#it lets me really push the imagery i have in mind to its limits. so the notes are worth it! but also this comic exists to

[ghoul-haunted]

heguh. okay! finished taking historical notes for the next chapter outline of trikaranos because I was unable to talk myself out of skipping over the event in question, time for bed

[letterstotheflre]

i'd beg you on my knees

summary: you loved sirius's fingers, but there's something you craved more.

warnings: oral sex (male receiver), daddy kink, a bit of religious imagery (you know how it is), a bit of spitting, mentions of throat training and finger sucking, i think that's it?

word count: 2.5k

a/n: as a celebration for passing my chemistry final and 300 followers, here is the second part to the sirius corrupting you series :)

ps: i know those look like feminine hands, but pretend they are sirius’s okay i spent 2 hours looking for something to use and that’s the best i got

you couldn’t stop staring at his hands.

you had always loved them. they were big, always completely encasing your smaller ones, and full of rings, some of which you made yourself. the skin on his palm and finger pads was a bit rough, a consequence of years of holding a bat to hit the bludgers away from his teammates. but there was still a slight delicate appearance to them, courtesy of the black family genes which, despite years of slight inbreeding, somehow still managed to make some of the most attractive people in the wizarding world.

you loved the way they felt against the small of your back or your waist, always letting some warmth seep through the fabric of your clothes. you loved the way they cupped your cheeks before he leant down to kiss you, slightly squishing your cheeks and puckering your lips for him. but ever since that afternoon a few days ago, you adored the way they felt in your mouth.

you tried to be subtle, you really did, but it was impossible to stop staring at them. you couldn’t forget the weight of his fingers on your tongue nor the way they hit the back of your throat. the feeling of having them in your mouth brought a strange sense of comfort to you, it was like having a piece of him always inside you.

and sirius noticed. of course he did, you were one of the only things he deemed important enough to pay attention to, followed by the phases of the moon and any updates on the 5-year plan james had made to woo lily evans. and because he liked seeing your glazed over eyes and heating cheeks when he caught you staring, he started to show them off on purpose.

he started to talk with more hand movements, followed by always playing with any stray hairs around your face. he started to use his thumb to play with your bottom lip before kissing you, almost giving you what you wanted but then taking it away from you.

he caved in when he saw how truly needy you were for them. the teary eyes and little whines you made every time he pulled them away from your mouth were almost enough to make him hard, so he allowed you to suck on them every now and then. he watched attentively as you slightly hollowed your cheeks when he used both his pointer and middle fingers, sometimes trying to get as much of them inside you as possible.

so he started to push your limits, drawing circles against the back of your tongue before he pushed them further, not warning you before they entered your cavity, yearning to hear what other pretty sounds you could do besides moaning and whining. you had gagged violently the first time he did it, and you looked at him confused at the sudden intrusion, “remember the first time you sucked on them? remember what you wanted them to be?” you nodded slowly, embarrassed that he could recall how much you wanted other parts of him inside you. “I gotta stretch your little throat, bunny. gotta get you all ready for my cock.”

and that was that. the following days were spent with you either on his lap or on your knees in front of him, long and thick fingers prodding the back of your throat constantly until it only took you less than five minutes to get used to the feeling of something residing in it. sirius never let up, even if you had some tears in your eyes caused by the intrusion, always giving you new learning material: breath through your nose, relax your throat, open your mouth wide. his instructions ran through your brain every day, an urgent need to remember them controlling your thoughts.

and that’s how you were now, on your knees in front of him like a repentant while sirius sat on the edge of the mattress, mouth wide open as you waited eagerly for his fingers. you watched, intrigued, as his mandible moved around almost like he was collecting something. your unvoiced question was answered when his face came close to yours, his hand tangling itself in your hair to tilt it upwards, and then his spit was dribbling onto your pink tongue.

the sight of him spitting into your mouth sent a thrum of pleasure to your core. “swallow,” he said, leaving no room for disobedience. You followed his command, letting it fall down your throat as if it were your forbidden fruit, and once you opened your mouth again his fingers went in, immediately pressing on your tongue. you swirled your tongue around them, covering them in your saliva before he started to push them further. you only gagged a little, the previous lessons having already prepared you.

he let you suck on them a bit longer before removing them, watching as your hands scrambled to his wrist to keep them close. he shook his head, chuckling in amusement, “you needy thing.” he patted your head, “I think you are ready for my cock, angel, do you want it?”

you opened your eyes wide, looking like a kid in a candy shop. “yes, please!” your voice was a bit hoarse, “wanna make you feel good like you made me feel the other day, siri.” the smirk he wore on his lips when he heard your eager ‘yes’ fell into an honest smile, “oh I bet you’ll make me feel better than that, bunny.”

you watched from your position on the hardwood floor as he rose to his feet, unbuckling his belt and pulling the zipper down. he let his jeans fall to the floor, now only clad in his underwear that would soon meet the same fate and you wiggled, eager to finally see him. once he was completely naked he sat back on the bed, spreading his legs so you could kneel comfortably between them. he was already a bit hard, courtesy of the image of you suckling on his fingers so needily, but he still needed a little push before he was ready for you.

you were entranced by him, this being the first time you ever saw someone other than yourself completely naked. he wasn’t wearing a shirt, and you could see the slight ripples of muscle on his abdomen and the stray tattoos that adorned his skin here and there. he had a few scars, some of them caused by his parents' punishments and others from a few accidents during the full moon, but he was still absolutely beautiful.

and then your eyes fell lower, down the happy trail of hair that led to what you had been craving since that fateful tuesday afternoon. it was big, even though you had never seen another cock you couldn’t deny its length. there was a vein on one side that stood out a bit, and the tip was a bit red and something shiny was coating it. “can I please touch it, daddy?” you asked sweetly, wanting to remain on his good side.

the name had accidentally left your mouth a few days ago when you were suckling on his fingers. you were just so needy, so desperate for their weight on your tongue that your mind had started to feel fuzzy, and the nickname just slipped out.

your cheeks had resembled the heat of a fire, still sober enough to realize your mistake but when you saw the way his eyes had darkened and his grip on your waist tightened, you repeated it. he had cursed, voice low as his other hand cupped your cheek. “you want daddy’s fingers, hm?” he questioned, forcing you to tell him with your words what you wanted when you merely nodded. and that was a new lesson, ask for what you want and you were to only refer to him as daddy in private.

“go on, angel,” he said with a nod of his head. slowly, you moved one hand closer, still a bit hesitant with your movements. though eager to learn, you were still scared of doing something wrong and stop being his good girl as he had called you multiple times while he watched as you touched yourself for him. he would sit in a chair in front of the bed as he told you what to do and when to cum, and the rush of power he felt was extraordinary.

one finger traced the vein, the soft touch making sirius twitch. the skin was warm and actually pretty smooth, with a couple of ridges here and there. gently, you closed your hand around the base and moved it up and down, and sirius groaned. the soft touch drove him insane, your palm barely gripping him, “close your hand a bit more, puppy,” he instructed. you gripped him more tightly, “it won’t hurt you?” you asked.

sirius just smiled at your thoughtfulness, “no, baby, it’ll feel really good. just don’t add too much pressure as you did with your nipples the other day,” he slightly taunted. you blushed at his teasing, “didn’t mean to do that, daddy,” you grumbled and unknowingly thumbed at the slit of the tip, making him moan in pleasure. the sound was so heavenly in your ears that you did it again and again until one of his hands gripped your hair so you looked up at him.

“you’re teasing me now, bunny?” he said harshly, “that’s not how it works and you know it. d’ya want me to stop you from cumming again like I did yesterday?”

you shook your head quickly, or as much as you could with the grip on your hair, “no no, m’sorry, daddy, didn’t mean to.” but he just chuckled, an empty sound that wasn’t as nice as his previous moans. “oh, you didn’t mean to! like you didn’t mean to tug on your nipples. like you didn’t mean to wear that tiny skirt the other day. like you didn’t mean to cum without my permission three days ago.” he started to list all of your accidents, “is there anything you do mean, angel?” he asked harshly.

your lips slightly quivered at his tone, ashamed at making him angry when all you wanted was to please him. “I want to make you feel good, daddy! m’sorry, I promise I’ll be better. I’ll be your best girl.” you tried to convince him, and you really did mean it. all you wanted was to be good for him.

“well, then put my cock in your mouth and show me y’can be good.” with that, he moved your head closer towards him, and then slackened his grip. you looked at him while giving the tip a little kiss, then using your tongue to collect the pearly white liquid that had collected there. it tasted a bit funny, saltier than you remembered your own cum to taste, but it wasn’t necessarily bad. then, using the flat of your tongue, you moved along the length, using one hand to keep it straight.

sirius was biting his lip as he watched you, his little angel on her pretty knees about to suck him for the first time. after a few more teasing licks, you finally took him into your mouth, and the moan that escaped sirius was incredibly sinful. your mouth was so warm and so wet that the only other place sirius could ever possibly want to be in was your pussy.

you swirled your tongue around the bit that was inside your cavity, your hand still stimulating what you couldn’t fit yet. he was big, too big for your mouth, but you wanted to fit all of him inside, so you took a deep breath through your nose and tried to relax both your mandible and your throat before taking him deeper. you pushed as far as you could, staying there for a couple of seconds before pulling apart, heaving another deep breath before repeating your actions. you gagged and choked at the progressive obstruction, yet you pushed through it, but it sounded so good in sirius’s ears that he thought about just pushing your head down without warning.

sirius threw his head back with a groan when you started to hollow your cheeks, “fuck, angel, you’re so good, taking me so well.” he praised, and it made you shiver in pleasure, the meaning of his words accompanied by his gruff voice a perfect melody. you raised your eyes to look at him. he looked beautiful like this: head thrown back, lips red from biting them, completely exposed for you and one hand gripping the sheets while the other grabbed your head.

you pulled away with a pop, “y’look so pretty, daddy,” you complimented him, and it made the tension in his stomach tighten significantly. it was such an innocent compliment in a completely unholy scenario that he couldn’t help but twitch in your hand. you had just wrapped your lips around him again when he said, “not as pretty as you with m’cock down your throat,” and it made you giggle around him as you shied a bit at his words. the vibrations of your little laugh could’ve sent him over the edge, “shit—” he cursed.

you took him deeper than ever before, your throat now used to the intrusion and barely even gagging. sirius started to raise his hips, almost face fucking you but he held back some of the strength in his thrusts. you kept your eyes on him, and fuck you looked so good with your mouth full and those watery eyes and flushed skin that after a few more thrusts he pulled you away.

you whimpered, not understanding why he stopped your movements. there was still a string of saliva that connected your mouth to him, and he sped up his hand movements as he looked at your sinful image. “daddy,” you groused, tongue out so he could put it back in.

“fuck, angel, m’gonna cum,” he moaned, “n’ I’m gonna paint your little face, d’you want that?” he asked, slightly panting through his exertion. but you shook your head, “m’mouth, want to taste you,” and that did it for him. he cursed and moaned, all at the same time, as that wave of pleasure swallowed him whole. white spurts fell on your tongue, a few others coating your cheeks, and he looked so sinful while working through his orgasm that you had to clench your thighs together.

once he was fully spent, he watched as you eagerly swallowed what he gave you, showing him there was nothing left. his hands went to your cheeks, cleaning his cum from your face and forcing you to clean them, too. it was so dirty that he felt proud of what he made of you, his cock twitching once more before softening.

“was I good, daddy?” you asked him with a slightly raspy voice. you were looking up at him as if he were your god, his opinion of the highest importance to you. he smiled proudly, his fingers now playing with the chain that had a little ‘s’ that rested just between your collarbones. “the best, angel.”

TAGLIST: @gxtitobxby @emmaev @dracosafety @dracoxgeorge @sarcasmismyon1ydefence @remusjlupinisdead @mattefic @zzzfour —if you want to be tagged tap here

[whump-a-la-mode]

Do you think you can write something along the lines of a patient either bring put under using medication restraints (like Haldol or something) for their own good- they have a meltdown, ect. And/ or slowly waking up to find they have been strapped down? Their kind but stern doctor comforts them as they wake up. It's all just a stressful and heartbreaking experience for the whumpee. They are usually fairly stoic, but now, they feel so weak and defeated. Maybe include some tears? Sorry if this is too specific!!!

I really like this idea! I didn’t intend to go towards any specific genre of whump, since you didn’t specify, but I ended up going a little in a lab whump direction. I hope that’s okay! Thank you so much for the ask, and, again, sorry these are taking ages.

CW//Medical settings, chemical restraints, restraints, sedation, non con drug use, implied lab whump, syringes

Whumpee was screaming.

That was the only thing that could be processed by anyone in the Emergency Room as the gurney was unloaded from the ambulance and rushed through a pair of swinging double doors. Before the doors could so much as swing their way closed, the patient had already been deposited upon an ICU bed.

Around them, doctors swarmed like locusts. The doctors were swarming, and Whumpee was screaming.

“Hold them down!”

“Haldol, dammit! Get me Haldol!”

“I said, hold them down!”

Yet, to the supine patient, there were no doctors. No hospital. No, as far as they were concerned, this was a laboratory in everything but name. A torture chamber in everything but name.

And such was reflected in their movements.

Upon the bed, already half-laden with various pieces of tubing and wires, Whumpee howled, thrashing their limbs about with wild abandon. To them, movement was an end goal. As long as they were moving, there was hope of escape.

As long as they were moving, the pain wasn’t quite so bad.

“Hold, hold!”

“Where in the world is that Haldol?!”

“Right here!”

Even the words could not make their way into their their mind. No, there was no sense in their mind, only the most vague knowledge of flashing colors, of bright lights, of the horrid stench of antiseptic that they knew all too well. Each time a face appeared to them from the shroud, it quickly morphed into that of their former tormentor, eliciting nothing from them but another anguished wail.

Whumpee was not expecting the pain, though perhaps they should have been. Their arm was pushed down to the bed, half a dozen hands working to stop their ceaseless writhing. First came cold, then the prick.

“There. There.”

That was when the hyperventilation began, thrashing escalating along with it. By then, beyond their knowledge, their scope of sanity, the room had been flooded by eight doctors, nurses, and orderlies, all struggling to stop their emaciated body’s struggling.

Whumpee looked like a lab rat upon that bed, blue lines sprouting from pale skin, practically begging their veins to be pierced and flooded. The thought made their tears start, sobs tearing through their chest, jutting ribs and all, as they twisted back and forth.

Yet, at a certain point, their panic reached a peak. Its crescendo ceased, and its downfall began. Slowly but surely, each of their cells was turned to sand until they were more useless and heavy than a burlap sack.

“Clear. Running the line.”

It was a series of words that they had, up to that point in their life, heard far too many times. But, now, there was nothing to be done. No pleas or threats to be howled. Instead, they only breathed heavily, watching as the long, plastic tube pierced its way into one bulging vein.

“Line in. Clear to start the drip.”

And drip it did.

Drip -

Drip -

Drip -

Out.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Whumpee laid upon the beach, their consciousness flowing in and out as the tide.

For one moment, vision gently flowed along the sands, showing them hazy views of sterile lights and clipboards and dangling tubes. Then, once more, it receded, washed away into unconsciousness. The next time that the water flooded in, the waves were higher. Alongside visions of white tiles and dancing monitor screens, there was sound. Beeping and buzzing and voices.

When the tide came in for the third time, it stayed.

This time, the first things that occupied their newly-revived senses were not the lights, the tiles, the buzzing. Instead, they were assaulted by the sights and sounds of their own breathing-- quick, shallow, barely enough to move adequate air into their lungs.

That was, until their thought process was interrupted by something far more jarring. A voice.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

It wasn’t the softest of voices, nor the kindest. Though it wasn’t sharp, it was most certainly firm. More of a bark than a yell.

Whumpee blinked, vision once more threatening to fade. The tide dragged along the shore...

But, they were awake. Wakefulness meant confusion, and confusion meant a sharp terror, gripping at their throat.

Sterile lights. White, tiled walls. The reek of antiseptic. Every hallmark of a lab, and more. In an instant, the subtle wave of consciousness turned to a flash flood as adrenaline eliminated even the most far-off hopes of returning to slumber.

And, too, the flood came with more visions. Imagery striking at them, pounding upon the inside of their skull like a mallet. Lab coats, gloved hands, the bars of a stainless steel kennel. Shimmering needles. Pliers and scalpels.

Upwards, they jerked, a desperate attempt seizing them to sit up, as though they had just been struck by a defibrillator. But, they proved quite immediately unsuccessful, a force upon their chest keeping them held firmly down.

Whumpee knew that feeling well. Even with vertigo making the lifting of their head impossible, they did not have to work hard to imagine the restraint strap, most certainly stretched taut over their chest. More panicked experimentation showed that their wrists and ankles were similarly limited.

“Stop.”

Their wide gaze, eyelids straining to open wider as their pinprick pupils shivered, shot to find the word’s source.

The lab coat sat perched upon a stool, legs curled deliberately beneath themself. There existed a firm, focused stare to those eyes. Whumpee felt as though they could not so much as breathe without being observed.

Then again, that was what the doctor was upset at them for, huh?

Well, if they were going to be in trouble, they may as well give something to be in trouble for. If these wackjob scientists thought that they were just going to sit quietly for another hellish procedure, they had another thing coming! At least they were out of their kennel, out of their cage.

“Let me up, piece of shit!” Whumpee snarled as they made another useless attempt to sit up. Of course, the restraints limited them just as well the second time.

“I don’t think I’ll be doing that.” A moment later, it was no longer simply the pressure of the strap that pressed down upon the chest. Too, a strong hand joined, pushing. “You’re staying down.”

“And what are you doing to do to me this time?”

Though there were a few moments of confusion, there was nothing reassuring about them.

“If you cooperate? What I’m going to do to you is ensure a full recovery.” The restraining hand retracted.

“Torture doesn’t usually help with that, just sayin’.” A weak smile appeared upon their face-- all they could manage.

