#its on a scale of 1-4 and 1 is a fail everything else is a pass right

[princemick]

logging into tumblr after a 12 hour day is like I missed a week of news.

[scary-grace]

Opposites Attract (Chapter 3) - a Shigaraki x f!Reader fic

Your quirk lets you capture almost anyone with ease, and you can't believe you let Shigaraki Tomura escape. Shigaraki can't believe it, either, and according to the League, there's only one possible explanation -- you let him go because you've fallen in love with him. He decides to find out if it's true. You decide you won't fail to capture him again. You both get a lot more than you bargained for. (cross-posted to Ao3)

Chapters: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7

Chapter 3

You don’t notice the envelope that’s been shoved under your front door until you trip on it, and even once you pick it up, you’re not sure it’s for you. The name scrawled on the front of it is almost illegible, but after studying it for a few seconds you’re able to determine that it does in fact say Skynet. Maybe it’s hate mail. Even if your public profile’s improved significantly since the incident with the train, someone could have mailed this last week and you’re just finding it now.

You were in the hospital for three days. Getting dragged by a train isn’t the kind of thing you can just walk off. If you’d had the boots from your costume, you would have been able to anchor yourself, and with your feet planted and a good grip on a magnetic field nearby, you’d have avoided getting pulled off your feet. But you didn’t have your boots, because Yue made you wear heels, and you fractured your femur when one of them got caught in the rails. You also dislocated your shoulder, bit a chunk out of the inside of your cheek, and picked up the road rash from hell on the entire anterior of your body. It’s the worst set of injuries you’ve gotten in your career, and there wasn’t a single villain involved.

It got you off the public’s shit list, though, and it taught you something important about your quirk. If a metal has a distinct profile, different from what’s around it, you can latch onto just that metal and avoid drawing in anything else. Bullet-train steel is a beast of its own, unlike everything else in the area, which allowed you to focus all your power on it without ripping downtown Tokyo apart. So you can use Magnetism on a larger scale, as long as you know exactly what you’re aiming for. Most of the time, you don’t, and most of the time, there are too many metals with similar properties for you to yank one towards you without pulling up everything else. But it’s good to know that there are some cases where it’s safe to let loose.

You employ your metal sense on the envelope you’re holding and find only inert compounds, no moving parts. Nothing dangerous in here. You open it, fumbling slightly, and pull out a 500-yen coin. There’s a note wrapped around it. The handwriting on the note is just as bad as the handwriting on the envelope. Worse, maybe, because so much of it is crossed out, but in between all the cross-outs you’re able to make out a pair of sentences. Nice job with the train. Buy yourself a flower or something.

Huh. Whoever sent it didn’t leave a name, or a return address, and the note is sort of abrupt – but it’s still a nice note. And a nice thing to do. Maybe you will buy yourself a flower or something. Or maybe you’ll save the coin, so there’s evidence of the first time somebody thanked you personally for something heroic you did. Or evidence of the first truly heroic thing you’ve done in your career. One of the two.

You had some time to think in the hospital, and you thought a lot of things over. Some thoughts are ones you’ve had for a while, like the thought that stopping petty criminals isn’t actually that heroic, especially when they’re stealing things like food, warm clothes in the winter, or water bottles in the summer. Some are thoughts that make you wonder if you got a concussion during the train incident – like the idea that the existence of hero as a profession creates a demand for villains, and an incentive to expand the definition of villain as much as possible. The people you’re expected to arrest for stealing food from a convenience store aren’t in the same category as one of the various yakuza groups. They’re not even close to the League of Villains.

Those are the kind of thoughts you should keep to yourself if you want to have friends. You sit down on your couch and log into the hero network, seeing that you’ve got a pileup of messages. A lot of them are from heroes congratulating you on the train rescue. When you look closer at them, about a third of them were pretty clearly prompted by their agencies, as evidenced by the request to stop by their offices “at your earliest convenience” to “discuss your future”. After the way everyone’s been treating you, it rings pretty hollow.

Some of the messages are about team-ups, or requests to join missions. Those are usually about taking down actual criminals, which you’re still interested in, and most of them are yellow-flagged – important, but not urgent. You wouldn’t be able to respond to urgent ones. Even though UA’s Recovery Girl made a special trip out to Tokyo to heal your leg, you’re still supposed to rest for at least three more days.

Social media next. You took it off private while you were in the hospital, then forgot about it, and now you’re looking at an influx of followers and a ton of private messages. You get into the messages and start deleting anything that looks like a pickup line, which clears things out a bit. There are sponsorship offers, too, although why anybody wants to sponsor a hero whose twin claims to fame are letting the League of Villains slip through her fingers and getting dragged by a train is absolutely beyond you. You leave the offers alone for now. Time to look at the actual people who messaged you.

One in particular catches your eye. The profile picture is a cloudburst and most of the page is aesthetic photos – usually of clouds, with a secondary theme of purple things. The message doesn’t match the content of the page at all. Which iron supplements would you recommend for someone with iron-deficiency anemia?

You message back. Hi. I’m not a doctor. It would probably be best to ask a doctor about this.

Medical care is not universally accessible. What is the best supplement to use?

That was a fast response, but they’re right, whoever they are – Japan might have universal healthcare, but there are still a lot of reasons why somebody might not feel comfortable going to a doctor. And you do have some familiarity with this stuff. Of the supplements, sublingual is best. The capsules or the pills can do stuff to your digestive system. You want something that dissolves.

In what dosage?

It depends on your height, weight, and the severity of your anemia, you answer, only to remember that this person probably isn’t running off to the lab for a blood panel. Just go by what’s on the bottle. But honestly, the best way to improve your iron is to eat more iron-rich foods. That’s how your body really wants to absorb it.

Which foods?

Whoever this is could just look it up, but you’re feeling benevolent right now. Shellfish, legumes, fish, quinoa, spinach, red meat, dark chocolate, tofu, broccoli, pumpkin seeds. Organ meat is good for that, too.

He is not going to eat any of that.

If you have the right recipe, basically all of it tastes good, you reply. You’re about to send this person a link to your favorite recipe site, but then something clicks in your head – something about who’d ask you these questions, who wouldn’t be able to go to a doctor and get bloodwork done, or iron infusions prescribed. He wouldn’t refer to himself in the third person, which means the person messaging you right now can only be – Kurogiri?

Thank you for your assistance, Kurogiri says, and blocks you. All you can do is stare down at your phone in horror.

Shigaraki still has his anemia, it sounds like. Kurogiri is trying to help him treat it, but it must not be going well. You know next to nothing about Shigaraki, but it’s hard to imagine him popping an iron supplement or sitting down to a healthy meal. You weren’t on any of the teams during the first Kamino incident, but you heard things about what Shigaraki’s room was like when they searched it, and it sounds like he eats – or ate – a lot of processed food. He’s probably deficient in everything else along with the iron. If you end up being the one who finally apprehends him, you’ll probably swing by an urgent care on the way to the nearest police station so you can quantify just how not-okay he is.

You’re not sure why it bothers you. Except that Shigaraki’s supposed to be All For One’s heir, and All For One was funding the League, and apparently still had enough money left over to put himself in a tailored, custom-made suit for his showdown with All Might. All For One was loaded. If he had all that money, why didn’t he spend some of it on taking care of his successor? It’s not really a question you’re equipped to answer. You’re not a supervillain or a criminal mastermind. You’re not even investigating the League yourself. You’re just some hero who was there when they attacked. You don’t need to think about him any more than that.

It. You don’t need to think about it. The League, the fight at Kamino, anything. Sure, asking Shigaraki about his symptoms broke his focus so badly that you’d have had him dead to rights if Kurogiri hadn’t shown up, and sure, Kurogiri was messaging you on Instagram thirty seconds ago, but this has nothing to do with you.

You set your phone aside and roll the 500-yen coin between your fingers, first palm-side, then knuckle-side, then alternating, in an exercise you’ve been practicing since you were little to improve your control over your quirk. Maybe you’ll keep the coin. You can afford to buy your own flowers, but this is something you want to hang onto.

Life goes back to normal at shocking speed as soon as you’ve recovered from your injuries. Saving approximately three hundred people and getting dragged behind a train in the process is apparently enough to cancel out letting the League of Villains escape, and you’re back to being an approximate zero in the public consciousness. Which is how you like it. Even when you were at UA, you were never very interested in the spotlight – not because you don’t need the money you’d get from sponsorships, endorsements, and high-profile missions, but because your quirk was too much to handle, and the bigger the spotlight was, the more likely it was to catch you in a fatal mistake.

You’re out of the spotlight, but you’re a little busier than usual. When you went to work with Eraserhead’s class again, they had questions about how you stopped the train, and the girl with the Creation quirk suggested memorizing the profile of specific alloys, the ones commonly used in cars, buses, and building supports. That way you could focus your power on only objects with the specific profile rather than exerting a general pull and destroying whole city blocks. You decided it couldn’t hurt to give it a shot, and after a few days of memorizing the metallic profiles of the twenty most common car makes and models in Japan, you averted a car accident by magnetizing one of the two out-of-control vehicles and hoisting it – it, and only it – out of the way.

You can’t memorize every alloy on the planet, some of the alloys show up in almost everything, and the risk of tipping too many gravitational fields and causing a chain reaction is just as present as ever. But you’re a little more useful now. A little better at saving people. You’ve been wondering lately if it might not be a good idea to pivot to rescue heroics. Rescue heroics don’t have the same kind of ethical issues as combat heroics do.

But you can’t step out of combat heroics entirely. You’ve had a watch on a Shie Hassaikai safehouse in your city for a while, and you got a ping from the Nighteye agency summoning you to a strategy meeting about it sometime next week. In the meantime, you’re still getting into it with muggers, carjackers, and assorted creeps on a nightly basis. You’re busy. Tired when you wake up, tired when you get home. Most nights you’re too tired to cook.

Not tonight, though. Tonight you’re not allowed to fall asleep on the couch. You bought groceries on your day off last week in a fit of truly absurd optimism, and if you don’t use them tonight, they’ll go bad. You get home from patrol, shower off cold to wake yourself up, and get into the kitchen. Your rice cooker is waiting for you. You thank your lucky stars that you remembered to wash it out after your last kitchen escapade and get it started again.

You aren’t a good cook, but you aren’t a bad one, either. Maybe it’s more accurate to say that you’re not a pretty cook. Most meals you make are a bunch of different components piled up on a bowl or rice or noodles or dumped into a broth – not visually appealing, but still pretty tasty. Back when you were rooming with Yue and Kagura and Mayuko, Yue used to put a blindfold on so she wouldn’t see what the food you made looked like. Then again, she only ever ate seconds when it was your turn to cook.

That’s the other problem with your cooking – there are always seconds, and thirds, and sometimes fourths, because you always buy more than you can eat in one sitting, and you get bored with leftovers really fast. The scope of the problem begins to occur to you as you dice garlic and ginger and scrape them into a saucepan filled with sizzling cooking oil. You’ll eat this tonight, sure. Definitely tomorrow, but by the next day, you’ll be so sick of beef and assorted vegetables over rice that you’d almost rather run into the League of Villains a second time than have to eat it again. At least if you have to go into hiding from a vengeful public, no one will question why you didn’t eat your leftovers.

Once the aromatics start to brown and the smell infuses your apartment, the mass quantities of food you’re pawing through start to look a little less intimidating. You put on some music – quietly, since it’s past midnight and you’ve got neighbors, humming along to some English-language pop song from a decade and a half ago. The girl who babysat you back home always played it, the lyrics so simple that even four-year-old you could follow along. I really, really, really, really, really, really like you! And I want you – do you want me – do you want me too?

Between the sizzling of the flank steak and vegetables you’re currently sauteing, the sound of the music, and the rush of the wind whipping through the alley outside, you could almost write off the sound on the fire escape. It could be squirrels, or raccoons, or even a particularly chunky pigeon. It could just be the wind. But you reach for your metal-sense to check, just in case, and what you find sends a chill straight down your spine. You know that iron concentration. You couldn’t forget it if you tried.

This time, you react the right way. The fire escape is perfect for it. You bend the rails apart with a flick of your fingers, then wrap them tightly around the figure perched on the landing, pulling him down to seated. One around his waist, two immobilizing each arm, three spreading and pinning his fingers apart, so there’s no chance of all five making contact with anything at once. And one more railing around his throat, just to be extra safe.

You don’t step away from the stove until you know he’s secure. Your heart is racing as you turn off the music and make your way through your apartment to the window. You need four fingers on your right hand to manage the restraints, and you flip the latch on the window with your thumb and use your quirk to lever it open. This isn’t like last time. You’ve got the undisputed upper hand. So why do you feel so tense?

The tension comes through in your voice when you speak. “What are you doing here?”

Shigaraki Tomura looks up at you from where he’s ensnared by the railings you bent to your will. He’s not at ease like this. You can feel him straining to bring his fingers together, to break out of your grip, but he still manages the ghost of a cocky smirk. “Skynet,” he says. “Did you miss me?”

Shigaraki was expecting you to be surprised to see him, but he wasn’t expecting you to react quite this fast. Or to immobilize him this quickly. He squirms slightly, testing the restraints, only for two more to come up, wrapping around his thighs and welding him to the platform. You got him from inside your apartment, before he even realized you knew he was there. You’re good. Shigaraki hardens his resolve. If you’re this good, he absolutely needs you for the League.

“Did I miss you?” you repeat, incredulous. “Answer my question, Shigaraki. What are you doing here?”

Before Shigaraki can answer, you ask another question. “How do you know where I live?”

“I was in the neighborhood,” Shigaraki says. “I came to see if you bought yourself a flower like I said to.”

Your jaw drops. “That was you?”

“Who else?” Shigaraki can’t figure out why you looked so shocked. You’re in love with him. You should have guessed it was him, wanted it to be him. Is there somebody else you wanted it to be from? “Who did you think it was?”

“You can’t be here,” you say instead of answering. “You need to leave.”

“Do you want me to leave?” Shigaraki challenges. “You’re the one who won’t let me go.”

Your grip on him doesn’t loosen, and he still can’t bring his fingers together. Shigaraki’s stuck. If you call the cops to come get him, he can’t get away. Would you really call the cops on him? There’s no way. You love him. Right?

You still aren’t saying anything, but you also aren’t letting him go. Shigaraki tries to bring the subject back around to you liking him. “Did you buy a flower or not?”

“Why did you leave me that note?”

“I asked first.”

“Sure, I bought a flower.” You roll your eyes, which pisses Shigaraki off. He gave you something when he didn’t have to. What happened to gratitude? “Why did you leave me that note? Were you messing with me or something?”

“Messing with you?” Is that what you thought? Shigaraki wouldn’t be grateful, either. “I wasn’t messing with you. I saw the train thing, so I’m interested. I was just letting you know.”

He was expecting the news that he’s interested in you to land a little better. Then again, everything that’s happened today has proved that he’s a shitty judge of character, so maybe he’s wrong. He’s wrong, and the rest of the League was fucking with him, and because Shigaraki was stupid enough to believe them he’s now landed squarely in the hands of a hero who has every reason to think that turning him in will redeem her. He practically gift-wrapped himself.

Shigaraki’s throat tightens with rage, or something else. His skin crawls and his eyes burn. He can’t rub or scratch it away, because you’ve got him completely pinned. This is awful. It’s –

A timer goes off somewhere in your apartment, and you look away. Shigaraki seizes the opportunity to try to struggle free, but you’re already shaking your head. “Did you forget I’m the Capture Hero?” you ask. “If I can’t hang onto you and take a pan off the stove at the same time, I should hand in my license right now.”

You’re cooking something. The smell of it is drifting through the open window, and Shigaraki’s stupid mouth starts to water. He swallows. “You’re making dinner at midnight?”

You shrug. “That’s when I got home.”

“Kurogiri’s been cooking.” Trying to cook, and it’s weird that he’s trying. He used to leave Shigaraki alone about what he ate, but lately he’s been making Shigaraki eat things that have iron on them, or take iron pills, or dissolve iron tablets under his tongue. It’s a pain in the ass. “The stuff he makes doesn’t smell like that.”

You raise your eyebrows. “Like that?”

Maybe once you’re in the League, you can give Kurogiri lessons. Shigaraki had better start hinting about that now. “Good.”

You don’t say anything. Shigaraki’s stomach growls, so loudly that people on the moon can probably hear it, and his face heats up with embarrassment. But your expression is shifting, almost the same way it shifted in the square at Kamino. Seeing it gives Shigaraki a weird sense of relief. He wasn’t imagining it. The League wasn’t screwing with him. You do care. He can’t figure out why it took his stomach making stupid sounds to get it out of you.

“Are you hungry?” you ask.

Your voice sounds the same as it did when you asked if he was okay. This time Shigaraki tells the truth. “Yes.”

You glance back into your apartment, then look at him – then back to your apartment, then to him. “I must be out of my mind,” you mumble, and then you square your shoulders and make eye contact. “You’re hungry, and I made too much food. If you want, you can come inside.”

