, Oregon and if she wants something she can find it. First it’s just the adderall ( she won’t be going back to the VA or any other doctor for that matter, they don’t know what the world is really like and she doesn’t know how to live in theirs ). It migrates to other things depending on the severity of her pain that day. Some days she just wants to feel something other than the hell she’s made for herself. It turns out that heroes are Greek tragedies more oft than they are GI Joes. At least methamphetamines can make that reality a little more dull around the sharp edges ( they really do cut too deep ).

L I F E D U R I N G T H E O U T B R E A K:

Ethel passes away and Nik shoots up for the first time, assaults her dad while hallucinating and confused ( it’s not him she thinks, but an imposter sent to harm her ), and is brought it for meth induced psychosis during the outbreak and locked in seclusion. Her dad is treated for a laceration to his eyebrow ( he’s lucky ) and doesn’t press charges. Instead he goes to Ethel’s grave with a bottle of her favorite wine and cries himself to sleep. Ethel would’ve loved the sunflowers he sets on her grave. By the time he wakes up to the chaos, the petals are wilted and stuck with a cold sweat to his cheek.

Nik doesn’t remember much when she finally settles down–something about some guy named Raul hassling her, a concern that her mother is really alive and is stealing her money, and something about aliens and the ‘fake army’ or some crazy shit. Dirty, short cut nails dig through the paper scrubs they’ve changed her into and Nik ignores the sensation, which feels weaker than shame and stronger than any sense of self she might’ve had in awhile ( it’s hard to know yourself, when your mother hasn’t known you in years ).

After the Zyprexa wears off, she finds herself looking out the small plexiglass window through streaks of blood. Eyes play tricks on her–the mind plays tricks–and it took a long time before she realized what she saw and two days before help arrived on the vengeful wings of Azrael ( an angel of death ). The staff is gone. No nurses, none of the techs, no security or doctors…hell, not even another poor soul stuck in the room across from her.

It’s a day and a half before the men come. They’re tall and broad shouldered men with hard eyes–the kind that don’t have creases in the corners ( men who never smile ). She’s starting to feel normal again, but run down–exhausted. The men aren’t unkind, but they don’t let her out either. They’re the kind of survivalists she expects were prepared for this sort of thing. If they believe her about having served their country, they don’t care ( men like them aren’t interested in supporting the troops unless they can leverage them as some sort of agenda ). She listens, says little, and doesn’t mind that they don’t trust her or let her out. There’s hints of the outside world, others fill up the two other secure rooms. They’re other people deemed untrustworthy. Nik figures she can’t trust them either. Some of them look like they’ve been dead for weeks.

It’s months that she’s locked up with no explanation. She figures it’s because they can’t trust her. She can see the seclusion signs on the other doors. It’s clear by the paper scrubs and the foam mattress that she wasn’t able to be trusted before whatever happened happened. It’s months before she notices the infighting on her regular trip to the bathroom under armed guard. In the other room one of the men is standing halfway in the door. Inside something inhuman snarls and screams. It sounds like a cougar and sets the hairs on the back of her neck on edge before she hears the man put a bullet in whatever it was. The screaming stops.

L I F E A F T E R T H E O U T B R E A K:

Men fight and things fall apart ( the center cannot hold, as Yeats would say ). Whoever her captors or protectors are, they don’t last long. A coup takes place. She’s seen the threads of it being woven over several months, biding her time. If she can wait in the fucking Iraqi sun then she sure as hell can survive this tomb. The guards are spread fewer–farther between–and soon they only send one. She’s never caused them trouble before ( has she? )–silent listener, cooperative and calm. She dispatches the man with the same ease, a muscle memory from long ago. She doesn’t save his life; if he’d wanted to save hers, he would’ve let her out a long time ago. It’s not until she gets outside that she wonders if she was wrong.

The shock of the world she’d missed fall apart spilled from her lips like a last meal. There’s nothing so shocking as having spent an eternity inside a box only to find your home set to ruin. Nik goes home, but her dad’s long gone. She thinks maybe he could’ve survived. It’s hard to tell anymore. The sick lump in her stomach hardens like cement as she remembers their last moments together. She’ll never get another chance to make it right, but she sure as shit knows she’ll never touch crank again.

