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shiny-procrastinates · 3 years

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(re)Watching Magia Record S1 - part 2

part 1 here

I had no idea it’d turn into a run-on text when I posted the last one, am now regretting several life choices.

Hello everyone and welcome to the second post of this series where we watch Magia Record together! (Hopefully)

Last time our cute protagonist was kidnapped by a witch and taken to a mysterious city called Kamihama, only to be saved by a singing chibi Kyuubei, getting kicked out by a blue haired op magical girl, and remembering that her long forgotten wish was to cure her missing sister’s illness. You know, happens everyday.

So then, where is Iroha’s younger sister Ui? What is going on in Kamihama? What’s up with those full-body tights? Guess we’ll have to watch to find out! (There is no answer to the last one.)

Puella Magi Madoka Magica Side Story: Magia Record Episode 2

So we kick this episode off with what seems to be a flashback of Iroha visiting her younger sister in the hospital.

The smile that was not protected.

They do some sister bonding and we are now back to the scene of Iroha making her wish, just a little trippier this time.

Iroha’s covered by some white sheets and…

Of course, it was all a dream. Yes, we’d like to know that, too, Iroha. I like how the camera moves back to show the empty part of her room, emphasizing how her sister’s completely gone.

And cut to the op. Talking about nice shots, this one’s my favorite in the opening:

Later, Iroha is telling Kyuubei about her wish. Today, she just bought her lunch instead of making it. Did you oversleep?

Regardless, Kyuubei does not know her sister. He asks if Ui really existed. According to him, it would take something like a magical girl’s wish to erase someone’s existence completely like that, so he suggests it’s more likely that someone implanted false memories in her. Iroha, however, believes those memories are real, and plans to visit the hospital she saw in her dreams in search for clues.

So Iroha is now going to Kamihama. She tried to get in contact with Kuroe but couldn’t reach her. Considering how determined Kuroe was to go to Kamihama though, she might be there already.

Iroha asks Kyuubei about the chibi Kyuubei from earlier, but Kyuubei doesn’t know anything about it. Rather, he says something like that shouldn’t exist.

This bus has ads. And Iroha really does like kids a lot, doesn’t she.

Alas, it seems you can’t even ride a bus in peace in this town. Before she can arrive at the hospital, Iroha gets caught up in yet another witch’s barrier.

Hello, Witch Delivery Service. How can I curse you today?

Once again, she’s not alone in the Labyrinth. There’s another girl getting her butt kicked having a hard time with Kamihama’s witches.

The new girl knows she can’t win, so she’s all in on running away, but Iroha can’t just leave the passengers to become witch food. They’re weak though, so as soon as they stop they’re attacked and end up stuck in a web.

:fuyuu～:

When all seems lost, in comes our knight in shining armor, with her weird shaped sword. If it was jagged, you’d think someone took a bite out of that.

This confident, strong-willed magical girl is called Momoko, and she came to help out the girl from earlier. I can’t screenshot this, but it’s cool how the camera slightly shakes as if affected by the wind when it shows her from the front.

Then there’s Rena.

The two join hands and do something like enchanting, I suppose. Borrowing Rena’s water powers, Momoko dives straight into the enemy and clears everything, not like a tidal wave, but literally with one. Iroha is very impressed… and then she gets run over by a ball of fur along with Kaede. gg

Iroha was abducted, this was actually sci-fi all along.

Of course not, though Madoka does happen in the near future.

Iroha wakes up to find herself in an unfamiliar place. Momoko explains to her that they are at the Coordinator’s, some sort of hospital + consultation center for magical girls… Iroha, please don’t repeat “magical girls” as if it doesn’t ring a bell, you are one.

You’re too nice for this world, shame only suffering awaits you.

Rena criticizes her, but Momoko reassures Iroha that’s just Rena’s way of showing concern. Seems about right.

Momoko offers to escort her back to the station, and Iroha asks if there really are that many witches in Kamihama. I’d say yes, considering how we’ve already seen three in only two episodes. They were way more rare in the og.

According to Momoko, it’s just like the blue haired magical girl had told her yesterday: not only there are a lot of them, they are also stronger than normal. However, Momoko says it was not always like that.

Iroha still needs to go to Satomi Medical Center to investigate her sister’s disappearance, so she explains her situation to Momoko’s trio.

:momokoncerned:

Rena’s not keen on believing Iroha’s story, but Momoko can’t leave someone in need, so she decides for her team to help Iroha. Even Iroha’s perplexed.

Rena complains that they already have their own investigation going on, but the other two argue that they haven’t found anything anyway and Rena was the one who least believed the rumor they’re investigating. Iroha just has no idea what’s going on.

It seems Momoko��s trio is chasing down a witch called the chain Witch, but Iroha has never heard about it.

Feeling bad about the trio arguing, Iroha says it’s fine and that she doesn’t want to bother them with searching for her sister too when they already saved her earlier, but Kaede pushes the point of “we’re all magical girls after all”, even when Rena’s clearly unwilling. They then finally properly introduce themselves.

The fiery blonde is Momoko Togame, the red haired druid is Kaede Akino and the blue haired tsundere is Rena Minami. They’re a magical girl team acting in the Shinsei Ward in Kamihama.

The group heads to Satomi Medical Center but, as expected, I guess, they wouldn’t let Iroha in. After all, not only her sister is not hospitalized there right now, as there are no records of her ever being there.

So the obvious choice here is going for some burgers.

Momoko says about Momoko.

She snatches the lunch from Iroha and goes upstairs… then she’s Rena. Guess we can assume Rena’s power is shapeshifting. Iroha is understandably very confused. (poor girl’s been like that ever since she came to Kamihama).

I do want to be spoken, too.

Iroha apologizes for having them accompany her for nothing, and says she’ll find a way to get to Ui’s hospital room. Momoko’s trio seems to have some plan, but Rena refuses to do it. Kaede confirms that Rena can shapeshift.

Momoko and Kaede want Rena to shapeshift into a nurse and infiltrate the hospital, but Rena doesn’t want to take the risk. Kaede and Rena then start fighting. Kaede’s upset that Rena refuses to use her powers for others, while Rena doesn’t want to put herself at risk for a stranger. Rena gets worked up, and ends up saying something bad enough to erase the background stickers.

Yeah, getting caught up in a friend fight is quite awkward isn’t it.

Rena runs her mouth and accidentally says Kaede’s wish is stupid. But magical girl’s wishes are their biggest desires when they make them, so it’s extremely rude to diss one. Kaede starts crying. Rena really screwed up there.

If only the background could talk for you, Rena.

Kaede is so upset she breaks up her friendship with Rena and walks off. Momoko tries to cheer Rena up with a mood-deaf joke, but it backfires and Rena also runs off. It’s nice how the girl’s thoughts they can’t put in words are expressed by the background stickers here. Rena would’ve seemed like a jerk if not.

Iroha and Momoko make their way back to the station. Momoko apologizes for the previous scene and Iroha apologizes for making them fight, but Momoko reassures her that that happens all the time.

Yeah, seems tiresome. From my experience, poking your nose in your friends’ fights more often than not only makes them both turn against you.

Iroha asks Momoko if the Chain Monster she joked about earlier was the same as the Chain Witch, and Momoko tells her about the rumor of the Staircase of Severance. According to the rumor, if you end your friendship with someone and write your names on a certain staircase at the school Momoko and co. attend, the first person to try to make up will be abducted by the chain monster. It would be fine if it was just a rumor, but the people who had their names written in the staircase did in fact disappear, and-

Hands- *cof* I mean, what do you have to do with this?

No, Kaede, don’t do it, it’s not worth it!

After a brief flash of a call to(?) or from(?) Momoko, Iroha meets up with her and Kaede at the station. According to them, Rena has been missing ever since their fight, and I’ve just now noticed the detail on the background showing the train lines. Nice.

The girls search for Rena until late, and finally find her at the arcade. Rena tries to pass herself for someone else, but the keychain doesn’t lie. Rena runs away, turning into a lot of other people, and the girls chase after her. As they do, chains follow their path.

Kaede catches Rena and asks why she’s running away. She says their friendship isn’t over, since Rena didn’t throw away their mascot, so she’ll apologize again if she has to and she won’t let go until Rena forgives her.

So Kaede apologizes to Rena and says they’ll go back to being friends. Rena then starts seeing chains.

The familiar-like things start mocking her. They say Rena wrote their name on the Staircase of Severance, so they won’t let them go back to being friends. Rena’s also the only one who can see them. The chain monsters start saying what should be the reasons why Rena would break up their friendship, which Rena desperately denies. The monsters then take Kaede away.

And that’s it for this episode. The rumor of the Staircase of Severance was true, Kaede was kidnapped and we still have no clue what that flash to the blue haired magical girl when Momoko was talking about the rumor even means. Leaving this episode with more questions than answers, and barely making any progress on Iroha’s investigation, we now get the ending for this season: Alethea, by ClariS.

It’s a beautiful ending, but it’s kind of funny having this when Yachiyo’s name hasn’t even appeared in the anime yet. I actually thought for the longest time that this song was called Alicia since the katakana sounds like that (or I may have misread it), so you can imagine my surprise when I learnt over a year later I was wrong lol

There’s also the little but nice detail that Yachiyo’s holding the umbrella she has when she meets Iroha on the opening.

With that, we are done with episode 2! Will our girls be able to save Fuyuu from the Chain Witch? Will Rena be able to be honest for once? Guess we’ll have to find out next time! Looking forward to having you guys for episode 3, same hour, same Tumblr blog.

(P.S: I went with Staircase of Severance for the name of this rumor since that’s what is being used in these subs, but I think it’s Friendship Ending Staircase somewhere else. Same thing tho)

#puella magi madoka magica #pmmm magia record #Magia Record

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maggot-monger · 3 years

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some musings on shipping culture

just to get this out of the way: this post is prompted by things i have seen people say and reblog recently about a variety of ships and fandoms, some of which i have been in, some of which i have not. it is not directed at any individual in particular.

i am also not upset. how other people like to enjoy fandom is interesting to me but ultimately it’s totally irrelevant to how i like to enjoy fandom. in fact, my apathy about other people’s favorite ships is a major reason i am curious about how some people respond to each other/canon/whatever.

the main question is: why do people care what other people ship and why they ship it?

here’s what i got. this list is not ordered by importance.

1) purity culture

tbh i am kind of burnt out with thinking about purity culture. probably a lot of reasons are somewhat related to purity culture, but i don’t want to get into whether or not it’s ok for people to ship stuff they wouldn’t condone in reality (although for the record, if you couldn’t tell, my opinion is: ship literally whatever you want). so, moving on.

2) whether or not ships are likely to become canon

a lot of the time, this debate gets avoided either because none of the ships being argued over are likely ever to become canon, or because one of them is almost definitely going to become canon. sometimes it’s an argument about which relationship is more important, whether romantic or not (two examples: 1) most wincest shippers understand that sam and dean were never going to kiss on the mouth on tv, but are very invested in the brothers’ relationship being the central relationship in the show regardless. 2) debates over whether elsa in frozen should have a girlfriend or stay single).

much of the time, people get passionate about ships going canon because of issues of representation. wanting the queer ship; wanting the ship involving at least one character from an underrepresented group; wanting the ship that resonates with some meaningful experience much of the audience can relate to. that’s all cool. i get all of that. i don’t personally have many feelings about ships i like going canon because that’s not really part of the experience for me, but i understand why it’s appealing to others.

i do not, however, understand why some people whose ships might become canon care about telling people whose ships are never going to become canon that their ships are, uh, never going to become canon. like, in my experience, usually people who ship a never-going-to-be-canon ship know that it’s never going to be canon, and while they might be salty about it, they aren’t claiming that their thing is going to be what happens in canon. i get why never-going-to-be-canon shippers might get pissy at might-be-canon shippers because it sucks to “lose,” or because often (not always) might-be-canon ships are very popular comparatively and it can get tiresome to see your fandom dominated by something you don’t like/care about. but why do fans of popular (might-be-)canon ships get pissy about fans of never-gonna-be-canon ships, within fandom spaces?

a lot of this tension might be because of fandom dominance wars, rather than canon dominance wars. the never-gonna-be-canon shippers might feel that the might-be-canon shippers are dominating fandom spaces, but the might-be-canon shippers might feel that the never-gonna-be-canon shippers are dominating canon spaces. often when this happens both ships take up a lot of fandom space regardless of which takes up more, and might in fact be equally popular. so this might be just misperceptions about relative popularity, and feeling like your ship is being attacked/ignored disproportionately in the fandom when in reality it isn’t. i have definitely seen this sort of attitude from warring flagship supporters many a time.

but ok, to come back to why might-be-canon shippers make arguments against never-gonna-be-canon shippers based on likelihood of canonization: why? i don’t get it. i’ve seen this happen even with people who ship fully realized canon relationships arguing against people who ship fully non-canon relationships. why?

my instinct is to think that last one is a sore winner thing. like, you won dude. good for you. take your winnings and let everybody else lick their wounds/carry on with their own preferences in peace. i’m even inclined to think that canon shippers as a rule should ignore most baiting by non-canon shippers because losers should be allowed to be little a bitter, as a treat. but at this point, i realize that i have just made a claim about how people should act in fandom, and who am i to say that? no one. so: never mind. and it might not be a gloating thing anyway.

another piece of evidence i see people bring up in these arguments is about basis in canon, rather than likelihood of canonization. that seems like another major point, so let’s move on to that.

3) basis in canon

whether or not a ship is likely to become canon, there are lots of conversations about which ships make the most sense given evidence from the canon.

i, being a massive slut for characterization, get this sort of. usually even when i enjoy crack ships i want to make them work with textual evidence somehow. i personally just think it’s more satisfying to figure out how two characters might have met and what would have appealed to them about each other to lead them to connect/date/bang/whatever, even if it never happened and never will happen and nobody would even think about the pairing unless either they were trying to be funny or they were really far down a rabbit hole. that’s my own geeky cross to bear.

i don’t get why “basis in canon” makes any ship better than any other ship though. sometimes a ship is within reach of canon characterization/story, and the work to go from non-canon to canon is suuuper minimal. these ships make sense pretty much as they are. that’s cool! such ships are usually popular for a reason: they appeal to a lot of fans of the canon because not a lot has to be done to the source material to make it work. often, the more you have to modify/do interpretation footwork, the more people’s interesting is going to drop off because you’re getting further from the source, and the source is why everyone is here in the first place. (some fandoms are of course exceptions to this.)

but why is closer-to-canon better? sometimes the work to get from canon to a far-from-canon ship is really clever, and does actually make a lot of sense if you follow the reasoning. sometimes far-from-canon ships are satisfying in a way other closer-to-canon ships aren’t (at least to some people). sometimes far-from-canon ships allow for creativity that closer-to-canon ships don’t. sometimes the appeal of far-from-canon ships is none of that, and it’s purely because the ship is sexy, or it’s controversial, or it’s weird, or people have gotten tired of the fandom flagships and they’re looking for something new.

i don’t understand why any of that is worse than the reasons for shipping something with “more basis in canon.”

personally, i get tired of fandom flagships in most of the fandoms i’ve been in very quickly. furthermore, i lose interest in ships almost immediately if/when they become canon. that’s not a value judgment; it’s just a pattern in my own preferences that i’ve observed from 15+ years of fandom involvement. i enjoy having to work in the murky waters farther from canon to justify my weird little ships. i find the moment of canonization exciting and satisfying (and sometimes emotional and vindicating), but i do not enjoy watching people actually being in romantic relationships very much (part of this is probably due to the fact that i personally do not enjoy being in romantic relationships very much). i also just tend to enjoy elements of ships that a lot of people find off-putting, but this is going back to purity culture and, again, i don’t want to get into that. these preferences reliably lead me away from close-to-canon ships and fandom flagships.

(just to be clear: i’m not being attacked. i do not feel attacked. i'm just using myself as a rhetorical example here.)

does this make my taste in ships bad? i don’t know what "bad taste in ships” means, but if you’re going to say that my taste is bad, i’m going to want you to justify it.

does it make my taste in ships stupid? well, sure, i do like stupid shit sometimes. but i also feel that it would be strange, if not flat-out incorrect, to claim that my taste in off-norm ships is not thoughtful. i think about many of my far-from-canon ships a lot — often, i think about them a lot before i start shipping them/see anyone else ship them, and i decide i like the characters together because i’ve come at it from a character analysis perspective. i have liked ships for some extremely nerdy reasons. a lot of people who like far-from-canon ships get there because they like thinking about characterization and plot and symbolism. to be completely honest, i often end up liking rarepairs in part because the people who end up liking rarepairs often have higher overall intellectual skill and desire to think about things extensively on average than fans of fandom flagships do on average. so, is liking far-from-canon ships stupid? that’s subjective. is it unintelligent? probably not.

is enjoyment of these ships dumber when people don’t get there through a lot of analysis, or when they don’t try to justify their enjoyment once they’ve decided they like a ship? i have seen extremely well-written, clever, extensively researched fic about pairings the author had no interest in justifying, and imo that’s just as intellectually motivated as analysis about why the ship makes sense. so, i would say, no.

is it bad to ship stuff and have no intellectual interest in it all? i mean, everyone can have whatever opinion about this, but in my opinion, no. this is fandom. this is for fun-having. i’m a nerd, but not everybody has to be a nerd. sometimes i like to read stuff that is not nerdy, that just shows me something comforting or new or evocative and doesn’t ask me to care about how we’ve gotten there. i might care anyway, but that’s on me, and it doesn’t make my enjoyment better than the enjoyment of someone who doesn’t want to overthink it.

finally, even if a ship having no basis in canon does make it worse somehow, who cares? what is the point of arguing over ship quality, of all things? is it just elitism? is it defensiveness against criticism of fan work being inferior to original work? is it a desire for everything to make sense, paired with a belief that people prefer things that make the most sense? if anybody has read this far and has insight into this, please tell me. i see this so often, and it baffles me every time. i don’t really want to agree, but i want to understand.

so, i don’t quite get this one. i get parts of it, but overall, i don’t get it.

4) i don’t have a number 4. i put a number 4 when i started writing this post but i think i covered what i was going to say here in points 1-3. alternatively i forgot my 4th point in which case RIP.

if you read this far, i apologize for the messy organization. i wrote this primarily to sort out my own thoughts. i’m not sure it helped, but it was something to do for an hour XD

#please don't reblog #(idk why anyone would but)#(i am happy to chat though! i am genuinely interested! my questions are not rhetorical)#further disclaimer: none of this is about my current main fandom which seems blessedly tolerant compared to many fandoms #i say things

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cherry3point14 · 4 years

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Stranger Than Fanfiction: Ch 5

Series Masterlist

Pairing: Dean x Reader Warnings: Lusting. Tumblr Meta. Word count: 2,400. Chapter Summary: What’s worse: reading fanfiction about two men you just met, or a narrator who wants to push you into one of their arms? A/N: lol tumblr. You guys should let me know who wants to be in this thing. I kid, I kid... OR DO I?

