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kimyoonmiauthor · 4 months

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"You shouldn't put _this trigger_ in fiction *at all*" Censor before publishing discourse.

So, People of Color people aren't allowed to write about racism?

Women aren't allowed to talk about sexual assault, feminism?

Victims of r* aren't allowed to talk about it from their PoV and should leave it to people who've never, ever gone through it?

Men can't talk about how they too have gone through it and sort it in a social justice way and talk about the patriarchy is a way that goes deeper than the basic white feminism of Barbie?

People who know what *abuse actually feels like and would like to advocate against it* aren't allowed to talk about abuse?

When people talk about sex in YA, often the discourse isn't about writing safer sex and consent at all, but "should you write about sex with teens"

But this creates severe issues.

Look, I as one of the fundamentally token red shirts on this planet, queer, PoC, NB not a woman, but often have to fake it for the doctor's office because they won't let me check off NB and give me the form for that, with a history of abuse, history of institutionalization, want to fucking transform my shitty crap into diamonds by transforming my trauma into social justice awareness.

When you say, but you shouldn't write it into books at all, that means you silence the people who have gone through it, and need to talk about it, and wish to make the world a better place.

And sometimes the veneer of fiction is what people need in order to do that.

The reason, as many, many Science Fiction, Fantasy, and Horror authors have said their genre is one of the best ass places for talking about social issues is because of that ability to create distance from the issue and then dissect the hell out of it. This way it's not because I am left and live in this country... tory, whig, democrat, etc. It's these are the issues at stake, this is how it actually feels as this person going through this thing. This is why you exactly shouldn't do it, because it fucks with your head exactly this way long term.

But if you start labeling the issue in an exact way with the modern/contemporary terms from our world, people will start flipping out, but fiction gives the author super powers to say, this is what transformation of this AWFUL TERRIBLE thing looks like. And maybe this is why it's hard and this is how to do it.

Fiction can divide things into questions.

Instead of the discourse being, should teens have sex *in fiction*. I think the discourse should be, why aren't more writers writing like Norma Klein who was absolutely frank about birth control methods, what consent and safer sex was, and the results of (for her time period) a sexually abusive person that didn't get to go to jail, and marry his teen victim. And instead the reviews of her book are... OMG, she's soooo frank about sex I'm blushing.

Nyahh, you should read her because she's frank about sex, she's doing anti-body shaming initiatives, spends a fair amount of time comparing television to reality, talking about pubic hair as a natural thing, and combating TV images, and the "perfect" body through talking about sex. Maybe more romance could do that?

This guy doesn't have the 10 inch scholong all night long. But is kind, caring, knows what else to do in the interim during his refractory period? Did Norma Klein do that? Absolutely. She talked frankly about sex in order to push sex education. I got things in her 1960's written book that my sex education teachers failed to teach me, like anti-body shaming. Pubic hair is natural. (Romance is far, far from reality, I get that, but still... if you're going to blush at the word penis and think you can't possibly use it in a romance book in a frank discussion, then maybe you should reevaluate a bit. And I do wish Romance books went over consent too and made consent super sexy by having those frank consent discussion and making it oohhh I can't wait until we get through this discussion to *try* that, but we have to wait and oh my god, I didn't know that about you, I'm glad I get to *try* that. Make consent sexy. Make BDSM negotiations sexy. Make the how, "Would you like that?" OMG yes. sexy.).

The fact an ace is writing this about consent, safer sex and trying to ask people to not do body shaming isn't lost on me. But seriously. Also, I'm not sex repulsed, just on the indifferent scale. And aces can be sex positive.

Maybe in order to get queer joy, you need a bit of trauma up front so people know what the issues are. Maybe to get social justice in this area, you need to be able to talk about what people have to think about in order to go through transition and why people might opt out of it and how that too can be queer joy.

In order to transform the shit of the world, people should censor shit like happy slave gets with their master. YES. That probably should not be shared. Write it, keep it to yourself. OMG Nazis were good actually. Write it, don't share it with the general public.

But for the gnarly, for the honestly tricky, for the things that could be made into social justice, let it be written. Own voices preferred, but don't make them write it. But don't censor them either.

If a person who has gone through rape wants to write about rape and how horrific it is, then yes, let them write it. (BTW, I'm saying this as a person who knows what it's like and NO it's not "that's why you are ace, then." I was ace long before then. I was having ace-like thoughts at 5. Some people do, and that's fine. But don't paint everyone with the same brush.) But keep their feet to the fire and make sure they write it in a way that doesn't glorify it, doesn't make it feel "right" and aims it towards social justice. Then trigger warning.

"Precious" does have sexual abuse, rape and all of that, but if you get through that story and the difficulty, she transforms her shit into something positive. And it's an argument against rape, no matter what the book challenger thought. (OMG sex scenes and it's sexy? WTF is wrong with you, dude. Go see a therapist.)

What better way to make the book banners win than to let people who went through horrible traumatic shit never to make it to the bookshelf by shaming them for talking about it and transform their stories of horror into social justice gold?

There's quite a difference, though, when you're glorifying racism as a good thing.

#trauma transformation #social justice issues in writing #trauma #triggers #consent is sexy #consent should be talked about in books #consent is required #story theory

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murder-incarnate · 6 months

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thinking about abaddon, as i usually am these days. idle talking about her being an aasimar under the cut, mostly fun flavor text in the form of divine physical and metaphysical traits

essentially i feel like, for abaddon, her race is 'aasimar' with her subrace and more accurate category being 'bhaalspawn'. doesn't work like that for other bhaalspawn, (though they can still deffo be aasimar just as easily as any other race), but she is a unique case after all. she's even unusual for an aasimar, who (i think) are usually born through mortal means with just SOME kind of divine heritage/influence, but the category still fits. the labeling is messy BECAUSE she's a unique case, but basically she is both an aasimar and a bhaalspawn. both terms are correct.

(i'm not counting the Urge as one of these traits though it is a divine thing; the Urge is a whole separate deal lol i've got a different post in the works discussing the Urge specifically)

i personally am a big fan of giving aasimar special traits for the flavor text, like halos and metallic skin and different auras etc. you expect me to create an OC with divine influence/heritage/etc and NOT give them fun quirks? absolutely not. anyway i've got a list of traits in a spreadsheet somewhere for abaddon, and they fall into a few different categories re: reasoning/utility. abaddon was created to kill the world, which is a long term project tbh, so she was made to blend in and lower defenses up until the killing starts, and also make her more effective at killing. but getting genuinely close with other people is counterproductive, attachment is dangerous and distracting, so. other traits try to prevent that. ward people off if they linger or get too close. and rest is just like... you can only make something look or behave so normal when the building blocks are all very much not.

examples! non-exhaustive list.

babies stop crying/calm down when she's near - it's more of a freezing defensive kind of behavior vs a genuine calm but the important part is that they get quiet

people have an easier time falling asleep around her and sleep heavier than usual

i'm toying with the idea of people initially being more likely to trust her, or feel an instinctive calm or comfort upon seeing her. it's a fun way for me to explain the video game protagonist thing where everyone spills their troubles to you, a stranger, or asks you for help immediately upon meeting you, a stranger lol. 'more likely' are the key words here, not everyone trusts or likes her a first glance ofc, there are a lot of factors in play there, that's just one mild one in her favor.

quicker than average reflexes, slightly enhanced senses.

her skin turns pitch black when touched directly by another person. just at the point/s of contact, and it slowly fades once contact is removed. it's not painful, just disconcerting. (gotta really good mental image of this one with gortash kissing her hand and leaving a black imprint of his lips on her knuckles)

sharp! teeth!! bite bite rip tear kill

red eyes! not unusual in a dnd setting but not typical for what is supposed to look like a high half elf. irises are always red, scelra are black (just one or both) if the Urge has its claws dug in. i'm also particularly fond of thr image of her eyes glowing when bhaal himself is either in direct control or pressing in closer than unusual, or potentially if she's indulging the Urge/getting dangerously close to doing so. i know durge's eyes can glow red in game i just don’t know the triggers.

always smells like blood.

i've always figured that her blood would taste different too (she romances astarion so this is relevant) but couldn't figure out how and then ez suggested it's like when you add a lot of flavoring to a drink. basically just tastes like More Blood, lol. concentrated. blood+. she’s gotta be so appealing to vamps between the smell and taste, but watch out!

blaming fear & delight for this but god i want kissing her to taste faintly like bitter almonds. not ACTUALLY poisonous but some people would deffo get that association. bhaal said no kissing. ward them off.

flora/vegetation slowly starts to wither and die after prolonged contact with her

black bones, because why not! saw it on a list and that's sick as hell! black bones!!!

okay that's it i need to focus on work. post over.

#durge tag #abaddon tag

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romeulusroy · 2 years

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Empathetic (Bucky Barnes Oneshot)

Character/s: Bucky

Word Count: 1,288

Tag List: Not including

A/N: This is my 1,000th way of saying I want to be taken care of and I want him to do it. Basically. Home is hard right now, it hurts a lot, and I just needed to write a bit for therapy. Things will get better soon. Idk maybe it's weird, but if it can help anyone struggling with basic things, then that's all that matters :) 💕 Feedback is always appreciated 💜💖💜

FIC MASTERLISTS / TAG LIST

The bathroom smells of mold. Spores sleeping just beneath the surface. That distinct, pungent odor. Not entirely overpowering, rather growing, pulsing alongside the steam of the water. It’s there. You’re overtly aware of its presence, as if it were growing out of your back, from your stomach and arms. Sprouting from your spine. All of it is wet. Humid. Uncomfortable. It threatens to suffocate you. Then again, what doesn’t? What doesn’t feel like too much? You search for it, some sign, proof, but there is none. No dark spots, no birthmarks, nothing on the edge that screams rot, that announces itself the way so many things do. A feeling mostly, and that ache. In the middle of your chest, in the middle of your sternum. Deep and painful, the whole bone cracking, crumbling. It leaves you sobbing. It leaves you pleading. It leaves you feeling dirty, hence the shallow waters of a dirty bathtub. You should clean it more. Scrub it ‘till it shines. You should do a lot of things more frequently. Carve a routine from the mundanity of your days. Breathing is work enough. Exhausting enough. Oh well. The bloated walls moaning, groaning, all of it too thick. A sponge for the hours, days, lifetimes you’ve spent soaking under the water. The damp towels hanging over the edge, dipping shyly in the water long cooled. There is a vague soapy undertone to the room. Hints, attempts, but nothing with a name. Nothing distinct. You like to think of yourself vaguely soap-adjacent. Neither of you put up much of a fight. A single drop across the floor, a bump, a nudge, and you’re forever dented. Scarred. Unsettled. Like it, or like you, you find yourself swaying which way. Something for people to use until they no longer need you, until you’ve grown small and fragile. Breakable. The bar lays in her dish. No one wants you at your most vulnerable, turning to the bin for answers. She is exhausted. If she had bones, joints, blood vessels, if she could bruise you were sure she’d be covered. Deep purples, golden yellows, the kind of palette an artist would use when they fumed, burned with a passion for pain. She too would sob quietly at the end of her days for no particular reason than this life she’s been gifted, that she often feels as if she’s taking for granted, leaves more scars than she anticipated.

You are grateful she is just soap. Unfeeling and numerous.

Behind the mirror, sitting on their individual sleeves, are bottles. Containers that hold your whole life. White labels. Congealed liquids. Gels. Pills. Lotions. Creams. Oils. The things you use to hold yourself together, things you thought might fix the problem. Problem. Singular, it can be such a horrific idea. A lie you wish to wash over yourself. They are wgite and yellow and blue and green and red, their shades all in pastel. Pastel is cheery. It is childlike. There is safety in chewy, sweet colors. The pills. Your pills. Some work. Others don’t. It doesn’t really matter anymore. They are decorations at their worst. If only that was your worst. In front of the mirror you can’t stand to look so you don’t. There are imperfections. There are tea stained cheeks and deep bags beneath tired eyes. There are things, miniscule things, to fixate on, to tear apart. It’s the only form of self love you’ve ever been shown: criticism. A disgust, a feeling shy of hatred. When the water runs, it burns, and you are thankful for the steam that settles across your image. Blurring spots and shapes and colors. The sink is sweet. Slim, tender, she waits while you wash your hands, while you spit and sob and scream. Of all her sisters, she is your favorite. The faucet streams without doubt, shielding the world out there from in here. Vice versa. You could stand there for days, statue-esque, with nothing but the faucet turned on. A dribble, a drip, unapologetically controlled yet released by her emotions. This act buys you both time. A minute, perhaps even two, before you must gather all your pieces and pretend what you’re doing isn’t self-sabotage.

Like this isn’t suicide.

He doesn’t need to knock, but he will. Quietly. Softly. As if he were afraid to wake the dead. You don’t say anything. You can’t. He comes in anyways. He holds a towel. Fluffy, warm, fresh from the dryer. You would have chosen anything but. Flimsy, holy, full of holes. Something quick. You would have done anything not to show yourself, your body, a speck of kindness. He drags out soaps. Not your bar, not your little lady who cries and cries. Bottles, mostly full, of all scents. Strong. Abrasive. A sponge, too. He doesn’t say what he thinks, what he wishes to say, though he never had to. You could always read it in his features. Between the lines of his face. The tighten of his jaw. The crease of his forehead. He is upset. Not with you, never with you, merely the circumstances. A yearning for the water to be warmer, more welcoming. For things to be easier. For the world to be kinder. You don’t shrink from his touch, from his sight. Trapped in a nakedness you feel is far more vulnerable than sobbing in front of him and bearing your open soul, there is little left to do than accept. His presence was never an inconvenience, a nuisance, nor predatory. Rather this is his routine, his way of communicating. Loving. Without him, the impossible task would never get done. You would never find your way out. You would never wash off the outermost layer of dread and depression. Carefully, gently, he’ll place your hand in his, bubbles smooth across your fingers, your palm and wrist. Skin of lead, it is difficult to lift both arms, a chin, tilt a head side to side, all on your own. Knees to chest. Fetal position. He talks lightly of his day, the idea of you going without revolting. Disrespectful. You want to nod along, to laugh and ask questions. For now that is too much. For now catatonic, but not forever. He jokes, he knows just what to say, how to say it, as he cups the water, leans you back.

There is not a second of patronization.

With his fingertips, he circles the apples of your cheeks, the bridge of your nose, along your hairline. This is the last. It is almost over. You watch through teary eyes. This was not the plan. This was never the plan. And yet, it is. It was. Always. To care is to do so wholeheartedly. Without judgment. Without hesitation. He stands you slowly, the towel wrapped around you as if it were holding you together. His shirt is wet. Stained. Your hand print on his shoulder. It lingers. The plug of the drain is pulled. Gurgling like a newborn, it rids the room of any evidence. You rest your head against him, a wordless thank you. It is all you can manage. That and the brush of a tear. Bucky is all smiles, his arms wrapped around you as if he’d never let go. He didn’t want to. The kind that are easy, effortless. The kind you understand is of joy, pride, not at himself, but you. Only for you, for what you’ve accomplished. It doesn’t feel like much. It rarely ever does. But he is proud. He knows it is one step closer. It will be okay again. You will be able to do it on your own, without him, without help. One day, but not today. And that’s okay. It always will be.

