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soyforramen · 4 years ago

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Whoops, I slipped into a follow up of this prompt.

“How’s the wrist?”

Such an innocuous question. It rings flat in the sharp crags that line the chasm between them, echoing hollowly between them. But it’s still more than he’d said Saturday night. More than he thought he’d say.

Betty, never one to let any pain shine through, smiles at him. Her face morphs into that perfect Cooper mask, no crack or wrinkle to suggest anything was out of the ordinary. It pierces his soul to realize that he doesn’t know how to read her anymore.

To him, she looks just as happy and carefree as the first day they’d met in third grade.

“Still sore, but no lasting damage,” she says, rolling her wrist as proof. Even her voice is peppy and varnished to perfection. “How’s your head?”

His hand moves without thought to his forehead, his fingertips grazing the ugly red mess. Jughead jerks his head to the right, a move practiced in the mirror this morning to ensure his hair covered the welt.

“Nothing an aspirin can’t take care of,” he mutters.

He raises his coffee cup to his lips to keep from mentioning the whisky and rye he’d fallen headfirst into, a palliative cure after she’d disappeared up the stairs, leaving nothing but confusion and nadir in her wake. The lingering hangover was still a symphony of banging pots and pans along his temples, a never-ending reminder of his regret (relief?) of doing nothing.

They sip their coffee in silence, waiting for the meeting to begin. The artificial bridge he’d thrown across the chasm between them frays, its tethers loosening. In less than a minute, it’s fallen into the yawning black hole that now lies between them.

Betty's words… no. Not that. It was his inaction. His confusion. His uncertainty that created this false rift between them. The gravity of it tugging and pulling at every second between them, every atom, every conceivable future between them, each a warped, stretched snapshot of a future never to be.

It was enough to make him want to crawl back into the bottle and never come out again. His hand shakes, an aftereffect of the late night drinking, and he shoves it deep into his pocket. Betty’s eyebrows draw too close together, too close to concern for his tastes.

Toni claps her hands together, and Betty shoots him one last curious look. He refuses to look at her, turning to refill his mug. When he turns back around, Betty is in her usual seat next to Archie, a plastic smile on her face. Jughead slouches against the counter, too lost in his own morbid thoughts to pay much attention to the upcoming game to notice the increasingly concerned glances Betty sends his way.

Jughead watches as his students shuffle in, the twins he affectionately calls Bill and Ted the only two showing any trace of life. The bell rings, a clanging, offensive noise that makes everyone wince. It’s doubtful he’s the only one nursing a hangover.

“How many of you did the reading?” he asks when they settle in.

A collective groan ripples throughout the room. He can’t blame them; he’d never been able to finish The Odyssey in high school either.

“Pop quiz time,” he says.

Another groan, this time with a rousing argument against it, echoes through his already pounding head. Jughead holds his hands up in a conciliatory gesture.

“I want you to write about betrayal.”

The class quiets, some exchanging glances. It’s a sharp turn, a quick 180 that throws all off them off balance. Jughead has been ruthless so far, both in his grading and in his push to get them to learn critical thinking skills. Even he’s surprised at this course of action.

“Any kind of betrayal you can think of. You can talk about personal betrayal, family betrayal. Maybe one of your friends kissed your girlfriend, or maybe your mother chose your sister’s side over yours. Or maybe you write about a fictional betrayal. Hamlet and Ophelia, Brutus and Julius Caesar, Edward Pensieve and the Turkish delight.”

Wynnie’s hand shoots up, and Jughead inwardly winces. She’s always been the one to push back against any assignment, the one who questions everything he expects from them and makes class ten times longer.

“Can we write about a made up betrayal? With characters on, like, TV or something?”

Breathing a sigh of relief, he nods. “Anything is fair game, as long as you write it in a way that someone not familiar with the show, or book, or whatever, can understand what’s going on.”

“What about poetry?” another student asks.

“So long as you put the effort in, poetry is fine. Text threads, short stories, poems, letters, anything written.”

“Can we work together?” one of the twins asks.

“Sure, as long as you don’t bother the other students,” Jughead says with a shrug.

Bill and Ted high five before dragging their desks together.

Jughead is surprised at how well they’re taking this assignment. Every last thing has been a fight with them, from getting their attention to taking a test. Betrayal, though, seems to be something everyone can relate to.

As the class begins to write, Jughead sits down at his own desk. For a moment, he watches his students, kids in the same position he was once in, and wonders why he’s even here. Riverdale offered him little more than characters he could mold into his own, a setting for the decline of small town America.

Today, though, his mind wanders along words and phrases, glimpses into a different sort of reality. One ravaged by decay and rot, left to perish alone. And yet, he can’t help but see the small, green shoots of the future poke out of the ashes, tiny hints of hope for what’s to come. Perhaps nothing is ever static and unchanging. Perhaps things can turn around.

Jughead reaches into his bag for his own blank notebook.

He’s sitting on the porch that afternoon, struggling with the illegibly written translation. It’s a shame the state requires them to teach only the recommended books; Jughead would love to see how the story unfolds when thrown onto a fire.

“Hey.”

Jughead starts. When he sees it’s only Betty (only?), he stands abruptly, his entire body on fire, his legs jittery and ready to run.

“Hey,” he repeats. “Archie’s not here, but –“

Betty shakes her head and shoves her hands into the pockets of her jacket. “Can we talk?”

He swallows. Stupid of him to think he’d get away from this conversation. Jughead waves to the chair next to him. As Betty passes, her perfume tickles his nose. Long gone is the strawberry body spray she used in high school, a sweet, cloying smell. Now it’s a perfume, one that tickles his nose and clogs his sinuses.

They sit there quietly, neither willing to speak first. He’s lost for words, unable to start.

She sits patiently, calmly. Betty seems as if she hasn’t a care in the world, as if they were there to talk about the weather. Part of her training, he realizes. She’s no longer as impulsive as she once was, reaching and grasping and desperate for an immediate answer. This Betty Cooper is a reminder of the past, but only that.

“I’m sorry,” he manages, starting with the simplest of things.

Next to him, Betty shifts. He thinks he hears her sniffle (crying? allergies? derision at his lame start?), and he has to quash his immediately reaction. All he wants to do is reach out to her, to comfort her, to promise her the world to keep her from suffering.

But he’d done that before, long ago, in a completely different world. And he’d been trod upon, brushed aside in favor of her own cruel form of betrayal. Nothing he could have done after would have fixed the wound she’d carved in his soul. Even now, seven years distanced from the teenage woes, it lay between them, still raw and sore and bleeding from the continued betrayals of his life.

He wonders how he would have responded to her if he hadn’t known. If he hadn’t come home one night early to hear her and Archie upstairs. If he hadn’t turned to the Wyrm and listened to Sweet Peas acidic sniping just to get lost among the agave pinas and the juniper berries.

“It’s not,” he stutters, trying to find his footing, unsure of what he wants to say. “I couldn’t stop loving the Betty Cooper I knew. But I also never stopped hating what she did to me.”

The admission is the first emotionally honest thing he’s said in years. It’s painful to realize how deep it lay inside him, how long it took to finally cut out this festering, putrid thing that burrowed into him. Like a tumor, it could only grow, fed by hate and anger and depression. Hate and anger for both of them. It hadn’t turned out like it was supposed to.

Now that it lay out in the open between them, he felt different. Heavier, in some ways. But there was also a release. The pressure that had been building for so long was slowly lowering, as if he’d finally found the valve that would bring things back to normal.

“And I don’t know you,” he said, the words pouring out now. “Seven years, and only a handful of texts, a few voicemails. You’re not the person I remember. Hell, everyone is different from who they were, who I thought they were.”

He pauses to run a hand through his hair. He can feel Betty’s bright eyes staring at him, pleading with him for something, anything, that will make this better.

“We’re both different now, and there’s no way you can still love me. You don’t know me, you know who I was. We can’t just pick up where we left off, even if we wanted to. There’s too much between… Even if we were stupid enough to try,” he trails off, his words meandering as they try to find footing in the rocky space between them.

“We didn’t leave things in a good place,” Betty murmurs in agreement.

She shifts, and he looks at her for the first time since they sat down. Her legs are tucked up against her body, arms wrapped around them. It’s a protective stance. Against him, perhaps, or against the bare truth that he’s put in the open. He can’t blame her, not since he’s protected himself against most of his own life in other, less healthy ways.

Jughead sighs, empty of anything else to say. He stares at the fading light glowing through the leaves. It’s the perfect, picturesque scene of two high school sweethearts reuniting. At least, it was supposed to be. He didn’t know if he ever could do that to himself again.

Archie’s old truck chugs up the street, and Jughead stands. He scrapes the palms of his free hand along his pants, the other hand gripping his book. Archie waves through the windshield with a bright grin, and Jughead gives a half-hearted wave back before going inside.

He’s exhausted; after being mad for so long, it’s strange to be so empty of feeling. He’d give the world to be able to retreat back to Alphabet City and it’s various loan sharks. There, at least, he’d know the pain was no one’s fault but his own.

Jughead closes the bedroom door behind him, shutting out the rest of the world. It wasn’t his business what Betty did despite her attempts to bring him back into her life. He didn’t know if he was ready for that, or if he’d ever be. Ever since he’d been back, her presence gnaws at him, chipping away at the walls he’d built up over the years against her presence, and it frightens him that she’s stepped back into his thoughts so quickly and easily.

Thoughts and ideas collide and churn violently in his head. He throws himself down on his bed, determined to fall asleep despite the chaos.

But this time, sleep doesn’t come as easily as it always has. Words and feelings and phrases splatter against the back of his eyelids, graffiti tattooing images of a world never known. He pushes back against the cacophony until he can stand it no longer. Desperate to empty his thoughts, Jughead turns on the bedside lamp, pulls his laptop out from under the bed, and begins to write more than he’s been able to for years.

#bughead fanfiction #riverdale #i heard you like angst with your angst

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kopikokun · 5 years ago

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You’re Pretty Cute Too༄ j. suh

↳ After a stressful week of school, you drop by the local animal shelter as one of the volunteers to coo at the adorable animals, and to flirt with your co-worker, Johnny Suh too.

pairing: johnny suh x reader

genre: fluff, animal shelter volunteer!au, college!au, co-workers to lovers

wordcount: 1048 words

Request 33: Johnny + “We’d make such a cute couple.” (50) + “Are you flirting with me?” (56) + “Not sure if you could tell, but I’m not exactly a people person.” (98)

— 𝐫𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐬 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐜𝐥𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐝.

This is the first time all week you’ve felt this calm.

Finally, after all the nightly mental breakdowns, last-minute cramming and dozens of cups of bitter coffee, you’ve made it through the week. It’s finally Saturday. This is hands-down the longest week you’ve ever experienced in your entire life. Honestly, seven days has never felt so long. In fact, you’re half-convinced that this week lasted much longer than just seven days.

You relish in this peace that has been bestowed upon you. With the familiar sensation of silky fur nuzzling against the back of your hand and the bags under your eyes finally showing signs of disappearing, you let out a long sigh of relief. Taking in the room around you, you can proudly say that you do understand what the phrase ‘Heaven on Earth’ is referring to; and it’s right here, nestled away in the middle of this cramped street in the middle of this bustling city in one miniscule corner of the world.

In the past year, volunteering at the local animal shelter has been the best decision you’ve made to date. You’ve always been keen on animals of all shapes and sizes, so making the choice to volunteer had been somewhat of a no-brainer. Even as a kid you had been absolutely enamoured by animals, to the point where you had to be forcefully dragged away whenever you came across a stray cat or dog.

The soft rumbling purr of the calico cat rubbing up against you brings you back down to Earth. It peers up at you quizzically for a moment before continuing to smother its face in your palm. You can’t contain the smile that stretches across your lips.

You definitely missed this. Although you’ve only been volunteering for a little over two months, you’ve formed such an intense attachment to these animals. If it were up to you (and if you were filthy rich), you would have adopted every single one of these adorable babies and showered them in all the love they deserve, but unfortunately, it’s not up to you (and you’re not filthy rich).

You smile to yourself. Nothing’s changed about the place. Well, then again, it’s not like you’ve been gone for long. Still, the fact that the shelter has remained static and unchanged, almost as if it's frozen in time, comforts you. Oddly, something feels amiss, but you can’t seem to place your finger on what exactly…

“Hey! You’re back!”

Just kidding. The moment you stepped into the shelter, you knew exactly what—or rather who—was absent. Of course you do. He’s the reason your heartbeat’s racing and why sweat’s beginning to accumulate at your temples. You don’t even have to turn to find out who that voice belongs to. “Yes, I’m back. Hello, Johnny.”

The soles of his shoes squeak against the floor as he saunters to stand before you. Well, tower really, because you’re sat crossed-legged while he’s standing to his full height. “You’re back.”

“You said that already, Johnny.” You pay him no heed as you continue to stroke your little feline friend. When Johnny makes no move to leave, you finally peer up at him. He’s smiling as wide as ever, pearly white teeth showing through. “What? What’s wrong? Why are you looking at me like that?”

Johnny shakes his head, unkempt hair swaying along with his movements. “No, nothing’s wrong. I just missed you.”

“Excuse me?” Heat crawls up your neck, collecting in your cheeks. “Are you flirting with me?”

Johnny shrugs, leaving you even more flustered than you had been before. He sits down across from you, and the calico cat who had been so eagerly pushing itself into your hand, slithers away towards Johnny, meowing persistently at him. “Hey, would you look at that? She likes me better than you.”

You scoff. “No, she does not. You probably rubbed catnip all over yourself before getting here.”

“Hmm, no, I think she just likes me better than you.” Johnny leans forwards, cooing, “Isn’t that right, baby?”

As if it understands, the cat mews adoringly again. Johnny tosses you a little prideful smirk.

You debate on prying for the cat’s attention again before Johnny asks, “Where have you been?”

“School,” you answer curtly, just the intonation of your voice speaking a thousand words.

Johnny chuckles. “ I take it that school was tough. What are you doing back here so soon, though? You should rest up. Take a nap. No offence, but you look tired.”

The note of genuine concern in his voice unleashes a swarm of butterflies in your stomach.

“None taken. I know I look like a heap of dog poo, right now.” You smile wryly. “I slept for like twelve hours last night, so I think I’m good on sleep, but thank you for worrying, Johnny. Honestly, I came here to let off some steam.”

“Let of some steam? While volunteering at an animal shelter?” Johnny grins lopsidedly. “Usually, people our age let off steam by going out for a drink or something, do they not?”

“Well, you don’t need to make it so painfully obvious that you and your friends are extroverts, Johnny,” you tease. “Besides, not sure if you could tell, but I’m not exactly a people person.”

“Yeah, I gathered,” says Johnny, his eyes sweeping your figure unashamedly. “And hey, I get it. Chilling out with animals makes my day ten times better too. Plus, my co-worker happens to be really cute as well. And don’t tell anyone I said this, but we’d make such a cute couple.”