Ao3 if you prefer

Y/N pushed forward onto her elbows and pressed her fingers into her temples. Outwardly it might look like an attempt to relax but she was actually attempting to massage away the oncoming headache. It had been a tiresome, stressful day that had exhausted her long before Sam and Dean Winchester had arrived. Up until then, her biggest concern had been catching up on her mounting work, something that was now trivial in comparison to the monster roaming her neighborhood.

Her disorientation was not aided by the Winchesters themselves. Or Dean. He was a problem, a curse, and a mystery in one flannel-clad package. Y/N wanted to strangle him, mostly. He’d sauntered into her domain and attempted to take the lead where he hadn’t been invited. He was short-tempered and disrespectful. Yet when she considered what it might be like to wrap her fingers around his throat and finally silence him—a fantasy she wouldn’t have been prone to normally —her mind wandered of its own accord. No, she didn’t usually indulge in flights of fancy, which is why she read so extensively, that is until Dean drifted into her life. Now what would begin as a simple imaginary tirade towards the man, morphed into her nails carding through his hair while she brought her lips to his. His lips that were suddenly so fascinating…

“Erm, Y/N?” Sam interrupts you, well her, causing you to slump into your hands where you’re still leaning on your desk. You could only hope that the way you’re staring at nothing doesn’t appear quite as wistful as it feels.

Your narrator had started this absurd new direction in her story shortly after you’d accepted the men in front of you to be Sam and Dean Winchester. She’s been filling your head with these seemingly endless paragraphs about Dean. Bubbling new emotions and how you notice each of his seemingly perfect features for the first time. So, while you're trying to have a conversation with the two men, you simultaneously have to listen to her pining after Dean on your behalf. And then there's the way your body reacts to everything the voice is saying. You’re not sure if you’re lusting after Dean or if the voice is, either way, you find yourself licking your lips in anticipation or trying to suppress a shiver in your warm office.

It’s exhausting.

“Sorry, you were- I mean you’re telling me that because the first victim's murderer has an alibi, you came to check it out and linked four deaths because they all had life insurance policies?” You pause, unsure, “no offense but that doesn’t sound very, uh, weird. I mean- I have life insurance.”

Dean rolls his eyes, “of course you do, you work at a damn insurance company.”

You’d actually been asking Sam but it’s so easy to fall into the trap of arguing with Dean since it’s been happening for the last thirty minutes now. “Life insurance is very common, you know, maybe you should consider getting some.”

The problem is whenever you do decide to engage with Dean, your benevolent narrator takes the opportunity to inform you of something else attractive about him. Thus neutralizing your annoyed reaction.

She couldn’t help it. Though she fought and struggled to control herself she found herself looping through the same motions again. Warmth bloomed over her chest to accompany the spark of aggression. Her tongue fired off a response like a bullet leaving a gun. As she hit her intended target, marked by Dean’s creased brow or the clench of his jaw, she’d experience a pleasant moment of weightlessness as a small, relieved sigh would leave her body. This petty behavior would be uncharacteristic for her if this were a regular acquaintance whom she simply disliked. He was not any other offender. Dean was both her tormentor and tormented, not just because of the way his tongue peeked out over his bottom lip for a teasing second.

Sam clears his throat, again, “we found the insurance connection after we figured out what it is. The first case, the murder victim? We saw the shifter on video before they-”

You brighten up, interrupting, remembering the fact from your reading, and happy to have no internal monologue. “Oh, the eye thing? Like the shifter who pretended to be Dean in the books?”

“It wasn’t only in the books… how many times, that happened!”

Dean has been getting more and more agitated by your slow realization that everything you’d read was real. Sam, in trying to explain why they needed the information about the claim beneficiaries, has been worlds apart more understanding.

“Right, of course. Don’t worry this isn’t weird for me or anything.” You cross your arms over your chest like you can block out Dean’s negativity with the action. Or stop the flush on your skin from continuing up your neck.

Sam scrunches his face as he gets to the end of even his patience, although you’re not sure whether it’s you or Dean.

“Yeah, the um-eye thing. Anyway, we found three other unsolved cases except these weren’t as big news because no one was arrested for them. But all died the same way, all had sizable insurance policies with First National, and all the spouses practically went into hiding after the claim was paid.”

“Right. And you think Maggie Hall is a shifter who killed her own husband?”

Sam nods, “something like that.”

“Ok, ok. What can I do to help?” You’re not ok with monsters or guns, or all the crime. Although little data protection infraction seems in your wheelhouse. “Do you have the names? I could get you all the information.”

Dean barks a laugh from the chair he’s sunk into, crossing his own arms at some point.

His broad shoulders are slung low, his head bouncing against the back of the chair. She’d be forgiven for thinking that he’s a teenager asleep in class for the way he’s sitting and the lack of interest he has in talking to her. Except he’s not treating her like the dull teacher, quite the opposite. She’s offering to break the rules and so he’s treating her like a child trying to stay up past bedtime. He infuriates her as much as he makes her want to prove him wrong. She thinks she could do it too, given enough time, she could prove everything he’s said wrong and then perhaps he’d show her a modicum of respect.

You’re reminded then of your own strange circumstances. Where you’d had a comment waiting for Dean’s apathetic laugh you stop and consider for the first time if you should tell someone. Them even. Not screaming at Laura to ask if she heard it too, but honestly tell someone. If you’re committing to believing the Winchesters exist does it make sense that they would be the only people to actually believe you?

“And you’re sure that it’s a shapeshifter?” You don’t look up to see their faces, hoping it’ll make this easier.

Dean doesn’t notice the soft change in your voice at first. “ Just because you’ve read a few books and think you know a few things…”

Sam waves a hand in Dean’s face to shut him up, making you wonder where that trick has been for the last forty-five minutes. “What makes you ask that?”

You bring your eyes to theirs now, flicking between them. Both of them are wearing those intense stares, boring into you again, softer now. Something tells you that you could take twenty minutes to gather your courage and they’d still wait.

Sam is looking at you kindly and Dean, for the first time since you’ve seen him, is patient.

You know that lightning isn’t supposed to strike twice but it feels like maybe you have been hit with two realizations at once. Firstly, you couldn’t tell them. As absurd as the voice is it somehow seems too weird even for them. They are hunting an actual monster and you are struggling with possible mental illness. If they didn't cart you off to a head doctor at the very least they'd think you're crazy.

Secondly, and it pains you to prove your narrator correct, but Dean really does have a rugged yet boyish charm when he’s not scowling at you.

Not that it matters if you play along with the voice and her desires for you to fall for Dean. Because you’re going to help them find this shifter and they’ll do what the Winchesters do in every Supernatural book you’d poured over. They’ll get into their car and leave.

“It’s nothing. I’m was thinking-it’s fine. We should get going before security wonders why I’m still here.” You stand up ready to go digging through the filing cabinets. “I guess you need to look at those files now?”

It’s Thursday. A regular and normal Thursday. Nothing out of the ordinary. You hadn’t spent the night before re-reading Skin because shifters are real and there is one stalking your companies’ clients. And you’re definitely ignoring the notification icon on the Tumblr app.

Sure, before you’d met them maybe you’d read one or two, or twenty unpublished short stories written by independent writers. The books had ended and you’d had nothing new to read. You’d already known the fan-created content was out there because you’d glanced at it when you downloaded the books. It had been so easy to retrace your steps.

But knowing what you knew now, knowing that the Winchesters were real, you certainly couldn’t go around reading fanfiction anymore.

Definitely not.

Which is why it’s Thursday morning and you’re at your desk. Jittery from another late night, on edge because what if they are killing the shifter right now and curious as to where the voice has gone. Again. Adding the Tumblr notification on top of that pile was like throwing lighter fluid onto a burning building. Not really going to make things worse in the grand scheme of things, still probably frowned upon.

The notification only bothers you as much as it does because it’s something that should be manageable. Unlike everything else, you can deal with this little red badge.

“Y/N, I brought you a coffee!”

As you search for the source of the voice you see Laura coming across the office with two cups in her hands from the coffee shop down the street.

“Coffee?” You cock your head at her.

Laura makes it to your desk and sets down the brown to go cup directly on top of the paper on your desk as if trying to force you to engage with it before continuing to work. “You seemed a little tired this morning. Thought you could use a pick me up.”

It’s nice of her to have noticed. It’s even nicer that she didn’t tell you to your face this morning since you’d have been annoyed by the comment first thing. The strange thing is that she’s brought you coffee of all drinks. The cozy little coffee shop is where you lunch together when you both decide to treat yourselves and, as at home, you drink tea.

Still, it's the thought that counts. “Thanks, that’s nice of you. My treat next time.”

If she catches the confusion still lingering in your tone then she ignores it, electing to wink at you, unaware. “Don’t be silly. Anything for you.”

Today wouldn’t be the first time that Laura’s perkiness had continued throughout the day so you write off the weirdness and let her walk away. Now would be an excellent time to pick up your phone. You're going to drink the coffee in front of you out of politeness anyway, why not take a break at the same time? You pick up the cup first to signify the start of your coffee break. Unfortunately with actual coffee. Laura did at least add cream so it's slightly more palatable.

Flicking at your screen you open your emails first under the pretense of checking all your notifications at once. There aren't many since you checked at breakfast. Then your Facebook because surely someone in your life has done something horrific enough that they want to share it with you. Nothing except your cousin's pregnancy announcement, which you mom had told you about days ago. Finally, you can't avoid it, the Tumblr app calls for you and click it. The notification was for a message and it's a reply to one you sent.

It's important to note that you'd sent the message before you met Sam and Dean.

Although since this conversation has been started already there's no harm in messaging back. It would be rude not to. You'd only wanted to tell someone that you enjoyed their story, and they messaged back thanking you for your feedback. It was perfectly innocent. It's not like you were choosing to read more stories. And you weren't going out of your way to find the Dean ones.

Hey, thanks for getting back to me. I only read the books last week and I loved your story. Great characterization. Looking forward to reading some more!

It does feel like a cheap shot since the Winchesters are not characters anymore, they're people. Although it's not like they'd find out.

You click send on your reply at the same time as you take another sip of your free coffee and wince. Laura is safely back out of sight at reception now so hopefully you will get away with it without offending her.

The notification is gone. That's one less itch to scratch. Only the remaining laundry list of problems in your life to deal with now.

Starting with the email from Mark that pops up in the corner of your computer screen, asking you if you'd cleared Maggie Halls' file yet.

Continue to Chapter 6.

5eva tags: @divadinag @darthdeziewok @fluentinfiction @witch-of-letters @supernatural-teamfreewillpage @magnitude101999 @alexwinchester23 Dean babes: @thewinchesterchronicles @akshi8278 @bloodydaydreamer StrangerThanFiction tags: @jaylarkson @starsandmidnightblue

#dean x reader #supernatural fanfiction #spn x reader #dean winchester x reader #spn fanfiction #supernatural #spn #spn fanfic #supernatural fanfic #dean winchester #dean winchester x you #dean x you #dean x y/n #dean dean the soft lil bean

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chainsmokespens · 3 years

Text

Orchard, 21.03.21: Vitamin Z

Vitamin Z

This week I was reminded of why I started this course of changes. I don’t know how appropriate it is to refer to someone as your muse today, but I knew regardless. It’s like an adrenaline shot to the heart, one of those cinematic, dramatic ones that snaps you out of the in-and-out, humdrum, mundane world around you and pulls you, heart-first, back into why you started what you were doing.

I probably won’t meet her again. I’m sure that ship is at a nicer dock perched on a virtuous coastline and carved out of six-pack abs. But, I’m grateful.

It’s easy to find the flaws in someone who rejected you. In her case, I couldn’t find any. She was just right to turn me down.

I missed her. I miss her. But there’s wonderful women everywhere. And I’ll take to heart the changes I need to make so that I don’t miss the next her that crosses my path.

Budget

In the spirit of that, I sat down to figure out my budget for the next year. And it’s looking surprisingly optimistic.

My goal is to move up to Syracuse. With my financials figured out, I just need to not lose my job and I should be able to make it my next June.

Needless to say, I was happy to learn that.

Facebook Writers

What I wasn’t so happy about is the series of Facebook groups I’ve joined. As you can tell, writing personal things isn’t really my strong suit. Certainly not in situations like this, where I’m making myself do it. But, considering that I am one writer out of hundreds of millions in the world, I imagined it be nice to acquaint myself with some people. Marketing for writers isn’t easy, after all. Especially when you’re not named.

But the communities are all pretty…vitriolic.

A man asked which of two covers worked better for his book. Being a group of writers, he received dozens of detailed responses. Answers wherein the speaker was more interested in showing off their understanding of literary and publishing nuances than actually answering the questions.

My response: “Number 1.”

A woman made a detailed list of the stereotypes applied when male writers write sexually active males against how they write sexually active females. Of course, the problem was these were stereotypes in writing. “Men who sleep around are great! But women who sleep around are sluts!” “Men who aren’t interested in sex are focused, driven by success in life! Women who aren’t interested in sex are lesbians!”

She applied this long list of writing faux pas on the shoulders of male writers. And this led to more arguing.

People post clips of their book as they’re writing it. A commenter tells them to use more commas and write shorter sentences. A poster volunteers themselves to give out their opinion, making sure to note that they’ve run a blog for the last ten years, so you know their word has value.

A Facebook certified “Conversation Starter” describes The Face by Dean Koontz as “tiresome, tedious, ostentatious” with “florid prose and so many extended metaphors”. This followed by a flood of comments about how much Dean Koontz sucks and questions of how he got so popular.

I’ve never read Dean Koontz, but I’ve heard of him. I don’t recognize any of these people by face or name.

Crabs in a barrel. There’s no success too small for these people to put down. There’s no templar too noble for them to not shit on. There’s a million complex, pretentious, “it depends”, pseudointellectual answers to simple questions like, “Does the blue cover or black cover look better?”

I’m happy I didn’t go to college to write. I can’t imagine what it’d be like to some out this exhausting.

It feels like people don’t understand that there’s success to be had for everybody when it comes to writing. There’s not always fame and critical success. Or an interview tour or a movie deal. Or a place in a high school text book or pop mythology. Or billions of dollars in the bank and vacations to hunt sharks with a shotgun.

But success is available to everyone. Appearance may vary.

I don’t know if I’ll stay in these groups. Or if a non-collegiate writer like me would be expunged. But I take peace in the knowledge that if I ever want to know what type of writer I don’t want to be I can just open up Facebook, click on the group, scroll half a page down, and find some example of how not to pursue this career.

In the Name of Love for Shaman King

I should also make it clear that I’m going to forego the Shaman King breakdown I intended to write. I have enough distractions from what it is I need to do.

I’m disappointed twice over. First, I don’t have the ability to pick up a new discipline and edit a video together. Maybe if I were more patient or observant, but I’m just not there yet. Secondly, I let the new viewers, the ones who get legitimately excited to experience something I used to love, who craft theories and breakdown themes, get to me.

My love of Shaman King inspired me as an artist and a writer. And while I put down my colored pencils nearly a decade ago now, I still write. And I still carry those themes of spirituality and optimism into the stories I craft.

And that’s the best way for me to present my love. Through my actual work. Through what actually inspires me. Through patience. And not a six-hour list of things I love about the series.

And that wasn’t a jab at legitimate reviewers. That was the plan.

Mom

Also, I was given a mattress by my mom this week.

Family’s a weird point for me. I don’t know if I’m ready to get into that, but I feel that I need to do a better job as someone who owes his existence to other people. I forgot who it was, but someone once said that there are two types of parents. You can be a role model or you can be a cautionary tale.

Coworkers

I’m in a good place with my coworkers, too.

The front-of-house is mostly college-aged—closer to my age than most of back-of-house—and their optimistic look on life keeps me grounded in positivity as well.

I didn’t work in too many kitchens after culinary school, but they could definitely get rough. It’s nice to be able to enjoy your work.

Commitment to Making Flash Fiction as Flash Fiction

I needed to reassure myself in my commitment to writing flash fiction.

I made an assurance to edit one of the stories when I posted it to Reddit a few days ago. It didn’t take me long to realize I shouldn’t have done that. Flash fiction is the nice decompressing poop that you take in the morning before you begin the stuff you legitimately work on. And if it’s nice enough you may even be compelled to mold that poop into a decent short.

I got myself caught up. I was afraid that, having posted many of these low-quality poops online, people would begin to judge me as nothing more than a poop writer. And when it came time to actually try to get people to read my web serial, they’d be like, “I don’t care if it’s free. You’re a poop writer. I can’t waste my time with you.”

Yahtzee Croshaw does a series called “Dev Diary” on YouTube, where he breaks down the process of making indie video games. In one of them he talked about how perfectionism sinks in. How it’s tempting to keep your work to yourself, to keep it from being judged so that others may not, by extension, judge you. He said he had to remember that he was not his work.

And I suppose I have to do the same. I’m not a hobbyist with a single story that I’m convinced will put my name on the map. I’m a writer with dozens of different ideas and could get excited about a dozen new ones in the next week.

Boxing matches are won by throwing many small punches, not throwing one with all of your bodyweight and hoping it’s a hit.

A Non-Racist Uber Driver

I had a race-related discussion with an Uber driver.

It was nice.

Pre-College Memories

I reflected on my lackadaisical approach when it came to applying for college. I was short tempered and impatient and ignorant.

It’s thanks to Vitamin Z that I realized I don’t have to actually go back to school to do what I need to do.

But the effort I need to put forward will be monumental nonetheless.

I told you I’d come back more positive.

#blog #love #Shaman King #writing #flashfiction

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sergeant-donny-donowitz · 5 years

Text

The Alliance (Inglourious Basterds Imagine)

Requested by @owba-chan, thanks again love! :) <3

Let me know if you guys wanna be tagged in these :)

Once upon a time in Nazi-Occupied France...

You were in the same cafe you visited each afternoon. You had a job to do, aside from your homework. You, like every other student, got no sleep.

Your afternoon coffee was a necessity. The warm, comforting cup, and strong awakening scent was welcome. You never got tired of it, and you didn't think you ever would.

You looked at your notes...the tiresome, boring, endless drabble that went from neatly organized ideas to hasty chicken scratches. With a sigh, you set it back in your school bag, and discretely pulled out a book you really should not even be seen with in public: La Silence de la Mer.

It was banned...

Then again, so were most of the things and people you loved.

And anyway... there usually weren't any nazis around there. You knew that. The other tired students knew that.

And the basterds knew that.

Everyone was irritated when the calm, relaxed ambience was disrupted by low grumbling of men. Still, everyone was apathetic...and tired....

You had a good ear. You had to, in your line of work.

"Work..." You smiled a little. Is it really work if you love what you do?

You took a puff at your cigarette, one of the habits you just recently picked up. You loved work, but it stressed you out.

That...and of course your anthropology exam.

Anyway, you tapped out some ashes, and picked up your book as you read on. Or...pretended to. You really listened in on the grumbling.

It was English.

And it was kind of your job to pick up on these sort of things...

"What the fuck's that mean?" Aldo muttered, frustrated with Omar and Smitty. The boys never did seem to catch a break.

