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aconstantstateofbladerunner · 4 years ago

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The Glitch

I get the Broken Reality au is a haha funny joke but there’s been some legit great art for it and since Butterfly is over and I haven’t gotten into the groove of my other projects yet, I decided to try some flash fiction of my interpretations. Note that this is very small and informal; I used whatever idea came into my head over the course of an hour or so instead of the weeks of planning that go into my usual fics. This was an experiment for fun. But if people enjoy the concept, I may be tempted to expand on it.

Credit to @lollitree @moonpaw @gentrychild @owlf45 and @cyber-phobia (I’m sorry if I missed someone I lost track of how many people were involved in this mess).

Content working for reference to infant death.

Please enjoy!

The city shut down for a typhoon warning. Thunder rumbled in the distance. Dark clouds blocked the sun so much that by mid-morning it still looked like it never bothered coming up. And yet the humidity made it too hot for coffee. Inko didn’t know how to feel. Work would have been a good distraction. But she didn’t want any coworkers or clients to see if today got to be too much. And it was already shaping up to be. She caught herself making two plates of food for breakfast.

Inko sat alone in the kitchen. She couldn’t bring herself to finish her own plate. Sickness set in fast. The food had been cold for a long time before she summoned the strength to get up and throw it away. Then she stood over the open trash can a while, debating whether to try and hold it together, or just throw up and get it over with. She eventually managed to keep her stomach steady enough to go back to her bedroom. There was another trashcan in there anyway.

A sound stopped her. From her office. The distinct sound of something heavy falling onto the carpet. Right as she walked past the door.

Please not this again…

She opened the door with her eyes closed. Her mind conjured a familiar image. A bedroom full of books and hero posters. Bright colors and personal touches. A child’s room. Inko opened her eyes to her drab home office. Some of the older case file binders slipped off the pile again. She really needed to sort those into storage. Not today though. She didn’t bother to pick it up.

Inko walked faster than normal the rest of the way to her room. She doesn’t want to face the temptation to search for old toys she remembers storing in the empty closet. Or search the walls for scuff marks from action figures tossed into them she could always see even after the walls were painted. She hid her planner on a tall shelf and put the ladder away to make it that much harder to go through it over and over looking for doctors’ appointments and school events she knew were coming up. Finally reaching her bed brought no comfort.

Of course she knew today’s date by heart. She hadn’t put it on a calendar in the fourteen years since she used to look at it every day. Inko stuck her head under her pillows, as if they could block out the silent noise of her memories. Memories of before, the time even when she was by herself, she was never alone.

Fifteen years now, today. With a shuddering gasp, the tears finally came. Thunder crashed outside. It’s not fair! Why is it still this hard after this long? Phantom kicks in her belly joined the growing ice there.

The hardest part was she still felt like that sometimes. Like she wasn’t really alone. Inko didn’t believe in ghosts, but the lost of what could have been was more than haunting enough. She felt it watching her. Judging her. Waiting just long enough for her to settle down into a peaceful, content existence before it reared up to plague her heart all over again. Cliché hauntings like spooky faces in the mirror or blood coming out of the drains would have been preferable. Those would be generic enough not to remind her directly.

Rain started outside. Her phone lit up with a notification she ignored in time with a thunderclap. The storm was getting closer.

Maybe I should call Hisashi, the thought crossed her mind. Maybe he’s going through this too. She bit her lip bloody. Her frustrated memories weren’t in question like the others. Probably not though. I don’t want to talk to him anyway.

Hisashi had been stuck in the denial stage of grief, which often came off as him acting like he didn’t take hers seriously. Not a year, not even half a year looking back, after they came home from the hospital, he wanted to try again.

“We can’t let mourning hold us up forever,” he said. “And it’s not like we lost a once in a lifetime opportunity! We’ve got at least another twenty years to keep trying!”

But we did lose him! she had wanted to scream. Still did, years later. Why didn’t he understand? He was your loss too! Inko wanted for the next roll of thunder, then shouted.

“I don’t just want any baby! I want Izuku!”

The lights went out. The temperature rose five degrees instantly when the ceiling fan stopped going. The rain stopped.

Power outage. Inko sat up with a sniffle. Turns out the notification was a warning about roving blackouts. Of course. Oh well. I wasn’t really in the mood to cook tonight any-

Thunder boomed even louder than before, making her jump. Then another. Lightning flashed outside at the same time. It was right on top of her.

What? I thought the typhoon wasn’t supposed to make landfall until later toni-

Another crash. It vibrated through her bones. Then another. The lightning lit up her whole room. Except for a shadow on the wall. Inko jolted to look, holding her breath, and found only her own shadow in the next flash.

“I’m such an idiot…” She went for her phone again. For peace of mind, she decided to use her data to check if an evacuation order went out. Or any updates at all really, since the weather came so much faster than the news said. “Nothing,” she sighed annoyed. “I hate being alone for weather like this…”

A new notification pinged.

[Mom]

Inko blinked rapidly. The message remained. All of her insides turned inside out in an instant, and she started crying again. Was this someone’s idea of a sick joke? No one ever got a chance to call her that. She touched the note to open it, but nothing happened. No app or source was displayed. Nor did it go away after a few seconds like normal.

“Wha- What’s going on?” she wept. In a mix of sorrow and rage, she wound up to chunk the device across the room. But she froze.

Outside her window, floating against the pitch-black sky, were two small orbs. Perfectly circular and glowing. Watching her. She didn’t dare move.

Another ping. She looked without moving.

[I’m sorry]

“… What?”

For a moment, all the sounds in the world dropped out. They all came back at ounce.

Lights flickered. Both the ones inside and the lightning going outside. Multiple strikes laid on top of one another. No relief. Thunder pounded over and over like a drum solo. It shook the whole building. Inko ran into the closet away from the window. She slammed her hands over her eyes but it didn’t help. Her terrified cried were whispers to the screams of the storm.

A child’s scream. She heard it. Each flash of light came with a cry. The distinct sound of a little boy calling out in pain blended with unyielding nature. It came from every direction. Every hair on Inko’s arms stood up in fear. She felt the charge in the air. But she had to go out. Her baby was crying for help.

She burst from the closet into the living room. All the lights and appliances turned themselves on and off. The TV showed only static between its flashes. Something drew her too it. The storm was deafening. It pounded through her head like a heartbeat. The beats got faster. The static flashes started to look like a face. Her usual caution was abandoned as she fell to her knees and touched the screen. The snow cleared for a single instant. Just long enough to look like the blank eyes from the window. She felt the heartbeat there too.

Then it stopped. All of it. The noise and lights all went quiet and dark. The TV went completely cold in an instant. Inko, stunned, palmed over it looking for something. Anything. The pulse. Warmth. A burnt fuse or faulty wire. But nothing. The rain started again.

She pulled her hands back to her lap. Her heart was still racing and tears kept flowing down under her chin. She looked around. Everything in the living room and kitchen looked the same. No sign of the earthquake-like convolutions the whole appartement experienced only minutes ago. Inko combed the entire space for evidence. An object knocked off the shelf. A picture frame fallen from the wall. The notifications. Toys in the closet or scuffs in the wall. Still not a sign. She even stepped outside her door to check the sky. Only light rain and shattered thunder, just like the news said the day before.

There was only one thing out of place. Back in her bedroom, the bottom drawer of her nightstand hung open. Inko had to steal herself before approaching it. There were only two things in there: a little green blanket, and a picture of the ultrasound. The most recent one from her last appointment. The doctor said he was doing fine.

“Izuku…” she whispered to it in her hand.

She remembered the squealing little bundling being put in her arms for the first time. The first time he smiled at her. Teaching him to walk, then immediately launching into play. Him coming home with bruises and scrapes after the kids at school were mean to him, and crying in her arms. Then, him coming home with his first real friends in a long time. She made them all dinner. Katsudon. That was Izuku’s favorite.

Only she didn’t remember. The same way she didn’t really remember the toys and scuffs. Those were fantasies. Daydreams of what could have been. She just thought about them so often they felt like memories. Especially today. It was his birthday after all. They’d fade back into vague dreams by tomorrow. They always did.

And she would be left with reality. The silence. The cold, still little hand between her fingers. Soft cheeks without blush. Eyes that never opened. Clutching him too tight to her chest, knowing the second she let go he would be gone for real and it would all be over.

But it was never over. Inko went through this same torturous song and dance every year for fifteen now. All the guilt and dread would subside slowly over the next one, until it all came back at once. Just like this.

At least it’s done for now, she tried to reassure herself, climbing back into bed. It still wasn’t even noon yet. Plenty of time for another breakdown. Hopefully the next one won’t be, feel, as loud. She sighed heavily into her sheets. This sort of thing can’t be normal. I should really try therapy again.

Against her better judgement, she kept the blanket out, and clutched it to her chest. Static electricity pricked her fingers. With her other hand, she reached across the bed, and tried to imagine someone else there. Not Hisashi, never him anymore. Izuku. He was fifteen and happy, but the storm was making him nervous so he came to lay beside her. She remembered it like it was now. If she closed her eyes, she could feel his warm, soft skin, with a healthy, if a little anxious heartbeat just underneath. The mattress warped as he sighed.

“We’ll be okay. It’s just a little rough weather,” she promised.

“Okay, Mom,” Izuku answered quietly. “… I’m sorry.”

“You have nothing to be sorry for.” I’ll start trying to get myself together tomorrow. For now, let me have this.

Izuku didn’t respond for a while. “I love you.”

“I love you too, baby. Happy birthday.”

#midoriya inko #midoriya izuku #broken reality au #the glitch #mha #bnha #mha fanfiction #bnha fanfiction #my hero academia #boku no hero academia #aconstantstateoffanfiction #april fools #the long con

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scapegrace74-blog · 3 years ago

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New Ways of Turning into Stone, Chapter 4

A/N Some strong reactions to the last chapter, which I admit caught me by surprise. Writing is a funny craft, where you spend a lot of time and effort trying to show your reader exactly the picture you have in your mind, but then also have to surrender to each reader’s interpretation of what you wrote. That said, some interpretations miss the mark entirely, and for that reason this chapter is entitled “False Assumptions”. Trigger warning for childhood disease.

Jamie’s weekly appointments continued through the grey slumber of late April and into the wakening month of May. Thursday became Claire’s favourite day of the week, for reasons she didn’t care to scrutinize too closely.

With regularity came a certain brand of predictability. Their appointments took one of two forms, she realized. Some days Jamie was full of life, witty and exasperating by turns. He would spin long yarns about some trivial aspect of his life, fascinating tales that turned out to be nothing more than surface reflections, revealing little of the murky depths beneath. He was also adept at using his considerable verbal charm to draw her into divulging more about herself than she ought. Those visits left her equally frustrated and challenged.

The rest of the time her patient arrived with a weary slump, the thousand watt bulb of his personality dimmed to an occasional flicker. Given his offhand comment about whisky and women, she tried not to ponder if he was hungover or suffering from the effects of an all-night hook-up. From a diagnostic point of view these days of low ebb were beneficial because Jamie was far more likely to offer some nugget of inner revelation, truth sneaking out through the cracks of his weakened defences.

“I was away on business, in Hong Kong, when my Da passed,” he said on one such afternoon, the skin below his eyes drawn tight and the copper in his hair somehow muted.

“Did it happen suddenly?”

“No’ really. Jen had been at me fer months tae come hame, sayin’ that Da was workin’ himself tae death.” Jamie looked out the window, eyes reflecting the overcast skies beyond. “I ignored her. Too wrapped up in my own grand self tae pay any heed. Twas Ian, my brother-in-law, who called tae say Da had dropped in the pasture. Massive coronary. I caught the first flight back, but he was gone before I landed.”

She watched Jamie’s face closely as he spoke, but beyond the understandable emotion of reliving the sudden loss of a parent, he remained inscrutable. The urge to draw him out overcame the deference she paid to Jamie’s well-defined boundaries.

“Do you think you’re to blame for his death?” she asked, half-expecting to be met with silence or a nimble deflection.

Jamie shook his head ruefully.

“Nah. I dinna think I’m tae blame. I ken it. I was the only surviving son, ye see? In the Highlands, tradition is everything, an’ a Fraser man had worked those lands fer generations. I was only meant tae complete my studies abroad, an’ then return tae Lallybroch and take o’er from Da. Instead, I left my sister an’ Ian tae watch o’er the farm while I played the business tycoon.”

“Is Lallybroch still in your family?” she wondered aloud, the name rolling about in her mouth like marbles.

“Jenny and Ian couldna keep it. I wasna well enough tae object, an’ they sold tae a developer. It’s some kind of corporate wellness retreat now,” he finished with a distasteful grimace.

For every disclosure Jamie made, two more questions arose in its wake, like hacking away at a many-headed Hydra. She wished she could delve further, but the chime from her computer announced the end of the session.

“Will I see you next week, Jamie?” she asked as he reluctantly rose to leave.

“Aye,” said with a sad smile. “I’ll be here.”

***

The following Tuesday, Claire took the afternoon off work to perform an errand she’d long been avoiding.

Her departure from the Royal Hospital for Children had been so precipitous, she hadn’t filed the necessary paperwork to close her employment file. The Human Resources department had been pestering her to complete the process for months. The threat of holding up the transfer of her accreditation finally forced her hand.

To her great relief, the personnel offices were nowhere near the actual wards. They lay at the end of a long white hallway broken by large windows looking into a series of meeting and activity rooms. Her plan was to get in, sign the damn forms, and leave without running into any former colleagues or patients.

The sun slanting into one of these sparsely furnished rooms glanced off the top of a bent head, causing it to glow like a freshly minted penny. She stopped and stared, trying to reconcile the image of James Fraser seated in a too-small plastic chair, surrounded by a group of hospital-gowned children.

He must have caught sight of her while she stood gaping. Running to the door before she could find the motor function to turn around, he called out joyfully from behind a blue hospital mask.

“Doctor Beauchamp! Fancy meeting ye here.”

She mumbled something incoherent, damning herself for the blush she felt enveloping her cheeks. Behind Jamie, a row of dewy eyes watched on. She recognized the paper-thin skin and missing hair of chemotherapy patients, and a salty knot rose in her throat.

“Can ye spare a few minutes? Ye’re jes the pair of steady hands we need.”

She longed to decline, to disappear, to come up with a plausible excuse why she couldn’t enter that room. Her heart thumped angrily in her chest, warning of its fragile state.

Seeing her conflict, Jamie extended a welcoming hand.

“Come, Sassenach. The lassies would love tae meet ye.”

The space smelled of sterile laundry and sawdust. With a habit borne of years of practice, Claire disinfected her hands in the small utility sink and donned a spare mask from the nearby dispenser, all while wondering what the hell she was doing.

The children were seated on colourful chairs arranged around a low table, its surface covered in pieces of pre-cut lumber, colourful pots of paint, a glue gun and all manner of cheap decorations such as you would find at a craft store. The little girls ranged in age from pre-school to young teen, but they all looked at Jamie as though he’d hung the moon as he addressed them.

“Ladies, I’d like ye tae meet Doctor Beauchamp. She’s a braw doctor but I bet she kens next tae nothing about woodwork. Ye’ll have tae show her how it’s done.”

A chorus of nervous giggles was the only response. Claire knew from experience that being a medical professional wasn’t going to endear her to children who spent much of their lives being essentially tortured in the name of science, hoping for some kind of miracle.

“Hello, everyone,” she waved meekly. “You can call me Miss Claire, if you like. Now, whatever are you doing with all this wood?”

It turned out that Jamie was supervising the construction of a half-dozen birdhouses. He had pre-cut the lumber for easy assembly, but was assisting each girl to create a custom masterpiece that would hang outside her hospital window. With the patience and steady manner of a primary school teacher, Jamie led the group through each step.

A waifish girl of perhaps six sat directly to Claire’s left, her bare scalp covered by a brightly coloured bandana, offset by a huge pair of peacock-blue eyes that glimmered above her mask. Eyes that were the mirror of the ones that visited her office every Thursday. Something heavy settled inside her ribs.

“What’s your name, sweetie?” she asked in a low voice as she pushed an open pot of sky blue paint away from the table’s edge. Small hands busied themselves pulling apart a package of cotton balls that looked suspiciously like the ones kept in the hospital’s supply cabinet.

“Margaret Murray, Doctor, errr, Miss Claire,” came the timid reply.

Not Fraser, then. But that didn’t necessarily mean anything. She snuck a glance across the table at Jamie, who was just then teasing the youngest girl by tickling her cheeks with a fake feather. Despite her heavy thoughts, she couldn’t help but smile. That smile faltered when she noticed that the inside of Jamie’s elbows bore a matching set of fresh bandages. A series of puzzle pieces tumbled into place.

Perhaps sensing the weight of her scrutiny, Jamie looked their way, whistling in admiration when he saw Maggie’s near-complete birdhouse.

“Tis a fine hame ye’ve built fer yer wee birds, Maggie. What is all yon white fluff for?”

“Tis clouds, Uncle Jamie,” Maggie replied with the certainty of childhood. “I dinna want the birdies tae miss the sky, even when they arenna flyin’.”

Claire watched the words hit him as surely as though they had been bullets. A frozen gasp, a shudder that travelled the length of his body and the crest of tears that he tried valiantly to blink away.

“Aye, ye’re right, a nighean. Any bird would be fair honoured tae sleep in yer skyhouse,” he managed to reply, voice bouldery with contained emotion.

When each birdhouse was complete and left along the window ledge to dry, Jamie set his small crew of helpers the task of clearing up the mess. Claire stood next to him as he loaded his tools back into a small carrying case.

“Thanks for inviting me to join you, Jamie. It was... well, it was unexpectedly wonderful,” she admitted.

“Ye’re most welcome, Doctor Beauchamp. We couldna have managed wi’out yer steady hand manning the glue gun,” he teased.

“You’re not my patient here, Jamie. You don’t need to use my title,” she said, a bit vexed by his formality.

“Aye, but it doesna feel right tae call ye by yer given name either. An’ Miss Claire is jes weird.”

She had to acknowledge that he had a point.

“What was it you called me earlier? Sassa-something?”

“Sassenach. My Da woulda skelped my hide if he heard me call a lady by that name,” he said ruefully.

“Why, does it mean something terribly offensive?” She was almost afraid to know, having enjoyed the delusion that Jamie felt as fondly towards her as she did towards him.

