#the affable delinquent | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

randomestfandoms-ocs · 2 months

Text

Get To Know: Angel Dearly ✤ Long Live ⋆ Folklore

(sections were compiled from various tag games that I've done over the years)

POSITIVES

adaptable ⋆ active ⋆ adventurous ⋆ agreeable ⋆ alert ⋆ articulate ⋆ athletic ⋆ aspiring ⋆ attractive ⋆ affectionate ⋆ ambitious ⋆ amicable ⋆ affable ⋆ analytical ⋆ approachable ⋆ brave ⋆ bright ⋆ bold ⋆ balanced ⋆ benevolent ⋆ calm ⋆ capable ⋆ casual ⋆ caring ⋆ captivating ⋆ cautious ⋆ charming ⋆ charismatic ⋆ cheerful ⋆ clever ⋆ compassionate ⋆ conciliatory ⋆ carefree ⋆ confident ⋆ creative ⋆ cooperative ⋆ considerate ⋆ conscientious ⋆ complementative ⋆ curious ⋆ competitive ⋆ daring ⋆ decisive ⋆ dedicated ⋆ diligent ⋆ dignified ⋆ discreet ⋆ driven ⋆ dramatic ⋆ dutiful ⋆ dynamic ⋆ diplomatic ⋆ disciplined ⋆ determined ⋆ dependable ⋆ easy-going ⋆ efficient ⋆ empathetic ⋆ enthusiastic ⋆ extroverted ⋆ enigmatic ⋆ elegant ⋆ eloquent ⋆ energetic ⋆ exuberant ⋆ educated ⋆ esthetic ⋆ fair ⋆ faithful ⋆ farsighted ⋆ firm ⋆ flexible ⋆ forceful ⋆ flamboyant ⋆ friendly ⋆ flirtatious ⋆ focused ⋆ funny ⋆ fearless ⋆ gallant ⋆ generous ⋆ gentle ⋆ genuine ⋆ good-natured ⋆ gracious ⋆ gregarious ⋆ hard-working ⋆ helpful ⋆ heroic ⋆ humorous ⋆ honest ⋆ honourable ⋆ humble ⋆ idealistic ⋆ impartial ⋆ imaginative ⋆ independent ⋆ intelligent ⋆ introverted ⋆ innovative ⋆ inventive ⋆ intellectual ⋆ inoffensive ⋆ insightful ⋆ intuitive ⋆ invulnerable ⋆ incorruptible ⋆ intense ⋆ incisive ⋆ just ⋆ kind ⋆ loyal ⋆ leaderly ⋆ logical ⋆ lovable ⋆ loving ⋆ liberal ⋆ mature ⋆ merciful ⋆ moderate ⋆ modest ⋆ magnanimous ⋆ meticulous ⋆ neat ⋆ nurturing ⋆ outspoken ⋆ obedient ⋆ observant ⋆ optimistic ⋆ objective ⋆ opinionated ⋆ open ⋆ orderly ⋆ organized ⋆ original ⋆ passionate ⋆ patient ⋆ perceptive ⋆ persistent ⋆ persuasive ⋆ peaceful ⋆ philosophical ⋆ playful ⋆ protective ⋆ practical ⋆ placid ⋆ plucky ⋆ polished ⋆ popular ⋆ prudent ⋆ punctual ⋆ purposeful ⋆ rational ⋆ realistic ⋆ reflective ⋆ relaxed ⋆ reliable ⋆ resourceful ⋆ respectful ⋆ reverential ⋆ romantic ⋆ responsible ⋆ sensible ⋆ sentimental ⋆ socially aware ⋆ sophisticated ⋆ solid ⋆ spiritual ⋆ spontaneous ⋆ spunky ⋆ studious ⋆ supportive ⋆ selfless ⋆ self-reliant ⋆ self-denying ⋆ self-sufficient ⋆ self-confident ⋆ self-disciplined ⋆ straightforward ⋆ sincere ⋆ serious ⋆ skillful ⋆ stable ⋆ sociable ⋆ stoic ⋆ sympathetic ⋆ systematic ⋆ tasteful ⋆ talented ⋆ tolerant ⋆ trusting ⋆ thorough ⋆ teacherly ⋆ tidy ⋆ thoughtful ⋆ tough ⋆ understanding ⋆ unassuming ⋆ unfoolable ⋆ upright ⋆ uncomplaining ⋆ unselfish ⋆ versatile ⋆ venturesome ⋆ vivacious ⋆ warm ⋆ well-read ⋆ well-rounded ⋆ willing ⋆ wise ⋆ witty

FLAWS

absent-minded ⋆ abusive ⋆ addict ⋆ aggressive ⋆ aimless ⋆ alcoholic ⋆ anxious ⋆ arrogant ⋆ audacious ⋆ bad liar ⋆ bigmouth ⋆ bigot ⋆ blindly obedient ⋆ blunt ⋆ callous ⋆ childish ⋆ chronic heroism ⋆ clingy ⋆ clumsy ⋆ cocky ⋆ competitive ⋆ corrupt ⋆ cowardly ⋆ cruel ⋆ cynical ⋆ delinquent ⋆ delusional ⋆ dependent ⋆ depressed ⋆ deranged ⋆ disloyal ⋆ ditzy ⋆ egotistical ⋆ envious ⋆ erratic ⋆ fickle ⋆ finicky ⋆ flaky ⋆ frail ⋆ fraudulent ⋆ guilt complex ⋆ gloomy ⋆ gluttonous ⋆ gossiper ⋆ gruff ⋆ gullible ⋆ hedonistic ⋆ humorless ⋆ hypochondriac ⋆ hypocritical ⋆ idealist ⋆ idiotic ⋆ ignorant ⋆ immature ⋆ impatient ⋆ incompetent ⋆ indecisive ⋆ insecure ⋆ insensitive ⋆ lazy ⋆ lewd ⋆ liar ⋆ lustful ⋆ manipulative ⋆ masochistic ⋆ meddlesome ⋆ melodramatic ⋆ money-loving ⋆ moody ⋆ naïve ⋆ nervous ⋆ nosy ⋆ ornery ⋆ overprotective ⋆ overly sensitive ⋆ paranoid ⋆ passive-aggressive ⋆ perfectionist ⋆ pessimist ⋆ petty ⋆ power-hungry ⋆ proud ⋆ pushover reckless ⋆ reclusive ⋆ remorseless ⋆ rigorous ⋆ sadistic ⋆ sarcastic ⋆ senile ⋆ selfish ⋆ self-martyr ⋆ shallow ⋆ sociopathic ⋆ sore loser ⋆ spineless ⋆ spiteful ⋆ spoiled ⋆ stubborn ⋆ tactless ⋆ temperamental ⋆ timid ⋆ tone-deaf ⋆ traitorous ⋆ unathletic ⋆ ungracious ⋆ unlucky ⋆ unsophisticated ⋆ untrustworthy ⋆ vain ⋆ withdrawn ⋆ workaholic

SKILLS

bake a cake from scratch ⋆ ride a horse ⋆ drive a submarine ⋆ speak a second language ⋆ dance ⋆ catch a fish ⋆ play an instrument ⋆ throw a punch ⋆ build a deck ⋆ ice skate ⋆ program a computer ⋆ change a flat tire ⋆ fire a gun ⋆ sew ⋆ juggle ⋆ play poker ⋆ paint ⋆ fly a kite ⋆ sculpt ⋆ write poetry ⋆ change a diaper ⋆ sing ⋆ shoot a bow and arrow ⋆ ride a bike ⋆ swim ⋆ sail a boat ⋆ do a backflip ⋆ play chess ⋆ give CPR ⋆ pitch a tent ⋆ flirt ⋆ stitch a wound ⋆ read palms ⋆ use chopsticks ⋆ write in cursive/calligraphy ⋆ use an electric drill ⋆ braid hair ⋆ make a campfire ⋆ make a mixed drink ⋆ do sudoku puzzles ⋆ wrap a gift ⋆ give a good massage ⋆ jump-start a car ⋆ roll their tongue ⋆ magic tricks ⋆ yoga ⋆ tie a tie ⋆ skip a rock ⋆ shuffle a deck of cards ⋆ read Morse code ⋆ pick a lock

FEARS

the dark ⋆ fire ⋆ open water ⋆ deep water ⋆ being alone ⋆ crowded spaces ⋆ confined spaces ⋆ change ⋆ failure ⋆ war ⋆ loss of control ⋆ powerlessness ⋆ prison ⋆ blood ⋆ drowning ⋆ suffocation ⋆ public speaking ⋆ natural animals ⋆ the supernatural ⋆ heights ⋆ death ⋆ dying ⋆ intimacy ⋆ rejection ⋆ abandonment ⋆ loss ⋆ the unknown ⋆ the future ⋆ not being good enough ⋆ scary stories ⋆ speaking to new people ⋆ poverty ⋆ loud noises ⋆ being touched ⋆ forgetting ⋆ being forgotten

LOVE LANGUAGES: SHOWING

ACTS OF SERVICE ~ dishes ⋆ laundry ⋆ change the bedding ⋆ put gas in the car ⋆ clean the car ⋆ pack ⋆ cook a meal ⋆ feed/walk the dog ⋆ pay the bills ⋆ mop ⋆ sweep ⋆ organise ⋆ “let me do this for you” ⋆ take the kids to school ⋆ call the plumber ⋆ grocery shop ⋆ doing chores together RECEIVING GIFTS ~ trading presents ⋆ thoughtful presents ⋆ surprises ⋆ buying dinner ⋆ big presents ⋆ small presents ⋆ handmade presents ⋆ expensive gifts ⋆ time-consuming presents ⋆ humorous presents ⋆ holiday/anniversary presents ⋆ edible treats ⋆ tokens ⋆ “I saw this and thought of you” QUALITY TIME ~ communication ⋆ direct eye contact ⋆ dates ⋆ vacations ⋆ car rides ⋆ shared hobby ⋆ “let’s do something together” ⋆ walks in the park ⋆ sitting in comfortable silence ⋆ solving a problem together ⋆ discovering shared interests ⋆ making an effort to spend time together WORDS OF AFFIRMATION ~ “I love you” ⋆ pet names ⋆ nicknames ⋆ compliments ⋆ hidden meanings ⋆ private jokes ⋆ “I’m so proud of you” ⋆ public acknowledgement of the relationship ⋆ “You are really good at (blank)” ⋆ “You look nice today” ⋆ “I like your (physical description)” ⋆ “I like the way you (do something)” ⋆ open/honest communication | handwritten notes/texts ⋆ encouragement/support PHYSICAL TOUCH ~ hugs ⋆ surprise/from behind hugs ⋆ hair touches ⋆ shoulder brushes ⋆ petting ⋆ polite PDA ⋆ graphic/mature PDA ⋆ hand holding ⋆ sitting on each other’s lap ⋆ sharing a single chair ⋆ sitting very closely together on the couch ⋆ cuddling ⋆ shaking hands ⋆ nose kisses ⋆ forehead touches ⋆ face/neck touches ⋆ sharing a blanket ⋆ sharing body heat ⋆ face/neck kisses

LOVE LANGUAGES: RECEIVING

#angel dearly #ocappreciation #fyeahonceuponatimeocs #folklore #long live #get to know #my work #my edits #character profile #my ocs #ouat oc #i'm sorry this is so long y'all #for some reason all the other posts like this can have a read more but not this one???

5 notes · View notes

chicago-geniza · 3 years

Text

hate that andy robinson reminds me so much of my stepdad but here we are. just deeply weird, profoundly eccentric dudes who grew up in poverty in the 40s, were labeled "emotionally disturbed," became juvenile delinquents, & eventually aged into avuncular, affable old men

#stepdad would not respect Andy for political reasons but nevertheless lmao

7 notes · View notes

kvetchlandia · 4 years

Photo

Richard Meltzer Lester Bangs Passed Out on Meltzer’s “Highly Uncomfortable Living Rm. Chair,” 104 Perry St., Apt. 4, West Village, New York City 1972

On December 14th, this December 14th, Lester Conway Bangs, while probably not the greatest writer of his generation, arguably its most vital so far to die, would have been 36. Haunted and driven by demons, so- called, a cheerless many of whom/what/ which — or their kindred ilk — he directly sought, found cum stumbled upon, or was inadvertently ensnared by on the demon picnic grounds of Rock and Roll, he never made it to 34.

Following the lead of a handful of babes in the rock-critical woods, one of which I'll admit (if sometimes reluctantly) to having been. Bangs at the dawn of the seventies played as prominent a role as anyone in both expanding the expressive boundaries of rockwriting as a form and giving it a voice that played the newer, more mannered and cautious, mass-market rockmags like Rolling Stone and Creem — the latter of which he even edited for awhile — as on the dime as it had played the catch-as-catch-can, limited-edition fanzines whence it came. Though he also served as the burgeoning genre’s most prolific scribbler, a mission he sustained with relative ease for the bulk of his days, it is to the man’s lasting credit that he rarely delivered copy on anyone’s dotted line. In fact, he probably “got away with more’’ in major- publication print than all his rockwrite brethren combined, conceivably (however) because it merely simplified matters to have a single Designated Outlaw, one entrusted with a blanche enough carte — and unmonitored options galore — to spike with “authenticity ’’ a rock-media stew of bogus Freedom and ersatz Candor.

Retrospectively cliched or not, there was an existential purity to the sheer commitment evinced by Lester’s prolonged wallow in (and about) the rock- and-roll Thing-in-itself. It was, in many ways, the critical headbang to end all critical headbangs; it would be hard to even imagine, for instance, a professional art-film bozo, a jock-sniffing sports jerk, or a food-review lunatic more uninsulatedy gung-ho vis-a-vis x — either as primary experience or typewrite wankery. His patented shameless multipage gush, coupled with an unswerving advocacy of certain conspicuously over- the-top rock genera (Velvet Underground offshoots; Heavy Metal; Punk Rock), made him a must-read favorite with both cognoscenti and dipshits alike, and he came as close to encountering idolatry per se as any non-musician in R&R. A good deal of which — natch —could not help hitting the self-consciousness fan, but while a man’s life was ultimately undone in the process (“I’m Lester — buy me a drink! ’’), the integrity of his art/craft was essentially unaffected. For, while he might have been a tad too glib-messianic those last couple years, he was by no stretch of things an opportunist, never really giving a hoot for what in squaresville would be known as a career. (Or, perhaps, unlike his role model Kerouac, he simply didn’t live long enough for that, too, to be strenuously tested.)

