#and i love the way gene speaks its so Character of him its wonderful | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

misqnon · 28 days

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u gotta try harder /j

I WASNT ON TUMBLR MUCH TIL LIKE.. A YEAR AGO... SO I HAD NO IDEA .... that is extremely funny. thank u

theyre in a 3 way qpr with luffy as the center

THAT ZORO IMAGE IS SO FUNYN AHFHSJD

"i like to imagine he speaks with the emojis like you typed them. (“how are you saying that out loud-”)" NAHDIAHE hes magic thats how

i have a big crush on ace too but TRACE HEATFIST.... something abt him.... idk he just hits the spot for me. i love big brother characters n characters that r good with kids.. ace fills that spot.. and then u add his silly smoothness in the 4kids dub and its like wow. u are Perfect.

STEAL THEM!! i have . a pinterest board of . meme image. silly meme image. (is pinterest something ppl still use... i only started using it a few years ago)

NO A CUP MAKES SO MUCH MORE SENSE... I think u were rightm.

THATS SO FUNNY... see i never thought dragons were real but i DID believe . that unicorns were real for quite a while (i never liked to admit it). honestly i didnt consume much dragon content but i did like to just. think abt them . i had this mobile game i liked playing that was just a choose ur own adventure type story . but ur a dragon. never played spyro (and didnt even know about it til i was like... 12) but it seems rly fun and i would love to play the remaster,, purple dragon ily. i cant believe ur the kind of kid who could beat games... i was so stupid as a kid i didnt even know how to play animal crossing city folk correctly .... YOU ALSO??? FLIGHT RISING???? i joined in uhh 2019? i think? i found out abt it in like 2016 but forgot and then tried to join in 2018 but it wasnt accepting new users.. and then yeah. 2019. so ive been on and off a lot but i LOVE flight rising. i love my dragons. even tho theyre mostly un-gened 1st generation dragons..

sanji is . arguably the most human of all the straw hats.. which is interesting bc he is also the only one who was supposed to be inhuman. ofc i think theyre all very human but sanji has the most moments where i can relate to him. the sanuso fic i was reading yesterday... he was so full of shame... and they wrote him hiding behind his hair.. and i felt so intensely SEEN by that. like oh my god he is ME i do all these things.. i find that my comfort characters are usually... ones who suffer a lot. i love suffering. in media.

SHREK SCREENSHOT..

"I WANT TO PUT THE SANJI FEEDING MICE AND THE CREW IS CONFUSED SCENE IN A FIC SO BAD BUT I HAVE WRITERS BLOCK ATM 😭" i will write it for u

"sanji vs. minnie mouse his hardest battle yet" oh my god........ ur mind...... wow...... genius...... crackship time (have u seen . oh wait ur not into jjk.. ok have u seen frollo x goofy... its insane...)

BEING MAD ABOUT SIMPING FOR SANJI IS SO REAL.. please dont be attractive please stop please... please . IVE SEEN THAT OUTFIT and every time i get ANGRY (not for real but y'know.) because he looks SO GOOD and i dont like to admit that.. i hate to admit that. UR RIGHT that outfit is extremely gay like wtf is going on with that tie???? or whatever it is? around his neck??? this is like gay men wearing scarves

"have u seen that post where its drawings of each of the strawhat “rescue teams” of arlong park, enies lobby, and whole cake?" I SAW THAT A FEW HOURS AGO AHDHSH

"law 1: edgy. flipping u off. deranged. a bit evil looking. kinda hot" i see u...

i love law so much he is so antagonizing and then . the contrast.. when he is stupid or cute. its wonderful.

"HE ALSO LOOKS SO SO PATHETIC 😭 SOPPING WET CAT OF A MAN" i LOVE how pathetic he looks. i like pathetic people so much.. like why are u like that.. making me pity u.. only in media tho never in real life 🙏🙏

ZORO LOOKS LIKE A DOG AHEJDHA WHAT IS THAT

USOPP?? USOPP?????? HES THE MEME IMAGE ...

CHOOPA MY GUY.. he looks so silly as a full deer i wish he did that more often

this is blue period but im running out of funny images i have saved ...

dw abt taking a bit to reply!! i am patient /gen

IM TRYING MY BEST

sharing my veteran knowledge

3 WAY QPR IS PERFECT

trace heatfist the magic man. skeazy magician and fuckboy

ace is VERY likeable idk a single person who doesnt like him. even my non one piece friend likes him but i think shes weak to his freckles

i trade memes like pokemon cards. i look forward to this symbiotic relationship

arent unicorns the national animal of scotland…(or ireland maybe…) THAT WOULD MAKE ME THINK THEYRE REAL

I COULD ONLY BEAT SOME GAMES a lot i didnt but usually bc i got out of the rhythm of playing them and left them unfinished. when i was younger i made my older brother play the hard parts for me a lot LMAO. ALSO DO YOU WANT MY FLIGHT RISING DRAGONS. IDK WHAT TO DO WITH THEM ALL MAN I DONT PLAY ANYMORE

i love that sanji is arguably the most emotional of the group (aside from franky or chopper, but for them its just played for laughs) and that overemotional/low self esteem part is exactly what makes him so relatable. i actually really appreciate that oda gave that trait to a male character. sanji cries a lot and is overemotional and kind of hysteric sometimes jdvbvfjdk so im glad they didnt make it like nami or robin who was like that stereotype. GOD I REALLY CONVERTED U TO SANJI TOWN DIDNT I. SORRY WE’RE ALL HERE BECAUSE WE HAVE LOW SELF ESTEEM AND PROJECT ONTO THE WEIRDO

*FROLLO X GOOFY????*

I HATE ADMITTING THAT I THINK HE’S HOT BC HE DOESNT DESERVE IT. BUT I DO. I THINK SANJI IS HOT. I DO. UNFORTUNATELY. in that maroon wano suit…ODA WHO TOLD YOU TO DO THAT!!!!!!!

and yes law too…listen. i have a big heart, ready to love, [possessed by sanji]

the little scarf/ascot is the gayest part

“"HE ALSO LOOKS SO SO PATHETIC 😭 SOPPING WET CAT OF A MAN" i LOVE how pathetic he looks. i like pathetic people so much.. like why are u like that.. making me pity u.. only in media tho never in real life 🙏🙏” exactly…PATHETIC FICTIONAL MEN GO HARD

I LOVE THE DOG ZORO SCREENSHOT HE LOOKS LIKE HES GONNA BITE SOMEBODY

AND USOPP KDSJNKJ I USE THAT ONE SO MUCH

i agree i like almost all of chopper’s other forms better than when hes a little baby 😭

IS THAT MAKIMA NSCKJAS???

also u are free to keep sending me e-letters but if you want to just message on discord that is also fine. as i said. message me whenever 🫡

lets see what we have for 2day...

#asks #replies #long post #march anon

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comehomeducklings · 3 years

Text

Past [Part 2] (Obsession)

A/N: Some chapters will be named with either “Past,” “Present,” or “Future,” then their numbered part coming right after it. This is to confuse you less when flashbacks or anything happens. As you have probably noticed, it says “Past” for Part 2. This is going back near when Tom and her just met. Thank you for reading! <3

Tom Riddle's Moodboard

Main Character's Moodboard

~////////////////𓆙////////////////~

1940 - 3rd year

“Potions is not that bad, I swear. You just have to be good at measuring.��

At the table, my friends and I are discussing our classes this year. Potions being one of my favorite topics. Devyn absolutely loathes that certain class. We have to drag her there to make sure she doesn’t skip. Poor girl tries her best to not mess up but the cauldron always ends up blowing up. I even watched her do every step once, never missing a beat. The potion still ended up failing, even though she did everything correctly. She gave up after a while, who wouldn’t. I help her do extra assignments for extra credit to keep her grade up. She also studies with me to make sure she can memorize everything and pass her tests. Amelia is pretty good at the class, she’s luckily paired with Devyn most of the time. Carrying the potion to success, with a little bit of my secret help. It’s not cheating, it’s using your resources.

I’m resources.

“Potions is not that bad,” Devyn mocks me. “If it weren’t for you two I would have gone insane in that stupid class.”

Amelia just laughs at her while eating her hash browns on the plate. She reaches her hand out to take some more eggs.

“You were able to do it before. Not the way you were supposed to, but it worked,” Amelia says.

“Exactly, just start doing it your way at this point. I don’t think Slughorn will care how it’s done, just how it comes out.”

Devyn nods her head and points at me with a fork. Her mouth full of food so she settles for that response. My plate doesn’t have much other than some bacon and fruit. I’m not usually a breakfast eater. I get my appetite at lunch and dinner time. It’s just too early for a bunch of food smells, the smells make me kind of nauseous. I’ll eat though, enough to hold me off till lunch.

The chatter in the lunchroom rises by the minute. Everyone refilling themselves before their busy day. All energy levels rising while everyone wakes up from their groggy morning mood. While my friends finish eating we continue to talk about our classes and share the schedules for this year. Most classes we had were the same except for our electives. I tried taking as many electives as possible. My family back home never really did magic. I actually came a year and a half late since my family wanted me to have a normal school experience. I learned to do everything without the use of magic, the only thing my mom taught me was the floo network, creatures, and plants. I would often accompany her to Diagon Alley when she shops. I got an Owl for my 10th birthday. A cat would have been amazing if I wasn’t allergic to it. My owl is a brown and white-furred barn owl. Don’t ask me why I named it Bartholomew. I was ten okay, give me a break. Speaking of the floo network, my mom had to chase me through it quite often because I kept teleporting everywhere. I once ran into the Ministry of Magic’s building and got lost. They had to take me home to my parents. Their faces told me everything I needed to know about the punishment waiting for me.

Halfway through the second year is when I came to Hogwarts, a second letter coming that year asking my parents to let me learn more there. So when they finally let me attend, everything was pretty new to me. My mother was the magic one in the family. Her grandmother, my great-grandmother, before her had the magic gene. Going to school was the same experience as going from a muggle-borns perspective. The difference is, I knew more about its existence. I would look at yearbooks my mom had from when she went here. She earned a lot of titles, all the achievements being recorded down. I always wondered why she never wanted me to come here. Did something happen to me, to her? I’m guessing she just wanted a normal life with dad. He has always supported her through everything. A love, a bond like that is hard to come by. He would also learn about magic right next to me. At least, the stuff my mom allowed to let us know.

That’s why I want to learn as much as I can, of what’s available. Why learn math in the muggle world when I could be learning divination. Spells of all types, potions for everything of inconvenience. My chores could be completed with just a flick of my wand. I’ve lately been learning wandless magic, on my own. Albus has helped by providing me with material to study that type of magic. The only thing I’ve managed so far is a spark coming from the tips of my fingertips. Sparking hope that I could actually, maybe, achieve that level. Now I won't get my hopes up, but that can lead me to a certain advantage in dueling. That being one of my weakest skills. Always panicking, saying any spells that pop up in my mind, and making random movements coming from my wand. Often confusing who I’m up against, although they recover from that confusion fairly quickly.

Riddle, met him once. One too many if you would ask me. I dissuade ever wanting to speak to him. Arrogance and pride flow through his tongue like second nature. I do take pride in succeeding above him in 3 classes. He is 2 classes above me but, that’s not the point. I do admit, he’s attractive. Only a little though, how else would he charm his way through the professors and students.

“Alright, I’m ready to go. You guys done?”

“Yeah,” I say. Devyn and I start leaving our seats and heading towards the huge doors.

Amelia hurried from her seat, a few steps behind since she took some fruit with her to eat on the way. More and more students also started making their way towards the first period. Not wanting to be blamed for the loss of house points. This system causes so many fights, everyone’s competitive side getting the best of their common sense. I would be lying if I said it didn’t get the best of me before. Amelia being her usual bubbly self skips backward while chatting with us. Before we could warn her to stop, she pushes someone ahead of her. Both falling down, hitting the floor. She spins her head extremely quickly, her hair sticking in her mouth from the force of the wind.

“I’m so sorry, I wasn’t paying attention,” she explains. Quickly trying to digest her situation. I make my way towards her and pull her up. I fix her robe and dust off any dirt on the cloth from the floor.

“Clearly idiot, can you not use those bug eyes of yours to see?”

Devyn and I make eye contact. We understand that there are witnesses here, and one of them is bound to snitch on us if we fight. A huge scene would probably make Amelia feel even more embarrassed as well. Instead, I guided Amelia by her back. We continue on to class while I comfort her. Devyn is staying back to “talk” to the guy. Lestrange is in for it now, any poor soul would be when in the fiery path of her anger.

Devyn’s loud yells could still be slightly heard when entering the potions classroom. First class of the year, and day. On Slughorn’s table, I can see a vial with the wideye potion contained inside. I set Devyn’s textbook on her station, turning to the page that contains information on the potion. Hoping to save her confusion and time.

“Welcome, welcome! Nice to see some old faces, and new ones,” he says with the biggest grin on his face. “Today we’ll be learning about the Wideye potion. Can anyone tell me what this potion does?”

I quickly raise my hand, rather eager. I did some reading about a lot of potions during the summer. Trying to get a headstart on my studies. This potion being one of them. Only 3 students raised their hand, one of them being me. The other, well, Riddle.

“Yes, go ahead and answer,” the professor looks my way.

I smile, “The wideye potion prevents the person consuming the liquid the ability to fall asleep. Which is often used in the medical field to wake someone from a sleep caused by a blunt force or drug.”

“Precisely! 10 points.”

I look back rather smugly at Riddle, rather happy I got chosen instead of him. I know, he could have easily answered that too. I’ll let myself bask in the small achievement for now. 30 minutes of class is just spent writing down notes, preparing us for the potion we will make. Note-taking is my favorite, especially the little doodles I get to make. We use a feather instead of the regular pen. I found it rather amusing and liked the certain feeling of writing with it. The dipping noise that the point of the feather makes when hitting the liquid ink is a very profound sound. No real writer’s bump forming on my fingers.

“That’s enough writing, I need you all to prepare your cauldron, gather the materials you need, and start your potion. If done correctly, tomorrow when we add the finishing touches and check on it the potion should be a blue/green color,” Slughorn comments. “You have 10 minutes to study your notes, then the rest of the class to make your potion. No looking back at your notes after those ten minutes.”

After scanning my notes, I stand up and walk towards the ingredients on the shelves. If I remember correctly my potion requires snake fangs, standard ingredient, and wolfsbane. I gather all that in my hand and set it down near my cauldron. Before I start, I take a moment. I’m missing something, I’m sure there was another ingredient.

Wolfsbane, check.

Snake fangs, six of them.

I have the measures of Standard ingredient.

There’s one more, I try to look around the room. Then I remember that we get an automatic failing grade if caught cheating. There’s no way I’ll let my grade drop like that. Over something so small and inconvenient too. Making my way to the shelves, I scan over the ingredients over and over again. Trying to see if any of the names pop out to me.

No.

Definitely not.

That’s an ingredient?

I don’t even want to know how that one was obtained.

This one, of course it’s this one. I even remember putting a star next to the name in my notebook. Dried Billwig stings, I believe six of them were needed. All that time wasted. Hurrying to my seat I get to work. The time goes by quickly, all that could be heard was the sizzling and whooshing of our potions. I almost knocked down my vials a couple of times. Someone actually did, their time spent on cleaning the glass off the floor. After heating the first three ingredients, I crush them together in the mortar. Then stir clockwise from what I recall, three times specifically. Finally, I wave my wand over then leave it to brew.

Just in time from the looks of it. I glance at Devyn to see how it went for her, and she looks pretty proud of herself. I take that as a blessing that it didn’t blow up this time of round. I’m guessing she took our advice and did it her own way.

A student raises his hand, “May we leave?”

“Oh yes yes, go ahead. No assignments for the first day, only the potion you made in class.”

Before I leave the classroom I examine Riddle’s station. He already left the room. His potion looks similar to how mine turned out, his workspace thoroughly cleaned. Everything used properly placed back to where it should be. Perfectly spotless, not a single speck of dust in sight. All done without magic too, surprising for someone born into the wizarding world. When I mentioned that I met him once, it wasn’t much of anything. The only way I know how he really acts is through other people. Much admire his intelligence and strong will. Others are jealous of the potential he holds for the future.

Girls are already trying to slip love potions into his drinks. I would feel bad if he wasn’t so rude to them. Only just before touching the disrespectful line. He almost drank one of their attempts before. Wouldn’t want to imagine how that turned out. Tom riddle, in love. That man probably doesn’t know the feeling of happiness, let alone love. I feel bad for his future girlfriend, she’s going to have to deal with a handful of baggage.

~////////////////𓆙////////////////~

“How much do you want to bet Nott will demolish him?” A Gryffindor girl to my left whispers.

Nott, part of Riddle’s group from what I’ve seen. They all eat lunch together and talk to one another so it’s a reasonable guess. Very talented duellist, one of the bests here.

“I hate to admit it, but he’ll definitely win this. I’ll still have hope for the other guy though,” I whisper back trying not to sound mean.

Nott and the other Slytherin boy are up right now. It’s a courtesy for the audience to stay quiet until someone casts the first attack or defense. From then on all you will hear is shouting of encouragement and the opposite. Nott’s eyes are focused, zoning in on the opponent before him. His wand is steady, mouth slightly parted to breathe through better. Whole-body alert and tense waiting for something. From what I'm getting, I believe he’s waiting for the Slytherin boy to go first. Nott casts spells quickly and thinks them through decently. Sometimes you're not able to create a counter-spell quick enough to defend yourself against him.