Hugo shook his head slowly, his eyes narrow in confusion, "That's not...that's not German."

Smithson sighed as he ran his hands through his hair in frustration, "I know. I know, Wicki. But that's what it sounded like!"

Donny suggested, "If you say it one more time, nice and slow maybe they'll get something..."

Omar nodded, "Ok. It sounded like tunnel....undies....them....glass....she....gain....off..."

Wicki cracked his knuckles, hoping he'd get it this time, "Did it sound like...tunnel unter dem Glas stiegen auf?" He shook his head in embarassment, that didn't make any sense to begin with, that-

"Yes! Yes! That's it!" Utivich's eyes and smile were wide, and bright as he and Omar looked at each other nodding.

Hugo frowned, and looked to Wicki in confusion..."Was heißt das überhaupt?" 'What's the even mean....'

Wicki shrugged, and looked back at the basterds, "Are you sure that's what you heard?"

You happened to also understand German... you didn't have much of a choice. Your English was a bit rusty, but as you exited the cafe to head to your job, you tried to help them out a little, "Sounds like code for Notre Dame."

There was a wave of stunned silence washing over the basterds as they each took a moment to look you over...

...with suspicion.

Hirschberg murmured in awe, and confusion, "What?"

You didn't mind the informalities. You shrugged, "You said glas stiegen. That's German for glass and rose. Windows in the cathedral are called rose windows...and...they're made of glass. That's all." You took a step forward, but were blocked by a tall, intimidating man. One you'd come to know as Sergeant Donny Donowitz.

Another man, their leader, spoke up from the booth. "Why don't you sit with us for a bit, missy."

You raised an eyebrow. You were young, but you understood it wasn't an invitation, per se.

You obliged as to not raise an alarm...which was also part of your job.

You took a seat between one confused Gerold Hirschberg and a very annoyed Hugo Stiglitz.

The leader, bit his cheek as he gazed at you, trying to figure you out. Whose side were you on? "Where'dya get that idea from, little lady?"

It was then that the cafe's atmosphere was once again disturbed. This time by an unruly, group of men, loud and proud. You excused yourself with such ease, it stunned the basterds again. You didn't go very far to begin with. You understood they had guns on them. You could smell the gunpowder...which wasn't very common around Paris at the time.

"Dmitri. Idi domoi. Ti takhoy vredytel.' You stood in front of the leader of the new group. A group of Russian boys that you may or may not have been acquainted with at work. They were mountains compared to you. But they respected you, and knew not to ever question you. You told Dimitri to go home, and...called him a pest.

He understood. His men understood.

They left. They'd get an explanation later, and they knew it.

You moved back to the booth...and waited... Suddenly, the basterds scrambled back to let you back in. This time you sat by an even more confused Zimmerman, and Wicki.

Donny's eyes narrowed as he looked at the other group of men that made their way to the curb, and then back at the table, "Were those russkies?!"

"Yes, yes... My apologies, I have an atrocious accent, and they have even worse timing."

Aldo furrowed his eyebrows, "Atrocious? That's gotta be the pertiest goddamn accent I ever heard."

As impressive as it was that you could speak French, English, Russian, and German, (that they knew of) they still didn't know what to make of you and your help.

They were all...understandably... holding guns under the table, all aimed at you.

Hirschberg nudged Smitty...they'd been trying to work on Smithson's tough act, which was rooted in an argument he'd had with Donny, in which Smitty argued that 'size doesn't matter' when it comes to intimidation.

"YoU...You uh" he cleared his throat, "You got anything to say, sweetheart?" He cringed at himself...though Omar whispered a proud, 'nice...' under his breath.... it certainly was an improvement.

You simply sighed, "Can't expect anything else from a basterd, no?" You smiled slyly as you took a sip from your coffee.

They were all silent. Aldo nodded, soaking it in, and noted, "You know who we are..."

You couldn't help but giggle a little, though you quickly covered your lips. "You don't do a very good job of hiding it."

Aldo lowered his gun, "What in the hell's that mean, kid?"

You gestured at Donny, "Your tall friend. I've only heard the story of one American that carries a baseball bat around, and there aren't quite as many baseball games around here now." You looked at Smithson Utivich, and made a quick assumption, based on...his size..."The little one..."

Smitty caught on, and frowned, narrowing his eyes,

"The Germans call him, well the li-"

Aldo pushed with a question, "Do you know our names?"

You nodded, "It's not that hard to recognize Hugo Stiglitz. Everyone knows who he is."

Hugo simply gave you a stoic nod. He didn't know what to make of you, but young as you were...you did know your stuff.

Hirschberg wasn't so sure, "Maybe everyone in the German army..."

Aldo nodded, "And somethin' tells me you ain't in the goddamn German army."

You shrugged. You already had enough to deal with that day. A snobbish professor, an even snobbier date that stood you up, a paper to do, and you still had work. An interrogation was not on your itinerary, "Too true, Monsieur." You picked up your coffee again, and took a sip.

Aldo sat back in frustration, "Alright. You ain't no jerry, what the hell are you?"

"I'm a student."

Omar nodded, seeing you were young, maybe around Smitty's age, "Makes sense..."

Aldo wasn't done. "Where you studyin' little lady?"

"At the University of Paris!" You were quite proud of that. "I'm studying art...which.." Your smile faded as you sighed. You looked down at your cup, your fingertips tapping softly against it as you slowly twisted it back and forth. "It's...kind of a useless degree right now... a lot of what I'm studying is missing."

Utivich was entranced by your words.... He would've been a student too, if not for the war. In fact, he was enrolled, and excited to study in NYU... he wanted to be a lawyer some day.... Then he enlisted. It was a decision he made over night. Because the moment he realized what the nazis were really doing, being a lawyer wasn't enough to find justice.

'Well this might as well happen today too...' You were used to things not going as planned, and you were used to getting some third degree. You knew who the basterds were. Most people in your line of work did...or had at least heard a rumor. You pulled your small backpack over to the table top, and said "Go ahead."

Aldo glanced at Donny and nodded. Donny reached for the bag tentatively. He pulled out your ntoebook.

"Whatcha got, Donowitz?"

Donny frowned, "I don't know, Aldo, it's in French!"

Hugo rolled his eys, and reached for the ntoebook. He had working knowledge of French. "Let me see." He flipped through the pages, and what he could read, he nodded, "School notes."

Utivich reached for the notes. He wouldn't understand a word...but sometimes...he missed school. He wondered what it would've been like to be a college kid.

Then he remembered how much he loved being a basterd. He flipped through the pages. Towards the end, they were blank...and then they had more than scratches on them. They were sketches.

They were beautiful. "What the fuck..." His voice trailed off in awe, and it was passed around the table.

Hirschberg leaned over some basterds, "What is it?!"

You blushed a little, and looked back down, "Just, how do you say....doodles?"

Utivich shook his head. When he was in school, he doodled. "Those aren't doodles. That's fucken art."

Wicki noticed something. A sketch or two that looked familiar. Then one they all identified. The Mona Lisa.

Donny caught on, "Hey...I know that one."

Wicki looked at you, "Why're you copying all these paintings down?"

"I'm an art student...and all these pieces are either being eyed by nazis, or are already stolen...It's nice to have something to remember them by."

After a few sketches, there were more blank pages, and then other drawings. These were detailed. They weren't just rough sketches. They had been done out of love, not memory. They were all faces. They were all unique.

They were all people that had been stolen.

But....in your line of work...that was normal...

You reached for the notebook. "So, it's settled. Student."

"B-"

You shut the cover, and held on to the precious memories, pressing them against your chest. "If you really need to know, there's a piece of information in that bag that would get me killed if you weren't you. Go ahead."

Aldo nodded at Hugo and Omar. They extracted a textbook or two, a few pencils, loose crumpled, illegible notes, and a locket.

Omar picked up the locket by the chain. It was silver, and had beautiful engravings of flowers on the outside. Aldo gave an approving glance and Omar opened it.

"Um.... poor...y/n... moon-port, Ben-Hur...aveys...tote moon amour, Emile."

Hugo frowned and took the locket from him, muttering about his uselessness in German. Before he could begin to read it, you spoke. You knew it by heart. "Pour y/n, mon porte-bonheur, avec tout mon amour, Emile... Emile Loveitt. For his good luck, with all his love." You smiled a little. Emile and his family escaped. They were somewhere in England. He was your friend, always had been, and always would be. The hand you had in the escape was the reason you got your job.... which was your only saving grace at the moment.

"Look behind the picture."

Hugo carefully took the picture of the unknown friend out of the locket, revealing a cross of Lorraine engraved in the silver, it was the symbol for the French Resistance. "She's telling the truth. She’s in the resistance."

Aldo still wasn't sure. He wasn't willing to let his team be taken down. He knew all about double agents and collaborators in France. "How do we know you are y/n?" He'd managed to pick your name out of the phrase in the locket's engraving. "How do we know you ain't just pick this up somewhere?"

"Look inside that book." You gestured to the one under all the notes and pens.

Wicki shuffled through the stack on the table and picked it out. Anthropology.

He opened it... and the pages were hollowed out.

Inside was an identification. He handed it to Hugo, and he read it out loud. "Carte de Combattant Volontaire de la Resistance: Y/N." He hid it back in the book and shut it. "She's in the French resistance. Y/n is really her name. Born in Paris."

Aldo smiled a little as he put everything back into your backpack. "Well if it ain't an ally... You a terrible spy, I gotta say."

You chuckled a little, "I'm not a spy. I'm just French. I want a free France."

"Well yeah. But you're in the resistance aintcha?"

"I'm a student. I'm tired, and I'm pissed. Not because of exams...well... also because of exams, but mostly because this isn't France."

You stood up, picked up your school bag, and went to the door. You looked back, "Are you coming or not?"

Aldo looked at his men and they all stood up and followed you put. "Where exactly are we going?" Kagan frowned as he made his way by you, followed by Sakowitz, Zimmerman, and Utivich.

"Work." You turned and walked out of the cafe nonchalantly, putting on your backpack.

Omar walked by you, "And where is that?"

"Today? The catacombs under Notre Dame."

Donny nodded, "Ohh... a death trap, huh?"

Stiglitz huffed, "Donny."

You smiled as you led the burly, clueless men down the lesser known streets and alleys. "We have a dozen or so people we need to get out of France, to England. A few people, some paintings, and some very damning documents."

Omar nodded, having trouble following along, "And these tunnels are important becase..."

You shrugged, "Secondary location. Contacts exchange products here...in this case refugees, priceless art, and documents. The people are being snuck to England, the art to a warehouse in Switzerland owned by a friend of ours, a double agent actually, and the documents to any ally that will listen. But, if what you two say is true," you looked to Omar and Smitty and said, "Then the nazis know about it. So, I have to... clock in early." You planned to warn the others. You couldn't postpone the evacuations. The families you were helping had nowhere else to hide, and they didn't have much time left. Those documents were a smoking gun. And the art... you didn't just do sketches to remember things you would never see again, you were part of a ring keeping track of the stolen pieces.

Aldo pieced it together "Ain't no way you delaying the escapes, is there, y/n?"

"No, sir." You trudged through the back of an abandoned inn.

Aldo nodded, "Alright then. Listen here boys. Behave. Them French fighters know what they want. Don't get in nobody's way, make sure everyone's supposed to get out, gets out. Every nazi that gets in, they ain't goin no place."

The basterds followed you down the catacombs, and met with your superiors. You translated back and forth. The mission would proceed, just as you expected. The nazis were spotted a few blocks away, just as suspected. And the basterds did what they did best, just as needed.

By 2AM, the Parisian south west was relatively void of nazis. There were over a dozen people free of persecution, halfway across the English channel, and a few priceless works of art accounted for.

You just had an essay to write.... And a few lost basterds to guide. You had been a little more silent than usual. Complications arose during the mission. In the end, everything ended as it was meant to.

The only difference was that you were covered in blood. You'd killed a nazi, for the very first time, in an attempt to save Private First Class Smithson Utivich. It was something the basterds would never forget. Neither would you... You were proud of it. You didn't hesitate. The world needed the basterds. "You know of somewhere we can hide out for the night, Y/n?"

You nodded. "Normally the catacombs, but I'm sure there were more that heard of the operation. No one is safe there now...but..." You once again eyed the empty inn that you passed by earlier. "No one's stepped foot in there in a few years. You'd be safe there."

You helped them break in. It was dusty, dark, and abandoned. It was a shadow of what it once was. Almost everything was covered in sheets. You'd done it yourself, hoping to save it all in case there was a chance of saving the France you once knew....in case they came back... Moonlight was the only lighting, coming in through windows so old, there was a film of filfth and dust covering the glass. Still, the ancient mahogany floor seemed flawless. The furniture and welcoming wallpaper held in the laughter and love of generations of visiting families and couples. It was small, but warm, and had an air of elegance. You spent so many days of your life there, Emile's family had owned it for generations. They gave you your first chance, your first home, your first job. Years later, you gave them another chance, a safe passage to a new home with your new job. The inn was nothing without them.

It was forgotten.

And it was the basterds' for the taking. If it could be a home for someone, you had no problem with it.

Andy Kagan and Omar smiled as they all looked around. Abandoned as it was, it was a palace compared to their tents."Can we stay here?"

As much as it would give them some well needed warm beds, they were basterds. Their work was never done. Donny sighed, "We need to head to Strasbourg tomorrow."

You smiled a little, understanding what was happening. You made a suggestion, "Take the 4 o clock train to Mulhous. Tell the girl at the booth in the station I sent you. She'll show you a path that has a fork. The northeastern road will take you straight there.... The northwest is the scenic route, takes a bit longer, you'll pass a little town that has the best eclaires. It'll take a few more hours, but you'll get a scalp or two...dozen on the way." You smiled a little wishing them all the luck in the world.

Utivich smiled, realizing, like the others, that you really knew a thing or two, "You don't wanna come with us?"

You had heard stories of them, and you wanted more than anything to stick around with them... "I have a paper to write..."

The basterds chuckled, and Aldo stepped up. The basterds always had room for one more, but you didn't. What with school, and the 'job' they all admired you for, you didn't have much time to run around France with them, even though you wanted to. They knew you were a smart kid, in fact, it was the only reason they could think of that you were still alive. They saw the kind of work you did in one night, and realized how valuable you were.

They also realized how important you had become to them in a matter of hours. They wanted to keep an eye out for you. As capable as you were, war was war, and there were no rules. They wanted to make sure you were safe. Aside from that, you had some pretty helpful information for them. "How's about we make you an honorary basterd, y/n?" Aldo reached his hand out, and you smiled as you shook it. "I'm honored, lieutenant." That was an understatement. All the stories you'd listened to on the bleakest, most dangerous nights were about them. They rushed back into your head as you shook his hand, smiling. This alliance meant the world to you. Your rebellion and insubordination were automatic death sentences. But what the alliance, the resistance, and the basterds were, what they really were to you, was freedom.

You waved goodbye to them, though you wished you could've gone, you knew it wasn't over.

It was the beginning of something beautiful,something powerful, far more than an alliance.

#Inglourious Basterds #Quentin Tarantino #Donny Donowitz #aldo raine #smithson utivich #omar ulmer #hugo stiglitz #wilhelm wicki #hirschberg

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voldemorthatesnose96 · 4 years

Text

Colors In Silence

Chapter 3

Chapter 2 here

Chapter 1 here

Disclaimer : just wanting to remind you all that English is not my mother language. Sure, I’ve been learning it my whole life but when it comes to grammar, I admit that I’m very much lacking. So if you find any grammatical errors, I’m more than happy to know. You can always knock on my dms <3

I can’t stop looking at my phone. It has been 3 days since I saw Robbe and there’s no text from him whatsoever. We exchanged numbers after that lunch and, let me tell you that it was one of the best moments of my life. The food was great, our conversation was amazing and I finally learnt about Robbe’s life; he’s an only child, divorced parents but both still respect each other very well and sometimes they even go on vacations together, been deaf since he was only 6, doesn’t want to go to college because it’s too tiresome and later his Dad open the flower shop for Robbe to feel at peace and make his own money, met his girlfriend named Gia in the supermarket when he was helping her to reach the top shelf and they’ve been together for over 2 years now (I gulped loudly when he ‘told’ me this. 2 years is a fucking long time!!!).

All these memories, I can’t help but miss him right now. I need to see him but what if he’s with her? What if he’s on vacation with her, like Hugo and Violet?

Screw Gia. Text him NOW!

You win this time, brain.

Apparently my longing is far more superior than my guilt. Feels like my fingers are already know what I’m supposed to type :

Robbe, how’re you? It’s been 3 days since we saw each other and... well, if you’re free, can we meet again soon?

And without another pause, I send it. Now the most infuriating part is starting; waiting anxiously.

Hang on.

I’m not being too creepy or demanding with that text, right? What if he’s gonna hate me because of it? What if he doesn’t want to see me again? What if...

Before my brain is making up another scary scenario, my phone beeps. I immediately open it and almost scream when Robbe replies :

Hey, sorry for not texting you. I just thought maybe you’ve been busy with your project and stuff; don’t wanna disturb, y’know. I’m good but yesterday Gia was being a little difficult, we even had a row :/ but ofc we can meet but maybe the day after tomorrow? My parents are going to take me to watch a play out of town tonight and we’ll be going home tomorrow. Wdyt? :)

Can’t contain my excitement, I quickly reply :

No problem! Any day is fine! But if you don’t mind me asking, what’s going on with you and Gia? Are you okay?

I’m not asking on how she’s doing because I don’t give a damn and even if I know her personally, I still don’t want to give a damn. Maybe I’m a bit mean but after reading what Robbe said about them lowkey being not okay and even arguing, my heart is swelling with joy.

His reply comes 5 minutes later :

It’s okay. So, I forgot that yesterday was our anniversary because the shop has been so busy, I even had to ask my Mom’s friends to help me sort that out. At 10 pm, when I just wanted to close the shop—being DEAD-ASS tired, there she was; stomping and giving me a death glare. She was half-screaming “I WAS WAITING FOR 3 HOURS, ROBBE! DO YOU KNOW HOW EMBARRASING IT IS FOR A GIRL LIKE ME, IN A FANCY RESTAURANT ALL ALONE AND CRYING IN SECRET?! YOU DIDN’T EVEN READ MY TEXT! WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOU???” but the funniest part is she didn’t even let me explain and said “know what? Screw you! I hate you! Leave me alone! Don’t even bother to say sorry!” instead. So I just stood in front of my shop, with people staring at us and a second later, Gia walked away from there, crying *smh* but there you have it. My oh-so-touching love story. Feel free to cry or laugh.... or both -_-

I’m sorry, Robbe, but I do laugh after reading your text. Whoa, I can’t comprehend why a girl go feral when her boyfriend forgets their anniversary. To be fair, Yoona never remembered our anniversary, nor did I; though I still remember how we met. We met at the school cafetaria when she asked me to swap her pasta with my mango pudding and because she gave me such a radiant smile, I couldn’t say no. Therefore, after lunch was almost over, I approached and tried to talk to her; the rest is history. Oh by the way, we’ve dated officially after 3 times going out together. A year later, Jonah happened and we were going downhill fast.