In any event: dead, cremated, literal ashes. California born (Escondido ’48), bred (El Cajon, ages 9-23), and traveled (I first hung with him in San Francisco, last in L.A.), Lester bought the big one on the opposite coast — his final home, the fabled Apple — April 30/82, ostensibly from a hefty pull of darvon employed, in lieu of aspirin, to placate the flu. Since his death, variously interpreted as a mile-radius teardrop’s once-in-a- lifetime terminal burst, a joke and a half on both himself and his precious chosen whole damn Thing, and — by occasional uncouth louts — the final glorious triumph of his excess, the spectrum of Bangs-in-ongoing-print has dwindled from monochromatic /sparse to colorless/ nonexistent. Of the two books in his name which appeared during his lifetime, quasi-coffeetable numbers on Blondie and Rod Stewart, neither a particularly representative Lestorian effort (or even particularly good: the former admittedly hacked out “in two days on speed,’’ and looking it, i. e., ad hoc and forced; the latter disowned as a clumsy, if innocent, foray into “writing as whoring’’), both are either out of print — officially — or on the back burner of barely having ever been in same, at least as regards this coast, where I’ve yet to see either in bookstore one. Nor have two posthumous whatsems. Rock Gomorrah, cowritten (early ’82) with L.A.’s Michael Ochs, and a projected collection of unpublished fragments scrounged from Bangs’s apartment a day or two after his death, gotten more than inches off the publishing ground — the former for reasons which if herein revealed would get me sued but good, the latter because, in the words of editor Greil Marcus, “the stuff is less tractable than I thought at less than 5000 words or so.’’ Also stalled, and/or abandoned (and/ or nonspecific pipedreams to begin with) : all known plans to reissue out-of- print Live Wire LP Jook Savages on the Brazos, recorded, Austin, TX, Dec. ’80, by Lester Bangs & the Delinquents, lyrics and vocals by guess who. In fact, the only anything by L. C. Bangs readily available where availables are sold is his liner copy for The Fugs Greatest Hits Vol. I, released by PVC/Adelphi some months after he’d croaked, for which he (or rather his atoms) later copped a Grammy nomination, and for which, reliable word has it, he never was paid.

Well, I’ve been proven wrong; it hasn’t been easy recollecting Lester in even half a toto in so much tranquility. Didn’t seem like such a bad idea back when obits were appearing left & right and at least two- thirds of ’em smacked of revisionism at its well-intentioned worst; having ridden the range with the guy, having been as intimate with his daytime/nighttime revealed essence — I would bet my boots — as anyone in or out of various possible beds with him, I had fiery goddam galaxies to say in his behalf that were simply not being said, at least not in print by his designated peers; and, although my no longer living in New York couldn’t help but delay my shot, remote and after-the-fact seemed like the ticket, y’know anyway, for some major necessary rerevision.

But here it is two, two and a half years gone & more, and whuddaya know if all the raw goddam pain (at the loss of, yes, a brother) and jagged fucking anger (at a waste of life, life-force, and relative inconsequential like “talent” and “genius”), an unbeatable duo which for weeks, weeks, months gave the Lester totality so cosmic a shape, scale and intensity, have by their own inevitable burnout given way to the contemplation of standard-issue mere data, of the skeletal remains of a larger-than-life life which have come to make sense (or not) in too neat, too linear, a manner. Well — hey — fuggit: Even if grocery lists, chalk diagrams and hokey storytellin’ are the forms ongoing life-as-life has imposed on the mission, there’s still a heap of essential Lester information that could use, uh, exposure to printed-page light.

What too many write-biz intimates sought to do in the wake of his death was debunk the Lester Legend (solely) by reciting evidence that his bark was worse than his bite. While I’m sure he’d have “wanted it done” (i.e., have the saga-as- litany scraped of treacherous barnacles, or at least of their treacherous vogue), I can’t imagine the projected post-life intent of such a wish as in any way entailing cosmetic overhaul, especially in the service of moral/experiential object lessonhood. Lester’s day-to-day transaction with post-adolescent life-as- dealt was — let’s be conservative — 94 % anything but pretty. If he’d have wanted his entire whatsis to serve up viable scenarios for intimates and non-intimates alike (gee, would the Pope prefer to be Catholic?), there’s no way the deal’d come out even provisionally Lester-functional without interested non-intimates having retroactive access to as hefty an eyeful of the not-so-pretty — in all its hideous, non-Clearasiled blah blah blah — as intimates galore regularly managed to cop and, in their various personal ways, have already learned from. To deglorify an earlier incarnation of shit (which the man himself was clearly hellbent on doing in his waning days on earth) you’ve got to at least speak its name — loudly! — for the whole entire planet: c’mon now, one & all. A solemn responsibility (I call it) which, credibly/incredibly, the smelly sumbitch’s closest associates have, to this day, all but refused to consider.

To wit: For every time anyone saw the defanged, declawed Lester teddy bear rear its cuddly li’l head (see obits 2, 3, 5 & 7) the man was uncountable times the asshole, the buffoon, the sodden tyrant; been those things myself — in semi-prior lifetimes — so I know. Back in ’73, for inst, the soon-to-be-dead Lillian Roxon gushed shameless love for the s.o.b., in New York on Creem business, ordering up a Lester button and leaving it in his hotel box; response to this purest of offerings was “What’s that fat cunt want from me?” About a year later I get this call from Nick Tosches requesting that I please take Lester, who’d shown up at his door on acid, “off my hands”; took him to a party at John Wilcock’s place, during which he verbally brutalized Wilcock’s wife (in green Fingernails) for being a “hooker,” snapped at an affable Ed Sanders for being “the only alkie in the counter-culture,” and had nothing more to say to Les Levine’s Asian girlfriend (wife?) than “Yoko is a lousy gook”; further into the night, at Vincent’s Clam Bar in Little Italy, he literally bellowed ( more than twice), “There’s a lotta tackin’ wops in this joint.” And how can I forget the way he treated me and Nick, his closest approximate friends f'r crying out loud, as our wonderful editor while at Creem? He’d call us each up at 3 a.m. to urgently solicit various (rather specific) reams of pap, needed via Special D toot sweet; we’d climb outta bed, peck away bleary-eyed to whack out the closest possible takes on what he’d claimed he wanted, whereupon he’d reject ’em with a vengeance (“I won’t print beatnik shit”), then run thoroughly like-minded i. somethings — under his own byline — or with our words, usually verbatim, laced throughout. Just a few “examples,” dunno if they sound like big stuff or small, in any event typical Lester, with plenty, plenty more where they came from — y’know times n-plus-many.

In spite of such anticommunal upchuck, or quite possibly because of it — post-adolescent of a post-summer-of-love feather & all that — I did have deep affection for the bastard during my final years in New York; he could really piss me off (and I, I’m assuming, him) but bygones were always eventually ditto. In those days I generally shared his affection for The Edge, and might even’ve gone extreme slightly ahead of him; in January ’72, this is true, he actually dubbed me “the Neal Cassady of rock and roll.” But by fall ’75, when I split New York to at least simulate an escape from the Frantic and Hyper (and he subsequently arrived, ostensibly to embrace same), I was feeling the first stirrings of apprehension re my own prolonged massive intake of Edge Substances (emotional, cultural, but above all chemical) and was on the verge of an early series of attempts to, y’know, cut down, to maybe get off my collision course with all sorts of walls, both metaphoric and real. Lester, meantime, seemed on a rapid upswing in the intake dept.; what had so far served as mere horizon or frame for his trip, or at most been its semi-essential fuel, was now lunging headlong for the foreground of his life ... or should we call it the twin foregrounds (life as Mythic Construct; life as physical/emotional/cultural Hard Mundane Reality).

Hey, the guy was beginning to scare me. Certainly as an advanced — or rapidly advancing — version of what I no longer wanted to be and could (possibly) imagine once again becoming, but more as this vivid, palpable spectre of specialized human decomp not just out there but right there: a pal & a buddy headed (willy nilly?) for the sewer. From late ’75 immediately onward, on those unlikely occasions when separate coasts — underscored by far fewer rockwrite junkets — any longer allowed for it, I was usually unable to handle being in the same room with him, knowing I’d have to witness whole new increments of what could really no longer be passed off as anything but (gosh) misery and (dig it) horror. Where in the earlier ’70s it was almost cute — once in a while — the way Lester would stumble into classic self- directed drunk jokes (like the time he called me from the Detroit airport to tell me he was headed for an Alice Cooper show in London, presumably England, only he’d drunkenly got it wrong and was on his way to London, Ontario), there was this half-week in ’79, for inst, during which he hung out at Michael Ochs’s house in Venice with no daily design but to get skid-row-calibre gone and stay there, that was just fucking grim. Looking an unhealthy as I’d ever seen him, basic shit-warmed over with an ngly bump on his forehead (which he claimed he was “treating with Romilar”), he refused to eat without an Occasion. When, one evening, Michael and I pretty much dragged him to a Mexican restaurant, he refused to actually step inside until he’d fortified himself with the cottons from six Benzedrex inhalers — the local pharmacist was out of Romilar — busted open on the sidewalk with a shoe.

Washing down their remnants with a Dos Equis as his enchilada sat there staring at him, he quoted (or claimed he was quoting) Sid Vicious: “Food is boring.”

So, inevitably, when Billy Altman rang me up from N.Y.Clearly on a California morn, to let me hear it straight from a friend — “instead of from a creep” — my immediate response to no more Lester, steps ahead of all the pain & anger & whut, was holy fucking shit, the fucker finally did it; it’d been in the real-world cards for long-long times for Lester to cease to be. Though even on his gonest days he was no way a classic cornball suicide-romantic — heck, I don’t really think he was all that clinically suicidal (big-sleep fantasies never overtly/covertly lured him, not even metaphorically, from the darkest sub-basement of his World of Dread; nor was Danger, though he often nonstop lived it, itself the merest tickle of a ripple of a thrill for him, a context before the fact) — he’d sure staged more corny, frightful dress rehearsals than Jim Jones plus Judy Garland (squared) for simply ending up dead.

Biggest of which I ever saw was January ’81. I’m at Nick’s place in New York, en route back to L. A. from Montreal, when who should pay a surprise visite but Mr. Bangs, cassette in hand. It’s a tape of these tracks recorded during an Austin romp I’d heard about second or third hand (he’d planned to “live there forever,” it was said, ’til a night in the local drunk tank — on top of who knows what else — totally changed his mind), and in the course of the next 12-15 hours he played it, for us and at us, many times. Also during this stretch, after boasting, rather proudly, that he no longer drank, he managed to ingest at least 36 cough- suppressant tablets (three 12-packs of Ornical — we weren’t always watching) washed down with sizable slugs of bourbon, as there was nothing else but water to wash ’em down with.

All stages of this ordeal, in which Nick and I were little more than foils for surge upon surge of what we’d come to regard as typical Lestorian bathos, were hardly bearable in the state we were in (after far too many “nights with Lester,” going back to the days when we even could dig it, we’d opted for a change to take this one straight), but the morning-after phase was literally one for the books. On the umpteenth playback of what was soon to hit the racks as the Jook Savages LP, Lester insisted that one particular vocal was pure Richard Hell (in Lester’s cosmos an a priori yay); my dogtired no-big-deal of a response was it sounded existentially neater than that, more on the order of Tom Verlaine (a Lester nuh-nuh-no). Suddenly hair-trigger sensitive — in a performance-trigger vein — he tapdanced back with “Then I might as well go sell shoes in El Cajon.” Next cut he compared himself to somebody (very contempo) else, prompting me to comment, for non-pejorative, sleep- denied better or worse, that his vocals (across the board; in general) had the same basic flavor as those on such country-western parodies as Sanders' Truckstop or the Statler Brothers’ Johnny Mack Brown High School LP. Affecting grievous offense, as if any of his b.s. actually mattered (the Lester of ’73/’74 — in any chemical state — would merely’ve giggled), he took things up a full notch of indignant/sarcastic: “Well I guess I’m just no fucking good. ”

But he wouldn’t stop playing the crap, not with every cut looming as a supercharged occasion for kneejerk call- and-response, a challenge for him to goad Nick and/or me into goading him, in turn, into mock-self-deprecatory one-liners ad nauseum — a dress rehearsal, as it were — his puke-stained sweater seemed appropriate — for his triumphant appearance on Johnny Carson, which he had no doubt the worldwide success of his Blondie book would imminently require . . . along with a shot of his mug, cleanshaven, on the cover of People (over which he whined “fear” of besmirched personal image).

Ultimately Nick and I, weary of further compliance in so shoddy an interpersonal number, old buddy or not (and/or old bud in particular), found ourselves laughing in his face; enough was enough, and the sight of this bumbling mammal going gaga for an audience of two-who-knew- better was kind of otherworldly amusing. The object of our yuks, however, took it as us laughing with him: Great Moments in Standup/Audience Rapport! Swollen with illusory (or whatever) whacked-out self, Lester then proceeded to announce his program: (1) to save Rock & Roll; (2) to become president (presumably Oi the U.S. of A.); (3) to move to England and in turn save their Rock & Roll. As mere dipshit goals, nos. 1 and 3 meant topically little to either of us — geez, we’d all but buried the Anglo-Am mainstream as even an idle, y’know, sometime hobby or whatnot — but (2) hit us firmly, instantaneously, in the breastplate.

Lester’s neurons, no recent model of health to begin with, had made the short-circuit of Lester Bangs . . . [tenor saxophonist] Lester Young . . . (latter's nickname] Pres . . . Pres/U.S.A. per se!!!

Guffaw, guffaw — we guffawed — though I guess we could've gasped (or shuddered). Then: a heavy silence, as cosmic (or whatever) as it was awkward, filled presently by the man himself:

"Hey! I'm gonna buy some import albums! I'll get a whore I know to lend me her charge card! Cab fare too!" And he was off; no amiable nudging, no “Get the fuck out of here" could take the place of timeless vinyl hunger. Gone at last — and we gave him (in all solemn, empirical, non-jive reckoning) six months to live.

