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noodleblade · 1 year ago

Note

Can I ask for 17. noticing their individual quirks from the blossoming romance prompt list with Simpatico? <3

WHAT A COINCIDENCE THAT I STARTED REWRITING LIKE 3 HOURS BEFORE I SAY THE POST ABOUT YOUR BIRTHDAY!! Anyways, Happy Belated Birthday!!! Enjoy some simpatico nonsense:)

Ao3 Link Here

Perceptor narrowed his optics down at the pile of clutter before him. Clutter was a kind, professional, polite way of describing explosive havoc of disorder and chaos that made up the dimensions of Brainstorm’s desk. Disgusting was another word that came to mind.

::How do you live like this?::

::Oh please, let’s not exaggerate. It’s not that bad.:: came Brainstorm’s groan.

It was not an exaggeration. If anything, it was an understatement.

Perceptor’s internal processors had a difficult time distinguishing just what exactly he was looking at. The only way to actually piece through what was on the desk was to deconstruct it layer by layer. A cross-section analysis.

The bottom-most layer- the foundation, if you will -were dried dribbles of fuel intermingled with a noxious dusting of sentiment and dirt. One of Perceptor’s background scanners identified a cluster of granulated particles to be aged candied energon treat crumbs. An entire rust strick made the foundation brick, its sticky residue gluing it to the hard surface of the desk. Perceptor idly pondered if its removal would cause the entire system to fall apart. And while his internal protocols desperately would like the area cleaned, organized and sanitary, he was not willing to find out if his hypothesis was correct.

Cemented to this foundational core layer was the secondary mantle layer. This, from what Perceptor could read, was a scattering of notes all in Brainstorm’s sloppy, near illegible scribble. Tattered napkin bits from Swerve’s and printed notices from Ultra Magnus acted as the canvas for dynamic invention designs, schematics and impossible (and implausible) equations with attached nonsensical theorems. Several datapads acted as structural weights. When flicked on, Perceptor wasn’t sure if he felt amusement, exasperation or a sickly, prickling bashfulness in seeing several of his academic research papers and studies riddled with extensive notes, doodles and elaborations from Brainstorm.

It didn’t take away from the utter disaster that was Brainstorm’s work space but it did soften the blow. Still, Perceptor would prefer if his research wasn’t adding to the disgusting catastrophe that made up Brainstorm’s desk. Perhaps a bookshelf or three would greatly benefit organization.

Level three- the crust -was as troublesome as the other two layers of clutter, if not more prone to disaster by their fragile and incongruous shapes. Trinkets , Brainstorm affectionately called them. Garbage , Perceptor was more keen on describing. In truth, they probably served best as paperweights, however haphazardly placed they were.

The sentimentality was not missed on Perceptor and a part of him could even find the collection charming. Endearing.

Perceptor had bared witness to the slow accumulation over the course of the Lost Light’s journey but had never really taken the time to truly examine them. Now he did, his optics scanning over the seemingly random series of objects: little samples of rock, crystal, fossil collected on pit-stop planets, a Rodi-Star for Temporal Excellence half hanging off the desk, a cluster of thumb drive stocked with films, music, and other media either gifted or stolen from Rewind- Perceptor was still not sure. Little gadgets and doodles from Nautica were in abundance and horrible tiny contractions built by Whirl intermingled with them. There was even a small toy-like bauble on the corner of his desk from Chromedome, Perceptor had been present when the Mnemosurgeon had left it there and Brainstorm never moved it, simply fiddled with it absentmindedly while mulling over his work before throwing it back to the corner of his desk.

All these items, papers and dirt and yet Perceptor still did not actually find what he was looking for.

With a heavy sign, Perceptor responded to the insisting ping in his comms.

::How do you expect me to find anything on your desk?::

Brainstorm’s response was bitingly quick. ::What are you talking about? Everything is organized!::

::It’s garbage, Brainstorm.::

::Use that brilliant mind of yours and you’ll see everything has a purpose.::

::What purpose do Ultra Magnus’s cease orders from 28 cycles ago have?:: Perceptor didn’t dare touch the fragile, lopsided stack in fear of it tumbling down and only adding to the mess.

::They are counterbalances. Don’t move them or the desk will collapse.:: Perceptor had no doubt in the truth of that statement even if its intent was a joke.

::We are cleaning this when you return to the ship.::

::It doesn’t need any cleaning! I know where everything is!:

Perceptor let out a derisive snort. He could picture perfectly the little fluttering of Brainstorm’s ailerons, his hands moving in frustration.

::The tell me where your cathetometer is.::

It was the reason for this call in the first place. For rare occasion, Perceptor had the lab to himself with Brainstorm accompanying Rodimus’s small expedition team. It’s not Perceptor’s fault his colleague forgot his equipment but he was not about to be a complete aft in not assisting. He just wasn’t going to personally dig through Brainstorm’s garbage heap of a desk alone.

::Hmm, if you don’t see it in top it’s probably in one of the drawers.::

Perceptor rounded the desk to see six drawers lining the sides of the desk with three on each side.

::Which one?::

::The left side. I keep the important stuff there.::

Perceptor raised an optic ridge and couldn’t help but ask ::And what do you keep on the right?::

::Come on Percy, let me have a little mystery, a touch in intrigue.::

::Nevermind, I don’t want to know.::

Perceptor didn’t need to be present to know Brainstorm was pouting, blast mask intact or not. Even hundreds of meters between them and Perceptor knew a pouting, sulking Brainstorm anywhere.

::You’re no fun.::

::Yes I am.:: Perceptor replied back as he started with the top drawer, pulling it open only to find it crammed to the brim with even more data pads. All of them pressed together to a block so not even a tiny piece of dust could enter. Perceptor slammed the drawer shut. ::How do you live like this?:: he found himself reiterating.

::Oh, not fun loving Perceptor still complaining about my desk. Is that fun? Cleaning and organizing?::

::You’re a scientist. How do you find anything in this?::

::Tell me how you are fun in explicit detail and I’ll tell you my organizational strategies. We can make a date of it.::

Perceptor snorted as he opened the second drawer. This was filled with several instruments and after some careful digging, he found the cathetometer . ::We can clean your desk together.::

::You must be a hit at the club, Percy. Really. Absolute stud. What moves do you have? The pencil sharpener? The label maker? The file organizer? Actually, you can’t claim that one. Minimus invented and perfected that one. ::

Perceptor could have told Brainstorm at any moment that he had found what the other mech was looking for but, he held onto the tool for a moment, softly smiling to himself as Brainstorm rambled insults to him. It shouldn’t be charming, it shouldn’t be amusing, it shouldn’t bubble up any sort of affection. And yet.

::I’ve seen you dance, Brainstorm. I wouldn’t speak so confidentially with what you’ve demonstrated.::

::Are you saying Minimus is a better dancer than me? Because you surely can be saying that you are a better dancer. I mean, I think you’ll fall apart if you stepped foot on the dance floor.::

::It hasn’t happened yet.::

::When have you been dancing at Swerve’s? Before or after you deep clean and detail your desk every day?::

::Funny.::

Without even thinking about it, Perceptor opened the third drawer. He stopped as it slid open, its few contents rocking in the sway. Recognition lit his processor in a warm, shy heat.

::I’m hilarious. So funny and smart and amazing and talented and resourceful. Speaking of resourceful…did you find the my cathetometer yet? I put googly eyes on it. For personality. Can’t miss it.::

Perceptor felt the warmth spread across his faceplates. ::I did.::

::Oh Percy, I could kiss you. Tailgate is almost back at the ship if you can give it to him. The mods to his hoverboard make him almost as fast as Rodimus. He’s pissed. Anyways I told you it would be easy to find. All my important stuff is.::

Perceptor barely heard a word of what Brainstorm said. Only sending back a short affirmative as he stared at the drawer.

::Perceptor? You alright?::

With a sharp invent, Perceptor closed the drawer shut firmly.

::Perfectly fine. I’ll be ready to pass it off to Tailgate. I’m clearing your schedule for the next cycle. We are cleaning your desk. I can’t work knowing you are working like this.::

::Percy! It’s fine. I don’t need your shitty excuse for a date-::

::It’s not a date.:: Perceptor swiftly cut off. ::This is a work hazard that is being remedied immediately.::

Brainstorm’s response was muted, delayed. ::Okay, okay. We’ll clean it up. I’m sure you’ll have a checklist and everything.::

Perceptor let a small smile come to his face even though he could hear the telltale rumbling of Tailgate’s juiced up hoverboard. ::Of course. You shouldn’t expect anything less from me. If you manage to get it done by shift’s end, I’ll buy you a drink. Maybe if you are lucky, we can dance.::

Brainstorm’s next several responses were streams of incoherent stutters that formed a very excitable agreement. Perceptor didn’t feel the need to continue the chatter as he passed over the tool to Tailgate who only gave him a slightly confused look at his smile. Perceptor didn’t care, not when he knew what lay at the bottom of Brainstorm’s important drawer.

Sentimental fool.

#simpatico #brainstorm #perceptor #mtmte #transformers #my fics #macadam #gift for elmonstro:)

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maryelizapink · 10 months ago

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Just like you gave me an imaginary future to imagine, and an imaginary baby to play with in a plastic bag, I’ll just have an imaginary boyfriend. And thanks for my 30 dollar engagement ring, literally cost me a bottle of Ativan. He didn’t buy me dinner, but he did pay for my anxiety meds once, because i asked him to i was in a desperate situation. Then, toward the end of our ‘relationship’ he (internal screams) had the audacity to ask me for gas money to come see me and acted like he didn’t really have that much time to see me after having not seen me for two weeks.

Yeah, and you wonder why I fucking dumped you and told you to never speak to me again? You took me to a sex shop and treated me like a hoe, and you wanted me to treat you like you were my husband. You’re like ‘you’re not really wife material’ ‘you don’t act like one’ bitch, you don’t act like a guy who’s even trying to seriously date me. You just wanted easy, and that’s the truth you didnt’ wanna try that hard, and you were a lazy mother fucker, who literally fell asleep while talking to me on multiple occasions claiming it was like a narcolepsy issue instead of just admitting the truth which is that you just kept me around to use me like a whore and weren’t all that interested in me at all, or in connecting with me.

You saw me as a piece of flesh to use, and you just played the part hoping that your ‘act’ would work, as if i couldn’t see through the mask.

I asked repeatedly for honesty and gave you so many chances… and the stupid shit you wrote on your blog and posted on your instagram, your fake social media accounts, your horrible track record with pathological lying and being literally locked up for selling cocaine, having 3 baby mama’s and a wife on your goddamn phone screen when you met me- well that is till she made you pack up all your stuff and kicked you the fuck out on the goddamn street

And you say all you like to do is fight and fuck but i haven’t seen you in the fuckin ring yet, you’re supposed to at least be some MMA champion, but you acted like a bitch and i barely touched your nose. You deserve to be run over with a truck at this point.

And there were guys who were so in love with me they wanted to kill themselves because i didn’t love them back- and you had the audacity to treat me like utter garbage in comparison. Like, you think i don’t know what a well behaved proper man looks like and how to be treated properly etc? You think i don’t have boundaries and that I’m just an idiot whore?

Hah, think again. I was just using you from the jump, like i said, i thought i was gay.

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lord-explosion-baku · 4 years ago

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Trident Tale

Merman!Shinsou x reader, Kirishima x Reader

Warnings: adult themes (Minors DNI)

A/N: read the prologue on AO3

Part 1 || Part 2 || Part 3

(Original image by @maewoahoah)

Synopsis: Moving to an island where everyone is big on the surf scene and other oceanic happenings might not have been the brightest idea for someone so afraid of anything that has to do with water, but you make do by spending your days looking after the Bed & Breakfast, trying not to burn the house down when you fry a few eggs, and obsessively scrolling through Eijirou Kirishima’s social media page. He’ll never notice you, and you think you’re fine with that, until a mysterious force washes into Ms. Shuzenji’s pool after a particularly nasty storm.

Hitoshi Shinsou is a pain in the ass from the get-go, but you put up with him, fins and all, when he promises he can help unite you with your soulmate. The catch? The fish is hellbent on taking back what was stolen from him, and he won’t lift a gracious finger until he gets what he came for.

You’re helpless to lend him a hand, so long as you stay dry. Unless, of course, he has other plans.

You know how the saying goes: you rub his fins, he’ll rub yours.

Storms have never really been your cup of tea. Though you keep yourself locked inside a good percent of the time, there’s nothing quite as suffocating as the compress of clouds overhead. It’s not like you always have to see them to be uncomfortable, but you definitely feel them pressing down, closing in, and caging you, even when you’ve got yourself tucked under a blanket on Ms. Shuzenji’s couch.

It’s been a little over a year since you first moved to the island. All you needed was a new beginning, and you got that, but you got that, and the tropical weather that you’re still getting used to. It’s currently typhoon season, and holy seaweed-on-your-doorstep, is it storming.

There’s little you can do to distract yourself while staying and working at Shuzenji’s bed and breakfast. There are currently no guests, aside from you, so all the rooms are made, and the old lady is on another one of her long vacations, so you’re basically being paid to lounge. You’re grateful for that, at least. But the only thing that’s keeping you physically separated from the terrifying weather is a thick glass pane that water sloshes on every time a wave laps over the backyard walls.

The things that separate you mentally are the old-timey recordings of Shuzenji singing alongside an ensemble cast, and the little device in your hand. If you didn’t have your boss’s haunting melodies echoing throughout the house, and some big, beefy, tatted eye-candy to gawk at during the storm, you’d surely go insane.

