#And we know he kind of embraced his deer identity | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

mrsunderhill678 · 3 years

Text

Ya Gorl’s Been Tip Tappin’ against the keyboard and makin’ magic with her fingies

“I used to think I was a troubled man, stumbling mistake to mistake, wondering what people's lives would be like without me. But now I've come to realize I'm not troubled, just hurt, and there's such a fine difference in that. Love and trouble used to look like cocaine and sugar, and I could hardly tell the difference between pain and gentleness. So I let neither guide my way in fear of choosing the wrong thing and breaking myself in ways I could never fix.” - Dan Castlestone

“I met my love as she wept in her sorrow, wondering why she couldn't find freedom. But it feels like, as I dance my fingers against the etches of her spine and kiss her gently where it hurts the most, our love is the freedom she's been craving. She's got scars on her heart, but look at her, sitting gentle and peaceful like a dove prophesizing great peace and love. I'd never seen someone so gentle, so beautiful, so lovely, until I met her sorrow filled and kind eyes.” - Mel Ackers

“I've always wanted to be somebody to someone, but it feels as if, I have finally become somebody to me.” - Fern Ackers

“She stood next to me in the garden as I sprouted, everybody else stood tall, but there I stood, bent in ways I didn't think could heal. But she didn't care. She stood there every day, giving me water and watching me grow, building me up with gentle kisses in the dark and nights spent tangled in each other's arms. And now here I stand, tall and loved, knowing that without Mel, without my beautiful children, I never would've learned how to be somebody to me.” - Fern Ackers

“I'm a love riddled fool, sipping on sorrowful poetry and sad songs in the dark, knowing I shall never be me, for I was born somebody else.” - Anderson Mafasa

“Some people call me crazy, but I prefer the term lucid in reality, for I crave fantasy much more than I enjoy the real things I can touch and feel.” - Anderson Mafasa

“There's no one but me in my mind, so how could I blame anybody but myself for the thoughts in my head?” - Anderson Mafasa

“It feels as if I have sunken deep into the recesses of myself, and there's no one but me to run to.” - Anderson Mafasa

“I've learned God can never tame the monsters he's made. He sets us loose in a hunting ground and when prey fell short we'd come to love the violence and the way blood felt on our hands. So we turned on each other and brought our stones down on those weaker than us, just for that high we got from power. I won't smile, but God damn brother, I'll show you my teeth.” - Adir Butcher

“I met evil in the heart of my hometown, sinister grin brewing with trouble, heart bared black on a leather jacket sleeve. I lost myself deep in the twisted and black spine of the underground, firing off bullets for the wrong reasons and losing pieces of myself each time they flew from the chamber. But as I sit here, honor beating in my chest, who I am flowing through my veins, I know I ain't never losing myself to trouble's smile once more.” - Adellia Rustfey

“He built hell on the streets of our home, but I'll be damned if we can't find heaven in ourselves.” - Adellia Rustfey

“I've brushed my fingers against the ever expanding pages of history, eyes dragging across kills immortalized in verse, wars written as beauty in prose and poetry, humanity's darkness called natural and inescapable. And I must wonder, as I stare history eye to eye if it's a warning we didn't heed or a monster we've created up of crimson etched poetry and verses glorified in blood.” - Achilles Arrowheart

“Asking "Why," to love is like looking up to the midnight sky and trying to count all the stars.” - Achilles Arrowheart

“I cannot live dancing under the shadows of ghosts.” - Achilles Arrowheart

“I was on my deathbed, six foot underneath a man I never was.” - Abramio Gold

“The way I see it, hate is a small plate, and you fill it with the little things that upset you, gorging em down and feeling full because you trick yourself into thinking it's a complete meal. But a few minutes later your heart begins to growl so you fill your plate with more hate and keep on doing it, again, and a fucking gain until all you can do is sit there at your hateful table, wondering why you're alone in a room full of your demons. We trick ourselves into thinking not everyone wants to sit at the table, so we never even give em the fucking chance. And I think that's sad, that we've tricked ourselves into thinking a life of hate is fulfilling.” - Abramio Gold

“I can say sorry for wot I've done, but dat doesn't change dat it 'appened. For some people, it just won't mattah dat I've changed, because when dey look into me eyes dey'll see da memories'a da cruelty in me. But a man don't change because 'e expects ta be forgiven. A man changes because he just can't fuckin' live wif da person he's been, so 'e kicks 'imself outta 'is 'ead and learns ta be somebody new past all 'is fuckin' pain.” - Lincoln Essex Twis

“I've got blood on me 'ands and ghosts in me blood.” - Lincoln Essex Twis

“No man wants ta go through redemption, for it's one'a da most torturous scars a soul can bare.” - Lincoln Essex Twis

“I used ta say I was a ghost loomin' over a grave dat weren't me own, but it feels as if, I spent me three days in me tomb, and all these people I love came around ta roll back da stone for me. And so, gentle, quiet and joyful I fall inta da arms'a all I love.” - Rosie Essex Twis

“The way I see it, and the way I'll always, see it, is that the man that fears change in the right direction has been walking in the wrong direction for too long, and has come to believe walking the wrong path is the only way he can go without resistance. So he sits in his comfort level, trying to force others to bend to his own fears.” - Pete Lockman

“I've always been a little wild, dancing barefoot in the garden and digging my nails into dirt and streams, falling in love with the way nature gently hums and shows her beauty. People say the world is hateful, but if you listen to the birds hum and you sing along to the gentle roar of the river, you'll come to realize the world never hates, only people, do.” - Lassie Lockman

“My father once told me that the strongest person of all is the one that embraces her identity and lets no one else narrate who they are. We all have our own stories and memories, and everyone's always trying to tell you how it is. But only you, know your story, and you're the only one who can tell it.” - Lassie Lockman

“She who changes based on every word spoken against her will never remain the same in the seconds that pass.” - Lassie Lockman

“I look to the sky, rays of light drifting through the dreary and lazy clouds. And I begin to wonder how God looks down on us. And as the sunlight caresses my cheek and brings warmth to my skin, I come to realize she speaks so gently, like a soft and quiet wind bringing the scent of love and forgiveness in it's wake.” - Lassie Lockman

“I was born under the shadow of bad men's deeds, looking to the sky for answers, praying to a silent God. But as I stood there, silence choking the goodness in me, I came to learn there's nowhere a sinning man can run from the madness and cruelty that comes on by to claim all who are troubled. And so I put another bullet in my chamber, firing off rage from a crimson revolver and killing under the shadow of cruel men's deeds.” - Navy Remington

“For as long as the sun has risen and fallen, trouble and violence have known man's heart, and so falling deep into the disease of murder and lies, I become one with my ancestors and succumb to the hum of spilling blood.” - Navy Remington

“I was just a girl looking for her peace, but now I place my finger against a sinning woman's trigger, looking down the scope of my rifle and knowing, it's not a wolf in my crosshairs. I always close my eyes the moment before a kill, convincing myself that it's just another deer, it's just another wolf, but I'm always haunted by the dead lying face down and crimson in the snow.” - Suzanna Hargroves

“I look to the stormy skies, wondering if my mother's eyes dance in those dark clouds, wondering if her tears drip down my cheek as another drop of rain splashes against my skin. Or am I just trying to see her everywhere I go so I never have to let her go?” - Suzanna Hargroves

“I stepped into that old mansion like a flickering and killing light drawing in the wicked moth, but as I walked out, I learned I had never been the flame, nor had Ickabod been the moth. I was human, and fragile, and Ickabod knew that, huh?” - Shamallo Green

“I was a white dove grenade hurtling toward darkness, but I was caught in the arms of cruelty and thrown back to the light where pieces of my shrapnel trouble broke through the skin of peace.” - Shamallo Green

“I'll never come to understand what life has in store for this old, blood spilling sinner, but I suppose all I can do is keep my head up high and pretend I've got a heart that's whole.” - Shamallo Green

“I ain't much more than a name in a book, these days, waitin' ta be cut down with ink scrawled 'cross my damn spine.” - Andraak Flint

“My full moon faded ta black and shadow, and God damn, I ain't much but a haunted man fallin' through the echoes of his snarl.” - Andraak Flint

“There ain't enough words on my tongue ta describe the love I lost. But 'er name tastes bitter on this guilty tongue. Carmellia was everythin' I never knew I needed, and when she danced 'er fingers 'cross my bare and scarred chest and told me I was er's, I could'a sworn I was gon' die a better man than I was born.” - Andraak Flint

“I look ta a grave too young, and ta me, it still feels like that soil was freshly dug.” - Andraak Flint

“I look to a cloudy sky and in the drops'a rain that splash on my eye I see the tears'a the holy pourin' down on the man peace and mercy forgot.” - Andraak Flint

“My life fell apart before I ever had a chance to live it.” - Arco Dogson

“It's always strange, losing yourself. Because when you find yourself again, he almost feels unfamiliar. Like an old friend you haven't seen for years. But then you get to talking and you realize everything changed, all but the laughter and joy that came with talking about nothing with a friend.” - Arco Dogson

“The powerful always call your whispers too damn loud cause they're morality stands on fragile glass, cracked and hollow, ready ta break with whisper decibels.” - Lockman Pierce

“I was a cracked seed wonderin' if he'd ever bloom, but all I needed was someone ta come on by with water and love, tendin' ta my heart and my soul and touchin' the scars in me with the tips'a their words in places my hands couldn't go. And that, is what Lucille is ta me. She's strong and valiant, risin' 'bove all trouble and cruelty. And when the war cry comes, you best believe she's gon' fight.” - Lockman Pierce

“It is when we are at war with ourselves that darkness comes on by, beggin' ya to diverge from your path. But don't stray, brother. When you're at an all time low, you gotta keep on walkin' the path'a the right. Cause darkness stands as the only poison mankind dares ta swallow.” - Lockman Pierce

“On the edge of death and madness I met a man with sadness bleeding from the edges of his eyes. He was just another broken man under a cruel man's shadow, and ever since I met him, trouble's known my name. But I don't blame him, for that.” - Fisher Rupkal

“We all need to cry a little, we all need to die a little to live a little. The sky's heavy with the scent of trouble and sin, and as the storm comes down I know, we'll face the rain and cackling thunder clouds side by side with those we call brother and sister. It seems people pass by the sorrowed man, hands in their pockets and ill thoughts in their heads, wondering why we don't help ourselves. But truth is, we left our hearts out in the storm to rust and always felt like if we put them back in our chest, our bones too, would rust over with the musky scent of trouble.” - Fisher Rupkal

“Hey man, look, the powerful will tell you you're nothing, but doesn't that mean you're free to become anything?” - Derrick Furmusa

“I'm just a curious spirit walking home in the dead of night, passing old identities by like stumbling strangers, knowing all I wanna do is walk through the front door of who I am and embrace this person I've become. And sure, as I walk inside claw marks etch the wallpaper and there might be one or two shadows hiding in the corners of my sanctuary. But this person I am is home, he's me, and I'll never let that change. All these hallways and doorways of me tell a story dotted with trouble and love that builds who I am from scars and memories.” - Derrick Furmusa

“I was never strong, but I've always figured the most important kind of strength is the kind that walks in your heart and your mind, rather then the kind that resides in black eyes and broken knuckles. I've got a lot of fight left in me, so I think it's high time I face the cruelty of this world with a crooked little smile and a few quips and jokes.” - Derrick Furmusa

“Someone once asked me why in the face of death, I smile. And maybe it's because I never saw death as a foe, or something to fear, rather just another part of life coming and going as the wind blows on by.” - Derrick Furmusa

“I's got a cold shoulder, but it's all I got to lean on, holdin' on long enough for it ta haunt me. My daughter says that it's okay, ta be me, but bein' me has only ever made me regret who I am. And so I let this person I am drift away from the cigarette smoke, wishin' a princess would come and save me. Cause I sit here in my eyes like Rapunzel, lookin' out her stained window'a glass and regret, wonderin' why she can never leave her tower. And I only ever let down my hair to let those that hurt me inta my mind.” - Julianne Hufflesburg

“My lips taste like lies whispered on a cold afternoon, my love feels like a flickerin' spark driftin' from the cigarette, and my heart, in the hand'a someone who cares, feels like not the rose, but the thorns from it's stem.” - Julianne Hufflesburg

“I must remind myself that life is a slow and insidious killer, drainin' the soul and heart outta ya before ya ever get a chance ta fuckin' live.” - Casimir Heartfull

“When I first met Remana she asked me who I was prayin' ta, and I sparked up a cigarette and told her truthfully? I was prayin' ta the silence hopin' I'd hear sumthin' in the echoes 'a my prayers. But now I look back at all these memories'a her and I see a red eyed ghost, lost in addictions and some delusional 'ope that she could crawl 'er way outta hell. I tried ta help her, but who I am simply weren't enough, so I took our kids and I ran from 'er ghost, wonderin' if I did the right thing or the cowardly thing.” - Casimir Heartfull

“I'm just a waste'a fuckin' life, sippin' on whiskey and lies in hopes ta bury this man I am six foot deep beneath liquor, cigarettes and sex. But part time pleasures never saved a man. Only made 'im forget who he is. I've got midnight rain swimmin' in my heart, growin' a garden'a regret and weeds in my soul. And God damn, man, I forget the way her fingers feel on my skin or the way her lips tasted on mine. And I gotta wonder if she misses me when I ain't around, or if she wishes she'd never met me and saved herself the trouble'a rememberin' me.” - Casimir Heartfull

“I was stolen away in the night by wolves in the dark, and now I grasp at who I am, clutching only air, wondering how I'm to bloom in gravel and bark.” - Candie Scavell

“The thing bout life is, it ain't fair. And it ain't never going ta be, nor will it ever be. We're all born different, given different lives and opportunities, so ta say life treats all as equals would be a lie. But that don't mean we can't treat each other, as equals.” - Vernon Crazendale

“I've been a wild, country rockin' ramblin' soul for a long time now, dancin' under the sunlight with cheep beer on my breath and just another reason ta live in my heart. But when that beautiful woman caught me up in her arms and tangled her way inta my heart, I knew it had been trouble and nuthin' I'd been livin'. Bobbi's a kind, gentle and wild soul, singin' her heart out, never afraid ta share her melody. When she places a hand on my cheek and tells me we'll brave this storm together, I always git this feelin' we'll walk out the other side, all be it scarred, and damaged. But still intact and fightin'.” - Vernon Crazendale

“I've never been a blind man, but it feels like, when Bobbi presses her lips against mine, she taught me ta open my eyes. I wouldn't want anybody but her lyin' on my chest when I fall inta sleep, I wouldn't want anybody but her tangled in my sheets. She's this beautiful guardian angel and I'm always swearin' up and down she was sent from heaven on peace's wings. She always chuckles and says she's human just like me, but I always figured that's what angels were.” - Vernon Crazendale

“A place an orange capped revolver under my chin, breathing in, breathing out as with the click of a plastic trigger, I let my imagination kill me.” - Alvadia Crow

“I often wonder if trouble kisses her knuckles before they hit my cheek, or if she loves the man she torments. I've crossed my heart and vowed to die, trouble looking me up and down with hungry eyes, my faith pinning me against the wall and stealing the mercy from my lip. I have a menace in my bed, he tosses and turns, nightmares plaguing him, faith killing him, and he is me, he's always been me. And so long as I am me, I shall never truly be. How cruel it must be to live under the shadow of love and faith, falling in love with all the things that want to kill you.” - Alvadia Crow

“I am beginning to fear God watches over me not as a loving mother or father, but as a watcher and tormentor, learning the ins and outs of me before she learns the cruelest ways to kill me. Perhaps it was never God's voice I heard, but a steady and aching silence I mistook for guidance.” - Alvadia Crow

“With trembling hands and shaking fingers I place this orange capped revolver under my chin, closing my eyes with a mind so weary. And as I slide my finger gentle against the trigger, and place my hand cruel against the hammer, I whisper to the sorrowful sinner that is I, "I think I better go before I try something I might regret." - Alvadia Crow

“My head's cloudy and my mind's up in the empty sky, soaring like Icarus toward their death, knowing as they fall, clutching at the world with tears in their eyes and freedom in their smile, they died themselves.” - Juno

“My father was everything to me, you know? He was like this hero I could always look up to when my mind treated me cruelly, and when I let the truth spill from my words, he accepted me as I am and pulled me into this warm hug that smelled of leather and acceptance with the slight tinge of smoke. It honest to God feels like I'm crumbling without him, and as villains and bastards swarm around me, I cry out to a grave to save me.” - Juno

“I just wish I could have one last hug from my father, one more kiss goodnight from my mother. But as I close my eyes and fall back into my mind, it's not their smiles that greet me, it's their graves that come to haunt me.” - Juno

“I'll always stand as a whiskey burning question, wisping and fading away like cigarette smoke on a cold afternoon.” - Tristan Ripburn

“I sink ta the bottom’a my thoughts and begin ta wonder who all the bones at the bottom’a the sea belongs ta. Only ta learn they was me, they was always me.” - Alaric Alistair

“I look up at grey eyes, wonderin' who I am as my tears and sorrows disappear like silence in the rain.” - Alaric Alistair

“I was just a boy with nuthin', tryin' ta make a somebody outta himself until I met the man that'd kill all the things that made me Alaric Alistair. He always tells me it's my fault that I continue ta live in his shadows and lies, and God damn, he's right. I pass by guns in the nightstand but never pull the trigger, I walk past him as he sleeps and don't kill the monster in my head, and as he tells me ta kill another soul and enact another consequence, I do as told.” - Alaric Alistair

“I'm a skinny and starvin' dog that never learned how ta bark, and so I rile myself up and leave no warnin' for my bite, always leavin' teeth marks and claws in everythin' I ever let go.” - Alaric Alistair

“I wonder what my mother would say if she saw me today, old bat slung over my shoulder, wicked grin lyin' crooked on my lip. I ain't the boy she rose no more, just the boy that fell.” - Alaric Alistair

“All that's left of me is an old chalk outline laying at the bottom of the streetlight, knowing that it was a knife in the back that killed this man I am.” - Maxlion Saltkal

“Some men will claim themselves good, some men will claim themselves bad, but I don't think I've got a definition for me. Cause I've been good, bad and everything in-between, wondering who I'll be when that first bullet flies. It was in the flashing and colored lights of the nightclub that I met my demise. There he stood, dancing to dead melodies and sins, not knowing, as the two of us met, fate had decided both of us would die.” - Maxlion Saltkal

“Bits and pieces of me have died throughout the years, and as I realize I can't carry all of them in my arms, I regretfully shove them into my empty chamber, slinging six broken pieces of me at the man that shattered me.” - Maxlion Saltkal

“I can never tell if I'm the hammer or the nail, but when we stare each other down, pistol's eye to pistol's eye, the smoke that leaves the gun shall determine who we are.” - Maxlion Saltkal

“Carva was just another justice bound soul until we met, and in my eyes she saw something wild, something reckless, but more importantly, she saw the possibility of us. She didn't care that I was a fucking lowlife livin' the outlaw life, because all she saw when she looked at me were the beautiful things I built my scars of. I've got blood on my hands and regret in my mind, but when she takes me by my hand and tells me I'm good enough for her, I can't help but think I'm on the path to redemption.” - Mika Hammerclub

“All cruel men who ever walked always left some kind of death in their stride, gunshots and echoes always following wherever their bootprint lied. But to all the cruel men of this world? I'm a cold fucking reckoning. Because God damn, I stand for justice these days and my chamber's full of names.” - Mika Hammerclub

“I'm a finger trembling on a dead woman's trigger, knowing I've no bravery left, only the emptiness that comes with sorrow.” - Kecia Brightburn

“It feels as if, in someway, my heart has become vacant in my chest and my demons rent out rooms in my head. And here I lie under the shadows of the bed, waiting for my monsters to slide their ankle over the edge. And as they do, I drag them under, hoping I have the courage to do what I must. But I always stare back into the eyes of my son, wondering if it's right of me, to kill the monster that stares at me with eyes I used to love. And so I let him go and sit like a shadow under the bed, knowing above me lies a wicked angel sleeping gently in his chaos.” - Kecia Brightburn

“In the span of a few days I lost my life, and now I swing from the hook skinny, starved and silent, wonderin' who I'd be if I never met all the things God's come ta fear.” - Markus Caesar

“In my small town'a secrets and lies I found an angel watchin' over the remnants'a Eden with a flamin' sword and sorrow in 'is eyes. And there he stood, defendin' the serpent for he was just another victim ta the lies'a the wicked. I used ta damn the man who bit down on his tongue ta keep secrets in the dark, but I's learned we're all victims ta the cold, hearts beatin' empty in a heavy and burdened chest.” - Markus Caesar

“I look up ta the empty sky, wonderin' what my aunt would think if she saw me now. She were my light in the dark, really, but now that she's gone my restless head's been singin' the damn blues and I'm lost on the silent highway ta freedom and grace. When ya lose your guardian angel, what are ya 'sposed ta become? I sit here like a regretful dog, layin' at his owners' grave, wonderin' when she'll come back. But it's bones and soil I'm lovin' and hopin' on.” - Markus Caesar

“A thousand dreamless lives sit heavy on my heart, howlin' for justice, but the beat'a my heart's become just another sound, and my bravery's fadin' like sparks in July.” - Markus Caesar

“The way I see it death has always been mercy. The moment a man falls he's been spared of the misery life tends ta bring, and whosoever lives on shall die a man they're not. After all, it's what happened ta me, eh? I stared into the unblinking eyes of death, but she turned my gaze to cruelty and shut my damn eyes.” - Zachary De’Lillium