#writing #bucky barnes #bucky barnes drabble #bucky barnes oneshot #the falcon and the winter soldier #the falcon and the winter soldier oneshot #the falcon and the winter soldier drabble #fatws #fatws drabble #fatws oneshot #marvel #marvel drabble #marvel oneshot

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thick-as-thieves-forever · 14 days

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Dream Eater - an essay

“The witching hour, somebody had once whispered to her, was a special moment in the middle of the night when every child and every grown-up was in a deep deep sleep, and all the dark things came out from hiding and had the world all to themselves.”

– Roald Dahl, The BFG

“Dream logic seems to proceed on associations. One thing is associated with another, for example, a “Paris Restaurant” could lead you to Paris, France according to dream logic, which is also literal use of words. And I suppose you all know that to me one of the most important new facts about dreams is that they are a biologic necessity.”

- William S. Burroughs, Excerpts from a lecture recorded at the Jack Kerouac School of Disembodied Poetics on August 11, 1980

The Fine Lines Archive

I was seven years old when I first thought about memory as a place. My father and I were driving down the highway in southern New Hampshire, and I asked him why it was that when I remembered things, I would see an image in my mind. He described at some length that memory was often associative: the mind is always taking in information, but that information is not just thoughts or sounds, it is also sights, smells, tastes. All of the senses were involved in painting the picture that our memory constructs for us, that it calls up from the depths. When he told me this, we passed by Fine Lines Auto Body, a repair shop and car dealership outside Brookline, and when I recall memory itself this is the first image that I conjure: a red sports car mocked up in plaster crashing through the wall of the second story of the store front. The tie-dye painted Volkswagen Bus, a true hippie wagon, that sits unmoving in the woods down the road that we would always pass afterward. While the exact words that he said are lost, this image is burned into the back of my eyes, and it comes through as clear as if I was still sitting in the passenger seat listening to him speak. Memory is associative, and my memory of associative memory is branded into me through the image of its very association. It is so clear that it is seared in brilliant, blistering sunlight.

It is also fuzzy. There is an imprecision to my recall that makes a drive through my own memories into a hazy road trip. Was the tie-dye van really in that part of the road? Or was it closer to Mason? Was I really seven, or was I a good bit older? The farther that I draw from these moments in my life the more the waves wash away my certainty. The more my memory is filled with salt-water, gritty and flushed, cloudy with the sediment of accumulating time. I can’t be certain anymore that all of these things were as close together as I think they were, that memories aren’t tripping over each other and becoming entangled like distant electrons. But I know that there was a plaster façade of a red car. I know that it burst through the second story of Fine Lines, that my father in that moment bound it in the image of a tesseract, and that the archive of my memories was erected on the foundation of an auto body shop in the woods of New Hampshire.

I have never read Stephen King’s Dreamcatcher, but I saw the movie as a kid, sitting on my couch in the upstairs living room late one night. The plot is a bit blurry, but there is a scene that is stuck in the foyer of the archive, playing on a loop behind armored glass. A group of friends are sitting around a table in a cabin in Maine, drinking and playing games. One character mentions that he’ll file away a piece of information in the “Who Gives a Shit” section of his memory warehouse. The scene cuts to a man pulling a box labeled “Rock and Roll Lyrics” off a shelf and replacing it with a box dedicated to how to use his new MacBook: “How the Damn Thing Works.” A friend asks what he does with all the discarded files, and he claims that he burns them. If he can’t stand to burn them, he sneaks his favorite files away to a back office where he keeps all his secret stuff. I pictured myself keeping a library. Carting around old boxes full of manilla folders, Rubbermaid tubs filled with expand-o files, shelves lined with books. I wondered if I ever burned them. Or if the stacks had just become a wild menagerie of disorganization. Where do memories go when they die? What happens to them if we don’t cremate them? Do they rise from the dead, necrotic and oozing flesh? Do they lurk beneath the surface of a cold lake, waiting to grab your leg? Do they skulk the stacks, waiting for me to turn a corner? There are cracks in the glass, one thousand atmospheres of water pressure forcing their way in: an ocean of forgetting always threatens to spill inward, to flood the Archive, to sweep away the shelves and the boxes and the dreams kept in sealed jars. To make an ocean of my mind.

Dreamcatchers are an indigenous tradition from North America, descending from the Ojibwe word asabikeshiinh, which is apparently the inanimate form for the word ‘spider.’ They are beautiful webs decorated in beads, feathers, and sometimes painted in dyes. They are traditionally hung over a bed during sleep, however in the Ojibwe origin story they are not as explicitly connected with dreams as we have come to see them. They were meant as a guidepost for the Spider Woman, a mythological figure who took care of children. They existed to guide her to children far away from their homeland, or to ward off harm that might be caught in the air. East Asian cultures have a mythological figure that is a bit closer to our modern idea of the dreamcatcher as a ‘net for bad dreams’ – the Baku, a creature in Japanese and Chinese mythology created from the spare pieces left over when the gods had finished with creation, was a spirit said to devour the nightmares of sleeping people. The trunk, head, and tusks of an elephant. Horns. Tiger’s claws. The body of a great bear. When the witching hour strikes and the memories wake from the dead, when they become zombie dreams, the Baku stalks my archive. I call to it, and it squeezes through the narrow doors of the auto body shop. It feeds on the familiar texture of memory, which is the cousin of dream.

I am living within the winnowing of my interiority – the archive is always crumbling around me, always being rebuilt, passageways erecting themselves and collapsing inward – I am eroding from the inside out. Sometimes the archive feels more like Borges’ Library of Babel. Some endless space, one in which you can never retrace your steps perfectly, where you can wander for an eternity and never read all of the books. Sometimes it feels like the world of Susanna Clarke’s Piranesi – a vast array of marble halls that dwarf human presence with the scale of their pillars, stairs, and empty spaces. Statues peer down periodically from their alcoves, mysterious labels set upon them. I struggle to recall their meaning, and I hope to stumble upon the ones that will ignite the memory that Piranesi and I have left behind. I have replaced too many of my files. I can still tell you that on pages 330-339 of Anti-Oedipus they make the argument about capitalism reterritorializing death, I can still find the “zombie schizos good for work” line. I can still tell you the chronological order of the books Baudrillard published, and what their impact was on the field. I can recite the difference between Zoe and Bios, I can talk at length about Bataille’s meditation on violence and self-laceration, I can recall the events of May ’68 in Paris, and I can conjure McQuillan and Miller’s arguments a la Derrida that Masterson and I used at the NDT in the autoimmunity affirmative. I can tell you how to drive from Oklahoma City or Boston to Lexington: all the roads you’ll take, the things you’ll see along the way, the best spots to stop and smoke. But I can’t tell you my first phone number, or the address I lived in three years ago in upstate New York. I can’t remember what I wrote in the letter I sent to my first love. I can barely remember Rose’s face. It is a softened image now, blurred at the edges, rendered behind a pixilated privacy filter. There are holes, chewing away the earth. Erupting through the floor of the library. Swallowing my dreams of the past.

In a lecture at the Jack Kerouac School of Disembodied Poetics Bill Burroughs once delivered a lecture about dreams. I discovered this lecture not out of a particular fascination and burning desire to research his work, but through an album made by an Australian band called We Lost The Sea. This album, entitled Departure Songs, is a collection of songs dedicated to heroes who died on the frontlines of exploration, pushing for the progress of the human race. The opening track is dedicated to Lawrence Oates, one of the first humans to reach the South Pole. Lawrence developed gangrene due to frostbite at one point during the trip, and when he couldn’t take the cold anymore, he walked out of his tent into the endless cold to die. The second track, Bogatyri, is written for the Chernobyl divers who descended into the murky dark of the flooding power plant to open the sluice gates, wielding only oxygen tanks and weak lamps. The Last Dive of David Shaw is written for David Shaw, a diver who died trying to rescue the body of a fellow diver, Deon Dreyer, from the bottom of Bushman’s Hole in South Africa. But perhaps the most heartbreaking songs on this album are dedicated to the crew of the Challenger – a two-part swan song that, when I realized what it was about, dropped me down a well. When Flight begins, the first track of the Challenger pair, sections of Burroughs’ lecture are played. He talks about how dreams are a biologic necessity. How one day, dreams will take us to space. My girlfriend at the time will be so moved by this section that she will tattoo these words on her shoulder: an astronauts helmet with a skull inside, Burroughs words inscribed along the neck of the suit. We do not remember the Challenger when we hear these songs: we were too young to be alive when it exploded. But we will dream its memory, together in a sparse living room during the witching hour, clinging to the sounds that dreams make when they die.

Burroughs, in that lecture, speculated that dreams would one day take us to space. He ruminates on the “human artifact” being unfit for the environment of space, saying that dreams allow us to go places unburdened by our bodies. He concludes this section of the lecture, after a long rambling few minutes by musing to himself, “but we’re not there yet.”

Where Am I?

As the witching hour draws to a close and the sun threatens to rise over the mountains, I drive through the winding fog that clings to the roads that dot Vermont. I am sitting at the bottom of the ocean. It is pitch dark, and the fog is so thick that I can barely see one car length in front of me. The taillights of cars are the only signposts you can use driving here at night. The roads are a single lane, and they hug the mountains that I’m traversing so closely they could easily be mistaken for a child attached to a parent’s pantleg. 18-wheeler trucks scream through these roads, much faster than I would imagine they should, and the force of the winds coming off their sides are enough to jostle the Yukon on its chassis. Hours before, I had departed my grandparents house in New Hampshire, said goodbye to my father, and left to return to Oklahoma for the start of classes in the fall. I used to relish road trips like these: 2000 miles of open road in front of me, a cigarette-lighter-powered auxiliary cord that could hijack the radio frequencies with my own music, a center console full of cigarettes and wraps, late night stops at Waffle House. In my younger years I had found a great deal of freedom on the road: the ability to be alone, to travel anywhere at my own speed, to do so to the blast beats of my own soundtrack. This drive in particular did not have the same brightness – it was not a manic, grinning flight into the next sunrise. It was not long, happy nights spent grooving and planning my next victory at a debate tournament. This was, instead, the night that I truly heard and understood Shed for the first time.

Title Fight, a foundationally important shoegaze and post-punk band in the American scene, plays a critical role in my youth. It is a cornerstone to this day of my music tastes, and a relic passed to me by one of my closest friends. I had always treated them as a high-energy band, and their first EP reflects this buzzing sad-boy young energy: The Last Thing You Forget screams, it is unafraid of making unseemly sounds, it does not shy away from minor keys or somber flat notes, and it pairs a head-spinning combination of pop-punk blast beats with the shredding, driving tones of a punk band. They are a band built around juxtaposition. I had heard their debut album, Shed, a handful of times before but never paid too much attention to it. It was not as energetic as their EP, it didn’t have the bubbling explosiveness that songs like Symmetry or Anaconda Sniper did, and it didn’t call to a feeling beneath my surface that needed music to feel at home. Until that morning. Now, anytime I hear Shed I am instantly sucked into the dream: I am in the fog again. I am driving through Vermont, listening to Crescent Shaped Depression or Where Am I. I am lost in the pitch pines, dead walking through the rises in the road, and my soul is screaming alongside Ned again. I am shedding my skin again.

In these early years of college, when I was 20, I was in love with a woman who lived in Kentucky. Rose and I had met during my senior year of high school, and the relationship that followed was deeply unstable: it burned at both ends. We were obsessed, infatuated with each other, and talked so constantly that it was as if we were never apart. We knew that we loved each other even if we had no idea what that meant, and a part of us also knew that the 1000 miles between us was a burning bridge. The fire had to either be put out or allowed to rage until the space itself collapsed. One night in October of my sophomore year, around 2 in the morning, she called me in my dorm room and told me that she had taken all of the pills that were left. I could hear the rain hitting the lawn around her, and she said she was sitting outside. She was bleeding. She was waiting for it to end. There are many things I don’t remember clearly about the events that followed; much of it has become a slurry of mental sediment, a scramble of memory and dream. But that moment is held inside of a diamond. It is immune to the erosion, too large to be swallowed by the holes. I jumped in my car and drove to her, not a thought spent on the consequences. On the why. On the costs. When the archive floods this moment will be buried, at the bottom of the lake, still trapped in perfect crystallization. It will catch the sunlight that penetrates the cloudy saltwater. It will shine the color of blood.

Years later I will have a dream. To be more precise, I will have the same dream every night for 3 years. It will never differ, and it will come back with the certainty of a sunrise. It will be simultaneously impossible and perfectly reasonable unto itself, a closed loop in dream logic. I am in a hotel that never ends. It is an amalgam, a construct pieced together from every hotel that I’ve ever stayed in. This dream never begins in precisely the same place, but it is always the same place, and there is always a new path through it. Some nights I begin in the Dallas Wyndham that we liked to call “The Hive” because of its reminiscence of Bentham’s panopticon. Some nights I begin in a dingy La Quinta, others in the lobby of the hotel in downtown Pittsburgh we stayed in for the round robin tournament. Once it began in the tiny hallways of our Dartmouth Marriot. No matter where it begins, I am always wandering through the images of my associative past, past ice machines and bare light bulbs on sconces. The hallways are connected, countless in number, always winding their way towards a room that doesn’t exist. I will spend an entire night that feels like years walking through them, tracing my hand along the wallpaper, the plaster, the railings, the doors. I will encounter a myriad of faces here; I will have one thousand unique experiences here that are never the same. But they are always the same. When she appears in the hotel she is standing on a balustrade, her hands resting on the railing, overlooking a winding grand staircase that leads to her landing. When I walk into the room, I know that it’s her before I even see her. This room is always the same, and it has never existed. When Rose looks down to see me enter, she is faceless.

When I think of her now all I can see are places. I see Vermont bathed in fog. I see the winding, mined-out valleys that connect her to Lexington cut from the Appalachians, dripped green with foliage. I see wind turbines at night, and the standing grain silos in Dumas that call me friend when I go walking late at night to call her. I see my grandmother’s old swing in the backyard, I see Evan’s dorm room at the University of Kentucky. I see the hills overlooking an intersection somewhere outside her hometown, beneath the shadow of Mt. Sterling crowding out the sunrise’s pink-orange light. I hear Title Fight. I think of sinkholes.

“She is behind you now. You are leaving.” And the moments that feel the longest are the quiet ones, the ones where the silence screams like Ned. She will marry and have children. She will send you a nice message every now and then, just to see how you’ve been. And eventually, the line will go dark. Maybe there’s nothing. Only this moment.