Riddle’s group and himself are near the corner of the platform. All seemingly analyzing every breath he inhales and exhales. I finally hear the whoosh of a wand and a whiz of light fly past the platform. The glow from the spell lighting our faces for a millisecond. Nott quickly counters that spell and moves to cast his own. Magic flies across the platform, all of our eyes going back and forth like a ping-pong match. The Slytherin boy starts breaking a sweat. He’s only been able to get a couple of offensive spells in there, most of his plays spent throwing off Nott’s. If he doesn’t turn the battle soon, the outcome will become very clear.

It is a little less exciting since we only know a handful of spells. So whatever you know from your own studies you use in these duels. When we move up the years the class will become more serious and dangerous. Right now it’s just to teach us how to counter and cast quickly. The proper etiquette and movement. You use spells that you know, they aren’t supposed to harm someone. Either stun them, make them fly back, or disarm. Most of those spells require a little of a higher level, most of us not even knowing of its existence yet. So what’s mostly cast between competitors is a basic spell to exert force. That force should be aimed for the legs, or the wand to disarm that way. The way someone can win here is to make their knees or hands touch the floor, or disarm their wand. As I mentioned, it will get more intense as time goes by. We're only just starting 3rd year right now, a lot more charms will be learned later on.

I shake my head to get rid of any lingering thoughts. My attention goes right back to the duel taking place in front of me. Nott quickly aims a spell at the knees and manages to bring the other boy to his knees.

“Mr. Nott wins this duel! Please step off the platform, we will evaluate your performance.”

During the practice duels today, you watch it, think of ways to help the person improve, and point out things they might have done wrong. At the end, the professor picks people raising their hands to allow them to give their feedback. Participating is part of the grade you get in here. I personally prefer giving feedback then dueling. I’m not the best at casting, I do give out good defense spells though. That should mean something, I hope.

“Let’s start with Nott, does anyone have feedback for him?”

A couple of people spread apart raised their hands. One by one they all ask questions and give feedback. They mention his feet and posture when he stands. Arms fully stretched out where it would have been more flexible to bend it slightly. When he casts he shouldn’t be walking backward. They shortly switch to the other boy’s questions and feedback. The way he never gave himself the opening to cast an offensive spell often. He would move around his area a lot. Almost slipping off the stage during one of those movements. Tom and his group privately discussed with one another. They’re probably giving Nott their own feedback and suggestions privately.

“Now, Riddle I want you to come up and…,” he scans the room for another student. After some time he points his finger at me. “You.”

I could have had a smooth sailing class. I was so close to not having to go up there. My hands start sweating a bit, my anxiety jumbling my thoughts together. Riddle’s already up there and soon to be on his side of the platform. Taking his wand out and wandering his fingers over the design. I gulp, a big toad stuck in my throat. I wipe my hands on my robe and start up the stairs. Riddle seems as unbothered as ever. We bow, turn, then walk ten paces back. During this time I try predicting who will cast first. I don’t know him very well, I’ve also never seen him duel.

I take my dueling stance and wait for the signal to start. Hoping, praying, that I don’t embarrass myself. Slipping up is not allowed, not when going against him.

~////////////////𓆙////////////////~

Taglist:

@empath-bunny

#tom riddle x oc #tom riddle imagine #tom riddle x reader #lord voldemort #death eaters #voldemort #horcrux #hogwarts #harry potter #wizard #post wizarding war #enemies to allies #enemies to lovers #angst #oc #poc #Oc is any race #moldy voldy

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sunseteyes · 3 years

Text

THE BOSS — KAI CHISAKI

—an au where kai is not a killer, but a lover

ㅤㅤ ↪︎ starring: kai chisaki (overhaul)

ㅤㅤ ↪︎ word count: 1.5k words | themes: pre & post world war II. yakuza au. fem!reader. mentions of women discrimination (not that harsh but still). fluff with a bit of angst (if you squint)

ㅤㅤ ↪︎ request: Hi this is my first time asking so i wanted to request a jealous chisaki kai fluff if that’s okay with you...heheh...bai —Anonymous

ㅤㅤ ↪︎ rozé’s voice: this took me awhile but here it is!! since i still have no banner for kai, i decided to do this in my new banner format! what do you guys think?? does it look nice??

the moon was out and the sun was being swallowed by the horizon, saying its goodbye for the meantime as it circles its way only to rise again by tomorrow morning. his eyes glared up on the sky, the orange hues of the sun’s rays reflecting upon them as he waited, the clouds emitting a different shade other than pure white as a result of how the light resonate well with the other contents of the sky.

beneath the comforts of his home, kai found himself drifting into a river of thoughts, wondering where could you have been.

after the world war II, it became difficult to not let the fear inside of kai be eliminated, even if he was sure that you’d be able to make it through the day anyway. after all, you were not just an ordinary yakuza woman.

you were the woman of the group—the boss.

the group was originally your father’s, being the previous boss that ruled everyone and lead them into a success that gave them the ability to be confident to put their trust into him. the boss—your father, he unfortunately passed away and in turn, the responsibility was given to the sole member who carries his very own blood and genes, his only daughter—you.

kai could briefly recall the moment your father had taken him in as part of the group and he eventually met you, who was well-loved by the other members, sooner by him. he believed in your leadership skills and how you coordinated well with others thus, he supported you when you suddenly became a leader in just one day.

during those times, many believed that maybe he should be the one who should be the boss, not a woman. at least even if he was someone from outside, he was a man. however, as soon as he heard of it, he came to you and told you yourself that;

“i believe in you.” kai’s own voice echoes inside of his memory, one that contained a scene where he confronted you one day while you were greeting him like you would every day, whenever you can.

“hm? did you say anything, kai?”

“i believe in your skills in being a good leader.” he faces you then, exactly by the time your face switched into something he couldn’t read. it was one of the things that attracted kai to you—the fascination of being unpredictable. it thrills him; sending jolts in his veins to the tips of his fingers and toes, as if you were a lightning bolt that struck him and kept him impaled with your effect on him.

your smile—it was one of his weaknesses, and in that moment, kai imprinted that image in his mind, tattooing it religiously like a madman.

“thank you kai, i really appreciate you saying that.”

for the first few days of being the boss, kai was glad that you were coping, and that you weren’t letting anyone or anything hinder you from doing your responsibilities. however, that didn’t last much long for the topic of having a husband was brought out by one of the veteran members of the group—those who believed that there should still be a male leader that would keep the stability of the group, as if you weren’t doing that already.

kai only watched from afar as men approached you gradually, statuses from every part of the group coming by with the intention of getting your hand for marriage. as a large group, there was a huge reputation that you should uphold. thus, no one ever approached kai to push him to take you.

he was merely an orphan boy that the boss saved and gave a shelter to. he was nothing more.

when the world war II happened, it was the time you dated another yakuza leader. kai could remember how he felt the crunching in his chest when it happened. the hatred beneath his glares, the hisses in his tone, his temper always setting fire despite being under the rain—he could not stop them,

but since he couldn’t do anything but watch, he lets it be.

it was proved difficult when he saw your exhausted face one day and by that time, he just knew that you weren’t happy with the relationship.

day by day, it was as if your energy was being sucked off by the sun, always robbing you of your smile, the lively glow on your eyes, and the hue of life on your skin. slowly, kai could watched everything unfold.

his chest tightens of the dread of just approaching you, who was currently with your significant other. he needed to give you daily updates since he was basically the one you trusted most out of everyone else in the group, but as he was about to slide open the door to your office, the voices reached his ears.

"you look so tired, don't you think it's time to rest? let me do the paperwork for you."

"no, it's fine. these are my responsibility, you don't have to offer me such a thing." base on your voice alone, kai knew there was something hidden behind it—something only he knows.

so despite the churning on his stomach when he enters the room after being granted entrance, he looks at you on the eye and let the words slip out of his mouth without any other sign of hesitance.

“i think you should take their opinion, boss. it will be best if you rest for awhile if you don’t want to make it worse.”

there was a certain harshness in his tone and he’s quite sure you could sense it, yet despite of it all, you looked at him with the same gentleness that you do every other time, no sign of remorse or irritation that could have told him that something put you off.

it took seconds before you answered—seconds of your significant other glaring daggers at kai, most probably with how he might have ruined a moment that shouldn’t be shared to any other, the sense of their small bubble being popped by a sharp object such as him.

and even without thinking twice, it doesn’t scare kai if he were asked. it actually swells his pride more with how much insecure the other was at his mere presence. and it seems that faith has him on their side as the situation unfolds further.

“maybe you’re right.” you sighed, the noise of the chair dragging onto the wooden floor echoing in the room as you stood up. the person by your side guides you as you walk to the door yet you stopped in front of kai, offering a flustered smile that tells him countless of words that your mouth couldn’t speak of when you say, “thank you, kai. i’m leaving everything to you for now, i apologize. i’ll make it up to you.”

kai then realized that day how stronger the thumping of his heart was than the ache that it felt when he saw you with another person that was not him.

when the relationship broke, kai expected it, and he felt the need to step up when you were being pursued by the same person to get you back to them.

“thank you, kai.” you say to him with the same look that you’d always given him, an exhausted chuckle leaving your lips, “you’ve always looked after me. what can i ever do without you?”

without thinking, the words left his lips without restraint, his mind already set upon the goal no matter how much there was an unlikely others would think it could happen.

“marry me, (y/n).”

he saw how your eyes widen and look straight into his, your entire form frozen and surprised, even the pen that you had between your fingers were up on the air, its ink about to fall down onto the paper if it wasn’t moved away.

kai remained still, his expression firm and serious, his mind already decided and confirmed that he wouldn’t ever regret his question whatever your answer would be. on the outside, his arms were closed into fists, his short nails digging into his own skin from how tight he was gripping his own palm. it was even far worse with how his chest has a pounding heart that rings on his ears and affects the vein on his neck, a line of sweat by his hairline that he was having a difficult time not to raise his hand and get his handkerchief to wipe it off. he had never been this nervous before, nor does he think he will ever do in the future. this moment will remain imprinted on his mind, no chance of ever redeeming it back again.

the touch on his cheek brought him back to reality, his gaze finding yours that looked at him in a way you’ve always did.

“what have you been thinking, love?”

his own hand grasped your own and he sighs, the memories of before slowly fading away as he relishes on the feel of your presence, giving a sense of peace in his chest that surely nothing else could change. nothing should, not now that he has you.

fin

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to00ch · 4 years

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Hello! I love what you write! HC for Dorm Leaders with a reader who is a gentle and calm lioness who hates fighting, but is a descendant of the Nemean Lion from Greek mythology? (I think it's a priority that you shouldn't mess with her lolololol patience has limits and she wouldn't be against scaring the idiots with threats and putting them in their places hahahaha)

I just blasted my way through this cause hey! why not? Just listened to a podcast on Nemean Lion before I wrote this, its a pretty sad story— hera is the such a bij all the time but honestly if it weren’t for zeus, none of that wouldve happened lol

Anyway, I hope your request is granted love

Tags: nemean lion descent f!s/o x dorm leaders, fluff headcanons [that’s all I do mostly so far :’^)]

Characters: Riddle Rosehearts, Leona Kingscholar, Azul Ashengrotto, Kalim Al-Asim, Vil Schoenheit, Idia Shroud & Malleus Draconia

Riddle Rosehearts

“You better not come across Grimm, Ace and Deuce whenever they’re on each other’s throats,” he advised

He really couldn’t imagine how s/o would be if she ever got angry,,,,cause she’s always so,,,calm

Whenever he’s mad, extremely mad to the point where his face is red; he’d always go to s/o to rant

But it just from hearing her ask “Hey, what’s wrong?” gently, he started to soften up and regulate his breathing slowly in order to control his anger before he’d start talking to her about his day

He knows that s/o is a descendant of the oh so famous Nemean Lion, and honestly if it weren’t for how majestic and pretty she looked from the inherited features she got from the beast, he wouldn’t believe it; he wouldn’t want to make her angry at all

Once he was reading on the beast and said “The legendary Nemean Lion, is....her ancestor?......That can’t be right,” he’d be so skeptical and convince that maybe its not a direct ancestor

There was a time someone tried to mess with s/o, and she told Riddle that ‘it would be nice if I sent them a threat that I would rip off their heads like my ancestor did to a whole village once,’ she said that with a smile that sent chills down his spine

Leona Kingscholar

Leona should know best to never, ever, mess with a descent of the Nemean Lion

In fact, whenever s/o is around, his ego is well, lowered a little? That Leona? Lowering his ego?

He treats her with respect, and made sure no one from Savanaclaw messed with her, not that she would mind it, since she’s so patient after all; but he knew that patience has its limits

He’d still call his s/o kitten at times, and he loves napping with her on his side cause it helps him sleep easier than usual and in peace cause of the vibe she exudes

When he first found out that she’s a descent, he lowered his head in respect and said “My Queen,”

He loves how soothing and gentle her touch is, he really can’t wrap it around his head how delicate her movements are

When s/o said him what if she tore the throats of those who bothered her casually with a laugh, he’d clear his throat and sweat

Azul Ashengrotto

Even non-land creatures knew to never mess with a descent of the great lion regardless of their patience level

Azul felt that people with the highest level of patience are the scariest

He loved how s/o is always speaking in such a decent manner, so calm and even the words she chose elaborated on how majestic and beautiful her whole existence is

He’d hate it if anyone ever bothered her, it didn’t matter if she cared or not cause he cares

Sometimes Azul would show his vulnerable side to s/o, and talk about his insecurities with her and she’d give him a warm hug and stroke his head gently

“There’s something about you, I can’t pin out what exactly, but you make me tell things I can’t say out loud,”

His reaction to s/o saying she might threaten the people who messed with her is that he’d clean his glasses and tell her that she ought to not do so for he will get things done and he will

Kalim Al-Asim

Both Kalim and s/o are no-anger people dear lord everyone wonders how they’re able to manage that

“You’re a descent of the legendary Nemean Lion? That’s so cool! I wouldn’t want to make you mad at all,” he beamed at s/o

People wouldn’t feel like bothering the both of them at all cause they are just so happy people just back off ~positive vibe check~

Kalim gives her headpats, lots of em! He spoils her a lot and treats her like a queen

“Why I’m treating you like this you ask? Cause you’re my queen! You deserve to be treated like one,” he’d grin and say when s/o asks him why he spoils her sm

Kalim is her ult babbey, she dislikes fighting but if anyone were to fight Kalim bro, they’re dead; not literally btw, her glare and growl is enough to chase em out

Vil Schoenheit

When s/o wakes up, she’d have really bad bed hair, like a lion’s mane

Vil would go in first thing and comb her hair, he loves doing so cause she had rlly rlly nice hair; its the gene she inherited from the beautiful Nemean Lion’s golden fur

Vil’s facial sessions become more therapeutic with her around, so he often makes her do facial with him

“It’d be a waste for a being as pretty as you, to not take care of your appearance,” he paused “well, you’re still not as beautiful as I am though,” he’d clear his throat and look away

He envies how she don’t get angry at all?? Like okay sis no wrinkles to worry about?

He absolutely loves her graceful demeanor in literally everything she does? Its so eye pleasing! He loves watching it almost as much as he loves looking at himself in the mirror

If s/o is about to send threats he’d say that its a waste of her beauty so he prevents her from doing so

Idia Shroud

“A descent of the N-n-nemean L-lion? Why do people of status keep on coming here,” he shivered when he found out at first cause yay! more intimidating people!

When s/o first introduced herself she was definitely not what he’d imagine, he felt less intimidated but still,,,had troubles cause,,,communication

He’d try to avoid her at first but she really do be wanting to be friends with him, so he reluctantly just warmed up to her

But he loves how she doesn’t get into his space! She’s so considerate and understanding. She’s so gentle too, so it makes him feel more comfortable? Maybe?

Idia has a hard time leaving his room, but with s/o’s gentle words and voice, he’d eventually give in somehow

Also he has a strong urge to play with her lion ears cause,,,,they’re so cute,,,,

He knows that she would probably be a very, very scary person if she’s mad, ‘probably as strong as those OP boss charas’ he’d say to her, which she chuckled and poked the tip of his nose, saying that he’s exaggerating

Malleus Draconia

“A descent of the Nemean Lion huh? But you’re oddly so cool headed, ah, not to be stereotypical, I just find it interesting,” he’d smile at s/o and nod his head

He appreciates how she never forgot to include him in things! Sometimes she’d also join for his strolls, he doesn’t mind it of course. It’s good company

S/o always mentioned how she’d prolly be offended if she kept on being forgotten like Malleus

“You? Offended? I doubt so,” he chuckled “I think you could handle the situation better than I could, you are well, a person full of patience,”

Malleus acknowledges s/o’s lineage and knows very well that she is strong, even if he is one of the top mages

Also gives s/o headpats, which, she loves very much

One time s/o scared away some people cause they were messing around with her too much, and Malleus found it adorable, ‘even she can get mad huh’ he’d think to himself with a smile

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letterboxd · 3 years

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Blurring the Line.

As a new Space Jam film beams down to Earth, Kambole Campbell argues that a commitment to silliness and a sincere love for the medium is what it takes to make a great live-action/animation hybrid.

The live-action and animation hybrid movie is something of a dicey prospect. It’s tricky to create believable interaction between what’s real and what’s drawn, puppeteered or rendered—and blending the live and the animated has so far resulted in wild swings in quality. It is a highly specific and technically demanding niche, one with only a select few major hits, though plenty of cult oddities. So what makes a good live-action/animation hybrid?

