#the implication that he can just SEE that reflexively that he can interpret all of Spock’s mannerisms like that

[lichqueenlibrarian]

The Vulcan glanced up from his station with a look of utter calm that Jim read as fiercely controlled excitement.

–The Wounded Sky, Diane Duane

[exaltedfuzz]

hiii! this is really random but i was looking at your pinned comic again and what do you think gant meant whenever he would talk about swimming? idk if it's because there was so much going on while playing the case, but i could never really figure out if there was more to it and im curious about your interpretation if you dont mind !!

Well, honestly, I think it's threatening enough if it's just swimming. (Speaking as someone who can't swim, haha.)

Seriously though, I think it's a combination "let's be better friends and have fun" with an undercurrent of "you know I could hold your head under water at any time and everyone would think it was a freak accident". Because swimming can be brushed off so easily as simply something fun, there's a sort of gaslighting there too. Like "Now loosen up... why did you think I'd drown you? We're just having a good time, aren't we?" This sense of constant threat in something so supposedly happy. Just like Gant himself.

As for swimming with Lana, although he never proposes this in game, it's what I had in the comic, so I'll put some of the thoughts behind it here.

I'd imagine it as a purposeful disarming tactic again. Lana's design, I feel, is a collection of things to keep her looking strong, and importantly, to cover up her weak points. Her shoulders need squaring up, so she wears military style epaulettes. She's shorter than Gant, so she wears heels. She can't have her throat vulnerable, so she wears a scarf. One that's interesting is the medals. Firstly, her heart is the reason why she was able to be manipulated so entirely, since everything she did was to protect Ema, but the medals are on the wrong side of her chest to keep her heart locked behind her achievements. And Gant knows this, he flat out says it in game - that he "knew Lana" and knew that if Ema was implicated, she'd do "anything and everything he wanted" (don't remember who says this, think it might be Nick), despite being someone who "hated anything corrupt" (Angel). Second, I think this means Lana is a bit insecure. None of the other King of Prosecutors winners that we see (Edgeworth, Manfred) have any desire to show off the medals they presumably have (and though I know this is partly because they didn't exist when they were being designed, I also think it's interesting from an in-universe standpoint) so I think Lana is clutching at the things she can tangibly show off. (Interestingly, this actually makes her slightly like the other Chief Prosecutor we see, [Blaise] Winner. He's covered in the badges... I won't spoil AAI2 for what they are, but... The means by which they each obtained their medals and what they point to about them is, now that I'm thinking about it, a really interesting parallel. But that isn't the point.) She does the same thing with her grades, tells you she was the best in her class. I think that without these accolades she'd feel completely useless, so, this brings me to swimming.

Obviously, swimming, you're half naked. I propose that Lana's insecurities extend to this. Seems the sort to be arms folded in a T-shirt and jeans at a pool party. So, I think an invitation to swim with Gant would be something designed to unsettle her and make her uncomfortable, make her lose all her neatly put together armour. I'm not keen to read potential sexual motives into it, for Lana's sake. That poor woman has really been through enough with what's contained in the canonical text. But certainly, Gant would use it as a means of preying on her insecurities and pushing her buttons re: covering up vulnerabilities. The threat of being scrutinised, without any shields (chipped or not) under Gant's uncomfortably long stare, would be terrifying. I think with Gant, it's always the threat of how entirely unknowable he is. Of course, that unknowable-ness leads to him murdering two people as almost a reflex action, and all he seems to care about is making pawns and raising himself up.

Also, since it's water, it's a sort of washing the blood away style thing. Actually, now that I write that, when you look at Gant's design, he's got a huge cross on him. (And parts of his design went into Strongheart, who has a sort of clergyman-style coat) Maybe there's a bit of a baptism/washing away sins Christian style thing going on there. Not to mention the massive church organ in his office. (On Gant's cross tie, actually, something I noticed and found really interesting was that there's so much "red around neck" in RFTA. Gant's tie, Lana's scarf, Ema's bow, Jake's neckerchief, Angel's little octopus hotdog thing, the suit of armour in Gant's office even has a red scarf style thing. Something about the chains heavy around all of their necks. Naturally the most assertive red is Gant's, since not only does it branch out like a marionette controller, but at the center of it is his big badge. So having the chief position has given him control over all these other "red around neck" people, ready to tighten up the noose at any time. I'd say Angel gives credence to this too. She has the least red going on, and she's the only one who doesn't work there anymore. It's also not actually the thing around her neck, which is a black choker, but an accessory that she's attached to it. Emblematic of her really choosing to go back into this world however she can, and that includes emulating the "red string of fate", as it were. Neil's tie is pink (which is light red) so it's faded into memory, and Bruce's is blue with white spots. Now, this doesn't seem like red, but blood is red too, and the luminol reaction is blue. So this is the discovery point, if that makes sense. Where the red has been revealed to be blood under the blacklight, and things start to become undone. Ultimately, as well, the "white spots" become the holes in Gant and Lana's plan, so I think there's something there! But that isn't the point of the post.)

One thing I find interesting about "swimming" in particular is Gant's theming. His damage sprite is him going completely nuts electrical style. So maybe...

Thanks for your ask, sorry for going off on one. Hope I answered your question, haha!

[loveofdetail]

@sigilmint oh friend this comment made me so 😍

Short version: As far as in-game actions, really all you need to do is initiate his romance, betray the grove, roll to convince him to stay in the party, then continue his romance, roleplaying the situation however you want from there.

Long Version beneath the cut—this has a lot more to do with how my own out-of-game decisionmaking got me here, and how I interpret the macro-arc of my party/character.

My first bg3 campaign is a co-op game where we are mostly trying to do Good Route Things. Gale has been stuck in camp permanently because I was dead set on playing a wizard myself.

So I started my solo campaign with the vague notion of doing a Full On Evil Run. My character, Vuei, is a disillusioned and broken oathbreaker paladin. I was planning to romance Minthara because if she's only available in the evil route, might as well go all the way.

But I recruited Gale and immediately had a category 5 "Ohhh I can't not fuck him" moment.

Now, at the time I thought that betraying the grove would straight-up lock you out of his romance. Tbh I'm not sure why I thought this? But somehow that was the impression I'd gotten, so, I promptly jettisoned all my Evil Plans in favor under Get Under Gale's Robe ASAP.

I got all the way into Act 2 like this. Defeated and looted the whole goblin camp, made it to Last Light, all that.

Then one night I wanted to play but I was feeling too mentally wiped to make real progress and real decisions, so instead I loaded a save from right before saving the grove. I figured I would see what it was like, get to hear some Minthara dialogue, that would be that.

Instead I got one of the most immersive emotional rollercoasters a video game has ever given me.

I failed some rolls to deceive Minthara and started spinning a narrative where Vuei, who has recently lost everything and everyone they thought they valued, just... panics. Doesn't see a way out other than bending to Minthara's demands. Goes reflexively numb and nihilistic because apparently this is just the way the world works.

From there, the entire sequence from the combat itself, to Karlach (who was in my party) leaving me, to the reactions of various people at the party... it was just Moment after Heartwrenching Moment. I'm leaving some details out here because they really deserve to be experienced first-hand but at the end I was like. Staring at my ceiling processing all the implications for the characters.

Gale specifically delivers one of the Verbal Smackdowns of All Time to you afterward. You have to persuade him to stay.

But he does stay.

This was the point when I started getting the feeling that maybe his romance flag was still active? And the implications of THAT... my mind just ran wild with them. Who was this guy who would bitterly, righteously tell you that you're making him worse, then give you a second chance, secretly thinking maybe he's Not Actually So Different, then fall in love—ACTUAL love, not just 'I don't deserve better' resignation—with you despite it all?

I never reloaded my original save.

The game doesn't actually let you have any additional decompress-and-discuss dialogue after persuading him to stay, but in my imagination what I filled in was: a really painful heart to heart where Gale and Vuei agree Never Again. Where they are both at a loss as to how they can even go on from this. But they have to. So they will. At least they know the other feels just as guilty and ashamed as themself, and that counts for something.

It also made me think, why the pure black and white Evil Run/Good Run dichotomy? I really, REALLY latched on to the story structure of a party that makes One Huge Ruinous Fuckup at the very beginning that colors all their further attempts to Do Better, and that's how I RP'd going into act 2.

For instance: we couldn't rescue the tieflings but maybe we can extend the same grace to Minthara that we hope might be extended to ourselves.

In terms of game mechanics I actually took quite a hit here. Karlach took a bunch of great gear with her when she left (this may not happen in the current patch? unsure) and I decided my characters would not have it in them to go back to the goblin camp just to completionistly gobble up loot.

It felt like penance. The very beginning of the tangible consequences of the thing my character will regret most, for the rest of her life.

I felt closer to my remaining companions. Bound by atrocity. The last ones standing. By the gods it shouldn't have happened this way but after that we will NEVER doubt that we have each other's backs. I put Astarion in my party for the first time ever and this is when I began warming up to him as a character. Eventually when Shadowheart killed the Nightsong, it was like Vuei (and Gale) deeply disapproved but couldn't bear to cast judgement. The only thing to do is be there for her and hope she does better next time. We are all just hoping we'll do better next time.

The morning after our lowest point, we trudged resignedly to Rosymorn monastery. The stark, sublime grandeur of the landscape was a slap in the face. It was wrong that such beauty could still exist as though the world was indifferent to what we'd just done. It was wrong that we could literally climb above the ruins we made and in the distance they're just... another part of a breathtaking view. But here we are, standing on this cliff, somehow still able to feel wonder.

The new dawn imagery was both a lash and balm.

We carry on. We find a way.

OH ALSO I gave Gale Volo's eye and continued making Alterations to him as things progressed. Being vague because that's quite a bit further in but yeah, Gale Undergoing Changes is another big part of my vision here. It's All Connected.

[writing-good-vibes]

holy water

do i have a weird thing about baths? maybe. another instalment of the road trip, one day i'll add some plot, but for now all i have to say is: he fucked that old man.

WARNING for corey x michael relationship, smut, age difference (not really mentioned but there are details that make it clear), bath sex in a motel, smoking, implied mentions of murder and maybe some very, very light implications of dubcon(?) but it is entirely up to interpretation and i'm really only mentioning it to be extra safe. 1.3k ish words.

taglist: @slutforstabbings @ethanhoewke @voxmortuus (if anyone else wants to be tagged in corey related things, just let me know !!)

Corey groans as he sinks down into the hot water.

It had been a few weeks since they'd stopped at a motel, and Corey was going to make the most of it this time, he swore he'd never take the luxury of a cheap motel for granted ever, ever again. The second they'd settled in their room for the night, Corey started running a bath, stripping off his filthy clothes while he waited for it to fill. He doesn't even bother to add any of the cheap soap, the steaming water being enough on its own to soothe his exceptionally aching bones.

So there he lies, the glass ashtray from the room balanced on the edge of the bath along with his matchbook, and a cigarette smouldering between his fingers. He props one foot on the bath ledge, the other anchors him in place. The water laps up his shoulders and around his neck, and Corey's eyes close on reflex, letting himself be lulled into that empty space between awake and asleep.

The room drips with condensation, steam making the air thick without the aid of a fan to draw out the humidity.

Corey had almost forgotten about Michael, knowing he's perfectly capable of entertaining himself (as far as Michael can ever be entertained) while Corey has his little indulgences, until he soundlessly wanders in. No knocking, no tactful cough to alert him, nothing at all to suggest he's there at all. But even with his own eyes closed, Corey can feel Michael watching, can feel his dark eyes burning his skin like the water in the tub had been.

Now the water is only lukewarm. Corey looks up at Michael, stood in the door way, and his cock twitches beneath the water.

He isn't sure Michael is actually in the mood. Corey's learnt, after having Michael walk in on him more times than he can count at this point, that nakedness does very little for Michael. Years of limited privacy at the hospital have made him indifferent to boundaries like that, was Corey's best guess. And he's mostly right; Michael hadn't taken a bath or shower in 50 years without someone there keeping watch. Corey wonders if that's what Michael's doing to him, keeping watch. Watching him because Corey's emotionally unstable; Corey who can swing from quiet, repressed rage, to screaming hysteria, to childish glee, to heaving violence. Corey who, if Michael doesn't keep him in check, could end up being more trouble than he's worth.

Six months ago, in a motel just like this one, Michael had intruded on Corey while he was in the bath. Unlike so many times before, Corey wasn't pleased to see him. With his knees tucked up to his chin, Corey's face was splotchy with tears rather than the hot water he was wallowing in, and his eyes are wet and wide with some emotion Michael couldn't identify.

"Go away!" he'd wailed, pointing out of the room. Michael went. It didn't matter much to him, in fact he found it rather interesting to witness the ways in which Corey could work himself into a state before he simply snapped. Still, when Michael settled back in the bed, back straight against the headboard, he muted the TV, listening instead to Corey's sobbing pity-party through the plywood door that separated them.

Corey never shouted at Michael so directly; his love for him so strong he'd let him do almost anything to him without complaint. But for once, Corey wasn't in the mood and Michael's intrusion only made him feel vulnerable, made him feel smaller than he already did. He wanted to be alone. He wanted his momma but she was dead.

Two hours later, Corey reappeared, looking pink and tired, but somewhat pacified. There's a look in his eye, distant and pitiful. He'd felt so bad for shouting at Michael that he dropped to his knees on the gritty, once-beige carpet and crawled closer, "M'sorry I yelled, let me make it up to you?"

His fingers were wrinkly from the bath water, and rough against Michael's heavy cock. Corey drooled around him, and any animosity there might have been got drowned out by the sounds he made, lewd and dirty in the quiet sanctuary of their room for the night.

But today Corey is more than happy to shoot his shot, see if Michael is game for it. "Are you just checking on me?" he asks, watching for any of Michael's almost imperceptible tics.

Michael remains totally still. Watching him back.

Corey snubs his half-smoked cigarette in the ashtray, hand going beneath the water to palm himself. Corey was less subtle, he already had a chub just from the possibility. "Or do you wanna...?"

Michael, leisurely as ever, unzips the fleece he's wearing, then his trousers. As his clothes come off, they get added ontop of the pile Corey's have already made in the corner of the room.

Corey watches ravenously, enraptured by each strong line of Michael's body that gets revealed, from his sinewy biceps to his thick abdomen, down to the V of his hips, he lingers on Michael's cock, unfairly big even when he's soft. Corey's snapped from his reverie when he catches the tremor of Michael's left hand as he drops his boxers onto the clothes pile. Corey jumps up, water sloshing over the edge of the tub as he climbs out, putting a tentative hand on Michael's shoulder, "I'll run a new bath."

They wait in silence while Corey pulls the plug, draining the bleak, tepid water and refills the bath. Steam thickens the air again, ghostly tear tracks mark the mirror as new condensation gathers.

Corey wouldn't dream of helping Michael in -- it'd be too much of an insult to the older man, no matter how stupidly subservient Corey lets himself be -- but he holds his breath as Michael steps over the edge of the tub and lowers himself into the hot water.

Corey sits on the tiled floor and leans his cheek against the panelled side. His cock has slowly been hardening, red and aching against his belly, but he can wait. Let's Michael wash away the grime and sweat of the road. Let's him have this moment of true quiet. He keeps his eyes down, away from Michael's battered body.

Corey's being patient, and Michael knows it. Can see the way Corey squirms as he dutifully waits, like a dog who knows better than to beg but still needs to be close by, in case some scraps might just happen to fall from the table. Slowly, the older man reaches out, wraps a weathered hand around Corey's soft bicep.

The younger man looks up through feathery eyelashes, smiles shyly like he doesn't usually as good as throw himself at Michael every chance he gets. He sinks down between Michael's legs, curled up tight because the tub really isn't big enough for the both of them.

Again, they sit quietly, their breathing loud in the still room. Corey shifts his legs, trying to ease the pressure of his hard-on as his eyes drift lower, to where Michael's cock sits heavy beneath the water. Leaning forward, Corey wraps his hand around Michael's hot skin.

"You do wanna," Corey teases. Want is a funny way of putting it.

It's awkward and uncomfortable, but it's so good; fingers scrabbling for leverage on the wet surfaces and gripping tight onto flesh, knees digging into ribs, water spilling, soaking the tile, gasps and grunts echoing through the dampness.

Corey fumbles with his matchbook, desperately trying to keep his rhythm while he relights his cigarette. On his shuddering exhale, smoke plumes from Corey's nose, replacing the dwindling steam with a cloud of bittersweet smoke.

[yukisohmasmokesweed]

heeey... so, might be still a bit early to ask, but: top 10 "things" about season 2? could be eps, moments, characters, things they did, whatever you feel like, literally ur top 10 favorites from it

i interpreted this to mean top 10 moments so....top 10 moments!

10. (from 2x4)

i love this whole fight so much. it’s kind of an unspoken thing after it’s first established that they have to hide a huge part of their lives from everyone around them since it’s a given, so i like this bottled-up frustration over having to live constantly walking on eggshells coming out. i also really really like that we get to see haru acting genuinely scary as dark haru; it’s introduced as a comedic thing and haru is a generally well-adjusted character compared to the rest of the zodiac, and so i like that we get to see just how destructive and chaotic his coping mechanism really is. filmmaking-wise it’s a little boring but i don’t really mind because it’s tense enough that i don’t really notice it.

9. (from 2x17)

this is the only funny one on my list because i live for the drama haha but i like this scene for more than its humor! this episode takes place at a point in the season where yuki has been able to accept that he is allowed to put himself and his recovery first, and has spent enough time with others and pushed himself out of his comfort zone enough to shake off the instantaneous automatic fear of rejection that his social anxiety manifests as. because of the slow undoing of this hardwired reaction and because he’s become very comfortable around kakeru, though, his real, unrestrained personality as well as his actual opinions start slipping out. i like that this scene shows us 1. that he cares for tohru so deeply that he would end a friendship over her getting hurt, even though he thinks it’s childish after he says it and 2. that not even yuki knows what his real personality is like because he’s kept it repressed for so long. and i think for people with social anxiety the reaction to this kind of thing is embarrassment, but despite his embarrassment kakeru accepts what he says at face value because he likes yuki for who he is, not who he pretends to be for other people’s comfort. this is a very sweet moment between the two of them even if it’s buried a bit underneath the humor and kakeru’s easy acceptance of yuki’s more dramatic and snarky side is one of the reasons yuki trusts him so much when it comes to heavy stuff. i don’t love the bg changes to this cartoony thing in fb but in comedic scenes like this one it didn’t bother me, and i thought all of the art in this episode was really nice. this was also one of my favorite voice acting moments from shimazaki, i looooved loved loved him stuttering as he turns around right after he has this revelation, i think it’s super funny and also very natural-sounding, plus it’s a different kind of delivery from yuki but it fits him so well.

8. (from 2x19)

i love this little moment between shigure and hatori. the way they talk about the curse in this scene is very indicative of their characters and how they feel about the curse: shigure is flippant and casual when he says rin visits him to see if he knows how to break it, and hatori is shocked at the idea of it, then instantly becomes resigned, claiming it’s not possible. but this moment right at the end is just *chefs kiss* the way shigure says hatori’s name so weighty, and the delivery of “...do you hear it?” is curious if not hesitantly hopeful, some of my fav line readings in the whole show. i also really love the pan up the stairs back up to the house when he says “the sound of breaking,” the implication of tohru’s involvement in this clear. this scene is also visually stunning and i like the track under it a lot.

7. (from 2x18)

i’m obsessed with this scene and i’m obsessed with every line reading from nakamura, he is so incredible. i thought the art in this scene was gorgeous and every blocking choice was amazing, the body language and where they moved and when was perfect. also one of my favorite tracks off the ost plays under this scene, and i love that it ends just before shigure delivers his line, “i’m the worst.” and rin looks over her shoulder in silence other than the sound of the door(!) sliding closed as shigure exits. you can feel in this scene how desperate rin is and how frustrated shigure’s flippancy is making her. i also really like rin’s body language in general, she’s a good amount touchier than anyone else, and she’s all over shigure in this scene, both because she’s propositioning him but also because of her implied closeness (gure-nii) to him.

this is an excellent shigure scene, and i love these lines included in particular as well as the repeat of them in the finale. it’s a moment of actual self-awareness and self-reflection from shigure for sure, you can tell by his face, but in true shigure form he is not saying it because he’s trying to be emotionally open with rin; he’s saying it to get her off his back. he knows that the curse is weakening but he also knows that the harder he pushes people and the harder they struggle to get out, the more likely the curse is to break. it’s cruel and manipulative and the most painful way to go about things, but hey at least he knows it!

6. (from 2x25)

this whole scene between shigure and hatori in the finale is a super hard hitter; they both know everything about one another and have nothing to hide and they are also very desensitized to cruelty, and so their conversations are incredibly frank, and they don’t skirt around anything, either. i like that hatori doesn’t hesitate to put shigure in his place regarding akito’s status (a good example of hatori as akito’s enabler and the upkeeper of the status quo in order to keep everyone’s lives as calm as possible at the cost of his own happiness), and i like that shigure immediately gives it back by calling out hatori’s attachment to the bond—which is an interesting thing to bring up and speaks to the bond as not just a curse, but of how it is also their family and community. their lives do revolve around it, so the curse breaking would be an unthinkable change to something integral to their existence. 

i chose this moment in particular because it’s a great insight into shigure’s emotional state, one of deep jealousy and pain over akito’s rejection of him. i like that it’s a close-up of his eyes here; shigure’s eyes are important in the reboot, and seeing them here tells us that this is his emotional truth. when hatori calls him out, though, they are hidden again. these lines are also delivered so well, i love how low in his register he’s speaking, it’s not something we hear from shigure a lot. it’s very heavy and very indicative of his pain.

also, i like when they copy things exactly from the manga, so i liked this shot a lot as the closer of the scene:

5. (from 2x21)

ok obviously i had to put this because it’s my favorite scene in the manga...i thought this was very visually beautiful, loved that they had yuki standing in darkness (in front of a door!) and kyo illuminated by the light, but a light from a place he’s not allowed to enter. i think the lighting design speaks to how yuki views kyo, not only when he’s a little older as someone who is naturally charismatic and attractive, but in the moment, as a potential ray of light, a possible friend who could understand his situation through shared life experience. i just love the puff of breath yuki gives in reaction to kyo confirming what akito has been saying to him about how everyone hates him and everything is his fault, and i love yuki’s hands folded in front of his chest, protecting the most vulnerable part of his body as a reflex to words that deeply wounded him. 

i like this scene for its function of the root of yuki and kyo’s conflict: that kyo needs to hate yuki and scapegoat him for his own problems due to yuki’s status in the family, and yuki hates kyo back to protect himself. it’s a very nuanced and deep take on a fictional rivalry that comes from a very realistic place of maladaptive coping and morphs into something more habitual and every day over time. also big love the casting choices for these two as children. this scene was amazing, it’s super short but i like this specific moment in it because it does a great job visually showcasing yuki and kyo’s immediate reactions and emotions to meeting one another for the first time.

4. (from 2x25)

i thought this whole sequence was incredibly well-done, but specifically i loved this part where the music swells and the loom crashes down onto the floor over akito’s repeated lines. also one of my favorite voice acting moments of the season, i loved akito delivering these lines through hiccups and sobs and trailing off into childish crying, and the art and animation was very visceral. seeing akito this out of control was amazing and kureno’s reactions to akito hit very very hard; it’s easy to sympathize with him and see why he would agree to this, and it contextualizes his decision to do so when all we the audience has seen before this is akito’s terrible and abusive behavior. 

i also really liked kureno’s hands coming in towards akito to comfort, it reminded me of this

from 1x9 but flipped; instead of kureno’s hands coming forward to comfort akito but representing his choice to trap himself in the curse, it’s akito’s hands coming from behind to force yuki to stay with akito against his will. they also both cut off very suddenly, which i like a lot.

