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k7l4d4 · 3 years ago

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Midnight Striga: Fairy Tail/Owl House Cross Fic Episode 7 Part 1

Hello all, today I bring you my adaptation of Lost In Language, through the world of Midnight Striga! Everybody Clap Your Hands!!

“So then,” Luz casually stated, looking over the stacks before her. “You want me to return these books for you, eh?” She glanced over at King and Eda, the two doing their best to follow her instructions in gathering their mana. King was admittedly doing better, and it honestly had nothing to do with him having more experience with Human Style Magic (she should think about getting that name trademarked). Eda just so severely chafed against any and every attempt to define what she could or couldn’t do that whenever she tried to focus and meditate, she would squirm, and growl, and complain. If it weren’t so utterly Eda, Luz would’ve found it exhausting.

“Yup.” Eda tersely replied, forcing herself to keep her eyes closed and her mind centered; it wasn’t going too well. Feeling her will waiver, Eda cracked an eye open, and just barely kept her eyes from snapping open incredulously; King was absolutely focused, a visible aura of energy surrounding him, resembling grey-colored rings rippling off his form. Screwing her face up, Eda did her best to center herself, “Those have been sitting around enough that I’ll probably need to do some sweet talking the next time I go back, and it gets you out of the way while King and I practice.” It came out harsher than she intended, but Eda was dead set on figuring this out with as little help as possible. The fact that King was somehow rocking at this just made that determination stronger.

Luz snorted good-naturedly; she completely understood where Eda was coming from, and didn’t begrudge her for it. “Alright then. It gives me a chance to see what passes for quiet entertainment around this place, and maybe find something new to read. Heck, I might even get a chance to organize my collection of… ‘borrowed’ books and scrolls!” She casually detailed, slinging her pack over her shoulders, the stack of books swiftly stored within. She shook her head in amusement at Eda’s answering grunt, walking for the door. Opening it, she noticed Hooty’s odd smile; following his downward gaze, she instantly spotted what had caught his eye. While a bit confused as to why he hadn’t tried to eat it, Luz hunkered down, pulling the note placed on top of the basket left on their doorstep. “‘Take care of my child till morning. Yi yi.”

“Nope, not happening. Babies are awful, and I’m busy trying to figure this whole, *Shudders* meditation thing out.” Eda groaned, not wanting to deal with the new interruption.

Luz rolled her eyes, but continued reading, a smirk crossing her face as she did so. “‘You will be handsomely rewarded. X-O-X-O-X-O-X. Bat Queen.’” She knew there was no chance of Eda saying no now, her love of rewards was too strong. Plus, the canny witch had more of a soft-spot than she was willing to admit.

“The Bat Queen!? The most influential and wealthy demon on the Isles?!?” Eda demanded, twisting around to look in Luz’s direction. Glancing around briefly, she huffed, pulling herself to her feet, and strolled over. Taking the basket, she glanced inside, seeing a baby inside. “Ugh, now I can’t say no! If I do, BQ will have my head on a platter, and for once it won’t be while I’m alive. Aw well, at least kids are easy- Why are you speed walking away!?” She demanded, even as Luz booked it before the fireworks started, laughing her head off. Glancing down, Eda was caught off guard as the baby burst into screaming, startling the prematurely aged Witch. “Gah! How are you so loud!?” She demanded, completely unprepared to deal with the noise. Glancing back, her eyes widened in shock. “And how are you not affected by this!?” She shouted at King, still meditating away.

Luz chuckled to herself, a slight skip in her step as she wandered through town. Eda was definitely in for a rude awakening, though Luz herself had once made the same mistake when she had to babysit kids, and she could honestly look back at that moment and laugh at herself over it. Glancing around, she idly noted the whispered mutters surrounding her, the way that parents pulled their kids aside as she walked past, though this time they weren’t as blatantly fearful of her presence at least, just more… hesitant. Luz shrugged, unwilling to begrudge the mild shift in treatment, as even a slight improvement was still an improvement.

“Luz!” Gus’ voice called out. Glancing ahead, she was pleasantly surprised to see Gus and Willow waving her over. Cheering up slightly, she hurried her pace, closing the distance between them. Reaching out, she pulled the two into a one-armed hug, smirking at their embarrassment at the affection. “Ah, please let go!” Gus comically begged, feet dangling below him. With a smirk, Luz released her grip, Willow stumbling slightly while Gus plopped to the ground.

“Please don’t do that so suddenly.” Willow said flatly, a look of good-humored warning in her eyes, prompting a chuckling Luz to raise her hands in surrender.

“Okay, okay, just a little joke.” Luz said calmly, lowering her arms, idly noting the increased fervor of the whispers and mutters around them. Tuning them out, she asked, “So, what are you guys doing in town?”

“Eh, Principal Bump has been having teachers give out more combat-based homework, and we decided to find somewhere we could practice in peace.” Willow replied, giving a shrug.

“Cool. I’m looking for the library to return Eda’s overdue books.” Luz stated, patting the pack on her shoulder.

Gus beamed. “We can show you where it is!” He shouted exuberantly, prompting Luz and Willow to trade amused looks at their friend’s eager nature. Shaking their heads, Willow and Gus casually followed behind Gus as he ran up ahead. “Come on!” he called.

As they walked forward, Luz’s attention was drawn by a figure ranting to a small crowd nearby. She slowed, Gus and Willow pulling up next to her.

“And I’m saying that this is ridiculous!” The figure shouted, scaly head scrunched up in outrage. He glanced over his muttering audience. “How can we honestly say we trust the Emperor’s Coven when they let themselves get slaughtered by those damn humans!?” He shouted, a small smirk playing across his face at the sounds of agreement started cutting through the crowd.

“But they couldn’t have known the humans would’ve attacked!” One brave fellow called out, only to reel back at the glare the speaker up front sent his way.

“That shouldn’t matter! The Emperor’s Coven say they’re the best of the best, but they got butchered like Beast Demons!” The speaker rebuked, flames barking out of his throat. “They say they can protect us, but they can’t even protect themselves! They say they’re the strongest, the best, but they’re just a bunch of thugs and goons! Look at their leader, she had to cheat her way to where she got!! How can we trust them to keep us safe from those monsters!?” The rumbles of discontent and agreement at his words grew louder, the speaker basking in it all.

Gus and Willow exchanged nervous glances, while Luz just watched on, an inscrutable look on her face. “We should get moving.” Luz finally said, quickly walking away, the two Witches nodding in agreement, following after. None noticed as the speaker followed them with his eyes as the guards forcibly started breaking up the crowd, the audience noticeably less frightened about it as they normally would be, with a few even glaring at the guards openly. The speaker glanced at his nascent flock. It wasn’t much… but it was a start. He smirked.

King easily tuned out the shouts and screams around him. It wasn’t hard, seeing as he was screaming himself raw inside his own mind. In his mind’s eye, he glared hatefully at that damn pig who had dared to humiliate him. He was a King, no matter what anyone said, and a King protected their own. He had failed to protect his own; he had failed to help Eda. He growled internally, sinking into a stew of resentment. Luz had given him a gift, a way to regain his power and prestige as a fierce and powerful ruler, and he had been squandering it. He… felt small, weak, helpless like nothing else had managed.

Breathing deep, he felt the magic building, pooling in his throat, his lungs. He racked his brain, forcing it to recall more details from the book Luz had shown him, her words and lessons.

“So, what can I do with this?” He asked, glancing up at a smirking Luz.

Luz kicked back, leaning against the wall. ‘I honestly can’t say, really. At its most basic, that book will let you solidify sound and attack with it, but how far it can go is up to you.” She stated matter of factly, even as King squealed in rage.

“That tells me nothing!” He shouted, stomping his foot. He flipped through the book, eyes glazing at the words and odd depictions.

Luz shrugged, unconcerned. “Sorry, but magic is a personal journey. Education can give you a place to start, and a way to profit off of it traditionally, but to truly wield magic, you have to figure out what you want to do with it, and go from there.” She finished, clapping him lightly on his back, walking away.

“Hmph! What do I want? I want to be a powerful ruler, to make others bow before me!” He shouted, slamming the book down. “If I can use my magic to bring my enemies to my knees, I need nothing else!”

‘Making others bow didn’t work the way I wanted it to.’ He grunted internally, shaking off his reverie. Forcing himself to calm down, he recalled his fight, if you could call it that, with that annoying pig. He had left himself wide open, and nearly suffocated when the jerk bum rushed him. He could almost taste the idea on the tip of his tongue, could see the pictures from the book shifting into something new, something that would be able to wipe that smug little sneer off that pompous prick’s face.

He was a King, nothing would EVER change that. And he would not fail again. He forbid it.

“Late.” A librarian droned, passing Eda’s books through a magic circle. “Late.” He grabs the last one, quickly flipping through it. “Coffee, grass and bloodstains?” He glanced at Luz almost balefully. “These are Eda’s, aren’t they?”

“That was a wild night.” Luz sheepishly admitted. The librarian sighed, pulling out a scroll.

“I’ll just put it on her tab.” He muttered, quickly writing it down. “Just to let you know, we’ll be closing up early today for the Wailing Star meteor shower.”

Luz cocked an eyebrow, intrigued. “Wailing Star, eh? I’m gonna need to look that up. And speaking of Eda’s tab,” She pulled out a sack of assorted treasures she had… ‘borrowed’ over the year, “do you think I can pay some of it off with this?” She asked.

Blinking in surprise, the librarian quickly schooled his features, easily moving through the contents of the bag, sorting them with a clinical and considerate eye. Without missing a beat, he pulled the scroll with Eda’s tab listed on it, moving down and striking off bits and pieces as he scanned each jewel and bit of jewelry in the bag. Finishing, he sent the scroll away, giving Luz a grudging grin. “That should cover about four ninths of Eda’s tab. Thanks for that, not many people pay their tabs, and I can’t remember that last time anyone thought Eda would ever clear out part of hers. Keep your nose clean, kid.” And with that, he walked off, Luz heading into the library proper a second later.

She glanced about, and noted how similar, yet different, it was from the libraries back home. The kids were sitting at desks with crystal balls in front of them, which Luz had begun equating to Archive Terminals and Lacrima Receivers back home, scrolling through whatever mundane bit caught their eye, with a few seeming to actually be working on scholastic details.

Ducking quickly, Luz just barely avoided being brained by a flying book, grumbling at the unnecessarily dangerous methods the Isles used for almost everything. Spotting a nice table, she plopped herself down, sighing to herself. Without any form of prompting, she quickly pulled out the reference texts she would be using when she finally started her job, carefully monitoring each and every volume, eyes roaming the texts for damage.

“Man, I wish Gus and Willow didn’t have to head off.” She sighed. Technically, they said they didn’t want to spend their day in a den of nerdiness for fun. She just laughed, understanding not everyone would have similar interests as her. Carefully arranging her texts, she stood up, heading over to the stacks for anything that could be of use for explaining her subject matter to her students, and wasn’t THAT still a weird thought!

Casually leaning forward, she grasped a book, “Basics of Bile: A Studying Tool for Understanding Magic,” only for another hand to grab it at the same time.

“I believe my hand touched the book first.” A male voice said next to her. Turning, she shot the Witch boy an unimpressed look. A surly gaze stared back from tired looking red eyes, blond hair swept back, a small scar on his cheek. He cocked an eyebrow, a note of frustration entering his voice, “Are you just gonna stare, or are you gonna let go?” He challenged.

Luz blinked, stumbling back slightly. “Oh, I am so sorry.” She blustered, internally kicking herself. Normally, when she was analyzing someone, it was during a fight or from a distance. She had forgotten how off putting it was up close for others. “Just… looking into the basics, you know?” She shrugged.

The boy scoffed. “Yeah right. Considering what you did at the Covention, I doubt you need brushing up on the basics, particularly of magic you can’t use.” He marched off, throwing one last glare her way, an almost envious look in his eyes. “If you’re gonna lie, at least plan it out a little.”

“But I wasn’t-!” She started, only to trail off as he rounded a corner. “Lying. Ugh!” She groaned. Hopefully, she’d never see that guy again. He already got on her nerves.

#the owl house #fairy tail #owl house au #fairy tail au #owl house crossover #fairy tail crossover #luz noceda #eda clawthorne #bat queen #king the owl house #hunter the owl house #willow park #gus porter #magic

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jamespotterthefirst · 5 years ago

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Lovely (Ethan x F!MC)

Pairing: Dr. Ethan Ramsey x F!MC (Dr. Lilac Allende) Word count: 2,100+ Warning: Adult language Premise: Adding her on social media was a dangerous mistake. Particularly when she posts a picture looking like that. Tags: @openheart12 | @ethandaddyramsey | @noboundariesplease | @silverlitskies |

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“Post, post, post!” her roommates chanted with alcohol fueled enthusiasm.

Lilac, the least drunk of the group, though not by a lot, peered at her friends quizzically. They were sprawled on different parts of their living room, gazing at her with glazed eyes and sloppy smiles. In her own drunken state, she wondered how the night turned from board games and drinks to Lilac spilling her guts about Ethan following her on social media. Of course, she had left out his name and so her roommates only surmised it was some new flame she was interested in.

God, she wanted him with such desperation that it physically hurt sometimes. If she hadn't had several drinks, she'd feel miserable and somewhat pathetic.

“You guys don't even know who this guy is,” Lilac returned and she realized immediately that was not entirely true. As the words left her mouth, Sienna and Elijah shared a massive, knowing grin. Lilac's face flushed at the memory of running into them while trying to sneak Ethan out all those months ago.

Luckily, Aurora and Jackie were too drunk to notice the exchange.

“It's that Lahela guy, isn't it?” Aurora offered.

“Not likely,” returned Jackie at once. “Lilac said this guy was good-looking and smart.” She instantly wrinkled her nose, looking far more dejected than was warranted. “It's a lot more fun when he's here to hear me insult him.”

“That one was weak,” Elijah commented with a laugh, elongating the last word. “If he was here, he would've destroyed you with a comeback.”

Before Jackie could reply, Sienna leaped up from her place on the rug and plopped down next to Lilac on the couch. “I know what picture you should post,” she exclaimed excitedly, brandishing her phone in front of Lilac's face. A blur of green was all she could see as Sienna waved the phone. “Remember that green dress you bought for your cousin's wedding before they called it off?”

“Let's talk about that for a second,” Aurora said with renewed interest.

Sienna didn't seem to hear this because she went on, “The one with the neckline and the slit?”

Lilac remembered. She also remembered the picture she had sent Sienna to show it off. Lilac standing in front of a body-length mirror clad in the forest green number, phone strategically positioned to cover her face so the emphasis would be on the plunging neckline and on the shapely leg escaping from the slit.

“That dress could kill a man,” Sienna said approvingly as they both inspected the picture on her screen. “It's equal parts classy and also—”

“Slutty?” Lilac offered. It was how she described her style on most days and she was far from ashamed of it.

“If he wasn't in such great shape, you'd give the poor man a heart attack. I'm sure Eth—” she started but abruptly stopped when she remembered the others. One nervous glance around told Lilac they were not listening anyway. They were busy filling Aurora in on the drama of the canceled wedding. Sienna lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper, “I'm sure your mystery guy will love it. He was all over you when you wore that navy blue dress in Miami.”

Perhaps it was the memory of that night and his kisses on the balcony, or the alcohol coursing through her, or maybe the way her heart pined for him every time their eyes met, wishing desperately they could do more, that made Lilac say, “Fine, I'll post a—”

“Thirst trap,” Elijah chimed in with a cheer.

They all laughed out loud, even Lilac. Another indicative that they should really stop drinking for the night. The semi rational part of her brain reminded her that she should've stopped drinking when posting a provocative picture with the most basic pose imaginable in hopes of entrapping a man that might not even be watching seemed like a good idea.

With a burst of courage and recklessness, Lilac found the picture, wrote a ridiculous caption that would make her hungover self tomorrow morning cringe, and pressed "post" before they could spend another twenty minutes discussing her predicament and before the chanting resumed.

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The account was supposed to be strictly for a one-time use. Ethan had planned to delete the damned thing as soon as Gwyneth's case had been solved and treated. Wasn't that part of the reason why he had allowed Lilac to use that ridiculous picture of him at the beach? It was meant to be a gag, something that would never see the light of day.

Yet, he had found himself gravitating towards the tab left open on his laptop every time he used it. His subconscious had equated the inane website with learning more about Lilac. And despite his many attempts to convince himself that he shouldn’t care, he did. She was the only person he had ever wanted to learn more about, with such a desperate conviction that would be alarming to her if he ever confessed.

He cared so deeply that the word “care” did not properly describe the unbridled longing in his chest. One did not flee to the Amazon for two months to escape “care.”

Ethan pushed that dangerous thought away.

“Thirty minutes, Ethan,” Reggie said from the doorway to the bar. It was his usual way to inform him how long it’d take him to clean-up and thus the amount of time Ethan had left to enjoy his drink in blissful solitude.

He was alone, typically how he enjoyed drinking, yet he found no peace. Memories of the last time he was at that very beer garden with her accosted his thoughts. The way her bright green eyes looked startling in the golden lights floating all around and the feel of her soft lips on his.

Before he could stop himself, he pulled out his phone and opened the app. His weakness was such that he had figured out how to download the damn app on his phone. It was almost comical that now he could look at her whenever and however long he wanted on a screen, as if she wasn't inhabiting his mind at every hour.

Ethan was determined to find his favorite post, a picture of her at that very bar, taken a few months ago by her friend, Dr. Trinh. Before he could, however, his eye caught a notification from the app itself.

“Pictagram: dr.allende just shared a new post.”

It was time stamped one hour ago. Ethan briefly commended himself on going a whole hour without staring at her face like the pitiful stalker he was becoming. Before he could feel ashamed and pathetic, he opened her new post and almost choked on his drink.

“Fuck,” he murmured into the quiet night, setting his glass down on a side table nearby. Without realizing it, he sat much straighter on the outdoor sofa.

