#Sky black ink net worth | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

merakiui · 1 year

Text

[vii.] ᵏⁱˢᵐᵉᵗ ᵏⁱˢˢ

serial killer!jade leech x female!reader cw: yandere, unhealthy behaviors/relationship, brief mentions of death/murder chapter vi│chapter vii (you are here)│chapter viii

Today’s Schedule: Breakfast at 8. Supply shopping from 9 until 10. Read the next two chapters in Criminal Law and Logistics from 11 until 12. Take notes. Lunch at half past 12. (At some point, organize materials for school within the next hour. Arrange a story regarding the internship before calling Mother. Free time between the hours of 1 to 5 (possible outing with (Name)?). Begin dinner at a quarter past 6. Bathe by 7 and prepare for bed by 9 (10 at the latest).

Riddle peers at the white notebook in his lap with a disappointed frown. It’s a simple life planner with vermillion carnations stenciled on the front like floral bloodstains. Inside, the pristine, cream-colored pages are blotted with black ink. He’s crossed out and corrected a few lines, adding notes when necessary—keep empty parcels for Rosa’s maze or forward that new recipe to Trey—and for all of the unsuspecting fastballs life hurls at him he has never once strayed too far from his carefully crafted schedules. Never once…until today, that is.

“Two hours,” he mumbles, his blank stare fixed on the police station sitting beyond the confines of his car.

With the sun positioned so high in the pastel sky, nearly at its peak with midday summer heat, he concludes that he has already wasted his morning away, foregoing shopping and studying in favor of talking to the authorities.

And for good reason, he reminds himself, a balm intended to soothe the irritating sting brought on by the disturbance. This is important. It’s worth the interruption.

He could fret over it, huff and puff like a dragon readying to spew wicked flames, but doing so will get him nowhere. It will not return the hours he’s lost, nor will it bring him any closer to a fraction of the truth regarding your sudden, untimely disappearance. He resolves, while chewing restlessly on his pen cap, that it’s best to remain composed in situations like the one he’s found himself in.

Calm and objective, he thinks, scribbling over the time slots he had marked at the beginning of the week, so certain nothing would interfere with his schedule. There are far greater things at stake than missing a day’s worth of plans.

He leans back in his seat, humming thoughtfully. The past two hours must have gone by in a blur, for he feels weightlessly detached, as if surfing upon a smooth wave, led along by some other force that is not his own internal compass. It’s been a while since he’s felt this way. Often, when his mother would lecture him about the many high expectations she had for him, he would retreat into the corners of his mind, safely content with tuning out her howls of hatred. This response came naturally with each passing year, a necessary safety net that caught him before he could fall. Using this method, everything else that came with her also became easier to stomach. Like the bland, too-healthy meals he’d learned to choke down as if they were not-so-fine wines matured with delusion. An acquired taste, some might say, but even with that optimistic outlook Riddle would never wish flavorless foods on his worst enemy.

The officer who interviewed him was the same officer who met him at the beach the night he stumbled upon the body with you. In fact, he recognized Riddle as soon as he stepped into the room, a notebook in hand and a water bottle in the other. He’d set it on the desk, offered his hand to him (he’d taken it hastily, and for some reason he wondered if his nerves would make him look guilty), and then the officer pulled his chair towards Riddle, situated away from the desk that separated them like a cavernous pit. Riddle knew it was goodwill—to put his fears to rest and build rapport like it was a glass house, perfectly transparent so that it would display every crystalline truth.

“Back again,” he said after introducing himself as Officer Rayne. Briefly, Riddle pondered how one might spell that surname—R-A-I-N or R-A-Y-N-E? Perhaps even R-E-I-G-N or R-E-I-N? “Any more visits and you might become one of us.”

He didn’t understand the joke—was it intended to be humorous, or was it meant to lessen the tension that blanketed the atmosphere?—so he didn’t laugh. But he did produce an awkward smile, shrugging dumbly. Sitting before an officer in uniform, not restrained or reprimanded in any way, felt eerily forbidden. Every infraction Riddle had ever committed weighed heavy in his chest like a pile of stones, each one gradually sinking into the trenches of his stomach, and he was nearly on the verge of admitting every misdeed in a messy tangle of a rant. He swallowed thoughts of his most recent and longest crime to date and, still feeling like a timid boy who knew nothing of the real world, looked at Officer Rayne.

He was going to say something—have you found any information regarding (Name)’s whereabouts?—but the question felt foolish. They wouldn’t know when they haven’t even begun looking. Instead, he clamped his mouth shut with a sigh, soothed with the knowledge that they would begin a proper investigation soon.

Luckily, Officer Rayne filled the awkward silence. “I hope it was okay for me to catch ya while you were making your report. Been meaning to ask a little more about the body, but I suspect that’s not why you came here today.”

‘Catch ya’ and ‘suspect.’ Using those words while I’m completely innocent… Now that was a little funny, morbidly so, and he almost smiled at the irony.

Riddle nodded and, his apprehensions at a low simmer, asked, “Did you…learn more about the body?”

“Maybe. Maybe not.”

He’s doing that thing, he thought, unimpressed. Being intentionally vague. Does he think I’m untrustworthy?

“Well, you’re correct. I wasn’t here for the body and I’ve already told you everything I know, so I can’t answer any more questions regarding that matter.” He allowed the previous topic to roll off his back like water, feigning nonchalance—but asking that question made it seem otherwise—and felt himself slip over the edge of consciousness, words coming far too easy this time. “It’s been more than twenty-four hours since I’ve heard from my friend. Today marks the fourth day of no contact. I’m worried something’s happened.”

Officer Rayne clicked his pen, put it to paper, and said, “I take it you’re willing to fill me in on the details, then?”

“More than willing.”

As if the thread of sentience had reached its fraying point, it snapped and with it Riddle fell into that empty void he’d cherished so much in his youth, his body entirely there, but his mind and soul elsewhere. Vacant and distant. Packaged in a neat box and ready to be unwrapped at the slightest shove into an environment that was far more comfortable and colorful than the dull, dismal interview room.

When he’d passed the lady at the desk—the one he’d given such a hard time before and the one who’d sat through the filing process—she nodded her farewell. Only then, when Riddle stepped into the blinding bright of the outdoors, did he return to his body.

He stares at the list he’s created in his agenda, surfacing from the momentary rumination, his bottom lip between his teeth.

Important Information to Consider

(Name) and her temperament leading up to the disappearance.

(Name)’s history with disappearances. (Did she run away again? Spontaneous vacation?)

Our connection as friends.

Why I moved to the city.

How long I’ve been in the city.

What I was doing the day of (Name)’s disappearance.

What (Name) was doing the day of the disappearance.

The last time I talked to her. (phone call on Tuesday morning)

The body under the boardwalk.

The Devil’s Delight.

Other connections (Cater, neighbor, glasses-wearing fellow/potential partner, other coworkers from previous and current jobs, friends from university?)

What the above were doing the day of the disappearance.

????

I should’ve paid closer attention, he thinks woefully. I shouldn’t have shut off like that.

The tip of his pen waltzes circles around the question marks. “Focus,” he whispers, glaring at the page as if doing so will cause a helpful clue to materialize.

I remember telling him her phone is still on because every time I’ve called it rings and rings before going to voicemail. It’s possible they can trace it…or something tech-related like that.

Riddle sets the pen down to run a hand through crimson locks, heaving an exhausted groan. This is, by far, the worst puzzle he has ever had the displeasure of piecing together. It would be tolerable if the image he’s trying to assemble wasn’t so uncertain and frightening, shrouded in a gloom that may spiral to depths he hasn’t even considered. This puzzle doesn’t even come with a box, so he can’t possibly follow along with the portrait either. He’s working from scratch.

It’s not a complex landscape puzzle. Don’t treat it like one, he thinks, shaking his head, strands of hair falling between his fingers. Although if it was, I’d know exactly where everything goes and in what order it should be arranged. But this has all sorts of weird pieces. A mutilated corpse missing vital organs. A murder investigation. Whatever information Cater’s withholding. The incident reports. A missing person. What am I not seeing?

He skims his list once more until he reaches the sixth bullet point. At the time, he had only called to find solace in your voice, as you were the only one who could sympathize with the horrors that had swiftly descended the night prior. It did a world of good to talk as if nothing had ever dissolved your friendship—as if all that had transpired in the Rose Kingdom long ago never drove that troublesome wedge between the both of you.

But he’s matured a considerable amount since then, and so have you. Adults can be civil (most of the time). He can be civil (usually). And if it weren’t for that tell-tale edge in his voice he would have seemed flawlessly unruffled and he could have conversed naturally—or as naturally as one possibly could after being kept awake with spine-chilling dreams of a dead man. Saturday was supposed to be the day in which you would show him around the city, get him acquainted with your favorite haunts, and bake a strawberry tart in the comforts of your apartment together.

Together. As old friends.

Today is that day, but you aren’t sitting beside him in the passenger seat, rattling off locations and directions while he agonizes over which way to go: “Is it left or right, (Name)? Stop laughing and be clear!” he’d gripe, his hands curled on the steering wheel, and everything would be normal. Instead, he sits alone in an empty vehicle, his planner in his lap, pen at his lips, and is left to sift through what were once mundane, unimportant recollections. Everything, even the slightest shift in mannerism, matters now that the circumstances have changed.

I should’ve just agreed to come over that day. Then none of this would have ever happened. If I wasn’t so stubborn… If I wasn’t so scared… He shakes his head. No, that’s not it. Regardless of what I could’ve done then, it might not have had a significant impact. (Name) was already busy, so we would’ve had to part ways eventually. She had something to do when I called… A run. Right, she invited me to go on a run because she exercises.

He’s halfway through writing this fact when his hand halts, pen poised on the page.

“The run,” he whispers, as if it’s some terrible revelation. “Great Seven… The run!”

It occurs to him in a flash. You suggested he accompany you and he had declined as politely as he could, and then you offered he could walk as an alternative because, in your exact words, “Azul does that sometimes.”

Riddle hastily adds something else to the list in his agenda, perfect cursive unraveling with the frantic, jerky motions of his hand.

I wasn’t the last one to talk to her and neither was Cater. He even said she had gone on a dinner date the night prior to her disappearance, and he was gratingly evasive when I pried for more details. Following that logic, if she didn’t voluntarily disappear, the one she met for dinner would be my top suspect. Either them, or her running friend. This Azul fellow…

There’s only one Azul he knows.

Riddle fumbles with his phone, hands trembling as theories swell like a rising tide.

He wouldn’t, he thinks, but then he hesitates. Would he?

It’s been ages since he’s communicated with most of his peers from Night Raven College. In fact, he’s really only kept in touch with Trey and Cater over the years. Deuce often sends him a message every month or so to check in or to discuss and exchange career advice, but other than that everyone else has gone their separate ways, linked only by the sticky, near-invisible strands of social media. Riddle doesn’t use his. Ever. It still has the posts he made to mend Cater’s abysmal studying regimen, and if it was capable of accumulating physical age it would certainly have its fair share of dust and cobwebs by now. As he scrolls through the accounts of those he’s following, grey eyes roving usernames and profile pictures, he considers the best and the worst of this situation.

On one hand, he’s entirely wrong and the Azul you mentioned is not the Azul he knows. On the other hand, he’s entirely right and the Azul he knows is connected to you in some strange, unsettling way. He’s really hoping it’s a third possibility: He’s merely overthinking the matter and everything he’s considered up until this point is a jumble of false complications.

His search yields nothing fruitful. Unfortunately, Azul’s account is not amongst the few he’s following. Riddle may not know Azul as well as he knows his closest friends, but he’s certain Azul wouldn’t abandon social media when it has so much potential for plentiful business connections. Either that, or he just never followed him when they were classmates. The latter seems more likely. Riddle has never been able to wrap his head around the intricacies of social media etiquette and he certainly has no need for it.

Cater had once instructed him in the art of many trending things—the art of the selfie, the art of the filter, the art of the block button—and so Riddle knows a few things about the online world. Very basic things, and most are rules and social protocol regarding a phenomenon he’ll never be able to grasp. Apparently, if you’re stalking someone’s page, you never like a post that’s dated by years. Apparently, you’re intended to file the facts you glean from invasive observation for later use. The mere concept sends a shiver of repulsion up his spine. He’s not a stalker or a cyber-stalker or a Magicam fanatic like Cater, but he is a novice sleuth (as of now) and that sits much better on the tongue than any of the previous titles.

Riddle finds Cater’s profile, clicks on his list of followers, and types Azul Ashengrotto into the search bar. And, miraculously, Azul is there, but his account is private and Riddle finds himself at a digital roadblock.

“Private,” he mutters; it comes out hateful, a nasty word. “Of course you are.”

Despite that, he still makes note of the username in his agenda. He writes, Possible personal account? Multiple accounts? in perfect, slanted cursive. And then, just to be thorough, he writes the number of posts made and the follower and following counts beside the theories.

“How in the world would you know her?” he questions Azul’s profile picture—a generic photo of an ocean sunset. “And, more importantly, why?”

Perhaps he’s the one who took you on that dinner date, that cursed voice in the back of his skull pipes up. Riddle musses his hair and heaves another sigh, but as much as that supposition stabs him through with a horrible ache he has to take it into consideration. A date… If Azul truly does play some role in this and was potentially the last person to meet with (Name) before her disappearance, that would make him a prime suspect.

Potential Suspects

Azul (supposing it’s Azul Ashengrotto and not someone of the same first name)

Cater (on account of suspicious behavior)

(Name)? (supposing this is intentional? Voluntary?)

He’s in the process of writing the Leech twins’ names when his hand stills. They aren’t always glued to Azul, and they aren’t being forced to stick around like loyal sentinels. The last he heard of them, they resolved to return to the Coral Sea after graduation on account of familial obligations. Riddle had always heard the shudder-worthy rumors that they came from a ruthless crime family, but in spite of all of that the twins had always acted more like clever nuisances or intimidating bullies rather than callous criminals. Of course it was a different story if you found yourself at their feet when you broke contract terms, but even then they kept within socially acceptable boundaries. Most of the time. As loath as Riddle is to admit it, it’s admirable that they’re able to break things silently. After all, if your jaw is too shattered, you’re sworn to secrecy until it’s repaired.

With great certainty, the pen strikes through the words.

Potential Suspects

Azul (supposing it’s Azul Ashengrotto and not someone of the same first name)

Cater (on account of suspicious behavior)

(Name)? (supposing this is intentional? Voluntary?)

Floyd Leech (on account of connection to Azul)

Jade Leech (on account of connection to Azul)

“Ah. Well, maybe it’s too early to rule anyone out…” His pen is at his mouth, tapping out a steady rhythm. “But, really, what business would those three have with (Name)?”

Unable to pluck a reasonable answer from thin air, he slouches in his seat and then, realizing his horrid posture, straightens at once. Riddle drags a hand over his face, exhales slowly, and lowers his hand after a minute of quiet reflection. The police station looms ahead and he glances between the familiar brick-walled building and the notes in his agenda. Logically, he should walk right back inside and share what he’s written to aid in the investigation.

“It’s important you keep a clear head during all of this,” Officer Rayne had told him as the interview had reached its conclusion. “We appreciate any and all info you’ve got, so don’t be shy to give us a ring.”

Riddle thinks he might have protested then. Something about how it felt wrong to sit around and do nothing. Something about feeling like he owed you. Something about wanting to disprove those reports. Something about building a better profile for you. Something about…something.

“You’re doing plenty.” Officer Rayne smiled and indicated the notepad, which detailed all of the information from the hours-long conversation. “This situation’s out of your hands, and we wouldn’t recommend you do our work for us. Best let us handle the rest.”

Again, he opened his mouth. A grievance must have come tumbling out.

“By filing a report and talking to me today, you’ve done a great deal of service. Don’t blame yourself for being unable to do more. What else could you have done? These things are unpredictable.”

Things, Riddle thought with a frown. What a casual way to refer to a disappearance.

He stood from his seat and Riddle followed his lead. At the doorway, he extended his hand and Riddle took it, shaking it firmly. “If your friend contacts you, let us know right away.”

Riddle nodded and stepped out of the room.

“And don’t let it get you down. We’ll find your friend.”

One way or another, he expected to hear, but he was already walking away.

In the few minutes he spends ruminating, he manages to assemble a new list. Riddle peers at it, unsure of when he started writing and when he stopped thinking.

Priorities

Get in touch with Azul.

Question Cater more thoroughly.

Return to (Name)’s apartment and ask neighbors for any information.

Continue transcribing any and all findings.

Look for clues that might point in the direction of where (Name) went.

Create a timeline up until the disappearance and keep track of the number of days missing.

Transfer the above and all new information into a notebook.

Again, his eyes fall upon the police station. He wonders if there’s a rule that forbids normal citizens from doing investigations of their own. It can’t hurt to want to gather some proof for himself, right? He won’t cross any laws so long as everything’s within legal bounds, and if more than one person is working on the case it might even speed up the process. After all, aren’t two brains better than one?

And if there is a rule, he thinks as he reverses out of his parking spot, I certainly didn’t hear about it.

Turning onto the busy road, Riddle drives further from the station towards a far-off horizon spotted with wispy strands of cloud.

His first objective: Find Azul.

Microphone in hand, Cater stands in the center of a soundproofed room and announces in an energetic tone, “My dearest, most loyal besties, a big TY for coming! As a newly formed band, our first order of business is to celebrate with cute snacks, cute drinks, and even cuter company!” He punctuates that last part with a playful whistle and a wink.

In response, the two men sitting in the neon pink booth raise their glasses high. Both are filled with a sparkling substance, one so vermillion it’s nearly blood itself and the other a vivid orange. Lilia has ordered a Crimson Whisper—a delightful strawberry and raspberry margarita accompanied with a lime wedge and a skewer of sliced fruits. Kosher salt lines the rim, and under the dimmed lights it twinkles like pinpricks of diamond. Kalim’s beverage is known as the Tropical Tryst Twist, and it’s a fizzy tangerine and lemon cocktail decorated with a blue paper umbrella. A few ruby-red cherries are nestled amidst the ice.

Cater makes it a mission to familiarize himself with his favorite karaoke bar’s menu, but despite every food and drink combination he’s come across (some photographed and strung up on his social media and others admired from afar) he cannot stomach the sweetness. So for tonight—like most nights—he chooses something that is, as his sisters would often say, “so not cute.” Beer is his go-to, even if his carefully curated Magicam feed is adorned with photos of pastries and sugary drinks galore. Peel back the pretty wallpaper and you'll find the dollhouse is not what it seems. But festering in rot is so not cute, and so for this reason he plasters the bitter with beauty.

Fortunately, tonight is not a bitter night, and unlike the boring drink in his hand he still raises it to toast with the others. Their glasses join with a resounding clink.

Kalim pulls his drink away first, bringing it to his lips for a long sip. “This is exciting!” He sets it down on a coaster and beams, radiating raw joy. “I’ve never been in a real band before! Oh, we should publicize it, right? I can get my dad to help with that. He’ll be our first fan!”

Cater chuckles awkwardly. “Loving the enthusiasm, Kalim. Super-duper cute! But we need songs before we can start putting ourselves out there.”

Lilia hums his agreement. “I suppose what we’ve produced thus far wouldn’t exactly qualify as a true song.”

“At least it’s something… Oh! What if we took one of our short clips and extended it? Maybe add a few other instruments and beats so it feels like music you’d want to stop everything you’re doing and dance your troubles away to! Something summery and sweet!”

“Ooh, brilliant idea, Kalim. I wouldn’t mind giving it a shot. You never know until you try.”

“Right? Right?! Everyone likes to dance, and you need fun music to create fun energy! We could definitely do it.”

Their eyes flit to him now. Cater twirls the microphone in his hand, humming as he considers it. It’s a lot of work to produce music, and they often fooled around during club hours when they were in school. But they’ve done it before. Granted, thirty-second previews of sound can’t quite make it to trending if they aren’t captivating enough. Things like that aren’t anything to write home about, or so he often thinks when he browses the list of unnamed tracks cluttering his laptop’s home screen.

Cater’s grip on the microphone tightens. He smiles, slackens his shoulders, and flashes a cheerful thumbs-up. “Cay Cay’s got a plan!”

“Oh my.” Lilia’s eyes sharpen with curiosity. “If I were to hazard a guess, I’d say you’ve gathered us here for the sake of this very plan.”

“Discerning as ever, Lils! That’s right. I was actually hit with some crazy inspiration recently. And because of that…” He lowers his voice conspiratorially. “A drum roll, if you would be so kind.”

Kalim laughs and slaps his hands upon the table. Lilia follows suit until they’re both pounding on it, the force rattling the macaron pyramid they ordered earlier. Cater, invigorated by their support, swipes his phone from off the table, flicks it on, and scrolls through his song drafts. He turns his screen towards Lilia and Kalim with a dramatic flourish.

“Behold—my soon-to-be magnum opus!”

They peer at it, and then a duet of awestruck oohs fills the room.

“This is shaping up to be very exciting.”

“Wow!” Kalim whistles, impressed. “I can’t believe I’m looking at lyrics for a potential song! Aha, you’re so cool, Cater!”

“Aren’t I?” he boasts, lowering into the booth across from them, a picture-perfect portrait of nonchalance. “I call it ‘Kismet Kiss,’ and it’s a song about fun feelings! It sounds kinda pop idol, but hear me out! We can find some way to work punk-rock into it, or we could hit everyone with an idol song and then ease into rock.”

“Like a sound buffet!” Kalim plucks a macaron from the tower and pops it in his mouth. “I think that’s a great idea. I’m down if you are, Lilia.”

“I wonder if we’d be able to handle so many genres at once.” He takes a slow, contemplative sip from his drink, a smile spreading on his lips. “I certainly look forward to experimenting. Is that not what youth is all about?”

“Well, don’t keep us in the dark! Let us hear your lyrics!”

“It’ll sound really yikes if I sing without any music, so give ‘em a read and lemme know what ya think! The Cater Inbox is open for criticisms! Constructive only, please and thank you.”

Cater passes his phone to Kalim, who takes it in his hands and sidles closer to Lilia so both can read simultaneously. While they peruse the lyrics, Cater taps out an anxious rhythm against his half-empty pint glass.

Kismet Kiss! - Cicada City Lyrics

I could never tell you

Of the feelings locked in my heart

For they’re twisted and thorny, but a special work of art!

It must be fate or destiny

Maybe even cosmic chemistry

Look only at me, me, me, me, me!

And soon you’ll begin to see…

Why is it that you gaze at me with such sincerity?

It’s kinda weird

Because suddenly everything’s so sparkly

Brightness blinds me eternally

You take my hand in yours and lead me astray

Hey~

Won’t you turn my way and promise you’ll stay?

Woohoo!

We share a bittersweet kismet kiss

Under a silver moon, where all is heavenly bliss

A cutely curated kismet kiss

Trapped in the confines of a moon-mired abyss!

It's as if the tarot has foretold,

That I’ll follow you wherever you go

No matter what, it’s a clingy kismet kiss

And now the skies have darkened with mist

The fortune says it’ll rain

I wonder if it’s a reflection of all this pain

Since everything has become so very

Otherworldly and strange

What are the secrets you keep,

When you think I am asleep?

Leaning in to lo-lo-lo-love you!

Forevermore, it’s brand new!

All these moods

You match my fake attitudes

Astral planes,

They rise and fall

You’re a jellyfish witch who knows how to enthrall

A sculpture of elegance in a crumbling hall

Oh dear, you’ve gone and collared me

And I can no longer say I feel free

Hey…

Whatever happened to the sugar strains in your veins?

Woohoo!

We share a bittersweet kismet kiss

Under a silver moon, where all is heavenly bliss

A cutely curated kismet kiss

Trapped in the confines of a moon-mired abyss!

Our very own kismet kiss

Painted in hazy constellations you’ll miss

If you can’t open up your eyes

And confront your star-spotted demise!

There’s an uncomfortable silence that thickens in the air, and Cater counts the seconds it takes before it’s disturbed by Kalim’s gasp. Eleven seconds.

“You wrote this?”

Cater curls his fingers into a tight, self-assuring fist, nails pricking his palms. “Sure did. Penned by yours truly and everything! It’s still not finished, though. I’m always going back to edit, but so far that’s the most coherent draft I have. So whatcha think? It’s totally cute, yeah?”

“It’s very telling,” Lilia praises with a cryptic grin. Cater doesn’t like the wisdom discreetly woven into his next words. “You can learn a lot from the speaker in the song. Some truths are best expressed in writing, after all. When we put pen to paper, left alone with but our wrist and brain, we’re usually very honest with the page.”

As always, you’re a mystery, Cater thinks with a thin smile. Maybe I shouldn’t have shared it so confidently.

“It’s a masterpiece! Seriously, this is poetry and art and everything else! I love it! Oh! Did you write it with anyone in mind? You said you had some inspiration, right? I’m always getting inspired when I see the sun or clouds shaped like animals or even when I’m eating sweets! But what about your inspiration?”

Cater uncurls his fist to take his phone from Lilia’s outstretched hand. “Riddle said a really cool line a few days ago and it kinda stuck with me.”

It’s not a total lie.

“Ah, that’s right. You’ve mentioned before that he took up a position at your workplace,” Lilia muses, flicking his wrist to swipe three macarons from the tower with magic. They float over lazily and he opens his mouth to receive each one with a delighted hum. “How is he faring?”

“He became Mr. Manager in under two weeks.”

Kalim laughs. “It was also like that at NRC, wasn’t it? Sounds just like Riddle to go for the top spot!”

Cater waves his hand through the air dismissively, suddenly disinterested in the subject of this conversation. “DD’s become Heartslabyul: The Sequel ever since he joined.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“It’s not not a bad thing?” He slumps in the booth. “I mean, it’s cool to work with an old friend, but Riddle’s so…Riddle. He just never eases up, you know?”

“I think it’s fun! Maybe I should work there, too! Ooh, wouldn’t that be cool? We could all work with Cater. It’ll be like club meetings all over again!”

“That sounds super-duper sweet, but I don’t think we’d get any work done if that were the case.”

Kalim deflates with a nervous chuckle. “Ah, yeah… You make a fair point.”

“I surmise Riddle wouldn’t be very keen to work with all three of us. That boy has always been too diligent.”

Cater gazes at him from over the rim of his glass. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

Lilia quirks a sly smile, amused to have his own words pointed right back at his throat. “It’s unhealthy to have too much of anything. After all, excessive diligence leads to perfectionism taken to extremes.”

“Isn’t that just the cutest description for our ridiculous Riddle?”

“I dunno,” Kalim says, shrugging. “It’s kinda admirable, don’tcha think?”

“Perhaps.” Lilia commands another macaron with ease. He bites half of it this time, the other half suspended in the air. “Even the most debilitating obsessions stem from some unique form of admiration.”

“Oh? Is that experience talking, Lils?”

Cater’s eyes are sharper than a sword when they pierce through the faerie sitting across from him. A fanged smile is the only response he receives just as Lilia closes his mouth around the remaining macaron half. Crumbs flutter to the floor. And just before he can pry a little further—dig into him with a verbal knife and fork—his mobile phone chirps out a happy ringtone, thus disturbing the tension stretching taut between them. Cater holds Lilia’s gaze a moment longer before surrendering and peering at his phone. He doesn’t have the forethought to stifle his annoyed groan.

“You totes jinxed it!” He flips his phone towards them to show Riddle’s icon on the caller ID.

Kalim lets out a hearty chortle. “We really did! Hey, why don’t we invite Riddle since he’s calling? We have enough macarons for him, and if we run out I’ll just order more. Does he drink, Cater? We can order something before he gets here!”

“Oh, you’re way too nice! Although Riddle’s a pretty busy guy… I don’t think he’d wanna intrude. Maybe next time?”

“But he’s always welcome! The more the merrier.”

“I could ask, but I’d hate to bother him if he’s already busy. That’s never cute.”

Drop it, Kalim. I don’t want Riddle here.

“Oh?” Lilia cocks his head to the side just as Cater’s phone rings a second time. He watches him hurry to switch it off. “If it’s important, don’t let us get in your way.”

“It’s fine.” It comes out harsher than he intended, so he laughs and plucks a macaron from the tray. The sweet remains in his palm. “I mean, come on! I see enough of Riddle already. He can just tell me what he wants the next time we’re on shift, or he can text me. Calling is so old school nowadays.”

“But if he’s calling you more than once…” Kalim’s lips curl into a concerned pout. “If it’s a secret, I’ll cover my ears.”

“No, no. Really, it’s A-okay! He’s just been a little cray ever since (Name) disappeared.”

The oxygen in the room seems to slither away and suddenly he can’t breathe. Or, more realistically, he’s forgotten to take a breath when Kalim and Lilia fix him with stern looks.

“Oh my.”

“(Name) disappeared? That’s not good!”

“It’s not a big deal. She’s always getting lost and found, so she’ll come around eventually.”

“You don’t seem very worried,” Lilia notes, brows furrowed.

“Should I be?” Realizing how frigid that sounds, he chuckles airily. “I mean, it’s normal for her to go ghost for a few days. She’s been like this for years now. It’s nothing new.”

“Still, isn’t that scary? Aren’t you afraid she might’ve gotten into trouble or worse?” Kalim insists, nodding in agreement with Lilia’s earlier observation.

Cater blinks, allowing their words to seep into the very pores on his skin. “Um, well, I guess it’d be concerning to people who don’t know anything… But trust me on this. I know (Name). She’s probs living it up with her pseudo-boyfriend.”

“Well, if you say so.” Lilia shrugs, but those carmine hues remain centered on his phone as if awaiting another call.

“Shouldn’t you file a missing report? What if she isn’t with her boyfriend? Or, uh, her not-boyfriend?”

“Guys, I promise she’s finer than wine!” To prove it, he pulls up your Magicam profile, scrolls through the feed, and clicks on an older post. The photograph in question is a view of the expansive ocean from a cruise ship’s deck, glossy wood railing displaying two half-empty drinks: a mojito and a daiquiri. “She cut all contact with me for, like, a few days, and I went to file a report because I thought something had happened. But then she posts this just as I’m leaving the station, and so I had to go back in there and let ‘em know it was a false alarm. It totally harshed my vibes! I looked like I was crying wolf and that is so not the mood!”

