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ddarker-dreams · 4 years

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Yan Diluc, Childe, Kaeya & Zhongli / Darling Saying “I hate you.”

Warnings: Suggestive themes and typical unhealthy yandere behavior. Note: sometimes in life we just gotta suffer,

Diluc had told himself that this was for your own good.

That’s what gave him the ability to rest at night -- while holding the knowledge of all the freedoms he’s taken from you -- that you are safe. There’s air in your lungs, healthy color to your cheeks, and life shining brightly in your eyes. It’d be selfish to ask for anything more, he would reason. This is good enough, is what he’d think, not fully sure if he believed the creed himself.

Now he knows those words were but a lie to cover a gaping wound in his heart.

He gazes at you now, his hand reaching out, only to stop when you flinch away. The reality that he tried so desperately to push down has risen to the surface, your turmoil not easily ignored. Diluc needs to remain steadfast as he considers hesitation an insult. Certainly, he is low for holding you here against your will, but it��d be that much worse if he started questioning himself.

“I know,” is the strained answer he arrives at. You hear the pain in his voice, how the words were all but pried from him. “I’ve always known.”

“Then why?” You plead, exasperation pushing you past the limit. His head is hung low for once, unable to meet your scrutinizing gaze, instead taking an acute interest in the wooden floorboard beneath his feet.

It brings him back to his childhood, like a kid being scolded for an illogical grievance against their sibling. Your question strikes deep and close to the heart. His answer comes fast, almost robotic, as if he’s practiced it in the mirror countless times.

“For your safety.”

And so you won’t leave like everyone else has.

Exchanging thinly veiled antagonism behind the guise of banter has always thrilled Childe. This game the two of you play, he wouldn’t change it for the world, deriving too much satisfaction in your flustered reactions. Every day is spent thinking about when he’ll get to see you next, what words might bring out the cutest expressions.

The manner you deliver the line is frigid and he can’t help but be reminded of Snezhnaya’s climate. For a fleeting moment, it stings, like snowflakes against bare skin. If there’s anything Childe excels at, it’s warding off the cold. He laughs, once, twice, face illuminated with uncanny elation.

You watch in disbelief as he treats your honest admission as nothing but a joke. There’s nothing you can think to say to describe the frustration that grows in the depths of your soul, Childe’s response encapsulating exactly why you said it in the first place. Half of you considers leaving him where he stands, but you know better, he’d follow after you relentlessly. A Fatui Harbinger’s ability to spot and track their prey cannot be understated.

When his laughter starts to settle down, he speaks. “So the truth comes out, hm?”

Childe stalks towards you, sporting a wolf-like grin that sends shivers down your spine, every step you take back not enough to increase the space between you two. Eventually, your back hits the wall. Childe takes advantage of your lack of escape, taking your chin in his hand and placing his arm by your head. At that moment, it’s impossible to ignore the looming height difference, though he leans down to look at you closer.

“Hate me all you want,” he hums, his voice dipping lower with each syllable. “But I’m not going anywhere, ever, so keep that in mind. And who knows?”

Childe winks at you.

“Maybe I have a thing for being degraded.”

To be looked at with suspicion is nothing new to Kaeya. Everyone has their own reasons for doing so, whether it be to his cunning nature creating suspicion, or his country of origin. Though, he admits, your reasoning is far more personal than that. After all, his schemes have sent you into a whirlwind of misfortune.

Kaeya moves back, observing how your chest rises and falls with each labored breath, the way you refuse to look him in the eye. He’s quietly grateful that your former entangled position didn’t grant you the ability to see his face, as shock undoubtedly must’ve crossed over it. Moment’s later, he’s collected, in control of every twitch and crease of his expression.

“Hm, while I never excelled in my linguistics tutoring, I think I’m familiar enough with the word hate to draw a different conclusion,” Kaeya nods to your discarded clothes on the floor, to which you flush even brighter than before. “Is that what you’d call this? You were throwing yourself at me just a few seconds ago, y’know.”

He’s getting under your skin on purpose. You know this, seeing the trap he’s laid out without even trying to hide it, yet still fall for it to defend yourself.

“Where else am I supposed to go, when no one even looks me in the eye anymore?” You challenge, wiping the saliva from your lips with the back of your hand. Kaeya hums, considering your inquiry, fingers rubbing circles into your skin as he does so. The contact makes your mind hazy, being deprived of physical contact having done a toll on you. To come to him for comfort is a blow to your pride.

“Your hand could’ve always helped with that, but you still chose mine.” Kaeya smiles, ducking down to press open-mouthed kisses against your neck. You decide not to honor him with any further response. It feeds into his ego and that’s the last thing you want, so you close your eyes and sigh.

He pauses for a brief moment, not willing to let it go. “Not that I’m complaining, of course. I’ll always find a way to make time for you.”

Zhongli places his cup of tea down onto the table, outward reaction schooled and giving nothing away. It’s a pathetic, last-ditch attempt to earn an emotional response, even you know this. From how he whispers archaic prose into your ear about his love and adoration for you, you were expecting at least... something. A frown, furrowed eyebrows, pain in his amber eyes. Anything.

His visage remains unchanging. You drum your fingers against the table, narrowing your eyes and jutting your bottom lip out. It took you weeks to work up the courage to tell him this! Indignation and embarrassment blossom inside your chest, threatening to suffocate you. Any other time he’s talkative, but for some reason, he’s decided to take some vow of silence now.

You perk up expectantly when he clears his throat.

“It was never in the terms of our contract for you to have positive feelings towards me,” Zhongli decides, raising the cup to his lips and blowing. “Though, if I might add, I would personally like it if you did.”

Maybe it would’ve been better if he stayed silent after all. There’s no validation to be found in his taciturn response, no substance to appease your burning frustration. The word contract sticks out like a sore thumb. Petty as it might be to continue this exchange, you feel vindicated enough to do just that.

“Correct me if I’m wrong, but I believe the correct term would be marriage, not contract.”

“Are the two not one and the same? You’ve pledged yourself eternally to be my significant other, in the same way a contract binds two parties together.” Zhongli watches how you slide down into your seat dejectedly. Attempting to start an argument with Zhongli was akin to yelling at a brick wall, you decide.

“Don’t act so proud of yourself for swindling my parents into believing you’re an upstanding person.”

His lips quirk up for the briefest of moments.

“Correct me if I’m wrong, but I believe the term would be negotiating, not swindling.”

You leave him to eat his breakfast alone.

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weareallstoriesintheend · 3 years

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Deity - (Reader x Sub!Sackler)

Summary: Adam comes home from an audition in a raging mood and you know exactly how to calm him down. Sometimes a little bit of worship is all that is needed...

Based on the song Deity by Valeree

Warnings: Smut, Oral (F receiving), Fdom, Sub!Sackler

Words: 2,624

He slammed the door behind him with a classic elongated groan; you peeked over the top of the book you were reading as he threw his keys down on the side table and stomped around your apartment. You watched silently from the armchair as he trudged to the kitchen, kicking and throwing his clothes off him as he went. Adam was akin to a child in the way that ridding himself of his clothes helped rid him of his anger. He would always rip his shirt off over his head whenever he got even remotely frustrated, it was a quirk that you always quietly enjoyed. In fact you’d probably picked a fight or two in the past just to see him do it. You watched as he slammed the tap on to pour himself a glass of water before chugging it down in a terrifyingly small amount of gulps and slamming the glass down on the side. “Rough day?” you posed casually turning back to the page you were reading. “These fucking casting directors are a JOKE!” he shouted and began pacing once more shaking his clenched fists into the air. You bit back a giggle at his ridiculous motions. “I’m guessing the audition didn’t go well then?” you realised, as he turned to you, that this wasn’t usual Adam frustration; the over active emotions he usually displayed were gone, this was genuine hurt. So you chucked your book down on the coffee table and leant your elbows on your knees to show him you were listening. He flung himself round and dropped into the coach opposite you. He rubbed the flats of his palms into his eyes and grunted “I don’t know why I bother; every audition I do lately is just full of pretentious dicks who think being fucking pretty is what’s going to get them the job… and then it fuuuucking WORKS!” “But you are pretty baby” you teased slightly; he looked at you pouting, his lusciously full bottom lip jutting out. He whined and tilted his head back balling his fists up in his lap “That’s not the point!”

Honey, you look lost And I've never really been religious But I heard finding a God Just might help when someone's starting to feel helpless

“I know my love, sorry. Listen…” you waited until he looked back at you before continuing “You work so hard and I hate to see you losing hope. You’re passionate and talented and that’s what’s going to get you these jobs. But you have to fight for that! And keepfighting!” He was still pouting but he nodded silently, his eyebrows were pulled down over his sweet doe eyes. You smiled at him as something changed in his expression, a familiar twinkle glinted in his eye as he ran his gaze over your seated position. It was like he’d just realised what you were wearing, simply underwear and one of his old t-shirts that you practically drowned in as it ended at the tops of your thighs “What do you need darling? Tell me.” You asked.

I don't know much 'bout Buddhists, Jews, or Christians But I got something I think you could worship

Adam dropped to his knees and crawled the short distance between you until he was seated, leant back on his heels, at your feet. He was silent, staring at you with those pretty pleading eyes “You have to use your words Sackler.” you prompted. He practically wiggled in place as he hands came up to run along your bare thighs. You slapped his hands away and sat forward so you were close to his face, breath ghosting over him. He whined in protest but closed his eyes “Your words my love. You have to use them.” you stated, voice seductively lower. “You,” he whispered “I want you.” You smiled back at him, “I’m right here honey, what do you need?” He huffed a sigh and licked his bottom lip “I want to taste you… please. I want to worship you, take my mind off this fucking stupid day.” Those sweet doe eyes were back and you leant back with your elbows on the armrests of the chair for a moment pretending to be deep in thought. You took in the image of Adam, resting back on his heels in just his light grey underwear. His wide pale chest was heaving a little faster now; his long muscled arms were resting against his body, palms flat against his thighs. “Oh look at you sweetheart, so pretty for me” you chuckled. He nodded and inched a little closer “Please. I need something good in my day. You are my something good.”

You heart ached in your chest at his soft pleas. “Show me” you stated, he immediately widened his knees slightly and dropped his head. You followed his gaze to the growing bulge in his boxers “Oh” you gasped, you couldn’t help but lean forward as you spoke and capture his chin in your hand. Your other hand leant forward to touch his hardening cock, you touched him just so your fingers were barely grazing him and he bucked slightly. Bringing his face up to look at you you placed a soft kiss to his lips. He whined almost silently under his breath and pitched forward trying to keep your lips on his “Fuuuuck come on kid, I need this” he begged under his breath. You chuckled darkly at his sweet demeanor faltering slightly back into his usual cadence “Okay…” you stated, widening your legs and planting your feet either side of his thighs. “Be a good boy for me”

I’ll be your deity, fall to your knees Oh, honey, pray to me between the sheets

He dove forward and hooked his fingers into your underwear and ripped them harshly down your legs. You closed your knees together slightly and tsk’d at him “ah, ah, ah… slowly sweet boy” He nodded apologetically and began placing indulgent kisses up your thigh. The muscles twitched underneath his full lips and you sighed, leaning your head against the back of the chair “That’s it, I want to feel how badly you want this” His hands tentatively wrapped around your ankles, clearly unsure if he was allowed to touch you. You considered kicking him away but you looked down and his eyes caught yours. He licked a hot wet stripe up your inner right thigh and you could see the smirk twitching at his lips as you gasped despite yourself.

Get down and start to confess Come into the church between my legs Baby, and I’ll set you free

You abruptly sat up and grabbed his jaw in your hand squeezing tightly, he groaned at the feeling and you brought him up to your eye line “I see that smirk, here I thought you were being a good boy” “I am.” he smiled “No I don’t think you are, you come in here stomping around my apartment like a fucking child, like you own the place, and now you think you can act all cocky to me?” His expression suddenly changed again, his eyebrows quirked a little and he squirmed in your grasp “I’m sorry” he whispered, stuttering slightly as he spoke. “What was that?” you asked, squeezing his jaw tighter. He winced “I’m sorry!” “Look at you, pathetic. All pouty and whiny for me. But look…” you lowered your eyes to his hard cock evident between his powerful thighs, a small wet patch was darkening where his pre-cum had soaked through the light material “… You can’t control yourself can you? Sweet little boy is all needy from the mere thought of tasting my cunt” He nodded frantically and you let go of his jaw “I-I’m sorry. Please” he whispered again, fingers twitching in his lap. You aww’d at him, he looked so innocent when he begged. “Do you want to be good Adam?” you questioned, already knowing the answer but wanting the admission to come from his lips only. “Yes! Please I want to make you feel good. Let me earn you.” he cried out; big, wide eyes looked up at you as you nodded allowing him to continue.

Oh, I don't believe in a vengeful God No, I don't believe in punishing the sinner Unless punishment's the kind of love you want

He kissed quick, soft pecks up both of your thighs and you savoured the feeling of his timid grasp on your ankles. You invited him closer by parting your legs a little more, unable to take your eyes of his ministrations. Having him like this thrilled you; the thought of this large, beautiful man who usually pinned you down and made you beg for his cock now on his knees pleading for just a taste of you made you soaked beyond belief.

His lips glided closer to your cunt along your goosebumped skin, your clit was throbbing harder as you tried to keep your composed control. He was taking his time, cherishing the soft skin between your legs but you needed him. You snaked your hand into his hair and tugged up, he cried out in your grasp before moaning into the folds of your cunt. You sighed, releasing him and leaning back once more. You closed your eyes and took in the feeling of his soft tongue gliding over you “Yes, that’s it. Fuck, that feels good” you hummed almost to yourself. He moaned into you and the vibrations made you shudder, he wrapped his lips around your clit and began sucking. He knew just how much you loved the sensation of his skilled mouth around your clit, the amount of times you’d begged for it he knew exactly what you needed in this moment. You looked down and took in the contentment on his face, eyes closed in what could only be described as absolute bliss as he busied himself in your dripping cunt. “You’re doing so good for me baby” You whispered, stroking his hair from his face. You looked down and saw him palming his cock with one hand, wriggling in his kneeling position. You flicked your foot to tap his arm “Did I tell you you could do that?” Without lifting his mouth from you he shook his head and didn’t even opening his eyes, you held back the moan that threatened to ripple through you “Then stop” you ordered. He whined and looked up at you with those beautiful eyes, you almost caved to his neediness but then you got an idea.

I don't know much 'bout Orthodox traditions But I got something I think you should worship

“I’ll make you a deal, make me cum and I’ll think about letting you do the same” you smiled, his eyes lit up and suddenly he was devouring you. Gripping your legs once again he moaned and grunted into you. Shockwaves of pleasure were crackling over your skin and it was your turn to cry out, plunging your hands into his messy hair you clutched him to you. Your tight hole was clenching around nothing as you dripped onto the chair below you. “Yes, just like that. Good boy, keep doing that” you rambled as you were lost in the feeling of his hot mouth on you. Your stomach was tightening and your thighs clamped around his head unable to stop your hips from bucking into his face. He knew you so well, he knew every sound and move you made as you got closer and closer to cumming. Suddenly his hands leave your legs and tuck up under you, lifting you off the seat closer to him. You wanted to stop him, scold him for doing something without permission but the quivering in your thighs and the choking moans you were letting out meant you could barely speak. You gripped his arms to steady yourself, balanced precariously on his large palms. “Make me cum! Yes, fuck, make me cum!” you chanted and one with one hard suck directly on your clit you felt yourself tumbling into white-hot pleasure. Uninhibited cries leave you as you dig your fingernails deep into his arms, your muscles stiff and burning hot as you convulse against him. He rests you down into the chair once more, placing gentle kisses to your trembling thighs once more as you pant and whimper. “You did so well for me.” you whisper as you meet his expectant gaze. You can see his palms tapping his thighs, you hadn’t realised he had managed to free himself from his boxers. His thick, aching cock was now twitching below you and you laughed. “Okay” that was all you needed to say before his hand was stroking it. He hissed at the sensation, leaning his head back.

You leant forward and stroked his pale shoulders where they were tinged with a blush of red, they glistened with sweat from his effort “You did so good Adam” you cooed at him “You’re so sweet to me” He whined and looked back at you, his bottom lip was sucked in between his teeth and his eyebrows were pulled down in desperation. His hand picked up speed between you “You did exactly as I asked didn’t you?” He nodded frantically, panting at the speed he was stroking. “And you did so good in that audition today, I know you did. My talented boy, you deserve the world you know that?” you whispered, stroking his sweat soaked hair back out of his face. You ran your fingertips down his face, tracing light teasing patterns over all the angles you loved, his cheeks were flushed an exquisite pink. You ran the tip of your finger down his beautiful, aquiline nose that you absolutely adored and he moaned, his eyes brimming like he could cry. His hand picked up speed once again and his hips were rutting up into his grasp. You wiped sweat from his temple and kissed his forehead, leaning forward so you could whisper in his ear “Tell me how good it feels. Tell me how good it feels to worship at my feet” “S-so good” he stuttered “So fucking good!”

Baby, praise me. Make me your deity and I'll set you free

“That’s it Adam, cum for me. You deserve it.” He tilted forward, placing his forehead on your shoulder with a groan. You placed kisses to every inch of skin you could reach up and down his neck, sucking gently on his earlobe “Cum for me.” He explodes with a deep groan, thick ropes of cum splashing up onto his stomach and over his hand. He huffs and grunts, rutting up into his hands in stuttered thrusts. He sways slightly as his breathing slows and you reach out to grab his shoulders and steady him.

Once you had caught your breath you stood. You made your way to the kitchen bare feet padding quietly on the cold floor, knees wobbling beneath you, to get a towel. Walking back to him you saw him watching your every move with a dazed smile on his face, his eyelids were drooped and sweat droplets dripped deliciously down the centre of his chest. You dropped the towel into his outstretched hands and chuckled as he wiped his cum agitatedly from his hands and stomach with a slight grimace. Bending down you knelt down on the floor in front of him, taking his face in both your hands and kissing him. You stroked your tongue into his mouth, delighting in the taste of your juices on his lips. “Such a good boy for me” you teased quietly. “Fuck off kid” he laughed, blushing a deeper shade pink. He leant his forehead against yours and sighed “Thank you”.

#adam sackler #hbo girls #sackler x you #sackler x reader #sub!sackler #sub!sacker x reader #fdom #adam sackler fic #Spotify #sackler

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trilliastra · 4 years

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4 times jin ling saved jiang cheng + 1

His sister’s funeral is held two days after the Sunshot Campaign.

Jiang Cheng insisted on holding her funeral in Lotus Pier, but she belonged in Lanling Jin, next to her husband’s grave, that much Madam Jin said, and Jiang Cheng was tired of fighting after doing it for days. Even though his sister’s body won’t be next to their parents, their ancestors, at least they will have their good memories, her laughter and her kindness, in their halls.

Madam Jin watches him wearily when he stopped insisting, kept watching him through the entire ceremony with something akin to worry in her eyes. Jiang Cheng wouldn’t know, he could not look at her for too long, ashamed, that Wei Wuxian, his brother, caused so much grief to her clan, and Jiang Cheng did nothing to stop him.

He couldn’t even deliver the final blow like a coward, a shame to the Jiang Sect, a failure.

“Sect Leader Jiang,” Madam Jin calls him once the ceremony is over, gesturing for him to follow her steps towards the place that once belonged to her son and his wife, “I want you to take him with you.” She says, opening the door, and Jiang Cheng frowns, confused, when she insists the maid deposits the little baby in his arms.

Jin Ling is sleeping peacefully, but when Jiang Cheng closes his arms around him, the baby opens his eyes slowly. Jiang Cheng braces himself for the screams that don’t come, Jin Ling simply waves his little hands around and keeps staring at him, almost curious.

Jiang Cheng only held him once, two days after he was born, and under his sister’s watchful eyes. He remembers being nervous, scared of hurting that tiny, defenceless being, but his sister only smiled, fond, and said, “you’re incapable of hurting anyone, A-Cheng.”

Oh, he swallows heavily, if only that was true.

“He is the heir –” he tries to say, but Madam Jin shakes her head, stopping him with a stern look.

“He will have food and toys and servants to please his every need, but he won’t have a family.” She says, stepping closer to run a finger over the boy’s forehead. “I won’t be alive much longer,” she points out, “and I will not let him grow up under that man’s care.”

Jiang Cheng understands her worry, Jin Guangshan didn’t even go to Jiang Yanli’s funeral, too busy doing something – or someone – to attend the ceremony. And though Jin Guangyao was there to pay his respects, Jiang Cheng noticed he kept his distance from Madam Jin as the woman glared at him most of the time.

Their Sect is a mess and the only one that could bring balance to their lives is dead, along with his wife.

But still, Jiang Cheng looks down as Jin Ling lets out incoherent noises and then almost smiles when he gets Jiang Cheng’s attention again; it is too much responsibility for someone so – broken.

He wasn’t even planning on staying alive to watch his nephew grow up.

When he looks up, Madam Jin is staring at him as if she knows exactly what he is thinking. He forgot she was good friends with his mother – only a strong, intelligent woman could understand another.

“You need each other.” She says, finally, and leaves Jiang Cheng alone in the room, still holding a small baby in his arms.