His eyes desperately roamed every inch of the image, unsure where to settle. There was the expanse of her exposed leg, or the dangerously plunging neckline of her dress, the casual sway of her hip. His hands had clutched on to those hips, fingers digging slightly into her skin as they both lost themselves to unmitigated pleasure.

It was downright criminal how good she looked in the picture, exposing enough to drive a man insane but not enough to be crass. Apparently, he was not the only one to think so. In the mere hour the picture had been up, it had already accrued 220 of those "likes" Lilac had explained.

Ethan continued to stare at the picture like a starved man. It took everything in his power not to call her and somehow convince her to take him back, his morals and conviction be damned. That was the power Dr. Lilac Allende and her green dress wielded over him.

The distant clanging of bottles startled him out his thoughts so abruptly that Ethan almost dropped his phone. He caught it quite unceremoniously and as he turned the screen back to him, he noticed a red heart animation appearing and disappearing in the middle of her picture.

"Shit," he muttered when he realized he, too, like the 220 others had "liked" the picture. Upon further inspection, he realized he had even accidentally commented the single letter "I".

A bit frantic, he tapped at his phone to figure out a way to get rid of the damn thing. He could not bear Lilac learning he leered at her picture at 1 AM and was so affected he could barely type a coherent sentence. Even if that was a hundred percent true. Ethan was getting nowhere, except to an early grave, when a text message notification came in.

“Like what you see?”

It was Lilac.

Goddammit, she had seen.

Ethan considered not replying. Yet, even as he entertained the thought, he knew he couldn't resist.

“Along with 220 others,” he replied before he could stop himself. He realized belatedly that the real count was 220 others plus Bryce Lahela (scalpellahela).

“Those 220 others can look all they want but they can't touch,” was her immediate response.

His breath caught a little. The power she had over him was astounding.

“But you can,” she added when he did not respond.

God almighty. She was determined to kill him.

A few minutes ticked by and his phone buzzed with an incoming call. When he started the call, he was greeted by what sounded like distant wolf whistles, followed by the sound of a door closing.

“You okay over there?” she asked by form of greeting. Her voice was teasing in a way that was absolutely maddening.

“Fine,” Ethan replied in what he hoped was a convincing, leveled voice.

“Where are you anyway?” She spoke in a sultry sort of drawl that did nothing to placate his traitorous body's reaction to her photo.

“Donahue's. Finishing up my drink,” he replied, eyeing his forgotten scotch on the table where he had set it. “Anyway, sorry if I awoke you. I accidentally liked and commented.”

“Accidentally,” she repeated in a tone that suggested she did not believe him. “So you don't like my dress and you're not at a loss for words?”

“I never said that,” he returned at once. “You look…”

What was a professional way of saying “fucking irresistible” or “like I want to peel that dress off with my teeth”?

“Good,” he said lamely, though his strangled voice suggested far more. She picked up on that, of course.

“And what are you going to do about that?” she asked in a deliberately innocent whisper.

“Lilac,” he warned, as he always did when their conversation veered towards volatile territory.

“There's nothing wrong with just telling me, Ethan,” she offered and he could have sworn she sounded almost pleading.

He did not argue, as he usually did. Mostly because another intellectual argument with her, in addition to the photo and the way she all but purred in his ear, would allow his desire for her to win. He'd be on his way to her bed in moments.

“Tell me,” she prompted again.

With a sigh, he gave in.

“That dress is...”

“Yes?”

“Sinful.”

There was a small pause at the other end of the line.

“Should I wear it out?”

“Absolutely,” he returned, completely enraptured by the direction this was all heading. He could feel his inhibitions vanish.

“Where to?”

“My bed.”

She did not miss a beat.

“Ideally, I'd be out of the dress for that, then,” she returned in that sexy drawl of hers. Ethan was astounded he was not in the car, speeding to her apartment at that very moment.

“Fuck, Lilac,” he murmured.

“So you can do that, yes,” she responded in a whisper so low that he almost didn’t catch it.

He said nothing, fearing he would sound like an incomprehensible imbecile if he did.

A long silence, and then, “Ethan?”

“Yes?”

He heard her suck in a breath, almost as if mustering up courage. “I miss you.”

There was an unbearable tugging at his chest. He never had her courage, but now that she had laid it out for him, he couldn’t resist admitting the same. “You know I do too.”

Another small silence.

“Come over,” she said at last and he could hear the tones of humor in her voice. Almost as if she knew what he was going to say. Perhaps she did know. The brief illusion in which they saw each other as lovers and not colleagues, had inevitably come to an end. As it always did.

He laughed good-naturedly. “Go to sleep.”

“With you?”

Despite himself, he grinned. He knew at the other end, she would be too.

“Good night, Lilac.”

“Good night, Ethan.”

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Click Here for Part 2

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A/N: Ah, these two will have to sleep together sooner than later.

THANK YOU so much if you read this silly, pointless thing!

Masterlist

P.S. I made that Instagram post Ethan loves of MC at Donahue’s but didn’t put it in the story. LOL, I love the idea of him stalking her posts. That man is so in love.

Anyway, here it is, just for fun:

#Ethan Ramsey #Open Heart #ethan x mc #playchoices #my writing #choices you play #oph #OH #OH2 #OHSY #ethan ramsey fanfiction #Ethan ramsey x mc #dr. ethan ramsey #open heart fanfiction #choices fanfiction

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maxwell-grant · 4 years ago

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May I please ask if you think it would be funnier to read a short comic showing Lois & Margo Lane doing their best to puzzle out whether they actually ARE related while casually acing their own adventure or would it be more entertaining to see them just act like old chums during some Shadow/Superman crossover without ever once explaining how they know each other long before their pet heroes met for the first time?

I think you got it backwards. The latter part is what could work best for a short comic where we just pit the two together briefly and have them bounce off each other without having to be introduced. The former, however? Not only is it funny, it’s also an incredible concept and easily what should be the main plot, or at least the driving subplot, of an actual Shadow/Superman crossover. While I had some ideas on how to connect the two thematically, I actually had little clue on where to even start intersecting The Shadow and Superman narratively, and while I knew the Lane ladies would have to be at the center of it, I didn’t know how to go on about it, until you dropped this great idea on me: Make the connection between these two the puzzle that starts to bring out everything else to the forefront.

Narratively speaking Margo and Lois do fulfill very similar roles, not so much due to them being “the hero’s girlfriend” (I mentioned before how I don’t think Margo needs to be a love interest to work, and neither does Lois for that matter), so much as they are often the viewpoints through which we interact with these larger-than-life multi-faced caped heroes, and both of these two are not at all content with just accepting their designated roles in these narratives, instead actively going out of their way to get closer and closer to danger and intrigue and the real truths behind them, sometimes to the frustration of said caped heroes.

They are intelligent, driven, fearless, classy and good-natured, and incredibly perceptive to the point they are often among the first or few characters to figure out the true nature of the hero they interact with. They tend to suffer from inconsistent writing and unfortunate stints as damsels-in-distress or reckless liabilities, but their foundation as characters is rock-solid and has allowed them to persist and thrive much more so than many other supporting characters of their franchises. Their incorrigible stubborness and headstrong dedication to their companions often means they are often the only ones who can get through to them and make themselves heard, when they get lost inside their own heads and the worlds they inhabit.

The main differences between the two, I’d argue, ultimately have more to do with the worlds they inhabit, their special skills and the roles they play on them. Lois is a journalist and reporter, Margo is a socialite and a secret agent. They both tend to act as spies who observe and report details on their targets, but Lois does so usually as part of her job and to expose their misdeeds publicly, where as Margo’s affairs are anything but public and usually don’t have endings as “clean” as those she spies on being sent to jail. Lois is defined by being an idealist, where as Margo is often more cynical (the biggest idealist among the agents being Harry). Lois is respected by her peers at work and has battled fiercely to get there, while Margo exploits the objectification, dismissal or disdain of men towards her to her advantage.

Lois has stayed largely consistent in job, physical appearence and skillset over the years, where as Margo changes these on the fly depending on the story. Lois’s origin and family life are a defining aspect of her personality. Margo’s backstory and family life change almost literally every time it gets touched on, usually with some form of tragedy in it. No matter what she encounters or how she deals with it, Lois is always firmly defined by the human perspective she brings to Superman and how she is “one of us”. Margo, even when she’s set up to play more grounded roles, still has degrees of separation from the average person and Shadow agent that makes it she is less “one of us”, and more “one of him”. And then of course there’s the whole question regarding whether or not the two are related, and how.

We have the above excerpts taken from the letters page of Superman Family #188, which states that the two share a common ancestor in Lazarus Lane. There’s been several Wold Newton fan pages establishing family trees for the Lanes that usually put Margo and Lois together, I recall one of which even establishes a line connecting Margo to Dr Jekyll, which is par the course for WNU sillyness but definitely an idea I think has potential.

The degree to which they are related or may interact may come down to how exactly does time factor into this hypothetical crossover. Is it set in the 30s, or in modern times? Are Margo and Lois the same age somehow, or is it Lois finding a Granny Margo and going on an adventure with her? In whose world is this story set in, or is it part of something bigger? What about the rest of the Lane family? Where are The Shadow and Superman during this? What’s causing time and space to bring these 4 together?

The premise of this being “they are related, but they don’t know how, and they are going on an adventure to discover what exactly is the connection between them while mysteries wrap up them as well as their heroes” is something that invites a lot of questions, which is great.

You really handed me the key to making this work with your ask.

#replies tag #the shadow #superman #margo lane #lois lane #crossover

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thatbanjobusiness · 4 years ago

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I want to briefly talk bluegrass fashion.

I appreciate and enjoy bluegrass from its roots to its present. I think creative growth over the decades has allowed for incredible and diverse music. Whether it’s disco influenced jamming, rock-bluegrass fusions, or classical music inspiration, there’s cool stuff to be had anywhere in the timeline. That said, one thing I wish contemporary bluegrass bands did more of was take fashion tips from the first generation bands.

In the 1920s, barn dance type radio programs featuring hillbilly music and rural style entertainment became popular. Some of these radio shows like the WLS National Barn Dance and WSM Grand Ole Opry had stage shows where you could watch the program in person. Costuming and presentation of the performing cast tended to be rough rube depictions, even caricatures, of rural people. George D. Hay, who founded and hosted the Grand Ole Opry, himself named the bands things like “The Gully Jumpers” and “The Possum Hunters.”

But when Bill Monroe and his Blue Grass Boys auditioned and were made members of the Grand Ole Opry in October 1939, Monroe detested this rough presentation that could quickly engender degrading opinions of hillbilly stereotypes. He opted instead to dress in a more classy manner. His band came out in white shirts, ties, jodhpurs, and boots.

This is something Bill Monroe bragged about even as the decades went on. For Monroe, it was important to dress well and in dignity when you got onstage. You respect yourself and you respect audiences when you come out in your best.

By the mid-1940s Bill Monroe’s band had accumulated a number of musical features that today our ears would recognize as bluegrass. It’s interesting to notice that bandmembers who left Monroe and went on to do their own bluegrass music often... took with them some of Bill’s ideas about stage presentation. Flatt & Scruggs, when they left Monroe and started their own band, are sometimes seen in early images wearing jodhpurs.

Early bluegrass bands on occasion might have had an “exception” to the rule. At the very least, you see this in Flatt & Scruggs in the late 1940s and first half of the 1950s. But I believe what they were doing reflected a trend that existed in the broader hillbilly music industry. I’d like investigate that more later to understand better. Unlike today’s concerts that involve music and only music, in those times, comedy was a more expected part of a show. White banjo performers, prior to bluegrass, were essentially all comedians; and in ensembles, someone (as I’ve often seen, the bass player) might take a comedy role. So you could’ve gotten a well-dressed band... and then the bassist dressed in comic rube garb.

That said, each first generation bluegrass band ended up creating their own unique presentation. It’s variation around a theme: dress up nice to respect audiences and put your best foot forward. How you present yourself onstage has impact. Audiences aren’t coming out to see some tattered everyday person; they’re coming out here to listen to music stars.

And so you see bands and acts coordinating their outfits in classy ways like...

(The 1958 screencap above doesn’t 100% evoke this, but I’ve noticed Flatt & Scruggs in the mid-50s through mid-60s would often do a 2-2-2 coordination. Everyone would wear hats. The band leaders would wear matching jackets and string ties. Two band members would wear the same collared shirts and the same string ties as the leaders. The last two band members, who were a duet and comedy team, would wear vests or different hats or some other distinguishing marker. Everyone’s clothes would carry the same overall color theme. Very well-thought out wardrobe presentation.)

SEE? EVERYONE IS DRESSED UP AND LOOKS GOOD.

You can tell they’re an act. You can tell they’re professional. You can tell, the second they step up to perform, they mean business. It helps elevate them into STARS.

As new generations took up bluegrass, the social context of how to dress changed. The Folk Revival of the 1960s brought many Northerners, urban people, and hippies into the bluegrass world. I haven’t read up as much on this part of bluegrass history, but I believe it was starting here that new bluegrass ensembles quit thinking about dressing up to be onstage. I’ve certainly seen photos of the early bluegrass festivals of the late 60s and 70s, and some second generation bluegrass groups would wear extremely casual things onstage. Other groups would coordinate by wearing the same collared shirt, which meant they were matching, but also (to me) making less of a “statement.”

It makes sense. First generation bluegrass performers were seeking to dress to impress and get away from crappy hillbilly stereotypes. Later generations of bluegrass performers might not have been from the South or a country lifestyle at all, and would feel more inclined to try to evoke a “working class” vibe by wearing everyday or ragged clothing. Today, I feel many bands do this to evoke their own form of an authentic stage presentation.

This means that today, many groups wear rather casual clothing. I feel I see this especially in jamgrass. And for the record, these are all VERY talented, well-known ensembles; I’m not comparing pros to locals or something.

And they’re dressed better here than what I’ve seen for bands at concerts.

I think it’s ironic that Bill Monroe, the Father of Bluegrass, sought to escape tattered clothing that actual country people wouldn’t wear on the fields, let alone onstage... only to have bluegrass musicians half a century later revert to costuming concepts Monroe had rejected. Today’s clothes of course aren’t the torn-up straw hat and single-strapped overalls of the early Opry, but it’s the same idea: dress down to look “country.” I don’t think there’s any objective disrespect to bluegrass’s history to dress like that, but I do think there’s a point that everyday clothes don’t make as much of an impression for your band.

Now of course not all groups have gone this route. In any generation of bluegrass, you still see bands that dressed more “traditionally.” But it’s certainly been a trend—since at least the 70s—to see bluegrass groups, either at the local or professional level, wearing everyday clothes. Get jeans, maybe some flannel, and you’re good to go. I see it oh-so-often now.

It doesn’t resonate as much to me. I get the point of their presentation, trying to evoke a casual non-mainstream working class image, but I feel there’s other ways you can set a vibe for your ensemble that doesn’t come off as lazy, everyday, or unnoticeable.

I’d be much more interested seeing:

YEAH!!!!! YOU GO RHONDA VINCENT AND THE RAGE!

I think it’s interesting to see this mindset about proper bluegrass performance attire recur in interviews. I’ve watched a number of 2000s and 2010s interviews for first and early second generation bluegrass performers, and one common thing the old-timers complain about is how people don’t dress up anymore. They feel it doesn’t respect the audience or make a good impression for the ensemble. How you present yourself onstage is half of the performance; it can be an effective means of enhancing a show when you do it well.

And I’ve seen it in conversations with people like Steve Martin, showing how in the 2010s, there’s still negative “hillbilly” images to butt against:

INTERVIEWER: Does it bother you that quite possibly the most famous banjo song in pop culture is "Dueling Banjos" from "Deliverance"?

MARTIN: It doesn't bother me at all. Actually I might argue with that because another most famous song would be the theme from "The Beverly Hillbillies" or "Foggy Mountain Breakdown," the song from "Bonnie and Clyde." So there are a couple of 'most famous' banjo songs.

INTERVIEWER: But still… the theme song from "The Beverly Hillbillies"?

MARTIN: It's just something we have to face. And everything changes. That's why I always wear a suit and tie when I play bluegrass.

INTERVIEWER: Do you feel like you're helping changing the face of bluegrass?

MARTIN: I don't know. That's what I do when I go on stage. I don't make hillbilly jokes or things like that. I'm just playing it as the person I am, not pretending to be anything else. The band I play with, we all dress in suits and ties.

One of my favorite contemporary bands also has one of my favorite wardrobes. What they choose to wear is a huge element of their stage presentation, amplifies their show powerfully, and contributes to the entire vibe of their music product. Good costuming can be part of marketing, and they market themselves spectacularly.

The Dead South almost marries the best of both worlds between “dress up” and “dress as the everyday man.” Their clothes aren’t “formal” in the sense of suits and ties. There’s more casualness to it. At the same time, what they wear—blatantly Southern and Western gear that matches with variation across the band—isn’t something everyday Joe or Janet would put on to go to Walmart. It’s got a little more of a “period” feel to it while also being modern enough to feel authentic. Altogether, it makes them classy without being formally classy.

It’s perfect for them. This is a “controversially” bluegrass band who knows that, while they play string band music, its creative reach extends beyond what you’d expect of something labeled “bluegrass.” They have called themselves “a rock band without a drummer, a bluegrass band without a fiddler.” Elsewhere, they’ve marketed themselves as “a gold rush vibing four-piece acoustic set from Saskatchewan [that] infuse[s] the genre's traditional trappings with an air of frontier recklessness, whiskey breakfasts and grizzled tin-pan showmanship.” This is a band I’ve always said plays to a “degenerate” image, songs filled with cowboy shootouts, barfights, gun-wielding robberies, alcoholic nights, and more.

And doesn’t their wardrobe evoke that spotlessly? There is CLASS and INTENTION with how they present themselves, to the point the band almost always stands in that order left-to-right, and has used their unique wardrobe choices for album covers and stage design.

Check out how the stage’s stained glass window lights behind them evoke both images from their songs, and have the tie, beard, skull, string tie theme on them. Every band member stands in front of his respective window.

