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fascination-street-writing · 5 years ago

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Somewhere to Begin | Pannacotta Fugo x Ghirga!Reader

He has always adored you, like the sun and the moon and more - but he had a brilliant way of convincing you otherwise.

- 200 Follower Giveaway Piece iii for @idontlikerisottounlessitsnero -

Content Warnings: Not SFW Content, Post Break-Up, Emotional Hurt & Comfort, Regret, & Explicit Sexual Content (Aged-Up Characters)

You had promised your brother Narancia to never involve yourself directly with Passione; even the occasional stay for a meal at Il Libeccio made him antsy, yet you failed to see the harm in sharing a plate of bruschetta with Fugo, or a pot of hot tea with Abbacchio – two of his closest companions. It was only fair that you ought to spend time with the men who gave you unbridled protection at the behest of nothing more than goodwill and magnanimity. Not that you needed such security, but it kept street thieves from picking your pockets, at least.

You had promised him indeed, and now that he lies in the casket before you – clad in the suit from your mother’s funeral that you never thought to see him wear again – you intend to keep it. Giorno had offered to have an outfit tailored for your brother, but you refused him with consternation that your he would not be buried in something from the boy responsible for his death.

“No,” you had told him, cold as the wall of ice that has crept around your heart, while clutching the woolly material to your chest. “This one will do nicely.”

And so, the mortician severed the seam along the back of the jacket and draped a silk sheet over Narancia’s legs so that no one would be wiser to fact that his ankles stick out past the bottom hem of his trousers. It was bad enough that you could not afford the casket on your own. You knew better than to believe it when Mista told you that it and the headstone were paid for with the money yielded from the liquidation of Bucciarati’s assets. If that were true, then why not pay for a new suit, too?

Trish snatches a single white lily from the memorial wreath and tucks it between your brother’s still, clasped fingers. She hides her grief behind a pair of sunglasses that do not match the overcast weather that looms above your heads. You had not wanted to wait so long for the funeral – for two months, Narancia’s body had been left in the morgue to chill on ice, par Giorno’s insistence that the service must wait until his transfer of power over Passione has finished.

Thus, for two months, you had lain awake at night, shuddering at the melancholy and its melody that reminds you how you your brother died without saying farewell – his platonic little soulmate. Giorno may have his victories and suffer for them, but you would not let him entomb Narancia in the mausoleum with Bucciarati and Abbacchio.

“He’ll be buried next to our mother,” you said to the new Don with indignancy. “After everything you’ve taken from me, let me have this. Lascia che mio fratello torni a casa – let my brother come home.”

Your wish was granted, though you suspect it only so because he was growing tired of fighting with you over burial rights and passages. The congregation is kept small, consisting only of yourself, Mista, Trish, a tortoise named Jean-Pierre Polnareff, regrettably Giorno, and a handful of bodyguards, though the latter kept their distance from the immediate service; it would not come as a surprise to you, should you learn that the men in black suits were employed to protect their Don from the mournful sister of the deceased.

The handkerchief clutched in your grasp is damp with past tears. Not even your father had come, despite your pleading that he ought to pay his respects to his only son. Too preoccupied with his floozy of a new wife and her children from two previous marriages than to love his own – you never needed him in your life anyways, because you had Bucciarati. Now, you suppose that you must be a proper orphan.

You do not weep when the casket seals and cleaves the line of sight betwixt you and your brother forever. You do not weep when the mechanical apparatus lowers the coffer made of Osage orange wood into the steel vault that already holds your mother in oak. You do not weep when the gravediggers shovel the dirt mound back over the crest of opened earth.

You do not weep until Mista clasps your trembling hand, pulls you to his chest, and embraces you amidst the anguish that burns you alive. His is the consolation that you needed, but never thought to ask for, though it is not his touch that you long for. One by one, the attendees disperse for the train of luxury cars and you remain alone with the gunslinger who had been courteous enough to come without his oddly patterned beanie hat.

“Why don’t we get going?” Mista urges to coax you away from the gravesite – away from yourself and the suffocating agony. “Giorno’s having dinner for us all, back at the estate.”

You pull away. Rivets of mascara stain his white dress-shirt. “You can go on ahead,” you tell him, not quite liking the way your voice strains in your throat. “I’m not hungry.”

“Then, let’s go grab some coffee or something –”

“I’m fine, Mista.” He frowns and averts his gaze. “I have some things I need to take care of.”

“Oh?”

You tug your cardigan closer to your chest. “I’m going to collect Narancia’s belongings from our dad’s house. Not sure what I’ll do with it all, but I know it can’t stay there.”

Mementos of life, from when things were far simpler and your brother far more alive. Family photographs with tattered edges and holes of where your father should have been, wedged between unread and abused schoolbooks. Worn out blue jeans with patches of fabric scraps from your mother’s old dresses that you had sewn on for him. A collection of empty glass soda bottles. CDs and cassette tapes of Snoop Dog, Tupac, and whatever other American rappers had appealed to his tastes.

“Alright, I guess. Promise me you’ll call when you get there.”

Soon to be packed away in cardboard boxes and to be stacked precariously in the living room of your studio apartment – another gift from Bucciarati – with nowhere else to go. You simply cannot afford to rent a storage unit downtown.

“I will.”

Mista does not offer to help, because he knows you will refuse it. With that, he takes his leave of you in the cemetery. Left to your solitary devices, you clench your fists and stew on hatred and loathing for none other than Giorno Giovanna. You do not blame Narancia for his eagerness to trust the boy so quickly; his charisma, as appealing as it entreats to the willing, is an infectious disease.

If not for Giorno, your brother would have been buried two months ago. If not for Giorno, your brother might still be alive. And perhaps you must resent Fugo too, for what he has done – or rather, the lack thereof of doing; yet for everything, you are incapable of such feelings, as you have always been fond of each other. The optimistic heart within you stands that he has saved you from suffering more – that in his choice to stay behind in Venezia, it only meant you would not have to bury him, too.

Because surely, his unrestrained anger would have gotten him killed – if not before, then certainly after Narancia’s death.

With a quivering sigh, you turn from this dreary place and meet his illegible violet stare. A row of crackling headstones separates you from the boy whom you love more than life itself. Fugo clutches a pretty bouquet of daffodils wrapped with parchment paper and a white-string bow – your favorite flowers, though you wonder whether they are meant for you or your brother’s fresh grave.

You do not know, nor will you ever, as he sets the flowers atop the nearest monument and makes off, as if on sabbatical to you.

And it fills you with nothing more than bitterness.

“Everyone misses you,” Mista confesses between a sip of tea and a bite of strawberry cake. “You should come around sometime soon.”

Nearly a year has passed since the funeral, and you have yet grace anyone from Passione with your presence, with the exception of Mista for weekly sojourns to Il Libeccio to catch up on life – because, as you have learned, much can happen in seven days’ time. With each occasion of crossing the archway’s threshold into the private dining room at the back of the restaurant, you find yourself preening for two heads of black hair – one neatly combed and clipped, the other a sprawl held in place with an orange headband –, taut lips painted in black, and Fugo. And every time, you are left with the kind of disappointment that curdles your soul like sour milk.

“Who misses me, Mista?” you reprimand, pointing your icing-lacquered fork in his direction. “I barely even know Trish, and I have no interest in ever speaking with Don Giovanna again.”

You wish Giorno would call off the bodyguard who trails you every waking hour of the day; it makes you feel like a child who has proven herself untrustworthy to her parent. But you have done nothing deserving of such punishment. You suspect that his intent is an extension of the olive branch treaty that does not exist between you two – a reiteration of Bucciarati’s protection that should not have to be reiterated, because he should not be dead, either.

Or, alternatively, he wants to irk you so far that you might barge into his office one day – fuming with unspent determination to admonish him regarding his dominion over your life – just to trap you in a conversation wherein he might attempt to suspend your animosity towards him. Alas, you are simply not interested; you will scorn him, because it is all you can do.

“Forget I asked . . .” Mista trails off, swirling a dollop of whipped cream with his knife. “So uh, by the way, have you seen Fugo lately?”

Just the utterance of his name has you perking in your seat.

“No.”

“Hm, well, rumor has it, he’s working at the public library. Shaking people down for late fees or something like that.” It is not implausible to imagine Fugo in the position of extorting old ladies and young children for overdue fines – but, you know that it is only a jest. Regardless, he has always been the type of boy to surround himself with books instead of people. “Why not visit him sometime? He’s not affiliated with Passione anymore. Or, not now, at least.”

You stab at a strawberry. It bleeds beneath the weight of your fork.

“I mean, what’s the worst that can happen?”

Mista’s question is one that you ought to be asking yourself, as you sit here at the scratched pine desk of the library – pretending to study for an upcoming exam on the history of art in Pompeii – though you look up from your scrawl of notes every few minutes to see if Fugo should pass you by; perhaps pushing a cart of books to be put away, or branding return cards with a plush red stamp to mark the date in two weeks’ time.

You have seen him only once more since his implied attempt of reconciliation at your brother’s funeral. It was by chance that you should wander into the same café as him that day; and by extended odds that – while you stood over his table with a sad smile and a cup of coffee – he stood abruptly and left without finishing his own drink. He had not even bothered to wish you well.

