#do all people not desire to do things that are strange outlandish and fun | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

chogiwrites · 4 years

Text

300 Yuan To Love || Lay

Summary: The road to hell is paved with good intentions and, in this case, some rice cakes along the way. Or: Yixing makes a dumb bet but even when he wins, he loses.

Lenght: 5.4k

Genre: Humour/Fluff/mild Angst

Like with all shitty things in life, at least from a masculine standpoint, it begins with the desire to take a cute girl out on a date.

It’s hot and humid in Hangzhou, as is typical for the summer cycle in this part of China, and Zhang Yixing bikes up to Wang Xun’s cake stand with his balls tucked neatly in his wicker basket. This was his grandma’s doing, really. She knew Yixing needed a job and whilst she was wandering the neighborhood one afternoon, she ran into him.

Had it been anybody else, had it even been written in the Constitution of the People’s Republic of China, then Yixing would’ve immediately said no. But, it just so happens that Yixing is weak for his granny. So, when she returned from her walk, staggering with a fabric trolley full of leeks and other proteins, with a shiny look in her eyes, Zhang Yixing was honor-bound to accept.

Glutinous rice cakes are Zhang Yixing’s worst nightmare, and he starts work the next day

Just the smell is enough to give him a thick sense of nausea. Wang Xun knows this, and Yixing is about ninety-nine-point-nine percent sure that he’s banking off of that. So, what’s it about it all, that has Yixing bike towards there, on a road so quintessential that you could practically hear the 80’s pop music behind him?

Well, he needs a new haircut, that’s what. That, and he wants the opportunity to take his best friend, you, out someplace nice. It’s the latter mostly. Especially the latter.

You both entered Uni not too long ago but only one entered the prestigious option. Spoiler alert, it wasn’t Yixing. It doesn’t bother him much though, because he never intends to be a fancy businessman anyway. He applied to a local college to learn dance, and music theory, which he’s passionate about. On top of that, even though it sees him lose more money than it ever does see him gain it— Yixing enjoys posting his amateur attempts at rapping over on Weibo, which garners some positive feedback.

Meanwhile, there’s you. You’ve been friends with him since the first grade but you’re about as different from him as a banana to a pineapple. You set out to enter business, much like the rest of your family, and Yixing often catches you nowadays during your coffee not-dates in pressed blouses and pencil skirts. Your fierce makeup gives you an air of exclusivity, which makes Yixing’s breezy noncommittal to looking posh, nearly garish.

His idea of having a sense of style is often eclectic and vintage, in conflicting patterns and textures. He got into krumping, and this saw him, in turn, get into wearing blaze red tracksuits and little braids in his hair. It also saw him bleach his hair to the point of no return, which you made fun of him for relentlessly.

The consequence of having such an outlandish appearance—though at this point, he has his hair an ugly, faded red— came one day, full force, during one of your bi-weekly coffee not-dates.

You two were in the midst of a serious conversation when some yuppie mistook your frown as being caused by Yixing’s presence. So, he did what any overbearing yuppie does. He tried to forcibly remove Yixing from the situation with the same technique you use to swat away a pigeon that wants your Kentucky Fried Chicken.

It was embarrassing for all three of you and this is where it does bother Yixing, who’s become notorious for being blissfully unaware of any and everything. For one, he doesn’t see you as often as he wants to, and secondly, a part of him worries he’s slowly sinking beneath you.

Sure, this was a lifelong thing. You’d always come from the better and wealthier family whilst Yixing grew up with his grandparents in a relatively small, rickety house. But you don’t feel these things when you’re ten and frog hunting in the mud, you don’t feel these things when you hold your best friend’s dirty hand at the bus stop to ‘see what it’s like’ on your way to the arcade.

Admittedly, Yixing isn’t super certain as to why he feels the way he feels. He’ll figure this out by the end of the day but he doesn’t know that yet. His pretty face earns him a lot of kind-hearted Jiejies who’re happy to pay for his lunches out of pity. Usually, he’ll open up his phone and add a reminder in his notes to pay them back when he can, and this tends to be the end of his guilt. But, he doesn’t ponder on it too long either.

It’s not exactly in Yixing’s nature to delve too deeply into his own psyche, it’s that naive streak of his. He’s simple-minded and he knows that he is. It keeps him happy and he has that mindset from what he likes, all the way down to what he dislikes.

So, when he finally parks by the stall, over-grown bangs tied in a silly looking bun and testicles in tow, he resolves to approach this in the same way Zhang Yixing approaches all areas of his life:

He’ll just have to do his very best.

“Yixing!” Wang Xun says cheerfully, greeting Yixing with a tight hug after he locks his bike up to an iron fence. “Wow! So handsome!” He beams, pinching at those devastatingly high cheekbones as Yixing’s face quickly goes flush.

“Thank you, Gege.” He replies with a small, polite bow. Yixing’s humble and appreciative demeanor is broken as soon as he glances over at the thick, fragrant slabs of cake, just waiting to be touched, fondled and sold. His skin takes on a greenish hue.

Catching this, Xun thinks now would be a good time to have a little bit of fun with his new employee.

See, this job is often a dull one and last night, his wife, bless her memory, accidentally made double the usual quantity. Even on the busiest day, there’s always at least a bit of leftovers. This usually isn’t much of an issue because there’s a homeless shelter nearby. The only problem? They were quickly becoming tired of being constantly fed leftover rice cakes. Wang Xun hates waste, so he has a plan.

Diddling his fingers, he begins, “I heard from your granny that you want to earn some extra money. I know this doesn’t pay so well, but… How would you like to place a wager?”

Yixing turns to him with a look that is simultaneously hopeful and apprehensive. Wang Xun thinks that, oh yes, this will be fun. Very fun indeed. Unfortunately thouh, the road to hell is paved with good intentions and, in this case, some rice cakes along the way.

For you, whom summer often means being able to forget your studies and instead, focus on your friends and family, this one is already shaping up to be a massive disappointment. Some of your friends went back to their hometowns, whilst others went abroad. The most important contestant though, Zhang Yixing, your closest friend, your secret beloved, had gotten a job.

Your shoulders fell right down to your ankles when you got the news over the phone a night ago. But he sounded so excited that you couldn’t bare to complain. After all, you weren’t his girlfriend. Did Yixing even have a girlfriend? You don’t think you’ve ever heard him talk about any girls, even though he always has at least one woman around him. Maybe he was gay?

You sighed, lying on your back with your phone across your chest.

You only become concerned for Yixing and his mental state, when you find out what his job is, and the strange bet that succeeds it. You receive that text at ten am sharp.

«(Y/N)! Me and Xun-Ge (Do you remember him? He says hi! ^^) Made a bet for three hundred yuan to see who can sell the most rice cakes. The catch is that if we aren’t exact in our measurements, we must eat the surplus. I hope you’ll come and support me!!»

You reply instantly, wondering if all of this is some sick prank but that’s not in his character. Of course you remember Wang Xun, he runs that cake stand near the city square. You like his wife’s cakes but with that you also know…

«Yixing… You hate rice cakes???»

«I know, this means I’ll be even more motivated to win! Please come and support me!»

And this is how you end up on a plastic pull-out chair, watching your best friend torture himself for three hundred yuan, under the hot sun. “Are you ready, Yixing?” Wang Xun asks him and his grin is devilish. You can tell he completely expects Yixing to tank the whole competition.

“I was born ready, Gege! May the best man win!” Yixing grins and throws a little glance over his shoulder, hoping that you think he’s cool.

In that silly ‘Zhang Yixing’ way, he does look pretty cool, especially when he lifts the hem of his neon t-shirt to wipe the sweat from his browbone. The sad thing is that you would put money down the fact that Yixing will lose the three hundred yuan.

Truthfully, he can win this competition on sex appeal alone, if only he was aware of his own pull to begin with. Yixing isn’t though. He never was. He has the habit of presenting himself as a perfect image of self-control. You reckon the only correlation he’s made thus far is that the less clothes he wears, the more the female sex tends to smile around him. It’s a bit silly because Yixing, even now, will still walk around you in nothing but his boxers, as if he doesn’t look like he belongs in a Calvin Klein ad.

Needless to say, you, who has known him since a young age, rarely get to see him eschew from that respectability— sans his semi-nudist tendencies, that is.

Well, that’s until he begins losing the bet. Make no mistake though, Yixing tanks the bet before it can even begin.

“Ahhh, just 0.75? Why not make it a full KG?” Yixing whines at the customer, an older woman with a cold and mysterious look to her. “You don’t need to worry about your diet, Jiejie, you’re beautiful just the way you are. Eat the full kilo, your heart will thank you.”

Wang Xun chortles in the background as No-Name Jiejie rips him a new one. Somewhat offended yourself, you instinctively cross your arms across your soft middle and bite your lip. The next customer is another female, this one about high school aged. She orders a meager 0.25 KG and you try not to look at her with too much jealousy.

As she leaves, she turns to say: “Gege, you’re very handsome, but you shouldn’t make comments about a woman’s body like this. I think it’d be better if you found her and apologized for wounding her pride. Have a nice day~”

She waves before turning on her heels and Yixing looks at you in desperation, not understanding where his sales tactics are failing him. Your response is to cock a brow.

Even before his embarrassing comments, which you can only attribute as being brought on by a semester spent in South Korea, where he held a part time job as the person advertising Gangnam PS on the train, you were already slowly becoming annoyed with him. Why did you even bother to come out here in the first place?

It was unbearably hot and all you’re doing is watching the sweat stain on his back grow and grow while your thighs become welted from the plastic straps on the chair. Your leg skin is ruddy and bumped from shaving the night before and even though you like rice cakes, that and the smell of humid, mowed grass is threatens to make you sick.

Plus, it’s not as if you enjoy watching Yixing lose a dumb bet he should’ve already known he’d never win. By the time the sun is at it’s peak, around one-ish, you confront him behind the pagoda, where he gags in his fist.

“Yixing, I want to go home.” You say with your arms crossed, leaning against a ridged wall as you stare down at the dirt between you two. Yixing instantly looks up— churning stomach be damned. His eyes are wide and his face is a sweaty mess, but despite that, the disappointment is evident.

“You can’t go!” His voice comes out more frantically than it perhaps should. Your teeth dig into your bottom lip, trying not to seem too upset with him. Rather, you wish to simply look like you’re not feeling well. The snap to your tone betrays you though. It always does.

“This is ridiculous. It’s too hot outside and you’re making a goddamn fool out of yourself. What was the point of even having me here?” Yixing’s lips press into a thin line.

“We haven’t hung out in a while so—”

“So you think having me watch you make yourself sick is fun?” Normally, you would dislike the mean edge in your laugh, whenever you got the least bit annoyed with him. It might be the oppressive heat making your adrenaline run higher. Or, maybe, just maybe, Yixing’s lack of negative aspect gets on your nerves a lot more than you’d like to admit. Maybe, a deep, dark part of you wants to see Yixing get annoyed with you too, show you a face more offended than just one of mild hurt.

He doesn’t respond immediately. Instead, Yixing shoves his palms down his back pockets and rocks on his heels. Exhaling through his nose, Yixing opens his mouth to speak but closes up, pouting in a way which makes his lips look even pinker than they already are. It’s aggro, plain and simple.

“Aiyo! All this for an extra three hundred yuan you won’t win anyway?” You scoff, “If you need it so badly, ask me. I’ll lend it to you.”

Finally, his facade cracks and you’re not sure you like what you see. “Three hundred yuan may not mean much to you but it means a lot to others! Not everybody is wealthy like you!” His voice raises an octave, tone turning nasally and thick.

“You’re right. It means jack shit to me.” To prove your point, you reach into your daisy-shaped purse and pull out a few crumpled notes. “That’s why you should just relieve me of my burden and take the fucking yuan.”

Yixing, with his face as red as a chili pepper, gently pushes your hand back towards you. “You’re not treating me like a man.” He says.

Stomping your foot against the grass, you cry out: “Because you aren’t a man, Zhang Yixing!”

With that comes a steady, harsh silence. Yixing looks at you with an expression which you can’t decipher, as it’s not one you’ve ever seen on him. Once the guilt hits, and it hits fast, you let out a choked, “I’m going home. I’ll text you later.”

Just like that, you leave him there, before you lose control of your emotions in an entirely new way. After all, if Yixing never wanted to kiss you before, he certainly isn’t going to want to kiss you now, after what you just said to him.

Throwing your leg across the body of your bike, you push yourself until your knees hurt and Yixing is but a speck in the distance.

Things don’t get any better for Yixing after you leave, if anything, they become even worse, which is saying something. The idea of winning this bet begins to seem more and more fantastical, especially with the strange feeling holding onto his heart.

Whether it’s due to your hurtful words, or an impending heart attack, remains uncertain but one thing is for sure. Yixing has brain cells, and those brain cells are rapidly depleting.

“Ahh!” He screams, in Xiang, out at the neighboring lake and all the people paddle-boating. They stop and look at him like he’s an insane chipmunk. “It’s such a beautiful day!”

Yixing waves his fists around before cramming more baked shame down his gullet. Whilst singing an obscure folk song, he nearly falls over the stony ledge whilst doing a jaunty little dance.

Wang Xun, who has greatly overestimated his own mathematical prowess, as well as his abilities as a businessman, is the one who stops Yixing from meeting his soggy demise.

He places two sobering hands on Yixing’s shoulders. “We still have more cakes to sell.” When he speaks, passerbys can see his soul leave from his lips. Much like Yixing, Wang Xun has consumed so much goddamn cake that he fears he’ll wake up a rice cake. He reconsiders his line of work, but its much too late for that quitter mentality. He and Yixing are in it to the death.

Yixing, gaunt-cheeked, turns around with a rattle. “Gege… I want to give up.” He utters miserably. Xun considers calling the bet off himself but, the sun is setting, twilight is nearly upon them. He’s already lost so much money that unless he returns home victorious, there was a big chance he wouldn’t see the next day as a married man.

He laughs so hard the button holding his jeans together pops and hits Yixing right in the big toe.

“Yeah… Yeah, that’s not happening.”

Once you get home, the first thing you do is kick off your sweaty sandals before lying belly-first across your bed. Your eyes prickle as you shake your head to yourself. This is so stupid, you’re not really about to cry over Yixing again, are you?

Your fingers twist in your bed sheets as a few tears manage to squeeze their way out of your eyes. It seems like you are.

Flipping over so that your nose is in the air, you try to blink away the wetness. Throwing your arm across your face, your thoughts go to how stupid Yixing is. How stupid you are. Anybody with half a functional brain cell could see that you have a crush on him, one which spanned nearly the entirety of your friendship.

In elementary school, it was strange, because you never felt this way about anybody, not even the handsome actors you saw on TV. The only thing you had a full grasp on was that you liked this strange, chubby boy, who was also your close friend— a lot.

He had a sweet penchant for taking care of cats, none of which he could remember to name and whenever you were sad, he would lift his shirt and jiggled his belly.

His grandma also made delicious, albeit very spicy food, and they spoke in a dialect of Chinese which you couldn’t understand but found amusing to listen to. Afterwards, Yixing would let you rest your ear against his soft middle to hear the way his food digested, and all those gurgles and pops.

Your first experience with unrequited love must have been that. When you began wanting to nudge your head, so that your lips could press tender, butterfly kisses between his fleshy, brown rib cage. Instinctively, you knew not to.

High school was bearable, but only because for the majority of it, you were more popular than Yixing.

It was during the second to last year were his height shot and he became taller than most of the other boys. Suddenly, girls started to look at him with the same eyes as you. Suddenly, girls began to notice how handsome he was, how kind he was. It leaves you as you are now, supine on your mattress, unsure where to go from this point on.

With your pride majorly wounded, you stand up and waddle your way across the hall. Rarely are you ever desperate enough to ask your older sister, Mei, for advice. You knock on her door.

“What do you want?” She snaps, sliding off her headset. You take this as the okay to sit on her bed and divulge, and she eyes you with suspicion every step. “It’s just,” You sigh, smacking your lips as your legs cross beneath you. “Do you remember Yixing?”

Her face falls instantly. “Oh no. No. No. Not him again!” She grabs a small My Melody plush from her desk and chucks it towards your head. “Get out. I’m not listening to any of this Yixing shit. If I wanted a Korean drama, I’d go look on Tencent.”

You grabbed the toy and threw it back at her, whining, “I’m serious!!”

Mei kicks your knee with her manicured, cream toes. “Listen!” She cries in exasperation, throwing out her hands. “How many times will you bitch about this? If Zhang Yixing liked you back, he would’ve made a move by now. It’s as simple as that!” Conceding yourself to the understanding that, yes, Yixing doesn’t see you the way you see him, you look down at the small floral decals over her nailbed and begin to pick with a puffed cheek. “I understand that, Jiejie… But I may have said something mean to him.”

Seeing the sad look on your face makes Mei relent. “Then apologize to him, dummy.” She sighs as you lay across your side, clutching her foot to you as you try to hold back tears. She pushes herself closer, replacing her foot with a hand in yours, using the spare to push some wet strands from your face.

“Look,” She rolls her eyes, though she’s taken on a gentler tone. “Zhang Yixing sees you as a friend. If he didn’t, he wouldn’t have stuck by your side for all of these years. If you said something mean to him, just tell him you weren’t feeling well and that you’re sorry. He seems like a nice guy, I’m sure he’ll forgive you easily. But before that, I think you need to forgive him for not being able to return your feelings, (Y/N). You’re always getting into these petty arguments, it seems to me like you’ve become bitter over your unrequited feelings. You need to make peace with the fact that you’re his friend and nothing but, or else the day will come where Zhang Yixing will no longer feel like accepting your apologies.” You nod, but why does it hurt so much to let go of this love, even if it’s hopeless?

Eventually, after you calm yourself down and rinse off your face, you begin to feel more and more uncomfortable with the way you’ve treated him. It grows and it grows until you can’t take it anymore. You set off to try and find him and, hopefully, make things right again.

“I lost, didn’t I?” Yixing breathes, sitting on the stone steps as Wang Xun begins to pack up for the day. With an apologetic smile, the older man replies, “Yes, but barely.”

“Ahhh,” He sighs, looking up at the stars. Today has been a real nightmare. It seems like nothing he set out has accomplish. He’s offended people for no reason, rocks live in his stomach and worst of all, you’ve become upset with him. Yixing swallows thickly.

“(Y/N)’s become rather feisty since I’ve last seen her.” Xun points out. “She has.” There’s a silence before Yixing adds, “Gege, I don’t know if there’s room for me in her life anymore. The more I think of it, the more I feel I don’t belong by her side. We used to laugh and smile together but nowadays, whenever I call her out, she’s tense. We never used to fight this much, I think she thinks I’m beneath her, and is only trying to spare my emotions.”

Wang Xun takes a seat next to him, stretching out his legs before glancing up at the sky as well. “All this because of what she said?” Yixing doesn’t respond, which is confirmation enough.

“Women— No, not just women, people will often say things they don’t mean when they feel as though they’ve been hurt.” He says, “I think the same is true for her. She’ll apologize soon enough, so don’t take her words to heart.” Pause. “And if she doesn’t? There are so many more women out there for you to pine after. Eventually, you’ll find the one who doesn’t break your heart.”

Neither of them speak after this, not until something, or rather somebody, catches Yixing’s eye. It’s the Jiejie from earlier. Excusing himself, Yixing jogs up to her.

She stops the moment she sees him and scowls. “What do you want?” She snaps, her dog running off into the bushes. Her expression is so fierce, it reminds him a bit of yours.

Though he freezes up, he pushes past it and she jumps back when he bows so deeply, there’s a crack to his spine.

“I wanted to say that I’m really sorry if I offended you earlier today,” Yixing blushes, “You see, I had a bet with that man over there.” He points over to Wang Xun, who’s in the process of cleaning his ear out with his pinkie. “And I’m afraid in my attempt to earn a bit of extra pocket money, I’ve said and done some things I normally wouldn’t say or do. I hope you can forgive me.”

The woman stood there stunned and Yixing is afraid that might not be enough. She thinks of his apology for a second before shaking it off. “I see,” She nods pensively. “I take it, this was all for your girlfriend’s sake?” Yixing stands up straight, blinking a few times for clarity.

“What girlfriend?”

“The girl that sat behind you, she wasn’t your girlfriend?” Yixing shakes his head. “Christ…” She mumbles, instantly grateful that she’s already lived through the ‘stupid love’ phase. She sighs.

“I forgive you. We all have lapses in our judgment and as long as you understand that, and think before you speak next time, I don’t see a reason to hold it against you.”

“Thank you, Jiejie!” Yixing says with a big, happy grin, bowing deeply once more. His heart clears itself a tiny bit.

Unfortunately for his cardiovascular health, at this moment, you bike up next to him and Yixing’s heart is back to feeling like it’s about to burst. Shit.

“Sorry, am I interrupting something?” You ask, much to the woman’s amusement. “No. Me and your ‘friend’ over here were just touching base. I need to go home anyway.” She says, tugging the leash so that her puppy comes running back at her ankles.

As she turns around, she makes sure to tack on a “Good luck!” It’s for both of your sakes.

You park your bike up by the tree trunk, feeling the awkwardness finally hit. It’s already nightfall and the air has cooled off significantly, but you’re so ashamed that your cheeks are blazing and hot.

“Did you apologize to her for earlier?” You ask despite its redundancy. Yixing nods and you can see it from the illumination caused by the lampposts. “I did.”

“That’s good!” You hum, trying to keep your voice steady as you fish a green, rectangular bottle out of your purse. “I got you a probiotic drink to help you with… y’know. Here. Catch.”

It lands in his hands and Yixing beams brighter than the stars. “Why are you smiling at me like that?” You furrow your eyebrows. “Because you came back.”

Saying it outloud only has Yixing smile wider and it eats up at his eyes in the most charming of ways. You feel your heart throb.

Clearing your throat, you stutter out. “Right! About that…” You will yourself not to mask your true emotions with the air of nonchalance but you meet his eyes and, fuck, you might as well do that or just start crying.

“I’m sorry about what I said earlier. I didn’t mean any of it. It was wrong and I regret ever treating you this way.” You expect Yixing to hold a more serious stance, but he laughs, opening his arms.

“Aw, it’s alright. Come here and give me a hug.”

Slowly, you take steps towards him before burrowing into his chest, hands fisting against his shirt as tears begin to prickle in your eyes. Yixing smells too sweet and sweaty but past that, you can feel the warmth of his skin. His body is solid yet comforting and you want to be in his arms all day and all night.

“Why are you crying?” Yixing asks, feeling the moisture through his shirt. and you laugh dryly. He sways you side to side before pulling at your face. “If you cry, I might start crying too.”

Yixing’s fingers release from your skin and instead, move to hold you. “So, no crying, alright?” The touch makes you breathless.

“Yixing, I…” The words slip past your lips before you can stop them. He tilts his head, smiling softly in anticipation. Should you confess to him? You already know you have to let this go. Will it make your shoulders lighter if he knows how you feel? You shake your head at yourself.

No. Yixing is too delicate of a person to treat you the same knowing you’ve fallen for him. Seeing your knees buckle, Yixing leads you to the bench. Swallowing your heart, you resolve for the next best truth.

“Yixing, I’ve missed you a lot.” “Oh! I’ve missed you too.” Yixing responds with an annoying ease, uncapping the pribiotic before taking a sip. He grimaces at the bitter taste, making you giggle at his cute reaction. As you laugh, Yixing’s heart does a somersault and suddenly, there’s not enough air in the world. It’s an emotion that only you cause in him. Not even the prettiest girls give him this type of feeling and it puts him on edge, but in the most tender way.

“Why did you accept this bet anyway?” You ask, gazing at the lake, which is now devoid of people. Steady and dark, with the reflection of the moon.

Yixing considers it. “I think I did it to feel better about myself.” He leans back and caps the bottle, fingers almost touching yours as he holds the bottle between his knees.

He stares up at the silver moon.

You turn to look at him in surprise, gazing at his profile. Yixing catches you in his peripheral and nods with a sheepish smile. “Yeah.”

He swallows and then adds, “My hair needs fixing and…” He considers closely the next thing he’s about to say, but throughout the past several hours, this is the only conclusion he can draw. The more he says the words in his head, the righter they feel. “And I wanted to take you out on a date.”

Your eyes widen and Yixing grabs your hand, too afraid that you’ll run from him again. “But I lost the bet, so there’s that.” He mumbles.

With the air squeezed from your lungs, you whisper, “We don’t need money to—”

“I know we don’t, but I wanted it anyway. It was selfish and vain of me, I know. But, I thought… Maybe if I had more money, you’d be more inclined to see me as a man… As somebody you can actually date.”

Taking the leap of faith, you lace your fingers through his. Yixing squeezes tight and you close your eyes, reveling in the warmth of his hand. Years. It’s been years since he’s done this.

You’ve waited so long, since that day at the bus stop, to feel his hand on yours again and for it not be just to see what it feels like. Finally, you feel like you can breathe. It fits as perfectly against yours as it did back then.

“I’m sorry for what I said earlier. I do think of you as a man. I’m sorry that I’m bitter and dramatic. I’ve taken these emotions out on you without realizing it, all because I’m bothered that you don’t see me the way I’ve seen you throughout all these years. I hope you can forgive me, I’ve been a bad friend.”

“When you speak with such a voice,” Yixing laughs, “It’s impossible for me not to. I’m scared of what you could do to me.”

There’s a silence and you bring his knuckles up to your lips. Yixing’s eyes flutter shut with a lazy grin.

There’s never been such a perfect moment in his life.

“I like you just the way you are.” You whisper, the feeling is just about the same for you too. “Thank you.”

“And I’ll wait patiently for you to take me on the date you feel we deserve.” “Thank you.”

He repeats as you two lean against each other and enjoy the serenity of an empty park. If this is what all these years have been working towards, then it must all be worth it in the end. It may not be a crescendo of epic proportions, a searing, tear-filled kiss in the rain, a loud, emotional ‘I love you’ shouted in the middle of a crowded airport, but this is perfect.

Zhang Yixing can turn the mundane into something extraordinary, this is what’s most beautiful about him to you. For a moment, it’s all quiet and that’s just fine.

Until he gets sick all over a bundle of Lotus roots, that is.

#lay exo #exo x reader #exo x you #zhang yixing #lay fluff #yixing x reader #yixing #Lay

11 notes · View notes

adulttrio-imagines · 5 years

Note

Eeee dating hc for adult trio please!

Hisoka

- Say goodbye to your peaceful days because you’ve caught the attention of the king of chaotic energy

- He likes it if you approach him first, since he’s used to going on the offensive, it turns him on and exponentially increases your attractivity

- He really likes a strong, fierce look in a partner, an unwavering spirit, all because it’ll be almost unbearably fun to tear them down

- What he finds attractive is difficult to pin down, but he likes something unique in all his dates, ranging from fashion sense to birthmarks

- Plenty of spars, and being so close when the both of you are hot and sweaty, leads to certain actions

- So many surprise visits, especially at inconvenient times. The more inconvenient the better, as that’s when he acts as desirable as humanly possible since he loves making you struggle to choose between the two

- Likes giving you surprise kisses/hugs from the back, he starts with your neck and slowly builds his way up. Of course, he avoids your mouth and teases you until you pull him in and demand it

- Will raid your fridge and eat you out of your food, if you’re a good cook he’ll act as if it tastes horrible even though he enjoys it

- Insist you bake him the most outlandish of cakes, and will topple them upon completion if it doesn’t reach his standards

- He’ll start up the pettiest of fights, and turn them into fullout prank wars, so it’s best to established rules before he gets too far

- On the bright side, you’ll learn how to shuffle and perform sleight of hand card tricks to such a professional level cause he will try to teach you

- He likes teaching you things a lot, and will educate you on the most random of facts, none of its useful though

- Will give you the most disgusting of pet names, so don’t even start

- The most impromptu random trips; driving to the beach at 3 am, waking up in the middle of York New, sudden visits to abandoned theme parks, he’ll drag you along

- Despite popular belief, he can take part in normal comings and goings of everyday life, he just spices it up a little.