“What?” Shigaraki manages. You can’t be serious – but the metal railings are unwrapping from around his throat, his waist, his arms, until he’s anchored at the thighs and wrists and nowhere else. “You’re going to let me leave if I say no?”

“No one knows you’re here except me,” you say. “If you leave now, it’ll be like it never happened.”

Shigaraki should take you up on it, five seconds ago. You could change your mind at any moment, and now he knows he has to be a lot more careful the next time he tries to recruit you – keep a greater distance, stay disguised at first, not get complacent listening to you sing some song in English about how you really, really, really, really, really, really like someone. This was today’s second colossal fuckup, and unlike the first one, it’s recoverable. Shigaraki needs to leave. Now.

Instead – “I could eat,” he says, and you let him go.

Or you sort of let him go. He’s not attached to the fire escape anymore, but there are thin metal bands around his wrists and ankles. He shakes one of them at you. “What’s this?”

“Insurance policy,” you say. Huh. Shigaraki decides it’s fair, and probably a good sign as far as your usefulness to the League. After what happened today, it’s pretty clear that the League could use some members who are a little less trusting. You step back from the window, leaving space for Shigaraki to step through. “Get in here before someone sees you.”

Shigaraki smacks his head on the window frame, and it’s your fault. Your fault, because you’re holding out your hand for him to take, so you can help him through, and it’s such a weird thing to do that he can’t focus. You know how his quirk works. Why would you give him a chance to touch you? He avoids your outstretched hand, loses his balance, smacks his head on the other side of the window this time, and you catch his elbow to steady him. You’re touching him. Nobody touches Shigaraki on purpose. Nobody who’s not trying to hurt him.

You act like it’s nothing, and you let him go, shutting the window behind him with a wave of your hand. Then you turn away. “Find somewhere to sit. The food’s almost done.”

It smells even better inside your apartment than it did on the fire escape. Shigaraki wants to pay attention to that, but you just turned your back on him. “You sure you trust me this much?”

“I don’t need to look at you to know what you’re doing. My metal sense takes care of that.” You’re stirring something in a pan on the stove now. “I wouldn’t say I love my odds, but I’m okay with them. Do you want water to drink or something?”

“Uh, okay.” Shigaraki watches as you leave whatever’s on the stove to open a cabinet and retrieve a glass, which you fill from a pitcher in the fridge. You hand it to him and go back to the stove, and Shigaraki stares at it stupidly. Better that he stares at it than at you.

You aren’t doing what he expected you to do. Now that Shigaraki thinks about it, he’s got no idea what he was expecting you to do. Scream? Faint? Be ecstatic to see him? Drag him into your apartment and offer yourself to him – not just your allegiance to the League, but all of you, all for him? Shigaraki’s face heats up at the thought. You wouldn’t do that. You don’t even post thirst-traps on Instagram. There’s no way you’d get physical with him on your second meeting. Which is good. Because Shigaraki’s not exactly experienced in that department, and it’s possible that he’s never been less in the mood.

Shigaraki is used to having shitty days. He’s had a lot of shitty days in the last year. He’s gotten shot, stabbed, punched, punched but with explosions added in, and fucked things up so badly that Sensei had to get involved, only for Sensei get captured by the heroes. But today is abnormally, astronomically shitty – shitty enough to top all the others combined. This is the first shitty day in Shigaraki’s adult life where someone he cares about has died. And the first time it’s been his fault.

Maybe not totally his fault. There’s blame to go around. But Shigaraki’s the leader, so it’s on him. He should have been more suspicious of Overhaul from the start, regardless of what Twice said. He should have ended the meeting immediately when he realized Overhaul’s true intentions, and he should have had Kurogiri on standby, so the League could leave if Overhaul refused to. Failing all that, he should have found a way to stop Magne and Compress from engaging Overhaul – something he could have planned for, if he’d been smart enough to be suspicious. Instead he was stupid, and now Magne’s dead.

And Shigaraki couldn’t even take revenge on Overhaul. Assessing the scene, realizing they were outmatched, and calling a pause was probably the smartest thing Shigaraki did all day.

They couldn’t keep using that hideout. No one wanted to stay after what happened, and there was a chance Overhaul had tipped off the police to where they were. Shigaraki ordered the League to scatter for twenty-four hours and reunite at a new hideout, which Kurogiri is responsible for finding. Shigaraki doesn’t know where everyone else went. But he didn’t think twice before coming here, to your city. To your neighborhood. To you.

“Shigaraki.” You say his name as you’re setting two rice bowls in front of two chairs at a tiny kitchen table. “Do you want to sit down?”

Right. He’s standing here, staring at a glass of water, like an idiot. Shigaraki sits down in front of one bowl and you sit at the other. “What’s in here?”

“Flank steak, spinach, broccoli, mushrooms, carrots, garlic, ginger, green onions –” You trail off to eat some of it. “And rice underneath. I’m guessing Kurogiri forgot some of that stuff.”

“The last three things.” Shigaraki picks up his chopsticks, lifts out a piece of broccoli, and inspects it. It doesn’t look quite as disgusting as whatever Kurogiri made. He sticks it in his mouth, burns his tongue, realizes that it doesn’t actually taste bad, and starts talking in a hurry. “You can’t tell anyone about this. If they find out –”

“That you ate a vegetable?” You look skeptical. Maybe because Shigaraki’s talking with his mouth full. “There are lots of reasons I can’t tell anybody about this. I might as well add that to the list.”

Shigaraki makes sure to finish chewing before he tries to say anything else, then decides against saying anything at all in favor of trying to figure out which of the vegetables tastes the worst. You don’t ask him any questions. You’re just eating dinner, like it’s a normal night, like it doesn’t matter that Shigaraki’s here at all.

Maybe you’re playing it cool. “So,” Shigaraki starts, after a sip of water to wash the taste of carrots out of his mouth, “you must not think much of the League of Villains, if you used more of your quirk on a train than on us.”

You used more of your quirk pinning Shigaraki to the fire escape than you did during the second Kamino incident, but Shigaraki decides not to point that out. You’re making a face. “They were totally different situations. If I’d used that kind of power in our fight, I’d have taken down all the buildings your boss and All Might didn’t get to during the first battle.”

“So what? Capturing us wasn’t worth it?” Shigaraki can tell by your expression that this is the wrong way to go. He stuffs a wad of spinach into his mouth to give himself some time to think, then drinks some water to give a little more. “You said it was different with the train. Why?”

“It was on an elevated track.”

“Huh?”

“The train was on an elevated track.” You’re picking at your food. “The problem with my quirk isn’t whether I can grab something and pull it towards me, the problem is what happens to everything in between. If the train had been street level or underground, the magnetic field I was altering would have torn up everything with a similar metallic signature to the train. But the train was on an elevated track. There was nothing around it with a matching signature, so I could let loose.”

It sounds like there’s not a limit to your quirk. You held back at Kamino because you didn’t want to make a mess. “How hard was it to stop the train?”

“Harder once I fell over.”

You’re avoiding Shigaraki’s eyes, and Shigaraki adjusts your answer to reflect reality. “It wasn’t hard at all,” he says. You keep averting your eyes. There’s color coming up in your face. “Damn.”

You eat a few more bites, and so does Shigaraki. The food is good, or at least good enough to highlight how bad Kurogiri’s cooking is. If Shigaraki wasn’t already sure he needed you for the League, he’d be convinced now – between your quirk and the fact that you can make the vegetables he’s supposed to eat taste like anything other than garbage, he’s pretty sure you’ll be essential. “Is that why you came here?” you ask, and Shigaraki looks up. “To talk about my quirk?”

“What else is there to talk about?” What do people talk about on dinner dates, anyway? “How our days were? Like I’d tell you that.”

“You could,” you say. “There’s nobody I could tell about it.”

“Bullshit. You’re a hero –”

“And if I went to the cops and spilled all your secrets, their next question would be where I got the information,” you say. “I can’t exactly say ‘I got it from Shigaraki Tomura, when he came over for dinner last night.’ So if you want to talk about how your day went, you can.”

Shigaraki’s chest goes tight. Maybe he swallowed something wrong. “You first,” he says. “What did you do today? Let me guess – dispensing peace and justice with government-sponsored violence.”

You laugh. “Today I fixed some girl’s bike so she could get to work on time. Then I got called out to a primary school to help some kid who got his head stuck in the rails on a staircase. After that I caught some guy spray-painting ‘bitch’ on his ex-wife’s car. That would have been a nuisance crime, except he’d been stalking her, too.”

Shigaraki knew you were small-time, but this is ridiculous. “Don’t you get bored?”

“There was a car accident, too,” you say. “The fire department was late, so I helped pry open the car so the passengers could get out. And then I helped clear wreckage from somebody else’s villain fight downtown until my shift ended.”

Five incidents, one actual interaction with a criminal. “That’s not going to get you back in the headlines.”

“Believe me, I’d love to stay out of them,” you say. Shigaraki remembers what Spinner said about how you’re a hero Stain would approve of. It sounds like he’s right. “Today was a decent day. How was yours?”

Shigaraki’s throat closes. He’s still hungry – really hungry – but if he tried to swallow something right now, he’s pretty sure he’d choke on it. The anger builds inside him, seeking any target, and you’re the closest. “Don’t ask me that. You don’t give a shit about me.”

“Hey –”

“You call someone a villain and you can write them off for good. It doesn’t matter what happens to villains. Villains aren’t people to you.” Shigaraki can’t believe you’re trying to argue with him. “Sure, I could tell you how my day was. If I wanted to watch you pretend to care that one of my friends died.”

Your eyes widen. “Someone died?”

Shigaraki wasn’t going to tell you anything, and then he told you, right in the middle of telling you all the reasons why he wasn’t going to tell you. This is a fucking nightmare. “Save it for someone who believes your stupid act. I’m out of here.”

“My stupid act, huh?” Your voice is sharp. “Let me tell you something about what happened at Kamino, Shigaraki. I should have captured you then. I had everything I needed to take you down. And then I got so distracted when I realized you were sick that I let all four of you escape. I screwed myself pretty solidly for somebody who doesn’t care, don’t you think?”

You did, sort of. Shigaraki knows that if you hadn’t stopped the train, the public would still hate you. A society as corrupt as this one doesn’t forgive mistakes like the one you made. Like the one you’re making right now, if anybody ever finds out you let him in. “You’re still sick,” you continue. “I can feel it. And it doesn’t take a genius to see that something bad happened. I don’t know what’s going on in your head, but I don’t think you came here just to see if I bought a flower.”

You don’t say why you think Shigaraki came here. With Shigaraki’s luck, you’d guess right, and the sheer humiliation of being called out on it would probably kill him. “You said you bought one. Where is it?”

“Right there.”

Right there, as in dead center on the table, right in the middle of Shigaraki’s eyeline. And here he was thinking it couldn’t get worse. “I think you probably meant a cut flower, but I wanted this one,” you say. “It’s alive, so it should keep blooming as long as I don’t kill it through benign neglect.”

Shigaraki’s throat won’t relax. He coughs, trying to clear it. “Kill a lot of plants, do you?”

“Only by accident,” you say. “It probably doesn’t make a difference to the plant, but under human law, intention matters.”

“What?”

“Crime is bad,” you say. No shit. Shigaraki snorts. “But the degree of badness depends on the intention. If I lost control of my quirk and hurt someone, I’d be in trouble. But I’d be in a lot more trouble if I hurt them deliberately.”

Shigaraki’s stomach ties itself in a knot. “For serious crimes, the reason why a person did something matters, too,” you continue. “If I was a civilian and someone attacked me, I might hurt them with my quirk to protect myself. But if I hurt that person the same way in an argument, that would be different. And sometimes premeditation can be a mitigating factor – like, a person being stalked and threatened might feel so backed into a corner that killing the stalker feels like the only option. They’d have to plan that ahead of time, probably. But it’s not something they’d have done if they hadn’t been pushed to the limit first.”

The knot in Shigaraki’s stomach is pulling his entire body with it – intestines, heart, lungs. He stands up so fast he knocks his chair over. “Bathroom.”

“Down the hall. Door on the right,” you say. “Are you –”

Shigaraki’s in the bathroom with the door locked before you can finish asking the question. He hunches over the sink, struggling to breathe without gagging. Why did you tell him that? All that stuff about intention and premeditation and the reasons mattering – why would you think he needed to hear it? Shigaraki’s pretty sure you don’t monologue about the legal system to your hero friends, but you weren’t trying to convince him that the system’s good, or right. You were just telling him. Almost like you know.

Like you know what? That question gives Shigaraki pause, and in the pause, he forces himself to straighten up and take a look around. Your bathroom is small, like everything else in y our apartment. There’s not a lot of stuff lying around on the counter. Or a lot of stuff under the sink, when he looks down there. The cabinet behind the mirror has more in it, but Shigaraki’s not sure what to make of what he’s looking at. Girl stuff, probably. Does sunscreen count as girl stuff? There’s makeup, or what Shigaraki thinks is makeup, but not much of it has been used. Most of it is still in its packaging. There’s also a pile of narrow elastic bands – black, made of fabric, not rubber. Hair ties. Shigaraki picks one up and slides it down over his wrist.

He’s not sure why he did that, but he feels a little better, and he takes a few more deep breaths. You weren’t trying to do something to him. You were just talking, because people talk when they go out to dinner together. There’s nothing weird happening. You don’t know anything. You’re in love with him. It’s fine.

Shigaraki leaves the bathroom and makes his way down the hall, stopping in a few places to look at the pictures you have hanging up. There’s one where you’re hugging a big golden dog, looking stupid-happy and a lot younger than you are now. Another one from when you were a student at UA, in a school uniform, standing with three other girls. And then there’s one that makes Shigaraki feel sick and angry all over again – you and some guy. He’s got his arm around your shoulders.

“That’s my brother.”

Shigaraki jumps, swears. You snuck up on him. “He doesn’t live in Japan,” you continue. “So if you were planning to use him to get back at me, find something else.”

“I’ll get back at you when you do something to me,” Shigaraki says. “Not before.”

You study him, head tilted to one side. “Are you okay?” you ask. “You looked like you were going to be sick.”

“I want to finish the food,” Shigaraki says. He has a bad feeling about his ability to lie to you right now. Lying is a bad policy with somebody he’s trying to recruit. The fucking recruitment thing. How did he forget about that? “Did you get rid of it?”

“No,” you say, puzzled. “It’s probably gotten cold, though. I’ll heat it up again.”

Shigaraki leans against the kitchen counter while you mess with the microwave, and decides to test your supposed metal sense while he’s waiting. He reaches out, like he’s going to grab your shoulder, and his arm stalls in midair, held back by the metal shackle around his wrist. Pulling back doesn’t make a difference, and it fits too closely to pull his hand free. Shigaraki tries to bring up his other hand and Decay the shackle, but that hand freezes in place, too. You didn’t even turn around. “Can I help you?”

“Just testing you,” Shigaraki says. “You really are good. Want to let me go?”

You shrug. “You might not believe me, but I’m sorry about your friend,” you say. “Whichever of your friends it was. I wish it hadn’t happened. To them or to you.”

Shigaraki doesn’t sleep much. He’s pretty sure what happened to Magne and Compress will be making an appearance in his nightmares. It’ll fit in nicely with the nightmares he already has, which also include a lot of blood and dismembered bodies. “Heroes like it when villains kill villains, right? Like taking out the trash.”

“You must spend a lot of time arguing with the imaginary hero in your head.” The microwave beeps, and you lift the bowls out without touching them. “You’re talking to me. Listen to what I’m saying.”

“What are you saying, then?”

“I’m saying I’m sorry about your friend.” You turn to face Shigaraki, arms crossed over your chest, while the bowls drift back to the table and settle on opposite sides. “I wish it hadn’t happened. Is there anything I can do?”

“Let me out.” Shigaraki pulls at the shackles again, and you release your hold on them. “And if you get a chance, put Overhaul in the fucking ground.”

“Overhaul,” you repeat. “Like, Hassaikai Overhaul? He did it?”

“Yeah. Why?”

“You need to stay away from him,” you say flatly. “From all of them. It’s not safe.”

“I know it’s not fucking safe. They just killed my friend. Do you think I’m going to –” Shigaraki breaks off as a thought crosses his mind. “What do you mean, it’s not safe?”

“It’s not safe,” you say again. You step around Shigaraki, and he follows you to the table. “I can’t tell you why. But it’s not a good idea to be anywhere near Overhaul or his organization right now.”

“Why?”

“I can’t tell you,” you say. You pick up your chopsticks. “Are you going to eat?”

The food smells good heated up again. Shigaraki takes a few bites and thinks over what you said. You know something about the Shie Hassaikai, and whatever it is, it’s enough to make you warn Shigaraki away from them. You love him, so some of it is probably that you don’t want him going back near somebody who killed his friend. But it sounds like more than that. You can’t tell him why. What’s something a hero can’t tell a villain?

What the other heroes are up to. Shigaraki feels a grin spreading across his face. “The heroes are going after the Hassaikai.” Across the table, you cringe. “I’m right, aren’t I?”