Kalim peers at the photo. “Looks fun, but why didn’t she tell you where she was going?”

“She never does.” Cater shrugs and pockets the device just as another call comes in. Thankfully, it goes right to his voicemail. “That’s just how she is.”

“Does that upset you?”

Cater raises a brow. “I’m not her babysitter, Lils. Besides, besties don’t have to tell each other everything. It’s not part of some bestie code or anything. We’re not sworn to each other in some blood pact either. She lives her life and I live mine. Easy peasy, lemon squeezy.”

“Aw. But sharing secrets makes a friendship so much stronger,” Kalim says, slouching in the booth. “Jamil knows some of my secrets! Like that time I accidentally swapped the salt and sugar. He’s the only one I’ve ever told. Ah, wait! I’ve just told you and Lilia… Pretend you didn’t hear that, okay?”

Cater pantomimes locking his lips and tossing an invisible key. “Your secret’s safe with me.”

Not that it’s anything criminal.

“It follows me to the grave! Swapping the salt and sugar is an offense punishable by death, after all.” Lilia chuckles, though Cater suspects his amusement stems from another place. He’s definitely guilty of that exact mishap.

“If I’m being honest,” he starts, and that first part is already a lie, “I don’t think (Name) wants me to know about her life. Or, more specifically, her super-secret not-boyfriend.”

“Why? Are you curious?” Kalim cocks his head to the side.

“Obviously! Dude’s, like, megarich! Of course I’d be curious. Who wouldn’t?” Cater taps a painted fingernail against the macaron in his palm. “Every time we talk about him, she keeps it real vague. Sometimes I think this guy’s just fiction. TBH, if I had rich arm candy, I’d flaunt them all the time. No offense, Kalim.”

“Huh? Why?” He blinks in confusion. “Isn’t it good to feel proud of someone you like?”

“Well, this situation is slightly different, isn’t it?” Lilia asks, looking to Cater for confirmation.

“Based on the data I’ve acquired,” he says, raising a finger and putting on a professional voice that earns him laughter from Kalim and a grin from Lilia, “I can confidently theorize that there’s more to their little game of give and take. Because, really, how much loveless sex can you possibly have before the feels start seeping through?”

“But she never claimed to harbor feelings, or am I assuming incorrectly?”

“It was the opposite, actually. She told me she was breaking up with him because he couldn’t hit the right spots.”

Lilia raises his hand to his mouth, shielding a razored smile. “Dear me. That’s no good.”

“Or maybe,” Kalim posits, “it has nothing to do with sex. Maybe he can’t hit the spots in her heart.”

Cater stares, realizes he’s staring approximately ten seconds later, and forces himself to laugh in disbelief. “(Name) in love? Please, Kalim! She’d never.”

“How do you know? If there’s a connection, but it isn’t reciprocated…” Kalim shrugs and stuffs a macaron in his mouth, continuing his next words with a muffle: “I’m just guessing. Actually, I just thought it felt right, you know? I don’t know your friend—but I’d like to one day—so I can’t say that’s why she did what she did, but not everyone has the same spots. Maybe she wanted more from him, but he couldn’t give it to her.”

“Kalim, you know I appreciate you and your pure heart, but good dick and love are two separate things. You can love good dick, but good dick can’t give you love if the relationship isn’t built on it to begin with.” Lilia cackles at the phrasing, but Cater adds in a clipped tone, “I know (Name). It had nothing to do with love. It’s just convenience.”

Kalim pouts. “Then, if she really didn’t love him, what if he loved her?”

“Oh? Is this a sudden twist in the suspicious soap opera? I’m on the edge of my seat.” Lilia interjects, eyes wide, hands spread like he’s a magician who’s just performed a magnificent trick worthy of applause. “The youths of today are so creative. Back in my day, you could pierce your lover with Cupid’s arrow if you sang a love song, wrote flowery poetry, or defeated a rival in a bloody battle for the heart!”

“Lils, that’s so medieval…”

“Far from it! Even today, love songs and poems are still quite popular. Sometimes the battle part applies. Or am I a century behind?”

“That’s funny! You’re so silly, Lilia!”

I don’t think he’s joking, Kalim…

Lilia tilts his head, blinking owlishly, a smile spreading on his face. “I’m happy to entertain.”

“Listen, if he loved her, I wish him the best of luck. (Name) makes herself hard to love. I should know. I’m her bestie, after all. Maybe that’s why she’s ghosting us. Things got too lovey-dovey and she had to set sail. She’ll be back in a day or two once she’s returned from her boring little island of loneliness.”

“I suppose patterns are easier to predict once you’ve fallen into them…”

“Right? You get it, Lils. She’ll be fine. Everyone will be fine! (Name) just needs her space, Riddle needs a chill pill, and we need to get back on track. So! ‘Kismet Kiss,’ yeah? It’s a good debut song, right?”

“What if he didn’t give her a choice?” Kalim blurts, and both heads turn in his direction. He fidgets, his fingers curling into his jacket. “I guess… Well, it’s scary to admit, but what if she really did disappear and Riddle’s worries are totally valid?”

“You think she got kidnapped?”

“Um… I’m not saying that…”

“He’s saying it, but it’s at a frequency we just can’t understand. Like subliminal messaging.”

“Lilia!” Kalim squeezes his eyes shut with a groan. “You’re gonna jinx it!”

“That’s what Riddle thinks happened. I keep telling him it’s nothing like that, but you know how he gets. Once his mind is made up, it’s hard to change it.”

“Riddle’s not wrong in thinking the worst.”

“Yeah! Riddle’s always been so sensible, so I trust his judgment. Your gut never lies, after all.”

“But he’s wrong this time, okay?”

“How can you know for sure?”

What is this, an interview? Give me a break.

“I just know.” Green eyes sparkle under neon lights, no longer pits of gloom set into his skull. “Her pattern’s easy to follow, Lils. And I used to burden myself with the worst of the worst, but that’s so not cute! I’d rather chalk it up to her usual behavior than think she’s lying in some dark ditch, hacked to pieces.”

“That’s a terrible thing to say, Cater…”

“I’ll admit it does paint a rather grisly image.”

“You think?”

Kalim stares, his mouth foolishly agape.

He shakes his head, tutting, and holds his finger up to his lips. With a wink, he says, “The worst becomes ten times cuter when it’s absurd! There’s no way she’s in a ditch. We’re in the city. Where is anyone gonna find the nearest ditch when everything’s all concrete and steel?”

Lilia hums, but Cater surmises he isn’t buying the cheery assurances. In fact, the more he tells himself these things, the less he believes them. “If you say so. I shan't push it further.” He lifts his glass with magic and brings it to his lips to finish what’s left. “The worst lies are often, as you usually phrase it, ‘addictively adorable,’ so perhaps you aren’t entirely wrong either.” Blood-red liquid tilts towards waiting lips. “Your friend may not be in a ditch, but she might be enshrouded in a gilded falsehood.”

Cater opens his mouth to reply and is promptly interrupted by the ringing of a timer.

Kalim gasps and scrambles to silence it. “Has it already been two hours? No way! We haven’t even had a chance to sing yet!”

“I suppose old habits die hard.”

“Aah, this really is like club meetings all over again…” He smiles fondly, his eyes glazing with reminiscence. “I guess it can’t be helped. We always have things to talk about when we meet up!”

Lilia grins and bumps shoulders with him. “You’ll never be short of conversation topics with me.”

“I believe it!”

They glance at Cater. He blinks back at them.

“Then should we call it a night? Jamil’s probably wondering why I haven’t gotten back to him yet… Oh, right. I forgot to tell him we were hanging out tonight. Haha! Oops!”

How can you be so carefree? I’d like to know your secret.

“As much of a night owl as I am, we’ve long overstayed our welcome. Perhaps we’ll meet again tomorrow? We can discuss your song and goals for the band then. Travel is not a challenge for me, though I assume you might be a little busy, Kalim?”

“It’s complicated, but I can definitely make time for you guys! You’re my friends and I wanna hang out! Next time, we definitely have to invite Riddle and I’ll bring Jamil, too!”

No, it’s not being carefree. You’re just careless.

Cater flashes them a smile that’s just as empty as his eyes, yet it seems to do the trick. Either that, or Lilia just doesn’t wish to verbalize his observations. “Totally! We’ll get to it when we get to it.”

“I look forward to it. I think Cicada City is shaping up to be quite the shining star with a promising future.”

“Ooh, shining stars! I love it! We gotta talk about outfits, too.” Kalim pops up from the booth. “Ah! But before that, you should talk to your friend, Cater. Make sure she’s okay. I hope she’s safe.”

“As do I. Better to be safe than sorry, as they often say.”

Cater nods. “Yep, yep! You can count on Detective Cay Cay! I’ll get to the bottom of this mystery in no time.”

The macaron in his hand is subjected to a brutal crushing.

This is so not sweet. I completely forgot to take pictures for Magicam.

#yandere twisted wonderland #yandere twisted wonderland x reader #yandere twst #yandere twst x reader #yandere jade leech #yandere jade leech x reader #serial killer jade #death row undertow #death row undertow chapter seven

214 notes · View notes

mostlysignssomeportents · 4 years

Text

The political possibility of cities

The coming year feels like an important one. Democrats have the chance to pass the For the People Act, which will reverse decades of right-wing voter suppression, steering the US away from the baked-in antimajoritarian characteristics of its politics

At the same time, a successful vaccine rollout (assuming variants can be controlled) will mean widespread "re-openings," most notably in cities, where we find the highest concentrations of virus-incompatible stuff: mass transit, elevators, theaters and "cozy" cafes.

Cities are of huge political significance. The rise and rise of inequality has been attended by skyrocketing rents in cities, largely driven by money-launderers and speculators who turned housing stock into empty safe deposit boxes in the sky.

Cities were also key to delivering the 2020 election: Biden took major cities by 13m votes, inner suburbs by 4m votes, and midsized cities by 1.5m votes. 80% of Biden's votes came from these three categories.

As Ronald Brownstein writes in The Atlantic, "If you draw an imaginary beltway around almost any major metropolitan area, Democrats are growing stronger inside that circle, while Republicans are consolidating their position outside of it."

https://www.theatlantic.com/politics/archive/2021/03/how-biden-could-partner-big-cities-and-suburbs/618294/

Last summer's BLM uprising was a mostly urban affair, but even before then, the GOP was waging war on cities, with Mitch McConnell cutting maintenance and relief funds for cities, and Trump demanding quarter for ICE snatch-squads.

America's urbanization is an unbroken trend, and cities are semi-autonomous, wildly imperfect, young, diverse and economically powerful. They are also politically important, and many of the reddest states would be blue or very purple if cities were given due representation.

Brownstein's account of cities during the Trump years makes the case that a Biden focus on mayors, rather than the deadlocked Congress and Senate, or the fringe ideologues who were crammed onto the Supreme Court, is the key to making real political change.

The deadlocked legislature is not a new phenomenon. Several presidential administrations have focused on executive orders and regulations from the administrative branch to effect change, but these are flimsy political wins. What one exec order can create, another can undo.

Net Neutrality is here, then gone, then (maybe) here again. Without legislation, these policies aren't worth the Federal Register pages they're printed on. But there are methods to durably inscribe policy, and these are primarily urban.

Mostly, we remember the negative ways that this occurs: redlining, driving freeways through Black neighborhoods or skipping over parts of the city when it comes to subway access. Infrastructure is policy - and it's among the most permanent forms of policy we have.

As recent years have demonstrated, the future is a chaotic place, but as Charlie Stross has noted, the elements of the future that are indeed up for grabs are actually pretty narrow: 90% of the future is here today.

https://www.antipope.org/charlie/blog-static/2019/12/artificial-intelligence-threat.html

Most of the homes people will be living in in 10 years are on the road today. Most of the people who'll be alive then are living today. most of the cars that will be on the road are already in service today.

Even sharp discontinuities like the pandemic don't change those facts much (Stross and I did a conference presentation last week where he said that maybe all the chaos of the past five years has reduced the present's share of the future to 80%, still a commanding majority).

Cities are places where administrative policies can inscribe themselves indelibly upon the future. As LA Sustainability Czar Lauren Faber O'Connor told Brownstein, "Every building in the country is basically a shovel-ready project."

A fed solarize/winterize subsidy for buildings makes a difference for decades to come: not just the carbon footprint of the built environment, but also the baseline expectations for decent buildings. It permanently alters the balance between energy companies and the nation.

Every local government could take the feds up on this, but self-owning culture war foolishness predicts that the benefit will accrue predominantly to the large/mid-sized cities and inner burbs that delivered the election to Biden.

Vehicles don't last as long as buildings, but they are remarkably durable. Biden wants to replace the fed fleet with EVs - he could subsidize cities to do the same, creating huge efficiencies of scale for EV production and demand for permanent EV charging infrastructure.

Of course, the future is transit-based, not private-vehicle-based. Just do the math: multiply the number of people who need to go places by the amount of highway a private vehicle operates, and you'll find an inescapable Red Queen's Race.

The more road we need for those private vehicles, the further apart everything gets. The further apart everything gets, the more cars we need. The more cars we need, the more road we need. The more road we need, the further apart everything gets.

If building mass transit is "socialism" then geometry is a socialist plot (and no, you can't fix this by moving cars into tunnels; do the math). Transit permanently alters where people live and work, and what they expect from their cities. A transit subsidy is a no-brainer.

Biden can't force the states to switch to carbon neutral energy sources, but he can subsidize municipal energy facilities' voluntary switchover, again, permanently altering the economics of fossil-fuel power generation.

Red states aren't red: they are gerrymandered purple states that punish and starve their economic and population centers in the name of culture war nonsense and white supremacy. There are opportunities to permanently alter this situation.

For example, the Biden FCC could resinstate the rule banning states from limiting municipal fiber, and then subsidize 100GB/s muni networks, with emphasis on the urban broadband deserts in the majority-minority neighborhoods created by redlining.

Once cities are operating profitable muni networks that connect *everyone* to service that is 1,000-10,000x faster than the aging copper lines that cable monopolists refuse to upgrade, those networks will become permanent facts.

(as with many anti-monopoly interventions, these will do double-duty: the cable companies' lobbying ammo comes from the monopoly rents that they extract from poor people; deprive them of those rents and you cut the supply lines in the war they wage on the public interest)

There's reforms coming to the Affordable Care Act: if one of these is a change to the rule that cities can only get federal health-care subsidies if their states permit it, then cities could opt-in to health care even when their gerrymandered GOP statehouses block it.

America has 50 governors, 435 Congressional districts, 100 senators and 9 Supreme Court justices.

America has 19,000 cities and towns and 3,100 counties. These local governments are far more accountable to the people than the larger political entities.

Officials in cities, towns and counties who deliver tangible improvements to their residents' quality of life will be rewarded with high approval ratings and re-election. The Trump years left the largest of these starved for friendly federal coordination and partnership.

Biden's cabinet already includes three prominent former mayors - Buttigieg, Walsh and Fudge - and the historically intractable task of directly coordinating with thousands of local governments is made far more reasonable thanks to digital technology.

History teaches that presidents can defeat America's antimajoritarian institutions by simply bypassing them.

When the pro-slavery Supreme Court struck down Lincoln's anti-slavery laws, he passed them again...and again...and again: "Let's see whose legitimacy tanks first."

Biden could write humane, sustainable equitable future on the country in indelible ink. He could also make permanent changes in the lives and expectations of people: increasing subsidies to local schools and wiping out student debt is a change that lasts for a generation.

As exciting as this is, it's not enough. The circumstances of rural life are range from bad to terrible, and they're only worsening. Saving the cities will save the vast majority of Americans, but it will still leave nearly 60,000,000 people in desperate circumstances.

This is unacceptable. Good governments look after all people, not just the ones it expects to win re-election from.

Working with local governments is a tactic, not a strategy - a way to erode corporate power and present alternatives.

It's the beginning, not the end.

Image: The Fifth Element/Luc Besson

#pluralistic

43 notes · View notes

courage-a-word-of-justice · 4 years

Text

After much watching...I cut it down to 5 anime and 1 short.

Suppose a Kid… 1

I am not writing out that full title every time! Anyways, here’s the first “real” debut of winter 2021.

For some reason…this series reminds me of Pokemon. Probably how at the start, Ash tries to get along with Pikachu by doing all sorts of things like what Lloyd is doing here. (<- learnt protag’s name through synopses)

The name “Shouma” rang a bell and I was right – Shouma is voiced by Souma…Saito.

The Japanese title has “monogatari” on the end there…so it probably doesn’t fully translate into the English title.

These orange flecks in Lloyd’s eyes are kinda distracting…

Isn’t Kunlun in China, though…?

If this is just going to be Marie yelling…I don’t see why I should stay. (<- turned volume on for everything so far)

*facepalms* Lloyd is so dense…

That fight scene’s not very good…

…oh great. Selen’s fallen in love with Lloyd already…*sigh*

The missing princess is certainly going to be a plot point later.

Wow, that tiger looks impressive! If only they could’ve done that for the fight scene…

…oh great, Selen is a low-key yandere…

Didn’t Lloyd say he sucked at combat…? Anyways, I’m not keeping this. The designs are colourful and the tiger was good, but it’s meant to be a comedy and it’s not funny.

Hortensia Saga 1

Here for Ume! He’s voicing a guy called Defloitte Danois.

I-Is that CGI? So early on into the anime???

*a dude gets bitten into by the werewolf*…welp, at least this series isn’t afraid of its own gore.

I had a sinking feeling our real protag was Alfred…and I was right, according to the OP.

Huh? The song goes silent for a second near the end…what the heck?

The book appears to use English, albeit English so faintly inked in you can’t quite tell what language it is.

Alfred, governing Albert…? Isn’t that a bit redundant?

I swear all the female voices in this anime are squeaky as all get out…

All these high fantasy anime – or heck, any high fantasy series full stop – ever justify why the country is worth fighting for. It’s why I find war stories pointless and senseless.

You can tell from the voice and short stature “Marius” is Mariel…but she uses boku, which is why Alfred can’t really tell the difference. (Also, he wasn’t privy to the fact Mariel cut her hair.)

This almost smacks of a game tutorial. The CGI is still there…it’s not as bad as other examples I’ve seen, but you can tell it’s CGI when you look at it.

Roy’s kind of pretty, in a generic way.

A close-range archer! Ho, you’re kinda impressive yourself, Roy. (The feeling of a game tutorial has disappeared by this point.)

Hortense…of Hortensia…how confusing.

The scruffy guy you keep seeing with the dark hair is Defloitte. Keep an eye out for him for me, would you?

The ED seems to consist mostly of…anguished pop screams. *cringes slightly*

Anyways, this anime isn’t bad. It’s quite average though and its CGI could easily get worse.

Kumo Desu ga 1

…you know I don’t like 1st person cam, yeah?

…this is just Kumoko (as I’ve heard her being called) yelling so far…plus there’s quite a bit of CGI.

I like how the ED has an English overlay and the style they’ve used for it. The music, though…? Nah.

Wait a second? Millepensee? Shin Itagaki? That would explain the CGI!

“…a spider that just happens to have my memories.” – A butterfly dream, huh?

…well, at least this anime is well aware of the genre space it inhabits. Maybe you could say…it’s an isekai light novel, so what? *groans from the audience*

…well, you didn’t really “bring” your “brother’s” (?) corpse in case of an emergency, now, did you?

…welp, to have guts, you must eat guts. I guess that’s how it goes.

What’s a “skanda”?

This anime’s quite monologue-y (as expected of an LN). I can live with it, but I don’t know if it can carry the entire thing through the season.

…humans? Haven’t seen them almost all episode. What are they up to?

These designs sort of look like SAO’s. They’re not a dealbreaker yet, but they could be down the line…

This ED seems to take cues from Cop Craft’s OP (same studio). It also has some…“Aggretsuko rage”, I guess you could call it.

2.43 1

…Another confusing title, I see. I normally don’t do sports anime, but I’m here for Ume.

*sees the colour of the volleyball* - Basically anything volleyball has to collaborate with volleyball maker Mikasa, doesn’t it?

This anime seems to like putting characters’ thoughts on the screen for dramatic impact. The CGI is sort of visible, but not a dealbreaker.

I’d thought I’d heard of this OP artist before, but it turns out I haven’t.

This series has a nice sense of force. You see those moments where the ball squishes, or when Yuni presses against the wall without thinking? Those.

LOL, way to burn Yuni, Chika…

These transitions are a bit hard to detect. I think I like Akudama’s more overt ones more.

LOL, Dr Popper (sic).

The serves are nothing special. Haikyuu does the same thing from the episode I saw of it. (You know I don’t like Haikyuu, yeah? Dropped it after 1 episode because everything I heard the fans talking about caused me to connect the dots.)

The way Yuni blushes…it’s more than someone usually would, even if it is out of embarrassment. It may just be the entertainment I consume, but I could swear that’s going somewhere in more of a BL manner.

I get the feeling Chika has a bit of Virgo or Taurus in him somewhere. The sort of guy who nags at everyone to do stuff his way is probably like that.

Pocari Sweat (unaltered).

I gave myself dimples by puffing up my cheeks and poking them until they became permanent. I guess you can do the same thing with ambidexterity…?

For some reason, I can detect Chika’s jealousy when he discusses blocks and natural talent.

…wow, this anime is pretty serious for a volleyball anime.

The ED scene where the face is replaced with flowers is pretty creepy. Like Jigokuraku or something.

Cells at Work!! 1

What are these blob creatures you see in the OP, anyway…?

I think I remember reading something that the numbers assigned to the cells aren’t arbitrary – they’re hexadecimal colors, e.g. RBCs get shades of red as their numbers.

D’aww, Platelets warm the heart. They really do.

Platelets have a master…? I thought they were all just lil’ kids.

“What the cell’s going on?!” – Oh, I remember seeing a tweet about this. I love that pun! Kudos to whoever was responsible for that.

LOL, no. 4989 dancing in the background.

Hmm…those nets look like CGI.

…uh, I did not need that shot of the Megakaryocyte’s camel toe…that’s distubring.

Wait, Backward Cap is a she?!

Aw, lookit WBC being a dad. That’s cute.

Backward Cap = Ushiromae-chan.

Is that…a construction worker holding a giant pudding?!

Cells at Work Code Black 1

This anime is called “black” due to black companies. It’s Code Black to avoid being racist, I guess. I’m looking forward to it because it’s undoubtedly going to show a dark side to the main series…

…and there it is, the RBC complaining.

I assume OJT = on the job training.

I knew “pespin” (sic) was a typo. It’s pepsin.

Now that I’ve been working at customer service for two years (give or take COVID), I can see where the senpai RBC is smoothing over the relations.

…that also means I know where to suppress my emotions. I’m not a person who opens up to people easily without getting used to them, so people never see me as suitable for customer service anyway, but it’s the only experience I have so *shrugs*.

…oh gosh. I haven’t seen these words since…the time I was still learning biology.

…*sigh* Rookie RBC is worried about boobs.

The fact Senpai lost his iconic hat…is kinda sad, actually.

“Don’t let his resolve be for nothing.”

Hmm…does the male WBC from the main series wear black fingerless gloves?

I thought I’d heard of this artist before…but turns out I just can’t distinguish really autotuned artists from each other…(lel)

…and stuff goes ka-blam. It’s the spiritual successor to HypMic, even if I wasn’t asking for it. (LOL)

Back Arrow 1

…I heard you said “hot guys”? (Yes, I am predictable as all get out.)

What’s with that episode title…?

Stereotypes, eh? I kind of expected as much from the promo, but where’s the title character…?

…was that yuri fanservice? I can’t quite tell because it was the aftermath of an action scene, but I can see the shippers gearing up in my head.

…after a bit of waiting, there he is. Back Arrow himself. He kind looks like Takuto (Star Driver).

“I’m not trying to hide anything!” – Well, that’s…true.

…*sigh* Why do girls always have more feminine-looking mechs? (Plus this one has boobs…*sighhhhhhhhhhhh*)

So it seems mechs in this anime are the form of one’s conviction and they have skills along those lines, eh? An interesting concept.

…you do realise I abandoned an entire anime based on a joke about lucky underwear? However, this anime is so absurd and just keeps running with the joke that I just can’t say no to it. If there’s one thing I’ve learnt from volunteering at a charity store, it’s that when it comes to selling stuff, you can’t say no to a lot of stuff…including selling potentially used underwear, so long as it’s not dirty or stinky.

Whoa! Those things break?!

Why does the title card mention the wall...?

Anyways, I…like it, surprisingly enough. Let’s keep going.

Back Arrow 2

…eh? Didn’t expect inflatable clothing, LOL.

I suspect Shu Bi is scheming something.

What’s the long thing…?

“…tomorrow might not come.” – A good reminder to have in these times of COVID.

Peath = Peace. (Heh. What a stupid name…*thinks about the name “Quattro Bajeena” suddenly* Okay, “Peath” pales in comparison to that.)

What is that creature that circles in the sky…?

I know this is meant to be a serious fight, but…that attacking guy’s hat seriously looks like a bamboo stalk and so I keep seeing it and trying not to laugh.

I only just now realised there’s CGI. CGI these days is getting much better than it used to be.

Tomozaki 1

LOL, Yontendo. It’s clearly Smash Bros + Nintendo Switch and the character designer was also around for Iroduku, so that’s why this style looks familiar.

…lemme guess, since this is a romance, it’s likely NONAME is Aoi. Or some other girl.

I would pay for a romance where it’s the girl building the guy up to be presentable, instead of a girl building other girls up to be presentable a la Ageha 100%.

Didn’t the anime show us Tomozaki reflecting to himself, though…?

“…rules working in combination.” - Well, there’s social norms (e.g. knock before entering a room), laws, contracts, societal standards (e.g. in Japanese society, you bow to others as a greeting or apology)…(continues to blabber on for a bit)

I think Aoi said something like “onitadaku”, but I’m not sure what the joke is there. Oni is in there, sure, but what’s the original phrase she’s playing off?

…LOL, it’s a good time to remind people to wear a mask.

LOL, Krout.

Anyways, this seems decent. I like how it’s going the way I want it to.

Tomozaki 2

“…make sure I’m nearby…” – Okay, that’s just being pushy, Aoi.

Minami and Hinami…so confusing…

*Minami chomps on Natsubayashi’s ear* - …okay, that’s not a thing girls do in real life unless they’re lesbians. This is likely trying to take the fanservice route.

They didn’t even show why the “kiss” was broken up…meaning they were doing it to make potential girl-on-girl look hot. Just great.

*Aoi touches Tomozaki’s butt* - Dude, that’s groping…

I didn’t think we’d get the story on Aoi’s “hexactly” so soon.

…well, that episode just made me feel mildly bitter. I’m dropping it here.

Praeter 1

…aw s***. Only a few seconds in and this looks like a terrible game…

It’s like someone barfed paint across Durarara…

The only time the background buildings look any good are when there’s a fight scene…

These Seals (or whatever those designs are called) seem to act like mini shields. Update: They’re called tattoos.

That transition was a bit fast for my liking…

Seems like the series is mildly peppered with Greek terms.

“To Infinity and Beyond” by…some author I can’t really read the name of.

Suddenly, they throw in more characters…?

Where does Eiji keep those bullet cases of his…? In his jacket?

Having a guy die in the 1st episode is cheap. I mean, we don’t quite care for him yet – it’s too early in the anime for that.

Now there’s Norse terms on top of the Greek ones…

Even more characters? You kidding me?

Lemme guess, Eiji gave up his tattoo because Yamato inspired him and now he’s a goner.

Welp, the weight of the world is in your hands, Yamato. Including that dead dude on your back. (<- sarcastic)

Sk8 1

I’ve been hearing good things about this anime! Let’s go! (<- about a week late to the debut)

That politician is probably relevant…probably someone’s dad, if HypMic taught me anything.

LOL, a beef. They call this stuff “beef”? Where’s the chicken? (<- joke from HypMic)

Haemanthus…apparently a flowering plant from S. Africa.

That’s rare, you don’t see Canadians in anime all that much. I was just thinking as I came home from volunteering how you know British people all have fancy names like William and Australians are Johnno, Danno etc., but Canadians? No clue. Update: Apparently you’d call one Arnold or something just as generic…?

Why are all foreigners in anime half-Japanese with the mother being the Japanese side, anyway?...Because people can make their character speak Japanese while looking foreign. Right. Moving right along.

Ahh…I understand your plight all too well, Reki.

…Hmm. It seems Reki’s surname is written kiya, but read “Kyan”. His name literally translates to “history (calendar/age) of bravery (military might)” Update: Turns out his surname is 3 characters (read “kiyan”, although I’ve never seen that final character ever being read as “n”) and his first name is one, so his first name is just “history (calendar/age)”.

Even I suck at balancing on bikes and stuff (…yeah, I still can’t ride a bike even though I’ve done so many other things in my life) and I know you have to support yourself with one foot on the ground before you do things like trick flips. I may not have observed Tony Hawk all that much, but he was on the periphery of my knowledge.

“What’s your hourly wage?” – Ouch, I feel ya, Langa.

Koko ni netete actually means “Lie down here”, but…okay.

These eyecatches are cute.

That’s a cute fox.

Yikes! 60 mph = approx. 97 km/h!!!

Random umeboshi, LOL.

Aghhhhhhhhhhh! Cherry Blossom’s so pretty~! I love him already!

Thank you, based Bones!

Something that can be enjoyed, even without sound: this is why I enjoy both action and comedy anime!

Okinawa? We’re in Okinawa?

Well, that was cool! I didn’t even ask where the location was until the end. Update: Why is this anime sometimes called Sk8 the Infinity anyway…?

Horimiya 1

Horimiya…I’ve been aware of this series for a while. There’s even a Chinese volume of it at a library close to me, although due to contact tracing I haven’t bothered to check it out.

Oh, I bet Hori is the otaku!

Ooh, Marketing Script!

Because I’ve been behind on the premieres, I’ve seen enough to know this boy with the chain is Miyamura.

…argh! Miyamura is cute! Y’all were right!!! (<- likes blushing bois)

I bet there’s going to be an emergency meeting!