“You’re not there anymore.” This time... this time, there was the slightest twinge of comfort to that tone. As though they were explaining a procedure. Clinically outlining the process in a way designed to minimize panic. “You’re in the hospital.”

“That hellish lab isn’t a hospital.”

“I’m well aware of that.” They didn’t sound all too pleased at being interrupted. “You’ve been removed. You were taken here in an ambulance.”

“I was-” They tensed.

“And sedated for an adverse reaction to rescue.”

“You stabbed me.”

“It was a syringe.” They countered. “Barely a poke.”

As though Whumpee hadn’t been poked enough.

“Whatever.” They at last hissed. “Let me out of this crap, if you’re so intent on rescuing me.”

“You’re already writhing about like a fish out of water. It’s for your own good.”

They clenched their hands to fists.

“What would be good would be letting me go! I don’t need your help.”

A howl of laughter.

“Yes, kid. Yes, you do.” The doctor sighed. “I’m afraid you have a very, very long road ahead of you. And if you don’t want to spend that journey under the influence of Haldol, you’d better learn to calm down.”

[peachy-panic]

Truth & Lies

(This picks up directly following this piece)

Tag list: @whumpervescence @shiningstarofwinter @distinctlywhumpthing

CONTENT WARNINGS: General BBU warnings, human trafficking, referenced/implied non-con, mentioned past minors of minors, blood, restraints, medical setting. 

Panic washes over him the moment the door closes behind them, putting him alone in the exam room. In the silence, he can hear only the sound of his labored breathing, obstructed by the plastic intrusion that has been secured between his teeth, straps cutting into his temples. His hands are bolted to the front edge of the table on either side of his thighs. The position pulls his posture forward just enough to be uncomfortable, his shoulders curling forward to accommodate the short buckle on the cuffs. He tries, to little avail, to calm the rising panic at the feeling of restraint. 

And all he can think is that he has done this to himself. 

He messed up. He had messed up so, so badly and the reality hadn’t fully settled over him until the door clicked shut, and the blur of the past several minutes came crashing into him with a sudden, sickening clarity. And now there is nothing he can do to take back his actions, his words, and he knows that no apology will be enough to smooth it over regardless. Still, he feels one bubbling in the back of his throat uselessly, trapped behind the gag and the slow, constant trickle of blood.

Suddenly, the sensation steals all his focus, until all he can feel is the warm liquid in his nose and throat, and the suffocating realization that he is helpless to stop himself from choking to death alone in this room, chained to a fucking table. 

His arms tug instinctively against the cuffs, but the steely hold on his wrists only serves to bolster his panic. Oh, god. What has he done? All at once, he is sorry. Jaime is so, so sorry and he wishes he could take it back but ‘sorry doesn’t do shit for me, baby,’ he can hear Mr. Torley’s rumbling voice clear as day in his ear. 

He jerks forward away from the phantom presence, a whimper caught in his throat that has nowhere to go. These flashes of imagination feel so real sometimes and Jaime can’t always tell them apart from what’s in front of him, just like when the Handler had pulled his sweatshirt over his head at intake, and when the gray fabric cleared his eyes it had been Mr. Torley’s face staring back at him, grinning in the glow of the bedside lamp that had been harsh, white Facility fluorescents only seconds before. 

He hadn’t meant to lash out. Jaime can’t recall ever stepping out of line like that, not since… not since his first week in the training facility. He has enough sense to know that fighting back won’t get him anywhere good. But something had snapped in his mind when they began undressing him of his street clothes, and it was as if he was no longer at the helm of his own body. His arm had lurched forward on instinct, striking out at the figment in front of him because this wasn’t right, he was supposed to be done with Mr. Torley, he had served his six month contract and it was supposed to be over.

It was supposed to be over. 

He had barely recognized the crunch that gave under his fist in the moment, nor the white blare of pain as the blow was reciprocated with double the strength. There was blood and a struggle and a distant screaming that made his head vibrate like the sharp, resounding clang of metal on concrete.

And then he blinked, and now he was here, and his head hurts and he can’t breathe right with all the blood and he is so, so sorry no matter how much it won’t matter in the end. It never matters.

He hates that he is sorry. He hates that he is back here. He hates that he can still feel Mr. Torley like static on his skin even though he isn’t legally his anymore. He hates the feeling of the bit between his teeth, reminding him of a hazier time in his memory, carved out with white tiled walls and bright lights and constant, unyielding pain. 

Jaime lets his head fall forward, cringing at the sticky dampness of his t-shirt against his chin, and focuses all his energy on trying not to cry. More than anything now, he needs to retain his already limited ability to breathe.

Even so, he can’t stop his breath from catching when he hears the telltale swipe of a clearance key at the door.

*******

Sebastian’s feet stutter beneath him as he pushes through the door. His eyes are drawn immediately to the anchor points along the front of the exam table, which currently serve to immobilize the terrified young man between them. He can see that the skin around the restraints is already pink with irritation. The boy’s head is ducked in what looks to be a quiet surrender, and he can’t see his face but he watches as a drop of blood hits the lap of his pants. Sebastian’s muscles freeze up. It’s only a fleeting moment, but he’s sure his recovery is not nearly as graceful as he hopes it is as he clears his throat and steps into the room. 

He lets the heavy door fall shut behind him, effectively sealing himself into the reality that he is now in charge of this person bolted to a table. It has become a daily occurrence long ago to question every life choice that had brought him to this place, but especially now he can’t help but think he’s made a horrible mistake. And then the light clinking of metal on metal draws his focus to where the boy has twisted his hand inside his restraints just enough to grip the side of the table, knuckles white and trembling, and it occurs to him how selfish he is for thinking that he is the one in the room who has earned the right to fear. 

He should say something. He knows he has to be the one to say something, because the Companions - the patients - aren’t allowed to initiate conversation without direct invitation. He knows this, but the knowledge doesn’t un-stick his tongue from the roof of his mouth or dissolve the lump that’s blocking his airway. For a moment, all he can do is stare. 

“Hi,” he says finally by means of a feeble introduction. He clears his throat, trying for something that doesn’t sound so much like a question. “I’m Dr. Tate. Sebastian. You can… just Sebastian is fine. If you want.”

Incredible, Seb. Off to a confident start. 

He might see the slight incline of the patient’s head in acknowledgement, or he could be imagining it. Either way, he moves on. 

“What is your…” He pauses, clearing his throat. Name? Is that what he wanted to say? He knows as well as anyone that he isn't allowed to use his. If he does and anyone hears him, it will only land him in deeper trouble. Which is maybe the last thing on Earth Sebastian wants. Instead, he asks, “What can I call you?”

For the first time since he entered the room, Sebastian sees unmistakable movement in the muscles of the boy’s neck. There seems to be a moment of hesitation, and then he lifts his head to level with Sebastian’s gaze, and he nearly takes a step back.

By some miracle, Sebastian has made it this far into the program without witnessing - or god forbid implementing - the use of heavy restraints on a patient. Today, it seems, his luck has run out. The boy stares up at him with dark, empty eyes over a round bit of black plastic secured over his mouth with the WRU logo emblazoned in silver. A fucking gag.

A slow-dripping acidity makes its way into Sebastian’s stomach. The picture in front of him is so starkly, uniquely horrifying that it stops him in his tracks. It’s exactly the kind of raw imagery that WRU conveniently left out of their pamphlets and commercials and brightly-colored career packets. This, he thinks to himself, is the truth behind every lie they sell. 

“Oh,” he says, stunned, the word slipping out of him in a breathy gasp. He forces himself to take a step toward his patient, choosing to ignore the quickly concealed flinch. “I don’t… I don’t think we really need that, right?” He says a pitch too high. The patient’s eyes track him warily as Sebastian moves closer, an outstretched hand hovering in his direction. “Uh. Can I?”

Instead of the permissive nod he expects, the young man’s eyes flit over to something to the left of Sebastian’s shoulder then back again, holding his gaze. Sebastian turns and finds a tin box affixed to the wall just behind the door. He blinks, and when he looks at the patient again with confusion written all over him, the boy hesitates — which he seems to do before each new move — and then angles his head just enough so that Sebastian catches a flash of silver at the back of his neck.

A small padlock. Holding the straps of his gag in place. 

The room wavers around him. 

“Key,” he chokes out dumbly in a whisper. “Right, I— right.”

He turns on his heel and crosses stiffly to the box on the wall. His hands are shaky when he opens the hinge, fingers brushing over the small selection of keys dangling inside. For a horrified moment, he catches himself wondering what other inhumane devices these could possibly go to. He doesn’t allow himself to linger on the thought. It won’t be helpful here.

The smallest key catches his eye, looking to be the most likely to fit the lock. 

“Is it alright if I—?” He turns back with the intention of seeking his consent, but he finds that the boy has already lowered his head to allow him easier access to the lock. “Okay,” he says quietly, mostly to himself. 

Sebastian works as quickly as his nervous fingers will allow and feels a tangible weight lift from his chest as the lock releases. 

“There,” he says, stepping back immediately once the intrusion has been removed. He tosses it into the sink basin in the corner, not wanting to look at it for a moment longer, as he is sure his patient would agree. “Better?”

The patient waits a moment before raising his head again. “Th...thank you.” He murmurs without meeting his eyes. His voice is low and brittle and nearly knocks something loose inside Sebastian’s chest. 

A slow trickle of blood swells out from his bottom lip, the bit from the gag almost definitely having irritated whatever injury had already been put there. For half a second, Sebastian wonders why he doesn’t reach up and wipe it away, and then he realizes—

“Shit! Your hands.” He’s back at the box before he can spare another thought, sifting through the row of seemingly identical keys. He doesn’t really allow himself time to consider the possible reasons why he shouldn’t be removing the restraints, including but not limited to breaking protocol on his first day off probation and having no actual idea if this person was a physical threat to him or not. All he knows for sure is the visceral feeling he gets in his gut every time he sees him bleeding and bound to a fucking table when he should be here to receive care.

“Sir?”

He whips around to find the boy watching him with naked apprehension, as if he isn’t sure he has clearance to have spoken. 

“Really, Sebastian is okay,” he reiterates. “Or Dr. Tate, if you want to be formal.” Of course he’s going to be formal. His entire existence is a series of formalities, meeting new strangers and having to pay them undue respect, and none of it has anything to do with what he wants.

Sebastian watches something flicker in his eyes, a momentary break in the solid wall before it closes up again. “Yes, Dr. Tate,” he says with an automatic obedience that flips Sebastian’s stomach. His lips part just slightly as if he is going to say something else, but instead he glances pointedly down toward one of his wrists. The way he holds it allows Sebastian to see the silver hook attaching him to the table with what looks to be a similar mechanism to a heavy-duty carabiner. 

Oh. There is no key for these. Just a simplified method that doesn’t allow the restrained person any access to release the clip. 

He wastes no time crossing back to him. “You’re not going to start swinging on me, are you?” Sebastian says, mostly as a joke to cut the tension, but it’s the wrong thing to say, and he knows it as soon as the boy’s eyes darken and fall away to his lap.

“No, S— Doctor Tate. S-sorry,” the boy stumbles through a rushed assurance, still not meeting his eyes. “I didn’t mean to— I… it wasn’t…” He seems to slow himself with considerable effort, forcing in a deep breath, then out again. “I’m sorry. I will not step out of line again,” he finishes in a quiet, frustrated tone of defeat. 

Sebastian is glad for the distraction of unbuckling his cuffs, which he goes straight to work on, because he’s not sure what to say to any of that. “Sorry,” he murmurs as he frees his left hand from the restraint. “I was only kidding.” 

Another thought pops into his head, and only just stops himself from saying, “Whatever happened, I’m sure those Handlers had it coming.”

Once he is freed, Sebastian tosses the cuffs onto the counter, eager to get them out of his hands. The patient wraps his arms around his middle as soon as he’s able to, keeping his shoulders drawn in even now that he has full mobility to sit up. Sebastian forces himself into clinical mode. He may feel out of his element here and his sense of morality may be steadily decaying in this place with each passing day, but he’s a good doctor. He knows he is. And he needs to remember that he is the one with any amount of power in this room, and he isn’t doing either of them any favors by floundering helplessly. 

“Let’s get you cleaned up before we do anything else,” he says decisively, turning with a bit more confidence in his step to wet some paper towels in the sink. 

“Thank you.” His patient accepts them with something like genuine gratitude, bringing the damp towel to his nose. It seems the bulk of the active bleeding has stopped, so they at least have that going for them. 

It takes a conscious effort to stop himself from staring as the boy cleans himself off with soft, calculated movements. Instead, Sebastian tears himself away to claim the stool in front of the monitor beside the bed. One quick scan of his key card gains him access to the patient intake home screen.

“So, um.” Sebastian clears his throat. “Let’s try that again, shall we? What can I call you?”

“110750, Domestic Services,” the answer comes automatically, as if he didn’t need to be in his own head to recite the words from memory. 

Wordlessly, Sebastian types the numbers into the system. A moment later, a digital chart appears in front of him, and he has to bite down on his cheek to keep from cursing. The photo in the top right corner is dated just over nine months ago, but the person in it looks… so fucking young.

He can’t help but toss a glance at the man on the bed he had just unshackled, gingerly wiping his injuries, and then back at the screen. Less than a year separated the two faces, and yet there was a world of difference etched into the space beneath his eyes, the posture of his spine and shoulders, the hollowness of his gaze. In the photo, he looks afraid. Here, in front of him though, he looks… dismantled.

Which is a horrible thing to think about someone, Sebastian scolds himself immediately. Had things gone differently in his own life and Sebastian himself had somehow landed in this boy’s position, he is quite sure he wouldn’t be handling it with an ounce of the composure most of these people seem to have. He doesn’t like to think about that. 

“Here you are,” he says mostly to fill the silence, nodding toward the screen. “Let’s see…” His eyes scan down the monitor until he sees the highlighted red portion at the bottom, which generally lists the reason for admittance. In his, he finds two lines he immediately wishes he could unread.

Domestic Return Intake Physical.

Comprehensive STI Panel.

As if the words themselves are not enough, it’s the small text inserted next to the second line — only the second line — that really delivers the blow. In barely-there letters next to a bold asterisk, it reads: 

RFR.

Sebastian has seen just enough during his probationary period, in the fleeting glances over Dr. Geer’s shoulder, to understand its meaning. 

Redact From Record.

Sebastian’s mouth feels dry around the swallow he attempts. Despite his best efforts, he’s sure his expression is not as impassive as he hopes. The screen is angled away from his patient, but if what they say about some Companions still losing their literacy during training is true, maybe that doesn’t matter. WRU claims that’s no longer a part of the training process since their rebranding, but as Sebastian is well aware, it wouldn’t be the first or most heinous lie they’ve told. Not by a long shot. 

With the words buzzing around like angry hornets in his skull, Sebastian forces himself to turn toward patient 110750. The blood has been mostly wiped from his face, leaving only trace amounts of pink-tinged skin in its wake, and he has pressed the paper towel into a soiled wad in his fist. 

He is watching Sebastian carefully, like he’s preparing himself for something. Or… like he’s preparing himself for anything, because of course he can’t know what to expect, only that he is helpless to prevent whatever comes. The haunting revelation tucked away inside his patient file is kerosene on the wildfire of Sebastian’s imagination, supplying him with a litany of past horrors that must be swimming behind those eyes to fill them with a dread so pure. 

He suddenly remembers the Handler’s words when they had dragged him in, and it makes more sense now. “Freaked the fuck out at strip and started throwing punches.”

Sebastian can imagine why. 

Overturning the Romantic division of WRU had been the largest, most public part of their new regime. It had come on the heels of several small pockets of the company being blown wide open to expose the outlawed buying, selling, and subsequent abuse of minors within the system. At that point, they’d been left with little choice but to make a big move to save face in whatever way they could. 

There had been liberators that moved in some of Sebastian’s (very small) circles in undergrad. He had heard their vocal disdain for the company’s half-hearted attempts. Sebastian had never once stood in defense of the system, but perhaps some small part of him had always hoped for a grain of truth in their promise to turn over a new leaf, if only for the poor people who are stuck inside of it. 

Now, there’s no shielding himself away from the truth that had always existed, and he felt like an idiot for ever believing their intentions could ever be anything but malicious. Divisions and legalities aside, the people here are given numbers instead of names and sworn to a secrecy disguised as confidentiality regarding the people who have unlimited access to them. They have no legal standing. They have no power. 

The word “Domestic” is etched into this boy’s designation line, but Sebastian knows that doesn’t mean shit. 

Now, Sebastian looks into his wide, guarded eyes and thinks about how his first task as a solo practitioner is going to be forcing this person to undergo a full panel of invasive testing. And he feels the first spark of what he’s sure will stoke a flame of the desire to see this place burn.

[misterewrites]

A Part of Something Bigger (Welcome to the Underground!)

Hello everyone! E here, hoping you are safe and sound and doing good! The new chapter of the Underground is here and I'm excited for this and the next chapter. I am so happy I finally get to reveal something I’ve had in my head since I first started creating the Underground! Man am I cheek E. oh puns, I’m terrible. 

:D

I hope you are all have a great week! Stay safe, wash your hands, take care of each other, get the vaccine if you can, push for companies to give it world wide all that jazz. Feel free to comment (I love feedback) tell your friends, reblog I appreciate it all!

If you’re new and curious what the heck I’m talking about, feel free to check out the whole story and have access to my other work right in the link below (cuz I’m 95% Tumblr has shadowbanned me) 

https://archiveofourown.org/users/MrE42/pseuds/MrE42

https://archiveofourown.org/works/27814297/chapters/68094967 (first chapter)

https://archiveofourown.org/works/27814297/chapters/78927370 (latest chapter) 

Have a great week, E is out!

Summary:  Turns out Oliver is a part of the Choir, a secret organization that operates within the Underground. Something big is happening tonight and It's up to Oliver and his allies to ensure it does not. However, the bard has to figure out what's going on before anything else.

