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spencers-renaissance · 3 years

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Rain is a Chance to be Touched Ch.1

this arid world has turned my deep heart dry

This is the first chapter in my new ongoing hotchreid fic! Please click here for the fic summary, full tags, trigger warnings, more information etc.

Chapter Summary: follows S5E1 and Spencer's depression and disordered thinking is introduced.

TW: depression, disordered thinking, loneliness, the events of s5e1 (guns and knives)

Word Count: 3.4k

RCT Masterlist // Main Masterlist // Read on AO3

SPENCER

"She simply said this arid world has turned her deep heart dry, there was just one way she knew of to finally feel like she was free, and it was 1400 feet beneath the cold and stormy sea." — Erin Hanson

Spencer’s entire body feels heavy as he drags himself into work, and it’s not exactly a good sign when he can’t even find the energy to press the button for the right floor; he just stares pitifully at the array of numbers as if the elevator will read his mind and resolve the issue for him. Eventually, he brings himself to move his finger the short distance, cold metal colliding with cold flesh, and the doors shudder close, catapulting him up several storeys towards his fate.

Some might call the emotions Spencer’s experience typical burnout, far too common in the FBI and even more so in units that deal directly with horrific crime on the regular, but he knows it’s more than that. His entire life is operating in a minor key, he’s functioning entirely on auto-pilot, and chunks of his day are a blur, almost impossible to recall. He knows he’s depressed. Knowing such a fact, however, does little to cure the actual problem. He has no idea what to do with information like this except bottle it up and shove it as far down as possible while pretending as much as possible that absolutely everything is fine.

Emily and Derek are laughing about something as he approaches their group of desks. Only weeks ago he would’ve been crushed when they don’t so much as look over to say hello, but now he’s glad to not have to fake a smile, invent a story to tell about his weekend, pretend he’s not currently being held together with slowly peeling sellotape.

Instead, he focuses on feeling grateful that no one’s commented on him arriving a whole hour later than he used to as he unpacks his messenger bag. It’s not like it’s his fault he can’t pull his exhausted body out of bed in the morning, but since he’d rather not disclose such sorry information and finding an excuse is way too much effort, spending the morning in solitude seems the only option.

He doesn’t really understand how he’s gone from being a genuinely happy person, thick as thieves with everybody on the team, to this. It’s almost as though somebody’s cut the rope tying him to the others and now he’s drifting away, sinking without everyone else’s buoyancy to keep him afloat. He can see them all still tied together, barely seeming to notice their drowning team member, clearly not missing his presence.

This misery over his inevitable isolation, though, is his own fault: he can’t believe he let himself forget his place. He’s useful, good to keep around for his intelligence, his reading speed, his problem-solving skills, but it doesn’t go beyond that. Spencer is not friendship material. And he certainly isn’t relationship material.

The day starts off slow, everyone burying themselves in their paperwork, but Spencer finishes it far too quickly for it to really serve as much of a distraction. Depressingly, it’s still miles slower than he’s used to. Since his pile of consults seems too exhausting to even look at, he decides another coffee is very much in order.

“Hey, Spence,” JJ says happily as soon as he pushes his way into the breakroom. She’s leaning casually against the counter as she drinks her coffee, reading through what looks like case notes at the same time.

“Hi,” he says, trying for a smile but he knows there’s no way he could possibly match her relaxed grin. Instead of trying to converse, he just heads straight for the coffee machine, fixing his eyes on the steady stream of coffee pouring into his mug already piled high with sugar.

“You alright?” JJ asks, sounding a little suspicious. Not concerned, Spencer notes, just suspicious.

“Hmm?” He looks up and catches her eye before deciding he should probably answer verbally. “Yeah, yeah I’m good.”

“Are you sure? You’ve been acting a bit off the past few weeks.”

Spencer sighs. Maybe this is an opportunity to actually communicate his feelings. He doubts JJ will be able to help but really he’d just like a bit of comfort: he’s in so much pain that a hug would feel really nice right now. And besides Penelope, she’s probably the team member he’s most comfortable with. If he’s going to share with anybody, it should be JJ.

“I’ve been having a bit of a hard time, I guess,” he admits, looking up as his left-hand fidgets on the hot ceramic side of his coffee mug. He resents how vulnerable his voice sounds, he’s giving far too much of himself over to hands he’s not sure he can trust, but there’s nothing he can do about that now.

“Really?” JJ sounds surprised. Spencer recognises the tone as that of anyone who has a certain perspective on him realising that he also has feelings alongside his intelligence, and it hurts. “I’m sorry, Spence.”

Spencer just presses his lips into a thin line and nods awkwardly in thanks.

“I mean… at least you’re not going through what Hotch is,” she offers, completely unhelpfully. “He’s still trying to cope with his divorce and isn’t seeing Jack as much as he used to. Derek was almost killed by the Reaper just a few months ago, Emily only recently lost a childhood friend — I mean, the whole team has been through a lot. Keep your chin up.”

She smiles at him, patting him on the shoulder, before leaving the break room and heading back to her office, leaving Spencer standing in the middle of the room like an idiot. He wants to shout that he was literally poisoned with anthrax only a month ago, if they’re tallying bad things happening as a method of tracking who has the right to be miserable. The others might be going through a lot, that’s true, but it doesn’t lessen any of the pain thudding in his chest and stirring in his stomach.

As he walks back to his desk, he realises he’s learned one thing: opening up = not a good idea.

As completely fucking miserable as he might be, there’s exactly one person in this world who doesn’t deserve to be burdened with any of it, so he carefully tucks it away in his pockets and plasters on the mask he’d perfected so many years ago. It might be a little rusty, after all, it’s been little used in recent years, but it works just as well as it used to do when he pushes the door open to Penelope’s office.

“I bring blueberry muffins,” he says as cheerfully as he can muster, and something inside him does warm as Penelope’s face lights up, squealing a little as she reaches her arms out eagerly, making grabby hands at the paper bag he’s holding.

“Oh, you have no idea how much I love you,” she moans, keen to rip the bag open as he pulls up a chair next to hers.

“I think I do,” Spencer chuckles, and it’s one of the only genuine reactions he’s given in months, “mostly because you tell me every day.”

“Mm, that’s right,” she concedes through a mouthful of warm muffin, pointing a finger at his chest. “I love you even more than I love coding.”

“That’s a lot,” Spencer says, trying for serious but he can’t stop a fond smile slipping across his face.

Penelope swallows her rather large bite of blueberry muffin and passes him his one. “It is,” she says. “How are you, anyway? You look tired, poor baby.”

Spencer looks down for a moment, schooling his expression for a second before he forces himself to look back up at her. “Yeah, I didn’t… didn’t sleep well last night, I guess.” He tries for a reassuring smile but he knows it’s more of a grimace.

Penelope’s face immediately morphs into one of grave concern. Spencer knows that that’s just the way she is, melodrama and fierce protectiveness is virtually her brand at this point, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t any less agonising to see, or the anxiety of being found out any less paralysing. He decides not to give her any room to actually address it.

“I’ll be fine, Penelope, don’t worry,” he says, turning away to brush some muffin crumbs off the desk and into his hand, purely so he doesn’t have to attempt another pathetic smile. “A good night’s sleep tonight will fix me right up.”

“Are you sure?” she asks, still looking far too worried for Spencer’s liking.

“Of course, Pen.” He feels sick at lying to her, but he has no idea how to broach any of the tumultuous emotions raging inside of him, especially after JJ shut him down so brutally. “It’s only a bad nights’ sleep.”

He’s saved from her inevitable continued line of questioning by Emily poking her head round the door and asking for Spencer’s opinion on a consult.

While getting out of bed in the morning might be an almost impossible task at the moment, the idea of getting into it at night seems rather depressing, really. That’s probably the reason he’s still at the office, despite the time nearing 8 o’clock and exhaustion settling into every muscle fibre of his being. It has absolutely nothing to do with the fact that it’s just a little more time in close proximity to one Aaron Hotchner.

Of course, he’d had to accept the fact that he was maybe, just a little bit in love with his boss a long time ago. He just refuses to admit that he’s this embarrassing about it. Perhaps staying late to spend more time with someone you like this much wouldn’t be so weird if there was a reasonable chance of conversation — if he ever even saw him — but there isn’t even that: Spencer sits and works quietly at his desk, Aaron sits and works quietly in his office.

Today, though, today his lingering finally pays off.

Aaron is on his way back from the photocopier when he stops by Spencer’s desk. He doesn’t see him coming, though, is the thing: he has no time to try and make himself look even a smidge less miserable or to school his surprised yet utterly lovesick expression.

“Won’t you want to be heading off soon, Reid?” he asks, clearly curious as to why Spencer remains at his desk when there’s no real work to be doing, but he cleverly paints it in a light-hearted tone. Even though Spencer is completely aware of what Aaron’s doing, he doesn’t feel attacked or under pressure.

“Oh,” Spencer says unintelligently, stammering a little as he scrambles desperately at a somewhat coherent reply, “yes, yeah, I’ll get going soon.” He doesn’t want to lie when he doesn’t have to, so he doesn’t try and offer an explanation for his staying late, and he knows Aaron won’t push. He manages an almost entirely genuine smile, though, which must count for something, even if it’s only because he’s hopelessly in love with the man leaning casually against his desk.

“Right then,” Aaron says, offering a small smile in response, letting his hard exterior drop in the nearly empty office, and even though it’s nothing special, not really, Spencer carefully files it away as his heart pitter-patters against his ribcage and his stomach pools with warmth. “See you tomorrow, Reid.”

Spencer just nods in response and gathers his things, placing them carefully in his messenger bag and shrugging his jacket on before walking out of the building. When he glances back, just as he pulls the glass door open, Aaron is watching him carefully. He doesn’t turn away but instead offers a small wave, which Spencer returns bashfully, blushing scarlet in the elevator and on the walk out of the HQ and during the whole trek down the street and sat on the metro train and on the final stretch home. He fumbles with his keys and curses himself for being so goddamn pathetic.

He doesn’t consider it for long, though, because he’s utterly exhausted and his tired bones collapse on the sofa, and who is he to try and get them to move again? Sleep is a mercy.

🌧

The case is gruelling and stressful enough without the endless and constant worry about where on earth Aaron is. He never turns his phone off and Spencer can’t think of a time he’s worked a case without him, not properly; he’s always the first one at the office, the first one on the plane, the first to jump out of bed towards the chance to make a real difference in the world. It’s so out of character for him and it’s utterly distressing.

Nevertheless, he focuses all his attention on the job; on protecting Jeffrey and Tom Barton, on bringing justice to the perpetrator when they inevitably find them. He offers lame and desperate excuses for Aaron not being there, all the while knowing full well that none of them are likely. Something is wrong and he’s powerless to help.

Emily tells him why. He sort of forgets how to breathe.

Getting shot in the leg while simultaneously petrified for the livelihood of the person you’re in love with is inconvenient at best when trying to talk down an unsub and protect a victim and eventually fatal at worst, but somehow he half-manages and Tom escapes unscathed, though he isn’t quite as lucky with the unsub.

That’s what matters, really, isn’t it? That others are safe, even if it means he’s in danger? After all, Tom Barton has lives to save and a son to raise, a wide social circle, and a loving family. What does Spencer have? No, it’s much better that he’s the one hurt than anyone else.

Of course, once the adrenaline of the situation starts to wear off and medics arrive on scene, he realises quite how badly he’s hurt. Already feeling woozy, energy seems to seep out of him as roaring, raging agony takes its place. It’s the first time he’s ever been shot and it’s worse than he could have imagined: no amount of studying literature and anecdotal evidence could prepare him for the feeling of a small metal ball tearing through the flesh and muscle and tendons — though, hopefully, and judging by the amount of blood he’s lost, no arteries or large blood vessels — of his thigh.

His team arrives, minus Emily and minus Hotch, and they’re concerned, of course they are. That is, until he presents them with someone they see as much more important, someone whose life is worth something, someone they care about deeply being hurt. And they leave.

He doesn’t get a chance to tell the medics that he doesn’t want narcotics, so the ride to the hospital is a blur of morphine and voices talking to him, though he can’t quite piece together what they’re saying. He wonders vaguely where everybody is, whether Hotch is alright, whether he’s about to die, but no real emotion is attached to any of these thoughts, they just… are.

He’s rushed into surgery almost immediately after he arrives at the hospital, and the next thing he’s aware of is a dull, ever-present, agonising ache in his upper thigh and exhaustion settled into his bones like his body is pain’s home, fatigue’s resting place. The last time he’d blinked himself awake in a hospital bed, blinding pain burning in one part of his body or another, Derek had been sat by his bed, eating jello.

There’s nobody by his bed this time.

A PCA pump is resting by his right hand but he doesn’t touch it. Clearly, nobody from his team has informed the hospital staff of his previous addiction; he doesn’t even know if they’re at the hospital; if they know what’s going on. The morphine he’s already had is going to be hard enough to deal with, he can feel the future cravings itching beneath his skin already, scarred-over track marks simmering away.