“Nah, tis jes an old-fashioned word for an English person in Scotland. Seemed tae suit ye, is all.” He shrugged, seemingly embarrassed by the explanation.

“Well then, Sassenach it is. When I’m not on the clock, that is.”

Jamie’s eyes danced above his mask the way they did when he smiled, and she imagined hers replied in much the same way. A long moment passed when nothing was said, neither of them looking away.

“You’re her platelet donor,” she said at last. “Maggie’s, I mean.”

“Aye. Every week while she’s in hospital for chemotherapy. Tis the least I can do.”

It was an explanation that fit all the facts, but one that she never would have guessed. Jamie had always worn long sleeves to his appointments, but she was certain the weeks when he was haggard and worn out coincided with the times he was donating the litres of blood necessary to distill into the platelet concentrate that would then be injected into Maggie’s body, helping her combat the poisonous effects of her chemotherapy.

“Whisky, women and song?” she prodded, relieved and yet frustrated that his offhand comment had kept her from seeing the truth. “Why didn’t you just tell me, Jamie?”

“I didna want yer pity, Sassenach. Fer once in my life, tis no’ about me, ye ken? I didna want ye lookin’ at me like I was some kind of hero.”

She held back her reaction that his was a textbook definition of heroism, and instead asked the next obvious question.

“Are you a compatible bone marrow donor as well?”

Jamie shook his head slowly. Although he was a close match, he explained, it wasn’t close enough. Maggie’s older brother, Wee Jamie, was a perfect match but the law prohibited him from becoming a donor until he was at least sixteen, in seven long years.

“We’re jes tryin’ tae buy her enough time,” he said sadly before stepping out of the room, explaining he’d be back momentarily.

Claire stood in a daze, running through everything she’d assumed about Jamie in light of these newest facts. A light tug on her hand drew her back into the moment. Maggie was looking up at her with wide, trusting eyes.

“Are ye the Sassenach lady Uncle Jamie and my Mam argue about?”

“I suppose I might be,” she replied, curious what had been said between the siblings that Maggie had overheard.

“Are ye a heart doctor?” Maggie continued.

“Well, no. Not exactly. I’m the kind of doctor who helps people who are sad, and I try to find a way for them to be happy again.” It sounded so easy when explaining it to a six year old.

“Sometimes Mam and Da talk about Uncle Jamie when they dinna ken I’m listenin’. I’m verra good at sneakin’,” Maggie confided, and Claire couldn’t help but smile. What a precious child. “I’m sure you are,” she replied warmly, a hand coming to rest gently on the tiny cloth-covered head.

“Mam says Uncle Jamie is more stubborn than a mule and that he canna see past his own big heid,” Maggie continued. Claire couldn’t say that she disagreed with that assessment.

“But Da says Uncle Jamie’s heart has been broken too many times, and thas’ why he’s given up on living. Can ye fix his heart, Miss Claire, so that it isna broken any more?”

She couldn’t have stopped her tears if she tried. She knelt on the floor and gathered Maggie’s thin, fragile body in her arms.

“Oh, Maggie. I’m certainly going to try.”

#my writing #outlander

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byunbaekby · 4 years ago

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You Are: Loved (l.dh)

Pairing: Haechan x Gender Neutral Reader Summary: In a world where the things people say about you show up on your skin, you become both intrigued and apprehensive when your skin tells you that someone loves you. Warnings: Mentions of depression, self-harm (please do NOT read if you are sensitive to self-harm. I tried to keep it as toned down as possible, without using descriptive words or actions as it is essential to the theme.) Word Count: 5.3k

You stare at him from across the hallway.

Lee Donghyuck.

He is the epitome of perfect as you know it—dark brown hair, barely brushing his bright expressive eyes often upturned into a smile on the canvas of his honey tanned skin like sand on a burning summer’s day. The resident class clown, you often hear him in the hallways before you see him, for he’s quite notorious for his jokes and boisterous laughter. For such an easy-going guy, you’d expect that he’d slack somewhere in the fashion department but no, his outfits were always put-together and flattering to his figure.

It makes you question, is there anything wrong with him?

His greatness is not just to your eyes either. The proof of it is written on his skin. The words which others use to describe him, in the all-knowing universe where the gossip of others becomes proof on your skin; friendly, handsome, generous, funny, talented, popular. They slide up from underneath his shirt onto his neck, make themselves known across his arms. Those are just a small number of the words that decorate his skin, large and visible even from your distance across the hall.

Lee Donghyuck is a superior human being in all forms.

So, when you heard from Renjun, the closest person you could call a friend, that he had overheard Lee Donghyuck saying he loved you, you of all people, your first instinct was to think that Renjun was joking. Playing a prank on you. It wouldn’t be the first time someone at school decided to mess with you, the endlessly new student.

But then the word came.

On your skin, you discovered it after a shower one day when you were staring at yourself in the mirror, at the cuts from your own hand that decorate your body.

Loved.

Your skin told you that you are loved. This meant that someone, out there in the endless infinity of the world, had spoken into existence that they love you.

It was small, barely noticeable on the stomach sandwiched between Well-behaved and the largest of them all, Unwanted. But you found it nonetheless, and immediately your mind flickered back to your friend’s words.

Lee Donghyuck.

There was no way.

It was definitely a joke; you could already hear him tossing it back and forth in cruel joking between him and his friends, followed by grating guffaws against you.

But no, Lee Donghyuck was not like that. He was not cruel enough to throw an unwilling soul into that of his comedic tendencies. You had only spoken a few times in passing, in classes that you shared, yet you felt that it was clear enough to see that though playful, Lee Donghyuck was benevolent in all forms of the word.

So you plan to confront him.

As soon as the warning bell sounds, sending all of Donghyuck’s friends away from their formed circle of laughter, you move. Donghyuck as well begins to leave, about to head out for his next class but you’re quicker, you’re already behind him and pulling on his backpack by the time he has turned to leave.

You pull him back, holding him by the backpack in a sea of people.

“Woah,” he sounds, before his eyes find you and in turn, light up. You hate it; he’s so cheerful, welcoming all the time and with the way he gazes at you you can almost believe the notion that he loves you.

“Oh, hi Y/N,” he beams, a bright smile on his tiers. “What’s up?”

“What’s up is,” you begin, releasing his backpack to cross your arms across your chest whilst trying your best to look annoyed. “I don’t know what game you’re playing but I want you to stop.” Because it gives you hope, and that is the last thing you need.

The confusion is evident on his face as he blinks at you. “What.. do you mean?”

“You don’t love me.”

A sheet of realization falls over his features, and his eyes soften. A gentle smile, almost amused smile makes home across his lips. “But I do.”

The ease with which he comes to this response only causes you to further your brows even further. You had, upon learning of his “feelings” toward you, thought it to be a complete joke or ruse but now as you observe the way he stares down at you, with the typical lighthearted eyes of his, you begin to fear that they are genuine.

It’s absolutely insane.

“We’ve only talked to each other like, twice. You can’t love someone you don’t know,” you argue.

“But I do know you. I know your name, Y/N, I know your age considering we’re in the same grade, I know that you’re currently in foster care and you’re staying with Jisung’s family. I know that you don’t really stay in the same place for more than a couple months which is why you mostly stick to yourself. To avoid getting hurt when you inevitably have to leave. I know that you like painting, and I’ve deduced that you’re most likely just trying to avoid getting adopted by anyone for another year until you turn eighteen.”

You stare, silent and speechless.

“I know all these things from the few times we’ve talked, I’ve figured these things out from the comments that Jisung shares about you occasionally, I’ve learned these things by watching you. And I’ve come to love you because—” you purse your lips in distaste unconsciously at the idea of love, of him loving you, once again. “—I see that you’re strong. I see it in the way you hold yourself, the way you live your life.”

He’s wrong. He doesn’t know you, he can’t. He thinks that he does, that he has you figured out because of this little crush he’s harbored on you over the two months you’ve been in this town, but he doesn’t. He doesn’t know that you’re unlovable.

“You don’t even know what love is,” you spite at him bitterly, feeling your walls rise taller, if even possible. “But I do. I learned it, because of you,” he speaks earnestly, the idea of being late to class not a bother to him. “You’re seventeen.”

“There’s no age limit on love.”

He’s naive. Love is not adoration or obsession or the excessive attention that you have failed to notice from him until now. Lee Donghyuck is too kind, and nowhere near close to knowing what love is.

His words leave you speechless—speechless that someone could be so thoughtless, so careless and willing to throw themselves into the abyss that is blind love. The final bell rings, signalling that class has started and you’re both now late to class.

With no words left to say, only indignation and frustration in your stomach, you brush past him with a sigh. “Leave me alone, Lee Donghyuck.”

Though you don’t look back, you can feel his eyes on you, and can almost visualize them burning into your back, kind as always but uncharacteristically glazed with worry.

You can’t really recall when it started.

It was definitely sometime in your early years of secondary school, when the image of the words on your skin became too much for your psych to handle.

The act wasn’t fueled by anger, or a desire to cause pain upon yourself, but rather a need for an ability to counterattack the words which mocked you. So you took the blade, and crossed them out.

Unwanted—because since you had been placed into the foster system at age seven, no family ever wanted to adopt you. The words were sprung from hate and gossip from others, who observed that you would never be able to find a place. Perhaps they also stemmed from your mind itself, in which you too began to believe that you were unwanted anywhere.

Well-behaved—because though you were well-behaved, always doing your schoolwork and abiding by any rules set by your temporary foster parents, you were never affectionate. You showed little personality to them, and they couldn’t form bonds to you. Thus, whenever your few months’ time ended, they always commented that you were well-behaved, but not what they needed in their family.

Strange—because no one had taken the initiative to get to know you, to learn you beyond the label you held of being the new kid. Not that you had given them an opening or chance to, anyways.

Alone—because you spent most of your time to yourself. This one you didn’t mind as much. Even though Park Jisung was one of the more welcoming foster siblings, claiming that he that had an insight to your perspective because he too had been in your position until he had been adopted by your current foster family, you refused to allow your interactions with him to grow beyond small talk over dinner and quiet rides to school.

There are more words, currently crossed out and blurred by scars across your body, but those were the first.

Now, as you stand in front of the mirror in the Park household bathroom, you cross out the one tiny word that Lee Donghyuck had gifted you, and watch with a slight wince as red begins to cover its existence.

The next time you speak to him again, he has pulled you aside much like you did to him.

A week has passed, exactly seven days, and you think that Lee Donghyuck must have some sort of compulsion because he speaks, “I thought about it for exactly seven days.”

It?

“And you’re right. I can’t love someone that I don’t know.” Finally, you think. He has come to his senses. The idea of someone harboring such romantic feelings for you, however naive and misplaced, has worried you for the past week.

“Which is why I’m going to get to know you.”

You blink, dumbfounded. “That’s the exact opposite of what I told you to do,” you chastise, crossing your arms across your chest once again. He notices, and reaches out to touch you, pulling your arms from your chest. At his unexpected and unwelcome touch, you nearly slap his hands away.

“I want to get close to you. Not to date you, or anything. I don’t need that. I just want to be your friend.”

“No.”

He doesn’t seem fazed by your abrupt answer. “You said that I can’t possibly love you because I don’t know you, so give me the chance to.”

No, you retort quietly in your head. He can’t possibly love you because you don’t want to be loved, because you can’t be loved. You can’t allow yourself to form such connections to people, only to leave. You can’t be loved, you’re not a whole person, just a shell.

But you don’t tell him this. Instead, like a coward, you pivot. “You’re not going to get the chance, Lee. So listen to what I say, and leave me alone.”

Like your first encounter, you turn and walk away. You don’t catch the disappointment in Donghyuck’s eyes, which are normally bright and full of laughter.

It hurts, loving someone who doesn't love themself.

You find that you enjoy art, especially painting, because you enjoy drawing a different reality than the one that currently houses you.

One of the positive things about your temporary home with the Parks is that Neo Culture High School has an amazing art studio, open to students at all hours. So, more often than not, you find yourself in the studio for hours.

It had given a slight sense of pride, seeing the word Talented appear on your skin, just under your ribs. It was likely the first positive word to be marked onto you that had no negative connotations in your life. However small, it reaffirmed the fact that you had worth.

It was through your constant visits to the studio that you met Huang Renjun, a Chinese exchange student who planned on attending the top arts school in South Korean upon your graduation. He too felt like an outcast, though he was much more approachable than you. You have formed some kind of friendship, if painting together while sharing stories is your closest value of friendship. Yet you still refuse to call it a friendship. It is a work partnership.

You think it’s Renjun who enters the room when you register the sound of the door opening around 4PM on a Friday afternoon as you’re hard at work on a new piece.

“Hey, Jun. What do you think about this piece? I was thinking something along the lines of a city skyline,” you muse, back to the door as you continue your work. Renjun is always honest about your work, so you value his opinion.

Then you hear Lee Donghyuck’s trademark lilted tone behind you.

“I think it’s beautiful.”

You whip around in a millisecond, your once soft tone replaced by one of disregard. “What are you doing here, Lee?”

“Just enjoying the open studio on a Friday afternoon.”

You frown, turning your attention back to the canvas before you as he pulls up a stool and seats himself near you, eyes on your painting. He’s right, you cannot ask him to leave because the studio is an amenity to the school.

So you simply keep painting, and ignore his presence as best as you can.

This continues for weeks. On all days after school except Tuesdays and Thursdays, Lee Donghyuck visits you in the art classroom and simply sits there, watching you paint until the clock strikes seven. Then he walks the two of you out to the front of the school in silence.

Everyday he offers you a ride home, but you reject him. You prefer walking home.

At first, he just sat there, watching you with careful yet entertained eyes as you transformed blank canvases into art. Then, after a while of sitting in silence, the talkative Lee Donghyuck could take no more and began to talk. He filled the rooms with stories of his life, while you painted and pretended not to listen.

Some days he talks more about his feelings for you. Not in an overbearing way, of course, for he has begun to sense your discomfort with such a topic. But rather, he talks about his revelations for his supposed love for you as though you were a different person.

It becomes a bit more bearable, when he discusses his admiration for the strong person he knows through school rather than you specifically. If you allow yourself to believe that he isn’t talking about you, you find yourself listening more easily.

He doesn’t once again say that he loves you. Instead, he talks about the things he loves about you. The name doesn’t leave his lips but you know it is for you. He speaks highly of your intelligence, and the headstrong way with which you carry yourself; of the passion you hold in every stroke; of the way you try to protect yourself by ignoring others.

Though your name is never uttered, soon the words Strong and Passionate appear on the canvas of your skin on your inner thigh, because Donghyuck has you in his mind.

It is then you begin to think that Lee Donghyuck knows you too well despite you giving nothing to him, and that scares you.

It scares you to think that you can be so easily read, like the ugly words on your skin. As much as you attempt to cover them with long sleeves, you have to roll them up to paint.

The only time Donghyuck mentions the phonetics of these words is when he goes on a slight rampage. He hates the world you live in, and this comes as a quiet surprise to you, for you thought that the lighthearted Lee Donghyuck could not hate anything in his life.

“It’s so stupid,” he spits out, tapping his feet frustratingly on the floor as he sits in his familiar stool. Unbeknownst to you, he had overheard someone calling you strange again. A socially awkward weirdo with no place in the world, had been the exact words. It had filled him with rage. “We live in a society where people can judge you based on the judgements that others have already made. It’s so.. messed up. Who cares what people say? Do the words that other people have muttered about me matter more than what that one person can discover for themselves?”

You don’t say anything, keeping your eyes trained on the canvas as you paint, but you think silently to yourself that it’s quite hypocritical of him to complain as such, seeing as his skin is decorated with the most positive of words.

He addresses this next, though. “Look at me. I have these meaningless words on my skin, but just because someone else calls me nice doesn’t mean I am. It’s almost like I can’t be rude, I can’t yell at someone for messing up my order, I can’t be a normal person with normal reactions. It’s like I have to uphold certain expectations that people have of me.”

You’re about to roll your eyes, because what a burden it is for people to think that you’re amazing and kind, but then he continues.

“And, people avoid others because their words say they’re, what, strange? Who cares? Who am I to assume that someone who is weird in the eyes of another, will be weird to me?”

A frown perches on your lips. You are strange, that is what your skin tells you. And Donghyuck has chosen for himself to disregard the words of others to deduce his own perception of you.

“Someone could be my soulmate, but I would avoid them because the universe and its people have labeled them as a freak, or crazy, or rude, or—” he cuts himself off, because he begins to get too passionate over the idea of it. “Sorry,” he mumbles as he retreats, knowing by now how you get when he begins to raise his voice, however in good intention.

You speak up. Your voice is dry, because you rarely converse with him on these days when he visits you.

“Some might consider it natural selection.”

If he’s shocked at your sudden comment, he doesn’t show it. “That makes no sense.”

But to you, it does. Some people aren’t meant to lead great lives, where they fall in love and die surrounded by people who will always remember them. Some people are meant to lead mediocre lives, where people avoid them because of their labels. You might consider yourself one of them.

Donghyuck shuts this idea down right away, shaking his head with so much fervor that his dark hair shakes. His voice is soft when he speaks. “No, it’s not natural selection. You can believe that but I don’t. Because everyone deserves to love and be loved at some point in their life. Not everyone gets that, if people only see them for the labels on their skin.”

To love and be loved.

It has never occurred to you before that it is an essential part of life.

Later that day, when you take your normal exit from the studio and Donghyuck, as he always does, offers you a ride home in his rundown truck, you accept.

In the following weeks, the word on your skin grows and moves.

At first it had been sandwiched the two words you hated most. Then it moved. All that remained in the space it once occupied was the scar of the cut you had imposed upon it, except now there was no word to be crossed out.

You had noticed its absence immediately after a shower one day, and for a millisecond you feared what that meant. Had Donghyuck’s love for you disappeared, as did the word?

But no, you found it soon later on the curve of your hip, bigger this time. It had needed more space, because Donghyuck’s love for you had grown.

This leads you to believe that though he never uttered such words in your presence, he was still saying it to himself. He didn’t need you to hear it, but you knew.

This time, you don’t cross it out.

Your time with Lee Donghyuck, the golden boy of Neo Culture High, begins to extend beyond the art classroom.

He begins to give you rides home. Sometimes he searches for you when he has something on his mind. On occasions when you find yourself feeling especially empty, you visit the convenience store he part-times at under the guise of needing snacks or paper or any other excuse you can make.