But I don’t need to talk about her any longer. She’s happy with him now and I’m already falling in love with someone else—a very special person if I might add.

I’m sorry that happened to you but I can understand how scary a girl can be hahaha. Maybe going out of town with your parents tonight can lift up your mood :)

Robbe replies :

Tbh, I’d rather spend the night with you. You can cheer me up like no other, honestly.

My breath legit stops for a minute because of that text. Did he actually.... OH MY GOD! He’d rather spend the night with ME? ME?!?!

Lord, if you’re really there, I need your help not to send a risky text to him, showing him that I want that too. No, I need that.

Just say what you wanna say, Sander. If he can be blunt, you also do that.

I really do hate how my brain works sometimes but today, I do what it told me to. Twice. So I type :

The feeling’s mutual, Robbe. *sigh* if only we could see each other right now, that’d be great. Don’t you think?

He replies :

I do think so but I can’t, yet. So I’m looking forward to our next meeting. Where do you wanna go?

To be honest, I don’t even know. If I say that I want to go to the art gallery, I’m scared that it’ll bore him, if I say that we better watch the new movie at the cinema then it’ll be too mundane. I’ve never been this stressful about going somewhere when Yoona and I were still together.

I don’t know. Any ideas?

He replies :

You decide this time, not me :) I’ll wait until tomorrow. Okay?

I smile while typing :

No problem. Challenge accepted

He replies :

Well, gotta go. Need to pack for tonight. But you have to impress me with your choice or I’m never going out with you again. Bye for now, Sander. P.S : I’ll text you tomorrow, don’t worry. Ciao!

“Have fun, Robbe.” I say softly to my screen, pretending that he can hear it from here.

It feels really good to finally be able to look forward to something. To see Robbe again. Even though we can’t meet today or tomorrow just yet, at least he said that he would text me again and that thought alone makes me happy and content.

Because I’m feeling delirious, I run to the art room and immediately start to sketch one thing that comes into my mind while thinking of Robbe—a tulip. Even though I’m not an expert or as good as Robbe but because I’m an artist who’s often drawing or sketching some flowers, I do read books about them. To be frank, I only remember the meaning of the popular ones like sunflower, peony, rose, orchid and not the ones like what Robbe gave me the other day; larkspur and all that and I don’t understand why it happens.

Most people declares their love for someone using roses, especially the red one. But I’m different. I always like tulips among all flowers. The way their colours can lit up the whole field, very vibrant and pleasing; not too dramatic but not too subtle either. That’s exactly how I felt when I saw Robbe’s smile for the first time. It warms my heart and also sends chills down my spine. Maybe it was love at first sight.

But before my thoughts can go any further, Dad’s voice greets me.

“Son?”

“It’s me, Dad.” I reply without looking at him, hand still sketching.

I hear his feet approach and stop beside me, his eyes are examining my art.

“Why a single tulip?”

Of course I can’t tell him the truth, so instead, I say, “I just wanted to.”

He becomes silent for a while before continuing, “something happened to you while I was gone?”

My hand stops instantly, my body goes rigid. Is there any indication or a slightest reaction from me that tells him why I’m doing this thing? Oh God, no.

“Son?”

I shake my head, “nothing happened.”

“You can’t lie to me, Sander,” he answers, sighing. “I know how you feel by just looking at your arts. You can always tell me what’s wrong.”

That’s it.

That’s the last straw.

I had enough!

”STOP ASSUMING SHITS ABOUT ME!” I retort. “All those years you carved me into something, into someone just like you! I know that I never complained but you NEVER asked me what I want or what I need! Since Mum died, you never acted like a proper parent for me but a teacher. Just a mere teacher. To be honest, Dad, I always feel like an orphan. You don’t even know when I’m sick, whom I hang out with, where I’m going except the Art School and so many other things. But NOW you suddenly came here and even had the audacity to tell you what’s wrong with me? Okay, I’ll tell you what’s wrong, I’m falling in love with a boy. A BOY—and yes I’m aware that I’d been dating a girl before but this time is different. To make matter worse for you, Dad, I’m a Pansexual and I fully realised that when I was 11,” I stop to take a breath. Dad’s face still looking stoic but also sad, somehow. I can’t take this anymore. I need to leave. “Know what? I don’t give a shit whether you’re gonna be disgusted with me or not because of that. I’m done! SCHLUSS!”

And with that, I walk out from there without looking back and close the door loudly behind me.

#wtfock #wtfam #fanfic #IT GOT YEETED

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talpup · 4 years

Text

Lost Song: 4

This fic is rated explicit and has warnings of sex, violence, and other possible triggers. For full list of story tags or to read on AO3 check the link at the top of my tumblrs homepage.

Sorry if there’s a drop in quality. I really mean it when I say I write for myself, and edit and post to share with you all. Being dyslexic I spend almost as much time editing and polishing my fics for posting as I do actually writing. It’s become to feel like a job that leaves me disappointed when I don’t get many comments or interaction from you all. That’s NOT on you. That’s on me. Which is why I’m making the change to just enjoy what I do and forget about editing.

4.1

It had been a little over a month since his life had been turned upside down by the two Foundlings who had joined his Ilca. Thankfully the two had been self sufficient adults before arriving so all Shouta had to worry about was the rest. Problem was the rest was Oblvi. An entirely new world to Teris and Hizashi. A new world that was filled with Fourth's. Fourth's that would either revere Teris or call for her head, if not seek to end her themselves, if they learned she was a Griffon.

As much as Shouta hated it, Nedzu was right. The only way to save Teris and keep the peace was for her and Kai to build a friendship that would hold even after the Dragon learned she was a Griffon. In a closed loop thought, the idea made sense. But it would never work in real life. Shouta knew Kai. He knew dragons. No matter what sort of ties Kai made with Teris, they would be severed the instant he learned she was a Griffon.

Back a forth Shouta went. Hoping for the best. Planning for the worst. He would protect her no matter what. She was his.

Exhausted as he was, he didn’t catch the mental slip and correct the thought; instead blinking heavy, tired eyes as he stared at Teris from across the table. With the arrival of her and Hizashi, his already precarious sleep schedule had been thrown into a tailspin. The line of his mouth twitch ever so slightly upward at the memory of finding Teris in his bed her first night here. He wouldn’t mind finding her in there again.

Shouta frowned. Yes he would. She was a tiresome, too proud, confrontational woman. He could make her submit, he thought lazily looking her over. It would be a honor and pleasure to earn his beautiful, proud Griffons submission. Not his Griffon! And, no. No, it wouldn't be a pleasure or honor.

“Quit staring at me.” Teris snapped at the Sphinx, scowling at the weird dreamy, disturbed look on his face. When she had first met Shouta a little over a month ago, she hadn’t thought the Sphinx could look worse. But she had been wrong. The whites of his eyes were so bloodshot that they were more red than white. The dark bags beneath his eyes impossibly darker and bigger than the night they met. She was growing increasingly concerned about him. Though that concern was purely on a professional and humane level. Bossy and rude as he was, he was a person and her Ilca leader.

Pulled out of his thoughts, Shouta’s deep, graveled voice sounded calm, if not bored. “I’m not staring at you.”

“Yes you are.” Teris argued.

Such a contrary woman, Shouta thought. Why was everything always a fight with her? He slouched back in his seat, voice as expressionless as his face. “I was looking forward. You’re the one who chose to sit in front of me.”

“This is where I always sit.”

From his place to Teris’ right, Hizashi looked between the two, chewing. He hated when the two argued. And they argued basically all the time.

“And this is where I always sit. Quit being a child. Not everything is about you.”

Teris bristled at the Sphinx’s words. “I am not a child!”

Shouta fought down a smirk at her temper. She had such fire. “Then stop acting like one and eat your breakfast.”

Her mouth opened.

“Now.” Shouta cut her off before a single utterance came out. “I’m too tired for this today.”

It wasn’t the order that made Teris hold her tongue but the mention of his exhaustion. She truly was getting worried about him. How much sleep did a Sphinx need? And how much of it could they go without before it effected more than their mood and appearance but their health as well? Maybe she should ask Kai.

“So Oboro thinks he’s narrowed down what other half of Fourth I might be but refuses to tell me.” Hizashi said, looking to defuse things.

Something to do with talking, Shouta thought. No voice. Or maybe song. Damn he was so tired, he couldn’t even think straight. A Siren maybe?

“You like him.” Teris drew out, teasing her follow Foundling friend.

“What!”

“Too loud.” Shouta complained at Hizashi's outburst. Definitely some spirit or spite that had volume of voice.

Teris glared at the Shouta.

“No I don’t.” Hizashi shook his head, green eyes wide.

“Come on, Zashi. It’s alright.” She turned to Shouta unsure how same sex relations were viewed in this world. “It’s alright? Isn’t it?”

Shouta closed his eyes and nodded.

“See.” She smiled at Hizashi.

Hizashi smiled shyly in return. “He is really cute. And so nice and smart. I want you to meet him.”

Teris nodded thinking the same. Glad as she was that this Oboro made Hizashi happy, she had to make sure he was really alright. Hizashi was-- Pack beast. The term flinted through her mind. She glanced at Shouta hating to admit that he was right. Whatever she was she apparently was a pack beast because Hizashi was hers. Not in a romantic sense, but in a tie that was just as deep, if not deeper than family.

“What about you?” Hizashi asked. “Kai have any idea on what you might be yet?”

Shouta's head lifted, muscles tensing.

Teris shook her head.

Shouta relaxed, exhaling the breath that had caught in his chest.

Hizashi pouted, but his smile quickly returned. “Speaking of liking people. What about you?”

“What about me?” Teris asked, fully aware of what Hizashi was asking.

The blonde glanced at Shouta well aware that the heated tension between the Sphinx and Teris had nothing to do with distaste. “You know.”

Teris pointedly avoided looking at the man seated across from her. “No. I don’t.”

“Come on Ris! Is there anyone you like?”

“No.”

“No? No one?” Hizashi pressed, eyes darting back to Shouta.

“What are you, twelve?” Shouta griped.

Teris frowned at Shouta’s complaint. Hizashi was just being playful. Why was the man such an ass?

“Kai’s kind and handsome.” She told Hizashi, eyes still locked on the Sphinx.

Shouta’s dark gaze sharpened, heckles raised. A low growl bubbled deep within his chest but he fought it down. Huffing, he pushed back the chair and got to his feet. What did he care what she wrongly thought of Kai? “You should quit talking nonsense and finish up.”

Hizashi’s slightly pointed ears fell a fraction watching the Sphinx exit their dorms dining hall.

“He’s talking to you.” Teris told, stabbing at a piece of fruit on the plate before her.

Unlike Kai, Oboro taught a specialized class for the Ilca course. Though he didn’t teach everyday, the days that he did Shouta and Hizashi left together to walk to the campus part of Traverseen Hall.

Hizashi not wanting to make Aizawa wait and Teris eager to get to Kai’s, the two quickly finished breakfast.

Near the front door, Hizashi slipped on his coat and turned to Teris. “I’m still bummed that Kai won’t let you come to campus to see Aizawa and Kan’s classes square off this afternoon. Oboro says it should be a good learning experience.”

“So am I. But Kai said he has something planned for me today.”

Coming up behind Hizashi, Shouta tossed his coat at Teris harder than intended. It landed perfectly over her head and hung there.

Hizashi's hand clapped over his mouth, caught between surprise and sputtering laughter.

Shouta bristled both wondering and imagining what sort of plans the Dragon had for his-- His mind paused and carefully finished the last part of the thought. --Ilca member.

Teris yanked the dark blue coat off her head. “What the hell!”

“Put that on. It’s cold out.”

“No.” She growled, hating Shouta’s impassive face.

“You’re my responsibility. Put it on so you don’t get sick.” And Kai remembers who you belong to, he silently finished wishing he could properly scent her. “And don’t forget it at Chisaki’s. I want it back.”

“Than take it back!” Teris called after him holding out the jacket. But Shouta had already exited the dorm. She turned back to Hizashi. “Do you believe him?”

Hizashi smiled, buttoning up his coat. “I think it’s sweet.”

“Sweet? Doubt he even knows the meaning of the word. He’s--”

“Yamada!” Shouta’s voice snapped from down the hall.

“Coming!” Hizashi yelled back. He gave Teris one last small smile. “Gotta go. See ya later.”

“Yeah.”

Left alone Teris frowned at the coat that was far too big for her.

“Rude, bossy bastard.” She muttered thinking about the dark haired Sphinx.

She put on the jacket, shoulders easing at the enveloping scent. Without thinking she pulled the collar to her nose and buried her face in the weighty material, breathing deeply.

4.2

Kai sniffed as soon as Teris entered the office, immediately noticing Aizawa’s scent on her. It wasn’t some weak smell that was left on her from merely living in the same Ilca dorm as the Sphinx. Nor was it the same as Aizawa's previous lame attempts to scent her. This one was overwhelming. Encompassing.

His jaw locked shut fighting back a growl. Though successful, there was little he could do to stop the smoke that billowed from his nostrils.

“Good morning, Kai.” Teris slipped the jacket off, leaving it on the chair by the door, but the damage was done. Aizawa's scent had infused into her skin and clothes.

“Outside.” Kai ordered, getting to his feet.

“I thought--”

“I said outside.” Kai’s hard, shimmering eyes softened at her openly confused, almost hurt expression. It wasn’t her fault that Aizawa had done this, taking advantage of her lack of understanding. If he told her, she would no doubt be furious. But telling her what Aizawa had done would mean letting her know that he had been doing the same, and he wasn’t ready for that. “I know we always start with academic lessons but it’s best not to get into routines.”

Agreeing with that Teris turned back to Aizawa's jacket and picked it up.

“Leave that.” Kai snapped moving to her. He stopped so close beside her that his chest brushed her arm. “I got my own way of keeping you warm.”

Teris shivered at the innuendo.

Kai’s gold eyes glided over her as she placed the horrid coat back down.

She jumped when his cool hand pressed against the lower end of her lower back.

Undeterred, Kai’s hand remained. “Shall we?”

4.3

“Shouta, you look terrible.”

Shouta grunted at Nemuri's remark, wishing he were napping in his sleeping bag instead of getting ready to watch his class face 1-B in a training challenge.

“I told you, you need to get more sleep. You work too hard.” Nemuri frowned at the Sphinx in worry.

“I have two unwanted Ilca members who happen to be Foundlings.” Shouta said as if they were the sole cause for his lack of sleep.

Calling him on his bad habits, Nemuri crossed her arms. “You were overworked and overtired well before they came along.”

Eyes closed, the Sphinx hummed. His head dipped forward then jerked back up, startling awake.

“That’s it. I’m coming over tonight. If you won’t sleep on you own, I’ll put you to sleep.”

“Kayama.” Shouta complained.

“No sense arguing. I’ll even bring dinner. It’ll give me a chance to met this other Ilca member of yours.” The Dryad said thinking about what Oboro had said about Hizashi mentioning how Shouta and the woman argued. She turned away, tapping him awake on the shoulder. “See you later.”

4.4

Teris panted, getting to her feet. The line of fire Kai had created when they first got started making her sweat all the more. Kai was magnificent in his dragon form. He wasn’t so bad in his human one either, she thought and quickly cursed the distracting thought, rolling out of the way of the Dragons lashing tail.

“Focus.” Kai’s voice spoke directly into her him.

The first time it had happen Teris had freaked out. After settling down she had worried that talking into her mind also meant he could hear her thoughts. But thankfully that wasn’t the case.

Kai’s gold eyes and scales reflected the the fire line of fire. His dark purple underbelly barely catching the light. His coloring showed his heritage, or so some of his followers told. According to them, his solid gold scales, horns, and wings meant that he was the son of the king of dragons; making him the rightful heir even if he wasn’t the last of dragon king.

Teris leapt to her feet lasso in hand. The goal of the game was to evade and persevere long enough to capture any part of the powerful Dragon. Given his size it should’ve been ease. But Kai was quick. His movement changing from sharp and fluid without any sort of tell or pattern. She tossed and missed. Cursing her slow speed and his quick.

Kai stomped and charged. He was holding himself back greatly. Slowing his speed, using minimal strength. The goal was to train, not to hurt or break her spirit. He also hoped that fighting her in his true form would further encourage the show of her true form. Aside form a few directing hints, such as her being a pact beast, he still had no clue what she was and dearly wanted to no.

His growing fondness for her had gotten to the point that he had decided to being courting. Not that he would tell her as much. It wasn’t that he feared rejection. He was a handsome, proud dragon of royal blood. There wasn’t another species or person who was more desirable than he. Still, he didn’t want to scare her off. She was new to Oblvi and their ways.

He blew heated ash her way a low rumbling growl of pleasure when ducked down and covered her face with a protecting arm. Now for the pounce, he thought heart hammering with excitement. He moved, shifting back to human form as he did so and was on her in an instance.

Teris fell back with a huff.

“Got you. You’re mine.” Kai declared, heart pumping more from the nearness of her than the training session that barely exerted him.

Teris stared up at him panting. “No fair!”

Hands on either side of her, propping himself up, Kai lowered his face further to hers. “How so?”

“You said that the lesson would be over when I gave up or caught you.” She told, face feeling a hundred times hotter than it did seconds earlier.

“You were talking too long. I grew impatient and decided to catch you instead.”

“But--”

“I’m the instructor. I can change the rules whenever I like.” Kai declared, thinking he could also take whatever he liked but would be patient. His eyes scanned over her face, a frown pulling at his lips.

“What?”

“You’re dirty.”

“We’ve been sparring for how many hours? Of course I am.”

He got up off her, frowning at his soiled shirt. “We can’t do lessons like this.”

“It was your bright idea to switch things up.”

He moved to hold his hand out to help her up and paused. She was covered in ash. His ash. This was his doing. His hand thrust out.

Teris took it, grateful for the assistance. Fighting a dragon was exhausting. She couldn’t wait till her true form displayed itself.

Kai instinctive pulled his hand from hers as soon as she was up. Wiping his palm on his pant leg, he directed her back inside. “Let’s get you clean.”

“Clean? Good as that sounds it won’t do much good. My clothes are just as filthy and I’d be putting them back on.”

Kai frowned a moment then smiled slightly. If Aizawa wanted to send her here in his coat then he would send her back wearing his clothes.

Hand hovering at her lower back he ushered her in doors already thinking which shirt of his he wanted to see her in. “Then I suppose we’ll just have to find you something else to wear for the rest of the day.”

4.5

Teris entered her Ilca dorms to find they had company. Boisterous company.

“There she is!” Oboro rushed to her as if they were long time friend’s and not two people who had never met. He paused seeing the over-sized button-up under the jacket she wore. “Hey, sharp shirt. A little big dontcha think?”

The Venti’s words and arm were slung over her before her hair had even settled down from the wind of his swift travel. Before she could respond or ask who he was, Oboro was leading her into her Ilca’s dining room.

