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laurfilijames · 3 years

Text

Desired Effect

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Pairing: Fili x female reader

Words: 2,718

Warnings: rated E. M/F unprotected intercourse. Fili is a cheeky bastard

Summary: Fili buys you a scandalous dress to wear to an event, and effectively teases you until you can’t take it any more, dragging him home for some fun.

Requested by @lilith15000, I hope this is everything you were hoping for, love! It was a pleasure to write for you, thank you for always supporting my work. Enjoy!

Weaving through the corridors on your way back to your chambers, you took in the decor around you. Tapestries hung from the ceiling, many more than normal, and all the dwarrow around you were bustling about more than usual. You smiled to yourself, excited for the reason for all of this commotion; a party.

It wasn’t going to be anything huge and extravagant, but you always looked forward to an event like this, an excuse to dress up, to have Fili standing proudly beside you the whole night with his arm locked around yours, his attention always focused on you.

Thinking about what gown you would wear as you walked through your chambers to the bathing room to run a bath, something on your bed caught your eye, making you pause and turn to look.

To your surprise, a stunning gown was laid out on the bed before you. Deep red in colour with gold details adorning it, a perfect match to Fili’s red robes he wore often to events such as tonight’s.

The closer you got to it, the more you realized it looked more like a nightgown as opposed to a formal dress. It couldn’t be for tonight, you thought, the material was thin and silky, and surely would reveal every part of you, leaving absolutely nothing to the imagination. Fili must have intended for you to wear it around your chambers, in the comfort of your husband's company alone. You held it up in front of you and turned to look in the mirror. The neckline plunged extremely deep and there were even cut outs along the sides, acting as windows to display your skin.

You placed the dress back on the bed and began to remove your current outfit, curious to see how it would look on your body.

The feel of it against your bare skin made you feel like a Queen as soon as the hem hit the floor, the material floating over your features and accentuating every curve of you.

You tucked your lip in your teeth as you admired your reflection, thinking how Fili would no doubt have this torn off of you in an instant.

“I see you found my gift…” Fili’s voice appeared suddenly, causing you to turn in his direction to see him leaning casually against the doorway with his arms folded across his chest as he admired you.

“Fili, it’s beautiful! Thank you! I’ll wear it while I get ready for tonight.” You twisted your body back to face the mirror, a smile unable to be erased from your lips due to his sweet gesture.

“No, amralime,” he said with a playful tone, taking a step toward you. “You’ll be wearing it all night.”

You turned to him again, shocked at his statement. Barely stringing the words together, you gawked at him, “There’s no way! It’s hardly containing me!”

Now his hands were on your hips, gliding over your sides where the dress left you exposed and you heard him hum in satisfaction.

Fili gave you that look; the one where his eyes darkened, his eyebrows rose higher on his head and his lips pulled into a sly smirk, the very one that made fire pull deep within you.

“That’s exactly the point. I want everyone to see you. To see that you’re mine. You’re too beautiful to keep hidden.”

“But Fili—” you began to protest but he stopped you, his index finger landing on your lips to stop your words.

“Trust me.”

A sigh left your lungs, and suddenly you didn’t feel the need to argue anymore. Fili removed his finger from your lips and replaced it with his, his tongue demanding entrance to your mouth that you easily allowed. Trust was something you always had with Fili, so why should this be any different? Only it was the mischievous look that lingered on his face that told you he might have something else up his sleeve.

The night had been wonderful so far and it wasn’t near being over. You felt excited and exhilarated, but it wasn’t the party that had you feeling this way.

As usual, Fili couldn’t keep his hands off of you, always clutching your own or wrapping his arm around your waist while in conversation with someone, his heavy hand resting on your thigh when you were at your place at the table. Although this was a normal occurrence for the two of you, everything between you felt more charged than it typically was. It probably had everything to do with the things Fili kept whispering in your ear, or sometimes even out loud, but quiet and subtle enough that only you were able to hear. Those around you were likely thinking you were having nothing other than a warm exchange between lovers based on the smile that crossed your lips and the way Fili chuckled at your reactions.

Little did they know Fili was quickly placing you under a spell with every word that passed his lips. Things like; “See everyone watching you? They’re all thinking about the things they want to do to you. Too bad for them I’m the only one who gets to.”

Or he would discreetly trail his fingers up your thigh where your dress parted in a high cut slit, briefly touching you at the apex of your legs, his eyes dark with lust as they bore into you, saying in a low voice, “The best part about seeing you in this dress is knowing I’ll get to see you out of it soon.”

Every one of these promises made you shiver, finding yourself pressing your thighs together in an attempt to restrain yourself from spreading them apart for him right there.

You were a mess.

You even went so far as to avoid your own husband, putting distance between you any time he came near again, but it was no use. Even from across the room he knew how to make you squirm, looking you up and down like he would take you in front of everyone in the room.

It took everything in you to focus on the conversations around you, but Fili was unrelenting, determined and persistent in making you break.

Nodding along to a story you wouldn’t be able to recall the subject of even if you tried, told to you by a dwarf whose name you had long forgotten, you felt Fili brush his hand over the opening on your waist, the action making you swallow harshly and close your eyes. Curse him!

The dwarf before you continued his story, and thankfully there was a group surrounding you so he didn’t take notice of your rude behaviour.

“Did you have some dessert, amralime?” Fili asked beside you, having set his plate down on the table nearest to where you both stood before placing his hand on his hip and looking at you curiously.

“No, Fili, I did not. I’ve been slightly distracted…” you said with a playful warning.

He chuckled and his tongue darted out to lick his lips, you watching it happen like it was in slow motion.

“That’s too bad, it was delicious,” his lips turned upwards and his dimples made a more prominent appearance, making you weak once more. Choosing to ignore the effect he had on you, you turned back toward the story-teller, vowing not to succumb to the hunger that lingered in your stomach that wasn’t because you wanted dessert.

Fili leaned closer to you, his mouth beside your ear, his breath hot and sweet like the berries he’d just consumed and goosebumps erupted on your skin instantly. “It was good, but you’re going to taste better…”

That was your breaking point. You politely excused yourself from the group and gripped Fili’s arm with your hand, turning him to follow you and practically dragging him through the crowd to the doors. The cheeky dwarf dared to laugh as he struggled to keep up with you which only fueled your fire. You were going to wipe that smug grin off of his face.

As soon as you were both through the doors you moved to press him against the wall, hastily attaching your lips to his, your mouths immediately opening in your breathlessness to allow your tongues to tangle together. His hand flew up to hold your cheek, moving off the wall to replace his body with yours, your back slamming against the stone with a thud. His knee drove between your legs to part them, his hands moving down your sides tantalizingly slow. He took your hands in his and reached them up over your head at the same time he ground his hard bulge against your mound, the material gliding over the wet that had accumulated in your folds.

He pulled away from you slightly, watching your chest heave, his eyes dancing over every area of your body that the dress revealed.

“Mahal, you are a sight to behold,” Fili praised you. “This dress was the best money I’ve ever spent,” he continued, laughing before diving down to kiss your throat, pulling a drawn out moan from you.

“Although I can’t decide if I want to take you while you’re still wearing it, or rip it off of you.” His words mumbled against your skin as he explored you further, making you forget you weren’t yet in the privacy of your chambers. Then he stopped, his hands now braced on either side of your head, his pupils completely dilated as he looked at you menacingly.

“Probably both.”

You gasped when he latched onto your taught nipple through the thin fabric of the dress and quite frankly you didn’t care what happened to the dress, you simply needed him to end this ceaseless torture he’d put you through all night.

“Fìli!” you pleaded, “Take me home this instant, I’ve suffered enough!”

He grinned at you again, clearly amused by your frustrations and pulled you from the wall, making his way down the corridor toward your chambers with your hand in his.

“I know, I’m sorry. I’ll make it up to you, I promise!”

“This is exactly what you wanted to happen, wasn’t it?” you accused him as you realized his intention for buying you such a scandalous gown, your mouth hanging open, mockingly aghast.

“I had to make it so it was your idea to leave! I didn’t want to go in the first place.”

“You’re terrible, Fili.”

Giving you a sideways glance, you all but combusted on the spot when you heard his next words.

“I’m about to show you how terrible I can be.”

Fili’s robes were being torn off and discarded on the floor, the hem of your dress hiked up to your hips even before your door was unlatched, both of you frantic to access the other. As soon as you were completely through the threshold Fili kicked the door shut with his boot, managing to push it off his foot in the process.

Buttons fell to the floor as you tore open his tunic, revealing his bare torso to you.

“Easy, now, my love. We can’t go ruining all of our best clothes.” He dared to laugh again but it was cut off, changing to a hiss when you reached forward and pulled at the laces on his trousers, his cock hanging out heavily in the cool air.

“I’m not letting you ruin this dress, Fili. I quite like the effect it had on you.” You watched him melt to your touch as you stroked his length, his head tipping back in ecstasy. His head returned to its normal position and his eyes opened to look at you when you suddenly stopped touching him, moving away to sit on the small desk that occupied the space beside the door.

Fili strode over to you, closing the short distance quickly with a ferocity that worried you slightly. His hands roughly covered your knees and pushed them apart, making room for him to stand between your legs. He pressed his forehead against yours, his fingers now roaming up the backs of your thighs to cue you to wrap your legs around his thick waist.

“I’ll do my best to refrain from ruining the gown, amralime,” he whispered in a husky voice, his lips brushing yours. He lifted it further up your body, the silky skirt pooling at your hips, exposing your abundant arousal to him. “I can’t make the same promise for you though.” The tips of his fingers grazed over you and Fili growled at how ready you were, and before he could waste another moment gripped his throbbing cock and lined it up to push through your tight entrance.

You both cried out at finally getting what you both had desired all night, your hips pushing forward to meet his already intense thrusts.

The sound of the desk banging against the wall echoed throughout your chambers, the feral tempo you worked to set revealed with every clap of wood on stone.

Teeth crashed together with every desperate kiss, nothing of what your hands and mouths were doing made any sense other than that it was as if you were trying to grasp onto each other for dear life with every touch. Curses spilled from Fili’s wet lips, making you question whether it was to prolong this session and prevent his nearing climax, when all it was doing was spurring yours on. He roared in your ear as you began your ascent, your walls closing around him, squeezing and coaxing out all he had to offer you. In your blind passion you sensed his hands grip your side, groping and clawing at you in his own frantic pursuit. His fingers slipped through one of the cutouts on the side of your gown, the sound of material ripping registering on you just as you shouted through your high.

There was no time to care, still focused on riding out the shuddering bliss that rattled through you while Fili pounded into you in search of his own. His mouth covered yours, sloppy and clumsy, and with a growl that reverberated through you, you felt him coat your insides with his hot spend.

After a few moments of panting and kissing, Fili pulled out of you and took a step back, running his fingers through his sweaty hair that you’d efficiently messed up during your activities. He stumbled slightly, moving his hands from his hair to run over his beard like he was trying to catch his bearings again. His body was coated in a layer of sweat from his exertion, and despite your very small annoyance that your dress was ruined you couldn’t help but admire the masterpiece that was your husband standing before you in all his glory.

You cleared your throat to regain his attention, fiddling with the tattered piece of dress between your fingers to draw his gaze there.

A sigh left him and he placed his hands on his hips, shrugging slightly as a sated smile pulled at his dimples. “I’m sorry, I truly didn’t mean to ruin it,” he said vaguely, his attempt at an apology weak.

Unconvinced, you gave him a pointed look but then squirmed where you remained when he took a step toward you again, gathering the edge of your dress in his hands, his expression hungry once more.

“Seeing as it is now torn,” he looked from your exposed midsection up to your eyes with renewed spirit, “I’m going to have to take it off of you and take you for a second time without any part of you hidden from me.”

A yelp escaped you when Fili gripped your bottom and slid you off the desk, dragging you down to the floor with him. Both of you erupted in laughter, the thin and scratchy rug not softening the landing whatsoever, but your discomfort was soon forgotten when you were slowly guided to lay on your back, your dress slipped up and over your head, the silky garment now used as your blanket.

Fili settled himself between your legs, slowly kissing you while gently rubbing his thumb over your cheek, an indication that this next round would be unhurried and measured, a stark contrast to the rush you both found yourselves in earlier.

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Everything: @guardianofrivendell @midearthwritings @cassiabaggins @lilith15000 @trishthedishofreis @linasofia @unbeatablecurlgirl @the-poldarkian @lathalea

Fili: @shethereadinghobbit

#fili #fili smut #fili smut request #fili oneshot #the hobbit fili #fili x reader #fili x female reader #smut #the hobbit #fili durin

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tinyhistory · 4 years

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Hey! I feel like there's so many nuances, subtle messaging, and symbolism in Once Around the Sun. It's what makes it so gorgeous and intelligent. I don't have a specific question, guess I just was curious/ would love to hear your heart on what some of those things meant to you (white rose, sun nymphs, Azula's distorted perspective, etc), if you felt there was anything readers didn't catch, what you were excited or proud to weave in? I can't wait to reread already bc I'm sure I'll catch more :)

Thank you so much! I love putting little details in my fics, and often add nods to my other fanfics — so if you look closely enough, you start finding tiny in-jokes and references.

There’s a few things in Once Around the Sun that nobody’s commented on, but I’ll pick just a couple for the sake of brevity.

Firstly — lanterns! These are always used to foreshadow events. Just before the assassination attempt at the midsummer celebration, the lanterns are described in vivid detail and Katara sees Zuko outlined very clearly by them — something significant is about to happen to him. The lanterns are also red and blue — Zuko and Katara’s fates are about to entangle. In the same chapter, just before the prison is stormed and Azula’s mock trial is held, the lanterns near her cell are described as flickering wildly (a description deliberately similar to lightning).

In Chapter 7, when Zuko finally decides to take a gamble, heed Katara’s advice, and change course, the lanterns behind her are described as burning high and bright. In Chapter 8, when they chat quietly and comfortably with each other, the lanterns burn long and low. So the lanterns often reflect certain moods or upcoming changes in pace or character dynamics.

In Chapter 13, there’s the lantern festival where they write the names of the dead, and Azula writes four names (she writes Lu Ten, Ozai, Ursa — as she wasn’t sure if Ursa still lived — and herself, as she believes that the true Azula had spiritually died in her childhood). This festival is really about death — it’s about remembering those who couldn’t be saved, and saying farewell. I did space this one a few chapters before the major event because I didn’t want it to be too obvious. Later on, in Chapter 20, when Katara is thinking about Azula’s sacrifice, she specifically recalls that lantern festival.

When Katara really starts falling for Zuko in later chapters, her regret at “missed moments” is expressed through her memories of the midsummer festival and the dance they never had — throughout the chapters she thrice recalls that moment, and each time the lanterns are mentioned. She also realises Zuko perhaps reciprocates her love when he mentions the fox-sleeve lantern.

Finally, the dragon boat festival! The earlier lantern festival (foreshadowing Azula’s fate) had lanterns being released into the air and going heavenward (much like burning ash), but this festival (foreshadowing Zuko and Katara’s fates) involves the lanterns (fire) meeting the river (water).

Other little things would be the gesture of holding up a flower and blotting out the moon (Zuko does this once at the beginning; Katara does it once at the end, bookending the story), and origami (Aang offhandedly mentions, in Chapter 2, that Zuko can fold leaves into shapes — in Chapter 18, Zuko folds leaves into shapes for a funeral custom). Also with the origami theme — readers from my other fandom might recognise the origami rose that Katara makes...

Finally, just to touch on some of the other things you mentioned:

The sun nymphs.

This was a kind of Fire Nation version of the Will-o’-the-wisp, a common myth that exists in various forms around the world. It’s often portrayed as a little creature who holds a lantern aloft, luring lost travellers into marshlands and bogs. It’s generally accepted that all these myths were based around the naturally-occurring flames that sometimes happen in peaty soil. I really wanted a scene that had Zuko sharing some of his culture with Katara in an intimate and natural setting (away from the formality of the palace), so I thought pretty hard about the features of the city and nearby environment. The Will-o’-the-wisp legend presented itself as a good opportunity, so I conjured up the marshlands and gave the myth a Fire Nation twist. It was important to me that Katara began slowly seeing the beauty and playfulness of fire and Fire Nation culture — the sun nymph scene was the first of many moments where Zuko invited Katara into the stories and myths of his country.

The white roses.