-----

Oliver had been many things in the 18 years of his begrudging existence: An orphan, a thief, a con-kid, hopelessly in love, a scout, fry cook that one week and an aspiring minstrel. Many masks and different roles to survive each new day.

The one he took a quiet pride in was being a member of the Choir, a secret organization whose goal was to keep the Underground free from malicious and devious intent.

Every society had their dark, treacherous shadows where evil did its business (Oliver assumed. He only really ever lived in the Underground but you know universal constants and such.) The Choir’s purpose was to ensure those plans never came to fruition.

Rather than being an openly known identity, the Choir was more a loose collection of independent agents operating under secrecy. The organization employed any and everyone who was willing to fight for the cause, each in their own way: Merchants passed coded information, tavernkeepers offered safe havens, those with some level of magical proficiency gathered to study abnormal phenomenon. Fighters fought, clerics healed with lords and ladies used their influence for the greater good.

Sometimes, as is the case now, one individual was too limited for what was required of the organization’s purpose. In these rare moments, agents were granted permission to request help, often leaving hidden messages and imagery for other wandering members to respond to.

That’s what brought Oliver here to this dark alley in the middle of the night: When he first arrived to the capital, he caught sight of the coded symbol asking for any Choir member to lend their skill set to a mission tonight. No details added but that was par for the course.

Terri was the first to recover, her slivers eyes wide with wonder “A soprano? No joke?!Flora, he’s like you!”

Terri was tall, taller than anyone else here. She wore a red vest with torn off sleeves, probably because her muscles were too thick to actually allow them to exist in the first place. Her long jet black hair was elegantly tied into braids with her dark blue leggings tucked into thick hiking boots.

Flora pursed her lips thoughtfully, irises of lavender giving Oliver a curious look “A fellow magic user? Interesting. Wizard?”

“Bard” Oliver corrected “You?”

“Druid.” Flora spoke before drifting into an uncomfortable silence. Oliver suspected she wasn’t impressed by his response.

Flora seemed unassuming but Oliver knew better than to be lured in by appearances: Long silvery hair with petals of green and yellow flowers scattered within. She wore a white blouse with splotches of brown dirt and a long green skirt. Her feet were bare and free to be soiled by the floor.

Terri rushed over to the petrified Tyrell, dragging him into a bone crunching hug “Tyrell here is a baritone like me!”

Tyrell, the youngest beside Oliver, shifted his brown eyes away from anyone’s gaze. He wore rather well kept clothes: A tunic of purple tucked under a leather vest, his leggings were dark gray that blended fairly well in the darkness. His footwear seemed a little too fancy to be workman’s shoes.

“Fighters” Oliver nodded in understanding “Always useful. And you mysterious stranger in the darkness?”

The cloaked figure had pulled back deeper into the shadows, red eyes gleaming in the shades of night. They were trying to hard to hide their appearance but Oliver caught sight of a smooth featureless bronze face. Metallic armor of a matching color and sheen covered the rest of their body, an automaton it seems.

“You may call me Sel. I’m a tenor.” the figure responded, their voice tinged with scratchy static.

“You are going very useful. Lockpicking?”

Sel shrugged casually “Among other less savory techniques. As per usual for tenors.”

Oliver nodded “Okay, fill me in.”

Flora took a step forward, pulling a letter out of her pocket as she did so “Are you aware of one Reiner Brambleoak?”

“Oh fucking hell” Oliver rubbed his eyes tiredly “Him again? What’s he planning this time: Gonna burn an orphanage? Or maybe sell moldy food to the poor? Wait, I know!” Oliver snapped his finger “He’s going to be a terrible piece of shit.”

“Right on the money!” Terri growled.

Sel let out a mechanical click “He is planning to tear down several homes in West Haven.”

Oliver narrowed his eyes “I thought it was illegal to tear down homes in that area?”

“Not if the owners signed them over.” Flora explained “Then he would have the authority to do whatever he wished with them.”

“Let me guess, he tricked them?”

Terri flexed her muscles angrily “His representatives would change languages and double talk when they spoke to the poor folks. Most hadn’t the slightest idea what was going on and the orc thugs his people brought didn’t exactly make them feel warm and safe.”

“So.” Oliver stretched his arms “He’s strong armed his way into property, going to evict helpless folks onto the street and probably fill them with his own thugs to get the rest of the neighborhood to fall in line.”

“Unless we stop him.” Sel spoke with righteous fury.

“Tonight.” Oliver chimed in “Throwing another party?”

“You are good.” Tyrell whistled.

Oliver gave a playful wink “Naturally. What’s the plan?”

Flora reached into her pack and handed Oliver a letter: it was written in such a fancy hand he swore he was getting a headache just looking at it.

“One for each of us.” Flora explained, distributing the rest to the others “A fellow Choir member secured these tonight’s mission.”

“Helpful. Alright here’s the plan….”

“Wait” Flora interrupted “Who said you are in charge bard?”

“Me” Oliver countered with a grin “Because I’ve been to these types of festivities. Have any of you?”

Flora opened her mouth then promptly closed it, irritation in her glance. Tyrell gave a sheepish but unhelpful smile, Sel remained silent while Terri gave a thoughtful scratch of her chin.

“Thought so.” Oliver tried to keep the smugness out of his voice “Look we just need to work together for tonight.”

“Agreed.” Flora spoke with a softness that did not match her glare.

Sel inched closer to the group “What is the plan Oliver?”

“Where’s the party? Merchant Ward? I assume he’s using his office to host it.”

“Correct” Sel confirmed “His office has been chosen as the venue. He claims to be throwing the party as some sort of fundraiser for a charity that is no doubt a front for his illegal operations.”

Terri huffed, crossing her arms furiously “Probably making some more deals to trick people out of their hard earn money.”

“Without a doubt” Oliver agreed “But without any hard proof, we’re not taking him down tonight. Our mission is to ensure those contracts he forced people to sign mysteriously disappear.”

“Will that actually stop him?” Tyrell frowned unhappily “What’s stop him from forging new ones? Or just bullying people again?”

“He can’t forge new ones” Oliver explained carefully “They’re a special type of document only found here in Haven’s Nest. You can only get them from city hall and they’re magically enchanted to be untamperable with. He’ll need to get the ones he has to city hall on open court day which I assume is soon.”

“Indeed. Tomorrow in fact.”

Oliver continued on “So since open court day is the only day any major changes are allowed to be introduced to the city, if we grab them he’ll have to wait a month for another chance of snatching up that land. He’ll no doubt try to bully the folks again but now that they know what he’s up to, hopefully they’ll won’t be as easily pressured and if a few rough looking folks who can take punches and give them back start hanging around the neighborhood when his goons come knocking again…”

“They’re gonna be less eager” Terri cracked her knuckles cheerfully, already savoring the feel of bruised skin and broken bones that would bless her hands.

Oliver caught Tyrell’s eyes “One problem at a time. If you look at the mountain, you’re going to get scared.”

Tyrell nodded timidly in agreement.

“So.” Sel’s voice crackled with curiosity “What is the plan bard?”

Oliver closed his eyes, mentally mapping out the Brambleoak bank: three stories of corrupted, immoral finance who preyed on the helpless and lost. He could still see the faded green hue and cracked paint of the building in his mind’s eye. The ground floor would no doubt be where the bulk of the party would be taking place: a large space with an elevated stage normally reserved for long winded speeches could easily repurposed for a band or some sort of entertainment. His guests would range from any and everyone with any amount of influence or wealth. The second floor were the offices of his lecherous employees while his office took up the entirety of the third floor.

“Alright” Oliver spoke after a moment “I have a good idea what to expect. We’re going to break up into two teams.”

Everyone stared him expectedly.

Oliver gestured to Terri and Tyrell “You two are going to hang out at the bar across the street: The Stinkeye. Charming place, ran by a former pirate captain. Sunday is sea shanty night I think."

“Whoa, wait a minute” Terri grumbled unhappily “I am not letting Flora go into that place without me! It’s enemy turf and I don’t feel comfortable with the idea."

Flora took Terri’s hand within her own “Agreed sweetie.”

“Look this isn’t exactly a fist loaded, knives out situation. Any sort of brawling inside will be dealt with swiftly and painfully. Brambleoak doesn’t like anything scaring away the prey and causing a scene inside won’t accomplish anything. Outside, however.”

Terri’s eyes knowingly sparkled, Tyrell just looked dumbfounded.

Oliver gestured with his hand, muttering a phrase under his breath as magic formed around his hand in a golden light. A small image appeared in his palm: A heavily scarred elf with ashy blonde hair, one eye a brilliant forest green the other dull and cloudy. He wore an elegant officer’s uniform, dark green with various medals pinned to his chest with a long flowing red cape that trailed behind.

Oliver opened mouth to speak but Terri’s low snarl beat him to the punch.

“Lea Foot.”

“Acquaintance I guess?””

Flora nodded, gently squeezing Terri’s hand to get her to calm down “Lea has been a constant thorn in our sides. I believe he suspects we are a part of some greater organization. He has never seen us but he sends his underlings to bully us.”

“So I don’t need to explain his whole mercenaries for hire deal. Been exclusive to Brambleoak for a while now.”

“Can I punch him?” Terri murmured darkly.

“Yes, can she?” Flora chimed in, unable to keep the plead out of her voice.

Oliver shook his head “Maybe but we’ll see. He’s gotta show up at some point but I doubt he’ll be there right at the start. Likes to push old people around, probably eat a child or two before ‘working.’ Your job is to keep him distracted at all costs. He’s a sick man that likes to watch a good fight and the longer he’s out there, the better chance we’ll have.”

Sel tilted their head quizzically “Why is it important to keep him outside?”

“Basically” Oliver cracked his fingers “He’s very perceptive and the person most likely to catch our plan in action. His crew is made up of a nobodies with a perchance for cruelty and a thirst for violence but Lea is an old hand. Keeping himself outside is the best chance for success and if you guys accidentally get too close and managed to stray a hit his way…”

Terri chuckled manically the idea. Tyrell just looked sick.

“Meanwhile Flora, Sel and I will be inside. We’ll be looking for a chance to get Sel into the stairway so he can break into Brambleoak’s office. Without any sort of information, there’s no point to flesh out a full plan but we’ll make it up as we go. It’s a giant party of people who think they’re special. Shouldn’t be too hard to cause some drama and distractions.”

Flora said silent for a moment before speaking up “It’s not a lot to work with but admittedly better than anything I would’ve come up with.”

“Agreed.” Sel added “Without proper intel, it would be pointless to attempt to formulate any sort of long term plan. This works best to our strengths. Wait and create an opportunity,”

“That’s on us.” Oliver cut in “Your job is to get in and out. Preferably without being seen but who knows what will happen.”

The group, previously lost and anxious, glowed with renew sense of purpose and determination: 10 minutes ago they had no plan and now they were ready to do what they signed up for.

“Get ready team” Oliver gestured about “We leave in five.”

Everyone broke away to prepare for the mission: Terri cracked every bone in her body, ready for any brawl she would start. Sel slunk back into the shadows and remained still among the darkness. Tyrell held leaned unevenly against the brick building nearby, trying to steady his breathing.

Flora, on the other hand, approached Oliver, her voice dropping to a whisper.

“Oliver.”

“Flora.”

“I have a question for you.”

Oliver was confused “I’m not sure what about but go ahead.”

Flora pursed her lips “You were coming from West End, delivering a package to a Choir member out there correct?”

“Yeeeeees.” Oliver unsure where this was going “The old man. Lady Rozalin said it was the upmost importance.”

Flora bit her cheek nervously “Before you left, did you see him?”

His stomach turned cold as he remembered how uneasy he felt the day he left with Archie and Abigail, the chill that ran down his spine “No, why?”

“We haven’t been able to contact him. He is not responding to our wizards long range message spells. We’re…..worried.”

Oliver could feel his skin crawl with anxiety, his pulse raced as a horrible realization dawned on him.

“He’s missing.” Oliver spoke what Flora did not.

She nodded in response “As a high ranking member, he is important to our cause and since you were the last person to see him, the higher ups were wondering if anything suspicious happened the last day you spoke with him.”

Oliver remembered it clearly: The free money, rushing them out the door, his ‘tiredness.’ There was no such thing as free money in his mentor’s eyes and Roland was never known for pushing a guest out of his house or being tired in the middle of the day. He was attempting to get them to leave to prevent something from happening.

“He was acting weird.” Oliver admitted “At the time I found it strange but he gave me little room to argue. Now I’m wishing I had.”

Flora’s face was indifferent but Oliver could hear the sincerity in her voice “I’m sorry to be the one to tell you this. If you need a moment…”

“No” Oliver cut her off quickly “I’m good. We have a mission to do and we need to focus on that now. Afterwards we can talk about finding out what happened to the old man.”

Flora gave a simple nod before wandering over to Terri’s side, lightly kissing her cheek with affection.

Oliver took a deep calming breath: There was no point to let his mind wander, to worry about things out of his control. Even if he wanted to do something, he was needed here and now. Besides the Choir would investigate Roland’s disappearance and there were agents far more experienced than he about.

He would leave it up to them. For the moment he needed to balance out the universe and root out the evil that laid in the shadows.

[gokubrain]

Hi! What is Age 801 about (was it a DBS thing? I kinda refuse to watch DBS and have only read the Trunks/Goku Black arc, Moro arc, and [now] Granola arc)? Also, can we get some more canonically gay moments with Goku and Vegeta, please? Preferably DBZ and screenshots are a bonus. :-D Thanks! XOXOXO

HII buckle in this is a long one LOL

Age 801:

for starters, i've talked briefly abt age 801 on my twitter before but i'd be glad to talk about it here too HAHA

though i haven't actually played this first hand so i won't go into too much detail in fear of giving wrong information. BUT BASICALLY there was this game called Dragon Ball Online, which "was a massive multiplayer online role-playing game being developed in Japan and South Korea by NTL, set in the Dragon Ball universe." again i didnt play it but from what i understand it takes place 200 ish years after the end of the buu arc in dbz.

age 801 is the year of goku's death, but it goes deeper than that LOL

APPARENTLY as goku realized his time to die was approaching, he reached out to vegeta, and the two of them LEFT EARTH WITHOUT A WORD and traveled to a far away planet in the middle of no where to have one final battle where they both went out in a blaze of glory. i don't remember where i heard this but apparently their death battle caused a supernova that was seen from earth years later

guys?? if that's not the most fucking homoerotic and romantic thing you have ever heard than ur a liar HAHAHDFJH

ALSO THIS STORYLINE WAS APPROVED BY TORIYAMA WHICH IS ABOUT AS CLOSE TO CANON AS ANYTHING LIKE THIS IS EVER GONNA GET SO. personally i'm considering this the locked in, canonical ending for them because it's just SO perfect.

this idea that goku wanted to provide a sense of closure regarding their rivalry,, the fact that vegeta was just on board with dying like this before his time simply because he didn't want to live without goku,,, GOKU KNOWING THIS AS TRUE AND EVEN DECIDING THAT HE WANTED TO DIE ALONGSIDE VEGETA IN THE FIRST PLACE... OH THANK YOU DRAGON BALL ONLINE THANK YOU SO MUCH <3

i desperately wish i had more info on this to tell you, but i never played the game and the wiki is painfully short so !! like i wonder how long they were traveling before they found a planet far enough away,, if it took years to see the supernova then they must have been traveling for a very very long time. ALSO A SUPERNOVA??? HOW FUCKING SEXY IS THAT LOL, I LOVE SPACE/STAR IMAGERY IN TERMS OF KAKAVEGE (COUGH YOU ARE THE SUN AND I AM JUST THE PLANETS SPINNING AROUND YOU COUGH COUGH) to think that their simultaneous deaths erupted in a supernova...... god it jsut warms my heart so much THANK YOU dragon ball online

Kakavege Canon Stuff:

and nice timing, i was just looking for someone to talk with about this particular scene LOL

i'm rewatching dbz rn and i'm really obsessed with this one little filler arc that happens immediately after the saiyan arc. vegeta's on his way to some freeza planet to heal up, and goku's hospitalized. it's not very much content bc it's actually just a little side-thing that's shown while the Real filler is happening but i still love it regardless

i'm soo obsessed with this cinematic parallel here LOL i love that they're both healing from this battle at the same time but theyre also both thinking about what happened like. a LOT lol, pretty much any time either of them are on screen they're thinking about the fight that just happened HAHA

vegeta is literally floating in a healing pod dreaming about the fight whispering "kakarot" over and over?? and goku keeps sneaking out of the hospital to train for when vegeta comes back??

it's so cute LOL goku keeps like. getting out of bed and trying to train for when vegeta gets back and they're all like dude,,, ur seriously injured pls just stay in bed LOL

ITS HARD TO TELL BUT HE'S DOING SIT UPS HERE LOL

even outside of kakavege i think this is so fucking cute LOL HE'S LIKE "GUYYYSSS I'M FINE JUST LET ME TRAIN" AND THEYRE LIKE GOKU LMFAOFJDSJKFH YOURE IN A FULL BODY CAST....

but this concept that he's pushing himself wayyyy past his limits because he's so excited to fight vegeta again is just so precious wahhhh

ALSO THERES THIS ONE REALLY GOOD SCENE WHERE IT SHOWS VEGETA THINKING ABOUT GOKU AND THEN IT CUTS TO GOKU RANDOMLY PUNCHING THE AIR AND EVERYONE IS LIKE "GOKU?? WTF" AND HE'S LIKE "LOL SORRY I GOT EXCITED"AHAHKJFDSHA IM ABSOLUTELY OBSESSED WITH THE LIKE. PARALLELS BETWEEN THEM WHERE THEYRE JUST BOTH THINKING ABOUT EACH OTHER AT THE SAME TIME ITS SO CUTE

i cant show it very well in screenshots but trust me the scene transition from vegeta talking abt the fight to goku just punching the air?? is so cute

if u wanna see it for urself i'll link it here, timestamp is 9:49

idk i just love it a lot LOL I KNOW ITS KINDA SMALL AND SEEMS LIKE IM REALLY GRASPING HERE BUT,, IDK I MEAN. the way the show sets it up so that's its like. vegeta in a healing pod saying "kakarot" (and NOTHING ELSE HAPPENS IN THE SCENE BTW HE'S JUST LIKE. "KAKAROT,,," AND THEN IT TRANSITIONS AHHA FDJH) and then immediately cuts to goku trying to sneak out of the hospital to train for vegeta's return (or smth similar)?? like the show is obviously trying to set up this parallel here between them and like. idk whether this is intentional or not but it DOES come off pretty gay imo LMAODJFJH

AND LIKE. OKAY i know vegeta's excuse is revenge and i know goku's excuse is wanting to protect earth when vegeta returns but,,, u also have to remember that goku LET VEGETA GO FOR THE SOLE PURPOSE OF SEEING HIM AGAIN LOL SO LIKE. basically this whole scene is goku being like "omg i'm too excited i can't just sit here in the hospital?? i have to train i have to be ready for him" LOL

this entire little filler is just so... like idk i feel like. during the fight they both had some wild thoughts and emotions flying around that they couldn't really sit down and piece together at that time (because.... they were amidst a life or death battle LOL) but this downtime is really important, like the seed has been planted and now they're both gonna spend time sitting here stewing and thinking about each other?? like this is IT, this is the first of many, many times that they'll be thinking about one another. this is how feelings start blooming hehe

one more thing, there's this scene where goku sneaks out of the hospital successfully and goes to train in the middle of nowhere but he overexerts himself terribly and falls, and as he's about to fall to his death he starts thinking about vegeta LOL

THIS HAPPENS A LOT BUT WHENEVER GOKU IS ABOUT TO DIE HE HAS A HABIT OF USING VEGETA AS LIKE. AN ANCHOR TO KEEP HIMSELF ALIVE AND PUSH FORWARD LOL

LIKE THIS INFAMOUS SCENE FROM MUCH LATER ON:

GOKU'S ON THE EDGE OF GETTING HIS ASS ABSOLUTELY KICKED AND HE STARTS HALLUCINATING ABOUT VEGETA?/AHGHADHFJJSDHGF

OKAY REWIND PLEASE I HAVE TO TALK ABOUT THIS SCENE.

