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theredofoctober · 6 months ago

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MANNA- CHAPTER NINETEEN: DUCK

Dark!Hannibal Lecter x Reader x Dark!Will Graham AU fic

TW for eating disorders, noncon, abuse, Daddy kink, cannibalism mentions, murder mentions

Read after the cut

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“Family,” says Hannibal. “Let’s return to that subject today.”

You occupy the living room, each in a velvet armchair tilted with intent to replicate the layout of his office, the clever dressing of a theatre set. Attempts to put off this particular session had proved inefficacious, the coercion of your attendance rendering you curt and snappish in demeanor.

Truthfully you’ve been so since this morning, having rolled, coughing and vaguely feverish, from dreams of bodies hung rattling like so many clothes hangers in some subterrestrial den.

Hannibal, as expected, had still seen fit to persist with his agenda, weathering your complaints with a brisk good humour.

Will had made himself scarce sometime before you’d awoken, and has left word that you’re not to expect his return for many days. You yearn for him in all his brittle ferocity, a gabion against his friend’s subtle erosion of your mind as you know it. The early hour, the assault of unwanted conversation: such sly methods of torture will damn you to madness as quick as the murkiest secret.

“I’ve told you about my family,” you say to Hannibal, fingering a loose tuft of angora on your sweater. “Besides, you won’t even let me talk to them.”

“I don’t think that it would be to your benefit for me to do so,” he answers, and makes a gracious pretence of examining his pen.

Had you not extended a hand to Amy there would indeed have been a second call, this you’re clearly meant to understand. Hannibal is not above such trivial warfare, as he makes a continuing point to prove; you might be entertained by so comic a flaw were you not in such dire opposition.

“Maybe it’d be good for me to talk to my family,” you say, smartly. “And how can you know that it wouldn’t be when you barely know anything about them?”

Hannibal smirks, pleased to have cast such irresistible bait.

“Enlighten me, then. Begin with your mother, if you like. A predictable start, but in that simplicity rather less challenging than other avenues.”

You glance about the room as though seeking inspiration from it and find it wanting. Only the window at which the dying autumn presses its face wets the brush of conversation again, that symbol of fleeing dark brick to beyond a reminder that you must play on.

“We fight a lot,” you say. “My mom and me. She always has to be right about everything all the time. Never made a mistake in her life. Never apologises for anything. And if you criticise her— well, just don’t. Plus, she used to hit me when I was little. Nothing crazy, but still. She hit me.

“Then one day I slapped her right back and she never did it again.”

Pausing, you tug the hem of your sweater to your knees, an instinct to cover skin that today is not an inch bare.

“It’s funny,” you say. “She acts like she doesn’t remember any of it now.”

“Those in denial of their misdeeds often excise those shameful moments from the past,” says Hannibal. “It may not even be a conscious decision on her part.”

“It’d almost be better if it was. Then maybe she could own up to it, some day.”

Hannibal’s pen mars a fresh page in his notebook; even were it not upside down you suspect you’d fail to untangle his complicated hand.

“Has your mother’s behaviour caused friction surrounding your anorexia?” he asks.

“God, yeah,” you say, half laughing. “She used to yell at me. Tried to bully me into eating. Now she cries a lot and kind of makes it all about her. She loves me, but not in the ways you want in a mother. She pays for stuff. Drives me to places. Ticks all those boxes, you know? But she’s never been kind or comforting, really.

“It’s not all her fault. I guess she just doesn’t know how.”

A leaf falls against a windowpane like the hand of a dead, withered child, and you find yourself drawing back in your seat, wishing you’d the strength to push the chair against the wall.

“Why do you think your mother is unable to fulfil her role as you would like?” asks Hannibal.

“I guess my grandparents treated her the same way she treats me. They were always kind of cold with me when I knew them.”

“Generational cruelty is an infection one must wittingly sterilise. A pity so few are self-aware enough to administer that treatment. Was your father sufficiently conscious?”

Odd, this invocation of the paternal when Hannibal and Will have worked so diligently to embody it in place of your genetic relative.

Now, in a shirt the colour of thatch rolled pristinely back from the jewel of his wristwatch, the doctor could well be the wealthy father of a girl your age, the type to pour upon you his thousands, to walk you down the aisle in a venue of his choosing to marry an approved match of your class.

But you will never wed now that Hannibal has claimed you. He speaks of your family from a wreckage of his making, at ease with his distance from it.

“I love my dad the most,” you say. “But he’s a weird guy. Quiet. Never opens up about his feelings. He’ll talk about movies, or the news, but real stuff? Nope. So I've never felt all that comfortable around him. I mean, with good reason after... after everything.”

“More than good,” says Hannibal, firmly. “That you aren’t angrier with both parents for their abandonment in your time of need surprises me.”

“I don’t really blame them. Uncle Lee has this way about him. He can make people believe pretty much anything he says.”

Inevitable that you should mention Leland, who—though of other blood—is still an incestuous growth on the vine.

“What is this way of his?” asks Hannibal. “You’ve previously spoken of a power to sash the eyes of loved ones against what you perceive to be an obvious darkness. How does that ability present in him?”

You bring your legs up onto the chair, crossing them under you for comfort.

“He moved from Louisiana in his twenties,” you say, “so he still has the accent and everything. He even speaks French sometimes. Then there’s this way of holding himself he has. Kind of cocky, but funny, though. From the second he moved in on our street my parents just loved him, apparently. They never saw what I saw.”

“He’d donned the rubber mask.”

You look up at Hannibal almost shyly.

“Yeah. You remember.”

“Yes. And did you love him, in spite of what seemed to you an obvious guise?”

“I did. In some sick way I still do. So I get why my Mom and Dad believed him over me, but sometimes I think maybe part of them knows the truth, but they just shove it down deep like something dead.”

Scrubbing your face angrily with the sleeve of your sweater you snub, without noticing it, the omnipresent box of tissues on the nearby table top. Hannibal makes no remark on your unclean habit, only pours you a cup of green tea which you accept for the sake of avoiding an argument.

“To truly love someone you mustn’t bury their evils,” says Hannibal. “You must find acceptance of them in whatever form you can. Your parents do not care for this friend so much as fear the upheaval of the known. A suburban life, a sullied idyll— by sending you to me they are attempting to reverse its disunion from their image of it in memory.”

“They’re selfish,” you say. “I know. What’s new there?”

You look at the bottom of your teacup, hunting an impossible pattern in the pale ceramic.

“I don’t want to talk about my family anymore. What about yours? You had a sister, didn’t you?”

Hannibal’s eyes change like the blackening of dusk.

“Will told you this,” he says.

“Does it matter?” you ask, shrilly. “I want to know who you are, Daddy, and this is where I want to start. What happened to Mischa? What did she die of?”

It’s frightening how the man before you alters in only light adjustments: the quiet crossing of a limb, the rhomboid slant of shoulders under his jacket, each a signifier of the restless potentiality for truculence in him.

His face is not so beautiful in moments such as this. The flaws in it stand out to you: flesh racked over halberds of bone, something amphibious in the mouth, of some alien taxon. A killer’s physiognomy, little though you care for such sciences as would define it so.

“My sister was murdered when she was a little girl,” says Hannibal. “I interrupted the culprit in the midst of defiling her body, but it was too late. She was lost to me.”

The moon opal of a tear tips loose of an eyelash, its passage a kinetic artistry. What you’d taken for anger is another emotion: a raw and ancient loss.

“Oh my god,” you say. “That’s awful. Do you know who killed her?”

“A man who remains imprisoned to this day,” says Hannibal. “That is his penance for taking Mischa from me.”

You are in too great a terror and disgust of this man to embrace him, as would feel apt for a moment such as this.

“I’m sorry,” you say, weakly.

Hannibal closes the notebook in his lap and asks, almost blandly, “Are you?”

His bald disbelief flusters you.

“Yes. Of course. She was just a little girl. In fact, I feel like I get it, now. All of this. Me and you. It makes sense why you want me. Why you are what you are. It’s because of her.”

Forcing a smile, you reach over and touch a hand to Hannibal’s cheek.

He turns his face gently away from the caress.

“You’re mistaken, Little One. Whereas you were moulded by your circumstances, I was liberated by mine.”

You stare at him, endeavouring to bone his words for their meaning.

“What are you saying?”

“My philosophies and desires pre-existed Mischa’s death. My love for her restrained me, for while she lived I was never free to act as I yearned to in fear that she would be harmed. In some ways I resented that restraint, but in passing Mischa offered me the opportunity to forgive her.”

A cloud snuffs out the sun, and you sit in the dark of it, aghast.

“Forgive her for what?” you ask, in a near whisper. “Helping you? Hannibal, I—”

“We are still at an impasse, I see,” he says, coolly. “We must rectify this. Would you like to know how she received her absolution?”

You shake your head.

“But you must,” says Hannibal. “You’re a curious girl. Mischa’s remains now lie in a grave in my home country. Before I buried them there, I ate part of her. That is how I reconciled my feelings for my sister with what I am.”

Shock throttles your body in its tremor, and the empty teacup drops from your hand, prevented from breaking only by the carpet underfoot. You had, with all the delicate senses of a medium, deciphered the presage of his appetite, and still you feel the plates of the earth shudder with the magnitude of his confession.

Hannibal gets up from his seat, places the cup back into its saucer, and takes your hand in his.

“Let’s end the session there,” he says. “I’d like to involve you in preparing today’s meal, since that’s a new interest of yours.”

With a fear-stricken servility you walk with him to the kitchen, expecting him to have something—someone—preserved in the glossy coffin of the refrigerator.

Instead Hannibal kneels to unlatch an ingenious door in the floorboards, revealing a neat little staircase which runs down into a basement room. From it emanates a rolling field of cold, biting at you through your clothes.

You take a step back, near tumbling in your eagerness to escape it.

“What is that?”

“It’s an expansion of the freezer,” says Hannibal. “With all the dinner parties I host it’s natural that I found myself in need of more storage space. This is my answer to that problem. I’d like you to go down and choose a cut of meat for dinner.”

There’s no threat in the statement; he speaks, in fact, quite casually, meaning to impress upon you the mundanity of his diet in his eyes. To make supper of his sister, to dine upon lamb: there is no separation for him, being that all of it is meat.

You squeeze your eyes shut, cannot face the oblong of shadow beyond the steps which you’ve dreamt of, unknowing,

“Please don’t make me go down there, Daddy.”

“There’s nothing to be frightened of. Open your eyes, Little One.”

“No. No. I don’t want to.”

You try to turn away, but Hannibal arrests you by the arms, holding you as a farmer would a wriggling hare.

“I’m not going to eat you,” he says. “If that’s what you think.”

“I know!” you wail. “But it doesn’t matter. If I go down there and... see, everything’ll change forever. Because I’ll know for sure, and I’ll be part of it. And I can’t be part of it. I’ll go crazy.”

You jerk passionately in Hannibal’s grip, but his greater strength prevails.

“Wait,” you say. “When you talked about Leland—bringing him to me—you meant that I should kill him to eat.”

“Yes,” says Hannibal, simply. “I did.”

There is a softness in his eyes you recognise as hope. He is a man desperate to create others like him, for all that he believes that they are born.

“But you said with Mischa that eating her was forgiveness,” you say. “But you don’t want me to forgive Uncle Lee. So what would it mean to eat him?”

“Look to why trophy hunters keep mementos of their sport. Some as markers of achievement and dominance over the animal, and others in a subconscious humiliation of the predator they’ve slain. Man gloats to bring a tiger to kneel; a girl, having conquered man, might do the same.”

Thinking of Hannibal’s recorded killings, some of them young women, you say, “Most animals don’t deserve humiliation.”

“That’s all a matter of perspective, my dear. A seasoned hunter develops rather a discerning eye for flaws in his quarry.”

Hannibal smooths a lock of hair behind your ear, his rancid touch queerly soothing.

“What did Savannah Belmont do to deserve humiliation?” you ask, sulkily. “She wasn’t a bad person. She was just a girl, like me.”

“A cursory reading of obituaries and odes to Miss Belmont’s life denote her brief career at a rare bookshop,” says Hannibal, “for which position her personal tastes suggest she was underqualified to take. It wouldn’t be so unrealistic to assume that she left customers unhappy with her inadequate ability to serve them.”

Horror breaks over you like the falling of a chandelier. This, too, you had foreseen: no serious cause to kill was ever required for Hannibal, and that you are fucked rather than murdered by him is but a flourish of fate.

Peering into your eyes, Hannibal comes to a rapid decision and bends to close the trapdoor again.

“Duck, tonight, then,” he says. “That will suffice.”

Through terror you cling to Hannibal long into the afternoon, lurking at his elbow, a thumb in your mouth, as he prepares for the day’s appointments.

If he is he here, with you, he cannot kill, you reason, not while he thinks only of the invitation of tear-salt on your lips, the liquor of your nether mouth around him. Again and again you’ll die upon his cock as tribute, for though cold in your disorder you are not so callous as to allow others to, if you can help it.

“I’ll be gone for just a few hours, sweet girl,” he says, pausing to rock you in his lap. “No more of this. I’ve left a new book for you in your room. Please begin reading it for me. And there is the recording of an opera I’d like you to watch. That should keep you occupied until I’m home to you.”

It’s only after he’s driven away in the hearse of his car that you succumb to the awfulness of all you've heard. As in those primordial days of captivity you grasp the bars of your window and scream into the burnished day, beating your fists upon the iron until they burst across the bone.

Only a volley of coughing halts you in this fit, sending you to your bed alarmed by the weakness come over you. You lie shivering for hours, wondering if this is the nervous exhaustion you’ve read about in novels that ends in heroines consigned to the madhouse, sunny climes, or else the grave, none of which you might expect to be released to.

When Hannibal returns he feels your forehead and listens to your coughs with a mildly furrowed brow.

“Hospital,” you croak, but he only laughs and strokes your head.

“There’s no need for that. You have a chest infection. Your immune system is very poor. Nevertheless, you’ll be well again soon.”

He perfumes your damp neck with a kiss and sits down in a chair beside you.

“Perhaps it’s for the best that Will is occupied with work,” he comments, at length. “I wouldn’t like his condition to worsen again.”

#tw noncon #tw rape #tw daddy kink #tw abuse #tw cannibalism #tw eating disorders #tw anorexia #hannibal fic #yandere hannibal lecter #hannibal lecter #hannibal lecter x reader #reader fic

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tiffany-loves-broadway · 9 months ago

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The Nameless

It's pride month, so I'm finally getting into X-Men. (Okay, I didn't actually plan it out that way, but it lined up.) Anyway, I'm surprised that everyone hasn't already gone nuts about the X2 villain's extremely miserable trans daughter.

Now, the thing is, this isn't explicitly confirmed in the text. But the subtext is in-your-face enough that it feels dismissive to call it a "headcanon". Like, this is the same movie with the line "have you tried... not being a mutant?" in it, and this character being trans isn't particularly subtler writing than that. I don't think it was intended to be so obvious, though. 2003 was a different time.

So, like, quick rundown on the plot of X2. Colonel William Stryker (in the comics he was a minister instead) is a bigot who wants to exterminate all mutants. His most vital asset in doing this is his "son", known only as "Mutant 143", or more often by her birth name, "Jason Stryker". Mutant 143 is a powerful psychic who can control people through dreamlike visions. William never accepted his child's mutation, and pulled her from Charles Xavier's school when he realized that Professor X had no intention of "curing" her. William blames his daughter for his wife's suicide; he had Mutant 143 lobotomized and began a plan to use her as a weapon against all other mutants.

And the thing is, Mutant 143 physically looks like this:

But like. Why wouldn't she, with that kind of dad? He has full power over her and has deliberately rendered her a dependent he can micromanage. I mean, Jesus Christ, the line I just randomly stumbled upon while opening and closing my media player to get that screencap was William Stryker saying

No, Charles, my son is dead! My son is dead, just like the rest of you.

Meanwhile, she consistently depicts herself in her psychic visions as this little girl:

And, like, okay, the extremely surface-level I-never-think-about-trans-people reading of that is that she's picking a "harmless" form to better insinuate herself into her targets' minds. But first off, the film never says that; it doesn't even really imply it. She doesn't pick different forms for different people; we only ever see her psychic ego as that little girl. Second off, her power doesn't really require her to put effort into seeming harmless to control people; the dream visions are more of an aesthetic flare on her power than they are a necessary mechanism. When she gets her psychic talons into someone, she can just directly command them to do whatever the fuck out-of-character thing and they'll do it regardless of plausibility. She's the classic cheesy horror trope of the scary possessed little girl, and frankly I don't think it would be any easier to get Professor X to kill all mutants on the orders of a little girl than a little boy.

She's been reduced to a shell of a person, but some element of personal identity still remains there. In her power. The thing she's being oppressed for.

This character doesn't receive a real name in canon. She gets two names from her shitty father: the dehumanization inherent in "Mutant 143" is fairly obvious and uncontroversial, but given everything I'm saying here, I don't think "Jason" is really better. She likely identifies with that name exactly insofar as she's been brainwashed into wanting her own kind dead.

It complicates things a bit that Professor X, another powerful psychic who would likely know her well, also calls her "Jason" a few times. But given the unfortunate circumstances of the film's plot... even if he knew, what else would he call her? She hasn't been fortunate enough in life to get a real name. It's not like, within the plot of the movie, stopping and pointing out what was going on would have been likely to help anything.

This is thematically important to the movie. Magneto certainly isn't meant to be right about everything, but there is a sympathetic throughline to him and his attitudes about the oppression of mutants. Earlier in the movie, he indicates that he sees mutants' cape names (like "Magneto") as their real names, and he encourages his allies to see themselves that way. The trans applicability here is fairly obvious; superheroes and supervillains make up their own names that make their marginalized status obvious. They can publicly identify with them to advertise their mutant status to the world instead of hiding behind ordinary names they were given by majority society.

This character, this properly unnamed character, never got anything like that. She never got to choose her own name. She was compelled by force to betray herself and commit to an external name that was entirely hostile to her.

Anyway, after the X-Men escape from her devious psychic maze they leave her behind in a collapsing building where she presumably dies because she's unable to move herself without assistance. Life sucks and shit happens. It was 2003.

Looking through relevant tags, I was able to find a few short posts discussing this idea, but I'm surprised that they're so sparse and I'm surprised that they treat the idea as so speculative. It really leapt out at me, watching the movie.

#x-men #x2

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professorspork · 6 months ago

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Tag Game - Writing Patterns

List the first line of your last 10 (posted) fics and see if there’s a pattern.

The excitement never truly hits Blake until she gets in the car. (something wild and unruly, RWBY)

“…I think we got it… I think we got iiiit… whuh-oh, watch your head!” (this will be, RWBY)

There’s beauty in Mantle, if you know where to look. (a union (just by saying so), RWBY)

The first thing Blake Belladonna notices about Sun Wukong is— (show me everything and tell me how, RWBY)

To say the good news is, Yang’s alive would be such a wild understatement it renders itself meaningless—a word like “good” so inadequate it can’t even begin to encompass the surge of relief and joy that floods through Blake the first time they lock eyes. (you and me and this temptation, RWBY)

Breathe, Emerald reminds herself. Just breathe. (send 'em howling, I don't care, RWBY)

Blake’s never thought of herself as being particularly bad with kids. (baby, let's take the long way home, RWBY)

The first time she and Kristoff ever kiss—after she blindfolds him, after he lets her lead him through the market with nothing other than trust in her hand in is—he asks for permission. (rely on certain certainties, Frozen)

It’s occurring to Emerald that she’s never had a close female friend before. (so I can be for you what you want to see, RWBY)

The falling feels like it takes days. (found, RWBY)

...huh.

While at first blush I think it's difficult to see major connecting threads, when I look at these as a whole I think what comes through most clearly is my background in TV writing. The common wisdom is that the opening scene of a pilot is meant to serve as a thematic microcosm of the series as a whole, and when I look at the priorities of these opening lines -- most of which are sure to orient you with the main character and get towards the premise in some key way -- I see that instinct and training at work.

I'm also more prone to something pithy and quick than a lengthy paragraph -- 5 is an almost comical outlier in this regard, and looking at it compared to its brethren kind of makes me want to go back and change it even though it's years after the fact.

I tend to open in a cerebral place more than an action-oriented one. My characters are self-evaluating, or reflecting on their circumstance. I like to stew in a bit of context before throwing you right in -- 2 and 10 being the obvious exceptions. As someone who thinks of fanfiction as a place where character study is just as important an end result as storytelling, that isn't a surprise, though I've never explicitly thought of it in the way.

Nothing else really jumps out at me, but a fun exercise nonetheless! Consider yourself tagged if you'd like to do it yourself.

#fic what i wrote

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loopy777 · 1 year ago

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Whats your thoughts on stories where the author has things planned out, but during the story he/she creates a unplanned character relationahip/dynamic that unexpedtedly becomes one of THE defining aspects of the series.