Excuses, because you can’t let him know that you actually miss him when he’s not around. Miss his presence, miss the way he lets you be yourself. Unlike you had expected, Donghyuck accepted you for your quiet self.

You had thought originally that he had expected you to open up at one point, to let him in. But you didn’t, because that wasn’t you. He knew this without asking, and accepted it. As popular as he was, he never forced you into a situation you didn’t want to be in with people you didn’t want to talk to.

He, like you, was perfectly content filling the silence between you, for he talked way too much and you talked way too little.

That is why, one Friday when he drops you off at the Park residence after your usual time in the studio, you lean forward in the car and kiss him.

It is your first kiss, and no words are enough to explain the way you feel when you finally give in to him, to yourself and admit that you wanted to indulge in this feeling a little while longer.

So you give no words, and leave his car. He wordlessly smiles after you, and drives off.

The danger in this is that you begin to accept his wordless proclamations of love.

Days spent in the art studio once characterized by silence are now peppered with quick kisses and shared banter. Short rides home begin to turn into aimless driving around the city as an excuse for more time together.

It should scare you, but it doesn’t.

To love and be loved. His words from that one day remain clear in your mind. Is it love?

The first time you feel the lick of panic in your heart is when he says it.

You are sitting underneath a tree atop the hill that overlooks the tiny town. A sketchbook in your hand, you are working on monotonous drawing of a nearby flower. Donghyuck watches, as he always does.

Then he says it.

“I love you.”

You knew it already, as proof of his love already existed on your skin. Yet when he speaks it into existence, it crosses a line. You have yet to say the words to him, and though you could scream at yourself to admit it, the words never leave your tongue.

Panic begins to sink into you, hollowing out your chest as your heart drops into your stomach. What if you can’t say it back because you don’t love him? Because you are incapable of love, as you had long convinced yourself of many years ago when you found yourself indifferent to the idea of being adopted.

You had tried for months to ignore the timeline that was ultimately against you, choosing to believe that you could exist in a world with Donghyuck for as long as you chose.

Your time with the Parks was coming to an end in a matter of weeks, and you were almost sure that they would not adopt you. For the first time in your life, did you want to be adopted?

No. Freedom was so close, only six months short of your eighteenth birthday when you could be promised liberation.

It only occurs to you now that you cannot choose Donghyuck over your goals. This realization fills you with a heavy dread, and you feel like crying. In fact, tears sting at your eyes as you slam your sketchbook closed and Donghyuck watches you with wide eyes.

Fleetingly he wonders if he had been wrong. Wrong in assuming that you were ready to hear such words.

You stand, rising to your feet. Then you walk away.

And of all the times that he has watched walk away up to now, this hurts the most.

You love him.

You love him so much that it consumes your entire being. You love him so much that even though you avoid him for days, you cannot paint anymore, for the pungent scent of such colored varnish only reminds you of him.

You love him so much that you hadn’t even realized when your art had turned into him. Donghyuck on a stool, watching you. Donghyuck down the hall, mouth open as he’s caught in a familiar boisterous laugh. Donghyuck kissing you while his hair falls over his eyes.

You love him so much that when you realize it, at near three in the morning, you break into cries and sobs. In the early hours of the morning, you turn on the shower and mute your sobs with the sound of water hitting your skin.

When you emerge, you stare at your bare body in the mirror and gaze at the word that decorates the expanse of your hip. These days, it seems to be the only word that matters.

As much as you despite its existence, as much pain as it has brought you, you don’t feel the desire to erase it from your skin. So you throw your razor away, and take the trash out as the sun begins to rise.

When the Parks tell you that they have made the decision not to permanently welcome you into their family, you are numb.

Jisung sits at the opposite end of the table, looking apologetic. Mr. Park opens his mouth.

“It’s not that we don’t like you, Y/N. You are very respectful and well-behaved.” There it is again. You have come to hate that word. “But we have come to find that we cannot support another child. We hope that you find a family to accept you and love you, even if it’s not ours.”

Mrs. Park’s voice follows next, and you offer a tight-lipped smile as she speaks cautiously. “We really have enjoyed having you here for the past six months. Feel free to reach out to us, whenever you need something.”

“Of course,” you tell them politely, though you highly doubt you ever will. This place has too many memories that you no longer want. “Thank you for everything you have given me.”

You say it to every family you have stayed with but you truly mean it this time.

The weekend you are due to leave, you visit Donghyuck.

You have only been to his house a few times in the past, and finding your way there on foot in the dark past midnight is even harder. At first, you had avoided him, going so far as to stop visiting the studio out of your dedication to ignoring him.

Then he had stopped searching for you.

You had thought that meant that he had given up, but then the word on your hip began to grow and grow with every passing day, until it went from being a tiny script to occupying almost your entire hip.

He still loved you, even as you gave him reason after reason not to.

You began to suspect that this love he had for you was not the result of naive adoration or the desire to get to know you, as you had thought originally. No, the love he holds for you is deeper than he ever let on and deeper than you had ever allowed him to show.

So, when it nears 1AM and you find yourself tossing rocks at his window, he opens up to no surprise.

At first, he just holds you in his bed in the darkness. He doesn’t ask for an explanation, rather he gives one himself.

“When I first saw you, I knew you were different from what your words told the world. I felt like… you were unwanted because you didn’t want people to want you. You were alone because you preferred it. I knew you were a strong person because of the way you carried yourself.” The image of the word Strong on your inner thigh flickers in your mind. It had been inflicted by him, and now he says it aloud to you.

“I used to lay awake at night, whispering in bed to myself that I loved you. Because I wanted you to know that someone in the world loved you.”

You close your eyes from where you lay with your head on his chest, because you begin to feel tears well. But he continues. “I guess somewhere along the way I really did fall in love with you. And I’ll continue to love you, to make sure you know you’re loved.”

It is a promise, a promise lost on his lips as you lean up and kiss him for the first time that night.

Until morning comes, he discovers you for all that you are. When he slips off your shirt and sees the scars, imposed upon your skin as a means of blurring the inevitable words that mark it, he kisses them.

You had always seen Lee Donghyuck as a boy of laughter and jokes, but he does not laugh at all that night as he brushes away your fears and insecurities.

When you wake, you dress and leave with silent tears.

Your social worker picks you up the next day, and you leave the town for the next though your heart stays in Lee Donghyuck’s bedroom.

The next six months in a new city go by quickly.

Before you know it you are eighteen, and free from the system that has made you a lonely victim for eleven years. You move to Seoul, the big city, and freelance as a painter.

Soon, you can afford your own place. You buy yourself a phone and find yourself wanting to contact Donghyuck though you have no idea how to.

As you suffer through the hungry artist life, the years pass before your eyes.

You fall in love again, with many people. You think it is due to Donghyuck’s presence in your life that you can.

You think about him often. Even as the years go by and you never return to that small town again, he occupies your thoughts. You wonder how he is doing, what he is doing, if he is in love. If he has found someone for him that can love him the way you couldn’t. You’re not sure even now if you are capable of loving yourself, but love exists in your life, thanks to Donghyuck.

He has taught you love. Occasionally you reflect upon the person you used to be, that fearful person who confronted Lee Donghyuck from across the school hallway because you thought that him loving you was a joke. It is because of him that you have grown.

True to his words even after you have left him high and dry, Donghyuck keeps his promise.

Though time passes by, the word inked into your skin upon the expanse of your hip does not shrink in size. It does not disappear, as you thought it would when he would eventually stop missing you. For years the universe continues to tell you that you are on his mind, and your heart warms at the idea of Lee Donghyuck laying in bed somewhere in the world, whispering to himself that he loves you for the sake of reminding you that you are loved.

#nct imagine #nct angst #nct dream imagine #nct dream angst #nct dream fluff #haechan imagine #haechan fanfic #haechan #nct #nct dream #donghyuck #donghyuck fluff #haechan fluff #haechan angst #donghyuck angst #donghyuck image #nct dream fanfic #haechan x oc #i cried real tears writing this

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dreamerwitches · 4 years ago

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Manga reviews!

I’ve read quite a few of the Madoka Magica manga, mostly to find witches.... So I thought I’d do a little review of the ones I’ve read! Enjoy! (also, they’re my own opinions and it’s meant to be a little funny so I exaggerate a little... so please don’t get angry!! Also kinda spoiler-y)

Madoka Magica (og manga)

Just a really compressed version of the anime. Has some changes but not often good... I only have the first one in physical and I think it’s the only one I’ll get cause it’s the most interesting part. 0/10 cause they completely removed Gisela... Also not too fond of the art style, some things are drawn really badly.. Though I’ve fallen in love with manga Gertrud. Not too fond of it but I like having the manga on my shelf. 4/10 watch the anime instead

Madoka Magica Rebellion

Will be biased cause I love rebellion. A really lovely manga, better than the og manga cause it doesn’t compress the story and even expands it. Suits three volumes better than the original. Treats familiars really well, we get bonus bartels, dora and polina~~! Doesn’t have all the fun of the movie cause it obviously doesn’t have the amazing soundtrack but it’s a really nice manga anyway. Bebe is drawn really well but the Clara Dolls aren’t. 9/10 almost as good as the movie

Kazumi Magica

Plot: seven magical girls trying to do good stuff and Kazumi, the protag, has amnesia I was surprised how much I loved this manga... I enjoyed it so much and got attached to almost all the characters. Though, spoilers, all my favourites either died or turned out to be evil... Lots of plot twists. LOTS. A wonderful lack of kyubey too... I found the story to be so intriguing. It took a spin on the original series far better than - imo - Oriko did. Really ace witches too. Only downside was sometimes the art. Too many ass shots thanks. Also a lot of the magi outfits were a tad distasteful (and some distasteful jokes too). 8/10 pretty darn good

Oriko Magica

Plot: two girls want to kill Madoka cause they know about Homu’s shenanigans. Has a pretty out there story, gets quite serious at the end. First time reading I didn’t care about it but I’ve grown fond of some of the main characters like Oriko, Kirika and Yuma. I found Kirika annoying and op first time reading. The addition of the original Madoka characters feels weird even though they are in the same universe. Original characters are also sometimes unrecognisable because of the art style. I almost never recognised Kyoko... The bonus stories are really fun, I liked them a lot. They’re short but nice. New and interesting witches too! I probably preferred Extra and Sadness prayer to the original story (Sadness prayer is like, basically a retelling of the og Oriko story but better) 6/10 for main story (feels a bit like babies first fanfic), side stories are probably a 7/10 (writer probs had more experience)

The Different Story

Plot: Mami and Kyoko backstory plus a spin on the original story. A really fun and interesting read, especially if you like Mami or Kyoko a lot. I loved the expansion of the original characters, it’s really great. I got a bit lost at the end but I was kinda scanning through... Art is by the same artist as the original manga but it’s certainly improved. Really amazing witches too~! Read it again when I got volume 1 for Chrimbo and its far sadder than I remembered... hm. Lovely art though, and very powerful scenes 7 or 8/10. I’d need to read it in full again to give a better judgement

Suzune Magica

Plot: Very edgy, lots of die. Never got attached to Suzune like I did with the Oriko characters. Some costume designs are also gross and pervy. Didn’t find it memorable and didn’t care much about the characters. Nice witches though. 3/10

Haven’t read Tart magica and don’t have any opinions on it yet. Hate the artist so I don’t think I will ever read it. (witches also look like afterthoughts... boooo)

Wraith Arc

Gave it a scan aaannndd.... didn’t enjoy it...... found it so boring. Wraiths are so boring as the enemy. Bland and have no character or inu curry flair. I feel you’d really enjoy it if you adored Homura and Madoka. I don’t so... I don’t think my opinion would be justified for this one.

Homura’s Revenge

Plot: Homura, Madoka and Kyubey go back in time before Madoka turns God. I. HATED. This one. Sigh.. It was the most frustrating manga I’ve ever read. Kyubey just gets in the way and not in a funny or clever way. Kills off Mami too early too. The witch designs are also crap like the artist don’t care about them. Illustrated by the same artist as Tart Magica and they’re a creep so it’s an automatic ‘euch’. Homura just resets in the end anyway. Just like Wraith Arc, I feel you’d like it more if you really liked Homura and Madoka 1/10 I liked the part with Elly and that’s it

The Veranda of Madoka

Plot: All five girls are living in the same house as sisters. Spoilers, this is my favourite manga... it’s so so cute and lovely! It’s a 4Koma (four square panels for a joke/story but sometimes has longer stories) manga with cute humour and fun stories. You really care about the girls and want them to be happy together. I’ve only read volume 1 cause it’s the only one translated but I really wanna read the rest cause it seems to add Nagisa. Only downsides are it has some tasteless jokes like breast sizes and Homura’s sometimes kinda pervy towards Madoka (remember, they are sisters in this one) but those things are rare in the long run. Has lesbian Hitomi which increases the score tenfold. The art style is also adorable, I prefer it to PAPA’s current style honestly. 9.5/10 would be 10 if it didn’t have some questionable jokes sometimes

Mitakihara Anti Materials

Plot: Homura accidentally winds up living with Mami. I thought I was gonna hate this one. Turns out I love this one. If you ship Homura and Mami, it’s the best, but it also works well for a platonic friendship. It’s a lovely slice of life with lots of fluffy bits with Homu and Mami but also the other girls. Sayaka also for some reason has the super hots for Mami (I mean, who wouldn’t). Sadly, has some tasteless jokes like Veranda which bring it down. Taking pictures of people against their will and body-swapping, I just wasn’t into it... Art is pretty generic but works just fine. 8/10

Mami Tomoe’s everyday life

Plot: The girls are older. Excuse me while I vomit. Read a few pages and quickly ran. CLEARLY written by a perverted old man. The girls are all married and only talk about husbands and their weight and things men think women talk about. Also. Homura is married to Tatsuya, excuse me while I hurl again. Just look at the covers and you can tell the artist is a porn artist. -10/10 kill it

Welcome to Cafe Grief Seed

Plot: The girls work at a cake cafe. I um, love this one, it’s so soft and wonderful. The art style is so adorable, I’ve shamelessly stolen it for some of my art cause I love it that much. It’s a sweet mix of Sailor Moon and Ghibli. The pages are laid out like 4Koma but like Veranda, they often have longer stories. The take on the witches are really fun and imaginative too (they’re simply problematic customers). A really nice and harmless read (no pervy jokes, thanks). 9/10 wish it was longer and the artist seems to have not done anything else...

Pomu Magi

Plot: Homura is tiny and chibi for some reason. Reeeaalllyy didn’t gel with this one. Seems kinda like someone’s fetish... Just felt weird, I stopped reading quickly. Not disgusting like Everyday Life but made me feel uncomfortable. 0/10

Mahou Shoujobu

Plot: the girls make a magical girl club in a school shared with witches. Although it apparently involved witches it barely included them. LIES. Disappointed, Homura was also really weird too. 1/10 got to see witches but they weren’t portrayed well

Homura Tamura

Plot: take a look at lots of different timelines. I liked this one but damn it was all over the place. Every chapter is a different wacky timeline, and I mean wacky. A world where Mami rules and everyone wears hair drills, a world where Sayaka drives an Oktavia mech. Wacky. Kinda hard to follow first time through. But funny and quite charming. Made me laugh out loud sometimes. On a re-read for images I enjoyed it just as much as the first time, even more. 8/10 good if you like humour and silly jokes

#madoka magica manga #madoka magica #puella magi madoka magica #manga #kazumi magica #puella magi kazumi magica #oriko magica #puella magi oriko magica #tart magica #puella magi tart magica #puella magi suzune magica #suzune magica

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weirdmarioenemies · 4 years ago

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Name: Whomp

Debut: Super Mario 64

You know what I’ve been thinking about lately? Super Mario 64. Haven’t we all, really? Between all the recent datamines and general online discussion, I can’t help but wonder about Super Mario 64!

Something I don’t think Mario 64 gets enough appreciation for, is being the birthplace of our beloved Whomps! At least, I certainly belove them. Don’t you? We’ve covered pretty much every “Thwomp” variant in the past, and sure, Whomps may be nowhere near the “obscure” side of enemies, but a splendid design is a good thing to appreciate anytime!

Not only is this their debut, but they get a whole stage themed around them: the Whomp’s Fortress, if by “fortress” you mean a vague collection of scattered obstacles and platforms floating in the sky, like most 64 stages! That sure is a lot of... textures! My favorite part is the little paddling pool near the bottom.

And who could forget the Whomp in all their original polygonal glory? Clearly they just wanted to make an enemy who is just a rectangle with a texture on top, yet the design had all its charm even back then! The sunken eyes with glowing red pupils, the H-shaped mouth with the crooked teeth... it’s very cute, in an ugly way. And on the back, their weak spot is a crack with a bandage on top! Adorable!

If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it- that’s why the Whomp has only really had a few subtle redesigns over the years! When they appeared in Mario 64 DS, they looked just a little bit nicer to look at. They were also in New Super Mario Bros. DS, using the same model- a 3D only enemy in a 2D game, how strange indeed! Their first appearance in a new mainline game in 10 whole years- and it probably just happened because they wanted to reuse assets.

Another redesign? Don’t mind if I do! The Whomp’s grand return to the third dimension happened in Mario Galaxy 2, really cementing them (hah) as a modern Mario classic. This time, they’re huge! And square-ish! And uh, their eyes aren’t wacky anymore. No longer having a band-aid, they instead have a big ground-pound symbol on their back now, which must be just awful, right? Can you imagine having a big logo emblazoned on your back which says “crush me with your butt here”?

This here is their artwork from Mario Party 9. It’s the same as the art from Galaxy 2, but their eyes are glowy now. I just thought this was funny. But I’m getting ahead of myself here! Before I talk about Mario Party, I need to talk about...

Their monarch, the big bad Whomp King! He’s just... He’s just a big Whomp. He acts just like other Whomps, but he’s big and takes three hits. What’s totally memorable about this boss, though, is the villain monologue he gives before fighting!

“It makes me so mad! We build your houses, your castles, we pave your roads, and still you walk all over us. Do you ever say thank you? No! Well, you're not going to wipe your feet on me. I think I'll crush you just for fun! Do you have a problem with that? Just try to pound me, wimp! Ha!”