OKAY,,, LIKE. OKAY. OBVIOUSLY, WHY IS HE NAKED. OBVIOUSLY. GOKU?? HELLO????

BUT THIS JUST FUCKING PROVESHAHSDH GOKU USES VEGETA AS LIKE. A SOURCE OF COMFORT WHEN HIS BACK IS AGAINST A WALL!! HE USES VEGETA TO PUSH HIMSELF JUST AS MUCH AS VEGETA USES GOKU TO PUSH HIMSELF !! THEY'RE LITERALLY SO FDHSGJHKBDG

I COULD TALK ALL DAY ABOUT THE SCENE WHERE VEGETA GETS ALL VULNERABLE BEFORE DYING AND BEGS GOKU TO KILL FREEZA AND THEN GOKU BURIES HIM BECAUSE IT MAKES ME SO SO EMOTIONAL BUT I HAVE TO STOP HERE LOL i'm losing my mind

[tigerdrop]

hey i just wanna say the long posts genuinely make my day. also can you talk more about gordon freeman character because the way you write him makes me quake in my gay little boots

i would love to talk about gordon freeman. thank u for the opportunity

the first thing i need to communicate about gordon is that this dude sucks. and i say this in the fondest way possible. he is a bitch from the moment he drops into the world until the moment he goes out. if you dont believe me, give it another watch! gordons mouthy and rude for no real reason, at least so far as “being a regular dude on his way into work” goes, and this dude goes around calling his coworkers names with zero provocation. (of course, we all know that the reason is because its a funny guy improv stream that borrows a bit from freemans mind, but im talkin from a character sense.)

but my argument isnt just that gordon freeman sucks. its that he sucks in a very specific way that i find insanely endearing. i love this dude. i love to hate him. hes awful in a very mundane sense - weve all known a guy like this, at least if youve spent too much time online - and its cathartic to watch him suffer because of it.

gordons a smart guy. as written, hes gotta be - hes a recent MIT grad, on his way to work at a top-secret research facility to do weird shit with crystals and theoretical physics. but the thing about smart guys is that theyre often......selectively intelligent. we can see this in the way that he has a hard time navigating his surroundings, and needs the science crew to guide him through it and keep him alive.

this is one of those things that is a natural consequence of somebody going through the game for the first time, but that i am interpreting as “gordon is kind of stupid sometimes”. its uncharitable but its not like he doesnt deserve it. he likes to boss around the crew as if he knows what hes doing, when he often very much does not, and is fond of demeaning their intelligence. hes real bad about this with tommy in particular, treating him like hes a kid whos playing at being a scientist when tommy is actually a decade older than him. all i am saying is that gordon ought to stay humble. hes awful cocky when he perceives himself as better than others.

which, i think, tracks with how cocky he gets when he gives up on the whole “well-meaning citizen” thing and just unloads bullets into people. he puts up a front of being a Nice Guy, you know, just some dude caught in a bad situation who doesnt like seeing his companions obliterate every NPC they come across, but that doesnt stop him from cackling like a fucking madman and mowing down aliens (and soldiers) every once in awhile. when he stops seeing himself as helpless and starts seeing himself as the one in control, the gloves come off. he gets mean. and i think thats very sexy of him

this, among other things, is why i am insistent that gordon freeman is a control freak. he desperately wants to be in control of the situation at all times, shepherding around the science crew primarily by bitching at them, but its of limited success. its futile. sisyphean. tommy, coomer, bubby, and benrey exist almost to torment him with exactly the thing that would make him suffer the most: a gaggle of people running around causing problems for him, but he cant go anywhere without them b/c hes reliant on them to make it out alive.

its perpetual suffering, and its cathartic to watch. and funny, too. and if youre a little weirdo like me, its very, very enjoyable. how twisted up he gets when nobodys listening to him! how sweaty and frazzled he must look. its cute, and it also makes me want to reach through the screen and shake him and tell him to just be a little nicer. he wants control but he doesnt know how to attain it, he doesnt know how to play nice like a real leader. i think its a neat contrast to gordon freeman as we know him in HL2, where he literally is the leader of the resistance and has to live up to it. this is gordon freeman but if he was moe through helplessness.

“helpless” is, i think, a great way to describe him. a core bit of imagery in half life is this sense of railroadedness and helplessness, with gordon freeman being put into play like a chess piece and having no choice but to move forward. and this iteration of gordon leans into that by being totally dependent on the science crew in order to make progress and Not Die. and hes also subject to the whims of benrey, local eldritch weirdo who has basically made it his life mission to fuck with gordon.

gordons anxieties dont help with that. if he wasnt so fun to stress out and fuck with, the science crew probably wouldnt do it so much! too bad for him that they like fucking with him so much that he was driven into a panic attack (multiple times, even, depending on your interpretation). hes got that real neurotic mindset. always worrying about shit that could go wrong, and attempting to exert control over his surroundings in an effort to control the anxiety.

IMO the real way to nail the Neurotic Gordon Freeman Experience is to combine the ever-present anxiety with his pervasive sense of self-loathing. he openly states that he has no friends and nobody seems to like him, and to that, i really gotta say, i wonder why. he doesnt really seem to factor in that hes kind of a bitch, and has way too high an estimation of his own intelligence relative to everybody elses. its really one of the worst ways to be: aware that people dont like you, but unaware of exactly why. if he was like, 10% nicer, he probably wouldnt have had half as many issues getting through black mesa, but also, its funny to see him squawking his way through the game. so, you know.

its stuff like that that makes me headcanon him as a dude with low self-esteem in general. convinced that hes not likable, not attractive, out of his element......impostor syndrome, except that theres some truth to it. this is a guy who truly does not realize how good he has it: he really is just an average shitty dude, and yet, somehow, benrey took a shine to him. some poor motherfucker out there actually likes him and wants to suck his dick. thats dedication

also, i keep bringing up “repression” when i talk about gordon. and hopefully, what ive been talking about helps explain why. he has a strong desire to be a regular dude, not just murdering his way through black mesa, but if hes pushed hard enough he leans into it. gets bossy. picks up a cigar off a dead soldier and takes a long drag, before smacking forzen around with a pistol and ordering him around. gordon freeman is a regular, kind of anxious guy who likes competitive swimming and streaming on justin.tv and making anime references, and he is also a guy who takes a filthy pleasure in making a trained soldier his bitch. and i didnt make up any of this shit - this is purestrain canon, baby. this is a guy with problems

to me, this screams the kind of guy who represses a lot of shit b/c he doesnt feel like its morally decent. you run into this guy a lot online: the wokeboy, the online leftist, the guy who spends too much time on social media websites. (like reddit. i think he would actively use reddit and he would never get any appreciable amount of karma but he never stops posting. its sisyphean! cathartic.) from the way he talks about “bootboys”, i think it tracks. he knows about imperialism, he knows about feminism, but at the end of the day hes your average american white dude who struggles with internalizing it.

a lot of those dudes struggle with sex and gender issues. (dont we all.) when youre trying to be a Good Person(tm), you spend a lot of time thinking about your own relationship to sex and kink and all that shit. and i maintain that a too-online dude who buries a lot of his control freak tendencies would also try to bury a lot of weird sexual shit in an attempt to seem Normal and Well-Adjusted and not like a little freak. i justify this by the sheer number of times gordon blurts out weird sex shit as a joke. there are only two outcomes to making that many piss jokes: either youre secretly a piss guy, or you lathe-of-heaven yourself into becoming one. i will stand by this

ive talked a lot about why this dude sucks. now, let me talk to you about what makes gordon so much fun to write. first things first: hes funny! a subjective evaluation, yeah, but both in- and out-of-character, hes aiming to be funny. and being the straight man to everybody else plays into that whole “helplessness” thing.

secondly: underneath it all, there is a good dude under there. gordon worries when his companions get hurt, he tries to clean them off and patch them up, and hes got his lil leftist heart in the right place. you could even read a lot of his bossy, bitchy demeanor as him wanting to make sure everyone gets out okay and doesnt hurt themselves. when it comes to animals and anti-imperialist sentiment, gordons a pretty good guy.

hes the kind of guy who would probably see a dog on the street and get excited and play with it, but would get really prickly about the correct way to put dishes in the dishwasher. control freak tendencies.

finally, subjecting such a miserable, tormented guy to even more psychological anguish is really, really fun. you feel a little bad for him, but he kind of deserves it. so many problems he goes through are purely of his own making, and if gordon would just relax and quit trying to hard to maintain control - of himself, of the people around him - and own up to having Problems and Issues, he would be a happier guy. but thats why its fun to bend him until he breaks. being a little control freak myself, putting gordon freeman thru psychosexual torment is cathartic.

when it comes to writing his thought processes, the fact that he is canonically some kind of psychotic (yes, i am boldly claiming this. suck me) and i am also canonically some kind of psychotic makes it easier to write what i think his thought processes are. i just give him my brain issues of “getting lost in thought” and “overthinking fucking everything”. a touch of paranoia helps. even if i dont explicitly label him as schizophrenic please know that i am writing him as a paranoid little nutcase at all times because, uh, you write what you know.

paranoid. anxious. of the mindset that everyones out to get him (which isnt helpful when everyone is out to get him). repressed and deeply Not Normal but trying so very fucking hard to be normal and well-adjusted. a control freak with sadistic tendencies who also really, really likes getting bullied by his best frenemy. a hapless little nerd who sounds really cute when his voice starts to break from nerves. and, most importantly, a dumb jock. do not ever forget this.

thats gordon freeman, babey. hope that helps

[ponett]

i was finally able to see the bad star war that everyone said was bad. as it turns out, it was bad. here’s a read more post with my thoughts on it so that i don’t spam my twitter with spoiler tweets

for a baseline: i like the original trilogy, but i don’t think any of those movies are perfect. i think the prequels had some good ideas but i were mostly terrible. i love the clone wars (both versions) and rebels. while i admit that tfa was extremely similar to a new hope, i thought it was executed great and had a wonderful new cast that showed a ton of promise. i liked rogue one, although i found its first act really sloppy. and i have some quibbles about tlj, but it had an incredibly strong vision and actual themes, and i’d consider it my favorite in the series

i’m exactly the kind of person who was always going to hate the rise of skywalker, because it’s basically a bad fanfic written by someone who didn’t like tlj and wanted to “fix” the story. like that bizarre story treatment jenny nicholson read for this movie. the bad one. it was like that

it wasn’t all bad i guess. here are the small things i liked:

some of the new environments were cool. there was cool imagery and practical effects work

i appreciated that the moon of endor where the death star wreckage was wasn’t just the one with the ewoks, and thought the vibe there was cool

zorii bliss’s armor was really cool

the image of the fleet of star destroyers all lined up was striking

i liked that the ghost showed up for the final battle

i liked that ahsoka was one of the jedi voices rey heard, even though that kind of implies that ahsoka is, uh... dead?

while extremely fucking trite and dumb, i’ll admit the closing scene on tatooine got me. yeah, rey has no real connection to this place and it’s just a nostalgic throwback, but i’m a sucker for full circle endings like that

uh. that’s about it

this movie kicks off in the middle of an action scene and just kind of keeps jumping to new setpieces nonstop until it’s over. new characters and locations get introduced and then moved past in the blink of an eye. there’s no time to let any of it sink in. it feels like abrams crammed two movies worth of shit into this one to make up for the the fact that some people didn’t like tlj, and as a result none of it resonates. i just felt so empty throughout most of the film. events were happening on screen and none of it mattered

thoughts about individual elements:

LEIA

putting the scenes with the recycled footage of carrie fisher at the beginning of the film completely took me out of it. it was so obvious that she wasn’t really responding to what was being said, and the conversations had just been built around the limited leia lines they could use

the dialogue scenes with leia felt like a space ghost interview

C-3PO

was in this movie a lot for some reason? i guess abrams wanted to make up for how little c-3po there was in the last two movies. they tried to have that emotional moment where his memory is wiped, but then they just turned his memory loss into a big joke?? and then he got most of his memories back anyway

in general, the movie is afraid to let the audience be uncomfortable for long. 3po’s memory loss. the supposed deaths of chewbacca and babu frik, that sort of thing. you’re not allowed to be sad. after tlj so effectively built tension throughout the film and really pushed the heroes to the brink, this is a disappointment

LANDO

is here because he needed to show up, and because it’s a throwback to have him pilot the falcon again. he’s just kind of there with little to do and no arc

FINN, POE, AND ROSE

before the movie came out, i had low expectations. all i really wanted was to get one last fun adventure with the new characters. when i started to hear about the spoilers, my expectations sank even lower. but maybe i would still get this

nah! rose gets like two minutes of screentime because redditors hated her, and finn and poe are barely even characters. they don’t have arcs in this film, they’re just sidekicks on rey’s journey

finn really hurts. prior to tfa’s release, finn was framed as the new star. this was, of course, a bait and switch, as rey was really the new jedi. (finn apparently IS force sensitive according to this one, but hey! we can only have one big jedi hero, so like leia before him, i guess we’ve gotta wait for some EU novel to give finn a lightsaber)

but finn was still a central character in the last two films, and he had so much potential. he was a stormtrooper who defected! that’s something new! that’s interesting! it complicates the black and white morality of the series. but no. that’s been all but abandoned at this point

many have complained about how tfa establishes that basically all the stormtroopers are people who were kidnapped as children and brainwashed by the first order... but then they still have no qualms about gleefully killing them. in the first two movies i was like “yeah, it sucks that they have to kill those guys, but if it’s to prevent genocide, it’s understandable. that’s just war. maybe they’ll touch on it in the last movie.” so in this one, they kept reminding the audience that the stormtroopers were enslaved as children. jannah is even introduced as another stormtrooper who defected like finn. but then... it goes nowhere. finn doesn’t get any first order troops to defect. they don’t care about the other stormtroopers. how many hundreds of thousands of enslaved soldiers did they kill when they blew up those star destroyers

it was nice to see finn and poe take the charge as leaders in the end, but it also feels like they didn’t take the lessons from tlj to heart. the whole point of that story was that one-in-a-million shot heroic suicide missions aren’t worth it, and that they’re more useful to the resistance alive than they are as martyrs. but then in the climax of this film they take like 30 ships to go fight a fleet of a hundred fucking star destroyers

on the subject of that final battle: i thought that the ending of tlj was so powerful. the resistance was decimated, but they still had hope, because they knew there were others out there who could help. people like rey, or the broom boy, who came from nothing but had good hearts. in this one, though, they say that apparently nobody responded to the leia’s call for help in the entire year since the last film. everyone only shows up during the climax after lando’s like “no, but for real guys, we need help”

and i did think that that sequence was cool. and i did like seeing the ghost among the ships. it was fun. the message that fascists like the first order rule by making people feel isolated, and that they’re defeated by realizing that good people are never alone? that was good. i thought that was a strong message. but it’s such a minor footnote on a movie that’s so bad in so many other ways

oh and they made the latino dude a drug dealer. okay. thanks for that

KYLO REN

i hate that they redeemed kylo and i hate the way they did it

yes, him being coerced to turn to the dark side by snoke (who was apparently just a puppet controlled by palpatine all along (UGH)) as a kid was tragic. but that doesn’t excuse his actions. kylo was given infinite second chances throughout the trilogy, and every time he responded with violence. he killed so many people himself, and willingly took part in a fascist regime that killed billions. yes, his story is sad, but he’s not some poor little boy, he’s thirty fucking years old and he vents his trauma by slaughtering innocent people

literally the entire main trio of the original trilogy died because of this asshole. han tried to talk to him in the first movie, and got stabbed and dropped into a pit. luke died astral projecting to face him in tlj. and now leia just kind of arbitrarily died to flip the switch in his brain from bad to good from across the galaxy. it’s literally as simple as that. he doesn’t have a personal journey here. he just stops being evil because his mom made him through the force

like, again. all those enslaved stormtrooper grunts who had been brainwashed since they were kids? gunned down. but giving kylo endless second chances is the most important thing in the world

and then they end the movie by having this creepy abusive stalker genocidal asshole sadboy kiss rey, retroactively framing their dynamic as a romantic one. just, gross as hell. even in this one, for most of the film, all he does is threaten rey and boss her around

i dunno. i thought the first order were interesting as antagonists. yeah, they were just the empire 2.0. but i thought it was appropriate! the idea was that just because palpatine was dead and gone didn’t mean that fascism was gone. there were still hateful people who wanted to rule the galaxy via genocide. like how we still have nazis in the 21st century. except, oops! palpatine was actually alive and pulling the strings the entire time, so now that theme’s out the window. we just have to kill him again FOR REAL this time and now the galaxy will actually be safe

people wondered where the first order would go after snoke died in tlj. but it was so obvious to me? kylo was in charge. kylo was always the most interesting bad guy. just let him call the shots and be the final adversary. but no. that wasn’t good enough. we had to bring back palpatine as the jrpg final boss to have an epic conclusion