Acid Rain Noumena

A few years after dropping out of the University of Oklahoma I moved to Massachusetts to live with my father. I took a night job working in a warehouse at UPS and became a loader: 5 nights a week I would wake up at 9pm, have coffee and a bit of breakfast, and then leave my apartment to walk through the city to a bus stop where the company would pick up workers who couldn’t drive. I had long lost my car by this time, and so every week I would trudge through the cold night air swaddled in a winter coat to the bus stop, board an old yellow school bus, and ride 20 minutes to the warehouse where I would spend 6 hours loading packages into the trucks at 20 Door. During this period of my life I became closely acquainted with dysfunctional sleep patterns. I befriended stuporous exhaustion, the delirium that running from dreams brings. I rarely saw the sun, and when I did it was an unwelcome intruder. My eyes softened to its brightness, and the walls of my apartment were painted black. I drew curtains around myself, I lived in the dark when the light shone, and I became a denizen of the night. The witching hour became my home.

Like the hotel, which I had left behind years before, I walked in closed loops. Each day felt like a repetition of the previous, a return of the same that dulled my senses into a fugue. I listened to Philip Glass and J Dilla. I sank into the slow-building minimalism of difference as repetition. The night owl perch, I told myself, suited me well and allowed me to retreat into a hollow that only I could claim. It was a space in which I could truly be alone – I could sit with myself, I could ruminate and wander through my archive, I could find the placid sounds that would put my mind and soul at ease, and I could disconnect from all of the specters that lingered around the jars and files lining the shelves. It was there, floating in that flooded cave system, that I met Sophia.

We met at coffee shops, at Marxist meetings, on the staircase of her apartment in the January snow. We met in the cramped line of my kitchen, where I would bake her bread to warm her through the biting wind. We smoked cigarettes on the stoop together, her always taking care to handroll them from a bag of tobacco that she would carry. I listened to her play guitar, and we ate Czech food from a local eatery, talking politics and music and art and nothing until our eyes couldn’t stand to be open any longer. Never before had I known someone whose idea of a great date was meeting in a coffee shop with printed copies of a short essay on post-modern theory to do a comparative reading. She tapped into something that existed in the sealed halls of the archive, and entered rooms that I had always imagined would remain secluded – meant only for myself. I had hidden from the sun for a long time, but when I got off work some days I would hold my exhaustion in my hands, knead it into dough, and walk it across the wind-shorn streets of Worcester to spend time with her during her daytime. It can be difficult to date a day-walker when you work the graveyard shift. And while it was, by all means, difficult to match our schedules in moments it was ultimately one of the warmest seasons of my 20’s. The winter cold melted when her hand clasped mine. When she smiled. There is a section of the archive where her room is filed. Where I’ve sketched the windows that overlooked rain-filled streets, where her guitar leans in the corner. Where her books are neatly lined on a shelf against the far wall. Where her kitchen resides, a cup of coffee steaming alongside a cup of tea. We did not have the guts to call it love yet, but maybe we knew.

It was her idea to drop acid that night. She had never tried it, and I had tried it a few too many times in college, but not for years. Maybe that means she didn’t know better. Maybe that means she couldn’t imagine that it was a bad time. But two hours into our trip, in the living room of her small off-campus apartment, she couldn’t look at me. And when she finally did her eyes were wet, filled with ocean water, and the only words she could manage became a wall of painted noise. I never filed away what she said. The words themselves, in exactitude, are lost to time. But when she had finished speaking, I could feel them in my bones. She was sorry. She had made a mistake. It was just one time, and it wouldn’t happen again. He didn’t matter to her. It had meant nothing. The words echoed through flooding halls cast in the light of a kaleidoscopic fracturing. They sloshed over boxes, through pages, and pressed against the doors of my deepest rooms. I had already, at that moment, withdrawn to the interior. I had sealed away the most sacred chambers, but water was seeping beneath the doors. She was breaking the seals. I don’t remember what I said, those words were washed away in the tsunami. They are lost to a flurry of intensity, to breathing walls, to the pale eyes of the moon.

I barely remember leaving her apartment. The only image left of the flood is one of my shoes, a pair of worn Timberlands, padding carefully down her ice-covered stairs. Too far to fall. I am flying down Fruit Street, in a night saturated with moonlight and moisture – the light imitation of rain that a mist-shrouded city produces when the pressure is not quite high enough for a downpour. I walked home, and the moon glared. It pulsed, it gave off a pale ringing, it stared down over my shoulder and dripped down the back of my coat in the witching hour’s hands. It was dark and silent, and the streets contained no cars, no people, no animals – only garbage, singing gutters, blinking streetlights, and a wall of wetness that would soak you to the bone without becoming a driving torrent. It was the dampness of still, quiet air that I swam through. It was the clutching arms of drowned stars that heard my whispers to the sidewalk. It was the painted murals on school walls that stretched towards my hunger.

The climb up the stairs of my own building that certainly happened are no longer on file. Nor are the remnants of that night, which could not end until the sun rose far later in the day. My father, sleeping across the hall, did not tell me that he heard me return if he did stir from sleep. He didn’t cross the hall to ask me why I had come home early. He was not friends with the night, he did not belong to the moon. He needed sleep when the sun was down, and did not hear my boots clomping across the wooden landing at the top of the stairs. But I know that when I returned, I sat in the crook of the window, on a long, flat couch. I know that two cats, one orange and the other black, settled against my legs and slept to the tones I played. I know that I stared at the moon in silence, and listened for the sound of pale colors.

When I was a boy, my father gave me a CD during one of my summer visits with some music on it for me to take home and play when I missed him. My musical life, in many ways, begins with him. On that CD was a rendition of Just the Two of Us. It is playing in the windowsill, as I stare at the moon over Worcester. It is playing but it is not playing. There is no stereo, and the apartment is sunken into deep stillness and quiet. But I am humming along to the tune. I am perched between two cats on the edge of a leather couch watching clouds pass over the rooftops of buildings. I am staring out over the distant treetops of the park, drawing my eyes through the squat houses jammed against each other from the hilltop. I am licking my wounds. My head is unspooling, and the rain is gathering in thick, heavy clouds over the city. He is asleep across the hall of our shared top-floor apartments, but he is there. He is here because he is there. There has never been a question, in his mind, of whether or not to be there – to pick me up from the airport with only a handful of bags to my name, to take me in, to help me start anew. To pick up my pieces. To make a pot of coffee and sit with me in the grey of a long afternoon, mending the broken things that I have scattered across a table.

Tomorrow he will wake up and make coffee. He will come across the hall and put a box of Entenmann’s on the ottoman. We will smoke cigarettes and we won’t talk about what happened the night before – it will be locked away by then, kept in a room far from his in Fine Lines. Instead, we will chat about anything else. He will smile, and the sun will rise again over the scattered pieces of my life that lie on the floor of the apartment, littered among the crumbs from a raspberry Danish. I will forget that I haven’t slept. I will warm myself in the sunlight, and I will begin writing the scene down so that it can be filed away in his section of the archive. I will note that we are listening to Vince Guaraldi. I will be sure to remember that he is wearing his favorite blue robe, that his hair is standing in curly salt and pepper wisps again from the night’s sleep. I will tell him about the new job offer I received from Binghamton University. I will ask him about his work, and if he wants to grab dinner tonight. I will laugh with him at the absurdity of news headlines. I will conquer sleep with the brightness of his presence. His love is breakfast, coffee, conversation – it is a sunrise that does not grind my teeth behind the wheel of a Yukon, but warms the skin and smokes Marlboro Reds. His section of the archive lies at the very center, it is the seed. His face is the very face of memory itself. It is the sanctuary and the kitchen and the reading room. His books are kept safe there, his chicken cutlet recipe, his coffee, his smile. There is a bed for the Baku there. There is a boombox playing Just the Two of Us in its center.

I can’t know what’s in the contents of another man’s mind, but if I had to hazard a guess, I’d like to think that the sound of my father’s thoughts was like Cezanne’s locusts. I’d like to imagine his head like mine in the dire hours of restless waking life fueled by an unending march toward the next sunrise, filled with the buzzing chords and harmonies of brushstrokes that let you see the sound of wind whispering through wheatgrass - when I am wishful and dreams enter my eyes through gates kept closed, I imagine that he, too, can see the thundering plink of hail, the pitter-patter rhythms of rain on a sheet metal roof, the yawning of a cat. In these moments of suspended desire we are floating above a resonating plateau, ground that seethes with vibration and fills our vision with tendrils of cacophony, strings that reach through and past the eyes to tap straight into our tympanic membranes, a cochlear vision; the rustling of pines under the sheer weight of fresh snow captured in stillness, a stillness that is not entirely still but which hums upon the canvas.

What does a smell look like? A feeling? How about a taste? What is the sound of a cloud drifting slowly beneath a glaring sun on the Texas plains? What does happiness taste like when it leaves the body? I like to imagine that it all converges at the sundown of consciousness, when we wander amongst the ruins of our own senses at the door of slumber, traipsing through the boundaries that separate our perceptions into their rigid selves, locking them in discrete prison cells with neat labels pressed upon the doors in ticker tape. It is in this moment of suspension before our feet cross the threshold of sleep, perhaps, in that cosmos that lives and dies in the smallest flash while we step into sleep and trawl the texture of dream, that the wires of our sensation are released and become crossed, spilling outward upon the world from our open mouths. It is in the nature of trances and stupors to submerge us in a milky haze, to flood the memory with clouds of ink and fog - which is to say that I cannot remember precisely what memory tastes like, nor the sensation of roughness as it cries out to my ears from the surfaces of Beech leaves. But in moments of reflection I often like to pause and conjure a feeling I know must, by its very definition, escape the vocabulary of my senses: a specter from beyond language itself whose very absence becomes for me a pressing, weighty presence that stands atop, behind, beneath my waking thoughts. A specter that asks impossible questions about the smell of love, the sounds of colors, the taste of dreams. I look at him and I wonder if he also hears the pale ringing, the moonlight that falls upon a barren clearing in the deep pelagic hush of a winter’s night. There are days when I don’t leave the archive. Days when I drink memories and eat dreams. And in all my years of dreaming I have never slept.

#DreamEater #TitleFight #CreativeWriting #Essay

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mb-blue-roses · 10 months

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My participation for @naruyahaweek! This is a bit late, but I wanted to make sure I did it!

Day 1's prompt was Bridge! I drew Larry walking with an anxious Nick across a bridge :D

Day 2's prompt was Sweets! Drew a Larrynix/Naruyaha wedding cake ehe

Day 3's prompt was Artwork! I played a bit loose with this one, but the college era bfs took a break from painting <3

Day 4's prompt was Betrayal! I wanted to keep this mostly fluff, so here's Larry paying Nick back for all the times Nick's helped him out!

Day 5's prompt was Passion! Have an autistic Larry infodumping to his loving bf :}

Day 6's prompt was Exes! My first thought was the late Cindy Stone, and how her murder affected Larry

Day 7's prompt was Think! I headcanon that whenever Nick has a particularly hard case, Larry will make him a drink so he doesn't tire himself out too much

[Image IDs: Seven drawings centered around the ship Naruyaha/Larrynix. All but one feature Phoenix "Nick" Wright and Larry Butz. Nick is a man with dark skin and black hair. He has heterochromia, one eye is dark blue and the other is brown. Larry is a white man with brown eyes and light brown hair. He also has a goatee, and a silver earring in his ear. All drawings are labeled with the day number and a signature, a stylized A_G, somewhere on the drawing.

The first drawing, bridge, features Phoenix and Larry walking across a bridge. Phoenix is wearing a pink sweater with a red heart that has a yellow 'P' in the center. His eyes are shut, and he is clutching the bridge rope with one hand. He has a pensive expression. Larry is holding his other hand. He is wearing an orange jacket and white shirt. He is walking backwards, looking fondly at Nick. The background is a blue sky and clouds. The signature is between them.

The second drawing, sweets, is the only one without Nick and Larry. It is a cake topped with blue fondant and orange frosting that waterfalls down the three layers. There is a heart-shaped chocolate chip cookie on the second layer. An attorney's badge and a paintbrush form a topper for the cake. The signature is next to the cake.

The third drawing, artwork, features Nick smiling and Larry. Larry, who does not have the goatee and is wearing an orange t-shirt, is kissing Nick on the cheek. Nick's sweater has 'P+L' in the center. There is a light blue handprint on the back of Larry's shirt, and a light green handprint on Nick's sweater. Nick is also holding a paint palette. The signature is behind Larry.

The fourth drawing, betrayal, features Larry giving an envelope to Nick. Larry is wearing the jacket and shirt, while Nick is wearing a blue suit with a white undershirt and red tie. The envelope says 'Nicky' with a heart over the I. Nick looks surprised and is blushing. The signature is above Larry's shoulder.

The fifth drawing, passion, has Larry talking to Nick. Larry is wearing an orange sweater and pink beret. He is talking with his eyes closed, and lines indicating he is waving his hands excitedly. Nick is wearing the blue suit, and smiling and Larry with a loving expression. The signature is above Larry's arm.

The sixth drawing, exes, features Nick comforting Larry. Larry is wearing a black shirt and staring at a Thinker statue. There are tears in his eyes. Nick, who is wearing a bluish-grey shirt, has a hand on his shoulder. He is giving Larry a sympathetic smile. The signature is between them.

The seventh and final drawing, think, shows Nick sitting at a table. There are some papers in front of him, and he has a hand resting on them. He is looking up and to the side. Larry is reaching in from the side, holding a mug. He is setting the mug down. There is a heart next to Nick's head. The signature is next to Larry's arm. End IDs]

#naruyahaweek #naruyaha week #naruyaha #larrynixweek #larrynix week #larrynix #phoenix wright #larry butz #ship week #this was fun ehe #Arty_Girl_Draws

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rikasfundingassociates · 1 year

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[Found Chatlog] The Heir and The Assistant.

This interview originally took place on March 18th, 2023.

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From your screen, the view of an empty office flickers onto the screen accompanied by the sound of employees rushing through an office as they pass and chatter, all muffled. From your angle, you are met with the sight of a long desk, bookshelves, and filing cabinets all pressed to the very back of the wall. There’s even a few items littered on these things … organization baskets labeled accordingly, bouquets of flowers in glass vases, even picture frames eclipsed by the moon overhead as the vast window sheds the only bit of light in this office. Until the lights flicker on, and you hear the chatter of a woman and a man as they round the front desk that the camera seems to be seated on. Their conversation doesn’t really render of much importance. A talk of work, exhaust .. perhaps a certain photographer … but meh. That’s when your call comes in, and they’re on high alert. Though [HEIR]’s expression seems to liven up with a smile.

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[HEIR]: Ohhh, I think they want both of us for a questionnaire, [ASSISTANT] ... How polite of them.

[ASSISTANT]: Ah. Would have liked more of a warning, I suppose. But oh well.

How are you?

[HEIR]: I’m personally doing fine, a little tired from the long work day … but I’m still ready for what ever could be thrown at me at any given moment!!!

[ASSISTANT]: As am I. Work has been equal parts taxing and rewarding... So I suppose they cancel out.