“Nemuri. Emi. Kan. This is Teris. Hizashi's friend and Shou’s--” Oboro turned to the Sphinx. “What is she to you again?”

“My… Ilca member.” Shouta grumbled, pausing to think the correct words before saying them.

“Right.” Oboro drew out, smiling.

“Leave Aizawa alone, Sweetheart. You know he’s extra grumpy when he’s lacking his usual minimal sleep.” Nemuri chastised lightly.

“He’s only grumpy cause we haven’t gone out on a date. What da ya say, Aizawa? Wanna go out?” Emi asked, all smiles.

Teris bristled, sharp eyes locking on the smiling woman. Who was she and why was she here?

“No.” Shouta answered shortly.

Emi laughed, hand slapping the table as if his rejection was the funniest thing. “Ah, Aizawa! You’re such a kidder.”

Teris looked back to Oboro wondering who he was. Thankfully Hizashi was there to answer her silent wondering since neither Aizawa or the man himself seemed inclined.

“Ris. This is Oboro. The one I’ve been telling you about.” Hizashi beamed before her.

“You’ve been telling her about me?” Oboro moved to Hizashi, face close enough for Hizashi to see the slight fraying of the bandage he worn on the bridge of his nose. “What have you told her about me? Nothing bad I hope.”

“No.” Hizashi squeaked emerald eyes wide like saucers. If he just leaned forward just a little he could…

“It’s been nothing but good.” Teris told, smirking at her friend.

Oboro turned back to her. “Really! Cause I like him too.”

“You do?” Hizashi questioned, heart hammering in his ears. He had hoped Oboro liked him. It seemed as if he liked him. But he never imagined the guy just coming out and saying it like that. He remembered the Venti telling him how Fourth’s were freer with things like relationships than humans were, and smiled. That smile fell as soon as Kan spoke.

“You like everyone, Oboro.” The Vampuric Gargoyle rumbled.

Shouta chuckled at that.

Teris’ eyes widened. She had seen Shouta smile less than a handful of times and never heard him laugh. She had seriously begun to wonder if sphinx's were capable of doing so. She found herself moving to sit next to the large, red eyed man that had achieved such a fete.

“Teris.” Teris introduced.

“Kan.” Kan said. He caught a clear mix of dragon and sphinx scent on her and glance over at Shouta. Were the two sleeping together? It would explain the Sphinx’s added lack of sleep. But Kai’s scent? Aizawa and the Dragon hated each other. There was no way the two would share anything let alone companion. Kan was, dare he say friend's with Emi and Oboro, and he could barely stand sharing Nemuri with them.

More exhausted than anyone had the right to be, Shouta didn’t even bother looking as Teris sat across from him. He breathed in a tired breath and stopped, a loud growl sounding from his chest. Chisaki was here? Why did no one tell him the damned Dragon was in his dorms! Fathomless dark eyes, turned fierce and red. Head snapping up.

“Shouta, hunny? Are you alright?” Nemuri questioned from Kan’s right.

Eyes still searching, his nose traced the smell it was… It was coming from Teris. More correctly it was all over Teris. Another growl rumbled from his chest, lip twitching up in a snarl, he turned slowly to the woman seated across from him.

“What did I do now!” Teris demanded as soon as the Sphinx’s eyes locked on hers. “I brought back you’re stupid jacket.”

Jacket! Kan thought. He had known Aizawa would never share with the Dragon.

With a blink Shouta's eyes returned to their usual coal. He forced his lips into a thin line, effecting an expression of disinterested indifference. “What happen to your clothes?”

“They were dirty.” Teris answered, her own expression between a pout and a scowl. Why was he always like this? Couldn’t he just try and be nice for once? At least in front of the company they had.

Looking her over Shouta sat back and crossed his arms. “I thought you said you were having physical lessons daily.”

“I did. We are!” What was it about this man that got under her skin so?

“If this is the first time you needed a change, those lessons were worthless. I’ll see about having Nedzu find you a better instructor.”

“No!” Teris’ loud response surprised even her.

The lower half of Shouta's face ducked into his capture weapon, finding his frown.

“I mean.” Teris went on. “You’ve seen the state I’m in when I get back. It’s only Kai decided to change things up and do my physical training in the morning.”

To get my scent off you, Shouta thought. Smart. And then he sent you back in his clothes to retaliate. Such a jealous, child move.

“Kai has a thing about filth. Kan said, taking up his plate and serving.

“Kan! Sweetheart. Wait for everyone to be seated.” Nemuri scolded lightly.

“The food’s getting cold.” At Nemuri's expression, Kan put the serving spoon down and snapped. “Oboro! Will you and your boyfriend hurry it up and sit so we can eat.”

“Bo-boy--” Hizashi's stutter ended with a squeak as Oboro pulled him to the table. He swallowed, finding himself seated across from Nemuri, while Oboro took the chair to Shouta's left. “Hi again.” Oboro assured him the Dryad was find, but for some reason she made him nervous. Like she would eat him alive. And not in the monstrous literal sense. That he could've handled.

Once served the table was blessedly quite as everyone ate. Until…

“Hey, Aizawa, wanna mate?”

Shouta groaned. Why did life itself seem to hate him?

Teris turned to the woman to her left. “Who are you again?”

“Emi.” Emi said. “I’m part of Nemuri's Ilca.”

“We all are.” Oboro informed, brushing elbows with Hizashi and smiling over at him.

Never taking her eyes off the woman, Teris questioned without a care for how rude the query was. “And what are you?”

“A Kitsune.” Emi told easily. She put the side of her hand to her mouth and leaned to Teris as if about to reveal some great secret. “Though many consider it impolite to asked, so be careful.” Dropping her hand she went on. “Nemuri’s a Dryad, trained by His Purple Highness before joining the Ilca course way back.”

“It wasn’t that way back.” Nemuri told.

Shouta huffed in amusement. Nemuri was a young beautiful Dryad. Would stay looking young a beautiful until her end, but age was still thing for her.

“His who?” Teris questioned.

“His Purple Highness.” Emi answered.

Teris blinked at the Kitsune and shook her head.

“Oh right! I forgot you don’t know anything.”

“I know plenty. Teris said.

Emi laughed. “Sure you do.”

The way she laughed and spoke left Teris teetering, unsure if she was being sarcastic or agreeing.

“His Purple Highness is the Dryad King.” Shouta supplied, when Emi continued to laugh.

“Shouta was found by him.” Nemuri told, smiling softly at the Sphinx.

“Found?” Teris echoed, eyes on Shouta.

Shouta shook away her question. “A tale for another day. Back to proper introductions.” He went on, wanting Teris to learn all she could. “As I’m sure Yamada told you, Oboro’s a Venti. And Kan is a Vampuric Gargoyle.

Teris turned to the hulking man to her right. “Vampuric Gargoyle As in a hybrid of vampire and gargoyle?”

She didn’t know why she found it strange that vampires existed here when all the rest seemed to. But gargoyles? Weren’t they just gothic stone sculptures that acted as both rain gutters and superstitious protectors?

Shouta smirked at her reaction, though no one saw it beneath his capture weapon. “They’re a demon hybrid so prevalent they’re all but a sub-species. Shouta told.

“We’re good breeders.”

The table quieted at Kan’s comment. Then Emi covered her mouth, sputtering a laugh. Oboro joined in.

“I wasn’t joking.” Kan snapped.

“We know, Honey. I know. If ever I was ready to spawn, we would make so many children.” Nemuri soothed, petting Kan’s arm.

“Aizawa and I would make beautiful kits and cubs.” Emi said dreamily, turning to Shouta.

“No.” Shouta deadpanned.

Teris bristled more at the way Kitsune was looking at the Sphinx than what she had said. Clearly Shouta wasn’t interested. But Shouta was--

Nemuri's smooth voice disturbed her thoughts. “Emi. Please stop trying to mate with Shouta. At least for tonight, Love. He’s extremely tired.”

“All the more reason for me to try. He might say yes.”

“He’s not interested, Sweetheart.”

Emi looked over at Oboro sitting closer than necessary to Hizashi as the two talk among themselves. “Speaking of interested. Looks like someone is. Too bad the Foundlings weren’t put in our Ilca.” She glance from Hizashi to Teris. “We would’ve had so much fun.”

“Shouta’s been so long without anyone. I’m glad he finally has these two.” Nemuri leaned forward to smile at Teris.

Emi’s green eyes turned back to Shouta. “Aizawa could've joined out Ilca too. I gladly would've accepted him.”

“Shouta’s an alpha, Dear. An apex one at that. He wouldn’t be joining my or anyone elses Ilca. He was meant to lead. Though if he were interested, I would gladly share you with him. Just like I’d gladly share Oboro with Hizashi if he wishes.”

“What was that?” Hizashi asked catching his name being said.

“I said I would gladly share Oboro with you, if you so wish?” Nemuri said, turning to him.

Hizashi's slightly pointed ears lowered a fraction. He didn’t understand. Could they not date without their Ilca leaders approval? He shook is head. “I—don’t know what you mean by share.”

“Oboro! I thought you were suppose to be instructing him.” Nemuri censured as if scandalized.

“Yeah, Oboro.” Emi giggled.

“He’s new here. I had to teaching him the basics first.” Oboro told.

“What could be more basic than sex?” Nemuri questioned, archly.

“How not to get killed.” Shouta offered.

“How to fight.” Kan put in.

“Or how to help a Isengrim get one over on a Reynard.” Emi added.

“All of you are hopeless and unromantic. Nemuri declared. Her blue eyes fell on Shouta. “No wonder you’re having such troubles.”

“Can someone please tell about this shared business? Hizashi demanded.

“Oh, well that’s easy.” Emi said. “We’re all together. Well, except for Kan. He’s just with Nemuri.”

“All--”

“--together.” Teris finished for Hizashi glancing at Shouta before looking around the table.

Emi nodded. “Yeah. Nemuri, Oboro, and I are together. And Kan and Nemuri are companion’s.”

Before Teris could ask how that worked, Hizashi fixed sad green eyes on Oboro. “Does that mean you’re not into men?”

“What! No! I’m into anyone so long as I like ‘em.” Oboro assured.

“It’s Kan.” Nemuri told. “Though mating type Fourth's will usually sleep around as they search for a mate. Once they’ve picked mate, that carousing ends.”

“So… He’s picked you for a mate.” Teris said softly.

Nemuri smiled sadly. “He has.”

“But you haven’t accepted him?” She asked.

“Dryad’s aren’t maters.” Shouta schooled.

“We accept all pollinators, whether we’re spawning or not.” Nemuri expanded, hand over Kan’s.

Teris lowered her head, sad for the Vampuric Gargoyle. She couldn’t explain it but that thought of having chosen a mate only to have that person accept you as a lover but not a mate, hurt like a physical wound.

Emi saw her reaction and burst out. “You’re a mater!”

With a start, Teris realized that she was, though didn’t know enough to have that narrow anything down for her. She looked to Shouta for answer.

“Most beasts mate.” Shouta told. “It’s no great revelation that will tell us what you are.” Damn, he hated not telling her.

Disappointed, Teris turned to Emi. “Does it hurt that you want to mate with Shouta and he doesn’t? If you want that how can you be with anyone else?”

The last question held a tone of accusation, but Emi easily ignored that in her excitement to teach. “Kitsune’s are one of the rare species that cross the four divisions. We’re both beast and demon.”

“You’re hybrids.

“Once. Very long ago.”

“Kitsune’s date back to the first age.” Shouta said, eyes keenly watching to make sure Teris knew about the Ages and Kai was properly instructing her.

Picking her explanation back up, Emi went on. “Demons don’t care about mating. As Aizawa said, most beast do. It means Kitsune are capable of mating but are driven to the way, say a Sphinx or Manticore are.”

“But you do like men?” Hizashi asked Oboro, his mind and voice finally working again.

4.6

Jacket and bottle of Nemuri's pollen in hand, Shouta made his way to his quarters grateful that his Ilca dorms were finally, peaceful quite. Taking off his capture weapon, he blinding tossed the coat he had had Teris wear on a chair. Hearing a clink hit the floor, he turned.

A knife! Adrenaline shot through him, his exhaustion and Nemuri's pollen forgotten. Picking up the small, sheathed blade, he stormed from his rooms and to Teris’.

Already in bed, Teris would've ignored the insentient hammering on her door if she thought it would go away. With a growl, she threw the covers off and got out of bed.

Knowing full well who was on the other side, Teris yanked opened the chamber door, snapping. “What the hell!”

“Has he threatened you? Made you feel unsafe?”

Her face screwed up. “What?”

“Chisaki. What has he done to make you feel you need carry a weapon to his place?” He was going to kill him, Shouta thought. He wasn’t a killer, but he was going to end that Dragon.

“What in the world are you talking about?”

Hearing the disturbance, Hizashi poked his head outside his rooms. “Everything okay?”

“Yes.” Teris soothed.

“No.”

Trusting the seasoned Sphinx and Ilca leader over Teris, Hizashi stepped out into the hall. “What’s the matter?”

“Nothing that concerns you. Go back to bed.” Shouta ordered. Sighing he pushed his way inside Teris’ rooms.

“Hey!” Teris turned. “I didn’t say you could come in here.”

“Do you really want to concern Hizashi more than he already is?”

Teris frowned and shook her head.

Pack beasts, Shouta thought smugly, ignoring the fact that he was one too and just as easily manipulated.

“Close the door. And tell me why you feel the need to carry this to Kai’s.” Shouta said, producing the small knife.

Teris’ eyes widened at the sight of it. Swinging the door closed she rushed to Shouta. “Where did you find that?”

“Answer my questions. What has Kai done--”

“Kai’s done nothing. He gave me that.”

Shouta's head pulled back. “He-- When?”

“Today. I guess I forgot about it what with the company and all.” She said, feeling guilty for having forgotten Kai’s generous gift.

Shouta's eyes narrowed. “Why did you he it to you?”

“Cause he’s kind and cares. He said that he understood as a Foundling I likely had nothing but a few rusted old weapons and outdated potions in my personal armory so he gave me that.”

Shouta's head lowered to frown into his capture weapon, forgetting he had taken it off.

“What’s with the face?”

He pulled his lips back up into a thin, tight line “Nothing.”

“He’s teaching me how to fight with various weapons.” She informed, thinking that the expression had been because he thought she didn’t know how to use the blade and inadvertently hurt herself of others.

Shouta couldn’t deny that Kai teaching her how to handle various weapons was smart. With Teris having yet shown her true form, she would be reliant on use of weapons to defend herself and others. Soon she and Hizashi would be going out a patrols with him; and with a poorly stocked armory, such an item as the one he held would be useful. Still, he knew the knife for what it truly was. The quality of it alone… Dragons liked such fine, rare, and expensive objects. For Kai to part with on willingly could only mean one thing. It was a courting gift. The Dragon was trying to court his--

“Can I have it back?”

Shouta started at her open hand wanting to say no, knowing he couldn’t. He handed the gift over.

Teris clutched it to her chest. “If that’s all.”

Shouta nodded.

“Night, then.”

“Good night.” Shouta murmured, watching her turn away trusting he’d see himself out.

He burned at the gift. Boiled at her coming back each day smelling like Chisaki. She was his. His responsibility, he corrected. She was a griffon. Kai a dragon. And now Kai was courting her. The urge to seek out Nedzu and tell him so the Director could put a stop to this was overwhelming. But he knew what Nedzu would say. Knew the Director would be pleased. Nedzu would think that if the two were courting that Kai would accept Teris when he discovered she was a griffon. But Shouta knew better.

Maybe if he could prove that Kai was a lacking teacher. But Shouta wanted the best for Teris and Fourth's learned best when taught by their own. No species was closer linked to griffons than sphinx's and dragons, griffons being the first hybrids born of dragons and sphinx's at the very start of the first age. He just hoped that Kai wasn’t infecting her with his hate for what he saw as lesser species. Or telling her how bad griffons were and teaching her to hate herself.

Lack of sleep had me doing a little playlist that goes with either a particular character or upcoming scene:

It's Like You're Always On My Mind – Pomplamoose (Hizashi and Oboro)

Red Right Hand – Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds (Kai)

Weighty Ghost – Wintersleep (Kan)

Start Wearing Purple – Gogol Bordello (Who else but His Purple Highness! lol This song never fails to have me dancing and singing along. Singing BADLY I might add.)

I Will Survive + Maroon 5 Mashup – Pomplamoose ft. Andie Case (upcoming scene)

Drumming Song – Florence and The Machine (Shouta and Teris)

Take Me To Church – Hozier (Shouta)

Comments really do make happy, make my day, and are something I go back and read. That said, I don’t need them to be happy. So if you enjoy this update and want to comment or interact with me YAY! If you don’t that’s fine too. Thanks for reading.

Thank you to those who have left hearts. And a special thank you to those who have left comments or re-blogged. They really mean a lot.

Special thank you to @inorganicone2230 who knows of my love for the mythic and encouraged me to start this fic without stressing about the other two I’ve got going. Your friendship means the world to me.

#aizawa shouta #shouta aizawa #kai chisaki #chisaki kai #yamada hizashi #hizashi yamada #oboro shirakumo #shirakumo oboro #nemuri kayama #emi fukukado #kan sekijirou #bnha #my hero academia #fanfic #lost song

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toast-the-unknowing · 4 years

Note

What are the #thots on CDTH?

This is begging for one of those “edgy/depressed/dumbass bitch/thot/bastard” memes, but sadly you sent it to someone with no patience for slapping together graphics, so you get a lot of words instead. Behind a cut, for length and SPOILERS.

I really enjoyed this book, my reactions to most of the additions to canon were positive, it felt a wide range of emotions while reading it and upon finishing I found that it had knocked me sort of off center in that way where I don’t want to write anything ever again, or read anything, or really do much but stare out of windows. I know that feeling will pass, but I’m soaking in it for now. I haven’t yet discerned if there are going to be any substantial changes to the ways that I write these characters, when I write these characters again.

I loved Ronan in this book, which was a relief. I had been a bit worried that Maggie intended for him to end up as Lonely God Ronan, isolated and just too damn special for the rest of humanity, but it now appears that is very much not the plan. It hurt watching him be trapped at the Barns, wanting something different from life and not knowing how to get it, and it was amazing to watch him forge a connection with someone new and find the capability that he has to help other people, instead of just kind of thinking of himself as the fuck-up.

Holy Shit I felt emotions about Matthew, that was unexpected and unprecedented. Fuck did that boy make me sad. I am greatly looking forward to seeing where his story goes, now that he actually has one. I want some quality Matthew & Jordan dream duo bonding time.

I want, just, quality Jordan content in general, I love Jordan, I need more of her, she was wonderful.

Hennessy leaves me cold, but I had a very similar reaction to Ronan until most of the way through The Dream Thieves, so I am giving her the benefit of the doubt and waiting to see what happens in the future.

HOLY SHIT I LOVED EVERYTHING ABOUT DECLAN.