- Will do his laundry with you just to mix your whites with his darks

- When doing errands, he likes putting his own twist in things. You can send him to get groceries, he’ll come back with half the list and a bunch of stuff you didn’t need

- Usually he gets the worst sugar cravings in the middle of the night, so he’ll make you join him in baking and make sure the kitchen doesn’t burn down

- He gets incredibly touchy at night, he claims he’s sleeping but you just can’t be sure

- As surprising as it seems, there are quiet moments with him, usually when he appreciates your company enough to not have the constant need to act out and be the very worse he can be. He can have a simple night in, just observing you as you both play simple card games or how you laugh at certain scenes in a movie. In those quiet moments you are both content

- His relationships never last for more than a year, he cuts them off when he’s had his fill and just disappears

Chrollo

- Generally, he’s attracted to someone intelligent. It doesn’t have to be book smart or even street smart, but having any sort of exceptional talent in any area is eye-catching to him. Having to keep up to his level is also a must.

- He’s also attracted to people who are self-assured and introspective, since he wants a mature partner and these traits lead to interesting conversations

- Physically, he likes someone with nice shoulders and appreciates a nice dip in the waist

- He’s a traditional boyfriend, and easily sweeps you off your feet. He plays to cliches and does what’s expected of him, but it never fails to woo you

- Candle-light dinners, late night movies, fresh flowers, he does everything by the book

- As time goes on and he sees you as more than just another target, he’ll let parts of his own interest slip

- He’ll ask for your opinions or thoughts on certain subjects, and divulge into his own if he trusts you enough

- His relationship will be built on short but meaningful conversations, where you both would talk about everything and anything

- While he doesn’t say it, he appreciates anyone with a musical affinity since it’s a skill that he can’t steal

- He’s one of those guys who wouldn’t mind joining you on dates where you learn things like pottery and he’ll woo everyone else there in the process

- He likes playing games like chess or shogi since he finds it a good way to learn about one’s personality

- Sometimes when he just can’t sleep, he’ll wake you up to discuss whatever is on his mind in the wee hours of the morning

- He enjoys hearing you read, especially before he sleep

- Plenty of long walks

- He’ll sneak you in for night visits at the museum, where he’ll show you ancient artifacts, explaining their history and ask which ones you think would be most worth stealing

- Sometimes he just disappears, and you learn not to ask questions, it’s just hard because it’s usually when you’re at the peak of your relationship

- He lies the most out of the three, and he lies so much that what’s real and what’s not just blends together

- He’s also the only one who doesn’t move in with you/force you to move in with him. He may stay over for just a night or two at max, but never does he live with you

- The more sudden the break up, the more attached he is. It is because he is attached to you that he makes those cuts deeper

- He remembers all his partners, but he never feels guilty for using them

Illumi

- Probably done through an arrangement between the two families

- His parents would try to set him up with a couple people, and somehow you got past the first date which is something that almost never happens

- He appreciates someone with nice, soft features with flowing hair, he really likes running his fingers through it. There’s something about a fine featured, delicate looking person that he just can’t resists

- An ideal partner is all about balance for him, someone that will get along with him would have to be strong enough to hold their own ground in a fight, intelligent enough to think fro themselves but still naive enough to believe in him, as well as being docile and amicable enough to agree with whatever he proposes without too much question

- He would also enjoy the company of someone who’s upbeat and an idealist since he’s usually the more pragmatic one

- It takes time for him to warm up to you, but once he decides that you’re the best candidate, you’re stuck with him for life

- He’ll be the most controlling out of the trio, he’ll try (and succeed) at controlling every aspect of your life, and will monitor your every move

- Most of the romantic actions he does emulate what little he has seen from his parents

- Dinner dates with him would be done either at the Zoldyck mansion or in one of the fanciest restaurants in the world but since he’s schedule is usually so busy it doesn’t happen often

- Speaking of his schedule, he would prepare his one month in advance and expect you to memorize it within minutes before he destroys it

- It’s difficult to do normal dating stuff with him, so you’ve got to improvise. Training is the best way to go since it’s practical

- He enjoys the act of showering together, there’s something very intimate about washing another person’s hair. The moment you start washing his hair he just melts into your hands

- He strangely likes small domestic things, like winding down after a hard day together, a quiet breakfast together, that sort of thing

- He has a tight grip on you when he sleeps, and takes the position as big spoon very, very seriously

- Sometimes you’ll just find him staring at you when you sleep, he doesn’t ever apologize or even blink and just keeps staring

- He’s a tea snob and will criticize your preparation methods since he expects nothing but perfection, but he’ll also teach you to prepare a good cup of tea as well

- He tells the lamest jokes, no one finds them funny but he tells you anyway. And he’s so happy when he tells them you can’t help but feel happy too

- He shows his affection through his actions, though what he seems as services of love differs greatly from the average person

- He’ll expect you to fulfill your role as his partner through supporting him physically, but you can bet he would do his best to help you in anyway he can. Things like training you up to speed, providing for your physical needs, and trying to understand your emotional parts as well

- Will be the most toxic amongst the three, just because he’s the only one that wouldn’t let you go and would do everything in his power to keep you under his thumb

#hunter x hunter #hisoka #chrollo #illumi #adult trio #hisoka headcanon #chrollo headcanon #illumi headcanon #IM ALIVE #asks

177 notes · View notes

kokichi-and-co-imagine-blog · 5 years

Note

Ok so imagine that for a whole day (or week, if it should be longer) the DR1 cast has a "different talent day" where they each get a different talent. (For example, Makoto would be the ultimate gang leader & Hagakure becomes the ultimate gambler). Who would get what title & how would it go? (it would probably be a disaster).

Well, that sounds incredibly chaotic and something that this cast would do if only to mess with the staff of the school.

I did this through putting the names and talents through a random generator. The results were well... you’ll see.

The Best Worst Idea Class 78 Ever Had

If there was one thing that all of class 78 could agree on, it was that the staff of the school could be more than just a bit infuriating (Even Taka had to relent a bit about their extremes). Constantly observing, making strange demands for the sake of ‘research;, seeming to care little about the wellbeing of the students so long as it didn’t interfere with talents, they agreed that staff was a complete and utter mess.

Thus a desire to completely mess with the staff was born. It was Junko’s idea: everyone would swap talents for the day under the guise of a ‘new angle’ of research for the staff to approach from so they’d agree to it.

Little did they know of the chaos they’d brought upon themselves.

(Spoiler alert: it was a lot)

Here’s just a taste of what they did

Makoto Naegi as the Ultimate Fortune Teller:

Makoto spent most of the day making outlandish and or incredibly obvious predictions about his classmates, following them around and stating the obvious about what was going on (Which unfortunately seems to be somewhat of what the staff wanted, but at least he’s making them run around). Also questioning the fact that people pay Hiro to do such a thing

Makoto: There’s a 100% chance that you just really wanna go back to your detective work right now Kyouko, dryly: What an amazing prediction. You should become a weatherman with that kind of accuracy Makoto: ...I still don’t get why people pay him for this stuff

Sayaka Maizono as the Ultimate Fanfic Creator

As she’s not the best artist, she took to creating a story about a a pop group consisting of stick figures. On the surface it seems silly, but the story gets surprisingly dark. Like, really dark. No one else knows exactly what it consisted of, as only the staff was able to see it, but they still haven’t fully recovered from their first exposure to it.

Sayaka pleads innocence on it all

Leon Kuwata as the Ultimate Moral Compass

Leon literally cackled when he got this. He read the rulebook for perhaps the first time ever in his life just so he could go around yelling at people for the most asinine reason. He’s thorough about reading it too and will make good arguments for his justification about allowing himself to get away with doing stupid stuff while busting others for it (Yes, including the staff)

Taka is horrified when the day is done, but the detentions he’s assigned afterwords are totally worth it

Mukuro Ikusaba as the Ultimate Programmer

She literally has no idea how to do anything, computers aren’t really something she knows how to work on a high level. But she does have access to Alter Ego who has access to the school’s network and functions (With some restrictions of course. Chihiro wasn’t going the take the chance of Junko getting full reign on it of course). Mischief ensues tenfold, no one ever wants to hear the fire alarm go off so much ever again

Chihiro Fujisaki as the Ultimate Detective

Does not like the idea of anything to do with a dead body, so chooses to focus on other ‘mysteries’ in stead. Such as, ‘Where is Mondo going right now?’ or ‘What will Leon have for lunch” or ‘Who keeps setting off the fire alarm’ (He knows full well who it is and feigns ignorance the whole time)

Mondo Oowada as the Ultimate Swimming Pro

He spends the day mostly seeing how long he can hold his breath under water. At any protests to this he simply dives back in while flipping them off. ANd he can stay down there for a surprisingly long amount of time.

Kiyotaka Ishimaru as the Ultimate Fashonista

Literally just acted like normal and unintentional annoyed the staff. Wore his uniforms like always, still reprimanded others for rule violations (Including Leon who actually held authority that day), and generally just fell back into his own rules despite his best attempts to actually go along with what was asked of him. It being purely unintentional is what makes his one of the best to everyone else.

Hifumi Yamada as the Ultimate Martial Artist

Took it as an excuse to cosplay as a character he likes that is also a martial artist. Ran around challenging people to duels. Anyone that actually accepted was then made to play a strange, martial arts based card game that made absolutely no sense.

Celestia Ludenberg as the Ultimate Affluent Progeny

Took it as an excuse to live the stupidly fabulous life she’s always wanted to live... which basically means she’s treating everyone the same as before but with the added benefit of actually being able to have weight to her words for the day. She’s one of the ones that had the most fun with it.

Sakura Oogami as the Ultimate Soldier

She’s expected to do some kind of target practice exercise like Mukuro would so. She does hit the targets.... but not exactly how they intended her to. Hey, the rules didn’t say anything about just going up and physically hitting them.

Aoi Asahina as the Ultimate Biker Gang Leader

She doesn’t even intentionally mess with anyone. SHe just has to spend the whole day trying to figure out how to 1: start the bike and then 2; actually feel safe staying on it for any length of time. She irritates the staff through their sheer impatience alone.

Kyouko Kirigiri as the Ultimate Literary Prodigy

The idea of getting back at the staff of the school run by her father, petty and pointless as it is, was too good for her to pass up on. Her method is to just literally write out notes about cases she’s been on recently in her actual work, because well... it’s technically still writing. She’s super done with it by halfway through the day, but through sheer spite alone she doesn’t let it show

Byakuya Togami as the Ultimate Baseball Star

Just flat out refused to participate. Which actually ended up being similar to getting Leon to actually show up for his talent observations. So it was annoying but in a normal kind of way for the staff.

Touko Fukawa as the Ultimate Pop Sensation

Also flat out refused to participate, having some choice words at the idea of prancing around , let alone singing. However, she had the added ‘benefit’ of letting someone else take over for her, which causes enough chaos as it is. Adding this into the mix and well...

Ibuki was impressed with the volume, to say the least

Yasuhiro Hagakure as the Ultimate Lucky Student

For some strange reason, he had the absolute worst luck the entire day. Got locked out of his room, missed lunch, lost a few important items and had to spend time finding them, etc. When asked Makoto just gave him a really tired look and said “Welcome to my life”

Komaeda also kept trailing around him the whole day too, which was creepy

Junko Enoshima as the Ultimate Gambler

So much chaos. So many attempts at playing Russian Roulette and other potentially deadly luck based games. She was banned from ever gambling ever again (Not that she’ll listen). Everyone is surprised no one died, it was that bad. It was a complete and utter disaster

As was the whole day. And that’s how Class 78 got banned from ever making a research suggestion ever again.

#Mod Kirigiri #danganronpa #sort of talent swap #Makoto Naegi #Sayaka Maizono #Leon Kuwata #Mukuro Ikusaba #Chihiro #Mondo Oowada #Kiyotaka Ishimaru #Hifumi Yamada #Celestia Ludenberg #Sakura Oogami #Aoi Asahina #Kyouko Kirigiri #Byakuya Togami #Touko Fukawa #Yasuhiro Hagakure #Junko Enoshima

85 notes · View notes

cleverbxrd · 5 years

Text

When Tim submitted his Patrol Report, he left out the part about his emotional compromise.

His jaw hurt. He was probably still clenching his teeth as he typed and retyped up the note to send to his boss, his ‘dad’, for an impersonal briefing. His ears were covered by rounded, black headphones that deafened any noise of celebration outside, not that Gotham was one for much celebration. (New Years Eve, Calendar Man could be out and about)

The music was supposed to numb his skull, or at least it was an attempt to. He’d experienced the worst of the worst on the grime-covered streets of his hometown, but his heart and his head still ached. It was a dull pain, but it flared every so often, and he wished he’d just stop overthinking. He knew that was impossible, that was his thing, his use. He was the Thinker, the smart one… so, do your thing. With a hefty sigh, his shoulders digging into his desk chair, he closed his eyes, the bass thumping against his brain goading his thoughts to puzzle themselves together as he rationalized what happened, and why he felt so strongly. Sure, he was a piss-poor counselor, but he was a pretty damn good detective.

Check the report. At what time did this happen?

Time was really irrelevant to the bat. You try to live life in the daylight, follow the cape-tails by night’s shadows, you forget where the days end and begin. The numerous restless nights he was prone to staying fully awake for didn’t help much with that either, neither did working on holiday. Tim didn’t mind patrolling New Years Eve, he felt he didn’t have anything better to do. It was either make his rounds or watch on a computer screen how much fun it seemed like the rest of the world was having. He opted to actually do something with his night when he didn’t have to worry about classes in the morning.

Mistake number one.

He was halfway done, circling the shared bay shoreline when he’d gotten the text. It made his heart flutter as the words stretched into his vision, the small heads up display mounted on his white lenses causing more of a distraction than he thought. He’d nearly forgotten he was free-falling, catching himself out of breath from landing hard on rooftop concrete. Conner. Cassie. They were there. He tried not to go, tried to stay away from New York, from the Brooklyn borough, from that warehouse lot decked to the 9s for the turning of the decade (which… in all technicality, it was not.)

Mistake number two.

He’d sat in the shadows, perched high above, scanning the area for familiar faces, heat signatures, anything matching databases he’d had on file. He wasn’t getting anywhere, doubted why he was even there, watching the party goers with the eyes of a hawk.

He lied to his best friend, saying he was still on patrol, saying he’d come out if he found the time to, and of course he believed him. Lying came so easy to him, too easy. He didn’t think about it too much, might scare him. It was part of the job, he couldn’t afford to be 100% truthful. No time to worry about the morality of white lies, just keep thinking about where it started, why it started. Find the source of the feeling.

His memory flashed forward.

Civvies were ridiculously hard to vacuum-pack into a utility belt, but somehow he’d managed to shove a few things from his wardrobe into the small compartments of the crossed belts. It was always just in case, just in case he needed to suddenly become part of the crowd, just in case he needed a change of clothes that wasn’t shredded, just in case he needed to attend a surprise party where his friends were having fun.

Fun, now there was a word. When was the last time he’d been fun? Sometime before the first red and black suit, muddled in there with the green tights and ninja boots. He’d tried to be a mini-Bruce, but the physically youngest, and usually shortest, member of their old team acting like the sternest leader of the League had only caused humor from his teammates. He abhorred it at the time, but thinking back he would give anything for that friendly teasing again, for him to accept it with a smile instead of the nearly trademarked scowl he still wore.

The slightly over-sized sweater covered most of the costume almost perfectly, the cape wrapped tightly around the cinched and belted waist of his Kevlar-spandex suit. It really was the final piece of the puzzle, a disguise over a disguise. Deceit blanketing a lie. So many lies, too many to count, why did he feel like he had to lie so much? To Him? To Himself?

He’d only go in for a moment, only stay and say hello to the people he knew and leave before people noticed one of the Wayne sons was there. That was the plan, and he wanted to stick to it. His emotions told him otherwise. He’d been brave enough to come all this way, his subconscious rationalized. He felt something bubble up in his stomach, a smile stretching his pale cheeks as he pulled the cowl off of his overgrown hair. To Hell with it all, it was New Years Eve, if he remembered correctly. They were both there, he was in there. He could confess, get it off of his chest, never have to say another word about it. If his hypothesis was correct, they’d both simply forget about it the next morning, or laugh it off like the bird himself had gotten too wasted to care.

If they didn’t think too hard about it, it could just go away and Tim wouldn’t have to worry about losing his best friends to his infatuation, his desire.

But it wouldn’t be that simple. Not by a long shot.

Mistake. Number. Three.

What a sucker, he’d been. What a fool.

�� He’d forgotten to note the time, or maybe was too ignorant of it to try to check. He was already numb from sitting alone outside of the festivities, all noise was white noise. He didn’t even notice Cassie, if she was even at her position when he sheepishly wandered in. Immediately, as always, he felt out of place, uncomfortable in his own skin as the world slowed down around him. Rich boy galas were one thing to attend, nearly pinned into a tight tux with a tie that felt like it could choke you the minute you proposed some outlandish idea to the wrong funder. City-wide parties were an entirely new beast, like a Gotham bar on Saturday night with a little less violence and a little more in the population. The drinking seemed to be of the same caliber, he could smell it radiating off some people who passed him by, taking little to no notice of him. He was probably drunk off his ass too, the party boy, Casanova, tail-chaser. Observing the other attendees led him to believe that Conner wouldn’t even remember he was there, or the texts they’d sent just minutes ago. He was about to simply leave and try his Hallmark speech of love some other time when he saw-

The sharp pang in his chest lit like a fire again. Tim nearly doubled over in his chair, clutching at his shirt and gasping for air. Don’t panic, don’t do this. You’re breathing, your heart is beating. You can feel your floor under your feet, the clothes on your back, your face, your hair, you’re still there, still here. Tim found his hands gripping at the raven mess on top of his head, slightly skewing the headphones gripping tight around his ears. He roulette-wheeled through his various breathing meditation techniques and found himself filling his chest with oxygen once more, the faded world around him coming through clearer instead of the molasses he felt like he’d just jumped into. He tried to settle himself back into the chair, slumping further down as his pulse pounded against his ribs, almost like it was trying to run away from the husk it sat inside. He was starting to believe that vital organ was more of a nuisance for rattling his core.

Don’t focus on that, you need a distraction. Remember the night. You’re a Detective. Start asking questions.

What happened?

I don’t...I don’t want to talk about it.

When did it happen?

New Years Eve. Stroke of midnight. It’s all in the briefing, you wrote it.

Who was there?

Probably half of the population of New York City. And Him.

He’s important to you.

You don’t get to tell me what I already know. Keep digging.

Your memory stopped at a particular moment. How did that moment make you feel?

He slingshot himself back into the exact frame, frozen in time, zeroed in through a telescopic lens. How did he feel? It was such a simple question, but the answers sat brewing in his head before he could find the names.

Name the first feeling. Now!

Anger.

At Conner? Never, not truly. He’d get annoying, but at a point it had become almost charming. At himself? Of course, he was always angry at himself in one capacity or another. Tim was far from a perfectionist, but a people pleaser he certainly was. The need for approval always egged him on, even if he didn’t want to admit it. When he’d given arm and leg without any hint of positive effect, it brought him down. He was too smart not to recognize his own faults, he couldn’t afford to look at himself as perfect. Quite the opposite actually.

Damn. You’re good.

I know, keep looking. Name another one.

Remorse.

He didn’t say anything sooner. Maybe he’d be there earlier, snagged that picturesque moment for the few seconds he’d bore witness to it. Why did that matter? A strange tangent from his current thought process, his usual pinched thinking face further pointing into a tight squint. He thought they were looking for a feeling, a clue to this confusing panic he was putting himself in. But… why did it matter?

Keep. Looking.

Sadness.

It caked every bone in his scrawny little body, soaked into the trained muscles that he hid from his non-heroic acquaintances. He’d been sad for a long time, and he blamed no one but himself. The lingering tears that always dared to fall at a moments notice, the silent sobs he wished he could give sound to, the will seeping away as he would give into what felt like his whole core. There was a word for that, something any normal psychologist would smack him with until he exhausted his resources. Tim knew he was depressed, knew it wasn’t going to go away any time soon, and he didn’t need a therapist telling him over and over again. He just needed to talk, they’d say, about the trauma. They wouldn’t understand, couldn’t understand. What was the fucking point? Regardless, something that rooted couldn’t have just popped up so suddenly.

Dig deeper. What are you feeling now?

Things.

Be specific, damn it. You were before, don’t shut down on me.

Bad things.

Bad… the word echoed as his all of his mental visuals faded away. They were replaced by a flurry of clues, piecing together strange mental ‘evidence’ that somehow was his key to cracking his head case. He sat bolt upright, his eyes wide as he stared at his glowing computer screen, his mind’s eye making a cork-board with red rope, not too dissimilar to his walls in the dark room he was sitting in. One by one, the items tacked themselves in random orders, random places.

A question mark, a bloodstained cloak, neon signs, tights and gloves, pixie boots and scaly spandex, hair that flew away from a sickening smile as if the locks themselves were scared of its owner, an alien’s toxic rock. It hit him like a brick.

Green. Envy. Jealousy.

How could he not have seen it immediately?

Jealousy.

The same fire that festered in the pit of his stomach when the title he used to wear like a badge of honor was given without question to the ‘true blood son’. The same stabbing coolness when blue birds were let loose to fly free and he was caged for the mishaps of the past. The same rope, choking his words when he sees what he thinks are shattered hopes of something finally good in his Roman Tragedy play of a life.

A shocked breath comes out in a staccato heave, hands losing their grips on arm rests and hanging limp as the realization washed over him like a sign from some god out there somewhere. “Of. Fucking. Course.” The words came out of his throat slow and hoarse, and they almost surprised him. He’d nearly forgotten how to speak over the blare of noise in his ears.

Timothy Jackson Drake, you’re a selfish, jealous bastard.

Another groaning exhale, and he brought his limp frame back to sitting up again, an impulsive urge to throw his head through his keyboard growing stronger by the ticking seconds. Emotions running wild were bad, very bad. It jeopardized the Mission, that’s what he was told. It’s what got him into this mess, every mess, in the first place, basing things on emotions. Somehow, giving names to them all didn’t make it better, and he felt his stomach drop again.

So, Detective, you’ve found a conclusion.

A diagnosis / analysis .

What do you suppose we do about this?

Turn into a robot.

Negatory.

Turn someone else into a robot.

Double negatory.

An audible sigh, brows knitting together as he started to get annoyed with himself. One hand floated up to press under the messy locks falling at his temples, the screaming in his ears nearly matching volume with what he felt in his chest. Shutting his mind out for a moment, he carefully listened to the sounds actually coming through the headphones. He’d thrown on a shuffle, his own mind-melting playlists that bombard his senses with overblown guitar rifs and rapid drum beats. Okay, they usually numb him out. What was he even on?

Oh. Of course.

He nearly smacked the cold coffee mug off the desk, throwing his hands on top of his face and rocking back yet again with a muffled scream. Back again, a pendulum in a clock, he caught his reflection in the screen. Dark circles made a mask around his icy eyes, a second mask to hide the horror he had become. Catching himself staring back was shocking, but he was transfixed and couldn’t move. When was the last time he really took a look at himself? And why the hell did it have to be over something as stupid as a kiss? He found his hand tracing the almost domino-shaped outline, wondering if it was a trick of the dim light, or possibly residual gunk from under the cowl. He could hope for the best possible outcome, but hope was yet again his downfall. Permanent. Dark. Hard as he tried, his thoughts and the mask just wouldn’t go away.

Another breath. Root. You’re solid. He’s solid. His feet planted on the ground as he pushed up and away from the desk, stumbling to the discarded costume on one of the mess piles. Specific mess piles, weakly placed where could find things in seconds regardless of the disaster it seemed (that sounded familiar…). Alfred, neat freak of a butler he was, wouldn’t dare disturb Tim’s organized chaos. This room was like a safe cell for Tim, and he was an adult damnit, he could make as much of a mess as he wanted. He dug one hand under the lazily thrown cape, finding the smooth metal of the collapsed staff just where he’d left it, and it felt surprisingly light in uncovered hands. Unlatching it from the bandoleers splayed out like spider legs, he tossed the short tube around until it landed firmly in his left palm. His knuckles stretched white as his grip tightened. A lifeline, a grounding wire.

Tim ripped the headphones off of his head, tossing them haphazardly on his desk. He hit delete, omitting nearly an entire 30 minutes of time in his notes he was just going to blame on travel time. Bruce would have to believe that, especially if he’d ceased radio signals the minute he’d stalked the event. He sent the page away, encrypted thrice and swinging through two secure data waves just for safe-keeping. He may be out of his goddamn mind and feeling things out his ass, but he knew better than to send anything to the big data store without preparing for any intercepting forces. He stalked out of his personal cave and wandered into the other one, the bigger one set under the manor, as deep and dark as the nearly permanent markings under his exhausted lids. It was big enough to make any super man feel small, maybe a super boy even smaller. His feet hit the training deck without him really noticing where he was, a faceless body facing him and his trustworthy staff.

The familiar, echoing clicks with the smallest flick of his wrist was too satisfying to say. He situated himself against the motionless statue, a one sided versus match. He wasn’t going for grace, he wasn’t going for style, and he certainly wasn’t going for finesse. He was going to channel his muddled emotions into one. Build the pressure and release, the extended staff a vessel for the pain he felt clawing at him inside. A release valve, a bomb fuse.

No faces, no names, no underlying motive.

Make it brainless, give yourself a break, give way to the horrible things you could do and focus them on one, non-harmful target.

Just hit shit.

#depressive thoughts tw #self diagnosis tw #violent thoughts tw #//if i miss any please lmk its just... a lot #//also fuck your 3k club :PPPP #「He’s not listening. He’s off in macholand.」- Self Para #★#✯

6 notes · View notes

dj-yukio · 6 years

Text

Infection AU

In a summary of what happened, I got really inspired by @notelectrictiger12 ‘s demon Emma AU, which I would like to suggest a name change to Infection AU because demon Emma is kind of a mouthful to say, at least for me

Get it? Cause like, the demons are bacteria, and it’s like, slowly infecting her through entering her bloodstream- my point being, it sounds better and more awesome

This one is a pretty messy one cause my thoughts are just jumbled all together, and the most complete draft was the first one, which is all the way at the bottom just FYI if you decide to open it and read it

Draft 7

Lost Route

“Got it, Ray. I’ll get her back home. You can trust me.”

The words lingered on his tongue as he sprinted, knowing what he had to do. He had promised him. He had promised that girl with glasses-Gilda, was it?- that he would bring at least one back alive.

Well, he only had one with him at the moment, and he intended to bring her back home.

Keeping his footsteps light

Gah! There was so many-

“I’m sorry, everyone.”

Then, at the corner of his eye, he could have sworn he

———————

“You’re back!”

There were shouts of joy as Ray entered the bunker, before even more

Draft 6

Transformation Route

“Thank you. That was delightful. To you, for you, I have the utmost respect.”

Then she fell limp, unable to feel anything around her.

Only the desire to protect remained.

That, and a few bacteria that had entered through the holes he had pierced through her.

——————

It started with the small things.

“Hey, have you been getting enough sleep?”

Emma rubbed her eyes, turning to face him as she nodded. For some reason, her eyes had been ridiculously irritable for the past few days. No matter what she did, it would continuously force her to blink. It was no wonder Ray would think that she hadn’t been sleeping well.

Placing her hand over her eyes, she sighed. “Yeah... it’s just, my eyes are suddenly easily irritated all of a sudden. It’s like anything can set it off, even a little bit of dust.” She let her hands open up a little bit, only to immediately cover her eyes again as the dust flew into her eyes. “Ow! It hurts!”

Ray looked away, hand on his chin as he thought for a bit.

Then he snapped his fingers.

“I’ll see if I can borrow Nigel’s goggles.”

And for the most part, that was the end of it. The goggles did stop them from getting easily irritated, and life went back to normal for her mostly.

Or rather, that should have been the end of all of it.

——————

Usually, when one managed to get back a missing part of them, say for example an arm or a leg, from whatever means, it would be a reason to rejoice.

Finding that her ear had somehow grown back was anything but a reason to celebrate.

She slapped the left side of her face, frantically trying to get herself to wake up, grasping at the pinkish ear that had a skin colour slightly lighter than the rest of her. Hadn’t she left it there, in the burning farm, along with the tracker? How had it grown back? Was it even possible for a ear to grow back?

Emma didn’t know if she wanted to find the answer to that.

——————

Emma woke up with a start, a searing pain seemingly burning away at her mouth.