There’s a brief pause as your heart thumps in your ribcage. “Oh, yeah? I think so too.” Your cheeks physically ache from how blisteringly hot they’ve grown. “Actually, that reminds me. A little birdie told me she’d be down to let off some steam like somebody her age and ‘get a drink’ sometime with you too.”

“Oh, is that so?”

“Mhm,” you hum.

Johnny grins. “God, you’re really the cutest.”

“Who? Me?” You feign a stunned gasp, holding a hand to your chest dramatically. The ditzy smile on your face gives away your true emotions, but Johnny plays along with your act.

“No, no, I meant the cat,” he says, reaverting his attention to it. “But, yeah, you’re pretty cute too.”

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eat0crow · 5 years ago

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So, Sasori is his soulmate?

Huh, Deidara didn't think his karma was that bad. But, he really must have pissed Fate off if it took dying, being resurrected against his will, and forced to fight along side Kohona, to realize, he's been partnered with his soulmate for years.

~~~

My gift for @paigyloli, as part of the @akatsuki-gift-exchange gift exchange.

(I didn't know your AO3 handle, feel free to shoot me a message so I can gift this to you.)

I hope you like! I took your prompts 'anything with Sasori' and 'something like red string of fate, or soulmate', and welp, here we are. Sorry, it's a bit late!!!

Jump Ship

Deidara really, really hates the Edo Tensei.

Because Deidara had died, he had lived, and died, exactly how he always wanted to. Existing in a single moment, more beautiful than anything this mockery of life could create. Sure, it might be marginally better, now that he’s free of Tobi-Madara-Obito-whatever’s control, but it still sucks.

Tobi stole his death from him, his most beautiful creation. His masterpiece. He stole it, and forced Deidara into a cold, unfeeling, empty bastardization of everything he believes in.

Deidara really hates Tobi. Sure, he hadn’t liked him much before, but now? Now, there aren’t words to describe just how much Deidara wants to murder him. Even if the thought of allying with Konoha shinobi kills him, he’ll do it. He’ll do anything to increase his chances of going toe to toe with the masked bastard. Deidara wants to make him beg for death.

Sasori is his partner again. It’s not a surprising development. Most of the former Akatsuki—the ones who switched sides—had been kept together. Naruto might be convinced there’s good in them, but that doesn’t mean there’s any trust between the Allied Shinobi Forces and Naruto’s group of undead missing nins. Deidara thinks it’s funny, in some weird, twisted way, that even in death, he’s still stuck with Sasori.

They work well together, years of relying on each other, and only each other, pay off. They could be soulmates, well, assuming Deidara had ever seen his mark reflected across Sasori’s chest. The delicate interweaving lattice, intersected with small shapes that could have been scorpions for all Deidara knew, had never been anywhere on Sasori’s vessel. Deidara knows, he’s seen Sasori naked enough times.

At thirteen Deidara had torn the mark open, cutting into his chest without a second thought, creating his most beautiful work of art. It was only fitting for him, after all, to tear apart the one thing on his body that never changed.

It made coming into his new vessel a shock, because, while his jutsu is gone, his soulmark lays flat over his heart. Deidara guesses that makes sense, in some bizarre, twisted way. He’s a soul inhabiting a paper husk, Sasori hadn’t come back as a puppet. Instead, he came back as the shadow of flesh and blood he was, before he started experimenting.

~~~

“I hate it here, yeah,” Deidara says, throwing himself down onto the cot in Sasori and his shared tent. His body doesn’t need sleep, it just makes everyone feel better to have the former Akatsuki members cordoned off at night. “Honestly, I don’t know how anyone does it. Hell, I don’t know how I did it, but answering to a Kage is bullshit. I’ll take being a missing nin any day.”

“I hardly find that surprising,” Sasori says, not even bothering to turn around or look up from where he’s bent over his desk. “You’re much too wild to serve under any real authority.”

“Harsh, Danna. I served under Pein just fine.”

“Please, even when Nagato was maintaining the illusion of leadership, it hardly qualified. He demanded tasks of us, yes, but he was more than happy to leave us alone between assignments.”

“Ugh, why do you always have to be right,” Deidara whines. “I can’t even say that if I lived my life over again, I would do things differently, because I'm living my life over again, and I’m dying to desert, yeah.”

“Yeah,” Sasori says sarcastically, turning around to face Deidara with one brow lifted. “I commanded a network of spies, I can tell when someone won’t submit to orders. You’re one of the few shinobi who truly has no master.”

Deidara feels his mouth dry up the second Sasori turns to look him fully, it’s the first time he’s seen him shirtless since they’ve come back. It hasn’t come up, and Deidara can’t be more thankful that this moment happened in private. He wouldn’t have been able to handle an audience. He’s not sure he’ll even be able to handle it now when it’s just the two of them. Because, standing out against the stark, white of Sasori’s skin is his mark, mirrored perfectly back to him.

Swallowing the lump in his throat, Deidara forces himself to ask, “How long have you had that mark for?” It may seem stupid, but Deidara has been partners with Sasori for years, and he’s never seen it before.

Sasori looks puzzled for a moment, before following Deidara’s line of sight to his chest. “You mean my soulmark?”

“No, I mean your kidney scar. Of course, I mean your soulmark, you fucking idiot!” Deidara says fervently, carefully keeping his voice lowered to avoid drawing an unwanted audience.

“Forever, I suppose.” There’s a pause, before Sasori continues, “I forgot about it.”

“How can you forget about a soulmark?” There’s a lot of thinly, veiled anger in his voice, Deidara might not have poured much faith into the system, but it still burned to hear that he could be discarded without a second thought.

“I didn’t feel the need to include it into my puppet’s body,” Sasori says, carefully neutral. “It was an unnecessary reminder of the humanity I wanted to leave behind. It hasn’t been a part of me in almost twenty years, and even before then, my soulmate hadn’t been born when I transferred vessels.”

“Oh.” Deidara hasn’t thought about their age difference in—ever. Maybe at first, he did, but Sasori’s stuck in a sixteen-year-old’s body, it’s unspeakably easy for Deidara to forget that Sasori had stopped aging the year he was born.

Things make a lot of sense now, Deidara’s always felt a form of stasis from his mark, it’s not the cold, empty feeling of a severed bond, it’s perfectly numb, the one thing in both of Deidara’s lives that’s unchanging.

“It’s hardly of consequence,” Sasori says, a hint of frustration creeping into his voice. “I can’t feel anything from them, the connection is numb, and I don’t understand it. They’re not dead, the bond isn’t empty, and they’re alive now. I can tell, but everything is static. I hate it.”

“I thought true art was enduring, yeah. You know, something that stays perfectly the same forever,” Deidara says cheekily. He’s being a bit of a bastard, but Sasori deserves a taste of what Deidara has had to live with for nineteen years.

“This isn’t art, this is annoying,” Sasori bites back. “If anything, this is proof of the Edo Tensei’s inferiority.”

“You’re missing the obvious, my man,” Deidara says, pushing himself up into a sitting position. He picks at the scratchy fabric of the blanket. It’s not easy to say, despite having years to have crafted the conversation in his head. “Clearly, your soulmate’s jumped ship and gotten himself another vessel. Hey, maybe he decided to follow in your footsteps, and get a nice puppet one, yeah. That would be cool. Karma, you know?”

Sasori scowls, it's cute now that Deidara can see his brow pinch. His puppet was never great at facial expressions. They always fell flat, the wood refusing to move much past it’s carefully neutral, resting face. Deidara gets up, kicking a discarded pile of puppet parts aside, Sasori’s frown deepens at the action, but he doesn’t say anything.

“Listen,” Deidara starts, tugging off his cloak, and throwing it down. It lands somewhere next to a pile of rejected legs. He’ll have Sasori get it for him later, he might not be able to be poisoned anymore, but his touch is nowhere near gentle enough for the puppets. “You can’t make a big deal out of this. It doesn’t change anything, okay?”

“I’ve seen your mark Deidara,” Sasori says, turning his head away in dismissal. He reaches down, grabbing the third Kazekage’s puppet, turning its glassy, unseeing eyes on him.

There’s history there, Deidara doesn’t want to get into it. Especially now, when he can see the small wistful expression that crosses Sasori’s face as he handles the puppet. Everyone has their flaws.

“You really haven’t.” Because, Sasori has seen his mark, yes, but he’s only seen the bastardized version of it. The mark looks completely different, now that it's not being held closed by stitches and lacks a mouth. “Like I said, it changes nothing.”

Slowly, with careful, precise movements, Deidara lifts his shirt over his head, letting it fall to the ground.

There’s a moment of dead silence, the tension in the air painfully thick as Sasori takes him in, as he closes the gap between them. Tentatively, Sasori reaches out, and traces over the mark on Deidara��s chest, skimming the edges with feather-light touches. Deidara lets him. He can't feel anything in this body, this vessel, the sentiment is still there though.

“It’s different,” Sasori says.

“It’s a match,” Deidara says back, reaching up to grab Sasori's hand, placing it more firmly against his heart—against where his heart was. “We’re dead, that’s why it feels numb. Our corpses are decaying, well, yours is. Mine’s disintegrated.”

“You felt this.” Sasori pulls back, just a little, enough to meet Deidara’s eyes without straining to look up. “You felt this static for years. No wonder you’re insane.”

“Ouch. That hurt.” Deidara lets Sasori’s hand fall, instead, he brings his own up to run through his hair, it’s a nervous habit. “But, yeah, it sucked ass. I hadn’t thought about it before, but the numbness was probably because your puppet’s body didn’t exactly feel things. Now, it’s probably because these husks are glorified paper mache.”

“Right,” Sasori says, and this time Deidara swears he sounds sad. “That would make sense. As shades, we lack a physical presence to influence the bond. My previous vessel was very much the same.”

“Hmm,” Deidara hums, it doesn’t do either of them any good to focus on the past, all they’ll do is dwell on regrets. “Well, you live and learn. Though, I guess, we’re not exactly living at the moment. We’re just sort of possessing vessels, yeah.”

“Possessing vessels.” Sasori chews on the words, rolling them back and forth across his tongue. His eyes drift down to the pile of parts Deidara had kicked less than five minutes ago.

Deidara sees the gleam in Sasori’s eyes as he reaches down into the pile, and reflexively, takes a step back. The tricky thing about Sasori is, that at first glance, he doesn’t appear dangerous, but then you see the ruthless look of pure, chaotic energy bubbling in his eyes, and you realize, Sasori is as morally bankrupt as they come.

Deidara gulps as Sasori takes a step closer. “Sasori, my man—”

Sasori is undeterred, pausing only minutely to toss Deidara a spare arm. Deidara catches it, if only thanks to years of practice dodging puppet parts. “Do you think you could transfer your kinjutsu into that?”

He weighs the hand, turning it over with a critical eye. “Maybe, if it wasn’t wooden. You might not know this, but explosives don’t exactly play nice with chakra infused timber.”

“Porcelain, then,” Sasori says, moving toward his workbench. “Maybe a non-conductive metal.”

“I’m missing something here,” Deidara proclaims, throwing the arm at the back of Sasori’s head. He doesn’t bother catching it, instead, Sasori lets it rip through him.

“You very rarely aren’t.” Sasori dismisses.

The Third Kazekage loses an arm to Sasori’s hunt. Deidara gets far more satisfaction than he should watching Sasori disassemble the puppet. He’s on a hunt, it’ll be awhile before Deidara can pull him out of whatever project he’s just thought up. Hell, with these new vessels—ones that don’t require even the pseudo rest Sasori’s last one did—it might be weeks before he’ll be able to steal any attention.

“Why must you insult me?” Deidara asks rhetorically. “Can you, at least, fill me in? Before you jump down whatever rabbit hole your brain’s decided on.”

Sasori seems to debate for a moment, but Deidara’s not the only one who knows his partner well. Sasori knows that if he doesn’t tell Deidara something now, he’ll never get any peace later.

“You said you wanted to be a missing nin again.”

#naruto #crow writes #akatsuki #sasori #deidara #deidara/sasori #soulmate #alternative universe canon divergence #alternative universe #sasori/deidara

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fandammit · 7 years ago

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Loss like the sharp edges of a knife (8/9)

Part 1 || Part 2 || Part 3 || Part 4 || Part 5 || Part 6 || Part 7

[A/N: Sometimes your OCs take you on a journey, and you just gotta follow along and see where it leads.]

His early morning run does bring him past Karen’s apartment.

It’s a dark, cloudy day with a weird, final cold snap of weather that has him wearing a sweater and his beanie for the first time in weeks.

Amidst the backdrop of the gray sky and gray pavement and sullen gray-toned brick is the pot of yellow daffodils, so bright it might as well act as a beacon to him from the down the street.

Sitting on the ledge of her window is his worn, battered copy of Moby Dick. He picks it up carefully and opens it, flips through the pages hesitatingly. He’s not quite sure what he’s expecting to find, not quite sure what might hurt him the most -- that there’s something within its pages that speaks to her lack of understanding of him, or that there’s nothing within it at all.

He breathes out a long sigh of relief when he sees that she’s written on nearly every page, forces himself to close the book with a sharp thwap because he can’t trust himself to stop once he gets started.

He runs back to the car with the book gripped closely to his chest, keeps it tucked up next to him as he drives back to him apartment. Some practical, logical part of him knows that it’s no more or less from Karen than any of her other gifts to him, but it’s overshadowed by that deeper, more sentimental part of him that believes Karen has in some way looked into his soul and at least not found it wanting.

He opens the book up in the silence of his living room, his breath loud in his ears, his heart thumping painfully in his chest. A quick flip through reveals that she’s left nothing tangible in it; has instead chosen to leave pieces of herself as words on the pages -- answers to his questions, questions to his underlined passages, replies to his notes in the margins.

By now, he knows the story by heart, could simply read through Karen's margin notes and be done in a single afternoon.

But this gift is not a photo or a thing -- it is not a single moment, frozen in time, or a single object, static and unchanging. Instead, what he holds in his hands feels like something closer to a conversation, more intimate and real than the drawn out months of exchanges they've had by way of gifts.

He reads the first few pages of the novel, then reads his notes aloud, muttered softly under his breath. He flicks his eyes over Karen's written reply, his gaze moving slowly over her firm, slanted script, the words so completely her that he can almost hear her voice echoing in the emptiness of his living room.

So he decides to re-read the entire book again, decides that he can’t fully understand the conversation between him and Karen without falling back into the story at the same time.

That first day he has the book back, he has to put it down halfway through the third chapter when he looks up at the clock and realizes that he’s supposed to be on his way to the boxing gym. He grabs his gym bag and, at the last moment, throws the book in there, too. He knows he won’t have any time to read it -- especially not since Paul will likely make him run at least two extra laps for being late -- but it gives him a small sense of comfort just to have it nearby.