To borrow words from Hayao Miyazaki, “live action is becoming part of that whole soup called animation”. Characters distinct from the humans they interact with, but rendered as though they were real creatures (or ghosts), are everywhere lately; in Paddington, in Scooby Doo, in David Lowery’s (wonderful) update of Pete’s Dragon.

The original ‘Pete’s Dragon’ (1977) alongside the 2016 remake.

Lowery’s dragon is realized with highly realistic lighting and visual-effects work. By comparison, the cartoon-like characters in the 1977 Pete’s Dragon—along with other films listed in Louise’s handy compendium of Disney’s live-action animation—are far more exaggerated. That said, there’s still the occasional holdout for the classical version of these crossovers: this year’s Tom and Jerry replicating the look of 2D through 3D/CGI animation, specifically harkens back to the shorts of the 1940s and ’50s.

One type of live-action/animation hybrid focuses on seamless immersion, the other is interested in exploring the seams themselves. Elf (2003) uses the aberration of stop-motion animals to represent the eponymous character as a fish out of water. Ninjababy, a Letterboxd favorite from this year’s SXSW Festival, employs an animated doodle as a representation of the protagonist’s state of mind while she processes her unplanned pregnancy.

Meanwhile, every Muppets film ever literally tears at the seams until we’re in stitches, but, for the sake of simplicity, puppets are not invited to this particular party. What we are concerned with here is the overlap between hand-drawn animation and live-action scenes (with honorable mentions of equally valid stop-motion work), and the ways in which these hybrids have moved from whimsical confections to nod-and-wink blockbusters across a century of cinema.

Betty Boop and Koko the clown in a 1938 instalment of the Fleischer brothers’ ‘Out of the Inkwell’ series.

Early crossovers often involve animators playing with their characters, in scenarios such as the inventive Out of the Inkwell series of shorts from Rotoscope inventor Max Fleischer and his director brother Dave. Things get even more interactive mid-century, when Gene Kelly holds hands with Jerry Mouse in Anchors Aweigh.

The 1960s and ’70s deliver ever more delightful family fare involving human actors entering cartoon worlds, notably in the Robert Stevenson-directed Mary Poppins and Bedknobs and Broomsticks, and Chuck Jones’ puntastic The Phantom Tollbooth.

Jerry and Gene dance off their worries in ‘Anchors Aweigh’ (1945).

Mary Poppins is one of the highest-rated live-action/animation hybrids on Letterboxd for good reason. Its sense of control in how it engages with its animated creations makes it—still!—an incredibly engaging watch. It is simply far less evil than the singin’, dancin’ glorification of slavery in Disney’s Song of the South (1946), and far more engaging than Victory Through Air Power (1943), a war-propaganda film about the benefits of long-range bombing in the fight against Hitler. The studio’s The Reluctant Dragon (1941) also serves a propagandistic function, as a behind-the-scenes studio tour made when the studio’s animators were striking.

By comparison, Mary Poppins’ excursions into the painted world—replicated in Rob Marshall’s belated, underrated 2018 sequel, Mary Poppins Returns—are full of magical whimsicality. “Films have added the gimmick of making animation and live characters interact countless times, but paradoxically none as pristine-looking as this creation,” writes Edgar in this review. “This is a visual landmark, a watershed… the effect of making everything float magically, to the detail of when a drawing should appear in front or the back of [Dick] Van Dyke is a creation beyond my comprehension.” (For Van Dyke, who played dual roles as Bert and Mr Dawes Senior, the experience sparked a lifelong love of animation and visual effects.)

Julie Andrews, Dick Van Dyke and penguins, in ‘Mary Poppins’ (1964).

Generally speaking, and the Mary Poppins sequel aside, more contemporary efforts seek to subvert this feeling of harmony and control, instead embracing the chaos of two worlds colliding, the cartoons there to shock rather than sing. Henry Selick’s frequently nightmarish James and the Giant Peach (1996) leans into this crossover as something uncanny and macabre by combining live action with stop motion, as its young protagonist eats his way into another world, meeting mechanical sharks and man-eating rhinos. Sally Jane Black describes it as “riding the Burton-esque wave of mid-’90s mall goth trends and blending with the differently demonic Dahl story”.

Science-classroom staple Osmosis Jones (2001) finds that within the human body, the internal organs serve as cities full of drawn white-blood-cell cops. The late Stephen Hillenburg’s The Spongebob Squarepants Movie (2004) turns its real-life humans into living cartoons themselves, particularly in a bonkers sequence featuring David Hasselhoff basically turning into a speedboat.

David Hasselhoff picks up speed in ‘The Spongebob Squarepants Movie’ (2004).

The absurdity behind the collision of the drawn and the real is never better embodied than in another of our highest-rated live/animated hybrids. Released in 1988, Robert Zemeckis’ Who Framed Roger Rabbit shows off a deep understanding—narratively and aesthetically—of the material that it’s parodying, seeking out the impeccable craftsmanship of legends such as director of animation Richard Williams (1993’s The Thief and the Cobbler), and his close collaborator Roy Naisbitt. The forced perspectives of Naisbitt’s mind-bending layouts provide much of the rocket fuel driving the film’s madcap cartoon opening.

Distributed by Walt Disney Pictures, Roger Rabbit utilizes the Disney stable of characters as well as the Looney Tunes cast to harken back to America’s golden age of animation. It continues a familiar scenario where the ’toons themselves are autonomous actors (as also seen in Friz Freleng’s 1940 short You Ought to Be in Pictures, in which Daffy Duck convinces Porky Pig to try his acting luck in the big studios).

Daffy Duck plots his rise up the acting ranks in ‘You Ought to Be in Pictures’ (1940).

Through this conceit, Zemeckis is able to celebrate the craft of animation, while pastiching both Chinatown, the noir genre, and the mercenary nature of the film industry (“the best part is… they work for peanuts!” a studio exec says of the cast of Fantasia). As Eddie Valiant, Bob Hoskins’ skepticism and disdain towards “toons” is a giant parody of Disney’s more traditional approach to matching humans and drawings.

Adult audiences are catered for with plenty of euphemistic humor and in-jokes about the history of the medium. It’s both hilarious (“they… dropped a piano on him,” one character solemnly notes of his son) and just the beginning of Hollywood toying with feature-length stories in which people co-exist with cartoons, rather than dipping in and out of fantasy sequences. It’s not just about how the cartoons appear on the screen, but how the human world reacts to them, and Zemeckis gets a lot of mileage out of applying ’toon lunacy to our world.

Bob Hoskins in ‘Who Framed Roger Rabbit?’ (1988).

The groundbreaking optical effects and compositing are excellent (and Hoskins’ amazing performance should also be credited for holding all of it together), but what makes Roger Rabbit such a hit is that sense of controlled chaos and a clever tonal weaving of violence and noirish seediness (“I’m not bad… I’m just drawn that way”) through the cartoony feel. And it is simply very, very funny.

It could be said that, with Roger Rabbit, Zemeckis unlocked the formula for how to modernize the live-action and animation hybrid, by leaning into a winking parody of what came before. It worked so perfectly well that it helped kickstart the ‘Disney renaissance' era of animation. Roger Rabbit has influenced every well-known live-action/animation hybrid produced since, proving that there is success and fun to be had by completely upending Mary Poppins-esque quirks. Even Disney’s delightful 2007 rom-com Enchanted makes comedy out of the idea of cartoons crossing that boundary.

When a cartoon character meets real-world obstacles.

Even when done well, though, hybrids are not an automatic hit. Sitting at a 2.8-star average, Joe Dante’s stealthily great Looney Tunes: Back in Action (2003) is considered by the righteous to be the superior live-action/animated Looney Tunes hybrid, harkening back to the world of Chuck Jones and Frank Tashlin. SilentDawn states that the film deserves the nostalgic reverence reserved for Space Jam: “From gag to gag, set piece to set piece, Back in Action is utterly bonkers in its logic-free plotting and the constant manipulation of busy frames.”

With its Tinseltown parody, Back in Action pulls from the same bag of tricks as Roger Rabbit; here, the Looney Tunes characters are famous, self-entitled actors. Dante cranks the meta comedy up to eleven, opening the film with Matthew Lillard being accosted by Shaggy for his performance in the aforementioned Scooby Doo movie (and early on throwing in backhanded jokes about the practice of films like itself as one character yells, “I was brought in to leverage your synergy!”).

Daffy Duck with more non-stop banter in ‘Looney Tunes: Back in Action’ (2003).

Back in Action is even more technically complex than Roger Rabbit, seamlessly bringing Looney Tunes physics and visual language into the real world. Don’t forget that Dante had been here before, when he had Anthony banish Ethel into a cartoon-populated television show in his segment of Twilight Zone: The Movie. Another key to this seamlessness is star Brendan Fraser, at the height of his powers here as “Brendan Fraser’s stunt double”.

Like Hoskins before him, Fraser brings a wholehearted commitment to playing the fed-up straight man amidst cartoon zaniness. Fraser also brought that dedication to Henry Selick's Monkeybone (2001), a Roger Rabbit-inspired sex comedy that deploys a combo of stop-motion animation and live acting in a premise amusingly close to that of 1992’s Cool World (but more on that cult anomaly shortly). A commercial flop, Back in Action was the last cinematic outing for the Looney Tunes for some time.

Nowadays, when we think of live-action animation, it’s hard not to jump straight to an image of Michael Jordan’s arm stretching to do a half-court dunk to save the Looney Tunes from slavery. There’s not a lot that can be fully rationalized about the 1996 box-office smash, Space Jam. It is a bewildering cartoon advert for Michael Jordan’s baseball career, dreamed up off the back of his basketball retirement, while also mashing together different American icons. Never forget that the soundtrack—one that, according to Benjamin, “makes you have to throw ass”—includes a song with B-Real, Coolio, Method Man and LL Cool J.

Michael Jordan and teammates in ‘Space Jam’ (1996).

Space Jam is a film inherently born to sell something, predicated on the existing success of a Nike commercial rather than any obvious passion for experimentation. But its pure strangeness, a growing nostalgia for the nineties, and meticulous compositing work from visual-effects supervisor Ed Jones and the film’s animation team (a number of whom also worked on both Roger Rabbit and Back in Action), have all kept it in the cultural memory.

The films is backwards, writes Jesse, in that it wants to distance itself from the very cartoons it leverages: “This really almost feels like a follow-up to Looney Tunes: Back in Action, rather than a predecessor, because it feels like someone watched the later movie, decided these Looney Tunes characters were a problem, and asked someone to make sure they were as secondary as possible.” That attempt to place all the agency in Jordan’s hands was a point of contention for Chuck Jones, the legendary Warner Bros cartoonist. He hated the film, stating that Bugs would never ask for help and would have dealt with the aliens in seven minutes.

Space Jam has its moments, however. Guy proclaims “there is nothing that Deadpool as a character will ever have to offer that isn’t done infinitely better by a good Bugs Bunny bit”. For some, its problems are a bit more straightforward, for others it’s a matter of safety in sport. But the overriding sentiments surrounding the film point to a sort of morbid fascination with the brazenness of its concept.

Holli Would (voiced by Kim Basinger) and Frank Harris (Brad Pitt) blur the lines in ‘Cool World’ (1992).

Existing in the same demented… space… as Space Jam, Paramount Pictures bought the idea for Cool World from Ralph Bakshi as it sought to have its own Roger Rabbit. While Brad Pitt described it as “Roger Rabbit on acid” ahead of release, Cool World itself looks like a nightmare version of Toontown. The film was universally panned at the time, caught awkwardly between being far too adult for children but too lacking in any real substance for adults (there’s something of a connective thread between Jessica Rabbit, Lola Bunny and Holli Would).

Ralph Bakshi’s risqué and calamitously horny formal experiment builds on the animator’s fascination with the relationship between the medium and the human body. Of course, he would go from the immensely detailed rotoscoping of Fire and Ice (1983) to clashing hand-drawn characters with real ones, something he had already touched upon in the seventies with Heavy Traffic and Coonskin, whose animated characters were drawn into real locations. But no one besides Bakshi quite knew what to do with the perverse concept of Brad Pitt as a noir detective trying to stop Gabriel Byrne’s cartoonist from having sex with a character that he drew—an animated Kim Basinger.

Jack Deebs (Gabriel Byrne) attempts to cross over to Hollie Would in ‘Cool World’ (1992).

Cool World’s awkwardness can be attributed to stilted interactions between Byrne, Pitt and the animated world, as well as studio meddling. Producer Frank Mancuso Jr (who was on the film due to his father running Paramount) demanded that the film be reworked into something PG-rated, against Bakshi’s wishes (he envisioned an R-rated horror), and the script was rewritten in secret. It went badly, so much so that Bakshi eventually punched Mancuso Jr in the face.

While Cool World averages two stars on Letterboxd, there are some enthusiastic holdouts. There are the people impressed by the insanity of it all, those who just love them a horny toon, and then there is Andrew, a five-star Cool World fan: “On the surface, it’s a Lovecraftian horror with Betty Boop as the villain, featuring a more impressive cityscape than Blade Runner and Dick Tracy combined, and multidimensional effects that make In the Mouth of Madness look like trash. The true star, however, proves to be the condensed surplus of unrelated gags clogging the arteries of the screen—in every corner is some of the silliest cel animation that will likely ever be created.”

There are even those who enjoy its “clear response to Who Framed Roger Rabbit”, with David writing that “the film presents a similar concept through the lens of the darkly comic, perverted world of the underground cartoonists”, though also noting that without Bakshi’s original script, the film is “a series of half steps and never really commits like it could”. Cool World feels both completely deranged and strangely low-energy, caught between different ideas as to how best to mix the two mediums. But it did give us a David Bowie jam.

‘Space Jam: A New Legacy’ is in cinemas and on HBO Max now.

Craft is of course important, but generally speaking, maybe nowadays a commitment to silliness and a sincere love for the medium’s history is the thing that makes successful live-action/animation hybrids click. It’s an idea that doesn’t lend itself to being too cool, or even entirely palatable. The trick is to be as fully dotty as Mary Poppins, or steer into the gaucheness of the concept, à la Roger Rabbit and Looney Tunes: Back in Action.

It’s quite a tightrope to walk between good meta-comedy and a parade of references to intellectual property. The winningest strategy is to weave the characters into the tapestry of the plot and let the gags grow from there, rather than hoping their very inclusion is its own reward. Wait, you said what is coming out this week?

Related content

Rootfish Jones’s list of cartoons people are horny for

The 100 Sequences that Shaped Animation: the companion list to the Vulture story

Jose Moreno’s list of every animated film made from 1888 to the present

Follow Kambole on Letterboxd

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tcm · 3 years

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The Horror of Christmas By Jessica Pickens

“There'll be scary ghost stories and tales of the glories of Christmases long, long ago,” goes the song “It’s the Most Wonderful Time of the Year,” released in 1963. That Christmas song’s lyric may have left you scratching your head each time you hear it. Written by Edward Pola and George Wyle, the song looks back at old holiday traditions. Ghosts, goblins and creepy murderous tales are strictly relegated to Halloween, right? That’s how it stands today, at least. But in the Victorian era, telling ghost stories was part of the Christmas tradition.

The death and rebirth of a new year during the Winter Solstice seemed like an appropriate time for telling ghost stories. “Whenever five or six English-speaking people meet round a fire on Christmas Eve, they start telling each other ghost stories,” wrote author and humorist Jerome K. Jerome in Told After Supper (1891). “Nothing satisfies us on Christmas Eve but to hear each other tell authentic anecdotes about specters. It is a genial, festive season, and we love to muse upon graves, and dead bodies, and murders, and blood.”

Even while we don’t tell ghost stories today at Christmas, one ghost story is still one of the most beloved Christmas tales, A Christmas Carol by Charles Dickens. But even when it was published in 1843, it was not the first, or last, paranormal story told about Christmas. While the tradition of sharing Christmas ghost stories died long before the dawn of film, it still found its way onto the screen:

A CHRISTMAS CAROL (’38 and ‘51)

Ebenezer Scrooge is a bitter and mean old man who has no patience for humanity or happiness. On Christmas Eve, a series of ghosts visit Scrooge and take him on a journey of self-exploration. Scrooge revisits his past, present and future and is warned to change his ways before it’s too late.

Since first appearing in a short film in 1901, A CHRISTMAS CAROL has been retold on film and television numerous times for over 100 years. The story has even been retold by The Muppets and Mickey Mouse for family-friendly audiences. It has also been modernized into various time periods, with Scrooge-like characters portrayed by Bill Murray, Henry Winkler, Cicely Tyson, Matthew McConaughey, Vanessa Williams and Susan Lucci.

But there are still several, more faithful retellings of the Dickens novel, including the 1938 version, starring Reginald Owen, and the 1951 version, starring Alastair Sim as the main character.

Released by Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer, the 1938 version has a lighter and more joyful vibe. Owen’s Scrooge is more of a grump rather than entirely mean-spirited. He is almost immediately remorseful and says he loves Christmas while he’s with the Ghost of Christmas Present. Gene Lockhart plays Bob Cratchit as a cheerful man, despite having to work for a tyrannical boss. The 1951 version, made in England and released by Renown Pictures Corporation, is a darker telling of the Dickens story. Alastair Sim’s Scrooge is more brutish, cruel and dismissive to Bob Cratchit, played by Mervyn Johns. Johns plays Cratchit as a meeker and more browbeaten character.

Regardless of the films’ differences, the message of both versions is the same. The ghosts in A CHRISTMAS CAROL aren’t meant to frighten the audience but to encourage self-reflection. Scrooge isn’t just haunted by Jacob Marley and the three ghosts; memories of his past haunt him — that’s why he’s so bitter.