Uh oh! Looks like Mario’s world has a little problem with under-valuing essential workers! Good thing our world has nothing like that. Well, jokes aside, it’s a pretty cheeky nod at how the Whomps are made of stone- but one has to wonder much of this tragic backstory is serious! It must be a pretty nasty lot in life, huh?

Don’t feel bad- in 64 DS and Mario Galaxy 2, the Whomp King got a snazzy new crown! At least someone appreciates him a bit!

Well, it wasn’t just him: Galaxy 2′s Throwback Galaxy was one big reimagining of Whomp’s Fortress, meaning this is probably the most Whomp-focused game released in the past decade. The music was remixed, the boss fight was revamped- all in all, a lovely throwback indeed!

And the Whomp has basically just... stuck around! You may have noticed the image at the top (from Super Mario Party) has a slightly different design, being a little more rectangular with smaller, thinner eyes and a more angular mouth! They definitely redesigned the Whomp again at some point, but I couldn’t tell you exactly when... Either way, I’m glad they’re here for good!

Not that Whomps ever really went anywhere! In the years between Super Mario 64 and its remake, Whomps survived almost exclusively in Mario Party (and other spin-offs), functioning mainly as roadblocks that don’t allow the player to pass!

Which brings me to my final point- between their design and this function, the Whomp is most likely based on the mythological yōkai called... the Nurikabe! And since I’d love nothing more, I’ll now go into a long-winded tangent about what the Nurikabe is, and... Hey, wait!! Come back! It’ll be interesting, I swear! Don’t cut off the post! Hey-

Yeah, yeah. You’re all sick of my long-winded yōkai posts. But I’m happy you joined me here, even if it was out of pity. Let’s talk about the Nurikabe!

Look at this big guy! What a card! Nurikabe literally translates to plaster wall, and they take the form of a big invisible wall that blocks the way of travellers at night. Since they’re invisible, they naturally don’t have many illustrations- leave it to Shigeru Mizuki to depict them as a large, goofy-looking slab of stone! This Nurikabe joined the main cast of the GeGeGe no Kitaro manga, and thus quickly became a cornerstone (haha) of their popular depictions!

(To be fair, there does exist an old illustration of the Nurikabe as a strange, lumpy dog thing... but I’m not MUCH of a fan? I think a literal stone wall is so much more charming!)

Come on, look at this! What could be better?

Ōkami has a rather lovely Nurikabe-looking guy! Though his design is splendid, if you’ve played Ōkami you likely remember him as “the extremely frustrating memory puzzle” or “the memory puzzle that is literally scientifically impossible for the human brain to solve”. Shame!

Yo-kai Watch has the Murikabe, a.k.a “Noway” in the English version! “Muri” means “no way”. So like, it’s a pun. Hoho.

Nioh’s Nurikabe is quite scary, but also rather cool! Don’t you think? I still know very little about Nioh, but whenever I look at its yōkai I think “Dang! That’s cool!”, and I’m right, and it is cool.

The Super Sentai series has two whole Nurikabe monsters, each based on a different Nurikabe look! While the latter is quite cool, I’m in love with the former and its weird, grungy brick wall look! It’s like, the dictionary definition of Gnarly! Though I know very little about tokukatsu shows, I think its kind of fascinating how creative they can get with designing humanoid monsters suits!

You may be wondering: was this entire post just a thinly-veiled excuse for me to talk about the Nurikabe? And to that I say:

Hmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmaybe....???

#mario #mario enemies #super mario 64 #super mario galaxy 2 #whomp #nurikabe #mod f boy

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alfredosauce50 · 3 years ago

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What makes me human [Cyberpunk! America x reader] 15

Wordcount: 3, 484 Rating: T for strong language and mild violence “For you, it can be. I'm actually conscious about the taste and origins. You know those protein jellies Zao makes? They're made of his roommates.” Chapter synopsis: Everyone goes out for a night in town for a day off. While Arthur is complaining about the venue of choice, Allen sulks about the prospect of being replaced. When you disappear to the bathroom, he follows you and comes clean about it, even suggesting that you run away with him. You're reminded that you picked the right choice when you come across some unfinished business. The reader is referred to as she/her.

15 - Blood was on the agenda

“Technology advances, but humans don't. We're smart monkeys, and what we want is always the same. Food, shelter, sex, and in all its forms, escape.”

He could repeat the quote word for word if he wanted.

A week had passed since Zao left the planet, leaving you buried to the neck with work, and him, with an unstable mechanic. Alfred was still wasting away, but he couldn’t bring himself to care when the guy was the source of all his problems. Ever since he returned to the guest room after comforting Arthur, this feeling of abandonment never stopped haunting him.

How could it, after seeing you curl up so comfortably with Alfred? Every night was the same. Allen would face you, hoping you could face him. But it was always your back. Your arms were coiled around the blonde's neck like they belonged there. And the image seared into his mind like branding. It only burned deeper into his soul at every passing day as you stuck closer to the man.

Down a narrow flight of stairs in a secluded street was a pounding nightclub. Two bouncers who could easily take his head off guarded the entrance. With tattoos of dragons etched into their skin, the sight was enough to get Arthur warbling again. “Why did we have to come here? The club across the street looked fine to me!”

Allen clicked his tongue and ruffled his hair.

“If it weren't for the fact that two of your friends are on the hit list, we'd go there. But we need every bit of protection we get.” Holding his hips as he gave the two men a squint, a tense silence fell around the group before they gave a soft grunt. A grin stretched over his face. “Good thing your boyfriend has connections.”

“... Hah...” Digging a hand through his choppy blonde locks, he shook his head with a hard frown. “And because of that, that idiot will turn up dead in a ditch one day...” As he trailed off, everyone entered the establishment. One of the bouncers whipped their head over their shoulder to stare at the group that just disappeared inside.

“Didn't we already let that guy in? The blonde one?” He pointed behind him with a thumb.

“... You're tripping balls, man.” The other sighed.

“Not today, I'm not. The one with the blue eyes. Like an hour ago.”

“Maybe he came in again cuz' he wanted to. It's not that deep.”

“This is why I'm better at this job than you.”

“Eat shit.”

It was a cloudy afternoon. A grayish-blue haze had been cast over the city, but what you walked into was so much dimmer in comparison. Nothing but neon illuminated the interior. Lights that faded from blue to purple lined the countertops. The tiles of the dancefloor were a blinding white. Next to it was a heated pool that glowed blue.

As fog clouded over the surface of the steaming water, it curled around the patrons wading in it. Needless to say, you were hypnotized. “Did nobody actually think of bringing their swimsuit?” Scrambling to the edge, you bent down to your knees and played with the white clouds. “A nice hot soak would do my sore muscles some good.” Before your fingers could do so little as graze against the water, Alfred grabbed your wrist.

“But not for your junk. They're practically swimming in STIs... Just do it at home in the bath.” He grumbled, pulling you up. Shivering at the thought, you let him pull you to the bar.

“But the bath doesn't glow...”

“Not yet, it doesn't.”

Allen narrowed his eyes. The guy was so quick to follow you, then lay hands on you, it had him rethinking his life purpose. Protecting you was meant to be his thing. Hell, it used to be his job, even. And yet, here Alfred was, having replaced him. No way. He was just an outsider in the end, wasn't he?

As he watched your interaction with him, he would soon learn he was right to some degree. Maybe Alfred didn't replace him, after all. He just became another figure in your life. Somebody he never managed to be--yet.

“Let's just grab some grub.”

Ever since Alfred arrived, he'd been wondering what was on the menu.

Hunger might have been history, but not eating. And you knew it well. Shooting him a weird smile, you nudged him with your elbow. “You say you don't have organs, but you still have a digestive system. How else do you use the toilet, huh?” Alfred looked at you, turned away, then looked at you again with his face scrunched up in a scowl.

He couldn't admit it, but you were right down to a T. “It doesn't count. It's not exactly real if it's not made of organic materials.”

Taking a seat by the counter, the stools beside scraped back to be occupied by your friends. While Alfred sat on your left, Allen sat on your right. Arthur took the end. “It's all a social construct.” You piped, much to his displeasure. The word wasn't entirely accurate to describe the emotions flurrying in his chest, however.

Was he frustrated? Yes. But he'd be lying if he said he didn't want to hear what you had to say. And you didn't disappoint. “If something serves a function in your body, it's an organ. Doesn't matter what it's made of.”

Alfred waved over the bartender. “I'm not having this conversation with you. We're from different generations, so I have a right to brood in peace.”

“Fine. But I won't let it destroy you.”

His breath hitched while he was about to order. “Can I--” Darting his eyes to yours, his voice only faltered at the steely look in them. Tearing his gaze from you had never been so difficult. “... Can I get a yakisoba with extra bonito flakes on the top? And uh, six of these dim sum-thingos?” He slid the menu to you.

“What do you want?”

A soft laugh rumbled from your throat as he refused to look at you. I'm finally getting through to your thick-headed ass, huh? But you couldn't be unreasonable. This was always a touchy subject. “I'll just have these dumplings. What about you two?”

Allen raised his brows, unimpressed. “Lotus chips and beer for me. This isn't the most vegetarian-friendly place in the world. Sucks.”

Arthur smirked. “I know, right? But protection is the priority, I suppose. I'll have the BLT.”

“I don't think you get to side with me when you ordered the worst thing off the menu.” The redhead mused, causing the other to flare their nostrils. He slapped his hands down on the counter to sit further up his stool. “But I get it. Aw, everything reminds me of him! Except for this BLT cuz' it's white.”

“Shut your gob and bugger off, Allen! It's literally just food.”

The said man sipped his beer loudly. “For you, it can be. I'm actually conscious about the taste and origins. You know those protein jellies Zao makes? They're made of his roommates.”

“So what? Not everyone has the same eating habits as you. Deal with it!”

You exchanged funny looks with Alfred. “Don't they get along well?”

“Not as well as us. And it'll stay that way so long as you don't talk about your philosophies.”

“... And that's not happening.” The food finally arrived, so the murmur of conversations came to an end. But it wasn't long before they picked up again. “You're not the only one who can have opinions.” Alfred glanced at you with narrowed eyes. “I can't even say that they're as strong as yours. But you'll have to live with them. Maybe you could learn something new.”

He scoffed, but he couldn't bite back a defeated smile. “C'mon, not this again. You of all people should understand how I feel about that stuff.”

“And I've seen what it does to you.” Alfred hung his head at that. This was exactly what he wanted to hear, but it annoyed him all the same. The hardest topics were often the most worth discussing, and this was a perfect example of it. Giving your chest a few indignant bumps with his head, he sulked like a child much to your amusement. “I'd love to entertain you some more, but nature calls.”

Hopping off the stool at that, he thrust out a hand to grab yours. It all happened so fast, even he was shocked. But it became apparent to you both what just happened—he needed you for one last reckoning. For you to see that expectant look of his, saying how he wasn't done with you. After a few moments, he let go, letting you turn away and run off to do your business.

Life had been such a shitshow you almost forgot the situationship between you and him. Even with his lacking memories, he couldn't forget it either. And now, he just had to wait for the right time.

“Right. That's it.” Allen grumbled, scraping his chair back to hop off.

Arthur glanced up.

“And where the hell are you going?”

“Gonna go with her. I've learned to not trust anything anymore.” Jogging after you at that, the mechanic was left with a fellow blonde.

“Well, would you look at that? It takes two to tango.”

Alfred shook his head. “What?”

“You and Allen, I mean.”

The toilet flushed. Leaving the cubicle to wash your hands in one of the communal sinks, you stared at your reflection as you shook away the water droplets. The pandemonium of the club music had faded to a soft thumping, giving you some space to collect your thoughts. Even in the darkness, what you saw in the mirror couldn't be clearer. It was distinctly different from watching yourself in a pond—where the ripples of the water distorted your image—specifically the one in the garden back at headquarters.

Your old home.

But it could burn for all you cared. This was who you were now. Tired, resentful, and fuelled by a fire of hot vengeance.

“... Whatcha thinkin' about?”

Your heart jumped out of your chest as you turned to the voice. Leaning against the doorframe was none other than your old bodyguard himself. “Oh my god, you scared the crap outta me.”

He craned his head to the side with a grin. “Sorry, a force of habit. Security works better when they're discrete.” You responded wordlessly with a small, wistful smile. As nostalgic as it was to have the man by your side 24/7, he didn't have to do this anymore. And it was better that way. Something about bodyguarding never sat well with you. Not with a man of his talents, anyhow.

Walking in to join your side, he bent down to fold his arms across the sink. Then, he rolled his head up to you. “So... Wanna tell me why you look like that?”

“Like... Like what?” Blinking a few times at the mirror, you leaned in to peer at your reflection.

Allen snorted. “Not literally. Well, not your physical appearance. I can tell when something's on your mind.” Straightening up, he squeezed your shoulder as he stared at both of your reflections. Almost instantly, he felt you tense up beneath his fingertips. “I've known you for nearly eight years, dollface. I'm offended that you're underestimating me.” The man pressed his cheek to yours coyly. “Even if you don’t talk to me about your problems, I can smell em’.”

You outstretched your hands to hold the edge of the sink, breaking away from the contact on his skin. It wasn't anything worth paying mind on your end, but the feeling of your face separating from his was reminiscent of tearing something from its glue. It stung as much as it was destabilizing. It showed in his troubled frown, which deepened when he heard your mirthless laughs while you hung your head.

“I'm sorry I haven't been talking to you.” The loudest silence fell around you both as his eyes went round with grief. “It's... Too productive.” Returning his gaze with a bittersweet smile, he felt himself die a little inside. You weren't spared of the sensation as you continued with an honesty so brutal, it killed you to say it. “I've been trying so hard to make something out of myself.”

Your brows trembled ever so lightly as they furrowed together. “But I'm getting so tired, I wanted to just... Give up on the future. Maybe disappear for a bit. But I couldn't bring myself to come to you or anyone about it. You especially.”

Allen huffed out a pained breath. “Why? I wanna help you! You can trust me with anything, you know that! Out of everyone in the world, I'm the closest to you, aren't I?” Holding onto your shoulders, he gave you a desperate squeeze. “Or am I wrong to assume that?” In this space in time, he never felt more betrayed in his life. The hurt coursing through every fiber of his being was unbearable—he preferred being skewered into by your father's blade to this.

“Because it’s Alfred now?”

Your heart sank as you listened to and saw how wounded he was. His lips were trembling, and tears were threatening to spill from his glassy eyes. Never in your life had you seen him cry. The sight was so sobering you couldn’t hold yourself from pulling him down into a tight hug. “No! It's because you're you.” As your bodies swayed from side to side in the embrace, you dug a hand through his hair and screwed your own eyes shut. “You’re my only family in the world. Nothing and nobody will ever replace you, ever.”

He tightened his hold on you as he let a few tears roll down his face. His eyes had been shut as a last-ditch resort to keep that from happening, but they oozed out the tiny gaps of his lids. “Then talk to me.”

Allen never knew he had this fear, but here it stood before him in all its glory, threatening to undo his sanity at the seams. It was the fear of being a second choice. Being abandoned. He already was once, and it nearly cost him his life. But if you did it--“What makes me so different from the rest? Why would it be easier to say this to everyone else?”

“Because you’ve known me since I was thirteen!” You buried your face into your hands to hide how it contorted with pain. Falling deathly quiet at your sudden outburst, he could only watch as you trembled away. “I’ve been working towards something ever since. I always thought I was scared of disappointing dad. But in the end, I was more afraid of disappointing you.”

Allen pulled you in again, and this time, he didn’t hesitate to kiss your cheek. It wasn’t a first, but the way how his mouth lingered on your skin made it feel like something more—something beyond a platonic friendship—and pulling away felt like a sin in itself. “Don’t think that fucking low of me. You could never disappoint me.” Pressing his forehead to yours, he bit back a contented sigh as your cries quietened to sniffles.

“You have nothing to prove. Fuck expectations. You don't have to live the way everyone wanted you to. Just live how you want.” Reaching up to hold your face, he was at a loss from how satisfied it felt to finally say it. But the moment of truth had yet to come—the culmination of everything he wanted in this world.

“Just run away with me. We can put this all behind us. We don’t have to think about this ever again.”

You held onto his hands that found a place on your cheeks. It was a nice thought. To abandon everything you knew to live a carefree and blissful life with Allen. But you declined with little hesitation. “We don't run from things. It's not who we are.” A sad smile made its way to your face. “And I have too much unfinished business.”

Allen wasn't sure whether to think of your response as rejection. But he wasn't about to let it get to him. “... If you ever do, then tell me. Zao's got a nice retreat in the middle of nowhere. We'll pack our things in the middle of the night and disappear by morning.” Your smile spread to him, but his was more bittersweet.

“I just want you to know that you'll always have a way out of everything. I'll wait for you. So just... Give me a call.” He shoved his hands into his pockets to walk off. With one last wistful look over his shoulder, he added this. “I'll always be your guy.”

Going to the bathroom was meant to clear your head, but here you were, sitting in your lonesome in an empty pool room in the penthouse to mull over the conversation. You would be lying if you said you didn't want to run away with Allen. A part of you wanted to return to how things used to be—when it was just you and him. He was the most important person to you in the world, but so was Alfred. You couldn't just forget about him like fuck all, could you? Breathing out a drawn-out sigh, you watched the soft pulsing of lights of the city at night through the window.

Maybe Allen did want you to forget him.

Fiddling with the gun he left you, the barrel scraped against the counter in small slides. Then, you picked it up with a huff to slide off the stool. It was about time you joined the rest. As you did, you caught sight of a familiar silhouette by the window.

Shrouded in the dimness of the room, their body was nothing but a shadow against the scenery of neon holograms and billboards. With a brief squint, you could recognize the person almost right off the bat.

“Alfred? How did you know to come up here?” Tucking the gun into your back pocket, you couldn't help but grin at the pleasant surprise. The said man spun to your voice, then waved. Your grin would've widened at the sight, but it faded upon discovering he was in a different set of clothes than what he arrived in. He came in a dark khaki military jacket and navy blue jeans.

Weird. When did he change to a kimono?

“Hey! I haven't seen you in ages. Come gimme a hug, dammit!” Tightening his arms around your waist, he lifted you up a few inches off the ground. A few nervous laughs fell from your lips as you held onto his shoulders to stabilize yourself. And they felt... A little softer than you remembered. Warmer. Before you could linger too long on the sensation, he set you on your feet and gleamed.

