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sunonyoreface · 3 years

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Anton Chigurh Imagine

Anton Chigurh x reader

Hello, this is just something I’ve been working on.

trigger warnings: violence, mentions of sexual assault

What happens when Anton is meant to kill you?

The sounds of the pickup truck’s tires rolling over freshly grated gravel are eerily reminiscent of the snapping of bones when you run over a gopher or ground squirrel. Like those poor animals caught in the path of this truck, I don’t see myself escaping this trip alive. And just like them the hairs on the back of my neck stand alert at the sense of immediate danger.

Twenty minutes ago, I was wedged between Mr. Jameson, who was driving and his “friend” Tommy. Mr. Jameson or John as he wanted me to call him a few weeks ago -but calling him John always felt too personal- has his hand resting on the inside of my thigh, where the bruises he left two nights ago remain a deep purple. His calloused hand moves in loving circles as if to tell me everything is going to be alright, he soothes me the same way one soothes a family pet they’re taking to the vet to have put down. Can those animals sense their life is about to end? Do they know the people around them are about to authorize their death? I do.

Ten minutes ago, we slowed to a stop beside a dark green pickup truck with a tall man standing beside it. His hair is the next thing I notice after his height. Its an odd style similar to the bobs that women wear, but more masculine and parted off to the side rather than the center. He sizes up Mr. Jameson and Tommy as they exit the vehicle, merely glancing at me, but when he does my blood runs cold. Something about his eyes are off. As if they hold no emotion, no soul. That man has the eyes of a predator.

The glass in the doors rattles when the men slam them shut. A sigh of relief escapes my lips. Being that close to either of them makes the bile rise in my throat. The skin where Mr. Jameson’s hand was burns, leaving me with the intense desire to scrub it clean. Yet the kind of dirt he leaves behind is not the kind that washes off in the shower. I don’t know if I’ll ever feel clean again.

Mr. Jameson wears an honorable cream coloured cowboy hat, while Tommy’s is black. John welcomes the new man with his arms wide open, yet he doesn’t go in for an embrace. While Tommy keeps his thumbs tucked in the pockets of his cotton jeans. He spits his tobacco on the ground beside the other man’s truck. If I didn’t see the expression flash across his face, I would have missed the contempt in the man’s pursed lips. How well did they know this man? Tommy’s body language indicates not that well.

Their words are muffled over the sound of the engine. If only I could hear what they’re saying. Mr. Jameson put on a salesman’s act as though they’re all old friends, but the other man’s expression hasn’t changed. His arms remain crossed across his chest, his body language closed off. Their conversation doesn’t last long, however, they all move for the truck. Mr. Jameson opens the door but doesn’t get in.

“Alright Jen, you can hop in the back with Mr. Chigurh here,” he grins at me and his eyes wander across my chest. I can feel them undressing me, violating me. I’m almost thankful for the others being there, but I know given the opportunity, they would too. No one here is going to save me.

“Okay.” At least there will be a seat’s worth of space between us.

He doesn’t say anything as I climb into the seat behind the driver, but his eyes do a quick once over when I do up the buckle. I’m the only one who bothered and it makes me question how much longer we’ll be driving for. Was it worth it? Maybe. Maybe if they try and drag me from the vehicle it’ll provide me some sort of resistance, a protection of sorts. Or it’ll just take me longer to get out of the vehicle and give me less time to run. But run where? We’re in the middle of nowhere in the Texas dessert. The air outside is supposed to be 115 all week. The kind of hot that will dry you out without water and blister your skin without shade. The gravel has long since turned to dirt and I haven’t spotted a ranch since we left the highway. Regardless my hands find themselves on the buckle once again, quietly undoing it.

No one speaks as we drive, the AM radio hums quietly in the background, the truck’s air conditioner on full blast, and while Mr. Jameson and Tommy don’t hear the quiet click, Chigurh does. His eyes snap to my trembling hands. Fuck. Don’t make eye contact. Don’t make eye contact. I hold the seatbelt in place to prevent the others from noticing. Chigurh’s eyes haven’t left me yet. They burn holes into the side of my head as I desperately avoid making eye contact. He knows. He knows I’m going to run, but is he going to chase me?

We’re the last to pull up to a group of half a dozen other vehicles all parked in a circle. The scene is silent and unmoving. Something is wrong.

Four bloody bodies lay on the dirt in varying positions, three of them have guns in their hands. Beside the man without a gun, a German Shepherd lies, dead, with a pool of dried blood coming from its chest. Other men were shot dead in their vehicles before they could escape. Bullet casings litter the ground and flies fill the air. Vultures have already gotten to some of the men outside and now circle us in the air above. How the hell did this happen?

“We need your help assessing the scene.” Mr. Jameson says. There’s a tightness to his voice. How is he even involved with any of this? If the folks in our small city knew of his involvement with these crimes he would never be re-elected. The honest man, loving father, respectable community member is anything but. If only they knew the crimes he was capable of.

“Alright.” Chigurh’s voice rumbles low and strong. Does he have a background in crime scene investigation? Or maybe even law enforcement? I feel a speck of hope return, but another glance at the bodies returns my sense of dread.

Do they plan on planting my body with the rest of them?

I have to run. There’s no other option.

The men exit the truck and don’t say anything when I don’t follow them. Mr. Jameson takes the keys with him this time, but even if I could have driven away, it would only be moments before they’d be following me in one of the dead men’s trucks.

The truck has only been off for thirty seconds and already an unbearable heat has filled the cab.

They walk around the bodies and point out evidence I’m too far away to decipher. Tommy pretends to blast one of the dead men with finger guns and laughs at his own joke. But he’s the only one. This is clearly business for Mr. Jameson and he treats it as such in a professional manner. His causality could convince you this isn’t a mass murder with over a dozen victims, and is instead a wrongly filed report.

Chirgurh doesn’t pay attention to Tommy’s antics. It’s apparent that this is business for him too but not in the way that it is for Mr. Jameson. Mr. Jameson fakes his nonchalance; his shoulders are still tense and his arms move erratically. Chigurh moves with a confidence that says he doesn’t care about the outcome of this event. This level of violence is nothing new to Chigurh, maybe even caused by him from time to time.

As the men move to the far end of the crime scene and examine one of the trucks, I know this is my best opportunity at escaping. They open the door of a sixties ford pickup truck. At the same time, I drop the seatbelt and as quietly as possible open the back door. I don’t bother closing it.

I don’t look back. Instead, I run the opposite direction of the men. In front of me lies fifty meters of open dessert before the hill slants down a rocky slope and hopefully meets a river.

I regret never being very athletic. My lungs burn and I can hear my heartbeat in my ears. My vision starts to turn to TV static from not eating in the last twenty-four hours. I hear laughter in the background. Its Tommy’s voice, but I don’t stop. I can’t stop.

A gunshot pierces the air and echoes through the dessert. I stop dead in my tracks. Did they shoot me?

No. I look down and everything seems normal.

I look back to see all three men standing at the edge of the crime scene. Chigurh holds a pistol in his hands. Was he carrying this whole time?

“Come back here sweetheart,” Mr. Jameson croons.

Tears prick my eyes. No. No. No. My mind races. There has to be a way out of this

My feet move forward. One after another, slowly as possible, I make my way back.

Three sets of eyes watch as my foot snags a rock and I tumble towards the ground. They watch as I humiliate myself in front of them. Tommy’s sniggers are carried by the wind and the first tears fall from my eyes.

“Baby look at me,” he calls out, but I can’t.

“Fine,” annoyance fills his voice. “Then look at Mr. Chigurh over here, huh, with the gun. He wants to shoot you. Look at that beast. You are about to make his day.”

My eyes meet Chigurh’s and Mr. Jameson’s words ring in my ears. He looks more than trigger happy. There is something rabid about him.

The arid wind suddenly feels like a blizzard as I make my way back to them. Mr. Jameson has a satisfied grin on his face.

“What were you thinking sweetheart? Huh? You would’ve got lost,” he pulls me close and kisses my forehead. His facial hair unpleasantly scratching my skin. “We can’t have than now, can we?”

Tears blur my vision and snot runs from my nose. This is all too much.

“Just kill me,” I mumble.

“What was that?”

“Just kill me already. Isn’t that why you brought me out here? Have your way with me one last time before you get rid of me?”

The smile on Jameson’s face is gone. His game is over.

“You know,” he sighs. “I suppose you’re right, but we’re not done our business with Mr. Chigurh yet and interrupting is rude,” he turns back to the men.

“So, your employer already knows of our arrangement and payment. Any additional travel costs will be covered. We need this done by next Wednesday, preferably by the weekend. He’ll pay you once you drop the case off, but you already know that. I’ll be in contact with him. Do we have ourselves a deal Anton?”

“No.”

In just milliseconds Chigurh raises the pistol and shoots both men in the chest. Tommy reaches for his gun, but it’s too late. Anton steps over him before shooting Tommy in the head, then moving on to Mr. Jameson who is gurgling blood.

“Your reputation precedes you John, so we do not have a deal, but I’ll be sure to return the money to your boss,” his voice remains emotionless and before Mr. Jameson can get another word in, Chigurh puts a bullet in his brain.

Throughout this all, Chigurh doesn’t get a spot of blood on his clothes. The iron creases are still visible on his slacks, button up shirt untouched. How he’s wearing a black denim jacket in this heat is a question for another day. His ostrich boots are a slightly darker red than the pool of blood now surrounding Mr. Jameson. As my eyes fixate on them, they turn towards me.

As though he almost forgot about me, a small hiccup brings his attention to the small mess of a girl in front of him. His eyes lock on mine and I catch the pure satisfaction he gained from killing those two men.

“Please don’t,” I whisper. “I haven’t done anything. I can- I can disappear, you’ll never hear about me again and I won’t know you exist.”

His large figure steps towards me, but the gun in his hand stays pointed at the ground. I want to shuffle back but my feet wont move. I’m frozen in place. His left-hand digs in his jacket pocket for something and I flinch when he pulls a quarter out of his pocket.

“Heads or tails?” The corner of his lip quarks up just the slightest bit and my stomach turns.

“Heads,” my voice cracks.

The coin flips and stays suspended in the air for what feels like forever. It lands with a simple smack against his palm. Heads. I still feel uneasy.

“Now what?”

“Here, keep the coin,” his large hand reaches out and takes mine. His skin is warm and calloused from years of physical work. Anton gently places the coin in my hand before closing it. “We have to get my luggage from my truck.”

“We?”

“Is there any other way it would be?”

#anton chigurh #no country for old men #no country for old men imagine #anton chigurh x reader #anton chigurh imagine #anton chigurh fanfic #anton x reader #anton imagine #anton fanfic

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vvolgarov · 3 years

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“The Killer is you”

Send “The Killer is you” to hear about the time my muse killed someone.

“Come on, son.” ” ... “ “You are aware of what to do next. You need to aim directly at their hyoid bone to obstruct their airway. Do not aim at the thyroid cartilage. I have thought you well to know the differences between the two.” Teachings on how to murder an individual haven’t been as entertaining as he would have imagined. He was aware that his family -- the nature of his parents and their respective species had involvement in killing people for the means to consume flesh and re-use the available healthy organs as a means for later use for their dishes. Their bodies have developed gene that has them consuming a taboo source of mean as a means to maintain a healthy body. To survive, to obtain necessary Vitamins that humans would not naturally obtain if performing cannibalism themselves. His mother was a more common consumer of the taboo meat; his father had a likeness for blood though he seemed to gradually show little interest towards it. Despite being a Dracula. Could he have found alternatives? Did his body gradually build up tolerance to adapt without the need of flesh and blood in his diet? Ludwig Von Erblindet never doubted that his son would inherit a particular gene that would have him bloodthirsty as often. Possibly as frequent as his mother, being aware of how genetically dominant ghouls are in comparison to a vampire. No matter if draculas’ genes are deemed genetically dominant -- They could not compare to what a ghoul is formed from. While he did want to make sure his son would adapt to the diet and educate him on how to capture a human to feed on them; he was more focused on educating Jay how to perform fatal injuries to murder the person immediately without having them suffer furthermore. Ludwig was more moral when It comes to feeding off a person. He hated the idea of having them suffer throughout the feeding or have them watch to be slowly murdered by the hands of a ghoul, choosing to find methods that would inflict instant deaths that would leave the target dead immediately. Hence his research regarding anatomy. Focusing on the bone structures and the nervous system, researching in detail on the most sensitive areas of a human and what is the percentage of fatality when a particular area is met with a specific tool. Part of his research involved his desire to make sure his son does not become a serial killer to continue a legend among humans. So that he does not obtain the high from mass murdering people; making the teachings as boring and agonizingly-repetitive as he could. Adapting his dangerous son into adjusting himself to the smell of blood, as not to get his adrenaline raised over the slight scent. “Do it, boy. You’re preached to your peers on how you’re going to kill someone with your old man. I’ve taken you out of that unnecessary class so you could get your opportunity to murder someone as soon as you can.” “I can’t do it.” “Do you feel that growing thrill? Does the thrill lead you to hesitate?” Jays’ hands would nervously shake whilst wielding a miniature steel axe. His serene gaze now exchanged with one that would display tension and anxiety, as the idea of killing someone by his hands began to trouble him. Unable to close his eyes as his father watched him from the side, with one hand resting against his shoulder in a firm grip. As though knowing his son was to chicken out; had he not been held by him. Unsure whether the grip was meant to be in a supportive manner, or to prevent him from fleeing. Watching the person in front of him be tied to a chair, entirely blindfolded and in no way capable of talking due to a taped up mouth. Lack of consciousness. His father clearly set this scenario up; as It was tradition for the noble parent(s) to obtain the first capture for their children. All he had to do is perform the kill as specifically instructed. The hyoid bone. Avoid the thyroid cartilage. The thyroid cartilage will have the target feel some fullness in their throat and cause an instant vomiting reaction If hit there. Just as how he learned from his father when learning the subject of the human anatomy. The two of them knew that this would not end in Jays’ want to reconsider and take days for a proper mental preparation. He was aware that his father would not shout at him nor grip his hair to coerce him into doing it. The disappointment in his fathers’ expression was alone a punishment on Its’ own. Soon he would raise his axe once again, raising it to the level as the exposed neck was held. Ropes occupying the body that was tied to the chair, with the head being carefully tied to have it lean backwards. Hence a more comfortable access to the neck. He would measure where exactly the hyoid bone resided, seeing at the corner of his eye as his patriarch nodded in confirmation that the location was correct. Jay dared to shyly look into his fathers’ green irises, displaying little emotion but there was visible intensity under them. They showed no reassurance; implying that this did not deserve encouragement. After all, this entire process was first degree murder. Planned, timed. His gaze was returned to the target. A male figure who happened to be average in build and height. Bald and fitted in casual attire, as though he came out from a fun night out. Colorful shirt with patterns of cartoony alligators and stained jeans with a hole in the right knee. Jay would bring the axe again to correct himself at the location of the bone, before taking a deep breath and refusing to exhale. Positioning his frame and shifting his hands to the side to have gravity provide him with acceleration to directly hit the throat -- and do so swiftly. With no hesitation. “You’re a true Erblindet now, Jayden.” Those are the words that rang in his ears after the sounds of bones fracturing together into a nothing; followed with some muscle tearing slowly before the impact was too unbearable and the layers teared swifter up until the neck opened up itself in half. A fatal hit that left the person dead instantly. The seventeen year old was able to exhale deeply after containing his breath prior. It felt as though some relief escaped his mind, the relief of his father finally releasing the disappointed gaze and showing a more neutral one. The process felt so suffocating, but relieving at his realization how he did not have to worry about this person struggling to function without a head. By the time he was able to process his dads’ words on how he was deemed a true Erblindet; Ludwig brought the young man into an embrace and held him firmly. In a reassuring manner. In the way that his father felt like his son will gradually develop some part of trauma by performing this kill. “Never hurt people in a manner that would be deemed a slow death.” “ ... Okay. “ “You’re going to be okay, Jay. You’re a good kid. You’ll get used to facing death when you grow older. You simply need to learn that It is not a game.” “ ... Understood, dad.”

#i-always-watch #long post #murder mentiion #gore (?)#cannibalism mention #blood mention

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maidenof-thesea · 4 years

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Snakes & Butterflies | Part VII

Pairing: Jimin x Reader

Genre: Soulmate Au!, Fluff, Angst, Smut (in the future)

Words: 3.2k

Warning: minor swearing

Note: Part 7 is here! I hope you enjoy. I have decided to add a lot more fluff and a just a little pinch of drama. I love you guys !!

Reminder: * conversations in Korean *

Once we separated Jimin from Taehyung, the adventure to the museums commenced. I decided to leave my Jeep and opted to ride with the guys, since they had such a big car. Jin wanted to drive there but I decided to drive since I was more familiar with LA traffic. Jungkook was my navigator, so he had to sit in the middle, right next to me, much to Jimin’s disappointment.

Once we were on the highway, Taehyung started to play music and the car became a karaoke party. After hearing Namjoon and Yoongi rap to Eminem’s Lose Yourself, I was convinced that they were not human. I mean, I knew Jungkook had a beautiful voice but I never imagined that all of them were so talented. Taehyung’s vocals were husky, yet rough that made it sound warm and soulful. Jin’s were very even and yet sweet sounding. I could tell from how Hobi was vibrating in his seat that he was full of passion, if I remember correctly, Jungkook did mention that he was dance major and he specified in hip hop. I had yet to hear Jimin’s voice, which had me a bit excited. Once Charlie Puth’s ‘We don’t talk anymore’ I was not disappointed.

“We don’t talk anymore, like we used to do” Jimin sang. “We don’t love anymore. What was all of it for?”

His voice was what I would describe as heavenly. It was very sweet and crisp and combined with Jungkook’s soft and smooth vocals, I may have been the first person to thank God for LA traffic because I’m sure I would have crashed. To my surprise, I looked in the rear view mirror, and I was attacked by Jimin’s intense stare, as if he had already been staring at me as he sang. I quickly averted my gaze back to the road and put both hands on the wheel, even though the traffic was so bad that we hadn’t even moved an inch for the last five minutes. I gulped my nonexistent saliva, and I realized that my throat was really dry. I should have brought water. I risked another glance at Jimin, and he was still staring at me, but this time with a smirk. I quickly rolled down my window and prayed that there was some wind. The audacity.

“Y/N,” Taehyung said from behind me. “You’re next. What song do you want to sing?”

“I-I” I stuttered. I tend not to listen to music since most songs portray love but I was definitely not gonna be singing some club banger.