BEYOND TOMORROW (’40)

On Christmas Eve, we meet three elderly businessmen: George Melton (Harry Carey), Allan Chadwick (C. Aubrey Smith) and Michael O’Brien (Charles Winninger). The three men live together and are old friends, but they all have very different pasts. George is a man of little faith and is business-focused with a dark past. Distinguished Allan has a military background and lost his only son in World War I. Michael is the most whimsical of the three.

On Christmas Eve, Michael has the idea that they throw three wallets out into the street to see if an honest person returns them. A young man and woman, Jean Lawrence (Jean Parker) and James Houston (Richard Carlson), return the wallets. Neither having a family to go to that night, they join the gentlemen — all becoming fast friends by the end of the night. As Jean and James fall in love, they become close friends with the three men. Tragedy strikes when all three men are killed in a plane crash, leaving money to the couple so they can marry. However, with the new wealth and publicity, James becomes a singing radio star, forgetting about Jean in favor of another woman. The three men's ghosts try to guide James away from the other woman and encourage Jean to fight for her love.

In this story, the past lives of the three men don’t affect them in life, but in death. Carey’s character, George, is sort of like Scrooge. It’s hinted that he has a dark past, which may involve another woman and murder. Also, in his old age, anything but money is foolish to him. In death, George’s friends warn him that all he has to do is feel sorry for his past, but George has no regrets, even if it means going “to the dark place.”

In contrast, the other two characters are rewarded in death. Smith’s character gets to see his son again, who comes to fetch him. His son tells him that heaven is anything he wants it to be. Charles Winninger’s character is reluctant to leave his friends on Earth because he wants to continue to help them. But before leaving for heaven, he is able to. Even in death, the ghosts have to do good deeds not only to help their friends who are still living but to allow them to rest in the great beyond.

While we may not still tell ghost stories around the fire, the holiday season closes another year, allowing us to reflect on past memories. Some memories may be good, and others may haunt us in a way. However, 2020 may haunt us forever.

#Christmas classics #ghost stories #christmas ghosts #christmas horror #Beyond Tomorrow #A Christmas Carol #TCM #Turner Classic Movies #Jessica Pickens

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sleeplessandstubborn · 4 years

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Emily in Paris or why I stopped caring about the protagonist and I started rooting for the French. Episode 1.

Let’s be clear. I was planning to root for the French anyway. They are in the neighbouring country, I quite like them and I was prepared to confront and make fun about all the stereotypes in this series. Because this was exactly what I expected. Funny, lighthearted and totally braindead (wink wink) escapism in an instagrammed to the top Paris which has the same resemblance with the real one than Vincent Minelli’s... But without Gene Kelly. So what did I think of the first episode?

Meet Emily Cooper from Chicago. She’s young, she is dynamic, she struggles to be liked by everyone and at the beginning of the series. She is a marketing executive about to be promoted or so she thinks.

... Because her boss Madeline (played by Kate Walsh) is going to Paris in order to take work with Savoir, a luxury firm the company (sorry I forgot its name) has just adquired. Madeline is overjoyed because working for a year in Paris is one of her dreams and because French men like mature women, as probed by the fact that their young and hot (sic, but this blog agrees) president married his high school teacher. We’ll never know which plans Madeline had for Frenchmen, whether they are young or hot or not. The case is after two minutes in the series she vomits, which means she’s pregnant and she can’t go anywhere because it’s an truth universally aknowledged that pregnant women can’t go on with their plans.

It’s in the next scene when we meet Emily’s boyfriend, Doug, and when we learn she’s going to Paris in Madeline’s place, in spite of being unprepared and not knowing the language. At this point one wonders how it’s possible that no one else in the company can replace Madeline. All of them are monolingual? Our plucky heroine is not discouraged by the litle fact of knowing virtually nothing about the country in which she’s going to live during the next twelve months. She and Doug - the moment you see the scene you know it wont’ go well - agree on a long distance relationship.

And after a very well done transition, we have crossed the ocean. Yes, this is well done, and I say it unironically. Episodes are short, your show is called Emily in Paris, so, what’s better than having your main lady already in the French capital in less than five minutes. The series goes to the point in this aspect and it’s a good thing to spare us of unnecesary scenes.

So Emily arrives to her apartment with pretty views, confused about in which floor she’s supposed to live (running gag ahead) and already hit on by a French guy on a suit that looks like the love child of Gabriel Attal and Albert Rivera (check it, seriously). I couldn’t take him seriously not only because of that but also because he said that Emily’s appartment was a chambre de bonne. Not by any means. Look, I’ve never lived in Paris but I know that apartment is huge when compared with a real chambre de bonne.

Off to know her working place, Emily has this HUGE smile pasted on her face. I don’t know if this supposed to make her charming and likeable. For me - it’s true than I have this European perspective - she looks a mix between an anxious puppy and a psychopath. I would be scared and would avoid her at all costs. The cultural clash is about to happen.

Yeah, I would look at her too, Julien a.k.a. token black character. You have probably heard about the lack of diversity in this series, I won’t abound in that, others have worded it better. It also an established fact that French people smokes at their workplace, even if in the European Union we have these things called smoking bans that won’t allow it.

And enter Sylvie, Emily’s Parisian boss and supposed main antagonist, à la Devil wears Prada. What to say about Sylvie other than I adore her? Her clothes, her style, her sarcasm. As any rational being would do, Sylvie is pretty dismayed to learn that Emily does not have the slightest idea of French and its already wanting to impose her American perspective and her alleged knowledge of social media. The problem is I don’t know if her posts on Instagram really deserve that much attention. Clash ensues with the rest of her new coworkers. C’est la cata! they comment. I quite agree.

Our fish-out-of-water takes an evening afterwork stroll (this Paris is like one square kilometer and public transport is something you mention but never appears) and calls her boyfriend to state the entire city looks like Ratatouille, which legitimately made me laugh. I am not sure if this reference means that Emily’s filmic culture is that limited or if it’s her boyfriend the one who only knows a movie which takes place in Paris and that’s one is Ratatouille. We know that Emily at least has seen Moulin Rouge and that makes two so probably is Doug’s fault.

Back at home, and since she has forgotten how to count, Emily attempts to open the wrong door. Immediately a wild Frenchman appears; it’s Gabriel, played by Lucas Bravo probably one of these young hot men Madeline would target. He takes the intrusion reasonably well. Especially when it’s discovered that Emily only knows his region, Normandy, from Saving Private Ryan. That makes three films, so definitely I think Doug is the problem here as far as filmic culture goes.

Next day Emily picks a yellow outfit and goes to work, purchasing a pain au chocolat in her way to work. I confess I was underwhelmed when discovered that there wouldn’t be any joke about the Great Civil War that has been going on in France since its earliest days: the partidaries of pain au chocolat vs. the ones of chocolatine. A ferocious, merciless conflict unknown by most nations. A lost opportunity not making this woman someone from the South who bravely defies Parisian conventions calling it chocolatine. I’m team pain au chocolat btw. Naturally when she discovers the wonderful world of flavours she makes another Instagram post. She’s earning more and more followers, Heavens know why.

However, she has a Big Problem with Doing Research. Example given, she doesn’t know her schedule - a problem which could have been solved with reading numbers - and arrives two hours early to her workplace.

Once there she discovers she can’t sit with the cool kids. No one wants to lunch with her, so she decides to miserably sit by herself at the park, where we met her best new friend. Her name’s Mindy, she’s from Shangai and she’s working as au pair, while teaching Mandarin to the two blond children she’s looking after. We’ll later discover more about her. She instantly detects the American in Emily and offers her help to this awkward but at the same time arrogant newcomer.

Meanwhile at Savoir, Emily has earned a sobriquet. La Plouc, which is adopted by Sylvie and most of her coworkers even if Luc seems more or less reluctant to say it. La Plouc means the hick, as she instantly discovers thanks to an online translator. It’s really not a good day for our heroine, and she cames back home - remember that thing about this Paris being one square kilometer? - walking. Co-worker and someone who for some resason reminds me to the posh-y version of Philippe Poutou - check it - Luc passes by as she sits lonely by herself and apologizes for calling her la Plouc earlier. He also claims she’s arrogant for coming to Paris without speaking or even understanding French - which is true - and tells her people is probably scared as her new, modern ideas. Which makes no sense at all and it’s probably a white lie.

Meanwhile and for some reason her totally inocuous posts in Instagram makes her earn more and more followers. During the night, her oblivious to timezones boyfriend call her and they have - or attempt to have - a totally awkward and unsexy session of cybersex. At the end Emily is so frustrated that she tries to use her electric vibrator which leads to the short-circuit of the entire building. Fortunately before she has the oportunity of getting closer to the device in question. And that’s how Episode 1 ends.

What did I think? It’s fun and pretty to look at. Even prettier to rant about. As long as your brain remains carefully shut off in the meantime and you don’t take it that seriously you are going to enjoy it I guess. At least it’s my case.

Still frustrated for not covering the Great Civil War tho.

#emily in paris

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renaissanceduroi-archive · 3 years

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drabble ; deserving

Hi I accidentally wrote a 5 page drabble(?) where Elysia meets Lysandre for the first time after seeking him out when he doesn’t attend Sycamore’s funeral. It’s relatively sparse and unedited because I am tired and did not intend for this to happen, but I am excited by it nonetheless so here it is:

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“You’re weak.” What a way to introduce herself. She should be shocked, or afraid, or heartbroken, but Elysia is angry. It doesn’t matter that a dead man is breathing before her; it only matters what he has done.

Despite her rancid tone, Elysia gently lets the honchkrow out of its ball, as the poor thing is not responsible for the deeds of its master. It looks so frail. Old. Like Sycamore, but without that undying glint of hope in his eye. What would Lysandre do, without the bird? Would he care enough to check in on her? Or would it have been a relief to him, to not be able to know about her or Sycamore anymore?

“I have always wanted to see what you look like,” is all that Lysandre has to say for himself. He looks rather comfortable, sitting on the ground, himself looking quite frail, but not a day over forty, despite how many years it has been.

“Shut UP!” Her voice is a screech. They are so isolated, it hardly matters -- and if they are overheard, being found out is what this pathetic excuse for a man deserves. “You have no idea how much you hurt the professor. He hurt, for you. Every. Single. Day. Every single day. You get to run away and disappear, he is left to wonder. Worry himself sick. It’s selfish. It’s disgusting of you.”

“I knew our royal genes were strong, but you are nearly the spitting image of your grandfather. Though much prettier, of course.”

“We have both known what you’ve been doing. Sending your poor honchkrow all the way out to Lumiose City to watch him. What, did you want to make sure he was still alive? Because clearly you care so much!”

“I did not intend for it to be secret.”

“Professor Sycamore thought of you every day of his life, and in his final moments. But you did not care enough to show up to his funeral. Not a care in the world. Why? Not worth the potential of being seen? Too much of a hassle? Didn’t want to have to witness how you left the world? How you left him to DIE?! He is-- was… is, the cornerstone of my life. I have loving family and friends, but he was, in a way, a soulmate. Not romantically of course, but beyond that. He taught me everything I know. He taught me how to pour love into something and create something beautiful. He taught me the virtues of balance, patience, forgiveness. He forgave you, Lysandre. And that’s a true testament to his character, because I don’t think I ever will. Not for the destruction and devastation you caused, but for how you betrayed the only person left alive who still loved you.”

“We can bring him back.”

“Don’t. Don’t say that to me.”

“We can.”

“Don’t SAY THAT TO ME! That is the last thing he would have wanted. Did he teach you nothing? Do you even now move through your life so self-absorbed that you cannot understand that someone may have different desires than you?”

“I acknowledge peoples desires.”

“You just do not care.”

“I dismiss ones that are unproductive, yes.”

“How could he have spoken so highly of you.”

“Are you seeing that he perhaps was not always of sound judgement?”

She freezes for a moment, but only a flash. “Stop. You’re trying to sow seeds of doubt into my mind.”

“I am merely attempting to show you that all is not as perfect as you want to believe.”

“What do you know of perfection? You are a flawed man who caused ugly destruction, nothing more.”

“I know more of perfection than any person. I have witnessed it, embodied it, believed in it, created it.”

“You’re insane.”

“If I were insane, would your pure Augustine have loved me so?”

She wants to spit on him. To vomit. To scream. She had imagined meeting Lysandre many times, asking him all sorts of questions, wondering what bond they would form. But today was the day she pushed herself to truly discover him, fueled by the sole desire of yelling at him for continuing to be so weak as to betray his only friend in his final moments.

“Would he?” Lysandre presses.

“Clearly, he did.”

She expected Lysandre to smirk at that, to be haughty, but he remains emotionless. “Clearly.” … “Is this all you wanted from me? You came all the way out here to scorn me?”

“Yes, actually.”

“Such a distance, fueled by the fire in your heart.”

“Everything you say is nonsense!”

“Even when I try to show my appreciation for you? What a shame.”

“The last thing I want is your appreciation.”

“Ah, but you are doing so marvelously.”

She wants to bite back with I haven’t done anything, but her curiosity overrides her. “...How so?” she asks, suspicious.

“Your beliefs are strong. Your passion consumes you. Your values dominate your every decision. And of course, you have taken wonderful care of the professor for me.”

“There was nothing stopping you from taking care of him yourself! It’s all he wanted!”

“But if I had, I would have interfered with the balance of things. Don’t you see? He imparted his value of balance upon you, correct?” He waits for an answer.

“Correct.”

“I could not have forced myself back into his life. It would have broken the delicate ground upon which he rebuilt his world. I tried to raze and rebuild the world, but the force of destruction was too strong that the force of balance overcame me, and then he, and his force of life, was meant to override that. Life must go on, Elysia.” Hearing her name in his voice sends an indescribable shudder through her body. It’s like, a snake, or an eel, something shocking and wet and cold and wrong. “And now you are the life that must go on. You see it now, don’t you? You have his teachings, but my temperament. His values, but my blood.”

“I wish I had your blood on my hands.”

“I wish you would stop threatening me, but I suppose neither of us will get what we want.”

“Speak for yourself.” Elysia slyly pulls her hand out from her pocket and tosses a pokeball in the air. The professor’s charizard -- her charizard, now -- lands on the ground with a hard stomp, shaking the earth. It wears a mega stone around its neck, matching one of the rings she wears on her right hand. The pokemon recognizes Lysandre instantly, and is visibly confused, wary, unsure of how to act. How much does the charizard understand of what Lysandre has done? It surely witnessed its trainer, its original trainer that is, cry from the anguish caused by the man below him. But Lysandre also cared for this pokemon once, too. He gave it pets and treats, looked after it while the professor was away, and looked after the professor itself. Why is it being used to threaten him, now? But the charizard can sense Elysia’s anger. And he must trust the person that Sycamore entrusted him with, rather than the man who has been absent for years.

So as Elysia fumes at him, the charizard growls at a man who once was a friend.

“Do not allow yourself to be overcome by wrath, Elysia. Anger is not becoming on you.”

“I will not be calm only when you stop inciting my rage. And I will get what I want.” She gestures forward and charizard leans in, snarling in Lysandre’s face, small embers inadvertently flurrying out of its nose as it begins to carry the same wrath as its trainer. “You have caused so much suffering to a wonderful man. And you

“I admire your determination.”

“I do not want to be someone you admire.”

“Then stop acting admirably.”

“...”

“If Augustine saw you right now, what would he say?”

This makes charizard simmer down, as well.

“Is this your way of begging for mercy?”

“I do not need your mercy.”

“How immortal is immortal, hm? Surely being decapatated by a dragon would be enough to strip the gift of life away from you.”

“I thought you said Augustine taught you about forgiveness.”

“You do not DESERVE forgiveness!”

“Ah, so people are only given what they deserve?”

“You are hardly people.”

“Yes, I am a god.”

“You are a MONSTER!”

“Do not lose track of your emotions, Elysia. You are angry about nothing.”

“That’s not true.”

“Then tell me, what are you angry about? My not attending the ceremony of our friend’s death?”

“Your remorseless betrayal of a man who would have done anything for you.”

“Would he have? Elysia. He never came looking for me.”

“...What do you mean.”

“He never came looking for me. He never contacted me. You perceive my honchkrow as me being too weak to approach, but it was an invitation, open to being responded to. You found me so easily, and that was by design. He didn’t do anything for me.”

“You’re lying. The professor was passionate, and driven, and--”

“Weak. He was too weak to confront the fear of what he would find when he looked deep enough. He was like this before I fired the Weapon, and remained as such to his dying day.”

She’s still angry. She’s still so, so angry at him, a lava still sitting in her stomach and wrists and wanting to explode again. But for the first time so far, the tides change, and water strikes her now. Tears begin to prick in her eyes and warp her vision, and she falls backward, sitting on the ground. She is no longer standing over him, now.

“Call off your pokemon.”

“No.”

Lysandre looks the charizard in the eye and commands, “Dracaufeu. Retourne.”

The dragon hesitates, unsure of what to do. It continues its locked gaze with Lysandre until it decides… to not listen to him. The charizard snuffs a small ember at him and retains its stance.

“Don’t speak to the professor’s pokemon like that.”

“Its allegiance to you is admirable. And isn’t it your pokemon, now?”

“...Yes. It’s just taking some getting used to.”

“Adjusting always takes time.”

