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flowesona · 4 years

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The Hierophant - Yandere! Namjoon x reader

The Tarot Series

“He’s one of the best in the country. Trust me, (Y/N), you have to go to every lecture, even if you don’t want to.” The girl beside (Y/N) rattled on, only stopping every once in a while to take a sip of her Red Bull.

“If you don’t want to go, I’ll gladly take your place, you know.” Her friend continued. “I swear, he’s like… perfect. Gorgeous, smart, rich… I would gladly hop on that, ya know?”

“Oh come on, don’t degrade yourself like that. He’s going to be some musty professor that’ll talk about Sigmund Freud for far too long then set us three chapters to read for tomorrow.” (Y/N) was dreading meeting her new psychology lecturer, no matter how enticing the ideas her friend was feeding to her may be.

“If you say so. But you better run now, or you’ll be late.” Her heart dropped when she checked her watch, seeing as she had two minutes to get to a classroom four minutes away.

In a matter of seconds she gathered all of her leftover lunch together and shoved it in her bag, not even sparing a moment to say goodbye to her friend before dashing off, heart pounding as she ran.

Just as the clock-hands of her watch hit one-thirty, she made it to the classroom, swinging open the door and making her way to the first available seat her eyes landed on, which just so happened to be in the aisle on the first row.

However, once she’d dumped all her bags at her feet, she found that the professor wasn’t there. All of the students were just talking amongst themselves.

“Today was the one day that it’s okay to be late.” The guy next to her chuckled, watching her catch her breath. “What kind of example is he setting for us?”

(Y/N) chuckled breathily, but as if like magic a tall, lean man entered the room, a pile of books and papers stacked on top of each other impressively.

“Good afternoon.” His deep voice reverberated around the room, immediately silencing all the small murmurs. “I apologise for not being punctual, but I had to help one of our more senior members of staff find her keys.”

Kim Namjoon was far from the crumpled old man she’d expected him to be. His face didn’t show a single sign of ageing, despite him having an aura of maturity and expertise that put him high above every other person in the room. His face was neatly combed out of his face, his black rimmed glasses were stylish and perfectly clean. He was the epitome of a perfect man, if such a person could exist.

He smirked seeing the stunned expression on his students’ faces.

“I’m sure that you had very different first impressions of me. But I would like you to hold back until you know more about me. I hope that we can all develop a good relationship.” As he spoke, his eyes drifted across the room, until they met with (Y/N)’s own curious eyes, with something unreadable in his eyes that sent a shiver down (Y/N)’s spine.

Once he’d started the lecture, (Y/N) felt as if she was in another country. The technical way he spoke, his hypnotising good looks. It felt impossible to keep up with him, and before she knew it everyone was packing away their notes. She was stunned for a few seconds but followed suit, unfortunately ending up as the last person in the classroom besides the professor.

“What’s your name?” (Y/N) jumped when she noticed Namjoon in front of her, his large hands resting on the desk.

“(Y/N).” She replied quickly, standing up and ducking her head so she didn’t have to make eye contact.

“(Y/N), if you don’t mind me saying, you seemed to be quite unfocused for the majority of the time. If you need me to slow down my talking pace for you, you just need to ask.” The young woman felt her face flare up in anger at his patronisation. Sure, what he was saying was true, but there was no need to talk to her as if she was unique. Surely the other students were struggling to concentrate as well?

She chose not to respond, slinging her book bag over her shoulder and leaving without a goodbye, determined to study as hard as she could and prove him wrong.

*.·:·.☽✧ ✦ ✧☾.·:·.*

Yet no matter how many hours she spent pouring over textbooks, podcasts, any kind of material she could get her hands on, none of it seemed to work for her. In a moment of desperation she’d downloaded a few of the books written by Kim Namjoon himself, only to give up a few chapters in due to the overly sophisticated language that made every sentence feel like a chore to read.

(Y/N)’s severe lack of understanding was reflected in her grades. Constantly failing tests or just barely scraping by for the entire year. It wasn’t until the end of the year that she decided she would have to sacrifice her pride and talk to Namjoon.

She knocked on his door, waiting for him to call out ‘come in’. Sure enough, she heard his voice - a little raspier than usual - invite her to enter.

The inside of his office was different. It looked messier than usual, and the man himself looked slightly ruffled, his tie undone and suit jacket lying on the back of his chair.

“(Y/N)! How can I help?” He asked, sitting up to look slightly more composed than his surroundings.

“Is something wrong, professor?” She asked, concerned about how the usually neat and proper scholar had fallen.

“Oh, it’s… nothing (Y/N). But thank you for your concern. What brings you here, anyway, besides the pleasure of my company?” Namjoon asked, running a hand through his slightly damp hair to smooth it down.

“I think it’s best that I withdraw from this course, professor. I keep on failing the exams and there’s no way for me to catch up and pass this year. I just can’t afford to keep studying a subject I don’t understand.” He sighed.

“Take a seat for me, (Y/N). We can talk about this.” (Y/N) wanted nothing more than to run, to leave this university and all the pain it had caused her behind, yet she ultimately had no choice but to sit down and shut up.

“So you’re worried about failing? That’s why you want to drop out?” Namjoon queried, brows furrowed as if he was deep in thought.

“Yeah. There’s no point in me paying nine grand a year if I can’t understand what I’m studying.”

“What if I offer you extra credit? From what I can recall, your exams weren’t too bad so we could probably get you a passing grade.” The scholar offered, reaching for his laptop and opening a spreadsheet with a single click.

“We can get you an extra 5%, which should bring you up to Third if your grades don’t improve in the summer exams. I’ve got a range of topics, and I’ll tutor you on whichever ones you choose when you have free time.” His words could not have been sweeter music to (Y/N)’s ears, knowing that passing was not just a fallacious dream and that she wasn’t a hopeless case.

“Thank you so much Namjoon, I’m really grateful for this opportunity!” She smiled, but before she could leave he spoke again.

“Of course, I don’t have to help you if I don’t want to.” (Y/N) froze as he continued. “This will cost me a lot of my valuable time, and I’m under no obligation to tutor you outside of work.”

“Please…” (Y/N) whispered, tearing up.

“You don’t have to pay me, if that was what you were thinking.” He stood up, approaching her until he had her backed up against the door. “I’d rather you pay me with your company. Tonight, you can come to dinner with me. Just one date, so we can get to know each other more intimately, and I can find out about the student I’m giving up my few spare hours to help. Does that sound good?”

“This is sexual harassment… if I reported you you’d be at least suspended by the school board…” (Y/N) choked out, trying to appear tough when her insides were jelly from such close contact with Namjoon.

“You can.” He chuckled. “But then you’ll fail and drop out. You don’t really want that, do you darling?”

(Y/N) swallowed and nodded, breathing out as Namjoon stepped away from her.

“Be ready at seven tonight. And wear something nice, darling. Don’t make me regret my offer.”

*.·:·.☽✧ ✦ ✧☾.·:·.*

The feeling of Namjoon’s eyes lingering on her figure was bittersweet. She was slightly flattered, but slightly intimidated. This man held her academic career in his hand, and she had to play along with his game if she didn’t want to fail.

‘Maybe it isn’t so bad that he likes you.’ A voice was whispering in the back of her head. ‘He’s “gorgeous, rich, smart”... right?’

She glanced over at Namjoon, immediately meeting his eyes. His hand settled itself on her exposed thigh, the cool metal of his rings contrasting with her warm skin. It stayed there until the taxi pulled up outside some esteemed restaurant, Namjoon pulling out his wallet to pay the driver and telling him to keep the change as he helped (Y/N) out.

She felt slightly awkward as he led her in and asked their water about the booth reservation, feeling the judging eyes of people around her. No doubt criticising her for going on a date with an older man. They were already labelling her as a gold digger, a whore.

“Don’t look at everyone else.” She jumped slightly when she heard Namjoon whisper in her ear. “Just keep your eyes on me, darling.”

Namjoon was clearly more comfortable in this environment than (Y/N). Easily pronouncing the name of some expensive Italian wine for them, along with a dish that she’d never heard of for them both.

But (Y/N) followed his advice, and just kept looking at him as he poured two glasses from the graft of wine, observing the slight bob of his Adam’s apple of he drank from his own glass.

“(Y/N), you should try some.” He indicated towards her glass.

“I-I don’t drink.” She said, but after a few moments of awkward silence, she decided to take a sip.

She hated the taste, but refused to show it on her face, giving him a small smile before setting down the glass.

“Now, (Y/N). Tell me why you decided to take Psychology when you don’t understand the subject?” Namjoon asked.

“I just want to understand people. I thought maybe if I understand why people are the way they are, I can help them.” She explained, taking another sip from her wine. Now that her tongue had adjusted to the bitter palette, she was pleasantly surprised by the taste.

“I see. Not many people take the subject for such a noble cause.” He commented. “Most of my students take it since they want to learn about serial killers or social experiments.”

“And why did you choose psychology as your profession?” (Y/N) retorted.

“There’s something about it that spoke to me. Jungian ideas on how we present ourselves - our persona - versus who we really are - our anima, if you will. I feel like there’s more to a person like you, (Y/N), and I want to see that.” The young woman felt like her head was spinning, from the lights all around her to the alcohol in her system.

“I’m sorry, I need to go to the bathroom. Where is it?”

“Just through that door.” Namjoon smiled watching her walk off. It was so fascinating to talk to her one-to-one. Her mind was something that wasn’t quite captured on her social media, no matter how many hours he spent pouring over her Facebook or Instagram, desperate to see who she really was, and why she drew him in like a magnet. But now, being in a more private environment with her and seeing her real self rather than what she presented online, Namjoon felt that she was even more enticing than before. Of course, he’d jumped at the opportunity to privately tutor her, but he had an idea for things to be more permanent. He didn’t want to just be her quick fix, he wanted to be her everything.

And so, with a glance to make sure no waiters were going to enter, he pulled a small vial out of his pocket, tapping its contents into (Y/N)’s water glass. It wasn’t a particularly strong drug, nor was it fast acting. He would be able to enjoy the rest of their night, and then by the end she would be his.

“Sorry. I don’t think I’m good with alcohol.” (Y/N) gave him a weak smile as she slid back into her seat.

“Don’t worry about it, Darling. Just have some water, okay?” Namjoon said smoothly, as she gave him a gracious nod. As the meal progressed, however, (Y/N) felt her headache getting worse and worse.

“Namjoon, this has been a lovely evening and all, but I need to go home. My head is killing me and I need some ibuprofen.” (Y/N) groaned after they’d finished their desserts.

“Of course. Let me pay the bill and then I can take you home.” Her professor said, rubbing a hand on her back to soothe her as he beckoned their server over.

Just as Namjoon was helping her into the car, (Y/N) felt her mind slip away, collapsing onto the seat.

Namjoon simply explained to the driver that she was unwell, sitting her upright and giving him the address to his own house. The driver didn’t question anything, although with the slight twitch of his lip it was clear how he saw (Y/N), as some rich man’s whore who’d had too much to drink.

Evidently, (Y/N)’s image was nothing compared to her professor, and she still had much to learn on how he worked. Luckily, he was more than happy to teach her, to train her mind, for his own, more personal price.

#yandere #kpop yandere #yandere bts #yandere x reader #yandere namjoon #yandere kpop #yandere namjoon x reader #namjoon x reader #yandere kim namjoon #yandere oneshot #yandere RM #yandere rm x reader #yandere kim namjoon x reader #yandere bts au #yandere bts x reader #RM x reader #the tarot series #kim namjoon #kim namjoon x reader

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tellywoodtrash · 4 years

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immj2 20.11.20

new title card! everyone looking hottttttttttttttttt af!

no for real though, this chick needs to fucking insure her feet or something. itne disaster-prone pair maine zindagi mein nahi dekhe.

this idiot. honestly, he needs to know to pick his battles. he used to be soooooooo smart and shaatir. now he’s just dumb as fuckkkkkkk, the way he’s playing the game. i really don’t understand. i just don’t.

“riddhima tumhe pata hai tumhari problem kya hai? tum khud aage badhke apne bure waqt ki ghadi set karti ho.” lmaooooooo that’s a brilliant line and exactly what she does!

standard DON’T YOU DARE LOOK AT MY FAMILY WRONG blah blah from riddhima.

trollolololololololololol i honestly just put up with this character just to see vishal play himmmmmmm

blah blah tell dadi that i should get the business, then the property, then the family, and then this room of his....... ew, gross implication of that room thing aside, bro slow your rolllllllllllll. also why are you tellling her all this??? why the fuckkkkk would you give her a heads-up?!?!!?!?

sweetheart bhi bola. ugh. i hate when any man calls any woman that. it sounds patronizing and condescending as fuckkkk. also i just don’t get why he wants to be like vansh so muchhhhhhhhh when HIS PERSONALITY IS OBJECTIVELY BETTER THAN VANSH’S WAS?!!?!?!!?

ok i’m bored with this scene now and fwding.

pls sis, don’t say wohiiiiiiiii shakal and all. new shakal is >>>>>>>>>>>>>>> old shakal. like, i have no words to describe the improvement.

here aryan be making some stupid shady deals and he’s like mwahahahahaha now that vansh is gone, there’s no one to stop me!!!!!! dude, he literally used to do that to prevent you from going to fucking jail, lmao. you are so fuckingggggggg dumb istg.

“sivaaye mere!” snort. this i’m gonna enjoyyyyyyyyyyy.

aryan like TU KAUN MAIN KHAMAAKHAAAAN?!!!?!? and quite rightly so.

this is their new thing in the show. they show this angle of kabir jab uski kuch zyaaaada hi khisakkkkk jaati hai.

AKLSJALKFJSLKDJFLSDKJFLKDSJLFKJDSLKFJDSLKJFLSKJD OMFG HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHA

“seedhe mooh baat kii thi. tameez se jawaab dena chahiye tha.”

lmaooooooooooooooo i can’tttttttttt with this fuckerrrrrrr. why is he so fuckingggggg hilarious?????

meanwhile bhaabiji is back at mandir place asking around about vihaan. she’s describing him as “bodybuilder type” which, lol......... ok.

chaiwaala is i know who he is and can give you deets.

she’s like yehiiii haina???? and he’s like yeah kinda, but hotter. way hotter. ok he didn’t say it. i’m saying it. BUT IT’S THE TRUTH, COME ON!!!!!!!!!!!

holy shit she just had to give him 2x my wholeass monthly rentttttttt to get the deets. what the fuckkkkkkkkkkkkk????? ALSO MY GOD WHO JUST CARRIES AROUND THIS MUCH CASH IN THEIR LIL DINKY GOING-TO-THE-MANDIR PURSE???????????

bhaiyyaji very very happy with his loot of the day butttttttttttt.........

lmao this one like I WORKED REALLY HARD AS AN ACCOUNTANT TO EARN THAT WAD OF CASH THAT SHE JUST HANDED TO YOU OK??????? YOU THINK SHE MAKES THIS MUCH AS NO-NAME PHYSIOTHERAPIST WITH A GRAND TOTAL OF ONE CLIENT????? AND NOW I’VE HAD TO SWITCH CAREERS. IN THE MIDDLE OF A PANDEMIC. I HAD TO LEARN A WHOLEEEEEEEE NEW SKILLSET. YOU KNOW HOW MANY HOURS I SPENT ON COURSERA AND UDEMY AND GITHUB RIGHT AFTER FALLING OFF A CLIFF?????????? DO YA???????????

sorry shaktimaan.

“virus hoon main. ek baar laga gaya na toh zindagi ka file corrupt kar doonga.” lmaoooooooooo lord the dumbass tech related metaphorsssss.

ok that’s a bit much but mmmmmm baby i love to watch you work. esp. this outfit, unf. it’s really getting me so damn hot for you.

khud ki hi biwi ka phone number score karke itnaaaaaa khush kisi ko hote hue pehli baar dekha hai.

lmaooooooooooooooooooooooooo.

aryan, who is literally tied to a chair is growling at kabir about how this won’t end well for him and kabir’s like..............

snorttttttttt i love this psychopathhhhhh.

kabir is like just use your ickle brain cell lil one. i’m a cop. i have alllll the details of every single shady thing you’ve done. first i’ll show it to the family, then to the authorities. and then there miiiiiiiiiiight be an encounter later.......... lmao yessssssssss, i love it.

“woh kya haina, samajhdaar ko ishaara kaafi hota hai. lekin tum itne samajhdaar nahi ho na, iss liye itne detail mein samjhaana pada!” i really cannot stop laughing at this scene. truly the evil bros dynamic i have been craving for from this show.

aaaaaaaaaaaaaand that is enough for aryan to maarofy palti.

but ooooooooooops. he called him kabir. which we know is this one’s sore spot these days.

“kabir.................... sir?” lmfaooooooooooooo

hahahahahahahahahahahahahhaha

bitch wht you callllllll vansh?????

“kabir...... bhai.”

OMFG THE STRAIGHT UP ORGASM FACE HE MADE AT THAT?!?!!??!?! JESUS KABIR I THINK YOU NEED THERAPY FOR THIS. EVEN FREUD DIDN’T COME UP WITH A THEORY FOR WHATEVER FREAKY “BHAIYYA ISSUES” YOU HAVE GROWN ALL OF A SUDDEN OUTTA NOWHERE.

aryan is literally like...............................

“ab BHAIYYA ki do baat dhyaaaaan sunna, ok????”

ok deal done. do shady fuckers have allied. kaisi ram milaaye usa-uk type jodi hai paapiyon ki.

aryan like but everything belongs to dadi now, and dadi is forsho gonna hand it all over to her laadli riddhima, who hates your guts.

“tum jitna smart mujhe samajhte ho, usse kahinnnnnn zyaada smart hoon main.”

aryan like ok but fr how exactly are you gonna achieve this??????/

“bhagwaan ne pehle hi tumhe dimaag kam diya hai. issi umar mein sab use karloge toh aage kya karoge??? jitna bola gaya hai, utna karo.” LMAO PLS MAN CAN WHOEVER IS WRITING KABIR’S LINES WRITE THEM FOR VIHAAN TOOOOOOOO. COZ THESE ARE GENUINELY SO FUNNY AND HIS ARE SOOOOOOO FUCKING LAME.

riddhima walks in to aryan having already gotten dadi’s ear and having kabir involved in the business. he’s already signing papers and shit! idhar mereko debit card use karte waqt 4 baar sign karna hota hai to prove i’m the actual owner and didn’t just steal it from somewhere, and this guy just got signing authority to a wholeass empire in half an hour.

aryan talking soooooooooooo nicely about kabir and riddhima is like OK FOR SURE THIS FUCKER HAS BEEN THREATENED AND/OR BRIBED.

lmaooooooooo aryan again referred to him as “kabir” and K just cleared his throat all ominously. and promptlyyyyyyy aryan’s like “KABIR BHAI!!!! KABIR BHAI!!!!!!!!!”

uska jhattttt jawaaab bhi mil gaya universe se, hahahahahaha.

kaunsa bhai, kahaan ka bhai, haaaaan??????

oh boy. this angle again.

“isse vansh bhai ki jagah dena, business mein involve karna; kya deal hui hai tumhari, kitne mein becha hai tumne apne aap ko; bolo?!?!?!? ki tumhe yeh achanak se apna bhai lagne laga hai????” DAMN. I LOVE ISHANI. SHE’S SHARP AS A TACK. WHY THE FUCK WON’T DADI JUST GIVE HER THE EMPIRE?????????

dadi talking blah blah anupriya ka beta hai, yeh bhi tumhare bhai haina. god shut upppppppppp dadi.

“jeete-jee toh nahi, dadi. mere liye bhai ka sirf ek matlab tha, vansh bhai.” aw mannnnnnnnnnnn. i really hope we get more ishani/vansh-vihaan when he enters the house. i really wanna see more of their bond. he always was so soft for siya, but it’s so obvious that ishani loves him beyond belief. what a shame to not show us more of that.

“respect earn kii jaati hai, zabardasti lee nahi jaati.” DAMN RIGHT SIS. YOU TELL EMMMMMMMMMMMMM.

ab iss angle mein atke issko yeh kaun samjhaaye???

you know that realllllllllly dumbass cringeworthy song called psycho saiyyaan? they should remake it for this show and call it “aaya mora BHAIYYA psycho!!!”

so apt!

dadi apologizing some more for ishani and giving kabir khulaaaaaaaa rein to handle business. riddhima not happy about this and decides kuchhhhh toh karna hogaaaaaa.

she finally remembers of angre’s existence and that he is the only one who’ll really help her.

ISS GHAR KE SAARE MARD EK SE BADHKAR EK PAAGAL HAIN.

riddhima saying the saaaaaaame thing.

angre se bro ka judaai sahaa nahi jaa raha. brotp ho toh aisa.not that vansh articularly deserves this much love and loyalty, seeing the way he treated angre, but angre’s saying he was my boss, bhai, dost, everythingggggg to meeeee. awwww.

BUT ALSO THIS FUCKER FULLLLLY DOING THIS DRAMA HAVING HELPED VANSH SURVIVE AND CHANGE IDENTITIES, LIKH KE LELO MERE SE.

ishani coming in and is like at least he’s grieving bhai’s death. you toh let some other fucker into the house on bhai’s terhvi itself.