“Noona,” Jungkook said. “You liked that one song by Ariana Grande that I showed you. You should sing that one.”

“Are you insane?” I spluttered. “I would butcher that song.”

And they all started to chant my name and I quickly rolled up the window since some of the other drivers were giving me weird looks.

“OK!” I exclaimed with a slight eye roll and the buys erupted in cheers. “Play Breathin’ by Ariana, Taetae.”

“Coming right up,” Taehyung said.

“I actually have never heard it before,” Yoongi said with Hobi nodding in agreement.

The music began and almost immediately I began to sing.

Jungkook

I bopped my head along to the beginning of the song as Noona started to sing and the car was real quiet. Too quiet and her voice wavered a bit from what I reckon was nerves. So in order to help her relax, I started humming along.

“Sometimes it’s hard to find,” Noona sang now, getting in rhythm and swaying back and forth with me, “Find my way up into the clouds. Tune it out, they can be so loud. You remind me of a time when things weren’t so complicated. All I need is to see your face.”

Once the song ended, Noona’s face was flushed from embarrassment but erupted into her signature smile as the hyungs cheered and complimented her.

“Liars.” she started pouting with a small smile, but I could tell she felt a bit proud. “You guys sound like angels and over here I sound like a dying whale.”

“I like your voice Noona,” I said automatically and she turned and gave me a grateful smile but she nervously looked into the rearview mirror and back to the road. Traffic was starting to move and she focused on driving. For some reason the back of my neck was feeling real hot.

“You are a brave boy Jungkook,” Namjoon whispered from the passenger seat next to me. “But let’s not test Jimin’s patience anymore okay?”

“Yes hyung,” I said with a gulp, remembering the punch Jimin gave Taehyung earlier.

“We’re almost there!” Y/N said in excitement and the boys sighed in relief, even though the SUV was big, it was slightly uncomfortable for eight fully grown adults. Once Noona paid for the parking, in spite of Jin’s insistence to pay, we were finally off and exploring. We relatively kept together as a group as we explored the museums, which were all conveniently within the same area. One of the museums had a German history exhibition, much to Namjoon hyung’s delight. Him and Noona stayed behind to look at more historical artifacts and photos.

Jin hyung had dragged all of us outside to take selcas and Yoongi and Hobi hyung were heading to another exhibit on the opposite side, which looked like an indoor garden. Jimin sort of lingered outside of the group, almost as if he wanted to go back inside.

“Hyung,” I whispered to him and he hummed in response, not really paying attention. “Just go back inside, Namjoon hyung may get lost, and Noona will panic, you know her.”

“Should I?” He said even though he was already taking a step towards the building. “Does she really panic like that still?”

“Yep,” I nodded. “If anything she’s gotten worse.”

Jimin then took off without replying and I couldn’t help but smile and feel relieved. A big arm wrapped around my shoulder and Jin hyung sighed from between me and Taehyung.

“Always needing encouragement,” Jin said with a hint of endearment. “It’s the first time I’ve seen him act this way towards a girl..I never thought I would actually ever witness it.”

“He deserves it,” Taehyung said with a small sad smile.

“They both do.” I said with a twinge of an unfamiliar emotion in my chest.

I noticed that Namjoon had a tendency to wander off in curiosity, since it had already been twice that I lost track of him. I was incredibly thankful for his height, otherwise I would have had a full on panic attack at being left alone in a room full of people I don’t know. I kept hold of the sleeve on his hoodie, just in case though but he didn’t really seem to notice. We were both currently looking at a photograph of a statue of a leopard carrying a child, when a small statue caught my eye. I looked at Namjoon and he was still reading the facts about the photograph. With a slight sigh, I released his sleeve and made my way to the small secluded statue that no one paid attention to.

It was a replica of a gravestone found in Germany in the 1850’s. It was of a butterfly and a snake. The snake was devouring its own tail, while the butterfly was in the center. The butterfly reminded me of my own drawings from when I was a little girl. I lightly traced the henna tattoo and I let my mind wander back to my dream. I haven’t had any dreams lately, to my disappointment.

Don’t cry too much

I wonder what Cassandra meant by that. I shrugged, I had been a tad bit more sensitive lately but I figured my cycle was due. I look back at the statue one more time and this time I focus on the snake devouring its own tail.

“I’m jealous,” Jungkook said with a sigh. “Your Mark is so cool! The snake looks so real!”

“I like yours Jungkook,” another voice said. “It suits you, you are like a hawk: quick and agile.”

“But I like Y/N’s the best,” the voice continued. And I felt a warm pressure on my hand. Almost as if someone had squeezed my hand. “Monarch butterflies are really pretty.”

When I looked up at the voice, the sun was too bright for me to make out the person. I looked back down squinting from the sting of the sun.

“You’re home now Noona,” Jungkook said with a teasing tone. I felt my eyes water slightly. “Don’t cry Noona I was only joking!”

“Jungkook,” the voice said sternly and I was quickly enveloped in a hug. “You didn’t have to come, I could have walked her by myself.”

“I was only joking Jiminie!” Jungkook whined. “I’m sorry Y/N!”

“Jimin,” I said wrapping my arms around him. Not really wanting to let go.

“Yes?”

“Jimin,” I repeated once more, hugging him even tighter.

“Are you okay?”

And I was startled, almost as if I had fallen asleep.

“I’m sorry,” a familiar voice said, as big hands steadied me. “I was talking to you earlier but you seemed lost in thought, Y/N are you okay?”

“Yes,” I said quickly, regaining my surroundings. “I must have dozed off in a daydream. Wait..”

“Minho?” I asked once I recognized the man in front of me. And I was right. Minho was in front of me and he chuckled at my expression.

“You really were dozing off,” he chuckled once more. “As I was saying, you never gave me a call...I was wond-”

“Y/N?” Namjoon sighed in relief, he was panting and his glasses were askew. “Where have you been? Jimin and I have looked all over the place-wait I need to call him before-”

“Ladies and gentlemen sorry for the announcement but we have a missing child: her name is Y/N L/N. She is wearing a black V neck shirt with a jean skirt. She has long black hair-”

Before I could hear the rest I covered my ears in horror, while Namjoon scrambled through his pockets. I have never been so embarrassed in my whole life. Not even my mother would have dared-

“Jimin!” Namjoon said into his phone. The rest of the conversation was in Korean and Minho chucked a bit.

“Wow,” He said as we both heard a pair of running footsteps. Before I knew it, I was wrapped in familiar arms and Jimin’s chest was constricting with exertion against my cheek.

“Jimin,” I said as best as I could. “I’m-”

And he spins me around inspecting me and then his hands are on my cheeks.

“Why did you go off by yourself?” He said his eyebrows scrunched in worry. “Do you have any idea how worried I was?”

“Aren’t you twenty four, Y/N?” Minho said in amusement. I felt my face turn red in embarrassment. Jimin’s eyes hardened, and he took my hand in his and took a step in front of me, almost blocking me from Minho’s view. “Didn’t know you were a child, almost foo-”

“I’m sorry but who are you?” Namjoon said before Jimin could. He was now fixing his glasses and straightening his coat. He had his hand on Jimin’s shoulder.

“He’s an acquaintance of mine,” I said side stepping around Jimin, who tried pulling me back behind him. “It’s okay, his name is Minho Lee.”

“Nice to meet you,” Minho said bowing. “You guys are Korean as well right? I’ll speak comfortably if that’s okay?”

“Aren’t you already speaking comfortably?” Jimin said, his tone brazen, causing Minho’s smile to falter and his gaze darted to our clasped hands. I felt my face turn even more red and I tried to tug my hand but Jimin only squeezed more. “Keep still.” He whispered.

“How do you guys know each other?” Minho asked, his eyes held a hint of amusement.

“I’m actually their host-”

“We’re friends,” Jimin answered. “Since we were children.”

“But we’re actually staying where she works,” Namjoon clarifies. “An Airbnb.”

“Did you quit your job at the hotel Y/N?” Minho asked. “Did you quit the same day you saw me there?”

My eyes widened at that, and Jimin quickly glanced at me with a question in his eyes. I had forgotten to mention that I worked at a hotel as a part time outside of the summer.

“It’s a long story,” I sighed, pushing my hair back with my free hand.“I’ll give you a call soon to plan a meeting with you Professor Lee.”

“But-”

“You’re a professor?” Namjoon said with a surprised tone. “You seem young..”

“Ah,” Minho laughs. “Yes, I just started lectures at Y/N’s university. We’re both from the Anthropology department.”

That piqued Namjoon’s interest and before me and Jimin could even stop him, Namjoon’s curiosity got the best of him.

“What do you specify in?” Namjoon asked with his head inclined. Jimin quietly sighed and he wasn’t alone there, I was always open to hearing Namjoon rant and answer questions but I didn’t really have patience for it right now.

“Origins of the Nethanderals,” Minho replies. Almost immediately Jimin and Namjoon stiffened. I hummed in confusion and Jimin shook his head. His phone vibrated and he quickly whispered in Namjoon’s ear. Namjoon nodded as well.

“Well,” Namjoon says, extending his hand to Minho. “I would love to hear all about it sometime Professor Lee but we really must get going, the rest of our group is looking for us.”

“Oh that’s too bad,” Minho says smiling as he shakes Namjoon’s hand. “Do you perhaps have a moment Y/N?”

“She actually can’t,” Jimin replies before I even open my mouth. “She brought us here, and she’s showing us around so-”

“It will only be a minute,” I said with a hint of annoyance. Before Jimin could protest, I managed to pull my hand free. I lead Minho towards a secluded section, missing the way he shrugged at Jimin, who took a step in his direction but was held back by Namjoon.

“Okay,” I sighed. “When are you free so we can chat?”

“Your friend is funny.” Minho said with a hint of mischief.

“I’m not here to talk about Jimin,” I said rolling my eyes. “So if you have nothing to say I can go?”

“Wait!” Minho says attempting to grasp my arm but I crossed my arms. I was honestly annoyed with these guys trying to manhandle me. “I was just joking. I’m free whenever after the morning.”

“Well I’m having a barbecue tonight if you want to come?”

“Will that be alright with your guests?”

“It should be,” I shrugged. “You can talk to me about your research then.”

“Do they know about your?” He asked, gesturing to my arm.

“No,” I sighed with frustration, only Jungkook knew. “How about after, the barbecue shouldn’t take too long?”

“That’s fine.” He said, sounding a bit pleased. “It’s a date.” He said that last part a bit loud and I turned around to glare at him.

“Or not.” He shrugged. “It’s not a date.”

“I’ll meet you at the hotel around 8.”

“Bye!”

And I walked back to Namjoon and Jimin. Namjoon was reading the facts on the statue of the snake and butterfly, while Jimin was staring at me intensely.

“Jimin,” I sighed was I was in his proximity. “I’m not a child anymore, you didn’t have to make an announcement.”

“Oh excuse me,” Jimin said with an brazen tone once more, causing my eyebrow to arch. “Didn’t mean to interrupt your reunion.”

“Jimin, I-”

“Never mind,” Jimin sighs. “Hobi hyung wants to have lunch.”

And he left me and Namjoon standing there. Me more in shock and Namjoon scratching his head. I look at Namjoon for an explanation.

“We were worried, Y/N,” He says sighing. “With what’s been going on lately how could we not?”

“I understand that,” I sighed in defeat. “But he seems upset for another reason.”

“Well that guy was a bit weird,” Namjoon mutters. “He didn’t know how to take a hint.”

“What?”

“Nothing,” he says smiling. “Let’s go. I’m hungry.”

Namjoon

“What the hell happened?” Jungkook whispered to me as Jin was showing me all the pictures he took. I sighed as I looked at what he was talking about. Jimin and Y/N were both sitting next to each other but facing the opposite direction, not even acknowledging one another. But it was funny how the maknae line still managed to get them to sit next to one another.

“He sort of asked the museum to make a missing child announcement.” I whispered back, causing Jimin to roll his eyes. “It was embarrassing.”

“What?” Taehyung and Jungkook both said.

“Why didn’t he just call her?” Jungkook whispered.

“Not all of us have her number,” I reminded Jungkook.

“What are you talking about?” Taehyung said, pulling out his phone. “We have a group chat.”

He was right. The group chat was on kakaotalk and already there were several messages.

“Taehyung,” Y/N said with a confused expression. “What’s this app, it’s all in Hangul? Wait, my whole phone is in Hangul?”

“Oh!” Taehyung laughed. “Sorry I still have trouble with English! I’ll fix it for you!”

Taehyung reaches for her phone but Jimin quickly grabs it.

“Hey!” Y/N whined, but Jimin just gives her a pointed look and she blushes. “Oh thanks..”

“You forgot to add me to the chat Taehyung…” Jimin muttered in annoyance. “But he added you Namjoon…”

“Really?” I said surprised. “I actually haven’t heard anything..oh it’s on silent.”

I did a derp face while everyone but Jimin laughed. He rolled his eyes and handed Y/N’s phone back. After lunch, we went to other museums and this time we made sure to stay together, which pretty much meant we went through everything fairly quickly, to my disappointment. There was one garden or a greenhouse that we all did not want to leave though.

“Y/N!” Hobi exclaimed with excitement. “You’re gonna love this place, me and Yoongi loved it!”

Jimin

Hopi started to lead Y/N to this greenhouse that seemed to be packed with people. I felt myself get a bit nervous by the crowd so I decided to keep a close watch on her. Once we had entered, Hobi had covered Y/N’s eyes, who pouted and I opened my mouth but Yoongi hyung shushed me.

“Wow…” Y/N said once Hobi let go. And wow was right. What must have been a trillion monarch butterflies flew just about everywhere. Some landing on people’s faces, shoulders and hands. The others had walked further in, leaving me and Y/N to stare in awe. I cupped my hands and sure enough a butterfly landed on my hands. She squeals in joy and does the same, but a butterfly lands on her Mark. Her sword Mark was bleak compared to the butterfly. I couldn’t help but wonder, how her Mark looked. Did it look like mine? Was it cracked and broken as well? Did she have it removed and got a tattoo of a sword. I wasn’t quite sure. I look back at her face and her smile was gone and her eyes shined with unshed tears. She stared at the butterfly that had yet to fly away.

“Are you okay?” I asked.

“Jimin,” Y/N said. “I remember.”

“Remember what?” I asked. My whole body was on alert and I could feel my blood ringing in my ears. She looks up at me and a tear fell, I go to wipe it but she catches my hand.

“I remember you,” She says and I felt my heart drop.

Shouldn’t I be happy?

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Masterlist

#jimin #bts #bangtan boys #park jimin #jimin x reader #reader insert #soulmate au #bts soulmate au #soulmate!au #bts fluff #bts angst #bts smut #my work #hoseok x yoongi #jungkook

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yngai · 4 years

Text

— BASICS : ADA WONG .

IS YOUR MUSE TALL / SHORT / AVERAGE ? : she is 5′7 which is , i suppose , fairly above average in height .

ARE THEY OKAY WITH THEIR HEIGHT ? : definitely , she is perfectly content with it . she imagines herself as tall enough to be somewhat imposing in certain instances without it ever being cumbersome . there are very few things about her appearance she is not overtly confident about , really .

WHAT’S THEIR HAIR LIKE ? : a short , practical bob-cut is , perhaps , one of the defining features of the ada wong persona . dark , well-kept hair that is easy enough to maintain on the field . a slick & interesting look that is simple enough to disappear into the background , only catching the eye of those whose interest she wants pointed in her direction . in the years before her spywork , her mother fashioned her hair in the beehive style which was common in hong kong during the 60s . like many aspects of ada , her hair is very soft to the touch if someone ever gets close enough & she allows them this intimacy .

DO THEY SPEND A LOT OF TIME ON THEIR HAIR / GROOMING ? : it depends on what needs upkeep , really . she prefers to be quick & efficient so she can maintain a certain degree of consistent grace & beauty without cutting into precious time . like her hair , make-up is simple & minimalist , with lipstick & eye-shadow being her primary concern . anything that requires greater attention to detail & more than an hour of her time she tends to do between missions , unless the nature of her objective allows for such things , like if she is to maintain a persona for an extend period of time .

DOES YOUR MUSE CARE ABOUT THEIR APPEARANCE / WHAT OTHERS THINK ? : yes . it would be strange to imply otherwise , i think , her very work & existence is tied to how others perceive her , what her appearance communicates & its intersection with the expectations of others , how to make use of such things to play them at their game & win . it’s all a performance act , like i mentioned in my meta about her femininity , & thus when the masks drop & her mission ends such concerns vanish away . in the privacy of solitude , the brief moments between the need to be someone else , she does let herself go a little bit . with no eyes to perceive she doesn’t really exist & thus the performance of hyper-femininity is not necessary . the comfort ada wong brings leaves with her & though there is relief in letting go , there is fear & hurt too .

— PREFERENCES.

INDOORS OR OUTDOORS ? : more of an indoor type , the world outside is not for her . crowds & people & all that information floating around in great volume , it’s overbearing , & she feels much more lonely in public . four walls bring with them limitation , restriction , less pieces on the board & thus , it’s easier to control . RAIN OR SUNSHINE ? : rain can wash away all things & she finds comfort in how the sounds of raindrops hitting every surface does the same . FOREST OR BEACH ? : the beach is a place of relaxation & leisure , & ada can’t deny herself that . forests are dense & messy & places where people get lost & never return , she doesn’t need that experience again . PRECIOUS METALS OR GEMS ? : gems & precious stones . diamonds are a girl’s best friend is the key cliché here , but i’ve also discussed the idea of ada as a cat burglar for a fun alternate universe with @qipaos . FLOWERS OR PERFUMES ? : flowers are too kindly a gesture , too intimate , they communicate far too much intent . perfumes play a major role in memorability & appearance , unique sense & aromas , muted & overpowering , she finds them much more fun . PERSONALITY OR APPEARANCE ? : combination of both , really , she tends to be attracted to people who match her both in looks & ability , those she can see herself in , no matter how superficially . BEING ALONE OR BEING IN A CROWD ? : kind of answered this one already , although really it’s really choice between the overbearing loneliness of being in public or the loneliness of having no self to cling onto . at least with crowds & people to look upon her , she can be ada wong . ORDER OR ANARCHY ? : she fled the grasp of people who bring anarchy wherever they thread , much preferring order . PAINFUL TRUTHS OR WHITE LIES ? : she is a woman made of white lies who covets painful truths about the world . SCIENCE OR MAGIC ? : science , it’s resident evil . PEACE OR CONFLICT ? : while she finds work in constant conflict , such is the nature of the world , it is all in the hope of one day achieving peace . stopping those who would use umbrella’s downfall to gain power & control they do not deserve . NIGHT OR DAY ? : nights are quiet & peaceful , watching the neon-lights of a city dance around each other is a frequent ritual for a woman who only sleeps when utmost exhausted . DUSK OR DAWN ? : dusk , for a similar reason . WARMTH OR COLD ? : her demeanor is almost always cold & clinical , warmth is a very exclusive reservation for those who earn her compassion . MANY ACQUAINTANCES OR A FEW CLOSE FRIENDS ? : various contacts in low-to-high ranking positions in a variety of corporations & organizations who provide useful information about the current state of the pharmaceutical market , as well as the dealings of the illegal arms trade of bio-weapons . although , there are those she could call close friends if only for their frequent meeting during missions . READING OR PLAYING A GAME ? : getting lost in a good book is an experience she can never deny herself , & given that she collects information for a living , reading is apart of work . then again , so is playing games .