REY

oh, poor rey. youtube critics got mad that a girl could be a strong jedi without being related to some other powerful force user from the old movies, so now she’s stuck being a palpatine forever

i will admit, the protagonist of the new movies being related to palpatine but still being a good person in spite of her heritage... that could have been something. but it’s so clearly not what they had in mind from the start, and it spits in the face of the last movie’s themes. it turns out greatness CAN’T come from anywhere. it has to come from one of these select few Special Bloodlines

oh! and this ALSO reframes rey’s parents abandoning her and selling her into slavery as an act of kindness, because they had to hide her from her spooky evil grandpa. so THAT’S fun. (edit: OH! and luke and leia knew about rey the whole time!!! and didn’t go out and look for her!!!!)

it’s just. it’s so bad what they did to rey. i don’t know if i even have much to elaborate on there, everyone’s already said how stupid it is

---

overall, i still wouldn’t say it’s the WORST star wars movie. it’s more watchable than the phantom menace, that’s for damn sure. the actors put in effort. the sets and practical effects are nice. it’s just so... empty

tros possibly feels the closest to how i imagined the new trilogy would be when it was first announced, but in a bad way. a movie built entirely on established ideas of What Star Wars Is with nothing new to bring to the table. it’s like a bad eu novel. just recycled imagery, cameos from characters we already know, palpatine coming back from the dead, that sort of thing. it’s a movie made by committee to appease reddit. it’s nothing

now i gotta use that free trial of disney plus to watch the mandalorian and wash the taste out of my mouth i guess

[kinnoth]

AVENGERS INFINITY WAR MEGATHREAD

-really doubt i'm gonna be able to finish this movie so we'll just see where i get to

- we already know how i feel about loki and thor, we don't need to revisit this

- ok but if i were going to revisit this, i mean come on, who wants to talk about "hela draws her power from asgard, same as you" cos i wanna talk about that

like what if that's the reason thor, god of thunder, king to a civilisation of warriors, was unable to fend off like, 4 dudes and a big purple dinosaur? the royal family of asgard draws its power from asgard, and without it, they are weak, they are mortal. maybe that's why heimdall is unable to just, you know, bifrost everybody off the fucking ship the minute it comes under attack. maybe that's why loki can't fucking conjure up a swarm of fucking microscopic knives to fillet the invaders from the inside out. MAYBE THAT'S WHY LOKI TRIES TO KILL THANOS WITH A FUCKING DAGGER. BECAUSE TAKE AWAY HIS POWER, TAKE AWAY HIS GODHOOD, WHAT DOES HE HAVE LEFT OTHER THAN HIS WILE, HIS TRICKS AND HIS BROTHER

WHAT IF IN SAVING THE UNIVERSE AND DESTROYING ASGARD, THEY'VE LOST EVERYTHING INCLUDING WHAT MAKES THEM GODS

somebody talk about this

- etc etc what if the reason loki is unable to attack the purple dinosaur with magic is because when he tackled thor earlier, he used whatever magic he had left to spare in order to heal him

checks out cos thor goes from flat on his face to swinging his fists in the space of like 30 seconds and the only thing to happen to him in between is said bit about loki tackling him

- why does heimdall save hulk? i mean, i could understand it if he were trying to aim the bifrost at thor and somebody somehow knocked off his aim and he accidentally saves hulk, but like, we've established that heimdall's loyalty is to the royal seat of asgard upon whom sits thor's mighty ass. thor who, in this scene, has just been incapacitated by a metal eggshell(?) and is at the mercy of their assailants. given heimdall's priorities, it is baffling to the point of inconceivability that he would preferentially save fucking HULK over his own king.

- if this next scene isn't the guardians of the galaxy coming across thor clutching loki's dead fucking body floating through space then i don't know why any of us are even here

- "he sent loki! the attack on new york was thanos!" makes no sense? like, if loki's scepter had the mind stone in it, which we established it did in the last movie when we broke it open to retrieve vision, then.....why didn't thanos just....take the mind stone in the first place? cos rock collecting is and has always been his goal?

what, do you think that just because you assert a thing makes us forget all the shit that happened before?

- i.....am actually with tony stark. why don't they just destroy the stones they have so that thanos can't get to them? oh, you made a promise? well promises change and circumstances change! you tell him tony! you tell that stupid fucker --

oh my god i'm gonna be ill

- i think the only person whose ego can match tony stark's is probably a neurosurgeon so 👍 i guess

-i love how we immediately went back to the "so dark can't see shit" aesthetic after ragnorak because ensuring that one's audience can SEE what is HAPPENING IN YOUR MOVIE is apparently for radical directors like taika waititi

- cannot believe that tony stark staring at captain america's phone number is being played with the same emotional intensity as thor losing his soulmate entire people

- honestly how many times is the mcu gonna invoke 9/11 imagery til someone calls them out for being terrorists

- lmao i know i said this before but peter's spidey senses tingling AFTER the giant alien anus has already started sucking up new york and it is right outside his window is fucking hilarious. that's just called using your eyeballs peter

- "friday notify first responders about the giant alien anus sucking up new york" lol like the first thing somebody did when the alien anus showed up wasn't to fucking call 911 GREAT IDEA TONY

- still can't believe that they let failed neurosurgeon dr strange do more magic than god of tricks and sorcery loki lol

- i know i rag on dr strange a lot about the fact that he's a neurosurgeon it's just that he sucks.

as a neurosurgeon eyy.

- i hate that peter parker has to be here!!!!! leave him alone!!!!!

- tony stark should not be allowed within 100 feet of children or minorities

- it is very weird to me that steve "brooklyn" rogers has an area code from georgia

- since when was hela a half-sister? ODIN'S DAUGHTER AND THOR'S BLOODED SIBLINGS OR BUST YOU FUCKING COWARDS

- i am very disappointed that thor is going to go get another weapon after we spent the whole last movie talking about how he is not the god of hammers

- i just need thor to have much more PTSD than he has right now. fucking hulk has ptsd. maybe they're saving the ptsd for later. one can only hope.

- i am glad that they are letting him be cleverer though

- THEY ARE LETTING VISION DATE A TEENAGER WHY

GOD. FUCKING GROSS.

- wait when did vision turn into a white man again? did i miss that movie?

- i am disappointed that vision the computer techno robot apparently has a penis. like what a stupid limitation to give your computer techno robot, gender. 🙄

- i think that the mass destruction of infrastructure and architecture in the MCU is because of the pg13 no blood limitation that disney has set? like there's no way to show destruction to the body, so one may only show the exponential destruction to one's surroundings. like imagine how much more dramatic intensity you could wring out of a regular fight scene would be if people were allowed to bleed?

- cannot believe that a computer techno robot and a witch are having a punch up with the bad guys. of all people to fight with something not their fists, it's these two

- wanda has no enhanced strength or durability? she's a regular teenager who's a bit witchy. the first time she got thrown through a glass door should have shattered her vertebrae. again i don't understand why we insist that everybody must have the same powers and capabilities when it's clear they don't. think about how much more interesting it would be if some avengers were more fragile than others and had to be given accommodations as such

- IT IS INCONCEIVABLE TO ME THAT FUCKING BLACK WIDOW (regular human), CAPTAIN AMERICA (enhanced human), AND FALCON (regular human with wings) CAN DEFEAT THE CHILDREN OF THANOS WHEN THOR COULDN'T UNLESS THOR (god of fucking thunder carved of steel and stone) WAS NERFED

- still don't understand how we'll lend aliens afro features but not afro hair, like, seriously? you're gonna dream up green aliens with gills who look like black people but imagining them with black hair is a step too far?

- the gap of commentary in this liveblog is simply because i do not care at all for the galaxy defenders

- "earth just lost her best defender" who? who does captain america consider earth's best defender? it's not thor; he doesn't know thor's presumed dead. it's not tony; he doesn't know tony's on an alien anus. who else has died so far?

- love how exhausted bucky looks. have always loved how exhausted bucky looks. love bucky.

- i forgot that tony was with peter parker. god i hate that.

- "i'm peter btw"

"dr strange"

"oh you're using the made up names then. i'm spider man"

ok that was cute, but peter's cute, we knew that already

- i want to fling both strange and stark into space and i'm having a hard time deciding which one to push first

- "you went to bed hungry, scraping for scraps" oohhhh thanos is just anti-poor people, he would literally rather poor people be dead than struggle, i get it nowww

this is on brand for mcu

- oh my god thanos gets 2/6 stones by torturing siblings in front of other siblings, seriously? you couldn't come up with 6 different ways to find his stupid rocks you had to reuse one twice?

- which one of thor's friends was stabbed through the heart....? fandral??

- "if i don't get my vengeance what more could i lose" more like what else is there eh? what else is there for a king of no people but their vengeance?

- CANNOT BELIEVE THEY GAVE HIM BACK AN EYEBALL JESUS CHRIST IF YOU DIDN'T LIKE THOR RAGNORAK JUST SAY SO YOU DIDN'T HAVE TO FUCKING

VEHICLE FOR AUTHORITARIANISM, NOTHING IS ALLOWED TO CHANGE, FUCK YOUR CHARACTER DEVELOPMENT I GOT MINE

FUCK

- i do enjoy that thor is now science fiction rather than fantasy, i don't think anybody knew what to do with fantasy cos fantasy is again, ultimately about conservatism and the status quo. so i do like that we're embracing the new and boundless for whatever that's worth.

- marvel is a cesspool of toxic masculinity. at no point are characters allowed to actually feel anything because weakness is uncool i guess and therefore unmanful. like thor lost ALL OF HIS PEOPLE. fucking ALL of them. he watched his brother die in order to save him. he is not allowed a single fucking response of mourning. i don't care if he's pushing it back because revenge or whatever, this is the sort of grief that rules you, which will bring all your load bearing structures down to heel, and they let him do nothing; he does not even rage. perfect control. smooth witticisms. why. why aren't we allowed to see his sadness?

- yo i can't believe red skull is a scifi villain now lol space nazis for real

- OH MY GOD THEY WASHED BUCKY'S WIG AND IT LOOKS SO BAD

- michael b jordan was right btw wakanda is complicit in africa's exploitation

- i do LIKE black panther i guess in the way you technically like that cousin you met once when you were like 9 and never saw again?

i like how we have here in wakanda the sears tower (chicago), the batman building (nashville), and the gherkin (london)

- ok but like, presumably not a death cult super technologically advanced wakandans who are deffo made of human flesh and human blood still arm their people with spears

i mean unless wakanda is also a death cult

why is this chicks entire fucking face cgi'd she looks like a fucking cut scene video game character

- oh ok they have LASER spears, ok

so then why did they give bucky a fucking gun

- what is bucky supposed to be able to contribute here exactly, like fucking, again, he's spycraft isn't he? he's a one man, dead of night, operation go loud and then immediately silent kinda operation. why do they have him on the front lines of a fucking lock-step formation battle??

- "it will be the noblest ending in history" WHAT, FIRST COUNTRY TO EVER BE OVERUN BY ALIEN JACKALS??

- stormbreaker is just leviathan axe, somebody's said this already right

- omfg i'm so glad they're finally acknowledging that thor is OP as fuck and does not belong amongst the fucking squabbles of earth

-"titan was like most planets, too many mouths to feed not enough to go around, so i proposed a plan, dispassionate to rich and poor alike" JUST SAY YOU HATE POOR PEOPLE MCU. YOU CANNOT HAVE RICH AND POOR, YOU CANNOT HAVE DISPARITY, YOU CANNOT HAVE SOME WITH TOO MUCH AND OTHERS WITH NOT ENOUGH AND CALL IT EXTINCTION. THAT IS NOT A QUESTION OF OVERTAXED RESOURCES THAT IS A QUESTION OF RESOURCE FUCKING MANAGEMENT. IT IS AN ARTIFICIAL CRISIS IF THERE EXISTS ENOUGH TO GO AROUND BUT SOME PEOPLE ARE JUST HOARDING IT THAT'S WHEN YOU KILL THOSE PEOPLE AND TAKE THEIR SHARE. KILLING HALF THE PEOPLE IS THE KIND OF FUCKING SOLUTION TO INEQUALITY THAT RICH PEOPLE COME UP WITH

GOD. ITS LIKE NONE OF YOU EVER READ

-you've got the big fucking boss in an ambush AND YOU ATTACK HIM WITH A MAGIC SWORD STEVEN STRANGE?????

THIS FRANCHISE HAS NO IDEA HOW TO UTILISE MAGIC USERS FUCKING HELL

- when will somebody please utilise ironman like the one man artillery he fucking is WHY IS HE FIGHTING WITH HIS STUPID FISTS HE IS LITERALLY ONE CONTINUOUS CARPET BOMB JUST USE HIM THAT WAY

cut of his arm CUT OFF HIS ARM YOU BLOODLESS SPINELESS USELESS FUCKING CUNTS . this is a manufactured crisis, KIND OF LIKE THE ONES THANOS LIKES I GUESS LOL

- dr strange could have very easily prevented or stopped quill from punching thanos but he didn't cos i guess even the movie forgets steven strange exists sometimes

- i like that the shield around wakanda has the same weakness as a poorly constructed chicken coop -- you always build into the ground a couple feet to stop the diggers man, come on, what is this, your first energy shield?

- oh disgusting, a girl boss moment. whatever you're all fascists.

- nobody adores martial might like fascists do fucking change my mind

- " avengers: not one person in this fucking cast is able to stomach ANY AMOUNT of personal sacrifice" more like

- "why did you give away the time stone?" "we are in the endgame" THAT'S NOT AN ANSWER THAT'S A FUCKING MOVIE TEASER FUCK YOU

- why didn't strange just trap thanos in a timeloop again? we've already established that is a perfectly acceptable way to deal with planetary annihilation. IS IT POSSIBLY BECAUSE NOBODY ON THIS WRITING STAFF KNOWS HOW TO DEAL WITH MAGIC

- THOR OP BLIZZARD PLS NERF

-CAPTAIN MARVEL SERIOUSLY THAT'S WHO YOU'RE GONNA SEND YOUR LAST PAGE TO JESUS FUCKING DISGUSTING

[bookandcover]

A couple years ago, Michelle Obama’s book was recommended to me with glowing praise by a college friend (who reads a lot of the memoir/autobiography genre, and who felt this book stood out). I’ve meant to read it since then, and I was really glad to sit down with it as the March choice for our family’s Anti-Racism Book Club. Michelle Obama has a real nice writing style: direct, specific, and authentic. It maybe sounds unfair to say that I was “pleasantly surprised” by how strong the writing was; this was not because of Michelle herself, but because of the “memoirs by non-writer celebrities” genre where I have generally had low expectations when it comes to literary style and book structure. I really enjoyed the way Michelle writes, though. Her descriptions are specific and vivid. I felt, during the first half of the book, like I was reading a novel. I kept forgetting this energetic and self-aware girl was Michelle Obama. She seemed like a relatable, realistic protagonist in a YA book, growing up in her sharply-observed Chicago neighborhood. Her family stories and her friendships felt so concrete and were so easy to picture through the descriptions and imagery. The narrative always felt natural, well-paced, and engaging.

As Michelle’s narration arrived at the point in time when she appeared more frequently in the public eye, I was able to reconcile her vividly drawn youth with the things I knew about Michelle and the Obamas separate from this book. The blending of both selves/personas was really effective, as Michelle filled in public image outlines with color and heart by sharing the details of life in the White House. Michelle humanizes the places she lives, and her observations of the White House, its traditions and conventions both upheld and pushed against in meaningful ways by the Obama family, made their lives possible for me to imagine. From Michelle’s appreciation of being able to get her own mug from a cabinet without being offered help in her post-Presidency life to her insistence that her daughters make their own beds in the White House, the concreteness of their lives is always present in these pages. I loved getting such personal insights into a part of American public life that we are all aware of (there’s a First Family, there’s a White House), but that normally transcends the practical and specific in our minds.  

I felt, through Michelle’s well-chosen descriptions, the challenging burden of the security that surrounded their family at all times during these years. This was poignantly captured in the scene where Michelle and Barack plan a trip to NYC for dinner and play, only to understand how many people they’ve inconvenience through this small trip, as Manhattan streets are barricaded by their security and Secret Service agents scan and check everyone entering the restaurant after them. Sometimes the smallest details capture the feeling of life in the White House most vividly. I was struck by Michelle’s explanation that she couldn’t step out on the Truman Balcony—the only semi-private outdoor space at the White House—without first alerting the security who would clear the area below the South Lawn of the White House where tourists stopped for photos. Therefore, she knew she’d never use it. Just like going out to dinner and a show in NYC, simple things created such a huge operation and hassle for those around them, that it felt natural and necessary to stop doing them. I thought it was interesting to see that, despite these challenges, the area where the Obamas weren’t willing to limit and to hold back was in the experiences of their children. Michelle was frustrated with the security process when a changed young people’s plan—heading to get ice cream spontaneously—was thwarted for Malia while she waited for an hour for her head of security to arrive from the suburbs. Michelle told the security planners and organizers, “if you’re going to protect a kid, you’ve got to be able to move like a kid,” and the appropriate adjustments were made. Michelle prioritized her children’s rich experiences throughout their years in the White House, taking them to Washington D.C. museums, and skiing at Liberty Mountain, and along on international trips.