You'll find plenty of such things across manga, anime, comics, animated series, etc, and plenty of movies has sequels where the main protagonists are shuffled around to reflect what ended up working in the first movie, shuffling the intended second leads to the sides(not exactly a dynamic, but one of the most famous shuffles is Jack Sparrow becoming the main character of the franchise).

The bigger question about this aspect of storytelling is of course how an author should react. In planned narratives, do you think its better if they do change things up, or should they stay the course?

Im reminded of Soul Eater, where the unexpected success of the dynamic between the female lead, and her rival villain turned friend crona ended up being the single best part about it, and came to dominate the later part of the manga... But the mangaka wasnt willing to go all the way with it at the end, creating a very anger inducing ending, while the anime adaption was basically the reverse of Brotherhood and 2003 in terms of quality, but while an integral part about it, maka and Crona's relationship was not reshuffled into becoming the defining dynamic about the series... But while the anime ending is much better than the manga, the removal of Crona from the final villain also meant that he and Maka had no relation whatsoever, creating a very lackluster her/villain dynamic.

So it was a mixed bag. The anime could have been perfect in terms of its ending if it fully embraced the suprising hit that was Chrona and Maka's dynaimc and relationahip, but managed a relatively good ending, while the mangaka chickened out at the last moment in regards to their relationahip, leaving it withouth any sort of closure or climax, despite being the single most defining character part of Maka's journey.

And thats just one single, example qbout this kind of reshuffling in regarda to suprise character hits. Im sure you have your own examples of dynamics you ended up loving that was not planned to be so good it became a mainstay.

With an addendum:

Also just a quick clarification, when i said the soul eater manga/anime was the opposite in terms of 2003/brotherhood, i meant the manga started off terrible, had an infuriated ending, and a lot of bad points though, while the anime version was for the most part a solid, great anime from start to finish with a decent, if not spectacular, anime only ending. I probably worded that very badly in the initial ask.

Well, I think it depends. With a work with a primary commercial nature -- that is to say, a work where the primary intent is to sell new installments to the audience over making some kind of artistic statement -- I think the author's job is to shift things as needed to increase and/or maintain the audience. That's not to say they should automatically give audiences what they (think they) want, but if a certain unexpected character or element is providing the most satisfaction, then why wouldn't they pivot on that?

In a lot of cases, that kind of thing comes about because the rest of work is more generic, and the audience is focusing on the original or deeper-rendered elements. For example, I don't think there are any people left who actually think Korra should have gotten back together with Mako at the end of LoK instead of starting a romance with Asami, even though you can see the sloppy welding lines where that whole thing was hastily added to an existing structure. Getting Makorra would have been a mediocre-at-best implementation of something we'd seen a billion times before, where Korrasami was groundbreaking despite being hastily scrawled in pencil on a printed script.

That said, one of the great thing about plans is that they're a handy guide to how to change the plan. If you know what you need to set up for your ending, and you now want to change some of those necessary steps, you can see that you need to change your ending, and you not only have an idea of what new path you might now be starting on but you also know what other resources you have to construct a new ending.

That said, I'm a big fan of the idea that a story's ending should be a reflection and/or final statement of what the whole work is about. If your audience isn't responding to the setup for that, your story is not working and at this point -- whether or not you change your plan -- you're probably aiming just to swim to a shore before you drown. If you need to keep afloat on a popular element for a while before bringing things to a hasty and dissatisfying conclusion, at least you were employed for a while and maybe got some good merchandising going.

So I think that's what's going on with your Soul Eater example, although I know nothing about either that manga or anime, so I'm just going by your summary. The original idea wasn't compelling, or at least wasn't anything special. The question then is why the author wasn't able to find a new ending to reflect the more interesting focus.

Well, my understanding is manga production is so fast-paced that there probably wasn't an opportunity for the author to sit down and figure out a new plan. Planning is very involved if you want to create a powerful, resonate work, and manga needs to be written and drawn on a weekly basis. I don't know if Soul Eater kept to that schedule, but the impression I have is that -- aside from a few superstars who have the riches and privilege to take a week off if they're delirious with fever -- manga-production is one of those professions like soldiers, deep-sea fishermen, and Black Friday retail assistants where we expect a high death rate and just consider it the cost of an essential job for society's function. So the publisher might have not given the author the time to both produce the manga and figure out where the new path is going; after all, by the time it ends, the publisher probably has a new hot seller and the audience has already bought all the Soul Eater plastic statues they need.

That all sounds very cynical, because it is, and in the end, I don't know that I can advocate a principle here. It isn't about art. Making changes can create an awkward work that maybe fizzles out in the end. But not making changes can create an elegant work that never even gets to the finish line.

There are also works where the author maintained discipline, stuck to a plan and didn't give in to fan-service, and created something powerful and resonate. There are also works where a little structural clunkiness is almost completely ignored compared to how satisfying its audience finds the overall product.

Ideally, a nice mix can be found. For all that we criticize George Lucas for his lack of collaboration in the Star Wars prequels, he did all but cut Jar-Jar out of the second and third movies in that trilogy, and that wasn't because of his own personal whims. And I think we can all agree that was for the better.

As far as my own storytelling experiences go, I did alter my plans for Traitor's Face to give Zhao more of a role in response to reader comments. He certainly didn't take over the story, and didn't even become a primary antagonist, but I did give him some plot points that would have gone to other characters. Of course, it helps that there was a lot of other compelling stuff in that story (or so I flatter myself, but come on, those mysteries rocked), so I didn't need to lean on Zhao to keep reader interest. It also helps that no publisher was pushing me to turn my fanfic into a massive blockbuster franchise keeping the lights on for everyone for the next ten years.

So my final position is that I'm a sell-out, but I think I would be very good at selling out, if anyone has any money they want to throw at me.

#thekingofwinterblog

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bardkin · 1 year ago

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i warned ya'll lol

i cannot draw mecha or robots (yet), so this will be strictly text-based lol. anyway, oc ramblings under the cut!

content warnings for war crimes, brief discussions of characters being physically & emotionally tortured (though it's not described), and character death. standard stuff for Transformers, tbh-

as a bit of preamble, when it comes to Transformers, i always liked making neutral characters. ex-Cons, ex-Bots, and cybertronians that never picked a side (be that by choice or not).

my experience was mostly with TF:Prime, and later the IDW More Than Meets the Eye / Lost Light comics (both my beloveds).

for this installment of Achilles Goes Off About His OCs, i wanna focus on my oldest & most revamped OCs: three neutrals i've thus far dubbed the Runaway Trio. it's been a placeholder title for like, 3 or 4 years. i don't think it's going to change, at this point :|

going from oldest concept to "newest" (as all three were conceptualized around roughly the same time frame), i'd like to introduce Ashphalt - an archivist with religious trauma! and general trauma, too. quick physical description is she's a crimson-red minibot with gold & black accenting & gold optics/eyes. shortstack who most humans would definitely mistake for being Way younger than she actually is.

in the current day, she's my "not everyone who is traumatized is Sad about it, sometimes they're Angry about it" oc . she's unapologetically frustrated at her trauma and explosive and has bad coping mechanisms that she's trying her fucking damnest to force herself into "getting over." (she learns the hard way that bulldozing through her Issues isn't good for her, but that's for Later. she'll get to heal & eventually kill her abuser tho, as a treat <3)

her initial characterization was.. not great, but i was like, 13 lol at first an oracle/seer who could actually foretell future events, Ash got a huge overhaul later down the line to become what she is today: a pre-war archivist with a record-reading alt. mode, and copious amounts of data at her disposal. she was essentially to be a "remote physical backup" for a lot of old libraries & archives, containing swaths of information that could only be read on proprietary disks.

when the new age of data storage came to be, she was publicly rendered nothing more than a fancy Jack of Many Trades bauble. privately, she was used to store more sensitive data; mainly about governmental matters that i haven't fully decided on, but basically would boil down to any information (such as plans, hearings, meeting recordings, etc) that officials wouldn't want Just Anyone viewing. been stirring around the idea that her archival unit had been bought out & she's slowly realizing this over the later course of her pre-war life.

this also causes her to be a target :]

which leads us to her bodyguard-brother, Lockblitz! his concept honestly hasn't changed much, as he's always been meant to be a sibling-companion to Ash. i created them to be siblings, so they've been conceptually inseparable. physical description: he's teal with black & silver accents, blazing bright teal optics, and he fights with dual-wield blades.

commission forged to be Ash's protector during the first stirrings of riots and uprisings, being Ash's bodyguard is all Blitz has ever known. it's all he lives and breathes for, and at first he's just kind of There, until he and Ash actually talk to one another. they become platonically close over the centuries, a bit of his hardcoded purpose influencing him, but ultimately Blitz forms a genuine relationship with Ash. they start calling each other siblings at one point, and it just feels right.

and it also makes things even worse when the archive gets attacked by a group hailing themselves as "Deceptions." though they're not actually 'Cons, instead being government plants to stir up distrust of the actual anti-functionalist movement. Ash's fellow archivists are slaughtered to make the scene look good. Blitz gets thrashed and left for dead, as he's not fully aware of any government corruption & and is deemed simply as "a nuisance."

and Ashphalt is taken prisoner, rather than killed, to make sure that A. she doesn't talk and/or spread any pesky rumors about all this being staged, & B. any sensitive data doesn't get lost forever.

Blitz actually survives, but believes Ash to be very dead. when the Autobots are established, he manages to join a combat squad in hopes of avenging his sister. he fights for a while during the early parts of the war, pretty much solely focused on stomping out as many Deception sparks as he physically can. he's a good little soldier and never questions orders.

then he gets wind that Ash may actually be alive, courtesy of a soon-to-defect 'Con's broadcast that by chance alerts Blitz' squad leader to an off-world POW camp. this soon-to-be-ex-'Con is pretty much just trying to hail Any Autobot who will listen, describing prisoners in the hopes that someone might recognize a friend or loved one and want to help him set folks free. he specifically details a red minibot who is seemingly the chief medical officer's "favorite plaything" on account of how much intel that can be tortured out of her, and Blitz just knows that's his sister.

so naturally, Blitz tries to get his squad to help him go rescue her. and, naturally, his squad leader forbids him to do so, because it could be a trap & it's also none of their business to throw themselves into that kind of suicide mission. leave that shit up to the Wreckers.

naturally, Lockblitz sucker punches his superior in the jaw and takes off to convene with this soon-to-defect-'Con.

which is where i FINALLY get to introduce my pathetic "god forbid women do anything," perpetually exhausted meowmeow of an old man, Skytrap aka Trapper. physical description as follows: pale blue and white paint job, vivid sea blue-green optics. chunky but angular/sleek build, with downward resting wings on the back of his shoulders. mouthguard always up & is non-removable; think IDW Snare's design. his mannerisms are admittedly MASH Hawkeye Pierce inspired, and that's kind of stuck around whether i want it to or not (which i do want, it's fun).

Skytrap was cold constructed to be a prison guard, and nothing more. he goes through the hell that is the Deception prison "system," and finally snaps when he witnesses the camp's chief medical officer demanding this seemingly random minibot to "confess her truth" about being an "Oracle of Primus."

his broadcast gets answered, though it's not the Autobot calvary he was hoping for. it's just this hotheaded, desperate little punk of a mech who's got exactly One Person to loose. it's clear that this is his only help.

and Skytrap, bless his spark, decides "sure. this is enough." because the worst that can happen at this point is they both die trying.

one sneaking in & starting-a-prison-riot montage sequence later, Trapper and Blitz manage to find Ashphalt. Blitz & Ash get a "i thought you were dead" reunion, before they have to book it. i haven't fully decided how smooth their escape truly goes, but they definitely run into the chief medical officer - or she at least sees them in some capacity. Trapper gets the siblings out of the prison, though just barely, via stealing a space-worthy vessel & using the chaos as a cover.

from there, the three are perpetually on the run, planet hopping until their ship almost gives out & they have to find or steal another. for the entire war, the three hide from 'Cons and 'Bots alike as best they can. all the while, Ashphalt struggles to remember and piece together what happened to her throughout the years she was being tortured and conditioned to believe herself to be an "Oracle."

a lot of her memory is shot, but she wants answers. why was she spared, who ordered her archival unit to be slaughtered in the first place & why? was she sent to that prison specifically, or was that just somewhere to dump her?

a lot of their story after that is kind of open skies, since these characters were specifically made for roleplays. their general character goals vary from rp to rp, but i would like their story to culminate in a sort of "final showdown" with the (currently unnamed) chief medical officer; be it dramatic or quiet. Ash would get to have her first confirmed kill, and both Trapper & Blitz would look away. (sometimes killing your abuser IS cathartic.)

i do have a kind of fanfic 'verse for them where the three are passengers on the Lost Light (primarily because Rung is the only therapist for lightyear-miles or whatever, and Ash Wants To Actively Get Better). Lockblitz tells himself it'll just be a "fun roadtrip," and they'll be able to relax for once in their fucking lives.

heh. he doesn't even know about the [redacted spoilers for like, all of MTMTE]

wanna go off about.... transformer ocs....

#ensiger #achilles goes off about ocs #gonna use that tag as an excuse to ramble about ocs & fan characters so i can share lore about my personal blorbos #i'm normal about these three i'm so fucking normal #as evidenced by the long-ass post i've made here #i Could have split this up into multiple posts talking about each character individually but. they cannot be separated <3 #i wrote so fucking much. help.

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hhjs · 4 years ago

Text

forget me not.

♡ based on — "During times of war. I want to say: I only love you, And I cling you, Like the peel clings to a pomegranate, Like the tear clings to the eye, Like the knife clings to the wound." and the song nightlife by daydream masi.

♡ summary — Hyunjin's unsure of the tingle in his gut, why it's happening. But he thinks, just for a second, it feels a little like hope.

wherein, putting your heart on the line for the sake of doing favours isn’t a frequent component in your schedule. But what happens when this favour is asked for by the boy you may or may not have fancied for far too long?

You accept it.

For a very embarrassing reason, really, which is — you think Hwang Hyunjin needs you.

♡ pairing— hwang hyunjin x reader

♡ word count— 8.8k whoopsies

♡ genre and alternate universe — angst, fluff + hanahaki au.

♡ author's note— this was supposed to be a drabble and then i sort of lost my fucking mind ehe...also this is easily the worst thing i have ever written im so sorry aaa but this is a lil present from my end hahaha

♡ warnings— suggestive content, vomiting, mention of blood. allusions to depression and heartbreak.

Amongst other things, you're extremely bad at saying 'no'. You don't mean the word per se...but the underlying connotation of this very monosyllable which may come at the expense of letting another person down.

It's sort of stupid, you understand, your friends have constantly voiced their worries for your extremely complacent nature more often than you'd think actually. But it all goes over your head. See — old habits really do die hard.

When you're eight, this very defect takes you to dreadful saxophone lessons your mum spoke so highly of. When you're 15, it gets you called to the principal's office for flashing Jeongin trigonometric functions in Mister Choi's pop quiz, when you're older, things are definitely no different.

The passenger seat is occupied, Hyunjin's holding a tangled muffler to his suede jacket clad chest. At 21, he's become someone you used to know. A friend of a friend, Felix's to be very specific. But the man in question, who was supposed to be his ride, passes off this duty for kegstands and you just happen to be the designated driver for the night, shuffling Jisung beside Changbin and Chan, who claims to be 'sober' even though he's half asleep.

Hyunjin is uncharacteristically quiet.

There's a polite smile on rendered your way as your eyes meet. A small curvature along his plump bottom lip, tighter around the edges. Still this simple formality is so beautiful that you feel something inside you come alive.

When Jisung starts snoring, you flip on the radio and Pink Floyd's Wish You Were Here comes on.

Your fingers feel numb when they come to tap out a rhythm to the track. It's nice. Tingling guitar riffs swelling, David Gilmour's gruffy voice pours in from faulty speakers. The more the song progresses, the more you find yourself attempting to think about anything that will distract you from the boy beside you, in the flesh no less.

So late at night, the main road is eerily silent. Cobblestones reflecting the sound of tires thumping against its layout, streetlights blinking at you from their drooping heads. Across the street, a baker is tucking away leftover bread and buskers are packing up their beat up guitars, a man in his late 50's pulling his blanket to his nose as he rests a head full of gray hair on the cold pavement.

You glance at Hyunjin from the corner of your eye and find that his staggering smile has completely disappeared. Now there's a distant glaze in his eyes. It's like he's here, in this moment, with you, but at the same time, he's somewhere else.

Under the impression you've done something wrong, you immediately begin to panic. But the thing is, you don't actually know if you should ask. Would it constitute as crossing a line if you had anyway?

Hyunjin covers his mouth with a sleeve, muffled retching building beyond fabric.

The reasonable assumption is obvious. It's not abnormal to be nauseous when you've got one too many drinks in you. He motions for you to pull over, incoherent sentences practically melding together, words forming and dissipating between choking fits.

You scramble to dig out a bottle of mineral water you habitually deposit in the glove compartment, offering him the tissue first. Ears perking up in satisfaction when a garbled thanks escapes his parted lips. But then... something weird happens.

As your eyes flicker to unintentionally glance at the contents discarded on the pitch grey sidewalk, you freeze in your seat.

You were never a big believer of superstition, not someone who buys into myths only meant for the fiction genre. Sure, you can be gullible sometimes...but what's happening falls no way under the realistic category.

The lethal Hanahaki disease, only inherited by some unlucky descendants, every moment in your head prior to this one, was something that's obviously non existent.

Yet... there's so much blood, too much blood attesting to your blatant ignorance. The petals are of a white rose, smudging together in swirls of grotesque crimson in mimicry of a sheen of red sticking to the inner corners of his lips. It has happened before, you can tell, from just how unsurprised he looks.

Hyunjin's stare flits to commit every detail of your to memory, in what only seems a quick study of gauging your forthcoming reaction, though even before you can produce a coherent thought, he says,

"You can't tell anyone." His voice drops a few octaves as though he's afraid your snoring friends in the back might've noticed. "Please."

Hyunjin's face softens by the slightest, contrary to his firm demand, there lies a desperation you couldn't overlook.

In retrospect, what you're about to tell is ultimately a promise that'd come back to bite you in due time. However, see now, you're extremely bad at saying no. Somehow you're even worse when it comes to Hyunjin. So you blink, turn the radio off and say,

"Okay."

—

The pool is preheated. For that you're most thankful.

Frankly, you couldn't imagine what it'd be like being pushed into a chilly body of water mid winter. Not that it's pleasant otherwise, you can't swim.

Well at 15, you hadn't quite learned to. The other kids have scurried inside to hog freshly baked Snowman biscuits Seungmin's mum is renowned for.

Then and you think you'll never quite forget it, Hyunjin's wearing an orange power ranger t shirt, it's darker now that it's wet, his glasses are marked with uneven splatters. His face scrunches up at the sudden splash of wetness engulfing his body. He wasn't planning to get in the water.

"Hold on tight." He says, wounding your arms around his neck, your calves tighter to his sides to support your shivering body. Back then Hyunjin's hair was black, cropped short and swept to the side, he smells like fabric softener and skittles. A water donut is discarded in the middle of the pool.

Everybody you know and don't know, from the birth of superheroes stuck in comic books to valiant protagonists behind fuzzy television screens, has this inherent desire to be saved. From the world, from themselves. No, no, it doesn't have to be a grand gesture, swooping them off of their feet from the grasp of surly men in dark alleys, sometimes it's really just simple. Sometimes people save you in the most ordinary way there is.

The weight of your form on his bright pink water donut while he stood on his toes to merely rest his elbows so the item wouldn't flip, a small act, certified this very claim, had not the nimble touch of his cold fingers, brushing away wet hair from your face, to anxiously ask if you're okay met the purpose. He talks to you like the sound of his voice has the power to injure you.

You nod slowly. Like this, it feels like you're going to be.

Hyunjin pouts, looking perfectly unconvinced. He paddles the pair of you to steel stairs spiraling into the pool, so he can stand without just his nose peeking out of the water, he looks at you once again, a wrinkle between his dark, arched eyebrows and says solemnly, "Jisung's such an idiot sometimes, isn’t he?"

But isn't he your friend? You want to ask. Something stops you though —his tone tells you you aren't the only one to fall victim to Jisung's practical jokes. Not that they were offensive or anything. Han Jisung, the same person who twiddles his thumbs when he wants the last chicken nugget and cries every time you watch Howl's Moving Castle together, genuinely doesn't mean any harm. It's just that...when he's comfortable with people, who aren't many, he tends to do a lot of dumb things. Dumb, endearing things that Minho will kill him for someday.

"A little bit," You mumble under your breath. Heat rising to your face at the possibility of Hyunjin being concerned for you. He sounds almost angry. "Thanks by the way."

It's rather pitiful to remember. Because with time, Hyunjin's world becomes so big that your interaction stands to be too insignificant to not forget. Before you know it, he's the shooting guard of your school's basketball team, just a handsome face who dates better girls, makes better friends. It's superficial and a little sad.

No, no, a little sad is an understatement actually.

To see someone you understood intimately, a boy who always described details too much just to stray from the main story, a boy with too many emotions bubbling to an awfully animated surface; someone who was passionate, sensitive and so nauseatingly big hearted...change into a man who is indubitably untouchable...is tragic. At least.