“Sorry, it’s egg time!” – Oh, I’m laughing so hard! So that’s the context behind the Wonder Egg Priority meme!

“…see these?!” – Well, it’s not like you have a tattoo or some-*Miyamura shows his tattoos* Never mind…

Oh, I just realised they even animate the minute movements of the eyes Miyamura does…cool.

Notice how Miyamura is blocked from the other guy due to the window.

Miyamura goes “Ishikawa-kun” but “Hori-san”…hmm. No wonder he’s letting Ishikawa get Hori.

The problem I find with romance series is that they’re generally tied to heteronormativity. Hori is coded with red silhouettes and Miyamura with blue…*sigh* Whatever happened to gender ambiguity?

Good heavens, what is up with this ED?! It looks like Pocoyo! (…Does anyone else know that cartoon…?) Aside from that quibble, this anime is great though.

Mushoku Tensei 1

Apparently this is the grandad of all isekai. Why it took so long for an anime of this…who knows?

…and of course this guy’s a loser virgin. Go figure.

*sighhhhhhhhh* He’s just ogling this woman’s boobs…

…oh, sorry. I was so distracted by the man candy, I didn’t care about Rudy.

I-It’s actually quite refreshing to not have an OP protagonist from the get-go for once. (Or maybe I’ve developed such a disdain for isekai since SAO rolled around that everything here suddenly feels fresh.)

You can see the birthplace of isekai without having watched any of the others right here, it looks like.

“…what’s the point of incantations?” – To make it easier for you to cast spells, I gue-spoke too soon.

…wow, they shamelessly showed off Rudy’s privates. I know he’s still young at this stage, but that reminds me of how I dropped Dragon Ball around the time Goku was shown the same way (which is…very early on, by my own admission).

I believe, based on the name of the spinoff I see in the 7 Seas emails, the magic tutor is called Roxy.

You’re thinking about marriage?! At your (reincarnated) age?!

Oh no! The tree again!

LOL, Rudy’s acting like a kid who’s been in COVID lockdown for a while.

I think what most of the isekai that spun off from here missed is that the loser is job age. Losers at life at job age are relatable and high school geniuses are relatable (albeit sometimes insufferable), but losers who become NEETs for no reason whatsoever and then get banged up by Truck-kun are not.

Anyways, this was good, but a risky kind of good, since it seems like this male gaze will continue to be around as Rudy gets older.

Update: Dropped after learning Rudy was a paedophile in his past life.

Update 2: Apparently the anime toned down this paedophilic tendency of Rudy’s, so...now the verdict is that I move on while I let other people tell me if this is true of the anime or not.

Kemono Jihen 1

“Kemono Jihen” means something like “creature incidents”. I wonder why Funimation didn’t change the name…?

Kabane means “summer wing”.

Kanoko Villa, I’d assume, is named after the deer (the name means “deer’s child”).

My experience with Sho Aimoto (creator of this manga) is reading a bit of Hokenshitsu no Shinigami. (That, by the way, reminds me of Nube, but it’s nothing spectacular.) However, Hokenshitsu no Shinigami has a very detailed artstyle…That’s why I’m pretty shocked Kemono Jihen has such a scratchy one…

Ooh, edamame!

Oh, I see…this is like Furuba or a werewolf story, huh? Rather than a Natsume Yuujincho sort of thing.

…I thought Inugami and Dorotabo had seen everything of each other because of bathing together…I guess not, then.

…is Yataro going to die?

It seems the “immortal demons” are oni, so…why subtitle them as “immortal demons” and not just “demons”?

Ohhhhhhhh…this shite’s good. It seems to have a throwback feeling to it, moreso than even Yashahime or a lot of the sequels I’ve seen recently.

Cells at Work!! 2

I was going to move right along to Wonder Egg Priority because I’m really behind on the debuts right now, but I accidentally opened this up while I was cleaning up so I might as well watch another episode or two before setting it aside.

He’s dead, Jim. (<-joking)

…gosh, these walls look like Hover all over again and that’s from 1995…

LOL, these background cells don’t even have any details. They’re basically stick figures with fat bodies…

I think that phrase that appeared, “Take good care of B Cell!”, may be a pun on Give My Regards to Black Jack (written with similar Japanese, “B Cell wo Yoroshiku!” vs. “Black Jack ni Yoroshiku!”).

LOL, “you sure have the guts”…while they’re in the guts.

The certificate says something about it being presented to someone in the face of bravery, I think (<- just looked at it briefly).

“You have a good head on your shoulders,” says the T cell as WBC struggles with the disguise…stuck on his head.

Wonder Egg Priority 1

I’ve been hearing this series is surreal, but no more surreal than Flip Flappers. So…I don’t know if I’ll like it or not.

What’s this K?(?96…?

There’s a sunflower on her raincoat…so that’s why I saw a post called “You’re the sunflower”. Personally, that just reminds me of Post Malone.

Those Seeno Evils…they’re CGI, aren’t they?

As Boueibu once said (but I may be paraphrasing here), “nothing is more scary than free”.

…to be honest with you, I haven’t had a best friend for at least 2 years now. I only really feel close to people who are like me and who I have sustained contact with over many years, so I end up cutting contact with people after we part ways and never trying to fix it.

I always find it slightly absurd when anime girls get a little pudgy and go, “I’m so fat!” (See, for instance, the Dumbbell series.) Or, in this case, Ai’s going, “I’m so ugly!” when there’s nothing wrong with her. She’s only a bit different from everyone else due to her heterochromia - she doesn't have any physical or mental difficulties.

IChu 1

Here for Ume and, of course, dem bois. Bring it!

I seem to remember one of the magazines called an “Ichu” “an idol egg” (i.e. a fledgling idol)…More egg puns for me, then.

I found him! Ume! He’s Akira Mitsurugi! Update: Turns out that’s Toshiyuki Toyonaga…Oops. (Ume is actually Lucas from I*B.)

Huh? For a second, I imagined Akira with a dubbed voice. Of course, I could only be dreaming, because idol anime normally don’t get dubs, but…it was interesting to think about.

LOL, “Onsta”.

This Akio-type character is popular lately. The sort who’s timid but has an outstanding talent they themselves might not see.

…uh, but Kocho means “Principal”…?

An idol bear?!

Torahiko is crazy…(Note the tigers. Tora = tiger.)

Specifically, that’s black coffee with no sugar.

As much as I want to keep watching this, I’ll hit pause on it here. There’s much better offerings this season.

YuruCamp s2 1

…grandpa’s writing is so…neat.

*glares at CGI car…*

This OP just doesn’t compare to Shiny Days, y’know…?

OOPArts.

Talking pine cones! They’re back!

Curry rice! Literally had some of the Japanese-style stuff the other day. It was great.

All this talk about jobs…I personally don’t like jobs because I like to work at my own pace (hence one reason why I’m working on being a translator), but…money…I’m jealous, girls.

I’m trying not to rely on the subs for those texts that appear on the screen so that I can keep my reading skills up…I kept up with them for the most part…but then I got distracted by the croquette sign at one point…

“…buy you some local food?” – That’s omiyage, normally translated “souvenirs”. “Local food” actually does make more sense in that gap, though.

…man, I’m jealous that the girls all got jobs suitable for their personalities and everything. Lil’ ol’ antisocial me sucks at retail, even after 2 years.

Design-bu 1

LOL, that man and his bunny. Update: That’s Unabara-san.

…geez, these utaite are everywhere now. I’ve seen 96neko, USSS, Eve and more being more central to anime song creation…

Thise characters in the OP seal (<-the stamp, not the animal) are saiyou, meaning “recruited”, or in this case, “accepted”.

OEM = original equipment manufacturer.

Hrm…you can tell it’s a giraffe by description, but…that “base everything on the horse” is interesting as you could count several things as horse derivatives. Also, the angels’ names are all standard Japanese names with natural components to them (Ueda = upright rice field, Shimoda = frost rice field etc).

Is this pink-themed guy…a guy? Or a crossdresser? Update: That’s Kanamori-san.

I like how the suits have little wing-like flaps. Also the wings on Shimoda’s back.

…I never thought an anime episode would make me so concerned about giraffes.

That guy in the green I remember from the Wave x Tendebu (Heaven’s Design Team) collab, his name is Kimura.

Oh, so there is a bird like that!

The random wiggling the chibis do in these short segments…it’s a bit disorienting. (<-Just a small quibble of mine.)

Oh! Galapagos effect!

Agonistic: “polemical; combative.” I thought they meant “antagonistic”.

Oh man, that punch line was great! It took me a while to get into the spirit of it, but this anime is great!

Update: Oh, that’s where those nature names come from! They’re actually meant to be gods! (Or…named after gods…?) Also, Ueda vs. Shimoda (the “shimo” could be the kanji for “below”).

Ex-Arm 1

I’ve heard this anime looks bad…even well before its debut. How bad? Let’s find out.

*stifles laughter* From the first pan, I know this anime is doomed on my list. Even Praeter was better than this!

*stifles laughter again* This OP really does look as bad as the stuff I was seeing prior to winter 2021! Like a game I shouldn’t take out of my archives! (It’s not as bad as Hover’s graphics, but still…that’s from 1995. Cut it some slack.)

That’s the 2nd Kimura this season…

Yugg is just…ugly. Never try to render elaborate eyelashes in CGI again, people.

Dimension High School was better than this because at least that had puzzles. This is even jankier than that!

Wait, why is Akira 3D when his dad is 2D? It’s not that obvious, but I notice these things. Update: That’s not his dad…but close enough. (That’s his brother.)

…and here comes Truck-kun! (LOL)

This would be good…if it weren’t rendered in the jankiest CGI known to man…

Alma’s gun strike doesn’t have a lot of force to it.

The fire is rendered so terribly…*stifles laughter*

This part with a disembodied Akira is what I assume I got up at 6 am for…but I can’t hear it, due to background noise. Remind me to confirm this later. (Minami’s mouth is rendered so terribly…augh.)

No force to any of these recent motions, either.

LOL, this censorship.

Wave 1

Ever since this project was announced, I’ve been watching developments unfold on Anime News Network. I knew it would get an anime or something similar I could follow…and now here I am. I mentioned in the Sk8 comments I have basically zero knowledge of surfing, so…this is very unexpected, in one sense.

Was that a drone…?

“Wizard of the Waifu Board”?! Are you kidding me?! (LOL)

There seem to be shots where I can see the CGI here, but…anything’s better than Ex-Arm. Let’s say that.

Actually…yappe is a derivative of yabai, meaning “cool” or “crap” (in an ironic sense). So it would probably be better to translate it as “Surfing’s the greatest!” or “Surfing’s the coolest!” Anyways, what I was thinking before I was going to say this was that the waves are so enticingly animated, it feels like a summer anime. Basically the only other anime I’ve ever said that for is Grand Blue.

If I’m understanding where Isokichi’s name comes from right, “iso” is the character for seashore or a rocky beach (磯).

LOL, the teacher just wrote “Show must go on.”

Hayama, Kanagawa. Kanagawa’s capital is Yokohama, so it’s not quite Tokyo, but somewhat close.

“Murphy”? I have zero clue what that means.

Oh, I see. The title is translated that way due to context. Now that I can accept.

I just burst out into laughter when I realised Nalu hasn’t dropped or put down his ukulele once.

BSD Wan! 1

Here comes my past to haunt me…aside from me being a fan of BSD, I’m here because I influenced this series. How so? Once upon a time in the now-distant year of 2016, I was a scanlator for a brief period. Most of the work I’ve done hasn’t influenced the world at large, but this is the most influential manga I had a hand in working on.

Oh no! They’re starting with the dog AU?! (That comes from pretty far into the manga, IIRC. Further than my work was on it, at least.)

It’s Rashomon, but Rashoken (that last bit means “dog”). Hence Ruffshomon.

Basically, they just insert dog-related words everywhere…don’t make me explain every one!

Ouch, I can only imagine how much pain it was to translate Inu Shikkaku. Literally, it’s “No Longer a Dog”, but how would anyone make it in line with the other puns…?

I wasn’t fully aware of how the dog AU was connected to the main Wan series because I haven’t really looked at it after I quit due to aggregators, but…that was a nice fakeout. Also, I was concerned as to whether this was going to be a full-length ep or a short…seems like it’s a 10 minute short, so I have more chances of taking it.

…oh gosh, that pose! I remember it! I worked on this one! (Now that I know it’s a TV short, I won’t cover future episodes, but I want to at least finish this one because I started it.)

I think they added a bit there. I remember Kunikida’s and Yosano’s were in the manga, but not the other members or Fukuzawa going “the wind is smiling” + Kenji working on the roof at the start.

Oh yeahhhhhhhhhhhhh, I remember Rampo. I think I had to approximate how he would say stuff with Pocky in his mouth, but Slug (current scanlator) went the extra mile and stuck food in his mouth to do the same panel.

It seems to make a short ep., they strung a bunch of the chapters together. Also, I don’t think we ever found out what Yosano’s puddle was and that was…probably for the better.

Oh yeah…I think I remember this one.

Now I remember it! I remember having fun explaining what a youkan was.

Whoa, Higuchi scrapped the SFX! That wasn’t in the original…

The ED seems to be an Atsushi cover of Namae wo Yobu yo.

Oh noooooooooooo! The flower gazing episode! That’s the one I remember most, because I was trying to figure out how to translate 移動 while making it smooth-sounding English…(I remember the final result was something like, “Move! Move~!”

Dr Stone: Stone Wars 1

Final debut! Let’s go~!

The last time this series was on the air was about 1 year ago. I can remember that far back…

I like how that recap is framed as Gen talking to the kids.

Senku overcomes every problem with science.

…not much to comment on here.

5 notes · View notes

cowboycassini · 3 years

Text

Partners

Chapter Three

Rating: soft M

Characters: Jotopa Kaid, Toby

Warnings/Tags: mutual pining intensifies even more, clone culture, talk of being abandoned, force fuckery

Summary: Anakin Skywalker calls up his friend and fellow Knight Jotopa Kaid to go "on a little mission" with clone captain Toby and basically ruins their lives.

Word Count: about 6k

Chapter One, Chapter Two

---Mission Continues---

First day of officer training, and he was a wreck. Of his batch, only himself and Pyro were selected for commissions. The rest, Joker, Checkmate, Lucky, Kit, Snow, Blue, all showing exceptional promise, had gone into their own specialized training regiments. Toby (still then called Worrier) and Pyro also had their specializations, but heaped on top was the added burden of command.

The young man Jotopa watched did not think he was cut out for the job.

This was a memory of a dream. A dream of a memory. She remembered it as vividly as she had then and was as helpless to stop herself from sinking into him as she had been then. Jotopa did not recognize this exact instance, but there were so many; it would have been impossible to remember them all.

Worrier at this age was long and lanky, his limbs this side of gangly as muscles began to fill in the spaces between his stretch-marked skin and bones. His hair was regulation cut, a wisp of beard and mustache attempting to play around his jaw and lip at this late hour. The day must have been a particularly stressful one: the honey brown of his eyes was hooded and downcast, an expression she learned to recognize as anxiety and unhappiness. A shock of sympathy rushed through her, and not for the first time, she wished for the ability to pull the young man into her arms, to comfort and soothe.

His younger brother Pyro had an arm draped around his hunched shoulders, soulful dark eyes tired and pinched with worry. They leaned into each other, their curly heads touching, one drawing strength from the other and sending it back just as effortlessly as breathing.

“It’ll be alright, ori’vod. We’ll be alright. Don’t worry. You can do this: I know you can,” Pyro was murmuring soothingly, a familiar refrain that had taken on the cadence of a lullaby and often lulled Jotopa to sleep when she was wakeful. Worrier’s mouth twisted, head dipping before he shrugged out of his brother’s embrace. Pyro’s shock lanced through him, crackling across his skin like a bolt from a training blaster to the chest. Worrier grimaced, tugged Pyro down to lay side by side on his bunk.

“You’re right, vod’ika, of course y’are. I can do this.” He said, forcing levity and assurance in his voice when he felt none, when there was none. He couldn’t do this, not under his own strength, but for Pyro, he would.

Jotopa slowly opened her eyes, the ever-present sound of rain still ringing in her ears even as the cacophony of the rainforest raced to replace it. She breathed out, slowly, deeply, took stock of her surroundings. Cassios-7. Beneath the starboard wing of her powerless ship in the makeshift camp set up by clone Captain Toby. A bedroll surrounded by netting infested with bugs. Most of note, the man curled around her, face nestled in the space between her shoulder and the back of her neck, not quite snoring. She swallowed and decided to focus on the pair of fox-like creatures moving across the tree line opposite her. She thought they must be going for the stream hidden not six paces into the dense thicket. Four days ago, she and the man who had his muscled arm draped across her middle found it as they had scouted out the immediate area around their ship and camp. She truly had not pegged him for a cuddler, and every night since the first morning she awoke cradled in his arms, she was somehow more surprised than the night preceding.

Her lips twitched up as she remembered the exasperation that flickered over his handsome face and through his Force signature when she told him she could sense the water was safe to drink. He had squatted down, the sunlight dappling attractively over his bare shoulders, and pulled out the water sampling kit. Eyebrow raised in unabashed challenge, he had asked if she didn’t mind if he double-checked, and she didn’t think she did the best job of concealing her immense amusement as she agreed that it was best he do so.

Hard to believe he was the same person from her dreams. Jotopa pulled her upper lip into her mouth, worried it with her teeth as a frown knit the space between her eyebrows. It didn’t make sense, she thought as she absently ran her palm up the captain’s warm forearm, eyes still carefully following the fox duo. The pair were a sleek sapphire, their tails bushy, their undercoats a lush emerald. Though not as long-limbed as Loth cats, something about the way they moved, about the glint around those dainty ink-black paws, convinced Jotopa that they were several orders of magnitude more dangerous. Her captain was much the same, Jotopa concluded as, with a deft leap, one of the agile blue and green foxes snatched a bird out of the sky.

With a sigh of regret, she slipped out of the warm shelter of his arms and stood to stretch. Her eyes were drawn to the sleeping man at her feet, sweeping her eyes over him briefly as she thought about the day ahead. Though the past four days had seen them very busy, Jotopa couldn’t help but feel slightly impatient. The jungle was dense, and both she and her captain well knew the dangers of setting off without having a game plan or without having any navigational methods or bearings to help them should they get lost. She thought she was doing a good job of keeping her desire to leave the confines of the camp to herself. It couldn’t be said that she did not enjoy Toby’s company. The opposite was true: she enjoyed his company too much. Watching him as he went about his self-appointed duties, the play of light and movement of muscle beneath his sweat-slicked skin quickly established itself as her favorite hobby. Jotopa did her best not to indulge, but his smiles often drew her helplessly in, little gifts he gave generously, and she was addicted to the way his eyes lit in surprise and pleasure when she did something he supposed out of the ordinary.

But all of that fueled her conviction that they leave this place as soon as possible, so when she could tear her eyes from him, she found herself pacing the edges of the tree line, waiting for her captain to finish his preparations. The coil of tension that burned hot in her navel each time Toby set eyes on her form turned into a restless energy that she was eager to put to use in the jungle. If she were able, Jotopa would gather every atom of frustration into her legs and leap over the treetops and directly to the top of the spire. But she would wait for him. She would wait for him to be ready.

As all their usual navigation methods were unavailable, they were forced to fall back on more primitive means. It was something they were both well versed in, and even luckier for them both, that Captain Toby, being a scout, was especially suited. Jotopa smiled at the sleeping clone captain, let herself admire his plush lips framed by beard stubble, the broad set of his shoulders, and the groove of muscles cut into his abdomen in the predawn light. Just visible above where the waistband of his blacks slung low across his hips, she could just barely make out streaking bands of stretch marks, the dark trail of hair that had its origin at his belly button, and she clenched her fingers to dispel the desire to reach down and touch them. There were things to do, and she needed to do them before he caught her gawking at him.

Jotopa silently slipped out of the netting, noting as she did that the foxes were gone, and the only evidence of their presence was the bloody remains of their breakfast just barely visible in the tall grass. A soft laugh escaped her, and she shook her head and made for the center of the clearing, where it was quickly becoming her habit to perform her morning stretching and katas before Captain Toby woke.

Face turned towards the sun, Jotopa spread her arms wide and simply listened to the world around her for a long moment. Master D’Aleric always said that a Jedi’s first duty was to the Force and that no Jedi worth his or her salt was ever remiss in taking the first minutes of the day in grounding themselves as deeply as they could in its presence. Jotopa took his lessons to heart, and for her, on Cassios-7, that meant greeting the sun as it crested the horizon and began to peek between the tangle of tree trunks shyly.

The sunlight was warm on already warm skin as she slowly dropped her arms. On her shoulders, her leather vest sat uncomfortably, and Jotopa, tired and irritated already from wearing it in the unrelenting heat and fearing to chafe if she continued, shed it with little thought. Feeling much cooler without the stifling weight of her vest, Jotopa quickly fell into her first form and, mind clear, allowed herself to think about the dream she’d had.

For nearly half her life, her dreams and idle imaginings had been haunted by images and scenes of a life for which she had no reference but of which she was sure was real. Worrier and his brothers were sometimes more real to her than the memories of her fellow younglings in the creche. When sadness threatened, when self-doubt tapped at her ragged shields with poison-tipped claws, she was as likely to ground herself by humming batch songs and snatches of cadence she picked up in her dreams as she was the songs of her covert or the techniques taught to her by Master D’Aleric. Without ever having spoken to him, he saved her life more times than he could ever know.

But it was one thing to know, in a distant way, that you were connected to someone. It was alright when the longing to see him face to face was an ache in her chest that she knew could never be satisfied. How could she fulfill that desire when she knew nothing of him besides his name and number, besides the fact that he was one unforgettable face lost among a sea of identical faces? It was an impossible dream. And it was safe. The longing she felt. The desire that grew with the long years, her feelings and regard for a man she was so certain she would never, ever in her lifetime meet. A Sentinel could not afford to dwell on what could never be, and Jotopa strove to be the best in her generation. The darkness was growing, and even though every dream, every glimpse of his face filled her with light, she couldn’t afford to falter, not when there was so much work left undone.

Jotopa grappled with the shock of Worrier as she often saw him in her dreams and Toby as he was now. The reality of it. The way everything about him was even more overwhelming than in her dreams. For so long, she had only known him by the name his fellow cadets had given him. It burned, it clawed at her insides when the Council disseminated the alert, and she was finally able to provide a proper label for her honey-eyed Worrier: clone trooper. Slave soldier. Born to die in service to the Republic. And the Jedi were the ones chosen to lead them to their deaths. It grated. It grated in a way, Jotopa couldn’t wholly attribute to her morals.

Often, she wanted to reach out for him and stopped herself. Since the war began, she dreamed of him less. His mind was often out of her reach, and she hated how much that worried her. But worse was the crippling relief every time she felt his mind return from whatever deep levels of unconsciousness from which it had been trapped and reach out towards her. It wasn’t fair, but then, she thought as she swiftly moved from the easier katas and into the more intensive forms, life didn’t promise fairness. Her fault for getting attached to a man she wholly couldn’t have. That he was safe was important. That she had an opportunity to spend time with him, to admi- (study, she corrected herself hastily, sternly, cursing when her concentration broke, and she flubbed her backflip).

She landed as gracefully as she could and rubbed her temples in irritation. The hairs on the back of her neck rose, and seconds later, the sounds of Toby shifting as he woke reached her. Jotopa sucked her teeth, stomping off towards the tree line. She needed a stick to run through her katas. That would help her concentrate, she decided firmly. And worst-case scenario, she could beat herself to death with it.

—

A week back in the welcoming bosom of the Jedi Temple was enough to convince Jotopa that she did not belong here anymore. The man who called himself her Master was kind enough to show her to their old suite of rooms. He’d maintained them all these years, and the fact that he one day intended to come to collect her like a suit left overlong at the dry cleaner’s hung heavy in every breath of recycled air she pulled into her lungs.

The young woman that the young cadet, once known as Worrier but now called Toby, watched was a stranger in her own home. This was a familiar dream. A well-trod memory. The dimensions of these rooms were as familiar to him as his sleeping tube on Kamino. He thought she must often think of it, like picking at a scab until it formed a scar that she in turn was unable to leave off.

Sometimes, she remembered her room best, the moment she walked in and saw that everything had been left just as it was when she left it years ago. She would touch the desk, run a nail-bitten finger through the fine layer of dust, a thick feeling rising in her throat and hurting her so much the echo of it resonated in his skin and bones when he woke. At times, she would linger in the kitchen; eyes fixed on objects he didn’t know the purpose of.

But today was different. Today, she went down the road less traveled. Today, she spoke to her Master.

D’Aleric was always on the couch, waiting for her. The Chiss Jedi Master was friendly, kind, and compassionate. Tousled, close-cropped hair. Warm, bone-crushing hugs that never failed to make her feel safe and wanted. Robes that smelled of home. That was the Master D’Aleric young Kadijah knew. That was the Master D’Aleric who sat waiting patiently for Jotopa Kaid. When they alighted upon her, his crimson eyes were sympathetic, as if she had disappointed him somehow, and it galled Toby every time that it seemed as if she agreed with the assessment. If he were able, he would gather her up and protect her from the honeyed poison of her Master’s soft gaze.

“Come sit, my dear. Let us review the basics.”

Pack rubbing a blister on his naked back and feeling more vulnerable than he had since the first time he jumped, with nothing but his blacks and a breather clamped between clenched teeth, into the raging Kaminoan sea, Toby followed Jotopa as she slowly picked a path through the dense jungle.

If Joker could see him now, even he, who never heard a joke that could crack the impenetrable fortress of his face, would be doubled over in laughter at his predicament. Many were the nights that Pyro and Checkmate crawled into his tube, the three of them passing snippets of bawdy one-liners they’d picked up from other batches and squads between each other, weaving them into ridiculous stories and jokes that made even Snow pause, and there was hardly anything that could put him off his dinner.

How many times had Joker told the three of them, and him especially, that if they spent less time karking around, maybe they’d know the regs frontways and backways like he did, eh?

Well, tell a guy something enough, and it finally gets through his thick head. His batchers would be proud. Four days had come and gone since their arrival on Cassios-7, and Toby had not spent the time idle. Since his hardy little Jetii woke the day after their crash landing, he made it his business to learn the immediate area around them like the back of his hand. It was vital for him to have an excellent working knowledge of his surroundings. With so many unknowns about their circumstances and with so much of their equipment currently inoperable, his Knight would be depending on him to know what to do and where to go at all times.

So it was with surprise and no small amount of pleasure when on the second full day of their stranding, she joined him in familiarizing herself with the lay of the land. She was skilled, nearly as proficient as he was in many tasks. The little beauty could count paces and subtly make landmarks with the best of his vode, better than some. The thought didn’t rankle. There was a familiarity about her actions that he couldn’t quite figure out, something about her besides her staggering beauty that drew him up short time and again. But that was fine. Patience was instilled in him by the finest trainers in the galaxy. Sooner or later, it would come to him. What was bothersome was her casual dependence, her easy confidence in the Force, and if he caught himself challenging her assumptions here and there just to see her dark eyes narrow or the quick upturn of her plush lips, well, that was his business.

Knight Kaid. Jotopa. She wanted him to call her Jotopa. Jotopa. Jotopa.

Jotopa was a ball of impatient energy. It became clear to him early on that she was content with a more rudimentary setup than he was. Though he supposed with a derisive snort, if he had some mystical power to depend upon, he would be too. Given how much she seemed to enjoy pressing him on more trivial matters, Toby expected a struggle when he cautiously broached the subject of pausing for a few days in their camp. But she surprised him again, looking up at him with an earnest expression in her lovely brown eyes, listening to his argument with a focus that made his skin feel hot, and then agreeing so readily he later questioned why he even brought it up. The way she looked at him when she said she trusted him to know when it was time to go still made his heart thud painfully in his chest. Despite the resolution he made then and there to stay as far away from her as possible, Toby nevertheless found himself gravitating to her side by the time the sun was setting.

Despite herself, by the third day, she was pacing the bounds of the camp, her eyes scanning the sky, her hands on her shapely hips, head tilted towards the barely visible Temple spire as if she could summon the artifact to her side through sheer will alone. Toby spent many unproductive hours hidden away in high vantage points watching her. Jotopa was up even earlier than he was, but he often woke in time to watch her doing her stretches and her exercises. He would lay, sleepy and still, and admire the graceful movements of her body, so much different than any Jetiise he had ever seen before. Later in the day, he would contrast her early morning serenity with the way she delicately balanced on the balls of her feet, looking like she would sprint off into the jungle at any moment. It was a curious thing that the only reason she did not was that he asked it of her.

But regardless of how much different she was from other Jetiise, despite how she made him feel things he wasn’t supposed to be feeling, Toby figured she was still just a Jetii. He knew how to deal with those.

Joker would most definitely be laughing his ass off at his big brother Worrier right now.

In his defense, she caught him off guard: hers were the first pair of breasts he had ever seen (not that the fact made him any less certain they were the most perfect and well-formed in the entire galaxy). And it was morning. He hadn’t even had his ration bar yet, for Prime’s sake! It wasn’t like he’d never seen breasts before; he’d gotten the same thorough sex education and anatomy flash training as every other cadet. And even if he didn’t spend nearly all of his conscious hours on missions, he was sure he wouldn't spend his time as some of his vode did, trawling the clone intranet looking at all the illegal porn there was available; there were always more entertaining things to do than that. But even if he had, nothing could’ve prepared him for the sight of her practically half-naked. He’d gawked at her like a dumb shiny, not sure what he should look at more: those parted full lips, her breasts in that ridiculous mesh top, those abs, those toned abs, or the alluring flare of her hips, aware in a profound way that the true answer was that he shouldn’t look at any of it.

Hard not to remember the way her dark areolas had tightened into tight little buds the longer he stared at her, thrusting so enticingly through her top that even now, his mouth watered. He was absolutely, miserably sure her skin was the softest thing he would never be allowed to touch and try as he might; Toby couldn’t figure where this conviction came from. At some point, she licked her lips (a move he followed with incredible attention) and asked him what his plans were for the day. He mentally thanked her for being precise. Maker only knew what might have come out of his mouth if she had been a little vaguer. Instead, through the rush of blood heading towards his groin, he’d told her that he was ready to make an attempt on the Temple. A lie, that. But one he would take to his grave.