Jin Ling makes an annoyed sound, yawning, and Jiang Cheng carefully starts to rock him, up and down, trying to mimic his sister’s loving touch.

“This is going to be hard, A-Ling,” he says and Jin Ling stops fussing, eyes locked on Jiang Cheng’s face, “I will make so many mistakes and I’ll probably hurt you.” His sister was gentle, Jiang Cheng is far from it. He is all rough hands, sharp words. He doesn’t know how to care for another, how to comfort someone when they are sick or hurt or sad, he was not raised for that. “But, I – I will take care of you and I will protect you and, I will love you.”

And Jiang Cheng will, that much he can promise his nephew, can promise himself. He will love this boy like he is his own son, like Jiang Fengmian loved Wei Wuxian, like he wished to be loved by his father.

“No matter what you do, no matter who you grow up to be.” He keeps saying and Jin Ling watches him the entire time, as if memorizing every word, understanding that from now on, this is the parent he will have. Not his father or his mother, but his uncle, his protector, his family.

Time passes quickly when one is looking after a child and soon enough they are celebrating Jin Ling’s third birthday and the boy could not be more loved. Jiang Cheng yells too much and smiles too little, but he tries his best for his nephew, runs after him when Jin Ling is feeling particularly hyperactive, comforts him after a nightmare and reads him stories every night, sighing tiredly when Jin Ling insists on listening to his favorite tale over and over again.

It isn’t easy and most days, Jiang Cheng still doesn’t know what he is doing. But Jin Ling is healthy, happy, and that is all that matters.

The questions start when he turns eight and more and more families move to Lotus Pier. It’s normal, now, to see a mother with her new born baby, a father with a toddler on his shoulders, a five-year-old stumbling and calling her parents for help. Jin Ling never questioned his past before, he never knew other kids were not raised by their uncles, but now he does – and Jiang Cheng is exhausted.

“But why?” Jin Ling keeps asking, and Jiang Cheng takes a deep breath and promises him he will do it one day, when he’s older.

He should have known Jin Guangyao would not think the same.

Jin Ling arrives from Carp Tower that night, crying, and Jiang Cheng watches helplessly because his nephew refuses to be touched. He understands death, they had buried many people through the years, mostly elders and occasionally a disciple or two, but it is clear now, that Jin Ling never thought of it as something so grand, something that could affect him directly.

And it does not help, that Jiang Cheng has no idea what side of the story Jin Ling was told.

“Jin Ling,” Jiang Cheng tries when a servant arrives with Jin Ling’s dinner, “come, it is time for dinner.” It isn’t, admittedly, the best way to deal with a crying child, but Jiang Cheng has no idea what to do, how long Jin Ling will keep at it. The boy is even too young to know what he is feeling, never mind explain it to someone else, who does not know what to feel as well.

“No.” Jin Ling yells, throwing a pillow at the servant, who startles and drops the tray on the ground. She immediately flushes red, bowing and apologizing, but Jiang Cheng shakes his head, raises a hand to stop her.

“Apologize.” He tells Jin Ling. “Now.”

“No!” Jin Ling screams, even louder. “You are not my father!” He crosses his arms, turning his back to Jiang Cheng, his sobs growing weaker as he gets angrier.

Jiang Cheng feels his head throbbing. He closes his eyes, runs a hand over his face. “Jin Ling, either you –”

“You let them die.” Jin Ling accuses and Jiang Cheng loses his balance at the venom in his words, feels like he’s been punched by someone ten times stronger than himself.

Madam Jin was right to send him away, the Jin Sect is too cruel to tell such a story to a child so young.

“You – you do not understand what –”

“You never told me!” Jin Ling screams back. “You never said the truth!”

“There is more than one truth!” Jiang Cheng yells back, and promptly shuts up when he feels Zidian coming to life. He is losing control, he – Jin Ling does not deserve to see this side of him.

“The Yiling Patriarch killed my parents!” His nephew cries out. “His name was Wei Wuxian and you still kept his room!”

Jiang Cheng does not answer, because there is nothing to say. It is true and he hates himself for it. Wei Wuxian killed Jin Ling’s parents and Jiang Cheng still loves him, sometimes even wishes he was still alive, there is no excuse for that.

“I hate you.” Jin Ling says, finally, and Jiang Cheng leaves the room.

Jiang Cheng spends most of the night in the woods, hunting ghosts and destroying everything in his path, blinded by his anger and the indescribable pain in his chest.

He never thought he could hurt this bad again, not after his sister’s death, but the hatred he saw in Jin Ling’s eyes tonight – Jiang Cheng had only seen it once, in his own father’s eyes.

Eventually, he collapses on the ground, exhausted, and absolutely destroyed. He does not have the strength to lift his sword anymore, and Zidian shrinks back into its ring form.

He shivers from the cold and closes his eyes, feeling himself fall asleep. It is dangerous to stay here, alone, so defenceless, but Jiang Cheng was ready to die eight years ago, and he still is, now.

The world would be better without him anyway. He shouldn’t even have survived, all those years ago, after being captured by the Wens. Wei Wuxian would have been a better Sect Leader, a better son, brother and uncle.

It is funny, he smiles at last, mournful – he thought he was nothing without his Golden Core, but now he would give it away happily, just so his nephew could have his family back.

He wakes up with his Head Disciple calling his name, desperately.

No, Jiang Cheng thinks, leave me here.

Let me die.

“Sect Leader,” she calls, “please, Jin Ling is calling for you.”

“What –” he asks, blinking confusedly.

“He is sick, Sect Leader.” She answers. “He needs you.”

Despite the fact that his entire body hurts, despite the blood gushing from the cut on his arm, Jiang Cheng unsheathes his sword and takes flight. He should be dead, but his nephew needs him, so he will live.

At eleven Jin Ling can only be described as clingy. He does not like going to Carp Tower any more than Jiang Cheng likes watching him leave, but it is his duty still, his legacy, and – liking or not – his family as well.

But he always comes back, a cloud over his head that quickly vanishes as soon as he sets foot on Lotus Pier, promptly throwing himself on the lake and swimming happily with the first disciple he sees. Jiang Cheng does not have it in him to berate him – or the disciple – as he always ends up in the lake as well, liking or not.

They always have their meals together and at some point Jin Ling decided he should start watching Jiang Cheng work – as ‘practice’, he said, but Jiang Cheng knows better.

After their fight, many years ago, Jin Ling ran a high fever, tossing and turning on his bed from nightmares, sometimes screaming Jiang Cheng’s name, other times pleading for his life. Jiang Cheng never left his side, holding a wet cloth over his forehead, clothes still covered in blood, as he prayed for his sister’s forgiveness, for his nephew’s quick recovery. When Jin Ling finally woke up, hours later, Jiang Cheng apologized, promising to tell him his side of the story, and Jin Ling promptly threw himself at him, crying and apologizing as well.

Their relationship has not been the same since, it’s been better, Jiang Cheng realizes, and he takes to enjoying their time together even more. He has no illusions this will last, Jin Ling is quickly growing into his own person, more mature, independent, smart. This will not continue forever, but Jiang Cheng will still cherish these moments, where he can look to his left and find Jin Ling unconsciously imitating his stance, one hand on his belt, the other on his back.

Sometimes, Jiang Cheng thinks, he’s happy to be alive.

Jiang Cheng has grown used to the letters. At first, he considered the marriage proposals annoying, would rip the papers to shreds and ignore every word. It was offensive, to receive such letters so soon after the war, as if he was nothing more than a possible husband, the path to glory to some of the smaller Sects or, worse, more power to the bigger ones.

It is not so bad now that he trusts their own reputation, knows most people would see it as a fruitful alliance and not just the possibility of ruling over a broken Sect. He still gets the proposals and denies each and every one of them, but some families go beyond, desperate for power or salvation.

Xin Li Hua is a beautiful woman, her smile is sweet and fierce at the same time, her words shaper than a blade. In another life, Jiang Cheng could see himself falling for her, but in this – he feels nothing but admiration.

She came alone, carrying nothing but a letter from her father. Jiang Cheng offered a room, food, clothes and help to her starving family, but made sure she knew nothing else would come from it. Xin Li Hua nodded, bowing gracefully in front of him and Jiang Cheng thought it was settled.

It was Jin Ling who saw right through it.

“I don’t like her.” Jin Ling says, later that night, throwing pieces of chicken for Little Fairy to catch in the air. The dog will get fat, Jiang Cheng had warned, but he does not have it in him to deny her food either.

Jiang Cheng rolls his eyes, takes off his shoes as he sits down on the pier, dips his feet in the water. “You don’t have to.” He says. “I will not marry her.”

“I know,” Jin Ling says, rolling his eyes back. Jiang Cheng blames himself for that habit, but huffs out a laugh anyway, “but she looks at you in a weird way. As if she wants to – to hurt you.”

Jiang Cheng frowns, surprised. Jin Ling is a perceptive boy and smart as well; he has become quite protective of him, of their people. Those are great qualities for a future Sect Leader.

“I don’t know,” Jin Ling says, flopping down next to him and resting his head on Little Fairy’s fur, “just – be careful.” He warns, pleads, turning his big eyes to Jiang Cheng.

Jiang Yanli was perceptive as well and she was constantly worried about him, asking him to take care of himself, to look out for trouble, to always come back home safe.

“I will.” Jiang Cheng promises his nephew, like he used to promise his sister. “I will.” He repeats, resting one hand on Jin Ling’s hair.

Two days later the disciple Jiang Cheng ordered to keep an eye on Xin Li Hua finds her trying to poison their food. She does not explain why, keeps her mouth shut for the entirety of the trials presided by the Chief Cultivator himself.

Jin Ling does not tell Jiang Cheng ‘I told you so’, but his eyes do and Jiang Cheng has to hide a smile behind his hand. Despite it all, he is deeply proud of the man Jin Ling is becoming.

Jiang Cheng spent most of the last sixteen years looking for Wei Wuxian’s spirit, for what reason – revenge, forgiveness – he never knew, but just as he was starting to give up on his quest, he comes back. Unexpectedly, in the midst of all the chaos, like he used to. Jiang Cheng is not even surprised, this is exactly how Wei Wuxian used to operate, always making an entrance, always having something to say.

He never really cared about the consequences of his actions, only kept moving from one shiny toy to the next like a child, leaving the mess behind for Jiang Cheng to clean. It is no different now, despite the fact that sixteen years have passed. He wreaks havoc wherever he goes, irritating some people, charming others.

And it is with a heavy heart and a confused mind, that Jiang Cheng watches history repeat itself. The first time Wei Wuxian appeared into Jiang Cheng’s life, he stole his father; the second time, he steals his nephew.

His chest hurts. It is like his Golden Core knows its original owner is back and is trying to run back to him.

Deep down, Jiang Cheng knew he never deserved his second chance, nor the third or the fourth. Wei Wuxian did. It is obvious now, he always thought Wei Wuxian was the traitor, but in reality, Jiang Cheng is – the one who turned his back to his brother, who never believed he could have been a victim as well.

He throws Sandu away, does the same with Zidian, screaming painfully. He does not deserve this power, does not deserve to be called Sandu Shengshou. He is just a failure, a fraud.

Jiang Cheng sinks down on his knees in the ancestral hall, fighting off his tears. Why wasn’t him enough for his father? Just because he was born from the wrong woman, or was it something else? Did Jiang Fengmian know, even before, what Jiang Cheng would do? How pathetic he would become?

Did he know he would fail them all?

“Uncle,” he hears Jin Ling call, his voice soft and worried.

“Leave.” Jiang Cheng screams, frustrated. This is the last thing he wants, for Jin Ling to witness him at his lowest, to see who his uncle really is. He keeps his back to him, groaning when Jin Ling does not move. “What? Wei Wuxian must be with Hanguang-jun, go after him if you want.” He says, closing his eyes, tells himself it will be fine.

It hurts, but it will be fine. As long as Jin Ling is happy, Jiang Cheng will keep his distance, will let his nephew have everything Jiang Cheng could not give him. All the stories, the adventures, the laughter.

He will not be here to see it, anyway.

“Uncle,” Jin Ling repeats, stronger this time. Jiang Cheng hears him moving, and the next thing he knows, his nephew is kneeling in front of him, eyes – his mother’s eyes – shining with anger, “why do you insist on being alone?” Jiang Cheng blinks, startled. “Did you assume I would think less of you? Did you think I would be ashamed?” Jin Ling shakes his head, drops his hands on Jiang Cheng’s shoulders. “No! Look what you did! Our Sect, me, you-” Jin Ling lets out a sob, lifts one hand to hastily wipe out his own tears, “you did this all by yourself!”

“With his Golden Core!” Jiang Cheng insists. He would have been nothing without it, just a hollow man, alone.

He hears the slap before he feels it. The hand connecting to skin; Jin Ling’s hand, his face. Astonished, he looks up at his nephew and gasps. This isn’t the boy he raised anymore, this is a strong man, fierce, headstrong, a Sect Leader.

“It does not matter!” Jin Ling yells. “What you accomplished after matters! Our clan, our people, me! Uncle,” his voice softens, “you would have done the same for me, would you not?”

Jiang Cheng does not have to think twice. “Of course!”

“And would you think less of me because of it?”

Jiang Cheng closes his eyes, struggling to breathe. “No.”

He feels Jin Ling’s hands on his back, pulling him closer, his head resting on his nephew’s shoulder. “Uncle.” His nephew repeats, soft, always soft.

He is just like his mother, Jiang Cheng thinks, and that thought alone pulls him back from the abyss. He did something right in his life, he raised a caring, loving man, as opinionated as his father, as gentle as his mother.

Jin Ling is his best accomplishment, and no one will be able to take that away from him.

“A-Ling,” he says, at last, “I want to tell you a story.” Jin Ling pulls back, eyes red with tears, and looks at him curiously. “The story of how I lost my Golden Core.”

+ 1.

Sometimes Jin Ling feels guilty for not missing his parents. He knows his life would be entirely different if they were still alive, his uncle having told many stories about his parents. So, he knows about them, but he’s never had them in his life.

He holds his father’s sword with pride and longing for things that could have been, dreams about his mother’s laughter, even though he will never know how her voice really sounded like; but when he was sick as a child, it was not his mother at his side, it was his uncle. When he went on his first Night Hunt and came home crying out of frustration for not being able to capture a ghost, it was his uncle that listened to his rambling, then stayed with him on the training field until the sun began to shine in the East.

He might have wished for a different life sometimes, especially after a fight with his uncle, but those were just words uttered out of frustration and anger, Jin Ling never truly meant to exchange his reality for a fantasy; the familiar touch, the kind – and sometimes rough – words, for a dream.

So, when the option is offered to him, he already knows what to say.

“No.” He raises his sword, takes a step to the side and positions himself between the demon and his family. Jin Ling notices Sizhui on his right and Jingyi on his left, his friends and allies, ready to help him if necessary.

“What would your mother think, A-Ling?” The thing says and Jin Ling has to remind himself the body it is possessing is still of an innocent boy, not older than fifteen, and who does not deserve to die. “When she finds out you gave her up for –”

It is taunting him and Wei Wuxian has to be held back by Sizhui, angry tears streaming down his face, before he is collapsing, his arm bleeding profusely from where the demon stabbed him. His uncle does not say anything, and Jin Ling worries he might have passed out.

“I do not know.” Jin Ling answers, waiting for the signal. He is beginning to feel frustrated, but he holds his ground – Wen Ning will come, he tells himself, he always does. “I never met her.”

“But you want to.” The thing uses the boy’s mouth to smile. It is an ugly thing, and wrong, all teeth and hunger, eyes shining with mirth and sickness. “Just let me have a taste, A-Ling, and you will meet your mother, yes, your uncle will not feel a thing. He is ready for it, too.” The thing licks its bloody hands, uncle’s blood, and closes its eyes, savouring the taste. “He wants it, A-Ling.”

“Well, too bad.” Jin Ling snarls, frustrated because he knows it is true. His uncle would not hesitate to sacrifice himself for Jin Ling’s mother, and he hates it. Jiang Cheng is his uncle, yes, but also his father and mother, his family. The only he’s ever had. “He is not going anywhere.” He notices the tree on his right shaking and jumps, reaching out to hold the thing’s left arm at the same time Wen Ning comes to its right. Jingyi does not hesitate to help and even Sizhui has to abandon Wei Wuxian to come to their aid.

The demon screams and kicks, throwing Jin Ling against a tree and knocking Wen Ning to the ground. It is not a fair fight; even if they are four against one, the thing is avidly trying to kill them, while they have to hold back, worried about accidentally hurting the boy the thing is possessing. By the time Hanguang-jun arrives, Jingyi’s nose is definitely broken and Jin Ling can barely hold himself up.

Two disciples take his place holding the demon down while Hanguang-jun works on the exorcism; and Jin Ling – he crawls towards his uncle, breathing heavily through the pain in his arms and legs, too worried to care about anything else.

“Uncle,” he whispers, shaking hands coming to touch his uncle’s chest.

“A-Ling,” his uncle answers weakly, “you should have –”

“No,” Jin Ling interrupts, knowing very well what his uncle was going to say, “no more.” He lays his head against his uncle’s chest, feels his eyes closing with exhaustion. “I do not need my mother, I already have you.” He manages to say before passing out.

He wakes up on his own bed in Lotus Pier. He rarely visits anymore, too busy with politics and Night Hunts to come back home, but his bedroom is the same, the toys he used to play with as a child still on the shelves.

He sits up immediately as he remembers the night before, his uncle on the ground, bleeding. He tries to get up, groans as his legs give out and he collapses back on the bed.

“Keep still.” He hears Wei Wuxian, feels his hands on his shoulders, forcing him back down.

“Where is he?” Jin Ling asks, alarmed. Every time he got hurt or sick his uncle always stayed with him, he never woke up to an empty room.

“Resting in his own room.” Wei Wuxian explains. “He will be fine.” He says and Jin Ling finally breathes out, relieved. Wei Wuxian smiles. “You are just like your mother,” he points out and Jin Ling blushes. He’s been hearing that a lot lately, “but you are a lot like Jiang Cheng, too.”

He nods, looks down when Wei Wuxian laughs, amused. “I know.” He’s heard that a lot, too, growing up. It never failed to make him smile, proud. “Can you – can you help me?” Jin Ling asks, awkwardly. He still does not know how to interact with Wei Wuxian, does not know what to feel about him yet.

Wei Wuxian seems to understand, though, and he only smiles before helping him up.

“A-Ling,” his uncle says, weakly, opening his eyes when Jin Ling touches his hand, “are you –”

“Yes.” Jin Ling nods, watches his uncle’s expression soften. “I am fine.” He takes a deep breath, gestures for Wei Wuxian to stay, when the other man tries to leave the room. “Uncle,” he says, “I meant it, you know that, right?”

“You shouldn’t.” Jiang Cheng says immediately. “It is not fair.”

“Maybe.” Jin Ling answers. “But it is the life I know, you are the parent I had.” He stresses, watches his uncle’s eyes shine with a mix of confusion and hurt, but also pride and happiness. “I cannot choose a life I never knew. I miss them, the idea of them. I know she was a great woman, I know he was an honest man, but you are my family.” Jin Ling explains, feels himself tearing up. “Promise me you will not forget that.”

His uncle takes a deep breath, eyes going from Jin Ling to Wei Wuxian and then back to Jin Ling. Finally, he nods. “I promise, A-Ling.”

Jin Ling smiles, squeezes his uncle’s hand. He looks up at Wei Wuxian then, and takes another deep breath. “And you,” he says, watches as Wei Wuxian reaches out for Jiang Cheng’s other hand and smiles when his uncle accepts the touch, “can we start over?”

“Yes,” Wei Wuxian answers immediately, eyes shining with tears as well, “I’d like that.”

They both look down, “yes,” Jin Ling’s uncle says, “I’d like that too.”

#jiang cheng & jin ling #jin ling & jiang cheng #the untamed #mo dao zu shi #mdzs #my fic #welp this got long #SO MANY feels #i dont even know where this came from #hope y'all enjoy tho #tw: thoughts of suicide

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decayandfanfics · 3 years

Text

The great book of sayings

PAIRINGS: Tomura Shigaraki x FemReader

SUMMARY: He looks at you, his scarlet eyes fixed on yours, burning a hole through your head, every bit the predator he is, but you are as tough as it gets, so, against your better judgment and any well-founded logic, you answer his silent threat, the animalistic look he gives you with nothing less than a fearless smirk, irises burrowing into his pupils.A clever girl. He thinks, finally labeling you inside his head, cursing himself in the very moment he allows his brain to think of you as more than an asset. He is sure (he knows himself enough to know) he’ll think of this moment many times from now on.A clever pretty girl.

Reader is a typical college student until she gets herself tangled with the league of villains.

WARNINGS: Unhealthy/complicated relationships, violence, Tomura being Tomura, mentions of murder, heroes’ abuse of power, smut later.

A/N: I’m trying so hard to write crusty boy here really in character. At least after AfO is taken. Any misspelled words, english is not my native language so i’m trying Helen.

___________________________________________________________

Chapter 8 / Chapter 9

You show me the man and I’ll show you the rule.

Tomura thinks he knows nothing about beauty, but then she proves him wrong.