I considered a few options before choosing the white rose. As it’s pointed out later in the fic, it means “secrecy and silence” which is applicable to both Azula (whose theme becomes the roses) and Ursa (who gifted the rose to her — the rose that saved Zuko). According to many mythologies, the white rose was the first of all roses, and is therefore often called ‘the mother rose’. It also later became associated with peace, loyalty, and honour. The association with peace also meant it was often connected to death — it became a common sight at funerals for those wishing a peaceful afterlife for their departed. Lastly, the white rose was reminiscent of the moon — circular and white — and the moon was also a common theme for Azula, who connected it with Katara/waterbending and therefore had a very uneasy relationship with it. She often felt that the moon was “watching” her and felt too vulnerable beneath its gaze. She sought to hide from the moon and called it a “hateful eye”, while throughout the fic Zuko gazed often upon the moon and used the stars to help him navigate his journeys. As Azula and Katara slowly developed trust in each other though, Azula finally told Katara her story and let herself become vulnerable — under the light of the moon.

Let me know if all of this was already obvious! I had a lot of fun weaving in various themes and symbolism. The downside is, it takes me a looooong time to write things because I’m so intent on the little details.

#once around the sun #zutara #answered asks

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cavalierious-whim · 3 years

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Kaedehara Kazuha writes poetry and comes to terms with the fact that he's in love.

Kazuha came home and I love him. Read here on AO3 for better quality, and follow me here on Twitter!

When was the last time he felt the rain upon his face, wondered Kazuha.

“When I allowed myself to,” he said to himself, leaning low over the woodpile as he struck a match over his flint. The sparks were welcome warmth, just like the fire that brewed slowly. Kazuha closed his eyes as he listened to the crackling of leaves, the dry kindling he’d set together.

“Sun-tipped red leaves.” A low murmur as he reached out to hold his fingers near the flames. Basking in the warm glow. It was chilly that night, the dark cover of the stars bringing the cold with it. Liyue was often unpredictable in its climate, much like Inuzama. Sometimes cold, sometimes hot. Always the undercurrent of rain on the wind, humidity settling deep into his bones.

“Burning fire in my soul,” he continued, sighing softly as he watched the orange glow of his campfire. A tired moment after a long day of wandering. Soon he would find his way back to the fleet, but until then, he would enjoy the quiet.

The calm before the storm, as he often said, the wind settling across the vast horizon. The smell of the grass comforted him, but there was rain on the way. In a day or so.

Much like the wind he coveted so much, Kaedehara Kazuha had traveled the world. Floated through time and space, like a soft and subtle breeze as he observed all those around him. It was enjoyable, of course. A young master with a name to claim, he always craved freedom more than the bounty of his family’s wealth.

But, the more that he traveled, the more he longed to settle down. To find companions. To understand the poetry of love. These things weren’t synonymous with the freedom that he sought, his flight on the breath of the world as he flitted from one place to the next.

So, those ideals remained that: merely ideals. Thoughts that he spun into poems on lonely nights like such as this. Whether it was on the Alcor, or here in the Guili Plains, Kazuha’s respite was found in weaving together words as he articulated his careful thoughts into volumes of poetry.

He sat upon a stump. Watched the fire roar. The first two lines of his haiku were fully formed and only waiting for a conclusion. He held his notebook in one hand, graphite in another. The book was heavy with words weighed down with feelings. Nearly full and close to the end until he inevitably started another.

Beidou teased him about his collection in his barracks on the ship. Kazuha only ever smiled back, his quiet grin speaking more volumes than words ever would.

“Sun-tipped red leaves,” he said, repeating his earlier lines, carefully woven together with tranquil intent. “Burning fire in my soul.”

He paused, tapping the graphite against his lip. Nothing came to him, thoughts empty like a dry husk.

You cannot force it, he thought as he set aside his notebook. Kazuha instead, decided to make tea. Pinched together an appropriate amount of leaves and tossed them into a small tin cup settled over the fire. Water from his canteen.

He and Beidou have often fought over this, the proper way to brew something. Cultures were intriguing things.

Kazuha found inspiration the moment he sipped at his tea. Sitting there on his stump as he watched the leaves on the trees rustle. Their colors have only just started to turn with the season.

“Autumn lingers,” he finished, tasting the words on his tongue.

He jotted the poem down entirely, his composition for the night finished.

He woke in the middle of the night, thinking of Beidou and the Traveler.

The latter, such an odd one. At first, Kazuha thought him quiet, but Aether turned out to have a devilishly branded sense of humor. Different than Kazuha’s quaint nature. Still, Kazuha had smelled the wind upon him and tasted the breeze.

Perhaps they were kindred souls in that way, craving for freedom in its purest form. Kazuha didn’t know what Aether wanted in Inuzama, but he feared for his safety. There was admiration, of course. Kazuha always found inspiration in those that burned so brightly in their conviction.

But many times, those people were fools. Kazuha was laying under the open stars as he thought of Aether. So similar to his friend of old, the one he’d lost to such foolishness. There wasn’t a doubt in Kazuha’s mind that a similar fate would befall Aether.

Beidou, of course, was the encouraging kind. All smiles and pats on the back if she thought that she could benefit from whatever arrangement was procured. “An eye for an eye,” she often said to Kazuha.

It wasn’t a bad philosophy. Still, it wasn’t always applicable and sometimes wreaked havoc instead of brought boon.

“Electric mayhem,” said Kazuha softly. He lifted a hand and gauged the deep night sky. Measured the stars and the galaxies between his fingers. “Ignites the sparks of fire, amid the darkened skies.”

Another haiku for another moment of observation. Kazuha was tired, deep in his thoughts. The fire was nothing but low-burning embers and he pulled his quilt tighter around him.

I will write it down tomorrow, he thought. The twinkling stars were a better show anyhow.

Kazuha had met Aether more times than he did most. Beidou’s gaze was a sly thing earlier that day as she watched them, thumb against her chin.

He didn’t like that look. It was her scheming one, and it bred more damage than it did good. Kazuha wasn’t in the mood to clean up any messes.

They were dispatched together to handle a minor inconvenience. Kazuha felt honored to watch Aether fight again. To taste the power he wielded so effortlessly on his tongue. Visionless, but no less a vision himself.

Kazuha watched, his throat going dry. Swallowing was hard. Looking away was harder. Instead, he watched Aether for most of the day, stringing together word after word in his mind. Aether’s form was poetic in its nature, so much like Kazuha’s own.

Aether moved with subtle and serene grace, weapons held aloft as he danced around their foes. He didn’t like to fight, didn’t like to draw his blade. That was something they shared.

Later that night, while sitting around a shared fire, Aether turned to him and said, “You were quiet today.”

“I am often,” said Kazuha in return.

“Beidou said otherwise.”

Kazuha smiled at that. “Beidou’s first and foremost trait is that she is always contrary.”

Aether hummed as he considered this. “There are worse things, I suppose. She’s upfront with her distrust.”

“Not distrust; Beidou just always has another motive, usually one that benefits herself.”

Their silence for most of the night was comforting. Aether was just as content to watch nature, as Kazuha was to pen his thoughts. His little notebook was a permanent fixture in his fingers as of late.

Particularly due to Aether’s enduring presence. Kazuha couldn’t help but think of the man. They’d spent much time together over the weeks, confirming Kazuha’s initial inklings: Aether was just like his old friend.

Perhaps a little more cautious. If there was a person who could end the Shogun, he might be it, though Kazuha wouldn’t hold his breath.

Beidou asked him a few days back. “What would you do if he challenged her straight on?” Perceptive as always, Kazuha had thought.

“Nothing,” he’d told her, though the words were hollow the moment they left his mouth. Fetid and ill. And she knew it too, her lips tugged into a neat little frown.

Beidou didn’t tell him what to do, though. She wouldn’t. He was a visitor to her fleet, a guest. Not one of her own. It came and went as he pleased, which meant that he could follow Aether to his doom if Kazuha so wished.

He hadn’t decided yet.

Kazuha focused on the moment instead, their tiny pocket of stillness in a vast world of contempt. The floating creature was off on her own, playing with the nature around them. Aether sat on a stump and drank his tea without complaint.

“What are you writing tonight?” asked Aether eventually, genuinely curious.

Kazuha paused. He rubbed his thumb over the rough page, his thumb smearing the graphite around, smudging his words slightly. Aether wouldn’t care about the content. Kazuha had learned that he just liked to hear his soft voice read the poems aloud.

“Behold our desires,” said Kazuha quietly, his voice gentle like the night breeze. “Like hot eyes of flame inside, Who will quench the fire?”

Aether, of course, thought Kazuha. He often looked at people, but always objectively. Not like this, where his heart was seized by such feeling that he had to pen it. The slow-stoked fire that burned low in his gut, widening further and further.

It would be bad luck to liken it to a forest fire, but that was what it felt like, the raging heat within his core. Before long it would be all-consuming.

Aether watched him carefully with a hint of a smile and his eyes calm and reflective. Then, he reached out, his hand stopping just short of Kazuha. “Come with me to Inuzama,” said Aether. Straight and to the point, as always.

Kazuha was the type to roam free on the winds, but there came a time where every breeze settled. Perhaps love and adventure truly could coexist. His hand found Aether’s, grasping it gently.

Perhaps it was his time.

#genshin impact #aether/kazuha #kazuther #aether #kazuha kaedehara #genshin impact fanfiction

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spirit-science-blog · 3 years

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The Perks of Being a Wallflower is a story about the infinite layers between a person's ego and a person's soul, and in that, the self-discovery and expression of the soul through the connection we have with each other. Much of this coming of age story is centered around being an outcast in a world of sameness, telling us of uniqueness, individuality, and that each of us has the potential to live our best lives if we can just get out of our own way. While the story is based in 1991, it relates very well with most demographics of the last 40 years, minus all the mix-tapes, as much of the message is universal to our human consciousness today.

The story was both written and directed by Steven Chbosky, for both the novel and the screenplay - and while generally, we’ll be focusing on the movie, for those interested - the book adds many dimensions to the story that we don’t see in the film. With that, here’s your Spoiler Alert, and here we go!

The film opens and closes with the infinity tunnel, the place which - to the main characters - seems to be a place of pure experience, an experience of the infinite. We see Sam and later Charlie experience this by standing up in the back of a truck, holding their arms out in joyous surrender to the expansive and seemingly never-ending tunnel. There is where we find Charlie's legendary line that became the Tagline of the movie “We are infinite”.

What’s especially amazing and curious about this is that it subtly explores the line between danger and conscious expansion. In the back of the truck, there is a notable sense of danger, as if the truck bounced or a strong wind blew through in the other direction, these kids could fall off the truck and bump their noggins! Yet, in the surrender of the will of the soul, it opens for this expansive experience that few are familiar with, which deepens their connection to themselves, feelings of freedom, and each other.

Now, in the book and a core part of the movie, is that the narrative is told through Charlie writing these letters to us, the audience, essentially providing a more intimate look at what’s going on inside Charlie’s mind and heart. Throughout the story, we peel back the layers of his nature and go deeper into resonance with his soul, but what's more so, we can see the various layers of his personality, both ego, and soul, that are steering the ship of his life.

And truly, one remarkable aspect of this story in particular is that every character feels like real people, which makes it easy for the film to connect well with anyone, as opposed to some of those other Hollywood highschools where everyone is 30… or constantly breaking into song.

But perhaps one of the challenges of going back to high school through this movie is that in a lot of ways, this is really accurate, which brings up all kinds of memories. For myself personally, there’s a lot of this story that just feels like… exactly my high school life.

Take this girl for instance… *play the clips* WHO HURT YOU!?!

But yet - if the story gives us any indication, is that each of us, with our multitude of layers, has this incredible bank of life experience, and all of us have been hurt in some ways, though rarely we show it openly. Throughout the film, we slowly bury deeper into the layers of these characters and explore the abuse that was experienced in childhood, and how they were able to overcome it, and grow as people.

So even as we watch, for those with the heart to explore it, even the people who are not so nice, like the girl in Charlies class, the teacher who calls his student nothing, or Brad and his friends - are all people who are suffering in their own ways, but just haven’t yet faced it within themselves. Perhaps one of the most significant lessons here is that… Hurt people hurt people.

So getting to know Charlie, we learn that he is a young, budding writer, making these journals and describing his life experiences… If we go into our ancient past - we find many legendary sages telling us that it is through our words that we create and steer our lives and reality, and what’s more so, that writing our words give them lasting power, which is why things like journaling and even vision boards can be so powerful both in creating new things in life, and developing wisdom and meaningful self reflection.

Charlie actively demonstrates this throughout the story by the words that he uses while he’s journaling. Early on, he writes about how his old friend and people he used to know don’t want to connect with him, and he says “well, i’m me, so who am I kidding?” Putting himself down and reinforcing the belief in himself that he’s not worth very much. Yet, he also writes that he wants to make new friends, because he wants to turn things around… and this very intention puts him on the path to actually make some.

Now, the first friend that charlie makes is really his teacher, Paul Rudd, however - charlies own shame prevents him from acknowledging this at the start, but throughout the story, Mr. Rudd essentially becomes charlies guiding mentor, providing him wisdom in the form of books, and supporting him in becoming an intelligent writer.

We are also introduced to Patrick. Patrick really represents the outspoken voice of those who are misrepresented in the world, and one who will stand up for those who are outcasts from society. When we first meet Patrick, he is drawing a beard on himself, pretending to be the shop class teacher, and the teacher comes in and calls him pattycakes. So Patrick says “Look, my name is patrick, so either call me patrick or call me nothing”. And the teacher calls him nothing! In the book, this plays out a bit differently, but we can gleam a lesson here nonetheless.

Because of this exchange, basically all of the kids in school refer to Patrick as nothing. However, by the end of the story we see the transmutation of this energy, as he puts “Nothing hates you” on the top of his hat - owning and even changing the energy, and demonstrating some wisdom and compassion all the same. Nothing hates you, there is only love, get it? Well, this probably went over most people's heads, which... might be a pun, because it was on the top of his hat.

Speaking to friendships, the final of the main trio in the story is Sam. Now the name Sam itself actually translates from Hebrew, meaning “God has Heard” or “Listen, Name of God”, and she plays a significant role not just in her own story, but helping Charlie to open his heart, and supporting him throughout his own self discovery. There is a lesson here too for all of us in the question of - who are we showing up for in our lives? The beautiful thing about Sam is that she really shows up for nearly everyone.

There is a subtle allusion to this in that the first time we see her, she has bright stadium lights behind, depicting angelic radiance. Yet at the same time, Sam herself represents the loss of innocence, for she used to have a reputation of getting drunk with all the boys and you can imagine where that train ends. We can see this in many areas throughout the movie, such as the red and black that she often wears, which falls in stark contrast to the pink wall and twinkly lights of her bedroom, and deeper still, with her story of being taken advantage of by her dad's boss at the age of 11, which twisted her own ego into becoming the girl with the reputation.

Yet, the quality of her soul allowed her to grow as a person - she is not defined by these aspects of herself anymore, moving beyond her past into a higher reality, and progressively does so even to the end, getting into penn state, sharing that things do get better. The tunnel scene, which we explored earlier, is a scene of soaring, flying, trust, and freedom, all things that help Charlie in embodying the same thing by the end too!

Having made some friends, Charlie is initiated into the group by attending his first party, where he experiences his first plant medicine experience, eating a cannabis brownie, and opening up to his new friends in a quirky way, where they essentially adopt him into the group. Welcome to the island of misfit toys, Sam says, after Patrick gives Charlie a toast.

One of the primary activities of this group is going to and participating in the rocky horror picture show. We spoke before about how the tunnel represents freedom, and this is another special place where freedom of expression reigns supreme and inhibitions go out the window. Honestly - these scenes deserve a shout out, both to Steven Chbosky for weaving this into the narrative in a really meaningful way, and also the actors for having such courage to get on stage in front of cameras and an audience of thousands, and perform the Rocky Horror Picture! Mad respect!

Now, one of the primary a

Now, speaking of freedom and big changes, a little while later, Charlie also experiences LSD for the first and probably last time. In addition to exploring Cannabis, later on Charlie also tries LSD. Cinematically, it’s a funny segway between taking the eucharist at church, and doing a tab - which shows a direct correlation to entering the depths of spirituality and all of the ways we can do this. But nobody ever taught Charlie that the best way to practice with psychedelics is in nature or with meditation, so he doesn’t have the best time. At one point, he ends up shoveling snow in a circle on the driveway for a while... Wait a second, THIS HOUSE HAS 6 GARAGE DOORS. WHAT?! … That seems a little excessive but okay.