If you had to become aaaany animal in the world, what would you choose and why :)?

[HEIR]: Hmm,, probably .. a rabbit!! I’d be able to run super fast and jump fairly high... They’re also one of my favorite animals in general.

[ASSISTANT]: ... A cat, I suppose. I have no reason for it other than my enjoyment of them.

What's your favorite plant?

[HEIR]: AAAAA I simply adore flowers. Of all forms .. but especially roses— oh my gosh. I could go on and on and on.

[ASSISTANT]: I don't... have one. Though I order some for the office sometimes, seeing as [HEIR] does like them so much. She's very passionate.

forgiveness or revenge

[ASSISTANT]: Forgiveness is the far more mature option. I don't dabble in petty revenge, it's a waste of my time.

[HEIR]: .. For me, it depends on the situation.

What's your favorite kind of rose? I recently learned of the guelder rose and its rather interesting, though I mostly mean color wise other types beyond the standard rose would be interesting to know

[HEIR]: Also, generally any kind of rose piques my interest. Though a classic red rose is a forever favorite. Love, romance … and red is my favorite color. >;3c

we should kiss

[HEIR]: So forward ... !

[ASSISTANT]: Please refrain from hitting on my boss.

it’s not just them bbg you too

[ASSISTANT]: In that case I will have to reject your advances, then.

How does this image make you two feel [image of a capybara]

[HEIR]: hehe coconut doggy

[ASSISTANT]: I suppose it's cute.

What about this image [Image of a snake screaming]

[ASSISTANT]: ...Slimy.

[HEIR]: Why is it screaming? :0 He’s distressed!!! Give him space.

[ASSISTANT]: ...You know, [HEIR] when they called, I didn't think it would just be to show us pictures.

[HEIR]: Surprises are always nice.

[ASSISTANT]: I suppose..

what do you guys do for a living?

[ASSISTANT]: Well, this is sort of my living... I work as [HEIR]'s assistant. However, before this I was a medical student.

[HEIR]: I’m the future heir to my mother’s company! >:3 I suppose this also qualifies as my living .. I’ve been working in this position for as long as I can remember!

oh so you don’t like pictures what about videos then

[HEIR]: This call is so strange . . .

[ASSISTANT]: Don't piss on either of our shoes.

how do you feel about ice skating?

[ASSISTANT]: It's... nice? I'm not one for the arts.

[HEIR]: I’ve never tried it before. Is it fun?

also i forgot to ask, what are your pronouns?

[HEIR]: I go by she/her! Thank you..

[ASSISTANT]: He/him works just fine for me.

Favorite color, go

[HEIR]: Red ..

[ASSISTANT]: Brown would be mine, I guess. Don't have one exactly.

Favorite song !?

[HEIR]: I have too many loved songs to pick a favorite … However, I think any song by Marina is a good song.

[ASSISTANT]: I agree- I do have many favorites... Frank Sinatra is particularly appealing.

Do you guys like,,,, frogs,,,,

[HEIR]: Only in the storybooks, to be honest …

[ASSISTANT]: I am not a fan. They're... slimy. Cats are far superior.

[HEIR]: I wouldn’t go that far, but they are a good contender …

Okay, do you like clouds.

[ASSISTANT]: They're alright. I much prefer the rain that comes from them.

[HEIR]: Clouds are pretty.

FAVORITE FRUIT

[HEIR]: Strawberries are quite lovely.

[ASSISTANT]: Blueberries.

gay or european ?

[HEIR]: Whichever could it be? ♪

[ASSISTANT]: ...What are you singing?

[HEIR]: You don’t know Legally Blonde?!

[ASSISTANT]: Is this another musical thing?

[HEIR]: Precisely.

[ASSISTANT]: Ah, then forgive me [HEIR]. Perhaps you can tell me more about this one some other time.

[HEIR]: Will do. :33

What's y'alls least fave color (there is a wrong answer)

[HEIR]: Certain shades of orange or yellow are simply too much!!

[ASSISTANT]: Yellow is okay, I think. [ACTOR] wears it quite well. But as for myself... Anything neon is an eyesore.

[HEIR]: [ACTOR] makes yellow look so good …

would you rather fight 50 chicken sized horses or 1 horse sized chicken

[HEIR]: You will never see my fight in a battle this frivolous ... probably the horse sized chicken. Though, I think I’m unequipped for either situation.

[ASSISTANT]: ...I think I will be agreeing with you on your choice. This question is strange.

If you could get rid of 1 animal, what would it be

[HEIR]: …….. maybe, cats. But!!! Also I!! don’t really know. iamallergic..

[ASSISTANT]: ... Your allergies get you out of this one. For I it is... Snakes... They are a bit frightening.

What r your thoughts on the Arabian sand boa

[HEIR]: Very pretty... Very silly... I don't think [ASSISTANT] would share the same sentiment, though ..

HI WHAT TYPE OF ANIMAL DO YOU THINK RESONATES W U THE MOST PERSONALITY WISE

[ASSISTANT]: Unsure. I find that I am most often compared to birds. Specifically crows.

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Messages beyond this point were lost. Transcript provided by [UNKNOWN].

#kgrp #teaser

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cryptidmads · 3 years

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good evening (morning?) nsr community, it is 3am but i heard that the “let’s check out the zine” stream with wan hazmer and some of the artists had some concept art that we had never seen before. so i, being a good little collector of new information, hopped on the vod and rounded them all up just for you guys. notes and pics under the cut!

notes: i know that the artists definitely had something to say while showing these, but given how it’s 3am and i don’t know how much longer i’ll be able to stay awake i didn’t stick around to listen to the commentary. if they said something cool that you want me to mention, hmu and i’ll stick it in when i’m not on the verge of conking out lmao

also, tumblr has a 10-image-per-post rule, and there are 12 pieces of art total. i will reblog this post with the remaining two pieces of art not shown here. if you want to reblog this post, i advise that you reblog that version. thanks in advance!

now we move on to the art!

concept art for the prologue’s ending cutscene, before the title drop. the only one styled like a comic.

concept art of dj subatomic supernova. the one second from the top right looks like the closest to his final design. the text next to the headshot in the bottom right says “headphones connected to hoodie.”

a good half of these make him look way more menacing then he does in canon — i think it’s the shape of the hood.

concept art of sayu. these are back when she was going to look more like a human, before they got the idea to make her a mermaid. some of these are fully human, some of them have cat or bunny ears.

concept art of dk west. he looks drastically different from the west we know, even his shadow puppet is completely different. this west looks a lot more mysterious and almost sad, while our west is a lot more friend shaped.

concept art of yinu and mama. the label in the bottom left says this is for stage design, and yinu and mama look pretty much the same as they do in the game. the only differences i see are different outfits + the heart on mama’s head is yellow. more symbolism regarding how much she loves her (mostly yellow) daughter? perhaps so.

concept for neon j’s factory. this genuinely terrifies me.

apparently the factory was originally just going to create 1010’s heads, rather than their entire body, which sounds like another jab at the whole “boy bands are all carbon copies of each other” thing. and those things flying overhead? headless 1010 bodies. maybe i won’t sleep tonight.

speaking of neon j, here’s the man himself. now a canonical member of the “i wore pants at one point” club. the outfit looks cool, but i personally prefer the red sweater.

concept art of eve. her style here feels very different from her canon one — makes me think of over the top 70’s/80’s music videos and even a bit of the drag scene. the little speech bubble next to one of the designs says “come over for some sugar, honey.”

these next two are both tatiana. this first one is very sharp looking and says “I’M CEO, BITCH” across the bottom in all caps. i love it.

here’s the other one, which i believe is actually an old kul fyra design? let me know if i’m wrong. stream chat was saying she looks a lot like mayday’s mom lol

i’ll reblog this with the last two!!

#no straight roads #dj subatomic supernova #bunk bed junction #nsr sayu #yinu nsr #yinu’s mother #1010 #neon j #eve nsr #tatiana nsr #dk west #nsr ama #technically

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annarendellsa · 3 years

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my heathers headcanons

it's the way i see them and draw them, you don't have to agree! this is based on both the musical and the movie

CW: mention of suic*de and e*ting disorders (bulimia) as well as various mental illnesses

Heather Duke

• heather duke is aromantic and yes its because she wears green, have you seen her socks in the off broadway musical? /hj

• more seriously, she IS aromantic but it took some time for her to figure out. she is allo but she doesn't label her sexuality, and she was always confused and frustrated to experience sexual attraction but never romantic attraction; she had a hard time accepting this part of herself.

• post heathers: maybe she discovers about non binary identities and asks her girlfriends to test out they/them pronouns on her? idk? aro-agender duke?

• she also struggles with empathy as she is naturally apathic

• and she's putting this image of a cold mean girl because she believes she can only be that given she's aro and ND

• post musical: she had no idea mcnamara actually tried to commit suic*de and when veronica tells her she breaks down in tears and spend a few days writing an apology letter to mcnamara

• post musical: mcnamara helps her to develop her compassion, knowing it's not her fault she's incapable of empathy. she didn't have to forgive her, but they did, and it really motivates duke to become a better person and be as nice as her

• post musical: she sees a doctor! she eventually recovers from her bulimia. veronica and mac are 100% supportive of her recovery, and very proud

• she gets bigger as part of her recovery and learns to embrace it

• duke is very pale with really dark and thick hair and eyebrows, soft features and quite a lot of body hair

• you know the bootleg where duke has blonde hair? when she's on the tv she speaks german and i vibe with german duke now

• duke Cannot say fuck and if someone is prude/innocent/idk it's her. the why are you pulling my dick was just to fluster veronica i think

Heather McNamara

• they use she/they pronouns!! just because. she still identifies as a girl though

• mac is autistic of course, it's like semi canon in the musical

• since she's very tall (movie) she stims while standing like being on the tip of her toes or rocking back and forth and the others can be quite annoyed because she moves a lot but they never snap at her

• post musical: veronica finds her stimming endearing and they know it's safe to stim around her, especially since veronica stims herself

• post musical: mac hums as a stim too and you can often find macnamawyer snuggling on the floor while humming in harmonies together

• she used to mask a LOT and it played a big part in her depression. she knows they had to stop themselves from stimming when she was a heather, she had been the weird kid in middle school but now that chandler took her under her wing, she has to pretend to be NT in order to stay in the lifeboat (😭)

• she's a lesbian!! of course she is

• she knows it since she is in middle school and has been """gal pals"""" with chandler since them but she still struggles with it she has comphet yk, but still less than chandler

• chanamara definitely practiced kissing together "to be ready when we'll have to kiss boys" 👀👀👀

• chandler always had a soft spot for mac and tried to hide it by being cruel to duke

• post musical: it took mac some time to understand that duke had nothing against her personally. she was chill with them until chandler died. from that moment she had to prove herself as the new queen bee and mac was a collateral victim

• duke definetely gave her trauma though and mac is in the process of trusting her again

• mac themselves is not a cinnamon roll just yet and she still has to make up for what they've done to others

• mcnamara has nicknames like mcNcheese or macaroni (veronica came up with those)

• they're also a vegetarian and she loves yellow food

• like she ever only eats yellow food actually (autistic thing). that girl is deficient! part of why she looks that fragile and thin

• also i see mcnamara as mixed race with golden/light brown skin and they have this type of curly curly hair but she straightens it all the time so it's only just wavy (once again, to blend in with the heathers)

• her natural hair colour is actually a dark strawberry blonde? her dad is irish and he's a redhead that's why (stole this from @cam-eats-candles hehe) but she dyes it so it's lighter

• post musical: she starts wearing her natural hair!! and goes with her mom to the afro hairdresser to start to get her curls done right (cornrows mac!!)

• their parents divorced (movie) and it's for the best. mac has daddy issues and only goes to her dad to get cute jewellery for their girlfriends 💖 (he doesn't just sell engagement rings. a lot of regular expensive rings, really)

• she's not a baby, she's not weak nor completely innocent and pure!! the girl is a head cheerleader, she's strong and flexible as hell.

Heather Chandler

• heather chandler is Also a lesbian BUT she is on the ace spectrum like demisexual? so yeah she's double disgusted when she "sleeps" with men

• as a queen bee she's also convinced that the only way to exist is through male validation :(

• chandler is taller than duke and veronica but shorter than mac

• chandler's skin is like rosy and it freckles very easily. i see her with the same cloudylike hair she has in the movie, dark blonde, with the red scrunchie only holding back some of her hair

• she is Buff and is genuinely into sports (lesbian jock like regina george)

• she has a sharp hourglass shape her shoulders are broad and her legs long and strong. she could lift veronica against a wall easily. and she did

Veronica Sawyer

• ADHD!! she's been diagnosed for a while but only became medicated post musical

• bisexual!! so bisexual!! without a preference. she's always been open and proud about it and her parents are supportive

• for me veronica is brown, with thick and dark hair and dark brown eyes, midsize, average height

Martha Dunnstock

• that's canon i know, but she's fat, and not the socially acceptable-hourglass kind of fat. big arms! big tummy! double chin! (i see fanart of her just being chubby quite often and it's ANNOYING like that's a big part of her character)

• she's perfectly healthy like this as are many fat people :))

• i also like the hc that her attempt at sewer slide made her permanently disabled and that she keeps using a wheelchair! because it happens, it's important to show it, and it gives me a lot of ideas for cute kindergarten girlfriends prompts 💓💓

• of course realistically being fat AND physically disabled in the 80's was and is not an easy thing to go through but it's in my head so

• she's also a tiny bit taller than veronica

• i don't hate the outfit she wears in the off broadway show, but I like her west end outfit better!! it's a lot more 80's inspired and i totally see her in kidcore/clowncore etc, even if pastels are cool too

• in the current west end version, martha is played by a black woman and she looks amazing! however I've been drawing and imagining martha as east/south east asian, for no reason really?? also idk kinda rubs me the wrong way that in the more official versions of heathers it's always duke that is black, or martha? not the others? hmm

• i'm not comfortable with hcs that exclusively babyfy her or patronise her like a bunny rabbit just bc she's a fat outcast who likes unicorns!! she's not just cute and giggly! martha can and does swear and she Fucks, like mcnamara

• big round glasses + big nose + long brown hair

• taking inspiration from the princess bride line but she's a huge movie nerd. yes she loves happy endings but she also loves horror movies, as long as they have a happy ending

• she never gets a makeover omg y'all just hate people with glasses and a childish aesthetic istg

• she takes this aesthetic further though and

• post musical and high school: she doesn't just wear baggy clothes anymore as she only did that to prevent more bullying. she develops an unique style with a lot of pink and glitter and she's awesome

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ok this is getting long ill probably do more!! tell me what you think <3

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connieslover · 4 years

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headcanon : my heart was pounding and fluttering

✧˖*°࿐ headcanons of midoriya, todoroki, bakugou and kaminari realising that they’re in love with you (bruh i have a cr*sh on kaminari)

˖◛⁺⑅♡izuku midoriya

ෆ one night, you were in todoroki’s room along with the rest of dekusquad, studying for your finals

ෆ you offered to make drinks as everyone looked pretty tired and unmotivated to study

ෆ “i-i’ll help you!”

