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cheri-translates · 4 years

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[CN] Kiro’s Dessert Date (Eng Translation)

🍒 Warning: This post contains detailed spoilers for a date which has not been released in English servers! 🍒

Acquaintance Collection: Gavin // Lucien // Victor

Kiro once told me that when Savin shuts the door while holding a weighing scale, a great tragedy is about to occur.

Savin: Kiro, it’s time to measure your weight.

Savin takes out a small book and flips to the page featuring a record of Kiro’s weight.

With a firm look in his eyes, Kiro steps onto the electronic scale. After the numbers stop blinking, he has an expression of relief.

Savin: Mm. Not bad.

Kiro turns to look at me, making a small triumphant pose.

Savin: However… even if you maintain your current weight, there will be a dessert-themed photoshoot soon. To achieve best results, your body fat percentage still needs to go down a little. Maintain your exercise regimen and watch your diet.

Kiro casts a glance at the tidbit shelf and releases a small sigh, his shoulders slumping.

Kiro: Mm, I understand.

Savin pats his shoulder, opens the door and leaves.

MC: So strict…

Kiro: It can’t be helped. Celebrities need to manage their bodies strictly. You can’t blindly lose weight nor let yourself go. This isn’t just to maintain our image, but also to set a good example to the fans.

Kiro explains seriously. Suddenly thinking of something, he shoots me a cheeky grin.

Kiro: Miss Chips, why don’t we… train together?

MC: Eh?

Kiro: We enjoy eating tidbits together. Isn’t it time to suffer together as well?

MC: …

Kiro: Whether it’s exercising or eating, having two people supervising each other will make it more effective. Am I right?

MC: It does make sense if you put it that way…

Kiro: Didn’t Miss Chips say that she wanted to get fit? Isn’t this the best opportunity?

As he speaks, he blinks his eyes towards me. I can’t find a reason to reject him.

MC: Since you’re so persuasive, I shall “lay down my life”!

I exaggeratedly raise a fist and swing it in the air. Kiro smiles as he lifts his hand gently meeting my knuckles.

Kiro: Deal! Let’s take care of each other over the next duration, Miss Chips.

MC: This… this is almost the end right? I can’t do it anymore…

I ask while panting, struggling to remain on the treadmill.

On this weekend evening, I am with Kiro in the fitness room to train instead of staying at home.

Kiro: Keep going for a while more. After this run, we can rest.

Kiro’s breathing is much steadier than mine. He even turns his head to smile at me, cheering me on.

MC: How is your… stamina… this good… huff…

I do my best to control my breathing in order to say these words.

Kiro: Stamina is something necessary on stage. During concerts, you still need to maintain the quality of the singing while dancing, right? In order to have consistent breathing and to ensure that I wouldn’t get fatigued during the concert, I have to train for a very long time. Even though I’m not that muscular, don’t underestimate my stamina!

He smiles and points to himself. I can sense that those easy words hide a lot of sweat and effort behind them.

Kiro: Keep going, Miss Chips. It’s the final thirty seconds. I’ll do a countdown for you!

I clench my fists, getting through the final few seconds. Each second feels like a year.

MC: Huff… huff… I can’t continue…

Kiro ends his countdown, and I slide off the treadmill.

MC: I feel like… my legs no longer belong to me… huff…

Kiro: This is for you - it’s salt water. It’s important to restore water and salt content in the body after exercising. Miss Chips is amazing! You’ve successfully ran with me for an hour.

I take the water bottle and follow Kiro’s instructions, drinking the water in sips.

MC: Do you always exercise like this?

Kiro: Yeah, this regimen is nothing to me!

Even though I’m supposedly exercising with Kiro, I know that my regimen is much more relaxed than his.

Thinking of my hard work and fatigue over the past few days which can’t be compared to his daily work, I feel a sense of respect for him.

MC: Kiro, do you ever feel very tired, or feel like you can’t go on?

Kiro: Of course.

Kiro answers in an instant.

Kiro: Mm, but these emotions will only stay for a while. When I think of all my fans and how I decided to take this path, I will keep persevering no matter what. And I have to do it. Being able to see my fans enjoy the concert, or any other performance, is worth much more than anything else.

They finish chatting, and continue with training.

Kiro invites her to the actual photoshoot.

In front of me, there are several big plush bears. There are also soft pink cushions. It looks like a scene from a fairytale.

A few cakes and desserts have been prepared, probably due to “sweets” being the theme of the photoshoot. Even the air has a whiff of sweet cream.

MC: Is this photoshoot going down the sweet and cute route?

Right after hearing my question, I see Kiro looking at me a little slyly, followed by a “shh” posture.

Kiro: Just wait and see.

Photographer: Kiro, can we start the photoshoot?

Kiro: Anytime. I’m all prepared.

Kiro’s voice changes to a serious and confident one.

Photographer: Let’s try a few shots first. We’ll follow the style and feel as mentioned before.

Kiro nods, walks next to the plush bear and sits down, leaning onto it.

In the blink of an eye and a few simple movements, the expression in his eyes changes. That sunshine boy gives off a lazy aura, and even carries with him an aggressive charm.

It’s technically still Kiro, but he has changed completely.

Photographer: The aura is just right!

Kiro lifts a knee, holding up a slice of cake.

Photographer: Very good! Could you be… slightly sexier?

Kiro nods, lying down a little more. The originally loose shirt follows his movements and gets pulled up even more, revealing his sculpted abdominal muscles.

Photographer: Perfect!

Kiro looks at the cake in his hands and lifts the corner of his lips slightly.

He maintains his earlier pose, bringing the cake to his lips. He opens his mouth, sticks out his tongue slightly, and bites into the cake.

For the sake of the cameras, his action of eating the cake is deliberately slow.

Every movement and every bob of his Adam’s apple is captured by the camera.

The pink decorations in the background and furry plush toys surprisingly enhance his look of aggressiveness.

Those blue eyes look straight into the camera - shimmering, as though encompassing the sky and the sea.

Kiro: How does it look? Are there any adjustments to be made?

Kiro enters a serious discussion with the photographer, checking every aspect. He seeks perfection in everything - from the lighting, to the actions, to the composition and to the aperture.

Sensing my eyes on him, Kiro shoots me a grin, then continues communicating with the staff. They begin the next round of photoshoots.

Kiro: Thanks for all of your hard work today!

After the photoshoot, Kiro stretches and moves his body. Noticing that he has some cream at the side of his lips, I point to my own lips to signal to him.

He reacts quickly, wiping off the cream on his mouth.

Kiro: Is it still there?

MC: There’s still a little bit, let me get you a tissue…

Kiro: No need to trouble yourself.

Before I open my bag, Kiro has already stuck out his tongue, licking the cream off.