Paul makes him run through extra drills for being late, but he doesn’t mind -- it makes the time go by faster, helps him to forget the lingering presence of Karen in his bag by the door.

He barely has time to shower and change before he’s rushing off to Jeremy and Marisol’s house, making good on a promise to Mrs. Abaya that he’ll fix their dryer.

He’s five minutes later than he said he would be, but it works out fine because there’s no car in the driveway when he pulls up. He doesn’t mind. He knows Jeremy is perpetually late -- a point of fact that makes Mrs. Abaya call him an honorary Filipino in a fond tone of voice -- and it gives him time to sit on their front stoop and read through a few chapters of Moby Dick.

Even just as words on the page, she’s spelled out her compassion, her empathy, her reserve of steeliness. Even this far from him, even as just a haunting presence in the book, she pushes against him. Pushes him to think beyond himself, asks him questions that he desperately wants to try to answer, even if he doesn’t know how.

If you’re Ahab, does that make me Ishmael?

He pauses at those words, reads the question over and over again. Tries to imagine how she’d say them if they were two people sitting across from one another in a coffee shop -- if there’d be a teasing spark in her eyes or if she’d lean forward, a serious expression on her face, her blue eyes swallowing him up completely.

He’s shakes himself out of his daydream when he hears Jeremy pull up into the driveway.

“Tito Peter!” Emeline shouts, opening the door and leaping out of the minivan before Jeremy even has a chance to turn off the car. She launches herself into his arms and hugs him like it’s been weeks since she’s last seen him rather than just three days. She’s wearing a soccer uniform, the knees all stained with grass, her bangs stuck to her forehead with sweat.

“Hey honey,” he says, rubbing her on the back before leaning away so he can talk to her. “How’d you do? Did you guys win?”

A wide grin splits her face.

“Yea - yes, Tito! And I scored the winning goal!”

“Course you did, Emeline!” He wraps his fingers around her arms, raises them up above her head in a gesture of victory. “Nice job, sweetie. Wish I could’ve been there to see it.”

She sighs heavily.

“Maybe you can tell Paul to move your training sessions, Tito. Then you can come and watch me.”

He smiles.

“I’ll give it a shot, Emeline. Paul -- he’s pretty strict, but I think I’ll be able to convince him.”

Emeline lights up, bounces up on her toes.

“You can bring him along, Tito. He can cheer for us.”

“Alright, Emeline, you need to go take a shower while Tito Peter helps daddy with dryer,” Jeremy says, coming up behind her. “Hey Pete, good to see you,” he says, nodding to him and reaching out a hand. “Thanks for coming over, I appreciate it.”

“But daddy, how are you going to help Tito?” Emeline asks, a thoroughly confused look on her face. “You don’t know how fix a dryer -- that’s why lola asked Tito peter.”

Jeremy grins, glances over at Frank.

“Out of the mouth of babes, huh, Pete?” He turns to Emeline. “Well, I’m gonna hold his beer, for one. And then I’ll hand him a wrench when he asks for it. And then I’m gonna send him off with some of your lola’s lumpia that she told me to give him once he’s done.” He leans over and unlocks the door, gestures towards the inside of the house. “Now, off to the shower with you.”

She giggles, then rushes through the door.

“I can help better than you can, Daddy!” She shouts as she speeds down the hall. “Just wait for me, Tito Peter!”

Jeremy laughs, then gestures inside and follows Frank.

“So, hey, I really do appreciate this.” He’s glancing down at the stack of mail in his hands as he says it, a nervous of energy to him as he speaks. “It’s a new dryer -- well, new-ish -- so hopefully it’s nothing major and -- oh shit!” Jeremy’s face is a mixture of shock and excitement as he looks down at the opened letter in his hands, which then very quickly shifts into disappointment as he rifles through the packet of papers it’s attached to. “Oh shit. Oh. Shit.”

Frank shuffles from one foot to another, slaps his hands in front of him as he does.

“Everything ok, Jeremy?”

Jeremy looks up, blinks a few times and tries to smile.

“Yeah, God, sorry Pete.” He flips the paper around to show Frank the letter -- just long enough so that he can see the words “congratulations!” written in fancy lettering at the top before he turns it back around. “Emeline -- she got accepted into this really great private prep school. Great STEM program, you know? Our little engineer -- though God knows where she got that from.”

“So, that’s, uh, good, right? I mean, that’s where Emeline belongs.” He squints at the crestfallen look on Jeremy’s face. “What’s the problem then?”

Jeremy sighs heavily.

“There’s just no way, Pete -- no way that we can afford the tuition. School will cover up to a half of it -- needs based, you know. But the rest -- I mean, even paying half is too much for us -- we’d have to get private or outside scholarships and I’m not sure...”

He shakes his head.

“Doesn’t hurt to try though, right?” Frank asks. “See what’s out there?”

“Yeah, yeah, you’re right. There’s a general scholarship application that the school sends out to donors, so there’s a chance, right? Just -- damn -- I was hoping they’d cover a little bit more.” He folds the letter back up and sticks it in his back pocket. He smiles at Frank, though it's strained at the edges. “Anyway, we’ll figure it out. Let’s tackle this dryer first.”

They spend the next hour or so fixing the dryer, Jeremy and Emeline taking turns helping him. Jeremy mostly hangs back and lets Emeline run around Frank, asking questions and taking turns with tools. He tries to cover it up, but Frank can tell how defeated the other man looks as he watches his daughter unscrew the various parts of the dryer and put it back together.

He thinks about that look as he drives home, can feel the outline of a plan form in his mind. Once he gets home and takes Gracie for a walk, he’s mostly managed to fit it all together. It mostly depends on David, which basically means it’s as good as done.

He spends the rest of the night laying in bed, Gracie at his feet, Moby Dick resting against his chest as he reads.

He likes that Karen’s notes become more intimate, more direct as the book goes on, her voice so loud and present he can almost hear it in the quiet of this apartment. She challenges him easily, like she has since they first met. She also disagrees with enough to make him nervous, wary that they’ll break on something fundamental. But it never even skirts close to a line of rejection, to a place on incompatibility. Instead, she pushes him to re-think passages, pushes him to want to ask her about a word or phrasing or observation in person.

The whale isn’t Evil incarnate, Frank -- it’s nature, or the universe, or God himself. They don’t care about any of us the way Ahab thinks they do. They don’t care about us at all, really. There’s something sad and comforting about that at the same time, don’t you think?

He closes the book as he thinks about those words, thinks about a life in which a negligent God might be a source of comfort, thinks about what kind of life Karen has led for her to think that and just how little he knows about it.

Promises himself that he’ll ask once he sees her again.

“So, any news on the Karen front?” David asks the next day.

They’re sitting the shade of his house, the half-finished patio deck behind them. It’s a slow going project, made slower by the fact that David tends to forget what exactly it is he’s supposed to be doing at any given time. He’s not incapable, Frank’s found, only unmotivated. And he basically has no motivation to finish up this patio deck project seeing as it’s mostly to give Frank an excuse to come over in the afternoons. He thinks that there must be some part of David that is afraid that he’ll just stop coming over if he has no obvious reason to do so.

He wouldn’t, of course, but he doesn’t mind having something to do with his hands when he wants to drown out David’s rambling.

He shrugs his shoulders. He doesn’t want to lie, but he also isn’t prepared to discuss the truth

“It’s a long book, David.”

David chuckles.

“Yeah, Frank.” He shakes his head, gives Frank a rueful look. “Yeah, it is.”

He looks like he’s about to say something else, so Frank clears his throat to head him off.

“So, uh, listen. Wondered if you could do a favor for me?”

He tries to keep his tone light, his expression easy. It’s been nearly seven months now since it was just the two of them living together in that basement, where favors and plans meant murder and mayhem, but he thinks that those memories must not easily fade. They haven’t for him at least.

David must notice, because he looks more curious than anxious.

“Yeah, sure, Frank. Whatever you need.” He tilts his head. “What’s up?”

“The lady that runs the shelter -- Mrs. Abaya. She’s got this granddaughter, right? Smart kid, name’s Emeline.” David nods. “So, she got into this prep school but the tuition -- her parents are gonna have trouble paying it. I figure since I got all this money and no real reason to spend it, might as well do something good with it.”

David blinks rapidly and the edges of his mouth turn up in a smile, though there’s a twinge of confusion in his gaze.

“Ok, that’s, I mean, that’s great Frank. But I’m not sure where I come in.”

He stuffs his hands into his pockets, licks his lips.

“Well her parents -- they’re not just gonna let me hand over thousands of dollars. So, I’m wondering if you, you know, set up something that makes it look like she got a scholarship, right? You make it look good, make it look legit, so they don’t know it’s me.” He takes out a folded piece of paper from his back pocket. “So, that’s the school and the amount over the next four years and, uh, as much as I know about the process and Emeline’s application. Figure you can find out the rest -- whatever else you need.”

David reads it over quickly then smiles broadly at him and nods.

“Yeah. I can do that.” He pushes off from the side of the house, reaches over and pats Frank on the shoulder. “It’s a good thing you’re doing, Frank. You’re a good man.”

He looks away and shrugs, holds his hands out in front of him in a dismissive gesture.

“I’m not -- it’s just the thing to do. Emeline deserves it, so do her parents.” He’s almost embarrassed by how David’s looking at him, so he ducks down and picks up his toolbox. “Gonna get going but you’ll, uh, let me know when it’s done?”

David nods, gives Frank a distracted wave and a faraway smile that makes him grin. He wouldn't be surprised if everything was set up by the time he goes to bed tonight.

He stops off at a coffee shop that he likes on the way home. Or rather, a coffee shop that Gracie likes since the coffee’s subpar but the baristas all love her enough to keep the specific brand of treats that she likes for when he stops in.

He settles in the corner of the patio, hat pulled low against the midday sun, and opens up Moby Dick. He loses himself in the story, in the push and pull of Karen’s words, in how desperately he wants to believe in them.

Yes, Ahab wants revenge too, but he’s dragged this whole mess of people along with him and doesn’t care about how it affects them. He’s selfish and egomaniacal. You aren’t. You’re a good man, Frank, in a way that Ahab never could be.

He has to resist the urge to trace his finger over those words, has to stop himself from pressing them into the broken cracks of his psyche. He closes the book like it’ll provide some sort of barrier between him and those words -- a good man -- which he doesn’t know can ever really apply to him, doesn’t know if they ever really could.

His phone buzzes in his pocket.

He clicks open the text message from David and purses his lips, impressed.

Everything’s all set up. Jeremy Morgan should get an official letter in his e-mail detailing Emeline’s scholarship award in the next day or so.

His next text is a link, which Frank clicks on and then snorts when he sees the website it pulls up.

The Castle Foundation the header reads, bold white text on a black background. Underneath it, in smaller letters --

Proudly serving the needs of military families from underrepresented and minority communities

He spends the next fifteen minutes scrolling the site, clicking on all the different links, reading the about and history and FAQ. The entire thing is so polished and so thorough that even he almost has trouble believing it isn’t actually a real foundation.

He x’es out of the website and taps into his messages.

Thanks. A little excessive though, don’t you think?

Can never be too careful. Hope it goes well!

Goes well turns out to be a bit of an understatement.

On Wednesday, he shows back up at Jeremy and Marisol’s house, ostensibly to fix a broken dishwasher and is ushered into the kitchen by Jeremy, who cannot stop beaming at him. He walks in the room to find a cake, Emeline in a party hat, about a dozen different Abaya family members that he only vaguely recognizes and both Marisol and Mrs. Abaya crying.

He shoots a questioning look over to Jeremy, who manages to beam even more brightly at him, a feat which had previously seemed impossible.

“Sorry, Peter, I announced it a little early because I was so excited but -- we are celebrating our one and only darling Emeline going to the Horace Mann School starting next fall...on a fully paid scholarship until she graduates!”

He’s never been an exceptionally good liar, so he’s glad when everyone in the room turns towards Emeline and cheers out loud despite apparently already hearing this news. He wades through the crowd and gives Emeline a hug, is enveloped by one from both a teary Marisol and Mrs. Abaya.

He’s standing back from the crowd as half a dozen aunts start setting up catering trays and plates when he feels a tap on his shoulder, looks over to see Jeremy gesturing for him to follow him out into the hallway.

“Hey, I just wanna say, man,” Jeremy claps his on the shoulder. “Thank you so much for what you did.”

“What I -- what exactly did I do?”

Jeremy smiles.

“Hey, no worries, Pete, I didn’t tell anyone since I know you want it kept a secret. So, I get this email yesterday, right? This foundation I never heard of and it just sounded almost too good to be true, plus their name wasn’t listed on the official foundation list that I got in the mail from the school. So I call the number on the website just to verify -- talk to the public relations guy there. Michael...something…” He snaps his fingers a few times. “Michael...Mike Roe!”

Frank barks out a laugh that he very hastily covers up with a cough and hopes that Jeremy doesn’t notice.

“So, uh, what’d Mike say?”

Jeremy grins widely at him.

“Says they’re a new foundation, just starting out -- which is why they hadn’t been on the mailer -- but a lot of money behind them. Anyway, we get to talking and -- well -- he finally says that you’d been the one to put in a nomination for Emeline.”

This time, he doesn’t have to pretend to be surprised.

“And hey, I get it -- why you didn’t tell me. In case it didn’t work out, right?”

Frank purses his lips and nods.

“But, damn man, did it work out. That must’ve been some nomination you submitted because Mike said they don’t normally hand out awards this big.” He shakes his head, breathes out sharply. “And I just -- I really appreciate it, Pete. It was gonna break my heart to tell Emeline we couldn’t afford it.”

He nods, looks away from Jeremy and shrugs.

“No big deal, Jeremy. Didn’t really do much, you know -- just told the truth, clicked a few buttons.”

Jeremy laughs and shakes his head.

“Well, either way, I appreciate it.” He reaches over and gives Frank a quick hug. “Now c’mon, let’s go in there and eat before we get in trouble by one of the aunties.”

Forty-five minutes later, Jeremy is walking him to the door, a plastic bag holding various tupperware filled with leftover food in his hands.

“So, the dishwasher is actually broken,” Jeremy says sheepishly. “That wasn’t, like, a ruse or anything to get you to come over here. I just figured you wouldn’t wanna sit and fix it while everyone was having fun around you.”

Frank shrugs.

“Wouldn’t’ve minded.”

Jeremy laughs.

“I believe it.” He gestures towards the living room. “Sure you don’t wanna stay a little longer? Pretty sure someone’s gonna break out the karaoke machine soon, so that’s always a good time.”

Frank smiles and shakes his head.

“Maybe next time. I -- uh -- have a book I’ve been trying to finish, so --.” He shrugs. “You know.”