It did crack me up that it literally took one page for the book to start talking shit about him, but I also found the whole “Declan is deliberately, crushingly boring” idea interesting. It surprised me but still makes sense in retrospect, which is the best kind of surprise. I hadn’t pictured him as the kind of guy who would go to work and let people snap at him and call him by the wrong name, but I think my understanding might have been a little closer to the version of Declan that still thought he could have Senator or Congressman in front of his name. I think Declan might be the character I most have to reconsider, but I’m happy with how he was portrayed here and I’m looking forward to doing that reconsideration, and to seeing what happens to him next in canon.

God but he just continues to be the hardest working brother, and he still fucks it up, but he doesn’t want to fuck up, but he just shouldn’t have to deal with all of this shit, and ow, ow, my heart.

I adored Declan/Jordan and every moment where she delights in surprising an honest reaction out of him. “I see the real you when no one else does” is EXACTLY my kind of ship.

I had really wanted this trilogy to force Ronan to reexamine his understanding of his father, but getting to see Declan do some actual work on processing his pain is fantastic too. I love all of the moments where he admits that he hates Niall. It fucked me up so bad, because it’s like he doesn’t want to be thinking or saying it but he just cannot keep it in. It’s like his emotional nightwash, but he doesn’t get to dream it away.

@comicsohwhyohwhy and I once discussed the problem of Ashley, and we JOKINGLY suggested that maybe the Ashley from TRB and the Ashley mentioned in TRK are two different Ashleys, that maybe Declan has just dated a string of women named Ashley, and then we had a good laugh about how absurd that would be, and I cannot fucking believe that that has turned out to be canon. I am oddly delighted with this development.

I am happy with the Adam content that we got and with the size of his role. I felt like the book did a good job of honoring his importance in Ronan’s life, letting him be present and matter and affect Ronan (and disagree with him in productive ways where they didn’t just argue and where he wasn’t just Declan 2.0), while still keeping him in a support role, since that was apparently the goal. I’m unclear on what kind of role he’s going to have going forward, but it looks like he’s being set up to have some kind of character arc, with the “Adam is lying to everyone who knows him” situation, so I really do want that to pay out and go somewhere, even if he does continue to be a supporting rather than featured character.

That whole Harvard situation breaks my heart: Adam’s friends think that his family is wonderful and that his boyfriend is a violent drunk. I can’t imagine any interactions around that that aren’t fucked up. Adam having to defend Ronan to his friends any time he comes up, but not being able to tell the truth, so he just sounds like he’s making empty excuses for someone that’s bad for him…which is something that he has in fact had to do, but not about Ronan, about the parents that all of his friends are “jealous” of him for having. Fuck. FUCK.

I loved every mention of Gansey and Blue. I can understand why Maggie doesn’t want to include them as characters, but that could have easily ended in a situation where they’re just…noticeably absent, and instead we got this, confirmation that they still talk to their friends and love them and are involved in their lives, plus we got A+ Gansey-texts-like-an-old-man content.

I enjoyed Farooq-Lane a lot just from a standpoint of being an ordinary normal person who gets put into a weird as shit situation and then…continues to be an ordinary normal person who has ordinary normal reactions to things. I find that kind of shit fascinating – it’s the kind of thing that makes for great comedy and improv, but it can also be very effective in drama, and we really got to see a wide range here.

What. the actual. fuck. is up with the New Fenian and Mor O Corra. Like I mean okay the Lynches have to live through all their parent trauma again, yeah I get that, okay Niall apparently made a dream double of an actual woman he’d slept with which like, wow I didn’t think Aurora could be retroactively creepier but damn if Niall didn’t find a way, blah blah I get all that. But like. What is – what is that relationship, exactly? Between them? Niall’s ex made a dream copy of him, too, but like…as a kid? Or one that doesn’t age? Has Mor O Corra out-creepered Niall Lynch? What the actual fuck is up with those two. I almost don’t want to know. I kind of love being this weirded out.

Bryde is really goddamn tiresome. I am expecting he’s going to turn out to be a villain and honestly that can’t happen fast enough for me. Although I anticipate that we’ll see Ronan buying into his crap more before that happens, so, it looks like we get to look forward to a lot more overblown insufferable monologues about how “special” we are and how we’re better than those gross boring mundane people. Blah.

I’m kind of disappointed that this is apparently a series where the stakes are THE END OF THE WORLD and where the protagonists have to fight a SHADOWY INTERNATIONAL GOVERNMENT ORGANIZATION that can send ARMIES of WELL-ARMED HIGHLY TRAINED OPERATIVES to HUNT DOWN THE PEOPLE WITH SUPERPOWERS – this is 90% of all fantasy stories, and it’s boring, and I’m tired of it. I like that the stakes in The Raven Cycle are small but still immensely meaningful. What happens in The Raven Cycle if the characters don’t succeed? Gansey dies. Ronan dies and Matthew falls asleep. Adam doesn’t go to college. Blue doesn’t get to travel the world. The world doesn’t explode, but we still care so so much about seeing them succeed, because we care so much about those characters living and getting to build the future they want. That’s a thousand times more interesting to me than “we have to…[dramatic music, put on sunglasses] SAVE THE WORLD.” Spare me.

I’m still going to read the other two, obviously, and I’m not even really mad about this, mostly just rolling my eyes. But I expect that Maggie is going to use this plot device I don’t care about to do things emotionally and character-wise that I do care about, and that’s the important part.

There is one actual thing that pisses me off with this book, that I actively hate and wish was not a part of canon, that I will probably just ignore and pretend isn’t canon, at least once I have wrapped my head around the fact that it even happened in the first place: why the fuck does Ronan go to confession.

I was willing to accept in The Raven Cycle that Maggie had no interest in doing anything with the fact that she had made the Catholic character and the gay character the same character, because Ronan is actively figuring himself out in the course of that series, because there’s so much else going on in his head and his life that I can buy that religion isn’t his top priority, because hey, I kind of liked that the series wasn’t one more Sad Story About A Sad Gay Who Is Sad Because Homophobia. I can accept a Ronan who goes to mass every week because that’s family time, because that’s tradition, because that’s what Lynches do.

But going to confession – with some degree of regularity! – is not going through the motions. When I was a Catholic school girl and an ALTAR SERVER who went to mass twice a week, confession was still a “maybe once during Lent, if we get around to it” kind of deal. What the hell does Ronan say in confession, exactly? He’s not confessing to the shit that he actually feels guilty about, playing god and creating life, because that’s a secret. He’s not confessing to the thing that he’s getting told every week is going to send him to hell. So what is he doing there?

This ceases to be “skipping past homophobia so we can just have a nice happy gay story for once (or at least a story that’s unhappy for other reasons)”. This is firmly into “deliberately and cruelly ignoring the real pain and suffering that the Catholic Church inflicts on oppressed people every single day” and I think it was a grave, grave misstep.

So my super general #thots: loved it, largely positive, some things I’m iffy on but excited to see where they go, a couple of plot elements/characters I don’t care for but can put up with for the sake of all of the good, one big negative that will probably feature only very very sparingly in canon.

#cdth spoilers #call down the hawk #the raven cycle #catholicism I guess #Anonymous #the dreamer trilogy #trc meta

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sergeanttpoliteness · 5 years

Text

➹one make out session, please➹ (peter b. parker x reader)

The sad and divorced man who's become a regular for the past year is constantly spilling his emotions to you, his favorite bartender. This wasn't something new; you can't count with both of your hands the times you've heard someone recount the odyssey of their life. But these flutters in your stomach were definitely something you didn't experience with your customers, and you definitely did not end up making out with them at the end of the night. Maybe Peter B. was your only exception, though.

(PART II)

word count: 7.1k (sorry)

a/n: i tried like 8484 times to add a gif but tumblr wouldn’t let me so ((:: hello @ whoever’s reading this tho!! love how i went from 2k to 7k words lol, i’m sorry about that i don’t know how it happened. feel free to help me out w ideas and send requests if you want (: hope u enjoy !! Tiresome was a massive understatement when it came to having to describe enduring the same routine most nights. Not that you slept peacefully like a newborn baby all the time before taking a job as a bartender at the bar; but once in a while, when you returned home and watched the bright red numbers of the clock switch to 5 o’clock in the morning since your brain was punishing you by not giving you your well deserved rest, you sure did miss those simpler times when you didn’t work at night. Yes, at first it may be amusing to watch a drunk customer go haywire as they try to understand the meaning of life, and it’s nice listening to the story of how someone ended up drinking five shots of tequila that evening. You relished listening to other people’s problems, their stories, their lives— perhaps because, as much as it ashamed you to admit it, you didn’t make much out of yours. However, two years of the same old passed, and soon enough, every conversation and dusk began to blur together; everything became a monotonous daze, like an old movie replaying endlessly every week. The obvious route would be to quit your job as a bartender before you lost your mind, but the old lady who owned the bar paid somewhat generously considering the career— both with affection and money— and, despite how cocky it might’ve sounded, you knew well that the customers would be lost without your glorious daiquiris and margaritas. You’d also grown fond of the few people there and the new friends you made once in a while; you didn’t have the exact explanation as to why, but whilst you were in that hazy trance, you were quite the charmer.

Every night was just like that: nothing more than a few more hours to your life, until a man who you guessed was probably nearing his forties and with a really, really nice nose (what could you say? You had an appreciation for the art of beautiful noses), dropped on the stool directly in front of you with a heavy sigh.

“One whiskey served over ice, please.” He muttered, resting his chin on the palm of his hand. You didn’t think much about it as your hands got to work and moments later handed the man his drink. You later spent your time trying to distract yourself with the preparation of other beverages, yet your eyes were drawn to him momentarily once or twice. Even as you talked with a tourist— a woman from Croatia asking about the best restaurants and stores in the city— the image of the guy itched at the back of your head, and you couldn’t figure out why. He was attractive, you decided, in spite of his rugged looks; he honestly appeared as if a train had hit him. Whether it was a physical or emotional train, you wouldn’t be surprised if it had been both.

The tourist sadly ended your conversation, distracted by the game on the TV, but you took it as an opportunity to comply with your desires and approach the man. You see, you liked to believe you possessed powers— useless ones, to say the least: just by a quick scan, you knew if a person needed a good talk; it could’ve been after their third drink, maybe even when they’re still sober. Suddenly, though, your bartender-senses abandoned you along with your charm and you simply couldn’t find a way to spark up a conversation with the guy. Really? You thought to yourself. Right now, when a cute older dude is sitting right in front of you, probably in need of your comradeship? Yeah, he was most definitely older than you, perhaps by some ten years, but did you really care?

You were stuck, unable to crawl out of the crater until, eventually, he asked for his third drink. Showtime, you breathed in, the confidence hugging your entire body. “Just saying, but I could already sense this third drink once you walked in through the door,” You tried to joke.

He huffed through his nose, a hint of a smile on the corner of his lips. “Do I look that bad?” He asked, a playful tone in his voice. A lopsided grin found itself onto your face and you slightly leaned over to wipe the surface next to where his hand rested.

“The opposite, actually. You’re quite the handsome guy.” Oh, there it was. He didn’t seem repulsed, which could’ve been a good sign, except that he didn’t look like anything— his expression was unreadable.

He raised his glass up to his lips. “Yeah, well, don’t really feel like it right now,” He said before taking a swig of his drink. You picked up a wet empty glass and dried it with your towel, like the true bartender you were.

“Well, do you feel like talking about it?” His eyes darted up to you and he lifted a brow. “There’s obviously a reason why you’re sitting here right now, no?”

You waited for an answer, but he swallowed his entire drink before he set the dry cup on the bar. “Maybe another time, kid.” Ouch. Kid? Really? You thought this was over once you turned twenty-three. “But I gotta get going now.”

That was the first conversation you two shared, and you bit the inside of your cheek as you watched him leave, disappointed that it also could’ve been the last one. You should’ve learned by now, though: this wasn’t the first time you made a “friend”, hoped that they would drop by again in the future, only to never see their faces again. You took in his appearance one last time then, cherishing the fleeting buzz in your head. But you were lucky when two weeks later he entered through the same door again. Nonetheless, not lucky enough, since he arrived the only day your shift ended early.

“One whiskey served over ice, please.”

You didn’t realize he was there until you heard that scratchy voice, the one you thought you’d never have the pleasure of hearing again. Your head jerked up and you didn’t miss a beat before gladly serving him— there was no way you were leaving without interacting with the older man, regardless of how small and brief the action was. It was a Greek tragedy in your eyes: saying goodbye to the back of the head of the attractive man in his thirties. You jokingly (but not really) warned your coworker to not make a move on the man; and, of course, you asked him to update you the next day if he mentioned you even just once. The next day (or rather, night), the first thing you obviously did was pester your friend to spill all the juicy, if any, details.

“I don’t know, he didn’t really say anything. He so checked you out when you left, though. Like— okay, maybe not check you out, but he definitely stared at you for a few seconds.”

You deflated. Anyone else would’ve cheered, but all you needed to hear was the first part; your friend had the poor tendency of overanalyzing and exaggerating every small detail— you learned that when, after some customers had a lousy argument, you both recounted the event to your boss during your monthly coffee session. What had probably happened was that the man merely breathed in your direction and your coworker’s eyes jumped out of their sockets. You brushed away your discontent, though, reminding yourself of your principles: you never hooked up with customers, especially since your boss was adamant about that after an incident with another bartender, and you didn’t want to endure new job interviews for as long as you could.

But the rush made you want to have fun with this guy.

Another entire month went by; no sign of mystery guy, no whiskey served over ice. No drops of your stomach, until one evening you couldn’t believe your eyes when you saw that beautiful mess of a man, a scratch on his forehead you didn’t think much about since you’d seen much weirder things, sat in front of you. “Would you look at that! We meet once again,” He smirked. You placed your hand on your hip, biting your lip.

“Thought I’d never see you again. Tell me, do you want to try out something different tonight, or your boring, usual—”

“—whiskey served over ice. Yeah, please.”

Whiskey served over ice was quickly becoming your favorite order.

You didn’t exchange any other words— you were too engulfed into the breaking news playing on the flatscreen: a poor quality clip— something that still occurred even if it wasn’t 2005 anymore— of Spider-Man stopping a truck before it crashed into a hurt kid in the middle of the street. You grabbed the remote control and boosted the volume a bit, deciding you could perhaps multitask for a while. “So,” You started while maintaining your attention on the screen, catching his own. “You ever met Spider-Man?”

An odd question which made him snort as he turned his head to watch the screen. “No, not really. Wouldn’t want to, though, he’s kinda overrated.”

Your eyes went round, and you had to unstick your view from the TV to search for any sign of playfulness in the man’s face. He seemed dead serious. “Overrated? Full offense, but I can’t let you say that about Spidey, an actual superhero.”

He rolled his eyes, amused and defensively holding up one hand. “I’m just tired after hearing about him for the last twenty years. Can’t believe he’s not going around with a walking stick yet.”

You returned to your previous position, your forearms resting on the counter as you continued to observe a recap on a football game of the night before. “Yeah, I won’t argue against you on that. I remember watching him swing on TV back when I was seven-years-old. Big part of my childhood, the guy.”

He inclined closer to you, his brows drawn together. “What’s your age?”

“Twenty-nine.”

He let out an ‘oof’. You would’ve been insulted if it weren’t for the exaggeration in his tone. “You’re getting old. Soon you’ll be complaining about how much your back hurts and wishing for the sweet release of death.”

You chuckled, eyeing his appearance. “Ah, well, too bad because I already do that. How old are you? You’re acting like you’re sixty when in reality you’re probably just like forty, or something.”

“Eh, close,” He grinned, and then took a deep breath. “I’m thirty-seven.”

“And you’re calling me old?!” You exclaimed, earning a laugh from him. “You’re basically almost on your deathbed. Age doesn’t hold me back, though.” You winked jokingly and he bit his lip, his eyebrows raised.

“Is that so?”

“Yeah, you know— more experienced, sometimes wiser, sometimes more of a gentleman…” You mused, drawing patterns on the bar. You didn’t notice him giving you a once-over. Someone called for your attention, and you let out a disappointed sigh, pouting at him. “Gotta go! Duty calls.”

“Have fun,” He raised his drink, bowing his head. As you walked away, you allowed your face to pale with terror and you began to wonder if the air-conditioning suddenly malfunctioned, for you were too heated for your comfort. You took as much time as you could with the rest of the clients, too frightened to face the man after your shameless flirts, dreading the repercussions. But you were finishing the preparation of a mojito, wishing you could down it yourself, when he lifted his empty glass and whistled at you. You nervously glared at him, motioning for him to wait before you served the finished beverage to its rightful owner and you met him once again.

“Tell me,” You began as you poured the liquid in his cup, trying to change the subject and mask your trembling hands. “I’m tired of thinking of you as the whiskey man. What’s your name?”

He let out a short laugh, thanking you before he took ahold of his drink. “Peter. Peter… B… Parker,” He moved his head along to each word and you sang out an impressed ‘ooh’.

“Peter B. Parker. Catchy. Giving me some boy band vibes.”

“Boy band vibes?”

“Yeah, like, ‘pretty boy in a band who’s a total teenage heartthrob’ type of vibes. You definitely fit the description.” Goddammit, you did it again. Just this once, you wished, just this once shutting your mouth would make everything easier for you.

Peter, his face finally having a name, licked his lips after sipping the alcohol. “So you think I’m pretty?” He inquired, a crooked smile on his face. You were good at holding back the tingling that wanted to suffocate your cheeks, the way you wished you could with your words. You hummed, surveying him quickly.

"Well, I did say you were handsome last time, didn't I?"

"Yeah— yeah, I remember that," He squinted his eyes, pointing his finger at you. "And you're...”

“Y/N.”

“Well, Y/N…” He took his phone out from his back pocket and frowned down at it with concern. “Can you help me? There’s something wrong with my phone— it doesn’t have your number in it.”

Oh, my God.

You glanced down at his cracked screen and then back up at his face. Snorting so loudly it hurt your nose, your hand flew up to cover your mouth. “Oh, my God. I’m sorry, I’m just—” You pinched the bridge of your nose, wheezing. “I can’t believe you just did that. That was so cheesy, oh my God.”

“Are you gonna fix it or not, though?” He smirked, offering you his device. “‘Cause it’s a real problem.”

He got your number. After you returned his cell phone, you noticed his yet again empty glass, wondering how he downed it in just the time you were adding your phone number to his contacts. You grabbed it and poured more ice, seeing as the previous had already melted. “Since you successfully made me want to walk away from you and stroll around the place to try and heal myself after that awfully cheesy pickup line, this next round is on the house.” You declared as you opened the bottle of whiskey. He declined, emphasizing his refusal with the flutter of his hand.

“That’s not necessary.”

“Whatever, I’m gonna do it anyway,” You slid the alcoholic beverage towards him, and his eyes softened along with his entire face, too.

“Thanks.”