Yet funnily enough — you can't quite imagine a world without Hwang Hyunjin. His ringing laughter rippling through loud ambiences, his distant humming of Christmas carols whilst he absently skimmed through spines of children's novels and his eyes glimmering in adoration whenever he spoke of something he loved — Without him, you imagine, there would be a massive deficiency in your world, in the world. Like if birthday cakes came with the biggest slice carved out.

Hyunjin grins, a big sort of candid grin that turns his eyes into upturned crescents. His previous temperament long forgotten. Suddenly, this utterly atrocious happening seems to not be so bad. Suddenly you don't mind that Jisung is an idiot sometimes.

"Of course."

—

Hyunjin is not perfect. Hyunjin is no prince charming.

People don't know this. They don't understand this.

He ends up paying for dinner when he's out with a big crowd even though they were supposed to split the bill, he ends up crying when he gets angry and he is an abysmal liar, in every sense of the phrase. Hardly ever succeeding to hide his emotions when he should. When he was a kid his parents reminded him that it's a good thing to be unapologetically himself, that being honest is a good thing.

But as your eyes meet from across an ocean of people quagmired by crunchy leaves, sticky remnants of rain and his ex girlfriend who he now claims to be okay with being friends with, on her toes to poke his cheek whilst Chan's arm wraps around her waist, the soft white roses ornamented on a bow she loves wearing all the time, he thinks it's far from an agreeable trait to have.

Actually whilst you balance a newspaper under your arm and bring your coffee to your lips, it's like you're looking through him, past his skin, his flesh, something secret inscribed on his bones, embedded into his soul. You know everything, you know everything, you know everything.

The thought itself... surprisingly enough, doesn't appal him.

Hyunjin raises his palm in the air, feeling the autumn prickling against his skin. He waves at you.

—

Working at a library can be taxing. But it sure has its perks.

You can just about turn the place upside down and put it all back together without getting in trouble. Albeit another reason, besides your profession could be that Minho owns the place. Frankly, he may or may not have been the only cause behind your employment. It's hard to tell now that your co-workers really do recognise you've a knack for arranging things.

But to you, your job is very personal. A precious thing which relieves you from various worldly tensions. Velvety spines under your roughened fingertips, the burst of minted pages hitting your face every time you walk in, your love for reading, for a world of stories is so immense that you think you wouldn't have traded it even if your life depended on it.

For a disease that's not very well known, it's ironic how an entire section of mythology is dedicated to it. Past closing hours, amongst many novels mounted on your desk, you fixate on the one that made most sense. There's a few things you've picked up in common from all of them though — the hanahaki disease is extremely rare, it doesn't affect all those who suffer from the qualms of unrequited love.

Possible remedy according to findings entail

growths can be surgically removed, if the patient consents to eradication of memories of their loved ones.

Clanking of keys alerts incoming and you pause your tapping pen to look up.

"Burning the midnight oil, are we?"

Minho leans against the doorframe, he's half yawning, half talking and fully concerned for you.

"Yeah, looks like I'm gonna be a while." Your monotonous tone provides that you are not paying a lot of attention. You blurt without looking up. "Are you leaving?"

"No, still haven't finished archiving for that Pfizer project...But I'm going to get a bite to eat..." His inky eyes remain on you as his tone falters, "You want anything?"

"I'm fine. Thanks."

"Wow you're like...really uh invested." He tilts his head in thought, "You seeing someone again?"

You know Minho long enough to know he has a teasing side to him, from diaper days to play dates ending in pillow fights because he kept offering you his last Pringle just to pop it into his stupid smirking mouth — but you have no idea where he's going with this.

So you look up, finally. Furrowing your brows.

"No. What does that have to do with anything?"

He shrugs, "I haven't seen you concentrate so hard since you dumped Jeongin."

Your right eye twitches. Because you know exactly what he's referring to, and simultaneously, for the sake of your well-being, you much prefer being in denial. "What?"

"C'mon. Remember how you always ended up doing his homework?" He reminds you. "It's like when you like someone, you go out of your way to do charitable stuff for them. But...this? Too much. Even for you."

You ignore Minho's comment. To the world, Hwang Hyunjin's place in your life is not significant. After all this is the most natural undulation in the vicissitudes of life — for someone who once was your friend to eventually drift apart, to become a has been. It's too hard to explain why you care. After all this time.

"I was just being nice." You narrow your eyes, unimpressed. "Clearly this concept is lost on some people."

"Sure you are, bud. If being 'nice' is synonymous with whipped." Of course, there's a smug grin gracing his pouted lips that tempts you to fling something at him. Not that you can though. Seeing as Minho breaks out into a full fledged sprint, his singsongy voice a thinning echo bouncing off of shelves and windows and doors.

Still somehow his footsteps manage to travel through walls, permeating into your office with such great amplitude that you could be bamboozled into thinking he hasn't left at all. Or maybe you've stopped paying attention, your eyes zoom in on any other helpful detail you can put to use in wrapping your head around what you have witnessed firsthand.

At the same time, you can't really ignore how hungry you're feeling just from the mention of a bite to eat. So when Minho's shadow forms again on the page you've been 'reading' for the last few seconds you sense a gigantic wave of relief washing over you.

"You know what I changed my—" slamming the book shut, you blink against scanty provision of light, with raise your head and a bleary vision, recognise him in an instant. Except...it isn't Minho. "mind..."

The only source of brightness is a small emerald lamp perched on the corner of your desk, light green catches onto one of the ornamented corners and speckles of golden caress his supple skin gently. You hadn't realised how cold it might've been outside until you see how heavily dressed Hyunjin was, a long overcoat worn over woollen sweater, a Santa hat and muffler pulled to his chin. It's no one other than your boss himself who has given him directions to your office, you know this, Hyunjin has never been inside before.

So when he marvels absently, you sense yourself feeling a little self conscious about not cleaning up. All around you, a comforter and love seat pushed against the window, cigarette butts discarded in ashtray and then...the books strewn before you tell him you practically live here.

For some reason, Hyunjin only seems to loosen up at the spectacle.

"Hi." He says finally.

"Hi..." you arrange the reading materials quickly to one side so you can rest your elbows. A small (successful) attempt made to hide your research. "Something up?" You say, but what you really mean is, what are you doing here?!

Did he suspect you were going to tell on him? Right that's it, that must be it, you tell yourself, believing, knowing, of all the years Hwang Hyunjin has known of you he has never been one to care about your whereabouts.

"I just...um," He starts, forwarding his mitten clad hands. It's the back of a crumpled coffee cup on which straight handwriting reads a bucket list...of sorts. You immediately understand that his coming is an act of impulse. Urgency of living every moment like it's slipping through it's fingers, that he just needed to tell the only person who knows, be it by accident.

Hyunjin clears his throat. "I wanna do all this before I die."

In lieu of giving an instant response, baffled, you gawp at him. Despite knowing, hearing Hyunjin say it out loud somehow makes everything...too real.

It's as though someone's reached inside your throat, pulled your heart out and crushed it with their bare hands. Hyunjin, the boy who smelled like fabric softener and skittles and wore power ranger shirts, the boy with the fantastic smile and cold fingers, is dying. You won't let him. You can't let him.

You thumb along the numbers scribbled in hasty penmanship, look up and blink rapidly, "Okay," you say, a small whisper, barely there words. "That's okay."

Even with the hat covering tips of ears, you could tell the same faint blush coating his cheeks had rushed to that particular area. His eyes drift off to the sight of pens discarded inside a wooden holder because he can feel your gaze on him. "and I...I need your help."

"Alright."

Hyunjin's eyes widen to a great degree, he sits straighter, as if he hadn't expected you to comply so quickly.

And honestly? Neither had you.

It's quiet. Awkward.

"You know it's not like I haven't thought about dying. I just figured I'd get to grow old first, settle down, have kids and all that," A wry laugh escapes his parted lips. "Everything's happening too fast."

You hesitate, thinking he's making a mistake. Frankly he shouldn't feel obligated to give you an explanation.

"You...you don't have to tell me."

"No—I mean...can I?" He gives you a sheepish look, disliking his own whimsical tone, somehow endearing still. You find yourself wondering how long he had to keep his burdens to himself, not just pertaining to his illness, but everything. His dreams, his hopes, his fears. Anything which requires a certain amount of depth. And you almost ask him, the question sitting at the tip of your tongue, yet the realisation rather simple, stops you. Maybe you've mistranslated 21 year old Hyunjin all along — moulding himself into someone who's convenient around people who only liked him for who he appeared to be, maybe even with all that popularity, parties and glamour, he's just...lonely.

You push your reading glasses into your hair, press your knuckles under your chin and hum in consent.

He shifts in his seat, "Have you ever... been in love?"

You release an amused huff. Let your eyes linger on him for a long minute.

"Once."

Hyunjin half expects you to laugh. Poke fun at him for his melodramatic backstory. That's the sole reason why he doesn't tell his friends (funny, for people he considers close, they seem to know not much about him or care to know, that is. ). But you... you look at him with something in your eyes that tells him the rubbish reasons he posited makes all the sense in the world. Hyunjin's unsure of the tingle in his gut, why it's happening. But he thinks, just for a second, it feels a little like hope.

—

Midnight rendezvous.

As someone who has lived a fairly extraordinary life, Hwang Hyunjin's bucket list is bafflingly ordinary. He's more of a finding joy in small things kind of a person, punctilious at best.

Things change. People notice. They hesitate, whisper about you and last night while you were out on last minute cheap wine run, the grocerer, a girl who looks around sixteen asks you if you're dating Hyunjin. Underneath the thinly veiled curiousity, there's something like anger dripping from her words.

You furrow your eyebrows in simple insinuation that it's weird for a stranger to take interest in your life. Maybe it was written on your face, the fact that you're a dying man's beck and call is for reasons far more complicated than it looks.

You go to his parties. Greet him as a friend would and not just for the sake of maintaining formalities. He comes to the library more times than he does, waits for you to get off work so you can check something off the list at least. People notice. People understand. Hyunjin's different around you. He's bright, talkative when he forgets to contain himself. You sense your heart swelling with pride just at the understanding that he can be himself around you.

You drive to the beach, sit in your trunk and drink straight out of the bottle.

Hyunjin laughs a little. Suspends his feet in the air. With time, he's gotten paler, exhausted. "Rough day?"

You hum.

"Very. Our children's collection is usually low in stock around the weekends."

Hyunjin crosses his arms over his chest. Curious.

"And?"

"And if I say I got yelled at by a toddler would you believe me?"

Hyunjin feigns contemplation, even with the realisation that his body is becoming less and less cooperative, he manages to remain perfectly cheerful.

"I can actually," he grins, "At that age, I was a real pain in the ass."

"Were?"

Your smile is just a slight curl against the bottle's mouth as he grumbles under his breath about your 'insensitive' remark.

You think of your life after Hyunjin, think of his absence like a gaping hole you'll never be able to fill out. It makes you sick to your stomach.

—

Bake something from scratch.

Hyunjin's face twists in apparent thought, eyebrows rising. A pink tongue poked against his cheek, whilst he chews carefully, trying really hard not to flash an accidental reaction whilst you clasp your butter and oat flour soiled hands together, some of the batter on your cheek, neck to anticipate his answer like your will to live depends on it.

You ask yourself how it got to this. Why you didn't care that you were awake so early on a Sunday morning with flour powdering every kitchen appliance in sight in spite of being awfully restrictive about who you let into your kitchen. But it doesn't matter, it doesn't matter because it's nice like this.

Hyunjin has his hair pulled away from his bare face, a mole under his eye, a small birthmark on the back of his ear.

When you first met, you thought he was a kind of handsome that couldn't be real. Something formidable about it. Only destined to exist behind fuzzy television screens and flashy magazines.

But in retrospect, you realise, that that's not true at all.

If you look close enough, if you really pay attention, there's a softness underneath, something goofy, something warm, the sharp jut of his nose circling into a soft button, his eyes are big, black and his mouth jutted out into a natural pout, he looks innocent, like he doesn't quite realise the extent of his charms.

"It's..." His soft voice pulls you out of your reverie, and you look up to find his eyes glimmering jovially. Every time it surprises you, the lack of regret in them and the abundance of nonchalance. You wonder what it means to love someone like that, to love someone to the point of martyrdom. It shouldn't be like this. "perfect,"

"This is like, the only batch we didn't burn, right?"

You snort, "Yeah." Fully turn to him, "You know what they say, fifth time's the charm."

Hyunjin's laugh, you think, is so contagious that it makes it an imperative to smile in return. In shaky compartments the sound comes, like being 8, laying wide-eyed in a paddling pool and staring up at a crayon blue sky, raindrop rippling beyond all that noiseless water. His eyes curve to upturned crescents, an unconscious hand covering up the seams of his lips whilst he shakes his head. You don't even notice when he starts speaking again.

"Huh?"

"I said you got a little...something..."

You almost lose a fraction of your sanity when his nimble fingers come to wrap around your wrist while you hold onto the spatula employed into the whole snickerdoodle batter mixing business, a liberated hand coming up to gently wipe your cheek. It means everything to you. And nothing to him.

Later, when you're alone at night, really alone, you put your palm to your chest and feel the unsteady beat of your heart. A warning, a reminder. I can't. I can't. I can't.

—

You hold Hyunjin's hair up. His hands resting on the cold toilet seat, he's whimpering and bleeding. It happens every time he sees Haseul, or something which reminds him of her. Like the song.

This time she's drunk. And it's because she impulsively rises to her toes and presses a tender kiss to Chan's lips.

Hyunjin's just a feet away, across students and solo cups and streaks of neon falling irregularly through his line of sight.

He can never confess, not to her. The last thing Hyunjin wants is for her to feel bad for him. To say she feels the same as an act of service. He tells you. You understand. Somehow... you always understand.

They met in college, Hyunjin and she. And Chan was an upperclassman who seemed to be good at...well everything. At first, he couldn't figure out why it never occured to him before, the fact they were getting together maybe before, after or during the length of their relationship.

Though the answer is simple.

Hyunjin thinks the pillar to good relationships is trust. Call him a sappy romantic or whatever but he had seen true love manifest from it through generations before him and his parents and their parents. To think a different fate was woven for him...used to be unimaginable.

How ironic is that?

Hyunjin presses his cheek against your chest because he doesn't want you to look at him when he cries.

Then for the first time....he tells you he's scared. He's scared of what will happen to him. Of what is happening to him.

He's falling apart.

You cradle him, press him closer to your body like you're trying to put him together. People can't fix each other. Not really. But sometimes... they're worth the try.

"Hey...hey...it's alright," You shush him, run your fingers through his hair. Your voice almost breaking, faltering. Still this, this you mean it with every fibre of your being. "It's okay to be scared."

—

Self bleach hair.

It's Christmas and you're late for a late night dinner he's putting together. (As reluctant as he was about getting along with Hyunjin, he seems all too eager to make invite him whenever a get together takes effect.)

His apartment smells like floor cleaner. There's a queen sized bed pushed against an electric blue wall, a Fleetwood Mac poster taped to his door, small reading desk where Canon EOS New Kiss rests, polaroids of things checked off the list littered all its wooden surface.

You pick up the only photo he hasn't labelled, it reminds you that your friendship isn't just based off a pursuit. This is natural. Pizza box discarded between you two, on your roof top. It's a little too dark, you're holding a cigarette between your fingers, you're laughing and Hyunjin looks like he's going to complain the minute he's done taking the picture. (And he does.)

You smile, pressing your fingers against it like the touch could transport you to a simpler time.

"Ready to go?"

Hyunjin rakes a tentative hand through his newly dyed hair, grey (a suitable colour he says.). You can tell he's put a lot of effort into cleaning up, his usual hoodies and sweats alternated with a red satin shirt tucked into dark dress pants and a coat of the same colour. Hyunjin is beautiful. Perhaps even more like this. In fact, the extent of this quality is so Goliath-like that it obliges dolled up attendees to marvel up in awe. While you fully agree with their unsaid ponderings, you really do, you find yourself missing a less sophisticated version of him.

"Yeah, but first..." you fish out a wrapped squarish material from the depths of your pocket. Hyunjin's eyes widen, two bunny-like teeth showing for the extent of his grin.

"You got me a present!" He all but rips it out of your hand, shaking the material eagerly. He’s a Christmas person, a supreme holiday enthusiast if you will. The sheer excitement in him projects itself in every physical aspect possible. Slight jumping on the balls of his feet. "It's a cassette...?"

You speak too much, nervous he doesn't like it. "It’s a Christmas mix. I thought...since you like carols. I know it's a little old school, I'm sorry if that’s not what you were hoping for—"

Hyunjin pulls you into a big hug, wrapping his entire body it feels like; his arms around your waist, he squeezes you tighter against him, "Thank you." He whispers into your hair, it's not just about the cassette, you can tell.

There's a small light bulb dangling from his ceiling, he hasn't fixed it since the first time you pointed it out. You can tell with your eyes closed, you've begun to know more intimately than your own home. It's safe here. A place that deludes you into thinking that he's not running out of time, that even in his absence in the world, whenever you should walk into this room, it would be an imperative to find Hyunjin lazying about in its confines. Familiarity can be quite tricky, can't it?

His gratitude is not unknown to you. It's in the guilty smile that threatens to show every now and then, it's in this and it's in that. In many ways, it is not something you're a stranger to.

And yet the words manage to tears your heart at the seams. Just a little.

—

Make a snow angel.

From above, he imagines, he may appear to look like a chunk of cookie dough in an ice cream pint.

The snow is not as comfortable as it appears, its frigid temperature seeps into Hyunjin's clothes (and what feels like his internal organs, if that's even possible). He waves his hands and legs inward, outward.

Your head tilts towards him. Face twisted in annoyance. "You're getting on my wing!" You say. "Have you no respect for personal space?!"

Hyunjin narrows his eyes jovially. And people tell him he's the one with a penchant for theatrics. He leans closer in rebuttal, waving his leg around your design with more purpose. You give up. Sit on your knees, fumble with the snow. He’s still in the same position. Smug as ever...

"This is what happens when you disrespect your elders." He fake-warns. "Oka—"

What he doesn't anticipate, however, is the snowball you launch on his stupid grinning face. Now it's your turn to laugh. You clutch your stomach and point at him whilst he glares at you having barely managed to blow the snow off of his mouth.

"Oh, you're gonna get it now!"

You let out an animalistic screech, Hyunjin’s already trapped you under his weight, his thighs wound around your waist, hamstringing your plan to escape, now you're merely squirming. His fingers come down to attack your sides, digging into the flesh so mercilessly to the point you’re not sure if you’re laughing or crying. It's like there's a wildfire inside your lungs.

For a moment you forget, you let yourself forget what's to come.

“Alright, alright I’m sorry!” you press your palms against his chest in an attempt to push him off, Hyunjin has a dumb smile on his face that seems to give the impression of a hanger stuck inside his mouth. But... there's something behind his entertainment as the sound of his laugh dies down, chest heaving with exercise. His smile drops.

You can count each lash, each freckle and line on his face. The dark in his eyes. The pink of his lips. Your sweater's ridden to your ribs. And the warmth of his fingers shifting against your bare skin hits you with an earthshattering force.

Hyunjin kisses you. For a fleeting second, you freeze. Rigid with shock. Then it passes as soon as it comes.

You let out a noise of content,indubitably grateful that your neighbours forgot to put on their porch light for the night. See it’s like this, the act of kissing is not as special as is the person himself, you muse, you can kiss anyone, you can touch and be touched by anyone. But none of that truly compares to this. Not when they aren't him.

You’d be lying if you said you never thought about it. Just like you’ve thought about a lot of things. But just the realisation that the boy you’ve harboured in your heart for more complicated reasons than you disclose, to yourself even, touches you with so, so much care...it’s tearing you apart.

It’s too good to be real.

You suddenly push him away. The tugging and pulling at your heart too much to handle. For the fact remains — Hyunjin doesn't love you. He doesn't even like you. You never expected him to. Actually, you've never felt what you feel with that condition in mind either.

See when the feeling of having everything you could ever want is cradled between your palms...it ought to be hard to let go. (Maybe he’s just doing this because he feels bad for you, the little voice in your head says. You listen.)

Hyunjin speaks up first.

“I love Haseul.” he tells you, but it sounds more like he’s telling himself. “That’s why...that’s why, all this...I love her.” Not you.

You swallow, “I know.” Your hands come up to dust your pants. Hyunjin’s still on his knees, as if the answer to his conflicts are deposited under all the snow. “It’s okay.”

“No, it’s not, it’s not okay. I shouldn’t have, I shouldn’t have done—”

Now you hear it, the hint of pity in his voice. You don’t mean to sound as bitter as you do. Seeing as you’re usually very good at keeping calm , breaking that very reputed front frustrates you even more.

“Look just forget about it, okay? We don’t have to talk about this.”

Hyunjin looks like he didn’t expect this side of you to exist. At least, you think, at least it got him to stop talking.

—

Learn to skate.