Eijirou Kirishima, one of the island’s best surfers, is out on his board, live-streaming his current fight against the waves. His whoops and hollers can be heard over the crashing tides, getting even you excited for what’s about to come. That’s the thing about Kirishima; he’s wild, you’re not, and it’s hot as hell. Oftentimes, you catch yourself daydreaming about joining him out in the surf—he guides you through the waves, maybe yoou impress him a bit with your sudden affinity for wave-riding, and the two of you wash up on shore where you’ll both share your first kiss. It would be feasible if you could swim. It would be feasible if you bothered to learn how to swim, but for now, you’re content with your imagination. At least he can make you hate the terrible weather a little less.

The conspiratorial smirk he shows the camera is borderline swoon-worthy when the swell begins to pull him further out. It’s impossible not to bite your lip every time you catch a glimpse of his arms forcing themselves through the sea. He makes this look easy—like the storm is child’s play, and as the winds blow Shuzenji’s trash bin into the sliding glass door, you welcome the delicious distraction.

As Kirishima stands up on his signature trident board and rides one of the biggest waves he’s seen all day, you’re once again struck with how much of a coward you are. He can fight the elements, while you can hardly bring yourself the courage to talk to him. Mind you, he’s constantly surrounded by a close group of friends—a close group of friends you find intimidating—and when he’s not with them, he’s out in the water. Where there’s water involved, you’re spoken for. Unless, of course, you’d like for the first time you guys actually speak, to be when he’s giving you CPR.

Not the most ideal “meet cute”, but if it works, it works.

A loud crash snaps you out of your admittedly salty daydream. Mango, Shuzenji’s orange tabby, yowls at the blanket of water cascading down the windows, and your stomach sinks. There’s only so many minutes you can pretend that the storm Kirishima is facing isn’t the one that’s destroying Shuzenji’s yard.

With a sigh, you roll off the velvet couch, and grimace when crumbs that were nesting in your shirt fall to the carpet: a mess to clean up later. Without any guests to mind, you don’t have to worry too much over keeping the place spick-and-span, so long as things are nice and tighty by the time the old lady gets back, which will be awhile.

You have an easy enough job—at least, when there aren’t bunches of thick seaweeds crashing over the yard’s wall, flooding the pool.

“Shit.”

Water sprays in every direction. The already trash-infested pool overflows as more kelp rolls in with the maniacal waves, and angry, white foam bangs on the back door. It's a disaster outside, and you’re not sure what to do about it.

Fingers wrapped around the back door handle, you struggle to think of a way to prevent a bigger mess, but even if you could manage to clean anything, nothing is stopping the tempest from wreaking anymore havoc. Best case scenario, you stop a plastic soda-chain from washing out to see and becoming a deadly necklace for an unlucky seagull. Worst case scenario, you slip, crack your head open on the pavement, and drown before you can ever utter the words “mahalo” to Kirishima.

Needless to say, you’ll take your life over a gull’s any day.

Another sigh.

A greater wave collides against the wall, bringing more of the Great Unknown into the pool. This is going to be a fun job to clean. Good thing you’ve got Shuzenji’s service boy, Denki Kaminari, on speed dial. You think if you sound particularly distressed in the morning, he’ll show up to help you out with just about anything in the matter of minutes. God bless desperate fuckboys.

So, for now, you cuddle back up on the couch, watch Kirishima shake saltwater out of his thick, red hair, and pretend that his storm is not the same thing as your storm.

It’s early morning when you finally rise out of bed. You hadn’t gotten a whole lot of rest—something to do with the wailing winds shaking your bedroom window nonstop, but after you finally drifted into dreams about snakes and dragons, you woke to clear skies, and light seagull calls.

From the second story, you can see early birds have already gotten the jump on cleaning up the beach. The sun is shining, the ocean blue and vast. The only trace there was ever a storm is already being taken care of. There are lifeguards riding around on ATVs and younger civilians with trash bags and grapplers picking up seaweed and absconded debris. The respect everyone has for the island is something to be admired, and you half-consider going out there yourself, after you’ve dealt with your yard, which is sure to be a wreck.

There’s no interest in picking out a cute outfit for the morning you’re going to have, even if Denki might see you, so you throw on a already-worn-this-week crop top, some pink shirts, and you’re good to go.

The first thing you do after Mango’s fed is check your socials. Kirishima posted a picture of his breakfast: a hefty plate with three eggs, sausage links, bacon, cut avocado, and what seems to be low-carb toast. The post reads, gotta eat ur gainz 2 gain ur gainz, and it’s so ridiculous that you’re infatuated with this reckless himbo. You wonder if you’d ever be able to hold an intellectual conversation with him, if you could ever manage to speak to him in the first place, but conversation wouldn’t matter if his mouth was between your thighs.

Following his example, you crack two eggs over a frying pan, sigh at the mostly empty fridge, then agonize over the state of Shuzenji’s yard. It’s worse than you thought it’d be. The pool is a sickly green color, and from where you’re standing inside, its murky depths seem to be almost opaque from the seaweed and garbage stewing together. Kelp litters the beige pavement, and there’s trash hiding in the shrubs. There’s a chocolate donut floaty bobbing around in there, too, and Shuzenji doesn’t own any floaties.

What a drag.

Before you get too far in your head about everything you’ll need to do to clean up, you quickly dial Denki’s number. He picks up after a ring and a half.

“I know what you’re about to ask,” says the boy on the line, and from his cocky tone, you can assume it’s not going to be about the cleanup. “I am absolutely free tonight. If you wanted to grab drinks at the Salty Barrel, maybe go on a romantic rendezvous out on the beach, watch the sunset on or in a couple blankets, I wouldn’t complain.”

“I’m not calling to ask you on a date, Kaminari,” you say as you step outside. The pavement is cold underneath your bare feet, and you have to tip-toe around to be sure not to let any kelp touch your skin. Yuck.

“But you’re not, not calling about a date, either,” he counters. By the volume of his voice, you can tell that he’s in his van, talking to you over the speaker. Good. So he’s already out and about.

“I need you to tell me how to drain Shuzenji’s pool.” Call you cold, but you’re used to Denki’s flirty nature by now, and you’ve learned that the best way to deal with it, is to not acknowledge it. Of course, you can’t be too callous when it comes to him, especially when you actually need his help. You eye the dangerously complex-looking valves off to the side of the house, and grimace. “There’s too many twisty thingies! I’m not sure what to do!”

“Now, hold your horses, little lady! Don’t go twisting any thingies just yet. Draining a pool is a process.” There’s a long pause, the loud growl of an engine, then silence. He’d pulled over to talk to you. “How’s your TDL? And what kinda PVC pipes you got?”

“The huh and what?” You don’t need to pretend to be in distress—you have no idea what he’s talking about.

“Listen, don’t touch anything. You’re calling because the pool’s a mess right now, right? You don’t need to drain it; at least, not yet. I can swing by in an hour or so to clean it, but I’ve gotta make some stops first. You’re not the only single woman who wants to watch me do my thang, especially not after yesterday.”

“It’s so bad, Kaminari.” The water in the pool sloshes around, like there’s actually something in it causing the water to ungulate and burble. “I don’t even know where to start.”

“Don’t worry your pretty, little head over it. You've got me, okay? It’s my job to protect and serve.”

“You’re not a cop.”

“Nope, I’m better than a cop. I’m a pool guy.”

He goes on to ask you to check out what kind of drain the pool has, if you can find the drain, then loses you when he starts talking numbers and gallons. While still on the phone, you send a few texts to Shuzenji, explaining the predicament, then Denki mentions rates. You’re getting the cutie pie discount, doubled because he counts Shuzenji as a “cutie pie” too—something you mention to her because she’ll get a kick out of it—then he drops all business to ask about food.

“I’m cooking my breakfast,” you say with a wary glance back at the house.

“But is your breakfast fries and a shake from Tiki Burger?”

You bite your lip as your stomach growls its empty sorrow. “No.”

“Would you like it to be?” His knowing grin is heard through the line.

“…I’m not gonna go out with you.”

He chuckles and you’re grateful that he can’t see your answering smile. “We’ll see how you feel after you see me work my magic. And hey, if you’d like me to wear a Speedo while I work—“

“You’ll be here in an hour?” You cut him off, because Denki in a Speedo is the last thing you need on your mind. The thought of Kirishima in a Speedo, however, gets you a little hot, which is saying a lot, since you’re a part of the Speedos and Dolphin-shorts Are Abominations To Swimwear belief system.

“Maybe sooner. I think my next client just needs me to check out their chemical levels. Inside pool and all. Everyone else knew to put a tarp out.”

The tarp you had blew away, but you don’t bother explaining that to Denki. Let him believe you’re the dim-witted “little lady” he wants you to be. If it means Shuzenji gets a discount, not that she can’t afford any bill Denki’s company throws at her, then let him believe you can’t open a pickle jar without a man’s help for all you care.

“See you then,” you say, and end the call. There will be time to work on your charm once Denki gets here. Until then, you figure you could do some investigating so you’re not completely helpless.

Leaving your phone on the pavement so you don’t accidentally drop it in the water, you make your way around the pool to where you think you remember the drain being. You can’t say you’ll know what kind of drain it is, but if you remember correctly, it’s circular, and like, kinda meshy? That description simply won’t do.

Dropping down to your knees, you peer down into the pool, squinting, as if that can help you see through all the muck. There’s definitely a lot of kelp and algae, sand drifting through the water, someone’s wayward brazier, and oh. A school of fish—little babies circling about. It’s wild, but you suppose it could be possible if all the chlorine washed out and there was enough salt water to sustain marine life.

The fish move together, bopping into each other, mouths gaping open to eat whatever they find in their temporary home. You don’t know enough about marine life to know what kind of fish they are. Silvery little things. Maybe Denki has something that can help transport them from the pool to the ocean. It’s not far—Shuzenji’s house is on the beach. It would be a shame if all the little fish had to die. You don’t particularly care about touching or feeding fish, but a life is a life, and if they can be saved, you’d at least like to try.

But all your thoughts of saving fish life stop when you catch something moving in the water. It’s not the fish—they’re not that big, but it’s definitely fishlike. Fish plus. It moves like a shadow, serpentine and fluid. You catch a glimpse of scales, so it’s definitely not a dolphin—even then, it’s bigger than a dolphin, and more graceful than a shark. You begin thinking of leviathan, and other mythical creatures, as ridiculous as that is, when you see a long flowing fluke.

Okay. This thing is not just big. It’s gargantuan, and to see this much of the creature without seeing its head makes your skin crawl. You imagine falling in and being swallowed whole, suffocating in the dark, drowning in a monster’s belly.

The thought spooks you static, just in time to meet a pair of eyes in the water. This is your overactive imagination—you’re scaring yourself insane, but you don’t look away, and those eyes, almost human and curious, don’t disappear.

You’ve consumed enough media to know how these impossible interactions go. The creature is inquisitive, but keeps its distance. It often has to be coaxed out of hiding, and even then, the thing is skittish and untrusting. You’re certainly not one to go “pspsps, hey little guy, I’m not gonna hurt you,” but even if you were, you don’t get the chance, because this thing you’re looking at isn’t the least bit skittish, and in one second, you’re making eyes at at it, and in the next, the thing is exploding out of the water.

A large, broad chest towers over you. The thing pushes itself up with arms, human arms, but it’s anything but human. Sure, it has hair, although an odd purple color, framing its angular face and jaw, which are both human enough. Also framing its face are a pair of long, pointed fins sticking out from where human ears should be. Water dribbles down its chest, down to its navel—its navel. Your brain screams mammal, but underneath its navel are scales, rippling down to where its legs should be. Not human. Not fish.

Fish plus.

Man.

Fish plus man.

Fish-man.

Its eyes are almost the same color as its hair, only a shade lighter, and much sharper, narrowed in on you. It’s glaring. You realize this at the same time you realize that you're staring at it with your mouth agape. This would be so rude in any other setting. It’s also rude to pop out of a pool that isn’t yours without any other warning, but you’re not about to chastise the thing. You’re far too scared.

Then the thing reaches out to you, sprinkling water on your thighs and your shirt. Its hands look like a man’s hand, but its long fingers are connected by thin, indigo webbing that matches its tail. Its tail. You lose focus trying to find the word for this creature that’s barely on the tip of your tongue, when you realize the palm of its hand, its fishy, webby hand, is hovering over your cheek, the other carefully placed next to your knee to keep it upright.

You open your mouth to speak, but only a hiss comes out. The creature, wary, brings its hand back, but only slightly. Not enough to put you at ease, but enough to allow you to gain your composure, and scream.

“H-help!!!” You screech. “Help! Somebody! Help me!”

It claps its hand over your mouth, knocking you back. Water drips down on your shirt as it leans in, mouth curling up with distaste. Then, it does something impossible.

It speaks.

“So loud,” it growls in a low, masculine timbre.

It speaks, you think, it speaks and it has no manners!

You try to yell back, probably something with little thought, but you have a mouth full of fish-man hand, and the more you warble in its palm, the more apathetic it appears.

“Be quiet and still,” it commands, as if obeying it is supposed to be the most natural thing—something it expects from you. It catches you so off-guard that you actually listen, only trembling a little bit as those indigo eyes scan over your form. It’s uncomfortable having an unknown but cognizant creature observe you so closely. You shiver when its gaze roams over your belly, down your legs. You want to curl your legs up, move away, but you’re afraid if you even twitch more than it’s comfortable with, it’ll grab you and drag you into the pool. Your nightmare.