“I bite down on bullets etched with my own fucking name.” - Max Tripp

“I've been a bad, bad man, and as I look at the sky and see the sorrowed eyes of my love in the clouds, I know she died ashamed of this man I am. I was her last mistake, and now here I sit like a flickering remnant of who she was, wondering when I'll get the justice I deserve. But I never find karma at the bottom of the glass, I never find redemption in the burnt stump of the cigarette. It's impossible to find who you are when you've always been blind, huh?” - Max Tripp

“Me and my demons play this funny little game of two regrets and a lie. I let her down, I whisper, I loved another, I shout. I'm a good fucking man, I weep. And there the demons sit in my mind, laughing and clapping, for they always know the lie.” - Max Tripp

“In the shadows of the wood I met a wolf, and with childlike glee and curiosity I followed him as he tossed rose petals on the ground. I built a rose from his lies, not caring for the way the thorns bled my palm. And just as I began to realize all wolves lie, he ripped me away with hungry eyes and carved my innocence into darkness.” - Carrie Howl

“I've got a few scars beatin' in my chest, whisperin' in the melody of my heart that I don't deserve these things I've got. But family ain't about deserve I reckon, it's more about who sticks by your side even when you don't really deserve it. When my rifle becomes too much ta bear, and my sins sit too heavy on my shoulder, I've got my family ta lean on. Cause it's when you're at your worst, that family's love is at it's best.” - Despevada Solace

“I've got prayers sittin' on my cowboys' sleeve that never made it ta God, and I wonder if he sees these words I scrawl on the scarred leather and linen'a who I've become.” - Despavada Solace

“I've got demons in my fucking head, man. They stand there just in the edges of my sanity, always leaving scratches and bites on the inside of my skull until pieces of them bleed into me. I've never been someone worth while, just another sad boy whispering lies to himself that everything would be okay. But look at me now! I've got power and insanity on my side, and I can't help but think these wicked things are what I should build my name off of.” - Wulf Azari

“In the shadows of murder and the light of sin I met a devil like me. She sits quiet and still with a festering rage in her heart and when you dare think she's a sheep, she'll smile and show you her fangs.” - Wulf Azari

“I've said goodbye to myself too many times, it's time I met who I'm not.” - Wulf Azari

“The world will remember the boy it forgot.” - Wulf Azari

“I am a quiet strangulation hidden behind words like, "No need to worry bout lil' ol' me.” - Hildon Crowrappha

“I was just another man on the streets, consuming part time highs, filling myself full of substances that would kill me. But as the angels started carrying me back home on wings of glass and fragile prayer, I had this horrible realization that I had never lived, for it had always been through death I walked. And so, kicking and screaming I tore myself from heaven, condemning myself to a life on Earth.” - Hildon Crowrappha

“I'm standing under the shadow of another woman's damnation, wondering why, if God is watching over us, she is allowed to exist? But perhaps God never had a plan for us, and all he could do was observe us like a dream, wondering why it was never lucid.” - Hildon Crowrappha

“It feels as if I carry a cross in my heart, and slowly but surely, it is turning itself upside down.” - Hildon Crowrappha

"I'm drownin' under the trouble I created, and I can blame my problems all I like, but it's my mind workin' against me, so in a sense, I've got an enemy inside my head and he looks like a God damn mirror." - Stefanio Dogvalk

"You wanna kill a man? Well then God damn, brother, just give 'im a reason ta hate." - Milo Horvinshay

"Something sinister lurks deep within his kindness, for it is just another masks he wears like gossamer and silk." - Maddox Spelfellheim

"Even the farmer stares at the coyote through the scope of a rifle." - Alfred Godsel

"And so when fate finds itself at the crossroads of two promises, which do you think it'll choose? Because from where I'm standing it sure as fuck seems like fate don't vow for the conquerors." - Mac McVale

"Sometimes life bats around the good people because it doesn't trust them to keep good hearts in their chests, so it dares fate to make the good hearts black." - Coby Mackentime

"I'm pretty sure the soul is a concept we made up ta answer the uncertainty of our morality." - Lockman Pierce

"Fear is a very funny word, it runs through many a man's veins, bringing them so gently to death. But death was never a friend, nor was life, nor fate, nor mortality. It was always just another way God could keep us trapped, for the day we sinned, immortality flitted away into nothing." - Calzell Flickerfeid

"A threat is a threat, the words matter not, the intention breathes through the blood in the air." - Calzell Flickerfeid

"Life is lived right up until the moment it isn't." - Calzell Flickerfeid

“Crazy only exists in the eyes of the well man." - Comodus Kalchamber

"Staring into my eyes, you see every man who fell like an angel from the sky. I used to believe God stood by all who worshipped, but I now know he only stands by those who worship right. I knelt at the altar, heart empty in my bones, and I prayed to a God who could never hear the quiet whispers I spoke. For he was never there, it was just who I am shouting in the corner of my mind." - Alvadia Crow

Man dun'it make a sound as he falls apart." - Oswin Sealock

"You think me a crack in this castle of glass? Brother, I'm the fucking hammer." - Lorenzo Storm

"My monster looks at me through the edges of my eyes, he's corrosive like poison, seepin' into my thoughts, my actions and the way I speak. Because in the end he's apart'a me, and ain't nuthin I can do to change that other than hope he leaves with the driftin' smoke." - Rustin Threadpatch

"I don't fear. I analyze, I come to understand. Then I damn, I fight. I condemn not what I don't, understand. But what I do." - Rustin Threadpatch

”I’m falling apart like a 1965 photograph. I’m faded and torn at my edges, little pieces of me missing, like a puzzle that you know ain’t never gonna look right. They can put little pieces of me back together, stitch my edges back against one another, but in the end I’m the still the same old photograph, caught as a ghost in a single frame of time.” - Rustin Threadpatch

"Some people like to think that getting away with it is another form of mercy. This is untrue! You didn't get away with it, my friend. The world simply forgot you did it. How unfortunate for you that I didn't." - Lieutenant Stenbarge

"People are, monsters at best, human at worst." - Rustin Threadpatch

"He walks confident like a loaded gun with the hammer pulled back and ready." - Rustin Threadpatch

"A delusion is only beautiful if the mad gives it a reason to be." - Maureen Chiseldowe

"Thing bout second chances, Graham. Is that they give the spared man the wicked fuckin' idea, that he can get away with it." - Henry Sinix

"Mankind does not believe the broken man. In the whole we trust, in the broken we condemn." - The Crow

"Be it God or man, we are always looking for someone to blame. Unfortunately, I am the blade others fall onto." - Arasill

#writing #oneliners #characters #author #dialouge

2 notes · View notes

sepublic · 4 years

Text

Infinity Train Book Two!!!

Cartoon Network JUST released the trailer for Book 2 of Infinity Train, and it looks GOOOOD!!!

-As predicted, each season will follow a new protagonist with their own issues who’s now trapped on the Infinity Train; In this case, it’s a young teen named Jesse who wears a letterman jacket (probably in high school), who has a younger brother he has (or had) a good relationship with, as well as a mom and dad. We don’t know WHY Jesse is on the Infinity Train, but I doubt it’s another divorce, as we’ve already explored that kind of issue before. Also, he has a smart phone, so Book 2 takes place around modern times (This makes me wonder if we’ll ever have a season that takes place BEFORE the others, like in the past).

-Also predicted beforehand; With a new protagonist comes a new main cast! We have the much-anticipated return of Mirror Tulip, who’s now the secondary protagonist, and she looks DIFFERENT; In the best way! MT, as she calls herself, is really embracing her individuality and I’m so happy for her! Hearing her voice is also bittersweet, because it reminds me of Tulip and I still miss her, alas. I always expected MT to return, but not as a member of the main cast, so count me VERY happily surprised!

-It seems MT is acting as exposition to Jesse, recapping on how the Infinity Train works so we don’t have to see him go through the process of figuring out what was already established beforehand. That’s helpful, and it also gives past ties to Book 1 as well.

-There’s a Map Car based on old, classic explorer maps; However, it’s incomplete within a void. In order to expand the car and access the other door at the end, Jesse needs to add more pieces to a smaller, identical map to expand the room accordingly.

-There’s a Fall Room where Jesse meets another new main character; Allan (Ellen? LN?) Dracula! Despite the name, Dracula is actually a deer, but he can apparently shapeshift, change colors, and shoot lasers out of his eyes- He’s probably a native to the Fall Room and doesn’t seem to talk, so it’s likely Jesse named him. Unusual choice in name, but it’s neat nevertheless!

-Unfortunately, those dumb Mirror Police are still hellbent on killing MT for violating Mirror law and have been chasing her across multiple cars, even hanging up at least one wanted poster that I think MT took. It still resembles her appearance at the end of the Chrome Car episode, so did MT change her appearance to hide? Or was it to be more of an individual, or both? Also, WHY are the Mirror Police so insistent on arresting/killing MT? Is there some grave consequence to her being free, or are they doing it just because that’s what the law says? Terrifyingly, the Mirror Police can travel through/hide in ANY reflection, including puddles. Can MT still do this, or will traveling through mirrors trap her again? Likewise, I don’t see Tulip’s mirror on MT... did she learn to remove it, did it get lost against her will, or is it hidden beneath her clothes???

-Intriguingly, MT says ‘Remember Tulip?’ to Jesse. This implies that either MT or someone else explained who Tulip was to Jesse, or Jesse himself knew Tulip prior to boarding the Infinity Train. The latter option is VERY interesting and I wonder how much time has passed since Book 1.

-Khaki Bottoms lives! Unfortunately, he lost an ear after the Stewardess destroyed his home, but at least he still has another one of those jiggly-wiggly things, whatever those are.

-THE CAT!!! Everyone expected her to be a recurring character through seasons, making deals with new protagonists and messing with them, but it’s still great to see her! And she’s still up to her old antics too, I see; Either way it’s great to see her. Having the cat be a recurring character, a constant throughout Infinity Train, is really cool- It’s like in Jojo’s Bizarre Adventure, how each part covers a new protagonist after a certain amount of time, but there’s still a recurring character here or there, like Speedwagon!

-Also, we see Dracula approach a claw machine, only to be tiny and IN the claw machine. Jesse is trying to play to win him back and the cat explains what he has to do. It seems there’s going to be a ‘Festival Car’ episode where the main cast travels through, with Dracula getting distracted and captured while the cat helps Jesse and MT rescue him. Also, the two are seen running at some point without Dracula, making me wonder if the Mirror Police are in this episode.

-Another licensed song at the end, and more antics with the Mirror Police being annoying! Please tell me MT is okay at the end of this season

-And our final stinger, OneOne! I made an earlier post discussing what OneOne’s role in future seasons could be, and it looks like I was mostly right; He’s seen on a monitor explaining to someone (it doesn’t look like Jesse, but maybe he’s wearing something?) explaining that you can’t escape without companionship. It seems OneOne is also functioning as exposition, explaining to new arrivals how the Infinity Train works, and he might be telling Jesse (who MT is spying on), or perhaps ANOTHER passenger, how the train works. On an unrelated note, if OneOne has control over the Infinity Train, couldn’t he just force the Mirror Police to stop hunting down MT as part of his authority as Conductor? Or is this scene happening much later into the season, and this is where MT explains her problem to him? Perhaps OneOne is LETTING the Mirror Police chase down MT because he knows why the laws exist? Is that why MT is hiding, because she doesn’t want to be seen by him??? IS ONEONE TRYING TO FORCE MT BACK INTO THE CHROME CAR BECAUSE THAT’S PART OF HIS ROLE AS CONDUCTOR WHICH HE JUST NOW REMEMBERED!??!

-No Atticus, alas. I mean, I expected it with the whole ‘New protagonist and cast’ format, but I wish we get at least one cameo from him in Book 2.

-In the Map Car, it seems our trio is riding on the compass like a boat through the ocean, only for the mast to fall down and split it in two, separating Jesse from the others. Earlier, we see the whole trio on one of the compass halves, but the room looks like a natural background; This is where the Mirror Police appear.

-Jesse is naturally surprised to hear about MT’s technical status as a criminal. Considering her reasons behind it, I don’t think he’d blame her, but I do hope Jesse doesn’t begin to wonder if MT has done OTHER bad things she hasn’t told him yet...

-Also, I just noticed that this season is keeping to a trend of there being a main protagonist as a human passenger, accompanied by an inhabitant of the Infinity Train that was part of the train itself, as well as an animal companion also native to the Infinity Train. I wonder if it’ll be revealed that Dracula can talk.

-This bit is just speculation, but will we see Tulip at the end of the season, after Jesse escapes, but now all grown-up? Also, what happens if a passenger’s number goes down, but they don’t want to leave the friends they’ve already made on the Train? And will we see Amelia again, having now reformed and trying to bring down her number count?

Honestly, I can’t wait!

#Infinity train #book 2 #season 2 #jesse #mirror tulip #MT #alan dracula #deer #oneone #the cat #khaki bottoms #mirror police #chrome car #discussion #speculation #trailer analysis

27 notes · View notes

youseissi · 4 years

Text

𝚂𝚞𝚒𝚌𝚒𝚍𝚎 𝚂𝚚𝚞𝚊𝚍 현실판에

Chapter 3 - My Way

Word Count: 3725

Chapter 1 ✧ Chapter 2 ✧ Chapter 3 ✧ Chapter 4 ✧ Chapter 5 ✧ Chapter 6 ✧ Chapter 7 ✧ Chapter 8 ✧ TBC ✧ AO3 ✧ Masterlist

The last person Mingi expected to see while out "working" with Seonghwa was Jeong Yunho.

He kept telling himself that he was mistaken while running after him at the mall.

He continued to tell himself it had to be someone else, even as he held the dropped phone in his hand and tried typing the other’s birthday to unlock it. It worked, a quick look at all the logged in accounts with his name proving his identity.

He still had a hard time believing that it really was his old classmate, even as he went into the boy’s room to return the phone and saw the little mementos on the shelf.

Amongst them stood a tiny trophy with their old high school name engraved and fondness seeped through Mingi at the value the memory had to hold for the other to bring the little statuette all the way to his college dorm.

But even trying his best to vehemently deny it to himself, to forget it and ignore it, from the first second he laid eyes on him Mingi had already recognised Yunho looking back at him, frozen with wide eyes like a deer in the headlights right before bolting.

He knew immediately it was him even with his hair no longer a soft brown and the lower half of his face covered up by a mask.

The fact that his power was no longer working when holding him down was just another nail in the coffin. One of many lights that went on in his head in the few minutes he was around the other.

Because he couldn’t, not in a million years, not recognise his old school lifelong crush since kindergarten. Maybe a tad obsessive, but to his credit he never expected to ever see him again after leaving high school, so he had always allowed himself to enjoy his infatuation to the fullest expecting it to be just memories to be fond of later.

And he did have many memories revolving around the boy, however he wouldn’t be surprised if the other did not even know he existed anymore.

Although he always had it bad, writing Yunho’s name surrounded by hearts in his notebook all class long type of bad, he didn’t approach Yunho more than a few unintentional times before.

But you couldn’t blame him neither for liking Yunho, a lot , nor for not interacting with him at all.

Because Yunho in a few hours through the course of a week gave him more attention than any one else his age did for the next decade. It was quite impossible for a kid that young, still barely understanding he was invisible and in a constant state of being ignored, to not imprint into the first person that noticed him.

And even as Yunho freaked out and turned away from him he didn’t hold it against his temporary best friend. Because it wasn’t Yunho’s fault that only him saw Mingi, it was Mingi’s fault that no one else did. He didn’t get why no one did yet at that age, but he understood that much.

So he kept his distance from then on, telling himself it would be bad of him to bother the other. The next year they were in separate classes and for the next couple of his young kid years he went back to sitting alone and getting the teachers in trouble for not finding him, scolding himself whenever he felt like going after Yunho’s fleeting friendship.

For a crybaby like him he was pretty proud of himself for managing to stay away.

The older they got he expected to one day just not see Yunho there anymore, but alas they were in a small town. They always moved on to the same school, had quite a few classes together, but it soon seemed Yunho had completely forgot him.

Mingi figured that much when they would sometimes bump into each other in the hallways and the other just seemed completely oblivious, both of who he was and the fact that he was the only one seeing him.

As far as Yunho was concerned he was helping any random kid up from the floor or trying to get past through one more person in the crowd, nothing special about it.

And that summed up most of all their interactions up till that moment. Bumping around school, picking up a dropped pencil, stopping him from grabbing an apple from someone else’s tray at lunch.

Just simple things like that, that Yunho probably never took notice of. Mingi was always invisible to him even though he ironically was the only person that he could actually see him.

Logically, he should’ve gotten over his lovestruck mentality at some point after noticing that, specially since he didn’t want to repeat that traumatic first episode.

He had no plans to ever interact with Yunho again, nonetheless he couldn’t take his eyes off of him.

He knew his class schedules, enjoying the classes they had together. He knew the sports he participated on and the friends he hang around with, where they would all go hang out after school and the video games he was always playing and just an overwhelming amount of gossip he would overhear, just cataloging it in his brain.

He once got into a discord server to play some games with their class when he heard they were gonna play one of Yunho’s favorites, but quickly lost his nerve, knowing that if they escalated to meeting in person he still didn’t control his power enough.

He was fine just observing, just seeing the other having a good time was enough to warm his heart. God forbid he tried to get himself involved and ruined it for him.

His crush was borderline stalkerish, but he tried his best to keep himself in check, to be conscious of boundaries, something which he never had much sense for considering his lack of social experience up till that point.

He kept that in mind, but it was never really a problem because in the end Yunho was the only person in the world that was a challenge for him to actually stalk if he wanted to.

Most people around he got to know their true colors soon enough as they often wouldn’t hide it away from him. Since to be fair they usually didn’t know he was there to see their mask fall to begin with.

But Yunho was a little box of surprises keeping his interest on him, kind and funny and making Mingi let out lovestruck sighs all day, his chest swelling with affection at the mere thought of the guy.

Maybe it was because he was lonely. He didn’t gather any real friendships during all those years, not until he finally started getting help with his problematic power and got exposed to others like him. Even then, when he first had a glimpse of what being normal was, it still didn’t feel like enough as he had to wake up and go to school alone every boring day.

It hurt seeing everyone around in groups like that fooling around and laughing at each other’s banter loudly. So maybe daydreaming about someone that knew he was there and that had even enjoyed his company once upon a time was a way of coping with it.

And he knew it was silly, but to his defence he didn’t plan on ever seeing Yunho again once they graduated. His infatuation was merely a good feeling that he just intended to tuck away and only remember it as a far away memory that shined through darker times, times he never wanted to properly come back to dissect nor properly deal with.

He embraced it like a pastime, a phase that every teenager went through, maybe not healthy, but who would’ve thought they would meet again like this.

Now he needed to push his old perception of the other away and hide his identity at all costs. He didn’t want to be seen as the bad guy, not by him.

☾

“Where were you?”

Mingi almost jumped out of his skin at the voice in the darkness. With the sound of a click an old lamp lighted up, the yellowish glow barely enough to light up Seonghwa’s figure sitting in an antique armchair besides it. The villain sat there turned directly towards the window Mingi had just sneak in through, eyeing the younger with unimpressed eyes.

“Nowhere, just taking care of some unfinished business.” He couldn’t for the life of him think up of an actual excuse.

“In the middle of the fight? Pray tell what type of business was so important that you left me alone at the first real opposition we’ve ever got?” The way that Seonghwa enunciated his words, without any hint of anger, but with a glint of curiosity as if he was just playing catching up with an old friend made Mingi feel like he was in the position of a child about to be scolded by his parents, telling him it would be okay if he just told the truth, but with contradicting undertones.

That just made thinking of an excuse even harder. “Hm…”

“Actually now that I’m thinking about it, we still haven’t talked about the other day. You know that one where both of our powers failed to match against two harmless civilians?” Seonghwa continued with his lighthearted tone, feigning the sudden remembrance as if he hadn’t been sitting there planning his words for god knows how long till Mingi arrived. “I wonder if those two guys had any relation to the guy that appeared today?”

“Maybe. I mean he wasn’t affected by you, so could be the guy that tricked you that time. You know that short guy, must have a power or something.” he answered fidgeting.

“I was thinking so too, after all my power doesn’t work well on other powerful people. That doesn’t quiet explain why you were visible, Mingi-ah.” Seonghwa said with a final soft voice. “I know you’ve been avoiding me, it’s obvious you’re hiding something. The guy you had pinned down was the one that was radiating power I’m sure you felt it too.”

Mingi sat down against the window pane knowing there was no escape.

“Are you perhaps trying to protect him from me? Is it someone you know?” The villain mused out loud, but was only met with silence. “Mingi, we’ve been together for a while now. You know me, I understand I’m not completely in the right here. I’m even impressed someone stepped up against me like that, with no powers and all. I plan to entertain his efforts, really. I mean no real harm, if anything it’s amusing.”

Mingi knew Seonghwa for quite a long time, both following Eden’s teachings together for years then. Both their case files ending piled up on their now employer’s desk years ago as problem children, when in truth the man would handpick and teach powerful children how to control their gifts.

That brought them together and that sprouted their current situation, living together on a lavish old house and with a mission to accomplish, each of the two with their own approach to it, Seonghwa seeming to be way more aggressive.

But indeed the older was a very reasonable man. Their objective really had nothing to do with the villain’s preachings, preachings that Seonghwa himself did not care that much to uphold himself.

Those were merely a big show to avert everyone’s eyes from their real goal and so they had no reason to see their new enemy as real opposition. As far as distractions go a cool heroic fight was even better.

That being said they still could pose a threat, most of their plans were based on the fact that Mingi was invisible which for them he was not at all anymore.