“It does.” Elysia wants to rest her head on her knees, give her body a moment’s rest, but for some reason she is afraid of letting her guard down around this man. Rationally, yes he is a threat, but she also does not feel as though he will be violent toward her. And yet, she is still on high guard. The two of them exist in a brief silence, together but separate. The air around Elysia is filled with solid utter grief and warping distorting rage; the air around Lysandre is stagnant nothingness save for the threatening dragon’s head looming above his own. Finally, though, now the calmest she has been this entire time, Elysia asks flatly, “Why didn’t you come to the funeral.”

Lysandre answers simply. “I have not seen him since before I fired the Weapon. To see him decaying, ravaged by age would have corrupted my memory of him.”

“You disregarded dignity and respect for a loved one because you did not want to perceive him as something other than perfect.”

“Yes.”

“You disgust me.”

“I know. … What are people to one another if not projections of stylized impressions?”

“Love is raw, intimate, messy, difficult. Love is not pristine, nor is any person. Relationships are more than distant idealization.”

“Then why did you yell and threaten me when I suggested Augustine was flawed?”

For the first time, she has no answer to this.

“Now. Do you have anything else to say, or will you leave me be? This was quite a lot of interaction for someone who has been isolated for as long as I have.”

“You cannot make me take pity on you.”

“I do not want your pity. I just want to be alone.”

In a huff, Elysia plants her feet firmly on the ground and stands up, fists clenched by her sides. “It’s what you deserve.” She begins to mount her charizard, only catching a quick glimpse of Lysandre’s face as she turns. He’s smirking.

“Exactly.”

Without another word, she and charizard fly off the mountainside, back toward town.

#drabble #future verse tbd #death tw #elysia ; ic

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infinites-chaser · 4 years

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watch the universe expand | mlqc | lucien/mc | a character study disguised as fic

spoilers for ch.13 and random stuff from following chapters

warning for non-graphic discussion of violence and some themes that may be disturbing/triggering re:human experimentation

The call comes as it always does, not quite like clockwork, in the small hours of the night, when he imagines the stars have reached their zenith in the sky, done with their rise, ready for their coming fall.

"Lucien?"

"What is it? Can't sleep?"

"Can you tell me a story?"

"Lucien?"

He chuckles, colors only she can bring out of him warming his tone.

(He thinks her voice at this time of night is what violet would look like, at least as the poets describe it, a light in the dark, the first soft edge of dawn as night gives way to day.)

"What is it? Can't sleep?"

(He wonders sometimes what color his voice is to her. Black, perhaps. Possibly grey.

He can't imagine his voice having any real color, not even to her.

He'd be surprised at the truth. To her, he's more than color, he's light.)

"Lucien?" she repeats instead of a straight answer. "Can you tell me a story?"

It's a routine they've fallen into ever since the first unfinished one, what he'd told her about the artist and the butterfly that felt too true to be called a bedtime story but he'd been loath to admit to himself that it was more.

Every sleepless night, she asks for another story and manages to fall asleep before the finish.

Every night they spend on opposite sides of a shared wall, he questions a little more of his soul, the feelings that lie within, and finds he doesn't have any answers.

Perhaps he doesn't want to find them.

Eventually her reactions— quiet oohs and ahhs and gasps and the occasional question— always fade into nothing but quiet, even breathing, and it's like he's been let off the hook but he never hangs up, or at least, not for a long moment more.

"Lucien," she'd mumbled once, when the first rays of light had just cleared the horizon. "Is the story over?"

Somewhere between exams and sips of white tea, lulled into a temporary peace by the gentle rhythm to her breaths, he'd nearly forgotten she'd been on the line.

Still, he'd managed to keep the surprise from his reply.

"You just missed the ending."

There'd been a long silence, nearly long enough that he'd thought she'd fallen asleep again, and he could hang up, off the hook, but—

"Was it a happy ending? It's okay if I missed it, just as long as it was happy."

"...It was."

She'd made a noise of satisfied incoherence in response, and he'd taken the opportunity to wish her a good morning, prescribe her a few hours more of sleep, apologize, then hang up.

(He still wonders about that fuzzy morning, that long night.

If she would've questioned him more if she weren't so tired. About the story’s ending. About the length of the call.

If he would've answered. If he would've lied.)

"A story?" He repeats now, settling in the corner of his living room he knows will be closest to her.

Scientifically, he knows it isn't possible, humans simply don't have the body temperature— but he fancies he can feel her warmth, even through the wall.

Perhaps it's a trait of the Queen's gene, previously unexplored. And, well, he wouldn't be opposed to testing that hypothesis, but we digress.

It's clear as day, or, at least, as clear as a monochrome day can ever be: there's something more.

Something that catches on a corner of his heart when she makes a quiet 'un' of assent and clears her throat, the sound, tinny as it is through the phone speaker, vivid enough for him to picture. Her hand pressed to her mouth. Her smile, after. The crescent moons of her eyes.

"Not any story, though. Tell me about Evol again?"

Then, at his silence: "Please?"

(Irrational thoughts rise, unbidden. He'd do anything for that word from her lips. Fight an army. Raze a city.

He'd live by it,

die by it,

and at the end of the day, he still wouldn't deserve it.)

"What do you want to know?" He asks, but to his ears, it sounds like I'd tell you anything.

She hums in thought, a butterfly floating light in the breeze.

"Why do people have the Evol they have? I don't want the science, not really."

Her voice trails off, comes back stronger,

"I want your honest opinion, Lucien. Tell me why?"

and it sounds less like a question, but not quite yet a command.

He chuckles, then obliges.

Time crawls by, soft and slow, a steady seamstress stitching together unexpected, lingering thoughts. At his words, quiet intense musings picking at open seams and pulling at loose threads, the universe between them unspools.

Why do people have particular Evols? To answer that question, we have to first understand why people have any form of differing traits.

Biology says, at first glance, chance. A freak gene mutation on a chromosome of interest: deep within relevant coils of DNA, an A-T pairing shifts to an A-G. Maybe it’s deleted altogether.

('That's not very romantic,' she comments with a barely stifled yawn.

He chuckles, soft, indulgent.

'You're right. I'm sorry. You did ask for a story, after all.'

He continues.)

But. That’s not all, not when evolution’s taken into account. The idea of natural selection has been radically transformed by its representation in popular media to be some strange justification for the hierarchy of society (in a quite underhanded fashion, he thinks, keeping the poor down and beaten as if it were their natural place, allowing the rich to get only richer as if nature and not trust funds had secured their positions on the top of the pyramid of life. Only life isn’t a pyramid. Not a tree, either. Not quite. More like a story, perhaps. But he digresses.) In reality, in biology and in nature, it's much less simple.

The theory of natural selection, at its most bare bones, is, yes, survival of the fittest. Just that ‘fittest’ doesn’t mean strongest, most cruel or most cunning, doesn’t even mean kindest or most caring. It means nothing, really, outside of context.

Very biologically speaking, ‘fittest’ implies the organism reproduces with the most success when compared to others in its given environment. Traits caused by random mutations that help an organism survive in a particular environment long enough for it to have offspring are passed on. And if the environment stays the same, the same traits will be favored and passed on, over and over again across and through generations, coming to define a species and the role that species plays in the world.

Clearly, it doesn’t mean much in that sense for humans anymore. What is our ‘fit’? Perhaps we've broken free of the chain of evolution, and now lounge atop the dogpile, above the fray. Triumphant. Stagnant.

Because even though maybe we've been running as fast as we can, evolution's never more than one step behind. What's a generation of progress in a millennium? No more than the barest breath caught in the endless march of time.

No, evolution still very much has us in its clutches and these days, he wonders what it would take for humanity to realize it, as complacent as we are— there are certain traits favored, personality and looks, but beyond that, beyond the biology, even, isn't there more? Something we want most in the world we live in, our given environment. What a person needs most, forever strives for, what'll allow them to flourish in their environment enough to have a legacy and know some part of them continues to live on.

To meet that need would be to finally surpass evolution, unlock a new humanity, create a new world. The Red Queen, running rampant, running free.

(But first, Evol. The key.)

There are three theories on the nature of Evol. This is the first.

The Theory of Superhumans had been put forward by a scientist over a century ago, through a series of research studies, his articles full of academic terms like intensive accelerated artificial selection, induced heritable genetic variation, changes in gene expression in an adverse environment, followed by the thesis, spelt out in plain words: under the right conditions, a human can develop superhuman abilities.

It had been heralded as a theory for the ages, for the books, sure to stay with and shape the course of humanity's advancement for centuries to come— only, we know the rest.

Each term, carefully clinical, couched the horror of the truth: the scientist, name now scrubbed from history, willfully lost in time, had thought to try to create superhumans— the Evolved, he'd dubbed them— by gathering unsuspecting participants, then putting them through several trials meant to push the limits of humankind, to unlock some secret extra ability, to finish our ode to survival of the fittest, its beginnings scrawled in the letters of our genes.

'The right conditions' had meant mortal peril. The trials had been worse than torture. Almost all the participants had died.

The surviving four (out of over nine hundred, making the success rate of the experiment less than half of a tenth of a percent) had been sworn to secrecy while the scientist (the madman) had been sentenced to an execution, his underlings thrown in jail, his research condemned, labelled a crime against humanity and a failure, his papers all burned.

Only, if the research had been a failure, one might wonder, why the burning of the papers? A message? Don't try this again. It was a failure. Why, then the secrecy?

The rumors, the whispers, the festering that spreads under the bandage of a wound left otherwise untreated—the experiment hadn't been a failure, it was a success.

(And maybe a young woman who survived put her hand up to the sky and let it fade. Maybe a young man who survived let his emotions spill out and take physical form. Maybe one of the survivors had placed a hand on a lost love's chest and willed their heart alive again. But they all kept their silence, true to their vows.)

His voice trails off. Some part of him wonders if he's bored her, the rest concerned with if he's said too much.

Words he's said to her come to mind now, flashing bright and blinding in the darkest hours of the night.

'Trust your instincts.’

‘Don’t you ever think maybe I’m the danger?’

‘Run away while you still can.’

He can't think of a time where they all apply as fittingly as now.

Perhaps, from afar, they'd seemed like fireworks, dark, mysterious, alluring in a world with no other light. But this close, they're a warning, perhaps even a lure— he's tempting her to come closer despite the danger, he the ravenous firefly cloaked in a bright, warm glow.

Surely she can see the truth of him, as close to him as she is. Surely, and yet, she stays, takes another step closer.

"You said there were three theories," she says, still awake, still listening. Still seeking out more. "What's the next?"

"I've told you this one before," he replies, and he means to meet her, to challenge her to press up against the other side of their wall. "Do you remember?'

There are three theories on the nature of Evol. This is the next. (familiar ground)

(Once, humanity built a tower and would've reached the heavens—

Once, Icarus flew too close to the sun—

It fell. He fell.

The world goes on.)

Twenty-five years ago, a British PhD student found a book. (Let's call it The Black Swan.)

He read it cover-to-cover, then read it twice. Three times. A fourth. Again and again, until the book's story, half legend, half truth, took seed in his mind, where it grew anew.

Twenty-four years ago, he tracked down the experiment's remaining survivor, the woman who could bend light and shadow and fade into the palest streaks of day.

('Have you come to kill me?' She asked, wry smile twisting over her age-lined face. She saw his lab coat, his notes, his eager, hungry smile. She knew them all.

He opened his mouth. She stopped him.

'Apologies. I misspoke. You came here to learn.'

He nodded, too-quickly, still eager. Still young.

'For science,' he said, the same tired argument, old words, old justifications and cover-ups reflected in new eyes. She shook her head.

'Don't say that,' she said, weary amusement lighting her distant gaze. 'It's for humanity. For a new world.'

She held out her hand. He took it.

No one ever saw her again.)

Twenty-two years ago, a hypothesis, not quite yet a theory, was formed. In it, the newly minted scientist put forth a potential genetic basis for superpowers in humans: one gene with the power to transcend human ability, once activated and expressed. The gene was Evol, the individuals possessing it Evolvers.

In his notes he attributed the name Evolver to the term Evolved used in a decades-old unpublished paper— a single pile of ashes left of rumors and whispers and burned research papers, given new life, reformed.

(The reality is this: the woman and her body on the verge of vanishing on her deathbed, her wrinkled hands thin, wan, shades of grey, beckoning the watching scientist over.

'Let me tell you a story,' she'd said, her voice carrying and strong. 'Once Icarus flew too close to the sun. He fell. But what don't we remember? Daedalus— he flew.'

'Is this another one of your lessons?' The scientist had asked and he was still every inch as greedy, but he'd lost his eager tone. 'I assume I'm Icarus, aren't I, experimenting on and dissecting Evolvers, flying too close to God, growing too arrogant for the unforgiving sun?'

'No.' she'd said. 'Listen.'

But he didn't.

He heard only half a story. But now, the rest of the tale. The truth.

'Let me tell you about Daedalus. Let me tell you about a man like you who thought he was special. Who thought he had what it took to change the world.'

Icarus fell, but Daedalus flew. Human progress, but at the cost of what? At the cost of who?

Hundreds of thousands of participants of failed experiments and twisted studies greet her when she goes beyond death's door.

'It's never been for science,' she'd have said if he'd cared to listen, words burning one last time, vibrant and alive, on her tongue. 'This is for our humanity. Our dignity. Not in spite of humanity's love but because of it.'

And love is evol backwards, isn't it? Two sides of the same coin.)

Twenty years ago, the scientist published his research. The study had been innovative, the findings thorough: each Evolver had in them a sequence of DNA, a bare few codons that transcended evolution, pairs of A-Ts and C-Gs he dubbed the Evol gene. Its expression varied from person to person, just as one might have brown eyes, and another blue, though he'd noted there were cases of similarity in awakened Evol in family lines, within communities, between lovers and sometimes close friends.

These findings suggest a correlation between Evol expression and environment, he wrote. Shared experiences shape an Evol's final awakened form as much as genetics, if not more.

The only question is, what makes an Evolver, if not just genetics? Who gets the gene? Who awakens it?

Then, messier, more frenzied writing. More bold. What if we could create Evolvers?

The reading between the lines: what if we took apart Evolvers so that we could build one of our own?

Six months later, and he'd been stripped of all his accolades and funding, the remaining Evolvers he'd taken in released when they were found.

Crimes against humanity, they'd called it. He'd laughed, said it was for science. For humanity. For humanity's progress. (despite our humanity. for anything but our love.)

"Lucien," she says, soft but insistent— she's been trying to get his attention for a while now, bringing him back out of his reverie. "You've been silent for a long time now. Are you still there?"

He blinks. Attempts a closed-eye smile, then remembers she can't see him, and covers it with another gentle laugh.

"Just thinking," he replies. "It was a good story. You told it well— better than I would've. I'm impressed."

"I just added on the ending with whatever felt right in the moment!" She protests, making the smallest noise of embarrassment. Then, even softer:

"I liked it when you first told it to me. Just, it didn't sound complete. It didn't have a lesson, really, or any sort of answer."

(Implicit in her words: Your stories never do.)

Silence. Again, she speaks, reaching across their shared void.

"I just wanted to understand it better— the story, I mean." She pauses, and he can feel his heart pound, just a beat faster than normal. At her next words, he can practically feel her blush.

"I want to understand you better."

He laughs again, quiet and gentle. With his heart loud in his ears, it's all he can manage to do.

"I don't know if you should."

Another warning. Another barrier, another wall thrown up. Still, she presses on.

"Tell me the last theory," she says instead of answering. "Tell me the theory that's yours."

(He does.)

There are three theories on Evol. Two official, as official as they could be, and the last is his— a pet theory, really, the kind full of conjecture and personal accounts that’d never make it off the drawing board, much less to the first peer review.

Awakening his Evol had been easy. What came after was what had been hard. They hadn’t told him what they’d done to him, what monstrous power they’d given, what he’d gotten— but maybe it hadn’t ever been theirs to give, it’d only ever been his to have.

A thought experiment:

You think your ability is super speed. You take the hand of someone— say, an old lady, crossing the street— and suddenly that ability is gone. You're shocked. Terrified, even. Maybe all your life you'd thought you were special, and didn't think specialness vanished, it was your trait, your birthright, not a thing as fleeting as an amusement park ride. Later, you pat a friend on the back, and their thoughts come to your mind, loud and clear. You're shocked again. Almost terrified again. But then you realize: your ability was never one thing. It was everything. (It was nothing.)

But what does specialness reliant on the existence of other special people mean in terms of you and your existence? Logically, nothing. Your genes are random. There's nothing like fate written into them, you have this ability by sheer chance. Still. You are everything and nothing. (You’re different from all the others. There’s no one else like you.)

You're a reflection of others, but in the end, what are you? What's a genius, what’s being special or different or extraordinary, if at the end of the day, it’s all just a single breath (a pained eternity) away from normal?

Copycat, echo, mirror. Imposter.

(You paradox, you.)

He tries to embrace the power of his Evol. Push it, examine it, test its limits, its potential.

He learns he can copy multiple Evols at the same time. He collapses the first time he tries invisibility and telepathy together, experimenting with invisibility's time limit, telepathy's reach, ending up in a sweaty, trembling heap on his apartment floor. For a blinding moment, a moment of stupidity (helpless humanity), he wants to share his results— but it's just him in his apartment, him and the sound of his racing pulse.

He strains. He trains. He learns to manage three.

When he feels the pressure in his head build to a point beyond mere discomfort, he releases the one— a forcefield he's grown fond of, the silent glow surrounding him fading to pale unadorned apartment wall. This time, his breaths are even, measured, controlled. He does not turn to share his accomplishment with anyone who might be there. He knows nobody's beside him. He knows he's all alone.