If he thought about it, Toby knew he could easily recall innumerable situations that were much worse than this. Trekking through the jungle half-naked with only a knife to defend himself didn’t even touch his top twenty shitlist. Was it hot as fuck? Yes, even in halfsies, he was sweating his balls off, and even though every glimpse of her skin did nothing but reroute precious blood from his brain, Toby knew shedding the leather vest was the wiser decision. Was it noisy? Yes, loud as fuck, but it was nothing compared to 79’s when the Wolfpack rolled in fresh from a victory or in the Guard barracks that time Hound got ahold of contraband whiskey. And none of it so loud as cannons firing. He wasn’t the biggest fan of being without blasters and rifle, but Toby wouldn’t count himself an ARC trooper of any worth if he couldn’t adapt to that little handicap. Oh, and the biggest kicker: had he worked with worse Jetiise before? That was a resounding fuck, yes. He might have only known Jotopa Kaid for four and a half days, but in that time, she’d shown herself to have more honor, compassion, and grit than any Jetiise he’d ever had the misfortune of laying eyes on.

Just ahead of him, she stopped and crouched beside the trunk of a tree whose outstretched branches drooped with long, wispy vines. Carefully, Toby settled in next to her. The trees surrounding them created a thick canopy that obscured the sky, and the occasional shafts of light that pierced the quiet gloom were of indeterminate quality and impossible to tell time with. Among the trees, the air was hot and still, and at first, he wondered why his Jetii decided to break at this tree, but then he felt the slightest hint of a breeze cooling the sweat on his skin and picked up the faint movement of the draping vines. In the low light, their matching grins shone.

“I thought I sensed this break in the trees about a kilometer back, but I wanted to confirm,” she whispered. Toby tilted his head.

“How could you sense a change like that, sir?” He asked, curious despite himself. Though her expression remained the same, Toby was suddenly convinced she was self-conscious. She laughed softly, shrugging.

“The density of the Living Force changes in a clearing. It doesn’t empty, of course, because a clearing isn’t devoid of life, but it’s a different quality, you could say.” She cut her eyes away, cupped her elbows in her hands. “It was a hunch, anyway.”

Carefully, Toby parted the curtain of vines. “It was a good hunch, Jo,” he said as he looked out onto the clearing, taking note of the position of the sun and estimating that it was mid-morning. “The spire looks even closer from here.” At her indrawn breath, he looked back at her, only to find her staring at him open-mouthed.

“Sir? Are you alright?” He asked even as he shifted his position to check her for injuries. It hadn’t sounded like a noise of pain, but it couldn’t hurt to be sure, especially when they had limited medical supplies. She gently caught his hands in hers, halting his inspection.

“I’m alright, Toby,” she said, making a face. Toby cocked his head, eyebrows furrowing at this entirely new expression. A tendril of worry curled in his stomach, and he quickly reviewed their conversation, trying to locate his error so he could improve and she would smile at him again.

“Did I do something wrong?” He asked when he drew a blank, and he tried to keep the anxiety out of his tone, choosing instead to stroke the pad of one thumb across the palm of her hand. Her’s were much softer than his by far, but even still, he felt the gun calluses on her fingers, felt the way work had toughened the skin. He didn’t need to take his gloves off for that: she often touched him on his arm and shoulder enough to sear her touch into his memory.

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” she said vehemently, wresting one hand from him so she could rest it on his chest above his heart. “I’m sorry if I gave you that impression. You surprised me, is all.” The knot in his stomach loosened, a lazy warmth spreading through his chest at her touch.

“I surprised you?” He asked with a raised eyebrow. She smiled, all teasing eyes and bright teeth, and the anxious knot dissolved completely. When she moved to slide past him and enter the clearing, he let her.

“You often do, Captain. It’s part of why I like you so much.” She threw over her shoulder, and Toby rolled his eyes, glad neither that she nor his batch brothers could see his dopey grin.

---

By late afternoon, Jotopa decided that either they were lost or something was afoot. The spire that seemed so close in the meadow at mid-morning break was not closer for all their walking. Several times over the hours, she or Toby would stop and carefully climb to the top of a tree and regain their bearings, assure themselves they had not gotten lost or were going in circles. Each time they confirmed the same facts: they were on the correct heading, and the Temple looked to be no more than a kilometer or two away.

And yet, the sun was beginning to tilt downwards, and they were no closer to the Temple than they were that morning.

Honestly, she should have noticed sooner. Any other mission, any other time, Jotopa knew she would have, but ever since her encounter with Toby in camp before they set off, her concentration had been...scattered.

A more mature Jedi would have already brushed the incident off. The entire thing wouldn’t have even been rated as being anything of note. What did it matter, someone like Master D’Aleric or Master Lidan would have reasoned, that her clone trooper was attracted to her? The galaxy was teeming with life and full of possibilities. Was she so immature as to think that she was immune to being looked at, and was she so weak that she couldn’t simply shrug it off, release what discomfort she might feel from his interest into the Force, and focus her attention on the task at hand? She was a Sentinel, a Jedi who lived among the people and the shadows and brought light to them. Discomfort was as much a part of her day-to-day as eating and drinking.

It was only that his interest didn’t make her uncomfortable. It scared her, but only because she had convinced herself that what she felt was internal and limited to her own foolishness. So to be frozen on the spot, heart in her throat, while he looked at her with an expression that was so nakedly hungry, she would have known exactly what he wanted even if his Force signature wasn’t a billowing swirl of desire and frustration. It made thinking difficult. Certainly, Jotopa didn’t think she could be faulted for that, but even so, she was supposed to be better than this. She expected better of herself than this.

With a soft sigh, the young Sentinel looked out of the corner of her eye at her companion. The armor he had worn when departing the Resolute reminded her in many ways of the armor members of her covert wore, and she supposed that made sense. He and all his vode were clones of the Mandalorian Jango Fett, and the irony of that was not lost to her. His pauldron, helmet, and chest plates had bolstered his aura of lethality. Looking at him now, with only his vambraces and gauntlets on, the calm, watchful expression on his face as they picked their way through the undergrowth, the careful way he marked trees as they went, Jotopa decided he looked more dangerous and more natural, like this.

When they broke through a tangle of trees and found themselves in a small copse, Jotopa called for a break.

“We’re not going in circles, but we’re not making any progress,” Toby said, getting straight to the point as he rummaged through their pack and tossed her water and a ration bar. Jotopa smiled around her swig of water. There was a tree, larger than all the others and twice as wide, its bark peeling in long grey strips, whose roots pushed out of the rich black soil and created a small depression of moss and leaves. Jotopa dropped her hands to her belt, intending to use her kama as a makeshift blanket. Behind her, Toby made a choked noise.

“A-Ah, let me,” he said, and in a few practiced motions, his kama was drawn from his hips and draped across the depression. Jotopa blinked.

“Oh. Thank you.” She said, gingerly sitting. His kama was made of pliable synth leather, the black painted with thick blue stripes. There were faint scratches in the material and what she recognized as blaster burns that had been lovingly cleaned and repaired. In the Force, the kama sang with his signature. Jotopa smiled softly and looked up to where Toby had taken a seat on a root to her left.

“So,” Toby started, rolling his water bottle between his hands, a pensive look on his sweaty face, “how is it that we’ve been walking through this jungle all day, and we’re no closer to the temple than when we started?”

Jotopa shrugged.

“It’s probably some Force osik. It usually is, in my experience.” She said casually, reaching out to pluck a large pink blossom and study it. It was large, requiring two hands to hold it, the petals rich and shot through with deep blue veins. The stamens pulsed purple in the dappled light above. Toby made a strangled noise in the back of his throat. She thought it might have been a mix of disbelief and irritation. Jotops hid her smile behind the flower.

“Sir, you don’t even know what that,” he pulled in a deep breath and seemed to reevaluate himself. When he continued, his tone was more level but no less skeptical, “Force osik, huh? An astute observation.”

“Hmm, I know. It’s almost like we’re on a planet steeped in Force energy, and our mission was to retrieve a powerful artifact of unknown power.” She said dryly.

“Point taken,” he said with a chuckle, and she ducked her head, unwilling to let him see how much his laugh affected her. It wasn’t fair how much she liked him. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair.

“Where did you learn Mando’a?” He eventually asked in a tentative tone. Jotopa smiled down at the flower in her lap, stroked the soft petals between her fingers.

“My mother taught me. I’m a foundling.” She said and felt his confusion roll over her skin even before he voiced his question.

“A foundling? But,” he trailed off at her self-deprecating laugh, and she did not see the frown on his face, lost as she now was in her memories.

“It’s a little confusing, I know. When I was thirteen, my Master traded me for intel. It was the right thing to do: he saved an entire village of children with what he learned. I was given to a Mandalorian who adopted me, and I threw myself completely into that life. Until my Master returned for me three or so years later.”

The copse was still amongst the shrieking of the birds. Jotopa could hear him shifting, feel his confusion and an undercurrent of some emotion that ran too fast for her to grasp or understand.

“He gave you away, and you went back with him. Why?” His incredulous, angry tone made her laugh. The answer was so obvious.

“The Force, of course. It told me that if I became a Jedi, I would find something extraordinary.”

He furrowed his brow.

“Did you?” She looked up at him, smiled softly.

“Yes. I did.”

He huffed, feeling his face heat at her earnest expression. When she looked at him like that, he was never sure what to do, and it didn’t help that her story was too much like his dreams for comfort. Bad enough that it made his blood simmer in his dreams; in person, he was nearly boiling with rage. It didn’t take a genius to see how much it hurt to be traded away like that, like something that didn’t matter, and even if she excused it or said that it was the right thing to do, Toby knew in his guts, she was wrong. She deserved better than that.

“Well, whatever it was you found, I hope it was worth it to you, Jo,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck with one hand and offering to help her stand with the other. She took it with a grateful smile, and he pulled her up effortlessly.

“I think we should head back to camp. What do you think?” She asked. He ran his fingers through his sweaty hair and considered a moment before nodding.

“Think so. If we’re lucky, we won’t encounter any night predators.” He said pessimistically, and she laughed.

“Looking on the bright side, I see. On the way back, would you mind telling me a little about yourself, please?” She asked, holding her arms out for the pack. He shot her an affronted look and shouldered it. Slightly put out, she checked their position and headed in the direction of the camp.

Grimacing, Toby walked behind her in silence for several minutes. It wasn’t that he didn’t think she could carry the weight, far from it, but it was just a small pack. He was used to carrying much heavier loads, and he hadn’t scratched the reserves of his stamina yet. Though she wasn’t making a big deal out of it, he could tell by the set of her shoulders and the way the air around her seemed a little dimmer that she was still upset, and that wasn’t something he wanted.

“I was in the Coruscant Guard before being assigned to General Skywalker,” he said, squinting up at the trees ahead. Her interest, of a different flavor than usual, lighter but still good, still very good, tingled over his skin. His mouth twitched up.

“Oh? What was that like?” She asked, and he didn’t know why he was surprised by how genuine the question was. It tied his tongue into knots.

“Ahh. Noisy.” He said, vastly understating the hell that was Guard service, and she giggled, which was something he liked very much. They walked in companionable silence for some distance.

“What about Anakin? Does he treat you well?” She asked just as they broke through the trees and entered their camp. The question drew Toby up short, and instead, he commented on what great time they made: the sun was still out.

“So it is. Chalk that up to more Force osik, huh?” Jotopa said teasingly. Toby nodded distractedly and let her pull him by the hand into camp.

#sw fic #sw oc #swtcw fanfic #clone trooper oc #jedi oc #star wars oc #black woman oc

2 notes · View notes

panickedvulture · 6 years

Text

Bittersweet [002]

Bittersweet is a con-artist!Brendon Urie x barista!Reader AU, and also a “We know each other but we don’t know we know each other” AU.

Warnings: Profanity, Kleptomania, Con-Artist AU, TØP and MCR cameos

A/n: NGL I wrote this a while ago. I have the next part written (it’s to bridge a time gap so it’s not too content heavy). Part four, however...is where the real fun will begin...Enjoy :)

For once Tyler's doing work today, partially because you haven’t been able to take your eyes off your phone since you left your apartment. You walked to your station, didn’t even put your apron on for a good twenty minutes, and so far you’ve only been interrupted by Josh’s confused stares and Tyler asking how to make everything.

You’ve spent the day revisiting your high-school colleague’s Instagrams, looking for you and the guy who insisted you call “Clyde” in the background of every photo. It started with going to Jenna’s account, searching through her followers for some names guaranteed to have been there, then going ham with your detective skills.

And yet you haven’t found anything. Maybe it’s good there’s no photo evidence (as far as you know) of you and Clyde, considering you did manage to snatch a couple thousand dollars worth of jewelry which you gasp recalling considering you’re fairly certain you chucked your clothes off you the second you walked into your bedroom….you’ll have to look for those later.

You have managed to find—“Y/n, Toro alert,” Tyler interrupts your thoughts, plucking your phone from your hands and leaving you stunned and against the counter. He forces a smile before slipping your phone in his back pocket and nudging you toward your latest customer. You instinctively smile at them and go to ask for their order, but after processing who they are all you can do is choke on some laughter.

“Oh! Brendon! Uh, hi…what can I get for ya?”

He’s back again, Brendon Urie, just as formally dressed today as he was yesterday albeit a little less put together. He’s wearing a black collared shirt and black jeans. Pretty much the same thing but there’s an irritated look to his face.

He twists his lips to the side as he looks to his phone and mumbles, “Sorry.”

You take his silence to look off into space and think back to the morning you’ve had.

Your boss Ray knocks you out of your state when he slips past you, saying bye then waving to you all working before walking out the door, his things packed up in his bag and his jacket hung over his forearm.

“Heh, sorry.” Brendon puts his phone down on the counter and looks up to the menu. “Uh, the usual?”

You suck your lip in between your teeth. It takes him a moment to realize he hasn’t been as much of a regular as he thinks he has so he calrifies with, “Uh, Sickly Strawberry.” He grins and pats his fingers against the counter. “Please…”

“Ah, I see. It’s the usual now is it?”

“Heh, as far as I can see.”

Brendon watches you grab a cup, and after you hold up a medium and make sure he’s fine with the size (he is, so he nods), he watches you scribble his name on the side in blue ink. Last time it was red, and he feels a bit foolish for being so bummed by the change but he doesn’t bring it up.

“One Sickly Strawberry coming right up!” You’re as enthusiastic as you can be. Honestly, his presence helps that, and you go about making his drink while he stays at the counter.

He doesn’t move, not even when Tyler comes and stands beside you. Tyler leans, elbow against the cool (and sticky) countertop while he speaks softly and nods toward the door. “Ray’s gone you know, I’ll take care of this.” You hum, hoping he’ll elaborate, and you suppose he does when he takes advantage of your loose grip on the cup and takes it for himself. He moves it enough to remove it from your grasp but keeps it right where it’s supposed to be as the machine does its work. “That strawberry drink, right?”

You raise a brow at him and he lowers his, looking at you from behind them. “Uh…yeah?” You say, then sputter, “it’s fine, I got it.” You grab the cup but he doesn’t budge.

He instead lowers his voice and drops his chin to his chest. “Don’t worry about it Y/n. You’ve been out of it all day.” You give in, letting him take the cup and he goes to continue the job and blend the strawberries with the ice and milk.

When he has nothing to do but watch the blades do their work he reaches into his pocket and hands you your phone. He spares you a glance, then goes back to keeping them trained on the drink.

You stay beside him and take a peek at Brendon, on his phone and swaying softly in his spot. Then your phone buzzes. The sensation against your hand is enough to make you jump and elicit a look off worry from Tyler, but after giving him a shaky smile you check your notifications.

A message from Clyde.

Tyler starts tapping his foot to the beat of some song too soft and far-off, especially with the blender right by your ears. You watch him push himself to his tip-toes and stretch back, slyly trying to get a glimpse at your screen.

Normally you would question what inspired him to work so efficiently, but first of all, it’s not like you’ve ever gotten the chance to because it’s far from normal. And second of all your mind’s too damn occupied with the events of last night to really care. It was an adrenaline pumping affair infused with sexual tension and the feeling of holding more than your net-worth in one hand. And suddenly the sky’s dim today, the clouds hang over casting the world in a gloom, and that makes it the perfect environment for a packed crowd. Knowing it’s no longer Halloween or the month of October makes it slightly bearable, but a lot more boring.

Tyler chuckles, “Guess it worked out with you and Clyde.”

“Huh?” You look at your screen. Huh, you forgot that fast. Well, that single message has jumped up to seven. You quirk a brow and open your messages. You can only get a peek at the paragraphs before looking away and blinking in surprise. They have a frantic attitude attached to all of them. You squeeze your eyes shut and groan.

“No wonder you’re so occupied.”

You groan again and whine softly, stamping your foot to the ground and twisting your body to face Tyler as he tops the drink with whipped cream. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I don’t know….just that you two seem to have a lot to talk about.”

“Yeah…” You sigh.

“So…” There’s a click as he pops the lid onto Brendon’s drink, still standing there and typing away at his phone. Tyler keeps his voice down and nods over at him. “Still want me to be your wingman with him?”

You scoff and Tyler presses his lips together tight, shrugging. “Of course I do!” You say and he blinks in surprise.

“Oh?”

You nod rapidly. “That,” you roll your eyes and spit, “Clyde guy wasn’t even a fling.”

“I…see?” You walk around Tyler and grab the drink. He keeps his eyes squinted and on you, trying to figure out what exactly could be going on between you two. He doesn’t want to prod and despite knowing you for such a short time he believes you when you say it’s not a fling, but doesn’t quite trust the idea of nothing going on. Nothing at all.

You slam the drink down in front of Brendon, keeping your fingers wrapped around the bottom of the cup. Brendon picks his head up, almost slipping his phone into his back pocket before noticing your whole body and eyes still turned to Tyler.

“It was not a fling.” You assure him.

“Not a fling,” he repeats, stepping closer. You nod and smile, not bothering to stop him when he takes your phone and skims over the messages. Your arm is still stretched out to Brendon as you wait for him to take the drink.

It takes a moment to occur to you that this Clyde fellow’s learned more about you in one night than Tyler has in his months (and then some) of working alongside you. You see Tyler wince and scrunch his face up in confusion, and it’s then when you remember that whole, stealing jewelry from Jenna’s house thing. Those messages aren’t just the messages of some college boy you made the mistake of hanging out with. They’re messages that potentially reveal burglary, which is nice.

Your chest puffs up and you snatch your phone from Tyler, leaving him staring down with a blank look. He runs his tongue over his lips and chuckles, “So he’s just a clingy madman isn’t he?”

“Total, absolute, madman.” You and Tyler laugh about it for a moment, including poor Brendon in an awkward moment of silence as you and Tyler smile knowingly at each other.

Brendon lets out a chuckle, getting both of your attention.

“Oh!” Tyler hisses, pushing your body aside, but your arm still stretches to give Brendon his drink. “Sorry about that.” Tyler sliders over Ray’s iPad and starts up the transaction process. He sniffles and juts his thumb over to point at you. “Body problems.”

You flash Brendon a forced smile before kicking Tyler’s foot. He jumps a bit and looks down. Before holding his hand out for Brendon, expecting a “Card?” Tyler asks, but Brendon just pulls out some cash. Tyler nods, impressed, then mutters “That’ll do,” before giving Brendon his change.

Brendon’s still yet to grab his drunk. He just chuckles, “Boy problems?” Then wraps his hand around the top of the cup but he doesn’t make any effort to take it away so you stay in your awkward, stretched out position and continue to grip the cup.

You roll your eyes. “Yeah it’s just—”

“She met herself a madman last night.”

Brendon furrows his brows at you then looks to Tyler for an explanation. You see Brendon’s eyes widen and his jaw goes slack for a second before shutting tight, and he resorts to letting his eyes bounce all over the rest of Tyler, just not his face.

“Eh, you remember Jenna Black from school, right?”

You and Brendon look to Tyler for an explanation. Brendon looks put on the spot—you guess he is--then he looks down at himself, nodding softly and mumbling.

“Sorry,” Tyler says and points at him, “but you are Brendon Urie, right?” Tyler goes to fist-bump Brendon, which Brendon participates in as he slowly starts to remember—seems to at least.

“Yeah yeah, Tyler Joseph, Edmond’s class?” He blows out a breath, “Geesh, sorry.” He cracks a smile and scratches his head. “ Just been a bit out of it lately, how you doing man?” Brendon crosses his arms tight over his chest, so you pull the drink closer to you, nudging Tyler to the left to give yourself some room.

You watch their small exchange, a smile on your face despite not being included. Before Tyler gets a chance to spill his recent life story, Brendon points to you with furrowed brows and bites into his lip. You shake your head at him and hold up a hand in some sort of defense, already knowing where he’s heading. “You wouldn’t remember me.” He looks defeated at your insistence. “Our paths just didn’t cross is all.”

Brendon groans, “God, I feel so—so weird. It’s like everything’s just coming back to me now…Sorry, I uh—”

“Seriously. You wouldn’t remember me.” You look to Tyler, hoping he’ll back you up.

Truth be told you had your fair share of interactions with Brendon. You ran into each other at a few parties, got stuck together during a few school projects too. But you often gave him the go-ahead to slack off and let you do the work. There was nothing wrong with a few deducted points for citing poor sources as long as it was your mistake and your mistake alone. And your partner often got to mooch off of your frequent success—your work was usually a much-needed boost to their grade.

Even Tyler seems to recall some of your real interactions but says, “She’s right. She spent all of her time picking on me (“I did not!”) and talking to the trees.” He smiles.

You scoff and mumble, “Think you’re talking about yourself there Ty…”

Brendon points at you. “Actually…did we have, science, together? Maybe? And uh—drama?”

You nod and Brendon’s face lights up. Tyler looks down at the counter as he taps his fingers against it from his index to his pinkie, then he repeats.

“Huh…” Brendon finally takes his drink, then you’re standing identical to Tyler with your fingers mindlessly tapping to an invisible beat. “Y/n Y/l/n?” He laughs seeing how surprised you are.

“Uh, yeah,” you manage.

Brendon hums to himself and looks between you and Tyler. “Weird. Heh…never pegged you two as friends.”

Tyler looks at you but shakes his head. “Well we—”

“Aren’t really friends.” Tyler deflates and sucks in a breath but forces a smile. You don’t really notice the way he holds his breath and strains to act natural—or maybe you do but figure it’s nothing. You continue, “If anything we hate each other.” Okay so maybe that was a bit harsh and not exactly true.

Tyler leans forward and holds a finger up. “Used to hate each other.” He wraps an arm around your shoulders and pulls you into his side. “But we’re beeeesssstttt friends now, aren’t we Y/n?” He smiles and you scoff in playful disgust, trying to push him off you. Brendon nods and smiles at your strange display of friendship.

“What was that?” Josh asks, leaning back and popping his head through the small doorway separating the two stations that make up the food and drink assembling section of the cafe. He raises his brows and presses his chin to his chest, looking at Tyler with wide eyes and a soft smile.

Tyler smiles back at Josh, the balls of his cheeks rising so high that creases start to form in his forehead. “Nothing!” He chirps, and Josh looks at you for reassurance. You know he’s joking but damn it’s actually kind of intimidating.

You smile and wave, “Just talking about how you’re Tyler’s best friend Joshy! Nothing to worry about!” Josh presses his lips together and shrugs, pleased with your response, then goes back to work.

Brendon furrows his brows. “Josh, as in Josh Dun?” You nod and Brendon huffs. He scratches the back of his head, “Geesh, the whole gang’s back together huh?”

Tyler takes his hand from your shoulder and instead cups his hands together in front of his crotch. He does a strange and over-exaggerated bow as he spits out, “Ab-so-lutely!” Well, you were never really apart of the ‘gang’ but it’s nice just thinking of all the shenanigans you three could have gotten in if you and Tyler actually got along and didn’t want to slit each other’s throats…anyways!

Tyler looks back to the machines, then looks past Brendon where a mother and her young daughter have just come in. Tyler puts his hands on your shoulders and pushes you out from behind the counter. “You know what—lots of work to do. Uh, Y/, Brendon, how about you two catch up for a bit?”

Brendon looks more willing then you, as he shrugs and takes a step away from the counter to wait for you. You still try to force out a response to reference your confusion with Tyler’s suddenness, but can’t. By the time you figure out what you could say, he’s pushed you out, untied the apron from your waist, and begun waving you goodbye.

“Wh-Tyler!” You try going back but Tyler stands in front of the counter’s only entrance. He smiles at you, then puts a hand on your shoulder and pushes you back some more.

You give in when you see the new customers approach the counter, and Brendon grins at you. He takes a deep breath and twists his middle around to look for a place to sit.

“Uh…shall we?” He asks, jutting his thumb over his shoulder. You look at Tyler and he flashes a manic smile then goes back to scribbling down the mother’s order. You nod and sway your hands forward, gesturing for Brendon to lead the way.

And he does, bringing you to that quaint and comforting little corner of the cafe with the leather seats and working outlets. You stray behind him, and wait for him to pick a seat—he picks the one against the wall—before slipping into the one across him.

He immediately pulls out his phone and looks down to it on his lap. He takes a deep breath and shakes his head softly before putting it back in its place. Then he smiles at you and cups his hands around his drink. You smile back but can’t bring yourself to look at him or look into his eyes—your relationship just isn’t there yet.

You suddenly long to be back behind the counter, but you look and see Tyler working just fine which means you can’t make the excuse that he needs you desperately as a way to get out of this situation.

“So…how have uh…how’ve you been?” He smiles softly, tilting his head to the side.

You hum, trying to think up an answer. How have you been? Well, you have an apartment, you have a steady job—you have not been outed out to the police for stealing Mrs. Black’s jewelry, so you suppose you’re, “Alright. I’m alright, I guess.” You laugh at that and Brendon joins you.

“That’s good…that’s good…so what are you up to nowadays? You know, besides, working here.”

“Well, I’m afraid to say that’s all I really have going for me. Well, that and school.”

His eyes widen and he nods his head up, “Oh! Where do you go?”

“Online. You know, I was just never really a fan of social interaction at least not to the extent of a school setting…” you crack a smile and look down at your lap, “As you may have guessed from my high school days.”

Brendon leans back and takes a sip of his drink before setting it down. He looks to the ceiling and smiles, “Oh, I remember. From what I remember of you at least.”

“Well if you don’t remember much then that’s proof enough, isn’t it?”

“Heh, I guess it is…”

He looks over to Tyler but keeps his body still. His body goes stiff too as he holds his breath and clenches his jaw a bit. “So…you and…? Dea—”

“Tyler?”

Brendon forces a smile and nods rapidly “Yeah yeah, Tyler, you and Tyler!” He gulps and settles down. “So uhm…You and Tyler, what’s going on with you, and Mr. Joseph.” Brendon rolls his eyes at himself—he slipped up in a way he beats himself up about because he clearly doesn’t understand how he could have lost track so quickly, he was having a conversation with the guy less than five minutes ago, reminiscing and such. How could he have mistaken his name so easily?

You shrug his slip-up off and chalk it up to his preppiness shining through. You hate to admit something so small has made your respect dwindle a bit, but you can’t help but feel he’s only pretending to care (or trying to) as a way to make up for his tendency to be an ass in high school. He was never an ass to you, and you’re not really sure if he was ever an ass to others, but it’s the type of persona he exuded when you saw him walking through the halls looking like Sarah Orzechowski's’ trophy husband.

“What, was our banter back there not enough for you?” You look back to Tyler, still working and unable to pay attention to you.

Brendon shrugs. “No, I just—I couldn’t tell if you guys were best friends or if you hated each other’s guts and were doing that thing where you’re just acting like your best friends out of spite.”

“Oh. Well, that makes sense. No we uh, we’re friends? I think?” You tuck some hair behind your ear and look out through the window.

“You think?”

“Well…I never really gave him the time of day until yesterday.”

Brendon Ooohs in curiosity like a schoolboy and sits up. “What happened yesterday?”

Should you tell him? Could you tell him? It’s not like he’d give a damn, right?

“Eh. I just took him to this party.”

He slumps back down in his chair, going “Oh,” somewhat dissatisfied. Then his eyes bounce back and forth between you and Tyler, and he sits up again and lets out a more enthusiastic, “Oh!” He looks a bit worried too. “What-where, which party?”

“Just a girl from school.”

He nods, hoping you’ll continue. After all, he went to school with you.

“Jenna Black? Remember her?” Brendon smiles eerily then nods. “Well, remember that ‘Mad-Man’ Tyler was going on about earlier? Well, he was at her party last night. It’s a weird thing to bond over but it’s the only thing me and him have ever bonded over so I guess I should just enjoy it, right?”

Brendon huffs, “Yeah. Uhm, what made him a ‘mad-man’? Was he just a douche or something?” He takes a sip and hums as he finds the chill overwhelming.

You raise your brows, waiting to see when the brain freeze has blown over, and when he gives you a thumbs up you elaborate. “Well, he wasn’t really a mad-man. He wasn’t mean or gropey or anything…Well…” You suppose he could have been considered that. You see a flash of worry on Brendon’s face when you hesitate but you don’t give him time to express his worry further. “Anyways, he respected my boundaries. He was just a little weird.”

Whether or not a man proposing you become his partner-in-crime is a mad-man or exhilarating is subjective. The problem is you can’t figure out which side you’re on.

As you ponder on this and allow Brendon to try and visualize the situation you’ve presented, you pull out your phone and get a look at Clyde’s texts. He shut up a few minutes ago. You scroll all the way to the top where he graced your screen for the first time by sending a strawberry emoji. What follows is paragraphs of ranging size and the content is not what you could imagine coming out of Clyde’s mouth. Well, you only ever saw the man in top-notch skeleton makeup, you could hardly make out the shape of his lips.

You squint as you look to the messages, and seeing how you’re preoccupied Brendon takes his phone out. You don’t know how to respond to Clyde. He goes on about mistakes and contingency plans, double checking to see if you’re really up for anything.