Today, you catch him on your way to the reference section. The look of hurt in his eyes – like salt instead of sugar on the tongue – brings a scowl to your face. “Please, Panni,” you plead, and though your fingers ache to catch his hand with your own, you refrain for you know the gesture is a crossing of the line between you two. “Can’t we just talk?”

“No,” he says, so dry and unrecognizable. “I’m not getting paid to do that. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

“Panni, I – Please, don’t do this. I already lost my brother: don’t make me lose you, too.”

A fuse switches in his head, and you have been the one to flip it. He clutches the encyclopedia in his hands with such fervor that his knuckles pale, and for a moment, you wonder if he means to hit you with it. And maybe he thinks it too, but he drops it atop the ground as soon as the thought crosses his mind. He takes a step back, as if you have scorned him – maybe, after all, you have.

The cover spills open, and the pages bend against the hardwood floor. You wish he would do the same to you – to disclose his grievances and let you in. Instead, it is the toxicity of acrimony “Don’t ever come near me again,” Fugo warns. “Haven’t you realized by now that I never want to see you again? Get out of my life – get out of my dreams – and leave me alone.”

You will save the tears for when you stand in front of the bathroom mirror tonight before bed to wash away your makeup from the day, amongst other regrets. But you will never understand the guilt that suffocates him – a noose that is just taut enough to keep him breathing – each time he looks at you, and even when he does not. You are everything he has ever wanted and more.

And you are the emblem of everything he has ever done wrong.

“I still care about you,” you tell him with an affirmation that will not fix the desolation. “Doesn’t that mean anything?”

He bites his lip and looks away.

“I know you’re hurting. I am too. So, can’t we heal together?”

“Are you stupid?” You grimace at his words. “I told you to go.”

There is no chance to dispute it, nor to bid him an aggrieved adieu, because he is gone again. Burying him might have been easier, after all; a corpse cannot remind you of what a fool you have become.

And so it seems to you that dying dreams are the best ones.

Adulthood is – as you have found in your years of treading its waters – a dreadful inevitability. You and your brother’s boxes have outgrown that compact studio apartment, though for years, you had made it work perfectly fine. When Giorno pulled the strings to terminate your lease and forcefully relocate you into a sizeable townhouse in the Chiaia district, you wanted to hate him for it – for his reminder that you cannot sever your connection to Passione. Yet, boggled down with university loans, you were in no position to turn down his assistance.

And he knew it, well.

A pretty townhouse located in one of the nicest regions of Napoli cannot bring Narancia back, nor can it attune for every bit of suffering incurred since his death; but if it is a strain upon the aging Don’s wallet, then it is all the better.

On the day of your fourth birthday spent in solitude, you treat yourself to a tub of gelato and a dress from the costly boutique across the street that you will never wear because you have no need to. It will hang in your closest amongst other unworn gowns, still pinched with price tags, that you have impulsively accumulated over the years – a hereditary habit of your mother’s that had caused more than a few spats between she and your father. You know your vice, but there is something so gratifying about it.

You sink into the tweed couch that does not quite match the architect’s vision for the living room – with its crown-mould white walls and hardwood floors the color of wenge; too clean and proper for what furniture you have kept from your former residence. Silver spoon clenched between your teeth as you page through television channel after channel, you balance that melting gelato on your lap. Perhaps you should have grabbed a straw from the kitchen as well.

The evening passes by, uneventfully so. You have spent it spoiling yourself and replying with fabricated enthusiasm to incoming text messages from study mates, who wish you well on this happy day – as if you have a reason to remember your twenty-first beyond the accomplishment of finishing the entire tub of would-be-frozen lemon curd without incurring a single regret or twinge a of brain-freeze. You have gotten rather good at knocking back shots without needing to stop for breaths, too.

At the ringing of the doorbell, you are torn from the real estate program that you have invested so much time these past few hours. Mista, no doubt – come to deliver a gift and takeout because he knows you have not eaten properly tonight. You have no room left in your belly, but whatever he brings will make for a decent meal tomorrow.

You do not bother to tidy up, and when you open the door, you wish you had. Illuminated only by the balcony light stands Fugo with a bouquet of daffodils, a bottle of sauvignon blanc, and a remorseful, sheepish smile upon his handsome face.

Get out of my life – get out of my dreams – and leave me alone.

“Uh . . . “ He trails off before he has even begun, perhaps taken aback by the widening of your eyes and the disheveled appearance that, despite your own judgement, he thinks to be the most beautiful vulnerability in life. He speaks your name with the kind of tenderness that you have not felt since you were teenagers. “Buon compleanno.”

You need not ask how he found you, because you know without question that either Mista or Giorno had told him. “Why are you here?” you ask.

He clutches the flowers a bit tighter. You do not move to take them; however, you have already decided on which vase you will place them in. “I wanted to wish you a happy birthday. And give you these.”

The bottle of wine feels far too heavy in your arms – and the daffodils, as if they might float off in an unforeseen gust of wind. “And, to apologize. For too many things that I can’t ever make right; although, if you’ll let me, I’d like to try.”

“Fugo, I . . . I don’t know.”

“Please, [Y/N]. That day in the library, all those years ago . . . I never stop thinking about the horrible things I said to you. It killed me – it ate me alive; I thought for all this time and before that you hated me, because of what happened to Narancia. Because I wasn’t there to save him.”

“It hurt when you told me to get out of your life, but I listened, and I did it.”

He brings the heel of his hand to swipe at the tears in his eyes. The curling of his other fist is a gesture that terrifies you – although, not for your own sake. “I couldn’t face you. I was scared to look you in the eye, because I thought you hated me,” he mutters like a broken record as his voice cracks with agony. “I thought you hated me, because of him.”

He stops, throwing his head back with a groan. The apple of his throat bobs up and down as he chokes down a sob. He refuses to look at you when he speaks again – too afraid to come undone before he has made his peace with you, his greatest loss. “We were young. Probably too young to even understand what love really meant. But, dio dannazione, you were the most important thing to me, and I understood that more than love.”

His words have always held the capacity for swaying you, as if they replenish the empty spaces within. It is why, as you open the door wider, you let him fill you once again. Fugo contemplates the crannies of your living room, hovering above the couch that you insisted he take a seat upon – he remembers when you bought it, because you had dragged him to the furniture outlet that day. He pretended to be annoyed, though in truth, he was beyond elated that you had chosen him over Mista, or even your brother.

“I guess I should put these in a vase,” you say about the bouquet of flowers. “They’re beautiful, Fugo. Thank you.”

He nods, suddenly entranced by a photograph of Narancia that sits atop the fireplace mantel. You do not notice his unease.

“I’ll grab us some glasses, too.”

You find your vase in the kitchen cabinet niched into the alcove above the refrigerator. Its emerald swirls glisten under the twine of the recessed lights that add no character to the room. So much for a birthday spent in reclusion, you chide alone. Deep within you sits a fire that longs to ignite – to send Fugo away in some thwarted act of retribution for the very loneliness he inflicted upon you years ago; as if to say that the rejection suits you well.

Of course, you cannot deny that your heart leapt into your throat when you saw him standing before the front door, a vision of a man who still held those inklings of boyish charm that you fell for in your adolescence. They say you should not dote over the first person beyond your mother and father to call you pretty; it is weakness to complacency. Your life has never been one of convention – and so by that right, who there is to insist that you must abide?

Bearing a content grin, you trim the stems one-by-one to better fit the vase. In synchronous rhythm to the next, the green stalks bounce from the cluttered countertop to the floor. You have only just stuffed the flowers back into the vase when the shattering of glass resonates its way into the kitchen.

The photograph of Narancia lies amongst bits of broken frame and wreckage. Face buried in his palms, Fugo crumples until his knees meet the ground; he shakes, as if smothered by a chill. When his hands fall to smack the coffee table – baring his grief, in all its pandemonium – you catch them and force his arms around your waist instead; his fingers lock together, holding you in place. He whimpers against your stomach. Already, you can feel the wetness of tears through the fabric of your overstretched shirt.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles. “I’m sorry, [Y/N]. I’m sorry.”

Your own fingers curl through his strawberry blonde hair – a means of stability as you too have begun to cry. “It’s just a picture frame,” you promise, and it is the grandest thing he has ever heard. But it is more than a box made of wood and glass – it is an impossible longing. “I’m not upset at you.”

“I . . . Okay.”

Mindful of the mess, you rock him backwards until he is lying down. You join at his side, take his hand into your own, and wait in silence for the moment when his misery will dissipate for clarity. Regardless of the circumstances that have brought him here tonight, you are grateful for it – even if your birthday is spent wallowing in irrevocable regret.

Above all else, you know that he has always adored you, like the sun and moon and more – but he had a brilliant way of convincing you otherwise.

Your thumb coaxes over the back of his knuckles. “There’s a crack in your ceiling,” Fugo announces, nonchalant and monotone.

“Where? I don’t see one.”