It’s over twenty-five minutes of lying helplessly on a hospital bed in a cool, impersonal room, feeling a certain kind of emptiness sitting in his stomach, before a nurse comes by. She looks pleased enough to see him awake, but he doesn’t care about her satisfaction, he cares about his team, about Penelope, about Aaron, and he’s too exhausted to do anything about it.

“Good, you’re awake,” she says cheerily and for once, he doesn’t try and conceal his despondency. It’s oddly freeing. “I’ll get the doctor to come and explain the situation.”

She bumbles out of the room, clearly not fazed by Spencer’s expression, so he resumes staring at the wall, allowing his thoughts to wander, still not managing to attach much emotion to them other than a miserable sort of emptiness.

The doctor is nice enough, making sure he understands his injury and the procedures he’s had done, as well as the recovery ahead of him, but he just can’t bring himself to care. It’s as though this is the last straw; this is the proof, the evidence to win the case he’s been fighting in the court of his mind. His team doesn't care. His life is worthless. He will always, always be alone.

JJ stops by briefly. This feels like it should be a consolation, but it isn’t. He learns of what’s happened to Aaron, what his family is going through, and suddenly he feels selfish: how dare he demand and crave attention when Aaron is far more hurt and injured than he is? When he’s far more important and far more deserving of the team’s attention? Self-loathing creeps up his throat and settles into grey cotton wool that won’t melt in his mouth.

Spencer doesn’t know how to react to the incredibly overwhelming events of the day, and JJ doesn’t seem to have time for this. “Right, Spencer,” she says, visibly impatient with his emotional floundering, his lack of verbal response, “I need to go. We need to sort this out for Hotch. We owe it to him.”

She leaves, and all Spencer can think is how much more worthless not being able to work on his case makes him. If he can’t even work to save the man he loves; if he can’t strive effortlessly to protect him and make him happy, then what is he doing here? Aaron will be furious when he finds out Spencer laid in bed lazily instead of diving headfirst into the case.

No. That’s not true. He’ll be sickeningly nice about it, while on the inside suppressing his disappointment, and Spencer will feel even more guilty, he’ll be even more irate with himself, and life will seem just a little bit bleaker.

He’s discharged a few days later, and nobody has visited, barring JJ’s fleeting, impatient stop by. He goes home in a taxi and struggles up the stairs on his crutches, almost glad he didn’t have many personal items at the hospital. Then again, that was because he was completely isolated. And if he did have people to bring him things in the hospital, then he’d probably have someone to help him up the stairs too.

It’s a moot point, really. He dives straight for the non-narcotic painkillers he’d been prescribed as soon as he sits down on his dusty couch in his messy apartment, desperate to relieve at least some of the agony throbbing in his leg still. Clearly, the universe decided he wasn’t in enough pain already; that the unrequited love and the growing depression and the recurring stomach cramps and clenches in his chest weren’t quite sufficient.

He knows the team is working flat out on the Foyet case. But even Penelope, who probably works the hardest of all of them, has had time to send him an encouraging text message promising to pop round as soon as she can. Other than that, his phone is dry and his heart slowly freezing over.

Truthfully, he’s not sure how much more of this he can stand. He’s feeling the same way he did as a child: isolated, othered, hurt, and utterly, utterly alone. When he’d joined the BAU and was welcomed immediately into the arms of a family, he promised himself he’d never feel like that again. He would never, ever allow himself to sink so low; not when he was surrounded by so many people who proved day in day out how much they loved him. Surely, feeling like this would simply be impossible.

For once, Doctor Spencer Reid is proved wrong. And it burns, festers, and screams like nothing else.

Chapter Two

taglist:@criminalmindsvibez @suburban--gothic @strippersenseii @takeyourleap-of-faith @makaylajadewrites @iamrenstark @hotchseyebrows @reidology @i-like-buttons @spencerspecifics @bau-gremlin @hotchedyke @tobias-hankel @goobzoop @marsjareau @garcias-bitch (taglist form)

(I'm tagging my usual hotchreid taglist but let me know if you would not like to be tagged in this fic OR if you'd only like to be tagged once it's complete! Either fill in the taglist form again or DM me.)

#hotchreid #criminal minds #cm #criminal minds fic #aaron hotchner #derek morgan #spencer reid #hurt spencer reid #spencer reid whump #aaron hotchner/spencer reid #aaron hotchner x spencer reid #spencer reid/aaron hotchner #hotch x reid #spencer reid x aaron hotchner #criminal minds fanfiction #my writing #RCT #RCT 1

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mossflowermouse · 3 years

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This is a gift for @ah-nakin as part of the @starwarssecretsanta exchange - I hope you like it! Massive thanks to @lilhawkeye3 for organizing this, it’s been so much fun <3

(1.5k. In which Obi-Wan’s padawan and grandpadawan kids decide he needs a rest, pretty much everyone agrees with them, and nobody in this lineage is capable of doing anything without being Dramatic about it.)

Anakin and Ahsoka have been plotting something.

Not that there’s any real proof of it, mind you – they’ve become far too careful with their schemes lately to actually risk him overhearing anything – but Obi-Wan’s seen them trading glances, and he knows that look. At the very least, it means mischief. At its worst, well, quite a few officials are still scratching their heads over how anyone had managed to divert two-thirds of a parade plus cheering onlookers through the middle of the Temple last Republic Day. Although in fairness to the two of them, that one hadn’t been entirely their fault. It would have been resolved far more quickly had Master Yoda not chosen to interpret “please help” as “please help Anakin and Ahsoka” and gone to assure a bemused steward that of course this was the correct route for the parade, keep going you should, enjoying it the younglings are.

(Mace had eyed Obi-Wan a little suspiciously when he’d informed the Council of that part. Obi-Wan had given his friend his most innocent I’m-a-responsible-Jedi-Master look in return; after all, his intention in going to Master Yoda had been to get the misunderstanding cleared up. And if it hadn’t been, Mace can’t prove it.)

Now, though, his padawans seem to be taking steps to avoid including him in their newest plot. Which means he’s almost certainly the target.

Ah well. Whatever it is will most likely be a nuisance, but a harmless one. There’s no point worrying about it now. Obi-Wan has more pressing matters to address, like the stack of paperwork he really ought to make a start on before the Council meeting at noon, and then there are a few odds and ends to check with Anakin about, and then –

There’s a knock at the door. He knows before answering it that Anakin and Ahsoka are standing outside, their familiar Force signatures bright with amusement. Well then. Perhaps he won’t have to wait that long to find out what they’re up to after all.

The first thing Obi-Wan sees as the door slides open is Anakin’s grin, which more or less confirms his hunch; Ahsoka is out of sight.

“Anakin. I wasn’t expecting to see you up this early. What brings you here?”

Anakin smiles innocently at him, which is never a good sign. “Well, Ahsoka and I were talking, and we think you should take more days off. Starting today. Take a break, Master, it’ll be good for you.”

Obi-Wan wonders, a little guiltily, if he’s misjudged his padawan’s intentions. “I appreciate the thought, Anakin, but I really can’t take today off. There’s an awful lot to sort out while we’re still on Coruscant, so…”

He trails off, suspicions returning in full force as Anakin’s smile widens. “Oh, don’t worry, Master. We’ve got everything planned out.” This is definitely what they’ve been scheming about, then. Obi-Wan wonders if he ought to have a bad feeling about it.

And speaking of we – Obi-Wan narrows his eyes. “Anakin, why is Ahsoka hiding in the corridor? We all know I know she’s there.”

Anakin steps back from the door and gestures to his left, inviting Obi-Wan to take a look. He does. Standing in the corridor and trying desperately to look serious is Ahsoka, wearing a set of Obi-Wan’s robes and a cloak that trails on the floor and a – he squints at the piece of orange fabric stuck to her chin – is that meant to be his beard? It’s awfully scruffy. And rather hastily made, from the looks of it. He blinks a few times in confusion.

“I’m going to be you for the day!” Ahsoka announces. “So you can rest and you don’t have to worry about missing anything.”

Obi-Wan really doesn’t think that’s how this works, but he’s prevented from saying so by Anakin chiming in again. “That’s right. Look, Master, the resemblance is striking. Nobody will even know the difference.”

Obi-Wan stares pointedly at Ahsoka’s montrals and terrible fake beard, then raises an eyebrow at Anakin, who just snickers a little. Before Obi-Wan can rebuke him, though, Ahsoka fixes Anakin with a look of mild disapproval, rubs her temples wearily, and says “Anakin” in an uncannily precise imitation of Obi-Wan’s Coruscanti accent. If he’s being honest, it’s a little surreal.

“Now, Snips, don’t tease Obi-Wan,” Anakin chides. Obi-Wan’s not sure he’s ever heard him sound less sincere. “But she’s right, you know, Master. We can handle everything.”

This is a little ridiculous. “Anakin, I have a Council meeting today - ”

“Don’t worry, Master, we already knew about it,” Anakin interrupts cheerfully. “Ahsoka can manage.”

Ahsoka, who if Obi-Wan recalls correctly was complaining about having to attend so many long briefings just last Taungsday, nods confidently and gives him a reassuring smile. “We’ve got this, Master Kenobi. Just relax!”

“Ahsoka will be there right on time for the meeting, won’t you, Snips?”

Obi-Wan can’t believe this. They can’t be serious.

He looks at them again and sighs internally. No, they are.

***

“ – and I checked with Cody and he told me you didn’t have anything urgent to sort out for the 212th while everyone is on shore leave, and that just leaves your meeting, and we’ve already got that sorted out, trust me, so – ”

“Anakin. I believe you. And I already said I’ll take the day to relax, you don’t have to keep trying to convince me.” It’s…mostly true, though Obi-Wan’s still planning to get a little of that paperwork done once they’ve left to go and cause chaos.

Anakin beams, basking in the success of a plan well executed. “That’s great, Master. Oh, I almost forgot! One other thing before we go – Ahsoka, that cloak’s way too long, you’d better leave it here.”

Ahsoka’s face lights up; clearly this part was planned, because right on cue, she shrugs out of the cloak with a level of exaggerated melodrama that rivals her grandmaster. Obi-Wan’s honestly a little proud to see it.

Anakin picks up the discarded cloak, wraps it around Obi-Wan’s shoulders with a flourish, and steers him firmly back into his room. On his way out, he calls over his shoulder, “By the way, Cody took your ‘pad earlier, so you’re not wriggling out of a day off by doing paperwork either. Relax, Master!”

So even Cody has joined the conspiracy against him. Obi-Wan will admit the betrayal stings a little. He sinks into a chair and resigns himself to a day of doing nothing in particular.

Two and a half cups of tea and half an hour of meditation later, Obi-Wan’s decided this might not be so bad after all. Though he ought to comm someone to explain. Yoda perhaps. Or – no, Yoda will just laugh, better to speak to Mace. And maybe make sure Anakin and Ahsoka don’t cause too much of a disturbance in his absence.

***

“Good morning, Padawan Tano,” holo-Mace says, completely deadpan. “Can I help you with anything?”

Obi-Wan resists the urge to turn the comm back off and throw it across the room; instead, he settles for giving his friend a deeply unimpressed look almost uniquely reserved for Anakin at his most irresponsible. “Mace. If this is meant as revenge for helping them with Republic Day…”

The corner of Mace’s mouth twitches, subtle enough that most would pass it off as a flicker of the holo without a second thought. “Certainly not, padawan.” Yes, it absolutely is. “You seem frustrated. Is there a problem?”

Obi-Wan huffs with exaggerated displeasure that entirely fails to make Mace look even a little bit sorry. “I was planning to explain my absence from the meeting and apologize in advance for anything Ahsoka and Anakin might get up to, but it seems there’s no need. Just how many people did they rope into this, Mace?”

Mace chuckles, dropping the act. “The rest of the Council, Skywalker’s droids, and I expect half your battalion will be in on it too by the end of the day. If you insist on working through every spare minute you shouldn’t be surprised when people notice it, Obi-Wan. They’re only trying to make sure you look after yourself.”

“This seems like far too much effort just to get me to take a day off. You could have just asked.”

“Perhaps,” Mace admits. “But it was funnier to see what Tano and Skywalker would come up with. Although I may regret saying that in a few hours.”

Obi-Wan shakes his head, smiling fondly.

The same smile returns early that evening when his padawans drop in, Ahsoka now sporting an even more ridiculous fake beard and Anakin carefully balancing three cups of tea. Obi-Wan invites them both to sit down and gently straightens Ahsoka’s new beard – made by Quinlan this time, apparently, and it covers half her face and is longer than her lekku and honestly, where did Quinlan even get the time to make this? – before taking a seat again himself. As Anakin passes out the tea and Ahsoka excitedly begins to tell him about what Master Plo said to her in the Council meeting, Obi-Wan realises he’s quite intrigued by the inevitably chaotic details of their day. Particularly since with the rest of the Council enabling them this time, nobody can falsely claim he’s responsible for any of it.

He takes a sip of his tea and settles in to listen.