“Whatcha doing in the club, (F/N)? I thought you didn't like places like these. 'Specially when this one's got ties to the underworld and stuff.”

You craned your head to the side—never have you been this baffled. “... You walked in here with us.”

Alfred blinked. “Oh, did I?”

“... Are you drunk?”

He patted his chest a few times without eliciting any sort of whirring noise—immediately, the interaction changed to an unsettling one. But his answer only confirmed your suspicions. “Nope! Stone-cold sober. It would take more than a few drinks to get this baby down.” He gloated, much to your surprise. But the shock soon morphed into a grim kind of understanding.

Alfred couldn't get drunk.

In a heartbeat, you grabbed his wrist, then felt down his forearm. The utmost terror contorted at your expression as you felt his soft flesh sink between your fingers. You only sucked in a horrified gasp when you witnessed his veins disappear under your presses. It was almost as if he was—“Heh. You having fun there?”

Glancing up at him in a dark glower, you never bothered to open your mouth. Instead, you reached for your back pocket. If he was who or what you thought he was, you couldn't let Alfred see him. He couldn't leave this room alive. However, your conviction couldn't triumph the smallest shred of hope that you were just seeing things. There was one way to confirm you weren't hallucinating.

Blood was on the agenda, and you wanted to see it.

You pulled out your gun at light speed and fired a shot into his palm.

The explosive bang was loud enough to reach a few floors down, including the elevator that just left this one. Allen was whistling to himself when he heard it.

As faint as it was, he couldn't mistake it for anything else.

He shouldn't have left you alone.

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maybe-your-left · 4 years ago

Note

DR REN > DR FAUCI. MAKE HIM THE HEAD OF THE CORONAVIRUS CAMPAIGN PLZ.

okay im sorry but this is so fucking funny to me... for those of you who arent American or care about America (bc same), we are still suffering from covid-19 like we are a 3rd world country. BC PEOPLE ARE DUMBASSES AND SO IS OUR PRESIDENT! @ DONALD TRUMP. anywayyyy the surgeon general for America is Dr. Fauci and he is great and says that we should be wearing masks to protect one another and all that Jazz.

so obviously we should look to another trusted health professional.....

DOCTOR KYLO REN BBY.

“WEAR A MASK PEOPLE!”

“I don’t know why that's so hard to understand, what the fuck is wrong with you. I understand it’s hard to breathe, but there are health care professionals who wear medical grade masks for 14 hours during a surgery and they aren’t complaining. But you are because you have to wear one to Walmart? What, are you frustrated you can’t sneeze on the produce anymore? Huh?”

“No, it’s mandatory. That doesn’t mean it’s optional, that means if you don’t wear one don’t go outside! Which you shouldn’t be anyway, but that's not up to me. As the person medically in charge and ELECTED to be in charge of the common health of America, wear a goddamn mask or else I will come to your house an sew one onto your fucking face.”

“No, I won’t be answering questions.”

“Stop being an idiot and wear a mask.”

“Holy shit.”

-----

“Heyyyyy honey,” you cooed when Kylo came in through the garage door. Setting down your phone as you got off the couch, making sure to turn the volume down on the TV to make sure he can’t hear the news reporters talking about his unprofessionalism.

Kylo grunted as he came in, slamming his bag on the kitchen island. He walked to the sink, grabbing a clean rag and shoving it in his mouth. Letting out a feral scream through the cloth, even muffled it still made your ears ring from the pitch. You gave him a weak smile, tip-toeing to his side. Pulling the cloth from his mouth as you rubbed his cheek, “Did you hit anyone on the drive home?”

Kylo snorted, “No, but I fucking should have...” he ran a hand through his hair, “I do not understand people, why won’t they just listen to what I’m saying.” He slammed his fist into the nearest kitchen cabinet, punching a hole through the wood. You stood to his side, letting his take his anger out of the wood, you guys were going to remodel anyway.

He yanked the door off its hinge, slamming it down on his knee as he screamed again, “The fucking science is there! I don’t understand, I gave them all the research papers. Complete longitudinal studies about the exposure methods AND even showed how other countries following these rules were making great strides towards normalcy. But NO!”

“Uh-huh,” you patted his back, “Let it out.”

“If I even breathe about another country doing better, that makes me a communist. Which doesn’t even make sense, but me saying that the states should mandate a mask order is somehow against capitalism and freedom of choice, which makes me un-american.”

“I know sweetie.”

Kylo walked into the living room, stopping in front of the TV. His hands balled into fists as he stared at the silent reporters talking with an image of Kylo’s press conference in the back ground. He spun around, “Where’s the remote.”

You started shaking your head, “Honey I don’t think you need to listen to them-”

He raised a hand, “Where is the remote (Y/N).”

“I lost it,” you whispered, slowly backtracking down the hallway. Kylo’s footsteps gaining speed as you turned into the study, snatching the remote to his TV in there. Doging his large form blocking the doorway and booking it to the masterbedroom.

“Get back here! I want to hear what they are saying!”

“No!” you screeched, “It’s just going to upset you, and your blood pressure is already high!” You grabbed the one from your room, shoving it in your bra along with the other two. You paused, thinking about where the other TV’s were in the house.

A door slammed upstairs.

“Shit,” you whispered, booking it up the staircase to the lounge. Kylo already had the doors shut and you could hear furniture being moved to block the doorway. You banged on the frame, “Dammit Kylo, let me in!”

“No!”

You heard the volume raise on CNN, the voices of reporters arguing filling the room and seeping into the hallway. You kept banging your fists, wailing at him to stop and just breathe. “Kylo! You’re going to pop a blood vessel again! Just ignore them!”

A scream tore through the house, you were sure the security alarms were going to be set off from the vibrations. Followed by the sounds of a fist colliding with a TV screen, along with a string of curse words. You heard a window shatter, followed by more furniture moving.

You let out a deep breath, turning away from the lounge and heading down the stairs. Setting off for the laundry room where you keep your first aide supplies, medical grade, since your husband apparently is a medically licensed toddler. You waited at the kitchen island, setting out gauze and butterfly stitches supplies.

Slow steps came down the staircase, Kylo’s face downcast as he approached you from behind. Slowly scooting out a barstool with one of his feet and slumping down in the chair. He set his right hand in front of you, grumbling something under his breath. You sighed, accessing the damaged skin, “Feel better now?”

“No.”

“I tried to stop you.”

Kylo hissed as you applied an alcohol swab to his wounds, “I know.” He took a deep breath, “ I just don’t understand why they won’t listen to me, I’m literally the top doctor in the nation and they think I’m lying about the severity!”

You stayed quiet, just letting him vent.

“And now they are saying I’m untrustworthy because of my anger issues! I don’t have anger issues!”

You applied pressure to his hand, causing him to wince and meet your stare. “Sweetie, you broke another kitchen cabinet and TV and whatever else you broke upstairs. You also called the new’s reporters at the press conference ‘whiny asshats’ and threatened an entire country with bodily harm.”

Kylo chewed his cheek in thought, eyes now watching your handiwork. He mumbled a thank you as you finished with the first hand.

“Seems like I have some new issues to talk about in therapy then.”

#adam driver #adamdriver #kylo ren #surgeon kylo ren #i love surgeon kylo #he is your surgeon general #listen to him #wear a mask #covid-19 #charlie barber #clyde logan #hippa violation

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bluexepher · 4 years ago

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Enough is enough

I have been a member of Succulent Tart on WRA since roughly early 2017. My character Xepher has always been a performer and spoke well of the troupe in character. Whenever people asked me about the guild ooc, I told them to apply if interested and when events were. I partook in events whether performing, bartending or supporting and even purchased art to donate for raffles. But the reality was there was something else going on behind the scenes. From onset, I noticed the dreaded clique mentality that we all hate to see in rp communities. Especially when it comes to the elf circles. I remained quiet and watched, assuming that in time things would get better. When I did speak up, I was silenced or told that my points were irrelevant. Time went by and nothing got better.

What became increasingly frustrating for me was the guilds interaction with people of color and their cultures. The way it was erased from certain themed events they hosted or completely trampled over in other events. No one spoke up. No one said a thing. And when I looked around I saw that Succulent Tart people were everywhere, presenting this guise of pristine reputation so fans believed they could do no wrong. I recall a conversation in guild chat about why Black face references should only be used for Orcs or Trolls since there was no such thing as black elves. Meanwhile, I have ALWAYS roleplayed Xepher as a brown elf whose face reference is a black model from France. Not a single officer said anything to those people nor did someone speak up. That was just one instance of the many microaggressions that would go on in this guild. I couldn’t say or do anything about it because my point would be invalidated or I was told to be overreacting. And if I went to the public about, well then I was just a hater seeking to start drama.

What many of you don’t know is that Succulent Tart made those posts about BLM because I spoke out about it in general chat. Prior to all of this, nothing was mentioned in guild chat to let people know they were welcomed in this space. It was just assumed as white privilege has a funny way of doing that. The assumption was all felt safe in the guild from the perspective of many white members and officers. This gallery will showcase what happened in its entirety, from start to finish. The lie that so many in the guild cared and loved me when in reality they never wanted to hear my voice and never supported my endeavors. The chat images can be found here https://imgur.com/a/o12Y6NX . And the conversations after here https://imgur.com/a/JOoQM02 .

Some of you will recall I wrote a post about the new skin colors for elves and what this meant for the bigger picture. In the gallery above, a person attempted to make reference to my post as though the guild had done something so amazing for POCs in reblogging it. The irony of that reblog is that guild members spoke about it as though it was me giving them permission to roleplay black elves without guilt. They completely missed the point and did not understand at all what I was talking about. Also, I want to get something straight, that post was created as a direct response to something that occurred within the guild. Bella, an officer, stated that the lack of ducks in WOW was just as important as the new skin colors. Bella is someone who runs another guild called the Howling Owl and that wasn’t the last time she said something like this. I was provided screenshots of her response to a very real problem that is going on in the guild. All the proof can be found in this gallery. https://imgur.com/a/NhNkJwM

Furthermore, it should be understood that this presentation of understanding and support is meant to save face. This is why you all are seeing their BLM statements on the menagerie, fire fest, and guild tumblr pages. How can they speak to supporting black people and wanting to empower their voices when within their own guild they quite literally ostracized one? The post for the Fire Fest had a pride flag that didn’t have the brown and black stripes. A change that only occurred because I brought it up and it was later argued that it's relatively new so people may not use it. If anyone looked at the menagerie post for BLM you will see there is a quote from Angela Davis. Just the day before, I posted the same quote from her as she is someone I not only follow in philosophy but met and had discussion with in real life. So not only is there a silencing problem here but there is also a lack of credit? Of all the quotes to choose from you pick Angela Davis and that one of her many? Yeah right.

On June 5 I was approached by an officer from the guild to speak about what changes could happen. This was Alastren, the only officer who made a public statement to do better. The only one who came from a place of wanting to grow rather than defensiveness and fragility. This is an officer of the guild (who has now left) that said the group's echo chamber is problematic. I will include the gallery of our conversation because it speaks for itself. https://imgur.com/a/htamCSp

I will also include links to the guild leader Dice’s post and Alastren’s post for those of you who haven’t seen it for context. You can find Bear’s post on the twerk off and Rhillia’s post about the ‘Uldum Nights’ here for reference.

It was stated earlier that this guild shouldn’t be “condemned for a mistake”, the problem is this isn’t just one mistake. This is a deep rooted mindset that has been maintained for a very long time. The only difference is that now it is coming to light. There was an instance of someone calling the COVID-19 the Kung Flu and no other discussion was had about it after. So no, I’m not just going to sit tight and hope they change. Alot of people in that guild have privilege to not be concerned with what is going on and to try to just act like this will go away. I do not have that allowance. I never had and never will. Being in this guild was not a positive experience when all I did was give support and content to the guild’s purpose of entertainment and performances. I will not let this get pushed under a rug or forgotten. This shit is real and I’m exhausted. I will no longer have anything to do with Succulent Tart and the Menagerie Boutique. You do not deserve my support when you can’t even earnestly support the cause of many.

@succulent-tart

#world of warcraft #world of warcraft rp #succulent tart #wow rp #wow rp character blogs #wyrmest accord #moonguard #poc rp #characters of color #poc fantasy #black empowerment #allyship #systemic inequality #white fragility #white guilt

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twinkleallnight · 4 years ago

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Marshmallow

(Part -15) Denouement

Book: The Royal Romance AU

Word count: 1974

Disclaimer: All characters belong to pixelberry.

Rating: Teen/ PG

Warning: None.

A/N: An AU with Drake’s POV, showcasing his life as a commoner at the royal palace. Catch up here

I meet Hana couple of times after the drunk incident but ignore all signs. We never speak of what happened that night. May be, because I don’t want to acknowledge the obvious feelings blooming between us and she is too embarrassed about her state that night.

*******

Finally, the day arises when the country is full of cheerful sounds and bright colours. The palace is being decorated with expensive flowers and exquisite tapestries. Tapestries that depict the valour and courage of the Rhys dynasty.

I stand with Liam in front of a blank wall in anticipation. A life-size portrait is raised up by the palace staff and I see Liam’s chest swell up with pride as his head is held high looking into the eyes of his ancestor King Fabian in the image.

“Your favourite person.” I look at him knowingly.

“My idol. When I wear the crown today, I want to be just and true to my people like him.”

I clasp his shoulder. “You will be the most compassionate king Cordonia has seen.”

“I hope.” Liam beams. “Would you like to come with me to the study? I plan to brush up my speech and then head for the lunch.”

“You go ahead. I think I will see you at the ball. Call me if you need me around.”

“May I know where are you headed to?”

“I have to be at the boutique for a trial.” I say sheepishly.

Liam’s eyes widen, “You are going to dress up?”

I grin, “It’s my best friend’s coronation ball.”

He cocks his head searching in my eyes. “Or is it Hana?”

“I won’t deny.” I reply bashfully.

Liam nods his head with a smile. “I like the new Drake.”

“It’s the same old me.”

“Well, that we will see in the evening.” Liam chortles. “See you at the ball.” He waves and walks away.

I make a beeline to the boutique and coyly enter in. Hana had assured me that no one will be there around at this hour of the day.

“Hana...”, I call out in a tense voice.

She sways down smiling at me from the back of the room and holds my hand. “I am so glad you agreed. You are going to love this.” She pushes me to the trial rooms in excitement. “Go on. Try it.”

When I walk out dressed in a grey suit, she lets out a gasp and scurries to me. Her arms wrap around my neck making me chuckle. She gives me a quick hug and steps back admiring. “Wait here. I want to show you something.”

She brings out another garment bag. She flips the bag to reveal a silver grey gown. “ I found something matching with your suit to wear.” She giggles. I shake my head smiling in disbelief.

“What? You find it funny?” she pouts, a bit disheartened.

“Absolutely not!” I raise her chin with my curled finger. “Look at me. I was the commoner who never showed interest in any of these pompous affairs. But with you around I feel like a different person. I want to try it all. It’s not funny. It’s just that I am beaming at the new me.”

Her eyes brighten up again. “I am so excited for tonight.”

“ I can see that. Me too.”

“Okay, now you need to leave. I have some more last minute things to finish.”

“You sure don’t need my help anywhere.”

“No. Thank you.”

She pushes me out of the boutique giggling in enthusiasm.

I have a quiet lunch and retire to my quarters till evening.

*************

Later in the evening:

The palace shines in all its glory with strings of lights twinkling around its edges. The nobles arrive in their luxury vehicles one after another draped in choicest of designer wears, waving out to the cameras flashing at the entrance. The media is covering the country’s most important event in decades, alerting their representatives to capture who’s who of the royal court.

I calmly observe the rush, as usual, from my favourite spot, the bar. Liam joins me soon.

“Hana has a great taste.”

“What?” I look at him quizzically.

He raises his eyebrows in praise and waves his hand at me. “The suit looks good on you. She chose well.”

“Chose well? You mean the suit or me?”

He laughs out. “She has improved your sense of humour too. You are no longer the grumpy one.”

“I was never grumpy except in Riley’s dictionary.”

Just then, Max sprints towards Liam, “Hey Li, have you seen the grumpy guy around?”

I turn to him, “Very funny, Beaumont.”

“Oh, is it really you Drakey!” He gropes over and cups my face, his voice, a note higher and melodramatic. “You gave away your denims for a suit? That must be so painful. Are you alright?” He places the back of his hand on my forehead, trying to test my temperature.

“Cut it out Max.” I shrug away his hands as I notice Liam stifling a laugh.

Hana and Riley join the gang and they get busy with the chit chat. I notice Hana stealing glances at me but her eyes have a worried look. Something seems to be amiss that I cannot place my finger upon. After sometime she excuses herself and I find her exiting the main doors. I follow her towards the lawn.

There under the silver of moon, Hana shimmers in her silver gown, standing alone, deep in her thoughts. I step closer to her and wrap my arm around her shoulder.

She turns around to face me and suddenly hugs me tightly. “What’s wrong?” I ask her softly.

She doesn’t utter a word but pulls out an envelope from her clutch and hands it over to me. I don’t understand the foreign language written in it but definitely know that whatever it is, it has upset her. Her voice is almost a whisper when she says, “It’s over. I have to leave.” Still looking down into the letter.

I hold her at her elbows and tug, “Leave? Why?”

She raises her head and I see her eyes are welled up with tears. “It’s a letter from my parents. They say if I am not Liam’s choice tonight, which they know well, I should be moving back to Shangai tomorrow.”

I feel like someone has sucked out the breath from me, as I stand speechless in front of her.

‘Is this how it ends? No. Is this how I want it to end?’ It’s a split-second decision I make in a trice. I embrace her tightly. I hear her gasp with my unexpected move. Her hands lightly resting on my arms, letter still held in one.

I cup her face and look into my favourite honey almond eyes. “Hana…” I gather some more courage to say things I intend to. “I don’t know what happens tomorrow. But I want you to know that you are the most amazing person I have ever met. You are epitome of perfection yet you ignore the imperfections people around you have. Hell, you turn those short comings into a silver lining. You do things for the people you care. It’s impossible to stay away from you once someone gets to know you. I don’t know if I even deserve to be with you. But I want tell you this, that I… I love you. And I won’t let this end here. It’s not over. Not yet.”

She tries to open her mouth to say something but before that I lower my mouth on hers and capture the warmth of her lips. My fingers, cupping her face, feel the wetness of her tears rolling down her cheeks. I roll my thumb to wipe them away without breaking the kiss.