"If I fall, I'm taking you with me."

"You say it like I have a choice."

Hyunjin shoots you a warning glare even though you can't see. His choppy skidding steps supported by the vice grip he has on your arms. You haven't skated since you were in highschool. But when you're pretty good at it still, the smooth blade of your beaten skates gliding through ice with much dexterity, it's like floating, freeing, the wind hitting your faces, snow catching in your lashes. It's peaceful, you try not to think about the warmth of Hyunjin's arm circling around body, the vague rhythm of his heartbeat against your back. His laboured breaths on your neck. It's torturous. But spending so much time with him has taught you to hide your feelings better.

The park welcomes a large crowd around holiday season, children with toothless grins, tugging onto their mum's coats, small chin resting onto a parents' head, teenagers moving in together in school uniforms. It's the happiest time of the year. When you move past an elderly couple, they smile and tell you make a wonderful couple.

You're just about to make a correction. This puts you in an awkward position... doesn't it?

But then Hyunjin grins toothily and says, Thank you, like it's the most amusing thing in the world. You ignore the wrenching inside your chest.

Hyunjin leans forward, his plump lips brushing against your ear. "Where did you learn to skate so well?!" There's something like excitement in his kiddish laugh aside from admiration. It's not much of a question as it is an exclamation.

"I am pretty good, aren't I?"

He laughs, doesn't let you go. "Yes, yes...really good."

Out of breath, you slow down, move your feet steadily, careful not to lose balance.

"Oh my God! It is you!"

You raise your head, blink against flakes hindering your vision. Jeongin's voice used to be thinner before. As far as you remember. Now it has a weight to it.

You let out a nervous laugh.

"And it's you..."

Jeongin's eyes travel to the arms around your waist, to the stiffened figure behind you and you immediately liberate yourself. Moving to let Hyunjin use your arm as purchase, you don't fail to notice the pinch in his forehead, a frown on his mouth.

"This is my friend Hyunjin. Hyunjin, this is Jeongin—"

"We used to go out." Jeongin smiles, forwarding his hand, which is returned with an unenthused shake and a demure reply. Hyunjin never speaks to anyone this way, not even people he claims to hate.

The former male looks to you again, "I was, uh... wondering if you'd like to go out for a cup of coffee sometime."

Things between you and him ended amicably at the event of his departure for further studies, which deprives you of awkward tension which is expected when exes meet.

Besides, a cup of coffee never hurt anyone.

Right?

Without thinking, you nod slowly, "Yeah that sounds good,"

"Text me anytime."

"Sure."

“I'll be out of your hair then," he beams. "It was very nice meeting you too, Hyunjin."

"Right."

Hyunjin, you realise, has released your arm. He leans on barricades fencing along the skating area, smiling briefly. You know it’s wrong...yet you sense that you almost need him to be upset.

Then he tilts his head back towards you, "He seems like a really nice guy," he whispers, genuinely meaning every word. Your heart sinks. "I see the appeal." Underneath the lurid glare of fairy lights brandished overhead, Hyunjin's ash hair glints like it's threaded out of silver. You wonder what he's thinking.

—

Watch every Disney movie ever made.

You never end up texting Jeongin back. Just stalling for when you're ready, you tell yourself. Even though that's not true at all.

"This brings back so many memories. My parents used to belt out A Whole New World with me, like every time we watched Aladdin."

Hyunjin wipes his face with the back of his hand, technically you’re not very sure what he’s saying exactly because he’s mumbling into a paper napkin you've passed over for the umpteenth time. You find yourself picturing a small but happy family of three, of Hyunjin in Scooby Doo pajamas and gap between his teeth. (Contrary to your previous convictions, he hasn't changed all at much, save for the teeth bit. ) It's cute.

He looks to you expectantly. Can't be the only one telling embarrassing stories.

You shrug, "I had a thing for Simba. Let's just say my mum and dad were nice enough to indulge me."

Hyunjin reaches for the remote and pauses the ending credits of Lady and the Tramp. He turns to you fully now, gives you a judgemental stare. "Simba...?" He says, "Like the...lion?"

"What? It's normal to crush on fictional characters, okay?!"

"Okay,sure," Hyunjin snorts, putting a pillow between you and him so you can't kill him. "furry."

A part of you is tempted, obviously. But the much bigger part is more invested in how he looks happier, healthier. You want to think that means something.

—

Hyunjin invites you over for movie night. It's getting colder and you keep poking him with your cold feet. There's an extra set of blankets in his cupboard, he informs you, he isn't sharing his with you — and that's when you see it.

The deflated pink donut folded to the side, his and yours sharpie inscribed initials on one side.

"Found it yet?"

You don't even notice when he comes to stand behind you. So the question effectively makes you jump out of your skin. Hyunjin has a bowl of popcorn pressed to his chest, there's a pink hair band holding his hair away from his forehead. For the lack of a answer he takes it on himself to find the source of your silence. As if you've been caught red handed.

You think this is where he'll ask you to leave, that or he'll least scold you or something. You prepare for the worst.

Hyunjin just smiles, it's a big smile that succeeds in bringing out the small dimple indented on the side of his cheek. You've never noticed before. It's kinda weird. Because when it comes to him, your attention hardly ever falters.

"You probably don't remember. That’s from Seungmin's 15th birthday,"

You want to scoff under your breath. All this time you had told yourself that you were the only one to be affected by your estranged friendship growing up. Now...the same logic colours you every bit of ridiculous.

You blink away, swallowing. Voice solemn.

"I remember." Hyunjin's gaze is heavy on your shoulders. An emotion you can't quite put a finger on crosses his delicate features. It's something between surprise and relief... something else too. You don’t understand it.

—

It's disconcerting that he can’t remember the last time he got sick. Not the usual discomfort inside his chest, not the blood, not the thorns or petals. Hyunjin's just gotten so used to it, you know? What if he gets his hopes up for no good reason? What if it just comes back?

There's no possible explanation, he explains over a hasty 3 A.M message he had to leave on your answering machine because he's freaking out.

Then Haseul texts Hyunjin, tells him she misses him. Everything's adding up. Everything's falling into place. This is what he wanted, isn't it? She loves him, she finally loves him back. That must be it. He doesn't know what to say.

But he tells you, and when he does, it sounds a lot like an apology.

—

Kiss underneath a mistletoe.

“Chan and I broke up.” She says it like it’s something he should be happy about. So when he remains quiet, it only prompts her to speak more, fill up the big mighty silences.

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Look Jinnie, I know I made a mistake, but...can’t you give a second chance? Just this once?”

Hyunjin has thought about this particular moment a lot. Kissing her instead of producing a response, pulling her off of her feet and mumbling of course, of course, of course. Back then, there were little doubts in his head pertaining to her, back then he believed that she was the only one for him. The love of his life at the wrong time, in the wrong place.

Now...something doesn’t feel right.

The thing about wounds, sometimes, of the heart in particular, is when they close up, it’s hard to make head or tails of the kind of person you become in their wake. Hard to adjust. Like when he suddenly shot up 7 inches in ninth grade, a late bloomer at that, and the weight of his new sneakers felt..odd.

He glances at her and also understands what it’s like to be lonely, the constant need to compensate for it by grasping at the last straw. He used to be in her shoes too. This isn’t any different. Albeit, he isn’t exactly taken by her presence. Just that he doesn’t know if what he’s doing is right. He looks over your table a few feet away from where he’s standing. Having gone out to take a call. You notice his absence and then from your seat, do your best to locate him. (he thinks of kissing you on a bed of snow, thinks of the sizzle of your skates against ice, thinks of his list on a coffee cup and his pink water donut and it’s okay to be scared. Why did it have to be you of all people, through everything? It’s not really a work of coincidence. Not at all actually.

Maybe he just wanted it to be you.)

When your eyes do lock...seeing him with his hands in his pockets, her standing beyond the barrier as she tries to say something, you smile, even if it’s a little sad. Hyunjin thinks to the conversation some nights before. Thinks of you reminding him that there's nothing to lose at this point, that he should do what his heart tells him. That it’ll be alright, if he just takes a leap of faith. Hyunjin smiles back. Through the glassy exterior and mini water fountains running down its slanted form. The realisation is not as dramatic as he thought. It’s just late.

He tears off the false mistletoe decoration glued along the periphery of an arch.

And like always.

He takes your advice.

—

Cohorts of guests pour into the colossal hotel, heads turning in quiet admiration for bejeweled arches breaking out against buttery white architecture, the roof is impossibly naked, translucent glass baring a starlit sky to your watchful eyes. Showing little mercy to a frail chute held over your head,costumed characters wade through oceans of gossamer, twinkling silver and swaying movements to slow jazz. You prop a heeled foot up on the bar platform, which strangely resembles a pedestal, in a futile attempt to catch your breath, with clammy digits settled atop the risky surface of a marbled counter. A soft voice speaks over the ambience, uttering your name with much care. You lift your head. And there he is.

Jisung is scouring through the Spotify playlist you’ve put together for New Year’s Eve. He’s complaining about the lack of Beyoncé while your friends go around the buffet table. When he calls you, you’re sipping your drink, laughing at something Changbin is saying, his eyes brighten just at the sound of your laugh. Hyunjin isn’t surprised to see his friend taking a liking of you even though he hardly knows you. That’s just the effect you have on people.

Excusing yourself, you allow him to walk you to a less densely populated area where a stone pillar faces expensive paintings of nameless painters. With the effect of alcohol settling in and your inhibitions effectively lowered, your steps sway a little. You lean against the massive build rising from tiled floor. “So what’s up?” you murmur, the lump in your throat thickening just at the thought of him speaking the good news into existence. “I take it went well?”

Hyunjin doesn't answer. He looks distracted for a bit. Then in an instant he snaps out of his daze. “What did you mean when you said ‘once’?”

Your brows come together in inquiry.

“What?”

"When I asked you if you have ever been in love, you said ‘once’." He persists, his fingers come up to your shoulder, grazing slightly as if they’re trying to carve out words against the skin. "You weren’t talking about Jeongin.”

He knows. He’s always known. Hyunjin can’t believe he’s been so stupid.

“Took you long enough.” You let out a sardonic laugh.“Well, it doesn’t matter now, does it?”

"It matters to me..." Hyunjin sounds offended, you gather, but he manages to quell his temper for the sake of coaxing your confession. Is he purposely embarrassing you? "I don’t think...I love Haseul anymore...I didn’t realise...I haven’t for a long time."

A big chandelier beams over withering plants pushed against the ceiling, in this poor supply of light, you can tell exactly how he looks, eyes glimmering adoringly, you've spent something-teen years of your life wondering what it's supposed to mean. And it still manages to confuse you.

"Why are you telling me this?" you ask, albeit you already know. Because funnily enough, before he got his braces removed and dyed his hair a scandalous blonde, before bucket lists and heartbreak, he was just the boy who told you he liked your stupid reindeer sweater even though it had officially made you the 7th grade laughing stock. You remember being fifteen and in love with Hyunjin. And you've never actually stopped. You need to hear it to believe it.

It drives you crazy. The way Hyunjin brushes his fingers against your cheek, shifting strands away from your eyes. But you can't help it, you've always wanted this. You lean into the caress, peering up at him as his large hand cups your jaw, thumb traversing from your tilted chin to your glossy lips like he's trying to smooth out all the creases. His voice is small, a whisper.

"Because I need you to know I think I’m falling in love with you.” he says. His palm opens and there’s a plastic mistletoe nestled between his fingers. You’re smiling and sniffling whilst his forehead comes to press against yours. Hyunjin grins. “And there’s still one last item on my list.”

“Are you seriously asking me to land one on you now?”

“Oh hell yeah.”

—

"Move."

You press your fingers against the slick, sweaty skin.

In rebuttal, Hyunjin grumbles under his breath. Only half awake, half aware that he was mumbling in his sleep. His naked chest seems to be, if it’s even possible, glued to your bare front as he sprawls out like a starfish over your body, using his gangly arms to accommodate the strange position.

Though and you know he knows it too — it’s anything but uncomfortable.

See by now, you aren't exactly a stranger to Hyunjin's sleeping habits. Or really, any habits of his.

All the windows are cracked open, moonlight percolating through a thin sheet of curtains in rendering evidence that it’s still night time. You can make out the faint sound of honking in the distance, a few stray dogs here and there, probably producing strings of complaints about the blatantly unbearable heat.

The strong stench of sweat and an aftermath of what happened before is a quick reminder of where you are, what you’re doing and that your arm’s going cold for a lack of circulation under his weight. Beads of sweat collected against his skin and trickle down the side of your face, the crook of your neck, which only prompts you to apply more force to the pads of your index and pointer — albeit it did nothing to move him, "Gross." You groan. "You're sweating like a pig!"

This comment, of all the things you've tried to get him to sleep on his side, succeeds in making Hyunjin raise his head, his grey hair matted down, a few rogue strands pushed out to fall over the unamused look in his eyes.

In an unprecedented minute of absolute clarity, something inside your stomach started to churn at the shocking sight. You’re impossibly, absolutely and nauseatingly in love with Hwang Hyunjin and the funny thing is, you don’t have to think twice to know he is too.

"Gross?" Hyunjin lowers his face to brush his pouted lips along your jaw, grinning when you let out a shaky but involuntary breath and as if he is looking to make a point with his digits traversing from your bare stomach, just along the hem of your underwear, "After all that?"

"I hate you." You say — but more like, stutter. The sound of his giggles eliciting a strange sensation in you, reverberating against your chest, knocking against his ribs and your skin, like it’s trying to reach out to you, like your bodies insist on melding into one.

"I don’t think you’re being honest, baby." He laughs, squeezing your side, coming up to plant a warm palm to your butt to repeat the action, which in turn, drew a mewl from you. “Because you looove me.” Hyunjin smirks, his finger thumbing along your throat to your chin. You think this is what all those great poets meant in endless litanies of lovers torn apart by time and war woven together in a simple caress, like a longing, like a secret. Guarded from prying eyes, greedy hands, and you keep it, you keep it. For him. With him.

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sxveme-2 · 4 years ago

Text

blueberry pancakes // bucky barnes

MASTERLIST

Description: A single mother. Juggling being a mom, a full time pediatrician, and a difficult ex who believed now would be the best time to finally be a father. A soldier ripped out of time. Ex-assassin turned superhero. Learning how to balance a new domestic life with handling demons of his past, while facing the trials of the future. a love story began over something as simple as chocolate chip pancakes with hidden blueberries.

Disclaimer: I do not own any original Marvel characters! All canon plots and canon characters belong to Marvel Comics and Marvel Studios. This is an original work. You may not publish it anywhere else

Status: Edited

Note: Takes place after endgame. I have elected to ignore Tony's death and Steve's leaving. Did not happen. Quick Reminder! My works are only published here, AO3 and on Wattpad, thank you.

Chapter Five: The One with the Tour

Warnings: N/A

Word Count: 2476

Scott Harvey was a manipulative man. He knew how to get what he wanted when he wanted and was never one to take no for an answer. He'd do whatever it took to ensure he had people wrapped around his finger so that he could snap his fingers and have what he desired in his hands at a moment’s notice. And Lily fell for that. She became the next in a long line of women who were eating out of the palm of his hand, all because he promised her the world. He promised her security, happiness, and peace. Instead, she got fear, chaos, and emotional trauma. The exact thing she was terrified of. He used her anxiety against her, used the fragility of her mind to keep her trapped in his web like a fly.

She was sort of thankful for Mary. she was a sweet woman, the two got along and were pretty amicable. Lily knew if she needed anything, Mary would help out, and vice versa. Because you can have a messy marriage, but keep a healthy relationship with the wrecking ball that destroyed the thin wall that still stood. Lily was grateful for Mary because she was able to open the blonde’s eyes to see what was going on. The web of lies that Scott had caught Lily in, like a spider, finding its next meal.

And every time she saw him, saw that sideways smile and forehead creases, all of the emotions he caused caught up to Lily in a ball, and took up camp in the middle of her throat, rendering her speechless for the majority of their brief conversations. Which is where we pick up, in the hallway of Scott and Mary's apartment building, Scott holding his daughter, Leila, in his arms. something Lily didn't believe she had ever seen her ex do with their son.

"Traffic was insane...sorry I'm a little late." Lily mumbled, her broken eyes darting everywhere, in an attempt to keep them from making contact with the deep-set hazel of Scott’s iris'.

"Don't apologize. I'll never complain about spending a bit longer with Hunter." Scott said, his voice still as soft as a marshmallow. Lily couldn't help but wince ever so gently as it floated into her ears, sending a rush of adrenaline and nerves to her heart, picking up its pace.

"Mom!" a young boy’s voice called before bursting past the older man, almost knocking down his mother, gripping onto her waist.

"Hey kiddo," Lily smiled, hand running through the blonde locks atop of her son’s head, smiling gently as he hid his face into her side. turning her attention back to Scott, she gave a weak smile, "Thanks for letting me pick him up early. my parents are coming down for dinner."

“No problem. Say hi to Abel and Alicia for me," Scott smiled, causing a shiver to run down Lily's spine. The idea of saying that Scott said hi made Lily sick to her stomach. Her parents despised the father of their grandson, for good reason. As far as the Osborne parents were concerned, Scott was a dead man, "See ya, buddy."

Saying a quick goodbye, Lily and Hunter found themselves back in the car as quickly as the conversation that just happened. Hunter was quiet at first, waiting for Lily to regain her composure for the second time that day. Her forehead rested on the leather of her steering wheel, deep breaths escaping her lips as her fingers wrapped around the wheel. A few moments later, Lily relaxed back into her seat, turning on the car.

"So Grandma and Grandpa are coming over?" Hunter asked, breaking the comfortable silence the mother and son had going on, "When did you find out?"

Lily tried her best to repress the smile the threatened to explode onto her face. She loved giving Hunter surprises. With everything the boy has been through, being able to see his face light up when he's faced with something unexpected was the only high she'd ever need. It was rare to see such extreme emotion out of Hunter, and let alone something as raw as the joy he gets with surprises. And this one that she had planned, it would go down in history. He would be talking about it for ages to come, for the rest of his life even. That's what Lily wanted, for him to create perfect childhood memories he'd be able to tell his kids in the future. To gather them up around the table at Christmas and pass stories around about how he and Grandma spent a day with Earth’s mightiest heroes and got to see where they worked. That was the goal of a parent, to make their child's days as memorable as they could.

"Oh the other day they mentioned it, but nothing was ever confirmed. I got a text this morning from Grandma about it," Lily hummed nonchalantly as she pulled out of the Brooklyn apartment complex, and turned onto the busy roads.

Connecting his phone to the Apple car play that came with the vehicle, Hunter spoke again, "That'll be nice. I know you miss seeing them sometimes. Long Island is so far away from Manhattan, why did you move away?"

Lily's smile grew wide, the dimple in her cheek creating a cavern of happiness at her son’s words. He was as intuitive as they come, and as observant as all get out. Truly, Lily believed herself to be one of the luckiest mothers in the world to be blessed with an angel-like Hunter. He was pure of heart and as sharp as a whip. He always picked up on Lily's microaggressions, and all of the small mannerisms she showed while in certain moods. She was never sure how he became as smart as he did, but doctors insisted it was because of her intelligence. That it carried on down to her son, and how he reflected her as a child. And Lily lived a loving and wonderful childhood, so hopefully, that too would relay to her son.

Reaching over to ruffle his hair, Lily let out a gentle sigh, "Well Hunter, I moved out here to the city with Auntie Gen when I graduated high school. I got into Columbia University, which was my dream school. So I came out here to study, while Aunt Gen was over in NYU, studying business. I moved out here for the opportunity, and I'm glad I did because you were the result."

Hunter let out a small noise as he acknowledged the story that his mother just shared while scanning Spotify for the best playlist. The two loved the eighties and nineties, so he settled on a premade group of songs from that era. The bass boomed throughout the car as the two began to belt out the lyrics to Billie Jean by Michael Jackson. It was moments like these when Lily felt most content. Just her and Hunter, living their best lives together as they sang to oldies but goodies. Being able to see his eyes light up whenever they passed a cool-looking building or when they saw a cute dog or one that looked like Joey. Her favourite moment though, the cream of the crop is when he sings. Though not a professional, he always looked so at ease while letting his voice dance through the car.

About twenty minutes into the drive, he caught on though, "This isn't the way home. Where are we going?" his voice rang, turning down the volume of the Lionel Richie.

She had to think quickly. If he noticed the slightest of hesitation in Lily's speech, the surprise would be blown, and he wouldn't be surprised when they didn't stop at home. So, she did what she thought would throw him off the most, "We've gotta hit a grocery store on the way home. Aunt Gen needs something for the cafe and this is the only place that sells it near here. Is that okay kiddo?"

Nodding, he turned the music back up. This meant that he believed what she said. If he didn't, he'd press on further. Interrogating Lily until he got the truth out of her. He would make a hell of a lawyer in the future, due to the strange ability he had of getting into people’s minds. He was like Scott in that way, but different at the same time. He never used it to manipulate, or use people, but to find out the truth. Get the answers. learn. That was Hunter’s goal, not to make people the puppets in his little game. he was curious, that was all.