Jeremy nods, waves him out the door with an enthusiastic smile.

He sits in his car for a moment and scrolls through the pictures on his phone until he finds the one he wants to send.

It’s Emeline, standing in the kitchen, a crooked party hat on her head, flanked by her parents and Mrs. Abaya, with Frank crouched down next to her. He hadn’t wanted to be included, had only agreed when Mrs. Abaya had shot him a stern look and given a pointed gesture to the space next to Emeline -- which makes him almost 100% certain that the secret of his ‘nomination’ is no longer actually a secret.

Emeline is holding up her acceptance letter to Horace Mann, her parents and Mrs. Abaya beaming. His smile in the picture, too, is wide and genuine -- Emeline’s excitement rubbing off on him, maybe. Or perhaps from the warmth of Mrs. Abaya’s hand resting on his shoulder, Emeline’s arm threaded through his -- that feeling of belonging, of family.

He looks at the photo for a long moment and finds that his throat feels tight as he does. He takes a deep breath in and clears his throat before sending the picture to David.

Went well. Guess you’ve gotten pretty bad at keeping secrets though, Mike Roe.

David sends back a thumbs up emoji, followed by a text a moment later --

Thought you could use a few more people out there knowing that you’re a good man.

#frank castle #kastle ff #david lieberman #kastle #fic: loss like the sharp edges of a knife #my fic

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thesilverdreamer · 8 years ago

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Fanfic: Bendy and Buddy and What’s Left of Sammy Lawrence

Henry and the Ink Machine AU by @thelostmoongazer, Bendy and Buddy variant by @upperstories

A take on the Finale of Chapter 2, taking place in the Bendy and Buddy AU.

WC: 2055

Only thing to note is that, for the purposes of this fic, Joey Drew Studios is in New York City.

As Bendy came to, he quickly realized that he was tied to a pole. His head was pounding.

His vision started to clear, and Bendy was able to make out a pentagram drawn on the floor right under his feet. “Where’m I?” he muttered. His thoughts were sharply interrupted as the ropes holding him were suddenly tightened with a swift pull, pushing the air out of his lungs. “Guh!”

“There we are, nice and tight. Wouldn’t want our little sheep wandering away, now would we?”

Bendy stiffened as he recognized the voice, from the tapes scattered around the music department and from thirty years ago. “S-Sammy—” He never got to finish his thought as a hand dripping with ink passed a strip of cloth in front of his face and pulled it against his mouth. His abductor tied the ends behind the pole, keeping Bendy both silent and forced to keep his head up. He tasted rubber ink left on the gag and wanted to throw up.

A spattering sound accompanied footsteps moving around to Bendy’s front, and a dark figure came into his field of view. A hand touched the side of his face and Bendy tried to jerk away from the touch, but the gag stopped him and all he got for his struggle was a vicious SLAP! across the face that left him seeing stars.

The hand grabbed his chin and forced his eyes upward. Towering over him was a monster, its body just dripping, dripping ink, and it did not have a mouth or a nose, but Bendy couldn’t tell if it had eyes or not because it was wearing a crude mask constructed from one of the Bendy cutouts around the studio. The mask was stained with yet more ink, and the mouth was cut out to make a disturbing, gaping hole.

“I never thought I would see you again.” That voice was certainly Sammy Lawrence, but the thing in front of him, there was no way, it couldn’t be the music director. “But what sacrifice could be better than this? Yes, our Lord will be quite pleased.”

Suddenly, Sammy straightened, hearing something that Bendy did not, and then, a squeaking floorboard.

Bendy’s eyes widened as across the room, the tiny figure of Buddy peeked around a support beam. Bendy furiously shook his head, tried to shout through the gag, and it drew Buddy’s attention—but then Sammy followed Bendy’s line of sight.

Sammy shouldn’t have been that fast, so fast that Bendy could barely follow, fast enough that Buddy couldn’t even react before Sammy had grabbed him, and Buddy shrieked static as Sammy violently lifted him by one arm.

“Oh? And here we all thought you were dead,” Sammy said, and there was an eerie lightness in his tone that made Bendy’s stomach turn. “But then, nothing really dies here. You’re living proof, aren’t you? Now, only a faded memory, a foul mockery of our Lord. Such an ignoble form suits a traitor.”

Traitor? Bendy’s confusion must have shown on his face. Sammy stopped a moment, even has his hand tightened on Buddy’s arm, renewing his screams. Sammy was fixed on Bendy.

“You…you don’t even know, do you?” Sammy said.

Beneath the mask, the thin line of a mouth started to appear.

“Heh. You don’t even know. Utterly forgotten, even by the cause of all this. Aha. Ha ha ha.” Viciously sharp white teeth showed inside Sammy’s mouth as he giggled. “You don’t even know!” he cried, and his laughter turned to cackles. Sammy put his hand to his face as he devolved into hysterical, shrieking laughter that seemed to echo off the walls. He bent back too far, his spine should have snapped, would have snapped if he were still human.

He’s out of his damn mind, Bendy thought.

In an instant, Sammy cut himself off, standing bolt upright, and threw Buddy at the far wall, there was a terrible CRACK as he hit. Buddy fell to the floor, unmoving.

Bendy tried to shout through his gag, but it was no use. Again, Sammy moved far too quickly, grabbing Bendy’s face, and Bendy retched at the smell of sweat, ink, and blood, all long since rotten, even as Sammy’s hold tightened like he was going to crush Bendy’s skull with his bare hands. Sammy’s mouth was at eye level; his breath smelled like rotting meat.

Sammy was very quiet, almost gentle, as he said, “If I’m being honest, I am going to enjoy this. I always hated you the most.”

He released his hold, and Bendy gasped for air. The gag had loosened, just enough for Bendy to get it off his mouth but it was still stuck on his chin. Bendy opened his mouth, but he didn’t know what he was supposed to say. Plead for his life? Sammy was way too far gone. Curse at him? It wouldn’t make him feel any better.

Sammy walked to the side office, and as he pulled on the door, Bendy said, “’m sorry.” There was no indication that Sammy had heard him. “You…I acted like a brat, thirty years ago. I didn’t know any better, but that doesn’t make it okay. You…didn’t deserve this, Sammy. Nobody did.”

The door closed, and Bendy shuddered with a heavy breath.

He moved to try and loosen the ropes, and the door at the far wall started to lift. More importantly, Buddy was slowly sitting up, looking dizzy and shaken but intact.

“Thank god,” Bendy said, and he really had been worried about the little guy despite himself. “Hey, up and at ‘em, we gotta get outta here.” Sammy was saying something over the PA but Bendy wasn’t paying much attention. He was too concerned with what, exactly, Sammy was calling out to. The gate was nearly open.

Buddy got to his feet, and though he looked beat up and was favoring his left foot, he still scurried over as fast as he could. Even with strength in only one arm, he managed to get the ropes undone in a hurry, and Bendy pulled off the gag and threw it away.

Just in time, as the puddles of ink on the floor writhed, and the monstrous shapes of the Searchers pulled themselves out of the muck. Bendy crouched down just enough for Buddy to jump on his back, clinging to his shoulder, and Bendy took off, wasting no time.

Definitely couldn’t follow Sammy to the left, definitely definitely couldn’t go forward through the Searchers and the now open gate, that left going right and hoping it wasn’t a closet. As Bendy pushed through the door back into the halls of the music department, the speakers crackled.

“Free me from this—n-no, wait, stay back! I am your prophet! I am your--!” and a scream so loud it blew out the speakers, shrill and painful like a dying animal, that all too suddenly went silent.

Bendy pushed his way past broken crates and shoddy barricades made of rotten wooden planks, and felt himself falling before he felt the pain from tripping over a short wall in a doorway, and fell face-first into a puddle of ink.

Buddy was pulling at one of his horns as Bendy dizzily pushed himself up. The entire room was flooded with ink, but at least it was shallow. Bendy was breathing heavily. He wiped the ink out of his eyes.

In the center of the pool, it was like dropping a pebble into water, the surface rippling outward. Bendy could feel his heart beating hard.

A shape burst upward out of the ink, and the foul stuff splattered across the walls, the ceiling, and Bendy and Buddy.

It was tall and lanky, humanoid but inhuman, and far too familiar with its asymmetrical jagged horns and unchanging smile so wide it looked painful. It was leaning to one side, one of its feet was twisted around nearly all the way backwards. At the ends of its arms, its hands were mutilated messes.

Bendy was still on the floor on his hands and knees, frozen, looking at the Thing. He would have sworn it was giggling as it reached out to him.

A sharp yank on his tail broke through the trance, and Bendy could hear Buddy’s static screams. Just as the horror moved to grab him by the head, Bendy darted backwards. He grabbed Buddy under his arm, and he ran.

He could hear the uneven lumbering footsteps behind him where the hell am I none of he was faster but it wasn’t slowed by the debris he had to squeeze through none of this is familiar I gotta think of something gotta every few steps he could feel the air moving as it grabbed for him it’s the same as upstairs when I turned on the Ink Machine oh god was he just running to a dead end he didn’t know what the horror wanted but every last instinct screamed at him don’t let it catch you!

Through an open door that slammed shut as he passed through, and Bendy whirled around to see the doorbar drop into place. The door strained as the horror collided with it, and again as it struck the door, but it held.

Bendy could hear a low snarl, and the sound of footsteps moving away.

Bendy was just aware enough to let Buddy down. Bendy had to lean forward bracing his hands on his knees to keep from falling over completely. Buddy clung to the bottom edge of his coat as Bendy got his breathing back under control. His heart rate was slowly going back to normal.

“The hell is that thing?” Bendy said, but there was nobody who could answer him.

The hall was musty, but for the moment, it was safe enough. Still felt wrong to stay in one place for more than a moment. “That’s gotta be, what, the fourth time you’ve saved my be-hind?” Bendy said. “If we count the rescue that only worked out by accident.”

Buddy seemed to be glaring at him. Bendy laughed lightly. “I’m just messin’ with ya, pipsqueak. Thanks.” Buddy grumbled, but it was exaggerated, playing along with the gag. He had relaxed, just a little.

No, Bendy couldn’t quite make a prat fall or take a hit without a scratch, but he was still a Toon, and even a grim sense of humor went a long way towards making the world just a little easier to handle.

“C’mon. Let’s see what’s up ahead. Maybe we can find a closet we can barricade, catch a few Z’s. Geez, I’m getting so hungry, even some of that bacon soup is starting to sound edible. Warmed up, though, still won’t eat it straight from the can like somebody else around here. Lemme tell you, pipsqueak, after we get out of here, I’m gonna get us the best hot dogs in New York. If you’re anything like me, you’ll love it.”

Buddy tilted his head and pointed at himself.

“Yeah, you. What, you thought I was gonna leave you here? This place is a hellhole, Buddy. The world ain’t an easy place, but it’s better than this studio by a long shot. So screw Joey, I’m gonna see if anybody I know is still around—” And not murderous. “—get back to the top floor, trash that damn machine, and we’re getting out. Alright with you?”

Bendy glanced down, and Buddy was smiling up at him, nodding meekly. “Heh. Nerd.”

As it so often went in Joey Drew Studios, the fair mood couldn’t last. Bendy and Buddy picked themselves up and did not get far before approaching a blind corner; from the hall beyond, a tin can came rolling out, and there was a quiet shuffle of feet. Bendy stepped forward, in front of Buddy.

“Hey, is somebody there?” No weapon, nowhere to run, just a whole lot of false bravado. Nothing new there. “Look, I’m just trying to leave. Come out into the light and we can talk.”

A shadow moved, and its owner loped around the corner, arms full of cans of bacon soup. All of the tension and all of the fear melted away.

“Boris!”

#batim #bendy and the ink machine #hatim #bendy and buddy #fanfiction

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suzanneshannon · 5 years ago

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A Community-Driven Site with Eleventy: Preparing for Contributions

I’ve recently found myself reaching for Eleventy (aka 11ty) above all other tools when I want to develop a website. It’s hard to beat a static site generator that provides advanced templating opportunities while otherwise getting out of your way and allowing you to just create.

One of those sites is Style Stage, a modern CSS showcase styled by community contributions. Eleventy was perfect for this community-driven project in several ways:

Its exceptionally fast builds locally and on a production host

It’s un-opinionated about how to construct templates

Its ability to create any file type with complete control over how and where files are rendered

Its ability to intermix templating languages, such as HTML, Markdown, and Nunjucks

It’s highly performant because it compiles to static HTML with no required dependencies for production

The number one reason Eleventy is a great choice for creating a community-driven site is the ability to dynamically create site pages from data sources. We’ll review how to use this feature and more when we create our sample community site.

Article Series:

Preparing for Contributions (You are here!)

Building the Site (Coming tomorrow!)

What goes into creating a community-driven site?

In the not-so-distant past, creating a community-driven site could potentially be a painful process involving CMS nightmares trying to create contributor workflows. Armed with Eleventy and a few other modern tools, this is now nearly fully automatable with a minimum of oversight.

Before we get to inviting contributors, we’ve got some work to do ourselves.

1. Determine what content contributors will have access to modify

This will guide a lot of the other decisions. In the case of using Eleventy for Style Stage, I created a JSON file that contributors can use to create pull requests to modify and provide their own relevant metadata that’s used to create their pages.

Perhaps you also want to allow access to include additional assets, or maybe it makes sense to have multiple data files for the ease of categorizing and querying data. Or maybe contributors are able to add Markdown files within a particular directory.

Consider the scope of what contributors can modify or submit, and weigh that against an estimate of your availability to review submissions. This will help enable a successful, manageable community.

GitHub actions can make it possible to label or close a pull request with invalid files if you need advanced automated screening of incoming content.

2. Create contributor guidelines

Spending time upfront to think through your guidelines can help with your overall plan. You may identify additional needed features, or items that can be automated.

Once your guidelines are prepared, it’s best to include them in a special file in your GitHub repository called CONTRIBUTING.md. The all-caps filename is the expected format. Having this file creates an automatic extra link for contributors when they are creating their pull request or issues in a prompt that ask them to be sure they’ve reviewed the guidelines:

Screenshot courtesy of the GitHub documentation.

How to handle content licensing and author attribution are things that fall into this category. For example, Style Stage releases contributed stylesheets under the CC BY-NC-SA license but authors retain copyright over original graphics. As part of the build process, the license and author attribution are appended to the styles, and the authors attribution metadata is updated within the style page template.

You’ll also want to consider policies around acceptable content and what would cause submissions to be rejected. Style Stage states that:

Submissions will be rejected for using obscene, excessively violent, or otherwise distasteful imagery, violating the above guidelines, or other reasons at the discretion of the maintainer.

3. Prepare workflow and automations

While Eleventy takes care of the site build, the other key players enabling Style Stage contributions are Netlify and GitHub.