Anyway, during this scene Charlie says “I just saw this tree but it was a dragon, then it was a tree again, it just lied to me”, and, I’m certain that this was probably unintentional, but when you learn about Yggdrasil, the norse edition of the Tree of Life system, we find that there is this dragon called Nidhogg. In historical Viking society, Nidhogg was a great and terrible dragon whose actions intended to pull the cosmos into chaos, and who also chewed the bodies of those who were guilty of terrible crimes. This is curious, because it relates to the undercurrent of darkness that runs throughout the story, as both Sam and Charlie, and even Aunt Helen were abused when they were kids. Again - probably not intentional, but Charlie seeing the tree become a dragon could be indicative of uncovering the darkness at the bottom of his own inner tree of life.

See, this part of the story really does begin the inward spiral that leads into himself to uncover the truth of his past, represented by the end of his LSD trip, creating a snow angel - representing his purification and rebirth.

Speaking to this undercurrent of trauma, and how it shows up for us often in life, is this idea that “We accept the love we think we deserve”, a key point made throughout as we see so many characters accepting love that deep down they know is only holding them back from becoming more authentic versions of themselves. Whether it’s Candace and Ponytail Derek, Patrick and his secret lover Brad, Sam and Craig, and Mary Elizabeth and Charlie.

The film really explores the idea that we often do things that we don’t want to do for the wrong reasons. Charlie dates Mary Elizabeth and hates it, he has nothing good to say about it at all, and yet he stays in it - why? Because he doesn’t want to hurt her feelings. Even though it’s not a healthy relationship, Charlie can’t see past his own ego or what he’s creating by staying in the relationship. What's more so, even after the relationship ends, Charlie is still trying to make up with her because he feels bad, he feels guilty - and in this we even gain a subtle reflection for ourselves in how we weave our own traps of suffering…

We can see this expressed during one scene where he has this black dot on his third eye, a symbol of Ash Wednesday from his church, and Mary-elizabeth wipes it off. For much of the film, she seems to represent the spiritual ego, by her tendency to boast about spiritual concepts, but doesn’t really behave much like the buddhist she claims to be.

The story asks us to reflect on our own relationships and our lives in this same way, what are we doing, and why are we doing it? Are our actions in the highest alignment with our souls? However, we must also acknowledge that - as we go deeper, we see that Charlie’s guilt of feeling responsible for his Aunt Helen’s death, also stems into not being able to tell Mary Elizabeth the truth about how he feels. From this, we may discover within ourselves that all of our actions and feelings are interwoven together, far deeper than we know.

To the surprise of many people who first watch it or read the book, towards the end, Charlie goes through what resembles a dark night of the soul, a common thing during the awakening process, where we must face some aspect of our past, we must go through the trauma and the pain, in order to emerge on the other side of it and find healing.

Throughout the film, Charlie’s pain wells up within him in a number of ways, such as the fight in the Cafeteria. Later on, when he is taken to the hospital, he says something very interesting. He asks the doctor how to make it stop, how he can stop seeing everyones pain, that everyone is in pain, all of the time. Yet, the one thing he can’t see is his own pain. It reminded me of a bible verse from Matthew 7 - “First, remove the beam out of your own eye, and then you can see clearly to remove the speck out of your brother’s eye.” Charlie can’t even see his own pain, but it’s so strongly there that it manifests itself as if he’s seeing everyone elses pain. It’s as if his pain itself has anchored him to this frequency of pain and suffering, but unless he faces the darkness within himself, he won’t be able to stop seeing it in others too.

As he faces his past, and comes to terms with it, he begins to let go and find healing. Something we all must do on our journey of reconciling our own pasts. Here we find another moving lesson, as Charlie lets go of his past, he must also let go of his friends, as they graduate and move on into new realities. Yet, not forgetting or losing their friendship, just adding some distance.

One final aspect of the story we must explore, is this very human moment where Sam and Charlie have a serious talk, and Sam asks… why didn’t you ever ask me out? Now - this might not be a fair question, because she was with someone for a long time and hey, maybe Charlie was just being respectful that she had a boyfriend… Yet, Sam reveals something very deep and moving, something we can all learn from. She says that she doesn’t want to just be someones crush, but that she wants someone to love her for who she truly is. It is a powerful and very heartfelt moment, revealing the deepest part of their characters, showing the soul from all of the ego, and for the characters expressing what they really want most, on a heart-centered level and a natural expression of the soul.

As the story comes to a close, Charlie discovers that we may accept the love we think we deserve but it is our duty to show people that they deserve more. We all deserve to fly through the tunnels, see “the light and everything that makes you wonder, with those who love most in this world, and realize that deep down, in all of our hearts... “We are infinite”!

#spirituality #science #ascension #mystery school #spirit science

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ameftowriter · 5 years

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5738 A.D. 4,1 (UPDATED) (Dr. Stone fanfic)

From here: https://ameftowriter.tumblr.com/post/188742703889/5738-ad-41-dr-stone-fanfic

This is the updated version of the fic above. After watching Episode 22 I had to change this a bit and edited it better to make sure it flowed smoothly. Also I may plan on putting more chapters but I’ll have to see to that later.

Anyway, I love Episode 22 so much and it touched my heart so! I have two more fics incoming that I posted along with this, so that will be incoming soon.

Ao3 | ffnet

Part 1 (This!) | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 ???

Gen still has a hard time taking everything in. Was it really the year 5739? The mentalist just couldn’t wrap his head around it. On top of it all, those statues. So many statues.

They were people, turned to stone.

He realized that something terrible has happened and it affected every human being on earth.

He was affected too, considering the position he woke up from. The last thing he remembered was that he had just finished his act. Hearing the cheers and applause from a delighted audience, that's when everything went dark.

And the next thing he knew was a bright light, and faced an open ocean.

He wondered if this was a prank, he’s seen a lot of celebrity prank shows, to be a victim of that disgusted him. He was a mentalist, being subjected to a prank like this defies his very image. He grumbled at the thought of it as he stood up from his position.

That is until he heard a deep commanding voice from the background.

“Welcome to the year 5739 AD”

He felt cold sweat drip off his currently naked body. He turned to recognize the man who broke him out of the dark stone prison. It was Shishio Tsukasa… the strongest primate high schooler.

He heard him say something about making a choice. That him and those statues behind him were selectively chosen for his new world…

Gen looked up and just could not believe what he saw...

He was then given some clothes to wear, made by their resident tailor named Yuzuriha. He didn’t know who she was, but was grateful for her.

It was… clothes he supposes. It was a tunic of sorts that reached up to his knees. Made of animal skin. He wanted to ask for a T-Shirt and Jeans. Then again… if it really was year 5739, and everyone was petrified…

He nearly stumbled on a statue lying around. He gained back his footing and turned to see what tripped him. His eyes widened to see that it was his manager.

Memories of the man flooded his head. When he first started, he would try to use him, booking his shows back to back, expecting him to nearly give up his own education, family life, and his private life for his acts. He tried to milk so much money from him, Gen was sure it was borderline illegal. But eventually, he found a weakness to the man and he became an easy target for Gen’s manipulation. Sometimes he used him as a guinea pig for any new acts he had thought of. He nearly had him prance around the streets naked once as a form of revenge.

But if it wasn’t for him, he wouldn’t have become this popular and famous…

He wouldn’t have had the money to…

Tsukasa shattered the manager’s head beneath his feet.

Gen nearly jumped back at the sudden destruction in front of him.

“I apologize for startling you.” Tsukasa spoke up, “I remember this man once, he was your manager yes?”

Gen could only nod.

“He tried to charm me to having you and I do more shows together, he treated us as if were freaks in a carnival. I simply cannot stand adults like that…”

It didn’t take a mentalist to know that every word he spoke dripped of hatred and loathing. Gen looked at the remains of the destroyed statue, and felt his stomach churn.

He hated his manager yes, but…

For someone to just mercilessly destroy that…

They had arrived at the Empire of Might as Tsukasa had called it. Gen could only look at it with awe as he saw various forms of treehouses and caves formed from the mountain. But most of all, he saw that almost every man and even women around him were muscular and looked like they would be able to carry him like he was a feather.

Then Gen met the said tailor, Yuzuriha, and the big oaf that he was pretty sure was her boyfriend, Taiju.

They were friendly and chipper. Gen was surprised to see this. After all it's been about 4000 years and everything around them is gone. For them to act this way.

Well… he wouldn't verbalize it without any sort of evidence. But to him it seemed to be just an act.

He wondered why.

Gen thanked her for the clothes. But wonders if he could ask her for something more… sophisticated. Something that suits his style.

Tsukasa agreed, he saw Gen as a valuable member of the Empire, but he also needed him for a mission.

Yuzuriha agreed to do it without any questions asked.

Gen missed paper and pencil or any kind of writing instruments. But it seemed that the girl understood his directions nonetheless.

Now, he’s curious as to why they're acting this way.

While they waited for his new outfit, Tsukasa then began explaining to him his goals. Goals of creating a new and better world without the adults who tainted it. Gen listened to him intently, and felt himself get pulled into Tsukasa’s ideals. He knew what he meant and fully understood his words and reasonings. After all, he made a living using and exploiting the naivete and idiocy of the adults that ruled the earth. He knew and understood the pain and suffering Tsukasa has mentioned. He had experienced it himself as young as he was. And yet the scene of his manager being crushed underneath Tsukasa’s feet kept playing over and over his head….

Sometimes Gen wondered if that's what kept him from being swayed by Tsukasa's words…

But at this moment he was afraid. Very afraid for his life. He was reborn into this "Stone World" and was spared from a fate worse than death. To even show any resistance to Tsukasa or any of his people would equal his untimely demise.

So he as it was many years ago, put on his mask and showed his agreement to the man's ideals and goals. Even showed support and gave suggestions on who to pick and revive. The mentalist was a master of weaving words into the most believable of sentences, right down to the inflection of his syllables.

Tsukasa was pleased. And that was good enough for him.

That night, Gen just could not sleep. He tossed and turned endlessly as he made the effort to close his eyes and forced his body to sleep. He thought of everything he could remember on how to go to sleep, but that failed him too.

It was strange to him. He remembered during his performance that he was so exhausted that he could collapse the moment he let his body relax. Yet when Tsukasa broke him out of the stone prison that he felt so energized that he could run a marathon and not feel winded. And he certainly still feels that way. He wonders if being asleep for so long had made him catch up to his lost sleep. All nineteen years worth of it.

Well, he did the math and technically he is now 3739 years old…

If there was any kind of sleepiness in him at that moment, Gen had completely lost it.

3720 years… is a really, really long time…

Yuzuriha finished his new outfit the next day, he was very grateful for her. Especially after hearing the fact that she spent all night with it. Gen felt a bit bad for her, until he heard her voice crack just a little…

Gen did not have supersonic hearing, but as a mentalist, he taught himself to pay attention to people’s subtle noises. He wondered if Yuzuriha was lying to him.

He tried the new outfit on, and it fits him just right. He was definitely impressed with her.

Later, Tsukasa began explaining to him about a certain “miracle fluid” that had broken him out of the petrified state. And that it was located in a special cave. Which was also dubbed, Cave of Miracles.

A miracle fluid that undid the petrification? He couldn't believe that it was even possible. That peaked his interest, not that he would show it.

As Tsukasa brought him to a cave and along a few other muscular men with him. It seemed that he wanted to show respect to nature's bounty and sorts. It was something that lost his interest, and it fell into deaf ears. Thanks to that distraction though, Gen had tripped over a giant root, but he quickly gained footing and held himself against a tree near the cave. He brushed his fingers against a tree without realizing it.

He felt something odd.

He knew tree bark was rough and could hurt depending on the tree, but even so, this sensation felt weird to him. To him it was like… like… Something was engraved into the tree.

He moved his hand away and saw a carving into the tree he held on.

A.D. 5738 4, 1

“Fifty-seven, thirty-eight… Four, One…” Gen read the engraving. “5738, 4, 1…”

It was like everything he had known right now had changed.

His thoughts came back to when Tsukasa told him the current year. He wondered so many things that day, that even today he was still trying to take it all in. He wondered how… how would Tsukasa be able to determine the current year. From what he saw of the strongest primate high schooler, he was more than just a muscleheaded idiot. He had strength, he had skill, he had smarts.

But even so that did not give him a proper answer as to how and why he knew the current date.

Does Tsukasa even know this engraving?!

Was it even really the year 5739?

But this engraving shows it. 5738… It’s been a year since the engraving was written in the tree. April 1st… How did the writer knew of the exact date even…

“5738… April 1st…” Gen repeated himself, “H-How…. How did… How could someone…?”

“No…” Gen gathered his thoughts, “Someone… someone must have carved this after breaking out… They had to. But… How would… would they know the exact date…”

“Is it even possible…?!”

He read again the crude kanji and the numbers written on the tree. It was clearly there. It wasn't some sort of hallucination… It was actually written there…

The mentalist's heart swelled with hope.

“This… this is…” Gen shuddered in excitement at the realization of someone like that ever existed, and broke out first, and to do this, “This is too antastic-fay! Whoever did this… Must be…”

Then his thoughts were interrupted by Tsukasa calling him to the cave.

Gen quickly dashed inside. To see Tsukasa standing in front of a pile of… bat guano. Gen’s nose scrunched up at the awful smell and saw yellow liquid dripping down from the cave’s ceiling, to a clay bowl.

He quickly deduced it as a so called “miracle fluid” that Tsukasa had mentioned. But when he read Tsukasa’s expression and listened to his voice, he felt there was more… than just that fluid…

That night, he couldn’t stop thinking about that engraving.

5738 A.D. April 1.

He wondered who could even do that. In that darkness. For almost 4000 years, calculated the year, month and date. The exact date?! He wondered why would the person even bother to calculate. When normally you'd think of surviving first.

He thought of possibilities. He knew you can tell how old a tree is by cutting it and counting the number of rings… But that would have been a gigantic tree. He considered the number of natural disasters that could have destroyed it way before the next millenia… So he scratched out that idea. He thought maybe some sort of machine that could tell the time had survived, but he hasn’t seen a sign of any kind of civilization, let alone a machine that could tell the time. His thoughts wandered of any kind of sci-fi theory he’s seen. But just like before, he saw nothing…

Nothing from the year 2019.

Gen curled up onto his sheets. It has hit him again, the realization that there was nothing left from the year he knew. No buildings, no cars… no cola even…

He felt the sudden urge for a bottle.

As he realized he couldn’t sleep once again, he stepped outside of his living quarters and saw the stars in the sky. It was numerous, more than he could ever count.

Count…

That's when he thought of something… a completely ar-fetched-fay possibility...

Yes, there was no machine or anything that could tell the time, but the fact remained that time still moved forward, no matter what…

It was something insane. Something that no human being should be able to do, but it was possible…

He had heard rumours of a kid who counted the exact seconds within a month, and he had counted it exactly.

“To count the passing seconds…” Gen thought to himself, “To do that during all that time in the darkness…”

Many feelings he suddenly felt for this mystery counter. Excitement, pity, delight, fear... In order to do that, he would have had to remain conscious all that time… Gen eventually felt nothing and his mind went completely blank after a while. When Tsukasa revived him, he thought everything before was just a dream… a long 3720 year dream…

Gen gritted his teeth, he was nervous, he was scared, he was so lost in this new world, but to even think that there was a person like that, a human being that could do such a thing...

He had to find them… he had to find the person who could have done this feat… He had to know. He had to know this person. He had to pick him apart and understand his own way of thinking. He had to analyze everything about him. He had to know how and why would he do such a ridiculous yet logical thing.

He hadn't felt this eager in knowing a person he hasn't even met.

The rest of that night spent thinking about this person. He smiled at the thought of someone else being this unique.

It was like… to him it was like getting excited over a book he had heard only good reviews about.

Yes, he was skeptical, but the thought of someone like this.

It got him excited.

The next day, the third day, Tsukasa called for him after his meal.