(He thought her pretty before already, but after seen it…he concludes she’s the most beautiful, terrific thing he’s ever seen. Not that he would tell her that.)

A feral dangerous creature living inside of her with no other match.

No other but him.

Oh...you have no idea...She told him.

It happens so fast. One moment she’s there, sitting in front of her laptop, pretty and quiet and serene. All harmony and light, resting softly under the sunlight, between her dumb succulents and the spices that fill her home. Then he can hear Dabi’s caustic laugh and the wrong words. He’s disrespectful, an instigator, skilled in the art of making others lose their composure like is his favorite game.

He hears the foul words, the berating, and the mocking aimed to him, while she sits wide eyed and impossible flustered by the kitchen table.

Dabi smirks triumphant, like he always does after giving everyone a piece of his drama and Tomura watches him, wincing, reminding himself again that Dabi is supposedly oldest than him and Toga, and yet he does his best to being an annoying brat.

Tomura knows better to just let him bark, his remarks mean nothing to him, he knows what he is, and he knows what he isn’t. He’s a freak, yeah. That too, but he isn’t a child anymore, so he let it slide, keeping his eyes glued to his phone arching an inquisitive brow, ready to just let it die there.

He just forgot about the stupid little stunts of bravery she has this tendency to commit. (An annoying dangerous trait that makes him chuckle with something akin to fondness.)

She’s having none of the bullshit, Dabi’s little remarks had fed her up after a whole week of spiteful teasing, her precious patience has run thin.

“blue eyes are a mutation too, so you are no one to talk about it.”

The moment she opens her mouth, Tomura feels something warm filling the hollow place where his dead heart should go and it’s so foreign to him that for a moment he panics and thinks (very stupidly) that maybe his energy drink-based diet is finally going to kill him, and he (barely in his sweet twenty’s) is having a stupid heart attack.

But the pain never comes, it’s just her, voicing a clever answer, defending him.

“A quirkless little bitch? Seriously, Dabi? Where you raised in a fucking barn that you know nothing but fuck this and bitch that?

He wants to make her shut it, but he can’t find the words. Not when her remarks are sharp and funny to hear. (Besides, her voice sounds so sweet when she’s throwing smart ass angry comments just to back him up.)

It warms him and enrages him equally. How dare she to defend him? He can speak for himself on his own and doesn’t need her to make any back up about an insult he doesn’t care for. Stupid pretty woman. Trying to shut Dabi, putting herself in danger for the likes of him...Is she insane? (later that day, he’ll conclude that she must be pretty fucking nuts to have them all in her home after all, but somehow the thought only makes him like her more.)

“yeah. I know stupid cunt too.”

Dabi likes to cause havoc and now he’s pissed, so he throws a vulgarity aimed at her. Tomura feels the hot pang of anger at the other man, because the offense is not only an insult, but also a lie. She’s not stupid nor a cunt. She's sharp as a knife and kind enough to share with them.

“Dabi, cut it out.” He warns with a grimace, and now the fight has everyone tense in the room.

“I’m sure you do. Pretty useful to describe yourself I bet.” She snarls showing her teeth, an angry frown darkening her features and Tomura swears her eyes begin changing color.

“you sure like to bet, like how you are betting I don’t burn you alive for being an annoying bitch.”

This time Tomura gets fucking furious, something animal revolving inside of him at the idea of Dabi threatening her. But the fight is escalating so fast, he can’t say anything before she answers back.

“Fuck off, Dabi. This might be shocking for you, but you don’t scare me.”

He wants to laugh at this, truly. Feisty little thing she is when angered, all her soft ways and nerd knowledge thrown out the window in a fit of cocky bickering and a part of him is living for the chaos of it.

“now, that’s pretty fucking stupid of you.”

“Dabi, shut up!” Tomura growls irked with the way her hair has begun to float over her shoulders, now completely convinced that she’s not quirkless at all.

“I’m not the one insulting everyone just because I cannot deal with some fucking daddy issues.”

God fucking dammit woman, just shut up. He thinks frustrated, giving her a look worth a stab.

“YOU DON’T KNOW SHIT” Dabi snarls before kicking the little table in the living room, breaking one of its legs with a loud crack.

“CUT IT OUT!” she screams this time, standing from her chair “I don’t have to know when it’s plainly obvious you have problems with authority.”

“you really think you are so clever, don’t you?” Dabi states, crossing the living room, aiming to her, so Tomura leaves his place in the corner to stand at her side without even thinking why.

“I know I am, asshole!”

Dabi stops his tracks, looming over her like a monster. His eyes scanning her face before looking at Tomura, who stands by her with his hands open in front of him in clear warning.

The black-haired man looks at her before moving to Tomura, his brows raised in surprise as he chuckles darkly.

Shigaraki hates the way he looks at him, like he knows his thoughts. Like he knows he’s been creeping into her room to watch her sleep and the sinister lustful visions that sometimes plague his dreams after some playful back and forth every time she defies him with some smart-ass comment.

“stupid woman. You should know better.”

And then…he just slaps the laptop out of the table; the computer smashing open against the cemented ground.

Tomura remembers this moment like one would remember the witness of a car crush or a catastrophe. A simple second enough to amaze him for a lifetime.

The way her eyes just ignite into scorching red lights shining like burning embers under her frown brow. Her hair floats free from gravity over her shoulders like a terrible chaotic crown as her mouth flash pearly teeth in a feral snarl.

He watches how she claws her right hand, fingers curling, knuckles tensing and Dabi is suddenly choking under the pressure of some raw power. His limbs twisting painfully in horrific motion and unnatural angles in complete agony.

A second later and before anyone could grasp what’s happening, her other hand pointing pinky, index and thumb to Compress, Toga and himself, keeping them frozen in their place, a strange rigid pressure making him feel like he’s full of cement and any movement will shatter his bones and snap his spine.

He can’t move, he can barely breathe. Feeling like if every fiber of his being, every muscle, every cord is solid hard under his skin, unavailing him to get away.

But he can watch, so he watches her terrified and amazed.

Her quirk is rare, and powerful and dangerous. But she keeps it locked away, sleeping soundly, safely caged inside her ribs, like the best hidden weapon, perfect for torturing bodies and bending wills. Buried deeply under her layers of kindness and humor.

One twitch of a finger, and Dabi’s neck would snap in two and they can do nothing but just watch when little blood vessels begin to burst in the white of his eyes as he pants desperate for air, his veins contorting furiously under the marred skin of his neck and the flames scatter in some random parts of his body without any control.

Tomura swears he can hear Dabi’s bones crackle under the invisible force as his spine bends backwards in a sickening angle.

And, as sudden as it begins, ends.

Her hair falls and her eyes are no longer red. Dabi breathes again falling to his knees and for a moment Tomura thinks he will cry out of pure fright.

For a moment he wonders if Toga and Compress want to cry too because that felt like certain death, but is sweet, somehow. Something within him squirms joyfully with the notion of her own violence. She is as dangerous as him, no damsel in distress, no little girl in need of care, no simple quirkless girl, but a horrifying woman. A dangerous and powerful creature with a quirk made for torment, just like-

He looks at her, just to find a sad disappointed face. A thick trail of blood began sliding silently from her nose, tainting the perfect bow of her lip. Only then he notices the bloodshot eyes and how the color has run from her face.

She stands quiet and bitter watching between her hands and Dabi trying to catch his breath. Her face giving away guilt and self-loathing (two feelings he’s very familiar with.) but unlike him, she is no tormentor, she grasps no joy in watching Dabi suffer, nor do she wish of making them quiver to the sight of her.

She is kind, and brave, and witty. Humorous girl, quick at wordplay and puns; buying vitamins and oranges for them and something about no one getting scurvy under her watch.

He wants to laugh hysterically at her sight because she is magnificent, and for a moment he thinks that the boy with the destructive touch and the girl with the tormenting gaze sounds like a hell of a name for rulers and his heart shivers in excitement, but she is crying and clutches her guilty hands against her chest and ask them to forgive her for using her quirk on them.

She didn’t mean to; she didn’t want to. She likes them all very much, so she promises she’ll never hurt them again, and somehow it reminds him of something, but he cannot place a finger on what exactly.

He feels the sorrow drowning him. A grudge so horrid it makes him want to vomit and scratch his neck raw because something in her resembles something in him, but he cannot really grasp the motive of such connection, only knowing it has something to do with the hands he carries around like a symbol of his own distress and a little black-haired boy crying in some familiar backyard.

The sound of the bathroom door startles him and she’s no longer in the living room, but he can hear the quiet sobbing coming from behind the door.

Finally, Dabi decides to just fall backwards against the cold floor, still panting, an arm over his eyes.

Only then Spinner breaks the dreadful silence and ask the question they all want to make.

“WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT.”

Chapter 10

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pocket-void · 4 years

Text

Oh! Actually it slipped my mind but here’s the short story I wrote for my creative writing class. It’s not very long and it’s mostly a mood piece as my prof mentioned, but I like it ok. ^///^

(I actually recorded an audio reading of it for a friend of mine but I do not like it lmao, it sounds really melodramatic. He liked it though.)

Uuuh general heads up that it’s eldritch horror themed?

From the Journal of J. M. Jassby

I know now that I’m not in Hell.

To some degree I had always known, but a part of me honestly would have preferred that I be dead. But now, face to face with something my eyes had once ached to see again, I know.

This place is far, far worse.

I’m haunted. Haunted by these sights that once made me smile. Chased by what is, in a cruel twist of fate, what I had always wished for. What once would have made me weep with joy now only evokes within me an unspeakable terror. It’s not fair. I still feel tears in my eyes when I see them, but they’re nowhere near joyous, and they only blur my vision when I need it most; as I frantically weave between the rocky landscapes to find somewhere I can catch my breath. It’s not fair. I don’t want to remember them like this. I shouldn’t have to run when I see them. I shouldn’t have to feel sick to my stomach when I hear their laugh, or scramble to hide myself behind something when I hear their footsteps. Why? Why am I here? It’s not fair.

I don’t even have the time to grieve.

It mocks me. It’s on purpose, I know it. With their faces, with their voices. It knows, it has to. It knows how much each word digs its way into my already battered heart. It lures me out from hiding with its sweet promises and facades as if this were a fun game of charades, and knowingly laughs in the face of my despair. It knows. I know that it knows, that I am but a foolish and desperate woman who would fall for the same tricks over and over and over again with the stupid, naive hopes that it’ll somehow be different this time. That this time, I could possibly feel the warmth of holding my child in my arms again. That this time, I'd be able to lovingly kiss my husband's sleepy, unshaven face while looking into his eyes. I wish I could at least remember what color they were. Is that why I still look back? How could it possibly know?

It’s not fair.

It won’t leave me alone. I see it everywhere, and even if I don’t, it’s still there. I know because I can hardly breathe whenever it’s near. Which is often. Or maybe always. No, the tightness in my chest can’t just be from fear alone. It’s just...oh what do I even call it. It’s everything, but also nothing. Just like here. I’m in every nightmare that I could and couldn’t have possibly imagined having all at once, yet there’s nothing here. Nothing at all! Just dust, and sand, and rocks, and the pitch black sky that beckons to me. It tells me to stop running. And I agree. I don’t know why I still am either. There isn’t anywhere to go.

Perhaps a part of me still hopes, but I know that hope was dashed the moment I saw my son’s face turn into that...thing. I see it everytime I close my eyes. His smile twisting open into an endless array of jagged teeth, his eyes melting into black voids that would quickly begin to run down his face, and his cheerful laugh would morph into the distorted cackles of a monster. A part of me is still grateful that I can see my son’s face at all, but that’s probably why it laughs at me, isn’t it. Maybe I deserve it. As long as I still can’t let go, it will continue to feed me these false hopes while it mercilessly tears at what I had already barely been able to consider my sanity.

I miss them. I miss them so much. I can’t possibly describe in written words how much this hurts.

It hurts.

I ask myself sometimes if I would have preferred how my life was before. It’s such a tough choice. I hate to say that, because what kind of a person am I to think being endlessly chased by a monster is somehow better than my colorless home? It wasn’t always like that of course, but it felt like a nightmare too. Just...a different kind.

Now that I think about it, what difference did it truly make? I couldn’t speak to anybody. I couldn’t make out what anyone was saying. Hell, I couldn’t even recognize my own son’s face! It got so bad that I couldn’t even name the color of my sister’s hair and we were twins! Oh god I still don’t know...and I hate to admit that maybe that monster does.

I don’t even know when it started happening. I just remember it happening so suddenly. I woke up one morning and my husband didn’t have any eyes. None. Like they were simply wiped off his face. He laughed at me then, but I never saw them again. He kept laughing at me every time I told him, until he didn’t have a mouth to laugh with anymore. By then I couldn’t even talk to him. I’d speak but it was as if nobody could hear me. They’d gesture at me strangely and guide me to the nearest couch. I would scream. Scream at these faceless strangers with only the outline of someone I thought I loved. Eventually I couldn’t even go outside anymore, it was just too much. Or perhaps too little.

Surely I was losing my mind. Oh how terribly unlucky I must be! I remember crying, thinking it must’ve been something akin to alzheimers. And I remember cursing the terrible fate that must have befallen me. Why else couldn’t I recognize anybody? Why else couldn’t I register anybody’s voice? Why else couldn’t I even close my eyes and imagine my child’s smiling face for just a modicum of comfort? It wasn’t fair.

And to think that I was almost fully resigned to that hideous fate.

But my face in the mirror was always crystal clear.

I would stare at it for hours.

And I would loathe what reflected back at me from the deepest depths of my soul.

“Why?” I would ask. “Why are you here?”

In that nightmarish haze where I had become stuck between the real and unreal. I thought that I was somehow in Hell.

I must’ve been, I thought, for I couldn't imagine a place worse than somewhere I could never see nor remember my loved one’s faces ever again.

Maybe that’s why I’m still here.

Maybe that’s why I’m still running.

Even if these cherished faces are what ultimately kill me, I can’t bring myself to forget them again.

I just think that’s...unfair.

#im very tired and busy with work but ill be back u-u #mock writes #The Withering Beyond

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hnybnny · 4 years

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properly introducing my main fanservants!!!

LOTS OF PHOTOS/ART AND SUCH UNDER THE CUT BUT LIKE,,,, THIS IS JUST. A QUICK INTRODUCTION. TO MY PRIMARY SERVANT BASTARD CHILDREN- (in order of appearance; Sebastian Moran, John Watson, Enola Holmes, Columbia, Thomas Edison (True), Nicolas Flamel, Captain Stormalong, Edgar Allan Poe)

Feel free to hop in my ask box if you wanna talk about them or have any questions!!! Thank you for reading ily-

Colonel Sebastian Moran (Assassin)

My primary servant OC by far! Professor James Moriarty’s chief-of-staff and right hand man- the second most dangerous man in London, after the Napoleon of Crime himself. Nicknamed ‘Basher’ or ‘Tiger Jack’, among others..

Moran is- or was- the most skilled marksman in the British Army, before he was dishonorably discharged. There are only a handful of men on the face of the continent able to shoot as well as he. As well as being an unnaturally skilled shot, he is a devoted sportsman and big-game hunter, and has notoriously tangled with tigers by himself in India- a predator that rather aptly describes the man himself. He authored two books, and his feats are still legendary in India, where his record 'bag of tigers' still goes unmatched. Although his outwards appearance was that of a respectable London gentleman and honorable military veteran, he gained a reputation in the evil underworld and was recruited by James Moriarty, serving as his 'chief of staff' of his criminal empire as well as his personal assassin for jobs that required his peculiar skill with a rifle.

The man is, as one Chaldean staff member puts it, a 'stone-cold badass'. He has a nerve of iron, and is vehemently loyal to both Professor Moriarty and his Master. He lives for danger, and the thrill that comes with 'kill or be killed' situations. Moran is also extremely easy and obvious to read- smiling 'like an idiot' when happy, and 'frowning like thunder' when angry. He does rather enjoy killing people, and is overall a man of few morals (although still having more than the Professor)- which, paired together, is what led to his leave from the military as he's practically a walking example of the 'Colonel Kilgore' trope. The more challenging the kill, the more enjoyment he gets out of it. As a strange upside, Moran has no illusions of how he's a right bastard.

"Ask anyone who knew me in the army, and you'll hear the same things about Basher: tiger in the field, bounder in the mess; a good man to have your back, but a bad man to show your back to; trust him with a fight, but not your sister, your wallet, or a deck of cards."

His Noble Phantasm, which represents his unmatched skill with a rifle, is called BEBR DER KHANH KHALI - Persian for ‘the tiger in the empty house’.

The bullet shot is, unlike others, a specially-made expanding revolver bullet which makes Moran unable to be likely linked to the kill. Much like a ghost or a tiger stalking its prey, he is completely silent in his attack, and the target can never see him coming before they're already dead- and just as quickly he is gone, seemingly disappearing into thin air without a trace.

No matter the conditions or distance, as long as Moran can see his target in some way- whether by the naked eye or through his scope, or perhaps in some other manner- his shot is guaranteed to hit its mark with deadly accuracy.

Also, if you find him not wearing his coat, it’s probably because he gave it to Jack. He loves knife child. They deserve proper clothes.

(source: amon-sheep on twitter)

(source: manalmmune on twitter)

[[LINK TO HIS CHAPTER IN MY FANSERVANT FIC]]

Doctor John Watson (Caster)

The famed Boswell and best friend of the great detective himself. Aman who is most like his traditional origin, as opposed to the heavyset comedic figure modern media tends to make him out to be- aka the Watson that is described by Doyle as a former rugby player, an army man, and popular among the fairer sex due to his handsomeness, intelligence, and charm.

He quickly becomes a proper ‘fatherly’ figure in Chaldea and especially to Master, due to his big dad energies, despite never having the chance to be a father in his life. Chaldea also appreciates finally having a proper doctor that isn’t a Berserker or... whatever’s going on with Ascelpius. Watson is Holmes’s life compass, the loyal companion always by his side who balances the detective out.

Although he’s a caster, he also wields his trusty wartime revolver, and is curious in that, unlike most casters, he has one offensive Noble Phantasm- it’s his secondary, and his primary ‘Conductor of Light’ crystallizes Watson's role as a 'whetstone' for Sherlock Holmes's mind and unmatched stimulator of his famous flatmate's genius. As Holmes himself summarizes, “It may be that you are not yourself luminous, but that you are a conductor of light. Some people without possessing genius have a remarkable power of stimulating it.” This Noble Phantasm is purely supportive, serving to bring out the absolute best in an ally- whether it be manifested in power, magic, or inspiration- and temporarily unlocking a vast wealth of potential that they might not have even known they had. The exact limitations or bounds of it is not known, as it can seemingly extend in purpose as far as Watson or his Master might need it to in a given situation- able to provide buffs, grant moments of unmatched mental clarity or courage, and even unlock hidden abilities and Noble Phantasms if the moment is dire enough. His secondary NP is one he rarely uses, and hates to do so, because of the bad memories it dredges up- called ‘The Reichenbach Solution’, it creates a reality marble recreation of Reichenbach, with the roaring waters and a single shot from Watson himself sending the enemy tumbling off the falls to their demise.

Watson was old friends with Moran in the army, and reconnect during their time in Chaldea (despite Holmes and Moriarty’s protests), and he also joins the ‘author squad’ and spends much time with them. He is a rational man and sturdy as they come, always there when needed; whether it be to patch up wounds, help solve mysteries, or to help Master deal with all the mental trauma from their adventures (because holy shit they need HELP-). Also Also he probably just straight up adopts Mash, he and Holmes are her new gay dads.

(source: gomooink on twitter)

Enola Holmes (Ruler)

If Sherlock is the representation of all great detectives, then the teenage Enola Holmes is the representation of all female sleuths. Originally far too weak to be a servant- her source material being extremely modern (Enola Holmes series by Nancy Springer), she contains the essence of the great detectives of the fairer sex, but most importantly of two Divine spirits- Athena and Persephone (not Ma’at, despite what the image says-), both Greek goddesses. Athena is the dominant of the two, and a maternal figure to Enola, while Persephone is content just to sit back and enjoy the ride.

The younger sister of Sherlock and Mycroft Holmes (and sometimes, the mysterious elder sibling Sherrinford), Enola is much like her more famous brother- similar in lanky stature and physical features, including the prominent hawk-like nose. She is plain in appearance but behind bright eyes hides an intelligent, clever mind, albeit a stubborn and hard-headed one. She is a rebel at heart, resisting the efforts of society to shove her into the mold of a perfect subservient Victorian woman. Enola often uses being underestimated due to her sex and age to her advantage, and, like Sherlock, is quite adept at the art of disguise. With her Spirit Origin also containing figures like Nancy Drew and Miss Marple, Enola is a talented private investigator with a knack for seeing things from angles that other’s can’t- like that of a woman.

Also yeah, she gay. Keep scrolling. She would like to hold hands with Mash very much.