Draft 5

Alter Route

“Thank you. That was delightful. To you, for you, I have the utmost respect.”

Then she fell limp, unable to feel anything around her.

Only the desire to protect remained.

That, and a few bacteria that had entered through the holes he had pierced through her.

——————

Emma figured that she was dreaming when she saw it.

It was like looking in one of those rumoured fun house mirrors which twisted people’s perception of their bodies. Only, there was no way for a simple mirror to make her perceive what she saw before her.

Mirroring her in her actions, the creature swayed along with her as she leaned to the sides to see how the rest of it looked like. Clearly, it was a demon, with its long claws that replaced its fingers, strange feet, and its white mask that didn’t cover its mouth and eyes.

However, it didn’t seem to be responding to any sort of stimulus apart from doing a mirror image of whatever she was doing.

Hesitantly she brought her hand up, and as she did, so did it, and Emma forced herself to push forward such that she could touch its palm.

The instant the contact was made, its eyes shot open, making Emma fall backwards from the shock. It blinked, scrutinising her, and she was paralysed with fear. Its eyes flicked around, blinking a few times as if it was trying to get used to whatever lighting there was in the dark abyss that they were in.

Then it looked back at her, tilting its head as if considering her. “Nice to meet you.”

“Who are you?”

The demon rubbed her eyes, growling a bit.

“This has to be a dream.”

The demon grinned at her.

“Well, yeah it’s a dream, but that doesn’t mean it’s not real.”

She slung an arm around her, the claws barely touching her skin.

“Come on, don’t you trust me? I’m you-“

“No.”

The demon stared at her before shrugging. “Well no matter.” The demon got up, and she could see black splotches across its arms before it pushed her. “You’ll see that you can

“Wait! Who are you?”

“Don’t you recognise me? I’m you. I’m going to be you.”

And then she woke up.

——————

Draft 4

Transformation/Alter Route

They were in the ruins, and she, along with the others had been looking for the eye of Cuvitidala when an arrow inscribed in the rocks caught her attention. Following it, she kneeled down to look closer at the ruins, intently looking for a sign when she spotted it.

Her surroundings changed, and a dragon flew beneath her, its eye looking straight at her, almost as if it could see through her.

Almost like it was passing judgement on her.

And then she fell.

Images surrounded her, and she gaped as she looked around, brief flashes of ancient civilisations of humans and demons shaking hands in the ruins, then another agreement formed after years of bloodshed after the initial promise. Was this what had happened with the previous promises? What was going on? Were those memories?

And if they were, that must mean that this must be-

“You’re seeing the past, yes.”

Then she landed, no longer falling as she fell forward from the sudden stop in momentum.

Turning behind to see where the voice had come from, Emma paused to process what she was seeing.

“Hmm... strange... a demon hiding in a human? No, that’s too outlandish.”

Emma stared at the demon, the single eyed dragon giving her a wary look as she did so. A demon hiding in a human? What did he mean? What was he? He looked like a demon, with his one eye on his face, but at the same time looked like a child, his hand that seemed to be holding a ball of light so characteristic of a human’s.

Then it clicked in her mind. No, no way. Was this...?

“Ah, I see,” his voice snapped her out of her thoughts, and she felt as if she had just been judged by him. “Yes, you’re of both. A hybrid, then. But you’re not complete yet, are you? That won’t do.”

The demon child looked thoughtful, and she took her a while to process his words, and she looked down at herself, trying to see what he meant. A hybrid? If anything, he was one. But no, she was a human. She had always been a human.

...Hadn’t she?

The memory of the falling plates and the missing cut came to mind, and she wondered if perhaps there was indeed something more to it. The speed and the healing, both were something she associated with demons.

But where would she have even

Then it clicked.

Lewis. The claws that had impaled through her. How fast she had recovered and regained her mobility. The plates. The cuts.

No. Way.

Had that momentary contact somehow managed to give her some of his abilities?

That couldn’t be right. There was no way.

“Hmm... it’s recent, but you deny...” He shook his head, almost as if he was disappointed with her. “Right now, you’re only seeing visions. You’ll need to find an entrance.”

It was then that she finally realised where she was, having been distracted from his initial statements. This place... must be the place of ‘day and night’ then! Which meant...

“Hey, wait! Are you-“

The dragon roared, interrupting her before he looked at her once more. “Only someone that fulfils the conditions can enter. But Cuvitidala seems to see that you have potential, since your ideals are strong and steadfast. You’ve figured it out by now, then, but you haven’t gotten the chance to embrace your true self.”

“What do you mean, embrace-“

“Embrace the truth and come, and then... We’ll have such fun!”

Draft 3

Transformation Route

First it was the dishes.

“AH! Watch out!”

Emma turned behind towards the noise just as Don tripped, the plates that were to be set for dinner falling out of his arms. Immediately, she could guess what had happened: he must have tripped when he realised that there were some of the younger kids in front of him.

Then her mind kicked itself, and she could see the plates slowly drop, almost close to the ground, where Don’s feet were. That was bad. And with the little ones were so near him, too, the plates were bound to cut them!

She had to do something-

And then, before she knew it, she had singlehandedly picked up all the plates, catching all of them before any of them could shatter.

Almost immediately, amazed shouts filled the room, some of their owners running over to her to tug on her shirt.

“Woah, Emma’s so fast!”

“That was so cool! How did you do that?”

“Emma’s so awesome!”

Don grinned at her, taking the plates from her hand so that she could reciprocate the hugs. “That was incredible, man! You just started grabbing the plates from thin air, and-and- it was just cool watching you get the dishes. Thanks!”

She blinked, still trying to process what she had done before nodding, giving him a small wave in return as she tried to understand how she had managed to sprint over to collect the falling plates.

After all, she had been at least 10 metres away from them, all the way at the other end of the room.

——————

Then it was the cut on her thumb.

Or rather, the lack of a cut on her thumb.

Only, there was no cut to tend to.

Not even a mark or scar remained on her skin, and the only sign that she hadn’t hallucinated getting the cut was the small drop of blood that sat there, having clotted for a while.

Had it really healed that quickly?

For the first time, she started to question if there was something else going on.

——————

Her suspicions were, unfortunately, soon confirmed.

Draft 2

Transformation/Alter Route

The second sign that something was off about her was how much faster her reaction time was.

(The first sign was what they all thought was a miracle, when she woke up much faster than anyone had expected after having been impaled, something that Sandy and Paula never got the luxury of having then.)

“AH! Watch out!”

She had to do something-

And then, before she knew it, she had singlehandedly picked up all the plates, catching all of them before any of them could shatter.

It was in a dark abyss that she first met it.

From what she could recall, the man had been carrying her home after they had finally defeated Lewis, and she could almost remember the loud thumps of his steps as he ran across the woods, trying to get them back to the bunker. He had even tried talking to her to stay awake, but at some point in their journey back, she deduced that she must have passed out from all the blood loss.

So when she saw the demon sitting before her calmly, she figured that it was a hallucination that her oxygen deprived subconscious had created.

It was unlike any kind of demon she had met before. The closest thing that she could place this creature in her mind as was that it was a humanoid demon, but even then, she wasn’t too sure that it would be an accurate description of it.

Its hair was orange and wild, the characteristic bone white mask shielding most of its face apart from its eyes and mouth. The toned hue of its skin reminded her of her own, but there were black splotches all over it as well. Where the hands and feet of a normal human would be, the skin just stopped, revealing the claws to be just elongated bones that were sharp and looked like it could pierce through anything. The creature easily towered over her, and she briefly thought of Lewis from its characteristics.

Then its eyes opened, and she gaped at its green eyes which looked around the abyss that they were in before looking down at her.

It was like looking at a distorted reflection of her in one of the aforementioned funhouse mirrors that she had read about in books talking about amusement parks.

The creature tilted its head at her, almost as if it was scrutinising her before smiling, revealing the rows of sharp teeth in her mouth.

“So it’s you.”

By no means did the smile seem to be malicious, but it still unnerved her, and she backed away from it by a bit, observing what it was doing.

“Who-who are you?”

“C’mon, what must I do to make you trust me?”

“Just another hallucination. Just ignore it Emma.”

She covered her ears, turning herself away from the hallucination. It was just a figment of her imagination, she told herself, and the more she ignored it, the faster it would go away. Definitely, she was just losing her mind at the moment, which was in no way a good thing, so the faster she could get out of this illusion the better it would be for everyone.

It was only after a moment of silence that she realised that it was too quiet, so she looked back, only to see the hybrid seemingly thinking hard while staring intensely at her.

Before she could even ask the human-demon hybrid snapped her claws, fangs showing as she grinned. “Ooh, I got an idea! I’ll give you a gift before you go!”

“A gift?”

The hybrid nodded, smiling at her as if it was a child that had just thought of something clever. “Yeah! No ill will, but it’ll take some time to arrive, so about... when we wake up.”

Initial Draft

Transformation Route

“Thank you. That was delightful. To you, for you, I have the utmost respect.”

Then she fell limp, unable to feel anything around her surroundings.

Only the desire to protect remained.

——————

At first, Emma didn’t think too much into the subtle hints.

It had been a few weeks since the harrowing trip to Goldy Pond. The wounds that had been inflicted upon her by Lewis quickly healed in a matter of weeks, and even before then, she could move around freely, no pain in her gut. She, everyone had thought it was a miracle that he hadn’t gotten her in other areas, perhaps even barely missing her vital organs, and all of them were overjoyed to find her alive and well.

None of them had picked up the fact that she had recovered incredibly fast, all of them attributing it to her determination and resilience. None of them realised that there was no hint of her even being injured in the first place, most likely overjoyed by the fact that she was able to move around with ease rather than how was she capable of mobility in the first place.

None of them questioned how Sandy and Paula were still lying in bed, still unconscious and unresponsive to the world, while she was awake, moving about freely as she roamed, with no pain causing any awkwardness in her movements.

Come to think of it, Emma wondered how she hadn’t realised that there was no disfigured mark, no scar that had remained on her stomach once she had removed the bandages while she was in the shower. Instead, the first thought that came to mind was how effective the medicine was, for her to have gotten away completely unscathed even though she had gotten the treatment later than them.

In fact, if it wasn’t for the two distinct holes in her clothes that had been patched up, sewn together with a string, she probably would have thought that it was all in her imagination, never thinking about how close she had come to death.

——————

Then the hints became as subtle as elephant stampeding into a crowded room.

She had felt a mild discomfort on the left side of her face, feeling as if there was something pressing against the hole that had been left after she had cut off her ear to get rid of the tracker. It was an annoyance, and her hearing seemed to be even more muffled than usual with the bandage, so she decided to go to the bathroom in the bunker to take care of that issue alone, not wanting any of her family to see what was left of her ear.

To say that she was shocked once she removed the bandage to rearrange it was a major understatement.

There, instead of a small bit of scarred skin that was left hanging on the hole that was her hearing, was a ear. A fully fledged ear, with slightly pinkish skin compared to her tanned skin that surrounded the ear.

It took her more than a while to process that what she was seeing was her ear, her own ear, that somehow grown back. The horror only became greater the more that she accepted that reality. Was that even possible, for ears to grow back? No, she reasoned, for if it was, she would have known from Ray.

So something else was at play here.

Why-How did she even get her ear back?

The battle between Lewis flashed past her mind, ending just as she had been impaled by his claws. That would certainly explain it, if somehow she had acquired his healing ability from the contact between his claw and her. That prospect made her smile as a part of her was excited to see that she didn’t have to worry much about getting physically injured, since this new found superpower would practically guarantee that she could fix herself. That was good. This meant that she could protect her family better. She would be able to take harder hits and bounce back faster, all without too much of a cost to herself such that they would be concerned about her well being.

Yet, another part of her was worried, and questions rushed through her mind. How would the other children take it? Should she even tell them? What if that wasn’t the only thing that she had gotten from him?

What if she turned into a cannibal, hungry for-

She stopped herself before she finished that question. The scissors was still in her hand, the one that hadn’t let go of the bandages to reach up to feel the smooth ear. What should she do?

What could she do?

Before she even knew it, the blades had reached up to the new ear, almost caressing it until she realised what she was doing. No. Any sign of blood, and they would immediately worry. Furthermore, she wouldn’t be doing anyone a favour if it turned out that this was a one time thing.

So she would have to hide it then, she decided, and the blade went to the bandages instead.

Don often teased her about how long she had spent in the bathroom, only to come out with an extra large amount of bandages stuck to the even part of her face, and she laughed along, not wishing for any of them to know the truth.

Besides, who knew? Perhaps that and his healing factor were the only things she got from her encounter with Lewis.

Or at least that was what she hoped. The infection continued to spread, integrating itself into the core of her cells.

——————

“Woah! How did you get so tall, Emma?”

The regeneration and healing ability were, unfortunately, not the only things that she had gotten from Lewis. Or at least, that was what she deduced once she realised how much taller she was compared to the older three, including Ray who she practically towered as he sat quietly on the chair, barely giving her a glance as he poured through the books.

She grinned at the little ones, picking them up with ease and almost lifted them to the roof of the bunker library. Then, with an absolutely serious voice, looked into their eyes before answering the question.

“Exercise, good eating habits,” she poked their tummies, earning a giggle from each one, “and genes. That’s why.”

Cries resounded.

“Aww, that’s no fair!”

“No fair! No fair! I wanna be tall like Emma!”

“So unfair!”

A chuckle broke through the grumbles of unfairness, and her small siblings gave way to let the man through as he looked up to her.

“You’re even taller than me now.” Lucas grinned before reaching up to pat her head. Then he sighed as he seemed to be making an imaginary line around his chest. “I still remember that you were this short when I met you.”

Yuugo made a line around his stomach instead. “Don’t you mean around here?”

“Hey! I wasn’t that short!”

The two adults looked at each other before snorting. “At least her energy made up for her height back then.”

“Yeah! I bet that she’s taller than the demons!” A small voice piped up, and suddenly he roared, pretending to scare of the imaginary demons.

They all laughed at that, and she held that moment close to her heart.

—————

She was frantic.

They had lost the base, Lucas and Yuugo were most likely dead, and now Dominic and Alicia were missing?

The sounds of gunshots being fired echoed through the forest, and her anxiety increased tenfold. Surely they hadn’t encountered a demon-

And there was Andrew who had ambushed them in the bunker, his face half blown off but still very, very much alive. Hadn’t there been an explosion earlier? The same one that killed Yuugo and Lucas? How was he alive?

Just what was he?!

“Fooound yoooou....Found the cattle......”

Her eyes widened in fear as she saw who he had in his grasp.

The gun was on Alicia’s temple.

He was going to shoot her.

He had already shot her family members.

Lucas and Yuugo has died, and he was still alive.

“WHO TOLDJA YOU COULD STAND?! ON YOUR KNEES!”

A sense of terror froze her in the spot as the man with a half melted face yelled. She couldn’t move, and stared blankly at them in shock before someone beside her tugged on her pants.

“Emma! Get down, otherwise he’s going to shoot Alicia and get everybody else!”

She could barely register the request, the words seemingly bouncing in her head. It was giving her a massive headache, the overwhelming sounds around her, an intense itching and burning feeling in her hands, the fear of being unable to save anyone.

Being incapable of saving anyone.

He was going to shoot Alicia and get everybody else.

Incapable of saving anyone.

He was going to kill her family?

Lucas and Yuugo had died, and here he was, almost like he was here to mock their deaths.

He-he-he-he-

She clutched at her head, the bandages on her right hand threatening to fall as she shook uncontrollably, but at the moment she couldn’t care less. Vaguely, she could tell that their enemy had stopped pointing their gun at Alicia, instead fixated at her. Good. That was good. Now he wouldn’t kill her.

Then a shot rang out and cries called out her name.

“Emma!”

It took her a while to process that he had shot her arm, only for the bullet to slowly be pushed out as the wound healed.

There was a brief silence from everyone, allowing her to think.

He had shot. He was planning to kill them.

She had to make sure that he never got to do that.

She had to protect them.

A searing pain burned away at her fingers, and before she knew it, she had appeared behind Andrew and Alicia, gently pushing Alicia out of his grasp before grabbing his neck with her claws.

“DON’T TOUCH HER”

With how much she towered over him, she lifted him with relative ease, making him choke before tossing him like a rag doll into the woods a good few metres away.

“Em...ma?”

The fear in her voice made her pause, before a grunt came in the direction that she had thrown him.

Just how was he still alive?!

She dashed over towards the noise, ignoring the calls behind her before finding the impossible man alive, still trying to get up after he had apparently broken one of his arms.

He should have been dead! He was going to come after them now! If he wouldn’t die from all that had been inflicted upon him, then she would just have to make sure that he died, and stayed dead.

And what was more, she could teach him a lesson about hurting her family.

No one was to lay a single finger upon her family.

She didn’t quite remember the rest of what happened, only noting the feeling of blacking out into someone’s arms.

——————

If calling her shocked after seeing that her ear had regenerated was an understatement, then calling her traumatised after finding out and realising that she had torn a living human apart until he was nothing but flesh and bone and organs was barely touching the tip of the iceberg on what she felt about what she had done.

Disgust. Remorse. Regret. Guilt. Anger. Shock. Fear.

The worse thing is that she couldn’t even see the damage that she had done, and most of the other features that she vaguely recalled the day before seemed to have vanished into think air, making the whole experience feel rather nightmarish rather than realistic.

She felt dead to her surroundings, unable to comprehend that she had basically murdered a human being. The bandages from her ear had been removed, and she gently pressed against the smooth skin with her bandaged hands, now completely wrapped in bandages that showed hints of red on its white surface.

She remembered when she had realised her ear had grown back.

Apparently her bones had elongated and pierced through her skin, resulting in the bloody claws that had gripped onto Andrew’s neck-

She buried her head in her knees, unable to continue looking at the bandages. It just served to remind her that she wasn’t human entirely.

Then she felt someone sit next to her.

Slowly, she turned towards the disturbance, only to see that it wasn’t just one person, but her whole family, both Grace Field and Goldy Pond, who was now surrounding her, sitting in a circle with her in it.

Weren’t they scared of her? Why were they-

Gilda reached forward, and she almost flinched, afraid of the physical contact before feeling her hand wipe away at her cheeks, something wet trailing off with that action. Ah, right, she had been crying as though she had been the one who died. That wasn’t right, and she knew it.

Then suddenly-

SLAP!

“Ow!” She cried out, rubbing against her cheek.

“So,” Gilda began, clearly barely restraining herself from delivering a second one, “what did we say about keeping things from us?”

“Eh? What?” Well this certainly wasn’t what she had expected in any way, but she barely had time to comprehend her question before Don waved his finger at her.

“Yeah, Emma! You made us really worried about you, especially when you ran off to get him.”

“I-“

“We’re soooorrryy! We just wanted to see if Lucas and Yuugo were alright, and-and- thank you!”

“But... I...”

Other shouts overpowered her, and soon she found hugs and condolences from all directions. It felt comforting, to know that they didn’t care.

But Ray’s statement stuck with her the most.

“And no matter what you are, you’re still Emma. You’re not gonna get rid of us that easy.”

Tears welled up in her eyes as she smiled before hugging them back.

Perhaps she had lost some of her humanity. Perhaps she wasn’t completely a human.

But at least she still had her family. She still

“Thanks, Lewis, for this.”

#the promised neverland #tpn emma #Infection au #my wips #hehe sorry sorry

46 notes · View notes

merryfortune · 6 years

Text

Vrains Rare Pair Week - Day 2

Day 2 / Dec 24 - Fairy Tales / Horror Stories

· Ship: Takeru/Aoi

Once upon a time, there was a young king. To call him egotistical would be improper but he was self-absorbed. The King was a man named Akira and he was a man of peace and mind. He did not war monger but, his life was not without strife. Though, much of it was self-imposed.

One way in which most his strife was self-impose can be best demonstrated by how, one day, he became intrigued by how much the women in his life loved him. Thus, he posed them a question.

He had his wife and sister heralded to his throne room where he welcomed them with the guise of a game. His wife, the mischievous Queen Ema, and his sister, the near hermitic Princess Aoi, awaited them. Both were eager to bond. It felt like their darling King never paid any attention to either of them due to his tenuous work as king.

Akira looked down upon them and then asked: “How much do you two love me?”

Such a question elicited a look between Ema and Aoi which was incredulous to say the least, but they relented. They played along nonetheless. Ema sighed and smiled.

“You are the apple of my eye, the love of my life.” she replied in due earnestness.

Aoi shifted. “I love you as much as the salt on my food…” she murmured.

Ema glanced at her sister-in-law and then unto her husband. She blinked. She smiled and was intrigued by such a statement.

King Akira, however, was not as benevolent in reaction. In fact, far from it. He was enraged by the response his sister had given him. His wife had doused him in fair praise, but his sister seemed to have little response. His brow knitted together.

“Ema, my love, for your reply, I want you to go find the royal seamstress immediately and have her make a new gown for you.” Akira said and then his sharp eyes fell over to Aoi. “However, Aoi, because of your response, I want you stripped of your privileges as princess for a whole year. In this year, I want you to live as a peasant. I have spoiled you too much if you feel it fit to bite the hand which feeds you. I want you to repent for your lack of love for me, your elder brother.”

Aoi attempted to protest but, as it was said – so it was done.

She was escorted out by one of the royal knights and taken to her chambers. She gathered what she could. She took a few of her finer dresses and some of her jewellery. Once she had made her selections of what possessions she would take with her in the big, wide world she had been spurned onto, she was then banished from the castle.

She was taken to the edge of the capital and told to live as she pleased so long as it was under the guise of being a common woman and not a princess. Aoi obeyed. She traded in some of her clothes and jewels for money. However, there was one thing Aoi would never sell and that was her signet ring with a four-leaf clover design. That ring was far too precious to ever go without. With that money, she purchased more common clothes as she realised someone might be more willing to take her as a board if she looked like she could do the hard yards.

So, for a few days, she flitted from building to building in search of work. Each day, the clothes she wore grew dirtier and dirtier despite her best efforts to keep clean. It was on the end of her second week as a supposed peasant girl that she found work. A cheery shepherd and his quiet son took her on as a watcher of their fields.

There, Aoi grew accustomed to her new life as a shepherdess. She was awkward, and they were awkward with her but soon, they grew. She came to understand them as people. Their names were Shoichi and Yusaku; Yusaku had a job in the town as a baker and thus, was no longer interested in taking shifts in the field with his assumed father. They were good people though. They didn’t pry and gave her the space she needed. They didn’t even ask why such an improvised girl as her would be in possession of such a marvellous signet ring as hers. Thus, it was a quiet household that was often without gossip or event. But, it was nice. Aoi preferred it that way, to be honest.

Time passed quicker than Aoi thought it would. Before she knew it, she had been working with Shoichi and Yusaku for about six months. Her days as a princess now seemed a life time away and yet, her days resuming as such seemed so close. After all, another six months and she would be permitted to re-joining her family at the castle.

But, it was at this mid-point that Aoi found herself nostalgic for the fine silks and makeup that she used to wear. She sighed. But, as she fell deeper into these feelings, she came to a conclusion. Yusaku was at work with the bakers and Shoichi had taken some stock to market to sell. She would have a few hours to herself and thus, her mind wandered, and ideas bloomed.

Rather than don the guise of the peasant girl, Aoi decided to bedeck herself in her decadent dresses. She chose the powdery blue one with white accents. She twirled around the house in it, content with herself. But, alas, she looked out the window and saw that the troublesome poddy lamb – Ai – had gotten loose again; likely in search of his favourite companion, Yusaku.

Without enough time to get changed, Aoi resolved to simply fulfil her duties in a ballgown rather than anything practical. So, she charged out – high heels and all – into the field. She dragged Ai by the scruff of his neck before he could get too far down the road and tied him up again.

Ai brayed at her, whining. Aoi stuck her tongue out back. Ai was full of personality. She then went inside and tried to fix Ai something to drink; some milk. She came back and fed him as is. Then, once she finished feeding Ai, she felt too exhausted to get changed again. So, she sighed and relented.

Today, she would simply wear what she desired for her work. So, for a few hours, she tended the fields in her stunning, powder blue dress with angelic motifs. It was kind of fun. More fun than wearing her drab brown uniform.

As Aoi tended the fields, she thought alone, she was completely unaware that someone had spotted her in her dress.

The young and vivacious Prince Takeru had come to visit. He and his carriage and all his men passed by the field in which Aoi tended, completely unaware. He had come on royal duties as he was from a seaside kingdom faraway, nothing like the landlocked capital of Sol Vrains, Den City. He wanted to discuss treaties with King Akira, among other things such as see the sights.

And the sights he saw! He never thought he would ever see such a beautiful shepherdess. He fell in love with the sight of her and all her sheep as they mowed around her and her gorgeous gown. Immediately, Prince Takeru was struck with the arrow of love.

However, being of the temperament he was – which was to say outlandish and ridiculous – his love burned so hard that it robbed him of his energy. He had always been of a peculiar constitution; sometimes, he was frail and other times he was seemingly indestructible. No one could ever predict his health, and no one could have predicted how the beautiful shepherdess he had fallen in love with had impacted him.

As he passed by and into the city, he grew sick with yearning and love for the girl he didn’t even know. He was ailed so harshly by this infatuation that his body grew weak and he failed to meet with Prince Akira at the time they had appointed for conversations of the princely and kingly duties.

His royal doctor, and childhood friend, Kiku attempted to heal him but none of her remedies worked. Thus, Takeru took her hand and smiled.

“Kiku, the only cure for my sickness is to eat a loaf of bread prepared by the beautiful shepherdess from the field.” he told her with a quivering voice.

Kiku sighed and realised that if his illness was emotional, then there was nothing she could do with herb and spell. She wished desperately that she could chastise her Prince for being so ridiculous but as his friend, she decided not to lest he become wounded. So, she relented. Kiku organised a search party. She and Takeru’s men scoured all of Den City in search of the shepherdess who tended her sheep in such an impractical yet gorgeous outfit.

They asked and asked but no one knew the girl they spoke of. But, with Takeru’s health growing dire, Kiku decided to resort to drastic measures. Instead, she returned to the farm that they had passed by – the one where they saw the girl.

“I come in the name of Prince Takeru,” she told Shoichi and Yusaku, “and our prince is gravely ill with love. Does a woman live here?”

“Yeah, we’ve got a girl boarding with us.” Shoichi replied.

“Does she know how to bake?” Kiku asked.

“Yeah.” Yusaku replied.

“Excellent. Now, is by any chance, you would be interested in what might constitute as treason? I desire to con my Prince into think he’s eating the bread made by his fictitious love. I mean, what sort of shepherdess wears a ball gown whilst with her sheep?”

“What?” Aoi piped up as she came down stairs to see what the fuss was. Her eyes widened.

“Regardless, I think that if Prince Takeru thinks that he’s eating bread made by such a woman, he will be cured of his ridiculous infatuation.” Kiku finished.

“Oh look, speak of the devil,” Shoichi said and he ushered Aoi closer, “here’s the girl you’re looking for. Our blue rose in this den of men.”

“You flatter me, Shoichi.” Aoi replied awkwardly.

“So, would you be willing? Just one loaf of bread.”

“Very well then…” Aoi murmured.

Kiku stayed a while. Aoi, in the meantime, baked the bread – with some input from Yusaku. He always found it strange that things as simple as baking bread sometimes seemed a touch beyond Aoi’s skill set. Regardless, come the eventide, Kiku was sent off with a warm loaf of bread.

And Aoi realised something awful. As she washed her hands, she realised that her signet ring – the one her parents gave her before their untimely demise – had disappeared. She tore apart the house in search of it but quickly came to a grim conclusion: she had accidentally baked it into the loaf of bread.

A conclusion that soon proved correct.

Kiku arrived at the castle and was quickly whisked up to Prince Takeru’s guest room. She handed over the bread, still warm, and Prince Takeru serenely unwound the cloth that covered it. He smiled. He broke off a piece and began eating it. Already his flushed cheeks paled, and his clammy complexion improved. Kiku smiled.

But then, Prince Takeru bit into the ring. He removed it from his mouth and his eyes widened. They glittered and Kiku’s heart dropped.

“The beautiful shepherdess,” he began breathlessly, “she must requite me. Hence why this is in the bread she gave me. Did you swear you to secrecy?”

Kiku, unable to respond, merely nodded.