He was called to be given a mission…

“Those dusty old fossils who used to be in power…” Tsukasa began as he led Gen to a path in the forest, it was a bit further from the Empire, “Are even less necessary in this natural world of stone…”

Gen didn’t hear a hint of hesitation from those words. In fact to him Tsukasa spoke of his ideals in such great confidence and conviction, that the mentalist felt a bit swayed by those. Especially when he said…

“But I see a massive amount of potential in you… Gen.”

Gen felt himself snap out of that trance. He knew Tsukasa had a lot of natural charisma, but even he as a master of minds, felt like he was grabbed instantly and quickly, as if he got there by himself. He cursed himself mentally, as he remembered how Tsukasa crushed the statue of his manager, again. And all of the other pieces of statues he has seen scattered everywhere, crushed with his bare hands or by his men.

“There’s something I need you for…” Gen’s attention was grabbed again as Tsukasa cleared some branches to reveal a treehouse, made by… concrete? He wondered. “And your skills as a mentalist will be invaluable…”

Gen saw on the side a few empty jars, crude makeshift spears… he was surprised that even the ladder that leads up to the treehouse was still sturdy. To him it looked like it was all abandoned.

But that wasn't where they went, rather, Tsukasa led him to a hut near the tree house. It had a worn out sign that said, “Laboratory”.

Tsukasa led him inside and the mentalist saw broken clay pots everywhere. He watched his step, as he moved in closer to see more and more broken pieces scattered everywhere. To him it was an obvious sign that whoever lived here scrambled to take everything and left. To the untrained eye that is.

Gen saw this was too intentional. It was too much of a mess for him. He thought maybe a scuffle, but that would have caused those shelves to fall apart. To him, it is as if the previous occupants just intentionally took those jars and smashed them.

“Follow them for me.” Tsukasa gave him his mission, as it also confirms Gen's deductions. “And get inside of their minds… Perhaps I'm being overly cautious, but I want you to track down this man Senku and tell me if he’s dead or hiding out somewhere…”

Senku…

That is the name of the person he was tasked to look for.

‘Senku…’ Gen thought to himself. He tried to think of anyone he knew by that name, none came to mind.

So he asked, “Who is Senku?”

“He, was the first of us to revive…” Tsukasa replied.

‘First? Don’t tell me…’

“He used his knowledge of science to create a formula to undo the petrification.” he continued as Gen took in this invaluable information, “That’s how he revived me…”

Gen couldn’t hide his surprise anymore.

‘This Senku person… revived Tsukasa? He created a formula to undo the petrification?’ The pieces started to fall into place...

“This man…” Tsukasa continued as Gen felt the man’s voice grew bitter, “His only desire is to revive everyone, no matter who they were…”

‘What? He… what? He wants to revive… everyone…?!'

“He’ll bring back the same people who ruined our world.... And they’ll make weapons…” Gen felt every word laced with pure hatred, as he still tried to take in everything.

“He was the most intelligent man alive, and that’s why I killed him myself…”

He saw Tsukasa’s eyes narrowed as he finished his sentence.

'He killed him…' Gen held back even his own expressions, 'He killed this Senku…'

When he first met Tsukasa in this new world, he was kind, considerate, gentle to everyone in the Empire and even to the animals. He would ensure that every part of every animal killed was put to use, even the organs. For Gen to hear him say that. For Tsukasa to kill another human being… he got even more scared of him.

Gen started to doubt himself. He wondered if there really was someone who could take down the Strongest Primate High Schooler. To kill the "smartest" man alive, as he called this Senku.

But even so, the fact that Tsukasa had to send him, a mentalist… to make sure that Senku is alive.

There was no doubt. Senku is alive.

He finally understood what he had to do.

Gen enjoyed it. He enjoyed experimenting and toying with the human mind and the limitless possibilities of the human psyche. He mostly used it for his own benefit and gain, but that's what the world, the previous world, taught him. To him adults were easy picking, even more so than teenagers and children. He knew as one grows older, the ideals and beliefs, and biases a person has learned will stick longer and thus harder to change or remove. Gen knew of this and exploited it to his heart's content. So it was child's play for him to figure out what had occured in this laboratory.

He asked Tsukasa if he could stay a bit more to inspect the area. The man let him, and asked if he knew the way back.

Gen knew the way back.

When he realized that he was finally alone, he quickly observed the area. He looked at the pieces of the broken jars, the stains on the floor and at the walls, he saw the various broken tools nearby. He then rushed into the tree house and saw the same mess as the lab. Gen saw this as a laughable way to make it look like they got scared and escaped.

Smartest man alive? More like the world's worst crook if he had ever seen one.

He remembered Tsukasa’s expressions, the hatred in his words and the shakiness of it. That was also obvious. Tsukasa was scared. Very scared. He only knew of Tsukasa as a fearless man who would stare down other fighters bigger and stronger than he was, and took them down easily. For someone to induce such paranoia and fear in him...

He has to know. He has to know who this Senku person is.

He just has to!

After gathering what he can from the area, he went back to the Empire. He gave Tsukasa what he could deduce from it, and said that he and his companions that he too figured this out from the tracks, that they probably dashed at around southeast to where the Empire was.

Tsukasa was impressed by him. He mentioned that the two companions were Taiju and Yuzuriha.

Gen faked a shock, well to everyone it looked like a real shock. He knew some of the bigger and heavier footsteps belonged to a heavyweight like Taiju, and smaller, lighter footsteps belonged to a woman, Yuzuriha fits that description.

Tsukasa explained to him that they returned after he had subsequently killed Senku and buried him in that direction. Gen was right it was southeast to where they were, Hakone (or it would have used to be considering the lack of any buildings).

He also mentioned that they were Senku's best friends.

That's what stood out the most.

Gen wondered to himself as to why they were kept under surveillance. Now it made sense, Tsukasa was worried that they might turn on him eventually. Even with the power difference, there was an instilled fear that Senku would come back for them and have a scientific weapon that could be used to defeat him.

That's what the mentalist deduced at least.

So Taiju and Yuzuriha were… no are Senku's friends. He filed that important tidbit for later.

Tsukasa had given him information that was more valuable than even he thought.

He was also told of a blond haired, blue eyed girl that seemed to have no knowledge of science and had a very primitive way of thinking. He was (truly this time) shocked to hear that there is a possibility of a village of primitives in that area, and that Senku might have made contact with them if that was the case. So now he had a destination in mind.

Hakone. Around a two day walk from where they were now. Gen didn't particularly like the idea of walking so far and so long, but his desire to meet this Senku was what pushed him further.

Before he left, he asked Yuzuriha for some extra materials and a cutting tool. Part of him wanted to tell them that he was going to see Senku, just to gauge their reactions. He knew if they didn't react to what he expected it, then it was truly confirmed that Senku is alive.

But he held his tongue on that. He didn't want to risk then getting caught on this mess.

Gen himself haven't really decided on if this Senku really is the person he was looking for. If he was the mystery counter. All he knew was that, he was a threat to Tsukasa's ideal world.

The smartest man alive vs the strongest man alive.

A typical brain vs brawn...

His journey was long and painful, especially since he didn’t wear any shoes. Along the way he picked up many nightshade flowers and stored them into various hidden sacks underneath his clothes. He even found many berries and even some small animals he could use to make fake blood bags for his own protection, just in case everything went downhill for him. He knew when to expect the worst. After all, he made a living from expecting the worst in people and exploiting it.

His journey took way longer than two days. He was exhausted, yes, but every step further was one step closer to meeting this Senku. He thought it was worth it.

From what he knew about the positions of his shadows, he had deduced it was around noon. He walked further and further through the forest, and that's when he heard something, music. He heard music playing nearby, he walked closer to the source, and saw it, clear as day. A village, built on two small peninsulas connected by a bridge.

It was the primitive village that Tsukasa told him about. There were primitives living in this area.

And in front of it was…

Well to his surprise. It was a ramen stand.

Gen approached the stand closer then was quickly given a bowl of said ramen by a child wearing a melon mask over her head. He thought it was kind of cute.

He felt a pang of hunger as he took a whiff of the bowl on his hands. It was a crude version of ramen that he knew, but well, he supposed it was still ramen. So he took a bite.

Gen nearly gagged from the taste.

He remained very quiet despite the complete awfulness the dish had. He couldn’t even call this ramen. He heard this was foxtail millet ramen.

Once again he nearly gagged at the thought of foxtail. Foxtail, was what the noodles were made out of. He could feel the grainy texture and the bitter aftertaste of the ramen.

It was ositive-pay awful!

But he heard nothing but praises for this dish. Gen peered to see other people wearing similar clothes like the one the melon girl wore. It looked like they were almost inhaling the ramen. It was a complete consensus that it was the best thing they've ever had.

That's one other thing that hits Gen.

He sighs and misses something way more than ramen right now.

One of them quickly asked for seconds and Gen sighed and realized with the stereotypical glutton man. He supposed that in any kind of era there's always a glutton.

Then his attention quickly changed when he saw the man at the stand itself, putting the ramen together.

His hair stood out the most, literally. Even at the year 2019, he would have easily stood out. He wondered if it's dyed or if he used any hair products. Almost every bit of his hair stood upwards defying gravity. To Gen he looked like a walking giant leek or bok choy. Then when he turned sideways, that's when Gen finally saw his face. He looked sweaty and tired, but his face is full of eagerness and pride, that admittingly seemed contagious. The most noticeable features were the two jagged scars that lined and bent up from his forehead down to this eye line and just below the eyelid. The Mentalist instinctively touched his own scar.

He remembered the explanation Tsukasa gave him. That these scars are just a side effect of the depetrification process.

Gen remembered the day when he saw his reflection at the river and saw the scar running underneath his left eyelid, where it turned to shape his mouth then went straight down his chain and his neck. To him this was a reminder that he was petrified and awakened. Which meant, this man was…

“Are you the man who made this incredible food?” He heard a young girl approach the man with such eagerness and obvious intent of flirting, “the one called, Senku?”

Senku…

This green haired, prideful, obviously exhausted guy...

Is Senku?

Gen tried hard to cover his laughter. This was the man that Tsukasa, the strongest primate high school, was scared about? He looked physically weak. Everything about him was so lanky and skinny. It completed the giant walking vegetable set. Big green leaves and a nimble easily breakable stem.

He was….

'This was the man who wrote that date on the tree isn't it?'

He saw a familiar equation written on Senku’s outfit.

E=mc2

'Yeah… definitely the science nerd around here.' Gen chuckled internally, 'Who the hell writes that on their own clothes?!'

When the girl asked Senku what kind of girls he liked Senku simply answered this:

"A kind that would pump a ton of oxygen into my furnace"

Gen groaned internally at that answer

'And he's uninterested at romance. Like he's some sort of a Shonen protagonist…'

Gen managed to breathe and calmed himself in order to prevent getting noticed by the villagers. Senku had made the ramen for them. It was errible-tay. He could barely call this food.

'So this is what Tsukasa was talking about.' Gen just placed everything together in his head, 'This Senku is a scientist, through and through. He made the depetrification formula, he made this ramen, he has that silly equation on his clothes, he even has a furnace! I see why Tsukasa-chan fears him… but…'

Gen had to make sure. He wasn't going to just mingle with him and the primitives.

The blond villager girl whom Gen deduced as quite strong, and possibly the girl that Tsukasa ran into before, even expressed her displeasure at that answer. He wondered if she had some feelings for this Senku person.

The Mentalist admits that Senku is quite handsome. It was a shame to him that he isn't interested in romance. He would have loved to have gotten closer to him. But he supposed that he still has a job to do.

Well to everyone in the Empire of Might it was his job.

To Gen….

It was some assurance.

If this Senku is what he thought he was, that this Senku is the man that striked fear into Tsukasa's heart.

This handsome, nerdy, passionate man…

Might be the counter he was looking for.

Better strike while the iron's hot….

"Ah… this ramen is making me wickedly thirsty…" Gen admitted to himself, out loud for everyone else to hear. "A cola, would be great…"

And with that, Gen had Senku's undivided attention.

The Mentalist then went to work, fully analyzing this Senku to his heart's content.

Little that he knew what would happen later that within the past 3700+ years of his life, would change for the better.

'This is worth it…'

#dr stone #dr. stone #asagiri gen #shishio tsukasa #ishigami senku #fanfic #dcst #ogawa yuzuriha #ooki taiju #the psychoanalysis of Asagiri Gen

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palamig · 5 years

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it’s love, obviously: kazuma (1/?)

kyo and tohru from an outsider’s perspective as requested by @fan-is-an-understatement!

words: 1445

There were only a handful of things Kazuma wanted to see before he dies. The first is to the sun rising from over the clouds at the peak of Mount Fuji. The second is to see Kyo, the boy that matters the most in the world to him, his only son, finally happy.

Both of those things required Kyo’s approval.

It might take a lot of persuasion and innocent baiting to get past Kyo if Kazuma wanted to go on a hike trip with Kunimitsu and some of the monks that live in the neighborhood temple, but the second one was unfolding on its own quite nicely.

In fact, the mood in this house mellowed considerably to a pleasing atmosphere ever since That One Never-Spoken-Of Rainy Day. Kyo’s been caught smiling more often than he used to—or ever did. It’s a phenomenon surprising enough to eventually squeeze itself into the noon-day gossip of a few of curious students from the afternoon judo class who all had a lot of mixed feelings about the sensei’s scary lone-wolf son.

By the start of summer vacation, Kyo, himself, became a separate, independent topic Kazuma’s students like to talk about during break time, especially since the boy’s presence became a fixed thing after he decided to spend a few weeks of his vacation helping out at the dojo.

“I hate it there,” Kyo declared with much conviction when he first arrived at Kazuma’s with a heavy duffel bag and the intention of staying over for a while, “I’m glad I left.”

Kazuma simply nodded, and smiled at his son, genuinely and sincerely happy to be spending this small wrinkle of time with him. Although that small bit of untruthful-ness in his son’s lingering gaze at his feet certainly did not slip past the watchful eyes of the father.

“I see.” Kazuma smiles widely. And decides maybe a joke would help lighten up the mood, “There’s nothing else for you to return to, I suppose.”

But the joke didn’t cross over it seemed. Kyo was, casting eyes in some other direction, suddenly undeniably gloomy. “Yeah.”

Strange as it was, Kazuma never saw Kyo ever return to Shigure’s. At least during this short time he’s spending away. Whether this was because Kyo sincerely disliked it there, or because he was too prideful to end up contradicting himself, Kazuma doesn’t know.

Either way, He might have taken me too seriously, Kazuma concludes, with an amused smile. Teenagers were definitely on a league of their own.

During the summer, Kyo was always either immersing himself in judo, or holing himself away in the nest he made of their clay-tiled rooftop. Kazuma remembers the days it used to be worse—when Kyo would disappear for days, returning with bruises on his skin, when he wore in his eyes the kind of hatred that no young child should ever have, hatred for the world around him, but most of all, hatred for himself.

“He’s a lot easier to talk to now.” Kunimitsu observes.

“I wonder why.” Kazuma smiles.

But it wasn’t a mystery, except maybe to the small Kyo fanclub that had sprung over the last few days among people from the dojo who discovered what Kyo looked like with a smile.

Kazuma was anything but surprised when, in the middle of a leisurely stroll around the dojo, he caught his seventeen-year-old son hunched over by the telephone, absently twirling the yellow pages of the open phone book right beside it, mumbling softly to this person who has earned the place of being affectionately called “dummy.” Kyo had seemingly a break from afternoon practice, and was still in his judogi, a few beads of sweat trickling down his slightly damp hair. The conversation was too faint to hear, but judging from the soft, rare smile on his son’s face, his affectionate tone, and the bubbles of poorly concealed giggles—it doesn’t seem to be a conversation Kyo would want his father to walk into.

But Kazuma was too pleased by this situation.

“Kyo.”

The boy jolts with poorly-hidden shock. The phone flies out of his hand and in the scramble to grab it, nearly elbows a porcelain vase of fresh daisies from the supermarket lying next to it.

“Would it be alright if I spoke to Tohru-kun?”

Kyo’s ears turn a bright red, clearly trying to gather all the coherent explanations he could for being caught by his dad in the middle of an embarrassing phone call with a girl. “I-I... It’s not- Tohru’s not- Sh-she’s...she is-”

“I understand,” was Kazuma’s purposefully cryptic reply.

Kyo doesn’t say anything more. Between the two of them, there were never any explanations needed. Instead, Kyo, head ducked and ears burning red, wordlessly hands the phone to his pleased father.