3. (from 2x8)

this transition makes me go absolutely ballistic. visually i love akito and tohru turning to look over their shoulders in opposite directions, i just think it looks very sexy and it was a cool way to transition out of one scene and into another. i also like the mirrored body language to set them up as each other’s foils in these two scenes. akito brings kureno, who is functionally their love interest, out for a walk and then proceeds to belittle him, his status, and his opinions. tohru goes out with kyo, her love interest, so they can have a nice time at the beach. they have a very open conversation about the “monstrous” aspect to kyo where tohru validates and appreciates his thoughts and emotions. having these two scenes back to back was a really smart move to contrast our protagonist and antagonist and set them up as each other’s foils, and it’s definitely my favorite scene transition in the season.

2. (from 2x10)

i loooove how insanely tense this scene is. i really like that shigure and akito are sitting in silence here until akito starts their monologue in full, and then the track is cut off at its crescendo by kureno’s knocking. the track being bookended by low ambient sound from outside makes it more impactful when it does start playing, and the track cutting off with the knocking makes the sound of akito’s clothes moving as they get up and the door sliding open while the camera is still trained on shigure’s expression deafening. i also like the shot choices in this scene, particularly the close-up of akito’s hands around shigure’s jaw and that we can only see their mouths, as well as the shot of shigure seething but partially blocked by akito’s torso. the voice acting in this scene is also bonkers good, particularly yuichi nakamura’s shigure.

this is the first time the audience has seen shigure mad, not just annoyed or frustrated, and that’s definitely a big part of why i love this scene. his conflict with akito adds a lot of depth to his character and i like seeing a different range of emotion from him than normal. i also just love the introduction of their whole relationship drama love triangle thing going on with the adults, i honestly think it’s hilarious that takaya baits the audience into thinking it’s going to be a love triangle between the teens and it just completely is not but is instead a deeply fucked up one between the older characters. truly a stroke of genius

1. (from 2x8)

i love this whole scene so much. i think cinematically it’s gorgeous, i love that they’re surrounded by greenery and i really like the leaves starting to fall around them and the beams of sunlight behind tohru. those choices could have come off flashy and overdone but i feel the way it was directed was subtle enough that it didn’t feel like ibata was holding my hand through my emotions, but impactful enough that it’s an emotional gut punch every time i watch it. the moment where the flute ends with tohru’s internal line and transitions into strings/chimes mixed with the sfx of the wind rustling through the leaves is beautiful and probably my favorite use of soundtrack this season. 

the reason i love this moment in particular so much is because it so encapsulates yuki and tohru’s relationship. she sees him so clearly and has been in his life long enough to tell that his reaction to rin is a marked change from who he was when they first met. she also knows that yuki working through his trauma over akito is something he needs to do on his own, and that the best thing she can do for him is to support him and show him that she loves him. on yuki’s end, he already knows tohru will support him unconditionally, but he’s now at a place where he’s able to accept it in stride and knows without a doubt that she’s there for him. this little moment really showcases what their whole relationship is about and was gorgeously done. this scene very quickly became one of my favorites when the episode came out and i’m pleasantly surprised that it’s stayed there; in fact, it was totally enhanced by the development of their relationship this season, which has undoubtedly become my favorite relationship in all of fruits basket. i think a friendship as deep as this one is a rare gem in fiction, let alone one between a man and a woman. this whole exchange is very beautiful and touching and a great summation of what they both mean to each other.

[thoughtfullyyoungduck]

don’t stop turn it up

Summary: hii can u do a losers club x reader where they’re teens and at a party trying to take care of drunk Richie and reader except they’re acting crazy? 

warnings: they’re in their first your of college so they’re older then eighteen which is perfectly legal in my country but just for readers from the US: underage drinking 

‘I’m hungry, can we go to McDonalds, please’, you whine, draping yourself over Stanley as he huffs, trying to slip from under you.

‘M-m-McDonalds is a half an hour away Y/N, we’ll go next time’, Bill placates, switching places with Stan, wrapping your arms around his neck in a facsimile of a piggy back ride.

‘No I wanna go now’, you drag out, your head lolling forward to rest on Bill’s shoulders. Your stomach grumbles in agreement, and you giggle at the sound it produces.

‘See, my tummy agrees.’

‘We’re not going anywhere except home.’ Stan’s angrily wiping his sleeve with a napkin he found at the bar, the stain a result of Richie spitting the beverage, water that Ben lied was vodka to sober Richie up, at Stan because of a dare. He’s pissed, and rightfully so, but in your highly intoxicated state, all it does is make you chortle.

The end of the first semester in college has arrived, and to celebrate the losers and you agreed to go to a party a classmate set up, far away enough from your campus that there were no regulation to abide by.

Now, you weren’t a heavy drinker by any means. As a sixteen year old your dad let you take a sip from his coffee laced with some sort of alcohol in it, and your taste buds did not like it, the heavy undertones of extreme sweetness soaked in your tongue, so sweet you feared for cavities in your teeth. However, after hearing the stories Richie and Bev animatedly spilled after a night out, you were willing to take a change and find out just what exactly it was that attracted people to drinking alcohol, and you got buzzed.

The music crackled in the air, deafening your eardrum with the most generic pop music, sweating body polluting the air with their bodily smells and inappropriate touches that by all means should make the receiver confining, and you disliked the scene right away and asked to leave within the first hour of you being there.

A drink offered to by Richie loosened you up, and his antics overleaped to you, following his path to act erratically and with no care in the world. After that, the party was a lot of fun. You were definitely a lightweight, as you only drunk two gin tonic’s before flying off the world and into the unknown, the room swirling around you faster and faster, gripping the bar to steady your wobbling legs.

Richie was no better off, but he had chugged significantly more beers and booze than you had. The two of you took on the role of comedy relief of all the losers, the dances you performed appalling and off beat, or the moment you forgot to take the cap of before guzzling down your next liquid, only to be terminated by the lid, comedy gold.

The little shits also exploited your state to extract all the secret you harbored from them, the time in fifth grade when you accidently wet yourself no longer confidential, but that was okay, because these people were your best friends and for all you cared they could understand you inside and out, and you still wouldn’t feel intimidated by it.

‘Come on’, Bill grinds, hoisting you half over his shoulders. ‘We should get g-g-oing.’

‘I don’t want to’, you complain, levitating your legs off the ground so all your weight land on Bill who, not prepared for this, loosing his footing and pitches to the ground. It’s thanks to Mike’s quick reflexes and his core muscles strength that stops your downfall, towing the both of you up.

‘Be careful Y/N.’

‘You’re not my mother’, you say, sticking out your tongue in Mike’s direction, though your blurry eyesight makes it harder to pinpoint his exact location.

The alcohol is thrumming through your veins, transforming every word and sentences into the funniest things you’ve ever heard, so overly warm as the liquor builds momentum and stuffs your head full of cotton.

‘They’re both going to be so fucking hangover after this.’ Eddie sounds heated, fretting over Richie who smiles to him as if he’s seen the gates of heaven for the very first time. How those two manage to keep the way they’re in love with each other under wraps, you’ll never know.

‘Oh shucks Eds, I guess I’ll have to let your mom down then huh? Shame, she was really looking forward to another one of our escapades.’

‘Shut up asshole, that doesn’t even make any sense.’

‘It doesn’t’? Richie asks genuinely confused, scratching the top of his head.

You cackle with laughter, untangling from Bill and mike in order to sink down onto your knees and then your back, the soft carpet softening the spot designated for you to lay on.

The party is still in full swing, a few people making out in the far end of your eye sight, while others gyrating too fast for your mind to keep up. The colorful lights spin over the ceiling, a magnificent lightshow for only to see. You’re getting tired, but the night as brought noting but wonderful things and you don’t want it to end just yet.

Richie ducks up out of nowhere, cushioning his head on your stomach and gazing at the same light you are. ‘My bodies has never released endorphins so fast before, not even after seeing Eddie,�� Richie blanks out, mind reeling with the implications of what he confessed. After a moment of truthfulness between the two of you he concludes that everyone is able to hear him, so he adds, ‘’s mom’, Richie awes, his hand outstretching to feel the light, as if that’s in any way possible. Regardless of whether or not it was meant as a joke, you begin to howl in joy, the giggles beginning to cramp up your belly.

Stan’s face appears in front of the lights, bend over at an uncomfortable angle to force eye contact. ‘Get up’, he states coolly, not even offering his hand to help you do so.

Rolling his eyes, Eddie takes Richie’s hand, wrenching Richie up and maneuvering him with his arm around Eddie’s shoulder, distributing Richie’s weight.

Ben is the one to aid you, stealing himself after seeing what happened to Bill. The sudden movement cramps your stomach up in a not so pleasant way, the blood rushing back to your face, forcing the bile back.

‘Do not’, Stan’s tone sharp is as the edge of a knife, ‘throw up on me or so help you I will kill you in the most horrendous way possible.’ Richie laughs like a drain, doubling over and clapping on his knee in pure hilarity.

‘Same goes for you’, Eddie confirms, jabbing his elbow in Richie’s stomach. The movement shoves Richie off balance, his arms fluttering in the air birdlike to regain his balance.

‘Is it a bird? Is it a plane? No it’s Richie fucking Tozier’, you cantillate off pitch, egging him on.

 ‘Fear not, for Super Richie’s swooping in to save the day’, he recites in his best Christopher Reese impression, surprisingly well done. ‘What do you say Eds? You wanna be the Lois Lane to my superman?

‘I’m not some fucking damsel in distress Richard.’

‘But you’d let me kiss you?’

‘Yeah Eddie you mmph.’ Beverly’s hand bites of your phrase, the unspoken words formulating and preventing a train wreck waiting to happen. The meaning of why goes unclear to you, lost in the haze of foggy interpretations of incentives picked up by your senses.

In retaliation, you lick Bev’s palm, and she retracts her hand, but not without chuckling about it first. ‘Can I please do one more dance on the table? Please? I’ll even let Mike stop me from falling over this time, just please?’ You pout, bottom lip sticking out, begging wordlessly.

‘No, the uber is right in front and we need to leave n-n-now,’ Bill states resolutely, no room for disagreements or debates, your best interests at heart.

‘Alright fine’, you complain, though you tear up at the sight of all of your friends present around you, all in their element and perfect in their own way. Are you looking forward to going home? No. But if the others do, you’ll blissfully follow them, for they are your happiness. You shouldn’t have started thinking that, because the alcohol made you twice as emotional.    

‘Are you crying right now?’

‘I’m sorry, I just love you all so much,’ you slobber a kiss over at the two people loitering around you, first Stan ,with a kiss to half of his cheek and ear, the coordination letting you down big time, and then Mike, who unlike Stan happily receives the affection.

‘We love you too’, Ben emphasizes, spooked as a girl walks past him and trips over her own to feet. ‘But I want to leave now.’

Mike throws you around in a fireman position, bracketing your legs so you don’t tumble over the other side. With a whistle, you sag down Mike’s back, giddy with it, seeing the world  from a different perspective now.

‘Wow, Stan’s upside down’, you claim fully believing it, and that breaks the last of Stan’s resistance, the edges of his lip twisting up in amusement and a crow galming the room.  

Personally the most amusing thing of going out, Stan think to himself, is the reaction to the mind-numbing ache a hangover conjures, as he finds out in the morning.

[docfuture]

Princess, part 10

      [This story is a prequel, set several years before The Fall of Doc Future, when Flicker is 16.  Links to some of my other work are here.  Updates were theoretically biweekly–more realistically, I’m going to try to get the next one out by early July.]

Previous: Part 9

      Flicker was going to lose pieces of self.  She could put memory summaries in the Database, but that wasn't enough.  She could only permanently store her emotional context in her squishy human brain, which was offline.  This constricted connections between memory, place, and time.  Her older memories should be intact.  When the isotope exchanges were complete and she could finally restart everything and heal, everything should still be there.  But that didn't help now; anything old that she didn't already have loaded into her speed mind was inaccessible, and any new context would be ephemeral--gone after her next proper sleep.       And that 'should'... wasn't a would.  Itchy spots in her speed mind hinted at losses on the boundary, reflexes and habits needed for her squishy and speed halves to work together that she might have to relearn.  Her speech synchronization problems might return, or her chronic self-interrupting.  Old sensory issues might come back, too.       Those losses might extend to memory access.  Which was a little scary.  Moments perfectly preserved in a box did her no good if she forgot where she put the box.  Perhaps because the original link to the first box was now in a junk box labeled 'Misc' on a shelf somewhere.       But that was life when she wasn't technically alive, with a heart that couldn't beat, lungs that couldn't breathe, and a whole reconstituted flesh body locked down in suspended chemical animation while the isotope exchanger worked.  Force fields helped protect everything else from her still-considerable radioactivity.  She probably wouldn't remember exactly how the half-pain, half-itching from her speed body felt, or how her claustrophobia was combining with sensory deprivation to make everything more unpleasant.  The best she could do was to take notes for the Database, which she could finally talk to again.  Slowly.       Doc had rigged up inductors to transmit visual signals that her speed mind could sense.  They could give her low res video if she slowed down to near human speed, but for anything faster she was limited to text.  She was already used to virtual typing, and there were more inductors to pick that up.  The biggest problem was lag--if she typed too fast, she had to wait and watch characters slowly appear to catch typos.  She was watching slowly updating video stills of Doc as a background while they talked by text.       It was way better than nothing.       "... too many versions of the 'alien invasion' story out," sent Doc.  "It wasn't worth trying to correct them.  The Volunteer kept his press brief honest but short and vague--he mentioned non-hostile non-humans who were injured but would recover, he just didn't say they were whales--and then flew off before anyone could ask him any more questions."       "Okay," sent Flicker.  "Can we go back a bit?  No immediate crisis is good.  But I'm still missing a lot.  It's making my mind itch.  More.  It's itching for other reasons, too, but this you can help fix."       "No problem.  What first?"       "What was the bit with Breakpoint?  He wasn't trying to warn you or me?"       "No.  I got a notification just as you started your final run.  The warning was for Journeyman, he listened, and the danger passed."       "More details, please?  Did you forward the warning?"       "I didn't need to; Journeyman was standing beside him.  That was one of the precautions I arranged before you left, and they were quite willing to help.  Journeyman had his own detection setup coordinated with the Database, and they had the attack triangulated in a fraction of a second.  And then Breakpoint got the danger sense spike, just before Journeyman wanted to port, which delayed them for a second."       "A trap?"       "Possibly.  But I think a potential time loop was more likely."       "Caused by what?"       "I don't know."       "Surely you have a theory?"       "Lots.  Theories are easy, distinguishing them is harder," sent Doc.  "Too many parameters we don't know.  But your trap did confirm the attack was based on some kind of foreknowledge--the timing was far too precise for any other explanation to make sense.  Perhaps Journeyman and Breakpoint would have caught the attacker, triggering a loop.  Or killed it, with the same result.  Or they did get caught in a loop and broke out."       "How would that even work?"       "Several possible ways.  Time loop theories are hard to falsify.  But after it was safe, they ported in and swept the arrival location for clues.  The attacker apparently came from and returned to the Topaz Realm, a common intermediate stop for interdimensional travelers who wish to evade pursuit or tracking.  The two of them declined to pursue further, and returned unhurt, though rather drained from the double port.  Journeyman went to ground quote 'somewhere safe' unquote, and Breakpoint is with Jumping Spider.  I'm sure we'll get additional details later, but the attacker was almost certainly an extradimensional being who portaled in specifically to try to assassinate you, with implications of harm to the entire planet."       "And got away.  Whee."       "An overt repeat attempt seems unlikely.  This was a clear worldwide threat, in a way Hermes was not, and now there is a specific event to track from.  The compatible world probability background has shifted by quite a bit.  There are a wide variety of entities with extraordinary perceptions and abilities that are now aware of the attacker and united in the desire for Earth to keep existing, if little else.  The Database has been getting messages from all over the world.  Hideki told me he already had to gently dissuade a group of young Japanese superhumans from charging off on an interdimensional mission of vengeance.  They vividly recall your help during the quake, and feel inclined to track down whoever tried to kill you given the slightest opportunity.  I was also asked to convey their wishes for your speedy recovery."       "That's..."       Some emotional thing.  But Flicker didn't have a working human brain to feel it, and her emulator wasn't up to the task.       "...nice."       She sent a note to the Database to relay a socially safe thank you.  Her mind still itched.       "Okay," she sent.  "Thanks for the summary.  Now... I have a problem.  Your UI works--I can talk to you and the Database.  And if the exchanger were going to be done in a couple of hours, that would be enough.  But it's going to take longer.  I can tolerate the physical part--but I'm not so sure about the psychological.  Sensory dep, and I have to keep shifting what I'm doing to maintain concentration.  I've been recording the more organized parts of my raw impressions and alerts into the Database.  But it's as tedious as hand-typing an endless stream of hex codes.  That's making my attention wander.  I've lost my spot a couple of times already and had to pattern match to find it again.  I hate to complain, but is there anything better you can manage?"       A pause, and the background picture updated to show Doc with his hands clasped in front of his face, looking somber.  Then he started typing again.       "I've been fabbing something that may help.  I'll let you know when it's ready."       The rhythm of the isotope exchanger changed slightly, the ion beams stopped, and the discomfort eased a little.  A message from the Database appeared:       "First pass complete, left leg."       "Well," sent Doc.  "Ready to start lowering the tritium load in the bone marrow of your other leg?"       "Yes.  But it doesn't really matter," she sent back.  "It's the next thing.  We need to get as much as we can done while I keep my chemistry clamped down or I don't get a livable body back."       "Yes.  We may be able to speed up later.  But at least it's working."       "Yeah..."       *****       Tedious hours passed.  Then there was a pause and shift, while radiation-hardened robots installed a new set of inductors for her head, along with an elaborate set of shielding, wiring and cooling pipes.  Flicker took an all too brief run around Doc's test range.  Even though she was still blind and deaf, the flow of air and the sudden bright crispness of her mass sense made it a welcome break.  But she made a little of that air radioactive--she was still giving off too many neutrons--so it would have been indulgence to stay outside the force fields for more than a millisecond or two.       Then tests and adjustments.  Fiddly and annoying, but Doc was determined not to set off an immune reaction from Flicker's high speed nervous system, and DASI concurred with the need for caution.       Another shift... And a world turned on.       A better interface, through a virtual body representation.  Audio, distorted but functional.  Video.  And faster text and data when Flicker sped up.  The grinding background of confinement, restlessness and inability to fully relax was still there.  As was the discomfort from the isotope exchanger.  But her sensory deprivation was greatly reduced.  It worked.       There was one rather jarring issue.       "I feel this sense of cosmic dread," she said.  "Like I'm on the edge of a precipice to dimensions I can't even see, and might at any moment slip and lose my connection to sanity, or drag anything and everything I care about into the abyss."       "Good," said Doc.  "Sounds like your alarm systems are appropriately compatible."  The wide video window showing his image floated in front of her.  The darkness around the edges was still flecked with the writhing static of closed-eye hallucinations, but they were less intrusive.       "Good?  It's not exactly--"  She blinked and suddenly everything was gone, then the old interface returned--text and a fixed picture.  And the static everywhere else.  She sped up.       "DASI?" she sent.  "What happened?"       "You blinked for too long, and the interface interpreted it as a user shutdown request.  I can adjust that, but the safety shutdown thresholds are necessarily quite stringent.  One moment."       Another blink and Doc was back, eyebrow raised.  Half a second had passed.       "--fun," she finished.       "Fun was not a design goal," said Doc.  "This is a high performance multi-sense cybernetic interface.  It's not remotely safe.  The basic sensory relays I started you with were already as high-bandwidth as I could manage safely.  But they weren't enough.  I don't know how to make a full cybernetic interface that's comfortable but not psychologically addictive.  I keep the controller in the vaults for a reason.  I fabbed spare inductors.  They'll probably break frequently.  And shut down for other reasons.  Don't get attached to the interface.  I wouldn't even consider using it if your biological brain was functional.  I put together a list of other ways it's dangerous.  It's just not as dangerous as risking sensory deprivation for what might be days."       "Okay.  But if you think the alarm system for my high speed mind is compatible with a cybernetic interface... Don't I already have one?"       Doc looked down, then back up.  "Possibly.  But you'll want to be careful how you conceptualize that.  Because right now, if your body has a cybernetic interface, you might be that interface.  So it's not a good time to shift your self image."       "Yeah, yeah, because my flesh body is dead," said Flicker.  "I get it.  My internal conceptualization has been pretty consistent.  Messed up, but consistent.  It's like a meat demon with a little metal bug on the forehead.  High speed mind is the bug.  And only the demon is dead.  The bug is mostly worried about staying sane and connected.  And I've got the connected part now, but sane requires something to do.  I can't move while the exchanger is working, can't put things in long-term memory, and my emotion emulation is bad, so my options are limited."       Doc put a hand on his chin and looked back at her image in the video window.  "Could definitely be worse.  You'll want to test the interface at speed.  DASI will keep monitoring.  Perhaps we can tune down the doom response a bit.  And Armadillo will be here in a little while.  She's rather better at cheering people up than I am.  I'm sure she'll be happy to talk about whatever you want."       "Might help a little.  But I'm not sure talking will be enough.  Sec."       Flicker sped up.  The interface speed lagged noticeably and the temperature of the inductors rose.  The temperature in her brain would have gone up too, if she hadn't already been entropy dumping to get rid of the heat from radioactive decay and the isotope exchanger.  She skimmed the hazard list.  Doc hadn't been exaggerating.  And the full interface would not be able to keep up with her mind if she sped up all the way.  The problem was cooling, which was the usual problem that stopped Doc after he'd solved everything else.       So.  Use restraint.  Don't push it all the way to the limit, and it would break less frequently.  She adjusted some preferences with DASI's help, so the interface would gradually degrade to monochrome text and virtual typing input at higher speeds.  That would give her fast responsiveness as well as the increased sensory feedback she needed when she slowed back down.  A few tests verified it worked.       At DASI's suggestion, she tried taking notes at speed with the better interface as a direct substitute for long term memory.  A slower and more structured version of the memory dumps she did before sleeping when her memory was overleveraged and she couldn't stuff everything into squishy brain in time.  With the memory dumps, she could put keys into her squishy brain to connect by reference--but not with everything locked down.       More tests.  The notes were accurate on rereading, though seemed kind of passive-aggressively gloomy.  Upon reflection, she decided that was accurate as well.       What to do?  The data from Speedtest was recorded.  Talking was... talk.  Little point in reading or trying to learn.  Introspection could become a problem fast--her mood was already pretty dark.  But she couldn't get renewal from physical rest, so she was going to slowly go squirrelly from lack of sleep and contact with squishy brain.  And she already felt the kind of frustrated dissatisfaction that she usually handled by going on patrol.  Then she might still end up frustrated, but at least she'd saved lives.  Now she couldn't even do that.       She wasn't helpless.  She still had a net connection, her database node, and assorted bots, both physical and virtual.  But what was safe to try?  She slowed back down.       "Interface works," she said.  "But the doom abyss is getting old real fast."       Doc was studying his own display intently.  He tapped out something on his keyboard then looked up.  "How's that?"       The tension eased somewhat.  "Better," she said.  "Less cosmic dread, more dangerous machinery in operation alert.  I can live with that.  But I could really use something to do."       He shook his head ruefully.  "I understand.  Sometimes the hardest thing to do is nothing.  But you have a very good chance of surviving your bit of existential roulette if you can manage to keep yourself together and stationary long enough for the exchanger to do its work."       She frowned.  "Is that what you call the kind of trap I set?  I thought you said we're safe now."       "No, I said further direct attacks were unlikely.  Whether that's because they wouldn't succeed or aren't necessary is still open.  We can't be reasonably certain until the next time you sleep, then wake up functional and something approximating sane."       "That's disturbing."       "Yes.  But what's done is done."       "So you don't think trying it was a good idea?"       "I'm reserving judgement.  And if you were going to try, the Moon was a better place than Earth.  You minimized direct collateral damage.  However..."  A crooked grin.  "Now probably isn't the best time for critical analysis.  Survival and data recording were the right priorities once you made it back.  We can hash out details later."       "Yeah, but it does give me something to focus on, which I need.  I think that finally getting to go fast was so wonderful, so freeing, that I got overconfident."       Doc studied her image for a moment.  "Based on my preliminary analysis of the Database summaries, I think you may be underestimating another effect.  I can explain, if you think it will help."       "Well, yeah."       "When you left the earth's atmosphere, you were hit with mental changes and a flood of alarms and activations on top of your acrophobia.  Which you coped with very well.  I think your caution, careful safety compartmentalization, and lockdown checking were absolutely correct and optimal reactions.  Having a previously unknown part of your mind wake up and suggest you mess with Planck's constant locally?  That would have terrified me.  But you handled it."       Doc waved a hand.  "That was a way more drastic reaction than I expected, and means I need to rework a lot of my theories.  Anyway, you took care of everything, and landed safely.  You jumped to the Moon.  Your landing message sounded like you were euphoric."       "I was."       "And your fear went away.  You had mass again, the alarms stopped, and you were finally getting to run Speedtest.  Of course you were feeling great.  And I made a mistake.  Before you started your final run, I suggested you go as fast as you felt safe.  I didn't include a stronger warning because I didn't want to interfere with your joy.  But I knew.  I know that feeling, it's Now I Am Invincible, it's incredibly dangerous for a superhero, and I knew the way you usually keep it in check is your care for all the people and other living things on Earth, and there was nothing living on the Moon except you."       He looked down.  "I should have warned you.  I didn't.  I'm sorry."       "Doc, no," said Flicker.  "I'd have done it anyway.  Nobody died.  I got the data.  And whoever or whatever that was, we needed to know about them, and now we do.  I'm going to keep going."       She bared her teeth.  "Even when I can't move for a while."       Doc kept looking down for a moment, then wiped his eyes and looked back up.  "Yeah.  On that note, it's time to move the exchanger focus again, and Armadillo is here.  Shall I invite her in?"       "Sure.  And thank you for--"  She waved the hand of her virtual body.  "This, and the list of reasons why it's dangerous.  Both.  They both help."       The crooked smile was back.  "I do what I can manage."