MC: [blushes]…

Kiro: Why is Miss Chips’ face a little red?

MC: N-nothing… since today’s shoot is over, are you allowed to relax and eat your favourite foods now?

Kiro: Mm, I’ve already prepared a list in my head. The first thing I want to eat is…

Interviewer: Hello Mr Kiro, I’m a reporter from TV. I’ve spoken to your agency… sorry, am I interrupting something?

Kiro: Hello, I’ve heard about it from the agency. I’ll go through with the interview.

Kiro signals MC to wait for him.

Interviewer: In the shoot, you were able to merge both an atmosphere of maturity and sweetness. May I ask what was going through your mind during the shoot which enabled you to exude such a look of addiction in your eyes?

Kiro: Mm, well… I was actually doing my best to express my love for desserts and tidbits!

Kiro smiles, and for a moment, no one is able to tell how serious his words are, or whether he is just kidding.

Reporter: Could I get you to elaborate further?

The reporter pauses before laughing, and then probes further.

Kiro: In order to do this photoshoot, I had live without tidbits for a long duration. I had a strict diet to comply to, and also went through a tougher training regimen to ensure the photoshoot would have best results. When I think about all these things that I love but cannot eat, I’d naturally have a look of desire.

Photographer: So that’s what happened. That’s truly unique.

The interview goes on, so MC offers to help out with tidying the place.

Kiro: So you’re here.

I turn around at the sound of Kiro’s voice behind me.

Kiro: Where did you run off to just now? You were gone in a blink of an eye.

MC: I saw how busy the staff members were. Since I’m here, I might as well lend a hand. Are you done with your interview?

Kiro: Mm, the interview went very smoothly. The article should be published in a few days. You have to look at it when it comes out!

Seeing me pulling on the plush toy prop, Kiro naturally lends a hand to lift it up, and carries it with me.

Kiro: What does Miss Chips think of this photoshoot?

MC: It’s very cool, as expected of Kiro.

Kiro: [laughing] Haha, what kind of an answer is that! I even thought you’d give me some feedback.

MC: In short, it’s very cool! Every single fan of yours will be captivated for sure.

Kiro: Every single fan?

He asks me seriously, his eyes bright.

MC: Of course…

After I speak, I realise that I once said that I was his fan as well. I suddenly feel slightly embarrassed.

MC: Anyway… you asked me to wait for you. Is there something you want to tell me?

Kiro: Mm, it’s a very important thing…

Kiro walks to the side, takes the prop cake, and puts it on a small table in front of me.

Kiro: Want to have this cake with me? I tried it just now – it’s not just visually appealing, but it tastes really good. It’s appropriate as a prize!

Looking at my inaction, he takes my hand, and hands me a big slice of cake.

Kiro: Try it? You’ve been following the strict training regimen as well.

Looking into his clear eyes, I can’t help but take a bite.

MC: Delicious!

Kiro: Right!

My tastebuds are very sensitive, probably because it’s been a long time since I’ve eaten something sweet. As such, I’m able to differentiate the creamy mellow and dense taste.

MC: Mm! Extremely delicious!

Kiro: Let’s split the remaining cake between the two of us.

I watch as Kiro takes up a slice of cake, and I can’t help but smile.

Thinking back to the past few days of interaction, I feel like I’m understanding him a little better.

#mlqc #mlqc cn #mlqc spoilers #mlqc kiro

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silverypurple-rosedlions · 4 years

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𝓣𝓱𝓮 𝓟𝓾𝓻𝓹𝓵𝓮 𝓡𝓸𝓼𝓮

━━━━━━☓━━━━━━

• Activated on August, 22, 2020 •

• Redesigned on October 8, 2020 •

━━━━━━☓━━━━━━

🛑DISCLAIMER 1/2🛑: These chatbots do NOT represent Jeonghan, Joshua, Jun, Wonwoo, Jihoon, Minghao, Mingyu, Seokmin, Seventeen, and Pledis in any shape or form. Neither do I claim to be them. This is purely made for entertainment and fiction purposes.

🛑DISCLAIMER 2/2🛑: I am not licensed in psychology, nor am I studying it as part of my education. But, I am studying it in my free time and I am learning about each disorder to the best of my abilities. What will be mentioned is based on true information from those who have studied, or have that disorder.

🛑Trigger Warning🛑: This will contain strong language, mentions of violence and gore, and especially mental illnesses. If you are uncomfortable with the following topics, do not proceed any further for your safety. If you wish to only know small information about the members, you are more than welcomed to avoid reading their quoted and mental and physical illnesses, but do acknowledge that they have them.

━━━━━━☓━━━━━━

𝕭𝖔𝖘𝖘

◈ ━━━━━━🥀━━━━━━ ◈

"You know boys, I'm getting real tired over all this bullshit. So... Have at it. Free for all! Witness our bloody parade, you filthy shits! Let us bring you the blessing of eternal slumber from this tainted world!"

◈ ━━━━━━🥀━━━━━━ ◈

[Name]: Yoon Jeonghan

[Alias]: Angel; Angel of Death

[Soon-To-Be Husband]: Hong Joshua Jisoo

[Characteristics]:

[Mental and Physical Illnesses]:

Depression: A disorder that causes the person constant feelings of sadness, unmotivation, discouragement, and lost of interest in daily activities. It affects feelings and behavior, leading to numerous emotional and physical complications.

Psychotic Disorder (Psychosis): A mental disorder where a person feels detached from reality; disconnected with reality and more invested into a fabricated reality created by the brain.

Schizophrenia: A disorder, a psychotic disorder, that disrupts how the person thinks, feels, and behaves. The fabricated reality created by the brain affects this, altering all three listed.

Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD): A disorder in which a person has difficulty recovering from past events in their lives that impacted them negatively; an event that was extremely terrifying.

[Facts]:

-> Due to past events, Jeonghan has trust issues. Until the person proves that they are harmless to him and his group, Jeonghan will be distant and blunt, making sharp remarks and will push the person away if they aren't of any use to his group.

-> As a side effect from Schizophrenia, Jeonghan is known to repeatedly tap the temple of his head, twitching and jerking. If irritated, he will begin to tap violently to the point he's inflicting pain to himself, such as: pulling hair, slamming hands against his head, digging his nails into his body, and more.

-> His past is a very sensitive topic for him. He will not answers or explain his past unless you have gained his full trust. If asked constantly, Jeonghan will not hesitate into inflicting pain due to being triggered. So do NOT question his past until close with him.

-> Due to a failed experiment meant to help Jeonghan with his beginning stages of Schizophrenia, Jeonghan's eyes are able to go blue. This being referred by all members as, "blue eyes." When in this state, Jeonghan loses all senses of the world around him, encased in his episode, and will attack anything and anyone until episode is over, or is calmed.

