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the-king-andthe-lionheart · 2 years

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You know what?�� If you support Sansa Stark becoming Queen in the end, then you should stop harping on about #TeamSmallfolk, because Sansa is not a CHAMPION OF THE SMALLFOLK!!!!! She isn’t. And it’s beyond ridiculous to think she is when she didn’t care one fucking lick about Mycah. And her youth is not an excuse about that, considering how Arya and Bran (2 and 3 years younger than her) actually do care about the Smallfolk. If she cared, she’d look back on what happened to Mycah and be completely horrified. Yet, she isn’t. She isn’t when it happens (in fact she and Jeyne rub Mycah’s death in Arya’s face, blame her for it, and then victim blame Mycah) and she isn’t now.

Oh sure, Sansa can scrounge up a tiny kernal of compassion for Ser Dontos (who actually isn’t exactly nearly as lowly born as real smallfolk and a knight to boot from a old ruling house even though he was the last of that dismantled house) and Sandor Clegane (who also isn’t very lowborn considering his father, a landed knight, was given land and they have their own house and he ascended to become a Kingsguard) and Lothor Brune (who is also related to a house of landed knights and in fact is a knight and captain of the guards). And let’s get this out of the way, Sansa isn’t friends with Mya Stone either and has not shown any real compassion to her plight. All she does is think about how Mya isn’t a maiden, how she used to have a lover that left her, and wondering if she could set Lothar Brune up with her. Oh, yes, she also disparages how Mya is GNC. Hmm...I have to say that those three men are not real smallfolk, so they don’t fucking count. Where exactly is all of Sansa’s compassion for butchers, spinsters, farmers, fishermen, dyers, stableboys, weavers, blacksmiths, innkeeps, bakers, kitchen workers and maids, and sex workers, the lowest of the low, the dirtiest and smelliest of the low, the sickest and most disabled of the low? She has never shown any compassion to real smallfolk, and has never once seriously thought about their plight.

She doesn’t understand, even after being nearly raped and killed in the bread riots, the full scope of why that happens and never cares to learn. She never contemplates why the Smallfolk hated her during that time, but loves Margaery when Margaery’s arrival heralded the arrival of food. And she never once thinks about the lessons she learned in the north about Winter and food scarcity, or food rationing, which is evident by the frivolous and extravagant tourney she has planned in the Vale right as Winter has arrived, with not one thought about the Smallfolk, like Dany and Tyrion do during the feasts they have to take part in due to politics. She never thinks about and donates the leftovers to the smallfolk, like Dany does. Sansa may still be young but all of her siblings know what winter means and they know the stories about the older men who would sacrifice themselves for the young to survive on their limited rations. SANSA DOESN’T CARE!!!!

Oh and if you want to argue about Sansa convincing Joffrey to give a coin to the smallfolk, that wasn’t out of true compassion and care for the smallfolk. That was her trying to stave Joffrey’s murderous tendencies above all else.

So how could you sit there and claim that you are #TeamSmallfolk, yet you support Sansa becoming fucking Queen?! Make that make sense, because it doesn’t. We are going into book 6 and Sansa still doesn’t care about the Smallfolk. She’s not fucking Good Queen Alysanne born again. Now if supporting Queen Sansa was something other than supporting the Smallfolk, and wanting the status quo dismantled, then I could understand that stance even though I don’t support anti-feminist tradfem culture and adhering to the broken status quo. But to say that you are #TeamSmallfolk, and support a more progressive ending for Westeros at the end of the books, then what the fuck are you doing thinking that Sansa as a Queen Regnant would actually mean those things? Sansa doesn’t care about Smallfolk, she doesn’t care about making changes in Westeros, she adheres and values the status quo, so this doesn’t make sense, not one lick. And while I do have a hope that Sansa will grow more positively in the next two books, I do not hold out hope that she will become some champion of the smallfolk by the end and want a more progressive Westeros. Seriously if you want other characters to support as proponents of the Smallfolk and being more progressive, you don’t have to look any further than Dany, Arya, Jon, Bran, and Tyrion.

So like Sansa if you want, even hope that she’ll become Queen, but please for the love of God, stop it with the hypocrisy. Either you support Sansa as queen because you don’t want the status quo to change in the books and you don’t actually care one lick about the plight of the commoner, and are pro-absolute monarchy. And if you aren’t those things, you shouldn’t support Sansa getting a crown. If you want a more progressive ending in the books, then you should know Sansa is not the right choice for that because she’s not progressive and she doesn’t care about the smallfolk, or really anything about ruling or about making her country and the world a better place. It’s not that hard a concept to wrap your mind around, so stop being hypocritical and stop trying to twist who book Sansa really is. It’s beyond annoying.

And if you are having a hard time figuring it out, then remember how Sansa and Arya are foils, and apply this to that. Now which one constantly defends the smallfolk? Which one has an arc seeing and experiencing the actual plight of the smallfolk? Which one believes that women should be equal to men and that all people, smallfolk and noble alike should be treated fairly? Which one doesn’t judge people for being born illegitimate? Which one actually can make friends and be empathetic to people no matter their backgrounds? Which one is actually making friends with bastards and butcher boys and blacksmiths and innkeeps and bakers and dyers and sex workers and fishermen, etc? Yeah, none of that describes Sansa. It describes Arya.

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tarnished-doll · 2 years

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[2/3] Failures and Successes [Godrick/OC]

[PART 1]

i do love writing them at their Most Divorced ngl

cw: descriptions/discussions of child death, experimentation, ect ect godrick wtf are you doing my guy

Marigold kept a distrustful eye on the grafted man as he led her into his bedroom, both for the privacy and for what he kept in it. A dogeared notebook was taken from a writing desk. What it had was no different than the research and note keeping Marigold made in her lab; it contained diagrams, thoughts, logs of operations and lists of needed materials. Fairly competent illustrations mapped out truly terrible, mismatched, monstrous bodies - all belonging to children.

“They all ended up worse than me, healthwise.” There was a dull note of grief in Godrick’s tone, numbed by time and rumination. “Their problems cropped up younger and younger, if they ever survived being born at all.”

Marigold leafed through the pages. It seemed chronologically documented, with the eldest son’s records being first. She flipped over to the back and found diagrams of young Godefroy’s distinctly awful body configuration.

Godrick glanced at them over her shoulder. “You can take those, if you want. I know you must want to ‘fix’ him.”

The Doll hesitated to take the pages. “I don’t know if I can, honestly. He’s the worst I’ve ever seen, and you grafted him before he hit puberty - I never even got as far as to research the side effects of doing that.”

“Well, I beat you to it. It’s all in there; every failure and success I had in fatherhood.” There was no pride in those words; Marigold wasn’t sure what she would do if there was. Hurt him some more, probably. She found him reading through the notebooks along with her, looming over her shoulder. His expression was stone-faced, and guarded.

Some of the other scions were truly hard to look at, and hard to draw, to boot. Though it seemed Godrick’s artistic talent had flourished in detailing the grotesque over the years. Marigold was glad for all of the clear labeling of different body parts, herself. “Are they all your bastards?”

“There’s no sense in wasting a proper heir on this work. Not until I can perfect the right kind of grafts they’ll need.”

“So they truly were just your test subjects, weren’t they?”

“Was I not your test subject, once?” Godrick snapped back at her snide comment. “They were my sons, too. I didn’t want them to have the life I had, I wanted them to be healthy. Even if it meant… replacing the parts of them that weren’t.”

He reached over to flip the book back to the front, detailing his firstborn. Godfrey the Fourth; deceased at age five. The most ‘normal’ of the young scions, in that all of his limbs were of a proportionate size. With it only being imagery and descriptions on paper, the shock of it was dulled. Marigold remembered what Godefroy said: ‘he didn’t want to cut up another child for it’.

She looked over her shoulder to find the grafted man pointedly averting his eyes from his sins. “I was more desperate, then. I couldn’t stomach it for very long. It’s not… it’s not worth it, Doll. I’d rather make living monsters than have twice the number of dead kids on my hands.”

The Doll nodded. She was starting to understand; she hated it, and in that moment she hated him, but she could understand. She saw him at his sickest, and she saw him at his most physically monstrous. He very much preferred one state of being over the other.

Marigold closed the book. “Where are the other survivors?”

“They’re young men by now, for the most part. I let them go off to strike out on their own.” Godrick’s smirk was a mockery of fatherly pride. “Let them and their monstrousness spread my infamy far and wide, if need be. They come back once in a while, bearing gifts and stories, telling me of the full lives they live thanks to me. They don’t resent what I did. They’ve all known what it felt like to have their health take a turn.”

Apprehensively, Marigold looked through the records of the scions with the intent to find a shape that would look familiar. It was difficult finding the boy that she had slain in the graveyard; it had been dark when he jumped her just near the gates, and all she could perceive was a flurry of limbs and swords. Godrick stuck to a similar composition of large abdominal cavities held up by multiple limbs, making differentiating them all the harder at a glance. She could have killed any one of these young men.

“My Lord,” she ventured carefully, “I found one of your sons when I awoke as a Tarnished, in the graveyard on the island just off the coast from here. I killed him, my Lord. I’m sorry.”

Godrick stared at her for a moment, her confession sinking in for him. He cast his gaze down to the floor sadly. “I see. Well… these things happen. They knew the risks.”

Godrick took a seat on his bed with a sigh. His drawn-out exhale came out with a wheeze from no longer having several healthy lungs doing the heavy lifting in his respiratory system.

Marigold sat next to him, still lingering on the notes detailing Godefroy’s condition. She could figure something out, surely. Something to at least streamline his body configuration, make it easier for the poor boy to interact with the world. And that wasn’t even getting into how his condition may change as he went through puberty; Marigold never studied the effects of childhood growth spurts on grafted flesh and bone. Godrick had, however. Measurements from some of the boys were detailed in the margins of his notes, taken intermittently as new grafts were added. Some of them were so small when the procedures began.

The grafted man watched her as she stared at the notes, deep in thought. As one pair of golden hands clutched the book, the other dug their fingernails into the yielding fabric of the bedspread.

“This art gave me a purpose, you know. A purpose that was more than just tending to you.” Marigold flipped through the pages again, going back through every atrocity cataloged within. “I wanted to make something beautiful of what we found; something that could transcend what we thought flesh was capable of.”

She had to close the book, lest she rip out the pages. It shook in her unsteady hands. “But then I wake up Tarnished, and I see all you’ve proven with grafting is that it could make monsters. Of them, and yourself. I cannot believe you managed to take something with so much potential and use it to such ends.”

Godrick straightened his crooked back a little against her hateful glare, matching it with a sneer. “It may be an art, Marigold, but you are not an artist. You are a butcher, like me - you were always a butcher; you just think moderation and symmetry makes it more palatable to an invisible audience. I chose to have alive monsters rather than dead children - what would you have done?”

Marigold didn’t break eye contact with him as they sat, silent, the tension between them tightening like a bowstring. The longer she stubbornly didn’t answer, the more Godrick’s heart sank.

“...Do what you will with him, Doll. I know you will, whether I ask it of you or not.” The grafted man stood with a lurch, still uneasy with his fairly new center of balance. He left her where she sat, rigid, shivering fitfully as her fingers dug into the bedding until it ripped.

#my fanfiction #elden oc posting #godrick the grafted

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noahrussell · 2 years

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TASK 202: THE MINI PLAYLISTS.

Casey Russell- Listen along here

Hey Brother by Avicii- Oh, if the sky comes falling down, for you, There's nothing in this world I wouldn't do.

So I picked this song for a few handful of reasons. Outside the obvious I feel like it’s a testament to the bond Noah and Casey have. I think Ella said it really well that the two of them would be very unlikely friends if they weren’t related and the fact that they are is almost fate like because despite everything Noah considers Casey to be his very best friend. He’s the first person Noah thinks of to look up to and one of the few people in this town he’d do absolutely anything for. I think there’s also a component in the second verse of this song that asks if they still believe in one another which is a big ask after everything they went through last season and the secrets that are starting to come out this season. Asking the big questions.