Next:  Part 11

[littlesparklight]

The Eagle Standard

You know when you read something and an idea pops into your head and refuse to go away? This is that. Luckily it’s something short and sweet, and  while I vastly prefer a more or less consensual and reciprocal interpretation for Ganymede and Zeus and I'm not much for no powers/all human AUs because that's boring, I found a late Classical Latin writer who wrote some philosophical allegories of the myths and this idea wouldn't go away. Ganymede's kidnapping is turned into a spoils of war situation and the eagle is a battle standard and since I'm always here for spoils of war, here we are. I entirely blame Fabius Fulgentius and his Mythologies for this.

In a version of the past where the Olympians are leaders among the Achaean people, Troy struggles against invaders... and loses one of its most treasured princes, not to death, but to enemy hands. 

***

Ganymede had not truly expected to last very long when he'd been obliged to arm himself and join the battle against the Achaean horde. Hunting he could do, but against human foes his thoughts turned to knots in how to best defend himself; too slow, too careful, too thoughtful. His father had told him to remain in the chariot, to take advantage of fleet horses and the protection of speed and a physical barrier, had told him to not take spears, but wield his bow.

He'd done as King Tros had commanded; he'd used his bow and arrows, and he hadn't left the chariot.

At least he hadn't until his charioteer had been taken by a spear and he'd barely had the time to grab the reins before the uneven, corpse-strewn ground upended the chariot, sending both horses and prince crashing to the ground. The horses screamed, and Ganymede, right before he hit the ground and heedlessly rolled, knew their legs had been broken. They were good horses, and he felt sorry for them, but it wasn't a thought that lingered long. His breath driven out of him with the impact, he bounced once, only saved from his head caving in when he slammed head-first into a large rock by his helmet.

"Shit---!" Groaning, he rolled up on his elbows, his vision swimming as it slowly settled and head ringing, unable to see much of anything - the dent the rock had made had driven the rim of the helmet lopsided and down over one side of his face. Taking off the helmet might be a death-sentence. Not taking off the helmet was tantamount to the same, when he wouldn't be able to avoid any attacks that he couldn't see. He struggled with the straps of the helmet and tossed it away just as a spear came down. Rolling to the side, wide-eyed as the spear drove into the ground far too close to his head for comfort, Ganymede struggled to his feet. He wasn't quick enough to avoid the huge hand that snatched him up, trapped him against the inside of a shield.

It would have been easy to kill him, like that.

There was a sword pressed against the unprotected hollow of his throat, for he'd forewent the heavier panoply armour for lighter mail, and the gleam of sunlight on bronze nearly blinded him before a shadow fell over him. The sword wasn't moving. His heaving breath was making the wicked point scrape against his throat, but the sword was otherwise not moving. Bewildered, Ganymede looked up, squinting against the sunlight just barely glittering above the edge of the standard that'd thrown the shadow over him and the warrior about to kill him, and met gray eyes cast into dark shadow by the edge of the helmet the man wore.

"Um..." Nothing else came out, the words drying up with his throat, his tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth, as much for the heavy, piercing stare as for the realization of what was painted on the banner still affording them shadow from the punishing sun.

An eagle.

Ganymede glanced up at it again, fluttering in a gentle spring breeze and making the eagle seem to fly against the blue sky, then slowly looked back down. Still up, for all that he was tall among his people; the man aiming his sword at his throat was taller still, broad and tall like Mount Ida herself, it seemed like. His short, dark beard was spattered with mud and blood, but his mouth wasn't caught in the snarl or vicious smirk Ganymede would have expected it to be. It was surprisingly soft, revealing it sweetly generous - not a word he would have thought to apply to the Achaeans' high king and greatest general.

Because that was the only one this man could be, sporting an eagle on his banner and probably on his shield. It wasn't like Ganymede could see to confirm the latter, pressed against the inside curve of it as he was, trapping him between the shield and the armoured chest of King Zeus. Still the sword didn't move, and Ganymede, slowly, frowned. Glanced down to the bloody bronze length angled between them, feeling the sharp tip of it pressing in against his throat but no further, and back up. Licking his dry lips and taking a deep, shuddering breath, trying to ignore the way those gray eyes darkened as they followed the track of his tongue and stayed on his lips as he finally found his words again.

"Are you going to kill me any time soon, or take me hostage for the rich treasure my father will be willing to give for my return? I should think we're starting to look ridiculous."

Gray eyes widened, then narrowed, and Ganymede stuck his chin out, expecting death this time. Around them, men moved, though a couple were standing with spears and swords at the ready to keep any surprises away from their king, and Ganymede wasn't particularly reassured to know he was now firmly behind enemy lines. But he wasn't yet dead, and if he got the chance to reveal who he was (which might have been a surer thing if he hadn't spoken out of turn), then he might yet see the inside of Troy's walls again. The sword disappeared, heavily re-sheathed with a thump against the scabbard, and Ganymede opened his mouth, about to reveal what should hopefully save him, what he needed to to hopefully ensure both spear and sword stayed away from his very vulnerable body.

Breath and words both choked up into a startled gasp when the rough hand which had held the sword grabbed his chin instead, yanking his face up. A thumb rubbed away the mud that'd coated his chin and cheek when he was flung from the chariot, rough at first, then gentler. A caress, almost, and that wasn't a fit action for a battlefield. Or at all, by an enemy!

"What---"

"Demand ransom and then have to go through the effort of razing the city to get you back, when I could take you to my tent and then take all the other treasures of Troy I might want?" the king's voice was a slow, dark rumble, thoughtful almost as he tilted Ganymede's face this way and that, and suddenly Ganymede was a lot less afraid of dying than he was of the implication of other sorts of swords eager for his flesh. The king's fingers on his chin weren't cruel so much as they were firm, denying him any chance to look away, though that was a tricky prospect regardless; he felt as speared by the look in those pale eyes as he might have been by the sword the Achaean lord had sheathed.

"You can't just---" Even just talking was hard, as firm of a grip as Zeus had on his chin, and he silenced Ganymede by harshly shaking his head for him.

"I can't?" Danger, there, and Ganymede swallowed, staring wide-eyed up at the man. Grunted, startled, when the shield arm pushed into his back and he was pressed flush against the broad chest. The king was truly a monster of a man, as tall as he was, outstripping anyone around them. "I think what I can't do is waste youthful beauty as this, Prince Ganymede. I'd heard the tales, of course, but it seemed to me they would have to be greatly exaggerated. I see they were not."

The thumb was gentle again, and Lord Zeus shifted his grip so it could brush over Ganymede's lips. Hot, nervous breath puffed against the calloused thumb, and Ganymede, one hand squashed between them, tried to push against his chest. It was like trying to move the walls of Troy.

"That--- that's not..." Flushing, against himself and because of the touch as well as the words, Ganymede floundered for something to say, something to do - anything that would make more sense than this, than the half-shielded stare that seemed to be stripping him bare despite both armour and clothes in the way. He wasn't unfamiliar with that sort of praise or the lust, but it seemed utterly ridiculous that it should matter here, right in the middle of battle. "You and your men would be better served by demanding ransom, my lord. My father will give much---mf!"

The cheek pieces of Zeus' helmet cut into his own smooth, bare, unguarded cheek as he was kissed, tasting bronze, blood and liquid heat. He couldn't move; the hand on his chin was too firm, and the tongue in his mouth was too much. Ganymede's knees wavered, and he would later insist surprised reflex was what had him even attempting to kiss back, and that the heat of battle was what made his body surge.

His flailing left hand, free where his right was not, landed on the hilt of the king's sword. He gripped it, awkward due to the angle, and yanked it out. Well, halfway. Laughter, loud and incredulous, was first swallowed by the kiss and then rang in the air as the king pulled back and swiftly gripped his hand, twisting until Ganymede let go of the sword with a flinch and a breathless whine, quickly smothered in his embarrassment.

"No ransom would be worth what I can get from you, my prince," Zeus said as he snatched both of Ganymede's wrists in one hand, squeezing until the boy flinched again, "so I believe I'll take you much like I'll be taking the rest of Troy's treasures; as my due as spoils of war."

A look wandered over his body, though there wasn't much bare skin to see with greaves and the fall of tunic, the armour that covered his forearms; Ganymede still felt bare and flushed again, though any protest he might have intended scattered as the king let go, shoving him forward into the waiting chest and arms of one of the warriors lingering around the eagle standard.

"Take him back, unharmed. If anyone touches him I'll have their head."

A chariot came up, and by the eagle painted to the side of it, it must be the king's, too. But it wasn't the king who got into it, but rather Ganymede and the warrior yanking him up into it, to get him back to the Achaean camp as quickly and safely as possible. Ganymede tried to struggle, though while this man was actually a little shorter than the prince, he was stronger and knew what he was doing; a foot hooked around one of Ganymede's and an arm around his chest trapped both of Ganymede's arms there, and it didn't matter how he tried, he was stuck.

As the charioteer set the horses off into a gallop, Ganymede watched the fluttering eagle standard mark the Achaean warlord's position and progress on the battlefield, and beyond that, on a hill that grew all the more distant by the second, Troy's walled citadel. Swallowing against his dry mouth and a whisper of unsettling wooziness probably from knocking his head on that rock when he'd fallen off the chariot, Ganymede had the sinking feeling that would be the last he'd see of his home.

[gyeommark]

inflection point . vi

Chanyeol x Reader x Sehun

Fake Relationsip!AU, University!AU

8.5k words

Warnings: Strong/explicit language, explicit sexual situations (in future chapters), and a lot more that you’ll catch onto along the way.

A/N: Sorry for the delay, here it is :)

You’d like to say you had enough time by yourself to process the whole situation and figure out how the hell your life was going to work out after what happened but you weren’t worthy of that privilege.

You wanted to say that being alone to figure things out was a privilege which was rudely taken away from you but a part of you knew, even if it was against your principles, that there was no way to figure this out without Sehun, mainly because he was the one who suggested it, secondly because he was the other half of this whole fake relationship act.

“Hey, cheer up. It’s not like you saw a ghost”. Sehun chuckled, following you closely behind as you headed to the class you had with the entire group, the nerve-wrecking thought of sharing a class with Chanyeol had been pushed to the furthest corner of your mind for the first time in what felt like forever.

“No, seeing a ghost would’ve been better. I saw death, instead. I just never thought my Grim Reaper would share faces with Oh Sehun”. You mumbled, plopping onto your seat and letting out a heavy sigh that you had been holding in since the very moment you stepped out of the coffee shop.

Sehun cackled, taking a seat next to you and raising an eyebrow in your direction. “What an overly dramatic girlfriend I’ve found for myself”. He was holding back his laughter and that was driving you insane; seeing him thrive on your discomfort. You snapped your head in his direction when you heard the word girlfriend leave his lips so carelessly. You leaned towards him a little bit with raised eyebrows and pursed lips.

“Fake girlfriend”. You hissed. Sehun snorted, putting his hand over your lips and leaning even closer to you. You wanted to bite him to make him get away.

“Shh”. He hushed you, putting his index finger to his lips. “They may hear you”. Struggling to get away from his grip, you squinted your eyes as if asking who?! There’s no one here that would give a single flying fuck.

That was until you heard that peculiar laugh followed by a series of loud claps. Your heart dropped to your knees before disappearing a thousand feet under ground. Sehun let you go for the sake of maintaining appearances more so than over your constant nudging, you were sure.

“You give me the chills sometimes and no, before you say anything they’re definitely not the good kind”. You hissed at him, readjusting on your seat again and putting on your half fake smile to greet the other three men that came up to sit around you two.

You felt like that particular lecture lasted three times what it normally would. The loud ticking of the clock hanging on the back wall was a constant reminder of everything you had been through in the span of only twenty-four hours. Sehun’s hand lying carelessly on the back on your chair didn’t help the slightest bit with your stress management either.

One tick reminded you of the overly charismatic way Hayoon had to try and get closer to you, another tick reminded you of the warmth of Chanyeol’s hug engulfing and intoxicating you at the same time. Then came another tick that brought back the rage Sunhee had sparked within you and then another one reminded you of the stupid decision you had taken when you decided on dating Sehun.

It was Catch-22 and you desperately wanted to get away. Sehun nudged your knee with his when your leg twitched more uncontrollably than necessary, you wanted to snap at him but you refrained because you didn’t want to raise suspicions and whether you approved of it or not, you’d have to make an effort to be patient with him from now on.

As soon as the professor dismissed the class you were ready to sprint, almost falling flat on your face while skipping down the couple steps to get out of the room, not even bothering on actually putting everything inside your bag and carrying most of your things on your arms.

That’s when you felt someone grab you by the elbow, holding you back from disappearing in a sea of students. You turned with wide eyes only to see Sehun mouthing you a ‘don’t you dare’ with a crooked eyebrow. You let out a frustrated puff of air, blowing a stray lock of hair out of your face at the same time, reluctantly staying by his side as he waited for the rest to catch up with you two.

“Are you ready for Hayoon’s party, man?” Jongin asked Chanyeol carelessly with a huge smile plastered on his face as they reached the spot where you and Sehun were already waiting. You switched the weight from one foot to the other, a reflex you had when you felt uncomfortable and unable to get away, mainly because Sehun’s grasp around your elbow felt like some sort of inescapable bear trap.

Chanyeol laughed, not with much emotion this time. “I’m not ready for the amount of preparing and post-party cleaning I will have to do but yeah, I guess. You guys will be going, right?” Chanyeol asked, scanning all the faces, trying to persuade all of you with his wide eyes and incessant blinking. You felt his eyes drop when he reached you and you felt the urge to shake Sehun’s hand away from you immediately but you refrained. Still, you felt like Chanyeol’s eyes were starting to burn off the skin where Sehun was making contact.

His eyes shot back up again, a confused crooked eyebrow adorning his forehead and you smiled to hide the fact that you were forcefully pushing down your nervousness with gulps of your own saliva mixed with air bubbles.

“Yeah, we’re going. Right?” You heard Sehun reply and from the corner of your eye, you saw him looking at you. You felt a small hint of gratitude towards him for not tugging on you or doing something of the sort because you would’ve definitely lost your façade and punched him.

You shook your head as lightly as you could as for it to go unnoticed. You looked at Sehun with inquisitive eyes and read his raised eyebrows and small smile as a ‘follow my lead’ and you sighed to your insides.

“Right”. You cleared your throat and nodded. Trying to push out a smile made out of pursed lips and regret.

“Why are you using the first-person plural, Sehun?” If you could, you would’ve facepalmed the exact moment you heard Minseok’s voice but that would’ve thrown your whole act directly into the trashcan even before it would actually start working… or whatever Sehun thought it would do for the two of you in the future.

For a split second, as Sehun scoffed, you thought he didn’t even understand what Minseok was talking about. You always thought of Minseok as a bright one and of Sehun as one of those that was hopeless and useless to worry about. But his mischievous smirk contrasted big time with Chanyeol and Jongin’s furrowed brow and you knew right then that his ‘I’m dumb, please help me’ attitude was just as fake as your professor’s hairpiece.

You were thankful that he actually seemed to understand the implications of such a technical sentence but it also hurt you a little that Chanyeol didn’t comprehend right away because that meant either you or Sehun would have to explain and you certainly weren’t mentally trained to do so just yet.

“Are you two… something?” Minseok squinted his eyes as he pointed an index finger to Sehun and then to you. You wanted to focus on his accusation; you would’ve loved to do that but from the corner of your eye, you couldn’t help to see Chanyeol’s expression changing from a confused one to a surprised one -for a couple seconds- before pursing his lips into something you didn’t know if it was an actual smile or just a different type of confusion.

“I- Uh… we’re- uh…” You stuttered, widening your eyes, nibbling on the inside on your cheek and sticking a non-existent strand of hair behind your ear just so you could get your hands busy. You wanted to clear your throat to have enough time to process a somewhat decent lie but you felt like if you did so, you would either let out a ridiculous nervous laugh or choke on your own saliva.

“We’re close. See you all at the party”. Sehun’s voice combined with those words had an effect on you that you didn’t quite know how to explain. A part of you felt relaxed that he was the one who took one for the team and spoke up in the rather uncomfortable situation but at the same time you wanted to cut off his manhood for giving such a vague and ambiguous answer.

You felt him pull you away from the group and you smiled nervously at them, waving them off as you stumbled around due to Sehun’s tight grasp around your arm and the constant need to avoid crashing onto some other student in the process. Sehun’s grasp disappeared for a brief moment before reappearing around your shoulders now and if you weren’t feeling the three sets of eyes burning a hole on your back before, you certainly were now.

“I know you probably want to kill me right now but hold it in until no one can see us”. You let out a sigh and dropped your head, wondering how many more agreements you’d end up having with Oh Sehun.

After a few minutes of walking, still with Sehun’s arm around your shoulders, which you had grown strangely accustomed to, you finally looked up at him with squinted eyes.

“You could’ve come up with another answer. We’re close. That can be interpreted in so many ways, what if they thought this is like a friends with benefits sort of thing? How gruesome is that?” You complained, making Sehun laugh loudly, slightly shaking your shoulders in response.

“I mean, we could do that if you want to”. He cackled with eyebrows raised in a teasing manner, earning a dry smack across his chest. He winced and glared at you. “Hey, at least I said something and didn’t just stand there, blabbering nonsense with my eyes wide open and a slacking jaw”. He shrugged.

“We’d have to be actual friends first in order for that to happen”. You mumbled, still feeling like there was a rain cloud pouring down specifically on you.

Sehun scoffed, dragging you along yet again when you didn’t notice the pedestrian traffic light changing to green.

“And here I was thinking that me walking you home, buying you coffee and saving you from your Chanyeol induced suffering meant we were close, I feel slightly hurt by your words”.

You couldn’t help but let out a small, discrete laugh at what he said. Yes, of course you were friends but were you going to admit to him that you actually considered you were close to each other? No, not in a million years.

“Good”. You laughed again, before you noticed, you were in front of your building and you frowned, wondering if you ever mentioned you didn’t have to go to the office today. You looked at him with yet another frown, subconsciously mimicking Chanyeol’s expression from just a few moments ago.

“You don’t have internships on Fridays unless you’re called in urgently, it’s common knowledge. Don’t look at me like that”. Sehun excused himself, letting his arm finally drop off from you.

It wasn’t common knowledge; you had made sure they didn’t know your exact schedule in advance, just in case some day you wanted to turn down one of their invites, you’d be able to use the internship card on them.

You squinted your eyes at him and just proceeded to huff and open the door. “Right. Anyhow… Go on your merry way. I guess I’ll see you at the funeral…  I mean, the party”.

You weren’t paying particular attention to Sehun, you were too immersed coming up with extremely lame, not funny at all, jokes about your own suffering, so you didn’t notice him slipping right behind you and following you inside the building until you were standing in front of the elevator and almost had a heart attack when you saw him there, staring at you with a raised eyebrow and a condescending smile.

“First off, your joke was so not funny that I felt my organs clench in discomfort. Second off, I have to pick you up. Do I really have to continuously remind you that we are a team now? Because I’m really not that patient…” Sehun scoffed, ignoring the fact that you basically jumped when you noticed him there.

“I didn’t say that to make you laugh, I said that to release my own suffering in a way that wasn’t crying, you inconsiderate scum. And no, I am aware but where on the contract does it stipulate that you have to pick me up? Aren’t we pretending? Can’t we arrive separately and just pretend we got there together and that’s that? Problem solved, congratulations, here’s your badge for fake relationships?”

Ding. The elevator doors opened before you and just as Sehun had slipped into your building, following you closely from behind, he mimicked his own action, stepping inside the metal box after you. You shoved him away, not so strongly as you would’ve liked and he scoffed, for the millionth time.

“First impressions count”. He said as he rolled his eyes and followed you down the hall once the doors opened again on your floor. “What are people going to say when they notice we didn’t arrive together? The whole point is to actually make them believe, you dumb”.

You rolled your eyes as you fished out your keys from the pocket of your pants. For the amount of passive-aggressive nicknames you used on one another, you’d think you didn’t even know the other’s name.

“Fine”. You groaned, as you tossed away your keys and bag and turned around to face him with a hand still on the doorknob. “Do whatever you want, I’ll just follow your lead and get drunk”.