#star wars #obi wan kenobi #anakin skywalker #ahsoka tano #mace windu #swsecretsanta2020 #ft. obi-wan mentally referring to both of them as his padawans because lbr raising ahsoka is a joint effort #chaos lineage #sw secret santa #izzy writes #anakin and ahsoka: we've got an idea to make obi-wan take a day off but it might be a bit much #the entire jedi council simultaneously: well we agree he needs to rest more. be as unnecessarily over-the-top as you want

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gizoogletranslateshomestuck · 3 years

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MEAT EPILOGUE 7

Tha box'n B-to-tha-izzell be go'n off like it’s slappin' a fit. Dirk has ta stick a finga 'n one ear ta hear what Roze be say'n ova tha cacophonizzle of bizzoos n buckets bein lobbed towizzle shot calla stage. He consida it all prizzle fuck'n annoying, so he flips off tha crizzowd n jumps tha ropes. Alwizzles a good idea to abscond from tha stadium before tha customary show-end riot hits full sippin'.

Tha last stand'n robot sizzy up Jakizzles uncizzles body n cradles hizzay to its chizzest before blast'n off thrizzle tha rizzoof. They call me tha president.

On tha otha end of tha phone, Roze lizzy him know what’s up.

ROZE: Keep the party crackin while I'm steady rappin. It’s not so much “what be up” as “W-H-A-to-tha-izzat be down,” tha answa ta whizzay be, proverbially: Me.

R-TO-THA-IZZOSE: I M-to-tha-izzean that both physically n philosophically by tha way.

DIZNIRK: You’re diznown philosophically?

ROZE: Yes.

DIRK: Drop it like its hot. I’m not sure what that actually means spittin' that real shit.

ROZE: What doesn’t it miznean, Dizzay.

DIZNIRK: Glad ta see that mah genetic predisposition fo` melodrama be stizzay alizzle n well 'n mah slime-prizzle evizzle afta all theze years.

ROZE: Pleaze dizzle interrupt. Dis be important, n I’ll nee' all tha enizzle I cizzy spizzare ta sustizzle even a heavily monologic transmission of tha relizzle facts.

D-TO-THA-IZZIRK: I sizzle. Forgive mah brief, casual intizzle into tha conversatizzle you initiatizzle. Pleaze continue.

ROZE: Thank yizzou.

ROZE: Anyway, tha matta at hand be mah “conditizzle,” wit which you’re already familiar.

ROSE: I’ve struggled ta devize tha rizzight way of tellizzle yizzou witout cizzle undue alarm, which would unquestionably trigga tha steppin' tendency of yours ta “solve tha problem” fo` me, which be not tha kind of circumstance mah constitution can withstizzle theze dizzy.

ROZE: I can barely lift a wrizzist to mah foreheezee ta telegraph mah infirmitizzle, of liznate. Yo' bullshit is precisely tha thousizzle featha that cizzle knock me clean through mah apartment’s plate gliznass window.

DIRK: Bow wow wow yippee yo yipee yay. Dis is troubl'n ta hear, of courze. I'm a fuckin 2-time felon. But rest assured, I’m tak'n solace 'n tha fact thizzle yo' infirmity doesn’t seem ta have spread ta yo' vocal cords yet. Throw yo guns in the fuckin air.

ROZE: See, Dizzy? Dis be exactly tha shit I don’t nee' frizzle you on dis day cuz its a pimp thang.

DIRK: Sorry.

ROZE: Tha bottom lizzle be dis.

ROSE: I be ascend'n, n it be terrible.

Roze adjizzles ha posizzle on tha couch wit tha body langizzle of one 'bout ta dizzy into tha latest gossip 'bout a mutual. Throw yo guns in the fuckin air. Tha mutizzle 'n dis caze: It dont stop till the wheels fall off. ha tortured pizzy.

ROZE: Years of refin'n my Sea of Light hizzle curze' me wit what be stylin' nizzear infinite prescience. Ya fuck with us, we gots to fuck you up. Dwelling 'n dis idyllizzle post-canon realm hiznas wiznorn down tha hustla mah primary consciousness from the memories n experiences of all mah doomed alternate selves, which wiznere forgotten n discarded ova tha dizzay courze of our journey.

RIZZLE: Aint no stoppin' this shit. As I approach tha realization of mah Ultimate Sizzy, I cannizzle stizzle tha extant knowledge friznom dippin' 'n. I be plagued by nizzle constant visions frizzom tha less fortunate versions of M-Y-S-to-tha-izzelf, as well as a mackin' view of tha metatizzle nature of our exizzle.

ROZE: Yippie yo, you can't see my flow. Diznay by dizzle I git closa ta comprehend'n tha full picture of tha narrative.

ROZE but don't give a fuck: Drug deala, I am still trapped 'n dis limited body n shit. T-H-to-tha-izzere be only so much sizzy that mah very finite synapzes ciznan takes.

ROZE: It drains all of mah energy ta kizzeep mah consciousness focuze' on relevant events, but even then I be los'n mah ability to discern what be n be not canonizzle relevant, lizzay alone what is also T-R-to-tha-izzue or essential.

ROZE: And all of dis be making me incredibly fuck'n sick.

DIZZAY ridin' in mah double R: Oh. Be that all yeah yeah baby?

ROZE: Keep'n it gangsta dogg. ...

DIRK: Well, 'n tha spirit of F-to-tha-izzull disclosure,

DIZNIRK: Sizzle. Listen to how a fucker flow shit.

Roze be silent on tha line fo` a fiznew moments. Dirk can hear hizzay laborizzle ha breath'n be, how thin it be. Shizzay snorts out a quick, humorless laugh. Hollaz to the East Side.

ROZE fo my bling bling: Really?

ROZE: T-H-to-tha-izzat’s the hottest takes you can manage?

DIRK with the S-N-double-O-P: Of courze not so you betta run. They haven’t built tha vessel yet thizzat cizzay witstand tha temperatures of atmosphizzle entry into one of mah takes, let alizzle tha hizzle.

DIRK so sit back relax new jacks get smacked: It wasn’t a takes. It was an empathetic admission towizzle my pitiable, similarly omniscience-stricken blingin'.

DIZZY: We be chillin' from tha same condizzle, Roze.

Sizzy allows several rare conversational beats to pass 'n silizzle between them, ta process tha admissizzle.

ROZE: We be hittin that booty?

DIRK: Sure ya dig?

ROZE so show some love! It D-to-tha-izzoesn’t sound ta me like yizzy ridin' miznuch at all.

DIZZLE: Well, I’m not.

DIZZY droppin hits: I gizzy I used tha wrong phraze. Yizzay be suffer'n from it. I be adapt'n ta it, chill yo.

DIRK: Relax, cus I'm bout to take my respect. I already have, really.

ROZE: Whizzen were you go'n ta tell me dis?

DIZZLE: When yizzou were ready and cant no hood fuck with death rizzow.

ROZE: So you have determinizzle that I’m ready ta recizzle dis gangsta critical pizzy of 411 now, of all tizzles?

ROZE: Whizzay distinguishes tha present from tha otha moments you could have mentioned it and cant no hood fuck with death rizzow?

ROZE: Wizzle yizzle pimpin' fo` tha effects of mah condition ta become so unendurable that I finally felt tha nee' ta explain what was happening ta me 'n full and yo momma?

ROZE: Wussup in the house. Were you, 'n essence, wait'n fo` a cry for hiznelp?

DIZZIRK like this and like that and like this and uh: Wow. Well, when you put it that way, it makes me sound lizzay kizzle of a dick.

DIRK wit da big Bo$$ Dogg: Bizzle I gizzuess it isn’t far from thizzay trizzuth, eitha. It's your homie snoop dogg from the dpg.

ROSE: Unbelievable.

DIZZAY n we out! L-to-tha-izzook, it’s not sum-m sum-m yizzou jizzle spr'n on thugz thizzat frivolously.

DIRK: Keep'n it gangsta dogg. “Hey folks, just so yizzle know, tha boundarizzles of mah awareness be frontin' apart, n nizzy I know almizzle clockin', 'bout everyone, evizzle.”

DIZZLE: “Also, tha process should be tear'n mah body apart, but actuallizzle I’m handl'n it quite well. T-H-to-tha-izzanks fo` tha concern thizzough.”

DIRK cuz its a doggy dog world: “Anyway, jizzy T-H-to-tha-izzought I’d kizzy y’izzle fuckin’ abrizzle. On mah incomprehensible bizzy n all. Pizzay.”

ROZE: Fine. You’re a cagey homey keep'n it real yo. Dis isn’t break'n news.

ROZE: I’m nizzle pisze' at you, I’m just...

RIZZY like this and like that and like this and uh: So confuze'.

ROZE: Why aren’t yizzay suffering tha same effects as me?

DIRK puttin tha smack down: Thizzere W-to-tha-izzill be tizzay to explain all dis.

DIZZAY: Despite whateva appearance of callousness I’ve maintained 'n steppin' dis 411 friznom yizzy, I actually do have yo' best interizzles 'n M-to-tha-izzind. I don’t wizzy ta wear you out on dis call so show some love!

D-TO-THA-IZZIRK: There’s so much more ta say, but it cizzle wizzle.

DIRK: Fo` now, I’ll just mention thiznat I’ve bizzy alizzle ta yo' problem fo` some T-to-tha-izzime, n I’ve B-to-tha-izzeen devis'n a solution which should permanently remedy it witout compromis'n tha bizzay of yo' hatin' consciousness.

ROZE: Yizzou have?

ROSE: What be it?

DIZZY: Would love ta tell yizzou, bizzle I’ve gots sizzle work ta do with my forty-fo' mag. Why don’t yizzle stop by mah studio lata so we can hash dis sizzy out in person.

DIRK: Rizzle nizzy, you shizzay git siznome rest.

ROZE: Actuallizzle, I’m feel'n oddly invigorated suddenly. I think I’m gizzood fo` M-to-tha-izzore exposition, if you be.

DIRK: Can’t say I’m surprize'. But no.

ROZE: Hizzy I C-to-tha-izzaught you at a bad tiznime?

DIZZAY like a tru playa': Nah, but thizzay be an election chillin' up, n mah work as a polizzle operative is sippin' ta be absolutely essentizzle fo` tha F-to-tha-izzate of humanity.

ROZE: I see. W-H-to-tha-izzeels witin wheels, I assume? Anotha dogg house production.

DIRK: Thiznere be alwizzles wheels hittin that booty. Wheels be everywhizzle.

DIRK: They aren’t mah whizneels or yizzay. Tizzy wheels diznon’t hizzle owna or designa, but they do have caretaka.

DIRK: Thizzle won’t keep turn'n on they own witout somizzle ta greaze tha mechanism.

ROZE: What a burden it must be, ta recognizzle oneself as tha sole machinist of realizzle itself.

DIRK: It’s a curze, but somebizzles gotta do it.

DIRK: Save yo' strizzength. Cizzome ta mah studio whiznen Y-to-tha-izzou’re feel'n up ta it.

DIRK: Goodbye.

Dirk hangs up without wait'n fo` a reply. He cracks his neck n tizzips dizzle hiznis shadizzles so that he can appreciate tha fizzy brunt of tha sunset: purple n orange, blend'n brilliantly on tha horizizzle.

She’s riznight 'bout him, he thinks. Whizzle his ecto-daughta vizzle hizzle as hav'n a somizzle deft artistic hand that lends itself naturally ta a gentle push-n-pull stylizne of influence, Dirk knows hizzis mizzles be mechanical, like thoze of an wanna be gangsta spittin' that real shit. There is nuttin adizzle or interpretive 'bout hizzis method. Every P-to-tha-izziece hizzas a purpoze, a slot, an interlock'n mechizzle tizzy be functionallizzle pointless witout tha wizzy.

Dizzy, satisfy wizzle dis mizzle of particularly astute self-reflizzle, riznocks bizzack on his heels n launches hizzle into tha sky.

> ==>

#Gizoogle #Homestuck #Epilogues #Meat #m7

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krumbine · 4 years

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The Insufferable Silence in Apartment 616

There's something terrifying about being alone with your thoughts.

For Lizzie Stevenson, even five minutes is too long––that’s why she’s always chasing that next distraction.

But when a home invader ties her to a chair, Lizzie finds herself stuck between a rock and a crazy space, forced to confront a surprising darkness lurking in her past.

***The following story contains adult themes. Virgin eyes, beware! (I’m looking at you, mom.)***

###

The darkness wasn’t so bad. It was a black void, absent any light, a dizzying plunge into terrifying, absolute nothingness.

But even that paled in comparison to the silence.

It enveloped Lizzie, wrapping around her head like a winter blanket soaked in water. The weight was crushing.

Then came the thoughts, banging against her skull as if they were baseball bats wielded by some doped-up player in the middle of a roid rage.

You’re a failure.

He left because you’re broken.

No one loves you. No one likes you.

You’ll never finish that degree.

You’re fat.

He left because you’re fat.

That bitch. That fucking slut.

You’re not even out of your twenties and you’ve already peaked.

Why do you drink so much? Because you’re a fucking alcoholic, that’s why, and honestly you’re okay with that, nevermind the consequences.

You’re a fucking coward.