— QUESTIONNAIRE.

WHAT ARE SOME OF YOUR MUSE’S BAD HABITS ? : in a literal sense , she smokes frequently , giving into the calming effects of nicotine . an awful habit that undoes her sense of self is pushing her issues & worries onto her facades , the personas she constructs for sake of her job , whom she imagines as other people whose experiences & existence are separate from her own . all she lives through during a mission is theirs instead & thus , she doesn’t have to deal with it .

HAS YOUR MUSE LOST ANYONE CLOSE TO THEM ? HOW HAS IT AFFECTED THEM ? : her friends & family , her life before raccoon city . she didn’t really lose them as much as they lost her , forced to vanish into the employment of wesker’s organization for her personal safety , into the persona of ada wong , turning her into the woman she is now .

WHAT ARE SOME FOND MEMORIES YOUR MUSE HAS ? : almost everything predating her undercover work at umbrella , try as she might to imagine they belonged to a different woman entirely .

IS IT EASY FOR YOUR MUSE TO KILL ? : depends on how human she perceives her target to be , if they carry within them a strain of any mutagen , no matter how sane & in control they are , she has no issue putting them down ( like with krauser ) . if not , well , it might take her awhile before she can come up with a decent enough justification at least .

WHAT’S IT LIKE WHEN YOUR MUSE BREAKS DOWN ? : strangely silent , contemplative , spending hours clinging desperately to a pillow , crying , alone in her bed , open bottle of wine by her bedside if she truly needs to drown the noise out . she tries to not let it all get to her , but the life she lives is sometimes too much , even if she brims with strength & confidence , moments of weakness are natural . IS YOUR MUSE CAPABLE OF TRUSTING SOMEONE WITH THEIR LIFE ? : there’s a very persistent sense in the back of her mind , present since the days of her childhood , that the only person she can always rely on is herself . when it comes to survival , despite having others save her from certain death , she always reasons that she is the one who ensured it , keeping leon alive long enough to help her out , for example . outside these instances , she has always managed to endure on her own , escape plan after escape plan , contingency after contingency , avoiding the wrath of the most powerful people in the world & outliving their reign .

WHAT’S YOUR MUSE LIKE WHEN THEY’RE IN LOVE ? : intoxicating , addicting , a very involved & passionate lover whose presence & attention is almost unrelenting , making up for how infrequent she can truly be there for the other person . breaking down her personal & emotional barriers is a tough deed , but very rewarding , she likes to think . though she’d like to keep sex & romance separate , preferring one without the other , intense short term encounters without meaning or commitment , any soul needs love & care to thrive , & one like hers all the more .

TAGGED BY : @horrorempathy , the legend themself . TAGGING : i spent too long writing this i don’t have any more brain power , i’m sorry , please steal it 😔🥺

#* file // : OOC — ( 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐏𝐎𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑'𝐒 𝐂𝐑𝐔𝐒𝐀𝐃𝐄 . )#* file // : 004 — ( 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐂𝐀𝐍𝐎𝐍 . )#* file // : 005 — ( 𝐌𝐄𝐓𝐀 . )#i rarely ramble about ada wong on the dash but when i do ohh boy #i just love her sm #i just have ten million ideas about ada #and rarely share them #like the clown i am #i suppose this takes the spot for the meta for this month see you guys in may #replies only until then

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big-bad-ulf · 4 years

Text

Aftermath || Layla & Ulfric

Timing: Late, Sunday 21st of June, following this. Parties: @laylacooke, @big-bad-ulf Summary: Ulfric helps Layla patch things up after her hypnosis is broken, and a new understanding between the two is reached. Warnings: Medical blood, sibling death mentions

Layla remained huddled in the corner as she watched Ariana get up and leave the room. Her body shook with a mixture of so many emotions; emotions that seemed to be keeping her mind occupied and away from the open claw marks that were bleeding again and the other bruises and cuts that plagued her body. The chains around her ankles had begun to dig in, cutting off the circulation, and the chair was digging into her side. Nothing mattered though. Nothing mattered but the pain she had felt on the inside of her heart and mind, and she didn’t know how she was going to move forward with anything anymore.

Rushing into the trailer, Ulfric’s stomach turned at the sight of Layla still chained. A tied-up, helpless was something he’d hoped to never see again after the incident with Ariana, let alone be responsible for. But responsibility had driven him towards many strange things in recent months, especially where Layla was concerned. How much of the harm he’d caused her for her own protection, did she remember? The old wolf wondered, unable to meet her eyes as he crossed the room and retrieved the key to the restraints. “Let’s get you out of here,” he murmured to her, as he began undoing the locks, manacles first. “You’re bleeding.” It was a statement, the scent of blood old and new that emanated from her small form was strong, even this close to the new moon, which meant the wounds she’d sustained were more than trivial. “Tell me where it hurts worst, I’ll help you get patched up.”

When she heard the man come in, Layla further pushed herself tighter into the corner. Ulf had already made her nervous before the fidget spinner had ever entered her life, and now, here she was, after making his life so much harder, scared for the reaction he was going to have; memories of her own father coming to mind after he would punish her for not doing what was asked of her or not learning what she was required to for the life path they had arranged for her. She had flinched when he reached out to unchain her, but seeing he meant no harm, she loosened up, “M-My head.” The words were meek and quiet. She couldn’t even think about the physical wounds, but it did feel nice to not have chains binding her or a chair cutting into her small form anymore.

Her head. “Right, sorry about that,” Ulfric replied lamely, looking up from where he’d unfastened the chains around her ankles, slightly regretting having asked when it should have been obvious that would be the case after he’d brained her with a rock. “Hang on a moment,” he instructed, rising swiftly to head to the kitchen. “It might help to stretch your limbs, but slowly. Don’t overexert yourself,” he called as he rifled through the cabinet. He could only imagine the toll days of repeated physical struggles and multiple layers of mental manipulation had taken on her, and the last thing he wanted was for her to hurt herself further in her eagerness to be free of her restraints. Finding the first aid kit, he washed his hands thoroughly before retrieving a pair of rubber gloves from inside and slipping them on, carrying the rest of the container and its contents over to the young wolf.

“If you could sit still for me, Layla.” His voice was even and soft as someone as gruff as he could hope to achieve, signaling the words were a request, not a demand. Moving her hair gently away from the spot that was dampest with blood, Ulfric saw the wound across her scalp was cleanly edged, luckily the blow he’d delivered her with the makeshift weapon had been precise. “This could use a few stitches.” He informed her, trying to meet her gaze to seek permission before going any further. “I’m well-versed at this. I always had the steadiest hands of all my siblings, and they gave me plenty of occasions to practice.” He’d meant to reassure her, but it was quickly turning to rambling to fill the pained silence. “Though given the location, even if I did a poor job, no one would see the scar.”

Layla continued to shake from the overwhelming feeling that was plaguing her right now. However, she still managed to do as instructed, though her legs and feet didn’t allow her to push them out with much speed anyways with how painful everything seemed to be. But, even through the discomfort, Layla was feeling relief. And she was even finding it a little easier to release some of the tension and fear she held being in the trailer alone with Ulf; assuming Ariana had already left.

She watched as he returned and kneeled down to meet her height. With all that was going on in her head and her heart, she couldn’t find fault with Ulf for what he had done. In fact, there was no telling what might have happened or where she would be right now, if he hadn’t stopped her.

Watching him, as he slowly pushed her hair out of the way, she remained quiet, until she noticed his eyes trained on her own. With a silent nod, she allowed the man permission to stitch her up, and quickly let her gaze fall. It took her a moment to formulate the words she was looking for, but with what little courage that was currently tucked deep inside of her, Layla spoke, “I’m sorry. For all of it. For putting you and Ariana in the middle of all of this when you both just lost Celeste.” Her voice was shaky and quiet, but her apology, sincere.

Ulfric let her hair fall back in place, doubling back to retrieve the bottle of akvavit liquor from above the top of the cabinet and offering it to her. “Here, have a sip to take the edge off. I won’t tell anyone if you won’t.” Leaving the bottle in her hands for her to decide, he resumed his place standing by her side and threaded the needle. “You’re not the first one here to put your family in danger because you didn’t know how to cope with your grief,” he informed her, finally circling back to address her apology. “I had a younger brother and sister, Ingvar and Hild. Hunters murdered them the first time they were sent to gather supplies from the human settlement on their own. Hild was barely 15…” he trailed off, surprised by how much detail was flowing from him when he usually avoided talking about this topic at all, but he thought the story it might take her mind some of the physical pain she was experience and he saw so much of himself at her age in how she’d handled things. Perhaps that’s why he’d struggled to connect with her even after he no longer feared her running off to old hunter contacts with their location, it was always hard to look at a reflection of your own flaws.

“I didn’t even wait until we’d performed their funeral rites to track the hunters down and avenge them,” he continued, emotion in his voice restrained as he focused on his work, closing the head wounds with small, steady, close together stitches, “one of the hunters had a day job, though. A high-profile diplomat. The attention from the hunter community and human media alike was... intense. I’d put everything I had left in the world at risk, because I couldn’t bear to sit with what I was feeling long enough to come up with a smarter plan or even figure out what the hell I’d be running into.” He sighed and tied off the thread, cutting it loose close to the skin with a small pair of scissors. “All this to say, you’re already forgiven, as far as I’m concerned,” Ulfric continued, wiping away the blood on her scalp with antiseptic, still looking at her wounds more than her. Finding it was easier that way to say what he was thinking and not have it come out in the wrong way like it had in the past. “And I’m sorry too. For what I’ve said. The way I’ve said it. There’s too few of us left to be pushing each other away.”

She watched as the man once again left only to return with a bottle of hard alcohol. Taking it in her hands, she didn’t hesitate to open it and take a long slow drink. The liquid burned and it made her cough fiercely, but she could already feel the effects of it numbing parts of her body she didn’t want to feel. However, what Layla didn’t expect, while she apprehensively watched Ulf thread a needle, remembering the last time she was sewn up by Celeste and how much it hurt, was that he was about to divulge his life’s story. And with one more quick sip of the drink, she capped the bottle and settled in for what he was about to tell her.

As he explained in detail, of what happened to his family, Layla could feel tears welling up in her eyes. Her head was already throbbing, and she was dehydrated and worn down, but the fact that Ulfric was opening up to her, like he was, meant so much. With everything she had done, she didn’t feel worthy of being considered anything, much less important enough to anyone that they would tell her something so personal. The relationship with Ulfric had been a rocky one from the first day they met, but in this moment, he was making her feel more accepted at a time when she had felt so hopeless. It had also distracted her from him tending to the wound on her head.

“I...I’m so sorry that happened to you and your family, Ulf.” She looked at him. Her eyes connected with his for the briefest of seconds, just to let him know how sorry she was, before she looked back down, “My history is complicated, and because of that, I judged you before I got to really know you, because of the things my,” She paused thinking about her parents and all they had done, “mother and father did to discipline me. I passed that judgment onto you, because you scared me, and that wasn’t fair. But I see how kind you’ve been to Ariana and...Celeste, and I’d like to start over if we can…” She looked down at the bottle, thumbing at the cap.

Ulfric tensed at the mention of discipline. He knew something of that too. Of nights spent huddled with his siblings in the cellar waiting for signs of his parents’ return, only for them to throw a disorientated but armed hunter down with them and lock the door. He’d learned to make snap judgments about hunters in order to survive, and it was hard to shake those instincts off, even in the light of new evidence. Ulfric saw now that it must have been similar for Layla with werewolves, though the thought that their upbringings bore any similarities was too disquieting for him to voice it aloud. “Yes, I’d like that. We can start on a new cycle, or at least a new phase of one,” he agreed instead. He left her side to return to the kitchen again to return with another offering, in this case, a small tin canister with a glass top revealing a fine powder within. “On that note, I’ve been meaning to give you this,” the older werewolf passed it to her. “There didn’t seem to be a good moment, on your birthday. It’s called Aram, I have it on good authority it’ll bring you nothing but pleasant dreams.” That’s how Morgan had explained it when he’d brought Ariana to stay with her and Deirdre. It had taken him a while to find it, but fortunately, the owner of Eye of Newt had taken pity on a lost looking werewolf and helped. “You can take it with tea. I think we all deserved a good night’s rest, but you probably need it the most.”

Hearing him agree to start over brought a soft smile to the girl’s face. They had certainly gotten off on the wrong foot, and Layla wanted to make things right. She would work to make things right with him, Ariana, and anyone else she had wronged in White Crest, which at this rate, was half the town. It was going to take a lot of time and energy, but it was the least she could do.

Watching Ulf leave the room once again, she looked to the bottle. The liquid had helped, and she was almost tempted by another drink, but instead, she pushed the glass container further away and was grateful for Ulf’s return. Seeing the small tin in his hand, she reached out for it and let her eyes scan over it. She listened to him describe what it offered, and she couldn’t wait to try it out. Her body was already so weak and longing for a bath and the bed. Probably more so the bed than anything, “Yeah, the only good thing that happened for my birthday was Frankie actually talking to me.” She looked away, her heart aching recalling the way Lucas and Ulf were the only ones willing to speak to her at the party without her having to make the first move. “But thank you. I’m just so ready to sleep. I’m so tired, Ulf. How can I be so tired? I just turned nineteen.” She gripped the small tin tightly longing for what it held. Her eyes were heavy. Blood stained various parts of her body and clothes, but she had finally quit shaking and the tears had subsided.

“Weariness can catch up to anyone,” Ulfric answered her with a dry chuckle. “But one benefit of aging is that these unhappy days will seem shorter and shorter in the span of your life, as you go on.” That was along as she stayed safe, and her life was filled with more happy days than sad in the years to come. But he didn’t want to entertain any other possibility at that moment, worries had already worn him down enough for the time being. “I can brew the tea while you wash up,” he informed her, patting Layla on the shoulder gently. “Then you can sleep as long as you like.”

Layla hoped and prayed her happiness would come sooner rather than later. Laying the small box on the nearby bed, she very cautiously and slowly climbed to her feet. Everything hurt, but she was up, and it was a start, “Yeah. I’d like that.” She nodded, “And this...this is a new start, because I’ll be damned if I’m gonna keep letting the past ruin my life.” It would be hard, no doubt, but if she had wanted that happiness, the teenager was going to have to work for it. A difficult lesson to learn at nineteen, but when had her life ever truly been easy?

#chatzy #layla #aftermath #wickedswriting #medical blood tw #death mention tw #//i would like to sue myself for giving myself feels

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tsc-living · 5 years

Text

Ty isn’t happy to see Kit (or is he?)

(Reader’s discretion adviced; MA 15+) (I heard all of the requests and the comments, have some more “steamy” KitTy)

Kit stood next to Jem and facing the Portal, his stomach knotted up and his throat dry, wondering if this was how men on Death Row felt. Tessa was standing next to the Portal with her three year old on her hip. Jem stepped forward and took Charlotte so that he could take her through the Portal. Kit wanted to throw up, or perhaps just imagine somewhere else when he went through. Perhaps Alaska or the Sahara Desert would be nice this time of year? Anywhere would be better than the Los Angeles Institute. He hadn’t been there for over three years and the longer that he had stayed away; the harder it had been for him to go back. If it hadn’t been for the fact that the Blackthorns had asked for Tessa and Jem’s help on an investigation, Kit wasn’t sure he ever would have stepped foot there again. “See you there.” Jem said, kissing Tessa’s cheek and stepping forward. He disappeared into the maelstrom and Charlotte’s giggle was sucked into the void.

“It’s okay Kit, you know it is.” Tessa said calmly, her old, wise eyes knowing. Sometimes Kit wondered if she knew how he was feeling more than he ever did.

“Yeah, I hope so.” He muttered, steeling himself before stepping in. He felt the familiar tug and whirl of the Portal before re-emerging in the entryway of the LA Institute. The gang was all there as it had always been before; Julian, Emma, Mark, Cristina, Diana, Aline, Helen, Dru with Tavvy and… well, everyone except one. The first thing Kit noticed was that Ty wasn’t there.

“Kit!” Dru squealed, running at him and throwing her arms around his neck. They were the same height he was horrified to find, but he couldn’t help the buzz of happiness to see her and he hugged her close.

“I missed you.” He whispered and she hugged him even tighter before letting him go.

“We missed you too.” She said and she touched his arm, “All of us.” She whispered and Kit felt like he was swallowing gravel for a moment.

“Is he here?” He whispered, “Where’s Ty?” He clarified, but before she could answer him he was hugged from the side by Tavvy. He was soon swept up in a hug from Emma and Cristina as well and the dizzying whirlwind of greetings was almost as intense as the Portal had been. It took him a few moments to extricate himself and gather Dru up again, sweeping her to the side.

“Where is…?” His question was cut short by Dru holding her hand up.

“He’s in his room,” She said quietly, “He didn’t want to come down.” Kit’s heart was skipping beats and he hated it. He had long ago come to the understanding that he had been crushing hard on Ty when they were fifteen, but that had been over three years ago, he shouldn’t be this disappointed that Ty hadn’t wanted to be there.

“Did he say why he didn’t want to be here when I… when we came here?” He queried and Dru dropped her gaze to the floor.

“He said that he had waited long enough for… for you to come back Kit. That he had better things to do.” She said and Kit’s heart sank down to his shoes. Guilt weighing it down, grief for god knows what he lost filling up the space where his heart had just been. “But he is upstairs if you want to go to him.” She added. Kit opened his mouth to ask if he should when he caught sight of Livvy sitting on the bannister of the stairs. She was glaring at him, but the minute there eyes met she pointed up the stairs.

“Yeah, okay.” He said and squeezed Dru’s arm gently, “Thanks Dru.” He added and she smiled at him before he slipped away up the stairs, past Livvy. He hoped no one noticed him disappear, but when he paused to look down he saw Julian and Tessa watching him go. He pretended not to see and ducked down the hall on silent feet.