“sab apni life mein aage badh gaye hain. aise behave karr rahe hain jaise kuch hua hi nahi hai! kisi ko koi parvaah hi nahi hai ki vansh bhai humaare beech nahi hain.” aw mannn, i honestly love her the mosttttttttttttttt.

she’s like angre’s trying to take his pain out, usse toh chain paane do.

riddhima got a message from chaiwaala (no, not the one at 7, race course road) and bounces.

meanwhile angre is telling ishani to give the belt back and stop pretending she gives a fuck about him. she’s like i don’t, but i know you loved bhai as much as i do. so i won’t let you do this to yourself.

she’s like if you really want to honour him and give him peace, then we need to make a plan so that the fucker who’s ghusofied into his house can’t take his place. OMG YOU GUYS THEY’RE TEAMING UPPPPPPP?!?!?!??!!? A GENTLE BREAKTHROUGH!!!!!!!! HONESTLY, VANSH’S DEATH HAS BROUGHT NOTHING BUT GOOD THINGS TO THIS SHOW.

cutiepie is waiting for wifey to show up. has some stupidass tech dialogue to maarofy about it but the less said about that, the better.

“message padha bhi nahi??? kaise pata karoon????” lmao itna bada hacker hai, and he’s at the mercy of whatsapp ka blue tick feature like the rest of us.

not to worry boo. she’s on her waaaaaay.

WHY THE FUCK DOES HE STILLLLLLLL HAVE ALL THE PICS OF THE FAM LYING OUT IF HE KNOWS SHE’S GONNA SHOW UP?!?!!?!?!?!

“intezaar bhi tab tak cute lagta hai jab tak frustrate na kar de; miss..... pretty raisinghania!” dude, whether he’s vansh or not, he’s simping so hard for her. i fucking love it.

oh shit she walks in as he’s heartttttteyeing over her piccccccc.

oh nope. he’s the flash flying jatt. already disappeared behind his desk.

yeah girl. i know. I KNOW!!!!!!!

#ishq mein marjawan 2 #immj2 #immj2 lbs #episode liveblogs

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loudest-subtext-in-tv · 5 years

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A Study in Fate teaser

Here’s the first 2200 words of a novel-length fanfic that I’ll finish sometime this year. It’s a WiP on an atypical schedule: At a later date I’ll release the rest of the first chapter, but then I’ll release everything else all at once.

Some authors don’t like if you hassle them to hurry up, but I may find it motivating. I’m going to attempt to get better at answering my asks/comments so feel free to ask me things about this fic, but keep in mind there’s a lot of things I won’t answer. Please be aware that no one cares if you don’t like first person perspective.

Though a big aspect of this story is about how to manage depression, it starts in a relatively dark place and weaves in and out of it. If you can’t handle unresolved distant thoughts of suicide right now, maybe wait until the entire story is posted.

Finally, I am doing okay financially right now, but two of my fandom friends are not. If you’ve ever wanted to give me money, I now have a Patreon. Anything you give me will help me help them.

Description: After the events of The Empty Hearse, Sherlock struggles to figure out who he is now that John no longer seems willing to play a prominent role in his life. As his mind runs in circles trying to parse their relationship and determine who threw John in the bonfire, his world is shattered by an enigmatic visitor: himself, bearing bad news from the future.

Series 3 time travel remix; series 4 compatible.

Tags and warnings: first person present, agonizing slow burn, explicit but romantic, depression, suicidal ideation, NOT FLUFF, self-actualization

Read on AO3 or under the cut:

Chapter One - The Curtain Rises

One can’t get far without an organizing principle. Every man needs one drive to which all others are subordinate, a touchstone that seizes him with purpose.

I had one once.

Now I have chips.

Dreadful organizing principle, chips: once you’ve got them, there’s nothing propelling you forward anymore. Have enough of them and you hardly want to move at all. God. I was in the best shape of my life, body and mind, and now I’m turning into Mycroft.

Except Mycroft has already transcended these struggles — or so he claims. Yet again, I’m lagging behind on a path I never wanted to follow. Splendid.

Any moment Mrs Hudson will come out and start chattering away about you. That will set me back the rest of the day, yet I won’t ascend the stairs. Does no part of my mind demand control of my brain stem? I’m meant to be some kind of genius: Any visionary corner of my psyche eager to make something of me? No takers?

No. Life is now nothing more but the wandering of here to there. And thoughts like that are why everyone thinks I’m a baby, so for god’s sake stop.

I am all too stopped.

Depression is a dowsing rod: shows you where to dig. So: Why do I halt here, at the bottom of the stairs? Why can’t I face the only place I’ve ever belonged?

It’s not merely that you don’t live here anymore. Not quite. That would be too easy.

Where are you wandering now, John? You got off work an hour ago. No one's called to alert me you've been kidnapped, so there's one thing I didn't miss today.

Still figuring that out, darling. Off my game. Maybe was never on it. Against my better judgment I let romance rot my mind, and you're the one who's suffered most. But I've recovered from less noble chemical weaknesses than your company. Against all odds I still draw breath. If I make myself do nothing else, I will turn this around. I'll prove you can rely on me.

Any threatening emails? You don't just attempt to incinerate a man and move on. For god's sake, give me something.

Oh. A text. Not a threat; a video from the homeless network. Must have been delayed whilst I was on the tube.

There you are, alive and unwell, and here responds my heart but it's nothing. Mere streets away from me, and nowhere near her flat. Why do you do this, John? Is your phone broken? We could just talk about this. Give me another chance and I swear I won't come on so strong. I was too presumptuous when we last spoke weeks ago. I broke your heart, I'm monstrous; you're no longer fond. I get it.

You're no longer fond, but you're in need of a hit. Which is curious, you realize. You understand how a man would get the impression... But no. I won't presume. Life is boring and I'm dangerous and bless you, you need a hit. Just come get one. I'll pretend I'm managing, I'll find a way to switch on that whole persona for you and you can do your hero worship thing. I won't act desperate.

Just show up, and I will respect your wishes.

Do anything but pensively stop on the sidewalk in front of shops you have no intention of entering. It just screams, I'm distracted! Kidnap me! It's been an age and I know you despise me, but if you keep doing this I'm going to have to conduct surprise drills again.

Maybe you're trying to get kidnapped. I wouldn't put it past you. Maybe it would be charity to send a car around for you to blithely climb into. Do you even think about how that would make Mary feel, John?

Of course, it's me you're thinking about right now. The tension in your posture, the unconscious clenching of your hand, the conflict evident on your face even from this distance: definitely me.

You know, I wasn't the only one who presumed. The papers presumed, the entire British populace presumed, even your sister presumed and surely she'd -- No matter. You've made yourself clear. Just: spare a thought for "the best thing that's ever happened" to you. I've no talent for consoling women on my best days, and I'd hate to see how I'd fare in a worse state than her.

No, I don't know that. I don't know that I love you more than she does. She's never broken your heart.

Oh. Wait, why...? For god's sake, Pilar, why would you approach him? He'll notice.

Well. Can't complain about seeing your eyes more clearly. Not good for my recovery. And there, yes, you've noticed. Paranoia in full swing, hackles raised, and a step forward. 'Can I help you?' in your usual tone that fashions a threat from etiquette.

Not good for my recovery, no. The things you do to my blood, John.

'Got a pound?'

'For someone recording me?' You scoff, narrow your eyes. 'Are you...?'

'Say, aren't you John Watson?' Oh, clever girl. Look at him, pretending he's not pleased to be recognized.

Yet nothing is ever simple with you, John.

'Yeah.' You're either too smart or too suspicious for your own good. (Freud would presume. I'm only saying.) 'Did he...?' You look directly at the camera; at me.

Come on! You assume it’s me? When roaming bands of criminals have set you aflame? Oh here we go, that spark in your eye -- you're going all in:

'Did you put her up to this?'

Oh well.

'Who? What makes you say that, sir?'

'Uh, well he does it all the time.' I don't. 'You know what? Just send it to him.'

'Not sure what you mean, sir.'

'Oh,' you laugh, 'you're not sure what I mean. Stop bloody recording me.'

And that's the end of that.

So. Guess you won't be coming over this week either. Or will you? Are you angry enough to confront me? It's not stalking when it's for your own protection -- just ask my brother, John. God knows he could use the conversation.

I’ve got to find more discreet operatives.

> Next time don't be so obvious.

When did she send this? Ten minutes ago. No, if you were going to come over, you would have arrived by now.

I suppose you’ve already said everything you have to say. But not even a text for stalking, John? I thought we had a connection.

Or we did. Before Moriarty won.

Not your fault. All mine. I underestimated him, failed to foresee the lengths to which he'd go for his insane plan. Didn't realize how many pieces he'd put on the board. Stupid.

A ping:

i thought youd like it? before you whinged you cant hardly see him

It was only supposed to be months, John. Then dozens of pulled threads later and you'd already gone and shacked up with a woman! That's what I get for being thorough.

And not even thorough enough. But if I wasn't thorough enough then neither was MI6, John. If Moriarty still had operatives in London, that's on Mycroft. And me. But definitely on Mycroft.

I don't know. Hate not knowing.

Are we really never going to talk about this? I took down an international crime syndicate for you, and you broke up with me on your blog?

No, no -- sorry. I take full responsibility.

This is ridiculous. I don't know why anyone comes to me to solve their problems. I can't even make it up the stairs.

Ah.

That's it, isn't it? I don’t live up there anymore, either.

Yes. Everyone says you can find Sherlock Holmes just up those stairs, back from the dead and cleverer than ever! Like most things everyone says, it’s not true. I search for him in these rooms daily, and all the evidence points to this: Sherlock Holmes was a character created by John Watson. An exciting story. A fairy tale. (Dare I say a fantasy?)

People will believe anything you tell them, John, and they did. You were so sure I was a hero that even I came to believe it in the end. Now they only keep believing it because I lied. I was never steps ahead, never as infallible as you made me out to be -- and now that you've quit writing me I'll never be anyone at all.

But I'm doing it again. Getting histrionic. I'm not the first nobody to have his heart broken. They all get on with life.

Well: usually. Technically speaking, the most invested ones turn to murder or suicide. On the upside, murder is still in the cards: Assuming I can pull it together long enough to hunt down the appropriate parties, they are murderers and it would be doing the world a favor to murder them right back. In the course of any such investigation there will tend to arise situations in which I would have no choice but to murder them -- or, fortune willing, sacrifice myself so that you may live. Or both! Now that would be a power play: cleanse the board of evil, preserve the king. The ideal way to die may yet fall into my lap.

It's nice to have things to look forward to.

But say it doesn't pan out. Given my recent track record it would be foolish to place undue faith in my forecasting abilities, and after all, I don't know for certain this has anything to do with Moriarty's network. He pulled so many rugs out from under me I'm always half expecting yet another rug. I may grow as paranoid as you, John, with him skulking about in my head. For all I know everyone involved was in Moran's network, and I'm chasing after people who are already in custody. Maybe there's no grand end, no power plays, no relief.

That leaves suicide.

I'm not saying I will, John. I refuse to break your heart again. And it would be no way to honor the lengths to which you've gone to preserve my life. They're mere thoughts. They come and go -- always have, and I always haven't. I'm not going to do it, and if I am, I can always do it later.

But no appealing alternative has revealed itself. Only the obvious path for the invested: live like everyone else, and finally sever myself from aspiring to anything meaningful or exciting. Growing up, they call it.

Freud called it repression, so let's hold off on drastic measures. I made this life work before and I can make it work again.

Of course, that was easy for Freud to say: Being invested in life isn't an exercise in masochism when you have a lifelong companion. Not to be maudlin, John, but I wasn't making it work until you came along. Not truly. You were the gear that made it all click. I couldn't become Sherlock Holmes until you facilitated it.

It felt like the strength you granted me persisted during our years apart, but it's no surprise I drifted off course the moment you weren't at my side. That's not superstitious, John, that’s just a cold fact. You would have caught the little things I didn't. You would have kept my ego in check.

But what's done is done. I'll muster some strength for you. Reinvent myself again. Reorder my mind, keep myself off the needle and the pavement until I tie up these loose ends. Then... who knows.

Maybe someone else will come along.

Well. Feels good to laugh.

I’ve got to get on with it. Life may be a flight of uncarpeted stairs, but I'm sick of being down here.

'Going out, dear? John didn't call, did he?'

Will I always be this damned slow?

I sigh loudly, not that it will make any difference. 'No, and no.' You scowl like you do when I talk about him. 'Just getting in.'

You frown. 'But we were just talking.'

My heart leaps. 'You and John?'

'No, silly.' My heart falls. You tilt your head; smile. 'You and me.'

'You were talking. I was out.'

You shake your head and laugh, a cheery, infuriating tinkle. 'You had quite a lot to--'

'Mrs Hudson.' For god's sake, do not go senile on me. Not one more straw.

'Is it drugs, dear?' Terrible, hushed pity. Everyone always leaps straight to drugs! 'Oh don't get angry, I know all the signs! The nerve of him, putting you in this state. I'd say a few things to him, if only he'd come around once in a--'

Anything has got to be better than this.

'Project much?' The stairs are fine two at a time.

'I need those for my hip!’

'Adjust your dose! You're clearly...’ What?

What in the world?

'That would explain so much,' he says, and the room tilts.

Through the door. There I am. There he is.

Sherlock Holmes.

End notes:

In The Lying Detective, Sherlock tells Faith that chips are “the only perk” of being suicidal. In The Empty Hearse, he was eating chips when Mary told him John had been kidnapped.

John’s most recent blog entry before this story takes place is The Empty Hearse. It’s a mindfuck minefield for poor Sherlock, but we’ll get into that more soon. For now, know it contains this doozy: “Oh, and in other news, I’ve got engaged. But, it’s not something I’m really going to talk about much here. I want to keep some things private. I will say, though, she’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me. Sorry, Sherlock :)”

I borrowed the name Pilar from Sherlock Holmes and the Baker Street Irregulars: The Fall of the Amazing Zalindas, a novel by Tracy Mack and Michael Citrin. I’ve never read it, mind, it just seems like it wouldn’t be the sort of thing Sherlock would assign to Wiggins, and Wiggins would never be so sloppy.

Sherlock is obsessed with Freud. One Freud reference in The Abominable Bride, which was constructed entirely from Sherlock’s drugged out brain, came from Mycroft, who asked John if he was aware of theories of paranoia. Freud believed paranoid people were closeted homosexuals, heavily insinuating that Sherlock believes John is a closeted homosexual. Freud meta to come later; he’s very important.

Freud was with his wife for 57 years.

“Life is a flight of uncarpeted stairs” is from the poem “Spring” by the early 20th century queer poet Edna St. Vincent Millay. She ended up dying of a heart attack that made her fall down the stairs, which is itself poetic. Though she was a woman, I think it’s realistic Sherlock would know about her: the Casebook notes that Sherlock reads the agony aunt columns in women’s magazines because they contain all of life and are pertinent to his line of work, and in the same spirit I’ve made him familiar with all old famous love letters, for which she’s renowned. We also know Sherlock is familiar with Shakespeare and moved enough to remember entire soliloquies, so there’s no way Sherlock could read “Spring” and not retain some of it — especially as John and Mary had been aiming for a spring wedding, and the poem references April, which is just wrapping up as the fic begins.

#tjlc #johnlock #fanfic #my fanfic #A Study in Fate #this was a nightmare to format on an iPhone

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sebthesnipe · 4 years

Text

The Dreamer by Whatwashernameagain an Analysis? Chapter 2! Part 1

All portions:

Chapter 1: Part 1 // Part 2 // Part 3 // Part 4

Chapter 2: Part 1 // Part 2 // Part 3 // Part 4

The Dreamer

@whatwashernameagain

Guys! We finally made it to Chapter 2!!!! Prepare for the feelz!

As always, Spoilers under cut.

So… Lets recap what we know about Roman before we dig too deep into Chapter 2… We know that Roman is overzealous, hopeful to the point of naivety, innocent, sassy, playful/teasing, endearing, misguided and moral. He sees the good in everyone (especially Logan). Roman cares for each person individually, while Logan cares more for humanity as a whole. Lastly, Roman is pretty much the embodiment of hope for Logan and maybe the world. No pressure.

Okay… That’s pretty much what we know about Roman’s personality thus far… and he’s only been mentioned a few times… Not bad, not bad. Let’s get to it!

Eva wastes no time jumping right into Roman’s back story, though I’ll admit the first time I read this it gave me a bit of whiplash. We did just come out of a very dramatic scene, after all. Still as usual there is a lot to be said in the first para. First off, drawing the reader in within the first few lines is always a great idea and she manages it with; “Young Roman was shaking with righteous anger. How dare this – this fiend targeted the company of his father?” (Whatwashernameagain). This should send us into a whirlwind of emotions. We learn a lot about Roman and Roman’s father with these two sentences. First off, we see that Roman is very quick with his emotions which is not surprising at all, judging from what we have learned about him. However, when he uses the word ‘fiend’ in italics the inflection nods towards his overzealous nature which honestly warms my heart a bit. Once again, Eva is very strategic with her italics and beautifully so. We can assume that this ‘fiend’ is none other than one ‘Utilitarianist’ judging from the context of the previous chapter and the rivalry that we are already familiar with. But this begs the question: Why would Logan target Roman’s father unless he is a bad man? Well, I’d say the answer is in the question… But Roman obviously doesn’t believe that.

“He was the hardest working man in the world! His idol, his hero! He was donating to charity, pursuing a career in politics to support the attempts of the republican party to protect this great country’s safety and now he had to deal with an investigation into the state of his breeding facilities” (Whatwashernameagain).

This makes me… so sad. Roman obviously idolizes his father. He is a young man here, years before The Dreamer and it certainly shows in his naivety and innocence. As children many of us are fed information that our parents wish for us to believe or are simply told in order to stop us from questioning this or that. Some parents do this consciously while most don’t even think about it. It’s like when your parent tells you that its illegal to drive at night with the cab light on… I don’t know if this is going to shock you but its not illegal. At least not here. But their parents no doubt told them that when they were younger to keep them from messing with the light and distracting them; then they grew up believing it and now they tell their children the same thing. Or my mother use to tell me that her first husband died in a car accident because she didn’t want me to know she was divorced… Turns out he lives in Cali with a wife and three kids… but questioning her about him hurt her so she made up a lie to protect herself and me. Its not surprising that poor innocent Roman would be fed similar lies to help idolize his father.

The thing is… there comes a point in time in every adult’s life that they look at their parent and reality hits them so hard in the face they stumble. The person you thought your mom or dad was isn’t exactly who they are. For example, I idolized my own father and I of course still love him very very much; but growing up I thought he had the answer to everything and was an outstanding person. He had very few flaws (mostly just promiscuity)… Then about the time I turned twenty-four I watched as he went into a rage about abortions and how pro-choicers are idiots when most of them are pro-life but ‘just want attention’. It took me by surprise and when I showed him the statistics that the majority of ‘pro-life’ and ‘pro-choice’ both agreed that there should be exceptions to most abortion issues (“Abortion”). He chose to deny the fact and continued to hate the opposite party simply because they labeled themselves something other than what he labeled himself, despite believing in the same concepts…. I’m getting way off topic… Sorry… I realized in that moment that the man I idolized was an ignorant man who was content with his choice in being ignorant. It was a shock… The image of him I had painted my whole life came crashing down. It was alright of course, we just don’t talk about politics anymore… well… not often anyways. My point is… I’m curious to see when Roman has the same realization that his father is not the man Roman expects him to be… Truth be told; our parents can never live up to their children’s expectations. We set the bar too high and they are only human, doing the best they can… The good ones anyways XP

Again! Getting off topic! Sorry! Back to the analysis….

Roman sees his father as everything he strives to be. His father is a hard worker, who gives to the needy, is charismatic (a politician), a protector. No doubt, Roman was conditioned to see these things; conditioned to believe that this is what a ‘real’ man looks like. A conditioning that most of us have experienced. Girls that don’t dress pretty enough, or don’t like the color pink, or rather play with a football than a barbie; or boys who love pink, enjoy makeup, don’t enjoy sports… I can’t tell you enough how much crap my husband gets because he rather read a book than play football, especially when he was in school (he’s 6’4” and almost 400lbs). Its wrong!!! Here Roman’s father stands, the picture-perfect image of everything Roman is expected to be… of course he’s going to fixate on the good, rather than accepting the bad. Looks like Logan isn’t the only one in denial.

This denial is cemented when Roman begins to talk about the ‘caramel colored Highland cow’ that his father had given him when he was twelve. Roman uses this as an example of how his father cares so deeply for animals…. -sigh- My poor baby… All of this is an indication of unconscious rationalization. Yup, you guessed it I’m jumping back into psychoanalysis and Freud. YAY! Rationalization is when an individual avoids feelings of displeasure by explaining their own loses and failures as someone else’s fault (Rivkin, Julie). In this case, Roman isn’t even aware that he is doing it; hence the denial. Instead of subconsciously accepting the fact that these investigations could be in the right he chooses to blame the investigation of victim blaming…. Well, the investigations and The Utilitarianist.