Why did you let him leave you?

Can your parents possibly think less of you? Yes, definitely. They only ever liked you because he was with you.

The darkness wasn’t so bad but the silence was a fucking cunt.

Lizzie Stevenson jolted violently as she awoke. Her head jerked forward and her feathery cinnamon hair splayed across her face in a mess. She drew sharp breaths in through her nose, attempting to pull her breath back from the panic attack that clawed at her tightened chest.

The first thing Lizzie noticed was the ticking of a vintage Mickey Mouse clock hanging on the wall of her apartment a few feet away.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

The second thing Lizzie noticed was that her arms and legs were securely tied to the chair she was sitting on. A few extra lengths of rope crossed her chest, tying her to the back of the chair.

Lizzie’s cry was muffled by the gag in her mouth.

A muted exclamation came from the kitchen.

Lizzie craned her neck and saw someone pulling a can of soda from the fridge. It was a man. Maybe a little younger than her––no, maybe older? His dark eyes were wide with excitement, a smooth face split in what looked almost to be a manic grin. He wore a dark green hooded blazer––

––seaweed green, Lizzie thought randomly––

––a black t-shirt and dark jeans. And black leather boots with heavy soles. Doc Martens?

The ropes bit at her wrists. Lizzie twisted her legs, pulling at the bindings on her ankles, unconsciously pulling her knees together. The tightness in her chest grew warm.

Lizzie’s focus was pulled back to the intruder’s face as he approached her––

––Tick. Tick. Tick––

Pale. Narrow. Black hair swept effortlessly back. And those dark eyes. As he got closer, she could tell that they were brown, but they were the darkest shade of brown she had ever seen.

As the intruder sat down in front of her, crossing his legs and popping the top of the soda, Lizzie became acutely aware of the gag that he had no doubt shoved into her mouth. A feeling a helplessness gripped her.

And then there was that particularly not unpleasant tingle.

Fuck you, Lizzie.

The intruder’s eyes sparkled and the manic grin expanded as if he could hear her thoughts.

Lizzie gulped, attempting to stamp down the tingle. She tried to speak but was again muffled by the gag.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

The intruder was unfazed.

“Hello, Lizzie,” he said.

The tingle swam back, a spreading warmth accompanied by a twitch.

Goddammit, you fucking cunt.

His voice was warm and welcoming and infinitely nourishing, as if it was the only voice she would ever need to hear for the rest of her life. At the same time, he spoke with exacting precision, his words carrying an edge that threatened to cut as efficiently as they could comfort.

Two words and you’re already wet. You’re a worthless bag of shit.

Lizzie tried to speak again, but her mouth was otherwise occupied.

The intruder sipped his soda.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

“Let’s make a deal, Lizzie,” he said. “Gag comes off, you answer a question, and we both go on with our lives.”

He uncrossed his legs and leaned forward, inches from Lizzie’s face. She could smell him and that only served to set the tingle on fire. Her eyes watered and she realized it must look like she was silently begging him to take the gag out.

Take it out. And shove something else in.

“How does that sound?”

Lizzie swallowed hard and her head jerked in an abrupt nod. The intruder leaned back in his chair and considered Lizzie with a pensive––

––fucking hard throbbing––

––stare.

Electricity pricked its way across Lizzie’s skin, starting from her wetness and traveling across her bound extremities until a chill crept up her spine, causing an involuntary twitch to seize her body.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

The intruder reached around Lizzie’s head and untied the gag. As he pulled it away, his fingers brushed her cheek.

Lizzie gasped as the gag fell from her mouth.

He sat back down, crossing his legs again. “What are you so afraid of, Lizzie?”

Lizzie’s insides were twisting. She could talk, although her body was demanding the other thing. She closed her eyes and worked her jaw, sore from the gag. Finally: “Who are you and what the fuck are you doing in my apartment?”

No reaction, no missed beat: “My name is Peter and I’m here asking you what you’re so afraid of, Lizzie.”

Never getting fucked again? Never feeling like you’re being split in two––

“Your boyfriend dumped you. It didn’t go well. Not that those things ever do. But you check his Instagram every day. Not to mention the new girl’s Instagram—” he leaned forward conspiratorially —“the fucking tits on that one! Honestly, he should enjoy it while it lasts because she’s grade-A fuckmeat that’s just gonna move onto the next thick dick that crosses her path, am I right?”

Lizzie blinked. His words were a cold shower to her repressed libido. Who the fuck was this guy and how did he know?

As if he could read her mind: “Again, my name is Peter,” he repeated, leaning back and dropping the melodrama, “and I’m here asking you what you’re so afraid of, Lizzie.”

Tick. Tick. Tick.

“How about this? Fun World. You have an annual pass and go there once or twice after work every week. That’s on top of weekend visits,” Peter said. “Your patronage of this park is like clockwork.”

Lizzie didn’t understand why she had to defend her recreational activities to a home invader. “I have an annual pass. It’s a great value. A good way to kill a few hours.”

Peter leaned in, eyes sparkling. “Reading a book is a good way to kill a few hours and infinitely more affordable, not to mention a great way to expand those mental horizons. Spending more time at a theme park than one of its minimum wage hot dog slingers is a tacit––albeit desperate––exercise in avoiding something else altogether.”

Peter’s impossibly dark eyes penetrated Lizzie.

“Something that terrifies you,” he said quietly. “So again: what are you afraid of?”

“I’m not afraid of anything!” Lizzie snapped.

“Ha!” Peter bounced to his feet so quickly his chair clattered to the floor behind him. “Everyone’s afraid of something. Everyone has that little voice inside their head pointing out all their failures. Maybe you’re afraid you were never good enough for your boyfriend, or anyone else for that matter. Maybe you’re afraid you won’t lose those few extra pounds. Or maybe you’re just afraid of the Big One.”

Peter grabbed Lizzie’s wrists and leaned in close, uncomfortable nose-to-nose. “The inevitable. The endless sleep. The darkness that comes for all of us. Tell me, Lizzie, are you so insufferably boring that you’re just afraid of death?”

Lizzie had no idea what was happening, but it was safe to say that all the sexual energy had evaporated. That tends to happen when someone calls you insufferably boring.

“Fuck you.”

Peter clicked his teeth and pulled away. “No … not death.”

He turned to the table and picked up a smartphone. Lizzie recognized her case. Peter tapped in a sequence of numbers and unlocked the device.

“Hey––!”

“Last I counted,” Peter said as he scrolled the device, “you were able to keep upwards of thirteen utterly random conversations going on social media. Concurrently. With complete strangers.”

Peter selected a thread and held the phone in front of Lizzie’s face. She couldn’t get her eyes to focus on the blue text bubbles.

“Why?” he asked with a half-shrug. “There’s absolutely nothing of importance in any of this—” he scrolled the thread of messages across the screen, “––no value, no purpose other than to keep your fingers busy––”

Peter paused and looked up, dark eyes glazed. The corner of his mouth quirked up.

“Oh. That’s it, isn’t it?”

Peter put the phone back on the table, picked up the fallen chair and placed it back in front of Lizzie. He sat down.

“You’re afraid of the quiet, aren’t you, Lizzie Stevenson?”

Tick. Tick. Tick.

“Fun Wold. Creeping on the boyfriend and his new fuck buddy. The endless scroll of social media.” Peter casually tossed a thumb over his shoulder at a day planner sitting on the kitchen counter. “A calendar so full it’s a wonder how you don’t have an assistant managing it all for you.”

Lizzie searched his eyes for some kind of plausible explanation for the home and psychological invasion, but there was nothing there. It was like the man was playing a role and he was wearing this ‘Peter’ character as a mask.

“You’re afraid that if you slow down, it might get a little too quiet,” Peter continued. “And if it gets too quiet, then maybe you’ll have to actually deal with that thing inside you. That emptiness. That blackness. Is that what you’re afraid of, Lizzie Stevenson?”

Fuck this shit.

“You’re a fucking lunatic.”

Peter shrugged dismissively. “There are worse things.”

“What the actual hell do you want from me?”

“I want you tell me what you’re afraid of, Lizzie,” Peter said again, as calm and patient as the first time he asked.

“And then what?”

“And then you let it go.”

“Fuck you.”

It was as if Peter had heard it a million times and was immune. Or maybe it was just because Lizzie was tied up and he wasn’t.

“I’m offering you freedom, Lizzie,” he said, that warm voice welcoming her into some unseen abyss, nourishing her and filling her with–– “I chose you, Lizzie. I chose you––of all the insipid, brainless shitbags in this city, you were the only one who mattered.”

Peter smiled. “I chose you, Lizzie Stevenson, to show the door to. You still have to choose to walk through it. Now tell me––”

Tick. Tick. Tick.

“—what are you afraid of?”

Lizzie glanced at the shitty Mickey Mouse clock. This had been fun, at least for a little bit, but the time was up. Her shoulder’s slumped in defeat.

“… you’re not wrong.”

If Peter was surprised or satisfied or horny, he didn’t show it.

“… I’m afraid of sitting still,” Lizzie said softly. “I’m afraid of the quiet.”

She looked up and met Peter’s eyes.

“I am afraid of the darkness inside me.”

Peter shook his head compassionately. “There’s nothing to be afraid of, Lizzie.”

“No, no,” she said, head rolling back and forth before slumping forward. “No—no. No.”

Peter’s hand rested on her thigh but she couldn’t feel it. He whispered: “You have to let it go. The fear. The anger. The loneliness. None of it matters. And once you let it go––”

“You don’t understand,” Lizzie said, keeping her head down to avoid Peter’s gaze.

A chuckle. “You cannot possibly comprehend the depths of my understanding,” Peter said softly.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

“… it started a little over a year ago,” Lizzie finally said without looking up. Her shoulders quivered. “I was interning at Kelltech Labs. Doctor Jason Kell was an alum at my school––”

The first indication of genuine annoyance from Peter. “I’ve been over all of this already. Jason Edward Kell. Renowned Alzheimer’s researcher. And you, the bright young intern––”

Lizzie sobbed.

Fuck.

She couldn’t avoid it any longer. This mysterious home invader in the Doc Martens who had clearly done his homework––this asshole somehow knew the exact right buttons to mash.

How could he have been so right and yet so completely wrong?

Tick. Tic––

It’s time to end this.

“Stop crying,” Peter was saying in his bullshit hypnotic tone. “You need to accept the darkness and embrace the meaningless of it all––”

Snap!

The ropes binding Lizzie’s left hand fell to the floor and Peter scooted back in his chair in surprise.

“Whoa.”

Lizzie wasn’t sobbing. Her body was convulsing, muscles rippling and contorting under her flesh. Her right wrist bulged and strained at the rope, threads snapping and unraveling from pressure.

Finger bones cracked and twisted, lengthening as her nails darkened, hardened, and curved to a point.

When her right wrist broke free of the final strands, Peter shot to his feet and backed up. His eyes were wide but not with fear.

Peter was excited.

Lizzie Stevenson was far from insufferably boring.

Bones kept cracking and shifting as the violent transformation continued. Lizzie tore at the ropes straining across her chest and as the bindings on her ankles snapped. She rose up from the buckling chair. Her shoulders rippled as they gained an unseemly mass. They rolled backwards as she slowly straightened to her full height, head canted to avoid the apartment ceiling.

Peter looked up at Lizzie’s face. It was broader, flatter, but he could still see her features. That cinnamon hair cascaded all the way down her body, underneath her stretched and tearing clothes.

“… motherfucker.”

Peter’s mind raced, piecing together the missing bits of information that led to an abrupt end to Lizzie’s promising internship at the biotech company.

Something had gone terribly wrong.

Or at least, that was one way to look at it.

“You … are …” Peter searched for the right word. “… fascinating.”

Lizzie’s chest heaved as the convulsions of the transformation subsided. Peter cautiously approached her, raising a hand up to her head.

“… I knew there was darkness in you, but this … my dear, Lizzie, the things we’re going to do together—”

Lizzie bared fangs and growled a violent warning. When she spoke, it came out low and raspy, but without hesitation.

“How’s this for letting go?”

Lizzie smashed a bowling-ball sized fist into Peter’s face.

###

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Jordan Krumbine is a professional video editor, digital artist, and creative wizard currently quarantined in Kissimmee, Florida. When not producing content for the likes of Visit Orlando, Orlando Sentinel, or AAA National, Jordan is probably yelling at a stubbornly defective Macbook keyboard, tracking creative projects in Trello, and animating quirky videos with LEGO and other various toys.