Prince Takeru put aside the bread and forced himself to his feet. He was as unsteady as a foal. He grabbed his coat, a burning crimson, and he grinned.

“Take me to this girl at once, I want to be married to her!” he announced.

Kiku was flabbergasted and there was nothing she could do. Her Prince Takeru bore onwards and was soon, by demand, taken to the cottage at the edge of town – to the inelegant surprise of the men who lived there.

“I am Prince Takeru!” he said as he banged on the door. “And I wish to become the betrothed of the shepherdess who lives here!”

Ai cooed from his yard, intrigued.

Shoichi opened the door to Prince Takeru. “The girl who lives here doesn’t even know how to bake bread properly. You don’t want to marry her.”

“Fiend, you must want her for yourself.” Prince Takeru spat.

“I can assure you otherwise.” Shoichi countered.

He hazarded a look over his shoulder, “Yusaku, where’s Aoi?”

Yusaku shrugged.

“I’m here.” Aoi said.

And, again, she descended down the stairs of the two-tier cottage and all eyes widened. She wore a pastel blue dress with white, angel-themed decals.

“So, I hear you found my ring.” Aoi said.

Prince Takeru barged past Shoichi and Yusaku. It seemed there was little they could do to stop him. Though, Kiku apologised profusely in lieu of the prince.

Aoi stepped off the final ledge. “It’s good to meet you, Prince Takeru. I’ve heard of you. I’m Princess Aoi of Sol Vrains.”

“You’re WHO?” Shoichi yelled.

“I am the hermit princess, Aoi of Sol Vrains: my brother, Akira, is the king.” Princess Aoi said.

“It’s lovely to meet you, Princess Aoi.” Prince Takeru said.

“By the gods…” Kiku gasped.

“We had a princess living with us this whole goddamn time?” Shoichi snapped at Yusaku.

“Apparently.” Yusaku shrugged back.

“Now, Princess Aoi,” Prince Takeru said as he readied the four-leaf clover ring, “I would like to ask for your hand in marriage. As immediately as possible.”

“I accept. On two conditions.” Princess Aoi replied.

“Whatever you ask. No feat is too herculean.” Prince Takeru replied.

“The first of which is that I want my brother to be in attendance and to have a seat of honour. The second of my conditions is that I shall be the one to prepare your meal our wedding.” Princess Aoi said.

“…Huh?” Shoichi exclaimed; still too dazed by the whole situation to realise that two of royal blood had just gotten engaged under his roof.

“Easy.” Prince Takeru beamed. “I look forward to your cooking, Aoi.”

And thus, a wedding was held in Den City and what a grand wedding it was. Folks from all walks of life got together for it. From those held in esteem in the country Prince Takeru represented to the likes of Shoichi and Yusaku, as well as their poddy lamb Ai. With, of course, King Akira and Queen Ema in attendance.

The ceremony was grandiose and the kiss that sealed it was warm. The dinner party that ensued in the castle simmered. Plates upon plates of food. All of it was beautiful and well made. Everyone, bar Prince Takeru, was soon given something to eat and to say grace before.

As in accordance with her conditions, it was Princess Aoi who brought out the final plate. She held it closely. Compared to that of the professional chefs, it was meagre and even ugly looking but from afar, Prince Takeru eyed it with eagerness. Princess Aoi smiled. Her heart fluttered upon such a look.

“Here you go, my husband.” she said. “Now, you are not allowed to change a single thing about it. You will eat it as I have prepared it.”

“With pleasure, my wife.” Prince Takeru replied.

King Akira, sitting adjacent to such a lovey-dovey scene harrumphed to the amusement of his wife.

Princess Aoi took her seat beside her husband her brother.

“Thank you for this meal.” Prince Takeru exclaimed.

He then took arms against his food. He ate it with great vigour. Princess Aoi smiled but then, Prince Takeru placed his knife and fork down.

“It needs… salt.” Prince Takeru said.

“Like I said, you must eat it as I have prepared it. Even if it requires salt, like you believe.” Princess Aoi replied, very seriously.

“But its really, really good – I didn’t mean any offence.” Prince Takeru hastily added.

“I know, my love,” Prince Aoi glanced at her brother, “I know.”

And thus, in that moment, King Akira had a moment of thunderstruck disbelief. When he had asked his sister – in the game – how much did she love him? He had misunderstood.

#vrainsrarepairweeks #phoenixshipping #yugioh vrains #yugioh #vrains #aoi zaizen #takeru homura #writing tag #jin just does exist in this au #don't think too hard about it #and aoi was only supposed to snark about yusaku being like a son to kusanagi #but i'm too lazy to edit #long post

13 notes · View notes

and-it-freezes-me · 3 years

Text

sweet as molasses

sweet as molasses is the fourth part of the What Happened In Lichmai series.

Title is from ‘Blood’ by Hanifa Sekandi.

Summary: Virgil tries to piece together his memories of the day before. Roman and Logan talk for the first time in a very, very long time. Patton goes to bed.

Content: blood, death threats, survivor’s guilt, referenced minor character death, hypnotism

Words: 7,762

Virgil woke up to a throbbing headache and a tongue that felt as though he had been eating gravel for fun.

Was he hungover?

Why the fuck would he be hungover? He had no memory of going to a bar or club, nor any desire to do so - never mind the fact he was underage and looked it, so no bartender worth their paycheck would serve him. He couldn’t remember accepting food or drink from anybody, so it wasn’t as though he could have been drugged.

What did he remember, then?

The forest. He had been trekking through the forest, searching for some caves to photograph. It had been a gorgeous day: not much birdsong, but greenery everywhere and even -

Giant deer.

Oh, holy fuck.

There had been giant deer just strolling around in Lichmai’s forests, munching on trees, probably capable of shattering every bone in his body with a single kick.

Sweet Sister Rosetta, there had been giant fucking deer in the forest, and he couldn’t remember getting a single photograph.

His camera!

Virgil pushed himself into a seated position and scanned the motel room as quickly as possible - and it was his motel room, no need to panic there. The black duffle bag was on the chair by the door, thank god.

That was when a wave of dizziness swept over him. If he had been standing, Virgil was certain that he would have collapsed. As it was, he practically doubled over, pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes in an attempt to remove the after-image of the room spinning around him. There was a spike of pain where his fingers met his hairline.

When the nausea in his stomach subsided, Virgil slowly opened his eyes again. It was light - but that didn’t mean much in Lichmai. He reached out, fumbling for his phone, and felt another burst of panic when his fingers met the plasticy veneer of the bedside table. Where was his phone? It should be there. He always left his phone within easy reach when he went to bed.

But he couldn’t remember going to bed.

There had been another guy in the woods.

Another guy had been using his camera. Virgil swallowed hard, then swung his legs over the side of the bed and pushed himself to his feet, gripping the bedside table for support as his head swam. Had he been attacked and knocked unconscious? As soon as the idea occurred to him, he dismissed it: if the guy had attacked him, he would have woken up in the forest, not in his room, right? (Unless he managed to stumble back and collapse in bed…)

And then Virgil was unzipping his camera bag with shaking hands, fishing out his prized possession and returning to the bed as he turned it on. Yes - there it was, the most recent picture in the gallery: him, one hand a blur halfway between his side and his face, his features clear and sharp against the greenery around him.

Bile rose in his throat, and he stabbed at the little button marked with a trash can. Then he placed the camera reverently on the bed beside him, and started patting down his pockets.

His phone was tucked into the back pocket of his jeans - he wasn’t sure how he hadn’t noticed it there before.

Eleven at night.

Virgil glanced out of the window again. He wished he had checked the timestamp on that image before deleting it - it would be nice to know exactly how much time he was missing. At least then the anxiety of not knowing how many hours he had lost could be replaced with worry about what had happened during them.

When Virgil flicked his phone on and pulled up the camera app, he was greeted by a ghost.

Near-white dust covered his usually purple bangs and covered his face in streaks - and was that blood caked around his forehead? Now that he looked at his hands, he saw that more dust had built up under his fingernails and in the creases of his pale skin, and when his concerned gaze traveled over his jeans and toward the bedclothes, he found that they were practically covered in the stuff, too.

There was a shallow cut on his brow, just below his hairline. It was long and jagged, and he had no idea how he had gotten it - but if he had fallen and knocked himself out, at least that explained why he couldn’t remember anything.

Wait - he remembered… A knife? Virgil’s hand flew to his throat, where he discovered a small row of scabs. “What the…” If he had been mugged, why did he still have his phone and camera? Why was he back at the Sunny Motel?

Logic stated that he had not been mugged. Logic did not explain the fuzzy memory of somebody holding him up with a set of knives at his throat.

Logic definitely didn’t explain the image of the very attractive, somehow familiar, very naked man that had just drifted across his mind’s eye. A naked man wearing a blindfold.

There had been another man, too - one that had dressed like a wizard. Had he managed to wander across some couple exploring some kink? A shudder ran through him. He really hoped not. Maybe it was a good thing he couldn’t remember much. Forcing himself to take a long, slow breath (two, three, four), Virgil reached for his weighted blanket and wrapped it tightly around his shoulders (hold, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight). He should shower. He should get rid of the dust that filled his hair, the icky knowledge that he had no idea what had happened to him (out, two, three, four, five - okay, that was fine, breathe in again, two, three, four…).

The next time he stood, the room stayed more or less where it was, allowing him to cross to the small (small but clean) en suite bathroom with only two brief pauses to lean against the walls.

When he emerged from the bathroom, wrapped in a towel and relieved to find no other bruises or cuts that he couldn’t remember getting, Virgil felt much better. As he dressed, he pulled some of the dried jerky from his travel bag and chewed slowly at it, trying to figure out what to do.

He didn’t want to stay in this town any longer, not if he was going to fall asleep in orchards and find himself covered in leaves, not if he was going to meet weirdos in the woods and -

And introduce himself?

No, that wouldn’t be right. Why the fuck would he introduce himself to a naked guy and a wizard in the middle of a forest? (There had been a third guy, hadn’t there? It hadn’t been either the naked guy or the wizard that had been playing with his camera…) The answer was easy: he wouldn’t. He would turn around and get out of there as fast as he could, and try to forget the image as soon as was humanly possible.

That didn’t change the fact that he had a clear memory of the naked guy snorting at his name: “Virgil? Strikingly close to virgin, is it not?”

The memory was overlaid with another: the same face, a white streak in his hair, neon green eyes rather than a scrap of fabric, crowing, “Virgil? Like virgin?”.

Roman.

“...my boyfriend, known as Roman Pulpos…”

“...is known as Roman Swiftclaw…”

Brilliant. Two near-identical men, both named Roman, who both latched onto the lamentable similarity between the two words. This town was stupid.

This whole place was stupid.

So why was he slipping his shoes on, sliding his roomkey into his pocket - it was in a shallow wooden bowl by the door - and crossing the motel car park? He tried to tell himself that he was just going for a walk to clear his head, but Virgil knew himself better than to believe his own lies.

Logan did not want to go to sleep.

He was physically tired, yes: healing Virgil Insymere had taken a far greater toll on him than he had cared to admit in front of the other human, being actively warded against was an exhausting experience, and just being around Patton was draining. It was as though every inch of his bizarre clothing was filled with passive charms, and they itched.

The exhaustion the magic had brought him had been nothing compared to the shock of his new surroundings.

From his perspective, barely any time had passed. One second he had been surrounded by people, lit only by flaming torches in the underground chamber, the stars in his hair, the suns braided into hers, finally surrendering in an attempt to save the last of his court; the next he had been sitting up, horribly scratchy dust in every pore, in his eyes and ears and nose, staring at two men in outlandish garb and overflowing with words that held no meaning. The forest had not changed much - the leaves were different, the trees were larger, the stream followed a different path, but it was still a forest, still home. Once they had left the trees, though… It was like walking through an entirely different world. No, it was walking through an entirely different world. The fields were gone, the small, one-room huts and houses replaced with what had to be the largest city Logan had seen in a long time. (They all preferred to stay surrounded by nature, avoiding the places humans congregated en masse). Even the ground had been changed, familiar earth and grass replaced with a hard, grey substance that resembled ice fields at midnight, but scraped unpleasantly against his bare feet.

He almost envied Roman’s blindness. At least his knight only had to deal with the strange words that flowed from Patton, as though the human had no idea that the pair of them were understanding less than half of what he was trying to tell them. Roman’s senses were duller, too: he couldn’t smell the confusing din of conflicting scents, the stink of rotten fish rising from the strange ground mingling with the dry, clay-like aroma that seemed to leech from the very walls around them. He couldn’t hear the buzzing that surrounded them, that pulsed from the black strings webbing between buildings and ran under their feet.

It was… A lot.

To blink, and discover that the world had jumped forward without him.

They had been in this room - this ‘motel’, according to Patton - for nearly seven hours now. Well, three hundred and ninety two minutes - so just over six and a half hours, to be more precise. Logan had been waiting for darkness to fall. It was only April; the sun had set at eighteen minutes to eight. That had been two hundred and one minutes ago.

Roman was still sat on the bed behind him. The knight had barely said a word since threatening Patton. It was as though he had turned to stone, the only indication that he was still a being of flesh and blood the rise and fall of his chest.

He was still blindfolded. He hadn’t asked if it was dark enough to risk removing the thing. The idea that he wouldn’t ask occurred suddenly to Logan. Roman had been sat alone for so long. The numbers pushed themselves to the forefront of his mind, and he batted them away as though they were no more significant than a fly. He had known, really, even before Roman had asked and Patton had answered.

It was one of those things Logan always knew, despite the fact that time was not his domain.

Roman should be long dead.

He pushed that thought away with significantly more force than the rest.

They should both be long dead.

Slowly, he padded over to the window, ignoring the soft give of the material beneath his feet, somewhere between ticklish and rough, and looked out at the empty sky. The sun had gone down, but the light had not faded.

Had it been like this the entire time he had been asleep?

Logan pulled the drapes closed. Behind him, Roman’s head snapped in the direction of the sound. “My lord?” He sounded so… Lost. Logan had never known Roman to sound afraid before, but there was definite fear in his voice now.

“There are no candles here,” Logan noted. He was careful to keep his voice emotionless, but the small crease that formed between Roman’s eyebrows suggested that he had not been entirely successful in masking his tiredness. “I have closed the drapes, and the light levels in this room are sufficiently low that you should be able to uncover your eyes without further discomfort.”

“Thank you.” Logan heard the rustle of fabric and hair as the knight removed the scrap of fabric from around his eyes, and then the quiet sound of it dropping to the ground. A few seconds of silence, and then… “I thought your stars would have returned by now.”

He raised a hand and ran his fingers slowly through his long hair, feeling them catch in small knots and tug slightly, hearing the strands sliding against one another, then let it drop. “There is no reason for them not to return in due time. Now that I am awake, my strength and powers should swiftly grow to their original level.”

Roman didn’t give a response, and he found himself turning toward his knight. He was still wrapped in Logan’s robe, too short in the limbs and too large in the body, and it made him look small despite his height and the muscles that Logan knew covered his body. His huddled posture didn’t help, either: Roman was right in the centre of the left bed, his knees pulled to his chest, chin resting on them, arms wrapped around his calves. His eyes were open, and they followed Logan as he moved across the room to stand in front of him, although he didn’t really seem to see him. He lifted a hand to wave in front of Roman’s face. Nearly two entire seconds later, the knight flinched.

“Roman?”

“My lord?” Roman’s crimson eyes shifted slightly, and Logan knew that he was looking at him properly now. He summoned a gentle smile, hoping to reassure him, and was encouraged when Roman’s lips twitched briefly.

“How long has it been since you last rested?” There were deep hollows under Roman’s eyes. Logan wanted to rub his thumbs across them and watch them wipe away like dirt, but he doubted that a small cosmetic change would improve his knight’s condition. He didn’t have the energy to do anything more.

Roman’s ears twitched. “I… A while. Being down there… I am not sure that I was truly alive. I did not need to eat. I barely slept - but that only made me better able to do my duty, lord.”

“I have told you many times to call me Logan.” It was easier to fall back into the old, teasing words than to focus on the horrible idea that Roman’s knighthood had somehow forced him to stand watch over Logan for all that time, never letting him rest.

The smile that greeted his statement was forced. “And it will take countless more before I could do anything so forward, lord.”

“You should sleep.”

Silence. And then -

“They’re all dead.” Logan caught his lower lip between his teeth. “Are they not? Thomas. Talyn. Joan. Valerie.”

“Roman…”

“Sloane. Corbin. Kai.”

“Roman…”

“Sandra. Bellasia. Ana. Regulus. Remus.” His voice broke on the last word, and Roman reached up and scrubbed angrily at the tears threatening to drip down his cheeks with the sleeve of Logan’s robe. “They’re all dead, and I… I just waited, I just…”

“You protected me.” Logan was alarmed by the wobble in his voice. He shouldn’t be so affected by the list of names: it had been years. Of course they were dead. Even if most of them hadn’t been killed before he had been cursed, they would almost all be dead by now. “I do not need to remember it to know that I would be long gone had you not stayed with me.”

“I know that.” Roman recoiled from his own voice, as though the venom in his tone had surprised him just as much as it had surprised Logan. They looked at one another for a moment, knight waiting for a reprimand, lord merely waiting. Then Roman pulled his knees more tightly to his chest, dropping Logan’s gaze. “I - I stayed to protect you. To keep you alive. Forever in the dark, in the silence, with nothing but your corpse for company. I could have left at any time, allowed you to crumble to dust, I-” He sniffed hard, scrubbing at his face once more and leaving a trail of snot across the intricate embroidery as Logan tried to find something to say.

What was there to say? They had lost the same people, been thrown into the same confusing world, but that was where the similarity ended. Where Logan had blinked and found himself in the future, Roman had had to take the long road to get there, sitting through year upon endless year.

Logan hesitated for a fraction of a second (an eleventh, to be precise) before folding his legs underneath him, so that he was kneeling before his knight. “Roman? Look at me.” His voice was as soft as he could make it, and he waited for Roman to wipe his eyes and lift his head before continuing.

“Roman Swiftclaw, my most lethal knight, captain of my guard. Roman Del Raya, protector, watcher, I owe you my life, countless times over. I name thee Roman Of The Lonely Vigil, and I swear on my being that I shall repay your sacrifice thricefold.” He saw Roman’s eyes widen in shock, and smiled up at him. “My life is yours, Roman Of Blade And Fang.”

He should not have been surprised when the knight started shaking his head, but it still stung a little when Roman reached forward and clasped his hands in his. “And I return it to you, my lord. I - I would have waited twice as long as I did, thrice, just to see you wake. I neither want nor need your debt. It is enough to know that I have done my duty well, and that thy safety is assured.”

Duty. It always came back to duty with Roman, and Logan didn’t know why he had hoped for anything different.

He nodded once, rising gracefully and pulling his hands free. “Then rest, knowing that I am safe. You will be better equipped to ensure my protection when you allow yourself to sleep.”

Roman’s tongue passed briefly over his lower lip. “I need to make sure nothin-”

“Inadequate rest is incredibly detrimental to any being, and you are human at your core: it is essential that you take care of yourself. You need to sleep.” Logan repeated firmly.

“So do you. I need to stay awake to keep watch.”

Logan snorted, and Roman looked sharply at him. “Roman, I have just slept for seven hundred years. I shall appreciate a few more hours awake, and I shall rouse you at the first suggestion of danger. Understood?”

They stared at one another for a few more seconds, star-studded navy into blood red, before Roman finally nodded.

Patton was starving. He had to stop to eat on his way home, something he always felt a little guilty doing.

When he finally reached his cottage, it took several attempts to get his key into the door: his hands were trembling as though he had just spent several hours in the snow. Before he entered, he made sure that he hadn’t smudged any blood - his or otherwise - anywhere on the door. He didn’t want to end up like Sofyah.

As soon as the door closed behind him, he started shedding clothing, leaving a trail of dusty, torn scraps from his welcome mat (“Be nice or leaf!” it declared, with several fern fronds depicted behind the curling writing) to his bathroom.

It was very nice to be clean again.

He collapsed into bed less than half an hour later, dressed in an old t-shirt darned in several places and a pair of boxers, and it was almost no time at all before he was cocooned in his duvet, fast asleep.

What a weird day.

Virgil had no idea what he was doing.

Well, that wasn’t entirely true.

He knew he was walking through a creepy little town in the middle of the night, even if it didn’t feel like the middle of the night.

He knew he had been walking for over an hour by now, and that he was perfectly steady on his feet, even if his head did still ache a little. The fresh air must be doing him good.

He knew he was going in circles, too. He had passed the Eyes-Wide Café no less than four times (there was a light on in the window above the shop: Remy must be awake). The school had come into view twice, and he had a feeling that the gradual incline of the road he was following was going to bring him past it again in the next few minutes. He had found himself back outside the Sunny Motel every ten minutes for the last hour; he had twice passed a small cottage whose garden was bursting with so many flowers that Virgil was certain that they were about to explode across the road.

No matter how he tried to follow the roads, he continued to end up right back where he had started, his mental map of Lichmai filled with impossible loops and shortcuts that shouldn’t exist.

What had started out as a slightly annoying, only barely noticeable quirk of a weird village had turned into the most infuriating thing Virgil could imagine.

The next time he passed the corner with the crooked lamp-post - the crooked lamp-post that wasn’t even glowing, didn’t even need to glow thanks to the stupid, broken sky - he aimed a rough kick at it. Dull pain echoed up his foot, and Virgil groaned quietly and stopped walking.

Leaning against the warped metal, he shifted his weight onto his good foot and rubbed irritably at his throbbing toes.

What was he doing? It was nearly one in the morning now.

“I’m walking,” he muttered. “Not against the law, is it?”

The lamp-post said nothing, for which he was glad. That would be a little too weird for him to deal with.

What was he really doing, though?

Over the past two hours, an image had gradually built itself up in his mind - it hadn’t been an image he had liked, of course, but at least he had a better idea of what had happened that afternoon. He remembered a large, stone room, half-full of rubble; had he stumbled across some ruins? Exactly how he had arrived there was still fuzzy. There had been three other people with him, ranging from the relatively normal-seeming polo-shirted guy who had been playing with his camera (Virgil swallowed hard and pushed that scene aside) to the wizard that had spoken as though he were playing a part in some old play to the naked guy with knives for hands that looked like Roman - that was Roman? Had he imagined the introductions?

Maybe the knife guy had been called something similar to Roman (Teoman, maybe, or… Robin, or…) and he had misheard, whatever blow to the head he had taken having left him somewhat addled. He had made the connection with the guy that had given him a lift into town and presto: his near lookalike had been given the same name. It was a simple solution. The resemblance between them could be explained away by something as easy as them being related: they were probably brothers, or cousins, or something like that.

Simple. Easy.

Of course, none of that answered the question of why Roman’s brother-cousin had been wandering around naked in some ruins in the middle of a forest (a forest containing giant deer!) with a handful of knives, but Virgil didn’t really want to know the detailed answer to that, anyway. He could draw his own conclusions from the wizard accompanying Roman’s brother-cousin.

Where had Roman and Ethan gotten to? Had they said why they were in town? It wasn’t as though it was any of Virgil’s business, of course. In fact, when he had left them five days ago (six?), he had been thrilled at the idea of never speaking to either of them again. There was no rational explanation for suddenly wanting to see them again.

No rational explanation, other than the fact that Ethan had been the least weird person he had spoken to since his car had first broken down, and that both of them had been nothing but nice to him, even if Roman did seem to be a few pixels short of a jpeg.

Virgil wriggled his toes experimentally, decided that nothing was broken, and started walking again.

Who else had he met? Wizard guy in the woods, who Virgil wanted to call… Cranberry? Strawberry? No - Loganberry. No, just Logan. That had been it. Logan, with some stupidly complicated surname, and not-Roman, and… The guy that had taken that picture of him. He had no desire to speak to any of them again.

Oh - there was the school. Virgil nodded at it, then wondered when he had started treating the Lichmai infrastructure as though it were a collection of friends.

Then there had been Remy, the weird barista who had given him free coffee for dropping off some drinks and then freaked out over whether or not Virgil was lactose intolerant. He had just been… Weird. Picani had been weird, too, but in a much more excitable, exhausting way. He had also freaked out over Virgil’s laundry, which had been unsettling. Neither of them were people he really had the energy to talk to again if he could avoid it.

Stacei was nice, he supposed. Not particularly keen on long discussions, more interested in her crosswords and sudoku than trying to draw him into unnecessary conversation, hadn’t said anything particularly creepy to him, attempted to hurt him, or looked at him as though he had sprouted an extra head.

Glancing up, Virgil realised that he was walking past the Sunny Motel again. Speak of the devil - or think of her, anyway.

On the other hand, Stacei had handed him two separate room keys that both looked and felt as though they had been made of bone without batting an eye, which was more than a little disturbing. She was also entirely unconcerned by the fact that the sun setting seemed to hold no sway over the general light levels in Lichmai, which was just frustrating.

Both Picani and Ethan had been at least sympathetic about that.

It wasn’t as though any of this mattered, anyway. It was the middle of the night: he wasn’t about to start making social calls to people he had met once and whose only redeeming quality was the fact that they were the least weird people Virgil had met. Besides, even if he wanted to do that (which he didn’t, at all), he had no idea where Ethan and Roman were staying. It wasn’t at the motel, and he hadn’t seen their spray-painted van parked in any of the driveways he had passed on his walks. They probably weren’t even in town anymore: neither of them had seemed particularly fond of Lichmai, and-

The van was parked right there.

Virgil did a double-take so abruptly he got a crick in his neck, then stopped walking so suddenly that he almost tripped over his own feet.

He didn’t recognise this street at all. It was residential, judging by the lack of storefronts, the parked cars lining the road on both sides, and the row of bins outside each front door; it looked much more like a part of a large, sprawling city than a small town like Lichmai, given the fact that the houses were terraced, seemingly squished together as though they were worried they would not all fit, towering over the pavement, and all made of the same dark brickwork. For once, Virgil was glad that there was no darkness in this place: this wasn’t a street he would be keen on walking down at night in any other city.

The van was nestled in the alleyway between two of the buildings, far enough back from the road that it was difficult to spot from the street. It was grubby enough that it barely stood out from the brick around it, and Virgil wondered vaguely how it had caught his attention - maybe it was simply because he had been thinking about it as he had walked past that it had jumped out at him. It certainly looked as though it were crouching in wait, ready to spring at an unwary victim…

Despite his misgivings, Virgil was halfway toward the thing before he thought to ask himself what he was doing.

Now wasn’t exactly the best time for social calls. If Ethan and Roman weren’t asleep, they were likely to be on their way there, or else very much occupied: it was safe to say that they wouldn’t be thrilled to find him standing outside their door, asking questions about weird cousins.

Who was he kidding? They probably weren’t even in the van. They were probably staying with not-Roman in one of these houses, and the van had just been neatly tucked out of the way of the road. Virgil studied the kraken painted along the side of the van, squinting to get a better look at the tiny people on the decks of the ship it was crushing. They were screaming - most of them. There were two people standing in what must be the crow’s nest, under a flag bearing a skull and crossbones, entwined in one another’s arms.

The detail on this thing was really impressive. Virgil could even make out small bits of flesh, wood, and cannon balls caught between the teeth of the tentacled monster dragging the terrified pirates to their deaths. Had Roman painted this himself? He must be very talented to have managed that.

There was the thud of something hitting one of the walls of the van, and Virgil jerked his hand away from the figurehead of the ship (a blindfolded man, head at an unnatural angle). It seemed that Ethan and Roman were awake - and from the sharp noise that had accompanied the ‘thunk’, one of them was in a bad enough mood to be throwing things at the walls.

That settled it: he was leaving. There was no way he was hanging around a pair of weird guys with glowing eyes when they were angry enough to be throwing things.

Virgil took a step back from the van, turned toward the street, and found himself staring into neon-yellow eyes.

“Good morning, Virgil. Do come in and say hello.” Ethan gestured toward the van door with his free hand, expression impassive.

Virgil swallowed hard.

The other man looked as though he had just gotten back from a business meeting, never mind the late hour. He was dressed in a pair of formal slacks and a chocolate-brown sweater that hugged his slender torso, and his blond hair was tied neatly in a loose ponytail. In one hand he was holding a plastic bag containing what looked like four two-litre bottles of coca-cola. In the middle of the night. At least the exhaustion etched across his face was fitting for the setting.