“No!”

You’re not a good liar, at least not to Shigaraki. Good to know. Shigaraki eats fast, his mind working faster. Overhaul thinks he’s smarter than everyone else, heroes and villains both. Which will be more humiliating – getting his shit rocked by another villain, or being crushed by a gang of heroes? It’s the last one for sure. Shigaraki doesn’t have to do the heavy lifting of destroying Overhaul. All he has to do is pretend to help, stay out of the way, and yank the illusion of his support when Overhaul needs it most. To betray Overhaul’s trust. Just like Overhaul did to him.

Easy enough. And Shigaraki wouldn’t have known about it if you hadn’t told him.

Shigaraki has a hard time believing that he ever felt weird about you being in love with him. You didn’t hand him over to the cops. You let him in. You made food for him and tried to make him feel better and actually succeeded, at least a little, when you gave him a clue about how to crush Overhaul. As far as Shigaraki can see, there’s not a single downside to having a hero as a girlfriend.

<- Chapter 2 Chapter 4 ->

[unnamed-blob]

The Ocean Is My...

⇢ Pairing: Mer Ghostface/Meg Thomas

⇢ Length: Multi-chapter

⇢ Chapters: (1- Home) (2 - Grave) (3 - Drug) (4 - Cage)

⇢ Synopsis: The ocean has been Meg's home for as long as she can remember. But the tides have shifted with a new mer appearing, and now Meg has to fight to keep her head above the waves left in his wake.

⇢ A/N: The calm before the storm.

A seagull cried in the near distance, accompanying the familiar sound of waves crashing against the sand. 

Meg wrapped her arms tighter around herself, wound uncomfortably taut, staring at her feet. 

“Come in,” the water whispered, lapping at her toes. “Come home,” it whined, pulling away before lurching forwards to ensnare her ankles in the sinking sand. Meg made no motion to move, blinking sluggishly as if she were watching through someone else’s eyes. 

She wriggled her feet in the sand, watched them sink deeper until she couldn’t see the top of them anymore. Deeper… deeper… like the ocean swallowing her whole- 

A splash from a distance away, a flash of scales in the morning sun as a fish leapt upwards. 

By the time it hit the water again, there were only indents left of her presence, sand thrown hastily from running footsteps. 

⪢⪡⪢⪡⪢⪡⪢⪡⪢⪡⪢⪡⪢⪡⪢⪡⪢⪡⪢⪡⪢⪡⪢⪡⪢⪡⪢⪡⪢⪡⪢⪡

It’d taken a month for her to step out onto the sand again. A month after she’d failed to show up to her work with no prior notice. 

Her friends -(and Meg could never quite put into words how grateful she was for them, past the lump that would swell in her throat and make her eyes water)- had sent themselves on a manhunt for her. 

Jake found her, limp in the sand, unresponsive. When Meg had finally opened her eyes, she’d been greeted with the eggshell blue ceiling of Claudette’s clinic. 

The shorter female had kept a close eye on her from that moment onwards, chiding her each time she’d grown restless in the sterile bed, constantly reminding her of the dangers of secondary drowning. The redhead couldn’t find it in herself to be irritated at the infantilized treatment, at how constantly her vitals were checked every few minutes. 

Not when Claudette’s hands kept shaking, giving her difficulty with inserting the IV. Not when Dwight had raced over as soon as he was informed she was awake, panting from the oppressing heat and the ill fitting tie and button up shirt he’d run in, sacrificing his lunch break. 

And not when Jake had hugged her silently, tight enough for her ribs to ache. (She hadn’t said a word, not when she could feel the tremor in his body, how he pressed downwards to hear her heartbeat. How the tenseness in his shoulders slumped once he could feel her breathes and he held on tight, as if death itself would have to fight him first.)

When her vitals had stabilized, and Claudette had kept her bed bound for several days after to ensure so- Meg finally received the all clear. The water had left no lasting injuries (none physical anyway), and she’d returned to work easily. 

But her schedule was wrecked. 

Meg’s body still rose on its own before the break of dawn. She’d tried to counter it with everything: morning swims in the pool before her lessons started, stroke after stroke after stroke until she’d lost track of her laps, until her arms threatened to fall off. 

She’d filled the bathtub, settling slowly into the cooling water to just.. sit. And stared blankly. 

But that had done nothing. And weeks later, nearly two months after the incident, she’d found sand clinging to her feet again, the wrongness in her bones shifting slightly. 

Of course, Meg was no idiot. 

She found herself a new spot, closer to an oceanside town. An extra 30 minute drive but it’d rewarded her with dog walkers greeting her as they passed. With joggers giving her a passing glance and an occasional swimmer or surfer bobbing in the water. 

Her surfboard was left abandoned, collecting dust in her garage as Meg learned how to step into the shallows without scrambling backwards. Without a tightness in her chest and a burning in her lungs.

Exposure therapy, Caludette would say, if she knew what she was doing. Learning how to live again, how to swim when it had been as natural as breathing before, Meg would call it. 

Every shift of sand against her feet sent her heart racing, she eyed floating seaweed with a wide berth, and if anything so much as brushed against her, she’d be out of the water like a rocket. 

Swimming had felt freeing before, like soaring. Now, it seemed to only make her chest tighten in panic, to chain her feet to the ground. 

A/N: I have many thoughts about Meg

[thearcanecat]

Cinderella’s Castle one-shot props! I had a lot less time to put this together, but it was based on Snow White so I got an apple, a bodice with lace, and a comb. They also fought a dragon, because dragons are cool. The magic mirror was also there. The maps are based on the layout of the Hurstmonceux Castle.

Players:

Ella: Divine Soul Sorcerer Human

Tadius: Eloquence Bard Human

Lord Hop-A-Lot Oath of Ancients Paladin 4/Battle Master Fighter 12 Custom Lineage

Briar Grizzwald: Glomstalker Ranger Half Wood Elf

Crumb couldn’t make it unfortunately. :(

New rule: Every players has 1 Ragweed Token that can be used to change one dice roll. Players need to tap the wood block to activate it.

Everyone did closet cosplays! Ella had a green skirt and general fantasy look. Briar had a dagger. Hop-A-Lot had a green shirt with a chest plate and cape. Tadius had a black shirt and some red fabric over his arm. I wore part of my Narrator cosplay. It’s not finished yet I’ll post photos when it is.

Ella and Tadius are out ruling the castle. Lord Hop-A-Lot was in the Swamp waiting for his mansion to be built. The bastard brother has heard news of his sisters’ deaths and was traveling to learn more. On his way, he found the apple that the Prince had thrown, which had made it all the way to the Swamp. It was poisoned. At the castle, there was a mysterious reflection in the floor which told them about the Castle That Was which was being attacked by a dragon. Ella had a mirror and used it to speak with the reflection easier. It’s name was Amir the Mirror and it was cursed to rhyme which it really hated. Crumb stayed behind the keep everything in order (and because the dragon terrified him). To get to the Castle, first they needed to cross the Unreachable Peaks, for which they needed the help of the Six Dwarves. (Their father had mysteriously vanished many years ago) Tadius was able to convince the dwarves to help them and get better at communication. The Dwarves helped the party through the mountains and led them to the castle, which was under siege. The castle belonged to the Goblin Queen, who had failed to gather enough forces to help her. The goblins were losing badly. Tadius cast message to speak to the dragon whose name was Ebony Wood. She had been cursed by an old hag by three magic items and was turned into a dragon. Sir Hop-A-Lot was still very bloodthirsty and wanted to kill a dragon. The party tracked the castle searching for the Goblin Queen. There found her bedroom, which had a map of the Lands That Are and a list of the fiercest people in all the realm. Many of these people had been visited by an old hag who cursed them and took their power. The party found the Queen in a room, planning strategies against the dragon. As soon as she was identified, Tadius cast guiding bolt. Sir Hop-A-Lot initially failed to restrain the Queen, but used a Ragweed token to change that and captured here with the Fairy Queen’s arms. With her on the ground, the battle was easy. As they all stomped her to death, it was decided that Ella, who has glass leg prosthetics, no longer had toes. It’s just the glass slippers, nothing else. With the Queen defeated, their attention turned to the dragon. The creature had an object stuck in its throat, a comb stabbed in its head, and rope tied around its chest. Tadius 8th level dispelled magic on the rope, Ella took out the throat with scorching ray, freeing an apple. Tadius used It’s fire breathe did a lot of damage. Sir Hop-A-Lot jumped and then misty stepped to get onto the back of the dragon. Tadius dimensioned doored himself and Ella to the dragon as well. Tadius tried to remove the comb and used a Ragweed token to succeed. With all the items removed, the dragon turned back into Ebony and everyone fell to the ground. After healing everyone up, Ebony introduced herself. She was a Dragonborn with scales as black as ebony wood, eyes as red as blood and teeth as white as snow. She had been adopted by the dwarves when she was young. Without a Queen, the goblins had no where to go. Hop-A-Lot offered them to come and work for the crown. They unionized and taught him what that meant. The party brought Ebony back home, took gold and treasure to the castle, and all the workers learned about unions. Now with confidence, the masons told Sir Hop-A-Lot that building a house in the middle of a swamp does not work. So now he had a goal to create a floating mansion.

Overall I had fun! I had a day and half to write this one shot and then GMes it while jet lagged, so it was a little rough around the edges, but everything went well!

[where-theres-smoak-2]

I keep seeing posts saying that the sylki kiss from 1x06 was retconned. Obviously I don't know for 100% certainty, the writers/show producers would have to confirm if anything was retconned or not for us to be certain. But I don't think anything was retconned. It is a bit confusing with all the time skipping etc, you've also got the fact that when Loki went back and spoke to OB in the past it changed things in the future. But when he went back in 2x06 to speak to Mobius and then Sylvie after those timelines dissolved away, so what's the difference? Well here's how I see it, and I am going to try my best to explain it using a metaphor and hope it makes sense. So Loki at the end transforms all the timelines into a tree, so lets run with that imagery and look at time like its a tree. You've got all your branches, that's the different timelines, then you've got your leaves on that branch which represents different moments in time. These moments/leaves exsist on multiple branches. Here is a diagram for you, I apologise for the crudeness, I was only able to put on coat of paint and it is not to scale:

I think we see Loki travel two different ways on this time tree I think when he goes back and speaks to OB he is jumping between different points on the same branch like this:

When he jumps back to speak to OB it kind of rearranges slightly the branch from that point forward, so now future OB remembers the conversation but everything else stays the same.

HWR says the way the loom works is that it deletes anything that isn't supposed to be there and just keeps the sacred timeline aka the events that HWR wants to happen. We know that the events of season 1 and 2 were what HWR wanted to happen, he says he paved the way, which is why I think after speaking to past Mobius in 2x06 the timeline dissolves. I think the way Loki is time-slipping in this episode where he is trying to find the right actions that will solve the problem and save the day is more like he is skipping between branches as opposed to the same branch, like this:

Only when he skips out of that the branch falls off and dies like after he spoke to Mobius and Sylvie.

When it comes to him repeating the same moment I see as him kind of bouncing from say his branch to that same moment on a different branch:

When it fails he slips back to that same moment and tries again. And its the same with the citadel. I suppose it would look more like this:

With that moment as a sort of fixed moment.

Actually another way of looking at it (and probably a simpler way if I am honest) is like every time Loki skips back after a failed attempt he's hitting the return to factory settings button, when you do that on a computer it erases everything you have added, everything you have done. In this case the factory settings are season 1 and season 2 up to 2x4.

So the sylki kiss and citadel moment weren't retconned or erased, neither was that first interview with Mobius in 1x01 because when Loki slipped back to the loom room for the last time he had hit the reset button. So the events of season 1 and 2 up to ep 4 stay, they are the in universe canon you could say. So the Sylvie we see talking to Mobius at the end is the same Sylvie who kissed Loki in 1x06, and went through all of season 1 and 2.

So what parts were retconned/ erased. Anything between the end of 2x4 and the end of 2x6. So sadly we have lost the bar scene from ep 5, we get to keep the kiss and the pie room scene though. The other scenes that got erased in this episode is Loki's conversation with Mobius where he asks how to choose who lives and dies. Also the conversation with Sylvie where he tells her he might have to kill her to stop her killing HWR is gone too. Though to note Loki still remembers it all.

Anyway that's my take on it, I hope it makes sense.

[metagraphy-cal]

Writing Initiative #5

1. Which piece did you present to the class today? How does it relate to the other pieces previously presented?

Today I showed my 3D component and everything in my entire project is related to the other. The 3D component essentially piggy backs off of the 2D, or you could say that the 2D aspect was just a piece of the bigger 3D puzzle. The 4D component will also be closely linked taeyeon the 2D and 3D aspects of this project. All parts work in tandem to form the whole. I also shared my reflective piece and I think people are still slightly confused by it since it is not refined and I did not display it in its full entirety yet since I am not complete it yet and would like to only show it later.

2. Describe 2–3 specific strengths your classmates found in your work and their reasons for identifying them.

I thankfully received good feedback from my friends and it was awesome watching them react to the work that they produced as part of my project. I think that was surprised them the most and that they appreciated was the size of my project; Malcolm said he originally thought this would be really small as he saw my mini prototype and did not have expectations regarding the scale of my product. Andrei said to me, “You thought of every detail,” which I appreciated. I think my friends also really like how their work is integrated into my project so there is always some facet of the project that pertains to them and there are still some features I had not yet shared with them that probably surprised them in a pleasant way

3. Describe 1–2 specific ways your classmates thought you could improve this work going forward.

I received feedback regarding the execution on the computer screen and how I could tape it so that it would be more sturdy upon removal. That was helpful. I also heard a lot of feedback regarding the orientation of the logos that I plan to incorporate once everything else is completed. I also luckily had PAUL catch me spelling error before I glued something on permanently... What a lifesaver. Always good to get fresh eyes just to verify grammar.

4. Consider the remaining outcome you still need to present in the remaining classes; why have you put this one off to the last?

I need to present the 4D aspect but I have not gotten to this part yet since I do not have everyone’s wallpaper data but I did collect everyone I could today and only have 3 more people left to do so I will begin that right away. The reason why I cannot start the 4D aspect without everyone’s information is that I need to code a program but I have to begin with the end already mapped out or else it will create more headaches and potentially fail. I promise I am not delaying it due to procrastination

[cagemasterfantasy]

Peace Domain (2024) (Homebrew)

Note: This is my own take on Peace Domain using the 2024 rules for Cleric. This post will be deleted if this subclass gets updated to 2024 rules. Changes are described at the end.

From: Tasha's Cauldron of Everything

All gods and their domains can be found here if a god doesn't have a domain click on them

The balm of peace thrives at the heart of healthy communities, between friendly nations, and in the souls of the kindhearted. The gods of peace inspire people of all sorts to resolve conflict and to stand up against those forces that try to prevent peace from flourishing.

Clerics of the Peace Domain preside over the signing of treaties, and they are often asked to arbitrate in disputes. These clerics' blessings draw people together and help them shoulder one another's burdens, and the clerics' magic aids those who are driven to fight for the way of peace.

Spells: Your connection to this divine domain ensures you always have certain spells ready. When you reach a Cleric level specified below, you thereafter always have the listed spells prepared.

Level 3: Aid, Heroism, Sanctuary, Warding Bond

Level 5: Beacon of Hope, Sending

Level 7: Aura of Purity, Otiluke's Resilient Sphere

Level 9: Greater Restoration, Rary's Telepathic Bond

Level 3 Emboldening Bond: As a Magic action, you can forge an empowering bond among people who are at peace with one another. You choose 2 willing creatures within 30 feet of you (this can include yourself). You create a magical bond among them for 10 minutes or until you use this feature again. While a bonded creature is within 30 feet of another bonded creature and fails a D20 Test, it can use its Reaction to roll a d4 and add the number rolled to the result. Once you use this feature, you can’t use it again until you finish a Short or Long Rest, unless you expend a spell slot of level 1 or higher to use it again. The number of creatures you can choose for the bond increases by 1 at level 6 (3 creatures) and at level 17 (4 creatures).

Level 3 Balm of Peace: You can use Channel Divinity to make your very presence a soothing balm. As a Magic action, you can move up to your speed, without provoking Opportunity Attacks, and when you move within 5 feet of any other creature during this action, you can restore a number of Hit Points to that creature equal to your 2d6 plus your Wisdom modifier (minimum of 1 hit point). A creature can receive this healing only once whenever you take this action.

Level 6 Protective Bond: The bond you forge between people helps them protect each other. When a creature affected by Emboldening Bond is about to take damage, a bonded creature within 30 feet can use its Reaction to divide the damage equally among all bonded creatures within 30 feet (rounded up) or take all the damage instead. Once the creatures use this effect, they cannot do so again until the start of your next turn.

Level 17 Expansive Bond: The benefits of Emboldening Bond and Protective Bond now work when the creatures are within 60 feet of each other. Moreover, when a creature uses Protective Bond to take someone else's damage, the creature has Resistance to that damage.