Sehun laughed at your comment this time as he nodded his head just once. “Then I’ll come by at around eight thirty”. He raised his eyebrows and not so sneakily looked over your shoulder to scan the insides of your humble abode. “Your place is surprisingly clean and organized for someone whose life is a giant mess”. He laughed dryly, earning a humongous eye-roll and a shove from you.

“Go away”. You said, no emotion whatsoever in your words as you practically closed the door on his face.

If the situation were to be different, you would’ve forced your best friend to come with you to the party, much like you had done to that get-together barbecue at Minseok’s place, but given the circumstances, you didn’t want to blatantly lie to her face. Guilt was starting to consume you and you weren’t aware that you could host so many unpleasant emotions all at once.

You stalled as much as you could until it was time to get ready. Unnecessarily cleaning your half empty cabinets, reorganizing your books by colors and dusting your living room over and over.

You stood under the shower for longer than you needed and you put on a face mask that you also didn’t need and was definitely going to make you tardy but hey, that was definitely the point. The longer you took getting ready meant the less amount of time you’d have to spend in a stranger’s house, celebrating the girl who indirectly broke your heart, bearing said girl and the man you liked being affectionate to one another.

Yes, you’d do whatever it took to be late. Your plan worked, indeed, but you never noticed Sehun would be such a punctual individual who was ringing your doorbell incessantly at exactly eight thirty one.

You struggled to put on some decently looking dress pants as to not greet him in only a towel wrapped around your torso. You pressed the speaker button as you fumbled to get the zipper up.

“You could’ve been a little late. Fashionably late is oh-kay”. You groaned.

“It’s eight thirty two, I am late by two whole minutes”. He scoffed, making you want to bang your head against the door but you buzzed him in either way and you unlocked the door so he wouldn’t bother you anymore.

“Come in. The door is open”. You blew a stray strand of hair out of your face as you proceeded to put on a shirt and stood in front of your mirror to do your make up, which you weren’t sure how good it was going to come out because your hands were shaking like maracas.

You heard the door open and close immediately after, but you were confused as to why you weren’t being bothered just yet.

“Touch anything, you die”. You half yelled, poking your head slightly out of the bathroom. You heard some mumbling but you didn’t bother on asking anymore, by this point, you had sort of come to terms with having him in your life.

“Easy, tiger. I’m just still baffled by how immaculate this place looks, at least at first sight”. You saw him appearing behind you from the reflection on the mirror, you crooked an eyebrow at him as he leaned against the doorframe so nonchalantly, looking like one of those rebellious fuckboys with his leather jacket and black jeans.

“You probably live in a dumpster, it’s not my fault everything in comparison looks so squeaky clean”. You’d hate to admit it but the constant banter slash arguing with Sehun could calm you down a little bit, specially when you’re feeling so distressed over Chanyeol and whatever came along with him. “No offense”.

“Offense taken”. He squinted his eyes at you, mocking a pained expression and you couldn’t hold back a laugh, shaking your head slightly as you looked down and pondered on what lipstick to wear.

You heard him walk inside the bathroom, which made you go into alert mode because how dare he? You saw his hand creeping to the counter and take one of the lipsticks lying there; you frowned, immediately looking up at him, wondering what the hell was going on inside that dufus head of his.

He handed it to you with a dead serious expression on his face. “This one makes you look decent when you wear it”.

His comment made your sudden rush of nervousness dissipate just as quickly as it had arrived, snapping the tube out of his hand and scoffing. “Jeesh, thank you. Let’s go”.

The drive to get to the house where the party was going to be at was mostly silent. You didn’t know what to talk about with him because you didn’t want to even hint at the subject of how you should act around each other once you got there.

Were you going to hold hands like a teenage couple? Was he going to follow you around? Were you supposed to introduce one another as your significant other? How were you supposed to behave? Like your normal, sarcastic self or did you have to put up a giggly, simple-minded mask on? Did you have to show any type of PDA?

You shivered at the mere thought of it.

Your mind was imploding so bad that not even the loud music coming from the speakers was enough to distract you and stop the palms of your hands from sweating so much you could fill up an entire pool, probably.

Suddenly the car came to a halt and you blinked a couple times when you realized there was people around you and a huge house in the background, fully lit and with music so loud you could hear it even through the thick windows of the vehicle you were in, a vehicle you suddenly never wanted to get out of.

“So, when you said you’d follow my lead and get drunk… Was that serious talk or just something you said to make me leave faster?” Sehun said after clearing his throat and looking at you with raised eyebrows.

You pondered for a minute. What a great question. “A little bit of both, perhaps. You see, I’m quite new at this whole fake relationship department so I really have no idea how I’m supposed to act or what I’m supposed to do”. You shrugged, crossing your arms over your chest and looking at him with a crooked eyebrow.

“It’s just like having a relationship but without actually… having one? I suppose?” The confusion was so evident in his eyes this time that you wanted to cackle and take a picture to tease him with in the future. “It’s not like I’m the expert on fake relationships either”. He huffed, yanking the key from the ignition.

Your past relationships flashed before your eyes and you shivered. You surely didn’t want to reenact a past toxic relationship of yours with Sehun. Hell, you definitely were good at making horrible decisions in the love department, weren’t you?

“Then I guess I’ll follow your lead, just don’t touch the butt”. You mumbled, opening the door and jumping onto the slightly damp street. You could hear Sehun’s chuckles as he walked around the car.

“Same goes for you. And the groin, don’t touch the groin”. You almost choked at his comment, feeling a rush of blood coming up to your cheeks just by the mere thought of touching his –or anyone’s, for that matter– groin.

You two were standing fairly far away from the front door of the house but even then, you could already see Hayoon’s luscious long hair shining under the moonlight as she laughed with a group of people you had never seen and who you probably would never relate to because they looked too happy to be normal.

“Hey”. Sehun said, voice in a deep whisper, as if there was someone who could be eavesdropping. “Let’s just get drunk and put up a show”. You looked up at him with a nervous smile and then you looked down to see him taking your hand.

It was strangely warm but you felt relieved by it because at least you could rely on him if you suffered a nervous breakdown, even if it meant he would tease you even more so than usual.

“Aye! They’re here! It was about time!” You saw Jongin coming from around the corner of the house followed by their friend Baekhyun as you two walked up the few steps, still hand in hand.

You smiled at them, suddenly hyper aware of the fact that your hands were intertwined. “You’re late, that’s so weird coming from you, man”. Baekhyun slapped Sehun’s back with a beaming smile on his face and you wondered what was it about this group of friends with their huge smiles.

“She wanted to be fashionably late, so… I don’t know…” Sehun shrugged, putting his free hand inside the pocket of his jeans. Baekhyun frowned as he looked down to take a look at your hands, looking at Jongin next, who was raising his eyebrows extremely high with a mischievous smirk on his face.

Neither of them said anything after that, they just pushed you inside so you could get drinks and greet the rest.

“Hey”. You tugged on Sehun’s hand, making him lose balance for a split second. “Just wondering, you know, in case I die and someone has to come pick up my body, where exactly are we?”

Sehun stifled a laugh as he leaned closer to you so you could hear what he was about to say.

“This is Hayoon’s house… Well, it’s technically her parent’s but they don’t live here anymore because they had business in another city so they’re letting her live here by herself now. Or something like that, I’m not sure”. Sehun explained, silently greeting random people as you waved through the decently sized crowd.

“This is… big”. You mumbled, swallowing loudly as you took in the size of her house. Clearly that was something else she had that you didn’t. She had the looks, she had the brains and apparently she had the notorious bank account as well. Fabulous.

“Yep”. Sehun said, popping the ‘p’ more than necessary. Somehow you made it to a place that looked exactly like a bar counter of sorts. Who even had a special corner for alcohol in their house? Minseok was sitting on one of the stools, happily taking sips from his beer when he spotted you coming over and he raised his eyebrows at you, exactly the way Jongin had before.

You either wanted to grab his beer and pour it on his head or just steal it and gulp it down in one go.

It startled you to feel Sehun’s hand release your own, it startled you because you didn’t know at what point in these past few minutes you had grown so accustomed to it. He walked around the small bar to get a couple of beers for you as well, you watched him because you were trying really hard to know what his plan was for tonight.

Sehun, you had come to understand, was the little brother everyone loved to hate but not really because you knew no one really despised him, they just loved annoying him and you understood that perfectly because you, also, loved to tease him and he’d do exactly the same to you, just raised to the thousandth power.

You felt Minseok’s eyes on you, staring as hard as only he could.

“What?” You asked with wide eyes as you smiled shyly at Sehun when he handed you a red cup. This was definitely the kind of situation you wanted to avoid and one of the main reasons why you declined Sehun’s offer at first but, you realized, a part of you definitely was more than desperate enough for Chanyeol’s attention as to go along with it and you were ashamed but ever so slightly curious of what the outcome may be.

You partly hated yourself for wanting Chanyeol’s affection so much that you would go to such extents. Love really made people do stupid things, didn’t it?

“Since when are you two… a thing?” Minseok inquired, still staring at you without even blinking. You laughed nervously, looking down at your lap as you toyed with a loose thread on your blouse. You felt Sehun walk to your side and swinging an arm on your shoulders.

You kept repeating that this whole thing was fake, that you and Sehun were just playing a part to get something out of this. You kept telling yourself that this was all pretend and it all had an ulterior, selfish motive but you couldn’t help your nervousness levels rise whenever he touched you in any way because you just weren’t used to having physical contact with anyone else other than your parents and your best friend.

Somehow it felt different as to when Chanyeol put his hand over your shoulders, or hugged you or nudged you playfully. When Chanyeol did it, your heart went into overdrive and you felt like your chest was going to collapse. When Chanyeol did it, you could feel the blood in your veins speeding to a maximum and your palms sweating like crazy, when he did it you had to almost physically pinch yourself as to stop you from smiling like a foolish kid at a carnival.

When Sehun did it, though, your heart didn’t race, in all reality it stopped to a halt because it made you so uncomfortable, it made you want to flee the scene. Your hands didn’t sweat, they turned ice cold and stiff and you pursed your lips because you didn’t know how to react. Because all of this was fake.

“Like a week or two, I believe”. You managed to spit out when Sehun didn’t speak up. You looked up at him as if telling him ‘well, thank you for your help, dickhead’, but you didn’t say it, neither did you react at all because you knew he couldn’t just carry the whole weight of the situation on his shoulders and fuck, did you want to punch him because of that.

He smiled at you and squeezed your shoulder; you sighed, taking a sip of your alcoholic beverage in hopes it would make the blush on your cheeks go away or in the worse case scenario, just heighten it and give it a believable excuse.

Excuses. Oh, when did your life become just a huge, messy, embarrassing excuse?

“How did you manage to keep it a secret? We see each other literally everyday and you…” Minseok said, as he squinted his eyes and pointed at Sehun with his almost empty bottle. “You live with Chanyeol, how did you not brag about this to him? You know he has a soft spot for this one”.

Sehun laughed silently, leaning closer to you and maybe he knew, maybe he didn’t, you were only sure that Minseok definitely didn’t know his words took such a toll on you. You didn’t know if this was the last thing you needed at the moment or exactly the opposite. Because hearing him say that Chanyeol had a soft spot for you made your insides burn in anticipation. You didn’t want to fuel this whole relationship ordeal but that was exactly the reason you needed to not back out and you were sure, right then and there, that you were a horrible human being for moving along with this.

“I wanted it to be a surprise”. Sehun chuckled, leaning his cheek on the top of your head and for a moment you wondered how ridiculous that must’ve looked in Minseok’s eyes.

“Either that or you didn’t want to be punched to death”. Minseok laughed, turning his attention back to his bottle and deviating the conversation onto something much more banal, like what was there to eat and drink at this party and how overboard Hayoon had gone for this.

Parties usually went like this: you get there, you get yourself some drinks and snacks to start the night, you make small talk with people that you really don’t know, you get more and more drinks until you are tipsy and the stupid games begin just when the music starts to get louder and weirder.

At this point you were right in the process of getting to a tipsy state and you had managed to not see either Hayoon or Chanyeol for the couple hours you had been there already. You didn’t know whether that was a good or a bad thing, the only good thing was that Sehun was strangely social with people and so he escaped your side from time to time, letting you be and do whatever you wanted for however long you wanted.

It was good, at first, but when he took too long you felt strangely lost and bored. Sadly, being a lonely tipsy girl on her way to getting drunk was never a good idea. From time to time some of the guys would meet you, get you another drink or just have small conversations. By this point during the night you had become quite the expert on explaining what your relationship with Sehun was.

“Oh, well, you know, it sort of just happened a couple weeks ago, we didn’t want to tell anyone so…” You blabbered when Jongin questioned you about it as he poured you a cup of cranberry vodka, which you knew it was a bad idea because you had already drank beer, rum and a bit of whisky but hey, at least you weren’t the designated driver.

Jongin nodded with a smile planted on his face as he heard you explain, yet, he never took his eyes off your drink. He handed you your cup, filled to the top. “I’m happy for you, you’re such an odd couple but I’m happy for you”. He beamed as he dragged you to the back yard, where apparently a game of beer pong was about to take place.

You felt sorry for the poor souls that were about to go through that because beer pong wasn’t the greatest of ideas, specially when everyone there was in the same precarious situation as you with God knows how many types of alcohol in their bloodstreams already.

“Hey!” You heard that high-pitched voice that made your toes curl. You turned to your left to see Hayoon skipping her way towards you with a huge, drunkish smile on her pretty face. “So glad you could make it, here to support your man?”

You frowned, not understanding what she meant for a blissful second, then you remembered: you had a boyfriend.

“Ah”. You half gasped when you realized and then you frowned because you sure weren’t the one who told her. “Who told you?” You spat out, blinking rapidly and practically submerging your nose into the reddish looking drink.

“Well, walls talk, but I just ran into Minseok and Baekhyun who were looking for you to come out here and they spilled the beans, I’m sorry”. She giggled, shrugging innocently. “But, I know it probably doesn’t mean much coming from me, someone that you barely know, but I think you two make a very nice couple. I’ve known Sehun for a while and I’ve never seen someone who can keep up with his remarks and teasing just as much as you do so I’m definitely rooting for you. Now we can have double dates”. She giggled again, skipping away from you and you sighed.

Right. Double dates. What a wonderful idea, to be stuck at a restaurant table with the man that held your affections, his girlfriend and your fake boyfriend. What an ideal scenario.

“Look who showed up. Came here you cheer up for your boyfriend?” Sehun’s voice tickled you as he leaned in to talk to your ear. You squinted your eyes and you bent your neck to look at him in the eye.

“Are you going to play?” You asked, disbelief spilling in rivers from your mouth. He couldn’t be that stupid, could he? He nodded rapidly, lips pursed into a proud smile. “You idiot, you’re the designated driver, I don’t want to die on my way home”. You hissed, slightly slapping him on the back of his head, making him laugh at your drunken concern.

“Ah, we’ll be fine. I’m a good player, don’t worry”. He said smugly, ruffling up your hair and dragging you by the hand to stand near the table. “I’ll dedicate my victory to you, darling”. He laughed. You rolled your eyes and you couldn’t help but smile anyways. However fake this was, it was nice to hear someone calling you ‘darling’, even if it was drenched in sarcasm.

You snapped your head around when you heard Hayoon’s overly sweet laugh from somewhere to your right. For the first time throughout the whole night, you felt your heart truly sink at the sight.

Chanyeol and Hayoon were walking hand in hand towards the beer pong table, his head nuzzled in the crook of her neck, her cheeks were almost as red as your vodka and you felt like puking and not really because you were inebriated. You had to force yourself to look away from them, otherwise you were going to start bawling your eyes out and look very distorted.

You looked back at Sehun, whose expression changed worringly fast and that’s when you knew, he was doomed and therefore, so were you.

“Please tell me you’re better at this than Chanyeol”. You sighed, rubbing your temple with your knuckles, forcing your alcohol levels to at least decrease to a decent point. Sehun smiled apologetically at you.

“I’ll try my best”. You sighed, closing your eyes tightly and breathing slowly.

“Sassy!” Chanyeol’s voice made your insides tremble in anticipation. You had an internal battle because you desperately wanted to see him, smile at him and pretend there was no one else there but the two of you, on the other hand, you didn’t want to see him running his hands all over Hayoon. You let out a laugh and forced yourself to look at him with a sly smile on your lips. “Ready to see how I beat his ass?”

You let out a chuckle, a sincere one this time. “Show some mercy”. You yelled back, making people around you laugh out loud.

The game started and it was okay at first, Sehun making a couple points while Chanyeol continuously failed to score. The tables turned quicker than expected, though, and you felt your heart and stomach sink down to your heels as Chanyeol scored three times in a row. Clenching your hands into tight fists, you stepped to Sehun’s side, snapping the cup from his grasp and looking up at him with pleading eyes.

He had only drunk one cup but you were already scared due to the pink tint taking over his cheeks. You gulped down the liquid in one go and threw the cup away to somewhere behind you. Half of the small crowd erupted with cheers and claps whilst the other half was booing you for interfering.

“He’s the designated driver so… I’ll drink in his behalf”. You said, scared to look at Chanyeol in the eye. Sehun was staring intently at you, his hand still stuck in the position it had been before you snapped the cup away. Chanyeol pursed his lips, eyes darting between you and Sehun and finally after a whole minute, he nodded.

“Fine but I’ll let you know, I’ve never lost a game before”. You nodded rapidly, trying to ignore the fact that you had just signed a deal with the devil, basically.

Sehun’s hand crept up to cup your jaw and your eyes widened, ignoring the catcalls here and there. You could feel Chanyeol’s eyes boring into your face. “You don’t have to, I’m fine, really”. Sehun’s expression was so serious it was scary; you immediately related that to his alcohol intake and nothing else.

“I won’t die because of you, I’m already in such a mess as is”. You laughed dryly, making him smile and nod, forcing himself to focus on the game again.

You had made a terrible decision, that was a given. Turns out Chanyeol was a master at this, even if Sehun was very good himself, Chanyeol was always one step ahead and you asked yourself why were you feeling so out of it after only nine cups of beer. In your drunken mind, that didn’t sound like a lot of alcohol but your body stated otherwise.

It came to only one cup left for each of them and you were having trouble standing up straight but you were trying to keep it together because you were scared of making a fool of yourself in front of Chanyeol, of all people.

Chanyeol missed, the crowd hissed in unison and you widened your eyes, looking up at Sehun who was already looking down at you.

“You okay?” He asked, raising his eyebrows. You nodded, gifting him a half sincere, half intoxicated smile and a thumbs up. You really were such a ridiculous person when drunk. He pursed his lips into a crooked smile and threw the ball.

You didn’t know you were holding your breath until the ball went into Chanyeol’s cup and you almost fell to the ground, losing your balance as you let out a small yelp. Sehun caught you, though, grabbing you by the waist and you remembered your own thoughts when you arrived at the party: that he’d have your back, and here he was, literally saving your ass.

Your hand gripped his shoulder, stabilizing yourself and if it weren’t for how dizzy you were, you would’ve pushed him away immediately but you were beyond loopy and you were still playing a part.

“I told you I’d win for you”. Sehun chuckled as you blinked desperately fast, trying to focus on what was happening. Sehun was merely inches away from you and you were scared to move because even the slightest of motions would have you pressing your faces together.

You gulped, trying to not pay attention to everyone staring, Chanyeol included. You didn’t want to pay attention to them because that would make you so abnormally self-conscious but at the same time, you didn’t want to focus on Sehun and his extreme proximity. You wanted to disconnect your mind and just wake up the next day with a killing hangover but in the safety of your own bed.

“I’m going to kiss you now”. Sehun whispered and confirmed all of your fears. You didn’t have a choice but to gulp and close your eyes when he leaned in closer and closer and he finally pressed his lips against yours.

Cheers erupted again but now they sounded like they were extremely far away. Sehun’s lips felt warm and soft, you never thought his venom-spilling mouth would feel so soft but it did and you were strangely glad it did, because at least it wasn’t something that made you physically want to vomit your brains out but still, this was all fake and you couldn’t help but imagining this was Chanyeol instead of Sehun.

You had thought of Chanyeol in this scenario before, there was no point in denying it anymore. You imagined his lips being as warm as a cup of chocolate in the winter, inviting, comforting and sickly sweet. A part of you felt bad for Sehun, for you thinking he was someone else, but this was the point of the whole thing. Your relationship with Sehun was fake and your heart was in Chanyeol’s hands, regardless of how weird it was to feel like Sehun’s lips were molding perfectly to yours.

Sehun’s grasp on your waist got tighter as the crowd cheered louder and you had to mentally prepare yourself to actually kiss him back and so you did.

Your lips moved in harmony for a few minutes and as much as you were scared to do so, you knew you had to make this believable, so when his tongue poked out of his mouth you granted him access and your limbs went even more numb than they already were because this whole thing was very confusing to you.

There was just so much physical contact two people could have before their minds started to go hazy.

You regained your balance and you moved away from Sehun. Half of the crowd that once was there had now dissipated to prepare for another round of beer pong between God knows who. Chanyeol was still there, staring at you, jaw slightly hanging. Hayoon was still next to him, giggling with a hand pressed to her mouth as she watched you and Sehun with wrinkles around her eyes.

You tried to take a step on your own to head back inside the house, mind still lost somewhere between Chanyeol’s fiery stare and Sehun’s soft lips, but your limbs betrayed you and you almost fell once more. Sehun grabbed your hand, intertwining your fingers and securely dragged you inside, sitting you at the living room while he went to get you some water and something to eat.

Your head felt heavy over your shoulders, you were seeing stars and your fingers felt frozen. You were staring into nothing, still confused due to what had happened before. If it was a secret that you and Sehun were an item –a fake one, but no one suspected about it– now it was all out in the open and this is where everything would actually start.

You saw someone come up and take a seat in the coffee table that sat right across from you, you had a hard time focusing your eyes on said person but when you finally figured out their features, you felt the urge to pretend you were asleep.

Chanyeol leaned forward, resting his elbows lazily atop his knees and he stared intently at you, not saying a single word, just staring. Your breath hitched, widening your eyes and trying to look at every single detail in the room except for his eyes because if you did, you would’ve melt into a puddle and left a permanent stain on Hayoon’s immaculate furniture.

“Hey”. You mumbled through gritted teeth, eyebrows raised, mocking an innocent expression, like one of a child who had broken an expensive base and was trying to pretend nothing had happened.

“You made a reckless decision out there”. Chanyeol was so serious it made you shiver. “Just so you know, in case you’re feeling more drunk than usual, that was beer mixed with bourbon”.

“Ah”. You blabbered. “So that’s why”. You weren’t sure how you were managing to form out sentences because you felt like you were having an out of body experience at the moment.

Silence fell upon you and you were starting to twitch under Chanyeol’s piercing gaze. Was he really this mad over you getting drunk? He really had to get his priorities straightened out, like per example, where was his obviously intoxicated girlfriend?

“Where d’you leave Hayoon?” You asked, eyebrows shooting up again. You knew you probably sounded like you were accusing him of something and in all reality, you were, but that’s what people say: drunk people always speak the truth.

“She’s in the bathroom with her friends, she had too much to drink. Much less than someone else I know, but still…” He pursed his lips again and you felt like going on your knees and ask for forgiveness right then and there. “Where did you leave Sehun?”

His words cut you like knives. You knew he wasn’t mad because he was jealous but more so because of your state and probably because he felt betrayed that it was kept a secret from him but it still stung.