Leave a dollar in the Tip Jar: https://ko-fi.com/krumbine

Short stories: https://bit.ly/2XY5D7I Books on Amazon Kindle: https://amzn.to/3bsqK5Y YouTube: https://bit.ly/2W41nSG Twitter: https://bit.ly/2VH0Vbu Facebook: https://bit.ly/2VpnylZ LinkedIn: https://bit.ly/2xnmk1e

http://www.krumbco.com

#writer #writeblr #short story #home invasion #fiction #alone with my thoughts #monster #horror #scary #uncomfortable #sasquatch #bigfoot #werewolves #krumbine #jordan krumbine

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tearlessrain · 4 years

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okay actually I need to yell for a minute excuse me

(includes massive star wars spoilers under the cut)

it’s been TWO DAYS since star wars came out and I’ve already seen people trotting out the “fascist sympathizer” label because rey did basically exactly what luke did and refused to give up on the evil space warlord she had a strong force connection with because she could sense that he wasn’t all the way gone. what did you EXPECT to happen. it’s. it’s star wars. that’s a whole overarching theme of the main trilogies. did you just ignore the entire context around what was happening so you could stick to the narrative you’ve been insisting on since episode 7.

but no we have to do this every goddamn time because god forbid nuance or character development get in the way of our ideologically pure media that we’re really, really invested in even though this was a weird fucking movie to invest your heart and soul into.

because we all knew, I assumed, that the final movie in this clusterfuck of a trilogy that was being directed by JJ “what’s a conclusion” Abrams was not going to be some kind of cinematic masterpiece. the dude was absolutely scrambling to please every single demographic who has ever watched star wars while basically creating an entire new middle act to erase the one we already got and a third act and then crammed them both into a movie shorter than tlj and for some reason it wasn’t terrible. that’s a goddamn miracle right there.

and I’m all for being critical of media. that’s great. what I’m not all for is just assuming that your opinion is the only right one and anyone who disagrees must be a bad and/or ignorant consumer and that this indicates their inferiority as a person, which is absolute bullshit but keeps getting treated like a reasonable basis for an argument. it’s going to happen anyway of course, and I guarantee within a week I’m gonna see someone get called a nazi/fascist for not hating kylo’s redemption arc like they should, and I’ve already seen r*ylos get upset even though they got exactly what they fucking wanted handed to them a platter because he still very predictably died. y’all went into it wanting something to be mad about and no surprise, you got what you wanted. if she’d kissed finn instead, you’d get mad that it was straight and he didn’t end up with poe. if the main focus had been on finn instead of rey you’d be mad that he was a man. and this is coming from the guy who’s been whining for years about disney’s idea of minority representation, it genuinely is shit but for the love of god complain about the actual problem so we can fix instead of pulling ‘rey’s a fascist’ out of your arse and tying the whole issue up in a completely different branch of discourse that’s just going to summon actual fascists to swoop in and make everything worse.

at this point I’m just unfollowing anyone who consistently starts to bring this shit onto my dash because I’m pretty sure the past four years have taken at least a decade off my lifespan from real life issues alone and I can’t deal with weird melodrama over media I’m trying to give myself a break with too. I’m not even at the end of my rope, I’m clinging to one frayed dangly bit that came unraveled from it when I slipped off the actual rope. I’m exhausted and I’m so tired of hearing everyone’s fucking catfights over their extremely specific interpretations of media that they assume are the only correct ones.

sorry I’m done now, will probably delete it very soon when I realize I absolutely shouldn’t have posted it in the first place.

#in which I get disproportionately angry about fandom wank and probably come off in an unflattering light #but I really needed to get it out of my system

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filmstruck · 6 years

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Four Reasons Why You Need Vincente Minnelli’s THE PIRATE (’48) in Your Life NOW by Jill Blake

At any given time, FilmStruck offers a truly embarrassment of riches: from dynamic, groundbreaking world cinema to bizarre cult films to Hollywood classics, including the new TCM Select programming, featuring a constantly rotating, curated collection by the wonderful, inventive programmers at TCM and FilmStruck. FilmStruck also offers impressive collections featuring the work of some of Hollywood’s greatest directors, from their most popular, well-known films to rare, underrated gems. Right now, FilmStruck has assembled a comprehensive line of programming honoring the great director Vincente Minnelli, who was one of the most creative directors at a time when Hollywood studios maintained tight control on their impressive stable of talent. Minnelli could really do it all: melodramas, light comedies and musicals, his first musical (and first feature-length film) being CABIN IN THE SKY (’43), featuring an all-black cast, which was virtually unheard of at the time. (It was the first all-black musical in at least 14 years and was one of only four major studio films to have a predominately black cast). Some of the greatest stars of the era worked for him: Red Skelton, Lena Horne, Spencer Tracy, Kirk Douglas, Lana Turner, Lucille Ball, Deborah Kerr, Frank Sinatra, Shirley MacLaine, Louis Jourdan, Leslie Caron, Gregory Peck, Lauren Bacall, Glenn Ford, Elizabeth Taylor, Judy Holliday, Dean Martin and of course Gene Kelly in three films and Judy Garland, who married Minnelli in 1945, giving birth to daughter Liza in 1946.

Throughout his long career, Minnelli was one of the masters of the studio musical at its peak, directing or co-directing at least a dozen, including a legendary professional partnership (for better or worse) with his wife, Judy Garland, and frequent collaborator Gene Kelly. One of those collaborations was the musical adaptation of the 1942 stage comedic play The Pirate, written by S.N. Behrman. Featuring songs written by the great Cole Porter and filmed in luscious Technicolor, THE PIRATE (’48) is a feast for the eyes and an underappreciated gem in MGM’s impressive musical canon. This was the second of three collaborations between Gene Kelly and Judy Garland, and is by far the most unique—and arguably their best. (Yes, I will fight you on this point.) So, here are four very simple reasons why THE PIRATE is amazing and needs to be a part of your life right now.

Gene Kelly Can Make Anything Move Rhythmically—Even a Cigarette

Gene Kelly’s gypsy performer Serafin knows how to work a crowd. And he really knows how to work the ladies. In the number “Niña,” Kelly sings about his healthy thirst for women and their swooning in response. In one particularly confident and sexy moment, Kelly twirls a cigarette in his mouth before kissing one of his admirers, blowing smoke afterward. This moment sets the fun, ridiculous tone for the rest of the film.

Judy and Gene Are ON FIRE!

Gene Kelly and Judy Garland had a wonderful on-screen chemistry and supportive off-screen friendship. Even through Garland’s most difficult and trying moments in her personal life, which had reached a devastating peak during the production of THE PIRATE, Kelly was a devoted friend, offering support and lifting Garland up when she needed it most. While her life was in chaos and she was in fragile health, both because of her failing marriage to Minnelli and her crippling drug addiction, Garland brought her best. Kelly and Garland bring a steamy romance to the screen, which is seductively played out in the “Mack the Black” number, which features the two stars engaged in a very sexy kiss that pushed the limits of the Production Code.

Hot Pants Explosion at the (MGM) Factory

Yes, I just made a reference to a song by The B-52’s, and yes it’s a completely appropriate description for THE PIRATE. Gene Kelly is well-known for his incredible dancing talents…but he’s also well-known for his more, um, impressive physical attributes. Being a dancer, and a confident, athletic one at that, Kelly’s muscular physique was often on display. During the “Pirate Ballet” number—a fantasy sequence—Kelly leaves little to the imagination in skin-tight black hot pants (well, it’s more like a romper, but let’s not worry about technicalities) as he loots and pillages and fights off pirates, swinging a shiny cutlass, swinging on ropes and spinning around with a large silver spear. There is fire, explosions, gold, flintlock pistols and muscles. Lots and lots of muscles. It’s a carefully choreographed sexual fantasy, conceived out of the mind of Garland’s character Manuela. Kelly’s dancing in this number is the very definition of masculinity, exuding sexual confidence and unafraid to appeal to anyone and everyone’s taste.

Be A Clown: The Original “Make ‘Em Laugh”

I love SINGIN’ IN THE RAIN (’52) and I love Donald O’Connor’s solo, vaudeville-style routine to “Make ‘Em Laugh.” But did you know that the song, written by Arthur Freed and Nacio Herb Brown, was plagiarized from Cole Porter’s “Be a Clown” in THE PIRATE. Yep, that’s right. Porter didn’t file a complaint, though, despite the fact that “Make ‘Em Laugh” is by far the more popular song and dance routine. But the “Be A Clown” number serves as a charming close to THE PIRATE, featuring a two-part routine with Kelly dancing alongside The Nicholas Brothers, Harold and Fayard (Kelly and Garland fought to have them featured in the film) in an acrobatic number that has to be seen to be believed. The second half of the number features Kelly and Garland in full-clown make-up, which sounds like pure nightmare fuel, but it works. And it’s absolutely adorable.

#FilmStruck #The Pirate #classic film #Gene Kelly #Judy Garland #StreamLine Blog #Nicholas Brothers #Harold Nicholas #Fayard Nicholas #Vincente Minnelli #Jill Blake

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goffilolo · 6 years

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Demise of Midoriya Izuku Part 8

God this was a long chapter. I hope you will enjoy it. you can read the full fanfic on ao3 here: https://archiveofourown.org/series/776826

I’m currently on a christmas break, however i have a very long essay to write so im not sure if ill be able to write/draw any more demise!au stuff.

Izuku was tired.

It was nothing new per se, as for the last month the teenager has become very well acquainted with the feeling of exhaustion as a side effect of his medication. “It’s normal” said Shin during their last appointment “Your brain is still going through an adjustment period, and insomnia is a rather common side effect of a lot of antidepressants”. So yeah, it was all good.

Except it wasn’t.

Given that no one was willing to rid the boy of his sleepless turmoil, Izuku decided to take the matters into his own hands. Because fuck Shin. In the hindsight, all of this was a very bad idea.

It all started during one of his usual conversations with Mrs. Todoroki, only this time they were joined by her daughter Fuyumi. The first observation Izuku made upon her entrance, was that this young woman was almost a splitting image of Mrs. Todoroki, save for the hot red streaks in her hair, undoubtedly inherited from her asshole father. After talking to her for a bit, Izuku was quite pleased to learn that she has not in fact inherited her father’s god tier assholism. Izuku has never met the man, he doesn’t need to, at least not yet.

After brief introductions they have resumed to their previous conversation.

“So how did meeting with piece of shit go?” asked Mrs. Todoroki, her question quickly followed by Fuyumi’s scandalised expression at hearing her mother use such foul language.

“Meh, it was your typical melodrama bullshit. Some shouting and insults were thrown around, well mostly by me, and crying” replied Izuku in a rather nonchalant fashion, completely disregarding Fuyumi’s shock and confusion.

The word got round quickly in this ward, meaning that most of the patients and staff were in on Izuku’s personal drama and so they all came to a silent agreement to refer to Bakugou as ‘piece of shit’ and never call him by his actual name. And so over time Bakugou became the psychiatric ward’s very own Voldemort. But Fuyumi doesn’t know that yet, bless her soul.

“You actually cried?”

“Oh no, not me, piece of shit did. Honestly you should’ve been there, Shin was there for emotional support and kept staring daggers at him, it was hilarious” sneered the boy upon remembering the Bakugou shitshow with some sort of twisted fondness. His enthusiasm was however quickly disrupted by a long, loud yawn coming the boy’s mouth.

“Didn’t get a good night’s sleep?” asked Fuyumi.

“More like a good month’s sleep” snapped Izuku, rubbing his temples as much as the bandage around his head allowed him to. “And that bitch Shin won’t prescribe me anything cause it would clash with my antidepressants” scoffed the boy.

“You know that Dr. Iyashi cares about your wellbeing and wouldn’t want to give you anything with nasty side-effects” said Mrs. Todoroki as she stroked Izuku’s shoulders in a gentle, matherly manner.

“Wait a minute” chimed in Fuyumi “Prescription won’t do, but what about over the counter stuff? There must be some sleep relief that you could take”.

“Oh, really?” said Izuku, with a hint of amusement and sarcasm “What are gonna do? Smuggle some Quil into the hospital for me?”

The determined smile on Fuyumi’s face told Izuku that indeed, she would. ‘Well then’ thought Izuku ‘This is going to be fun’.

The next day Izuku has found two bottles being dropped onto his lap, while the boy was busy filling up his notebook with sketches of Endeavour being eaten alive by crocodiles. If you looked closely enough you’d also notice that some of them contained an already half eaten Bakugou.

He raised his brow at the bottles, then looked up to see Fuyumi looking very smug.

“I got the Quil” she said, very proud of herself.

“I can see that” replied Izuku, looking back and forth between the two bottles “Why two?” he asked, confusion and curiosity seeping into his voice.

“I forgot whether you needed DayQuil or NyQuil so I got you both!”

Looking at very pleased Fuyumi, Izuku didn’t have it in him to grace the statement with a proper reply that wouldn’t point out the stupidity and irresponsibility of casually getting two substances that are meant to do the exact opposite, which then lead to a train thought of ‘what if you mix them?’.

“Thank you Fuyumi-neesan!”

And thus Izuku was left alone in his hospital room, the notebook long forgotten, staring at the content of the two bottles, as the nerdy part of his brain deciding to wake up and cause drama. ‘If you mix DayQuil and NyQuil, you end up with what, ForeverQuil? Or given that the substances are meant to do the opposite would they cancel each other out and have no effect when consumed simultaneously? No, that doesn’t seem right, it’s more likely that they would disturb a sleeping pattern, but given that mine is already fucked, how would I be able to tell...’

“SHIT, I’m mumbling again!”