The minute Seonghwa saw the potential in them to get in their way he would not hold back and while Yunho’s power could mentally protect him it did nothing of real physical value in that sense.

He wasn’t willing to risk it no matter how much he trusted his old friend.

“You gotta give me something, if you really wanna protect him.” Seonghwa said in a low voice, now dropping the act and just seeming tired.

“The shorter guy, I can give you his name.” Mingi answered finally after thinking for a moment, his tone low and serious. “The other one is mine, don’t touch him.”

The tall one could look pretty intimidating when he wanted to be, exerting this confidence as he spoke, an empty threat hanging unsaid.

Not that it affected Seonghwa in any way, but it was enough to send the message.

The older leaned back loosening up onto his armchair with a defeated sight. "We could help him about his power, you know."

"I doubt he would want help from us." Mingi replied flatly, staring back at him coldly.

Seonghwa huffed rolling his eyes before closing them and resting his head back. "I got it, as long as it's absolutely necessary I'll leave your friend alone." He said finally sounding tired, almost pained. "Go and bring me an ice pack at least, that shorty hits hard and I feel a bump forming already."

At that Mingi dropped the temperament and scrambled hurriedly towards the kitchen. The other was right, it was the least he could do, they were partners and he was missing when he should have been there to help after all.

Guilt panged at his heartstrings, however making himself useful and nursing Seonghwa’s injuries soothed him, seeing for himself that it wasn't that serious and he could be of help.

☾ ⇀ ✩

The whole ‘righteous villain punishing the evil in society’ was merely an act of self-indulgence. Seonghwa was self aware enough to know that, to know that there was no real noble purpose behind it. They just needed a distraction and he wasn’t the first one with super powers to terrorize the city.

There was already a thief around who had seemed to have won the public with his charity-driven purpose. This unknown boy, a shorty with silver hair and a loudmouth, had been there for a long while already, his name famous online with all the speculation of how he did the flashy stunts he was known for.

Everybody with a phone saw the posts about how his heists always ended up traced to unbelievable amounts of money suddenly in the hands of the needy and that made for an impasse on the government’s part to bring out the big guns against him, showing the new villains exactly how to thread that thin line themselves.

And so Seonghwa took the opportunity to spin a similar narrative.

In all honesty though, if Seonghwa put any real thought into his personal sense of justice he knew he was undeniably in the wrong, he just wanted a chance to really use his powers to its full potential.

His power was like a muscle that needed to be stretched and he for the first time had the space to do just that for real.

Although it may seem strange, this whole situation where he could snap out orders and punishments and have it be perceived as a public service now felt empowering, almost cathartic, in contrast to all the times before where he had uncontrollably let his tongue loose in fits of rage, yelled out things he deeply regretted and was met, rightfully, with fear and disgust.

He was allowing himself the pleasure of lashing out for the first time in his life, a freeing high he could easily get lost into. Even so he was not foolish enough to forget his priorities nor let the bad side of him take over.

He didn’t felt any particular sympathy for the criminals he went after, having them confess all their sins before him made it easy to free his conscience of any guilt.

All those other innocent people that continued to fall prey to his power however were victims caught in the crossfire and the horrified expression in their wide eyes when they saw him served as a reminder that nothing good could ever come out of his abilities.

Growing up with that power was… terrifying to say the least. Having the power to play God as a child was overwhelming. A kid’s need for rules and guidance to be enforced beyond their own selfish wishes was apparent when everyone would become lifeless puppets at his command.

The way he used to so easily affect the world around him could only be described as emptying or desolating as no one could talk to him without temporary losing their free will.

Not only he had no control of when his powers were activated, he also had to learn from an early age to choose his words carefully as if each and everyone of them were weapons.

The effects of his power dragged his mental state to a downwards spiral as he grew up, at some point it became too much and he was exhausted of tiptoeing around it. He just stopped trying talking, stopped trying to interact and gave in to his own self deprecating urges to isolate himself.

He was declared mute, despite nothing being wrong with his vocal chords, and that went on for a few years until his case was picked up by Eden.

Eden was the one that took him in when he was lost, shaping his life to the moment it was now and he could never regret anything he did in his name, not bothered to be a supervillain if it helped him out.

Not that his old teacher was too happy with his methods, but as long as they were bringing results to their cause it was enough.

✩

It didn’t take long for Seonghwa to go check out his new prey. Kim Hongjoong was the name of the name of the man that had been showing up to fight him lately.

It had already been a few encounters and the other was each time getting bolder, more comfortable with dropping the former defensive act and just coming at him full force.

He could see Mingi, yet he kept ignoring the invisible man and coming for Seonghwa directly and it was almost endearing to see him rushing in every time to keep the villain company while he played with his powers and stalled the media’s attention.

Not that keeping him company was Hongjoong’s intention, but Seonghwa would rather look at it this way, appreciating the change in routine. He prayed the other would keep obnoxiously focusing on him and not make things actually difficult.

He entered an old music store, the vintage atmosphere greeting him warmly as the boy by the counter looked up from the scribbles in his notebook with surprised eyes. The place was completely empty as Seonghwa made his way to his target, fishing out a piece of paper from his coat’s pocket as he moved.

“May I help you?” The attendant asked, his mouth slightly ajar.

“Yes, if you could please help me find these?” He said handing the paper, a short list of titles there.

“Ah sure, follow me.” The other answered hurriedly leaving his spot and guiding him deeper into the store.

So this was Hongjoong, he thought analysing the shorter boy walking in front of him. Fashionable clothes, striking hair and an earful of piercings, pretty much what he had expected. The older felt oddly satisfied at the bruise mark on his shoulder peeking out from the border of his collar, remembering exactly which one of his hits that had caused that.

“Most of those are around this section, you have good taste.” The other said absentmindedly as he picked up a little stool to stand on. Seonghwa could probably reach the highest shelf by himself with little effort, but let the other do his job without interfering.

“Do you go to college around here? I don’t think I’ve seen you around before. I’m pretty sure I’d remember a face like yours.” He said, passing down the items as he found them.

It felt odd meeting the other without a mask but he hadn’t thought much of it, the last comment catching him unexpected.

“I guess you could say I’m new, I transferred this semester.” He answered, entertaining the small talk.

The simplicity of the situation was an odd change of pace, seeing the other peacefully working instead of the usual worked up Hongjoong made him almost miss it. Almost, as he didn’t really fancy constantly dodging punches or electric zaps.

“I see, what do you study?” He hummed along, stepping down the stool to lead them back to the front, towards the register.

“Third year of medicine already.” Seonghwa answer, losing interest as their encounter was about to end.

“A doctor then? What type do you want to be?” He asked as he swiped the albums through the barcode reader.

“A neurologist, although i have some time to rethink that still.” Seonghwa mumbled not found of the question, still questioning it himself.

“Ah smart, handsome and good taste in music, you have it all don’t you. Your total is...” Hongjoong continued on to take his payment and explain they refund policy, but his initial comment peaked Seonghwa interest back again.

The hero handed him the cd pile with the paper he had first received on top, a new line written on it. A phone number. The villain didn’t miss the confident wink Hongjoong shot him nor his mischievous smile, a light rosy tone to his cheeks contradicting his cool demeanor.

There it was, the trademark fire he feels from the other when they fight. Toned down by a hundred and way more gentle, but still equally recognisable in his eyes almost daring him.

“Call me if you need anything, I can teach you where all the good parties are at.” Hongjoong said as he waved a goodbye to the parting man.

Seonghwa didn’t particularly plan to continue seeing Hongjoong outside of their playdates, as the villain had so fondly named their recurring conflicts, but he thought of giving the hero the time of day seeing how cute he looked trying to appeal to him.

#ateez #ateez fanfiction #ateez fanfic #ateez au #ateez superhero au #superhero au #kpop superhero au #my writing #SleepyFairyAO3 #youseissi #long #long post

12 notes · View notes

hellzyeahthewebwieldingavenger · 5 years

Text

We need to talk about Peter Parker in Into the Spider-Verse

SPOILERS SPOILERS SPOILERS SPOILERS SPOILERS SPOILERS

SPOILERS SPOILERS SPOILERS SPOILERS SPOILERS SPOILERS SPOILERS SPOILERS SPOILERS SPOILERS SPOILERS SPOILERS SPOILERS SPOILERS SPOILERS SPOILERS SPOILERS SPOILERS

...Okay so here there and everywhere a criticism I’ve been hearing about Into the Spider-Verse was how it denigrated Peter Parker and sometimes that is expanded to, denigrating him for the sake of building up Miles. I even heard a comparison between the film and the Rey/Luke dynamic from Last Jedi.

I think such criticisms miss the point and bring baggage to the movie that is then projected onto what they see.

And just so you know where I am coming from here....I like Spider-Man...a lot...Not sure you noticed. Obviously Peter Parker is my main man. As for Miles...lets put it mildly and say I’m not a fan of his for various reasons I won’t go into here. In particular my ire is raised whenever I see comments or brain dead articles or lists incorrectly/deliberately misleadingly put Miles over Peter in various ways.*

My point is I really love Peter and I really don’t like Miles.

So I trust you will take me at my word when I say that Miles was a great character in this movie and there was nothing wrong with how Peter was handled here.

I think what a lot of moviegoers are missing is that the Peter Parker who trains Miles is in truth NOT thematically a stand in for THE Peter Parker, or a default setting Peter Parker.

He isn’t even what Peter Parker would obviously organically become with time.

Peter B. Parker in Into the Spider-Verse is an alternate universe riff upon the traditional default setting Spider-Man as the blonde celebrity Peter Parker, Spider-Ham, Spider-Gwen, Spider-Man Noir or Peni Parker.

Except whilst their gimmicks range from ‘Spider-Man if he was a cartoon pig’ to ‘Spider-Man if he was Gwen Stacy and liked punk rock’, his gimmick is ‘Spider-Man if he was old and washed up’.

That’s who Miles’ mentor is.

It isn’t ‘Spider-Man’ so much as it is ‘Old Washed Up Spider-Man’, a character created in deliberate counterpoint to ‘Blonde hyper successful Spider-Man’.

Whilst one is ‘Spider-Man where everything went right’ the other is ‘Spider-Man where everything went wrong’.

Neither is in truth supposed to BE Spider-Man.

More poignantly the character is designed with the intention of serving Miles story and arc.

You could never just stick anything akin to default setting Peter Parker in this movie and have it work dramatically.

Peter and Miles need to have seperate intertwined arcs from which each can grow as people.

And because it is literally the whole point of the movie, that arc needs to revolve around actually BEING Spider-Man as part and parcel of their personal identities.

Peter B when we meet him is arguably depressed but has obviously just given up. His suit might not be in a trash can but in his spirit he is no longer himself anymore, he is no longer Spider-Man. He is in the subtext the man who used to be Spider-Man but doesn’t really want to be anymore.

Miles meanwhile is the boy who is trying to be Spider-Man but can’t be because he doesn’t know how.

A default setting Spider-Man culled more directly from any era of the comics, cartoons or movies would never have worked in this dynamic.

Because in those scenarios we’d have a Peter Parker who is already BEING Spider-Man and has more recently been where Miles is in life.

Equally Peter needs to be not just older but in fact distinctly beyond his prime. This is a coming of age story for Miles and so he needs Peter as a father figure not as a big brother figure as he is in the video game or would be in modern comics. He needs to have that distance of time to have in a sense lost sight of what it was being a teenager dealing with a loss and great power.

Thus through their mutual relationship Miles and Peter both wind up back in the same place.

Through baby sitting Miles and teaching him to be a hero Peter throughout the movie grows to gradually re-embrace being Spider-Man again whilst growing to now believe himself capable of taking the next step in his life, stepping further into adulthood.

Miles on the flipside through his experiences with Peter gradually learns to BE Spider-Man, stepping over the threshold into young adulthood.

That is not only a brilliant dramatic story its just about the only kind of dramatic story you could ever do with the central premise of the movie otherwise Peter Parker would be superfluous to the plot beyond being Miles’ dying motivation.

Now I can see how superficially that all might remind people of Last Jedi and Rey and Luke’s dynamic. But there are critical differences.

Peter’s rationale for giving up is more compelling and in character than Luke’s bullshit about considering killing his nephew and then this making his nephew evil so he decided he should just run off to die.

Peter gets back in action long before the climax of the movie (not serving as a deus ex machina of sorts as Luke did). Peter, whilst not his old self is out and about doing heroic things throughout his screen time and is gradually easing himself back to his old self.

Peter doesn’t DIE upon becoming his old self

Miles is never, ever played even remotely as hyper competent let alone more powerful than the legendary figure he is learning from as Rey was. Quite the opposite, he is played as a baby deer trying to walk for the first time up until about the third act when he finally becomes Spider-Man. Even his OP venom blast ability is reined in until he is mentally and emotionally developed to the point to properly use it to save the day. This is a far cry from Rey pulling advanced force abilities out of thin air

See rather than an insult to Spider-Man or who Peter Parker is, Into the Spider-Verse is in truth a wonderful love letter to the character and what he stands for.

By presenting a broken Spider-Man and a kid seeking to become Spider-Man the film examines the nuts and bolts of who both characters are and in turn who Spider-Man as an identity is and how that identity can be adapted to different people whilst still retaining certain defining fundamentals.

It was a movie that had to present Peter as something he wasn’t so that we could ultimately see him for what he was and should be.

*Like guys did you know apparently Miles is an inherently better character because...he’s inexperienced...which is like saying Robin is inherently better than Batman and in a constant state of decay as he grows LESS inexperienced.

#Spider-Man #Peter B. Parker #Peter Parker #Spider-Man: Into the SPider-Verse #Miles Morales

88 notes · View notes

thelastspeecher · 5 years

Note

Number 1; Wolf AU!

Day 01 Day 02 Day 03 Day 04 Day 05 Day 06 Day 07 Day 08Day 09 Day 10 Day 11 Day 12 Day 13 Day 14 Day 15 Day 16Day 17 Day 18 Day 19 Day 20 Day 21 Day 22 Day 23 Day 24Day 25 Day 26 Day 27 Day 28 Day 29 Day 30

1. Corn maze

All right, here it is. The ficlet that I’m counting as my second day of NaNoWriMo. It takes place when Stan and Angie’s first set of children (the triplets Molly, Danny, and Daisy) are about three, and during their first family trip to the McGucket farm. Ma and Pa McGucket are still decidedly lukewarm about Stan, but starting to get warmer in their opinion of him.

Word count: 1421

Send me a number for a fall-themed prompt!

Stanlooked in the rearview mirror. Thetriplets were fast asleep, snoring softly in their car seats. Each one was wearing color-coded clothes, ahabit left over from when they were near-identical infants.

“They’resleeping, Ang.”

“Shoot.” Angie turned around in her seat to look atthe triplets. “Of course they fellasleep right when we got here.”

“Wherever‘here’ is,” Stan muttered, eyeing the white farmhouse they had parked outsideof. Angie scowled at him.

“It’s theplace I grew up, Stanley. You need to becareful ‘bout how you talk. My folksalready aren’t that fond of you. Don’tgive ‘em more reason to give ya the cold shoulder.”

“Whowoulda thought that knocking you up with triplets after dating you for only ayear and a half wouldn’t improve your parents’ opinion of me?”

“And theydidn’t like ya much before then, either.”

“I know.” Stan sighed. “They tolerate me more when the girls are around, though.”

“Duh. Yer an excellent father.” Angie leaned over and kissed Stan on thecheek. “My parents can tell.” Stan grinned at her.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Mama?” asmall voice called from the backseat. Angie looked over at the speaker, Molly.

“Yes,sweetie?”

“Are wethere yet?”

“You betcha. Why don’t ya wake up yer sisters, and we’llgo inside and say hi to Grannie and Grampie.”

—–

Mollygiggled loudly, excited about riding on Stan’s shoulders. Stan strode through the fairgroundscheerfully, whistling. Angie’s parentshad told them there was a local harvest festival happening, and, naturally, thetriplets insisted on going. Molly tuggedat Stan’s hair exuberantly.

“Ouch! Careful there, Little Six,” Stan saidgently. He patted Molly’s leg. “You’re a lot stronger than you think,remember?”

“Oh. Yeah.” Molly giggled again.

“D’aw,aren’t ya just the cutest lil thing,” Ma McGucket gushed at Daisy. She had insisted on carrying Daisy as they walkedthrough the festival. “Love my adorable granddaughters. First triplets in McGucket fam’ly history.”

“Careful,Sally,” Pa McGucket said. He smiled downat Danny, who was holding his hand. “Don’tgive ‘em big heads. They already got bignoses.”

“Adorable noses,” Ma McGucket saidfirmly. Stan caught Angie’s eyes.

“Make them stop,” he mouthedsilently. Angie nodded.

“Ma, Pa,why don’t ya take the girls into the maze?” she suggested. Her parents beamed.

“What asplendid idea, junebug,” Pa McGucket said. He let go of Danny’s hand to hold out his arms. Stan reluctantly removed Molly from his shouldersand placed her in Pa McGucket’s waiting embrace. “Hey there, sugar-cube.” Molly responded by grabbing Pa McGucket’snose. Pa McGucket chuckled. “Yep, that’s my nose.”

“Nose,”Molly said solemnly.

“Allright, you three cuties are goin’ to come with me ‘n Grampie through the cornmaze, okay?” Ma McGucket said to the triplets. Danny’s face scrunched up.

“But Mamaand Daddy-”

“We’ll bewaitin’ right outside the maze, baby, don’t worry,” Angie said soothingly. She kissed the top of Danny’s head. “Go have some fun with yer grandparents. We’ll be right here.”

“Can westill smell you when we can’t see you?” Danny whimpered. Angie smiled.

“Of course.” Angie’s parents shared an odd look.

“Smellyou?” Ma McGucket prompted. Angie waveda hand airily.

“Just alil inside joke, don’t worry ‘bout it.”

“If yasay so,” Ma McGucket said. She nuzzledDaisy’s ear. “Let’s go, honey-buns.”

—–

Stan kickeda clump of dirt.

“When Iasked you to make them stop, I didn’t mean take the kids away,” Stan mutteredangrily. “I hate being away from the girlson my days off. Even more than you do.”

“Let’snot make this a competition, darlin’,” Angie said. She scratched behind her ear in a distinctlydog-like manner. “And I asked ‘em totake the girls in the maze ‘cause it seemed like you could use a break from myparents. They’ve been more overbearin’than I expected.” Angie smiled apologetically. “Sorry, honey.”

“It’sfine,” Stan mumbled. “You can’t controlwhat your parents do. I’m used to parentsof girlfriends not liking me anyways. Carla’sparents didn’t have as many guns as your folks, though.”

“They won’tuse the guns on you.”

“You sureabout that? Lute was pretty pissed thelast time I saw him.”

“I wasspeakin’ ‘bout my parents, not my brothers.”

“So you’resaying Lute might shoot me,” Stan said. Angie paused. The silence was fartoo long for Stan’s comfort.

“Maybe.”

“…Great.”

“Notlethally, though. And not in a way thatwould take much time to recover from. Agraze wound, most likely.”

“This isgetting an uncomfortable amount of detail,” Stan said. Angie chuckled. “But you’re sure your parents won’t shoot me?”

“Correct. They will not shoot you,” Angie confirmed.

“Good.” Stan took a seat on the bench next toAngie. He put his arm around her. She leaned against his shoulder with asatisfied sigh. “It is kinda nice to sitoutside in relative quiet. I forgot whatit sounded like.” Angie let out a barkof laughter.

“Trueenough.” She sat straighter, staring intentlyat the entrance to the maze. “They’recomin’ back.”

“They weregone for like, ten minutes,” Stan said. “Howare they back already? The girls didn’tget that upset about being apart fromus so fast, did they?” Angie sniffed theair. Her face paled.

“I smellMa, Pa, Danny, ‘n Daisy. But notMolly. Molly’s not with ‘em.”

“What?!” Stan jumped to his feet. “Angie, they don’t have Molly? Molly’s not-”

“Relax, I’msure it’s fine.” Angie’s reassurance wasundercut by the clear strain in her voice. Her parents emerged from the maze, each holding one of thetriplets. Angie stood up. “Ma, Pa?”

“Banjey,Molly ran off,” Pa McGucket said. Angiecovered her mouth. “She’s stillsomewhere in the maze. There’s only theone entrance. But we felt we should comeback and explain the sit’ation before we went to search fer her.”

“No needto go look,” Stan said. “I’m on it.” He rushed into the maze. He had only made two turns when he came upagainst a dead end. “Shit.” There were footsteps behind him.

“Stan.” Stan turned around. It was Angie. She crossed her arms. “Ya won’tbe findin’ Miss Molly by rushin’ in blind.”

“Right.” Stan tried to slow down his heartrate. “How do we find her?”

“With mybig ole sniffer,” Angie said confidently, tapping her nose. “I can already catch a faint whiff ofher. She’s not too far away.” Stan grinned.

“Told youwe should take your werewolf powers on the road. Could be used to win a lot of bets.” Angie rolled her eyes good-naturedly.

“I’llsettle fer usin’ it to find our oldest child fer now.”

—–

“She’sjust ‘round here,” Angie said. She andStan turned a corner. “There she is!” Molly was sitting on the ground, chewing on acorn cob she must have pulled off one of the many stalks surrounding her. “Molly, no!” Angie rushed over. Molly lookedup. She beamed, corn kernels in herteeth.

“Mama!”

“MissMolly, this is field corn, not sweet corn,” Angie said, taking the corn cobfrom her daughter. “Field corn is fordeer, sweet corn is for humans.”

“I nothuman,” Molly chirped. “I werewolf.”

“Well, sweetcorn is for werewolves, too, then,” Angie amended. “But field corn is very much not.” Angie tossed the ear of corn into thestalks. Molly sniffed.