He raises an unoccupied finger, and you follow its gesture to the corner of the ceiling, just above where the moulding meets. It is no longer than the length of hair from his head, and quite honestly, not an underlying issue of foundational complications. Still, you indulge him. “Oh, wow. I never noticed.”

In this hasty repertoire of patterns, you fall into stillness again. “Panni,” you whisper with the utterance of his endearing name. “I’m glad you’re here.”

He squeezes your hand.

“But it’s getting late. Why don’t you stay the night?”

Truthfully so, you cannot send him on his way in such a state of disarray.

“I can make up the couch for you, if you’d like.”

“Yes, please,” he murmurs.

However, you do not make it far because he has – inspired by a need to express his devotion and apologia – pulled you atop himself, hands braced on your hips as you balance on bent knees and grasp his shoulders. Tenderness is becoming of the boy – no, the man – who looks up at you as if you are the embodiment of everything good that exists in one life to the next. It is a side that he has never shown to anyone other than you.

You covet it like a piece of cherry-flavored candy, even when you lean down to capture his lips and nip at his tongue that likewise explores the long-forgotten caverns of your mouth. It is a distraction of meaning and not; from the broken frame, loss, and perhaps everything in between. Every attempt to catch a breath of air is met with resilient protests of needier touches and not before long, you lie on the couch – shedding your clothing like the skin of the woman you no longer wish to be – and let him in.

Bare chest to bare chest, you cup his hardness as he places his fingers to your untouched folds. You mean to tell him that you love him, but the penetration of unpracticed digits to your core stifles the very thought from your scattering mind. In dark closets and empty rooms, you two have had your share of imprudent experimentation with one another’s bodies in the past – and nothing more than warm, tentative touches that lead to girlish giggles and boyish huffs.

Fugo pinches your nipple, drawing a plush gasp from you; it urges him to do it again until at last you are throbbing with need from your lower half, your pelvis jerking upwards to meet his for the stimulation of wanting. His breath ghosts your face, and you think you smell wine – a drink for good luck, you think, because despite the distress manifesting in his soul, his mannerisms are otherwise as habitual as you might recall from moments of normalcy.

It feels wrong – to be filled with such wanton, salacious desire within the very hour that you have both spent in mourning of your brother and everything else that has been discarded to the wind, to be picked up by someone else. Yet tonight, you will not sleep with Fugo to forget your blue heart, nor for celebration’s sake as you embark upon another year of being – you will sleep with him, because you have grown tired of learning how to end your days without him.

“I haven’t . . .” You trail off, mesmerized by the way his violet eyes look at you; though puffy and stained red from crying, you take them in as he cocks a brow, imploring you to finish your thought. “I haven’t been with anyone else since you.”

“Good,” he sighs, and you think he is trying to hide a smile. “Me neither.”

Braced by his arms, you are flipped onto your stomach. The tweed upholstery bites into the soft flesh of your breasts with each jostle elicited by the curling of a finger within you. You push backwards until you swear you can feel his fingers against your cervix.

“Oh my god,” he groans, flexing out as if to move deeper. “Ti senti così bene.”

“If it feels good, then do something,” you whine, hands dug between the cushions for support.

But, to your chagrin, he takes his time to admire the way your folds pulsate around just two fingers. You glisten like a gem – his gem. Indignant with petty annoyance, you pull away and straddle the lithe, albeit toned, legs that dangle off the edge of the couch. Arms thrown around his neck, you sink down until you have reached your fill of his manhood.

“I did tell you to do something,” you sigh at Fugo’s displeasure, biting your lip as you adjust to the size of his shaft. “Didn’t I?”

He kisses you once and moves grasp your backend. You savor the feeling of him ingulfing you. “I was distracted.”

You would laugh if not for the anticipated bulging inside you as Fugo buckles into your heat. The sight of your jostling breasts with each bounce of you on his cock is a page of some heavenly doctrine – one that he should study and commit to forever. He moves with strength that he reserves for moments of rage, and even his fingers dig into your skin hard enough to leave bruises for the days to come. You do not mind; they will help you to remember the best night you have had in years.

With a cry that blossoms into a moan that tells him that he has treated you well, you ride out your orgasm and slump against his chest in your own exhaustion. When he reaches his peak, he slides out; you reach for him – dampened with your slick – and finish him until white pearls bead at the tip and trickle over your working fingers.

Foreheads pressed together, you flash tired grins before settling against the cushions, your head pressed to his chest and his arm braced around the small of your back while his fingers trace shapes against your perspired skin.

Panting, his heart skips every few beats – like a song, sung only for you. Content with that which has returned itself to you, you fall asleep to the sound of this lovely little love affair.

| 4966 Words |

#pannacotta fugo x reader #fugo x reader #pannacotta fugo #jjba reader insert #jjba x reader

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crispycrimebrulee · 5 years ago

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🎄25 Days of HXH: Day 11: Hisoka x Festive🎄

You would think, knowing Hisoka all this time, looking through his closet, inspecting his day-to-day outfit, studying his personality and all its nuances, that you would have figured out what types of things he likes to wear. In his closet was nothing but designer heels and crop tops, mixed in with fancy turtlenecks and couture brands and cuts and patterns, equal to that of a VOGUE Model’s closet. Bright colors, expensive fabric, you’d think the answer would jump out at you, but no. Here you were, sitting around, unsure of what to get him. Hisoka always made sure to look the part of the season too, at least once during all the festivities. Although those outfits were rare, he made sure they had their debut, retiring them for a year before pulling them out again. Winter Wonderland by Eurythmics

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Getting up, you walked over to his section in your closet and ran your fingers over his clothes, admiring the expensive fabrics as they passed between your fingertips. You couldn’t get him something overly expensive, seeing as that would make your bank account cry. Besides, picking out an item from a couture brand was never a good idea in terms of Hisoka, his tastes were peculiar but particular, being very picky about the pieces he owns. Moving your hand over to his jester get ups, you could see the small patching and different stitchings in them, suggesting the tears and rips had been sewn up by him or a tailor, but covered up nonetheless. It was almost unnoticeable if you weren’t close enough, but the outfits were somewhat tattered and well worn. Few things he had a love for, but his outfits were clearly one of them. You flipped through them, a sense of confusion slowly crawling into your mind. He had one in black and gold for New Years, one with hearts on it for Valentines Day, and every holiday up until Halloween, but the festive outfits stopped there. He had no Christmas outfit. The gaudiest possible outfit he could probably put together, and he didn’t have one at all. You’d been with him for quite some time, at least two Christmas’ together, but the most he’s ever had in terms of outfit was a Christmas hat, or the star and teardrop he adorned would be red and green.

Pulling one of his outfits from the closet, you set it on the bed before you, taking note of the fraying threads and patterns, thinking of perhaps fixing his outfits for him. Fixing them would be a gesture in itself, but not necessarily a gift. It was more like a thought of courtesy, or a simple act of love you could’ve done any other day of the year. You also knew getting him a gift from his favorite brands would also be a bit of moot point.

On thoughts of earlier, it’s much easier to get a gift shrouded in a show of money, or shrouded in the capability to spend said money than find an appropriate gift that is an act of heart and thoughtfulness, because you realize the person you’re trying to gift has so many qualities and wonders that you’re trying to convey with the gift, that again, buying something generic, or something they asked for, or even a gift card was easier to produce. On another note, it’s quite difficult to impress Hisoka, furthermore difficult still to catch his attention with something. He’d said so himself in terms of your relationship; he was impressed by everything you are, and he’d admitted to you that you had most of his attention, being absolutely captivated by you. What could you give him that would captivate him, have all of his attention yet be a direct gift of heart, a gift full of meaning, conveying all that he meant to you.

Running your fingers over the fabric inattentively as you let the gears turn, trying to figure out what would be suitable, you nearly jumped out of your skin to feel Hisoka’s breath tickle your ear. He always did have a knack for sneaking up on you when he wanted to.

“Somebody's brooding, I’d love to know what about~” Hisoka implored, using a lovely manicured nail to turn your face towards his own, his eyes boring into yours.

You pouted, seeing as you almost hurt yourself from being startled. You huffed in response to him, which earned you a giggle from the jester.

“Seems like I scared sweet y/n, eh?” commenting on your pout as he ran his fingers over your lips, his stare passing between them and your eyes.

Rolling your eyes you pulled away from him and picked up his outfit, making your way to put it back to the closet, but not before he pulled you back gently, quietly clicking his tongue.

“I don’t even get a hello, y/n?,” he began, poking your cheek and then poking your nose, “you clearly missed me, seeing as you’re fiddling with my clothes, dear~”

You scrunch your nose, and swat at his hands.

“Maybe I did, maybe I didn’t” choosing to indulge his ego just a bit with your response.

Clearly it had as he pressed you closer to him, allowing his lips to hover over yours, making your chest tingle with anticipation, unable to deny that his kisses always held some sort of power over you. You grew antsy with him being this close to you, getting quickly fed up with his teasing. He took note of this, chuckling and closing the gap, allowing you to taste strawberry chapstick and bubblegum, soft and sweet, contrary to the actual person in question.

He pulled away, humming at your pleased expression, poking your nose again as he let you go.