Instead, he stares down at his open palms, then closes them, the second Evol, x-ray vision, vanishing. Then follows the last, a simple heightened perception, and the rest of his senses bleed back into grey.

(There's one power he tries to copy, one simple talent even his genius can never master. A want more desperate than any other—

He searches. He use any excuse to be around strangers, meet new people, see new faces, shake others' hands.

(Somewhere in the sea of introductions and small talk and conversation, a new personality— the beginnings of what would become ‘Professor Lucien’, polished, calm, smooth— emerges.)

He never finds it. Instead, he finds he can copy countless others, craft dreams, weave miracles, do anything and everything— all except for this one mundane ability, taken forcibly from him.

Seeing color.

He doesn't know if he just hasn't yet found the Evol or if he has, unknowingly, and passed it without a second thought, the Evol itself incapable of being replicated, echoed, or worn like a glove.

He isn't sure which one's worse. He isn't sure which one's true.)

They come back to him in this purgatory— his demons, his saviors, those monsters. Black Swan.

They tell him he's special (he's learned long ago the word means worse than nothing) that they're like him, together they'll make a better world.

He accepts their lie. (It feels better, after all, to be somebody's weapon than nobody's anything at all.)

He plays being a killer. Dons the name Ares. Throws coldness up between him and all the others like one of his forcefields, like a wall.

They speak of the potential of human evolution. They speak of a new race of superhuman Evolvers taking charge of and ruling the world. All in impassioned, hateful, dangerous words— they color his world black and he embraces it.

Anything is better than grey, he thinks early on, perhaps foolishly, over yet another still-warm mangled body.

'Normie,' one of the other men on the mission spits, aiming a kick at the body, low and vicious, his voice like a bloody oath. He turns to Ares with a grin. 'We did good. Wanna grab a drink?'

Ares doesn't smile. He thinks, 'What's one more corpse?'

He returns to headquarters alone.

(They don't send him out on team missions, after.)

And now—

her.

His color. His reckoning. His proof.

(In her eyes— her strong righteous savior's gaze— he imagines the artist's jar shattering, the butterfly soaring high, soaring free.)

"Lucien," she says, calling out to him, voice hovering, trembling on the edge of a sob. His heart clenches, and he clutches it, wondering how he should respond.

"Lucien."

He takes a breath, then another.

"I'm sorry— what is it? I'm still here."

Lines like "Are you okay?" or "Talk to me, please." go unspoken. Instead, she says, soft and gentle:

"Have you seen the stars tonight? They're beautiful."

"I haven't."

"Then...come to the balcony with me?"

An almost-eternity passes. But then, he agrees.

(first, a brief tangent.)

There are four men. He's one of them. But what about the other three?

The boy trapped in his past by the memory of the one he couldn't protect, his Evol and him both frozen in time.

The boy who wanted freedom from the rumors, the fighting, most of all, from his dad, who grew wings to escape them and become one with the breeze.

The boy who'd never been loved unconditionally and now surrounded himself with it, a part of him rearing its head to demand it.

(all other stories. for other times, other worlds.)

"You know, sometimes I think the stars must be lonely," she says, and though he doesn't dare look at her, he hears her both in real life and through the phone speaker cradled close to his ear. He feels rather than sees her move closer to his side of the balcony, closing the distance, coming to the edge.

"They're thousands of light years away from each other," she continues. "Maybe they wonder if they're all alone, sometimes, if they're the only light for miles in an empty, endless dark sea."

"It makes me sad, to think about it. We spend our lives looking up at the stars and casting lines, drawing constellations between them, but in reality, they're just as lonely as we are. Maybe even more."

"I'm rambling, aren't I? Sorry— it's been a long day, and it's just this time of night, it always makes me melancholy for some reason. I can't remember why."

She laughs a little, self-deprecating. In the night's stillness, he hears the shuddering in her next breath. It takes hold deep within him, her fisherman's hook, line, and sinker, gone straight to his heart.

"Don't say that," he says, the words freed from that same place deep within him, and what he means is 'You're not alone.'

"MC."

He's at his edge of the balcony before he knows it— for the first time, it's him reaching back across the ocean between them, it's his question, his unspoken plea.

His eyes seek hers in the darkness.

She finds him.

(His color.

Her light.)

There's a knock from the doorway, echoed over the phone. He laughs softly into the speaker, then moves in from the balcony and crosses his room to open the door. It's her.

“Lucien,” she says, and his name on her lips holds all the secrets of the universe, stars and galaxies swirling in the space between each of her breaths.

She holds her hands out to him, she, his lifeline, his compass, the one bright color of his life.

He hesitates for a moment, then takes then, gets pulled by them into her, into the warmest embrace.

(he can hear her heartbeats, echoes of songs of legend of stories, intertwined with his)

"Lucien," she murmurs into his chest. "Tell me a story? Tell me yours."

This time, he hears her as he's meant to, the words were never a command, they were a question. A plea. Another step in his direction, just like the knock on his door.

(he lets her in.

she stays awake for the rest of the story, stays on the line for the rest of the call.

together, they create their own ending.)

#mlqc #mlqc lucien #val writes #mr love queen's choice #mlqc xu mo #im v proud of this one akljfdskl *hides*#listEN listen listen lucien is an enneagram five that's it (am i projecting? possibly)#but i know ppl hc him as infj/intj and that's me so. im allowed. maybe #to project #also so much of this is just random non-canonical bs lkesjfdkl

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makeste · 4 years

Text

BnHA Chapter 270: Harry Potter Rules

Previously on BnHA: Present Mic punched Ujiko in the face! It was awesome. I’m thinking about getting a tattoo of it. Meanwhile Endeavor saved Mirko’s life by setting her on fire (reason #15 why I will never become a superhero), and Aizawa did some sexy Spider-Man poses for our viewing pleasure while fighting the rest of these Noumus which are still annoyingly refusing to die. Anyway but back to Present Mic, the undisputed MVP of this chapter. Because you see, in addition to the punching, he also used his Loud Voice attack (literally the actual attack name; Horikoshi will steal all of my jokes and leave me with nothing) to smash open Tomura’s Noumutank! Which I really thought was going to immediately lead to Everyone Dying, but apparently I was wrong! Anyways so yeah, right now Tomura’s just lying down all heart-stopped and not-breathing. Which seems very anticlimactic, BUT I JUST HAVE THE CRAZIEST FEELING that maybe, just maybe, the super powerful villain lad who just spent the last three arcs slowly upgrading his bad self just in time to wage war on the world as the story reaches its climax, might not actually be dead though.

Today on BnHA: DON’T MIND THAT OMINOUS ORGAN MUSIC PLAYING IN THE BACKGROUND, IT’S NOTHING, IGNORE IT. Ahem. So first of all, as some of the bolder among us dared to speculate, Tomura is not, in fact, dead. He’s still very much kicking it with his nipple-less pecs and truffula tree hair, putzing around in his mental landscape filled with crumbled buildings and disembodied Theatrical Gesture Hands. For some reason he doesn’t have shoes or a shirt in his mental landscape, which was a very interesting choice on Horikoshi’s part, but we will speak no more of it. Anyway so to sum things up, Tomura’s family is all “TENKO WE LOVE YOU” and he’s all “oh hey” and then AFO fucking appears and he’s all “COME HERE MY BOY” which is exactly as creepy as you would expect, and for some fucking reason TOMURA ACTUALLY DOES COME HERE. And lol it turns out Ujiko gave him AFO. Like the quirk. Yes, that quirk. So long story short, Tomura is about to be possessed by AFO’s evil soul or some shit, and to put the cherry on top, fucking Deku out of fucking nowhere, MILES AWAY, is all “HE’S COMING.” Because of course he can sense it, because AFOFA IS REAL, AND FUCK ME THIS IS ALL HAPPENING TOO FAST, FUCK.

I know this chapter has been out since like 1pm, but I’m not getting to read it until 5 hours later because for once in my life I was trying to be responsible and actually get some work done on a Friday. I thought this might lead to less oh-god-I-still-have-to-get-that-done anxiety hovering over my weekend, but instead it just led to oh-god-I-have-to-get-the-chapter-recap-done anxiety hovering over my now! anyways so this might be a bit rushed lol

(ETA: yeah turns out this wasn’t exactly the kind of chapter you could just read quickly and get on with your life lmao. so, then!)

what a nice panel of Present Mic taking out the trash

you heard ‘em fellas. the doctor is secured. good job everyone we did it, manga over, congratulations. now to cut away to a two-page spread of Dark Shadow comically smothering Dabi’s flames with a giant stock pot lid, and that’ll be that! what a wonderful, extremely short and strangely underwhelming arc in which we haven’t even seen the actual main characters do anything yet. but I guess we don’t need them since the main bad guy is lying dead on the floor! everything is just so fucking dead and secured!! do you think if I keep repeating it enough Horikoshi will finally be like “okay geez I get it” and reveal his hand already

Mic is now ordering Ujiko to power down the Noumu, which again, I’m sure he will definitely do without a fuss since after all the good guys have clearly won the day

OH SHIT OH FUCK

rip X-Less. gonna just take a moment here to imprint your beautiful face onto my memory before it turns into a pile of ash. your face, I mean. not my memory. well my memory more or less already is a pile of ash but that’s neither here nor there ANYWAYS

:’)

what are these little sound effects. I think that’s supposed to be a buzzing noise?? anyways whatever it is PLEASE STOP IT, I AM NOT HAVING A NICE TIME SO STOP

ffff Horikoshi sure has done an excellent job of setting the mood in such a way that all of these panels of X-Less doing incredibly mild things are sending my stress levels through the roof. like is anyone else reading his lines more or less like “WELP, TIME FOR ME TO DIE, ANY SECOND NOW, WE’RE REALLY DOING THIS, THIS IS REALLY HAPPENING, HERE IT COMES”

(ETA: when is this poor sweet innocent man going to fucking die already.)

LET’S CUT BACK TO MIC ESCAPING THE IMMEDIATE VICINITY

I have the clearest mental image of Horikoshi standing by with a walkie talkie in one hand and one of those remote bomb detonation clicky switch thingies in the other, patiently waiting to receive the go-ahead once all of the important characters have gotten to safety

anyway so now Ujiko is talking again

no fear everyone this is just the beginning of his verbal noumu deactivation sequence. nothing to worry about. everything is fine

yes for some reason his code phrase to put all the noumus back to sleep involves going into rambling detail about his work researching quirk singularities and shit. it’s fine. it’s not a big deal. code phrases are just like that sometimes all right

just ignore the increasingly panicked look in Mic’s eye as he slowly realizes he was way too fucking keen to just leave the “dead” Tomura back there with his laser-eyed hero buddy. anyway so let’s continue learning all about the Quirk Illuminati or whatever the fuck

okay so... he faked his own death? 70 years ago, at age 50 or thereabouts? I mean, that’s interesting and all I guess. not saying I wouldn’t be thrilled to spend the rest of this chapter learning all about Ujiko’s boring evil life. I don’t need to say it because it’s implied on account of Ujiko sucks and is the worst. so yeah can we get a move on though

oh shit?!?

WHOSE NARRATION IS THAT IN THE BOXES TOMURA IS THAT YOU OH GOD OH GOD

also, comparing AFO’s smile to a buddha’s really sent an actual shudder of disgust down my spine for some reason lmao. I personally would have steered that comparison in a different area, maybe less to buddhas and more to Norman Bates from Psycho, but to each their own

oh shit wait up

okay but this is actually a pretty big revelation though, isn’t it? because it’s been hinted for a while now that AFO and Ujiko had some method of duplicating quirks (the fact that all the Noumu share the same regeneration quirk was the biggest clue, but there was also John-chan’s quirk, as well as Hood’s Muscular-esque quirk), but as far as I can recall, this is the first time we’ve had it confirmed. though to be fair I wasn’t joking when I said my memory really has been shit lately sob

anyway so for real though, can you really call it a BnHA chapter if you’re not spending a good chunk of it being hopelessly confused over the ownership of some ambiguous thought bubbles. WHO IS THIS. I do seriously feel like it’s Tomura, because he’s the wrathful one, but another hallmark of a typical BnHA chapter is me constantly questioning everything I know as I muddle my way through

(ETA: yeah I’m pretty sure it was him. still impressive how vague it is though! it could also potentially be Ujiko, Mic, or even Deku. hopefully Caleb’s translation on Sunday can shed some more light on this. though he wasn’t really helpful last time this happened lol.)

SOMEBODY PLEASE TELL ME WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON

didn’t... you just... say that “preservation” was your quirk?? what do you mean that you wanted it?? CAN YOU JUST FINISH YOUR SENTENCES LIKE A NORMAL PERSON

anyway so here’s a summary of this chapter thus far

present mic: okay goodbye forever x-less

x-less: what a strange thing to say! :) also is it just me or is this machine fucking staring at me

present mic: turn the noumu off please

ujiko: seventy years ago... society... singularity... he’d be 120 years old now...

??: [REPULSIVE FEELING EW WHO’S TOUCHING ME]

ujiko: all for one has the smile of an angel...

??: [SON OF A BITCH I’M SO FUCKING WRATHFUL]

ujiko: my quirk... preservation... the truth is... my quirk... preservation... the truth is... my quirk...

all caught up?? grand. also btw is anyone else super disturbed by the fact that Ujiko recognizes Mic as being “Kurogiri’s friend”, like holy shit though? how would he know that. I can’t think of any implications of this that aren’t super disturbing tbh

anyways back to -- LOL WHAT THE

Horikoshi Kouhei: [furiously scribbling notes to himself at 3am] BUT WHAT IF THE FOLDING CITY FROM “INCEPTION” HAD MORE GIANT HANDS

jesus christ. is this like some mental representation of what shit is currently like in Tomura’s mind? lots of crumbly destruction and traffic lights and the house his father built (isn’t it? I feel like it looks familiar), and SO MANY HANDS, HE JUST LOVES HIS HANDS

anyway so at this point it’s a coin toss whether or not anything in this fucking chapter is ever going to make any kind of fucking sense! but here I am voluntarily along for the ride while Gene Wilder sings that creepy boat song right in my ear!

DSFKLDSJ

ACCURATE REPRESENTATION OF SOMEONE WHO HAS BEEN FLOATING IN A JAR FOR THREE MONTHS TBH. that is some luscious quarantine hair

SDFLKJSDLFKJSLKFDHLKSDJFLKJLKSDJL:FKJSDL:KJ

(ETA: that Tomura in the top left may be my new favorite panel. look at him. all he is is a nose and chin and ~*~HAIR~*~.)

HANAAAAAA AHHHHHH OH MY LORD OH MY LORD! OKAY I’M FINALLY PAYING ATTENTION NOW FOR REAL! NO MORE JOKES! EVERYBODY SHHHH!!!

FFFFFFFFFF

“LOOK AT ME I’M A MAIN CHARACTER I CAN HAVE STRANGE VISIONS AND TALK TO DEAD PEOPLE IN MY DREAMS, SOUND LIKE ANYBODY ELSE YOU KNOW?” TOMURA SHUT UP I DON’T HAVE TIME TO ANALYZE THIS SCENE THEMATICALLY RIGHT NOW I’M TOO BUSY BEING SAD ABOUT YOUR DEAD SISTER WHILE SIMULTANEOUSLY CALCULATING THE ODDS OF THIS SOMEHOW BEING FORESHADOWING FOR HER NOT REALLY BEING DEAD. OH GOD, OH FUCK YOU GUYS, I’M FREAKING OUT

WHAT KIND OF YOUNGER BROTHER DOESN’T CALL HIS OLDER SISTER “NEECHAN” TOMURA WHAT KIND OF ANIME CHARACTER ARE YOU

AT THIS POINT HIS HAIR IS ITS OWN INDIVIDUAL CHARACTER WITH THOUGHTS AND FEELINGS WOW

HORIKOSHI PLEASE STOP SHAKING THIS CHAMPAGNE BOTTLE OF SIBLING FEELS SO VIGOROUSLY I AM SO TERRIBLY AFRAID OH GOD

“BY THE WAY TENKO I JUST HAVE TO SAY, YOUR MAN BOOBS ARE SERIOUSLY IMPRESSIVE AND YOU SHOULD BE VERY PROUD.” YES HANA I WAS JUST GOING TO SAY. HOW ASTUTE OF YOU TO POINT THAT OUT. BOY HAS BEEN HITTING THAT BOWFLEX

WTAF IS HIS HAIR THOUGH SERIOUSLY??!

IS IT JUST ME OR IS THIS DIALOGUE BUBBLE ACTUALLY COMING FROM THE HAIR ITSELF. TOMURA. TOMURA BLINK TWICE IF YOU ARE IN DANGER

SJJKJSKJSW

TENKO IT’S ME YOUR GIANT MOM I’M BEHIND YOU HONEY TURN AROUND AND LOOK HELLO HI I LOVE YOU DO YOU STILL WANT TO BE A HERO

ffff why is he so pretty all the time lately

you are very handsome with your billowy hair and ken doll abs, you. sure are having a lot of trippy visions for a dead guy too there

HEY!!!!