“Don’tcry, Little Six,” Stan said quickly, joining Angie by Molly. “I’ll buy you some roasted corn when we getoutta here, okay? It’s the good kind of corn,and it’s covered in butter, so it’s extra tasty.” Stan ruffled Molly’s hair. “Does that sound all right?” After a moment, Molly nodded. “Good.” Angie picked Molly up.

“Let’sget you out of this maze, huh?” Angie cooed at Molly. Molly nodded eagerly. Angie looked around. “Um…hmm. How are we goin’ to get out of here?”

“Ithought you solved it.”

“No, Ijust tracked Molly down by smell. I can’ttrack the opening down by smell. It doesn’thave a distinct scent. And I was sofocused on tracking, I didn’t pay attention to the route we took to gethere. Did you?”

“Uh,no. I was just following you blindly,mostly,” Stan mumbled. “It’s okay, I cansolve this problem easy.” He kicked anearby stalk of corn, breaking it down. “Thistime, follow me. I’ll get us outta herethe only way I know how. Brute force.” Angie grinned.

“Lead theway, darlin’.”

#gotta bring up the classic Stan adage of using brute force to break down barriers #bc ofc Stan wouldn't follow the rules to get out of a corn maze #esp not when the corn is separating him from his babs #Angiewolf AU #Stangie #Stangie Family #Angie McGucket #Stanley Pines #Molly Pines #Ma McGucket #Pa McGucket #Danica Pines #Daisy McGucket #writing meme #NaNoWriMo 18 #my writing #ficlet #ask #thats-the-way-the-news-goes

11 notes · View notes

jaqslastunicorn-blog · 6 years

Text

The Last Unicorn - Blog #1

When you think of a book with unicorns, you probably think of picture books for little girls, and you likely wouldn’t expect it to mix with things like critical thinking or literary significance. However, if you’d prefer a more interesting text starring our favourite mythical equestrians, I’d like to introduce you to The Last Unicorn by Peter S. Beagle. This book has sold more than five million copies worldwide since its original publication, and is often said to be one of the best fantasy novels written of all time. I’m here to show you how this book, or at least the first half of it, has proven its beauty and significance to me.

The Last Unicorn can at face value be identified as a fantasy novel, shown through the medieval setting, an inclusion of supernatural and magical forces, and the titular unicorn. But if we look a little harder at the text, we can begin to argue how it fits the genre and literary movement of magical realism. We can define it as such:

“Magical realism, or magic realism, is an approach to literature that weaves fantasy and myth into everyday life,” (ThoughtCo).

Typically, literary works under magical realism are given a setting which matches the one we live in, but I believe that the juxtaposition of magic and reality in Beagle’s work are a unique nod towards this literary movement. This genre ends up contributing heavily towards the setting, and the setting reinforces the presence of the genre, and talking about them separately would bring up lots of the same points.

While on the topic of setting, we are given a beautiful one in The Last Unicorn. We don’t have an exact period in history, but we can infer through the first half of the story that it’s based off of medieval Europe, especially through the language and vocabulary used by Beagle. We are given a magical version of this period in time where mythical creatures (see: unicorns) used to be a big thing, but have either gone extinct or unrecognized by society. Beagle builds the world in The Last Unicorn with a kind of middle ground between enchantment and disenchantment. For example, he includes wizards and unicorns, but the wizards are disgraced and the unicorns are thought to be nearly extinct. This is important because unicorns as a species are forgotten by the world, further driving home the themes of finding one's own identity and self-realization. The setting is a stark contrast from the usual one, which most frequently is a fantasy world at its peak, containing magic in every aspect. We can see a similarity between this world and our own, with the cynical nature of many characters as well as the disbelief in magic. The idea of a world between fantasy and reality can be connected to the idea of growing up, for example, having society tell us that beings we believed to be magical (Santa Claus, the Tooth Fairy, etc) aren’t real. We become so used to these figures, and when we are told that they’re merely fabrications, we have to cope with the reality while also questioning the legitimacy of what we already believe we know.

Through applying an LGBT* lens to this text, we can begin to extract concepts of significant depth and meaning in reference to this literary work of fiction. The character of the Unicorn is richly profound, especially when connected to themes and motifs of identity and the self, which is much of what LGBT theory concerns itself with. First off, we can see an immediate and obvious connection between the traditional concept of unicorns and the nature of femininity, but we can further connect their species to the lesbian continuum, especially separatist lesbianism. The Unicorn stays in her lilac wood alone, in seclusion from anyone who isn’t like her, and specifically hides from humanity, which she refers to as men. In the first chapter, the Unicorn hides from men out of discomfort and fear:

“One day it happened that two men with long bows rode through her forest, hunting for deer. The unicorn followed them, moving so warily that not even the horses knew she was near. The sight of men filled her with an old, slow, strange mixture of tenderness and terror,” (Beagle 3).

She is apprehensive of leaving her forest in fear of coming in contact with humanity, but is motivated to venture out in order to find other unicorns like her who share her identity. In her journey into the outside world, she encounters an ignorant heterocentric society which is completely unaware of unicorns, assuming they’re a myth and that the Unicorn is simply a white mare. This further develops her inner conflict, resulting in her becoming angry whenever her species is ignored and identified incorrectly as just a horse. Flipping the coin of homosexuality, we can analyze the character of Schmendrick the magician through seeing him as a coded gay man. On an immediate level, we can connect his character to the traditional American definition and stereotype of a closeted gay male. Schmendrick is generally seen as an inferior and bumbling wizard who tries and often fails to successfully perform magic, leading to a struggle with his identity of a magician. We can see Schmendrick struggling in his attempts in chapter 3 to free the unicorn from her cage, saying,

“‘I dreamed it differently, but I knew… You deserve the services of a great wizard,’ he said to the unicorn, ‘but I’m afraid you’ll have to be glad of the aid of a second-rate pickpocket,’” (Beagle 48).

He is shunned constantly by the societal norms in this world for his lack of skill in magic, which we can connect to internalized homophobia in his failure to live up to the standards set by the heteropatriarchy. His struggle to live up to the acceptable title of a great magician can be connected to the struggle held within compulsory heterosexuality, and he wishes to change his identity while the Unicorn embraces it. The Unicorn at first is opposed to allowing a man to come with her, leading for the magician to plead to her to allow him to assist her in the journey. Gay coded Schmendrick is seen as inferior to the lesbian coded Unicorn, even further relating their dynamic towards the imbalance and mirrored concepts of masculine/feminine gender identity addressed in queer* theory. In chapter 4, Beagle tackles the idea of identity at its crux with an interaction between the Unicorn and Schmendrick the magician,

“‘There it is’, the unicorn thought, feeling the first spidery touch of sorrow on the inside of her skin. That is how it will be to travel with a mortal, all the time. ‘No,’ she replied. ‘I cannot turn you into something you are not, no more than the witch could. I cannot turn you into a true magician.’” (Beagle 60).

Schmendrick wants to be a more acceptable version of what he is, and strives to perform in ways deemed by society to be fitting for a wizard, but falls short. This aspect of self hate is far too common in internal conflicts of LGBT individuals, and we can see the conflicts that face Schmendrick the magician as literary parallels to this experience.

In conclusion, The Last Unicorn has proven itself to be a lovely text so far, and I believe it will carry that through the next half of the story. For what it lacks in obvious real world parallels and connections to our modern world, it more than makes up for that in thematic elements, as well as interesting and complex characters, masterfully crafted environments, and most importantly, unicorns. Who wouldn’t take the time to read an epic tale about unicorns? Surely, nobody I would associate myself with.

*I personally will refer to lesbian, gay, and queer criticism as LGBT criticism for these specific reasons: First, I hold the right to find the term queer to still be incredibly discriminatory and oppressive. I believe that we are able to reclaim it, but myself and a vast majority of the community agree on it being a slur. Opinions may differ and this is definitely debatable, but as a transgender lesbian woman, I don’t think we’re at that point yet. Second, it’s just easier and shorter than saying “lesbian, gay, and queer” theory, as well as how that title leaves out transgender and bisexual, a very significant portion of the community which shouldn’t be left out, but I digress. Should write an essay on this sometime? Perhaps! Only time will tell.

#blog 1 #text

2 notes · View notes

chelseaapproved · 6 years

Text

I’ll Sing a Song Beside You- 11

Read on Ao3!

1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13

Chapter Eleven

Adrien wakes to the sound of birds singing and the sun gently filtering in through his windows. He rolls over to check his clock and finds that he beat his alarm by five minutes. Most mornings he would close his eyes and wait until the blaring forces him into action. Today isn’t most mornings, though, so he disables the alarm and hops out of bed.

Plagg’s still sleeping, if the snoring coming from his couch is any indication, so Adrien quietly slips into the bathroom to get started on his day.

A singer Adrien is not, but that doesn’t stop him from singing at the top of his lungs while he washes his hair in the shower. He usually doesn’t sing so loudly--and certainly doesn’t sing the types of songs he’s currently belting--but today he doesn’t care who hears him.

“Oh, you’re alive,” Plagg asks the moment Adrien re-enters his room.

“Yes?”

“I thought you were dying, with all the strange noises you were making. You woke me up for no reason, then.”

“Sorry for the inconvenience,” Adrien says with no heat. “How about some Camembert to make up for it?”

Plagg perks up immediately and flies over to Adrien with a huge smile on his face. “Mmmm Camembert. Yes, please!”

“Alright, when I’m done with breakfast I’ll sneak you some extra cheese.”

“I wish you got together with Ladybug years ago if this is your attitude,” Plagg says.

Adrien can’t fight the dopey grin that crosses his face. “Me too.”

His good mood lasts all morning. Not even Nathalie and her strict schedule can bring him down.

“Are you alright,” she asks once she finishes the day’s agenda. Concern flits across her face for a second before she schools it back to her normal emotionless state.

“I’m great, thanks for asking,” Adrien answers, taking another big biteful of his cereal. “How are you doing?”

“I’m...good.” She pauses, as though debating whether she wants to say what’s on her mind or not. “Are you high?”

Adrien sighs. “High on life. High on love.”

Nathalie lifts one perfectly sculpted brow. “Is there anything you’d like to share, Adrien?”

“Nope,” he says, finishing off the last of his cereal. “Anyway, I have to go--got a long day ahead of me. See you later!” Adrien rushes off to the kitchen to swipe some Camembert for Plagg before heading up to his room.

“Time to go, Plagg.” Adrien sprays a few more pumps of cologne to make sure he’s properly covered the cheesy scent and grabs his backpack. He almost makes it to the door without checking but he caves and winds up looking at himself in the mirror. Again. He looks exactly as he did the last time he checked but he needed to make sure.

Content with his smell and his appearance, Adrien lets Plagg fly into his outer shirt pocket and they travel to school together.

It’s not until Adrien gets to class and makes eye contact with a flustered Marinette that Adrien remembers a very important fact that he’s been all but ignoring. Marinette rejected Adrien yesterday. His face heats up and he sheepishly makes his way to desk, figuring it’d be even more embarrassing if he fled the room altogether.

He should probably talk to her. That was his original plan last night until he visited her and everything changed. The problem is, he has no idea what to say. Adrien isn’t supposed to know that she has a giant crush on him. He definitely isn’t supposed to know that she’s dating Chat Noir. And she doesn’t know that he is actually Chat Noir and she fell in love with him twice and they’re dating and in love and…

He really doesn’t know what he should say.

“A-Adrien?” comes a timid voice from behind him.

Well.

Bracing himself, Adrien turns to her. The blue of her blouse brings out her eyes. “Good morning, Marinette.”

“Would we be able to talk later? Alone?”

“Sure,” he says, grateful that he’ll at least have a little time to think of how he should be acting around her. “Lunch?”

“Yeah. A friendly lunch. Between two friends.”

Adrien needs to bite back a smile. He isn’t supposed to be as happy as he is. “Don’t worry, Marinette. I know it’s not a date.”

Her (very, very blue) eyes widen. “I-I’m sorry! I didn’t mean it like that! I mean, I did but I don’t--”

“Marinette,” he says, reaching out a hand before he even knows what he’s doing. Her hands are so soft. It’s not something he gets to properly appreciate as Chat Noir. “It’s okay. I understand.”

She frowns and looks down. “This is why I want to talk to you.”

“I know. We’ll talk during lunch.”

He smiles at her and from the way she blushes and pulls her hand out from under his, Adrien has a feeling he isn’t able to keep the softness out of it.

Marinette brings him to her house and they wait until they’re alone in the kitchen before looking at each other.

“I’m sorry,” he says first. Because even though he knows she likes him, it still wasn’t okay to kiss her without permission.

“No! I’m sorry. Really sorry. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“I should have asked you before just kissing you. You know what they say when you assume…”

“I have a boyfriend,” she blurts out.

Hearing the girl you like tell you she has a boyfriend shouldn’t put a smile on your face but Adrien can’t help himself. She’s talking about him.

“Oh,” he says.

“It’s new and we’re not really telling anyone right now but I just wanted you to know it’s nothing personal. If it weren’t for him… That’s probably not very comforting, is it? Oh my god, I’m sorry.”

If it weren’t him, if her boyfriend were some other random unknown person, Adrien would probably be on the brink of tears right now. As it were, he is once again in the uncomfortable position of desperately wanting to smile.

“It’s okay, really. You don’t have to apologize for anything.”

“I want to make sure we’re okay and we can still be friends.”

“Yes! I definitely want to be friends,” Adrien says.

“Really? You don’t hate me?”

“How could I ever hate you?”

“I--I rejected you,” Marinette says.

Adrien shrugs. “I just want to be able to spend time with you. I’ll take you however I can.”

“You’re being very… kind about this,” she says with a frown. “I don’t think I’d be able to handle this so calmly if the situation were reversed.”

He could just tell her right now. She wouldn’t have to feel guilty. There would be no need for any lingering awkwardness. He’d be able to kiss her whenever he pleases and the entire world would know Marinette Dupain-Cheng is off-limits.

But apparently her kwami’s just as stubborn as she is so he keeps his mouth shut.

“You don’t give yourself enough credit,” he settles on saying. “Being your friend is more than enough.”

“Thank you,” she says, blushing. They spend the next few minutes eating in silence. He has no idea what she must be thinking but on his part, he still doesn’t know how to interact with her like this. If she just knew, she wouldn’t expect him to keep it quiet. Then again, if she knew they wouldn’t be in this predicament in the first place.

Frustrated, Adrien grabs another pastry and tears into it.

“So… tell me about your boyfriend,” he says, finally breaking the silence. He feels Plagg moving in his pocket, knows the kwami is mocking him, but can anyone really blame him? Adrien’s been handed a golden opportunity and he is just enough a piece of shit to take it.

Marinette looks up at him like a deer in headlights. “Y-you want to know about my boyfriend? Are you sure?”

“Yeah. We said we’ll stay friends, right? That’s what friends talk about.”

She tilts her head in confusion, no doubt trying in vain to figure out what is running through his mind. “He’s my best friend,” is all she says and it hits him so hard he has to look away.

“I thought Alya was your best friend.”

“She is! But he is too and he’s just so… so him.”

Adrien blinks. He has no idea what to make of that but she sounds fond so he hopes it’s a good thing.

Marinette lets out a huff of breath before continuing. “He’s stubborn and rash and overprotective. He has the worst sense of humor in any person I’ve ever met. He’s always there bothering me and pestering me but when he isn’t around I miss him like the idiot that I am. He always makes really dumb, reckless decisions and gives me a heart attack at least once a week because of them.

“He’s incredibly sweet and thoughtful. He’s brave and charming and brilliant. My life is better because of him and my day is brighter when he’s there. He also knows how to pull off a leather suit better than anyone else.”

It looks like Marinette could keep going but Adrien can’t take it anymore. He excuses himself and rushes off to the bathroom.

As soon as he locks the door, Plagg flies out of his pocket, cackling at him.

“Shut up,” Adrien says, splashing water on his burning face. He knew Marinette loved him--she told him last night as much--but to hear her talk so adoringly about him… It’s too much.

“You okay, loverboy?”

“She really loves me,” he says, voice weak and faint. Adrien puts down the lid so he can sit on the toilet to breathe for a minute. He needs to get a grip so he doesn’t do something stupid, like kiss her again.

“Yep. And you’re lying to her everyday.”

“Plagg,” he hisses. “I’m not lying to her on purpose! She doesn’t want to know who I am. You even told me I shouldn’t tell her!”

“Sure, keep telling yourself that.”

Adrien glares at him. He’s not lying to his girlfriend, he’s just willfully omitting important information at her own request. When Marinette eventually finds out his identity they’ll be able to laugh at all this.

He hopes.

Chat isn’t exactly sure what he expected when Ladybug called to tell him she was hosting a team meeting on the Eiffel Tower, but it definitely wasn’t making out with his new girlfriend while they waited for the others. He’s pretty sure that’s not what Ladybug intended either, but here they are.

“M-M’Lady,” he says, breaking away from her warm embrace. “They can be here any second.”

“I asked you to come early so we could talk,” she says before pulling him back to her.

He’s weak to resist her, and it’s hard to say no when all he ever wants is to kiss her so he indulges himself for a bit before finding the willpower to pull away once again.

“This isn’t really talking.”

“Well, no, you’re right. I got carried away.” Ladybug removes herself from his personal bubble and the whole world feels a little colder. She primly folds her hands and places them in her lap. “I was thinking and--”

“Now you’re too far away,” Chat whines, leaning over to pull her closer.

“Chat! I can’t control myself when you’re this close,” she says, bopping him on the nose before moving away again.

“I can’t control myself when you say things like that,” he groans.

She giggles, like the adorable being that she is, before taking a deep breath and composing herself. “Okay. We can do this,” she says, more to herself than to him.

“Speak for yourself.”

“I was thinking,” she says, ignoring him, “and I think we should tell Rena and Bee.”

“Why?”

“Saving Paris comes first. It’s our responsibility to keep our teammates informed when we do something that will affect our performance.”

“You think dating will make us fight worse?”

“No. I mean, it’s possible, but no. I’m just concerned, if something happens, I know I’ll make stupid decisions where you’re concerned and it’s… it’s just safer if they know.”

Chat watches in amusement as Ladybug gets flustered over nothing.

“I’ll feel less guilty if they know.”

“Why do you feel guilty?”

“I don’t know! I just do! Please, Chat?” Ladybug leans into him, fluttering her eyelashes at him. “For me?”

“How can I resist,” he says flatly. She grins at him and pecks him quickly.

“You’re the best.”

“So, how much longer until they’re supposed to come?”

“Maybe ten minutes, why?”

Chat grins. If they’re going to find out anyway, he can think of something he’d much rather be doing while they wait.

Which is how Rena Rouge and Queen Bee find them.

“Ugh, no one wants to see that,” Bee says, placing herself next to Chat. Ladybug hides herself in Chat’s shoulder and he can feel her embarrassment radiating from her.

“I knew they were together,” Rena squeals. “You owe me 10 euros!”

“Wait, what,” Ladybug says, peeking out from hiding spot.

“We had a bet going on whether your two were dating,” Rena explains, sitting next to Bee and swinging an arm around her shoulder. “I knew you were but she thought you weren’t, for some reason.”

“Chat was whining about his supposed unrequited love a few weeks ago! This is definitely a new development.” Bee glares at Chat and Ladybug, as though it’s their fault she lost the bet. It kind of is, but they shouldn’t have been gambling on his love life in the first place.

“I called you guys here to tell you about us,” Ladybug says. “We just got together last night.”

“Last night? What took you so long,” Rena asks.

“Blame her,” Chat says, pointing a thumb at his pretty, blushing girlfriend. “I would have dated her years ago if she let me but no she had to like another guy this whole time.”

“Oh my gosh, Chat, don’t bring him up,” Ladybug says.

“Am I wrong?”

“No but leave him out of this.” Ladybug straightens. “It’s true that I...took a while to catch on but that’s irrelevant. What matters is that Chat Noir and I are dating and I wanted you two to know.”

“What about Marinette,” Rena asks. Chat and Ladybug both freeze.

“What about her,” he asks slowly.

“I hope you haven’t been leading her on.”

“Marinette Dupain-Cheng?” Queen Bee demands. “What in the world does she have to do with Ladynoir finally getting together?”

Chat is so preoccupied with that ‘Ladynoir’ comment that he almost misses Rena’s outburst. “He calls her Princess and visits her at night!”

There’s a tense silence between the four heroes. Ladybug is probably, much like himself, panicking and trying to come up with something to say.

“How do you know he visits her,” Ladybug asks.

“I...I saw him. Once.”

Chat glances at Ladybug but he knows there’s only so much she can do as Ladybug and not Marinette. “I like their cookies,” he shrugs.

“I’ve visited her for the cookies before too,” Ladybug lies. “Her parents are very good bakers.”

“And you’re okay with your boyfriend flirting with another girl?”

“Marinette knows how I feel about Ladybug,” Chat says quickly. “She knows how helplessly in love I am and that I am completely devoted to My Lady. There is no leading anyone on happening.”

“Marinette Dupain-Cheng,” Queen Bee repeats in disbelief. They collectively ignore her.

#miraculous ladybug fanfiction #miraculous ladybug #adrienette #LadyNoir #marichat #ladrien #CHAPTER 14 IS UP #ITS FINALLY FINISHED

29 notes · View notes

aion-rsa · 3 years

Text

How Resident Evil: Welcome to Raccoon City Wants to Get This Franchise Right

https://ift.tt/eA8V8J

Before Resident Evil became a best-selling video game franchise, it was a passion project with a simple purpose: to scare the hell out of a generation of unsuspecting gamers. While 2002’s Resident Evil movie shared the 1996 game’s name, it emphasized sci-fi storytelling and action over scares. That movie—and the five sequels that followed—became box office hits, but ultimately divided video game fans who wondered if those movies really got the fabled franchise “right.”