That is *WAY* cooler, more effective, more impacting, more resonating, more memorable, more vibing, than simply tossing on my latest t-shirt.

(And yes, the last photos are from when I went to their concert last year. One of the best concerts I’ve EVER been to, and it’s because they knew how to put on a SHOW.)

Performance entails everything from the sounds you make to the personality you evoke to the clothes you wear. It’s why I prefer the first generation bluegrass bands’ approach to “dress well” over some modern string band trends. And again, bands like The Dead South show alternate ways you can dress up and rock out.

#long post #that banjo business #thatbanjobusiness #Country Music History #Haddock Deep Dives #General Banjo Business #The Dead South #Bill Monroe #daddy boi billiam #Flatt & Scruggs #bluegrass #first gen bluegrass

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aion-rsa · 3 years ago

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Josie and The Pussycats is the Spinoff Riverdale Deserves

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This RIVERDALE review contains spoilers.

Riverdale Season 5 Episode 15

“Our story is about three young women bursting with talent.”

When last we saw Josie McCoy (Ashleigh Murray), she was in New York City trying to make her dreams come true on the ill-fated (and gone-too-soon) Riverdale spin-off Katy Keene. Often when characters are spun-off and their subsequent shows fail, they vanish into the pop culture ether — The Ropers from Three’s Company being the textbook case of this phenomenon. But not so for Josie. This latest episode debuts a new iteration of the character, one who has achieved her dreams but still finds herself wanting more. It is a decidedly more mature take on the previously underwritten character, and one that allows Murray’s considerable acting and musical abilities to shine.

In short, it is the Josie that fans have always wanted to see.

But what good is the character without the backing of her Pussycats? Drummer Melody Valentine (Asha Bromfield) and multi-instrumentalist Valerie Brown (Hayley Law) have been estranged from Josie since she blew off the Pussycats for a solo career when they were in high school. Seven years later and the wounds are still raw, even though Melody has since become a renowned author with movie rights optioned by Tyler Perry, and Valerie is a talented artist and actress.

When Josie returns to Riverdale to take stock following the sudden death of her father, she finds herself coming to terms with her past. More than that though, she has found her voice in every sense of the word. She dismisses Mr. Lodge, the show’s big bad in a hilarious kiss off that sums up many viewers’ opinions on the often irksome character. Better still, the episode allows her to get meta to discuss how Riverdale often sidelined the Josie character in her previous iteration on the series. “I didn’t have much to say in old times,” she plaintively declares, commenting on the problem that Riverdale had with diversity in its early seasons. She then accurately dismisses Archie, Betty, Veronica and Jughead not as old friends but as acquaintances. It’s a bold and surprising scene that takes responsibility for past sins that the series committed, further illustrating that it is aware that it can do better and has been attempting to do so.

After a steamy reunion with old flame Sweet Pea (Jordan Connor), Josie begins the work of reaching out to Valerie and Melody. It is here that the episode goes from great to an all-timer. The chemistry that Murray, Bromfield and Law possess is lightning in a bottle. As old injustices are aired and attempts to repair wounded hearts and egos are undertaken, these actresses embody the old friends they portray fully. But this backdoor pilot, fortunately, has zero interest in having its women of color tear each other down. The characters candidly discuss their shared past, and begin to repair the rift that will — if The Pussycats goes to series — lead them to becoming the global superstars they are destined to be.

Josie, Melody and Valerie are icons. They know it, and the world will soon follow.

Inspired by her renewed friendship with her once and future bandmates, Josie decides to do a concert with the Pussycats that will raise money to help reincorporate the town of Riverdale. It is a performance that highlights each of the women’s musical strengths, even if Josie does steal the spotlight for an emotional rendition of Nina Simone’s “Stars.” Despite being cut short when Toni goes into labor, the concert is enough of a success for The Pussycats to agree to go on the road together — playing in towns where Josie’s late father wanted his ashes scattered. The women consider themselves to be equals now, thus the “Josie and” is jettisoned from the band name. This still being Riverdale, a friend of Josie’s dad appears moments before she leaves town to tell her that her father may have been murdered in New Orleans, and that voodoo might be involved.

With this incredible/ridiculous plot development thrown at us, the full image of what The Pussycats will be as a series comes into view: A mixture of Fame and 13 Ghosts of Scooby-Doo that celebrates these characters and their comic/cartoon legacy in an unexpected way. (As an Archie comics historian even I was taken off guard by the last-minute introduction of the potential show’s mystery angle, and my mind reels at the possibilities).

Hopefully sooner rather than later a series order for The Pussycats will be announced. There is so much potential here to tell exciting, fun, music-packed stories featuring strong women of color that it feels like a surefire hit. “The Return of the Pussycats” is not only the best episode of Riverdale this season, but a perfect pilot episode. There desperately needs to be lots more long tails and ears for hats in our future, for these are the Pussycats we’ve been waiting for.

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Riverdale Rundown

While nothing has been officially announced as of yet, it feels ridiculous for The CW to not do a full series of The Pussycats, yes? This logo appearing at the end of the episode instead of the usual Riverdale bumper bodes well for things to come. Fingers crossed…

My guess is that this episode didn’t have Alexandra and Josie cross paths due to their Katy Keene past, which had the characters begin as enemies who were slowly forming a friendship before that series was cancelled. By not having them interact, the writers didn’t have to figure out where their relationship currently is — making this a narrative thread that The Pussycats could potentially pull on down the line.

The character of Alan M. briefly appears as Melody’s love interest, which indeed he is in the comics and fondly remembered 2001 movie.

Speaking of the Josie and the Pussycats movie, that film’s ever-growing cult continues to delight me. Thanks to multiverses, there’s no reason why that version of these characters and the ones of The Pussycats can’t co-exist in the same pop culture landscape.

Let’s give a special shoutout to Robin Givens, who not only reprises her role as Sierra McCoy here but also did a terrific job directing this installment.

Melody narrates this episode a la Jughead, except that her writing is bright and full of hope, a sharp and intentional contrast to her brooding counterpoint.

If you didn’t cheer when Josie and the Pussycats took the stage to their cartoon theme song, you are dead inside.

“Entertainment Tomorrow” enters the Riverdale fake product lexicon in this episode (which also includes the returning chestnut “Vanity Flair”).

Toni gives birth to a boy, Anthony.

Expect to see more about the franchising of Pop’s in upcoming restaurants, and Tabitha’s speech about the importance of the Chok’lit Shoppe being a black-owned restaurant in a time when Riverdale had no other such establishments was one of the most powerful scenes this series has ever done.

It’s worth noting that a franchise for real-life Archie restaurants did exist in the early 1970s. However the idea never really took off, and pictures of the three diners that were opened have never surfaced online.

What the hell was up with the Old Navy product placement in this episode, which felt like it was ripped from the Josie and the Pussycats movie, minus the irony.

Kevin’s dancing during the Little Shop of Horrors musical number was, unsurprisingly, everything.

Melody’s book being named Summer Storm is a sly reference to actress Asha Bromfield having a newly released novel called Hurricane Summer that was released in May.

Josie uses the alias Ms. Newmar to check into hotels. Julie Newmar famously portrayed Catwoman on the Batman TV series, which not only plays into Josie’s feline motif, but also is yet another of the show’s near-constant DC Comics references of late.

Mr. Lodge being called a “little bitch�� was so unbelievably pleasing to watch. Josie is just SO OVER Riverdale’s bullshit.

In a nice character moment, Cheryl immediately leaps into action to help deliver ex-lover Toni’s baby.

Dr. Curdle Jr. being a Josie and the Pussycats superfan is comedic brilliance (as is the fact that nobody trusts him enough to have him anywhere near Toni’s delivery.

The post Josie and The Pussycats is the Spinoff Riverdale Deserves appeared first on Den of Geek.

from Den of Geek https://ift.tt/3BQYwym

#aion-rsa #Den of Geek

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moviesrotbrains · 4 years ago

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George A. Romero Day

I was nine or ten when I first saw Tom Savini’s NIGHT OF THE LIVING DEAD (1990) remake. It wasn’t my first horror film. FRANKENSTEIN (1931) was an early memory, and a giant life-sized poster of his monster1 protected my room from nightmares. I’d often dream of Freddy Krueger despite never having seen any of his films at that point. Horror was everywhere in the 1980s.

I was in awe of LIVING DEAD ‘90. The idea of being trapped in a house with evils lurking outside. The paranoia that brewed among the humans… how the humans became monsters long before they were even bit. It was heavy stuff at the time. I don’t know if I drew parallels to all of this or simply thought, “Wow, those intense zombie fights that would make a cool NES game!”2

Savini’s redo was probably my first actual zombie experience. Again, I had seen zombies in other media, most like Scooby Doo or whatever other Saturday morning cartoon cribbed and remixed the undead concept to sell toys or comicbooks.

It was a few years later that I finally got to see George A. Romero’s original NIGHT OF THE LIVING DEAD (1968). I can’t recall if I first saw it on TV or an actual repertory screening of it. Memory is weird that way. I do remember being thoroughly blown away by it, despite more or less having memories of the plot from that remake.

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I never had a problem with Black & White movies, having already been a full on film-junkie at that point, but somehow that black & white depiction of old school zombies felt hyper real. Unsettling. Fucking cool as hell. Unerving. Or maybe I was just a dumb kid. Oh, I definitely was a dumb kid, and still am, but that moment cemented George Romero in the pantheon of cinematic greats. Didn’t matter what else he did, he made NOTLD. He made a weighty zombie film full of social commentary and subtext.3 He popularized zombies. He didn’t need to do anything else.

Oh, but he did. He so did.

It was around the time I was starting to consume more horror4 that a classmate had cut some scenes into a film project we were working on. My jaw was on the floor when I first saw the gory display of gritty carnage.

“This is from the 70s?”

I knew so little. I definitely didn’t know those effects were also by Tom Savini, but everything was coming full circle, and that was one of the key moments that I fell in love with Savini without even knowing.

“You never seen this? Here, man, I’ll loan you it.”

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And that was when I first saw Romero’s DAWN OF THE DEAD (1978). Take some people of various walks of life and have them take refuge in an empty mall-- only to find the Zombies have returned to the place they frequented most.

“WHEN THERE’S NO ROOM IN HELL, THE DEAD WILL WALK THE EARTH!”

DOTD ‘78, The brutal and hilarious takedown of consumption and mall culture. Social Commentary, Zombie Gags, and Sick Kills. A film that’s loved by both critics and horror junkies. A film that said something and also entertained. George Romero in a nutshell.

A film that also became my gateway drug to Good Horror. And to Bad Horor. Again, I already loved horror. I loved the aesthetic, the vibe. Always drew monsters. Always collected weird monster toys. If a film was playing on a movie channel, I’d watch it.

But Romero’s DAWN OF THE DEAD was THE film that made me WANT to actually seek them out. The film that made me want to rewatch my older brother’s old worn Betamax tapes of classic 80s horror flicks. A film that introduced me to Dario Argento.5 A movie that got me into the music of Italian Horror Prog Rock legends, GOBLIN. The life changing event that made me a nut for Savini and every 80s fx guru around. A story that made we want to watch every zombie film I possibly could. Good or Bad, and there’s a lot of bad out there. But there’s also a lot of good. So much good.

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Romero’s DAY OF THE DEAD (1985) is one of those good zombie films. I saw a midnight screening with my dad at that same repertory cinema.6 This was Romero’s third DEAD film and took place on a military base. It introduced the concept of the military studying, training, and weaponizing the living dead. It also has one of the freakiest scenes involving hands and walls that still rattles me to this day. It has a stomach churning scene involving a ripped stomach. It’s wonderful, largely in part to once again utilizing Savini’s talents, as well as Greg Nicotero and Howard Berger-- who years later brought THE WALKING DEAD to your homes. Romero’s legacy still felt to this day.

That being said, Romero’s legacy was far more than just Zombie films, of course. He made a film, that’s rather timely now7, about a plague that made people crazy called... THE CRAZIES (1973). There was another about a vampire wannabe named MARTIN (1978). A spectacular 80s horror anthology film series called CREEPSHOW8 (1982 & 1987). And a wonderfully bizarre film about a homicidal monkey named, appropriately enough, MONKEY SHINES (1988). I saw that last one before I even knew who he was but I never really forgot it. And those are just a few.

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He revisited his LIVING DEAD films with additional sequels in the 2000s and 2010s and was working on another up until his death. I was very lucky to briefly thank him during a convention, a year or so before he passed. Thanked him for the films. For everything.

He didn’t just impact me, of course. He impacted the people he worked with, who’ve gone on to impact other people in turn. He’s impacted the fans who got into horror because of him. He’s impacted the horror fans who weren’t even fans of his, because they most definitely liked something that was made by someone who was inspired by George Romero.

You’ll see it with a DOTD’s actor cameo in a Rob Zombie film, or a gruesome creature effect in a micro-budget classic. You’ll see it in a modern classic like TRAIN TO BUSAN (2016) or while laughing your guts out at SHAWN OF THE DEAD (2004).

We aren’t just talking about movies, we’re talking books, music, and video games. 90s SIMPSON’s references. We’re talking art, tattoos, and comics. RPGs, Board games, Toys, and Funko Pops. Those Halloween decorations you keep in your home all year long . The clothes you wear. Your creepy and kooky badass goth aesthetic. A lot of what we love about horror today is thanks to George A. Romero.

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He didn’t create zombies… but he certainly gave them life. He did more than that. He made horror important again.

I can’t do justice to George A. Romero with words. His work speaks for itself. So today, on what would have been his 81st Birthday, watch some Romero. If you’re out there quarantining, staying at home, under a curfew, and fearing the unfathomable, infectious dangers lurking outside your door… definitely watch Romero.

This decade is off to a weird start, luckily we have Romero’s influence to get us through it.

Happy Birthday, George! And thank you for infecting me with horror.

-Theo Radomski, MOVIES ROT BRAINS

photo via Global News

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ENDNOTES FROM THE GRAVE

1. And you know what? I still call him Frankenstein. Because he’s essentially his son. That’s his creation. And Victor would have had the hubris to name his creation after himself if he had not abandoned that poor schlub. But I digress…

2. Actually, that’s exactly what I thought. And about 30 years later, Zombies are still a staple of modern video gaming, from Resident Evil and Doom still going strong after three decades, to Call of Duty and Red Dead Redemption still having Zombie mods. To every friggin’ game out there that has any undead horror creeping about. The nine-year-old me is having a blast right now.

3. I had definitely caught on the subtext and themes by that point that I may have missed while watching the remake as a kid. Still a dumb kid, though.

4. Thanks in part to HBO’s TALES FROM THE CRYPT reruns on FOX. Expect another nonsensical rambling piece on that show and the 50s comics that inspired it sometime in the future.

5. And that opened the doorway into Giallo, Fulci, and a whole slew of Italian Exploitation and American Slasher films and that’s a whole other long screed for another time.

6. My dad was another reason I love this genre. He loved horror movies. I still hear his voice in my head saying, “Ooooh, It’s a Scary Movie!” in his German accent.

7. Actually, aren’t they all?

8. Which has also had a revival in the form of Shudder’s excellent new CREEPSHOW anthology series made by Romero’s DAY OF THE DEAD Alumni Greg Nicotero! See how it’s all connected?

#HORROR #GEORGE ROMERO #NIGHT OF THE LIVING DEAD #DAWN OF THE DEAD #DAY OF THE DEAD #ZOMBIES #HORROR MOVIES #george a. romero #monkey shines #creepshow #graveyard ramblings #moviesrotbrains #movies rot brains

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why-this-kolaveri-machi · 5 years ago

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if you won’t protect one another, then who will?

i love how this show uses two whole episodes--15% of its total season runtime!--to tell us something that could’ve been just as easily told in short bursts of flashbacks, but will drop something totally new, fantastical and downright psychedelic with only two episodes left in the season and walk away with absolutely no explanation. did i say i love it? i mean i hate it. by which i mean i also love it.

SPOILERS ahead.

1. i love that, despite getting a whole-ass actor to play him, this show is very much committed to the idea of a phantom!bruce: sort of an omniscient, omnipresent shadow, all-knowing but unknowable. apart from a brief flash of vulnerability when reuniting with dick in 2.01, we have had no engagement with bruce as a person, and so bruce becomes this frustrating, over-blown, mythical figure not just for the titans, but for the audience itself.

like. when i was trying to google ‘elko’ and ‘dc comics’ to see if it was in reference to any comic event/character, i came across a number of reviews of the episode (and no actual comic book references) that seemed to take it for granted that bruce wayne masterminded the elko meet-up. like. he had rachel talk to donna over the phone, had rachel’s voice crackle over dawn’s radio and her car engine nearly die at the same time, flashed the diner ad at the exact right moment and place for kory, and... what, hacked rachel’s mind? bruce is made to seem like some sort of divine trickster, “helping” the heroes through riddles and convoluted puzzles, setting them on the path where they’re supposed to go and being a gigantic asshole about it the entire time. if bruce was this concerned about dick and his team, why wouldn’t he step in and help in a more direct and efficient way? why would you for a second even entertain the idea that bruce wayne--for all of his intellect and resources--would even be capable of this, let alone do it? because this fucking show loves its unreliable narrators and weird, hallucinatory mindscapes, and i love it for being this cheerfully kooky.