This emphasis on the vividness and diversity of her children’s experiences seemed to echo Michelle’s own upbringing, although she didn’t explicitly draw this connection. While, at times, Michelle was frustrated by aspects of her upbringing—embarrassed that her mother hand-sewed her clothes while other teenagers sported trendy outfits, or angry at her equally stubborn great-aunt Robbie over her piano lessons, when Michelle wanted to quickly skip to more advanced pieces rather than grinding over the basics—she overwhelmingly feels the love and care that surrounds her every day. She explains her father’s fortitude and strength; living with multiple sclerosis for decades, he continued to maintain his quality work and support his family, never wanting to focus on his pain or his physical deterioration. Michelle tells a heartbreaking story about a day when her father was too overwhelmed by pain to make it from their house to his car to drive to work and sank down on the doorstep, while Michelle watched him surreptitiously. She decided to give him a few minutes and then offer help, but when she looked back outside he had made it to his truck and gone to work for the whole day.

Michelle also gives huge credit for her positive upbringing and her educational successes to her mother’s care, tracing the impact this had on her education and career trajectory. She explains how when her mother understood that Michelle’s second grade classroom was not a productive environment, with a teacher who did not challenge the students nor show them care, she went to the school to advocate for an advanced placement program that allowed Michelle and other high-performing students to benefit from a more self-directed learning environment, a high-quality teacher, and new schoolwork and projects. Michelle knows that having someone watching over her education, and advocating for her before she could do this for herself, made all the difference. She also speaks about her mother’s creativity and the ways she made Michelle and her older brother Craig’s childhoods rich with experiences. Michelle recalls that she made a chimney and fireplace from painted cardboard one year for Christmas and describes her mother upholding New Year’s Eve traditions filled with board games and specially-prepared food.

The richness of Michelle’s upbringing with her family and community’s warmth, care, and love, in a space that would be stereotypically discounted as poor and getting poorer, reminded me a lot of my own childhood. I grew up in a poor neighborhood in increasingly socio-economically stratified Seattle in the 90’s, but never once felt like I was missing anything with two parents who spent quality time with me every single day. Michelle’s extended family forms a vibrant and lively community in her South Side of Chicago neighborhood, forming a support structure that seems to never leave Michelle wanting for anything, perceiving herself to be loved and valued and encouraged, building her the most solid of life foundations. Even when her parents had so little, they saved and borrowed to send Michelle on a trip with her classmates to Paris because they wanted her to experience the world. Even though Michelle raises her children in a very different socio-economic context, it’s clear that the exact same values guide her and Barack’s parenting. I think Michelle and Barack’s efforts to prioritize their family and their daughters’ upbringing is something that was visible about them during their time in the White House. This focus shone through and their love for each other always seemed so genuine. It was lovely to see that contextualized in Becoming.

More than just Michelle’s upbringing was relatable to me. I found her experiences when she attended Princeton, vaulting suddenly into a different environment than what she’d known, an environment steeped in the specific traditions of an old New England college, to be likewise relatable (yes, what is squash? I’d thought this was just a nickname for the sport, and laughed loudly the first several times I heard it as an incoming freshman). The socio-economic context shift from childhood to college that Michelle experienced was quite similar to my own. Her experiences in her 20s, too, of trying to figure out who she wants to be in a career/work space and how to let go of the “trappings of success” instilled in her by her high-powered education also rang very true for me. Even her love of eating out at the same haunt, her engagement with pop culture, her routine listening to music, her interest in leveraging fashion for social justice impact—these small things were similar to my experiences and preferences, and they made Michelle someone I really wanted to connect with and befriend. I felt these connections within the knowledge that every single experiences of Michelle’s has occurred within the context of race. Even though I felt I related to many of her experiences and thoughts, I can never understand how all of these were shaped by the systematic racism that permeates all facets of life in America. Yet, I think Michelle wants her story to be accessible, relatable not necessarily in similarity but in shared humanity. In connecting with her and identifying with her, many people can find inspiration and encouragement through her journey, as she herself acknowledges. And while I know that the people in America who most need to see this and believe in it—a Black woman from the South Side of Chicago having the experiences and achievements that Michelle has had—I think her empowerment has a broad resonance that inspires striving from within every kind of under-representation, a vote of confidence for every kind of diversity.

Right at the end of the book, Michelle beautifully articulates her faith in change, hope, and this kind of common humanity. As she describes Lin-Manuel Miranda’s musical Hamilton, she writes “it told a story about America that allowed the diversity in.” This description made me cry because it is full of hope. America has a long way to go in terms of achieving racial equality. I thought it was interesting to see how heavily Michelle was criticized during the first campaign when her statement “for the first time in my adult life, I am really proud of my country” (followed by “because it feels like hope is making a comeback”) was taken out of context. I think that, today, in the political climate of 2020 that continues into 2021, a lot more direct criticism of America is accepted. Today, there seems to be a much stronger understanding that BIPOC speaking up about race and staying they have never been safe, have never been equal, have never been happy in America is our reality. This language isn’t something that is dismissed or attacked in the same way it was in 2008/2009. Sure, the standards of “accepted language” are probably always different for someone running for political office (although has our recent former President all but obliterated such standards?), but I think there’s a much wider percentage of the American population today who feels that strong criticism of America on the grounds of race is appropriate, and necessary. Setting aside the context of Michelle’s rise to public visibility, I think she independently has incredible hope (not manufactured, not over-done, but realistic, enduring) in America. She ties this hope to the connections she felt when she campaigned in Iowa and didn’t see the working white class voters there as vastly different from herself and her upbringing. She ties this hope to the young people who devoted their lives and time and energy to Obama’s campaign. On her Becoming book tour (I watched the documentary on Netflix this week), she ties this hope to the young women of color who she connects with who are fighting for their education and their opportunities. She ties this hope to her own daughters, growing up strong and independently-minded.

In the final pages of this book, as the next President casts an appalling shadow over the things Michelle and Barack fought for, Michelle chooses to look to the musical Hamilton, as one concrete example of the hope she feels, in spite of setbacks, in spite of the slowness of change. Michelle leaves the White House mentally reviewing for herself the impacts that they had during their time there, the positive changes that they made, from the tiny things to the giant things, and her ability to look at the world this way—while showing how much this is not an easy thing to do, nor a perspective to take for granted—is one of the powerful impacts and truths of this book.

[penninstitute]

CASE #0140719

Statement of Emma Livingston, regarding her colorblindness and her artist neighbor. Original statement given July 19th, 2014.

Everything I see is a shade of grey. Trees are grey, the sky is grey, et cetera, et cetera. I was born like this, unable to experience color from the moment I was born, but it never hindered my ability to function as a human being. 

I can tell colors apart by the different shades, but it truly is quite hard to when some are so similar. I know yellow is lighter than red, but in my eyes, red and blue look almost completely the same. Well, looked. 

I’ve come to learn what colors look like. I know red is warm and blue is cold. But I came through to this knowledge in quite a… strange and rather scary encounter. I mean, I wouldn’t be writing this if I didn’t think it was that bad. But I saw color. And not with those fancy glasses that they make nowadays. But with my own eyes. 

I recently moved to New York for a job. I’m just a simple temp, but I wanted out from my parent’s home in Alabama and to move in with my girlfriend, who my parents despised. I think they despise me too, especially now that they know I have an interest in women.

My girlfriend and I lived in a surprisingly decent building for the price of the rent. It was homey but a little tired looking, but nothing a little bit of redecorating couldn’t fix. We had a neighbor to our left, a little old woman named Belinda, who was probably more of a mom than mine ever was. She made Ari and I cupcakes every other week. Ari is my girlfriend, by the way. Belinda was a sweet woman. She isn’t dead or anything, but Ari and I don’t live there anymore. I’ll get to that soon.

The apartment to our right was empty for about six months after we moved in. Apparently a single mom lived there, but moved out to live with her family in Florida after the death of her nine year old son. Tragic accident, I heard. But this isn’t about that woman, but the man that moved in.

He was weird. I don’t like to be rude, but he really was. Ari told me his pale skin had an almost green, sickly tone. She said his hair was a strawberry blond, whatever that means, and had blue eyes that were puffy and red as if he was always crying. He looked like a disaster to her, and also to me. I felt pity for him.

Oh, I should mention his name too, shouldn’t I? I think it was Frank. Frank Cyrus. Or Sylvester. But I’m pretty sure it was Cyrus. From my limited interaction with him, I learned he was an artist. He worked as a curator at the Met, he said, and was often so inspired by all the works there that he incorporated a lot of things in his own work.

I appreciate art as much as I can. I can look at a painting and appreciate the handiwork or realism gone into a piece of work. But I can’t exactly appreciate the use of color in something like the Mona Lisa or whatever.

Frank would show Ari and I whatever knew creation he’d make whenever we’d see him. It wasn’t very often, but we’re good neighbors, and we try to communicate as much as we can with our neighbors to let them know that we’re good people.

But something about Frank made me want to not be nice to him. I know, I know, it’s really mean of me to just dislike someone because of their vibes or whatever, but God was he unsettling. One time, I was coming home from work, tired and in pain from my new heels I got for my birthday. 

The hall was quiet, the fluorescent light illuminated the decades old carpet and the paint that began to peel from the walls. A light that was just above Frank’s door was burnt out which unsettled me even more.

As I pulled out my keys, movement in the darkness caught my eye. I blinked and shook my head. It was nothing, probably something in my head. I fumbled with placing the key in the lock, now that my hands began to shake with unease. 

The voice from the darkness is what made me drop them. It sounded like Frank. But… different. Something was off. 

“We should call Edward to fix this light, shouldn’t we, Emma?” Frank asked. 

“Y-yeah, we should,” I said, in an attempt to not sound alarmed. But I was pretty alarmed. I bent over to pick up my keys, only to see them not there. There was a familiar jingle to my right. 

I turned to see Frank holding my keys in his hand. It looked wrong. It.. It looked like how in movies, hands look when smashed by a hammer or something. It was so strange. It made me feel nauseous. 

“You dropped these.” He smiled widely and stretched out his arm. I heard a sickening pop in his elbow. His wrist made a soft click as its fingers bent unnaturally to dangle the keys between his thumb and index finger. I gingerly accepted them from him. 

“Thank you, Frank.” I gave him a quick smile, shoved the key in the lock, and bid him a good night. My heart beat thunderously in my chest as I closed the door behind me. I’d never had such a peculiar encounter before in my life. When I told Ari about it, she almost got up to go have a very strongly worded conversation with Frank, but I stopped her. Maybe I should have let her. 

A couple weeks passed and I hadn’t seen him. I was thankful, but there was something in the back of my mind that made me feel bad for Frank. I don’t know why. 

It was about two weeks ago when it happened. I had a day off that day, one that I was going to spend lounging around the house as I awaited Ari to come back so we could have a date night. There was a soft knock at the door around five. It was odd, as Ari didn’t get off until five-thirty. I guessed she might’ve gotten off early, and I eagerly hopped up and headed to answer the door. But when my hand closed around the doorknob, turned, and pulled the door open, no one was outside. I blinked and furrowed my brow. 

I leaned my head out of the doorway and looked around. Nothing looked amiss. Then there was a creak of a door slowly opening. Frank’s door. I don’t know what came over me in that moment, but with a sudden urge I stepped out of my apartment and walked to the entrance of my neighbor’s apartment. It was pitch black in there, and I know that this next thing sounds so stupid. Something an idiotic horror movie protagonist would do. It’s a decision I don’t even remember making.

I walked into the apartment. As my foot touched against the wooden floor the dim lights flickered on. I didn’t touch a switch at all, it just… happened. I looked around the living room of Frank’s apartment, which seemed so strangely bare. Only a television and a couch, nothing more. I remember I called out for Frank, but I didn’t get a response. Every feeling flowing through my body was telling me to get out of there but I just… couldn’t. My body was almost moving on its own. I slowly drifted towards the bedroom, my heart pounding heavily in my chest. When I pushed open the door, my eyes almost popped out of my skull.

Color. It was full of color. I don’t know how else to explain it. There were canvasses everywhere, on the floor, on the walls, even on the ceiling. Colors. I felt nauseous, it was so… overwhelming. But it was beautiful. There’s no other way I could describe it, I’d never seen anything like this before. Can you imagine going through life without seeing such beauty?

My eyes flashed across the room, taking in each grotesque, surrealist painting. The imagery itself was unappealing to me, hideous bodies bent in unfathomable ways, patterns covering all of them or behind them in the background. But the use of color astounded me and left me sobbing in the doorway. I don’t know how long I spent standing there, crying, trying to name all the colors I saw. But my attention was interrupted as I saw him.

Frank. On the floor. I don’t know how long he’d been there, I didn’t notice him. He was naked, every inch of him covered in that colorful paint, his body bent in unhuman angles. His spine was twisted, his legs tied into a knot. His face was long, distorted, the jaw crooked, almost resembling Picasso’s “the Scream”. He was still breathing.

I screamed. I ran out of there as fast as I could, my fight or flight, finally kicking in. I sped to the phone and dialled 911.

Ari came home soon and helped me through the police’s questions.

They did find Frank’s body in a similar state as I did, but dead. They said there were no paintings, though. The only paint was the stuff on Frank’s body, painted in patterns. They still don’t know how it all happened, I’ve called the station a few times but never got a word. Nothing on those paintings, either.

I feel like I’m crazy, but I’m not. Ari and I moved to a new building later that week. We’re fine now, I’m fine now. Got a therapist and everything. Ari bought me those colorblind glasses after I’ve rambled about the colors for hours on end. I haven’t touched them. I don’t think I want to see any other colors but those impossible ones again.

FOLLOW-UP NOTES

- Quite obviously, a colorblind individual cannot just suddenly start seeing color like this, which makes me doubt the statement to an extent.

- Ms. Livingston refused our request for a follow-up interview.

- Frank Cyrus did exist, although records on him are minimal (save for an extensive criminal record). He seems to have dropped off the face of the earth.

ARCHIVIST’S NOTE: This statement was rather difficult to digitalize. The scanner refused to work properly, and had to be transcribed the old-fashioned way from paper to computer. When the scanner was used, flashes of headache-inducing, swirling colors would appear on the screen of the computer. Blair and I had to unplug the scanner and the computer to get it to stop.

[unprofessionalreviews]

Doom Days 🔺

Album by Bastille

Genre - alternative/indie

Overall - WOWOWOW, like all other Bastille albums, I love this. A couple of them are mind blowingly well written, of course I’m not that surprised though, Dan Smith is a freakin boss, we stan.

It’s a quarter past midnight:

- Honestly the imagery of adventuring through a city and watching the lights fly by is such a euphoric picture to me

- Idk if “love will tear us apart” is a song, a lyric, or something else, but i like to think it’s an idea. This young group of people singing of love and loss, whether it’s specific or not, it’s a feeling.

- This song is honestly such an anthem

- It addresses how people take for granted the lives they had when they were young and I LOVE WHEN SONGS DO THAT cause it always gets me in the feels (this is especially focused on in the chorus)

- Did I mention the chorus is A BLESSING

- “Good time, bad decisions” reflects the next song lol

BEST LYRIC ~ “We want the bodies on the billboards

Not the lives underneath them”

Bad decisions:

- right off the bat a contrast to the last song

- OH MY LORD I LOVE THIS

- “Stay forever numb” instead of young, I’m g a s p i n g

- This is already stuck in my head

- Ooo chorus is all upbeat now, we stan

- This is REEEALLY GOOD

BEST LYRIC ~ “You always let me down so tenderly

So live fast and die young and stay forever numb”

The waves:

- oooOooOO begins with angelic vocals

- Aw piano, I love that

- And them bam there’s a beat

- The CHORUS IS ACOUSTIC BLISS but then it comes down (like a wave 🌊)

- “Twilight zone” and “lost boy life” is such a good way to use allusions give the same feeling to the music and the story as those shows give the watchers

- The last chorus sounds like he’s underwater I love that

BEST LYRIC ~ “Is it an apocalypse or nihilism on your lips? We sink or swim”

Divide:

- I can FEEL this song

- Bastille love songs are rare because they make me feel so much more than the majority of bands and singers nowadays

- The verses are so short but so poignant

BEST LYRIC ~ “In these darker days, I push the limit to the love you offer

There's a riot in my head, demanding we do this forever”

Million pieces:

- I love when songs are upbeat but actually really existential lol

- We go through life ignoring the pain of the outside world cause to be fair, reality is truly sadder than anyone can ever actually handle

- The bridge encapsulates the entirety of the song

- I thought y’all should know my candle smells like Carmel rice cakes and it’s making me really happy

BEST LYRIC ~ “If it's gonna break me

Won't you let me go?

Leave it till the morning

I don't wanna know”

Doom days:

- THIS SONG GETS ME EVERY TIME

- “When i watch the world burn, all I think about is you” k i l l s m e

- This song is so real and so perfect as the titular song on the album

- “Live-streaming the final days of Rome” Lord almighty that’s a good line. This addressing not only worldly concerns like climate change but the obsession with social media this planet has fallen under, our last resort has become content creation, even when the Earth dies. Also, a good history lesson lol.

- ~ WE LOVE THE SOUND THAT OUR VOICE MAKES / MAN THIS ECHO CHAMBERS GETTING LOUD ~

- I’ve heard this song a thousand times already and here I am listening to it twice when I need to hear the rest of the album lol

- 1 intro, 1 verse, 1 chorus and a whole lot of staring off into the distance because what does it all mean anyway?