“I suppose you’ll tell me what you were brooding about now?” he queried again, cocking his head slightly as he watched you put his outfit away.

“No”, you answered, walking back to him and briefly peeking at banding on the clothing on his waist before passing him, “I won’t. It’s a secret.”

“A secret? Oh dear y/n secrets are hard to keep from me!” gushed Hisoka, clearly excited at the revelation of a secret.

In truth, it was indeed difficult to keep secrets from him, intentional or not. He always had a way of knowing things and finding out secrets. You knew he was going to do everything in his power to figure out what this secret was, and you knew your plan was now that much harder.

“Try not to get your nose too deep in my business, Hisoka” you muttered, moving towards him to check him for injuries, something that’d become customary in the relationship. Stopping at some blood on the back of his shirt you looked at him, ready to start patching him up.

“There’s blood on your shirt…” tugging at his shirt as you spoke, worry filling your voice.

“Not mine, dollface~” beaming at you in response.

Of course it wasn’t.

Later the next day on your way home for work, you stopped at a fabric store and wandered the aisles, looking for the brightest red fabric available. You’d already taken the measurements from Hisoka’s clothes in the morning when you’d left for work, writing them down, careful to keep them hidden just in case he was lurking around. Picking out a red fabric, you moved and picked out a white one, and then white feather strip with bits of sparkly tinsel in them, planning on making a classic outfit. As a last minute decision, you picked up a red and white ribbon, remembering the banding around Hisoka’s waist. You had an only sewing machine at home, and you were prepared to sit down and watch a lot of tutorials so you could make your gift perfect.

Eventually arriving home, you were relieved to find Hisoka out of the house, knowing he wouldn’t be back until late. You got to work, following countless youtube instructions and tutorials, nicking your fingers ever so often with sewing in the minute details of your handiwork. Bits of feathers and tinsel would fall around you, as well as bits of red and white fabric in small strips, leaving the area around you look like an arts and crafts nightmare. You’d spent hours, but you finished, of course with some loose ends to cut and bits of this and that to sew in and overall perfect your work. It was one of Hisoka’s classic outfits but in a much more festive fashion. A red base fabric with white hearts and feather strip hem, tailored pants that tighten at the ankle to match, and a homemade Christmas hat to top it off. For under the shirt, his classic banding was red and white ribbons, adding a gentle sheen to the matte fabrics. Your hands were sore, and your thoughts sluggish. It was well into the night, and you had yet to clean up the mess you’d made.

Although it took some time, you’d made the living room spotless, you showered, tucked Hisoka’s new outfit away in a box and tucked it under the bed and crawled under the covers and dozed off almost immediately, content with the gift you’d created.

Rummaging around with the occasional thud was what woke you slightly, not enough to promptly spring into action, but enough for your drowsiness to be mixed with weariness. Propping up on an elbow, you squinted into the dark only to be met by the telltale silhouette of Hisoka approaching you and you let yourself flop back down on the bed as he crawled in next to you, pressing kisses into your shoulders, quietly talking your ear off, seemingly also drowsy.

Once again awoken by slight morning noises you groaned and rolled over, trying to see just what Hisoka was up to this time. Although your vision was clouded by sleep, your heart sank, rose and began beating out of your chest all at once upon realizing what you were looking at. Hisoka had the box you’d hidden, open on the bed staring in pure shock at the gift you’d prepared, an expression you rarely got to see.

“Hisoka...nooooo….” groaning as you sat up and crawled towards him, reaching for the box.

He moved his hands and the box away from your grasp, causing you to whimper.

“Y/n...do tell me, what’s this?” glancing at you as he whispered, clearly in awe.

“It was supposed...to be a surprise,” you started, your heart sinking again, feeling absolutely defeated, “it wasn’t finished yet…”

Hisoka seemed to connect the dots in that moment, remembering you in his clothes and talking of secrets and he gasped as he pulled it completely out of the box. You curled up as he inspected it, quietly giggling as he held the matching hat, trying it on, finding it to be a snug fit. He was clearly in a state of pure genuine joy, a most precious smile on his face as he played with the ball on the end of the hat and squeezing the fuzzy fabric.

“It wasn’t good yet…” you whimpered, upset that he’d found out early, and he stopped, looking at you as he took note of your voice.

“Oh hush y/n..,” his voice full of veneration, “this is perfect, love..”

You glanced up at him, and you could tell he meant it, that look of astonishment, he was fully impressed, his attention was well caught.

“I still have to fix some of the stitching…”

“When? I’d love to wear this soon!” he exclaimed, turning the shirt this way and that.

“Well-”

“OH y/n you shouldn’t have” Hisoka gasped, picking up the shiny ribbon bandage you pieced together, running it through his fingers, his eyes ablaze as he inspected it.

“Well I could fix it now, I suppose,” you sighed, getting up and getting the sewing kit you put together. Coming back, you sat down and essentially put the final touches on the outfit, cutting the frays and rough bits of extra fabric, and watched him try on the outfit, seeing Hisoka grinning from ear to ear, looking festive as ever. It was gaudy, in a sense, but perfect for him in his own way. You could only sigh happily, seeing him this way.

Hisoka materialized in front of you, catching you off guard and making you yelp as he planted kisses across your face, taking you out of your disgruntled mood, wrapping your arms around his neck.

“I’ll have to ask you for clothes more often, y/n,” he said in the middle of pressing kisses into your neck, “this fits wonderfully~”

You nodded as you let Hisoka drown you in early morning affection. In a cheesy sense, you could say Christmas came early for Hisoka, but one should leave cheesy endings for another day.

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thanidiel · 8 years ago

Note

You're gonna hate me but idgaf all even numbers for Thanidiel.

kys

2. Do they have any titles? How did they get them?

A lot of her titles are all honestly self-evident as fuck - Knight-Champion, Emberward, etc. She DOES have a moniker I’ve written in her history and is present in the TSG wiki - The Terror of Zeb’Alor. She burned down an entire troll settlement for a raid on her outpost that ended with civilian deaths when she was uhhh 19. It’s a reference to the brutality she displayed and also a bit of a joke from the Ranger-Captain that ran the outpost because he refers to her a little Terror/absolutely obnoxious shit.

4. What is their relationship with their parents? What’s a good and bad memory with them? Did they know both parents?

Thanidiel loved her father and he was her role model. Very valiant soldier. She does NOT get along with her mother and they are no longer on speaking terms.

This will not come up in roleplay ever but Thanidiel’s actually a bastard-child of her mother’s. She’s served with her bio-father in Dominion and they both put the clues together there. Her bio-father she thinks is a stupid, irresponsible piece of shit and she hates that her mother ‘betrayed’ someone (her father) that she thinks is the absolute bees-knees (especially since this was found out well-after her dad died)

A bad memory would, hands-down, be Thanidiel confronting bio-father + her mother during that time. A good memory would be something carefree, along the lines of hunting alongside her father and their comrades in the wilderness.

6. What were they like at school? Did they enjoy it? Did they finish? What level of higher education did they reach? What subjects did they enjoy? Which did they hate?

Thanidiel is an uneducated shitlord. She never went to school but she did teach herself how to read and write starting around 15 and worked at it super religiously to reach the vocabulary, penmanship, etc., that she does today. She knows a high-enough level of mathematics for military-logistics that she’s picked up over the decades as well. History and basic magical theory is something she’s picked up on by listening or nosing for information in the way she usually does.

Everything else, she can mildly extrapolate upon since she’s pretty observational + smart by her own right or she just outright asks people because she isn’t very embarrassed by it with the basics down.

8. Did they have pets as a child? Do they have pets as an adult? Do they like animals?

No pets as a child. She likes animals a lot in her own reserved way.

As an adult, she’s had multiple horses of different stocks for various utilities. She’s also had a pair of two hunting mastiffs at one point before the Second War hit Quel’thalas. She’s probably mildly considering a dog or two again.

10. Do they like children? Do children like them? Do they have or want any children? What would they be like as a parent? Or as a godparent/babysitter/ect?

Thanidiel is neutral towards children though nice enough. Children seem to be okay with her from roleplaying interactions I’ve had lmao. She’s probably be a shitty caretaker; very emotionally neglectful, likely.

12. What is their favourite food?

Sausage rolls! Delicious and a very rare treat for her relatively when she forages a lot of food or relies on rations. She’s happy to fill herself on them if baked goods are around.

14. Do they have any specific memories of food/a restaurant/meal?

I’ve headcanoned food-related stuff by Thanidiel a lot. It comes up in roleplay sometimes; I imagine that working for so many years as an outrider to really inhospitable places in the Outlands lends to starvation a lot of the time.

It’s come up as a specific memory a few times in rp that she’s had to eat snake, blood and all, from under rocks in Hellfire as a way to keep going + hydrated. This lends to her being very indiscriminate with food usually and having tour-goggles for kinda shit cooking because she’s just happy to not be starving - such as overly moist rice.

16. Do they collect anything? What do they do with it? Where do they keep it?

This isn’t so much a collection but I feel like it applies; as I’ve mentioned to you before, Thanidiel… logs every single day of her life since she was like, 14-15. She probably fills out another journal every 2/3s of a year and it ends up in this massive collection in a closet somewhere.