1.5. i think it’s safe to say that we didn’t see the real bruce wayne at all this episode. so what actually happened? others like @maurianasravenholdt and @seekingxanadu have already (very astutely) posited that it all has something to do with rachel and dick’s Special Connection: something that was established in moment one of the very first episode of the show. maybe halluci!bruce managed to project to rachel and the others through this connection. let’s consider a few things and see if we can get to a conclusion:

a) halluci!bruce appears whenever dick is especially unwell--be that physically, mentally, or spiritually. it’s the form his subconscious assumes when it’s trying to cut through all of the hand-wringing and suffocating guilt that’s clouding dick’s mind and preventing him from consciously putting things together and moving on

b) rachel has had some form of access to dick’s mind and memories right from the beginning, considering that she dreamt of the night his parents died even before she knew that he existed

c) rachel could send psychic messages to people very far away, like she did to dawn in the s1 finale

d) it’s implied that rachel is struggling to control her powers throughout this season, and established that she wasn’t aware that her possessed gargoyle killed a man (also, she can possess inanimate objects now? neat.) maybe trigon is still lurking in that jewel of hers, biding his time, trying to manifest every time rachel uses her powers

e) halluci!bruce disappears briefly while dick is still out of his mind with fever, and that coincides with time “bruce” is talking to rachel, kory and the others

f) dick in rachel’s vision implores her “not to give up” and she sees elko’s diner for the first time when holding his hands

g) dick sees a goddamn RAVEN in his prison cell

a possible conclusion? rachel’s awesome (subconscious) powers facilitated her connection to dick, reached out and passed on messages to all the other titans, and gave a chance for dick’s subconscious to directly address the other titans and get them on track to what they should be doing. why would all of them see his hallucination? well, trigon had free access to their minds and their realities in 1.11 and 2.01; what’s to say that just a fraction of that power wouldn’t tweak their perceptions just so that they were all experiencing the same hallucination at once? (tellingly, the cook is never shown reacting to bruce wayne.)

i mean, it’s plausible, if a bit convoluted. i just don’t understand why this would be the way they are all saved, especially now, given that rachel and dick have barely talked to each other for several episodes. it’s just--completely out of the blue.

(heh. blue. geddit?)

1.75. other possible explanations: um.... jericho....? so we know that jericho’s alive and in slade’s body. is it possible that he could’ve orchestrated this somehow? he clearly had access to some weird, liminal world back in the beginning of 2.08. maybe he’s tapping into those hitherto-undefined abilities to subconsciously connect the titans together and give them a metaphorical kick up the ass after realising that dick was too busy drowning in guilt and grief to help jericho any time soon? I DON’T KNOW. but maybe...?

1.8. maybe dick has been a meta all along? maybe not, but would you honestly put this past the show?

(i’m reminded of the fic i wrote after the s1 finale where i basically implied that dick had been trigon all along. stop trying to out-weird me, titans.)

1.95. the image of dick grayson alone on a prison bed, sweating and burning up with fever, delirious, sighing “jericho...” at the ceiling while closing his eyes is going to fucking haunt me forever

2. some much needed insight into kory! (tho, in true titans style, they had her hook up with an actual psychiatrist who laid out exactly what was going on with her in plain terms. listen sir, it’s poor form to do this to someone who didn’t explicitly ask you for your advice or come to you for a consultation! and if you think somebody’s unwell or at least their decision-making ability is compromised, do not have sex with them! take the time you spend in the gym to think about this! sir! this is Not Okay!)

2.5. god that she says she experienced things like friendship love and freedom “for the first time” when she lost her memories last year! no wonder she put off going back to tamaran for as long as she could after trigon was defeated at the start of this season, and no wonder she was absolutely fucking delighted to explore new experiences and interact with other people. and now here she is, obligated to go back to her planet and save her people but with no way to do it and no one to talk to about it.

like dick, she bears the burdens of others (maybe a little more easily than he does), but prefers to deal with her own issues alone, until it’s a hard icy lump in her chest and she can hardly breathe from the anxiety. both she and dick recognise this in each other and respect it--which ironically means that they are able to be honest and open to each other in a way that they can’t be to everybody else.

(which just makes it a great pity that they’ve had all of two conversations this entire season.)

3. so jason/rose is a Real, Actual Thing now, which i did not expect, and rose is slade’s mole in titans tower, which is totally something i called ages ago. their scenes were cheesy but in the best possible way--i groaned when they started quoting musicals at each other, but it’s exactly that kind of corniness that does more to make them more human and likeable than say... the past several episodes

jason recognises in rose another rebel who pushes people away to protect herself and i can see why he’d cling to her in a world full of hypercompetent emotionally constipated people who always seem to know where they belong. it’s so sweet and brave of him to make himself vulnerable in the way that he did, which means learning of rose’s deception is going to further devastate him and send him firmly down the path to red-hood-dom. which is honestly a great pity--it really was shaping up like dick and jason were going to bond and help each other grow, but now he probably thinks that dick thought so little of him that he thought jason was acceptable collateral to keep his secret re: jericho safe.

4. so a lot of people are upset at donna and dawn seemingly up and abandoning dick, but having seen the scene for myself, it makes a lot of sense? sure, it was a little harsh, but they do know dick--and they correctly guess that he’ll get out of there if he wanted to. conner and gar do need them more, and frankly it’s a bit concerning that rachel didn’t realise that on her own

4.5. and, like. the reasons they’re angry with him haven’t changed. dick is consumed with guilt about his role in jericho’s death, but donna (and maybe dawn) are furious at dick for living with this for so many years, denying his friends a chance to process the information and make choices for themselves. dick thought he was sparing them all the pain of realising just how badly they’d fucked up with jericho, but for the others it’s just another way in which dick is paranoid and secretive and more their tortured leader than their best friend. again, the fact that dick’s narration dominates this season makes it hard to see, but donna, dawn and hank took away different kinds of trauma from the jericho incident and their refusal to engage with dick right now might legitimately be seen as an act of self-preservation than any actual malice on their part.

5. GIVE GAR A BREAK GODDAMN

the best, most loyal titan, and his reward is to be repeatedly violated and traumatised and turned into a killing machine. i just--*sigh*

once they save him, at least half of season three better be the other titans grovelling for forgiveness and gar having fun, healhy relationships with people who can reciprocate his enthusiasm and loyalty

5.5. so we’ve got slade and jericho-in-slade on one side, and mercy graves and her machinations at cadmus on the other; raven and nightwing ready to burst out of their cocoons, and hank, forgotten somewhere in the wilderness, about to spiral back down a very familiar hole. and there are only two episodes left in the season. *rubs face tiredly*

6. anyway, titans is a trip and a half, and makes just about as much sense. I LOVE IT. 1000/10.

#titans #titans spoilers #meta #dick grayson #rachel roth #bruce wayne #koriand'r #garfield logan #jason todd #rose wilson #donna troy #dawn granger

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sunflowerstache · 4 years ago

Note

I would like a sneak peak x

ask and you shall receive☺️

It was a car horn that initially took your attention off of the pavement, turning to look for who was in such a rush at 5:30am, but the hard torso smacking into her shoulder is what brought your attention back. Followed by the searing heat of your hot chocolate spilling down your front.

“Oh fuck!” you yelled, immediately dropping the paper cup and trying to pull your shirt away from your body to decrease the chance of a burn. There goes your chance to get home and drive right to work without any issue.

“Oh my god! Oh shit!” the man that had ran into you gasped, stopping in his tracks and grabbing onto your elbow to steady your wild movements.

Even though his words were quite loud on the empty street, his voice was still husky, almost like he wasn’t awake yet and still had some left over sleep in his throat. And when you turned to look at who had ruined your shirt, your own voice got stuck in your throat. He was tall, which made sense considering your head had bounced right off of his chest. He was wearing black basketball shorts with tall white socks and a light grey hoodie, which was pulled up to cover the dark grey beanie resting on his head. With one hand he was holding a water bottle with ease, while the other was frantically pulling the airpod from his ear. But apart from his sheer stature, you couldn’t ignore how beautiful this man was. How even the worry lines littering his face were perfectly accenting his features. Or how the green of his eyes seemed to sparkle in the dim light of the Whole Foods you had been stopped in front of.

“I’m so sorry! Shit are you okay?” he quickly asked, shaking his head before you could even respond. “Obviously not, that was probably hot. Oh god I’m so sorry!”

Finally getting your bearings back, you couldn’t help but nod. “Yeah it was pretty hot.”

“Shit, I don’t even know how that happened. I must’ve taken my eyes off the pavement for one second. I’m so sorry.”

“So you’ve said.” You chuckled, bending down to pick up your now empty cup at your feet and tossing it in the bin by your side. “Don’t worry about it. Really it’s fine.”

“It’s not, I’ve ruined your shirt.” If the disappointment in his voice wasn’t evident enough, the small pout on his lips definitely was. He looked absolutely distraught at the sight of what he’d done. “Let me at least get you a new drink. It’s the least I could do.”

“Oh, um, that’s alright.” You’d always known it was rude to speak to someone and not give them eye contact, it was something your father had drilled into you as a child, but you just couldn’t bring yourself to do it. Looking someone in the eyes meant seeing above their head, and that was an area you actively tried to avoid looking. But there was something about him that drew you in, and you couldn’t help glancing up at him quickly again. “I actually have to be getting to work. Thanks though.”

“Are you sure? I feel terrible.”

“Positive. Have a good morning.” Your touch was soft on his arm as you made your way past him, leaving the mystery man standing on the pavement staring as you walked towards your flat.

You didn’t mean to be so short with him, but it’s just how you’d grown accustomed to living life. It was the easiest way you found not to get close to many people, which meant less hurt in the end. And you’d been around enough hurt in your short twenty three years. It may be a lonely life, but you were happy with your cat, comically named Lucifer, and living a simple life. Sure, there were times you wished you could live the carefree life everyone around you got to experience, your only issues being stresses of work or relationship drama, but that wasn’t who you were. After living the life you did, there’d be no way you could live a normal life.

“Don’t give me that look, Luci.” you grumbled when walking through your front door, your cat perched on the dining table just watching as you moved through the living room, ripping your destroyed shirt from your body. “This wasn’t my fault.”

You’re sure that you looked like a crazy person if anyone was watching on, talking to your cat while walking around your flat in nothing but a pair of black slacks and a bra. But you didn’t care, because this was your normal. You ranted to her after a long day at work or a particularly draining day, and she always sat and listened. Mostly because she was a cat.

“He just ran right into me, like he literally couldn’t see me. How odd, right?” you stopped briefly while searching your closet for a new shirt. “God Luci, he was cute though. So cute. And tall.”

Just because you secluded yourself in the world didn’t mean you didn’t enjoy taking a peak at what it had to offer. It was the forming relationships that put you off, not because there was a level of uncertainty - nothing was uncertain to you - but because you always knew the timeline of said relationships. It was always the same. So why put yourself through it? But also, why not? What if that was just what you needed to make such a painful existence a little more bearable?

“I didn’t even get his name. Maybe I’ll see him around the cafe sometime.” you hummed, throwing the new peach colored blouse over your head and peeking your face out of the hole. “No. No Georgie, don’t go there. Who are we kidding, it’s not like anything could ever happen anyway.”

Lucifer meows loudly at your comment., making you turn around to glare at her. Obviously she didn’t know what was actually going on, but it was nice to entertain the idea of someone listening to your problems and helping you talk them out. You were a secluded young woman, not crazy.

“What? Like I’m wrong? It’s not something I’d be able to keep from a boyfriend forever. And It’s not like I’d be able to just flat out tell them.”

#lifespan

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love-minor-poltergeist · 5 years ago

Text

Warmth

(Widowmaker/Reader)

Word Count: 6,756

Summary: As a quiet new recruit, you had feared the one they called “Widowmaker”. However, you find yourself feeling drawn into the stoic woman. (Or: How a wandering butterfly began to slowly attract the spider.)

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The first time the two of you crossed paths, you were just a new recruit for Talon; lost, unsure of what to do with the shattered remnants of your life, and in desperate need of the money.

You and the other small handful of green-horned grunts stood in a single file in a room cold enough to make goosebumps break out on the bare skin of your arms. A glance to the two recruits encompassing both of your sides was enough to make your stomach clench up.

Everything about this seemed to scream out that this was a bad idea; the dark metal walls that seemed to slowly close in on you, the stiff, unwelcoming eyes of the other recruits, the heavily armored soldiers blocking the rest of you off from leaving.

Bile slowly began to rise up into your throat the longer you stood there. Your already weak heart was threatening to collapse as the walls grew closer with each passing second.

Just as you were ready to vomit out what little breakfast you had, a man with slicked-back hair and a suit worth more than you have ever made in a lifetime entered the room. Grey eyes scanned the young men and women before him and his thin, lizard-like lips stretched into a falsely-welcoming smile.

“Welcome to Talon, children.”

Meanwhile, the guards at the door quickly parted as another man and a woman followed suit; the other man was dressed not too far off from an old metal album your cousin lent you.

The thought would have made you crack a smile if he didn’t have shotguns big enough to crack your skull open in his metal clawed hands.

Somehow, you felt like he was glaring at you from under the mask he wore.

You silently gulp and quickly look over to the slender woman by his side.

The first thing to immediately stand out was her inhumanely blue skin, causing you to do a double take. You soon found that, despite her odd pigmentation, she was dangerously beautiful; every smooth curve of flesh hiding hints of battle-hardened sinewy muscle.

Overall, she wasn’t too far off from one of those models on the cover of a glossy, high-fashion magazine. Her frame was slender, her waist subtlety pinching inwards to show off pleasantly-curved hips. A glance downward revealed her long legs and you briefly wondered if she was a did ballet in her spare time.

Though you doubted she was the type to welcome talk of her hobbies, judging from the hard stare she gave you and the others.

Then, almost embarrassingly quick, you noticed the deep, v-cut down the front of her suit- and inadvertently stared at the soft, rounded cleavage exposed.

You inwardly squeak, cheeks bright with shame, as you quickly whip your gaze back up to a safer, less awkward level- Only to make direct eye contact with said woman, who seemed to catch on to your accidental ogling.

You could already feel a part of your dignity shrivel up and die as she scrutinized you with a look you were unable to read completely. Face on fire, you stare at the wall ahead of you, mouthing a tiny “sorry” in hopes that she would see it and perhaps not murder you the next time she saw you.

The next thing you knew, you felt a hand as cold as ice grab your face hard enough to cause a stinging pain.

Grey filled your vision and you found yourself humiliated further on your first day. Turns out, you had accidentally tuned out Mr. Official’s introduction speech, and he was none too happy about it. Even more unfortunate for you, it had turned out the other man and the woman you had stared at like a creep happened to be your superiors.

Cat-like yellow met your eyes once again, and you caught the small huff of a laugh the woman let out at your expense underneath the mocking snickers of the other recruits.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The second time you saw her again, it had been well over a few months in your training.

You were left largely ignored by the other recruits since day one; the others keeping their interactions with you short and cold most of the time. After you had managed to make a fool of yourself on the first day, it seemed that no one wanted to spend too much time around you. It was likely that they saw you as a liability, or maybe they just didn’t want to hang around what they likely thought was some pervert.

However, you did manage to make a “friend” out of one of your fellow grunts. He only really contributed low grunts or silence to your conversations, but he didn’t seem to mind your presence at all. Though, you couldn’t quite tell if he bothered with you purely out of pity; not that it mattered. You weren’t one to look a gift horse in the mouth- especially one willing to hang around this long.

Tiny miracles aside, life as a Talon trainee proved to be a near hellish experience.

A normal day began at six in the morning, on the dot, forcing you to get used to waking up early to go through a grueling training routine that left you feeling weak. Afterwards, there was a bland meal waiting for you to shovel in just to avoid passing out from exhaustion.

There was more training, more flavorless food for dinner, and a very brief shower. You would then go to bed, wake up, and repeat the cycle.

It was beginning to wear you down mentally. The constant physical and emotional strain day in and day out was almost enough to make you consider quitting Talon all together.

Almost.

The money, as well as the free housing they provided, were the main reasons why you bothered to stay. And with those two reasons binding you down to the organization, you felt that your mental wellbeing began to stagnate.

So, after a few months into your employment at Talon, you decided to find new ways to try and break the monotony of the routine forced upon you.

Most of said attempts soon turned out to be unsuccessful; Since it turned out that it was much harder to do anything remotely entertaining without some form of friend circle. Which was something you were a bit lacking in (that one gruff grunt aside).

Soon enough, you found yourself spending time in the shooting range at dusk. Hardly anyone was in there around that time, save for a few grunts here and there. Much like the others, they didn’t pay any attention towards you- only just tolerating your presence.

You make your way onto the grounds one late night, muscles sore and in desperate need of much needed solitude.

After you have gained approval from the officer behind the front desk and accepted the protective gear he handed you, you found yourself letting out a sigh of relief as you slowly make your way towards the gun rack.

There wasn’t anyone else around, judging from the lack of gunfire. Nobody around to stare you down like a hawk waiting for its prey to grow weak.

Training had been much more tasking that day- both mentally and physically. The instructor had decided to push your body beyond its limit, going as far as to dig the heel of his boot into the back of your head when you didn’t go deep enough in your push-ups like the others. Even now, while you looked over the almost comically large selection of guns, you could hear the barely contained laughter of your fellow recruits as the back of your head was practically stomped on.

You moan pitifully at the memory as you tentatively grab a hold of a sniper rifle and made your way over to the targets. Hand to Hand combat had never been your speciality; hell, you weren’t sure if exercise had ever been a field you were ever particularly good in.

It was evident in most of your training sessions, no doubt forcing the rift between you and the others even wider. Since your recruitment, it seemed that you were only destined to lag behind the others.

The cool metal of the gun dug into your palms as your grip tightened. You force in a sharp breath through your nose, quickly blinking away the gathering wetness already threatening to fall.

You could make yourself useful in other ways. You need to be useful in some way.

Crosshairs fill your eye as you lined the gun up, your hands shaking the entire time as you squeezed the trigger tightly.

A piercing bang filled the air, and you suck in a breath as you slowly backed your head away from the scope. The skin around your eye met cold air as you forced in deep breaths, your heart racing a mile a minute. You could feel your hands shaking harder as you rubbed at your eye, skin clammy and sticky from cold sweat. The gun laid patiently in your grip as you silently stood there, nothing but the sound of your own nervous breathing filling your ears.

An eternity passes until you’re brave enough to look through the scope again, your hands still trembling the whole time. It took you a bit to make out your target through your unsteady grip, and when you finally did, your stomach sunk at the sight.

You did manage to hit the target, but only barely. A small hole in the stiff, white outer portion- just barely grazing the shoulder of the solid black figure- was the only proof that you had fired at all.