Changes:

Number of creatures for Emboldening Bond is now 2 and scales with level.

Number of uses of Emboldening Bond reduced to 1 per short rest, with the option to use a level 1 spell slot to use it again.

Emboldening bond now lets creatures use their Reaction when they fail a D20 Test to roll a d4 to possibly turn it into a success.

Protective bond’s teleport is removed and replaced by a bond-wide Reaction once per round that allows the bonded creatures to divide or redirect the damage.

Removed Implement of Peace due to the amount of features gained at 3rd level.

[sosplumbingdrainage]

How to Address Blocked Drains Poole and Blocked Drains Dorset Effectively

Blocked drains are a common problem for homeowners and businesses alike. They can cause unpleasant odours, disrupt daily activities, and, if left untreated, lead to more significant structural damage. In this blog, we’ll explore everything you need to know about dealing with Blocked Drains Poole and Blocked Drains Dorset efficiently and effectively.

Understanding the Causes of Blocked Drains

Blocked drains can arise from various sources, many of which are avoidable with proper maintenance. Here are the most common causes:

1. Build-up of Fat, Oil, and Grease (FOG)

When poured down sinks, these substances solidify and stick to pipe walls, restricting water flow.

A major contributor to kitchen sink blockages.

2. Hair Accumulation

Frequently causes clogs in bathroom drains, especially shower and bathtub pipes.

Hair combines with soap scum to form stubborn blockages.

3. Foreign Objects

Items like wipes, sanitary products, and nappies can easily obstruct pipes.

Often flushed down toilets despite being non-flushable.

4. Tree Root Intrusion

Roots can infiltrate underground pipes in search of water, causing cracks and blockages.

5. Scale and Debris

Over time, minerals from hard water can form scale, reducing pipe diameter and causing blockages.

Signs You Have a Blocked Drain

Recognising the early signs of a blocked drain can help mitigate more severe issues. Here’s what to watch out for:

Slow Drainage: Water takes longer than usual to flow down sinks or baths.

Gurgling Sounds: Unusual noises from pipes are often a sign of air trapped by blockages.

Foul Odours: A lingering smell around drains can indicate trapped waste.

Recurring Blockages: Frequent clogs might point to a more significant issue within your plumbing system.

Why Professional Services Are Essential

DIY solutions can provide temporary relief but often fail to address the root cause. Hiring experts for Blocked Drains Poole and Blocked Drains Dorset ensures the problem is resolved comprehensively.

1. Advanced Equipment and Techniques

Professionals use CCTV cameras to inspect pipes and identify blockages.

Techniques like high-pressure jetting effectively clear stubborn debris.

2. Long-Term Solutions

Preventative measures, such as root cutting and pipe relining, ensure lasting results.

3. Expertise and Safety

Experienced technicians can handle hazardous waste and ensure compliance with regulations.

DIY Tips for Preventing Blocked Drains

While professional services are indispensable, proactive maintenance can significantly reduce the risk of blockages:

1. Proper Waste Disposal

Avoid pouring grease or oil down sinks; instead, dispose of them in a designated container.

Only flush toilet paper and human waste—nothing else.

2. Use Drain Guards

Install guards to catch hair, food particles, and debris before they enter your pipes.

3. Regular Cleaning

Flush drains with boiling water weekly to dissolve grease and soap residue.

Use a mixture of baking soda and vinegar to clear minor build-ups.

4. Annual Inspections

Schedule regular professional inspections to identify and address potential issues early.

Local Expertise in Blocked Drains Poole

Poole, with its coastal location and older plumbing infrastructure, faces unique challenges when it comes to drainage systems. Here’s how local experts cater to these needs:

Understanding the Region

Coastal areas are prone to sand and debris entering drainage systems.

Ageing pipe networks often require tailored repair methods.

Customised Solutions

High-pressure jetting is commonly used to combat sand and silt build-up.

Drain relining techniques are ideal for reinforcing older pipes.

Tackling Blocked Drains Dorset

Dorset, known for its mix of urban and rural landscapes, has its own drainage complexities.

Urban Areas

High population density increases the likelihood of shared drain blockages.

Professional teams often address these issues through thorough inspections and shared solutions.

Rural Areas

Tree roots and agricultural waste are significant contributors to blockages in Dorset’s rural zones.

Advanced root cutting techniques are essential to protect pipes in these areas.

Emergency Services for Blocked Drains

Drain emergencies don’t wait for convenient hours. Here’s why round-the-clock service is crucial:

Rapid Response: Reduces the risk of water damage and contamination.

Expert Diagnosis: Ensures the correct solution is applied immediately.

Availability: Most services in Poole and Dorset offer 24/7 emergency assistance.

Environmental Considerations

Sustainable drainage solutions are gaining traction across Poole and Dorset.

Eco-Friendly Practices

Use of biodegradable cleaning agents instead of harsh chemicals.

Recycling wastewater where possible.

Rainwater Harvesting

Reduces strain on drainage systems during heavy rainfall.

An excellent option for both urban and rural properties.

How to Choose the Right Drainage Specialist

When dealing with Blocked Drains Poole or Blocked Drains Dorset, selecting the right service provider is vital. Consider these factors:

1. Accreditation and Certification

Look for companies certified by industry bodies like NADC (National Association of Drainage Contractors).

2. Local Expertise

Specialists familiar with Poole and Dorset’s drainage systems will provide tailored solutions.

3. Transparent Pricing

Reputable companies offer upfront quotes with no hidden charges.

4. Reviews and Recommendations

Check customer testimonials and ratings to gauge reliability and service quality.

FAQs About Blocked Drains Poole and Blocked Drains Dorset

1. How much does it cost to clear a blocked drain in Poole?

The cost varies depending on the severity of the blockage and the required technique. On average, prices range from £80 to £200.

2. Are blocked drains covered by home insurance?

Most home insurance policies cover drainage issues caused by accidental damage but not general wear and tear.

3. What should I do if my drain keeps getting blocked?

Recurring blockages might indicate a deeper issue, such as tree root intrusion. Contact a professional for a thorough inspection.

4. Can I prevent blocked drains during heavy rainfall?

Yes, regular maintenance, including gutter cleaning and installing proper drainage systems, helps manage rainwater effectively.

5. What is the quickest way to unblock a drain at home?

Pour boiling water mixed with baking soda and vinegar down the drain for minor blockages. For severe clogs, consult a professional.

Conclusion Blocked drains can be a major inconvenience, but with the right knowledge and professional assistance, they can be effectively managed. Whether you’re dealing with Blocked Drains Poole or Blocked Drains Dorset, prioritising maintenance and timely interventions can save time, money, and hassle in the long run

[whitefluffybearcub]

7/1/2024

— pay extra attention to what they repeat, it tells you who and what have been brainwashing and programming them.

Don’t engage. Just observe and let the info come to you.

— leave them be. Talk all the talk. Take all the ego.

Leave them be. They have lessons to learn still.

— if they have ego, then know that ego is their teacher. They shall learn a good lesson from ego. Do not stand in their way of this lesson.

— each human is in different place. They would never see eye to eye. But if one is in a place of elevated energy, then they would be calm and collected, and show mercy, patience, understanding, kindness, and most importantly respect toward others.

7/2/2024

— every lie is destined to be exposed and failed energetically. Some narratives take longer and some shorter but regardless it all has been designated.

Humans are meant to go thru the ups and downs via deceit. A game they choose to play even though it all ends the same.

— what you do, say, and think all determine the vibe of you. If you turn a blind eye and go live a lie, then you would always be in the caliber of deceit.

All deceit is destined to bring low vibration such as headache, heartache, loss, and more of that lows. Most importantly each lie would be exposed and fail miserably at its designated timings.

7/3/2024

— the true kindness would not care if anyone else knows about it.

The kindness that makes sure everyone knows may not be genuine, as it always often is staged and faked. There are always other motives In such scenarios.

7/4/2024

— every human’s settings are different and change all the time, so that they can carry thru the destined narratives and experiences.

It is that simple.

7/5/2024

—when you are a well known corrupt, know that you meet two groups of people: the ones who call you out and the ones who pretend to respect you. You are not fooling anyone.

7/6/2024

— a small painting drawn within a bigger painting. An illusion within an illusion based reality.

How fitting. Read into it carefully, without ego and limitations but with inspirations and imagination, You shall see more.

All designated to be this way.

— some men think they write the script for humanity. They don’t. Fate does, sometimes through men. All and everything within this realm is by design and is designated.

Why do you think mankind are conditioned to acknowledge there is a higher power? All energy are the same but all play different characters. Some are players in the games and some are support outside the games. It may switch as energy morph.

7/8/2024

— you are imprisoned by your lover,

Your family, your ego, the numbers on the scale, the bank account, and the apps.

Your jealousy, the candles on the cake, and the need to control everything,

A little or a lot of guilt along with evil thoughts and insidious conspiring acts

You are imprisoned by something , always and of course. A human experience is not meant to be totally free,

But May you have the courage to elevate should you choose to.

— the super fame and fortune always lead to being thrown into a dumpster fire, when it is time. They become plans they are not aware of prior but always has been planned.

How ironic but the energy of such would always be the same.

7/9/2024

— the truth hurts more when denial has been by your side for a long time. Some stay chained up to denial by choice even after the truth.

— when you live a lie, it takes away all the genuine things and people, little by little, day by day.

After attracting more lies, one becomes nothing but a soured and aged facade.

— angels become demons. A human narrative that is more common than not.

Temptation of the low vibes. Who could resist ?

What a story. What an experience.

— the manipulation and deceit that you harbor to fool others, also will eat you up little by little from the inside.

That is the price.

7/10/2024

— feeling disappointed really is just a feeling within this human experience, nothing more.

— all is theater. Don’t have to react to anything. Just enjoy the fun.

— celebrity really is a marketing tool because they ultimately want to influence, sell or to benefit from their audiences and fans. There is nothing more to celebrity than that.

A lot of their pretense is to strictly and strategically build and mold their images.

— cult leaders would always go down at the end because it is a programmed and predictable human narrative within this simulation.

Note that the cult leaders and its followers are also in a karmic bind. They will intertwine and play out a destined narrative all together. All meant to be.

— “this world” operates at a certain frequency and it dictates the happenings within this reality. If it has happened “this way”, it has been designated to happen “this way”.

7/11/2024

— the journey in the lack of ethnic era will take place as it has been designated. Some will make it out. Some won’t. Again all as destined.

7/12/2024

— a human thought first is created outside the human realm then it is put into motion in ways of frequency and vibration so that a human can tune into it.

A thought May or May not be true in the same dimension but is true in one of the infinite dimensions.

7/12/2024

— a lot of things in the human world really is just for placebo effect. It shows how powerful your mind is.

May you mind be full of love, kindness, and happiness.

— In this humanly realm, demon possessed, and touched by angels, all are part of the contrast game within a simulation.

Let there be light. But first, there must be dark. Otherwise how would one appreciate the light or the dark?

— most of the human societies are based on manmade illusions. How fitting, as all of the dimensions and realities are an simulated illusion.

You realize they all operate the same, except in different levels in terms of frequency and vibrations.

— energy never dies but it only transforms. Once a world dies, if it is meant to be, a new one starts somehow somewhere.

7/13/2024

— nothing is what it seems. If you know, you know.

— adjust your perception as the reality turns out. Adjust your feelings and emotions as the flow.

7/14/2024

— you see what they all have in common. Social media becomes their drug and addiction.

— sometimes when you watch mindfully, you see that what is spoken of isn’t actually significant but you see it is actually a battle and exchange of egos.

let their egos be their teacher. It would be difficult but it is also a designated lesson for them.

7/15/2024

— in the simulation of illusion, whatever narrative it may be, it is still part of the illusion.

Let it all go.

— the mass hysteria makers only want to make mass hysteria, no matter which sides their target audiences pick. As long as there is chaos, there comes their orders and the box is checked.

No Matter who is in on it. It is just still a part of the illusion.

All is Nothing more or nothing less than just an illusion.

— what enables you to do what isn’t genuine, also controls you and your fate.

— when you are not being genuine you would never receive genuine respect. Energetically humans attract what they vibrate.

— after reaching a certain milestone in this story, solitude becomes bliss and silence is salvation. All is clear and easier to understand.

— no Matter how hard you pretend. No one truly cares.

7/16/2024

— to be famous, it is a game that would always lead to the same masters if you make it. From the same fame club, so all endings are predictable.

Nonetheless it is a chosen experience for many. They would always have to be fooled first.

— in the fame game, the ones who could put your name is the main lime lights, are usually working for the devil.

It is how this game is designed.

— through the eyes of humanity, no matter how evil or insidious, if it is here, materialized within this realm, know that it is also meant to be here.

In the world of duality, light and dark are both needed.

7/17/2024

— when you go against your conscience, nothing good can come out of it.

But of course, you would have to find out first handed.

— soul does not judge at its own vibration because it knows the dark comes into the human realm for purpose.

Humans of course would judge because they operate at a low frequency which experiences ego.

All by design.

— different puppets, same hand. The narrative would always be the same as it is directed by that one hand.

7/18/2024

— the same story repeats. The abused becomes the abuser. The suppressed energy could not heal then express as abusive energy outwardly.

— in the same club, those will definitely cancel each other for their own benefit. All they do will only lead to a dumpster fire anyway.

— being In this world, for some, solitude is a blessing, quietness is a salvation, and nature is a healing gift.

7/21/2024

— everything works in harmony to bring you day and night. Isn’t that telling you something about this reality?

Let there be light but first there must be dark, so it gives meanings and significances to both. And the games of contrast begin.

That’s what is all about in the human world.

7/22/2024

— you will realize that no matter how beautiful or talented people are, it would not matter if one day if you are seeking kindness and that they are not kind at all.

— be silent with peace. Appreciate solitude and nature. Recognize ego is nothing but an experience of illusion. Let go and let all be.

— the portrayal of kindness that is being broadcast to all and is to be profited from, is usually not genuine.

What isn’t genuine would always fall apart at its end. It is a karmic law to fulfill a cycle and balance.

— beauty and talents become indifferent when at some point true kindness is the only remedy to save lives and elevate energy.

7/23/2024

— no words necessary. Peaceful Silence.

Know that all is meant and destined.

Into the Solitude and salvation with pleasure and bliss.

7/24/2024

— each side of the diamonds perceive and project its own illusion, leading to an individualized experience which is unique and yet similar.

Nonetheless, all is an illusion except love.

— each perception has its own life experience. Some feel cheated, some trapped, some with ego and anger but there are some who feel loved, honored , and blessed.

Good and bad are attachments but yet all designated.

Which one do you perceive? At this point of simulation.

— when they all want and do the same things all over the world, it connects them to something they all answer to.

— in the simulation of contrast, the program makes sure there is a precise balance.

— if it has made you believe in any narrative, no matter who or what you are, then the simulation has done its job, and it should because it is designated to.

— we cling onto how a certain things should be. It only pains and deepening the suffering. Funny enough, even pain is an illusion.

— what is the most important to you is your attachment in this simulated narrative. You would have to be attracted to a movie in the first place, to want to watch its sequel or prequel.

— this simulation is intended to make its participants think everything in it is real and that tangibles are a further proof something is more real.

It is a program to be conditioned upon the participants.

In your dreams you often times think it is real, but only when you wake up you realize it is a dream.

There is subtle clue within this reality that is reflecting upon the bigger picture.

However, all of it is an illusion, created by a consciousness of infinite love within the lower vibrational frequency.

7/25/2024

— yes many are above the law as they are privileged by a human manner but no one is above karma. Karma is a balance program in this reality, like a computer automation.

— some people have devoted their whole life to their masters so very faithfully, only to find out that their masters have never really cared about them at all besides the pretense.

What a twist and irony of that story.

— when there is one serious decay in humanity, there is another that is restoring the faith. There would always be a balance, though seemingly unrelated but it keeps this reality going.

— each thing in this reality is meant to inspire, influence, or trigger you. The basis of this human reality is that a perception (a participant) is constantly simulated via illusions.

That is it.

7/26/2024

— the illusions so well made that it makes you want to come back to this theater over again and again.

One more romance movie, one more revenge, two more thrillers, and such so on.

You shall keep watching. Keep dreaming. Yours.

— over reacting is a taunting task. Judging is a puppet string of ego. Hatred is a decay. Jealousy is enhanced by the fear of not being enough.

— ego allows you to pretend to be happy on the outside but it would never allow you to be happy on the inside.

Which way you go is your destined journey.

— what you have decided to detach naturally, leave it. Don’t look back.

7/28/2024

— the top relies on what is beneath it but the exploitations, manipulations, and deceits make everything incompetent, incapable and decayed, and soon everything collapses taking the top with it.

A full circle of karma and its narrative.