18. What’s their favourite genre of: books, music, tv shows, films, video games and anything else

Thanidiel does not participate in really any artistic activities like this. However, I imagine she knows quite a few songs from war in elven and human cultures and she doesn’t hate it. She’ll join in.

20. Do they like musicals? Music in general? What do they do when they’re favourite song comes?

No.

22. What are their favourite insults to use? What do they insult people for? Or do they prefer to bitch behind someone’s back?

Thanidiel doesn’t exactly bitch but she will say outright where she stands with someone and doesn’t care about making sure it’s positive or negative to anyone that asks/it comes up.

She usually insults people for being cowardly or hypocritical. For specific insults… it’s kind of tailored to the person. She calls cowardly people candy-asses, @dorksworn she refers to Caeliri as a ‘Cherub,’ which isn’t that positive lmao, Bricini, a ‘brat,’ etc..

24. What is their sleeping pattern like? Do they snore? What do they like to sleep on? A soft or hard mattress?

No snoring, on her back. She prefers hard/firmer mattresses. I imagine her sleep schedule to be a bit similar to mine in that she will wake up periodically (more out of paranoia) every 1-2 hours until about 6:00 AM or maybe even 8:00 AM on a ‘lazy day.’

26. How do they act when they’re happy? Do they sing? Dance? Hum? Or do they hide their emotions?

Placid, calm. Quieter. Her happiness is something that expresses itself along the lines of the way that a bull or an old dog will express its contentment.

28. What is their biggest fear? What in general scares them? How do they act when they’re scared?

Honestly I really can’t think of any situation that would scare Thanidiel or imagine what she would be like scared. A situation can unsettle her, make her sad, angry, etc., but I don’t think she’d feel tangible fear.

30. Do they exercise? Regularly? Or only when forced? What do they act like pre-work out and post-work out?

She tries to exercise every morning. Go figure. She’s about the same regardless but I imagine if she goes a while without exercise she kind of dies a little spiritually from how antsy she gets; people saw this a little bit when she was in and out of the Infirmary for a while.

32. What do they dress like? What sorta shops do they buy clothes from? Do they wear the fashion that they like? What do they wear to sleep? Do they wear makeup? What’s their hair like?

Masculine dress; vests, trousers, shirts, tunics, boots, etc., is her preference. She’s honestly surprisingly classy and gets everything fitted at expensive-ass tailors if it’s like… her social wardrobe. The sleeveless shirts, tunics and trousers etc she wears on deployment or otherwise not fancy-ass activities are just as grungy as could be imagined.

She wears tunics or nothing to sleep. Her hair is almost always in a quick bun. If it’s out of the bun, it’s really curled from the containment.

34. What is their body type? How tall are they? Do they like their body?

I place her at a 160-170lb range. 5’10. Think Serena Williams type of physique. She doesn’t consider her body much and thus doesn’t have any body-image opinions. It’s her. She’s fine with that.

36. What are they good at? What hobbies do they like? Can they sing?

She’s an alright singer. Won’t offend people’s ears. For hobbies… she hunts. She probably whittles shit from time to time. Fighting. She’s good at sewing and fletching. Likes to go horse-riding.

38. What do they admire in others? What talents do they wish they had?

Thanidiel respects strength, pragmatism and self-confidence above all, probably obviously. Maybe less obviously, she really, really, really enjoys irreverence from other people.

I find it hard to consider on if there’s any talents she wishes she had. She’s pretty happy with herself and her capabilities as a person. She’d probably like to be better with a bow than she is; she can hit something but that’s all that can be said.

40. Do they like energy drinks? Coffee? Sugary food? Or can they naturally stay awake and alert?

Thanidiel has no need for stimulants along those lines. She only drinks from Bricini’s flask because it annoys the other woman, to be quite honest. Or she can’t be assed to get water.

42. What are their goals? What would they sacrifice anything for? What is their secret ambition?

TO DEFEND AND SUPPORT THE AGENDA OF QUEL’THALAS TO HER DYING BREATH THROUGH ANY MEANS POSSIBLE AS SEEN FIT BY THE THALASSIAN STATE, OR OTHERWISE HERSELF REEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE.

On a side note, she has had a bit of a goal going on to do honor to those that were once close to her. I’m still feeling out how she feels about it now especially after @stormandozone ‘s tarot reading.

44. What is their favourite season? Type of weather? Are they good in the cold or the heat? What weather do they complain in the most?

Answered in another prompt you’ve sent me.

46. Do they make a good first impression? Does their first impression reflect them accurately? How do they introduce themselves?

Thanidiel either makes the first impression of being an absolute fucking asshole to the mega-max or of being a storybook image of a soldier. Both of these first-impressions suit her quite well.

Along these lines, she will either introduce herself in a very gallant fashion via letter or in the aftermath of an heroic deed, in a completely impetuous fashion such as her introduction to @azriah ‘s Kaltaia, or completely bully your character if there’s something about them that she doesn’t like.

48. Do they enjoy any parties? If so what kind? Do they organise the party or just turn up? How do they act? What if they didn’t want to go but were dragged along by a friend?

Thanidiel doesn’t really like parties but how she feels about individual ones is a hit or a miss. She’s very used to the song and dance of them though since she’s probably forced to attend a military gala at least once a year. She stands to the side usually and will rarely dance unless asked/expected to. If there are any competitions or debates, however, that’ll draw her attention right-fast.

If she’s there with comrades, she’ll stick to them. If she comes alone/is separated, she’ll turn on a gregarious switch for a bit to find some entertainment for herself.

50. If they could only take one bag of stuff somewhere with them: what would they pack? What do they consider their essentials?

Hand-and-a-Half Sword

Saxe Knife

Waterskin

Extra Boots

Fur Cloak

Flint and Tinder

Rope

Triage Kit

@jessipalooza

#ask #thanidiel #bricini #caeliri #elleynah #kaltaia #jessipalooza

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wolfie-dragon-rider · 8 years ago

Text

My Fanfiction Masterpost

I just got 100 followers That totally didn’t happen three weeks ago already, and I’m totally not at 108 right now because I was too surprised and didn’t have a 100 follower special ready so to celebrate and thank my readers I decided to make this. I’ve been doing a lot of thinking lately in the aforementioned three weeks and I realized that a lot of you followed me because of my first big story, Black as Night, and its sequel, Blind Spots. I’ve been neglecting Blind Spots for a while, but I decided to get it out of hiatus and finally finish it. But when I looked for it on tumblr I realized that organizing things solely by tag is messy and annoying.

So I decided to make a masterpost with links to all my fanfics, and to my accounts on fanfiction.net and Archive Of Our Own. I will keep this post updated whenever I post new fics or chapters, and it will be easily accessible from my profile.

Now, I’m sure many of you skipped all that to get to the important part, so let’s get to it:

Table of Contents:

-My accounts -My Voltron: Legendary Defender fics -My How to train your Dragon short fics -Blindcup Universe (Black as Night and Blind Spots) -------------------------

My accounts:

Fanfiction.net (Wolfie-Dragon) Archive of our Own (Wolfie_Dragon)

-------------------------

For oneshots, the link will be in the title. For longer stories there is a link to each individual chapter below the summary. All stories are finished unless noted otherwise

My Voltron: Legendary Defender fics

The Imitation Game Summary: For as long as she could remember, Matt had been more than just a brother to Pidge. He was also her best friend and companion. She couldn’t imagine a world where he doesn’t exist. So when Pidge loses her brother, she can’t help but try to bring him back the only way she knows how. But she plays a dangerous game, one where the lines between imagination and reality blur.

Chapter 1 Chapter 2

Lion’s Call Summary: After nearly getting killed during battle, Lance is confined to a healing pod. However, he seems to disagree with the severity of the situation, especially when he senses a cry of pain. And it’s up to Keith to make sure he’s going to heal.

--------------------------

My How to train your Dragon short fics:

Back to the Great Beyond Summary: Hiccup and Astrid always wanted to go back to Dragon’s Edge and have another adventure. But after Hiccup became chief there was never any time, and they never went back into the Great Beyond. Now it’s too late, but a gift from beyond the grave may show Astrid there are more ways to have an adventure than she thought.

Pressure Summary: Hiccup was always sure he was going to be a pilot. It was all he ever wanted. But when an unexpected problem emerges during his first flight, he learns that sometimes even the smallest things can crush the greatest dreams. Modern AU.

The Devil on the Mountaintop (on hold) Summary: Hiccup is part of a small mercenary company. He fights to survive, even though he hates killing. So he's eager when a letter brings them to the village of Berk to root out the monstrous demon on the nearby mountain. The monster jobs are easy, they're always just big animals. He's both right and wrong. This one is a big animal, but that doesn't make it easy. Medieval mercenaries AU.

Chapter 1 Chapter 2

When I wrote this story, I had vague ideas on expanding it into a bigger AU. However, the plot bunnies died, and it never really went anywhere. However, if people are interested, I might write an alternative ending for chapter 1 to be more in line with the second chapter, and to have Toothless join the company.