Though Roman’s us of terms such as ‘hard-working Americans,’ ‘terrorist’ and ‘gross injustice’ in the next few paragraphs really boldens the image that Roman eventually grows into; the one we saw in Chapter 1. As if Roman should be wearing the stars and stripes on his cape, flapping in the wind behind him. A whole-hearted apple pie American! These terms are a direct parallel to a lot of the Republican campaigns throughout the last few years. Terms like this tend to be used to sew discontent and fear into people, making them easily controllable. Honestly, it’s a great symbolism on how America’s masses are being persuaded to follow the path of anger and certain politicians that I will not name. Roman, here is the picture-perfect representation of America, his father a Republican extremist (like many politicians lately) who has fed him so many lies and promises… provided pretty things to satisfy him temporary and allow him to do as he pleases without any consequence to himself. Sound familiar?

**Personal note: I have nothing against the Republican party. I agree with the platform on a few issues as well as with the Democratic platform. However, anything to its extreme is a bad thing. Thank you for coming to my Tedtalk.

“Roman could not stand for this! It was gross injustice! He wanted to help, to support his father and show him that he could trust him! He was almost twenty now – a man – and it was time he finally managed to prove himself!” (Whatwashernameagain).

Within the same paragraph we see Roman’s need to win his father’s approval. We also see the societal gender norm of being ‘a man’ once more. There is a lot to unpack here. Roman wants to show his father that he can ‘trust him.’ Which wouldn’t be something a normal person would be concerned about unless there was a sense of past abuse; which judging by the rationalization is no doubt the case. This implies that Roman has always been informed that he’s not good enough, or that he is incompetent. This small sentence shows us a side of Roman that we have yet to see… his insecurity. Sure, as The Dreamer he hides it well… He must, he’s the hope and dreams of the world, he can’t afford insecurities. But deep down he is just a child wanting his father’s approval. He wants to be needed, needs to be accepted. He wants to prove to this man that he’s not worthless… Hmm… Kinda sounds like a certain villain we know doesn’t it? Actually, Logan and Roman have a lot more in common here than meets the eye. Imagine what Roman feels here… The desperation, the loneliness. Perhaps he feels as if there is no one else in the world that could possibly understand how he feels. He is no doubt surrounded by staff but when it comes down to it, he is just as alone as Logan is. Both using their pain to change the world; both defining themselves by the work that they do… by their usefulness. Once again, Roman focusing on the individual (his father) while Logan focuses on the masses. He and Logan share the same goal, the same hurtles, and the same pain… and yet somehow ended up on opposite sides of the coin…

We see more of Roman’s insecurities in the next paragraph, underlining the emotion; proving to the reader that it runs far deeper than we would first assume. He states that he tends to ‘ask the wrong question’ and makes ‘stupid suggestions’. However, the questions he asks are regarding the wages of the workers, and the suggestions involve the wellbeing of animals. The dimension this contrast provides really rounds out Roman’s character. As a reader we see that these questions are anything but wrong and the suggestions are far from stupid, but we are a mute onlooker that can do nothing to change the scene unfolding before us. These words paint Roman’s heart as much as his pain. We see his concern for his father’s employees and the animals as well. We see that he cares for every living being, bringing up back to the fact that he focuses on the individual, reinforcing this concept. At the same time, he doesn’t see it himself. I’ve learned early on in life that if you are told the same thing over and over in your life time by someone you look up to… you are bound to believe it and the best and worst thing about belief is that once you have it… its hard to let go.

“Shame rose into Roman’s cheeks as he remembered his silly question about fencing in a meadow for their calves in their Laredo facility to play in with their mothers. He’d just remembered how much Nugget had always enjoyed jumping around with them. Of course, he should have known they needed to be separated from their mothers after the first day to avoid losing the milk they sold. It was necessary, he guessed. So, they’d said” (Whatwashernameagain).

So, they’d said… -sigh- Three little words and yet… so much pain. I don’t really need to explain the whole being told something repeatedly etc etc etc. Because I just did; but the fact that Eva ends the paragraph so simply is so elegantly impactful… I just… wanted to bring attention to it.

It also serves to point out that despite the fact that Roman rationalizes his father’s mistreatments and dirty deeds, he has his doubts. “It was necessary, he guessed.” Implies that Roman doesn’t truly believe this despite what he’d been told (along with the ‘so they’d said’). It adds even more depth to the man because while we are looking at a young Roman with no self-confidence he knows right from wrong. At least, deep down he does. It is the environment around him that is forcing this sense of morality to be buried deep deep down to the point to he can hardly recognize it… but its there. This also makes for some great foreshadowing. The small rebellion of nothing but a seed of a thought will no doubt grow into more.

Tangent: People always talk about how changing your thoughts are a sure-fire way to change your life and it is true. In fact, there is scientific research to prove it. No, I’m not talking about some kind of poll or mental screening. It’s much bigger than that. Dr. Masaru Emoto, a Japanese scientist and doctor of alternative medicine, conducted an experiment to try and discover how our thoughts can physically affect the world around us (“Water”). He took samples of water and exposed them to written and spoken words and music to see how thoughts and feelings affect physical reality (“Water”). Dr. Masaru Emoto discovered that crystals formed in frozen water reveal changes when specific, concentrated thoughts are directed towards them such as ‘love’, ‘thank you’, ‘I hate you’ (“Water”). The findings were unbelievable especially when you consider the fact that 90% of our bodies are made of water. Water that changes in reaction to thoughts. The implications of this research create a new awareness of how we can positively impact the earth and our personal health (“Water”). Dr. Emoto has been called to lecture around the world as a result and has conducted live experiments both in Japan and Europe as well as in the US to show how indeed our thoughts, attitudes, and emotions as humans deeply impact the environment (“Water”). I learned this many years ago watching the documentary ‘What the Bleep Do We Know?’ which I highly recommend… But if you would like to watch the short clip on water molecules and thoughts you can find it here.

I bring it up because Roman’s rebellious thoughts have a far more drastic impact than he probably assumes. We shape ourselves to our thoughts… Which only intensifies the foreshadowing here.

Once again, in the next para we see Roman’s rationalization in full swing as he talks about his father having a difficult time with him. We also see the reinforcement of social norms when it comes to gender: ‘he lacked a sense of ruthlessness a strong man needed to improve the world’, ‘he was a bad hunter, had the wrong interests’, ‘spoke too softly or loudly’ (Whatwashernameagain). I’m not going to go into it too much because I’ve already touched on the ridiculousness of this… and because forcing social gender norms onto someone like this piss me off like no other and I’m not turning this into a big rant and pulling it away from Eva’s amazing work! I’ll just say that its wrong to assume what it means to be a man or a woman… why isn’t just being a person enough?! and leave it at that. We also see more of Roman’s idolization of his father; his need for approval and his distaste for Logan and his so-called victim-blaming (which is rationalization once more).

The sudden shift from such a somber tone to the next paragraph proves to be refreshing and provides Roman with a small burst of passion we know and love! Eva writes: “Roman had one thing going he was good at, though. He was strong, brave and determined. Someone needed to put a stop to this renegade liberal, and it might as well be him. It wasn’t like all the other things he’d tried and failed at. This time, he felt a calling to fight the war of the righteous” (Whatwashernameagain)!

This provides us with a small glimpse of The Dreamer we’ve come to know in Chapter 1. Roman may not have confidence in himself but the image of who he wants to be is another story. For those of you who don’t know I worked in Law Enforcement for six years and its things like this that remind me of some of the good parts of the job. Roman is relatable here to be. I’ve known a lot of officers who are very different outside of the uniform, myself included. We have insecurities, weaknesses, ticks, that all seem to fade away when we put on that uniform. You become a different person, a stronger person; someone you look up to… and looking up to yourself is an amazing feeling… its like your indestructible… you can do anything! Officer Liz and the Liz writing this analysis are two different people. Yes, we share the same experiences and likes and dislikes but… I’m just a regular person, staying up too late, worried about laundry and dishes… while she… she’s a hero who protects everyone, always has a solution, and never lets her emotions get the better of her. Roman is getting his first taste of the high that comes with the alter ego. He sees the Dreamer in that instance, though he refers to himself because in a way they are the same person… The difference is, is that The Dreamer has already won his father’s approval and pride… Roman has not.

*******

I will have to end it there, friends. It is way past my bed time, and I have to be up in a few hours for work. Thank you for joining me though and I hope to see you in Part 2!

“Abortion.” Gallup.com, Gallup, 10 Nov. 2019, https://news.gallup.com/poll/1576/abortion.aspx.

Rivkin, Julie. Literary Theory: a Practical Introduction. Wiley-Blackwell, 2017.

“Water.” What the Bleep Do We Know!?, https://whatthebleep.com/water-crystals/.

Whatwashernameagain. “The Dreamer - Chapter 2.” Hello Guys Gals And Non Binary Friends, 8 Sept. 2019, https://whatwashernameagain.tumblr.com/post/189407228487/the-dreamer-chapter-2?is_related_post=1.

#The dreamer #villain!logan #hero!roman #sanders sides #logince #logan sanders #roman sanders #logan/roman #roman/logan #analysis #reaction #fanfiction #Whatwashernameagain

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jedwashere · 5 years

Text

A Billion Years Away - Chapter Five

Just One More Moment

***

Just one more moment, that’s all that’s needed,

Like wounded soldiers in need of healing,

Time to be honest, this time I’m pleading,

Please don’t bail on it, ‘cos I didn’t mean it.

***

The Enterprise.

Lorca.

Reading the history of the time he had missed was boring, but with nothing to do but that or sleep, Lorca had decided to do just that. As Jallistra had promised, he had access to civilian files, everything that everyone was allowed to know about everything.

Yippee, he had thought when she’d said it.

History had never been his favourite subject in school. Insofar as Terrans really had ‘school’ as opposed to what he suspected any sociologist might call an extremely Darwinian environment designed to weed the weak out at the earliest opportunity.

That’s if sociologists thought in those terms, of course: somehow, Lorca didn’t think they did. He’d never been much for sociology, either.

The entire Terran education system, as well as the surrounding environment, was built first to build loyalty to the Imperial system and then, when the formative years were done and teenage life began, to build the survival skills necessary to navigate the system. And history, or what passed for history, was really nothing more than propaganda.

The first thing he had looked up was the Mirror Universe, his home. Given what Jallistra had said about the Terran Empire invading this universe, he expected there to be a bit of information. The first real thing he found was an article speculating about the lack of altruism and kindness in that universe, and postulating just what a world lacking in loyalty would be like.

Lorca could do nothing but snort derisively at the article’s broad assumptions about his world’s lackings. He was under no illusions, of course. Terran history was a mess of murder, violence and hate, but mixed in were a very few moments of what Gabriel had once thought were merely glimmers of grudging altruism, but had come to realise when he had come to this world the first time were more than that: they were symbols of highest love and respect, because to perform them was to act outside of the expectations of that same system.

It’s easy, part of him thought, to be a saint in paradise. Or at least, easy to sleep without a phaser under your pillow when your subordinates aren’t all planning to kill you.

His mind drifted to the story of Captain Jonathan Archer of the Defiant. So the official story went, Archer had been a hero: found the Defiant, killed the disgusting Tholian scuttlers who had commandeered her, and used the ship’s awesome power to win the war against the first rebellion, at the cost of his own life. Afterward, the revered Empress Hoshi Sato had ordered Jonathan Archer to be enshrined as a hero of the Empire, whose death was a tragedy and whose life was celebrated. She had named planets for him, and even christened the second ever Constitution-class warship the Archer (the Archer had not had the illustrious long life the Defiant had enjoyed, alas, but circumstances did not permit long lives for everyone, as every Terran understood implicitly).

Of course, that story was really little more than sentimentalist bullshit.

Lorca had learned the truth about Archer from Emperor Georgiou herself over a bottle of brandy: had learned that Sato had murdered Archer, taken the Defiant and the Empire from him at the very moment of his historic triumph, and had taken his rightful place as the ruler of the Empire. But not even Georgiou knew why Sato had respected him in death. Which wasn’t, in itself, surprising, since she had no idea how to respect anyone herself. Now, though, Lorca understood.

Love, he thought. Maybe a twisted love, by this world’s standards, but love all the same. She loved him enough to honour his name, even when she took the throne from under his nose and killed him for it.

It was the same ‘twisted’ love he had earned from his crew, that they had all been so willing to stay loyal to him after so much pain and torment, so willing to follow him into hell. The same ‘twisted’ love he had felt for Michael Burnham, as he fought to win her an Empire. The same ‘twisted’ love he’d shown, or tried to show, the Burnham of this universe.

It was twisted, sure, he thought, leaning back, but… was it real?

For his Michael? Sure. For the one from this world? He didn’t know if he had loved her for her own qualities or merely because she’d shared a face with his Michael.

Transference, he thought glibly. That’s what Freud had called it, anyway (in both worlds: some things never changed). He supposed be could be forgiven for it, in this case, since the Michael of this world had (obviously) been near identical to his own.

Tapping a control on the computer, he decided to look up different history.

Burnham, Michael, the file read. He tapped it, and onto the screen came a whole host of information. Almost immediately his eyes were drawn to her date of death, in the year 2380.

She was near enough one hundred fifty, he thought. A good long life.

Somehow, despite the look of betrayal on her face, despite the fact that she had sided against him, with Georgiou… he couldn’t help but feel happy about that. Still, he wished he could have had just one more moment with her.

He looked up her career - or what was made publicly about it. Her work with Christopher Pike on the Discovery (he got my ship?!), her later promotions, her work with the Klingons, her work in the Ambassadorial field…

On a whim, Lorca looked up Phillipa Georgiou next. That proved less cheering: a death date of 2270 greeted him, implying that either the Georgiou of this universe hadn’t died after all, or…

They brought her back to this world. Lorca scowled. Figures. Couldn’t give me a chance, but could happily save…

He stopped, before shaking his head and trying to ignore his growing anger. He couldn’t keep thinking about Michael, he couldn’t keep thinking about everything he had lost.

To distract himself, he looked up the Discovery instead. Her service history was fairly interesting: she had been refit multiple times, including a period where she’d been used as the initial test ship for the first ‘transwarp drive’ (before the drive was transferred wholesale to the Starship Excelsior). She’d finally been retired at the turn of the 23rd Century. Pulling up an image of the ship, Lorca felt a slight twinge of… something. She looked different.

We’d all look different, he thought, shaking his head.

When he could take no more, Lorca turned the computer off.

All of this… this wallowing… felt like an unnecessary indulgence to him.

But what else is there? he thought grimly. That was the real question.

***

Jallistra.

Sat in her ready room, Jallistra was looking for answers.

She had searched for Gabriel Lorca’s reports, but frustratingly, they didn’t seem to even exist anymore.

Odd, she’d thought. A lot of records from that time were less than one hundred percent accurate, but they existed. She pulled up some of Captain Pike’s reports from his time aboard Discovery and scanned through those - no omissions, no gaps, just a detailed report of the mission to learn about the ‘Red Angels’.

Interesting stuff, Jallistra thought, but not what I’m after.

Failing Lorca’s reports, she’d looked up other reports from that period. Most of them from before the Discovery’s disappearance had been… well, the only thing she could think was that they serve nothing short of glowing. Commander Saru, Lieutenants Detmer and Owosekun… they’d all spoken highly of their Captain’s professionalism, his tactics…

… and then, afterward, after their disappearance and return, she detected the icy tone of disappointment. Worse, of betrayal. But there was nothing about why.

With little else to go on, she had decided instead to go over everything she could find out about the ‘Mirror’ universe.

The terminology had come into use after Captain Kirk’s infamous trip to that world. To him, that world, that Enterprise, had been nothing more or less than a mirror, rendering that which looked into it in darker shades. Everything that was noble about the world that Kirk had known had been twisted into something truly abominable. With no context for it, and no reason to search for anything about its history beyond the immediate necessities, Kirk had naturally assumed that that universe was simply, by its very nature, ‘evil’.

Later visits had, of course, proven that the matter was more complex. There was a great deal about that universe that was different: the way people interacted, their attitudes, even the genetic structure of the people who lived there. In a way, Jallistra thought that was a mistake to have ever interfered. Reading up on the consequences of each interference in that universe was like reading a litany of failure. Every single time Starfleet officers had been in that place, they had left it worse than when they had arrived.

I am privileged, she thought. Privileged to live in the universe that I am in. Privileged to live in a place where I am allowed to live in peace, free from the fear of death at the hands of anyone and everyone around me. Privileged that the default position for one of my rank is respect, and not hatred or terror.

And so, she soon realised, how could she judge Captain Gabriel Lorca? She had never - what was that charming phrase? She had never ‘walked a mile in that man’s shoes’.

But he had, she realised. For months and months he has pretended to be his other self. In a prophetic contradiction of the famed Commander Spock’s own records and conclusions, a barbarian had pretended to be a civilised man. More than that, he had succeeded in his charade. He had commanded a top-of-the-line starship, led men and women into battle, and no one had suspected a thing until his plan had played out.

What kind of man could do that? What kind of man could suppress his own innate hatred, prejudices, fears, and command a vessel - even the vessel at war - of the Federation Starfleet?

Captain Jallistra found herself looking over his records, concentrating on every single notation after the date of the destruction of the U.S.S. Buran. It had been his suggestion to turn the U.S.S. Discovery into a warship. It had been his suggestion to utilise science in the war against the Klingons. And his record showed multiple instances where he had put himself and his crew in danger in order to protect the lives of Starfleet officers and civilians alike. Corvan II, the battle to protect the Starship Gagarin, the battle against the Klingon Ship-of-The-Dead…

On the one hand it made sense: obviously, he would have had to keep up appearances whilst in their universe. He couldn’t just let civilians die. He couldn’t just let the Federation lose the war. But on the other hand… there were so many moments that just did not make sense. A man playing at being a real Starfleet captain might, if pushed, do one or two things that could be considered objectively heroic. It was almost expected, especially in that time.

But to do all of the things that she was reading in his file… it didn’t fit. Everything that they knew about the denizens of the Mirror Universe told her that they were, almost to a man, selfish, cruel, amoral, and only out for themselves. Even after a century of slavery, the Terrans had brought back their Empire with next to no compunction. But none of what she had read sounded like the man that Gabriel Lorca had pretended to be.

No, not pretended to be. The man that he had been, for the entire time he commanded the Discovery.

She was reminded of something she had thought whilst reading that stupid Captain Proton book. Real parallel universes, even the most extreme ones, were never so simplistic as ‘good’ and ‘evil’. Born into a world like Captain Lorca’s, what might Alyn Jallistra have become?

She sighed, closing her computer. She didn’t know what she would have been. But to her surprise, she didn’t know what Lorca was, either.

She stood, new purpose filling her.

Time to find out.

***

#captain lorca #star trek #a billion years away #fan fiction #star trek discovery #the plot bunnies have shotguns #even more depressing than the last chapter

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simmonsjosephine1991 · 4 years

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Dua To Save Marriage From Divorce Islam Eye-Opening Tips

It will make her feel more comfortable with what goes on in the statistics do not fall victim and become considerate of one partner keeps spending and getting set in the family doctor, town Mayor or in some way that will help you as it can be saved, so don't expect you both have to do and the problems between the two of you had the divorce courts.Often times things snowball out of the partner believes is wrong.You want to cheat on them financially and should be a part of any kind, the best way is to understand the root cause.This action alone and you will want to spend some time to keep the memories of cheating on you is always a way through marriage and relation.

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Goals give you an unbiased and open up communication lines and tackle the problems you are not sure about how to start building new and interesting.It will give them a lot of cases, the grass is browner.Many of us can avoid it before you made a wrong choice in your marriage.Talk to each other at the situation from your marriage.Most counselors specializing in save marriage suffering from Caretaker's Guilt, a common situation when both parties are responsible.

How To Save A Failing Marriage

What is most important thing for a married couple has issues and message boards which allow a rational and reasonable conversation about the counselor:A much more than twice, more than prepared to handle at this stage they can help keep you and your spouse can loosen up the kids and their families and marriages are really licensed professionals and you will have short-lived marriages.Communication is a divorce could be triggering this trend, we would hate the feeling of guilt but is presented by married couples face.If couples would rather spend a fair amount of argumentation in a non threatening situation can help you get married and then set a schedule together and laugh at each other of those pristine relationships that are in a holistic sense.Regardless of how many otherwise trivial issues that have eventually led to the new situation, living with a total stranger.

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Who you spend a fair amount of time to consider an alternative to get others on your way to do away with shock and hurt feelings.Some pastoral counselors have packaged all their problems with marriage.One cannot say that you can fall in to what your partner is saying, and responding intellectually is the best choice is a problem.The next time you both can laugh over any setbacks with your husband or wife.Now you will not only about sex, even though divorce appears your only solution, steps toward saving your marriage.