[dolphs-world]

Oh this town without love

I have never liked TV as a medium, apart from cartoons. Repetitive and formulaic, it fails to movies in every way but length. It also didn't help that my sister would watch the same show on loop everyday when we were growing up. At one dinner when my sister was allowed to watch TV, without me seeing the television, I was able to say every line in an episode before it happened to the amusement of my mother. Because of this, I hated binge watching things. As time has marched on and no TV exists anymore, I have become vindicated in my hatred for binging. It used to be that a season of television was 8 hours long for a half hour show and 16 for a full one. Then the Sopranos happened. Still in between that time frame and honestly a much needed limit. And then Breaking Bad. Now, every show wanted to be prestige. But there are faults in TV, as I listed above. So TV doesn't exist anymore, only miniseries. Most of these could be movies. And now I have a fondness for TV. Granted, I am being a bit hyperbolic, my favourite piece of media is classic Simpsons after all. Here's another way to put it. In a normal distribution of a 1-10 scale, the average would be a 5. For movies it's a 6, for everything else it's a 5. For TV it's a 4. There are high highs but I still believe it a lesser medium. The Simpsons did eventually get bad. So imagine my surprise in rewatching the Sopranos with my mother that I think it's the best show in terms of using the medium's uniqueness to its benefit. Character driven as opposed to plot driven, I can't remember the mob politics but I can remember Tony complaining about OJ. Every episode is self contained, characters are constantly joining and leaving, the show progresses with the time. I really do not know what else to say, it is the best TV drama. So why aren't there more shows like it? Well, Breaking Bad. I love Breaking Bad, probably more than the Sopranos, but it very much wants to be more than TV. It is a very plot driven show. And with a smaller episode count than the Sopranos, the writing was on the wall for the shrinking of TV. Hence the name miniseries. But what about regular TV i.e not prestige drama. Well, what's the last sitcom or procedural that is a) immensely popular amongst all age groups b) not based on an existing IP c) wasn't short lived d) deconstructive? That last one is bit specific but basically the best TV shows are ones that constantly deconstruct themselves and their mediums, like Seinfeld and the Simpsons. But my point still stands, what's the most recent popular TV show? Superstore? Maybe, I don't know. TV is supposed to be this comforting thing, there's a reason why the Office is still one of the most popular shows. But where's the new shows to add to the canon? About 6 months ago I started rewatching Modern Family. A show with a LARGE cast, it was one I grew up with. And it's decent television. Not groundbreaking but consistently funny, but not enough to pause the show. But it's gimmick is it's undoing. Too many characters with not enough screentime for their plotlines which makes them more shallow and often repeated. Add in the developing plots and characterisations for the children which boils down to relationship drama and by the 7th season it's just boring. So it got me thinking, what is a show that is the most consistent. Even Seinfeld got significantly weak in it's last two seasons. Well, remember that dinner where I was essentially reciting the episode? Do you know what that show was? Friends.

[earaercircular]

Where Does New York City Office Furniture Go When No One Wants It?

Some office furniture in the metro area has been caught in pandemic limbo. What awaits it in the afterlife?

Herman Miller is one of the most revered makers of office furniture in the world, its designs so esteemed that its Aeron chair,[1] which became a fixture of New York City cubicles, was put in the Museum of Modern Art’s permanent collection.

This month, some Herman Miller chairs, which can retail for over $1,000, met a less dignified fate: an appointment with the crushing metal jaws of an excavator.

More than three years after the coronavirus pandemic began, about half of the office space in the New York City metro area in June was occupied, according to Kastle Systems[2], a security-card company tracking activity in office buildings. The hollowing out of the city’s cubicles has raised existential economic and cultural questions, but also a big logistical one: What do you do with all that office furniture?

The answer can often be found in the back of a moving truck — en route to the auction block, a liquidator or, more likely, a landfill. Some of the furniture has found new purpose in schools, churches and movers’ living rooms; other pieces have been repackaged by hip resellers,[3] or shipped across the globe.

Over 70 million square feet of direct office space was available for lease in Manhattan in the second quarter of 2023, a record high, compared with about 40 million square feet before the pandemic began, according to Savills[4], a large commercial real estate brokerage that tracks the market. New leasing also remains far below pre-Covid levels.

A small class of movers and liquidators has been thrust into the suddenly growing office-afterlife market. Lior Rachmany, the chief executive of Dumbo Moving and Storage,[5] said a rush of businesses put their furnishings into the company’s storage facilities in 2021 and 2022. Close to 2,000 midsize companies in the region, from law firms to tech start-ups, have stored office equipment in Dumbo’s three New Jersey warehouses since Covid hit.

We have “never seen so many Herman Miller chairs,” he said.

The shift in the wait-and-see posture has translated this year into a growing number of clients failing to pay for storage, Mr. Rachmany said; the company now holds auctions for delinquent lots five times a year, up from once or twice a year before the pandemic. It also regularly donates unclaimed items to local charities, he said, but a lot of that inventory still gets discarded, because of a lack of warehouse space.

At a Dumbo company warehouse recently in East Orange, N.J., on an industrial stretch opposite a cemetery, a crew of workers was preparing to jettison the last of a 9,500-pound office lot that a Brooklyn tech company had had in storage since April 2021. According to Mr. Rachmany, the client paid for the disposal of, among other things: 25 Herman Miller chairs; 20 computer monitor stands; 10 cubicle panels; nine boxes of carpet; and two flat-screen TVs.

“The amount of waste in this industry would boggle your mind,” said David Esterlit, the owner of OHR Home Office Solutions[6], a refurbishing company and liquidator in Midtown Manhattan that has resold equipment from big office tenants.

The Dumbo crew drove for over an hour to the Maspeth neighbourhood of Queens, arriving at a waste transfer station — one of 38 in New York City — where towering excavators were crushing all manner of commercial debris, and the air smelled like acetone. The trash’s final destination could be a landfill in upstate New York or Pennsylvania, a station manager said.

The van backed onto a giant industrial scale to weigh its cargo: 1,080 pounds, at a cost of $81 to Dumbo. Two workers in lime green shirts tossed one chair after another near a mountain of chewed-up debris that was sorted roughly into recyclable metal and everything else.

Despite efforts to reuse and repurpose office equipment, most still ends up in the trash, said Trevor Langdon, the chief executive of Green Standards[7], a sustainability consulting company that helps to minimize office waste. Based on 2018 federal statistics on waste, the latest year with available data, Mr. Langdon estimates that more than 10 million tons of office furniture in the United States end up in a landfill every year.

Green Standards said it has diverted almost 39,000 tons of office waste from landfills since the pandemic began.

The Brooklyn office equipment was not so lucky. In a choppy motion, the mouth of the excavator swung over the half-ton pile of furniture and chomped down, contorting the chairs into a dangly metal cephalopod.

Then a worker removed a final chair from the van and placed it gently on the asphalt. Its ergonomic back rest caught the wind to perform one last spin. Then, the excavator crunched down, and the chair exploded into a hail of plastic bits.

A New Office Culture [8]

The past few years have changed the way we work in profound ways.

Gen X in Charge: The original “latchkey kids” are grown up, in the boss’s seat and ready to make the rules. Don’t make a big deal about it.[9]

Flat Structures: Businesses that reject hierarchies in favour of a “flat” corporate structure rarely work. A new crop of companies is aiming to find a middle ground [10]

R.T.O.’s Desperation Phase: Tens of millions of office workers have faced three years of scattershot plans for a return to in-person work. Now, for the umpteenth time, businesses are ready to get serious. [11]

Pay Transparency: More and more young people are entering job searches with a cleareyed view of how much money they can expect to earn thanks to new salary disclosure laws [12]

Source

Stefanos Chen,     Where Does New York City Office Furniture Go When No One Wants It?, in: The  New York Times, 10-7-2023, www.nytimes.com/2023/07/10/nyregion/office-furniture-nyc.html?smid=nytcore-ios-share&referringSource=articleShare

[1] A product designer’s job is equal parts scientist, engineer, archivist—their work, the result of years of research and tinkering, may start as one thing and turn into something completely different. No one knows this better than designers Bill Stumpf and Don Chadwick, who put in years of combined research into the way people sit. Their most well-known joint production is the Aeron Chair, an ergonomic revolution when it first hit the market in 1994, and now the gold standard for office seating today. But Aeron wasn’t invented out of thin air—Chadwick and Stumpf worked on a number of predecessors that assayed their ideas of elemental chair design. Here���s the Aeron journey, from prototype to industry pioneer. https://www.hermanmiller.com/products/seating/office-chairs/aeron-chairs/design-story/

[2] Kastle provides leading managed security to 10K+ companies globally. https://www.kastle.com/

[3] https://www.nytimes.com/2023/02/25/technology/office-furniture-tech-companies.html

[4] As one of the world's leading property advisors, Savills services span the globe, with 40,000 experts working across more than 700 offices in the Americas, Europe, Asia Pacific, Africa and the Middle East. https://www.savills.com/

[5] We have earned our reputation as the Most Trusted Moving Company in NYC. At Dumbo Moving & Storage, we take pride in providing exceptional moving service at the most affordable prices. https://dumbomoving.com/

[6] OHR Home Office Solutions is a boutique used, refurbished, and remanufactured office seating and furnishings company servicing the greater New York area and Philadelphia area. We maintain a showroom at 134 West 29th Street NYC and a warehouse in New Jersey. Both retail and commercial clients are welcome.  https://ohrhomeofficesolutions.com/

[7] Green Standards is a paid service for companies undergoing large moves or renovations at their corporate offices. https://greenstandardsltd.com/

[8] Nnof (Nearly New Offices) is a local manufacturer in Belgium that develops and produces sustainable office furniture in its own workshops, based on existing raw materials supplied by the customer. The solutions are good for the environment, budget-friendly, innovative and flexible. Nnof offers a wide range, ranging from simple reuse to a complete transformation of existing objects. Slides are reborn as lockers, table tops are sawn into seating blocks, and so on. https://nnof.be/en/

[9] https://www.nytimes.com/2023/07/07/business/gen-x-in-charge-companies-chief-executives.html

[10] https://www.nytimes.com/2023/07/05/business/flat-structure-companies.html

[11] https://www.nytimes.com/2023/06/20/business/return-to-office-remote-work.html

[12] https://www.nytimes.com/2023/06/20/business/job-search-salary-ranges.html

[schakira]

rating heart emoji colors and stating what feeling they inspire me. (i'll be grading them on a scale from 1 to 6 btw. swiss grading system. 4 is the average. anything below is failing)

🩷 pink heart – particularly lovely. this one i think is closer to romantic love than the other hearts in my mind... it's like... a crush? the feeling of getting a crush? i dont use it much i think? 5.5/6

❤️ red heart - i use it for everything. love, friendship, family, sarcasm, humor, it does it all. it means love it means like it means hate it means everything you want it to be in the right context. 6/6. a staple

🧡 orange heart - to me, it means calm. an orange heart is friendship but it also means that i feel comfortable around you, and likewise you know. it's never been mean to me, and for that, i applaud. 6/6

💛 yellow heart - a bit bright, you know how yellow is. to me, it means true friendship and nothing else. like, you're golden, you're set. it does not help however that yellow is also conveniently the color of piss, and this is less gold and more yellow... for that, i'm sorry, i'll have to lower the grade a little. short of perfection. 5.25/6

💚 green heart. to me it means peace but... not much else to say about it. i enjoy it but i feel like using a green heart would feel weird when using it on its own... normally it looks best accompanied with other green emojis, nature and whatnot. a bit sad, i'm afraid, because green is a really pretty color. still good. to me, a green heart means a bit of friendship with a distance. 5/6

🩵 cyan heart. just for the novelty of it, i'll refrain from grading this heart, but as of yet it seems really nice but the cold tones might hurt my interpretation of it? it's really pretty tho. oooh wait 🩵🩷🤍🩷🩵 trans flag. sweet!

💙 blue heart - i'm sorry i dont like it. i feel like when people use a blue heart on its own, it's like trying SO HARD to say "yeah i'm sending you a heart but not in a lovey-dovey way." like please. OPEN UP. always gotta be so cold. anyways. love colors and their meanings. this one is a bit stand-off ish and distant. 4.5/6

💜 purple heart - mystical... mysterious... oooh sexy.... 5.5/6

🖤 black heart - so emo. 5/6

🩶 grey heart - i fucking hate it. neutral. it does its job but eh. i guess. 4/6

🤍 white heart - whatever. i feel like i only see it on funeral posts or smth. who uses this? 4/6

🤎 brown heart - luxurious. 5.5/6

[lilithdahobbit]

Two Lives Final Part (P21+22)

part 1  part 2  part 3  part 4  part 5  part 6  part 7  part 8  part 9  part 10  part 11  part 12  part 13  part 14  part 15  part 16  part 17  part 18  part 19  part 20  part 21/22(you’re here!)

CW: Torture, injury, blood, gore, knives, idk even know what else to include The first chapter here is in short, a torture chapter. I try to keep it to a minimum so it isn't drawn out and considered "torture porn" but well...it might come close. Enjoy? You could *hypothetically* skip the first chapter in this post but you'd miss out on some character stuff and any explanation on how they get out, if you really want to skip it though for whatever reason, I don't blame you. You can even just skip to the last few paragraphs. It's at least a short chapter! 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You wince as you are forced to listen to Adrian yell out in pain as the man does whatever he pleases. He knew how to torture you, you'll give him that. He hadn't even laid a hand on you yet but you were already ready to answer any question he threw at you. But he didn't. He never said anything that could even be construed as a question. He isn't doing this for information that he already has. He just wants to see those he had come to despise suffer.

Every pained sound you hear from Adrian pierces you deeply. You had been stabbed, shot, and shocked yet this is the worst pain you had experienced. You thought you understood the ten on the pain scale, thinking you had felt it merely hours ago. You were wrong. That bullet, that needle, that epinephrine were nothing compared to the anguish in your heart. You couldn't even do anything about it, the one thing you were there for and you had failed at that.

You know he had shocked him, stabbed him with the prod as he had done to you. As for everything else, you only have an inkling. That is the worst part, not knowing what is causing the devastating cries. Cries for help. Cries for it to stop. Desperate cries, wounded cries, the tortured sounds of the man you love. You almost wish he would get it over with, kill him, or better yet kill you. But you know that he would do no such thing, he wants to see you both cower, scream, and writhe under his wrath. You squeeze your eyes shut, as if that would make the sounds cease, pushing a tear from them, the first of many as you are forced to sit there, time no longer a concept you ascribed to.

"STOP!" You finally plead. You feel hot tears mix with the bloody snot on your face as the man stops and takes a few steps to look at you. Begging was not something you did often, nor did you think it would even work, but you realize the man was waiting for you to do so as you look up at him, eyes burning. You could've asked at any time, and he would've obliged. That was worse to you than not having any control.

"Would you?" He lifts a pair of bloodied shears as if to offer it to you. Your breath shakes as you try to take solace in the fact that Adrian was now only gasping and groaning. You refuse to answer the man's implied proposition and you watch him approach the table, hearing metal hit wood as he sets the shears down, clearly looking for some other way to hurt you. The sounds of him muttering to himself as he tries to pick something out like someone in the fruit section are quiet enough for you to not discern words, but loud enough for you to know what he was talking about. You can almost picture him lifting each prop like a melon, testing to see if it was just ripe enough for its intended use. Hearing the scraping sound of a tool being dragged to the edge of the wood, you know he had made a decision.

Each step he takes toward you only solidifies your fate more than the last. Your stomach churns from trepidation. He grabs your face, squeezing your cheeks as to make your lips pucker, before shoving pliers into your mouth. The taste of metal was sickening, your mouth itself tasting like it could rust. Before you're even able to try and get your tongue away from the foreign object, get it away from the taste, it clamps around a molar and your eyes widen. You try to squirm away as he twists and tries to wrench the tooth from your jaw. He places a hand on your dampened forehead and forces your head back, craning your neck to get a better angle. A whimper involuntarily escapes your throat as he does so and you swear you see a smile before he yanks one final time, snapping the roots and nerve that held the tooth in place. Your mouth and in turn throat immediately fill with blood, choking you as it had so many of your victims. You sputter for a moment before the man allows your head to move forward, and you spit the blood out onto the floor. Your jaw throbs and your tongue instinctively tries to fill the empty hole. While you try to recover, you hear the sound of a tooth bouncing off the floor. He takes no time between this, and plunging it to the back of your mouth again, bumping around in search of another tooth. Another molar. Unfortunately this time, the tooth does not evict your gums as smoothly as the previous. The man grips the pliers hard so as to not slip while your body whimpers without your permission. He tries to yank as he did before, but instead, the pliers close hard, shattering the tooth that so desperately wanted to not leave its home. He pulls away at the sound of it, and you let out an agonizing moan as you try to spit out the chunks like watermelon seeds. They clink against the tiled ground as the nerve throbs in your jaw, exposed to air it planned on never touching.

The man drops the pliers to the ground like a child bored with a plaything. Your saliva drips from your chin, crimson in color as it mixes with your blood. You try to focus on breathing after nearly drowning in your own blood and teeth pieces, paying no heed to the man as he grabs the simplest of the objects on the table. A thin, long stick with a tinge of green in it.