Your conversation continued the entire night. You talked non stop— so much that you might have forgotten about the existence of other customers. But it didn’t matter. Despite their annoyed expressions, it was worth it. You heard the story you had so desperately yearned for him to tell; he reminisced about his dead aunt and uncle— the lovely angels who raised him and the ones he looked up to the most. But your heart cried out when Peter sorrowfully stared into his whiskey, and you first heard the name. MJ. His ex-wife. The owner of his love for the longest time, the woman who crushed him a year ago. The one whose heart he broke, too, though, all because he was too terrified, too much of a wimp to take the next step, ‘not enough’, he said. You remained silent, realizing your flirtatious exchanges earlier were solely a way to muffle Mary Jane’s memory in his mind. Nevertheless, your hand reassuringly rubbed his shoulder, the action alone speaking the comfort he needed.

It wasn’t the last time it happened. After that, he began to show up at the bar more frequently, once a week. And whenever he did come, he left until your shift neared its end.

“Like, what type of father would I even be? Look at me!” Peter pointed at his head, stirring the whiskey with a finger of his other hand. “I’m a mess, I can’t even take care of myself— how could I take care of a child?! I just… I don’t have the time,” He sighed, laying his head atop the bar. You frowned as you prepared a second margarita for the mother of one of your classmates from high school, which was what initiated the conversation of parenthood and such in the first place.

You shrugged, aggressively rattling the shaker with your two hands. “I don’t know, maybe you’re underestimating yourself,” He peered up at you, doubt in his expression. “And you do have the time to come here every week, though,” You pointed out, wiggling your arms from how sore they were.

“Yeah, but you’re… this is different, this is…” He slurred, waving his hand. “Whatever. Work always ruins things for me. It has ever since I was a little tot.”

“Damn, what is your work?”

Peter began to gulp down his entire drink after your question and seconds later slammed it on the table with wide eyes, attempting to digest the liquor. He cleared his throat, rubbing his eyes. “It’s… it’s, uh, I-I work at the Daily Bugle.” You opened your mouth with astonishment, stopping in the midst of rubbing a lime on the rim of the glass.

“The Daily Bugle?” You asked incredulously. “That one newspaper with the dude who’s obsessed with Spider-Man? J-something-Jameson?”

“Yeah… yeah, that’s my boss.”

You grimaced, instantly comprehending his daily fatigue and he nodded, agreeing with you. “What do you do? Write?”

“Nah, I’m a photographer.”

“Ooh, so you’re a photographer? That’s hot,” Moments ago he’d been complaining about his marital issues yet there you were, calling Peter hot. You might have slipped the compliment right before you left to give the margarita to your ex-classmate’s mom in fear of his response, therefore missing the faint heat that overwhelmed his cheeks and ears.

“Is… it’s nothing, really,” He dismissed your words, being all humble and shit. You placed your elbows on the counter, coming closer to him.

“Could I ever see any of your pictures?”

He threw a block of ice into his mouth. “Mm, thure,” He said, his mouth full. Your mouth twitched in amusement, and you decided to sit down considering the night was particularly slow. Your boss lectured all the time that there was never time to sit down and there was always something to do; keeping that in mind, you still ignored the four dirty glasses, instead choosing to spend time paying attention to the man with ice in his mouth. “I’m boring, though— tell me more about yourself. There’s gotta be more to the attractive barista who works at the bar near my apartment.”

You were taken aback, both by the fact that he considered you were good-looking and that he was pushing to hear about you. “Me?” You blinked. He nodded, looking at you expectantly. You lowered your head, picking at the skin around your nails— damn past you for cursing you with the habit and, consequently, terrible nails as well. “This is… weird. I don’t really talk to customers about my life. They even tell us to not do that specifically.” You laughed.

“What? Why?”

“Well, because you don’t want to hear about me: my childhood and the drama in my life, I guess,” You said with an obvious look. He scrunched his brows together.

“But I do.”

You despised the way your heart missed a beat. “Alright, well… I don’t know, what do you want to hear about?”

“Were you born here? In New York?”

You shook your head. “Nah, I moved here after finishing college. I thought I was gonna be a successful artist and stuff.”

Peter gasped with wonder. “Artist?! Cool! What, what type of artist?”

“I paint,” He whispered an adorable ‘whoaa’ and your shoulders shook with laughter. “It’s really not that cool. I do paintings once in a while. Pays well and can help with the bills if someone buys them.”

“I’d buy many if I had the money.”

“Nah, I would paint you one for free,” You smirked, leaning closer to him.

“Oh, sweet— you can paint me naked. You know, like one of your french girls.” He hummed, a goofy grin breaking out on his face. You quirked a brow, giggling.

“That’d be interesting.”

“I know, I’d be a great muse. Tell me more, though, you got any friends? Family?”

You hesitantly nodded. “Yeah, except they’re all back home. The only people I’ve got here are at the bar, my boss basically adopted the few people who work here.”

“Wish my boss was like that,” He grumbled, grasping more ice. “Well, now you’re stuck with me too, though.”

You gripped your knee, your lips pressed together to retain the beam threatening to appear. “Is that so?” The ice he had shoved into his mouth was too big for him to speak without drooling all over his chin; so with his chipmunk cheeks, he moved his head up and down. “Is this us officially becoming friends?” You waggled your brows teasingly, your lips now stretching widely.

“I thought that happened the second you gave me a free round of drinks.”

Three more months passed by. You realized your nights weren’t a blur anymore. No— now they were Peter B. Parker, his weary brown eyes, and his whiskey served over ice. You couldn’t help the scrunch of your nose and your slight smile whenever someone else ordered whiskey, since, as ridiculous you knew it was, those words were Peter. You held yourself back each night you two shared from leaning over the bar and tasting the cold liquor in his tongue. You wondered if, perhaps, that’s what Peter Parker tasted like. But it didn’t matter how strongly you craved to find out; you couldn't be anything more than a friend to your customers, you constantly reminded yourself. Not that it even was a possibility with Peter, anyway— it was evident he still cared about Mary Jane. It was clear she lingered in the fog of his memory, despite how much he drank or how hard you attempted to take her place with every conversation. You tried to convince yourself that it was alright, and it wasn’t working, but you hoped someday it would.

It was a Saturday night— or more like the early hours of Sunday— when you went to joyfully take Peter’s order after he sat down, only to be met with an awful bruise on the bridge of his nose. You winced, unconsciously reaching out to touch his face, but drawing your hand back before he noticed. “Pete, what the fuck happened to your face?”

“That’s not a nice thing to say about someone.” He simply responded, evidently trying to disguise the swelling with his hand, but sighed after seeing your scowl. “Fine, it’s embarrassing. Like… really, really embarrassing—”

“I’m listening.”

He squirmed, his gaze moving to his right and his voice coming out high pitched as he searched for a way to explain himself. “I tripped.”

Something you’d learned throughout the past months of weekly meetings with Peter Parker was that the man was not subtle. Far from it. And this wasn’t the first time he arrived with a scratch or sort of bruise, which truly clutched at your stomach in the wrong way, but although he’d talk about anything— from what he ate for breakfast that day to confessing a pestering fear in his head, he never ever talked about how or why he got hurt. He always managed to steer away from the subject; the sneaky bastard, you’d think to yourself when minutes later you two were thoroughly discussing the best ways to eat an egg. You never budged, though, for you couldn’t bear to lose his trust or him getting mad at you; which hadn’t occurred yet, and you wished to keep it that way. You questioned your decision, however, as you grabbed the box of bandaids hiding under the counter (the bartenders there could frequently be quite clumsy), and grasped one with your fingers. You opened it, detaching the paper from it.

“It’s really nothing,” He continued insisting, trying to erase the creases between your eyebrows. “I just gave the ground a real nice smooch—” He stopped talking when you leaned over to touch his face, your hand cupping his cheek as you smoothed the plaster over his nose.

“I… what?”

“Sorry, it just looked really gross,” You lied, truthfully concerned about his well-being. “You couldn’t go around walking like that.”

“But I can go around walking with a…” He inspected his reflection on the cupboards, squinting to make out the pattern of the bandaid. “Spongebob bandaid on my face. And how is that supposed to heal a bruise?”

“I’m sorry—”

“No, it’s alright. I… I like Spongebob. One whiskey served over ice, though, please.”

You scoffed, picking up a glass from the cabinet. “I’ve held myself back from asking, but…” You shut your mouth as you continued preparing his drink, doubt winning its battle again. He tilted his head.

“But?”

“But… how come you’re always getting hurt in some way? It’s kind of concerning,” You laughed nervously, not wanting to reveal how much it truly worried you. He shrugged one shoulder.

“I guess I’m just really clumsy.”

“This isn’t clumsy, though,” You argued, your forehead furrowed. “This is… getting beat up type of stuff. Is that it? Do you get into street fights or something?”

“No! No, I, uh…” He hesitated, avoiding your gaze. “That’s not it.”

“Then what is it?”

Peter searched for words, his mouth ajar. He closed it and rolled his lips. “I want to tell you, I really do, but now is not the time. I promise I will in the future.”

You prepared to question him more, until a tune filled your ears. You raised your hands up to your head, your palms squeezing your temples as you gasped. Peter raised an eyebrow, entertained. “I fucking love this song,” You explained as ‘I Wanna Dance With Somebody’ by Whitney Houston played on the TV. Peter sat still as he paid attention to the music, confusion glinting in his eyes until he recognized the melody and his body lit up.

“Wait, so do I—”

“Clock strikes upon the hour, and the sun begins to fade…” You shouted, your head jerked back. Peter put his fist against his mouth, embarrassed by your hilariously terrible singing, but at the same time holding himself back from joining you in your performance. “Still enough time to figure out how to chase my blues away!” You sang, pointing your finger at him. He muttered an ‘ohmygod’ under his breath, his face beet red.

“I’ve done enough ‘till now, it’s the light of day that shows me how!” You dramatically laid back on the counter, true singer-like style, holding an imaginary microphone up to your mouth. “And when the night falls, loneliness calls…” You turned your head to face Peter and booped his nose, an action which you would undeniably regret once the euphoria of hearing one of your favorite songs ended.

“Ah, fuck it…” He whispered, beaming at you and grabbing your fist to sing into the invisible mic as well. “Oh! I wanna dance with somebody! I wanna feel the heat with somebody!” He cried out, his eyes passionately closed and his hand pressed flat against his chest. You scream-laughed at him, holding your torso. However, you quickly rolled onto your stomach, your faces now in close proximity.

“Yeah! I wanna dance with somebody! With somebody who loves me!” You both sung into your clenched hand, incredibly out of tune. “Oh! I want to dance with somebody!”

“I wanna feel the heat with somebody...” A customer in the background yelled out. You two exploded with laughter, your head pressed against his cheek and Peter gripping your hand tight.

That night, you sang with somebody you loved.

The end of the year arrived too quickly, and you were disconnecting the plug of the Christmas lights adorning the windows of the bar as you wondered whether you should get Peter a present for the holidays or not. Some new sweatpants, you considered; they were his favorite piece of clothing, you had come to learn, and in the times that he wore a pair, you noticed it was always the same. But you also questioned if it would be bizarre to hand him a gift— you only saw each other at the bar, after all. There weren't any instances where he called you to meet up for lunch, or something similar; and once in a while, you hoped to hear your blaring ringtone and to answer your phone to him. That never happened, though; your relationship would never evolve from the occasional text throughout the week. To make matters worse, you hadn’t even seen him for three weeks, three days, and counting. And, my God, did it sadden you that you knew that. Every time you’d type a greeting along with a question about his whereabouts, you’d stare at the screen of your cell phone for far too long and eventually delete your words— the exact process repeating over and over again. Maybe he’s with his friends or remaining family, you concluded. Hanukkah did end yesterday, stop being so obsessive.

A knock on the door provoked a startled squeak out of you. You jerked your head, confused, because who in the world was knocking on the door at three o’clock in the morning? Your terror was fleeting, however, for behind the foggy glass existed Peter B. Parker’s guilty smile. You exhaled and headed to open the door to shelter him from the violent and raging winter wind outside. He barged in, the tip of his nose the color of raspberries, most likely a repercussion of his poor clothing coverage for the season. “Hey,” He greeted you, rubbing his hands together.

“Wow, I think you got here a little too late,” You teased, folding your arms across your chest. The bags under his eyes were particularly prominent that night, not that it surprised you in any shape or form. He leaned against the wall, resting the back of his head on the timber.

“Yeah, sorry about that,” He apologized and you shook your head. It was useless. You were aware that there was no chance you could be mad at him for finally visiting you; in fact, you were ridiculously elated to be seeing him at such late hours, in spite of your bed crying out for your company. “I guess I lost track of time.”

“What are you doing here, anyway? I haven’t seen you for three weeks and when you do show up, it’s at three A.M.”

“I don’t… know.” You quirked a brow, wondering if he’d had a few too many drinks. “I sort of just walked and my feet got me here.”

“Are you drunk? And did you get in a bar fight or something, because you’ve got a bruise forming under your jaw and it looks too animalistic to be a hickey,” You asked with a gesture of your hand toward his face, relieved the jealousy didn’t bleed through your voice if the latter turned out to be more than a mere speculation. The scarlet on his nose spread to his cheeks. “I hope not, because that would mean you cheated on me by going to another bar.”

He chuckled, rubbing a hand over his stubble. “Nah, I wouldn’t ever do that to you.” You walked up to him and patted his shoulder, congratulating him for his great response but also to move him away from the window to check if it was closed. “I’m just tired.”

“Long day?”

“Awfully long.”

You still didn’t get an answer to why he was out so late, but you didn’t have the energy to continue budging. “Yeah, same.” You whispered, lifting a chair to place it upside down on a table.

“Wanna talk about it?” You looked at him confused. “Your day?”

“I would, but, uh, I kinda have to close this place. Y'know, it’s the holidays, so we’re not open 24/7 because my boss likes spending time with her family,” You explained, hearing his understanding hums. “Everyone already left and I didn’t have anything to do, so I promised her I would do it for her.”

He moved to stand opposite to you and copied your actions of setting the chairs atop the table. “That’s not safe— you being here alone, I mean. I can help!” He offered, as if a random spike of energy flourished in him.

Your brows drew together. “Shouldn’t you go home?”

He paused in the midst of reversing a seat, the furniture cradled in his chest like a baby. “Yeah, but so should you. It won’t hurt to sacrifice one hour of sleep just to help a friend,” He smirked, shrugging.

You allowed him to give you a hand in arranging the place, not that you had much of a choice, anyway; he would’ve done it nonetheless despite your refusals. Thirty minutes later, you were standing outside, your body aching tremendously. Peter noticed your soreness and, before you could even react, he was lowering the roll-up gate. “I could’ve helped with that,” You mumbled as he wiped his hands on his sweatpants. “Don’t want you breaking your back, grandpa.”

He laughed, shoving his hands inside his jacket’s pockets. “I’m a cute grandpa, though, right?” He asked with a flirty smile. You rolled your eyes.

“Hm, yeah, a total gilf.”

“Gilf?”

“Yeah, you know, like a ‘dilf’ but instead of a dad it’s a grandpa.” You both giggled as you began to walk to who knows where, visible breaths leaving your mouths like small dragons puffing out smoke.

You stopped in your tracks, gripping the straps of your backpack tightly. “Oh snap, I forgot!” He turned around with a questioning brow. “My car broke down, so I have to take the subway back home.” You explained, nudging your head back at the green stairs heading down to the metro station. He tilted his head, frowning.

“Y/N, it’s four in the morning. I don’t think going to the subway this late is such a smart idea.”

You rocked on your heels. “Yeah, but… how else am I gonna get home? You want me to sleep in the bar?”

His gaze shifted as he pondered, grunting. “Do you, uh… do you want to go to my place?”

Your stomach clenched, your heart starting a run when you heard his suggestion. He doesn’t mean it that way, you idiot, you scolded yourself. Yet you wished he did. “...Your place?”

“Yeah, it’s just a few blocks away from here, like a ten-minute walk.” There was a prolonged silence as you entered deep in thought, making him panic and stutter. “T-that’s if you want to, though. Don’t want you to feel pressured—”

“No, Pete, I…” You stopped him, grinning. “I mean, you sure?”

“Yeah,” He clapped his hands and held them together up to his chest. “Why not?”

“I guess I’ll take you up on that offer.”

“Cool! Uh, cool.. just… c’mon,” He pointed his thumb over his shoulder and you began your trek to his apartment, your shoes thudding lightly against the concrete of the sidewalk, wet due to the rain two hours ago.

“Thanks…” You started, wiggling your fingers, numb from the bitter cold, but to wake yourself up as well. “I actually am sort of terrified of taking the train, so I’m glad you offered. I’ll sleep on the couch, don’t worry—”

“What? No! No, I’ll take the couch, you’re the guest.”

“No, no, no, I insist—”

“Y/N.” You looked up at him, a teasing smile on his face. “You keep the bed. Plus, the change of place will be nice.” You groaned, your eyes closed.

“You’re such a great dude: offering me to sleep at your place so I don’t get mugged and shit, and here I am, stealing your probably comfy bed.” You then moaned, your eyes going blank. “Bed. God, just thinking about sleeping really turns me on right now.”

He huffed softly, bumping into your side. “What… what’s happened, though? We haven’t seen each other for a hot minute.”

You looked heavenward, your mouth ajar as you tried to recall your previous three weeks. “Mm, well, I honestly can’t even remember if I had breakfast or not— oh!” You exclaimed rather sleepily. “Well, this pretty boy working at a Taco Bell I went to asked me out on a date.”

“Oh?” He scrunched his brows together and you hummed. “And what did you say?”

“No.”

“No?! Why not?”

“I just…” Your eyes darted up to his curious ones, your face softening after inspecting him for a while, but not long enough to embarrass yourself. “I don’t know. Wasn’t feeling him, y’know?” He nodded comprehensively. “What ‘bout you?”

His entire mood shifted. His shoulders slumped, and he nibbled on his bottom lip, his jaw tightened. “I… I saw MJ today.” Your heart broke.

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“Wh-what, like, you two met somewhere?”

“No, more like ‘saw her coming out of the coffee shop while crossing the street and then a pedestrian yelled at me because I was standing in the way’.” He grumbled. You didn’t know what got in you, but you grabbed his hand and squeezed it. He glanced down at your linked hands and then up at you. That’s when you instantly let go, your pinkies still connected for a bit until completely detaching. You were too busy ogling the ground to see his fingers searching for yours.

“You’ll be alright one day,” You cleared your throat, a bashful smile on your face. “You’ll figure this out.”

He prevented you from continuing with your walk with a hand on your shoulder. You hesitantly turned your body to face him, gulping. Oh, no— you worried, your heart picking up its pace again— did the hand holding make him uncomfortable? Is he now gonna question me? Why am I such a damn idiot? But then you saw his dilated pupils, and your mouth went dry. “I…” He began.

“You… okay?” You questioned when his stare lingered on you. He blinked, his arm dropping by his side as he coughed.

“Yeah, yeah. Sorry, that was weird. I’m just—”

“—tired.” You finished for him and he scoffed, giving you a half-smile.

“Wow, you know me so well,” He joked, and scratched the back of his neck, pointing at the building you two stood in front of. “Uh, this is where I live.”

“Oh!” You spun around, studying the apartment complex. It appeared simple: not too big or small, modest-looking. “That was faster than I expected.”