“Hello, Tohru-kun.” Kazuma smiles into the phone. He hears a tiny squeak from the other line. Kyo was slipping back into the room he was practicing katas before taking this short break. “Are you all doing well?”

What follows is a flurry of flustered answers weaved together, with only slight coherence to them, in a rush: she’s doing well, there’s a leakage in the kitchen sink, but it’s nothing Shigure can’t handle even though his self-proclaimed plumbing skills didn’t quite save him during his terrible, top-secret bathroom incident two days ago, but woops she remembered she was supposed to keep that a secret, but oh well, it’s out now.

“I see. That’s good to hear.” Kazuma smiles widely, even though he didn’t catch most of the other things in her incoherent rambling.

From the corner of his eye, he sees Kyo eyeing him in suspicion, as if he was some kind of thriller movie and Kyo is on the edge of his seat for any upcoming jump scares.

“It’s been a while since you last visited.” Kazuma smiles, not much at this clever plan, as much as it is at Kyo’s not-so-subtle reaction. The gentle girl sings her agreement through the phone, and for a moment, Kazuma is thankful that a person as warm and kindhearted as her has wormed her way into his son’s stubborn heart.

Kazuma wasn’t a schemer. As much as he loved to watch his son look embarrassed, he knew there was a limit to teasing, especially since nowadays Kyo is unexplainably moody. But this house felt a little too stale. Inviting more company was never a bad idea.

“Would you like to have dinner with us?”

He wasn’t sure whether there was a spirit in some small shrine in the nearby forest in charge of gifting fathers with telepathic powers over their sons because Kyo’s internal screaming from practice hall where he’d been patiently waiting, and likely eavesdropping on this conversation, certainly did not go unheard.

“That’s great.” Kazuma replies on the phone with a smile.

Kunimitsu passes by carrying folded bed sheets they’d hung to dry yesterday afternoon. He turns to Kyo, who up until this time, had been sitting cross-legged on the floor, seemingly in the middle of the breathing exercises he always does before anything, “Was that Honda-san?”

“It is.” Kazuma answers for his son.

“She’s coming over tonight?”

“She is.”

“Will she come here alone?” Kunimitsu says, absolutely clueless and genuinely worried. “A few vendors at the market this morning talked about a weird stalker lurking around the neighborhood recently.”

“That certainly is a worry,” from his peripheral vision, catches Kyo perk up in alarm, “I wonder. Maybe I can have one of my fine young students-”

“Fine!” Kyo yells, waving his arms in the air, like this was something he was forced to do and yet he was offering absolutely no resistance. He gets up and stalks toward Kazuma with a face as red as a peach under the sun, “Dammit. I’ll do it!”

“Thank you, Kyo.” He pats his son in the head affectionately. I’m sorry for teasing you. “You are very kind.”

Kyo calms down considerably. And all that’s left of his outburst was an embarrassed, red-faced boy, “I-I’m gonna go now.”

Kazuma watches his son sprint as fast as he could to the doorway. Within a matter of seconds, he was out of the house, still sweating and still in his judogi.

“Kunimitsu, what time is it?”

“Um. Wait,” Kunimitsu cranes his head to the corner of the hallway, “Two thirty? ...wait. Two thirty? Oh no! Do you think we should-”

“He’s going to come back in a little while,” Kazuma chuckles softly, “I’ll get his clothes.”

Kunimitsu sighs deeply.

Kazuma smiles a smile so wide it reaches his ears, “Maybe I’ll make some pumpkin soup for tonight. What do you think?”

“Will all due respect, I don’t think that’s a good idea...”

🌸

notes: @fan-is-an-understatement requested an outsider’s perspective of kyoru and i’ve come to deliver! i’m sorry if this took foreverimsorry a while! this is an ongoing thing so if any of you have a character in mind you want me to write, request away!

#fruits basket #kazuma sohma #kyo sohma #tohru honda #kyoru #thats just science #writing #this post has a buttload of tags already #im sorry this took forever #it was a super good suggestion i didnt know what to start with #if any of u have any suggestions who i can write next just hit me UP!!!!!#i also didnt know u can actually reply to comments on tumblr posts because i am a grandma #thank u to everyone who commented on my last fic i appreciate all of it wipes tear away from face #idk if i should post this on ao3 #im also working on that pregnancy fic its on 5k now #i wish that fic and my drug trafficking paper can write themselves fuck........

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onewhoturns · 6 years

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1-1

I have no idea what to call this series, or if I should title it at all. So here’s the first bit I wrote for the fae AU (once more I find myself writing in manageable little chunks and then going in to bridge between sections). It’s mostly establishing the backstory as shifted to the new setting. If you missed it, here’s the prelude to the story (or at least part of it). If you like my work, find more over on AO3 or FFnet, and keep an eye on my ko-fi if you want the occasional preview. Oh, also, I hesitate to ask but... comments?

Ever since she was a child Emily had been cautioned: beware the fae. She’d heard the typical warnings -- faerie rings, wishing wells, mysterious lights in the darkness. But they were just cautionary tales, names of people she’d never met, stories about a land where things were so beautiful they would drive men mad. She’d never known a family that thought itself to have a changeling. She’d never spotted a brownie dusting up the corners of the castle. No faerie-gifted musicians or craftsmen had ever taken work in the royal palace.

When she was ten - when her mother was murdered - things changed. Years later Emily struggled to remember that day-- those months. People grabbing her, pulling her away as she screamed for her mother, watching glassy eyes that stared unblinkingly to the sky, fingers digging into her shoulders as she shrieked and wailed. Some time - days? weeks? - locked up in a room with only masked jailers to bring her sustenance. Losing herself in daydreams of how her mother was fine, and how she’d have every guard and soldier and knight in the kingdom looking for her daughter, how Corvo would come for her. Every time she heard swords clashing she’d imagine it was him, on the warpath to come rescue her. But it never was. Then she’d been moved.

She’d been kept… somewhere. Somewhere dark and smoky and filled with bawdy laughter, abrasive voices, and sounds that were something between pain and pleasure. Later she’d learned the truth of it: five months, sequestered in a brothel. She’d stopped waiting for rescue, started to attempt escape. Every time, she was caught. At first they merely chastised her, locked her back up in her little room, withheld supper, put out the fire in her hearth, left her in the cold and the dark. But once some time had passed, they grew bolder. She hated to remember it. She’d been born a princess, well-loved, coddled, never having felt the sting of skin on skin, the bruising thwap as gaudy jewelry added weight to a scolding. She’d learned to lie, to hide, to steal, and fake docility when she could. Wide brown eyes had shown fear enough to know how to ape it. And if she stared at the floor they wouldn’t see when anger flared in her gaze.

Then he had come. Corvo Attano. Her father. The man who’d sired the Bastard Princess. He’d been changed, hardened by whatever had kept him away for nearly half a year, but he’d held her and she’d been strong for him, never crying, not once, not until she was safe in the tavern on the wrong side of the river. Plague ran rampant in the streets while she obediently took her dose of elixir with the rest of the loyalist conspiracy, sitting through boring lessons that nevertheless were a relief after months of loneliness. She had friends again - though later she’d realize most weren’t true friends, just adults who’d tolerate her until they could take power in her name. The same as those who’d taken her the first time, who’d killed her mother. Only this time they tried to kill her father. One day he was there, celebrating a victory over the usurpers, and then he’d stumbled away and she’d been shuffled into a waiting carriage, weak and sick to her stomach, feeling far too frail for a ten year old. Years later she wondered if she’d just imagined the screams under the clop of hooves as she’d been driven away, delirious, Callista’s face pale and pinched and arms wrapped too tight around her -- if the blood on Havelock’s hands was just a specter.

Surely, compared to humans, the fae could be no worse.

But when she’d finally been reunited with her father - when Havelock was dead, when the bodies of the former conspiracy were burned - she’d suddenly been well again. And he’d been even more insistent about protecting her from all things. Including - perhaps especially - faeries. Every door had iron nails or bars, as did her bedroom windows. She didn’t even remember which side was the proper side for stockings that were only ever worn inside out. Every meal was salted, every pocket filled with herbs or berries, bells sewn onto her slippers. She wore an adder stone on a cord around her neck. Her childhood outings were all closely chaperoned, if she was even allowed to leave the castle. The vast majority of her time was spent kicking her heels against a throne far too big for a child as Corvo conducted most of her business for her with the help of a council of lords, or - the highlight of her days - training. Her father promised she would never be helpless again. And if it took hours of physical conditioning, of swordplay and grappling and free-running and endless tests on outwitting a foe, she rarely complained.

By the time she was fifteen, then sixteen, she’d mastered the art of being a rebellious teenager. The bells left her slippers, became a bracelet that she slipped off regularly. She’d learned the best time to sneak out of her rooms, the best routes to avoid night guards, and the best way to manipulate her father into leaving her alone long enough for her to slip away. If she got caught, she’d learned early how to fake shame and obedience. Steadily she grew more and more confident-- more and more reckless. Soon she could walk the ramparts of the castle, ducking out of guard patrol paths in the nick of time, slipping into the guards’ barracks, swapping soldiers’ gear with their fellows’ until they tittered about mischievous fae themselves. It made Emily grin, until her father took to salting every entrance to her room. Eventually she stopped her mischief. It was too much of a hassle, carefully sweeping the lines of salt back into place after each outing.

Suitors clamored after her hand. She was charming, sociable (if perhaps a bit eccentric). She was witty and sharp and had all manner of noble sons and daughters eating out of the palm of her hand. All too aware of the baggage her mother’s impropriety had carried (she knew some conservatives still called her the Bastard Princess behind her back) she never took beaux. For all her giggles and batted eyelashes, she was exceptionally chaste.

The coronation - far later than most nobles found appropriate - came the week after her seventeenth birthday, and then came her first royal progress. If her procession of hosts found any of her faerie-warding habits odd, they didn’t dare mention it. If a couple rowan berries tumbled from her pockets, they followed her example in ignoring it, and were soon swept up by some light but engaging conversation. A few observant young ladies in the kingdom even took to wearing stones around their necks as well; if the Queen wore it, it was in fashion.

Yet for all her father’s insistence and warnings, she only found herself more curious about the fae than ever. In each city they visited, at every fiefdom, she found herself making subtle inquiries of the locals, of the legends, if there was any truth in them. She learned of exiled witches, of magic ponds, of bowers full of otherworldly songs, of missing children and forest revels and ill-made bargains that left half-cursed townsfolk in their wake. For the first time in her life, she met people who’d borne true witness to faerie magic. The man who could weave the finest fabrics in the kingdom even as his blood dyed every yard in a rainbow of colors. The well that could cure any disease of its townsfolk, in the village where a child disappeared every seven seasons. The Duke who’d died alone in his estate, surrounded by gold that turned to dust as it crossed the threshold, gorged on shimmering fruit and wine that whispered sweet music.

She shivered delightedly at every eerie story, even as Corvo frowned and shot worried glances her way. Time after time she reassured him that she was safe, that he’d taught her well, that she took every possible precaution and had spent hours crafting words that might extricate her from any fae encounter. She’d turn out her pockets, jingle her bracelet, lift the adder stone from her neck-- anything to remind him that he’d done his due diligence, she was more equipped to handle the fae than any seventeen - and soon eighteen - year old needed to be.

The final stop of the royal progress was, at Corvo’s order, held at the Boyle estate not far from the royal palace. As long as Emily could remember, he’d held a grudge against the ladies Boyle. And burdening them with the expense of hosting the progress was the perfect way to backhandedly honor the old family. On Emily’s end of things, the Boyle estate was perfect: right on the edge of the forest, full of ramparts and shadowy corners she might be able to sneak away to (if she was careful), and the Boyle’s were wealthy enough that the final night, the night of her eighteenth birthday, was sure to be a affair to remember.

She was entirely too correct.

#fae au #dishonored fanfic #dishonored fae au #dishonored fairy au #my writing #wip #emsider #fae

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distantdreamboy · 3 years

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Can't Stay On My Chest Forever: The Series [working title] 🍂

My being feels calmer after getting this out. Glad I did it.

It confuses me how I can be as inactive as I am and still be spread thin. Probably doesn't help that my family assumes I'm doing nothing with my life and just express how "worried" they are. Not worried about my mental health, just my income. We don't really go into depth about the mental health thing because certain people in the household would have to be held accountable for their actions and we can't have that. So the energy in the house is stagnant. Sometimes we'll try to cut through the scent of resentment and converse, share laughs, toss a kind phrase or two but the warmth can be fleeting. Without saying too much, my line of work is very physically demanding and time consuming but I love it--and I'm good at it. I got good work all summer and as a freelancer that can be rare so I save for the seasons in which work may not come around that often. After that I had a nice cushion that allowed me to coast for a bit. While I'll admit I have been exhausting it I've been progressing. For the past few months I've been making CAREER moves rather than getting one-off jobs for some extra cash. I'm not above those jobs (although I'm not inclined to them either) but my best self wouldn't be present if I wasn't passionate about it. Regardless it's frustrating to have to explain to them that I'm experiencing BURNOUT. I'm rehabbing an injury I never got properly treated because I was stuck in survival mode. I've attempted to move out three separate times and it didn't work out--but I tried. I've been working, been making money, and been making career moves! People know my name! They reach out to work with me because of who I am, what I do, and what I provide. To be frank, it feels like I'm figuring a lot of this shit out by myself and it's a lot to manage especially considering I've been pushed to question my reality. This is apart from all the familial pressure that I'm supposedly putting on myself. So, forgive me if taking some time off to recuperate doesn't fit into your rubric--but don't talk to me like I'm doing nothing. Maybe support what I'm already doing for myself first. Is that so hard? The vibes be so ass and I've told them exactly how I feel and they look at me like I have three heads. Thankfully I've realized that this isn't something I can carry. It would be best for me to create distance and set my boundaries. I'm going to save myself.

I was writing a letter to them that contained everything I wanted to say for the past ten years. Anger lay embedded in each paragraph because for so long I felt like it was unjust. Like it was all in my head. But I came across the sadness beneath the anger, I'm sorry to disappoint.

Some peers have made it seem as if my flirty guy stories were "all in my head" but I these dudes do some questionable things! Some might say lascivious (shoutout Brian Broome) behaviors! This self-proclaimed 'straight' guy at a bar cracks a joke at me and I'm a good sport, so I crack one back. He laughs and daps me up but holds on to my hand for a while, saying "nah that was too good we can't let go", so we held hands for about 10 seconds. It was...interesting to say the least. I was confused more than anything because where is the punchline for this joke? There is none--we're just holding hands while everyone talks around us. One of his friends is observing this, silently weaving a narrative that they'll discuss on the ride home. Maybe it was just a friendly gesture, an I come in peace, which I can respect, but its a tad tedious to have to question these pseudo advancements from the potentially curious. There are so many subtle signs I have to clock, sometimes pulling myself aside to do so. I'll take a bathroom break to regroup a counting the signs: held hands, prolonged eye contact, making sure he got my social media, watching me while I'm not looking. It's always weird when this happens because they expect me to make every move after that--they want me to so they can pin it on me if it's ever disclosed. Jokes on him...I'm the one who makes my partners sign NDAs.

This brings me to another situation, one with less subtlety. Again, another assumed 'straight' guy (whom I have referenced in a previous entry) sent some lascivious signs my way. The first of which was showing me his sextapes, the second of which being glancing at my ass, the third was glancing at my lips while the forth was asking 'if I touched you there, would that turn you on?'. This all before the fifth and final hand-swipe-on-the-lower-back, often used as the finishing maneuver after 6 shots of Casamigos. It almost worked, my saving grace being my church lady like demeanor and my principle of not being a home wrecker. Also the fact that I care about my karma. That's probably at least 86% of it. So nothing happens and we keep it chill, but I don't forget that night and truthfully I don't think he did either. Drunk mind speaks a sober tongue, cliche but true. Once I started checking if he viewed my story I knew I was in too deep--okay not too deep but deeper than I wanted to be. I can less-than-confidently say that its not just me, hearing through the grapevine that you want to come hang, come spend tiiiime with the kid. There's something about me you appreciate and the feeling is mutual but I can't help but wonder what this connection is being built on. What part of your body does this newfound 'interest' seek to satisfy? Are we just friends? Friends who flirt? Friends who flirt with an intent to bump uglies? Do you...like me? Not like like but a crush? Will this be a bad-boy-changes-his-ways romance storyline? The answer won't come to me overnight but I guess I'll have to wait till we see each other next, and even then it isn't guaranteed. All I know for certain is imma look STU-NNING.