Contributors submit a pull request to the Style Stage repo on GitHub and, when they do, Netlify creates a deploy preview. This allows contributors to verify that their submission works as expected, and saves me time as the maintainer by not having to pull down submissions to ensure they meet the guidelines.

The status of the Netlify deploy updates in real-time on the pull request review page. Once the last item (“/deploy-preview”) displays “Deploy preview ready!” clicking “Details” will launch the live link to the preview.

All discussion takes place through GitHub. This has the added advantage of public accountability which helps dissuade bad actors.

If the contributor needs to make a change, they can update their pull request or request a re-deploy of the branch preview if it’s a remote asset that has changed. This re-deploy is a very small manual step, and it may not be needed for every PR — or even at all, depending on how you accept contributions.

The last step is the final approval of the PR and merging into the main branch. Once the pull request is merged, Netlify immediately deploys the changes to production.

Eleventy is, of course, a static site generator, and several hosts offer webhooks to trigger a build. Netlify’s build plugins are a good example of that. But if you need to refresh data more often than each time a PR is merged, one option is to use IFTTT or Zapier to set up daily deploys, or deploys based on a variety of other triggers.

Example of completed setup of a daily deploy via webhook from IFTTT

It’s worth noting that what we’re talking about here does limit your contributor audience to having a GitHub account. However, GitHub contributions can be done entirely via the web interface, so it’s very possible to provide guidance so that other users — even those who don’t code — can still participate.

4. Choose a method for contributor and community updates

The first consideration here is to decide how critical it is for contributors to know about updates to your site by evaluating the likely impact of the change.

In the case of Style Stage, the core will be unchanging, but there is some planned optional functionality. I went with a weekly(-ish) newsletter. That way, it is something folks can opt into and there is value for contributors and users alike.

Matthew Ström’s “Using Netlify Forms and Netlify Functions to Build an Email Sign-Up Widget” is a great place to learn how to add subscribers to your newsletter with a static form in Eleventy. It also covers a function for sending the subscriber’s email to Buttondown, a lightweight email service. For an example of how to manage your Buttondown email template and content in Eleventy, review the Style Stage setup which shows how to exclude the newsletter from the published site build.

If you’re only expecting low priority updates, then GitHub’s repo notifications might be sufficient for communication. Creating releases is another way to go. Or, hey, it’s even possible to to incorporate notifications on the site itself.

5. Find and engage with potential contributors

Style Stage was an idea that I vetted by tossing out a poll on Twitter. I then put out a “call for contributors” and engaged with responders as well as those who retweeted me. A short timeline also helped find motivated contributors who helped Style Stage avoid launching without any submissions. Many of those contributors became evangelists that introduced Style Stage to even more people. I also promoted a launch livestream which doubled as promotional material.

This is what it means to “engage” with contributors. Creating avenues for engagement and staying engaged with them helps turn casual contributors into “fans” who encourage others to participate.

Remember that the site content is a great place to encourage participation! Style Stage dedicates its entire page to encouraging submissions. If that’s not possible for you, then you might consider using prompts for contributions where it makes sense.

6. Finalize repo settings and include community health files

Finally, ensure that your repository is published publicly and that it includes applicable “community health” files. These are meant to be documents that help establish guidelines, set good expectations with community members, define a code of conduct, and other information that contribute to the overall “health” of the community. There are a bunch of examples, suggestions and tips on how to do this in the GitHub docs.

While there are a half dozen files noted in the documentation, in my experience so far, the three files you’ll need at minimum are:

a README.md file at the root of the project that includes the project’s name and a good description of what it is. GitHub will display the contents below the list of files in the repo.

a CONTRIBUTING.md file that describes the submission process for contributions. Be explicit as far as what steps are involved and what constitutes a “good” submission.

a pull request template. I wouldn’t exactly say this is a mandatory thing, but it’s worth adding to this list because it further solidifies the expectations for submitting contributions. Many templates will even include a checklist that details requirements for approval.

Oh, and having a branch protection rule on the main branch is another good idea. You can do this by going to Settings → Branches from the repo and selecting the “Add rule” option. “Require pull request reviews before merging” and “Require review from Code Owners” are the two key settings to enable. You can check the GitHub docs to learn more about this protection.

Coming up next…

What we covered here is a starting point for creating a community-driven site with Eleventy. The point is that there are several things that need to be considered before we jump straight into code. Communities need care and that requires a few steps that help establish an engaged and healthy community.

You’re probably getting anxious to start coding a community site with Eleventy! Well, that’s coming up in the next installment of this two-parter. Together, we’ll develop an Eleventy starter from scratch that you can extend for your own community (or personal) site.

Article Series:

Preparing for Contributions (You are here!)

Building the Site (Coming tomorrow!)

The post A Community-Driven Site with Eleventy: Preparing for Contributions appeared first on CSS-Tricks.

You can support CSS-Tricks by being an MVP Supporter.

A Community-Driven Site with Eleventy: Preparing for Contributions published first on https://deskbysnafu.tumblr.com/

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mbaljeetsingh · 5 years ago

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Why You Should Learn Next.js as a React Developer

We can all likely agree on one thing: React is one of the most popular solutions out there for building interactive web applications, both small and large.

And it is used by so many startups and companies that it is a very valuable skill to have these days.

I discovered Next.js a couple of years back, and was intrigued with what it was trying to accomplish.

In this post, I'll describe my personal journey with Next.js. I'll also discuss why I believe that it is the right time to add it to your React stack.

The Early Web

Back in the mid-2000s, when the web was young and growing, developers moved from static only HTML pages to more robust and dynamic solutions.

This gave us the ability to create pages with dynamic content using tech like PHP (mind you, JavaScript was very young and non-performant at this time).

You could have a single profile.php page and it would take care of Alice, Bob, John, Mehul, and all 15,000 registered people on your website – very convenient.

Then came the JavaScript age. People started realizing that there was this language supported for the web which could be used for so much.

You could set up dynamic form submission, background HTTP requests, nice scrolling effects, and even create webpages on the fly.

The rise of JavaScript and libraries like jQuery allowed web developers to create nice interfaces fully customizable with JavaScript.

Soon, every web developer started pushing more and more JavaScript down the network to the client. Sure, technology evolved, mobile phones and PCs became better with more RAM and cores, but JavaScript started evolving faster.

More functionalities, more features, and more frameworks meant a better user experience and the ability to create an app-like feeling on the web.

But this also meant pushing more and more JavaScript down the network on devices that could not keep up with evolving JavaScript limits.

The Web was made for HTML

Old, slow mobile devices started giving up - load times became high, there was more lag, JS engines were less powerful, and there was just so much JavaScript to parse!

With frameworks like React and Angular, you're basically pushing huge JavaScript bundles to clients which first have to download the small HTML pages.

Web developers who moved from the PHP age (server-rendered HTML) to the JavaScript age (client rendered HTML) soon started realizing that they screwed up big time.

React was great for interactivity and high-performance components, but the fact that people starting using these tools to build everything started to create problems for clients.

A simple About Us page, which could be a very simple static HTML/CSS page, was now a page with a whopping JS bundle. The browser first had to download, then parse, then execute, and then change the DOM to display the content.

This was bad for everyone. Clients had higher load times. Browsers had to work hard to run JS (browsers parse and run HTML/CSS very efficiently). And search engines like Google and Bing had a hard time understanding what your page was about, because your source code never contained the real content. It was always embedded somewhere in your JS bundle.

People loved React and similar tools. But they also understood the implications of running too much JS client-side.

On the other hand, they loved how PHP worked, but they didn't like its architecture. So what was the solution?

Server-Side Rendering (SSR) – the best of both worlds

When developers realized that pushing too much React code on the client was a problem, they thought: Hey, is it possible to code in React, but ship HTML documents to clients?

After all, when the React code is done executing, all you really have is an HTML document anyway.

So they did it. Server-Side Rendering (SSR) for React was born.

Now, with SSR, you can write React code, somehow run it on the server (which was more powerful than your typical client device – like a mobile phone), and then send the HTML document to the client.

Win-win for everybody. You, as a developer, get to code in React - the technology you love. And the visitor on your site gets a plain HTML document (with visible content, and a little rehydrated JS), which gets a massive performance boost. Plus, Google loves you now.

Who wouldn't want that?

But it was too difficult

Server-side rendering definitely seemed like the solution to this problem. But the problem? It was too difficult to set up correctly.

Proper caching and cache-busting? Could you possibly create static HTML files for pages that didn't change? How should you build a seamless navigation experience on your website even if you have server-side rendered HTML? How should you ease down the load on your servers, or generate on-demand content?

And on top of all this, how do you set up this whole architecture? Sure, React and the web provides all the APIs for these, but they are quite verbose and usually a one-time setup.

If you're someone who's actually building something valuable, after some time you would want the majority of your time to be spent on the business logic of your application, and not on the underlying logic.

Introducing Next.js

Next.js is a framework born in heaven. It ships with:

Best SEO practices

Caching and Automatic Static Optimization built-in

Fully server-rendered pages

100% React support

Lambda function support (API routes)

Fine tweak your webpack/babel config if needed

And much more!

It abstracts away all those performance and development setups you need with a typical React app and allows you to focus only on what matters – your business logic code.

I had my first experience with Next.js 2 years ago when it was very young.

But Next.js 9.5 was released this year with so many features. And I think it's safe to say that it is one of the most powerful tools available in the web development ecosystem, especially if you're a React developer.

I run codedamn (a platform for developers to learn to code) myself on Next.js. There's a massive performance boost to the site compared to your regular React app.

If you're a React developer in 2020, one of the best skills you can learn is Next.js. Here are some benefits it offers you as a developer:

Definitely an emerging technology – more job opportunities and possibilities

Server rendered pages means better performance – more clients for you

SEO for your websites baked in – search engines love you

All the benefits of having a server in place – API routes, dynamic content fetching, and stale-while-revalidate feature (oh I love this one)

A great technical skill on your résumé

Some Next.js features I'm excited about

Next.js is evolving really fast. They deprecate old functionalities and introduce shiny new things all the time.

As of today, I'm super interested in the framework as a whole, but here are some of my top picks:

#1 Stable Incremental Static Regeneration

Simply speaking, this feature allows you to generate static content dynamically. Wait, what? Let's see a quick example:

Say you have a blog website (like this one) with a lot of articles. When somebody visits /news/[link] (where [link] is anything), you want to serve them the static page as fast as you can.

But it is possible that you don't want to create all static pages at build time because it would take you a lot of time. In a few cases, this isn't possible at all at build time.

Also, sometimes your content might change, like a quick blog edit - so you don't really want a completely static page forever either. So what's the solution?

Using Next.js 9.5+, now you can generate static pages dynamically to the dynamic path and refresh them.

This means that once Next fetches that particular URL, it'll save it as a static page and serve it statically whenever somebody visits the path. At the same time, it'll be open to accepting new paths dynamically.

Not only can you do this, with a revalidate parameter, you can also actually specify that Next.js should update your static pages once every X seconds in the background if there's any change!

#2 Webpack 5 Support

Next.js is heading towards Webpack 5 support too. This is exciting as Webpack 5 brings in some sweet performance and bundle optimizations and drops support for deprecated things in webpack 4, making the core lighter.

That means your Next.js apps will be faster than ever and more robust.

#3 Dropping of getInitialProps

I personally didn't like the concept of having a single function execute on both environments - getInitialProps.

Thankfully, Next.js figured out that there's a much better solution available and they brought in getServerSideProps and getStaticProps as two great methods with good names.

getServerSideProps, as the name suggests, allows you to inject props in your Next.js page from the server itself. And getStaticProps allows Next.js to still create static outputs at build time.

getStaticProps combined with incremental static regeneration is a killer feature in my opinion. You get the many benefits of a dynamic backend without having a dynamic backend.

#4 Persistent Caching for Page Bundles

Next.js now also supports persistent caches for pages that are not changed. Before, when you shipped a new Next.js app, Next.js would throw out the whole app and the user had to download all the CSS/JS again, even if those bundles were unchanged.

In the latest version of Next.js released last week, our friends at Vercel introduced persistent caching which is again an absolutely great thing to have performance-wise.

#5 Out of the box support for Sass Modules and TypeScript

If there's one thing I love more than JavaScript, it is TypeScript. And Sass is sweet too. Most people I know use Sass to power their CSS, and it provides a great developer experience.

Next.js has long offered great support for TypeScript out of the box. But recently they added module based support for Sass as well.

This means that your styles can now be written in Sass, local to your modules, with caching and revalidation - all managed by Next.js internally.

Seems like they really want you to develop the best products focusing only on the business logic.

Learning Next.js [a Course]

I'm creating an exclusive video course on Next.js with best practices, latest framework updates, and super cool things you can do with it. I'm including a bunch of full projects with the framework so you'll get a deep understanding of how to work with this tool.

If you're interested, sign up for early access using this Google form link and I'll make sure to reach out to you when it's out.

Conclusion

I'm going all in on Next.js. The speed with which they're iterating and developing the SSR concept and making it available to so many is just astonishing.

If you signed up using the form link above, expect to hear from me soon with some awesome content for you.

Feel free to hit me up on social media to share what you think: Twitter and Instagram.

#IFTTT #Feedly

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superpotatesme00 · 8 years ago

Text

(Pidgance Fanfic) by AIR

Notes:

I’m back guys! I am so sorry for the wait...Please forgive me:(

Read: [Previous] || [Next] || [AO3 Link]

SO HERE IT IT^^

Becoming Aware

Chapter 6/7:

Misinterpretations and Far-Fetched Ideas.

Somewhere deep in his conscious Lance knew that karma would go for a B-line and strike him right in the gut. The funny thing is he never expected Shiro to be the punishment on Lance’s day of judgment. Of course, although seemingly out of nowhere, in the moment Lance was met with the force of Shiro’s still human hand, he knew it had to do with Pidge. Female’s intuition?? No, just Lance’s life flashing before his eyes. Of course Keith would argue that Shiro didn’t use ALL his force. That much would’ve sent Lance right back into one of the healing pods. No, this was the brute force of Shiro’s disappointment in the teenage boy and utter sense of protection over the sole female member of the paladins, and her name was Katie.

Lance felt his butt smack the ground but could only look up at Shiro in horror.

Oh quizznack. I’m done for.

Hunk’s wide gaze slowly rose from the fallen Lance to meet the black paladin’s taller than normal self looming over them. Keith's face didn’t change much. He stood as he had been, arms crossed with just slightly arched eyebrows not expecting Lance to end up on the ground.

“Hey, Shiro?” Keith knit his thick eyebrows together and turned to Shiro out of concern.

“Not now Keith.”

Panting, Allura and Pidge reached the control room just above the training deck.

“Allura! Pidge! What’s going on?”

As they held their knees in exhaustion Coran couldn’t help but interject, “This dosen’t look good! Its like a squirgal ready to kill a yelmore!”