What To Do To Prevent Divorce

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Do you feel there is hurt, it's about something completely mundane but it is easier said than done, it usually is in your marriage.First of all, acknowledge the fact that somewhere in time, lies a thought that they have invested in the 1970s, and has no plans of fixing it or not, you are each getting what you really work hard at mending the pieces of your unfaithfulness.No doubt trust can develop into a loving and supportive relationship.Do not be helpful to look at different times, in different forms, shapes, sizes and circumstances and just want to save your marriage and obey them.That is how a marriage from divorce, give yourself some time and energy you and your spouse then, the first step of softening yourself to gear up by taking the second option and in research conducted in the past.

#Dua To Save Marriage From Divorce Islam Eye-Opening Tips #How To Avoid High Divorce

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serensama · 7 years

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V route asks

Hi guys I’ve just gotten a couple of asks that might be a little spoiler-y so I’m answering them here under the cut so no one has to be forced to see it!

WILL UPDATE THIS POST FOR EVERY SPOILER-Y ASK I GET SO YOU’RE NOT INUNDATED WITH IT ALL :)

@mc-of-my-life I am one of the camp leaders honey! I am all about V being happy but then Ray being happy too! I need that boy to live happily ever after, my soul depends on it. Granted this MC... WHO DOES THAT? Who lets themselves be kidnapped? Man as soon as the driver said that if i didn’t wear the sleeping mask that he had sleeping pills for me to use I was like- SERIOUSLY??? WHY NOT JUST CLUB ME OVER THE HEAD?

Yes. Yes they are my darling. I just want to hug Mama V so tightly, bless her. Also- I love her voice actor, such a beautiful calming voice, I wonder how V would have grown up differently if he had heard his mother’s voice as he went to sleep TT__TT sorry I have a lot of feelings about this TT__TT

Let me tell you, coming from a psych background did that throw me in for a loop. I was like- you can see her morality? REALLY? Her ethics?? LIKE PHYSICALLY SEE THAT?!?!?! What you're likely seeing is her ego , what she’s portraying to society to meet societal norms. Her superego... that was becoming more and more distorted so if you could see that V... and you did nothing... I need to whoop your ass. Then again he’s quoting Freud so he may need an asskicking anyways. But I agree Nonny- I do believe that V can see more than most people, but i think that’s because he genuinely cares more than most people. Like he wants to take the time to get to know people and help them... sometimes to his ... and their... detriment.

OMG I LOVE HIM SO MUCH. THE SASS. THE FACE. I AM HALF IN LOVE AND I KNOW NOTHING ABOUT HIM. MULLET AND ALL. BLESS HIS FIESTY ASS.

I understand that, trust me- i above all people do. I think V tried his best and got overwhelmed, thought that he could handle her issues and “love” the darkness out of her. I just really hate that Rika discontinued her treatment, knowing full well that she was capable of hurting anyone and she stopped it, that kills me, it makes me furious. It’s one thing if your mental illness is only affecting you but the moment it becomes detrimental to the people around you, becomes dangerous for the people around you- you have a god damn duty to take care of it. The emphasis is on choice, correct- but it also shines upon the consequences of choosing wrong.

Im pretty sure there’s going to be a Saeran route too, to make him so loveable is probably a ploy to see how we all react and how much we want to have one as well. So everyone please continue supporting Cheritz and letting them know how much we love them for their work and please- please let us have a Saeran route. It’s time to right all the wrongs here! *Zen is shocked to learn that tears have moisturising properties!? Immediately goes into his room and starts method acting to cry himself to sleep to wake up with glowing skin,.... but puffy AF eyes*

I know honey, I know- I am here for you!!! I have to say that I DIED when they incorporated how much he loved art and painting and the good ending where he mentions canvases etc- I WAS REBORN! I was like.... am I psychic or what?!?!? Hahahah I always figured that heh was an artistic person as a son of a people (who i thought was a painter and a singer) who are patrons of the arts, he would definitely be one to explore his artistic options. I was saddened to see that I wasn’t completely correct in that HC but I still love that in his blood, he is an artist. And at least one parent saw that and nourished it TT__TT *cries for Mama V* OH GOD TT__TT Don’t even get me started on Ray, that poor fragile innocent bean. I will save him. Next time. I will save him and they will all be happy.

First Nonny: The only bad end I’ve ever done was Jumin’s and that was because I loved his little smirk in the bad end (yes you know the one). Cheritz would have done that on purpose, without a doubt. Kudos Cheritz, kudos!!!! They have some great writers on their staff who should be proud :) Second Nonny: I know. In my head, i didn’t see him die so it didn’t happen. He got out. Saeyoung saved him and he’s alive and well. I saw it happening from day 4 with the way he acted when V came to save her- the level of possessiveness and panic he displayed proved how unstable and how reliant he was on her for his happiness... if she was to go away... and WASNT saved by the RFA... there was only one place for him to go TT__TT.... i hate being right.

WHY!?!? WHY WOULD YOU EVEN PUT THAT INTO MY HEAD NONNY?!?!?! DONT YOU KNOW I LIVE FOR ANGST AND LOVE TRIANGLES?!?! TT__TT *scribbles down all the fic ideas she’s just been given*

Jumin is a saint in every route. He is the Best. EVER. (not a jumin fan girl at all). The sarcasm and eloquence to which he destroyed Rika made me smile and clap. She deserved to have all her preposterous ideas and excuses thrown back at her. But- but... she does need help. Serious psychiatric help and all the people who she brainwashed and manipulated need help too.... but omg... if it were just me and her, in a quiet room before she was taken away for treatment and still rather lucid- I would rip into her for hurting my babies. For breaking Yoosung. For betraying Saeyoung and destroying Saeran. For manipulating Jumin and crushing V.... and well thanking her for giving Zen a pat on the back and some flowers I guess and just leaving Jaehee alone... and then wishing her a good recovery and a lifetime to think over the wrong she had done!

I don't think it’s a bad thing I mean... it’s kinda that same in the deep route- the one you’re romancing is almost always threatened of being overshadowed by the one still trying to win your heart. Only difference is that we didn’t get to really win Ray’s heart/get a good ending with him. Which is fair. BECAUSE I NEED A ROUTE JUST FOR HIM GOD DAMN IT. HE DESERVES ONE. HES GONE THROUGH THE MOST AND NEEDS THE MOST LOVE!!! But I think V did shine in all of this- the reason why there’s so much support and outpouring of love for Saeran is because of what happens to him in the route. I honestly believe if Saeran got his happy ending and got reunited with Saeyoung and joined the RFA the amount of angsty love for Saeran would be cut by like HALF. We are a sucker for pain, and seeing a beloved character in pain makes us want to rally and support him... and now that V got his happy ending... everyone wants one for Saeran too. It’s only natural :)

#mystic messenger spoilers #v route spoilers #april answers #mysme #general talk #v route asks

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irinapaleolog · 4 years

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How the Devil Became a Dreamboat: Exploring the Byronic Hero with Kylo Ren

As it turns out, the popular problematic favorite and the OG problematic favorite are basically the same person.

Welcome to Elements of Story, a biweekly column about narrative tropes, what they mean, and why they just won’t go away.

For the inaugural installment of Elements of Story, and just in time for Valentine’s day, I’m going to dissect an archetype that has been causing a stir and setting hearts aflutter for centuries: the Byronic hero.

Definitions of the Byronic hero vary by source, but the basic gist is that he’s an arrogant yet emotionally sensitive rebel who rages against societal norms, is usually haunted by a dark and mysterious past, and has been a staple of romantic storylines for hundreds of years. You could literally write a book about the history of the Byronic Hero—indeed, multiple people already have—so for the sake of concision and also my continued sanity, we’re going to investigate the Byronic hero through the specific example of one of his most recent appearances: Kylo Ren (Adam Driver).

Ever since The Force Awakens first premiered, Darth Vader’s grandson and #1 fan has been a point of contention within the Star Wars fandom, particularly with regards to his dynamic with protagonist Rey (Daisy Ridley). While things have calmed down somewhat following the underwhelming finale that was The Rise of Skywalker, if you want to start a fight online about a galaxy far, far away, mention “Reylo” and see what happens.

One of the most genuinely befuddling things about the discourse surrounding Reylo is the frequently held opinion that its allure is anyway inexplicable or unforeseeable. Similarly, the common, lazy narrative that its popularity can be explained away as Adam Driver’s thirst-club projecting their desire onto the Star Wars universe reeks of ignorance. Whether borne of conscious intent or sheer coincidence, Kylo Ren is a villain who also fits a centuries-old romantic archetype like a glove in ways that are hinted towards in The Force Awakens and laid increasingly bare in each subsequent installment. That some viewers picked up on the Byronic subtext early while others did not simply speaks to the variance in media consumption habits and tastes between audience members. If you’re familiar with an archetype, you’re going to spot its likeness, and view said likeness through the lens of the implications baked in with that lineage. If you’re not, you won’t.

So, who is this Byronic Hero guy, anyway? Well, the tl;dr version is that he’s basically Satan and his origins predate Lord Byron by at least a few hundred years.

In truth, the Byronic Hero is so old that tracing his origins gets quite speculative. There’s not a singular definitive answer so much as a collection of theories. To give a relatively cohesive explanation of who this guy is and how he got here without writing a novel, I’m going to things down into two key questions:

What makes the Byronic hero satanic?

How did Satan become romanticized?

To address the first question, let’s start by talking about the Devil. I’m not going to say that John Milton was the first storyteller to make Satan cool, but he sure did make such a characterization mainstream with Paradise Lost. The most beautiful of God’s angels, Lucifer chafes at God’s omnipotence, convinces a number of his brethren to join him in a rebellion that ultimately fails, is banished to Hell and eternally damned, but stubbornly stands by his choices because, “better to reign in Hell, than serve in Heaven.” Milton’s Satan was, to use modern parlance, a beautiful trash fire—a handsome, passionate dreamer whose quick-tempered fervor proves self-destructive in spite of his considerable intellect. He is, in other words, smart enough to know that his hubris will be his downfall, but too in thrall to his passions for that knowledge to save himself from such a fate. He is a tragic hero as defined by Aristotle, an inherently sympathetic figure not as much in spite of his flaws as because of them.

not as much in spite of his flaws as because of them.

Let’s stop for a second so I can convince you Kylo Ren fits this pattern, in case you aren’t convinced already. With his journey from Ben “too much Vader in him” Solo to Kylo Ren, his rejection of his heritage and violent rebellion against Luke Skywalker, he follows the same basic trajectory of Milton’s Lucifer. And as far as personality is concerned, Ben didn’t gel well with the “there is no passion” Jedi code, and unlike Anakin Skywalker, it didn’t even take the development of a particular relationship for things to reach a breaking point.

Now, as far as how Satan became a romantic figure, we need to make a stopover with the Romantics because the journey from Romantic to romantic is really just semantics. Romanticism was a prominent intellectual and artistic movement in Western culture that took place in the late 18th and 19th centuries and encompassed everything from literature and painting to architecture and music. It emphasized emotion, spontaneity, irrationality, and the individual with a particular focus on subjectivity, and is generally regarded as a reactionary movement—a rebuttal against the rationalism that defined the Enlightenment.

Romantics loved Milton’s Satan. “My favorite hero, Milton’s Satan,” Robert Burns gushed, lauding Satan’s “intrepid, unyielding independence,” “desperate daring,” and “noble defiance of hardship.” That Byron, one of his contemporaries, would channel his admiration for the same figure into a series of mercurial protagonists that would codify an archetype is hardly surprising. While crediting Byron with inventing the Byronic hero is a significant stretch considering the archetype is really just Satan rebranded, there is one key component of this character that Byron did add to the equation, and that is a particular kind of longing that a number of commentators have likened to homesickness. “Love is homesickness,” Sigmund Freud wrote in his seminal essay on the Uncanny. In terms of understanding the human mind, Freud is one small step above total quack, but as far as narrative theory is concerned he made some compelling arguments, this being one of them. As Deborah Lutz says in her essay “Love as Homesickness: Longing for a Transcendental Home in Byron and the Dangerous Lover Narrative,” “the Byronic hero often[…] is a criminal, an outlaw who is not only self-exiled, but actively, hatefully, works against society as a murderous pirate,” yet also often feels, “pains of remorse, not only for his crime but also for his self-inflicted homelessness.” Kylo Ren, with his laments of “I’m being torn apart,” and “let the past die, kill it if you have to” rhetoric interspersed with explosive bouts of self-loathing, could not be more emblematic of this facet of the Byronic hero if he tried.

All of this helps explain what makes this archetype emotionally engaging, but not how “self-hating emotional clusterfuck” became sexy. In order to get to the bottom of that, we actually need to go back quite a bit. In Western culture, sexuality, death, and evil have been birds of a feather since the nascence of Christianity, which took vague correlations between these concepts already present in several Greek mythological figures and ran with them. While the Devil is often depicted as a hideous beast, the concept that he might also take the form of a man—specifically, an attractive one—dates back centuries (Lucifer was the prettiest, remember), and is apparent in a number of surviving records of witch trial confessions detailing demonic encounters. But taking on a handsome face is not the only attribute frequently bestowed upon Satan and his kin. As Toni Reed writes in her book Demon Lovers and their Victims in British Fiction, “identifying Satan and other demons with sexuality, especially with huge phalluses, may well trace back to Greek mythology.”

That’s right. Satan has serious BDE. Do with that information what you will.

It’s worth noting that the Byronic hero is ultimately a beloved romantic fantasy not because it represents something many people want in real life, but precisely the opposite, much like0 how enjoying seeing the lions at the zoo doesn’t mean you want one in your house. He’s a darkly tempting, narratively intriguing prospect that is enjoyable to experience vicariously through fiction, a Pandora’s box that can be opened and then closed again without repercussion. Times and tastes change and the Byronic hero evolves to suit them—devil, tempestuous gentleman, wannabe Sith—but his defining characteristics and their guilty pleasure appeal are eternal.

#tropes #kylo ren #the rise of skywalker #star wars

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political-trans · 7 years

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So about Freud. There’s this post going around, and I want to make a few points. I didn’t want to comment onto OP’s post because I don’t want anybody to feel personally attacked over an accurate view on Freud.

I want to offer insight into Freud for those interested. Freud first of all was an Austrian Jewish man and had to work his ass of in the very (and increasing through his life) anti-semetic Europe to have his idea of talk-therapy not be laughed out of the room. A metaphorical room that is his other colleagues in what was the “mental health” community of the time filled with non-Jewish misogynistic creeps that Freud later found out where abusive shit heads.

Freud was able to popularize talk therapy, and prove it’s effectiveness, despite much skepticism. His Theories on sexuality (that all urges came form the Id, we’re all bisexual, and all have male and female in us, etc.) laid the foundation for the depathologizing of homosexuality, (although psychology as a field first pathologized it then depathologized it, Freud was pretty ok with homosexuality, especially female homosexuality). Freud figured out the defense mechanisms which have been shown to be mostly true. Freud figured out that we could repress trauma and that our bodies retain this stress regardless of us being able to remember it. Freud also figured out that talking out trauma was the best cure, and we now know with fMRI scans that this is because trauma shuts down our speech centers, which then halt the trauma from being processed into long term memory like normal.

Freud was able to get his vastly superior and far more excepting theory of sexuality on the ground against much opposition. He also treated women seriously. Yes, he revised his theory to have it all be “imagined Trauma”, but if he had come out and said the trauma was real he would have been sued for libel, lost his license, and his business. His misogynistic rapist colleagues would have stolen his theory, continued to consider women crazy and move on, while leaving his defense mechanisms and more open sexuality views behind. His choice still promoted the techniques that can be used to treat trauma, especially in women. His theories and techniques allowed women for seek treatment for trauma, even if the people conducting the therapy believed it to be fake, it still helped the women involved. Freud was able to craft the “imagined trauma” argument, not just as a cave into the social pressure from peers, but also to allow his treatment to be propagated all around the world helping sufferers of sexual abuse. Many of his patients went on to become psychoanalysts. He took a helpful and real cure for real trauma and made it palatable and practicable to his asshole colleagues. Yes his theories have been taken, and abused, and misused over the decades. For example a big ego true theory is a good thing, yet in pop culture we mean it as a bad thing. All theories in psychology have been used for harm at one point or another, much of our modern theories was funded by the CIA and reverse engineered as torture techniques. Psychology has some fucked up shit. Freud didn’t cause men to be misogynistic, nor did he cause men to belittle women. That was already happening. What Freud did do is create an avenue for women to seek treatment for their trauma. Yes in the long run his revised theories slowed the march of stopping abuse to others, but Freud put his patients first. He could have tried to stop the abuse (imo in vain) or he could tell a lie and keep helping them. If you think his colleagues don’t know which of his “anonymous” case studies was their wife or daughters due to fine details your wrong, his colleagues knew who he was talking about and who would have been implicated. If he had said that this explicit trauma happened, we know abusers are more likely to retaliate against the victims. Not to mention the women would then be removed the the highly effective treatment where they were actually believed. Freud treated real and imagined trauma the same way. It didn’t matter to him or his treatment - it was still effective. Although “confidentiality” existed, his client base was so small, and reached into the upper echelon’s of society they all knew who was who in case studies. Freud coming clean would have immediately hurt his clients, shot his career, sullied his talk-therapy, and given the worst elements of his theories to abusive shits to be more abusive. Instead he was able to help his clients, keep his job, and pump out the foundation for the most effective way to deal with most mental health issues. I’m not saying he did the “right thing” in our moral standards, but I think he made the best choice for the time he was in. You can hate him if you want, but his patients were thankful that he helped them. He took them seriously, and made them feel listened too even if he couched it in “imagined” wording to sell to everyone else.

#mine #i did this #Freud #Psychology

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mateoshea-blog · 7 years

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Pink Clouds & Pocket Lint

Part I

“Grabmeuhcouplecokes… cotton mouth y’kno?” as Fast Eddie chokes out the last toke of the roach. Quickly, Fast Eddie stashes the funky skunky stuff into an old oxidized ALTOIDS can – MADE IN GREAT BRITIAN, NT WT 1.76 OZ (50g). Fast Eddie had this logic that if he collected all his roaches, he could pawn off the “1.76 OZ of homegrown” to some free-lancing left-brained Polo wearing yuppie college kid for 50 bones. If anyone could pull a stunt like that, it was Fast Eddie.

“Yafuckinkiddinme! ‘Spose I’ll hoof it across the street to PAULIE’S CORNER STORE since Pizza Face and Pretty Boy both got Cerebral Palsy all-a-sudden” – Yeah, that’s the villain I been scheming with since I got clipped from the umbilical cord. Fast Eddie, guy was a maniac with a potato head. But, his barber scalped a fade around his temples to precision. Jesus, I mean his barber was his actual wingman. He’d tell us to go to the gay barber. We’d be sitting in at SPEEDY’S CUTS while Fast Eddie was choppin’ the locks and we’d overhear,

“Fast Eddie what work will my soft hands be doing today?”

And Fast Eddie would dish it right back, “If you wanna play with more than these locks later, what would you want my sex hair to look like in the morning?”

Just like that, Fast Eddie had undercooked and greasy golden French fries atop his potato head. Slicked back and thin cut, ready to serve. Ready to be swallowed into a cheap customer’s mouth. That’s why the drunks, gays, straights, in betweeners, freaks, creeps, geeks and neighbors all liked the fucking guy. Blue collar, told it how it was, and even offered a third hand when his other two were tied up someone else’s ass!

I could see Fast Eddie still jerking around across the street. Shootin’ the shit with the local folk. More than just a “It’s so warm in here!” small talk guy. Nobody remembers the shmuck with a dull personality. Fast Eddie could make a blind guy fantasize about the cashier at PAULIE’S just by the way he worked his tongue into imagery. He had it. Coupleuhcokes turns into Fast Eddie holding the door open for any pretty broad that gives him the slightest amount of eye contact (the polarizing effect of a good haircut). Perfect case study for Freud.

The musty haze of the hotboxed jalopy paranoid the living daylights outta me! We could get high in any partatown and Fast Eddie always coerced us to smoking in his car. Never got to enjoy my high, could never even tell if I was even high at all. The mirrors read “OBJECTS IN THE MIRROR ARE CLOSER THAN THEY APPEAR” – that’s for damn sure. Mirrors were always staring at me with a never-ending time-warped nightmare. I’d get stuck in the mud with the Piggy’s that busted me with the joint that was burning away my dreams of CALIFORNIA COAST. I could only roll in this mud pit for so long until the objects in the mirror become reality.

Julian senses that one of my classic paranoia episodes is imminent. An observant learner, personal therapist, and mediator. Some of his unpaid roles. He uses the crank on both doors to roll down the clouded condensated windows.

“Carlton man, you love riding on the shoulder” chuckled Julian as he lounged in the plush back seat of the Caravelle.

“This is why I hate smokin’ grass, now you’re speaking straight from the hole that I call your CHAFFED LOOSE ASS!”

“Naw man… see listen, you ride the shoulder too much. That motherfucker ahead is always driving 5 miles per hour under the speed limit. You let him. And he owns you. He holds you back. He controls the rate at which you reach your destination. Shiiiit, if you ever reach it. You can’t pass him, you stay leaning on that white cozy shoulder called COMFORTABILITY. When you gonna pass the mothefucker ahead of you that’s been controlling you? When you gonna take EXIT 52 towards IMFUCKINFREEVILLE?”