“Really, I was just wandering, I wasn’t…” He gestured vaguely at the street over Ethan’s shoulder, then glanced behind him and realised that this wasn’t an alley after all, but a dead end.

Excellent.

Ethan seemed to notice that he was blocking Virgil’s exit at about the same time as Virgil did, his eyes flickering briefly between the two of them, then at the van, then at the bag in his hand. It must be heavy, but he didn’t seem to be at all bothered by it as he stepped neatly to the side, slipped past Virgil, and went to open the door. As he passed him, Virgil saw that his hair was tied with a black ribbon - like somebody out of an old film - and that a few leaves were tangled in the fine strands. There was a twig caught on the back of his sweater, too. The sudden urge to reach for his camera came over him, and he pushed it down.

“Jan! Fucking finally! Did you get-”

“Yes, Roman, I did. Are you decent? We have company.” As he spoke, Ethan passed the bag of cola bottles through the small gap he had made in opening the door, and a hand that Virgil assumed was Roman’s darted out and snatched it.

There was silence for several long seconds, during which Virgil should have walked away but instead caught Ethan’s eye and mouthed, “Jan?”

“A nickname,” he murmured smoothly, and then louder: “R? Can we come in?”

“What the fuck, Jan, is this all you got? Practically had my guts torn out this afternoon and this is all you can get me?” The door opened a little wider as Roman complained, and Virgil was almost certain that he heard Ethan make a frustrated hissing sound in the back of his throat. “Did I really stay here for eight fucking litres? I could be stuffed by now and instead I listen to your bullshit logic and-”

This time, the sound that left Ethan was practically a snarl, and Virgil watched him disappear into the open door. There was another thud and a dent appeared in the side of the van, as though he had punched one of the walls. “In cassse you’ve forgotten, dearessst -” Virgil flinched at the ice in the word, then wondered how long Ethan had had a lisp. Was that a lisp? “- you’re not the only one who’sss had their inssssidesss sssscoured today! Yet I went out and hunted for you asssss well as mysssself while you ssssstayed here and threw a tantrum!”

Oh, yeah, no, Virgil was not staying for this. He jerked a hand through his purple hair and tried very hard to ignore whatever snappish retort Roman decided to come out with as he took a few steps toward the street. He had no desire to listen to a couple break up.

“-know she’s always rougher with me than you!”

“That’sss becausssse I don’t inssssssult the bitch to her fasssssse! It ssssstill fucking hurtssssss, you know!”

There was silence, and Virgil froze automatically. Silence meant that even the smallest noise could get their attention, and he would prefer that the wrath of two guys with weird contact lenses did not come down on him.

Then the voices started up again, far more quietly than before, and he nodded to himself. They’d want to be alone now, to make up or break up and then get some rest: time for him to continue his retreat.

He had actually made it back to the street by the time the already open minivan door crashed against the side of the van. “Virgil? You coming in?”

Virgil had frozen at the loud noise; after a second, during which no lights came on in the houses beside them and nobody leaned out of a window to shout at them, he turned back to see Ethan leaning out of the van, having clearly shoved the door as hard as he could. “Um… Don’t you two want to be… Alone?”

The one of Ethan’s shoulders visible around the door (which was slowly beginning to swing back toward him, having rebounded from the wall of the van) raised slightly and then lowered in a tidy shrug. “Nah. Had nothing but time alone for the last week - we could do with seeing a friendly face. Come on. R, do we have any instant coffee or… Anything?”

There was a scraping sound, and then Roman’s voice echoed from the van’s interior. “You threw out the coffee after I tried injecting it directly into my veins, remember?” At least he didn’t sound pissed off anymore, Virgil told himself, taking a reluctant step back toward Ethan.

“Oh! Found some cookies! Virgil-Not-Virgin, do you like squashed fly cookies?” Roman’s hand flew out above Ethan’s head, waving a ziploc bag of large biscuits in his general direction.

“Raisen, right? They’re alright.” Shrugging, Virgil took the last couple of steps toward the van, then had to duck as the cookies flew toward his face. When he looked up again, Ethan had snatched them out of the air and was glaring at Roman.

“No. No he does not. Give him the chocolate ones, they’re under the stove.”

“But those are mine!”

“And these are mine! And I have to make them ssspecially!” Ethan flapped a hand at his boyfriend, and Roman disappeared back into the van with a grumble.

That was how Virgil Insymere found himself perched on the edge of a beanbag, sipping jasmine tea from a metal mug and trying his hardest not to burn his hands as he watched Roman chug the second two-litre bottle of cola. The wild-eyed man was curled up on the makeshift bed opposite him, leaning against Ethan’s side with his eyes closed as his adam’s apple bobbed with each swallow; Ethan was holding a second mug of tea, his egg-yolk yellow eyes fixed on Virgil. He had both hands wrapped around his cup, apparently indifferent to the heat of the liquid within.

The plastic bag of Ethan’s cookies was on his lap, and a packet of chocolate biscuits had been opened and offered to Virgil, who had politely refused them.

There was the dull sound of Roman’s empty bottle hitting the floor, and then he was unscrewing the top of the third. Virgil blinked at him, opening his mouth to ask exactly how addicted to cola the guy was, but Ethan spoke first.

“So, you were looking for us, Virgil?” He sat perfectly straight, despite the fact that Roman was slumped against him, and looked strangely out of place in the messy van. Virgil’s eyes flicked briefly to the hand cradling Ethan’s mug, half expecting to see that his little finger was stuck out. Virgil had an easier time imagining the man in a tailcoat, sitting at a fancy tea-set in a mansion somewhere than he did resolving him with their surroundings.

Then he realised what he had been asked, and shook his head automatically. “No. I was just walking.”

“Bullshit,” Roman snapped, but by the time the two of them looked at him he was already focused on the plastic bottle in his hand once more. The light in the small van, cast mostly by a torch that had been duct taped to the ceiling, must have been playing tricks on Virgil’s eyes, because for a moment Roman’s soda held a distinctly reddish tint. Then he blinked hard and looked away.

Ethan translated a few seconds later. “What I think my dear boyfriend is trying to say is that you wouldn’t have found us unless you were deliberately looking. We parked… Carefully.”

Roman snorted. Virgil thought he was about to argue, but he just shrugged.

“Oh.”

Silence fell as Virgil’s attention turned to his tea. He could feel Ethan’s eyes still on him, the unblinking gaze razor-sharp, expression suggesting that even making eye contact would allow him to see straight into Virgil’s soul.

He hadn’t been looking for the pair of them, not really. He had just happened to walk past their vehicle house whilst he had been thinking about them. It wasn’t as though they were friends: these were two strange men that had given him a lift into town. He didn’t know anything about them. Even getting back into their van had been a mistake, let alone accepting the offered drink.

If he died here, nobody would know what had happened to him.

Of course, there wouldn’t be anybody looking for him if he did disappear. There might be some irritated emails and some brief frustration on the end of Mary-Lee, Lee, and Co., but that would blow over quickly. His grandmother had died when he had been eleven, and his foster family wouldn’t be expecting any further contact with him.

Virgil was quite literally on his own in the world now.

Ethan shifted a little, clearing his throat. “Well, if-”

“Do you have a twin, Roman?” He had blurted the words, trying to move the discussion away from himself, uncomfortable with the piercing silence and the feeling of being taken apart under Ethan’s gaze.

Roman choked.

Ethan didn’t move to pick up the bottle that fell from Roman’s hands or to help as the bronzed man thumped one fist against his chest. In fact, he didn’t move at all: he had frozen, expression blank, eyes still on Virgil. No - he wasn’t perfectly still. His jaw was twitching ever so slightly.

“Um. I’m… Sorry?” Tea sloshed over the sides of Virgil’s mug as he set it down, pushing himself halfway to his feet, unsure of what he was planning on doing. When he tried to take a step closer to the choking man, Roman drew back his lips and snarled at him.

Were his teeth filed down to points?

Virgil swallowed hard and sat down again.

It wasn’t long before Roman’s coughing fit subsided, and the scowl that replaced the breathless gasps looked as though it were made from broken glass. “He’s dead.” The words were practically coated with venom, and it dripped into the silence between them. Then Virgil’s mouth moved of its own accord, ignoring his burning wish not to be murdered by a guy with fluorescent eyes tonight.

“But I saw-”

“Get out.”

“What?” It was an automatic reaction: Virgil was already getting to his feet as he spoke.

“Get. The fuck.”

There was a faint squelch as one of Virgil’s boots landed in the small puddle oozing slowly from the bottle on the floor.

“Out of my van. Before I rip-”

The liquid was thicker than he had expected: he could see it in the way that it took nearly a second for the tread of his shoe to disappear when he lifted his foot.

“-your eyes from their sockets and-”

It really did look more red than brown in this lighting.

“-stuff them down your throat so you can-”

Virgil didn’t want to know. He didn’t want to hear Roman finish his threat, he didn’t want to know what he had been drinking - dyed golden syrup, he hoped.

“-watch as I tear your intestines from-”

It was a shame that that message didn’t seem to be getting through to the rest of his brain, he thought, sniffing the air a few times.

“-your stomach and garotte you with them! And then I’ll fetch-”

Virgil should stay quiet. He knew he should. But he could feel the words rising in his throat like bile.

“-your eyes back again so you can see-”

“Is that blood?”

Roman stopped talking so fast it was as though Virgil had gagged him.

A movement in the corner of his eye brought his attention to Ethan, who seemed to have finally unfrozen, and was moving as though to stand up.

He should get out of here.

Finally - finally - Virgil’s body seemed willing to answer to his commands, and he took a step backwards. Then another, praying that the hand groping behind him would find the door handle before Ethan could decide that his blood would be a good replacement for the stuff Roman had spilled.

Roman had been drinking blood.

He could hear his heart pounding in his ears.

Ethan had brought Roman a cola bottle - four cola bottles - full of blood, and Roman had been drinking it.

Oh fuck. Virgil felt his breath catch in his throat, his steps faltering briefly. They were serial killers. He had caught a ride from a pair of serial killers with a thing for creepy contact lenses and drinking the blood of their victims, and now he was going to become their next victim - maybe that was what was in those cookies that Ethan had been guarding. He was going to be made into blood cookies and nobody would know or care what had happened to him and-

“Virgil.”

Ethan was standing right in front of him. They were almost nose to nose - or would be, had Ethan been two inches shorter. Virgil took another step backward, nausea curling in his stomach, and almost sobbed with relief when his fingers found the metal of the door handle.

That was when he realised that he couldn’t look away from the man before him.

Or rather, he didn’t want to look away from Ethan. If a death blow was coming, he wanted to be able to see it. Turning his back, breaking eye contact - these things would leave him vulnerable.

“Virgil, calm down.”

He tried to open the door, and discovered that his hand had dropped from the handle and was hanging limply by his side. When Virgil attempted to find the door once more, his arm completely refused to move. He could barely twitch his fingers - he could feel them brushing against his thighs, useless. The other arm didn’t prove to be much better either.

Ethan’s burning eyes were swirling before him, yellow-gold kaleidoscopes. Had he been drugged? The… The tea - had they drugged the tea? His thoughts were slippery things, darting from between his fingers whenever he tried to grasp at one.

“Relax, Virgil. Just relax…”

A pair of hands was gripping his torso, just under his arms, and it took several seconds (minutes?) to realise that his knees had buckled. Ethan must be supporting him. He would look, but his attention was fixed on the glowing, twirling disks above him, and the edges of his vision were turning black.

Besides, he didn’t want to. Not if it meant breaking Ethan’s gaze. Instead, he allowed the swirling neon eyes to swallow him whole.

When Roman dreamed, he saw darkness, and the faces of the dead.

At least when he opened his eyes again, there was now something more to see.

#lichmai roman #lichmai logan #lichmai patton #lichmai janus #lichmai remus #lichmia virgil #what happened in lichmai #blood tw

0 notes

scurvgirl · 7 years

Text

So @lillotte17 and I have been talking a lot about the triplets and at some point I went “Tonlen and Oisin would be cute together” and then this happened.

Oisin belongs to @lillotte17

Uthvir (implied) and Thenerassan/Thenvunin belong to @feynites

Mana’din needs a cobbler, apparently. And not just any cobbler, but a high-end shoe maker who caters to the upper class.

Tonlen is informed of his trade early in the day. A runner fetches him from his workshop and brings him to a bunch of managers who are looking over files. There’s another person there, they wear Mana’din’s markings and look particularly unhappy about the situation. Like they have any right to be more put out about this than Tonlen. This is a slap in the face of his work. Is he not skilled or creative enough to remain under Sylaise? Must he be subjugated to the pervasive disorganized “style” in Mana’din’s ranks? Truly, this is an insult beyond reasonable bearing, but Tonlen is gracious, so bear it he will.

“And what is it you do?” He asks the soon to be former servant of Mana’din.

“I’m…I’m an aqueduct engineer.” Oh, well, that explains things more than simply Mana’din desiring a cobbler of Tonlen’s exceptional caliber. The aqueducts have been needing some tuning up in the more rural parts of Sylaise’s territories. He sighs. Well, it beats being sacrificed and Mana’din has a good reputation for being good to her followers, even if she is not as…stylish.

Perhaps she can be convinced to allow him to remain in Arlathan. He’s been to Daran before, it’s not quite his cup of tea. But he can grow to love it if that is where he is placed. He’s not a fool, merely disgruntled at lackluster taste.

The trade takes a few weeks to be completed, mostly due to Sylaise and Mana’din having conflicting schedules for this time of year. They both need to present for the ritual vallaslin change, so Tonlen and the engineer wait. It gives Tonlen time to inform his clients that he is being moved. To his delight, many of his clients seem very saddened by the thought of losing his trade. Some even nod and say they will still seek him out. It is all very flattering. He also begins to reach out to some of the other higher end shoe makers in Mana’din’s territories – staggeringly few compared to Sylaise that is for sure. It is likely he will be heading to Daran after all. That is where most of the higher-ups are, so most of his potential clientele, not to mention Mana’din herself.

After the transfer is complete, his family helps move him into his new quarters. He is given a small apartment that his mother is none too happy about. It’s not good enough for him, and he agrees. But…his skills aren’t as appreciated here, so…his apartment isn’t as nice as his old one. He gets a balcony, though, and the view isn’t so bad. The closet is slightly too small to house all of his robes, however, and he refuses to part with any of them. That sacrifice is too much to bear. So, he has a rack of splendid clothes in a corner of his living space. There is no actual change in rank, so he will be keeping all his clothes, all his accessories, everything. They can pry it from his cold dead hands at this point.

His memae and him spend several days getting the apartment to better a standard. Papa helps of course, he has a great eye for these sorts of things as well, and he knows how to install things. Ileth helps by cooking and baking and making sure everyone is fed. His new station as a baker is serving him well, much better than how he was as a manager.

Memae sighs and looks at the finished apartment, worry clear on her face, “It is not as nice as what you had. But Mana’din is…a very kind and merciful woman to work under.” The unspoken unlike Falon’din hangs in the air. She was here for that, she saw his tyrannical rule.

“I will make the best of it, I always do,” he asserts, “and perhaps my superior tastes will invigorate the nearby peoples to adopt more fashionable styles.” He can hope.

His family leaves in the afternoon, hoping to make it back to Arlathan before it is too late. Ileth has an apprentice to make sure kept the bakery up and running and Papa has a large commission to work on. Memae can’t leave her duties for overlong, Tasallir will be put out and they can’t have that. Besides, he’s an adult, this is his life now, it’s best if he just…learns how to deal with it. Tacky as Daran may be, it is considerably safer than Arlathan and any other of Sylaise’s cities.

The next day is spent with Tonlen getting his work shop set up. Being a shoe maker means he makes not just hard-soled shoes, but enchanted footwraps, and occasionally foot jewelry that is suitable for walking and dancing in. He started out in a lower end sector, catering mostly to workers who needed sturdy shoes for their work like gardening, sewer tending, construction – things like that. He’s plied his knowledge of stability and sturdiness to his higher end trends. The results have been amazing – the elite can dance for days in his shoes and not feel a thing. He’s proud of the reputation he has cultivated for himself. Now he must build it up once more.

The next few months, he works does whatever a shifted artisan does. He holds sales, advertises, flaunts his work on himself, and even pays a few people to talk about his store to bring in more commissioners. He’d feel bad about the bribing if he wasn’t being honest about the quality he creates.

But to Tonlen’s dismay, the first higher up clientele he receives are military officials. They ask if his resilient dancing shoes can be translated to their marching gear. Well, of course it can and he can, but…military boots? Is this what his work will be now? Oh, how he longs for the ridiculous couture of Sylaise’s people!

He takes the commissions, though, and works sturdy, comfortable enchantments into them. He matches them to the patron’s gear, slipping in a slightly more colorful interior of the boot than explicitly necessary. Well, he has to do something. They walk away happy, though, and soon more military clientele show up – so he’s done a good job at least. And it pays. But what he wouldn’t give for something completely ridiculous to make.

It requires him working later, but Tonlen decides to make some new boots for himself. It will take a long time to construct them, with all the patterns in the leather, and the silver threading, the beaded lace trim, and the heels of course. But it will be worth it. No one else here in this depressingly drab land would dare to wear something so…fashionable.

He needs something to occupy the creative side of his brain. Marching boots are fine for generating revenue, but they are dull, and there are only so many pattern differences he can use, particularly if he wants to continue to use the exceptionally effective enchantments for comfort and durability. Tonlen needs diversity in his creation if he’s going to continue to enjoy his work. Maybe he should bribe some more people to say he’s a couture designer, not just an elite military shoe maker.

But even as he laments the monotony of the work, more military personnel pour into his workshop. He fills the orders even as he tells them that his true specialty is more delicate fanciful shoes.

He is working on his personal project, early in the morning, when the door to the shop opens and yet strides in another military person. They look unlike the other military persons he’s served, covered in red spiked plate, their eyes keener and more…aware. Strangely enough, they make him think of the more pointedly different people in Arlathan, the ones who despised the trends and ended up creating their own style. He quite liked them in a way – they always gave him interesting challenges. So Tonlen smiles his most charming smile and rises happily from his chair.

Only to have the new client plop a pair of worn, well-worn, boots onto the counter.

“These need to be repaired and re-enchanted.”

Something in Tonlen deflates as he inspects the boots. They’ve been repaired and re-enchanted multiple times. The soles are worn to a disastrous point, the leather is weak, and whatever style they used to possess is long gone.

He shakes his head, “I am sorry but I think these boots have earned their rest. However, I am quite capable of making you a new pair, if you would like.” He hands the boots back and they nod, apparently unsurprised.

“I suspected as such…” they glance around the shop then consider Tonlen, “you do not specialize in military boots.”

He shakes his head, “No. In Arlathan I was known mostly for my couture, I made…beautiful, exquisite shoes for dancing and wooing and outlandish outfits. Strappy sandals, thigh highs, boots, even leg wraps, and shoes that are more like leg jewelry than shoe – but all enchanted to give the wearer the feeling and security of shoes. I am happy to create more…military styled boots for marching, though. They simply do not strike the artistic chord in me.”

“Hm. Then I think I will take these to my usual cobbler.”

“Oh, I apologize if I came across poorly, I’m happy to make any shoe you wish. My flights of fancy do not impede my work.” But they take their boots off the counter anyways and say their goodbyes as they leave the shop.

Dammit.

Maybe he should just accept that this is his work now. He is…a military boot person. His days of crafting amazing works of art are over.

The rest of the day passes in a disappointing melancholy. He works on commissions and a few stock pieces people can buy out from the store without commission. A few more people come into the shop, some even purchase more fanciful shoes, but they are more standard fun glitzy shoes.

But the next day, around noon, just before Tonlen is about to take his midday break for lunch, two men enter his shop. They are tall and blonde, and look related in how they carry themselves, straight back, squared shoulders, but they are also surrounded by airs of civility and friendliness. Though the air around the blue-eyed one is tangibly younger and more open. And it is Blue Eyes that pulls Tonlen’s gaze. His features are rounder, softer, his face covered in an endearing smattering of freckles. His skin shines in the light, particularly next to the golden piece he and the other are admiring.

“Welcome! I am Tonlen and this is my lovely little shoe shop. Please, have a look around, if there is anything I can help you with, let me know.” He smiles and sends up a prayer to whatever is out there that they’re here to commission, or they could be persuaded to commission him. They look closer to the types who would commission him back in Arlathan, so maybe there’s hope.

Green Eyes turns to him and puts on a polite smile himself, “Actually yes. My spouse came by yesterday and they said you do more fashionable shoe commissions?” Tonlen blinks, not believing his luck before snapping out of it.

“Yes, yes, I do! I’m originally from Arlathan, I’ve only been here a few months. I am very skilled in creating couture shoes, sandals – really whatever it is you heart desires.” He is woefully out of practice and desperate, but it doesn’t seem to put the clients off, thankfully.

“The seasonal apple harvest celebration is in two months and we’re hoping to see if you can create some suitable footwear,” Green Eyes explains. Oh yes, he’s heard of that, it’s an open celebration to most in the city. There are of course caterers and servers who are paid to tend to the celebration, but most of the city is expected to attend in some fashion. The orchards are there for everyone to enjoy apparently, not just Mana’din and her attendants. Strange but…a welcome sort of strange. It gives Tonlen an excuse to wear the new boots he’s making for himself at least.

“Oh of course! Do we know where the celebration will take place? Is it in the fields or somewhere with more substantial flooring?” He ducks down and grabs his sketch book for commissions and pops up. He’s already composing color ideas and requirements in the shoe.

“There is a feast hall, so more substantial flooring.”

“Excellent. And are there specific types of shoe you would like? An outfit that you seek to match?” What a joy to be working on actual beautiful commissions once more! The green-eyed man is more experienced in this, Tonlen can tell, while Blue-Eyes tends to look over the shop, quieter, but there is something…quite entrancing about him.

It’s not uncommon to have muses in Arlathan, many in the Pleasure District have been muses for many artists and artisans. One of Tonlen’s previous romantic relationships grew out of a muse-artisan relationship. It had been a beautiful thing, one full of mutual respect and beauty. But time goes on, people grow apart.

“May I have your names, please. To keep the sketches clear, of course, organization is imperative,” he says.

“I am Thenerassan, pleased to meet you, Tonlen,” Green-Eyes, Thenerassan, says.

Blue-Eyes smiles and it is magnificent, so suited for muse work, really, “Oisin, nice to meet you.”

Tonlen smiles back, “Beautiful,” he says, the flirt easy on his lips before he sees Thenerassan’s eyes narrow and his lips thing, “is what the shoes you order will be. Now, do you have any outfits to match?”

He falls easily into the old commission work, looking at the designs they brought him of their clothes they’ll be wearing. They’re…fashionable but not forward like he is used to. Still, he is glad to be given the chance to work on something other than clunky military boots. Granted, they are the best and most beautiful military boots out there, he’s a damn visionary when it comes to military boots, but they’re still military boots.

“The slit is up to the bottom of your hip where the leg begins…have you considered to the top of the hip? It’s trending in Arlathan and there are ways to achieve more modesty with stockings. It shortens the torso while elongating the legs, I say that because it looks spectacular with thigh high lattice work metal sandals. The bottom-hip high slit looks better with just over the knee sandals. The idea is keeping a good skin to shoe ratio,” he explains, “here, I can grab a couple of sample shoes to display the difference.” He moves to the side of the store and pulls down a few mannequins, one with mid-thigh height boots and one with over the knee sandals.

“I see, so mine will take the over-the knee sandal. Oisin, what would you prefer?”

“I like the boot, but I don’t want the slit any higher,” he says. There is a slight hesitance in his voice that Tonlen recognizes as some inexperience of commissioning, or rather in clients who attempt to be polite by not being overly assertive in what they want. But what he wants is what he gets, that is Tonlen’s goal as a craftsman and a businessman.

“Completely doable, there are many designs that I can do to make the best boot for you.” He returns to his sketchpad and begins to work on Oisin’s design. Thenerassan’s is strangely straightforward, it’s a sandal style with winding metal that has feathered etching, up over the knee, embellished with a few garnets up the back where the shoe opens for him to put in his foot and leg.

Oisin’s boot, though, is going to be slightly more complex. It’s a sturdy cloth base with leather accents. The season is too warm for a completely leather boot without heavy cooling enchantments, but there’s no need if Tonlen can use more breathable fabric. There is a very minor heel, just under an inch in height, so it will not really make Oisin taller, but rather offer support. Thenerassan’s sandal even has a support heel.

Since the celebration is in the autumn, there is a trend towards warmer colors. Oisin plans to wear a burnt orange robe with umber and gold accents. This makes Tonlen favor a rich brown leather and a slightly darker fabric for the boot. If he went lighter, it would draw a strange contrast to the robes, and this way, Tonlen can potentially work in a gold accent somewhere in the design.

Once they have confirmed on the concept designs, Tonlen walks Thenerassan and Oisin over to the seats and breaks out the molding socks. The fabric was invented recently by a sex toy maker, of all things. It was to make taking casts of certain appendages easier and allow for more privacy. It has since translated well to jewelers and shoe makers. It’s simple, he stretches the sock up to where he wants the shoes to go, and then the fabric remembers the form for Tonlen to work from later.

Thenerassan seems to be familiar with the fabric, however, and he sets to protest, “That fabric –

“Has many uses! It works well on remembering feet and leg measurements, so you won’t have to come back in multiple times for confirmation of measurements. I’ve worked with it for years now and I love it, clients love it too,” he reassures Thenerassan as he eases the stocking up his legs. Once properly placed, Tonlen activates the magic in the stocking. It glows briefly before dulling, cuing Tonlen it’s safe to remove.

He places Thenerassan’s stockings into a box that he quickly labels with his name, then moves onto Oisin. He slides the stocking up Oisin’s leg, adjusting it so that it is not too tight but also not too loose. The fabric can be persnickety with modeling, it requires particular touching which for some is uncomfortable. Even so, it is still less invasive than the multitude of measurements he’d have to take if he was doing this traditionally.

Tonlen adjusts the stocking to where Oisin wants the boot to end and he, in what could possibly be described as too forward or ill-advised, looks up. Oisin is watching him and Tonlen smiles. It’s not a business smile, not a “my pleasure to serve you!” smile, but a flirty smile. It’s quick and Tonlen comes to his senses so he looks away, rolling the stocking down when it’s ready then puts it into a box.

“Alright, next I need to observe how you walk. I create beauty, but this type of beauty should also serve a functional purpose of support. A dance can be completely thrown off if the shoes do not fit correctly or do not support properly.”

Thenerassan demonstrates for Tonlen first. His gait is elegant, but strong, indicating his fighting training. He moves with his robes beautifully, and he is balanced on his feet evenly. He has a low arch, and when he turns, he loads most of his weight onto his heel – a warrior’s move. Oisin however, frontloads his weight like a dancer might, but it’s untrained, to uneven to suggest Oisin is a dancer. His arches are higher so the bulk of the stress his feet bear are on the balls of his feet rather than his heel. Tonlen makes a note to bump the support heel to a full inch instead of the quarter of an inch before.

Tonlen takes all the notes down and circles areas on the shoe designs that are going to need some altering for comfort’s sake. He is very aware that beauty can be pain, but if he can manage something just as beautiful without pain – does that not make it more beautiful?

He jots the notes down onto the sketches. When the demonstrations are done, he grabs swatches of materials from the back to show them what the shoes will be made from. Once they seem pleased with the selection, it’s finalized.

“Now the least fun part – I require a fifty percent deposit for the work, then the remaining fifty percent upon reception of the commission. Thank you for choosing my business, I know there are many others you could have chosen, I’m honored to make these beautiful shoes for you.” Being gracious is important, otherwise, he risks offense to the customer. Papa was always clear on how to interact with the customers – make them feel good, happy, flatter them, don’t focus on numbers, but emotions, they are giving you money, yes, but presenting a servile nature is to your benefit. Customers like feeling in control, no matter their station.

They get the money sorted out, as well as a time frame for when Tonlen will complete the shoes. It should take three weeks. He has two other commissions, but both will be completed soon, then Tonlen can dedicate as much time as he needs to these commissions. If they had requested special enchantments, it would take longer, but they opted for basic comfort enchantments that Tonlen can accomplish in an afternoon.