Somehow you managed to screw up. It was like training all over again.. You could already see unwavering, hard stare of the instructor as his lips curled into a disgusted sneer; the sight as fresh and new as when it first happened earlier that day.

A heavy, boot-clad heel dug into the back of your skull— no doubt bruising the skin there into a black-ish purple— the man spat out a curt a dismissal. The others, whether it be from lack of concern towards you or maybe because they feared the man just as much as you did (perhaps both), shuffled out without so much as a passing glance towards you.

A phantom pain began to settle in as you stood there, stiff and unmoving save for the gun jostled around by your unsteady grip. You could still feel your face being pressed into the floor, the weight of his boot growing heavier by the second.

Blurry wetness began to well up as your nose began to hurt worse the more he pressed down. It wouldn’t be long before the fragile cartilage would begin to bend back, back, back until it breaks apart with a sickening sna-

Click.

You freeze up, your hands finally still as a heavy chill settled into your bones; your heart beating in your ears.

Click. Click. Click.

The rhythmic taps of heels on the cold, hard metal floor rang out again, each sharp tap cutting through the air like a knife through flesh. You felt your throat sting as you nervously forced down a breath, almost as if a rock was trapped inside.

Deep blue moves out of the corner of your eye, and cold metal pressed into your palms harshly. You could feel your hands slowly begin to shake again as you tighten your grip on the gun.

Someone was in here with you. There were eyes ready to scrutinize you, tear down your being to every single error you’ve committed.

Teeth worried at your bottom lip, and you force yourself to breathe. A heavy weight had formed in your stomach, the pain great enough to make you teary-eyed.

Click. Click. Click. Each click grew louder with each step, your stomach sinking further and further the closer they got. You could feel your breath hitch as you slowly turn your head, heart nearly palpitating from nerves.

Not too far off, there she stood: the woman from all those months ago.

Her focus was drawn away from you, towards the targets you feebly shot at not too long ago. A rifle, one heavily modded and sleeker than the ones the range normally offers, sits in her elegant hands. She slowly raises the scope to her eye, hands steady and face set in a mask of chilling indifference. For a few moments, the woman silently stood there; unmoving. And soon, a piercing bang tore through the air.

You’d be lying to yourself if you said the noise didn’t make you jump high enough to nearly drop the gun.

Silence settled over the shooting range once again, which gave you plenty of time to calm your racing heart. You can feel eyes burning at the side at the side of your head as you clutched the gun to your chest, and the lump from before comes back.

Just to prolong acknowledging the elephant in the room- or in this case, the very deadly spider in the room- you raise the scope to your eye; desperately ignoring how warm the range was all of a sudden.

The sight you were greeted with was enough to rip a gasp from your lips: Far off in the distance, there was a lone target situated high above the others. As far as you were concerned, none of the other recruits had been able to hit it; and yet.. The woman just a few heads away had been able to make a clean shot.

Right in the dead center of the flimsy target’s head.

Before you knew it, you felt the gun slip from your slack grip. It hit the ground with a “clunk”, but you didn’t pay it any mind. You turned towards her and you felt your chest tighten as yellow eyes meet yours. The words left your mouth before you could think.

“Teach me.”

Her eyes widen for a moment, the mask of indifference cracking. Blue lips gently parted. For a moment, you thought she was going to say something, but as quick it fell, her stoic mask was put back into place.

With her mouth set in a hard line and eyes cold enough to give you frostbite, she gives you a look of disdain before she turned heel and walked away without so much as a word to you.

That night, the resounding clicks of her heels filled your dreams- and that was when you knew you were in for a world of headache and heartaches.

And you hadn’t even known her name yet.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

A third encounter came, then a fourth, and then a fifth. It wasn’t long before a strange pattern had formed between the two of you.

You would quietly make your way towards the shooting range long after training, the sky slowly darkening above the grounds as you grab a gun. Each time, you’d feel your hands shake gently from after-training jitters, but you always force down a breath and soldier on.

With your heartbeat tapping at your rib cage, you firmly plant yourself in a spot mostly out of view; tucked away in the corner to be easily overlooked if anyone else came in.

In the first few months of your recruitment, the idea would have bothered you. However, after spending much of your time alone, you’ve come to appreciate the peaceful silence it came with. It made practicing your aim much easier without the jeering and ridicule of others.

You would pick out a target and shoot at it periodically- squeezing the trigger with an almost feather-light tentativeness each time.

As the sky slowly begins to darken with an orange hue and in between the heavy clicking of reloading your gun, you’d hear it.

It was always faint under the heavy plastic of your ear muffs, but you had come to easily recognize it; the familiar click of heels against the cool metal flooring. Each click would grow louder the closer she got, then they would suddenly stop before you could mentally repeat the rhythmic pattern.

Before you could even think to glance over, it would happen: The air next to you would explode with the piercing boom of her rifle, and you’d do your damndest to try and calm the stutter of your heart.

Then, just like clockwork, you’d nervously peek from the corner of your eye to the sight of her.

The one the other agents called, in hushed- equal parts reverant and fearful- whispers, the Widowmaker. Her code name, you’ve quickly realized, and never, ever her actual name.

She’s been largely...indifferent, since the last encounter you had with her; back when you boldly- more like stupidly- asked her to train you. You had thought you’ve accidentally driven her away, forcing her to find a new haunt, but there’s a silent, persistent air to her. Almost as if the encounter never happened, Widowmaker always came back at around the same time.

And for the most part, she didn’t really seem to give two shits about you being here.

Of course, there was always the strange look she’d give you then and there- it didn’t seem to be outright irritation per say, but it wasn’t exactly the most welcoming, either. It felt like she saw you nothing more than a fly- so long as you didn’t bother her, she would leave you alone.

Despite the frosty reception, not to mention how she admittedly scared the shit out of you, you did your best to remain friendly with her. Of course, your efforts were met with mixed results. And you’ve done just about everything every trying-to-be-friendly office worker would do to socialize:

You’d muster up your most polite and not at all terrified “hello” to her with a weak wave. Widowmaker would normally give you an eye roll in exchange, but recently it has improved to a nod and a non-committal hum. It wasn’t much, but you were grateful nonetheless.

You weren’t exactly brave enough to ask her about her day just yet, since she isn’t exactly welcoming you with open arms, but could see things slowly getting better from here!

After all those afternoons spent staring through a scope with your bottom lip wedged between your teeth, you can already see the vast improvement in your aim. By no means were you sniper-elite material, but you were good enough to feel the weight of your own self-doubt begin to lighten. At this rate, you may even be able to prove yourself worthy to the other recruits- maybe even prove yourself better than some of them.

The thought is enough to make an embarrassingly eager giggle bubble in your throat.

Which, at the time, must of slipped out-- because soon you heard Widowmaker let out a chuckle low enough to leave a strange coil in your stomach and heat bloom across warm cheeks.

It was enough to stay with you for a while. Like now, where you’re in bed staring at the ceiling while the snores of your dorm mate fills the air. You could feel your eyes begin to sting as her chuckle kept rewinding in your head, the alarm clock’s constant flashing “2:45 AM” out of the corner of your eye only adding to your growing headache.

You haven’t even known this woman for very long; probably more than 4 months at best. Even then, it wasn’t like the two of you were close-knit. For god’s sake the first interaction you had with her you stared at her chest like some pervert!

She wasn’t even that nice to you.

And yet, here you are: nursing the start of a nerve-wracking infatuation with a woman who wouldn’t hesitate to snap your neck.

Frustration coursing through your veins, you grabbed your pillow and slapped it onto your face before letting out the loudest muffled shriek your tired body could muster. It hardly did anything to help your ever-growing stress and it only made your now partially-asleep dorm mate throw a boot in your direction.

You let out a yelp as you shot up from bed, only barely dodging a thick, steel-toed boot to the face. It slams against the wall with a loud “clang!” and you flinch, arms reflexively curling around yourself protectively.

Not even feeling a tiny bit of regret, your disgruntled dorm mate merely growled at you before rolling over to their other side. As quick as they tried to hurt you, their snores soon filled the room again- leaving you wide awake and more than a little jittery.

Another glance to the clock revealed the flashing “2:55 AM” and you sigh as you rub your temples. Training was to start soon and there was no doubt you were going to be absolutely miserable the entire time.

You needed to sleep- because at this point, you got to take whatever hours you could squeeze in. After all, the last time you trained without sleep, you nearly dry heaved in front of the others- and you really rather not have a repeat of that again.

With a shaky sigh, you turn over to your sleeping dorm-mate. The way their shoulders slowly rose and fell in an even tempo and, of course, their loud snoring were enough to calm your nerves somewhat. They were generally unpleasant to be around when awake, but thankfully they were a heavy-enough sleeper; which made slipping past the door a cinch.

Talon at day already had a foreboding air to it but at least all the sharply-dressed higher-ups and soldiers walking around was enough to distract you. At night it was a whole other ball game. The halls were always dark and the air is cold enough to leave a chill in your bones. Without anyone else around, every little step, every breath and gasp were amplified a hundred times over. It was almost like the base itself turned into a graveyard.

You squinted as you made your through the dark halls, ink-like darkness periodically broken by faint ceiling lights that only made things slightly more visible. For an organization that’s able to pay their staff handsomely you’d think that they’d be able to afford better lights.

Thankfully, you already knew where you were going.

You needed something to calm your nerves. And nothing calms you down like a warm cup of hot chocolate.

Soon enough one of the smaller break rooms came into your view. However, it seemed that someone was already inside. The lights were already on when you made your inside and your chest clenches at the sight of familiar blue.

Not too far from you on the couch sat Widowmaker, who’s head shot up from her hands towards you. You stopped right in your tracks, tired eyes going wide at the sight before you.

For someone who usually wore curve-hugging suits that held little to the imagination, you’d think she wouldn’t be able to pull off a pair of sweatpants as well. But good lord you were wrong.

No one should be able to pull grey sweatpants and a simple black tee as well as she did.

The two of you make eye contact and you wince away at the hard stare she gave you. She rolls her eyes after that, crossing her arms silently as she leans into the back of the couch.

It must have been a very bad time for you to walk in then.

Had you been more awake or less desperate to sleep, you would’ve left like any sane individual. However, your sleep-addled brain couldn’t be bothered to think rationally. You were absolutely hellbent on knocking yourself out with hot chocolate even if it kills you.

Still, you can't help but feel kind of bad that you walked in on something private.

“..Sorry, I’ll be gone in just a bit..” you mumbled as you made your way towards the break rooms’ cabinets and microwave.

You could hear her huff under the clinks of porcelain mugs being pushing around; maybe even rolling her eyes a bit at your apology. But her next words didn’t seem to hold any real ire in them, albeit they did sound a little bit annoyed.

“Very well. Make it quick.”

Startled (you think this is the first time you ever heard her voice outside of faint, overheard conversations), you nearly dropped the mug you were holding. Shit, she had a really nice accent.

Good lord don’t be an idiot. Don’t be an idiot. Don’t-

The mantra was mentally chanted as you opened up the sticky fridge-door for a half-empty carton of milk. No way are you going to humiliate yourself again in front of her.

A sharp breath later, you’re glancing at the sleek black microwave in front of you. It wasn’t a stove by any means, but it’ll do for now.

Pouring the milk and putting back the carton, you dig around the loose coffee packets in the basket above the microwave. It took you a few seconds but you find yourself making a pleased keen when you finally find a cocoa packet; which, conveniently, happened to be from your favorite brand. Not that it had anything on your home-made cocoa, if you say so yourself.

Sparing no time, you quickly set the packet aside and gently place the mug full of milk inside the microwave. Setting it to heat for a minute, you briefly turn your back and leaned against the counter to wait. Then it finally dawns on you. You’re gonna be stuck in a room with Widowmaker, who you accidentally developed a crush on for a minute. Which normally wouldn’t be bad, but your tired, tired brain thinks that just waiting silently like any sane person would. Oh no, it came up with something that will surely go well.

“..Are you okay?” the words slip out before you could stop them, and you mentally scream the entire time.

Widowmaker, still not moving away from her spot, trains a wary eye on you. Her already crossed arms pressed themselves tighter against her frame. She doesn’t respond to the sudden question, eyes hard like fossilized amber.

An uncomfortable silence filled the air as the two of you stare each other, the droning of the microwave buzzing in the back of your skull. You can already feel your hands growing clammy the longer you stand there, and it feels as if a lump is lodged in your throat.

To your surprise, she was the first to break the silence.

“..I’m fine” Widowmaker answers slowly, methodically. Her full attention was now on you as an ungloved finger taps against her arm.

The way she said it feels like she thinks you were planning something. Did she think you were up to no good?

Not that you were, you assured yourself, suddenly feeling paranoid.

Wait, was it possible that you were creeping her out right now?

I mean, it’s not like you were the most popular person around the base. Chances are some unpleasant things may have been tossed around in the rumor mill; no doubt spreading beyond just the recruits to the conference rooms above. Oh god, she likely heard them. No, scratch that, she definitely heard them.

Beep! Beep! Beep!

You let out a strange noise between a shriek and squeak, causing the normally composed woman in front of you to start. Before you could even get a peek at the woman’s expression, you quickly whipped around to take the mug out.

The milk was hardly warm enough and it definitely needed to spend another minute or two to heat up, but that hardly mattered at this point. You were far more busy trying not to spill the milk while you felt eyes at the back of your head.

You wanted nothing more than to run back to your dorm and bury yourself under the sheets, and never come out again; as if that would shield you away from how the horribly uncomfortable mess you got yourself in.

Meanwhile Amélie sat silently on the couch, at a complete loss. When she first saw you on your first day, she had assumed you would just be another face in the crowd. Just another recruit who’d go home when the pressure became too much or become another name on the long list of casualties.

Worst case scenario, you’d end up as one of O’Deorain’s little pet projects; poked and prodded at with all sorts of syringes and probes until you were just a hollow shell of your former self.

So to see you again in the shooting range three months later had been...surprising to say the least. Before you came into the picture, Amélie considered the grounds at dusk her make-shift safe haven.

Before so her personal quarters had been her personal sanctum, especially during the first year after killing Gérard. It had provided her with more than enough privacy and silence- both before and after missions.

Then the calls of Talon’s doctors and scientists came. Soon enough, unwanted memories of a dark holding cell and blinding fluorescent lights over an operating table. That was when the phantom pains in her arms began to occur, a near-constant reminder of what she was now.

What had once been considered her safe space in Talon turned out to be a far more prettier version of the prison they kept her in. Though she was numb emotionally and mentally, Amélie knew that staying there for too long would open up old wounds.

Even as dull the pain was, she didn’t want to think about how Gérard’s eyes grew dull and lifeless before her.

With the shooting range, there wasn’t much room for dwelling in the past. Just nothing but the cold metal of her gun and shooting at defenseless targets. It was probably the closest thing to therapy she’ll ever get in this place.

That fateful dusk, she had expected everything to go the same as it usually did. She would enter an empty shooting range, shoot out whatever remnants of emotions she had, and head back to sleep.

So when she heard gunshots on her way in, she had contemplated just turning around and leaving. The other soldiers never interested her, not to mention how most of them viewed her as a “challenge” to simply bed. However, the memories of Gérard were much stronger that day, and she entered out of sheer desperation.

Then she saw you again. The recruit she had laughed at on the first day.

Even as far away as she was from you, Amélie could see the way your hands shook the entire time you held the gun. In fact, she could also see the faint outlines of bruises on your arms and the faint bags under your eyes. You were still facing ahead, but you were completely aware that you were no longer alone.

Perhaps that’s why she moved closer to you than she would’ve anyone else; perhaps it’s because you weren’t a threat to her. Or maybe it was because of pity.

Whatever it was, it moved Amélie forward.

Soon after she landed a direct shot, she hears a gun fell to the ground with a harsh clang, and she finds herself locking eyes with you. At that moment, Amélie had felt something as she stared into watery, doe-like eyes.

“Teach me.”

Just like that she’s transported back in time; back when Gérard was still alive, back when her entire being hadn’t been numbed to the point of nothingness just yet. In front of her stood a haggard, pallid Amélie -- hair disheveled and unwashed in weeks, dark eyes sunken in.

She recognized the struggle to survive, and she could feel the pain bleeding through your voice. Desperation had once been her daily companion.

Without another word, Amélie turned heel and walked out. She could feel your gaze follow her as she retreated, but she could feel the memories and flashbacks rushing in her head so quick that she couldn’t care less.

That night as she laid to rest, she swore that was the first time her pulse had raced in a long time. And she didn’t like it.

…..After that day, Amélie had tried to ignore your presence. The first few days were easy, and you didn’t talk to her- likely regretting your actions. But then you began to grow bolder: you started trying to be friendly with her.

She would enter the shooting range and you’d watch her from the corner of your eye. It was incredibly obvious that you were afraid of her; a mouse watching the prowling house-cat in fearful anticipation. Yet for whatever reason, you still pressed forward.

It had at first started out with glances and nods, topped off with a tiny smile before you went back to practicing your shooting. Then it graduated to actually greeting her with a shaky voice and a wave.

You never pushed her for conversation. A majority, if not all, of your interactions were brief and should’ve been meaningless to her. The recruit that always greeted her whenever she entered ultimately, the one who tries to be nice whenever they can, should not have mattered to her.

With Amélie’s luck, however, it seemed that she grew...attached against her wishes. Perhaps it was pity, or maybe it was out of the loneliness that was buried deep inside of her. Whatever it may be, it was enough for her to feel a dull pang in her chest at watching you act so skittish around her.

While the sniper sat lost in thought, you stood in front of the microwave dumbly. The trembling in your hands refused to ease up, even when you laid them down on the counter to mentally count to ten.

Already you could feel the pressure in your chest begin to grow heavier with each second, and you force yourself to take deep breaths. You were definitely over-reacting and just blowing this whole situation out of proportion, but every nerve and synapse kept screaming at you to panic.