#7th house hottie #thoughts #saving myself

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taenchanted · 7 years

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the will of the stars

☾ a story written in fate

⤖ pairing: yoongi x reader

⤖ genre: soulmate!au, coffee shop!au

⤖ word count: 2.8k

⤖ warnings: none

⤖ author’s note: I really enjoyed writing this one! I haven’t written a soulmate fic before, I might even turn this into a full-length fic sometime after I’ve written a few more drabbles ♡ please enjoy!

You associated a few things with the boy who sent you cryptic messages through the stars.

First, a bundle of Christmas lights, many of which were broken. Second, a shower of soft pink rose petals. Third, angry swearing. Fourth, an ethereal grin that illuminated the universe.

Min Yoongi, a complete stranger, liked to talk to you. He had enjoyed it for three years now, since his voice first flitted through your mind. And though he may have been insufferable at times, an utter nuisance, you loved it when you heard him murmur a quiet hello.

You did not know why your minds were linked. There was no warning when it happened, no explanation, just a new voice that had frantically demanded who you were. You had no influence over what he said, you took no part in his actions; he was simply a part of you, for some reason that you could not fathom.

Whenever he said anything, in the back of your mind, you could catch a glinting pinprick. For a long time, you did not know what it was. You hadn’t practiced focusing enough to know what that faint glimmer was. It was about a year into gaining this new entity in your mind that you realized what it was. They were stars. If you concentrated with all of your might, you could see them outlined in perfect clarity, more defined than in any picture that you had ever seen. There were stars tucked into the depths of your psyche, but only when Yoongi was talking.

You had been bewildered at first, but you had grown completely comfortable with having him there. He was not an intrusive force, merely a curious one. He usually made sure that he wasn’t being a distraction, though at times he barged in without consideration, and at first, it had been strange. What was the purpose of this connection? You had never met him before; in fact, you lived in different places entirely. You didn’t know how you were supposed to react to this power. You made small talk, discovered the basics of who he was, and although you found him intriguing, you did not know how to act.

Eventually, he wore you down.

In actuality, he was a truly phenomenal person. He thought about the future and about the world in a poignant way. He put things into words that you never could. He had theories about philosophy, musings about the natural world, asked you opinions on questions that you had never been asked.

“I think we’ll walk together someday,” he had murmured once, very late at night. “No way that this was for nothing. Sometimes I think destiny is bullshit, but if I’m being honest— and by this point, you know that I’m being honest with you— it’s impossible for this to be random. There has to be some bigger reason, one we don’t know about yet. Maybe a reason bigger than me pestering you at three in the morning.”

You had smiled to yourself, but somehow you knew that he could sense it. “You’re not pestering me, Yoongi. You know I love these talks.”

“Yeah, yeah. I find that very hard to believe, but you’ve told me that a million times, so I guess it might be time to start trusting you.”

Yoongi had introduced you to his soul in ways that no one else had. When you were that bonded to another person, there was no way for you to not become attached. He had become an imperative aspect of your life. He knew when you were working, so he chatted with you then to keep you occupied. He liked asking you about your day, how you were doing, reminding you to drink water or take a lunch break. In the beginning, he had— albeit halfheartedly— tried to convince you that he was generally a quite distant and difficult person, he had discarded that façade and instead became content with revealing his true personality to you.

You fought at times. He was such a constant part of your life that was impossible not to. He would snap at you, and you would snap back, and after a day of no communication, one of you would cave in and apologize. You would never feel guiltier than when you were in a spat with Yoongi. He was a huge source of support in your life, a stable backbone that you could always depend on. Nothing was worth losing him, for any period of time.

It didn’t take long for him to become the most pivotal part of your life. He did it effortlessly, seamlessly. He slipped in, wove himself into your heart, and quietly rooted there. Yoongi tended to do things without a fuss, so it made sense that the way he entered your adoration was the same way he did everything else. He didn’t beg to be in your life. It may have been the stars that brought you together, but it was he who found a special place in your heart. It was in the way that he cared about you, checking up on you without openly saying it, or the way that he comforted you with just a single word. He was a subtle soul, doing the brute of his actions with passion but the smaller things with thought.

Within three years, he had immersed himself in your existence, soaking up your conversations with gratitude and appreciation. He made you feel so valued. Yoongi had an intellectual mind, always sifting through conflicts and discussing problems with you. When he was angry, he would often grumble an irritated are you there? to you, which you would always reply immediately to. You could hear his tones, his moods, just by the thoughts that he projected. You had learned all about the things that bothered him through his frustrations. It was always in his darker days that he would remind you how important you were to him.

“Thank you for always being here,” he had said softly once. “You’ve never let me go.”

You had frozen in place, heart thumping so hard that everything else in the world had held still. “I never will. I’ll be here for you, always.”

“This might be the first time that I’ll believe someone when they say that.” He had been silent for a few moments, clearly lost in thoughts that he was not relaying to you. “You really care. I don’t know how I got so lucky to be stuck with you, but it’s been the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

That had been one of the first times that he had opened up to you without a sarcastic remark thrown in, just enough to keep the balance of detachment.

“Min Yoongi, you are the best part of my life.”

Your mind had gone hushed for a long time after you had said those words. Your own private thoughts went racing, blaring loud panicked lights, and within those few moments of quiet, many things slid into perspective.

The first important development was that you saw Christmas lights. Along with those lights, you saw light pink petals cascading through the air and the happiest smile you had ever seen. You also heard some furious swearing, but that was not quite as instrumental as the other images. All of these visions swam through your mind, murky and unclear, as if they were deep underwater and you were looking down on them. Nothing quite clicked, nothing came together to form a solid explanation for these sights.

The second important development was that you were, quite possibly, absolutely in love with a boy you had never met. You preferred not to dwell on that because it was almost too much for you to think about. He had been such a big part of your life for a few years, and the thought of you ruining it was nearly too much to bear. But when you thought of the reasons why he was so important, it was dauntingly clear that these were not normal reasons. It was one thing to appreciate him, it was another thing to crave his gravelly voice in your head, or to stay up until the earliest hours of the morning just to listen to him ramble. You were infatuated with his presence, absorbing everything he said with tenacity.

“You won’t lose me, ever,” he had said after some time, “no matter what. Even if one day I stop hearing your voice in my head, I’ll find you.”

Your mouth had gone dry. It felt like you were falling— and in some way, you were. You were weaving yourself into the threads of Yoongi’s life. “We’ll walk together someday, just like you said.” You didn’t know what else to tell him. It was the closest thing you could say to the truth— the consuming, foreign truth.

A light, breathless laugh had floated through your mind, and then there had been silence. That conversation had been the first moment in which you confronted the reality of your predicament. Min Yoongi was more than just a voice in your head, he was a boy who cared about the world and cared about you, above all else.

You pushed everything away in an effort to salvage what little oblivion you could. Not loving him was far less complicated. But, instead, each talk that you had was enough to send you spiraling back to the same conclusion, and after that first point, you knew that there was no going back. You kept his words tucked safely in your heart, repeating them to yourself, thinking about what he said throughout your day.

You were doing exactly that, smiling to yourself as you steamed another pitcher of milk, remembering your discussion on dreams from the night before. You were expecting his voice any minute now. Working at a coffee shop was pleasant and methodic, but it didn’t require an immense amount of effort to keep focused. Yoongi had deemed it the perfect time to chat since he always got off work right as you started.

It was a daily routine, talking to him. He murmured a greeting to you in the mornings, then rarely spoke again until the afternoons, but he was actively speaking to you during lunch, work, and the evenings. Some nights, you would talk for hours until dawn, but those weren’t frequent. They were merely special.

You frowned when you looked at the clock. You didn’t want to say that it was unusual for him to be fifteen minutes late, but it was. He was quite punctual about his timing. Ignoring the thought, you set out a vase filled with a bouquet; one of your regular customers had gifted it to you out of appreciation.

The shop was chaotic, flooded with last-minute shoppers. The holidays were always a busy time, filled with the entitled and the kind alike. You were worried about his absence, but you were also caught up in trying to keep up with the coffee orders streaming in.

“You sound a little busy,” he said amusedly, voice ringing clear in your mind.

You were trying to multitask, speaking to a customer while thinking to him. “I am unbelievably busy— not to be intrusive, but why were you so late today? You’re always so timely.”

He snorted. “I’m hardly ever timely. Only for you.”

You almost dropped the mug you were holding, but you regained your composure quickly. “I’m flattered.”

“I promised I’d be here, right?” He paused for a second. “I was out buying Christmas lights, actually, but I think I ruined most of them. I left the box on top of my car, forgot about them, and ran them over, so they’re a little crushed— but I think some of them will work. Not willing to go back to that hellhole of a hardware store. I’ve already had to go there three times this week, but if I tried to buy another box, the workers would kill me.”

You narrowed your eyes slightly, a faint, wobbly picture of broken Christmas lights coming to mind. “Angry shoppers are the most dangerous predator of all.”

“They certainly reign over the holiday food chain.”

You handed out another cup, offering a hasty smile as well, then hurried back to the coffee machine. Yoongi didn’t say much, knowing that you were too busy to engage in an interesting conversation, so you spent your time trying to concentrate on orders.

However, your mind kept wandering back to his broken lights.

You had seen them before, never in a way that made sense, but you had seen those lights in a vision. It was a sight that was hidden in the same place that the stars were hidden; they were relatively out of vision but were visible enough to make you aware of their presence. You were supposed to see them, but not understand. You supposed that the stars were achieving their goals.

Biting back a rising sense of suspicion, you continued to work. There wasn’t much else to do— you needed to get things sorted out before you could even think about asking him about those lights.

You looked up, ready to take the next order, when you saw chaos from the other side of the counter. Someone had knocked over your bouquet of flowers, and you winced when the vase crashed against the countertop. Water spilled everywhere, and loose petals sprayed up in a shower—

And you froze, watching the ink-stained hands scrabbling to try to catch the vase, hearing a loud, profuse swear echo through the bustling coffee shop.

A customer had a tattered loop of Christmas lights still wrapped around his shoulder. The petals drifted down around him, almost dreamlike as they floated, an unbelievable snapshot in time.

He was not just any customer, he was your partner, the voice you had been tied to for three years.

“Yoongi!” You shouted, immediately clasping your hand over your mouth after his name left your lips.

He turned in confusion, eyebrows furrowed in distress from the combination of being yelled at and knocking over a vase— and then he froze too.

Everything else faded away, just a buzzing background to the main event. The noise seemed to die down, and all of the faces were blurry, but he was defined and sharp.

If you had asked him, he associated a few things with the girl who had popped into his head one day. First, a shout of surprise. Second, an apron stained with coffee. Third, a face that was bright enough to captivate the sun, most certainly enough to capture his heart. Fourth, broken glass crackling to the floor.

“Y/N?” He said, his voice ringing in your ears, audible for the first time.

And seeing him standing there, disheveled and disoriented, grinning at you like you were a miracle, was a confirmation like no other. You loved him. You loved him so much that it felt like your blood would burst out of your veins, like your heart was an inferno in your chest, like you were in paradise.

You dropped everything you were holding and sprinted out from behind the counter, and suddenly his fingertips were brushing against your skin and his arms were tight around you and he was a part of you, holding you with his entire soul. Yoongi was more than just a bodiless voice, he was there and he was spectacular. The weak pictures of this moment were nothing compared to meeting him.

“I told you that we’d find each other,” he murmured, pressing you closer to him.

“I always trusted you,” you whispered, fingers clamped in his shirt.

He laughed weakly, and the mere sound lifted all of the weight off of your shoulders. Every negativity was wiped smoothly away, replaced by the certainty that this is where you wanted to be. You wanted him, without a doubt in your mind.

And somehow you knew, that the stars had played the two of you to their own will, that the stars had known you better than you knew yourselves. They intended for you to meet, and they almost certainly intended for you to fall in love. The stars had chosen you, perhaps for some greater reason that you would never know, or perhaps for no reason at all. They crossed your fates, winding them together, just as your hands wound around each other now.

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oneletterwrites · 7 years

Text

Unfortunately Fortunate

Part of this AU (X), where your social status is based on how ‘pretty’ you are.

The Second Princess of the Cold Kingdom is finally at the age to be out in society, to be shown off and known to the other kingdoms. As per custom, a spectacular ball is thrown in her honor. Royals and their nobles are invited from all over, from every kingdom, just to see her. And how she hates it.

Natalia raises an eyebrow to it all, unimpressed to the decorations. Her older siblings, though it’s unsure if they are actually related, are talking the room, dressed in their blues and crystals. Her own dress is sparkling in an icy blue that makes her seems sharper around her edges. The room is decorated in much of the same color.

She watched from behind closed doors as the First Princess and the First Prince had their own ceremonies years ago. The halls lined in delicate patterns and maybe back then she wanted that kind of attention. Now however with everyone coming up to her and talking at her instead of to her is infuriating. She turns her head from someone else and holds back the urge to roll her eyes.

The King laughs as she does, snubbing yet another noble. He’s not the cruelest of men, but he sure isn’t the most pleasant. She goes to him when he waves her over. She bows and there’s a smirk on his face.

“Be careful my daughter,” He says stroking the stubble on his chin. She’s not his real daughter, but the image of family is portrayed anyway. He says nothing else and Natalia knows for certain he doesn’t actually care if she’s careful or not. She tugs at the ends of her sleeves to maybe cover her hands just a little more and bows politely. There’s a spark in his eye and she returns to her position to be greeted.

There are people from all over, from kingdoms she’s studied about but not cared about. It would be rude not to attend such an event, so man of them are bundled and wrapped up in thick clothing. She huffs. Her kingdom is adequately named. Rarely is there a day where snow isn’t covering the ground, and even if there isn’t any snow, the temperature tempts it.

She glances to her sister, soft and kind, talking to someone from another kingdom with a smile on her face. Her outfit is a much softer kind of bright blue with delicate curves that match her personality. Natalia knows they aren’t related, but calling Katyusha sister doesn’t leave a bitter taste in her mouth. Compared to sweet falling snow, Katyusha is heir to the throne, and Natalia wouldn’t want her position if offered.

She finds her brother next. Again, not something she minds saying regardless of the lack of truth behind it. Ivan is dressed in dark blues with specks of white. If Katyusha is the snow and Natalia is the ice, Ivan is the blizzard. Wild and unruly and frightens most of those who come to talk to him. He’s smiling dangerously to someone and Natalia would be lying if she said she’s isn’t the least bit curious who is standing up to her brother so well.

She weaves her way through the crowd, ignoring everyone who tries to get her attention and making a beeline for the other member of her royal family. Another person passes and she gets a good look at the person challenging her brother. They are dressed gold, bright and obnoxious much like their laughter. She pauses next to her brother listening in on their conversation and makes a snarky remark on the logistics of it when she deems fit surprising both of them.

“Sister!” Ivan cheers when he sees her next to him. Natalia blinks at him. Part of her is peeved that their conversation ended as it had been the thing holding her curiosity but it can’t be helped now. She turns her attention from her brother to the one in gold.

“Fredka this is my sister, and the guest of honor, Natalia, the Second Princess.” Her face twists up. Ivan’s description of her isn’t wrong or bad, she just wishes all the attention could be elsewhere. She eyes ‘Fredka’ up and down without manners or bowing to him.

“Natalia, this is Fredka, the First Prince of the Glow Kingdom.” A pause, a wicked smile form Ivan. “He is also an idiot.” Natalia blinks at them both and then Fredka bursts up into a laughter that’s too loud, too bright.

“Ivan you are far too blunt.” There’s a rough edge to the Glow Prince’s words, a fiery glint in their eyes. Natalia tilts her head to the side at the look. A servant calls for Ivan’s attention and he’s walking away leaving her with this person she only just met. She stares at them as the look in their eyes fades to something more soft as they look at her.

“My name is actually Alfred,” He holds out his hand and she places hers in it like she’s been told to. He kisses the back of her hand with a cheeky dazzling smile.

“Ugh,” The noise escapes her before she can stop it. However instead of being insulted the Glow Prince just laughs. Dimples appear on his cheeks and Natalia can very much see why he’s a Prince in the Glow kingdom. He seems to radiate energy.