But of course he fooled us, by (nearly) a whole damn calendar year. Surprise, surprise: but an even bigger surprise was the extent to which he managed to actually turn things around — well, almost — during that extra annum, especially during its. and his. final months. Not only was he still among the living, not only did he no longer seem conspicuously earmarked for premature exit — the Lester with whom I spent a rather refreshing week in February '82 gave every indication of having already gone beyond mere survival (as an issue) and appeared, astonishingly, to be thriving on the theme.

In L.A. following his mother's eventually fatal stroke and staying with his 56-year-old half-brother in Studio City, he accompanied me one night to a low-stakes poker game attended by members of the Blasters, the perfect setup, you’d figure, for Lester to revert to type. But no, he just minimally fun-&- games'ed it like anyone else — no lookin' for opportunities to “be Lester," no showing off for rock-roll peers either verbally or intakewise. no diving for the evening's jugular and letting 'er rip — and after two beers (!). without so much as a grimace, he declared he’d had enough. Postgame he engaged Phil Alvin in a lively musical dialogue, but at no point did fightin' words fill the air, or were axes even poised for grinding. The pair agreed to exchange tapes — a wholesome friendship in the making — and next day Lester complained (true, true) that reefer had been smoked.

As the week wore on in consistent, low- key fashion. I was struck by the fuckload of inner capacities the guy was perceptibly calling on, left, right and center, to extend his defiance of Death to the domain of just plain living, capacities I hadn't caught sensory evidence of — all previously told — for more than 11 minutes total. A far cry from anything as cheaply benign as, let's say, more frequent eruptions of "Lester washes the dishes" (see obit 04), what I got to witness was kind of on the order of a whole new Lester, one who'd finally found a non-lethal, functionally less jagged (though in no way “benign") rhythm for his life. Engaging him in tight quarters with more open-heartedness per se than I*m sure I’d ever mustered (sharing an Edge does not always make for brotherhood-by-numbers. let alone by pure, unedited inclination), I willingly submitted to his rap/rant and bought its tenor if not its verbatim transcript; by the time he returned to New York, his mother still hanging on. I’d seen and heard a New Lester series pilot that could credibly have played — prime time — on the Pro- Life Network.

For starters, he’d learned to slow down, to proceed apace through a given experience without easy reliance on everpopular on-off switches. He'd gotten far more selective about the company he kept, seeking out, for the first time in his known adult life, social interactions stressing soulwarming interpersonal comfort over thrash-trigger me-you tribulation. A good deal less insistent upon strapping each day to an emotional chopping block (as recalled, for inst, in that old chestnut of his, “I need to be in love!"), he'd begun to let his life embrace emotional motifs of greater duration and resiliency. And. as stuff like this fed back to his theoretic apparatus, even Lester's ideas (as stated) began to display an unexpected day-to-day congruity; no longer, it seemed, would he write an anti-racist wowser for the Village Voice in one breath and scream, "Fuckin’ niggers!” at Village Oldies the next. Lester-as-flux had had its thoroughly engaging run. and for this to give way to a “maturer” unpredictability was not the worst of possible outcomes.

Even the drastic reduction in Lester’s intake of physical poisons bore little trace of on-the-wagon-or-bust — y'know, as if any day, minute, second the tension of it all would cause him to snap right back with equal vengeance — particularly with its status as but part of a whole-body package that included both eating at regular intervals and a radical olfactory modification: He now took baths. (One afternoon in ’74 Nick and I met Lester at some ritzy midtown hotel. Though he’d been in the room all of an hour, the smell was like a dog had died there, and been left to rot, weeks or months before. Consequently, we vetoed his offer to call down for drinks on Creem’s tab, suggesting, to his consternation, that any dump of a bar would be more, uh, whatever. Many of his heterosex liaisons had foundered on the rocks of precisely this issue.)

In terms of cultural orientation, no longer was he monomanically enslaved to rock & roll (-or-perish). For virtually the first time since the sixties he didn’t need, burningly, brand new Big Beat LP’s in his mail slot each (and every) day; the state of the Art, wobbling on a multi-year terminal gimp, no longer served as his external psychic barometer, his armband of first-person pride (or shame); having finally produced Music of his own, to severe personal specifications (regardless of the giggles it inspired in jerks like me), he no longer needed to prove anything with it or through it. Crucially, though some would probably like to deny it. he no longer saw Rock’em-Sock'em as a viable metaphor for his (or any, kindred or otherwise) state of being, viewing it as the all too easy — and ultimately, revoltingly, unsatisfactory — crystallization of (mega-numerous) blank and scattered lives. Lester's break with rock-roll mythos as his be-all/end-all of etc., which I have no doubt (had he lived) he’d've sooner rather than later made official, was as profound, and profoundly moving, as his break with the Myth of Lester. As one committed jackass who’d made the same painful transition — goodbye, Rock-Automated Self! — I knew how tough a bond the chronically intermingled personal/cultural can be to crack (and my heart went right out to him).

It also warmed my cockles, considering his record in the mere civility dept., to see him relate (graciously) to his half- brother’s wife, this unaffectedly pretty 21- year-old rural Mexican the macho blusterer, a stuntman by trade, had recently acquired, maritally, while on location Down South. Though she knew pun near zero English, my first sight of her she was watching some random English-language crap, while hubby rested for a shoot of the Fall Guy series, on the tiny TV in her fussy suburban kitchen; materially cozy for the first time in her life, she seemed lonely, disoriented, far from home. Silent and solemn, she visibly stiffened — shyly? menially? — at the intrusion of Lester, my girlfriend Irene and me. only to be put at ease by Lester introducing us, without missing a beat, as, well, friends of the family. Like it mattered to him that she feel like family — and thus shared in all aspects of etc. — and for a moment the loneliness left her face; she smiled broadly, shook (or at least took) our hands, went back to her tube.

But what came off as so genuine when he was dealing with his family, his friends, kind of sputtered into the ether when he tried to branch it to the family of Man. Whenever he got to talkin' Hard Humanism, which had all the earmarks of being his preoccupation of (Rock- replacement) record, he’d make these broad, lecture-ish, relatively flavorless statements which often didn't wash.

Never wholly credible 'cause once again he seemed to be performing — without booze/etc. but surely with a script — he’d say thus & such about human courage and folly that not only had an artificial ring, it tended to run in direct opposition to what had clearly been his experience. Even his word choice sounded stilted, alien, not his own; when he spoke of "women" he could easily have been reading straight from a column in Cosmo.

A lot of which suggested a Lester so hellbent on being a good boy once and for all that to merely work overtime cleaning up his own act was scarcely sufficient; he had to render a transpersonal commentary that made his good intentions “universal,” even if the topical universality he’d taken an option on was simply the first he found it comfortable song-&-dancing a provisional connection to. There were moments when his bill of particulars made me uneasy, realizing that to intellectually challenge any of this would be like kicking mud on some kid’s newest/truest pastime, 'specially when it was one so socially redeeming, so non- self-destructive. one which, for all intents and purposes, I basically shared with him anyway. What really counted was the miracle of Rock Tough Guy #1, after 15 years of rocknroll plug-in and little else, during which he'd come to thread that needle upside down (and asleep), to the point (even) of smugness, flipness, pomposity, out on a goddam limb over something else: a neophyte at last! (I could dig it.)

Anyway, finally, on the last night of Lester's stay — which worked out as our last time together, period — we did something we’d previously never found the appropriate nexus for: trading rants (in earnest) with blank tapes a-rolling.

For something like five-six hours we went apeshit re such topics as: the sellouts & prejudices of mutual colleagues; novels and novelists; New York as (quite possibly) the coldest outpost on Emotional Earth; the usual standard rockish garbidge (plus some un- and some non-). We also hit on shrinks-we- have-known, with Lester's rap on this rooty-toot of a subject being the single one, from the four-and-a-half hours I’ve so far transcribed, which most tellingly nutshells the excruciating self- examination he had to've undertaken — and undergone — just to be sitting around discoursing as fluidly as he was, to’ve transcended whatever the fuck en route thereto:

“Like I went to a psychoanalyst, one in New York and one in Detroit, for a total of, I dunno, three-and-a-half years. I finally concluded, I mean yeah I’m insane, I’ve got my problems, my sicknesses are fucking me, yeah, I’m sure they both probably helped me, y’know, I know the last guy in New York, it's like everybody I know was totally appalled by my drinking and drugging, well like you, right, and everybody else had the same reaction, y’know, except my shrink. He’d say, ‘No, that's alright.’ I went out to this, he had a country retreat, a whole bunch of us would go out there on weekends. And the first time I went there like I got drunk on Friday night, and Saturday morning I got up and washed down a bottle of Romilar with a bottle of beer while sitting on a slick rock by the stream. I got this great idea for something I wanted to write, I stood up on the rock in boots like these and whoosh, went like that and smashed, see it, the scar on my nose? That's how I got it, smashed my face open.

“And he thought my druggin' and drinkin' was great, y'know? He said, in fact he kind of told me I'd be not as great of a writer if I gave all this stuff up. And I said, 'Yeah, but look at all these people, they rot away, they end up like self- parodies like Kerouac and Burroughs and all that sort of shit.' And he said. 'No. no, not everybody's like that.' I said, How could I someday be 55 years old and have to take a handful of speed to sit down at the typewriter?' Well he said, 'People do it. heh heh heh!' Well both my shrinks, especially this guy, they had real great humanist compassion and empathy and all that, but I know what both of 'em did, and in the long run in essence they were no good for me, because they were getting off on me being there. It’s like they’re so bored, one housewife alter another, 'I don’t love my husband, I don't know why.’ Then they get someone like you or I that's actually interesting, that has ideas, and so it's fun time for 'em. I mean if I hadda follow this guy’s advice I’d be dead, uh, pretty soon.”

Hmm: one effing eery end-of-quote as, alas, all is now dust — reactively acquired caution or no. Possibly possibly possibly, any tonnage of prudence would inevitably have proven insufficient for the autopilot courses he was still, evidently, all too capable of flying. Or, reversing horses and carts, maybe his tortured shell was already jus’ too beat-to-shit, with even a radical lessening in his scale of abuse being too little — archetypally — too late. And then there’s this pharmacological biz about purified cells succumbing to doses they’d have been more than up for when poison was all they knew. (And can we ignore the Wrath of Influenza?)

Even if, to some bitter-enders, his death remains as shrouded in formal “mystery” as those of Eric Dolphy and Warren G. Harding, all-of-the-above can't help but provide a not-unlikely profile of how Lester came to die. Throw in a few more mainline Causalities (cultural: rock-roll glut, esp. coupled w/ too literal an intoxication with Kerouac, Celine, et al; primalpsychological: a childhood more woeful than most, his Jehovah's Witness mom — pushing 50 when she had him — mind-setting, almost singlehandedly. a chronic “inability to cope"; geographic: the Apple, even when it wasn't absolute Edge Central, affording him. given his makeup, scant opportunity for inner peace) and you'd easily have an explanation that 'd hold up in a court of his cronies/cohorts/camp followers.

But if Lester was the pawn, victim, and (indeed) fellow traveler of such easy- Aristotelian a-implies-b, he was also, in those last fitful months, a scatterer of all such shit to the winds, a man who showed his true destiny muscle by throwing all the elements out of on-the-head mythopoetic sync just when they threatened, conspiratorily, to reduce him to merely another Jim Morrison. Jimi Hendrix. Mr. Kerouac. Screamingly, courageously, he committed himself, as wholly (really) as possible, to a counter-causal gameplan which even if flawed — and accidents, y’know, happen — did actually manage to defuse (at least where I live & breathe) the mythic oompah of any time-delayed rat-trap he may subsequently (or previously) have fallen in. If there's anything almost pleasing about the timing, the anti-drama, of Lester's death, it's the monumental Mythic Disjuncture factors he'd set in motion were thereby — implicitly, explicitly — to forever effect.

LESTER’S (WRITERLY) LEGACY — “One of rock’s most colorful characters, Bangs made his reputation as a pugnacious, participatory journalist who was not above picking fights with rock stars in pursuit of a good interview." So wrote one voice of prevailing wisdom, Patrick Goldstein, in the May 9/82 L.A. Times; nothing — latter part — could be farther from the truth. If Lester (the writer) more than once battled Lou Reed into (and beyond) the wee hours of etc., it was not to get a story, it was to live a story: to encounter all the rock-related being his writerly credentials (as a wedge) were able to afford him (as a person)'. Nor was he in any way enthralled by the sickening spectacle of stars being stars; artists, maybe, but stars, fug 'em. When he as mere citizen found himself face-to-face with the pose, pretense, and professional guardedness of such gaudy, extraneous creatures, Lester could not (for the life of him) deal with such crap but to cut right through and speak, directly, to the mere citizen in them, or (failing that) force the situation into functional self-destruct — before the fact of anything so dispassionate as actually “writing it up."

That his eventual write-ups tended to display utter contempt for the entire food chain of music-corporate life, often biting, intentionally, a grimy hand that could not’ve been more willing — his mighty Credentials & all — to feed him, heck, fatten him, was but half the take-no-shit of Lester's essential statement as a writer de rock; forcefeeding the stuff, his stuff, the stuff-as-writ, to the only marginally less corporate (or grimy) running dogs of rockwrite publishing was at least as pugnacious a gesture of this-is-what-I-am/this-is-what-I-do/take-it-or-be-fucked. Since the extent of his success in shoving it down so many otherwise unyielding editorial throats may have had less to do with his willful intent than theirs — camouflage, for inst, for their being life-deep in major-label record company pockets — its significance at this juncture is, at most, merely ironic; the reciprocal influence, in any event, of his ease at getting published upon subsequent moments of raw critical-expressive spew was procedurally nil. In fact, what may most enduringly matter about Lester's approach to his chosen profession, way ahead of dandy journalistic touchstones — "courage," “integrity,” “pride in craft" — that he ate for breakfast like so much broken glass (but which, really, you can still get from Nat Hentoff and Howard Cosell), is the “anti-professional," forcibly non-dehumanized square-one struggle he by design submitted to — and could not. with any kernel of his humanity, avoid - in order to pump out critical prose of any scale of note. (Pugnacity with form; with ritual creative context; even — especially — with roleplaying writerly/critical self.)