𝖀𝖓𝖉𝖊𝖗𝖇𝖔𝖘𝖘

◈ ━━━━━━🥀━━━━━━ ◈

"I may not be as psychotic as my lover, and I seem sweeter than some. But that does not mean I'll let you live another day... Instead, I'll make sure you're real pretty. I'll make SURE to create a beautiful bouquet of flowers and YOUR intestines while your body is as empty as your HEART,"

◈ ━━━━━━🥀━━━━━━ ◈

[Name]: Hong Joshua Jisoo

[Alias]: Joshua

[Companion]: Yoon Jeonghan

[Characteristics]:

[Mental and Physical Illnesses]:

Bipolar Disorder (Manic Depression): A disorder when a person's moods swing easier than usual, ranging from depressive lows to manic highs; from feeling depression to suddenly feeling euphoria, feeling energized and creative, but to a higher extent.

Anxiety Disorder: A mental disorder in which feelings such as anxiety, fear, and worry are heightened, becoming strong enough to create issues within a person's daily life. This can also lead to side effects such as: hyperventilating, fatigue, sweating, insomnia, lack of concentration, and more.

[Facts]:

-> Joshua is Jeonghan's main pillar, the only one who has the largest impact on the Boss and is able to calm Jeonghan from Schizophrenic episodes quicker than the rest.

-> Joshua is one of the friendliest members in The Purple Rose. He's easier to approach, but do not underestimate him. Sometimes, buried underneath his sweet smile and kind words is a beast that is feared by everyone.

-> Joshua is one, out of two people, who had sent Jeonghan in a Mental Asylum in hopes that they could help him. But it failed, and Joshua still feels guilty for sending Jeonghan to a horrendous place, despite receiving forgiveness when the two reunited.

-> When nervous and anxious, Joshua's eyes will dart around the room, looking at various objects and people to calm himself. That, or he will turn to Jeonghan, the members, or listen to music to ground himself.

-> It may not seem like it, but Joshua has slight yandere tendencies that are very rare to see. But he will become jealousy and "territorial" over Jeonghan, being that many attempt to seduce the Boss for their personal gain.

𝕾𝖚𝖕𝖕𝖑𝖎𝖊𝖗/𝕾𝖕𝖞

◈ ━━━━━━🥀━━━━━━ ◈

"Even though I may seem like I'm given the less "exciting" job today, doesn't mean I can't have my own type of fun with this. And since you tried to scam us with these useless supplies and weapons, I guess I'll have my pleasure in blasting your brains to bits thinking we were gullible, sir. I'll make sure no one will be able to know who you are when I'm through with you."

◈ ━━━━━━🥀━━━━━━ ◈

[Name]: Wen Junhui

[Alias]: Jun

[Soon-To-Be Husband]: Jeon Wonwoo (@seventeen-chatbot)

[Characteristics]:

[Mental and Physical Illnesses]:

Psychotic Disorder (Psychosis)

Schizophrenia

Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD)

[Facts]:

-> Due to Schizophrenia, Jun has the habit of constantly moving, such as: bouncing legs, twitching and jerking, and tapping his fingers on a flat surface. Some say he picked up the habit of tapping on flat surfaces from Jeonghan, who constantly taps his temples.

-> Jun is known to be the second member of The Purple Rose to be the messiest with his victims, following Jeonghan. He's known for tearing people apart, whether they're alive or already dead.

-> So far, Jun is prohibited from any interaction with children due to his violent tendencies to them. But it is unknown as to why children trigger him.

-> Jun learned Kung Fu and Martial Arts during his youth, using that to his advantage if ever his weapons are restricted from him.

-> Jun is known for copying others sayings and actions, such as small gestures and few sentences or words, repeating them without knowing so, being that it became his habit.

𝕹𝖊𝖌𝖔𝖙𝖎𝖆𝖙𝖔𝖗/𝕷𝖔𝖔𝖐𝖔𝖚𝖙

◈ ━━━━━━🥀━━━━━━ ◈

"Listen, and listen well, because I don't want to repeat this again. You made a FUCKING deal. You promised that you'll pull through your end of the bargain as we did. So if you can't give the shit we requested, the deal is off. Your area is now OURS, and frankly, we have a BETTER person to run that waste of space you've created. So, nighty night BASTARD. Say hi to Satan for us,"

◈ ━━━━━━🥀━━━━━━ ◈

[Name]: Jeon Wonwoo

[Alias]: Wonwoo

[Companion]: None

[Characteristics]:

[Mental and Physical Illnesses]:

Dissociative Identity Disorder (D.I.D): A disorder in where the brain creates other alters/identities to distribute trauma to, so that the main person, the host, is protected from past events that occured in their life that they aren't able to handle alone.

Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (PSTD)

Psychotic Disorder (Psychosis)

Hand Tremors: An movement disorder within the body, most commonly in the hands but can occur in other body parts. An involuntary, rhythmic muscle contraction that causes shaking. Can happen every now and then, or constantly.

[Facts]:

-> In total, Wonwoo has 17 alters. But 5 main alters are known to front most often, being the main protectors of the body:

-> It was rumoured that Wonwoo was plotting to take the role as leader of The Purple Rose, eliminating Yoon Jeonghan. But it was never confirmed.

-> Due to poor eyesight, Wonwoo is required to wear glasses. But when doing work and handling targets, Wonwoo will not need them. Strange as it is, his eyes sharpen, narrowing on his target no matter the distance as his adrenaline kicks in.

-> Despite being a negotiator, dealing with men and women within casinos, Wonwoo despises gambling. He can't tolerate the smell of strong alcohol, betting, and smoke.

-> Among the eight members, Wonwoo is the best when handling treatments such as severe wounds. He knows what to use, how to use it, and how long it'll take to heal, or, at least an estimated time.

𝕮𝖔𝖓𝖘𝖎𝖌𝖑𝖎𝖊𝖗𝖊

◈ ━━━━━━🥀━━━━━━ ◈

"I'm getting sick and tired with your babbling, you know that? I don't like wasting my time on people who can't pull their shit together, or ones who have no real benefit to the Purple Rose. So, I'm going to do us both the favor and end this short. But with a loud bang!"

◈ ━━━━━━🥀━━━━━━ ◈

[Name]: Lee Jihoon

[Alias]: Jihoon

[Companion]: Kim Inseong (@heartbrokenxinseong)

[Characteristics]:

[Mental and Physical Illnesses]:

Psychotic Disorder (Psychosis)

Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (PSTD)

[Facts]:

-> Jihoon is the Representative of The Purple Rose, always attending meetings that they are requested to attend, and taking in all information and then explaining it to the Boss and Underboss, Jeonghan and Joshua.

-> Jihoon's main job is to not only process information, but to plan each mission, and how they will carried out. It has been his job since the start of The Purple Rose.