Nikita is hypervigilant, claustrophobic, but stoic. Her anxieties are hidden well–an internal panic that she hides behind a strong face. A black woman in the military, she has lost any shred of the privilege of vulnerability. Dallas, Oregon was hardly kinder to her than Cheyenne, Wyoming. After escaping the hospital, Nik cut all of her hair off and did her best to disguise herself so that she could travel alone with less trouble from the living ( unwilling to become another prisoner ). Hair grows and roots do too. Cheyenne doesn’t promise her anything, but she needs the structure of a real place; she’s never known who she was without structure.

#sonequa martin green #rp #rpg #zombie rp #zombie rpg #a.#f.#30 #rogue.#bea.#nikita charles.

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killing-stalkin-blog · 8 years ago

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A Little Death Fandom: Killing Stalking Characters: Sangwoo, Reader Tags: Blood, Torture, Stockholm Syndrome, Fetishes, Graphic Description Author’s Note: Don’t know why I wrote this. I hate Sangwoo.

Slow, rhythmic dripping, hitting the cold flood, staining the porous concrete a dark, inky colour. The silence was heavy, almost suffocating; it pressed against her ears painfully, making her hear things that weren’t there. The cold air had no effect on her anymore, her skin turning ice cold from exposure, a slight twitch here and there from her limbs. Arms sore and tired from being hanged by shackles attached to the ceiling, wrists strained from hours of struggling.

The pain had dulled to a slight throb but she knew….she knew that he’d be back and when he comes back, so will the pain. She didn’t know how long she was here for, days had blurred together and her sense of time meant nothing after not seeing sunlight. She didn’t know if there were people looking for her or how long they’ve been looking if they have; if they have leads or hit a dead end. Did they give up? Was she just that hard to locate? Did anyone miss her enough to be worried? Being a middle-class social person, they must’ve been someone who sent in a missing persons report.

She wasn’t getting her hopes up, however, she knew that they weren’t going to find her. The guy was a sick fuckhead but he knew how to cover his tracks, that much she knew. She didn’t know what he wanted or why he took her, he didn’t talk to her at all since she’s been here; he’s watching, though. Always watching - sometimes he just sits down here and watches her breakdown, screaming and sobbing at him, thrashing against the chains that trap her.

It’s like he takes pleasure in knowing that she’s in pain, that he’s causing the pain. Somedays,she would give into what he wants - her screams of agony and despair with sobbing pleas; other days, she would stay quiet and silently observe him as he was observing her. As much as it sickened her to admit it, he was rather attractive, someone she could possibly see as a loving husband and father. Dominate nose with a strong jaw, luscious hair that fell into his eyes - oh, his eyes. Such wonderful eyes; a deep brown, from what she gathered when he was close to her. His eyes…were something else; so deep, so expressive….except, they weren’t. They were void of all emotion, a cold wall separating, hiding, from a turmoil that was wreaking havoc inside.

It’s not so bad if he’s having a good day, he’ll go easy on her when it was time, slight cuts here and there, she could handle those. However, if he was having a bad day…those are the days where she wishes he would just kill her already. No mercy was held back from him; if he was angry or upset about something, he goes to her to let it out on. Broken bones, missing chunks of flesh, cuts deep enough to show bone; he’d come back after he cooled down and crudely stitch her back together with thick, black string.

There were times where he’d leave the door open wide enough for her to peek out; she expected to see a dark hallway leading off to somewhere. However, she wasn’t expecting a brightly lit hallway.

She eventually forgot about the incident, her torturer making sure she had other things to think about; he had brought in a doll a while ago and made it in a sitting position on the chair across the room. He had stared at her for a bit after, a foreign emotion in his eyes that she hadn’t seen before, and then left, shoulders hunched, head down. When the door slammed shut, she focused entirely on the doll, trying to find all the details from a far distance.

It was a plain doll, made of what looked like burlap material, and was held together with crude stitching. It only had one eye, a crossed out eye; as she strained her eyes, she noticed that those crude stitchings were practically the same as hers. She was even more confused now, why had her torturer make a doll of her? What purpose does it have? and why was he doing this?

Tears were pooling in her eyes as she stared at the doll, coming to terms that this doll was her and if it only had one eye, then… Her eyes drifted downward, shoulders shaking as the sobs finally broke loose. To know what he was about to do, sooner or later, gave her a weird feeling; she had fallen for her torturer over time and while he was set out to kill her, she kept thinking of those moments where he was sweet and caring towards her. How his touch was almost loving when he was fixing her, gentle caresses of reasurement when it was over.