You look up right as he brings his arm back to swing. The searing pain as he whips you across the face is felt through to the bone, almost distracting you from every other hurt. You swear he was cutting through every layer of skin with each strike, pulling a yelp from you every time. The stick lashes your nose, aggravating it more, making you cringe and press your eyes shut. Seeing this, he grabs your nose, and you hear it crunch as the broken cartilage rustles around beneath the skin. Breathing through your teeth he pulls away, frustrated you aren't vocal enough. You could tell he was trying to take it slow, work up to the worst, hence why Adrian went through more than you. But he seemed impatient. You try again in vain to move your wrists out of their bonds. Your skin is raw at this point from your attempts. The man grabs your arm unexpectedly, before untying your bonds. Your mind frenzies, trying to determine why he released your arm before a loud pop is felt in your shoulder.

You don't feel it at first but as soon as he moves your arm around, twisting it to see if he had succeeded, you undeniably feel the pain of dislocation. With every movement he forces, there is an electric pain that makes you wish he just broke it. Once you show signs of severe discomfort he looks down your wrist and sees the wound you had inflicted yourself from the fibrous rope. He pulls your arm with him as he walks back to the table, making you shout in agony. He holds on to your wrist, forcing your shoulder to drift further from its proper place. Eventually, he finds what he is looking for. Salt. You try to protest, beg him to stop for a moment, to let go of your arm, anything. He doesn't relent, grinning as he pours the salt on the friction burn. You squirm, your body trying to get away from the torture inflicted upon it, only making your shoulder hurt more. Finally, you scream, satiating the man's desire. You shake as the salt burns and bores its way through your flesh, crying out much like Adrian. Without thinking, you manage to free yourself from your grip and slap him, your arm swinging to painfully hang by your side after. He looks at you, holding his cheek before grabbing the cattle prod once again.

You don't remember him tying you back up, just the electricity shooting through every vein, every nerve, ensuring you couldn't fight back if you wanted. Tensed muscles force you to stay in one position while he shoves it into various places, just to see what hurt more. Your stomach, your thigh, your neck, finally he hits your chest, unknowingly hitting your bullet wound. You don't hear the sound that you let out as the shock rips through you. Writhing you try to stay conscious as your body tries to simply give up and succumb. He could've held it there for hours, days, or just minutes. You would never know, as it seemed to go on forever yet while feeling as though it only just started.

He allows you a moment of rest, pulling away as you collapse into yourself, slouching and dripping blood from your mouth onto your legs. Twitching, the electrical currents still gnawing at what little sensation you have left that isn't pure agony. As soon as your breathing returns to as close as normalcy as you can get, he proceeds, knife in hand. He lifts up your shirt just enough to expose your abdomen to the air and slices the knife across. He made sure to not get deep enough to nick an organ and kill you, but enough for the skin to open to a near-mouth shape. You'd be grateful he didn't cut through to allow your guts to spill out but you are a little busy trying to breathe. Your lungs have no trouble filling with air, or at least no more trouble than earlier, it was the getting it out that was the problem. It is like screaming in a dream, screaming with no sound, no air, nothing to even show for the effort and pain put into the wail. Finally, you are able to get out choked cries, gasping, as blood starts spilling.

You hear him grab the box of salt he had used on you previously, realizing he had set it next to you when he arrived with the knife. You try to yell out, but he begins before a word leaves your lips. He haphazardly throws the grains at the wound, unable to just pour it on, before rubbing it in with his hands. The feeling of it dissolving into your flesh is bad enough, searing into it more with each second it stayed on. But the sensation of this man's fingers massaging the small rocks into the injury is far worse. You can feel him stroke over every exposed part, violating your insides lightly with nothing more than his hand. Every nerve tingles, twitches, and screams right along with you. Eventually, it subsides, as the salt begins to lessen with each addition, having burned away anything it could hurt more. The man steps away, off to look for another tool. Leaving you to slouch over, both in an attempt to close your dripping gash and from exhaustion. You wish he would just pick up something lethal, or slip up and kill you instead of torturing you further. He knows what he is doing, unfortunately, allowing you and Adrian to live out every little piece of abuse that he desired until he decided to let you die. You wouldn't be surprised if he patched you up after all this, just to see you survive another day of horrors. You know Adrian was openly protesting what was being done to you, hoping the man would listen to him as he had to you, but he didn't. Your mind chose to block him out, unable to take mental turmoil along with the physical. Watching the ground, you wonder where Chris was, if he was even still alive, if he could save Adrian now that you couldn't. You are arguably in the worst, most painful situation of your life and yet you couldn't think of your own wellbeing, only theirs. The ground offers you no comfort or answers though as you begin to see droplets of red hit it.

And then, you feel it, a tinge of static from the invention stuck to your neck. Perhaps it had a short battery life, was sensitive to electricity, or simply failed due to it being only a prototype. At least you hope that's what it was, and not just your imagination. Waiting to prove your theory, you continue to stare at the ground as his shoes enter your view.

He says something, you know that. What it was you couldn't care less about. You place all your focus on your ankle, paying no heed to the serated knife he held until he stuck it into your thigh. You shriek, your leg going through your restraint as you do so. Biting your cheek, you kick him in the shin and then the groin. He falls to his knees, allowing you to hit him across the face, completing his journey to laying on the ground. You lean forward, one ankle still tied, falling with your chair on top of his torso, your free knee forcing his throat into the tile beneath him. You ignore everything in your medic mind telling you not to, grab hold of the knife, and tug. You yell out in anger, agony, and revenge as you pull the blade from your leg, blood arching as you stab it into the man's horrifyingly confused face over and over.

Your chest heaves as you look down at the mutilated head of what once abused you. Your adrenaline had blocked out the pain in your shoulder, stomach, and everything else, but the dull throbbing quickly returned along with your sense. You immediately place your now untethered hands onto your leg. But you can't deny the weakness behind them, your lack of strength as the blood flows almost as freely as it had without them. You groan deeply, forcing your body up and the chair to the side. Making your way to Adrian, you hear shouting from the hall outside. You ignore it, focused on your one directive, the one thing keeping you conscious.

You get on your knees and release him from his bonds, and you watch him slowly move to hold his wrists, wincing out loud as he does. You try to stand, but your legs stay bent, your body swaying. You recognize the same darkness creeping in that you witnessed the last time you were here. The door agonizingly creaks one last time and you hear Chris's voice behind you. Adrian turns around to look back at you both as you allow your eyes to shut, the smallest bit of a smile on your lips as your head hits the hard, wet ground.

He's safe now.

 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The waking up process was slow at first. The rhythmic beeping. The buzzing of a light. Chatting from a hallway. The feeling of a needle in your arm, and bandages on your body. The realization of your location jolts you awake, almost throwing you out of your bed.

You were back in the hospital. Did you ever leave? Was that all a demented dream and Vigilante was still with the enemy? You reach beneath the thin blanket to feel gauze pressed to your thigh wound. Your wound. He stabbed you. You bring your hand to your nose, feeling that it is still swollen and you wince at the tenderness of the area. Moving your hand to your abdomen you can feel the large bandage wrapped around you to cover what you assume are stitches to keep you from reopening.

You can vaguely feel the pain medication course through your veins as you try to piece together all that happened. Staring at the cold wall in front of your bed your mind frantically replays everything you went through. The building, the kills, the rooms, the room, the table, the chairs, Vig...

"Adrian." You correct yourself out loud. Although saying it certainly does help in the realization of it all. "Adrian..." Your brows furrow as you repeat yourself.

Groaning you swing your legs over the side, bare feet touching the floor, sending chills through them. No matter how many times you spend in a hospital setting, you never get used to the temperature. You roll your head to stretch your neck, going through past events all over again. Every moment you shared with Adrian, you shared it with Vigilante. And every moment with Vigilante...

I am such an idiot.

All the times you viewed them as separate men, separate personalities, living two separate lives seemed stupid now. Of course he was Adrian. Who else had that goofy grin that lit up so many long nights at both Fennel Fields and the streets of Evergreen?

Who else made you laugh when they weren't even trying to? Who else would let you patch them up after a fight? Who else could you have fallen for? It all makes more sense, like you were forever missing the middle piece to a puzzle but never noticed until now. You can finally push it in, completing it. Every time he talked about his friends, about his partner, about you. When he tried to kiss you that night, it wasn't because he believed you were someone else, it was because you were exactly who he knew you were.

"Oh my god." The smile that you hadn't noticed forming on your face drops as you realize something more.

Chris knew. I told him. Vigilante told him. That fucker knew. That's what that damn expression was about.

Your brow furrows as your mind brings up another concern, making you finally jump out of bed, much to the dismay of your unprepared body.

Did they even make it out?

You search the room for your phone, hoping this was another situation where Chris was waiting outside. Luckily you find it hiding in plain sight, lit up with a notification telling you that he was once again waiting outside.

What about Adrian? How long have you been out? How badly injured was he? Where was he?

You express your worries to Chris, texting him to ask where Vigilante was. You pull out your IV while you await his reply, hoping they injected anything they needed to already. He relays his info, 'He's fine.' The statement didn't exactly satiate every question floating in your head, but you knew that was probably the best you'll get. As you bring yourself to the open doorway, you find yourself not wanting to walk through this hospital with only a gown again. Thankfully though, this "escape" is far less eventful. The only person who even notices you being a poor underpaid housekeeper who was clearly conflicted on whether or not they should tell someone a patient was walking out the door unattended, still wearing hospital property. Lucky for you, they don't, but the look on their face screams that they will regret that while eating dinner tonight.

You get into Chris's car, after startling him with a tap on the window. You laugh quietly at his surprised expression while getting comfortable in the seat. You note a few scrapes and cuts marking his face and arms, indicating that he didn't get through it all unscathed either. As he begins driving, words seem to tumble out of your mouth.

"I saw Vigilante's face."

"Well, nothing new there then."

"You know you could've told me who he was." You commented, making him loudly scoff.

"Really? And betray your guys' trust? And deal with your denial of it?"

"I wouldn't have denied it, Chris." You insist.

"I know damn well that if you saw him without his mask sooner, you would've said something like 'Oh wow, he looks an awful lot like my boyfriend that's a crazy coincidence.'"

"I would not."

"Would too."

"Would not."

"Would too."

"Would. Not."

"Tell me what happened whenever any evidence pointed to Vigilante being him then."

Adamant on proving him wrong, you continue arguing, "What evidence?"

"Oh gee I don't know maybe a corn maze?"

You can deny it no longer, he was right. You were a well and true idiot the whole time. Blind to the core. "Shut up."

"You owe me one. I had to sit through you two being the biggest dumbasses known to man for months."

"Okay but can you seriously blame me for not immediately thinking Vigilante would be a busboy in his spare time?"

"You're a host?! At the same place!?"

"Yeah, fair enough." You finally surrender.

"I did drop hints though. You can't say I didn't try."

You roll your eyes, just wanting to drop the subject and forget your ineptitude. "He's back at his place isn't he?"

"Why? Do you want to go there? He still won't let me park within two blocks but I'm sure you can direct me to the exact place."

You twist your mouth, desperate to make a decision. You could. You could knock on his door, see him again, see him out of that dreadful place, see him in a brand new light. But the memory of breaking his heart, of yelling at him at "target practice" sticks in your brain. It stops you like a fence. You could jump it, and risk making things worse, or you could respect its use as a fence and just stay out. You didn't want to just go back to your place, to just avoid him until it was impossible not to, but you have no idea if he wants to lay eyes on the very person who caused him so much emotional turmoil only weeks ago. Could you seriously risk looking into those eyes again and see nothing but sadness and animosity toward you? Could you seriously risk never looking into those eyes again?

_______________________________________________________

You lay your head back, neck bent over the back of your couch as a bag of frozen peas sits on your nose. The thawing frost coating the outside of the plastic pouch drips onto the fabric covering the cushion next to your ear. The rhythmic dripping becomes the soundtrack to your thoughts as they continue to relentlessly plague you. The what-ifs, the would haves, could haves, should haves. You almost don't hear the light knocking at your door as it almost blends into the sound of water hitting your couch. You sit up, bag falling into your lap, and wait for another knock to ensure it was actually coming from your door. The unknown visitor bangs gently on the door once more, with the incredibly familiar 'Shave and a Haircut'. You throw the bag down on the empty side of the couch, not even trying to think about who was at the door. You were still a little too focused on the pain of your swollen and healing wounds.

Opening the door, you take a moment to fidget with your nose to check its status before looking at the caller. Turning your head, thumb still on the side of your nose, you look back into the gazing eyes of your associate, your friend, your Adrian. He matches you with a scratched and bruised face, purple nose and lips, and various types of bandages littering his face. You spot a bit of gauze on the top of his left ear, his right arm in a sling, and bits of gauze stuck to the tips of random fingers. Despite all that though, he is as beautiful as the day you met him, even though that day could easily be debated as not being your first meeting.

"You look like shit." You bluntly remark.

"Says the person with a hole in their lung."

"Says the person with a broken arm." You teasingly retort.

"Broken collar bone actually. Turns out it doesn't take much to break it."

"Lucky for you, it doesn't take much to heal either."

"Can I please come in? I know you're all for the sarcasm and jokes whenever I'm actually trying to talk to you, but I'd really rather do this inside."

"Sorry." You breathe out, moving out of the way, allowing him inside like he wanted. He looks down at the bag of peas and the steadily growing puddles beneath it before looking back up at you in confusion. "To take down the swelling." You answer, pointing to your nose to drive the point home.

"Do you have a towel?" He holds it now with a few fingers as it drips more.

"Of course I have a towel you nimrod." You walk over and yank the dishtowel hanging from your fridge handle before setting it on the wet spot slowly being absorbed into the cotton filling of your couch. Adrian tosses the bag onto the table and sits on the towel, despite your protests. You insist you can sit there, but he is adamant about you sitting on the dry side so the two of you can start the conversation he was clearly there to initiate.

As soon as you feel yourself sink into the cushion slightly, Adrian questions you. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"I could ask the same of you, you know."

He sighs, "I wanted to protect you."

"That's the generic answer." You pry, genuinely curious about his actual reasoning.

"But it's my answer." You raise your brows, signaling to him that you don't believe him, making him turn away to look at the peas on the table. "I don't know. I guess I just am so used to keeping it a secret I never thought to even tell you. I had one moment of weakness where I almost confessed but you stopped me. But you? Peacemaker knew your identity. And since the ferrets found out your identity so easily, it's not a reach to think he's not the first. You're different. So why didn't you tell me?"

"Protection?" You meekly reply, knowing that he won't take that as an answer.

"You literally just told me I couldn't use that as an answer."

"Not protection of you, Adrian." You look down at the ground before looking back at him, staring at his side profile like you had so many times before. The silhouette was different solely because of the state of his nose, but it was definitely the face you had studied every day since you met him. "It was protection for me." You force the words out, still finding it hard to accept your true reasoning behind it all.

He turns his head to meet your upset gaze, you see him almost reach for you to comfort you, but he stops himself. You know why, but you can't help but feel hurt by that small action. "For you?"

"You were the best thing to ever happen to me, Adrian. I didn't want to lose that. I was selfish and thought that if you knew me, the whole of me, you'd leave. I couldn't let that happen. I would have rather broken your heart and sent you away than taint the memory of our relationship by telling you who I was. Who I am."

"So that's what you did."

"So that's what I did..." You lightly nod as you repeat what he said, confirming them for him. The room rapidly fills with silence as the two of you process the words exchanged and what they really meant. You never came to terms with your reasons until now, always shoving it to the side whenever it wormed it's way into your mind.

"Why would you think it would ruin the memory?" Adrian finally speaks, genuine puzzlement in his tone.

You begin to chuckle, "To be honest I thought you wouldn't be okay with the killing."

His lips begin curling upward, "Are you serious?"

You nod rapidly, laughter growing, "Yeah." He breathes out a few chuckles before bursting into boisterous laughter with you.

Once you both calm back down, which does take a while, Adrian continues his interrogation. "So who was this 'someone else' you were in love with? Or was that a trick to try and make the break up easier?"

"You're gonna think it's stupid."

"As stupid as the other reason?"

You close your eyes inn anticipation of further embarrassment, "It's you."

"That makes zero sense."

"You as in...not you but still you." You try to explain, but as soon as you see his expression you can tell you failed. "Vigilante."

"Yes?"

"No you nimrod, I'm in love with Vigilante."

Adrian seems to be doing an invisible math problem in the air, attempting to make sense of your statement. "But I'm Vigilante. You know that right?"

"Yeah I know that now. But try telling that to me a few weeks ago when I was having a crisis over being in love with what I thought were two different men."

"You were in love with Vi-me?"

You breathe in deeply, "When I thought I was gonna die back there-"

"Which time?"

"Every time."

"Okay, just had to clarify."

You sigh, you are annoyed, but you expected you'd never be annoyed by him again. So annoyed was good, you welcomed annoyed. "I thought of a lot of stuff. My regrets, the things most important to me, the people I loved and cared about. You were in every single one. I'm terrible at recognizing my own feelings, I'll admit, but my dying mind isn't. I was in love with Vigilante and Adrian Chase. I was in love with you in more ways than I even knew." You watch him gaze into your eyes, making certain you were telling the truth. "Am in love. Present tense." You correct yourself.