Everything Must Go by Artist vs. Poet- the pain behind my mother's eyes. She said everything must go. Your comic books, dinosaurs, and GI Joe's. Close that white picket fence. The one you miss when you're not home. She said everything must go

Something I love a lot about the dynamic between Noah and Casey is this story of their turbulent home life that flies under the radar. It’s like yes they both have these much bigger secrets, but they also have this life back home that neither of them talk about. This place that they survived instead of thrived in. This song is kind of my homage to them leaving that place.

Coffee Break by Forever the Sickest Kids- 'Cause I've overcommitted myself. I guess this is growing. I'm sleeping so little these days. I guess this is growing up. I'm feeling things are about to change

This song honestly almost didn’t make the cut but I kept it on here because it’s about taking that break in time just to breathe before getting back into the chaos of the world. That’s very much what I feel like Casey is for Noah. He is that bright moment where he can turn the writing brain off and have fun and be at peace throughout all the dark shit that touches their lives.

I Will Follow You into the Dark by Death Cab for Cutie- If Heaven and Hell decide that they both are satisfied, Illuminate the no's on their vacancy signs. If there's no one beside you when your soul embarks. Then I'll follow you into the dark.

I was feeling really sappy about putting this song on here but it’s honestly the god damn truth. Noah would follow Casey into war if he asked him to. Its a further testament to their brotherhood and the lengths he would go to in order to keep his brother safe, healthy, and happy.

Rory Collins- Listen Along Here

Voldemort by With Confidence- And I will try to hold you up through those times when you are gone. Despite the weather, it gets better. You won't do this alone

So this song to me holds a lot of significance for Noah and Rory. I remember when we first started sending them on their journey as the teen detectives I loved this idea that no matter how turbulent things became for them, they were never going to have to do it alone. Noah and Rory became this dynamic duo in everything they did which yes did eventually develop into feelings but I think the journey they went on to get there was actually a very sweet one.

Conversations with my Wife by Jon Bellion- I dreamt I slept on a sidewalk, but you still laid with me. I dreamt I fell in a lion's den, and you still came for me. I dreamt I lost all of my faith, and you still prayed for me

I picked this song for Noah and Rory in part because it’s a testament to how far they’re willing to go for one another. That no matter what secrets get exposed, or how dangerous a situation gets they’ll have each other. This song is about turning away from fame. It’s about loving someone when their phone turns off. And I feel like even though it was a different kind of fame they were attracting within the last year, I feel like Noah and Rory’s running from the spotlight included falling into each other.

I Want to Hold Your Hand by The Beatles- Oh, please, say to me. You'll let me be your man. And please, say to me you'll let me hold your hand.

You really don’t get more simple an explanation than the name of the song. Claire and I used to joke that the only times Noah would hold Rory’s hand was when they were running away from danger. It took so long for him to build up the bravery to hold her hand just because he wanted to and now that they’ve done it he never wants to stop.

Kitty Maddox- Listen Along Here

If You Never Broke My Heart by Dylan Brady- And I never would'vе found the one. The one that I got wrapped up in my arms. If you never broke my heart.

So I personally think this song is kinda funny but very fitting for Noah and Kitty. It’s very much about a couple breaking up and all the challenges they faced when they were together. And while Noah and Kitty were never officially a couple it kind of feels like they went through a lot. They’re kind of those two who’s feelings just kind of missed each other. He never knew she liked him back. She was always worried about him affecting her popularity. There was just a lot about them that didn’t work. And if it hadn’t been for those heart breaks they would have never found Mac and Rory.

You Broke Me First by Tate McRae- Now suddenly you're asking for it back. Could you tell me, where'd you get the nerve? Yeah, you could say you miss all that we had. But I don't really care how bad it hurts. When you broke me first.

So we’ve kind of got a theme for Noah and Kitty. A lot of these songs are going to be about heartbreak and getting your heart broken. This song felt fitting because in Noah’s mind not only did Kitty not ever like him, no one ever really has. So he’s filled with a lot of hurt feelings by Kitty showing such disdain for his new relationship. He’s finally got this person he can love who loves him back so openly only to be met with vitriol from people he’s only ever tried to please.

My Heart I Surrender by I Prevail- Chasing love that can never be mine. Maybe one day you'll realize. These words you should always remember to you, my heart I surrender.

So I realize this isn’t necessarily about heartbreak but at the end of the day, Kitty is the first person Noah ever offered his heart too and for that she will always have a special place in his heart. And even though their stars may never align, I think Noah would very much still do just about anything for Kitty. She’s always going to be someone he’s going to care for and want to keep safe even if they no longer mesh romantically.

#cusatask202 #Yes I realize I have the music taste of a 12 year old boy #mind ya business

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contre-qui · 6 years

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It is wayyyyyy too hot to be reading outside, so instead I'll take my ridiculous (self-assigned) summer reading stack indoors with a new favorite drink! I have to read Rosencrantz & Guildenstern Are Dead for my Humanities class next year so I decided to pick up Hamlet as well just to really understand everything. Right now I'm still going strong with Survival of the Sickest - it's making me want to read more nonfiction!

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second-seal · 7 years

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Here's an interesting excerpt from Survival of the Sickest, which is a sick book... "What's more surprising is why we continue to cultivate and consume thousands of plants that are toxic to us. The average human eats between 5,000 and 10,000 natural toxins every year. [that's not counting unnatural]" That would freak aliens out so much.

#humans are weird #humans are space australians #humans are space orcs #survival of the sickest #dr. Sharon Moalem #this book is excellent I'd highly recommend it #I'm sure there's all kinds of great quotes to pull out #genetics and stuff #it's fascinating

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capitalism-and-analytics · 2 years

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Any recommendations for books about the medicine industry?

To be honest, I haven't read too many, specifically for the pharmaceutical/medicine industry, but here are a few:

The Billion Dollar Molecule: One Company's Quest for the Perfect Drug

Survival of the Sickest

Bad Blood: Secrets and Lies in a Silicon Valley

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maxwell-grant · 3 years

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Can we talk about the Black Bat both in general, and and how he may have been an influence on two superheroes (Dr. Mid-Nite and Daredevil) and a supervillain (Two-Face), but was proven in a court of law to have no connection with the superhero who immediately comes to mind (Batman).

Having finally read a couple of his original stories and runs, yeah I got some thoughts on him.

While not the first bat-themed pulp character, nor the first fictional detective with a disability turned superpower (that would be Max Carrados, who actually was blind), Black Bat’s main claim to fame nowadays is his correlation to superheroes with the mixed traits he has that would all become massively popularized by characters who debuted afterwards. Regarding the Batman lawsuit, it wasn’t so much proven that they have no connection, as much as the publishers of both characters argued they did it first, and then agreed to stay out of each other’s territory, with Batman staying out of pulp magazines and The Black Bat staying out of comics (not that it would stop his publishers from rebranding him as “The Mask” and doing comics).

Black Bat actually couldn’t have inspired Batman, because Batman debuted 4 months prior. Plus, both were already ripping off the same guy, and both of them were far from the first bat-themed pulp characters at the time. And the idea that he inspired Daredevil I find too much of a reach. Dr Mid-Nite I can definitely see the resemblance, and while Two-Face doesn’t have much similarities to Tony Quinn past the origin and the anti-hero aspects, “handsome crusading District Attorney disfigured after getting splashed in the face by acid goes on a rampage” is not exactly vague enough of a concept to pass for coincidence. Two-Face debuted just 3 years after Black Bat, while Bat was still a pretty successful character (he managed to outlast nearly every other pulp hero), so it’s very possible that Kane and Finger had a look at Black Bat’s origin and used it as the basis for their Jekyll & Hyde-themed villain.

Okay so, that’s that for Black Bat, but what’s the character actually like? What’s there to him other than historical oddities? Does he have what it takes to survive and thrive again in a modern landscape?

The thing that sticks out to me about Black Bat is that he is a pulp character who feels like he was designed specifically with the arrival of the superheroes in mind, as when comic book superheroes began to carve a space for themselves, one of the responses the pulps had was to put out new heroes intended to be a part of both worlds, hybrids of pulp heroes and superheroes who could try to capture success in either format, characters like Ka-Zar and Black Hood who started in one and then jumped to the other.

Black Bat’s got a lot of the usual hallmarks of dark detective pulp heroes and his adventures are largely him battling ordinary criminal masterminds and gangsters, but he’s got an iconic costume, he’s got a super dramatic origin story that the stories keep coming back to (unlike most pulp heroes whose origin stories are not usually mentioned), and he’s got superpowers brought in the aftermath of a tragic accident. Not just skills anyone can have by training hard enough, actual superpowers, even if they don’t see as much usage as his pulp hero skillset.

To the world that knew about him, Anthony Quinn, once a virile, upstanding representative of law forces whose name had held terror for evil doers, was now an impotent blind man whose sight had been permanently destroyed by acid thrown at him in a crowded courtroom, and whose face was horribly scarred about the eyes. For a long time he had seemed to live in a world apart.

Such actually had been the case during the long months when Tony Quinn had lived in a sea of blackness. But Nature had been as kind as possible, giving him something in return for what had been taken from him. As a result he had since realized that his senses of feel, smell, and hearing were far more acute than formerly. Under his sensitive fingers whatever he touched had begun to tell strange new stories. His sense of smell had sharpened. His ears had become the ears of a hound, picking up with ease and sifting multitudinous sounds that once had been inaudible.

More months had gone by until, in the darkness of a lonely night, a girl with golden hair and blue eyes hadcome in through an open window like an angel out of nowhere to offer him hope where eye specialists had said there was no hope. Through a delicate operation by an unknown small town surgeon the corneas of the eyes of Carol Baldwin's policeman father - dying from paralysis brought on by a gangster bullet - had been given to him. An extraordinary thing had occurred. When at last Tony Quinn had been allowed to remove the bandages, he had been astounded by the miracle that had happened. His were the eyes of darkness as well as the eyes of day!

Interestingly also, Black Bat actually became one of the most prolific of pulp heroes when brought over to Germany. When German publishers Pabel decided to reprint a couple of Black Bat novels for the KRIMINAL-ROMAN serial, they discovered “Die Schwarzen Fledermaus” was somehow so popular that in 1962, they retitled it Fledermaus (Bat) and ran with it, reprinting all the original 60+ stories and then, when those ran out, creating 900 more at least. In fact, it seems like they are still publishing Black Bat stories even today, and now that he’s public domain it’s something just about anyone could get into.

Problem with that is, it’s not easy to conceive of The Black Bat having any kind of substantial popularity again, when he’s doomed by design to always be compared to Batman, to always just be seen as first glance as “oh it’s earless Batman with Daredevil’s shtick and Two-Face’s backstory”, and of course he doesn’t have a chance in hell of playing catch-up to the popularity of those characters (well, at least outside of Germany). Whatever niche he could have as an alternative to Batman is also null by the fact that said niche of Not-Batmen is already filled out quite extensively. He doesn’t have an incredibly strong personality the way Batman and The Shadow do, nor is he, despite being ostensibly a serial killer, enough of a trigger-happy anti-hero to latch on to the appeal of characters like The Spider or Punisher. The latest Black Bat comic run by Dynamite played up his ruthlessness, outlaw status and drew him on the covers perpetually holding guns and often with a big creepy smile. But smiling murder pulp Batman is already a niche that Midnighter fills considerably better than Black Bat ever could. So what’s left for him?

If I had to find a unique niche for Black Bat, I’d play his unique traits in ways that separate him from the super characters that ran with those later. I’d ditch the whole “oh woe is me I’m poor and helpless because I’m blind” shtick that’s terribly condescending to actually blind people, and make him at least truly blind in some form. Maybe he’s blind by day and by night he sees too much, or maybe his vision has some terrible secrets that go beyond mere enhanced eyesight. Maybe his powers are growing and expanding in ways he doesn’t know where they will lead him. But alongside that, one take on the character could be based on the fact that he really has nothing to lose. He is not Batman, he is not The Shadow, he isn’t Daredevil, he’s got little reputation to speak of, and he’s never going to be any of those characters.