That he was ofttimes a great writer/critic, so-called, was but icing on the cake. That scant few others, on the hottest days of their lives, have even approached him — or particularly cared to, considering the requisite gravity and passion of the chore he’d set — probably says as much about their investment in lesser quals of cake as it does about the relative inadequacy of their writerly follow-through. Rockwriting is, and nearly always has been, the trade of simps, wimps, displaced machos, brats and saps; of, in Lester's own words, “ass-kissers of the ruling class”; of fuddy-duddy archivists with cobwebs on their specs; of pathetic idealizers of a lost youth no one has ever (even approximately) experienced or possessed; of sycophantic apologists for chi-chi trends, musical and extramusical alike, without which (so they've always claimed) “rock is dead”; of binary yes/no cheeses with the cognitive wherewithal of vinyl, shrinkwrap, the physical column- inch. Rockwritin' Lester, like anyone else in the trade, was certainly each of these things from time to time, though (probably) none of 'em, singly or in tandem, for longer than the odd off review. Sadly, though his untradelike comportment surely tantalized mere tradefolk while he lived — at least in terms of Style — and even begat a not-half-bad (early-’70s) clone in “Metal Mike" Saunders, his actual abiding sway among such clowns, beyond the occasional liftable riff, was — as it continues to be — infinitesimal.

Finally: the twin silly questions (1) where a still-living Lester might hypothetically've taken it (i.e., beyond the rockwrite fishpond) and (2) what such imaginary newstuff could/would conceivably’ve meant to his basic audience. Second one first. Okay, that Lester's rockstuff generally read so hot as personal testimony is one thing; for it to have been perceived by so many as being eminently, genuinely about something — something rather specific, in fact something "rear’ — is something else. When you get down to it, the gospel of Lester's radical about-ness rested largely on a big hunk of readerly illusion, the illusion of a functional one-on-one between the guy’s fertile imaginings and the psychic infrastructure of rock & roll as dealt; there could be harsh discordance, of course, but as long as a firm relationship could (for whatever readerly vested interest) be consistently inferred between Lester’s mindgames and rock’s g-g-games per se, you at least had the stamp of a viable — if totally simulated — one-on-one. But, really/truly, while Lester’s psychic playground may surely have been one drastically twisted maze, its actual correspondence (sympathetic, hostile, whatever) to rock's own labyrinth, one so airtight and dank as to make his seem like wide open etc., was far too often naught but a matter of readerly convenience. Everyone loves a cipher, a living/ breathing anagram or two. even some — hey — with flaws more rampant than Lester’s, but for the man’s writerly service to’ve been gauged (almost solely) vis-a-vis his reliability as a stand-in cipher-of- x, y’know for readerfolk too lame — or lazy — to suss out x themselves, is the real tragedy of the trip, particularly when the first-&-final glue of most folks’ attachment to his writing was never much more than their own desperate attachment to an x they could, and should, have been accessing more independently (and less desperately) to begin with.

So, anyway, here's the rub. Had Lester lived long enough to both sever his own desperate rock connection — officially, in sheets read by his fuckheaded fans, simply by writing other stuff — and, furthermore, to back it up with an equally official rejection of the Fount of Neurosis from which he'd sung its tune (and they'd listened), it ain't really much of a longshot to imagine him losing a huge percent of the fuckheads — certainly the most gung-ho among 'em — in, well, no time flat. And, c’mon, how much of an immediate, uh, new audience was he likely to yank in writing up (as he insisted he would) such transcendently pivotal mere-humanistic trifles as the dearth of love (as we know it) in scene X or Y . . . how this set of new-age culture jerks uses that set of new-age culture jerks as props in regards to bluh . . . New York editors who pull rank (pshaw!) along collegiate lines [a hard-hitting exposé] . . . or, I dunno, something about shams and follies in clothes and/or grooming?

Plus, well, though, um — (even if) — then again: Aside from loss of ad hominem authority due to the fickle scumbait nature of the pop-world Beast, aside from the fact that many of his generic partisans would prob'ly now be targeted, topically and even personally, in scathing printed-page rants, aside from the limited run such goulash (Sensitive Ties His Laces, w/ Brass Knucks & Footnotes) has ever had — hey — can ever/will ever have . . . aside, aside, aside — the most glaring fact fact is how few times, as of his death, he'd as yet even aspired to the heights (or whats) or non- rock journalism. Four-five-six, some number like that, in the Voice and wherever else, all of ’em still pretty much rockwriterly appendices to the rockwrite “adventure," meaning he had a good ways to go before he'd’ve got the wings/chops/ legs for a total-pulp plunge (or at least a regular shift) at full oldtime capacity (but with newtime thrust and content). Which would’ve been no fall from grace no matter how you scope it — give the boy time (for fuck sake) to stumble and bumble and get it right — but how would any possible Lester have dealt with a (previously amenable) shithook book co. like Delilah telling him not now, sonny when he handed ’em a ream of copy on (let’s imagine) friends who’re fuckups? Personal persona limelight Lester had learned to live without — but writeperson limelight? (It would not’ve been easy.)

Okay, he's dead. All this brand new grief and hardship never befell him; never will. But words on pages remain: What is their lot? Lester's standard fare was so paradigmatically “of the moment" that he was the rockmag shootist. But books of the stuff? Nah; it’s kind of nebulous how even his best mag outings will wear when inevitably (??) anthologized. For someone so public in his orientation, both as input and output, he was — don't laugh or even smirk — one of rock’s more precious and fragile "private moments.” Private moments you can always document — coercively, of course — but try and play ’em back and. well . . . we'll all see, I reckon.

LESTER LEAPS IN — Y’all know all by now how Lester leapt out of New York; lemme just finish with how he leapt in. His first night in town, just a visit, fall "72, he stayed with me and my girlfriend Roni, West Village, 104 Perry St., apt. 4. Arriving semi-direct from JFK, he split pretty quick for the nearest grocer, returning with three six-packs of Colt 45. What he did for the next day and a half — all he did — was wade through 18 big ones, half quarts, as follows: start can, drink fast, get tired; fall out, dropping remainder; awaken following can’s impact with floor; stagger to fridge for fresh one; repeat cycle. What he mumbled or muttered during any of the 18 pre-fallout phases I simply do not recall.

So like hey y’know wo hey hey wo-wo hey, OLD SPORT: love ya, hope I didn’t cramp yer style, g’bye.

--Richard Meltzer, “Lester Bangs Recollected in Tranquility” Dec. 6, 1984

21 notes · View notes

why-bless-your-heart · 4 years

Text

Something very important to remember about the “Vulcan is actually an affable small-town community that bullies Spock for being the local delinquent” is that they’re still Vulcans. All of this gossip is shared in the driest, most impersonal terms possible while standing around with absolute stone faces. Newly-wed Amanda nearly has a complete breakdown after her neighbor K’aren gives a two-and-a-half-hour lecture on nutritional theory and the history of Vulcan cuisine, and doesn’t realize until a week later that, from K’aren’s perspective she just popped over to give that ambassador’s sweet new human wife some favorite recipes and she does hope to see her at the upcoming potluck, she’s sure they’re going to be great friends, the problem is that she says things like “I am curious as to the logic of the ambassador’s choice when he selected you as his second wife” to mean “So tell me all about yourself! How did you guys meet?”

81 notes · View notes

lightlorn · 4 years

Text

honestly shizuka got burned badly by two important relationships in their life: their first serious relationship, and their first real love. tw for transphobia and misogyny under the cut.

the former was with a motorcycle punk in their hometown, a young man who played delinquent and looked like freedom to a closet case stuck in a traditional family. they held on tight to him and his gang, thinking they could have some respect due to them if they proved themself. instead, they were treated as a woman in a world where that sex meant little to those in charge. it was... a very volatile relationship in their late teens, that went on a fair bit longer than it should have, and left shizuka with a bit of damage emotionally. it’s also the root of their hair-trigger temper response to being treated as both a woman and inferior.

the latter was their now infamous ex, nobuko. the pair met in college and hit it off, two young people who had spent too long in the closet. shizuka was charming, and outgoing, and their soon to be girlfriend took notice of that. they made a good pair, the more reserved and level-headed nobuko nicely balancing the passionate and purpose-seeking shizuka. for quite some time, things went smoothly between them as they navigated the lgbt+ circles of tokyo together, learning just who they wanted to be in the world. the relationship lasted past graduation, as the two got an apartment together and settled into domesticity. shizuka really came into their own in those days, emboldened by their time in the gay cabaret, self-assured that they could be themself for once in their life. nobuko had to see that they were serious about this for the first time in their life.

and she couldn’t take it. it had been one thing for shizuka to present themself as a man for money and entertainment, it was another thing when it began to infringe on their domestic life. while shizuka was making plans for a future with this woman, that woman was growing restless. the more comfortable shizuka became with being fluid, the more disgruntled nobuko became. it finally boiled over in the worst way.

she said if she wanted to be with a man, she would find a man. that she hated shizuka dressing up and ‘pretending’ to be something they're not. and that cut shizuka deep, that they were accused of somehow changing the terms of and ruining this relationship. nobuko left them the apartment and moved out after nearly 8 years together. like shizuka really saw themself being with this woman the rest of their life, and they got their truth thrown back in their face by someone they loved and trusted so much. the result of this is that shizuka has never had another serious relationship, relying on one night stands or fwb for sexual release and refusing to forge romantic bonds. they also retreated back into the closet a fair bit, convinced that others would leave them as well if they spoke openly of their identity.

they’ve become a different person, honestly. they used to be a lot more open and affable before and with nobuko, and after her, they’ve lot some spark. she’s basically the wound that will not heal, and shizuka stays rightfully angry about that. they just won’t admit that the walls they put up afterwards left them lonely, too. they really do want companionship, platonic or romantic, but trying to get close to them can be like navigating a minefield the nearer you get to their truth.

#transphobia //#misogyny //#i don't care and i won't change myself [SHIZUKA ; HEADCANON]

3 notes · View notes

syncopatedid · 5 years

Text

I’ve been wanting to talk about novel Kakeru for awhile now but my thoughts are still quite a mess and it’s hard to know where to begin.

The thing is… and this is just my personal reading of it… the vibe I get from novel Kakeru feels a bit different from anime Kakeru. I guess the simplest way to explain this is that I don’t see novel Kakeru as nearly the awkward unsociable turtle as I did with anime Kakeru, because there are parts I’ve read that makes me convinced he’s somehow manage to assimilate himself into university life just fine. I’m even a little convinced that among his other circles or same level peers, his personality could have been much closer to this version of Kakeru than the forever tormented and brooding child we see in the series.

In the novel, we got to read about a Kakeru who attended all the club/society group mixers during orientation week (disclaimer: it’s for free food and beer yes, so it’s arguable where his true motivations lie but that’s not the point, since I’d argue someone of Akane’s personality would rather starve than have to go out and mingle, lol) …. and something that I’ve been thinking about since Chapter 2, that Kakeru has managed to make friends. And while it doesn’t mention whether or not Kakeru was the one who initiated those friendships, it definitely dilutes the idea that he’s an anti-social delinquent or an emotionally distant person whom everyone seeks to avoid. My personal headcanon on this? Is that he’s making a sincere effort to be an affable, sociable guy. Because he had enrolled at Kansei U, a non sports school, to break away from his high school past and start a new life. False start of stealing bread aside, he really wanted to move on from the toxic world of competitive running until Haiji pulled him right back in.

I also felt that those friendships outside of Aotake were not superficial or “friendships of convenience” for Kakeru either. In Chapter 4, we read about Kakeru asking one of those friends to help him mark attendance on his behalf because he was skipping out to attend the Tokyo U track meet or something, and we see from Kakeru’s thoughts that, despite that friend not understanding much about the importance of that meet since he did not come from “his world”, Kakeru does feel his friend’s sincerity and appreciates it. It’s a nice fuzzy feeling…. like the kind of friendship in Yuujinchou shared by Takashi Natsume and his normie friends Nishimura and Kitamoto. Yeah, it’s a little and a lot like that.

That is not to say that Production IG got his personality wrong, because Kakeru definitely has baggage, and he has a lot of pent up frustration/anger/restlessness that seems to rear its ugly head whenever it’s related to running.

We read that back in high school, he’s never agreed with the ways his seniors would foist errands on their juniors, and when he became a senior himself, he wouldn’t allow his juniors to wash his shoes for him because he doesn’t see why they should. That “anti-social” behavior of not conforming to norms (including questioning the coach’s harsh training) rubs his track peers the wrong way, but they tolerate and “get along” with him because he produced results in running.… until he punched his coach, anyway. But Kakeru really didn’t play well with anyone from that circle, and had always suspected his track mates were secretly jealous of him and talking behind his back because of the favored treatment he got from the coach (that part is true). The toxic environment conflicts with Kakeru’s ideals, yet he can’t walk away from it because he loves running too much, and ends up self-destructing because of it.

So I suspect that he puts up his guard with people who come from that world (aka Haiji at first), because his distrust runs deep and he’s been hurt by them before. With people who are unrelated to that world, perhaps there’s the possibility that he is softer and more at ease… and I suppose less easily triggered to anger so that makes him easier to get along with. But he’s definitely still lonely in his running world, and it was Haiji and the Aotake squad, people who are in or became part of that world, the world he really wants to love, giving him reasons to fall in love with it again, that he is truly able to feel complete.

Something to think about I guess.

#kaze novel things #Kazetsuyo #Kaze ga tsuyoku fuiteiru #run with the wind #Kakeru Kurahara #*thinks too much about cartoon plots*#Last chance to meta before the last episode #what is this wall of text #You think this post is incoherent you should ask me about my thoughts on Haiji ahaha #I will wake up tomorrow and scream at my grammar #Who's camping out for the last episode because I am #kaze novel translations

174 notes · View notes

osomanga · 5 years

Text

Supinamarada Characters x Golden Kamuy(1)

I invariably end up drawing parallels even though there isn’t really anything much in common. Well…not exactly...

I mean the Yufutsu boys can take the 7th in a fight(not to death, just running with Bokkos. Don’t read that as Bokki. Don’t)

If Golden Kamuy has soldiers, Suinamarada has the hockey boys:-Buzzcuts 🗸 & The first part of training is running with 6kg Bokkos to prepare them with required physical stamina. The bokko=hockey stick=gun.

So Supinamarada is set in Tomakomai, which is very famous for its ice hockey. In fact, Boku Dake ga Inai Machi/Erased is also set in Tomakomai which was it’s mangaka’s hometown. Thank god Satoru isn’t Noda. I was actually surprised when I first read it I thought, wait, the houses look straight out of Erased and then...