He stood outside Ty’s door, his stomach roiling nervously. Quietly, he knocked. There was no response. He hesitated and then knocked again, a little louder this time. There was still no noise, which probably meant that Ty had his headphones on. Kit slowly twisted the door handle and pushed the door open. “If I don’t say come in or acknowledge the knock then you are supposed to leave the door closed.” The voice was deeper than he remembered, but it was still Ty’s voice; the soft pronunciation of every individual letter as if they were all important, and the unselfconscious way he always spoke. Kit’s heart fluttered to life and he pushed the door fully open. Ty was lying on his bed with his headphones around his neck, his knees up and a book rested on his thighs. He was reading by a witchlight, the lamp picking out soft shades of blue in his straight black hair. It was longer that it had been they were younger, curling softly at his jaw. Everything about Ty was longer, he had grown up and Kit felt grief at what he had missed out on. Ty had been beautiful then, but it was almost painful for Kit to see him now.

“I thought, maybe you just hadn’t heard me.” Kit said after licking his lips.

“I heard you, I heard your footsteps outside and I knew it was you.” Ty said and Kit leant against the doorframe with his arms crossed defensively.

“Did you not want to see me?” He asked. Ty slid his book onto the bed beside him and put his feet on the floor, his eyes searching Kit from head to toe and then resting on his shoulder.

“No, I didn’t.” Ty said and although Kit had been expecting that reply, it still made his fingers clench a little harder around his biceps.

“Well, too bad because I’m here.” He said. Ty moved so fast that Kit barely registered the movement until the taller boy was standing directly in front of Kit.

“Then get out.” He said angrily and Kit straightened up off the doorframe. He slid past Ty into the bedroom, the Herondale defiance thrumming through him. Ty slammed the door shut behind him, the noise making them both wince. Kit was aware that Ty had shut the door after telling him to leave, but he was not going to say anything.

“You seem angry Tiberius…” Kit said, stepping back as Ty stepped forward.

“Don’t call me that.” He growled in a voice that sent shivers down Kit’s spine.

“Talk to me Ty, why are you angry?” Kit asked, continuing to step back as Ty stepped closer.

“You left and you didn’t say goodbye. For three years!” Ty said. Kit felt the rough wall under his fingers and against his back. Ty kept advancing. “I need you Kit.” He said, standing so close to Kit that he could feel Ty’s body heat. Kit’s heart was hammering, his hands pressed tight against the wall, his eyes lowered to Ty’s lips.

“I know I’m…” His voice caught and he swallowed, “I’m sorry.” He whispered. Ty was breathing heavily, his fingers fluttering at his side. Kit wanted to touch him, hug him, or press his palm to his cheek. He couldn’t, he wasn’t allowed to, and he didn’t have the right. Still… Kit’s hand left the wall at his side and raised on its own volition, reaching up between them. Ty didn’t flinch away like Kit had expected, he stood his ground. Kit put his hand on Ty’s shoulder and stepped forward off the wall, near enough closing the space between them.

“Ty,” He whispered, “I’m sorry. I didn’t know what I was supposed to do.” He said and Ty’s hands landed hard on Kit’s chest, shoving him back against the wall.

“I hate you, Kit. I hate you.” He said and Kit felt the words like a slap. I love you, Ty. I love you.

“No. You don’t.” He whispered back, “Because you wouldn’t be this angry with me if you hated me.” He put his hands gently on Ty’s bare wrists, Ty’s pulse hammering against his fingertips. “Please Ty, please don’t hate me.” He said and he knew he was pleading, that he couldn’t handle the thought of Ty hating him. Ty’s grip loosened and Kit pried his hands off his chest, stepping forward again and this time he did close the gap, standing with his body touching Ty’s. “Please Tiberius, don’t hate me.” He said, his voice raw and vulnerable to his own ears, “Because I don’t hate you Ty. I love you, and I’ve said that before.” There was a pause, an ache in time and Kit held his breath.

“Don’t.” Ty said, “Don’t say my name.” He sounded like he was in pain and Kit could feel the tension in his body.

“Why not?” Kit asked, “Why not, Ty?”

“I said don’t.” Ty said, pushing Kit against the wall again, hard enough that Kit gasped. Ty had him caged, his hands braced on the wall and their bodies pressed together. Kit didn’t dare move, he barely even breathed. He didn’t know what he would do even if he could move.

“Ty,” Kit breathed, “Tiberius.” He said, but the word was barely out of his mouth before Ty was kissing him. His lips were soft on Kit’s, and yet firm and Kit thought for a moment that his own heart had stopped beating. It was only a moment, a question between them and words unspoken, before Kit wrapped his arms around Ty’s shoulders and buried his fingers in his hair. He gasped against Ty’s lips, and Ty reacted by moving his hands to Kit’s waist and pulling him closer. Kit kissed Ty hard, his eyes stinging with emotions; relief, regret, the feeling of finding something you thought you had lost, of loving someone so much you can’t imagine how you survived being without them. Kit braced his back against the wall and used the leverage to wrap his legs around Ty’s waist, pulling at his hair. Ty bit down on his lip and Kit moaned, riding higher on Ty’s waist. Ty’s hands were under Kit’s thighs and he carried Kit to the bed, throwing him down and climbing on top of him with no worry. Kit kicked his shoes off and readjusted himself to lie on Ty’s pillows, Ty lying on top of him. Ty’s fingers ruched up Kit’s shirt and then between the two of them they removed that layer of clothing, Kit helping Ty out of his white tee-shirt. Kit ran his hands up Ty’s back, feeling the muscles ripple gloriously under his fingertips and he realised only a moment later that the harder he did it, the more fevered Ty’s kisses were. He scratched down Ty’s shoulder blades to his lower back and the dark haired boy stopped kissing Kit, resting his forehead on his collarbones and breathing hard. Kit could feel his arms shaking and Kit arched up under Ty.

“Kiss me Ty.” He whispered and Ty did, but not Kit’s mouth. He kissed Kit’s jaw, down his neck and when he bit Kit’s pulse point the blonde boy hooked his fingers into Ty’s belt loops and pulled him down hard against him. Kit gave up trying to swallow his reactions, he moaned and his fingers slipped under the waistband, pulling needily. Ty swallowed Kit’s moans and the two boys broke apart from their desperation, their inexplicable heat, clutching hands. Ty repositioned himself to be sitting more than lying on Kit and he braced his hands against his thighs. Kit covered his eyes with the crook of his elbow and touched his lips with his fingers.

“What just happened?” He asked and his voice was breathy even to his own ears.

“We kissed.” Ty said and Kit smiled.

“No shit Sherlock.” He said and Kit felt Ty’s lips on his own again, light and lingering.

“I missed you.” He said and Kit uncovered his eyes, gently holding onto Ty’s biceps.

“I missed you too, every day.” Kit replied and Ty nodded.

“Don’t leave me again. I need you Watson, you can’t do that again.” He sounded hurt, betrayed begging. How Kit had sounded when Ty said he hated Kit. Kit shook his head cupped Ty’s beautiful face, marvelling at his long swooping eyelashes and his grey eyes that turned silver under the witchlight.

“I couldn’t leave, even if I wanted to and I swear it on the Angel Ty, I don’t want to.” He said and Ty nodded, satisfied with that response.

“Do we have to go downstairs?” Ty asked and Kit shook his head, smiling softly.

“To hell with that,” He said, “We have three years to catch up on.” He added, pulling Ty back down and kissing him. Ty smiled fleetingly against Kit’s lips before lying down on top of him and pinning Kit’s wrists above his head. Kit didn’t mind, he wasn’t planning on going anywhere anyway.

#gayyyyyy #kitty #kitty blackdale #kit herondale #ty blackthorn #tsc #tda #tmi #tid #twp #requested #kind of #fanfic #one shot #headcanon

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vegannightschool · 5 years

Text

Manchester Pig Save

by Connor Thomas

At 4am on a dark & crisp summers morning, the soft gentle chill of the air through my open window carries the sweet songs of the early rising winged creatures. A beautiful start to a day that we had all not been looking forward to. I make a hearty wholesome Tupperware box of porridge for each of us. It’s full of bursting blueberries and zingy ginger, a hug in a bowl for the journey down. Ben arrives at 5:05 and is greeted with an energetic loving smile by all three of the hounds I share a house with. We head to Dale’s house, pick him up and finally set off for Ashton Under Lyme on the outskirts of Manchester.

We give ourselves a small pep talk on the way down, as we drive through parts of the Peak District and witness spectacular sights of low hanging intense clouds on endless rolling hills. As we grow closer to our destination, a grey mist cushions Ben’s Mini through the higher hills. In this bubble of misty thought, we rattle our brains and remind ourselves of why we put ourselves in the spectators’ seat of such immense suffering and how we are going to devour a gigantic hearty breakfast after the vigil. Self-care and the scrupulous planning of it is so important!

We pull up on a terrace parallel to the slaughterhouse. As we take our first step out the car, I feel a sharp chill; this is a re-occurring sensation I’ve found in my own personal experiences of visiting slaughterhouse areas, even on summer mornings. To our right is a high cemented wall around 9ft high with barbed wire. To our left is the ordinary world, a simple terrace that reminds me of the old family house I previously lived in. I wonder if kids still play street football like I used to at home when I was a bairn. If so, are they aware of what happens behind these high walls?

I’ve been holding a pee for a few hours now and the moment we arrive, I quickly say hello to a few of the welcoming faces in high visibility vests before I dart along the riverside to find a secluded spot to relieve myself. Behind the woods, I hear the first sound. It is piercing. It is 8:30 in the morning and we have gone from harmonious birds to deep and fiercely terrified squeals. It is their call for help, for relief. The sound is awful, like a baby screaming in pain. You know you can’t turn your back; you must address that cry for help to alleviate the sound that we ever so naturally respond to. What shocks me most is how hard it is to tell if the cry was human or non-human. The intensity of the orchestra of screams touches every millimetre of my physical structure and I just desperately wait for a crescendo to come and end it all.

It never does. It continues.

Something occurs to me. What if within all the screams, the slaughterhouse workers also cry out for help? They work with unnatural non-human tools - a far cry from the sharpened stone on a long stick, the tools used by our ancestors in times of food urgency. Nowadays we demand workers to use tools such as carousels that rotate through pits of carbon dioxide, flamethrowers so hot they burn every hair from their skin, huge harsh knives that cut through dense twitching protective flesh and penetrating bolt guns that fracture skulls and periodically miss, leaving animals to meet the sharp blade fully aware of their feelings, fellow friends and their unforgiving fate. Do you think this sounds violent? If yes, what does this violence do to the mind of the human holding the tool? Do they ever get caught in these machines or have they become machines themselves?

After ten long minutes, I walk back to the front of the gate. I am told there has already been six trucks enter the yard since the early hours. I can see the backs of the trucks which have the name of the location the pigs have travelled from. Each and every one of them has an obnoxious picture of a happy pig looking out at the drivers who follow the trucks on their long journeys. This is a comforting image to those who have never witnessed the inside of a farm, truck, slaughterhouse or probably even something I had smiled at when I used to eat bacon and sausage. Long journeys they certainly were; each individual had travelled without water or food, packed so tightly that many of them could not lie down at the same time. It took between one to four hours to reach the pigs’ final destination, while the drivers would return within the week with another hot box of snouts.

I look left. The Manchester Pig Save banner is now out of sight, blocked by a colossal three-story high trailer, fitted with small rectangular mesh slats on each level. This sight was a shock to the mind; I had seen trucks like this on videos of American and Canadian pig saves and I had never imagined it happened in the UK on this scale. Now my nostrils are twitching, something doesn’t smell good. This nose filling scent that feels so permanent. Intensified by the heat of many bodies packed so closely together; similar to that of when you’re very ill for days, you feel you need to keep cosy and the minute you lift those covers, you smell the fever inspired body odour arise from the warm depths of your quilt. It is a smell much worse than one can describe with words. Imagine faeces from your toes, up your legs and smothered on your belly as the truck comes to a sudden halt. Your friend accidently crashes their arse into your face. Now with every breath you inhale your fellow beings’ gruesome shit scent. You have no way of getting it off your nose. This confined space is abhorrently different to the woodland you are so used to stewarding, a place where you get to enact your instinct of keeping your toilet far from your sleeping quarters and much further from your snout.

“You use all of your senses when bearing witness at a vigil”. This is what I once heard Alex Lockwood talk about on a podcast about bearing witness. To me this is key, this is reality. It’s not a video filmed by someone else, neither is it your minds ability to use what it thinks is the ‘best guess’ and imagine what the experience would be like. Ask anyone who has been to a Save Movement vigil; their words can describe it so well, yet they’ll all tell you, “you must experience it for yourself”.

Back to the gates. This first truck I see is lively. The pigs look out from their confined space with searching eyes that are focused curiously on our high visibility vests, voices and video devices. At Tulip meats, the Manchester Pig Save group have an agreement that they can spend five minutes with the animals before they enter the facility. This helps us a lot and we bring pop up stools with us so we can peer into the lowest slat that usually sits around head height - this is how we gather the footage that we want to share with people. It’s also how we get to see the individuals for who they are within their confinement. It is smallest act we can do, to share their story and show them love.

The horn of the truck blares and my body suddenly becomes tense. I feel a hollowness within this stressed structure. I feel like a strong wind could blow into me and fill this empty space to such a volume that I just blow away into the grey sky, like a balloon left unattended by a distracted child. I look around at the people I’m bearing witness with. Some are in tears; others are looking deeply into their own minds and emotions. I look for a cue from Ben or Dale to see if they would want to talk about that first truck full of curious snouts. We come together and check if we’re all alright, embracing each other in a tight heartfelt three-way hug.

As we let go and share our experience within our trio, I see a car swinging in. A mother dressed in a nurse’s uniform dropping off three young men. They head into the facility for another regular day of processing. I wonder which area they work in as this plant is huge! Do they work with the tall gas cylinders that fuel the screams? How about the kill floor a real life house of horror containing the carousel of pain that spins continuously, turning life into death? The ‘process’ in this plant takes inquisitive trusting pigs and transforms them into a commodity through a process that not many people would be willing to do or witness themselves. I, along with every activist within the non-violent Save Movement have only compassion for these people. It didn’t start like that for me though. I think of how angry I was attending my first save. I blamed the workers. I now realise that this is the wrong orientation to have. If you’re feeling stuck in this rut, remember it’s not the people we are fighting, it’s the oppressive system that Melanie Joy coins as “Carnism”. Workers, animals and our planet are all under the oppression of this powerful ideology.

Twenty minutes pass, another truck indicates its intended route into the plant. We approach the right-hand side of the truck, set up our stools to give us the extra foot we need to peer in and this time we bear witness to something different. These pigs don’t look at us; they don’t even seem to know whether we exist or if they themselves exist. All we can see are either wide scattered eyes or closed eyes along with heavy breathing, like zombies from an apocalypse film. This trailer is filled with misery. There are scratches, wounds, blood and shit all over the pigs. Most of them seem to have deformities on their bodies, they simply look either unconscious or completely unhappy and unnatural. I jot in my notebook that they seem to have no perception of anything but their own bodies, crashing around and pushing each other with their heads held low. Are they aware of what is coming, or have they come from one of the 85% of UK standard intensive pig farms? The epitome of ultimate despair.

As this truck leaves, I spot the driver hosing down the now empty insides of the trailer in the cleaning section. He departs after switching his now wet and faeces covered t-shirt. Just as he leaves, we see two other trucks flashing their indicators in the direction of the slaughterhouse gates. The first smaller truck of the two standing at two stories high drives straight in as the security must clear the busy road for the next truck, which is huge. I approach the second truck. I look up from my position at the side of the truck and see four levels of this ginormous structure. I then glance through more mesh and witness a mixture of lifeless looking bodies and frantic searching eyes in this first level.

I think of my dear friend Lesley, who has been to a vigil here before. She told me to talk, sing and vibrate with love towards these creatures who have probably never known this feeling before. Suddenly I feel a state of shock and find myself gazing into a pair of blue eyes that are looking directly back at me. Connected by this glance, I feel the urge to sing words to this individual and that’s exactly what I do. The ever so slight sense of embarrassment you may feel singing to a pig in the back of a slaughter truck suddenly disappears. Along with everything else except those blue curious eyes. It is a moment in which you realise that you are giving this pig a comfort it has never known in its life before.

The horn blares.

My chest is tight.

It’s not raining Connor.

Those are your tears.

As this truck pulls into the yard, my emotions overwhelm me due to this connection with the eyes of the individual. Those eyes I will be able to recall in every animal I meet. What the fuck can I do? I walk through the crowd of activists, straight to the riverside as the waterfall of emotions floods from my eyes. Frustration gets the better of me and I can feel the heat of anger arising. As this heat arises within me, I feel the cool calming hand of Dale on my right shoulder. Followed by Ben’s to my left. My eyes begin to dry up as we take a stroll through the thin line of woodland that surrounds the tall slaughterhouse walls.

Another six or seven trucks have come in the time we are present.

Now the worst part of a vigil is upon us. Here comes the abrupt return to reality on the other side of the wall. We came closer when you were in pain. We stayed with you when you were afraid. We wish we could watch over you, all through the night. Remember that every day, we’ll never give up the fight.

We walk from the back and head to the front. We gather our things and leave at 12:30. We’re heading straight to Manchester to fill up on some tasty delights at a rainbow beauty of a café named: Boho Utopia! We fill ourselves up on a full English breakfast and a mega chocolate, peanut butter & banana cake milkshake. We’re heading home now. What a day.

I can only try again from my own experience to describe the sensory circus that occurs when you walk to the back of the slaughterhouse. These words come to me at that moment in time, you may have a different experience:

Screams. Terror. Pain. Dominance. Burning. Crying. Witnessing. Helplessness. Hopelessness. Damage. Violence. History. Shock. Fire. Anger. Rage. Suffering.

The afore list of words is the dark side to describe the reality of a vigil. I’m going to share a different list of words now, under the title of; ‘How you feel when you talk to people who stand side by side with you at The Save Movement’.

Inspired. Committed. Fulfilled. Hopeful. Happy. Fair. Joyous. Connected. Warm. Calm. Loved. Empathetic. Caring. Truthful.

I want you to add to this list, your own words that come to mind when you think of an animal vigil. Let us tell everyone why bearing witness is one of the greatest things you can do in your life! You can simply think of these in your head or share them on Facebook, Instagram or under this Tumblr post. I’ll get you started with a few easy ones:

Tea. Cake. Coffee.