Instead, it does something slightly less worse. It moves its hand from your mouth to your cheek. The palm of its hand warms your skin in an unnatural way, like you’ve been laying in the sun for half an hour and it’s only your cheek that heats up. The creature's eyes widen as light begins to emanate, either from you, or from it, you’re not sure, but definitely from where it touches you. Tingles run from your neck down to your spine, and you wish you’d put a bra on before going outside, because this thing’s touch is making your body react in a way that it shouldn’t.

“So easy,” it purrs appraisingly, somewhat less insolent, but you’re still taken aback, ears hot with embarrassment.

Un-fucking-likely.

“Easy?!” You squawk out. “What do you mean by easy?”

It doesn’t answer you, and instead, moves its fingers from your cheek, down your jaw, to your chin. It begins leaning closer, heavy lids closing. You notice its lips for the first time: a defined line and a pretty bow. If you were in a less dire situation, you’d be able to admit that they’re very nice lips, but they’re getting closer to you, closer still, and you realize with a jolt what it’s trying to do.

Your foot meets its chest in a heartbeat.

“Nope!” You belt out, extending your leg so there’s more distance between you and the impolite beast. “Not today, fish-breath!”

Unperturbed, it lifts a lazy brow. Then, to your absolute horror, it presses both of its hands into your bare leg, and again you’re lit up, warm, and tingly, only far worse than before. Stomach tightening, you make a choked noise, trying to hold in the sigh that claws at your throat.

“Fish-breath.” It repeats your insult like it’s a balled-up piece of paper to be thrown in the trash. “I’ve been told that my aroma is quite appealing.”

“By whom? Other fish-breaths?!” You wriggle your leg out of his embrace, or whatever you could call that invasion, only to have it slip down so your foot rests in the fish-man’s hands, bright as the stars in the sky. “Eww ew! Don’t touch me! Get away!”

The creature scoffs, but let’s you go, and you both watch as the light disappears from the arch of your foot where he’d been touching. Fish-man slinks back into the murky water, hiding under a blanket of algae.

You have enough time to gather your composure, wipe the water droplets off your face, and rub your eyes. For a moment, you try to convince yourself that this has all been a sleep-deprived hallucination, but you’ve never really been one to delude yourself, unless your Kirishima fantasies were involved, and you know that you’ll have to try another tactic to accept the reality of your situation. Perhaps you can try to be civil with this creature, ask it if it’s…hurt, or if it needs a late night escort to get it back to the sea. But then, the thing resurfaces on the opposite end of the pool. It faces you, and leans back against the wall, arms spread out against the pavement, basking.

“You know,” he says, “your decorum is severely lacking. Don’t humans have classes that teach them proper etiquette—how to be more polite towards their guests and such?”

What’s lacking is your patience for marine life.

Standing up, you take in the thing, which you’re now pretty sure is in fact a man of sorts, in its entirety. His tail is long, longer than human legs, extending past the halfway mark of the pool, if your measurement counts his fluke. There’s a golden cuff on his right arm that spirals around, accentuating his large biceps. You stubbornly admit that it’s attractive—he’s attractive, at least, he would be for people who were into fish and not surfers. You brush whatever you’re feeling in the pit of your stomach off by telling yourself that you’re simply awestruck, and move on.

“Where I’m from-“ you begin, straightening your sodden crop top- “we offer our guests various beverages and snacks, depending on the time of day.”

Annoyingly, he looks interested.

“Since it’s the morning, I’d offer a guest tea, or coffee, and if I’m looking to impress, I’d maybe cook them a hot meal.”

The creature offers you a sardonic smile. “I happen to be famished.”

“However, with home-invaders, we’re more likely to pull a gun on them before heating up the earl grey.”

He loses the smile, and you’re glad that he might have an inkling of what a gun is. You’ve never owned one, and they don’t allow firearms on the island, but the threat stands. But if he was intimidated, even for a moment, he doesn’t show it anymore, and proves just that by turning his back on you, and resting his head in his arms. He has a dorsal fin with what looks to be a deep, x-shaped scar near his tailbone. You try not to wonder what that could’ve been from.

“Then how do you propose I go from a home-invader, to a house guest?” Asks the creature with little interest.

Cautiously walking around the pool with your arms crossed, you begin to list things off for the far-too-comfortable fish-man.

“You can start by telling me who you are, what you are, why you’re here, what you want, and why you think you can lay your webbed hands on me.”

“Oh, is that all?” He hums noncommittally. Content. Aggravating. “Why don’t you start then? Who are you, and why are you here?”

The back of your neck grows hot and uncomfortable. “How entitled do you have to be to—!” You start, but you’re swiftly cut off by the shrieking of the fire alarm. Smoke plumes from outside the house’s windows, and you curse under your breath before darting towards the door. You’d completely forgotten about your eggs.

In your haste to move the pan off the stove, you burn your fingers and drop the pan to the kitchen floor, two blackened egg crisps flaking off and diving in different directions. Mango yowls at the commotion and investigates one of the fallen egg crisps. Before you can tell him to buzz off, he loses interest in your mess, not bothering to give it a taste. You don’t blame him, but the eggs didn’t appear to be cat-bad. Ah, you can’t kid yourself. They are cat-bad. They’re completely inedible. Now you’re going to have to head to the market, while worrying about a man trapped in Shuzenji’s pool.

Your stomach roars at you.

After cleaning the mess as best as you could while desperately and ruefully wanting to return to your guest—no, not guest—invader, you get the alarm, half-heartedly fan the smoke out of the house, and return. Angry. This guy better start talking soon, or things are going to get ugly.

To your utter displeasure, he looks all the more amused at your newer, messier state.

“Was that supposed to be the hot meal,” he asks, cocky. “Because if so, I’ll pass.”

Instead of biting his head off like you’d like to, you present him with the still-dirty frying pan, pointing it at his head like you intend to use it.

“Start talking, fish-for-brains.”

The beast snickers, raising his hands in the air in mock-surrender. “Easy there, tiger shark. You know how to use that thing?”

You refuse to humor him. Instead, you keep your scowl tight, your arms steady. If he’s not threatened, he’ll lose interest in this game, then he’ll have to talk.

Lo and behold, you’re right. The fish-man rolls his eyes, and looks at you, again, with apathy.

“My name is Hitoshi Shinsou,” he says, lackadaisical, like he’s already bored of himself. “I’m one of Ryūjin. What humans have learned to call merpeople are actually descendants of the sea gods who lived centuries ago. I’m here, simply because the storm washed me here. What I want is to retrieve what’s mine. I thought I could lay my webbed hands on you—well-“ the corner of his mouth tilts up-“darlin’, it was because your body reacted to me.”

Mouth forming the beginning of a question that never comes, you stare in disbelief at this myth. Then the last thing he said dawns at you.

“I did not react to you!” You rebuke, steady hands now shaking.

“Oh no?” He says, but it’s not a question. It’s a challenge.

Hitoshi grabs the flat end of the frying pan and yanks it, and you, closer to him, closer to the water. You cringe and whine when a wet, webby hand closes around your wrist. Inadvertently, you drop the pan, but he pays it no mind as it sinks past his tail. Your skin begins to glow underneath his palms, and the tingles come back, shooting up your arm, causing tiny goosebumps to appear.

“Would you look at that,” Hitoshi croons, slow and almost sensuously. His indigo eyes narrow on your index finger where you’d burned yourself. To add to this nightmare, he closes his lips around it, and begins to suck. Your stomach flips, and you’re not sure if it’s because you’re disgusted, or scared, or…enjoying the feeling of his warm mouth, his tongue, touching your skin.

“Stop.” It’s a whisper. It means nothing. You think you want it to mean something, but your thoughts are buzzing into a blur. Knees growing weak, you descend, leaning closer to him, not caring about the water or the seaweed or the fish, and instead, entirely focused on his mouth. It’s glowing, his mouth. Faintly. Like a single candle lit in an otherwise empty room.

When he eases off of you, he runs his thumb over your now-healed finger, and let’s your arm fall limply at your side.

“All better,” he whispers back at you.

There are prickles all over your skin once you regain an ounce of dignity.

“What the hell was that?” You ask, breathless for no other reason than shock.

“The glowing?” He asks. “The healing?”

“Both.”

“Your reaction to me.” He’s cocky again. This is something sick. Mythical creature or not, this has got to be a game he plays, washing into people’s pools, causing problems, sucking on lonely girls’ fingers. He probably gets his kicks this way, and uses whatever other kind of magic he has to erase whoever he’s tormenting’s memories, if he doesn’t end up eating them when he’s done. Bogus.

You won’t let him get to you.

“Alright, Hitoshi Shinsou, how would you like me to get you back into the ocean? You healed my finger-“ although it’s essentially his fault you were burned to begin with, if you take into account the sequence of events-“so helping you out is the least that I can do.”

“I could use your help,” he muses lightly, turning his body back around to his chest and abdomen are turned towards the sun. You tell yourself not to stare like you know he probably wants you to. Though his eyes are closed, he peeps at you, sneaking a glance. “I don’t want to go back into the ocean, though. Not until I get what’s mine.”

With the might of a girl who just wants to go back inside and scroll through her phone, you swallow your bite, and ask, “what would that be?”

“Oh, this and that-“ he waves his hand around dismissively-“other things.”

With the might of a girl who just wants to go back inside and find another frying pan, you say, “alright, listen. Someone is on their way to the house to clean the pool. I don’t know what one of Ryūjin means, but I’m guessing people like you don’t always want to be discovered by people like us. So you either tell me what it is you need, or see how my pool guy reacts to a mermaid lounging around in my backyard! I wouldn’t put it against him to call the local news station. Get this place flooding with cameras. Does that sound like a pretty picture to you?”

Absolutely none of your threats penetrate Hitoshi’s cool nature. In fact, he laughs.

“When he gets here,” the merman drawls, knowing he’s got you hanging on every word, “invite him to swim.”

#bnha mermay #mermaid au #siren!shinsou #mermaid!hitoshi shinsou #hitoshi shinsou x reader #shinsou x reader #bnha x reader #bnha x you #bnha imagines #bnha reader insert #reader insert #trident tale

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collectionoftulips · 3 years ago

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Also, I watched Persuasion (yes that cursed Netflix adaption). Admittedly, it is a bit like beating a dead horse, and I think that the review that said that everyone involved should be briefly put in prison until they understand their crimes against literature and cinema more broadly said it perfectly so adding my own thoughts into the mix are perhaps redundant. But I will say I have never watched anything that has made me quite so angry and offended at its complete butchering of the source material.

And I'm by no means an Austen purist - I think some of the best adaptions that have been made of her work has been made when creators have taken risks and not everything needs to be as faithful to its source as 1995 Pride and Prejudice. The diversity of the cast is about the only nice thing I will say about this movie even though its diversity felt incredibly surface level. Plus, Henry Golding clearly ought to have been Wentworth and:

They fundamentally misunderstand and butcher Anne as a character and therefore the most fundamental element of the novel doesn't work

The writers and producers have created as close to a carbon copy of Emma (2020) as they possibly could, not only copying major elements of the visual elements of the movie but also trying to change Anne's character to be more like Emma, completely forgetting the fact that they are two completely different characters

It was also like they saw how the occasional breaking of the fourth wall worked so well in Persuasion (2007) and how popular it was in Fleabag, and decided to just throw it in with little thought or consideration, thereby ruining one of my favourite least-used narrative devices in visual media, making me wonder why I even like it to begin with if it can produce such a travesty as Persuasion (2022). I might exaggerate but only barely.

Absolute garbage use of tension for a story that is entirely too reliant on the maintenance of tension. Anne and Wentworth don't go around checking in re: each other's feelings all the time because they are prevented from doing so at two levels: personal and societal. Completely removing that all together made for a movie with zero stakes and no tension. If they really wanted to ignore everything about the time period, they really ought to have just made a modernisation, instead of whatever cursed halfway house this was.

I could quite frankly write books about all the myriad of ways this adaption was just an utter flop, and I know no one asked for this, especially seeing as I mostly just write about Bridgerton stuff on here, but I just need you to know that WATCHING THIS ADAPTION IS NOT FUN - IT'S NOT EVEN FUN!BAD AND TBH IF YOU CAN AVOID AND WATCH IT LATER, PLEASE DO, BECAUSE I REGRET WATCHING IT BECAUSE NOW NETFLIX ARE GOING TO THINK PRODUCING THIS LOW-LEVEL CRAP IS OK BECAUSE THEY ARE GOING TO GET LOTS OF VIEWERS.

Sorry, I will resume my regularly scheduled programming soon but I just need people to know my pain. This is in my opinion arguably Austen's greatest novel and it's so quiet and delicate and this wonderful exploration of human psychology, relationships, regret, loyalty etc. It also has the most romantic letter ever committed to fiction and to have that reduced to "Now we are worse than friends, we are exes" or whatever the exact line is, is an affront.

#i would also never seriously advocate for prison #no fan of the prison industrial complex here

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immaturityofthomasastruc · 4 years ago

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Emotional abuse is NOT to be normalized.

Hello everyone! Anon from the “

I’m a victim of emotional abuse

” post. And today I’m going to explain my story of the emotional abuse I went through.

My story begins as a lot do, online. I was about 10 years old so I didn’t know what were red flags, and what relationships I should avoid. I had a very toxic friend group back then that enjoyed self deprecation and honestly bullying each other, me included. We used to do the cringe roleplays children do and making cringe oc’s. I met someone we’ll call Rin.