He’s lost the position he’s coveted his whole life, he’s lost the respect of his peers, his former professional ethics don’t mean shit now, he’s had a long and painful brush with darkness that scarred him for life in ways both literal and metaphorical, and in the aftermath he’s begun spontaneously developing abilities that would be incredibly painful and uncomfortable for an average person to just develop without years of growing up with them. And then, a mysterious woman walked through his window one day, gave him the eyes of a dead man, and now he sees things in ways no person was ever supposed to, and now he goes around at night terrorizing and killing criminals in an animal-themed costume.

The most he has to lose currently is the life of his sidekicks who’ve worked very hard to help him heal and focus and find a new purpose, which only means that they are on the chopping block everytime you wanna give a gut punch to Tony Quinn. And no matter how famous, or even great, his adventures are, or how prolific and successful he is or even has been, he’s always going to be the Bat-themed superhero who couldn’t cut it. He’s Not-Batman, stripped of all the grand splendour and allmighty self righteousness and reputation and role as foundational figure of an entire genre and most popular bestest superhero of all time ever praise be thy Bat God, sharing more traits with one of Batman’s most personal and tragic villains than the titular character.

That’s not an indictment, that just means that Black Bat ultimately should have more narrative freedom, since he is unburdened by reputation and status. He is a public domain nobody best known by his association with characters who eclipse him in popularity, who’s always going to have that accursed Bat prefix and costume to damn him by association, so why not work with it? He could be the character you go into to tell stories that you couldn’t tell with Batman or other big name superheroes, the grimiest, sickest, even weirdest crime tales of all. What does the Black Bat have to lose?

Those who have nothing to lose stand everything to gain, after all.

Also, Masks 2 once presented an alternative version of the character called The Black Bats, who dresses like a baseball player and dual-wields baseball bats, which is nutty and I’d definitely prefer Black Bat to ditch the generic pulp hero guns and instead just go crazy batting everything in his way.

“I gotta tell ya, this is pretty terrific! Hahahahah, yeah!”

#replies tag #pulp heroes #pulp fiction #the black bat #tony quinn #batman #two-face

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memoriae-lectoris · 1 year

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Inuit hunters can raise the temperature in the skin of their hands from near freezing to fifty degrees in a matter of minutes; for most people it takes much longer. On the other hand, people descended from warm-weather populations don’t seem to have this natural ability to protect their limbs and their core at the same time.

A portion of the fat in newborns and some adults is specialized heat-generating tissue called brown fat, which is activated when the body is exposed to cold. When blood sugar is delivered to a brown fat cell, instead of being stored for future energy as it is in a regular fat cell, the brown fat cell converts it to heat on the spot. (For someone acclimated to very cold temperatures, brown fat can burn up to 70 percent more fat.) Scientists call the brown fat process nonshivering thermogenesis, because it’s heat creation without muscle movement. Shivering, of course, is only good for a few hours; once you exhaust the blood sugar stores in your muscles and fatigue sets in, it doesn’t work anymore. Brown fat, on the other hand, can go on generating heat for as long as it’s fed, and unlike most other tissues, it doesn’t need insulin to bring sugar into cells.

Adults who don’t live in extreme cold don’t really have much, if any, brown fat. To accumulate brown fat and get it really working, you need to live in extreme cold for a few weeks. We’re talking North Pole cold. And that’s not all—you’ve got to stay there. Once you stop sleeping in your igloo, your brown fat stops working.

#book: survival of the sickest #inuit #first nations #biology #evolution

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linkspooky · 4 years

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The Characters of Nisioisin (2)

Trickster - Ii (Boku)

This is a post in an ongoing series about the common character archetpyes used by Nisioisin. If you want more information check out the previous post, here. Consider this a part two of that same post. Today we’ll be looking at the nonsense user, and deceiptful protagonist from the aptly titled series “Zaregoto” or in english “Nonsense”. More underneath the cut.

I established the four criteria we are going to be dividing this post into in the previous post, as well as introducing what the idea of the trickster archetype is. Using Kumagawa as the UR-example we’re going to compare Ii-chan with those same tropes.

Introduced as a Villain

Subverts Expectations

Lying, Liar who Lies

Inherent themes of Nihilism

1. Introduced as a Villain

So, next Iichan. He's a special case out of these three because he's actually the series protagonist. But he still kind of fits the criteria because in his series the basic premise of every book is that iichan goes somewhere and a murder happens and then he tries to solve the murder for like the whole book and he sort of kind of solves it and then Jun Aikawa whose much more of a "hero" character than him, the coolest, sickest, strongest detective ever shows up out of nowhere and lectures him.

The sort of conflict set up between Ii-chan and Aikawa as two detectives of the story reminds me of a quote by Maiji Otaro, author of Jorge Joestar (among other things).

“Two detectives, one true. If both are detectives, then both must arrive at the same truth. But does that happen in the novels of this world?” “Most novels with two detectives have one solve it and the other discover the real solution hidden behind it.”

“At that point, are they both still detectives?”

“Hmm.. they’re treated like detectives but certainly, within that novel, the latter is the real detective. But they might switch places in the next novel.”

(Jorge Joestar).

Ii-chan is never introduced as an antagonist from the start of the series he is and always is the narrator. However, he’s still introduced as something he is not. Kumagawa is introduced as a villain and goes on to become a deuteragonist. Iichan is a main character but he doesn’t affect the story like a main character ought to, nor does the story really revolve around him.

So there’s still an inherent lie to his introduction. He is introduced as the center of the story but he is not the story’s real center. However, there’s another subversion implicit in Iichan’s character from the first novel to the second novel.

The first novel is the one where Iichan plays the role of the detective the most straightforwardly. He figures out the trick, solves the case, corners the murderer, but doesn’t solve it all the way and gets lecture by Aikawa at the end. However, there’s a strange way that all the characters react to Iichan despite the fact that he constantly makes himself out to be just a completely harmless, and incapable normal guy.

“Ther’s no meaning. Just like there’s no meaning in your actions. You know, you’re, wow, so you’re the kind of guy who’ll get angry for the sake of a complete stranger. That’s not a very good thing. It’s not bad per se, but it’s not good. [...] That’s because people who can expose their emotions for the sake of someone else are the same people who blame things on others when something goes wrong. I despise people like you.

It had to be the first time in quite a while that someone had spoken that harshly right to my face. Slowly, she brought her glaring gaze to meet my eyes.

“You just let yourself get carried along by other people. You’re the type wo ignores traffic lights just because everyone else is doing it. You’re an abomidable excuse for a human being. They often say ‘Harmonize without agreeing’ but in your case, young man, it’s like you’re agreeing without harmonizing. I won’t say that’s bad. I won’t say anything as to that. One’s identity and worth are not always connnected. A train that runs along a track is better than a train that doesn’t. So I won’t say anything as to that. But I hate people like you. I despise them. People like you always blame things on others, never acknowledging their own responsibility.”

Ii-chan as a character who is introduced as harmless, and passive, never making any choices until we are shown explicitly in the second book that he is not. It’s with his choices in the second book that his true character is revealed.

2. Subverts Expectations

Though for Ii-chan it should really be “avoids any and all expectations.” The Zaregoto is a series that continually asks if the actions of its protagonist are meaningless or not. If any action that Iichan takes effects the outcome of the story in any way.

In Strangulation Romanticist, Ii-chan gets involved with a group of friends who all end up dead or in prison by the end of the story. The central question is what role did Iichan play. Here are some things Ii-chan does in the book, meet with a serial killer and then lie to cover up a police investigation and a private investigator tracking him down giving him time to kill more people, destroys police evidence of another investigation, taunts one girl who murdered another girl into killing herself to atone, knew another murder that was going to take place and did nothing, and then taunts a second girl who wanted to kill herself into killing herself who only survived because the police talked her off a ledge.

“Charges? What charges?” “Falsifying information in regards to the Emoto case, encouraging Aoii’s suicide, not to mention concealment of evidence, plus withholding information and having that little rendezvous with Atemiya. Normally they’d have your ass for that, which I’m sure you’re well aware of, but I’ll take care of it for you. Althought, I suppose even if I didn’t Kunagisa probably would...” (Zaregoto Volume 2)

Therefore, Iichan is someone who acts but doesn’t really face any real consequences for his actions, and that’s because he’s a master of avoidance.

In psychology, avoidance/avoidant coping or escape coping is a maladaptive coping mechanism characterized by the effort to avoid dealing with a stressor. Coping refers to behaviors that attempt to protect oneself from psychological damage.

Iichan is subverting a lot of expectations. He is the protagonist, but the story is not about him. He goes through all of these stories, but he doesn’t ever seem to grow or change from them. He’s a detective, but he never really solves the case or even cares that much about reaching the real truth. He’s written to be a subversion of everything the main character of a detective novel should be.

However, Iichan is also very aware of how a detective should act and deliberately playing with and subverting those tropes. Not only does he subvert the expectations of the reader, but also of the characters around him. He is avoidant, in that way it means he avoids any kind of contfrontation.

I didn’t hate losing. I hated compettition. I was thoroughly put off by the idea of vying for others over something. I hated fighting as well and thus never made friends.

This is a line that gets reused for Kumagawa as well.

Which helps to illustrate the difference between them. Let’s say there is a problem, Kumagawa will charge head first at the problem and it will explode in his face, and Iichan will do everything in his capacity to never confront the problem or deal with it in any way possible.

Iichan is deliberately aware and sensitive to the expectations of the other people around him, and he feels like he will always be too inferior to fulfill them so he doesn’t even bother to try.

“I have been doing so.” I said. “But you know I have limits, too. It seems like everyone and anyone harbors some sort of expectations from me, and of course I would love to meet their expectations, too, but I cannot meet the expectations if I lack the capability. So to have someone say you failed my expectations is nothing but bothersome.”

Zaregoto Volume 4.

The way he avoids the expectations of others is rendering himself as ambiguous as possible, which is where we get to the next part.

3. Lying, Liar who Lies

Iichan is an unreliable narrator who never tells the truth in a straightforward manner, and even lies for half of the second volume. However, there’s more than that, there’s a deliberate trick to the lies he tells.

Iichan is someone who defines himself as ambiguously as possible. He acts like someone who others cannot possibly understand. Despite narrating from the first person, Iichan is only comfortable when he is not known by anyone. Iichan acts like someone who is barely present in his own story.

Answers have no real point. They’re vague and ambiguos and unsound, and things that are fine that way. In fact, they’re better. Causing real change is a role that should be left up to the true “chosen ones” outstanding individuals like that scarlet Mankind’s Greatest, and the Blue Savant, it was never my responsibility. It was no job for a common loser. For the comic sidekick.

Zaregoto volume 2.

Once again we see the contrast between Kumagawa and Iichan, if Kumagawa is a character who shows how strong and capable one loser can be, then Iichan often waxes poetically in his narrative about how weak and incapable he is. If Kumagawa is a good loser, than Iichan is a sore one.

Iichan defines himself as ambiguous on purpose to avoid responsibility for his actions. In less fancy words, if nobody can understand Iichan than nobody can call him on his shit. That’s his goal, essentially. He doesn’t want to work hard to change, or be confronted about any of his actions, because for him merely the act of living takes all of his effort to tread water without making any progress.

Avoidance is a trauma response, Iichan spends all of his time distancing himself from his own actions rather than confronting any of it. However, Iichan is more complicated than that because Iichan’s ambiguity has another side effect making him out to be something that he is not.

“Just by being there, you startle others, just by being there, you make people lose their grip on themselves.. ther’re a bunch of people like that. You can’t relax when you’re with them, it annoys you, things don’t go as planned, people like that, you know, they’re even scientifically explainable. In other words the missing part. Because the missing part for the observer ends up looking the same, it feels like the person is having their ineptitude pointed out at them, and it startles them [...] You’re just like everyone, and that picks at people’s subonscious, that’s why you’re aimless. And yet you still manage to come out on top. [...]”