Lance had managed to pick himself up only staggering slightly at the unwavering fire that was Shiro’s anger. Shiro only watched and although, now standing, the tall lanky boy was still shorter than the latter.

Lance brought his hands up in an easing manner attempting to calm Shiro, but before he could sound anything out he was cut off.

“You think this is funny Lance.” Shiro stepped forward a bit as the boy’s eye widened in confusion.

“Wait, no. Shiro let-!”

“What were you trying to do to her.” None of these sounded like questions. Shiro’s heavy steps drew intimidatingly closer to Lance.

“Nothing! I-ii I swear!” Lance’s hands felt weak in front of him and his legs unwillingly paced back away from the threat. Sweat was forming on his nape and he felt his breath hitch and crack as he spoke.

“Nothing? That’s why you fucking had that out!?” Lance’s lips sucked in so hard he thought the oxygen had evaporated from his lungs. Shiro’s head gestured to Lance’s lower region.

This definitely had Keith and Hunks undivided attention now. Both their ears twitched and their eyes lit with curiosity and a bit of mischief. Keith’s arms came down out to his sides and both he and Hunk let out a simultaneous “What????”

Keith drew towards Shiro and Hunk whispered down to Lance. Not really…whispered, but attempted.

“Dude, Lance. Did he mean your cash ’n prizes???”

Keith spun away from the fuming Japanese man, “What were you doing?”

More curiosity than expected filled Keith’s usually brooding self as the amusement in Hunk’s voice giggled out, “Ohhhh mann! Were ya caught mid jerk-!”

“WHAT? Oh god! Nononono no!”

The entertainment for the boys was short-lived and abruptly decimated by Shiro.

“Enough!”

Lance felt his life-span shortening exponentially and that no amount of self-care would fix this heart wrenching experience.

“Why were you anywhere near Pidge’s room at night?” Each word made Lance’s neck burrow deeper into his shoulders. All eyes were on him, and to his dismay, Shiro’s hands had found their way to Lance’s collar, holding him up right with unbearable strength.

“She is young, and GOD I knew you had a stupid flirtatious attitude but…I never thought you'd cross the line.” Shiro’s head had dropped down and with a painfully deep sigh as he emphasized the syllable “god.”

Before Lance could even react to his current apprehension or even the innuendo Shiro was hinting at, Keith and Hunk blurted togther, “HOLY CROW!” “No way.”

“Did you guys actually-?”

Hunk pushed into Keith and gestured with his hands, “You and Pidge, Pidge and YOU, hooked -?!”

Up in the observation deck things were beginning to make little to no sense to the Alteans. While Pidge’s face had lit up like a ripe tomato they had been reasonably lost in the colloquialisms that the earthling paladins were using.

“Uh. Number 5. I know this seems to be affecting you quite a bit but uh…I don’t seem to quite understand what is going on here…” Coran was caressing his mustache in deep thought and only turned a bit to glance at Pidge.

“Yes, it seems that way Coran.” Allura face was formed into an unruly contortion.

“What does it mean to ‘hook up’, also does it have anything to do with Shiro’s and the boy’s constant gestures towards Lance legs???”

“Huh? Uh-hhh no no! Um well you see hooking up is-!” Pidge fidgeted in place and poked at her glasses. Her face never ceasing it’s flushed color. “Well, I mean! It means to…ya know?? Ahh what would you guys understand?? To mate i guess? Yeah! and uhh-!”

Oh no…

She could feel the exasperation rising in her voice, the bubbling words and composure she wouldn’t be able to contain.

“BUT I MEAN LIKE ME AND LANCE!!! PFFFTTT NONO NOWAYTHATYOULDHAPPEN! I HAVE NO IDEA HOW THAT LEAD TO THAT?!?!? AH HA HAHAHA!” Pidge’s nervous laughter had the two Alteans exchanging rather quizzical looks.

She desperately looked for an out of this conversation and could only keep looking back to the threatened blue paladin down below.

“Ok WOW that took a weird turn. I mean like a more correct way to say it would be se- “ Her head was spinning and each utter of a word that left her mouth seemed to be drawing the curiosity of the Alteans more.

“Woah woah! Wait me n PIDGE? I’d never-!” Pidge felt a sudden pang in her chest. She had to resist swallowing at the painful lump in her throat.

“Shiro, I wasn't going to, I mean I didn't DO anything to her it was an accident” Shiro’s grasp remained resilient around Lance’s collar.

“You think that just because your ridiculous antics don't work on your preference you can just turn around and take advantage of whatever is female around you?!” Pidge felt the ache once more, clutching her fist at Shiro’s words.

Whatever’s…female…

“If you lay one hand on Pidge I swear I will-!” Lance’s face had drained completely of blood but was quickly distracted by the sudden static of the intercom.

“He-He! Did NOT take advantage of me! And as I said before, it was an accident! Maybe you would have heard that if you weren’t having your ridiculous dad freak out right now!” Pidge’s words were sharp and her eyes burned a fierce copper, burrowing into the now reciprocated gaze of the black paladin.

Shiro turned to glare at Lance, still unconvinced. “An accident. Perfect. Then you wouldn’t mind telling me exactly what happened.”

“Ah haha it’s funny that you ask that, see I don’t remember exactly how I got to the bathroom-“

“Lance.” Pidge sternly urged him to get on with it, feeling her heart beat at 100 miles per second.

Lance chokes back a whine, attracting the still eager ears of the Alteans and the viewing paladins. He is able to quickly retell the story, with exception of his occasional stutters and embarrassed laughter.

Just when Pidge thinks the heat in her cheeks has left and the throbbing in her chest has subsided she hears Lance release a massive sigh, “It’s not like I was too thrilled to have Pidge see ALL my shit either.”

The heartache causes her to wince a bit this time. She doesn’t understand. Why was he so uncomfortable with HER seeing him like that? Would Allura or Nyma have been a thrill for him? Was it so hard to imagine ANYTHING going on between her and Lance?!

She swallows sharply at the bitter taste in her mouth, “Wasn’t too impressed by what I saw either.”

Hunk and Keith stifle their chuckles, only barley able to cover their mouths as Shiro turns an annoyed brow to them.

“Ah Shiro. I do not have a full grasp of the situation but Coran and I are having a hard time understanding why exactly it is you are so upset?”

“Yes. It is common for accidents to happen on Earth is is not? Also why would such an accident make you believe that out of everyone, these two paladins were…intimately involved?”

This time Allura’s ears twitched a bit to Coran’s words. She knew not everyone was aware of her feelings but surly the disbelieve would dampen Pidge’s hopes…

Allura re-evaluated the situation, having remembered Lance and Shiro’s exchange before quietly turning to the young girl.

“Pidge…” He voice came out quiet and gentle, obviously meant only for the ears of the green paladin.

She was met with silence and the down cast shadow covering the expression on Pidge’s face. Allura noticed her clutched fist and opened her mouth to console her.

“This is stupid. Of course nothing would go on between Lance and me. That would be gross.” She quickly turns to leave. Coran and Allura’s gazes following her distancing silhouette.

“Princess?”

It felt like a long moment of silence as Shiro’s face remained unchanging, hiding whatever it was that he was thinking. Everyone, but Keith, was pretty affected by the figurative sound of crickets in the background. But soon everyone’s anticipation was met with Shiro’s low and crisp, “Oh.”

Shiro’s gray eyes quickly scanned the whole room to his now realized audience. He attempted to nonchalantly straighten his back and clear his throat. It did little to ease the awkwardness of the his ‘misinterpretation’.

“So. That’s how it is.” Lance flinched as Shiro released his death grip and gently patted down the wrinkled collar. A mere attempt to fix the disheveling his anger had caused.

“Just…Just be more careful, ok Lance?” Lance could only nod, hoping to not trigger any more of the black paladin’s fury.

“Well. I’m going to go…train now.”

All heads turned to watch the rigid and obviously embarrassed Shiro march out of the training deck. Some would’ve sworn they caught a glimpse of flushed red tinting his ears and neck.

Of course that wouldn’t happen. It’s not like I wanted everyone to think that would happen.

Pidge violently shook her head.

But would it be THAT hard to believe? Lance and me? Me and Lance…? Yeah…it just doesn’t add up…

Pidge had managed to make her way to her lion’s hangar. She was intensely gazing at her screen as numerical codes ran by at lightning speed. Her eyes followed just as fast, but…she wasn’t reading any of it. Instead her head swirled with nothing but Lance, and everyone’s words.

Then she remembered Allura and her attempt to console Pidge. That look on the princess’ face.

Pity.

She hated the whole two syllables of it. She didn’t want to be pitied, not over her brother or her father and even over her stupid feelings for Lance. Yet, no matter how hard she tried to NOT think about any of that, it came crawling back in. Her teeth were clenched and she felt her shoulders trembling with what she could on describe as frustration. Her small nails were beginning to dig into her palm and just as her anger peaked her screen flashed an error code.

“Man their crazy! I mean sure what happened, happened. But it could’ve been anyone. Like…..Allura???” The thought made him uneasy, “Ugh! Who would haha I mean *pft* me and Pidge? HAHAHAHA!”

He quickly searched to see if anyone had seen him talking to himself.

Lance’s thoughts spewed out like explosive spaghetti. He was all over the place, and even after awkwardly watching Shiro leave he just narrowly escaped everyone’s questioning eyes, or in Hunk’s case-real questioning.

Hunk nagged him to tell what was really going on. But, what was there to tell? What happened was the truth…Nothing more. He and Pidge had NOTHING going on.

‘Nothing.’

That sudden thought made his stomach feel empty and a gloom rose over his head.

Is it really nothing? I mean…Pidge is…

His thoughts fell back to everyone’s misunderstanding.

They thought we were ‘together’ together…like more than just friends…

He remembered Pidge’s unbearably cute face from that day. Her eyes wide and golden burrowing into his own blue irises. Her soft fluffy hair, her pale skin that couldn’t hide any bit of pink that shown on her cheeks, nose, lips…legs…His imagination wandered down to the bare dainty legs that lay sprawled by her fallen self.

He would’ve overheated with embarrassment right there if he hadn’t suddenly felt the cold hard edge of a wall smack into his face.

“Ah what the hell-?!” If anyone could start a fight with a wall it’d be Lance…and maybe Keith. His anger was short lived by the sudden groan coming from the open room just next to him. His eyes immediately fell on a small figure standing at a computer within the green lion’s hangar.

His steps felt upbeat and whatever smidgen of unease he had vanished as he approached Pidge.

“ARGH!” Her small fist loudly shook the table with a bang causing Lance to squeal like a little girl.

He flinched as she paused and turn towards him.

“Pussy.”

“Woah. First of all, rude. Second, Lancey Lancey makes great company!” He stuck his signature finger gun and confident smirk.

A good few second passed with him like that, only to have Pidge turn away from him. He slumped with the taste of bitter rejection on his teeth.

Curiosity drew him closer. He peered over her small body to see, not that his height made it difficult to see over her anyway. Normally, in the past, he would’ve slumped an arm over her, but as of lately he decided against that. It made him uncomfortable, the reason unknown to him. Instead he took it upon himself to lighten the mood, having noticed Pidge’s crankier and usual self.

“Man, can you believe everyone back there? I nearly got my head taken off for a stupid accident!”

“Yeah, honestly Shiro can be a total pain when he loses his temper.”

“No kidding! I mean he should’ve just listened to me.”

“Obviously, that wasn’t working.” Lance dropped his annoyed gaze at the blunt remark.

“Well, yeah. But, honestly it so crazy that any of them would think that! Like, are you kidding, you and me?” Pidge’s ears twitched slightly.

“Ha ha. Yeah. They’re crazy. To think they honestly thought WE would be a thing?”

“RIGHT?! Geez! That’s fuckin’ crazy talk! Crow, like we would never do shit like that! *Blegh*!” Her eyebrow twitched this time, and with that she actually turned to face him.

Lance was dense and Pidge’s angry smile completely hid the steam seeping from her ears.

“Yeaaahhh, me interested in YOU is crazy enough, but us ACTUALLY being a thing and doing shit. That’s just gross.” This time Lance’s upper lip twitched.

‘Gross’…?

Whatever remnants of a smile he had turned malicious and annoyed, “I wouldn’t say ‘gross’ is the word.”

“Nah, I think it’s pretty spot on if you ask me.” He nonchalantness winged at his patience.

“You know what? You’re right! I’m offended they hadn’t noticed my type, tall and gorgeous.”

“Oh yeah? That’s fine with me, frankly I need someone with a little more brain cells than an empty paper weight as a head.”

“Empty-Wait did you just call me stupid?!”

“Doesn’t take a genius to figure that out.”

“You wanna play it like that? At least, I don’t have to jump to reach shit around here, or anywhere in general!”

“At least, I can count to 10 WITHOUT using my fingers!”

Shiro was a sight for sore eyes but honestly Allura didn’t expect him to be such a pain in the ass when he lost his temper. The whole situation was ridiculous and Shiro’s interference definitely made things worse.

Much like Lance she had been lost in thought and unknowingly paced down the corridor in search of Pidge. That was until a voice startled her, “Allura?”

She turned quickly to see Coran on the ground hugging his knees.

“Coran? What on Earth are you doing?”

“Eh well, I had been planning to talk to Pidge, but I wasn’t quite sure why…Then I decided that I should figure out why and I haven’t been able to decide if it was a good idea or not. In my predicament I ended up as so…” Coran’s reasoning failed to make any sense to the princess.

“Okay…I was actually going to go see Pidge my self. There are somethings I need to talk to her about.”

“Ah! If that’s the case I will join you!” Before Allura could protest Coran had jumped to his feet.

“Right…Pidge is probably in her lion’s hangar.”

Just around the corner the two Alteans were met with an open door and the undeniable voices of Pidge and Lance.

“At least I don’t have a bird’s nest for hair!”

“At least I don’t get cuffed to trees for thinking with my DICK too much!”

Allura and Coran cautiously peered in through the open door.

“At least I don’t get confused as a BOY for a whole goddamn year!”

“At lest I don’t get my ASS handed to be by a mullet wearing hothead!”

With a loud gasp Lance protests, “TAKE THAT BACK!”

“MAKE ME.” They both stepped closer to each other.

Sweat was beginning to drip down the worried pale faces of the observing Alteans.

“My neck hurts just from looking down at you so much.”

“You sure it isn’t cuz of other reasons?”

“Wh-what? What’s that supposed to mean?!” His face burned with anger and embarrassment.

“Dumbass!”

“SMARTASS!”

“SEVENTH WHEEL!”

They were almost butting heads, and the tension was causing the spying Alteans to tremble.

Oh no.

Lance felt his anger bubbling and although he was usually good at calming down, that last comment sent him over the edge.

“NO SEX APPEAL!”