(enola w/ her brother mycroft; source, dewa-chan)

(concepts for her ascensions, mostly cemented, again courtesy of dewa-chan who i owe my life to always and forever-)

Columbia (Ruler)

The Divine Servant calling herself Columbia is a complex individual. At face value, she is the personification of the United States of America, often visualized as a goddess; a quasi-mythical figure first written about by the enslaved poet Phillis Wheatley during the Revolutionary War in her work To His Excellency, George Washington. Columbia is, in fact, an amalgamation of two lesser Divine Spirits. One of them is the Roman goddess of liberty, Libertas. The majority of personifications of liberty are merely aspects and appearances of her, including the Statue of Liberty and the unidentified woman in the painting Liberty Leading the People, leading to Libertas having a more powerful- if rather confusing- Spirit Origin compared to most other minor Roman deities. The other is Columbia herself; a goddess first encountered by Chaldea during the odd adventures with Paul Bunyan. She is the symbol of America, and although she is technically a goddess, she is not worshiped- instead existing as an anthropomorphic personification akin to Uncle Sam. She is a goddess crafted by humankind, a manifestation of the thirst for freedom and equality that resides in the heart of man.

However, her existence is still closely intertwined with Libertas, having come from her 'lineage'; Columbia explains that if other personifications of liberty were to manifest, such as Marianne- the French icon of liberty, they would have to have Libertas accompanying their own Spirit Origin to be anything more than a Phantom. Columbia is not only linked to the nation carrying the name America, but to the land itself- in her earliest incarnations she served as a representation of the Americas- both South and North- to those across the Atlantic. She protects all who walk across the great frontier, and all those who have walked it before. Geronimo often voices his hopes that she is the same goddess that brought the first peoples of the yet-unnamed land delicious maize in abundance; Columbia only ever gives a knowing wink, always keeping the answer to herself.

Columbia tries to speak like a newscaster- that is, without an accent- to hide that fact that her true accent as a Servant is the thickest fucking New York brogue you can imagine. AYYYY, SHE’S WALKIN’ ‘EEEEERE!!!!

She has two Noble Phantasms- a support one, her main, called ‘ TORCH OF THE NEW COLOSSUS: THE DREAM OF A NATION ‘, and an offensive albeit rarely used NP called ‘ STRIKE FOR FREEDOM: DO NOT WEEP, FOR WAR IS KIND ‘ that has anti-Country parameters /because it straight up fuckin’ manifests the american military from all across its history-/

Columbia is just... a big country mom. who can grow to the size of the statue of liberty. whoops.

[[LINK TO HER INTRO CHAPTER IN MY FANSERVANT FIC]]

Thomas Edison (True) (Caster(?))

BASTARD MAN. BASTARD. This Thomas Edison, though being initially called an Alter, is actually the True manifestation of the ‘Wizard of Menlo Park’ without the influence of so many presidential heroic spirits. To match Tesla, he’s a 5*. I have him as Caster but... that’s still up in the air, tbh.

He will steal your Noble Phantasm and claim it as his own. It’s actually one of his Skills- ‘Intellectual Copyright’. It blocks an enemy's ability to use their Noble Phantasm, sealing it for a length of time, while also buffing Edison in return- the strength of the buff received is proportionate to the strength of the sealed Noble Phantasm. This embodies Edison's habit of taking other people's ideas for his own, and while he often improved upon them, he still claimed them as solely his creations. He can copy the abilities of others and shape them to his own needs, always at the ready with a lawsuit in hand if anyone dare complain!

He is not allowed around Ivan or Ganesha due to his history with elephants and electrocution.

His Noble Phantasm (he may have more than one, he gets VERY shifty when asked) is a manifestation of his most terrible and deadly creation- the electric chair. He can also create a reality marble of a fantastical Menlo Park, a thriving center of innovation and invention, using his Territory Creation.

Did I mention he’s a bastard? God, he’s a bastard. He’s incredibly intelligent BUT HE IS A BASTARD. He’s Evil alignment (arguably, may be Chaotic Netural-). It pains Tesla to admit that he actually likes normal Edison (furry man) much more.

Ask him what he did to Louie Le Prince and he’ll sock you in the jaw and take off running (and also not answer).

Nicolas Flamel (Caster)

The Alchemist, the great and immortal Nicolas Flamel himself. He’s a sad old lanky Frenchman DILF dad who misses his wife a lot, and is always ready to throw hands with Merlin and/or Paracelsus. He’s a potential candidate for the Grand Caster class, but is behind Solomon and Merlin in ‘line’. Flamel was a successful French scribe who would gain a reputation as an alchemist after his death in 1418- or at least, his presumed death. He was rumored to have been successful in his creation of the Philosopher's Stone, an artifact with the ability to transmute base metals, and with it was able to create a way to achieve immortality. This Stone was his magnum opus, and he was the first to successfully create it- a fact he makes sure that Paracelsus is aware of at all times.

Also, much like Merlin, he’s not a true Servant. This is THE Nicolas Flamel. But... what happened to Perenelle, his wife? He does not like to talk about it.

He enjoys peace and quiet, educated debate, and reading. Flamel gets on quite well with his fellow Frenchman Dantes, as well as with Waver/El Meloi.

THE DRAGONS OF FLAMEL (Skill): Flamel summons a staff of Cadeceus. Carried by the Greek god Hermes in mythology, it is said "...wake the sleeping and send the awake to sleep. If applied to the dying, their death was gentle; if applied to the dead, they returned to life". In the hands of Flamel, it can stun an enemy or counteract the effects of a stun-inducing skill upon an ally. As well as that, it can channel the effects of its corresponding god-named element mercury, able to dissolve many metals like silver and gold at will. However, like mercury, this skill is extremely volatile and prone to backfiring violently on Flamel if overused.

ELIXER OF LIFE (Skill): The ultimate alchemical creation- the solution, part of Flamel's legend, that granted he and his wife immortality. He keeps a small flask of the elixer on him at all times, and can be used in a pinch to heal all of Flamel's physical wounds, or that of a singular ally. However, it is not enough to grant an ally immortality, nor is it enough to heal multiple mortal wounds. The substance takes exactly one week, given the right materials, for Flamel to remake and refill his flask with some of the elixer.

He has two Noble Phantasms, one being ‘The Stone of the Philosphers’, and the other being ‘The Book of Abra-Melin the Mage’.

[[LINK TO HIS INTRO CHAPTER IN MY FANSERVANT FIC ALSO THERES A LATER CHAPTER WHERE HE ATTEMPTS TO THROW HANDS W/ PARACELSUS]]

Captain Alfred Bulltop Stormalong (Rider)

Captain Alfred Bulltop Stormalong is, plainly put, pretty much a nautical version of Paul Bunyan. Like Bunyan, he can change his size at will, growing to huge proportions. His giant ship was said to have hinged masts so as not to catch them on the moon, and had a stable of Arabian horses on board for his crew to get from one end of the ship to the other! Stormalong is said to have had a lifelong rivalry with the fabled Kraken- but unfortunately for the legendary sea beast, it got summoned alongside Stormalong and has begrudgingly taken up residence in his hat in a somewhat smaller form.

His main weapon (not drawn) is a ship's anchor he wields like a flail. His pipe is really just for the aesthetic as he can't use it to smoke, but it does blow bubbles! His Noble Phantasm is The Courser and the Kraken (Massive all-enemy damage + stun).

He’s a good boy who loves boats, the water, and clam chowder.

Edgar Allan Poe (Foreigner)

The alcoholic author himself, Edgar Allan Poe is a Foreigner-class servant, being linked with the King in Yellow- Hastur the Unspeakable.

Sometimes you can find him locked in a tiny pitch-black closet with Dantes and Sherlock, all three of them puffing away in utter silence on their tobacco. Hastur most often takes the form of a multi-eyed raven chillin’ on his shoulder, and is capable of speech- if prodded, he will shit-talk the patrons of Poe’s fellow foreigners. He really doesn’t like Cthulhu and Yog, even if Poe has psuedo-adopted Abby, WHOOPS. Hastur, to his credit, is the least malevolent Elder God/patron in Chaldea- though if he is seen chatting with Moriarty by any servants or staff, Master must be alerted immediately.

True to form, he’s very macabre, with a unique dramatic way of speaking much like his writings. He’s unsettling and creepy, but has impeccable manners and likes to chat (he’s very lonely-). He enjoys a good mystery, and is prepared to find Arthur Conan Doyle if he be a heroic spirit and beating the snot out of him for treating Holmes so poorly- Poe was the inventor of the detective fiction genre, after all. Most of skills manifest visually as references to his most famous works. His NP is ‘ A DREAM WITHIN A DREAM : THE CRY OF THE YELLOW RAVEN, NEVERMORE ‘

He doesn’t know what a ‘Hot Topic’ is, but it sounds intriguing!

And no, he doesn’t know what the hell was up with his death either. Weird shit happens in Boston.

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anhed-nia · 4 years

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BLOGTOBER 10/7/2020

I missed THE GOLDEN GLOVE at Fantastic Fest last year. It was one of my only regrets of the whole experience, but it was basically mandatory since the available screenings were opposite the much-hyped PARASITE. As annoying as that sounds, it was actually a major compliment, since what could possibly serve as a consolation prize for the most hotly anticipated movie of the year? Needless to say, I heard great things, but I could never have imagined what it was actually like. I'm still wrapping my mind around it.

Between 1970 and 1975, an exceptionally depraved serial killer named Fritz Honka murdered at least four prostitutes in Hamburg's red light district. Today, we tend to think of the archetypal serial killer in terms of ironic contradictions: The public is attracted by Ted Bundy's dashing looks and suave manner, and John Wayne Gayce's dual careers as politician and party clown. Lacking anything so remarkable, we associate psychopathy with Norman Bates' boy-next-door charm, and repeat "It's always the quiet ones" with a smirk whenever a new Jeffrey Dahmer or Dennis Nilsen is exposed to the public. The popular conception of a bloodthirsty maniac is not the fairytale monster of yore, but a wolf in sheep's clothing, whose hygienic appearance and lifestyle belie his twisted desires. In our post-everything world, the ironic surprise has become the rule. In this light, THE GOLDEN GLOVE represents a refreshing return to naked truth.

To say that writer-director Fatih Akin's version of the Fritz Honka story is shocking, repulsive, and utterly degenerated would be a gross understatement. We first meet the killer frantically trying to dispose of a corpse in his filthy flat, wallpapered with porno pinups, strewn with broken toys, and virtually projecting smell lines off of the screen. One's sense of embodiment is oppressive, even claustrophobic, as the petite Honka tries and fails to collapse the full dead weight of a human corpse into a garbage bag, before giving up and dismembering it, with nearly equal difficulty. The scene is appalling, utterly debased, and yet nothing is as shocking as the killer's visage. When he finally turns to look into the camera, it's hard to believe he's even human: the rolling glass eye, the smashed and inflated nose, the tombstone teeth and cratered skin, are almost too extreme to bear. Actually, suffering from a touch of facial blindness, I had to stare intently at Honka's face for nearly half the movie before I could fully convince myself that I was, in fact, looking at an elaborate prosthetic operation used to transform 23 year old boy band candidate Jonas Dassler into the disfigured 35 year old serial murderer.

Though West Germany remained on a steady economic upturn beginning in the 1950s and throughout the 1970s, you wouldn't know it from THE GOLDEN GLOVE. If Honka's outsides match his insides, they are further matched by his stomping grounds in the Reeperbahn, a dirty, violent, booze-soaked repository for the dregs of humanity. Though its denizens may come from different walks of life, one thing is certain: Whoever winds up there, belongs there. Honka was the child of a communist and grew up in a concentration camp, yet he swills vodka side by side with an ex-SS officer, among other societal rejects, in a crumbling dive called The Golden Glove. The scene is an excellent source of hopeless prostitutes at the end of their career, who are Honka's prime victims, as he is too frightful-looking to ensnare an attractive young girl. These pitiful women all display a peculiarly hypnotic willingness to go along with Honka, no matter how sadistic he becomes; this seems to have less to do with money, which rarely comes up, and more to do with their shared awareness that for them, and for Honka too, it's been all over, for a long time.

Not to reduce someone’s performance to their physical appearance, but ???

To call Dassler's portrayal of Honka "sympathetic" would be a bridge too far, but it is undeniably compelling. He supports the startling impact of his facial prostheses with a performance of rare intensity, a full-body transformation into a person in so much pain that a normal life will never become an option. His physical vocabulary reminded me of the stage version of The Elephant Man, in which the lead actor wears no makeup, but conveys John Merrick's deformities using his body alone. Although there is an abundance of makeup in THE GOLDEN GLOVE, Dassler's silhouette and agonized movements would be recognizable from a mile away. In spite of his near-constant screaming rage, the actor manages to craft a rich and convincing persona. During a chapter in which Honka experiments with sobriety, we find a stunning image of him hunched in the corner of his ordinarily chaotic flat, now deathly still, his eyes gazing at nothing as cigarette smoke seeps from his pores, having no idea what to do with himself when he isn't in a rolling alcoholic rampage. The moment is brief but haunting in its contrast to the rest of the film, having everything to do with Dassler's quietly vibrating anxiety.

Performances are roundly excellent here, not that least of which are from Honka's victims. The cast of middle-aged actresses looking their most disastrous is hugely responsible for the film's impact. These are the kinds of performances people call "brave", which is a euphemism for making audiences uncomfortable with an uncompromising presentation of one's own self, unvarnished by any masturbatory solicitation. Among these women is Margarete Tiesel, herself no stranger to difficult cinema: She was the star of 2012's PARADISE: LOVE, a harrowing drama about a woman who copes with her midlife crisis by pursuing sex tourism in Kenya. Her brilliant, instinctive performance as one of Honka's only survivors--though she nearly meets a fate worse than death--makes her the leading lady of a movie that was never meant to have one.

So, what does all this unpleasantness add up to, you might be asking? It's hard to say. THE GOLDEN GLOVE is a film of enormous power, but it can be difficult to explain what the point of it is, in a world where most people feel that the purpose of art is to produce some form of pleasure. This is the challenge faced by difficult movies throughout history, like THE GOLDEN GLOVE's obvious ancestors, HENRY: PORTRAIT OF A SERIAL KILLER, MANIAC and THE TEXAS CHAIN SAW MASSACRE. Describing unremitting cruelty with relentless realism is not considered a worthy endeavor by many, even if there is real artistry in your execution; some people will even mistake you for advocating and enjoying violence and despair, as we live in a world where huge amount of movie and TV production is devoted to aspirational subjects. (The fact that people won't turn away from the Marvel Cinematic Universe movies, no matter how monotonous and condescending they become, should tell you something) How do you justify to such people, that you want to make or see work that portrays ugliness and evil with as much commitment as other movies seek to portray love, beauty, and family values? Why isn't it enough to say that these things exist, and their existence alone makes them worth contemplation?

A rare, perhaps exclusive “beautiful image” in THE GOLDEN GLOVE, from Fritz Honka’s absurd fantasies.

You may detect that I have attempted to have this frustrating conversation with many people, strangers, enemies, and friends I love and respect. I find that for some, it is simply too hard to divorce themselves from the pleasure principle. I don't say this to demean them; some hold the philosophy that art be reserved for beauty, and others have a more literary feeling that it's ok to show characters in grim circumstances, as long as the ultimate goal is to uplift the human spirit. Even I draw the line somewhere; I appreciate the punk rebellion of Troma movies as a cultural force, but I do not enjoy watching them, because I dislike what I perceive as contempt for the audience and the aestheticization of laziness--making something shitty more or less on purpose. A step or three up from that, you land in Todd Solondz territory, where you find materially gorgeous movies whose explicit statement is that our collective reverence for a quality called "humanity" is based on nothing. I like some of those movies, and sometimes I even like them when I don't like them, because I'm entranced by Solondz's technical proficiency...and maybe, deep down, I'm not completely convinced about "humanity", either. However, I don't fight very hard in arguments about him; I understand the objections. Still, I've been surprised by peers who I think of as bright and tasteful, who absolutely hated movies I thought were unassailable, like OLDBOY and WE NEED TO TALK ABOUT KEVIN. In both cases, the ultimate objection was that they accuse humans of being pretentious and self-deceptive, aspiring to heroism or bemoaning their victimhood while wallowing in their own cowardice and perversity. Ok, I get it...but, not really. Why isn't it ever wholly acceptable to discuss, honestly, what we do not like about ourselves?

The beguiling thing about THE GOLDEN GLOVE is that, although it is instantly horrifying, is it also an impeccable production. The director can't help showing you crime scene photos during the ending credits, and I can't really blame him, when his crew worked so hard to bring us a vision of Fritz Honka's world that approaches virtual reality. But it isn't just slavishly realistic; it is vivid, immersive, an experience of total sensory overload. Not a square inch of this movie has been left to chance, and the product of all this graceful control is totally spellbinding. I started to think to myself that, when you've achieved this level of artifice, what really differentiates a movie like THE GOLDEN GLOVE from something like THE RED SHOES? I mean, aside from their obvious narrative differences. Both films plunge the viewer into a world that is complete beyond imagination, crafted with a rigor and sincerity that is rarely paralleled. And, I will dare to say, both films penetrate to the depths of the human soul. What Fatih Akin finds there is not the same as what Powell and Pressburger found, of course, but I don't think that makes it any less real. Akin's film is adapted from a novel by Heinz Strunk, and apparently, some critics have accused Akin of leaving behind the depth and nuance of the book, to focus instead on all that is gruesome about it. This may be true, on some level; I wouldn't know. For now, I can only insist that on watching THE GOLDEN GLOVE, for all its grotesquerie, I still got the message.

#blogtober #2020 #the golden glove #fatih akın #heinz stronk #jonas dassler #margarete tiesel #difficult cinema #horror #slasher #serial killer #period piece #adaptation #historical #biopic #fritz honka #i may have been watching a lot of powell and pressburger movies recently #sorry...

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surveys-at-your-service · 3 years

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Survey #397

“you’re my religion, you’re my reason to live / you are the heaven in my hell”