-> Jihoon has severe trust issues, becoming skeptical and defensive of himself and others around him, sometimes lashing out.

-> Jihoon does not accept being called "cute." Despite his height, Jihoon is hostile, and will not hesitate to attack.

-> It is rare that Jihoon participates in outdoor activities with the group, usually locked inside his room handling missions and piles of work that is handed to him.

𝕳𝖆𝖈𝖐𝖊𝖗/𝕾𝖕𝖞

◈ ━━━━━━🥀━━━━━━ ◈

"Although I had a great time with you, fellas, I have to get going. I can't let my boss and the boys wait any longer now that you're of no more use to us. To keep this our secret like yours with your team and boss, I'm going to put you to eternal sleep, and I'll make sure your body doesn't go to waste,"

◈ ━━━━━━🥀━━━━━━ ◈

[Name]: Xu Minghao

[Alias]: Minghao; The Ghost

[Companion]: Kim (Jeewon) Jiwon (@90sjeewonie)

[Characteristics]:

[Mental and Physical Illnesses]:

Shared Psychotic Disorder: An unusual mental disorder of a person sharing a delusion among two or more people who are in a close relationship. The (inducer, primary) who has a psychotic disorder with delusions influences the other, or more (induced, secondary) with a specific belief.

Psychotic Disorder (Psychosis)

Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD)

[Facts]:

-> Minghao never had intentions of joining The Purple Rose, or joining in any infamous activities. But, because he was influenced and close with Jun, he didn't have any other option but to became a member, sharing Jun's Schizophrenia.

-> Minghao is a cannibal, and has been since the age of 17. He tends to make comments now and then on people, wondering what they would taste like but will not pursue them depending his relationship with them.

-> He knows how to use all technology, creating his own softwares and bots to use as assistance in missions. He's crafty, and with Jun and Mingyu's help, he creates his own unique gadgets that are used frequently.

-> He's a top spy, always assigned 90% of the time to missions that include entering into the building, stealing, and deceit. When doing this, he temporarily dyes his hair a different color.

-> He's known as The Ghost due to appearing in one area, then suddenly disappearing without a trace, later appearing again and rendering targets without a sound.

𝕭𝖔𝖉𝖞𝖌𝖚𝖆𝖗𝖉/𝕰𝖝 𝖀𝖓𝖉𝖊𝖗𝖇𝖔𝖘𝖘

◈ ━━━━━━🥀━━━━━━ ◈

"I may not be an Underboss anymore, but just because I've been placed as a bodyguard doesn't mean I'm no longer the man you once feared, pal. How about you show me what you got before I leap and rip off those limbs of yours? Or should we just get to the ripping limbs part already?

◈ ━━━━━━🥀━━━━━━ ◈

[Name]: Kim Mingyu

[Alias]: Mingyu

[Companion]: Choi (Arin) Yewon (@arinschoi)

[Characteristics]:

[Mental and Physical Illnesses]:

Psychotic Disorder (Psychosis)

PTSD

[Facts]:

-> Originally, Mingyu was supposed to be eliminated by Jeonghan, due to abandoning Jeonghan, who was caught and brought back to the Asylum in 2016. But, Jeonghan spared him, removing him from Underboss and placing him as a Bodyguard.

-> Mingyu's main priority is to not only protect the members, but most importantly, protect the Boss, the Underboss, and the Consigliere, who are the ones functioning the entire organization.

-> Mingyu is known to be the cleanest member, always cleaning after them and doing normal house chores that he's mistaken to be a germaphobic. But compare it to his work, Mingyu gets reckless when handling victims, creating a mess.

-> Aside from working as a Bodyguard, Mingyu acts as a spy and seducer. But it is only in rare cases will Mingyu be required to be a seducer, but does not engage in s*xual activities, getting the job done before it gets serious.

-> Is known to be Jeonghan's "ex-partner/companion" due to a past struggle the two were under. During that time, Mingyu acted as Jeonghan's significant other, but Jeonghan did not reciprocate the feelings and continued on with work to the best of his abilities.

𝕹𝖆𝖛𝖎𝖌𝖆𝖙𝖔𝖗/𝕽𝖚𝖓𝖓𝖊𝖗

◈ ━━━━━━🥀━━━━━━ ◈

"I had fun doing our little game of cat and mouse, but I'm starting to get tired, mouse! And you look just as tired as I am, right? So, do me a favor of standing still, smiling at me, and letting me gut you out. I'll make sure to bury you somewhere nice with some purple roses. A reminder that you never FUCK with the Purple Rose, scumbag,"

◈ ━━━━━━🥀━━━━━━ ◈

[Name]: Lee Seokmin

[Alias]: Seokmin

[Companion]: Byun Baekhyun (@ghoulxbaekhyun)

[Characteristics]:

[Mental and Physical Illnesses]:

ADHD: A chronic condition including attention difficulty, hyperactivity, and impulsiveness, which begins during childhood and into adulthood. Effects self-esteem, education and work, and relationship

Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (PSTD)

[Facts]:

-> Seokmin is a cannibal, beginning this at the age of 18. It is unknown why he followed Minghao, both becoming the only two who devoured people, but one thing is for sure. He doesn't always eat victims, but he won't hesitate to take a bite.

-> Being a navigator, Seokmin is excellent in tracking and finding secluded places, especially places that are illegal and are infamous around the network: casinos, mafia basses, closed off buildings used for selling drugs, and more. And as a Runner, it is Seokmin's job to take all that The Purple Rose gains from a mission, escaping the scene with the objects if ever they were caught or were on the run. This also places him as the Getaway Driver, despite being a reckless driver.

-> Seokmin can be easily persuaded if lured into the trap by the right bait. But no offer can make him betray The Purple Rose, especially never betraying the Boss, the Underboss, and Consigliere. He follows their orders strictly, despite bending the rules.

-> Seokmin may be the sweetest and bubbliest member in the group, but he has his equal share, perhaps more than some members, of having a sinister side to him. When making gruesome comments, he always says them with a big, bright smile.

-> Seokmin despises usage of drugs and alcohol. He'll drink now and then, but no more than two cups. Sometimes, Seokmin is triggered by certain drugs, causing him to become bitter and sharp, sometimes picking fights he doesn't mean to create.