Just thinking about it was causing a panic attack, her throat and chest seizing up, making her already difficult breathing almost impossible to get a lung-full of air. Thrashing around, she tried screaming out her fears but all that came out was a raspy cry. Gut-wrenching sobs tore through her chest, frantic panting echoed off the walls and pounded against her ears, tormenting her. Hitting her head against the concrete wall behind her, she whimpered and wished she could curl up into a ball, to shield herself from the pain that was going on inside.

She had finally calmed down after a couple hours and had her head bowed when her door opened, the slow creak of it always sent her chills. Looking up through her hair, she whimpered quietly when she saw the cold, indifferent person she had come to hate and not the kind, loving one whom she loved. They might as well have been two people the way their personality collided, yet both people were the same one, one that she both loved and hated. She wanted her lovely one, she didn’t want to be in pain anymore, she just wanted him and while she did have him, right now, standing right in front of her, her loved one was deep within him, locked away somewhere in the depths of his mind.

He stood in front of her for a bit before he got impatient and grabbed a handful of hair on the back of her head, pulling on it violently so that her head snapped up. She snarled at him, trying to wrench her hair out of his grasp; he growled in response, hand rushing forward to strangle her. Moving weakly, she just stared at him as he choked her, black dots appearing around the edge of her vision, the room was starting to tilt and her body felt light yet heavy. Her heart was pounding in her ears, hard and fast, a desperate attempt to keep it’s host alive.

Just when the darkness was closing in around him, he let go, making her gasp loudly and the room tilted more; the dizziness was too much for her and she started dry heaving, turning away from him to prevent accidentally getting sick on him, though that’d be practically impossible, since they haven’t fed her anything but water. Her stomach cried out in protest, the painful contractions trying to force out what it didn’t have; she shuddered in disgust when stomach acid got clogged in her throat, gagging violently.

Lifting her head, he was still standing in front of her but he had a glass of cool water in his hand; he held it up to her lips and help her drink, making cooing noises and caressed her face when she winched at the pain in her throat. She looked into his eyes as she finished swallowing and felt a small burst of love, relief, adoration; her lovely had resurfaced, maybe…maybe she could try and ask him again…

“What’s your name?” She rasped, voice no higher than a whisper. His eyes snapped up to meet hers and he looked conflicted with himself, like he wanted to tell her but he’d be going against something, something he was taught over the years to avoid.

He bit his lip and remained eye contact as he answered, “Sangwoo. It’s Sangwoo.” Quiet, monotone, the opposite of what his eyes were broadcasting. She smiled weakly but it was enough to get a small twitch of the lips from him; it made her what to smile at him all the time, just to see if he’ll smile back. Licking her lips, she prepared herself for whatever reaction he’d have.

“Why me?” She croaked, eyebrows furrowed. He sucked in a deep breath and looked away from her, crossing his arms as he started pacing. “Why did you take me? Sangwoo!” He shook his head at her, frantically pacing now with his hands clenched in his hair.

“Sangwoo, fucking tell me!” She shouted, voice cracking, and she shook her shackles to emphasise her point.

“Because you look like her!” He shouted back, spinning around and rushed at her, hands slamming on the wall behind her, making her feel more trapped as he brought his face closer to hers. The crazed look in his eyes made her shiver, realising she caused something to snap within him, something that she regrets because her loved one is gone again.

“You looked so much like her, I almost couldn’t believe it. But I saw all those men; collegues, friends, strangers those lewd stares they’d give. I wanted you, no one else was to touch you, I wanted you to myself. You’re mine.” He whispered, manically, eyes darting around her face as his hand came forward to play with her hair.

“I had followed you for months, memorised your daily routine, what you bought at the stores, the kind of coffee you’d order everyday, how you hung out with your friends…” He trailed off, eyes going distance as he recalled all those incidents while her eyes just grew wide; he was following her, stalking her, and yet….she still loved him, still cared for him. She should’ve been disgusted, should’ve hated his mere being but…she couldn’t bring herself to think like that.

“The things you did…reminded me so much of her…so much of my lost love…but you, you my dear,” He laughed, bending down a bit so that he looked up at her, his face now levelled with her chest. “You are the exact replica, of the one that got away, but I’ll be victorious this time, this time, you won’t be able to get away.” His excited whisper tugged at her heart, making her throat close at the thought of what he’d do to her.