He takes a good long while before speaking again, making you fear what he said next. "Would this be a bad time to kiss you?"

"What?" Your heart skips several beats as you are visibly surprised by his response.

"It just seems like a good moment but at the same time you were just talking about dying so-"

"Yes." You blurt out, not taking your eyes off him. His familiar grin begins to form right before you both lean into the other, sparks flying the moment your lips collide. You simultaneously wince at the discomfort of your broken noses being pressed into the other face, but you continue nonetheless. There is no hunger, no lust in the kiss. Only the comfort, the bliss of each other's warmth. You can smell the subtle aroma of triple antibiotic and the material of the bandages on him. All mixing with the lingering smell of his body wash. The fresh citrusy and floral fragrance of it. His lips are chapped and still slightly swollen, and you are as gentle as possible, hoping to not cause more pain. He brings his free hand up to your cheek, the gauze on his middle finger and pinky rough against your beaten cheeks while your hand is held by the one trapped in a sling. Your other hand resting on the back of his neck, a few strands of hair tickling your skin.

You mutually separate, hands still in their same position. "I thought of you too." Adrian whispers.

"I really hope you aren't trying to make me happy as possible to prepare me for the news that Miss Peacemaker starved to death or something." You remark, jokingly.

His brow furrows, "How could a cat starve after a few days with a full automatic feeder?"

"Good to hear she made it through this whole thing too." You couldn't wipe the smile off your face if you wanted to. You finally allow yourself to say the words you had denied for months, in fear of it going wrong. At this point, you didn't care if it went wrong, only that you said them. "I love you...newbie."

His grin returns and your stomach does backflips. You could get lost in the forest of his eyes if you weren't careful. But you didn't mind. To get lost in his gaze would be a pleasure of the highest kind. "I love you...oldie."

The End

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Here we are at the end! Unless I have a random urge to write an epilogue because someone comments a good idea or a good question...

Hope you enjoyed reading this long ass story as much as I enjoyed writing it! It was actually supposed to be a short story but well...now it’s longer than the first Percy Jackson book. Maybe I'll print it all and put it on my bookshelf next to hits such as 'Will My Cat Eat My Eyeballs?' and 'Les Miserables' Laters gators!

taglist: @giovannanerc0lini​ @letskeepthislo-ki​ @trolllbogies​ @angels17324​ @beciiamsherlocked55​ @strawberriesandknives​ @reidsstuff​ @lovearne​

[wordsinwinters]

Then Again, Chapter 23: Ice Cubes and Clarity

Summary: After an intense fight and a forced-to-share-the-bed situation during their junior year decathlon trip, Peter and the Reader examine their faults and failings. As they attempt to fix their mistakes and improve their friendship, that friendship quickly begins to evolve into something else. Betas: @fanboyswhereare-you and @girl-tips-from-satan Masterlist (with AO3 links)

Then Again, Chapter 23: Ice Cubes and Clarity

(Word count: 3,473) Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7, Part 8, Part 9, Part 10, Part 11, Part 12, Part 13, Part 14, Part 15, Part 16, Part 17, Part 18, Part 19, Part 20, Part 21, Part 22, Part 23, Part 24, Part 25, Part 26, Part 27, Part 28, Part 29,  The alarm clock reads 10:28 p.m. on the nightstand between our beds. Alone with Michelle, the room feels emptier and more foreign than when we arrived. Yesterday, its perfect cleanliness was comforting; today, the air of the room has crystallized into a pristine husk of the words, It’s over, at least. The only light in the room comes from the alarm clock and t.v. screen, the two coating us and the angles of our beds, dressers, walls, and window in thin outlines of red and flickering blues, greys, and deep greens. It makes the space feel strangely muffled by subtle motion, like a lightning storm charging over water, too weak to spark. It’s a smidge hypnotic. I keep finding myself tracing the keychain charm in my hand without remembering having taken it out of my pocket.

Basically, too much has happened this weekend and the room is too clean to take our minds off it, and neither of us want to talk. Even in spite of the good parts — our team winning the competition, Peter and I fixing our friendship, untangling everything with him, Michelle, and Ned — this stillness between me and Michelle seems like defeat. The unspoken conversation hangs over us.

She knows, and I know she does. She knows that Flash blackmailed me into missing today and she’s frustrated or irritated, maybe even angry. I don’t know if it’s at me or him. It could be both: mad at him for doing it, mad at me for giving in without a fight. The idea nags like a string tugging just under my ear, the worry that she might be upset with me. But then rationality reminds me: it wasn’t me she yelled at earlier and there hasn’t been a single hint of aggression in her eyes when she’s looked at me; if anything, she must mostly be pissed at Flash. Maybe it’s selfish, but I don’t mind both of us pretending that everything has fallen back into its usual place, at least for tonight, like Michelle seems to want. It’s how she deals with personal stress: she goes silent until she’s over it, or until she says she is. Normally I’d ask her small questions, try and get her to open up and let me help. Right now though, I don’t exactly want to discuss Flash or what happened this morning either. It’s probably best for the both of us to act like we have nothing on our minds. And I think we’re accomplishing that fairly well, given the mindless movie we chose to watch. As Bella tears her arms from Jacob’s grip and Edward steps in to defend their honeymoon plans, I sink lower into the bed. Behind my head, I can just barely hear Ned and Peter’s voices through the wall. Their sentences are short but I can’t make out the words. Every few seconds there’s a change in the buzzing sound of the t.v. on their side of the wall. Of course they’re still channel flipping. I nearly smile. Those two can debate simple tasks for hours— they’re the opposites of Michelle and me, of our decisiveness. In trivial things, that is. It’s part of the balance that makes our friendship work so well most of the time. Apart from Michelle’s self-isolation, today seemed to begin evening those scales out again. Though some moments felt... different, for some reason. After the gift shop, Mr. Harrington briefed us on our leaving schedule for the morning, then asked (for the millionth time, according to Ned and Peter) if we were all absolutely certain there wasn’t anything we wanted to do while in D.C. Aside from Sally’s muttered “Can we set the White House on fire?” joke, no one had any suggestions. So we all hung out in the lobby for a bit. The team (Flash and Michelle not quite included, since they were mostly silent) recapped the entire competition— naturally arguing over specifics and mocking each others’ If my answer is wrong I’m going to piss myself faces. Mr. Harrington had plenty of photos to slide through on his phone (which, by demand, were all sent to a group chat that put our phones into a ding!-ing and buzzing circle of hell, earning some glares from other guests in the lobby). Then, a good hour and a half later, when the hilarity of their Flash’s voice cracked five times within the span of three questions! story had bubbled down to smirk-level material, we all (Mr. Harrington excluded) crammed into Cindy and Sally’s room to play Cards Against Humanity. Finally, the hotel’s too-cold air conditioning came in handy: already being so close to so many people in a small area, we laughed too much for too long and the room bordered on uncomfortably warm. The humidity was tangible. The AC did its best to keep up. At one point, I tried to think of a time when the team had ever laughed themselves into so much pain (again, apart from Michelle and Flash, though Flash did laugh once or twice, when he thought no one saw him, in a way that nearly let me feel sorry for him before remembering what an asshole he’s been; Michelle sat unflinching on the window sill, nose in a book). All I could recall was our dinner, only two nights ago. Maybe it would become a pattern. I hoped so. For the rest of our collective time together, we played card games, flicked through movies, and burned four bags of popcorn in the microwave by accident. (Fortunately, the microwave was in the floor’s kitchen area and a hotel employee, seeming to expect it, was standing by to turn off the alarm with minimal annoyance.) Everything ended up better than I would have thought possible this morning. At best, I expected awkwardness or irritation from the pool incident, but nobody seemed to hold last night’s fight against me or Peter. It was as if nothing had happened. And Peter…. Alone in the hotel during those hours before they came back, I thought he might retreat back into the frustrations he exploded over last night; I thought he might come back still upset about parts of it, still distant and hard to read, or else just quiet. But he didn’t— not at all. In fact, Peter was a bit of a class clown all day. He didn’t fold into himself like he tends to with larger groups. Instead, he made jokes (genuinely funny ones), told stories (“Do you guys remember that one time when Mr. Harrington…?”), and celebrated his wins with as much enthusiasm as when he called bullshit! on his losses during our games. It’s been months since he’s done something to surprise me so much, probably since Christmas. Likely as a way of making up for our fight, he eventually forced Ned — physically — to switch spots on the floor with him so he could sit beside me during Uno. We cheated, but horribly; we probably made it harder for ourselves than anything else. Peter is the opposite of subtle. He kept using his cards to hide his mouth while he whispered ideas about how to attack Ned and Abe, sitting to our right and left. I did my best to establish some form of code to make it less obvious, but he was completely unfocused and picked up on nothing. A couple times, he’d be looking right at me, nodding as I gave him advice, only inches from my face, and then, as if he hadn’t heard a single word, played a card that didn’t match whatsoever. Luckily, since only Abe and Ned were occasionally affected and because most of our plans failed anyway, no one else cared that we tried teaming up. For once, Peter was open (and somewhat of a dork) with the whole team. It reminded me of how he was before his uncle Ben’s death: less guarded, more extraverted, and just... happy. Calm, even. Watching it was almost painful. Not that it was a bad thing he was so happy, just— different. Unexpected. It tipped over boxes of memories I hadn’t realized I’d stored away. A lot of warm ones. Around 9:00-ish, Michelle shut her book and excused herself with a small Let’s go nod to me followed by a hesitant and bring the boys glance. Once we were all out, door closed, we waited for laughter to start up again to cover any sound we might make. Then Peter and Ned quietly moved the extra bed back from our room to theirs. The moment they carried the frame out, Michelle shut our door. A twinge of regret hit me. Part of me had hoped that— but it didn’t matter. At that moment, the high of everything trickled down as if all our energy was melting off into the floor, charging that tiny static storm just above the carpet. I paused a few feet from my bed and waited for her to say something, to explain what was wrong, but she didn’t. Then again, I didn’t expect her to, I just hoped. As Michelle put her book on the nightstand and climbed into bed, I somewhat reluctantly got into mine, thumb running over the keychain in my pocket like a worry stone. Compared to everything else, this part of the weekend was… underwhelming. And that’s when I became hyper-aware that the room was too clean. Our own beds were so neatly laid out (a housekeeper must’ve come in) they gave off an impression of giant frozen ice-cream sandwiches. With the covers peeled down on the right corners, they even looked half-unwrapped. That’s a bit how it feels now, an hour and a half later in the present: we’re both neatly packed into the little freezer storage spaces of our beds. And I think it’s helping. Michelle will tell me what she’s thinking when she wants to, but for now we can numb our brains with some of the most awkward acting in the film industry. It isn’t quite that easy, though. I am still concerned, no matter how much I pretend otherwise. I try to remind myself that she’s stayed this quiet before plenty of times and that normally her anger spills all over her face rather than looking as almost-relaxed as she does, but another voice tells me that normally she’d at least tell me something small to assure me that she’s fine. Don’t overthink it. I glance at her from the corner of my eye. Michelle’s profile is illuminated in dark red, her book cover reflecting the glow from the alarm clock between us. She’s slouched against the headboard of her bed, immersed in her comforter, staring straight ahead at the t.v. screen. Pillows are piled high beneath her back and Ruth Bader Ginsburg seems to glare at Edward from the front of her sweatshirt. If we had exchanged a few more sentences than those necessary to pick out the movie, I would ask her what she thinks RBG’s real opinion on Edward Cullen would be if she had time to watch movies. But I don’t. (Plus, it’s not that hard of a question. RBG would hate him.) Before I look back at the t.v., my gaze drops and I notice something— for all the time she spent reading today, Michelle’s bookmark isn’t too far from where it was this morning. But I do look back. The trees rush by in the window’s reflection across Bella’s face as Jacob’s poor, pained howls blend into the music. Here comes the most boring part of the movie. The driving, boat riding, staring, the agonizingly awkward “human minutes” scene, and the moonlight swimming that always ends with Michelle making a Christ, those are some white people comment just to fill the silence. It’s a good part to skip. And I want to. To step out for a minute and get a breath, seeing as the room is still too still. “Hey,” I say, sitting up and swinging my legs over the edge of the bed. “I’m going to get some ice.” Michelle turns her head. She glances at my water cup on the nightstand, picks it up, and takes a sip. She makes a face. “Yeah, bathroom faucet water is disgusting lukewarm.” She looks over to the window sill where she left hers, probably weighing whether or not she’d rather stand up or stay thirsty. Practically hearing her thoughts, I walk over and get it for her. “Thanks,” she says as she takes it. “If you get me some ice too, I promise I won’t spit in yours while you’re gone.” I roll my eyes and smile. Her humor is still there. That short dialog is enough to untie the knots in my shoulders and reassure me that she’s feeling better. “I’ll see what I can do.” Grabbing the ice bucket and keycard, relief rinses my lungs. Maybe she just wanted me to start the conversation. Ironic. The hallway buzzes with sounds of talking and t.v. behind each door, the smell of popcorn and cheap candy faintly hovering around our side of it. It’s calm, soothing. As I hoped, the signature stillness of the hotel is the perfect fresh air I needed. The soft light helps too, but it’s mostly the comfort of knowing people around us are happy and calm. At Abe and Flash’s door, there’s a smaller hallway I turn left into. If I remember correctly, the ice machine is in a small pocket room off to the right in ten-ish feet near the family restroom and staircase. Maybe when I get back, Michelle and I can start a normal conversation. We don’t need to talk about anyth— I turn into the small pocket room. It’s Flash. He’s standing just inside the door, on the phone. And I’m… blank. At this point, I’ve run out of emotions: I don’t feel anything at the sight of him. No, actually, I do— I feel weird. He’s in pajamas. It’s like seeing Coach Wilson at the grocery store, like a Twilight Zone episode. I immediately turn to leave. “Hol— hold on, dad,” he says behind me. “Let me call you back, I’ll call you back!” Within two seconds, he’s in front of me, eyes wide. His mouth opens and closes rapidly at least four times, his hands struggling to make a clear gesture in front of him. Strangely, he looks lost and almost afraid, not at all matching the blackmailing shithead persona from this morning. Then again, he hasn’t been an ass since they got back either. “Wh— how, how,” he sputters. “Why, uh, why haven’t you responded to any of my texts?” Flash seems to stop himself before saying more, which is unusual, given how he constantly steamrolls conversations. God, what could he have sent me? As long as he hasn’t tattled to Mr. Harrington, I don’t care. “I blocked you,” I tell him. “As soon as I bailed on the team this morning, I blocked your number.” His eyebrows furrow together as he shakes his head, as if he’s totally bewildered. “What? Why?” I almost laugh, the anger or annoyance or whatever starting to build again at his act. “Because,” I say quietly, just in case anyone else conveniently shows up, “if I had to give up my spot, I wasn’t going to let you hold it over my head all day. And on that note, I really don’t care how else you want to blackmail me with it, I won’t do anything for you again—” His face twists further into confusion. “Blackmail?” he interrupts. “What are you talking about, blackmail?” My brain halts. For a split second, we stare at one another incredulously. Then he speaks again, voice higher than normal but still straining to be quiet. “Why would I blackmail you?” I look over my shoulder— again, just in case. I silently point toward the room with the ice machine. No matter what, I’m not getting in trouble or getting Michelle and Ned in trouble for the room swap. Once we’re out of sight, I put the ice bucket down, pull my phone from my pocket, unlock it, and hit the message app. “Your texts,” I whisper, scrolling to our conversation, “sound a little threatening, don’t you think?” I shove the phone into his hands. He reads them quickly and gives it back. “You— you thought I was trying to blackmail you?” My face twitches, my certainty faltering. “Are you seriously telling me you weren’t?” “No! It was a joke!” The air goes completely still. I gave up my place in the competition for nothing? Flash’s face suddenly becomes serious, like reality has hit him in the face at the same time. “Holy shit. I didn’t, I seriously didn’t think you would take it that way. Is that why Michelle flipped shit at the gift shop?” “Probably,” I say, weirdly relieved yet freshly frustrated. “I didn’t actually tell anyone but she probably figured it out. Or thought she did.” I missed everything I’ve worked all year for… for absolutely no reason.