********

“How do you think it goes from here?” Riley questions in general.

“I don’t have any idea.” I rub my hands over my eyes.

I had requested Liam for an urgent word regarding Hana’s plans, in turn he called Riley and now we are all seated with him in his study.

“Can’t you stay?” Riley asks Hana.

“No.” Hana speaks softly, looking into a hollow.

“Why?”

“This is how it was supposed to be. My parents wanted me to be in Cordonia so that I find a suitable match in some noble house. With the social season coming to an end tonight, they don’t want me to stay any longer without purpose.”

“Damn it!” I curse in frustration.

“So, we really can’t do anything?” Riley looks at Liam for an answer.

“Not immediately. We will have to wait.” Liam says brooding.

“How long?” Riley seems to be more restless.

“Until I take over the office as the king of Cordonia.” He pauses, “And I can’t directly pass the first orders for Lee family at Shanghai when there must be many pressing issues Cordonia is dealing with. So we will have no option but to be patient.”

There is a knock at the door. Bastein peeps in to remind, “I am sorry to interrupt but we are running against time, sir. The king has asked for your presence in the main hall.”

Liam gets up looking at the watch. “I am afraid, we will have to curtail this meeting. Drake, I will see what I can do. I will update you.” He pats my back and then addresses Hana.

“Hana, trust me, we will find out a solution. I am sorry that you have to go through this.”

She gives a forced smile. “Thank you.”

Riley hugs her in reassurance and they both walk out of the study. I keep looking blankly at her retrieving figure. Bastein clears his throat to pull me back from my thoughts. “I… I…”

Bastein walks to me. He places his hand on my back. “Son, you are dealing with the nobles here. Don’t jump into action too soon. Take one step at a time. Things will fall in place if all goes well. Tomorrow, the king will be the one who is your best friend. As much as I know the boy, he will always have your back.” I nod in agreement.

“Have faith and some hope. This too shall pass.”

“Thank you, Bas.” I compose myself and stride down the hall with him.

The coronation ceremony is conducted smoothly. Watching Liam bearing a crown is a moment of pride. Minutes later, the announcement for the queen is made and against all odds he declares his love, lady Riley, as his future queen. They exchange rings and pose to the paparazzi as an officially engaged couple.

My eyes are stuck at the grand clock, each passing second ticking in my ear. My heart is racing against time. I scan through the crowd once again. Hana stands on the other end of the hall with other suitors. Our eyes pierce into each other hers throwing away sadness and mine hoping against hope.

“You know if Liam can get true love, against all odds, you too deserve to be with the one you love.” I snap at the voice that spoke behind me.

“Leo? What the hell are you doing here?”

“Couldn’t have missed my baby brother’s coronation ceremony.” He shrugs. We meet each other with a hug.

“So, you and Hana, huh?” he asks inquisitively.

“Didn’t you just come back to Cordonia? How do you know?”

He looks across my shoulder at someone. “She knows, so I know.” He raises his glass wine in someone’s direction.

I turn around to see whom he is pointing to. My jaw drops when I check the lady walking towards us. She stops besides Leo and he places a soft kiss on her cheek. Their arms wind around each other’s waist.

“You…and…Livy?” I falter, astonished at the sudden turn of events.

Tags: @ao719 @annekebbphotography @anjanettexcordonia @bebepac @charlotteg234 @choicesficwriterscreations @cordonia-gothqueen @drakewalker04 @eadanga @gkittylove99 @glaimtruelovealways @krsnlove @hopefulmoonobject @hopelessromanticmonie @iam-the-kind-and-thoughtful @jessiembruno @jovialyouthmusic @jaxsmutsuo @kat-tia801 @kingliam2019 @khoicesbyk @shewillreadyou @lisha1valecha @lovablegranny @mrswalkers-blog @mom2000aggie @no-one-u-knoww @ntoraplayschoices @princessleac1 @ritachacha @secretaryunpaid @sirbeepsalot @speedyoperarascalparty @shanzay44 @texaskitten30 @txemrn @queenrileyrose @sanchita012 @sfb123 @theroyalheirshadowhunter @aestheticartsx @yourmajesty09

@hopefulmoonobject @hopelessromanticmonie @iam-the-kind-and-thoughtful @jessiembruno @jovialyouthmusic @jaxsmutsuo @kat-tia801 @kingliam2019 @khoicesbyk @shewillreadyou @lisha1valecha @lovablegr @hopefulmoonobject @hopelessromanticmonie @iam-the-kind-and-thoughtful @jessiembruno @jovialyouthmusic @jaxsmutsuo @kat-tia801 @kingliam2019 @khoicesbyk @shewillreadyou @lisha1valecha @lovablegranny @mrswalkers-blog @mom2000aggie @no-one-u-knoww @ntoraplayschoices @princessleac1 @ritachacha @secretaryunpaid @sirbeepsalot @speedyoperarascalparty @shanzay44 @texaskitten30 @txemrn @queenrileyrose @sanchita012 @sfb123 @theroyalheirshadowhunter @aestheticartsx @yourmajesty09 nny @mrswalkers-blog @mom2000aggie @no-one-u-knoww @ntoraplayschoices @princessleac1 @ritachacha @secretaryunpaid @sirbeepsalot @speedyoperarascalparty @shanzay44 @texaskitten30 @txemrn @queenrileyrose @sanchita012 @sfb123 @theroyalheirshadowhunter @aestheticartsx @yourmajesty09

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astoldbygingersnaps · 4 years ago

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#wip wednesday

it’s me, ya boy, back with Yet Another New Project!

this time, i bring you the beginnings of a oneshot dreamt up by alexa continuing to fan the flames of my shiita brainrot. enjoy!

There are very few moments in Itachi’s life that he can point to and say that he felt truly content. Many of them are from his childhood, small snatches of memory that involve his mother’s cooking or his brother’s laugh. One or two even contain his father, tiny blips of interaction where the man’s unbearable expectations and slavish dedication to duty had slipped away to reveal the human heart beating deep within him. But Itachi would be lying if he tried to claim that the majority of those moments did not include the friend that is currently sitting beside him.

This, however, is not one of those moments.

Currently they’re on the outskirts of Konoha’s vast forests, the coverage against the afternoon sun thinning as the leaves wither in the crisp, autumn air. A gentle breeze rolls through, not harsh enough to chill but the current rakes its way through Shisui’s hair, making it even more unkempt than usual. Itachi’s keenly aware of this fact, and of Shisui’s general presence, as the man has himself wedged close to Itachi, his head resting on Itachi’s knees as he prattles on about Itachi’s least favorite subject: his love life.

It’s a fascinating contrast, the image of Shisui thoughtlessly draped over Itachi as he drives the knife that is his sexual history deeper and deeper between Itachi’s ribs. But it’s not a wound that Itachi holds Shisui accountable for, not really. Painful though it may be, it’s not as if Shisui is thoughtless or intentionally cruel; it’s merely a side-effect of Itachi’s most closely guarded--and frankly most terrifying--secret.

Often, Itachi has considered telling Shisui the truth, fantasized about what the various outcomes of such an action would be. Still, each time he’s come close to confessing, the words sitting precariously on the very tip of his tongue, Itachi swallows them down like a bitter taste. After all, there’s just no neat and tidy way to say, “I’ve loved you since we were children.” So, Itachi says nothing at all, day after day, month after month, year after year.

“Are you even listening to me?” Shisui asks, in the whiny tone of voice he always gets when Itachi isn’t giving him his full attention. On any other person, it would be an annoying affectation, but Shisui has a way of making even his worst traits charming.

Yet another truth Itachi refuses to tell him. “I’m riveted,” he replies dryly, never taking his eyes off the book in his hand, fighting a smile as Shisui groans in frustration.

“You’re a terrible friend,” Shisui says, his faux-offended expression lingering on the edge of Itachi’s vision, and in response Itachi lifts his book to block out the sight of Shisui completely.

“The worst,” Itachi hums in agreement, finally giving into a laugh when Shisui grabs the novel he’s been only mildly interested in and chucks it out of Itachi’s reach. Raising an eyebrow, Itachi looks at the discarded tome, its pagings rustling in the breeze, before glancing back at Shisui. “A bit excessive, don’t you think?”

“How come we never have these conversations about your romantic woes?” Shisui retorts, and the question is so unexpected and uncomfortable Itachi feels the neutral mask of his features start to crack.

“What?”

Watching him critically, Shisui sits up, resting his cheek in his palm as he leans more of his weight across Itachi’s body. “I’m serious. All the times you’ve had to listen to me bitch and moan about this stuff, and not once have you ever chimed in with problems of your own. What gives?”

“Perhaps I don’t believe in kissing and telling,” Itachi replies, tone more clipped than he means it to be. Though he doesn’t resent Shisui for his curiosity, a part of him can’t help but be annoyed that somehow such a finely trained officer doesn’t realize he’s stepped on top of a massive landmine.

Rather than take a moment to read the metaphorical room, however, Shisui presses on with his typical single-minded focus. “Oh, come on,” he argues. “It’s just us, Itachi. You know you can tell me anything.”

Despite his best efforts, Itachi can feel his stomach clenching at the proclamation. For a moment, he weighs the pros and cons of what admitting the truth would be, and is displeased to discover what the best option is. “There’s nothing to tell,” he says, shrugging as if the words don’t mean a thing, and carefully keeps his eyes off Shisui’s face.

The funny thing about Shisui is that, for all his gifts with the Sharingan’s manipulations and illusions, he’s a shockingly open book outside of his profession. Surprise paints itself across his face, all wide eyes and an open mouth, and against his will Itachi feels a flush burning at the base of his throat. “Wait, seriously?” he asks, voice low as if they’re trading secrets of national security rather than engaging in petty gossip.

In response Itachi tugs his legs out from under Shisui, taking an unkind satisfaction in his friend’s grunt as he hits the ground. Still, the movement is, in Itachi’s mind, a tactical retreat; there’s no need to feel physically trapped when Shisui already has his metaphorically pinned down. “I’m gonna kick you.”

“Don’t,” Shisui mutters, whiny again, as he grabs Itachi’s leg with his trademark speed. The touch burns against the bare skin of his ankle, and Itachi shakes him off with a scowl. “I’m not being an asshole--”

“All evidence to the contrary,” Itachi cuts in, annoyed.

Graciously Shisui ignores that and continues, “It’s just surprising, you know? Because you’re… Well, you.”

Itachi feels his stomach twist. “What is that supposed to mean?”

Shisui looks at him, and absurdly Itachi feels like an opponent on the wrong side of Shisui’s kunai. “Nothing, I guess,” he eventually offers, quietly, and the statement is so outside of Shisui’s typical cheerful, confident persona that Itachi can’t help but feel profoundly unsettled.

The truth is he’s kept himself guarded in this fashion for a variety of reasons, some he can admit to Shisui and others he’d rather be disemboweled than confess to another living soul. Part of his reluctance stems from the plain fact that he’s simply too busy with other matters to commit to dating of all things. Between his obligation to his village, his devotion to his brother, and his own ambitions at eventually securing the Hokage’s chair, he doesn’t have time to waste on a frivolous matter like courtship.

He also knows that, somewhere down the line, his father will no doubt want to marry him off, eager to pass on the talent and promise of the esteemed Uchiha prodigy. Frankly, the man would have probably done it sooner if he hadn’t felt some gratitude towards his son for working with Shisui to end the feud between their clan and the village, thus granting the Uchiha a much higher standing in Konoha. But at twenty-three, Itachi knows he can’t count on his father’s good graces much longer, meaning the inevitable grows that much closer with each passing day.

The other issue is… a bit more delicate. Itachi’s far too pragmatic to invest in the concept of virginity as something sacred, something special to be shared with exactly the right person at exactly the right time. But it does strike him as unfair to go to bed with a person and offer them a lie instead of himself, knowing that for every moment spent together his thoughts will be firmly locked onto someone he can never have.

Rather than reveal any of that, however, Itachi simply says, “Sex has never been a very high priority of mine.”

“That’s kind of depressing,” Shisui replies. “You should get out there. Play the field, have fun.”

Itachi’s just irritated enough at his continued cross-examination of his personal life that he asks the unthinkable: “Why, are you offering?”

In hindsight, Itachi supposes that after carrying the burden of his feelings for so long such a slip-up was inevitable. But it feels less like an understandable mistake and more like a battlefield miscalculation, one dangerous enough to leave him wide-open to a counterstrike.

That in mind, perhaps it should come as no surprise when Shisui counters, ”Do you want me to?”

to be continued.

#my fic #this is uh. very different than what i usually write #so i'll be v interested in what the feedback will be when it's posted in full #until then!

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everythingsinred · 3 years ago

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Let's Talk About NatsuMikan: The Anime (pt. 4)

The anime is a different species than the manga, something that frequently happens during the adaptation from page to screen. Since they’re so different, I’ll analyze them separately.

In the last few parts, we talked about NatsuMikan's story divergence in the anime, and how an even minor change can seem pretty significant with added context. Here, we'll be exploring just two episodes, but two episodes that are pretty layered and have plenty of stuff to analyze!

Episode 18 vs. Chapter 21

The haunted house episode was pretty well-adapted in the anime. They did a good job of elongating the events and filling up the timespan of an episode while keeping the events interesting and suspenseful. I love the addition of Sumire and Jinno (especially with the discovery that he’s easily frightened). Jinno electrocuting the house and causing the electric problems makes a lot more sense than Iinchou passing out due to fear and coincidentally falling on the generator. In any case, the anime makes Natsume’s jealousy when Mikan clings to Ruka more clear.

The anime adds Natsume shielding Mikan from the wall when it falls, something that I always thought was cute, especially when Mikan reveals she had been awake but in shock and Natsume reacts with frustration. It further proves Ruka’s point from earlier in the episode that despite Natsume’s attitude, he is actually selfless. He will do selfless things and then act like they didn’t happen, like they didn’t bother him, etc., even if they resulted in something serious, like his leg being injured.

It just…. keeps me going.

Much of the events are the same but with minor tweaks, such as Natsume just seeing Mikan’s underwear instead of kicking her skirt up. The anime also has a much less suggestive scene for Iinchou and Ruka to walk in on. In the anime, Mikan is simply hanging over Natsume. Natsume is even flinching away from her. Leave room for Jesus.

The difference though.

The episode starts with the tea scene, as well, unlike in the chapter, and it concludes with Mikan discussing with Ruka her dream of seeing her grandfather again and becoming a strong alice. Ruka doesn’t share his dream, but we see a glimpse of it: living on a farm with many animals and Natsume, his best friend, and Mikan. There’s also more emphasis on the parallels between Natsume and Ruka’s friendship with Hotaru and Mikan. The manga does explore these similarities on its own time, but the anime jumps right in. No, they aren’t perfect mirrors of each other, but there are parallels. But Mikan and Ruka aren’t the only ones who have much in common. And just like Natsume and Mikan have a lot in common, so do Ruka and Hotaru, one of the sadly unexplored relationships in both the anime and the manga. But that’s not what this essay is about so we will move on ;-;

Episode 19 vs. Chapter 23 & 24

The next episode is the play one. There is more suspense leading up to the reveal of Ruka’s role in the Somatic play and more humorous additions to fill the episode. It adds Mikan scolding Natsume for being selfish when he refuses to dress as a cat for the play, giving him one more incentive in addition to “Narumi told him to” and “the kid is sad”. Just like in the manga, but with more emphasis, Mikan is the only girl unafraid to call Natsume cute and affectionately tease him for his outfit. In the anime, she giggles as she pokes his ears and it’s very cute. Naturally, in both versions, he reacts by flicking her forehead.

Mikan is a furry becau--

And Natsume is, in both versions, the one who volunteers Mikan for the role of the prince without really thinking about the consequences (because he’s an idiot). In the anime, he’s more spiteful, acting out of revenge for having to dress up as a cat. When she tries to refuse, it’s his turn to scold her, when he reminds her that everyone’s freaked out by the sticky balls and are in the same boat.

There’s consequent jealousy (because of course there is; Natsume is an idiot). Ruka and Mikan bond over their roles and forced situations and Natsume watches from afar, probably feeling nothing but regret because he’s the one that made it all happen. Ah… how poetic. There’s an added scene where Mikan and Sumire have a fight and Sumire’s character dies in a horrible explosion (that was funny but also kind of unnecessary). The almost-kiss is much more poetic in the anime, of course. Natsume throws an apple at Mikan to stop her from kissing Ruka for the play, and Hotaru is seen assisting him by switching off the lights, signaling an end to the show. The kid to whom Natsume is attached (and whose apple was stolen) is watching him with confusion and Natsume stares at his hand so there’s no confusion who interfered with the play.

In the manga, he throws some nondescript box thing (I never got exactly what it was so feel free to tell me if you do know), but the apple is much more dramatic. The play is Snow White, and the apple is what causes the princess to fall unconscious. It’s a symbol tied to evil, and depending on how much analysis we want to go into for just the folktale by itself, it is also tied to apples being related to the knowledge of good and evil, sowing seeds of discord, etc. Natsume throws an apple at Mikan to stop the kiss, because the story and the play is not as important to him. What caused the princess to fall unconscious is what could potentially--in play universe--keep her unconscious, because if she doesn’t get the kiss, she doesn’t wake up. But in a more Natsumikan sense, the apple sows potential seeds of discord between Natsume and Ruka. After all, after the play, Ruka knows who interfered. He knows why. He’s visibly upset about it, more sad than anything, and in the next episode there’s even more tension between Natsume and Ruka over Mikan.

The episode ends with Natsume still being jealous and Mikan and Ruka being embarrassed about what almost happened. However, Mikan and Ruka make up and decide to forget about it, and the kid takes Natsume’s hand and pulls him over to his friends. The episode concludes with them all being friends, even if there are undiscussed tensions bubbling between them all. Aww, how cute. The anime does a good job of making the love triangle seem equally balanced.

Summary

In this section, we only covered two episodes, though they were pretty interesting to discuss (also I can only put ten images in a post, I'm sorry). In these two eps, a new element is added to the story, the tension and jealousy between Natsume and Ruka, who both like the same girl and have trouble communicating with each other about it. When it comes to the anime, this tension will become very important in the next episode.

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samiii-p · 3 years ago

Text

miss temptation (I don’t think you know) 1/?

aka The Maryan Roommate AU no one asked for 🙃 ao3

“You need a home address by next week or I’m writing you up.”