ෆ being the gentleman midoriya was, he quickly jumped from the ground and offered to help you

ෆ “oh thanks midoriya!”

ෆ you exited todoroki’s room along with midoriya, the two of you walking in silence as you took in the ambience of the night

ෆ once the two of you arrived at the kitchen, you headed to the cupboard to retrieve the mugs

ෆ “midoriya, could you make the green tea latte for ohcaco and iida? there should be tea bags somewhere there,”

ෆ without hesitance, the male nodded before taking two of the mugs you laid on the counter and walking to the drawer that was filled with many varieties of tea bags

ෆ thank you yaoyorozu for being 1-A’s tea provider

ෆ midoriya stood in front of the drawer, baffled

ෆ there were at least four boxes with the label ‘green tea’

ෆ how could he possibly know which one was ‘green tea latte’?

ෆ seeking for help, he turned his head to ask you

ෆ “y-n….?”

ෆ his voice turned into a quiet whisper

ෆ you were currently heating up hot milk for you and todoroki, humming softly to a song

ෆ the light from the moon was shining on your silhouette which was slowly swaying from side to side

ෆ he was enchanted by your beauty which was even more pronounced during the night

ෆ he quickly shook of his thoughts before returning his attention to the tea bags in front of him

ෆ but only then did he realize that he was alone

ෆ with you

ෆ his thoughts didn’t allow him to go further as he felt a presence behind him

ෆ “midoriya, you do know which one is the green tea latte, right?”

ෆ he literally froze

ෆ your head was peeking from behind his shoulder curiously

ෆ this was the first time he had ever been so close to you

ෆ the close proximity made his cheeks turn into a dark shade of red and the hairs on his arm to stand up

ෆ “s-so close!”

ෆ “midoriya?”

ෆ “oh- uh...actually i’m not sure which is the right one,”

ෆ the air from your chuckle breezed against his neck and midoriya felt his breath hitch

ෆ “it’s this one,”

ෆ you took a step beside him and pointed at the correct boxes of green tea

ෆ midoriya sheepishly took two packets from the box, ripped it open and poured the contents into the cup

ෆ “the water’s boiling so i guess we’ll have to wait for a while,”

ෆ the two of you stood side by side, listening to the sounds of the rapids of water, elbows touching

ෆ midoriya took this moment to regain his composure

ෆ he’s interacted with people before

ෆ (obviously)

ෆ and he had been in situations where he was left alone with females

ෆ and had them fall on top of him

ෆ but he had never felt his heart seconds away from combusting, his palms sweating, his mind pounding and the shyness to look at them in the eye like he did now

ෆ it was different

ෆ although you weren’t doing anything in particular, the male was nervous like crAZYY

ෆ “oh! it’s done,”

ෆ midoriya took the kettle and poured the water into the mugs

ෆ with shaking hands, it was surprising that he had actually poured into them

ෆ “here’s your hot chocolate,”

ෆ you slid the green colored mug towards midoriya with a smile on your face

ෆ “th-thank you,”

ෆ the two of you were walking back to todoroki’s room with a tray each

ෆ it somehow surprised midoriya that you knew his favorite late night drink was hot chocolate

ෆ but he wasn’t completely flustered about it

ෆ one of the things he liked most about you was that you were observant and that you took in the smallest bits of details

ෆ “wait a minute-did i just-LIKE?”

˖◛⁺⑅♡shoto todoroki

ෆ you and todoroki were paired up together for the first time for your hero lesson with All Might

ෆ you weren’t exactly his best mate nor was he yours, but you two were able to classify each other as ‘good friends’

ෆ for today’s lesson, it was to simply rescue the citizens

ෆ “let’s go into that sketchy building,” you chirped, skipping off towards the building while todoroki followed you from behind

ෆ as the two of you walked side by side in the dark hallways, checking every room for any citizens, you heard footsteps

ෆ “did you hear that?”

ෆ “yeah, i think the sounds are coming from that room,”

ෆ you followed todoroki into an empty room where you carefully observed the area

ෆ suddenly, the wall had been broken through by an oddly strong robot

ෆ the bricks flew towards you and todoroki and you let out a squeal before cowering behind todoroki who had created an ice wall

ෆ “woah~”

ෆ “i thought we were just rescuing civilians….” mumbled todoroki

ෆ “i should’ve known something like this was going to happen. let’s go kick their asses todoroki!”

ෆ and so, you and todoroki fought the robots which were coming your way together

ෆ from todoroki’s peripheral view, he could see you spitting out curse words at the robots and hitting them with your quirk

ෆ unknowingly, he felt his lips itching to smile

ෆ the two of you gave out loud pants, sweat dripping from your necks as you had destroyed the last robot

ෆ “god that was tiring,” you huffed, wiping the sweat from your forehead

ෆ "let’s continue to find civilians,” spoke todoroki

ෆ you nodded in reply and started walking and by chance, your shoe laces had untangled during the fight, causing you to step onto it

ෆ you were prepared to face plant into the ground embarrassingly until you felt a sudden coldness around your ankle, preventing you from falling

ෆ "sorry,”

ෆ you smiled sheepishly as he walked over to you, melting the ice away with his fire quirk

ෆ “thanks todoroki, you saved me from sharing my first kiss with the floor,”

ෆ after rescuing civilians, encountering a few classmates and beating up more robots there was a loud announcement from All Might saying that their time was up

ෆ whilst you and todoroki were walking back to the changing rooms, reflecting on your lessons, you had suddenly gone quiet

ෆ confounded by the sudden halt of your conversation, todoroki glanced at you from the corner of his vision

ෆ you had a small smile on your face

ෆ it was sort of a proud smile

ෆ “you should use your fire quirk more often by the way,” you spoke in a soft yet genuine tone before switching to your more bright and loud tone, “with just your ice quirk you’re already pretty strong but imagine if you used both of them.... you’ll be unstoppable!”

ෆ todoroki felt a jolt of bashfulness, pleased and comfort mixed together

ෆ before he knew it, you had bidded him goodbye as you went towards your changing area with a smile on your face, leaving him wondering as to why his heart was pounding faster than before

ෆ after changing back into his uniform, todoroki was walking along the corridors when suddenly the image of you smiling proudly appeared

ෆ he felt his heart race once more

ෆ bewildered by his sudden heart rate increasing, he ran towards recovery girls' room

ෆ he was worried if he had caught some kind of sickness or was experiencing a form of heart strain

ෆ when recovery girl had checked up on his vitals and did a physical examination on him, she had said that todoroki was perfectly healthy

ෆ “but...my heart beat keeps racing at odd times...and whenever i see this person i feel at ease and i have this urge to hold them. are you sure i’m fine?”

ෆ “todoroki... i think you have a crush. and all these sensations you’re feeling, are symptoms of love. ”

˖◛⁺⑅♡katsuki bakugou

ෆ bakugou thought that midoriya was the only person capable of making him feel like murdering someone

ෆ well that was until he met you

ෆ don’t worry he doesn’t want to kill you

ෆ bakugou was sulking on his seat as per any other day, accompanied by his close friend, kirishima

ෆ “you dumbass don’t abuse your quirk like that”

ෆ kirishima let out a chuckle at his friend’s response to one of his stories he had probably told three times already

ෆ their conversation was cut short when kirishima’s name had been called out by you

ෆ “kirishima come here,”

ෆ kirishima immediately jumped up from his seat and jogged towards you

ෆ “r-red riot? you know me so well y/n!”

ෆ bakugou glanced at the bright smile on his best friends face before tearing his gaze to the squirrel in the tree

ෆ however, his eye’s couldn’t help but wonder to you conversing happily with kirishima

ෆ being the social butterflies you and kirishima were, you two immediately clicked and became good friends so it wasn’t a surprise to bakugou that you two bonded so easily

ෆ but what did surprise him was the faintest shade of pink on your cheeks as you laughed

ෆ the way you threw your head back and your eyes crinkled as you laughed was enough to make anyone else in the room smile

ෆ bakugou was even more surprised at the fact that when you were laughing with kirishima, he felt angry

ෆ he felt the urge to punch his own best friend for making you laugh

ෆ “wait what? why the hell am i feeling this way?”

ෆ as he continued to gaze at you and kirishima, the feeling of envy bubbled inside of him

ෆ but being the oblivious person he was, he just thought that he was angry at you for stealing his best friend from him

ෆ “yeah, that must be it. i’m feeling angry because that damn extra stole my friend,”

ෆ “oi bakugou, why do you look so pissed? i mean you always look pissed, but you look even more pissed off today,”

ෆ “tch i just thought about something that made me angry,”

ෆ “could that something be y/n? you’ve been staring at her for quite some ti-”

ෆ “shut up kaminari,”

ෆ for the remainder of the day, whenever he saw you, he would scoff and turn his head away from you

ෆ bewildered at his attitude, you decided to talk to him when you found him sitting by on the couch by himself in the living room

ෆ "moron,”

ෆ from the tingling sensation he felt from your whisper behind him, bakugou immediately whipped his head around

ෆ your brows were slightly furrowed and you had a slight pout on your lips as you crossed your arms

ෆ “did i do something wrong?

ෆ bakugou turned his head away from you, “no,”

ෆ “then why did you keep ignoring me the whole day? you keep scoffing at me! geez did i really not do something wrong? could you just tell me? it’s been annoying me the whole day you know! or maybe....do you...do you hate me?”

ෆ “i don’t hate you!” you were slightly taken aback at the loudness of his voice

ෆ it was the fastest bakugou had ever responded to you

ෆ bakugou sank back into the couch before mumbling, “you didn’t do anything wrong,”

ෆ relieved at his answer, you gleefully skipped away

ෆ “why the hell does she make me feel nervous?”

ෆ distressed about the thought of you, he decided to talk to ashido and kaminari about it

ෆ “bro...you’re totally in love with her!”

ෆ “yup!”

ෆ “according to wikihow, you’re showing all the symptoms of a man whose fallen in love,”

ෆ “wikihow is complete bullshit there is no way in hell i am in love,”

ෆ and yet, when you complimented him during his battle with todoroki, he couldn’t suppress boasting himself around kirishima

˖◛⁺⑅♡denki kaminari

ෆ you and kaminari were known as class 1-A’s crackheads

ෆ and that’s what made the two of you best friends

ෆ thanks to your playful and carefree personality, you were able to befriend kaminari easily

ෆ you two were like two edamames in a pod

ෆ does that make sense idk lol

ෆ when the two of you were put into the same group for a mission

ෆ god aizawa-sensei literally regrets his decision in becoming a teacher

ෆ you two were literally UNSTOPPABLE together

ෆ like you’d literally be shouting encouraging words at each other and kicking ass side by side

ෆ your friendship with kaminari definitely raised a few brows amongst your classmates

ෆ one night, kaminari was laid down on the floor of kirishima’s room, talking about god knows what

ෆ suddenly, kirishima asked a question regarding you

ෆ “soooo kaminari, are you and y/n a thing now or?”

ෆ “what? no! what makes you think that?”

ෆ kirishima tapped on his chin with a sly grin on his lips,

ෆ “i just thought that you had feelings for her or something,”

ෆ kaminari’s mind literally blanked

ෆ “f-feelings? as in....romantic feelings?”

ෆ “yes you idiot,”

ෆ kaminari blinked as he stared at kirishima with a baffled face

ෆ he stood up in a robotic manner,

ෆ “i’m going to bed now. goodnight,”

ෆ kaminari laid on his soft mattress as he stared at the ceiling of his room, his thoughts running rapidly

ෆ “romantic feelings....”

ෆ kaminari always saw you as a person he could trust, enjoy his time with and confide in

ෆ surely he only saw you as his bestfriend and nothing more

ෆ right?

ෆ his loud thoughts were broken off when he heard a knock on his door

ෆ “kaminari, it’s me!”

ෆ “did i just manifest y/n?”

ෆ after hearing your voice, he immediately rolled of his bed and twisted his door knob, allowing you to enter

ෆ although a majority of your face was hidden due to the oversized hoodie you were wearing, the gleam in your eyes was evident

ෆ you twirled into his room, clutching your nintendo switch in your hands

ෆ “kaminari, you can’t believe what just happened!”

ෆ you shoved your nintendo switch into kaminari’s hand and started blabbering about your island and your new villagers

ෆ the words from your mouth sounded like gibberish to kaminari as he was focused on the way your eyes twinkled as you spoke about your treasures, your feet which were jumping up and down in excitement and your hands which were moving around as you spoke

ෆ ��i just thought that you had feelings for her or something,”

ෆ “hello? earth to kaminari?” you waved your hands in front of the dazed male

ෆ he immediately snapped back into reality, cheeks slightly flushing as he realized he was caught dazing about you

ෆ “we’re just best friends. there’s nothing more to that,”

ෆ “oh! could you help me go fishing? kirishima says that you’re good at it!”

ෆ before he knew it your hands were on his wrist, dragging him to his bed where the two of you sat down, side by side

ෆ kaminari decided to push his thoughts away and instead focus on the game in front of him

ෆ “ah shoot i nearly had it!”

ෆ kaminari’s fingers fumbled clumsily on the controller as he tried reeling in the fish, resulting him to fail his third attempt

ෆ as his brows furrowed in concentration, he couldn’t help but notice your presence getting closer to him

ෆ from his peripheral vision, he could see you looking at the screen with intense concentration which he oddly found cute

ෆ ‘ba-bump’

ෆ “wait what? no way! my heart totally skipped a beat just now..”

ෆ pushing his thoughts away from you my ass smh

ෆ kaminari became even more aware of your presence, causing him to lose the fish once again

ෆ “what did kirishima say about you being good again? i bet my toes could play better than you!”

ෆ you took your nintendo switch from kaminari with puffed cheeks as you were slightly disappointed at his gameplay

ෆ but the moment your fingers grazed kaminari’s,

ෆ he knew that the jolt of electricity he felt wasn’t from his quirk

ෆ “look! i got one on my first try!”

ෆ for the next five minutes of you catching fishes with intense concentration, kaminnari spent this moment to fawn over you

ෆ he was entranced by the way your eyes lit up when you had caught something and the way your lips unconsciously pouted when you didn’t

ෆ maybe he did have feelings for you after all

#bnha #bnha x reader #mha #mha x reader #Midoriya #midoriya x reader #todoroki #todoroki x reader #bakugou #bakugou x reader #kaminari #kaminari x reader #my hero academia #boku no hero academia #mha headcanons #bnha headcanons #Headcanon #anime #imagine

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ashintheairlikesnow · 3 years

Text

Paul Higgs: Baby Daze

Tomorrow I will return you to your regularly scheduled whump programming. Today... this is what wanted to be written.