Fuck. If I were alone, I’d probably stare at the wall for five minutes in numb shock. But Flash surprises me. “Shit. I’m so sorry,” he says, eyes wide. “I had no idea, I swear. I really thought you were sick. You looked awful. Not that— not like— I mean, you know. For real, I promise, I was only trying to help— I thought Mr. Harrington was being a jerk and no one would back you up.” That might be the first time Flash has ever apologized for anything. If the last couple days hadn’t already been insane, I’d probably be more upset. But there’s a calmness flooding my veins to lower my pulse. It’s done and there’s nothing more to do. Plus, he apparently tried to do the right thing. Even if he ended up doing the opposite. “It’s….” I almost say it’s okay, but it’s not, exactly. “Thank god we won.” Flash smiles for a second, then he goes back to looking guilty and apologetic. “Yeah, I got my shit together this year. I studied. A lot.” So did I. It’s over though, and there’s always next year. It’s a poor consolation, but— Peter. I bite the inside of my cheek, remembering. I’m glad I didn’t start feeling bad for Flash even momentarily. “You’re still an ass.” I consider nailing his forehead with the heel of my hand to get him back for that. “I’m not kidding when I say that if you ever touch Peter or anyone else one more time, I’ll never talk to you again, and trust that I’ll make you regret it.” Flash was about to speak when I paused, but he freezes and his face slackens. He looks like a child caught in instant regret at the sight of a strict parent. “It’s not an excuse, but…” “But what?” “The dinn— I.” He restarts. “It really wasn’t that hard.” The expression on my face must convey plenty. He rushes on. “Understood though. As long as he shuts up once in a while.” He halts, visibly wincing. “Yeah, no, uh, agreed.” “Good.” He nods, avoiding eye contact and sinking into an awkward posture. Maybe it’s because he’s actually apologized and agreed to lay off Peter combined with how genuinely sorry he looks, not to mention the fact he’s wearing pajamas is still taking me off guard, but I do kind of feel a tiny bit bad. Might as well compromise a little. “Sorry I told you to shove it up your ass earlier.” That’s not usually how I apologize, but those were my exact words at the gift shop when he asked me to “just listen” to him. All things considered, I guess I should have. Oops. “It’s cool. I would’ve said the same thing in your position.” He pauses. “Will you tell MJ I’m sorry to her too? And explain the rest?” “Sure.” I shrug. “I’ll even unblock you.” He picks up on the fleck of humor and his lip twitches upward. “Thanks. And again, I’m really sorry.” Neither of us seem to have anything else to say, so once I nod in acknowledgement, he mirrors it, turns, and slowly walks back into the hallway. I pick up the ice bucket and, as intended, fill it. Well, that’s another box to check off. Figuring out how to get Flash to drop the blackmail: done. Now I just need to talk to Michelle about it— His footsteps, which had been steadily fading away, abruptly rush back. He leans into the doorway, looking more like his obnoxious self. “So you actually slept with Peter?” I resist the urge to swing the bucket at him. “Flash, I swear to god I will murder you.” Next chapter

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[colorisbyshe]

Rating things like books or movies or whatever else is so stupid because an entire medium can’t abide by the same scale.

Like, I might give a poorly written romance novel a 4/5 because it was a bit gay and was good “comfort food” and did the romance just right, even if there was no real depth to the story. While an excellently written memoir gets a 3/5 because it failed at being interesting, even if it was a better written book and maybe even got more things right, it’s just... compared to other memoirs, it just couldn’t compare. The romance novel wasn’t a better novel than the latter, but the romance novel was better at being a romance novel than memoir was at being a really good memoir. Thus it gets a higher score, even if it is the lesser book.

Part of this gets resolved with larger scales (ie 1-100) where you have more room to acknowledge nuances. Maybe schlocky romances can then always hover around the 70s and a really good one can be low 80s while more “elevated” fare typically always at least gets 80s but that’s hardly ever going to fully work.

But really... it’s kind of just an issue that can never be fully resolved. Especially with more complicated mediums like gaming where you can’t ever really compare a visual novel game to a 120 hour 3d open world epic, y’unno?

But do you have to amend every review with “This anime movie gets 4/5 stars because it’s a REALLY GOOD anime film, not because I think it’s a very good film in general, please ignore how I rated Parasite 4/5 stars too even though I think it’s a better film”?

Do you just assume everyone knows your rating means “FOR WHAT IT IS WITHIN ITS NICHE” and not “RELATIVE TO EVERYTHING ELSE IN THE MEDIUM”?

[sk1fanfiction]

the many faces of tom riddle, part 5

 - more myth than man... or not? the mortality of tom riddle and the anatomy of a villain-

That leaves us with Ralph Fiennes’ portrayal of adult Tom Riddle/Lord Voldemort in movies 4-8.

I generally find adult Tom Riddle disappointing, even in the books, in terms of character depth. Instead of delving into his motivations and the inner psychology of a villain, we get... slight body horror? And in the movies, it’s even more egregious. 

If a story is as good as its villain, adult Tom Riddle is a bit of a let-down, especially on-screen.

“I was ripped from my body, I was less than spirit, less than the meanest ghost . . . but still, I was alive.”

Perhaps the very first time I watched it, I found this scary, but I must confess that nowadays, Voldemort’s resurrection is more funny to me than anything else. The forked tongue and the nose slits, yes, are supposed to allude to Tom Riddle’s loss of humanity, but I don’t think it...worked out that way in practice.

I know that’s how it is in the books, but ugly equals evil (and vice versa) is a tired trope. not only that, but under the CGI, Lord Voldemort is so difficult to relate to, so inhuman, that it’s hard to (1) see his true depravity (2) connect with him emotionally (3) at least for me, not laugh at him flapping around the graveyard in GOF like an oversized crow. 

Now, the reason I’m going on about this is not (just) me being petty. Lord Voldemort is the Boggart for most of the characters in the HP universe, meaning their greatest fear is Lord Voldemort. He represents Fear; as such, he should be utterly terrifying. Now, I don’t mean horrifying in that sense, but Voldemort’s grand entrance should at least feel somewhat unsettling, have some sort of a Gothic atmosphere...

"But then, through the mist in front of him, he saw, with an icy surge of terror, the dark outline of a man, tall and skeletally thin, rising slowly from inside the cauldron."

Visually, this looks great. But it’s not scary. And I’m not a purist by any means, but the words are scarier than the book. Darkness induces fear. 

“The lack of any kind of visual stimuli increases anxiety, uncertainty, and tension.”

So, having Voldemort’s pale body materialize isn’t as scary as it could be.

Furthermore, I think Fiennes’ overexaggerated expressions would actually come across as properly horrifying/threatening rather than funny if they just left his face alone. Yes, Fiennes does manage to emote the fear and the anger through the CGI, but it’s like he’s too alien to be scary, at least to me. The amount of memes with Voldemort suggest I’m not the only one this way inclined.

I think there’s probably a problem going on with the uncanny valley. (Images from the Mori essay linked).

[When things are still]

[Creepy things are creepier when moving]

Now, I assume Voldemort is meant to be zombie-creepy, or at least that how Harry describes him in the books.

"The thin man stepped out of the cauldron, staring at Harry...and Harry stared back into the face that had haunted his nightmares for three years. Whiter than a skull, with wide, livid scarlet eyes and a nose that was flat as a snake's but with slits for nostrils...."

Now, we can’t get Harry’s experience of being haunted by Voldemort in his dreams, because what I think makes Voldemort’s countenance so truly frightening to the other characters isn’t his snake-like nose or his red eyes, but the potential. Voldemort is, in essence, the Grim Reaper. You are at his mercy, and you’re probably going to be dead. 

“This time, I shall enter the fray myself, Harry Potter, and I shall find you, and I shall punish every last man, woman, and child who has tried to conceal you from me. One hour.“

And yes, Voldemort can be quite funny and witty, but..

“I will allow you to perform an essential task for me, one that many of my followers will give their right hands to perform.” (To Peter Pettigrew)

...it’s still incredibly dark, sadistic humour. Whereas the teenage Tom Riddle we’ve been discussing has just barely dipped his toes into evil, Voldemort is, well... swimming in it. At this point, he think he undeniably enjoys causing pain.

And much of what makes Voldemort scary is subtle. 

For example, what I personally consider haunting is the fact that he’s got a cave full of Inferi. A cave full of reanimated dead bodies. 

Either he dug them up, which is unlikely... or perhaps, a twenty-seven-or-so-year-old Tom Riddle would lie in wait like a bird of prey, very quietly and patiently, perhaps reading a book, waiting for an unsuspecting Muggle to wander past. Maybe killing is a game to him at this point, when it’s not so personal as killing Harry Potter. Maybe it’s a whispered Avada Kedavra, and then he carries the dead body away to his cave. Maybe he Imperiuses them to walk off the cliff. Maybe he tortures them first.

Shudder.

And I don’t think you can show that kind of horror through any CGI or make-up, so...

You know what is terrifying? Revolting? True crime; real-life people who do unspeakably horrible things. And I think a lot was missed out on, in stripping Tom Riddle physically of his humanity. Yes, Riddle is a monster...

But, as we’ve seen, he’s a human monster, not some eldritch horror from the seventh level of hell or something.

I just think it would be interesting to have this perfectly normal-looking human do all the horrific things Voldemort does. I want to see that sick joy in a human face and feel disgusted. I want to see fear make his bottom lip tremble, and feel a misplaced sense of empathy. (Think President Snow from the Hunger Games -- now, that’s a sick, twisted villain who we can relate to as a human being, but still love to hate -- or what about The Joker?).

And out of everything they chose to CGI, why on earth did they not make his eyes scarlet? That might have made him look at least somewhat menacing, rather than a failed lab experiment.

(Don’t even get me started on his and Bellatrix’s death scenes in the movies-)

Here’s President Snow. He’s got a cute little granddaughter, he sends kiddies to kill each other Battle Royale-style every year, and he poisons all his political opponents. He’s also a master manipulator and has a penchant for white roses. They cover up the smell of the sores in his mouth from eating the poison too, to conceal his treachery.

Heath Ledger as the Joker in Dark Knight (2008), who is, according to NYT (which I totally agree with), the best Joker. Now this is a villain done right, with many Voldemort-like traits. On a scale of one-to-ten, he’s absolutely terrifying. Why? He’s (unlike Voldemort in the movies) incredibly intelligent, shows young-Tom-Riddle-like skills for charm and manipulation, plays with humans like they’re his own personal psychology experiment (and to hell with the Institutional Review Board), and has one, single, very clear goal -- chaos. Like Voldemort, he wears an inhuman mask that’s not horrifying in its own right; but unlike Voldemort, the human is all there -- terrifying, real, and with a bottomless, obsessive desire to destroy. His disordered thinking is all out there for the audience to see. The Joker’s motivation is to enjoy himself; whereas Voldemort seems to lack drive. Why does he want to take over the world -- who knows, with Voldemort? The Joker wants to see it burn.

Let’s try to do the same with Lord Voldemort:

[SLIGHT FLASH WARNING]

I had to go with this because Voldemort isn’t legitimately terrifying in many scenes. And yes, this unrefined anger somewhat speaks to Tom’s immaturity

By this point, seventy-one year old Tom Riddle is a hollowed-out shell of a human being. After decades of building his power, he was defeated by a one-year-old, and ended up slumming it as a spirit for a decade, got defeated again, was a shrivelled-up baby for a year, then finally got his body back.

He’s angry, okay! And Fiennes does a great job of portraying the sheer, destructive, unbridled rage of this character.

The body language. again, since his face is inhuman, this is super important. and Fiennes’ body language is great. Voldemort/Riddle commits to his actions. He is very emotionally-driven.

But yet, he doesn’t feel capable, in the way that the Joker or President Snow do. Yeah, we know anecdotally that he’s incredibly evil, sadistic, and second only to Dumbledore in terms of power, but he loses to a baby, and then that same baby as a teenager. So, we really could have done with seeing Voldemort’s power, cruelty, and evil firsthand a lot more often.

Voldemort is not well-characterized. I don’t understand his motives, and the ones that I do understand are not compelling.

Not to die? Well, he’s already made several Horcruxes. Why not sit back and relax? Why start a war and risk himself?

JKR said that Voldemort’s great desire was to become all-powerful and eternal. But that’s... boring! It does little to tell us about Voldemort, other than that he’s a villain and a wannabe dictator. 

Furthermore, the charm, manipulation, and cunning that are hallmarks of younger Tom Riddle’s personality are gone.

Is Voldemort (to return to Jungian terms) all shadow? An empty creature of simple creation and destruction, perhaps? We’ll discuss this further down...

And this isn’t a problem of having a fantastical world with magic and the like. Grindelwald’s quiet, self-possessed, almost coy “So you think you can hold me?” was infinitely scarier than anything that has ever come out of Voldemort’s mouth. It was chilling. 

OOTP is my favorite book, and the Ministry sequence is one of my favourite in the films. 

This scene where he psyches out Harry, talking so quietly that he could just be a little voice inside his head (and again, during the possession scene)? Absolute perfection. 

Why? Because this showcases what’s truly scary about him. Voldemort can get into your head. He can make you do things. And perhaps, if we had seen that more often, we’d understand how scary he is.

I wish this had been his grand entrance, and not whatever that scene in GOF was. Somehow, him screeching “I WANT TO SEE THE LIGHT LEAVE YOUR EYES!” is not menacing. At all. 

But, I can’t help but think how much greater the emotional affect would be if he had more human features (think the burned-and-blurred, waxy features from Dumbledore’s memory). 

Just imagine these scenes if Voldemort looked human, and spoke as quietly as he did in this one.

Because of the reason that I have little to go on in terms of characterization that I haven’t already covered, we’ll discuss the myth and legend of Lord Voldemort.

I can’t decide if the statue in the films is supposed to be the Angel of Death or the Grim Reaper. He has a skeleton and carries a scythe, but he also has wings. There are so many different interpretations, attitudes towards, and personifications of Death across the world that I don’t want to draw any one conclusion. But I must wonder if Lord Voldemort, with his yew-and-phoenix wand (which carries heavy symbolism of immortality and rebirth) and almost deified figure is meant to be a personification of Death himself? His name, Lord Voldemort, is a shade close to Lord Death.

For years, it has stumped me that wizards and witches are afraid to utter Voldemort’s name, especially since we only see the Taboo in the middle of the last book. It didn’t make sense just based on fear; in the real world, we don’t circumvent Hitler’s name, for example.

Perhaps this may have been obvious to others, but it wasn’t to me.

Here’s a counterargument to myself; why Voldemort shouldn’t look human.

Voldemort, in the Wizarding World, is seen as a literal deity.

I promised to attempt to answer this question in Part 3: 

And so, I can’t help but wonder if the opposite is true… if Tom Riddle creates Horcruxes, would that grant him additional magic powers?

In Part 3, I likened Tom Riddle to a sorcerer in Russian folklore, Koschei the Deathless, also famous for sequestering his soul in objects. This source suggests that Koschei was considered not an ordinary magician, but a representative of the ‘other’ world, the world of death.

So, what if... creating Horcruxes makes you... more than human? Now, I could definitely see god-like status being appealing to sixteen-year-old Tom Riddle. Perhaps, even appealing enough to kill for. Now, his proclivity for Avada Kedavra makes sense. We know it’s an incredibly sinister spell, but at the same time, it’s a very humane way to kill. Why might it be so horrifying?

Here’s a weird theory.

To the best of my knowledge, no one but Voldemort is seen using the Killing Curse more than once or twice. 

Perhaps, ordinary mortals can only cast Avada Kedavra a few times, but Tom, having split his soul and having become in some way a non-human instrument of Death, can cast it however many times as he likes, and that is part of what serves to make him so terrifying.

This makes the idea of Voldemort tossing around Avada Kedavras actually incredibly terrifying, if you take into account what that might mean.

The collective cultural fear of speaking Voldemort’s name supports this theory.

Take the chthonic (underworld) deities of Greek mythology; most notably, Hades and Persephone, the king and queen of the underworld.

Hades, the god of the dead, was feared. 

So feared that the word ‘Hades’ (”the unseen one”) was so frightening, that people came up with all sorts of euphemisms to circumvent actually saying it and he was rarely even depicted in art. For example, they would refer to him as Pluto (”the rich one”), Clymenus ("notorious"), Polydegmon ("who receives many"), and perhaps Eubuleus ("good counsel" or "well-intentioned"), amongst many other names. 

However, he was not seen as evil; just stern, cruel, and fair. Like most Greek gods, he had an associated cult (the Death Eaters, anyone?)

Another interesting connection between Hades and Voldemort is that Hades was associated with snakes.

Persephone (suggested to have a pre-Greek origin and probably pre-dates Hades), who was also a vegetation/fertility/spring goddess, similarly, was referred to as Despoina (”the mistress”), Kore (”the maiden”), etc, because as the terrible Queen of the Dead, it was considered unsafe to speak her name aloud. In mythology and literature, she is sometimes referred to as ‘dread Persephone.’

--Just like how Lord Voldemort is referred to as The Dark Lord, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, You-Know-Who... (and if you’re Dumbledore, ‘Tom’.)

Her central myth served as the context for the secret rites of regeneration at Eleusis (which was basically a mystery cult devoted to her and her mother, Demeter), which promised immortality to initiates.

We don’t know for certain what exactly went on, because, mystery cult -- the members were sworn to secrecy -- but it revolved around immortality and rebirth and possibly psychoactive drugs. 

Perhaps ironically, in comparison to the Death Eaters, anyone could join, as long as they could speak Greek and had never committed murder.

And that concludes my assessment!