And not just Tomakomai. The protagonist high school is Yufutsu. Yufutsu, Tomakomai was where they first met Inkarmat at Huci’s brother's place and then the horse race where Kiro-chan showed off his jockey skills and Shiraishi lost.

The main rival team(or only significant one, since the manga was too short) is Kiyosato from Hachinohe, Aomori.

Anyway, about the characters...

Sometimes the eyes, sometimes eyebrows, sometimes the whole person. Rarely the personalities.

These boys(and two gals) are precious.

Precious!!

If Noda balances his bad guys in GK, he creates a high school scenario with not a manga high school, a nice high school, with a seriously Nihei-style crazy boot camp for rowdy but serious pro hockey aspirant high school boys who are good, good guys, and troubled young adults. The ones that aren’t just a lil bit bad are truly, wholsome-ly good!!

0.Nihei’s great great grandson

He’s Nihei++

Has same surname kanji 二瓶 .

That Beware, bear! sign...was turned into a Beware, Nihei! XD

He actually makes me wonder about a universe where Nihei trained the 7th Division.

1. Sugimoto and Tanigaki had a son who became the protagonist. Three protagonists.

a. Genjiro eye shape a little, Sugimoto everything else. Can’t remember who has his cat pupils but I know I’ve seen it somewhere. Shirakawa Rou - violent figure skater who finally found his place in ice hockey. (He has brown hair too)

b. Sugimoto is very Genma Kouichi. Very so. The entire eyebrows and eyes(except pupil) are identical.

c. Genma Keiichi, the younger Genma brother, is also a lil Sugi.

The Genma brothers(though not the same characters) were also the protagonists of Noda’s award-winning short “ゴーリーは前しか向かない ”. Kouichi is the goalie(goalkeeper).

2. The Hanazawa Eyebrows

Ogata’s reincarnation who has his delinquent tendencies but with Yusaku’s affable nature - Most importantly, The telephone receiver eyebrows and ok, Ogata’s nose

Meet Kai Kengo. One of the bestest boys ever!

He’s Ogata. In many ways. Except being far too nice natured and emotional.

Don’t kill me for this edit where I only erased lines and cut Ogata’s hair. They’re the...same

3. Finally Noda gave the Genma brother’s eyes to someone

All the eyes are quite distinct but the Genma bros have the most curious impossible pupils. Square white. And it’s been their distinguishing feature.

Ariko!

4. When Ushiyama talks like Koito all the time

The usual cute running gag of the guy no one but his best friend can understand - meet Ushiyama Souta who talks in the manga version of hieroglyphics(ancient japanese calligraphy). (Ushiyama Souta and Ushiyama Tatsuma do have the same surname kanji 牛山 ).

He speaks in very heavy dialect - Hamakotoba of coastal south Hokkaido. And Kumano is the only one who understands him.

5. Kumano reminds me of a buff Nikaido..

Nah...That large sized brothel owner that wanted to sell Asirpa off and also later got bowled out by a rampaging Ushiyama:-

The more apt Nikaido is Mukai or put both’s features together

6. Usami and the hospital guy’s common descendent - the inverted U eyebrow and mole! Added pretty eyes!

Mizushima Hiroshi! Special move-armpit farts. Seriously. Was fat but then Nihei’s torture shaped him up

Talking of Usami...

No idea who-some Kiyosato guy.

7. Kiroranke’s descendant married Tsukishima’s

Kiro-chan’s eyes, Tsukishima’s eyebrows+goatee+nostrils(but on a nose) and their equal combined energy is...creepy.

At first glance more like Tsukishima with a nose, happy, confident and coaching with heavy tactics

Wakabayashi Hiroki is named after real-life Japanese ice hockey coach (exact same name) who helped Noda providing him information on ice hockey and tactics. They have different career histories, however. The manga Wakabayashi was formerly gk(goalkeeper) with Russian team.

8. Best girl Wakami=....Sugimoto if he were a girl. Seriously...

She is an angel. An angel!

Plus a lil’ Edogai-ish

9. Dohi

Enough said...

10. Tanigaki.... if he was disastrously lucky. And his eyebrows compounded on themselves and were grey

Azumi Masaki. The “luckiest” guy in the world.

11. The Eyebrows that have no beginning nor end

Tanigaki v.0 bequeath a slimmer version of his eyebrows unto Koito Heiji

color scheme-

12. Neko - Neko the first’s 75th grandkat

Yubari is close to Tomakomai.

13. Kiroranke and Shirashi had a kid. Who had a kid with Ogata and a gold eyed cat’s Vasily’s kid.

And that kid is equal parts Ogata and equal parts the sweetest dork like Shiraishi who smiles like the most beautiful angel.

His smile is so beautiful - its creeps guys out. He’s got Yusaku’s nose and ever since I saw this cute fanart on twitter of a police Yusaku....who is made to look identical to Kiribuchi...

Nah...still more Ogata

Meet Kiribuchi Yuuto!

Koito Heiji and Kiro-chan’s tufted hair and...

Grows into Ogata’s goatee.

On that note, both Kiribuchi(=Ogata) and Wakabayashi(=Kiroranke) were the ‘anatgonists’...

Hmm....

14. Kiribuchi Yuuto Part 2

Adding to it…Kiribuchi is from Hachinohe, Aomori(Aomori…) - a port city and suffers from sea-sickness and yet they always travel to Tomakomai via ferry even though its an established fact that he gets sea sick. With him its a gag; Koito Otonoshin-kun’s seasickness is a lil’ dark.

And well, another person he kindof resembles

is Fina.

(though we haven’t seen much of her and maybe its coz of those light eyes that’s almost a universalRussian-characterly common.)

Kiribuchi’s eyes are yellowish/amber(?) in the colorspread and hair is silver(though since his parents run a beauty salon...)

On that note, lil’ Vasya’s a lil similar too(to Fina too with the eyebrows)

Ummm….so, say Olga had survived she’d have been a lil older than Asirpa and a lil’ younger than Koito. So Kiribuchi’s like in an alternate universe, great-grandchild of Koito and Olga...

15. Ishizaki Mitsuo

Just give him a fuller moustache and he becomes:-

That random Kagoshima school master that called Koito a bonbon.

16. Kouro Naoto

The Captain of Tomakomai Yufutsu High’s Ice Hockey team is literally the most positive and upbeat guy who keeps the team together with great leadership skill.

And he sparkles. Those diamondy spakles of positivity just overflowing from his person!!!! And his extra sparkly eyes!!

Just like our dearest Maiharu Gansoku!!

Also…don’t do anything stupid or harm his team and get him angry.

He’ll obliterate you.

Literally.

(That pic is of him lecturing the team though when they got too down in the dumps. But,yeah. Don’t get him angry)

Like when Higuchi and Keiichi’s fight spiralled out of control…

He stepped in…

Considering Nihei drilled the entire lot of them into having the required extraordinary stamina and strength, Kouro’s tossing of the otherwise large-sized and almost equally strong former captain Higuchi is no mean feat of strength.

He and Gansoku…would’ve really, really hit it off.

17. Higuchi

On that note, Higuchi is just a lil’ similar to Oyabun

Just a lil’ appearance-wise…and yakuza-ing wise.

Even though it is a coincidence, putting Oyabun and Higuchi’s names together one gets Kiichiro Higuchi, the last commander of the Sapporo command(after the 7th got split into 2); the one for 7th at Asahikawa was Koito Gyoichi.

35 notes · View notes

harunayuuka2060 · 9 months

Text

Cheka and Grim: *sleeping on top of MC*

MC: *who just woke up* *yawns* Seriously, what's the use of renovating two rooms if I'd just end up being a bed? *slowly gets up so as to not wake up the two*

Cheka and Grim: *sleeping soundly*

MC: *decides to call Ruggie* 'Sup, hyena-boy.

Ruggie: Yo, boss! How can I help ya'?

MC: Come over here and cook breakfast. Just break the door so you could get in.

Ruggie: Geez, boss. You know I can just pick the lock. But okay. See you in a bit. *hangs up*

Grim: *wakes up* Hench-human?

MC: Mornin'.

Grim: Good morning... *then nudges Cheka*

Cheka: Huh...?

Grim: Wake up, you freeloader.

Cheka: *yawns* *then beams* MC! Good morning! *giggles*

MC: ...

MC: Wow.

MC: ...

MC: Just sleep again. I'm not dealing with this cheerfulness first thing in the morning.

Cheka: But I'm awake now!

MC: Yeah, yeah. You have like, *checks their non-existent watch*, 20 minutes. Yes.

MC: Thanks for the help, Ruggie. I'll send the money to your account.

Ruggie: Thanks, boss! Shyeheehee!

Ruggie: By the way, are you not going to send Cheka back home?

MC: They shipped him back. Looks like I'll be raising the kid. The fuck.

Ruggie: *laughs*

Crowley: MC~ My favorite employee~.

MC: What d'you want?

Crowley: *clears throat* Well, there's something I would like to confirm.

Crowley: Did you, by any chance, visit a stripper's club?

MC: Yeah. Why?

Crowley: *smiles*

Crowley: A NIGHT RAVEN COLLEGE PARENT HAD SEEN YOU! WHAT WERE YOU THINKING DANCING ON A POLE?!!

MC: *looks unfazed* You're yelling at me?

Crowley: Um, no. I'm sorry. Though I deserve an explanation to that behavior, don't I?

MC: I just danced. I didn't strip. Unless that's fucking illegal, in which I don't give a fuck also.

Crowley: ...

Crowley: But the parent is the Leech Twin's father.

MC: Huh. So? That shouldn't be a big deal to him.

Crowley: He wanted me to dismiss you!

MC: Because he wanted to hire me and my schedule's already full.

Crowley: Oh.

Crowley: Alright. I was almost outsmarted. Thank you for enlightening me.

MC: ...

MC: Tch.

Floyd: Come with us at the Coral Sea~. *while holding a knife*

MC: What? You think I have gills?

Jade: We've prepared a potion for you.

Azul: Floyd and Jade's father really wants to meet you.

MC: That little— What does he not understand with the word "no"?

Jade: I believe he mentioned that he deserves to have a pole-dancing rematch.

MC: ...

MC: Huh. I can't reject that.

Azul: You're free to bring your two kids.

MC: *clicks tongue*

Floyd: We can hire a nanny~.

MC: It's settled then.

#twisted wonderland #twst mc #twst cheka #twst grim #twst ruggie #twst crowley #twst jade #twst floyd #twst azul #the affable delinquent

1K notes · View notes

physiologicdeadspace · 5 years

Photo

Charles Albright was a serial killer in Texas, who between 1990 and 1991 murdered several female prostitutes. Charles was a white, 57 year old married male with children, with a history of juvenile delinquency, property crimes and prior incarcerations. As a child he experienced mental and emotional abuse as well as rejection by his parents. A product of an unstable home, Charles developed an intense hatred for women. He derived great satisfaction in bludgeoning and shooting his victims.

Charles was no ordinary man. He was very intelligent, he was fluent in Latin, Spanish and French, or at least he promoted himself in that light. He became a biology teacher and skilled taxidermist. Charles was a skilful painter and musician and was adored by women. He had a great sense of humour and was portrayed as the class clown in college. He was a ladies’ man and enjoyed impressing them with his varied artistic talents. He was athletic and enjoyed coaching football and later playing slow-pitch softball. He was very affable and mingled well in groups.

Yet there was a disturbing side to him that seldom could be seen. He could not hold a job more than few months. Charles portrayed himself as a faithful family man, but he frequented prostitutes. He developed some masochistic attitudes. He carefully concealed his history of thefts. He forged his college transcripts, making it appear that he had graduated. He once referred to his biological mother as a prostitute, although there was no proof of his accusations.

He raped a 13 year old girl when he was 51 years old but managed to minimise the incident. He became increasingly sexually aggressive with women. He was a consumate liar and con man. Along the path of adolescence Charles also developed a fascination and obsession with eyes. He was always trying to paint perfect eyes. He would paint portraits without eyes because he felt he could not do the eyes justice. When the autopsies were performed on his victims, the staff discovered that the eyeballs of each victim had been surgically removed without damaging the eyelids. The eyeballs were never recovered.