WHO SAID YOU WERE ALLOWED -- DO YOU THINK YOU CAN JUST -- ffffffffff I need to be alone with my thoughts for a few minutes fuck

okay well. but since it is getting late I guess we’ll just pack these feelings up real quick and put them inside a box and neatly label it “feelings I have about Tomura having a vision of his mom and immediately turning back into his innocent little boy self in said vision as soon as he sees her.” not too sure about the contents of this box yet but I will have to explore them thoroughly at a later date

oh hey it’s this asshole

“THAT WAS TWENTY YEARS AGO, DAD.” jesus Kotaro. get over it

and also guess what, if you go and get Tomura all riled up so he wakes up grumpy and disintegrates the first hapless guy he sees, I will hold you solely responsible for that poor man’s death. I’m just warning you now

oh my

I remember this conversation going a bit differently the last time, but hey

LOOOOOOL

HIGH FIVE. PUT ‘ER THERE

WHY WOULD YOU LOOK SO SURPRISED LOL DID YOU NOT JUST TURN TOWARDS HIM WITH A SINISTER MURDER FACE LIKE TWO SECONDS AGO. LIKE WTF DID YOU THINK WAS GONNA HAPPEN

OH NO OH SHIT

FUCK ME, GUESS IT WOULDN’T BE A DRAMATIC BNHA DREAM SEQUENCE IF THIS ASSHOLE DIDN’T MAKE AN APPEARANCE AT SOME POINT OR OTHER NOW WOULD IT

-- HOLY SHIT?!

RECORD SCRATCH, FREEZE FRAME??

holy shit. holy shit. holy shit. holy shit. holy shit. holy shit

holy shit. fuck

...okay so

is this implying that AFO has been Noumufied? but that doesn’t make any sense, does it? he already had multiple quirks. what other advantages could there be to him becoming a Noumu. well whatever I’m just typing out all of my thoughts real fast for the time being and I’ll try to make sense of them later

or is it because he sees Kurogiri as a father figure? and AFO also?

or is he using Kurogiri’s quirk????? IS HE SOMEHOW WARPING INTO TOMURA’S DREAMS

because that third one, to me, is what this panel most looks like? Tomura says he looks like Kuro, but he doesn’t though. Kuro has a very distinctive face which this is very much lacking. instead it looks to me much more like one of Kurogiri’s portals, with AFO’s buddhaesque smile sticking out. so yeah. I got nothin’. except, again, fuck

(ETA: yeah I obviously have more thoughts about this now, but we’ll get to those in a bit.)

...

.......

-- !!!!!!!!!!LKJLK!JLKJ

oh shit oh shit oh shit

OH SHIT

NO BABY NO DON’T DO IT

GASP

THEY’RE TRYING TO SAVE HIM AHHHH

I HAVE LIKE TEN THOUSAND THOUGHTS IN MY BRAIN RIGHT NOW YET SOMEHOW MY MIND IS ALSO STRANGELY BLANK?? I DON’T EVEN KNOW?? I’LL JUST KEEP READING

KOTARO ARE YOU TRYING TO HELP HIM OR ARE YOU PULLING HIM TOWARD AFO??

OH HE’S PUSHING HIM BACK!! OH SHIT IT’S A WHOLE FAMILY EFFORT

THEY’RE TRYING TO SAVE HIM AFO IS GOING TO TAKE HIM OVER AND THEY’RE TRYING TO PROTECT HIM OH GOD OH JESUS

BABY TENKO EYES OH MY GOD HE LOOKS SO MUCH LIKE DEKU THAT I THOUGHT IT WAS DEKU FOR A MOMENT

NO TENKO!!!

FUCK -- DOES HE NOT CARE? HE ACTUALLY UNDERSTANDS WHAT’S ABOUT TO HAPPEN BUT HE DOESN’T CARE?? IS HE TRULY SO PROFOUNDLY MISERABLE THAT HE’D GO AHEAD AND ACCEPT THIS FATE WILLINGLY

NO SOUNDS. NO WORDS. YOU COULD HEAR A PIN DROP IN MY ROOM RIGHT NOW

except that I have the most incredible, chilling, disturbing, electrifying feeling that my mental soundtrack is about to start blaring AFO’s theme from the anime on full blast...!

LOOOOOL SOB OH FUCKK

THE MOST TERRIFYING, DRAMATIC KIP UP YOU’VE EVER SEEN IN YOUR LIFE!! THIS IS IT, IT’S BEEN REAL FRIENDS, THIS IS WHERE WE DIE

-- ARE YOU REALLY, TRULY, GENUINELY SHITTING ME RIGHT NOW

NOW OF ALL TIMES IS WHEN WE FINALLY CUT TO THE TRIO, I’M CAN’T, I’M FUCK

AND THAT’S THE END AHHHHH

holy shit holy shit holy shit. wow

okay so. I don’t really have any sort of neat and tidy way to wrap up this hot mess of a recap lol. so, just... have a whole mess of all of my stupid whirling thoughts

those first four pages really did nothing to brace me at all lol

okay, so. here’s my understanding of all this, I guess. basically we’re going full Harry Potter rules here. AFO horcruxed his quirk, and from the looks of it, a piece of his soul (perhaps even the main piece) along with it. he then passed it on to Ujiko to implant into Tomura

horcrux!AFO then wakes up, and takes over Tomura. so then my understanding is that he’s going to be possessed by him. and I also got the impression that he’s fully aware of that, but just doesn’t care at this point. he knew his family was trying to warn him, but he didn’t care. and that look in his eyes when he disintegrated them just seemed so fucking resigned to me, though. jesus

but now the more interesting thing! so we can liken Tomura to the resurrected Voldemort from book 5 and onward, reborn after transferring his power into a new vessel. which would go a long way toward explaining how AFO was able to sense what was happening from all the way in Tartarus; because if we liken it to Voldemort and his horcruxes, it would mean that he still has a connection to them (similar to the connection between Voldemort’s mind and Harry’s)

but so now comes the really interesting thing -- what does this then imply about the connection between AFO and Deku? because you’ll recall that AFO alluded to a similar mental connection back when Deku first activated SIXQUIRKS. and now we have Deku somehow being magically aware of AFO’s sudden resurgent presence in this chapter. but why?? if the reason AFO and Tomura share a psychic link is because of a shared quirk, why would Deku also be experiencing the same link? the answer is, he wouldn’t -- unless he, too, had the same shared quirk

in other words, I think All for One for All is fucking confirmed you guys. I can’t think of any explanation for this other than that OFA is also a horcrux quirk. a little piece of AFO broken off and embedded in his brother, and then passed along through the generations. and now residing within Deku

anyway. so that’s a hell of a lot to ponder lol. I guess we can at least be grateful for the fact that we’re not waiting two weeks for chapter 271 like Hori originally planned. can you fucking imagine. what a fucking asshole lol

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currentfandomkick · 4 years

Text

Marinette did Not sign up for this part 5

so, this happened. i would feel bad, but the characters hijacked this story after chapter 1 and i’m just along for the ride and checking that words makes sense.

First part here Previous Here ao3 Here

“Hey Alya, you haven’t been getting more hits on your blog from Gotham lately, have you?” Marinette asked.

Alya rolled her eyes as honestly, could her bestie be any less obvious? She could see the “new” necklace. The one that only shows up when Multimouse is on call. Honestly—why is it everyone keeps thinking she doesn’t know who’s who? She’s the Fox—Illusions and Truth are her bread and butter.

“Now that you mention it,” Alya pulled up her latest stats. “Yes. The whole site—jeez these guys must have just found out and want the scoop from the best source in Paris,” Alya preened.

Marinette acted… different after she got that answer. Moved in on herself. Alya could feel the attempt at a cover-up before she even asked.

“Hey, is something up?”

“Nothing! Nothing is up, why would something be up! Ha, that’s a good one Alya!”

Ah, the miraculous-related tic was in full swing then. Marinette isn’t exactly the most in-the-know miraculous user, and the Mouse is always taken back after its been used. She could be forgiven for assuming Alya, the expert in all things Miraculous second only to the Original duo and their boss, would not know that something was going on in a certain spotted heroine’s life, and it was all hands on deck.

“Okay,” Alya switched to her theory notes, “Any new names to add to the ‘would not be surprised if they were Hawkmoth’ list?” Marinette is a goldmine on this topic, and while miraculous adjacent, definitely able to ease the whole ‘not in control’ and helpless feelings this situation was probably stirring in her girl. She knew it was for herself atleast.

Marinette perked up with a familiar ‘I know what you will say, but lets do this anyway’ type of sly smile. “Okay, so we do agree that it has to be someone that knows Gabriel’s schedule and doesn’t want to interfere with it for the most part, right?”

“Well,” Alya wasn’t letting this hunch go anytime soon, no matter what LB and Chat said about evidence against. She knew she was onto something with it, and for all she knew, some miraculous magic could be interfering. “I still say it could be him and Natalie taking turns, but that doesn’t rule them both out.”

Marinette shot Alya a look, of the ‘I strongly disagree, but feel it is futile to remind you why’ variety.

“I’m kidding, your boss isn’t Hawkmoth, I know… He’d totally have better designs for akumas if he was.”

Marinette leaned forward conspiratorially. “You should have seen him tear into the Bubbler one when I brought it up as an example of horrible design. His face was perfect!”

Alya would love to imagine the many, many ways to torment Gabriel after what she and Nino have come to understand about the man from their friends. Ranging from negligent and uninvolved control freak at best to manipulative, victim-blaming, and abusive POS. If Adrien and Marinette were a little less attached (re: not pedestalling the man so much), then she could get them to see the truth and they could go over the pair’s options to get them both away from his BS and make the man pay for the all the crap he put Adrien through, and was starting to put Marinette through. Why else would the girl be running herself ragged—especially the past week—if the man wasn’t a demanding asshole boss?

“That’s great, next time, get a pic or vid and share the love.”

“I will, so I met another one of his suppliers and…” Alya began to take vicious notes, glad for Marinette’s attention to detail on these things. It made looking for possible Hawkmoths much easier on her and Max—yes she knows who Pegasus and Cowboy are, Markov in a hat is still Markov in a hat. It was a wonder that no one else noticed.

Alya grinned when she saw Trixx peek out of her hiding place, a wide smile that reminded her exactly why Alya could catch everyone’s identity while her friends still hadn’t put together she’s Rena; a Fox casts illusions. To do that well, you have to learn to seek and see the truth, and get your evidence. And Alya? Is a damn good fox.

----------

Tim hates his stupid insane list of designers. He managed to knock of half by using his own damn filters, thank you very much for dominant genes from the Wayne side that could be seen visually. It knocked out a good chunk (about two thousand out of five thousand) on hair alone. He decided he would let it keep running for those that linked their socials to their psueds and aliases.

The problem was the handful (about ten) that didn’t. He’d have to meet them in person, used his glasses to get pictures, and run those against social media posts in Paris to find out who these more private designers were—all to find out if they really are in the right age range, and if their natural features do put them in the ‘likely a Wayne’ category for Wayne dominant traits (and those possible given Bruce’s own DNA makeup, which he doesn’t know Tim has. Hey, he’s the Robin that Gets Shit Done, never said he was the polite one. That’s Dick’s job, not his.)

---------

Adrien hates not having Plagg with him. Not that Tikki isn’t great and all! Really! Just… he misses him and his stinky cheese, okay?

“Adrien,” Natalie knocked on the door.

“Come in.”

Natalie entered the doorway, but no further. “When is Marinette free for consultations next? we have a high end client who would like to commission her as soon as possible.”

“Give me a minute…” Adrien checked his ‘overseeing Marinette’ schedule on his phone. “Uh, she has walk-ins around four until five tomorrow.”

“Excellent. Will she be at her home or the studio Gabriel has provided for consultations?” By her tone, he could tell which Natalie and Father would prefer.

“Let me check with her.”

“See that you do.”

Adrien sent a lipstick, X arm lady, and house emoji to Marinette.

In a minute she sent back a thumbs up and apartment building emoji.

“Studio it is.”

Natalie nodded. “Excellent choice. I will let them know to be there at four ten, given Marinette’s… difficulty arriving on time.”

Adrien grimaced a bit on that as yeah… no longer having a Danger sense meant her punctuality was… not very good. “Are they speaking to Marinette or MDC?”

He’d need to know if he should just pick her up or not. MDC didn’t have to get picked up—designers to celebrities are allowed to be late and can blame it on getting caught up in a few details on a commission design for a walk-in consultation. Marinette was tied to the Gabriel Brand and needed to reflect that, therefore, be there on time and ready.

“Marinette for now, though they expressed an interest in MDC as a budding designer, and they are well within the MDC price range,” Natalie hinted.

Adrien kept the hiss growing in the back of throat quiet. Marinette chooses who MDC works with, not his Father.

--------

Stephanie is both delighted and upset when she sees Cass. As its Cass—she probably figured it out already damn it!—but its Cass and she missed her since she left a few months back for a mission and got caught up in the Chinese crime scene again.

“Hey Cass!”

Cass grinned when she saw Steph and made her way over.

“Found her!”

Stephanie was gutted. She really wanted to win, just this once, at a detective thing. You know, be the normal one that managed to out-do the prodigies and geniuses. Not to be again. “Oh, that’s great. Where is the baby bat?”

Cass shook her head. “Not her, Soup Girl.”

Stephanie opened and shut her mouth. Then lit up as she still has a chance! “Oh, right—right! You said you wanted to meet her a while back.”

Cass nodded. “Her family is nice.”

“Did you talk to her or…”

Cass shook her head. “Busy.”

“Ah.” That made sense. “Well, uh, still competing?”

Cass raised an eyebrow. That was a yes.

“Maybe we should work on helping her on the hero side of things together, you know, so we don’t freak her out when we all swarm her place. Make the whole thing a bit less…”

“Dramatic.”

Stephanie nodded. It would help ease the girl into the family, and keep Cass on that case instead of finding Baby Bat for a bit. Win-Win for Stephanie and Baby Bat.

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

Chatte Noire really, really hates dealing with akumas. She's built for strategy, to see tricky parts and work out how to make them safer for the team and minimize risk. She is not made to be Chatte Noire. Yet here she is, in an akuma attack, trying to play the role of a Black Cat—identify and destroy threats to the team. Problem is, she lacks Chat Noir's heightened ability to sense danger. In fact, she lacks it completely--and she knows the team isn't happy.

The attack is taking longer than it would if she was Ladybug. This would be over if she had just managed to keep her big mouth shut and not talked to Aquaman. Then the Justice League wouldn’t be involved. Then the whole promise to Murder Robin would not be broken and Paris would already be saved for the day instead of dealing with another Sandboy attack going on well into the night, with a cure that won’t be able to handle fatigue, energy renewal or relax the body for sleep post ‘I’m scared out of my mind’ fear.

She made sure to avoid this Sandboy’s attacks and she would save whoever got caught. Her Cataclysms may not be as strong as Chat’s (his do make the whole thing go away) but she is just as quick on her feet and just as good at getting civilians out of danger.

“Chatte!”

“On it Buggaboy! And not yet!”

It was too off for the Lucky Charm. They’d need Viperion, and he was stuck underwater with Aquaman trying to get him out at the moment. Until then, she just had to minimize damage, keep civilians away from their nightmares hunting them down, and keep moving and planning and work everything out while playing bodyguard for the team at Cha—At Mr. Bug’s call.

She hopes things turn out okay.

Then she sees a bat symbol and the world vanishes.

----------

Red Hood blinked when he saw some girl running around on rooftops in… Isn’t Chat Noir supposed to be the cat one? Where the hell is Ladybug—and why is some guy in her place? Shit, did the baby bat lose her miraculous or was it stolen? Damnit, now he has to steal it back for her!

“Okay, how did LB get hit when she isn’t even here?” The fox girl groaned as she dodged another attack. “Aren’t these guys supposed to go after who’s scared of them?”

The bee girl rolled her eyes. “More than just Ladybug can be terrified of the bats. They’re the Ghosts, remember?”

“Hey, can we argue about fears and who has rights to them some other time?” fake ladybug asked, flinching and moving closer to the Turtle guy. “Uh, Chatte, that way!”

Cat girl—Chatte— said something he didn’t catch and grabbed a kid stuck in a mob and bounce out.

“I—” the boy threw his hands up. “We’re screwed. She really, really isn’t getting the whole Cat thing.”

Red Hood pulled out his guns, checking that the darts were loaded and aiming for Spots.

“Chatte---guy with a gun!”

This time cat girl managed to look over and froze. She started… hyperventilating? Shit—kid’s having an attack.

Red Hood lowered his gun and made sure to get closer to her---seeing as the other heroes—Dragon girl, Monkey boy and Snake Guy were busy with the bee and fox girls trying to circle some kid on a pillow. No clue where the other kid in black was, but the cat girl losing it? that was his current focus.

“Kid, come on, breathe.”

“Oh my—” the kid looked at him like he was the threat. “Fuck, no—I shouldn’t have talked back to---shit. Shit, now I’m gonna—”

“VOYAGE!”

Just like that, Red Hood was dropped into Gotham harbor. Jason didn’t even get to look around to see what happened. He did manage to tread water and work out which was to go to get to shore.

“Oracle!”

“Jesus Hood—sending Robin to your location. What happened?”

“Some kids stole baby bats’ jewels, some akuma attack, the actual cat thief was hyperventilating and then I end up here.”

“Oh, B is not going to like this.”

“I already don’t like it.” Batman growled out over comms. “Did someone say voyage?”

Red Hood wracked his somewhat waterlogged brain. “In French, yes.”

“One of the local heroes.” Jason could feel Bruce’s annoyance. “Why were you in Paris.”

“Well,” Red Hood kept swimming to shore. “When you find out a long lost bat is in life threatening danger, one must locate and meet this possible winner of the ‘avoided having crappy parents raise me’ lottery to give a well-earned ‘congrats, you’re a well-adjusted person in a family of crimefighter! Mazel tav.”

“Hood.” Robin began on a private channel. “We need to talk.”

“Gotta go B, life to live, baby bat to find.”