CW: Teen pregnancy, some crass language surrounding said pregnancy, brief gun reference, some organized crime references

Approximately eighteen years before Tristan Higgs became another casualty of WRU…

"Well, look who’s here! Billy Higgs’s boy, come to see us after school, then?" Sean Malley claps him on the back and Paul nearly stumbles forward, just barely catching himself as he crosses the threshold from the sun-warmed walkway with straggly weeds growing stubbornly up through the cracks into the chilly shadowed warehouse. His sneakers scrape along the ground, but he stays standing.

He's hardly even as big as a stick compared to his dad's work buddies, all older guys with thick muscled forearms and sleeves rolled up to their elbows. He’s never had much muscle on him at all, but then his dad didn’t have much in old photos either. Maybe he’d get some as he got older, if he worked here. If they let him. "How’s things, hm? Keeping your grades up?”

Paul smiles, a slightly strained expression. The smile is automatic, it’s what everyone expects with small talk. At school he mostly doesn’t even bother with it, but with his dad’s friends… well, a smile’s polite. Right? Friendly.

He tries to look more friendly. He needs them to say yes to what he’s about to ask for.

“They’re fine,” He says, squinting as his eyes adjust to the change in light. “Same as always, A’s and B’s.”

Mostly B’s, but they don’t need to know that.

“Good, good.” Sean slides an arm around his shoulders, jovial as always. Paul tries not to be visibly uncomfortable at the touch. Everyone is always touchy, in the world, and he’s never liked it much. Except with Ronnie, but… that’s different. “So, talk to us, Paulie. What's got Billy’s boy mucking around here at the Garden with the old-timers?"

It's not actually much of a garden, unless you count the dandelions in the sidewalks and the bits of scraggly grass along the edges of the pavement as your rows of plants. Instead, the big warehouse stretches wider than two Walmarts, chopped off into pieces by the standalone temporary walls inside that don't reach the ceiling.

The ‘Garden’ is a place where things happen that no one with a badge is ever supposed to see. There's shouting, good-natured calling out of sums and figures and code words Paul doesn't know, bouncing and echoing in a constant chaos of sound. Metal scrapes, an odd clicking Paul vaguely recognizes but can’t quite place until he thinks of his dad cleaning his guns now and then at night, carefully putting them back together once he’s done.

All that noise lays heavy like a blanket over his skin. He pushes past it - he's got a reason to be here, and he won't let Ronnie down. He can’t let her down.

"I'm here to work," He says, going for strong and loud. He doesn't change expression when the men around him laugh.

He doesn't think their laughter is meant to be unkind, and besides, he doesn't really care if it is. These men have all known him since he was born - if anyone’s going to give him what he needs, it’ll be them. "My dad told me I could pick up some shifts this weekend as a lookout, that you pay cash at the end of the shift, right away. That I could get a couple hundred if I’m good at it, maybe five if I do some running, too.”

"Oh he said that, did he?" Sean meets eyes with Cilly, whose real name Paul has never learned. He isn’t entirely sure anyone here has ever given him their real legal name. Not even Sean. "Will might've let the family know first before he sent his boy here, hm?

"Well, it's. It's important I get cash. Um. Fast. I just spoke to him, probably he'll call you in a bit thinking he's giving you a warning." Paul tries for another smile, and hopes it's warm enough. A bit of coppery strawberry blond hair falls over his green eyes as he looks hopefully from man to man.

He's not even eighteen yet, but really, isn't that even better for a lookout? He knows where they do their business, he knows who to watch for, and he doesn’t look like he’s one of them at all. He's paid attention, sat up at night making maps of where they work and what they do. He knows they’ve gotten into business with WRU, even, the big Facility up in Berras has been sending people down here now and then. He’s good at this sort of thing. He knows he can do this. He’s going to make a living at this one day, and everyone starts somewhere.

He just… has to convince them. These men aren't unreasonable, and they're family. Well, sort of. In a way. In that they all commit crimes with his dad. And some of them actually are real family, although he’s not always sure exactly who.

"What d'you need cash for that can't wait for your parents to come back from Florida, then?" That's Cilly, scratching idly at a red spot on his face, sipping a mug of hot tea like they're at a kitchen counter and not a fold-out table by a warehouse door. The others all have takeout coffee cups, but not Cilly.

Paul's mom buys him new mugs on all her vacations. A gentleman among thieves, she said once.

Nah, Paul's dad had said. Just a thief. But he puts on airs for you.

All the more reason to show him my appreciation, Bill.

The mug he’s drinking from now was one of Paul’s mom’s presents to him. It has a little palmetto tree on the side and Nothin’ Could Be Finer written in swirling script. It came from a trip to Myrtle Beach, South Carolina when Paul was seven.

He hated that trip. He never liked sand. Or the ocean. Or the noise of all the people everywhere in the street. He would have been happy with a book on the couch in the condo if they’d have let him stay there.

"They're not in-"

"Think they're in Georgia," Conor pipes up, the oldest with hair gone nearly gray, cousins to the real boss, a man Paul has met maybe three times and knows only as Mr. Sondheim - which isn’t even a little bit his actual name.

Conor makes Paul’s skin prickle, the way he thinks maybe a cat feels when it sees a mean-looking dog across the street. Paul's dad came home once with blood he had to wash off his hands and a shirt he had to throw out. When Paul asked, he said only, Conor's temper is going to get someone who matters killed one day. Too bad his grandson's as bad as he is. "Aren't they?"

"Nah," Sean says, shaking his head. "Florida. Definitely Florida."

"Actually," Paul starts. "They're in-"

"I thought Texas," Cilly says, almost thoughtful. He interrupts Paul thoughtlessly, and Paul’s face colors a little with embarrassment. He feels like the odd man out in a conversation meant to be about him.

"They went to Alabama," Paul finally says, soft. Thinking no one’s listening, but they all look at him then. That's worse than when they weren't paying attention at all. He never meets any one person's eyes, instead focusing on Sean Malley's forehead, a spot that'll look like eye contact without having to be it. He's never liked having to look too many people in the eye.

Or anyone, actually.

"Ah, all right then. Alabama. Well. What couldn't wait for them to get back from Alabama, Paulie-Wol?"

No one's called him Paulie-Wol since he was eleven - and he hated it then. He blushes even darker. He's always been easy to make blush, and they laugh again. It's a little meaner this time. He has to not care. It’s important not to care, so they’ll let him work.

Paul Higgs straightens his narrow shoulders and pulls a crumpled but of paper, shiny on one side, out from his back pocket. "This is why. I need money. Fast. For this."

He can't help how his voice dips, hushed, almost in awe. Sean is the first to take the little piece of paper, eyes widening in surprise at what he sees, before he hands it to Conor, who whistles through his teeth. Cilly takes it next, with a soft exhalation that's either curse or prayer.

With this group, it could be either. Or both. Paul’s dad always says God doesn’t care overmuch about the difference.

"You're a bit young, aren't you? To need money for this?" Sean asks, and he's… concerned, Paul thinks, and he tries to square himself up even taller. “What’re you, Paulie, fifteen?”

"S-seventeen. It’s-... we didn’t plan on it, Sean, it just happened." This time when his face stays red, heat burning under the smattering of freckles across his cheeks and nose, they don't laugh. All their smiles are gone, too.

They've gone serious, these men who aren't quite blood but might as well be. They aren't laughing at or with or because of him. They look worried about him.

"Paulie," Conor says, shaking his head. "Paulie, you know better than this. Don't they teach you how to make sure this shit don't just happen? Thought we’d stop having teenagers knocking each other up once we got past the eighties.”

"They did. I had a whole health class where we-... but it doesn’t matter, it still. Happened, okay?" The absolute last thing he wants to do is talk to these old guys about Ronnie, and why, and when. If they ask him he’ll melt into the floor, and die, and just be dead right here and now.

“So, when you say you need money… Are you looking to drive her up to Berras?”

“No, that’s not... We talked about it, but she said she already thought about it and made her decision. This isn’t… Don’t look at me like that. I like her decision. I’m happy.”

“You are?” Sean blinks, surprised.

“Yes! I'm happy, so don't tell me I fucked up, because I did. I know I did, but… but I talked to Ronnie, and we have a whole plan and I need money for my plan. And just. Look at it.”

Sean glances back down, taking the paper back, smoothing it out. Shiny on one side, it's a printed black and white image, a smeary blur of monochrome shades. Unmistakable in its center, more or less, is a gently rounded blob of white, topped with another and with other little blobs coming off its sides. Labeled along the top is Baby Botham, 14 weeks 3 days.

“Botham?” Sean asks, head cocked to one side.

“That’s… that’s Ronnie’s last name. She, uh. She didn’t tell them… Because we’re not married.” Paul squares himself up again. “Yet. We’re not married yet.”

He tries not to think about Ronnie crying on his shoulder about how her parents and her sister had screamed at her when she told them, that no one was talking to her and they might throw her out, like this. His throat will close up if he does, in hurt for her, and in anger.

His own parents he’d just told on the phone today, heard the long silence on the other end. Whispers that didn’t quite carry through the line. Then his mother had said, brisk and no-nonsense as always, So what does Ronnie want to do? We’ll help however we can. Will she need somewhere to stay?

“You’re not married yet,” Cilly repeats, not with derision, just with a kind of flat uncertainty. “You’re seventeen, Paulie. Little young to be talking marriage, don’t you think?”

“Well, we’re talking it, anyway,” Paul says firmly. “And don’t tell me it’s stupid. We already made our minds up.”

“Well, far be it for me to question your judgement,” Sean deadpans. “Since you’re clearly making excellent decisions already-”

“I got married at sixteen,” Conor points out. “Wife and I been married forty-two years this December, too. Sometimes it works out.”

“Different world, different times,” Cilly counters, and Conor has to nod in agreement to that. “Lots of those didn’t work out either, now did they? Besides, kids got options now we didn’t have back then.”

“Ronnie doesn’t want those other options,” Paul says, forcing his voice to be loud enough to carry, surprising all three men, who give him a new kind of look. Maybe even seeing him as nearly a man and not a kid, just for the moment. “She doesn’t. I never told her to do or not do anything, we talked about it, and she knows what she wants to do, and I agree with her. Ronnie and I want to get married, and we’ll need somewhere we can live when-... when the baby comes. So I need to start making money. And I want-... I need some fast, this weekend.”

Cilly’s expression goes cold. “Don’t tell me your folks are making you find a place that fast. I’ll take Billy to the woodshed myself if he’d be such a bastard to his own kid when things get tough-”

“He’s not,” Paul says quickly. “They’re not. Mom and Dad aren’t-... but they get it, they’re helping us. It’s not for an apartment, not yet. It’s so I can buy her some stuff.”

"This is a serious thing," Sean says, and he rubs his thumb over what Paul is pretty sure is his baby's head. The blobs are all sort of odd to look at, but… he's pretty sure that one's the head. It’s where he would put the head, if he were designing a person, anyway. "But I can see you’re quite the serious young man, now. What sort of stuff are you lookin’ to buy, Paulie?"

Paul swallows, nervously rubbing his palms along the seems on the outside of his pants. “I… I don’t know. What do you buy someone who’s pregnant? I thought, like, baby clothes? Or a crib?”

“No, no, no.” Sean shakes his head. “You can’t just get her baby stuff, not this early. You are not starting with a crib, Paulie. You got nowhere to even put one yet.”

“Then… what do I buy?” Paul looks from man to man. “I’ve never known a pregnant person before, not anyone I cared about.”

“You were around for my wife’s last pregnancy,” Sean says, mildly offended.

Paul shrugs.

The three older men look at each other, and then sigh nearly as one. Someone pushes out the fourth chair from the fold-up table and Paul sits, each of the other men sitting in turn. Sean picks up his phone and dials. “Hey, Don. Let everybody know we’re off-limits for the next couple hours, ‘til lunch. Yeah, Billy Higgs’s boy stopped by. He’s sniffing around for some lookout work this weekend. Find him some decent jobs for me, will you?”

Paul starts to smile, and it’s genuine this time. Sean hands him back the little picture of the blob that will become a baby, his and Ronnie’s baby, and he tries not to crumble it fully in his hands, worried his sweat will smear the ink. She’ll get another one in a few weeks, said her doctor told her it’ll look more like a person, then. Less like a weird frog. Or like a really, really bad painting.

“Thanks, I’ll owe you.” Sean hangs up the phone and grins, leaning on his elbows on the wobbly little table. The sun shines warmly through the open warehouse doors on Paul’s back. “All right. Between the three of us, we’ve got, what, ten kids?”

“Yeah, but five of those are all Cilly’s,” Conor points out. “And mine stopped bein’ kids decades ago.”

“Yeah, but babies don’t change, and they don’t need much. You need a pen and paper to write things down, Paulie?”

“Write… write what down?”

“What you’re gonna spend your money on, for your girlfriend. You don’t just show up with baby clothes, kid, you gotta go all out. Let’s talk date, let’s talk gifts for this Ronnie, let’s talk it all out.”

“What to Expect When You’re Expecting,” Cilly says. “They all get that book, right? Isn’t that the one?”

Sean snorts, derisive. “Don’t get her that, not this early. That damn book had my wife in fucking tears telling her everything that could go wrong. We need to think of a happier book than that.”

“Well, call your wife and ask her what she’d want, then.”

“Maybe I will.”

“You should!”

“She’s liable to start planning a damn baby shower if I do. You know how Christa is about little ones.”

Cilly grins. “Think she’ll make those deviled eggs I like for the shower?”

“Cilly, for God’s sake, we found out about this five minutes ago.”

“Right, but... deviled eggs.”

Paul takes a deep breath, and sits back in his chair. “I’ll remember, whatever you say. I promise. I don’t need to write it down. Just tell me what I should get her, what I should do.”

“Right. Well, then.” Sean spreads his hands. “Let’s talk gifts.”

Tagging: @burtlederp , @finder-of-rings , @endless-whump , @whumpfigure , @astrobly @newandfiguringitout , @doveotions , @pretty-face-breaker , @gonna-feel-that-tomorrow @boxboysandotherwhump , @oops-its-whump @cubeswhump , @whump-tr0pes @downriver914 @vickytokio @whumpiary @orchidscript @moose-teeth @nonsensical-whump

#original fiction #chris the strawberry blond romantic #paul higgs #ronnie higgs #the past #a very special flashback episode #teen pregnancy tw #mob stuff #brief gun reference #fluff #honestly I just wanted to explore Paul as a character because you don't see much inside his head or get much of a feel for him #writing #writeblr #whumpblr #bbu #box boy universe

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centrally-unplanned · 3 years

Text

Allocating Your Aesthetic Budget: Sailor Moon Edition

Sailor Moon is a show that undoubtedly built a powerhouse of a visual brand. Should I even bother posting a screenshot of the sailor scouts, given that I am 100% confident anyone reading this can recall them instantly? I guess it won’t hurt:

Anime is often really good at creating iconic designs like this, through repetition of the visuals. It is awkward in live action shows if characters just wear the same outfit every scene (what, they only own one outfit? Are they homeless/work in the tech industry?), but animation gives us enough aesthetic “distance”, an awareness that this isn’t accurate to real life, that you can buy into the conceit. By wearing the same outfit every time, it just becomes the character. Not to mention a studio can really save quite a few bucks by streamlining production with neat tricks like having only one character design to animate - when you are on a shoe-string budget, like pretty much every anime in the 90’s was, every cut corner counts.