Thenerassan and Oisin turn to leave the shop. Tonlen can’t help the smile that spreads across his face. And just before he leaves, Oisin turns and smiles back at Tonlen.

“I look forward to seeing how everything turns out,” he says.

“That makes two of us,” Tonlen replies. Oisin nods then follows Thenerassan out the door.

The next few weeks, Tonlen spends working on solely on commissions. Some of his prepared stock dwindles, but not enough to drag him from his beloved work. He travels to Arlathan once to consult his father on Thenerassan’s commission. It involves a lot of metalwork similar to jewelry, and he could use the help. While at his father’s, he creates gold buttons that will run up the back of Oisin’s boot. They’re etched with little flowers, each one unique. It’s a detail that won’t necessarily noticed by most, but it’s the details like these that make the shoes feel luxe.

And it’s good to visit his parents. They feed him and Memae fusses over him. Arlathan looks different, the colors surrounding the fashionable areas are different – less turquoise and more gold and amber for the season. There are trees of rich brown with leaves of gold lining the streets, the leaves that fall suddenly being suspended in an aura around them.

He visits the market and finds a gold silk scarf that remind him of Oisin’s hair. It is completely inappropriate for him to send a gift now, but…after the commission is completed, perhaps it wouldn’t be such a bad thing. Tonlen isn’t one to dilly on a decision such as this – Oisin is beautiful, radiant even. He isn’t even exactly proposing courtship, he would settle for friends or a muse relationship. Oisin would make an excellent muse. What he is unsure of is that this is entirely too early and out of place.

But the scarf is beautiful, and even if he decides to not send it to Oisin, he can wear it himself. So Tonlen purchases the scarf and doesn’t spend more time thinking about it than necessary. He can over-analyze later, right now, he has a commission to finish.

When Tonlen returns to Daran, there are fewer decorations, but he sees that the people smile more freely. The restrictions regarding status are more lax and the air isn’t quite so tense. It’s a beauty he hasn’t appreciated, didn’t know how to appreciate. Arlathan is a work of art, beauty is pain.

But if the same beauty can be achieved with less pain – does that not make it more beautiful?

The thoughts don’t sit well with him, and thankfully he has his work to distract him.

The shoes are finished in the next week, just meeting the end of the three-week deadline. Thenerassan and Oisin return when Tonlen sends word that he has completed the commission.

“Please sit, I will be happy to put them on you,” Tonlen says. He works on Thenerassan’s first. He shows him how to open the back of the long sandal with the right use of magic. The flexible metal opens up and he is able to slide his leg in.

“How is the fit?” Tonlen asks as the sandal closes around Thenerassan’s leg.

“Good, it doesn’t pinch,” he sounds slightly surprised at that. He rises from his seat and takes a few steps, turns on his heel, and flexes his feet.

“They are very comfortable, and I don’t see any place where you’ve sacrificed aesthetic.”

“You are very kind – that is always my goal. Form, function, and comfort. Please remain standing, I am going to inspect the fit to make sure that everything is in order.” He shifts to where Thenerassan is standing and looks at the places where fit tends to get difficult – by the toes and the heel. But everything seems to be right, the toes aren’t pinched and the metal lays flush against Thenerassan’s heel, but not digging in.

“Everything looks good, I do recommend breaking them in before any dancing, however. To reduce the likelihood of blisters, and to help with any pain from the blisters, you can use a basic crème you can get from any apothecary. I’ll write the name down for you. Alright, Oisin, time to fit your boots. These were an absolute delight to make. And as you can see, I added some gold buttons on the back, just for some sparkle. And if you look closely, I etched in floral designs into each one. Just an extra touch.”

“That was not part of the agreed bill,” Thenerassan says. Tonlen purses his lips.

“It will not raise the cost, I did this for the art. If you wish, you may consider it a gift.” He regrets the word as soon as it leaves his mouth. Oisin’s eyes widen, and Thenerassan is suddenly very close in Tonlen’s peripheral.

“As in a complimentary gift. I saw it would compliment the shoe, so I put it there. I can absorb the cost with ease thanks to other commissions. I mean no imposition,” he explains quickly. Thenerassan becomes no less looming and Oisin looks…flushed, but not dismissive.

“Of course not, I appreciate the thought, they really do add to the boot,” he says, holding his stockinged leg out for Tonlen to affix the boot. He takes the cue and puts the boots on, noting the lack of tightness or unpleasantness that can sometimes come with the first fit. But no, the boot is snug and will allow for some breaking in, but it should not be uncomfortable.

Oisin stands and steps in place, testing the fit. He is a natural in wearing boots, they compliment his form in such a sublime manner that it makes Tonlen’s hands itch to make more. The elf is made for fashion, and yet he is here in Daran and not Arlathan. Curious. His look is one that is prized in Arlathan, he could reach high station just on looks. But, the winds of fashion tend to change and those who reach heights with prettiness need more than just their looks to hold onto that station. Still, Oisin is beautiful, and only if Tonlen were without eyes could he not see such beauty.

He keeps his doe-eyed sighing internal, however, no need to make the father-hen more ruffled than he already is.

“Are they comfortable?” Tonlen asks.

“Very! And I imagine they will only become more comfortable after wearing them in. You are quite skilled.” Oisin’s smile is soft and Tonlen can guess as to why he is not in Arlathan. Softness means weakness, there are plenty of sharp people willing to take advantage of those who are given to kinder and softer things in life. Tonlen never understood the need to hurt or step on other people to get what you want – he achieved so many things he wanted, and he never had to hurt anyone. But, he did end up in Daran.

“You are too kind. If you will permit me, I’d like to make sure everything is right with you standing?” He asks and Oisin nods, going still and adjusting his robes properly for Tonlen to inspect the boots. A wonderful fit, just as he had hoped for and promised.

Tonlen stands back up and waits for them to take their shoes off and don the shoes they had entered with.

“I am honored to have made such lovely pieces for such lovely people. I hope you dance to happiness and comfort all night long,” he says, collecting the rest of the money. Thenerassan’s smile is tight, polite – a familiar forced type of smile.

“Your work is very good, even if –

“Your work is lovely, we’ll be sure to tell our friends,” Oisin finishes his father’s statement in a much different direction. Tonlen blinks back a blush and nods his gratitude.

“Thank you, my lords, you are exceptionally kind,” and forgiving.

He sees them out and clicks the door shut. He doubts he’ll get any more through traffic today, but he leaves the store open and returns to the back to continue working on his personal boots. They’re a gorgeous deep shade of purple that almost borders on black, and the heel is high enough to probably make him at least Oisin’s height.

Tonlen is not even an hour into his work when the wards at the front door ring. Apparently he was wrong on getting more traffic for the day. When he returns to the main shop, he finds Oisin there, standing slightly awkwardly, holding the bag with the box of boots. For a split moment, Tonlen worries that he does not like the boots after all.

“Welcome back, is there something I can help you with?” Tonlen asks, consciously keeping his worry from spilling out.

It takes Oisin a moment before he responds, “Were you lying when you said the buttons were just a complimentary gift or…” he trails off, but Tonlen gets his meaning. His smile turns into a grin.

“My dear Oisin, I assure you, if I were to give you a courting gift, you would know.”

Oisin blushes and glances at the floor but to his credit, he quickly looks up, eyes shining, “Oh good. I would hate to not notice.”

“Would you like me to send you courting gifts?” Tonlen asks, feeling exceptionally bold. Oisin blinks and blushes a bit more deeply.

“You don’t even know me,” Oisin says quickly.

“And what a shame that is.” Tonlen walks out from around the corner and strides slowly to Oisin, giving him time to move if he so chose.

Oisin swallows but does not move, “My father thinks you are terribly indecent and crass.”

“Well it’s a good thing that I’m not interested in your father,” Tonlen quips.

Oisin makes to respond but Tonlen raises a finger, “But I understand. I was terribly forward, and I should not have been. Your beauty took me off-guard. It is partially why I included some more…upgraded things in the shoes, to make up for that.”

“I do not mind,” Oisin says softly.

“But I do. Professionalism is very important in this business. So, I will ask – will you permit me to, after a reasonable amount of time has passed, to send you what can be considered a courting gift?”

Oisin’s blush remains but he looks more sure when nods, “Yes, I will permit it. I’ll even look forward to it.”

“Good. I look forward to sending it…and hearing of what I’m sure will be a happy response.”

“You’re very confident of that,” Oisin replies, quicker.

“Because I’m an excellent gift giver, and you are lovely and polite. The two make bliss.” He is aware he sounds cocky, but this is fun, and he hasn’t had this kind of fun in…well, he hasn’t had a partner since Lithadra and that was almost ten years ago. Perhaps he’s rusty, or maybe he’s just making up for lost time.

“You may have point. I’m afraid I am out of time of slipping away from my father. I look forward to hearing from you.”

“It has been a pleasure. Wear the shoes well!” Tonlen walks him to the door before Oisin turns back around, positioned so that he’s half out the door but leaning back in towards Tonlen.

“Are you going to the celebration? Perhaps I will see you there?”

“It is likely you will see me there.” It’s Tonlen’s turn to blush slightly at Oisin’s forwardness. But Oisin just smiles in response, his entire face lighting up so sweetly.

“Wonderful, I look forward to it.” He leaves the store to head back to Thenerassan but Tonlen’s smile and slight blush remains. What a delightful surprise. He can’t believe he’s not done this in so long, he’d practically forgotten how much fun it is!

He returns to the back, feeling light and better than he has in weeks. Perhaps the best since he’s moved to Daran. He’ll have some reason to send the scarf, after all. And poetry. Lots and lots of poetry.

#tonlen #oisin #thenvunin #tonlen x oisin #clusterfuck triplets au #fic #my writing #tonlen is a bit of a diva #'MILITARY BOOTS! THE HORROR! THE TRAGEDY!'#i took some liberties with stuff #thenvunin Does Not Approve At All

15 notes · View notes

allythurston2 · 4 years

Text

Blog #1: Examining Youth Culture

This week we were assigned to watch four films and one television show that encouraged us to examine youth culture. These films and the television show took place in different time periods, ranging from the 1980’s up until the present. When watching these films, I occasionally found myself identifying with characters and some of their actions. Surprisingly, I identified with Brian from The Breakfast Club. Like Brian, I was very shy and nerdy. My parents put a lot of pressure on me to do well, I was the oldest sibling which meant I had to set a good example. I was easily intimidated by others just as Brian was intimidated by John. I also had a huge respect for authority, I was very careful to not get in trouble. Seeing Brian constantly cut off during conversation was like looking in a mirror. Being soft spoken, when I did talk, I was talked over constantly, which added to my reasoning to just not talk at all. I never really pictured myself relating to him, I have watched the movie before, but I never really saw the connection until watching it again for my communications class.

While these films were all different in their own ways, they each presented similar themes. The first theme that popped out to me was acceptance. Many of the characters in these films were seeking the acceptance of the people they surrounded themselves with as well as self-acceptance. In the show Euphoria we are introduced to an array of characters, each fighting their own battles. One character in particular named Kat stood out to me. Kat was always considered the less attractive member of her four-girl friend group. Boys often referred to her as “fat” because she did not fit the typical size 4 boy type that many find attractive. Unlike many characters who were seeking the approval of others, Kat seemed more focused on seeking approval from herself. She showed clear signs of being insecure, but after a video of her preforming a sexual act ended up online that all changed. She blossomed, developing this “hot girl” mentality once she realized how many people found her attractive the way she was. She found the acceptance within herself that she desperately needed. In the film Mean Girls, Cady was a prime example of someone who was seeking acceptance from others. She wanted to fit in so bad that she gave up who she was, transforming herself to fit into the Plastic’s cookie cutter standards. She left behind her genuine friends in order to be accepted by the popular crowd who in all reality did not like her in the first place. Both of these characters can be compared to the youth of today. Today’s youth seek acceptance, whether it be from others or themselves, it seems to be a common goal among many. When I was a teenager I wanted so badly to be accepted, but I was quiet, and awkward, a combination that did not exactly scream “cool”. I found myself struggling to remain true to who I was while also trying desperately to find the “group” that I fit in with. While I struggled for most of my high school experience trying to accept myself as well as be accepted, I ultimately had a revelation my senior year that the only person who needs to accept me is me. I focused on loving myself for me and have not looked back since. Another theme I felt was present in these films would be the common goal to live life to the fullest. Many characters were focused on attending the next party or living their life the way they wanted to, regardless of consequences. In Mid90s the skater crowd just wanted to skate and party, they did not care who it effected in the process as long as they were having a good time. In Kids, Telly was focused on partying and being sexually active. He had no regard for the safety of himself or the girls he was involved with which ultimately was a major downfall. I feel that the youth today still possess the same mindset. Parties are still happening regularly even though we are in a pandemic. People do not care if they get sick, all that matters is they were living their life to the fullest and on their terms. While I was awkward in my youth, I still attended parties regularly. I was friends with people who were at every party every weekend it seemed, and I truthfully enjoyed every moment of it. Thinking back on it now, I was reckless, but being reckless made me feel alive. I feel that everyone at some point goes through their “I’m indestructible” phase of life, but that phase can really humble you. Living life to the fullest is what being young seems to be all about. A final theme I found common amongst all of the films was the theme of sexuality. While it was more present in films like Kids and Euphoria versus the film The Breakfast Club, I felt its something definitely worth mentioning. Sexuality is very prominent in youth culture. Teenagers are experimenting with not only sex but discovering their own sexuality. Promiscuity is no stranger to many high school students, it seemed like high school was a common time for many to figure out who they were sexually. While in that department I am a very private person, I will say that high school was not really the time for me to come to terms with any type of sexuality. I did however witness many of my friends go on their journey of sexual discovery, and I learned a lot from their stories. In high school I felt that everyone always knew who was sexually active and who was not. It always seemed like people would have all this knowledge on other’s personal lives, but not by their choice. People talked; privacy was virtually nonexistent. It seemed as if nothing was sacred, and while the girls definitely did their fair share of talking, it always seemed like the most outlandish stories came from the boys. The scene in Kids where Telly and his friends were talking about girl’s sexual preference and Jennie and her friends were talking about their own preference is what I imagined these conversations actually went like during my time in high school. Being the quiet girl met people always felt comfortable talking about things around me, and I can recall more then one occasion hearing both genders sides of an encounter and let me tell you they were always extremely different.

When watching these movies, I noticed one other big thing outside of my relation to a character and the very prominent themes all the films appeared to share. I noticed the music, and how it set the overall narrative of the film. I noticed how in each film when there was something traumatic or sad occurring the music reflected the feeling the scene was meant to give. When there was a party going on or when characters were doing something fun the music was fast or upbeat. The music helped set the overall vibe and tone for what was happening, it’s almost as if it gave you an indication of what was going to happen. I took the time to create a spotify playlist which I will link below this post. Each song I chose because I feel it reflected my experiences during my youth well. The first song I chose is “Kids in Love” by Mayday Parade. This song reminds me of the silly romances I had throughout my youth. I always thought I was in love, but at that age who didn’t. The second song I chose was “Therapy” by All Time Low. I was a very angsty and depressed kid, I listened to this song on repeat when I would go through my frequent, spurts of depression. While the song itself is sad, it oddly brought me comfort. The third song I chose was “Killing in The Name” by Rage Against The Machine. This song is a bit strange, but the ending in particularly reminded me of my mentality during my youth. There is a lot of colorful language in the song, but I felt the ending, which essentially is saying I’m going to do what I want, was spot on with my overall attitude during the age of sixteen to seventeen. The fourth song I chose is “Edge of Seventeen” by Stevie Nicks. I have always idolized Stevie, I would listen to this car during the warmer months, driving with the windows down, and feeling as free as a bird. Honestly anything by Stevie put me in a good mood, I would drive around singing her music at the top of my lungs quite frequently. The fifth song I chose was “ I Want You To Want Me” by Cheap Trick. This song represents my desire to be wanted by someone, which I feel everyone can relate to. I wanted to be in love, I wanted someone to be crazy about me. I watched way too many romance movies during my youth, hence my minor obsession with love. For my sixth song I chose “Rock and Roll All Nite” by KISS. This one I feel is self-explanatory, I wanted to party all the time! This song is fun and upbeat and to this day I still enjoy it. For my seventh song I chose “I Will Not Bow” by Breaking Benjamin. This song represents my depression, I refused to allow it to break me. I shut myself away from the world a lot, I was “a cold-blooded fake” at times. This song pulled me out of some pretty dark times, I still listen to it when I find myself in a less then ideal head space to remind me that I am strong and “will not break”. The eight song I chose is also slightly morbid but is one of my favorites. I chose “Can You Feel My Heart” by Bring Me The Horizon. The lyrics “I’m scared to get close, and I hate being alone, I long for the feeling to not feel at all, the higher get, the lower I’ll sink, I can’t drown my demons, they know how to swim” was essentially my headspace when I was sixteen. To say mentally I was going through it would be an understatement. This song was not around when I was a teen, but when I first heard it my mind instantly went back to that time. My ninth choice is far less morbid, I chose “First Date” by Blink-182. It reminds me of the nerves and craziness of a first date. It embodies the awkwardness that you feel at the beginning and then the happiness and excitement that followed. The final song I chose is “Teenagers” by My Chemical Romance. This one I chose because to me it is the anthem of what being a teenager is! Teenagers can be scary with how little care or regard for safety they have. They’re wild and angsty. I like how this song covers how mean some cliques could be too, it overall is just a really cool song in my opinion. While my song choices are a bit all of the place, I feel my wide variety of genres and songs paint the picture of who I was during my youth. I was a mess, but I made the best out of it.

https://open.spotify.com/playlist/0pvLKBWYfBXFGyloP2Bu8K?si=2oJOguBYTguW12UIhhtdHQ&utm_source=native-share-menu

0 notes

pharaohsparklefists · 7 years

Text

Episode 100, part 3! Continuing the story of how two emotionally damaged young boys somehow turned into two high-functioning but emotionally damaged teenagers. (While somewhere else, Yami has a really terrible duel.)

While we’ve been diving deep into the Kaiba brother’s traumatic past, you may have forgotten that a suspiciously similar genius boy is watching them on his array of floating screens and making smug genius-boy pronouncements about the illogical nature of emotions

excuse you this is SETO KAIBA we’re talking about, he only lets like maximum THREE emotions control him and no sentiments

(the emotions are disdain, anger, and DUEL)

Nah, like, for real, Kaiba has a LOT of emotions that he doesn’t like talking about and they do, for sure, control his (often outlandish) behaviour (and it’s damaging bullshit to conceptualise emotionality as the “opposite” of logic or intelligence btw) but more to the point...

YOU SURE DO SMILE A LOT FOR SOMEONE OSTENSIBLY EMOTIONLESS, you little bastard

Anyway, back in the apparently-accurate simulacrum of the not-yet-Kaiba brothers’ past, tiny!Seto sees the award ceremony of a chess tournament somehow being broadcast on actual television on the slowest news day imaginable, and not-so-tiny!Mokuba remembers how the next chapter of their lives came to pass, which he blames for...

seriously how is this chess tournament on the news?

... YEN ARE NOT EQUIVALENT TO DOLLARS. That’s ... I mean what even is that? That’s just a strangely-sized piece of paper. It’s smaller than a novelty cheque but much larger than an actual cheque. And it has a rosette on it?? ... IS IT YEN OR DOLLARS CAUSE THAT’S A HUGE DIFFERENCE! In 1995 (which is as far back as xe will go), $100,000 was ¥10,216,277. Which would presumably do a lot more for an orphanage.

ANYWAY.

Seto immediately comes up with a reasonably straightforward plan.

And then specifies...

And I would just like to point out, no, Gozaburo did not turn Seto into a ruthless, ambitious, goal-driven, emotionally-unhealthy person with a desire for power. Seto IS a ruthless, ambitious, goal-driven, emotionally-unhealthy person with a desire for power and that came pre-packaged. If he wasn’t that way when living (presumably happily enough) with his alive parents, he was that way after a short period of time in the orphanage.

Look, Seto knows he’s smarter than most of the adults around him and is supremely confident in his ability to manipulate or force someone into adopting him and his brother. And not just anyone; a powerful person he’s never met before. That means Seto knows he could trivially identify a potential adoptive parent/family and “make” them adopt him and Mokuba. He could have chosen anyone, and he would have been confident in his ability to do this. So firstly, it isn’t a friendly, innocent way to think. He goes straight from “I want this” to “I’ll force someone to give it to me” with no “maybe I’ll ask nicely”. Secondly, his choice of target is the wealthiest, most powerful person he’s had access to while at the orphanage. If Seto had wanted to, he could have had him and Mokuba adopted by their friendliest, sweetest, most emotionally well-balanced teacher by the end of the first week. He sees Gozaburo Kaiba, targets him, researches him, manipulates him into what he wants, and forces his hand. He could have done that to anyone. Seto didn’t want a loving parent, or a stable parent, or a happy parent. He wanted a rich, powerful parent.

Although when we see Gozaburo in the orphanage, it’s briefly believable he might actually be ... nice.

y’know, while he’s doing his best Santa impression

That kid in the greenish hoodie totally got off-brand Duel Monsters cards.

On the way back out, billionaire CEO chess-grandmaster Mr Important is accosted by two orphans who didn’t bother participating in the distribution of (apparently off-brand) toys. They’re after something much more valuable...

“Huh, yeah, that’s what I thought you said. Weird.”

Seto immediately follows it up with...

“If you win, we won’t bother you anymore. But if I win, you have to give me a mouth, I’ve lost mine.”

NATURALLY there has to be conditions? The “condition” is actually a bet or a game: beat me at chess or you have to adopt me. Seto is about to tell us, in a few minutes, that he’s exhaustively studied Gozaburo’s chess strategies. He did so between seeing him win the prize money and him showing up and distributing the gifts bought with the prize money, which is anywhere from a few days to a few months. I’m convinced Seto also spent time in this period studying Gozaburo as a person, and is deliberately framing his demand in business terms, because he’s determined that Gozaburo is most likely to respond to a proposed business deal, as opposed to a bet or a game or a plea.

Gozaburo, on the other hand, has no idea how much research and preparation went into this, crediting Seto’s boldness to ignorance...

BABY SETO SMIRK

... And it doesn’t even make sense. I guess they were all previous winners? Or he’s using “world champion” to mean “world-class chess player”.

Gozaburo considers refusing, but something about Seto impresses or intrigues him...

The orphanage guy, meanwhile, is about to expire from embarrassment, totally out of his depth, not even the first idea of what is proper orphanage etiquette when an orphan brazenly challenges a billionaire visitor to a chess game to determine legal guardianship for himself and his younger brother.

... I don’t even think that’s legal. I don’t think you’re ALLOWED adopt an orphan just because the orphan beat you at chess.

I mean, Duel Monsters, sure, their whole world would probably accept that as legit, but CHESS?

Gozaburo agrees to this legal-minefield of a challenge, but says he won’t go easy on Seto. Seto responds like a stone cold boss...

OOOOOOH boom.

not-so-tiny!Mokuba turns to not-tiny-at-all!Seto at this point and says, essentially, “you had this all figured out, didn’t you?”. At the time, tiny!Mokuba looks worried and unsure, but older!Mokuba knows his brother well enough to know that even tiny!Seto wouldn’t have done this if he hadn’t been absolutely sure of his strategy. And giant!Seto confirms it...

Good thing there was so little on TV that chess matches were apparently televised. He must have caught all the re-runs...

So Seto and Gozaburo sit down for an intense chess match to decide the not-yet-Kaiba brothers’ whole future....

... which would be a lot more dramatic if it wasn’t for the wonky Eevees and giant-headed dog and hot pink elephant drawings as the backdrop.

The game begins and giant!Seto remembers how he won...

... is this how chess works? I don’t know much about chess but I’m SURE this isn’t how chess works. Is it?? Like I know it’d be off-putting to see your own preferred strategy employed as an opener by a 9-year-old you’ve never met, but would that really be enough to beat a world champion chess player? I’m dubious.

Anyway, it’s at this point, about to watch his brother beat his adoptive father at chess and confirm the direction of their very traumatic childhood for a second time, that Mokuba gets upset. He thinks if Seto had just lost this chess game...

And he suddenly, irrationally, grabs the door handle, wishing to intercede, to somehow step into the actual past and prevent this from happening. Seto tries to stop him, pointing out that this is just a virtual illusion, a replica of memories and nothing more, but Mokuba yells back at him...

Which is ... not rational. Mokuba says that this change, from Seto “always smiling” to “losing his smile” happened when Gozaburo adopted them, but we’ve just watched their memories of the time between their parents dying and Gozaburo showing up, and Seto does smile, but certainly not all the time, or even a lot, or with any particular warmth or happiness. In fact, he specifically told Mokuba (apparently multiple times) that he was forcing himself to appear happy to spite the people who’d ruined their lives, and even at that, he’s frowning more than he’s smiling in these memories. Furthermore, post-Gozaburo, Seto DOES smile, and he smiles at Mokuba more than any other time (if you don’t count maniacal DUEL laughter, which I don’t). He smiled at him just a few minutes ago, reassuring him in the forest!

We tend to take Mokuba at his word about their childhood, because of the two brothers, he’s a lot more open about the past, but being willing to talk about something doesn’t mean you’re right about it (as any academic discussion session will teach you...). I think once they were in Gozaburo’s house, and things were worse (emotionally), and the only joy at all they had was in brief moments alone together, Mokuba idealised this time in the orphanage, when they were alone together all the time. He remembered every (anxious, faint) smile of Seto’s and in his (very young, unhappy) mind, those smiles were big and bright and all the time. And he probably doesn’t really remember the time before the orphanage very clearly, because he was so young, so the orphanage seemed better than it was, whereas Seto probably does remember pre-orphanage so remembers the orphanage phase more realistically as not-super-fun. I think Seto maybe did smile more in the orphanage than at Gozaburo’s, because Seto smiles to reassure Mokuba and let Mokuba know he’s in control, and he was desperately clinging to that role in the orphanage.

Which means Mokuba, Seto’s only family in the world, wants Seto to “go back to being” something he never was. Mokuba says he “knew” the brother who was “always smiling”, but that version of Seto is a fiction, someone Mokuba built out of biased memories while unhappy. Mokuba does know that version of Seto, but that version of Seto was never the real Seto. Seto can’t go back to being someone he never was. He never was a smiling, happy person.

He was, however, always always always there to hold Mokuba’s hand.

awwww so sweet WHAT THE FUCK

#if you die in the virtual world do you die in real life #better safe than sorry I suppose!#Yu-Gi-Oh!#sparklefists watches ygo #seto kaiba #Mokuba #Gozaburo Kaiba #episode 100

185 notes · View notes

artificialqueens · 7 years

Text

Teal Post-its, sale Greenies and artsy portraits can build something resembling the Sun (Sashea) - Nox

A/N: Hi! I’m Nox, a loooong while ago I used to post here, and I’m back from the dead. I’m obsessed with anything Sashea right now and I stumbled with this prompt: “i hired a dog walking company and i’ve never met the person who comes to my apartment but they leave me really cute notes and they give my dog presents and i kind of love them because my dog does and ALSO one of the artists at this gallery opening is hella cute and i want them to paint me like one of their french girls, plot twist is the same person all along AU” and all the sudden I had a 6k+ words written down, so yeah. This is dedicated to all the WONDERFUL Sashea writers here, you are all awesome and this doesn’t make you any justice but is my small contribution to the fandom.

I apologize if this doesn’t make any sense, and for any grammar mistakes. Hope you enjoy n.n

A post-it note should not put her world upside down.

Humble letters shouldn’t go through her like the flight of butterflies spreading from the tip of her pointer finger to her chest, words shouldn’t make her stomach do uncomfortable flipflops, small phrases shouldn’t mirror the effects of a long walk on the beach which burnt slightly her cheeks and tinted them red. A small, teal piece of paper probably shouldn’t be important, nothing more than a simple reminder tool, an office supply anyone could buy at any supermarket. Words laid out in simple handwriting were probably not meant to go beyond a simple greeting, a good vibes wish, a polite gesture.

Yeah, a teal post-it stuck on her fridge probably wasn’t meant to be a big deal.

But it was.