Fuck

Scratching an 'X' over another available apartment listing in the newspaper, Ryan grunts, blacking it out in her frustration. This one was her last true option within her price range and it was about the size of a walk-in closet with a communal bathroom to boot.

And no, just no. God no.

At least the last one had a view. It was a brick wall of the neighboring apartment but one nonetheless.

“You know for someone who needed this job, you sure don’t look the part.”

Sucking her teeth, Ryan glances up from her troubles, spots Luke in his custom three piece suit, grumbles and glances back at the paper where the only options left cost an arm and a leg to stay. Gotham wasn’t cheap by any stretch of the imagination, but selling her organs on a monthly basis just to get by didn’t seem all that appealing either.

“What do you want, Luke?”

“Can’t a guy just stop by?”

“Sure.” Ryan says, flipping the newspaper to the next page, maybe she could find something outside of town. The commute would be hell, but at least she’d have an address and her parole officer would finally get off her back. “I take it that’s not what you’re here for though.”

She hears him harrumph and nothing else. He does it a second later, again … and again.

“Okay, how can I help you?” She asks, sliding her current issues down the counter. Another 18 months in jail won’t hurt, let alone leaving the city in shambles when Batwoman disappears again .

Luke tilts his chin, hard line forming between his brows, a look Ryan has grown accustomed to over the past few weeks. Even though he’s apologized and promised to give her a chance until Kate’s return, there's still a tiny bit of friction lying beneath the surface no matter how much they both try to ignore it.

Reaching into his breast pocket he unearths a photo and slides it across the bar into Ryan’s line of vision. A picture of a black mask, outlined like a skeleton, stares up at her with cold hard eyes. In the corner a coiled snake is drawn with Luke’s handwriting underneath.

Snakebite - fear toxin/mushrooms

“Um, who or what am I looking at?”

He thumps the photo twice. “I was hoping you could tell me. You said you run in similar circles-”

“- ran.”

“As Victor Zsasz, I was hoping you could tell me a little about our friend here.”

“Sorry to tell you this but, no.” She pushes off the bar with a huff, nodding at the photo. “Whoever this person is, is new in town. At least to me.”

“Yeah, well his snakebite is hitting the streets like a plague and no one knows its source. There’s only this photo as a possible supplier but there’s no name, no facial recognition, no origin or leaks, no nothing.”

“So what do we do?”

“You suit up.”

Heat signature enabled, Ryan takes a look around the abandoned building noting two low level street hands Luke identifies as TJ Pillar: 1 to 3 strike for armed robbery and Curtis Armstrong: out on parole for possession.

“Come on, dude.”

She totally gets how uneasy it is to get back on your feet after spending a little over a year incarcerated but at least try to do better.

“What?” Luke asks through the coms, Ryan ignores him, scouting more of the building. It’s been over an hour and nothing. They wouldn’t be here if no one was coming but it’s growing closer to midnight and she has to be back at work at nine.

“Can’t I just bring them in? It’s late.”

“I mean you could, but it’ll be a waste of time. The guys on the street don’t know anything except to wait for the drop here.”

“And we couldn’t call in Gotham PD or the Crows for surveillance because..?”

“Hey, you wanted the job, this is what it entails.”

Behind the mask, Ryan’s eyes roll, mocking this is what the job entails meh meh, like she's a child grounded for the night, which, all things considered…

“Besides, it’s not like you have anything better to do.”

“Okay! Okay!” Over the coms, Ryan hears hushed voices arguing, a muffled ‘no’ then the sound of chairs being switched, Luke’s voice replaced by Mary’s, “heeey, girl. How ya’ doing?”

She smirks, attitude vanishing the moment the heiress speaks. Call it a general preference to all things sans-Luke based but she’d one hundred present rather talk to Mary until the butt crack of dawn instead of Mr. Kate would do it like this and Kate would do it like that. For starters Mary’s a lot nicer. Calmer. Funnier, I mean the girl’s one liners are top tier, bone tickling funny.

And well, she was a hell of a lot prettier too.

“Oh, you know, just pulling an all-nighter right before my day shift.”

A hiss sounds dramatically over the intercoms, the image of Mary’s twisted face pops up and Ryan can almost see the apple of her cheeks bunching and her eyes closing in that cute ass scrunchy face she makes when she’s thinking hard or embarrassed clear as day.

“Don’t worry about it, you can always come in later.”

“You enable her by making exceptions.”

“Luke!”

“What!?”

More muffled noises, a bang and yelp later Mary comes back on. “What I was getting at is that if you want to come in a little bit late, it’s totally fine or we can even change your schedule to mid-day, as your boss and fellow bat accomplice, I would totally understand.”

The corner of Ryan lips quirks up, “you don’t have to do that.”

“I do. We don’t know for sure how long you’ll be out tonight. Coming in afterwards is going to be draining-”

“It’ll be draining for all of us.” Luke yells.

“Shh!”

Unfortunately, Luke has a point. It's not fair on the team if she’s the only one taking the easy way out when they all have lives and responsibilities outside of the cave to adhere to, and a mid-day shift would never work anyway. Mid-day is Officer Steven’s favorite time of day to intrude on Ryan’s life.

“No that’s okay,” Ryan says, “Luke’s right. I have to put on my big girl panties and suck it up like everyone else, besides, I’m going to be too busy selling body parts for an overpriced cardboard box in the foreseeable future or it's a one way ticket back to Black Gate-”

“Wait, what-?”

“Oh, hold up.” An engine alerts Ryan to an incoming vehicle speeding into the warehouse disrupting their conversation. “We got action.”

Censors pick up on a lone body inside, facial recognition scanners kick on and work to identify the driver’s profile as well as the car’s make, model design, vehicle number and license plate number are all shot over to home base for further analysis. She twitches them off once complete just in time to see a window roll down and a hand throw two duffle bags out the window before speeding off.

“Did we get anything?”

A beat passes before Mary’s back on, “Not yet. Gotham PD and the Crows database has no facial identification, Luke’s expanding the search but the car is unmarked, plates false, even the tires vin numbers have been scrubbed. Whoever this person is, really doesn’t want to be found.”

From Ryan’s personal experience, news like that is never good. Someone that deep undercover either has a checkbook large enough to make themselves disappear or an iron grip so ruthless the utter mention of their name is probable cause for permanent removal. This was going to be harder than any of them expected.

“Keep me posted.”

Kicking off the beam she leaps down sticking another perfect grand entrance; hoping the acclaimed symbol printed on her chest will be enough to scare off the bad guys for once.

She is really tired after all.

Unfortunately, Twiddle Dee and Twiddle Dumb both reach for guns, shooting before she can warn them to stand down. And there goes her ‘early’ night. Figures.

“Ya’ll know I’m fucking bullet proof, right?”

Another bullet ricochets off the suit as she takes a step forward. Idiots. Surprisingly they keep at it until the clip clinks, empty, and Ryan comes face to face with Curtis who tries throwing a punch she easily ducks, coming back up to head butt him so hard his knees crumple. His coworker steps up and he’s a bit more of a challenge throwing blow for blow with her until she ducks up under him and comes back with a roundhouse kick to his Adams apple. He clutches his windpipe, now down on one knee she delivers the final blow to the bridge of his nose.

She picks up the bags and hightails it out of there, latching onto a high beam for an easy escape, and heads towards G.C.P.D where she drops the contraband with a note attached of where they can find the assailants tied up and ready for arrest.

“Why didn’t you tell me you’re homeless!?”

Ryan wonders if disrupting her day as a civilian was going to become normal protocol for Luke and Mary going forward and on a recurring basis.

“I wouldn’t say homeless.”

“How else would you classify living out of your van down by the docks?”

“Surviving on wheels – ow!” Ryan giggles, rubbing her shoulder and doesn’t know whether to cower or soothe the frustrating scowl rapidly spreading across her friend’s face. “How’d you find out?”

“I had Luke track you after you left last night.”

“Wow, talk about invasion of privacy.”

“And for good reason, why didn’t you say anything?”

Ryan flips an empty glass, dries it out before placing it on the rack and considers how to move the conversation forward, possibly far, far away from this topic all together. The best she comes up with is, “it’s handled.”

Handled ends up being a 200 square feet one room apartment Mary demands to see. The bedroom, kitchen and living room are all one in the same but at least she has her own bathroom. The walls are paper thin, she’s pretty certain the constant dripping sound is coming from the kitchen, one she can easily fix after a YouTube tutorial or two, and a hotter than hell furnace the landlord warns her not to touch when the temperature is anywhere over 60 F unless she enjoys suffocating.

She watches Mary take in the room, the petite brunette moving in a slow swirl on her heels, lip turned down and Ryan just knows it’s not good when they make eye contact.

“Nu-uh.”

“What do you mean nu-uh?” Confused, Ryan watches Mary storm past her and out the door. “Mary! Mary, what does that mean? Mary!?”

Mary breaks her housing contract. When Ryan tries to object she quickly learns that all 5’2 of Mary Hamilton-Kane is nothing to play against and a powerhouse forced to be reckoned with.

… It kind of gets Ryan hot under the collar watching Mary tell her landlord exactly what’s about to happen, and cutting a check like it's nothing in the process.

Assertive has always kinda been her type.

“You’ll be staying here.”

Mary says, showing Ryan around her penthouse in the upper echelon of Gotham City. The apartment is just shy the size of a department store, the lounge being big enough to take up most of the square footage, built in with four bedrooms, one now officially hers, one for guests and another used for office space and three huge bathrooms big enough to house a football team.

“Jesus,” the name slips under her breath as she takes it all in. This place is – is. It’s too much. “I can’t afford this.”

The carpet under her feet probably cost more money than she'll ever see in her lifetime.

“Well, it’s a good thing I’m not asking you to pay anything.” Ryan quickly gets shut down as Mary carries on, “until you can save enough money to get back on your feet. It’s the least I can do. Being this city’s vigilante is hard work. The last thing you need to worry about is where you’re going to lay your head at night.”

It makes sense, but still. “I’m not comfortable asking you - I won’t use you.”

“You’re not.” The med student emphasizes. Mary takes the box out of her hands and places it on a dresser. “My home is yours now, bestie. Stay as long as you want to.” And before Ryan can prepare herself, Mary’s arms are snug around her waist and her cover girl smile is beaming up at her.

This is going to be terrible.

It’s worse.

Far worse than Ryan could have ever predicted. Not only is Mary super considerate of her new roommate, but she makes her resources Ryan’s own. She’s never slept so good, ate so well or drank water so delicious for that matter. Until recently she thought water was just water but Mary’s fridge is full of this alkaline stuff straight from the mountains, and Ryan swears she can never look back.

“You want pickles?”

Ryan visibly gulps, sitting on the couch, eyes focused on anything other than Mary prancing around the kitchen in her underwear. Mary’s always been super comfortable in her skin but especially at home when she’s surrounded by her things in her place of peace and why shouldn’t she be, this is her home. Ryan wants her to go about as she normally would, actually prefers if Mary pretended Ryan wasn't there altogether. The last thing she wants is to intrude or take up space but she can only take so much. It’s been nearly a month of coming home to Mary asking how her day was, waking up to Mary smiling at her over homemade breakfast or passing out on the couch cuddled together after another failed movie night. There’s only so much she can take.

What they’re doing is borderline domestic. And Ryan’s too gay for this.

“…pickles?”

“Hmm – what?”

“I asked if you want pickles on your sandwich?”

"Uh, sure."

Handing her a plate, Mary plops down on the couch leaving no space between the two and licks the pad of her thumb, humming pleasantly at the taste.

Ryan bites the inside of her cheek. “So, what are we watching?”

Hopefully something gory, and bloody staring a cis-het white male. Anything to take Ryan’s mind off of Mary Hamilton.

Mary chooses Its Okay Not to be Okay on Netflix and by the end of episode 2 both girls are huddled together, simping hard for all the three leading actors. Mary is obsessed with Kim Soo-Hyun's entire face and Ryan’s pretty sure if Seo Ye-Ji stomped on her in six inch heels and dragged her through the mud, she’d thank her.

At least they can agree Oh Jung-se is a freaking king and is killing his role as Moon Sang Tae.

It's nearly midnight before they start to turn in, cleaning up the little mess they made, Ryan shuts off the lights and walks Mary to her room; the first door to the right.

“Night.”

It kind of feels like a date, which is absurd. She knows. But can you blame her when pillow soft lips press against her cheek and Mary breathes, “sleep tight, Ryan” in her ear. Its stupid. She’s being stupid, and seeing things that arent there. Or maybe she needs to get laid. Whatever she needs to do, Mary can’t be a part of it.

After weeks of failed interrogations the team finally manages to catch a break. A source looking to get out and start over leaks the warehouse location where a scheduled supply of ingredients are due to be shipped in at any day now. Niko of course makes Batwoman promise to protect him at all cost and that means working with the Crows.

“Where’s the shipment being dropped?” Sophie asks.

“Unimportant.”

The lieutenant cocks her head to the side, unsurprised at how this conversation is going. The Bat has never worked well with authority in this town, no matter who dons the emblem.

“The only thing I need is for you to make sure Niko is somewhere safe, undetected.”

“Is he at least willing to stand trial in the event you manage to catch this guy?”

“I think that all depends on if your team can keep him alive. Crow.”

The alley is dark, damp and the chill fogs Sophie’s breath as she sighs. “You're going to get yourself killed. I know you have something against my badge and everything it stands for, but it can do some good if you let it. Now, tell me where the shipment is and I can have my team there as back up in seconds. We can get this drug and these thugs off the street.”

That word makes Ryan's jaw tingle. Thug. Of course a Crow wouldn't understand that sometimes people do bad things to make ends meet, but it doesn't make them bad people. To a Crow they’re all the same and need to be locked away never to see the light of day again. Including her.

“Focus on our informant. If I need you for anything else I know how to find you.” And she’s gone, vanished in a cloud of fog.

“Nice job pissing off potential allies.” Ryan switches her coms off.

The warehouse is guarded heavily by six men up top, double the number at the bottom not including the others unloading trucks full of supplies. Photo analysis identifies them and sends the information to Gotham P.D. before she strikes.

“Hope you’re ready for this. If we’re lucky this can all be over tonight.”

“Don’t I know it.”

Taking it as his cue, Luke hits the lights covering the warehouse in complete darkness. Motion sensors switch on and Batwoman moves into action. The training her team insists she go through pans out as she’s able to take out four guys twice her size in fast compact moves. One guy goes over the railing after she cracks him in the nuts with the steel toe of her boot. His strangled whimper is heard all the way down, but hey, no one ever said this was going to be a fair fight.

The team at the bottom catches on and gun fire immediately follows, running across the bridge Ryan spreads her arms and flies through the air, her red and black cape bellows behind her as she sticks another perfect superhero landing. All at once it seems like twenty people are coming at her from all different angles but as always she's quick on her feet tying a handful of them up by their ankles and running through the rest with a non lethal taser, just enough to subdue until she can contain everyone before she starts asking questions.

“We ain’t telling you shit!”

Another guy spits on her shoe, the red of his blood splattering against her boot and she rolls her eyes. There’s no need to be nasty.

“Look, I’m trying to help you guys out here.” Spotting a pair of boobs in the corner, she course corrects, “and girls - theys? Whatever! I’m trying to help you all out here. This thing,” she holds up a box of snakebite, “is killing the community and while it may bring you all brief satisfaction, financially, what’s it going to do for your futures when you get caught, to your families?”

“Who knew the new edition of the Bat came with such a bleeding heart?”

“Well, she does. So if anyone here is willing to tell me anything that’ll point me in the right direction of your boss, I promise I can protect you, get you somewhere safe.”

From the little the authorities have been able to dig up about this gang, anyone willing to betray their leader either winds up dead or living their last days in a vegetative state. That’s why it’s so important to have Niko, no matter the length it takes to protect him, it was for the sake of Gotham.

“I said-!”

“I heard you the first time,” Ryan says, cutting him off, “And I don’t know what you’re used to but I’m only going to tell you how this is played once. I ask the questions and you give me the answers, if you don’t, have fun rotting in jail or better yet … I can let the little I do know out onto the streets.” She bends down right in front of the man and lifts his rabbit mask, exposing his face. In seconds she knows his name. “I’m sure your boss would love to know who’s ratting him out, huh, Robert Michael Humprey?”

The terror in his eyes says it all.

#ryan wilder #mary hamilton #batwoman #maryan

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thekillerssluts · 4 years ago

Photo

The Story Behind Every Song On Will Butler’s New Album Generations

Will Butler has a lot on his mind. It has, after all, been five years since his solo debut, Policy. A lot can happen in half a decade, and a lot has happened in this past half-decade — much of it quite dire. Butler was in his early 30s when Policy came out, and now he’s closing in on 40. He’s a husband and father. And he’s shaken by the state of the world, the idea of being an artist and a soon-to-be middle-aged man striving to guide his family through the chaos.

At least, that’s how it comes across through much of Generations, his sophomore outing that arrives today. Generations is a big, sprawling title by nature, and the album in turn grapples with all kinds of big picture anxieties. Mass shootings, the overarching darkness and anxiety of our time, trying to reckon with our surroundings but the system overload that occurs all too easily in the wake of it. Then there are more intimate songs, too, tales drawn from personal lives as people plug along just trying to navigate a tumultuous era.

Butler is, of course, no stranger to crafting music that seeks to parse the cultural moment and how it impacts in our daily lives. Ever since Arcade Fire ascended to true arena-rock status on The Suburbs 10 years ago, they have embarked on projects that explicitly try to make sense of our surroundings. (Not that their earlier work was bereft of heavy concepts — far from it — but Reflektor and Everything Now turned more of a specific eye towards contemporary ills and trials.) But as one voice amongst many in Arcade Fire, there is a cinematic scope to whatever Butler’s playing into there.

On Generations, he engages with a lot of similar concerns but all in his own voice — often yelping, desperate, frustrated then just trying to catch a breath. Butler leans on his trusty Korg MS-20 throughout Generations, often giving the album a synth-y indie backdrop that allows him to try on a few different selves. There are a handful of surging choruses, “la-la” refrains batting back against the darkness, slinking grooves maybe allowing someone the idea of brief physical release amidst ongoing strife.