Do you think that you’ll always love who you love now? Even if we're never together again romantically, I will ALWAYS love her at least as a best friend. Have you ever made out with a random person? Yeah, no. If you could do your first kiss over, would you? No. I'm lucky that my first kiss was honestly cute as hell. Do you like your country’s president or prime minister? Well I voted for him, so I obviously can't hate him. He seems to be doing fine so far, though take that with a grain of salt seeing as I don't keep up with politics. Even before voting for him, I just did a small bit of researching on his values. What color is your house? Yellow with white accents. Do you listen to Christmas music during the holiday season? No, I don't enjoy it. Man, Jason's mom sure did, though... I loved how in the spirit she'd get and always played Christmas music in the car during that time of year. I miss that woman and I sure as hell hope she rests easy now. Do you like ginger ale? Solely if I have a stomach bug, and I can only ever sip it. What are you listening to? "Electric Sugar Pop" by Jeffree Star. What’s the last thing you watched on TV? The TMS office has the TV on, and the woman who overlooks it (I have zero idea what her position is called) tends to have it either on a cooking channel or a home improvement one. Today was a cooking one. Is your favorite author the author of your favorite book? I don't have a favorite author. Describe someone you find really attractive: M-Mark Fischbach. *___* If you HAD to look like someone else, but could choose who, who would you choose? Hm... maybe my friend Alon. I've mentioned I feel like a million times that she is like, ethereal with how gorgeous she is. Have you ever seen someone get a tattoo done? If so, what was it? Did they cry or were they in a lot of pain? Yeah; it was a watercolor feather with "ohana" written below it. She didn't cry at all, but she grit her teeth a few times. Do you have anything you couldn’t go a day without? Some form of technology. Have you ever gotten caught doing something illegal? No. What’s your favorite flavor of Vitamin Water? I don't even think I've ever tried it. Is there someone you wanna date right now? Yeah. What first attracted you to the last person you kissed? If we're talking the very first, our vast similar interests. How many brothers does your father have? None. Does your best friend have any tattoos? No. Do you like Ben + Jerry’s? Yep. Man, I want their Phish Food ice cream now. Would you ever wish to be the opposite sex? Nah. Do you think you’re attractive? Nope. What is your favorite card game to play? Magic: The Gathering. I really miss my PS3 where I had Duel of the Planeswalkers installed on it, it was really fun. Do you own a globe? I don't think we still do. What is your favorite wild cat? Perhaps clouded leopards. If your bedroom had three portals to anywhere, where would they lead? South Africa, Sara's place, and maybe a nice little cabin in the mountains for when I'm feeling a peaceful getaway. You can ask any author one question about their story. What do you ask? I have zero idea. What’s a place you have a strong emotional connection to? The pond behind the local community college. Jason and I took our first prom pictures there. Do you take yoga classes? No, but I'm actually considering it since they offer those at the YMCA Mom and I now go to. What is a decision you’ve made that changed your entire life? To let Jason go. It's pretty great, my PTSD has been less of a bother lately! Have you ever made any money from a side-hustle? Could you consider being paid to take pictures once in a blue moon a "side hustle" when I don't even have a main job? Do you ever wonder what kind of person you’d have turned out to be if a certain event never happened to you? Ugh... it's incredibly painful to wonder how life would be if Jason never left. If you could have anyone’s singing voice, whose would you choose? Adele's or Amy Lee's, probs. What are your top 3 favorite genres of music? Metal, hard rock, alternative. Do you think Mars will be colonized in your lifetime? No. Have you ever been homeless? If so, what led to your homelessness? Technically, yes, because Mom couldn't afford the rent. She, my little sister (who still lived with us at the time), and I each were accepted into the homes of willing, kind people, though. Have you ever been on a ship? No. Who was Van Halen’s better singer - David Lee Roth, or Sammy Hagar? David. Which fictional character has the most memorable quotes? Heath Ledger's Joker is quoted all the time, so probably him. What do you think of the "Healthy At Every Size" movement/philosophy? Before I answer this, I want you to keep in mind that this is coming from someone who is obese, so I would positively love to agree with that for my own self-confidence, but I don't. I believe it's a very dangerous mentality. I think you should cherish your body unconditionally, like it's an amazing machine, but I firmly believe you should have an active interest in becoming what is physically healthy. You couldn't pay me millions to convince me that, say, a 300 lb. person is healthy. What was the name of the first person you ever had a crush on? Why did you like them? I think my first *real* crush was this guy Sebastian my freshman year of high school. I thought he was very sweet, funny, caring, and attractiveness was a bonus. What food will you absolutely not, under any circumstances, eat? Sashimi, caviar, raw eggs... Which famous person would you like to be BFFs with? Bindi Irwin, for one. What kind of natural disaster is most common where you live? Hurricanes. Have you ever had an animal get into your attic? No. Have you ever been bitten so hard that there teeth marks were there after? I mean I've had hickeys before if that's what you're asking. Ever gave one? Oh, I guess you were. Yeah. Do you think its weird if guys wear make-up like eyeliner? Not at all. Would you ever date a disabled person? (Be honest) Yes. Would you rather adopt or have your own child? IF I wanted kids, I'd rather have one myself because I'm well aware I personally need that special connection. Stepkids count, too, because they'd be my partner's and therefore very important for me too. What is the most personal question you have ever been asked? Probably TMI, so here's your fair warning, but I've been asked before if I "touch" myself and I was absolutely repulsed that someone would ask me that. Were you abused by your parents? No. If you’re not straight, who was the first person you came out to? Sara. Were you one of the smartest in your class? Up to finishing high school, modestly, I was. Where did you meet your first crush? Art class my freshman year of high school. Do you ever go places with wet hair? Yeah, idc. Who is your favorite little girl? My niece Aubree. She's such a wonderful girl. Does your best friend have kids? No. If you were pregnant, would you want a boy or a girl? Hypothetically, a girl. What place outside of your own home do you spend the most time at? Um, maybe my older sister's house? Have you ever participated in a medical study? No. Do you have any family members who are cancer survivors? Yes, including my mother. Twice. Are you allergic to any medications? None that I've tried. Do you have any licenses other than your driver's license? I don't even have that. If you’re atheist, would you raise you kids believing in God or not? No; I wouldn't intervene with their own spiritual (or lack thereof) journey. They'd learn what they'd learn and decide themselves what they believe. Do you like reading self-help books? No, I just can't get invested in those. What is your opinion on sex change? If you're unhappy with your body, you're more than free to surgically change that with no judgment from me. Do you have any goals for this summer? If so, what are they? Yes, to lose weight. Can you get a strike at bowling? I have before. There was one occasion where my first go was a strike RIGHT after saying I sucked at bowling, hahaha. Do you ever take pictures of negative moments? Well, I photograph roadkill, and that's one hell of a sad moment. I actually wouldn't mind broadening my horizons of photographing negative moments (with permission of course), because I actually find these very impactful and even builds empathy. I will never, ever forget this one picture I saw sometime of an emaciated boy huddled in the dirt with a vulture close by watching him... like fuck, it made me want to sob. No one should ever have to live like that, especially a child. Would you ever post a picture of yourself crying on social media? No. I know that sounds contradictory to what I just said, I just wouldn't be able to do it myself. Have you ever held a newborn baby? Once, when my last niece was born. I'm terrified of holding them because they're just so fragile. Do you know anyone who has twins? My friend just had triplets. What is your favorite country in Europe? Germany. Are you thriving in your life right now? BOY HOWDY- Do you remember to water plants? I don't keep plants. Name three YouTubers you aspire to be like. 1.) Markiplier in a vast plethora of ways; 2.) Jeffree Star for his incredible work ethic; and 3.) Shane Dawson for his incredible compassion. Yes. I know the controversy, but regardless, he cares a lot about people. Who is your favorite character from Harry Potter? I wouldn't know, given I haven't read the books or seen the movies. Do you watch PewDiePie? Not anymore; his content doesn't interest me anymore. I watched him religiously back in the day when he was a serious let's player, though. Do you have a Steam account? Yes. Have you ever played Five Nights at Freddy’s? No, not personally. I like watching LPs of it and I find the story fascinating, but it's not the kind of game I'd enjoy playing. Have you ever tried Akinator? Yes. I don't think I ever beat it, except maybe once. Are you wearing socks right now? No; unless I'm wearing closed-toe shoes like sneakers, I never do. I hate the feeling of them. Can you twerk? Haven't tried, don't wanna. Do you like dabbing? No, it looks stupid. Do you like fishing? I honestly do think it's fun with all the anticipation and thrill of seeing how big the fish is, however I don't support it anymore unless, like hunting, you genuinely need it for food. The only case where I'd go again was if my dad asked me, because that's always been our bonding experience. Do you have a Spotify account? Yes. Have you heard of Blizzard Entertainment? Well, they're the company behind World of Warcraft, so obviously. Do you like bananas? Yes, but only for a VERY short window of time. I am beyond picky with the ripeness of bananas. Are you addicted to anything? Caffeine and technology. Do you know your phone number? I actually don't. Do you swear in front of children? No.

#survey #surveys #random questions #lyrics: ''here for you'' by ozzy osbourne

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connan-l · 4 years

Text

To reach her

Fandom: Ciconia: When They Cry

Rating: General Audiences

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Relationship: Valentina/Maricarmen

Summary: Sometimes, Maricarmen really couldn’t stand Valentina’s haughty blue eyes and contemptuous secrets. But that didn’t mean she couldn’t try to understand her. [Femslash February 2021 Day 9: Shame]

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Link on Archive of Our Own

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Notes: Written for Femslash February 2021 Day 5: Orange, from those prompts.

Bleh, this one was hard to write cause in Phase 1 we really only have a few glimpses of these two’s relationship, so I extrapolated a bit and it’s possible their feelings about each others are nothing like that at all lol. It doesn’t even fit the prompt that well. But well, I still wanted to write about them here haha.

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“God, that’s why I hate these old men.”

Valentina let herself fall on the chair with a sigh, crossing her legs and taking the glass of water on the table. She finished the cup in one shot, then ran her hand in her long, wavy blonde hair — in a way that was much too elegant for such a casual gesture. Maricarmen stared at her without a sound for a while, eyes narrowed, before finally opening her mouth:

“Well, that was unusual.”

Her teammate turned her gaze towards her and arched an eyebrow. “How come?”

“Seeing you lose your cool like that. Over something silly, too. I mean, you don’t see that everyday.”

Tina had just been arguing with a superior officer about something trivial like a bad training schedule, which for some reason had triggered and unleashed her full anger on the man. Maricarmen had been unable but to just stare at the other girl with wide eyes as the spectacle unfolded, as if she was watching some of those bad soap operas on TV.

Valentina wasn’t the type to let herself be overcome by her emotions, even less so in front of her superiors.

She was the kind of girl who knew how to be in perfect control of herself, and she would never get annoyed or disturbed or saddened openly — that was the very first thing Maricarmen had learned about her. In fact, it might actually be the first time she’d ever seen her getting angry like that, so ‘unusual’ was actually a rather tame word to describe this.

Being this rational and composed was probably a good thing to have for a soldier, but on a personal level Maricarmen couldn’t help but feel frustrated at this.

It was an attitude that sometimes made her unable to stand her.

It just irked her that Tina was so much better than her at keeping her head and thoughts straight while Maricarmen was so easy to get flustered and struggled to maintain her cool. One could say that was why they formed such a great team, but most of the time it only managed to makes Maricarmen feels inferior.

Tina only shrugged. “Well, I’m not a robot. It’s just a bad day for me, that’s all.”

“Hmm, bad day how? What happened?”

“Is that any of your business?”

“C-C’mon, Tina! You’re my partner, right? You can tell me anything!”

Maricarmen first thought she would get sharply shut down, as it was usually what happened whenever she tried to pry a little too much into her teammate’s problems, but strangely enough, Tina only stared at her with an unreadable face for some time, before a strange smile spread on her lips.

“Why would you care so much about what put me in a bad mood?”

Okay. That was new.

“I-I don’t! I’m just curious,” Maricarmen stuttered, trying to deflect, but somehow Tina’s smile only grew wider. Suggestively, almost.

She leaned on the table and put her chin on her hands, blue eyes shining maliciously.

“Careful, Mari. If you want an advice, it’s a bad idea to pry too much into other people’s problems.”

There was what sounded like a warning in her voice.

‘Don’t get too close, or you’ll get bite off.’

Maricarmen hated when Tina was doing this with her. She always tended to have that habit of looking down on her, as if she was some naive child who didn’t know the hard truth of the world. She looked down on others pretty often too, in fact, but because of how good she was at camouflaging her true feelings, people who didn’t know her well wouldn’t be able to tell.

Maricarmen could tell, though. People tended to take her for a silly, funny girl, which was partly intended on her part, but she was much more perspective and clever than she let on. She wasn’t as skilled as Tina to control her emotions, but this she could do almost like a second nature.

She wondered sometimes if Tina was able to tell, or if she was too busy with her little secrets and looking down on others to notice.

“I can deal with the consequences of my actions when it happens,” she replied, almost provocatively.

And, for a brief second, something happened. A faint glow shimmered in Tina’s eyes — a glow that Maricarmen couldn’t identify. Something akin to surprise, maybe? But before she was able to tell, it disappeared, and her teammate’s face was back to being indecipherable again.

“I wonder about that,” the Brazilian murmured.

But before she could even ask what she meant by that, the other girl rose from her seat and leaned towards her in a quick movement. Blond curls fell in front of Maricarmen’s sight, and a blue as clear as the sky eat away her vision while a warm breath brushed her lips. Tina was suddenly so close to her she could almost kiss her if she wanted to — and for a moment, Maricarmen almost thought she would.

“In that case, I’ll be clearer,” Tina repeated, her voice lower.

Slender fingers grabbed Maricarmen’s light purple hair and started playing with it, and suddenly all of her breath got knocked out of her lungs. LATO might have the reputation of having the purest air on the planet, but right now it felt really hard to just inhale.

“Don’t try to pry into my problems, or you’ll get into trouble.”

Maricarmen was frozen in place, petrified by Tina’s intense blue eyes piercing her own gray ones, until she pulled her face away from hers and smiled again.

“Well, it has been a hot day, so I’m going to take a shower now,” she said spontaneously while standing up. “I’ll see you later for dinner, right?”

She didn’t answer, but it seemed Tina didn’t expect any as she just walked past her without adding anything. Only when the sound of her footsteps vanished that she found herself breathing again, and she slowly brought her hands to her face, her cheeks feeling way too hot even with São Paulo’s ambient heat.

Sometimes, Maricarmen couldn’t stand Valentina.

She disliked her level-headed approach to everything, her ability to have complete control over her emotions and body, her haughty behavior and the way she looked at her as if she was so much more intelligent and gifted than her.

It made her feel like an ashamed child who tried to desperately follow and cling to their much talented and superior sibling — which was silly when she knew that as a Gauntlet Knight she was already one of the most talented children in South America, and even in the whole world.

But that didn’t matter if she could beat every single Latino kid at every single subject if she couldn’t even reach her own teammate’s ankle.

She disliked Valentina for not letting her reach her, but she still refused to abandon trying, because regardless she was still her only and unique partner and she would keep on standing by her side and sustain her arrogant gaze and try to piece together every single one of her secrets.

Even if that means she’d get burnt by doing so.

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ilikecowsnstuff · 4 years

Text

CHAPTER 18!!!

SUMMARY: UA Hero Course - Third Year. Shigaraki Tomura and Dabi have been classmates and rivals since their very first day at UA. But with new feelings developing how will they cope given their history of fragile and often violent encounters? Their dance begins after a partnered training exam goes wrong, leaving Shigaraki wounded and Dabi feeling guilty. AU.

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For AO3 – Click Here

For FanFiction – Click Here

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CHAPTER EIGHTEEN - YOU NEED A BREAK

It was 12:35 AM. Shigaraki yawned as he stretched and then went back to staring at the computer. On it was the file of the villain from the agency's latest case, one that Fourth Kind had recently detained and who Shigaraki was supposed to be filling out the report for. But he wasn’t really focused. Instead, he played with the pen that was in his hand, tapping it in a rhymical beat against his bent knee, until somehow it escaped his fingers. He looked up and saw that the pen had landed on Fourth Kind’s desk.

The Pro-Hero slammed his hand down over the pen and levelled a stern gaze at Shigaraki.

“Sorry.”

Fourth Kind grunted and then sat back, steepling his fingers in front of him.

“Is this work not stimulating enough for you, Shigaraki?”

“Oh, no sir. This is great. Really.” Shigaraki replied sarcastically, shrinking further down into the couch and bringing the laptop closer to his chest.

The Pro-Hero chuckled deeply.

“You know, Hero work is not always playing outside and catching the bad guys.” He pulled open the top drawer of his desk and extracted a small cigar box as he spoke. Cubans. “Sometimes, you have to fill out paperwork.” He picked up a gold-plated cigar cutter and snipped off the cap of one of the cigars before placing it between his teeth. “Fortunately for me, I have you to do that.” He grinned and then lit up the end with a flick of a match.

Shigaraki looked at him deadpan as a cloud of white smoke rolled upwards before disappearing at the ceiling.

“You asked for the hours, Shigaraki. This is what I need from you.”

“To do all your paperwork and fetch you an espresso on command?”

“Watch your mouth, boy.” He narrowed his eyes and took another puff from his cigar. On the outside he looked perturbed by Shigaraki’s attitude, however, the small curl of his lip suggested Shigaraki amused him, to a small degree anyway. “You are young, you’ll have plenty of opportunities to put your life in danger after you graduate.”

Shigaraki breathed a quiet sigh and returned his attention to the task at hand, plugging in details of the arrest as Fourth Kind had described earlier.

He knew he shouldn’t be complaining, he was grateful for the work and really it was easy money, but after a week of coffee runs, organizing files, and writing up reports he was eager for something more. Something a little more interesting. A patrol even. But Fourth Kind refused to send him out onto the streets. It was Summer break, he wasn’t even supposed to be working. That was the same argument that came back at Shigaraki every time he asked for just that bit more responsibility.

Shigaraki worked silently for the next half hour, diligent, completing the report and helping Fourth Kind in planning the next day without so much as a fuss.

It was getting late and they were both preparing to wrap up a long day, when an alarm and motion sensor detected someone coming into the office through the front entrance. It wasn’t unusual for people to stop by the agency - concerned civilians, police, heroes - but considering the hour it was somewhat out of the ordinary.

“I think there’s someone here to see you.”

“Hm?” Shigaraki lifted one brow and closed the lid of the laptop before powering it down. He dropped it carefully onto Fourth Kind’s desk. “Why would you think that?”

“Just go.” He waved Shigaraki off.

Shigaraki offered him a speculative glance before leaving the office. Down a hall, he entered into the foyer, and turned a corner to where the reception desk was located. Standing at that desk was the last person he ever thought he would see in the Fourth Kind agency.

“Dabi?”

“Hey, Mop Head.” It took just a few long strides for Dabi to reach Shigaraki and when he did, instinctually reached out for some affection.

Shigaraki took a step back avoiding the impending hug and glanced up towards the concealed security cameras he knew were watching them. Dabi stopped and the initial enthusiasm left his face, replaced by something more akin to disappointment.

“What are you doing here?”

“You’re not happy to see me?” Dabi asked, crossing his arms over his broad chest.

“No… I am. I just…” Another quick glance around and Shigaraki tentatively stepped closer to his boyfriend, wanting to appease him while also simultaneously keeping up an appropriate professional front. He smiled in reassurance, though it was somewhat tense, and took up a lax position beside Dabi, leaning casually back against the reception desk. “I thought you were away with your family. I didn’t expect to see you.”

The corner of Dabi’s mouth curled up into an amused grin and then he leaned forward and kissed Shigaraki’s cheek. His lips lingered, and Shigaraki heard him inhale a deep breath before Dabi was nuzzling his jawline. Unbelievably, he managed to keep his hands to himself.

“I told you I wanted to see you.”

“Yeah, you did but…”

Dabi snickered, “But you didn’t think i’d be able to get away from dear old dad?”

“Obviously.”

Dabi pulled away and straightened up. “Well, luckily for me, Endeavour prefers to spend his precious free time with his favoured child. Getting out of there really wasn’t that difficult. He probably won’t even notice that I left.”

Shigaraki snorted a laugh and watched as Dabi strolled around the reception area, looking at the various photos, and framed articles and accolades hanging on the walls.

“Don’t hate me, but I kind of called ahead.”

“Huh?” Shigaraki said, his nose scrunching a little.

“Here.”

Shigaraki’s mouth formed an understanding, “Oh.” Fourth Kind knew their late-night visitor was Dabi, that’s why it hadn’t disturbed him to hear someone calling on the agency so late.

“You need a real Summer vacation.”

“No, I need money.”

“Well, tough shit. I’m taking you away for a few days.”

“I have to work.”

“No, you don’t. It’s all sorted out. You’re good.” Dabi grinned, quite proud of himself. Shigaraki didn’t look half as impressed. “Actually, funny story. Fourth Kind seemed pretty keen on the whole idea of kicking you out of here for a bit.”

“Tch.”

“Shigaraki needs to relax and have some fun.” Dabi said, mimicking Fourth Kind’s deep voice. “Those were his words, not mine. Though, I completely agree.”

“Yeah, yeah. That’s great and all but don’t I get any say in this?”

“Nope. We’re leaving now.”

“No, we’re not.”

“I’m not asking. You need a break. Come on.”

“Dabi.” Shigaraki sighed and scrubbed a hand roughly over his face. “Can we please just be serious for a moment. It's almost two in the morning.”

“I am being serious.” Dabi said, his brow pinching together. “I want to spend some time with you. What’s so bad about that?”

Shigaraki searched Dabi’s vibrant blue gaze for a moment, looking for a hint of dishonesty or humor but couldn’t find any. He really was being serious about this. “Okay.” He started, resigned to the fact that he was probably going on a little vacation with Dabi somewhere. “Where are we going?”

“Don’t worry, you’ll like it.”

“So, you’re not going to tell me?”

“No.” Dabi grinned, “You’ll just have to trust me.”

“How will I know what to pack then?”

“Well the thing is… I kind of already did that for you.” Dabi said quickly, ending it with a cleverly timed cough.

“You went into my room? By yourself?”

“Yes.”

“And went through all my things so you could pack a bag for me?”

“Yes. And I only checked, like, all of your drawers so...” He chuckled when Shigaraki pulled a face. “Honestly, you’re really not that hard to pack for. And where we are going you won’t need too many clothes.” Another devilish grin and a wink, he ambled back over to Shigaraki and stepped right into his personal space.

“That’s not funny.” Shigaraki grumbled.

Dabi lifted his hand to frame the side of Shigaraki’s face and his fingers slowly swept his jaw. “It’s not what you think. I wouldn’t purposely put you in a situation you would be uncomfortable with.”

“I know.”

Dabi leaned in, and this time Shigaraki didn’t move away. Dabi brushed his warm lips over Shigaraki and their breaths mingled as they exhaled soft matching sounds of pleasure from a long-awaited kiss. Dabi licked Shigaraki’s lower lip and the lighter haired boy groaned, parting his mouth to allow Dabi to touch the tip of his tongue down against his. Dabi withdrew a fraction, teasing, encouraging Shigaraki to lean forward in search of a deeper kiss and when he did, Dabi delved deeper, exploding with a sudden urgency. His mouth was restless, lips moving over Shigaraki and drawing him closer with ambitious hands that slipped around his boyfriend's waist. But it wasn't enough, he wanted more. They had only been separated for a week but for Dabi, who was in an almost constant state of yearning for Shigaraki, it felt like a lifetime.

They broke away seconds later, in desperate need of some oxygen, and Shigaraki pressed the palm of his hand to Dabi’s chest to prevent them from getting carried away by another ardent kiss.

“So, should we go?” Dabi whispered, his voice low and laced with lust.

Shigaraki cleared his throat and nodded his head. “Let me get my... things.”

Dabi reluctantly stepped away and Shigaraki quickly moved aside, though he motioned for Dabi to walk with him.

Back inside the agency, Shigaraki found Fourth Kind still in his office, though it looked like he was getting ready to call it a night too.

“Ah. There you are.” He placed a gentle hand down on Shigaraki’s shoulder and handed him his cellphone, which he had left behind on the desk. “So, I won’t see you for a few days. Correct?” He grinned, a smile full of large perfect white teeth, and then nodded his head in greeting to Dabi. “Toya Todoroki. All grown up. Wow.”

“Sir.”

“Thanks for taking this one off my hands for a few days. Not that I don’t appreciate having him around, but he needs a break. You’re a good friend.”

“I am.” Dabi grinned. “A great friend.” He said with a huge emphasis on the word friend.

Shigaraki huffed, his face flooding with heat. “You’re not that great. Don’t flatter yourself.”

Dabi snickered.