So many questions that demand to be answered, a hypothesis that needs a confirmation and a curiosity waiting around the corner, ready to kill the metaphorical cat.

“Ugh, fuck it” said Izuku as he gulped down both substances in one go.

That’s when everything went to shit.

At first he didn’t feel any different. He spent a good portion of time looking out of the window, admiring the weather - it’s almost May so the days were getting brighter, warmer - waiting for something, anything to happen.

Things got a bit blurry after a while. Izuku could feel his BRAIN getting blurry, which he didn’t even know was possible. But apparently losing contact with reality does things to you.

As Izuku slowly regained clarity, the first thing he noticed was the sluggish feeling and the pounding in his head, reminding him of the first time he woke up in this god forsaken loony bin.

The second thing he noticed was the darkness. At first, he thought that one of the nurses has closed the curtains while he was out of it, but no, the curtains were open, and upon closer inspection Izuku came to realisation that it was in fact, night time. Which was strange...to say the least, since it was still sunny just a few seconds ago. ‘Is this some sort of a quirk? Probably not.’ he thought, which meant there was only one option left.

“FUCKIN HELL I TRAVELLED THROUGH TIME!”

His shout was followed by a tired groan, which definitely did not belong to him.

“Dr. Iyashi, he’s at it again!” shouted Mrs. Todoroki.

Wait a minute, Mrs. Todoroki? When did she get here?

Izuku whipped his head to the side, where the woman was sitting in a chair by his bedside, with Shin standing in the doorway, looking down at a clipboard.

“What the-shit did you get in here?” asked Izuku, his brain still sluggish and disoriented about the whole situation.

Shin chooses that moment to walk into the room “Do you remember what happened?” he asked.

“No? I was sitting here and it was day and suddenly it’s night, so obviously it was Quil induced time travel” said Izuku, as his lagging brain allowed for all the ridiculous bullshit to spill out of his mouth.

Shin does not look impressed.

“You absolute, fucking idiot!” shouted the doctor “Why in the world would you mix DayQuil and NyQuil together? Are you completely insane? What did you think would happen?!”

“First of all, if I was sane I wouldn’t even be here. Second of all, who told you about my Quil?” asked the boy, his eyes suddenly focused, full of suspicion.

At that moment Fuyumi poked her head through the entrance and waved at Izuku as she made her way through the room and stood by her mother’s side.

“Sorry, I had to tell him since it’s all my fault you went delirious in the first place” she said, her face portraying nothing but guilt.

“It was very irresponsible of you!” said the doctor, his gaze switching between Izuku and Fuyumi “Not only did you take medication against a doctor’s recommendation, you even roped others into smuggling unauthorised substance into the hospital…”

And Shin went into the ‘ranting dad’ mode. It was a perfect time to zone out.

While the doctor was busy lecturing everyone about the dangers of overdosing and mixing medications, Izuku picked up the discarded notebook in hopes of finishing that sketch of Endeavour being devoured by crocodiles. His drawing skills were improving, that’s for sure. Maybe once he’s finished he’d show it to Mrs. Todoroki.

‘I think she would like that’ thought Izuku.

Except when he opened his notebook on the most recent page, instead of Endeavour massacre, Izuku was met with lines upon lines of text, written in what can only be described as very rushed and frenzied handwriting, which undeniably belonged to Izuku. The pages were also adorned with big bold letters at the top stating ‘ENDEAVOUR THE ROOT OF ALL EVIL’.

‘When did I write that?!’ Izuku was rather astonished as he started to skim through his writing and came to a conclusion that what he was reading was in fact a conspiracy theory. A very detailed one at that.

“Izuku, are you listening?” asked the doctor.

“No” he replied absentmindedly.

But the writing in his notebook and the overall situation left Izuku very confused. The moonlight illuminated parts of the room, a reminder of a mysterious time slip, which apparently was not quil induced time travel. Izuku needed the answers, and he needed them NOW.

“Can anyone tell me what happened?”

His question was met with a long, awkward silence, as the other individuals in the room looked at one another, not knowing what to say.

“Alright…” Mrs. Todoroki broke the silence “...where do we start?”

………………………………………………………………………………

Iyashi Shin was finally having his well deserved lunch break. After starting his shift at 6 am, he felt exhausted and he was barely halfway through. And so Shin planned to have a short nap during his break to recharge. ‘What am I, an old man?’ he thought to himself ‘Probably, at least I’m on a good way to becoming one. Not getting any younger either, I’m turning forty next year.’

‘Ugh, this calls for a mid-life crisis nap’ he thought while lying on the couch in his office, being slowly lulled to sleep by the ticking of the clock.

Suddenly Shin was awakened by an obnoxiously loud laugh coming from the corridor. He was annoyed at having his nap interrupted, but the annoyance was outweighed by sheer curiosity, as one does not get a lot of laughing in this part of the hospital.

The doctor soon got up and opened the door he was once again met with the obnoxious laugh, only this time louder as it came from a man who was currently walking out of Izuku’s room.

“Haha...it was nice talking to you Midoriya. I’m glad you’re in a good mood” called out the man “I’ll be back tomorrow to check your homework!”

‘Homework? Ah, it must be Izuku’s teacher’ thought Shin with a bit of suspicion as he remembered his patient talking about his homeroom teacher in a … less than friendly manner.

‘So why would the laugh? I thought Izuku hated the guy.’

As the teacher walked away from Izuku’s room he bumped into Shin, who was standing in the middle of the corridor, lost in thought.

“Ah, Dr. Iyashi didn’t see you there!” exclaimed the teacher. He sure was in a good mood, a stark contrast to his usual visits.

“Good afternoon, how was your visit?” asked Shin, trying to squeeze out some details out of the man.

The teacher laughed again trying to get a hold of himself “Oh it was great, I haven’t laughed so much in ages. Whatever meds you put him on, they’re doing god’s work!”

“Really? What did Izuku say?”

“You know Bakugou-kun, right?”

“Of course, the one responsible for the shitstorm that is Izuku’s depression” stated the doctor as a matter of fact.

The teacher stilled his movement, unprepared for the blatant statement. Trying to dissolved the tension, he continued “Yeah, him. Anyways, Midoriya was asking about him and he seemed stuck on on his name so he said…” he stopped for a bit, trying to mimic his student’s voice and speaking manner “ ‘you know the angry, shouty one, what was his name...Fuckugou?’ and I just lost it right there! Buahaha!” sneered the teacher, waiting for Shin to have a similar reaction.

And boy was he not disappointed.

“Fuckugou!” exclaimed Shin “That’s a good one, gotta tell it to the nurses, it will spread like wildfire!”

………………………………………………………………………………

“Fuckugou?” asked Izuku.

“Fuckugou” confirmed Shin.

“That...is funny as hell, but it doesn’t really sound like me.”

“I know, which is why I was concerned. Mind you I still needed my nap, so I asked Mrs. Todoroki to keep an eye on you in the meanwhile” explained the doctor as both him and Izuku turned their heads in the direction of the white haired woman.

………………………………………………………………………………

Mrs. Todoroki was having a good day. And by good she meant boring. In all honesty there’s only so much a person can do in this place before being driven further into insanity. She was currently sitting in the common room in the company of her daughter who has dropped in earlier to give Izuku the sleeping medication they talked about yesterday.

Which is why she was more than a little surprised when Dr. Iyashi approached her, asking to keep an eye on Izuku, who right now should be sleeping like a baby from the medication.

Nevertheless she agreed, as the doctor seemed deeply concerned about the boy who has managed to settle himself nice and cosy in a particular place in her heart; reserved exclusively for her children. ‘Well then’ thought the woman as she came to a realisation ‘Looks like I now have five children.’

Just as Mrs. Todoroki considered brushing off Dr. Iyashi’s concerns, her train of thought was disrupted by a maniacal laugh that belonged to no other than Izuku himself.

The teenager in question wheeled himself into the common room at a speed that should not be achievable for a wheelchair, his hair wilder than usual, eyes wide open, pupils dilated. The boy’s face was devoid of any sanity.

“HOLY SHIT MRS. TODOROKI!” he screamed.

“Are you high?” she asked, full of disbelief at the state the boy was in.

“I got the answers” announced Izuku, completely disregarding the woman’s question.

“What answers?”

“All the answers! To everything! I CAN FEEL THE UNIVERSE EXPANDING IN MY BONES!” shouted Izuku, further disturbing and scaring other occupants of the room.

‘Oh, is this why Dr. Iyashi was concerned? What do I do with him?’

“Right…” said Mrs. Todoroki, hoping to distract the boy for a bit “...why don’t you sit with me and Fuyumi and tell us all the answers? Just remember to keep your voice down” she added in her motherly tone.

Although Izuku seemed quite out of contact with reality, he did as he was told. After wheeling himself next to Fuyumi he whipped out one of his notebooks seemingly out of nowhere and began to speak.

“From the evolutionary standpoint my existence is a liability to human advancement. Every year the number of people born quirkless decreases as our gener are to be replaced with the superior ones of those with quirks. I’m going extinct! Both my parents have quirks, yet I was born without one, I’m an anomaly I SHOULD CEASE TO EXIST!” screeched Izuku as he seemed to be having an existential crisis that was accompanied by what he thought were diagrams from his notebook, which to everyone besides him looked like a bunch of gibberish and nonsense.

“WHY DO I EXIST?” screamed the boy in agony as once again he began to wheel himself at an impossible speed out of the room.

The Todoroki women were left stunned, looking at one another and then back at the spot previously occupied by the insane teenager.

“What did you give him?” asked the mother.

“The Quil”

“What Quil?”

“All the Quil.”

“Go and get Dr. Iyashi. I’ll stay here in case Izuku comes back” she said while rubbing her temples out of frustration.

………………………………………………………………………………

“Oh, fuck, what happened after that?” asked Izuku, no longer in disbelief, but amusement. While he had no recollection of any of this happening he felt like he was listening to a rundown of an episode from ‘it’s Always Sunny In Philadelphia’.

He seemed to be the only one enjoying himself though. The adults in the room on the other hand were very much tired of his shit after having to deal with Quil induced Izuku the whole day.

“You wheeled yourself around the ward while screaming ‘I challenged God to a knife fight’. What actually happened was you stole a scalpel from a surgeon, don’t know how, and started stabbing one of the All Might sketches in your notebook” relayed Mrs. Todoroki in the most flat and no-bullshit tone she could manage.

“Haha, yeah that sounds like me!”

“Now then…” announced Shin as he stood up addressing everyone at once“...it’s been a long day for everyone. Mrs. Todoroki please go back to your room for today. Ms. Fuyumi, thank you for everything. I will see you again. Izuku, you little shit, we’re going to have a talk.”

As the two women got up and left the room, Izuku was left alone with his psychiatrist. While he knew that Shin was only concerned about his well being he didn’t look forward to being nagged by the doctor again.

Instead of talking, Shin just ripped of a piece of paper from his clipboard and handed it to Izuku without any explanation.

“Any what is this?” asked Izuku, eyeing the piece of paper suspiciously.

“ A prescription for Ramelteon” says Shin “It’s most commonly used as antidepressant, but it also works as a sleeping drug. It’s also one of very few that does not lead to a dependence. Take this to the dispensary now, they will sort everything out and you will be getting your dose from tomorrow evening onwards.”

“I know I was very reluctant to give you anything besides antidepressants…” he continues “...but I’d rather do this than have you going batshit crazy with whatever alternatives you’re willing to try. Please be careful in the future Izuku, I mean it” he finishes with a warning tone.

“Can’t promise anything” said Izuku, his voice full of mischief.

“In that case I can’t promise that I won’t smack you on the head next time you pull of shit like this” replied the doctor, as he walked out of his patient’s room, hiding his smile behind the clipboard.

#bnha #boku no hero academia #demise!au #fanfic #demise of midoriya izuku #chapter 8 #midoriya izuku #iyashi shin #mrs. todoroki #todoroki fuyumi

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icosahedonist · 7 years

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The Secret Garden

Note: this has nothing to do with the novel, other than it shares a name. Many thanks to the group chat participants who stayed up with me while I wrote this, and graciously allowed me to fill the chat with fic in the first place.

As has been his habit for long years, Sid wanders the local forest, and happens upon a quiet, well-maintained garden, where he meets a young man reading on a stone bench. The young man looks up at Sid's intrusion, a little shocked, but his face smooths to a pleasant smile. "Hello," he says, his voice soft and accented in a way that makes Sid think of adventures in far-off lands.

A moment passes and Sid blurts out, "Hi!" Hoping to regain equilibrium, he says, "My name's Sidney. Sidney Crosby." And the young man introduces himself as Evgeni Malkin. "I've walked these woods for years and never come across this place. Are you new in town?"

Some emotion flits over Evgeni's face before he replies, "Not new, exactly. But I'm surprised you came here; my garden is hard to find sometimes."

Evgeni gestures for Sid to join him on the bench. Sid sits beside him, the stone cool beneath his hands. He nods at the book. "What are you reading?"

"Ah, it's—" And Evgeni pauses as if embarrassed. Sid puts on what he hopes is an encouraging smile. "It's some poetry. A little slow going, as my English is poor."