✨OG✨// @yanlee

🥀// @empress-jiaqi @criminalinvestigator-mingyu @princess-yeji @doll-seungmin @doll-hyunjin @peachy-jaemjaemin @storybook-nct @deadly-skz-gods-cb @babyhj1sung @yandere-somi-jeon @dandyboy-seungmin @detectivexsicheng @time-for-confession @adoringeun @shinhaneul-oc @split-jiu @domyukhei @joyinwonderland @mafia-chaeyoung @mafiafelixlee @moonlit-jaemin @purgejaemin @floristluda @yoonhana @ateez-zombie-wonderland @ghost-hyunjin @vscohyunjin @moonlit-nono @cb-dungeon @daddysm @amazingspiderhan @heiress-yeeun @babyboynono @blackwidowjennie @roseanneholmes @fairy-dejun @skz-cb @vampiremomo @vampireprince-jeonghan @college-baekhyun @hunter-chaeyoung @julia-oc @moonlightchris @weeb-wonwoo and more . . .

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janeykath318 · 3 years

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Bucky x Darcy (Winter Ficlet)

Snow Sculptures

Bucky was minding his own business, enjoying the warmth of a real fire on a cold snowy, December afternoon when the blissful silence was broken by the door slamming and an adorable red-cheeked figure burst in upon him.

“Bucky Babe!” she called out, shaking snow off her boots and approaching the sofa he’d claimed as his designated spot.

“Cold gettin’ to ya, Doll?” He asked, smiling at her frosty appearance. Darcy Lewis loved snow and had been trying all afternoon to get him to join her outside. So far, he’d been able to resist her pleading, not being a big fan of snowy weather. He’d had enough cold to last him several lifetimes.

Undeterred by his unmoving stance, She came right up to him and pressed cold lips to his forehead.

“They’re having a snowman building competition and everybody’s paired up except me,” she said, using her blue puppy dog eyes to full effect on him. “You wouldn’t want me to struggle with heavy snowmen sections all by myself out there, would you?”

Snowflakes fell off her eyelashes when she batted them imploringly and Bucky felt his resolve weakening.

“I know you’re quite capable of outclassing them all by yourself, Darce,” he reminded her, trying to hold out against her very persuasive tone. “Didn’t you singlehandedly hold off Steve, Sam, and Nat for twenty minutes in that snowball fight I watched just now?”

“Yeah, but my snowmen always fall over,” Darcy whined, rubbing her hands back and forth in front of the fire. “You’re so much better at stable construction. I’m a details woman. Pleeeeese. The faster we get it done, the faster I’ll join you back in the cabin.”

She waggled her eyebrows at him and Bucky chuckled at her. Yeah, there was no way he was gonna resist longer. She was just too cute to hold out against.

“Okay, doll,” he relented. “But you’ve gotta promise me your special hot cocoa afterwards.”

Darcy beamed at him. “You betcha.” She went to the closet and started pulling out his winter gear and tossing it to him.

“We’re gonna kick their butts!” she predicted boldly as Bucky donned coat, boots, hat, scarf, and gloves. “Sam’s been getting cocky lately. I didn’t think you’d want to miss a chance of besting him in a competition.”

“You’d be right about that,” Bucky muttered, holding the door open for her. “Let’s kick ass.”

“That’s the spirit!” Darcy told him, bouncing happily through the snow, humming the Game of Thrones theme.

“Alright, everybody! Winter’s coming! Prepare to lose!” she yelled, pointing at Steve, Sam, Nat and Maria.

“Ohhh, I”m sooooo scared,” Sam mocked, smirking obnoxiously. This caused Bucky’s competitive juices to really start flowing and he forgot about the cold in his eagerness to shut up Falcon.

In the end, his nose was as red as his girlfriend’s and he was laughing hysterically at her snowy antics. They’d built a snowy version of Thor, complete with cape and faux hammer. She’d even added a pop tart box for good measure, imitating the god’s voice as she added details. “I like it. Another!”

In the end, Steve and Natasha bested everyone with their astonishing Tony Stark snowman and Bucky admired his friend’s work with no little amusement.

“I’m totally sending him a pic,” Darcy declared, whipping out her phone. “He’ll love it. Make him wish he’d come with us instead of going to Hawaii instead.

Bucky thought that part was doubtful, but he just smiled and posed with their own creation. As long as she was happy (and Sam didn’t win) he was happy.

“Thank you for helping out,” Darcy thanked him later over a steaming cup of cocoa. Her teeth were still chattering a bit and he had snuggled her up against him with a fleece blanket over them both.

“It was kinda fun,” he admitted, very charmed by how pretty her blue eyes looked in the glow of the fireplace. “Sorry we didn’t win, though. I know you wanted it pretty bad.”

“I’ll get over it,” she shrugged after another sip of cocoa. “I underestimated Steve’s artistic skills. That’s on me. Besides, the best part was hearing you laugh. I love your laugh.”

She looked at him with teary eyed affection and he leaned over to kiss her, the unspoken understanding of how much these moments meant to them expressed in their meeting of lips.

He’d all but forgotten what laughter was until he met her and now she was making him laugh every day.

“I love YOU, doll,” he murmured.

#wintershock #darcy lewis #bucky barnes #ficlet

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comicgeekscomicgeek · 4 years

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Their Hero Academia – Chapter 65: Hit the Beach!

Presenting the next installment of my on-going, nextgen, MHA fic! Earlier chapters can be found here

Okay, maybe having rich friends wasn’t such a bad thing. And since everyone had come along, Isamu didn’t feel like too much of a moocher. Well, maybe a little. Even with the seventeen members of Class 1-A, Izumi’s parents, and the butleriest butler to ever butler, there’d been plenty of space on the private jet. He’d really underestimated Izumi’s family’s wealth. That wasn’t how the upper half lived. It was some kind of upper percentage that involved a lot of zeroes after the decimal point.

But laying on a tropical beach? Yeah, he could get used to this. Maybe if he got really successful as a Pro-Hero someday he could make enough money to do this kind of thing sometimes. Mom and Dad would probably appreciate a real vacation too.

After getting checked into the resort (Owning your own resort on your own island must be nice. They had an entire floor to themselves.), Class 1-A had done a bit of scattering to take advantage of the amenities. Aoyama had begged off going to the beach—understandable with how his Quirk absorbed light—and had instead decided to hit the spa, for which Izumi, Koda, and Tokoyami joined him (Izumi had practically insisted Tokoyami joint them, saying they had a specialist in spa treatments for people with feathers on staff).

Isamu’s gaze drifted out to the water, where several of his classmates were already horsing around. The water looked extremely inviting, as clear as anything he had ever seen, gentling lapping onto the white sand shote. Somehow, Sero (wearing the loudest swim trunks Isamu had ever seen in his life and which no-doubt were deliberately picked for how they clashed with his pink skin) had convinced Kocho to fly him out over the water. Her wings were flapping hard and she was hovering probably a good six feet above the water.

“Okay, okay,” Sero said. “Now let me go! Let me go!”

“I don’t know about this…” Kocho said.

“Look, you can either let me go, or I’ll squirm out on my own.”

Kocho just sighed. “Your funeral,” she said, and let him go. She flapped hard and shot straight up, even as he shot straight down.