Rin didn’t bully me like the others in the friend group and very often came to me for opinions, and over all talking without making me feel like utter garbage. I ate up all the praise, all the love and support Rin gave me. However, even as early as friendship, they would get angry at me if I did stuff they didn’t like and would sometimes ignore me, sometimes verbally assault me into apologizing for things I really shouldn’t have.

»»————-————-««

For context, Back then I was both unmedicated for anxiety and I was going through a harsh time with my aunt and cousins living with us. When I was 6, my drug addict uncle committed suicide and I’d been living with them for about 4 years by that time. (No, my parents nor aunt told us he committed suicide. at the time, don’t worry) They made my life HELL, constantly getting me in trouble and generally putting me down.

Context: Rin was 16 when i was 10.

»»————-————-««

One day I was doing our daily playing games with the friend group and Rin when one of our friends, Rose, Told us we’d make a *great* couple. By that time I had some feelings for Rin, we’d voice call occasionally, to me they weren’t a stranger. Rin had agreed and in hind sight I was kind of pressured into the relationship.

All of the behavior I mentioned before, where they would get pissy whenever I did something they didn’t like or get nice when I did something they *did* like got WORSE. It’s nothing like what media presents, because when people wish to manipulate you they will without hesitation.

Rin began threatening bodily harm, showing me cuts if I did something vaguely wrong. They would tell me I was worthless without them. That if I’d “Only just listen to me I could make you the best girl ever!"

They found it funny when I’d get squeamish over topics, continuing the conversations and saying that if I’d just tell them that I’d like it then they’d stop.

One day when I was 11, it just got too much for me so I said we needed to break up. You wanna know what Rin did?

They threatened suicide. They told me if I left them they’d kill themselves. That I was all they were living for. That I was the love of their life and if I left them it’d be my fault if they killed themselves.

I was 11, I didn’t know any better about the situation but I knew I didn’t want them to die so I stayed. I stayed in the relationship. I tried 3 more times to break up with the same result. the same threat of Suicide. Sometimes with photos.

After that original threat they began getting s*xual. They began mentioning we should meet up IRL, despite us being several states apart. They began describing what they’d do to my body s*xually when we met IRL. They told me that if I didn’t want to fulfill their fantasy’s I was a bad SO. That I should only exist to fulfill their wants and *their* needs. It didn’t matter what I wanted.

when I was 12, I finally had an out. They had been stabbed and sent to the hospital. They weren’t online so I took the chance and broke up with them when they couldn’t do anything about it. They tried when they got back but I was long gone.

Now normally Media presents this as when a trauma victim starts healing and returns to perfect normalcy. That isn’t the case. Its been at least 4 years since I left them, since I got out of that situation, but I still have the fears. Have the insecurities. I still hear their voice telling me I’m worthless, That I’d be better off a trophy on their wall. That since I’m not their perfect ideal woman I should just shut up and be the best wife to the next man that decides I’m worth their time.

my anxiety’s voice, once a always changing one *became* their voice. I’ve healed, I’ve moved on from the abuse but their voice haunts me. Their Abuse has left mental scars that will NEVER heal.

This is why having Mental Abuse of any form be normalized is horrible. because it means more people like me will go through situations like these. and not be allowed to escape because we’re "over reacting”. Because we’re “just in hysterics. it’s perfectly normal!"

this is a serious issue that shouldn’t be brushed under the rug. Miraculous Ladybug is the WORST offender of normalizing Mental Abuse I have ever seen. because I KNOW the red flags. I have trained myself to see them. To protect myself.

Normalizing normal little issues is fine. But mental abuse? never. NEVER should ANY form of abuse be normalized because it means more victims will appear. This shouldn’t even be a thing but here I am. Having to fight for people to realize this isn’t a thing that should be just accepted.

TL;DR: My first ex threatened to cause bodily harm when i was 10, and when i was 11 threatened suicide for me daring to try and break up with them. I escaped when i was 12, only barely. Now my anxiety has taken their voice and haunts me to this day.

If you’ve read this long, thank you! and have some

kittens

for what I just made you read. Thank you for your time.

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

First of all, I want to thank you for your bravery in coming forward to share your experience. I am so sorry you had to go through this. Nobody deserves to be treated this way.

Second, you still raise a valid point.

Media in general tends to downplay emotional abuse and parental neglect, a good example being Monica Geller’s relationship with her parents from Friends. Almost every episode featuring Monica’s mom showed her being insensitive to her daughter and constantly belittled her while undermining her achievements like prioritizing Ross’ new girlfriend over Monica’s weight loss in a flashback. Even if it was unintentional on her part, it still damaged Monica’s psyche, and this kind of treatment was always played for laughs.

The fact that even shows today tend to downplay mental trauma shows that people don’t really understand the kind of damage it can cause.

The way Chloe’s relationship with her mother is portrayed is a good example. At least Friends is targeted towards an older audience so it could be enjoyed in a morbid way by laughing at Monica’s misery, but at its core, Miraculous Ladybug is aimed at children. Children will see Chloe bonding with her neglectful mother and see it as normal, as a good thing.

The fact that Astruc still doesn’t get how bad Chloe’s upbringing was shows he doesn’t get mental abuse either.

You need to better understand mental trauma before actually trying to write it. Otherwise, you end up depicting mental abuse in the wrong way and give viewers the wrong impression of it.

#immaturity of thomas astruc #iota #thomas astruc #thomas astruc salt #chloe bourgeois #queen bee #queen b #audrey bourgeois

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summerofpinecestcontest · 4 years ago

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My Pinecest

by angelilith

The right words," was the last thing he had said to her.

"You don't measure your words, you don't use the right words and even less to express what you feel."

But what precisely was it that he felt? If he dug deep inside his mind he felt the sweat on his hands the moment he opened the locker, his heart racing and in the end he just dropped his head inside it to lose himself in his garbage.

The days had been long, especially amidst the questions of all the curious as to why the surprise breakup with her boyfriend Demian had not been so formal but after a couple of months things were shaky between them. Or according to him, between herself.

Mabel was drowning between the corridors thinking if someone perhaps, could also think the same as he did. Although they had made an agreement that they would say it was a mutual decision, she knew it wasn't, that Demian had his reasons, his good reasons for ending it all, as much as he loved her, and that she claimed to feel the same way. To him, it was a lie.

She never measured her words, much less her feelings.

Worst of all is when that anguish could not even appear at home, from being seen between curious eyes, to that of his parents or his brother who also wondered the same thing. She could go through stray bullets of uninteresting questions and issues, in teenage matters as her mom excused, but with Dipper things were different.

Where were her feelings? She wondered over and over again in the wee hours of the morning, tossing and turning in her bed, seeing if it was right to send a message to Demian, if talking to him again would help. Who else but she could help her in those wee hours of the morning? Where it seems like everyone is asleep, and she is the only stranger who is invaded by so many crazy ideas, and none of them seem to be right.

At that moment a soft knock on her door brought her out of it all, setting her phone aside, she shuffled her feet, finding her twin on the other side, full of worry.

- Are you all right? - He asked the moment he saw her

- Y- Yes... Why do you ask? I thought you were sleeping, by the time it's .....

- I can hear between the walls the noise that you make....

She lowered her head apologetically and wished him good night, trying to close the door, wanting to end that conversation quickly.

- Wait! - Quickly Dipper stopped the door - I couldn't sleep either, what happened at school?

- What do you mean? It's all good...

- I mean with Demian....

That question she had dodged it many times, more coming from her brother, where no matter what she would say, he would quickly realize that she would lie, and the truth at that moment even she didn't have it, because her now ex-boyfriend had only left her more doubts than something for granted, she didn't hate him or anything. But it wasn't right either.

- Only term...

- Just a term? That's all?

- Dip... I'm really tired, I really want to sleep...

- It didn't seem like a few minutes ago...! - His brother's voice grew louder with every word he uttered.

Dipper hated it when Mabel avoided him like that, when she wasn't honest with him, and even more so when something affected him and he couldn't help her, and this was one of those situations.

- Just go to sleep

- Answer me! Why don't you want to be honest with me?

- What do you care about this?

- You are not well, I have been feeling it for days and I want to help you!

- You help me by leaving me alone!

It was the last thing he said before Dipper gave up his arm and the door slammed shut.

Silence took over everything after that. Between Mabel's insomnia, and until the next day, during breakfast, class hours, lunch alone and now, just missing one more class before leaving.

She really wanted to just lie there in her locker without caring about the stares of others or the murmurs she could hear. She just wanted to survive a few more minutes and then get out of there.

She raised her head again, fixed her hair and looked for some books waiting to hear the bell.

No sooner had she closed her locker to stride forward to her classroom than footsteps stopped behind her.

- Mabel...

- Yes?

He turned to see his brother, it seemed that the last time he had seen him was last night in the midst of those screams, for he barely noticed his presence at breakfast.

- Sorry about yesterday...

- I should be the one to apologize, I didn't have to yell at you like that.

- No, I was meddling in your business....

Dipper's gaze was glued to the floor, he scratched his head nervously.

- Calm down silly, it's all right - I said while tapping him on his shoulder

- I know, I just think we need some time away from all this.

- Time out?

- Well, movie night, remember? We used to do it all the time. And I thought in a "peace accord" and before exams, some quiet would be great....

He slurred every word, sounded somewhat tense and avoided looking at her.

- Great, count me in

- Well... Well...

- I'll see you on the way out bro, we'll look for tons of junk food.

Mabel was whispering in his ear as the bell rang and they both headed to class.

On the way out, Mabel was looking for her things and leaving when she received a message from her brother, he would be a little late, he needed a book from the library for the weekend.

She went out to the parking lot looking for that gray car, a gift from her last birthday, but that lately Dipper ended up driving alone because she was going with Demian or taking the bus, like the last few days.

I needed to be alone at that moment.

I looked everywhere, seeing those who arrived and left quickly, or those who organized parties surrounded by several groups.

She didn't expect to see her ex before her brother, who approached her sweetly helping her, as her vehicle alarm went off.

Before he could hear her voice, a hail of gunshots rang out in the air, followed by screams, causing many to run everywhere, others to jump into their cars and speed off.

Mabel began to search through the crowd for her brother, calling out to him, but there was no answer. Demian grabbed Mabel pulling her away, but she insisted on staying.

The gunfire grew louder, and whoever was the perpetrator seemed to be approaching where they were.

- Let's go..! - Demian insisted

- No, I can't, Dipper was on his way, he might cross paths with him to look for me....

Demian was heard to grumble grumbling, it was nothing new to her.

Mabel struggled with the boy trying to get him to let her go in his "foolish" attempt to save her, but without any success, she had to give in.

Then we have to hide...

They both stood under the car, where they could only make out the feet of people coming and going.

Quickly the running came again, followed by more screams, and more gunshots. The shooter was right above them standing in front of the car. The tip of the rifle could be seen at his feet.

All Mabel could think about was where her brother was, Demian had pulled her so quickly that her backpack had been left on the hood of the car.

That person seemed to have chosen his point guard, he turned on himself over and over again while raising his weapon. The minutes just below their feet became eternal for both of them, Mabel's breath hitched not knowing what to expect and she could only console herself by holding the hand of the man who had been her boyfriend.

At that moment the sirens were heard, there were several patrol cars approaching, that guy looked nervous, but he raised his rifle again and charged it.

Letting hear a dry gunshot plummeting in front of both young men.

She let out a scream and Demian pressed her against him, waiting for someone to get them out of there.

Dipper took longer than he thought to get a damn book out for his report, no matter how advanced the internet was, many professors still liked to screw around with mandatory library bibliography for their papers.

He looked at his phone in search of a response from Mabel, but there was none, she was probably upset, leaning on the edge of the car with her arms crossed and a somewhat mocking look on her face.

As soon as he got it sealed so he could take it with him, he hurried his pace, but before he reached the door he saw many people running in shouting to close the doors.

"They're shooting outside!"

He was in disbelief when he tried to run out to look for his sister, but they stopped him by slamming the door in his face.

- The police are on their way, we must keep the students safe.

- Many were left out! - shouted Dipper

- If the armed subject enters here it could be much worse.

Some teachers separated the kids and led them in groups to the gymnasium, some nervously crying as they flagged down their parents to pick them up. Others were checking social media to see if there were any intrepid kids recording them live outside. Dipper, on the other hand, looked again and again at the exit door.

Although at first he had been positive to find his sister in the incoming crowd, he was discouraged at first, then dialed her several times in a ringing tone that exasperated him even more.

He didn't want to jump to conclusions, he was afraid to jump to conclusions that his worst fears would become real. He dialed again and again hoping to hear her voice, until the sirens stopped to the relief of many who were there.

Most parents and relatives had approached the school seeking the safety of the teenagers, or perhaps to make sure that their children were not among the number of children with serious injuries or deaths.

Dipper could hear as they said "there are five teenagers dead and over eight injured" those words had caused his whole body to shake and the insistence on the phone to return.

But only for a few minutes, when his mother's voice brought him out of his trance.

He stood up and hugged her tightly, for the look on her face reflected how frightened and worried she was. She would get him out of there, she would take him to Mabel.

At the front door, again, everything was surrounded by police, ambulances and yellow ribbons lining the street. Dipper ignored his mother, detouring his way to the parking lot. It wasn't too hard to miss Mabel's backpack on top of his gray car, as well as the fresh bloodstain on the ground right next to him.

He turned his eyes to his mother, waiting for answers, he knew she knew where his sister was.

- Come on Dipper - She repeated, grabbing him by the shoulders and pulling him towards her car.

He simply grabbed his backpack until he climbed into the vehicle, pulling his phone from inside with the thousands of calls on it.