#charles albright #serial killer #serial killers #true crime #crime #murder #murderer #killer #eyeball killer #the eyeball killer #mutilation #post-mortem mutilation #enucleation

119 notes · View notes

randomestfandoms-ocs · 2 months

Text

Get To Know: Aurélia Agreste ✤ Draconis

(sections were compiled from various tag games that I've done over the years)

POSITIVES

FLAWS

absent-minded ⋆ abusive ⋆ addict ⋆ aggressive ⋆ aimless ⋆ alcoholic ⋆ anxious ⋆ arrogant ⋆ audacious ⋆ bad liar ⋆ bigmouth ⋆ bigot ⋆ blindly obedient ⋆ blunt ⋆ callous ⋆ childish ⋆ chronic heroism ⋆ clingy ⋆ clumsy ⋆ cocky ⋆ competitive ⋆ corrupt ⋆ cowardly ⋆ cruel ⋆ cynical ⋆ delinquent ⋆ delusional ⋆ dependent ⋆ depressed ⋆ deranged ⋆ disloyal ⋆ ditzy ⋆ egotistical ⋆ envious ⋆ erratic ⋆ fickle ⋆ finicky ⋆ flaky ⋆ frail ⋆ fraudulent ⋆ guilt complex ⋆ gloomy ⋆ gluttonous ⋆ gossiper ⋆ gruff ⋆ gullible ⋆ hedonistic ⋆ humorless ⋆ hypochondriac ⋆ hypocritical ⋆ idealist ⋆ idiotic ⋆ ignorant ⋆ immature ⋆ impatient ⋆ incompetent ⋆ indecisive ⋆ insecure ⋆ insensitive ⋆ lazy ⋆ lewd ⋆ liar ⋆ lustful ⋆ manipulative ⋆ masochistic ⋆ meddlesome ⋆ melodramatic ⋆ money-loving ⋆ moody ⋆ naïve ⋆ nervous ⋆ nosy ⋆ ornery ⋆ overprotective ⋆ overly sensitive ⋆ paranoid ⋆ passive-aggressive ⋆ perfectionist ⋆ pessimist ⋆ petty ⋆ power-hungry ⋆ proud ⋆ pushover ⋆ reckless ⋆ reclusive ⋆ remorseless ⋆ rigorous ⋆ sadistic ⋆ sarcastic ⋆ senile ⋆ selfish ⋆ self-martyr ⋆ shallow ⋆ sociopathic ⋆ sore loser ⋆ spineless ⋆ spiteful ⋆ spoiled ⋆ stubborn ⋆ tactless ⋆ temperamental ⋆ timid ⋆ tone-deaf ⋆ traitorous ⋆ unathletic ⋆ ungracious ⋆ unlucky ⋆ unsophisticated ⋆ untrustworthy ⋆ vain ⋆ withdrawn ⋆ workaholic

SKILLS

FEARS

LOVE LANGUAGES: SHOWING

ACTS OF SERVICE ~ dishes ⋆ laundry ⋆ change the bedding ⋆ put gas in the car ⋆ clean the car ⋆ pack ⋆ cook a meal ⋆ feed/walk the dog ⋆ pay the bills ⋆ mop ⋆ sweep ⋆ organise ⋆ “let me do this for you” ⋆ take the kids to school ⋆ call the plumber ⋆ grocery shop ⋆ doing chores together RECEIVING GIFTS ~ trading presents ⋆ thoughtful presents ⋆ surprises ⋆ buying dinner ⋆ big presents ⋆ small presents ⋆ handmade presents ⋆ expensive gifts ⋆ time-consuming presents ⋆ humorous presents ⋆ holiday/anniversary presents ⋆ edible treats ⋆ tokens ⋆ “I saw this and thought of you” QUALITY TIME ~ communication ⋆ direct eye contact ⋆ dates ⋆ vacations ⋆ car rides ⋆ shared hobby ⋆ “let’s do something together” ⋆ walks in the park ⋆ sitting in comfortable silence ⋆ solving a problem together ⋆ discovering shared interests ⋆ making an effort to spend time together WORDS OF AFFIRMATION ~ “I love you” ⋆ pet names ⋆ nicknames ⋆ compliments ⋆ hidden meanings ⋆ private jokes ⋆ “I’m so proud of you” ⋆ public acknowledgement of the relationship ⋆ “You are really good at (blank)” ⋆ “You look nice today” ⋆ “I like your (physical description)” ⋆ “I like the way you (do something)” ⋆ open/honest communication ⋆ handwritten notes/texts ⋆ encouragement/support PHYSICAL TOUCH ~ hugs ⋆ surprise/from behind hugs ⋆ hair touches ⋆ shoulder brushes ⋆ petting ⋆ polite PDA ⋆ graphic/mature PDA ⋆ hand holding ⋆ sitting on each other’s lap ⋆ sharing a single chair ⋆ sitting very closely together on the couch ⋆ cuddling ⋆ shaking hands ⋆ nose kisses ⋆ forehead touches ⋆ face/neck touches ⋆ sharing a blanket ⋆ sharing body heat ⋆ face/neck kisses

LOVE LANGUAGES: RECEIVING

#aurélia agreste #ocappreciation #fyeahsuperverseocs #draconis #from the ashes #get to know #my work #my edits #my manips #my ocs #miraculous ladybug oc #batman oc

2 notes · View notes

zykaben-art · 5 years

Text

OC Masterpost

I keep a list of my OCs and the tags that I use for them here but this list is going to be a bit more in-depth.

This thing is long so I’m gonna put everyone under the cut.

D&D Characters — What it says on the tin.

Lulrin Malmun — A fallen aasimar wizard with a tragic past. Lulrin grew up as a protector aasimar in a happy community but he felt extremely isolated in his teenage years. This lead to him being manipulated by a tiefling named Nirza. Lulrin fell in love with her and she lured him into doing terrible things in the name of his love. Because of this, Lulrin fell and became something of an emotionless puppet for Nirza. She died a few years later, leaving Lulrin lost and conflicted and overwhelmed. He ended up removing his soul from his body to cut himself off from his emotions. He’s gotten a lot better since then—his soul has been returned to being inside of him and he’s made a good number of friends! He loves knitting and hot chocolate.

Haedus — Full of restrained anger and passion, Haedus is a bladesinger wizard. His rapier and his magic are potent weapons that he uses efficiently. He’s typically silent and wears a mask to hide his face. I’m still fleshing him out fully but he’s a very fun character.

Sly Silvervale — Sly is a half-elf monk who is doing his best to amass funds so that he can fulfill his dream of opening a tavern that can provide a good time, quality food and drink, and a place where others can find rest and general merriment. While he does his best to act polite, calm, and collected, he is inclined to make sarcastic quips towards friends and enemies alike and can be somewhat oblivious. He loves to cook for himself and for others and he also enjoys bartending and mixing drinks.

Stefan — A revenant NPC in my Curse of Strahd campaign(s). Stefan is crude and hotheaded, eagerly seeking out enemies to slay but quick to make friends. He can’t remember much of his time before being a revenant, but he’s pretty okay with that.

Sorina — She grew up as an orphan in her home town but was raised in a very loving and caring community. She’s kind and witty but won’t hesitate to tease her friends or fight her enemies. Stubborn and strong, she’s a brilliant guard.

Marek — He grew up alongside Sorina as an orphan. Marek is charming and flirtatious, preferring to keep all his shirts unbuttoned when he can and never passing up on a good time. The only thing he loves more than fun is his friends.

Jamila Shani — A sun soul monk and cleric of Ra. Jamila is an agent of violence and chaos, though it’s been directed in a more productive direction as of late. She grew up alone and on the streets, fending for herself. She approached an order known as the Monks of Ra and wished to join them. She was mocked and ridiculed instead. She then taught herself to read and stole (and later returned) scriptures so that she could learn the ways of the Monks. She then ran off where she became an assistant to Hemaka, a newly-illiterate scribe for the pharaoh. The two of them have since taken to adventuring and stopping the end of the world.

Heroes of Two Galaxies — Characters in a sci-fi campaign (based on Endless Space 2).

Laurence Verity — Laurence grew up on an Unfallen planet as a citizen of the United Empire. He was encouraged to pursue his interests and curiosities by his parents and community. He soon became dedicated to doing the right thing and ensuring that everyone was treated fairly. From there, he decided to become a lawyer, more intent on making sure that the truth came out rather than necessarily winning the case. When he moved to Raia, the capital planet of the United Empire, he was aghast to find that the government and judicial system were rife with corruption. He did his best to play within the parameters of the law but it quickly became apparent that no true justice was going to take place with the current state of things. Over the years, with encouragement from his mentor Runo and his husband Blaise, Laurence set out to find a way to reform the government so that it was truly fair. His actions earned him an invitation to the Academy, a collection of influential figures throughout the galaxies. Laurence accepted and has since graduated as a Hero, working with his current team while trying to fulfill his own goals.

Blaise Annora — Laurence’s husband and a semi-famous actor. Blaise grew up as an orphan who quickly fell in love with theatre and dedicated his life to becoming an actor. After a rough start (a failed television show and lots of commercials) during which he met and began dating Laurence, Blaise got his big break and has shown no signs of slowing down since then. Blaise is charismatic and fun to be around, someone who is lively bright. He donates incredibly frequently to charity due to his own childhood. He loves Laurence dearly and is the only person who Laurence likes being called “Law” by.

Runo Batin — An affable and outgoing man with a penchant for the dramatic. Runo is regarded as one of the best lawyers in the United Empire and is a mentor to Laurence. He’s kind yet distant and Laurence is determined to unravel the mystery that is his mentor.

Jared and Co. — Sometimes a family can be a group of magical misfits in a cottage in the woods. Traditional high-fantasy aesthetic. The main rules governing magic is that mages all have certain powersets that can be built upon but the kind of magic that an individual has is luck of the draw.

Jared — Jared is a very unique individual for a variety of reasons. His magic is some of the most powerful that any modern mage has ever seen before—energy manipulation and teleportation. Because of this, Jared is a force to be reckoned with. However, Jared abhors violence and he’s much happier to spend his time in his cottage, taking in all sorts of people, offering them tea, knitting them scarves, and being an endearing goofball. He can’t help but offer others assistance and has a heart of gold.

Damien — Damien was unlucky enough to be born with magic that is classified as necromancy. Necromancy as a field of magic is heavily disliked and makes it incredibly hard for anyone with that class of magic to be accepted for just about anything. Thus, Damien jumped at the chance to work for a guild, underpaid and unfair as the work was. He was originally assigned to neutralize Jared for taking away business from the guild. However, he was quickly defeated and offered a drink and a place to stay. Damien was wary but accepted. He has yet to regret it. He’s somewhat cold and stiff but cares fiercely for his newfound friends.

Seraphima — Seraphima is a half-human half-dragon hybrid who is one of the residents of Jared’s cottage. She was abandoned early on in life, unwanted by the dragons for her human half and feared by the humans for her draconic heritage. She was found by Jared after a nasty encounter with some particularly cruel humans. Jared immediately took her back home and recruited the help of Anica to heal her. The two of them were able to patch Seraphima up and Jared offered up his home. Seraphima eventually accepted. She’s a free spirit who enjoys a good challenge and isn’t afraid to tackle her problems head-on. She has taken up the role as the protector of Jared and his “strays” and guards them just as fiercely as any dragon protects their hoard.

Anica — A wood nymph who lives near Jared’s cabin. She is one of Jared’s oldest friends, though she has avoided the title of “stray”. She is calm and collected, offering food and healing to whoever she can. She is soft-spoken and has a great love for all of nature. She and Seraphima are wonderful friends, despite the vast differences in their magic and personalities.

Siri — Siri is a nomadic mage who has ice and snow manipulation magic. Because it drains her magic greatly to take water and turn it into ice or snow, she travels with the cold so that she can always use her magic. She stays at Jared’s cabin during the winter. She’s excitable and patient, delighting in new experiences and telling stories of her travels. A generally warm person despite her powerset.

Helen — A former assassin mage who used to belong to the same guild that Damien once did. When Damien failed to return from his mission, Helen was sent in his place. She’s cold and professional, rarely letting her emotions get the best of her. Her magic allows her to turn the blood outside of her body into incredibly potent acid, making her a dangerous foe. However, Jared was able to tire her out and then heal her, treating her with great kindness that she could not help but be moved by. She has since become another resident of Jared’s cottage.

Two Assholes in a Handbasket — Not so much a story as it is these two characters for the moment. Once I work something out I’ll update this more fully. They’re definitely in a modern-day setting without magic, though. Likely in high school.

Jason “J” Stone — J is something of an asshole with amazing computer skills. He doesn’t care for other people (with the exception of Derek) and has been living on his own ever since his parents left and never came back home around when he was 15 years old. He’s cold and sarcastic and independent, viscerally hating people who try to take away his freedom. He’s calm and aloof and it’s generally challenging to get him really, truly angry. Fairly apathetic to most others and gives no shits about school. Derek is his best friend and J is sure to help Derek get through his problems by using logic or calming him down.

Derek — A delinquent through and through. Derek is large and intimidating. He never starts a fight without a reason, but at times the reasons can be petty at best. He used to be more of a bully in middle school and the start of high school, but that fizzled out when he became friends with J. Derek officially lives with his foster parents, both of whom are not kind or pleasant people, but in truth he lives in J’s apartment, helping to cover the price of rent. J is his best friend and Derek is sure to help J remember to eat, sleep, and generally take care of himself.

Demons, Magical Contracts, and Other Disasters — A world where humans need all the edge they can get against other, more magical societies. Thus they have turned to forging contracts with demons for magic in exchange for their life force.

Silas & Caleb — A two-in-one sort of deal. Silas is a human host and Caleb is the illusion demon that he made a contract with. Though the relationship started off normally enough (at least, normal between a demon and a human) it soon became one of mutual respect, then friendship, then romance. The two of them Bonded (the demonic equivalent of a matrimonial contract) and have this achieved something akin to immortality and unlimited power. They’re incredibly powerful but they care more for stirring up trouble than doing anything truly nefarious or ambitious. They’re definitely not going to be the main character of the story, but they’ll definitely show up a few times to cause mischief.

Pokemon

Rowan — A pokemon trainer(?) who I am still fleshing out a personality and backstory for, but whose design I love. I’m going to have a lot of fun with them.

Supernatural Apartment Complex — An urban fantasy setting where supernatural beings live alongside our society, though they are vastly outnumbered. Their existences are ones that are kept secret. All of the characters here are all part of the same supernatural apartment complex.

Galen — One of the few humans in the apartment complex, Galen is a Magician (human magic-user) and an incredibly proficient one at that. However, Galen wishes to inspire awe in the world through stage magic and illusionary, not his actually real magic. Thus, Galen is training to be the greatest stage magician that the world has ever known without the use of his magic. He’s dramatic, mysterious, and more than a little silly.

Seth — Galen’s werewolf boyfriend. Seth is a fashion designer for the supernatural, creating all manner of comfortable and stylish clothing. He’s intuitive and has a brilliant eye for design. He’s fun to be around but he’s much calmer than Galen, not to mention more straightforward and blunt.

Conni — Seth’s older sister. Both she and Seth inherited lycanthropy from their parents. She’s reckless and stubborn and never passes up an opportunity to mess with her little brother. She’s a personal trainer at a local gym and takes pride in her strength and muscles.

Lonan — Conni’s roommate. Lonan is a harpy that works as an editor for the local paper. She’s somewhat shy and quite diligent in her work ethic. She’s a sucker for staying up late watching all sorts of shows and videos. Conni often teases her by saying that Lonan would go fully nocturnal if it weren’t for her job.

Killian — A vampire who is the landlord of the apartment complex and runs the coffee shop that makes up the first floor of the building. Killian is always wearing at least semi-formal wear and always acts perfectly calm, respectable, and polite. He’s a great landlord to all his tenants. Despite all of this, no one really knows that much about him.

Faye — A lazy laidback faerie who typically spends their day lounging about their room, making cryptic statements, or creating art. Faye tens to not talk with the other residents when they can help it. Their history is largely unknown since they don’t talk much in the first place and tend to avoid the topic. With Killian’s permission, they’ll put up some of their work around the coffee shop for customers to marvel at or purchase.

Reyes — Faye’s roommate who co-owns a shop with Jira. Reyes is typically loud and outgoing with a penchant for mischief and challenges. He gets along fairly well with Conni when the two aren’t engaged in a prank war. Even Faye has admitted that Reyes is likable, “regardless of how annoying he is”. Reyes is a tattoo artist who takes great pride in his work and uses Faye as his own personal critic.