Shortly after the small conversation between the two introverts, Lily took the turn that would lead them straight to the compound. Her aged eyes glanced towards the world that sat in her passenger seat. He hadn't noticed yet, and Lily was thankful. It would be more exhilarating if he didn't realize until they went up to the door. Knocking on the door and having someone like Captain America answer? Now that was something that Lily would love to witness. To see her son's heart swell at the sight of one of his heroes answering the door. She could only imagine what he would say, and couldn't seem to fathom how he would react.

Pulling into the parking lot, Lily stopped the car and turned it off, capturing Hunters’ attention. He sat up in his seat and glanced out the window, a confused yet intrigued look masking his typical stoic facial expression. Stepping out of the car, Lily gestured with her left hand to follow her up towards the doors. Hesitantly, Hunter followed along, his shoes making gentle noises on the rocks and pebbles below his feet.

"Where are we?" he questioned, hand slipping into the fragile one of his mothers, "and why are your hands always so cold?"

Lily remained silent, simply walking up the stairs of the compound. Her neck craned to look down at the bewildered boy, who couldn't help but swivel his head around in an attempt to recognize his surroundings. But the only time he would have ever seen this place was maybe in pictures, so Lily was sure that she had gotten the surprise in the bag. That she was able to dupe the boy that could rarely ever be surprised. Now that would be an accomplishment.

Lily's free hand reached up and knocked on the grey doors in front of them, pursing and nibbling on her lips in an attempt to hide the mischievous and prideful grin that threatened to give away the present. She had been looking forward to this moment the entire car ride, hardly being able to contain the excitement that rushed through her veins at the idea of her son’s wildest dreams coming true. Well, his wildest dream would be to become an Avenger or any sort of superhero. But a mother could only do so much.

Voices rang out behind the door before it was swung open to reveal Sam Wilson. The man who had originally offered to take the eleven-year-old boy on a tour of the place, "Lily! you made it, was starting to get worried you two would bail on us," he teased, chocolate brown eyes readjusting to look down at the blonde boy beside Lily, "Hey Hunter, nice to see you again."

Her son’s hand had slipped out of her own, which caught Lily's attention. she looked down at him and felt her heart swell about a million times bigger than it already was. His smile reached ear to ear, cheeks growing to a rosy red and his pupils dilated to eleven. He seemed frozen, stuck to his one position on the porch step of the Avengers compound. Her frail hand tapped the boy on the back, urging him to respond and walk into the building.

"He's a tad awestruck it seems," Lily chuckled, taking his small hand into her own and walking past the threshold of the home, "It took me a bit to find this place."

"Privacy is key for us," a voice rang out from a bit away. Lily's eyes averted towards the sound and she spotted Captain America. The Captain America. Steve Rogers. Every girl’s dream man. He was even more gorgeous in person, and Lily couldn't help but feel choked up as she looked at him. The way his chest looked as though it was going to burst through the fabric of his shirt, or how she could see his sky blue eyes from eight meters away, "Glad you guys could make it. Picked a perfect day, everyone’s around."

"Why don't I take Hunter down through the compound so he can get the full tour," Sam grinned down at the beaming boy, "Will you be joining us, Ms. Osborne?"

Oh no. If she went, her mind wouldn't be able to handle it. The idea of walking around with her son in a place like this was already overwhelming. Feeling as though she should be able to do more to give him the luxury life he so badly deserved. Making him feel as though he was the king of the world. Not to mention, the entire place itself was a lot to take in. And with her anxiety already running high today, it would be better for Lily's mind and heart to wait out in the car or something. Plus, Hunter was with the Falcon, she had no worries.

"It's okay, you two go have fun, I'll wait in the car," Lily said, a tight smile pulling at the sides of her lips as she ran a thumb across her son’s chin, nodding for him to follow the superhero. And as if he was in a trance, Hunter followed Sam like a zombie, or may a dog following a treat. Either would work in this scenario.

"Oh no don't go wait in your car, come sit with us. I'm sure Bucky wouldn't mind seeing you again after your run-in yesterday," Steve smiled, making Lily's knees feel like they had miraculously turned into jello, "He's making blueberry pancakes for a part of the team."

Lily's mouth ran dry. Blueberry pancakes. Just like the ones she had gotten the day prior. The ones he had asked her about. Her cheeks grew hot as a magenta colour blush forced itself onto them, giving away the embarrassment and intrigue she had. It couldn't have been anything. He was just making blueberry pancakes. That's normal. It was an average thing for people to do. Especially when you've got nothing else to do. right?

"He knew you may have been coming, that's why he made them." Steve whispered as he offered his arm for Lily, beginning to lead her towards the kitchen.

So he did make them on purpose.

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edsbev · 5 years ago

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where was the scene i said and then wrote it

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

Richie only breathes once he’s staring into the murky water of the quarry.

A very faint, badly rendered image of his face stares back at him. A reflection that ripples and waves – makes him look as wobbly and small as he feels, all his parts coming undone. He can hear their words, the cruel angry snarls from Bower’s mouth. So jagged and sharp his lips are shaped like a cut. He can hear that word, over and over, slicing through the video-game gunshots, the dark, dreaded music of a game over. Tangling itself like barbed wire around Richie’s throat.

Faggot.

Reflection Richie begins to tremble. Real Richie snatches up a rock and hurls it right through his face. The water explodes. The image breaks. Doesn’t want to see the way his breaths escape him in hitching gasps, bottom lip sucked in toward his mouth, like some kind of fucking pussy.

Instead, he sees the boy’s face. Looking back at Richie as he steps away. First a smile, then panic. Then his features cave in and his mouth turns over and he’s disgusted. Disgusted by Richie. Disgusted by this thing inside him that he wants to claw out. Richie hadn’t meant to make things weird. He really hadn’t. He had been so careful, kept his distance, all day. But then their hands had touched and the boy had smiled at him and Richie had thought…he’d wondered…

It wasn’t as though he had a crush on that boy, or anything. Richie didn’t even know his name. But something in Richie had been drawn to him, the curl of his fair hair, the sharpness of his smile, the way he had laughed, when Richie had told a joke, and said, with a snort, fuck off.

He’d reminded Richie of someone else.

The water of the quarry has smoothed back over and Reflection Richie stares up at him once again, a pale, shaken ghost of himself.

Richie hurls another rock through his face and then collapses onto the bank. Sits with his knees bent up, sneakers toeing the edge of the water, sun beating down on the back of his neck.

Fuck, he thinks. “Fuck,” he says, and worms his fingers under his glasses, presses against his squeezed-shut eyes until he sees bursts of colour, flashes of strange shadowed light, behind his eyelids.

Fuck this. Fuck this. He’s going to leave Derry, just you fucking wait. He can’t wait to get out of this shithole. He’ll just up and leave and never look back. And it’s not like the change of place will change him too but maybe it’ll better. To be in a place where no one knows him. He could change his name if he wanted. Could cut off all his hair and grow out a beard and replace his glasses with contacts and maybe cover his body in tattoos. It’d be better.

But, then, of course, that’d mean he’d have to leave –

“Richie?”

Richie can’t see, when he looks up. Because his vision is still swimming with colour and light from pressing down on his eyes, only made worse by the glare of the sun against the water.

But he knows it’s Eddie.

“Hey, man,” Richie says, tries for casual but his broken, watery voice betrays him. He clears his throat, wipes at his damp cheeks, blinks and blinks and blinks until his vision clears. “What – uh. Whatcha doing here?”

Eddie stands only a few feet away, his hair looking tousled and wind-swept, presumably from the ride over. He wears a baby blue Thundercats shirt, half tucked into the fannypack around his waist, and short yellow-and-blue shorts. One of his white tennis socks is hiked higher up his calf than the other. A small frown scrunches up his sun-kissed face – Eddie always tans during the summer – and he studies Richie like he can very much tell that he’s not okay.

Sometimes Eddie is painful to look at.

“I figured someone would be here,” Eddie says, and Richie’s really grateful that Eddie doesn’t prod, though he knows that Eddie’s probably itching to question him.

“Bet you were hoping it would be Bill. Sorry to disappoint, Spaghetti, but you’re stuck with me,” Richie jokes.

Eddie shrugs. “That’s fine,” he says. “Actually I was kinda hoping that I’d find you.”

It’s the last thing Richie would ever had expected him to say. He can’t find a single way to respond.

The rocks of the bank roll and clack together as Eddie makes his way over, Richie’s stomach twists and jolts as Eddie sits down next to him. His hand flails around by his side, blindly picks up a rock and skims it across the surface of the water. To try and distract himself from the fact that Eddie has the side of his sneaker pushed up against his own.

“Richie,” Eddie says, as Richie scrabbles for another rock.

Richie whistles, low, ignoring him. The rock skims over the water. “See that one, Eds? Bounced five times. Bet you can’t beat that.”

Eddie scoffs. “I can,” he says. But he doesn’t reach for a rock. Instead, he knocks his knee against Richie’s. Leaves it there. Golden skin against the stark white of Richie’s leg, all warm and sunbathed. Richie’s tongue feels too big for his mouth. Eddie says, a little firmer, “Richie.”

He’s asking Richie to look at him. So Richie does.

Richie shouldn’t be surprised to find Eddie’s face so close, to find Eddie’s brown eyes staring into his own. There’s a splattering of freckles across the tops of Eddie’s cheeks, the bridge of his nose, that you can only see when you’re close to him like this, or if you look hard enough. Richie wishes he could say that this is his first time ever noticing them. But it’s not. He’s noticed those freckles a thousand times.

A smile hooks at the corner of Eddie’s mouth. “Idiot,” he says, but there’s no bite to it; he calls Richie that the same way Richie calls him ‘Eds’. “You were hoping I’d be here too, weren’t you?”

The answer is no, technically. Richie had run here after being chased from the arcade. Had just run and run and run until he’d shaken Bower’s gang from his back. He hadn’t thought about Eddie as he scrambled down here; he’d just been thinking of finding a safe place.

But the answer is also yes. Because Richie hopes to see Eddie everywhere.

“Don’t know what you’re talking about, my good chap,” Richie says, putting on his British guy voice. “I wasn’t hoping to see anyone. Thought I’d just pop down ‘ere and hone in my swimming skills, I did. I figured I’d practise my breast-stroke. All good men must practise that one.”

Eddie rolls his eyes, but he looks amused. “Ha ha. You do know I’m trying to have a conversation with you, right?”

Those words feel like oddly like a sucker-punch. Richie can’t even think of a joke. He asks, jittery, trying not to go cross-eyed from looking at Eddie’s freckles, “A…about what?”

“About, you know…” Eddie trails off, his cheeks going a little pink. It hurts to look at.

“I don’t know.”

“You know…”

“No, dude, I don’t.”

Eddie coyly ducks his head and looks up at Richie through his lashes. It hurts it hurts it hurts. “About the fact that you like me.”

Fear spikes so sharply through Richie’s heart that for a second he is certain he’s going to die.

“Wha – ” Richie’s throat closes up and he can’t speak. Can’t breathe. “I don’t – ”

In his mind he sees the boy at the arcade, his face screwed up in disgust. In his mind he hears that word. Over and over again.

God, isn’t this impeccable timing. What the fuck brought this on. Eddie looking at him like that, face flushed, a warmth in his eyes, like some sort of fucking daydream. Why is Eddie saying this.

“You do,” Eddie says. “I can see it. The way you look at me is the same way Ben looks at Bev.”

No it’s not. No it’s not, because Richie is so careful he’s nothing like Ben he’s so fucking hyper-aware he doesn’t look at Eddie at all not if he can help it.

Except he does.

He looks at Eddie all the time. He looks and looks and looks. Quick, stolen glances. Long, wanting stares. His gaze is pulled to Eddie like a magnet, he’d just thought Eddie hadn’t noticed.

A little crease forms between Eddie’s brows now, his lips purse in a gaze that is both sympathetic and very thoughtful. “You like me so much,” he says, “don’t you?”

“No, I – ” The words come out like a gasp. “I don’t know what – ”

And, god, Richie remembers the two of them on the hammock in the clubhouse just yesterday, Eddie half on top of him, his head leant back, chatting happily to Mike. Richie had watched him over the top of his comic, until Eddie had looked, suddenly, over at him, like he could feel his stare. And Richie ducked his head, quickly, behind the pages before their eyes could meet, before Eddie could see him looking.

He thought he’d been fast enough.

“Chill, Richie,” Eddie says, with a small laugh. The words aren’t unkind. If anything, they’re affectionate. The next sentence is much softer, “it’s okay.”

But it’s not. Because they’re sitting here, in the open air. Exposed. The water reflecting onto the rocky cliffs around them, the water reflecting onto the smooth surface of Eddie’s cheek. Because they’re sitting here, and their legs are pressed together, and their faces are so close that Richie is dizzy with it, and they’re both boys, and it’s Eddie.

Because it was supposed to be a secret.

“I’m not going to say anything bad,” Eddie continues, voice still soft.

“N-no. Eddie, you’re…I mean, you’re wrong.” And this whole thing feels wrong. Like he’s warped Reflection Richie, not Real Richie. “What you’re saying isn’t true.”

“So, what, if I kissed you right now you wouldn’t like it?” Eddie asks.

If he – kissed – If Eddie kissed him – Richie stares at him dumbly. “I…”

“…want to kiss me,” Eddie finishes for him. Richie can’t say anything in response. Maybe he’s frozen. Maybe he’s scared he’ll say yes. “I know. How many times have you thought about it? Sometimes I think you probably think about it a lot. You know, when I see the way you look at me.”

Richie swallows. It’s not something he wants to think about. But it creeps up on him. But it’s there when he closes his eyes. But it’s all he can fucking think about when Eddie laughs or smiles or frowns or does nothing at all. His mouth on Eddie’s mouth. Eddie’s mouth on his.

Eddie scoots even closer to him. “C’mon, Richie,” he says. He’s so fucking close that Richie can feel his breath on face. That Richie’s vision blurs when he tries to look at Eddie all at once, so he alternates, looks at Eddie’s doe brown eyes one by one. Eddie lowers his lashes. His gaze drops to Richie’s lips. Richie’s heart leaps into his throat. “Kiss me.”

It’s like every dream Richie’s ever had.

“Eddie…” he murmurs, uncertain.

“Richie,” Eddie whispers. He leans in, impossibly close. Richie’s whole body is on fire. “Just kiss me.”

So Richie leans in.

And the dream stops there.

Because a high, cold sound makes Richie pause before their mouths meet. Laughter. Eddie is laughing. Because Richie is immediately recoiling, and Richie is immediately so fucking scared.

“Oh my god,” Eddie says, gasping for air like this is the funniest thing he’s ever witnessed. “You thought I was serious.” Richie’s whole body feels like a thousand tiny shards of glass, breaking away. And then Eddie laughter dies, and his eyes pin Richie in place. “Did you really think I’d want to kiss a boy, Richie?”

“Eddie,” Richie starts, desperate. “I’m sorry, I was just – ”

“Did you really think I’d want to kiss a boy like you?”

Richie’s mouth works hopelessly over a word he can’t get out. And then Eddie is dead.

His skin melts right off; rotting pale flesh, cold lifeless eyes. It is Eddie’s corpse, that Richie is looking at. It is a Eddie who died years ago, and clawed his way up from the ground.

A horrified shout rips from Richie’s throat. He thinks he yells, Eddie.

“See what happens when you try to kiss other boys, Richie?” Eddie grins, in a voice that is much too deep be his own. “See what you’ve done?”

“Holy fucking shit,” Richie says, fumbles frantically to his feet. “You’re not real, you’re not fucking real – ”

“I was real enough for you a minute ago,” not-Eddie says. He doesn’t have half his teeth. “When you wanted to shove your tongue down my throat.”

It’s maybe the wrong time to think about this. But a cold dread trickles down Richie’s blood stream as he comes to terms with what this really means.

That wasn’t Eddie. None of that was Eddie.

Eddie doesn’t want him.

Richie snatches up a rock. Zombie Eddie’s face is changing, lips growing redder, forehead growing larger.

Eddie would never want him.

Richie launches the rock straight into Pennywise’s face. But It only laughs.

“I know your secret,” Pennywise sings.

But – and in that dread Richie also feels relief, and disappointment – at least Eddie doesn’t. At least it’s still a secret. And it will stay that way, until the day Richie fucking dies. Because It is right, as much as that sentence makes Richie’s skin crawl; Eddie would never want to kiss a boy, let alone a boy like Richie.

And for the second time that day, Richie swallows down a sense of fear, of panic, of self-loathing, and he runs. Runs and runs and runs until he’s all out of breath. And he doesn’t tell anyone. About any of it. Not the losers, not thoughtful, kind Ben, or strong leader Big Bill. Even when the topic of seeing It comes up, and they all glance at him, waiting for him to chime in, expecting that he’s had the same experience they have.

Richie says nothing.

And this time when his eyes are to drawn to Eddie, as they always are. He doesn’t let himself look.

#me: im on fluff lockdown #me: writes pure ANGST #this is supposed to be a replacement for the paul bunyan scene #just like 10 times more painful #reddie #my writing #its about the yearning

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facelessxchurch · 4 years ago

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So all the grimoire artists do that cartoony child's book illustration style except for Todor. I was expecting them to dig up a bunch of legends, people like Emilyena, Julek Heller, Glenn Fabry, etc etc, and construct an absolute marvel, and this is what we get? Smdh look how the mighty have fallen

I would deem Todor's art style a child book style too tbh but it's a more old-school one from when they were putting more effort and money into children's books. It kinda reminds me or the original art style for 'Alice in Wonderland'.

It makes sense that the SP Grimoire would have a child book art style bc SP is a kids book series after all. But when it comes to the debate on whether or not SP should be a kids series in the first place I'm very firmly on the side of 'absolutely not', especially since Landy's main interest (comics and horror) make it absolutely nonsensical that he would choose children as his main audience.

So I'm not happy the most of it's art seems to be in a child book style. And looking at the mature art style of the 12 page comic and how it's absolutely not in line with the other art style makes me believe even more that they blew their entire budget on the comic, so the art for the rest of the Grimoire had to be cheaper.

This is not meant as an offense to the artists working on the Grimoire, but these art styles are meant to be quick, so of course it's cheaper than an art style that takes a really long time to render.

That being said, I totally agree with having loved to see the Grimoire being illustrated by Emilyena! Out of my fav artists, I think Znodden's and Vicious-Mongrel's art styles would fit SP so well too as they both have this darker noir vibe to them!

On a side note: I really don't know why you would expect them to 'dig up a bunch of legends'. Looking at how badly phase 2 seems to be doing, I suspected from the start the Grimoire would most likely be on a budget. I'm honestly still surprised the could afford a 12 page comic with a that high quality.

#SP Grimoire #anonymous #answered

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seriousfic · 4 years ago

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Terminator: Dark Fate

I have no idea how TSCC came up with two seasons’ worth of innovative scenarios about Terminators and these cinematic universe motherfuckers can only redo T2 with more CGI.

This movie is plotless. It has no real plot. It’s like Now That’s What I Call A Terminator Movie! There are so many callbacks and borrowings from all the other Terminator movies that it passes the point of homage and just becomes plagiarism. The bad Terminator is the same as the T-X, metal endoskeleton with a T-1000 shell. They kill him with a Terminator power core. They say Come With Me If You Want To Live and I’ll Be Back (twice! It’s the first thing Sarah Connor says and it makes no sense in context, it’s just something people say in Terminator movies). In fact, it has anti-plot, since it undoes a lot of the story developments in Terminator and T2.

The premise is basically just we’re going to remake Terminator 1, but people don’t like reboots, so we’re going to bring back Linda Hamilton and make it a technically kinda sorta sequel (sure, Skynet was wiped from existence, but another, completely different, yet exactly the same AI called Legion was created and did the exact same thing. Which also happened in T3, but they had the decency to still call it Skynet). But otherwise, it’s entirely people being chased by an evil robot from the future and trying to destroy it.

That’s it. That’s all there is to it. T2 had the whole thing about preventing Judgment Day before it happened. T3 had Judgment Day actually happen. This one, nothing. There is nothing going on under the surface other than a bunch of action sequences and explosions. Even T3 got some mileage out of the idea that Judgment Day was inevitable. Here, our cast learns that Judgment Day was already ‘averted’ once slash that it’s destined to be repeated and they basically go “Eh. Figures.” I’m not kidding.

Wait, that’s not fair. Let’s count out the TWEEESTS.

1. In a very contrived way, the script waits an hour and a half to actually explain why heroine Dani has been targeted for termination--you know, the thing Kyle Reese explained to Sarah Connor the moment they were out of danger--all to set up this big ‘reveal’ that Dani isn’t the NuSarah, she’s the NuJohn (yes, they actually say this aloud, just so you soup sandwich motherfuckers in the audience get it). Hear that, neckbeards, John Connor is now a woman! And Mexican! And she’s got a bit of a gay vibe, because it’s 2019 and God forbid we have a heroine that isn’t a bit bicurious. If she has a cock and balls, my bingo card will be a winner.