- Where is Mabel?

- At home, she is fine

- Wounded? This wound?

- No

- Are you lying to me?

- Calm down, it's okay. Your father looked for her at the hospital...

- Hospital...

Something wasn't focusing on her mother's words, nothing gave her the security she felt, let alone peace of mind.

It took forever to get home, after passing a long line of cars on the way to school, cameras and other people who were just trespassing.

As soon as the woman parked, Dipper bolted out of the vehicle and ran to her house, turning the door handle down again and again, realizing it was locked. With the lights on inside.

Hearing the turn of the key, she saw her father on the other side, his eyes looked tired, he was still wearing the shirt he had put on in the morning, although she knew that he usually came home later, it was more than clear that he had gone out for "an emergency".

- You can calm down and be quiet," his father chirped.

Dipper took a big breath of air before stepping over the threshold of his home, seeing the living room surrounded by several pillows and blankets leaving him to notice his sister asleep on the edge of one of the couches.

Before he could run over her, he felt a gentle tug, from his father stopping his stride.

- Let her rest. She had a nervous breakdown, they took her to the hospital because they couldn't calm her down. And from there the school called me... She's still sedated...

- It's my fault," said Dipper, gritting his teeth. - If I had come out earlier...

- Don't say that son - She interrupted him - They are both fine and we are grateful for that...

- Well? - His eyes were beginning to water, for a few minutes before he had only tragedy in his head.

When the guy collapsed on the floor Mabel was sure she could see his eyes wide open along with the shot mark on a fully opened head.

Demian pressed her against his chest trying to avert his gaze as he crawled backwards trying to get out from under that vehicle.

- Don't worry, it's all over - I kept telling her over and over again.

She returned his embrace, wiping away her tears for the moment with the cuff of her sweater.

Police were approaching where the shooter's body was already lying, and others were approaching them.

- Are you all right? Ambulances are on the way

- We are both fine," said Demian, raising his hands in peace.

Mabel turned away from him looking around again and again.

- Dipper... Demian, I need to know where my brother is.

A policeman stopped her

- It is better that they stay where they are until some authority comes, there are several boys injured, and others dead. The best way to facilitate this is to stay out of our work.

- My brother was coming here before this started, he could be hurt...he could be....

- Mabel, they shot your brother! - shouted one of her companions who was being carried by a paramedic.

- No- no-no-no

She let go again trying to run, this time it was Demian who was pulling her to the ground to keep her still.

- You heard the officers, you may hinder their work if you interfere.

- What if he is injured?

- Look around Mabel, there are ambulances and others that will be arriving to help.

- And if this -

Demian just looked away, not knowing what to say...

- I have to see it for myself

- And what will that accomplish? You were going to risk your life just to look for Dipper, he can take care of himself too. He can take care of himself too. Can you?

She looked up at him, her lips trembling along with her whole body.

- I need to know where it is

Demian refused to let go of her no matter how hard she struggled, kicking or screaming. Even he couldn't recognize her under those situations.

She managed to attract the attention of the medical staff by forcibly assisting her.

After a few hours her father appeared at the hospital, taking her home, assuring her that everything was fine, that her brother would be home any minute. And although he repeated the same thing a thousand times, Mabel burst into tears, not believing anything as she hesitated, words without understanding, her face covered in tears.

For eternal minutes we both lay on the couch looking for something other than the news replaying the tragedy.

And before he could notice she was falling asleep surrounded by pillows and blankets.

Perhaps, when he wakes up he would be better off.

- It was just a scare - repeated the man, his son, giving a little peace of mind.

- Go take a shower, Dipper, and come on down. We'll wait for you here

Dipper looked at his parents and then at his sister who was sound asleep.

- She may not wake up until tomorrow, she'll be fine.

He climbed up at a slow pace while he thought about every action before that "accident" and reviewed everything in reverse, until he reached the moment of the fight.

He watched the half-open door to her room, before entering the bathroom and losing himself in the shower for a few minutes.

If I had done something different... Maybe things would be different. But in a good way?

Once downstairs, everything seemed to have calmed down.

Still, no amount of talk, no amount of questions could undo the knot she felt in her chest. Both parents' attempts were in vain.

After a few hours her father tried to carry Mabel upstairs, and she began to whimper, moving around and getting rid of him no matter what he said. Falling back onto the couch. covering herself under the blankets.

- And so it has been since he arrived," sighed the man.

- Can I - Can we stay here?

Asked Dipper stumbling over the words.

- Are you sure?

- You said it, we're fine...

Soon the lights went out and he lay on the sofa bed next to his sister.

He wasn't tired, but he wanted to give his parents some peace of mind, until they went to their room.

He waited a few minutes before crawling right to where Mabel stood whispering her name over and over again.

Suddenly hands came out from under the blanket colliding with her face, giving her small, slow caresses that made her heart race.

All a breath of air before discovering her removing the blanket and seeing a face drenched in tears, as she whimpered almost silently so no one would hear

- Hey, what's going on?

He moved closer to her who jumped up grabbing him by the collar, pulling him onto the couch beside her.

Dipper returned the embrace listening as she continued to cry.

- All is well. You are fine.

- You're here - She stammered

- I don't want to be anywhere else

- But someone said you were hurt...

- No- No, I'm fine look at me

Mabel forced a smile, unable to hold in all the pain, as she pressed herself closer to her brother's chest. Listening to his racing heart and how his arms pressed her tighter against him.

They were silent for a long time, no one dared to say anything. Their planned night was left in absolute darkness.

- Are you asleep?

- Demian told me the same thing again, the same words of the breakup....

- Were you with him?

- It was just a coincidence, the shooting started the second he crossed my path.

Mabel slurred every word. She was lying on top of her brother watching a muted television while he slowly played with her hair.

- He wanted to get away from it all, he dragged me along trying to get us to escape... but I couldn't abandon you.

- I was inside the school... it took longer than I thought in the library, I'm sorry...

- I wasn't going to abandon you, Dipper...And that bothers him.

- Wait... They broke up because of me? What?

- No, no... that's not it....

- What did Demian tell you?

- Your safety and your well being really matter a lot to me Dipper, I don't know what I would do if something happened to you.

- What did Demian tell you, Mabel?

- If only you could feel half the love you have for your brother with me... No matter what you tell me, no matter what you deny me, you don't measure your words Mabel and much less your feelings... And we ended up with

Dipper felt some of the air escaping from his lungs, his hands trembling.

- What are you talking about?

- In the hallways some spit a "weird" Demian is not bad, but....

- Are you wrong?

- I don't know, what do you think?

- That I didn't deserve you

He let out a slight chuckle causing his sister to stand up to face him a little surprised.

- What do you feel, Mabel?

- I don't know...

- Well, do you want to know how I feel? A few hours before I was so afraid that something was going to happen to you, I yelled to my mom hoping they would tell me about you. I had seen blood near the car and just thought the worst. You are my best friend in the whole world. And when I saw you okay, it was like being able to breathe calm again, I don't care what anyone else says, what Demian says. Wrong or not I care about you too much too, I would die if anything happens to you. I love you too much that many times I just hope to come home and see you. I just want to see you well, and I want you to be happy with someone, anyone, who can understand you with all you are....

Before he could speak any further he felt Mabel's lips on his, and before she could pull away he moved in closer deepening the kiss, letting his tongue enter his sister's mouth, feeling her breathing begin to quicken.

As soon as they parted they looked at each other somewhat surprised, but he was holding her hand and she was holding his face.

- Today you are all I need. You're all I want

The pieces fit together of how Mabel avoided him at times, how he really felt weird in the face of indifference, but they couldn't, no matter how much they wanted to, be apart for long.

And that early morning, both of them piled up on the couch proved it.

How their hands searched for each other at the same time as those longed-for embraces, and little kisses between dreams.

In the morning everything was totally silent. Her parents had gone out earlier.

Dipper was slowly opening his eyes, his whole body ached from how uncomfortable the two-person couch was, but Mabel didn't even seem to notice.

As soon as he tried to free himself, she woke up.

Her half-open eyes and a somewhat blank stare resembled his.

As good as everything had turned out, the last few hours left him with a raw hangover of honesty and reality.

Although at times they preferred to ignore it all by tidying up the mess in the living room. Facing each other at the breakfast table, it was hard to pretend there was nothing there.

He was the first to react by taking her hand to get her attention.

- Last night...

- It's okay... I think it was an impulse, we were nervous about what happened.

- What did you tell me about Demian?

- Just forget it Dipper

What else could be done? They couldn't just stop being siblings overnight, or start a relationship easily.

They tied a noose around their hands struggling with their feelings and doing the right thing. Fears arose at the mere thought that if they assumed their impulses the rest was uncertain and unsafe.

Would they take the risk and could their parents tolerate it?

They both looked on, their tired eyes forming. Maybe this way, without words, without actions they could understand that they should finish something that had never started.

For the best towards each other.

Mabel picked up his plate and went up to his room, and he only listened to the footsteps until his door closed, before holding his head in both hands, resigned, tormented with so many feelings that he couldn't even digest one.

He loved her so much, so much not to drag her down with him.

The whole scare to death just made everything I was feeling worse.

He understands that he was not losing her, they would simply take the distance that needed to be taken, she would never leave his side, would she?

He walked to his room, he would just let the hours pass, let time settle everything. For all he had in his head were bad choices.

But before she buried herself in her only shelter the door next door slowly opened revealing her sister.

- Aren't you going to tell me anything anymore?

Her words were full of fear, her crystalline eyes stared at him without wanting to turn a millimeter away.

- What do you want me to say?

- The first thing on your mind

- I love you

#Pinecest #summer of pinecest contest #Gravity falls #gravity falls fanficfion #gravity falls fanfic

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asterekmess · 5 years ago

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Scott McCall stans claiming he's revolutionary because he's totes "femme and queer coded, the queerest and most effeminate of the male cast" or some other delusional garbage is so funny because 1) LMFAO no, he's not and 2) they treat female characters (especially Scott’s canonical love interests) like utter shit despite claiming to love Scott for his canonically nonexistent ~feminine~ traits and mannerisms

Honestly, I have no clue what Scott fans say about Scott. I kind of avoid most Pro-scott stuff because it turns my stomach. So, I didn’t know they say anything about him being feminine or queer-coded, but I don’t really agree with that statement either.

From what I see...Scott’s really masculine? He’s got the shaggy boy haircut (which isn’t really feminine?) thing going...but that immediately goes away and we end up with the shaved sides quiff thingy. He starts off with the layering thing (also not feminine) but switches out to muscle T’s and Henley’s? He’s really beefy, which is seen as masculine. he plays a very high contact sport, which is also seen as masculine. He drive a motorbike which is masc. Even his Tattoo is masculine (no color, no intricate designs, I dunno how people make tattoos masc or femme, but apparently they do) He’s not well read before Season 3, and he only does that as a form of self-betterment (not that I’m knocking any attempt at bettering himself), not because he’s actually a lit buff. Honestly, I have no idea what feminine traits they think he has? When he gets angry he doesn’t cry (which is seen as a feminine response) he shoves people and he snaps lunch trays and leave dents in the walls with his head. V masculine. He cried once when Deaton taught him the pain drain thing...but??? So does Isaac? He works with a vet...and I guess working with animals is kinda seen as feminine? Kinda? He’s not soft-spoken. He’s not very empathetic to most people. He’s not fashion-minded. I’m struggling to think of any feminine things about him? (If you know what they think some of those traits/mannerisms are, I’m actually curious)

As for queer-coded...what? Scott shows no interest in men. He sniffs Danny to find out if he’s a werewolf and compliments him on his Armani when he gets caught. When Stiles asks questions that are clearly a lead-in to some kind of sexuality conversation, Scott barely hears him, let alone cares. He’s very sex-positive, very romance positive. There’s the weird moment with Isaac at the rave, yeah. It was uncharacteristically intimate, the whole “i care about you” thing. But I find it very very hard to believe Scott has any interest in Isaac when he THROWS HIM into A WALL for saying he might like in Allison. TWICE. (And we’re not talking about sterek here, but yes, I know that Derek pushes Stiles up against a wall and smacks his head on a steering wheel and punches his hand. None of those are BODILY LIFTING someone [for the record, someone who was regularly abused for the majority of his childhood] INTO THE AIR and THROWING THEM at a WALL. Also, Derek is established as having issues being touched/body issues and Stiles made him STRIP in front of Danny. They were both being assholes here.) He gets all smiley when someone at Jungle buys him a drink, but it was pretty clearly not him being excited he got noticed. It was him teasing Stiles for STILES not getting noticed by anyone except drag queens (Which was a horrible horrible joke), hence their little snipes at each other. Hell, Stiles asks if Scott wants to make out with him (just to test. you don’t have to be in love with someone to kiss ‘em.) and Scott laughs at him and walks off. What part of that hints in any way at someone being queer? Unless they’re talking about queer as in like, his gender? Which, I mean, I’m not knowledgeable enough on the trans/non-binary experience, so I guess maybe. But he never seems to show any kind of dysphoria with his body (NOT that dysphoria is required in order for someone to be trans/non-binary. I am NOT saying that.) or an interest in breaking gender norms, or even any interest in the concept of gender at all. Those are all ways in which people are ‘coded’ to be trans/non-binary within media, and I see none of it? Maybe I’m missing something.