I’m not gonna bail on you. Chill out

You send and exit your messages but he right on top of that, responding with:

Just making sure.

You look up at Brendon and flash him a smile, waving your phone around a bit. “Sorry—mad-man.” He chuckles nervously and nods then goes back to doing what he was doing, looking down at his phone with his hand pressed over his lips.

As long as its all in good fun. No smuggling a man’s fortune just to pig out, alright?

Brendon nods and you peak up at him. Then Clyde responds.

All in good fun. Legal, but fun.

You crack a smile. There’s nowhere else to go from there’s so you set your phone screen-down on the table. You take a breath. “Sorry, about that.”

Brendon purses his lips and nods, typing away but keeping his eyes on you. “You gave the man-man your phone number?” He chuckles and bites into his lip as he reads over what he writes. You stretch your neck and get the faintest peak at his screen, but the messages are unreadable anyhow. Besides, whatever paragraph he was working on he deletes with a few quick taps against the ‘delete’ key.

You roll your eyes. “It’s more like he bugged me to give it to him.”

“…And you gave in?”

Yeah, you kinda did. But still, you try to explain yourself. “Well, I mean—”

“Heh, Y/n, you don’t give your number to some guy you call a ‘mad-man.’” You get where he’s coming from and you have a feeling in no time you’ll be cursing yourself for your foolishness but what can you say? Boredom is a bitch and you’re at the epitome of it.

“I’ll keep you updated.”

After you conclude your conversation with Clyde Brendon seems to finish his and is more focused on your conversation. You don’t stay sat in the quaint corner for too long—unless thirty minutes in a coffee-shop is long but oh well.

Tyler’s getting on well behind the counter and though the crowd is a large one it builds steadily. He’s given enough time in-between drinks to relax and observe you and Brendon when he’s not bugging Josh, but you don’t find yourself returning the attention.

Your talk with Brendon is nice. It’s simple and ordinary, but nice. It’s the things you would normally catch up on, like asking if you’ve heard any news about this person or that person from your class and going back to talk crap about the teachers you dealt with and the things you saw. There’s some sweeter reminiscing too, like going back to share memories of your science teacher and that riot of a class.

Brendon finished his drink some time ago and has been going back to play with the straw, forgetting every time that there’s nothing in the cup to slosh around.

You look over to see Tyler, his side facing you as he looks past the threshold ‘officially’ separating your station and Josh’s. Then you look through the window, people walking past at hurried paces—a group of ‘kids’ in particular, one rushing forward to hold the door open for the rest.

You scoot your chair back, gripping the seat. “I uhm, I should probably go…” You stand and Brendon stands too.

“Oh yeah yeah no problem,” he says, looking down and around the floor to make sure he hasn’t dropped anything. Then he smiles at you and your hand, stretched out and hoping he’ll shake it. He chuckles a bit at the formal-nature of your goodbye, but takes your hand and shakes it as he pushes his chair in.

You can’t think of anything else to do. You’ve already said your goodbye and there’d be no point in wishing him a good rest of his day (well, you could but it seems a bit too formal), so you go to slip on by him when he reaches out and wraps his hand around your wrist.

You think nothing of it—you don’t even jump—but he recoils almost as though your skin is hot to the touch and he hisses, “Sorry! I uhm, just—”

“Oh don’t worry about it.”

He nods his head up then continues, “I wanted to know uh, what time are you working…maybe?” He slips a hand in his back pocket and runs the other through his hair. “If you’re willing to share that is—I understand if you’re not.”

“Oh it’s fine! Uh, I always work around this time but if I’m not here to make your daily drink Tyler’s not so bad at it either evidently.” You gesture for his cup, empty with some white and pink staining the plastic sides.

He clicks his tongue. “Ah, I see. And I take it that going out for coffee wouldn’t be the most ideal way to spend your time off of work?”

You suck in a breath and shake your head. “Yeah, I get enough coffee in my veins.”

“So…”

You teeter between the toes and your heels, turning your nose up and giving Brendon a look of your side. You smirk too, “I haven’t had a good meal in a while.”

Brendon leans back, nodding softly. “Mmm…good to know, good to know—well listen, totally coincidental, but I got a good place I was looking to go to for some time, but you know, it can be a bit awkward going out to eat alone.”

You chuckle, “And what day were you planning on going to this place?”

He lowers his chin to his chest and points a finger at you. “Next mon—” You scrunch your nose up, “Tues—” You gently shake your head, “Wednesday?”

You nod rapidly, gently bouncing on your feet. “Wow—weird! I’m, totally free next Wednesday, how crazy is that?”

“I know, it’s just like the universe decided to line up!”

“Total coincidence!”

“Totally!” Brendon takes a deep breath then quickly runs his tongue over his lips. You look to the corner of your eye and spot Tyler, his head down low as he makes a drink but his eyes peeking up at you from behind his brows. He’s smiling too, and you smile back before looking to Brendon who claps his hands together. “So, I will pick you up? Maybe?”

You click your tongue and put your finger to your lips to think. “Maybe you should give me your number first? You know, so I can give you my address and such.”

“Perfect!” You clap your hands together then hold your hand out and wait for him to give you his phone. He does and you add yourself to his contacts. You send yourself a quick text and fight the urge to go back and take the quickest glimpse at his other messages--you want to see who from school he’s still in contact with is all. But thinking better of yourself you don’t. You lock his phone and hand it to him.

“Well…” He takes a look around the cafe, then does a sort of bow. “I will see you tomorrow? For my casual daily cup of Sickly Strawberry that is.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

You go back to your station to share your usual space with Tyler and Brendon makes his way out of the cafe. He looks around and snaps his finger into a point at Tyler as some sort of goodbye. Brendon nearly stumbles and almost runs into an incoming customer but his general gracefulness saves him. After he’s out of sight you feel Tyler’s arm brush against yours. You stand side by side against the counter, looking over the heads of the customers approaching the line.

“I’m really good at this wing-man thing,” he says with a sly smile.

You roll your eyes and playfully slap his arm with the back of your hand before walking off.

He stomps and holds his hands out to his side as he faces you. “You’re not even gonna tell me when’s the date?”

#brendon urie imagine #brendon urie imagines #brendon urie smut #brendon urie x reader #panic! at the disco imagine #au #bittersweet #fluff #imagine

69 notes · View notes

ty-talks-comics · 5 years

Text

Best of DC: Week of July 3rd, 2019

Best of this Week: DCeased #3 - Tom Taylor, Trevor Hairsine, Stefano Gaudiano, Rain Beredo and Saida Temofonte

Hope is dead.

Tim Drake, Dick Grayson and Bruce Wayne lie dead on the floor of the Batcave as Alfred makes his way to the Batwing, unable to mourn their deaths and wanting to help stop the zombie threat. Harley Quinn finally gets the catharsis that’s she’s been looking for by pumping an infected Joker full of lead. With her face full of glee, it soon turns into a look of determination as Batgirl, Catwoman, Huntress and Batwoman are set upon her, bloody and rabid with infection.

These first few scenes are horrific and shocking to the extent of which this infection is spreading. The Batfamily is normally the most prepared for things like this to happen, but in one fell swoop, they’re almost all gone. That’s the brilliance of Tom Taylor’s plotting with this story, the inability to know what the hell is going to happen next. Batman would have come up with a cure, a plan, but with Tim and Dick being infected and him unable to fully prevent himself from succumbing to his wounds, the world's greatest planner is no longer a factor. Barbara would have been an excellent second, but any hope of that was lost the moment she showed up covered in blood.

The world has turned to hell and even Superman can’t bring himself to smile or be hopeful as he looked into the faces of friends and companions, their eyes replaced with the rabid rage of infection and none of the love that they once had. He removes the infected from the Daily Planet office and shores up defenses on the outside before promising Jonthan that everything will be okay before he flies back home to Smallville.

The best way to describe Clark’s emotions as he makes his way through the Planet is hope being replaced by despair. The captions say it best, the hardest part of dealing with the infected is dissociating. These people are no longer Clark’s colleagues. They’re rageful monsters bent on killing, thankfully none of them can make a scratch on him, but the internal scars are far more painful than anything on the outside. Even when he promises that he’ll be back to his son, there’s this underlying feeling of doubt. We don’t know that he will, he doesn’t know that he will, but he’s Superman, right? He has to have hope?

Elsewhere, Garth and Mera are working to make his magic stronger before noticing the sky grow darker, dark with blood. They watch as Aquaman tears through Atlantis’ warriors, infecting and spilling their blood as it flows through the water and gets Garth. Mera barely escapes, but the fear on her face is palpable, she knows that all is lost.

Even Atlantis isn’t impervious to all of this, granted it’s because Aquaman was attacked by infected diving out of a boat, but that doesn’t make things any less terrifying. This also helps us to learn that the infection can spread through blood and given how fast Aquaman and Tempest can swim through water, and how far spread the infection already is, nothing is safe.

On his way to Smallville, Superman does his best to save anyone not infected along the way. He catches up to Jefferson Pierce, aka Black Lightning, and his daughters, telling them to head to the planet before reaching the home of the Kents. Martha is okay, but Jon… Superman makes one final act of kindness before flying his mother to safety, leaving any hope that he might have had in the barn with his father.

That’s what I loved about this book. It is hopelessly nihilistic because of how tragic everything is and how all of it can even break Superman. Hairsine’s art invokes the feeling of terror that I felt the first time I watched 28 Days Later, seeing these ridiculously fast and violent killing machines tear through everything in their path. The shading on everything makes the inkers inks feel even more dark and bleak especially as Aquaman is slicing through Atlantis in a nice double page spread with a black background.

DCeased is definitely much better than I initially gave it credit for. With Hairsine’s art and Taylor’s bleak writing, this is definitely worth checking out, high recommend!

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

It finally seems like the Batfamily troubles have finally met Batgirl.

Runner Up: Batgirl #36 - Mairghread Scott, Paul Pelletier, Norm Rapmund, Hi-Fi and AndWorld Design

For the last few months, Batgirl has gone through something of a transformation in the way that her stories are being told. Back in 2015 she received an upgraded costume and status quo during the DCYou era, but with that came this unfortunate lack of seriousness and gravitas as she remained hopeful through all of her problems. She had a good support network and being the owner of a multimillion dollar start-up, she was absolutely set.

But that era came and went, DC Rebirth happened and I don’t know, her books just sort of foundered to me because they lacked the importance of other Bat-books, until Mairghread Scott took over. She’s been putting Batgirl through the ringer and has been bringing her back down to the gritty and hard nature that the rest of the Batfamily has been going through and this issue is no different.

After being put up for an auction to see who would finally kill Batgirl. Barbara escapes, defeating the Terrible Trio’s Shark as the auction house catches fire, trapping everyone inside. Batgirl fights her way through to a metal gate that she can maybe cut her way through, but The Trios Vulture throws a knife into her back. She states that letting these people go would be bad for business and that Batgirl sealed their fates when she escaped their trap. Vulture is willing to let herself and many others die to protect her reputation.

This kind of callousness stuns Batgirl because villains usually want to live, but Vulture is absolutely on the side of culling weakness from the world and the Terrible Trio failing to kill Batgirl is something she can’t abide and will take everyone down with her. Fox betrays Vulture, allowing Batgirl to free everyone, including the carrion villain. Shark, however, is unable to move after his beating and Batgirl, still wanting to be hopeful and helpful tries to save him. With everything crumbling down around them, Shark pushes her out of the way of debris, killing him as Batgirl watches on.

As she crawls out of the ruins, nose bloody and face full of dejection, she heads to a meeting that she was supposed to attend in order to talk with her investors. Her friend Alysia, who she placed in charge in case she wasn’t able to attend meetings, tells her that the investors forced her to make a decision that ultimately led to Babs being pushed out of the company. Now, broke and homeless, Barbara’s thoughts drift to Shark and in the face of everything, she still sees positivity.

She gets her stuff from Jason Bard, the guy who she worked with on a Mayoral campaign or something along those lines with in earlier issues, and seeing how caring he’s become since their last few encounters, she actually kind of sees him as a friend. Black Canary hooks her up with a dingy apartment in The Narrows, but Babs sees it as a good start, thinking of Shark and Jason, even as her life is collapsing, she still has hope.

I know earlier I said that the stories prior to this also had hope as the ultimate ending to everything, but at the same time, Barbara also had a safety net of things to fall back on. She’s not calling on Bruce to help her, she doesn’t have Dick to confide in and she doesn’t have the money that she used to have and to her, that is perfectly fine.

With her Year of the Villain tie-in coming up soon, I can’t wait to see where things go for her.

#comics #dc #dc comics #dceased #superman #harley quinn #aquaman #mera #tom taylor #trevor hairsine #batgirl #barbara gordon #mairghread scott #paul pelletier

5 notes · View notes

realtransfacts · 6 years

Text

Alternatives to Self Harm

Copying down the text from [here] in case that forum gets deleted or something!

This is good advice so I felt it was worth saving.

Alternatives for when you're feeling angry or restless:

Scribble on photos of people in magazines

Viciously stab an orange

Throw an apple/pair of socks against the wall

Have a pillow fight with the wall

Scream very loudly

Tear apart newspapers, photos, or magazines

Go to the gym, dance, exercise

Listen to music and sing along loudly

Draw a picture of what is making you angry

Beat up a stuffed bear

Pop bubble wrap

Pop balloons

Splatter paint

Scribble on a piece of paper until the whole page is black

Filling a piece of paper with drawing cross hatches

Throw darts at a dartboard

Go for a run

Write your feelings on paper then rip it up

Use stress relievers

Build a fort of pillows and then destroy it

Throw ice cubes at the bathtub wall, at a tree, etc

Get out a fine tooth comb and vigorously brush the fur of a stuffed animal (but use gentle vigor)

Slash an empty plastic soda bottle or a piece of heavy cardboard or an old shirt or sock

Make a soft cloth doll to represent the things you are angry at; cut and tear it instead of yourself

Flatten aluminium cans for recycling, seeing how fast you can go

On a sketch or photo of yourself, mark in red ink what you want to do. Cut and tear the picture

Break sticks

Cut up fruits

Make yourself as comfortable as possible

Stomp around in heavy shoes

Play handball or tennis

Yell at what you are breaking and tell it why you are angry, hurt, upset, etc.

Buy a cheap plate and decorate it with markers, stickers, cut outs from magazines, words, images, what ever that expresses your pain and sadness and when you're done, smash it. (Please be careful when doing this)

The Calm Jar (Fill a mason jar or similar with colored water and glitter. When feeling upset or angry you can shake it to disturb the glitter and focus on that until the glitter settles.)

Blow up a balloon and pop it

Alternatives that will give you a sensation (other than pain) without harming yourself:

Hold ice in your hands, against your arm, or in your mouth

Run your hands under freezing cold water

Snap a rubber band or hair band against your wrist

Clap your hands until it stings

Wax your legs

Drink freezing cold water

Splash your face with cold water

Put PVA/Elmer's glue on your hands then peel it off

Massage where you want to hurt yourself

Take a hot shower/bath

Jump up and down to get some sensation in your feet

Write or paint on yourself

Arm wrestle with a member of your family

Take a cold bath

Bite into a hot pepper or chew a piece of ginger root

Rub liniment under your nose

Put tiger balm on the places you want to cut. (Tiger balm is a muscle relaxant cream that induces a tingly sensation. You can find it in most health food stores and vitamin stores.)

Alternatives that will distract you or take up time:

Say “I’ll self harm in fifteen minutes if I still want to” and keep going for periods of fifteen minutes until the urge fades

Color your hair

Count up to ten getting louder until you are screaming

Sing on the karaoke machine

Complete something you’ve been putting off

Take up a new hobby

Make a cup of tea

Tell and laugh at jokes

Play solitaire

Count up to 500 or 1000

Surf the net

Make as many words out of your full name as possible

Count ceiling tiles or lights

Search ridiculous things on the web

Colour coordinate your wardrobe

Play with toys, such as a slinky

Go to the park and play on the swings

Call up an old friend

Go "people watching"

Carry safe, rather than sharp, things in your pockets

Do school work

Play a musical instrument

Watch TV or a movie

Paint your nails

Alphabetize your CDs or books

Cook

Make origami to occupy your hands

Doodle on sheets of paper

Dress up or try on old clothes

Play computer games or painting programs, such as photoshop

Write out lyrics to your favorite song

Play a sport

Read a book/magazine

Do a crossword

Draw a comic strip

Make a chain link out of paper counting the hours or days you've been self harm free using pretty colored paper

Knit, sew, or make a necklace

Make 'scoobies' - braid pieces of plastic or lace, to keep your hands busy

Buy a plant and take care of it

Hunt for things on eBay or Amazon

Browse the forums

Go shopping

Memorize a poem with meaning

Learn to swear in another language

Look up words in a dictionary

Play hide-and-seek with your siblings

Go outside and watch the clouds roll by

Plan a party

Find out if any concerts will be in your area

Make your own dance routine

Trace your hand on a piece of paper; on your thumb, write something you like to look at; on your index finger, write something you like to touch; on your middle finger, write your favorite scent; on your ring finger, write something you like the taste of; on your pinky finger, write something you like to listen to; on your palm, write something you like about yourself

Plan regular activities for your most difficult time of day

Finish homework before it's due

Take a break from mental processing

Notice black and white thinking

Get out on your own, get away from the stress

Go on YouTube

Make a scrapbook

Colour in a picture or colouring book.

Make a phone list of people you can call for support. Allow yourself to use it.

Pay attention to your breathing (breath slowly, in through your nose and out through your mouth)

Pay attention to the rhythmic motions of your body (walking, stretching, etc.)

Learn HALT signals (hungry, angry, lonely, tired)

Choose a random object, like a paper clip, and try to list 30 different uses for it

Pick a subject and research it on the web - alternatively, pick something to research and then keep clicking on links, trying to get as far away from the original topic as you can.

Take a small step towards a goal you have.

Re-organize your room

Name all of your soft toys

Play the A-Z game (Pick a category ie. Animals, and think of an animal for every letter of the alphabet

Have a lush warm bubble bath with candles!

Do some knitting

Do some house hold chores

Alternatives that are completely bizarre. At the least, you'll have a laugh:

Crawl on all fours and bark like a dog or another animal

Run around outside screaming

Laugh for no reason whatsoever

Make funny faces in a mirror

Without turning orange, self tan

Pluck your eyebrows

Put faces on apples, oranges, or other sorts of food

Go to the zoo and name all of the animals

Color on the walls

Blow bubbles

Pull weeds in the garden

Alternatives for when you're feeling guilty, sad, or lonely:

Congratulate yourself on each minute you go without self harming

Draw or paint

Look at the sky

Instead of punishing yourself by self harming, punish yourself by not self harming

Call a friend and ask for company

Buy a cuddly toy

Give someone a hug with a smile

Put a face mask on

Watch a favorite TV show or movie

Eat something ridiculously sweet

Remember a happy moment and relive it for a while in your head

Treat yourself to some chocolate

Try to imagine the future and plan things you want to do

Look at things that are special to you

Compliment someone else

Make sculptures

Watch fish

Youtube funny videos!

Let yourself cry

Play with a pet

Have or give a massage

Imagine yourself living in a perfect home and describe it in your mind

If you're religious, read the bible or pray

Light a candle and watch the flame (but please be careful)

Go chat in the chat room

Allow yourself to cry; crying is a healthy release of emotion

Accept a gift from a friend

Carry tokens to remind you of peaceful comforting things/people

Take a hot bath with bath oil or bubbles

Curl up under a comforter with hot cocoa and a good book

Make affirmation tapes inside you that are good, kind, gentle (Sometimes you can do this by writing down the negative thoughts and then physically re-writing them into positive messages)

Make a tray of special treats and tuck yourself into bed with it and watch TV or read

Write words in the sand for them to be washed away

Alternatives for when you're feeling panicky or scared:

“See, hear and feel”-5 things, then 4, then 3 and countdown to one which will make you focus on your surroundings and will calm you down

Listen to soothing music; have a CD with motivational songs that you can listen to

Meditate or do yoga

Name all of your soft toys

Hug a pillow or soft toy

Hyper focus on something

Do a “reality check list” – write down all the things you can list about where you are now (e.g. It is the 9th November 2004, I’m in a room and everything is going to be alright)

With permission, give someone a hug

Drink herbal tea

Crunch ice

Hug a tree

Go for a walk if it's safe to do so

Feel your pulse to prove you're alive

Go outside and attempt to catch butterflies or lizards

Put your feet firmly on the floor

Accept where you are in the process. Beating yourself up, only makes it worse

Touch something familiar/safeLeave the room

Lay on your back in bed comfortably (eyes closed), and breathe in for 4, hold for 2, out for 4, hold for 2. Make sure to fill your belly up with air, not your chest. If your shoulders are going up, keep working on it. When you're comfortable breathing, put your hand on your belly and rub up and down in time with your breathing. If your mind wanders to other things, move it back to focusing ONLY on the synchronized movement of your hand and breathing.

Give yourself permission to.... (Keep it safe)

Create a safe place for yourself and take yourself there

Lay on the grass and watch the clouds. You can try to make pictures with them too.

Light a candle and watch the flame

Alternatives that will hopefully make you think twice about harming yourself:

Think about how you don’t want scars

Treat yourself nicely

Remember that you don’t have to hurt yourself just because you're thinking about self harm

Create a safe place to go

Acknowledge that self harm is harmful behavior: say “I want to hurt myself” rather than “I want to cut”

Repeat to yourself “I don’t deserve to be hurt” even if you don’t believe it

Remember that you always have the choice not to cut: it’s up to you what you do

Think about how you may feel guilty after self harming

Remind yourself that the urge to self harm is impulsive: you will only feel like cutting for short bursts of time

Avoid temptation

Get your friends to make you friendship bracelets: wear them around your wrists to remind you of them when you want to cut

Be with other people

Make your own list of things to do instead of self harm

Make a list of your positive character traits

Be nice to your family, who in return, will hopefully be nice to you

Put a band-aid on the area where you'd like to self harm

Recognize and acknowledge the choices you have NOW

Pay attention to the changes needed to make you feel safe

Notice "choices" versus "dilemmas"

Lose the "should-could-have to" words. Try... "What if"

Kiss the places you want to SH or kiss the places you have healing wounds. It can be a reminder that you care about myself and that you don't want this

Choose your way of thinking, try to resist following old thinking patterns

The Butterfly Project- draw a butterfly on the place(s) that you would self harm and if the butterfly fades without self-harming, it means it has lived and flown away, giving a sense of achievement. Whereas if you do self-harm with the butterfly there; you will have to wash it off. If that does happen, you can start again by drawing a new one on. You can name the butterfly after someone you love, or have a loved one draw it for you.

Write the name of a loved one [a friend, family member, or anyone else who cares about you] and write their name where you want to self harm. When you go to self harm remember how much they care and wouldn't want you to harm yourself.

Think about what you would say to a friend who was struggling with the same things you are and try to be a good friend to yourself.

Make a bracelet out duct tape, and put a line on it every day (Or any period of time) you go without self harm. When it's full of lines, take it off and make a chain out of all the bracelets and hang it up somewhere where you can be reminded of your great progress.

Alternatives that give the illusion of seeing something similar to blood:

Draw on yourself with a red pen or body paint, or go to a site such as this, where you 'cut' the screen (be aware that some users may find this triggering, so view with caution)

Cover yourself with plasters where you want to cut

Give yourself a henna or fake tattoo

Make “wounds” with makeup, like lipstick

Take a small bottle of liquid red food coloring and warm it slightly by dropping it into a cup of hot water for a few minutes. Uncap the bottle and press its tip against the place you want to cut. Draw the bottle in a cutting motion while squeezing it slightly to let the food color trickle out.

Draw on the areas you want to cut using ice that you've made by dropping six or seven drops of red food color into each of the ice-cube tray wells.

Paint yourself with red tempera paint.

'Cut' your skin with nail polish (it feels cold, but it's hard to get off)

Use red food colouring on your skin

Alternatives to help you sort through your feelings:

Phone a friend and talk to them

Make a collage of how you feel

Negotiate with yourself

Identify what is hurting so bad that you need to express it in this way

Write your feelings in a diary

Free write (Write down whatever you're thinking at that moment, even if it doesn't make sense)

Make lists of everything such as blessings in your life

Make a notebook of song lyrics that you relate to

Call a hotline

Write a letter to someone telling them how you feel (but you don’t have to send it if you decide not to)

Start a grateful journal where everyday you write down three: good things that happened/ things that you accomplished/ are grateful for/ made you smile. Make sure the journal is strictly for positive things. Then when you feel down you can go back and look at it.

Books:

Bodies Under Siege: Self-Mutilation and Body Modification in Culture and Psychiatry By Armando R. Favazza

Bodily Harm: The Breakthrough Healing Program for Self-Injurers By Karen Conterio

A Bright Red Scream: Self-Mutilation and the Language of Pain By Marilee Strong

Cutting: Understanding and Overcoming Self-Mutilation By Steven Levekron

The Scarred Soul: Understanding & Ending Self-Inflicted Violence By Tracy Alderman

Secret Scars: Uncovering and Understanding the Addiction of Self-Injury By V.J. Turner

Self Injury: Psychotherapy with People Who Engage in Self-Inflicted Violence By Robin Connors

Skin Game: A Cutter’s Memoir By Caroline Kettlewell

Women and Self-Harm: Understanding, Coping, and Healing from Self-Mutilation By Gerrilyn Smith

Women Living with Self-Injury By Jane Wegscheider Hyman

Stopping the Pain: A Workbook for Teens Who Cut & Self-Injure

#self harm #alternatives to self harm #self harm alternatives #life advice #general #not trans specific

166 notes · View notes

drabblemeister · 6 years

Text

Viking AU | the Red Hunter

Pairing: JayTim Notes: HAPPY BIRTHDAY @tanekore!!! I know you’ve been pining for more Viking AU and so I fell into an idea for a continuation to that first part that...I think only you and I have ever seen, LOL. I hope that you like this and that you have an absolutely wonderful day and that this helps feed your creative fire! <3 More Notes: For everyone else reading, all that needs to really be known is that Tim is on the run, under the impression that Bruce (and Dick and Damian respectively) think he is responsible for a death that seems to have Clan Drake written all over it. Since they’ve all taken a vow to not kill...well, this spells betrayal. ___

The stream frothed at the edges, the runoff catching against twigs and leaves and mulch. Songbirds exchanged staccato beats of warning, and Tim, swallowing against a lump in his throat, kept moving.

The water was freezing. It had flooded his boots hours ago, icy and searing, turning his feet and calves numb – but there could be hounds behind him and this was the only way to throw their scent. He wondered how far they’d chase him. How far he’d have to run.

How many hours has it been? It was past midday and the netted canopy of tree branches held him hostage from the sun. His skin felt cold, damp with sweat. He’d nicked himself on thorn-brush somewhere along the way, and the skin on his forearm itched.

How much longer can I keep going?

He knew the answer.

His lungs burned. His muscles ached. The blood-rush had long left him, and now, as he staggered about in the wild, legs sloshing against a freshwater flow, he found his thoughts fraying.

Where am I going to go?

It was a cold, dark thought.

He didn’t have anywhere to go. Ahead, there was forest. Trees, streams, and the Red Lake – which was dangerous. He wouldn’t be protected there; he wouldn’t be known. They’d take away his name – make him fight, like the bloodthirsty animals they were. Tim’s stomach curled.

And then he froze, his world-sense driving him to a halt as soon as he heard it – a long whistle, high-pitched and singing, just before contacting with a tree with a studded thud.

“Arrow…” Tim whispered, heart jackhammering. His head whirled as he searched for the source. For an archer. For anything. At the same time, his thoughts shifted a mile a minute. There shouldn’t be anyone here; it was the Midland, unless he’d followed the wrong stream, unless he was lost.

He felt hot. Above him, the birds had quieted. Tim felt the smallest threads of panic unwind because it was a saturating silence, one that weighed heavy, made his throat feel dry – and he was itching at his arm again, it was so red—

“Oi!” A voice, loud.

Tim snapped towards it. It sent the forest into chaos – a wild goose burst from the hedges, squawking and desperate. Another arrow sang loud enough that Tim squinted his eyes closed, a deafening ring in his ear. It had missed him by inches.

Another thud, as the arrow pegged a tree behind him, and then Tim’s eyes were open – then wide when he and the marksman met eyes.

Red paint, Tim thought. It was smeared across the other’s eyes, like a mask, and contrasted the deep black of the leather sheathing his chest, though the center bore the blood red crest of Red Lake – a scarlet bird taking flight.

Tim took a step backwards. He wasn’t sure how he looked, young and alone, dressed in western furs. The only ink he had was on his back, hidden from sight – not that it would mean anything to a Red, anyway.

They were Drake markings, and since that particular clan, save Tim, had perished – well, few people knew what the art actually meant.

Raising his hands, enough to show he had no weapon, Tim said, “I just wish to pass through.” His throat felt raw and his words came out scraped.

The stranger, not twenty paces away, shifted on his feet, half shrouded by shadow. He was tall, thick-shouldered, drawn with angles that spelled warrior. His hair had been shaved above his ears and the top, long grown, had been swept back into braids, woven with cherry-red string.

When he didn’t reply, Tim tried again, in Norseman tongue. It had been a while since he’d practiced these words, and his lips stumbled through – only, to be interrupted.

“Stop talking.”

Tim did. He tried to think, but his thoughts slipped from sharp to muddled, so much that he had to force himself to focus. He blinked. Licked his lips. Tried not to waver on his feet, though the stream water felt faster now – colder.

He’d seen the stranger come forward, and even though it had been slowly, and with intent, the approach happened quickly. It would have been silly to move, to try and leave. There was no place to go, and aside from that – the man had a bow. A longbow, Tim noted, absently, and at least ten daggers of varying sizes on his belt.

Tim had nothing.

When the Red used the corner of his bow to prod Tim’s furs out of the way, he learned as much. It was fear that pooled in Tim’s gut, paired with a numb feeling as he suddenly felt sluggish instead of alert.

Why did he ache this badly?

His arm felt like fire. Had he touched poison…?