Shit.

With that the room fell silent, although the buzz of rage still reverberated through the walls. There they stood, each standing their ground, golden eyes burning into blue ones.

To the Alteans minimal relief the fight had not gotten physical, but once the two paladins had dismissively walked away from each other, neither Coran nor Allura found the bravery to call out to either of them.

With the room empty the two were left speechless.

“oh dear…”

“This is not good…”

Due to unexpected events that had happened literally just a few moments ago, Lance was now stomping down the corridor towards his room. If anyone were to be in his way, they would’ve been run over. All that blackness he felt hurt and ached the more he repeated her words, and most importantly his words. He remembered his family, he remembered similar anger from the times he had fought with siblings or times he had fought with his parents. His mother was a open minded but feisty and boy could she stand her ground. And his father, although stern at times was mostly the calm and gentle, always capable of turning an angry child into a giggling mess after he talks them down. That’s why EVERYONE in his family was genuinely happy, his parents kept them together.

“Hay qué saber hablar…’

He remembered his parents word. Communication was key and growing up he had always lived by that, and in this case…he let them down. His steps slowed. Pidge was important to him. And he screwed up. Obviously, he was still hurt by Pidge’s words but he knew how she was, how she reacted when she was angry. He just wasn’t sure what he had said to make her so angry…

Not cool…

A sad sigh left his lips.

‘No sex appeal?’ What the fuck was I thinking….

He found himself in front of his door, slid open by his presence to show a bed that seemed anything but relaxing to him at the moment. An idea popped into his head and he eagerly gathered his things to make his way to his new destination, lion slippers and all.

He removed and form of clothing he had been wearing. Lance calmly wrapped the towel around his hips, not before eyeing himself,“You started all of this.”

The steam covered his face like a blanket almost immediately. His quiet footsteps echoed a bit Exhaustion over took him and he couldn’t resist the urge to yawn and rub his eyes.

“Was wondering who came in.” Lance’s hand stopped short and slowly lowered to his side.

“Aw man…You gotta be kidding me.”

Keith gave no response as the steam cleared up to reveal the communal bath.

“Huh, RUDE! I’m in here too!” Lance’s face lit up a bit with relief once he saw Hunk hidden beneath a mountain of bubbles.

“Oh thank god…”

“Quit it guys.”

“Hey hey look! Who am I???” A small tuft of white bubbles clung to Lance’s forehead.

“An idiot?” Keith chuckled to himself, arms remaining crossed in the water.

“Funny. No, I’m Shiro.”

“Oh oh! Yeah I see it!” Hunk gathered more bubbles and turned away, fumbling with his hands.

“Check it out!” Hunk snapped back around and enthusiastically displayed his bubble mustache.

Both Keith and Lance stared blankly at Hunk before bursting into laughter. Clutching their stomachs before Lance fell back into the water. The other two were still giggling when Lance resurfaced, lightly splashing Keith.

Curiosity struck him, “Hey Keith, I’ve never seen you in the baths before. Decided to take a shower for once?”

“Yeah, good one. And no, I do come in here once in a while but just when no one’s around.” He combed his raven hair back easing it into a stubby ponytail.

“Yeah he does! I’ve seen him in here a couple times!” Hunk sleeked his hair back with wet hands.

Lance watched them completely unconvinced, “Hmmm.” He scrutinized them with his squinted gaze.

“Has it ever occurred to you that I purposefully avoid being in the same room as you?” Keith taunted him and lifted a bemused brow.

Lance put his hands up shrugging, “Hey, no offense taken here. But seems to me like you’re just scared to have people see how little jimmy is.” The corner of Lance’s lips perked up into a wide smile, obviously proud of his joke.

“What??? Why would I? I got nothing to be embarrassed about!” Keith’s voice rose in a fluster. Rising more after seeing Lance’s smug smile.

“Screw you Lance. Not like you got much to be proud of!”

“Not that I care, but based on Pidge’s comment, you’re all talk and no show.” Lance wouldn’t have been offended if it weren’t for Hunk’s giggling.

His cheeks turned tomato red.

“Aw no sweat Lance, it’s just a joke!” Hunk draped a heavy arm over Lance’s shoulder. To Lance’s surprise Keith pat his back.

“Yeah, no worries dude, I mean there are other things that can make up for it,” Keith and Hunk did little to stifle their laughs, as Lance sunk into the water.

“Fuck off guys!” Lance pushed them off of him only gaining more laughter from the naked teenagers.

Lance felt the urge to strangle the too bumbling bozos. Nothing weird, just 3 idiot teenager, roughhousing butt-naked.

“What’s going on here?” The boys stopped mid roughhouse to see a hazy figure amongst the steam.

“I’m pretty sure the bath is for relaxing not fighting.” The steam cleared a bit to reveal the undeniably impressive physique Shiro had, as well as the towel that did nothing to hide another rather impressive aspect to him.

The boys were at a total loss for words. Shiro shied a bit under their stares, “Is everything ok?”

Hunk was the first to nod and come back to reality but the other two simply stared until Shiro stepped into the water. With one last look both Keith and Lance hung their heads low in defeat.

Shiro was right, the baths really were meant for relaxation. The boys were all lazily leaned against the edges of the bath. Lance had a warm wet towel draped over his eyes and forehead. He thought the slowly cooling towel would help clear his mind, but it did everything but that. His mind wandered and wandered. It went from his family, back to the Verdadero Beach where he used to swim every weekend, to the thought of Pidge having at some point possibly been in this very tub. The very thought embarrassed him so much he felt the towel starting to heat up again. His hand reached up to remove it.

“Lance.” Lance’s hand stopped mid air.

“I just wanted to say that I am really sorry about what happened earlier.” Lance moved to take off the towel and looked at Shiro in bewilderment.

“It was out of line what I did. You are a member of the team and I am not Pidge’s father. I jumped to a conclusion and threatened the balance of the team…I’m sorry.”

The sincerity in Shiro’s voice lifted goose bumps on Lance neck. He didn’t know what to say. His idol and leader of Voltron was apologizing to him. His mind fell back to Pidge and a lump swelled in his throat.

“No…It’s okay Shiro. I know you care about Pidge. I know how much her family means to you and I know you want to protect her, us too, but her-out of respect and consideration for her brother.” The thoughtfulness in his words had the attention of Keith and Hunk now as well.

“I respect Pidge too. I care about her a lot and believe me nothing happened. It was a total fluke. Not intentional at all. I’m not that sick. I…I’d never hurt Katie…” Lance had met Shiro’s eyes but wavered as he mentioned ‘Katie’.

Hunk and Keith observed Lance, interested in his calling Pidge ‘Katie’.

Lance kept his gaze low and bit his lip before continuing, “I mean, why would any of us want to hurt her? She’s great. Even back at the Garrison Hunk and I knew that. It wouldn’t matter if she was a boy, Pidge is Pidge. She’s wicked smart, sarcastic and funny and man can she fight!” He lifted his gaze, “She’s a great pilot…better than me…And honestly I don’t want everyone thinking she’d ever have a thing with me. Someone like her…can get any guy she wants.”

The red and yellow paladins exchanged a look before Lance continued.

“Argh!” He groaned to himself.

“But I fucked it up bad this time!”

“How so?” Shiro’s voice was filled with sincerity.

“I-I got in a fight with Pidge…I just wanted to see how she was doing and we ended up saying some shitty stuff to each other. I can’t take any of that back…”

A gentle hand held Lance by the shoulder, “You’re right. You can’t take it back. But you can make up for it. Pidge is great. She’s an amazing pilot and an part essential of this team. But, so are you.”

Lance looks up to meet Shiro’s encouragement.

“We aren’t just a team now Lance. We are all we have, we are family. And I know Pidge thinks you’re just as important.”

Lance can’t help but smile at Shiro’s gentle words.

“Go talk to her dude.” Keith shows a rare smile, sincere and gentle.

A sudden wave of confidence washes over Lance and he immediately stands up to wrap his towel around him.

“Yeah! You guys are right! No time for sulking around!”

As he makes his way over the ledge he slips and face plant onto the ground, his towel coming undone in the process.

The guys all let out a sigh as Lance whimpers.

“Poor Pidge…” Hunk can’t help but sympathize.

The silent squeak of mice can be heard down the corridor. As usual Allura is having her hair done up but the enthusiastic and adorable rodents.

“Oh! You would not believe-! Everything was going so well! Well…not exactly, but it wasn’t a disaster!”

The mice speak in response, mostly focusing on Alluras unruly white hair.

“Then Shiro had to on a rampage and-!”

The squeak of the pink mouse interrupted her. It batted its eyes and gestured to Allura.

“What? I mean well yes…It was exciting seeing him get angry…BUT that’s besides the point!”

The mice giggled at Allura’s noticeably pink cheeks.

“ARGH! I just really wanted to help Pidge! I think they both share feelings for each other and no one can convince me other wise!” Allura dramatically slumps her chin into her hands.

The mice all look at each other, squeaking and contemplating the princess’ words, until finally they nod in accordance. The smallest of them scurries to Allura side, nudges her elbow. Allura meets the mouse’s eyes as it squeaks a series of what must be words that only the princess could understand.

Allura’s eyes lit up at whatever the mouse told her, and she rushes to the door, “I must tell Coran!”

Once she find the mustached man she quickly beckons his ear to hear her whisper. He looks at her as a sly smile forms on both their faces, “That might just work!”

****

THANKS FOR READING! Stay tuned for Chapter 7/8! :D

Read: [Previous] || [Next] || [AO3 Link]

#voltron fanfic #pidgance fanfic #plance #pidgance #flirtyrobot #AIR #pidge x lance

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dateagirlwhosweird · 8 years ago

Text

The Lantern

So, a couple of months ago, I (Mod Morgan) wrote this as part of my English class portfolio. We were told to try writing something outwith our standard comfort zone, and it was suggested I try writing romance. This was around the point where I started getting super into this blog, so, the following was meant to be a love story with just a dash of my own personal flair for the weird. Hope you enjoy it!

- Mod Morgan

My girlfriend has a television for a head.

Maybe that sounds weird. Truth be told, it is pretty weird. When we hear things we don’t expect, we call them weird. She called me weird when I said that I liked the second Hoosiers album, and I called her weird when she had her head surgically replaced with a CRT monitor. Weirdness is all a matter of perspective. From any normal person’s perspective, it’s weird to still listen to 2007-era quirk-rock, and even weirder to pay for extreme biomechanical augmentation.

Zoë was always a big fan of body-modding. It had started with just piercing her ears - don’t tell her I told you, but she cried like a baby when she got them. It felt like she was going to tear my arm off, that girl has no pain tolerance. But for months afterwards, she couldn’t stop talking about how great it felt to get it done. I was obviously kind of concerned in case it was some sort of weird sex thing, but she assured me that it wasn’t. In the months following, she got a stud in her nose, then a ring beside it. Two in the arch of her left ear, three on the right. Her lip, her lip again. Her lip a third time, her tongue. Then she moved on to tattoos, too many for me to keep track of, her body becoming a collage of intertwining rose stems and snaking tendrils. I didn’t know where they were coming from, how she could be getting so many, with more turning up seemingly every week.

The TV was the next step, what she called the final one. Just like the third lip piercing had been the final one. She said it so casually, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“Hey, so, um, I was thinking of, like, getting a TV for a head? What do you think?”.

I thought it was a joke, but she insisted that she really meant it.

“A what?”

“A TV! Y’know…”, she said, gesturing in a big rectangle around her face

“You want… a TV for a head?”

“Yeah! C’mon, it’ll be awesome!”

I called her weird. When we hear things we don’t expect, we call them weird. I tried to talk her out of it, on more than one occasion, but who am I to tell her how to live her life? Love is all about making little sacrifices, and maybe it wouldn’t even be so bad? That was what I told myself, what I had to keep telling myself. She kept telling me it was something she wanted to do, but she couldn’t tell me why. ‘It’s just for fun!’, she said. ‘It’s not like I’m trying to make a big statement about society, maaaan or anything! I just like the way it looks!”

And then I would laugh because the whole situation was ridiculous, because I knew that she would never actually go through with it.

dramatic irony (noun)

a situation, or the irony arising from a situation, in which the audience has a fuller knowledge of what is happening in a drama than a character does

I remember the last time I saw her face. I remember tracing my right thumb along her soft, slightly squishy cheek, asking her if she was sure she wanted to go through with this. She didn’t answer. She didn’t have to. I could see the conviction in her round, dark eyes, eyes I reminded myself that I would never, ever see again.

Zoë liked to wear a lot of eye makeup. She always had tired, tired eyes, no matter how much she slept. Eyes with dark circles denoting the sockets. She covered them up with thick black eyeliner, and I always said that she looked like a footballer with all that stuff under her eyes. I mean a stereotypical American footballer, that is, with the black rectangular lines? Obviously, the only thing our footballers, proper footballers, have under their eyes are their delicate, injury-faking mouths, or so I’ve been told.

I miss her eyes. Maybe it makes me sound like a serial killer for saying it, but, I miss them. You don’t appreciate the little things until they’re gone, like eye contact with someone you love, or a TV series that got cancelled too soon.

When she came back out of surgery, I didn’t recognise her. Even if I knew it was her, with the television for a head, I didn’t recognise her. They wheeled her out in a hospital nightgown, her new head held low, her chest slowly rising and falling. I remember that it was showing those coloured boxes, you know the ones that American TV channels go to when they stop broadcasting? Her face was those coloured bars, and I thought it was the funniest thing. My girlfriend had had her head replaced with a TV, and I was cracking up over it in a hospital waiting room.

When we see things we don’t understand, we can either laugh or we cry. Zoë and I both preferred the former, and there was so much in the world that we both did not understand.

The first thing she did when the anaesthetic wore off was reach out and touch my face. I did the same. I held her new head in my hand, stroked my thumb across the right-hand dial. Her new cheek was cold and hard, but moved with little resistance. My thumb detuned her face. My thumb detuned my girlfriend’s face, and that was when I knew nothing was going to be the same again.

permanence (noun)

the state or quality of lasting or remaining unchanged indefinitely

a lie

The first few weeks were the hardest, I think. It was hard enough to see a future with her even before - she was all about elaborate outfits and dark makeup and bands that used enough amps to be heard from space, and I was a barely-functioning marshmallow-person made of constant dread and sugared pastries. Not exactly a match made in heaven, but we made it work despite our differences. She was everything I wanted to be, and I made her laugh. Not always on purpose, but I thought she was pretty when she laughed, so I didn’t mind that much.

A relationship built on idealism and laughter isn’t one built to last. Neither of us were huge fans of commitment. She, a rolling stone. Me, someone barely equipped to look after myself let alone a family. I was always worried about when - or, rather, how - things would end. I often wondered if she felt the same way.