Coloring the World Summary: After a car crash takes his leg, Hiccup starts sinking into depression, and he pushes everybody away. The world looks much grayer when you're forced to walk on a metal leg, after all. But thankfully a certain friend with bright yellow hair is determined to bring the colors back into Hiccup's world. Modern AU.

The Last Dragon Summary: Hiccup and Astrid are happily married, and Berk is at peace. But just when they think things couldn't be better, all the dragons start leaving, and Hiccup falls ill. Astrid starts losing hope when Hiccup says he'll die when the last dragon flies away, but perhaps there is a way to fight the inevitable. Post HTTYD 2, loosely based on O. Henry's short story 'The Last Leaf'.

Chapter 1 Chapter 2

Paper Tiger Summary: Normally Astrid likes the calm, silence, and order that came with her job at the library. But one day a boy comes in, bringing nothing but chaos. And yet, she can't bring herself to be angry at the green-eyed boy and his black cat who so blatantly disrespected her books. Modern AU.

The Chief’s New Clothes Summary: It's the first Snoggletog after Stoick's death, and Astrid is looking for a way to cheer Hiccup up. One problem: her mother keeps her busy with tailoring and other household lessons, citing their upcoming marriage. Astrid is not easily stopped when she is on a mission, however, especially when it involves new holiday traditions.

How to Replace a Leg Summary: Hiccup was not the only one to lose a leg in in the battle against the Red Death. Astrid doesn't let a wooden leg slow her down, getting right back to training no matter what, while Hiccup struggles with his own pain. Thankfully, they have each other to lean on when their own legs fail.

Kiss Cam Summary: Fluffy modern AU oneshot. Trying to bring back the spark in her love life, Astrid takes her boyfriend Eret to a soccer match. Their relationship is put to the test when the kiss cam falls on them during halftime. But when things get ugly, a certain mascot comes to the rescue.

----------------------------------------------------

Blindcup Universe:

Black as Night (completed) and Blind Spots (ongoing):

Black as Night was my first big story. It is unfortunately not posted on tumblr, but you can find it on fanfiction.net HERE, or on AO3 HERE.

Summary: Both Hiccup and Astrid are eager to prove themselves as worthy dragon killers in a war-torn Berk. But their lives change dramatically when Hiccup is blinded in a terrible accident in Dragon Training. And things only get more complicated when Hiccup has to hide a dragon in the forest and Stoick is desperate to punish someone for crippling his son. An alternative retelling of How To Train Your Dragon 1, featuring a blind Hiccup.

Blind Spots is the sequel to Black as Night. It’s a loosely connected series of oneshots showing how Hiccup and Astrid adapt to a life where Hiccup is blind. You could read these as stand-alone fluff or angsty Hiccstrid, but I’d advice you to read Black as Night first.

Chapter 1, Memories Summary: Three months have passed since Hiccup woke up a hero. Physically, he has healed, but he finds that losing one's sight means more than just getting lost or bumping into things. It also means forgetting what the world looked like. But thankfully, Astrid has a great birthday gift for him to cheer him up.

Chapter 2, Stories and Scars Summary: With the war over, the Vikings of Berk had to find new hobbies to keep themselves busy. The most important of these: Dragon Racing! However, Hiccup is having trouble catching sheep without sight or throwing them in baskets. Meanwhile, Astrid feels bothered by Hiccup's ugly scars, and her mother's advice doesn't seem very helpful.

Chapter 3, Black Rain Summary: This chapter takes place during Black as Night. After the Battle of the Red Death, Astrid takes the wounded Hiccup back to Berk. Stoick is left behind on Dragon Island, and is forced to wonder if Hiccup will be okay. Even more pressing matters concern him, however, as the Vikings need food and shelter, and people are skeptical of the possibility of peace.

Chapter 4, Fighting and Hiding Summary: Hiccup is very happy when gets a nice new tool to help him get around town by himself. However, Astrid can't help but feel hurt when Hiccup gushes about how awesome it is, noticing he never thanked her for helping him. The two butt heads, leading to their first big fight.

Chapter 5: Dark Days, Bright Nights Summary: Not all scars are physical, and not all pain comes from visible wounds. Hiccup has become more anxious and nervous since he lost his sight. After all, when you're blind, you have a lot more to be afraid of. Thankfully, Astrid learns how to care for Hiccup when the demons in his head are too much for him.

Chapter 6, Forgotten Sins, Forgotten Virtues Summary: Astrid's parents see their daughter grow closer and closer to the chief's son. While Kirsten is happy Astrid isn't so cold anymore, Tolfdir is nervous. He remembers the foolishness inherent in young love. They remember their own whirlwind romance, their perfect love shattered by a horrible event. But maybe, with Astrid finding love, they can find a way to heal as well.

Chapter 7, Stuck Summary: Ice sucks. It sucks even more when you can't see it. It's even more horrible if you have a metal foot with little grip. Add an overprotective father on top of that, and you understand Hiccup gets a bit antsy when he hurts his leg. Stuck inside, Hiccup might face his greatest challenge yet: Boredom!

Chapter 8, Losing your Shadow Summary: Snoggletog is a time you spend with the ones you love. And although he's very, very happy he has Astrid, Hiccup's best friend is still Toothless. But when Hiccup gives him a Snoggletog gift, the dragon flies away! Meanwhile, Astrid finds that teaching Hiccup how to fight isn't as easy as she thought it would be. Gift of the Night Fury, featuring Blind Hiccup.

Chapter 9: Regaining Honor Summary: The Flightmare is coming, the Flightmare is coming! When the dragon who kills his brother and stole his family's honor shows up, Tolfdir is determined to slay it. But his drastic plan clashes with Berk's new policy of peacefully approaching dragons, and he is shut down. Astrid, however, isn't so easily deterred by old men saying she can't do something. Especially after training 10 years for this battle.

Chapter 10: Legends Old and New Summary: Hiccup and Astrid have made their relation official, but they still have a private date planned. Before that, however, the Midsummer Feast takes place! A time of festivities, eating, dancing, and honoring the gods. This year, however, Astrid's mother has something extra planned. The storyteller has written a play about Hiccup the Blind and Astrid the Scarred. But are the lovebirds really happy about this?

Chapter 11: Out of Touch Summary: Hiccup and Astrid generally make a good team, but problems are inevitable. Especially when one half of the team can't see and is forced to write using lines in copper, and the other half can barely feel said lines. When Astrid has trouble understanding one of Hiccup's inventions, frustrations explode.

Chapter 12: Echoes of the Past Summary: Even though Hiccup is getting more used to the blindness, fitting in on Berk is hard when everyone is determined to treat you differently when you're handicapped. So when Toothless helps him discover a cool new trick, Hiccup starts spending more and more time away from the village. But an old rival of Toothless is coming for revenge, and Hiccup will need to be ready for him.

Chapter 13: Invisible Friends When an eel pox epidemic sweeps through Berk, it's up to the dragon riders to gather the ingredients for the cure. However, since Astrid is sick, Hiccup is stuck with Snotlout! Can the two boys put their differences aside when their mission gets more and more complicated?

Chapter 14: The Burglar Princess With the return of peace to Berk also comes the return of old allies. The Bog-Burglars were the oldest allies of these, and one Burglar in particular was very close to Hiccup before his life got turned around. At first it appears like they're still the same friends they had been when they were kids, but they both changed more than the other expected.

#masterpost #httyd #fanfic #hiccstrid #hiccup #astrid #fanfiction #black as night #blind spots

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theweddingofthefoxes · 9 years ago

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Fox’s Carnival

A little fox!Hux fluff for @letmeputitinyourbutt !

Hux has had enough exposure to humans that he can pass himself off as one--albeit a slightly odd one--pretty damn convincingly. Thanks to the things he's observed, and a prolonged time spent living with Ren, he's not surprised by things like cars or soda or cell phones. He always wears clothes in his human form, and actually rather likes big comfy sweaters, and has even come to enjoy tailored things because he understands this is a way of showing off for Ren--and Hux is, above all else, a little show-off.

But some things, a fox just can't resist being, well....foxish about.

"Hey. Heyyy." Ren waves his hand in front of Hux's eyes, trying to break his concentration. They're at a local carnival, just a little one set up at the city fairgrounds. It's mostly stuff for kids, a moonbounce and a game where you grab rubber ducks and claim a prize. There's mini-golf and horseshoes and a bunch of local vendors selling beaded jewelry and T-shirts and sandwiches and lemonade. For a $1 donation to the Make-A-Wish Foundation, attendees can attempt to dunk the local weatherman into a pool of water by hitting a target.

And there is a little petting zoo, which is causing Hux to go into a sort of hypnotic trance of desire. It's the chickens, Ren decides, or maybe the lambs. "Hey. Look at me."

Hux blinks so hard and fast that it's like he's got sand in both eyes. Turns to look at Ren.

"None of that here."

"They're just, uh! They're just there!" Hux was standing with both hands gripping the little fence, white-knuckled, but now he's relaxing slightly. "They're just right there!"

"How about I buy you a chicken sandwich? And you can go hunt for a rubber duck, too."

Hux moves away from the fence to lean into Ren. "They're distracting me. Maybe that's a good idea."