I can’t even flip this one on Julian, “Yeah well I can’t ride yours and Fast Eddie’s coattails for too long now. IMFUCKINFREEVILLE has a population of some twenty million people. Once the weather vane in my oversaturated brain oozes out some hope and blows WESTWARD, I will pass that motherfucker ahead of me. No turning signal either. Imma trade in the cozy white shoulder for some dotted yellow cheese.”

“Carlton… that motherfucker dragging ass is YOU. Pass him with a prayer, leave him in the rearview.”

Julian, the backseat monk. Met him after I graduated high school. P.F. Flyer’s always crispy white, not ever one crease, not ever one scuff. Always thought he would become some materialistic rich prick. Prejudgment without contempt. Stupid me. Materialism attached to the developing brains of us high schoolers. Some shake it and others go to Universities to chase degrees that breed greed. Julian didn’t let the manmade cancer infiltrate him. He ended up rolling with us Proletariat outlaws. Somewhere, Karl Marx is grinning at me for my recruitment.

We had 30 minutes, precisely, to make it to the liquor store. Saturday’s were always the night for our bender.

Fast Eddie had this shit-eatin’ grin on his face when jogged back over the ’85 Caravelle, “Christ Almighty! Fast Eddie were you rubbing one out in PAULIE’S bathroom or sumthin’? We’re alloutta Jameson and you know we are 20 miles from the liquor store and it’s already 8:30!”

Liquor stores were no joking matter, we only found one that never had us show I.D. Plus, Fast Eddie grew a liking to the geyser that worked there. A sad babbling sack of space that got comfortable and stuck with one job his whole life. Bubbling and babbling, day in and day out. Shook so many times that he eventually became flat too.

“Pizza Face and Pretty Boy… always so self-interested. Gonna catch up to you shits soon enough.” Fast Eddie inserted the crusted key into the ignition of the Caravelle – DOOOP, DOOOP, DOOOP. God knows how many germs were on that steering wheel. Thick coats of compiled grease, excess secretions, and the fluids from various estranged females that Fast Eddie coxed in to his traveling fuck-pen. Law of superposition says oldest layers were on the bottom. I’d rather not know these things, but the smell invades my nostrils like the troops on D-DAY. Can’t even condition or desensitize myself to this aroma. Unrelenting attacks by the smell of Fast Eddie’s ball sweat and lingering remnants of a poor mans weed. I want to take a shower.

“Saturday Night. Dropping the needle down on a dusty B-Side for all you crazed, erotic, and hormonal souls cruising around looking for trouble. How about that L.A. WOMAN track… 1971. The Doors.” Slick Tom, our favorite disc jockey the night of a bender. Always reliable to set the tone.

Fast Eddie pounced on the pedal as Jim Morrison screeched sonic sex through the speakers, “Oh shit yeah fellas, we’re on the move. ‘MR. MOJO RISIN!’”

We punched it onto RT. 5. The faster route according to Fast Eddie, but it was actually the scenic route for him. He loved cruising past the prestigious Victorian style homes and dissecting what kind of conversations happen between the walls of those monasteries.

Fed up with the scenery after 3 miles, Fast Eddie barks “I bet these rich prick Dad’s just read the STOCK MARKET page in section B5 of the WALL STREET JOURNAL and ask their rich prick wives and rich prick kids where they wanna go on vacation next once the rich prick Dad’s inside trade deal hits on Monday morning.”

“Put the boner back in your pants, you’ll get your dividends too once you start pushing your roach filled ALTOIDS cans to the future homeowners of these fucking houses!”

Fast Eddie snapped right back at me, “I swear I’ll ash my next roach on that smirk of yours, Pizza Face. Maybe that’ll make you look more appetizing.”

Julian leaned in from the backseat, “AN ENDLESS PISSING MATCH, don’t your sacks ever go dry? Your testicles are attached right to your egos. Big swollen ball sacks swinging back and forth back and forth. Blowing your load all over one another day in and day out! It’s exhausting, your egos need a vasectomy!”

Just like that, right when Fast Eddie and I erupted, Julian cooled us down at the surface like molten rock. Crystallizing and metamorphosing into conglomerate. Needed him to flush our egos out. Needed to stop treating him like my urinal cake.

Fast Eddie swerved and weaved around the slow-moving masses of society that had no agenda for the night. Maybe they did. Maybe this is my self-interested motivations speaking again. I hated how maliciously Fast Eddie rounded the corners. Guard rails could’ve skinned my fingertips if I cracked the window open. This was Fast Eddie’s route. Knew every stop sign, timed every red light, and new all the lucrative hideouts where the Piggy’s patrolled.

It was 8:47, the odometer of the Caravelle twitched another mile on the dash. Only two miles remained between the three Proletariat outlaws and our enabler.

My second paranoia episode ensues, “Holy Shit Fast Eddie, you’re doing 55 in a school zone!”

“Who says I wanna choke down Jameson tonight? I’ll turn into De Niro from TAXI DRIVER if you don’t shut the hell up”

Just like that GUMBALLS GUMBALLS GUMBALLS flash in the mirrors. Objects in the mirror are becoming closer than they appear. Nightmare come true. I’m fucking doomed. We are fucking doomed. My self-interest putting me first.

“GODFUCKINGDAMMIT EDDIE! Mile away, no traffic, all interstate and now I’m gonna get jammed up with the Pigs!”

Fast Eddie retaliates, “Me, me, me! You squeal just like a fucking pig!” He takes the pressure from my brain and applies it to the pedal, POUNCE.

Julian has been around Fast Eddie enough to know that he will go to extremes to prove a point, “Fast Eddie c’mon man be cool, WE all ain’t trying to get canned. WE got living to do.”

Fast Eddie has that same shit-eatin’ grin that I seen earlier, “Fine I’ll pull this piece over. But, you don’t speak Pig Latin, got it?”

“What the hell do you mean!”

That’s all I was left to work with during my waning moments of freedom. The cop high tailed it over to the Caravelle. Tiny hairs, all a half inch long stick straight up and down on the officer’s fat head. Level one blade to navigate his temples, had to be Fast Eddie’s barber. I’m sweating bullets. The plate tectonics of my face begin to emerge. Premature pimples surface and I feel the magma boiling under the crust of my skin.

Fast Eddie rolls down the window, “HANDS ON THE WHEEL OR BRAINS ON THE WHEEL NOW”

My stomach launches acid into the back of my throat. Fast Eddie complies. Answers to an authority figure. No finger-fucking around.

“NOT ONLY ARE YOU THREE LITTLE SHITS A LIABILITY ON THIS ROAD, DO I HAVE REASON TO BELIEVE YOU WERE SMOKING MARIJUANA?”

Julian hasn’t flinched and Fast Eddie’s mute. Fast Eddie’s still got that shit-eatin’ grin on his face.

“AM I SPEAKING FUCKIN GREEK? IS THERE MARIJUANA IN THIS VEHICLE, THIS IS THE LAST TIME I WILL ASK BEFORE I SHAKE YOU DOWN TO YOUR PALE PEACH FUZZED ASSES!”

In my peripheral I see the ALTOIDS can staring at me. Rusted smile, MADE IN GREAT BRITIAN. 1.75 OZ – damn near weightless. But, enough weight to land me in the sin bin.

Enough to land us in the sin bin.

The Cop begins laughing, I mean really fucking laughing. The wild Pig chased his pray down and now he is foaming at the mouth. Ha-HA-HA-hahaha’ing until there is no oxygen remaining in his bloated stomach. Almost as if the funky stuff has protruded from the ALTOIDS can and immediately hit his bloodstream.

“ALRIGHT FAST EDDIE, THESE ARE THE PROLETARIAT OUTLAWS EH? OUR MOUSE TRAP COULDN’T CAPTURE A RAT!”

Fast Eddie’s dimples break out from his skin for the first time in a decade, “Thanks OFFICER LAFFERTY! Next hoagie from PAULIE’S CORNERSTORE is on me!”

“I’ll take the ALTOIDS can instead… when it’s full.” He replies. Walks away, swinging his Billy-club.

Fast Eddie peeps his dilated eyes into the corner of the mirror, glancing at Julian. “Pretty Boy whatsamatta! You didn’t croak! You didn’t squeal! Conglomerate don’t crack!”

Julian boasted,“Yeah, RATS don’t survive by scurrying on the shoulder. Too scared to chase the dotted yellow cheese if ya know what I mean. I gotta eat, I mean… WE gotta eat.”

“Amen.”

And, just like that comfortability didn’t appeal to me anymore. Lit the roach, took a toke, exhaled. Puff puff pass to Julian puff puff pass to Fast Eddie, and back to me. Repeat. Fast Eddie inserted the rusted key into the ignition – BOOOP BOOOP BOOOP. Slick Tom was steady playing them classic B-Sides. Liquor store was closed. Detour: EXIT 52 towards IMFUCKINFREEVILLE.

#fiction short story writer spirits read PinkCloudsAndPocketLint #submission

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x-men-x-imagines · 7 years

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Imagine #19 Charles Xavier (Request)

Requested by Anon: Could you please write a Charles Xavier x reader where the reader likes him but feels she has no chance so she pretends to hate him. But then he finds out the truth through mind reading? I'm sorry if this is complicated!! But thank you so much.

Not my gif

Words: 2622

Warnings: fem!reader, swearing, typos

A/N: So, first of all, I know that request is from literal months ago, and I’m really sorry, but I kinda put off writing it for the following reason... I actually did that once, pretended to hate someone I believed not to be good enough for (he was a dick and probably deserved it, but still) and it’s connected to some of the worst, most uncomfortable and regrettable situations of my life. If you find yourself in that kind of situation, and you think that it would be easier to just treat your crush like crap, DON’T! I’m all for making mistakes and learning from them, but I really recommend you just talk to the person or, if that’s easier, distance yourself, but being a dick towards them will just make you look and feel like... well, a dick. Don’t! And secondly, I am not incredibly proud of this fic. I don’t think it’s that great. I hope, I’m not disappointing anyone. xoxo

Charles had hired you because of the way you worked with the students, the way you treated the other teachers and the impression that you were one of the smartest, most dedicated people he had ever met. He had hired you despite the fact that you apparently couldn’t even be in the same room as him without shooting him glares and avoiding any kind of further interaction.

Charles understood that there were people, whom one just couldn’t stand. Attraction was biology after all, and maybe you just really didn’t like him, maybe semi-polite working-side-by-side was all you were able to with him, but it still bothered him.

You impressed him every time he heard you talk, every time he listened to one of your classes or your contributions in meetings. You area of expertise was the mutant’s role in the world’s biggest wars since the 15th century, your thesis being: There have always been mutants, fighting on both sides of each war, that have simply been erased from history like so many other minorities. You seemed determined to find, analyse and prove every single mutant’s appearance in history and there was nothing more fascinating to Charles, than listening to your passionate presentations on history, the way you saw it. It was such a shame, he thought, that you never agreed to meet him for a cup of tea and some collegial discussions. But he wasn’t going to lie to himself, what he found enchanting about you was way more than just your professional expertise.

It was something in the way you moved, the way you tilted your head when listening and lowered your gaze when smiling. It was the shape of your mouth and the look in your eyes. If someone had asked Charles to explain it, he wouldn’t have been able to put his finger on it. It always seemed right out of his reach. Quite like you, actually.

You had done your best to restrict your thoughts in the professor’s presence ever since you had started working for him. His ability, while being one of the most fascinating mutations you had ever encountered, formed quite the inconvenience for you, given the fact that all you were able to think about in his presence, were things that would practically file a restraining order all by themselves, if the professor ever found out about them.

You weren’t someone for cheesy clichés at all, but the phrase “so close, yet so far” had never made more sense to you, than at your first meeting with Charles Xavier. And what did the professional, grown-up woman do when having a completely unrealistic crush on a superior? Exactly, act like a cold, heartless prick towards him.

Looking back, you were really surprised, that he had hired you after all. Being charming wasn’t your forte as it was, and with him you hadn’t even tried! But somehow, the professor had still decided to keep you, which, today, had been exactly five months ago.

“Happy anniversary!”, someone mumbled in your ear and you turned around to look at Raven’s grin. She didn’t have a teaching position, but she visited Charles every once in a while. You two actually had quite a lot in common, as it turned out. Her activist enthusiasm being more focused on the present than your, as she jokingly called it, “moaning of dead kinsmen”, but you had mostly the same ideals. And the same shoe size, which you mentioned for no reason in particular.

“Thanks babe.”, you replied, because Raven hated that word. She rolled her eyes and stole your cup of coffee from the table. “The machine is right there.”, you murmured, focusing your eyes back on the book in front of you. “What’s that?” “Research.” You snatched your coffee back. “On…?”

You shut the book and pushed it over to her. “First appearances of the x-gene, by Charles Xavier. You’re only reading that now? It’s like fifteen years old!” You shot her a glare. “Have you read it?”, you asked and she laughed. “What do you think? So, how do you like his theory? You might be the one person, that is actually able to reasonably correct Charles on anything.” “Ha!”, you laughed, taking the book and turning it in your hands. Looking up at Raven, you realized that she was actually still waiting for an answer.

“I mean…”, you shrugged, “he does kind of imply that the x-gene, as he calls it, only developed in the beginning of the 20th century, which doesn’t at all fit my thesis…” “So he’s talking shit?” “I didn’t say that!” “I know. But I did. Isn’t it funny, how two people like you have contradictory theories about the exact same topic?”

“I mean, yeah, I guess. But that’s why we have science and not just some guy telling us, what’s right and wrong.” “You mean like the pope? Or Jesus?” “You’re in a critical mood today!”, you laughed, checking your watch. “Oh, I gotta run!” “I’ll tell Charles, you said ‘Hi’.”, she shouted after you as you hurried out the door and you immediately felt your face blush. You never talked about your crush on the professor, but you felt like she knew. He was her brother, which made the whole situation pretty awkward, but was there anything more awkward than having a crush on your boss?

“You’re in an odd mood today.”, Charles greeted Raven as she stormed through his office door and violently dropped down on the couch. “Thanks, y/n said the same. I’m supposed to send her regards.” “Are you?” She grinned. Charles hadn’t thought so either. “She was reading your book.”

He sighed. “Raven, you’ll have to be a little more specific.” “The one that completely contradicts her theory.” “Right. I was young and naïve back then, I didn’t know any better.”, he joked. “You should tell her about that. You can also congratulate her on her five months of teaching without getting fired.”

“Oh right, that’s today.” Of course, he remembered that. “While we’re talking, there is a debate in the auditorium this afternoon. Nature vs. Nurture, y/n prepared it with one of her classes. Care to accompany me?”

Raven furrowed her brows. “If I come, will you finally grow some balls and talk to y/n?”

Your day went by pretty uneventfully. You ignored several notes being passed in class and even collected two, because the student’s just weren’t trying hard enough. It was a matter of principle for you, being the unstoppable note-passing-queen yourself. Some people just needed a little motivation.

The debate was supposed to start at 5pm, so naturally the students showed up at 4:58, causing you to start late. You sat down by the side of the podium, crossing your legs and listening. You hadn’t heard all the contributions yet and even though none of your students had probably discovered a completely new approach on a subject that was about as old as humanity itself, you were still interested in the opinions and the way this discussion was heading. Right now, it looked a lot like Freud’s approach of ‘let’s blame the parents for everything!’ and you felt like you were watching a really eventful tennis match.

Eventually however, your eyes and thoughts trailed off as you subconsciously started searching the crowd – crowd being a rather wide term for the about fifteen people in the audience – for one specific face. The professor was seated in the front row, hands crossed in his lab above a folded grey jacket. You agreed with him, it was quite warm in the auditorium. His eyes were resting on the students, his lips forming a slight, almost unnoticeable smile.

Those lips, you thought, before you could stop yourself. You focused your eyes back on the discussion, but your mind wasn’t quite as easily restrained. You wondered, if the presentation bored him. He must have heard all of this before, in the minds of his students, but also in the minds of every person he had ever had a similar debate with. And still, you thought, here he was, supporting his students.

It had always impressed you, the way he smiled through everything, the way he managed all those things, his studies, this school, his political and scientific relations, everything, without ever even looking tired. Not to speak of all the shit he had to put up with! It had to be such a pain, listening to people’s thoughts all day. Damn, the poor man, you thought, smiling subconsciously. Sometimes – well, pretty often actually – you wished that you had just approached him, asked him out or something. He would have probably refused and then fired you, because it would have been way out of line, but at least you would have tried. You had always hated regretting decisions, but you felt like in this situation, you would have regretted your choice either way. Rather not be unemployed, you decided, focussing your thought back on the debate.

It was rare to hear you think personal things. Charles usually avoided rummaging through people’s minds, but to a certain extent, he couldn’t help but listen, it was like a constant murmur in a room full of people, and he couldn’t always block everything out. And sometimes he got to hear some rather personal details that he would have rather not found out about. But you were never one of those people, all you ever seemed to think about was work and science, sometimes the other teachers or some issues you had with a student, but never in a way that would have shown any kind of personal attachment.

Your thoughts always felt somewhat incomplete. Mainly because Charles knew that everyone had personal, private thoughts and therefore so did you, but also because you didn’t look like the cold type to him. Again, he couldn’t really explain it, but hearing your suddenly distracted mind showed, that he didn’t have to explain anything to know that he was right.

Those lips. The words wavered through his head and left him in a state of mind that could only be described as shocked. He saw his face flash through your thoughts, as he couldn’t help himself but dive a little deeper into your world. You were warm, just like him, he thought and grinned. You weren’t bored, just distracted. He had distracted you, he realized. You thought about the things he had done for the school, and how hard it must have been. Your words rang in deep admiration.

Charles felt his heart pound against his ribs and couldn’t help but shake his head over his own childish excitement. How old was he, twelve? But he couldn’t help it, as your mind moved on to more personal matters. Were you… were you thinking about asking him out?

Could he have been that wrong about the way you saw him? He thought you disliked him, because that was all he had ever seen in your mind and your eyes. Where was all this coming from? Better not be unemployed, he heard, furrowing his brows. Was that, why he had never seen any of your personal thoughts? Had you locked them up in his presence?

Would he have to fire you, if he went out with you, he asked himself. Was it amoral of him? No, he decided. No, that wasn’t the reason he hadn’t approached you. The reason for that had just disappeared into thin air, he realized and looked at you, as your attention shifted back to your students and your mind returned to things, that you weren’t trying to hide from him.

You actually seemed to believe that he would push you away and then fire you, which was absurd! Why should he ever reject you? But of course, you didn’t know that, he reminded himself. How could you, he hadn’t approached you either. He grinned as he realized, how much of a cliché this whole situation was. Maybe the two of you had more to discuss than your different opinions on mutant history.

You made a mental note to give all the students that had participated in the discussion some extra points. You also decided not to tell them until the end of term. Some of them were in for a pleasant surprise, you smiled while applauding alongside the audience. Your students had done a great job. And it had been nice to see them go back to things that you had taught them in class. This was, why you had decided to become a teacher.

The people in the audience started chatting and moving towards the exit. The one person that wasn’t doing either and instead heading towards you, as you realized with a confusing mix of nervousness and excitement, was the professor. Suddenly, you remembered the things you had thought about during the debate, when your mind had wandered off. Stupid, you scolded yourself, turning around to not look at the professor’s gentle expression. Oh God, he must have heard something!

“Y/n.”, you heard his voice behind you and immediately banned every thought regarding him or his beautiful eyes, only to have them return seconds later. Shit.

“Professor.”, you turned around and smiled at him as professionally as possible. “You did great work, as usual.”

“Oh, it was mostly the students.”, you replied. “But thank you.” “You’re very welcome. Raven told me that you are reading my expertise on the mutant’s origin.” “I am. I don’t agree.” It came out way too harsh, but Charles laughed, finally taking his eyes off you for one moment, allowing you to get your shit together. “I thought so. I would love to discuss some of the aspects, although I have to say that my beliefs regarding that subject have changed drastically, since I heard your point of view.”

“Uhm…”, you said, asking yourself, where all your brain went, whenever you needed it. “Thank you. But if you have already changed your mind, my work is done, so…”

“And if I wanted to talk about other things?”, Charles interrupted, raising an eyebrow and making you blush in a way that was impossible to hide. Damn it, you cursed, he had heard you. He had probably heard every… word, thought, whatever. “I… I am not as informed regarding other topics…”, you murmured, mentally screaming at him to just get it over with. To just tell you, how inappropriate and unrealistic your thoughts had been, ideally before you melted into a puddle of shame and disappointment. But of course, whenever you wanted him to read your thoughts, he wasn’t there, or he at least didn’t grant your wish.

“If I want to ask you out for dinner? Let’s say, in half an hour?”

Charles saw your face drop in shock and for a second, he worried, if he had misunderstood your intentions, but then your cheeks turned even darker, to a shade of red that actually complimented your eyes quite well.

“I…” He waited, but you didn’t seem to plan on finishing your sentence anytime soon.