Just as you were about to consider abandoning the lukewarm mug beside you, you suddenly feel a smooth hand grab your shoulder. You jump, just barely holding back a surprised yelp, and you whip your head behind you.

Blue fills your vision, and a part of you is both mortified and ecstatic as you feel Widowmaker’s front subtly press against your back. Her skin was abnormally cold and her hand left a trail of goosebumps as she reached past you.

As cold as her skin was, it did little to bother you. Quite the opposite, actually. It didn’t take long for heat to rush through your entire being, a thin sheen of nervous sweat no doubt beginning to form on your forehead.

You wonder if she could hear how hard your heart was beating against your chest, though you were certain that she’s far more aware of the fact that you were blushing hard enough to almost turn purple.

Whatever the case may be, she remained silent as she picked up the mug next to your still shaky fingers- the chipped paint standing out like a sore thumb against soft, meticulously-manicured hands. Slow and even breaths gently fanned against the shell of your ear, the hair on the back of your neck standing on end.

Loud beeping cuts through the silence, nearly making you jump. You gently shake your head, gathering your wits about you, and you focus in time to see Widowmaker press the “start” button on the microwave.

Cold flesh soon leaves your back, leaving you oddly empty and somehow colder than before, and you hear her feet pad across metal flooring until she’s back on her previous perch with a loud creak.

More than a little flustered, confused, and hell, even feeling a little touch-starved, you look over to the woman behind you. She went back to her earlier position, arms-crossed and her gaze avoiding you. However, it appears that she was less tense than before. Well, maybe tense wasn’t the right word. She looked a lot less... frustrated than before.

Suddenly her eye’s flick over to you, trailing your shaky form with an aloofness that made it hard to read her. Then again, she was always hard to read. Even more so now with the sudden kind act she did.

Almost as if she knew what you were thinking, she snapped you out of your reverie.

“Don’t waste it.” she said, her tone unexpectedly curt before turning around to face the wall in front of her.

She didn’t say anything else after that, leaving the both of you surrounded by the droning hum of the microwave behind you.

Was...she chastising you? Had she had known that you were considering making a break for it in the middle of your nervous panic? Were you really that easy to read?

The microwave stops your train of thought before it could speed down the familiar track of self-deprecation like it always did, and you quickly move to open take out the mug. Even though you could feel the heat bite at the flesh of your palm, it was nothing compared to how fucking warm you felt right now.

You feel the packet of hot chocolate crinkle in your hands as you turn yourself over to her.

“Um..”

She turns back over to you, her brow slightly raised and eyes betraying a hint of surprise. Oh god, you could feel yourself growing even warmer now.

“Thank you.” you find yourself blushing harder. “Sorry for, uh, the first time, by the way.”

The sniper blinks for a moment, brows furrowed in confusion before it finally hits her. Of course you’d apologize for something so little.

Her huff of laughter is sudden, nearly causing you to jump. You were fairly certain that she would’ve been a lot less...approachable when you finally mustered up the courage to apologize about your first encounter. You thought you were going to be met with anger, or annoyance at best.

Not whatever this was. Not the sniper’s lowered guard and the ghost of a smile- one that held no trace of malice anywhere- on her lips. Your breath hitches as she leans forward, chin perched on her knuckles.

“You won’t have to worry about me harming you, papillion.”

Amélie had to cough to cover up her snort when you made a nervous squeak. You were growing more endearing to the normally frigid woman the more flustered you grew.

It’s been far too long since she felt this...normal, around anyone. She wanted more.

You nervously laugh before you rip open the packet- narrowly avoiding spilling chocolate powder everywhere- and stirred the contents together with a teaspoon.

A strangely comfortable silence settles over the two of you as metal clinked against ceramic. Now that you had finally managed to bury the hatchet in your mind, it was as if a weight was lifted off your shoulders.

Dare you even say, but maybe you even earned a new friend? A very pretty friend-

You take out the spoon before you could go down that rabbit hole.

Warm chocolate hits your tongue, coaxing a sweet groan from your throat. It’s been far too long since you’ve been able to have any sweets around the base, and already you’re brewing up a plan to try and sneak some in when you look at the clock on the wall-

Only to nearly choke on your hot chocolate. It was already nearing 3:10 A.M and you’re hit with the fact that you still have training in a couple of hours.

Practically throwing the teaspoon into the sink, you begin to chug down the rest of your hot chocolate.

Behind you on the couch, Amélie watched in mute fascination as you put back your now empty mug in the sink with a gasp. She could see tears begin to form from the pain, but she stayed quiet as you quickly turned towards her.

“Oh, uh, I’ll see you later?”

She felt her chest grow light at the hopeful look you gave her- almost like an eager puppy. Though it was muted greatly, Amélie felt a tiny thread of happiness at the thought.

“Oui.”

Perhaps it was a poor decision, making tiny promises like this. But the large, radiant smile you gave her was enough to cast the idea away.

That night, Amélie is given a respite from Gérard as she slips into a peaceful sleep.

#my writing #reader-inserts #overwatch #overwatch reader insert #widowmaker #amelie lacroix #widowmaker x reader #one-shot #gender-neutral reader

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ladyshandioftheendless · 4 years ago

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Shandi’s KISSteria drabbles 32!

Last part of the BIG FIGHT!!

~Shandi

The battle of KISSteria: The Necromancer thinks he’s won..but has he?

ONE SMALL LIFE Part 18

The air in the Star Tower was tense as the party waited… for what, they weren’t sure. The only ones who were the most relaxed were Ayesha and the Rock of KISSteria, which was still dimly pulsing in time with the baby’s breaths as she slept. Mick, who was still over by a window, happened to look out in time to see a flash of red lightning strike the ground somewhere on the battlefield. “What the fuck was that?”

The Elder went to join him at the window. “What did you see?”

“I saw red lightning strike the battlefield somewhere. But it didn’t look like normal lightning. It looked… wrong.” Wrong was the only word Mick could come up with to describe it.

“The Necromancer,” Radames reasoned. “It must have been.”

“Okay, but what’s it mean?” Mick’s arms tightened fractionally around Ayesha, and he had the feeling he wouldn’t like the answer.

Red Lotus’s jaw was set. “Either something has happened to the Necromancer on the battlefield, or he is making his escape to find the child.”

“Fuckin’... so what do we do?”

“What we originally planned to do: guard the Rock and protect the child.”

“They won’t stop me..they can’t stop me.. I won’t let them.”

The Necromancer knew the Star Tower would be well guarded. But he was so close! He could almost taste the Rock’s power! There was no doubt in his mind that the sacrifice would be here as well. He grinned manically, pulling out his dagger. He chanted the spell once more as he cut into his wrists to summon more Blood Pawns. “Go, my lovelies..go and kill them all! Carve me a path to what I seek through their flesh!!” The Pawns shrieked and slinked off, attacking everyone. Guards. Servants. No one was safe from the Pawns’ relentless blades.

Red Lotus gripped her staff and scowled. “Ready yourselves. He is coming.”

“Fuck..” Mick cursed under his breath, holding Ayesha tighter. “Stay behind me.” Radames said, immediately setting up a barrier around them. “I will protect you with the best of my ability. You have my word.” As if sensing the coming danger, Ayesha’s tiny fingers clenched Mick’s shirt tightly and she started to whine. Mick held her close and tried to hush her. “I know, kiddo I know..you sense it. We won’t let him touch you.” Ayesha gurgled, reaching out to tug on Mick’s hair and giving him a wide-eyed, frightened look. “It’s real sweet that you’re worried about me but we don’t have much of a choice here. They’re gettin' too close.”

“And too desperate.” the Elder said, hearing the Pawns screeching. A sound that she never thought she would hear again. “He has resorted to using his own blood for his spells. There is no telling what he will do next.” As Ayesha grew more distressed the Rock pulsed brighter and more frequently. A powerful shockwave crashed against the barrier followed by a pained yell from the High Priestess. Despite all of her power, the Pawns quickly overwhelmed her with their deadly agility.

“You are beaten!!” the Necromancer’s mocking laughter echoed in the hallway. “You will not keep me from my prize, woman!!” He then appeared in the doorway, pointing his dagger. “You..all of you!! Your dear High Priestess is at the mercy of my lovelies~ However..I will spare her life if you give me the child..and the Rock. Lower the barrier now! Or she will suffer!!”

“Don’t!!” Red Lotus tried to reach for her staff, but a Pawn pushed it out of reach with its blade. “Don’t worry about me! I am ready to die to keep that poor child safe!”

“You are fools..you are all fools!! THE MISTRESS WILL RISE AGAIN!! AND YOUR BLOOD WILL HASTEN HER RETURN!!”

Ayesha let out a frightened sob, and the Rock’s light flashed briefly. Both went unnoticed, though, as the Elder’s face markings glowed purple. “You are a devil, Necromancer,” her voice boomed, strong and regal. “You will never have the child or the Rock.”

“Oh, but I will. I am tired of entertaining foolish babble.” Raising his hands in the air, the Necromancer chanted again. Radames raised his sword in the air while the Elder narrowed her eyes and grit her teeth…

… and then they froze. Whatever spell the Necromancer had cast had frozen them in place like statues. Only Mick and Ayesha were still able to move. Ayesha’s fingers still clenched on Mick’s shirt, and the Rock’s light was flashing and fading, rather like a heartbeat.

Mick shifted so that Ayesha was secure in one arm, and in his free hand crackling electricity formed. It wasn’t the amount of power he would have liked, but it would have to do. He would still be able to deliver a powerful shock.

The Necromancer snarled at him. “Give. Me. The child!”

Mick glared back. “Over my dead body, asshole.”

A ball of red energy appeared in the Necromancer’s hand. “That’s the idea~”

He threw it, and with Radames unable to enforce the barrier around the two it was quickly destroyed. Then he ran and lunged for Ayesha. Punches and kicks were thrown from both men, while Ayesha was outright crying. The Rock’s light was pulsing dangerously now. Then the Necromancer gave a hard kick to Mick’s stomach, weakening him enough to wrench Ayesha free and push him to the floor.

Mick lay groaning on the floor as the Necromancer lifted Ayesha into the air, a mad glint in his eye. “Finally… the host for my Mistress! The Crimson Witch shall rise again! REJOICE!!”

In his exhilaration, he let the spell over the Elder and Radames lift, and they immediately raised their weapons, joined by Red Lotus running in and raising her staff. “Release that child now!” the Elder demanded. “Or you will pay the price!”

“Ah ah ah,” the Necromancer lowered Ayesha and unsheathed his dagger, pointing it at her neck. “I wouldn’t do that.” All three froze. “That’s better. Tell that brat Star Prince to call off his armies and surrender, and give me the Rock. Or I will kill this child right here.”

Ayesha began to struggle and kick against the Necromancer’s body, wailing loudly. Growling, the Necromancer shook her roughly. “Be silent, you little brat!”

Ayesha screamed.

And then many things happened at once. On the battlefield, Demon and Vinneketh froze and looked up at the Star Tower. StarChild, Ace, CatMan, and Demon felt a strange sensation in their bodies. A sudden, ominous calm swept over the battlefield.

In the Star Tower, the Rock’s light exploded, filling the room and blinding the Necromancer. He cried out in surprise and pain and shielded his eyes. Mick suddenly felt the pain fade and strength rush back into his system, and he leapt to his feet and dove for Ayesha. After a moment of wrestling, Ayesha was pulled free, and Mick backed away as the Rock’s light seemed to surround the Necromancer on all sides. Musical notes filled the room, and they sounded cosmic and unearthly… and angry.

The Necromancer suddenly looked very afraid. “What is this? What’s happening?!”

The Rock’s light seemed to close in on him, the notes growing louder. A crimson aura formed around his body, and after a moment the aura began to be sucked away from him. As it did, the Necromancer suddenly began to change; lines formed on his face, his hair slowly lightened from a dark grey to white, until he had turned completely into a frail old man.

“WHAT IS HAPPENING TO ME?!” he screamed.

“As I said,” the Elder said from behind him. “You will pay the price for your cruelty and bloodshed. The Rock will not allow you to kill this child, or anyone else.”

Then the Rock emitted a loud, sharp note. Its light surrounded the Necromancer once again, and this time he began to be pulled towards the Rock’s pedestal. Although he struggled, he was quickly overpowered.

“No! No, you can’t do this!” he screamed out as he was pulled towards the pedestal. “My Mistress—!” The Rock interrupted with an angry clashing note. “NO!”

The Necromancer’s arms were forced up in front of him, and even as he tried to pull them away, he was roughly pulled towards the pedestal until his fingertips touched the Rock.

Bright purple light exploded across the Necromancer’s body, encasing him, and he gave a nearly unearthly screech.

On the battlefield, the Necromancer’s screech echoed from the Star Tower, and the remaining members of the Cult grabbed their heads and fell to their knees, crying out in pain. The Blood Pawns and the undead army froze in place and began to shake, shifting wildly in their forms and shrieking themselves.

Mick turned Ayesha around to press her face to his chest, not wanting her to see what was happening. But even he couldn’t look away as the Necromancer’s body twisted and jerked. Then the Rock sounded out a final, loud note, that on the battlefield overpowered the Necromancer’s screech, and there was one last blinding flash of light. Everyone in the Tower was forced to cover their eyes.

When the light faded, the Necromancer was released, and he fell to the stone floor with a dull thud. His skin was paper white, his eyes were wide, and his mouth was open in a silent scream.

For a moment, the only sound in the room was the sound of Ayesha’s tearful whimpering. Then the Rock let out a soft, crooning note, and she slowly settled in Mick’s arms, closing her eyes and falling back asleep. Everyone else stared at the Necromancer’s body in silent shock.

“... Is he dead?” Mick finally managed to say.

Red Lotus approached the body and, in a move almost comical given their situation, gingerly poked it with the tip of her staff. “He is dead. And if I am not mistaken, his powers have been drained from him.”

Sighing heavily, Mick looked down at Ayesha. She was just sleeping peacefully as if nothing had happened. He stared at her in silent awe. “Did she..really do all that..?”

“She did.” After dusting off his robes Radames came over to place a gentle hand on her head. “She called for help and the Rock answered. Incredible is it not?”

“That’s one word for it, yeah.”

“Master!!”

Vinneketh came running in with Demon not far behind. “Master..Ayesha..is she..?” Radames just smiled. “Have no fear, my son. She is perfectly safe~” While Mick handed her over Demon stared at the Necromancer on the floor. “So this is what has become of you..” He growled and set the corpse ablaze. “It’s no less than what you deserve. The fires of Hell will welcome you with open arms.”

To be Continued!!

#Shandi's drabbles #Shandi's KISSteriaverse #One Small Life #not gonna spoil #just enjoy!#Liv and I are super proud of this~

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gwiiyeoweo · 5 years ago

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What Regis believes to be Noctis speaking for his imaginary friend, turns out to not be so imaginary after all.

Pairing: Noctis & Ardyn, Noctis & Regis, Regis & Ardyn Rating: G

"Daddy, can my friend sleep over?"

Noctis peeks out from under the cover, eyes threatening to resort to his infamous puppy dog look. The boy already has his fingers toying with the top edge of his blanket, like they're little paws instead of hands, and his lower lip is ready for that little soft quiver. Even under the dim glow of his carbuncle-shaped night light, Regis can easily see the wet glassy look of his baby boy’s blue eyes.

Cor really needs to stop teaching his son these tricks. Horrible influence.

"Hm," Regis starts, rubbing a hand at his beard. "They can stay as long as they want, so long as they pay the rent. A prince's room does not come cheap, after all."

Immediately Noctis turns that woeful look into a bright pearly smile, his shining eyes no longer threatening tears but radiating genuine joy. He also scoots to the far end of his bed to turn half his body upside down, torso hanging over the edge as he peers into the darkness beneath.

"Dad says you can stay!" Noctis excitedly whispers to the dust and crumbs under his bed. Or maybe to a stuffed toy. He hefts himself back up and returns to position, wiggling into a comfortable spot smack dab in the middle of bed.

Regis should make it illegal for any child to be that adorable; it makes him want to clutch his heart and keel over, and Insomnia really can’t afford to have their king die from such unfortunate circumstances at the moment.

But then Noctis hits him with some fancy wording. "He said he accepts your conditions and will provide proper compensation."

Regis lifts his brows a little at that. Has Noctis secretly been hanging outside his office, or did his governess decide on an accelerated vocabulary curriculum? Regis isn't sure if he should be impressed or concerned.

Well, kids do tend to say the darndest things anyway. But Noctis doesn’t give him anymore surprises after that, just the usual demand for a goodnight kiss before getting tucked into bed. And Regis can’t quite say no to any of that.

“Hey, dad.”

“Yes?”

“My friend wants to know when he has to pay the rent. For staying in my room.”

Regis was putting away the last of Noctis’ toys into a chest when he looks up to see his boy clearing off the scraps of colored paper and crayons from the floor. With how brazen Niflheim’s become, the war just requires all the more attention and effort from the king; before long, he fears it may soon end up being days before he can even have a little short lunch with his own son. So now, whatever scant time he has, he pours it all upon Noctis, even if that means playing make-believe and acting along to a child’s nonsensical imagination and getting crayon shavings in his beard.

It’s still adorable though. Especially how Noctis remembers the little “deal” they made with his imaginary friend.

“Ah, let’s see…” Regis lifts his head up and stares at the ceiling, tapping a finger to his chin as he feigns deep thought trying to remember the week’s schedule. “I do believe I have a nine o’clock opening in my office. Would your friend like to drop off payment then?”

He’s only half serious, curious to see what form of payment Noctis will conjure up, if any. Another drawing to add to Regis’ precious collection, a snack or cookie baked up with the help of their many capable chefs, or maybe a shiny beetle found in their gardens. Hopefully nothing poisonous. Though Regis would accept it with all the same gratitude.

“Umm, okay, I’ll tell him later,” Noctis answers back, eyes still drawn to his clean-up duty.

Ah, probably “later” when Regis tucks him into bed. He wonders, briefly, what shape or form this friend comes in — probably Carbuncle-shaped, given his son’s affection for it.