BEST LYRIC ~ “So I put my phone down

Fall into the night with you”

Nocturnal creatures:

- at first I thought this was “not tunnel creatures” LOL

- I can already tell I’m gonna be listening to this like every night

- This is good for nighttime reminiscing (which I do often)

BEST LYRIC ~ “We're nocturnal creatures, we own the night

And we don't need a reason if we want to lose our minds”

4AM:

- honestly the humming makes me feel like I’m falling asleep in a safe happy place and I love that

- “Tuesday’ll be a doom day” he says that like its the norm and I love that (also got that album title in there, we stan)

- This song makes me blissfully happy

- The outro reflects the bridge and the post- chorus of A Quarter Past Midnight and I stan

BEST LYRIC ~ “I never felt more comfortable, could never want for more when you're near”

Another place:

- the pacing is different then I would expect and I really like it

- The lyrics depict such a real relationship

- I feel t h i s

BEST LYRIC ~ “So don't make promises to me that you're gonna break

We only ever wanted one thing from this

Don't paint wonderful lies on me that wash away”

Those nights:

- Listening to this is like feeling all your loneliness grouped with every other human being’s and suddenly, you’re not alone because everyone feels the pain of those nights

- The bridge is so good wow

- OUTRO REFLECTS NEXT SONG WHICH I LOVE BECAUSE THIS ONE IS MORE EMPTY AND THE NEXT IS SO WHOLE

BEST LYRIC ~ “'cause aren't we all just

Looking for a little bit of hope these days?

Looking for somebody you can wake up with?”

Joy:

- This song is about HAVING SOMEONE which contrasts the last one which is about SEARCHING FOR SOMEONE and this song is so full and I love it

- Awwww

- What a happy ending to the album I love it so much

BEST LYRIC ~ “As the night dissolves into this final frame

You're a sweet relief, you saved me from my brain”

[feuilly-cakes]

The Maze Runner (series) - review

Buckle up, this is going to be a long one. My thoughts on the series as a whole is that it’s an alright one, and you’ll soon see why the praise isn’t higher there. I’ll go book by book with my thoughts on each, so you can know exactly the way my feelings progressed to this point.

Book 1: The Maze Runner - 5*

I gave this book a 5 star rating, but honestly it's been nearly 2 months since then and I'm still not sure on that rating. Ideally, 5 stars for me means I got so attached to the characters I cried or had some other emotion, but that didn't happen here. Instead, I got a fantastic plot with a ton of mystery and a lot of terror, all with amazing writing but uninteresting characters. I won't say they are flat characters, because they aren't, but I didn't really feel a connection with them. There is only so much you can relate to a character who has no history.

Thomas is obviously the main character and so we see everything from his perspective, and we do see his emotions, his personality, his struggle. He spends a good portion of the book confused, angry, sad, frustrated. He's not a flat, boring character by any means, but for some reason I just didn't feel that connection I usually do with main characters. Maybe it's a side effect of the third person limited narration, or maybe he just isn't a character I can relate to, but I wasn't really interested emotionally in his character. I didn't need to be really, because the plot more than made up for it.

When it comes to the plot, I found no faults. It was fast paced and had me asking questions the whole way through, and most of them even got answered. Most of the questions pertained to how the Maze worked; How was it so high up that the box rose for half an hour? What was really around The Cliff and how were they seeing stars below them? How did the walls move? Was it actually indoors or not and how would that even work anyway? I love when I’m constantly asking questions and coming up with theories while reading, and this book was one huge question mark. Just the memories plot alone had me on the edge of my seat, and I wanted to know more.

If you only read books for the characters and their personal arcs, this might be a bit weak on that for you. If you love a good mystery mixed in with a bit of horror and sci-fi elements, plus a dash of dystopia (which I’m sure will become a big dollop in the next book) then this is absolutely the best thing to read. It’s definitely a 5 star quality, just in my personal opinion not a 5 star emotion.

Book 2: The Scorch Trials - 3*

Honestly, this was not anywhere near as enjoyable as the first book. Technically speaking it was a well written book, but personally I didn’t find it great, simply okay - average. Enjoyable to an extent but irritating to a certain degree. I kept reading because I expected something to be answered but all I got was confused. After watching all the films and powering through the first book I genuinely expected so much more from this and I was let down.

It’s darker and more gory than the first book, with some shocking scenes that kept me going. I did appreciate all the dream flashbacks from Thomas that helped put together what exactly he had to do with the Maze. Outside of these dreams I just didn’t know what was going on half the time and I felt frustrated by it all. His backstory was legit the only reason I was interested at all. I didn’t really care where they were going or their journey, l just wanted to know about his missing memories.

I understand this one was to set up the world a bit more and go into character development, but this was the most mediocre of middle book syndrome books. I can honestly say here I preferred the film.

Book 3: The Death Cure - 4*

Oh boy with this one. I have a very immediate reaction with lots of spoilers here on my goodreads if anyone wants to see that, but I'll summarise with the good spoilery bits cut out.

Well, my brain hurts.

This book honestly started out kinda meh, with some interesting tidbits thrown in. Then it got less meh, but more disturbing. Whether all of it was really that bad or whether it was bad because of the real world parallels right now I do not know, but I got a little bit messed up by everything that happened in Denver. The worldbuilding became more relevant here, we learn more about the Flare, the way people are living alongside it and/or with it, and the way Cranks are really treated. We get to find out about The Purge too, which I'll leave as a lovely surprise for those of you who haven't yet read, but what happened and my loud opinions are through that goodreads link if you want entertainment.

And on that note, let's talk Teresa. Full disclosure, I went into this trilogy already loving the films, and I still stand by that love. The treatment of Teresa in those films, however, was abysmal, and to read her actual character arc, well, I was enraged. Her arc in these books is fantastic, and the way she grows and realises the consequences of her actions is actually realistic, especially after all the trauma of the trials. We barely even see her and yet we see most of her character arc in this book. Simply getting her memories back wouldn't make her forget all the horror and go back to Wicked, and the way it was all handled was super satisfying. It does all make me wonder if perhaps she knew about the Brain thing, though. I won't know until I read that prequel story so until then I'll just have to speculate [currently reading that, still don't know]. On a similar note the Chancellor Page storyline was bizarrely different, and I had a shock when we get to interact (?) with her in the capacity we did.

Chapter 56 can choke. I knew it was coming okay, yet it still made me feel like I was punched in the chest. Especially after the previous scenes where we see things happen with a certain character in a scary way.

I can't talk about the Brain thing. It's disturbing to think about and I will be repressing the memory of that whole section of the book as soon as I can. It also kicks off a series of horrifying imagery and tragic events that hurt my emotions. All I can really say is that it's a strong ending to a trilogy, and if you're here you probably got past the travesty that was The Scorch Trials so this book will be a breeze compared to that, just be wary of the medical horror and the horror in general, since it's pretty graphic.

You may notice I haven't discussed Thomas, and that is because I'm too messed up by the Brain thing. The medical horror plus his reaction to the knowledge of what was about to happen knocked me flat emotionally and I may never get past that in terms of these books. No one has ever mentioned the Brain thing in any fan space I've been in, and that's for a good reason. Just know Thomas grew on me slowly just in time to cause me great distress. That is all.

Book 4: The Kill Order - 4*

I kind of loved this book, but as a friend. It basically shows the story of the Flare virus' bad beginnings in the world, with flashbacks to the solar flares that caused all the initial devastation. It was one hell of a page turner. It read like it was just meant to be a film, if you know what I mean. It does stand alone if you don’t read the prologue.

I honestly wasn’t expecting to get quite so many tidbits of information about the actual Flares event itself; to be honest I was expecting this to be a typical zombie kind of story that starts after the beginning and ends before the end, but it actually starts at ground zero on day 1 of the Flare (outside of the control group that is). I thought it was horrifying and fascinating to see how quickly it mutates and the effects changes, and also how the characters react knowing that they’ve probably been exposed to it from the beginning. Seeing the inside of the mind of one the earliest Cranks as they become infected was amazingly interesting after seeing how Newt acted in the Death Cure when he got sick.

The flashbacks to the Solar Flares and its aftermath were just terrifying. The imagery was horrifying and the whole concept of sun flares and then massive floods of boiling hot water put me right on edge even though obviously they were alive at the start of the book. Something that massively surprised me as I read was that the Flare virus had only been around for 13 years before the start of The Maze Runner, and it only took the government 1 year after the solar flares to decide to kill off part of the population. No other dystopian I’ve read can top that level of evilness from governmental systems.

Aside from the horror aspect, I was also mightily confused and a bit amused-but-also-horrified at the cult. If you’ve read it you know. If you haven’t yet then you’ve got a storm coming let me tell you. Although we see in Death Cure that Cranks form mobs with a common purpose and of course they they lose their minds, I wasn’t at all expecting to see an actual cult just casually thrown in. It just adds to the madness of the story and actually fit right in among the other craziness of what went down.

My one question is: is DeeDee Teresa? (She was! It was implied in the next book.)

The reason I didn't rate this higher despite my enjoyment was that it just isn't a book I would reread. It's like an action film or horror film that you really enjoyed and appreciated but won't stick around for too long.

Book 5: The Fever Code: 3* on Goodreads, 2.5* in my heart

This one was a slog to get through. It goes over Thomas' life in Wicked, from the first few days to the day he goes into the maze. I didn't like it very much at all. My biggest problem was the torture of a 4 year old only a few pages in. It ruined the rest of the book for me. My second biggest problem is that we never learn Newt’s name. The betrayal of it all is astounding.

I’ve got to be honest, I was only pushing myself to read this because I wanted to know about the purge. It doesn’t happen until pretty late in the book and nearly everything before that is terribly boring. Everything after that happens pretty quickly.

I appreciated that we get added context to some things that happened in the main trilogy, however, some things that happen take away from the story in a bad way. Dr Paige is one example of this, where in the main trilogy she only appears in a positive context to save Thomas and the other immune, while in this she does some truly evil things behind the scenes unrelated to the context of the trials (or so she tells Thomas. We don’t know how much of that was truth and how much was intended as a Variable but either way it contradicts what we know of her in the Death Cure). The huge reveal at the ending regarding Teresa is also out of nowhere and seems contradictory to the main books. How much of her actions were planned and how much were real? Why would she lead the gladers to escape if she was as this book said she was? Was it a change of mind or was this particular aspect a retcon that wasn’t intended with the original books?

This one felt like an unnecessary addition to the series and I’m disappointed by how it turned out. I expected more and got less. If it hadn’t picked up in the last 150 pages this would’ve been a 2* simply for the disappointment that equalled that of The Scorch Trials. This may be a bit harsh but I do believe the books should have ended after The Kill Order, and the rest be left to the imagination.

To end on a semi-positive note: it turns out The Brain Thing was actually mentioned to them, but it's unclear if Teresa picked up on it, as we know Thomas didn't. It all came out at a very inopportune time while they were killing a crank who knew about it. The Brain Thing isn't positive at all, but I was very excited to learn if they had any inkling and that was sort of answered!

[sebthesnipe]

The Dreamer by Whatwashernameagin an Analysis? Part 2

All portions:

Chapter 1: Part 1 // Part 2 // Part 3 // Part 4

Chapter 2: Part 1 // Part 2 // Part 3 // Part 4

The Dreamer

by @whatwashernameagain

Reminder: Spoilers under cut!

So… Where were we? Aw yes… The desperation for acceptance of a POV which is both unique and far out of the reach of the human populous as a whole. In other in other words, Logan being very lonely and wanting to share his ideas with the world and hoping against hope he will not always be alone in them… heartbreaking…

The next portion of Whatwashernameagain’s work introduces The Dreamer. Going into the work with foreknowledge of the ship and the characters within, we as the readers (or I, rather) know that Roman is The Dreamer and thus know that Logan is referring to him. So, to be completely honest I am not sure if I am imagining this next bit or if it is truly the case (hence why I have chosen to focus more on Reader-Response theory rather than some of the more closed reading disciplines). However, in Logan’s first description of The Dreamer there are a few …. Odd choices in wordings. Eva writes:

“The one thing consistently standing between him and the fulfillment of his plans had turned out to be an outrageously insignificant detail…. This thorn in his shoe showed up at the most inopportune moments, predictably puffing up his chest in his ridiculous, unpractical costume, ready to boldly reassure the public before thoughtlessly storming in to hinder his plans with his irritating presence” (Whatwashernameagain).

There are a number of things in this small paragraph that gives way to yet even more of Logan’s personality, still molding the mental image that the author is painting while still leaving the blanks to be filled in our heads. ‘Consistently’ being italicized, for example, provides me with the mental image of a small tick of annoyance like Logan is mentally hissing the word while his index finger and thumb are pressed together drawing it out with annoyance (kinda like Moriarty during the pool scene in BBC’s Sherlock). Anyways, it immediately pulls the reader back into his frustration but this time… something is different.

Lets recap a moment, So far we know that Logan is a cold calculating man with only his work to keep him company; we know that he wishes for someone to share his view points but otherwise hasn’t really shown any emotional fluctuations (he obviously has emotions, there just seem muted almost) and yet his train of thought here, indicated by the italics is fairly harsh. His choice of words far less calculated than we’ve seen thus far. Here we see him use something akin to an oxymoron calling The Dream ‘an outrageously insignificant detail’. Why would he use so many words when a simple ‘insignificant’ would work? Unless… He is compensating. Many authors will push a thought or description to further lengths than necessary to give the owner of said thoughts a unique perspective. One of the best I’ve ever seen/read would be Robert Jordan in his The Wheel of Time series. Jordan switches from POV to POV flawlessly without pausing to explain it to the reader but as talented as he is at making each so unique the reader never needs the explanation, following along without a hiccup. As much as I would love to say that Eva is there, she isnt... at least not yet… but then again, I haven’t found anyone on par with Robert Jordan’s use of POV and character development as of yet. My point is that she uses the type of flow shifting POV very fluidly without having to spell it out for the reader; and the use of the additional descriptors are a testament to that. (I hope I am making sense I am so very tired #dead).

Logan goes on to talk about the ‘puffing up’ and how ‘unpractical’ The Dreamer’s costume is and his ‘irritating presence’, he talks about grand speeches and attempting to appeal to Logan’s ‘humanity’. The tone of the paragraphs is that of annoyed humor as if it were amusing to think Logan had any humanity at all. That being said… another literary study comes to mind when reading this portion of the work. I will do my best to keep from going too much in depth but basically back in the early EARLY 1900s Sigmund Freud invented psychoanalysis with his publication of The interpretation of Dreams (Rivkin, Julie). Why was it such a big deal? Well, before the publication psychology assumed that what goes on in the mind was limited to the conscious (Rivkin, Julie). What does that have to do with Logan? Well, the revolution was a huge part of history and the strides that were made in psychology didn’t only affect the medical world but the literary one as well. Psychoanalysis wasn’t only limited to a person but the work they created as well; it began to be used as a way of studying literature, analyzing the author through their work. But… I’m veering a bit too far to the left. The reason this is important is because some of Frued’s research was based on the ‘defenses’ that the ego mobilizes against unacceptable libidianal or unconscious material (Rivkin, Julie). I.e. The mind can invert a feeling into its opposite, so that a yearning for contact can become a desire to do violence (Rivkin, Julie). That, of course, is an extreme but we see the same psychological mechanism here for Logan. The Dreamer is a man who represents the very thing Logan is determined to pull down; it would be extremely illogical to have any sort of attraction to the man. There for, to put it simply, he’s in denial. (Yes… I am aware I went into a bunch of Fruedian jargon just to say Logan is in denial and everyone already knew that… He would have approved though so I’m not editing it out. You will just have to deal with it.)

This says a lot about Roman’s character as well. Those who are familiar with the character knows how outrageous the creative man can be, but Eva writes (from Logan’s POV) ‘the idiot was actually attempting to change his mind’ (Whatwashernameagain). This give another shift in the emotional tone of the work, feeding off Logan’s annoyance and dark undertones and changing it into something more hopeful; giving us our first glimpse at the painting of The Dreamer; so far nothing but a symbol of hope (and a ‘thorn in Logan’s shoe’).

Going to reverse for a moment as well. Bringing up the metaphor of ‘a thorn in his shoe’; there is a lot to be said about this line as well. It really puts The Dreamer in perspective from The Utilitarian’s point of view…. At least his conscious one. It shows that Logan wants the hero to be beneath him, that he consciously tries to convince himself that he is. That The Dream is at his feet causing more annoyance than actually damage. I’m a sucker for a good metaphor and this one certainly isn’t a bad one.

Within the next paragraph Logan goes on ranting about The Dreamer being a nuisance, continuing on his rant that really only cements his attraction to the hero. But, once again, the image of The Dreamer is becoming more detailed. Logan describes him as ‘clinging desperately to his ancient, deontological ethics with its rules that mustn’t be broken at any cost’ (Whatwashernameagain). It sounds as if despite the way Logan whines about The Dreamer he sees him as misguided. If he truly believed that the ethics The Dreamer represents were the man’s own then we would no doubt see the frustration we did when Logan spoke about the state of the world. Instead, we see the deflection of the blame from The Dreamer to ‘ancient, deontological ethics. It is obvious that Logan doesn’t blame him but rather sees that he is attempting to simply ‘do his duty’. This provides a sense of honor for The Dreamer which is quite fitting for Roman really.

Logan only cements his denial and affection for the hero but commenting on his concern for the man’s well-being despite his inconvenient presence: “Many a times he’d foiled his operation with simple stupidity, like running into an already unsafe sweat-shop he was about to blow up in order to rescue the industrialist he’d tied up in the vicinity” (Whatwashernameagain). It is possible that he has this concern for everyone that is not directly involved in the crimes he is attempting to shine some light on but it is doubt full.

To add to the growing case against Logan’s inaffection for the man, he actually tries to defend himself! He claims that he hadn’t planned on killing the industrialist, just make a statement and ‘singe his eyebrows’ (Whatwashernameagain). I love this line; it does a lot for the story is so few words. So, first it paints Logan, the cold calculating villain, as a sulking teenager who has been scolded. I love the imagery. It also brings a bit more humor into the work than the subtle outlines of Logan’s denial had been providing. It is makes it even more clear that Logan does not dislike Roman enough to actually want to hurt him; in fact, quite the opposite. It paints Roman as someone he would like to protect, emphasizing the ‘misguided hero’ view of The Dreamer once more.