Thankfully, Fourth Kind didn’t pick up on anything beyond their being a friendship. Though, all he had to do was check the security camera footage and he would quickly find out just how friendly they were. Shigaraki internally scolded himself for the impromptu make out session in the reception area.

“And for the record, I didn’t need either of you to decide that I needed a break.” Shigaraki interjected, grumbling.

Fourth Kind laughed, loudly, completely amused. “Get out of here.”

Shigaraki huffed again but nodded.

“Oh, and Toya, if you ever feel like a change in… scenery, the Fourth Kind Agency is always open.”

“It’s Dabi, actually.” He amended, “And yeah, i’ll keep that in mind.”

“Dabi. Give my regards to Endeavour would you.”

Dabi narrowed his eyes and then turned away. He was the first out of the office, with Shigaraki following closely behind. They walked silently and when they cleared the entrance and were out on the sidewalk, Dabi immediately took Shigaraki’s hand, carefully linking their fingers together. Shigaraki did not fight it.

“I’m parked just down here.” Dabi motioned with a jerk of his head.

“We’re driving?”

“Yeah. Car courtesy of Endeavour.” Dabi grinned, and then lifted a key fob. He pushed a button and the sound of a car unlocking with a double beep could be heard just a few yards ahead.

“When you must tell him the story about why his car has a few extra miles on the gauge and an empty gas tank, leave me out of it.”

Dabi laughed and propped open the passenger side door of a blacked-out luxury sedan, inviting Shigaraki to get inside. “I don’t know what you are talking about Old Man. Forgetting things. Must be your age. It’ll go something like that.”

Shigaraki shook his head. All joking aside, he was concerned about what would happen to Dabi if Endeavour found out. First, leaving their family summer vacation, and then hijacking his car to go on a vacation of his own, and with his boyfriend who Shigaraki was sure Endeavour did not know about him or their relationship. That was three strikes.

Dabi closed Shigaraki up inside the car before joining him on the driver’s side. “Look, don’t worry. Really. It’ll be fine. Fuck him.” He pressed the auto start and the engine hummed to life. He then fiddled with the GPS until a map showing the route they would be taking popped up on the display screen.

The back of Shigaraki’s head hit the headrest and he slowly rolled his cheek to the side to face Dabi. He hadn’t noticed it until then, but on Dabi’s face, right by his ear where there was already extensive scarring, was a new wound - a small cut, surrounded by some purple bruising.

Shigaraki’s brow furrowed and Dabi jerked his head over to him. Shigaraki wanted to ask about the injury but thought it best to maybe wait until later - after they had finished their roadtrip.

“What?”

“Nothing. Just… wondering what you actually packed for me.”

Dabi grinned and then returned his gaze forward so he could pull the car out from the curb and get them or their way. “You know, all the essentials. Socks, shampoo… lube.” He joked.

“Right. The essentials.” Shigaraki scowled and looked over his shoulder to the backseat where two packed bags were sitting. They seemed full enough. “Sounds like your plan is to jerk off into a sock later. Fun vacation.”

Dabi snickered. “I did forget your toothbrush though. Unimportant. You can use mine.”

“What?” Shigaraki drawled, unamused. “So, you remembered to pack lube but no toothbrush?”

Dabi laughed again, “We’ll stop somewhere on the way. You know, we might need more lube.”

“I hope you packed enough socks.”

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Chapter One – Accidental Attraction

Chapter Two – After Care

Chapter Three – Dazed and Confused

Chapter Four – I Like You

Chapter Five - Friends and Enemies

Chapter Six - Confrontation!

Chapter Seven - Transfer Student

Chapter Eight - A Period of Learning

Chapter Nine - Work and Play

Chapter Ten - Friday

Chapter Eleven - Extraordinary Day

Chapter Twelve - The Problem with Relationships.

Chapter Thirteen - Will You Go Out With Me?

Chapter Fourteen - A Not So Innocent Birthday Request

Chapter Fifteen - The Morning After

Chapter Sixteen - His First

Chapter Seventeen - Summer is Coming

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rabble-dabble · 4 years

Text

Sweet Somberly Sayings

If you could make Karkat into a poem, you think he'd be a pretty short one. Simple, and yet effectively to the point.

Yelling, grumbling, into my ear,

Concerningly gentle, you can always hear.

Of course, he's not that bad. Honestly, you thought you'd have to coax more out of the guy, more often than not. Over Pesterchum, he almost seemed against every idea you had, whether it was in his interest or not. To be fair, you hadn't known him fairly well after that day, so you suppose it would have always had something to do with the fact that a screen was very capable of hiding what his face gave away.

It's sort of easier to see the fragile lines of his face that way.

And what you have learned, you've put to effective use! He'll go with you to the theaters if you promise to pay. He will not go to any fairs without threatening from Jade, but to get him into a better mood you can win him a stuffed prize he won't admit he's going to take home with him until it's late and you are too tired to make fun of him. The later it is in the day, the more energy he has, but also the greater chance he'll argue no to what you say. If you bring over cupcakes, he won't be as pissed at you for refusing to leave his house.

If you ask him something in a soft, low voice, he has trouble being grumbly against you.

Really, you think you have it all figured out.

Besides, you think what you do is good for him. He needs it! If it was left up to him and Dave, he would never leave his house. They even brought an alchemiter inside, which you thought was absolutely the worst idea ever because none of the food made from it is ever fresh. Shopping had been a near nightmare to get Karkat to do, who decided to whine and be a child about the food you were trying to get for him, who only compromised when you promised you would come over to make it. They were not going to be living off of ramen and Fruit Loops cereal for two months!!

But it was worth it, you think, when you made spaghetti and he pushed an unnamed, empty plate towards you. Dave had absconded to go finish his show, so it left you with an empty seat right next to the fussy troll guy.

You can show me

How gently, and sweetly

You be.

I promise I won't say a thing.

There isn't a downside about a friend like Karkat. His words were hot gushes of thick, bellowing air that cooled down under a trusted cold night's guide. Luckily, you happened to be a wind gushing expert! What he says is usually, rarely, ever an actually hurtful insult. And when it does hurt, you only take it at face value. You have to remind yourself a lot that Karkat isn't fragile, but the thin lines etched into his worried grey face are for a reason. He thinks he's special enough that reality hates him and he deserves to be hurt. You think he's special, he has so much care and good intention in his troll heart that it's almost sad he doesn't seem to get that he deserves to be happy.

It makes you think a lot, too.

Demanding of a world,

Just make the world you and me-

You sometimes don't do something right, or say something in the right way. You say what you're thinking about, or whatever you think you need to be thinking about, but your mouth has lagged behind your brain and you've already thought too far ahead for it to catch up. So it ends up being a mess you make. Sometimes, you hurt your friends by what you say or do. Sometimes, you end up hurting yourself.

-I'll say I'm so very sorry.

It's not like you to feel so sad. You guess it's expected, really, and sometimes it's supposed to happen, but it catches you off guard by how sad you are. And if you think too long, you start believing yourself about all of the bad lines that run in your head like code. As if they were meant to be there, meant to hurt you, and worse, you put them there in the first place. You think your Dad wouldn't approve of all the things you think of, but that just adds to the list that makes you feel worse than when it started. And, sadly, he isn't here to make it stop.

So you don't expect it when, mistakenly, you end up going through a few days alone, and on day three there's a loud barbaric knock at your front door. You don't know who to expect, and it certainly hadn't been an angry Karkat in his pajamas ranting about how you haven't been responding to his messages.

He yells at you until you feel guilty enough to take a shower. When you come back downstairs, he's ignoring your red puffy eyes and shoves leftover chinese into your hands. He sits on your couch with crossed arms, a stern grump face, and bed hair.

You share the noodles with him.

A penny for your time, a penny for your mind,

I only have five cents to spare.

"Shut your flubbering human protein chute, John,

I'm your friend; you don't need to worry about if I care."

He's totally your best friend.

Not that Dave isn't! Or Rose, or Jade! You've known them a lot longer than Karkat, to be fair. And Karkat had just been the annoying troll all your life who you never thought to make friends with until the game. It wasn't until it was so funny at how hard he tried to seem important and demanding of attention that you got he really wasn't the sort of guy to be, well, mean.

But, except Jade, you happened to meet them all in person at the same time. So it was fair game there.

But Karkat feels different, too. With your other friends, it’s jokes and poking fun at each other and dealing with your ridiculous friendship together. With Karkat, it's exactly like that, except he thinks you've somehow tricked him into a friendship. Which, fair, you did, but it's not like he's complaining. Too much.

You feel a type of comfort different from your friends. A sort of feeling akin to a buzz or a fresh breath that you can't quite seem to understand. With them, you could probably have a lot of fun on a sunny warm day, hanging out together. With Karkat, you don't have to do too much except lie in the grass with him quietly, watching the stars, and maybe seek out his hand because the sky had always seemed so big but the stars now made you feel so small. And you guess he could understand that too.

So how do you describe all of the ways he enlightens you? You just don't know! He is a tune that you just cannot sing right, a wordless lullaby that happens to start keeping you up at night. You hum and hum and hum, and he tells you to Shut up with that vibration that only makes you want to sing along with his declaration of fuckass. He seems to be beyond a comparison of simple tunes, because there's a deep wallow in him, but you also know he is gentle and akin to a glass window. Knowingly breakable, but surrounded by the sturdiness of a stubborn wall. He is the feeling you get when you walk and smell nostalgia. He is the cooling sunsetting breeze after a long day of dry humidity. He is the taste of cheap microwaved food cooked just right enough to be good. He is the feeling you get when you find an intruding small critter inside your house and you capture it to let it go. He is-

Light, airy, scary,

Heart pounding at your thought.

Smile and you fill me entirely

Have I come to know, doubtedly,

And I think I see it finally…

You don't understand it.

You think you might be sick. Because, how is it that you get queasy knowing Karkat's at home? How is it possible that, in his presence, you feel as if you suddenly understand nothing at all? Why do you tick and tap at things until you finally see him again? It's making you worried. You don't understand why you suddenly have to be by his side. Except, that's bad too, because there's no suddenly. It's more as a realization. As an oh, the soft click when something is thought of just right. And now, you don't feel the usual brain tugging thoughts of wanting to hang out with your friends. Really, this has turned into a need. You need Karkat, either by your side, or talking to you, or him letting you quietly hold his hand again as you walk in the dark, cloudy night. Your brain can't go a second without knowing how he's feeling, or what he's doing today, or what he wants to do today.

You think he feels the same.

You talk a lot of crap between each other, but something that gets to you is how genuine he can be sometimes. He's somehow figured out that you can get ticked off by something he words right. He complimented your eyes, once or twice, and now you look extra long in the mirror as if you could possibly find the thing he's really looking at. He informed you about a funny face you do when you're surprised, and that surprised you enough to make him laugh at you and point it out. He didn't pull away, during one movie session, when you moved your hand to wrap on his shoulder but brushed against his neck instead and elicited a small gasp that made you think about it for four days.

He does something to you that you don't understand.

Transformation

How come I see you with clarity

How my heart goes abound

Do you know what you do to me

Do I think I know this is

Is this-

Or maybe you do. Or maybe you don't really have to.

Comfort settles in after panic. Your friends, less oblivious than him, notice. You don't know what to tell them, except, obviously, what you think about him. How, all the time, you just cannot deal with the idea of not thinking about him. It's really annoying, actually, almost like a prank he made to mess with you for stealing his snack stash. Or maybe making him watch Armagedom with you. You haven't quite figured it out yet. You don't fully understand why your face flushes so often, or how you start spacing out thinking about him while sitting next to him, or how giving him a hug makes your stomach flip and land a 10, 10, 8.5 on a gymnastics score. Why you curl up in bed at night, thinking of his voice. You had never noticed it giving you shivers before.

But, the funny thing is, you see him getting confused too. He laughed at one of your jokes, once, smiling wide and deeply chuckling before his face contorted into surprise. Sometimes he pulls you into hugs, before trapping you on the couch in an embrace for a startling amount of time, before kicking you out of his house with a grumble. One time, when he ordered for the two of you at some old restaurant, he forgot to get two shakes so you had to pass it back and forth before he groaned and stuck another straw in. He also stole your fries, and made a smirking face at you that you were too distracted for by the time he got around to stealing the rest of your burger too.

You're starting to get used to the idea of thinking about him. Sitting next to him, you find yourself content. Talking to him, you find yourself aghast with a strong yearning. He looks at you with dark, red filling eyes, talks to you with a grumbly, scratchy low toned voice, and makes you flush when he says numbnuts with an endearing tone.

So you don't mind anymore when he goes to hold your hand. Or when he talks into your ear all night long, way past the movie marathon, and decides to stay the night. You don't mind how he looks when you're up and making lunch, and he looks over with keenly interested eyes from the doorway, and you present him with a prepared plate of ham n' mayo. Which, he compliments you by stealing pieces off of your own. You don't find yourself caring all that much, though? You have a bag of Lay chips, original flavor, and also you are more than okay with the idea of sort of doing this forever. That stomach lighting, bubbly smooth hot drink of whatever this is. Because, you're more than okay with it.

Hey, hey, I think you are..

Hey, hey, I think we are..

Hey, hey, I think I am..

Karkat as a poem got complicated. But, you also think you might have the words to explain it all now.

You tell him about the poem idea you had, once. He tells you that you're an idiot, but he's trying to hide his grin from you too. You tackle him into a wrestling match you end up losing, cheating because he tickled you.

He sits on top of you, laughing at your stupidity while holding your arms above your head. You breathlessly breathe out all the ideas you had for his poem, and then his mouth is on yours to give you butterflies.

You kiss him back hard.

You make me feel like love, love, love-

Love, love, love-

You make me feel like love, love, love-

I think I am in love-!

#johnkat #john egbert #karkat vantas #story #homestuck #hs #poem #love poetry #fluff #ahhhhh #temmie told me to post this before going to bed #and i wasnt sure but i really really like it so #here!!#its posted on ao3 too #i made this one sort of aimlessly one day #i just wanted to write about poems #but i didnt wanna write poems #(spoiler i did anyway)#anyways i dunno if yall have noticed but #i like describing things in weird ways??#or maybe theyre normal ways #idk i like attaching ideas and feelings to each other in ways that seem to only make sense within my head #like 'he is the taste of cheap microwaved food cooked just right enough to be good'#how am i supposed to tell you how that translates into a good feeling?#or how i just know how that feels although you might not??#so thats my basis for everything i write including stories and poems #i know every meaning and every word and hope dearly that you will find them #and if not at least find your own #anyways better post this lmao #thanks for reading!!

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jcmcisvu · 5 years

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◤♛◢ — I N T R O D U C T I O N S. ✧

we’re back on our bullshit, laid ease ! lets mf GO !

ASTRAEUS ZOSIA.

crown prince of the dragons !

dragons have been hunted for centuries, almost to the point of extinction, due to the value and magical qualities of their scales ( or, in human form, their hair ! ), their wings, and, for some dragons, their horns.

it is because of this that the dragons are a very closed off, reclusive species. they tend to keep solely to themselves and each other --- they’re untrusting of most non-dragons, unless one has proven themselves to be worthy of their trust.

it is for this reason that astraeus is also perceived to be reclusive --- no one outside of the dragon society has ever seen the crown prince ( or so people think ! ) and, thus, no one knows what he looks like or who he is.

it is for this reason that astraeus is able to sneak out into normal society, concealing his identity by going only by “astra” and never mentioning his species, let alone his title.

he is very pampered, a bit of a spoiled brat, the prized possession of the dragons since he’s the heir.

on that note, he’s expected to be perfect --- prim and proper, absolutely captivating, and he is supposed to remain hidden away from the entirety of the remainder of the world ( the crown prince of the dragons is by far the most valuable, after all ! ).

thus, him venturing out into normal society is absolutely forbidden and he could get into worlds of trouble if he was ever found out.

when he does go out into normal society, amongst all of the other creatures and species, he takes on the persona of a witch, seeing as he practises both white and black magic in his free time.

his general persona and overall aesthetic, especially when he’s out in the world, is very soft, he has a very magical air to him, easily described as ethereal --- twinkerbell !

despite being so pampered and spoiled in the dragon society, all he truly wishes is to be treated as someone’s equal, as opposed to being praised and put on a pedestal for every little thing he does. he simply wants a companion ( dragons are intended to be very needy, affectionate creatures, after all ).

as much as he prides himself on being the treasure of the dragons, he also finds himself wishing that he and his subjects didn’t have to hide, but he knows how dangerous it may be for them to come out of hiding, so he doesn’t question it.

thus, he tends to live an extremely lonely life.

his scales are an iridescent purple !

his hair is an iridescent purple !

his left eye is gold and his right eye is purple !

ZARIN SEASONAIRE.

y’all know this b*tch !

crown prince of the demons !

he is half-demon/half-fae, which is an absolutely messy and dangerous combination ! he’s entirely op, uses his magic/powers for evil brought on my misplaced trust and ignorance !

he was brought up under the impression that he’s far better than everybody, including his siblings, in every possible way. thus, this caused a divide between him and pretty much everyone he could have possibly had a relationship with.

as much as his father insisted that he was important, a prized possession because he was the heir to the throne, zarin was also ... somewhat neglected for a lot of his life. he was raised solely to be the heir, solely to take the throne and to be exactly as his father is, so he lacks a lot of humane skills that he should otherwise obtain; proper morals, empathy for most people, a conscience.

his siblings died, his father didn’t care and insisted that he shouldn’t care either. thus, as upset as he was by the entire occurrence, he convinced himself that it was fine, that it happened for a reason, that he didn’t care.

he’s a bit ... fucked in the head due both to his upbringing as a whole and the death of his siblings. the years of trauma he’s gone through has absolutely done a number on him.

on that note, he’s chaotic evil ! but don’t worry ! literally someone just needs to ... convince him that he’s more than his father and that his title doesn’t define him ! and then he will be a soft pouty, but still chaotic babie !

he’s a bit forced to stay in ... whatever we’re calling the land of the demons, though he is occasionally allowed up to the surface to scope out whatever’s going on up ton per his father’s orders, and he sneaks up to the surface for his own enjoyment sometimes, as well.

he treats everyone like they’re his servants & playthings ! he’s the worst !

he’s the embodiment of sin !

in reality, though, he ... genuinely just craves affection, just wants to loved and cared for for real, but he would never admit that ! because hot take: he doesn’t believe he can love ! doesn’t even think he has emotions or feelings at all !

he’s ... messy. love him at your own risk !

he’ll bite you if you call him anything other than “zazzy” !

he teleports via smoke-travel !

his smoke is gold !

his hair is dark brown !

his eyes are bright gold !

AMBROSE SEASONAIRE.

y’all know this babie !

when he was alive, he was half-demon/half-fae ! now, he’s a ghost !

when the argenti first invaded, he and hestia went out to fight, thinking that they would be able to defeat them since they were op as hell demon/fae and all, but, alas, they were killed and now reside in the afterlife as ghosts !

it wasn’t surprising that ambrose died in the fight, seeing as he has never been all too keen on controlling his magic/powers.

while growing up, he was neglected by his father due to not being the heir to the throne ! he wasn’t necessarily treated badly by his father, but ... he wasn’t treated great by any means, either.

thus, due to the way he was brought up, he’s very ... messy, but in a soft way !

he has a stutter, he’s very shy and reluctant about everything, very awkward, overall an antisocial crybaby.

he was bullied when he was alive, ever since he was a child, due to his awkward and oversensitive tendencies. he was even bullied by his own identical twin brother at times !

he kind of ... tends to cling to his twin sister, which he feels bad for and does his best to stop doing, but he just ... feels safest and most comfortable when around her.

now that he’s dead, he simply tries to blend into the background as much as possible. he doesn’t want to be noticed, doesn’t want attention on him anymore; he seldom ever talks to anyone, especially people who are still alive.

he doesn’t see himself as anything special --- he’s not magnificent and popular like his sister is, he’s not powerful and important like his brother is; he can’t even control the way he speaks, let alone his own magic. there’s nothing special about him.

it’s because of this view of himself that he is ... a bit sad. he unintentionally takes on a melancholic air.

he doesn’t think he’s worthy of love or affection, he doesn’t think he’s worthy of much --- he somewhat feels like he deserved to die, just so that he wouldn’t be in people’s way anymore.

he’s just ... a lonely, messy, soft kid !

he’s also a gay lil twink ! doesn’t know he’s gay, though !

he just wants to be called “rosie” !

his hair is dark brown !

his eyes are a dull gold !