For Resident Evil: Welcome to Raccoon City director Johannes Roberts, the chance to reboot this franchise is less about correcting past mistakes than making the most out of the opportunity to explore what makes the games different.

“I had a great time with those movies,” Roberts says of the Resident Evil live-action films. “But as I’ve got older, I’m much more of a gamer than I’ve ever been…I approached this film from a gaming perspective.”

From that perspective, Roberts was able to focus on the one thing that the Resident Evil films haven’t quite gotten right to this point: horror.

“The pitch for the movie was to go back to the series’ horror roots,” Roberts says. “The key was to make a horror movie…to make something scary…to make a survival movie…I really wanted to recreate the fear of playing that first game.”

Welcome to Raccoon City may aspire to recreate the fear of the first game, but the film actually utilizes characters and locations from the first two Resident Evil games. It follows franchise favorite characters Chris and Claire Redfield (Robbie Amell and Kaya Scodalario), Leon Kennedy (Avan Jogia), and Jill Valentine (Hannah John-Kamen) as they try to survive the night across two iconic gaming locations: Resident Evil’s Spencer Mansion and Resident Evil 2’s Raccoon City Police Station.

Of course, locations and characters are only part of the Resident Evil experience, especially if we’re talking about the first two games in the series. After all, those are the games that introduced the fixed cameras, limited resources, confusing controls, and other restrictive elements that strangely helped elevate the terror of the franchise by making you question how confident you were in your gaming abilities. You often didn’t know where enemies were or if you were ready to fight them.

While it’s obviously impossible to recreate all of those mechanical and presentation elements that helped the original Resident Evil games stand out, Roberts and his crew did find some ways to pay homage to some of the core components of those horror classics.

“We definitely play around with restrictive camera angles,” Roberts notes. “People walk off-screen and then they’ll back into view rather than having you follow them…even some of the actual camera angles, like the sort of high camera angles that were very iconic to the game…I would never use an angle like that normally because it sort of feels like a CCTV angle, but we use it a few times in the movie because it was fun and it very much reminds me of the game.”

While such homages will almost certainly grab the attention of hardcore fans, Roberts makes it clear that this movie is not just for those who already love Resident Evil.

“I very much leaned into recreating some of the things that I was excited to see,” Roberts says. “But I’m always wary about trying to specifically cater to fans because I can’t speak for what people like.”

It’s a fine line to walk. Whereas the previous Resident Evil movies arguably strayed too far from their inspirations, it’s easy enough to imagine how a movie could fail by trying the opposite approach. After all, if you’re just trying to recreate the games exactly as they were on the big screen, then you have to start to wonder what the point is.

Instead, Roberts and the Raccoon City crew seem committed to honoring the spirit and style of those classic Resident Evil games without coming across as a fan film.

“With both the narrative and characters, I didn’t just want to do a cosplay thing,” Roberts says. “I didn’t want the characters to have the exact haircut or exact dialog [from the games]. I wanted to feel emotionally attached to them and feel like they’re real people in a real town.”

The film’s emphasis on Raccoon City is the first deviation from franchise norms that will catch many fans’ attention. While the town is featured in early Resident Evil games, those titles rarely left you feeling like Raccoon City was a real community with a personality and story of its own. The change can partially be attributed to the influence of one of horror’s great small-town storytellers.

“[The movie] lives in a kind of Stephen King small-town world,” Roberts explains. “It’s like Derry. The actual place is rotten and dying.”

That dying town will not only help sell the terror of the film’s scenario but also conveys and contrasts with the movie’s ‘90s setting in some clever ways.

“Because the town is kind of this forgotten, timeless place, you could go back to it 50 years ago and it would be almost identical,” Roberts notes. “The trends and fads pass it by…I sometimes feel like when you watch a period movie set in a certain year and everything is specifically from that year…that’s just not how life is. You have stuff from all periods.”

So what happened to Raccoon City that could possibly justify using words like “rotten” and “dying” to describe the community? According to Roberts, the town’s woes can be attributed to its association with one of the most notorious names in the Resident Evil franchise: Umbrella.

“I look at Raccoon as a kind of Deer Hunter-esque place,” Roberts reveals. “Umbrella is moving out and has left a kind of dying town…not an evil place, but a dying, sick place.”

For those who don’t know, the Umbrella Corporation is pretty much the root of all evil in the Resident Evil universe. While many of Resident Evil’s monsters may appear to be supernatural or extraterrestrial, most are the result of Umbrella’s years worth of unchecked greed and dangerous experimentation.

As such, it’s certainly not a coincidence that Umbrella’s departure coincides with the sudden appearance of an army of zombies in Welcome to Raccoon City. While Umbrella and zombies are the two defining antagonists of the original Resident Evil games, the truth is that in a post-Walking Dead world the undead aren’t as much of a novelty as they once were. They’re instead one of those iconic elements of the games Roberts embraced but didn’t take for granted.

“When we did our first major scene with the zombies, I suddenly realized their history and baggage,” Roberts recalls. “I thought, ‘Wow, I have got to make this scary.’ I was very aware that if you get them wrong, they’re not scary.”

Rather than solely rely on Resident Evil’s Romero-esque zombies to still be effective all these years later, Roberts turned to an unlikely source for inspiration.

“I was very influenced by Chernobyl, the TV show,” he reveals. “I found it incredibly disturbing seeing the effects of the radiation and seeing how people get sick…but it was human. I really wanted to feel that within this scary, fun horror movie.”

Of course, Resident Evil fans know that zombies are sometimes the least of your worries. The games feature an array of horrors that can end your run before you’ve even had a chance to scream. While Welcome to Raccoon City will feature some of the games’ most notable threats, Roberts was careful to select creatures that fit into the film’s pure horror tone.

“We don’t play with the giant spider side of the games and the slightly ‘b-movie’ stuff,” Roberts reveals. “I wanted to lean into some of the more disturbing and creepy aspects of the game, and we’ve really gone to great lengths to recreate some of the really cool, terrifying creatures within the game world… I won’t give away anything, but yes, there are really fantastic creatures and terrifying set pieces.”

Monsters like that may contribute to the scary portion of the film, but what about the “fun” side of the movie Roberts mentioned? Well, some of that fun will come from the film’s action sequences, but Roberts turned to another somewhat unlikely source to ensure the action doesn’t dilute the horror.

“My viewpoint is that Resident Evil 2 [the game] is very similar to Assault on Precinct 13,” he notes. “I sort of used Assault on Precinct 13 as a cornerstone for the with the whole police station under siege perspective…it’s an action movie, but it’s also a siege movie. The foes aren’t supernatural, but they might as well be.”

For the film’s Spencer Mansion sequences, Roberts taps into the classic horror spirit that has made him one of the genre’s rising stars over the last 10 years.

“When Alpha Team goes up to the mansion, it’s more like a proper haunted house with dark, creepy, and long corridors,” he says. “You hear that [zombie] noise and think, ‘Fuck, it’s somewhere, it’s around one of these corners.’ We play with that a lot.”

Such a contrast of styles reminds us that for all the talk about getting Resident Evil “right” on film, this is a video game franchise that has successfully embraced many different styles over the years. Getting Resident Evil right is really a matter of deciding which Resident Evil you’re talking about.

For Roberts, though, there is one thing that his Resident Evil story needs to emphasize in order to do this franchise justice.

“It’s about atmosphere, 100%,” he notes. “I would just say to the cast and crew, ‘Fall in love with this world that these characters are in.’ It’s dark, it’s raining, it’s bleak, and it’s scary, but it’s also fun. You leave the cinema with a smile on your face.”

cnx.cmd.push(function() { cnx({ playerId: "106e33c0-3911-473c-b599-b1426db57530", }).render("0270c398a82f44f49c23c16122516796"); });

Resident Evil: Welcome to Raccoon City is scheduled to be released in theaters across the United States on November 24.

The post How Resident Evil: Welcome to Raccoon City Wants to Get This Franchise Right appeared first on Den of Geek.

from Den of Geek https://ift.tt/3hxGyJA

#aion-rsa #Den of Geek

1 note · View note

thecinephale · 6 years

Photo

Redefining Romance with The Shape of Water and On Body and Soul

By the time Katharine and I met in November of 2015 I didn’t care about romance. This word that had consumed me since I was a child no longer made any sense. My celibate adolescence was spent scribbling love poems and consuming movies like (500) Days of Summer, Beginners, and Annie Hall. But I’d since realized my poetry sucked and that Woody Allen’s body of work was nothing to admire. I was casually sleeping with a close friend and grappling with the absence of a core part of my identity. Ever since I was four and told my sister’s best friend I had a crush on her, liking girls and turning that like into a personal narrative was part of me. It was my way of being close to women and how I’d come to terms with what kind of man I could be. I wasn’t effeminate, I was sensitive. I wasn’t girly, I was romantic.

And yet after years of crafting yarns from ordinary, or even non-existent, experiences, I was about to have my first truly cinematic meet-cute. Katharine and I met at Sleep No More during her very first performance. A friend of mine who worked there had been trying to get me to go for nearly a year and finally this night, for some reason, I caved. During the show I had four one-on-ones, immersive show lingo for private moments with performers, and I was more than satisfied with my experience. The show was just about over when I saw her, sitting on a suitcase at the end of an empty hall. Unsure if she was a performer or a tired audience member I slowly crept toward her. She stood up, took my hand, and we had a one-on-one. Later at the bar, my friend introduced us and we spent the rest of the night talking. A week later we were on a train together headed upstate.

This story is romantic in every way I could’ve hoped for as a teenager. And yet what I remember most from these weeks is the joy I felt getting to know Katharine. I was honestly a bit embarrassed having met her at Sleep No More since that place thrives off of people’s sometimes toxic fantasies. Especially because none of it felt that grand. I didn’t even think our first conversation could possibly be romantic until my friend asked me why I didn’t get her number. Our first date was upstate because she mentioned wanting to get out of the city before it got too cold and it seemed like a good idea. I didn’t know that she was the one. It was a date. I’d been on many first dates and planned to go on more. And while I did like her, I wasn’t obsessive. I liked her more on our second date than our first, and on our third date than our second, and today I’m more obsessed with her than I’ve ever been before.

There is a really simple explanation for this. Something about maturity and real, adult relationships. But this alone assumes that what I’d grown out of was romance, when in fact what I was really grappling with was male, heteronormative romance. I’d confronted the behaviors I’d copied for so long and realized they didn’t fit with who I was. But now what? A year and a half after Katharine and I met I came out to her and began transitioning.

***

It’s been a relief coming out, like I was holding my breath my entire life and can finally inhale and exhale like everyone else. So much of my life makes sense now in a way that it never did and I never thought it would. And one of the most rewarding aspects of my personal transition has been transitioning Katharine and I’s relationship as well, going from a seemingly heterosexual relationship to an openly lesbian one. There’s both liberation and emptiness in a relationship that is free from the vast majority of messaging received. Everything from fairy tales to Cosmo to the oeuvre of a known child molester has a lot less power when none of that stuff was ever meant to represent you. But there’s a reason why people enjoy that stuff. It feels good to be seen and it’s a relief to sink into fantasy. And while I’ve embraced the general umbrella by binge watching The L Word with Katharine and finally understanding my deep connection to Fun Home, Carol, and The Watermelon Woman, there’s still a searching for a love story like ours. A love story that feels outside of normalcy, that feels confusing and difficult and complicated yet ultimately just as fantastical and lovely. And it can’t just be solved by, say, a trans love story. I’d certainly welcome more of those (for now shout out to Sense8 and Her Story), but it’s deeper than that.

***

Guillermo Del Toro’s The Shape of Water is a ridiculous movie. That it’s currently the Oscar frontrunner is honestly astounding. Yes, it’s impeccably shot, designed, scored, written, and acted, but it’s also a movie that I’m at a loss to defend. On his podcast Keep It wonderful culture writer Ira Madison III was making fun of the movie and impersonated Octavia Spencer’s character with a simple “You fucking that fish?” I burst out laughing. Because it’s hilarious and because the scene in the movie isn’t actually that far off!

For anyone who hasn’t seen it, the film is about a mute woman named Eliza (the always great Sally Hawkins) who works as a cleaner at a government facility during the Cold War. The US attains a creature simply called “Amphibian Man” and Eliza falls in love with him (them?). So it’s sort of like Beauty and the Beast if Beast never really spoke, there was explicit sex, and Belle had a black best friend and a gay neighbor. There’s also a subplot with some Russians. And a musical number.

It’s goofy as hell and yet I spent a large portion of the movie in tears. It reached its scaly arm down my throat and grabbed my heart. Any moment where the Amphibian Man was on screen I had a voice in my head that just kept repeating, “That’s me. That’s me.” Now I don’t know what it says about where I’m at in my transition that I have an easier time relating to a fish man than Jamie Clayton’s awesome trans hacker on Sense8, but alas it’s the truth. Because if I’m being honest, I usually don’t feel like I’m being perceived as a woman, I rarely even feel like I’m being perceived as trans, but I do feel like I’m being perceived as a creature.

Watching Eliza not only fall in love with Amphibian Man but be the instigator of the relationship felt revolutionary and comforting in equal measure. Returning to Beauty and the Beast (also King Kong, also everything like this), it’s usually the creature that kidnaps or captures the virginal lady and has to convince her to love him. This always feels a little gross and undercuts the message of acceptance. But here Eliza is a sexual woman. From the beginning it’s shown that masturbation is a part of her daily routine. She doesn’t fall for the Amphibian Man because of a repressed desire. She falls for the creature because she feels a connection. She wants to help them live a life of freedom alongside her. She wants to teach the Amphibian Man how to live in her world because it would bring her happiness.

Katharine didn’t rescue me from a lab. But she has helped me escape… something. She has helped introduce me to a confusing world of feminine expectations and desires that feel comfortable and natural and also confusing and impossible. And above all else she has done this because she loves me. She isn’t still dating me because she’s a good person (no matter what other cis-es like to suggest). She’s still dating me because she sees me for who I am and loves me. I’m insecure about a lot of things, but I know this to be true and it means everything to me.

***

Ildikó Enyedi’s On Body and Soul, another Oscar nominee (a longshot in the Foreign Film category) has faced a similar reaction to Del Toro’s film. It won the Golden Bear at the Berlin Film Festival, yet almost every review even when positive points out the film’s silly weirdness. Also a love story, this time between two humans, Enyedi’s first film in 18 years is about a pair of employees at a slaughterhouse who realize that they’re somehow having the exact same dream about two deer. The people are Endre, the emotionally detached manager with a disabled left arm, and Mária, the new quality control inspector who is autistic and quickly becomes the butt of her coworkers’ jokes.

Again, I understand the reaction. The very concept of a love story at a slaughterhouse (featuring graphic scenes of slaughter) is already a stretch. Add the hokiness of nocturnal destiny, a subplot involving stolen bull Viagra, some deeply unpleasant narrative turns, and a formal approach as reserved as its leads, it’s unsurprising that many don’t know how to receive this film. It’s too open-hearted for the arthouse yet it’s not exactly fine-tuned for Nicholas Sparks. But for me, this film lived up to its title and infiltrated my body and soul, I connected deeply, and wept softly. And I’ve been unable to shake it, that initial feeling only growing since the first viewing.

There is an obvious contrast between the dream sequences with Endre and Mária as deer and the real life sequences of animals in cages having their guts torn out. It’s easy to read this simply as a statement between the purity of their love and the harshness of the rest of the world. But this ignores the unreality of the deer scenes and the specificity of animal imagery. Because a main thread through the film is that Mária and Endre don’t know how to be animals. Or in other words: Endre does not know how to be a man and Mária does not know how to be a woman.

The two male foils to Endre are his best friend, Jenö, and a new hire, Sanyi. Jenö is married and despite proselytizing the merits of keeping women in their place he does whatever his wife wants. Endre watches with the remove of a scientist as Jenö carries out a charade where he is able to assert his supposed masculinity while filling his more passive role. Sanyi, on the other hand, is naturally alpha, flirting with every female co-worker and ignoring his male superiors. Endre seems to pity Jenö and resent Sanyi, but it quickly becomes clear that who he has the most disgust for is himself. He grows wildly defensive when he is caught ogling a woman, insisting that he simply looked like all men would. The woman didn’t even seem to notice and doesn’t seem to care. He then declares multiple times later in the film that he would prefer to remove love and sex from his life rather than deal with the impossibility of filling the role of “man” in these encounters. He’s given up on it all until he meets Mária.

Mária also has two foils, Klára, a voluptuous psychologist who interviews everyone after the bull Viagra incident, and Zsóka, the oldest employee at the slaughterhouse. Klára is everything Mária is not. She’s comfortable in her body and comfortable around men. She expresses her feelings, sometimes even to the point of aggression. When Mária retells Endre’s dream, she is unable to push back against Klára’s anger or defend herself. Zsóka, who is even more comfortable with her sexuality than Klára, is much kinder to Mária. Instead of judging, she attempts to coach her in the ways of womanhood. This, of course, means posture, how to walk and talk, and, most importantly, what clothes to wear. Mária attempts to master these skills, like she does later with sex, with an obsessive precision.

Mária’s experience of gender is intrinsically tied to her autism. Her lack of awareness in how to act as a woman is similar to her struggle to generally fit in as a person. I’m hesitant to find symbolism in her character or draw parallels between our lives since her experience is so different from my own. But in my unqualified opinion the film treats Mária with a respect and fullness that leaves her as open to analysis and connection as any other character. It’s not autism that becomes ingrained in the semiotics of the film but rather the world around this one autistic character, the world around Mária. And I couldn’t help but feel parallels both to Endre’s attempts at manhood and Mária’s learning of womanhood. I couldn’t help but watch this relationship unfolding in a harsh world and think of my own. Mária and Endre’s budding romance faces plenty of conflict throughout the film but there’s an overwhelming feeling of destiny between them. The conflicts are not a result of their incongruity but rather the difficulties and pressures of their surroundings. Any conflicts within themselves are related to their individual difficulties with the world at large.

The dream sequences aren’t just beautiful and serene. They are otherworldly. Literally. The plane on which Mária and Endre connect is outside of real life. Their connection is dependent on both of them finding it within themselves to detach from their discomfort with society. In their dreams it is easy, but in life that’s really hard. Because it’s not healthy to completely detach (as fun as rainy days cuddling can be). The necessity is being able to carry on normal life with your partner and face a mutual unbelonging from our world. From our ableist world. From our gendered world. From our heteronormative world. From our transphobic world.

My connection to this film is reliant both on its silly romanticism and its severe honesty. Because that’s how I feel. Being with Katharine feels like it’s on another plane of being, in how I feel about her, in how happy it makes me to be near her, and yet real life can be really hard. This film shows the beauty in getting through that hardship with another person, the pressures it can place on a relationship, and the ultimate reward of working through it all together.

***

The Shape of Water and On Body and Soul have allowed me to articulate something about myself and my relationship that I’d previously failed to do. They taught me that romance, not just love but gooey-eyed, goofy capital R Romance, can be for all of us. That romantic doesn’t have to mean arrogant poems or chasing after girls in the rain. It can mean connecting with somebody when you feel less than human, it can mean facing a society that doesn’t want you with the help of another. And, most importantly, that this can all be silly and over-the-top in a way that will make half the audience laugh and half the audience cry. These films destroyed a line between romance and mature relationship that I’d taken as fact even though my own relationship is such an obvious combination of the two. They allowed me to see myself in a new way, to see Katharine in a new way, and to appreciate our relationship even more than I already did.

So I’ll say it here. On social media, like an adolescent that will someday regret such an embarrassing overshare. I’m deeply, madly, overwhelmingly in love.

Happy Valentine’s Day, y’all.

#Valentine's Day #The Shape of Water #On Body and Soul #love stories #queer love #Guillermo Del Toro #Ildikó Enyedi #LGBTQIA #trans #transgender

36 notes · View notes

justsomekpopstuff · 6 years

Text

Home (Changkyun)

Pairing: Changkyun x Reader

Genre: Soulmate AU

Type: fluff with some angst-ish

MASTERLIST

(A/N: this au is a little wild, but bear with me. I promise it’s good! This i believe is the longest too...shwoopsie...)