“Yeah…” He muttered as he climbed up the stairs, holding the door open for you when he reached the top.

The man’s apartment was tiny, somewhat too messy, you decided; there was an empty pizza box on his bed, and he awkwardly dumped it in the trash can when you two walked in, apologizing for the mess. You sat on his bed and he stood at your feet, stroking his neck. "Do you want some clothes? I can give you a shirt or some—” You stopped him when he turned to go to his dresser, gently pulling his arm. “What?” You continued to wordlessly tug on his sleeve until he sat next to you, sighing deeply. Slowly, you leaned backwards until your back bounced on his mattress. Peter’s confused by your actions, but you simply patted the area behind him. He got the message and lied down on the rumpled sheets.

You looked at each other, a few inches apart, yet for some odd reason, you felt closer to him. Perhaps you could blame the different location, or the way in which your silent gazes stayed on each other. Somehow, you were both alright with it. No discomfort took ahold of either of you as you remained like that for a while, no words or sounds other than the city outside, both later with your eyes closed. To your embarrassment, you were on the brink of dozing off, but you couldn’t help it; you drowned in tranquility, and the exhaustion of your body cooperated— it was surprising you hadn’t fallen asleep yet. You could hear Peter’s steady breathing, and his voice brought you back to consciousness when he spoke. “Y/N?” It was soft, softer than your pillows back at home. Softer than your lonesome bed. You acknowledged him with a mumble, opening one eyelid. His eyes were almost shut, but you could still see the glimmer in his dark eyes. His whiskey eyes. “You’re really nice.”

Your eyes sealed closed again. “You’re really nice too, Pete.”

“No, but…” His sentence died out and he did not continue for a long period. You believed he had fallen into a slumber until he talked again. “You’re really nice. Like that hot chocolate I had in the morning while I was freezing type of nice.”

“I… I don’t know if it’s because I’m about to pass out, but I don’t get it.” When you blinked your eyes as wide as you could, he was closer than before. Closer than ever. You took the chance to discover, note every part of his face more closely, every freckle, every lash, his growing stubble. Everything.

“What I mean is that… you really bring warmth to my life, Y/N. Not to sound too cheesy like I usually do, or anything. But everything’s a mess and you’re there, and I’m glad about that.”

“You’re just tired.”

“Yes, but a drunk man’s words are a sober man’s thoughts.”

“You’re not drunk.”

“There’s really no difference.”

You could now feel his breath on your face. It was as if with every flicker of your eyelids, he had managed to inch nearer to your body. “Pete…”

“Y/N…” Your lips were roughly touching. You felt his arm slip around your waist, his fingers ghosting over your prickling back.

“We can’t do this.” You said, regardless of your hand cradling his neck. Your foreheads were now touching.

“Why not?”

“Because…” You tried to claim that he was your customer, but you truly did not care about it anymore, and you never did. “What about Mary Jane?”

He hesitated for a moment. “What about Mary Jane?”

“You still want her back.” You breathed out, your body quivering as his eyelashes tickled your cheeks.

“I can forget about her just tonight.”

You kissed. Your lips remained interlocked for a few moments, the both of you too tired to move them. It was like sixth-graders kissing for the first time— a lingering peck on the lips. But an energy sparked within you, and you moved your lips. Soon, you were on top of his body, your shirt almost completely off except for one of your arms still inside one sleeve, your fingers desperately tangled in his greying hair, his crooked nose bumping with yours. He didn’t taste like whiskey or ice, but he did taste like a year of laughing with each other in the bar, and him not noticing as you slowly fell for him.

#peter parker #into the spider verse #spider man into the spider verse #itsv #sm:itsv #peter b parker #peter parker x reader #peter parker x you #peter parker one shot #peter parker x y/n #peter b parker x reader #imagine #peter parker imagine #gender neutral #male!reader #fem!reader #peter b parker fan fiction #peter parker fan fiction #itsv fan fic

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mswyrr · 5 years

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I really liked that Mike and El are kids coping with recovering from trauma (and in El’s case extreme long-term abuse as well) and that the way they were getting on a path that could go to a weird/unhealthy place wasn’t a sign of evil or something they couldn’t work their way out of. They just needed some time with the people around them who care and love them both. Just some time to decompress, figure things out.

And that Joyce and Hopper are two adults with miles of bad road in the rearview mirror. Truly soul-wrenching horror and loss. A lot of quiet misery and endurance too.

They are not shiny people, they do not have that new car smell.

They also know each other very well by now. Some of that bad road was road they traveled together, keeping each other alive and sane. Earning each other’s trust the hard way.

So when those two people choose to express their frustration, trauma, suppressed hot pants for each, and general ARGH at the whole situation by bickering... ffs, this shit is happening in a specific context. They know each other; specifically Joyce knows Hopper and we know Joyce and that she wouldn’t react the way she does if she didn’t trust him implicitly. She would handle things very differently if she felt unsafe or like he was taking it to a place she wasn’t willing to go with him.

Sometimes I found the way Joyce was (especially in S1) like a boy’s fantasy of the endlessly devoted loving mother and not allowed much beyond that kind of sexist. Though she’s been well written throughout so I didn’t have a particular problem with it. Most moms really would move heaven and earth for their kids.

And in S2 she got a bit more. But here we got to see even more than that? She and Hop are both 40somethings with a lot of damage and they’re tired and they just want some love in life but they’re scared and it’s complicated. Hoping for love can hurt more than resigning yourself to living without it. It holds out the heartbreaking prospect that maybe you can have something good.

But it’s something you know you will inevitably lose and ache over.

They both know that having love means pain. They cannot delude themselves, at this point, into the naive belief that loss and pain won’t come along in equal or greater measure. And it’s hard sometimes to have the heart to keep going when you know that.

Which is where Joyce is at - and a place Hopper understands.

Is it all just lonely tv dinners from here on out until they put me in the ground? And, given how much loving hurts, isn’t maybe that better?

Because they both know exactly what opening your heart does to you. It brings you love. And all the pain you cannot ever separate from it, because that’s not how life works.

They both had some meaty stuff to wrestle with, beneath the humor. And Joyce got more narrative focus as herself, a person with wants and fears and a future, rather than primarily in her role to others as Mom. She and Hopper were both as much defined by their parental roles and the romance as each other (and their grief for lost loved ones)... it was cool and well balanced IMO.

And the fact that folks, including Evan Rachel Wood, have turned the media convo to some bs like a Tumblr anti irl just makes me so tired. I get that Twitter encourages that and, like, whatever, we all have our own subjective opinions. But this framing of it means that Joyce’s *full story* and Winona Ryder’s work is now going to be flattened into “Is this dynamic abusive or not abusive?”

Like women are beings who just exist in this state, like Schrodinger’s Cat, of either being Abused or Not Abused. And the point of women characters is to find out which! Like that is our only story, the only question our stories should explore... (and then answer in very flat, simple, didactic ways so everyone learns a very important, clear, so simple it’s pretty much useless lesson.)

It’s so tiresome. Making everything with women characters about whether they’re sending a bad or good message or something by what they do or other people do near them is really really limiting.

It implicitly argues that women characters exist to be moral icons rather than interesting and complicated and tell us something about what it means to be human. That their relationships exist as a didactic instruction guides rather than doing what fiction is supposed to do, which is evoke emotion and provide insight and catharsis.

This isn’t just a case of priorities being put over each other in different ways, but of one priority (a demand that all female character’s stories function as moral instruction) being antithetical to the other (complicated female characters in their own specific stories).

Joyce and Hopper went to a place that was the 40something version of the kind of “not actually bad yet, but don’t keep going this route it could get bad” stuff with El and Mike. Human beings do all kinds of imperfect, messed up stuff that thankfully doesn’t cross the line for anyone involved and is part of a bigger relationship that works for them.

And I think that’s good storytelling.

I liked that it’s a show about kids coming of age where the writers don’t forget that humans actually never stop growing and changing. And that it’s always a struggle, the constant act of becoming that is living your life - but, like Hop’s letter so beautifully said, the hurt is good. It means you’re alive and living, not trying to crawl into the grave early.

#stranger things #joyce byers #jopper #negativity cw #stranger things 3 #stranger things spoilers #my meta

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maximelebled · 6 years

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2017

Howdy! Time for the yearly blog post! There's enough depressing stuff that happened this year, so I want to try and not focus too much on that; talk more about the positive and the personal. (I am looking back on this opening paragraph after writing everything else, and I don’t think that ended up true.)

I find it increasingly harder to just straight up talk about things, especially in a direct manner. I think it comes from continuing to realize that so many things are extremely subjective and everything has so much nuance to it that I feel really uncomfortable saying a straight "yes" or a straight "no" to a lot of questions ("Nazis are bad" is not one, though). Or even just a straight answer.

I always end up wanting to go into tangents, and I inevitably run into not being able to phrase that nuance. You know that feeling, when you know something, you have the thought in your head; it is so clear, right there in your head, it is crystal-clear to your soul, yet you have no idea how to word it, let alone doing so in 140/280/500 characters. Frustrating!

I guess I could just put a big disclaimer here, "I am not a paragon of absolute truth and don't start interpreting my words as 'Max thinks he is the authority on XYZ' because you'd be quite foolish to do so"; but that doesn't help that much. Online discourse, let alone presence, can be so tiresome these days; not to be too Captain Obvious, but, there are quite a lot of people that delight in engaging those they see as their "opponents" in bad faith.

As a white man, I don't have it that bad, but still, I'll continue to tell you one thing: the block button is extremely good and you should feel no shame in using it. It drastically improves your online experience. (There are some very clear signs that make me instantly slam the button. I’m sure you know which ones too.)

Anyway, regardless, it's hard to get rid of a habit, especially one you've unwillingly taken on yourself, so I apologize in advance for constantly writing all those "most likely", "probably", "maybe" words, and writing in a style that can come off as annoyingly hesitant sometimes.

I started watching Star Trek this year. My Netflix history tells me: January 29th for TOS/TAS, March 26th for TNG, June 3rd for DS9, November 9th for Voyager.

TOS was really interesting to watch. A lot of things stood out: the (relative) minimalism of the sets and the directing was reminiscent of theater, and even though that was, generally speaking, because that's how TV shows used to be made, it was still striking. From a historical perspective, "fascinating" would still be an ill-suited word to describe it. Seeing that this is where a lot of sci-fi concepts came from, suddenly understanding all the references and nods made everywhere else... it was also soothing to watch a show about mankind having finally united, having exploration and discovery as its sole goal. I feel like it wouldn't have made as big of an impact on me, had I watched it a year prior.

I've always thought of myself as rejecting cynicism, abhorring it, but it's harder and harder to hold on to that as time goes on. I still want to believe in the inner good of mankind, of people in general, but man, it's hard sometimes. I think what really gnaws at me most of the time is how so many of the little bits of good that we can, and are doing, individually, and which do add up... can get struck down or "wasted away" so quickly. The two examples that I have in mind: Bitcoin, this gigantic mess, the least efficient system ever designed by mankind, has already nullified a decade's worth of power savings from the European Union's regulations on energy-efficient light bulbs. And then there's stuff like big prominent YouTubers being, to stay polite, huge irresponsible fools despite the responsibility they have in front of a massive audience of very young people. It can be really depressing to think about the sheer scale of this kind of stuff.

What we can all do on an individual level still matters, of course! I try my best not to use my car, to buy local, reduce my use of plastic, optimize my power usage, etc.; speaking of that, I've often thought about making a small website about teaching the gamer demographic in general quick easy ways to save energy. There is so much misinformation out there, gamers who disable all the power-saving features of their hardware just to get 2 more frames per second in their games, people who overclock so much that they consume 60% more power for 10% more performance, the list goes on. Maybe I'll get around to it some day.

All this stuff going on makes it hard to want to project yourself far ahead in the future. Why plan ahead your retirement in 40 years when it feels like there's a significant chance the world will go to shit by then? It's grim... but it definitely makes me understand the saying "live like there's no tomorrow". Not that I'm gonna become an irresponsible person who burns all their savings on stupid stuff, but for the time being... I don't feel like betting on a better tomorrow, so I might as well save a little bit less for the far future and have a nicer present. You know the stories of American workers who got scammed out of their own 401k? That's, in essence, the kind of stuff I wish to avoid. If that makes sense.

Anyway, going off that long depressing tangent: something I liked a lot across The Next Generation, Deep Space Nine, and Voyager, was how consistent they were. The style of directing, framing, camera movement, etc. was always very similar. Now, you can argue that's just how 80s and 90s TV shows on a budget, a 4:3 aspect ratio, and smaller SD screens worked, yes, but I do believe there is a special consistency that stuck out to me. I jumped into the newest series, Discovery, right after finishing Voyager (I don't plan on watching Enterprise) and the first two episodes were confusing to watch... shaky cam, a lot of traveling shots, shallow depth-of-field, and the tendency to put two characters at the extreme left and right of the frame.It’s a hell of a leap forwards in directing trends. It all gets better after the first two episodes, though.

youtube

I remember alluding to the King of Pain project in my last yearly post. I'm glad I managed to finally do it. I'd talk about it here, but why do it when I've made 70 minutes of video about it? (And unlike my previous behind-the-scenes videos, it's a lot more condensed, and hopefully entertaining.) Unfortunately for me, I completed the video in late June, with only a month left to the TI7 Short Film Contest deadline. So I ended up making two videos back-to-back. I had to buy a new laptop in order to finish the video during my yearly pilgrimage to Seattle. It was intense! And thankfully, I managed to pull off the Hat Trick: winning the contest three years in a row. I would like to think it's a pretty good achievement, but you know how us artists are in general; as soon as we achieve something, we start thinking "eh, it wasn't that good anyway" and we raise our bar higher still.

While I do intend to participate in the contest again next year, I know I'll most likely do something more personal, that would probably be less of a safe bet, now that the pressure of winning 3 in a row is gone. I already have a few ideas lined up...

... and I do have a very interesting project going on right now! If it goes through and I don't miserably land flat on my face (which, unfortunately, has a non-zero chance of happening), you'll see it in about a month from now.

youtube

I'm pretty happy to have reached a million views on all three of my shorts; a million and a half on the TI7 one, too... it might reach two million within six months if it keeps getting views at the current rate. It surprises me a bit that this might end up being my first "big" video, one that keeps getting put on people's sidebar by the all-mighty YouTube™ Algorithm™. There's often a disconnect between what you consider to be your best work, and what ends up being the most popular.

This reminds me that, a lot of the time, I get people who ask me if I'm a streamer or a "YouTuber". My usual answer is that I'm on YouTube, but I'm not a "YouTuber". I wholeheartedly reject that subculture, the cult of personalities, the attempts at parasocial relationships, and all that stuff. It's just not for me. Now, that said, I do hope to achieve 100k subscribers one day... I'm getting closer and closer every day! The little silver trophy for bragging rights would be neat.

My office was renovated by my dad while I was gone. It's much nicer now, and I finally have a place to put most of my Dota memorabilia. He actually sent me this picture I didn't know he'd taken, behind my back, in 2014; the difference is striking... (I think that game I'm playing is Dragon Age: Inquisition.)

Tinnitus. I first noticed my tinnitus when I was 20. I vividly remember the "hold on a second" moment I had in bed... man, if I'd known back then how worse it'd get. Then again, the game was rigged from the start; as a kid, I had frequent ear infections because my canals are weird and small. What didn't help either was the itching; back then, they thought it was mycosis... and treatment for that didn't help at all. Turns out it was psoriasis! Which I also started getting on my right arm that year. (It's eczema, it's itchy, it's chronic, and the treatment steroid cream. Or steroids.) Both conditions got worse since then, too.

Tinnitus becomes truly horrible when you start the doubt the noises you're hearing. When all you have is the impossible-to-describe high-pitched whine, things are, relatively speaking, fine. You know what the noise is, and you learn, you know not to focus on it. But with my tinnitus evolving, new "frequencies", I have, on occasion, started doubting whether I was hearing an actual noise or if it was just my inner ear and brain working in concert to make it up. So I end up thinking about it, actively, and that makes it come back. I had a truly awful week when, during an inner ear infection, the noise got so shrill, so overwhelming, I lost so much sleep over it. I couldn't tune it out anymore. It was like it was at the center of my head and not in my ears anymore. I wouldn't wish that on anyone. I'm not even sure that I'm in the clear yet regarding that. But, like I said, it's best if I don't dwell on it. Thinking of the noise is no bueno.

Really, the human body is bullshit. Here's another example. A couple months ago, I managed to bite the inside of my mouth three separate times. I hate when it happens, not because of the immediate pain, but because I already dread the mouth ulcer / canker sore (not sure which is the appropriate medical translation; the French word is "apthe"). Well, guess what: none of these three incidents had the bite degenerate into an ulcer... but one appeared out of nowhere, in a different spot, two weeks later. And while mouthwash works in the moment, it feels like it never actually helps... it's like I have to wait for my body to realize, after at least ten days, oh yeah, you know what, maybe I should take care of this wound in my mouth over here. And it always waits until it gets quite big. There's no way to nip these goddamn things in the bud when they're just starting.

But really, I feel like I shouldn't really complain? All in all, it could be much worse, so so so much worse. I could have Crohn's disease. I could have cancer. I could have some other horrible rare disease. Localized psoriasis and tinnitus isn't that bad, as far as the life lottery goes. As far as I'm aware, there's nothing hereditary in my family, besides the psoriasis, and the male pattern baldness. I wonder how I'll deal with that one ten, fifteen years down the line...

Just as I'm finishing writing this, the Meltdown & Spectre security flaws have been revealed... spooky stuff, and it makes me glad I still haven't upgraded my desktop PC after five years. I've been meaning to do it because my i7 4770 (non-K) has started being a bit of a bottleneck, that and my motherboard has been a bit defective the whole time (only two RAM slots working). But thankfully I didn't go for it! I guess I will once they fix the fundamental architectural flaws.

The Y2K bug was 18 years late after all.

Here's a non-exhaustive list (because I’m trying to skip most of the very obvious stuff, but also because I forget stuff) of media I enjoyed this year:

Series & movies:

Star Trek (see above)

Travelers

The Expanse

Predestination (2014)

ARQ

Swiss Army Man

Video games:

Hellblade: Senua's Sacrifice

Horizon: Zero Dawn

What remains of Edith Finch

Uncharted: Lost Legacy

Wolfenstein II

Super Mario Odyssey

Metroid: Samus Returns

OneShot

Prey

Music:

Cheetah EP by James Hunter USA

VESPERS by Thomas Ferkol

Some older stuff from Demis Roussos and Boney M.... and, I'll admit reluctantly, still the same stuff: Solar Fields, the CBS/Sony Sound Image Series, Himiko Kikuchi, jazz fusion, etc. I'm still just as big a sucker for songs that ooze with atmosphere. (I've been meaning to write some sort of essay on Solar Fields... it's there, floating in my head... but it's that thing I wrote earlier: you know the idea, intimately, but you're not sure how to put it into words. Maybe one day!)

I think that's about it this year. I hope to write about 2018 in better terms!

See you next year.

#year in review

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