Zaregoto Volume 3

All of these things Jun points out in this scene are Jungian ideas of the trickster. Iichan is an inferior person who seems to exist to point out the inferiorities in other people, and use it to play tricks on them. While viewing him as this role of the trickster, Aikawa is not really treating him like a person. (Aikawa’s very dramatic).

Which is where Iichan finally gets his trick. It’s a trick in two parts. He constantly underplays his own agency, while at the same time overplaying his suffering.

In other words, while insisting that he is the least improtant person on earth, Iichan at the same time hems and haws like the main character of a tragedy. IIichan wants people to empathize with his suffering, and he wants to be important, but he doesn’t want any of the responsibility of being important. He doesn’t want to take any degree of control of himself or others, so he tries to balance himself between these two conflicting ideas.

1) He is not a protagonist, and therefore the events in the story have nothing to do with him. 2) He is the main character of a tragedy. The world is centered around him, he is someone special and important, and that makes him suffer, but he takes no agency in the role.

Doing this he gets the best of both worlds. He gets to always be involved and important to others, while at the same time uninvolved and is never held accountable for his actions. He’s never challenged or forced to grow or change in any way.

These are the two lies that Iichan tells, and those lies form a narrative. Iichan is lying to give a narrative to his own trauma, and therefore try to extract some kind of meaning from it.

4. Inherent Themes of Nihilism

We once again return to the sacred image.

Iichan is a moral nihilist. He’s on the elft side of that image.

Moral nihilism (also known as ethical nihilism) is the meta-ethical view that nothing is morally right or wrong. It is built on three principles.

1. There are no moral features in this world; nothing is right or wrong. 2. Therefore, no moral judgments are true; however, 3. Our sincere moral judgments try, but always fail, to describe the moral features of things.

Iichan’s view is basically that of, if there is no meaning to this world then any attempt to define meaning is pointless. He (let’s say it again class) usually uses this as an attempt to evade any and all responsibility for his actions.

Iichan doesn't want other people to look at him, he doesn't want to be at fault when things go wrong, but he also wants to be important. So he's continually on a tight rope walk with those two very conflicting desires.

So basically Iichan sees no value in his own actions. He sees no value in the world. He doesn't really have any set of morals, except that he thinks murder is bad. Except sometimes he doesn't really care if certain people are murderers. Zerozaki is a murderer and Iichan hates him but doesn’t actually make any sincere attempts to stop him. Kunagisa commits murder in volume 4/5 and Iichan goes out of his way to cover it up. He apparently doesn’t consider goading a girl into suicide to be a form of murder. But at the same time he's so desperately searching for meaning, because he wants to feel fulfilled.

Iichan thinks that talent and genius are perhaps one thing that could give the world meaning. His best friend is a super genius, and he kind of clings to her and is jealous of her because she's someone special. See he thinks there are people whose lives have meaning despite being a pretty blanket nihilist, but because he's not talented he's not one of those people. Talent is something that could possibly give life meaning but being outside of the talented people it makes no difference to him he can only gaze at it from afar

Iichan is someone who is constantly downplaying his own meaning, while at the same time trying to find some meaning vicariously through others, like Aikawa and Kunagisa who he considers to be the real heroes of the world. Despite Iichan insisting there’s no meaning, he also has an attraction to narrative view of the world. Which is something that you know... has meaning, because stories are written with intent and purpose by an author.

In the sixth volume there’s a concept called “The Story” which one character belives that everything is pre-destined, like it’s all some pre-written story. Therefore while you can make small changes in your own actions it never effects the big picture in any way.

This is once again a very convenient idea for Iichan, who avoids responsibility to believe in. He’s very attracted by this idea because it takes control out of his hands and means his own actions aren’t really his fault.

To be honest, this must be one of the most boring conversations to be listening in on. It had gone so far into the conceptual, that even for myself, participating in the conversation, the words of the man with the fox mask seemed as hazy and illusory as a dream. You could say I do not understand what he is saying. However, then why. Then why does what this person says strike so deep? Why does it resonate? [...] Then, no. I do not want any part of such importance. I do not want anything to do with the core of the story.

Here we go with Iichan’s double negative, he denies having any role or agency in the story and yet at the same time believes that such a thing as the story exists because it means to some extent his actions are out of his control because he can’t accept that they are.

Is Iichan’s role in the story ultimately meaningless? No. There are always clear and distinct consequences for his actions. In the same volume (6 - cannibal magical) where the concept of the story are first introduced that everything is predetermined and you can’t change the big picture, the events of the story disprove that assertion.

Iichan is given like, a million warnings not to go to a lab. Aikawa tells him not to go to a lab because she has a bad feeling about it. The literal assassin sent to that lab talks to Iichan and says “Yeah, I was sent here to kill people.” Another person who was in the same situation just walks away from the problem. Iichan sees the assassin going out to kill people in the middle of the night and just chooses to... go to sleep.

Then he wakes up to everyone dead in the morning. The point being Iichan had a million chances to avoid this situation, takes absolutely none of them, and then acts like this was a completely unavoidable fate. He hems and haws about having no choices, but he’s clearly given choices, he just doesn’t take them, or makes exclusively bad ones.

Iichan wants to avoid consequences by not choosing, however the choice to not choose is still a choice in itself. Everything is a choice. Even avoidance is a choice. Which is why Iichan’s actions do actually have meaning, just not in the way he wants them to. He’s not a special person, and he’s not anyone extraordinary, but he is someone who has to face the consequences of his actions no matter how many narrative tricks he pulls to avoid them.

The actual trick of Iichan’s story is that he really is the protagonist, he just doesn’t want to be.

#zaregoto #zaregoto meta #nisio meta #nisioisin #iichan #boku (ii)

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marril96 · 4 years

Text

Far From You

Pairing: Rowena x reader

Summary: With quarantine having taken its toll on your relationship, you decide to win Rowena back by all means necessary.

A/N: Huge thanks to my awesome friend @midnightsilver for the prompt.

Editor: @miss-moon-guardian

*****

Rowena was in a bad mood. Which wasn't a novelty; grumpiness seemed to be one of the woman's default settings, right alongside whining and attention-craving. However, the imposed quarantine seemed to have taken its toll on her, her regular irritation rising to levels that were, at best, barely tolerable, and, at worst, made you want to go outside and hug the sickest-looking stranger in order to get some time away from her.

It wasn't always that bad, though. For the most part, she just sat in silence and huffed and rolled her eyes at random things. That was, when she wasn't cursing out the politicians and the irresponsible people who'd made these safety measures necessary on the TV — a few times quite literally cursing them, eyes sparkling violet as she willed her magic to strike.

To say she was handling it badly would be an understatement.

Rowena was a social creature. As happy as being home with you made her, she loved to travel. Loved to explore different places, experience the world, get to know it. Being holed up in a house was worse than prison. At least prison could be escaped from without fear of catching a nasty disease.

It wasn't that she was afraid of dying. The devil himself hadn't managed to kill her, and neither would a measly virus. But she wasn't too thrilled about the possibility of getting sick. So she stayed home. Like a good little girl, she obeyed the officials' rules and holed up, leaving only when it was her turn to get the groceries.

Though she tried not to let it get to her, the changes in her temper made it clear she wasn't handling the situation well.

Not that you were any better. You weren't an adventurer like her, but you missed your freedom. Missed walking the streets, the sun bathing your hair, Rowena's hand in yours, a wordless but firm statement that she was yours. Missed heading to different restaurants, or ordering delicious food home. Missed Rowena randomly telling you to pack your bags, a promise of a new, exciting adventure sparkling in her eyes.

But, most of all, you missed Rowena. You were living in the same house, yet, as of late, it had started to feel like you were strangers. You still talked, but it was strained, distant. Like two random passengers on a plane discussing the weather to pass the time. You barely touched each other. When you kissed, it was pecks on the cheeks and mouth — solely initiated by you. An empty, passionless habit. A learned routine rather than a loving gesture. And sex… you'd engaged in it twice since the quarantine had taken place, and it, too, lacked its usual passion.

The quarantine had taken its toll on your relationship.

Today, sick of the distance, of the constant cold amidst the warm house, you decided to fight it. Decided to fight for your relationship. Things were horrible, not just in the United States but everywhere in the world, but that didn't mean your life had to be the same way. You could still live. You could still be the couple you'd worked hard to become.

What you had was worth fighting for.

So when Rowena went on another tirade against politicians as she watched the morning news (looking quite ready to throw her steaming mug of tea at the TV), you said in your most irritated tone, "Okay, I get it — you hate them. No need to get so worked up. It's not like they give a damn."

The look she shot you had to have killed before. You would have been frightened had you not known her the way you did. She might have been a serious threat, but when it came to you, she was a puppy. A cute, glare-y puppy who finally paid attention to you after days of nothing.

You plopped down next to her on the couch, set your mug next to hers, and shot her your brightest smile. "Hi!"

Rowena rolled her eyes in the fashion of a trained theater actress. Over the top, dramatic, her style to a T. She picked up a large grimoire that was resting next to her and spread it open on her lap. It was one of her newer books, acquired mere days before the quarantine had taken place. You'd looked forwards to exploring them with her, learning new things, asking questions she would pretend to be annoyed at but would answer with the ferocity of a teacher eager to spread her knowledge. Just like old times.

Instead, she'd taken to reading the books on her own. Using them as a distraction from the awful things happening in the world.

A distraction from you.

You tried not to let it get to you too much, but it stung. Your heart clenched with pain, with ache that ran deep to your core. Like poison coursing through your veins, burning you up from the inside one little bit at a time. It was as though she'd grown bored of you. As if being holed up with you inside a tiny house had made her resent you. As if it made her realize living with you wasn't the fairy tale you thought of it as and she couldn't wait to get away from you.

You're overreacting, you told yourself. But, even as you kept repeating to yourself that this was just a temporary thing, that it was stress, a sliver of a doubt still nibbled at you. What if Rowena didn't want you anymore? What if she'd had enough?

You still wanted her, you reminded yourself. You missed her. You loved her. And you would do anything to get things back to the way they used to be.

You leaned your head on her shoulder, which earned you another glare. You ignored it, eyes darting to the yellowed pages of the book that must have been older than the two of you combined. Intricate illustrations adorned the paper; those of flowers, of herbs you didn't recognize. They were surrounded by words in a foreign language. Written in an elegant handwriting, the writing gave off a feeling of class, of beauty. Whoever the witch that had written it was, she had obviously been a lady.

"What's it say?" you asked, feigning nonchalance. Heart, all the while, beating wildly, begging for a response.

Rowena eyed you for a few moments before turning her attention back to the book. "It's potion recipes." Matter-of-fact. Straight to the point. No trace of the warmth that usually accompanied her words.

On the bright side, she responded. It was something. Not much, but a start nonetheless.

"What language is it?"

"Italian."

"The book looks pretty old. When was it written?"

"The 1500s."

"Is the witch who wrote it still alive?"

"No."

"It's really cool that you can understand it."

No response. Not even the usual smile at the compliment. As if you hadn't said a word.

Your heart sank, but, insistent to complete this mission you'd tasked yourself with, you sucked in a breath and pecked her on the cheek.

Rowena flinched as if burned and shot you a startled glance. You smiled innocently. Sighing, she went back to her book.

Another failed attempt. Was there anything you could do to get her back? To get her out of her glum state? To make her your girl again for, as of late, it seemed she was distant from you?

To your knowledge, you hadn't done anything wrong. There had been no arguments — not even the pretend, teasy ones the two of you sometimes got into. You hadn't broken anything hers, or messed up any spells. It was as if she'd just decided she wasn't in the mood for you, that you were too much for her to handle. So she ignored you.

As much as it hurt, you weren't going to let her get away with it. You couldn't. Not after everything the two of you had gone through. You'd survived Lucifer. You'd survived her flashbacks and nightmares. And you would survive this.