2. Months after killing John Connor and thus completing his mission, an Arnold-model Terminator started a family (wow, that was quick) and learned the value of human life and eventually switched sides. This is a crazy new idea that also happened in Terminator: Genebissss, so it’s done and dusted in ten minutes, even though Arnold is the most engaging character. (He’s saddled with a lot of yuk lines about how he’s a comically serious Terminator, yet (teehee) works as an interior decorator, but at least he has a personality.)

3. The other good Terminator is Grace, who needs meds to keep up her cyborg strength or she’ll crash (this never affects the plot) (it’s like they read something about Rey Palpatine having no flaws and so they decided to give Grace the ‘flaw’ of literally having her own Kryptonite). She’s not a Terminator, she’s an augmented human, which means she can make MCU-style wisecracks every five minutes. (”I didn’t hear anything.” “That’s because you’re not a cybernetic super soldier from the future.” Actual dialogue.)

4. Linda Hamilton is back, baby! Yes, that’s right, they dragged her away from doing guest spots on Lost Girl! Can you believe???? She’s become a Terminator hunter that ambushes Terminators as they come back from the future and destroys them, because Skynet was both able to send back an infinite number of Terminators AND because now they can easily be destroyed by one five-hundred-year-old woman.

This makes it a bit confusing why they have so much trouble taking out Ghost Rider, given that he’s a T-1000 skin with a creamy T-800 center. It seems like if you hammer him enough, he’s got no endoskeleton, and that’s all she wrote. That’s what happened to the T-X. Can his liquid metal skin just walk around without the other half of him? If so, what’s the point of the endoskeleton? The T-1000 managed without it and that seemed a lot harder to kill. At one point, Sarah hits the bare endoskeleton with a bazooka, which seems like it should’ve been a mortal blow, but it’s the first act, so I guess not.

And is it supposed to be funny that the opening takes place in a car factory where (in 2019!) the human workers are losing their assembly line jobs to machines? Because they’re all Mexicans? None of them ever look at a Terminator and go THEY TOOK OUR JOBS, but man, that one is all teed up for the Rifftrax boys.

For a movie with, as I said, no plot, it’s very rushed. They seem to be saying “yeah, it’s a dumb Terminator movie, you know the score,” (even tho it’s halfway aimed at people who aren’t Terminator fans; more on that in a minute) because it seems to take all of ten minutes for both good guys and bad guys to find Dani and start getting into CGI stunt double fights, which means the story has very little time to breathe and we have very little time to get to know any of the characters. The bad guy spawns practically at Dani’s front door! And pretty much does everything by massacring a bunch of people and then hacking a computer. The T-1000 had some intelligence, some charisma. This guy’s a big nothing.

And the Dani character is useless. She starts the story already super assertive, is barely traumatized at all by her loved ones being killed and her own life being endangered. There’s none of that relatable feel of an everyman suddenly being told they have a grand destiny and an incredible responsibility, because right from the start she’s standing up to her mean boss and doing the Nevertheless She Persisted thing. And all this while being literally five feet tall and looking all of twelve years old.

I love these Spy Kids movies.

And at least the original two movies were smart enough to leave the future John Connor mostly to the imagination. This one actually shows us Dani as grizzled military badass, beating up guys and delivering inspiring speeches (would it surprise you to know that humans fighting among each other “is exactly what Legion wants”?), and it’s just--oh man. If ever a political leader is enough to make people think back to the good old days of Trump and Biden...

And if we’re going to talk shit (rightfully) about Jai Courtney’s Kyle Reese not being at all scruffy or traumatized or feral, it should be noted that Grace seems pretty well-adjusted for a post-apocalyptic guerrilla fighter (who all wear Starship Trooper uniforms). Aside from a tendency to smash the face in of everyone she comes across, whether they’ve done anything to deserve it or not (Sample dialogue, to a doctor who is looking at her X-rays after performing life-saving surgery on her: “Did I give you permission to look at my private parts?” SMASH. No, really!)

They really go all in on this cringey, woke af “You’re not the mother of some MAN, Dani. YOU ARE THE FUTURE!” And yet, there’s a hilarious amount of toxic masculinity in this movie, just without the dongs. About every other line Sarah and Grace have is generic tough guy bullshit about how they’re going to kick someone’s ass, how they’re suspicious of someone, how they’re hostile towards someone. If they had dongs, you would think they were the smallest dongs possible, because they are compensating for something, BIG TIME. Between the T-800 and Sarah and Grace, everyone in this movie seems to outright hate each other, to the point that Arnold’s killer cyborg is one of the more pleasant characters. It gets to where you just want someone to order a fucking decaf. Does the fact that Sarah Connor has a vagina keep it from being ridiculously over the top how she spends all her time either blowing up robots or drinking herself into a stupor? C’mon. You can’t complain about male characters having ‘man-pain’ then give Bad Grandma a pass over her ovaries.

And that’s it. It’s a Brundlefly shit between yet another dumb girlpower reboot for the people who’ve never seen a Terminator movie and a sequel with Sarah and Uncle Bob to try and get that last drop of blood outta this stone. They’re trying to make something that appeals to both people for whom this is their first Terminator and people for whom this is their latest Terminator and it just doesn’t work. The newbies don’t have any emotional investment in these characters and the Terminator fans don’t like it that all the old movies were rendered meaningless to prop up Grace and Dani.

Hilariously enough, I actually played Terminator: Resistance recently, which is a fun little mid-tier shooter that was meant to tie in to this movie... and it completely ignores all the Dani/Grace/Legion BS to take place in John Connor’s future war and tie in to the first two movies. That’s how forgettable this movie is. Its own damn video game adaptation pretends it doesn’t exist. Fuuuck.

Oh! Oh! Oh! And in that big, bad, sexist original Terminator, which was so unwoke and problematic, Sarah saved herself and finished off the Terminator herself. Here, Dani has to be saved by Arnold at the climax. The 35-year-old movie is more feminist than this one. Fuck you very much.

#terminator

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oldadastra · 5 years ago

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Letter to Lucasfilm

So, I’ve written a letter to Lucasfilm. It could be better, but this is what came out this afternoon. I hope others who are writing will share what they are putting into the mail. I was trying to be concise, but it still ran to several pages. Find it in its entirety below the cut:

***

Lucasfilm, Ltd. Attn: Fan Mail PO Box 29901 San Francisco, CA 94129-0901

December 30, 2019

Lucasfilm/Disney:

I am writing to express my anger, shock, disappointment and deep sadness with the final installment of the Star Wars saga, Episode IX: The Rise of Skywalker.

I was ten in 1977 when the original film was released and have loved Star Wars ever since. I was thrilled by the reopening of the saga in The Force Awakens, and delighted by the excellent script, rich visual storytelling, nuanced character development, and thematic direction of Rian Johnson’s The Last Jedi.

Disney took on a sacred trust when it acquired Lucasfilm. Star Wars is deeply important to many people, and if you couldn’t do justice to the characters and themes of the saga, I’d argue that you had no business being involved in these stories. There is so much Disney/Lucasfilm got wrong in Rise of Skywalker, I’m struggling to gather my thoughts or express them coherently, but here goes:

Ben Solo. You created the most compelling character in the new trilogy by destroying the happy ending of the original trilogy. I was willing to go along on the ride Abrams and Kasdan began in The Force Awakens, because the fate of Ben Solo felt like it mattered. The questions raised in the new films: the nature of good and evil, the degree to which one’s family legacy defines a person, whether a one can atone for past sins; all of it felt alive and urgent in the person of Ben, a character I loved like one of my own children from the moment we so traumatically met him in The Force Awakens. His story was the beating heart of the new trilogy. His story is the one that mattered. His life was the one to be saved.

Ben solo was never an exposition device, cool villain, or disposable baddie to me. He was Han and Leia’s only child; loved, targeted, broken, lost.

The Rise of Skywalker redeems Ben Solo in the final act of the film, only to destroy him. Was it always your plan to kill the last Skywalker in the final installment of this story, to render the overarching message of all nine films as tragedy? If so, I wish I’d known this was your intent; I would never have engaged with these stories and made an emotional investment in them. If tragedy was your goal, that was certainly your choice to make, but I’d argue that you owed it to the audience and the cast to do a better job of it.

For example: You give us evidence that Han and Leia’s child was targeted by evil old men from before his birth. It’s a disturbingly explicit allegory of grooming and child abuse.

You give Ben Solo a backstory which implies he is guilty of vile, Anakin-style crimes against other young people, coding him as a school shooter, and then chose to exonerate him of this crime in a comic book, where the general audience will never know he was innocent. It’s a form of character assassination.

You consigned Ben Solo to the darkness for almost the entirety of three films, then denied him his voice in the final acts of his own story. “Ow?” The only words the redeemed Ben Solo will ever speak. Apalling.

You brought back Palpatine for this film (arguably rendering the message of the first six films meaningless), identified the Emperor as Ben’s tormentor all along, then denied Ben the opportunity to fight his enemy in the final act of the film. Rise of Skywalker literally throws Ben Solo into a pit, and forces him to climb out alone and unaided while Rey is whispered to by “all the jedi,” offering her words of encouragement. It’s grotesque.

I’m getting lost in rage and sadness again here, so let me just say that even if you inexplicably didn’t care about the last Skywalker in the Skywalker saga, you have done a grave disservice to Adam Driver in your treatment of his character in this these films. Perhaps you’ve heard of Driver’s non-profit organization, Arts in the Armed Forces? He’s deeply committed to the importance of stories as a way to make meaning out of the inexpressible. Did he really sign on to this project thinking that the final message of his character would be to say that even if you are able to come back from the darkness, your final act must be to die? That imperfect children don’t deserve compassion, forgiveness, life? You owe Mr. Driver an apology, but you can never really atone for what you’ve done to him.

You ended a nine-film, forty-two year saga with all the Skywalkers dead, and a Palpatine the last one standing. You spent three films tormenting Han and Leia’s child, only to kill him in the final act. What you did to Ben Solo (and frankly to us, who loved him) feels more like a horror story than anything else. In my dreams, I walk right into your offices and flip over tables.

There’s a lot more I could accuse Rise of Skywalker of bungling, but I assume you are hearing this feedback from others besides me, so I will summarize:

Rey Palpatine. Was is all about the midiclorians after all? By making her Palpatine’s granddaughter, you deny Rey everything that made her special; you deny her agency, and you negate the beautiful message I thought you were trying to communicate in the first two films with Rey Nobody: that the force belongs to us all, and that anyone can be a hero

The erasure of Rose Tico. It’s difficult to interpret this as anything but a capitulation to a loud, racist, and misogynist element of the fandom. It’s a very bad look, Disney. Please pay attention to the message you are sending.

Character development in general and a truly horrible ending: Rey goes back into her child-like costume, Ben Solo spent much of the film forced back into his stupid mask. Ben disappears at the end with no one to mourn him. Rey ends the film alone in a desert wasteland.

Rise of Skywalker is the most bleak, hopeless, and depressing Star Wars film ever made. As days go by, it’s becoming clear that it was also poorly written and edited. These stories matter to us, and we pay close attention to them. Disrespect us at your peril.

I don’t expect anyone will ever read this missive, or care at all about what an old shepherd on a mountainside thought about the execution of your multi-billion dollar movies. This is a personal exercise in catharsis as much as anything.

But here are a few notes in a language you might understand. I made some quick calculations about how much money I’ve spent on Star Wars over the past four years, and I’m sharing that with you now.

Movie tickets: I’m one of those people who sees movies I love more than once (I saw Empire Strikes Back eighty-one times in the theater!). I saw The Force Awakens and The Last Jedi at least ten times each. I’m not counting the cost of tickets for my extended family, whom I brought along to a number of screenings, or tickets for birthday party guests we treated to these movies. My teenaged daughter came along for all the screenings I am including, so I calculate I spent about $360 on tickets. We also bought tickets to Rogue One and Solo, so it was actually more, but you get the idea.

Books, tie-ins, DVDs, merchandise: I invested in The Art of the Force Awakens and The Art of the Last Jedi books, as well as at least one SW Visual Dictionary. I bought DVDs of the films of course, and CDs of John Williams’ beautiful scores. I bought and read a number of books; Boodline and the Leia novel, The Force Awakens novelization and Junior novelization, Aftermath, and a couple others whose titles escape me. At least seven action figures. Toy light sabers for me and my daughter. Posters. T Shirts. I know I’m not remembering everything, but it adds up to an expenditure of at least $347 in books and other Star Wars merchandise.

Star Wars Celebration: I splurged on passes for my daughter and I to attend Star Wars Celebration in Chicago this past spring. It cost me about $400, and a last-minute family emergency meant we were unable to attend, but the tickets were non-refundable, so it was money I spent on Star Wars nonetheless.

Total: $1,107

A laughably small amount to you guys, I’m sure. Perhaps a contrast is useful:

Total amount I have spent (tickets for my daughter and I on opening night) on Rise of Skywalker: $22.

Total amount I plan to spend on Disney Lucasfilm merchandise in the future: $0

I invested quite a lot of my time in Star Wars over the past four years. I’ve written thousands of words in essays, appreciations and analyses (mostly on Tumblr), where I amassed a modest following of just over a thousand people. I’m sure I occasionally bored my friends and family by going on and on about Star Wars. This kind of ‘work’ has no dollar value of course. I will say that it was great fun while it lasted, though I feel foolish in retrospect, remembering all the times I came to your defense, arguing that the saga was in good hands, that you had a plan; that you were going to tell a good story.

Sadly, I don’t think you can fix the damage you’ve done to the Galaxy Far Far Away with The Rise of Skywalker. You made this film, made your choices, and put it out into the world. I have no control over where you go from here, but as a person who has loved Star Wars since I was a child, I beg you to take some time to reflect before making another Star Wars film.

You’ve broken so many hearts. Mine was one.

Andrea ____

...my full name and address, blah blah, I live in Vermont

#letters to lucasfilm #Lucasfilm #tros #reylo #ben solo #tros grief #hit them in the wallet #disney lucasfilm

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crlmson-cloud · 5 years ago

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SUSUMU NAKAMURA - THE KNIFE OF NEW YORK

‘It seems I no longer define who I am...

I was not meant to be him.’

> BASICS「基本」 → Susumu Nakamura [進・中村] → 31 → Shy and lonely → Homosexual → Manga Artist, but will become a music artist in the Marvel AU → Speaks Spanish, English, Mandarin Chinese, Japanese, Italian and German → Nationality: Japanese/Irish → 5'9 before serum, 6'1 after > FACECLAIMS 「視覚」 [ PRE-SERUM MARKIPLIER [ POST SERUM ] CHRIS EVANS

Videos taken of Susumu Nakamura at a manga convention, five weeks before he went missing.

Experimental Copy of the Documents handed over by Susumu Nakamura, adapted by Angelo Sebastiani into a short story to tell of what happened.

There were many emotions that Susumu was feeling within this moment. With his true self, he's finally managed to publish another manga, and Beijing was the first city that he was going to meet people at, finally. A chance to be with the fans, and a holiday from being a manga artist and book writer. And his husband needed a break from the modelling opportunities that he was getting. The name of the husband, you may ask? Nathaniel Huang.

A man of around the same age and popularity as the man that he's married. The love that he's had for years with him. Nathaniel, whenever Susumu felt that he was with him. He felt complete, well and truly, he felt complete. Susumu even based some parts of the manga around his husband because of the fact that Nathaniel inspired him so much with his manga. Susumu has done most of the manga however, being the one that's come up with the original ideas for the stories that are embedded within the nine hundred page behemoth of a book. But also within the intricate details of what happens throughout the story. Boarding the plane to Beijing from Tokyo. Susumu expresses his own fears of finding a hotel. Since everywhere may have been booked beforehand. The man looks down slightly and his husband reassures him that they'll find somewhere to stay for the night, even though the meet and greet was cheap and admittedly, a lot of people went through with wanting to meet them.

* * * Five hours later, they manage to get to a hotel in Beijing as quickly as possible, before having to go into town square the following morning. Nathaniel looks longingly at a Captain America badge that someone was selling up at a market counter. Grabbing it, he decides to pay for it, as a present for his husband. Susumu thanked him quickly for the present and immediately wore it with happiness. Ever since the hero had gone missing, the popularity of his merchandise had been boosted in China. Meiguo Duizhang was becoming a staple of Chinese merchandise and strangely enough it had not been censored whatsoever when he went missing. Well, if he went missing, that is. The details were hazy upon the case of him. No one knew, and China, they were trying to find a new one in order to go through with trying to recreate him over and over. Even though the avengers originally promised that there would be another one if he was to ever step down. 'Wasn't your idol always Captain America when you grew up?' Nathaniel joked. 'Well, only when I found out the comics were being sold in Ireland.' Susumu responded, laughing slightly at what his husband had to say. 'But, yeah, I absolutely loved him.' 'Seems like the whole of China is going crazy over him.' 'Well isn't that obvious?' asks he. The Irish accent almost erupting from his voice as he asked. 'Hey-- calm down.' 'I am calm. What do you think we should do now?' 'Get something to eat, get some rest?' 'Sounds like a plan.' 'Quick question, babe?' 'Yuh-huh?' 'I'm just wondering, I have a meeting tomorrow morning, so are you good with just holding the panel on your own.' 'Yeah sure, I'm fine with that.' 'Alright, thank you.' Nathaniel says, hugging him tightly. A laugh erupting from his lungs slightly as he cuddles him. 'Stop crushing me with your hugs!' Later on within the night, they both had a romantic dinner and eventually, they both went to bed, cuddling together and eventually going to sleep. Susumu struggling more to go to sleep than Nathaniel. They decided to watch a film together, Susumu huddled up into Nathaniel's shirt. They kissed for a while, and they finally laid down. Holy hell he was excited. So excited for what tomorrow had to bring, so excited for whom he'd meet tomorrow. He eventually went to sleep with these thoughts within his head. * * * A few hours later, Susumu couldn't feel his husband by his side. He woke up, and only saw a bunch of black figures and Nathaniel in the background, instructing them all in Mandarin as to what to do with him. 'No! Get off me! I said get the fuck off me!' He shouts, they tried to bring him in but he continued to try to fight them off, that was until he felt a needle in the nape of his neck and was laid to rest once again through sedatives. What happened next, it's a much more darker story. He remembers these men trying to put him in a chamber, spraying him down with a lot of disinfectant before they started on him. Giving him his own clothes and then another injection to the back. China was obsessed with becoming the next power and this was one of the first ways of doing it. Susumu screams out as he feels himself getting pricked with needle. He felt himself grow larger with every injection that they made, and then they finally moved onto another part of him. 'Make him look like his crush, why don't you?' Nathaniel seemingly mocks him from the speakers. Susumu was shaking at this point, he still had a tan skin tone. His face was still all the same, still flawed. Still imperfect. He curled up into a ball and eventually was put to sleep yet again by sedatives. Although, the sedative didn't exactly work as intended. He felt everything, every single cut and prod that they pulled on him when they wanted to render him immaculate. How they changed his jawline, how they changed his skin tone. Everything. They changed everything about him. Up to the point where he was no longer recognisable as his normal self. 'Perfect...' Nathaniel says to himself as he looks down upon his quivering boyfriend in the corner of the room. Susumu didn't want to be perfect, he just wanted to be himself. 'What did you do to me?' He asks, looking up at his boyfriend. His voice croaking through. He had to stop himself from crying. 'I just wanted you to be more happy than you were before.' Nathaniel states to him. Shouting was then heard: 'No-- no why isn't the power fitting in with him?! You're saying it's his gene pool? What the fuck-- I've been trying my best to coax him into this for so long.' He shouts, lying to the people he's faithful to in the process. 'Only for it to fuck up because of his heritage?! I thought, I thought he could have fitted the genes. Give it to me! Give the fucking serum to me!' He hoped to wake up and see whether this was all a bad dream that he was having in his head. * * * Susumu eventually woke up in the hotel bedroom. He smiles softly as he begins to slowly think that it's nothing but a simple nightmare that he had. He gets out of bed. 'Nathaniel! Nathaniel, did you go for your meeting?' His voice hasn't changed in the slightest, it must have been a bad dream. he smiles even more widely. Relieved. 'Fuck he left, didn't even get to say good morning to him...' He then thinks to himself. Looking down at a table he notices a note completely in Japanese. 'Susumu, I've had a lot of fun with you over the past few years, but I've finally decided that we'd best go our separate ways. I hope you the best in the world and honestly, I really do hope that you feel happy. The reasons why I wanted to leave I'll disclose right here in this note. I no longer felt that spark that we once had back when we first met, I no longer felt that love for you that we once had. We both have such large differences, creatively and mentally that it's almost boggling as to how we got together. I'll admit, I'm so surprised that we lasted this long. I'm so sorry, Susumu. I loved you. I really did, but now I just can't keep that façade up for much longer. I'm so sorry. I hope you find happiness. Love Nathaniel xx' The man looks down at the note for a few minutes. Sitting back on the bed as he reads it, over, and over, and over again. He can't believe what he's seeing. He just wants to rip up the note. The feeling of being broken up with after a four year relationship made him feel sick to the stomach, he went into the bathroom, quickly, to get himself ready for his first meeting. He'll still be there. That's when he looked in the mirror. 'No . . . no . . . ' He lets out as he looks at himself. An arising fear beginning to grow and flourish within his body. He looked exactly like what Nathaniel wanted him to look like within the dream. Captain America. He has the brown, almost blonde hair, the chiselled jawline, the beautiful adonis like body that he had. He has everything about him. The only thing that Nathaniel didn't change about him was the beard. He kept that. The only thing that he kept about Susumu. When Susumu's fear starts to grow, he notices a shadow appear on the wall and break the mirror in front of him. He freezes for a moment. He was going to punch the mirror but that would be damage to property and he couldn't do that. 'Fuck--' He lets out as pieces of the mirror were all over the sink. He clenches his hand in anxiety as he wishes to fix the mirror again. Almost as if he could reset time, the mirror returned to its original state. No longer broken. Susumu looks down, noticing that there's still a piece of glass upon the tile floor. He picks it up and looks at the mirror. The mirror in reality was still broken. Thinking that he could get away with this, he changes his appearance to fit that with reality, although when he went out, a lot of people gave him strange looks, and some even called him by the name that he no longer wishes to be associated with. Meiguo duizhang. He went through with the meeting and a lot of people pointed out that he looked different to the profile photo that he shared of himself. Fuck this isn't working. The thought went through his head and thankfully, no footage of the meet and greet was ever posted on social media or was ever on the news. Susumu had to give back all the money that he gained, he hoped to give it to a charity that was about the poverty line. Helping those who were homeless. But now, there's no money. Susumu feels that he has no identity, nothing, he's left with nothing. His husband fucked up his whole life. He got on the plane back to America and quickly set course for New York, on a panic flight. Not even knowing where he was going. He managed to get through to the airport through a loophole in the system. His fingerprint was still the same, and the Chinese airport checked everything. While it took a day or two, he had a new passport and he could get in. * * * Eventually, he managed to get back there and he walked through the alleyways in order to feel as if he was slightly safer, that's when he stumbled across a woman with a knife, threatening to stab and kill him if he didn't give her his money. The woman was caucasian, a ripe age and unfortunately had stumbled down into the black market and got herself into debt. She started driving the knife closer to his stomach. 'Give me the fucking wallet!' She screams out. A circle of darkness forms behind her and pulls her back onto the wall. Trapping her there. Susumu then quickly makes his escape and manages to get to his house, letting the woman go before doing so. He eventually stays in the house and he begins to break down completely. Curled up in a corner, taking deep breaths to avert the point of sensory overload. He continues to do this for around thirty minutes. Going into his room, he ends up making a mirage for someone else unintentionally. He looked out the window and created another vision of a car, completely totalled in front of a driver. The driver who witnessed it got out of his vehicle and went towards the wreck, only for the wreck to then disappear. Causing him to panic and run back to his car immediately. That's when he realises, that he can bend reality to his own will.