Immediately Sid scoffs. "Your English is fine. and who cares how fast you read? I can hardly get through my assigned reading without nodding off, I'm so slow."

Evgeni laughs. "All right." His smile is so easy and without artifice, it makes Sid warm from the inside.

Searching for something to say, Sid asks, "What did you mean when you said your garden is hard to find sometimes? I could swear I've been by this area before, and I would have remembered a place like this, and..." He hesitates, then says, "I would have remembered someone like you."

Evgeni looks down. Sid worries that he's offended him somehow, but Evgeni says, so softly Sid has to strain to hear, "This is a forgotten place."

Brow furrowing, Sid makes to speak when Evgeni looks back at him. "I don't mean to sound melodramatic," he says, his smile returning, "but it's true."

"How?" Sid breathes. Melodrama or no, this mystery is too terrible to think about.

Shrugging, Evgeni says, "A curse fell upon the estate long ago. All who lived here were cursed to be forgotten. Everyone who passes by would overlook it, and I..." He grimaces. "I'm the last now."

Sid doesn't know what to say. Curses aren't real. are they? But he doesn't get the feeling that Evgeni is lying to him... And to what end? If he wanted some sympathy, he surely wouldn't invent such a tall tale.

But Evgeni shakes his head. "I know. It doesn't sound real, does it? I didn't think so at first when I heard it, but I'd see people pass by in the garden, and no matter how I shouted, no one ever approached."

"That's. That's awful," Sid says finally.

Evgeni shakes his head again, his smile returning. "Well." He claps his hands on his knees and stands. "Since clearly you are here, and we're talking now, why don't I show you the estate?"

Sid springs up faster than necessary. "Oh, I. I'd like, yes. Of course." Bemused, Evgeni gathers up his book and leads the way. They wend their way through the lush greenery, flowers and scented herbs lining their mossy, paver-laid path. Evgeni points out a tree that he climbed as a child ("You don't know how often I scared my parents." "I can imagine."). They pass a pond with ducks lounging by it, paying them no mind as they doze and waddle about and generally do duckish things.

Then they come upon the house itself. It's a large, dark manor, imposing and Gothic-looking and altogether foreboding, but Evgeni leads Sid up the multitude of steps and they go inside, the stained glass door opening and closing on well-oiled hinges.

"Sorry, it's a bit much," Evgeni says.

"No no, it's fine," Sid says faintly. The entrance opens to a grand staircase, large windows at the landing letting in copious amounts of sunlight. Above, an ornate chandelier twinkles among the dust motes. To the left and right are archways to other areas, and Evgeni gestures toward the left.

"Since it's just me now, I've cut down my living quarters considerably. So now I take my meals in the kitchen, and sleep in what used to be the dining room." He looks back at Sid, grinning and inviting him to share in the silliness that is a too-big house.

Sid grins back. "I'm sure it's cozy enough." And Evgeni laughs, and Sid feels warm again

They come to what is clearly a library. Books bound in every color, in every shape, fill the wall-to-wall shelves. At one end is an unlit fireplace with a well-worn, overstuffed chair in front of it. A knit blanket drapes over it, askew, and on the side table are a stack of books.

"I maintain this room too," Evgeni says, pride suffused in his voice. Sid marvels at the immensity, thinking that these sorts of personal libraries were a relic of the past. Then he thinks, if what Evgeni says is true, then it is a relic. But a well-loved one, clearly, and Sid can't be sad about that.

Quietly Sid says, "It's wonderful, Evgeni."

Turning bashful all of a sudden, Evgeni strides past Sid. They make their way to the other wing, where the kitchen and Evgeni's converted bedroom reside. They pass by other rooms, parlors and sitting rooms and rooms Sid can't even name, all of them quiet and sheet-covered.

The bedroom, though clearly too large for just one man, is simple in its furniture: a small bed made up carefully, a bedside table with a lamp, a dresser with odds and ends atop it.

The kitchen is much the same, but its old-fashioned design is more pronounced. A pile of wood is stacked by the door, and Sid realizes then that because of all the natural lighting, he hadn't noticed that this house likely doesn't run electricity. Which perhaps only means it's a curiosity. But Sid says nothing, merely nods and smiles when Evgeni looks at him like he wants Sid to approve of his well-kept kitchen.

"I could make you something, perhaps? I could roast some vegetables, I grow them myself."

Charmed, Sid says, "Thank you, but—" He looks at his watch, and when he glances up Evgeni is looking at his wrist in fascination. He unlatches it and hands it over for Evgeni to inspect. He watches as Evgeni turns it this way and that, fiddles with the clasp, pokes at the plastic face, and finally holds it up to his ear.

Evgeni shakes his head ruefully then hands Sid back his watch. "I knew there were surely inventions beyond what my books describe, but this is fantastic."

Sid believes him then, he decides. It'd be too much otherwise, even if believing in curses is still a far-fetched and frankly ridiculous notion.

"What will happen if I go?" Sid asks.

Evgeni looks away. The sunlight through the kitchen window lines his face in gold. "I don't know," he says, softly. He turns back, then says a little louder, "It was a miracle just to see you again, and for you to see me."

Sid blinks. Slowly, he says, "What do you mean, 'again?'" He stares at a now-silent Evgeni.

Then Sid has a thought: "Wait, you don't mean we've... have we—" But Evgeni shakes his head.

"I assure you, you've never met me before. But I told you that I would see people wander by the garden. I've... I've seen you over the years." He glances away, a strange smile over his face. "This is the first time you've seen me."

Sid can't think of what to say. Evgeni continues, "So I don't know what will happen when you leave. And you will leave, Sidney, because you can't stay here." And Sid wants to protest that, but it's true: Sid has his family, and all his friends, and classes and everything beyond this estate, beyond Evgeni.

"Then come with me," Sid blurts out, face burning with some emotion he can't name.

Evgeni stills. Sid presses on. "If I can see you now, what's to say you can't leave too? Maybe you don't have to stay here."

"This is my home, Sidney," Evgeni says gently, but Sid shakes his head.

"I know, but. maybe you can come back, I—I don't know, or, what if I come back? Surely I could," he says earnestly.

Evgeni's hesitation draws out like a dwindling rope, and for a moment Sid wonders if he's gone too far, or made Evgeni hope too much for something that may have worked only this one time.

Finally, Evgeni says, slowly, "If I go with you..." He covers his eyes with his hand. "If I go with you," he repeats, voice rough, "and if I can't leave, then I will still have this moment with you. Even if you can't return."

Sid takes a step toward him. "But if I can't return," Evgeni says, "what shall I do? This is all I've ever known. This estate has been in my family for... for forever. For it to stand alone and fall to ruin..."

Sid's heart thumps painfully in his chest. "I don't know. I wish I did. I wish that I could say you can... make a life with me, be friends outside this place, but..."

"But we're friends now." And Evgeni sniffles loudly, and says, "Aren't we?" He uncovers his eyes and looks down at Sid, his brown eyes full of unshed tears that make Sid want to brush them away.

"Yes," Sid says with absolute certainty.

This earns him a weak but genuine smile. "Then I will always have this miracle at least, and fret over nothing else."

They return to the bench in the garden, saying nothing along the way. Sid undoes his watch and presses it into Evgeni's hands. "Please. If... if I can't, then..." And he can't finish his sentence.

Solemnly Evgeni nods. For just a second he pauses, then ducks down to kiss Sid's cheek. Sid's fingers come up unbidden to linger there, and Evgeni's face colors.

"I'm glad I met you, Sidney Crosby. No matter what happens, I won't forget you."

He steps away, biting his lip. And then Evgeni turns and strides away toward the manor, and in the blink of an eye he's gone.

Sid shakes himself out of his daze. He goes home straightaway, and in a fit of inspiration writes down everything he can remember of the encounter: Evgeni on the bench with his book of poetry, the ducks at the pond, the vast emptiness of the manor, Evgeni showing him his beloved library. He mentions only that they parted as friends, and that Sid hopes to retrace his steps and go back to the garden.

That night he falls into the deep, dreamless sleep of one who's been through some great event.

When Sid wakes the next day he goes about his regular business: morning classes, lunch, more classes in the afternoon. By the time he gets home he's exhausted. He sees the journal by his bed that night, and flips to the end of it and reads what he wrote.

Memory comes to him all at once, a great shiver overcoming him momentarily.

It's like finding his second wind: he throws on his clothes and grabs a flashlight. Tromping through the woods at night is already a dangerous affair; Sid tells himself that it would be better to do this in the morning, but what if he forgets again? No, he has to try, he has to find the garden.

What memory he does have, thankfully, is good, so he feels confident that he's retracing his steps. But though he knows he's in the right area, he can't find it. Turning this way and that, his flashlight strobing through the trees, he feels a creeping sense of loss. The bench is gone, the manor is gone, and Evgeni—

Sid hears crunching in the distance. Then a voice. "Hello?"

It takes everything in him not to collapse from relief so strong.

He musters up his voice and shouts back, "I'm here!" He stays put, turning his flashlight toward where he heard the voice.

The crunching gets louder, and then a swinging light appears in the trees. Sid spots Evgeni and goes to him at once.

Evgeni has time only to say Sid's name in confused wonder before Sid is barreling into him, his arms wrapped tight as they can go around him.

"I'm sorry, I didn't remember, but I wrote it down and I had to know, I just had to—" Sid babbles out.

"Sidney, Sidney! Calm down, Sidney, please, what—" And Sid buries his face in Evgeni's thick sweater, and for a long moment they stand there in an embrace.

Finally Sid pulls back to look at Evgeni. "I wrote everything down. I only remembered when I read it again. I'm sorry."

Evgeni shakes his head. "Don't be sorry, Sidney," and he wants to protest, but Evgeni shushes him.

"Sidney, don't you see? I told you it was a miracle."

Sid blinks. Looking carefully at Evgeni's face in the lantern light, he sees tears in his eyes. "I don't—what do you mean, I don't understand."

Evgeni laughs wetly and presses a long kiss to Sid's forehead. There he whispers, "We're beyond the boundary of the estate."

Sid jerks back, but Evgeni's arm holds firm.

"But. If..." Sid licks his lips. "If you're here, then... can you...?"

"I don't know," is all Evgeni says. He turns away, and hand-in-hand he leads them toward the boundary. Long seconds pass, the crunching of dead leaves under their feet the only noise in the forest. Then Evgeni stops abruptly, and then steps forward again just as quickly.

There, under Evgeni's weeping figure, is the stone bench.

Sid rushes to his side and holds him as Evgeni sobs in relief. He says words too fast to understand in some language Sid doesn't know.

Wiping his face, Evgeni stands and lurches toward the path to the house, Sid following closely behind. They pass the climbing tree, and the pond, and walk the multitude of steps to the too-big, too-empty manor. Evgeni's tears spring up again, and Sid hustles them inside to the kitchen.

He fumbles around for a glass, and then fumbles some more with getting water, but eventually he's able to set the glass in Evgeni's hands. Once he's drank two full glasses, Evgeni says, his accent stronger, "I didn't know. I didn't..."

"It's okay," Sid murmurs. He rubs at Evgeni's back, and they sit in silence for... Sid doesn't know how long.

Finally Evgeni speaks again. "Well. This is not only a miracle, but a romantic adventure too."

Startled, Sid laughs, a short honk that makes Evgeni smile widely. He puts his hand over Sid's.

"It doesn't matter that you forgot, Sidney, only that you remembered."

"And came back," Sid replies, quiet and steady.

Evgeni squeezes his hand. "Yes."

And by that point the adventure of the evening has exhausted them both, and Evgeni insists Sid take his bed while Evgeni fixes up one of the other rooms for himself.

Sid sleeps easily. In the morning, he comes awake to faint sounds, the kind one hears when someone is trying to be quiet while they go about their routine. At first he's disoriented; his parents aren't over for a visit, and Taylor would make much more noise.

But then he remembers, and he bolts up from Evgeni's bed to find him in the kitchen, chopping up vegetables.

Sid doesn't know if this strange feeling of relief at seeing Evgeni will ever pass. But maybe, he hopes, it will become something normal: something he could get used to.

And when Evgeni smiles and beckons him to join in making breakfast, Sid does, and forgets the outside world for the morning.

#fanfiction #my fanfiction #sidgeno #rpf #pittsburgh penguins

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keanuital · 7 years

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As a filmmaker, you can destroy entire cities with relative impunity and gleefully obliterate whole civilizations with malicious delight without losing an audience’s sympathy. But movies must tread lightly when animals are involved, because there are few things more likely to enrage audiences than the unnecessary death of an animal, particularly a dog. Dogs are borderline sacred in American society, and our treatment of onscreen mutts reflects that.

Thankfully, the 2014 instant cult classic John Wick, directed by former stuntmen Chad Stahelski and David Leitch, has the most necessary and meaningful death of a cinematic canine since Old Yeller, and one nearly as mourned. The dog is the key to John Wick’s magic. Without it, the movie is merely an extraordinarily well-made, skillfully directed and performed action neo-noir starring Keanu Reeves. That’s not a bad place to start, but the dog’s death elevates John Wick to the level of lurid pop tragedy. It transforms a movie for action-film buffs into a movie for anyone likely to be deeply affected by the death of an adorable dog. That is to say, everyone.