Squeezing her eyes shut, she braced herself, expecting some sort of cool metal to pierce her skin. The feeling of soft, plump lips against her collarbone was the last thing she expected; breathing in sharply through her nose, she bit her lip harshly as he travelled up her neck, placing open-mouthed kisses along the column of her throat, occasionally flicking his tongue out to taste her skin. She shivered, the feeling of his lips were causing a mixture of pleasure and revolting disgust, goosebumps rose up across her skin as his cold hands slipped up her shirt.

She jumped slightly when he tore it off her, the tatters falling to the ground like dead weight, her bare chest exposed to the cool air, to him. She tried covering herself a bit but the tug on her wrist reminded her that she was still bound to the ceiling, making her mentally berate herself for not wearing a bra. He hummed, cupping his jaw as he tilted his head, eyes roaming over her skin, as if he’s judging a show horse; she held her breath as he crept closer, skin twitching when his hand touched her waist.

He gradually dragged his hand across her stomach, lingering a bit to caress the skin with his thumb, mumbling something that she couldn’t understand. He fingered the edge of her pants, pulling them down a bit before letting it snap back, the jiggling of flesh fascinating him; he knelt down in front of her, the tip of his nose skimming her stomach as he licked her skin. The gentle, feathery touch of his fingertips ghosting on her skin made her chest clench, her stomach fluttering; she just closed her eyes, wanting to remember the gentle moment, even if something terrible was coming after because she’d have this playing over and over in her mind.

He kept circling this one part of her waist, right above her hip where it was the meatiest; he eyed the piece of flesh with a crazed fascination, pulling on it, pinching it, even going as far as biting. Glancing up at her, he saw that her eyes were closed and smirked, slipping the knife out of his boot; he stood up slowly, knife gripped tightly in his hand as he watched her breath peacefully, eyebrows furrowed as she realised that he wasn’t touching her anymore. Tilting his head, he waited until she opened her eyes and smiled sweetly, a spark of pleasure as her eyes widen with fear when she spotted the knife.

Spinning the knife, he lightly dragged the tip of it across her hips, jerking it roughly on her hipbone, the small gasp of pain sending pleasant chills down his spine. Stepping close to her, he nudged her nose with his, one hand gripping her wounded waist, the handle of the knife pressing into the cut, while the other buried itself in her hair. He teased her a bit, leaning in slowly as if to kiss her but pulled back at the last moment, making her following him in hopes he’d actually kiss her.

He clicked his tongue, shaking his head as he stepped back, twirling the knife in between his fingers again, pacing slowly while maintaining eye-contact with her; he really liked her eyes, always managing to capture him in a downward spiral of light and dark, making Sangwoo battle with himself on his thoughts versus his instinct. Those eyes were the only thing that separated her and his lost love, the only thing that managed to be logical in his mind; he knew that the woman in front of him, the one that was hanging from the ceiling in shackles was not his love, yet he had fallen for her the second he saw her at the coffee shop and he knew he had to keep her, one way or another, she would be forever his.

He had to get rid of the one mistake first.

She wanted to cry when he started advancing towards her, eyes wide with a crazed gleam and a sickly sweet smile, still twirling the knife between his fingers. He suddenly lashed out towards her, a glint of light flashing followed by a burning pain across her chest, blood splattering his flawless face; she knew he had sliced her, could feel the stinging pain and the dripping blood, but it wouldn’t completely register in her mind, it happened so quickly.

He struck again, going from the other side, creating a bloody cross on her chest, fast-paced drips of blood collecting below her to add to the day old pool that was already there. The streams of blood rolling down her stomach and legs distracted Sangwoo, the hand gripping the knife going slack as he watched with a childlike fascination, tongue lolling out to lick his bottom lip as he dropped to his knees. Drips of blood landed on his face as he looked up at her, laugh escaping as he wiped some of it off, licking the blood off his fingers, the strong taste of iron making his groin vibrate in excitement.

Breathing heavily, he leaned forward and licked her blood-covered stomach, groaning loudly at the burst of iron on his tongue, body tingling with renewed energy. Standing up, he continued his path to her open wounds, licking those as well, enjoying the feel of the split skin against his tongue, the sinewy muscle mixing with the smooth of the skin was quickly becoming a favourite of his.

Lifting his head up, he cupped her jaw and pulled her towards him, lips sliding together as he kissed her, the blood covering his face making it’s way into her mouth, causing her stomach to turn unpleasantly. She fought against him, as much as it was turning her on, it was also very unsettling for her to taste her own blood; the fact that he was practically drinking from her wounds before kissing her was pressing against her mind, that it was wrong and while she felt sick from it, she found herself running her tongue along his, the iron taste making her gag a bit.