Ahead of Generations’ arrival, Butler sent us some thoughts on the album, running from inspiration between the individual tracks to little details about the arrangement and composition of different songs. Now that you can hear the album for yourself, check it out and read along with Butler’s comments below.

1. “Outta Here”

I think this is the simplest song on the record. Just, like, get me out of here. Get me fucking out of here. I’m so tired of being here. No, I don’t have another answer, and I don’t expect anything to be better anywhere else. But, please, I would like to leave here.

I can play plenty of instruments, and can make interesting sounds on them, but kinda the only instrument I’m good at is a synth called the Korg MS-20. That’s the first sound on the record. It makes most of the bass you hear on the record. It’s a very aggressive, loud, versatile machine, and I wanted to start the record with it cause I’m good at playing it and it makes me happy.

2. “Bethlehem”

This song partly springs from “The Second Coming” by William Butler Yeats: “What rough beast, its hour come round at last, slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?” Like a lot of folks, I woke up after the election in 2016 mad and sad and scared and exhausted. This song is born of that emotion.

My bandmates Jenny Shore, Julie Shore, and Sara Dobbs sing the bridge, and it’s a corrective to my (appropriate?) freaking out — this isn’t the apocalypse. You’re misquoting Yeats. Get your fucking head on straight. History has not ruptured — this shit we’re in is contiguous with the shit we’ve been dealing with for a long, long time. But still, we sometimes do need an apocalyptic vision to make change. Even if it’s technically wrong. I dunno. It’s an ongoing conversation.

There’s a lot of interplay with backing vocals on this record — sometimes the narrator is the asshole, sometimes the backing vocals are the asshole. Sometimes they’re just trying their best to figure out the world. This song starts that conversation.

3. “Close My Eyes”

I tried to make these lyrics a straightforward and honest description of an emotion I feel often: “I’m tired of waiting for a better day. But I’m scared and I’m lazy and nothing’s gonna change.” Kind of a sad song. Trying to tap into some Smokey Robinson/Motown feeling — “I’ve got to dance to keep from crying.”

There’s a lot of Mellotron on this record, and a lot of MS-20. This song has a bunch of Mellotron strings/choirs processed through the MS-20. It’s a trick I started doing on the Arcade Fire song “Sprawl II,” and I love how it sounds and I try to do it on every song if I can.

4. “I Don’t Know What I Don’t Know”

This makes a pair with “Close My Eyes” — shit is obviously fucked, but “I don’t know what I don’t know what I don’t know what I can do.” I’m not a proponent of the attitude! Just trying to describe it, as I often feel it. In my head, I know some things that I can do — my wife Jenny, for instance, works really hard to get state legislatures out of Republican control. Cause it’s all these weirdo state legislative chambers that have enormous power over law enforcement, and civil rights, and Medicaid, and everything.

The image in the last verse was drawn from the protests in Ferguson in 2015: “Watch the bullets and the beaters as they move through the streets — grab your sister’s kids — hide next to the fire station…” It’s been horrifically disheartening to see the police riot across America as their power has been challenged. I’ve got a little seed of hope that we might change things, but, man, dark times.

More MS-20 bass on this one, chained to the drum machine. This one is supposed to be insanely bass heavy — if it comes on in a car, the windows should be rattling, and you should be asking, “What the heck is going on here?” Trying for a contemporary hip-hop bass sound but in a way less spare context. First song with woodwinds — rhythmic stuff and freaky squeals by Stuart Bogie and Matt Bauder.

5. “Surrender”

This song is masquerading as a love song, but it’s more about friendship. About the confusion that comes as people change: Didn’t you use to have a different ideal? Didn’t we have the same ideal at some point? Which of us changed? How did the world change? Relationships that we sometimes wish we could let go of, but that are stuck within us forever.

It’s also about trying to break from the first-person view of the world. “What can I do? What difference can I make?” It’s not about some singular effort — you have to give yourself over to another power. Give over to people who have gone before who’ve already built something — you don’t have to build something new! The world doesn’t always need a new idea, it doesn’t always need a new personality. What can you do with whatever power and money you’ve got? Surrender it over to something that’s already made. And then the song ends with an apology: I’m sorry I’ve been talking all night. Just talk talk talking, all night. Shut up, Will.

Going for “wall of sound” on this one — bass guitar and bass synth and double tracked piano bass plus another piano plus Mellotron piano. The “orchestra” is about a dozen different synth and Mellotron tracks individually detuned. And then run through additional processing.

6. “Hide It Away”

This song is about secrets. Both on an intimate, heartbreaking level — friends’ miscarriages, friends’ immigration status, shitty affairs coming to light — and on a grand, horrible level: New York lifting the statute of limitations on child abuse prosecutions, all the #MeToo reporting. There’s nothing you can do when your secret is revealed. Like, what can you do? You just have to let the response wash over you. If you’ve done something horrible, god-willing, you’ll have to pay for it in some way. If it’s something not horrible, but people will hate you anyway, goddammit, I wish there were some way to protect you.

This song has the least poetic line on the record, a real clunker: “It’s just money and power, money and power might set them free.” But it’s a clunky, shitty concept — the most surefire protection is being rich and knowing powerful people. But even then, shit just might come out. Even after you’re long dead.

Came from a 30-second guitar sample I recorded while messing around at the end of trying to track a different song. I liked the chords, looped them to make a demo. And the song was born from there. This is the one song I play drums on. Snare is chained to the MS-20, trying to play every frequency the ear can hear at the same time on some of those big hits.

7. “Hard Times”

[Laughs] I sat down and tried to write a Spotify charting electro-hit, and this is what came out: “Kill the rich, salt the earth.” Oh well. Written way before COVID-19, but my 8-year-old son turned to me this spring and asked, “Did you write the song ‘Hard Times’ about now, because we’re living through hard times?” No, I didn’t.

In Dostoevsky’s Notes From Underground, the narrator is a real son-of-a-bitch—contrarian, useless. Mad at the strong confident people who think they’ve got it figured out. And they don’t! And neither does the narrator — but he knows he doesn’t, and he at times yearns for some higher answer, and he’s funny, and too clever, but still knows he’s a piece of shit. I read Notes From Underground in high school and kinda forgot how it shaped my worldview until I sat down with it a couple years ago. The bridge on this song is basically smushed up quotes from Notes From Underground.

I was asking Shiftee, who mixed the record, if there are any vocal plug-ins I should be playing around with. He pointed me toward Little AlterBoy, which is basically a digital recreation of the kind of pedal the Knife use, for instance, on their vocal sound. It can shift the timbre/character of a voice without changing the pitch. Or change pitch without changing character. Very fun! Very much all over this track. Tried to make the bridge sound like a Sylvester song.

8. “Promised”

Another friend song masquerading as a love song. I’ve met a handful of extraordinary people in my life, who stopped doing extraordinary work because life is hard and it sucks. People who — I mean, it’s a lottery and random and who cares — could be great writers or artists, who kind of just disappeared. And it’s heartbreaking and frustrating. I don’t blame them. Maybe they weren’t made for this world. Maybe it’s just random. Maybe they’ll do amazing work in their 60s!

We tracked this song before it was written. Julie and Miles came over and we made up a structure and did a bunch of takes, found a groove. Which I then hacked up into what it is now! The bed tracks are lovely and loose. Maybe I’ll put out a jammier version of this song at some point. The other big synth on this record is the Oberheim OB-8, and that’s the bass on this one (triple tracked along with some MS-20).

9. “Not Gonna Die”

This song is about terrorism, and the response to terrorism. I wrote it a couple weeks after the Bataclan shooting in Paris in 2015. For some reason, a couple weeks after the shooting, I was in midtown Manhattan. I must have been Christmas shopping. I had to pop into the Sephora on 5th Avenue to pick up something specific — I think for my wife or her sister. I don’t remember. But I remember walking in, and the store was really crowded, and for just a split second I got really scared about what would happen if someone brought out a gun and started shooting up the crowd. And then I got so fucking mad at the people that made me feel that emotion. Like, I’m not gonna fucking die in the midtown Sephora, you fucking pieces of shit. Thanks for putting that thought in my head.

BUT ALSO, fuck all the fucking pieces of shit who are like, “We can’t accept refugees — what if they’re terrorists?” FUCK OFF. Some fucking terrified family driven from their home by a war isn’t going to kill me. Or anyone. Fuck off. Some woman from Central America fleeing from her husband who threatened to kill her isn’t going to fucking bomb Times Square. You fucking pieces of shit.

In November/December 2015, the Republican primary had already started — Trump had announced in June. And every single one of those pieces of shit running for president were talking about securing our borders, and keeping poor people out, and trying to justify it by security talk. FUCK OFF. You pieces of shit. Fuck right off. Anyway. Sorry for cursing.

I kind of think of the outro of this song as an angry “Everyday People.” Everyday people aren’t going to kill me. Lots of great saxes on this track from Matt Bauder and Stuart Bogie.

The intro of the song we recorded loud, full band, which I then ran through the MS-20 and filtered down till it was just a bass heart-pulse, and re-recorded solo piano and voice over that.

10. “Fine”

I kind of think that “Outta Here” to “Not Gonna Die” comprise the record, and “Fine” operates as the afterword and the prologue rolled into one. An author’s note, maybe. It was kind of inspired by high-period Kanye: I wanted to talk about something important in a profane, sometimes horribly stupid way, but have it be honest and ultimately transcendent.

In the song, I talk semi-accurately about where I come from. My mom’s dad was a guitar player who led bands throughout the ’30s and ’40s. In post-war LA, he had a band with Charles Mingus as the bass player. Charles Mingus! One of the greatest geniuses in all of American history. But this was the ’40s, and in order to travel with the band, to go in the same entrances, to eat dinner at the same table, he had to wear a Hawaiian shirt and everybody had to pretend he was Hawaiian. Because nobody was sure how racist they were supposed to be against Hawaiians.

Part of the reason I’m a musician is that my great-grandfather was a musician, and his kids were musicians, and their kids were musicians, and their kids are musicians. Part of the reason is vast generations of people working to make their kids’ lives better, down to my life. Part of the reason is that neither government nor mob has decided to destroy my family’s lives, wealth, and property for the last couple hundred years. I tried to write a song about that?

Generations is out now via Merge. Purchase it here.

https://www.stereogum.com/2098946/will-butler-generations-song-meanings/franchises/interview/footnotes-interview/

#Arcade Fire #will butler #generations #interview #hq

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theplumsoldier · 5 years ago

Text

let's have some fun (this beat is sick) [1]

summary: donald finds himself attracted to the [smoking hot, yes u r] reader and when she realizes this, she decides to play the game of seduction. part 1 of 2 pairing: donald pierce x reader word count: 1672 warnings: vulgar language, eventual smut

The infamous Alkali-Transigen Reavers rarely had time off and this time was no different. Howbeit, that did not stop them from deciding on celebrating their latest catch, and so at five o'clock they brazenly took to a bar downtown. Donald Pierce had not necessarily expected to "get some" as it would appear his fellow Reavers did, but the night takes a drastic turn when his eyes land on a certain little someone.

The night was passing slowly, and to be quite true, Donald was not feeling it. Not the cheerful atmosphere, not the drinks, certainly not the music. When an elegant figure waltzed its way through the crowd, now that was something he would like to feel.

Your sultry mien quickly rubbed off on him, even from the unbearable distance separating you from his grasp, and it was wickedly wrong how hard he grew a just that sight.

Bare legs balancing on impossibly tall heels, tight dress - stopping just beneath your enticing ass and fuck, he could not tell if that red dress sculpted you or the other way around - held in place with spaghetti-straps. A single delicate, golden necklace laced tightly around your neck and when you moved to take a sip from your drink, he noticed your alluring, plump, peach-colored lips. Everything around you disappeared and all sound had ceased to exist as he watched you with intense lust. He watched your tongue dart out swiftly, and then he caught your nails. He could not make out the color from the booth he sat in, but they caught a glimpse of bright light and reflected right back at him. He never had been attracted to someone so dolled up, but you were simply irresistible.

A shove in the arm brought him back to his drunken group.

"What?" grumbled he, looking confused to his mate.

"At work," hinted the Reaver. "The three new field-policies. Aren't they the fuckin' same?"

"I discern no difference," shrugged Donald off, reaching for his glass and drank the remaining half of his beer, piercing eyes looking for you. But you had disappeared. "And Pretty Boy, if you're still talking work, you haven't had enough to drink. Next round's on me."

Donald's coworkers cheered and hollered at him, banging on the table as Pierce stole toward the bar.

You were nowhere to be seen.

Donald sighed and brushed his blonde locks back in place, placing his order. The night continued and many beers later, you finally revealed yourself. But you were no longer alone. You sat in a man's lap, playing with his hair, and Pierce's body tensed at the sight. How the man with jet-black hair held you in place with his hands, frustrated him exceedingly. This was around the time - meaning a dozen drinks past ten – where he usually would have gotten up from his seat and made his move, but he did not want to embarrass himself in front of all your friends.

Besides, Mohawk had already whistled a couple of fine-looking ladies to the table, so Pierce settled.

But it was not the same. As the woman on his left flirted with him, traced the heel of her stiletto teasingly up his calf, he could not help himself but close his eyes and imagine it was you. Your fingertips playing with his hair, your lips brushing against his cheek, your teeth teasing his earlobe, your nails drawing blood from his back as he ruthlessly—

"What's the matter wit' you, boss?"

"The pretty lady gettin' your worked up?" grinned Angelo and the woman who had now crawled halfway up Donald's lap giggled, preening in the thought, but Pierce knew. Only you.

He cleared his throat and tore his eyes off of your grinding body. Tapping the woman's thigh, he shifted. "Actually, I just need to take a piss."

She hummed, confused, and stood awkwardly as the man with the bionic hand marched away from the table.

Donald slowed down his pace as he walked past your booth, watching you intently. As you pulled your lips from the guy you ground your ass against, your eyes shot up, catching the man passing. A rush went through your body. The man beneath you sucked on your neck, but your attention was focused on Pierce. You could not help but smirk and shoot a wink his way. You would have to be blind not to have noticed his ceaseless eye-fucking throughout the evening. Any fool could tell you looked sublime, and you were all for the game, so when a stranger came around and blatantly flirted with you, you had to put on a show for the cyborg.

A part of you had hoped he simply would grab you by the neck and show you how a real man did it because to be quite honest, the one kissing you now was ignorant.

Pierce suppressed his lust and did his business, making sure to go the same way around when returning to his booth. Again, you locked eyes for a split-second and he knew it; he knew what you were doing.

Running a hand down his stern face he cursed, for he knew you were way out of his league, and his game had seen better days, so he saw no opportunity with you.

That changed later when you showed up at his table. And fuck me thought he because you looked even hotter up-close. Beautiful, even.

Leaning against the wall shielding the booth from the rest, you earned a few sultry comments from the men as they saw you. You paid no attention to his friends, however, merely biting the inside of your cheek and looking Donald suggestively up and down.

You put on a coy smirk, "hey there hot-stuff."

His eyes shot up from his drink, feeling a bag of TNT explode in the pit of his stomach. Your voice went straight to his cock.

"I've seen you staring all night. Wanna come over?"

All eyes expectantly landed on Donald, and as a smirk pulled at the corner of his lip, his mates could not keep their encouraging comments to themselves. Donald did not utter a word, instead, he stood to his feet, grasping your outstretched hand, feeling the tingle of your manicure.

As you led the way to an empty table, you cast a seductive look over your shoulder and found him looking you up and down, licking his lips.

Yeah, this was going to be a fun night.

Sitting on one side, you patted the spot beside you.

"Thought we were going to sit with your friends," wondered he, taking a seat. "Figured I'd get to know the man I'll soon have beggin'." You nodded toward your girlfriends and shrugged as if it truly did not mean much to you. "I mean unless of course, you'd rather sit with them."

Donald smirked at your words, admiring your confidence. He rested his arm behind you and leaned closer.

"I got everything I need right here, baby."

"Don't think I've never met a man with a gold tooth."

"Wanna feel it?"

Laughing, you shook your head at his boldness. "You're quite gutsy, aren't you?"

"Well, you've been teasing me all night, baby. I have to make a move before you move on to the next. I gotta admit, though, I ain't the beggin' type."

Challenge accepted.

"You don't think I can make you beg. . ." asked you while you teasingly drew a finger up and down his thigh, waiting for him to fill you in on his name.

"Donald."

You moved closer, taking advantage of how focused he was on your lips. Tilting your head to the side, you parted your lips teasing your teeth with your tongue. "Well, Donnie, I'll have you know men ain't nothing like themselves when I get on my knees. I'm Y/N, by the way. So you know whose name to mention in your prayer."

The images those words sparked. Fuck—

Donald took your hand from his thigh and placed it directly on the bulge in his jeans, pulling you close with the aid of his bionic hand. Keeping you mere inches from his face, his hand had a rough grip around your neck, and you could feel yourself get hotter by the second.

"You sure you could handle me, little girl?"

Licking your lips, you smirked up at him, his grip tightening just enough to elicit a gasp.

You subtly massaged his length through his pants, watching him breathe heavily through your long lashes.

"Funny you should ask that."

Holding you by the back of your neck, he kept you in place as he hungrily kissed into you. Squeezing your thigh, he moved his hands to your waist to lift you to sit on top of him. At the chill feel of his right hand, you gasped into his mouth, moaning out as you could not do a thing but imagine those cyborg fingers deep in your cunt.

Moving up in his lap, you sat just like you had with the guy from earlier. You had purposely put on a show for you admirer then, and now you sat grinding your hips against said man. He was rock-hard against you and you moaned into his mouth, biting on his lip as you pulled away.

Donald worked on your throat, licking and sucking until he found a sore spot, where he generously lapped. Your dress was too tight to sit with your legs on either side of him, but that did not stop him from sliding his hand between your leg and tease your inner thigh. What did stop him, however, was when he found that you did not wear any panties.

Halting his actions, he looked almost stupefied up to you, cocking an eyebrow.

"You little—"

You looked knowingly in his eyes and grinned at his reaction.

"This place is too. . . crowdy–why don't we go somewhere peaceful?"

"Baby, you're reading my mind. But there won't be no peace where we're going."

#donald pierce #donald pierce smut #donald pierce imagine #donald pierce imagines #boyd holbrook #boyd holbrook imagine #boyd holbrook imagines #marvel #marvel imagines #marvel smut #boyd holbrook x reader #donald pierce x reader

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