Desperate, tears pricking at your eyes as pain squeezed at your heart, dove razor-sharp daggers into it over and over like a merciless killer, you leaned down to Rowena's shoulder and pressed a kiss into it. It was a small kiss, soft as silk, a swift, brief brush of lips against skin. A promise of more, so much more — all she had to do was want it.

Rowena stiffened. You laid another kiss to her shoulder, then another, trailing all the way up to her neck. Her skin was soft, incredibly tender; as expected, a small moan escaped her as soon as you reached her most sensitive place. She could be as mad as she wanted, as confused, as indifferent — the neck kiss always did her in.

Her greatest weakness, even in these difficult times.

"Y/N, what are you doing?" There was a hesitation in her voice, mixed in with the cold that coated her words.

"Having some fun," you said, then kissed her again. And again and again and again, and ran your tongue over a tiny spot just below her ear as if she were the most delicious meal, and then kissed it, and around it. A little game you couldn't get enough of.

"Why?"

Because she wasn't paying attention to you. Because you were lonely. Because she was grumpy. Because you both needed a little distraction from the horrors of the world, and what better way to get it than some intimate fun?

"Why not?" you countered. Dared her to defy you. To push you away as she had for days.

Your teeth grazed the sensitive skin, the milky white flushing red, soon to be a beautiful, rich purple. The kind of mark you hadn't left in what felt like ages. Rowena gasped at the sensation, satisfied despite pretending otherwise. Her vein throbbed underneath your mouth, heart racing, blood running hot.

You couldn't resist a smile. There we go. That was your girl! Goodness, you missed her!

The magic was short-lasted, though, as a moment later Rowena pulled away, looked you straight in the eyes, and, serious as a heart attack, said, "Have you gone bloody mental?"

You sighed. Inhaled. Exhaled. Did your best to remain calm because your thoughts were screaming and you wanted nothing more than to throw a tantrum and then curl up and cry your eyes out.

"Maybe I just wanna spend some time with my girlfriend!"

She looked at you as if you'd suddenly grown a second head. "We're together all the time!"

You used to be. Not lately.

"We would be if you weren't ignoring me." If she could play dirty, so could you.

"That's ridiculous!" she argued. Defensive. Second-guessing, but she wouldn't admit it. She was never one to admit she was wrong.

You'd expected it, really. Had prepared yourself for the blow. That didn't make it hurt any less. Throwing your arms up, you got to your feet and started pacing. Restless, nerves short circuiting, heart pounding like a hammer against your ribcage. Relax, you told yourself. Just relax. You'd wanted this fight. You couldn't give up now.

You looked her in the eyes with all the intensity, all the sincerity you could manage. Made sure she knew you meant business. "You barely even look at me. All you do is scream at the TV and read your books." Her outbursts were fun at first, entertaining. Now, they were exhausting. There were only so many times you could laugh at the very same curse words, even if they were Scottish. "It's like you're sick of living with me."

A tear slid down your cheek; you wiped it with the back of your hand and sniffled. Willed the rest of the tears to stay back, to not betray you at a time like this. You hated arguing with Rowena. You were used to peace in your relationship, to hugs and kisses and love and laughter and everything happy and bright. Whenever you argued, it felt like a piece of you was being torn apart. As if, if you went too far, if you pushed too many buttons, she would decide she'd had enough and, just like back in her wicked days, she would turn her back and leave.

You knew it was silly. Arguments were part of a relationship; they were healthy, so long as they were nuanced. But a part of you couldn't let go of the notion that fights would be the end of everything you knew and loved. It terrified you to the bone, and with the fear came more tears, and before you could try to stop them again, you were crying.

"Darling, that's not—I could never get sick of being with you," Rowena said. "I don't know what you think is happening, but, I can assure you, I've no ill feelings toward you." She flashed a smile, one of those bright, honest ones. "I promise."

You swallowed a lump that had popped in your throat. Gulped in a large breath. "You're always in a bad mood. And you never pay attention to me." You realized you come across as a needy, whiny child, but it was the truth. You felt ignored. You were ignored. Your usually attentive girlfriend had suddenly turned you a cold shoulder. "You don't kiss me back anymore. Don't even get me started on sex. Even when you sleep, you turn your back on me."

She pondered on your words. Twisted and turned them in her head, thought them through. When she spoke, her words were laced with regret, "Y/N, you've got this all wrong." She stood up and reached for your hand, tiny fingers wrapping around yours. The kind of touch you were yearning for, that you were missing. "I suppose I have been a tad distant these days. Not because of you. You haven't done anything wrong."

You allowed yourself to breathe out with ease.

"It's this house. I'm sick of being locked inside all the time," she elaborated. "It's starting to feel like a prison. I miss our wee trips." She pouted. "I miss dinners in my favourite restaurant."

You chuckled.

Rowena smiled. "I miss our walks. Going out for groceries hardly counts as going out."

"I miss it, too," you admitted. "All of it." But, most of all… "I miss you."

"I'm… sorry." It was hard for her to say the words. Two years into her redemption, and she still struggled with apologizing. "I shouldn't have taken it out on you. I love you, you silly girl. I could never tire of you. Even when you interrupt my reading."

She accompanied that with a small glare, a feigned one.

You rolled your eyes. "Gotta get your attention somehow."

"You've got my full attention now." Her eyes fell to your lips. Trailed down the length of your body. She was so close; you could smell her skin, almost taste her lips. "What is it you would like to do with it?"

"I can think of a few things."

You kissed her, deep and hard. She reciprocated instantly, drawing you in, arms snaking around you to pull you right where she wanted you. She tasted of promise and love and everything sweet, everything you were missing. You melted into her as she took lead, her tongue exploring your mouth, tasting it, marking it. Making it clear that it was her territory, her ownership.

Goodness, you missed this!

Parting for breath, you kissed her again, then pushed her on the couch a tad rougher than necessary and straddled her. Your mouth was back on her neck, kissing the previously marked spot. Licking and biting and sucking, leaving a trail of blossoming bruises in your wake.

"That's it, darling," Rowena moaned in her thick accent, which only made you got at it harder.

Maybe the quarantine wouldn't be so bad after all.

*****

Tags: @werewolfbarbie @oswinthestrange @songofthecagedmoose @apurdyfulmind @getthesalt-sam @metallihca @salembitchtrials @jay-eris @hellsmother @elizabeth-effie @shadowgirl-vsb @rowenaswife @wonderifshelikesroses @xfireandsin @liddell-alien @hotdiggitydammit @lae-lae @darkhumorsblog @angel7376 @cherrypierowena @evil-regal-vampiress @collectorofsecretsandsouls @angel-e-v-a @a-queen-and-her-throne @carryon-doctor-lock @fangirlxwritesx67 @rowenaslilwitch @midnight-lestrange

#rowena #rowena macleod #spn #supernatural #spn family #rowena x reader #fanfiction #my fics

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cozycryptidcorner · 5 years

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Demon Boyfriend

Hey, everyone! I’m proud to congratulate @trashybutnottootrashy on their first place win in the raffle! Here is their voucher commissioned prize.

Every building has its own distinct, scent, and even more so for libraries. It’s not a passing observation, but fact, and one that you are sure to observe whenever possible. This specific library is in the center of a buzzing metropolis, a five-story building of shelves upon shelves filled to the brim with books. Fact and fiction each have an entire floor of their own, things such as scientific magazines that can be easily swallowed by children, to a brand of storytelling that makes one question their very reality of life. As much as you wish you could just listlessly browse, fingertips running over the spines of carefully protected hardbacks, you sit at a table directly in front of a librarian’s desk, thoroughly filling out paperwork.

There is a unique scent of dust in the air, one that happens when many different regions of decay end up in the same area, but still not something that you are particularly abhorrent towards. At this point in your life, actually, you find it somewhat comforting. As the LEDs softly buzz along with the rest of the background noise, a single light near the back corner flickering ever so slightly, you sign your name along the last dotted line. After taking a moment to go through the work again, just to double-check its accuracy, you stand, walking back over to the underpaid librarian who has been watching you with hawk-like eyes.

“Here you go,” you say, sliding the small stack of papers and your ID onto his desk, forcing a degree of cheerfulness for the sake of politeness.

With a pinching frown, he looks your information over the brim of his thickly rimmed glasses, glancing back up to your face as though he can hardly believe that you are telling the truth. The librarian takes a moment or two to pitter and patter on his computer, manually typing the information in for, you are certain, the sake of dragging the interaction longer than it needs to be. The clock above the desk ticks, ticks, ticks, away, utterly oblivious to your straining brain as the librarian finally looks up, mouth pursed in barely disguised disgust.

“Follow me,” he says, perhaps a little too primly to be natural.

There is a set of double doors to the side of the desk, though close enough so that the librarians can catch anyone that shouldn’t be back there. The hallway you enter is long, the walls a faded yellow of what once was white, the carpet nothing more than a thin layer of scratchy gray-blue threads that probably haven’t seen a good cleaning for the better part of six decades. Doorways that lead to offices and cubicle rows pass, most of them empty and bare, some of them populated with fellow academics with the intent for growing their knowledge in mind. And, just up ahead, you can see the librarian step inside one of the cubicles, your cubicle, and gesture calmly to whatever is on the desk.

You can’t see it until you step through the opening, but you can almost taste the ancient dust from a few paces away. And there it is, in all its glory, an unbelievably old binding written in a lexicon only few can recognize, and even less decipher. The librarian hands you a pair of specially crafted gloves for handling its brittle pages, eyeing your fingernails as though you might intentionally grow claws to rip the artifact to pieces just to spite him, specifically. Even after you put them on, he still gives you a side-eye, as though you don’t have a list of qualifications to handle such things that runs for a mile long. After a pause that lasts longer than it should, the librarian leaves, giving you one last oddly angry look as he walks back through the long hallway.

With your full focus now on the object you have been trying to get your hands on for the better half of a few months, you look down on it with a kind of awe that you rarely feel for anything but the finest examples of the era you study. The cover is ladened with faded gold, a rune gently shaped in the center with finely sharp details that still is easily readable to someone who understands the language. Carefully, you run your finger over the shape of the word, mouthing the syllables silently, just like you used to when you were first learning. An old one, in a dialect that looks like a muddied mix of Sanskrit, Egyptian, and Hebrew.

There is a college student’s dream arsenal of pens, highlighters, and notebooks in your bag, all of which you carefully pull out and place on the opposite side of the table, near one of the two chairs, already mentally calculating which color you are going to attach to which particular subject/note. With reverence, you reach a gloved hand over, and slowly, gently, open the book, quickly looking over the first page within. There isn’t much more than a much more decorative reiteration of the cover, colored inks swirling into a geometric design that was very uncommon for the time frame the piece has been dated as.

Using your phone, you take a careful picture of the front page, holding it as flat as can be, then you begin to read. Well, maybe a correction, you can’t really understand the book the same way you can pick up something in your native tongue, words cohesively stringing together in your mind, this is a little more complicated to make sense of. The syntax is a bit wonky, definitely something a person from the past would be able to look over with ease, but for you, it takes some effort and muttering a couple of phrases out loud to understand.

You scribble something in your notebook, a word that you aren’t familiar with. It could be a name, you think, looking over the masculine suffix that’s common enough among any records that have been found. Again, you write the name, with better confidence and calligraphy, trying to sound out the syllables in your head before making a fool of yourself to the two other people who also occupy the space. The name itself is unfamiliar, and while there are often records of people with names as standard as Jordan or Isabella in today’s world, but this is something you haven’t seen before. You’ll have to speak with your professor about this one, just to double-check.

Hours fly by without you noticing, only when you raise your phone to take another picture and the low battery warning flashes do you realize how much time has passed, and how quickly. Your appointment time with the artifact is nearing its end, and you are certain that the pinched-faced librarian is about to storm through though double doors to unleash a kind of hell only a special breed of academics can create. Feeling a little low, you begin putting your stuff away, pens going back in the front pocket, notebook slipping back into the front compartment. As your stomach rumbles for food, you mentally pick out a place to pick up some dinner on the way back to your home while slinging your backpack back across your shoulders. Thai? Mexican? Mmmm, pizza?