#vegan #activism #veganism #animals #pig #pigs #savemovement #witness #protest

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hellodarjeeling · 5 years

Text

Title: Middle Watch

Fandom: Star Trek: The Original Series

Rating: K

Warning: None

Tags: James T. Kirk, Spock

Summary: Post ST:TMP. Spock visits Kirk’s quarters, curious about the emotions he’s so newly embraced after his encounter with V’Ger.

Notes: My first time posting ST rambles.

James T. Kirk sat at the desk in his quarters, surrounded by stacks of old books and documents from previous missions, catching up on a bit of reading that he simply hadn't had time for until now. In between learning the new ship, the whole business with V’Ger, losing both Ilia and Will Decker, and Spock’s sudden and dramatic reappearance, he felt he only just had the opportunity to catch his breath. Here, in the quiet of his own cabin, for a few hours at least, he could temporarily forget the duties and chaos that awaited him just beyond the sleekly paneled walls.

He heard the door open behind him and the sound of boots crossing the threshold. He glanced over to check the hour; Dr. McCoy was late this evening.

“What’s it tonight, Bones?” he asked, not bothering to look up from the page. Kirk suspected the good doctor had come with one of his more palatable remedies. “Finagle’s Folly?”

His query met with silence, he turned to see Spock standing just inside the doorway. Kirk immediately closed the book he’d been thumbing through and stood up.

“Spock!”

“I hope I am not disturbing you,” Spock answered, taking a few steps farther into the room. Despite the Starfleet uniform he still looked somewhat out of place, as if he were merely visiting the Enterprise on some diplomatic mission, and would depart once mutual gains had been negotiated. The Vulcan clasped his hands behind his back and stood quietly as the pneumatic door closed after him, plunging the room into a heady silence.

Kirk didn't mean to stare but found he couldn’t tear his eyes away; he still couldn’t believe Spock was truly back aboard the ship, again at his side. Spock had refused an offer to return to Vulcan, where he might continue the Kolinahr discipline. He didn't completely understand, but acknowledged the importance it held for Spock; for what other reason would he leave Starfleet behind, wish to exorcise his human half and the emotions it engendered?

Spock.

It hurt him to think of Spock suffering in any capacity. A small part of Kirk believed with disquieting certainty he himself had been a source of that pain.

A moment passed between them, one of comfortable newness, of old friends who suddenly find themselves once again in each other’s lives after an extended separation. Kirk felt warm affection bubble up inside him, brightening his face with a smile; he gestured toward the berth.

“Please, sit down.”

Spock acquiesced and crossed the room to sit on the bed’s edge, his hands folded in his lap. Kirk returned to his seat but turned the chair so that his full attention was trained on his guest. A shimmery chime filled the room as an antique timepiece nestled among the books struck the half hour.

“It’s late, Spock. We humans typically sleep at this time.”

Spock’s eyes cut through the room’s low light like two bright stars.

"I know you to keep late hours." His eyes flicked to the myriad bound volumes crowding the shelves beside the bed. The titles were varied; Spock suspected they were borrowed from other crew members. "I see you still enjoy reading in your spare time. You are what some would consider a 'creature of habit'."

"You know me quite well, Spock," Kirk chuckled. "I'd say even more than I do myself."

Spock's face softened. In the quiet light he appeared more and more the remarkable individual Kirk had come to know so well and less the stranger who'd boarded the ship in their time of need. I’ve missed this, Kirk thought.

“I confess to having heard your thoughts during my time on Vulcan," Spock said suddenly. Kirk shifted in his seat, surprised by this revelation. Vulcan was light-years away from Earth, too far a distance for any conventional mind-link to span.

“How is that possible?”

Spock's brow arched in the way it did when met with a peculiar conundrum. He shook his head, obviously perplexed.

“Unknown. However, I distinctly felt your thoughts during the culmination of the ritual."

Kirk looked at him openly, searching. A million questions tumbled in his mind. One formed into coherent thought.

“Only then?"

Spock returned his gaze with such intensity that Kirk broke contact, shifting the conversation.

"And your task on Vulcan? The Masters—"

"My task," Spock stated quietly, "is complete. I have found my answers."

Kirk settled back into his seat with a sense of relief. The past few years without him were challenging and he had no desire to live through more of the same. He needed Spock by his side, needed him in his life. Spock watched closely as Kirk examined his hands, shaking his head.

"After the mission, when you left, I—” He sighed heavily. “Somehow I ended up behind a desk..."

Kirk rested a hand on the table beside him, feeling the smooth material under his fingertips. Accepting the promotion had been a mistake, he knew now. He was never meant to give up command. Hadn’t Bones tried to warn him? His eyes wandered around the room, taking in the stark modernity of his surroundings. Without Decker he’d leaned on Scott to help familiarize himself with the ship’s new designs and functions. Beneath the shiny new refurbishment was the same old Enterprise, pulsing with her powerful, understated grace. The more things changed, the more they stayed the same. He looked again at Spock. Never meant to give this up.

"I can’t tell you how glad I am to have you back, Spock."

The Vulcan felt a familiar dull ache in the pit of his stomach. He knew it to be the unnamed, persistent longing that tainted every interaction with the humans he’d moved among while aboard the Enterprise. After many years he finally understood what it was that had pained him for so long, pain enough to turn his back on the only place he’d truly considered home. That understanding had led to wanting, needing.

Having was not so pleasing a thing after all as wanting. It was not logical, but was often true.

Spock stood suddenly, and Kirk had the fleeting impression he meant to approach him, but Spock had instead turned toward the door, his hands once again clasped behind his back. He took a few slow steps to leave but stopped, his eyes to the floor.

Often, but not always.

"I had hoped, in light of recent developments..."

That well remembered voice was cautious, careful. Kirk watched as the Vulcan faced him. Their eyes met and Kirk felt the overwhelming pull of raw emotion wash over him as it radiated across the room. He raised his arms and held them out in invitation, beckoning Spock over.

“Come here,” he said softly.

Spock slowly approached him, his eyes locked onto Kirk’s. He stopped as he reached the chair; he scarcely seemed to be breathing. Kirk looked up at him for a moment, taking in every detail of the face he’d memorized long ago. He stood, rising to his full height, gazing into the melancholic eyes before him.

Spock was so thin—time on Vulcan had whittled the flesh from his cheeks. Kirk reached out and rested his hands on Spock’s shoulders. He could feel the toll the Kolinahr had taken through the tunic fabric. Those shoulders, angular before, were sharper. Where Kirk has gained a few pounds from life behind a desk, Spock had lost them.

Oh.

Kirk slipped his arms around the lean waist and settled them into the small of his back, pulling Spock close. The distance between them disappeared as they pressed comfortably together. For a moment Spock seemed frozen with indecision, but allowed himself to relax into the embrace, resting his arms across Kirk’s back.

“Jim.”

That name. Speaking that name after years of restraint was a homecoming. Spock let its weight rest on his tongue, savoring the taste.

“Jim,” he said again, with reverence befitting a prayer.

Kirk hugged him tighter, burying his face into the fabric at the Vulcan’s neck. He imagined he could smell the spiced Vulcan breeze lingering on Spock’s skin.

“I missed you,” he murmured, not trusting his voice to speak any louder.

Spock’s fingers tensed, pressing into the warm flesh beneath their breadth. It knows that it needs, but not what. He inclined his head, resting his chin against Kirk’s temple, listening to the steady thrum of the human heart he'd so nearly broken with his pilgrimage to Gol.

T’hy’la! he thought. Jim!

After years of needing, he had finally accepted what it was he sought. Of all the strange and wonderful worlds discovered during their historic mission, none could compare to the one he found himself inhabiting in that small ship's cabin, lost amid the vast expanse of space.

He was exactly where he belonged.

He was home.

#star trek #tos #my fic #star trek the motion picture #kirk #spock #spirk

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wasneeplus · 5 years

Text

Why Bojack Horseman season 5 was disappointing

So it ends with a car slowly disappearing into a tunnel. The driver is probably just as confused about her motives as I am in that moment. The music plays, the camera zooms out, the credits roll, the curtain falls. And here I am, feeling more conflicted than I’ve ever felt before about a piece of media.

By now it’s well known what kind of heights the Netflix show Bojack Horseman can sore to when it’s in its element. This show is truly something special. I’ve never seen anything that can touch me, delight me and, at the same time, depress me the way this show can. Catch me at the right time and you might even hear me confess to this being my favourite show of all time. So rest assured that everything I’m about to say I say out of love, and because of the incredibly high standards the show has set for itself. That being said, I do think my complaints are legitimate, and there were enough serious shortcomings to make me feel very disappointed in season 5.

According to many, Bojack Horseman had kind of a rocky start. Looking back at the first few episodes I think they are decent enough, but they’re certainly not representative of what the show would become known for eventually. But we didn’t have to wait very long to see a drastic increase in quality, which kept on going until the season 3 finale brought it to a preliminary climax. I still think season 3 is the strongest one overall, though the highest highs probably occurred in season 4. And then there’s season 5, which is the first time I feel the quality has dropped significantly. Worse, it detracts from previous seasons by putting certain moments in a new, quite unflattering light. But we’ll get there.

Themes of Ruin

The first thing I have to talk about, and I just have to get this out of the way so please bear with me, is feminism and my intense dislike for it. A lot of people when they hear this still think that I feel this way because I have a problem with women’s rights. Nothing could be further from the truth though. If feminism was just a women’s rights movement I’d have no problem with it. But it is way, way more than that. Feminism is an ideology, that brings its own ideological lens to the table. When viewed through that lens the world turns into one where society is dominated by an all encompassing power structure called the patriarchy. Men and women are related and locked together by a massive class struggle, although some more modern strands of feminism hold that men are just as much puppets of the patriarchy. The patriarchy, then, is the source of all the world’s social ills, and puts upon us a moral obligation to overthrow it in some kind of world revolution. Worse still, feminism in recent decades has become more and more anti-science in an attempt to discredit scientific explanations for social ills that they attribute to the patriarchy. It’s gotten to a point where the whole concept of the scientific method is under attack from academics who bought into this world view. I’ve written about this before, if anyone’s interested. All of this makes it impossible for me to view feminism as anything but a nutty conspiracy theory, akin to the kinds of things the alt-right movement would say about Zionism.

So to make the character of Diane Nguyen a feminist was always going to result in an uphill battle to make me lik her. Again, if this confuses you: imagine if she’d been a white supremacist instead, or some other kind of ideologue which would be completely disgusting to you. Imagine if instead of going on about the patriarchy, she went on about the conspiracy to commit genocide against white people, organised by a shadowy group of Zionists. That’s what it feels like for me. No matter how sympathetic the rest of her character is, her spouting that bigoted nonsense from time to time was always going to be a mark against her. And yet, amazingly, for four seasons the writers did make me like her, quite a bit actually. She was shown to be a caring, principled person who held herself to very high standards. While she had her flaws, she also seemed acutely aware of them. So much so that her season 2 arc revolved entirely around her hiding away from one of her failures out of shame. This season however her dark side just can’t be ignored anymore, because it’s intrinsically woven into the entire theme of the season. And the Diane that it brings out is one that the show is trying to frame as an improved version of herself, but honestly she just seems like kind of a bitch to me. But I’ll get back to Diane’s character this season in a moment. First I want to start with some of the more minor annoyances.

The Road to Nowhere

Throughout season 5 of Bojack Horseman I continually felt like I was waiting for something to happen, like the show was promising me something but dragging its heels to get there. I think the main reason for that is that nothing this season really got resolved, and some promising plot lines were barely explored. I know a lack of resolution is kind of Bojack Horseman’s thing. Life doesn’t suddenly end with a credit roll; it just keeps going even after what you think is a happy ending. The creator of the show, Raphael Bob-Waksberg, has stated that he doesn’t believe in endings. A bit of a worrying statement, since Bojack does have to end one day, but it has worked so far. Here’s the thing though: Bojack Horseman is not real life; it is a tv show. As such it needs to keep to a certain structure to tell an effective story. If you want to show something resembling real life that’s fine, but do cut out the dull bits please. We get an entire arc of Princess Carolyn looking for an adoptive child which seemingly gets resolved at the end by.... her adopting a child. Maybe it’s just me, but that feels way more like the beginning of a story than any kind of resolution. We get some interesting backstory about PC during her search, but the whole things ends up feeling like padding. Certainly nothing that compares to her arc in season 4, where we see her go from heaven to hell in the span of several episodes.

Bojack himself this season doesn’t seem to go through any kind of character growth either. There are no moments of revelation that give him and us more insight into his tortured soul. Everything we see of him we knew already, and all the problems he faces are ones that get introduced right at the beginning of the season, to be seemingly resolved at the end. Again, I will get to the ludicrous season climax in a moment, but as for the main character of the show: it seemed like the writers were either disinterested in him or really had no clue where to go with him next. Bojack kind of disappears into the background altogether during much of the season, since most of the other characters get way more development than he does. We do get some interesting interactions between him and Hollyhock, but that doesn’t really go anywhere either.

Mister Peanutbutter’s arc is actually kind of interesting and I have no major complaints about that. Todd on the other hand is probably one of the biggest missed opportunities in the show so far. His asexuality, and the problems coming with that, are barely explored. When Todd first came out as asexual I was a little disappointed I have to admit. I saw Todd as someone who was just really shy about sex, even though he had a healthy social life in most other respects. I saw a lot of myself and my own complicated relationship with my sexuality in Todd because of that, more so because there just aren’t any characters in fiction which represent that side of me. So when that turned out to be wishful thinking on my part, for a moment it was quite a letdown. But hey, the show doesn’t have any obligation to cater to me specifically, and it’s true that I’ve never seen an asexual character either so this could be quite interesting after all! Or so I thought.

In reality the issues surrounding asexuality barely get a mention. I don’t know any asexual people, so I can only go on what I’ve heard. My understanding is that most asexual people are indeed interested in romance, but finding someone who will be there for them, with which to form an emotional bond and a life partnership, but who at the same time is okay with never having sex with them, is quite hard. In fact, it’s something that a lot of asexual people really struggle with. I was a little disappointed that none of that really came into play in season 4, but it seemed season 5 was going to remedy this. As it turned out we get only a few brief moments where its mentioned that asexuals shouldn’t date each other just on the basis of both being asexuals and that’s it.

The rest of the time Todd doesn’t appear to be struggling with it. In fact, he doesn’t really seem to need any kind of genuine human connection at all. That’s fine for a comic relief character, which is how Todd spends most of his time, but if you’re going to tackle a serious subject like this then don’t half-ass it. Hell, Emily seems to struggle with it a lot more than Todd, even though we have seen that Todd does have feelings for Emily. All of the above is mentioned at one point or another, but we never see the consequences play out the way we usually do on this show. More time is spend on the social stigma surrounding asexuality than it is on actually living with it. Maybe season 6 will finally go deeper into the nitty gritty, but if so it remains just another thing that this season sets up only to do nothing with.

Diane

As the final episode of season 5 ends we focus on Diane driving a car. It’s a departure from previous seasons where we would focus on Bojack in the final moments, but it’s a fitting one since season 5 was much more Diane’s story than it was Bojack’s. It’s also a departure in another way, namely that I have no fucking clue what I’m supposed to feel while watching this, nor what’s supposed to be going through the head of the person I’m watching. Diane is probably the most prominent victim of this season’s smothering theme. Normally a theme should strengthen the material by binding everything together in a package that’s greater than the sum of its parts. But as previously mentioned this season has a strong feminist bend, and one of the stated goals of feminism is to make the personal political. As such, everything having to do with it is swallowed by the political message it’s trying to get across. At least, that’s what it seems like. With Diane we start out observing a woman who is trying to cope with her recent divorce. This was the obvious angle to take of course after season 4, and certainly one with a lot of potential. I really felt for Diane as she had to struggle with her newfound poverty, both in her love life as well as her, well, actual life. In episode 4, titled BoJack the Feminist, it all comes to a head for the first time however, beginning with the following stupid line:

Who? Who loves male feminists? As far as I can tell they’re one of the most despised groups of people populating the political landscape. Obviously anti-feminists loathe them, often even more so than their female counterparts. But judging by the portrayal of every man claiming to be a feminist in this show I doubt even the person who wrote that line holds them in very high regard. I would think that someone trying to write political satire would at least have to be grounded enough to know something like this. During this scene we are also subjected to the following tired cliche:

One would think that by now everyone knows this simply isn’t the case. It’s not like feminists have never tried to broaden their appeal by finding a man to speak for them. As it turns out this never works. Because the world in which a man’s word is taken so much more seriously that it’s the only way to get a message into the public consciousness, that world exists only in the heads of the most devout feminists. The only way to still be clinging to this notion is by completely ignoring reality. As it happens that’s exactly how it goes, and time and again I have to sit through another incarnation of a feminists “brilliant” “new” idea of: “hey, what if we let a man say it?!” I’m sure every time this happens the person in question thinks they’re the first to come up with it and thinks themselves very smart indeed. I don’t know how they respond when it fails yet again, but I doubt we’ll see any introspection on it from the writing staff in season 6.

In any case, this episode was probably the most annoyingly feminist one out there. We get the conformation that Diane also buys into the behavioural psychology side of the ideology, with her whole “media normalising the wrong things” shtick. It’s quite a worrying thing to me that the writers themselves seem to buy into this as well. There is a fine line between weaving a message in your art and making soulless political propaganda. If you care more about the message your art gets across than the quality of the art itself, as Diane appears to do, then it becomes damn near impossible to stay on the right side of that line. Last season there were some signs of this already, when we got the amazingly ridiculous Thoughts and Prayers. It made some interesting points about women and gun ownership (an argument straight from the NRA as it turns out) but ends in a spectacularly ridiculous fashion.

This after the Californian state legislature just passed a ban on all guns after a woman committing a mass shooting, described by PC as “sensible gun legislation” after a whole episode of arguing why gun ownership might be a positive thing for society in some cases. I can’t believe the Bojack writers are that cynical about the motives of gun ownership advocates. I really don’t know what they hope to achieve by knocking down such a clumsily constructed strawman either. In any case, besides the obvious bullshit conclusion the episode itself wasn’t that offensive to me, unlike BoJack the Feminist which wears its biases on its sleef.