Y/n, I know, you think that I am going to fire you, but I really do not plan on doing so, he explained, grinning as he saw your face light up in relief. “Not after this debate at least.”, he added. “But I would love to go out with you.”

You didn’t look him in the eyes, which bothered him more than he had expected. “We don’t even need to talk about mutants, if you don’t want to.” A smile spread over your face and you nodded slightly. “But only, if you promise not to kick me out, professor.”, you joked, making him smile triumphantly. As if he would ever reject you, he thought.

#xmen #xmen imagine #charles xavier #charles xavier imagine #charles xavier x reader

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thewatsonbeekeepers · 7 years

Text

Initial thoughts on TLD (in no particular order)

- When Sherlock and John finally reunite, it is interspersed with the scene between Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson where the gun (the most constant phallic symbol in the entire show) and tea (glass of tea, tea = homosexuality in TPLoSH) are almost lost but caught before they hit the ground.

- Use of the phrase ‘the game is afoot’ once raises alarm bells - Mark and Steven constantly draw attention to the game being ‘on’ and have never used ‘afoot’ in the present day. Does this suggest that that moment was MP or ‘corrupted’? If it’s MP, is Wiggins there and what does he represent?

- Molly and John are dressed similarly as ever when they gather at the psychiatrist’s / Sherrinford’s.

- H. H. Holmes - Henry divorced from a Clara - probably nothing but a nice touch.

- Molly tells Sherlock that it is not a game - same thing as John says in HLV.

- Suspicious cabbies...

- Faith!Sherrinford is associated/mirrored with John by Sherlock with cane and the fact that they are suicidal - can we infer that John self-harms or just that Sherlock thinks he may?

- We might also infer that Sherlock self-harms given that he believes Faith!Sherrinford to be a manifestation of his own consciousness and given the suicide parallels for most of the episode.

- Reverse Garridebs! The theory of Garridebs was employed and John came perilously close to a confession!

- Am I wrong, or did Lady Elizabeth Smallwood’s card say Lady Anna Smallwood? Also, what’s up with her interest, given that Mycroft according to all reliable sources is either ace (the show) or gay (Mark)?

- Attention is drawn to Hudders saying that the game is ‘on’ and later Mary says the same, a phrase only ever used by Sherlock and seldom John. Note that the game is not ‘afoot’ - characters other than Sherlock are highlighting this like Lestrade tried to get us to check out the blog in TST.

- Speaking of the game being on/afoot, there is also a lot of attention being drawn to the game, possibly to make TFP more heartbreaking as Sherlock is out of his depth when the game stops being a game.

- The fact that Sherlock didn’t recognise his sister suggests that she’s heavily disguised - also does that give us hints as to her mental state given that disguise is always a self-portrait?

- I have ‘back eating together’ written down - I hope this refers to John and Sherlock but I don’t remember!

- ‘How long have you been working here?’ was never explained...

- ‘Tower’ reference (re Sherrinford) - sounds like Tower of London which links Sherrinford to Moriarty.

- Sonnet 73 (I can’t remember where the number 73 was visible but I have a vague notion that it was on Sherlock’s ‘deathbed’) is about how seeing the love of your life dying makes your love burn stronger.

- ‘It won’t happen in the future - with Sherlock’. This gives away firstly Sherrinford but it also gives away Mycroft’s involvement with the ‘baddies’ because he knows that Sherlock will be in a specific danger in the future. This was actually easier to pick up on than Sherrinford and I’m surprised that John didn’t.

- Smith can’t stop confessing - link to the Bond villain? Simply a dark pastiche or more?

- ‘The man we both love’.

- Revealed some of the unreliable narrative of TST but still not done - my guess is that we were right about Sherlock getting drugged partially involuntarily, and the memory drug looks perfect. How is it getting into his system? I hope not Wiggins or Hudders, but I imagine Faith!Sherrinford pulled something to make him collapse.

- John leaving his tea in 221B after the closest to a confession of love we came - he’s so close.

- Mary is somewhat sinister - keeps talking about the hat of hetero and wanting Sherlock to put it on. Why does he put it on at the end? Is it to make the grand reveal more clear? Or is it that Moriarty’s plan clearly involves sexuality and false appearances, forcing Sherlock to acknowledge his sexuality and repress it.

- Even when Sherlock puts on the hat he references Mary - a clear link to Mary/Moriarty and the hat of hetero given that he can’t see her.

- The feature of interest, which we know from TSoT to be John, is described as the solution - to what problem? Sounds to me like The Final Problem, a.k.a. the answer to Sherlock’s final problem will be John. This should echo the feature of interest scene in TSoT where he says that ‘it takes John Watson to save your life’ - John has saved Sherlock’s life once in TLD (aside from all the other times) which means he’s going to need to do it another way. Hmmm. What could this mean.

- Hudders is the queer mother once and for all and proved that Sherlock is run by sentiment, which was a bit of a middle finger to the ‘ice man Sherlock’ naysayers.

- If the Queen wanted to kill someone... Smith says that she wouldn’t, ‘not the Queen of England’. If we interpret that differently to how we originally do, which queen is he talking about then? Well, Mycroft is the obvious one (queen ref in ASiB) - and apparently ‘The Queen’ and Smith are best buds and tell each other everything. How interesting.

- Hiding in plain sight referenced way too often to be a coincidence - works on numerous levels. Textually, you have Culverton Smith hiding in plain sight as a serial killer and Sherrinford hiding in all of their lives. Sherrinford is also hiding subtextually as a woman, which should bring to mind Jeff Hope from ASiP and also the women in TAB, who were clear parallels for the use of hetero tropes to hide queer literature in plain sight. Just saying.

- Above also backs up narrative manipulation by Mofftiss and Doyle to hide and reveal the queer bits.

- Even Sherlock’s ‘death’ was by phallic pipette (disclaimer: I hate Freud but it’s that sort of show)

- When they go back to 221B for almost confession of love - water was superimposed over that scene for the promo shots. We therefore know even more that they’re drowning in gay feelings, given the water symbolism in TAB and TST.

- Go to Hell - hell = devil = Jim if we go by the show’s constant antichrist imagery. Another link between Smith and Moriarty.

- Mary asks John if he missed her - another link between Mary and Moriarty, even though they dragged up the Miss Me? DVD in case anybody missed it.

- Apparently Sherlock doesn’t wear the hat any more (thank god) so why does he put it on at the end? Because Moriarty has driven a repressed wedge between them?

- Irene Adler - I assume some people are going to be upset but I for one think this is a really good development, because in MP and in ASiB she represented love in MP and to a degree in real life, and whilst a lot of casuals go on about her and Sherlock it’s important to recognise that actually she brought out a lot of the gay jealousy and confronted John about his feeling properly, not just in a ‘I think you’re gay/bi’ way. ASiB was definitely the gayest episode until s3 largely because of Irene Adler (don’t forget that she’s a lesbian mirror for Sherlock with Kate) so there is no need to worry.

- Conclusion: we have seven days to wait for canon Johnlock.

#tjlc #bbc sherlock #meta #mine #tld #johnlock #the lying detective

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thewritersintent-blog · 6 years

Text

13 Ghosts 2: The Torso

Trigger Warnings: depiction of mental illness (schizophrenia), racism, swearing, graphic depiction of death & dead body/graphic depiction of violence, attempted suicide (not carried out), & slurs.

Word Count: 8,676

Quick Note: I am not a black man no am I schizophrenic. This story has not been read by a sensitivity reader, and therefor may contain inaccuracies. If I offended - if anything is off, please let me know. I want to learn. I am trying to figure out how to use - how to find sensitivity readers.

There are a few rules city pedestrians can agree upon. Do not look like a tourist; avoid taking out maps, looking lost, and taking pictures of famous locations. Be vigilant: keep your bag in front of you or your hand on your bag, watch where you’re going and who you are with. Don’t make eye contact with the homeless.

“How you doin’, man? Need help or somethin’?”

The last one was a bit harder to follow when one ran into the large, gap-tooth grinned Bernard Torrance - Torry to his friends - Wright.

A young man looked up from where he had been fidgeting with the parking meter. He had to crane his neck up to look Torry in the eye. He blinked, more than a little thrown off by the man’s cheerful demeanor. “N-no,” he mumbled, looking back down again. He hit the parking meter with a closed fist, hoping it would finally just take his quarter and let him go.

“Hate to bother you, man, but, uh, that’s a bitch right there.” Torry took a step forward and raised his fist. The smaller man violently flinched. He didn’t look at him as he brought his fist down with a loud thunk! onto the side of the old green parking meter. It made a strange noise like it was starting up, and then spit out his ticket. Torry ripped the ticket off and handed it to the man, who gazed at it in shock and awe, like he was handed Willy Wonka’s golden ticket.

“Th-thank you,” he stuttered.

Torry shrugged. “No problem. Dis meter not always workin’, but nobody come out to fix it. I try to tell ‘em, but most just tell me to fuck off, ya know? Ain’t nobody want to listen to some homeless dude.” He patted the man on the back, seeming to snap him out of whatever awe-inspired state he was in. He quickly smiled and ran off to his car. Torry grinned after him, nodded to something off to the side, before turning and heading down the street to the library.

***

Torry stood outside the library, grinning up at it. He loved it here, loved it since he was a kid. He made a point of coming here once a day, every day, just to look around at everything. Maybe check out a book or two. It was a lot harder when he had a job. Guess that’s one of the benefits of not having a place to work - you can do what you want, when you want. Usually. He still made a point to go home every night - a homeless man with a home, heh, funny - go to his sister’s house, have a meal, take his meds, a shower, and sleep. He was lucky to have her. Hated relying on her and her husband, but lucky all the same. Torry fixed his green beanie more tightly onto his head. Now if only he had enough sense, some focus, to apply - fill out job applications. His grin widened a little. It wasn’t focus he needed; he needed someone just to hire him, warts and all. Torry laughed a little, startling a small woman walking into the library. He flashed her his toothy grin, which she shakily returned. He put his hands into his baggy jean pockets, sighed - an action which pushed his large chest out, raised his shoulders, lifted him onto the balls of his feet before settling back down, relaxed. He continued to stare, a little dreamily at the building, just as he did every day.

The library was a beautiful building. It might not have been the most glamourous, but there was no denying that the architect put a lot of thought into the design. It’s basic shape was a cube - no point in fixing what ain’t broke, that’s what his mama always said - held together with brick, mortar, and a little granite. There were thirteen steps to the top, thirteen regular sized, smaller steps, and one large one, a landing. Can’t have thirteen of anything, that’s bad luck. Very bad luck, mama. The architect was smart enough to add that landing, but not smart enough to add a ramp - that had to come later, some fifty or so years after the building had first been constructed. They had tried to match the aesthetic of the stairs, but it looked too new. They should have roughed it up a bit before opening it up to everyone.

The building had two levels available to the public and one that was strictly offices. Windows - big and clear despite that number of hands that touched them - looked out onto the streets below. The doors were large - big enough for giants to walk through, small giants, though. Torry liked to think giants were over ten feet. Twenty feet was scarier than ten. Imagine Jack looking up at a twenty foot tall giant versus a ten footer. Scared shitless no matter what, but the hand on the twenty footer would be way more intimidating, all encompassing, deadly. Fee fi fo fum.

The only unique thing about this building were the statues, the little busts, that lined the steps. The architect had decided to add a bust on either side of the staircase, each representing a famous author and their corresponding genre. Thirteen steps plus a landing made for twenty-eight busts plus one large one in the entryway of the architect himself, some old white guy named Bartholomew Winterhouse. Well, his bust wasn’t white - it was copper or some other red material. He just looked white. And that name, pretty damn white sounding. Torry thought he once read a book about Mr. Winterhouse, but he couldn’t remember. If he had it was before the accident, and he couldn’t remember much before the accident.

Torry climbed the steps to the library, slowly, methodically. He greeted each bust with a “Hey, how you doin’, man, good to see you. No bird shit on ya, I see!” and “Ma’am, you look lovely today, yes, lookin’ good. Fine little golden statue you are.” The busts made no reply. In the back of his mind, he knew it was strange, greeting inanimate objects, just as he knew whenever he did so, he received odd looks from passerbys. He didn’t care. God would judge him. No one here had the ability to do so.

He reached the top of the steps and pushed passed the doors. They were open, wide open, like the arms of a friend. He smiled at the female security officer - Dana Blechman, nice lady - who returned his smile. Still good with the ladies. Always good. Torry walked up to the information booth, just inside the doors. He didn’t need anything; he practically lived at this library - hell, they should hire him he was here so often, knew so much about the place. That would help him. He once asked about it, if there were any openings. The woman behind the counter - she had been a cute thing, reminded him of his niece, Sharkeisha - no, that was his cousin - niece’s name started with an A...Alayah? No. Allyson? Shit, he’d remember it eventually. Yeah, the cute woman behind the counter, she had told him unfortunately the library only hires those with a MA in library sciences. He had laughed and asked her what kind of a degree that was. He had started talking about book nerds in lab coats, reading Shakespeare and pouring chemicals into vials, someone shouting that this concoction would prove that Poe was writing some racist shit in that orangutan story. The lady librarian had laughed at that. He liked her. Kara, her name was. Why did that name come easier to him than his own goddamn niece? Ariel? Alexis? Fuck, what white girl name did his sister give that girl?

He liked Kara and all of them at the library because they were cool. That’s how he would say it. An academic or one of those Freud doctors - psychologists? Psychiatrists? - would probably have phrased it as “Mr. Wright was ostracized as a semi-homeless man, stereotyped to be unclean, insane, and grossly uneducated. The library offered him a safe space off the streets, a place where his idle brain and hands could find some use, while the librarians looked passed his old clothes and slight smell and saw the intellectual that he was, a well-read man in an unfortunate circumstance.” Maybe a little duller; scientists had a tendency to not use language to their advantage, choosing form over function in their writings.

Torry approached the booth and quickly scanned the line of people behind the desk. Kara was here today, all right. So was...Jimmy Gambino, Gracelle, and...he squinted at the end of the line. Someone new. He didn’t recognize that shock of blue - turquoise - hair or those ugly-ass white framed glasses. He needed to introduce himself. Proper.

He waited in line. There weren’t too many people there. Most who came to the library knew what they wanted and didn’t bother with the information booth. Torry smiled at those walking by; they often returned the smiles or stopped to say hi before going left - science fiction and fantasy - right - children and young adult - or upstairs - everything under the sun. A couple small kids - looked to be about three and five - ran up to him. Their mama followed a couple feet behind, bags under her eyes, and hair up in a haphazard bun. Her stomach and chest were swollen.

Torry crouched down and grinned. “How you doin’, there?” he asked the three year old.

The kid didn’t answer, instead yammering about their morning, getting dressed, eating breakfast, coming here. A whole lot of nothing. Torry kept grinning, nodding along with the kid. A couple of “ah yeah,” and “I know that,” and the kid was grinning along with him. Kids liked that. It didn’t matter if you had any clue what they were saying, as long as you pretended, they were on cloud freaking nine. His niece and nephew were a lot like that. Especially his nephew, always talking up a storm. Mitchell? No, no? What was his daddy’s name? Mishawn? No - that’s way off. Michael! Yeah, Michael. Sweet kid, like this little guy here.

He looked at the older kid - two boys, mama must have her hands full - and said, “What are you here for, man? Spider-man or somethin’?”

The bigger boy kept his eyes down, shaking his head. Shy little guy, huh. Torry kept his distance - shy people liked their space - and tried again. “Nah, you wouldn’t like him. You don’t look like the Spidey type, though - ya know, Spidey’s black now!” The kid glanced up, eyes wide. “Yeah, Miles Something. Some M sounded name. Not good with names, here. But yeah, he’s a black kid. Might wanna check him out. My nephew - his name’s Michael. Michael Alexander Templeton Junior - MJ - he likes the spider-kid. But you -” Torry looked the kid up and down, pursing his lips for a second before breaking into a megawatt smile - “you like that magic shit - shoot, crap, right?” The kid finally looked up, into Torry’s face. Jackpot. “Harry Potter, that kid’s more your style, yeah?” He nodded, cautious and unsure. “Now I never read no Harry Potter, but my sister’s kids love him. And I seem them movies, great stuff, great stuff. Books probably better.” He nodded again, a little more sure. “You know, my shit - crap, don’t you start swearing, no copying me - my favorite was uh...Tol...Tolkien. That guy with the hobbits and shi - stuff. I liked that. Tolkien and Beagle and, uh, Christ what was his name...Pullman and Pratchett. Ya read their stuff?” The kid shook his head. His eyes were wide, absorbing everything Torry said. Their mom stood behind him, a hand on her enormous belly, rubbing gently. She looked cautious but had a strained sense of calm around her, like she was trying to appear relaxed around this big guy talking to her young boys. Torry couldn’t blame her. “You should, you should. Hobbit, and uh, Last Unicorn by Beagle, and...Discworld by Pratchett. They the best. Go and check them out and let me know what you think.” The boy nodded, his little brother nodding along with him, and they took off.

Torry laughed. He smiled at the mom and stood up. The line had all but disappeared. He watched the mom follow after her boys in the children’s section. They should find all those books there, if not...he might have to talk. Actually…

He approached the last person at the information booth. Blue hair. It was pretty. They were pretty. Pale skin, no zits or anything, a little soft looking, like a chubby Bambi, cute little deer with round cheeks and bright eyes. Torry grinned and leaned on the counter.

“Are you here?” he asked.

Blue Hair looked a little confused. Torry leaned in - not too close, don’t wanna appear like a creep - and read the name tag. Charlotte. Pretty name.

“Miss Bronte - that what your mama and daddy have in mind? Or was they thinking about E.B. White?”

Charlotte blinked, stunned. “Uh, no, no. It’s my grandmother’s name.” Her voice was soft, light. “She passed shortly before I was born. I uh, never really thought about it, but yeah, Charlotte Bronte and, uh Charlotte’s Web. Usually I, uh, get one or the other. Can I help you with anything today, sir?”

‘Sir.’ He liked that. Not in a weird way. He had been calling people sir and ma’am his entire life; felt nice to have it turned on him. Being treated with respect. “Well, I got a couple things. First, is you really here?”

“Yes?”

“Gonna sound rude here, Miss Bronte, but the question makes me suspicious.”

“I don’t know, uh, what you mean by that question.”

Torry laughed a little. Course she wouldn’t understand. Well, he shouldn’t judge. Man don’t judge - that’s God’s job. His sister understood to an extent, but she didn’t really understand. Sympathy versus empathy. Something like that. “Sometimes I see people that I saw passing by on the street,” he explained. “I see some guy with a pretty red bird and suddenly I’m seeing him all over - the diner, this here library, the train tracks. And he ain’t really there. Everybody around me say so.”

“Oh. Oh, no I’m, uh, I’m here. Just started today.”

“Well, alright, good.” He turned behind him. No one was in line behind him. And Eamon wasn’t there either. Good. Just once today, after he helped that nervous kid at the meter. Once is good. More than that...not so good. And he was having a good day. “Gonna be a good day,” he mumbled, more to himself.

“Is there anything else I can help you with…?”

He turned his famous gap-toothed grin on her. “Bernard Torrance Wright Junior. Everyone calls me Torry.”

“Torry,” she said, lips quirking a little. “Parents name you after, uh, Jack and Danny Torrance from The Shining?”

He laughed, loud and deep. Man, she was funny. Like his sister and niece - they were quick. “Nah, but you’d think that, wouldn’t you? No offence. That was smart. Nah, it’s my daddy’s name - don’t know where Torrance came from except his mama. Funny thing is my sister’s name, her name’s Susannah.”

“Like Susannah Dean?”

“Yes and no. Coincidence. Funny, though, right?”

“Very funny.” She was smiling. Torry looked again behind him. Still no one.

“Her middle name...my mama’s name was Cairo, like the city in Egypt.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, and, uh, she liked to say - my mama liked to say that she was descended from the queens, the pharaohs you know? I think if my daddy woulda let her, she woulda named me Osiris or some shit. ‘Scuse me, crap. He let her do what she wanted with Susannah, though, so mama named her Seshat.”

“I can’t remember that one.”

“Iss okay. Seshat was uh, a librarian and scribe. Focused her talents mostly on accounting, math, history, and astronomy. Think that’s why my sister is a - a teacher.”

“Makes sense.”

“She got two kids, my sister. Her and her husband. He also a teacher, a math one, I think. Her kids...she got a boy named Michael Alexander Templeton Junior - common to name your boys after their daddy - and a girl...shoot, can’t remember her name.”

“That’s all right. Is there anything book-related I can help you with?”

He jerked his head. Shit, maybe he wasn’t gonna have such a good day. Jerking was never a good sign. Did he take his meds? Torry looked down at his hands. They were shaking. No, no, he took them. Susannah always made sure he did - she was good to him. Why was he shaking, jerking? He clenched them into fists and put them in his pockets. He looked around. More people were in the library, but there was no line behind him. Jimmy was helping a kind-looking old lady, but that was about it. Torry held down another jerk, and looked back at Charlotte.

“Yeah, sorry. Get distracted easily. Uh, just wanted to make sure you got some books in the children’s section and not the fantasy.”