Out of patience with being assessed, Tim lifted his eyes to meet the other’s. “Let me pass,” he said, urging cooler notes into his words. They worked on Dick, most times, when Tim wanted something.

This stranger, however, simply thought it was funny. Up close, Tim guessed they were of an age, which reminded him how much Drake he had in him; it felt like standing next to Bruce, overwhelmed by both stature and presence. His family had never been known as warriors, but they had the sight, and had been graced with cutting, blue eyes that sought to duplicate the colors of the sky.

The man dropped a hand and drew a blade, slow and with meaning. It made Tim remember all the things he’d heard about the Red Lake in one big sweeping rush – Bruce’s warnings that they never hesitated to kill, that they played games, that it made the hunt more fun.

So Tim stood stock-still as the blade twirled expertly between calloused fingers, surprised but unwilling to show it when the dagger was eventually handed to him.

“If you want something from me,” the Red stated, standing languidly at the edge of the stream, “earn it.”

Tim understood now. He was going to have to fight his way out. He was being given an opportunity – but also was at a handicap, legs aching and fevered as the rash on his arm had finally gotten into his bloodstream, and tch, because that meant he didn’t have time for this.

But, if anything, he was decent at compartmentalizing. To an extent, at least. He accepted the dagger and took a few steps forward, meeting the other along the shoreline, keeping his composure somehow, hiding his weaknesses, like he’d been taught, behind a straightened stance and narrowed eyes.

“If I defeat you, you’ll let me pass?” he asked, seeking and agreement.

The Red, with his dark hair and dark eyes, and darker, sun-drenched skin, offered a smirk. “Sure.”

In terms of small victories, Tim appreciated that the man didn’t think he could fight. Too little was said for the element of surprise, and Tim had won a fair share of sparring matches by pretending to be less than he was. This wasn’t quite the same, he knew – because no one picked fights against this particular tribe; they cheated, and didn’t have rules.

The dagger was well balanced, the handle of the leather worn. Tim considered another disadvantage: he couldn’t kill.

Focus, Tim thought, and he breathed in, centered himself, struggled to think of strategy and strategy alone. His vision spotted when he felt a flash of heat burn at the back of his neck, up through his temples and forehead. His legs felt heavy, so he’d rely on his core. More than any time he’d fought before – he needed to end this, quick.

The bow got tossed aside; Tim noted how far without really looking. It was useless in hand-to-hand, and Tim hated bloodsports, which is exactly what this was. The man tugged out a blade of his own – shorter and duller. His lips were quirked and his eyes glittered – this had his interest piqued, and on a better day, Tim would have been anxious to bring the stranger to his knees.

Tim cleared his throat, ignoring the damp of sweat on his back, in his hair. For what it was worth, the stranger hadn’t seemed to realize Tim’s state, which was either a blessing or a curse.

And then…

…the Red leapt. It was fast, even though he was so built, and when he came forward, Tim went on autopilot. So many hours grappling with Dick; so many times he’d successfully fought off Damian, who’d thought to take Tim by surprise.

And this – this wasn’t easy, but it wasn’t unfamiliar, either. So Tim discarded the blade, a quick flick towards the earth below him, imbedding it there – and shifted easily enough, catching the other’s outstretched arm while twisting his own body, using his centered weight to toss the other up and over his shoulder, and down, hard enough that the Red was forced to roll.

Then Tim was ducking, grabbing for the blade, ready for the Red to scramble up and double back, preparing to shuffle backwards – only the other man leapt at him low, tackling him flat, and Tim’s knife when sputtering sideways into long grass.

Tim rolled, just before the other’s full weight settled, pinning the man beneath him with just enough effort to reach for the longbow, which was only a hairsbreadth away. The Red was onto him though, and Tim noticed, with some degree of confusion, that his opponent had lost his weapon somewhere along the line as well.

“Nope,” the Red said, wrapping an arm around Tim’s waist and flinging him sideways, sending him a decent distance from the wooden arch of the bow. His side scraped against the gravel; his arm scalded, laced with a teeth-gritting pain that threw Tim’s concentration off and forced a stuttered sound from between his lips. He clawed at his arm violently and it burned beneath his touch.

“Well aren’t you a bundle of surprises,” the Red said, and he crept over Tim with the intent to pin him down, to rub it in Tim’s face, most likely, how easy that had been—

—but Tim was shaking, unable to help it, the heat finally having gotten to him, and the Red, confused, looked him up and down before he finally realized that Tim was gripping his arm tight enough to cause the skin to go white.

It was hard to tell if the look on the warrior’s face was curiosity or concern; as he dragged a leg over Tim’s torso, holding Tim down by the his weight and thighs alone, he made quick work of peeling Tim’s arms apart – which had Tim raking in air like his lungs had forgotten how to breathe.

“You managed to throw me,” the Red yanked Tim’s arm higher, so that it was nearly straight, to get a better look at the wound, “half dead from this?”

Tim could barely process pain in a way that it was growing more and more difficult to stay conscious. It wasn’t made easier by the weight of another man weighing down his abdomen, and Tim could barely make out the world around him through tear-blurred eyes and double vision.

And then, “How long?”

Tim had no idea what that meant.

A finger stabbed against the rash, bringing a sudden burst of pain-driven clarity as Tim gasped and threw his head back.

“How long has it been like this?” the stranger tried again.

Tim felt chills rack him; language was suddenly hard, he couldn’t grasp what he needed.

“Mor-ning?” he tried. His voice sounded miles away.

The Red cursed, and it was a dark word. In less than a moment he was shuffling, yanking Tim up to sit, running a finger along Tim’s jaw in order to tip his chin upwards. There eyes met, and Tim realized the other’s weren’t black, like he’d thought. Just some shadowed, dark-water color; an ocean tide during a storm, lost to light.

“Who do you belong to?” the Red questioned, tone urgent even if Tim couldn’t put together just what as being asked..

No one owned him. He was a Drake.

“I am…not…”

The Red seemed to know where he was going, and disagreed. “This will be a life-debt,” he pointed out, as if it was matter of fact. “If you wake, you’ll belong to me.”

Tim wanted to argue; felt it in his bones.

But then the man asked, “Do you want to live?”

The darkness was a consuming thing, chewing at the edges of his thoughts, devouring his sanity whole. The pain felt distant, the world felt like a faraway thing. It was a wonder, then, that Tim said, “Yes.” ______________

#jaytim #viking au #TK BDAY #ahhhh #thinking about Tim waking makes me giddy #and honestly i have no time to edit so let's just form a prayer circle

219 notes · View notes

sidpah · 6 years

Text

Mirage Part 1

Holding but one thing dear, I glance around taking in my last few particulars, storing up existence fodder for the next go round, when from a great cloud of sewer steam and taxi exhaust materializes an imposing mirage… Her feline grace bare, unclothed, riding a pale drift of clove smoke – A Devi creating, preserving, destroying, all without a single movement…

Drams of ambrosia pour from somewhere even higher than these sky-piercing glass-lingam rooftops to shower her swells of fallow lust; a thousand stunned countrymen are locked mid-commute, their destinations moments ago all-important, all-encompassing and now entirely forgotten… She runs a playful hand across hazy pink nipple and giggles – unaware of her growing horde of admirers.

It must be a sign! – A grainy photograph, an ad for perfume! An ad for the temptation of addiction – feeding our addiction to temptation… A pitchfork singeing the eye, loosed from flaming bow...

But how can I get down there? Even one Kaya into the great old celestial lightshow, I’m struck dumb by her limitless perfections laid bare… I feel blessed, even in this state of high-street marketplace confusion… I place a finger to open temple…

A resonant tone hums from every mouth that stands nearby, gaping without extending word of aid – Spiked rings of Sri Yantra surround each body like protective nets –

A car backfires, I wince, a thousand mandalas shatter into frantic ripples of panic – The ripples cascade upward where they shimmer the clouds and constellations – I lie, gaze anchored to the firmament, far above crumbling buildings into the same sky overlooking every city with a hum of migrating wings beating pulses in sync with my own… If I immerse myself in, all lines become phallic and all circles leak a tiny red dot upon white lace coverlet...

No mind can distinguish between fantasy and physicality, I once explained to a sullen stranger – I’m thinking of Olivia and I making love on a bridge over the unbridled current of a great blue-black ocean...

The Sun caroming, dispersed into a million glistening jewels of flame on the water’s crust, the reflected heat warming our bare skin... Images of our escapades flicker on brick storefronts… Sex in limousines, windows wide open spreading our screams like tails of red paint across the city – Mouth buried deep between her slick thighs in the bathroom of a snooty French restaurant; her bare ass on the ledge of a white marble sink, her fingers knotted in my hair grinding her pelvis in rhythm with the impatient knocking on the door – Fucking like feral cats in an alleyway, my back enmeshed with a pile of rancid black trash bags, empty cans rattle and clank…

“It’s so much better with rats scurrying round their ubiquitous shadowed homes,” this old alcohol-beaten professor used to tell all the girls, and all the gin-soaked sailors looking for an erotic word to get their pants off – Thrown into fits of the passion he could never find alone – Trash cans and bar bands singing a tune just for them… But I keep those images to myself. Instead, I’m jacking-off on this goddamn street corner to found photos of a lovely girl with hiked-skirt pressed flat against magazine gloss inches from my panting face… She’s lying on hardwood floor, smooth pink skin rolling beneath outlines of my dry chapped fingers… White shirt, mostly unbuttoned, tussled around sinuous midriff, musky perfume evaporates in heat ripples off the concrete – Heart pumps, stomach churns, sweat beads, cock ejaculates just as hard – My hands and her arched belly merge as spilt ink in gossamer waters – caressed by the other until both water and ink dissolve in a fresh creation naked and straddling an invisible lover’s neck…

Oh, fated Ixion, I too must share your fiery revolving torment… It’s clear now; it is far too late for me to avoid the dim lights on this revolution… I’m too skittish and fearful to recognize my own transcendent radiance...

Oh, to be even a Once-Returner! A dream!

Likely I’ve hardly entered the Stream but with one shriveled big toe… So much delusion to put off and so few hours of consciousness before me… Again, a barbed pitchfork singeing the eye… loosed from flaming bow…

Mara, you gloriously cruel bastard! Withdraw your haggard daughters and remove your plague! You are powerless! Powerless! Your daughters are ugly and rotten; they are assembled and revolting. They stink like the putrefying meat from which they are cobbled! They’re dribbling from every orifice, thick pus, rancid milky fluids – They’re wrinkled and sprouting out patches of thick black fur sagging with dark moles and stretching elastic tattoos... Thinning hair grey and white, eroded cartilage, slipped vertebrae and plastic knee replacements… On walkers they hobble, in wheelchairs they wail high on Darvocet, delusional with dementia… Incontinent urine runs through their lacey silk panties while green shit leaks from cellulite cheeks. Their mouths full of black gums, rotting teeth and nagging, constant rancid nagging, demands of duty and mortification... All these visions of form are fleeting! One renegade sperm and a lifetime of attachment ensues... From her curdled ass straight to my mouth!

My gods, my gods, not unlike the revolting hirsute nature of my own bacteria-riddled flesh… These are egoistical joys, ephemeral and self-serving… The most divine portraits and sculptures age even with their subjects frozen in their prime. I am not frozen, nor will I ever be, so I cannot maintain the brief roving lust for beauty… To be held like that doll... Cherished, nursed, protected by those slender arms and narrow chest. Huddled against breast warm and heaving – Smell of clean powders... Gripped like the clammy hand of a boy, cheeks flushed in a shy grin. Doesn’t want his friends to see them together, but can’t bear to let her run away... Pressed lips to my forehead with the gentle affection she shows her sleeping kitten – This honest sedentary love…

Her buoyant form, perfectly sacred – The inwardly curving small of back soft and precious – Her arm that hides a cheek’s milky blush – Slight shoulders of easy confidence – Thinly defined legs smooth and toned, down to moisturized feet and petite toes arrayed in green polish and summer sandals – Her unpainted countenance enchants me so I stare and then blush, myself nearly caught – Her defined feminine jaw, her chin, its dimple, its red line of contemplation – Large dark eyes framed by auburn hair thick and radiant – Her elfin ear, revealed by a sweep of her fingers, then gone...

When I take her hand in mine, hallelujah! Spring’s thaw at last! Sprouts of tender green – A buzzing bee takes flight – Thick taste of nectar… The fields reclaimed! – Tiny fingers swaddled in broken palm. Her fine downy arm pressed to my own, shoulder against shoulder – The weight of our bodies neutralized. Our footsteps in rhythm, triplets, with a small skip between repetitions. Giggling at the sparks cascading through our stomachs, once joined at the navel... Creatures of the gods are we tonight…

But what magic do these gods possess? This magic is barren… This magic is equal parts Romance and Carnal Desire. Subtract Carnal Desire and leave Romance – you’re left with a weak watered down ideal of vague destiny like thin decaf coffee film on the roof of your mouth… Leave Lust and take away Romance – at least the hot tingle from Svadisthana still functions wildly, burning, spinning, sending us running in inert circles bathed in cold sweat, craving the oozing pheromones of suitable mates, jacking-off in white shower stalls to memories of high shorts creeping up firm alabaster thighs, tiny glimpses of pink cotton exposed and magnified a thousand lurid times... This at least feels a little like magic because it outruns Reason. Reason annihilates Romance like a candle vanquishing the darkness of a small room. The word magic is derived from the Sanskrit maya, meaning illusion. Poof… Romance is Hollywood’s drug of choice. Romance is societal pressure to feel attractive and prove your desirability and worth. Romance is an archetypal myth. Reason disposes of the mirage. Reason will not, however, brush even a single hair from Lust’s glistening brow…

Fingers embalmed together keep the spark of that romantic enchantment alive. Analysis douses the spark, suffocating it in a brilliant snuff of musty smoke…

A booming voice resounds through my ears… Male? Female? I can’t discern anything anymore. Can anyone else hear it? What’s it matter if they could? It only matters to me right now. No one else… “At the bottom is the flesh on flesh act of sex which is, at best, boring, functional, mundane and even a bit embarrassing in its messy vulnerability. But grafted above it is the artificial skin of eroticism, which could be just as easily grafted over any structural artifice – food, music, sports, religion – all of the naughty nurse, sexy school girl fascination has little to do with sex, but with our own fabrication of an edifice of pleasure from which to hang our molten sorrows and crippling fear of all that we can never fathom…”

#fiction #philosophy #Buddhism #addiction #surrealism #hallucinations #dreams

1 note · View note

the-sexual-student · 6 years

Text

Drangon Slayer

So @ink-splotch wrote a wonderful series and it did things to me and now I did this. here’s a League of Legends AU of what if Laney killed the dragon....

DRAGON SLAYER

When the dragon came to the desert Aisling Jones stood as tall as her body allowed and announced they would draw lots for the sacrifice. In the mountains or in the desert sands one life was always the price for twenty plus.

One life unwillingly given is never worth the sacrifice but Aisling Jones had peace to sow and tents to sew and one daughter left. One daughter out of twenty children. She didn’t believe Laney would draw the short straw.

When her tribe staked her out on the sand dune there was no blacksmith to press her a knife but not reasons. Laney did not scream and cry when she saw the red colored lot in her hand. She did not fight the men of the tribe as they brought her to the highest dune near the oasis. She was her mother's daughter and her mother’s daughter did not let her enemies see her cry. Laney Jones wasn’t born with steel in her spine but she watched her mother long enough to find it.

Her mother held her back own ramrod straight as she watched her daughter be led, not dragged, away. She walked back to her tent where Laney’s perfect stitches gleamed in the noon sun and broke.

Laney did not have a blacksmith to press her a knife, and she had not once in her life asked for reasons but she had a brother who could whistle the world on his voice and a desire to be more than a failed peace maker. Laney had been pressing her hands against the walls of the universe for years and there was just enough wiggle in her hands to steal magic from the air.

Laney was 16 and already too big for the endless desert sky but didn’t know where else to go.

She began to weave a net out of stolen power. When it came time for the dragon to devour her she had a net, a back up and a prayer she’d never admit to whispering. When the gods abandon you to be devoured as a penance for a sin you haven’t even had the chance to commit you stop admitting to your faith in them. You start rebuilding your faith in yourself.

She threw the net over the dragon with every borrowed and stolen spell she knew. Her brother could have talked to him, her mother would have stood straight and stared her duty in the eye, her father would have fought with only the power he had been given. Laney walked back to the tribe and demanded her pistols. She walked back to the dune, her tribe behind her and shot the dragon through the eye.

She waited until she was several dunes away before she began to cry. Never let your enemies see you break.

Laney was never meant to build peace but she could build safety and she held onto that.

In her tent, tucked into her bedroll were applications to an Academy a lifetime away. In another life she went there and saved the world. In this life she began searching for the only person who it might be safe to break in front of. She still ended up in the Academy walls. She was always meant to save the world.

High in the mountains there were already whispers of the Pied Piper, the Giant Killer and the Slave Slayer. Hero’s always needed names in order for ballads to be sung. A desert man who whistled the world to his lips fell in love with a baker who was a general, who was a hero, who was someone who lost someone. A forest boy who wanted so badly to matter more than being the Seventh Son of a Seventh Son who was brave because the songs taught him how, because he wanted to save the world, because he wanted to matter. A girl who kept nothing from her village but her name after they sold an orphan mage to the slavers to survive a particularly cruel winter. She tracked them down and killed each one of them before they could reach the Seeress’s dungeons.

One unwilling life is never worth the twenty plus that are willing to sacrifice it.

One life is always worth twenty.

One life is never worth twenty.

Laney didn’t know who the Pied Piper was but she knew a boy who might be a man now who could whistle the world and a bakery is as good a home as any.

“What did you do when you killed the dragon?”

“I burned him.”

In the desert they filled the skies with their mourning. Laney didn’t know if she mourned for the dragon or the loss of her place in her own life. Either way she waited two sand dunes before she let the tears fall down her face. Either way she walked back to her tribe after shooting the dragon with spelled bullets and packed her things and left.

In Rivertown she met a woman who helped smuggle mages out of the mountains, who juggled fire in the town square, who wore bits of colored string around her belt.

“Jones?” Sez asked, “I think I’ve heard of a Jones in the mountains. Looking for your brother you say?”

“I’m looking for something.” Laney said in a moment of honesty. She watched a boy in an academy jacket stand just outside the light of Sez’s dancing torches. She saw the band around his arm that proclaimed Hero. She wondered if he saw her watching him. She wondered if she would have sent in her application if the dragon never came.

She wondered why she sent one in with a blank return address from the first town outside of the desert sands.

He did. Rupert Willington Jons Hammerfeld the Seventh paid attention. He saw the dark black girl with perfectly braided hair talk to his best friend. He waited until she was finished before approaching to find out where the latest monster that went bump in the night needed to be slayed.

He pretended not to notice the girl following him. After all it was just possible enough that they just happened to be traveling the same path.

Liam had always meant to come home, Laney had always been built for breaking. Both had their mother’s steel in their spines. Both refused to leave someone in trouble.

When the Thing in the Darkness almost had Rupert around the throat she stepped out of her own shadows and shot it three times with guns both spelled with stolen magic and blessed with dragon blood.

“Thank you.” Rupert said stiffly.

“Laney Jones,” he said after a few nights of hunting, “We received a mage application with no return address from a girl with that name. Where should we send the acceptance letter to?”

Laney thought of her tribe with her mother's steel spine, lots of straws with one tipped red, of one life for twenty plus, of the dragons blood staining the sand and burning it into glass. She thought of her brother leaving and her failure to be a peacemaker, she thought how the sand dunes seemed like another word for trapped. She thought of the dragons ash filling the sky. She thought about how sometimes the air tasted like smoke and ash and sand trapped in her lungs.

In the desert we fill the sky with our mourning.

“Nowhere. Here. Anywhere.” she replied.

Do you have a home when you burn it to the ground metaphorically instead of being burned yourself literally?

“Well we are only a week into the semester. It’s understandable how a mage could get lost traveling to school.” Rupert mentioned.

“Yes I suppose it is.”

Laney had meant to leave everything behind in the desert. She did not expect how much she would take. Jack wasn’t the only one who wanted to matter. Laney wanted to matter more than being a sacrifice. Killing the dragon was the most honest thing she’d ever done and she slotted that knowledge like she slotted her guns back into their holster. She wanted to matter and she was never built for sowing peace. She built and she broke.

Sometimes she woke tucked into her dorm with Gloria, the little sage who was too bright and too cheerful to startle awake at the sound of nightmares. Some nights Laney woke feeling the mix of sand and ash choke her lungs and leave her burned out and dry.

In the mountains sometimes George woke to the sound of a boar spear driving its way through flesh and the taste of blood drowning her lungs. In both worlds they carry the weight of their choices. In both worlds they would make the choices again. People are not meant to be unwilling sacrifices.

Some still choose to sacrifice everything but their lives.

Laney was not willing to die for her tribe but she was willing to fight for them and that mattered.

George would never be willing to let someone die for her and that mattered too.

Maybe in this reality Liam never died. George spent months tracking slavers, not dragons and she knows how human nightmares move. She sees the shadow and pushes Liam and the child out of the way. A bullet breaks glass and there is no weeping widow. Maybe Jacks luck wraps itself around his friends, no one pushes the Pied Piper out of the way but a window still breaks and no widow weeps.

Maybe some events are fixed points in any universe. Maybe no matter what death or nightmare keeps you company there is always more death and more nightmares to come. Maybe a bullet makes the wet sound of piercing flesh, a widow weeps like broken glass and a child is saved but a husband is lost.

Maybe Jack still leaves, he always left until he learned how to stay. He travels to the Academy with the careful application Sarge helped him fill out, a green badge waiting to his shame. He sees his roommate wrapped in books and blankets to keep the rest of the world away. He sees the boy who toured him around the campus- a paper pusher and nothing else. Jack was still learning to pay attention. He hears of Laney Jones. The mage with the worst grip in her class.

He couldn’t see the ash staining her hands or the way she watched the room, back tucked carefully against a wall, because he was too busy drowning in his own grief. His own disappointments. One day he would learn to look.

Jack was still learning to pay attention- he sat across a young woman in a mountain inn and doesn’t think the boogeyman could look so pleasant. He gives her his name.

Cassandra Graves spent her childhood keeping one boy safe at the cost of hundred. If it was to be her life's work it would be her life's work. Her father made her say good bye to her nurse before the guards dragged her away. She heard the whispers of monster from her father's lips, from the guards, from the things she saw. But her father was a genius and people bought their product and even sold them their children. Her brother was her greatest sin and he was safe.

Hundreds of lives for one.

Hundreds of lives for warmth, for keeping the winter outside the door, for profit.

What does the monster under the bed fear? Bakers and Pipers and Slayers and Giantkillers? Boys with faith in their eyes who give their story along with their name? A brother who glows so bright it blinds her and father who hates so much it might as well be a black hole?

She cleaned the ash from the cages.

She knew the name of every soul she sent to her father's dungeons and she told herself she always slept soundly at night. After all it was the only way.

In a forgotten room, in a forgotten lab, in a building that was bigger than remembered the word “childhood” tripped and died on Rupert's lips. A demon foraged in the loss of innocence is still a nightmare. A bullet still thudded through wet flesh and a widow still wept.

She said Laney Jones was the least sensitive person she’d seen- especially after her brothers light and gold stained whistle. She saw how much the Giantkiller loved this new army he created. She saw his burned away luck.

She saw the dragons ash on Laney’s skin.

She didn’t see stolen magic.

When Jack tripped into Rupert's private battle Laney was already there with freshly cleaned pistols.

“I told you he’d come after Sally-Ane’s.” Laney said easily hair still perfectly braided as she accepted the oversized helm from Rupert’s steady hands.

“I know, you pay attention.” Rupert said. They’d been monster hunting for almost a year together before this forest boy stumbled into their friendship. Rupert always guarded his left flank a little more than his right until a few weeks after Jack joined their quest.

He remembered which sword Jack liked best after the first fight.

Maybe in this world Rupert is a little less careful and Laney is a little more fragile. Maybe he sees her break six months into her first year, after they talk about dragons in Group Cohesion class. Maybe he sees her spine go rigid and follows her after class to the edge of campus, to the tallest tree that is still like a ladder compared to the palm trees of the desert she used to call home.

Falling is the bravest thing he knew Liam used to tell her.

He never dreamed she’d stop falling.

He had also always meant to come home to a desert, to a bakery, to a sister, to a wife, to a daughter.

Maybe in this world Rupert watches Laney break and shatter 20 feet above the ground in an old oak tree. Maybe she lets him sit beside her and help her hold all her pieces together. In any world Laney is the one who kisses him first. No matter how less careful Rupert can be he’s always a little too careful. He pays attention to everything but his own feelings. Those he carefully sorts and slots in to their labeled box in his mind. He never dreams Laney has a similar box labeled Rupert.

In this world Jack still fits into their group, they learn to watch their sides a little less and his a little more. They bandage themselves up in Jack’s room because he always has a few supplies from his afternoons with Nurse tucked away. Grey sits on his bed and whispers facts and figures before trailing along because he knows things and for once it might keep someone safe. Laney notices when his books shift to the things they fight in the darkness.

Laney knows what heartbreak and running away looks like in this world more intimately than she does in any other. She sees Grey wear the whispers of the mountains in his bones but she lets him keep his secrets. After all- she never told him about the dragon. Whispers of the Dragon Slayer are much quieter than the whispers of the Slave Slayer. One disappeared into a city and one stood tall in the mountains both fighting a war they never signed up for and never could walk away from.

No matter what world they become family, they climb a mountain, face a monster, lose a friend only to find him again.

The wet thud of a bullet, a widow weeping like broken glass. A hero who holds everyone together, a guide who’s a hero, a sage who’s a mage and a magicless mage. No matter what world their in they find each other.

#au #fanfiction #my writing #laney jones #dragon slayer #fantasy #leagues and legends #echos of a giantkiller #beanstalk #remember the dust #jack ferris #sanders grey #rupert

25 notes · View notes

happyorogeny · 7 years

Text

First Hunt

https://happyorogeny.tumblr.com/writing(3292 Words)(Tw for blood, gore, violence)(Characters: Illidan, Illidari)

Something was wrong.

Illidan had been awake an hour and the Black Temple remained entirely peaceful. There had been no excited screaming, crashing or furious rows from his newly fledged demon hunters.

He dipped his talons into a pot of felfire ink and reached for the map before him. Every map of Outland he could find was wrong. No wonder Lady Vashj and Prince Kael’thas were always getting lost.

Fortunately there was magic in the remnants of this ruined place. He could perceive it clearly through fog and cloud and storm. His ability to soar unfettered for hours on end and his excellent memory made him a surprisingly adept cartographer. These maps were the most accurate representation of the land around them to date, eagerly awaited by his Sin’dorei and orc scouts alike.

Perhaps he had missed his true calling in life.

He finished the northern expanse with a dire warning – here be Wardens – and stood.

He had improved the transformation process to the point where most of them now survived. The trick had been to let them bond to one another so that the neophytes had friends cheering them on as they fought their demon down, familiar voices to swim back to when the darkness became too much. Now they dashed and glided around the temple, learning the edges of their powers and getting their horns entangled in everything. Akama had spent an hour last week freeing four of them from netted curtains only for them to immediately charge into it again, indignant that the thing had trapped them.

Their excess energy would be of use against the Legion.

Illidan hadn’t allowed them outside the temple yet. For all their strength and speed he hadn’t thought them ready to fight a fully manifested demon. Soon, he had told himself. Worse than demons, he knew the Wardens were out there with their traps and their poison, vanishing like smoke at the slightest hint of a scouting party. He had no illusions about what would happen should Maiev get her gauntlets on Kayn or Belath.

He called the Sin’dorei scouts as he left, heard them pour sand across the paper so as to dry off excess ink. Felfire could be deadly to the touch for an unaltered elf. Even from the end of the corridor he detected the faint rustle as they rolled it up. Yet still he heard nothing from his demon hunters. It didn't necessarily mean they had all killed each other in the night. They were past that stage now, mostly.

That hadn’t stopped Caria from falling to the Legion, betraying them and killing two of her fellows before she left. When he found the traitor next he would eat her heart in front of her. The coward had planned to murder everyone on her floor but had been discovered. Lyra had chased her off but paid dearly for her courage – her left arm was gone from the elbow down.

The demon hunters had cremated their fellows in the main courtyard last night, chasing off any curious onlookers. Kaldorei usually buried their dead whereas Sin’dorei immolated or magically turned them to stone. But they were something different now and had decided that their companions would prefer to burn and spring free into the sky rather than linger in this world. In death, they would take flight.

It seemed that the survivors hadn't left after the funeral. They lay listless on the flagstones as the grey ash drifted to and fro across them.

Allari, Kor’vas and a dozen other women clustered together in a pile near a makeshift fire, utterly disheartened. The Sin’dorei amongst them pushed themselves closer to the flames, more sensitive to the cold than Kaldorei. On the far side of the fire Belath stretched out his wings for several of the smaller hunters to cluster under.

Beyond him Jace and a dozen others had requisitioned the orcish tents, tossing all the contents out in order to create space for themselves inside. Marius and two smaller males tried to comfort Lyra over the loss of her arm, curling around her and helping her sharpen her talons. Kayn didn't even have the heart to bully Altruis by biting his ears or swinging out of his hair.

Illidan usually kept his distance from the new hunters. He wasn't here to coddle them. They were warriors. But they were moping. All of them had come here overwhelmed with grief and anger. In their new lives they'd had purpose, a shared goal and the strength with which to achieve it. To have one of their own, someone they trusted, turn like this was a vicious betrayal. They would drown in the sorrow of it.

They had the courtyard to themselves. The orcs hovered in the alcoves leading into their main hall, reluctant to reclaim their tents. They couldn’t even get at their cooking fires for Asha had climbed into one of the massive black pots and peered at them from beneath the lid, hissing when they came too close and snickering when they fled from her.

The other denizens of the Black Temple found his creations unnerving and avoided them. As was right. They ought to fear them.