#captainamerica #oc #marvel oc #backstory

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whirlybirbs · 6 years ago

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☄ ----- MOONRISE RADIO.

summary: you’re hawkins high’s new science teacher, faculty advisor for the newly reinstated hawkins av club, and crazy townie who overhears a russian comminucae on a broken ham radio. chief jim hopper is into it. joyce is a good wing-woman and the kids just want to listen the the buggles. pairing: jim hopper x reader, murphy as a placeholder surname. rating: t, some swears. word count: 3.8k a/n: this is a season three au! here’s the set up for all the drabbles i am going to end up writing for hopper bc he literally owns my whole ass, thanks, enjoy ;)

Hawkins, Indiana is a small town.

For this exact reason, Chief of Police Jim Hopper knows everyone.

... Seriously.

Everyone.

Hawkins is kind of like Saturn: try to leave its orbit and you’ll get caught in the rings -- literally. Y’know, high school sweethearts marry one another, settling down, and boom! Hopper winds up at their end-of-the-cul-de-sacs on domestic dispute calls and reunites with that shithead co-captain of Hawkins basketball team who keyed his car Sophomore year.

Life in Hawkins is a never-ending cycle of existence that renders everyone in the small town a familiar face. Everyone knows everyone’s business. Everyone knows everyone.

And everyone certainly knows Jim Hopper.

So, imagine his surprise when after her first day of high school, over a ravoli dinner, El nudges a crumbled pink piece of paper his way with an excited look on her face. The paper is well-loved paper and home to her new class schedule, a point of interest -- she’s marked what classes she has with the boys and Max.

“I like science,” she says with a full mouth, “Fun.”

El points to her sixth period.

Imagine Chief of Police Jim Hopper’s surprise when he sees an unfamiliar name. Someone he doesn’t know.

And she teaches science.

Summer fades with a wave of heat and full moons.

The last week of August creeps up on you and before you even realize it, you’re moving into the cleared out room of a retired Mrs. Gomez and hanging your own name up on the door along with three planetary mobiles, a periodic table and a big exo terra tank for the freshmen class pet on the back windowsill.

One period turns into six, and a week turns into three.

Your life begins again, Hawkins style.

“Miss Murphy!”

You’re wiping down the chalkboard, smearing drawings of ionic bonds into dust when the stampede begins.

Typical Friday.

You like Mike and Will and Lucas and Dustin and El and Maxine. The little squadron of hellions had managed to win you over easily within the first three weeks of school -- between the abundant D&D references and constant “curiosity voyages”, you’d seemingly become their go-to with questions, gossip, and over-all mentor-ship.

The whole bunch of them sat together in your sixth period class, and the whole bunch of them were really the only ones excited about Dash, that aforementioned freshmen class pet that you’d scooped up behind the school and saved from being roadkill.

El immediately wanders to the tank and makes sure the heat lamp is on.

You can’t help but smile. These are good students. You like them. They like you.

Maybe it’s because when you were younger, you were just like them.

It’s like a sixth sense. They just... know.

“We have a question.”

“Is it about reptiles again?” you chirp, wiping your hands, “I don’t know, like, anything about komodo dragons, Dustin, I told you --”

“No!” Dustin waves his hands, hopping up onto the edge of your desk, “No, this is about the AV Club.”

“AV Club?”

Mike rolls his eyes. “The AV Club!”

You blink. All six of them are looking at you expectantly. You deadpan.

“You lost me.”

“She’s new here, guys,” Will sighs, gently nudging Lucas who makes an O with his mouth, “Remember?”

“Right, right, right,” Dustin sighs, waving his hands with a charismatic no-front-teeth smile, “Sorry, Murph, my excitement precedes me --”

You shoot Dustin a look. No nicknames. He knows the rule.

“Make it quick,” you groan, waving an apologetic Dustin off your desk as you begin to collect papers from the previous period, “I have the open house tonight and I gotta get some grading done before -- you’ve got fifteen to catch me up on this AV Club thing.”

Lucas claps his hands. They all settle into the desks in-front of you.

You narrow your eyes.

Mike begins.

“So, there’s all this old radio station equipment in the top of the gym...”

You wring your hands.

You fiddle with the hem of your dress.

This is nerve-wracking.

For the first time in a while, you curse the fact you’ve got mostly freshmen in your classes -- with every new round of bright blue visitors stickers, parents are eager to pick your bones when you begin talking about your curriculum, expectations and the like. I mean, it’s good, you guess, that there’s parents who are engaged but... as a new teach at Hawkins, you can’t help but feel like you’re missing a part of the bit.

It’s nearing the end of the night now and you’ve noticed the parents don’t greet you like they do the other teachers. Like... like friends.

Maybe it’s because you’re new.

New to the town, too. Not just teaching high school science, you mean.

You wonder if all the news stories pouring out of that Hawkins Lab have anything to do with how cheap rent is in the area. The multi-family unit you’ve settled into is in a nicer suburb in town -- green lawns, a playground, neighborhood BBQs... You’d moved on the pretense of your hiring, excited at the chance to get out of the city for a while and live a quieter life.

You jump six feet in the air when someone knocks on the door-frame of your classroom.

“Oh my god --”

Your hand flies to your chest.

“Uh, sorry -- Sorry, is this... is this Miss Murphy’s room?”

The first thing you notice is the badge. It glints in the florescence.

The next thing you notice is... him. I mean, he’s tall -- tall and broad and intimidating but... soft. His eyes are tired and his voice is quiet and you’re staring, Jesus Christ, you’re staring --

Chief of Police Jim Hopper has never felt smaller.

You’re new -- definitely new. Hopper knows, in that moment, that you must be, He would remember someone like you. I mean, how could he not?

(Everyone knows he’s got a soft spot for beautiful women, but he’s damn near mush right now. Pudding. His knees are pudding. He is an idiot and his knees are pudding.)

He makes the doorway look tiny.

You sputter. “Y-yes! Yes, it is. Hi, I’m, uh, Miss Murphy.”

“I figured,” he chirps, lips quirking under his mustache. He waves the piece of paper in his hands, “Kinda... kinda said so on the schedule, y’know?”

“Jim!”

Immediately, someone shoulders his backside.

Right in the damn kidney.

“Christ, Joyce, ow --”

“Be nice!” she cries with a laugh, stepping around him.

The woman is comically smaller than the police officer before you. Joyce has a kind smile and sweet doe eyes and she excitedly rushes to shake both your hands in her own.

“It’s so nice to finally meet you,” she gushes, “Will has said so many great things about you --”

Your eyes widen. “You’re Will’s mother? Will Byers?”

“Yes!” she nods, “Yes, and, uh, this is Hopper --”

Joyce nearly snorts when Jim just blinks. She elbows him. He jumps.

He was staring.

“Jim Hopper,” he clears his throat, trying to regain any semblance of composure. This really knocked him off his game -- you really knocked him off his game. He was fully expecting some nasty old widow to be teaching, not a young, brightly dressed woman who’s smiling at him, Christ almighty, smiling, “Chief of Police.”

He offers his hand. You shake it and your lips quirk. “Are you... here to investigate me, or...?”

“Oh!” his eyes widen, “No, no, uh -- El is my daughter. Adopted.”

“Ah, right. Miss El. Got it,” you laugh a little, nodding, “Groovy.”

“Groovy.”

(Joyce narrows her eyes, grinning between yourself and Hopper. Groovy indeed.)

“She was nice.”

Jim’s cigarette glows red in the evening September air. Joyce, beside him, has this horrible, conniving look on her face -- the same look she gave him when she convinced him to ask Jenny Gonzalez out Junior year -- and Jim immediately goes on the defense.

“I dunno what you’re talkin’ about.”

“Miss Murphy,” Joyce grins, “I saw you staring.”

“I was not.”

“C’mon, Jim,” she chirps, “She’s pretty --”

“Yeah, a pretty bad idea.”

Joyce rolls her eyes so hard Hopper can feel it.

“Listen,” Jim says, flicking his cigarette into the pavement, “With everything goin’ on, I don’t have time for something like that.”

“Jim, stuff like that doesn’t care if you’ve got time.”

Joyce watches him climb into his truck. He slams the door shut,

“If it’s meant to be, it happens anyways!”

He narrows his eyes.

Then, cranks the window down and raises one finger.

“Not on my watch.”

Famous last words, Jim Hopper. Famous last words.

Happy Monday.

“I’m joining AV Club.”

“...What?”

“AV Club. Science. Fun.”

Hopper just takes a looooooong sip from his morning coffee. Eleven stabs her eggos. She forks a hunk into her mouth and chews.

Hopper takes another sip.

“AV Club.”

“Yes. Radios.”

“Radios.”

“Yes.”

You’re sweating.

The storage space of Hawkins High’s gym is ninety degrees at least -- and here you are, brandishing a flashlight in the dark as the Mighty Hellions dig through the space and pull box after box from the makeshift sauna.

“Think this stuff still works, Murph?” Maxine asks.

You ignore the informal nickname and pull open a box to eye a bundle of cables. They’re in good shape. The mic, at the bottom, is too if not a little grimy.

“I don’t see why not.”

After a grueling hour and a half, they finally set up shop in the closet across the hall from your classroom. It’s usually where they keep glassware and Bunsen burners but... with a little begging and a dejected look from Dustin, you grant them their plea and help them set up the impromptu radio station with relative ease.

The desk in the center of the room -- Mrs. Gomez’s old one -- is a little wobbly, but it works.

“And now,” says Mike, “The moment of truth.”

El flicks the switch.

And nothing happens.

Not so Happy Monday.

"How was AV Club?”

“Sad.”

Hopper’s mouth is full.

“Sad...?”

“Radio is broken.”

“Oh,” Hop hums, “M’ sorry, kid.”

“It’s okay,” El says slowly, looking out the window on the ride home, “Miss Murphy buying us new wires.”

Hopper blinks. “Miss Murphy?”

“Yes. Nice.”

Very.

Joyce rings you out the next evening at Melvald’s.

“I’m surprised you didn’t try Starcourt.”

You laugh a little. “What, that super mall?”

“I heard they’ve got everything,” Joyce chirps, “Will and the kids go there nearly every weekend. Ice cream, movies... you name it. A great place for a date, I bet.”

You laugh and pull out your wallet. “Oh to be young and in love.”

“No kidding,” she grins, taking the cash, “Speaking of... are you...?”

“Young?” you laugh, propping your elbows up on the counter, “Or in love?”

“Either.”

You like Joyce. She’s funny.

“No,” you sigh, “Nope. No, not right now. Neither. I spend my Tuesday nights with wine and a TV dinner.”

“Y’know,” Joyce hums, a knowing look in her eye as she bags the radio supplies, “I know someone who does the same exact thing.”

It’s Miller High Life, actually. And Tostitos.

That’s besides the point, though, because while Joyce is still very much on his case about the new science teacher, Jim is very much focused on the fact none of the stations god damn radios are working.

He could really go for a beer right now.

Something is jamming the signal.

Actually, to clarify -- the same fucking song on repeat is jamming the signal.

For the last two hours, it’s just been Video Killed the Radio Star by The Buggles over and over and over and over again. And then again, just for good measure. On the fourth round of the song, Jim had unceremoniously lobbed his walkie across the station. On the tenth, he’d yanked the chord for the radio out of the wall.

If Hopper hears that fuckin’ oh oh sound one more time, he’s going to lose it.

Callahan just shrugs when, finally, the music stops and the booming voice of Dustin Henderson comes over every walkie in the room.

“GOOOOOOOOOOD EVENING, HAWKINS INDIANA!”

Hopper peels into the high school parking lot.

Long strides carry him through halls that he knows way too damn well -- halls that wind and turn and lead him right to room 305. Your name is scrawled across the door alongside a picture of a constellation and a beaker.

But, the classroom is empty.

And then he hears it.

“-- OH OH! VIDEO KILLED THE RADIO STAR! --”

“I am so sorry, Chief Hopper -- I had no idea that was the PD’s frequency.”

You’re wringing your hands but you’re also two beats from laughing and Hopper is really trying to keep it together because... I mean, it’s funny.

Jim pinches the bridge of his nose. He feels bad. He... well, he probably shouldn’t have slapped the broadcasting mic out of Dustin’s hands. He’s got a short wire now-a-days, blame the whole Hawkins Lab incident and the fact he’s essentially harboring a fugitive and allowing aforementioned fugitive to go to high school and jam radio channels with Today’s Top 40 in her free time.

“No, no -- I... It’s fine. It’s fine, really, just...”

Hopper drops his hand. You’re trying your best to hide a smile that’s threatening to sweep across your whole face.

“Do not let Dustin play any more of The Buggles, okay?”

You chew your lip and lean closer, whispering. “... Did it really play for two hours straight?”

Hopper’s nostrils flare. He nods weakly. You note the missing walkie from his belt.

And then you burst into laughter.

You buy more cassettes at Melvald’s the next week.

“Oh,” Joyce grins, holding up a Madonna album before scanning it across check-out with a beep, “Nice stuff -- is this for AV Club?”

You laugh. “Let me guess, Chief Hopper told you about ‘The Incident’?”

Joyce's lips quirk and she tilts her head, eyeing you carefully as you bite back a smile and muscle out your wallet from your bag. “... No, he did not.”

“The kids were on the wrong frequency,” you gesture, a bit sheepish, “And, I mean, I had no idea until Chief Hopper had to come to the high school and let us know that he’d been listening to Video Killed the Radio Star for two hours straight.”

“Oh god.”

“Yeah,” you raise your brows, pull a face and mimic the catchy hook, “Oh oh god.”

Joyce snorts.

“It’s not working!”

“Boys,” you sigh heavily, “Just... Just let me look at it.”

There’s a scramble and the sea of bodies part. Max and El are posted by the door, watching with a dejected sort of disappointment. Your knees hit the floor and you ignore the fact your jeans are going to be covered in nasty dust from the underside of Mrs. Gomez desk. Your necklace jingles and you sigh, settling on your back and waving for Dustin to pass you the flashlight.

“Did Hopper break it?” it’s Mike, “If Hopper broke it, I swear to shit --”

“Language.”

“Sorry.”

You squint, pushing apart the mess of wires and sighing loudly when you find the problem.

It’s... weird. Like... Like some of the wires have been chewed clean through.

“Looks like one of the wires is frayed.”

“Frayed?!”

You take the main component home with you.

It’s sitting on your passenger side seat when you pull into Melvald’s.

In the spot in-front of the store sits a Hawkins Police Dept. truck with a CHIEF decal on the side.

“She’s funny and smart and came in here and talked about you --”

“Talked about me?” Jim’s leaned against the counter, coke in his hands, “Hold on, what? You didn’t tell me that.”

“Yeah,” Joyce’s voice lilts, “She, uh, was telling me about The Buggles incident.”

Jim groans.

“Oh, yeah, when I nearly drove my fist through the kids’ new hobby?”

“-- Funny, she left that part out --”

“I made an ass of myself, Joyce.”

“Hey,” Joyce coos, throwing her hands, “Maybe she likes that about you... y’know... your uncanny ability to be a... uh, an ass?”

“Nice.”

“I’m kidding.”

The shop door dings and Chief of Police Jim Hopper chokes on his diet coke.

You stop short in the doorway.

The store is mostly empty -- it’s almost closing time, anyways -- and you can’t help but feel like you’re intruding on Hopper and Joyce’s conversation, especially when Hopper is cursing and wiping at the soda spilled down the front of him.

Overhead, Movin’ Out by Billy Joel plays.

“-- Workin’ too hard can give you a heart attack-ack-ack-ack-ack --”

“Miss Murphy!” Joyce grins, “Hi there!”

“Hi Joyce,” you smile, nearing the counter. You can’t help but hide a smirk as Hopper sighs and stands. He drops his hands to his side and you get a full view of the coke down the front of his uniform, “Chief.”

(A little part of him dies inside then.)

(Joyce sees it.)

“Evening, Miss Murphy.”

“Rough night?”

“Little bit,” he heaves, downing the rest of his soda and crushing the can. He lobs it into the trash can beside the register with ease, “Well, duty calls, ladies.”

“Duty calls?” Joyce asks, crossing her arms. Suspicion paints her features.

She’s trying to get him to stay -- trying to goad him into a conversation with you, just like she always does, but the problem is that Joyce is a great wing-woman and honestly?

That kind of terrifies him.

It’s been a minute and a half since he’s considered anything more than a one-night stand with someone. He’s been busy, y’know, saving this dimension and keeping a top-secret government facility secret.

“Yeah,” he deadpans, not feeding into it, “Duty.”

“Duty.”

You blink between them both.

Jim’s out the door with the tinker of the overhead bell.

Ouch. You turn to Joyce.

“I don’t think he likes me very much.”

Famous last words.

“Testing, one, two, three --”

You groan, switch frequencies one more time, and throw your hands.

Maybe the whole Hawkins High Radio Station idea was never meant to come to fruition. It hurts to admit it and you know the kids are going to be so damn upset, but no amount of soldering and wire replacements seems to be getting this hunk of junk to give out any sort of signal.

You take a long drink from your glass of wine and collapse back onto the couch.

Then, you hear it.

"I’ll be sure to let Chief Hopper know, Miss Murphy.”

“Listen, I... Is he here? I’m kinda in a rush and this is sort of important --”

You’re pushing past Florence, the nice secretary, before you even realize it.

You’d known Hawkins was a weird town. That much was pretty clear from the odd disappearances, government labs and toxic leaks. But this... this is more than just weird. This is borderline panic inducing.

Hopper has a cigarette between his lips and his hat on his desk when you barge in.

He jumps six feet in the air and spills his coffee.

“Jesus --”

“Listen, Chief, I know you’re a real busy guy, but --”

“I am so sorry, Jim,” it’s Florence, moving to put herself between you and the Chief, “Miss Murphy, please, if you can take a seat, Chief Hopper would love to hear all about your top secret Russian communicae when he’s done his coffee --”

When Jim’s eyes widen a mile, you realize he knows something you don’t.

Jim feels small in your living room.