Jira — Jire is a dryad who owns the flower shop half of the shop she co-owns with Reyes. Jira is quick to lose her temper and take petty revenge, but she doesn’t really hold grudges. She’s lively and fun to be around and is constantly giving out flowers as gifts to her friends. She takes great pride in her shop and works well with Reyes.

Marina — Jira’s wife and roommate. Marina is a mermaid/siren. She’s a marine biology professor at the local community college who deeply loves her subject area and educating others. She’s gentle and helpful but will never stand for someone being rude or disrespectful. When she gives lectures, she’ll use her magical voice so that people are enchanted to pay better attention and recall the material more clearly.

Star Buds — A tale of Void and Nix, two beings that are of a race of essentially sentient, humanoid stars known as the Vanithen. They’re looking to make as many friends as possible.

Void — Void is sweet and kind and just wants to be friends with everyone. They’re incredibly empathetic and a people-pleaser. Be kind to them or they’ll cry.

Nix — Void’s best friend. Nix is the more logical of the two and is the skeptic to Void’s open trust and belief. Nix has steered them both out of trouble many times.

Hollow Knight OCs — OCs for the game, Hollow Knight.

Heart — A vessel OC with a major case of Corvid Brain who adores cute and shiny things. To find out more about them, check here.

Plum — A kind and spunky gal who loves to knit. She dual wields her razor sharp knitting needles. To find out more about her, check here.

#my ocs #masterpost #text

1 note · View note

jacereviews · 5 years

Text

Review: Sakamichi no Apollon

Manga Consumed in English Also known as: Kids on the Slope

I first heard about this series due to the Shinchiro Watanabe directed anime, which I’d watched a long time ago. At the time I didn’t think much of it, but I was also a much younger and more close-minded individual. Years later, here I am revisiting the series in its manga form. Yuki Kodama’s 2007-2012 manga about life, love, and Jazz music. Let’s rock.

PLOT: 1966, a young Kaoru Nishimi transfers to yet another school. Due to his father’s work he’s always moved about, never really connecting with anyone. However he runs into the school delinquent, Sentarou Kawabuchi. The two form an unexpected friendship, helping each other through the ups and downs of life and playing jazz together. While nothing new, the set-up is effective. We follow Kaoru and Sentarou through their 3 years of high school and the events that come with. We see both characters deal with the damages of their past as they move on to the future. While, as with any drama, the situations were by and in-large caused by the main characters, it never really hit an obnoxious degree and very rarely did the situations feel particularly contrived. They were very natural and very impactful, and the manga’s brief length kept it from ever feel like it was repeating itself or dragging for dragging’s sake. The series mostly focused on the main trio, though it did spare some time for the stories of Yurika and Junichi which I found to be some personal highlights. If there’s any complaint I have it��d be that the original ending lacked much punch, however the bonus track volume adds more and wraps the story up in a rather nice manner.

8/10, a good drama story yet lacking in the horseshit that they sometimes come with.

CHARACTERS: A drama’s story is only as good as its characters. Our protagonist Kaoru starts off the series as someone damaged by his loneliness. We of course see him grow out of that over the course of the series. While many times he does let his emotions get the better of him and put himself in trouble, his genuine love for the people around him shows through. We see him not only grow up, but loosen up, such as his transition from rigid classical music to the reactive and improvising jazz. His character arc is quite satisfying. Next up is Sentarou, the force to shake up Kaoru’s world. Despite his delinquent reputation, Sentarou’s quite the nice guy, if a bit aggressive. He’s got a bright energy to him and the force to change those around him, even if that strength is built on a troubled past. He’s the one who gets our lead into Jazz and is generally the motivating force of a lot of the series. I found him to be quite likeable in his genuineness and learning of the scars he bears I found to be quite the emotional trip. Rounding out the trio is Ritsuko Mukae, Sentarou’s childhood friend, Kaoru’s crush, and the daughter of the owner of the record store at which the cast practice their music. She’s a very kind and gentle figure and adds a softness to the main cast balancing them out. Despite her affable nature and likeability, I found she lacked presence in comparison to the other two leads. While it’s natural I do wish we got to spend a bit more time with her as her rather than sticking to her in relation to the other leads.If there were to be a fourth main character it’d be Yurika Fukahori. She starts of simply and a crush at first sight for Sentarou, but moves into a leading role for a good portion of the manga. Unlike Ritsuko we do get to see a bit more of her personal life and struggles and her arc in the manga is one of my favorite portions. Lastly I want to give brief mention to the character of Junichi, while I won’t go into details on why I want to mention him for spoiler reasons, I also really liked his character arc. As for minor characters go, there were a few comedy characters and some other minor characters to flesh out the cast but the real focus was on prior mentioned characters.

8/10, some strong and likeable characters brought up by each other.

VISUALS: Yuki Kodama’s arts has its strengths and weaknesses. To start with the negatives, the art is really flat. Not in an emotional sense but everything felt really two-dimensional. (While duh it is two-dimensional, nothing felt like it popped.) On occasion I’d feel like characters felt off but not to any real demeritable amount. On the positive side however, is the expression and emotion tied into the art. There are a lot of scenes that come off as quite beautiful and really convey the feeling of the scene in a rather powerful way. This ability is also used masterfully in scenes with music, managing to convey the feelings of music in a soundless medium. A lot of the settings were visually interesting including the visual use of the titular slope. The characters all had unique and memorable designs and the quality was pretty consistent. As far as flow goes the series does just fine.

7/10, while not perfect the art does definitely have some very strong points.

FINAL SCORE: 8/10

While it’s not a hallmark or a master-classic, Sakamichi is a very strong manga about life and music. It pretty well utilizes a strong cast and finishes right when it needs to. While many people may be put off by the lack of a soundtrack, I find playing some of the music discussed by characters in the background helped me get in the mood but was by no means necessary. If you do read this just make sure to read the Bonus Track volume as well, it’s great. All in all I would recommend this series.

#manga #review #kids on the slope #sakamichi no apollon #yuki kodama #drama #romance #jazz

5 notes · View notes

stillthewordgirl · 6 years

Text

LOT/CC fic: Captain Cold and Me (Ch. 4 of 6)

Sara Lance, unbeknownst to her high school classmates, has connections to some of Star City’s most popular super-powered heroes–but no powers of her own. Then the mysterious Captain Cold saves her from an attack…and does his best to convince her that he’s not the bad guy everyone seems to think he is. And maybe not all of the “good guys” should be trusted…

Chapter 4! Can also be read here at AO3 or here at FF.net.

Sara and Felicity found themselves minor celebrities the next day, thanks to their presence on the monorail car. Felicity was probably more rattled by the revelation about two of her heroes than by the narrow escape, but she was quite amenable to telling everyone about the experience regardless. Sara, amused, let her handle it. She had other things on her mind.

She looked for Len all morning with no luck, finally accepting that he was out that day—an oddity, given that he was generally the most punctual and responsible of students. (“I have to be,” he’d told her cynically once. “Everyone’s waiting for me to screw up and prove myself ...his... son.”) Disappointed—and more than a little thoughtful—she'd tried looking up his address with no luck, then sat and stared out the windows so long in the rest of her classes that her teachers presumed she’d been more rattled by the accident than she’d seemed.

After school, she blew off the Creators Club and made her way to the suite of offices being used by the city higher-ups who’d once been located in City Hall. The secretary, who’d known her since childhood, waved her in with a smile, but once Sara was out of sight, she purposefully wandered past her father’s temporary office and toward the corner office, which Malcolm Merlyn would definitely have taken for himself.

Merlyn was a handsome, apparently affable man, although Sara knew well enough that much of that affability was a front. He’d been Moira Queen’s deputy mayor until she’d resigned after the destruction of the first City Hall, taking over and pushing for a platform of increased law and order with the help of Quentin Lance. Sara’s father hadn’t been all that fond of the other man up until then, but they seemed thick as thieves now, bonded over the loss of wife and son.

Sara still didn’t like Merlyn. At all.

She rapped on the door and waited, then tried the doorknob with little hope. When it turned, though, she pushed the door open slowly, an excuse on her lips about looking for her father. But no one was inside and, surprised at her luck, she stepped in carefully, looking around.

Malcolm Merlyn liked the finer things in life, and even though this space was a temporary situation, that was clear in the décor and furnishings. Sara, wondering idly how much taxpayer money had been spent on the leather chairs and immense mahogany desk, drifted farther in, scanning the room, wishing she had a better idea what she was looking for.

Only one errant sheet of paper marred that immaculate desk, and Sara another step closer to see. It wasn’t a sheet, actually, she realized. It was an envelope, with what seemed to be a word scrawled on it. Sara squinted. Tempest?

“Ms. Lance.”

Sara started, then worked hard to keep any sign of guilt from her face as she turned to face Malcolm Merlyn. “Mr. Mayor,” she exclaimed with a smile. “I’m sorry. I was looking for my dad and I thought he had a meeting with you today.”

“Ah.” Merlyn’s smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. “That’s true. However, that meeting has been done a while now.” Turning, he extended an arm to usher Sara out of the office, and she went with alacrity, careful to show no sign of regret.

“Still,” the mayor said as they walked down the hallway toward Sara’s father’s office, “it’s a pleasure to see you again. It’s been a while.” He paused outside the door. “You’re a senior now? At Kanigher-Broome?”

“Yes,” Sara acknowledged, uneasy with the question for some reason. Why shouldn’t the mayor know that? It would be easy enough to find out anyway. “I am.”

“Hmm.” Another one of those not-really-a-smiles. “I probably still know some of your classmates, from when...Tommy...” A shadow passed his eyes, then was gone. “Although he was a few years older. Let’s see...Felicity Smoak? Raymond Palmer? Nathaniel Heywood?” He nodded as Sara murmured agreement. “Anyone else?”

“Yes? It’s a big class. Or no?” Sara blinked up at him innocently. At least, she tried to look innocent. She wasn’t really sure how well she pulled it off. “I’m not sure what you’re asking.”

“Mal...oh, Sara!” Quentin Lance, heading back to his office from parts unknown, looked a combination of pleased and discomfited to see Sara there, and she prepared herself for a lecture about being out without some sort of protection or escort. It would be worth it to get herself out from under Malcolm Merlyn’s reptilian gaze for now. She politely bade the mayor farewell as her dad fetched his keys, ready to drive her home, and turned away despite her better judgment.

Her shoulder blades itched all the way home.

Sara left a note attached to her window that night: “What is Tempest? Saw note in MM office.”

The response, in metallic blue ink the next morning, was: “Working on that. Thanks for looking.” It made Sara smile, to realize he’d checked in on her, but frown, to realize he’d stopped by and not bothered to actually speak to her. Good enough to do his dirty work, not enough to let in on the problem a little more, she thought with irritation.

“So I’m bad ass, but not enough to help you more with this?” was the response she’d left. There’d been no response to that.

Supers. Ugh.

There continued to be an array of crises around Star City, more than the usual crimes the city was sadly known for—suspicious accidents, vandalism, at least one arson. Oliver and Laurel were kept hopping, and Sara’s father was even more distracted than usual. Everyone assumed Captain Cold was causing the incidents. Everyone, it seemed, but Sara.

“But why?” she asked while sitting in Creator Clubs one afternoon with Felicity, Ray, Barry, Iris, and…slightly on their periphery, a very quiet Len. “Why would he do all this and not take credit for it? And most of it has nothing to do with ice. Why not use his powers if he’s really committed to causing chaos?”

“Well, no one knows his full power set,” Iris pointed out. “Most supers have a few, in addition to the healing factor and other stuff.” She nibbled the end of her pencil, looking thoughtful. Iris was interning at the Star City Citizen newspaper. It’d been far more even-handed than the city’s tabloid paper and all of the bloggers, making no assumptions about the cause of all the incidents, but that didn’t mean the opinion pages weren’t full of letters calling for Captain Cold’s head.

“You’re right,” Iris said finally, looking at Sara. “It’s weird. But if it’s not him…”

“That’s what people are afraid of.” They all looked at Ray, who shrugged. “If it’s not him, they don’t know who it is. And people would rather know. Or think they do.” He frowned at his physics book, open in front of him. “Or they have to realize that everyday crime in Star is really that bad. Or start wondering about another new supervillain…or a hero going bad. Like Green Arrow. Or the Flash.”

Felicity and Barry spoke up at once, defending the heroes, and the conversation went way off track. Sara shook her head (she wasn’t going to defend Ollie, he didn’t need it) and looked over at Len, who’d simply been listening while working on something on his battered laptop.

“What do you think?” she asked him, recklessly, curious to see what he’d say—and not just because of the tiny germ of a suspicion she’d entertained once or twice. They’d talked about a lot, but never this. “About Captain Cold?”

Len propped his chin on his fist and regarded her with those remarkable pale blue eyes. Then he shrugged and glanced back down at his laptop.

“I think he’s an idiot,” he said quietly.

“What? Why?” Sara frowned at him, annoyed both at her impulse to defend the infuriating super and at Leonard’s surprising response. Len was fond of logic, and Sara thought her take on the issue was completely logical. (Well. Mostly.) She also figured he’d be there to defend someone else who might be…unfairly painted with the wrong brush, so to speak.

Len shrugged again. “If he’s innocent,” he said, speaking to his computer and not to her, which was odd, “why doesn’t he say something? Why all this cloak-and-dagger garbage?” He looked up at her, eyes intent. “He’s trouble.”

And to that, Sara wasn’t sure what to say.

But when trouble came, it came from a direction that surprised her—and targeted someone she didn’t expect.

“They actually let that…that man’s spawn into your school?” Quentin Lance’s voice was sharp and angry when he stalked into the kitchen one morning about a week later, and while Sara could tell it wasn’t really directed at her, she still paused in the act of cutting up a banana for her cereal to stare at him. What...

Oh.

How had he heard about Len’s return to Star City? Len kept to himself, refusing to do anything that might put his name out there. Sara knew he’d even asked the school guidance counselors to keep his name off the honor roll listings sent to the local newspapers.

“Dad!” she said, holding up her hands and sending a helpless glance toward Laurel, who was sitting at the kitchen table and eating her own breakfast. Her sister was staring at their father in surprise. “He’s fine. It’s fine. Really! He’s a good guy, and he hates...”