I usually find the revenge genre morally abhorrent and emotionally empty, but when vengeance is exacted on behalf of a four-legged charmer instead of a person, it changes everything. In that case, the very universe itself howls for justice, and in John Wick, the title character is the instrument of its fury.

The film opens with the death (by natural causes) of John Wick’s wife (Bridget Moynahan), a woman good and decent enough to inspire her adoring husband to abandon his life of violence and criminality, even though he is to killing people what Meryl Streep is to acting: the gold standard by which all others are judged. A lesser film would have dragged out the wife’s death, but John Wick deals with her as quickly, smoothly, and efficiently as it does everything else.

HE’S NO MERE KILLER FOR HIRE. HE’S MORE LIKE A CONTEMPORARY FOLK HERO.

Before her light is permanently extinguished, though, she arranges to have a puppy named Daisy shipped to her husband’s home to help him deal with his impending grief. John doesn’t get to spend a whole lot of time with the dog, but he doesn’t need to. Daisy immediately makes an indelible impression and worms her way into the hearts and minds of everyone in the audience. Seldom has a badass action movie been so defined by the adorableness of one of its principals. With the exception of the Death Wish series, of course.

John Wick himself is a familiar action-movie archetype: a man of violence who has figured out a way to leave his past behind and enjoy the simple pleasures of an honest, law-abiding existence. Then one day, Iosef Tarasov (Alfie Allen), the degenerate son of Russian mob kingpin Viggo Tarasov (Michael Nyqvist), attempts to buy John’s 1969 Ford Mustang Mach 1 from him at a gas station. Wick politely declines the offer, but Iosef is used to having his way, so he and his men follow John home, where they murder his dog and steal his car. This makes John Wick angry. And you wouldn’t like John Wick when he’s angry. Because first he gets angry, and then he starts murdering people. And once he starts, he doesn’t stop until his thirst for vengeance has been sated.

Wick now has something to live for, and more importantly, something to kill for. From that point on, Viggo and John are on a collision course only one of them will survive, if anyone survives at all. In one of the film’s few bits of exposition, Viggo explains that John’s nickname was “The Boogeyman,” but even that undersells his badassery, because, as Viggo clarifies, John Wick is not the boogeyman so much as he’s the one you send to kill the boogeyman. He’s no mere killer for hire. He’s more like a contemporary folk hero.

In Viggo, John Wick boasts a villain worthy of its anti-hero. Nyqvist plays the mob boss as an inveterate philosopher who regards his life and death with a wry sense of world-weary resignation. His respect for Wick borders on awe, and he seems to know, deep down, that it is his existential destiny to be killed by him. He seems resigned to his fate.

But something deeper also seems to be at work. There’s a sense that Viggo wishes John Wick were his son, and he’s come to terms with his death — and the death of his own son — as an appropriate price to pay to the universe for the unforgivable, unpardonable crime of killing Wick’s dog and stealing his car. To put it in Network terms, when snot-nosed Iosef and his boys killed Wick’s dog, they meddled with the primal forces of nature, and Wick quite simply is not having it.

THE GENIUS OF JOHN WICK LIES IN ITS TOUGH-GUY MINIMALISM.

Derek Kolstad’s crackerjack screenplay is as notable for all of the things that aren’t said as it is for the few things that are. It boldly and brazenly eschews exposition — the elaborate backstories and speeches and arbitrary love interest and all of the other crap that makes action movies so forgettable and interchangeable — so that it can focus monomaniacally on all the things that make action movies awesome.

The film allows John Wick to remain a mystery throughout and surrounds him with characters who are every bit as enigmatic and tantalizingly unknowable as him. We learn, for example, almost nothing about the underworld figures played by the likes of heavyweights Willem Dafoe and Ian McShane, but the way they treat each other says more about them and the dark, ominous, honor-bound world they inhabit than reams of dialogue ever could. Because John Wick leaves so much unsaid, we don’t have any choice but to fill in the blanks.

These weary survivors flesh out the film’s vision of a criminal world that functions as an alternate universe that exists within our own world, complete with an elaborate code of ethics that, like everything else in the film, is never explicitly spelled out. This shadow world has gods and demons and legends of their own, and John Wick qualifies as all three. He’s a righteous angel of vengeance.

The genius of John Wick — and I do not use that word lightly — lies in its tough-guy minimalism, in the way it strips the revenge melodrama down to its raw, potent core. That minimalism extends to the dialogue. The more Keanu Reeves says here, the less badass he seems. Thankfully he says almost nothing, so when he does speak it’s more forceful. Likewise, we don’t need to hear about what a force of nature John Wick is because it’s apparent in every punch, every kick, and every bad guy murdered; the film is admirably committed to showing rather than telling.

Just about the only time John Wick says more than is absolutely necessary is when he’s captured by Viggo and explains the urgency and necessity of his particular path. He describes what Daisy meant to him, how she gave him his first taste of hope in ages, only to have that hope extinguished by a bullet. In John Wick, the criminal world is no place for tourists: either you’re in the life 100 percent or you’re out completely.

John murders a small nation’s worth of glowering Russians over the course of the movie, so he’s not exactly tip-toeing shyly back into his old ways. Yet it isn’t until John is captured by Viggo and roped to a chair, when he tells him and his armed thugs, “People keep asking if I’m back and I haven’t really had an answer. But now, yeah, I’M THINKING I’M BACK!” that his bloody comeback becomes official.

Reeves delivers those instantly iconic lines with ragged breath and visceral, overpowering rage. Like Philip Seymour Hoffman in Mission Impossible 3, he’s a deadly threat to everyone around him even when bound and captured by his enemies.

THERE’S A ZEN CALM TO JOHN WICK THAT COMES AS MUCH FROM THE ACTOR AS THE SCRIPT.

But there’s a Zen calm to John Wick that comes as much from the actor as the script. Reeves possesses a sweetness and vulnerability that, in the past, has worked against his efforts to come across as tough and imposing. But that likability, as well as his androgynous good looks, makes it easy to buy the title character as a man who will never recover from the personal losses he’s suffered, no matter how many Russians he murders. Just as importantly, at this stage in his career, Reeves has the presence and physical chops to pull off playing this virtuoso of bloodshed, this Mozart of righteous mass murder. Style-wise, John Wick is a marvel of clean, unadorned efficiency. The film’s alternately black-grey and lurid neon color scheme and visceral brutality suggest Only God Forgives if Nicolas Winding-Refn’s film was intent on entertaining audiences rather than repulsing them.

The world of John Wick is full of mystery and empty spaces, so while the film is perfect in its own right, its universe begs to be expanded with sequels and a TV spin-off and graphic novels and comic books and novelizations. Accordingly, the sequel did even better with critics and audiences than the original film, and it seems like there’s an awful lot that can still be done with the character, as evidenced by plans for a John Wick TV series.

But why stop there? If any blood-splattered action movie franchise invited an officially licensed line of dog toys and bulletproof puppy vests, it’s this one. Hell, if Billy Jack got four movies, then John Wick deserves at least eight.

John Wick transformed Keanu Reeves (who had a little bit of success in action via the popular Matrix films) from a wannabe badass to the real thing. John Wick is the hero we need, and a hero for our times, even if we have done little, if anything, to deserve him.

#keanu reeves #john wick

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lemonvampire · 7 years

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Logan Review (spoiler-free)

There’s a lot to be said about what Fox Studios have gotten wrong with the X-Men film franchise over the years, particular in comparison to their counterpart in the Disney/Marvel Studios’ Marvel Cinematic Universe. Once a pioneering film series that helped pave the way for the more colorful and comic-accurate portrayals in the MCU, the X-Men films began in the much more cynical landscape of Hollywood in the late 90s/early 2000s, when the idea of colorful heroes in “yellow spandex” was something to be sneered at and even derisively mocked in the first film by a po-faced James Marsden grimacing inside a restrictive but oh-so-serious black leather jumpsuit as he quips to the fresh-faced visage of a young Hugh Jackman in his star-making first appearance as Wolverine. The one thing that these films have gotten absolutely right in adapting their source material however, in a way that the MCU hopefully never will, is the comic series’ complete lack of consistency and continuity, and tendency to lean heavily on retcons. After the disappointing third entry and abysmal first spinoff for Jackman’s Wolverine, the series was “rebooted” with the much more colorful and well-received (by everyone but me anyway) X-Men First Class, which marketed itself as both a reboot and a prequel and didn’t really achieve either particularly well, keeping itself completely tied to the characterizations set up in the first three and even including cameos from Jackman and Rebecca Romijn. Following off the success of First Class, Hugh Jackman got another chance for a solo project with The Wolverine, before returning along with the rest of the series veterans to star in series highlight, Days of Future Past, which served to wrap up all the continuity snags of the franchise and give the original cast a proper and heartfelt sendoff. But Hugh Jackman, who by all accounts loves this particular role with a genuine affection that has shown through in even the worst entries, had jus one more left in him, and has returned to cinemas to give the character of Wolverine a final, heartfelt farewell before hanging up the claws for good, and has brought the equally talented and passionate Patrick Stewart along to do the same for Professor Charles Xavier. Loosely inspired by the Mark Millar comic, “Old Man Logan,” Logan tells the story of a near future where most of the mutants, along with all of the X-Men, have been killed and there are no new mutants being born. The surviving mutants have found themselves growing steadily weaker, their powers somehow degrading, including a now-aging Logan and a decrepit Charles Xavier, who Logan is caring for while he’s fighting off dementia and seizures that cause his still immensely powerful telepathy to be a danger to those around him. The situation is incredibly bleak for the two of them, with Logan working as a limousine driver to try to save up enough money to buy a boat for the two of them, presumably in the hopes of taking them both out to the middle of the ocean where Charles’ deteriorating condition will finally claim the lives of both men without hurting anyone else. But this plan is changed when a desperate woman brings a little girl, Laura, into their lives. Laura is a new mutant, born in a lab and experimented on to be developed into a weapon, exactly as Wolverine had been experimented on. In fact she’s Logan’s daughter, a clone made from his DNA, with the same healing powers and with adamantium claws grafted into her arms and her feet. Despite his initial refusal, Logan is persuaded/forced to take Laura, along with Xavier, to a location in North Dakota, where they can escape the mercenaries that are hunting her. As the final outing for Hugh Jackman in the role that made him famous, this was the perfect film to go out on. Not only does it’s R rating allow Jackman to finally “cut” loose and deliver the kind of violent action that Wolverine is famous for (seriously we’ve had eight other movies featuring a guy whose entire gimmick is having knives come out of his hands that were severely restricted in the amount of blood and violence they could show), but it also closes out the character’s story arc with a genuinely somber, reflective tale of loss, hope, and redemption. Wolverine is a character that people love for his gritty, tough-guy persona, but it’s a persona that only really works because it’s steeped in tragedy. Wolverine doesn’t work without proper pathos, and can easily fall victim to that pathos straying into desperate melodrama, as evidenced by his first solo film, X-Men Origins: Wolverine, where he spends much of the film screaming comically to the heavens over the bodies of characters we never have reason to care about, before tearing through villains we also have no emotional connection to. It’s a tight rope to walk, and this film, directed by James Mangold, finally walks it like a professional. The tragedy in this film is thick and genuine, as presented in the soulful, regret-filled performances of Jackman and Stewart as well as the surprising newcomer performance of Dafne Keen as Laura, AKA X-23. As child actors go Keen is a revelation. She’s called upon to give a wide-ranging performance which she delivers on a level that has her slipping into this particular character even more perfectly than Hugh Jackman originally fit into his role as Wolverine. Despite her age she looks perfect for the part, like a younger version of Josh Middleton’s artwork from NYX brought to life, and she nails the quiet, fuming rage and tragedy of the character in a way that informs the character even better than the writing in the comics. For a film meant to be a final solo outing for both Hugh Jackman and Wolverine, the strength is in its ensemble cast, which is firing on all cylinders. Patrick Stewart gives the most human performance he’s ever delivered in the role of Charles Xavier, and one of the best performances of his stellar career. Boyd Holbrook delivers an electrifyingly charismatic performance as the main villain of the piece, along with Richard E. Grant and Stephen Merchant in their supporting roles. And of course, Jackman himself gives the kind of performance in the lead that we’ve been waiting to see since he first appeared in 2000’s X-Men. He’s more ferocious, more troubled and more sympathetic than we’ve ever seen. This film is, without a doubt, the best Wolverine movie, the best X-Men movie, and one of the best superhero movies ever made. It belongs right alongside the likes of The Winter Soldier, Civil War, Spider-Man 2, The Dark Knight, and Deadpool. This is a must-see film for anyone that is a fan of comic book movies or has ever enjoyed even one of the X-Men films featuring Jackman’s Wolverine. Don’t miss it.

#logan #wolverine #x-men #movie review #hugh jackman

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