Oh, there he is, right on cue, the clipboard in his hand carrying your sign-out sheet. Silently, you reach out, one of your pens already in hand. Without giving him a chance to critique your color of choice, you sign the line with the sickest neon pink in your collection, adding a good, curly loop to one of your name’s letters just for good measure. Before he can even open his mouth to say anything, you leave, the gloves on the table, speed-walking down the long hallway so you are out of hearing range once he can even formulate words. You walk right into the left door, the loud thawk echoing through the building as you exit back into the central area of the archeologist selections.

Down you go, picking the stairwell instead of the elevator, moving quickly enough to feel the breeze of cold AC threefold against your neck. The lobby is always four degrees from freezing over, most people wrapping up in two or three layers just to survive a single study session. And perhaps they all have the right idea, wearing jackets, because the moment you step out into the bustling city, you notice just how hard it started raining while you were inside.

A car horn honks somewhere to your left, the sound of squealing tires echoing through and out of the alleyway, making you wince from the high pitch. Fog rises from the drains on either side of the street, the steam licking at your ankles as you run across the street, the pavement still hot from the sun’s permeating gaze. The bus stop is just ahead, you can see the headlights of something large and square, so you pick up your pace just to reach it in time, gasping and choking as you scan your pass in the little machine. The driver offers nothing more than a grunt as you shove your way past the overly crowded front. The bus creaks as it leaves the station, the engine popping as it moves the impossible weight it carries.

Your stop is only a few minutes away but saves you an hour’s walk in the pouring rain. The steps of the central bus doors are slippery from the many that have taken it before in the day, but you keep your balance as you hop back down on the sidewalk, you still-damp clothes soaking once more. The flickering neon of an old mom and pop deli manages to catch your attention through the hazy mist, so you make the snap decision to get your food there, folding your arms around your chest as you enter. A fan takes the unfortunate liberty to blow its air right all over any skin you have left bare, and your teeth immediately begin to chatter to battle what it thinks is oncoming hypothermia.

It takes you only a moment to pick your food, pay, and walk back out to the marginally warmer streets, and you half jog, half walk back to the apartment complex you call your home. The stairwell reeks of mildew, but thankfully not of much else, and with the rainy air flowing through the open windows, you can close your eyes and pretend that you are a fully-fledged archeologist, exploring a ruin of infinite potential. After jiggling your lock for what you would consider a moment too many, it gives, and you’re finally back, ready to look over your notes and organize them properly to place in your thesis.

Again, the name catches your eye. You smooth over the paper, a crinkle from closing wrong blemishing the very corner of the page, trying to figure out why you are so enamored with that single group of letters. It’s different than the borderline obsession you possess for the language in its entirety, there’s something about it that seems... different. You press your finger up against the first syllable, and say it out loud: “Yav… Ved.”

Nothing happens.

You point to the other half of the name, and say it as well: “Far-sen..nah.”

A soft tap tap tapping sounds against wood as you tap your finger on the table, biting your lip. <em<This is for your thesis, you think over and over again, pinching the bridge of your nose and desperately trying to summon the words once more. “Yavid… Farzenah.”

You only have a single moment to sit back in your chair before your apartment explodes. Or rather, upon further observation, implodes. Everything, the floor, the table, the chair, seems to warp, as though the large, black orb that suddenly appears in the center of your studio room is sucking everything around it. The blobs of color suddenly shift, the edges of your vision growing blurry, then dark, and suddenly everything and nothing ceases to exist. Then, a sudden rise of color, and there is someone standing in the middle of the apartment. There aren’t a lot of PSA’s about what to do when someone suddenly appears in your living space, so you revert back to a primitive fix-all.

You scream.

It’s a man, or at least holds the shape of masculinity, though you don’t even think that this creature is human, and as he tries to hold his hands out in a placating gesture of peace, you are too hysterical to listen to any voice of reason. All it takes is one slithery movement forward to set you off further, and you make a dodge for the door, keeping close to the wall. The only issue with your plan is that whatever this is, he is suddenly standing right in front of it, and you barely manage to skid to a halt before ramming right into his scaly chest.

Kitchen. Your drawer has knives, you can pull one out to defend yourself! Two steps are all it takes for the cabinets to be within reach, and you are quick to yank one of the faux wooden drawers out, hastily snatching a knife away and holding it out in what you hope is a seriously threatening manner. Though in retrospect, you probably aren’t the most intimidating person in the world, and the shaking from the spiked anxiety and adrenaline isn’t doing you any aesthetic-based favors. After what seems like an eternity, whatever he is speaks.

“Do not be afraid.” While anyone else might find his voice soothing, the fact that it seems he was born with the ability to soothe others ends up winding you up even more.

“No, thanks!”

“I have no intention of harming you.” The statement, at least, sounds as though he genuinely means it. He doesn’t try taking another step towards you, so he must be a quick learner. A swift, reptilian… horned… learner. “If you would just give me whatever tools you used, I’ll be going.”

“I don’t- I don’t understand.” You wish you could just push through the wall, to shove your way through the plaster and wood and escape into another apartment.

“The summoning tools.” He cocks his head, strands of silver hair falling into his eyes as he listens, carefully, to the footsteps of your upstairs neighbors. “Ah,” the creature suddenly seems to understand. “The portal must have materialized slightly off to the true summoners. A thousand apologies, your grace, the interconnecting aethors aren’t quite as they once were. Perhaps I could receive a bit of your undeserving kindness?”

When you don’t say anything, he continues, “would you happen to know if anyone in the immediate area would dare summon I?”

Though your neck is stiffer than it has ever felt, you manage to shake it ever so slightly.

“I suspected as much…” his voice trails away, his gaze falling onto your table. A frown sets on his face as he creeps closer, hand reaching out to touch the college-ruled stripes of your notebook. And then he looks at you again, slitted eyes narrowing. ” You.”

“Me?” You squeak.

“It was you who summoned me.” His voice is almost accusatory, but not all the way there yet.

“No, I didn’t.”

“Perhaps not intentionally.” He picks up your notebook, flipping through it as though it’s his, and runs his fingers over a specific page. “However, that appears to be the case.”

“I still… I don’t understand.” God, you wish the floor would just swallow you up.

The creature, the- snakelike beast, you don’t know what to identify him as, dares to come closer to the shining edge of your stainless steel weapon, and points to the copy of the cover you had painstakingly mimicked to the best of your ability with his perfectly crafted golden claw. “Tell me, what does this word mean?”

“To summon,” you say, immediately understanding what exactly he’s implying. “But- but it’s supposed to be a book of poetry, that word has two connotations, it’s supposed to summon emotions-”

“I’m afraid that’s incorrect.” He twists your precious notebook around, mouth puckering in thought. “But, I suppose, I can’t exactly blame you for clearly not knowing better. Tell me, then, who is now in rule? Is Ammenon or any of his descendants on the throne, still?”

You don’t know which Ammenon he means, because that was a pretty popular name... about five thousand years ago. But, still, you give him the name of your country’s leaders, explaining, “no one really does the monarchy thing anymore. I mean, there’s the Queen of England and such, but,” a bead of sweat rolls down your temple, “she can’t do things like raise taxes, she actually has to pay those as well… and, um, so on.”

“Ha.” It’s not really a laugh of amusement, more of fascination and curiosity. “Interesting. Well, regardless, you called for me with a single purpose in mind, and I may not return until it has been fulfilled. I shall, how do you humans put it, give this one to you for free. No soul needed in return.”

“Is that- is that what you really use as payment?”

“Mostly.” He flips over your pages once more, far more slow and meticulous this time. “But as this current summoning is, unfortunately, clearly accidental, I’m willing to give you a pass. Perhaps, in return,” he arches his eyebrows, which are just as silver as his hair, “you could spread a good word for me, to any witch or warlock looking for demonic help.”

“Um.” You lower the weapon, only slightly. “If… the conversation of demonic help ever comes up with someone I know is a witch or warlock, I suppose I can do that, yes.”

“Alright, then.” The creature- demonic, he had said, reads over one of your pages, “so tell me, what is it you desired, while speaking my name?”

You shrug, a little shyly. “I was just thinking about finishing my academic thesis.”

“An academic thesis.” He looks back down over the notes you’ve painstakingly taken, outlining a barely cohesive idea that you are desperately trying to narrow down into something easily understood. “About?”

“Language.”

“I see.” He cocks his head, forked tongue licking over his fangs. “Perhaps we should begin, then. Seems we have our work cut out for us, hm?”

You lower the knife all the way, your arm hanging limply against your hip as you look over your new… colleague? Aid? You don’t know what to refer to him, or even what he is. But you accept your lot here, and gently take the notebook back, smoothing over the edges that have started curling over from age and wear with your thumb. Biting down on your tongue, you try to figure how you plan on handling this, what can you put him in charge of that will help, instead of hinder, your progress?

“How long have you been around? Alongside humanity, that is?” You muse aloud, trying to think a little harder.

“I’m still trying to figure out how long it’s been since my last summoning.” The long, black tail he has instead of legs flicks to the left. “I have a feeling that you don’t know where to begin, either.”

“You’re right.” The water kettle you had left on the stove in the few minutes it took to pull him into another reality begins to scream. He looks in its direction, aghast, and you flip the heat off, pulling an extra mug from a cabinet while you make tea. “Let’s work on finding a historical event that you remember.”

It takes a little while. You ask ‘Yavid,’ that’s his name, you found out, if he remembers anyone significant named Jesus from Nazareth. Not even a flicker of recognition in his eyes. You try to go down the line of Caesar’s, then the Ptolemy’s. Cleopatra, apparently, is famous from wherever he’s from just by her cunning and genius alone, but he hasn’t met her in person. “But I had already been around for a long while before that,” he adds, looking over his perfectly manicured nails.

A few days go by, and Yavid has been giving you some fundamental insights on everyday life from, by your calculations, four, maybe five thousand years ago. It’s incredibly fascinating, you admit, and you find yourself deeply distracted by his tails of barber feuds that last for years, brilliant milkmaids who end up in exalted positions, and animals that once could speak. You scribble various notes in your book, feeling an award creeping up with every word he softly speaks. This is remarkable, this is beyond astounding… this is going to bring a whole new view to the field of archeology and historical studies.

He eats, you asked at some point, you don’t remember when, but he does. Meaty things mainly, he requested for alligator at some point, and you do your best to accommodate him with the budget you have. You try not to let it slip that you are straining, but he catches onto things pretty quickly and hands you one of his many golden bracelets to sell. Just from that, you’re pretty much set for the rest of the month, your shitty job notwithstanding.

“So,” you poke at the food on your plate, hoping that if you shift it around, it will look more appetizing, “you can’t go back until I complete my thesis?”

“That’s how it works, yes,” though Yavid’s already been over this with you, he repeats it once more for your sake.

“It’s just the thesis’ completion? How will you know that it’s complete? Is it just the first draft? Is it once it’s peer-reviewed? Once it’s submitted?”

“I imagine once the entire process of turning in your thesis is over,” he folds his hands over each other, “that is usually the criteria for the process, or at least the kind I contracted to take care of.”

“Hm.” He’s going to end up being with you for the rest of the school year. You aren’t exactly sure how you feel about the impromptu roommate, you were, after all, renting in this shoddy area for a lower price on apartments just because you didn’t want to deal with that. But there wasn’t much either of you could do about it, other than tough it out. “You can just… become contracted to take care of certain things?”

“Mercenary work would be a good way to put it, except others like me have to answer to a higher power, giving them…. A cut of our wares, if you will.”

“I think I understand.”

“Work has been incredibly dry, lately, though I suppose I know the answer as to why.” Yavid looks over to where your phone lies, tossed haphazardly onto your bed. “The leaps of advances in just the last millennia, the last century, even, have been quick and remarkable. Seems that no one requires a miracle.”