But her father wasn’t even listening to her, instead shaking his head and staring off into space. Seeing, perhaps, the memory of his wife, or the hateful face of Lewis Snart as he’d refused to speak at his own trial.

“It’s OK, honey,” Quentin said, absently, taking out his phone. “I’m going to get that... delinquent...transferred somewhere else. Somewhere away from you.” He shook his head. “I can’t believe he’s even back in Star City. He made some…well, some accusations back…after...” His mouth worked briefly, like he’d tasted something bad. “It’s one of the reasons Malcolm made sure anyone who’d take them in wasn’t in Star,” he continued quietly. “After everything he went through…with Tommy…to hear that...garbage...”

“Dad!”

As much as Sara appreciated Laurel cutting in to back her up, she really would have preferred her sister wait a few more moments. What garbage? Was he referring to Leonard? Something he’d said? He’d only been 15.

Their father looked up in surprise, frowning at the looks on his daughters’ faces. Laurel looked over at Sara, studying her expression, then nodded and looked back.

“Dad,” she said quietly. “Listen to Sara. She’s OK with it. And so am I. It’s not this kid’s fault.” She took a deep breath. “We’re all just trying to...to put our lives back together. You know?”

Quentin stared at her, then looked back at Sara. She licked her lips and nodded in agreement, unwilling to admit yet just how close she and Leonard had grown, but knowing that she didn’t want his life to be upended again just for the “crime” of being someone’s son.

“You don’t know what you’re saying,” her father said quietly. “But...all right.” He turned his phone off and tucked it away again. Sara breathed a sigh of relief. But he wasn’t done quite yet, pointing at his younger daughter, his eyes full of grief and a degree of anger that Sara didn’t understand.

“You stay away from him, though,” he commanded. “You can’t trust that family. Liars and crooks.” He shook his head, then repeated it. “Liars and crooks...”

That didn’t sound like her father, and Sara frowned at him, then at Laurel as he turned away. Her sister gave her a helpless shrug, but she was frowning too.

Well. Her father didn’t seem to realize that Sara had made no promises. And Sara wasn’t going to point that out.

Sara didn’t have the heart to tell Leonard about her father’s near-attempt to get him tossed out of school, although she knew she probably should, just to warn him. She enjoyed his company, a lot, and she was pretty sure they were working their way toward something more.

A few days later, Len confirmed that.

It was the sort of sunny autumn Monday when no one wanted to be in school, and they were no exception. Most of seniors flexed their upperclassmen’s privileges at every opportunity, leaving the building to grab lunch or just sit outside talking during breaks. Len had developed a fondness for perching on the top of one of the stone platforms that flanked the stairs leading up to the school and watching everything around him, and Sara often joined him, enjoying the warmth of the sun-warmed stone and, she’d admit, his closeness.

That particular day, he was leaning backward, propped on his hands, which had the effect of placing one of his arms across Sara’s back, almost as if he had an arm around her. She paused, then leaned into it, and he didn’t move, the physical affection accepted. It was a delicate dance—but it was becoming theirs.

“So,” he said, staring out across the lawn, and reached up with his other hand to rub absently at his shoulder. Even during the warm late fall weather, he always wore long sleeves, and Sara was pretty sure she knew why. But she wasn’t going to bring it up if he didn’t. “Spirit Week, huh? Can’t say I’ve ever taken part in one of those.”

Sara snorted. Yeah, she could really see him taking part in today’s Crazy Hair Monday, or ‘80s Day, any one of the other days during the run-up to the homecoming football game. She studied him a moment, getting a smirk as if he’d read her mind, then shook her head.

“You going to the homecoming game?” he asked after another moment.

“Nah. Football isn’t my thing.”

“Same. Or the dance?”

Hmm. Sara gave him a considering glance. “I wasn’t planning on it,” she said slowly. “Why?”

Len was looking anywhere but her. “Just wondered if you’d like to do something else. Hm. Grab dinner? Maybe?”

Sara tilted her head. Well, well.

“Yeah,” she said. “I’d like that.” She cast him a sideways glance, smiling a little, then elbowed him. “Hey. Just to be clear. You’re talking about a date?”

That got another smirk. “Well. Yeah.” He turned his head toward her a little more, just as Sara leaned toward him a little more, too, and their noses brushed...

“Awww!”

Len sighed, then turned his head and regarded Felicity with weary amusement. Sara’s friend was standing next to them on the stairs, giving them puppy eyes.

“Really?” he asked. Len and Felicity were developing an odd, resigned affection for each other, one based on their mutual fondness for Sara. But that didn’t mean they didn’t give each other shit all the time.

“What?” Felicity beamed up at him, then bumped Sara’s hip with her shoulder. Sara rolled her eyes, then bumped her back. Such was life.

No matter how distracting the notion of going on an actual date with Leonard Snart was, it wasn’t enough to distract Sara from the knowledge that there was more going on with her handsome classmate than met the eye. And she couldn’t get away from the sense of paranoia the whole situation instilled in her, enough that she decided not to search for more information at home or at school.

The library, however, she decided to dare. She could wipe her search history, and she knew the librarians did it again after closing.

The most any of the newspaper reports of the time had mentioned was that Lewis Snart had two children, a son in high school and an elementary-aged daughter. There was no mention anywhere that Sara could find of any accusations by one of those children. She frowned, running her fingers along the edge of the keyboard and glancing around to make sure no one was looking over her shoulder.

So, they must have been made in private. And based on what her father had said, they’d involved the mayor. Well…the current mayor. If Len had made a serious accusation about Malcolm Merlyn to someone after the City Hall quake, it probably would have been Moira Queen.

And the police commissioner.

“Ollie? Can I come down there?”

“Sure,” came the call up the stairs from the basement. “Just…ah, heck. Watch your step, OK?”

Sara shook her head as she stepped over the quiver, arrows spilling out of it, that had been dumped onto one of the stairs, as if it’d just gotten too heavy for its owner. Maybe it had, for all she knew. Oliver and Laurel had been really weary, lately, with everything that was going on.

Oliver’s “ArrowCave” wasn’t really too disreputable, though. Laurel spent enough time down here that it wouldn’t be. And Ollie had come a long way from the irresponsible playboy in the making that he’d been once. But all the fancy furniture Sara remembered seeing in the Queen mansion once was replaced here by comfortable, overstuffed furniture, the expensive paintings replaced by movie posters and photographs of the city. Sara looked around, smiling a little. No wonder Oliver didn’t mind his allowance from his mom. Sara was pretty sure he spent most of it on junk food and weaponry anyway.

The man in question was walking out of his bedroom, a basket of laundry in hand. Yeah, Oliver had come a long way. His blond hair was mussed, he was wearing a pair of ripped sweatpants and a Star City Rockets T-shirt, and he grinned when he saw her.

“Hey, kid,” he greeted her, from the lofty height of two years of advanced age. “To what do I owe the visit? Your sister’s at the college library doing some studying.”

Laurel was doing preliminary law studies online, but sometimes she liked to be out on campus. And Sara knew perfectly well where her sister was. She’d planned it that way.

She took a deep breath, then took a seat on the sofa. “I wanted to ask you a question. About…after the quake.”

Ollie tilted his head, then sat down, watching her. “Go on.”

This had been a lot easier when Sara had rehearsed it upstairs in her room. “Your mom,” she said carefully. “Did she ever say if…if there was any doubt? What caused it? Or…who?” The time was a bit of a blur for Sara, for obvious reasons, but all the news stories she’d found in hindsight hadn’t put blame on anyone but the only person who’d been arrested for it.

Oliver looked started, but not angry at her question. He hesitated, then reached out and put a hand on her shoulder.

“Sara,” he said gently. “It was Lewis Snart. They caught him on video, carrying the device into the tunnels under City Hall, setting it up and then fleeing. Red handed.”

Sara shook her head. “I know that,” she said. “But…” She took a deep breath. “Was he working alone? Was there ever any question? And, I mean, where did he get it?”

She partly expected Oliver to just shoot the questions down, but instead he looked thoughtful.

“Mom said once that there was something,” he said slowly. “But…why wouldn’t Snart have said something? Why wouldn’t he implicate any co-conspirators?” He shook his head. “He didn’t say anything. At his trial. Refused to even speak.”

“I remember.” Sara looked down at her hands, then back up. “But did someone else? Say something?”

Oliver frowned. “Y’know,” he said slowly, leaning back against his chair. “I think maybe someone did? I don’t know who.” He shook his head again. “But I know my mom was really upset by it.” He glanced at Sara. “Turned out it was completely without value. She was really relieved. That’s when she decided to leave the city, get away from the memories.”

Sara bit her lip in frustration. But she didn’t think there was any good way to continue the line of questioning, and she was pretty Oliver had told her all he knew, anyway.

“Don’t say anything to my dad,” she said suddenly. “About me asking. Please? He’s got enough on his mind. And he still hates talking about it.”

Oliver nodded, getting to his face and picking up his laundry basket.

“I promise,” he said solemnly, holding up one hand and balancing the basket on his hip. “Scout’s honor.”

Sara laughed despite herself. “Oliver Queen, you were never a Boy Scout.”

“Still.”

The day of the homecoming game and dance came without incident. Sara threaded her way through the crowds of chattering students at school, smiling to herself at all the green and black for School Spirit Day. Her one concession to the week and the day had been to wear a green sweater and small black hoop earrings, but others went all out—face paint even at school, entire ensembles, and over-the-top headgear.

Leonard was on his usual perch outside, looking around at the gleeful ridiculousness surrounded him with an air of amusement. His eyes lit as he saw her, and Sara grinned, hopping up next to him. She leaned against his shoulder, and he let her, and it was as good as a kiss, nearly, for them.

“So,” she asked as they watched the excited throng, “what are the plans for tonight?” She glanced at Len as he hummed thoughtfully. “C’mon, I let you keep it a secret until now, but I need to have some idea.”

Blue eyes sparkled at her. A corner of his mouth twitched up, and she wondered what he was thinking.

“Well,” he said, “I thought I’d pick you up at home, if that’s OK? Um.” He glanced away, and the mischief in his eyes faded a little. “You probably don’t want your dad to meet me…yet…but I sort of feel like I should meet some member of your family. Your sister, maybe?”

Her dad would almost certainly be at the game as part of the police detail and as a leading public servant. Laurel might be home…or she might be out, being Black Canary. Sara nibbled at her lip, appreciating his gesture even as she pondered the best way to handle this.

“I’ll see what I can do,” she said. “About Laurel. I think maybe she’d sort of like to meet you. Although she doesn’t know that…um. That we’re…”

Dating? Could she say that before they’d actually gone on a date? What were they, anyway? Sara sighed, hating the uncertainty that came with these sorts of things, even without the whole “my father hates you” mess.

Leonard nodded. He had an odd expression too, almost conflicted, presumably for the same reason.

“Well,” he said, seeming to choose his words carefully, “let’s say 6:30, if that’s OK. I have…something to check on…first.” He paused. “So. If your sister can be there…?”

“I’ll try.” She smiled, trying to lighten the mood a little. “But…what should I wear?”

Oh, that was definitely mischief. Len eyed her a moment, that smirk of his hovering around his lips.

“Something you can move in,” he said. “Sneakers, or shoes you can…run in.”

Hmmm. The tiny germ of suspicion unfolded a tiny bit more. “Oh, you don’t want me in that sexy dress I bought, then?” Sara asked lightly, pretty sure there was a good deal of mischief in her own eyes.

He coughed. “Well, now, I didn’t say that. But maybe another time?”

“Deal.”

Sara’s father accepted her demurral about being uninterested in the homecoming game without comment. Sara watched him leave with regret. She really didn’t like hiding something from him but given that he was so uninterested in her life anyway…well, that was how it had to be. Oliver had departed too, planning to perch somewhere he could watch the game and be present in case of trouble,

Laurel had departed for the library, planning to get some studying in, and Sara couldn’t think of a good way to stop her without confessing that she was hiding something from their dad. She waved goodbye, sighed, then went to get ready.

She dressed in good jeans, the ones with a hidden side gusset for greater movement and high kicks, and a form-fitting dark gray top, one that had come inexplicably with a hood. Then she did her makeup with a little more care than usual. Well, just because this wasn’t a conventional date didn’t mean she wasn’t going to do something special.

She was contemplating what to do with her hair, though, when there was a scratch at her window. And as she whirled, it opened, and Captain Cold leaned through.

He pushed back his outer hood and goggles, taking a deep breath and staring at her with those overly blue eyes.

Then, “I need your help,” he said.

Sara stared at him then looked at her phone. Ten minutes to 6:30.

“I have plans,” she said, hoping this wasn’t what she thought it was. “I haven’t seen…you…since you passed out in my room, and now this? No.”

Cold shook his head roughly and let out a noise that was part a sigh, part a curse.

“Damn it, I didn’t want…” he muttered, then buried his head in his gloved hands. But after only a moment, he looked back up, seeing her still standing there, watching him, and apparently noticed the hesitation in her demeanor.

“Something is going down, tonight, now, and the only other person who could back me up isn’t in the city today,” he said, voice catching, slipping out of the habitual low drawl. “You’re right that I said you were bad ass, that…that first night we met. And I need your help. Please?”

Sara closed her eyes, and Cold continued, still in that intense tone. “ I promise…I promise I’ll explain, as much as I can, but I need to go now and I need someone to watch my back.”

She opened her eyes again and studied him, the tense body language, the conflict in his voice. Thought about pale blue eyes and leaning against each other in the fall sunshine, about mystery dates and scarred shoulders and the scent of mint. And tempests.

“OK,” she said finally, hearing him actually sigh in relief. “Just a moment.”

Then she turned away, pulling out her phone and starting a text.

And then she stopped and stared at it a moment. Thinking. Remembering. Putting things together.

And then she put it away, in her pocket, zipping it up securely.

Leap of faith.

Sara quickly braided her hair and coiled it up against her head, pinning it securely. She tucked a knife (another knife) up her sleeve, and grabbed her batons from her weapons rack. And then she turned back to the tall, parka-clad figure who was watching her with such a conflicted expression on what was visible of his face.

“OK,” she told him firmly. “Let’s go.”

#captain cold and me #arrowverse #captain canary #sara lance #leonard snart

4 notes · View notes