“You’re gorgeous by the way,” He says. Natalia twists up her nose.

“I know.” It’s very much true. She’s been told many times that her beauty is unparalleled to most, cold and calculating and potentially dangerous. Alfred stands a little taller with a smile on his face that doesn’t look too forced. The other nobles after spending only a minute in her company began to have this strained look on their faces. Perhaps that’s why the King didn’t tell her to stop being rude.

Suddenly Alfred bows low and holds out his hand in a flashy show, smirking up at her. She recoils at the action, blinking dumbly trying to figure out what exactly he’s doing. He nods his head to where other couples are dancing and it clicks what he’s asking of her.

“Why?” It’s a rude response. Alfred doesn’t let his smirk fall, but he stands back up to a proper position. His hand is still out to her and she eyes it cautiously.

“I think I might be in love with you already.” It’s said so simply. Natalia curls even farther away from him at that. Impossible. Untrue. She can feel her cheeks heating up even at the idea of someone loving her already on the day she’s just been introduced to society.

She swallows down a lump in her throat, vaguely aware of people watching them. Alfred hasn’t made any move to force her to accept his hand and waits patiently. Slowly she extends her hand to rest in his. His fingers wrap around her gently and guides her to the edge of the others dancing, pulling her to him when given the chance in the rhythm of the music.

He’s warm pressed to her, guiding her easily, holding her firmly. His outfit has intricate details of swirling white and she refuses to look at him. She definitely didn’t plan to dance with any one at this ball. If she had her way this ball wouldn’t have happened at all.

Thankfully the music stops and Natalia is walking away before Alfred can say anything else. Katyusha comes over to her to ask her questions and Ivan makes not so subtle threats if she would like. Natalia brushes them off. Dancing and talking with Alfred, what little of it she did, hadn’t been unpleasant, and he surely hadn’t been put off by her.

She schools her face into indifference as Alfred catches her eye from the other side of the room. He’s talking to someone else in gold and smiles wide knowing he has her attention. She turns her head away. She’s knows she’s going to have to interact with the Prince a lot more since she’s been introduced to society, but she can put it off for as long as she can.

–

Putting it off doesn’t last long as there’s a letter in looping script with her name on it, words of love inside, and Alfred’s name attached just a week after the ball. Embarrassment fills her quickly and though she deems it against her better judgement, she’s writing back with chaste answers. She sends the letter off refusing to tell anyone of the why or what, with a small hope burning inside that feels like the gold he wears that the Prince will write back to her soon.

And he does. Alfred writes lengthy paragraphs for her eyes only, laments his words of love, talks of his younger sibling, how he wishes she could see the summer in his Kingdom. She stores them all in a chest adorned with yellow jewels. Her sister smiles sweetly and her brother gives fair warnings, and the King just eyes her knowingly.

When the King calls for her, asking if she would accept the Glow Kingdom’s request for marriage alliance between her and the First Prince, Natalia shocks herself with how quickly she is willing to agree. She always disliked the idea of being married for the sake of country to someone who she didn’t care for. To have to play nice and dislike it all in the end. This however, is Alfred, someone who cries when the birds leave when it gets too cold and gets violent at injustice. Someone who loves her already. So she agrees.

Then Alfred is there with his brilliant smile all for her, eyes sparkling and holding her so gently, she thinks it might be best for her to be involved with such an outlandish person. She could be far worse settled, and with Alfred kissing the back of her hand like she’s precious and loved, she might dare to consider herself lucky he decided to annoy her.

–

The look on the Glow King’s face when he finds out that his heir to the throne wrote to the Cold King without his knowing and asked to marry the Second Princess even makes Natalia hide a smile in her hand. Alfred is far too ridiculous and with his hand around her waist keeping her close, she thinks she can live with that.

–

AN: This takes place before Matthew is out in society, maybe by a few months or even a year, but this is how Alfred and Natalia met and got engaged.

In case it’s confusing, an ‘Introduction to Society’ is when someone comes of age to either hold power, such as nobility, be an heir, or be involved in political standings, or is old enough to be of a marrying or working age.

Since Natalia is royalty, has been deemed ‘pretty’ enough for royalty, her ‘Introduction’ takes the form of a ball.

Also yeah, Alfred 100% asked to marry Natalia without asking for permission from his own father to do so.

#aph america #aph belarus #amebel #drabble #beauty worth au #ive been thinking about this for so long

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yasbxxgie · 7 years

Link

The writer Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie has firsthand experience with the swift and intense outrage that can flow toward an individual in the age of democratized publishing. Say something potentially objectionable these days, and you will hear about it from every direction. Adichie’s characterization of cisgender women and transgender women as being fundamentally different ignited a firestorm of controversy last spring—and though she later clarified what she meant, she never really backed down.

“I think people are frightened of saying what they think, and I think that’s a bad thing for society,” she told The Atlantic’s national correspondent Ta-Nehisi Coates and editor in chief Jeffrey Goldberg in Paris recently. “The problems in the left interest me more because I just think that there’s an increase in—‘intolerance’ is maybe putting it simply—but there’s a feeling that you’re supposed to conform.”

The left, Adichie says, is no longer actually liberal. “There’s language you’re supposed to use,” she said. “There’s an orthodoxy you’re supposed to conform to, and if you don’t, you become a bad, evil person, and it doesn’t matter what you’ve done in the past or what you stand for.”

Adichie thinks deeply about identity in her work. As an author who has divided her time between the U.S. and Nigeria for most of her career, she often weaves a transatlantic perspective into her writing, most notably in 2013’s Americanah. In her conversation with Goldberg and Coates, Adichie described the complexities of race that are brought into sharper relief whenever she comes to the States: When she’s in Nigeria, she’s not “black” in the way she is in America, where the color of her skin immediately changes how she is seen and treated. “There’s a particular kind of asshole-ry that white people reserve for black people,” she says. “You can tell. You can always tell. It’s a very subtle thing.”

Still, she says, “there is, for me, as a black woman, as an African woman, a sense of possibility in America that I don’t feel when I’m in Europe.” Perhaps that’s why Adichie says she’s surprised at what she perceives as deference among Americans to the power that Donald Trump wields as president. Coates, for his part, isn’t shocked: “For black folks born and raised in America, the deference to power is very, very familiar.” It’s part of why he feels more American when he’s in Paris than he does in the United States, he says.

An edited transcript of their conversation, which was recorded in Paris for the first episode of The Atlantic’s new podcast, The Atlantic Interview, is below.

Jeffrey Goldberg: Let’s start with something that just happened at the airport. You said you kind of had a bad experience coming into Paris.

Chimamanda Adichie: So I present my Nigerian passport, which is all I have. I have an American green card, but a Nigerian passport. And the man, the immigration man—in that sort of haughty thin-faced French way—looks at the visa and says to me, “This is for Spain. Why are you here?” And I said, “Well because I’ve been to Spain and it’s a Schengen visa. I can use it for France.” And he says, “Where is your return ticket?” He doesn't ask me why I’m here. So I give him the return ticket. And at this point people are watching us, because other people had spent a minute [getting through] and at this point I had been there for 10. So in total I was there for 30 minutes, standing there, and he would ignore me and turn around and mumble something to his colleague and then turn back to me and I’d be like, “Is something wrong? Can you tell me what's wrong?” And he would completely ignore me and then make that really annoying Gallic gesture, sort of the shruggy thing. But really for me it was a power play. What he was saying is, You’re not welcome here. And he didn’t have a reason for saying that because I had everything. I had a valid visa. I had everything I needed to have as a person coming from a country that doesn’t have resources, which means that we are seen as people who will stay on in countries like this. But I also remember thinking, I have an American green card. Why the hell do I want to stay on in France?

Goldberg: Are you ever tempted to say, “I won a MacArthur Genius prize.” Do you ever want to play the “don’t-you-know-who-I-am” card? I mean, it’s obnoxious in its own sense. But you are a woman of achievement and, I’m just curious, is that ever tempting to you?

Adichie: No, I think maybe part of my pique and my rage, maybe it comes from my sense of privilege, which is: Oh, nobody treats me like this. I just feel that I don’t have to be somebody to be treated with dignity, right? Because I’m thinking, Why can’t you just be polite? Why can’t you just answer my question? Why can’t you do your damned job? But there’s a long history of people coming from Africa, who in Europe are treated like this. So I don’t think I’m unusual.

Goldberg: Can you compare and contrast the African experience? I hate to use the broad term African but let’s say the West African experience in Europe versus the United States.

Adichie: Ooh, how much time do we have? Okay. I think I can talk about the U.S. with more authority. I guess because I like America. I know America has many problems. But there is, for me as a black woman, as an African woman, a sense of possibility in America that I don’t feel when I’m in Europe, particularly in continental Europe. I like the U.K. No, I like London. The rest of the U.K. ...

Goldberg: You could do without.

Adichie: It’s interesting. But, you know.

Goldberg: But in the U.K. do you ever feel the burden of colonial history on you?

Adichie: In America, I feel black with all of the rubbish that comes with it. So I became black in America.

Goldberg: Right.

Adichie: In Nigeria, I wasn’t black. I didn’t think of myself as black. When I go back home now, when I go back to Nigeria now, I get off the plane in Lagos and I just don’t think of race. I get on the plane and arrive in Atlanta, and immediately I’m aware of race. I mean you just know, and it’s that interesting thing where race becomes a possible reason for things in a way that—

Goldberg: —like in Charles de Gaulle Airport just now.

Adichie: Exactly. So if somebody is an asshole in Nigeria, and many people are, I think that [they’re] having a bad day. They’re assholes. They don’t like me. Right. If it happens in the U.S., all of those things, and I’m thinking also they’re racist.

Goldberg: But that’s interesting, and I had this conversation with I think Ta-Nehisi and maybe some other people where … there is an assumption if you’re a minority, if you’re a person of color, and something goes wrong in an interaction with a person who is white, there’s an assumption or a fear or suspicion that it’s race-based. And the truth of the matter is that white people are often assholes to white people. And it’s interesting especially in a racially fraught moment like we’re in, in America, where everybody goes right to the single-point explanation for things.

Adichie: You know what though? Yes, white people are assholes to other white people. But I think there’s something to be said for a particular kind of asshole-ry. There’s a particular kind of asshole-ry that white people reserve for black people. I do think though that I. Because often when a black person says, “This is racist”—I think in America this happens quite a bit—you’re told, “Oh, oh surely it wasn’t racist.” And I’m just thinking, well if a black person who has inherited this—I’m going to be dramatic and say trauma but really I think so. You know, they don’t want it to be racist. When things happen to me in the U.S., when I suspect that it’s racist and—it doesn’t have to be something massive. It can just be when somebody doesn’t extend dignity and courtesy to you, and you can tell that they would be different with a white person. You can tell. And there are times when the white person has been nasty and I’ve known it wasn’t race. I mean, I have dealt with grumpy old white men who I just sense are the same with everybody. But you can tell. You can always tell. It’s a very subtle thing. … When I came to the U.S, I didn’t really know because it’s not something that you know. It’s not something that comes with dark skin. It’s something that comes with living in a country that’s racist.

So, having lived in the U.S. for a while, I started to understand the subtleties. I started to know when it was race. I didn’t when I first got there. But I guess my point is, I don’t think that black people are quick to rush to race as a reason because I don’t think black people want it to be race. You know what I mean? I feel like I don’t want racist things to happen. So when I point out that they happen, it’s not because I enjoy it. I would rather they weren’t happening. Actually, we just like people to have a bad day and be nasty to me in a way that they would be to anybody else. But you can tell. You can tell when it’s race.

Ta-Nehisi Coates: I think she’s quite correct on that. And I think this whole notion is like an extra level that comes with it. Like somebody might just be a general asshole. But there is an extra level of condescension or something that is with it. I think also the bigger thing is, she’s correct in that I’d rather it not be [racism]. Like, I’d much much rather it would not be. I will say—and I want to be clear about this as an African American, not as a black Parisian, not as a black French person, not as somebody coming from Martinique, not as somebody coming from Senegal or Algeria—as an African American: One of the things I do get here is when people are assholes, I know they’re assholes. They don’t like Americans and I know that, and that’s okay, fine.

Goldberg: Does that make you feel like an American?

Coates: Yes.

Goldberg: More here in Paris than in America? Do you feel more American?

Coates: Yes. Yes. Except when Obama got elected.

Adichie: I want to talk about women because I like women, in particular. I mean, men are okay, but women are my thing. So I was taken aback to learn that 53 percent of white women had voted for Trump. And the reason I was surprised was I just assumed that the majority of women would not vote for a person who … it’s not just the person who boasts about assaulting women but a person who clearly doesn’t really think of women as equals. And I realized that they voted for him because white women are also white. White women are women, but they’re also white. And I think it’s the whiteness. I think that a lot of Trump’s campaigning was coded. It was coded language about race. It was that whole idea of “make America great again.” And the very strong anti-immigration positions, the sort of caricatures of Mexicans. And I think a lot of that had to do with whiteness and, in a strange sort of way, I understand why white women would find that appealing.

Goldberg: What do you understand?

Adichie: I think as humans, change is something that worries us. And I think that when people imagine—it doesn’t necessarily even have to be true—that some sort of catastrophic change is coming. And I think for them it was that this black man had been president and suddenly there were black people in positions of power. You know, the attorney general was a black man and I think that there are people for whom that was very upsetting. Even people who voted for Obama and I think that for many of them that, suddenly they’re like, Wait, hold on. And I can sort of imagine a white person saying, They’re taking over now, there are too many black people in these positions of power, and I can see how they would see that as threatening to their sense of what America is supposed to be. That kind of thing.

There’s a kind of entitlement that comes with whiteness in America. I think that white people … I mean, so, when they’re talking about this being a question of economics. Never mind that people who have money voted for Trump, but even that. I keep thinking, why don’t we talk about the minority working class? We talk about, in the U.S., the working class as though it’s somehow uniformly white. And the black people I know who are working class in the U.S.—because I asked them all, all seven of them—and none of them voted for Trump. And they have economic problems; they, too, feel left out. And so I think for me the question then becomes: Why? Why didn’t they vote for Trump? Because Trump was selling this magical idea of, you know, bring back the coal mines, everything’s going to be perfect, and they didn’t vote for him. And I think that makes a very strong case for whiteness being part of Trump’s whole schtick.

Goldberg: You surprised by the events of the last year?

Adichie: I have been. I think that it’s much worse than I imagined it would be and it’s just made me realize how incredibly fragile democracy is. There are things I used to think would never happen in America. When you’re from a place like Nigeria, it’s very common for people to say … you know, we spend all our time criticizing our government and then somebody will be like, “Go to America. They will never do that.” Right. That will never happen in America. And I’ve just realized it can.

Goldberg: You have an interesting experience of growing up under constantly changing military dictatorships. How bad do you think it could get?

Adichie: Oh, I think it can get very bad.

Goldberg: Even in America?

Adichie: Yes, but it’s already bad. I mean, did anybody ever think that this would be a country where people would go to airports and pretty much be arrested? There’s so much going on in the U.S. that feels very banana republic-y to me. And I think it can get worse. … I used to think Americans wouldn’t bow to power in the way they have done. I’ve been taken aback by how journalism has covered Trump, how people argue about should we say he lied. Yes, he lied. But I think the power of the presidency has really … I didn’t realize how much in awe Americans were.

Goldberg: You didn’t think deference was an American habit.

Adichie: Yes. Deference to a certain kind of political power. I didn’t think so. No.

Goldberg: So, going back through the campaign, when did you say to yourself, “That reminds me of something that I saw once in Nigeria”? Was there anything specific that sort of triggered a specific memory?

Adichie: I think my first shock was the travel ban and the uncertainty that people had. … So there was a woman who came from Nigeria with a valid visa and she was turned away, and suddenly my brother-in-law, who is a U.S. citizen and a physician in Connecticut, he wanted to go back to Nigeria for two weeks and my sister said to him, “Don’t go. Don’t go because you don’t know, they might not let you back in. Don’t go.” And he made me think of … there’s a certain uncertainty about living in a military dictatorship where I remember when I was maybe 8 or 9, and there was talk about a coup going to happen and my father was supposed to go to Europe and so my mother said to him, “Don’t go to Lagos. Don’t go because we don’t know what’s going to happen.” And I just kind of felt watching TV and the coverage of the travel ban, I just thought, “I can’t believe this is America.” It felt sadly familiar.