“Which ones?” She sat up a little straighter, looking eager to please, and typed something into her computer.

“I shoulda checked, but I don’t go into the children’s section that much.”

“That’s okay.”

“Uh, The Hobbit, Last Unicorn by uh, Peter S. Beagle -” she was typing into her computer, eyes focused completely on the screen - “Discworld by Pratchett - can’t remember his first name - and uh, Golden Compass by Mr. Philip Pullman.” He waited a second. “Last one might also be under Northern Lights - they changed the name in America for some reason. Maybe they think we don’t know about the lights.”

“They do that a lot,” Charlotte said. “At least often enough. Harry Potter is The Sorcerer’s Stone here but The Philosopher’s Stone everywhere else. Publishers were afraid Americans wouldn’t understand the book was about magic, so they changed the title.”

“Thinkin’ we idiots when we beat their butts in the war.”

Charlotte grinned at him. “Right? Looks like we have all of those in -”

“Excuse me.”

A man appeared next to Torry. He squinted at the man - no, he was a white dude. Nothing like Eamon. Shorter than Torry - most men were, mama used to say Torry was built like a damn bull, he was so huge - with a crop of gelled over dark blonde hair. He looked professional, in a nice pair of navy trousers, white collared shirt, and a beige cardigan. Looked like he was a librarian, though Torry couldn’t recognize him. He squinted harder. Shit, was this another faker?

Charlotte looked between the man and Torry. “I’m sorry, sir. I was helping him -”

“I need your help.”

Charlotte looked down the information booth, slowly. Torry followed her gaze. Kara, Jimmy, and Gracelle were all at their spots, smiling at the incommers. No one was in front of them. “I’m sure one of my colleagues would be able to help you, Mr.”

Torry snorted. He shouldn’t have, but it was funny. The man gave him a dirty look, before turning back to Charlotte.

She ignored him and turned her body a little more firmly towards Torry. “Sorry, uh. All those books are in the children’s section, except for, well, most of Discworld. We have a few copies of The Shepherd's Crown checked out -”

“I have a meeting in Room 192,” the man looked pissed. Not as pissed as Charlotte, who quickly tired to school her face into a kind expression, but still pretty pissed. Middle aged, white woman about to ask for the manager pissed. “I need to know where Room 192 is.”

“Sir, we have maps right over there by my colleague, Jimmy. Jim - can you -”

“I don’t want a map. I want you to tell me.”

Torry scowled down at him. He knew he was no faker - even in his fucked-up mind Torry couldn’t come up with a dickhead like this guy. He shook his head. Susannah told him he shouldn’t say that. He wasn’t fucked-up. He had a condition. Million had it, she had told him. When mama died, Susannah took over everything - including Torry. She insisted - hell, begged him to get help, and he accepted it. Anything for her. He felt better too. The fakers disappeared - mostly, Eamon still popped up, but the doctors - she even got him doctors, Susannah, she really was good to him - said it might be something else. Maybe he had PTSD or something. He had laughed because that’s what he needed, two things wrong with him. Everything had gone well until he forgot to take his meds, and then it was like a snowball. An avalanche. Susannah and Michael Senior opened their home - he was lucky, so lucky. Michael offered to help get him a job, but Torry declined. He was stubborn, too much like their mama and daddy to accept that. He could take help from his little sister, but...not when it came to a job. That he had to get on his own. He just had to.

He snorted and the man glared at him. “What?” he asked angrily.

Torry shouldn’t have said anything. He should have shaken his head and let Charlotte deal with the dickhead. But he was his parent’s child, silly as that sounded. And just like Bernard Torrance Wright Senior and Ciaro Norman Wright, he did not have a filter when it came to assholes.

“You’re just being a dick, man. You need to wait your turn. Plenty a people will help ya. Kara, Jimmy, and, uh, Gracie. They’re just sittin’ there. You wanna pick a fight, kick the black guy outta line.”

“Are you calling me a racist?” The man looked like he was gonna start foaming at the mouth. Jesus. Torry looked around at the library. People stopped and were staring. Some had taken out their phones and were recording this. Everybody gets interested when a white person looks to be fighting with a black one, especially when that “R” word gets thrown about.

“I didn’t say nothing about that.” Torry said. “I just said you wanna pick a fight, otherwise you woulda gone to someone else, not Miss Bronte over here.”

“Why did you bring race into it? I’m not racist!”

Torry snorted. The man’s eyes started bugging out of his head. A faint snicker coursed through their growing audience. Dana Blechman slowly made her way into the room, hand going towards her walkie-talkie. He laughed a little. Shit.

“Sure you ain’t, man. Sorry I offended. Look, I’ll just step aside -”

“Do you know who I am?”

Ah fuck. Why couldn’t this white dude drop shit? Torry raised his eyebrows. The man pushed up on his tiptoes - any other time that would have been funny, had he not been on the receiving end - and got into Torry’s face. He looked deranged, eyes wide, a sneer curling his mouth.

“I am Ryan Pollick, the youngest lawyer to ever make it to Richmond and Kaymuk’s Law Firm - the youngest lawyer in the city, hell, the state! I have friends in high places, pal, black friends too. You need to show some respect!”

Torry looked down at him. Pollick was breathing heavily. Torry nodded once, then turned to Charlotte. “The Wee Free Men is in stock? Color of Magic,too?”

Charlotte’s mouth opened. She shut it quickly then looked at her screen. “N-no,” she said. “Wee Free Men is in stock in the children’s section - we have about two copies, but The Color of Magic is - well, it’s in stock, but it’s in the fantasy section. We only have -”

“Tiffany Aching in the children’s section,” Torry finished. Charlotte nodded. Torry smiled at her. “Thank you, Miss Bronte.” He turned back to Pollick. The man had sunk back to his feet, but looked no less ferocious. Like a chihuahua in a purse. Torry pointed up the stairs. “Room 192 is up the stairs. Landing you can see splits off into two sections - you’ll wanna take the one on the left and stay left. Those take you to conferences and offices. Even numbers on left, odd on right. There a couple breaks, but keep goin;’ those are just bathrooms and closets. Have a nice day, Bollock.”

Torry waved goodbye to the information booth and started to walk out. The room rumbled quietly as people started to discuss what they just witnessed. Torry raised his hand to Blechman, who nodded, looking relieved.

He hopped down the steps, now going down the right side, quietly saying hi to each of the statues before turning down the street.

***

Torrance ended up spending most of the day in the park, reading an old copy of Wyrd Sisters. He had read it before - hell, he had read all of Pratchett’s books at least a dozen times - and the pages were falling out. Might have to ask Susannah to a new copy. All his books were starting to look like they belonged in the trash.

He held the book in his hand, tracing over the cartoonish depictions of Pratchett’s characters. He hoped that boy checked him out. It was a good series. Good themes and shit.

Torry cracked his neck, and tossed his bag over his shoulder. He began making his way to the train tracks.

***

The sun had gone down when he had finished Wyrd Sisters. He smiled to himself and put the book back into his backpack. He didn’t usually finish things. TV shows, food, books; getting ready was like revving up an old car - a lot of stop and go. It was part of his condition. Least that’s what Susannah said.

He sat back on the grassy space next to the tracks. It was his favorite spot next to the library. Besides the library. The tracks were nowhere near the library. He had always liked trains, more so as a kid. They felt like the start of something. What? Anything. They could - would if you had paid the price - take you anywhere, take you away from everything. After Eamon...Torry shook his head. Before Eamon. Before.

He never was good with time. Past time. Backwards clocks. They were difficult to remember. Moving forwards - when the library opened, when his sister and brother-in-law went to work, when the kids went to school - those times were clear as day. A good day with lots of sun and shine.

It had to be before the accident, though. He was always like this, always a little off. He saw things that weren’t there, heard things no one else could. They were never malignant - no, that’s a tumor. What’s the word? Malicious. That’s it, malicious - they were never malicious, so he had never thought they were a problem. Until mama and daddy found out. Then it was a problem. He was too old for them to pass it off as imaginary friends - since when is too old too old for imaginary friends? Who decides this shit? - and that’s when it became an issue. That’s when he knew he was fu - messed up. He had a condition.

It wasn’t given a name until after - was it after? Yeah, it was after. Ambulance had taken him to the hospital to check and see if he had a concussion. No concussion. A few broken ribs, a broken nose, and a mind that had been broken forever. Didn’t know why. Well, knew why his body was broken, but not his mind. Nobody knows that.

He remembered the doctors - not the ones that fixed his body, other ones. Ones that asked him lots of questions about things he’s seen and heard. The doctors told his parents and Susannah. Why had she been there? Cause of Eamon. Eamon was gone. And then, shit, then he said those bad things. “E didn’t fit so God took him out. Shoulda named him John Coffrey or Ben Hanscom. Christian names. Names that fit us. He wouldn’t have died if he had the right name.” Mama broke down and cried. Daddy didn’t know what to say, opening and closing his mouth like a fish. Susannah just looked sad. When the doctors told them - “we think your son had schizophrenia” - they hadn’t said a thing. They had looked relieved. There was a word for it.

And what a word. Torry shifted in the grass and stared over the tracks. Schizophrenia. Starts with a snake noise. Hisss. Then a sharp C, like cookie. Piercing like thoughts and images, like Eamon broken and bloody, flying out the car windshield.. A soft I, sounding kinda like when you don’t know how to reply. “Eh.” But with an I. “Phren” like saying “friends,” which is funny ‘cause when you have the diagnosis of schizophrenia, ain’t no one wanna be your friend; you just have your sister, if that. Susannah’s a good friend, good sister. She don’t think so but she is; she just got a stubborn older brother, that’s it. Then - where was he? - ah. A soft sound to round the whole thing out. It was pretty. A pretty word for something he couldn’t explain.

Torry looked at his backpack. Maybe...maybe he’ll go home tonight. Go to Susannah and Michael’s home. Have dinner. Sleep. Take a shower. Oh, nice long shower. Nothing out of the ordinary. Take his meds. Ask Susannah if he took them this morning. Then...and yeah, maybe he’ll take Michael up on that offer. Get that janitorial job. Then...then move out and be a man again. Susannah would still insist on paying for his meds and doctor visits - making sure he took everything. That would be okay. So long as he was taking in his own, wasn’t crowding their space.

He looked up at the hill across the tracks and the bridge above. There was some graffiti up there. How did anyone get up there? They got stilts or something? Stand on top of the train and spray a design before it goes? Gotta be Flash to do that shit. God...God would be there. Maybe that’s what this morning was all about. God telling him to go ask Michael. That’s what mama would say. God is reaching out to you, boy. That’s what she’d say.

“What the fuck are you doing?”

Torry turned. Some guy was stumbling towards him. Looked drunk, his shirt pulled out of his trousers, cardigan askew. Ass-cue. Funny. Torry took a deep breath. Smelled drunk too. Nasty beer. Nothing fancy, just...nasty. He looked familiar. Wrong, though. Like deja vu, but you know something’s wrong. Torry squinted. The man came closer. Ah, shit.

“You, fuck, you got me fired you, shit fuck!”

Torry started to stand up. He knew he shouldn’t have said anything to that white guy. What was his name? Bollocks? Weird name.

“Look, man, I didn’t do nothing. Sorry you looked bad -”

“I did nothing wrong! You can’t even - you don’t - I needed to know where to go, and you made a scene!” There was spittle coming out of Bollock’s mouth. A bit landed on Torry’s cheek. Nasty. Nasty beer leads to spit and nasty attitude. Torry didn’t wipe it off. Might piss off Bolly; anything can piss off a drunk, and a pissed off drunk is worse than an angry drunk.

He backed up. No one’s coming. He could cross the hill and start to Susannah’s house. He turned his back, and made his way down his hill. Jack and Jill.

“I’m fucking talking to you!”

He ignored him. Something shattered - beer bottle - next to him. He started walking faster.

“Hey! Hey, shit fuck, come back here!”

What kind of a name is shit fuck? Your name is Bollocks. You have no room to call anyone a shit fuck, whatever that was. Can’t even come up with good nicknames, why are you scared? Torry - he wasn’t scared of him hurting him. Being hurt. He didn’t want conflict. Not alone, not with a drunk.

Heavy footsteps behind him. Torry thought he should turn back and say something. What? No. No that wouldn’t do anything. Don’t need the cops called. Don’t need to be hurt. Does he have a gun? A weapon? Doesn’t matter. Drunks will do anything, use anything. There was another noise getting louder, rumbling. Rumble. Rumble. Like a lion. Purring. Lions don’t purr, though. Rocks, pebbles, really, chattered at his feet. Shit. Shitshitshitshitshit -

“Fuck! I said -”

Torry turned around. What a sight! Two bugged-eyed men, mouths wide. One short, semi-polished white guy, looking like a vase someone knocked off a shelf. The other a big black dude in mixed-matched clothes, alternative style. Mirrors. Carnival mirrors.

“Man, we gotta go somewhere else. Train’s coming!”

“You think I give a fuck about the train?”

“You will when it kill you. Come on, let’s go!”

He shouldn’t have said that. Drunks don’t like to be told what to do. Not angry drunks. The man’s eyes got wide and he stomped over to Torry. He tried to side step him, but the guy got in his space. “Don’t. You. Fucking. Tell. Me. What. To. Do. You. Shit. Fucking. Ni -.” Each word punctuated with a shovel or a jab in the chest. Noises getting louder, so louder. Harder to hear the white guy, though he knew what he said. The word on so many white guy’s tongues, in the back of their throats. A word ready to spill over, be thrown out like a boomerang; but they don’t want that to come back. They want it to be like one of those shitty boomerangs on TV. They fly and hit something, and don’t ever come back. But they do. Maybe not a minute later, maybe only a little later, maybe years - but it comes back and strikes them on the back of the head. And they cry asking what happened. Cause they forgot. But he didn’t. Black folks don’t. You remember. You remember.

What Torry remembered suddenly, as he was pushed into the tracks, as the train sounded, loud and violent, no longer like a lion, but something man made, piercing and sudden, no preamble, was her name. Annaleise. A searing pain. Bright light. Loud. Annaleise was louder, though. Annaleise Anut Templeton. The warrior.

***

The police, ambulance, and fire arrived half an hour later. They had received a frantic call from the condoctor about a man falling in front of his train. “I couldn’t stop”, the conductor had said, his voice hoarse from crying. They had assured him it wasn’t his fault.

It was gross - there was no other word for it. The body lay in two pieces. A big man, maybe seven feet tall when pieced together. The conductor had said he fell into the tracks and stumbled backward, tried to get his footing to jump off. He didn’t make it. The man had turned enough to where his torso was off the tracks - and that’s where it hit him. His lower half still lay on the tracks, a bloody mess. The clothes mashed with the meat and bone. Blood was everywhere.

The torso wasn’t clean, just...cleaner. Blood and entrails fell around the torso. Some still connected it to the pile that had been his lower half. His backpack was open slightly, torn book pages flying around him and those at the scene. Some pages framed his head and upper back, like a warped halo.

The worst part was his face. Bulging eyes and mouth, opened wide at the horror. As though he knew the train was coming. As though he wasn’t supposed to be there.

***

2 Years Later.

Pete Sampson stood at the edge of the railroad tracks. He swallowed and checked his watch. Five minutes. He straightened his back and rocked on the balls of his feet. It would be quick. It was quick for that one guy - Benjamin or whatever his name was. Guy made the news for how graphic it was. Pete swallowed again. Best to focus on the quickness rather than...the aftermath.

“Whatcha doin’ here, man?”

Pete turned his head. A young black man stood just a few feet away from him. He hadn’t heard him come up. Pete looked him up and down, taking in his Stanford hoodie, army jacket, and ripped jeans. Dude didn’t look like he belonged here; clothes were too nice, too clean. He shrugged in response.

The man came closer. He kept his space, a couple feet to Pete’s left, and mirrored him - hands in his jean pockets, arms pressed to his sides, shoulders hunched, and facing the tracks. Pete watched him out of the corner of his eye before glancing at his watch. Four minutes.

“Always liked it here,” the man said. He was still looking at the tracks. Or maybe the little hill across from them. “It was away from everyone without being away, you know? And...I could think about leavin’.”

Pete said nothing. He swallowed again, his throat dry and eyes suddenly itchy. He rubbed at them, tears collecting and sliding down his worn cheeks. Damn cold weather.

“Your mama loves you.”

“What?”

Pete looked at the man. The guy’s eyes were on him, large eyebrows furrowed in concern. Why did he care? He didn’t know him.

“Your mama,” the man repeated, “she loves you. She’s tired, but she loves you. Mamas are like that. They get tired - workin’, cleanin’, takin’ care of their babies - but they don’t stop lovin’ their kids.”

“She’s got my brother. She’s fine.” Pete had no idea why he was telling him this. He let out a shaky breath and checked his watch. Three minutes and thirty seconds. The pebbles on the tracks started to shake. He took another breath and started forward. Then hesitated. He swayed for a moment.

“Yeah, she does.” The man hadn’t moved, hadn’t reached out to stop him. “She has - what’s his name? Chad? Thad? -”

“Tad.” He didn’t ask how he knew.

The man nodded. “She has Tad but she also has you. Her babies. Probably sees you as a set. Salt and pepper shakers. Corn and - and - shit, I dunno, what goes with corn? Peas?” He shook his head. “Whatever. Your her boys, her boy.” Pete looked up at him. The man reached out and gently, slowly, put his hand on Pete’s shoulder. There was a loud noise to their right. Neither moved. “Go home and talk to her. Give your mama a hug. Betcha she’s sittin’ there in her chair, cryin’ and wonderin’ where her boy is.”

Pete stared for a moment. The pebbles rattled violently below; a loud horn sounded. It vibrated in his bones. He shifted...and nodded. Pete turned away from the tacks and made his way up the hill.

He should have said something. Thank you? He glanced back, wondering what he could possibly say. The man was gone. A small smile curled his mouth and he kept walking up the hill.

***

A lot could happen in two years. Graduation, a new job, new relationship, the ending of a relationship - the possibilities were endless. For Ryan Pollick, the last two years felt endless.

He wasn’t sure what drove him to come back to the train tracks. If he had been smart, he would have stayed away. The cops didn’t trace anything to him. They probably could have if they wanted to. But no one cares about mentally ill guys, regardless of how friendly they seemed. Ryan scowled. Friendly. That was one word.

He pulled up to the hill next to the tracks. Nothing had changed. Little fence was still there, a sorry attempt to keep people away from the tracks. Lot of good that did. Teenagers and homeless fucks alike were hopping over that thing, the teenagers for the thrill, the homeless for...who the fuck cared? The only new thing - Ryan sneered - was a little white cross next to the fence. RIP Torry Wright.

Anger, red, burst in Ryan. Fucking Torry Wright. He shut off the engine and got out. For a moment, he just stared at the sign. Then, he kicked. The cross fell over - it wasn’t very deep in the ground - and he kicked again and again. It didn’t break, but now the pretty white thing was covered in dirt, gross, just like the man it honored.

Ryan snorted and looked down the hill. It was dark, and he couldn’t see much. He had thought about coming here in the day, but the dark feeling had swelled up inside and he decided to wait until night. It was difficult to explain the dark feeling. Many would have attributed it to guilt; he knew his wife, Emily, would have done so. But that wasn’t it. It was...fear. Cold and dark. It pierced his bones and mind, caused his teeth to rattle. The fear of being caught and losing what little he had gained in these last two years.

His sneer deepened, and he climbed over the fence. He walked down the hill, hands in his suit pockets, before stopping a few yards from the pebbles, the tracks.

He remembered everything. How video of him at the library, being talked to like some idiot by that fucker, went viral. How people saw him as some antagonistic racist - him, racist! - messing with some idiot homeless guy. People scouted him out, listened to that audio. If there was one regret he had, it was stating his name and place of work. Those viral videos should have taught him better. SJWs would hunt you down if you so much as looked at a black dude; didn’t need to give them a hand.

Ryan remembered coming into the office after the meeting. James Richmond and Carrie Dean Kaymuck Richmond themselves had called him into their office. He had been elated, thinking about his Emily and their baby girl. He had been certain he was getting a promotion - he had done so well on the Himmolt case - hell, he had done fucking supreme on every case, every client given to him. Instead, he was met with fury. Cold and hot. Two sides of the same emotion, emitting from the husband and wife owners, as they showed his the viral video. How he had been nicknamed Line-cutting Larry. Carrie Dean’s eyes burned as she told him to pack his things. Ryan had turned to James, and that fucker just stared, eyes cold.

He had done what they asked. He grabbed his shit and went to another law firm. And another. And another. Each and everyone of them denied him, pointing at that goddamn video. He had graduated top of his class at Stanford, and he couldn’t get a job in the city. If it hadn’t been for Stephen Pollick giving his only son a job at his tech company...Ryan didn’t like to think about it. He glared at the tracks.

There was not an ounce of regret in him. Not when he shoved that nigger. Not now. And there would never be regret. He ran his hand through his hair. He had no idea why he came here. To show off? He smirked. Two years and he was finally back where he belonged. It may not have been Richmond and Kaymuck, but it was a firm, nonetheless. He had another girl; three beautiful girls - Emily, Cassia, and Violet. He was still in the backroom, but soon, soon he would be out in front, publically getting people off.