You are connected by home - when you turn 18, you are kicked out until you find your soulmate...

you could barely remember how long it had been since you had last lived in an actual home

society had run rampant with new laws that affected everyone

a new governing system was put in to place for everyone, stating that once you turned 18 years old, you were to live in the outside world

you were given a set of identifying dog tags, one tag with your serial number, and the other tag with your soulmate

you could not have a permanent place of residence until you found your registered soulmate

once you found each other, then, and only then, would you be given a permanent home together

you had been stuck, moving from place to place, with no real direction

you were so thankful for the kind-hearted people that had opened up shelters for people who were still looking for their soulmate

it gave you simple reminders that there was still kindness and hospitality left in the world

you had been moving around for some time, believing that the constant moving would help you find your soulmate sooner

you usually stayed in shelters for a few weeks before moving on to a new one

you had recently come in to a new shelter that you had never been to before

you had come over from a less than excellent neighborhood, looking for a change of scenery

however, you only found that the area was just like the last one

you had just reached your assigned room, only to see that your door was already open

you knew that you were the only person in that room, so you were confused

you opened the door to see that there was a stranger in there, going through your wallet and bag that you carried with you

“HEY” you yelled, catching the person’s attention

the person whipped around, looking at you like a deer in the headlights before sprinting past you, nearly knocking you over

the person flew down the hall with your wallet and your bag

you looked so see a guy walking towards you, and you got their attention

“HEY! THAT GUY JUST STOLE MY STUFF! COME HELP ME!” you yelled at the guy as you charged down the hall after the thief

the guy immediately started running with you, not even taking a second to ask questions

you eventually caught up and saw the thief about to exit the building

the guy you called to help you sprinted at full speed, catching the guy by the arm before he could exit the building

you watched as the guy held the thief so tight he couldn’t escape as you jogged over to retrieve your items

you swiped your wallet and bag away from the thief, and you were about to walk away...

but because you were feeling a bit vengeful, you whipped back around, giving the thief a swift kick to the nether regions and a strong punch to the face

“Don’t even think about stealing my stuff again, asshole. If i see you try this again with anyone here, I will make sure you will never see the light of day again” damn (y/n) you savage

you walked swiftly away from the thief, the guy who helped you standing and watching you in awe b/c damn you were a badass

turns out, that guy was Changkyun, and he was your soulmate...

the next day, you were sitting in the dining area eating your lunch when you noticed a presence coming and sitting in front of you

it was the guy who helped you out the day before, the one who helped you catch the thief

“Hi” you spoke. he just smiled shyly and nodded, starting to eat. “Thanks for helping me yesterday”

“No problem” he spoke quietly

the two of you ate in slightly awkward silence before you decided to speak again

“I never got your name...”

“I’m Changkyun” he answered

“I’m (Y/N)”

the two of you went back to awkward silence, continuing to eat your food

eventually, you finished eating, but you didn’t want to leave him alone to eat, so you tried to make small talk way to go (y/n)

“So...still haven’t found your soulmate, huh?” nicely done (y/n), you’re doing great

“Nope...”

“Oh...right... duh...” you whispered to yourself

you continued to sit there awkwardly, figuring you really had nothing left to lose with this guy

he watched as you had your stuff stolen and he’s still sitting there after your awkward attempts to start a conversation, so he must be worth it

“I hope to meet them soon though. I have a good feeling about this place” he told you

“Really? That’s nice. I have no idea when I’ll meet mine. I’m just hoping that I won’t have to wait my entire life, ya know”

“You have your tags, right? Shouldn’t be too hard” he asked

“Yeah, but even with them I still have had no luck”

“Maybe I can help. What’s your soulmate’s serial number?” he asked

“Its 1996-26-01,” you answer yes it is his birthday let me live

you noticed that Changkyun had stopped moving, staring straight at you with wide eyes, mouth full of food

“ummm...you okay?” you asked

he swallowed the bite of food that he had in his mouth before clearing his throat

“is the serial number really 1996-26-01?” he asked

“yeah, why? Do you know who it is?” you asked excitedly

he nodded slowly, eyes still wide with surprise

“You do?! Who is it?” you questioned

“...its me...” he told you

that’s when you went silent, the two of you just staring at each other in total shock from the situation

“you’re kidding” you spoke after a few seconds

Changkyun just pulled the dog tags off his neck, showing them to you

sure enough, his serial number was identical to yours, and your serial number showed on his as well

“holy sh*t, we’re soulmates” you gasped

you both took a breath before you both charged around the table, meeting half way

the two of you slammed into each other, meeting in a tight embrace

for the first time in a long time, you felt safe, right there in your soulmate’s arms

he pulled away for a brief moment, causing the warmth to drift away slightly

“I hate to kill the moment, but we gotta go tell the registry...” he spoke quietly to you

you nodded and the two of you ran out and ran as fast as you could to the nearest registry to tell someone that you had found each other

as soon as you did, the two of you were given a key and an address to the place that you would now share together

the two of you walked back to the compound you were staying in, collecting all the items that you had so you could move in as soon as you could

as the two of you were walking out together, you saw that the thief was hanging around outside, smoking a cigarette ew gross

“hey, wait here for just a sec. I gotta take care of something” Changkyun spoke softly to you

you nodded, waiting patiently as he walked over to the thief calmly

“hey, you” he called to the person, catching their attention

you watched as Changkyun landed a perfect right hook to the thief’s face, adding to the broken nose that you had already given him

“THAT is for messing with my soulmate” Changkyun spoke before walking back to you

the two of you went on your way, and you looped your arm through his

“you’re my favorite, you know that?” you told him

“well, good, because you’re stuck with me now” he joked with you

you giggled and nudged his arm lightly in a loving manner

the two of you continued to walk down the street, ready to find home together

315 notes · View notes

elfnerdherder · 6 years

Text

Where the Wicked Walk: Ch. 24

[Read on Ao3] [Support My Work]

Chapter 24: The Oval Portrait

Saul found Beverly out by the pond a little while later, devoid of a nosy journalist. His arms wrapped around her waist, snug and secure, and his head rested on her shoulder with the sort of familiarity that came with time and a soulmate connection. The agitation in the set of her jaw lessened somewhat at it, made her relax against him in acceptance of his affection.

“I was looking for you,” he said. “Dr. Lecter is off to meet Clark Ingram.”

“Did he need me to go with him?”

“No, he just said that you should keep an eye on Will since Francis and Howard can’t.” Saul smiled against her neck and kissed it. “I thought to say something about Will not wanting to touch you with a ten foot pole, but…well, I didn’t.”

“Not everyone gets your jokes,” Beverly said affectionately.

Loving Saul was easy when he was closeby. When his skin was against her, it was enough to quiet the voice in the back of her head that demanded that she snap his neck and dump the body. Chemicals and all, and she’d learned to hide that aspect of herself from him.

That part wasn’t easy. It was never easy to hide from a soulmate.

“He’s got a black eye,” Saul said. “I think Will hit him.”

“Well…we knew it wouldn’t be easy,” she said. “I’ve lived with him long enough that I knew it wouldn’t be easy. He’s stubborn.”

“The others…have you heard the others, Beverly?”

Beverly turned around, causing him to let go of her. His arm swung, wavered, and she responded in kind, reaching out to clasp it so that he felt grounded. She’d never considered herself the grounding rod for someone, but Saul needed it.

How in the hell he’d gotten roped into following Lecter’s every word, she’d never truly understand.

“What are they saying?”

“They’re happy because he connected –Lecter said that he could create an environment in which staggered connections could occur, but…a lot of them don’t like Will Graham.”

“Well, it doesn’t matter what they like,” Beverly said evenly. “What matters is what Dr. Lecter wanted.”

“Do you think they’ll do what Matthew did?”

“Saul, Matthew was supposed to attack Will,” she said impatiently. She felt the sting of her words along his emotions, and she tried to soften her tone. “The half-connection…that just made it more realistic. But he was going to attack Will no matter what. That’s the job Lecter had planned for him.”

“So he…wanted Matthew to die?”

“He wanted Will to embrace the darker aspects of himself that he’s kept so firmly locked away. To do that, he had to...make regrettable choices.”

Saul had nothing to say to that. Once upon a time, he’d been a person of interest, someone to truly watch and follow as he carried out Lecter’s orders. The letters one of her guys had intercepted had been almost poetic, Saul’s words fluently conveying his admiration for the artwork that Lecter displayed. He asked how it’d felt, consuming one’s art, how it’d felt to see one’s desires and actually follow through.

Beverly supposed that his faith in Hannibal Lecter stemmed from the fact that his own confidence and assurance were both sorely lacking. He’d looked to someone that needed no validation from anyone, and that was his messiah of sorts.

“Saul, you trust Dr. Lecter, don’t you?” she asked.

“Of course,” he replied without hesitation. “I just wonder…what if we…traded someone for Matthew, and that someone never thinks of this place as his home?”

“He got Will’s eyes to change in a month,” Beverly said with a kind laugh. She kissed him on the mouth, marveled at the fact that his kisses never failed to make her heart pound. Having a soulmate…just felt so right. “He’ll get Will to come around. He’ll be able to see this as his home. Give him time.”

“I love you,” Saul said softly, kissing her again.

“I love you too,” Beverly replied, and her smile was utterly sincere.

It’s a shame that I’m going to have to kill you.

Loving Will Graham was like loving a house of mirrors; with each and every angle, you’d see another facet of yourself reflected back at you with careful distortion.

Molly did anyway, though. From his rumpled hair to his well-loved leather coat that smelled of fresh earth and kindness, she loved him with a fury that burned deep in her belly and made the aches and pains of her lost love ease. He wasn’t anything like her late-husband, but that was alright. There was something steady in the way that he looked at her, like he’d already found a way to strip her down and actually liked what he saw beneath.

She didn’t have time to introduce him to Wally before Hannibal Lecter got ahold of them, though. Hell, he didn’t even know that there was a Wally.

“I’ll see you tomorrow?” she asked, juggling a few grocery bags and her cell phone. It was pressed tight to her ear as she fiddled with her house key, and when she found the door already unlocked it was an irritating surprise. Wally always forgot to lock the door.

“Barring working late, yes.”

“You know, you work so much that it’s becoming concerning,” she teased, and she nudged the door shut with her foot, elbow catching the light switch to the side. “Workaholics are a thing, you know.”

“I know.”

“Besides,” she continued, “if you don’t come, I may be forced to bring someone else with me, and we all know how much I hate having to invite Tiffany.”

“Tiffany’s nice,” Will offered lamely.

“You hate Tiffany.”

“She’s not my friend, so I’m given leave to dislike her.”

It was always like that, with Will. The way he looked at people was so acutely good. He had a way of knowing their turn of mind, of knowing their thoughts and personality without really having to engage too much with them. The first time he’d met Tiffany, he’d nursed a whiskey all night, maybe sharing four or five words at a time before sitting in a dour-like silence.

On the way back to his house, he’d admitted that her jealousy of Molly felt like, to him, a thick scab that’d been picked far too soon. Alcohol gave him mildly loose lips where sobriety normally kept his thoughts behind a steel wall.

“Right, right, you’re allowed to dislike her,” Molly agreed, and she turned on the kitchen light as well, setting the groceries down. Wally’s lack of presence was an irritant; likely upstairs on that X-Box that one of his friend’s mother’s said that he ‘just had to have’. “I’m just saying, I’d like you there with me instead.”

“I’ll do my best,” Will said with a warm laugh, “barring tackling my boss on my way out of the door.”

“That’s all I ask,” she teased, and she sighed. “I’ve got to go.”

“Have a good night, Molly,” Will said warmly. “Have sweet dreams.”

“You too.”

It wasn’t until she hung up that she turned to holler for Wally, and as she sucked in a deep breath to do so, it was cut short, something that left her reeling as she stumbled back against the counter and scrambled for the mace that she kept on her keys.

The man sitting at her dining room table with a gun leveled at her barely blinked.

“If you reach for that mace, your son will die,” he said dispassionately. His mouth fumbled with the ‘s’. “The son that Will Graham is unaware that you have.”

Silence. That was what sat between them as Molly’s hands pressed down flat against her keys and contemplated his threat. There were many people that froze as a deer in the headlights when they were afraid –Molly always hated that comparison. Deer didn’t just freeze in the headlights; when they saw them, they had a brief moment of shock before they almost always, always attempted to run because animals were flight or fight and as prey animals it would always be flight, only they flew right out of the pan and directly into the fire. Deer didn’t die because they froze in the headlights. For the most part, they died because they tried to run from the headlights.

Rather than run, Molly held very, very still.

“Where is my son?” she asked slowly. Her voice shook, but she couldn’t fix that. Fear was natural as she eyed the gun that he held, not with a casual demeanor, but with taut and careful deliberation.

The man tilted his head slightly to consider her, then gestured with his free hand. “Come closer. Away from your things.”

Molly took a couple of steps closer. She felt dread as the sweat that prickled along her hairline, mussing the foundation she’d laid over her skin with careful strokes of her brush. She paused a few paces before the chairs, but he crooked his hand and gestured closer. She gulped an unsteady breath, then took another deliberate step.

“Where is my son?” she repeated, a little stronger.

“Not far. Sit.”

She thought of Wally, afraid and in a place he didn’t know, and her fear ebbed in the wake of a gust of fury that rippled along her spine as she sat, locking her in place next to a stain on the varnish from the one time Wally had gotten into her acetone. That day was a smudgy memory, but Wally had learned that acetone did more than just eat away nail polish; her hand protectively covered the spot, as though she could hide his mistake.

“Who are you?” she asked.

“My identity isn’t important right now. You are Molly Foster, widow with a young son that had to watch his father die of cancer. Tragic.”

Molly glared at him, palm pressed flat to the sore spot on the table.

“Cancer is an ugly way to die,” the man continued, unflinching. “The body rejects liquids. It secretes. The smell is unbearable. The hair falls out, and there is no end to the vomit. They are weak, frail. They Become, but it is a wasted becoming. The family is left worse off, not with the death but with the time wasted trying to prolong a pitiful life.”

“Stop.”

The man stopped, potentially due to the level of fury that rippled with her voice. He tilted his head the other way, and in the dim kitchen lighting Molly could faintly see the healed scarring of what once was a cleft palate. It explained the faint lisp that made his brows twitch to a frown as he spoke.

“You are dating Will Graham,” the man began again, after a moment. “My boss is rather interested in that.”

“And just who is your boss?”

“Hannibal Lecter.”

Hannibal Lecter? Molly recalled the newscast on him –serial killers weren’t really always what the news went to, anymore. It was bad publicity about ‘who the public should really fear’ in truth, so they were mostly quiet. Their focus was more on terrorism from the Middle East, gun control debates, and the polarized elections that kept everyone up in arms. When it was revealed that he was cannibalizing them, though, they’d been all over that.

And Will Graham had survived him.

“He’s in prison,” she said faintly –her voice was tinny, far away.

“His reach extends past his bars,” the man assured him, as though she needed that assurance as he pointed a gun at her. “And you are dating the one person that he currently has any form of interest in.”

Molly saw quite a few options, in that moment, sitting across from a man and what looked to be a rather capable 9 mm XD. She wouldn’t say that she was necessarily a professional in dealing with stress, but losing her husband slowly –painfully –had taught her a lot about separating her mind from her emotions. She’d overcome that grief; this was no different. In the quiet that was too quiet because Wally wasn’t upstairs playing his X-Box that’d been a gift after her husband’s passing, she took a breath and made a choice, something that felt too heavy for a setting like a low-income household with poor laminate on the floors and a scuffed table she’d found at a Habitat for Humanity for five bucks and some change.

“If you were going to kill me, you wouldn’t have abducted my son,” she said slowly. “A wasted expense.”

“A waste,” the man agreed.

“What do you want, then?” Her voice trembled. “Will Graham?”

“We want you to keep dating him,” the man said. “And we want you get close to him.”

That took her aback. “…Why?” Better yet, “No, where’s my son? You’re holding my son hostage so that I keep dating Will Graham?”

“In due time,” he assured her. “If you comply, your son will be safe. Get close to Will Graham. Keep him under your thumb emotionally; Dr. Lecter said that he takes on the emotions projected around him. Love him. Give him a sense of peace that he has never known.”

Her mind twisted, wrenched. She thought of Will on the first night they’d met; drunk, swaying, and so sad it somehow made her want to tuck him in close and hold him until the pain trickled away from skin that smelled like pine needles and regret. She thought of the way he’d followed her from the bar, his words awkward and fumbling but so sweetly tender that it made her laugh. They danced in his front room to music playing from tinny laptop speakers cranked far too high, and in the darkest part of the night she let him strip her clothing from her body, inch by inch as he kissed her skin and left marks that she admired the next morning rather than felt shame for.

He asked if he could call her when they were sober, and she’d said yes.

“If I do this,” she said quietly, “are you going to hurt my son?”

“No.”

“Are you going to hurt Will Graham?” she pressed, insistent.

“No.”

“He doesn’t talk about what happened to him,” said Molly, scathing. “But I see how it marked him. How it follows him. You think that if or when he finds out what you’re asking me to do, it won’t hurt him?”

“There are many kind of pain, Molly Foster,” the man said. The cursed gun hadn’t moved even a centimeter. “Some pain buds new growth. When roses die in winter, you cut back their stems to the dirt, that they grow anew. The flowers that come after are somehow more vibrant from the harsh but necessary attention.”

“You’d compare him to a fucking flower,” she sneered, “he is a human being.”

“You struggle with nature versus nurture,” he noted. “Is this your final answer?”

It wasn’t, and he damn well knew it. Molly could see it in the set of his shoulders, the way he didn’t move to put his finger on the trigger because he knew he didn’t have to shoot.

“I want proof of my son’s life,” she said, curt. “I want to know how you’re containing him, and I want to speak to Dr. Lecter myself.”

Wordlessly, he reached into his coat pocket and retrieved what looked to be a cheap version of a smart phone. He tapped a few icons on it, then set it on the table.

A video of Wally played with the small speakers on as loud as they could go.

“So…you knew my dad?” Wally asked. His voice was small, so small. It’d been a couple of years, but God did it feel so fresh sometimes that it took her breath away and made her tongue feel fat and heavy in her mouth.

“He was my cousin,” a man with sandy hair and green eyes said. “I was sad when we drifted apart…then when I heard he passed, I had to give my condolences.”

“When’s my mom going to meet with us?” Wally asked, all innocence and wide eyes of a child.

“Oh, soon,” the man assured him with a laugh. “If I’m lucky, I can maybe be part of your family. Would you like that, Wally?”

“If mom likes it,” Wally decided. He held the same tone that every small child did –what mom liked, they liked. What mom disliked, he abhorred. “We’ll see.”

“You’re a smart kid, Wally,” the man decided.

“Yeah,” Wally agreed.

Molly lunged for the phone, but it was snatched from her grip. The sob that tore from her was barely stifled by her furiously shaking hands, and she glared at the man in front of her as he exited from the app and tucked the phone away.

“That is a live video,” he explained. “I have access to your son at all times, Molly Foster.”

“You’re a sick fuck,” she hissed.

“Do we have an agreement?” he asked. His lip curled.

“How often do I get to see him?” she demanded. “How long until this is over?”

“In due time,” the man said calmly. It belied the hawkish stare he’d settled on her, as though she could lunge at any moment. Fuck, but she felt like it, that need to take her son and run and run and run. Her foot twitched, and her muscles clenched and unclenched, waiting.

“I’ll do it,” she said, and it hit harder than it should have, that feeling of giving in. It sounded so innocent, ‘watch Will Graham’ but she knew it wasn’t, couldn’t possibly be so fucking simple. “I’ll do it, but only if you let Wally think it’s really like that. That we’re one big family, and he doesn’t have to know the truth of the monstrous things you’re planning on doing.”

“We’re doing,” he corrected, softly.

“What do you want? Information, access; I don’t believe that it’s really just to make Will-fucking-Graham feel like the most important person in the world.”

“Information, naturally. A way to keep him from straying too far. You are to be his anchor, and his place to go when the darkness bites too hard. It should be easy for you, I’m certain. There is already a foundation of affection between the two of you, as it’s been noted.”

“Fine, done,” said Molly curtly. “Are we finished?”

The man smiled, something small and cruel. “Yes, for tonight. Dr. Lecter thanks you, Ms. Foster, for your cooperation. I’ll inform him of your desire to communicate.”

Molly had nothing to say to that, and he didn’t seem to care to wait for a reply. He kept the gun leveled calmly at her, and when he saw himself out of the back door, he locked the bottom knob behind himself as the door closed. A jab, in truth. She had no doubt he had every way and means of getting back in, should he want to.

It was only once he was gone and the smell of his aftershave faded that she allowed herself to tuck her face into her hands and honestly, truly let the horror of what’d just happened sink in. Molly wasn’t much of a crier –childhood, she supposed. There was always a threat from her parents that if she didn’t stop fucking crying there’d be something to really cry about, so instead she gulped. Molly Foster, widow at the tender age of twenty-three was very much a gulper, so she gulped. She gulped down the sob that was hammering nails into her throat, the sob that she could already feel echoing in her ears, a sob she felt would one day rip from her despite the breaths she struggled with now. She thought of Will Graham and how he always looked a breath away from a bad decision, how he seemed both dangerous and safe at the same time, and she wondered if that sob would come when she least expected it, when he was holding her close and whispering his sweet poetry into her ear; she’d let out a scream so horrendous that even he’d run from her, then where would she be?

Where would Wally be?

She sat there with her face in her hands for a long time, gulping. The house felt too open, too invasive, and after a couple of hours she found her way back to the counter where the milk was getting to room temperature and the lettuce was looking a bit soft.

Will answered on the first ring.

“Miss me that much?” he joked. Will had a deep, mellow sort of voice that softened around words that ended in harsh consonants. Her throat tightened, burned enough to make her gasp out a breath.

“Yeah,” she said, and she pressed her hand to her eyes. “I…yeah.”

“What’s wrong?”

Did he always pick up on everything so fucking quickly? “…If I came over and stayed the night, would you be mad at me?”

“Did something happen?”

“Yeah…you know, you don’t talk much about Dr. Lecter. And by much I mean…ever.”

He stayed silent at that, ever an impenetrable wall after what’d happened.

“And you know that I…you know, sometimes grief just sets in,” she said with a strangled laugh. “You know how that is, don’t you? How you’re looking at an orange, and maybe you think ‘oh, wow, Dr. Lecter used to eat oranges before each session’ and suddenly you’re feeling everything you thought you’d put behind you?”

“He didn’t eat oranges, but I know what you mean,” Will replied gently. “Come on over, Molly. I’ll tell Beverly not to lock the door.”

Molly’s steps echoed with sharp, staccato taps after she’d put the groceries away and saw herself out of the bleak, dark house. It was a house, not a home without Wally in it, and throughout the entire drive to Will’s, throughout the evening where he held her and didn’t try to pry words from her lips, throughout the night as she gulped against his chest and tried to sleep, Molly wondered just how safe Wally could really be if she dared to open her mouth and tell Will what really was leaving her puffy eyed and stoic during an episode of their favorite show.