They walk around the enclosure where all the pigs and chickens and goats are being manhandled by first graders. As they walk past the chickens, they fluff up and squawk and run away, catching Hux's scent, and the parents blame their children for being too rowdy, and both Ren and Hux laugh.

"Two chicken sandwiches, please," Ren tells the young woman selling them at the food tent. Hux has been sufficiently distracted from the fresh, live chickens with the promise of a cooked one so close at hand. Ren can nearly see him drool.

"No bun on mine," Hux cuts in.

The woman looks a little confused.

"He can't do gluten," Ren says quickly.

Their sandwiches, one sans bun, are handed over, and as usual, Hux nearly melts his mouth off trying to eat it before it cools. The way his tongue is hanging out as he pants over the too-hot bite is particularly foxlike.

"How many times have I told you not to do that?" Ren teases.

"A lot. Smells so good though." Hux nuzzles him. "Like you."

"Are you calling me a chicken?"

Hux laughs. "You know what I mean."

Foxes are the least picky sort of eaters there are, Ren has learned, and Hux wants to try everything that's for sale. "You throw up later, it's not my fault," Ren pretends to scold, but it's really worth the joy of seeing Hux lick up cotton candy with the delight of a little kid. He is similarly impressed by candied bacon and caramel apples, but the jalepeno poppers are too strong for him and he opens his mouth and lets the fried cheesy blob fall out, wincing. Ren helps himself to the remainder and then kisses Hux's sticky-sweet cheeks.

As promised, he takes Hux to get a rubber duck prize. The number on the bottom of the duck Hux finally settles on correlates to a dud prize--a palm-sized Beanie Baby bear. Hux has no clue what he's supposed to do with it. "Gnaw on it when we get home," Ren suggests as they walk away, down to the hill where they can watch fairgoers at the dunk tank. "Bury it. It's like, reusable prey."

"Hmm." Hux is intrigued by that notion.

"Or I can hide it when we got home and you find it."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah, why not. Or like, fetch." He's not sure if that idea is condescending--he's not a dog--but Hux smiles anyway and turns the bear over in his hand, like he might throw it for himself to catch at any moment.

When the sun sets, the carnival volunteers set up a big screen at the bottom of the hill so everyone can watch ET under the stars. For the first hour of the movie, Hux is transfixed, but spending hours and hours in his human form makes him antsy, and he starts to shift and look around anxiously.

"Do you want to--?"

"I'll just walk over to the bathrooms, by the treeline."

"Okay. Leave those chickens alone."

He needn't have worried; the animals have already been packed up and returned to their home farm. Ren watches the movie on his own for about ten minutes when the kids nearby start looking away from the screen and pointing at something.

"A fox! A little fox!"

Ren looks too, and there, a safe distance away, is the faintest glimmer of red fur reflecting the light of the movie. The fox runs, tosses something with a flick of its head, then hops, air-light, once, twice. Grabs it again and tosses it again.

"Mommy, the fox has a toy!"

The mother laughs.

"Maybe it stole it from the carnival, sneaky thing."

Ren bites his tongue so he does not tell the woman that the fox won it fair and square, paid its 25 cents to draw the duck, and lays back on the blanket instead, waiting for Hux to return, to curl up in his lap, content, ready to be mesmerized by the film once again.

#my fic #fox!hux #letmeputitinyourbutt

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pycsgevonne-blog · 7 years ago

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If and Only If

Sana Dati: Movie Review

Gevonne Pascual

Sana Dati, a 2013 Philippine romantic drama film written, directed, edited, and scored by Jerrold Tarog. It is about a woman who stalls her big wedding when a guy with a camera shows up and reminds her of a love she once had. It is the final installment to Tarog's Camera trilogy which include Confessional (2007) and The Blood Trail (2009). The film competed under the Directors Showcase sidebar of Cinemalaya 2013, and won Best Film and other technical awards at the festival's awards night.

Having the same thought, “ Sana Dati’s story revolves around soon-to-be-hitched Andrea Gonzaga (Lovi Poe), who gets cold feet on her wedding day upon meeting her wedding photographer, Dennis Cesario (Paulo Avelino), who reminds her too much of a man she once loved before she ended up with her present fiancé, Robert Naval (TJ Trinidad). In the hours that lead up to the wedding ceremony itself, snippets of happy wedding preparations (cake decorating, an emcee accommodating guests) are juxtaposed with scenes of tension and anxiety (the younger sister bringing the wrong shoebox for Andrea, the bride seeming all too pensive). After realizing that the photographer knew too much about her to be a 100% stranger, Andrea asks Dennis what his last name is and finds out that he is the brother of Andrew Cesario (Benjamin Alves), whom Dennis inherited the camera and one-man wedding photography business from after his death.

Distraught and reminded of her grief, Andrea—with Dennis in tow—hides out on the roof deck of the hotel. In effect, she stalls her own wedding and causes everyone to frantically look for her while she spends time with Dennis to talk to him about his brother. Throughout their interaction, there are scenes of flashbacks from when Andrew had been alive, and Andrea also expresses doubts about marrying Robert. Andrea also appears to express interest in Dennis: she attempts to recreate a moment wherein she touches Andrew’s cheek before kissing him tenderly. She ends up just cupping Dennis’ face before whispering Andrew’s name and walking a few steps away. They speak a bit more until they hear someone approaching the deck. Dennis keeps out of sight as Robert finds Andrea and the pair heads downstairs to proceed with the extremely delayed wedding. Andrea’s little sister brings her the blue shoebox she was told to retrieve, and Andrea puts on blue flats, much to Robert’s surprise and slight annoyance. Dennis proceeds downstairs after a while to shoot the event, and when he arrives in the function room, Andrea’s friend gives him a note from the bride, which he keeps to read later. The ceremony begins, vows are exchanged, and the pair are pronounced husband and wife. After the festivities, Dennis opens the letter, which reads: “After the reception, let’s get out of here.” Dennis leaves without meeting up with Andrea, and Andrea ends up crying in the pantry by herself.

Between the wedding day and the last part of the movie, a few more flashbacks of Andrew and Andrea are shown, including a flashback of Andrea reading a love letter from Andrew. After the flashbacks, the very last scene of the movie is of Andrea leaving a shoebox on Andrew’s grave containing memorabilia, such as the love letter and various pictures of them together. On top of the box, she also places the engagement ring Andrew had given her before he died. As she leaves his grave, she sees Robert waiting for her along the cemetery driveway and realizes that he had found out about her past relationship and asked him how he knew, to which he replies that he’ll tell her along the drive. As they enter the car and it drives away, it is seen that Andrea had left her blue flats on the curb—blue flats that had been given to her by Andrew. In the car, Andrea takes one of Robert’s hands and tells him she loves him, to which he replies, “Totoo ba yan?” (Is that true?). The movie ends with Andrea squeezing his hand and looking outside the car window.”, according to dentandentan.

What I liked about the film is its close to the real life situations, wherein mostly, love stories does not typically reaches a happy ending. In which, most of the people can see the romantic side of love more than of the opposite- love can cause unexpected tragedy. I really liked how the writer and director made the story of the film, not having too much locations, maximizing the use of a location.. What I disliked about the film is that, because of too much flashbacks, I wasn’t been able to easily distinguished the time of the scenes, I was used to watch vintages color whenever it is a flashback. And the ‘bitin’ part where Robert didn’t tell how he knew the past of Andrea and Andrew.

The cinematography is brilliant. All the angles of the camera, the ways the scenes were shot, all of it were not just artistic but meaningful as well. There wasn’t a single form of any scene which purpose is just to show off. The music is wonderful. It’s cued at the right moment and the melody dives so deeply, smoothly, parallel to the emotional turmoil of the characters.

The storytelling is unique. I’ve never seen such an unpredictable, beautiful movie delivered initially as a tangle of mystery. The story was a bit dragging at first. It was a nice, slow, storytelling of the wedding preparations during the first part of the film. Then a mysterious character arrived, slowly revealing more mysteries about the bride, Andrea. I was getting antsy in fact, waiting for the story to move forward and give light to all those mysteries. But when the revelation came, it had hit me so hard. It’s not like a huge, immediate, surprise revelation. It’s slow, and painful, and beautiful. The film is rich in the content, in form, in design. Astounding. Jerrold Tarog is a genius in this one.

One of the best actresses in the country of the Philippines, either way, in the world, Ms. Lovi Poe, the loving child of the great King, FPJ, who almost became the President of the country, but regardless the fact, she is genius on her own. She does not only knows how to be pretty and sexy, in the same time, she can definitely act. Just like a chameleon, which can blend in any situations, Lovi Poe can portray any characters. She suits the role of being bitchy, sweet and innocent, scary and all other adjectives. In the movie “Sana Dati”, she played the character of Andrea Gonzales, a woman who has decided to marry her suitor whom has an assurance that he really loves her, despite of being still trapped in her past. Her mutual attraction with Andrew started the moment they met. Although she met Robert in the first place. Everything was going smooth with Andrew, except the fact that he has a arrhythmia and their relationship was hidden.