“I wouldn’t say that, specifically,” you run your finger down the lower half of your fork. “Knowledge of ancient things isn’t really respected anymore. Sure, people know that at some point, ancient civilizations worshipped and summoned beings they thought were real, but ask anyone out in the street, and they would agree that those things hold up the same as fairy tales. I’m sure there are some rebellious kids out there trying to summon Satan or whatever, but they’re playing with objects that don’t really do anything.”

Yavid hums in agreement, looking at the cheap wine you purchased for his sake swirl in a cheap glass. “I suppose, then, that you will have to help us rise back up to the… what did you call it… mainstream media.”

You will not be doing that, so you say nothing, and instead take a sip of your drink. “Maybe we should talk about how the syntax evolved.”

The weather turns cold, almost like some ancient god decided to snap its fingers. You wear a coat, arms braces tightly across your chest, whenever you leave the apartment. Whenever you return, Yavid is usually coiled out on the floor, his snaky half wrapped around whatever it could find, your table, your bed, the weird column in the middle of the room, and such. He is normally reading a book you checked out of the library for him, often something history-related, since he doesn’t really like the flashing of your tablet. Or, more realistically, he has yet to figure out how to work it and doesn’t wish to admit it.

“Of course the planet is round,” you’ve heard him mutter, “can’t believe it took you people this long to figure it out… again.”

You’ve pulled up the moon landing on youtube for him to watch once or twice, his yellow eyes glittering in grayscale. That’s about the most you’ve managed to impress him, the nuclear weapon shenanigans that follow World War Two leaves him less than thrilled, “and,” he adds, poking at the glossy textbook paper, “two world wars? Was the second one that necessary?”

“To be fair,” you add olive oil to the pan, the scent of stir fry perfuming your apartment, “Hitler and his posse were persecuting eleven million Jews, Romanians, homosexuals, and literally anyone deviating from what they perceived as ‘perfect,’ including the sick and disabled. If that madman’s power grew unchecked, most of us wouldn’t be here now.”

Yavid grunts in response, brows furrowing as he turns the page.

One semester bleeds into the second, and the bitter cold begins to seep away from the earth, making way for the sun’s unbearable warmth. Your thesis is thick, papers stacked against each other neatly as can be, the final draft approved by two of your professors who volunteered to look over it. You read over it once more, as you have done many, many times, with Yavid over your shoulder.

“Well,” you say, placing it in a cheap paper folder, “this is it.”

“Perhaps it is.” Yavid gives you a crooked grin. “Unless you fail.”

“I will not!” You tuck the folder into your backpack, giving him a face. “I am an unbridled genius. The board is going to have one look at this and be vaporized on the spot.”

“They surely will, and if your unbridled genius doesn’t accomplish that, my immeasurable wrath will.”

You let out a little puff of air in laughter, slinging the backpack over your shoulders. “Look, if I return and you aren’t here-”

“Which might be unlikely, as it might be until the paper is approved before my task is complete.”

“I know, but,” you place a hand on his arm, “thank you.”

“Oh.” He blinks in surprise. “You’re welcome. And, I suppose, if you need anything else, just call for me.”

“Maybe,” you hum, letting the door shut behind you.

#gender neutral reader #demon boyfriend #monster/human #exophilia #demon/human #monster/reader #demon/reader #sfw

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the-exercist · 5 years

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Smash the Wellness Industry via NYTimes

I called this poisonous relationship between a body I was indoctrinated to hate and food I had been taught to fear “wellness.” This was before I could recognize wellness culture for what it was — a dangerous con that seduces smart women with pseudoscientific claims of increasing energy, reducing inflammation, lowering the risk of cancer and healing skin, gut and fertility problems. But at its core, “wellness” is about weight loss. It demonizes calorically dense and delicious foods, preserving a vicious fallacy: Thin is healthy and healthy is thin.

The diet industry is a virus, and viruses are smart. It has survived all these decades by adapting, but it’s as dangerous as ever. In 2019, dieting presents itself as wellness and clean eating, duping modern feminists to participate under the guise of health. Wellness influencers attract sponsorships and hundreds of thousands of followers on Instagram by tying before and after selfies to inspiring narratives. Go from sluggish to vibrant, insecure to confident, foggy-brained to cleareyed. But when you have to deprive, punish and isolate yourself to look “good,” it is impossible to feel good. I was my sickest and loneliest when I appeared my healthiest.

If these wellness influencers really cared about health, they might tell you that yo-yo dieting in women may increase their risk for heart disease, according to a recent preliminary study presented to the American Heart Association. They might also promote behaviors that increase community and connection, like going out to a meal with a friend or joining a book club. These activities are sustainable and have been scientifically linked to improved health,yet are often at odds with the solitary, draining work of trying to micromanage every bite of food that goes into your mouth.

#fitness #health #wellness #feminism #diet culture #nytimes

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writingfortoomanyfandoms · 5 years

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Summer Games Inspired Blurbs

So I’m a little emotionally drained and I really wanna do this bc I feel like it’s a cool idea so I’m doing it now but I can’t promise when I’m going to get these blurbs up they’ll likely just be posted as normal blurbs are but whatever. This is also 100% a way for me to distract myself from Halloween as a thing going on atm and to try and prevent people requesting Halloween blurbs

Basically I’ve been binging the Smosh Summer (and Winter) Games series and I decided that I wanted to do blurbs inspired by them

I’m saying right now just to make it clear though - while this is inspired by Smosh and written with those people that I write for in mind, these prompts and AUs still are open for any of the normal people I write for as well. I mean I want to write for Ben Hardy facing the Apocalypse bc let’s be real, that’s a pretty sick AU, right??

Anyway, there are four AUs that I’ll be writing, each inspired by one of the Smosh Summer Games series

Smosh Summer Games Camp - Camp Counsilor!AU (one that I already write for and love but no one ever requests 🤷🏼‍♀️)

Smosh Summer Games Wild West - Wild West!AU (never done this before but I’m psyched)

Smosh Summer Games We Blew It - Circus!AU (someone originally replied to my post questioning what I should do for this one and they said carnival which reminded me of circus which is an AU I ADORE and have never written for on this account but man I’m excited for this one)

Smosh Summer Games Apocalypse- Apocalypse!AU (GUYS THIS IS THE SICKEST AU OKAY LIKE YES PLEASE SEND SOME IN FOR THIS, SURVIVING THE ZOMBIE APOCALYSE?!?! YES PLEASE)

Smosh Winter Games - it’s not an AU but a lovely, lovely nonny suggested writing blurbs where they’re snowed into the Winter Games cabin and I’m 100% here for that idea so we’re subbing that in now :)

If you guys can think of an AU inspired by either OG Summer Games then lmk and I’ll add it to this list and those requests will be welcome as well

Anyway! Here are the prompts for these blurb requests though as always, they’re just here for inspiration, you don’t have to use them if you don’t want to 😊

Also some of the prompts are taken from shows I like/books I like and some are also from the Smosh videos so bear in mind but most are just cute fluffy ones I like so… enjoy!! Please also send in some Shaymien x reader blurbs for me to write!!!

Angst:

“Did you think I would run into your arms?”

“Mistakes are easily made. Apologies aren’t”

“It’s not working out. We’re not working out.”

“I’m… I’m leaving… for good. I’ll… see you around…”

“Why are you doing this?”

“How do you expect me to trust you after this?”

“What do you want me to say?”

“I should have known you were too good to be true”

“I don’t want to hear another excuse”

“You were meant to protect me from the monsters not become one of them”

“Don’t try and tell me that I faked anything about our relationship”

“I could punch you right now”

“Why are you lying to me?”

“Is that blood?” “No?”

“Do you even love me anymore?”

“Stop trying to fix me!”

“I hate that I still love you”

“Just because you don’t love me doesn’t mean no one can”

“No one should be as reliant on another person as I am on you”

“You can’t just run away from your problems”

Fluff:

“I was born to fall in love with you again.”

“Please hold me. It’s been a day.”

“My hand’s made to fit in yours”

“I couldn’t imagine my future without you now that I have you.”

“Sometimes I get scared about how much I love you”

“I’ll keep you warm”

“I won’t let anyone hurt you you’re safe with me”

“You’ve shown me what love can feel like”

“I can’t imagine this world without you”

“Dance with me”

“I’m home”

“You look like you could use a hug.”

“Don’t be scared - I’m right here”

“You’re so adorable”

“Go with me?” “Only if I can hold your hand”

“Have you seen my hoodie?” “Nooo.” “You’re wearing it, aren’t you?”

“Are you flirting with me?” “You’re only noticing now?”

“I’m too sober for this.” “You don’t even drink.” “Maybe I should start.”

“I’m never letting you go again”

“With your love I’m a better person”

Miscelaneous:

“There’s four things you can be in life: sober, tipsy, drunk and hungover. Tipsy is the only one that you’re not crying”

“Can you please get him to adress his fascination with sulphuric acid?”

“We’re very Hufflepuff here, are you sure you wouldn’t be more comfortable in Slytherin?”

“What’s the best way to make friends?” “Tell a woman you love her and her saying ‘I think we’re better off as friends’”

“Do you trust me?”

“Wow, that is a ridiculously big watermelon. I love it.”

“See - sometimes being a huge nerd comes in handy”

“Sometimes I wonder which of us you’re actually dating”

*takes shirt off* “am I smuggling dynamite in my pants?”

“What’s that on your shorts?” “Oh - it’s called excitement”

“We’ve been over this man - we’ll leave it on the course but I WILL fuck your whole family up and I’m not even joking”

“Full disclosure I could just be an arsehole”

“Who cares about what they think?”

“I don’t want to hear your excuse. You can’t just give me wet-willies.”

"I’m not pretty and I don’t have any bullets”

“You’re not really going to eat all those sweets are you?”

“Just when I was thinking you couldn’t get any less romantic”

“The ladies love a man who’s good with kids”

“Where am I going? Crazy. Wanna come?”

“Welcome back. Now fucking help me”

Sad:

“All I wanted was a happy ending”

“I didn’t get soaked wet through walking to your house for you to say no to pizza. I have beer too. I know you’re sad, so let me in.”

“I feel like I died alongside her/him”

“I am so busy keeping my head above water that I scarcely know who I am, much less who anyone else is”

“Never tell anyone anything because the moment you do you start missing everyone”

“Who hurt you?”

“There’s nothing wrong with you”

“Why are you crying?”

“I don’t deserve love - especially not yours”

“Sometimes I wonder what’s more inbalanced - the chemicals in my head or the distribution of our chores”

“Just smile, I really need to see you smile right now.”

“Have I mentioned how much I hate Halloween?”

“Wake up! Please wake up!”

“Why are you awake?”

“Stop saying you’re okay when you’re clearly not”

“Are you hurt?” “No.” “Then why are there bruises all over your face?”

“If you don’t hug me right now I might just fall apart”

“You can’t keep this all inside”

“What if one day I wake up and you don’t?”

“I can love you enough for the both of us”

Hella cliche situation prompts

Dying and confessing their love

Stealing their shirt

Kissing in the rain

There’s only OnE bEd

Secret relationship

Everyone keeps telling me to stay away from you bc you’re dangerous

Overhearing they have feelings for you

Taking care of the other when they’re injured/ill

I’m too stubborn to admit I’m scared but you know and take my hand

EVERYONE ALREADY KNOWS YOUR GONNA DATE SO JUST FUCK ALREADY

#courts blurbs #damien haas #damien haas fanfiction #shayne topp #shayne topp fanfiction #shaymien #shaymien x reader #wes johnson #wes johnson fanfiction #ashton irwin #ashton irwin fanfiction #calum hood #calum hood fanfiction #ben hardy #ben hardy fanfiction #Richard Madden #richard madden fanfiction #please request

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wolfpawn · 5 years

Text

I Hate You, I Love You, Chapter 19

Chapter Summary - Danielle tries to talk with Paul, but it doesn't really go well.