Vanya, the Italian greyhound, napped in Sasha’s lap after being satisfied with the welcome home he had provided his owner with. The day had surely being a very active one for him, as he had fallen asleep with barely 5 minutes of fussing around her feet. She had gathered him off the floor and brought him to her bed, the teal note tightly clutched on her left hand. A new smile formed in her ruby lips as she scratched his back. Who knew this little dog would get her in such a roller coaster of emotions?

Her grey-blue eyes returned to the note, scanning it for the eleventh time. She had already memorized the message, words carved into her being, every syllable for some reason enticing to her.

–Hey darlin’. Vanya was super excited about his walk, such a good boy! Hope your day was as good as ours, you’ve been working like crazy this couple of days. Vanya told me ;) Give yourself a treat today. Love, -Shea

Shivers went and came in erratic patterns, travelling up and down her spine as every word made white noise in her mind. She shaked her head a little bit, trying to fade the haze she was submerging into. Sasha sometimes wondered if she was a bit crazy. Sure, moving across the Pacific to an unknown country just by the desire of becoming an artist and live openly as a queer woman was bold. Moving from Urbana to Brooklyn out of a hunch and the need to have brighter lights and stranger people in the city she called home was somewhat risky. Leaving her shitty paid job as a receptionist for a shittier paid job as a assistant curator was kind of nuts is you considered her rent, but hey, she was slowly accomplishing the life she set her mind into many years ago as she boarded that Aeroflot flight, on the heavy russian winter.

However, it was moments like this, when she arrived home and kicked her shoes out of the way to make a beeline to her fridge in the raw hope of finding a new note on it, that she really questioned her judgement on sanity.

Because Sasha was obsessed with a stranger.

She placed the note inside her sketch pad on her night stand, with all the others she had received in the lapse of three months, safely storing them to re-read later. She rubbed her hands together, fingers twitching, aching to do anything right now as she was high on emotion and sensations. This obsession, or however she could call it, wasn’t something that she could quite explain, couldn’t quite pinpoint where it came from and where it was going, but oh it was all so very strange and uncommon that it became addictive to her.

Three months back, when she first adopted the mischievous dog from an animal shelter, the last thing she imagined was she might find someone to fantasize about thanks to dog walks.

She knew she would adopt Vanya the second she laid eyes on him. His long face and skinny legs make him look like a cartoon, dark orbs wide open when they met. She had taken him home without much hassle, just to start freaking out the second she remembered the insane amount of time she spent outside her apartment in between meetings, exhibits, late curatorial processes and overall mayhem a gallery generated. After an all nighter making schedules, budgets and a few calls, it was obvious she would need to hire someone to entertain the poor little pup as she was away. She had called a walking dog company first thing next morning as a solution. They assigned her a walker, one that usually worked with little troubles like Vanya was promising to be. Her name was Shea.

They had never met in person, and they haven’t really talked since the day Shea sent her her number over a text and asked for her to leave a spare key somewhere she could fetch it every time she went to walk Vanya. Her avatar didn’t tell Sasha much about her physical appearance, as the picture was something between a photograph and an illustration, outlandish colors flying in quirky organic figures and toon body parts (breasts, Sasha thought) covered some of the features of a woman’s face- supposedly, Shea’s.

(She did try to analyse this better, but the tiny resolution for it made it quite impossible. Maybe this should have been hint number one, as she quickly became obsessed with the picture.)

She left that morning on a rush and returned home eight hours later, feet sore and swollen in her shimmery red pumps, completely depleted and a bit discouraged as the gallery owner, a southern belle called Trinity, changed last minute the queer exhibition she and the chief curator had been collecting for months for some kitschy landscape showing. The change brought not only tons of extra work but a low blow to Sasha’s ego as she had designed herself the museography. It felt very disrespectful to throw away a subject so dear to the russian.

She closed the door behind her with a sigh as she stepped into her small studio in Brooklyn, Vanya’s paws scraping over the floor in his dash to get to her. She leaned down and petted him, making then her way to the kitchen to get him some food and water, and stirring something up for herself to calm her growling stomach.

As she was about to open her fridge to get some fresh water for Vanya’s bowl, she noticed something- a note, a post-it note adhered to the door of the fridge, next to some polaroids of her and a few friends from Illinois she kept there.

–Hey girl! Vanya loved me. We had tons of fun today. Love,

-Shea

Ps. Hope you smiled a lot today. You look cute smiling in your polaroids ;)

The immediate heat that spread across her fair features was inevitable as she read the note. Vanya ran around her ankles, occasionally propping himself on his back legs, paws against her chins trying to get her attention back on him, as Sasha seemed to have spammed out of this universe completely, eyes wide and a blushed dusting her face and neck. The russian blinked in quick succession, mechanically opening the fridge and pouring water to the dog, who drank happily. Walking towards the small island that served as the dining table, Sasha felt the warmness of her face taking over her entire body.

Sasha was usually lonesome, sometimes too outside-the-box to fit in with the crowd. Brooklyn had proven to be a tad more open-minded to receive her, but still, there were few people that saw in a petite woman with blond wild hair, thick brows, a mind full of thoughts and opinions and a love for clothes with striking patterns and odd accessories as someone they wish to have close to them. She was opinionated, clumsy and most of the times what she said was perceived as overly academic and pretentious, which was exactly the opposite of her intentions. But Sasha didn’t know any better as to how to express herself. She wanted to be heard and she was going to be, no matter what.

Sasha wasn’t good with people, so she mostly kept to herself.

And maybe that’s why coming home from another day without real human contact, having lunch alone on a room cramped with stored paintings and sculptures, a lot of disastrous meetings and having ideas and opinions crushed under someone else’s feet, that she found this little piece of paper as something that had her at the verge of tears. This unknown woman, who walked her dog once, wished she smiled a lot during the day, just because she thought her smile was cute.

Sasha thought of writing Shea a text, thanking her for the note, but thought better of it. The last thing she needed was to scare off her dog walker just because she came on too strong, thinking too much about a simple gesture of courtesy.

The notes didn’t stop though. That was the first of many, many notes, and very, very much awareness over this person she couldn’t even put a face on. This random woman, who she might’ve never meet on the outside world, made her feel treasured and special with simple silly messages written down on a post-its that kept appearing on her fridge. Was she like this with other owners? Sasha liked to think that she wasn’t, that this was their special little thing. Sometimes, when she felt bold enough (probably after a couple glasses of wine late at night too), she would leave a magenta post-it on the fridge, with a silly cartoon or doodle, some message maybe answering whatever Shea had written, sometimes a lame joke, sometimes a simple “Thank you”.

The magenta post-its were always gone and replaced with teal ones, with new messages and new cute non-sense. It wasn’t exactly conversations, as more of signals out in the world that acknowledged both their existences.

Was this borderline insane? Yes, probably. But long ago had Sasha lost the sight of what might be real and what might be her mind playing her over her loneliness. And goodness knew this was the kind of love infatuation someone like her would find irresistible: dramatic, impossible and psycho-ish. It was art at it’s best.

It would make a great book.

A friday night Sasha came home soaked to the bone, a mild storm catching her off guard. After closing her door, she stripped to her mismatched underwear, trying not to get water everywhere as she definitely didn’t feel like cleaning. She could hear Vanya barking, probably on the kitchen. She skipped her way down there, her clothes and shoes in one hand, looking for the reason her little one was so distressed. Usually, Vanya was well behaved, and for him to bark inside the apartment was quite odd.

She found him propped on his rear legs, eyes set on a paper bag over the counter of the island in her kitchen. He barked stubbornly to it. Her sculptural eyebrows shut up almost to her hairline, that wasn’t there on the morning. More surprising (and what made her heart do a painful summersault) was to find a teal post-it stuck to it. Her stomach did something resembling to a cartwheel, her knees felt quite wobbly. What was this? She threw her clothes to the floor, be damned the puddle of water that she’ll have to clean later, and with shaky hands, she took the note.

–So, I thought giving Vanya a treat today was a good idea. Turns out, he really like them and won’t stop crying if I don’t give him one very couple of hours. My bad :( I’ll work on it with him, I promise! For now, these should last him a couple of weeks. Didn’t meant to spoil him, Xx, -Shea. Ps. Who am I kidding? I love to spoil his pretty face.

Sasha read over and over again the note, feeling way dizzier each time she did. The white fuzzing in her brain seemed to stop time as her eyes scanned the piece of paper as if she was a robot. Vanya’s barking eventually brought her back, for her to realize she was steadying herself gripping the counter. With her eyes open as wide as she could, she opened he bag and emptied it, two bags of Hickory Smoke flavour Greenies were inside. The dog began jumping at the sight of the bag, whimpering, running in circles in excitement. Sasha opened one bag and grabbed a treat, tossing it to the impatient dog. Vanya beamed and catched the treat, later to nudge his face against his owner chins in appreciation.

She crouched to the floor, taking the note with her as she let Vanya lick her face. The dog looked at the paper in her hand and touch it with a paw, barking once.

Yeah, you know who wrote this, don’t you?

Vanya barked again and she giggled. It seems like he really liked his walker. And Sasha couldn’t blame him. She really liked her as well.

Another whole bunch of thoughts invaded her mind, never a moment of utter happiness lasting long. Was this a normal thing walkers did with their assigned clients? Why did that woman bought the treats? Were the double X meant to be kisses? Why did she love spoiling Vanya? Why did Sasha love the fact Shea cared so much about her dog?

It was less than likely that walkers went around buying treats for the dogs they took care off, and them just giving the bags to the owner because the dog liked them a little bit too much. Also, anywhere on the contract Sasha signed obligated the woman to do so, she could just have let her know Vanya would cry all night if he didn’t get a treat before sleep and let her deal with it. It would be the normal thing to do, as Vanya wasn’t Shea’s dog. Shea seemed to be very fond of Vanya as she just thought of spoiling him herself today. That made Sasha’s heart flutter. Sasha had never given a treat to Vanya as she wasn’t sure if that was a good idea, or even which would be a healthy one to give him. But Shea did know about this things, and Shea wanted to spoil little Vanya. Anyone who treated Vanya this good had a special space on her heart, and Shea seemed to be adding points in her favor on the imaginary score Sasha kept.

Nonetheless, the blond felt uncomfortable to leave it like this, after all, she was paying Shea to walk Vanya. If the dog needed anything, it was Sasha who needed to pay for it. She took her phone, and shaky fingers looked out Shea’s contact.

She’s had the woman number all along, but had never gather enough courage to message her ever since Shea asked her to leave a spare key for her to use. Unsure of how to even begin a conversation, she just plainly greeted her with a simple hi and asked her how much she owed her for the treats.

Txt from Shea: Hey girl! Don’t be silly, those are on me ;) Vanya quite liked that flavor.

Sasha giggled again. Indeed, Vanya seemed to be really into the Hickory Smoke flavor (of course her dog would like such kind of fancy named taste). She insisted a couple more times on returning her the money, not wanting to put the other woman in the obligation to pay for the treats. Shea refused.

Txt from Shea: I mean it, don’t worry about it, Anything to keep the smile on my special boy. But, if it makes you feel any better, those were for sale.

Txt from Shea: I really think he is the only dog that likes that flavor.

The blond grinned to the screen of her phone. Shea calling Vanya her special boy make her feel giddy. Was it creepy she ached now to have walks on the park with her dog and a woman she didn’t even know besides the fact she was a dog walker and had pretty handwriting?

Yes.

Sasha sat laying her back against the island, shivering as she did so as she was still in her underwear. She was giggling at her phone like a highschool girl with a crush. Vanya took his opportunity to wiggle his way into her lap, resting there with his head in between his paws. He seemed to be very happy to see his mom laughing and smiling, and Sasha wondered if he’d like to have two moms to spoil his little bonny ass.

Knowing Vanya, he’d love it.

Bright eyes scanned paintings and sculptures on the O’Hara Gallery opening on a Thursday night. Sasha clicked her black heels against the marble floor, red fringy dress swaying and messy blond hair bouncing on her shoulders at the compass of her strut as she walked among the pieces that were exhibit, examining them and taking notes about the different techniques and authors. The artists featured were all former students of the Arts School of Brooklyn College, and Trinity had sent her to the exhibition to get some new contacts for their own gallery. The southern woman would rather die before placing a high heeled feet on her eternal rival’s gallery, so Sasha had filled in the Yes RSVP in Trinity’s behalf.

Sighing, she wrote down the name of a landscape painter she knew her boss was just going to love -a style somewhere between Aivazovsky and Coubert- , and moved on without paying too much mind to the painted canvas.

Most of the pieces, even though great in the technical display, were lacking uniqueness for her taste. Thinking on the easel with yet another unfinished painting she had back in her apartment, she sighed, somewhat jealous. Most of the former students featured on the exhibit were likely to find more galleries to feature their work- a prestigious college and regurgitated yet popular thematics endorsing them. Sasha, having studied Arts and Art History under a less known art college and using heavy discourses as gender and deconstruction to sustain her heavy analytical references to make portraits that haunted her mind, struggled a bit placing her work in big galleries like this one or Trinity’s.

Strolling past yet another hyperrealist pen-drawing she didn’t even bother to look closely -really, how many Juan Francisco Casas-like drawings can one display?-, something caught her eye. At the end of a hall, on the photography section, a splash of colors and figures make her turn around. She stepped up to there, gawking at a series of photographies- no, a series of digital work, something between photography and illustration. The models were posing on the most colorful streets Brooklyn had to offer, Sasha could recognize, all dressed in fashions belonging to subcultures and overall queerness, heavily influenced all by color blocking. Every picture was intervened with figures and comical illustrations, sometimes interacting with the model, sometimes just hiding parts of them out of sight. Every picture was weirder than the previous one, the illustrations taking over the picture as the series went on. Sasha stared at each picture in admiration, the overall visual effect was an explosion of diversity among all the other artists that mirrored each other.

This was something Trinity would never in her life show on her gallery, but the kind of art that screamed at Sasha. Her ruby tinted mouth was slightly agape, wondering eyes trying to catch every single detail each work had to offer. Little new details were found wherever she took a deep look: the portrait of the tall, asian girl dressed in Harajuku fashion had small lolitas and Hello Kitties dancing around her modelesque pose, splashes of lavender, teal and yellow surrounding her in an echo effect, eyes crossed out and augmented with a heavy black wave over each orb, to the likes of very dramatic eye liner. Next to it, the barbie-doll like blonde woman posed next to a old teal Chevy, dressed in a pin-up swimsuit, jewels and 80’s plastic dolls doodled over her, arrows and smileys pointing at her wide hips and tits, over drawn lips covering her natural features, a cartoony big ring draping one of her fingers. A blond drag queen, with heavy leaded eyes and dressed in a feathery white gown with teal accents had smoky waves of color around her, weed leaves forming a halo around her head, a blunt sketched lit on her hand. Her cleavage was overdrawn with a dark chocolate color that contrasted with the pale skin, her legs were draw out exaggerating them to the point they were twice their length. These last three were Sasha’s favorites, as they seem to have something to do with the author’s life, the small additions maybe too clear in reference and meaning, probably implying whoever was behind this knew very well these those models.

Her trained eyes started looking for a signature, not wanting to wait till the last picture on her right to read the whole information about the artist. A small inscription on the corner of the pictures rewarded her: Couleé.

Vaguely familiar, she thought, maybe I have read the name somewhere on the Internet.

Sasha was mesmerized, moving several times over the first seven pictures, not wanting to get to the last one just yet, as that would mean this series would be over and she’ll have to move on. She didn’t want to, she desperately thought that perhaps, she could fit between those models. She could devise herself, maybe laying on an old couch, perched on the middle of a traffic filled road, posing like one of those french models Ingres and Delacroix painted back in the day. She would probably wear a gown, see through, with lots of sparkles and adorned with patterns and beads typically Russian. Her hair would be down, teased out of it’s curls, frizzy, clad with a head wrap of extravagant-printed fabric and feathers and beads. She would probably had giant eyes with thick lashes drawn over her natural ones, maybe a bushy brow. She could picture crowns and very Mondrian-esque lines around her. She smiles, dreaming what might be.

However, as she saw people approaching she felt the pressure to hurry up not to bottle up the hall. As her eyes landed on the last picture, her knees felt weak and her jaw dropped.

It was the portrait of a black woman, looking directly at the camera lens, her hand delicately touching her right shoulder. Her face featured her pouty lips slightly ajar, eyes a bit overdrawn on the inner corners, making them look bigger. Around her were drawings of tits and asses, melting on some kind of gooey matter, odd cartoony eyes popping up everywhere, completely deviant and strange. Orange, purple, white and teal took over the picture, both the illustrations and the colors contrasting the sensual and provocative look on the woman’s face.

This was the most stunning piece of them all, and Sasha gasped in both shock and annoyance at herself. She had already seen this one. She could not believe she hadn’t associated the style before.

What kind of art curator are you Sasha!?

This was the profile picture she has checked at least twice a day on her texts ever since the Greenies incident. She had analysed a very lower resolution version of this on her phone, over hours of meditation and clutching a teal piece of paper in her left hand like a lifeline while doing so because it was loony stalking.

Couleé. As in Shea Couleé. That’s were she knew the name from.

She saw that name the day she signed the contract with the dog walking company. Of course Shea had to be the artist behind these amazing artworks. Sasha’s evening had been way too normal up until now. How many people on New York could have a last name like Couleé?

Sasha backtracked a bit, stepping clumsily backwards as her heart stammered loudly on her ribcage. So Shea seemed to be a photographer. And she was exhibiting her work. Here. At the very same gallery Sasha was at. And it was opening night. She might be here. That would make sense. Was that last photograph a self-portrait? Maybe, as Shea used it as a profile picture, it might make sense as well. Not that anything else on this very moment made sense to Sasha, as she kept stumbling with her not so anonymous dog walker everywhere. She kept walking, until her body felt a pair of hands stopping her by the arms.

“So, you like’em?”

Sasha yelped, turning around to her right, to find the most stunning woman she had ever laid eyes on. The woman from the last picture was standing in front of her, small skittish smile on her pouty lips, eyes shining under thick dark lashes. Her hair was slick, dark and barely grazing her shoulders, parted in the middle, framing her face giving her a supermodel twist with her high cheek bones. She was wearing a rosé sweater dress with a belt, which hugged all her curbs, from her ample bosom, her tiny waist and thick legs, hitting right below the knee. She played with her hands, left middle and pointer finger clutched nervously on her right fist. However, her stance was secure, planted firmly in both of her feet, wearing gold sandals that sparkled with the light of the gallery.

“Hey Sasha. I’m Shea, your dog walker. How’s Vanya?.” Shea said, her voice a bit timid.

Sasha’s mouth felt like a cotton ball, she could barely swallow as her eyes scanned up and down Shea’s body, shamelessly. Shea towered her a few inches, even with Sasha wearing pumps higher than Shea’s sandals. She seemed to notice Sasha’s wondering eyes, although she didn’t comment anything about it. Sasha knew she should say something, as she might look really stupid at her complete loss of cool. Her mind betrayed her though, as it sped on a turmoil finally putting a face to the name she had all but worshiped for months, a hundred questions maken her overthink.

How was this happening? Was all this really possible? Why was Shea talking to her so casually? Why was Shea so damn gorgeous? Why hadn’t Sasha worn the black and white dress Trinity often told her she good look with? Was her hair even combed? What was Shea thinking of her? Why did it matter so much?

Sasha opened and closed her mouth a couple of times, like a fish out of the water, making Shea smile widely, crooked rows of teeth showing. The taller woman turned her body to face her photographs, feeling Sasha’s anxiety. She crossed her arms under her chest, tilting her head a bit to the left.

“You know, I studied photography because I really thought I was going to be this famous fashion photographer for Vogue and Marie Claire. Adolescent Shea Couleé, filled with fierceness and big dreams, ready to fight anyone on her way. It turns out that you need one of them fuckers with long ass careers with the magazines to either endorse your work or die to leave a slot open for new talent. And before you ask, some of them had call my work a bit to banjee for high fashion so they don’t think they can mentor me.” Shea spoke, to Sasha, to herself. The blond woman looked at her with doe eyes, her mouth finally shut close, body angled towards Shea. The taller woman’s voice was soothing and enticing to her ears. She was trying to talk to Sasha as if they knew each other, confidence exuding from her like water down a waterfall. Sasha could feel herself relaxing into the situation, a strange feeling of familiarity blooming in her chest.

After all, they technically had talked before.

Shea leaned in a bit towards her left, her voice lowering a bit in a conspiratorial tone, “And I haven’t managed to take out anyone yet, but I’m working on it. So, for now, I’m stuck photographing my friends.”

Sasha snorted, the comment so out of place and ironical that she couldn’t help it. Shea smiled again, still looking forward.

“So, you are kind of a dog walker on the day, fashion photographer at night?” Sasha asked, looking at Shea’s side, trying to follow Shea’s coolness.

“Well, I’m sending books everywhere now and then, however one does need to pay bills, and I happen to like dogs a lot, so I get a buck and pet cute dogs while at it. It’s a win-win situation really.”

Sasha nodded, understanding Shea’s point perfectly. That was the reason she worked as a curator for now, until -hopefully- she kickstarted her career as an artist.

“Yeah, I know the feeling.”

“Work keeping you that happy, huh?” Shea asked, taking a small step to the side, getting closer to Sasha.

“I’m here for business actually, “ Sasha said, shaking her notepad a bit, trying to purse her lips not let Shea know she saw her move towards her, “talent hunting.”

“Oh! You work on a gallery right? Taylor’s Gallery?”

Sasha glanced at Shea, raising a brow and looking how the woman flinched. Her face scrunched up a bit and she sank her head between her shoulders, probably acknowledging it might sound a bit creepy that she knew what Sasha did for a living and where she worked.

“Ok, I read that on your file after you signed with the company, I swear.”

Icy eyes twinkled, Sasha biting her inner cheek to avoid grinning like an idiot. She fancied the idea that Shea was just as nervous as she was in this utterly weird situation. The photographer’s hands, though resting in her forearms as they were crossed under her chest, shifted warily, fingers drumming against her sleeves.

The coy smile on Shea’s lips make the whole room seem a hundred times brighter, the golden sparkle from expensive gallery lights dusting her features, making her look like a magical creature who’s glow tinted her surroundings. And maybe she was a magical creature, as Sasha instantly understood she was falling in love with this woman, this mysterious woman she knew a lot of and nothing about at the same time, who seemed to be linked to her life in the most ridiculous ways possible, the universe throwing them together at every chance at hand.

Sasha was not upset about any of that.

The russian woman took a small step towards Shea, the distance between them closing.

“I do work on a gallery” Sasha smiled, looking at the portraits in front of her, “I’m surprised you actually remembered reading that.”

“I have a great memory, girl.”, Shea half chuckled, half said. She dipped her head a bit, aiming to disguise the dark blush spreading across her cheeks. “In all honesty though, your apartment is filled with paintings and canvas. You had to do something related to art. I thought you were a restaurator, with all the fresh stuff you keep around.”

Sasha smiled amused, “Actually, I’m a curator. Assistant curator. That’s why they send me off to the exhibitions neither of my bosses want to attend. The paintings back home are actually mine.”

Shea’s face beamed at that answer, her ebony eyes back on the russian woman, “You are really talented. You should be featured here.”

“I don’t really think I fit here, with all… this…” Sasha waved her hand, dismissively, “and honestly neither do you. Your work is fantastic, like seriously genius. Everything else here is so boring, I’ve been studying these for at least half an hour now.”

“Genius? Why you think they place my portraits here, and not on the main hall? The curator here hated all of the portraits. They were not going to let me show anything, but some dude cancelled last minute.” The taller woman smirked, “And don’t go all flattery on me. I might start believing you!”

“They are good! Extremely so! I’ve been obsessed with your profile photo for quite some time. I actually felt real dumb that I didn’t matched the styles until the very last picture.” Sasha admitted, unblinkingly.

Shea seemed to be a bit taken aback. Shyly, she tilted her face a bit

“Why didn’t you text about it? I mean, if you liked it that much. We could’ve talked about it, you know?”

“I didn’t want to, uhm- be creepy?” Sasha excused herself, feeling lame.

“You wouldn’t have been creepy at all girl. I mean, I left you post-it notes every day. I couldn’t get worst than that.”

They stared at each other for a moment. Sasha could see Shea slightly nibbling her lower lip, something crossing through her eyes she couldn’t quite name.

“Can we, like, talk about that? I mean, why did you do that? Do you, uhm, leave notes to every dog owner or something?” Sasha tried to pick her words carefully, trying to sound purely curious instead of extremely clingy.

Shea bit her lips, pursing them, avoiding eye contact again.

“No, I don’t leaves noted to… anyone else.” She sighed, “You are gonna think I’m crazy.”

“Well, we are here at an opening night, talking like we were old friends when this is the first time we have actually seen each other. You didn’t even needed to tell me your name for me to know who you were, and the other way around. I think we’ve long past the line of crazy here.” Sasha shrugged, trying to sound reasonable within possibility.

After a few bits of silence, Shea spoke again.

“I- I feel like I know you, you know? Like, I read your file and saw your photo there, the one that you have to give to make sure I can recognize you in case you try to jump me or something, and- it was like I’ve already seen you? I could read there where you lived, where you worked, but something about you just… clicked with me. And then I got to your apartment, and to your dog, and I can kind of pieced together a life for you. How you keep very few pictures of you with other people on display, how everything is extremely organized except the living room that is a mess of paintings and brushes, how this little guy is always near your bed when I arrive because he misses his mom. I didn’t know if any of the stuff I imagined was real, but it felt like it was getting to know you without actually meeting you. And then I started leaving you notes because I wanted to talk to you and you started answering back some of them and I just kind of saved them because they had cute drawings and-” Shea covered her mouth with her hand, eyes completely opened. The word panic was written all across her face.

“Oh god, I’m sorry I don’t want you to think I’m a stalker or something I just-”

Sasha took both of Shea’s hands in between hers, pulling them down from their frantic parade as Shea tried to explain herself. The russian had a shit eating grin plasttered on her face, her teeth showing, that confused Shea, as she had stopped rambling at Sasha’s movement. Sasha slid slowly her thumb over Shea’s skin in small circles, liking the velvety sensation of it under her touch.

“I keep your notes too. I sometimes read them before I sleep because they are very relaxing to me, I mean the idea of someone actually talking to me because they wanted to. I thought I was going crazy, asking Vanya about you, as he seemed to like you a lot and honestly so did I, more of what I was supposed to,” she laughed, not letting go of Shea’s hands, “I was very obsessed with you- No, I AM really obsessed with you, that’s why I was panicking when you found me. Because you clicked with me too…”

Sasha’s smile was sincere, and she could see how something inside Shea melted away, her breathing going back to normal, her hands relaxing in between Sasha’s. The blonde took a step forward, the distance between them almost gone by now. Sasha could feel the heat radiating from Shea’s body. She liked the feeling of it against her skin. She wondered if, perhaps, she had never gotten Vanya, if they had met somewhere else. Maybe on an art exhibition, maybe on the train home, maybe on a bar in which they might be sitting alone and decided to keep each other company. She was almost sure that yes, they somehow would have met, as this was the kind of bond the universe works very damn hard to build.

Shea’s eyes scanned Sasha, a new full smile spreading in her face. Sasha liked the sight of it, she wanted to make Shea smile more, she had a cute smile.

“So maybe… We can get to know each other? Better? Like we know a lot of the other and nothing at the same time. Maybe we could go to the park and get some ice cream, it’s still not that chilly like for ice cream to be a terrible idea and I’m free tomorrow, and the leaves are beautiful this time of the year, all shades of orange and yellow contrasting with the sky. Vanya might have to tag along, however, as he gets cranky if I don’t spend the whole weekend with him. But it’s not like I want you to feel you are at work or something! Oh dear, it’s a terrible idea, that’s basically what you do in your work and-”

The pull on her hands stopped her mid sentence, plush lips softly touching hers, asking permission. Sasha let go Shea’s hands and placed them on her waist, pulling her flush against her body, lips parting a bit to kiss Shea deeply. The taller girl’s arms snaked around her neck, playing with her frizzy curls, as she sucked a bit on Sasha’s upper lip.

The kiss didn’t last long enough, in Sasha’s opinion, but it was a promise. Shea’s smile as she kept her hands on Sasha’s shoulders was smouldering, bright like a hundred suns, warming every cell in Sasha’s body.

“I’d love to go to the park with you and Vanya tomorrow. I can’t say no to either of you.”