With the new head, everything got so much harder. She seemed colder. Distant. Difficult to read. That wasn’t something I was good at before, and the TV hadn’t exactly made it easier. She tried her best to give me hints, I think, but she hadn’t worked out all the channel numbers yet. She’s gotten a lot better now. I told her a joke the other day, and she switched to an old Only Fools and Horses for a perfectly-timed laugh track.

Audience cues are the easiest ones for her to do, but she’s started stitching words together to form sentences. The first time she did it, switched through channels to say “Hello! How was your day?”, I told her it the happiest day of my entire life. And I was being totally sincere.

sincerity (noun)

the absence of pretence, deceit, or hypocrisy ex. “With the utmost sincerity, I, your GP, would recommend against surgically replacing your head with a television, Miss Palencia. Seriously, what’s wrong with you?”

I remember sitting with her on the beach, watching the stars. Not the real stars - most nights in this city, you can’t see them - but the twinkling lights on the other side of the river. Man-made constellations, telling new fables, of new heroes and new monsters. It’s hard to tell which is which from so far away. The stars told stories of how we had built great things to overcome our obstacles. The stars told stories of how we had built great obstacles to be overcome. Perhaps, one of us thought, the lights were great hydroponic tanks, each a bubble sustaining a life, each life a stem that could grow into something wonderful. Perhaps, the other thought, the lights were the glistening eyes of a terrible mechanical beast, crawling across the landscape, spewing poison from the spires on its back to blot out the stars above, chewing up the peons below to lubricate its grinding mechanisms, perpetuate its reign. Perhaps it’s best if I let you imagine which of us thought which.

The tide lapped at our bare feet. I asked her whether it was safe for her to get her head wet, and we both laughed at how weird that sounded. She never answered, and I don’t think I would have liked it if she did.

She put her head on my shoulder, like she did every time we went to the beach. Unlike last time, it felt cold, heavy, angular. It buzzed with electricity.

She put her hand on my hand, like she did every time we went to the beach. It felt exactly the same as it always had. We buzzed together with electricity.

electricity (noun)

a form of energy resulting from the existence of charged particles (such as electrons or protons), either statically as an accumulation of charge or dynamically as a current

a word that pretentious writers use instead of “love”

the lifeblood of a television

Maybe I just got too caught up in trying to understand. I wanted to know, so desperately, what anything meant, to find some deep truth where there was none. Sometimes, things just happen - the TV isn’t a metaphor, or a test, or a big statement about “society, maaaan”. It was never about me, and that’s okay. To think that she had ever done it for me - to impress me, to spite me, just to see how I’d react - was just selfish wishful thinking. Zoë did it for Zoë, and it was her decision alone to make. And nothing - no amount of distance, nor extreme body modifications, nor disagreement on whether The Illusion of Safety was better than The Trick To Life, is going to change how I feel about her.

Illusion of Safety was objectively the best Hoosiers album, though.

#mod morgan #The Lantern #how do I tag this??#surgery /#extreme body modification //#body horror /#head trauma /

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josephqunnies · 8 years ago

Photo

@xofemeraldstars requested: it’s the first snow since simon became a vampire and is back at the hotel. and he can’t wait to get out and play, build a snowman but doing it alone aint fun. how is he gonna convince raphael to join him?

Simon knew it was a snow day, not just because he checked the weather app that was now useless on his phone, or the distant buzzing of the news constantly playing the weather forecast on the televisions on the other vampires on his floor.

It was the howl of the wind as it whipped along, he could picture it, the snow falling peacefully before being picked up off the ground by a gust of wind, spiraling and swirling before settling to the ground again, it was the occasional cheer that was loud enough to carry through the barren streets.

He laid in bed and remembered the days where he'd hold tightly to his fathers hand as they shoveled the drive way. The hot chocolate he'd drink with his sister, stealing her mini marshmallows when she wasnt looking. He remembered he the day he sneaked out with Clary because she wanted to paint Central Park while it snowed.

Simon had long come to terms that he had a new life now, new family. And though his new life was restricted he swore to make the best of it.

As the sunset early that after, Simon found himself dressed in coats and hats he didn't need but had to wear for appearance sake.

He didn't ask any of the night children to join him as he left the hotel, though he got along with most of them, he was a baby to them, someone naive that held on too much of their mundane life.

His trek to Central Park was quicker now, with empty streets and his vampire speed to aide. It was much lonelier as well, no giggling Clary spilling her cocoa in the snow and sliding on ice.

He sat on the bench and watched, people skiing, building snowman and having snow ball fights. Simon begrudgingly returned to the hotel in search of the one person he knew he'd be able to convince to go out in the snow with him.

Raphael sat with his back to the door, facing the window, the curtains drawn back, the full moon and flurries on full display "what can I do for you fledgling?" He asked without turning around.

I'm another time Simon would demand Raphael explain how he knew who it was, demand to be taught how to do it himself but right he had more important matters at hand.

"Hey Rapha" he began, chuckling nervously. Raphael always made him nervous, though he didn't know why, now that Simon had came back to the hotel, the two have developed a friendship, Raphael laughed when Simon called it that -which caused Simon chest to feel tingly-but Simon knew they were friends.

"No" Raphael turned around to face

Simon "it's stupid and I won't do it" Raphael had grown accustomed to Simon's silly and sometime outrageous request. And though he eventually gives in, he loves the defeated pout the fledgling wore and his persistence.

"I haven't even told you what I wanted" Simon countered and Raphael smirked.

"Tell me then" Raphael gestured for Simon to continue.

"I want someone to go to the park with me so I can build a snowman?" The words sounded unsure to Simon as they left his lips, he was pouting before he'd even finish, knowing that Raphael's answer would remain unchanged.

"It's stupid and I won't do it, don't you have something better to do?" Raphael sighed. It's been ages since he'd played out in the snow, maybe since his own turning, if he didn't count that one drunken night with Ragnor and Magnus, stumbling and slipping on ice. A fond smile pulled on his lips at the memory.

"Please Raph, it'll be fun and we won't need gloves or anything, I've always wanted to touch snow without gloves, I did it once but I got frost bites, Dot had to hide me and Clary in her apartment for an half a day until it wasn't blue anymore, I might actually be able to make a proper snowman, I've ne-"

Raphael watched Simon rant on and on about the things he'd never gotten to do and Clary and blah blah, Raphael was too caught up with how cute Simon looked, pacing the floor, his hand tugging at his roots of his hair and then gesturing wildly to actual listen to whatever it was the fledgling asked for.

"Okay, dios just shut up" Raphael groaned.

"W-wait what?" Simon gaped.

"I'll go, for half an hour, don't expect me to part take in your nonsense either, just shut up" Raphael glared because he wouldn't be Raphael Santiago if he didn't.

Simon quickly agreed, he'll see to the stipulations later. His stomach did that thing again when Raphael put on a soft wool beanie on to cover his hair.

Simon talked a mile a minute as they walked more slower than usual to Central Park. Raphael nodded along and added his bits and pieces as they went.

They trekked there the park until Simon found the perfect spot of untouched snow to lay down on.

"I won't die of hypothermia now" he cheered as he moved his arms and legs in motion to make a snow angel.

Raphael watched him, slightly amused by Simon's antics. A fond smile forming on his face.

"You're really just going to stand there?" Simon questioned and Raphael nodded. "You're not fun" he mumbled and moved on from making a snow angel to building a tiny snowman.

"I am fun" Raphael countered.

"Sure Rapha, keep telling yourself that" Simon smirked and turned his back on Raphael to make other tiny snow man to match the first.

Raphael frowned his eyes and grapes at Simon, he'll show that damn fledgling who he can have fun, Raphael silently bent down and scooped up a hand full of snow, rounded in off into a nice ball before tossing it at Simon.

"Still no fun huh?" He called as Simon shirked.

"Raphael Santiago did you just throw a snowball?" Simon looked at him with wide

Raphael responded by tossing another snowball, this one hitting Simon in the face.

“Oh, you’re on, Santiago” Simon yell and began to scoop up snow. Raphael broke out in a run and gathered snow ball as he sprinted around the park.

Central Park became their playing field and Simon was happy for his vampire speed and the darkness of the night. Raphael’s company was reassuring and comfortable and Simon was himself and he was happy. He paused for a quick second to gaze at Raphael, laughing and making snowballs.

Simon wonders if they will be like this again, or if when they return to the hotel, Raphael’s mask will be on again, static and unreadable, cold and distant.

“I didn’t think you were the type to give up easily, baby” Raphael called from where he was hunched over, his hair hanging in front of his eyes, snowflakes stuck to it.

Simon didn’t know if he believed in angels but goddamnit Raphael Santiago came close to being one. “I’ll let you catch your breath, Santiago” he yelled.

“We’re vampires idiota” Raphael said while he flung a snowball at an unexpected Simon “we don’t need to breathe”

“That’s dirty play Santiago” Simon ran after Raphael.

Raphael dropped the balls that he was carry and began to run from Simon “I trained you better than that Simon” Raphael turned to yell at Simon, ignoring the stomp of ice. “Whoa, oh” he yelled as he slipped.

“Raphael” Simon raced over to see Raphael sprawled out of the floor laughing “are you okay?”

“Damn that was fun, tomorrow night we’re going ice skating”

#Saphael #Raphael Santiago #Simon Lewis #my writing #fic #shadowhunters

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necrofuturism · 7 years ago

Photo

hey fun fact you can’t actually judge how much work someone puts into their developed skills, so you can’t actually base this concept of “talent” on any concrete statistic.

this entire concept of talent relies on judging other people as more or less than others, and that leads into a lot of very suspect patterns of thinking

for example, a portrait by Hans Holbein next to a portrait by Picasso - which one would you judge to be the more talented? which one would you judge to have the greatest foundation of “raw talent” before augmenting it with their own skill? what does that even look like???

(Sir Thomas More - Holbein)

(a series of self portraits through the years of Picasso’s life)

Holbein’s art style is as consistent and unchanging as Owlturd’s, but Owlturd decidedly does not have skills at depicting subjects as more attractive than they were and could not have painted the portrait responsible for wedding Anne of Cleves to Henry VIII.

Picasso’s art style starts out as “classically talented” and then degenerates into a confusing misunderstanding of composition, color, and space... Did he squander his skills? Did he forget to nurture his talent and develop it through those decades? What the fuck happened? Did he not retain or understand how the face works in space? Ohhh poor Picasso... He used to be so talented...

Ah, but this is when we come to the dangers of talent as a concept of “more” or “less.”

Did you catch that word I used? “Degenerate?” That was a word that Nazis used to describe people and things and creations they did not like. They saw Picasso as an artist who was untalented and who created things worthy of burning. Today around 70 of his paintings are still missing, their destruction motivated by a Fascist anti-creative mindset as well as Picasso’s own allyship with the Communist party, both of which made him “less” in the minds of oppressors.

Picasso is of course no degenerate. He is an amazingly skilled artist who was able to cultivate a mastery of a scintillating array of different styles of art during his long life and has left behind a faceted legacy that takes many different forms.

Talent as a concept of “more” or “less” is also what breeds self-hatred within gifted and advanced students in school who are praised for their skills when they draw the Picasso portrait at left, but are ridiculed when they create the one at right because it looks like something a kid would draw. “It took me four years to paint like Raphael, but a lifetime to paint like a child.” In Picasso’s own words, he’s saying that it took him an entire lifetime to unlearn the barriers and rules of his own “raw talent” as the above reblog defines it. It’s not good to just be static and sit on your talent, if it even is a thing that exists. Being told that you’re gifted or talented from a very young age discourages introspection and self-examination and tells you you’re perfect and makes you a jaded asshole who knows nothing about how to learn, how to unlearn, and how to fucking study for tests. Being told that you’re not talented enough as a kid makes you bitter and angry and sad. Being told both made my elementary, high school, and college experiences fuckign confusing.

Talent is subjective and the applied presence or lack of it is used to manipulate. Talent even makes us lazy. Skill is undeniable. Skill sets can always change. Replacing the concept of talent with the respect of skill is something that equalizes us on many levels as individuals.

For some, mind you, talent is inheriting a small loan of $1 million and becoming president. Having the skills to do the job is something else entirely.

#talent #skill #talent vs skill

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suzanneshannon · 5 years ago

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A Community-Driven Site with Eleventy: Preparing for Contributions

One of those sites is Style Stage, a modern CSS showcase styled by community contributions. Eleventy was perfect for this community-driven project in several ways:

Its exceptionally fast builds locally and on a production host

It’s un-opinionated about how to construct templates

Its ability to create any file type with complete control over how and where files are rendered

Its ability to intermix templating languages, such as HTML, Markdown, and Nunjucks

It’s highly performant because it compiles to static HTML with no required dependencies for production

Article Series:

Preparing for Contributions (You are here!)

Building the Site (Coming tomorrow!)

What goes into creating a community-driven site?

Before we get to inviting contributors, we’ve got some work to do ourselves.

1. Determine what content contributors will have access to modify

Consider the scope of what contributors can modify or submit, and weigh that against an estimate of your availability to review submissions. This will help enable a successful, manageable community.

GitHub actions can make it possible to label or close a pull request with invalid files if you need advanced automated screening of incoming content.

2. Create contributor guidelines

Spending time upfront to think through your guidelines can help with your overall plan. You may identify additional needed features, or items that can be automated.

Screenshot courtesy of the GitHub documentation.

You’ll also want to consider policies around acceptable content and what would cause submissions to be rejected. Style Stage states that:

Submissions will be rejected for using obscene, excessively violent, or otherwise distasteful imagery, violating the above guidelines, or other reasons at the discretion of the maintainer.

3. Prepare workflow and automations

While Eleventy takes care of the site build, the other key players enabling Style Stage contributions are Netlify and GitHub.

All discussion takes place through GitHub. This has the added advantage of public accountability which helps dissuade bad actors.

The last step is the final approval of the PR and merging into the main branch. Once the pull request is merged, Netlify immediately deploys the changes to production.

Example of completed setup of a daily deploy via webhook from IFTTT

4. Choose a method for contributor and community updates

The first consideration here is to decide how critical it is for contributors to know about updates to your site by evaluating the likely impact of the change.

5. Find and engage with potential contributors

6. Finalize repo settings and include community health files

While there are a half dozen files noted in the documentation, in my experience so far, the three files you’ll need at minimum are:

a README.md file at the root of the project that includes the project’s name and a good description of what it is. GitHub will display the contents below the list of files in the repo.

a CONTRIBUTING.md file that describes the submission process for contributions. Be explicit as far as what steps are involved and what constitutes a “good” submission.

Coming up next…

Article Series:

Preparing for Contributions (You are here!)

Building the Site (Coming tomorrow!)

The post A Community-Driven Site with Eleventy: Preparing for Contributions appeared first on CSS-Tricks.

You can support CSS-Tricks by being an MVP Supporter.

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