Coates: That’s the difference in the African and the African American experience. I can’t believe this isn’t happening in America is not an African American sense. It’s a black sense if you’re coming from Africa and America’s this distant thing, much like probably a lot of the things I would say here in France. A black French person would look at me like, “Well what did you think you were coming into?” So it’s just interesting to hear. For black folks born and raised in America, the deference to power is very, very familiar. Our ancestral heartland in the south. I mean, what became democratic in the 1960s within the living memory of a lot of people. It’s just different.

Adichie: No, I completely get that. I know that. I’ve often thought about how at the time when black Americans had to sort of step aside on the sidewalk so a white person could walk past, a black African was—you know, if you did well you could get a scholarship to go to Cambridge or Oxford. When black Americans weren’t allowed just basic human dignity in America because they were black, in Africa, particularly sort of the privileged classes, they were in charge of their own destinies. I do think that things go down generations and I know that my worldview would be very different had I been American-born. … My grandfather who actually was nearly sold into slavery. No, my great-grandfather. There’s a story in my family about how he was rejected because he had this wound on his leg which was—thank God for the wound—but had that happened maybe I would be, I don’t know, a Brazilian or an African American. I think my entire view of America would be different. Very different.

Goldberg: One of the many interesting things about you is your intolerance or impatience for jargon and groupthink and you periodically get into a kind of useful trouble by speaking your mind. It’s fair to say that you’re associated with a liberal worldview, but you seem to be a little bit frustrated lately in sort of this—I don’t know what you would call it—Darwinian process of winnowing out people who sound heterodoxical. Is that fair?

Adichie: The problems in the left interest me more because I just think that there’s an increase in—“intolerance” is maybe putting it simply—but there’s a feeling that you’re supposed to conform. It is no longer in my opinion actually liberal. There’s language you’re supposed to use. There’s an orthodoxy you’re supposed to conform to, and if you don’t, you become a bad, evil person, and it doesn’t matter what you’ve done in the past or what you stand for. You just become evil and you’re demonized, and it makes me uncomfortable because I think it’s problematic in so many ways. I think people are frightened of saying what they think, and I think that’s a bad thing for society.

Goldberg: They’re frightened to say what they think. But sometimes the group the thing is directed against has legitimate reasons to be offended.

Adichie: I’m a person who believes very strongly in ideas of inclusion and hearing everybody’s story and that sort of thing. And so we do need to hear. I am also ... I think it’s too easy again to say that the answer to bad speech is more speech, but in general I think so. Part of the problem, I think, with censoring is that sometimes there’s that ever-so-slight assumption that that thing might be true.

Goldberg: And where do you think it’s coming from?

Adichie: My sense is that the American left 50 years ago wasn’t like this. People still believed what they did about inclusion. Today there’s an increase in self-righteousness, and there’s also a sense in which you have to speak for everyone. So if you write about a white woman, for many parts of the left it’s valid criticism to say you ignored Mexicans and Bangladeshis. And I’m just thinking, No. People have to be allowed to tell the story. I don’t necessarily want a white woman telling the Nigerian woman story. And so maybe it’s coming from knowing that the left is not, in fact, as inclusive as it thinks it is. And so because of that, I think that the people allowed on the stage are too few—the grand stage of who gets to decide—

Goldberg: —acceptable speech. The boundaries of acceptable speech.

Adichie: Yes. And because of that maybe the answer is to shut things down. But I don’t want to. I think that a lot of it is well-meaning. I think that what these young people on college campuses are trying to get at is an acknowledgment of that power. So it’s not the same thing as a Puerto Rican writing about somebody from the Dominican Republic because they’re both kind of on the same level of powerlessness. And I also think that when you’re—I think I know a lot more about whiteness than white people know about blackness.

Goldberg: And according to even these rigorous rules of who gets to say what for a member of a, relatively speaking, “powerless” community, to try to inhabit the life of a member of the majority community would be quite interesting anyway. I’m just giving you an assignment. I think it would be a great novel. I’d buy it.

Coates: There’s also a long history of white people doing us badly.

Adichie: Very badly.

Coates: I’m a fan of people being able to write about other people when doing it respectfully. I love Ragtime, Coalhouse Walker—

Goldberg: Right. Doctorow did a successful job of writing [historical fiction featuring black characters in early 20th-century America].

Coates: Yeah, Ragtime’s great. But he was very, very respectful of the experience, as you should be about anybody’s experience when you’re writing about it. Unfortunately African Americans—and certainly Africans in American culture— have a long history of being presented by other people in a fashion that is, shall we say, at the very least not respectful. So all that baggage comes with it. When it gets refracted through, “Who has the right?” which is not a question I would encourage to be asked, but—that’s the context and the place.

Goldberg: My only point is that I want writers to write about whatever they want to write about.

Adichie: So do I. So do I.

Goldberg: But I hate this idea that this space is being closed to anybody who wants to write anything about anything.

Adichie: It’s a strange thing, though, because there’s two sides to it. So, on the one hand I think of course anybody should write what they want. I think my friend Dave Eggers—so Dave wrote a book about a guy from Sudan called What Is the What. And I thought it was very well done. And Dave is white and male, and this guy he wrote about is black and African. It’s not that it can’t be done. It simply—Ta-Nehisi said it well—there’s a history.

And it’s not just that there’s a history. It’s also, I mean—when I say I know a lot more about whiteness than white people know about blackness, it’s not because I’m necessarily interested in whiteness. It’s because I live in a world that is [so] steeped in whiteness, that you don’t have a choice. So I know a lot about white women’s hair because all the women’s magazines are about white women’s hair. But my white friends know very little about my hair because they don’t know. And of course, America being America, where liberals are very well-meaning—nobody asks anything because they’re just really well-meaning.

Goldberg: Going back to this point about everybody being scared to actually ask stuff.

Adichie: Yeah, and I don’t mind. I’m like, Ask me. I’ll tell you because don’t you know. So this woman said to me once, “Oh. Your dreads are lovely,” and I said to her, “No, I don't have dreads. They're braids.”

Goldberg: But there’s no offense meant.

Adichie: No, no, no, no. Because there’s a difference between—there’s malicious intent and then there’s just simple, well-meaning not knowing. And I like that. I like the kind that isn’t malicious.

Goldberg: Let me come finally to the issues of feminism and this very strange moment and maybe very hopeful moment that we’re in in America. The moment triggered by the revelations surrounding Harvey Weinstein, which has now taken on much more meaning than just what happened in one movie company over a period of years. The question is: I feel like maybe we’ve reached a tipping point. It seems as if it used to be that the default position of women was not to talk about this and now it seems like we’re moving toward a place where people can talk about it and we’ll be getting a fuller understanding of how common this kind of behavior—maybe not the level of Harvey Weinstein behavior but level of sexual harassment, intimidation. Am I being overly hopeful about where we’re at?

Adichie: Yes.

Goldberg: Yes?

Adichie: Yes. I’m happy that you’re hopeful. I want to be hopeful too but I don’t know. And I don’t want Harvey Weinstein to be this sort of the standard. I don’t want him to be. So I’m happy that women … and I know about the #MeToo hashtag and women are talking about it. It doesn’t surprise me obviously because I think that most women, if not all women, have a story but it’s also for me about other things. … We just need to find a way in our culture to start believing women. And I think that’s really the fundamental thing. And so Harvey Weinstein–type assault is terrible obviously but so is just that larger diminishing of women … all over the world. In the U.S. it’s so much more subtle and almost sophisticated that it’s difficult to point out. In Nigeria it’s very in-your-face. So you know what you’re dealing with. You know somebody be like, “Oh, you’re a woman, you really can’t be governor.” So you know what you’re dealing with.

Goldberg: And that will be said in "polite society"?

Adichie: Oh, they will tell you. Oh, yeah. They’ll tell you. In the U.S., they’re thinking it. They don’t tell you.

Goldberg: Do you think people were thinking that about Hillary Clinton?

Adichie: Of course. Of course there were many people who thought. Yes. Men and women, by the way, not just men.

Goldberg: Women too.

Adichie: Let’s be clear. Yes, women too. So, I want to be hopeful. I desperately want to be hopeful, but I don’t know.

#chimamanda ngozi adichie #chimamanda adichie #ta-nehisi coates #ta nehisi coates #tanehisi coates #jeffrey goldberg #donald trump #white privilege #white entitlement #amerikkka #racism #the atlantic #long reads #megaphone

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Erica Review - Grab The Popcorn

New Post has been published on https://gamerszone.tn/erica-review-grab-the-popcorn/

Erica Review - Grab The Popcorn

Erica never lets you feel at ease for long. In one scene, a character teaches Erica how to play a song on the piano–you’re encouraged to memorize the cute little melody and try to perform the correct timing. But just when you start playing along, somebody suddenly starts coughing up blood everywhere, it’s messy and gross, everyone starts screaming, and the vibe is killed. In Erica you have to treasure those sweet breaks before they’re swiftly swiped from your hands and replaced with a solid helping of worry, stress, and a side of confusion.

A fully filmed playable thriller in which the titular character is on a mission to help solve a murder case that she has strange family ties to, Erica utilizes some subtle yet effective film-inspired techniques–like match on action and screen wipes triggered by touchpad interactions–to tell its enigmatic tale. To progress each scene, you choose dialogue options and make various adventure game-like actions. The game bounces back and forth in time between Erica’s childhood with her father to the mess that is modern-day life, in which she has to move to a strange hospital her late parents helped create for her own safety.

Erica, played by real-life actor Holly Earl, is a relatable, if malleable, protagonist. Earl regularly looks like she’s bewildered or uncomfortable, exactly how you feel as a viewer in most of the situations. She seems thoughtful and patient, but other than that there isn’t too much of a set personality for her. You decide through your in-game choices if she’s more passive or aggressive or unhelpful during the case, and because of the high stakes murder circumstances, switching her attitude and approach never feels abrupt nor out of character. Even if you spend most of the game being rude, you can be friendly to someone and it doesn’t feel weird. Your reactions, and in turn Erica’s, are likely to change frequently during a playthrough every time new information pops up, objectives change, and new, incredibly peculiar characters enter the picture.

Somehow, every new character you meet is more suspicious than the last. Everyone talks to you like they just poisoned the food you’re eating. There’s a sequence in the courtyard where you can choose a girl to hang out with and get to know better, and right after you pick a possible pal to spend the afternoon with, the head of the hospital says, “Just remember that some of the girls here… Uh… They can be quite manipulative,” and just walks away. The guy is nowhere to be found after that, and you’re left sitting there wondering why would he say that–and before you know it, you’re overthinking every interaction because you don’t know which person he was insinuating was going to manipulate you. All of the secrets, ulterior motives, and Erica’s own faulty memory cause for some very intriguing “Trust nobody, not even yourself” gameplay.

Perpetual disorientation is the central feeling of Erica, and it’s what keeps you searching for the truth no matter how many crooked obstacles stand in your way. The plot is ever-changing and chaotic; you’re attempting to solve a crime by talking to a plethora of weirdos in an unfamiliar, creepy place while having stifling flashbacks of your messed-up childhood. There’s so many forces clashing and intense situations going on that you find yourself yearning to make sense of even the smallest mystery just to feel grounded. There was a time where Erica was being gaslit by a character and I ended up shaking my fist and yelling “She’s not crazy, you’re just lying!” at my TV–but even though that character annoyed me I kept listening to them in case they accidentally dropped a small hint to steer me in the right direction, and they did. Erica is a striking example of a whodunit that’s heightened by its enthralling characters, shady occult science, and recollections of previous trauma.

From the overall murder case to smaller questions like what kind of hospital you’re staying at, there are a number of mysteries weaving together concurrently throughout Erica. It’s easy to miss context that’s vital to understanding the full picture. You might get an answer to a question that’s been burning in your mind for the last half hour, but that answer could be a truth that presents new pathways to choose from or a lie that leads you astray. That mystery management is exciting and makes every experience with the game its own curious, isolated thriller molded by whatever answers and stories you care about at the time.

You can use either a DualShock 4 controller or a companion phone app to play Erica; the latter is smooth and seamless for the most part, while the former is bogged down by a clunky implementation of touchpad controls and is the far less preferable option. As you move through the narrative, you alternate between selecting which areas to explore, choosing dialogue options like “contempt” or “desperation,” and performing no-stakes everyday actions like cleaning the fog from a mirror or turning on the sink. Potential actions are shown as silhouettes on-screen, and there’s also a mock trajectory of where to swipe your hand on your phone if you’re using the app. The inputs are all done by small, comfortable hand swipes, not extending to the full horizontal or vertical reach of the screen.

Most actions are intuitive, and you feel like you know where to swipe and what you can do before the game even tells you. There’s a moment where you and a detective walk up to an empty reception desk that has a bell sitting on it, for example. I lit up when I saw it and I started tapping on the screen a bunch–Erica didn’t hesitate to mimic my actions in her world and ding away, so much so that the detective swatted her hand off of it because he got annoyed. The straightforward motions make navigating trouble-free, and being able to quickly deduce what moves you can make adds a connection to the moment-to-moment gameplay. It keeps your focus on the important things, like figuring out what the heck is going on in the story.

Choices and quick-time events happen every 30 seconds or so, which may sound overwhelming, but it isn’t so in practice. Most of the time, they aren’t high pressure actions; they’re a chain of a few choices, and those chunks are separated by longer cutscenes every so often. They do eventually get mundane and feel unnecessary, especially if you choose to use the DualShock 4, though. The game is controlled entirely with touch, and while the swipes are supposed to be a convenience for your hands, it’s difficult to perform them on the small DualShock touchpad without your fingers slipping off or hitting the joysticks. There were also a few occasions where the companion app was slightly unresponsive, which is something that can have game-changing consequences if it happens at a critical moment. It takes a second to get back into the game’s rhythm after there’s a blip in the controls. They’re small things, but those shortcomings pull you out of what is otherwise a really engrossing experience.

In general, the filmic elements are integrated so carefully that it’s a genuine and mostly calculated mix of two mediums. Erica is in the middle of game and movie, and a lot of small mechanics add up to show that. For example, the character Erica is an artist, and there’s a scene fairly early on where you can flip through the pages of her artbook. Looking through a character’s personal items is a common feature in interactive adventure games, but the detail that went into shooting the natural angles of each flip makes it an even more intimate way of gaining insight into who the character is. Outside of the footage itself, all of the trophy pop-ups are paused until you complete the game, which goes a long way to keep you from getting distracted. It’s a small, fitting touch for a game that values story so much.

Perpetual disorientation is the central feeling of Erica, and it’s what keeps you searching for the truth no matter how many crooked obstacles stand in your way.

There are also some sneaking situations that are made better by the film aspect. There are always conversations happening behind closed doors, and because you have so many questions that you need answered, sometimes you have to be a weirdo and eavesdrop on people. If you peek out for too long or open the door too fast, they’ll see you, stop their conversation, and share an awkward glance with you. Because it’s footage of actual peoples’ facial expressions, it makes you cringe a little more–and that is one of the most high-tension fail states I can imagine.

The whole time, the game marinates you in a constant anxious energy that fuels a curiosity for the dodgy, mysterious world that you’re influencing. Some scenes you’re just holding a book or a photo and staring at it for details, but since it’s paired with an insidious sting it transforms what would be a normal occasion into bitter dread. There are flashbacks, dreams, and abnormal things happening frequently; oftentimes you’re forced to decide on the one secret you want to uncover the most and drop the others. Should you pick up the phone that’s been ringing in the lobby or check out that weird ghost thing in the hallway? There are some decisions that are straight-up difficult–high-stakes ones where, in the bottom of your heart, you don’t know what the right thing to do is, but you know you have to do something. Those times will have you wishing that this game was just a movie, but Erica is more than that.

Erica has a strong, fleshed-out narrative full of twists and turns that each bring their own unique piece to the story. Its cryptic tone is carried through the audio, visuals, and writing; it never lets you relax. Sometimes weird controls jolt you out, but there is an abundance of enticing threads to follow, and it’s a treat to be able to mold your own adventure out of it. Using a combination of crisp cinematography and FMV-specific game mechanics, Erica never fails to hook you into its haunting, mysterious world.

Source : Gamesport

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