Sasha beamed and she felt childish as to be this happy about a simple date. As Shea’s hand slipped through her arm into her hand, fingers intertwining as if this wasn’t the first time they have done so, Sasha knew that yes, this was the kind of love she ached: uncanny, passionate, unique and oh so very them.

#Teal Post-its sale Greenies and artsy portraits can build something resembling the Sun #sashea #sasha velour #shea coulee #fluff #lesbian au #prompt fic #Nox #rpdr fanfiction

23 notes · View notes

ramajmedia · 5 years

Text

10 Shows To Watch If You Like Fleabag | ScreenRant

Fleabag might not be a show that is on everyone's radar at the moment, but it is quickly becoming one of the most acclaimed shows on television. From the multi-talented Phoebe Waller-Bridge, the unique British comedy follows a young woman's strange way of navigating single life in London.

RELATED: 10 Best Quotes from Fleabag

The show is moving, dark and utterly hilarious, making it a very exciting show to get into. The show has wrapped its second season and doesn't look like it will return so if you're already looking for a suitable replacement, there are some great shows to help fill the void. Here are some of the shows to watch if you like Fleabag.

10 Killing Eve

Killing Eve is an example of just how diverse of a talent Waller-Bridge is. This engrossing series follows an MI6 agent as she attempts to track down a deadly and unpredictable female assassin. As the two play their game of cat-and-mouse, they develop an obsession with each other.

The show might sound nothing like Fleabag, but Waller-Bridge's voice is all over it. The show handles the sexy thriller element well but it is the unique sense of humor that separates it from most of the other shows in this genre.

9 Barry

It seems that television is being taken over by funny people showing that they have a lot more to offer than just laughs. Bill Hader was once known as the guy from Saturday Night Live but has now created this darkly-comedic and fascinating HBO series.

RELATED: 10 TV Shows You Never Knew Had 100% On Rotten Tomatoes

Barry follows a disillusioned and troubled hitman who begins pursuing his new dream of becoming an actor. Like Fleabag, the show can jump between deep and disturbing material to laugh out loud moments without feeling too jarring.

8 After Life

Before Waller-Bridge was the most exciting British voice on television, there was Ricky Gervais. With shows like The Office and Extras, Gervais seemed to have the golden touch with creating hilarious and awkward comedy series. His latest show, After Life, is another fine entry on his resume.

Gervais stars as a man who recently lost his wife. Without a reason to live, he decides to embrace all his worse tendencies and tell the world how he really feels. The humor is dark but hilarious with Gervais having fun pushing boundaries. It is also a touching story at times.

7 Malcolm In The Middle

Given most of the shows on this list, a fun network comedy about a dysfunctional family might seem like an odd inclusion. It's true the shows don't share a lot in common, it's hard not to reminded of Malcolm in the Middle while watching Fleabag.

The seven-season sitcom centers on Malcolm, the middle child in a chaotic and outrageous family. The show is known for Malcolm's fourth-wall-breaking in which he discusses the events of the show with the viewers. Fleabag uses the same technique and it is likewise a great comedic tool for the show.

6 Russian Doll

Though Fleabag might not sound like a totally unique show just based on its premise, it is the main character that makes the show something special. The same could be said of the Netflix series, Russian Doll starring Natasha Lyonne as a woman trapped in a time loop in which she keeps dying.

RELATED: 10 Hidden Details You Missed In Fleabag

This is an angle that has been used a lot recently in big movies like Edge of Tomorrow and Happy Death Day. However, the blunt and cynical main character gives it a fresh feel and the sharp humor feels akin to Fleabag's fun voice.

5 Crashing

Though recent years seem to suggest Phoebe Waller-Bridge has been an overnight success with multiple acclaimed projects happening simultaneously, her television career is a bit longer than you might think. Crashing was an early series she helped create and starred in which is a great precursor to her work in Fleabag.

Not related to the recent HBO series of the same name, this British comedy followed a group of young friends living together and dealing with complicated relationships. The awkward and cringe-inducing moments in this series are mirrored in Fleabag as well as Waller-Bridge's distinct voice.

4 BoJack Horseman

Few shows are brave enough to go to some of the dark places that BoJack Horseman does – let alone animated shows. The Netflix series is set in a Hollywood filled with anamorphic animals and follows the depressed and disturbed washed-up television star, BoJack Horseman.

This is another series that uses comedy to tell a character study of its main character. BoJack is not an easy character to like and even when he seems to be on the path to redemption, he reminds us how flawed he really is. As dark as things can get, it's also filled with wild and hilarious humor.

3 Broad City

The lifestyle presented in Fleabag, while entertaining, is maybe not the most desirable in reality. This mirrors the constant struggles and hilarious hijinks of the main characters in Broad City. The comedy series follows best friends Ilana and Abbi as they make a mess of even the most mundane aspects of daily life.

RELATED: Every Episode Of Fleabag, Ranked

The big city living in both series is depicted with the same outrageous humor in both shows. While Broad City is the more outlandish of the two shows, the female perspectives of dating life and money troubles showcased in both does feel similar.

2 Spaced

Before he was one of the most exciting filmmakers around, Edgar Wright was making a hugely entertaining British comedy show called Spaced. Starring his friends and collaborators Simon Pegg and Nick Frost, the series centers around two young friends who pretend to be a couple so they can live together in London.

The show is a great look at the kind of humor and fun Wright would later bring to his very successful film career. The sharp wit is very reminiscent of Fleabag and the unflattering look at the London dating scene is explored with great fun in both series.

1 Atlanta

If there is one person in Hollywood that is working harder than Phoebe Waller-Bridge, it would have to be Donald Glover. Though his work in movies and music is incredibly impressive, his masterpiece is his FX series Atlanta.

Glover stars as a young man hoping to escape his aimless life by managing his up-and-coming musician cousin. The show is wildly funny but also explores very intense and moving themes. Like Fleabag, its distinct voice is delivered through Glover as it continues to do new and shocking things.

NEXT: The 10 Best Quotes From Atlanta

source https://screenrant.com/fleabag-shows-series-similar/

#screenrant

0 notes

shannrussell-blog1 · 5 years

Photo

There’s regular camping gear that we take on every camping trip… tent, table, stove, sleeping gear, etc. Then there’s a whole host of extraordinarily peculiar gear that can arguably enhance your camping experience.

Some of these things are pretty nifty. Others will lure you with bizarre advertising that you’ll find hard to look away from only to leave you feeling unsettled and questioning what on earth it was you just watched!

Not surprisingly, a lot of these items are no longer available, but there are always new weird and wonderful bits of gear hitting the market all the time.

So without further ado, here are the 5 outlandish and offbeat bits of camping gear that we’ve found so far on the web.

5. The Bumper Dumper

You’d want to make sure you are on a quiet road when you stop to use the Bumper Dumper. This portable toilet seat and bucket fits into your tow hitch so you can sit down at the back of your car for a roadside dump. Maybe not as private as an old fallen log (pardon the pun) but far more comfortable.

I’m not sure where you put the bucket once you’ve filled it, the roof rack is probably the best option. Just make sure your buddy is finished before you drive away, and beware of the hot exhaust.

Image by Bumper Dumper

4. A whole host of weird sleeping bags

Kids worried about sleeping in the outdoors? Help them get to sleep in the dark by handing them a giant shark and telling them to climb right on into its mouth! Kids scared of sharks? That’s ok because there’s a grizzly bear option too!

Imagine how excited medical students would be with the anatomical sleeping bag, and nothing says “don’t worry, we’re all in this together�� more than a fellow camper in a cadaver bag.

Image by World of Camping

3. Leatherman Tread Multi Tools

Can we call this a man bangle? The Leatherman Tread is more of a fashion statement than a multi-tool. It’s one of those bits of gear that you buy someone who already has everything plus it’s the only multi-tool we know of that is allowed through airport security.

That being said, you’d be best checking with your airline before an airport security officer decides your wrist bling would look better on them.

Image by Leatherman

. Field Candy Patterned Tents

These guys are taking personalised camping to the next level. Traditional ‘A-frame’ tents that let you blend in or stand out as much as you want, some designs may even make your fellow campers feel somewhat uneasy. From sheep to an English pub, watermelons, books and even Iron Maiden, there’s a design to suit every personality.

Image by Field Candy

1. Victorinox Swiss Champ XAVT

Victorinox is really just showing off here. 8 functions in an inconveniently large 65mm wide package, this Swiss Army pocket knife is better suited to the display cabinet than your camping kit… Victorinox does mention this though.

Image by Unbox Therapy

0. Offroad Segway

If hiking isn’t your thing then why not tear up the walking tracks and mow down the wildlife with an off-road segway. These will set you back a pretty penny but at least you won’t be burning all those hard-earned calories on the way to your destination. Oh, and you’re going to need a powered site.

Image by Al Gadgets Technology

19. Super Kimbos – keep your pants on, even when you go to the toilet!

I don’t have any words for this.

youtube

18. Nite Ops Stubby Cooler… with LED light

You probably wouldn’t buy one of these for yourself, but you wouldn’t complain if this was in your Kris Kringle gift. Made with ABS plastic (think Lego) and equipped with an LED light, you’ve now got an excuse for taking your bevvie for a long post-campfire-curry-dinner long-drop sitting.

Image by Maxim

17. Inflatable Lounge Chairs

Initially, I thought these were ridiculous. Then thoughts of relaxing around the campsite on a 4 seater inflatable lounge chair entered my mind and before I knew it I was reaching for the credit card. These would look more at home in your lounge room than in the campsite, and with one, two and four-seater options you can seat the whole family and some wildlife.

Just for the record, I got over my excitement pretty quickly and didn’t actually buy one of these lounge chairs, however, an inflatable lounge could also be fun for floating down a creek in after some rainy weather, don’t you think?

Image by Archi Expo

16. ManCan Portable Beer Keg

How necessary these are for camping could be debated for a lifetime, but the one thing that any beer loving camper would agree on is that these are pretty cool. A single wall keg that you can keep in your portable car fridge ready for a cold beer on tap in the campsite. You can also get a limited edition WoManCan, which a portion of the proceeds will go to supporting women in the brewing industry.

Their claims of being lightweight are a stretch for hikers but a homebrew enthusiast on a car based camping trip would love this.

Image by InsideHook

15. TrailKeg

Once again, a little heavy for hiking but…this portable beer keg is vacuum insulated and will keep your beer cold for up to 4 hours. So, theoretically, if you were to do away with 5kg of other gear in your rucksack, you could take cold beer on tap just about anywhere. You’d consider it… right?

Image by TrailKeg

14. Powdered Beer

If you really can’t justify the weight of a ManCan or TrailKeg in your trekking pack, then maybe powdered beer is more your thing. As a beer lover myself I’d rather drink muddy water filtered through my socks than a glass of powdered beer, but I’ve never tried it, so who am I to judge? The fact that it doesn’t seem to be available any more may be a good indication of flavour though.

Image by Trek’n Eat

13. The DryFlush Toilet

Are you concerned about the environmental impact of using water, chemicals and dedicated dump points for your portable toilet waste? Not to worry, now you can vacuum wrap your crap in foil and bank it all in a giant plastic bag! Then you get to pay a visit to every landfill site on your trip to get rid of it all! Seems like an environmentally friendly solution to me…not!

youtube

1. Fry an egg with the Flash Torch

Keep out of reach of children! This torch won’t just light your path to the dunny, it will also start a fire and fry an egg, all with the power of its ‘laser beam’ [insert Dr Evil voiceover]. Sounds more like a lightsabre to me and a sure fire way to burn holes in your tent, administer third-degree burns to wildlife and fry the retinas of your camping buddies. It’s 100% legally guaranteed under US law though, so it must be safe!

Image by Gizmodo

11. GSI Ultralight Table

We actually sell this one at Snowys. Our initial thoughts were that it is gimmicky and expensive and wouldn’t be overly popular… we were wrong! It seems that this 30cm long table is sought after, most likely by gourmet trail chefs. All in all, it’s a pretty cool bit of kit, just very expensive for a small amount of benchtop.

Image by GSI Outdoors

10. BBQ Fishing Rod

Snow Peak makes a whole host of gimmicky yet surprisingly functional gear for the outdoors lifestyle and the BBQ Rod is by no means an exception. Attach your marshmallows, sausages, fish or veggies to the hook and dangle them over the fire, then with a small flick of the wrist your food flips for even cooking. Pretty cool!

Image by Snow Peak

9. Titanium Straw

The Snow Peak Titanium straw is the strongest and most durable reusable straw in the world. Able to pierce coconuts with a single blow and rest stylishly in any cocktail. Doubles as a miniature blow dart pipe for lightweight hunting adventures.

This is quite a timely placement given the talk of the environmental impact disposable straws are having, unfortunately, it’s not available in Australia as yet.

Image by Snow Peak

8. Candwich – Canned Sandwiches

If I had to pull some positives from this, it would be their marketing. However, apart from fleeting glimpses of these sandwiches flying out of their respective cans and across the dance floor into the mouths of hungry disco dancers, there’s no image of the actual product. Most likely because they have the plate appeal of a budget airline meal. I’m not sure why you would take a canned sandwich to a dance club but given they stay ‘fresh’ for over a year they are probably handy for camping… I think I’ll stick to baked beans myself though.

Alternatively, there are canned cheeseburgers from the same people that brought you the powdered beer. Strangely enough, these don’t seem to be available any more.

youtube

Video by Candwich

7. GSI Collapsible Whisk

Without any context, it’s hard to work out what this peculiar little device is and a poll of random guesses to its use may return some less than desirable guesses given its whip-like appearance. But, when GSI designed it they had a portable whisk in mind.

If scrambled eggs, omelettes and pancakes are a regular on your camping menu then this may be a useful item in your kit.

Image by Snowys Outdoors

6. iGuaneye Footwear

The concept makes sense, inspired by the Amazonian Indians who dipped their feet in natural latex for protection. While the latex stuck to the Amazonians feet like glue, these shoes rely on your big toe and some rubber around the heel to keep the shoe in place.

Personally, I’ve never seen a problem with flip-flops, but these do look interesting. iGuaneye looks like a relatively new brand, not something we’ve seen on any shelves in Australia just yet.

Image by iGUANEYE

5. Hydro Hammock Bath Tub

If you’ve packed everything, including the kitchen sink, and still got a 4× foot void in your boot, you can take the bathtub too thanks to the Hydro Hammock. This battery powered gas heated insulated hammock is designed to be filled with water to create a remote hydro spa. Simply hang it between two rock solid and level anchor points, or dig an enormous hole to lay it in. Then add about 180 litres of water and make sure you’ve got a flood management plan in place when you empty it.

The Hydro Hammock can be used in the wilderness, the beach or wherever you can feasibly carry a 30 kg case and 180 kg of water. The images even suggest you use it as an outdoor bath on your suburban balcony!

Image by Daily Mail Australia

4. Campfire Defender Blanket

I’m not sure I could sleep at night knowing my campfire is smouldering away under a massive blanket not too far from my tent. There are a small number of online reviews supporting my concerns, inversely then there’s a lot of positive feedback.

The idea is that instead of extinguishing your fire when you hit the hay, just peg this woven glass fire blanket over your fire. This allows the fire to keep burning whilst containing embers which means you’ll have hot coals in the morning.

Personally, I feel like it takes the responsibility out of making sure your fire is adequately extinguished. It also seems like it would be a dirty smoky item to be hauling around in your vehicle.

youtube

Video by Campfire Defender

3. Glow in the Dark Toilet Paper

Other than being able to locate the toilet paper in bush dunny completely void of light, or maybe so you can see the roll that you just dropped in the long drop, I’m pretty confident in saying that the

Image by ThisIsWhyImBroke

. GSI Vortex Blender

This blender does not require electricity, so you don’t have to go without your protein shake, daiquiris and margaritas at the campsite. What you will need though, is a strong arm, a camp table strong enough to clamp the blender onto, and a couple of camping buddies to hold everything steady as you thrash away at the crank handle in an effort to turn the contents of the blender into a liquid.

The best thing is that you get an upper body workout while you produce the vitamin enriched shake you’ll need for muscle recovery afterwards.

Image by GSI Outdoors

1. Squat Strap

There’s a lot that is not right here. Firstly, it looks to be a terribly uncomfortable & over engineered strap that supposedly makes bush toileting easy… provided you have quads of steel. Secondly, the marketing is akin to a B-Grade comedic horror movie.

In summary, a short-tempered man in a white suit (Tuxman) steps out from behind a tree wearing a monkey mask and stares creepily at an unsuspecting camper preparing for a in the woods. Following a sales pitch on the Squat Strap and its numerous other uses, Tuxman pulls out a graphic illustration of a naked man strapped to a tree with bricks falling from his, err… rear-end!

Assumingly once the bricks have passed, the unsuspecting camper is converted to Tuxman’s bush monkey ways and dons the white suit before honing in on another culprit who appears to be converted as he’s come prepared with a Squat Strap of his own. They then all join hands (Tuxman now in a robe!) in a show of united appreciation for the Squat Strap!

These don’t look to be available any more, maybe the budget for the commercial could have been spent better on other areas of marketing?

youtube

Video by Squat Monkey

Got any strange camping products that we should add to our list? Post us some details below and we’ll include it!

The post Weird, Wonderful & Disturbingly Strange Camping Gear appeared first on Snowys Blog.

#!">Glow #2

0 notes

grannyrcgs · 8 years

Text

Dishonored Thesis; A study on T h e V o i d

I am a brave human being, and as such this thesis will work on previous understanding of magic, magical theory, and comprehension of magical mechanics-- AND IS JUST FOR FUN. Everything below is cut in to “chapters” for a more functional arrangement and easier reading.

Please note nothing here has been too heavily referenced in writing, but that does not necessarily mean that it will not contain spoilers for Dishonored, the DLC Knife of Dunwall, The Brigmore Witches, and Dishonored 2.

Enjoy.

—— Thaumaturgic technicality of void brands ——

A void brand in Dishonored is the mark etched in to the skin, typically on the left hand, by the ascended psuedo-god The Outsider. All we truly know about the void brand canonly is the mark is given without regard for merit to individuals who have piqued The Outsider's interest; bearers of the mark can use runes to strengthen their powers and gain new abilities; there have only been eight people in the world who were given these brands (unclearly inferred that Corvo Attano and Emily Kaldwin are both counted in this number, later on); and The Outsider places no conditions on marked individuals, allowing them to use their powers as they see fit.

There is suggestions that the marks of The Outsider cause discomfort and are related to an internal access of power rather than an external one. The Rat Boy has a notation that his mark itches soon after receiving it, Emily comments that it burns but from the inside, and Corvo is seen shaking and clenching as his hand is branded in a burning ember fashion-- none of these examples come from exterior forces however. Most reactions regarding the mark (such as smoke coming off of it when corvo changes abilities) are triggered by some internal change.

Here’s where the fun theories come in-- the mark isn’t what gives the branded powers. If that were the case, then the occult dedicated to the worship of The Outsider, those who carve brands in to their hands, might theoretically have access to some low key abilities such as Void Gaze. No, instead of considering the mark as the source of power, consider it a key and the branded person the lock. It does not unlock The Void, it does not unlock mystical powers... instead consider that it unlocks the potential of perception within a person.

This brand does nothing more than allow the person to see reality in a way that surpasses that of the normal mortal limitations.

—— Perception and manipulation of the void. —— —— Delilah v.s. Daud & Corvo ——

What does perception have to do with The Outsider’s gifts? Frankly speaking, everything. Perception is the world as we understand it-- through touch, taste, sight, sound, smell,-- via all of our senses. Occasionally we hear tale of a sixth sense, someone who hears more than the average person, or sees strange things in the night. Small changes in perception can cause big differences in how we live our lives and experience the world; now imagine not just a sixth sense, but a seventh, and eighth, and ninth, and so forth and so on- it would be too much to comprehend and theoretically break a person.

So what does the brand change about the person it’s gifted to? It gives access to a level of perception so far beyond that of a normal person while skipping all of those stacking levels of stress and pain. By the act of The Outsider himself placing this brand upon a person’s hand he is allowing them to experience a perceptive ability that’s already cohesive and stabilized-- on that of a godlike level but with a siphon cap on the expanse, at which, may be accessed at any given point so their senses are not overloaded. This siphon cap prevent unnecessary damage to the host of the brand, but extensive use and expanse of said cap can still render the host incapacitated (mentally, permanently, or otherwise).

What caps this siphon off? Naturally, it’s limited by the own bearer’s ability to tolerate perceptive change in the world itself. Between Corvo, Daud, and Delilah we see that their individual strengths revolving around this perception comes at increasing intervals in the aforementioned order. Corvo, while the youngest brand, is arguably the most powerful at that point in time. He can overtake Daud easily... however, that does not necessarily mean Corvo had stronger abilities.

Between the three of them Delilah showed the most capability in handling a larger intake of perceptive overwrite, as suggested by her ability to impose her will upon other people, and even inanimate objects. She is the perfect example of what exactly could be the perfect step up from human to something much closer to what The Outsider actually is. Delilah can spread her gaze far and wide (as seen by interacting through a statue of herself back in Dunwall, all the way from Brigmore Manor), and can spread it between multiple subjects (such as all of the statues in her garden). The impressive thing here is how much control Delilah has when asserting her power.

The idea behind these powers are that you exist, in a sense, above reality. For most people reality is what they take in;; for the marked, reality is what they expect it to become (to an extent). When Delilah talks through a statue it is not that she is causing the statue to move, but that the statue is her. And as such, all of the statues are connected to her consciousness in a way that allows her to utilize them as an outlandish (and tacky) security system of sorts. They all see, they all hear, they can all speak, and to an extent they can all move-- She is the statue and the statue is her. This idea is later reinforced when Delilah successfully creates clones of herself. There is no true Delilah; they are all Delilah simply spread out in to various concentrations. Arguably the one with the most concentration of her consciousness is “more real” than the others, but effectively she could adjust it to take place in any of her collective consciousness.

Daud does something similar as Delilah, but not at nearly as high of a tier. Summon Assassin is a power unique to Daud-- in the sense that while he and Delilah both have Arcane Bonds and spread their perception passively to their followers, Daud can actively alter the positions of those he has shared his bond with. Summon assassin does not materialize ethereal beings; oh no, each and every one of these assassins have names, experiences, personalities, and sense of the world outside of where they were summoned to. In Daud’s case, he is not shifting his consciousness in to another place, but instead perceiving that the person he wants was already there to begin with. It’s an incredible feat to bend reality in such a way that it believes you are right and it was wrong-- which is exactly what Daud is doing. Though as powerful as that sort of ability is, it proves to have its limits even to Daud, as he can only call one person at a time.

To a lesser extent, Corvo mimics the ability to bend reality to his will via Devouring Swarm-- he’s seen thousands of rats across Dunwall. Picking them up from one spot and putting them where he wants them is no small feat, but it is hardly a great victory.

—— Points of interest in power developments —— —— Polymorphic diversity in brand abilities ——

This is the part where we get nit-pickey about the differences between the known abilities of the void. Daud and Corvo blink, however Delilah apparates. The difference is a simple factor; Daud and Corvo move themselves physically and quickly through time and space, while Delilah shifts through dementions to appear where she desires to be. Watching closely, Delilah leaves no physical trail of manifestation when she vanishes-- and is likely using those multiple points of consciousness (or imposed will) to bamf around. Daud and Corvo, however, will still break tripwires, tip over bottles and glasses on occasion, or catch the passing alert of a particularly watchful guard. This implies that when Corvo or Daud blinks, that they are simply (once again) telling reality that “No, I was supposed to be OVER THERE!” and reality is going “Oh??? Really??? Oops, let me fix that.” and shifting them over to the desired location. Given the differences in transversal methods, it could be assumed that those are the reasons Blink is limited to where Corvo or Daud can see, and why Delilah can zoom halfway across the void after you kill one of her clones.

Corvo has no means on his own to locate charms or runes-- the heart is an artifact that is later passed on to Emily, should the player choose her as their character, which implies he no longer has that ability (and neither does Emily in that same sense). Daud has Void Gaze, which allows him a limited view through the eyes of the void itself to see people, sources of power or contraptions of interactions, as well as sense runes and bone charms in a near by vicinity. And Delilah is rumored to be able to catch glimpses of the foreseeable future; something previously only hinted to have been accessible to Vera Moray (Granny Rags) and The Outsider himself. The ability and strength at which one may gaze in to the void seems to be dependent upon the branded’s own ability limit and how open their perception has become to such things.

Meanwhile, Delilah has advanced her own magic to the point where she can inflict control over other people’s arcane bonds (as seen with Billie, who exhibited powers from BOTH Daud and Delilah) and has created a whole set of abilities unique to her and subsequently her coven. (See such things as summoning roots with Pull, creating a vocal screech that knocks you back, and shooting shadowy thorns like darts from her wrist)

All powers are based on the branded’s ability to imagine them. So for people like Daud and Corvo who are functional and utilitarian styled in mind, their abilities all posses a basic function with little to no physical manifestation beyond what’s necessary-- but then if you look at Emily and Delilah, there are excesses of flourishes that show room for growth and seeds of expansion and creativity. Perhaps part of what has made Delilah so powerful in regards to her control over her abilities is that she was an artist before being branded. Already she could create and imagine things that were simply outlandish. Emily, having been influenced by such things since the age of ten, and watching her father for the fifteen years afterwards opened her mind to the possibilities of more. Shadow Walk, for example is perhaps more flashy and excessive than it needs to be-- but it’s creative. Something not seen in out more militaristic branded characters.

Meanwhile, looking through all of this, doesn’t it seem familiar? Specifically, looking at who The Outsider favors and speaks to more. The Outsider speak to Delilah more than Daud, because Daud-- militaristic and functional in his time and scheduling-- has become predictable by nature and follows the time table set of life. And while The Outsider speaks to Delilah with scorn and dislike, for many years he has stopped speaking to Daud altogether. Creativity is interesting.

—— Music box technology —— —— Mathematical reinforcement and augmentation of reality —— —— And it’s affects on the void and void users ——

Now with all of this talk about magic and how it’s fueled by perception, let’s talk about the Overseers and why their music boxes work the way they do. The Holger’s Device, or music box, is a box of alloyed metals which produces "mathematically pure" notes,that acts on the theory that there are hidden waves throughout the natural world-- according to the studies of the Abbey of the Everyman, founded by Benjamin Holger.

What these music boxes do are impose notes that resonate and force the laws of reality-- those things which create our perception, and keep the state of nature stable. If, as previously used, the outsider’s powers allows the user to tell reality “You goofed up”, then the music box used by the warfare overseers instead tells it “You are exactly as you should be, they are lying to you, here is the proof.”

These music boxes have been shown being used in strange means-- creating gusts of winds strong enough to knock Corvo back, and even having been able to repel Corvo and Daud as if encroaching on to an invisible barrier; implications behind this stand that if you access too much of the void (since such tactics are not utilized early on against the branded) you begin to exist just barely outside the scope of perceivable reality. The looping notes in the cylinder of the Holgers Device likely play a music/numerical collaboration of such mathematical sequences like the Fibonacci ratios so as to forcefully augment and impose a strict structuring in to the reality around it. The universe naturally craves order, and these devices create it-- almost forming a cemented bond that prevents those who have the mark from bending it. And what cannot bend will only break; chances are the branded would break before an augmented perception of structured reality.

This also comes to explain why those of weaker persuasions (like Daud’s assassins, who are not directly branded themselves) actually come to fall before the continual sounds of the playing Holger’s Device (such as the scene in Knife of Dunall, where you rescue Billie). The Holger’s Device is literally stripping them of their arcane bond, forcing them back in to mortal bonding of perception. I imagine it’s like going from somewhere with a high air pressure and temperature to somewhere of a low air pressure and temperature very quickly-- it causes your head to hurt, throb, and it makes you very dizzy and disoriented. While not the same, the experience is similar in that you are all but blind and deaf in terms of what you can now understand in terms of how your reality is working.

Those who have been fully branded are not likely to fall to the music boxes because they are something permanently outside of perceptive reality-- but those still within its boundaries can be stripped of everything they’ve become adjusted to, and be left in sensory shock or overload.... all by a few musical notes.

#{Dishonored}#{Headcanons}#{Corvo Attano}#{Daud}#{Delilah Copperspoon}#{Granny Rags}

5 notes · View notes