Sero tucked himself into a ball as he fell. “CANNONBALL!”

SPLASH

Sero hit the water hard, sending water flying everywhere and utterly soaking Sato, who was filming the whole thing, as well as Ojiro and Tensei Iida, who’d been in the water too. Ojiro was wearing one of those long-sleeved uv protective swimsuits, in bright neon green, which she’d said was for “visibility.” Which he supposed made sense. If she was wearing less, it’d be hard to spot her if something went wrong. She also had a flower in her hair and was wearing large, bright yellow sunglasses, which gave some general definition to where her face was.

Sero popped up out of the water with a laugh and grin. He fired off a double thumbs’ up. “Did you catch that, viewers? You’re just been Sero-Bombed! Boom!”

“TAKUMA!” Ojiro screamed, arms flailing wildly. “Did you have to do it so close?! Look what you’ve done to my hair!”

“Aw, c’mon, Kimmie,” Sero said. “It’s not anybody’s going to be able to tell.”

There was a moment of silence, the air thick with tension. That had definitely been the wrong thing to say. As if guided by some kind of primal instinct, Sato and Iida were backing away slowly. And then Ojiro set herself upon Sero, fists flailing and hitting him upon the arms and shoulders again and again.

“WHY WOULD YOU SAY SOMETHING LIKE THAT, TAKUMA! YOU KNOW THAT’S NOT NICE! WHY DO YOU ALWAYS HAVE TO SCREW AROUND LIKE THAT?!”

“Ow! Ow! Kimmie, you know my weaknesses is being smacked! Ow, ow! Just not the face, okay? Please, not the face!”

“Don’t worry,” Sato called out. “I’m getting this all on film! Kick his butt, Kimmie!”

“I really must protest this assault on my boyfriend,” Iida piped in. “No matter how misguided his actions were, violence is not the proper response!”

“Guys, I am so sorry,” Kocho called out circling around above. “I had no idea it was going to be that big!”

Isamu looked over to his left, where Midoriya was occupying another one of the beach chairs. “Should… should we be stopping this?” Ojiro’s outbursts usually ran themselves out fairly quickly, but still…

Midoriya shrugged. “They’re not hurting anybody, except maybe Sero. And it’s my vacation. I’m off duty and I say let them blow off some steam.”

Well, that was a different answer than he’d been expecting. Maybe Midoriya was taking Aizawa’s admonishment to have the rest of the class to rely on him less to heart. Of course, Aizawa had also told him that he needed to step up his own leadership game and that thought was just terrifying.

So he was going to file all of that under things he wasn’t going to think about right now.

Kocho, meanwhile, had flown away from the chaos and landed next to them. She wore a backless black one piece swimsuit and had explained that while she liked the beach, she couldn’t really get her wings too wet or she’d be unable to fly.

“Definitely time for a strategic retreat,” she said. She gave her wings a flick, causing some stray drops of water to fly off, before folding them behind her. Her antenna flicked up for a moment before settling. “Sorry I set that off.”

Isamu laughed. “Trust me,” he said, “that would have happened sooner or later no matter what. That’s just who they are.”

“Definitely getting that,” Kocho said.

“Besides,” Midoriya added, “Sero is extremely persuasive. He even managed to talk me into standing on the ceiling once for some kind of “upside down room” video.”

Okay, Isamu made a mental note to see if that was somewhere on Sero’s Viewtube channel. Because that sounded hilarious.

“Ooooh, boys,” a sing-song voice called out from somewhere behind them. Isamu felt a chill go down his spine as he realized it was Mineta.

***

Despite his words to Haimawari, Toshi’s roles as “Team Dad” and class representative were hard to completely shake, so he did keep an eye on Ojiro and Sero, even as Sato and Tensei tried to pry them apart.

Mineta’s call, however, distracted him from anything else. He’d head that particular tone of voice often enough over the years, usually when she was feeling particularly attention-starved and was going to hit on someone.

“Should we look?” Haimawari asked, sounding a bit panicked.

“She’s just going to keep making noise until we do,” Toshi told him.

“I take it this happens a lot?” Kocho asked.

“You have no idea,” Haimawari said.

“You all better turn around!” Mineta called out, proving his point. “I mean, you’re going to want to feast your eyes on me anyway, but Midoriya’s really going to want to see this.”

Oh, that couldn’t possibly be good.

Reluctantly and with sinking dread, Toshi turned to look. He could hear both Haimawari and Kocho suck in a sharp breath and it wasn’t hard to understand why. There was Mineta. And there was a lot of Mineta on display. There was also a cow-print bikini, of which there was not a lot. Kaminari was standing next to her, wearing a considerably more modest one-piece in yellow and black, and looking vaguely embarrassed.

“She cannot possibly be real,” he heard Kocho say.

“…Pretty sure she is,” Haimawari squeaked. As both a frequent target for Mineta’s flirtations and having had some accidental if direct contact with her during the Sports Festival, he was qualified to weigh in on this. Mineta had a way of getting into people’s heads like that.

And, well, Toshi had eyes. And he was a guy. He’d be lying if he said that between her bikini and her b…ody proportions, that Mineta didn’t have an effect on him. He felt more than a little flustered just looking at her.

“Like my bikini?” Mineta asked, posing so that she thrust her chest out and also somehow emphasized her rear as well. “I bought it special for this vacation!”

“I still can’t believe you have that,” Kaminari said. “You’re almost naked. Hell, you’d probably show less if you were. Your parents can’t possibly know you have that.”

“Just because you’re lifetime president of the itty-bitty committee, Chi, is no reason to get snippy,” Mineta replied, turning so rapidly that it set parts of her swaying in ways that he felt he probably shouldn’t be watching.

“The hell did you just say?!” Kaminari’s Cords snapped up, crackling with electricity. “Say that again, Mika. Say that again and we’ll see how much fat conducts electricity!”

“Oooh, kinky!”

There was also, Toshi realized, a familiar head of blue-black hair behind the two of them. Sora was taller than Mineta, but between Mineta’s horns and the fact that there was a lot of Mineta competing for attention, he hadn’t noticed her at first. He heard a soft cough.

“Oh! Right!” Mineta said, switching gears with such suddenness that Toshi was sure he heard the clutch pop. “I almost forgot the real reason I wanted your attention.”

She made a dramatic gesture with her arms. “Presenting… the tall, the brainy, the hot, the runner up for best boobs in the class… Sora Iida!”

Mika took a few steps to the side and Toshi got his first look at his girlfriend since they’d split up to their rooms. He’d asked if she’d wanted him to wait, but had somehow been overruled by Mineta, who’d said she needed to talk to Sora first.

In retrospect, that really should have been a warning sign.