This was the plan, right? This was the whole point, this is why you held Sehun’s hand and kissed him; you did it to get on Chanyeol’s nerves, even if it was almost a completely lost cause. This was what you wanted, then why did you feel so bad?

“He went to get me some water”. You blurted out, holding back a giggle. Why were you giggling, though? You didn’t understand.

“You and Sehun… Were you ever planning on telling me?” You didn’t know someone as soft and warm as Chanyeol could come off so cold and ruthless, especially over something so insignificant as you having a fake relationship. But he didn’t know that.

“It sort of just happened”. You pursed your lips, looking at him through your eyelashes, not really having the courage in you to keep looking at him straight in the eye.

“Sehun is not the relationship type, I just don’t want you to get hurt… I don’t want him to hurt you”. Chanyeol mumbled, looking away from you. You looked so out of it, so fragile sprawled out on the couch like that. He felt like he needed to protect you but it wasn’t his place to.

“He won’t”. Sehun’s deep voice startled you, making you jump a little when he sat on the edge of the couch next to you, handing you a cold bottle of water and a sandwich, which you gladly accepted with a coy smile.

If you would’ve been sober, you would’ve noticed the tension between them; the type of tension you couldn’t even cut with a chainsaw but you weren’t, so you just ignored everything and munched on the food he so kindly brought you.

“I don’t have anything to do here anymore so… Just get her home in one piece, will you?” Chanyeol blurted out as he stood up and tried to iron out the wrinkles on his pants with his hands.

“Of course I will”. Sehun mumbled, watching Chanyeol walk off to somewhere down the hall. You scoffed.

“I didn’t drink all of that for nothing so you better do it”. You blurted out, mindlessly as you drank almost the whole bottle. Sehun chuckled, eyes fixated on your profile as you finished eating the sandwich.

From then on, there wasn’t much you remembered. You remembered finish eating and getting up, following Sehun out of Hayoon’s house, shouting your goodbyes to Jongin along the way and then getting in his car. You remembered buckling up your seatbelt and leaning your head on the ice-cold window but after that, everything was pitch black.

You had no idea how fast you got home or how you managed to get into your apartment but once you woke up, sun shinning annoyingly through the small cracks of your blinds, you noticed you were safely tucked in, face bare of make up. You wondered how it was possible for you to do that in the state you were in.

The nausea kicked in as soon as you tried to get up to go to the bathroom and you almost collapsed on the floor because it felt unbearable to even move an inch without puking. Through squinted eyes, you saw a cup of water on your nightstand, next to a bottle of Tylenol and a yellow Post-It.

You rubbed your eyes with the heels of your hands and groaned as you popped two pills onto your mouth and swallowed them with a huge gulp of water. Your fingers danced over your nightstand until they got to the note and you had to gulp down the urge to groan again.

I got you home alive so don’t blame me if you feel like you’re dying when you wake up. In case you do, though, you can call me

It took you a couple of deep breaths to process the fact that Sehun was the one who had tucked you in and took care of while you were acting basically like a bag of mashed potatoes and then the memories hit you and they made your stomach churn in a different way.

You had kissed Oh Sehun and surprisingly enough, you didn’t completely hate it.

This is fake. You kept telling yourself. This was fake, the kiss was fake and the concern was fake as well, platonic at most. You remembered how Chanyeol seemed upset and you gave yourself a pat on the back for achieving that but besides that, everything was fake, then why was a part of you confused?

You trotted to the bathroom to splash your face with cold water in an attempt to clear your head and dissipate your uneasiness.

Everything was fake. Then, why were you remembering every detail of the kiss so vividly?

You were in dire need of a thousand espresso shots.

masterlist inflection point m.list talk to me

[goddessofroyalty]

As If Our History Wasn’t Complicated Enough Already

Fandom: DC

Friendly reminder as since I decided all this stuff fits into some alternative universe it means I can play as fast and loose with the canon-timelines as I want.

Also we continue on the adventures of not specifying who the other parent is – if it’s not relevant to the story I want to tell I will just avoid and never state.  

I could make this more accurate and honestly slightly less infection-risk but like… ruined the flow so *shurgs*

Warnings: childbirth, omegaverse, mpreg

Characters: Dick Grayson, Slade Wilson

Ao3 link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16232774

Okay, so maybe Dick shouldn’t have volunteered himself for this. But Bruce was out of the country and technically off the planet and Red Robin had a last-minute scheduling conflict come up that meant that Tim’s planned attendance had to be pulled out. Sure, they could just send an apology and explanation of illness but after every unsolved mystery show had blocked his number Dick was starting to get bored and the knowledge that Lex Luther had an invite just enough promise of excitement without too much danger.

Now though he just feels tired and achy and over everyone rubbing and stomach and telling him how he looked glowing. Left thinking that it might be worthwhile to see if a motel had a free room for the night just to save him the two hour trip back to Bludhaven.

“Grayson!” Dick knows the voice calling through the crowd and knows it means Luther isn’t the only villain apparently on the invite list. Which isn’t that surprising of a turn of events.

Still he turns and gives a polite smile to Slade Wilson because, damn him, Slade has enough money that there’s no questioning his right to be there. No right even if Dick is sure half the people here know well where Slade made his money. Sure half of them have had Deathstroke on their payroll one time or another. Sure one probably has him on it right now.

And there’s nothing much Dick can do about it currently.

“I was starting to worry when I hadn’t ran into you while working but now I realise you’re focusing on family affairs,” Slade says when he reaches Dick. Nodding down to Dick’s stomach as if there was a risk of the comment being interpreted about anything else. “Would have sent congratulations earlier but I’ve been on a job in the Amazon for the last couple of months and didn’t have the sort of signal needed to get Gotham news.”

“Is tonight another job?” Maybe it would be better not to know considering there isn’t anything Dick can do about it. No way for Nightwing to have a real chance to save any target – he hadn’t even brought the outfit. Still he asks.

“Don’t worry, there’s no need to get your morals in a knot. The invite was a bonus for a job well done. Nothing you can do about it now.”

So somebody who would hire a mercenary was also able to give him a ticket to an event meant only for company representatives. The list of suspects is nearly as long as the list of invites. Still it might be good information for them to know in case the task Slade hired to do ended up being more than mere corporate sabotage.

“What about you? Thought of a name and costume for them yet? How’s the bat’s handling the grandfather thing?” There is nobody around to catch Slade’s words or the implications of them but it doesn’t stop Dick from glaring at him for them.

“Shouldn’t you go thank your client for the invite?” Dick says. He doesn’t have the energy to deal with Slade especially not after a day of grief from the baby already irritated by the competition trying to get in Wayne Industry’s good books by acting like they’re actually excited for Bruce’s circus-brat-ward to be having a baby.

“Already done that,” Slade says before freezing. A second later Dick knows why as the sound of the front door being broken down echoes through the hall and all chaos breaks out.

Before Dick can formulate a plan of his own he is being tugged into the servant’s entrance of the main hall by Slade. Enhanced reflexes allowing the alpha faster-reaction time.

“What are you doing?” Dick asks as Slade wraps an arm around him to lead him through the scrambling staff further into the back of the building. He had gone 9 months of pregnancy without being used as a hostage and had hoped to get through the last days without ruining it.

“Getting a very pregnant omega out of a situation that is probably going to end in violence.”

“What are you really doing?” Dick knows Slade’s motives rarely are so simple.

“Getting a very pregnant omega out of a situation that is probably going to end in violence,” Slade repeats giving him a dry look. “Come on kid, you know I’m not completely morally bankrupt. If you really need me to have an ulterior motive it can be gaining a favour to possibly cash in next time I’m in Gotham and one of you bats getting a bit much in my way. Now come on.”

Dick is fairly certain Slade has taken jobs that involved harm to pregnant omegas. But this isn’t a job and Slade is right in saying that he has some morals, as strange as they are.

Not that it really matters – if Dick doesn’t want to be the most obvious hostage in the room he’s going to need to find a way out and having Slade with him guarantees it more than by himself.

They make their way through another staff door that leads to the bedrooms of the mansion. From there it’s just a matter of picking one of them rooms and hoping the climb down from the second story not too intense considering Dick hasn’t been allowed to do anything more intense than jogging for months now.

Slade gives a low whistle when the window reveals more men, all armed. And sure, normally Dick would be all for leaping out the window in order to find out who hired them and why. But normally Dick only had to worry about himself and any allies by his side – not his child inside him.

“Whoever hired them is serious,” Slade says before pulling a gun from a holster hidden beneath his pants. Because of course he brought one. “You two get comfortable, I’m going to see if I can figure out what’s the reason for this level of firepower.”

“And see if someone will pay you to get them out I’m sure.”

“If they’re willing to pay – sure.”

“Safety for the highest bidder.” And still very little Dick can do about it.

“We can argue values when I get back. For now, you just keep yourself and the baby out of anyone’s sights,” Slade says giving a teasing pat to Dick’s stomach before leaving the room.

As soon as he is gone Dick is finding the internet-socket and stripping the wires to plug his smart-watch in ��� Slade has his comfort-gun, Dick has his comfort Bat-tool. As much as he couldn’t save the hostages himself and tech stuff really not his specialty he should be able to get some information that might help whatever external rescuers arrive.

His body strongly protests the act but he breathes through it like all the other pains late-pregnancy entails.

It’s a bit harder to ignore and work through when the next wave of pain is joined with what Dick is fairly certain is his water’s breaking.

Hours away from either Bludhaven or Gotham, in an active situation that possibly involves hostages, Slade Wilson his only ally, and his waters break.

He really shouldn’t have volunteered to come.

He thankfully has his panic somewhat under control by the time Slade returns.

Slade, who takes one look at the situation before sighing. “Better for you to get comfortable Grayson. There’s some intense negotiations going on beneath us and no support of either law or super getting in until they’re finished. Nothing either of us can do about it.”

“And no-one willing to pay you to help out?”

“Not a price worth getting involved. Now come on the floor is not the best place for you to be right now. Certainly not when there’s a perfectly good bed next to it.”

Dick can’t really argue with the logic, especially not when he newly acquired access to security cameras shows what looks like tense negotiations between various party guests and various surrounding muscle.

It’s only when Slade helps him off the ground and into the bed that something clicks. “You’ve done this before.”

“That surprising considering the places my job takes me?” Slade asks. “What about you?”

“Not this side of it.” Pregnancy tended to make for excellent hostages. And sometimes the excitement of being a hostage kick-started labour. Both as Robin and Nightwing had Dick been in the situation of a person about to give birth and any other help too far away. It wasn’t his favourite part of the job and rare enough to always make his stress levels spike. But it happened and childbirth 101 a necessary skill.

Still Dick never really thought about how it felt to be about to deliver your baby away from medical aid or family.

He’s going to be more sympathetic to it in the future.

“First one’s special,” Slade says, hand coming to rest on Dick’s stomach. And Dick would knock it off but it seems like everyone is touching it this evening so one more isn’t that horrid. He can’t even say this is the first hand with blood on it, just blood he well knows about. “I mean all of them are special but it’s the first that makes you a parent.”

Dick remembers he’s partially responsible for the death of Slade’s first son. Feels still responsible for Joe’s as well. Both now long-past history but with scars that remain.

His body doesn’t care that he’s in the middle of reflecting. The next contraction diverting all attention back into the situation and fact he’s going to have a child to worry over himself sooner than later.

Slade gives him space. Sitting at the foot of the bed but watching. Likely to keep track of the labour but Dick can’t shake the knowledge of how much danger that much of Deathstroke’s attention normally means.

“Who’s the other parent?” Slade asks after his gaze really starts setting Dick on edge.

“What?”

“I’m curious who it was that you felt settled with enough to let knock you up,” Slade explains with an easy shrug. “You’ve had a fair share and been fully dedicated to them all – which one finally got past that last shield you keep around yourself.”

Dick can only stare. Does Slade really think he will just tell him?

“You don’t have to tell me. I’m sure I’ll figure it out. Although I suppose if they come up with red-hair it won’t much shorten the list will it?”

It’s a joke but it also reminds Dick that unless things downstairs resolve soon and outside forces let in Slade will might end up being the one to deliver his child. Will be the first person to see and hold them. And Dick thought having to smile as people implied him a whore for not having his mate by his side at some actually-minor-gathering was going to be the worst bit of the night.

“Don’t worry kid. If I haven’t told Dick Grayson and Nightwing are one-and-the-same I’m not going to tell how either of them look while pushing their kid out.”

Dick knows it’s true but he would still prefer to be in a different situation while in labour. Not any other as his mind quickly supplies him with all the ways the situation could get worse. Oh he hopes he didn’t already jinx it.

The contractions just getting stronger. And if Dick ever planned on pretending they didn’t hurt in front of Slade it’s thrown out the window. Along with him ever telling people to breathe through them in the future because Dick is leaning on training he got from Batman to actually achieve it.

“You’re getting close,” Slade says as if Dick can’t tell himself that the contractions are getting closer together. That they feel so much more intense. More likely they are acting working on getting the baby out of his body instead of merely testing the muscles.

“I’m assuming they haven’t settled their differences and opened the doors?” There’s no way his luck is that good but he can still hope.

Slade gets up and checks out the window. “Appears not.”

“Didn’t think so,” Dick says before the next contraction hits. Stronger than the ones before and whether he wants it to or not the baby is coming.

And of course the pants he had been wearing were the most formal things he owned that still made it around his stomach. Which meant they were also some of the most uncomfortable. And hardest to get off. Especially when he’s as far into labour as he is.

He should have stayed home where baggy-sweatpants a completely acceptable clothing choice. Baggy sweatpants that didn’t horribly tangle with his legs as he tried to get them off.

“Let me help,” Slade says as Dick has one foot just about out if not for the contraction that cuts his focus. Dick still manages to glare at him for it.

“I’m going to be doing stuff a lot more intimate to you within the hour than helping you undress,” Slade points out. He’s right and no matter how much Dick hates it the situation isn’t going to change to avoid it. So he goes limp and lets Slade slide the pants off his legs.

The next contraction proves he made the right call when it’s joined with the urge to push. The one after being much the same but also gains what Dick is fairly certain is his baby leaving his womb to get out of his body.

He has no choice but to bare through the pain – an experience far from foreign to him. The trying not to think about what Slade is doing a bit more strange.

“They’re crowning,” Slade informs him and Dick only just notices Slade stripping off his jacket before his focus is on his body’s impatient need to get the baby out and into the world.

“Head’s coming,” Slade says but all Dick can focus on is the feeling of it. The painful stretch between contractions where his body fights against its own limits of endurance and give.

There is a short-lived reprieve between the baby’s head and the rest of their body. One that gives him the chance to breathe and wipe the sweat from his eyes but not much else. His baby impatient to be born and body impatient to be done.

Just as Dick has learned to expect from all other physical pain in his life it comes to an end. Most pains he’s endured though don’t end with a newborn being handed up to him. Don’t result in him cradling his child against his chest. A swell of relief and pure happiness in his heart.

“He’ll be hungry and looking for your skin,” Slade says, bunching his jacket up around the baby he’d apparently already rubbed down with it.

Dick pushes his shirt down and under his breast to allow his son access. It takes a bit of fiddling and adjusting but that baby does latch on. It’s only because of how loud the sirens are that they are able to cut his focus from committing every detail of his child that he can to memory. Cuts though him silently promising to do anything to keep them safe.

“That’s my queue to leave,” Slade says, stepping back. “Have a feeling you’re family likely heard about what’s happening and probably aren’t much feeling ration about ensuring your safety.”

He’s likely right. If nobody else Barbara likely picked up about it on one of her scans and the news from there spreading quickly through their channels. Dick knows if the situation reversed and any of his family heavily-pregnant in a likely hostage situation he’d be dropping everything to get to them.

“Thank you,” Dick says and he’s sincere. While Slade not a complete monster the history they had an ample source of reasons for him not to help or even cause harm is Slade wanted one.

“No problem – just give me a day’s head-start next time you hear I’m in town and we’ll call it even.”

“Not that grateful.”

Slade just laughs. “Didn’t think so. I’ll think of something. Just make sure you look after them.”

“I will.” It’s not a question in Dick’s mind. He already knows he would die for his child.

Slade leaves after that and Dick returns his attention back to his baby. Gently stroking his head as he takes his first meal in life.

He wonders who will find him first – the police and paramedics likely searching the place or his family.

[daveinediting]

Sometimes you have to shoot from the hip.

Maybe it's a thing you've gotta say or do.

Maybe it's something you've gotta interpret or process or understand.

Maybe it's about making the call, the choice, the decision 

Whatever it is, it's something that has got to happen that very moment. In mere seconds.

You've gotta do it right then.

So sometimes...

You have to shoot from the hip.

I...

Have to shoot from the hip.

In real time.

Here's the thing, though: 

The number of circumstances in which I have to do that are astonishingly small.

If there's no clock involved, no immediate deadline... I have time.

If it's open ended... I have time.

If it's not an emergency... I have time.

Okay 

One more time with feeling:

If it's not an emergency... 

I.

Have.

Time.

I'm on a time kick lately. Not just professionally, also personally.

Time kick?

Yeah. As in taking it.

As in using it.

Strategically using it. Using it on purpose.

Why?

Because otherwise I'm chained to the present when, in fact, I have, you have, we all have the ability to live and learn and act... 

Across time.

Present. Past. Future.

Otherwise I'm shooting from the hip about everything in a single moment in time. Blinders on. And that has consequences. 

You see, whatever it is, I wanna get it right. I wanna act with deep insight. I wanna see the whole picture. 

The whole picture.

Not just the piece that's poking me in the face right now.

I want context.

I want vision.

I want wisdom.

Ultimately, I want strategy.

So professionally, yes. I use time to think... before I create. For example, I'll be reading the script for my team’s upcoming 48 Hour Film Challenge from the moment it's written sometime Friday night to the moment the first batch of footage arrives at my door Saturday around noon. Ish. With a bit of time somewhere in there to sleep... and maybe have my subconscious play around with the pieces it captured while I was reading.

On top of that, today I was given a preliminary proposal for a new series and I'm already mentally adventuring through the creative implications of that proposal.

On top of that, my boss recently pulled us off a process that really should be handled outside our company so that we can continue to do what we do best.

I was never gonna have that insight, by the way. I was too dialed in on what I was doing.

But my boss? 

Yeah.

He took the time to think about it.

And came up with the best answer for us.

So lemme circle back.

I don't have to relentlessly react to the present.

I don't have to constantly shoot from the hip.

I don't have to obligate myself to the narrowest view possible. The one that almost guarantees mistakes.

I'm not gonna do it. I'm reflexively not gonna do it.

Because not everything's...

An emergency.

Not everything's an emergency and it's important to not act like it is.

Shooting from the hip is usually something we do in isolation. Obviously done without context, insight, or continuity, shooting from the hip also seems not to promote reflection. There's no follow-up. There's no processing. No analysis. There's only...

The present.

And then the next present.

And then the present after that.

It's basically Whack-A-Mole writ large on a daily basis with no end in sight.

And that's not how I care to navigate my days. Day after day.

In the end, the number of circumstances in which I have got to do something with an instant's notice are astonishingly small.

If there's no clock involved, no immediate deadline... I have time.

If it's open ended... I have time.

If it's not an emergency... I have time.

Okay 

One more time with feeling:

If it's not an emergency... 

I.

Have.

Time.

[denerims-archive]

capernoit [solas x lavellan]

[AO3 LINK]

warnings: making out and drunk solas

“She has enough bite to close the distance between them herself”

He’s drunk when he comes to her in the middle of the night. It’s the first thing she notices. His normally pristine posture is slack, wavering like a young tree during a storm and his eyes are a little too unfocused. Solas is always sharp and contained. It makes her want to pick him apart piece by piece. She is too old to be this curious.

Ellanna tightens her robe around her sleepwear; a thin t-shirt and thick socks. Anything else and she feels claustrophobic.

“Solas?” she asks, still trying to blink away the sleep burning at her eyes. The candles are burning low now, flickering dimly as wax pours over the bronze candlesticks scattered across the room. They flicker and cast shadows, making rooms that once felt small to her bigger in the darkness.

“Inquisitor.” 

Her hand tightens on the door frame and she fights the urge to set him on fire. He’d be fine with the cool, icy looks he seems to have mastered towards her. It figures that their flirtations at Halamshiral were another misstep in his book. Her patience for games is evermore thin than they were before. 

“What do you want?”

“You.”

Her heart stops beating in her chest for a moment before she remembers herself and wills it to start beating again. 

“You’re drunk,” she spits angrily, moving back to slam the door shut. His hand reaches out to catch the wood with surprising reflexes for someone who smells like a brewery. Ellanna stares at him through the lesser space in the door. 

“I’m not asking you for anything. I’d just like to sit with you.” 

There is a moment of pause. She’s learned to be soft when she needs to be, hard when there are decisions to be made. A First, a Keeper, an Inquisitior should know when to close a door, lock it and throw away the key.

Ellanna steps aside and lets him in.

He’ll probably wander off the battlements or trip down one of the many staircases he had just climbed up to my rooms, she reasons. He’s safer sleeping it off here with me.

She is careful not to think of the implications of her companion spending the night in her rooms. Solas clearly isn’t of the right mind to sneak up the stairs, whoever was on guard tonight would be sure to talk.  Something odd settles in her gut and she is careful not to think about that either.

She helps him to her couch, laying him onto his side. Though it might have been more comfortable than his rickety bed off the rotunda it’s a bit too short for him. He clumsily throws one of his legs over the arm of the couch and lets the other hang off the side while she goes to get him a blanket from her bed. Clumsy is a word she never thought to associate with him.

“If I didn’t know any better,” she grumbles softly. “I’d say you were using me for my Orlesian sheets.” 

He hums and shifts, eyes closed with his lashes fluttering against his cheekbones. Ellanna hesitates before gently lifting his head to slide a pillow underneath. Her hand threatens to linger, rub the tip of his ear and slide her lap under his head instead.

“Never,” he tells her, muttered into the pillow. “Though, they are quite nice”

“Sleep,” she commands him and slides back into her seat at her desk.

She watches his form for a few moments.

You. His voice echoes in her mind. Her hands tremble and she flexes them, shifting her gaze to the papers and books piled on her desk. Ellanna works as long as she can, signing documents and writing letters she’ll have to send tomorrow. So much to be done. Sleep slowly creeps into the corners of her eyes again, stinging. She rubs them, setting her quill down.

Solas is snoring softly on her couch, one arm now dangling off it to accompany his leg. She sighs softly. 

She makes sure her chair doesn’t squeak too much when she pushes out of it and shuffles over to her bed. Shrugging her robe off, she flicks her hand lazily, dousing a majority of the candles. She leaves a few on the fireplace, the room nearly dark now. Outside, she can see the stars and the white tips of the mountains over the balcony railings. 

Ellanna spares a few glances at him as she pulls her socks up to her knees again and slides into bed. The room is silent, his breath gone slow. Sometimes, Skyhold feels too tight around her, like a tunic that doesn’t fit properly and prevents her from breathing. She wants to see the sky and feel the warm forest breeze on her skin.

The thought sends an ache to her heart, down her spine. She steels herself against these thoughts usually. They aren’t of any use to her, she isn’t going back to her clan anytime soon so what’s the point of worrying.

She shifts onto her other side, watching the dull glow of candles sneak in through the space under the door.

Ellanna wakes early but he’s still gone, leaving a neatly folded blanket on her couch and not much else. The least he could do was offer an apology. She puts that out of her mind and decides to skip breakfast and walk the battlements. Usually, she’d dress and break fast with her companions down in the tavern.