Previous Chapter

Rating - Mature (some chapters contain smut)

Triggers - references to Tom Hiddleston’s work with the #MeToo Movement. That chapter will be tagged accordingly.

authors Note - I have been working on this for the last 3 years, it is currently 180+ chapters long. This will be updated daily, so long as I can get time to do so, obviously.

tags: @sweetkingdomstarlight-blog @jessibelle-nerdy-mum @nonsensicalobsessions @damalseer @hiddlesbitch1

If you wish to be tagged, please let me know.

Danielle did not wait for either man to follow her inside; she simply went straight into her kitchen and got a glass of water. “Well?” she turned when she had downed it to face the two men she knew followed her into her home. “I’m listening.”

“Danielle…” “You know, since yesterday, you have not called me ‘Danni’; not in the whole time you are in his company.” She pointed out.

“I…” “I owe you an apology.” Charles interrupted, walking forward a step but going no further when he saw the glare she had fixed on him. “I should not have been so…” “Racist, bigoted, plain rude, pick one, pick all for all I care, I have nothing to say to you other than it will be interesting to hear what the ethics committee have to say about your little rant seeing as it occurred in my work environment.” She stood as tall as her short stature would allow showing him how much she was conviction she had in the threat.

Charles' face fell and Paul walked over to her. “Danni…Danni; that could ruin his career.”

“Oh, now you both are realising the severity of that word, now; when it would involve a disciplinary, and not when it was used to insult me. That tells me everything I need to know.” She scoffed. Looking straight at Charles, she pointed to her kitchen door. “I think it best you leave my house right now.”

“Danielle…” Charles began. “I…Please…” “You don’t get to talk to me; your apology is about as real as an electoral promise,” Danielle growled, heading for her back door, where Mac Tíre was waiting to come in. As soon as the dog entered, he sensed the tension and looked around, trusting it not to be Paul, who he was used to, the dog eyed Charles with apprehension. When Danielle went over to where she had previously been standing, Mac stood between her and the stranger, his ears quickly flattening against his skull and his head low, eyes directly focused on Charles. “They say dogs are a great judge of character, but then again, he is named the Irish for the ‘Son of the Earth’ perhaps he knows he is in the presence of a Hibernophobe.”

Charles looked to Paul pleadingly. “Charles, could you go out to my car for a moment; I need to speak with my girlfriend alone.” He threw his keys to his friend. Charles nodded and went to leave, Mac growling at him as he did. “You ignored the florist.” He commented sadly, walking over to her.

“I was in bed with a migraine so bad I had to stop my car twice on the way home from work, I needed Emma and Tom to even get me half able to take more medication later in the day.” She snapped. “And you think I wanted to ignore some guy trying to just do his job delivering a few daisies?”

“They weren’t daisies.” Paul’s face fell.

“Paul…” “Danni,” Paul gently tilted her head up gently so she was looking at him, “Danni, I’m so sorry, I should have defended you, I should never have allowed Charles speak that way about you. At lunch, we spoke about it, Charles, Cedric, Noah and I, and the others agreed too, it was completely out of line.”

“I am glad your little committee realised casual racism isn’t alright.”

“Danni, you know I don’t think that way, I always knew you were Irish, that sort of thing is not an issue for me.”

“But you didn’t defend me.”

“I know, and I can never take that back, as much as I wish I could. I made a fool of myself Danni.” She raised a brow at him. “I made an absolute asshole of myself, and in the way only you can, you told me outright. I would never want you to change that about you, you did it with Diana’s son, with me, and even with Charles; you know, he has never had any woman sass him. He is a posh twat; he has never had a woman call him out on his shit.” “I would have thought it would be a regular occurrence for him with his demeanour.” Paul gave a chuckle. “I can’t do this Paul; I can’t be okay with what happened.”

Paul swallowed hard. “Is there any…do you think I can…?” “I don’t know. I need to think about it.”

Paul nodded, knowing how stubborn she was, any attempts to push her would cause her to become less open to listening to him. “I’m sorry Danni.” He leant in to give her a kiss, but she moved her head to the side.

“So am I.”

Paul pulled back. “Can I call you?”

“I probably won’t answer.” “You really hate phones?” Paul gave a sad, knowing smile. “I hate phone calls.” “I’ll text you so; you can read them, delete them or reply at your discretion.”

“That would be better, thank you.”

“I’m going to show you I’m sorry Danni, I know I cannot make you forgive me, but I’m going to prove it anyway.” He swore, patting Mac’s head before leaving; Danielle saying nothing as he left.

Paul got into his car and sat staring at the wheel for a minute. “Do you want me to drive?” Charles asked cautiously, Paul merely nodded, getting out and letting his friend swap seats with him. “She is an absolute ball-buster,” Charles commented as he reversed out of Danielle’s driveway. “Nice house, though.”

Paul gave a small nod. “Her attitude is one of the best things about her.” “You are bonkers, you know that?” Charles shook his head.

“I warned you already Charles, I can’t lose her because of this, I…I finally feel happy again, and it is because of her.”

“Seriously Paul, you know you are not well-matched, she’s too…I don’t know what it is exactly, but I’m telling you, though she is not Julie, even I can give her that, but she is not the one for you either.” The other doctor stated as they drove off.

As soon as they left, Emma moved away from the curtain. “What are you doing?” She turned to see her brother looking at her worriedly. Emma looked around the room, “I am going to drop this to Danielle.” She stated, grabbing a random book.

“Why?” “Because Paul was waiting outside her house, with some friend, one that Elle was anything but happy to see and they are after leaving already, I want to see if she is okay.”

Tom’s eyes widened, extending his hand, he looked his sister in the eye. “Give me the book.”

“Tom?” “Give it to me, Emma.” “Not until you tell me why.”

Not even waiting for her to give him the book, Tom turned around and went back to his room, getting out of his pyjama bottoms and into his jeans again before walking out his mother’s front door without an explanation.

Danielle took another headache tablet, knowing she would suffer more pain before the evening was over. When she heard the letterbox bang twice, she frowned, Mac Tíre jumped to his feet and whined excitedly. Knowing only one person knocked like that, Danielle went to the door. “Hey Tom, everything okay?”

He walked into her house and stood in her hallway. “Emma told me you had company.”

“They’re gone now.” “And that the man here with Paul made you look fit to spit fire.” “It was him, Charles, apparently he wanted to apologise.” “The man who called you…” “That word, yeah.”

“What happened?” Danielle looked at him. “Why do you care?” “Because you haven’t told anyone else, you need to talk to someone.” “Why you, though? Four weeks ago we weren’t even talking.” “Elle, I know you are still trying to see if I have changed back, but please, I don’t want you to be upset.” “He tried to apologise, but he didn’t mean it, so I may have used Mac as a way to encourage him to leave and it worked, and Paul left a minute later when he realised I wasn’t going to listen to bullshit.” “Good.” She frowned as she looked at him. “I mean its good you didn’t give in too easily, about what he said, or didn’t say as the case may be.”

“Yeah well, I am just going to go to bed, I’m officially done with today. Thanks for looking after Mac for me.” “We had a good walk, didn’t we?” Tom scratched the dog’s ear. “You did such a great job with him.” “My dad was a big part of that, he used have me look after the sickest puppies, I was lucky, they tended to survive.” “I think you don’t give yourself enough credit, I think it was something you did.” Tom smiled fondly. “I better get some sleep too, I am up at all hours.” “Rather you than me.” Danielle winced, thinking of his day ahead. “And thank you for checking up on me.”

“Anytime.” He grinned; satisfied she was alright after everything. When he arrived at his mother's, Emma was waiting inside the door. “I…” “What is going on Tom, it is clearly not okay, Elle is not okay.” “I am sure Elle will tell you, but she is just pissed off at the moment, just wait for her to explain it,” Tom stated. “And don’t text her, she is going to bed.” “She said she wasn’t tired.” “Well apparently she is done with today, so I would think that means her watching YouTube video’s until she dozes off,” Tom called down, as he ascended the stairs.

Paul 10:35pm– I really am sorry Danni, I wish I knew how to show you how much I am.

Danielle 10:43pm – I know you are, your apology actually was heartfelt, but his wasn’t, I am not sure I can deal with you being friends with such a man.

Paul 10:45pm– He can be an idiot sometimes.

Danielle 10:47pm– That is not being an idiot, that is being a racist; there’s a huge difference.

Paul 10:51pm– Danni, I would do anything for you.

Danielle 11:03pm– I don’t want you to, that’s the issue.

Paul 11:04pm– I don’t understand.

Danielle 11.16pm– if you have you have to alter your life to include me in a way that negatively impacts something else Paul, maybe it’s for the best to not continue with this.

Paul 11:22pm– Danni, you don’t negatively impact anything, you are the first person I have actually felt anything for since…you are just so…you and I love that, I love what you bring to my life.

Danielle 12:13pm – But it is impacting on you. Charles and I are never going to be friends and that is going to put a strain on you. I know he means a lot to you, and that he was there after everything with your ex, and that shows there is some good in him, but what he said and his lack of regret shows me he and I can never get along.

Paul 12:16pm– Danni, please, I love you. I know that is not the best declaration of it to you will ever hear, and I know you are really upset with me right now, but I love you, and I want to make this up to you.

Paul 01:10am – Shit, Danni, I know that was too sudden and soon for you, I know I shouldn’t have said it, but I wanted, to be honest with you. Please say something.

Danielle 01:20 am – I am not sure what I can say to that, to be honest, Paul.

Paul 01:29am – Have I ruined everything?

Danielle 01:39am – I don’t know.

For the rest of the night, Danielle stared at the messages Paul had sent her, her focus fixed on the one where he told her not once, but twice in as many sentences of his feelings for her. Staring at the ceiling above her bed, she thought over the words and how much they clearly meant to Paul. He told her of how Julie had crushed him, of how he took over a year to even try and look at women again, and when he did, the only one that he could see was her. She had known about him liking her for a while, too long really, but she could only see one person herself, which of course was the epitome of idiocy on her behalf, seeing as Tom had never seen her, not in that manner at least. She knew, if she was being honest, that she only decided to even look at Paul because she was hurt after how Tom had acted, how he had focused in on her being alone too. That caused her to feel guilty, feeling that she had led Paul along, and she only even went to bed with him at all because she was upset over what the Wicked Bitch of the West had bullshitted to the media about her. If she had not been so hurt, could she have found herself with Paul; that she could not answer.

Her mind drifted to the afternoon with Emma, Tom and their family, how comfortable and happy she had been, that made her more anxious, because she never felt so at ease with Paul, and she knew that that would be even less likely now with how his supposed friend had treated her, to them; she would never be good enough, and that was not something she wanted to live with. She was not one to get sanctimonious over her career, but she took pride in it, and Charles was pissing all over it. Even thinking of that arrogant shit caused her to get annoyed. She tried not to let her anger at him affect her thoughts, but she couldn’t help it, he was a part of Paul’s life for years. But it came back to her own feelings on Paul and she had, to be honest with herself; there was no guarantee she could ever be as happy with Paul as being around Tom made her, nor could she guarantee that she couldn’t be.

Danielle 03:36am – text me when you get this.

Paul 03:37am – I’m up.

Danielle 03:40am – Can you come over?

Paul 03:41am – I’m heading now.

Tom yawned as he put the coffee into the travel mug and quietly made his way through his mother’s home, closing her front door as softly as he could as he left. He looked at Danielle’s as he went down the steps, frowning to see her porch light on at four-thirty in the morning, knowing it had not been on when he had left her house the evening before. Thinking little of it, he got into his car and threw his bag in the back seat before turning it on. As he left his mother’s drive he looked into Danielle’s, noticing immediately that there was a second car in it, a car he was convinced was Paul’s. though he could not explain why, his excitement for the day ahead dissipated and he felt a pang of jealousy rip through him as he drove off.

#I Hate you I Love You #chapter 19 #tom hiddleston #tom hiddleston fic

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