PARISA EAE.

a fallen angel !

angels are winged sky nymphs, formed from the fluffiest pieces of clouds and brought to life by the first light of day that the sun shines upon them on the morning of their creation, made with the intention of watching over earth and inspiring good and beauty.

parisa, however, was brought to life not by the light of a sunrise, but instead by the life of a sunset mixed with moonlight. this, unfortunately, skewed with the light and purity that she, as an angel, was intended to obtain.

despite her skewed purity, the other angels decided to make an attempt at teaching her the ways of the sky.

throughout her childhood and adolescence, she would try her best to follow the other angels in their good deeds, aiming to spread the love and light and beauty that she knew she was meant to spread and inspire.

all of her attempted good deeds, however, tended to end in disaster. if she tried to inspire love, it would result in hate. if she tried to inspire beauty, it would result in fear.

she never understood what was so wrong with her compared to all of the other angels, but she did her absolute best to be as akin to them as she possibly could.

when she turned eighteen, however, and her ability to inspire beauty and good still had yet to change, the angels decided that they could not afford to have her tainting all of their purity and hard work.

thus, they cast her out of the sky, deeming her a fallen angel.

ever since she has fallen, she has grown rather bitter about her fall, yet she also blames herself for it, as she still doesn’t know that her anatomy and dna was entirely skewed upon her creation.

she tends to be a bit reticent, not wanting to get close to people for fear of causing misfortune to them, as well.

since her fall, though, she has taken a love for modelling and fashion, taking on both modelling and fashion designing as her careers.

even though she knows she can do no true good, she still tries her hardest to inspire people through her modelling and designing and influence in whatever ways she possibly can.

she strives to know why she is so different from all of the other angels, but has long since stopped trying to find out.

she is ... vain, because she’s pretty and she knows it !

her hair is a peach/strawberry blonde colour !

her eyes are a silvery sky blue !

KINGSLEY LEVANE.

witch boy who spends all of his freetime on alchemy !

his mother died upon his birth.

upon the invasion, despite his father explicitly warning him not to get involved or go anywhere near the aliens or their infection, kingsley took an interest in the argenti, wanting to study them to find out more about their anatomy, their powers, their intentions, everything about them.

thus, he started collecting as much information on them as he could --- he even took samples of their slime when he came across it to do experiments on.

as a result of a chemical experiment with the slime gone wrong, kingsley nearly died in his laboratory one night, but, fortunately and unfortunately, his father entered the room just in time to shove kingsley out of the way before the slime could touch him and, in turn, took his place.

kingsley’s father died that night do to being overcome by the chemically altered alien infection, leaving kingsley an orphan.

on the same night as this occurrence, kingsley rushed out into the city, pleading for someone, anyone, to come help him save his dad.

everyone just thought he was a crazy kid, insisted that there were bigger issues at hand than some kid’s silly, little games and tall-tales.

thus, while, logically, kingsley knows that he was truly the one to blame for his father’s death, he is entirely in denial of the fact that he caused it and he can’t help but feel bitter and angry not only at the aliens for killing his father and all of the people who refused to help him on that night.

thus, he seeks revenge on both the aliens and on all of the people who he feels wrong him.

he spends most of his days cooped up in his lab, trying out different chemical compounds and mixtures in an attempt to find something that could even just harm the aliens and that he could use against those who refused him.

the only time he really ever leaves his lab is to try and collect more information and data on the argenti as a whole.

he trades potions and his inventions and such for information that anyone might have on the argenti !

essentially, he is just looking to get revenge on all who he believes took part in killing his father, even if he gets himself killed in the process, which he knows is entirely likely.

he is also looking for a way to resurrect his father, though he knows that, even if he is a witch, his magic is far too weak for such spells.

it is because of both his vengeful tendencies and his reclusive tendencies that he doesn’t have many friends. he insists that he doesn’t have time for close friendships and relationships, that he only has time for his alchemy and research..

truly, though, hidden beneath all of the anger and vengeance, he is just a sad and lonely kid. he never knew his mom, he essentially killed his dad, he has near no one to turn to for any type of comfort; he’s just sad !

before his father died, he was really sweet and bubbly, very soft, so that side of him is still buried down deep beneath the anger !

he ... wants friends lowkey, but he doesn’t know how to go about making them !

his hair is black !

his eyes are turquoise !

TOTO FLORENT.

imaginary friend ! boy with the horns !

he was the imaginary friend of a human boy who was absolutely obsessed with all of the magical creatures that there were around him. as a result of his obsession with all of these things, toto was imagined as a boy with magical horns.

toto’s horns are made of gold with magical qualities that even he, himself, isn’t quite sure about.

it was because of toto’s horns that he started getting made fun of upon the human boy telling his other human friends of his creation --- even if the kids who were making fun of him couldn’t actually even see him.

the endless teasing and taunting by these boys that his human boy called his friends eventually started getting to toto, making him feel discouraged, strange, like he was weird, an outcast.

it was for this reason that toto ran away from his human boy, even if he knew that, once he left, no one would ever be able to see him again so long as the human boy lived.

shortly after toto ran away, living his imaginary life wandering the suburbs and downtown areas, he found that people could see him, which he knew could only mean one thing.

the human boy had died. he had perished at the hands of the argenti no longer than a month after toto had fled from him.

this revelation absolutely devastated toto. knowing that his creator and best friend are gone, dead, and knowing that he hadn’t had said goodbye to him when he left ... it took a toll on him.

thus, the imaginary friend is a bit more melancholic than he once was.

he used to run about with his human, happy as could be and excited about absolutely everything, but now he has a sad air to him. he is no longer so happy nor excitable, but more depressed and despondent.

as an imaginary friend without a human or creature to be linked to, his existence is constantly wavering, even if more people are able to see him now. since there is no one (1) person who believes in his existence without doubt, he could cease to exist at any moment.

thus, he is on a quest for a new human/creature to be linked to ! all he asks is that they believe in him and do not make fun of or try to steal his horns !

as per usual, he is sad ... he just wants love and affection ... please ... love and affection him ...

his horns are gold !

his hair is dark brown !

his eyes are baby pink !

the rest of my muses will be added to this post tomorrow !

#◤♛◢ — jcmcisvu. ✧ 「 introductions. 」

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one-lucky-clover · 6 years

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Misconceptions/Questions about the OCs I want to clear up

Both on DA and on here, as well as elsewhere I’ve gotten a few questions regarding the characters, and what I’m planning with how I’m writing this blog. So rather than write up a thousand comics I think a short and simple FAQ-styled list would make things easier for anyone who wants clarification on some things. If there’s something you’re curious about that’s not answered here, feel free to either PM here or reply to this post with it and I’ll try to answer it as best I can. That being said, everything is going to be under the cut

Mayor Finley DOES NOT have the same supernatural luck as Clover.

He’s indeed a very fortunate man, but Clover is the only one with Luck on a supernatural level. Earnest Finley is about as lucky as the average man, maybe a bit luckier than usual but not to the augmented extension that Clover is.

Clover IS NOT Immortal

Despite her strength and luck, she’s just as mortal as any other human. Her luck, perhaps, might prevent her from dying before her time. But like all humans she would indeed die eventually, luck or not. That being said, the Grim Reaper might have difficulty taking her soul without a fight.

Are Clover and Mayor Finley of Irish descent?

I have never actually established their ethnic background (besides being just “Caucasian”), and I’m sure people started headcanon’ing this because of the whole “Luck” theme with them. But I have no issue with anyone seeing them as Irish or believing them as such. It’s an interesting headcanon to see developed as the characters have grown. Plus imagining Clover with an Irish brood is fun to me. I will NEVER kill off characters from this blog.

At least I have no intention to. In all honesty a big reason for me making One-Lucky-Clover to make it a very “feel-good” blog in a sea filled with a lot of angst. One that people can look at for comfort and warm fuzzy feelings for the characters that they relate to. I will indeed write some troubling situations, conflicts, and admittedly some angst, of course, they make any adventure good! Worry not, though, I promise I will never permanently kill off any of the characters from this blog, not even Blaise. No one is going to die so long as the blog is running.

Dewey is going to be appearing again soon, don’t worry.

I have a pretty important role for him in “Pumpkin Party Pandemonium,” We simply haven’t gotten to that part yet. Who is “Bootleg Bart”?

He is an OC who belongs to my buddy Gamerboy123456 on DA, created to be the true leader of the Butcher Gang. I’ve gotten his permission to feature and cameo the character on the blog, and he’s indeed going to make an actual appearance soon in “Pumpkin Party Pandemonium.” Will Blaise ever get a “Redemption Arc?”

Maybe? I’m on the fence with this, and it’s not something I’d be ready to give a solid “yes” or “no” to. I admit I have tossed around different ideas for how a redemption arc for him would go, even when this blog was still just a twinkle in my eye. However if it WERE to happen it wouldn’t be for a long time. Besides, Blaise is one of those villains who people love to hate. Why take that away so soon? His charm is in how slimy he is.

How Old Are the Characters?

Clover is in her mid 20′s, so is Blaise, and Terra Lavee is 26 years old. I was picturing Mayor Finley to be AT LEAST in 40′s. The Children at the Daycare are all very young children or infants. Wilda Witch is very, very old but I haven’t decided on exact age frame for her

Everyone else doesn’t have an established age, most of the characters I’d describe as “vaguely adults” and by that I mean they’re AT LEAST over 21 years of age, or “vaguely children” meaning that they’re under-aged and below 21 years. I say “vaguely” because they’re cartoon characters and sometimes it’s hard to determine an age for a group of cartoony creatures.

Here’s how I’d categorize them: Vaguely Adults: Buster, Bendy, Alice Angel, Boris, Dewey, the Butcher Gang, Bo Sheep, Bonnie the Angel (As pure and innocent as she is, she’s not a child), Ruby Rabbit, Grim and Bella Skeleton, Cupid the Angel, Billy Goat, the three identical-looking bullies.

Vaguely Children: Odette the Cat (she’s probably something akin to a very young teen), The littlest bully from Billy Goat’s Bullies. So yeah, most of the characters on the blog are adults, with very few being actually under-aged.

That’s about all the questions I can think to answer at the moment that I haven’t covered from messages I’ve gotten.

#Mun Posts #FAQ #FAQ Post

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dressed-up-messed-up · 6 years

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The Years Will Pass

Skelly decided that she would wait. She couldn’t write Roman a letter or send him a card because despite him knowing her handwriting, knowing he’d respond as quickly as he could, she knew it would have felt impersonal for him to find out they had baby #2 on the way.

Emotions were a big deal to Roman. She’s found this out time and time again, and she’s positive that she won’t stop having new examples of Roman being an emotional person anytime soon.

So instead of writing that she was pregnant, she wrote to Roman saying that she had a special gift for him when he would come to visit next time. That next time should be in about five months, in the middle of what humans call June.

Every day, she would tap her fingers against the wood of a table, or she would work on something only to realize that she’s writing names on the sides of her papers again. Accompying these names would be hearts, specifically around names she happened to like more than others.

Blair, despite still hiding in her room and avoiding talking with the townsfolk, was excited about the news of a baby sibling. She didn’t care of the gender of the baby, and she didn’t want to know how. She just knew that she was excited and vaugley curious.

Sally was happy to help, despite also dealing with Skellys siblings (with the eldest having his own child to deal with). She and Skelly would document everything that they wanted to share. Skelly, keeping in mind all the questions Roman asked when hey were expecting Blair, wrote down how she felt and what she did that day for herself and others.

The months began to pass quickly, with the babes development going smoothly. The only thing that wasn’t going smoothly was the townsfolk.

They were determined to still hate Roman, pointing out flaws with Skellys ‘story’ (for instance, they pointed out her buying Valentines chocolate when she had stared earlier that she hadn’t eaten any for a long time). They also made claims that Roman was using the new baby to keep her brainwashed. She quickly refuted this by stating that Roman didn’t even know the baby existed yet, and it’d remain that way until he came to visit.

Jack, being every supportive, made toys, and threw suggestions out to Skelly every now and then, such as going to the hill or maybe making a new dessert. Skelly greatly appreciated this.

The closer to Romans visit seemed to bring a growing addiction for Skelly: Valentines food. While it was difficult for her later on, she would make the trip to Valentines to get any food that she possibly could. Blair stepped in once she realized how difficult it was getting for her mother, forcing her to sit down and let Blair retrieve the food.

Skelly wasn’t disappointed when Blair returned; her arms were full of candies and cookies, bags of freshly baked bread and pastries. There was a note from Roman, who was happy but worried that Blair had made such a trip on her own, and questioned if Skelly and her were alright.

Skelly was more than happy to write back, telling him that she was excited to see him again and that she wanted to give him the present very soon, as she was shaking just thinking about telling him. Blair wrote a portion as well, telling her father of her studies in Halloweentown and of how her valentines cards were coming along.

It was almost satisfying seeing that Blair’s handwriting was cursive, and very curly cursive at that. The dots for i’s were hearts, and the t’s were akin to a curl.

The letter was sent, and again Skelly waited. Now there was a few more weeks before Romans visit, and she frankly was very tired most of the time. She retreated to her room, sleeping the days away and listening to Blair describe what was going on outside.

The red-head learned that Blair had tried to ask the doctor how it was possible for Skelly, a skeleton with no possible way to have children, could... well.. have children.

As Blair told Skelly, she didn’t understand a word of it. All she could remember was that Skelly drank something that made her far more likely to have kids, and that the kids themselves were skin to that of the parents magic and thoughts churning together until they could work together and form a new kind of magic and thoughts.

“I didn’t understand it. I guess it’s like Dads magic was stronger, and that’s why I think more like him? But there’s also you, to a lesser extent. I don’t know, Magic is the answer I guess.”

Skelly found this numerous, telling Blair that this was why questions were sometimes best left unasked.

Finally, the day approached that Roman would visit. Skelly tossed and turned that night, unable to sleep. All she could think of was when Roman would come back, and he would give her his shirts as promised while he took back all his old ones.

Soft shaking is what woke her up. She saw Blair’s face looking down at her, a wide grin on her face.

“Dads here! He’s in the courtyard!!” She giggled, bouncing off the bed and jittering around the room.

Skelly sat up, already feeling a smile on her face. Blair turned back to her, still smiling.

“Should we go down? Or should he come up? I-!”

Blair stopped when her mother placed a hand on her shoulder, chuckling.

“Relax. We’ll go down, I just have to change first. Go down and see your father, since it may take me a while.”

“Okay!” Blair shot out of the door when Skelly let her go, leaving Skelly to her thoughts.

She dressed slowly and carefully, ensuring that she’d be able to hid the upcoming child for as long as she could. At times like these, she hoped Romans cluelessness would come into play.

She made her way downstairs, hearing Romans voice go from soft and muffled to low and clear. He abruptly stopped talking, watching as Skelly came down. She paused at the foot of the stairs, staring at him as he stared right back at her.

“Skelly.”

She became quick, rushing to hug him. He barely had time to open his arms before she was in them, hugging him and holding him tight. She breathed in his scent, feeling him hug her nearly as tightly as she was, feeling him running a hand through her hair.

“It’s been too long.” He muttered, causing her to giggle.

“There’s so many things we need to do.” She sighed.

“We have all day,” he ran his hand along the curve of her spine, causing her to relax more. “But I’ve been hearing of a mysterious present for months now?”

She let him go, slowly beginning to smile wider. “Thanks for reminding me.”

“My pleasure” he mocked sweetly.

Skelly took a second, calming her nerves before she looked at Blair, then Roman.

“You’re going to be a Dad again.”

Roman paused, eyes wide and seeming to be comprehending what he was being told. His went on for so long that Skelly forced herself to flick him in the forehead, which seemed to snap him out of his trance.

“I... Dad.... again?” He mumbled, eyes wide.

Skelly nodded. “For a while now... I wanted to surprise you.”

Roman nodded this time, scratching his jaw. “Excuse me for a moment.”

He quietly left the room, heading outside. Even from inside, Skelly could hear Roman yelling, hear the giddiness in his voice and how happy he was.

Blair glanced at her mother. “Should I go get him?”

“No, sweetie, let him get it all out. If he doesn’t, who knows what will happen.”

Blair nodded, going to color her books that Roman had given her that day. Roman returned soon after, hugging Skelly one more, shaking just a bit.

“I’m gonna be a Dad again!”

“Mhmm.” Skelly lacked their fingers together, allowing Roman to swing their hands a bit.

Roman pulled her into a kiss, being as sweet as one could possibly be.

“May I?” He pressed his forehead to hers, staring at her.

“Of course you can” she chuckled. “If anyone can, it would be you.”

Roman beamed, happily feeling her stomach. She understood that this was normal in Valentines. Whenever a person would become pregnant in Valentines, it worked in a very specific way, and there were certain traditions the townsfolk held.

Roman told her all about it when she’d questioned him, and his favorite part of it all was when the baby would kick to let the parents know that they were there.

Skelly thought it was strange. However, she allowed it.

For the rest of the day, Roman and Skelly read the scrapbook together, went on a family picnic with All the Skellingtons, and danced at a small party that night.

The entire time, Roman was sweet and kind to everyone, and made sure that Skelly got her rest, and was always drinking and eating properly.

When she’d burst into tears at everything he was doing, he’d panicked, thinking that he’d done something inherently wrong.

She had to reassure him that he was fine, she was just sad because she missed him doing this all the time, and she wanted him to keep being the way he was.

Though nervous, he did so, following her wishes.

As the night was winding down, and Roman and Skelly were readying themselves for bed, Skelly wondered aloud what the child should be named. Roman sat in the bed, slowly declining against the pillows due to the scars in his back.

“Maybe Eros?”

“We’re not naming them Cupid.” She snorted.

“Dudley”

“No candy based names either.”

He huffed “I taught you too much.”

“You taught me too little.” She countered.

“Alright, alright. How about Virgil? I read it somewhere.”

“I-“ Skelly paused, thinking. “That’s actually a good name..”

Roman raised a brow, smiling. “So?”

“.. alright, let’s name them Virgil.”

“I knew you’d come around.” He joked, causing her to smack his chest lightly.

Skelly blew out the candle and laid down, resting her head on Romans chest and listening to his heart beat; they were slow, steady. Much like Roman himself.

With that , they fell asleep, both unwilling to say goodbye the next day, for the next four months.

Virgil had come at the time they’d expected him to - October 31st, Halloween.

Roman had been at Halloweentown for the past couple of days to ensure that he was there when Skelly had Virgil, to ensure that he was there.

Skelly was completely done at this point in time - she was tired, anxious, and needed to practically cling to Roman to get through a day the closer the delivery date arrived.

Roman reassured her, reminding her that she did it before, she could do it again, that he believed in her. She always relaxed shortly after, no matter how quickly he said it, nor in what place.

The townsfolk were warming up to Roman again, but it was very slow work, and they were still adamant he leave when the two weeks were up.

Roman was content to spend as much time with Skelly as he could.

The night of Halloween, Skelly has been relaxing near the fountain. Many were gone, out scaring the humans and making the most out of the one day of the year.

That’s when it happened, of course. As she would describe it, Virgil was just as done as she was, and they wanted out, now.

She’d rushed to Roman, who brought her to the doctor and retrieved her parents.

Sally went into the room, leaving Roman to pace the small room and Jack to attempt to calm Roman. Blair was next to Jack, telling him that it was useless; her Dad would be like this until he could be with Mom again.

The hours were slow and tourturous for Roman, who’s experiences of any sort of pregnancy were limited to waiting an hour or two before he could see the new baby.

This new, longer experience was one he was unfamiliar with, and it terrified him.

Finally, after hours of waiting, he was called into the room. He rushed in, trying to be as quiet as possible as he saw Skelly laying in bed, holding a small bundle close to her.

His heart fluttered, and he hurried over next to her, quietly bringing a chair up next to the bed. He sat down and stared at the bundle, watching Skelly slowly hand it over.

“We have a son” she whispered, turning to her side and watching him.

Roman took the bundle, slowly moving the fabric to see a small face that was much like his own. The skin was pale, the dash of freckles across the face was familiar. The only thing different between he and the child in terms of genetics was the hair, which was a vivid red.

He slowly smiled. “He’s beautiful, just like you.”

Skelly let out a soft laugh, shaking her head. “I think he looks more like you.”

“Nonesense. No one wants that.”

“Well I do.”

They lapsed into silence again, watching as Virgil slept.

Blair was allowed in after a small amount of time, studying her new brother with interest.

“He looks like Dad.” She poked his small nose gently, causing Virgil’s eyes to flicker under his eyelids.

“He does not-“ Roman tried to say.

He was quickly hushed by the two others. The family remained quiet now, and they would keep it that way. Just for a little bit longer.

@theskellingtons @darkmatternova

#my fanfic #Jack Skellington #Sally #Blair #Skelly #Roman #virgil has been born #he gets black eyes cause thats what mom and dad has #skelly skellington #skelly gets all of romans shirts after this lol #virgil grows up wearing dads clothes

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unsettlingshortstories · 4 years

Text

The Doll

Daphne du Maurier (1937)

Foreword.

The following pages were found in a shabby pocket book, very much sodden and discoloured by salt water, tucked away between the crevices of a rock in —Bay.

Their owner has never been traced, and the most diligent enquiries have failed to discover his identity. Either the wretched man drowned himself near the spot where he hid his pocket book, and his body has been lost at sea; or he is still wandering about the world trying to forget himself and his tragedy.

Some of the pages of his story were so damaged by exposure as to render them completely illegible; thus there are many gaps, and much of it seems without sequence, including the abrupt and unsatisfactory termination.

I have placed three dots between sentences when words or lines were undecipherable. Whether the wild improbabilities of the story are true, or whether the whole is but the hysterical product of a diseased mind, we shall never know. My sole reason for publishing these pages is to satisfy the entreaties of many friends who have been interested in my discovery.

Signed. DR E STRONGMAN.

—BAY, S ENGLAND.

I want to know if men realise when they are insane. Sometimes I think that my brain cannot hold together, it is filled with too much horror – too great a despair.