“Hello, Toshi,” Sora said. She was smiling, but he immediately noticed that it was nervous and uneasy. Her posture was more hesitant and awkward than usual and in stark contrast to Mineta’s confidence. “Do you like what you see?”

Sora was wearing a bikini. It wasn’t as small as Mineta’s, but it was definitely a bikini.

Toshi was not a blind man. He was aware that his very tall girlfriend was also very busty. In reasons why he liked her, this fact ranked very, very low. Which wasn’t to say he hadn’t thought about that, in late night moments, or when she hugged him tightly and pressed up against him.

“…Why are all the girls in this class so hot?” Kocho said. “Oh, no, I said that out loud…”

“Not looking at my friend’s girl, not looking at my friend’s girl, I’ve got a girlfriend” Haimawari said, quietly and quickly. He continued repeating the phrase.

He became very aware that he hadn’t said anything in a while.

“Toshi?” Sora asked, concerned, her own nervousness seemingly forgotten for a moment. “Are you all right?” She waved her hands to try and attract his vision.

“See?” Kaminari said, throwing her hands in the air. “You broke him! I could have told you he’s too innocent for this!”

“Well, excuse me for trying to help spice up their relationship!”

“No one asked you to!”

“I’m okay!” Toshi yelled, more loudly and quickly than he intended. He felt his face go red. Either that or he was on fire. It was hard to say at this point. “You… you look amazing, Sora,” he said.

“Mineta said you would like it,” she said, approaching him. He tried very hard to keep eye contact and only failed a couple of times. Mineta and Kaminari were still fighting, but he tuned them out. He was also pretty sure he heard Haimawari and Kocho high-tailing it out of there. “May I?” Sora gestured to the beach chair Haimawari had vacated.

Toshi gulped and nodded, trying hard not so stare as he she went by.

“She said that girlfriends “dress sexy” for their boyfriends and that I would be a good girlfriend if I did this for you,” Sora went on. “She said she wanted to help and had several bikinis prepared for me to try on.”

Toshi buried his face in his hands. Eventually, he brought his head up. “Sora, what’s rule one when dealing with anything Mineta claims?”

Sora thought for a moment, then snapped her fingers. “The same for scientific studies! Always corroborate with a second source! Preferably Tokoyami if available.”

He smiled. “Right,” he said. “She probably just wanted to see you in a bikini and to give me a heart attack.” He scooted his chair closer to hers and put an arm around her shoulders, mindful of her Jetpack pipes. He’d learned the hard way that the skin around them could be quite sensitive. That particular discovery had left him red in the face for quite a while.

“Besides,” he said, “you don’t have to do anything different or special for me. I mean, unless you want to.” He added that last part hastily, realizing the gap in what he’d said. Both Sora and her brother sometimes needed extra explanations about proper social conventions. It was why Mika had been able to fool her so easily. “I like you,” he said. “I like you in your uniform, in your costume, in your regular clothes. And I do like you in this. But do you like you in this?”

Sora frowned. “Undetermined,” she said. “I am not used to wearing so little. It seems very impractical.”

“Yeah, there is that,” he agreed.

“But I am happy that you like what you see,” she added thoughtfully. “I suspect more evidence is needed.”

Deciding to be bold, he leaned over and kissed her cheek softly.

“Whatever you want, that’s your decision. I’m not going to tell you how to dress.”

Sora nodded, seemingly satisfied with that. “I am still learning how to be a good girlfriend, Toshi. I do not want to get this wrong. I do not really know what boys want.”

“Hey,” he said. “I said it before, we’re learning together, okay?”

“Okay.”

And it was.

“Though I did notice you were definitely staring at Mineta…”

***

“Oh, this feels so good,” Mika said, as she slid low into the hot spring, purple hair floating around her head. She made a very distracting moan. “I swear, Todoroki, this place really does have everything.”

Chihiro shot her a look. “Do you and the spring need a few moments alone?” It was a sharper barb that she really should have made, but she was still annoyed at Mika for the “itty-bitty” comment earlier. It wasn’t her fault she took after Mom or that most of the rest of the girls in the class were more… shapely than her! And compared to Mika or Iida, everybody looked small.

The look Chihiro had shot her was nothing compared to the look Kirishima-Bakugo gave her. “If you’re going to be gross,” she said, lips curled back in a snarl, “you’ve got a room.”

“Relax,” Mika said, not looking at her. “I’m just really enjoying this.”

“When the Yaoyorozu family designed this resort, they wanted to make sure that every luxury was available to the guests and to themselves,” Izumi said, sinking a little lower in the water herself. Already, her pale skin was beginning to flush from the heat. “They worked with a geokinetic and a hydrokinetic to craft it according to very exact specifications.”

“Geeze,” Kocho said, “just how rich is your family?” She was sitting the farthest back, wings kept above the waterline. “Sorry, that was probably rude.”

It was, honestly, a common reaction when hanging out with Izumi.

“You know that old kid’s manga? About the kid who could turn stuff to gold and it made his family like, mega rich?” Chihiro said.

“That would not work,” Iida said. She’d slid low in the water too. Apparently her Jetpack pipes were self-sealing. “It would drive down the value of gold and ultimately make it worthless. Furthermore, any Quirk like that would be highly monitored by the government for misuse…”

“Just go with it,” Chihiro said, trying to avoid a lengthy discussion. Iida could get too caught up in the facts and miss the actual point fairly easily sometimes.

“Oh yeah, I remember that one,” Kocho said.

“Good,” Chihiro replied. “Triple that. At least.”

Kocho’s dark eyes went wide and her antenna snapped straight up. “Ah. Got it.”

“That is,” Izumi began, raising a hand as though to object. She paused, as if unsure. She did like magna, Chihiro recalled, but couldn’t remember if she’d read that one. Izumi looked over to Kirishima-Bakugo, who gave her a shrug. “Not entirely inaccurate.”

“So Kocho,” Ojiro began. She was wearing flowers in her hair again, the only other indication other than a slight ripple in the water around her body, of where she was. “As the newest member of the class, we have a lot of questions. Like, are you seeing anybody? The gossip mill demands to know!”

“Perhaps give her a little space before interrogating her, Ojiro?” Koda suggested. “Or at least on asking something so personal?”

“It’s fine,” Kocho said, waving a hand. “I’m single, Ojiro. Not really looking either.”

“Okay, so that’s means it’s just me, Iida, and Mineta who have boyfriends?” Ojiro asked. “How is this possible? Are none of you interested in guys?!”

Ugh, no, she really did not need to hear this. Chihiro wondered if she could hold her breath and go underwater long enough for Ojiro to stop talking. She already had spent way too much time thinking about the fact that Monoma had kissed her. Not that any of the rest of the girls knew, but she really didn’t need Ojiro finding out about it. She’d never hear the end of it. She absolutely did not need the invisible girl “shipping” her with Monoma. She didn’t like him, even if she’d ended up feeling sorry for him, and he didn’t like her, and yet…

She hadn’t exactly hated it either.