“Noctis!”

“Hi, daddy!” Noctis swivels around, immediately dropping the soccer ball he’s been kicking against a tree and running up to his father. “Did you get the rent?”

Regis has his hands turning Noctis this way and that, searching for any and all signs of damage or wear or blood. His boy just giggles, thinking it’s a game of sorts with the way his father has him spinning around, but Regis is silently screaming inside with panic.

“Ardyn said he left it on your desk.” Noctis says it with such a chip in his voice, that it’s almost comical.

When Regis had walked into his office this morning with his faithful cup of Joe — in a lumpy ceramic mug crafted by his dear son — it was with the innocent assumption of completing some paperwork and chatting with Clarus over a few pedantic details regarding a couple new bills.

And not, say, approaching his desk to find a polished platter and cloche waiting for him. Regis had smiled into his mug at that, figuring it was the promised “rent” Noctis — rather, his imaginary friend, of course — mentioned. A little cake, or perhaps breakfast, he had thought.

Not the decapitated head of Iedolas Aldercapt, emperor of Niflheim who’s hellbent on conquering all of Lucis.

Ex-emperor, now, actually.

(The head had been surprisingly lacking the mess of blood, he’d later realize.)

But right now, he needs to make sure his son was safe. Granted, there had been no screams of panic or trails of blood, no emergency calls or messengers to rush secrets to him. Even Clarus or Cor, often the first and foremost to report anything awry to him, had been off doing whatever their regular Shield and Marshall duties entailed. Clarus would, of course, naturally gravitate toward Regis’s side once he discovered where his King actually went. And Cor would hunt him down to update him on the list of new Crownsguard recruits and who had actually passed the trials.

As far as they both know, Regis is supposed to be finishing his cup of coffee in his office but! Strangely clean-cut head of Lucis’ enemy on his desk!

‘On my desk,’ Regis remembers, as he’s done patting down Noctis and the boy looks sick of his prodding now. It clicks, but he’s almost determined not to believe it. He gently places his hands on Noctis' shoulders, trying his best to not appear too grave as he looks into innocent eyes. ‘Where his friend’s rent is supposed to be.’

Well, shit.

“Noctis,” Regis barely manages without choking, “you said your… friend? Left his, ah, rent? On my desk. Do you know what it is?”

Noctis only shakes his head. “No, Ardyn just said it should help with all the fighting outside. He wouldn’t tell me.”

At least that’s something to feel relieved about. Despite knowing his son would have to one day take up the crown and all the world’s burdens surrounding it, he would like to shield his son from it all until he could no longer; a child at Noctis’ age had no business handling, let alone knowing about, a corpse’s head.

Regis sighs and lets his hands go slack, finally releasing Noctis to pinch at the bridge of his nose. There's a hundred and one questions swirling in his head, and each one just adds to the aching pressure in his skull.

"Ardyn!"

Regis whips his head up and around, eyes trailing after Noctis sprinting to some particularly shady trees where a tall man emerges. His boy wraps his arms around the stranger's waist, essentially latching onto him like a (freakin' adorable) leech, and the man humors him with a few gentle pats to the head.

Regis almost mistakes him for a homeless man, mistaking his ornate clothing for rags. His attire is… Unique, to put it in kind terms. Still, odd fashion or not, Regis keeps his guard up, ready to strike at any moment should he feel any threat, magic thrumming just underneath his skin in anticipation.

"Why, hullo there, Your Majesty." The fellow — Ardyn, according to Noctis — takes his hat off with a flourish and a deep bow at the waist, but the smirk he wears lacks the sincerity and reverence he pretends to hold. "Will my payment be sufficient for the month's rent?"

Regis has so many questions he doesn't even know where to start.

So naturally, the first thing that comes out of his mouth isn’t a question at all, though his tone could almost mistake it as one. “You’re not imaginary.”

Ardyn, with his ever-widening (and shit-eating) smile, knows. “I am very much real, Your Majesty.”

Noctis was sent off with hardly a fight, thanks to Ardyn’s bribery.

“Alright, you little rascal, scamper off to your room now. I’ve left a shiny little present on your bed,” he had said. Noctis didn’t need to be told twice, dashing off and nearly running into a manservant.

It earned Regis and Ardyn an hour to sit in the office, the silver platter hiding a lifeless head all that separated the two. And it’s a riveting hour: ninety percent of it being Ardyn fluttering his hands and speaking in a fanciful tongue about who he is, what he’s done, and what he will do; ten percent of it being Regis doubting all that he’s believed so far, including what his father and his father’s father has told him and what outlandish claims the Ardyn fellow spieled.

Ardyn, as in Ardyn Lucis Caelum, by the way. Which only served to throw Regis into another absurd loop.

This great ancestor — the Scourge, Adagium, the Fellstar, whatever — reaches over the desk and helps himself to Regis’ cold mug of coffee, twisting his face into a grimace after a sip. “For a King, one would think he’d care for better beans.”

“One would think the King would not be sharing coffee with someone as you.”

“Ah, touché.”

“You can’t truly entertain the idea that my trust is to be had so easily.”

“I don’t.” Ardyn shrugs his shoulders, the mug nearly sploshing cold coffee with how carelessly he holds it. “There’s really nothing, aside from myself, stopping you from trying to imprison me back in Angelgard. Or wondering if this is all some scheme of me attempting to worm my way into your good graces, to earn your faith only to trod upon it at the end, delivering darkness everlasting upon this good Star. And I really would prefer you to kindly not try to stick me back into that dusty old crypt.”

Regis only eyes him with suspicion, lips straightened into an unamused line. But despite Ardyn’s terrible personality and ill-timed humor, his gut tells him that Ardyn speaks at least some truth, that this dangerous embodiment of darkness and plague may very well prove to be an invaluable ally. Regis is loathe to admit it, but… he’s already trying to come up with some cover-up story to throw to the council on who Ardyn is and why some strangely-dressed fellow is suddenly leisurely strolling around the Citadel, inevitably with Noctis glued to his heels.

Ugh, that’s a strange image: Noctis clinging to his destined enemy like a curious puppy.

But Ardyn continues his babbling, setting down Regis’ prized mug back on the desk so he has both hands free to do his dramatic gestures, flitting them in the air and making exaggerated motions. “You see, I’m a stubborn man of sorts. Very stubborn. When a god decrees I abide by his will, to make myself the world’s villain only to let myself die in the end, well — I must say, that sort of thing simply does not sound like a jolly good time. This is me, as the young ones like to say, sticking it to the man.”

Regis glances at the platter, the closed cloche hiding the ashen face of Aldercapt, when he shoots back a dry retort. "Or sticking it to the man's neck."

"O-ho! So you do have a little humor. Glad to see some of Somnus' drab qualities were bred out." Ardyn claps his hands in joy before reaching his hand out, over the desk and above the platter. "I think we'll get along splendidly, dear nephew. "

Hm. Yeah. Ardyn is definitely not gonna call him nephew around these parts, or the best case scenario is a scandal regarding an ancestor’s infidelity.

Regis eyes him warily, as if the hand could strike him as does a viper. "Upon your word, you will do no harm to my son or my kingdom. And you would wait upon Noctis' final days, when his hair grows white and his eyes weary, to take your last breath upon this world."

"Oh, must I have everything in writing for you? Shall I sign my name in blood while I'm at it? I'm sure there's some old magicks we can find to swear this oath on, if you're feeling so insistent." Ardyn gives a heavy eye roll. "Yes, Your Majesty, I do so swear. Besides, while I look forward to my day of rest, there is just much to do! Being locked up in a prison for so many centuries then becoming trapped in a perpetual winter steals so much of one's life pleasures. I really would like to visit that famous chocobo ranch Lucis speaks so fondly of. I once had a bird myself, a rare black beauty; and Niflheim, unfortunately, has no such feathery creatures."

Regis extends his hand, albeit just a tad begrudgingly, to shake on their agreement, but he hears a familiar pitter patter outside his door that only grows louder and heavier.

Noctis bursts through the door, glimmering with a faint blue and smelling of magic; he must have warped his way to Regis' office, running in between each shot to save on stamina.

The father in him wants to feel pride at how quickly his son has picked up their family tricks, but the other father in him zeroes in on the very large, very sharp thing in Noctis' hands. It's nearly as tall as the boy himself.

It takes Regis a second too long to realize Noctis holds no ordinary sword.

It's the Sword of the Mystic. The fucking Mystic.

"Dad! Dad, look at the sword Ardyn got me!" Noctis nearly topples over trying to lug the thing around, barely avoiding chopping his little leg off.

Sword who? Ardyn what?

"How many does that make now?" Ardyn asks, looking as if everything is right as rain. He smiles — something like amusement, something like fondness — when Noctis screws his face up in concentration and a dim shimmer spreads from his hands to the entirety of the sword.

And poof, the blade disappears in sparks of white and blue.

"Uhhh. I have a bow, a shield, and a stick." Noctis counts them off on his hand, pulling one finger up for each weapon he lists.

"Scepter, little Noctis."

"Okay."

“Stop right there.” Regis butts in, standing from his seat and circling around the desk to Ardyn. It’s not much, but at least some of his anxiety disappeared when the sword did, the threat of his son slicing off a finger or a hand no longer an immediate threat. But he pauses to look at Noctis, breathing out a weary sigh, and shakes his head. “No, Noctis, not you. Not literally. You may move.”

Noctis unfreezes, who stood ramrod still with his arms in the air when Regis gave the order to ‘stop,’ and lets his hands fall back to his side. He looks ready to vibrate with excitement, no doubt ready to chuck out his newly-acquired sword and start swinging it around. And probably chase Gladiolus down with it, if his past week’s grumblings of “Gladio’s always picking on me!” and “One day I’m gonna beat him up!” are anything to go by.

‘Oh Six, ’ Regis thinks, ‘how do I begin to explain this. ’

But before he thinks of a cover-up story, Regis has some very choice words to share with Ardyn, none of which are meant for little young ears. So he picks his old, forgotten mug of coffee and hands it off to Noctis, tasking him with a simple enough errand while he picks some bones with Ardyn. “Noctis dear, could you get your father a new warm cup of coffee?”

“Oh! Do bring me one too, little scamp,” Ardyn butts in, despite having complaints of the coffee earlier.

Noctis totters off, kindly closing the door behind him before gunning it to the kitchens, and Regis hears the tell-tale stomping and the crackling chimes of their family magic.

Regis hopes the chefs would do him the favor of distracting his son with some freshly baked cookies, because he’s going to crack open the book of scathing tongues and dip Ardyn in boiling words by the time that coffee is brewed.

It occurs to him after he tucks his son into bed, after Noctis asks if Ardyn can stay in his room again.

“Please tell me that you have, in fact, not been living under my son’s bed this entire time.” Regis asks, though he almost doesn’t want to hear the answer to that.

“Oh heavens no!” Ardyn looks aghast, splaying his hand across his chest like he’s been affronted.

Regis wants to believe him, as the idea of a middle-aged man hiding underneath his boy’s bed makes for an uncomfortable image indeed.

So of course, Ardyn has to ruin it when he opens his mouth again. “Not the entire time. Though your servants could put a little more care into tidying up his room; it is a bit dusty under there.”

#ffxv #ff15 #final fantasy xv #regis lucis caelum #ardyn izunia #noctis lucis caelum #i can type

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dear-yunho · 5 years ago

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Jealousy

Pairing : Choi San (ATEEZ) x Female!Reader Genre : Angsty Fluff Word Count : 3,685 Author’s Note : Haiii! UwU please enjoy and if you have requests let me know! (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:･ﾟ✧

You were barely awake for more than two minutes when the slamming of a door made you sit up and cast a sidelong glance to the empty spot in the bed beside you.