“Red Hood!”

“Bye!” Red Hood climbed out of the harbor, finding his baby brother on his motorcycle that was definitely not Bruce-Approved.

“What’s up buttercup, didja miss me?”

Robin scowled at him. “Of course not, the world is more peaceful without the drivel that falls out of your mouth.”

Red Hood snorted. “Yeah, and that’s why you hide in my room all the time.”

Robin refused to make eye contact, shoving Red Hood onto his bike. “Is it true, did my sister lose her miraculous?”

“Unless she’s B and Catwoman’s lovechild and she decided to embrace it.”

Robin was quiet on the way to the cave. “…how long would it take to get the pilot to return and take me to Paris?”

“…you’d make it there around their in time for dessert.”

Robin frowned. “that’s not soon enough.”

“Closest you’ll get. And don’t’ think you’re going alone.”

Robin frowned. “I am not exposing my sister to you.”

“She’s our sister first of all,” Red Hood corrected. “and second of all, I have a bet to win, and I’m behind thanks to this portal guy. So I’m coming.”

Robin rolled his eyes. “Only if you get past Father and Alfred.”

“You wouldn’t dare.”

Robin smirked as they pulled into the Batcave.

“Father, I believe Red Hood needs your full attention given he was in the harbor for so long, and we all know how cold they are this time of year.”

Jason decided Damian was by and far his least favorite sibling in that moment. “Wait, B, no, look—no signs of hypothermia, no shaking, just need to change and—”

“I will check and ensure you don’t develop it with Alfred on standby.”

Jason glared at Damian, already stripping from his Robin gear with that self-satisfied smirk. “Traitor!”

“I simply want what is best for my siblings, how is that wrong?”

----------

I hope this gave you all a good idea of what’s going to happen next… I do love the Batfam and all, but some of their approaches here… no good and need to have that hit over their head.

And if I’m screwing up ladybats characterization, feel free to let me know so I can fix it---going off what I could find from DC fans and lore but I also do not know these characters inside and out, and want to do them justice.

OH and for anytime i refrence princess Justice, got a refrence for you now! picture the one made by @tinymelonbug right here with the only (maybe?) change being that below the cut it is cut off as a romper: Here

TAGS:

@heldtogetherbysafetypins @laurcad123 @raisuke06 @chaosace @jeminiikrystal @toodaloo-kangaroo @kris-pines04

#maribat #bio!dad bruce #marinette did not sign up for this #part 5 #long post #ml au #my writing #how do i tag?

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rainbowstrashpile · 4 years

Text

Softer, Softest

Testing a WIP here. Wanted to see if anyone was interested.

Wesker crawls out of the volcano (because of course he does), and the BSAA retrieves the remains. Chris, ever the hero, wants to help what’s left of him. Unfortunately the BSAA isn’t in the business of rehabilitating terrorists, but they can’t deny a founding member. So they compromise. How convenient then, that Wesker himself had perfected mind control technology.

Warnings for mind control and a brief description of non-consensual touching. However, that touching is not sexual in nature. Brief implication of child abuse. Admittedly a dark premise but becomes fluff.

Laid low, passive, doll like. Redfield could have him in ways he never had before. Quiet. Domesticated. Soft. Umbrella’s ubermensch, the western world’s idea of male beauty, gene selected and designed then broken on their wheel, now belonged to him. Empty, vacuous, acquiescent for the very first time. Briar Rose sleepwalking through Chris' apartment, barefoot and dreamy eyed.

It was, admittedly, not an ideal situation; but Chris wasn’t the type to take advantage of that. He knew the guilt would eat him from the inside if he allowed any injustice to happen, even to Wesker. Perhaps especially to Wesker. Greatest love of Chris’ life, much to his own chagrin.

As it stands, he likes to chat at him. Explain his favorite parts of movies while he runs his fingers through his hair. Something he'd never gotten to do before but always wanted to. He's a warm, solid weight against him as he stares blankly ahead. Chris' very own dolly. But he feels he's nice about it. Tries to be understanding of the person stuck somewhere deep inside. "I know you would have hated this. But someday, you'll be able to make your own choices again." Because Chris refuses to think of Albert as beyond redemption. Refuses to think that people who have been so traumatized are beyond repair. Albert just needs help. He just needs to be shown a gentle touch. A shred of humanity. And Chris wants to be the one to try.

____________________

It was warm here. Hazy. Almost pleasant. And that was...abnormal. Somehow he knew it wasn’t supposed to be like this. That this state of being was somehow temporary. But he couldn't bring himself to struggle against it; stick his head above the bathwater doze he both languished and lavished in. The instinct to hold still and do as you’re told still strong. Maybe he had been taught too well as a child…

Something in Wesker fizzled; acid mixed with alkali, a chemical reaction that made him twitch. Something in him remembered fear. Nervous system fighting against the weight of the lull, trying to beat back the lassitude. He felt a tension in the back of his throat, burbling up through his mouth in the form of a whine, high pitched and animal. His heartbeat increased from its sluggish rhythm, suddenly thundering against his ribs in a frenzy.

He didn’t want to be here. This feeling, whatever it was, was hiding something terrible. A leviathan lurking in the depths, rising quickly to pull him down with a burden too terrible to bear. A knowledge that would break him. But as he was now, Wesker was powerless to stop it.

He wanted to run. To bolt in any direction; a rabbit with a wolf on its heels. But to where he couldn’t say. He was vaguely aware of the fact he didn’t know where he was. Hadn’t for a while now. And when he tried to stand, his knees gave out and he sagged to the floor; more terrible softness greeting him at the end of his fall.

“Hey now,” a voice said softly. “It’s okay. I’m here! I’m here. I’ve got you.”

Warmth again, but a different kind. Not a chemical buzz to lay him out, keep him in a fog, but a real heat. Soft skin hoisting him up against something solid, something that smelled like castile soap and laundry detergent, just a hint of sharp aftershave cutting through.

The monsters lurking just below the surface dove back down into the murk, settling once again in the depths. Far away from the safety the voice and warmth promised.

It seemed easy now, to surrender. To let the fog and softness over take him; drown out the fear buzzing and fomenting in the back of his mind. Peace descended once again, and he let out a shaky breath in relief. Nothing hurt here, trapped in the comforting static of whatever had been done to him. Sweetly restrained, or perhaps sheltered, by the solid mass holding him.

____________________

Wesker went limp in his grasp, head sagging against his shoulder. Chris ran his fingers gently through blond hair, nudging his nose against Wesker’s forehead. “It’ll all be okay. You’re safe here. I promise.” It didn’t irk him that Wesker’s arms didn’t reach out, didn’t hold onto him for comfort or even support. Acquiescence was the best that could be expected. That he had so quickly calmed was the most he could ask for, all things considered. He hoped that meant Al trusted him on some level. Knew that Chris wouldn’t hurt him.

Chris settled Wesker back on the sofa, mindful not to crowd him after as he sat down as well. “I wish you could tell me what set you off. I really do only want to help you. And I know all this is kinda messed up. But maybe it’s the only way to show you not everyone is bad. Not everyone is trying to use each other for personal gain.” And now that he’s speaking, it all tumbles out. A mishmash jumble of feelings and stray thoughts, pouring past his lips. Dumb mouth to deaf ear.

“I-I never tried to use you...back in STARS, you know. I wasn’t trying to sleep my way to the top or blackmail you or anything like that. And I don’t think you were using me either. Not really. I think- I think if you really hadn’t cared about me at all, back in the mansion, you would have killed me. Or at least you wouldn’t have helped me out as much. You had no reason to. Help me, that is. We never would have suspected you of anything. We trusted you. All of us trusted you. Which is why we were all so angry at you after. But somehow, you and I just couldn't stay away from each other. I never could stop loving you, no matter how much I tried..” Chris lapses into silence for a moment, wondering if Wesker is listening. If he can understand anything he’s saying to him. Chris hopes he can, somewhere in there.

Slowly, gently, Chris reaches out to Wesker-to Al, to take his hand into his own, running his thumb over the creases of his knuckles. Wesker doesn’t react, just stares straight ahead vacantly. “It would be nice if we could be like this for real. Maybe someday. But I’d settle for you being at peace, even if that doesn’t involve me. Though I think I would still miss you. Or maybe the idea of you; the concept of what we could have been.” Chris squeezes his hand again, for good measure.

To Wesker, the voice means something. Words have ceased to have definition, but the tone carries through the message, or at the very least the core emotions behind them. He can’t reply. And even if he could he isn’t sure what he would say, or if he even remembers any words at all. But this...this is important. The lilt and drone of the voice makes him want things. Things he’d had before. How terrible, then, that he didn’t have whatever it was anymore. How stupid if him, to have lost it. The hand holding his squeezes again, and he wants to squeeze back. He’s so tired, and effort seems herculean.

But somehow, he manages; his grip a weak pulse, falling away as quickly as it had started.

But it’s enough. Chris feels it. And a delicate hope blooms in his chest.

___________

end...?

Your girl here has ADHD real bad and wrote some stuff. This is in a document titled Plant 69;) because I couldn't think of a title so I gave up and went with a Courtney Love reference. I’ll mail you some squished up candy bars if you can find the other one hidden in here. Now that we are having a Resident Evil renaissance (a REnaissance, if you will) and I’m not the only one craving sub Wesker I figured it was a good time to participate. Nothing here that hasn’t happened to other characters in canon so I figure if you’re in the fandom you’re already okay with some problematic stuff. Which is good because unfortunately everything I write is...dark and designed to be uncomfortable. At least this one has a happy ending.

#rainbow writes #chrisker #i do what i want

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tlbodine · 4 years

Note

What exactly is 'character voice'? Is it merely a character having opinions on things? And how do I have good voice if I am writing in first or third person omnipresent? Do I give the narrator's opinion on things? The character's opinions? The different opinions of the characters?

Voice is a tricky thing to pin down -- a bit of a “know it when you see it” type thing. But I’ll see if I can break it down a bit.

First: Stories will contain both “authorial voice” and “character voice.” Authorial voice is the individual writing style of the author, and you’ll start to notice it most strongly after you’ve read multiple works by one author. Character voice on the other hand is unique to the character. A strong character voice will often overshadow the author’s voice, which is usually a good thing! It keeps every book you read from an author from sounding the same. If you’re reading a book in first person or close third POV, the narrative should be in the character’s voice. If you’re reading it in a more omniscient POV, the narrative might have a very different voice. Books that alternate POVs might have different voices for different perspectives, so that you could tell who’s speaking even if the chapters weren’t labeled.

But OK. What makes up Voice in writing?

Opinions. Characters with a strong voice have opinions about the world, and those opinions color the way they see things. They don’t sit and tell you how they feel, but instead deliver the world through the lens of those opinions.

Focus. What a character chooses to pay attention to vs ignore in the world around them. This gives an underlying glimpse at what is important to them.

Word Choice. On a structural level, voice comes down to word choice, grammar, syntax, etc. being used with purpose to create a cumulative effect.

Books without a strong voice sound dry, like a technical manual or book report. They lack any poetic devices or colorful insights. A strong voice is one that doesn’t sound generic, which means it’s not usually “correct” from, say, a middle school English class perspective. (In fact, some young writers may often butt heads with teachers over the use of voice in writing -- I know I did. Once you get good at it,

It might just be easier to show this in action than try to explain it so...

Carrie, by Stephen King:

She had tried to fit. She had defied Momma in a hundred little ways had tried to erase the redplague circle that had been drawn around her from the first day she had left the controlled environment of the small house on Carlin Street and had walked up to the Barker Street Grammar School with her Bible under her arm. She could still remember that day, the stares, and the sudden, awful silence when she had gotten down on her knees before lunch in the school cafeteria -- the laughter had begun on that day and had echoed up through the years.

Carrie calls her mother “Momma” even in her head, which already implies a lot about her socioeconomic class, upbringing, and intelligence. She didn’t try to fit in, she tried to ‘fit’ -- a non-idiomatic description. The run-on second sentence gives a hint of a racing thought. “Redplague” as one word is evocative and more powerful than a more drawn-out metaphor might be.

The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, by Douglas Adams

Mr. L. Prosser was, as they say, only human. In other words he was a carbon-based bipedal life form descended from an ape. More specifically he was forty, fat and shabby, and worked for the local council. Curiously enough, though he didn’t know it, he was also a direct male-line descendant of Genghis Khan, though intervening generations and racial mixing had so juggled his genes that he had no discernible Mongoloid characteristics, and the only vestiges left in Mr. L. Prosser of his mighty ancestry were a pronounced stoutness about the tum and predilection for little fur hats.

Comedy lives or dies on the strength of its voice, and Douglas Adams is a master at a very specific type of comedy. Here we see it on display. Prosser is an antagonist, and he’s here being described in a way that suggests, without stating outright, that he’s quite pathetic. We open with a cliche saying, and then immediately deconstruct it in a way that’s overly precise -- a technique of absurdism. Then we compare him to Genghis Khan (also a villain, and a very strong one) in a side-by-side parallel that definitely paints Prosser unflatteringly (his genes are “juggled,” a word that evokes clownishness) and the “little fur hats” detail is the icing on the cake -- imagine standing beside Genghis Khan and the ONLY thing you have in common is the hat! (”Predilection” is also a fussy-sounding word. “Stoutness about the tum” sounds like a childishly euphemistic protest, sort of like “big-boned” but dialed up to 11).

The Cabin at the End of the World, by Paul Tremblay

Wen’s eighth birthday is in six days. Her dads not so secretly wonder (she has overheard them discussing this) if the day is her actual date of birth or one assigned to her by the orphanage in China’s Hubei Province. For her age she is in the fifty-sixth percentile for height and forty-second for weight, or at least she was when she went to the pediatrician six months ago. She made Dr. Meyer explain the context of those numbers in detail. As pleased as she was to be above the fifty-line for height, she was angry to be below it for weight. Wen is as direct and determined as she is athletic and wiry, often besting her dads in battles of wills and in scripted wrestling matches on their bed. her eyes are a deep, dark brown, with thin caterpillar eyebrows that wiggle on their own. Along the right edge of her philtrum is the hint of a scar that is only visible in a certain light and if you know to look for it (so she is told). The thin white slash is the remaining evidence of a cleft lip repaired with multiple surgeries between the ages of two and four. She remembers the first and final trips to the hospital, but not the ones in between. That those middle visits and procedures have been somehow lost bothers her. Wen is friendly, outgoing, and as goofy as any other child her age, but isn’t easy with her reconstructed smiles. Her smiles have to be earned.

The thing I love about Tremblay’s writing style is how wonderfully understated it is. At first blush, it seems very straightforward and precise. But the details work to give such a rich image beyond what’s on the page -- like one of those paintings that creates a cat with just like, two brushstrokes of ink. This paragraph is jam-packed with information -- the character’s age, race, adoption, gay parents -- but also illustrates her character indirectly: a kid who is interested in precise numbers, competitive in a specific way, self-conscious, skeptical. Little lines really stand out, like “caterpillar eyebrows” and “reconstructed smiles.”

Horrorstor, by Grady Hendrix

It was dawn, and the zombies were stumbling through the parking lot, streaming toward the massive beige box at the far end. Later they’d be resurrected by megadoses of Starbucks, but for now they were the barely living dead. Their causes of death differed: hangovers, nightmares, strung out from epic online gaming sessions, circadian rhythms broken by late-night TV, children who couldn’t stop crying, neighbors partying til 4 a.m., broken hearts, unpaid bills, roads not taken, sick dogs, deployed daughters, ailing parents, midnight ice cream binges.

But every morning, five days a week (seven during the holidays), they dragged themselves here, to the one thing in their lives that never changed, the one thing that they could count on come rain, or shine, or dead pets, or divorce: work.

This is the opening of the book, and it does a perfect job of setting the tone for the story -- a combination of humor and horror, a lighthearted touch on a really dismal subject. Like the Douglas Adams example, it relies on an excess of hyper-specific detail to create comedy through absurdism. Describing the store they wrok at as a “massive beige box” says a lot -- beige is a boring color, box is a boring shape (and implies constraint, the opposite of “think outside the box” etc.) Calling the workers “zombies” and using zombie words (”stumbling”, “streaming”) invokes a specific set of concepts -- mindlessness, for starters, and death -- and using that to describe going to a job certainly implies something about what it’s like to go to work, right? This paragraph could just come outright and say “work is soul-sucking and pointless and takes you away from things that are important” but it illustrates that instead. A perfect example of “show don’t tell” in action.

Hopefully that gives a bit more illustration to what I’m talking about. As you read, pay attention to the way things are said and how that varies from one book to the next, and you’ll get a better intuition for voice (and learn to craft your own through practice).

Some general tips/things to think about when creating strong voice for your narrative and characters:

Education and socioeconomic level of the characters. A professor will talk differently from a car mechanic; a college graduate sounds different from an elementary school student; an inner-city black teen will use words differently from a New England socialite. Think about what kind of background a character has and choose vocabulary and syntax that makes sense for them.

Evocative descriptions. Words come with baggage, and good writing puts that baggage to use to create a meaning stronger than what’s on the page. Precision with language, not just what words mean but what they imply, is the hallmark of good writing.

Words used uniquely -- in other words, avoiding cliches and descriptions we’ve seen before in favor of creating new word combinations that do the heavy lifting of the previous bullet point.

Hopefully that helps!

#writing advice #writing tips #narrative voice #strong voice #asks #ask box is always open btw #sometimes it takes me a bit #but I love answering writing questions #especially grammar type things #that is my jam #nuts and bolts of writing baby #my precious

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