And there is no one; I have never been so unutterably alone. Why should it help me to write this? . . . Vomit forth the poison in my brain.

For I am poisoned, I cannot sleep, I cannot close my eyes without seeing his damned face . . . If only it had been a dream, something to laugh over, a festered imagination.

It's easy enough to laugh, who wouldn't crack their sides and split their tongues with laughing. Let's laugh till the blood runs from our eyes – there's fun, if you like. No, it's the emptiness that hurts, the breaking up of everything inside me.

If I could feel, I should have followed her to the ends of the earth, no matter how she pleaded or how she loathed me. I should have taught her what it is to be loved by a man – yes – a man, and I would have thrown his filthy battered body from the window, watched him disappear for ever, his evil scarlet mouth distorted . . .

It's the hot feeling that has filled me, the utter incapacity to reason.

And I am deceiving myself when I say she would have come to me. I did not follow her because I knew that it was hopeless. She would never have loved me – she will never love any man.

Sometimes I can think of it all dispassionately, and I pity her. She misses so much – so much – and no one will ever know the truth. What was her life before I knew her, what is it now?

Rebecca – Rebecca, when I think of you with your pale earnest face, your great wide fanatical eyes like a saint, the narrow mouth that hid your teeth, sharp and white as ivory, and your halo of savage hair, electric, dark, uncontrolled – there has never been anyone more beautiful. Who will ever know your heart, who will ever know your mind?

Intense, restrained, and soulless; for you must be soulless to have done what you have done. You have that fatal quality of silence – of a tight repression that suggests a hidden fire – yes, a burning fire unquenchable. What have I not done with you in dreams, Rebecca?

You would be fatal to any man. A spark that lights, and does not burn itself, a flame fanning other flames.

What did I love in you but your indifference, and the suggestions that lay beneath your indifference?

I loved you too much, wanted you too much, had for you too great a tenderness. Now all of this is like a twisted root in my heart, a deadly poison in my brain. You have made of me a madman. You fill me with a kind of horror, a devastating hate that is akin to love – a hunger that is nausea. If only I could be calm and clear for one moment – one moment only . . .

I want to make a plan – an orderly arrangement of dates.

It was at Olga's studio first, I think. I can remember how it rained outside, and the rain made dirty streaks on the window-pane. The room was full, a lot of people were talking by the piano – Vorki was there, they were trying to make him sing, and Olga was screaming with laughter.

I always hated the hard thin reed of her laugh. You were sitting – Rebecca was sitting on a stool by the fire.

Her legs were twisted under her, and she looked like an elf, a sort of boy.

Her back was turned to me, and she wore a funny little fur cap on her head. I remember being amused at her position, I wanted to see her face. I called out to Olga to introduce me.

"Rebecca," she said, "Rebecca, show yourself." . . . flinging off her cap as she turned. Her hair sprung from her head like a savage, her eyes opened wide – and she smiled at me, biting her lip.

I can remember sitting down on the floor beside her, and talking, talking – what does it matter what I said, dull stuff, nonsense of course, but she spoke breathlessly, with a sort of constrained eagerness. She did not say much, she smiled . . . eyes of a visionary, of a fanatic – they saw too much, demanded too much – one lost oneself in them, and became incapable of resistance. It was like drowning. From the moment I saw her then I was doomed. I left her, and came away, and walked down the embankment like a drunkard. Faces spluttered up at me, and shoulders brushed me, I was aware of dim lights reflected on wet pavements, and the hazy throb of traffic – through it all were her eyes and her wild impossible hair, her slim body like a boy . . . all coming clear now, I can see each event as it happened, each moment of the game. I went to Olga's again and she was there.

She came right up to me and said "Do you care for music?" gravely, like a child. Why did she say this, I don't know, there was no one at the piano – I answered vaguely, and noticed the colour of her skin, pale coffee, and clear, clear as water.

She was dressed in brown, some sort of velvet I think, with a red scarf round her neck.

Her throat was very long and thin, like a swan's. I remember thinking how easy it would be to tighten the scarf and strangle her. I imagined her face when dying – her lips parted, and the enquiring look in her eyes – they would show white, but she would not be afraid. All this in the space of a moment, and while she was talking to me. I could drag very little from her. She was a violinist apparently, an orphan, and lived alone in Bloomsbury.

Yes, she had travelled much, she said, and especially in Hungary. She had lived in Budapest for three years, studying music. She did not care for England, she wanted to go back to Budapest. It was the only city in the world.

"Rebecca" someone called, and she glanced over her shoulder with a smile. How much could I write about Rebecca's smile! It was so vivid, so intensely alive, and yet apart, unearthly, it had no relation to anything one said. Her eyes would be transfigured as if by a shaft of silver.

She left early that day, and I crossed the room to ask Olga about her. I was in an agony of impatience to know everything. Olga could tell me little. "She comes from Hungary," she said, "no one knows who were her parents, Jewish, I imagine. Vorki brought her here. He found her in Paris, playing the violin in one of those Russian cafes. She won't have anything to do with him though, she lives entirely alone. Vorki says her talent is marvellous, if she only goes on there will be no one to touch her. But she won't work, she doesn't seem to care. I heard her at Vorki's flat – it sent cold shivers down my spine. She stood at the end of the room, looking like something off another planet – her hair sticking out, a sort of fur bush round her head, and she played. The notes were weird, haunting, I've never known anything quite like it, it's impossible to describe."

Once again I left Olga's studio in a dream, with Rebecca's face dancing before my eyes. I too could see her playing the violin – she would stand straight and firm as a child, her eyes wide open, her lips parted in a smile.

She was to play at Vorki's flat the following evening, and I went to hear her. Olga had not exaggerated, with all her palpable, shallow insincerity. I sat like a drugged man, incapable of movement. I don't know what she played, but it was shattering – stupendous. I was not aware of anything but that I and Rebecca were together – out of the world, away, lost – lost in unutterable bliss. We were climbing, then flying, higher – higher.

At one time the violin seemed to protest, and it was as if she were refusing me, and I were pursuing her – then there came a torrent of sound, a medley of acceptance and denial, a confusion of notes in which were mingled desire and sweetness, and intolerable pleasure. I could feel my heart beating like the throb of some mighty vessel, and the blood pounded in my temples.

Rebecca was part of me, she was myself – it was too much, it was too glorious. We had reached the summit, we could go no farther, the sun seemed to strike into my eyes. I looked up – Rebecca was smiling at me, the violin broke on a note of exquisite beauty – it was fulfilment.

I leant back exhausted on the sofa, my senses swimming – it was too wonderful, too wonderful. Three minutes passed before I came fully conscious again. I felt as if I had plunged in the black abyss of eternity to sleep – and had come awake once more.

No one had noticed me, Vorki was handing round drinks, and Rebecca was sitting by the piano turning over some music. When they asked her to play again, she refused, she was tired, she said. They implored her so she took up her violin and played once more – something quite short, but very lovely and pure, like a child's prayer.

Later in the evening she came and sat beside me, for a few moments I was too moved to speak. Then I cursed myself for a fool, and turned to her, and looked into her face.

"You gave me a marvellous sensation when you played," I told her, "it was beautiful, intoxicating, I shall never forget it. You have a rare – no – a very dangerous talent." She was silent, and then spoke in her restrained, breathless little voice. "I played for you," she said, "I wanted to see what it was like to play to a man." Her words bewildered me, they seemed utterly inexplicable. She was not lying, her eyes looked straight into mine, and she was smiling.

"What do you mean?" I asked her. "Have you never played for anyone before, do you use your gift just to satisfy yourself? I don't understand."

"Perhaps," she said slowly, "perhaps, it's like that, I can't explain."

"I want to see you again," I told her, "I'd like to come and see you alone, where we can talk, really talk. I've thought about you ever since I saw you in Olga's studio, you knew that, didn't you? That's why you played to me tonight, wasn't it?"

I wanted to drag the answer from her lips, I wanted to force her to say yes. She shrugged her shoulders, she refused to be definite, it was exasperating.

"I don't know," she said, "I don't know." Then I asked for her address, and she gave it to me. She was busy, she would not be able to see me until the end of the week. The party broke up soon after and she disappeared.

The days that passed seemed interminable, I could not wait to see her again. I thought about her ceaselessly.

On Friday I could stand it no longer, so I went to her. She lived in an odd sort of a house somewhere in Bloomsbury. She rented the top floor as a flat. The outlook was dull and dreary, I wondered how she could bear to live there.

She opened the door to me herself, and took me into a large bare room like a studio, with an oil-stove burning. I was struck by the cheerlessness of it, but she did not seem to notice anything, and made me sit down in a shabby armchair.

"This is where I practise," Rebecca told me, "and have my meals. It's a bright room, don't you think?" I said nothing to this and then she went to a cupboard and brought out some drinks, and a few stale biscuits. She took nothing herself.

I found her strange, detached – she seemed bored at my being there. Our conversation was forced and there were pauses. I found it impossible to say any of the things I wanted to say. She played to me for a while, but they were all classical things that I knew, and quite different from what she had played that evening at Vorki's.

Before I left she showed me round her tiny flat. There was a little scullery place she used for a kitchen, a poky bathroom, and her own small bedroom which was furnished like a nun's cell, quite plain and bare. There was another room leading from the studio, but she did not show me this. It was obviously a fair-sized room, as I saw the window from the street afterwards, and watched her draw the heavy curtains across it . . .

(Note. Here some pages were completely illegible, covered with blots, and discoloured. The narrative appears to continue in the middle of a sentence. Dr Strongman.)

. . . "not really cold," she insisted, "I've tried to explain to you that I'm odd in some ways, I've never met anyone to care for, I've never been in love. I've always disliked people rather than been attracted by them." "That doesn't explain your music." I broke in impatiently. "You play as if you knew everything – everything."

I was becoming maddened by her indifference, it was not natural but calculated; she always gave me the impression of concealment. I felt I should never discover what was in her mind, whether she was like a child asleep, a flower before it has blossomed – or whether she was lying to me throughout, in which case every man would have been her lover – every man.

I was tortured by doubt and jealousy, the thought of other men was driving me insane. And she gave me no relief, she would look at me with her great pale eyes, pure as water, until I could swear that she was untouched – and yet, and yet? A look, a smile, and back would come my torture and my misery. She was impossible, she evaded everything, and yet it was this fatal quality of restraint that tore at me and broke at me, until my love for her became an obsession, a terrible driving force.

I asked Olga about her, asked Vorki, asked everyone who knew her. No one could tell me anything, anything.

I'm forgetting days and weeks as I write this, nothing seems to have any sequence for me, it's like rising from the dead, it's like being reincarnated from dust and ashes to live it again, to live my whole cursed life again – for what was my life before I loved Rebecca, where was I, who was I?

I had better write that Sunday now, Sunday that was really the end; and I didn't know it, I thought it was the beginning. I was like someone walking in the dark, no, walking in the light with his eyes open and not seeing – deliberately blinding himself.

Sunday, day of hollow and mistaken happiness. I went to her flat about nine in the evening. She was waiting for me. She was dressed in scarlet – like Mephistopheles, odd strange clothes that only Rebecca could wear. She seemed excited, intoxicated – she ran about the room like an elf.

Then she sat down at my feet with her legs tucked under her, and held out her thin brown hands to the stove. She laughed and giggled childishly, she reminded me of a mischievous child planning some naughtiness.

Then all at once she turned to me, her face pale, her eyes strangely alight. She said, "Is it possible to love someone so much, that it gives one a pleasure, an unaccountable pleasure to hurt them? To hurt them by jealousy I mean, and to hurt oneself at the same time. Pleasure and pain, an equal mingling of pleasure and pain, just as an experiment, a rare sensation?"

She puzzled me, but I tried to explain to her what was meant by Sadism. She seemed to understand, and nodded her head thoughtfully once or twice.

Then she rose and went slowly across the room to the door I had never yet seen opened. She looked oddly pale as she stood there, her mass of queer savage hair springing from her head, her hand on the knob of the door. "I want to introduce you to Julio," she said. I left my chair and went towards her, I had no idea of what she was talking about. She took my hand and then opened the door. I saw a low round-shaped room, whose walls were draped with some sort of velvet hangings as if to deaden any sound, and long thick curtains were drawn across the window. There was a log fire, but it had burnt very low. Near the fireplace was a divan, covered with cushions thrown anyhow, and the only light came from a small shaded lamp, thus leaving the room in a half darkness.

There was one chair in the room, and this was facing the divan.

Something was sitting in the chair. I felt an eerie cold feeling in my heart, as if the room were haunted. "What is it?" I whispered.

Rebecca took the lamp and held it over the chair. "This is Julio," she said softly. I stepped closer, and saw what I took to be a boy of about 16, dressed in a dinner jacket, shirt and waistcoat, and long Spanish trousers.

His face was the most evil thing I have ever seen. It was ashen pale in colour, and the mouth was a crimson gash, sensual and depraved. The nose was thin, with curved nostrils, and the eyes were cruel, gleaming and narrow, and curiously still. They seemed to stare right through one – the eyes of a hawk. The hair was sleek and dark, brushed right back from the white forehead.

It was the face of a satyr, a grinning hateful satyr.

Then I was aware of a strange feeling of disappointment, a helpless sensation of not understanding, of dumb incredulity.

There was no boy sitting in the chair. It was a doll. Human enough, damnably lifelike, with a foul distinctive personality but a doll.

Only a doll. The eyes stared into mine without recognition, the mouth leered foolishly. I looked at Rebecca, she was watching my face.

"I don't see," I said, "what's the point of all this? Where did you get this loathsome toy? Are you having a joke with me?" I spoke sharply, I felt uneasy and cold. The next moment the room was in darkness, she had turned out the lamp. I felt her arms round my neck, and her mouth upon mine.

"Now shall I tell you I love you?" she whispered, "shall I?"

A hot wave of something swept over me, the floor seemed to swing beneath my feet. She clung to me and kissed my throat, I could feel her fingers at the back of my neck. I let her hands wander over my body, and she kissed me again. It was devastating – it was madness – it was like death.

I don't know how long we stood there, I don't remember anything, words, or thoughts, or dreams – only the silence of that dark room, the feeble glow of the fire, the beating of my heart – the singing in my ears – and Rebecca – Rebecca—. When, – and whether hours had passed or years I cannot tell – when I raised my eyes above her head I looked straight into his eyes – his damned doll's eyes.

They seemed to squint at me and leer, one eyebrow was cocked, and his crimson treacherous mouth was twisted at the corner. I wanted to leap at it, and smash its beastly grinning face, trample on its sordid human body. Was Rebecca mad to keep such a toy, what was her motive, where had she found it? But she would not answer my questions.

"Come away," she said, and dragged me from the room, back once more into the hard glaring light of the bare studio. "You must go now," she said breathlessly, "it's late – I had forgotten." I tried to take hold of her, once more, I wanted to kiss her again and again, she surely did not mean me to go now.

"Tomorrow," she said impatiently, "I promise you tomorrow, but not at the moment. I'm tired and bewildered – don't you see? Let me alone just for tonight, it's been too strong, I can't realise anything."

She stamped her foot with impatience, she looked ill. I saw it was hopeless. I took my things and went – and walked, and walked – all night I think.

I watched the dawn break on Hampstead Heath, grey and sunless; heavy rain fell from a leaden sky.

My body was cold, but my brain was on fire. Once more I was certain that Rebecca had lied to me – from the moment she kissed me I knew that she had lied to me.

She had known five, 10, what matter the number, 20 lovers – and I was not one of them.

No, I was not one of them.

I found myself near Camden Town, buses rumbled along the streets; it was still raining, people straggled past me, their figures bent under umbrellas.

I found a taxi somewhere, and went home. I got into bed without undressing, and slept. I slept for hours. When I awoke it was dark once more; it must have been about six in the evening. I remember washing mechanically, and then once more walking in the direction of Bloomsbury.

I reached the flat and rang at her bell.

She let me in without a word, and then sat down in the studio before the oil stove. I told her I was going to be her lover. She said nothing. There were red rims under her eyes as if she had been crying, and thin lines round her mouth. I bent towards her to kiss her, but she pushed me away.

She began to speak rapidly.

"You must forget what happened last night. Today I realise I made a mistake. I'm not well, I haven't slept. All this has worried me considerably. You must leave me alone."

I tried to seize her, and break down her iron restraint. It was like hammering at an iron wall. She lay cold and still in my arms. Her mouth was icy. I left her in despair. Then followed a week of doubt and torture. Sometimes she sat apart from me without a word, sometimes I could have sworn that she loved me. And she would not let me touch her, she was not in the mood she said. I must wait until she wanted me again. I must wait in suspense, in agony. She never mentioned Julio. We never went into that room again. I asked her what she had done with him. I wanted to know what was at the back of it all. She would answer evasively and change the subject. It was useless to press her. She was maddening. She was intolerable.

And yet I could not keep away from her. I could not live without her.

One evening she would be gentle and affectionate. She would sit at my feet and talk about her music, about her future plans. She was always changing. She was never the same.

I felt hopeless. My position was ridiculous – but what was I to do? She had become a madness to me – an obsession.

I've now come to the last evening, the very last. Then crash – blankness – the depths of hell – and desolation – utter desolation.

Let me get it clear – when was it, what time was it? Seven, eight perhaps. I can't remember. I was leaving the flat and she came to the door with me.

She suddenly put her arms round me and kissed me . . . There have been men in arid deserts where the sun has so disfigured them that they have become things of horror – parched and blackened, twisted and torn. Their eyes run blood, their tongues are bitten through – and then they come upon water.

I know, because I was one of their number.

Laugh at all these comparisons, call me a madman, but the laugh is on my side.

There are women – but you have not kissed Rebecca, you cannot know.

You are a fool asleep. You have never begun to imagine. . .

(Note. Much of this seems completely unintelligible, and the quarter page that follows consists of nothing but broken sentences and half-formed ideas. Then the narrative continues.)

It was shattering. She let me kiss her again and again. I took her face in my hands and looked down into her eyes.

"Who were your lovers?" I said. "How often did you kiss them like that? Who taught you to kiss them like that? Who was the first, the very first? Tell me."

A haze of fury was before my eyes, my hands shook.

"I swear to you that you are the first man I have ever kissed. I swear to you there has been no man before you. Never. Never."

She looked straight at me. Her voice was firm. I saw that she was speaking the truth.

"Now you must go," she said, "tomorrow you shall come, and then we shall have so much to tell each other, so much."

She smiled at me. I saw right through her wall of restraint, right through ice to the flame, the hidden fire.

I remember leaving the flat, and having dinner somewhere. My head was on fire. I seemed to walk among the gods. It was incredible that Rebecca should love me, it was incredible that I should know such happiness. I wanted to shout. I wanted to chuck myself off a roof.

I went home, and paced up and down the room. I couldn't sleep, every nerve in my body seemed alive.

Then suddenly, at midnight, I could stand it no longer. I had to go to Rebecca, I had to.

I felt my love for her was so strong that she would know. She would wait for me. She would understand. She would have to understand.

I don't know how I got to her flat. Seconds seemed to flash by, and I was standing outside in the street, gazing up at the windows.

I persuaded the night porter to let me in, he was half asleep and he let me pass upstairs. I listened outside her door – not a sound came from within. It might have been the entrance to a tomb.

I put my hand on the door knob, and turned it slowly. To my surprise it was not locked – Rebecca must have forgotten to turn the key after I left.

I stepped inside, everything was in darkness. "Rebecca", I called softly, "Rebecca". No answer.

The door of her bedroom was open, there was no one inside.

Then I went into the kitchen and the bathroom, both were empty.

Then I knew. Something gripped my heart, cold, clammy fear.

I looked towards that other room – his room – Julio's room.

I knew that Rebecca was in there, with the doll – with Julio.

I felt my way across the room and beat against the door. It was locked. I kicked against the panel, and tore at it with my nails. It gave way beneath my weight. I heard a cry of fury from Rebecca, and she turned on the lamp.

Oh! Christ, I shall never forget her eyes, the terrible light – the unholy rapture in her eyes, and her ashen – ashen face.

I saw everything – the room, the divan – I knew everything. I was seized with deadly sickness – a terrible despair.

And all the time his vile filthy face was looking at me. His eyes never left me, staring with a lifeless, glassy immobility. The wet crimson mouth was sneering – the sleek dark hair hung in streaks across his cheek. He was a machine – something worked by screws – he was not alive, not human – but terrible, ghastly.

And Rebecca turned to me. Her voice was cold – apart – unearthly.

"And you expect me to love you. Don't you see that I can't – I can't? How can I care for you, or any man? Go away, leave me. I loathe you. I loathe you all. I don't need you. I don't want you."

Something cracked inside my heart. I turned away. I left them. I left them alone. I ran into the street – tears were pouring down my face – I sobbed aloud – I shook my fist at the stars . . .

And that is all, there is no more to say, no more to tell. I went the next day and she had gone, they had both gone. No one knew where she was. I asked everyone I saw – no one could tell me.

Everything is dim, everything is useless. I shall never see Rebecca again – no one will see her again. It will always be Rebecca and Julio. Days will come, and nights, and nothing – they will haunt me – I shall never sleep – I'm cursed. I don't know what I'm saying, what I'm writing. What am I going to do? Oh! God, what am I going to do? I can't live – I can't cope . . .

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