“The Inquisitor shouldn’t be eating with everyone else.”

Everyone else was a heavy word around humans. When you didn’t want to say something overtly offensive about someone they were “everyone else” because you were special. She had noticed this was even more prominent at the Winter Palace.

Either way, she reveled in her tiny rebellions sitting with her friends and trying to wake up from a short restless sleep. Maybe it was some childlike part of her that still refused to stop clinging to her womanhood. It must have been stubborn because those years seemed so long ago.

She had been looping around the front of the fortress, passing through the room above the Tavern. She could hear the din of the servants starting to cook and clean.

Rubbing her forehead, she leans against the parapets and sucks in the sharply cold mountain air. The last bit of the sunrise is dissipating over the mountains. Down below, she can see the rows upon rows of tents. Plumes of smoke snake towards the sky. She can almost imagine herself among them, a nameless soldier waking for the day to sausages and cold ale and no responsibilities. The title of Inquisitor is bestowed to someone else in this fantasy.

Ellanna lets herself ache for it, just for a moment. 

Her feet are off before she even wills it. They carry her across the path from Cullen’s tower to the main hall and off towards the rotunda. Solas is sitting in his chair, as casual and unconcerned with her feelings as he had ever been. 

“You kissed me,” she states accusingly. 

His eyes flick up from his book and an unreadable expression settles over him. It’s far too early for anyone to be in the library above them but still, she is embarrassingly aware of how that would sound if anyone else had overheard her declaration. Well, there weren’t many other ways to interpret it. Especially since he had done a little more than just that. 

Ellanna’s heart flutters in her chest like a frantic bird trying to escape its cage and she can’t help but sympathize with it. 

There’s something about Solas that reminds her of the way the forest used to smell when she’d wake in the morning after it rained.

“Say something,” she huffs impatiently, eyes frantic. Solas sets his book down and he stands from his chair, crossing around the desk.

“Would you like me to do it again?”

“What?” she asks, suddenly breathless. Ellanna wonders if it’s from the furious steps she had taken to get here or from the way he’s looking at her. Like he wants to eat her.

But she has enough bite to close the distance between them herself.

Their kiss quickly turns from stubborn and angry, to frantic. His lips move against hers and his cool, soft hands are cupping her cheeks. Something roars triumphant in Ellanna and she bites down on his bottom lip, only to be rewarded by a soft groan in the back of his throat. 

It’s the Winter Palace all over again; wandering hands, needy kisses and the familiar heat building between her legs. He turns and presses her against the desk. She’s nearly his height but leaning back against the wood, his lean form overpowers her and lifts her up onto the surface. It might be similar but there is a desperation to both of their movements that has replaced the hazy lust she remembers. 

A door opens upstairs and their bodies freeze. Solas gently pulls back from their kiss, his pale cheeks flushed and his lips parted with soft pants. Their eyes look upwards, terrified their unwelcome guest has already made it to the balcony railing. Luckily, they hear quiet steps and a soft whistling tune as someone lights a few torches upstairs to ready it for the day. 

Ellanna’s fingers that were busy tugging open the ties of Solas’ tunic fall to the edge of the desk where he still has her pinned. 

Their eyes meet each other. 

“I’ll speak with you later?” Ellanna asks softly.

“Mhm,” Solas grunts, extracting himself from her. Ellanna fixes her clothes and runs her fingers through her hair where his had been only moments before. Her heart it still pumping wildly. Quietly, she grabs his cheek when he goes to turn away, already feeling that wall go up again.

His eyes meet hers and he sighs softly, relenting and delivers a soft kiss to her forehead.

“Later,” he tells her.

It’s the most free she’s felt in a long time. 

[filipefrancoworks]

The White Wall | Project

   The scenographic painting Almagre, developed in 2005 on the island Santa Maria, Azores, for the festivities of the day of the Autonomic Region, explored the idea of the `capacity of a painted surface interacting with a public`. The encountered aesthetic option accompanied the ongoing of the referred ceremony through a game of portions of light of variable intensity on a painted surface.This experience permitted to develop the concept `painting with light’. The bright side of the moon, an exposition realized in 2007, gave continuity to the formal relation between volume and light, opening way to the development of the associated concept of materializing the time as a measuring unit. In 2005, with Boa viagem, the presented ideas were explored, adding the written text as a visual element and its relation with the context in which the work is introduced.

   Orienting our attention to the formal relations between the aesthetic phenomena resulting of environmental and physical conditions, the project ‘he White Wall’ should be interpreted as a creative and experimental process, that profounds ‘lines of thinking’, founded on the problematics initially developed and functioning as a starting point for future projects.

   This project pretends to explore the concept of the capacity of a wall transfiguring itself, the problematics of shadow/ light as a unit of time-measure, and a construction / desconstruction of the message as an aesthetic content.

   In accordance with the spacial references of the physical nature, when we move ourselves in a place, we are being conditioned what concerns our behaviour. This question makes us search for understanding the concept of the wall as a `living` architectural surface, its relation with the involving space and sensorial implications on the spectator. Working in a different form according to the nature of the places – territory, public place or private place – `The White Wall` adapts itself to the different involvements due to its modular nature.

   When you interpret the idea of time as element resulting of the interaction between the light, surface of work, involving place and the spectator, one should refer to the similarity of what happens to the moon, in which the sunlight is reflected through its surface and, during the lunation, the illuminated part presents itself with several aspects, depending on the relative positions of the sun and the moon in relation to the earth, the surface of `The White Wall` reacts in the same way, reflecting different intensities of light, like a living organism, only depending on the sources of natural or artificial lights existing in the place. Working as a means, the surface of `The White Wall` behaves itself plastically as a skin that receives everything and devolves everything, being marked by two principal characteristics associated to its plastic vocation : the three dimensionality/ irregularity of its horizontal and vertical elements and the chromatic treatment of its surface (whites and greys) and the colour of the involving wall.

   In the presence of architectural places with differentiated chromatic characteristics, and confronting this variable with the necessity of interpreting the wall as a formal continuation of the work, the white surges as a central choice for the surface of the work, because of its neutrality, the capacity of reflecting light, its expressive vocation and poetic reading.

   Giving privilege to vision, ‘The White Wall’ uses the light as a painting material, using its profound reflexes that, absorbing this same light, give it back transformed by the persistence of the use and the time.Filtering the light by layers, the surface promotes a tacit relation between clarity and darkness, developing a subtle dialog between shadows in a dynamic and in a temporal way.In an identical form, the visible is made of barriers with fragments of meanings that are taken apart by the wish of whom wants to see them, reinventing ways full of emotion and reason.

   With a bas-relief made by horizontal and vertical blades of a variable height (2-5cm), a three dimensionality existing in the painting, promotes the concept of deconstruction/ construction of the message through the positioning of the spectator in relation to the work and functions like a catalyst of light, reflecting it and filtering it in accordance with the portions of the existing light in the place, because of the different angles and intensities of the incidence of the light on its surface. In the same way, the irregularity of the blades in its presence, permits to add new plastic properties to its surface, in this case the shadow-element, composed by a succession of lightness and semi-darkness, symmetrically opposed to the light-element.

   Considering the work as a whole as a system of coherent values, it is to the composition to organize and to place in a hierarchy a reading that involves an aesthetic objective by the spectator through the visual elements of different natures and forces. Besides the questions talked about before, like relation between place and the way of looking at the work, the idea of modules also relates to the necessity of organizing the composition through the juxtaposition of three groups of distinct elements; on the level of contrast: clear-dark; on the level of drawing: geometrical-organic; and on the level of the global format of the surface and its relation with the involving place. In the presence of architectural and environmental variables, it turned itself important to stabilize the various solutions of the composition, to put on top a geometry of shadows that surge by the limits of the modules to the organization of the lines of light/shadow, resulting of the blade-elements.

   Associated to its dimension, a composition of the painting structures itself through the 25 modules of 70 x 70 cm, making a dimension of 350 x 350 cm in its biggest version. With these characteristics one can explore different walls (as if in a puzzle) of differentiated formats and dimensions, just by reordering the disposition of the referred modules, respecting the relation of the scale, the characteristics of the existing light-points and the function of the place. The referred functionality of the work as an interventive capacity (poetic sense) of the message in the environment, can be incorporated in its surface through written texts or painted images that, in accordance with the written project, give new meaning to the initial problems. This question (that will be further explored in future projects) points out a problem of the back-ground, related to the relative literary power of the element on the foreground, being subject to a development of a visual ‘writing’ in commitment with all the other visual elements.

   The White Wall develops two different variants relatively to its composition and message, independently of the general format of the work, pointing out in the first place a temporal concept, lacking in elements of the first plan, minimal and repetitive with a variable format oriented in a horizontal or vertical form, from a square, rectangle and triangle. This solution explores as a principal element the light/shadow and appropriates itself in a direct way of the wall where it is installed, using it as an integrated element in its value-system. The other way, the second solution puts in the first level the concept of construction/deconstruction of the message, as an isolated visual and identifiable element and working as a tension-point, putting all the other elements to the background. This visual element on the foreground depends on the nature of the text/ form and its capacity to gain new significances, in accordance with the context in which it is installed.

   Exploring the idea in which the spectator is no longer in front of the artistic object and turns to be part of it, the exposed project promotes the ‘time’ through a visual mutation next to the receiver and its attached emotions. In the presence of an architectural place composed of three floors, two of them interrelated by two symmetrical mezzanines and an aerial walkway, that reinforces a central axis composed by a wall of big dimensions, The White Wall guaranties a logical continuity of the space, pointing it out and reinforcing it, imposing a relation of scale and redefining a ‘center’. The existence of several levels/ sub levels and angles of vision from the mezzanines, walkway and access-stairs, permits the spectator to have different angles of vision on the painting, giving the privilege of an extension of the own character of the place and reinforcing an understanding of it. ▶ Work

Details     

Title : the white wall  Dimension : 350 X 350cm. (25 modules – 70 X 70cm.) Technique : primary enamel over a mixed technique. Place : Atalhada Date : 2007

All text and images, are subject to international copyright laws

[pandabearlikes]

Priceless

Characters: You x Baekhyun Genre: Romance, Slice of Life, Fluff Music: `*•.♩ ♪ ♫ ♬♥ .¸.•*

My friend spends her fortunes collecting limited edition items, shelving her precious children into containers and containers that span the breadth of her entire room. I sit there, mesmerized by each and every object, her dedication…counting in my head how long it must have taken, counting with my fingers how much money she must have spent...to realize I don’t quite have that many fingers.

Money. Every one loves money, those who say they don’t probably never realized that in this society, everything costs something. A homeless woman shakes a plastic cup in my direction as I race to get onto the morning bus for work.

-Deet- The machine beeps, invisibly withdrawing little bits of my blood and sweat. But I refuse to slave away like this for a manmade system...slave away for materials that will only dust over time. My friend says I’m not adapting, with the implication that one day even the slightest naivety in me will be tainted by the hunger for money, just as it has done with her.

A race. My friends tell me life is a race, a competition, a battle of who can pocket as much in the shortest amount of time with the shortest amount of effort.

“I want to train for a marathon,” I announce to a room of chuckles as they stare me from head to toe.

“Well, you still need money, lots of it even to sign up for the marathon,” they jeer.

I guess, that’s true. Everything costs something. Rolling my sore shoulders, I squeeze through the crowded bus to the exit located at the center of the bus. The little claustrophobic child in me thinks this way, I can escape reality when need be. With all my might, I cling onto the metal pole - an action of contradiction in itself. Escape reality, you say? Then why are you grabbing for dear life?

“Here, sit here,” a silvery voice offers as its owner stands up and invites me to sit down on the seat he once occupied.

I shake my head and turn away, closing myself off from the world that seemed so daunting and merciless. According to the philosophy, everything cost something so his kindness must cost something. And as a broke post college grad, emptied of anything remarkable enough to pay the riches, I settle to declining without a word.

The young man glances up at me, his lower lip protruding a bit, wondering why this strange girl seemed as though he had asked for her bank account number. But he shrugs, guides an elderly woman into the seat, and to my dismay takes the spot next to me. Unlike me, he nonchalantly crosses his arms over his chest and leans his back against the door. Out of reflex, I latch onto his collar and tug. The miscalculated force causes him to crash right into me. Wincing, I blink and peer up, right into his gorgeous puppy eyes. They’re soft but alluring. I’m not sure if I’m breathing anymore.

“It’s...It’s dan-dangerous to lean against the door,” I stutter in between allotted breathes.

Passengers push and pull, locking the two of us into an unfortunate cul-de-sac. The young man lifts an arm up, what he thinks is offering me a protective barrier at a comfortable distance. Instead, I misinterpret it as a flirtatious reenactment of the infamous kabedon move. He throws me a handsome smile and I immediately turn my back to face him. My heart fumbles between thundering out of fear and celebrating in joy to be in the presence of God’s most handsome child. Due to my lost trance, my grip on the metal bar had unknowingly loosened. I heave and fumble to latch on when the bus takes a sharp turn. Instantaneously, the nimble young man catches me by the waist.

“Don’t worry, I got you,” he reassures, taking my hand and maneuvering it back onto the metal pole. His touch is gentle but firm. I get lost in admiration at the smoothness of his beautiful hands that seem to mock my heavily battered and chapped ones. Sensing my discomfort, he eases his hold and moves his hand to the space directly above mine. Without my knowledge, a frown graces my lips.

“What stop are you getting off on?” the gentleman asks.

To my better judgement, I answer with honesty. Immediately, I internally reprimand my carelessness. So all it took was a handsome testosterone-filled human to make me drop my guard.

“Oh, same,” he replies.

“Re-really?” I stutter.

“I’ll protect you until then,” he half-jokes.

“Wh-what?”

“I won’t let you fall,” he slates.

No. Of course, I will not fall. I haven’t fallen ever. And I will not let myself fall…because the price of falling is far too much.

Yet, my heart responds with a gracious smile.

“My name is Baekhyun,” he stops me in my tracks when I dash as soon as we reach my bus stop. Rummaging through his coat pockets, he takes out a business card, blows off invisible dust, and hands it to me.

“How much does it cost?” is the first thing that sips from my lips.

Chuckling, he replies, “Free.”

“Free?” I respond, a bit shock, though my brain has already signaled for my hands to accept it.

“Except…” Baekhyun rubs the back of his neck and nervously jokes, “Maybe your name and number.”

My body jerks and eyes widen; I’m seconds from shoving the business card back into his precious beautiful hands.

“Name,” he corrects, “Just a name will do,” he backtracks after sensing my discomfort.

Nodding, I pay him with my name for his hospitality on the bus…a trade that made me feel guilty because it seemed like a lacking payment. But the gentleman accepts, complimenting on how beautiful and unique my name is…and that he’d remember it the next time we meet. As we separate, from the corner of my eyes, I catch him racing to get onto the adjacent bus…

“Byun Baekhyun. Financial Advisor,” the business card read. I cackle a bit at my own naivety. Financial advisor, just the person I needed but didn’t want. Just the wit I needed to get pass this roadblock in my life, but just the reason I didn’t want to. I didn’t want to be calculated and sly and cunning, like a fox.

Perhaps, I’m not adapting well.

I catch my fingers bending and unbending, counting away.

Or perhaps, I’m already becoming more calculated than I think I am…

``

“Hey!” Baekhyun greets, cheerfully gracing my name with much more worth than I thought I’d ever mean to anyone, much less a kind stranger.

“Hi, Baekhyun-ssi,” I shyly bow. Already, my cheeks flush, betraying my interest, which growing up, my mother taught, would surely cost me.

Grinning at my reply, the young man automatically positions himself as my personal bodyguard. Today, I hesitate before spinning around. It’s a quiet but calm bus ride, just as I’ve always wished. I could sense a few times that Baekhyun wanted to initiate conversation but feared scaring me. Internally, I cursed my anti-social personality.

“Thank you,” I bow in gratitude and voluntarily hand him a folded up piece of paper for his kind services.

Slightly amused and incredibly curious, he accepts my payment. I flee away before I could see his reaction. But the buzzing of my phone right after answers my curiosity. A silly emoticon greets me as soon as I open the device.

``

“Mornin’ :)” Baekhyun texts me the next day.

“Good morning,” I reply with professionalism.

“I’ll be there in five minutes,” he alerts.

“Okay,” I type back, rocking back and forth on my feet at the bus stop. Three minutes later, the bus arrives and to my dismay, my male companion hasn’t shown up yet. “The bus is here,” I message.

“Wait for me :(,” he replies.

“What do I get for waiting?” I automatically type. Instantly, I regret it, shoving my phone back into my pocket, because I realize I’ve really become more calculated than I had hoped. Slouching, I drag myself onto the bus. I’m midway through pushing through the crowd when I feel my phone vibrate against my thigh.

I fail to suppress a giggle when I open the message to a selfie of Byun Baekhyun’s handsome face. I spend too many moments longer admiring the photo that I forgot this is supposed to be the payment for my waiting. With a gasp, I dash to exit the bus but the floor beneath me had began to move. From the window, I catch a sprinting Baekhyun growing smaller and smaller until he is forced to give up in a fit of pants, huffing and puffing for air.

“:(,” he texts.

“Sorry,” I type back.

“Send me a picture of you,” he surprises me by requesting. Though hesitant, I figure it is to make things even. Since I failed to wait for him, despite his payment, I had to pay him back. Fixing my hair out of my face as best as possible, I snap a quick selfie and send it to him.

``

The next day, I arrive to a suave and yawning Byun Baekhyun at the bus station. At the sight of my arrival, he immediately straightens up, his entire stature beaming at my presence. Automatically, I bashfully turn away and out of habit, loop a strand of hair behind my ear.

“Mornin',” he chirps, rocking back and forth on his heels as if he’s just been gifted boxes of chocolate.

“Hey,” I reply back and make note, “You’re early today…”

“Yeah, I didn’t want to miss you— or I mean the bus again,” Baekhyun nervously chuckles, stuffing his hands into his pockets. A tinge of pink dusts his cheeks.

“I see,” I throw him a soft smile, oblivious to his stutter because I’m lost in a world of nerves, myself.

Naturally, we make our way to the doors near the center of the bus. He positions himself to stand guard over my smaller physique. Today, I surprise both of us by not turning away, though, I can’t seem to be brave enough for direct eye contact so I settle on fidgeting with the tassels of my coat and staring at his briefcase. Must be full of money or documents that easily exchanges for cash six times its thickness… I shake my head and frown.

“Hm?” Baekhyun dips his head to observe my expression. Instantly, my body jolts, my cheeks burn up at the close proximity. “Ah, the roads are a bit bumpier today, right?” he straightens himself and interprets. “The government needs to stop wasting money and drilling dayum holes everywhere,” he mumbles under his breath, which causes a giggle to escape from my lips. In turn, a grin spreads across Baekhyun’s face.

“I’ll see you tomorrow?” the gentleman requests at the point of separation.

“Mhmm,” I gift him a grin and nod. “What…what do I owe you today?”

“Hm?” he raises his brow, a little amused by the oddity of my calculations. Flattening his lips, he rolls his wrist and glances at his watch. “We both got here ten minutes earlier than normal. Care for some morning coffee to wake our brains up?” he suggests.

“Okay,” I nod in agreement. I tag along with him to the nearby coffee shop.

As soon as he made his order, I prance forth and almost shove the money in the cashier’s face. She blinks while Baekhyun attempts to push my hand away to pay with his credit card.

“I still owe you for today,” I remark.

Both his brows lifts and it takes him a few seconds to make sense of the situation. “You don’t owe me anything,” he answers, swiping his card through the machine. With his other hand, he personally retracts my outstretch palms and stuffs them and the contents back into my pocket. I blink and he throws me one of his cute puppy smiles.

“How much do I owe you for the coffee?” I question when he hands me one of the steaming espressos.

“Be careful, it’s hot,” he, instead, warns.

``

“Hi,” I beam. My little legs giddily kick back and forth at the sight of Byun Baekhyun.

“Morning,” he greets with a wink that causes my feet to almost lose balance.

“You’re such a good boyfriend,” an elderly lady compliments after observing Baekhyun holding his arm out to block a drunk man from collapsing over me.

The corner of his lip twitches. He turns away but from the bus door’s reflection, I catch his timid grin. I don’t know why I also don’t deny the misinformation.

~~

A season passes by just like that. Then another. With students out from school, morning hours on the bus become less crowded. Taking my hand, Baekhyun guides me through the aisle and we settle down on a pair of seats near the center.

“You’re extra cute today,” he teases.

I stifle back a giggle and turn away.

It doesn’t occur to me that our hands remained interlocked through the bus ride, until it was time to leave and he easily guided me to the exit.

``

“Mornin’, Beautiful,” Baekhyun grins, toothily.

“Good Morning…um, Hand…” I rub my neck, “…Some…”

The self-proclaimed body guard almost chokes on his coffee. I try to make a run for it because that must have been the most embarrassing thing I’ve ever….but the bus arrives. Baekhyun grabs hold of my wrist, slips his fingers through mine, and tugs me onto the bus.

``

“What’s wrong?” Baekhyun questions, figuring out that I was troubled as soon as I showed up at the bus station with inadvertent sigh.

“Hm…nothing…” I try to dismiss as we get onto our ride.

“Doesn’t seem like nothing,” he casually counters.

Today, the bus is abnormally crowded due to there being a fair at the downtown area. Baekhyun and I automatically head to our spot near the doors. Holding onto my backpack straps, I continue to sulk. Only the scent of Baekhyun’s cologne instills hope back into me.

“Hm, what’s up?” my male companion questions, tapping me lightly on the tip of my nose.

“It’s not a big deal,” I ponder, chewing on my inner cheeks.

“Well, it’s bothering my Little Sunshine so it’s a big deal,” he concludes. My chest bubbles and tummy flip flops to the nickname.

“Just…just student loans…I’ve been paying for a year and the numbers seem to never move,” I admit.

“Ahh, I see,” my crush nods in acknowledgement. Unknown to either of us, his hand had naturally found mine with a squeeze. “I’m the same,” he informs.

“What?” my eyes widen, baffled by his statement. “How? You’re a financial advisor. Aren’t you really good with these things?”

Baekhyun lets out a chuckle. “Well, not really. I just try my best to come up with plausible financial agendas for clients in different situations. I don’t see myself in any tight situation to need to worry about my student loans just yet.”

I blink.

“Do you have a plan?” he squeezes my hand again and questions.

I nod, “Yeah, I’ve been paying for it monthly.”

“Then what are you stressing about?”

“Just that, it seems most of my friends aren’t in debt anymore and I’m just —”

“Don’t think about it that way though. Some people have parents that pay for them. Some had scholarships, some were lucky enough to nail high paying jobs off the bat. As long as you have a plan that’s yours, you are fine,” he reassures, “Go at your own pace.”

The frown on my lips flip. “I guess, you’re right.”

“Honestly,” he chuckles, “I’m not even sure how much I still owe. I’m on auto payment.”

My eyes bulge, “For real? I thought people in your field would calculate their money down to the last penny.”

The remark causes the finance grad to fall to another fit of chuckles. “Money isn’t that important to me,” he notes. I stare at him like he grew a horn at the center of his forehead.

That day, I watched as he rushed to catch the adjacent bus after he had thought I entered my work building.