The Illidari stirred as his shadow flicked across them. Glowing eyes lit up, leathery wings stretched and joints popped as they pulled themselves upright. Claws and hooves scrabbled and they grumbled and growled and purred as they perked up and bowed low, voices blending into a low thrill of greeting. He circled the courtyard once and glided to a halt in the centre, silencing the thrill that rose up in his chest in turn.

"Form up," he rumbled. "I have a mission for you."

Green and indigo tattoos burst into life and excited whispers rushed between them. Many of them still clung to one another but he would allow them that. He had developed a fresh appreciation for the soft comfort of touch during his long years underground.

Opening his wings with a leathery snap, he took away once more.

"Stay here." ... The Illidari waited. Impatiently. Kor’vas sighed and broke formation to go antagonise Vandel. He hissed at her irritably and she tackled him. Asha swiped at a flailing wing and all three of them started to squabble. Allari trotted over to Jace and tucked herself under his wing, looking for company. Kayn fluttered his wings at them, agitated.

"We have to be ready!"

"I am ready. I'll be more ready if I'm warm."

"That makes no sense!"

Lyra had now curled herself into the corner between two weapon racks, half her body painted with soot. She snarled at Altruis as he approached. He crooned back and started to brush the worst of the ash off her scales.

"Leave her. Let her be sad," Kayn said. He despised people pawing at him while he tried to grieve. Besides, she had always being one of the weaker among them, she hadn’t even taught herself to glide and now she only had one arm.

Altruis roundly ignored him.

Belath had strayed off and was trying to befriend some of the orcs. They were daring each other to go closer and closer to the strange feral fel beasts, goading one another to touch them. His enthusiastic attempts to greet them in orcish, combined with glowing wings and burning eyes sent them scattering back, their friends laughing.

The demon hunters looked distinctively preternatural to those around them. There was enough of the initial shape there to read as an elf, but the tattoos and horns and scales and claws all seemed to be overlaid on them, sitting on their bodies like oil upon water.

Kor’vas had disengaged from her fight and now looked on in growing anger, baring her teeth when the orcs looked towards her.

"What are they laughing at? They have no right to laugh. We are worth ten of them!"

About twenty of the fifty odd demon hunters held true formation, but even they stretched their feet and flexed their wings and sharpened their claws on their horns.

Illidan was cunning about his return. He flew up to a great height, filled the airsacs in his stomach and glided so that they had no audible warning.

Not until a fully grown bull Nathrezim slammed into the flagstones of the courtyard in front of them. Those nearest it shrieked and scattered as it lurched upright, roaring in pain. His left wing was shattered near the base, shards of white bone poking through spongy flesh and his immense barrel chest dripped green blood from a dozen deep, distinctive wounds.

Illidan perched on the top of a watchtower at the main gate, wings spread wide. His talons dripped ichor and his teeth glistened with gore as he called down to the demon hunters.

"This creature is responsible for turning the mind of your former companion." As one they turned to focus upon the demon. He lurched fully upright, twice as tall as any of the hunters, and laughed. The sound was like bone grinding, like boulders falling.

"So the mongrel made itself a pack."

Even if the bulk of them hadn't lost loved ones to the Legion, there was something about a demons voice that could enrage even Altruis. Every last one of them fell deadly silent and Illidan’s command rolled over them like a wave.

“Send the Legion a message.”

Their formation shattered as they dived forwards.

None of them had fought a demon before, aside from the one they dominated during their transformation. The Nathrezim seemed to realise their lack of experience for he dropped to all fours, tucked his head down so that his horns bristled forwards and bulled through them, knocking aside the smaller demon hunters with ease. Shrieks of pain rose up in his wake and several hunters lay crumpled like broken flowers, flapping and struggling to rise.

Kor’vas gathered herself and leaped against the stew pot hanging over the central fire. A cloud of sizzling steam billowed upwards, cloaking them. The injured demon hunters scrambled away, keeping themselves low to the ground. But Mryle was too slow, his right arm and leg broken, trying to pull himself along with his wings. He screamed in anger and pain as the Natriziem grabbed him and turned to Illidan, who gathered himself to spring forwards.

"I shall slaughter each of them in front of you, and when I am finished-"

They all saw the fel magic flicker around Mryle as massive jagged spikes burst from his back, cutting deep into demon flesh and prying his hand apart. Mryle could have twisted free but instead dragged his blindfold loose. The demon bellowed as green felflame licked forwards across his chest and head. Lifting his hand he hurled the demon hunter away.

Altruis rushed forwards and sprang, ragged wings spreading with a snap. Mryle wailed in pain as Altruis grabbed him out of midair and again as his bones started to stitch themselves back together. Their innate healing powers were directly connected to their central nervous system so that pain triggered a surge of painkillers, adrenaline and restorative magic. In Altruis’s opinion it took far too long for the numbing effects to kick in.

He dropped to the ground behind the orcish tents and turned.

The demon pursued them, plainly enjoying their fear and defiance. He supposed a lot of creatures just gave up when a demon came so near. The dead wing dragging along the ground as he prowled forwards, claws splayed. He crouched and tried to remember the weak points on a Nathrezim - and then the creature brayed and came to a halt as curved glaives sank deep into his back. Kayn used his weapons as stepping stones to scramble up the demons spine, grabbing a horn and dragging on it to haul the monsters head around.

But Kayn was small and lightly built. The demon flicked his head and threw him away with comparative ease. He smashed into a rack of spears at the end of the training grounds and cursed as they collapsed on top of him.

Lyra twisted free of the wreckage and turned to haul him free with her remaining arm. Kayn scrambled to get his feet under him, the spears rolling and sending him to his knees. The demon knocked several would-be hunters away with a sweep of his good wing and turned towards them, a wicked grin flexing wide at the sight of two injured crossbreeds to toy with. Green spittle dripped forwards to hiss and smoke upon the flagstones of the courtyard.

Lyra drew herself up to her full unimpressive height as the beast approached and leaped put herself between him and Kayn. The skin of her back shimmered emerald and burst open with a spray of blood. Lyra yowled as she flicked brand new wings open and let it built into a warbling screech. She had the largest wings he’d ever seen, with a leading edge that glinted silver and incredibly long curved wing barbs.

The Nathrezim hesitated in the face of her rage.

"Get away from them!" Izal was usually a quiet woman, preferring animals to people. No one had ever heard her shout. But now her cry bounced off the courtyard walls, very rapidly followed by the familiar roar of a felbat.

Izal had managed to get a saddle on the creature she dubbed Banshee, had bathed and groomed his silvery fur till it shone and somehow found the time to paint the creature with tattoos that matched her own. Though only one generation out of the Legion, the felbat adored her and would eat out of her hand like a tamed saber. Crouching, he leaped to attack the larger demon without hesitation. Izal stood and back-flipped off, snatching the soft muzzle from his jaws as she did so.

Altruis flattened his ears back.

"Get down!"

Felbats shrieked to see where they were in the world. But under Izal's careful guidance, this one could now use his voice as a weapon. His skin bulged strangely around his ribs as he inhaled and bellowed outwards. The stones of the courtyard cracked beneath the thrumming echo of Banshee's cry and the demon hunters clinging to the Natrizhiem leaped away as he turned right into the blast wave.

The demons of the Legion had burned a thousand worlds, but this was different from fire and metal and whips. This couldn’t be fought. His eyes erupted in bursts of fel gore. A dozen hollow spaces in his skull and ribcage vibrated until they burst. He clamped huge talons to his ears and roared in protest as the drums burst and the world around him fell silent. But all that pain simply seemed to enrage him further.

"You think any of you can stand against the power of the Legion?" He roared. Destructive magic flickered out to catch the nearest demon hunters unawares, snapping bone and shredding flesh. He knocked the Asha away with a crash and kicked Altruis flat as he tried to lunge forwards. The demon then turned upon the injured Cassia and lifted his hand high to summon an immense serrated sword.

"Go on!" He bellowed at Illidan, who hadn't moved since the fight began. "Save them!"

Cassia shrieked at him in defiance. Jace leaped a pile of rubble and set himself before the demon, wings spread wide. Something changed in his face. His markings blazed and the colour seemed to spread into the veins of his wings and spark down his arms. Fresh horns burst from his skull.

Illidan rumbled low down in his throat, the sound somehow cutting through the pandemonium.

Jace roared again, drawing the demons attention onto him, and lifted his glaives in a last defiance as the jagged sword came crashing down.

The blade broke upon his with a crash like a hundred gongs, shattering it almost entirely through. Jace was driven to his knees. But yet he held as his fellows picked themselves up, the healthy moving in front of the injured. He lifted his face to peer into that of the demon as he slowly but surely gathered himself and stood.

"Well done." Illidan sharpened his talons on the edge of the tower. "Now finish him off."

The Nathrezim roared in fury and threw the rest of his weight behind the shattered sword, trying to crush Jace into the ground. A dozen demon hunters dived to him, clustering around him and stabbing up into the demons arm so as to force him back. Great jagged spikes burst from their backs so that he could not snatch them up.

The rest swarmed onto his legs, grabbed onto his arms, clambered over one another to climb up his back. Kayn dashed between the demons claws to leap upon his face and battered the demon with his wings. Veil balanced herself like a cat upon his back, gouging whatever she could reach. Allari and Kor’vas dragged down his good wing and start to break the bone from the end up, standing on the membrane as they went so that he could not shake them off. Altruis dived to hamstring the monster with a swift sweep of his glaives, sending it toppling forwards. Even the injured Mryle limped forwards to drive his glaives into the creatures’ barrel-like ribcage.

Only Izal hung back to fuss over her injured bat.

They hadn't quite figured out how to kill with efficiency or speed. The Nathrezim died slowly and with much violence, ripped to bloody shreds by glaive and claw and fang alike as he bellowed threats of vengeance. Every movement, every shout invigorating the Illidari in their efforts until finally the beast was still.

But they weren’t content with that alone. This monster had led to desertion and death and despair in their ranks. They continued to tear at the massive corpse and restarted the bonfire so as to burn his flesh away to nothing, revealing black, rune inscribed bones. Only when they had dragged had immense skeleton apart and battered half of it to dust did they seem content.

And then all at once it became a game. Allari and Asha goaded each other to jumping over the crackling flames, giggling and twisting as they went. Mryle whimpered until Belath and Altruis went and sat on either side of him at which point he immediately started to preen and boast of his bravery. Jace padded over to Kor’vas, purple hair askew, who started to bandage the wounds he’d sustained on his arms. Lyra balanced on top of the demons remaining ribcage and thrilled proudly, flapping her new wings and bobbing her head in half-challenge at Kayn.

“I’ll fly before you do, just see if I don’t!”

He huffed, delicately probing at a loosened fang, and promptly straightened up as Illidan drifted out of the sky to land amongst them.

“Well done.”

They crooned in delight at the rare praise.

Illidan sincerely doubted any of them would ever fly. Their bodies weren’t altered enough by the transformation ritual to allow such a thing. But nevertheless it was good for them to have aspirations.

More importantly, they were laughing now. They knew a demon could be killed, knew that for all their power and cruelty, a demon could be matched, could be overcome. That knowledge was a powerful thing. It settled into the bones and the blood to know that such malevolence could be ended by your hand. He knew the feeling well. There was a new edge to their expressions as they clustered around him expectantly.

“Next, a shivarra.”

He ripped open a portal in the fabric of the courtyard and leaped through. The demon hunters followed him without hesitation, whooping with glee as they went.

If you’ve enjoyed this work, please see the rest of my writing here: https://happyorogeny.tumblr.com/writing

#fanfic #world of warcraft #Illidari #tw blood #tw gore

12 notes · View notes

elizaxspears · 7 years

Note

Oh my gosh wonderful! Can you do a Slingphries pairing AU of Pirate Captain Eric catching a merman (or mershark) Alan? The rest is up to use your creative mind. (Hope it doesn’t sound too cliche or cheesy) Or if not that one, a possible Werewolf Eric encountering Hunter Alan? Either one is fine, or if you feel up to both then that’s fine too! Thanks!

My apologies that this took a bit to write! To be honest, I’ve wanted to write a Merman!Alan AU for sometime, I have a few random bits here and there stored away, so thank you for letting me indulge in one of my secret writing pleasures! I hope you enjoy it!

Also, I tried on the Pirate stuff. I’m not the best at it, but hopefully it was something you were looking for! And wow. I forgot this was a oneshot and almost started making this into an entire blown out story. Sorry again if the end feels kind of cut short or rushed or anything.

If it wasn’t what you were wanting then message me and I’ll write something else with Merman!Alan and Pirate!Eric. This is just what first came to mind from old Merman Alan drafts I had!

The ship swayed, carried by the waves. The wind harsh against the sails, pushing the grand ship forward. Dark clouds began forming overhead, swallowing the blue sky. The way they were headed, treacherous waters were to follow, but if they were to find what they’d set out searching for, extreme waves would be well worth it.

A creature had been seen, a being that only was ever seen by the human eye a handful of times. The elegant, emerald tail with iridescent scales just reflecting enough to catch the eye of a few fisherman sitting at the docks. The full body of the creature had never been revealed but, even by this simple rumour, the search for the being began. Many went out to sea and many never returned, swallowed by the very waters this being lived in.

This would not have been the first sighting of one of these creatures. Though extremely rare, they had been seen and one even caught. Though never physically seen by anyone, the sailor who announced its presence held a scale not belonging to any fish. The man was made rich then, many pay far more than what they truly could afford all to even glimpse at proof of a myth.

As of now, Captain Eric Slingby took his crew out to sea to search for this creature under the belief, if a scale was worth that much, a whole tail would make them and any future generations, richer than the bloody King. The warnings the Captain heard did nothing to deter him, determined to finally repay what he owed. Though considered a private among the town, not welcome anywhere but his own boat, Captain Slingby had a debt to repay. He was by no means a righteous man, never claimed to be, nor did he ever claim to be an honest man, but he would pay what they owed.

The grey clouds grey darker until they were near black. A flash in the sky let the Captain know that it was time to prepare the crew for these waters.

The first wave hit the ship hard, knocking a few off their feet. The Captain remind steading at the helm, hands gripping tightly to the wheel. His teeth were grit to the point they might have shattered, his eyes narrowed, focused on nothing but getting through this storm. If there were to be that light at the other end, he would see it, damn it. “Capin’, we’re no’ gonna make it through this one.”

The voice didn’t matter, whoever spoke to him didn’t matter. All he needed to do was focus. “If ye think tha’, we’ll throw ye overboard now an’ get it done quicker.” The Captain sneered, arms shaking just a bit with the pounding waves trying to force them off course.

When they did break free of the storm, the water calming down until the large waves that hit them before split as the ship carried on, there was little time to take a deep breath. Almost immediately, the clear water provided sight to the same tail they’d heard about. “Captain!” someone from beloved called, “it’s here!” The Captain instantly ordered them all to get the net ready. It may not have been the best plan, but there was no way for them to go about this without accidentally killing this myth.

Perhaps it was too easy for a reason, but once the large net was tossed over, the weight they felt when holding it told them they’d caught what they aimed for. “Pull it up!” the Captain ordered, helping his crew pull up the net. To their surprise, the myth so many had been chasing now lay on the deck still trapped within the rope.

There was a moment of pause on the Captain’s part. The being laying in front of him could no long be considered a myth. The gorgeous, emerald green tail that glistened in the sun, the long, translucent fins, the same on the creatures arms. None of this was a myth anymore. As his eyes trailed up a lean torso, his eyes came to lock with a set of emerald eyes, the colour his tail. Chocolate brown hair fell slightly in front of those eyes, wet with the water he was just pulled from, his entire body still glistening with water droplets, but they met his eyes nonetheless. The Captain expected to see a sense of fear, maybe even anger, but all he got was curiosity. “Capin’?” a hand waved in front of his eyes. “Wha’ should we do with ‘im?” one of his mates asked, his voice conveying the amazement no doubt all of them felt.

Subconsciously his hand reached for his sword on his hip. The first thing that flash through his mind was cut off the tail, dump the upper half back in the water and take back the treasure. However, the longer he starred into those eyes, he couldn’t bring himself to do so or even order it. “We’ll take ‘im back tae town.” he looked around. “Tha’ crate. Bring it ‘ere, fill it with water an’ put ‘im in it. Cannae ‘ave him dying on us.”

“Aye, aye, Capin’.”

Eric stepped out of the way, watching the mer-creature. Though he looked dazed now, when he was touched he instantly tried fighting off those who grabbed hold of his arms, yanking him up to dump him in the create. They were rough with the being but Eric didn’t expect any different.

Slowly, the crate was filled with enough water to keep the being alive but not enough to be comfortable, not that the wooden crate would be comfortable in any regard to being with.

They kept watch over the being until the blue of the sky fell away to the dark of night, the little lights of stars flickering on as they sailed back to port.

The Pirate Captain was unable to sleep. He’d gotten used to the scratchy blankets and the swaying of the sea, but knowing the myth that attracted so many sailors was merely sitting in a crate half filled with water on the deck made him uneasy.

He removed himself from bed, foregoing his black coat to walk shirtless into the night, his body covered in battle scars and ink, all of which he prided himself on.

From his Captain’s Quarters to where the mer-creature rested, Eric felt every wave under his feet. Perhaps he was asleep and dreaming; the light mist that drifted in not helping that conclusion. When he did come to stand by the crate, the being looked asleep himself, curled in on himself, keeping as much of himself submerged as he could. This almost felt worse then killing him. “Will you continue to stare?”

Eric watched those eyes slide open, that same look of genuine, almost childlike, curiosity in those orbs. “Yer new tae me. Cannae help it.”

“Well, you’re not so familiar to me either yet I’m not gawking.”

Eric crossed his arms. “Familiar? Weren’t ye the one swimmin’ about near town?”

The merman frowned. “I was, yes, but I was only admiring from afar. I’ve never been this close to humans before.” he looked down at himself, flicking his tail so it flopped over the edge of the crate. “Suppose this is a proper punishment for me, hm? I allowed myself to be seen, hunted and now caught.” his arms hugged himself, that frown only tugging harder downward. “You’re meant to put me on display, right?”

Eric sighed, shaking his head. “Sorry lad, bu’ no.”

The merman blinked, shock now floating in those orbs. “No? Then you mean to…” when he realized that he would no longer see the sea or visit his underwater garden he’d spent so long meticulously crafting, his shoulders slouched, head bowing. “I see. Well, I suppose it’s fair. You caught me, after all.”

Eric wasn’t sure why he decided to, but instead of rolling his eyes and walking away from what he suspected to be a guilt-trap, he sat on the edge of the crate, letting folded hands rest in his lap. “Aye, it is fair.” he replied.

The merman looked up at him, his eyes flicking up and down, trying to look him over the best he could. “Can you make it quick?”

“I will.”

“Then…that’s all I ask.”

Eric brushed back a strand of his blonde hair undone from his earlier ponytail. “Ye ‘ave a name?”

“You’re going to kill me. Does it matter?”

“No.”

He turned his head to the water, letting the breeze be the only thing to break their silence. “Alan.”

Eric returned his attention to ‘Alan’. “Yer name?”

“Yes. Alan.”

“Eric then. ’s my name.”

“Eric.” Alan spoke as if testing the name on his tongue. “Suits you.”

“Suits ye too.” He watched Alan shift in the crate, wincing. He was no doubt cramped, especially when he would have been used to the vast room that the sea supplied. “‘m sorry ye ‘ad tae be put in tha’. Dinnae no’ want ye dyin’ sae…soon.”

“Why?’

That was answer Eric did have a question to. By rights, it’d be easier to do it that way and be done with it all, but again, he could not bring himself to unsheathe his sword. “We jus’ dinnae.”

The Captain was unaware how long he sat out there. He just knew that it was too long but even as he bid Alan a goodnight or morning, he couldn’t get him off his mind. Night after night he went back to visit the merman, all the time keeping his crew away from him as if they were vultures. Shrinking their duties to admire.

Eventually, it came time where they would arrive home the next day but even as Eric sat with Alan, there was regret weighing heaving in his stomach. Something he rarely ever felt. “I was nice to see such lovely sunsets.” Alan said, having found the most comfortable position in his crate. “It’s hard to see them so well from sea level sometimes.” he rested his folded arms on the edge of the crate, setting his chin on top of them. “You look upset.”

Eric turned his gaze to Alan from the stars he’d been watching. “I dun think I can do this.”

Alan cocked his head. “No? And why not?”

“Ye dun…dun deserve this.”

Alan reached out, his hand resting on Eric’s shoulder, squeezing gently. “I told you that this was my fault, didn’t I?”

“Aye, but we went lookin’ fer ye. All the way out ‘ere too.”

Slowly, that hand traveled from his shoulder, up his neck to his cheek, guiding him down as Alan leant up. “Why do you want the gold?”

Eric felt his brow furrow. “Wha’?”

“The gold for getting one of my scales. Why do you want it?”

“I need tae pay someone off,” he began without thinking, “fer me sisters family. She needs it.”

Alan hummed, soothing his hand through Eric’s hair then leant in for a kiss that shocked the Captain. The merman lips were warm and smooth. Addicting, even. Eric allowed himself to indulge in the kiss, turning around to properly embrace the merman, wanting to pull him closer into his arms. “My, you seem desperate.” the merman breathed, parting the kiss enough to speak.

“’s jus’ ye.” and he kissed him again.

Alan took his hand, the one supporting the Captain on the edge to the crate and brought it to rest on his hip. “You can touch it, if you wish. I know many have the urge once they see it.”

Eric looked down at his hand then Alan’s tail. Carefully, he took that invite to run his palm down the scales. They were smooth under his hand, his fins feeling like almost like silk. “Amazin’.”

Alan laughed softly, letting his hand glide over Eric’s chest. “Now may you help me back to the water?”

“Back tae the water?”

Alan nodded. “I need to go back so I can repay you.”

For some reason, there was no need to question the creature. “Alrigh’.” he reached under, securing one arm under Alan’s tail and the other against Alan’s back. He hoisted the merman from his crate and walked toward the edge of the boat. “Do I jus’ throw ye in?”

Alan laughed again. “Just set me on the rail.” so Eric did, setting Alan down on the wooden rail. “Before I go, when you return to shore, go to the rock further out from where you stand on the dock. I’m sure you know the one. My repayment will be there.” and with that, the merman pushed himself off the edge of the rail and dove into the water, hardly making a splash.

He’d crawled out of his crate and pulled himself over the edge. That was the excuse Eric used when his crew demanded to know where the hell they’re payment went. Most seemed to take it, others cussed him out and left. Eric really didn’t care honestly. He would replace them with stronger, better men anyway.

Still, once they docked, Eric went to the rock. It always had an odd sheen to it that attracted many but he searched around and found nothing. He damned himself then, for being fooled by the creature.

He went back the next day despite the sour taste in his mouth except this time, there was something. A bag. He picked it up and opened it to find quite the amount of gold and jewels. This would be enough to repay those debts and then some. He looked up, scanning the horizon as the sun set. There, in the distance, he could see someone floating in the water. They waved at him then dove under the water, that tail catching in the last few rays of sunlight. Eric felt his heart thump then, a grin spreading on his lips. Something told him he’d be seeing Alan again but until then, they both still had the sunsets to keep them connected.

#slingphries #alan humphries #eric slingby #black butler #kuroshitsuji #my writing #animedragongirl12

9 notes · View notes

bluraaven · 7 years

Text

We are the Flame

5. Dismas

"Lux, tueri animas nostras!"

When Dismas turns around, Junia has one hand curled on her chest, and her pallor is almost indistinguishable in colour from the white of her nun's headdress.

Mallory has stopped mid-stride, her lips parted in a gasp that never makes it past them, and Paschal –

Paschal's eyes are wide as a child's as she takes in the unnatural spectacle happening outside of the window. "Wow! Have you ever seen anything like this?" the doctor exclaims in wonder, peeling her nose from the glass to look from one person to another. She appears to be completely oblivious to the fact that none of them are as excited about a giant magical hole in the sky as she is.

Whatever she's taking, Dismas wants some for himself, if only to help him sleep at night.

But it seems rude to outright ask for a drug recommendation, and since he's all about becoming a better man, Dismas instead chooses to observe the last member of their group.

Reynauld is as straight-backed and tight-lipped as ever, and his face betrays neither fear nor disbelief. The knight has the infinite blackness of the Void reflected in his eyes, and Dismas wonders what kind of man it takes to gaze into the Abyss and not flinch back from what he sees there.

Dismas looks away again.

He might not speak the Heaven's language, but he doesn't have to in order to understand the Sister's prayer – he's heard its like often enough.

Light, save our souls.

But why would the Light choose him for salvation? Him, a man already damned on account of his sins?

He is all too aware that in this company, he is the odd one out, standing beside a doctor, a noble, a Sister Vestal, and... Reynauld. So here they are; a warrior of Light – someone who would claim communion with the Divines – and a back-alley cutthroat, sharing a purpose and a room upstairs. It's madness.

And it is all around them, invisible but just as deadly as toxic gas in a mine shaft. It has poisoned this place and already he can feel its sharp teeth gnawing at his mind, his sanity.

Dismas rubs both palms over his face, hard enough for it to border on painful. He can feel several days' worth of stubble as well as the bony ridges of his face, sculpted by too many hunger days and nights spent sleeping in roadside ditches. It brings back a sense of who he is, and where. It also banishes these unbidden thoughts, for now. 'Tis good enough, at least until Dismas can get his hands on some alcohol.

Thankfully, he knows just the place where he can get some. Grandfather Dumont liked to have his booze close at hand – and now Dismas understands why, if this kind of shit happened regularly around here.

He isn't looking forward to the prospect of descending the stairs to the cellar, but the only other alternative is the bar, and he wants to track all the way there even less than he wants to face the darkness of the mansion's underbelly.

Only Reynauld notices him exiting the room, and the knight doesn't comment on it.

Dismas carefully searches the doorway for any signs of magic, even gives it a few pokes with the hilt of his dagger to make sure there is absolutely nothing supernatural about it. But this time there is only wood and stone, ordinary as can be. He leaves the door wide open nonetheless and whistles a tune as he hurries down.

The circular room looks the same as the first time they descended down here and Dismas tries hard not to focus on the walls, how they seem to be closing in, eager to trap him as they have their group earlier. Only this time he is alone, and the thought is enough to make him shiver and break out in a cold sweat.

Fighting the urge to turn and flee back upstairs, Dismas instead busies himself with inspecting the shelves. They are full of bottles cocooned in a thick layer of dust that sticks to the dull glass. The labels are yellow and wavy from humidity and the ink has run, making most of the writing indecipherable. Not that it would do him any good if it hadn't. Dismas knows his numbers well enough; his mother had made sure of that, but letters are something reserved for the upper classes.

In the end, he just grabs the nearest three bottles – better to take one extra than have to go back for some more later – and returns upstairs, taking the steps three at a time. When he kicks the door shut behind him, it feels like muzzling a feral beast. The danger is still here and to be wary of, but for the time being it is contained.

Just as the highwayman returns to the living room, the gloom is lit up by a net of lightning racing over the sky. A storm of thunder and magic rolls over the countryside, and then disperses, wisps of swirling blue and purple lazily drifting through the sky, becoming paler and paler until they fade into nothingness.

"Thank the Light," the Vestal breathes, her relief audible.

"What do you think this was?" Mallory finds the courage to ask after a few more seconds of shocked silence.

"Nuthin' good, that's fer sure," Dismas says to announce his presence. All heads turn to him, even that of the crusader. Dismas lifts the bottles. The heiress sure doesn't look like she disapproves.

"Court'sy o' yer gramp."

Mortimer Dumont is watching them from his spot on the staircase, eyes black as a pit adder scales glimmering with malicious amusement.

"He shot himself to close the wards until someone of his bloodline reopened them." Mallory speaks slowly, and her voice gains sureness with every word.

"Stab 'im in the dick!" The suggestion comes out in a low growl as Dismas struggles to get the cork out of the first of the bottles. He stops short in surprise when Mallory passes by him and actually does just that.

Under different circumstances, the highwayman may have winced in sympathy as several inches of spear are thrust into the portrayed old man's crotch and the wall behind him. This time though he feels it is wholly deserved.

"Do you know what would have happened if I had ventured down there alone!?" Mallory whips around, two angry red spots blooming on her cheeks. She wipes at her sweaty brow to get a few strands of wild hair unstuck from it. The spear, white-tipped from scratching the stone but none the worse for wear, is still in her other hand.

Dismas makes a mental note to never piss her off. He is rather attached to his balls and he prefers they stay attached to him.

"Aye, lass." Dismas replies and takes one of the silver cups that Paschal has found in a nearby cabinet. "But ya didn't, so best not dwell on that."

"What have you got there?" The heiress picks up a bottle, and turns it so she can read the label. "152 Reserve." Her eyebrows lift in surprise. "This is a pleasant vintage."

Dismas wipes the inside of the cup clean of dust and pours Mallory a generous amount of the dark red liquid. "Boss first," he announces, because already Paschal is thrusting another cup at him, and even Junia is lining up for a little pick-me-up.

Mallory knocks back her drink without waiting for the others. Half a heartbeat later, her face scrounges up and Dismas can jump out of the way just in time before she spits it back out.

"Wine's gone bad?" the highwayman asks, his heart sinking. Seems this is to be one of these times.

"This isn't wine," Mallory croaks, and hurries to the kitchens to wash out her mouth.

"What is it then?" Junia asks, reaching for a bottle to see for herself.

Dismas sniffs the dregs. Immediately, a cloying coppery and sweet smell assaults his nose, and Dismas has to admire Malory's iron self-control. He would have just hurled right on the carpet.

Junia puts her cup away again, the expression on her round face as weary as Dismas is feeling all of a sudden. Meanwhile, Paschal is eying Mallory's abandoned cup and its contents with interest. "Huh."

Dismas can hear her mutter, "How did they keep it from congealing? I wonder... ," before he catches the doctor dipping her pinkie finger into the leftover liquid and holding it to her tongue with an expression of intense concentration. "This is most curious."

"Fuck this," Dismas mutters and just like that he is done with this day. "Sorry folks, I'm off ta bed."

Junia tears away her eyes from the doctor and picks up her mace. "It seems best we rest and pray to the Light for guidance," the Vestal agrees in a tired voice.