The next big development in Diane the soapbox straddler’s journey comes in episode 7 called INT. SUB, where we get this bit from ms. Nguyen:

Admittedly Bojack spends most of this episode being a huge dick, so a verbal slap down was probably the appropriate response here. One might be tempted to brush off this comment as Diane just being angry, and rightfully so. But the way it’s framed it comes across like Diane is supposed to be speaking some hard hitting truth. She’s not though. We’ve been with Bojack for 44 episodes by this point and the changes have been so gradual they’re sometimes hardly noticeable, but they’ve been there. Bojack went from someone who did nothing but keep Todd down to being genuinely supportive of him when he admitted to being asexual. Yes, there was this one episode where he almost helped Todd launch a music career, but I always interpreted that as him trying to impress Diane. He went from someone who would turn down everything he got offered for the flimsiest of reasons to doing a show he knew nothing about as a favour to PC.

He went from someone who cared about no one but himself and his own misery to someone who genuinely cares about the well being of Gina, his costar. He went from someone who pushed everyone away to someone longing for the company of his sister, who he clearly cares about very much. Can you imagine the arsehole of early season 1 doing any of that? So Diane’s comment appears very misplaced and mean-spirited. With some different framing this whole situation could be about unfairly judging someone’s past. Of course we know the show is definitely not going to go there; it railed against forgiving public figures, that is men, for past transgressions just three episodes ago. Anyway, the point is that I can understand Diane saying it in the heat of the moment, but why does it seem like the writers are agreeing with her?

Here we come back to the crux of Diane’s arc in this season. The reason she inflicts her feminist side on us so much is not because it’s in service of any kind of character development. Her arc should've been about her standing on her own two feet again after the divorce, like it seemed to be at the beginning. Instead somewhere along the line the writers decided to make her the mouthpiece of the message this season is trying to send, thus making her character subordinate to political considerations, just as I feared. This is expressed most clearly in episode number 10, Head in the Clouds. Bojack and company are at the premier of their television show Philbert when Bojack is asked to say some words to the waiting public before the screening. Since he has nothing prepared and his head is at a totally different place at the moment he mutters some lines which barely make any sense.

They are enough to set off Diane’s righteous fury however and after the screening she first confronts Flip, saying that she “screwed up”.

The idea is that she thinks because people will identify with Philbert they will rationalise their own awful behaviour. So what we learn here is that Ms. Nguyen, despite her lecturing about media and how it influences people, doesn’t actually understand the first thing about how art interacts with the human mind. The big problem with most human beings is that they tend to overestimate their own goodness. This is not my observation, in fact it’s widely known among folks who study this sort of thing. The best way art can shape us into better people is not by being purely didactic, that is, trying to teach us what’s good and what’s bad. People above the age of nine are not going to absorb that message. Instead, what a piece of media should aim to do is try and help the observer become aware of the darkness in their own soul. The best way to do this is to make them identify with a character like Philbert, make them feel what he feels and then show them the shitty things he does because of it. And everyone feels vulnerable at some points. Everyone, even the biggest arseholes. So when you show someone like Philbert doing something nasty, and the viewer is seriously questioning whether or not they’d be doing the same thing in that circumstance, then you’ve written something successful. Then you’ve written something that can truly affect people for the better.

Of course all of this is completely lost on Diane who, after getting nowhere with Flip, goes to Bojack and confronts him with his earlier statement. She tells him that the point of Philbert was never to make him or anyone else feel okay about what they’ve done. She says she doesn’t want anyone to justify their shitty behaviour because of the show. Naturally Bojack asks her what the hell her problem is, so after some back and forth she confronts him with the tape describing what happened between him and Penny in New Mexico. The situation escalates until Diane starts berating him about what happened with Sarah Lynn. The fight ends with the apparent end of their friendship.

I hate everything about this whole scene. It fact it might be the whole reason I decided to write this. It’s downright uncomfortable to watch at some points. That probably was the intention to some degree, but it’s uncomfortable for all the wrong reasons. I don’t feel “confronted” by anything. Rather I weep for what the writers have done to Diane. This scene feel’s like a bully kicking their victim while they’re down. I’ll talk about the whole Penny and Sarah Lynn thing in the next part, so let me just say here that I don’t understand what Diane is hoping to accomplish with this. She asks Bojack if he feels bad about all the things he’s done, and he admits he does. He does try to excuse it.

But after receiving no sympathy he goes on to claim that he is the real victim, because he has to live with this shit. Whether or not he really means it or is just trying to upset Diane is unclear. What is clear that Diane’s approach is entirely unproductive. Bojack becomes more and more defensive as she becomes more aggressive and unsympathetic. I would also like to know who all these women are that Bojack has wronged. It’s implied that Bojack doesn’t care about their feelings as long as he feels sorry for himself. Diane’s scrutiny isn’t exactly not making him feel sorry for himself, in fact it has kind of the opposite effect, but it’s also hard to sympathise when I don’t give a shit either. Who are all these women? What has Bojack done to them that was so horrible? Again, we’ll get to Penny and Sarah Lynn in a second, but I almost get the feeling that the show is trying to shame Bojack for having lots of casual sex. You can say that’s not exactly a good thing, but it’s not something that he does to other people. Sex, believe it or not, is still something that two people do together under most circumstances. I’m not going to feel sorry for all those vapid starfuckers for getting exactly what they were after. Even in the case of, say, Emily I don’t think he owes her any apologies. He certainly did to Todd for sleeping with the girl he was infatuated with, but then I don’t remember Todd being particularly upset at any of those firemen either. Emily could’ve just said no and that would’ve been the end of it. Instead she decided to approach Bojack and sleep with him.

The fight culminates in Bojack confirming her earlier accusation.

Which we already know isn’t true. After all, what is the point of this whole damn tv series if we didn’t see Bojack change at any point. But the writers put these words into his mouth not because it is in line with the character development we’ve seen so far, but because is serves the message. This season is about confronting powerful men with their awful behaviour, so Diane has to become belligerent to Bojack to confront him, and Bojack needs to tell us she’s right for doing so because he’s learned nothing. Screw you if you’ve become invested in his growth as a character. You’re no different from those who get invested in Philbert and cheer for him, even though he’s awful. That’s what I mean when I say Diane’s just become a mouthpiece for the writers. This scene is to show that Bojack is one of those awful powerful men that needs to be confronted, and the fact that it’s Diane doing it, the same person responsible for making Philbert “too likeable” says something about what the writers think about their main character. One gets the distinct impression that the earlier quote from Diane about Philbert is exactly how they think about Bojack. Given that, who do you think the people who excuse their behaviour because of Philbert are supposed to represent? Why do you think this season is so concerned with teaching us about how media normalises things? What we are watching is the writers confessing to realising how many people like Bojack, and them being afraid their audience is too stupid not to idolise and emulate him. So it has to be more obvious that Bojack is the bad guy, and believe me: they will make it very obvious in the next episode.

But first to wrap up Diane’s... I guess we should call it her “arc”. After angrily leaving the premier with her ex-husband she tops off the night by sleeping with him, despite his new girlfriend. Two episodes later it happens again. During the whole process she explodes several times about how bad it makes her feel, which prompts Mister Peanutbutter to ask:

Which she shoots right back at him. His answer is clear: because he loves her. But we never get an answer from her, and frankly: I would like one. It completely baffles me why she would do this. If her arc would’ve been more about her divorce perhaps this could’ve been explained. But as is it’s a shocking piece of hypocrisy that never gets addressed.

She does mention being a hypocrite and not knowing what she’s doing later on, but naturally there’s someone on hand to excuse her, since she isn’t a man.

Here Diane shows some much needed introspection, but she doesn’t really go into any specifics. What’s more, the final conversation between Bojack and Diane doesn’t even reference any of this. In fact there is no reason given for why she’s helping him beyond a simple “eh, we’re still friends”

What she should’ve said of course is that she realised she can never expect to truly forgive herself if she can’t also forgive him. All the pieces were in place, and it would at least have given all the previous scenes I talked about some kind of point. The execution would still have been awful, but at least I wouldn’t have to use quotation marks around the word arc. But no, we can’t have the author insertion character come off her moral high horse, no pun intended. She just has to do it because she is such an awesome friend.

So yeah, bit of a mess this character. I can almost discern the contours of a logical character progression, probably as it was originally intended. All the ideas were there: her being confused about where she stands with Mister Peanutbutter, being confronted with her own insecurities at the same time, and Bojack trying to get her to play ball with his shitty schemes and her finally putting her foot down. But Bob-Waksberg has admitted that changes were made to the story after they decided to play into the #metoo controversy going on at the time. I wonder if those changes involved sacrificing some parts of Diane’s arc, to give us the mangled corpse of a character arc that we see here.

The Whole Penny and Sarah Lynn Thing

The two main things thrown at the feet of Bojack in the fight with Diane are his involvement in the death of Sarah Lynn and his almost having sex with the daughter of his old friend. Let’s start with the more justified one. What happened between him and Penny was that Bojack, a way older man who should’ve known better, gave in for a moment to the avances of a seventeen year old girl and might have done something with her if her mother hadn’t walked in. Now, I can fully understand why Charlotte would be very angry about this, and why Bojack feels guilty about it. After all, he found something out about himself which wasn’t pretty. But what I never understood was Penny’s reaction to all of this. Specifically the moment in what is probably one of the most profound episodes of the whole series, That’s Too Much, Man!, in which they go to her college and Bojack almost literally stumbles into her. Her reaction to this is... quite bizar. She acts like a traumatised child stumbling into her abuser.

Keep in mind that this happened just last season. So how old is Penny now? Eighteen, maybe nineteen years old? No one says this about themselves just one year later. Never mind the fact that seventeen does not equal little child, I don’t buy that Penny had such a sudden leap in maturity. Maybe if it was ten years later and she had a lot more sexual experience, enough to know that sex can be a completely unromantic act to satisfy some urges sometimes. When she looks around and sees some seventeen year olds, and suddenly realises how young she was at the time, and then she realises she was taken advantage of and feels disgusted? Yeah, I’d buy that. But this is just nonsense. I thought so at the time as well, but I supposed it wouldn’t fit into the story line if we’d had to wait ten years for the revelation. What compounds it is this simple observation by Bojack himself.

And he’s right about that. Nothing actually happened. Sure, there were probably some exceptionally uncomfortable conversations between Penny and her parents afterwards, but I get the impression they worked it out between them. So at most I would expect Penny to look upon Bojack as a rather disgusting old man who she once, in a fit of youthful naïveté, felt attracted to. But this whole trauma angle stretches credulity. I was willing to put up with it as long as it was just another thing to weigh on Bojack’s conscience. The way he saw the incident up to this point was way more important than how it actually happened. After all, only he knows if he really would’ve gone through with it, or at least he thinks he knows. But now, because of the meta-commentary at work here, we as the audience are being scolded for not caring enough about Penny’s feelings by still rooting for Bojack. I’m sorry, but that’s where I draw te line. The reason I don’t care is because what you’re telling me makes no sense, and that’s not my fault.

On a side note: I do find it a bit rich that Diane essentially chastises Bojack for presumably intending to have sex with Penny, when in season one she was singing a rather different tune.

Whether you agree with that or not (I happen to think there’s a bit more to it than that) you have to acknowledge that it works both ways. Maybe Bojack is convinced deep down that he is capable of something like that, but until he actually does we’ll never know, and all we can judge him on are his actions. His actions don’t include sleeping with a seventeen year old girl. I wonder where the writers of season 5 stand on this, and if they realised this character inconsistency. Then again, I think we already established they didn’t really give a toss about Diane’s character this season.

Sarah Lynn then, the drug addict who overdosed on Bojack, thanks to Bojack. Or so we are led to believe. The truth of the matter is a lot more complicated I think. The only thing that Bojack bares the full responsibility for is him calling her up and asking if she’s up for going on a bender. Yes, that’s certainly not the most responsible thing to do, but she’d already revealed to Bojack she was fully intending on going back to doing drugs anyway. So let’s unpack the accusations regarding Sarah Lynn one by one.

So how was that his fault exactly? We see in one episode that her mother was right there on set with Sarah Lynn all the time. Sarah Lynn isn’t and never was his responsibility. The guilt he feels over that was more because of his inaction, which is understandable. Maybe he could’ve helped her, maybe not, but he probably should’ve tried. But when the only father figure in her life is an actor she works with then something has already gone terribly wrong, and not because of Bojack. The real reason it eats him up is probably because he cared about her and because he likes himself much more as a jovial dad than the grumpy washed-up celebrity he became, not because his actions led her to growing up the way she did.

When did that happen? Sarah Lynn never came to him for help. They accidentally ran into each other and after a little incident he immediately checked her into rehab. She refused to stay there though and came to Bojack to ask him if she could crash at his place. That’s the story, morning glory.

You could say it like that. Or you could say that she had sex with him. What’s the difference exactly? That Sarah Lynn was a washed up star, and addict who had a really rough childhood? All of that also applies to Bojack. Sarah Lynn wasn’t some wide eyed, innocent, naive, young thing. She was a grown woman in her thirties. Yeah, her and Bojack probably weren’t good for each other, but she came to him, remember? I can’t for the life of me think of a way of looking at this where Bojack was the one doing wrong to Sarah Lynn and not the other way around. Surely we aren’t supposed to think it’s because Bojack’s a man and Sarah Lynn a woman, right?

She seemed awfully eager to abandon her sober streak though. She lived in a house made of drugs with bottles stacked behind her calendar. Besides, as I said before, according to her she was planning on doing drugs again eventually.

But I get your point Diane. Maybe without Bojack this wouldn’t have happened. Maybe without Bojack she would still be alive. In any case it was pretty reckless of him to do that without any regards for her safety. So, where were her regards for his safety? Remember, he was an emotional wreck when he called her, and she didn’t give a damn. Under similar circumstances Bojack insisted she go to rehab, but she immediately agreed to take him on a bender and didn’t suggest to stop even when he started having severe blackouts. What if Bojack had died instead? Would Diane be giving this speech to Sarah Lynn now? Again, clearly these two weren’t good for each other, but I don’t see how Bojack was so much more responsible for this outcome than Sarah Lynn herself. How are “his actions” solely to blame for this? They were two damaged people doing stupid things together. Should he now feel guilty over having better luck than her?

Well yeah, Diane. What are you, some kind of psychopath? Of course it was rough for him. He was there and could’ve stopped it, but he failed her and so his friend died. That would be very rough on anyone, and especially on someone who is already emotionally crippled. This is what I mean when I say Diane really comes across as a spiteful bitch in this scene. Can you imagine rubbing someone’s face in their friend’s death, even when you’re angry with them? I sure can’t.

In the end I think it’s a good thing for the show that Bojack isn’t actually as horrible as he believes himself to be, or as this scene is trying to imply for that matter. Bojack is an arsehole, sure. He does stupid things sometimes, he does things that hurt other people. But generally those people choose to associate with him, and we see the sometimes twisted, but relatable rationale behind his actions. It’s a good thing that Bojack retains a certain degree of likeability that keeps us rooting for him. If not I probably wouldn’t have watched the entire show up until now. These two incidents were the most shocking ones that happened before this scene, and although we’ve been told before that Bojack is not the good guy of the story, the writers clearly haven’t dared making him the bad guy either. In the end they know what they’ve got with him. Even the climax of this season, although probably even more shocking than anything that came before, they didn’t pull of without leaving lot’s of wiggle room to excuse Bojack. Here, let me show you.

Bojack’s Big Break

Bojack’s arc this season is almost none-existent as far as I can see. We find out literally nothing new about him, and I don’t know how he’s supposed to have changed by the end of it. Maybe it’s because I don’t follow the logic behind anything that happens between him and Diane at the end, but I never had that problem in previous seasons. There are two main developments. The first is Bojack starting to conflict the fictional world of the character he plays on Philbert with the real world and his own life in it. The second is his related drug addiction which begins around the start of the season and drives most of the plot surrounding him.

For starters I would like to say how strange it is to see Bojack develop a debilitating drug addiction. Not because he would never touch the stuff, but because he would, and has, many times before. In fact, he’s been an addict for years by now, and it never seemed to affect him the way these pills do. What’s so special about them? I don’t know. Granted, I’ve never taken them, but are they really that potent that Bojack would rather drown himself in those things than just drinking his pain away, as usual? I know a lot of people don’t realise this because of its pervasiveness, but alcohol is just another drug, same as cocaine, meth and xtc.

So that’s the first problem. The second problem is an out of universe one: it doesn’t tie into any previous character development. It resolves nothing, nor does it really further anything, except Bojack going to rehab at the end of the season. Maybe there we can see some character development, but it would then just be another thing that season 5 sets up only to do nothing with. Given that it doesn’t really affect anything until episode 11, the whole thing feels like an artificial substitute for a character arc. More like a contrivance for the sake of the big climax than something that flows naturally from the themes and character. Well, maybe that’s a bit unfair of me. It only really feels like a contrivance at the climax itself, and only in light of everything else I’ve discussed. In all honesty this plot line is actually woven pretty well throughout the events of season 5, and it does come into play a few times. We see it slowly escalate from the point where almost no one seems to notice to a the complete breakdown of Bojack’s sanity at the end. The problem, once again, is that it doesn’t develop Bojack as a character in any way. This becomes very clear in the big whammer episode when it culminates into a violent outburst on set between him and Gina.

So, the strangling incident then. There are two contradictory motivations at work here on the part of the writers. first, Bojack needs the be firmly reestablished as the bad guy in the story. It needs to be shown that he will just keep doing more and more horrendous things as long as he’s allowed to have a career despite of it and never learn his lesson. The point is hammered home when he strangles his costar on set in a fit of rage. To be sure, it’s the most shocking thing we’ve seen him do so far. Naturally it destroys his relationship with her and when they see each other again she is understandably wounded and furious do to his actions. But something doesn’t add up here and the writers hint at it without even knowing it.

Would he though? Admittedly I’m no lawyer, but I’m pretty sure there are some mitigating circumstances in this scenario. Leaving the legal technicalities aside for a moment, what does our intuitive sense of justice say?

It’s clear from the weird, trippy blurring of fiction and reality in episode 11, the fact that Bojack doesn’t remember anything of it afterwards and the clear implication that he isn’t being himself in the heat of it, that he’s having some kind of drug induced psychotic episode. Considering that he himself brought it on by taking way too many of those pills he’s certainly not blameless. But there was no way to predict this woud happen. Bojack’s never been violent before, as far as we’ve seen. He’s also done a lot of drugs, but it’s never triggered any kind of psychotic break. Not to mention that he got hooked on the pills due to a doctor’s prescription, not because he tried to get high. So at the very least there’s a bit of a moral grey area. In fact, I would say it completely undermines the moral picture this episode tries to paint. Bojack didn’t do this because he’s a bad guy. He did it because his mind wasn’t functioning properly due to outside influence. So the message falls flat. Of course it does: it conflicts with the writer’s other motivation, the reason a scenario where Bojack wasn’t himself for a moment had to be concocted in the first place. If they hadn’t it would’ve completely alienated the entire audience from the main character of their show. As we’ve established that was a bridge too far, so this weird compromise has been put on the screen where we are both supposed hate Bojack but excuse him at the same time. It doesn’t work because those are two contradictory aims.