As for being the queerest, most effeminate male character...uh...Danny is canonically gay? He automatically wins? Even Jackson is canonically Bi at the end of the show, and in being fashion-forward (which is apparently femme) he technically hits the top of the merged section. (unless you count Danny’s armani as him being fashionable). And if we’re just going for the most effeminate, I’m pretty sure that actually counts at Isaac? With the scarf thing, his trauma causing him to have similar mannerisms to women just by virtue of him trying to look smaller and speaking softer. Especially around Scott? Uh...he’s skinnier than the others, not as beefy (though still v muscles). Anyway, no matter what, I’m pretty positive Scott is neither the most queer, nor the most effeminate male character of the cast.

On the topic of how the Scott fans treat Scott’s love interests, I’m not super familiar with it, but I honestly don’t doubt that someone can both be incredibly proud of effeminate men while still disrespecting women. Women are nurses, men are doctors. Women are housewives, men are chefs. Women like clothes, clothing brands are mostly owned by men. Men are often praised more for things than women, just by virtue of being men.

#personal #go for it #anti-scott mccall #meta ramblings #rant #this one didn't feel as long so I didn't put in a read more #thanks for the ask #i'm not sure if you're all the same person or not #but hi!#Anonymous

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uprising-hqarchive · 5 years ago

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WELCOME TO THE WIZARDING WORLD, WES!

we’re glad to have you. don’t forget to check the current timeline of events, and send in your account within the NEXT 24 HOURS. most importantly; don’t forget to have fun!

OUT OF CHARACTER

NAME/ALIAS, PRONOUNS, AGE: Wes, He/him

TIMEZONE AND ACTIVITY: EST, GMT-5

IN CHARACTER

— is that Logan Lerman? oh, no it’s just Albus Potter. He is a 22 year old half-blood witch/wizard/squib, whose occupation is a journeyman alchemist. i guess that’s why his former house is Slytherin. He is prepared for the uprising, His alliance is to her Majesty’s government (Order supporting, anti-ministry).

BIRTHDAY: 15 October

SOCIAL MEDIA: @oxfordAl

RESIDENCE: studio flat in Oxford

EXTRA

History:

The middle Potter, the second son of a hero, Albus Potter has lived a certain amount of his life in the public eye. He’s always been conscious of attention, desiring it less and less as he grew older. He finds respite in close acquaintances and good friends, small settings and familiar environments. His family, though sometimes the very people he’s clashing with, are always his first source of solace and comfort. Whatever tensions they might have, they’re his people. And woe be told to anyone who crosses the line in his presence.

From a young age, Albus showed a taciturn bent and found himself at his Aunt Hermione’s side with frequency. Books and stories became his companions as much as his brother. And sometimes to better effect. He devoured literature, asked his aunt and parents for lessons and primers, and had a raging row over the fact that other children could go to primary school. He saw Hogwarts and education as the next great challenge, the next great adventure. He saw it as where he truly belonged.

How wonderfully cruel that reality can be.

Hogwarts wasn’t the worst thing really. IT was a learning experience to be sure, in more than just the academics. Sorted into Slytherin and falling into a different vein than his brother and father, he acquired more than a little gossip. But Albus was used to his corner, and the wit came quick and venomous. His first day landed him with a broken nose and a split lip from a Gryffindor’s fist, but he earned some respect from the Pit. That would only increase as he made fast friends, finding his place amongst the clever and resourceful people of his house. He excelled in the patient arts: potions, arithmancy, charms. The reactive magics like defense and creatures were hardly his forte, though his marks held true. And divination was utter garbage. One needed faith for that.

As it came close to the end of his schooling, and as N.E.W.T.s rolled along, Albus found himself quite in a conundrum. Where and what could he do? Did he want to do? There was so little pulling him other than his wandering mind these days. So he researched. He reached out. And he found himself an apprenticeship in Oxford at a potioneer, admittedly his favorite subject and his highest marks. He visited and investigated and was taken by the university. His Aunt had always spoken highly of education for its own sake. And touring the campus, reading the glossy brochures, and looking at the still pictures, he found himself quite taken with the notion. He made inquiries, and found himself meeting the minimums for acceptance rather easily, thanks to a few careful considerations from the ministry. And no institution as old as Oxford was without their own inroads into magic. He found a tutor, and spent the summer before university cramming muggle knowledge into his brain.

Classics and history took up most of his time as he studied. Rhetoric, debate, politics, and law. People asked if he wanted to become a barrister, go into politics. Both sounded dreadfully dull if he was honest. Chemistry was a fun diversion, his understanding of the potion making and alchemical processes lending to his ability to break down mixtures and compounds with ease. And it made him that much better at his job at the magical apothecary in the evenings and the weekends. AS the muggle communication restrictions got tighter, he reduced his social life more and more, his friends that were magical and in the city of Oxford doing much the same.

He was only glad he sat his last exams before the stringent restrictions went into place.

Now finding himself without an anchor in his studies, Albus attends to his job as a journeyman pontioneer, making brews and scowling at them with trying to keep his rage at the growing situation down. There have been a few curious emails, a cursory phone call on his mobile from a recruiter, looking for interested parties to work in exciting new opportunities. And a letter with return address for Whitehall. He wasn’t sure what it meant, but as the setting of his world grows more and more chaotic, Albus looked at these as invitations to something new and exciting.

He never expected to meet with a member of His Majesty’s intelligence services.

But with the restrictions on muggle transportation and crossing over that divide stricter than ever, it might be the best training for a career that’s catching his interest to neatly.

Personality:

Albus has grown into the young firebrand of his circle of friends. Opinionated, yet understated, he takes to picking apart people on their turns of rhetoric and logic. He is bile and caffeine amped to eleven and chasing down the high street in a pair of ragged Doc Martens. He is the blast of winter air into a coffee shop with a cloud of cigarette smoke and the smell of powdered unicorn horn and eye of newt. He sounds of barely contained frustration and a hint of extra firewhisky. He is impassioned and believes greatly in freedom and self-expression and safety. He chafes under harsh restrictions that seemingly have little logic. Debate is his mother tongue and contradiction is his first dialect. He is a satchel stuffed with journals and notes, an iPod blaring music, assorted bits of dark chocolate, and a series of buttons in rainbow and myriad middle fingers. He might just be the poster child for what happens when you mix muggle and magic. And he’d gladly flick you off and show you chipped green nail polish and his tongue stud to show you just what he thought about that condemnation.

Appearance:

Albus embraced a lot of the muggle university lifestyle during his time in Oxford. Hooded sweatshirts and skinny jeans make up the bulk of his closet. He likes a good jumper and tends to pair those with knit wool caps that just cover his perpetually messy black hair. His time in Slytherin is not totally lost, and he does have a few Savile Row bespoke suits in greys and blacks that compliment his figure. The tailored shirts are in shades of greys or pale blues to offset his eyes and the ties, either in contrasting colors or emerald green. One must have some house pride after all. Leather loafers mix with tough boots and kicked to hell Converse and Doc Martens next to his door. He paints his nails when he finds the time, mostly to give him something to pick at when his bored or tamping down irritation. He sports a series of small studs on his upper arch of his left ear and a single black, flat piercing in each lobe. He tends to avoid jewelry and has a single tattoo on his right bicep: a green and silver snake coiled around a rainbow polyhedral gem.

Prompt:

Albus was running, which in and of itself showed how much this meant to him. His earbuds were affixed, the harsh music pushing him on further and further. The roads were empty this time of day. And wizarding Oxford was never that busy of a place. But here he was, pushing past his third mile and trying to ignore the burn in his lungs and replace it with the fire behind his eyes. Damnable restrictions and damnable people pulling strings in the fucking toilets that were the Ministry were hampering his actions. He grit his teeth and turned a corner, slowing his pace ever so slightly.

He clocked a tail, turning the corner in the distance, maybe thirty meters behind him if the reflection in the window was to be believed. But this tail, he was expecting. They weren’t out of place in robes or hurried by magic.

Fuck, they were wearing Adidas for Merlin’s sake.

Albus let his pace slacken to a cool down pace, waiting to see the move. The figure slowed as well, but moved quickly enough to overtake. But a few moments and they’d be side by side. Al discreetly paused his song, tilting his head as his company appeared.

“Half four at the Queenleaf. Ask for Earl Grey and lavender.”

And they pressed past. He started his music up again and did his best to squash the face he wanted to pull. What sort of philistine drank that sort of shite, even on a cold spring day? He shook his head, pushing off again and taking the left fork at the next street. His tail had taken the right. He’d see what would come of things at half four. The last time he’d taken one of these missives?

Well, it’d had the information for Box 500. MI:5. The Secret Service. He was intrigued.

They at least seemed able to run an operation. Damn far sight from the actions of the DMLE.

#uhq.accepted #hi this app is beautiful #albus potter

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poalakoala · 8 years ago

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Puerto Rico from somebody on the ground, UPDATES

I've had many people in the US ask me how they can help, and I'll be honest that I haven't had the time to sit down and properly think about it (doesn't help that I have access to information on the internet for approx 15 minutes every day), but now I'm going to throw this out there. It's going to be long. Firstly, you need to understand the situation. Our infrastructure is destroyed. We have no power, in fact, the 4% of San Juan that managed to get electricity back lost it again. Last I read only 45% of the island had clean water services. This isn't just a lack of food and water. In case you hadn't heard, we're also approximately $72 billion in debt, and this hurricane is estimated to have cost over $30 billion in damages. You can send all the food and bottled water you want, and by all means please continue to do so because we are short on those, but there's also a huge distribution problem. Many supermarkets have not been able to open again because of structural damage. People are making lines for hours to be able to get into the few that are operational again. Gas stations? 80% were supposed to open again by Tuesday, September 26, yet people are still making literally 8+ hour lines (this is not an exaggeration) in the HOPES that they will be allowed to get some fuel. Many banks are only dispensing cash, which is vital because the vast majority of establishments can only accept cash at the moment, and the lines for the atms also can take hours. People have 5am to 7pm to be able to do all these things in one day because of curfew. Some hospitals are running out of diesel already, meaning that their back up generators are shutting down, so all those patients are being transferred to government hospitals that were already understaffed and understocked BEFORE Maria. To recap, in San Juan, where conditions are better, people are wholly dependent on cash to buy basic necessities, people have no power, in many cases no water, no communication with the outside world or the rest of Puerto Rico, no gasoline to get around, barely any places to get food, and entire hospitals are being evacuated. Literal boatloads of supplies are sitting in ports because the government can't distribute them, and some ships are just sitting there with their cargo. It's much worse outside of San Juan. Entire towns have no working gas stations, no hospitals, no running water, and no operational supermarkets (on top of no power or communication). Maria destroyed the vast majority of our crops. Many of these towns were also hit the hardest by the hurricane and saw thousands of families completely lose their homes. Now back to the distribution problem: you can send tons of food and articles of basic necessity, but if the government is having a hard time distributing them in the metropolitan area, it's literally downright impossible to get them to some of these towns. But what about the aid that has already been sent? Not enough. We need more resources, personnel, money, everything. Many of the rescue personnel and federal authorities already here came weeks ago because of Irma's devastation in other Caribbean islands and can't focus entirely on the disaster in Puerto Rico. Like I said earlier, distribution and mobilization is one of the key problems. I go around San Juan and don't see any of the people that came to help. Entire towns elsewhere in the island have not seen a single paramedic, soldier, or FEMA worker. The only places I've seen them are in the hotels they're staying at, so there's clearly a massive problem with mobilization. American politicians? I've seen some pay lip service to the plight of Puerto Rico, but not a single package or proposal. Local officials had to beg Congress to notice what was happening. President Trump was kind enough to give $1 million of his vast fortune to efforts in Houston (notice the sarcasm), yet he hasn't offered a single penny to efforts to rebuild Puerto Rico. He thought that criticizing NFL players exercising their right of free speech was more important.

OCTOBER 6TH UPDATE

I’ve been struggling with this update for a while because it’s almost been a week since the last and, well, a lot has both happened and not happened.

So Trump’s visit. It was what we were all expecting, despite the tiny flicker of hope that he would suddenly see the light and mobilize to help us. Trump held a press conference that didn’t allow any local reporters to ask questions, just the approved group that had travelled with him, because in true facist fashion Trump wanted to control the narrative and not face any hard hitting questions. He was taken to a wealthy area, where he visited one family and then was taken to a wealthy church for some basket paper towel games. He minimized our suffering and devastation by saying this wasn’t a disaster like Katrina (nevermind that the 3 Star General in the island has already compared the situation to Katrina and says this is worse than anything he has ever seen), praised the federal response, took a picture with a bunch of sell out local politicians, and then boarded his plane one hour before schedule to take off.

Trump came almost two weeks after Maria destroyed us. He was scheduled to be here for 5 hours and spent 4. Of those four hours, he spent 17 minutes talking to local officials about what we needed and the status of the situation. 17 minutes. He also just made fun of us in a press conference by imitating the Puerto Rican accent on camera and then outright laughing, but hey, he already told the island to go fuck itself and get over ourselves ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

This piece explains how FEMA is already trying to bury updates about Puerto Rico and make people think they/Trump are doing a spectacular job

Moving on……

Things where I’m staying are getting better. My brother’s apartment has electricity again because he lives next to many hotels currently housing feds as well as the airport. The supermarket next door is open and has mostly non-perishable foods, lines to get in are about 1 to 1.5 hours. There’s also a few fast food joints open nearby. Overall, things are pretty good where I live, but at this point that means having water + electricity and access to some food. That’s what’s considered the good life right now in Puerto Rico, and it’s a luxury available to less than 10% of the island, two and a half weeks after the hurricane. Do NOT let the media fool you. Whatever pictures and videos you see of people going back to their normal lives is extremely misleading and likely taken in wealthy areas of San Juan. We’re still going through a humanitarian crisis, and millions are still in dire circumstances that have not changed since the hurricane hit.