One of the most in-demand leading men, but turned antagonist because of the reason having a stern mestizo looks in the middle of the movie. TJ Trinidad plays the character of Robert Naval. A politician turned businessman who truly loves Andrea, the main protagonist of the film, in which his character is willing to give everything to her. The agony, concerrn and the genuineness of his fidelity towards Andrea was showed and myself really felt those emotions.

One of the sexy hunks in the country. Benjamin Alves who pays the role of Andrew Cesario. A very handsome young fine man who holds a lot of promises. However, because of having a severe health problem, he is sheltered and overly protected by his mom. Despite of acknowledging the fact of his life might be shortened if he continued to love Andrea, he still chose happiness of love over his health.

Dennis Cesario, sibling of Andrew whose being played by the actor who is more than just a heartthrob. He has proven himself many times in which he can be lethal or lovable or sweet or someone you would like to despise. He becomes his role, the mysterious videographer who makes Andrea think a lot of times with her decision to marry Robert, most of the viewers have thought: Will Dennis run away with Andrea?

There was some boring scenes. When the characters weren't talking, nature(and lighting) did the talking. According to a blogger, in which myself agreed on, everyone played their part well. I'm sure the people behind the scenes all did their part. Maybe I wouldn't be able to mention everybody, but I will try to.

Ria Garcia was so believable as the little sister who was so tense that she even lost her expensive cellphone inside the cab. Cai Cortez plays a beautiful woman who is so loved by her groom. Nico Antonio is the very lively host who eventually "entertained" everyone who was getting fidgety because of the missing bride. Gee Canlas plays the very witty, but naughty best friend and co-host to the role of Nico Antonio. Bong Cabrera plays the groom of Cai C's role. He is very funny and believable. Such a natural!

Carla Martinez plays the pushy and social climbing mother of Andrea. If I did not know that she is a woman with finesse and class, I would want to pull her hair or give her my two cents worth. Anyways, her character is not all that bad. She just wants the best for her children.

Liesl Batucan plays Tita Baby who is very loving and majorly concerned about her nieces, especially Andrea. Batucan is a professional theater actress who can play a socialite, a bitch, a pauper, a maid, a flight attendant or whatever else. Every role simply fits like it was tailor made for her. Nonie Buencamino is good in anything he does, and he was great as the Judge/Officiator. Chinggoy Alonzo What could I do? I could describe him versatile, because he is. I could describe him as talented, just because. I could say he plays his role well, because he does. Here, he plays the role of Robert's dad who obviously loves his son and because he loves him too much, he also wants to check if he, Robert, knows what he is doing.

The message of the movie that is really applicable to the lives of each individual, love is the most powerful thing to be experienced. You have to be prepared to all the consequences. And the consequences, problems should be faced, not in the other way around. At the same time, there will be no hidden secrets that won’t be exploited. In God, lets put up our faith and trust on Him, everything happens for a reason.

In general, the film was great and very interesting as it gave the viewers a thing to be thought of when it comes to love. I would like to recommend individuals who are in pain, from teens up until the adults who are lost in the path of the pain of love. I would rate the movie eight over ten.

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male-emporium · 8 years ago

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A Review Of Michael Andrews Bespoke In New York City

from He Spoke Style - Men's Style, Fashion, Grooming, Tips and Advice

My second suit from Michael Andrews Bespoke deserves a review

There is no shortage of custom suit options in New York City. You’ve got traditional high-end department stores, international menswear chains, national custom suit “brands” and small tailor shops offering a range of affordable options as well as sky-is-the-limit possibilities. I’ve been lucky to have had the opportunity to experience a number of different programs – from the exceptional to the unfortunately not so great. A few months ago, I had the great fortune to work with folks at Michael Andrews Bespoke.

Now, this was not my first Michael Andrews Bespoke suit. Longtime HSS readers will probably have taken note that my brown tweed three-piece is from Michael Andrews Bespoke as well. I purchased that suit a little over three years ago so it was interesting to go through the process with MAB again, especially since during that time period they’ve added a very important step to their fitting process.

That step is a basted fitting. We recently touched on why the basted fitting is one of the most important parts of the bespoke suit making process and I’ll return to that later on in this review. First, however, I want to open up a can of worms I’m sure is on the mind of any potential new Michael Andrews Bespoke customer: is a MAB suit really a bespoke suit?

Is A Michael Andrews Bespoke Suit Really A Bespoke Suit?

It’s a fair question given that bespoke is a term that is often misunderstood and confused as well as bandied about by custom clothing brands preying on their customers’ lack of knowledge.

HSS readers don’t need to be told that a true bespoke is a handmade custom garment that has been crafted from a pattern that is unique to the individual for whom it was made. In other words, the pattern is created for you and not a pre-existing pattern that is altered to “fit” you. A point of contention is whether or not bespoke can have some machine finishing. Purists say no, while others say it can. I’m sure we could have a rousing debate about it.

The MAB team is of the latter opinion and, for them, it’s a question of quality. Cory Sylvester, Michael Andrews Bespoke’s Vice President of Operations told me, “Anyone whoever thinks the outseam of a trouser is better finished by hand than by machine isn’t a purist, they’re ignorant.” Cory also adds that the quality of MAB garments meets or exceeds the standards of quality set forth by the Savile Row Bespoke Association.

What Is The Turnaround Time for a Michael Andrews Bespoke suit?

First time clients typically have a turnaround time between eight to 12 weeks. If this seems a little longer than other programs, it’s because a new MAB client won’t have a pattern on file. The sequence of events goes as follows: initial appointment and commission with measuring, a basted fitting three to four weeks later, a first fitting three to four weeks following the basted, a final fitting a week or two later and if there are any subsequent fittings, they’ll take place one week after that.

Returning clients see a bit of an accelerated timeline of six to eight weeks. After commissioning a new garment, the first fitting is four to six weeks and a final fitting one to two weeks after that. Again, any subsequent fittings will happen a week after the final fitting.

| WEARING | Michael Andrews Bespoke suit and shirt, Suitsupply tie and shoes, Frank Clegg briefcase, Rolex watch | PHOTOGRAPHY | by Rob McIver Photo

Where is the pattern made and where is the work actually being done?

Patterns for all MAB clients are created in their New York City studio. Once the pattern is made, the garments are hand cut and sewn by their team of master artisans in a workshop owned and operated by Michael Andrews Bespoke in Shenzhen, China. Following that, the garment is sent back to NYC to be fit and finished on-site by their tailors. Then the fitting process and the finished product.

Okay, but how is the service and experience?

First, let’s talk about the superficial before getting into the nuts and bolts. The MAB studio is very, very cool. You enter through a gate in a small alley off Great Jones – perfect for me as one of my favorite spots, Lafayette Grand, is just around the corner. It’s got a super luxe, relaxing and inviting feel as well as a bar stocked quite well with a fine selection of spirits.

The staff is friendly, knowledgable and passionate. We got on quite well. This is actually something that’s extremely important when it comes to finding the right custom tailor for you – you’ve got to “feel” it with them. I was talking with a friend not too long ago, who works in the custom clothing industry and he told me how he said no to a lot of potential employers simply because he didn’t feel like he was a good fit for their culture, personality or aesthetic. So make sure it feels like a good fit before spending money on a suit that you hope will be a good fit.

As I knew exactly what I was in the market for, it didn’t take long for me to go through the process. As you can see, I chose a classic light grey flannel from Scabal – it was the beginning of November – with notch lapels, patch pockets, brown horn buttons, a tone on tone lining and trousers with side adjusters.

Earlier in the review I mentioned that I’d come back to my first MAB suit vs. my second in the context of not having a basted fitting to having a basted fitting.

When my brown tweed suit was made, I did not have a basted. And I think it showed. A few aspects of the suit were a little off, which is one reason you probably hadn’t seen it on the site in a while. The shoulders were a little wide, the trouser legs a little wide and the sleeves a little wide. Could these issues have been taken care of in subsequent fittings? Probably. But it wouldn’t have been necessary if I’d had a proper basted fitting. (N.B. During the latest process, I brought my tweed suit in and the Michael Andrews Bespoke team altered it to perfection. Can’t wait until it’s cold enough to wear it again.)

For my grey flannel, the basted definitely helped. I should note that there was a slight fit problem when I came in for my first fitting – mostly the jacket sleeves were quite tight – and the team was horrified and not quite sure what happened, especially since the basted went so well. Needless to say, it didn’t take long for the garment to be recut and shipped back to be fitted again and this time it was pretty spot on.

Throughout the entire process there was a level of care and attention to detail that I really appreciated. There are times when you get into the process of having a suit made, especially if you’re a little indecisive or it isn’t going so smoothly, that you’ll feel the salesperson getting antsy and impatient with you. At Michael Andrews Bespoke, there was nothing but professional vibes and courteous behavior. That goes a long way with me.

Thanks, as always, for reading.

Stylishly Yours,

Brian Sacawa He Spoke Style

The post A Review Of Michael Andrews Bespoke In New York City first appeared on the men's style blog He Spoke Style - Men's Style, Fashion, Grooming, Tips and Advice

First found here: A Review Of Michael Andrews Bespoke In New York City

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