``

“Mornin’, Babe,” he sneaks in the label that causes both of us to flatten our lips in attempts at suppressing our foolish grins. Instead, I playfully smack him on his abdomen. “aHH, my nutella abs,” he jokes, rubbing his belly.

Covering my smile, I skip ahead and head onto the bus. With a chuckle, my handsome beau tags along, slipping into the seat next to mine…also, slyly slipping his hand through mine. I surprise both of us by turning around with my eyes narrowed into slits. Baekhyun blinks.

“What? We’ve been holding hands everyda—”

“Why do you always chase after the adjacent bus right after dropping me off?” I interrogate.

“Oh,” he nervously rubs his neck and laughs.

“I Google Mapped your work place and you’re supposed to get off one stop before mine,” I continue with raised brow.

“Oh…hah…about that…” Baekhyun awkwardly shuffles his feet. “…because I just want to accompany you longer…” Cheesepuff. You cheesepuff!!!

I eye him half suspicious and half in awe.

“So you take the bus back, everyday?”

“Yeah, just one stop. I could totally walk but I’m lazy,” he shrugs. More like it’s take-the-bus-and-make-it-on-the-dot or walk-and-be-late-to-work…but he’d never admit it.

“That’s wasting money,” I lecture.

“Well, it’s worth it for me,” Baekhyun responds, bringing our intertwined hands up to his lips. He plants a sweet kiss on the back of my hand, sending butterflies fluttering in frenzy within my heart. Out of shyness, I turn away to hide my cherry red cheeks.

Though I’d rather deny, all my life I had been calculating. Calculating how many days I had left to live from the day the doctor held me in his arms and shook his head, calculating how much I owed my mother because she kept a journal of every penny she spent on me, calculating what percent tile I must achieve on the next exam to receive an A on my report card, calculating how much I owed a friend for their kindness, because it always had to be more from my side or else it’s not fair...or else I’d drown in heedful guilt...calculating, calculating…forever calculating.

...when there’s nothing to count. Life didn’t work in numerals.

“Sometimes, the best things in life are priceless,” Baekhyun explains.

I spin my head around to respond. Our lips meet. A half gasps rid from my throat but I hold my breath and stay still as a statue. Grinning, Baekhyun closes his eyes and eases us into a deeper and more affectionate kiss. Like a broken record, the brain races to calculate, but my heart wins the marathon. Slowly, I begin to kiss him back.

“Like you,” he finishes, pressing his forehead against mine, “One of a kind and priceless.”

A/N: Dropping another one-shot ^-^ If you guys haven’t, go read Busy Nights ft. Sehun, the scenario I posted yesterday.  

Hope you guys liked this scenario!  Do you guys want more?  Be sure to follow, like, comment, spam my inbox :)

Story Master Archive

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New Post has been published on https://passingbynehushtan.com/2019/10/31/man-atonement-sins-of-the-world/

How Can a Man Atone for the Sins of the World Through His Own Sacrifice? Only One Way. Part 4. The Man.

This is an article in a series. Please see:

How Can a Person Atone in a Sacrifice for the Sins of the World? Only One Way. Part 1. How Can a Man Atone for the Sins of the World By His Own Sacrifice? Only one way. Part 2. The Messianic Secret How Can a Man Atone for the Sins of the World Through His Own Sacrifice? Only one way. Part 3. Preparation for Sacrifice.

The Sins of the World, A Man and a Cross. How? Two Things

Now, this Messianic secret starts with the two elements I mentioned, which make up the entire image of the Cross: at its bare minimum, stripped of identity and context, a vertical piece of wood, and a man hanging on it.

As I implied before, we start with this by asking about the function of Jesus’s symbolic method: if this is the core, the central and vital symbol of the Christian message, and if Christianity has become a Holy or an evil organization, would we expect this one to reveal it? Yes, we would. Because it is of such value, this would represent a means of protecting the message from being pointedly attacked and lost to those who are always in the world looking for it represents a specific understanding of how redemption works.

I want to speak first on this nature of biblical symbolism as well its means of protection before this man and Cross represents a fundamental specific understanding of God’s mind. If the formal container of the meaning of the Cross is revelational, and this is invaluable, just as something about it which makes it as powerful revealed as powerful concealed, in the following way.

If a plan is said ordained by God, it not only illogical but blasphemous to assume this depiction of Christ on the Cross is different, or any less revelatory, than its meaning. The attachment of meaning is not gratuitous but as an irresistible consequence of the image.  The image in its primary function is for easy access to a precise meaning, which is God’s plan, but only within some mind with as unhypocritical a motive to see it as God’s motive is in preserving it from others.

This is why the message of the Cross is primarily one about the nature of morality because the whole display of the Cross is a spiritual movement to expose spiritual reality, not a physical movement for physical reality. If moral movement is spiritual, and the only kind that counts, I ask in what way would we best legally deal with it if not by our equitable, rational, and fair interpretation? Interpretation of a symbol depicting, whether we want to believe it or not, the single most pressing and implicating religious event in human history?

Why this must contain this deep meaning with life and death implications is because true revealed faith is no such thing if not disclosing of transcendent secrets. Christian people who insist that it is a revealed faith but not disposed toward treating these issues with the gravity that this category implies is not from the start engaging in morality. And for them to only admit that Christ on the Cross in the act follows the same lower form of morality is to admit it represents nothing more than something like “love” or “obedience” or “death.” To assume its accidental functionality or its intentional one of nothing more than another common symbol is the quintessential moral failure. I do not suggest that those who belong to God are only those who understand perfectly, but means that, through the resistant noise produced by these others, they want to, have an overarching concern for it and have enough despite the world’s downgrading.

The Academy finds it divisive and fundamentalist to bind morality and the handling of religious symbolism in this way. The tendency is to treat such symbols as merely incidental to its age and culture, making their meaning malleable, academic, and disposable. But this is no choice for moral spirituality if the claim is that God designed and delivers a kind of communication as a means of revealing his proprietary knowledge, which would be ageless by definition. No matter who you are, your responsibility is to assume the possibility that spiritual life is infinitely more important than physical life. Your ultimate function in life may be the examination and testing of the world faiths, which claim a special revelation from God. Your spiritual morality may be the only kind upon which qualifies any conception of spiritual existence after death. To proceed in, without bias, hypocrisy, and dissembling, that potential toward a decision.

A true revelatory document is one by definition hidden and revealed, with the former representing the symbol and the latter representing its meaning. If a claimed message from God rests only on your faith in some ancient sage’s confidence, and not on a received truth which he delivers from God and subsequently revealed as true historically, this is not a revelation. This the making of a divine symbol to mean another common symbol, not divine knowledge and meaning. God shows himself in some fashion to the subject, which is scriptural and direct and which manifests itself as a possible product only of the mind of God, not man. In reciprocation, you demonstrate the highest kind of morality by its honest handling, since God’s informational object of handling is the highest transcendent value, and the place of its processing is the most valuable dimension of the individual.

Downgrading Made Simple

I am sure most of you are aware after being exposed to the offered hermeneutical and interpretive choices of the World that there is continuously some attempt to retool biblical types, for example, into non-revelatory things. This retooling s an attempt to circumvent this original, unavoidable definition of morality into a kind of lower value. You lower the symbols means of demonstration in a lower place of expression so that when thinking about goodness, we can think of ourselves there without the threat of very harsh, implacable, interdimensional spiritual laws threatening us.

Moses’ serpent on the pole of Numbers 21, for example. The story is that this is not a display of a more significant and later intention of God, but only perhaps for Moses to give a superstitious people hope that God will protect them from serpent bites. Or, we hear, Christ in John 3 did not refer to this serpent on the pole as a type of him, and has no place in his talk with Nicodemus except Jesus just telling him to believe in God and get baptized truly. Or, Moses’ serpent stops at the meaning of “holiness under the appearance of sin.” Or, the Greeks borrowed the image of the serpent in the Staff of Asclepius, the symbol for medicine and healing, and the image means “true healing by God alone.”  Christ is “lifted up,” the serpent was “lifted up,” therefore “lifted up” means Christ raised as the cure for sin.

Do I have a problem with any of these? No, not superficially, except for the first and second. They are all the same interpretation, led by an insularity trying to take a meaning of the serpent on the pole only from a range of possibilities for the purpose of uncoiling and pacifying that serpent, so to speak. The serpent is, however, undomesticated forever, and not defanged unless it is allowed to speak for itself.

That irresistible reflex, an aversion to the idea of any particular thing hidden that may jump out, scare and threaten them, which leads their actions in first making it less threatening, is the problem of a priority of self in the face of truth. Who knows what, if they thought God were speaking certain instead of general things about us, he would say about what is really in our hearts? It’s a lot easier to handle the suggestion that “all those who have no faith can’t be saved” than it is “only those who have [Certain kind of faith here] will be.” Sin defines as a priority of fear of a relatively worthless loss over something of infinite value, so you change the language to avoid the clear threat of identifying against something Holy in which you have no visceral interest. At least “faith” remains open only to an unthreatening species.

We do this for the same reason that Vladimir Bukovsky, in his book Judgment in Moscow: Soviet Crimes and Western Complicity, said that the West, particularly the liberal West, never really resisted the evil of the Soviet state, they were complicit.

“The movers and shakers of today have little interest in digging for the truth. Who knows what one may come up with? You may start out with the communists and end up with yourself.”1

In the church, the theologians of today have little interest in digging for the truth about real sin. Who knows with what might come up? You may start with Satan and end up with yourself.

The thought is that Jesus of the Cross is axiomatically a particular revelation of God’s plan and strategy of implementing it. It’s not optional for Christianity as a revealed faith but would crumble without it by the hands of those who must somehow place themselves in exclusive control of transcendent meaning so that the idea of God that occupies their thoughts does not haunt it as well.

That brings us to the why and how of the necessity of using something ambiguous for this particular revelation of God’s plan of redemption, but not vague for a certain, targeted few.

If you have something of value, particularly of the highest possible value, you don’t throw it into the street for anyone to pick up and exhaust according to their desires, but by some means, you put it away. If anyone thinks it’s as valuable and wants it, they must show their belief that it carries the approximate value that its provider ascribes. The key to this analogy is “desires,” so keep that in mind.

If you want a loan at the bank for a business project, you convince them that you know what you’re doing, that you see the value of money, that you already have some means in cash reserve for a possible slow start, show you have a familiarity with the work. You present a business plan to show that you know where you’re going. You may complain that the bank does not just empty its coffers and let it rain down over the city like a ticker-tape parade, or give it to you just because you want it, but the fact is that if you place a value on a thing you don’t treat it like trash, and you are not honest in expecting others to.

God’s currency is existential truth. “Truth” is the currency of our theology, but not “God’s truth” as we conceive it. “God” is one thing, and “truth” is another, and God’s truth is God’s revelation in a historical phenomenon of promise and fulfillment that forever establishes his exclusive authorship. In our theology, ‘God’s truth” means any kind of truth, biblical or not. “God” is therefore made a disposable and weak concept because there is a desire to think of it as unsupportable except by insular subjective and idiosyncratic motives.

Please go to the next page…

The world, including our theology, has access to “truth,” but this only appears to be a value, because it is not a concept formulated with an unavoidable transcendental attachment. The way the world handles the ultimate spiritual bank is they make their own currency, and their own bank, and loan it out to their own people, that don’t place upon it so harsh and strict qualifications.

The currency they exchange and spend is a boon to the world. It finances countless books, lectures, seminaries, emotions, churches, and pious intentions very successfully and lavishly, but only because they can’t get into the other transcendent bank and use its currency of truth, which has a firewall around it which keeps them out.

The only way a real revelation of God is of possible success when given into a world with a majority of people hostile or apathetic to it, but still for a small number who are receptive, is to make sure it gets through to the right people and hide it from the wrong people. The bank hides its money by putting it into safe. With God, he protects it from the wrong people by baiting them with what they really love. Those are the things of the world, mystery, puzzles, work, tantalizing questions, and generally a possible view of transcendence taken for the exclusive service to them and their desires. It superficially looks like the real thing, giving a feeling that they are holding something ultimate, but the comparison stops there. At the same time, this symbol that can signify carnal things to carnal concerns, having the competence to appear holy but is not, is for those looking for God also symbols of things that pertain to eternity, truth, spiritual law, God’s mind and the provably miraculous. The one honestly looking for truth gets it, which is entirely abstract but of life and death importance, and the one looking for other things gets it, which can only fuel carnal ambition and die with them. This accomplishes two things.

One, God’s Word, his message, is preserved untouched for those that will receive it since the carnal majority never know it in order to mount a targeted effort to demagogue it too vigorously and widely. Two, God’s Word remains as a foundation for the growth of a larger religion not divinely motivated, but which reveres the “Bible” idea. In this, its members unconsciously create a much broader, global protective context in which that Word is preserved and distributed. Every biblical symbol reflects this same strategy.

There is a temptation to ask if this truth is of ultimate value to everyone, why is it not given unambiguously? After all, if an entire people are dying of some new virus and you have a sure-fire cure, love means offering it freely. Why does the revelation have to be symbolic at all? This is a persistent and loud complaint of liberal, universalist sects and atheists.

I remind you that the spiritual body is not the physical body, and a physical drug is not a spiritual one. The spiritual body, as the physical body, is a body effected by the accumulated attitudes and actions as a result of free will with respect to that life. But the spiritual body is by definition free will, history, reason, love, attitude, and belief itself, not sloughed off in death but remaining to stand as an indelible witness of that person as the being in himself, not the beings corporeal representation device. The cure for spiritual sickness is spiritual and will metabolize successfully only by working in nuclear agreement with the spiritual body of its introduction. Since the spirit is itself a decision and its effects, not only a possible reflection of it, a cure passed out indiscriminately is one that assumes that the spirit will benefit from it like the physical cure, without the synergistic cooperation of the receiver. In all due respect to Calvinists, this is then a denial that we even have spirits (or souls if you will), defined as the strongest and most identifying part of an individual which has to power and responsibility to accept or deny reality. To such an entity, you compassionately make the drug freely accessible. But since it is a transcendent truth, information, and not a thing, it can’t work in a spiritual body which treats it as a medical talisman, but only by being in the sense of a receptor to what it already is. If not, your just an antibody to the divine antibody.

By this same logic, God coming down and appearing on the White House Lawn before CNN cameras is not compassion, it’s the forcing of truth upon the receiver and the removal of his free will in accepting it. It’s not respect, its infantilizing, or thinking of people as programmable androids. In that case, no one can reject God. It leaves no room for your moral conscience to move in the process of search, discovery, and commitment. As such, it gives the holiest aspect of God, his sovereign non-contingency, and inter-dimensionality, which makes him inaccessible except through a mediator, an inconsequential aspect, and, therefore, just a notion.

We are discussing a moral decision and a moral choice made for your spirit when that is a most important act you can perform, emblematic of the soul, is not your moral decision, nor a moral decision of the one who makes it for you.

But if this depiction of Christ on the Cross represents God’s plan of redemption, and the plan demarcates fundamental evil from good, the depiction’s meaning has to be as earth-shattering by its true reveal as it is protective of it. The two essential elements of the Cross of Christ begin with this: rather than an answer, I ask if the Cross is first showing as a question and a moral choice between two things?

This is where it really gets interesting. But if your fear snakes override your need for the truth, don’t even try to follow me from here.

The Man: Sin and Righteousness

There is a cross. There is a man on the cross.

The man, again, tortured and murdered by hanging on this cross. His life, draining away. Bound, affixed, tied to this wood. Abused, crushed, and dying. Finally, he dies by hanging on this device of murder.

Our time now will center on this man. Who must he be a sacrifice for the sin of the world?

The act is not transcendently redemptive if it is not, first and foremost, a revelation. I think we have sufficiently exhausted this. We must then conclude the consequences of you taking this as something primarily designed to be mysterious with benefits that reach out to the individual only from Heaven is a full-frontal coup to its designed power and the crushing of the message.

As I have just discussed, sin is the forcing of a spiritual cure into the function of a physical, “evil” one, that one receives and holds without the necessity of moral reflection, with it giving healing benefits automatically. This is called talismanism, what the ancients called idolatry. Many of us readily insist that before the act of the Cross and the Man can in any way be redemptive, it must be known and believed. But taking the meaning of the Man and the meaning of the Cross as God/Jesus/Savior/Redeemer on burden/death/sacrifice/love are weasel words. They are designed to accommodate the necessity of divine meaning with the ardent love of a religious device transmitting virtue to a person without necessarily any depth of understanding, love, and meditated engagement. These words are conceptual, not revelatory. What would be revelatory is when the meaning reduces to a symbol concept so powerful that it then forces a signification which then stands for the end of the signification process, not the beginning or middle. It is ending in the thing-in-itself, not its mediator. It is ending in a piece of knowledge that could not have come from the human mind. Those words are infinitely re-assignable to another vulnerable concept, such as “political activist,” “radical rabbi,” “hippy saint,” “persecution,” “lover of people,” “ultimate ritual sacrifice,” etc. None of these stops a possible chain of signification because “truth” has arrived by the symbol’s instrumentality. We want an idea that is revelatory outside of the mind’s resources in an engagement with common words.

For this mediation to succeed in producing a revelation, there are some theological keywords for scoping out that apply to this man: righteousness and morality, lust, and sin.  He has to be righteous and not carnal, but by the meaning of carnality and sin, because righteousness is defined by what it is not. We are not going to offer “righteousness,” for example, and leave its definition open or rendered to “lawful obedience” or some similar. The working definition has to be consistent with the spiritual receiver in the act of free will in wanting and choosing to see some revelation which, like the motive, is alien to carnal thought and expectation.

After this, we consider the display of righteousness and sin in the scene of a man hanging on a Cross, which is the display of sacrifice for world sin.

Please go to the next page…

Now, according to the Bible, some are spiritual and those carnal. Those righteous and unrighteous. God hearers, and God resisters. The Man is one of these, perhaps the righteous, perhaps a deceiver. For him to deliver a revelation for all, it is in the sense of being offered to all but not accepted by all. But to be unrighteously accepted or denied, it will have to be one that is as accessible as it is obscure to all, depending upon the kind of person who is in view. The Man on the Cross is a carnal resister to some and a canal encourager to others. One revelation is for the righteous, and one hidden for the unrighteous.

If he is a sacrifice for the sin of the world in the sense of its possible cure, it is evident that the agent of this task can’t be unrighteous carnal and sinful. He has to be righteous in a way that is not human but possible for humans, long before you consider whether such a sacrifice is possible. But what do these concepts mean?

Well, there is an ultimate sense of these ideas and a common one, just as there is an open and easily appropriated signification to this sacrifice and a closed but accessible one.

The common-sense version is that righteousness is doing things according to a moral code. Unrighteous is doing otherwise.  Carnality is acting and thinking in accord with the world and its devices and rewards, and spirituality is doing things in agreement with God’s world.

If this is so, the moral code is according to that of this other world. Not in law or obedience touted as given from another world, or a code which itself does not have such a transcendent mark. This Man’s moral code, which should be ours, is one impossible for us to obey because the standard is too high for us, or else we could do it ourselves. But this can’t be primarily physical obedience because that is not an obedience of a certain reflection of the spiritual body in itself, not necessarily carried out by the moral spirit itself, but can just as well thought by anti-spiritual motives. The moral code and its obedience have to be of exclusive alien origin and motivation, or else it can’t stand as a witness to a genuinely spiritual state. This origin is not a matter only of faith and personal will. The origin displays openly or will not be an available universal choice, but only for those that are looking for righteousness as a personal attribute of spiritual superiority and functioning selfishly as Hell insurance. A transcendent “righteousness” for the Man on the Cross is not ultimately obeying then a “moral code,” implying any kind, possibly within our common understanding and ability. It implies a specific spiritual, moral code that speaks to the morally intended spirit God’s nature and existence, so the receiver of this Man’s morality obeys it in its right place and way. Not a literal obedience, as in the Man’s sacrifice, but from the standpoint of a witness to it, and a returned faith in its truth.

Some of these ideas are easy. Righteousness means being spiritual, and that means following the moral code laid down by the God of the Spirit, of that other dimension above the temporal. But it’s only easy if they are referring to a conceptual object of the other world, and we have far from finished defining these keywords up to a particular species of transcendence.

Words Mean Things

Lets just back up and think about the difference between mere ideas and predicates as applied to the sinful way that we use spiritual language in a carnal fashion.

I am saying that any working idea of “righteousness” and “sin,” for example, is not represented by a concept which points to predicating knowledge, which is so open that it allows another symbol for it, which is opaque by definition. Both the concept and the predicate must be transcendent, with the concept having the ability to only refer to the divine knowledge, for which it cannot point higher.

A conceptual object means “idea.” An idea is a symbol for a range and quality of knowledge, data, information which necessitates representation and mediation to and between its giver and its receiver. Since this is about God’s ultimate ideas, then it’s between God’s mind and ours. There is something that these words mean that originates in God’s mind and will. Saying that, for example, “righteousness” will predicate and signify by knowledge, by information, by truth defined as “obedience to God,” can’t be the end of this signification search back to that ultimate, it’s just a nudge in that general direction. This means that that the definition is still carnal, still in the world, still lacking connection to God. If we are talking about discreet categories of knowledge, then the meaning of our words that refer to something other than our natural, carnal sense of “knowledge” has to be discreet, or else you are taking ideas which lead only toward and not into it. If so, it must be an example of a world completely outside of mind, the emotions, and the systems which this world invents and uses.

Let me give you an example. You are an auto-mechanic and trained as such, but you want to become a neural surgeon because you’re good with your hands, and you want more money. You can’t become one just because you want it. Let’s say that Joe wants a Doctorate in neural medicine. Still, he figures that the best way of doing this is to read a medical textbook and memorize all the surgical vocabulary and their definitions. Although he is unaware of how to use any of these words in a general conversation on the chemistry, surgical techniques, and biology of the profession, he goes to the medical college and starts composing random sentences and conversing with the professors using all this terminology anyway, expecting that they will accept him as a surgeon and grant him a degree.

If he thinks this possible, he would be quite disrespectful of both the faculty, the profession, knowledge, and generally of reality itself. His aim is more money. He has in real interest in the business, or else he would commit himself to learn it properly and thoroughly. Does he deserve a doctorate in neural medicine based upon his handling of its sacred ideas?

If the attitude and the actions of the mechanic are an indication of his willful and selfish use of higher things in an attempt only to take them for himself, this is unrighteousness. Righteousness shows by pursuing and having higher things. Any talk or actions you engage in with those higher things, as irrational as it is, is but an attempt to steal them for yourself by your superficial attachments.

You might say that this is an incompetent and absurd analogy. First, the idea that you have to know all the technical jargon of theology to go to heaven? And how can I use such an insane and clueless person like this, whom you would never find in the real world? But that’s why I used it because the insanity in how we use transcendent keywords is even more insane and irrational than this auto-mechanic.

No, of course, you don’t have to know all the jargon. But I’m not talking about “biblical pericope” and “hypostatic union.” I’m talking about “righteousness,” “spirit,” and “sin,” fundamental things even a child could handle. The auto-mechanic is not really using medical terms to use in his fake-out that you would likely only get from a medical textbook. He actually thinks that if `he uses “body” and “blood” and “vein,” this is enough to qualify for a surgeon. If not a surgeon, but a theologian, this level of depth is also enough, with the open and unqualified use of such as “faith,” “sin” and “righteousness. So my example is really, really crazy and unlikely except within the spatio-temporal world that uses transcendent things only to pretend its pursuit, love, and learning. Our world of spiritual hypocrisy.