What is interesting about Sailor Moon is that most of the time it doesn’t really use this conceit at all.

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Episode 15 of Sailor Moon’s first season has, in its opening act, this shot of all of the Senshi (at the time) talking to the plot-of-the-day character, who clearly trains rock Pokemon in 16-bit caves in his off hours:

If you knew nothing about these three characters, you could probably infer about 80% of their personality just from their outfits. Usagi (the blond one in the middle, if that's necessary) is wearing:

Light pastel colours, with pink on top of that: girly, feminine, bubbly and breezy

Short-but-not-too-short of a skirt, and red heels: cares about fashion, wants to project an image of being a woman with a romantic hint to it

Long-twin tails w/ buns: Contrasting the shoes, she is still immature and childish. It also means she is the protagonist of an anime

Rei (far right) rocks a very different look:

T-shirt and jean shorts, shoes over heels: sensible, practical, a bit sporty

Very short shorts, long black hair: Confident, a bit aggressive, and suggestive of a more overt sexuality

Ami (far left) settles into a more restrained vibe with:

Full, long, but sleeveless dress, bob-cut hair: Chaste, more conservative, but not to the point of prudishness; particularly with the length (and the hand posture, shielding her body) probably a bit shy

Monochrome blue colour in outfit & hair: reserved, serene, possessing a calm demeanor

I know I have seen the show already, but really none of these details are a stretch - this is just the language of fashion. And all of these outfits are outfits that the characters have never (or rarely) worn before up until this point. The cast of Sailor Moon, far from that animation conceit of “standard outfits”, change clothes all…

the….

time.

I just randomly clicked on episodes to find these, it requires no hunting

And while it isn’t always as spot on as the top picture, they all in some way embody the language of visual design to speak to the personality of the characters. If you want to see more, check out one of the multiple tumblrs dedicated to the everyday clothing the Sailor Senshi wear, because of course those exist.

If this was a 2010’s Kyoto Animation show, pointing this out would be the end of it - every one of their shows has this level of impeccable detail. Sailor Moon is notable in that it is not at all that kind of show; the animation and designs in Sailor Moon take perpetual shortcuts to get the job done. I don’t think the transformation sequences need to be belabored - the way they permitted the team to recycle identical animation sequences, multiple times per episode, was surely a godsend to the production schedule. Yet not all of the budget limitations are so prettily masked:

I’m sure they finished the background art in the...VHS release?

The show is filled with dirty animation, unfinished backgrounds, backgrounds that are a simple color gradient for no clear reason, and so on. It is clear that the Sailor Moon team did not have the resources for every detail - which is why the decision of what details they did choose to prioritize is so interesting.

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What is the point of Sailor Moon? I do believe that shows have “points”; and by that I don’t mean a message or theme but a core appeal to an audience, something specific that they will get out of the show. Almost every show appeals along multiple axes, and Sailor Moon is no exception, but I want to focus on one: aesthetic identification.

If you learn someone is a Sailor Moon fan, there is the obvious follow-up question you have to ask, namely “which Sailor Senshi are you?” It’s the which-Harry-Potter-house-are-you question of anime, a horoscope where you can choose your sign (in this case literally). The premise of this concept is not hard for media to execute on - it is just personality traits and aesthetics grouped together under a label, a basic building block of media and clickbait internet quizzes. Harry Potter, ironically, raised up its memetic question almost by accident, as its focus is so squarely on House Gryffindor that the others are almost forgotten; it was just so mind-bogglingly popular that it didn’t matter.

Sailor Moon, however, takes this concept and allocates so much of its aesthetic budget into making it a centerpiece of the show. Sailor Moon herself is a klutzy, lazy romantic, Sailor Mercury is a shy, earnest bookworm, and so on, with none of them ever really becoming very complex characters. However, the show devotes itself to making you *feel* these archetypes as strongly and intricately as possible. All of those outfit changes are chosen because not only do real girls care about their outfits and can therefore identify more strongly with characters who do the same, but so they can constantly emulate their archetype in diverse, different ways. The show doesn't have the budget for intense action scenes, so after Sailor Moon engages in her hyper-serious transformation sequences, she proceeds to, nearly every time, bumble through the combat scenes like this:

Oh sure, the scenes are done this way because it is funny (and good comedy can be done on any budget - these shots are frequently still frames with motion lines!), but it is also done this way because Sailor Moon is a total screw-up, and if you identify with that it is validating to see someone “just like you” able to pull off wins despite it all. The transformation sequences are not only beautiful animation that showcases aspirational power, but are also crafted to highlight the personalities of the Senshi in question - unless you think aggressive, combative Rei got fire powers by coincidence. Half of the run-time of every episode is spent, not on the plot du-jour, but on light-hearted personal squabbles between the cast because those scenes are not just funny, but also allow for far more moments of character expression.

All of that work pays off in building with the audience, not a connection with a character who reflects their identity in total, but a connection that reflects one aspect of their identity in an extremely deep (dare I say multifaceted?) way. I think if you were to describe Sailor Moon as a “shallow” show, you would actually be right to say so, in a sense. These characters will never have the true depth of personality, themes and so on of a more ‘adult’ show. But those adult shows have to spend their effort somewhere - for all that the themes of say Evangelion or Paranoia Agent are pristinely detailed and impactful, you aren’t ever going to be memorizing the moves of their transformation sequences. The way Sailor Moon committed so strongly to fleshing out the archetypes the Senshi stood for is, I think, one of the keys to how this cast of five became so iconic.

Not even their school uniforms match! They had to spend time in-universe *justifying* this!

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A Final Note:

At least, everything I’ve said here applies to Sailor Moon at its peaks. The show, however, is not one without its stumbles, even in Season 1. This section doesn’t flow into the core essay too well, but I wanted to note it because if you were to watch Sailor Moon today, you might struggle to feel the dynamic outlined above. The biggest culprit here is the length - Season 1 is 46 episodes long, and sections of it most certainly drag. They also take a startlingly long time to introduce the cast - this choice builds tension around their arrival, but it also means the later Senshi get a lot less time to establish themselves. Sailor Venus in particular gets hamstrung by this - she is introduced and then immediately arc plot elements sweep the narrative, and so she is left as a hollow shell for some time. The pacing of the show is undoubtedly flawed.

I think Sailor Moon is a show that you do have to keep its time and place in mind for - namely, middle schoolers and anime nerds watching it on broadcast TV in the 90’s. As an adult you “get” the point of the show pretty quickly, and get satiated on it almost as fast. Watching it all in a few sittings only heightens this problem. For a younger audience, and one that is waiting for a week between episodes with no internet for plot reminders, all that extra time is needed to jog memories and build connections. And younger audiences just have that limitless commitment to the things they love! If you think no one could actually enjoy seeing the same transformation sequence for the 30th time, watch it with someone who would have died for this show when they were 10 and you will be disabused of that notion *very* quickly.

Still, we can’t travel back in time - Sailor Moon is a show of its era. There are “filler-reduced” guides out there, though I caution that the plot of Sailor Moon is absolutely not the point of the show in comparison to the character dynamics, and so sometimes the filler is the best part (Cat-Rhett Butler is the best character in the show YOU KNOW I’M RIGHT). Certainly, however, some method must be used to cut down on its length. If you are going to be a first time viewer in adulthood, that reality should be kept in mind, and if you do accept it for what it is you can really appreciate its core appeal - and don’t forget to finish it off with a 1990′s era internet personality quiz to really wrap it up!

#essay #anime analysis #sailor moon

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chaoticallysapphic · 4 years

Text

the great divide epilogue

summary: Who knew that eight words would be your undoing. If you had known then what you know now you wouldn't have signed up for Suyin's dance troupe, you probably would have left Zaofu just to be safe. But you didn't and fate had branded you with a path that chained you to someone who would break your heart.

a/n: can this even be counted as an epilogue with a sequel on it’s way? It’s been a while since I’ve read a physical book and can’t remember if epilogues are reserved for the very end of a series or can be used at the end of any book. Eh, who cares? As always thank you to @medeliadracon for beta reading this!

word count: 2k

The end of her rule is anticlimactic. It doesn’t end with a victory but instead, with you, limp in her arms with blood all around the two of you. It ends with Suyin ordering some of her men to cuff Kuvira’s soldiers so they can be transported to a prison where they will serve the next two years of their lives. It ends with her defeat as she watches all her hard work wash away like it meant nothing.

Eighty people, the rebels, come up to Korra to admit you helped free them and how they were fighting on the Avatar’s side the whole time so she spares them. Kuvira looks down at your sleeping form to avoid the varying expressions of her former soldiers, ranging from angry to disappointed.

A few hours later someone closes the trunk and drives them back to Zaofu so you can be admitted to the hospital there. All of Korra’s men head to Zaofu on sky bison. Kuvira sits in the back of the jeep with you, she can’t hold you with her cuffed hands but before they cuffed her she gently placed your head onto her lap.

Everyone had watched the way Kuvira cared for you with eyes full of shock. She doesn’t care, not anymore. She almost lost you, the idea of appearance and image escaped her mind as all she thinks about is holding you in some way so she knows you're safe. When they pull up to the tram it takes multiple people to help both you and Kuvira out of the trunk. It’s still a bit slippery from your blood and with her cuffed hands she needs someone to help her get down.

The avatar holds you for her as they enter the tram, she wants to break out of these stupid cuffs and rip you out of her arms but she knows she can’t, not if she wants a future with you. So instead Kuvira inches closer so she can at least hold your hand. When it stops in the main dome she sees her men being escorted out by the Zaofu guard. They step out and her eyes find your mom who is decked out in her grand armor, commanding the men below her on where to take Kuvira’s former soldiers.

When her eyes flicker to the avatar and she sees you limp in her arms she forgets her job and races forward, dropping the staff in her hands. Korra slowly walks down the stairs from the platform so she can take you to the hospital but your mom is waiting at the bottom of the stairs as she holds back a sob.

“She’s alive,” Kuvira says softly, a little bit of the tension in her leaves, Kuvira’s words comforting her just the slightest. Once Korra is in front of your mom she takes you out of her arms, choking out “Oh baby.”

“We need to get her to the hospital. She’ll live but she needs to be monitored and will need a few more healing sessions before she can leave,” Korra says. Your mom nods as she begins walking towards the large hospital that’s situated not too far from here.

Kuvira follows, keeping in step with her so she can at least remain close to you. Once inside Kuvira catches the attention of a nurse who brings out a stretcher for you and carts you off to a room to be further examined, both Kuvira and your mom sit in the waiting room.

It’s quiet for a while, neither of them talking before finally, your mom asks “what happened?”

Kuvira’s brows furrow as she tries to make sense of the last few hours, it’s all so blurry and loud in her mind. She just remembers the warmth of your blood on her hands and her screaming out for help, the way her words scratched up her throat as desperation filled her senses.

“I…” Kuvira starts. “We were talking and the fight started and she tried to show me how I could help by ending it” Kuvira’s hand comes up to her mouth as she begins to cry. Your mother doesn’t move to comfort her, waiting for Kuvira to continue. “It was meant for me, she pushed me out of the way so I wouldn’t get hurt.”

Your mother's fists clench and she lets out a deep sigh, trying to control her emotions. “What happened next?” Kuvira looks over at her with a painful expression as she recalls the way you tried to cling to her when she set you down to drive.

“I drove us to Korra, she had waterbenders so I knew one of them had to be a healer.”

Your mother nods as she stands up, tears glisten in her eyes as she says “I need to call her father,” before walking away. She’s gone for roughly an hour, Kuvira thinks. In that timespan, she stares down at her hands now caked in dried blood as she tries to make sense of the last twenty-four hours. When you finally wake up, which you will, Kuvira reminds herself, she’ll go wherever you want even if that’s the frigid cold of the south pole.

Finally, your mother returns with your father in tow who pulls both women in a hug. “She’s gonna be okay,” he says, mostly for himself. When he pulls away his face is red as tears race down his chubby cheeks, your mother reaches up to wipe them away for him even though she’s crying as well.

A nurse walks into the waiting room that only houses the three of them and clears her throat. Everyone twists around to look at her, your father is the one to ask “can we see her?”

The nurse nods, eyeing them, her eyes narrow when they land on Kuvira before drifting back over to your parents. “Yes, she’s awake but very tired so you’ll probably only get a bit of time with her before she’s asleep again.”

Your father lets out an excited, wet laugh as he nods vigorously, “Thank you, can you show us to her?” The nurse nods and begins leading everyone up a set of stairs and to the left down a hall lined with doors. The hospital is so white and pristine, Kuvira feels so out of place and looks behind her to make sure she’s not tracking mud around the place.

When the nurse stops in front of a door labeled 203 that has your name in the place card Kuvira feels her heart speed up, “I’ll wait out here and let you guys have some time alone with her.” Your mother sends her a grateful look before she opens the door, they leave the door open so Kuvira takes a seat next to it so she can at least hear your voice.

“Hi” she hears you croak out, your voice is raspy and low, you sound so tired. Your father lets out a sob as she hears his feet skid across the floor and a quiet “oof” escapes you.

“Honey, don’t suffocate her, we just got her back,” your mother says in a half-joking manner. The rustling of sheets can be heard as Kuvira can only assume she's hugging you as well.

“We’re just so relieved you're okay.”

“I’m okay, just a little banged up,” you say in a reassuring tone.

There’s sniffling and hushed whispers of “we love you” as all three of them cries. Kuvira feels like she’s intruding on a private moment but her feet seem stuck to the floor.

Your dad is the one that asks the question burning within her, “You're gonna stay here right? We’ve missed you so much.”

“Well I don’t know, I haven’t talked to Kuvira yet. I’d like to though.” Kuvira’s heart skips a beat at her name leaving your lips. Spirits for a moment there, back on the jeep, she thought she’d never hear you say it again. “Well she better be okay with it, I mean after all the years spent following her around the earth kingdom one would think you’d get to cho-”

“Honey,” your father interrupts your mother. She threads her fingers together and squeezes tightly, will she ever gain the respect your mother once had for her back? “Sorry I just… I’ll support you no matter what I’m just a little… peeved.”

“Is she here?” You say hesitantly, you sound so unsure of yourself that Kuvira wants to take the two steps it’d take to reveal herself. “Suyin didn’t arrest her yet, right?”

“No, don’t worry she hasn’t been taken away, she just wanted to give us some time alone with you.” A sigh escapes you at your mother's words, “Do you want to see her?”

Not even a second later you reply “yes.�� The shuffling of feet can be heard as they both say their goodbyes and “I love you”’s once more before walking towards the door. Kuvira moves down a seat so it doesn’t look like she was eavesdropping and looks at the platinum cuffs locked tightly over her wrists.