It’s a nice place -- furnished with plants and art and your TV has a stack of sci-fi movies atop of it. In the middle of your rug, though, sits the ham radio surrounded by a winding mess of wires. It’s off, and when you near it, you wring your hands. You’re nervous, he can tell. You can hardly stand still.

“Do you think I’m crazy?”

Hopper blinks. He clears his throat. “What?”

“This... Hopper, I swear, I heard Russian --”

“No, I... I believe you,” he says slowly, narrowing his eyes, “Hawkins is a...”

“Weird town?”

“Weird town.”

You nod slowly then, crank the on switch, and the radio hums alive in a language neither of you know.

Hopper just sighs.

“... What do you know about radios?”

“It’s close,” you say finally, blinking up from the manual, “It has to be -- I mean, this specefic model only broadcasts and receives up to fifteen miles. That’s... what? Like, all of Hawkins?”

“Just about,” Jim hums, hands on his chin, “and what about the channels?”

“I mean, it’s messy -- I hijacked your frequency. On accident.”

Hopper smothers a smirk with a drag of his cigarette. You grin. His office back at Hawkins PD falls quiet for a moment and you catch yourself staring again. Across from him, you squirm a bit in your seat and turn your attention back to the Olympia Radio booklet.

“There’s no way of tracking the channels,” you sigh, “I... I dunno. I’m kinda out of my element here.”

“What is your element?”

“Chemistry,” you chirp, “And biology. And some physics.”

“Chemistry, huh?”

“Speaking of which, I know you don’t like me much but,” you rush, blinking up at him, “Thanks for believing me.”

The moment would have been sweet if Hopper hadn’t reeled backwards, like he’s been punched. His face screws up in confusion and he waves, cigarette smoke halo-ing around his head as his mustache twitches.

“Wait... hold on --”

“It’s okay,” you console, “Seriously, I... I’m new around here, I... I get it a lot. Folks don’t really trust the new girl next door. Especially with everything that’s been going on.”

“I... I never said --”

You serve him a look.

“Duty?”

“... I panicked.”

“Panicked?”

Hopper sighs. “You’re just as bad as Joyce.”

Your brows raise. “Are you and her...?”

“No!” he cries, “No, no, I... I am single, I am very single, and I am very busy, but despite that, I still would like to ask you out to dinner, and that is terrifying, okay --”

You blink. “You... what?”

Jim’s about to try and dig himself out of his metaphorical grave when the radio flares up again.

You scramble to grab the recorder and Jim turns the volume up -- quickly, you record the repetitive sentence and when the line finally goes silent again, you spare Hopper a look.

“How about dinner and Russian For Dummies?”

#stranger things imagine #jim hopper x reader #chief hopper x reader #hopper x reader #jim hopper imagine #moonrise radio #stranger things headcanon #stranger things reader insert #jim hopper headcanon

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muhammad-ubaidullah-khan · 4 years ago

Text

The Man in Asbestos: An Allegory of the Future

by Stephen Leacock

To begin with let me admit that I did it on purpose. Perhaps it was partly from jealousy.

It seemed unfair that other writers should be able at will to drop into a sleep of four or five hundred years, and to plunge head first into a distant future and be a witness of its marvels.

I wanted to do that too.

I always had been, I still am, a passionate student of social problems. The world of to-day with its roaring machinery, the unceasing toil of its working classes, its strife, its poverty, its war, its cruelty, appals me as I look at it. I love to think of the time that must come some day when man will have conquered nature, and the toil-worn human race enter upon an era of peace.

I loved to think of it, and I longed to see it.

So I set about the thing deliberately.

What I wanted to do was to fall asleep after the customary fashion, for two or three hundred years at least, and wake and find myself in the marvel world of the future.

I made my preparations for the sleep.

I bought all the comic papers that I could find, even the illustrated ones. I carried them up to my room in my hotel: with them I brought up a pork pie and dozens and dozens of doughnuts. I ate the pie and the doughnuts, then sat back in the bed and read the comic papers one after the other. Finally, as I felt the awful lethargy stealing upon me, I reached out my hand for the London Weekly Times, and held up the editorial page before my eye.

It was, in a way, clear, straight suicide, but I did it.

I could feel my senses leaving me. In the room across the hall there was a man singing. His voice, that had been loud, came fainter and fainter through the transom. I fell into a sleep, the deep immeasurable sleep in which the very existence of the outer world was hushed. Dimly I could feel the days go past, then the years, and then the long passage of the centuries.

Then, not as it were gradually, but quite suddenly, I woke up, sat up, and looked about me.

Where was I?

Well might I ask myself.

I found myself lying, or rather sitting up, on a broad couch. I was in a great room, dim, gloomy, and dilapidated in its general appearance, and apparently, from its glass cases and the stuffed figures that they contained, some kind of museum.

Beside me sat a man. His face was hairless, but neither old nor young. He wore clothes that looked like the grey ashes of paper that had burned and kept its shape. He was looking at me quietly, but with no particular surprise or interest.

"Quick," I said, eager to begin; "where am I? Who are you? What year is this; is it the year 3000, or what is it?"

He drew in his breath with a look of annoyance on his face.

"What a queer, excited way you have of speaking," he said.

"Tell me," I said again, "is this the year 3000?"

"I think I know what you mean," he said; "but really I haven't the faintest idea. I should think it must be at least that, within a hundred years or so; but nobody has kept track of them for so long, it's hard to say."

"Don't you keep track of them any more?" I gasped.

"We used to," said the man. "I myself can remember that a century or two ago there were still a number of people who used to try to keep track of the year, but it died out along with so many other faddish things of that kind. Why," he continued, showing for the first time a sort of animation in his talk, "what was the use of it? You see, after we eliminated death--"

"Eliminated death!" I cried, sitting upright. "Good God!"

"What was that expression you used?" queried the man.

"Good God!" I repeated.

"Ah," he said, "never heard it before. But I was saying that after we had eliminated Death, and Food, and Change, we had practically got rid of Events, and--"

"Stop!" I said, my brain reeling. "Tell me one thing at a time."

"Humph!" he ejaculated. "I see, you must have been asleep a long time. Go on then and ask questions. Only, if you don't mind, just as few as possible, and please don't get interested or excited."

Oddly enough the first question that sprang to my lips was--

"What are those clothes made of?"

"Asbestos," answered the man. "They last hundreds of years. We have one suit each, and there are billions of them piled up, if anybody wants a new one."

"Thank you," I answered. "Now tell me where I am?"

"You are in a museum. The figures in the cases are specimens like yourself. But here," he said, "if you want really to find out about what is evidently a new epoch to you, get off your platform and come out on Broadway and sit on a bench."

I got down.

As we passed through the dim and dust-covered buildings I looked curiously at the figures in the cases.

"By Jove!" I said looking at one figure in blue clothes with a belt and baton, "that's a policeman!"

"Really," said my new acquaintance, "is that what a policeman was? I've often wondered. What used they to be used for?"

"Used for?" I repeated in perplexity. "Why, they stood at the corner of the street."

"Ah, yes, I see," he said, "so as to shoot at the people. You must excuse my ignorance," he continued, "as to some of your social customs in the past. When I took my education I was operated upon for social history, but the stuff they used was very inferior."

I didn't in the least understand what the man meant, but had no time to question him, for at that moment we came out upon the street, and I stood riveted in astonishment.

Broadway! Was it possible? The change was absolutely appalling! In place of the roaring thoroughfare that I had known, this silent, moss-grown desolation! Great buildings fallen into ruin through the sheer stress of centuries of wind and weather, the sides of them coated over with a growth of fungus and moss! The place was soundless. Not a vehicle moved. There were no wires overhead--no sound of life or movement except, here and there, there passed slowly to and fro human figures dressed in the same asbestos clothes as my acquaintance, with the same hairless faces, and the same look of infinite age upon them.

Good heavens; And was this the era of the Conquest that I had hoped to see! I had always taken for granted, I do not know why, that humanity was destined to move forward. This picture of what seemed desolation on the ruins of our civilization rendered me almost speechless.

There were little benches placed here and there on the street. We sat down.

"Improved, isn't it," said man in asbestos, "since the days when you remember it?"

He seemed to speak quite proudly.

I gasped out a question.

"Where are the street cars and the motors?"

"Oh, done away with long ago," he said; "how awful they must have been. The noise of them!" and his asbestos clothes rustled with a shudder.

"But how do you get about?"

"We don't," he answered. "Why should we? It's just the same being here as being anywhere else." He looked at me with an infinity of dreariness in his face.

A thousand questions surged into my mind at once. I asked one of the simplest.

"But how do you get back and forwards to your work?"

"Work!" he said. "There isn't any work. It's finished. The last of it was all done centuries ago."

I looked at him a moment open-mouthed. Then I turned and looked again at the grey desolation of the street with the asbestos figures moving here and there.

I tried to pull my senses together. I realized that if I was to unravel this new and undreamed-of future, I must go at it systematically and step by step.

"I see," I said after a pause, "that momentous things have happened since my time. I wish you would let me ask you about it all systematically, and would explain it to me bit by bit. First, what do you mean by saying that there is no work?"

"Why," answered my strange acquaintance, "it died out of itself. Machinery killed it. If I remember rightly, you had a certain amount of machinery even in your time. You had done very well with steam, made a good beginning with electricity, though I think radial energy had hardly as yet been put to use."

I nodded assent.

"But you found it did you no good. The better your machines, the harder you worked. The more things you had the more you wanted. The pace of life grew swifter and swifter. You cried out, but it would not stop. You were all caught in the cogs of your own machine. None of you could see the end."

"That is quite true," I said. "How do you know it all?"

"Oh," answered the Man in Asbestos, "that part of my education was very well operated--I see you do not know what I mean. Never mind, I can tell you that later. Well, then, there came, probably almost two hundred years after your time, the Era of the Great Conquest of Nature, the final victory of Man and Machinery."

"They did conquer it?" I asked quickly, with a thrill of the old hope in my veins again.

"Conquered it," he said, "beat it out! Fought it to a standstill! Things came one by one, then faster and faster, in a hundred years it was all done. In fact, just as soon as mankind turned its energy to decreasing its needs instead of increasing its desires, the whole thing was easy. Chemical Food came first. Heavens! the simplicity of it. And in your time thousands of millions of people tilled and grubbed at the soil from morning till night. I've seen specimens of them--farmers, they called them. There's one in the museum. After the invention of Chemical Food we piled up enough in the emporiums in a year to last for centuries. Agriculture went overboard. Eating and all that goes with it domestic labour, housework--all ended. Nowadays one takes a concentrated pill every year or so, that's all. The whole digestive apparatus, as you knew it, was a clumsy thing that had been bloated up like a set of bagpipes through the evolution of its use!"

I could not forbear to interrupt. "Have you and these people," I said, "no stomachs--no apparatus?"

"Of course we have," he answered, "but we use it to some purpose. Mine is largely filled with my education--but there! I am anticipating again. Better let me go on as I was. Chemical Food came first: that cut off almost one-third of the work, and then came Asbestos Clothes. That was wonderful! In one year humanity made enough suits to last for ever and ever. That, of course, could never have been if it hadn't been connected with the revolt of women and the fall of Fashion."

"Have the Fashions gone," I asked, "that insane, extravagant idea of--" I was about to launch into one of my old-time harangues about the sheer vanity of decorative dress, when my eye rested on the moving figures in asbestos, and I stopped.

"All gone," said the Man in Asbestos. "Then next to that we killed, or practically killed, the changes of climate. I don't think that in your day you properly understood how much of your work was due to the shifts of what you called the weather. It meant the need of all kinds of special clothes and houses and shelters, a wilderness of work. How dreadful it must have been in your day--wind and storms, great wet masses--what did you call them?--clouds--flying through the air, the ocean full of salt, was it not?--tossed and torn by the wind, snow thrown all over everything, hail, rain--how awful!"

"Sometimes," I said, "it was very beautiful. But how did you alter it?"

"Killed the weather!" answered the Man in Asbestos. "Simple as anything--turned its forces loose one against the other, altered the composition of the sea so that the top became all more or less gelatinous. I really can't explain it, as it is an operation that I never took at school, but it made the sky grey, as you see it, and the sea gum-coloured, the weather all the same. It cut out fuel and houses and an infinity of work with them!"

He paused a moment. I began to realize something of the course of evolution that had happened.

"So," I said, "the conquest of nature meant that presently there was no more work to do?"

"Exactly," he said, "nothing left."

"Food enough for all?"

"Too much," he answered.

"Houses and clothes?"

"All you like," said the Man in Asbestos, waving his hand. "There they are. Go out and take them. Of course, they're falling down--slowly, very slowly. But they'll last for centuries yet, nobody need bother."

Then I realized, I think for the first time, just what work had meant in the old life, and how much of the texture of life itself had been bound up in the keen effort of it.

Presently my eyes looked upward: dangling at the top of a moss-grown building I saw what seemed to be the remains of telephone wires.

"What became of all that," I said, "the telegraph and the telephone and all the system of communication?"

"Ah," said the Man in Asbestos, "that was what a telephone meant, was it? I knew that it had been suppressed centuries ago. Just what was it for?"

"Why," I said with enthusiasm, "by means of the telephone we could talk to anybody, call up anybody, and talk at any distance."

"And anybody could call you up at any time and talk?" said the Man in Asbestos, with something like horror. "How awful! What a dreadful age yours was, to be sure. No, the telephone and all the rest of it, all the transportation and intercommunication was cut out and forbidden. There was no sense in it. You see," he added, "what you don't realize is that people after your day became gradually more and more reasonable. Take the railroad, what good was that? It brought into every town a lot of people from every other town. Who wanted them? Nobody. When work stopped and commerce ended, and food was needless, and the weather killed, it was foolish to move about. So it was all terminated. Anyway," he said, with a quick look of apprehension and a change in his voice, "it was dangerous!"

"So!" I said. "Dangerous! You still have danger?"

"Why, yes," he said, "there's always the danger of getting broken."

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"Why," said the Man in Asbestos, "I suppose it's what you would call being dead. Of course, in one sense there's been no death for centuries past; we cut that out. Disease and death were simply a matter of germs. We found them one by one. I think that even in your day you had found one or two of the easier, the bigger ones?"

I nodded.

"Yes, you had found diphtheria and typhoid and, if I am right, there were some outstanding, like scarlet fever and smallpox, that you called ultra-microscopic, and which you were still hunting for, and others that you didn't even suspect. Well, we hunted them down one by one and destroyed them. Strange that it never occurred to any of you that Old Age was only a germ! It turned out to be quite a simple one, but it was so distributed in its action that you never even thought of it."

"And you mean to say," I ejaculated in amazement, looking at the Man in Asbestos, "that nowadays you live for ever?"

"I wish," he said, "that you hadn't that peculiar, excitable way of talking; you speak as if everything mattered so tremendously. Yes," he continued, "we live for ever, unless, of course, we get broken. That happens sometimes. I mean that we may fall over a high place or bump on something, and snap ourselves. You see, we're just a little brittle still--some remnant, I suppose, of the Old Age germ--and we have to be careful. In fact," he continued, "I don't mind saying that accidents of this sort were the most distressing feature of our civilization till we took steps to cut out all accidents. We forbid all street cars, street traffic, aeroplanes, and so on. The risks of your time," he said, with a shiver of his asbestos clothes, "must have been awful."

"They were," I answered, with a new kind of pride in my generation that I had never felt before, "but we thought it part of the duty of brave people to--"

"Yes, yes," said the Man in Asbestos impatiently, "please don't get excited. I know what you mean. It was quite irrational."

We sat silent for a long time. I looked about me at the crumbling buildings, the monotone, unchanging sky, and the dreary, empty street. Here, then, was the fruit of the Conquest, here was the elimination of work, the end of hunger and of cold, the cessation of the hard struggle, the downfall of change and death--nay, the very millennium of happiness. And yet, somehow, there seemed something wrong with it all. I pondered, then I put two or three rapid questions, hardly waiting to reflect upon the answers.

"Is there any war now?"

"Done with centuries ago. They took to settling international disputes with a slot machine. After that all foreign dealings were given up. Why have them? Everybody thinks foreigners awful."

"Are there any newspapers now?"

"Newspapers! What on earth would we want them for? If we should need them at any time there are thousands of old ones piled up. But what is in them, anyway; only things that happen, wars and accidents and work and death. When these went newspapers went too. Listen," continued the Man in Asbestos, "you seem to have been something of a social reformer, and yet you don't understand the new life at all. You don't understand how completely all our burdens have disappeared. Look at it this way. How used your people to spend all the early part of their lives?"

"Why," I said, "our first fifteen years or so were spent in getting education."

"Exactly," he answered; "now notice how we improved on all that. Education in our day is done by surgery. Strange that in your time nobody realized that education was simply a surgical operation. You hadn't the sense to see that what you really did was to slowly remodel, curve and convolute the inside of the brain by a long and painful mental operation. Everything learned was reproduced in a physical difference to the brain. You knew that, but you didn't see the full consequences. Then came the invention of surgical education--the simple system of opening the side of the skull and engrafting into it a piece of prepared brain. At first, of course, they had to use, I suppose, the brains of dead people, and that was ghastly"--here the Man in Asbestos shuddered like a leaf--"but very soon they found how to make moulds that did just as well. After that it was a mere nothing; an operation of a few minutes would suffice to let in poetry or foreign languages or history or anything else that one cared to have. Here, for instance," he added, pushing back the hair at the side of his head and showing a scar beneath it, "is the mark where I had my spherical trigonometry let in. That was, I admit, rather painful, but other things, such as English poetry or history, can be inserted absolutely without the least suffering. When I think of your painful, barbarous methods of education through the ear, I shudder at it. Oddly enough, we have found lately that for a great many things there is no need to use the head. We lodge them--things like philosophy and metaphysics, and so on--in what used to be the digestive apparatus. They fill it admirably."

He paused a moment. Then went on:

"Well, then, to continue, what used to occupy your time and effort after your education?"

"Why," I said, "one had, of course, to work, and then, to tell the truth, a great part of one's time and feeling was devoted toward the other sex, toward falling in love and finding some woman to share one's life."

"Ah," said the Man in Asbestos, with real interest. "I've heard about your arrangements with the women, but never quite understood them. Tell me; you say you selected some woman?"

"Yes."

"And she became what you called your wife?"

"Yes, of course."

"And you worked for her?" asked the Man in Asbestos in astonishment.

"Yes."

"And she did not work?"

"No," I answered, "of course not."

"And half of what you had was hers?"

"Yes."

"And she had the right to live in your house and use your things?"

"Of course," I answered.

"How dreadful!" said the Man in Asbestos. "I hadn't realized the horrors of your age till now."

He sat shivering slightly, with the same timid look in his face as before.

Then it suddenly struck me that of the figures on the street, all had looked alike.

"Tell me," I said, "are there no women now? Are they gone too?"

"Oh, no," answered the Man in Asbestos, "they're here just the same. Some of those are women. Only, you see, everything has been changed now. It all came as part of their great revolt, their desire to be like the men. Had that begun in your time?"

"Only a little." I answered; "they were beginning to ask for votes and equality."

"That's it," said my acquaintance, "I couldn't think of the word. Your women, I believe, were something awful, were they not? Covered with feathers and skins and dazzling colours made of dead things all over them? And they laughed, did they not, and had foolish teeth, and at any moment they could inveigle you into one of those contracts? Ugh!"

He shuddered.

"Asbestos," I said (I knew no other name to call him), as I turned on him in wrath, "Asbestos, do you think that those jelly-bag Equalities out on the street there, with their ash-barrel suits, can be compared for one moment with our unredeemed, unreformed, heaven-created, hobble-skirted women of the twentieth century?"

Then, suddenly, another thought flashed into my mind--

"The children," I said, "where are the children? Are there any?"

"Children," he said, "no! I have never heard of there being any such things for at least a century. Horrible little hobgoblins they must have been! Great big faces, and cried constantly! And grew, did they not? Like funguses! I believe they were longer each year than they had been the last, and--"

I rose.

"Asbestos!" I said, "this, then, is your coming Civilization, your millennium. This dull, dead thing, with the work and the burden gone out of life, and with them all the joy and sweetness of it. For the old struggle mere stagnation, and in place of danger and death, the dull monotony of security and the horror of an unending decay! Give me back," I cried, and I flung wide my arms to the dull air, "the old life of danger and stress, with its hard toil and its bitter chances, and its heartbreaks. I see its value! I know its worth! Give me no rest," I cried aloud--

. . . . . . .

"Yes, but give a rest to the rest of the corridor!" cried an angered voice that broke in upon my exultation.

Suddenly my sleep had gone.

I was back again in the room of my hotel, with the hum of the wicked, busy old world all about me, and loud in my ears the voice of the indignant man across the corridor.

"Quit your blatting, you infernal blatherskite," he was calling. "Come down to earth."

I came.

#The Man in Asbestos #The Man in Asbestos: An Allegory of the Future #Stephen Leacock #Stephen P. H. Butler Leacock #sci fi #Fiction #Nonsense novels #Future #Past

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