The federal response continues to be underwhelming. They’ve been air dropping aid to cut off towns, but the pictures I’ve seen of this aid are often zip lock bags with one pack of cookies, one can of sausages, one Mots and a granola bar. These are the so called “care packages.”

I was watching a local news show and they interviewed the woman in charge of the reserves in the island (90% of which are Puerto Ricans that were already here btw). She outright admitted that the federal response has been slow and they’re not satisfied with what they’ve been doing, but that they’re working to do better. The show was Jay Fonseca’s October 5th 10pm program, in case anybody wants to hunt down the clip. I believe her, but I don’t have much faith in her superiors acting quickly.

Statistics time:

- That death toll of 16 people is utter garbage. The same day that Trump went on about our measly 16 people death toll, the official number was updated to 34. A few days after we finally got information from towns in the western side of the island and they reported at least 200 deaths just in that zone. Many hospitals are still processing their numbers, and people continue to bury loved ones in backyards.

- About 90% of the island is still without power, those with electricity are for the most part in the wealthier pockets of the metropolitan area. Even those areas still suffer from power outages that can last up to days at a time.

- About half the island still without water.

- Most of the hospitals are running, but many depend on generators that run on diesel and we still have a diesel crisis. Some are barely functional, as in doctors are performing surgeries with iPhone flashlights.

- The big international airport is running 24 hours now and there’s less hysteria, but people are being told to get there four hours early and many still get their flights cancelled at the last minute. Some airlines are capping their prices at low prices under $100, but I don’t think that’s going to last for much longer. Cruise ships have started charging again to get people out.

- As of October 3rd FEMA had yet to authorize full disaster help, which Texas got 10 days after Harvey

Fundraisers to donate to:

ComPRometidos - In my opinion the best big fundraiser to donate to, they’re doing a lot of work to also rebuild infrastructure and help long term recovery

Jane Stern Dorado Community - Helps a local library in Dorado that is also acting as a relief center, this fund is run by a friend of mine I trust immensely.

CMU Student’s Humanitarian Mission - Also run by somebody I know and trust, she’s using connections to charter a private jet that takes supplies to the island and brings back elderly/people in need of hospital care to the states.

General Reminders:

- Please, PLEASE call your Congresspeople, ask for the Jones Act to be removed, ask for debt relief so that we don’t have to prioritize paying back Wall Street, FOR GOD’S SAKE SEND MORE HELP TO REBUILD OUR INFRASTRUCTURE ASAP

- Petition to remove Jones Act

#Puerto Rico #Maria #Hurricane Maria

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clawreaper-blog · 7 years ago

Text

Concerns regarding the "in the works" Doom film

Alright so lets get something straight. I am a massive Doom fan. And I mean MASSIVE. I may not have been around in the glory days of the 90s but I had played all the games and been with the community for a while now and its my favorite game franchise of all time. This will not be a complete circle jerk commentary but even if love and defend Doom forever and ever I can agree with most of you that the 2005 Doom film was absolute garbage. There's no avoiding that. Game based movies dont do too well most of the time that much is true.

When I had gotten word that another Doom film is being made by Universal I was both fanatic and worried. From the recent news I have gathered together which is vague since the film is just being announced there will be a main female actor who had appeared in some shows and has done music if im correct. The director who was choosen had worked on some pretty disliked movies in the past which what worried me for the most part. But what makes me finalize that Universal is treating this like a simple cash grab for Doom 2016's success and Doom Eternal's arrival is the fact that THEY WONT EVEN RELEASE IT IN THEATERS. Now mind you this is speculation but from what I gathered it will most likely be a staright to DVD or staright to streaming service film which just sucks and kinda feeds the point on how little that Universal is treating this film.

It's really sad for someone like me who loves the game's and wants to see every iteration of media on it to succeed with flying colors. But with all this info it just doesnt seem that way. I hope that they prove me wrong and this will be a decent film that pays attention to the game's central focus and lore.

I know not many people care about the lore of Doom and its great that the gameplay was first over the story in the reboot but if Doom will be produced into a film then lore is pretty vital for substance. Not much but enough to push it out there. I had watched a video talking about how a Doom movie can be executed and for the most part I agreee on it. A Mad Max Fury Road type ordeal with a silent or barely talkative protagonist who's actions display his character who is by himself in a cursed place filled with utter evil and he is built for only one purpose. No words. Kill demons. Thats it. It makes me wonder who they would cast as the Doom marine or Doom Slayer for that matter. And what the demons and whole aesthetic would look like if they would base it all off the 2016 reboot as if a spin off or do a whole new style but from the photos posted by the team of the set designs it looks very Alien Covenant to me which isnt a bad thing mind you but I would defiantly like to see what they can do to convey the UAC and the lands of Hell.

This is just bantering at this point but im really hoping this isnt a total failure. And maybe Universal will change their damn mind and choose to release it in theaters because something like this needs to be put to public audiences so more people can get into this franchise and see. But thats enough from me what do you guys think. I really wanna hear your opinions on this.

#doom 2018 #doom movie #doom #doomslayer #doomguy #film

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poorquentyn · 8 years ago

Note

So in honour of the new Justice League trailer, can I ask you what you feel are the top ten worst things about the DCEU movies so far?

*grins evilly, cracks knuckles*

Let’s get this one out of the way:

10. This fucking shot right here

“Pretentious” does not even begin to cover it. And that expression! I don’t have much nice to say about Henry Cavill in these movies, but I do enjoy his utter inability to hide his embarrassment at what he’s participating in at this moment.

9. The Why Did You Even Bother Club: Lois Lane, the Daily Planet, Rick Flag & June Moon, the media, the military, Congress…

Remember how The Avengers had this idea of Agent Coulson as the in-universe fanboy who understood the team better than anybody, and how the best part of Age of Ultron was the trip to Hawkeye’s farm? So why do the “human” elements of the DCEU feel so forced and stale?

8. Someone needs to go to jail for these action scenes

I thank the gods that I (unlike many of my friends) walked into Man of Steel sober, because Snyder’s destruction porn in that movie is a truly bad trip. Everything you need to know about the dude is in this juxtaposition: when he’s showing a building breaking apart, he wants you to see details, dammit, this is his canvas. When he has to cut to, y’know, humans, they’re dully shot and horribly lit, and his impatient desire to get to the next orgasmic splash-panel-shot is palpable. Elsewhere, the Doomsday sequence in BvS not only extends the plot far beyond its logical climax (the dictionary definition of overkill), it’s an unbelievably dull and drab nesting doll of mushroom clouds, pure headache-inducing sound and fury signifying nothing, my least favorite superhero throwdown on screen…until the Enchantress fight in Suicide Squad, which had me in tears in the theater, I was laughing so hard.

7. Pa Kent wants you and your children dead, you hear me? DEAD!

This may be the single worst aspect of Man of Steel specifically. I hate it on every level. I hate that Pa Kent spouts this BS, I hate that we’re supposed to take it seriously, I hate how it bogs down the post-Krypton story with no real weight or payoff (since we already know that Adult Clark is saving people by the time we get his Dad’s speech about not doing so), I hate that entire unbelievably dumb tornado scene, and I hate how freakin’ casual Snyder and Goyer are about death throughout this SUPERMAN STORY. Supes kills Zod, screams that scream…and then he’s downing satellites with a smirk, and biking through an apparently just-fine Metropolis, and hahaha look, glasses! Tone? Stakes? What are those? What was the point to him killing Zod other than Snyder getting that fetishistic close-up of the scream? Man of Steel was always going to be a bad movie, but this is where it became a Bad movie.

6. THIS IS KATANA

SHE’S GOT MY BACK

5. Batman v Superman is I Took Half a Philosophy Course, The Movie

Every single second of this insufferable thing is screaming at you to take it seriously. Every. Single. One. And it’s earned maybe 2% of the time, usually when it directly swipes a line from a comic. There’s nothing else to most of these scenes—just This Is Dramatic, with no attention put into the “this” from the basic “we need to care about these people” angle that Marvel generally has a lock on. The ambition falls flat. In particular, the worldbuilding sequences in BvS (the Injustice future, the Flash visitation, the videos of future JL members) constitute some of the clumsiest and most misguided scenes ever in a comic book movie, because they thoroughly ratfuck the tone, pacing, and focus in the most masturbatory manner imaginable outside of literal porn. (Has there ever been a less appropriate use of Exciting Pump-You-Up music than when Wonder Woman is…sitting at her laptop…watching QuickTime videos?)

4. Scene to scene, line to line, end to end, every storytelling decision in Suicide Squad is wrong

I don’t demand a movie make perfect logical sense for me to like it, and nitpicking about plot holes often aggravates me, because there are many more important things to making and watching movies. What I demand is that you not assemble your movie like a dozen different food-poisoning-induced fever dreams all happening simultaneously. When you have to literally actually reshow parts of your “villain launches their evil plan” sequence (kind of an important part of a comic book movie!) because it was so confusing and poorly communicated the first time through, you’ve lost any semblance of structural coherence. This isn’t clever nonlinear storytelling. This is an abysmal, abyssal editing fail. Honestly, given the garbage fire behind the scenes, Suicide Squad barely counts as a finished movie.

Final three slots reserved for the fatal performances. You know the ones.

3. How did you let Jared Leto keep doing this after day one

How did you not brain him with a shovel or something

2. Why, though

Why would you do this to us

And of course, at #1…

1. This ostensibly sentient block of granite you insist on calling Clark Kent

Ok, that’s not entirely fair. He’s poorly cast, written, and directed. The DCEU is fundamentally broken because its central character does not work. He’s got two modes–deadly boring and straight-up deadly–and neither is compelling. I’m far from the first to say it: this is a Superman for people who never liked Superman.

#dc #dceu #man of steel #batman v superman #suicide squad

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aftertheworldends-blog1 · 8 years ago

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I Promise This Is A Happy Ending Kind Of Story

Being bi doesn’t help.

Living as a Slavic woman presents with a variety of obstacles which can seem odd to most other communities; after all, our skin is light and our eyes are sometimes blue. And although this essay is not about that, I feel you must know about Slavic Me before you know about Bi Me.

Slavic Bulgarian is invisible. We show up on yours screens at times of extreme need for new movie villains or sexualized women from minorities who are so silenced they cannot file complaints or call you out (nobody would care); we show up in your news when another Western country wonders whether we come to steal their jobs, and since we’re not dark of completion, they are free to not consider themselves racist. We show up on your radar when you’re looking for a cheap vacation in Europe but we are not important enough that you will learn why our economy is doing so poorly.

We are there for you when you need to ask, “Is that in Africa?” (As if that was something bad!) But we are invisible when we remind you of the five hundred years we were kept captive within our own lands: denied education, denied free religious expression, denied participation in political life, denied basic human rights. Called râya (Ottoman: flock, cattle).

But you deny our right to claim this history, calling it “not bad enough”, perhaps because in your privilege, you are still at least slightly aware of your own crimes against humanity. So you look at us and you think, “Well, at least they didn’t chain you.”

My experience with bi erasure is largely contained online. Although I do not hide my sexual identity from friends and most family members, being ignored as a bisexual doesn’t feel the same in real life.

If you think that’s not scary enough, I’ll tell you this: I did not learn I am no good wog Bulgarian from everyday interactions; microagressions were damaging but nobody tells you you’re a horrible immigrant to your face. (Mostly.)

You learn of your supposed failure as a human being by being online or listening to the media. By being misrepresented and ignored; by having your experiences remain unacknowledged even in areas of social life which are supposed to be safe and inclusive.

I learn I am not good enough when the tenth article or fan question calls Magnus Bane (Shadowhunters) gay; I learn I am not important enough when Xena’s or Wonder Woman’s or Sara Lance’s (Arrow, Legends of Tomorrow) relationships with men are ignored just because those women can also fall in love with other women. At some point it stops being an honest mistake.

I suffer when I read real-life stories of bisexual or pansexual persons being forced into homelessness because we refuse to choose between one of two presented options, as if who we love is somehow a reason to abandon us as garbage on the streets.

By asking us to constantly prove we’re monogamous when that is the established assumption and the unspoken contract of every adult relationship, you are telling us we cannot be good enough for you even if we’ve never given you a reason to think us unfaithful.

Even LGBT+ literature forgets about the B and with scaring comfort suggests partners of bisexual persons are justified to be concerned about how faithful their bisexual lovers are, while also suggesting once a bi or pan person settles with somebody from the same gender, we are then gay or lesbian, as if our sexuality has been erased by the act of loving another human being so much that we want to spend a lifetime with them. We must suffer doubly when we love transgender people and we both must duck and dodge shots fired from every direction, because for some reason the world thinks trans and bi people want to play outside the field and win this game of black-and-white definitions we never agreed to participate in anyway.

I have been invisible for a long time. But I have never ever settled for less.

Being wog is hard.

Being a woman is hard.

Being bi is hard.

But not a single time have I looked at myself and said, “Honey, you might have to consider life will treat you unfairly.”

I wish life good luck with such a precarious endeavour! Life can throw all the punches it likes, but I will not be quiet; and I will not be small. I will not be less than Slavic Me, Woman Me, Bi Me.

Loneliness and invisibility are familiar to me. But I refuse them.

I know being lonely means being in a room full of people and not being able to find yourself belonging; I know invisibility means being in a room full of people who want to look at you but never hear you speak. I know loneliness is a state of mind and soul which befalls you when you try to belong, so you erase parts of yourself.