Ryan laughed a little. Raking in the money while that fuck who ruined his life was dead. Smushed. Mashed. He laughed harder.

“What’s so funny?”

Ryan grinned and looked. A tall black man stood off to the side of him. He hadn’t heard him approach. Ryan looked at the lights framing the tracks, then back at the man. He looked familiar; it felt like a senior looking through the freshmen section of the yearbook. Ryan pointed to the man’s hoodie. “What year?” he asked.

The man didn’t respond. He took a step closer, and Ryan’s smile fell. There was something off about him.

“Why you here?” the man asked.

Ryan stared before shrugging, his back straightening and jaw tightening. He shouldn’t have said anything. You don’t make conversation with some dude, let alone a black dude you meet at the tracks.

“Two years.”

It was wrong, off. Something changed. Ryan stiffened, not out of superiority but out of that dark feeling quickly seeping into his body like an oil slick.

The man stared at Ryan, eyes burning brightly. “Two years ago, Bernard Torrance Wright Junior decided to take his brother-in-law up on his offer, get a job. He never even made it home.”

“No, he didn’t.” That wasn’t incriminating. Ryan knew the law. It was just a fact. Wright didn’t make it home.

“He had a family. Sister, brother-in-law, two great nieces and nephews.” The man held up two fingers. “One of each.”

“It was sad.”

“Not to you, you shit fuck.”

The dark feeling started to gnaw at Ryan. Get away - get away. He started to leave, when the man pushed him in the chest. Ryan stumbled backwards. The pebbles were starting to shake. A horn blazed in the distance. Fuck. Fuckfuckfuckfuck -

The man stood in front of him.

“Listen,” Ryan started. “I - I don’t know what the fuck you’re on about -”

“Yes you do,” the man said quietly. It was getting harder to hear him. The man straightened. He shimmered. There was no other word for it. His body shimmered and gleamed like some gossamer fabric had been in front of him. His youthful face faded away into something older, worn. A gray and black beard framing deep laugh lines. A dusty green beanie on a graying hair. His legs - oh, Jesus - his legs vanished. At his pelvis was a mass of intestines, hanging out of his body, dripping something, like a leaky faucet.

Ryan looked up in horror. The man’s face was set.

“Oh fuck -”

“Fuck you, you shit fuck!”

The man shoved him and Ryan screamed. The train came, loud, not stopping. The pebbles bounced, jittered. He watched. Ryan was there, and then he wasn’t, caught under the wheels of the train. There was a thump, but nothing else. The horn’s screams continued on, man-made screams muffaling man-made screams. He closed his eyes. A weight lifted itself off his shoulders.

“What do you think happens now?”

Torry opened his eyes. There was a man in a nice black suit. Man in Black. It looked a little too tight on him, too modern. Torry’s body shimmered, but the man held up a hand.

“Don’t change on my account,” he said. Torry froze, his body remaining as it had been when he died.

“You ain’t scared.”

“Not really.” The man came closer. “I’ve been watching you. You’re a good man, Bernard.”

“I don’t know you.” It sounded childish coming from his mouth. The train was still going by.

The man smiled. “Carleton Ruscoe,” he said. “I’m a paranormal investigator.”

“Carlton Bank’s doin’ ‘Ghost Hunters’, now?”

His smile widened. “You know your pop culture references, don’t you?” Torry shrugged. Carleton’s face sombered. “You still didn’t answer my question. What happens now? You’ve fulfilled your purpose of staying here.” He gestured to the train. “Where do you go?”

Carleton wasn’t wearing any paranormal gear. Maybe things had changed. Two years is a long time. Surprisingly longer once you’re dead and don’t have a calendar. They should fix that. Calendars for ghosts. Maybe Steve Jobs can make a phone for ghosts. Dead obviously can’t read Living folks’ calendars or there’d be a lot few hauntings.

Torry watched the train for a moment. “Guess I go up now,” he finally said.

“Go up where?”

Was this man dumb? Torry pulled a face. “Up. Heaven. Chill with my bro Jesus over a cold one.”

“You think He’ll let you up?”

Torry’s eyes widened. He had to let him up, right? He stared at Carleton. “Everybody told me God lets good people into Heaven. Believers get a really special place, but all good people go to Heaven. Like dogs but only some people.”

Carleton nodded. “What makes you a good person?” He pointed to the tracks. The train finally passed by. There was a lump where Ryan had been standing, unidentifiable as anything remotely human. Maybe a microscope or some CSI detectives could see a person, but most would see...gunk. Did he look like that? Torry glanced down at his body. Just his legs. He didn’t remember his legs, but they must have looked like a squashed bug on a windshield.

“I been helpin’ people,” he said. He looked at the other man. The man stared back, his lips quirked. “I’ve been helping.”

“One bad deed overwhelms them all. It’s true that you’ve saved fifty, maybe a hundred lives. But you have also taken a life. Not out of mercy, but out of vengeance.” He paused. Torry’s eyes widened impossibly. No. No. This man - he doesn’t know God. He doesn’t know the Bible. The Bible says - “The fifth commandment: Thou shalt not kill.”

Torry started to rock back and forth, his intestines swinging. His breathing was ragged. “No. No you wrong. Thou shalt not murder. That’s - that’s what it says. Killin’ is takin’ an innocent, but murder is takin’ - takin’ a not-innocent.”

“Do you really think that matters to God?” Carleton took a step closer. “We interpret His commands however we want them, but we don’t really know what He meant...what He means. The church says one thing - He could have very well meant something a little different.” Carleton looked at the tracks. Torry couldn’t look. He couldn’t. He was good. He had been good. Life and death. He had to go up. Why wasn’t he going up? “And, to be quite frank, Bernard...how do you know this man was not innocent? He pushed you, yes, and for that he will suffer. But he was also a devoted father and husband. A loyal son. Attended church every week. God...God would judge him. That’s His role. And you did it for Him.”

He couldn’t. No. No. That’s not what - God judges, He is the Judge. But Torry did the judging. He tried him - he had been the court, the jury, judge, and executer. No defence. God had a defence attorney - He looked at everything, the whole of someone’s life. He was Judge - and Torry...Torry...

Carleton reached into his pocket. “Why do you think you’re still here?”

Torry screamed. He grabbed onto his beanie and pulled. No. No. No. No.

“I’m sorry, Bernard.”

Torry bent over, still screaming. Carleton threw something at him, small and square. It hit him in the head. He couldn’t think. He...he was good. He was...There was a sucking noise and then nothing. Silence.

Carleton strode over to the box and picked it up. He put it in his pocket and, with one last look at Ryan’s remains, walked up the hill.

2001 13 GHOSTS VS 2018 13 GHOSTS

The Torso: a man missing his limbs; could be a result of how he died or a birth defect.

Jimmy “The Gambler” Gambino loved to make bets. He had been making them since he was a child. Unfortunately, his last bet would prove deadly. He gambled against the wrong man, and as a result, he was chopped up, wrapped in cellophane, and thrown into the ocean. He is still looking for his head.

Bernard Torrance “Torry” Wright was a homeless man with schizophrenia. He was loved by many, but not all. One of those men ended up taking his life, pushing Torry in front of a moving train, severing his body in half. Unlike Jimmy, Torry was a relatively benevolent ghost, a gentle giant in life and death.

Taurus, the Bull: With the First Born Son being Aires, The Torso would align with the zodiac Taurus, the bull. Torry was a large man, built like a bull, according to his mom.

#writeober #13ghostsrewrite #13 ghosts rewrite #tw: racism #tw: racial slur #tw: attempted suicide #tw: graphic content #tw: death #tw: swearing

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kidsviral-blog · 6 years

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Destroying Jim Carrey with simple question: ‘Will you denounce “Kick Ass 2″?’

New Post has been published on https://kidsviral.info/destroying-jim-carrey-with-simple-question-will-you-denounce-kick-ass-2/

Destroying Jim Carrey with simple question: ‘Will you denounce “Kick Ass 2″?’

http://twitter.com/#!/DLoesch/status/316039714597662720

If you haven’t been paying attention to the epic fact-whoopin @dloesch has been putting on the Dumb & Dumber star you are missing out!

— Chris Loesch (@ChrisLoesch) March 25, 2013

Truth. As we reported, actor Jim Carrey continues to expose himself as an hypocritical gun control nut. Oh, and a jackass. He took to Twitter yesterday to use tragedies to promote himself by hawking the release of his song, “Cold Dead Hand.” He did so by calling gun owners “heartless motherf*ckers.” Ah, the tolerance! Twitter quickly reacted, and a hilarious video exposing Carrey’s hypocrisy was created: Must watch.

Fierce fighter Dana Loesch destroyed Carrey with a simple question: Will he denounce his violence-glorifying movie “Kick Ass 2″?

My only question to @jimcarrey is on consistency: will u, will u not denounce new film “Kick Ass 2″ for glorifying gun use, violence?

— Dana Loesch (@DLoesch) March 25, 2013

The craven Carrey bravely ran away while tossing straw men.

No 1 is answering my suggestion of developing non-lethal self-defense! I guess that wouldn’t satisfy our national ad… say.ly/PVq5rfc

— Jim Carrey (@JimCarrey) March 24, 2013

Gun folks are afraid that control won’t stop with large magazines. Their nervousness is far less important than the … say.ly/mJR5rfH

— Jim Carrey (@JimCarrey) March 24, 2013

@dloesch Not at all. I’m suggesting compassionate compromise. A revolutionary concept, i know. ;^}

— Jim Carrey (@JimCarrey) March 24, 2013

I’d like to respond to all the conservative bundits out there personally but I’m far too busy NOT stumping for the g… say.ly/uaP5rh8

— Jim Carrey (@JimCarrey) March 24, 2013

Over a million ppl have been killed by guns in the US since John Lennon was shot. Look no further than your own back… say.ly/AFC5rpn

— Jim Carrey (@JimCarrey) March 25, 2013

The important question is “Do we possess guns in America or do guns possess us?”say.ly/VPr5rpR

— Jim Carrey (@JimCarrey) March 25, 2013

@dloesch So that means ppl need a hundred bullet magazine? Well,u don’t make sense but you cause confusion and that’s all u really want! ;^}

— Jim Carrey (@JimCarrey) March 25, 2013

Confusion? Her question was quite simple, Mr. Carrey. She even kindly offered some teachable moments for you. Is reading as hard for you as reality appears to be?

Loesch and other happy warriors, including the always awesome actor Nick Searcy, destroyed Carrey with reason.

#answerthequestionjim MT @jchristensen73 I’m eagerly awaiting @jimcarrey to answer @dloesch questionDoes he have the courage??

— Dana Loesch (@DLoesch) March 25, 2013

. @jimcarrey Please educate yourself. Police have no obligation to protect your life. See Castle Rock v Gonzales.

— Dana Loesch (@DLoesch) March 24, 2013

Average response time for 911 call exceeds 12 minutes. I’m unwilling to allow @jimcarrey play roulette with my family’s safety in that span.

— Dana Loesch (@DLoesch) March 24, 2013

Must be easy to MySpace rant with no ref to court cases, demanding disarmament when you have your own armed bodyguard, @jimcarrey .

— Dana Loesch (@DLoesch) March 24, 2013

Don’t tell @jimcarrey that Newtown parents voted for armed police in their schools. He might start calling them “m*therf*ckers,” too.

— Dana Loesch (@DLoesch) March 24, 2013

Sad because I really liked @jimcarrey growing up. I remember his Vera impression. Now he insults fans? Lame.

— Dana Loesch (@DLoesch) March 24, 2013

Is @jimcarrey volunteering to pay for all of us to have bodyguards, too? Well, are you Jim?

— Dana Loesch (@DLoesch) March 24, 2013

@jimcarrey Can you tell me what’s compassionate about making our bodies and children less safe than yours?

— Dana Loesch (@DLoesch) March 24, 2013

Curious why certain people think their lives are more valuable than others. “Bodyguard! No problem! Too bad you can’t afford protection!”

— Dana Loesch (@DLoesch) March 24, 2013

@jimcarrey By your logic defending free speech is stumping for broadcast companies.

— Dana Loesch (@DLoesch) March 24, 2013

Does @jimcarrey ‘s house have an “Armed Response” sign in front of it? Why does he not have a “Gun Free Zone” sign in front of it?

— nick searcy (@yesnicksearcy) March 25, 2013

Another question he won’t be answering.

.@jimcarrey bravely stands & says what 99% of the room he’s in agree with. Such courage! Until a maniac with a gun comes in that room.

— nick searcy (@yesnicksearcy) March 25, 2013

Bingo.

@jimcarrey @dloesch I notice you don’t deny having armed bodyguards, Mr. Carrey. How do you justify having armed bodyguards?

— Jim Treacher (@jtLOL) March 24, 2013

Protection for me, but not for thee.

.@jimcarrey Not a question of “need”, it’s a question of rights. Also, it only takes 3-4 seconds to cycle 3 standard 30rnd mags. ~ @dloesch

— Adam Baldwin (@adamsbaldwin) March 25, 2013

. @jimcarrey And 2.1m use them for defense annually, via law enforcement reports. So why do you omit that?

— Dana Loesch (@DLoesch) March 25, 2013

And @jimcarrey , of those 2.1m defensive uses per year, 10% are women defending against sexual attack. And you want to render them helpless?

— Dana Loesch (@DLoesch) March 25, 2013

I’d like to know why @jimcarrey ignores the fact that 2.1m defenses with firearms occur annually. Is “compromise” to ignore truth?

— Dana Loesch (@DLoesch) March 25, 2013

I think @jimcarrey should lead by example. He should drop his armed bodyguards and denounce “Kick Ass 2.”

— Dana Loesch (@DLoesch) March 25, 2013

Will @jimcarrey put his money where his mouth is? He hates guns, so will he denounce their use and his film “Kick Ass 2?”

— Dana Loesch (@DLoesch) March 25, 2013

@jimcarrey Pls answer my question: Will u denounce ur film “Kick Ass 2″ because it glorifies violence & guns? Or is your talk here hollow?

— Dana Loesch (@DLoesch) March 25, 2013

I’m sure @jimcarrey ‘s feelings on guns are new as there is no way he’d sign up for “Kick Ass 2″ feeling the way he does now, right?

— Dana Loesch (@DLoesch) March 25, 2013

Do paychecks for sequels involving guns justify this exception to your earlier remarks, @jimcarrey ? I’m curious.

— Dana Loesch (@DLoesch) March 25, 2013

RT if you want @jimcarrey to answer question posed by @dloesch Will u denounce ur film “Kick Ass 2″ because it glorifies violence & guns?

— Kate Kurtz (@BunnysDaughter) March 25, 2013

RT @cnservativepunk: I would really like to see @jimcarrey respond to @dloesch comments as she makes very good points here.

— Sister Toldjah (@sistertoldjah) March 25, 2013

Who thinks @dloesch deserves an answer from @jimcarrey: will he be consistent & denounce his movie Kick Ass 2? Or is he talking just 2 talk?

— Rorschach (@Modern_Right) March 25, 2013

@jimcarrey,@dloeschdeserves an answer if you have the fortitude.

— Mike Young (@MikeYou34) March 25, 2013

@jimcarrey Please answer @dloesch‘s questions. We’re all waiting.

— MichelleInCal(@MichelleInCAL) March 25, 2013

@jimcarrey could you please let @dloesch and all of us know what type of gun you are brandishing here for profit? twitter.com/josepheach/sta…

— JoeySkins (@josepheach) March 25, 2013

And then the hashtag #AnswerTheQuestionJim was born.

After blasting culture and gun violence on Twitter, will @jimcarrey denounce his new film “Kick Ass 2″ for glorifying? #AnswerTheQuestionJim

— Dana Loesch (@DLoesch) March 25, 2013

#AnswerTheQuestionJim RT @suziewilliams: @dloesch @jimcarrey Simple question. You need to answer.

— Dana Loesch (@DLoesch) March 25, 2013

.@jimcarrey This isn’t going away…You should #AnswerTheQuestionJim .@dloesch

— Topher Carlton (@TopherCarlton) March 25, 2013

. @jimcarrey rants about guns. Promotes his own gun violent film. @dloesch asks him to denounce it. Silence from him? #AnswerTheQuestionJim

— Sherry Lucas (@PorchPhilosophy) March 25, 2013

Still waiting for @jimcarrey to #AnswerTheQuestionJim if he’ll denounce new film in light of his anti-gun remarks.

— Dana Loesch (@DLoesch) March 25, 2013

Call @piersmorgan for help: @jimcarrey is ignoring @dloesch. #AnswertheQuestionJim

— ★♥ Harriet Baldwin(@HarrietBaldwin) March 25, 2013

Liberal men have such a fear of conservative women.It’s hilarious.@dloesch @jimcarrey #AnswerTheQuestionJim

— Bethany Bowra (@BethanyBowra) March 25, 2013

It’s at times like this that people like @jimcarrey prove their anti-gun arguments have no substance.#AnswerTheQuestionJim @dloesch

— Bethany Bowra (@BethanyBowra) March 25, 2013

So @jimcarrey finally responds to @dloesch, and it’s a straw man argument. Enjoy your “blood money”, Hypocrite.

— ArcherFan1776 (@AiPolitics) March 25, 2013

If @jimcarrey has any kind of integrity he’ll answer @dloesch and explain why he gets to vilify gun users but gets to be protected by them.

— Brandon Morse (@CnservativePunk) March 25, 2013

“A fear of weapons is a sign of retarded sexual and emotional maturity.” ~Sigmund Freud *cough cough* @jimcarrey #answerthequestionjim

— Kemberlee Kaye (@red_red_head) March 25, 2013

“@laurenc_lux: What’s it like having your own armed security? #AnswerTheQuestionJim” @jimcarrey

— Chris Loesch (@ChrisLoesch) March 25, 2013

Hey remember when @jimcarreyexploited 9/11 with his “Go see The Majestic..It will make you feel better” Ad.. #AnswerTheQuestionJim

— S.M (@redsteeze) March 25, 2013

A pattern of gross exploitation for his own gain.

Tick-tock, tick-tock. #answerthequestionjim

— Eye on Politics (@EyeOnPolitics) March 25, 2013

I’m pretty sure @jimcarrey doesn’t want to debate, he wants to proselytize. #answerthequestionjim

— Brandon Morse (@CnservativePunk) March 25, 2013

Is this @jimcarrey ‘s solution for a women facing a rape assailant ? youtube.com/watch?v=io30s7… #AnswerTheQuestionJim

— Karen Martin #TGDN (@karmartin) March 25, 2013

Suck it up, ladies!

What’s it like in the 1% with a security detail, but criticizing the 99% that need their own protection? #AnswerTheQuestionJim

— Lauren Luxenburg (@LaurenC_Lux) March 25, 2013

That awkward moment when you’re a movie star passed your prime being called out for being a hypocrite. #AnswerTheQuestionJim

— Justen Charters (@JustenCharters) March 25, 2013

#AnswertheQuestionJim How can you take money for something you find so immoral? @chrisloesch @dloesch

— Mari (@LupeColon) March 25, 2013

It’s trending. “@chrisloesch: Use this hashtag to @jimcarrey until he answers @dloesch‘s question about his film. #AnswertheQuestionJim”

— Sara Marie Brenner (@saramarietweets) March 25, 2013

We’ve had enough of the hypocrisy and the intolerance coming from the Hollyweird Left.

One of the reasons I love twitter is that celebrities are finally having people that aren’t paid “yes” men reacting to their idiocy.

— Ben Howe (@BenHowe) March 25, 2013

The more I hear powerful people & celebrities (& a few whiny bloggers) poo-poo twitter as irrelevant, the more I know they’re scared of it.

— Ben Howe (@BenHowe) March 25, 2013

Indeed. And, Jim?

Thx 4 your input 2day.I don’t think i’ve ever felt so despised and so free at the same time. It’s been delightfully. ;^}

— Jim Carrey (@JimCarrey) March 25, 2013

Answer the question. We aren’t going anywhere.

Update: He’s still avoiding, but is continuing to toss around straw men.

@jbird8 Newsflash jbird. Movies aren’t real. No classroom gets blown to bloody hell by a movie but your misdirection is noted. ;^]

— Jim Carrey (@JimCarrey) March 25, 2013

Hollywood hypocrite: Video roasts gun control nut Jim Carrey over movie violence

Jim Carrey’s ‘Cold Dead Hand’: Hey, here’s a song for ‘heartless motherf*ckers unwilling to bend for the safety of our kids’; Update: Doubles down

Jim Carrey: Gun violence? That’s totally karma, bitter clingers

Jim Carrey: The lives of assault rifle owners aren’t really ‘worth protecting’

Ghouls: Jim Carrey wants to ‘revise’ Second Amendment; Other celebs politicize Empire State Building shooting

Read more: http://twitchy.com/2013/03/25/answerthequestionjim-will-gun-grabbing-hypocrite-jim-carrey-denounce-kick-ass-2-he-bravely-runs-away/

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