No, if you’re going to use a word, no matter how basic, that refers to the other world, you have to use still another word, or reformat that idea so that it includes and is qualified by something specific that could have only come from that world and is proof of it. You can’t use “duodenal mucosal resurfacing” in a sentence, or use “righteousness” in a sentence, and be said to understand this stuff.  You need a medical or theological qualifier, or you need to keep talking.

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For a theologian, the distance between you and any of your transcendent authorities is naturally much greater than you and the medical certification board when not certified by them, no matter how unqualified you are for their degree. If you’re a theologian, the spatial distance between a simple idea representing a proposed transcendent quality or property and a demonstration that shows the validity of that idea is much greater than “Duodenal mucosal resurfacing” and the case studies in France that demonstrate its effectiveness and safety for the procedures release for the general population. In the context of faith, it is way easier to use “God” without “of prophecy” or ”word,” His transcendent demonstrations, than using “DMR” without referral to its proof-of-concept, “Revita DMR trials.” Without referral to its physical demonstration in a certain paper to the FDA for the purpose of instilling confidence in for that procedures certification and implementation. The theological one is easier because transcendence is naturally far from the heart, instantly thought of cursively and with its unreality leading its apprehension. Its unreality or irrelevance is influencing you more than its proof-of-concept if you use a technical term as a general one.

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Since this is the case, you have to be ten times more careful in how you talk about it if you want to be qualified as a theologian and not a scientist at best, and a huckster or worse. Not to mention your qualification as having a real faith issued/caused/made available by a transcendent authority.

Theology is not the study of God’s theology because “theo” means “God,” but because a study of God is only legitimate if God’s revealed qualities and acts from that dimension in that which is not God is the focus of the study. “God” does not stand alone as a concept, but it implies another dimension that pertains to his fact to be an industry above mere fantasy. “God,” the idea, is an unspoken but highly qualified one. Theology is then the use of words that refer to transcendence in a way that demonstrates God to yourself and others that He is known and understood by the greatest examples of his transcendence. You can’t use “righteousness” and say it means something like “obedience to God’s moral law” and call this proper theology,  because “obedience,” “God,” “moral” and “law” can exist either explicitly or implicitly with no connection to a particular and ultimate example of them which is not from here. They are ideas, they are not divine predicates in a real and objective demonstration of God, and if you don’t have that you don’t have any God to faith, except faith in a nice idea.

Am I beating a dead horse now? Ok, let’s take this forward.

“God” and his Reveal

You might not have thought about it, but the Bible follows all this almost exclusively. The Bible is written not like a clueless, emotional, and groundless tout, no matter how much atheists and far-leftists want to think of it as such. The Hebrew Bible and its combined New Testament are entirely alone among this type of literature in its stubborn insistence that it’s a proven revelation, not just the wishful thinking of its subjectively inspired human authors.

Isaiah 48:3. “I have declared the former things from the beginning; and they went forth out of my mouth, and I shewed them; I did them suddenly, and they came to pass. 4 Because I knew that thou art obstinate, and thy neck is an iron sinew, and thy brow brass; 5 I have even from the beginning declared it to thee; before it came to pass I shewed it thee: lest thou shouldest say, Mine idol hath done them, and my graven image, and my molten image, hath commanded them.6 Thou hast heard, see all this; and will not ye declare it? I have shewed thee new things from this time, even hidden things, and thou didst not know them. 7 They are created now, and not from the beginning; even before the day when thou heardest them not; lest thou shouldest say, Behold, I knew them. 8 Yea, thou heardest not; yea, thou knewest not; yea, from that time that thine ear was not opened: for I knew that thou wouldest deal very treacherously, and wast called a transgressor from the womb.”

You can confirm that fact even in its most casual use of its key nouns. Its use of, for example, “God,” is always with an explicit or at least strongly implied qualifier to his informational demonstration in the world, or his specific connection to his domain, which distinguishes him from the unrevealed and pagan gods around.

The reason why we are going down this road when I’m supposed to be talking about the Man on the Cross and that display of sin and righteousness is that I’m going to suggest that the miraculous qualifiers that are associated with “God” are much stronger for the association of both the Man on the Cross and the Cross itself. This will show how the meaning was tossed out after the1st century, and why the church is being destroyed by those who are continually let in that have no interest in this whatsoever.

“God of Heaven” (Ge 24:3,7; 2Ch 36:23; Ezr 1:2; Ezr 5:11-12; Ezr 6:9-10; Ezr 7:12,21,23; Ne 1:4-5; Ne 2:4,20; Ps 136:26; Da 2:18-19,37,44; Jon 1:9; Re 11:13; Re 16:11)

“God of Abraham” (Ge 26:24; Ge 28:13; Ge 31:42,53; Ex 3:6,15-16; Ex 4:5; 1Ki 18:36; 1Ch 29:18; 2Ch 30:6; Ps 47:9; Mt 22:32; Mr 12:26; Lu 20:37; Ac 3:13; Ac 7:32)

“God of the Hebrews” (Ex 3:18; Ex 5:3; Ex 7:16; Ex 9:1,13; Ex 10:3)

“God of Israel” (201 instances)

“God of hosts” (39 instances)

“God of truth” (De 32:4; Ps 31:5; Isa 65:16)

God of knowledge (1Sa 2:3)

God of glory (Ps 29:3; Ac 7:2)

God of the spirits of all flesh (Nu 16:22; Nu 27:16)

This is a very truncated list. It does not even come close to representing the point. Search for “Lord of,” with such as results as “Lord of Hosts” (244 instances).

References to Abraham or Israel are references not just to people or collectives, but more importantly, to precisely what God told them and what God subsequently did with them. They are this equivalent. God revealed himself to them, either by the personal presence or by disclosure of that about him and his mind, which only he could know and which proves it.

I point out that your revelation of yourself to another person must go far beyond your bodily presence and incidental actions as this disclosure of who you are. The body is a superficial thing relative to your spirit, and you can have a limitless number of false readings by it. What really does it is when you speak. You relate your beliefs, feelings, history, intentions. A police report also shows a lot and the testimony of others. Therefore, it’s mostly by information carried on spoken words or in documents, not only by sight.

For Abraham and the rest, when a Jew said “Abraham,” they were not thinking just about a guy that is the physical progenitor of the Jewish race. They thought about his connection to God in a relationship in which the two spoke to each other, with Abraham receiving a revelation about God concerning the future of humankind. Abraham talked to God, who promised him physical and spiritual progeny more numerous than the stars of heaven. To Israel, that God brought them by Moses out of Egypt by signs and wonders, sustaining them by the same agency in the desert. They were not fed by “water” or by “manna” or by “quail,” but by supernaturally produced instances of them. God finally brought them into the “promised land,” the land of prophetic promise, and through the miracle of the parting of the Jordan River.

Remember this, because it is absolutely essential to understand the plan of redemption in which we are now supposed to be partakers.  Don’t forget the image of Christ on the Cross when I start to talk about how these things are written this way for a purpose, having the ability to be turned a carnal way or a particular spiritual way, which is the presentation to you of a test by a kind of question.

When the New Testament as a whole comes into view, this question is what its all about, with an answer mostly to what God is and where God is by a fulfilled demonstration of himself.

God of great price, God of peace, God of all grace, God of the holy prophets, God of our Lord Jesus Christ, God of all comfort, God of patience and consolation, God of the living (not of the dead), God of my salvation, Kingdom of God/Heaven. God (Father) of lights.

The Old Testament references often refer to a prophet, an agent of God to whom he spoke and gave a revelation of the future. This includes Abraham, Issac, and Jacob, Moses, and the rest. Then the most frequent mention of them is to their collective children, Israel, the Hebrews, who are the people of prophetic promise.

When we get to the New Testament where is related to a momentous fulfillment and representation of God’s existence, nature, and plan, you can see that a lot of these informational qualifiers are referring specifically to a past promise and its revelation. A realization of a supernatural oath, which forms a context for such ideas as grace, patience, salvation, peace, sin, and righteousness. These are not defined arbitrarily. Each one refers to a particular line of biblical evidence of God’s work, what he has realized and revealed, not only “God.” With each instance, the expositor can open scripture and show you what God has done to give peace, save, build a kingdom, give patience and consolation, which are supernatural events of history toward the outworking of his plan of redemption.

But the greatest is this:

God’s Son

What must be remembered here is that all of these informational qualifiers of the God concept are the product of the Messiah and for the Messiah. Not one of them is attributed directly to a “God” who is only a concept but only to a God who is revealed in the flesh. Messiah is the revelation of God in the flesh. Literally, God’s promise, his prophetic utterances to the Prophets, come true. This looks a lot like this necessary dichotomy of idea and demonstration of which have spoken. It also looks a lot like a man and a Cross.

“Man” is an idea. Even “Messiah,” “Christ,” and “Jesus” is an idea. What God did is not an idea. It’s not the token or representation of reality; it is reality, what the Bible calls “Truth.” You cant use the concept without the reality, or else you have an uncontrolled idea given to carnal culture to redefine according to its wishes. “God’s Son” is a concept, but the concept is qualified with a demonstrative predicate, and like ‘Abraham,” it is put to faith as the equivalent of God himself and identically for God’s Son himself.

1.Moscow in. Vladimir Bukovsky 1942-2019. Vladimir Bukovsky 1942-2019. https://www.vladimirbukovsky.com/judgment-in-moscow. Published 2019. Accessed November 18, 2019. ↩

[deadsummerdays]

Let’s Movie Nerd-Out About Identity and Memory in ‘Swiss Army Man’

For a story conceived of as a running gag about the worst possible premise for a film, Swiss Army Man sure raises a lot of deep questions. (Heh, ‘raises.’) At first glance, this movie looks like an overly-sincere indie dramedy in which New Age open-mindedness dismantles antiquated social mores and Daniel Radcliffe farts as far away from the Harry Potter franchise as possible – a combination that works or flounders depending on whether you’re on board with the joke – but there’s a subtler side. Issues of identity and memory (or more broadly, knowledge) crop up everywhere in this love story, and I expect they will be a topic of speculation for many years to come. With a movie this crazy in particular, I want to acknowledge that we can all play the subtext game and wind up with wildly different interpretations, so this is not me painting anyone with an extra-saucy coat of shade. A lot depends on how you value the information a film throws at you, and generically, magical realism likes to force its audience to choose what to believe. So, bearing that in mind, let’s make like Hank and Manny and dive right in. Major spoilers below.

Now that we’re all down at the exclusive Club Spoilers, I should clarify my usage of the word “identity.” There are people who argue that Swiss is secretly a tale of transgenderism, and while I think the ending is open enough that this is possible (we simply don’t spend enough time with the newly-liberated Hank to know), it isn’t my purpose here to argue for or against that conclusion. Rather, I mean to look at Swiss’s theme of identity in a more holistic sense. Hank, Manny, and Sarah exist in a web of imposed and appropriated ‘selves’ which fluctuates over the course of the film, and it is this interlocking of the three characters that I intend to look at.

Some movies go out of their way to provide a full exposition of their main characters in the first several minutes, particularly when they appear to us someplace they wouldn’t normally be, like the middle of goddamn nowhere. Not so in Swiss Army Man, which is coy with a purpose. The less that is confirmed, the more the audience and other characters rely on imagination to fill in the blanks, and the easier it is to blend in magical elements without them feeling jarring; this produces an atmosphere that is conducive hyperbole. Our knowledge of Hank is vague and emotional, that he is a lonely, unfulfilled person driven to infirmity -- but like Manny, in absence of a concrete context, we accept the world of the film on his terms. At the moment that his life fails to flash before his eyes, a strange man appears on the shore, and we get our first memory: Hank on the bus, looking up (as we learn later) in anticipation of Sarah climbing aboard. He “didn’t see much” then, as he explains to the corpse he has resuscitated into only the barest, basest form of reflexive life – but he did see Manny. Cue the violins.

When Hank wakes up again on the coast, his attention shifts to trying to figure out whether Manny is a hallucination, a scientific oddity, or a miracle. It’s a question that is never totally resolved and which creates a fundamental problem in trying to ‘identify’ Manny, that he may be to a greater or lesser extent Hank’s projection. To start with, Hank treats him like a child, or more specifically, as Hank’s father treated him when he was a child. He then tries to stimulate Manny’s memory, but all it establishes is his fondness for music. For all intents and purposes, Manny is a blank slate, and so it falls to Hank to educate him about home and why they should go there. Making use of conveniently-placed garbage, he sets about illustrating life in his society, ostensibly for Manny’s benefit but also to a great extent for his own, using Manny as another tool through which to dramatize and fix his own personal perceptions and traumas. And because Manny has little to no background on what’s going on, like a child looking to his parent, the things Hank says and does become inflated in his mind: Hank humming to himself out of boredom makes singing an essential social activity, for example, and bus rides and e-cards become special rituals. But whereas Manny relies on his friend to indulge him with memories of home, Hank has the opposite problem: he remembers it all well enough, but because he was so unhappy in his old life, he doesn’t want to.

Already we see in the cinematography that mirroring of the two men abounds. This takes on even greater meaning in Swiss because Hank is the one doing the blocking. Since Manny can’t move on his own, Hank positions him, often in a way that either replicates his own posture (seated opposite each other on the beach, propped on their elbows in the cave) or allows Manny to execute a task Hank wants him to do. The implication that Hank is (perhaps unconsciously) imprinting himself on Manny is clear. This is, however, still within the fairly reasonable breadth of identity formation, with some of Hank’s influence rubbing off and much of Manny’s personality asserting itself despite him. Where things get a good deal more complicated is when Hank introduces Sarah into the mix.

The first curiosity with regards to Sarah is why Manny assumes that he knows her in at all. The phone falls in front of his eyes and he’s instantly attracted, but the fact of being attracted didn’t make him think that the magazine belonged to him, too, or that he knew any of the women in it. My best guess is that this is a case of “found it first” thinking: Sarah’s picture is the first object to which Manny develops an attachment independently of Hank’s interference, and so he believes that his connection to it is special and exclusive. Hank’s shame prevents him from correcting this mistake, so he entertains Manny’s illusion to the point of dressing up as Sarah in a fruitless effort to jog his ‘memory.’ Manny’s encouragement surprises Hank and helps him embrace the affect. There’s a change in the wind: armed with a concept, now Manny is making requests to fulfill his own vision of his life, using Hank as his resource. Also of note is how well Manny’s desires align with his friend’s: he isn’t only attracted to Sarah, but fixated on her, just like Hank is. If Manny isn’t a figment of Hank’s mind altogether, he certainly takes after him in an uncannily precise way.

In order to get Manny’s “compass” to work, Hank further develops Sarah into a character. It becomes clear that he looks to her the way Manny looks to him, as a person who sets the terms of how life should be: the bus she rides becomes a mythic space, the café she frequents is remembered in loving detail, and arguably even the racoon of its logo is the basis for her party costume. He and Manny construct sets in which to play out the fantasy, with Manny in the role of an idealized Hank and Hank in the role of an idealized Sarah. Responding to his prompts, Manny is convinced that he fell in love with Sarah on the bus but that he has yet to work up the courage to talk to her, which is exactly Hank’s problem; Hank, on the other hand, smooths over the complications of his real-life association with Sarah by making his version receptive.

This scene creates two severe logic problems, one of which is how Hank could produce the scenario of Manny encountering Sarah on the bus without Manny becoming suspicious. It is most plausible that he cited the fact that she was sitting by a bus window in the photograph as inspiration, but to a greater extent, we have to believe that Manny adopts Hank’s version of things as fact, assimilating his explanations into reality. Time is also a tricky factor here because the pair make no distinction in their plays between memory and destiny: since Hank cannot bring himself to acknowledge the full realm of possibilities, Manny is left with the impression that there is only one track his relationship with Sarah can follow, and so it doesn’t much matter whether he’s only at the beginning or if he’s already won her heart. In absence of his own memories or context, he assumes Hank’s lesson is a simulation of his real meeting with Sarah, making Hank’s characterization of her equally ‘factual.’ Thus, Manny takes up Hank’s role in the drama while Hank, freed from his uncertainties and disappointments, embraces being his own beloved.

Manny is the ‘movie character’ in Swiss Army Man, by which I mean that he has a filmic intelligence; whereas Hank stages his thoughts as interactive ‘sets,’ Manny appears to think in montage. It’s unsurprising that he enjoys movies and looking out of windows, both clear reflexive references: consigned to an existence of removed, immobile observation, he is a perpetual passenger and a perpetual spectator to whom the flow of real life already looks like a film. Manny is also capable of melding his thoughts with Hank’s, or is perhaps even inter-subjective with him (again, filmic), which could also explain their identical interest in Sarah. However, this opens up the second logic problem of the bus scene, which is the biggest one in the whole film: when Manny extracts Sarah’s name from Hank’s mind, why doesn’t it seem to bother Hank at all? It’s puzzling that he reacts to Manny’s intrusions with alarm during the campfire scene and not here, but whatever the reason (if it’s not merely a plot hole), Manny comes away persuaded that the memory is his own, and Hank is either too ashamed to press it or too invested in the fantasy to care. There are indications that Hank is beginning to lose himself in Sarah: her personality and emotions seem genuine rather than affected, and when Manny asks Hank to put his hand on her hand, he does so in her character.

The montage scene is of great consequence for both our heroes. Manny is introduced with much fanfare to cinema itself (complete with popcorn), which becomes important later, when he processes his grief over Sarah’s ‘affair’; Hank, meanwhile, spends more and more time as her until she seems to become a persona, a creative reproduction of Sarah Johnson as she exists in Hank’s mind. The romance that develops between the pair is not just a fiction of Hank and Sarah, then, but an actual relationship between Manny-as-Hank (or, if you assume they are one and same, Hank-as-Manny) and Hank-as-Sarah. Their trek home continues out of inertia, and yet, were it only so simple, they might have turned around. The fundamental rift between them is that Hank realizes the real object of his affection is Manny, whereas Manny believes that Hank-as-Sarah is a simulacrum: he’s aware of the distinction between Hank-as-Sarah and the genuine article, but he still assumes that everything he does with the former is a re-telling of what his relationship with the real Sarah was, is, or will be like. This seems to be an issue that is unique to him.

It’s a state of affairs that can’t last. Their courtship culminates in a party where Hank appears to have a realization about how deep their feelings for each other go, which prompts him to confront the corpse. He never gets to say what he intended to, though, because DanRad is a man with a plan.

After nearly kissing, Hank starts to sulk, ashamed once again of his weird feelings. Worse still, Manny makes it clear that he wants to see Sarah “for real,” putting his friend firmly in his place. Falling into the river, we see a few more shots that seem to be from Manny (or else that are shared) wherein scenes from his romance with Hank-as-Sarah become flooded with water. They’re striking illustrations of how memories contort when they are experienced, altering depending on one’s mood, present circumstances, needs, and so on. The moment Hank grabs Manny’s hand, these flashes become more forceful, warping the images of Manny and Sarah meeting on the bus into a kiss, and Hank’s eyes widen in surprise. Now Manny seems to be the one manipulating memories to fit his desires. However, the duality of Hank and Sarah makes this moment complicated. It seems likely that Manny imagines the kiss as being between him and (Hank-as-)Sarah, whereas Hank, in allowing himself to express his love for Manny, is acknowledging that Sarah and her feelings come from within him rather than from the real Sarah. Put simply, Manny is kissing Sarah, and Hank is kissing him back. The scene doesn’t spell it out clearly, but based on the discrimination with which Manny continues to treat Sarah and Hank, and judging by his ongoing fixation on wooing the former, there are compelling reasons to believe that he’s still misattributing Hank’s love to her. Thus, the identity confusion continues.

When Hank suggests that they stay in the forest instead of going home, it’s clear that his priorities have changed. One wonders how the two would have addressed the Sarah issue had this plan come to fruition, but we don’t get the chance to find out. (As a side note, how does Manny go from lying on the ground to sitting on the rock while Hank is checking his phone? That’s some high-level sorcery.) When Hank returns to the campfire, he’s finally accepted his desire to stay with Manny and decides to come clean, but unfortunately for him, Manny is still stuck on Sarah – and once he realizes that their romance has been a charade from the start, he feels betrayed. He blames Hank for tricking him into falling in love, but he can’t quite make sense of the slight, possibly on account of his demonstrated inability to parse out memories from inventions and experience from fiction when all appear equally filmic to him: still unable to distinguish between his Sarah and the real one, Manny constructs a fantasy of his own in which Hank is having an affair with her. Everything Hank did to reimagine his misery as innocent, childlike bliss reverts into the emotions he was trying to avoid: alienation, loneliness, depression, hopelessness, the feeling of being unloved. And with Hank’s subsequent injury, his and Manny’s role reversal is complete; incapacitated, out of love with Sarah, and fully reliant on his friend, Hank can no longer understand what Manny wants to go home for. He disconnects from his old life – so much so that when Manny forces the issue and brings them to Sarah’s home, Hank adopts his name and tries to cast away his old identity.

The painful disillusionment of meeting Sarah in reality is the last fissure in the Manny-as-Hank-as-Sarah amalgamation that makes it come apart. What love braided together unravels at the revelation that Sarah is leading her life without them, that Hank was only ever Hank, and that Manny is just a dead dude that nobody cared about. Thus divided, everything goes back to how it was in the beginning, and for a moment, Hank is offered the path of least resistance. But he chooses differently, and so, too, does his journey reverse to the shoreline. Bringing to its conclusion the parental dynamic of their relationship, Hank apologizes for screwing Manny up by hiding all the ugly, difficult facts of life from him. He seals their farewell with – what else? – a fart, and with that, Manny jets away. Daniels end the film on a mystery, giving Hank one last line of dialogue to Manny that goes unheard, so the way one interprets the final scene can vary depending on what he might have said. What is clear is that Hank has gained the courage to be himself without shame.

We’re left with lingering questions about Manny that the film echoes without answering: where did he come from, and where did he go? The most popular theory seems to be that he is a part of Hank’s psyche, or that he’s Hank’s soul, and the relationship drama is Hank berating himself for falling in love with a married woman based on his own fantasy of her. Where this seems to break down, though, is the campfire scene, when Hank declares that he doesn’t need Sarah anymore, representing a split between his and Manny’s desires which leads, further, to differences in how they react to meeting her. But the plausibility of one theory versus another depends entirely on whether you see Hank’s travails as magical or merely psychological. If it’s all in his head, then the answer is fairly plain: Manny is a projection and his Sarah guise is an attempt to satisfy impossible yearnings, through which he discovers that the love he attributed to them is displaced from himself. (A bit Freudian, that. It’s not difficult to extent this into a reading of Swiss as a conflict between the ego/Hank, the super-ego/Sarah, and the id/Manny.) There’s also a more meta way of looking at this, which is that Manny is really alive in the logic of the film, but he is a literalized metaphor for Hank’s soul or psyche, both him and not him (my own current theory); the third and similar option is that Manny is fully individual. Transformed into a multipurpose tool guy either by magic, miracles, or something so sci-fi it might as well be either of those, in these cases, his emergent identity confusion is very understandable. Like a child, we watch him both mirror and rebel against his ‘father,’ growing more independent and assertive, setting impossible standards and lofty ideals for his life until everything he thought he knew about the world comes crashing down – and it is only then that Manny is able to see the love that he doesn’t have to embark on some quixotic quest to get: the love that Hank gave him simply for being there, the one that finally sets him free.