Loneliness is the longing for the parts of you which you had to sacrifice because you thought loneliness is the absence of communities to belong to.

So there are no parts of me left behind. There are no apologies uttered and spaces freed, because somebody feels uncomfortable with the hard roll of my “r”-s, or the curves of my body, or the way I look at other people’s curves and edges regardless where they are on the gender spectrum.

I am familiar with others telling me to hide. They will be familiar with me standing my ground.

Finally, I want to leave you with that happy ending I promised.

There is power in not settling for less; in knowing who you are and refusing to be small so others can feel great. The power it takes – but also the power it gives.

I won.

I say this with the realization there are millions of battles ahead of me; the ones I take up or the ones others bring to my doorstep. But despite struggling to be a foreigner in a country which fears my name, despite barely surviving my birth country where the horror of being grabbed or cornered was a daily concern regardless how hard you made sure you were safe, and despite still surviving poor representation of all my identities—

I am happy.

When I came out – shaking – to my husband, who was the first person to hear I have realized I was bisexual, his reaction was to tell me with a shrug, “Sure, I know. So?”

Yes, I cried.

It was because I was afraid I will have to choose between loving and being myself, and I knew I cannot be smaller. But I am lucky to have a husband who has never asked me to take up less space.

By denying myself immediate gratification (despite my chronic depression telling me there is nothing good to look forward to so why bother) and expecting people to do better by me and others, I won that first small price: a safe space of my own where I belong, where I am big and loud and unapologetic and myself.

From this rare sacred castle, with my armour and my army, with my pen and my stories, with the power of a writer who does not apologize, I will make us all bigger. Maybe I will be a drop in the ocean; maybe I will be the rock to tip the wagon. I do not know whether I Matter.

But I know that will not stop me from fighting for the rest of us, who have no spaces, who have no castles and no armies, who have given up the parts of them which Mattered so much, but were set aside to make way for the feelings of others.

Perhaps if I shout a bit louder that We Will Not Settle For Less, then your loved ones will hear me; your colleagues and partners and neighbours will hear me; your employers and teachers and landlords will hear me.

We Will Not Settle For Less.

You deserve better than that and I am coming for you.

Stay strong,

Rori I

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in-arlathan · 4 years ago

Text

Alright, time for a little status update.

Tl;dr: I'm back. Like, really back. Not just lurking and reblogging stuff every once in a while. And it feels good.

But I feel like sharing a bit more about why I've been gone so long. I hope it will help me reconnect with the things I love. Because, oh dear, did I not have time for the things I truly care about in the last two months. It's only now that I finally feel like I have a bit of space and air to breathe that realize how badly I've missed them. Like writing and chatting with people only and do purely self-indulgent stuff. I missed it a lot. And here's why...

Please mind the CWs in the tags.

So, I've been off the grid for about 8 weeks, give or take. It's honestly baffling to me because it doesn't feel like I've been gone for so long. The days flew by so quickly, one after the other. This is mainly because I have been working like crazy for client projects and have gotten myself into some serious trouble in the process.

There was one project in particular that blew up in my face because the people who hired me simply dropped a briefing on my desk with a deadline and then left me to my own devices. Safe to say, that deadline and the estimate for the amount of work that had to be done until then were utter bullshit but I had been working for three weeks until I finally figured that out. Alas, they hired me, a freelancer, because they had no one in-house to do the job, so I was stuck with a choice: Drop the project or grit my teeth and work through it.

I chose the latter option, mainly because I will be paid for every hour I put into this damn project and because sometimes I'm stupidly ambitious. Still, the job collided with about five other projects I had to take care of in the meantime. Projects I wouldn't have taken on if the initial estimate for the workload would have been accurate.

And so, after working 60 hour work weeks for about 6 weeks in a row, it really started to take a toll on my mental health. Bouts of anxiety threatened to overwhelm me every other day. I stopped answering texts from my friends and reduced self-care (including cooking meals, cleaning the flat, and showering) to a bare minimum. I was more stressed than I had been ever since I started freelancing and had no way of releasing that stress. Usually, I would have sat down to write fanfiction or do some other frivolous thing that would help me to enjoy myself for a while. I stopped doing that too because I constantly felt like I was running out of time. Eventually, I stopped checking social media as well and therefore fell out of touch with all things fandom.

I'm not sure whether the stress caused anxiety to sky-rocket or if my OCD caused me such distress that I was barely able to function. Maybe it's even a mix of the two. Either way, the result was the same. I was stressed. I was anxious. I was depressed, quite frankly. Until last week, when the project finally concluded, I felt lost and abandoned and like I had let myself and everyone around me down. Which is also utter bullshit, of course. Everything went fine (more or less) and I'm able to refuse to work on projects like that in the future – something I wouldn't have been able to do when I was still an employee. There is something to be learned from failure. Because that's what it is for me: a failure to set boundaries and stick to them. A failure to take care of myself. A failure to stick to the things that truly matter to me.

If you'd ask me why I'm writing all of this down now, maybe that's why. I try to make peace with the fact that I have lost myself in my work to an extent that is just not healthy. This is exactly what I walked away from when I quit my job and became a freelancer. I never again wanted to work crunchtime because it costs me more than it's worth. And the fact that the creative industry still relies on the creatives to exhaust themselves for somebody else's success is appalling to me. So this post is not just a reminder to me to take care of myself in the future. If there is just one more person out there who feels (or felt) like me, I want to let them know that this is not right and that they deserve better.

If anything, current events have strengthened my desire to spark joy in this world and advocate against profit-based working models. Because, in my experience, doing things purely for the money has always ended with me feeling like garbage while others thrived on my misery. And that's just not a life worth living.

It's a start to put all of this into words. As always, writing really helps me sort things out. I can get things off my chest that I can't put anywhere else. So thank you if you have been reading along until this point. It means a lot to me. I'm usually not that open about my mental illness (especially the OCD) but I feel like I needed to give voice to the thoughts inside my head.

So, what now? I will get back to writing fanfiction some time this week and will enjoy it to the fullest, let me tell you. When I opened the document a few days back and started typing a few paragraphs, I could literally feel inspiration and joy flowing back into me. I can't wait for it to happen again. Otherwise, I will aim to take better care of myself and be kind to myself.

And that the whole story. Thanks again for being here. I hope you are well and save. ♥︎

#writing and rambling #cw: anxiety #cw: ocd #cw: depression #personal

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idolizerp · 6 years ago

Photo

LOADING INFORMATION ON POIZN’S MAIN RAP, VOCAL JEON DOYOON...

IDOL DETAILS

STAGENAME: Duke CURRENT AGE: 29 DEBUT AGE: 20 TRAINEE SINCE AGE: 15 COMPANY: 99 ETC: This member has a major hand in producing and lyric writing for the group.

IDOL IMAGE

as if by fate, 99 knew exactly what they wanted doyoon to be ever since they laid their eyes on him. from a visual standpoint, doyoon seemed to have been born just so he could be a part of POIZN with his sharp eyes, intimidating glare, and baritone voice. 99 sets him out to be a different type of “bad boy” – not exactly a wild, partying one, but as the classic “hollywood” bad boy ( most likely due to his american upbringing. ) while he initially played the role of a rambunctious young blood, doyoon gradually brings it down and became reserved the more he played his role into what 99 wanted him to be.

he is neither loud nor boisterous – loudness is not what doyoon excels at. he is the old school, silent but strong candidate, a quiet flame in the background that flickers steadily, refusing to burn out. silent, resilient and intense — these are what 99 wanted to convey, and doyoon became the perfect representative of that image.

now doyoon, left alone and away from 99’s packaging, is unrecognizable. his POIZN persona is on one spectrum, and doyoon stands on the exact opposite end of that spectrum. POIZN’s doyoon is boiling lava, erupting on stage with power and a conviction to flip k-pop conventions. jeon doyoon the person, on the other hand, is one of the many kindling on the hearth warming your home – gentle, patient, and meek. so the people have always been surprised to hear about the great divide between the mask and the person that lies beneath it, because doyoon is a breath of fresh air; one of the few POIZN boys who had lived his idol life scandal-free due to his hard work behind the scenes, locked up behind studio doors working day and night with producers and executives to help POIZN rise in the ranks.

it played out in their favor, but who’s to say that this surprising revelation wasn’t media play itself?

IDOL HISTORY

life is full of choices and doyoon seems to be picking the wrong ones.

the first choice that changed his life wasn’t necessary his choice to make, nor was he given a voice in the matter. he was only five, after all, and the opinions of a five year-old do not really matter, right? he is given a new life in a new city that belonged to a new country with a new name and a new sibling.

james-dean jeon is his new name – not just ‘james’ and not ‘dean.’ it’s a mouthful, especially because he’s only five and can barely speak the language.

“i promise you’ll have a better life here, doyoon. you can make your dreams come true here!”

that’s what his parents tell him the night before he starts his first day of american kindergarten. but the thing is: he’s had a great life back in korea. he even had a pet rabbit named pony. oh how he missed pony. but he doesn’t question them further. he smiles and nods to let his parents go to bed because, like him, they too have a busy day of work the next day.

vii.

it’s not that he doesn’t like going to church – it’s just that he doesn’t like waking up at 7 o’clock on sundays to go to a church about 40 minutes away from his home when there are plenty of churches in the neighborhood.

“you know grandpa and grandma aren’t very good at english, and you have to immerse yourself in your culture.”

and his parents are right…to a certain degree.

he should be more understanding of his grandparents needs, since he actually goes out into society – all grandpa and grandma have are each other and the rest of the koreans in their city in montana ( which just happens to be the rest of the family. ) so he shouldn’t get so frustrated when they want to be with the people they have in common.

but did doyoon have to leave korea ( and pony and his other friends ) just to immerse himself into his culture?

he doesn’t say anymore, but he does think about it on his way to church.

hymns — it’s what doyoon hears throughout his home for most of his early life. it’s an expression of praise and gratitude, and it’s what fills the cabinets and the tv stand in his living room. doyoon doesn’t mind hymns — in fact, it’s what started his appreciation of music. but as he grows and ventures more into the car radio of a church hyung’s car, he realizes that this isn’t the only type of art. he realizes that he likes a different kind of sound, something his grandparents and the majority of the grown-ups in his church refer to it as ‘the devil’s music.’ but doyoon thought it was one of the best things in the world -– next to drawing stick figures and his two new sisters.

at school, he listens to what he and others know – american rappers and hip-hop artists. while at church, he was introduced to korean hip-hop. and that’s why he deliberately stays late after church — not just fill his duties as his church band’s pianist.

xii.

call him a silly child all you want, but nothing is stopping him from becoming who he wants to be.

unfortunately for his parents, america is not a place where his dream will come true.

he’s figured out a few years ago that this place isn’t as great as people claim it to be – there are countless iron walls blocking his way, and no matter how high he jumps, he can never go over it like a simple hurdle.

so he decides to be a little selfish.

he goes back to korea with his grandparents, leaving his family and friends behind.

despite his nationality and his blood all originating from korea, the country feels foreign to him – and so does the language.

there’s an unexplainable distance between his classmates and doyoon – possibly because he stumbles on his words and his commitment towards his after school music academy. but he doesn’t mind it too much — he needs to build his skills, because what was the point of coming back to korea if he wasn’t going to work hard?

xv.

apparently he’s pretty okay at singing ( all those years in the church choir must have paid off ), and he’s come so far in his rapping and dancing skills. the teachers at his academy suggest that he has the potential to become famous so he takes the suggestion and heads out to auditions.

there is only one agency that takes him in, though ( he didn’t show it on his face, but he was shocked that he passed only one out of six auditions. )

frankly, he is entirely too ignorant of what exactly an “idol” is. he thought idols were equivalent to musicians, freely making their own music and releasing them whenever they want. instead, he is forced to face against other children, forced to climb and claw at each other to reach the top. he didn’t know they had to endure years of training, years of criticism and years of rivalry to debut.

they say his singing is decent, lyrics original and well-crafted, and that he has the right tone and look to be a rapper, but his overall dancing ability is utter garbage. they tell him to either: get better or leave.

no matter how much he practices, they want more – more improvement, more soul, more competition and more blood.

it is a savage world, but it is the world that he chose to belong in.

…

does he belong in it?

xx.

doyoon works hard – anyone can see that, and he’s present.

so he finds an unlikely home in the studio, writing lyrics and experimenting with sounds, making sure his message gets through the music and past the conventional idol filter. POIZN is like family to him and they deserve nothing more than to stand out from the rest of the industry.

xxii.

his wish is granted because POIZN does stand out — just not in a way he intended. the group is riddled with scandals, when one settles down, another rises in a speed of light.

but doyoon remains cleaner than bleach, and it’s because of this reason that 99 keeps a tight hold on him. they hold him down and lock him up in the confines of the studio, repeatedly assuring him that he will remain safe and sound if he stays put. and doyoon listens, because POIZN is…well…poison.

xxv.

“doyoon never screws up.”

while flattering, it’s a heavy burden to bestow onto someone. even though he tries to be the obedient little soldier 99 wants him to be, he doesn’t think he can take it — the constant constraints 99 loops around his neck is slowly but surely catching up to him.

so he gets his first tattoo, to symbolize his rebellion.

( though it humorously works against him since getting a tattoo is a right of passage for one of POIZN’s bad boys. )

xxix.

ten years is enough time to successfully tire someone out. he is no longer a kindle, barely holding its ground. he is a piece of ash: gray, fragile and burned out.

#id.bio #id.99 #id.poizn #id.bang yongguk

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