He pulled back, panting softly as he stared her, eyes hooded with a blitzed out look, almost like he just got high with a gram of high-quality marijuana. Licking his lips, he backed away and wiped his face with his shirt, a red tint lingered on his skin as he dropped his arms. Dragging his feet over to a corner of the room, he ran his fingers across a sewing kit and glanced at her through his bangs; she was still bleeding quite heavily and her eyelids were drooping a bit, if he didn’t temporarily fix her, he’d lose her before he intended. Sighing, he picked up a needle and thread, slipping into the medical mind of Sangwoo, making quick but sloppy work, ignoring her sobbed protests and pleads of death.

Tossing the material back onto the table, he spared her a glance again before leaving, the heavy metal door slamming shut behind him. Her head hung in defeat, strands of her hair getting caught in her new stitching while her whole body felt crusty and itchy from the dried blood. She didn’t know how long he was gone, nor did she care, she was too intrigued by the glistening pool of blood below her feet. She can tell where the concrete had soaked up the thick liquid, the little holes in the pool told her; she wondered if her’s was the first to stain the grey floor or if others had been here before and had stained it as well but had faded over time.

She had hoped she was the first, this room had become special to her, became the place where she found love, even if she had been brutally tortured in the process; she wanted this room to be forever her’s and Sangwoo’s. She knew he didn’t feel the same way as her, that he only loved her because she reminded him of his past love and she was fine with that, as long as he felt, even a little bit, of what she felt for him, she was okay.

Hearing the door open again, she looked up and simultaneously felt her heart drop; Sangwoo had come back but his eyes…his eyes were like the man’s she saw before - they were crossed out. Face, eyes, body, all void of emotion, she couldn’t get a reading on him and for the first time since she’s been there, she felt terrified for her life. Swallowing repeatedly, she eyed him as he stalked forward, eyes never moving and body stock still, almost like his movements were being control by another being. He hadn’t move for a while once he was right in front of her, other then tilting his head a bit; she almost thought she was safe when his hand shot out and squeezed her neck, cutting off her airways.

He watched her choke and try to thrash against his hold, how her eyes bugged out from the building pressure in her skull - her beautiful eyes, so unique and strictly her own. Still gripping her throat tightly, he slowly moved toward her eyes, the tips of his fingers gently caressing the dark circles beneath them; he saw that they were starting to glisten more, almost like she was going to cry but he couldn’t have that, it’d just make the whole thing more difficult, meaning he’d have to work quickly or it’d end horribly. Tightening his grip, he shoved his thumb and forefinger into her eye socket, the squelch and suction of the eyeball with the combination of the choked screams almost made him groan loudly in pleasure. However, he had a mission to do and he intended to follow through with it - he’d take care of his needs later.

Snarling a bit, he twisted and pulled, even shoving his middle finger in the socket as well, before he finally had the optical cord snapped. He let go of her throat as he examined her eye, loud gasps and gut-wrenching sobs filled the small space, the noise annoying Sangwoo immediately and he narrowed his eyes at her. Blood rolling down her face in place of where tears should be, the gaping hole in place of her eye, mouth open as she tried to suck in needed air; he tossed the eyeball in his hand as he contemplated with himself.

Making up his mind, he forced her jaw to open wider and shoved the eyeball down her throat, covering her mouth to make sure she didn’t spit it out, leaving her no other choice but to swallow it, blood mixing with more tears as she forced herself to down her eyeball. When he was sure she had it down, he pulled her other eye out slowly, dragging out the situation so that she’d experience it longer. She passed out before he could tear the optical cord, which meant the fun was over for him, unfortunately.

Feeling satisfied, he held the eyeball up and smirked, walking over to the chair that still had the doll sitting on it. Picking it up, he went over to the table that had the sewing kit and cut out a small hole in the head, next to the stitched cross; shoving the eye in the hole, he made a criss-cross stitching through the eye and the burlap. Grinning with pride at his work, he gently picked up the doll and walked back towards the girl, grimacing at the mess she made as he pulled his knife from his boot again.

Twirling his knife, he racked his eyes over her form again, memorising how it looked, how it tasted…she may have looked like his past love but she definitely wasn’t her, demeaning her to semi-useless. Shrugging, he brought the knife up to her throat and made a swift slash, blood squirting his face again as he cut deeply through her arteries. He licked some of the blood that landed on his lips and slipped the knife back into his boot, leaving her to bleed out as he exited the room.

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