“She wants to see you,” your father says, Kuvira looks up at him and thickly swallows, slowly nodding. “We’re gonna get her some clean clothes, maybe some food. Are you hungry?” By now the sun is starting to go down, that piece of bread and apple didn’t last too long, as Kuvira is about to say no because she doesn’t want to be an inconvenience. He speaks for her “I’m sure you are, we’ll get you something too.”

Kuvira opens her mouth to decline but your parents are already walking away arm in arm. She sighs, shoulders slumping. Her wrists are already starting to hurt and she feels anxiety twist around within her as she realizes you’re waiting for her. You're awake and waiting for her and who knows what you’ll say.

She lets out a deep, shuddering sigh and walks through the door, you look up as you hear her enter and bite your lip. Your cheeks and neck are stained red, it looks like someone wiped away the handprints which is a relief, but your hair is a bit matted with it and your arms are tinted red as well. You look so pale.

You eye her, your shoulders tensing at the disheveled sight of her. “That’s a lot of… red.”

She looks down and sees how her clothes are practically coated in it. “Oh yeah, you bled out a lot.” She clears her throat and looks back up, your shoulders sag a bit, “so none of it’s yours?” Kuvira shakes her head and suddenly you look so relieved.

She takes a step closer and then another and another when you don’t stop her. You offer her a weak smile as she slowly picks up one of your hands and holds it between hers. “You almost died,” she whispers, scared that if she says it loud enough she’ll speak into existence.

“But I didn’t,” is your reply. Kuvira scoffs, having to look away as images of you bleeding out all over the trunk resurface. “Hey,” you gently tug on her hand until she looks into your eyes. “I’m alive, thanks to you.”

“You almost died, thanks to me.” Her voice cracks and she squeezes her eyes shut as tears escape her. “Why would you do that? Why would you take the hit for me?”

You give her a look of disbelief as you softly reply with a voice full of love that has an edge to it “because I love you, I’d do it again in a heartbeat.”

“No, you won’t.”

“Yes, I will.”

“Promise me you won’t, please,” her bottom lip trembles, suddenly her hands feel warm and slick with your blood again. She feels like her legs may give out. “Please.”

You shake your head ever so slowly, “I can’t promise you something I won’t keep.” She lets a groan of frustration so you tug her closer until she’s sitting on the edge of your bed, facing you. “If you ever die and there was a way I could have prevented it I’ll spend the rest of my life hating myself. So just… stop putting yourself in danger if you don’t want me to get hurt again.”

Kuvira is about to offer some kind of retort about how she won’t be in any kind of danger for the foreseeable future due to her house arrest but you squash it by pulling her closer and softly pressing your lips against her own. Kuvira gasps, you slip your tongue in her mouth and caress her tongue before pulling away, you give her a peck on the lips as you're pulling away.

“If I ask you to stay here in Zaofu, would you?” It’s silent for a few moments as she processes your request. Part of her wants to leave this place and never return, but she knows Zaofu like the back of her hand, she knows where the good tea is, which store has the best produce, which shops rip you off, and where to go to eat for any occasion.

She thinks of your parents, of how much they missed you and how much you missed them. How she might not have anything that makes her want to stay here, but you do. So she nods and wets her lips before saying, “yes, I will.”

And for a moment that great divide between the two of you seems to cave in as your beautiful face breaks out into a glorious grin.

#the great divide #kuvira #kuvira x reader #kuvira/reader #kuvira fanfic #lok #lok fanfic #legend of korra

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aphrodisians · 3 years

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◜ choi yerim , ciswoman , twenty . ◞ ┈ through her all - seeing crystal ball, [ 𝚁𝙴𝙳𝙰𝙲𝚃𝙴𝙳 ] has her winking eye trained on hestia jones. the ever - enigmatic fifth year is infamous for her righteous ways, but something new seems to be weighing our resident au courant down. a rumor is spreading through these ancient halls like fiendfyre, & even their erudite face can't save them from the flames. she can try to drown out their sorrows to the tune of goddess, but xana can't fix everything ⏤ much less something as grim as [ 𝚁𝙴𝙳𝙰𝙲𝚃𝙴𝙳 ]. but ten points to ravenclaw for trying.

hey besties <3 i’m cc & i’m super excited 2 be here! i’m writing your local hater, hestia jones, who i’ve actually never written before but i’m really excited for her. anywhomstdve, i’d love to plot w all of you & i’m ecstatic for this!

⠀ ⠀ ﹟𝐚𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐭𝐢𝐜𝐬.⠀ ⠀

an accidental crack of a book spine that echoes throughout an otherwise silent library, never letting anything pass you by – never letting yourself be unaware, unwelcome surprises that you greet with flushed cheeks and clenched fists, a collection of skirts stolen from a mother that has seemed to have forgotten you, bruises forming next to the scrapes on almost - broken knees, passing tears off as just ‘my eyes are sweating’ & heavy, heavy, bags underneath eyes that just never seem to sleep.

⠀ ﹟𝐬𝐭𝐮𝐝𝐲

birth name. jeong hyun - ae nickname(s) / alias(es). hestia jones. preferred name. hestia jones, only hyun - ae to family + very close friends age + dob. twenty + dec. 23 hometown. belfast, ireland blood status. half - blood house. ravenclaw activities. fifth year prefect, ravenclaw chaser, chess + duelling label. au courant – aware of what is going on; well informed ethnicity. korean nationality. irish gender. cis woman pronouns. she + her face claim. choi yerim

⠀ ⠀ ﹟𝐛𝐮𝐢𝐥𝐝.⠀ ⠀

height. five feet, seven inches / 170cm tattoos. none piercings. earlobes only scars. a two cm line that lays horizontally above her left eyebrow from falling off her broomstick during her third year at hogwarts hair. never dyed, meticulously taken care of but rarely styled. naturally falls straight and is often left down eyes. round and dark, accompanied often by dark bags underneath and an absence of makeup usual expression. stressed. just like, if you look at her you can tell she’s going through it ( and has been for like the past three years ),,, she needs a break but she will not be getting one <3 distinguishing features. cheeks that always seem to be flushed a rosy hue of pink, bags underneath her eyes that are haphazardly covered with fake glasses or makeup, brown - hued hair that just always falls correctly

⠀ ⠀ ﹟𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐨𝐧.⠀ ⠀

( + ) positive. erudite, bluestocking, intuitive, heedful ( - ) negative. righteous, hubristic, zealous, moralistic natal chart. triple capricorn, pour one out mbti. istj - a, investigator moral alignment. neutral good godly parent. athena languages spoken. korean + english likes. quiet - the kind of quiet that comes only in the early hours of the morning + in restricted access zones where it’s close to silence ( but not quite ), victory in all forms, feeling appreciated tbh, sleeping but genuinely hasn’t gotten a good night of�� sleep in years, the color yellow, scarves that are long enough to wrap her entire head <3, being a hater dislikes. attention ( though she is overjoyed / obsessed with winning ), losing - a notoriously sore loser, being out of control in any situation - even if she can have no humanly control over it, nail polish ( because she bites her nails :/ ), actually reading i’ll be honest, staircases quirks. as mentioned above, bites her nails often, doodles when stressed ( which is all the time ) - is halfway decent at it too thanks to all of the practice, can fall asleep in two seconds if given the opportunity, taps her foot a lot hobbies. being a hater, being obnoxious enough to have attention ( aka dramatic ) n then having the audacity to complain about the stress

⠀ ﹟𝐝𝐨𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐞𝐫

when he meets your mother, he tells you it’s like the world stopped turning. she was enchanting, he says, like a rose blooming in the dead of winter, a blossom of red among a blanket of white - and he swears that he has never loved anyone more. their romance is swift, a bouquet of flowers traded for an engagement ring and a passionate kiss exchanged for the start of a family. your father never says anything bad about your mother, raising you on his own with a faint line on his ring finger. she will be back soon, he says with glazed eyes and love-flushed cheeks that you seem to inherit. she will come back soon, he tucks you in with a faraway look on his features and you realize with a ceiling full of glow-in-the-dark stars that he isn’t okay. but, you hold his hand when crossing the streets with you leading and you let him dawdle about your mother and you pat the top of his head when he falls asleep waiting for your mother. she’ll be back, he says, unaware that she only visits when he’s not around. she will come back soon, he waits for her, a stranger in his own body.

you yearn for control the way your peers yearn for freedom. freedom, you have enough of, but everything in your life is just out of reach. for your entire childhood, you grasp at everything and nothing, your fingers brushing past the things you desire most. you are a young girl with magic in your blood, but you watch from the end of your driveway as life seems to spin so wildly out of control. your father isn’t okay, but you don’t understand why. your mother comes around wearing guilt like one wears a birthmark and you can’t fathom why. you are left alone on playgrounds and with scrapes on your knees and people whisper about you but you don’t understand why. life goes on with or without you, and you think it unacceptable. it’s infuriating being in the backseat, unable to control, unable to know. when a letter falls into your hands, you swear to use it to your advantage. you refuse to ever be in the dark again.

you arrive on your own, a year older than your peers, a sheltered girl from a muggle world and you look around, determined to change your life. it’s obvious to anyone early on that you’re a bright girl, ambition tied into your intelligence, potential pouring over every single one of your edges. for a while, it comes easily. you know things, you understand things; most of all, you learn how terribly things can go wrong. you swear to never let that happen to you, but of course, life has bigger plans for you. the first few years fly by quick and your hands build up a reputation that you’re eager to upkeep. you wipe the sweat off of your palms onto your skirts, you might use magic to make sure your hair always looks good, you always know the latest news, you always pass your classes. then, you go home during your third year to an empty house and your father is gone.

when you return after the winter holidays, it’s obvious that something is - wrong, but you do your thing and you pretend everything is okay. your mother in all of her magic and love writes you a letter, telling you that you’ll be in her care and that only stresses you out more, giving you gray hair and bags underneath your eyes that never seem to away from that point on. every blink is heavier now, every sliver of information repeated as least three more times, everything you learn adds a little more weight to your shoulders. but you soldier on. you become more and more high strung, more sharp, more wretched with stress that shouldn’t be yours to shoulder. you are still an intelligent girl, still a bright witch, still gleaming with potential; but you almost permanently look like you’ve been handled an impossible task and worse, you wear your flushed cheeks almost as your father did, a fact that you dislike whenever you see yourself in the mirror.

⠀ ﹟𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐜𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐧𝐬

⠀ ⠀ ﹟𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐜𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐧.⠀ ⠀ has a relatively tough exterior, but wow, words hurt and hestia is a lot more sensitive than she cares to admit. say one off thing about her and she’ll be all “i can’t stand it here!” and storm off angrily, but she’s really just gonna go cry in the owlery and talk to the owls as if they can understand her through her snot bubbles.

⠀ ⠀ ﹟𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐜𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐧.⠀ ⠀ is this genius of a witch, right, but is the messiest person ever. her area in her dorm is just . . . yeah, it’s messy. she comes to the library, throws seven books down, loses ten pages of notes; is disorganized and completely messy, but at least she always looks put together.

⠀ ⠀ ﹟𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐜𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐧.⠀ ⠀ coming right off of the last one, because she cares most about her image + her reputation than she does anything else, mostly because it’s all that she thinks she has. so, yeah, she may be consistently stressed out and on the brink of a breakdown, but at least she looks GOOD.

⠀ ⠀ ﹟𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐜𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐧.⠀ ⠀ her style is a little . . . amateur, if i’m being honest. very season one rachel berry. always looks in uniform even if she’s out of uniform and it’s because she has no personality than being a ravenclaw prefect idk what you want me to tell you. she has never been normal once.

⠀ ⠀ ﹟𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐜𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐧.⠀ ⠀ i laugh and kid, but she’s genuinely a genius. might have a bit of dyslexia, but is just,,, a smart kid. also makes it her entire personality though, so i’m not sure what to do about that.

⠀ ⠀ ﹟𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐜𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐧.⠀ ⠀ also, not to be That Girl that’s so quirk n clumsy, but hestia is always injured. not gravely, but a scrape on her knee, a cut on her cheek, tape around her fingers, etc. etc. she’s a problem, to say the least, and always hastily takes care of herself ( aka, cleans it, leaves it ).

⠀ ⠀ ﹟𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐜𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐧.⠀ ⠀ in general, is a hater, but is so STRESSED from having a #missing father that she’s just like :| in every situation. i wouldn’t call her awkward per se, but she definitely just says what she wants when she wants cause there’s “no point in quieting myself for someone’s comfort” idk?

⠀ ⠀ ﹟𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐜𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐧.⠀ ⠀ in MY canon, hestia actually conjures up a fox patronus, but it’s non corporeal for now simply because she literally cannot focus long enough to cast the charm correctly – in fact, a lot of her magic has been suffering for the past few years due to her stress, something that really only stresses her out more rip in pieces.

⠀ ﹟𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐧𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬

academic rival: personally, i’d love for someone who’s just naturally good at academia to be her rival, like the person who doesn’t study and “doesn’t care” but always just manages to beat her in scores; yeah, i think that’d be fun to watch her spontaneously combust.

significant annoyance: someone who really just is the person to tell hestia she’s wound up too tight all the time and tries to get her to live her life, but she just sees them as someone who’s ANNOYING HER because maybe her entire life is being uptight, ever think of that? rabastan

quidditch rival: because quidditch is really the only time she lets her hair down per se, this rivalry is more friendly than it is serious like the academic rival, but there’s still a lot of trash talk involved and meet ups in the corridors to talk shit <3

best friend: the one person who she’s like . . . super grateful for because they’re always there, no matter what she goes through or does to them through her stress induced breakdowns. you know. they’re bffs and always eat together and spend time together n gossip together. eloise

tutee: someone that either hestia’s offered to help or has been forced to help, either way, she’s as strict as any professor and takes her job completely seriously. as in, will approach them in the great hall and ask if they’ve done the work they’re supposed to do.

stress reliever: imagine this - hestia comes up to your muse and is like we need to talk, but they just find a nice seat underneath one of the archways and talk into the night, they make hestia laugh, hestia makes them laugh, they have flushed cheeks by the end of it and she doesn’t speak to them otherwise. xenophilius

their biggest anti: ur muse’s #1 hater??? hestia jones <3 why? probably because they’re better than she is and she’s a nightmare of a person so it’s just her being their biggest anti, probably runs a hate account dedicated toward them tbh <3 rodolphus

The Ex: you know. the ex. didn’t end the way they wanted it to so there’s A Lot There. longing glances, awkward bumps, lots of what-ifs . . . a lot of sad headcanons, a lot of wholesome headcanons. yeah

like family: just someone who hestia is so comfortable with that it feels like they’re family. and by family, i mean like the kind to tackle her on sight just for fun, the sort to tease her and make everyone believe it’s her birthday. you know?

also a barely filled tag here n anything u can possibly brainstorm i’d love <3 thank u love u

#ww.intro #SORRY THIS IS REALLY LONG NOBODY LOOP #LOOK*

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