Now to the good bits: “He knew very well how much the media loved [The Dreamer] with his uniform accentuating his broad shoulders and his lush, caramel hair, his blinding smile and perfect, tan skin” (Whatwashernameagain); Really Logan? Lush, caramel hair? Who talks like that? Only someone with a crush…. And boy do you have it bad! You think he’s smexy with a capital ‘M’! I don’t even have to explain this one… we all know… We all understand.

After that oh so very subtle remark, Eva follows up with a ‘He was a nuisance, is what [Logan] was trying to say’ (Whatwashernameagain)…. Mhmmm suuurrrrree D-E-N-I-A-L. Freud would love you! Just saying!

I think from now on I’m just going to break it down paragraph by paragraph. This is getting quite long and I don’t want anyone having to jump back and forth. So:

“The Utilitarianist prided himself in his polite, calm manners, yet this – man – brought out a temper he was not fond of. How dare this simpleton speak to him about right and wrong? Despite knowing the math advised against it, he found himself drawn into moral arguments repeatedly … and had almost gotten caught by those strong hands several times due to his frustration. He found himself simply unable to refrain from correcting the man when his claims were just so utterly stupid.” (Whatwashernameagain)

We’re going to jump back into Freud’s work now… be prepared. So, obviously Logan blames Roman for Logan’s reactions, his loss of self-control. This is known as projection. In projection, we assign to others feelings or thoughts in ourselves that are unacceptable (Rivkin, Julie). What possible feelings could Logan be having that are unacceptable? Maybe it has something to do with being caught by those ‘strong hands’. -eyebrow wiggle- This is also a good example of intellectualization. In intellectualization, we avoid potentially overwhelming feelings by focusing out attention on things that allow us to exercise that part of our mind devoted to reasoning rather than emotion (Rivkin, Julie): Hence, the arguments.

Before I move on, I want to point out the author’s talent here. Writing characters with a lot of depth can be difficult especially with characters that weren’t originally yours. I say that because I do these analysis’ constantly; I do them for work, I do them for school… I obviously do them for fun on occasion… but, while talking psychoanalysis can be daunting and perhaps a bit boring; the fact that I can apply these theories to a CHARACTER not the author is astounding. That is when you know someone has a great talent for their character formations. Sure, I can slap a few fancy words to describe a character but to actually be able to analyze a fictional character’s psyche… that is when you know that they are fully formed.  

I’m afraid I will need to end Part 2 here. Once again work is approaching. I will be back with a Part 3 When I get the chance, however. Hopefully, I can get through more than 5-6 paragraphs of the work then… Some dialog is coming up so it should be a bit quicker. I am quite enjoying this analysis and I wanted to thank everyone who had read/commented/liked/reblogged Part 1; and for all of the asks I have received. I quite enjoy hearing from you and love answering questions so feel free to drop a line! Special thanks to Whatwashernameagain, as always, for writing so brilliantly and just being a genuinely wonderful human being. Until next time…

 (Please forgive any poor grammar or misspelling. I tend to run short on time so I don’t really proofread)

Rivkin, Julie. Literary Theory: a Practical Introduction. Wiley-Blackwell, 2017.

Whatwashernameagain. “The Dreamer - Chapter 1.” Hello Guys Gals And Non Binary Friends, 8 Sept. 2019, https://whatwashernameagain.tumblr.com/post/187581477262/the-dreamer-chapter-1.

[joe-england]

Working on this last Zebra Girl book is hard.  It’s taken a lot of my focus, I haven’t had the motivation to simply make art for months.  It’s depressing, but my muse finally perked up when I got the strange urge to do like I never do and draw serious. I’m going to bare my soul here.  Okay?  I want to be honest.  That’s me up there.  Notice the baggy jeans, hanging from my belt because I lost weight years ago and I tend to wear old pants that are too big for me now.  I’m fairly slender at this point, but I’ve still got a slight spare tire I have yet to shed.  See?  Well, I may have taken liberties with the ears and such. More to the point, you may know that my brand is “Obsessive Thoughts”.  I chose that term as a label because it’s not just a name, it’s a lifestyle.  I suffer from Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, the tendency to… well, to compulsively obsess.  And not about important things, usually, but in response to a universe full of gremlins.  You feel like you have to do certain things, like it’s necessary to do them, like you’re holding the world together, and dropping the ball will have urgent existential consequences.  It’s a persistent source of stress. So I’m going to describe my perspective, and bear in mind that on a conscious level I’m well aware of the inherent nonsense.  But I want to get this out into the open.  This is what some part of my psyche tells me is happening, if not all the time, then for most of my waking hours: I move through the world surrounded by contaminants.  I must constantly be on guard against spiritual infection.  I dodge, react, and cleanse myself through tiny rituals performed hundreds of times a day.  Nearly every part of my body is involved in a clumsy dance.  Repetition of movements is cleansing.  I move haltingly as my extremities catch on contact points which demand my instinctive tactile attention.  My fingers mostly lead, forced to twitch and touch and straighten and flex, casting towards acceptable directions (I observe the spasms as I type this very sentence, words punctuated by stops and starts as a fingertip lightly taps an extra key, or jerks to the side, or briefly hovers in place, or just wriggles a bit towards empty space, all obeying some ritual I can no longer decipher).  Like guns, pointing them in the wrong direction at the wrong moment risks compromising myself since they relay the sickness.  They are primary soldiers but also prime targets, and they must hide themselves whenever deviant sights or sounds threaten my purity. Objectionable surfaces must also be avoided, such as pictures of people I don’t like.  I have to touch some things.  I have to avoid touching others.  My feet do their part too, tapping the front boards of stairs as I climb them one by one or intentionally bumping a crevice or some panel around my desk in order to banish the bad mojo running through my system.  I scuff the bottoms of my shoes as I walk to insure that the ends of my being make appropriate contact with separate boards of wood or concrete panels, whatever I happen to be walking on at the time. Meanwhile, up top, my head is kept on constant alert, my eyes a busy terminal of positive and negative input and output.  Abstract moving imagery tends to be a threat, for If a subversive pattern appears before me I must vibrate my sight by summoning pressure through my skull, defeating its hypnotic effect (and a diminutive voice in me frets even now that I am spilling my secrets to the tired old conspiracy running its tendrils through all electronic devices). Meals are more of the same.  If dirty energy ever infects my food with stray data (for instance, if an offending name is uttered while I’m looking at what I’m about to eat) then I must negate the pollution by holding the offending morsel up to my eye and matching its transparent double image against an acceptable surface to banish the corruption before I allow it in my mouth (a technique which also applies to my fingers, and which happens often when I watch the news during meal times, horrid politicians constantly threatening to invade my essence with their ugly souls).  Whenever a contaminant aura does slip inside of me then I must cough it lightly out, willing it from my guts and off the tip of my tongue.  Noises issued from my throat contribute to regular maintenance, further warding against evil spirits.  My nostrils serve a likewise function now and then. Similar duties are assigned to my knees, my toes, my elbows, or whatever piece of skin is ever exposed to undesirable elements and conscripted in my never-ending war with the invisible forces.  Beside my shuffling feet, my shadow must also avoid contact with any and all acknowledged threats, including my own dialogue.  Any word uttered risks assigning its deleterious quality to any part of me caught in my sight at the time of its mention (spoken or otherwise).  This includes the insides of my eyelids, which often disrupts my  efforts to sleep at night as I must force them open to expunge toxic  names that cross my mind. The campaign extends to inanimate objects, which constantly suffer the touch of my overworked fingers “wiping off” phantom sediment, or which serve as conduits for various energies, or as goal posts which must sometimes be met before an arbitrary time limit has expired (for example, a turning point in a song).  This was worse when I was a child, and had to race onto a carpet or couch whenever a toilet began to flush.  I thankfully managed to shed some of the more overt habits over time. But it should go without saying that the very inner monologue running through my brain must abide by its own arcane set of rules, because words and names cannot be used carelessly, even in my thoughts.  As for that, two particular words have special functions in my mental arsenal:  “Not” and “Narf.”  “Not” is a mantra, since it is a pure expression of expulsion, and I throw it constantly at negative influences, especially bad imagery or text that gets out of hand.  Conversely, “Narf”, a noise coined by a cartoon lab mouse named Pinky, is a safety mechanism, since it means nothing, thereby safely absorbing any malign concept and allowing me to make idle unspoken noise without risk.  Both words are subject to distortion as the situation requires, ghosting through the roof of my mouth in various ways, shapes, and forms, a single altered syllable sometimes called into play, expressed through the smallest push of saliva hitting my teeth.  “Nt, nt, nt.  Tt.  Unt.” I could go on. Looking at this stuff, it’s hard to believe that I’ve lived with it my entire life.  Typing it out really makes it sound crazy.  I don’t want to be insensitive to other people with issues like this, but it’s hard not to have that reaction when I put it into writing and recognize that this is what I’m actually doing all the time.  I always knew it was odd, but I always figured that I would grow out of it, and when I didn’t I just tried to mitigate it.  And I thought I was doing alright, because it used to seem worse!  I beat it back when I was younger, and my ego encouraged me to accept what was left as part of my genius, or something.  But looking at all this, I find myself wondering if I didn’t just make it more subtle through complexity.  Or maybe it’s only gotten worse with the stress of the past few years.  I don’t know. But I want people to know about this.  Now I’m not sure why I always tried to keep it to myself.  I feel like bringing it out into the open might help, might serve as a spark to finally burn away the web and let it all go.  There are definitely people out there who have it worse than I do.  Maybe you’re one of them!  We all have our crosses to bear.  And like I said, I’ve managed to cut some of it off.  But now I think it’s time I started fighting it again.  God only knows how much of my time I could get back if I wasn’t twiddling my fingers. Hey.  Thanks for listening.

-Joe

[giannimaldonado]

Album Of The Day: Satan Is Watching

When most people born after a certain period of time think of the genre that is “country”, and what it has morphed into in the context of this day and age, a lot of unpleasant images spring to mind. Pretty boy, clean cut, poser rednecks who’ve never seen a farm outside of their music videos, trying to pretend to be another “honest Joe” when they couldn’t be any further from such a thing, making trashy, twangy glam rock mixed with watered down trap music/EDM for white southerners who might have interesting views on those of different races, rolling around in million dollar sports cars while adopting the moniker of “working class”...is probably what your mind immediately begins to conjure up in that brain of yours.

I honestly can’t say that I blame you. Country, or, at least, MAINSTREAM country, has lost its way completely. Luke Bryan, Brad Paisley, Tim McGraw, and Blake Shelton polluted this once proud, grassroots, amazing genre with pandering, trite garbage aimed at making money off of dumb hicks in the bodies of frat boys whose trucks cost more than your own damn house.  Gone are the days when country music was filled to the brim talent, creativity, passion, and heart. Now, this “jock country” has taken its place, having thoroughly fucked country up the ass a few too many times that it has lost its way. For good, perhaps.

Underground country’s usually no better. There’s some exceptions (we’ll get to those soon), but for the most part, it, too, has gone off the rails and destroyed itself completely. It’s often just indie folk or what have you with even more acoustic guitars, though perhaps with more twang, whiny vocals that are trying (and failing) to recreate a stereotypical southern accent, a reliance on cheap gimmicks, sarcasm, and irony to carry their trash because the excrement can’t do that itself, and a musical quality that tries SO hard to imitate the great Mr. Cash, but is little more than a cheap, pale imitation that folks who wear WAY too much flannel and wire rimmed glasses will eat up like it’s the second coming of Joy Division.

No matter how you look at it, country has been thoroughly gentrified for the most part, just like many genres that were previously for a much different variety of people. Like trap music, or blues, or hardcore punk, or black metal. All of the original meaning is gone, driven out by money hungry label executives, clueless and ignorant listeners, and musicians hellbent on half-assing their way to fame and fortune.

It’s a crying shame, it really is.

But fret not, dear reader! There is still a soft, seedy underbelly of the country genre that has taken the long dead (yet forever revered and loved) sound of “outlaw shit”, as Mr. Jennings would put it so eloquently, to its most logical extreme. One that would make Nelson, Cash, Haggard, Coe, and others that might’ve been at the top of their “underground”, “anti-mainstream” game seem rather...accessible. These aforementioned artists and their peers are still greats who, in their primes, were powerhouses that made some of the greatest works the genre would ever produce. But when compared to this particular sound...they just don’t hold up as well. The rawness, the grassroots nature, the down-to-Earth (and sometimes below the Earth) attitude, the simplicity, the honesty, the bluntness, the intimacy, the melancholy...all of it gets turned way up to eleven. It’s dark, it’s mischievous, it’s harsh, it’s gritty, it’s angry, it’s bitter, it’s darkly humorous, it’s lonesome, it’s ornery, and it’s damn sure pretty fucking mean.

Call it whatever you want. “Southern gothic”, “dark country”, “death country”, “gothic country”. It doesn’t matter what name you apply to it. All that matters is that it’s country. Real fucking country. Country meant for the guttersnipes, punks, street urchins, hobos, peasants, and forlorn drifters. This ain’t pretty boy music. This isn’t nice, Christian contemporary that you can play at your local uptight establishment. These aren’t harmless tunes your the posers can get drunk and go mudding to. This is country as it was meant to be. The eptiome of the term “outlaw shit”.

There’s a plethora of wonderful bands in this scene. Sons Of Perdition, Sixteen Horsepower, whatever project Jay Munly’s got going on this time around, The Dead South, the early days of The Devil Makes Three, The Builders And The Butchers, Wovenhand, Ghoultown, Coffinshakers, The Pine Box Boys, and, of course, everyone’s favorite descendant of the Williams family tree. The third one, that is.

But all of those fall short of that truly, truly, TRULY horrific honky-tonk, old-time, folksy, backwoods atmosphere that this duo produces. One that hails from the isolated, empty thickets that lie out in rural Wisconsin. A mentally disturbed pair of “prophets of the country doom”, as they have decided to label themselves. A fine example of those who have gone completely mad, completely sad, and doing so makes them feel very glad. They revel in their craziness, and while no album sounds the same, each one is marred by a couple of recurring themes: humanity is worthy of being sent straight to the fiery depths, these boys are depressed beyond your wildest comprehension, a rebellion against both God and Satan, and a desire to document the lifestyle of society’s forgotten ones, hated ones, and feared ones.

Let me introduce you to Those Poor Bastards.

Fitting name for a couple of enigmatic, largely unknown, extremely obscure pair of men known simply as Lonesome Wyatt (impassioned orations and guitar-based melodies) and The Minister (everything else).

The Minister is completely anonymous, with no one having even seen his face, while all that’s known about Lonesome Wyatt is that he’s from Wisconsin, (probably) lives alone, and is likely of an unsound state of mind.

Why is that all important? Well, go listen to their albums, and then you’ll find out why these little intricacies are vital to the dynamic duo’s imagery, music, and cult status.

While all of their material is quite good in my opinion, today we’re going to look at my favorite album from them, and possibly my favorite album from any country artists EVER! Everyone, please proceed to throw on “Satan Is Watching.”

What you’ll first be met with Lonesome Wyatt letting out a loud, wild, manic screech that almost doesn’t sound...human. It’s not even a word. Just an unhinged howl like Lonesome Wyatt’s been possessed by some sort of demon from the pits of Hell, having taken over the “doomsday preacher boy” to spread the wicked gospel. A hell of a start to an album of any kind, let alone a country album. It’s bold, but it lets you know right off the bat that they aren’t fucking around. This is going to be a rough ride from start to finish, and you’ll be left quaking in your seat once Those Poor Bastards has pierced your mind, heart, and soul with their fiendishly unholy sound. A truly nihilistic piece of art about how this world is foul and wretched, and deserves to burn to a cinder.

But that’s just the first song.

Things only manage to get worse from there. Everything from songs about how Lonesome Wyatt’s a degenerate who revels in just how much filth and squalor he lives in, to songs (well, more like suspiciously suicidal rants) about how life is fucked and there’s just no point in living it anymore, to various “take that!” pieces towards lovers who have wronged him in times that have long since passed, presumably. Typical topics for country artists, but contorted and warped to the point where they sound like miniature horror stories being yelled and hollered by a crazy, top-hat wearing yokel than the struggles and strife that are endured by the common man/downtrodden fellow. Hell, there’s even a Johnny Cash cover! A twisted, perverted, scummy, bone-chilling, haunting, eerie take on the previously wholesome, innocent love song The Man In Black made for June. I can’t exactly look at it the same way, what with these mysterious hooligans having thoroughly butchered it.

Instrumentation is minimalist and simple. Nothing too fancy or technical here. It’s quite self-explanatory. Despite how evil it is, the rhythms are still toe-tappingly catchy. The drums, being pounded upon by the fiery hands of The Minister, provide anything from a nice, plodding beat you can stomp your feet to, all the way to a rowdy raucous of a banger that’ll have you doing some sort of line dance with the living dead. Lonesome Wyatt beats upon his acoustic guitar like it owes him money. Not even really playing it. Just smashing the strings until weird, disgruntled, odd noises come out of it. He also seems to thoroughly shatter his ability to talk without a sore throat, pushing his voice to its very limits. The bass compliments everything very well, providing a creepy, fuzzy, dirge-like texture in the background to keep the menacing tone alive and well.

All in all, while this may not “experimental”, “avant-garde”, or even “progressive”, this is certainly an album that’ll give you the heebie-jeebies, and for a country album, it is most certainly “out there”. It takes the usual country tropes, and either turns them into something out of a David Lynch movie, or subverts/plays with them to fuck with the audience and make them contort their face with confusion...and excitement. A spooky bit of acoustic noise that’ll restore your faith in country music, and remind you that there is still a small resemblance of a spark left within the dying genre.

Please, I highly recommend you check this out.

This has been another installment of “Esoteric Warfare”, and remember...

NOISE, NOT MUSIC!