San’s spot, which had been filled an hour ago when you’d briefly woken up to get a drink of water, was painfully empty, the dent where his body had been still warm. With a sigh you dragged yourself out of the comfort and warmth of your own position, casting a quick glance around the room in search of a hint for his sudden departure. Your only clue was his phone, which was discarded, still unlocked, on his bedside table. Normally you’d never touch his phone, you trusted San and he you, so there had never before been a reason for you to use it without his permission or knowledge first. This wasn’t normal though, your usually bubbly boyfriend had stormed his way from the room with barely more than a grunt from his mouth and you were pretty sure that the door might have splintered somewhere from the pure force he’d used to slam it closed behind him. So you picked up his phone, squinting through the haze of sleep in your eyes at the far too bright screen, taking a moment to process what you saw. Your heart plummeted heavily. An image, which he’d zoomed into, of you in the arms of someone else. Someone that wasn’t San. Around the image were words, toxic words that you barely read more than a sentence of to know that whoever had written this would be a better fiction writer than a reporter. Any idiot should be able to tell that this photo is years old, taken at least 2 years before you’d even met San. Your long hair, which was short now, was still it’s natural colour rather than the bleached waves it fell to your shoulders at now and your face still had a tinge of chubbiness on it that in the last year had completely evaporated thanks to your fruitless endeavour to help San in learning his difficult choreographies. And yet it had clearly been the source of San’s rage, because he’d left his phone open on the image, zoomed into the way that the tall figure’s hands wrapped around yours and his dark eyes held on your figure with a loving gaze. Your heart panged lowly in your chest as you locked his screen and pocketed his phone, intending to take it to him when you confronted him for acting like a child over a photo that now meant nothing to you. “Y/n?” A soft knock, which was instantly followed by the creak of the abused door swinging open on it’s hinges had you lifting your head warily to greet the tallest member of the group as he squeezed into the room. His hand pressed the door shut as he fixed a concerned gaze on you, his bright hair still ruffled from the sleep he must have been awakened from. He’d graciously accepted moving into the room beside yours and San’s, the room he’d once shared with the blonde haired boy until San had begged for you to be able to move into the dorms a year into your relationship. The entertainment label had left it up to the boys to discuss, claiming that as long as you and San remained cautious they had no problems in where you did or didn’t live. The only person who had at first been against it was Wooyoung, although even then you’d known it wasn’t about you. He wasn’t ready to share his best friend more than he already had to. Eventually, clearly, he’d given in and even apologised to you, confiding his fears to you and earning a heartfelt assurance from you that though you’d be living here, San would still love him as much as ever, and he’d lose no extra attention than he had when you lived in your own apartment. Thankfully, that had remained true or else you wouldn’t have known what to do. You certainly couldn’t stomach the idea of being the issue between those two. “Hey Yunho.” You greeted him, sitting on the edge of your shared bed and smiling at him in a way that you were pretty sure displayed every emotion you’d rather him not see from you right now. He grimaced, confirming your thoughts, and sat beside you, slinging his arm over your shoulders and drawing you into a one armed hug. “What happened?” You allowed your head to thump onto his shoulder, fingers trembling in your lap as the reality caught up to you. San was mad at you. San, the boy with a dimpled smile and soft whiney voice that could barely hold a glare for longer than ten seconds, was genuinely pissed at you over a picture that was two years old, a picture that he’d never seen before because you’d never thought it would matter. Until now. Instead of answering Yunho you handed San’s phone over to him, watching him tap in the passcode that only the two of you knew because you’d all been in the same room when a drunken San had announced he was going to make it a combination of your and his birthdays. A sharp lance of pain speared your throat at the memory of that night, once Yunho had stumbled out to his room and passed out half on his bed and Half off it, you’d curled up in San’s arms as he sang into your hair, occasional hiccups or giggles interrupting his serenades. You didn’t want to lose him over something so stupid, something so old and insignificant to you. Wordlessly you watched Yunho read the article and watched his long slender fingers zoom into the photo as his brows creased in further concern. He made an effort to force away his misgivings when he finally looked up at you from the screen, which you might have appreciated more had you not already seen his expression. “It’s old.” You confirmed before he could ask the question clearly on his mind, and he nodded slowly, handing you back San’s phone. “Your hair is longer in that photo.” He agreed, as if it had only just occurred to him. You nodded, fingers playing idly with San’s phone. It didn’t have a case on it anymore, because he’d broken it a week ago in a pflayfight with Wooyoung and you knew he’d been meaning to replace it, but his schedule had been hectic since then. You’d planned to take him out this morning to help him find one, because even a small thing like that was important to him. So you couldn’t imagine how heartbroken he must have felt seeing that photo, whether or not he believed that it was recent or while you were together. Yunho squeezed your shoulder gently, his lips pouting a little at the sad expression on your face. Your bottom lip trembled and you turned into his chest, burying your face there and letting a few silent tears escape while his hand moved to your back, patting soothingly as he mumbled comforting words to you. You could barely hear him, because it didn’t matter. If you lost San, everything would cease to matter. You couldn’t even imagine a world in which his dimpled smile didn’t greet you every morning accompanied with his gravelly morning voice or the sweet kisses that he would spontaneously gift you at the silliest of times. You didn’t want to think about how you would get through a whole day, let alone the rest of your life, without a single one of the constant texts that often filled your phone from him, either sweetly checking up on you or whining that he missed you into a voicemail. “Maybe we should go find him and explain.” Yunho finally pushed you off his chest, his finger titling your chin up as his thumb swiped away your tears with a sad smile down at you. You wanted to shake your head and bundle yourself back into his arms. But you knew he was right, however much you dreaded facing San and seeing angry expression and hearing his accusations, you and San both deserved to at least discuss it. You needed to at least attempt to tell him it was an old picture, you needed the chance to save your relationship. “Okay.” You whispered through a sniffle, letting the taller boy stand and help you up, your fingers clasped too tightly around San’s phone. He must have muted his notifications so he wouldn’t wake you this morning when he’d rolled over to check his phone, because since you’d woken up none of the usual thousands of twitter notifications had vibrated the device. Which only made you sadder. He was so considerate, caring and loving. Like it was an instinct driven deep into his core and bones, and you couldn’t even be bothered to let him know about a photo that had been bound to be used against you at some point. Another sniffle let you and Yunho grabbed your hand, giving it a quick squeeze before opening the bedroom door and stepping out, holding it open for you to follow. You stared at him for a moment, taking in the dark circles below his kind eyes and the overall dishevelled appearance that clung to his tall form as he waited. His shirt was half tucked into the pants that he slept in and his hair was a bigger mess than you’d originally thought, the odd strand sticking up in directions that might have been comical to you in another situation. He looked exhausted, bone weary, but still he’d dragged himself out of bed to check on you and continued to help you now when it was clear he needed the sleep more than probably anyone else in the dorm did. Afterall, he stayed the latest overnight in the dance studio, practising the dance moves over and over until he reached perfection and then some, all so he could confidently help his members learn the moves quicker. You felt more tears prick the backs of your eyes and you swallowed past the huge lump in your throat, stepping past him and waiting for him before you continued on down the hall. Out of all the members in the dorm, you were the closest to Yunho, which may have something to do with the fact he very near to shared yours and San’s room with the closeness of his. But he was also the easiest to talk to, his bright encouraging smile always lit up every room he walked into and his intense loyalty to everyone in his family, Ateez and yourself included in that, were some of your favourite qualities in the puppy like boy. You both heard San before you found him, the sounds of objects being pushed around echoing solidly throughout the entire dorm, from the only room that had objects big enough to make that much noise being moved; the lounge room. Hongjoong and Seonghwa were leant, arms crossed, outside the entry way to the room when you and Yunho approached, both looking an equal mix of confused and miffed. “What’s wrong with him?” Hongjoong asked when you both were close enough to hear the bitter tone in his voice; San must have woken him. “What happened?” Seonghwa added in a much softer voice, casting his leader a berating glance then looking at you, the kindness almost physically dripping from his eyes as he waited patiently for an explanation. You swallowed, eyes darting between them and the closed door that separated you and San. You didn’t want to explain it to them, not when he was so close. You just wanted to see him, to hold his hands and explain it to him. “I…” You tried to focus over the heart shattering sounds of San cursing softly, yet loud enough to be heard through the door, after a particularly hard shove of one of the objects in the room that he was abusing. Yunho cleared his throat and squeezed your hand once more. “I’ll tell you, let’s let them speak.” He directed his words to his older members, jerking his head off down the hall. You felt a brief spark of panic at the idea of facing San alone when he was like this, which was quickly berated down by the voice in the back of your head reminding you that San would never hurt you. No matter how mad he was, he would never lift his hands against you in a threatening manner. So you forced away the feeling and nodded thankfully at Yunho, allowing Seonghwa to pull you into a sudden and brief hug. “Whatever it is, you can talk to me about it later if you need.” He murmured quietly to you, in a voice meant only for you before he let you go and hurried after Yunho and Hongjoong’s retreating forms. The sounds in the room had stopped now and you held your hand to the door handle for a silent moment, wondering if San had calmed down or if he was simply just exhausted with moving things around. You assumed the latter more likely than the former. With a heavy heart you pushed on the door and slipped into the room, blinking in the sudden blindingly bright light that greeted you and taking a moment to adjust to it. When you did finally adjust, your heart nearly stopped. San, hair somehow messier than Yunho’s, stood in the centre of the chaos that surrounded the room, his chest heaving and sweat coating his skin. You’d expected him to look mad, angry or sad even but he just looked lost and hurt, his eyes finding yours instantly. “San…” You whispered, jumping violently when the door slammed behind you, no longer having the support of your fingers to hold it open because they were clasped hard over your mouth. He remained silent, lips trembling much like yours as he stared back at you. You wanted nothing more than to launch yourself across the insignificant space between you, to wrap yourself into the arms that had held you lovingly so many times in the last year and a half that you’d been together. You wanted it so badly that your muscles trembled with the effort to hold you in place and a tiny whimper poured from your lips, silenced by the weight of your fingers over them. “San,” You repeated his name again when you had control over your voice, taking a tiny step forwards towards him. His whole body flinched in place, as if you’d lashed out physically at him and you froze, sure that he must be able to hear the sound of your heart crashing to the ground and shattering into a million tiny pieces. “I’m sorry.” It was the wrong thing to say, because you were sure to his mind it implied that what he’d seen was recent. But you couldn’t figure out what the right thing to say here was. You could explain it all to him, but you weren’t entirely sure that he could hear you right now. You weren’t even convinced that his glazed over eyes were seeing you either. A lone tear, cold like it had been collected and waiting in your eyes for too long, slipped down your cheek as you stood, waiting for some kind of epiphany on what to do hit you. In the end it was San that made the first move, crossing the room and lifting his hand to cup your face, thumb absently sweeping away the tear that still glistened just above your lip. You held your breath, mind reeling with the possibilities of what was going to happen. Was it only by instinct that he’d come to you to wipe your tears, like he had always done. Or had it been an excuse to scream at you for the photo, for never showing it to him before? Or was it something else? “Don’t cry.” He said in a defeated voice, eyes still lacking the emotion that you were expecting in their dark depths. If anything, that only hurt more and this time your whimper found its way out, your hands curling into shaking fists at your side as you fought to say something more than ‘Im sorry’ to him. “San, it’s-” “I know it isn’t recent, Y/n.” He interrupted you quietly before you could even really begin explaining and you blinked, confused. If he knew that, then why had he stormed out, why was he shoving furniture around and looking at you like he’d lost everything in the span of a single second. ‘I don’t understand’ You tried to say with your eyes as he continued to watch you, lips pressed tightly together. You were feeling faint now, your mind working too fast for your body to attempt to figure out what was going on. He was clearly mad, so if he knew that the picture wasn’t recent then there had to be more to it. After a few moments San sighed, his hand roughly running through his hair. “It’s just.. the way he was staring at you in that picture..” You choked as he spoke, cutting off the end of his sentence and earning a somewhat confused look from him as you slid to the ground, incredulous laughs slipping from you. He was jealous, jealous of a relationship more than two years old. Jealous of the way your ex had stared at you while you were with him, the ex that you’d left for San, the guy that you’d never had to assure San you were over because you’d always trusted that he knew that. Why else would you have moved in with him? “Y/n?” He said cautiously, kneeling in front of you and taking your face in his hands, concern lighting up his eyes as he leaned closer to you, trying to understand your reaction. You gasped for air, closing your eyes and forcing yourself to stop laughing, to calm down. You were edging to hysteria when he pulled you against him, laying your head against his shoulder and murmuring quietly to you and by the time your laughs had turned to soft, relieved, sobs against his shoulder his hands were lightly playing with the ends of your hair in the way he knew you loved. You clung to his body until the last sob left you and your knees were aching from kneeling against him. “You were jealous?!” You muttered, pulling away from him. He looked guilty now, casting his eyes around the heavily disrupted room that he’d so angrily taken apart earlier then back at you, his gaze seeking forgiveness. “San, you know that I love you, right?” You asked him, grabbing his face in your hands and squeezing, as if somehow you could force some sense into him. He pouted and jerked his head out of your hold, looking away grumpily. “Choi San!” You exclaimed, hitting his chest gently. You felt lightheaded with relief, that he’d only been throwing a tantrum because he was jealous was a lot better than him throwing a tantrum over genuinely believing that you would ever cheat on him. “Can you blame me?” He hissed suddenly, eyes pooling with tears when he finally looked back at you, bottom lip tugged harshly below his teeth. You blinked, taken aback and your hands dropped slowly to your side. “Sannie, I-” You began, frowning. He lifted his hand, pressing it against your cheek in a way that radiated his love and yet his eyes continued to collect moisture. “You’re beautiful, Y/n. You’re the light of this entire house,” In any other situation you would strongly disagreed and reminded him how hard he laughed at his members, or how he would die if he didn’t have Wooyoung in his life as his constant support. “You’re the most important person in my life, I’ve never loved and treasured someone as much as I do you.” Your heart thumped unevenly, lips curling up despite themselves at his words, at the sincerity in his gaze. “The very idea that I could ever lose you to someone else, that someone else once held you the way that I want to hold you for the rest of my life is…” He shook his head, sighing softly, the warm breath brushing against your face. “It breaks me.” And now you understood. Because you couldn’t even begin to imagine how you’d feel if you believed even for a millisecond that San loved someone else, whether it was present or past. He pressed his forehead to yours, thumb ghosting over your lip. “I got mad and I’m sorry for that, because it must have scared you.” You closed your eyes, revelling in the simple beauty of his high, soft voice as it washed over you. “But it was only because I never want to lose you.” You knew his lips were closing in to yours now, because the scent of vanilla and hazelnuts that almost always seemed to be on his breath was overpowering everything else now and there was an indescribable heat hovering near your mouth that made you ache for him. “I can’t imagine a world where you’re not mine, where you’re not mine.” You inwardly groaned, hands sweeping up his chest till they found the edge of his jaw, urging his mouth against yours. You kissed him like you were starving, drowning, like his soft lips against yours were the only source of oxygen you would ever need or be able to need. In a way they were. “But I am yours. In this world, in the next and in any world that will ever exist with both of us in it.” You informed him through the kiss, tilting your head to side to bare your neck where his lips brushed loving kisses and nips that burnt through your skin like heavenly fire. “And I always will be.”

#ateez #imagine #soft #fluffy #angst #kpop #kpop scenarios #ateez scenarios #ateez imagines #san #san x reader #fluff #choi san #atiny #y/n

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homespork-review · 5 years ago

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Homespork Act 1: The Note Dawdling Tension Plays (Part 2)

BRIGHT: The next bit of narration continues to establish John’s character: he has no idea what to call the red arm on the mailbox, and doesn’t care. We also learn that much like many teenagers, he doesn’t want to spend hours with his Dad. The author uses this opportunity to drop in a reference to the title.

The next page has a loading screen! I think this is the first interactive page in the comic. (For a certain value of interactive - you can mouseover the vertical lines of the games in the CD rack, and the cover of the game will pop up. Some of these link you to other works by Hussie.)

CHEL: Unfortunately, we then go into sylladex shenanigans AGAIN. Mercifully, this time it’s brief. We’ll let this one go, but I’ve got one eye on you, Huss.

TG messages John again, making reference to “TT”, who is confirmed female and alleged to be “mackin on” TG, and to his “bro” who “basically knows everything and is awesome”. How sincere he is in either of those remains to be seen. Finally, John actually gets told how to use his sylladex. Maybe the shenanigans will stop now… Anyway, he selects hammers for his strife specibus, or his weapon of choice, and the sylladex is confirmed able to hold things which would be too big to carry normally, such as Colonel Sassacre's Daunting Text of Magical Frivolity and Practical Japery, a book roughly as big as John is. At least the stupid sylladex actually has some practical use - I’m sure John’s as happy as I am to know that!

Next we see the review which put TG off; GameBro magazine explains “Why the ‘Game of the Year’ or whatever isn’t as good as some other stuff I like that’s better”. As it turns out once you get past the Totally Radical verbiage, the reviewer didn’t even play it. Something suspect’s definitely going on if it’s so hyped up on so little information… erm, is it just me or is the term “Brotel Rwanda” rather tacky? I don’t know if that’s worth a point, the point of the joke could be that the game reviewer is an idiot…

FAILURE ARTIST: I’d have that squarely as a point.

CLOCKWORK PROBLEMATYKKS: 1

CHEL: Okay, then, here’s our fourth count. Title is a reference to a line later in the comic, and I think the point of the count is pretty obvious. Mileage may vary, all works would get at least a couple points in this, and I don’t think it’s a big problem unless/until it starts to climb out of proportion. Not gonna use a WHITE SBURB POSTMODERNISM count because the reviewer, as seen in the pic, is supposed to be a white guy.

Regarding the rest of the review, I did consider whether this falls under the heading of HNTWAN’s “I, Youngster” (using slang or references from one’s own youth to write a contemporary younger person), but I’d say no, because it’s supposed to sound ridiculous. Same with John’s movies; his taste is supposed to be bad, I don’t think Hussie actually thinks kids in 2009 still all liked bad movies from before they were born. That, and Hussie’s word choices are frankly like nothing I’ve ever seen anywhere else in any time period.

We shall move on, as so is the comic. Forty-seven pages into the comic, the main character finally leaves his bedroom. Wow. Things are happening at breakneck speed here.

TIER: Truly the pace strides forward like a Colossus through Lilliput.

GET ON WITH IT!: 2

CHEL: Though the silly Groucho Marx disguise he puts on is cute.

BRIGHT: Of course, since it would be interesting to see what’s in the mailbox (or at least would move the plot along a bit), John spends the next few pages examining his home.

I’m torn about this. On the one hand, it does a bit more fleshing out of John and his home life, which is more interesting than endless sylladex shenanigans, and the narration is entertaining. On the other hand, I’m pretty sure that on my first read through I clicked through all of it, trying to get to something happening. It holds up better on the re-read to me.

Well, something does happen, John knocks over the urn containing his grandmother’s ashes and opens a box from his father which holds a full-sized harlequin doll. Again, how much this appeals depends on what you think of ‘loveable dork’ characters fumbling around.

Then we return briefly to John’s bedroom, where we meet the third character of this webcomic, tentacleTherapist, or the alluded-to TT. The conversation isn’t very long, but it does give a good sense of what TT is like.

CHEL: Specifically, prone to sarcasm and sesquipedalian loquaciousness. Also to inappropriate jokes. An invocation of the hentai trope "tentacle rape" (read her handle quickly) is a fairly uncomfortable username for a child to have.

CLOCKWORK PROBLEMATYKKS: 2

Anyway, it seems she knows John very well - she’s able to guess he’s wearing “one of your disguises” with no clue in his messages, so evidently he does this a lot. She’s probably the smartest character introduced so far, and she and John seem to have a good relationship.

Now, again, this was originally a reader-driven forum game, but when it was collated into a webcomic, it might have been better to have the conversation with TT moved to before John left the room, so we’re not going back and forth unnecessarily. One journey through the house is enough, I’d say. Another GET ON WITH IT point, or does this come under the heading of the second point still? I’ll be nice and not count it, since he was going back to fetch an item and not just randomly wandering.

We definitely get more points from the text in Colonel Sassacre’s joke book:

And what of that tawny gent who puts his lackadaisical lean near the sarsaparilla font? You’ll have that listless octoroon find the spring in his step just yet! CLOCKWORK PROBLEMATYKKS: 3 WHITE SBURB POSTMODERNISM: 2

The point of these lines is that the text is outdated and racist, not that it should be emulated, but the “outdated” point was more than got across by the language used already. And it would seem fairly weird for a person who wasn’t white to read a line like that and not comment on it - okay, maybe John’s read it before and is used to it, but the narrator ought to point that out if it had ever bothered him.

FAILURE ARTIST: Colonel Sassacre is basically Mark Twain with a party hat photoshopped on to him. Mark Twain’s most famous work, The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, has gotten into trouble in recent years because of the name of one of the characters: [N-word] Jim. The novel is progressive for its time but it hasn’t aged well. I’m guessing Colonel Sassacre’s unnecessary racism is a nod to that controversy.

CHEL: Get used to Photoshopped depictions of real people, too.

BRIGHT: John ventures out into the house again, ostensibly to retrieve the game but really to stick his fake arms to the harlequin doll and nose around his father’s study. Should the comment about the peanut allergy count towards ARE YOU TRYING TO BE FUNNY? In context with the can of peanuts I think there’s meant to be a joke here…

There is also a CAN OF PEANUTS on the desk. Ha ha, oh DAD. You won't be falling for THAT one again any time soon. A severe peanut allergy is a terrible affliction to cope with.

CHEL: That line? Yeah, it's a reference to the snake nut can prank item - have you seen those on cartoons, where someone offers canned snacks and a spring-loaded toy snake pops out? A dark joke, sure, but my sense of humour tends to run that way and I loled. CLOCKWORK PROBLEMATYKKS instead, possibly? I don’t know if people with life-threatening allergies would be offended by this - the joke isn’t that they’re weak or stupid or anything, the joke is the play on the reader’s expectations. I wouldn’t mind it if I had a peanut allergy, but as I said, my sense of humour is pretty dark.

FAILURE ARTIST: I feel like if a certain other parent we meet later did that people would take it as abusive.

CHEL: My assumption was that John’s dad didn’t actually mean to give him food that would kill him, that was just an unfortunate way of finding out he was allergic, but in this comic, who the fuck knows?... Come to think of it, maybe he did mean to. Peanut allergies run in families and it’s established much later on that one of the relatives involved (it gets complicated) also has a deadly peanut allergy, so it would seem logical that Dad would also have one and thus wouldn’t have them around to eat himself. Even if he did, that’s a bad move with an allergic person in the house. Maybe it is worth an ARE YOU TRYING point, then? Maybe this is just overanalysing, but then overanalysing is the whole point of this exercise, so there it goes!

ARE YOU TRYING TO BE FUNNY?: 1

For clarification of the listed counts, this isn’t going under CALL CPA PLEASE because that one’s for when the kids do something disturbing themselves. We’ll show you what we mean when it comes up. We'll be nice and let Rose have an inappropriate username, that's not out of the ordinary for kids that age.

And speaking of said points, what about Dad giving John at least four birthday cakes? (He has two untouched ones in his room at the point he says he’s been eating cake all day, and Dad soon tries to give him yet another one.) That sounds cool from a thirteen-year-old’s point of view, but it kinda comes across as if Dad’s trying to feed him to death, and intentionally making kids horribly unhealthy can be a form of abuse. Or possibly to make up for something awful he knows about… Is the latter further evidence for the “guardians know about what’s coming” theory? Dad’s coddling John because he knows horrible things are going to happen? Hell, were the peanuts an attempted mercy kill, if we wanna get really tinfoil hat about it?

All that’s for later, though. Meantime, we get our first page with sound, as John plays “Showtime”, a nifty little piano tune.

"Homestuck // Showtime (Piano Refrain) // Piano" (Watch on YouTube)

The other kids get their own individual little musical parts too, later on, which merge to form one full piece.

FAILURE ARTIST: Music is a big draw in Homestuck. Not just these four main characters but pretty much every character has their own leitmotif.

#homestuck #homespork #let's read #review #reread #sporking #literary critique #homestuck meta

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