She ultimately gulped the words down, though. It wasn’t safe otherwise.

Molly gulped down a shuddering breath at the sight of the man that climbed out of the passenger side of a rather austere and spacious car. There are some things that a person knows because they’re told; there are some things they know because they are quick enough to stay quiet and observe. Some things, though, are complete and utter instinct, and despite the fact that Francis Dolarhyde of all people was a complete and utter monster to Molly Foster, she found herself taking a minute step closer to him at the sight of Clark Ingram, hands planted on her hips to steel herself.

The man looked like a rapist. Cold, empty eyes, even red-rimmed from hangover, conveyed a deep-seeded and utter dispassionate care of women as he glanced over her, then along the rest of their small group thoughtfully. The woman beside him, Emma, gave him a careless glance before she tucked her keys into her coat pocket and lingered by the headlights.

“Dr. Hannibal Lecter, in the flesh,” Clark Ingram said with an amiable smile. He extended his hand to shake Hannibal’s, which was returned with a professional, thin-lipped smile.

“Clark Ingram. Welcome,” Hannibal greeted. “With me are my associates: Agent Francis Dolarhyde, Ms. Molly Foster, Mr. Howard Chapman, and of course you know Miss Emma.”

“Nice to meet you all,” Clark said with a grin. “This is…wow. You really had me jumping through hoops, you know.”

“Did I?” Hannibal asked. His brow lifted briefly, a flicker so fast that Molly almost hadn’t caught it. Seeing it, though, filled her with a sort of dread that nothing but instinct could give.

“Yeah, the back roads, the FBI, the whole thing was really exciting, but that last leg was just a doozy.”

“A doozy,” Hannibal echoed, and he smiled just enough to flash incisors that seemed entirely too sharp on a human. “But here you are, now.”

“Here I am, and I’m ready for whatever else you’ve got for me, Dr. Lecter. You can ask Emma; I did my job.”

“Oh, yes, the job,” Hannibal agreed amiably. “Only, Mr. Ingram, you didn’t do the job.”

The cold wind whistling was the only noise that accompanied his words. Clark Ingram frowned, something confused and mildly childlike. Petulant.

“I don’t understand,” he said at last.

Hannibal nodded, as he’d expected this. “Your job was to kill Agent Zeller. You didn’t.”

“I did,” Ingram returned irritably, “and he bled like a stuck pig.”

“Agent Zeller is currently in my basement awaiting questioning, actually,” Hannibal returned pleasantly. It was the sort of sweet that made one’s stomach ache. “My informant in the FBI informed me of his location, and he was retrieved from a hospital where he’d just been taken out of surgery.”

Shock was something Molly was more than used to seeing. She’d had her own twists and turns with Dr. Lecter in regards to shock and how one both registers and reacts to it. Seeing it on Clark Ingram was mildly cathartic, as she was more than aware of his track record and the things he’d done to women whose only mistake was being fooled by a pretty face and a 100-watt smile. First, he paled; his cheeks turned a ruddy sort of red, then the air squeezed from him with a slow and painful look to his ribs, like they’d soon break.

“Bull shit,” he said shakily. “This is ridiculous. I did my job, and now I want my payment for it.”

“Payment,” Emma echoed, and there was a smirk to her voice that didn’t register on her granite face. “Are you so stupid that you didn’t notice the circles I drove you around while I waited for the word from Dr. Lecter?”

“You really were invaluable, thank you,” Hannibal agreed, glancing to Emma.

“I stuck him good, and I strolled right by that god damn FBI agent, and he didn’t even notice! What the hell did I risk everything for? I made that fucker bleed for you, and this is the thanks that I’m going to get?”

“In reality, it turns out that he is one of the few to know the location of a person in question that I wish to meet with, so I am relieved to find that he is very much alive; that being said, however, I’m in no position to allow you into this house and its sanctuary.”

“You promised me women, you god damn-”

“Oh, yes, the women.” Hannibal nodded thoughtfully, and it was that sort of aloofness that made the hairs on the back of Molly’s neck stand on end. “Emma?”

The silencer on the end of her gun muffled the shot, although it was nothing like Hollywood. Suppressed shots sounded more like something far, far away, with the impression of an echo from a canyon that reverberated back to the ears and left one feeling somehow wanting. It was not the first time Molly watched someone die, nor was it the first time she’d watched someone shoot them to do it. Over the years, enough experience had given her the sort of schooling to keep her features calm, even as Emma’s eyes grazed over her with an acute level of scrutiny, assessing.

Years had given Molly something that she wasn’t sure Emma had –a perfectly controlled, shuttered face. Not even Will could see past it, it seemed. She stood alone with her thoughts, the craggy rocks against an unrelenting ocean.

“Lovely, as always, Emma. Where you were the one to engage with him personally, I thought the honor should be yours,” Hannibal said warmly. The false tone of affection was grating. “If you’ll have Mr. Hobbs take care of this, we’ll be back inside where it’s warm in no time.”

“He lost his wallet,” Emma said curtly. “I didn’t notice a tail, but there could be problems.”

Hannibal glanced to Francis, who nodded grimly.

“Without Matthew at the sheriff’s department, I haven’t heard much chatter,” he said after a moment. “Someone could come sniffing if he doesn’t show up to work soon.”

“Someone that could have a missing wallet and a hunch?” Molly asked.

Francis nodded. “I’ve lost word from the other house. No report yet,” he said.

“Emma can deal with Matthew’s disappearance,” Hannibal decided. “And we’ll double security at the perimeter. Will is particularly…displeased with the notion of what’s occurred. We need to be prepared for him to attempt something rash.”

Rash, like attempting to carve out your eye wasn’t rash. Rash, like the faint bruising around Hannibal’s eye wasn’t rash. Rash, like how it felt for Molly to see him with mismatched eyes, the one person in the world that she felt couldn’t have possibly ever been moved by Hannibal Lecter.

God, and she’d led him right to him. Hook, line, and fucking sinker.

They headed back, and she lingered towards the back of the small procession, alongside Francis. She thought of the way he’d looked, following after Will who’d swayed and shook after his stunt with the phone. Pained. Afraid. Disgusted.

“You must be happy,” she said, quiet.

Francis hummed non-committedly.

“No, really. All of your planning…your watching, your meticulous notes and careful actions…it all finally came true. Hannibal Lecter has his soulmate because of you.”

She wasn’t quite sure what it was, her poking at him. She’d witnessed the Red Dragon surface before, and it’d left nightmares that clung to her eyelashes and stuck whenever she tried to blink. Perhaps she, too, was feeling rash now that everything was spiraling.

“When you took him to the bathroom,” she said, softer, “to clean him up after killing Matthew, what’d you say to him?”

At that, he did speak. Francis didn’t speak unless necessary, unless there was something ultimately important that he felt the need to convey. He opened his mouth, then closed it. He wet his lips, almost a nervous gesture, then tried again. He stared straight ahead, gaze fixated to the house. She knew that he had no love for Matthew Brown, the same way that she had no love for Matthew Brown.

“I said that he had to survive us.”

“Survive,” she murmured, and she nodded. “And now you have to survive watching him be a soulmate to Dr. Lecter.”

Francis stopped walking and fixed his intense, probing stare to her. She thought of that fateful night, when she’d first turned and found him at her table with a gun trained on her. He’d somehow seemed so untouchable, then, so formidable. Now, facing her with that same look, it didn’t seem so black and white. If anything, lurking beneath that dangerous edge, there was a glimmer of fear, of utmost uncertainty.

“Say what is on your mind, Molly Foster.”

Molly stopped and met his gaze head on. “I’m just wondering how you’re going to live kow-towing to Hannibal Lecter while he tries to twist and manipulate his soulmate bond to get Will Graham into his bed. First I fucked him, and soon enough Hannibal will try, too…it must be difficult for you.”

If it stung him, it didn’t show. Francis blinked lazily, then reached calmly into his jacket pocket and produced a cheap-looking, poor man’s smart phone. A fancy burner phone, all things considered. He tapped on the screen a few times, then lifted the camera to show an angle of one of the parlors.

Wally sat beside Abigail, coloring.

“I still have complete and total access to your son at all times,” he murmured thoughtfully. “Your position as Hannibal Lecter’s romantic proxy to Will Graham means ultimately nothing now that he has what he wants. You and your son are disposable.”

He left her with that haunting reminder as he smiled kindly and put his phone away. Left alone on the gravel path back to the house, Molly shivered in her coat and glanced to the doorway, unsettled to find Hannibal looking back at her, the light of the house silhouetting him and leaving his expression in the shadows. She could hazard a guess to what it was, though. Cold. Calm. Calculating. Cruel.

Clark Ingram was disposable, too. She gulped down the same sob she’d been holding back for four miserable, haunting years, and she hurried into the house to find Wally.

A special thanks to my patrons: @sylarana, @frostyleegraham, @jenacar, @starlit-catastrophe, @matildaparacosm, Laura G, Superlurk, Duhaunt6, Mendacious Bean, @frostylicker, Cecily, and @evertonem <3

#Hannibal #LiaS scribbles #Where the wicked walk #hannigram #hannibal au #hannibal soulmate au #someone help will graham #molly graham #ladies of hannibal #beverly katz

30 notes · View notes

weltratsel · 6 years

Text

The Last Messiah

One night in long bygone times, man awoke and saw himself.

He saw that he was naked under cosmos, homeless in his own body. All things dissolved before his testing thought, wonder above wonder, horror above horror unfolded in his mind.

Then woman too awoke and said it was time to go and slay. And he fetched his bow and arrow, a fruit of the marriage of spirit and hand, and went outside beneath the stars. But as the beasts arrived at their waterholes where he expected them of habit, he felt no more the tiger’s bound in his blood, but a great psalm about the brotherhood of suffering between everything alive.

That day he did not return with prey, and when they found him by the next new moon, he was sitting dead by the waterhole.

Whatever happened? A breach in the very unity of life, a biological paradox, an abomination, an absurdity, an exaggeration of disastrous nature. Life had overshot its target, blowing itself apart. A species had been armed too heavily – by spirit made almighty without, but equally a menace to its own well-being. Its weapon was like a sword without hilt or plate, a two-edged blade cleaving everything; but he who is to wield it must grasp the blade and turn the one edge toward himself.

Despite his new eyes, man was still rooted in matter, his soul spun into it and subordinated to its blind laws. And yet he could see matter as a stranger, compare himself to all phenomena, see through and locate his vital processes. He comes to nature as an unbidden guest, in vain extending his arms to beg conciliation with his maker: Nature answers no more, it performed a miracle with man, but later did not know him. He has lost his right of residence in the universe, has eaten from the Tree of Knowledge and been expelled from Paradise. He is mighty in the near world, but curses his might as purchased with his harmony of soul, his innocence, his inner peace in life’s embrace.

So there he stands with his visions, betrayed by the universe, in wonder and fear. The beast knew fear as well, in thunderstorms and on the lion’s claw. But man became fearful of life itself – indeed, of his very being. Life – that was for the beast to feel the play of power, it was heat and games and strife and hunger, and then at last to bow before the law of course. In the beast, suffering is self-confined, in man, it knocks holes into a fear of the world and a despair of life. Even as the child sets out on the river of life, the roars from the waterfall of death rise highly above the vale, ever closer, and tearing, tearing at its joy. Man beholds the earth, and it is breathing like a great lung; whenever it exhales, delightful life swarms from all its pores and reaches out toward the sun, but when it inhales, a moan of rupture passes through the multitude, and corpses whip the ground like bouts of hail. Not merely his own day could he see, the graveyards wrung themselves before his gaze, the laments of sunken millennia wailed against him from the ghastly decaying shapes, the earth-turned dreams of mothers. Future’s curtain unravelled itself to reveal a nightmare of endless repetition, a senseless squander of organic material. The suffering of human billions makes its entrance into him through the gateway of compassion, from all that happen arises a laughter to mock the demand for justice, his profoundest ordering principle. He sees himself emerge in his mother’s womb, he holds up his hand in the air and it has five branches; whence this devilish number five, and what has it to do with my soul? He is no longer obvious to himself – he touches his body in utter horror; this is you and so far do you extend and no farther. He carries a meal within him, yesterday it was a beast that could itself dash around, now I suck it up and make it part of me, and where do I begin and end? All things chain together in causes and effects, and everything he wants to grasp dissolves before the testing thought. Soon he sees mechanics even in the so-far whole and dear, in the smile of his beloved – there are other smiles as well, a torn boot with toes. Eventually, the features of things are features only of himself. Nothing exists without himself, every line points back at him, the world is but a ghostly echo of his voice – he leaps up loudly screaming and wants to disgorge himself onto the earth along with his impure meal, he feels the looming of madness and wants to find death before losing even such ability.

But as he stands before imminent death, he grasps its nature also, and the cosmic import of the step to come. His creative imagination constructs new, fearful prospects behind the curtain of death, and he sees that even there is no sanctuary found. And now he can discern the outline of his biologicocosmic terms: He is the universe’s helpless captive, kept to fall into nameless possibilities.

From this moment on, he is in a state of relentless panic.

Such a ‘feeling of cosmic panic’ is pivotal to every human mind. Indeed, the race appears destined to perish in so far as any effective preservation and continuation of life is ruled out when all of the individual’s attention and energy goes to endure, or relay, the catastrophic high tension within.

The tragedy of a species becoming unfit for life by overevolving one ability is not confined to humankind. Thus it is thought, for instance, that certain deer in paleontological times succumbed as they acquired overly-heavy horns. The mutations must be considered blind, they work, are thrown forth, without any contact of interest with their environment.

In depressive states, the mind may be seen in the image of such an antler, in all its fantastic splendour pinning its bearer to the ground.

III

Why, then, has mankind not long ago gone extinct during great epidemics of madness? Why do only a fairly minor number of individuals perish because they fail to endure the strain of living – because cognition gives them more than they can carry?

Cultural history, as well as observation of ourselves and others, allow the following answer: Most people learn to save themselves by artificially limiting the content of consciousness.

If the giant deer, at suitable intervals, had broken off the outer spears of its antlers, it might have kept going for some while longer. Yet in fever and constant pain, indeed, in betrayal of its central idea, the core of its peculiarity, for it was vocated by creation’s hand to be the horn bearer of wild animals. What it gained in continuance, it would lose in significance, in grandness of life, in other words a continuance without hope, a march not up to affirmation, but forth across its ever recreated ruins, a self-destructive race against the sacred will of blood.

The identity of purpose and perishment is, for giant deer and man alike, the tragic paradox of life. In devoted Bejahung, the last Cervis Giganticus bore the badge of its lineage to its end. The human being saves itself and carries on. It performs, to extend a settled phrase, a more or less self-conscious repression of its damaging surplus of consciousness. This process is virtually constant during our waking and active hours, and is a requirement of social adaptability and of everything commonly referred to as healthy and normal living.

Psychiatry even works on the assumption that the ‘healthy’ and viable is at one with the highest in personal terms. Depression, ‘fear of life,’ refusal of nourishment and so on are invariably taken as signs of a pathological state and treated thereafter. Often, however, such phenomena are messages from a deeper, more immediate sense of life, bitter fruits of a geniality of thought or feeling at the root of antibiological tendencies. It is not the soul being sick, but its protection failing, or else being rejected because it is experienced – correctly – as a betrayal of ego’s highest potential.

The whole of living that we see before our eyes today is from inmost to outmost enmeshed in repressional mechanisms, social and individual; they can be traced right into the tritest formulas of everyday life. Though they take a vast and multifarious variety of forms, it seems legitimate to at least identify four major kinds, naturally occuring in every possible combination: isolation, anchoring, distraction and sublimation.

By isolation I here mean a fully arbitrary dismissal from consciousness of all disturbing and destructive thought and feeling. (Engström: “One should not think, it is just confusing.”) A perfect and almost brutalising variant is found among certain physicians, who for self-protection will only see the technical aspect of their profession. It can also decay to pure hooliganism, as among petty thugs and medical students, where any sensitivity to the tragic side of life is eradicated by violent means (football played with cadaver heads, and so on.)

In everyday interaction, isolation is manifested in a general code of mutual silence: primarily toward children, so these are not at once scared senseless by the life they have just begun, but retain their illusions until they can afford to lose them. In return, children are not to bother the adults with untimely reminders of sex, toilet, or death. Among adults there are the rules of ‘tact,’ the mechanism being openly displayed when a man who weeps on the street is removed with police assistance.

The mechanism of anchoring also serves from early childhood; parents, home, the street become matters of course to the child and give it a sense of assurance. This sphere of experience is the first, and perhaps the happiest, protection against the cosmos that we ever get to know in life, a fact that doubtless also explains the much debated ‘infantile bonding;’ the question of whether that is sexually tainted too is unimportant here. When the child later discovers that those fixed points are as ‘arbitrary’ and ‘ephemeral’ as any others, it has a crisis of confusion and anxiety and promptly looks around for another anchoring. “In Autumn, I will attend middle school.” If the substitution somehow fails, then the crisis may take a fatal course, or else what I will call an anchoring spasm occurs: One clings to the dead values, concealing as well as possible from oneself and others the fact that they are unworkable, that one is spiritually insolvent. The result is lasting insecurity, ‘feelings of inferiority,’ over-compensation, restlessness. Insofar as this state falls into certain categories, it is made subject to psychoanalytic treatment, which aims to complete the transition to new anchorings.

Anchoring might be characterised as a fixation of points within, or construction of walls around, the liquid fray of consciousness. Though typically unconscious, it may also be fully conscious (one ‘adopts a goal’.) Publicly useful anchorings are met with sympathy, he who ‘sacrifices himself totally’ for his anchoring (the firm, the cause) is idolised. He has established a mighty bulwark against the dissolution of life, and others are by suggestion gaining from his strength. In a brutalised form, as deliberate action, it is found among ‘decadent’ playboys (“one should get married in time, and then the constraints will come of themselves.”) Thus one establishes a necessity in one’s life, exposing oneself to an obvious evil from one’s point of view, but a soothing of the nerves, a high-walled container for a sensibility to life that has been growing increasingly crude. Ibsen presents, in Hjalmar Ekdal and Molvik, two flowering cases (‘living lies’); there is no difference between their anchoring and that of the pillars of society except for the practico-economic unproductiveness of the former.

Any culture is a great, rounded system of anchorings, built on foundational firmaments, the basic cultural ideas. The average person makes do with the collective firmaments, the personality is building for himself, the person of character has finished his construction, more or less grounded on the inherited, collective main firmaments (God, the Church, the State, morality, fate, the law of life, the people, the future). The closer to main firmaments a certain carrying element is, the more perilous it is to touch. Here a direct protection is normally established by means of penal codes and threats of prosecution (inquisition, censorship, the Conservative approach to life).

The carrying capacity of each segment either depends on its fictitious nature having not been seen through yet, or else on its being recognised as necessary anyway. Hence the religious education in schools, which even atheists support because they know no other way to bring children into social ways of response.

Whenever people realise the fictitiousness or redundancy of the segments, they will strive to replace them with new ones (‘the limited duration of Truths’) – and whence flows all the spiritual and cultural strife which, along with economic competition, forms the dynamic content of world history.

The craving for material goods (power) is not so much due to the direct pleasures of wealth, as none can be seated on more than one chair or eat himself more than sated. Rather, the value of a fortune to life consists in the rich opportunities for anchoring and distraction offered to the owner.

Both for collective and individual anchorings it holds that when a segment breaks, there is a crisis that is graver the closer that segment to main firmaments. Within the inner circles, sheltered by the outer ramparts, such crises are daily and fairly painfree occurrences (‘disappointments’); even a playing with anchoring values is here seen (wittiness, jargon, alcohol). But during such play one may accidentally rip a hole right to the bottom, and the scene is instantly transformed from euphoric to macabre. The dread of being stares us in the eye, and in a deadly gush we perceive how the minds are dangling in threads of their own spinning, and that a hell is lurking underneath.

The very foundational firmaments are rarely replaced without great social spasms and a risk of complete dissolution (reformation, revolution). During such times, individuals are increasingly left to their own devices for anchoring, and the number of failures tends to rise. Depressions, excesses, and suicides result (German officers after the war, Chinese students after the revolution).

Another flaw of the system is the fact that various danger fronts often require very different firmaments. As a logical superstructure is built upon each, there follow clashes of incommensurable modes of feeling and thought. Then despair can enter through the rifts. In such cases, a person may be obsessed with destructive joy, dislodging the whole artificial apparatus of his life and starting with rapturous horror to make a clean sweep of it. The horror stems from the loss of all sheltering values, the rapture from his by now ruthless identification and harmony with our nature’s deepest secret, the biological unsoundness, the enduring disposition for doom.

We love the anchorings for saving us, but also hate them for limiting our sense of freedom. Whenever we feel strong enough, we thus take pleasure in going together to bury an expired value in style. Material objects take on a symbolic import here (the Radical approach to life).

When a human being has eliminated those of his anchorings that are visible to himself, only the unconscious ones staying put, then he will call himself a liberated personality.

A very popular mode of protection is distraction. One limits attention to the critical bounds by constantly enthralling it with impressions. This is typical even in childhood; without distraction, the child is also insufferable to itself. “Mom, what am I to do.” A little English girl visiting her Norwegian aunts came inside from her room, saying: “What happens now?” The nurses attain virtuosity: Look, a doggie! Watch, they are painting the palace! The phenomenon is too familiar to require any further demonstration. Distraction is, for example, the ‘high society’s’ tactic for living. It can be likened to a flying machine – made of heavy material, but embodying a principle that keeps it airborne whenever applying. It must always be in motion, as air only carries it fleetingly. The pilot may grow drowsy and comfortable out of habit, but the crisis is acute as soon as the engine flunks.