Let me take a moment to point out how weird this whole conversation is. Gina implies that there’s been no justice for her. Yeah, but the reason there was no justice is because you haven’t pressed any charges, despite overwhelming evidence in your favour. You didn’t, because you cared more about your career than about justice. Now don’t get me wrong, I think the indictment of celebrity culture and the whole Hollywood publicity machine in this scene is actually very well done. But of all the things to get angry about, why bring this up? The one thing you yourself are responsible for. I mean, for crying out loud!

While we’re on the subject, am I the only one that finds it weird how she describes the incident?

He did a little more than that, didn’t he? Just physically overpowering someone is what you do when you want to restrain someone from getting away, or doing something you don’t want them to. In some cases it might be for their own good even. What Bojack did was lay on top of her and strangle her with both hands. If that happened to me I would never describe it in those terms. I don’t know what exactly the intent was with choosing these words. Maybe it’s supposed to show how reluctant she is to talk about it. But it comes across as either an attempt to trivialise the whole incident, or to place any instance of a man overpowering a woman on the same level as what Bojack did.

There is, admittedly, a more charitable reading of the climax, namely as an indictment against Diane’s behaviour in the previous episode. While the theme of the season is evil men and their evil deeds, it also shows there are no easy solutions. Directly after Diane’s confrontation at the premier Bojack is shown to take a large dose of pills to cope. It’s implied that his drug problem only really gets out of hand after that. So while Diane’s outburst might be justified, her moral grandstanding is not the solution to the problem. In fact it only made things worse. The final conversation might make slightly more sense in that light as well. Though only slightly, and it doesn’t exactly fix any of the other problems I’ve mentioned so far. Still, I suppose I should take what I can get. Which reminds me...

You’re Adopted!

Of all the many things that irked me about this season by far the most egregious one, the one that really made me angry, came right at the end. It was the rather underwhelming conclusion to PC’s arc. Her adopting a child and becoming a single mother in the process. What irked me wasn’t the underwhelming part, or that it didn’t fit into her character development, because it did. No, it was the huge blow to my respect for her, and the way in which it was framed. It’s made to look like this happy ending for both mother and child, but it’s quite possibly the most selfish thing I’ve seen anyone do in this show, which is saying quite a lot. Not because of the adoption itself, but because of her choice of doing it as a single mother when a suitable father is available right there.

Now, I realise that this is what PC’s journey as a character has been building up to for quite a while. She’s had difficulties excepting help from other people. She’s also consistently pushed people away who didn’t need her as much as she needed them. In fact, the problem has been escalating as the series went on. First there was Rutabaga Rabitowitz, who was kind of a dick to her so it was probably a good thing to rid herself of his antics. Then there was Judah, who was nearly perfect in every way. She fired him for just one screw up. After that came Ralph, who did absolutely nothing wrong before she decided she needed to break up with him out of nowhere. Contrast that with the infinite number of chances she’s given Bojack over the years. Bojack can, at some points, barely function without her. That’s what PC needs in a relationship, any kind of relationship. Strong, independent people scare her, and she is completely incapable of accepting she might need help from anyone.

Now, all of those are interesting character flaws and serve to make her more sympathetic rather than less. That is, as long as she herself is the victim of them. But when an innocent child is dragged into it I can no longer sympathise. No matter what the personal demons you’re struggling with, when you take on the responsibility of raising a child you should do your best to put them aside. That’s the time to think about what’s best for the child, not about what you want out of it. To just brush of Ralph because “she’s made her plans” and he’s “not in them” is such a shallow reason to rob the child of the chance to have a father in its life. What, she’s going to take care of it when a lot of the time she’s already too busy to pay any attention to her personal life? Or is she waiting for someone better than Ralph to come along?

I probably wouldn’t make such a fuss out of this if the framing wasn’t so horrible. I hoped I wasn’t imagining it at first. That’s when I saw a certain popular youtuber claim that it was clear she was going to handle single motherhood just fine. That’s just such a baffling thing to say, I don’t know where to start. Okay, I have huge respect for women who are thrust into single motherhood and rise to the occasion, making the best of a difficult situation. To willingly foist that upon your little family when there’s an easy alternative is not a sign of “self-sufficiency” however, but of sheer stupidity, ignorance, narcissism, or all of the above. Furthermore, PC’s problem has never been a lack of self-sufficiency. Quite the opposite in fact. Self-sufficiency is her drug. It’s what she uses to plaster over her other problems. So is taking care of others. Which brings us to the last point: I really doubt PC is doing this for the right reasons. With her compulsion chances are she’s taken on this responsibility to solve her own problems. That’s not how this works though. Couple that with the fact that she’s got plenty to do already, and I can’t see this turn into anything but a huge disaster.

I don’t know if the showrunners are smart or honest enough to see the problems that should arise from this. I think they are, they’ve planted hints to that effect throughout season 5, but I’m not sure. Abandoning their female empowerment trip of late will certainly displease a few people. Showing the worst case scenario will be ugly and uncomfortable. Let’s hope the writing staff shows the same kind of bravery with that as they’ve done with showing Bojack’s debacles.

Conclusion

Well, if I think about it for a while I can undoubtedly find a lot more things to bitch about, but I think this will do. All in all I certainly can’t say I hate season 5, or that it was a bad season, but it was a huge step down. The main problems are that the characters just don’t progress naturally, or that their arcs are thin to the point of being almost non-existent. Not that everything that is there is bad, but it just doesn’t feel like enough to fill a whole season. It started out promising, but somewhere along the way the decision was taken to focus more on sending a political message than on where the character’s current journeys would take them and that was really to its detriment. All of the issues I mentioned in this piece could be fixed in season 6, in which case season 5 would become just a slightly too long buildup in hindsight. I do think the team behind Bojack has proven they have more than enough talent to bring this around. However, if Game of Thrones taught us anything it’s that no matter how good a show is in its first few seasons, it can always turn to shit later. Let’s hope Bojack Horseman is spared that fate.

#bojack horseman #bojack season 5 #netflix

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captainjonnitkessler · 5 years

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I’m watching episode 45 of Critical Role’s second campaign and holy fuck the dragon fight is incredible:

Liam makes the very in-character decision to bail even though ooc he knows that means leaving Jester to almost certain death and it looks like it fuckign kills him to make that decision but he DOES it cause the man is committed to staying in character

he honest to god sounds like it broke his entire heart to leave them but he DID that is what COMMITMENT is goddamnit

Everyone at that table is fucking convinced Jester is about to die and they all look SO stressed out

sam’s got the same nervous grin he had when molly died, travis is covering his face, marisha is clutching her chest

laura’s only hope is to blink away and her voice when she announces she failed the roll just broke my fucking heart

everybody prepares themselves for jester’s death

matt apologizes to laura for having to target (read:kill) her and laura tries to assure him it’s okay

AND THEN

THE DRAGON FAILS BOTH ITS ATTACKS AGAINST HER

travis actually checks matt’s dice to make sure he’s not fudging it lmao

everyone just collapses in relief. the sheer catharsis. holy shit

AND THE WAY MATT PLAYS IT

WITH THE TRAVELER COMING TO HER AID

i know everyone knows matt’s a great dm but guys: matt’s a fucking great dm

sam: “i run towards the sphere” matt: “do you disengage?” sam: “no.”

SAM RIEGEL, MVP OF THE MOTHERFUCKING YEAR

Intentionally takes a dragon attack with 19 hp in order to save jester’s life

liam’s soul looks like it’s trying to leave his body. someone save this man from himself.

also extremely good: laura hugging sam during that bit

Jester makes it out and i could feel the tension at the table breaking

Every single person at that table thought they were about to watch Jester die after they all abandoned her

because if matt had rolled even slightly higher she fucking would have

can you even fucking imagine

imagine jester dying almost entirely alone after the rest of the group abandoned her. fucking imagine. we all came within SECONDS of having to watch that happen

sam reveals he has one hit point remaining and everyone loses it

Liam just puts his head down on the table and i honest to god think he’s crying

me too, buddy, me too

and then just when you think we’ve hit the height of emotion:

TWIGGY’S. NATURAL. TWENTY.

DEBORAH ANN WOLL IS THE ANTI-WHEATON

there is literal dancing at the table

possibly the coolest HDYWTDT on the show and nobody will ever believe her

“What’s the rules on drinking hard liquor on twitch?” buddy after a session like that fuck the rules

Jester: “oh yeah of course i’m fine” Beau: “you’re a bad liar jester” cool cool, gonna be over here crying

Caleb carrying nott back and saying he’ll look at the books tomorrow: i’m already crying what more do you people want from me

Caduceus, weirdly chill: “tomorrow we take care of them and feel good for them. they’re doing good work, they just don’t believe it yet.” what a fuckin note to end on. taliesin is so wise. i am completely emotionally drained.

In conclusion: this was the most intense episode of anything I’ve ever seen, Critical Role is a fucking incredible show, and everyone involved is so, so fucking talented. goddamn.

#if anyone needs me for the next week i'll be stuck in my head #imagining the au where the dragon DIDN'T miss that attack and nott had to go back and tell everyone they fucking left jester to die #FUCK #critical role

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do-your-socks-have-holes-in-them · 5 years

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Til the End of the Night / Ch10: In which the forest’s trials begin (*insert ominous music here*)

Previous / Masterpost / Next

Summary: Patton makes some friends. Logan makes complicated arcane machines. Virgil makes a misstep.

Warnings: fear/paranoia, injury, harm to an animal (but it's okay), vague body horror?, mentions of death, and some pretty intense danger

A/N: oh a cliffhanger? :D

AO3

Logan was on his fifth “room,” and beginning to wonder just how big this semi-artificial cave system was. The puzzles were getting more complex, but all had to do with drawing magical symbols on things. He was beginning to recognize some of them: this one allowed a machine to draw on a nearby source of magic, this one could teleport an object from one position to another, this one made something translucent so light could pass through it, this one created light like a more powerful version of his glow-bottle. All required magical energy to function. He moved from chamber to chamber, forming arcane circuits and manipulating physics. This was the most he’d enjoyed himself since entering the Imagination. There were only two things dampening his mood: the fact that everything was still magic, and his concern for how Virgil and Patton were getting on without him.

Hopefully, they were still in the clearing, and would have the sense to wait for him there. He didn’t have much faith in their common sense when left to their own devices, though, especially Patton. He would just have to get through the rest of this as quickly as possible so he could find them before they got into too much trouble.

Patton felt much better now that he was making progress. He’d been following his little path for a while now, and it had yet to lead him to a dead end. And this part of the forest was so much nicer than where they’d all been before! Sure, it was a little foggy beyond the edges of the sunlit trail, and a tad quieter than he would have expected, but otherwise it was a beautiful day. He wished his friends were with him to see it, too, but he wouldn’t dwell on that, they would find each other soon enough. Besides, although he knew it wasn’t the same, he seemed to be making more friends out of just about everything around here. At the moment, for example, there was a small hot-pink bird with tiny antlers perched on his shoulder, tugging on his hair as if trying to eat it, which kind of hurt, but it was just so cute he wasn’t going to complain, and some kind of fluffy, soft-looking pastel blue rodent at his feet which wouldn’t let Patton pick it up, but seemed happy to run along next to him and keep him company.

He came to a fork in the path and stopped, rubbing his chin and making a thoughtful pout. “Hmm… Well, either way will probably get me out of here eventually… but I still want to get out as soon as possible so I can find my friends! What do you think, Mr. Fluffles?”

The animal blinked at him, and seemed slightly affronted by the nickname. Still, it looked between the options and then darted over to one of the two branches, looking up at him expectantly.

“Aw, thank you!”

He headed in that direction, confident that his small, furry guide knew what it was talking about. It seemed almost impatient now, darting around his legs as if to urge him forward, and he laughed and tried not to trip over it. The further he walked, the more magical his surroundings became: giant dandelions nearly as tall as he was and mushrooms large enough to sit on, interspersed with bushes covered in brightly colored fruit. On impulse, Patton grabbed a bright yellow berry and popped it in his mouth. It tasted like lemonade, the flavor of the fruit without its sourness, but the next one he tried was closer to a mango. Maybe they were all different? He gathered a few handfuls and filled his cloak’s inner pockets with various colors to snack on as he walked. A voice in the back of his head told him he wouldn’t have been able to do that with Virgil with him, who would have swatted his hands away in case they were poisonous, but he squashed it down- he’d rather have his friends than some berries any day. He offered one to the bird and kept walking.

Roman smiled a little, then sighed with an unreadable mix of emotions, stepping back from his mirror and dispelling the image once again. He was really starting to wish he’d given it split-screen capabilities. It was bad enough that his friends were separated and he had no idea what had happened- that would teach him to listen when Logan told him to go to bed- but the fact that he couldn’t watch them all at once was even worse, because what if something important were to happen when he wasn’t looking? He would hate to miss one of them finally doing something really cool, or… well, he’d rather not follow the other possible train of thought there, for fear of turning into Virgil. That wouldn’t do at all. One of him was quite enough.

He paused for a long moment, listening carefully to make sure the witch wasn’t going to walk in on him, which also wouldn’t do. He hadn’t seen her so far today- she was probably busy enjoying her stupid new castle- but it couldn’t hurt to make sure. Speaking of Virgil, he was the one Roman was most concerned about. Patton didn’t appear to have found any trouble at all, thank goodness, and Logan looked like he was actually having a good time for once now that he’d somehow managed to turn perfectly good magic into a bunch of nerd stuff, but Virgil had been exceptionally tense last time Roman tuned in to him, and was probably having his worst time since coming here. Roman had a surprising amount of sympathy for him: the anxious side clearly thought himself responsible for the safety of the other two, just as Roman felt responsible for putting them in this situation at all, only he didn’t even have any way of knowing they weren’t currently in terrible danger without him. He reached for the mirror to check on him again, and hoped he hadn’t worried himself into shutting down.

Virgil was scanning the forest around him for danger so rapidly he wasn’t sure any of what he saw was actually registering in his brain. It had gotten a little easier to move forward once he resigned himself to the one path he was apparently meant to take, but he was also getting tired after pushing through thick brush for such a long time without finding anything of interest, and almost wished something would happen just to break the painful tension of waiting. Key word: almost. He may not have been Roman, but he was genre-savvy enough not to tempt fate like that. At the sudden sound of something disturbing the bushes nearby, he came this close to screaming and/or throwing his knife at it before he caught a glimpse of red-brown fur near the ground. Just a squirrel or something. He stood still for a moment to recover from that near-heart attack, rubbing a hand over his face and taking some deep breaths as he reminded himself what he needed to do: stay calm, find the others, get out of here. The forest didn’t seem to like him stopping, and thorns pricked at the back of his legs through his clothes, reminding him to keep moving. He exhaled harshly. He was this close to cursing out the entire Imagination.

It was arguably fortunate, then, that he didn’t have to struggle through much longer before he stumbled out into a clearing. His shadows swirled around him as he stopped and looked around suspiciously at the almost perfectly circular space enclosed by a solid mass of thorns, and he took a bit of comfort from the reminder that he could protect himself if he had to. With a suspicious glance at the not-quite-there movement in the darkness of the forest around him, he slowly stepped into the middle of the clearing, as far as possible from the threatening shapes either glimpsed or imagined. There must be a way out, to continue whatever path he was being herded along- he tried to remember which way he’d come from as the thorns rapidly closed up the gap behind him. Knowing this place, though, and its apparent hatred for him, it would probably screw him over as much as possible before letting him go.

“Shut up, shut up,” he whispered to himself with a quick shake of his head, trying to rein his mind in before it could, quite literally, give the Imagination any more ideas. He was just going to make it worse thinking like that. There was probably just something he was missing, right? Like a patch where it wasn’t quite as thick and he could push through, or a- a secret trapdoor, or…

Something was in the trees.

He would’ve tried to convince himself it was just a shadow, but there was no way, because shadows didn’t make terrifying breathing noises and crush the foliage around them as they moved. He felt almost vindicated, but also, y’know, terrified. He turned in a slow, careful circle, tracking it as it passed. It… didn’t look like it had noticed him. The thing was bigger than any animal he’d ever seen, nearly three times his height, and it wasn’t shaped like anything familiar, either. Not that he could make it out very well. He did his best to keep from speculating.

Virgil waited, holding his breath, as the massive creature made its slow, destructive way past the clearing he was in. He finally allowed himself a quiet sigh of relief once it seemed to be gone. Maybe that was this place’s way of showing him how to keep going? He might be able to reach the path it had left if he pushed through the remaining layer of thornbushes, and then he could easily get to wherever it had come from, assuming nothing else went wrong. Which was not an assumption Virgil generally made. Still, the alternative was staying in the clearing forever. He took a small step towards the edge of the trees.

And stepped on a stick that hadn’t been there before. Which broke with an unreasonably loud crack.

The next sound Virgil heard was the deafening atonal screech of that thing, and he barely threw himself out of the way in time as it charged at him. Apparently it was not only the size of a small house, but also really fast when it wanted to be… and if the glimpse of it he managed to get could be trusted, it had more than should be allowed of both limbs and teeth. Nope nope nope. He rolled when he hit the ground and made a break for the newly created opening the instant he was upright again. His magic was gathered even more thickly around his limbs now, but he didn’t have time to spare it a thought at the moment as long as it didn’t slow him down. He was a little too busy running for his life.

Logan was fairly certain he was getting close to the end. Or, at least, he wasn’t sure how much further things were capable of escalating from here… There were far too many symbols in play to reliably keep track of in his head, so he was glad he’d been writing them down as he figured out what they were for. He started the veritable Rube Goldberg machine of magic he’d just finished setting up and watched everything work precisely as intended, finally opening a door in the wall larger than any of the previous ones. He walked through and found himself in darkness- evidently, the torch he’d been carrying from room to room wouldn’t be enough to light this particular space. That was no problem, however, once he saw a place for one of his spheres on the opposite side of the door from the torch bracket, marked with what he now knew to be the rune for light. Once activated, a bright glow spread in all directions along a series of “wires,” and Logan gasped.

