this quote about cordyceps from this article in a scientific magazine is basically how i've always imagined possession to work in horror stories. the demon/entity/whatever doesn't alter your perception, displace you, or control your mind, they just take over all your bodily processes, bypassing your brain entirely. they force your mouth and vocal cords to form the words they want you to say, force your limbs to move in the direction they want you to go, and force your lungs to keep expanding and contracting and your heart to keep beating, even through excruciating pain and horrific injury, so you can't even self-sabotage and your friends and loved ones are discouraged from trying to stop you for fear of what harm they might cause you to do to yourself to escape. you're a passenger in the driver's seat of your own car, and the hands on the wheel, though outwardly apparently the same pair you've always had, are no longer your own.
so i asked my dad what he thought of goncharov, and apparently he never saw it but his copy of goodfellas came with some bonus trailers and gonrachov was one of them! took me a while to dig it up but here it is
pre-canon | 5k words | alex/tk | tw for: suicidal thoughts, drug use, the whole failed proposal thing, angst with a hopeful ending |
"He likes his space, dad."
"Your mother and I liked space too," Owen agrees with a nod. Then, he looks down at the soup in front of him, spoon clinking on the side of the bowl as he stirs, "and then we got a divorce," He adds at almost a whisper, as if he and the vegetables were in on a secret and only they were supposed to hear.
"You and mom also fought constantly," TK finally snaps, pointing at his father with the spoon in his hand, driblets of the broth falling onto the table, "Alex and I don't. We disagree, we don't fight." He ignores the way Owen looks between the mess and his face and stares intently at the remnants of his dinner.
"He's disagreeing with you, is more like it," Owen grumbles around the spoon in his mouth.
or,
A little insight to the couple weeks before the biggest failed proposal of the century, because I can't stop thinking about pre-canon TK, ever.
(Click for higher quality, god forgive me for the walls of text)
Craftelle Luna Shandrus, or "Onycraft" - 30 years old (D.O.B August 16, 1969) - Male (He/Him only) - Species... Unclear?
Onycraft is... a man of many descriptions to be sure. Neurotic, loud-mouthed, perpetually smells like the back of an old shed, loyal to a fault and stubborn like a mule, et cetera. Of course with the sordid and tragic history to match he certainly makes for an, interesting individual. Sure his tendency to casually ignore the laws of reality can be a bit of an annoyance, but if you ignore that, alongside all the telltale signs and side effects of being born out of unethical biologic experimentation and of coming back to life after going through the electric chair, hes just another eccentric alcoholic from rural Maine USA with a heart too big for his own good- Or I guess if you want to put it in "simple terms"
(Obligatory toyhouse link)
(So uhhhhhh, YEAH! Go me for finally posting this reference sheet hooh man, I fucking love this guy so much I hope others will soon enough as well, he is very dear to me and has been for the past like, decade plus? Good lord hes old as piss- I mean he is my first ever oc but still, damn)
(Well anyway, more "side-references" under the cut as a lil bonus here yes, I'm gonna go lay down now)
❛ you have never seen such heathens. ❜ Kohga says with a grin, referring to the Yiga. (For Ganondorf!)
"Oh, I have borne witness, both alike and distinct, to many." Ganondorf's answer comes like thunder, like fire. ━ a low rumble turned crackle turned air buzzing with too much and yet not enough all at once, an anticipation that followed him as he swept 'cross the grounds. For an individual of his size, he is almost weightless in his shifting, almost wilting to scrape high the roof of the ruins not high enough where the stones meet strands of red bristling off from his crown. Each footfall accentuated; the bleaching of stone & textile, the delicacy in which he revokes it, pulled back out of the earth as though a stain so simple to be removed. ━ how considerate it was, for Gods to fuss and worry over hospitalities.
he casts a glance to the Yigas master, eyes stunning and bright and terrible, curls of crimson mane licking up into color undefined, like blazing divinity, how inexpressible it could be, to see something of divinity wrapped in bone & skin & cloth. there is a wonder, if this is what being in the presence of Princesses or Heroes is like, the same divinity in the opposite way ━ the Hero always more human, not God, merely blessed, champion in this way ━ where Ganondorf was his own, but they were theirs. Two against one, eternal.
"None, however, as impassioned as you," he continues "I would consider it something of respect, that you could harbor such liveliness for so long."
He wonders; passingly in the low light of twilight bleeding into the hideout as it is full with noise & distraction & color and as fabric folds with his limbs as he moves to sit, content to watch the clan breathe with itself; how much the Yiga would be willing to risk in such devotion to their goal. ━ everything, until everything is too much, until the world turns on them again.
━ Again. how it has before. how it could again, forever worse to do. How Ganondorf knows something similar, burning in his blood. ( perhaps Kohga knows the feeling. )
He finds himself beginning to understand, why it is they come looking for him.
his eyes, momentary in their focus on their leader, find somewhere else to settle. ( and he finds himself wondering, just as passing to reserve it for less occupied times, just how long the Yiga will last as they are. Resourceful and fast and stubborn, but tracing edges of impermanence, the way everything does, is made to. Except him, of course. Except him. ━ he likes to think, sentiment more than hope, that their stretch of being will not be killed, so much as it does not stay the same; the definition changing. 'the Yiga' not as a weapon, not a sharpness and outracing and hidden, 'the Yiga' as a people allowed to be people, to be families, to stay. He likes to think, in the way it could be hope, that they will not be like him forever. They, to grow out of shunning. Him, to stay the same. He likes to think, in the way it is hope, that one day they will not need him. ━ a scar of history, remembered always, but only, only a scar. )