The tactic is often fully conscious. Despair may dwell right underneath and break through in gushes, in a sudden sobbing. When all distractive options are expended, spleen sets in, ranging from mild indifference to fatal depression. Women, in general less cognition-prone and hence more secure in their living than men, preferably use distraction.

A considerable evil of imprisonment is the denial of most distractive options. And as terms for deliverance by other means are poor as well, the prisoner will tend to stay in the close vicinity of despair. The acts he then commits to deflect the final stage have a warrant in the principle of vitality itself. In such a moment he is experiencing his soul within the universe, and has no other motive than the utter inendurability of that condition.

Pure examples of life-panic are presumably rare, as the protective mechanisms are refined and automatic and to some extent unremitting. But even the adjacent terrain bears the mark of death, life is here barely sustainable and by great efforts. Death always appears as an escape, one ignores the possibilities of the hereafter, and as the way death is experienced is partly dependent on feeling and perspective, it might be quite an acceptable solution. If one in statu mortis could manage a pose (a poem, a gesture, to ‘die standing up’), i.e. a final anchoring, or a final distraction (Aases’ death), then such a fate is not the worst one at all. The press, for once serving the concealment mechanism, never fails to find reasons that cause no alarm – “it is believed that the latest fall in the price of wheat...”

When a human being takes his life in depression, this is a natural death of spiritual causes. The modern barbarity of ‘saving’ the suicidal is based on a hairraising misapprehension of the nature of existence.

Only a limited part of humanity can make do with mere ‘changes’, whether in work, social life, or entertainment. The cultured person demands connections, lines, a progression in the changes. Nothing finite satisfies at length, one is ever proceeding, gathering knowledge, making a career. The phenomenon is known as ‘yearning’ or ‘transcendental tendency.’ Whenever a goal is reached, the yearning moves on; hence its object is not the goal, but the very attainment of it – the gradient, not the absolute height, of the curve representing one’s life. The promotion from private to corporal may give a more valuable experience than the one from colonel to general. Any grounds of ‘progressive optimism’ are removed by this major psychological law.

The human yearning is not merely marked by a ‘striving toward’, but equally by an ‘escape from.’ And if we use the word in a religious sense, only the latter description fits. For here, none has yet been clear about what he is longing for, but one has always a heartfelt awareness of what one is longing away from, namely the earthly vale of tears, one’s own inendurable condition. If awareness of this predicament is the deepest stratum of the soul, as argued above, then it is also understandable why the religious yearning is felt and experienced as fundamental. By contrast, the hope that it forms a divine criterion, which harbours a promise of its own fulfilment, is placed in a truly melancholy light by these considerations.

The fourth remedy against panic, sublimation, is a matter of transformation rather than repression. Through stylistic or artistic gifts can the very pain of living at times be converted into valuable experiences. Positive impulses engage the evil and put it to their own ends, fastening onto its pictorial, dramatic, heroic, lyric or even comic aspects.

Unless the worst sting of suffering is blunted by other means, or denied control of the mind, such utilisation is unlikely, however. (Image: The mountaineer does not enjoy his view of the abyss while choking with vertigo; only when this feeling is more or less overcome does he enjoy it – anchored.) To write a tragedy, one must to some extent free oneself from – betray – the very feeling of tragedy and regard it from an outer, e.g. aesthetic, point of view. Here is, by the way, an opportunity for the wildest round-dancing through ever higher ironic levels, into a most embarrassing circulus vitiosus. Here one can chase one’s ego across numerous habitats, enjoying the capacity of the various layers of consciousness to dispel one another.

The present essay is a typical attempt at sublimation. The author does not suffer, he is filling pages and is going to be published in a journal.

The ‘martyrdom’ of lonely ladies also shows a kind of sublimation – they gain in significance thereby.

Nevertheless, sublimation appears to be the rarest of the protective means mentioned here.

Is it possible for ‘primitive natures’ to renounce these cramps and cavorts and live in harmony with themselves in the serene bliss of labour and love? Insofar as they may be considered human at all, I think the answer must be no. The strongest claim to be made about the so-called peoples of nature is that they are somewhat closer to the wonderful biological ideal than we unnatural people. And when even we have so far been able to save a majority through every storm, we have been assisted by the sides of our nature that are just modestly or moderately developed. This positive basis (as protection alone cannot create life, only hinder its faltering) must be sought in the naturally adapted deployment of the energy in the body and the biologically helpful parts of the soul1, subject to such hardships as are precisely due to sensory limitations, bodily frailty, and the need to do work for life and love.

And just in this finite land of bliss within the fronts do the progressing civilisation, technology and standardisation have such a debasing influence. For as an ever growing fraction of the cognitive faculties retire from the game against the environment, there is a rising spiritual unemployment. The value of a technical advance to the whole undertaking of life must be judged by its contribution to the human opportunity for spiritual occupation. Though boundaries are blurry, perhaps the first tools for cutting might be mentioned as a case of a positive invention.

Other technical inventions enrich only the life of the inventor himself; they represent a gross and ruthless theft from humankind’s common reserve of experiences and should invoke the harshest punishment if made public against the veto of censorship. One such crime among numerous others is the use of flying machines to explore uncharted land. In a single vandalistic glob, one thus destroys lush opportunities for experience that could benefit many if each, by effort, obtained his fair share.2

The current phase of life’s chronic fever is particularly tainted by this circumstance. The absence of naturally (biologically) based spiritual activity shows up, for example, in the pervasive recourse to distraction (entertainment, sport, radio – ‘the rhythm of the times’). Terms for anchoring are not as favourable – all the inherited, collective systems of anchorings are punctured by criticism, and anxiety, disgust, confusion, despair leak in through the rifts (‘corpses in the cargo.’) Communism and psychoanalysis, however incommensurable otherwise, both attempt (as Communism has also a spiritual reflection) by novel means to vary the old escape anew; applying, respectively, violence and guile to make humans biologically fit by ensnaring their critical surplus of cognition. The idea, in either case, is uncannily logical. But again, it cannot yield a final solution. Though a deliberate degeneration to a more viable nadir may certainly save the species in the short run, it will by its nature be unable to find peace in such resignation, or indeed find any peace at all.

If we continue these considerations to the bitter end, then the conclusion is not in doubt. As long as humankind recklessly proceeds in the fateful delusion of being biologically fated for triumph, nothing essential will change. As its numbers mount and the spiritual atmosphere thickens, the techniques of protection must assume an increasingly brutal character.

And humans will persist in dreaming of salvation and affirmation and a new Messiah. Yet when many saviours have been nailed to trees and stoned on the city squares, then the last Messiah shall come.

Then will appear the man who, as the first of all, has dared strip his soul naked and submit it alive to the outmost thought of the lineage, the very idea of doom. A man who has fathomed life and its cosmic ground, and whose pain is the Earth’s collective pain. With what furious screams shall not mobs of all nations cry out for his thousandfold death, when like a cloth his voice encloses the globe, and the strange message has resounded for the first and last time:

“– The life of the worlds is a roaring river, but Earth’s is a pond and a backwater.

– The sign of doom is written on your brows – how long will ye kick against the pin-pricks?

– But there is one conquest and one crown, one redemption and one solution.

– Know yourselves – be infertile and let the earth be silent after ye.”

And when he has spoken, they will pour themselves over him, led by the pacifier makers and the midwives, and bury him in their fingernails.

He is the last Messiah. As son from father, he stems from the archer by the waterhole.

Peter Wessel Zapffe, 1933

Notes:

1 A distinction for clarity. 2 I emphasize that this is not about fantastic reform proposals, but rather a psychological view of principle

#nihilism #peter wessel zapffe #cervis giganticus #the last messiah #consciousness #humanity #pessimism #death #antinatalism

1 note · View note

realcleargoodtimes · 4 years

Link

A veteran of nearly 30 years at the departments of Homeland Security and Defense, Duke was the deputy secretary of homeland security in the summer of 2017 when John F. Kelly, Trump’s first secretary, left to become White House chief of staff. Duke served in the top job at the department until late 2017, when Kirstjen Nielsen was confirmed as Kelly’s permanent successor.

A lifelong Republican who describes herself as “a kid from the Cleveland, Ohio, area,” Duke said she supported tougher enforcement of immigration laws, as long as it was tempered by a sense of humanity that she tried to exhibit when she volunteered to teach naturalization classes. But she described an administration that is often driven by ideology instead of deliberation, values politics over policy and is dominated by a president who embraces “hate-filled, angry and divisive” language.

“We get distracted by slogans, by maybe words we heard like the president allegedly saying ‘Haiti is a shithole,’” Duke said from her home overlooking the Occoquan River about 25 minutes south of Washington. “So we get only spun up in that, and then we never get to the issue.”

Duke is the latest in a series of senior officials who have gone public to describe — often in vivid, behind-the-scenes detail — their discomfort and sometimes shock at the inner workings of the Trump presidency.

She said she was especially taken aback, during the response to Hurricane Maria’s devastation of Puerto Rico, when she heard Trump raise the possibility of “divesting” or “selling” the island as it struggled to recover.

“The president’s initial ideas were more of as a businessman, you know,” she recalled. “Can we outsource the electricity? Can we can we sell the island? You know, or divest of that asset?” (She said the idea of selling Puerto Rico was never seriously considered or discussed after Trump raised it.)

Like former Defense Secretary Jim Mattis, she chooses her words carefully. And like John Bolton, the former national security adviser who published a book titled “The Room Where It Happened,” Duke says she is not ready to commit to voting for Trump again.

“That’s a really hard question,” she said. “But given the choices, I don’t know yet.”

White House officials have long expressed displeasure with Duke’s short tenure as the chief of homeland security, describing her as unwilling to be a team player and resistant to the president’s agenda.

Asked about Duke’s comments, Judd Deere, a White House spokesman said that Trump “has kept his promise to the American people to reduce illegal immigration, secure the border, lower the crime rate and maintain law and order.”

“He has never wavered in his highest obligation to the American people: their safety and security,” Deere added.

Duke served in the Trump administration during a key period, just as a wave of hurricanes hit Texas, Florida and Puerto Rico. And she was there as Trump and Miller made their earliest moves against immigrants — imposing a travel ban on mostly Muslim countries; seeking to sharply limit entry by refugees; looking for ways to block asylum-seekers; and ordering an end to DACA, or the Deferred Action for Childhood Arrivals program.

She said she supported the president’s efforts to tighten immigration security. But the president’s “America First” philosophy has veered toward “America Only,” she said.

She said the president and Miller were right about lax immigration laws that needed to be fixed, but she said the policy of separating families along the border — which her successor approved months after she left — was discussed, and rejected, while she was acting secretary.

“I think that we have the room to help people,” she said. “And one of the ways we have the room to help people is through our immigration system.”

One of her fondest memories, she said, was helping pass out water to homeless people in the city of Ponce on Puerto Rico’s southern coast after Hurricane Maria, which struck there in the late summer of 2017. But the response to the storm by the president and his top aides, beyond the remark about selling Puerto Rico, was also a source of disappointment.

She said that as Hurricane Maria approached Puerto Rico and Duke argued for an emergency declaration before its landfall, Mick Mulvaney, then the president’s budget director, resisted.

“Quit being so emotional, Elaine, it’s not about the people; it’s about the money,” she said Mulvaney told her. Asked about the comment, Mulvaney said Friday: “I never made such a remark. My experience with the acting director was that she rarely got anything right at DHS. At least she’s consistent.”

The next day, Duke said she was pleased when the president expressed concern about the people of Puerto Rico. But she said she grew frustrated as Trump later traded angry tweets with the island’s politicians.

“My thought process for both sides is all the negative energy is a distraction,” she said.

Duke, a soft-spoken person with little experience in the raw political combat in Washington, said that she often found herself on the outside of a core group of White House advisers even though she was a member of the president’s Cabinet.

“There is a singular view that strength is mean,” she said, “that any kind of ability to collaborate or not be angry is a weakness.”

Duke recalled that Melania Trump, the first lady, was criticized after being photographed wearing high heels as she accompanied her husband to tour parts of flood-ravaged Texas.

“We were talking,” Duke said, “and she said, ‘It’s the White House, and I will treat it with the respect and dignity it deserves, and I will dress accordingly.’ And I thought that was beautiful.”

Duke contrasted the first lady’s approach that day with Trump’s frequent use of harsh talk in person and on Twitter.

“The office of the president,” she said, “should have a certain dignity to it that I think is important.”

Her public comments — her first since leaving the administration two years ago — came just days after the Supreme Court invalidated the president’s decision in 2017 to terminate the DACA program, handing Trump one of his most humiliating legal defeats on a promise at the core of his political identity.

Duke’s most lasting legacy is likely to be the memo she signed — under pressure — to end that program. Her decision not to cite any specific policy reasons was at the heart of the Supreme Court’s ruling, which said the Trump administration had failed to substantively consider the implications of terminating the program’s protections and benefits.

Duke said she did not include policy reasons in the memo because she did not agree with the ideas being pushed by Miller and Sessions: that DACA amounted to an undeserved amnesty and that it would encourage new waves of illegal immigration.

She said she still agreed that DACA “isn’t a legal program” but hoped that Republicans and Democrats in Congress would eventually find a way to allow the immigrants covered by the program to live and work permanently in the United States.

“What was missing for me is really that process of discussing it,” she said. “It is a grave decision not only from a legal standpoint but from the effect it will have on not just 700,000 people but 700,000 people plus their families.”

This article originally appeared in The New York Times.

NBC News

0 notes

antoine-roquentin · 7 years

Link

Since the 2016 election, national media outlets have been on a constant expedition in pursuit of that most elusive of specimens: Any of the nearly 63 million Americans who voted for Donald Trump. Braving such far-flung locales as Staten Island, reporters have sought evidence that Republican voters indeed voted for a Republican president. So far, the consensus appears to be that electing Donald Trump required someone to like his politics enough to vote for him.

Many of the pieces searching for the reasons for Trump’s rise and stubborn popularity among GOP voters defy satire. These are boom times for maudlin amateur sociology. Anywhere that codes as “white” and/or “rural” must now be rediscovered as if it were a lost civilization once swallowed by the sands of Obergefell v. Hodges. Half the time, the takes are just wrong. As Alex Nichols writes, pickup trucks, a cherished symbol of country life to urban media commentators, are in fact expensive and a staple of the white upper-middle-class: “Anyone with roots in the suburbs can testify that many a cul-de-sac is now lined with beefed-up Rams and Silverados used solely to commute to air-conditioned office jobs. What out-of-touch columnists consider bona-fide symbols of working-class authenticity are often just the hallmarks of well-off white suburbanites.”

Well-off white suburbanites are Trump’s true base, as they’ve been the base of every Republican president since at least Nixon. That the Republican Party has loyal voters and can rally them for even a controversial candidate appears to be a truth that eludes New York Times columnists. Still, talking to some Trump voters might indeed yield insights. The broad left-of-center may or may not be taking the right lessons from voters who went from Obama to Trump, for example, but it’s worth asking why they did.

Yet the most compelling anecdotes about the election have come from reporting about those who didn’t turn out at all. More than eight months after its publication, a New York Times story titled “Many in a Milwaukee Neighborhood Didn’t Vote—and Don’t Regret It” might still be the best source of searing quotes about the Hillary Clinton campaign’s failures in key Rust Belt states. It’s hard to argue when a barber who twice voted for Obama and has struggled to find workable health insurance pairs his declaration that he didn’t vote with the line, “Ain’t none of this been working.” Maybe someone should ask him what he thinks would work.

Or we could ask why a dude in rural California is looking soulfully out his window.

“California’s Far North Deplores ‘Tyranny’ of the Urban Majority” leads with a baleful photo of a megachurch pastor in the shadow of three stuffed deer heads, helpfully captioned, “Eric Johnson at Bethel Church in Redding, Calif., not the California of ‘Baywatch’ fame.” The piece goes on to cite a movement to establish a breakaway state called Jefferson and the vague grievances of a retired pilot who can afford what appears to be a hobby ranch full of horses and bison. Halfway through, we get this stunning line: “But perhaps nowhere else in California is the alienation felt more keenly than in the far north, an arresting panorama of fields filled with wildflowers and depopulated one-street towns that have never recovered from the gold rush.” The biggest California gold rush ended in 1855. If Trump wins a second term, maybe reporters will get around to asking Atlanta residents whether anything has changed since their city was burned down by General Sherman.

In a recent issue of The New Yorker, red voters in a blue state get the longform treatment. Peter Hessler reports from Grand Junction, Colorado, a boom-and-bust energy industry city on the far side of the mountains from the thriving Denver area. The headline reads, “How Trump is Transforming Rural America.” Even though Hessler is as circumspect and shy of caricature as you’d expect from a writer who’s done incisive dispatches about places as different as China, Egypt, and the United Kingdom, we know from the get-go that this will be a voyage of discovery. It’s not enough for Trump to make sense within existing partisan logic; he must be the harbinger of something new and angry.

Hessler paints a picture of an energized local GOP base that embraced Trump’s irreverence and sense of grievance. Western Slope Trump supporters even replicated the candidate’s sparring with the media in a battle with the local paper that got national attention. The piece opens with a portrait of Karen Kulp, a nurse who grew up as a doomsday Bircher, then became culturally more liberal, and finally became a political activist in the 2016 election. The punch line is that she helped found a local group of Trump supporters, despite a narrative arc that bore all the hallmarks of a Boomer Clintonista. Hessler’s opening gambit is to defy expectation while still landing us back in the headspace of the Trump Voter.

Grand Junction perfectly fits the established Trumpville profile. Legacy reliance on a declining industry (oil and natural gas extraction), a predominantly white population, cultural conservatism, blue-collar self-image, an apparent sense of grievance and betrayal at the prosperity, snobbery, and statewide political power of a wealthier urban populace not very far away in Denver and Boulder. Crime is up and schools are in trouble. Hessler sets out to chart the ways in which the political currents of Grand Junction dovetail with the real and imagined landscape of diehard Trump supporters throughout the country. It makes sense that he’d focus mostly on activists and local party operatives. If the thesis is that Trumpism represents a distinctive, transformative movement, the people driving it on the ground in a place like Grand Junction are the ones creating change.

Matt Patterson gets more ink in Hessler’s piece than anyone. A working-class Grand Junction boy by birth, Patterson dropped out of high school, became a successful magician, and then studied classics at Columbia after a car accident destroyed his magic career. He has since worked for conservative nonprofits, with a special focus on anti-union activism. Though he now lives in D.C., he spent the election in Grand Junction organizing for Trump. Patterson comes across as a charismatic shape-shifter: “[At] times he dresses with the flair of a goth: black T-shirt, leather bracelet studded with skulls, silver ring decorated with a flying bat. Sometimes he paints his fingernails black. These accessories vanish when it’s time to interact with factory workers, voters, or Republicans in Middle America.” Hessler’s descriptions of Patterson fit with the essay’s basic strategies to avoid falling into the bald clichés of most Trump Voter pieces: Elaborate apparent contradictions, emphasize that “I learned to suspend any customary assumptions regarding political identity,” and then note that you met a “hippieish” guy with a ponytail who voted for Trump.

Patterson’s importance to the piece is that he was an early Trump supporter who happens to be from Grand Junction and worked there during the campaign. It doesn’t at all follow that his existence demonstrates that Trump is “transforming” much of anything. Patterson is a slick Ivy League alumnus who has worked with Grover Norquist. We have a term for people like Matt Patterson: party hacks. And everywhere party hacks go, they cultivate eager local volunteers like Karen Kulp. If Trump innovated anything in Grand Junction, it was getting his volunteers to pay him for the privilege of helping out. As Kulp memorably says of the Inauguration Day “DeploraBall” she helped organize, “Every shirt you see here tonight, I bought.” This is the only genuinely impressive feat of political salesmanship recorded in Hessler’s piece.

A necessary conceit of the Trump Voter piece is that it must be interesting that someone voted for Trump. Was it interesting when people voted for Mitt Romney or Gerald Ford? Was it a metaphor for the tragedies of hardscrabble white America? No, presumably because those guys are a lot duller than Trump. No argument there. But the boring fact underlying Trump’s victory and now his presidency is that he’s a servant of very familiar forces.

The GOP agenda under Trump is basically what it would have been under Marco Rubio or Jeb Bush, only with more chaotic news cycles and instantly lower approval ratings. The Matt Pattersons of the world didn’t create this reality—that would be the Charles Kochs and Sheldon Adelsons—but they do know how to keep it going. One way to keep the oligarchic agenda humming along is to give it an aesthetic of rugged authenticity. Trump does that very well, and he gets a lot of media help. It may be impossible to write a Trump Voter piece, however careful, that doesn’t end up doing the work of making age-old robber baron politics look like an Andrew Wyeth painting come to life. We should probably stop trying.

There are lots of worthwhile things we could learn about life in Redding, California or rural Colorado or anywhere else with especially reactionary politics. Everyone quoted in Hessler’s piece had something to say about their home. The frustrating thing about Trump Voter pieces is not that they reduce whole regions to politics; it’s that they reduce those politics to Trump. If voting for Trump was such a convulsive act in Grand Junction, then is it also true that if Hillary Clinton were president, life there would be noticeably different? Trump Voter pieces mostly don’t seem interested in that kind of question. There might be hand-waves at NAFTA and industrial decay and opiates and wealth being sucked into big cities. Why is any of that happening? Who benefits? Can we do anything about it? I guess we could look ruefully out our windows at the world we share with Trump Voters.

71 notes · View notes