This had to be the final puzzle. The room was absolutely massive, and a good third of the stone mechanisms that filled it were already moving- timing would be essential here. It looked like the fantasy version of a particularly difficult Portal level, honestly. The ceiling was so high it was hard to tell what was up there, but one thing he could make out was a door. Evidently, he was supposed to get himself up there somehow. He readjusted the strap of his bag to make it more secure and looked up with a half-smile, already working out the relationships between the different parts.

“Finally, a real challenge.”

Patton was starting to get a little teensy bit tired of walking when he turned a corner and stopped in his tracks. Just a few feet in front of him, not quite hidden in the brush by the path, was a red fox. When it saw him standing there, it looked up and whined. Patton approached it carefully and crouched down.

“Hey there, little guy… oh no, what happened to you?” Now that he was closer, he could see why the fox wasn’t running away, even though it didn’t seem as trusting as the other animals he’d been meeting: one of its legs was hurt. He tried to get a better look, but it got nervous and limped a bit further into the bushes. ��“I’m not gonna hurt ya, I just want to help,” he soothed. The fox looked wary, but stopped backing away, almost as if it understood what he was saying. “That’s it… will you let me see?”

It remained still as he moved closer again. After a moment’s hesitation, it sat down awkwardly, holding the injured leg so he could see it. The poor little fox seemed to have gotten on the wrong side of an especially thorny plant. Patton put his hand out slowly. The fox regarded it uncertainly and sniffed at him, then nudged its head into his palm like a cat, seeming to accept him. (Between Patton’s limited knowledge of wild animals and the weirdness of the rest of the forest, he saw nothing strange about this.) “Aww,” he squealed as quietly as he could manage. “You’re so soft and pretty, yes, you are!” He petted the fox’s head and ears, and while it was distracted, reached for the injury with his free hand.

The fox startled at his touch, and even more at the realization that its leg no longer hurt. Patton pulled back and smiled at it, wincing a little when his weight shifted. “There, isn’t that better? I told you I would help!” The fox took a step forward and licked his hand, then darted away into the forest. He watched it go and gave himself a minute to just sit on the ground before getting up. He’d been walking for a while, after all… Hopefully there wasn’t too much further to go.

Virgil had no way of knowing it, of course, but he looked really cool right now. Like an action movie hero… or possibly the protagonist of Temple Run. It wasn’t nearly as much fun to experience in real life. His lungs were on fire, as was every muscle in his body. He couldn’t keep going like this much longer. He could barely stay ahead of the thing chasing him, and the branches smacking him in the face and nearly tripping him as he ran weren’t helping. He vaulted over a large rock without slowing down and risked a glance over his shoulder.

It was a mistake. The creature was right on his heels, lunging at him, one wrong step away from tearing him to pieces. A new burst of panic-fueled energy coursed through his limbs at the sight. He turned back to the path ahead, pushing himself even faster-- only to skid to a stop and whirl around again when that path ended suddenly in a sheer drop. He looked around frantically for another way out, but there was nothing. Even the way he’d just come was closing up at an impossible rate. He was trapped. Just the monster in front of him, the forest far, far below him, and Virgil trembling with exhaustion and adrenaline at the edge of a cliff.

Time slowed down. In the half-second remaining before, presumably, his very unpleasant demise, he tried to shield his face with his arms… and found himself staring at his hands, or at least, the area where he knew they should be. They were barely visible, actually- difficult to make out through the dense cloud of his magic that obscured them. There was no time to think about the spark of an idea that gave him; he just acted. With death quite literally looking him in the face, now mere inches away, Virgil dropped into a defensive crouch with his eyes shut tight, felt a surge of magic wrap around his body, then turned and threw himself off the cliff.

#sanders sides #logan sanders #patton sanders #virgil sanders #roman sanders #my post #my writing #til the end of the night

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justanotherloveaffair · 6 years

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I Trust You (Part 5/8) - Chadwick x Reader

Link to Part 4 Link to Part 6

Summary: The time has come to confront Cole, with Chadwick for support.

Warnings: Angst, language

Word Count: 2,961

Author’s Note: I want to shoutout to all of you amazing people who have been so enthusiastic about this story! I LOVE YOU ALL.

I had written such a long ass chapter that I had to split it up into two parts - next one will be up very soon! My disclaimer stands - I don’t have the time to make this good because of NaNoWriMo. Wish I had more time to edit.

Your name: Submit (what is this?)

My Masterlist

Taglist: @purple-apricots, @deliciousstreetkidcroissant, @ashanti-notthesinger, @onyour-right, @maverickabull, @lavitabella87, @brianabreeze, @fullonfrenzy, @grandadchadwick, @builtalongthewayside, @belauriette, @jaeee-http, @airis-paris14, @fortuitoushappenings **Let me know if you want to be added/removed from this taglist.

The decision to go and pack up your life left you little time to dwell on what you would bring with you and what you would leave behind.

As Chadwick drove to your apartment for the second time, you prepared yourself to make some hard decisions. Other than the necessities, most of what you owned in that apartment could stay in it, like books you never read, kitchen stuff, DVDs that had been following you around for years in thick black media sleeves.

There was only one thing that you couldn’t imagine leaving behind and that was Dodger.

He was your dog. You may have been with Cole when you adopted him, but all three of you knew who Dodger loved best. It was your lap he migrated to, and your bed he slept on. When Cole couldn’t convince him to get up for his walk, it was you who got called in to cajole the little animal who practically did backflips at the sound of your high-pitched doggie voice.

The more you thought about it during the half an hour drive over, the more determined you became that Dodger was coming with you and if your new roommate didn’t approve, you’d live with your dog on the street.

Your apartment building came into view and as Chadwick slowed, you scanned for Cole’s motorcycle, then sighed with relief to find it missing from his usual spot. You shared this with Chadwick whose shoulders visibly relaxed.

Even knowing it was unlikely Cole was around, you noticed Chadwick was on guard the moment you both stepped out of the car. He flanked you like a bodyguard, his posture stiff and tall as he escorted you up the steps, taking in the surroundings with darting eyes that were assessing all threats. There was nothing of note but the usual. Older couples still in their church clothes, young boys shooting the shit on their balconies, smaller kids running around on the grass enjoying the Sunday afternoon.

You watched Chadwick take it all in. The slow elevator, the peeling wallpaper, the outdated lobby. He kept his expression impassive.

“So where’s this place you’re moving to?” He turned to you in the elevator, his hands in his hoodie pockets.

“It’s a one bedroom in Vermont Square.”

He paused. “Wait…. one bedroom? I thought you said you had a roommate.”

“One bedroom plus den,” you corrected yourself. “I’m taking the den.”

Chadwick crossed his arms over his broad chest, regarding you with a long look. He quickly reigned in his incredulous expression, returning to a poker face. “Oh. Right.”

Answering his unspoken question just as the elevator door opened, you shrugged a shoulder. “Could be worse.”

He followed you into the hallway, and before you even had a chance to open the door, you heard Dodger whining on the other side and felt your heart break into a thousand pieces. You unlocked and threw open the door without ceremony and ran inside to scoop him up. He was a wiggling, shuddering, licking, yelping being made of white marshmallow fluff and you ached with love.

“Dodger! Dodger, stop,” you let out a giggle at his wet cheek kisses, and turned with him in your arms towards an amused looking Chadwick.

“This is Dodger. Dodger, this is Chadwick.” Right on cue, Dodger barked and rushed out of your arms to make friends with Chadwick’s legs. Smiling, he bent down and reached out with his giant hand to pet the curly fluff on Dodger’s head after the customary sniff of his knuckles.

“No Cole,” you observed, “but he could be back soon so I’ll be as quick as I can.”

Dodger followed you into your room, immediately jumped on the bed, circled exactly three times, and laid down peering at you under his furry brows.

Chadwick remained half in, half out of the doorway with an ear towards the front door while you busied yourself packing the suitcase from your closet, a giant duffel bag and your backpack.

You thought it would be easy, but now that you were surrounded by your things, there was more you wanted to keep than you realized and you struggled with some difficult choices as you carefully rationed your space.

Only your favourite clothes went into the suitcase, and in the duffel bag and backpack, you only had room for necessities, like your laptop. An entire bag of flavoured chapsticks had to be left behind, and it was just one of many heartbreaks.

You stuffed the bags full, then unzipped the expandable fabric of your suitcase to squeeze in a few more pairs of shoes.

“Okay, I’m done.” You announced, wiping sweat off your forehead.

Chadwick, who had abandoned his post in the doorway in favour of lounging next to Dodger, obediently stood and began to load up your belongings and carry them out.

You put a hand on his arm. “Hey, do you mind if I have just a minute in here?”

His eyes softened. “Of course.”

You wished there was more time. You didn’t think of yourself as sentimental, but you found your eyes filling with tears saying goodbye to the part of your life this room represented, and the memories you had here. Hours spent watching that tiny television, or sleeping next to Dodger on your bed. Everything was about to change, and you didn’t feel prepared.

“Psst,” you heard through the door.

“What – “ You pushed the bedroom door open, and Dodger jumping down from the bed and running to the door confirmed it.

Cole was home.

“Fuck.”

Chadwick glanced behind you, tension furrowing his brow before turning back around, squaring his shoulders and standing tall in anticipation.

Where you were standing, you had the pleasure and the curse of seeing the look on Cole’s face when he opened the door to find you, Chadwick, and most of your packed things littering the space between you.

The range of emotions on his face was spectacular.

First, there was surprise. Eyebrows lifted, his cheeks a little more gaunt than usual as his jaw dropped open. Then, noticing the suitcases, his eyes moistened with sadness for the briefest of moments. Then… betrayal. An ice-cold glare thrown like a spear between your eyes. How could you do this? he bellowed silently. Finally, anger. Fuming, red hot, anger. First at you, and then the full force of his sneering, nostril flaring fury landed squarely on Chadwick.

“Y/N, want to explain what the fuck is going on?” Still in the doorway, ignoring Dodger sniffing at his ankles, he was addressing you but glaring at Chadwick.

You only had a view of his back, but you saw the tension in him coiling, his hands becoming tight fists, body at full height and in a posture that said he was ready to throw down.

Emboldened by the wall of solid muscle currently bristling between you and Cole, you snapped, “What do you think is going on? I’m moving out. Like I said I would.”

Cole moved from the door, taking two steps towards you with a threatening gait that made Chadwick take one step forward and cross his arms, his biceps bulging.

You watched Cole size him up. Chadwick was bigger, with an imposing energy made even more menacing with his simmering silence, but Cole had the confidence and inferiority complex of a chihuahua. Knowing this about him, you could have written the script he would follow, beat by beat, and he didn’t disappoint.

Cole walked forward to get right up in Chadwick’s face, who didn’t flinch.

“You must be Chadwick.” Cole smirked.

Though he was facing away from you and spoke low, you heard Chadwick’s words in your chest, each enunciated syllable heavy with warning.

“Let her leave.”

“Let her speak for herself, asshole.”

Cole pushed Chadwick’s shoulder, finding it granite and barely swaying more than a few inches before returning to its square, solid foundation.

You began to creep towards the two, hoping to break things up but all of Cole’s focus was on his antagonist, and he shoved him again, this time with both hands on each shoulder and all of his weight behind it.

Chadwick snapped. Faster than you could comprehend, you heard the ka-bam as Cole’s body collided with the wall and was kept pinned there by Chadwick’s forearm, tight enough on his clavicle to cause the cords in Cole’s neck to stand out and the veins to pop in his face.

Chadwick leaned forward to speak into Cole’s ear at a volume that robbed you of hearing his words, and as he did, out of all of the emotions you’d seen in Cole’s face over the years, you saw something new. Fear. Though you strained to hear what was causing it, all you caught was the low, growling timbre of Chadwick’s voice, and Cole’s harsh, throaty choking sounds accompanying each rough press of Chadwick’s forearm into his chest.

You watched, stunned, as the fight went out of Cole’s eyes and he slumped.

Chadwick retracted his arm and, leaving Cole to his coughing fit, he turned around to face you. That fierce, intense look in his eyes, making his pupils nearly black was familiar. You kept your focus on Cole behind him, in case he was planning a dirty play and intended to pounce on Chadwick with his back turned.

It would have been a Cole thing to do. But he didn’t.

“You got everything?” Chadwick asked, ignoring the third person in the room. Your eyes moved to his and for a flash, an intense gaze connected you together. He was making sure you were alright. You blinked and nodded, answering him.

Cole observed in your periphery, but didn’t move forward.

“There is one more thing.” You had a brief, sick moment of remorse for the thing you were about to do, before you bent down to your knees and called out, “Dodger! Come here boy!”

The dog had kept his distance during the tense standoff, so he was far under your bed when you called. He came trotting out of the bedroom towards your voice but stopped and shook with frightened surprise when Cole yelled in an outburst of emotion, “No!”

“He’s my dog, Cole,” you rationalized with a shaky voice as Dodger ran to your legs. “You can have everything else but Dodger comes with me.”

You trembled as you scooped up the dog, wishing there was some other way. Cole’s crumpled, angry, heartbroken face would haunt you with guilt forever.

“I’m sorry.” You whispered into Dodger’s fur, your growing tears blurring Cole’s image.

His eyes narrowed, and his lips pursed so tight they disappeared into a line. “You walk out that door with him, I will fucking find you -”

Cole took one step and was blocked by a Chadwick-shaped wall of stone. “Ah,” he warned, his palm outstretched towards Cole’s chest who reacted with a murderous look of rage. “Remember what I said,” Chadwick chided, a hint of smugness in his voice.

With Chadwick’s strategic placement between you both, there was no way Cole was getting near you or Dodger on your way out. Angry as he was, you saw that resignation in Cole’s eyes, and it was your signal to begin moving your things into the hall while Chadwick stood watch.

You returned to the doorway holding Dodger, who was relaxed, but alert in your arms as you stood there for one last look at Cole.

He had been your best friend, your boyfriend, a man you ruined friendships for. You took a breath, and let it out shakily as you whispered, meeting his eyes for the last time, “I’m sorry.”

You turned your back to him and stepped through the threshold into the hall, followed by Chadwick who gently closed the door.

Adrenaline helped you focus and ignore the avalanche of emotions. Getting Dodger and your things into Chadwick’s car was all that mattered.

In the elevator, you turned to Chadwick with narrowed eyes. “What did you say to him back there? The Cole I know would have tried to beat your ass,” your mouth twitched with a curious smile.

Chadwick was being intentionally mysterious with his shrug and reply, “I dunno.” He fought the tug of his lips while you rolled your eyes.

“Come on,” you whined.

He shrugged again just as the creaky elevator opened, leaving you with only a small hallway until you would be taking your last steps from this building forever.

Seeing outside and green grass, Dodger started to go wild in your arms. As you walked through the lobby, wearing your backpack while Chadwick wheeled your black suitcase and army print duffel bag over his broad shoulders, you had to struggle to keep Dodger still.

“I’m sorry, I just realized I didn’t ask if it was okay he stay at your place tonight.” You looked at him with a sudden anxious expression.

“It’s fine, no problem. Lots of room for him to run around. Hey,” he lifted his chin towards Dodger, “You like steak? I think I know what I’m making for dinner tonight,” he waggled his eyebrows and you laughed.

“Oh shit, he would love that,” you hugged Dodger tighter and glanced at Chadwick whose attention was turned on getting your suitcase through the door.

As you watched him, you felt a terrifying upward leap of your heart into your throat.

You followed through the door held open by his outstretched arm to the outside world. Dodger wanted to run and play, so you soothed him just enough to get him into the back seat of the car.

Once secure in the back, you placed your backpack next to him and took the passenger seat. As you did, you heard a few “ohh, dammmmmn!” comments coming from a group of guys walking past the car. Chadwick gave them an amicable nod, and started up the engine, which immediately began to purr quietly.

As soon as the car came to a stop behind the gates of Chadwick’s property, you opened the door for Dodger to jump down and run around to sniff and acquaint himself with Chadwick’s green space.

“I’ll follow him and make sure he doesn’t poop in your flowers,” you smiled apologetically. “He likes to do that.”

Chadwick laughed a loud, boisterous laugh and his smile buoyed you to the sun.

“Go ahead, I’ll bring these things in.”

You opened your car’s glove compartment for the spare doggie clean up bags, and followed your happy puppy around in the sunshine as he tumbled and played and sniffed the flowers, totally unaware of the drama that had unfolded around him that day.

Your feelings of relief deepened by the second. You were with your best friend Dodger, currently exploring the property of someone who genuinely cared about you. In the past few hours, you began to feel that in your bones.

You wandered back inside, depositing the plastic bag in the bin and smiled watching your puppy acquaint himself with Chadwick’s home before jumping up on the couch, and testing the softness before curling up.

Chadwick reappeared in the hallway.

“Is it okay if he’s on your couch?” You began rushing over to Dodger in case he needed to be quickly removed.

You noticed then that Chadwick had changed into a light grey hoodie and dark blue, thick sweats with pockets and a white stripe down the side. You also couldn’t help but notice, with a sudden light headed sensation, his faint bulge.

“’Course,” he answered, making his way over towards both of you in the living room. You had gravitated again to the uncomfortable, geometric chair while Chadwick settled his body into the back of the couch.

You were wondering how in the hell a man could look so good in sweats and a hoodie when you heard his soft voice beckon, “Come here.”

You looked up and your breath stopped. He was holding his arms out in a half circle, clearly intending for you to climb into them, and your heart began to melt into liquid slurry. Not even the coldest of hearts could resist that sight.

You stood from the chair, still looking at him questioningly, but he kept his arms open wide and twitched his fingers, the little smile growing and melting your hesitation.

As soon as you were close, he clasped his arms around you and before you knew it, he was sinking onto his back on the couch, and you were moving with him, shifting naturally into a position of warm comfort and bliss with all of your softness fitting into his hard grooves.

You chose not to question what was happening and snuggled into his sweatshirt, finding the company of his heart beat and comforting smell an unexpected and healing balm.

When you were settled, you felt the scratch of his bearded chin on your forehead where he placed a single, chaste, soft kiss and you felt his words through his chest, straight into yours.

“I’m proud of you, Y/N.”

You had that feeling again of being overwhelmed that left you speechless. In acknowledgment, you squeezed your arms around him, and his hands brought warmth to your back where they began to circle in soothing passes.

The lulling motions became mesmerizing and after a time, your eyelids closed. A few minutes later, you caught yourself breathing slower, the heavy magic of sleep starting to pull you under.

You mumbled, “I’m gonna fall asleep if you keep doing that.” Your words were muffled by his body to the point you were sure he couldn’t understand you, but he did.

“That’s the idea.” He chuckled and you went back to focusing on the spreading warmth from his hands and the softness of his sweatshirt against your cheek, soon drifting off to sleep with ease.

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