"Ya do that," Dismas tells her. "I'll go ahead an' do the restin' part." Turning, he almost collides with Reynauld – Reynauld who appears to have completely deserted his corporeal body and is just standing there, with his helmet tucked under one arm and an empty gaze.

Dismas raps one knuckle against his breast plate to get the knight's attention. "You comin'?"

Reynauld startles like a person woken from sleep and looks around the room as if lost. "Are we dismissed?" he asks no one in particular.

"I believe we are, brother," Junia replies before Dismas can. "I'm sure the lady Mallory knows where to find thee if there are matters thou needst to discuss."

Reynauld hesitates before he slowly nods in answer. Dismas observes that he has the mannerism of someone high on drugs, but the knight lacks the physical aspects of an addict. Maybe holy water and incense have negative side-effects too. Maybe Paschal's smoke bombs do.

"C'mon, Armour," Dismas says, not unkindly, tugging on the crusader's elbow to get him moving. "If ya crash on tha floor, I ain't draggin' ya upstairs."

The words are running together in his mouth, but he is too tired to care, to pretend he is someone he is not. Reynauld moves of his own accord, thankfully, although he seems to be favouring his left leg.

It isn't until the door falls shut behind them and the cool of the room begins to seep through his clothes that Dismas realizes he is missing something.

"Shite!" He doesn't know what to make of Reynauld flinching at the profanity. He ain't in the mood for a lecture, but the crusader doesn't give him one, so Dismas simply adds, "Fergot me coat."

He doesn't have much to his name other than a nice bounty and a ban on the premises of several establishments, and he likes to keep what few possessions are his close. Just in case.

Junia is gone and the fire in the chimney has almost burned out, given how no one had added any more wood since Reynauld had lit it right after their return, but there are voices coming from one of the adjacent rooms.

"I am sure you wish for reimbursement?" Dismas can hear Mallory ask when he sneaks into the living room, keeping to the deep shadows cast by ancient furniture. Old habits and all that. He sure ain't spying on the two women when he risks a peek.

Paschal, however, waves Mallory off, and takes the bottles of blood as payment. Dismas prefers not to think about what she plans on doing with them. He is beginning to feel a twinge of sympathy for Lenn. Lenn, who now owes him a month's worth of supply with booze, he remembers, feeling marginally better.

Tomorrow he'll make the barman regret agreeing to the deal.

Dismas snatches up his coat and returns to his shared bedroom. The pulling sensation in his side has steadily increased, but it is only now that he truly becomes aware of how his entire chest is aching, every breath putting strain on the newly scarred skin that has yet to stretch.

He is not the only one in pain.

A man in his profession knows to find and exploit the small weaknesses that most people like to hide, and so it doesn't take Dismas long to notice how the corners of Reynauld's mouth are down, his lips pressed into a firm line. The knight uses his left in place of his right, his dominant hand, to tug open the straps of his armour.

"Need any help with that?" Dismas asks, tossing his coat onto his bed.

He expects the knight to rebuff him, but to his astonishment Reynauld nods after a moment's hesitation. Up close, Dismas can see fine decorative etchings along the edge of the armour, as well as the cuts and miniscule dents that mar the otherwise shiny surface of the metal.

"If you could just undo this clasp." The crusader dips and turns his head, to better observe the highwayman out of the corners of his eyes.

He does as he has been asked to, opening the clasp on Reynauld's right shoulder blade, and the one on the very top of his neck and watches as bit by bit the armour begins to come off. Dismas gets to see how each piece is fitted so as to offer the best protection while still allowing the wearer their full range of movement.

He does his best not to think about how much the whole suit of armour must be worth. More than everything he had ever owned in life combined, that's for sure.

When Reynauld removes the cap, Dismas is amused to find that his hair sticks every which way. He curses the sudden urge to run his fingers through the unruly tresses to comb them into some semblance of order.

It is a bad time for such thoughts. An exhausted mind is a fickle thing.

The hauberk rattles as it pools on the bed, almost like a liquid, and the padded jacket is carefully hung over the back of the chair at the desk. Reynauld stretches his neck and rotates his shoulders. There is a hollow pop that makes Dismas hiss in sympathy, but Reynauld sighs in relief, slumping now that all the weight has been lifted off him.

Summer is almost over, and in the crisp night air, the knight is steaming. There's not so much as a nick in his tunic, but his eyes are red-rimmed. Whatever Paschal had hit him with, left them puffy and irritated.

"Better go wash that shit out," Dismas says, circling a finger in front of his own face.

Reynauld's head snaps up, the tension returning to his posture. He appears to have forgotten about the other man, but after a moment he relaxes again, a weary nod telling Dismas that he intends to follow through with that idea.

A soft knock announces Reynauld's return a couple of minutes later. He has changed his tunic, so he has probably washed up too.

"I could do with a basin and some hot water," Dismas greets him from the depths of his bed, although now that he's gotten vertical he doesn't plan on getting up anytime soon.

"Is there a bathhouse?" Reynauld asks although he doesn't sound like he really cares.

"There was once. It closed down," Dismas informs him. He is ready to bet the last of his snuff that Reynauld will not follow his example and simply fall into bed. He smirks when he is proven right. Recognizing patterns is a useful skill to have, and one he has honed.

Reynauld checks his equipment, putting away each piece only after it has received a thorough examination. Then, he kneels to pray. Just like he had yesterday.

'He should learn to take care of his bodily needs as well as his spiritual ones,' is the last thing Dismas remembers thinking before he passes out.

That night, Dismas learns the hard way that Reynauld screams in his sleep.

His own dreams are uneasy, full of ever-shifting corridors and the search for an exit he knows he will never find in time. A small bubble of panic begins to fill his chest, and it grows with every step he takes. He cannot find a way out of the labyrinth of hallways, and he is being pursued by someone or something that he only manages to catch glimpses of out of the corners of his eyes. If he doesn't escape, he will die here ant he corridors will become his tomb.

In desperation, Dismas scratches at the stone walls with torn, bleeding hands and cracked nails, and he screams for them to let him out. He'd done his time, he'd –

Dismas wakes abruptly to a voice that is not his own, shouting in a language he does not understand.

He jerks up too fast, gets tangled in something, and crashes to the floor. It's dark, too dark to see, and his heart is pounding in his throat. All he is aware of is that he has to fight or flee – and he does not yet know which.

Before his situation or his surroundings become any clearer, the door bursts open, and it's pure reflex for him to point the gun at the intruder. By the light of a single candle, Dismas can see Mallory charge into the room – she and her boar spear. The fact that she's wearing a nightgown does not make the weapon any less intimidating.

The door bangs against the wall, and Reynauld wakes with a gasp, reaching for his sword by his side.

The heiress looks around with wide eyes, taking in the scene – Dismas lying on the floor, blankets twisted tightly around him, Reynauld sitting up slowly, and her mouth opens and closes a few times. It takes Dismas several seconds to realize he's still holding his flintlock and he quickly lowers the weapon.

"I thought I head – ," Mallory says in way of apology, her eyes briefly skittering to the crusader whose face is hidden in the shadows.

It's fairly obvious by now what she heard, but Dismas has to commend her dedication of rushing to their help. "It's alright," he says in a rough voice, though his position on the floor might belie his words somewhat. "Thanks."

Mallory nods a couple of times, as if she has to convince herself that everything is indeed alright, and much gentler than she had come in, she closes the door behind her.

Dismas rests his forehead on his knees and takes a moment to take several deep breaths. The panic has passed, but he still feels shaky when he gets to his feet even though by now his heartbeat is slowing down. Dismas shivers when the cold night air stirs his sweat-soaked shirt.

Being awake may have pushed back the terrors of the unconscious, but when Dismas remembers the previous day and the horror they had found under the mansion...

Shit, he don't even begrudge the knight his nightmares.

Dismas can hear Reynauld breathe heavily, though he cannot make out much more than the other man's hunched over form. The crusader sits on the bed with feet braced and his sword across his lap, the exact opposite of someone relaxing and ready to return to sleep. Not that Dismas can blame him, but the other man's tension is making him uneasy as well.

Dismas is about as awake as he's gonna be, and he really does not wish to lie around and let his mind come up with more ways to torment him.

"Ya know what always makes me feel better?" Dismas asks suddenly, pulling on his pants and shrugging into his coat after a quick change of shirts. "A walk." He's certainly going on one, and the invitation stands; it's up to Reynauld to accept.

The crusader heaves himself to his feet, a motion more fitting for a man thirty years his senior. His limp is less pronounced than it was when he was wearing armour. Dismas cannot recall it being there yesterday, or even this morning, which means it is a souvenir from today's forage.

They do not speak, but Dismas waits impatiently as Reynauld dresses in something warmer than his tunic. When they descent side by side, only the stairs creak in the otherwise silent mansion. The air is musty, thick with dust and something else. Dismas cannot put his finger on it, but he senses that Reynauld can feel it too.

Out in the open, the night envelops them like a blanket. It's cold and fresh, and with the stars and moon out it's even lighter outside than it was inside. Bright enough that do not need any additional light sources.

Dismas slowly begins to relax as the confinement of walls is left further behind him with every step. He doesn't ask where Reynauld wishes to go, they just stroll around the old house as if that was a path they had agreed on before. The sword Reynauld carries bumps into Dismas' hip a couple of times. Reynauld does not seem to notice. Dismas would have said he hasn't been like himself ever since going down into that cursed cellar, but the truth is he doesn't know the knight well enough to make that assumption.

Behind the mansion there is another courtyard, wilder than the one in front. It is flooded in silvery moonlight that reflects off the white marble statues that are wrapped in evergreen ivy as if they too had dressed for winter. An ornate fountain takes the center, but upon having a closer look they can see that it is clogged with rotting leaves. This place must have been beautiful once, but much like the rest of the Hamlet, it has fallen to decay.

When they find a low bench, they take the opportunity to sit down. Instantly, the cold of the stone surface seeps through Dismas' pants.

"If I didn't know better I'd say it's pretty," Dismas says, surveying the gardens around them. Talking is just another way to stave off the desperation, but when Reynauld doesn't react at all, Dismas' discomfort tips over into worry.

"Hey. Ya sure yer alright?"

Reynauld looks up only when Dismas' hand lands on his forearm. Dismas withdraws instantly, because he doesn't like how the knight flinches back. Something sure ain't right there, but he'd be damned if he knows what it is.

"Fine," the crusader replies, but he does not meet the highwayman's eyes.

Yeah. Sure.

But there's a change; Reynauld seems more alert than before. He runs his fingers through his hair, then remains with his hands pressed to his eyes.

Dismas picks at a loose thread on his sleeve. They remain like that for a while, but Dismas has never coped well with the quiet. He likes the sound of a voice – even if it's just his own.

"How's the leg doing?" he asks eventually. They're not on good enough terms for Dismas to tell him to drop his pants so he can check for himself. The thought of the knight's face if he did does lift his spirits somewhat.

"It has suffered no greater harm," Reynauld replies, lifting his head. "It should heal, Light willing."

The crusader had patched him up, he knows something about medicine. Probably much more than the highwayman does. Dismas drops the topic, and they lapse back into not talking.

"You are a very fine marksman," the crusader says out of nowhere.

It's nothing short of true, but to hear another one say so, ignites a spark of pride in Dismas' chest. He's also a bit too shocked about the knight complimenting him to manage anything more coherent than,

"Thanks... Rey."

The smile Dismas directs at the other man sours and withers when the crusader keeps looking at the ground.

"I have seen much," Reynauld rasps after a while that us just long enough to make Dismas fiddle with his coat again, "but never the dead rise up to claim the living as their own. And the things they whispered to me- ." At this point he seems to be talking more to himself than to his companion.

Dismas shivers, happy not to have heard a thing. Maybe Reynauld is talking about his dream. Maybe he isn't. Either way, Dismas doesn't want to know what the dead whisper.

"We made it out. S' all that matters." But even as he speaks, doubts assault him. This was just the first real run. Will they have to go back? He isn't sure he can face what hides under the manor again. At the same time, he may have to if he ever wishes to leave he Hamlet.

He may deserve this hell, but that does not mean he can stand it.

"Let's go."

"What?" Dismas asks stupidly, so caught in his own thoughts that he has missed Reynauld getting up. He swears he can see a muscle twitch in Reynauld's jaw.

"You said to go for a walk; let's walk."

They do so, passing dead flower beds and bushes that had long ago lost their artful trims. On the other side, Dismas spots a low building that he had never paid any attention before.

"What's that?" Dismas asks, pointing.

"The stables," Reynauld replies, and picks the path that will take them closer.

"Huh. Didn't know there were any." A silly thing to say, he realizes too late. Of course there are. Mallory's got to keep her horses somewhere.

As they draw near, he can hear a soft nicker greet them. There are six animals in total out in the pasture; two are the horses who pulled their ill-fated chariot, and one is Mallory's sleek hunter. One of the others is sway-backed and thin enough for its ribs to show under a shaggy, patchy coat, and it is the first to get its nose rubbed by the crusader. Dismas chooses to stand a few steps behind.

Horses are fast, and appear to be even faster when you're on top of them, they eat grass and they kick. That's the gist of his knowledge. Not that he'd not stolen the one or other, but certainly never one as fine as most of Mallory's animals.

Reynauld seems happy to pet his furry friends, even one enormous steeds whose head is as big as Dismas' torso.

"Don't get your hand bit off," the highwayman grumbles, eying the beast warily. He sure ain't gettin' anywhere near those teeth.

"They don't like meat," Reynauld says calmly with a look over his shoulder. "If they take a couple of your fingers, they'll spit them back out again."

And that is supposed to be... comforting? Dismas gapes, at least until the nearest beast snorts and sprays the crusader with a fine mist of snot. Then he breaks out in a laugh that spooks the horses into trotting away. That's what the knight gets – but Reynauld chuckles too, genuinely amused and Dismas watches the transformation in him with fascination.

They head back to the house soon, for what rest they can get for what is left of the night.

The next time when Dismas wakes, it is because the early midday sun is shining through the window and straight into his face. Usually an early riser out of necessity, the only times he sleeps in like this is when large amounts of alcohol are involved.

By the time they returned to the house, a faint stripe of grey was visible on the horizon. They'd both managed to find some more rest, and the rest of the night passes without any further incidents.

The highwayman casts a glance towards Reynauld's bed – which he finds made and its owner gone. And he had not heard a thing. A man of the crusader's calibre ought not be able to move so stealthily. That trait should be reserved for rogues such as himself. But even so, the water pitcher that Dismas knows for sure wasn't full yesterday, is most welcome.

When he finally makes it down, Mallory isn't around and neither are Reynauld or the Caretaker. The latter also runs a small general goods store in the village, which might explain how he continuously fails to do his duties around the mansion. The Heiress is convinced that it is because of the man's madness, and not out of any ill will or inherent laziness.

Dismas' feet take him towards the Hamlet, in the opposite direction of the path they had walked yesterday night. Over the crest of the hill he cannot see the stables where Mallory's horses are undoubtedly noisily munching some fodder. As always, the town seems to be half-deserted, although today he can see pale faces behind broken shutters that quickly disappear when he looks their way.

Dismas tries to shake off the strange feeling that suddenly assaults him and turns towards the one place where there seems to me some manner of activity: the abbey. There, Dismas spots Liz and Darell hauling wooden boards, such as are used in construction. The man is sporting a large bruise on his cheek and both of them keep their heads down and their mouths shut. It seems someone's learned their lesson, as neither pays the highwayman any heed when he walks past.

Just out of curiosity Dismas decides to have a closer look at the church that his roommate has taken upon himself to restore, probably with the help of the Vestal. She doesn't seem to be here now, but the highwayman instantly catches sight of Reynauld. It's easy to make out the crusader's broad form next to that of another man who has to be the priest. He's got a long face, too big ears, and tufts of hair that stand up just so as to best frame his balding head. Dismas dislikes him at first sight.

He doesn't approach any further. They seem busy enough with abbey work, and he isn't sure what he could contribute to that – or whether he wants to.

Dismas decides to look in on the smith, and leaves with a rack for Reynauld's armour, a lance, and a pouch full of newly cast bullets, which is the bribe that convinces him to help Farley carry the former two back to the mansion.

Unlike Reynauld or the smith, Dismas doesn't have work to do, and he is free to wander the village and to spend his time as he wills. Eventually, he gives in to the pull and slowly makes for the tavern. It's still early for drink, but there's bound to be food there, and company, and he craves both in equal measure.

As he nears the building, Lenn's booming voice spills out from the tavern.

"No!"

Grinning from the thought that the barman might have sensed his presence, Dismas pushes open the door – and immediately finds himself in the midst of a heated argument.

"Tis' a guesthouse or not!?" a stocky man in his middle to late fifties bellows. He has a head full of grey hair that is on its best way to becoming white as snow, and is a stark contrast to the red in his round face which betrays his enragement. But without a doubt the stranger's most memorable feature is the patch covering his right eye.

"Aye," Lenn growls without backing down. "A guesthouse, not a bloody hospice!"

"Friend," another man intervenes, and his quiet, calm tone that has much more impact on his companion than anything Lenn has said so far. "It is his tavern, and his good right."

Dismas is shocked to see the stranger's telltale getup. A mask and clothing that leaves not an inch of his skin visible. He now understands what the dispute is about and has to agree with Lenn; it's discomforting being even this close to the afflicted.

The leper's companion sits down, although he does so with a glower, and Dismas swears that even his moustache is bristling with belligerence.

"There's plenty of empty houses around," Lenn grunts, and he sounds more sullen now that he's no longer having his feathers ruffled. "Bring or buy your own dishes, and I will provide you with food and drink."

"Well. I shall go find us an abode then," the bloke who had argued with the bartender huffs, and rises again with the brusqueness of a military man. He is not tall, but Dismas suspects that his girth is more muscle than fat, and he prudently steps to the side to let him pass.

Dismas takes the opportunity of a lull in the conversation to approach the bar.

"Who're they?"

"New arrivals," the barman grunts. "Say they came here 'bout an hour ago. The leper over there," Lenn isn't subtle in pointing the dirty glass in his hands at the man in question, "and two of his friends. Offered them a room, but they didn't take it well w hen I said I ain't housing him, no matter what that witch says."

Two? Dismas had not seen anyone else, but a careful look around reveals what he had missed at first – there is another figure leaning against the tiled stove, motionless and far too easy to overlook. Dismas feels a surge of ire towards this person, although it is his own fault that he had failed to spot him. At least he doesn't have to enquire who that witch is. Nor is he surprised that the plague doctor would take an interest in the diseased man.

"What does she say?" Dismas wants to know.

"That the chance of someone getting infected converges towards zero," Lenn parrots. "Well, it's a chance I ain't taking. There's a reason they cast them out," the barman grunts. "Poor sod – he ain't even the actual problem. Been nothin' but polite since he came it."

"Ah." Dismas can guess the pain in the ass has been.

The person in question returns just as he is midway through his second mug of rum-spiced berry infusion.

"I found a house," he announces. "It's not much, but it has a room and a functional chimney." He gives Lenn a dark glare which the barman returns without blinking, and Dismas is good and ready to find cover under the counter the second something other than dirty looks gets thrown.

"Thank you, Montfort" the leper answers. "I am sure we will make it homely in no time." He nods in the direction of Lenn and Dismas, and beckons to his other mysterious companion, who follows like a shadow.

"Let's go then," Montfort agrees, holding open the door as the entourage gathers to leave. "There's some sort of congregation happening outside, I don't like – "

Dismas doesn't get to hear the rest of it before the door closes and cuts off the rest of the sentence. All of a sudden, the bar feels empty and confining, and the urge to move again like an itch under his skin. He chugs the last of his drink and hands back the mug.

Provoking the barman is the next closest thing Dismas has done to poking a snarling bear with a stick, but he cannot resist to grin up and Lenn and add, "See? I ain't that bad."

The answering snort tells him otherwise.

Just as he is about to leave, there is a burst of noise as the door swings open again and a cloaked figure comes running up to the bar, almost knocking Dismas over. A flash of irritation crosses Lenn's face, until the hood is thrown back, and he and Dismas both recognize Farley's wild hair and beard.

"She's not here?" the smith gasps, looking around, as if expecting to see someone familiar.

"Who?"

"Mallory!"

"No, why– ?"

Farley waves a hand to silence him, and hurries to explain. "The townsfolk, they are planning to march on the estate. Last night's magic has them scared witless. I tried ta reason with some of them, but they think what worked on the old man might work on his heir."

It takes a few seconds before the words sink in, but when they do they do a better job of sobering Dismas up than being dunked in the horse trough by the city guard.

"I need to go," he blurts out and he gets up so fast he knocks over his stool.

"Wait!" Lenn's paw on his shoulder stops him. "Better take the back door."

Dismas doesn't have time to nod, because he is already on the move. He hits the door at a full run and barely takes notice of all the people milling around, of the torches being lit. Farley was right, it don't look good. Angry shouts fade in the distance as Dismas hauls ass back to the mansion, as if the Holy Inquisition itself was on his heels.

Every step feels like being stabbed anew, and there is an irritating pinch in his knee and thigh, but he doesn't slow down. He needs to get to the house before the mob does, or they're all royally fucked. Funnily, enough he's not thinking about Mallory as much as he is about Reynauld.

Tin-man will help, he tells himself, because after sprinting all the way up the hill he ain't sure he'll be good for much more than throwing up on the threshold.

Dismas bursts into his room with enough noise that the crusader jumps up, actually jumps, and stares at him with wide eyes. Ain't the time for him to worry what that is about.

Dismas' chest is heaving and his throat burns worse than after drinking fire whiskey, but he manages to point to the window and wheeze,

"We're in trouble."

In the distance, a fiery serpent has begun to coil itself around the alley leading up to the mansion.

AN: Fifth chapter is out and it took quite the unexpected turn!

You can also find this story here on AO3

#blu's corner #writing #fanfiction #darkest dungeon #reynauld #Dismas #Reymas

11 notes · View notes

whitelippedviper · 7 years

Text

Pop Comics #5: Astonishing X-men #3. Is Clarity Enough?

This article originally appeared on my patreon, which you can subscribe to for as little as one dollar a month. As a patreon subscriber you get to see these and other articles sometimes weeks before everyone else. Subscribe now.

Pop Comics is a series of articles I am doing on the most popular comics according to Comixology’s weekly top 10 list. This week I am writing about Astonishing X-men #3 which is written by Charles Soule, penciled by Ed McGuinness, inked by Mark Morales, colored by Jason Keith and lettered by Clayton Cowles. Astonishing X-men #3 is basically like...a game of Heroclix between The Shadow King and Professor X. The comic starts out with Old Man Logan climbing through an icy astral plane whining about how in an alternate past he killed all the x-men yada yada. There’s a side game where Professor X is trying to get Logan to something or other, without the shadow king knowing.

Meanwhile in, London(you can tell because it says so you see)…

Psylocke, Bishop, and Angel are protecting the X-men in the astral plane from alarmed local authorities. Of course the London police are pretty concerned about the X-men being there--which, I’m thinking of all of the other times the X-men have fought some huge battle or tried to do similar things without the authorities ever really showing up--and so...good on the London police. Eventually the x-men send Angel out to try and calm the situation, but the police shoot him with a razor net or something. Angel starts to wig out but eventually refrains from doing anything; instead he offers to do some kind of hostage swap where an officer goes down to the roof and he goes into their helicopter--which doesn’t seem like a good idea on anyone’s part. And of course, it turns out it’s not. As Logan is taken over by the Shadow King, awakens, and promptly kills the police officer who has came down to talk to aforementioned x-folk. The comic of course ends at this moment.

That’s probably the strongest image from the comic as well. It really captures the distress of the dude, and the sort of dark elf appearance of possessed Logan kind of accentuates the “uh oh-ness” of the moment to a sufficient degree. On the whole, it’s a solid comic to be honest. Everything that happens in it is very clear. You are told very overtly who people are, where they are, and why they are there, so even though I am reading this in issue #3 I know exactly what is happening. In that way it is a very functional workmanlike comic that meets the quota of being a thing that came out this month and appropriately updates the story of your favorite characters. But let’s say you weren’t an X-men fan. And just wanted to read a good comic--I don’t know that it is that. McGuinness figures aren’t that dynamic to look at, and kind of just look like pictures of toys more than they do flamboyant characters locked into an extradimensional fight that defies the laws of reality. I think X-men: Heroclix is an adequate description of how all of the characters look. Which again, is fine. But I mean if you’re an adult, maybe you should be buying those 3A figures instead? Just sayin. I think the main thing that was interesting to me reading this, was the parts with Logan in the astral plane which are meant to take place in a very snowy cold creation of Logan’s imagination.

The story tells us that Logan has made this place for him to traverse because he likes pain. So in theory this is like the worst snow that Logan can imagine. His idea of painful snow. But the depiction of this is very lacking. There’s this blue gradient easing you from the whites to the blues in the sky sometimes into black, which is very soft. And while it denotes coolness, does it really hit as COLD? Add to this, there aren’t very many snowflakes. Logan himself is not even bundled up, just wearing a normal jacket, bare hands, exposed white tank top, some jeans. The choice to keep Logan in this costume undercuts one’s ability to visually apprehend this as a cold place, because dude isn’t even zipping up his jacket. And then there aren’t many physical signs on Logan himself that he is in snow. His hands look frostbitten a little bit on the very first page, but never after that. None of the snow is really sticking to him. And then there’s not much of an attempt to show the scale of him trudging through an endless snowy battle towards a fortress in the distance. As an idea that is very epic and if I just told you it was a snow comic where Logan killed his way through all of his old enemies on the astral plane--I think you’d picture a really rad comic--but there’s nothing like that in this. Compare all of that to Barry Windsor-Smith’s snow in Weapon X:

Which, it’s not fair to compare anyone to Barry Windsor-Smith in comics(though it is worth using his work as a measuring stick to ask for more from artists)--but I think there are some basic principles here that if they had been implemented would have really turned up the volume on Astonishing X-men #3. First of all, note how much snow is flurrying around on the BWS pages. There’s not even space for a colorist to run in here and drop gradients. What is the point? The snow has a physical force in these panels that impacts the figure within it. The environment is impacting what it contains, which creates a much richer sensation as a reader because you have to recognize the impact of this environmental force--wherein the astonishing pages you an just glance over it. Look at how the snow is stuck into Weapon-X’s hair. And look how it freezes to his face. This is the same character! And we are led to believe in Astonishing X-men #3 that that snow is the worst that the same character as BWS has drawn can imagine?? It defies belief.

The great thing about setting something in the astral plane is that the rules of reality don’t have to apply. So everything can be extreme. Everything is the mental dream or nightmare of the image. The most insane unreality. So to set something there, and then to be so boring that you don’t even draw more than a few snowflakes is insane. There are more snowflakes on these two pages in Weapon X than the whole of Astonishing X-men #3. It’s all just lumped into the colorist’s hands, and I know we live in an age where colorists are considered so important--but I don’t think that the best artists in comics are worse than the average colorist--so I don’t get where the trust comes from. The artist should be leading the way not laying back in the cut letting the book live or die based upon the colorist ability to finish up the environments. There are very few colorists who have that level of skill. Like I could see if you were working with Dean White who was going to paint the whole thing for you--but in this case it seems lazy and rushed. Which is crazy--because if you rock it correctly, snow issues should be pretty low on the workload! You can leave so much white! Also--having the word balloons a whiter white than a lot of the snow...doesn’t help visually! These problems with the setting continue into the London parts of the book, which...don’t really evoke London. I mean...I assume the buildings that are drawn there are actually there. But the buildings don’t look any different than NYC, and the London Police and their superiors don’t really have any kind visual signifiers that make you think they are not American. Which is fine. It just means as a reader, that aspect of the book has no weight to it. So what we’re left with in this book is everything is hinging upon how dramatic the writing can pit the stakes between these action figures. My other thing, which is a more general taste thing is “floaty panels”--they are all over here:

I call them floaty panels, where panels are just stacked randomly over each other and then over a bottom image, and then somehow you call it a day, and say “composition”. To me it’s goofy. Like look at the above page. The most background image is Angel starting to freak out, and the panels are basically placed down across his wing. That image is kind of the dramatic underpinning of the whole page--so from a logical point of view it make sense to then visually have that actualized. But all you’ve really done is covered up art and crowded out the most dramatic moment. It’s a taste thing, but I feel that if this page had been on a grid, and the last long rectangular panel was just this unclouded image of Angel about to go nuts--it would have hit harder. Also there’s never any attempt to try and make Angel flying around these helicopters look cool. He literally could still be standing on the building in that first panel and you wouldn’t bat an eye. The bald dude literally looks like he’s just peering out his office door telling people to get to work. But then you look at it, and are like “where would you even show the cool panel of Angel hovering dangerously between these armed helicopters? There’s no space?”

Also...I don’t get it...the net cuts his wing? Perhaps showing this dangerous knived net would have helped? Or just have someone use a gun? Maybe it’s because the story needs a reason for Angel to go crazy, so the net has to cut him? The way that it’s done, it’s the same problem as the Logan stuff in the Astral plane; you are being told by the story that there are stakes, but those stakes aren’t really being shown with any kind of weight. And weightless stakes are not the best thing when you are talking about stories largely about characters that everyone knows can’t really progress beyond their static movie IP stage. But again. This isn’t a bad comic. It’s just very focused on clarity and the mission of conveying a plot. a plot. Without offering much beyond that. Which I think a lot of editors in comics see as a goal to shoot for. Philosophically I think clarity for its own sake is just treading water. Just because you can see something doesn’t mean it’s worth looking at. Rather than clarity, I think value should be a larger goal. How do I create value in you looking at this thing? Because you can have two images of a chair, right? But which one is the one you are drawn to? Is it the one that just looks exactly like a chair? Or is it the one that makes you really examine the chair, and think about your own internal image of the chair to compare? And I mean there are an infinity of things that can spin out of a chair. And that’s just a chair. Surely the astral idea of snow from the perspective of a man like Logan can be more interesting than even a chair. Or we should at least ask for it to be.

#My Writing #Sarah Horrocks #Astonishing X-men #Pop Comics

43 notes · View notes