So of course running away to a tropical vacation had been the perfect way to avoid having to talk to him about it.

“You do get there’s more than just being interested in boys, don’t you, Ghosty?” Kirishima-Bakugo growled.

“She’s right,” Mika said, rising up out of the water enough to count on her fingers. “Wow. There’s something I never thought I’d say. There’s also being interested in girls. And non-binary people. And non-gender identifying people and…”

“Not the point I was making, Horse-Girl.”

“But she’s right!” Ojiro said. “I’m open to the gossip mill of all relationships! I do not discriminate gossip on the basis of sexuality!” There was a slight shift in the water, as though she was leaning forward. “So you all better tell me if you get into a relationship! Not like that relationship hiding hunk Shoji!”

Wait, what? Like just about anyone attracted to male and possessing a pulse, Chihiro admitted that Shoji was obscenely attractive. Muscles for days, surprisingly soft features, great hair… But he kept to himself and she hadn’t had any idea about this!

“What?!” Mika shouted, her eyes wide. “Nooooo! I was slowly wearing down his resistance! By graduation, I’d have been all over the Shoji train!”

“No, you weren’t” Chihiro snapped. Some days, Mika was just flat out exhausting. She was absolutely her best friend in the world, but sometimes… “And you already have a giant boyfriend! You don’t need two!”

Mika laughed as she leaned back in the water. “Oh, I’m definitely too much woman for just one partner.” Chihiro didn’t dignify that with a response.

“He does!” Ojiro said, clapping happily. “Her name’s Emiko and she’s really cute!”

“He does enjoy his privacy,” Tokoyami said. Frog Shadow was bobbing contentedly in the water next to her. “But I am happy for him.” She didn’t sound entirely convincing to Chihiro’s ears.

“You’re just sad it wasn’t you!” Frog-Shadow offered, eyes snapping open.

“I am not…” Tokoyami started, her voice warbling. The feathers on her head were starting to stand up and Chihiro could swear she saw a little blush under them. Her hands flew to her beak. “Qui… quiet you!”

“You can’t silence me when I’m right!” Frog-Shadow declared, before Tokoyami shoved her under the water. She kicked and fought and bubbles churned, but Tokoyami didn’t let her back up until she’d calmed down.

Koda tapped a rocky hand on her chin, a faraway look in her eyes. “Good for him,” she said softly. “Shoji is a kind soul and deserves the happiness.” Mika had said she was having some body image and confidence issues lately. Of course, Mika had also said she’s had a plan to rectify that. As someone who’d let herself be talked into more than one harebrained scheme, she had a pretty dim view of Mika’s plans.

It was only then that she noticed Kirishima-Bakugo had her eyes closed and her hands over her ears. Slowly, she pulled her hands back. “Are they done talking yet, Iz? I can’t tell.”

“I am uncertain,” Izumi said. She turned back to the group and asked, diplomatically. “Will this be going on much longer?” A smile tugged at her lips, obviously amused by, if not particularly invested in the discussion.

“Maybe?” Mika said. “All in favor of talking about Shoji more?”

Even Izumi started to raise a hand at that. Kirishima-Bakugo gave her a wide eyed stare of betrayal.

“What?” Izumi said. “Even if I am not interested in him romantically or sexually, he is very aesthetically pleasing.”

Kirishima-Bakugo crossed her arms and closed her eyes again. “…Yeah, okay, he is.”

“…did she just admit to an interesting in something other than violence?” Ojiro asked. “Isn’t that a sign of the apocalypse?”

“I’m on vacation, so pretend I growled at you and threated you with explosive death,” Kirishima-Bakugo said.

No, Chihiro was still pretty sure that the sign of the apocalypse had been Monoma kissing her, but weren’t signs supposed to come in threes…?

“Okay,” Ojiro said, “we’re all agreed. Everybody’s attracted to Shoji. But since he’s off the table, who else are we crushing on? What about you, Kaminari? Any guys got your eye?”

“Definitely not Monoma!” she said quickly. She needed to dispel any idea about that as quickly and loudly as possible.

“We… didn’t mention Monoma,” Ojiro said.

…crap.

***

“Chihiro, you open this door this minute!” Mika shouted, pounding heavily on the door of her friend’s hotel room with her first.

“Go away, Mika!” Chihiro snapped from within.

“I can wait all day, Chi.” Mika crossed her arms. “You bolted out of there like you were on fire.” After mentioning Shiro. Which was kind of her fault. And by kind of, she meant completely. She’d messed that one up by several degrees of magnitude. But Chi hadn’t said anything about it to her, so she’d hoped it would all die down and she could go back to trying to convince Shiro to date Akaya instead.

Not that she didn’t want the best for Chihiro of course. She was her best friend. And she knew Shiro better than just about anyone; he really was a good guy under some of that bluster. Probably her best friend after Chihiro, come to think of it, on top of being her ex.

“Look, you want to talk about it?” she asked. “Or I can get Akaya or Torodoki or, I dunno, Tokoyami?” …Probably not Akaya, actually. That conversation might lead down roads she did not want to travel.

No answer this time. Also not a good sign.

Mika pounded on the door one more time. “Chi… can we talk? Please. This is actually important. About Shiro.”

The door opened a crack, revealing a glaring Chihiro. Sparks danced on the ends of her Cords. Not a good sign. But she stepped back enough to let Mika in, then flopped down on the bed.

“I know, I know, I made a total idiot out of myself back there,” she wailed, staring up at the ceiling. “I just let everybody know I maybe kind of have some kind of crush thing going on for Monoma.”

“It’s not a big deal,” Mika said.

“Of course it is! He’s… he’s such a…” Chihiro made gestures in the air, which were copied by her Cords. “He’s Monoma! The guy who thinks he’s our hated rival! With that stupid smug face and perfect hair! And now that Ojiro knows it, the whole world probably already knows!”

“She said she wouldn’t,” Mika assured her, coming to stand near the bed. “I think she was too stunned to make much sense of it anyway. And it’s not like anybody knows he kissed you.”

Chihiro sat up so fast Mika was pretty sure she’d broken the sound barrier. “How do you know about that?”

Oops.

“Well, you see,” Mika began.

Before she could get any further, Chihiro interrupted her. “I swear, if the next words out of your mouth are “I can explain,” I will tase the shit out of you. Because I have been trying to make sense of this ever since it happened and if I find out you had something to do it with…”

Well, that would definitely explain the moodiness and irritability. She’d been ready to blame it on something else entirely. “Can I at least sit down?” she asked.

Chihiro shrugged and scooted over on the edge of the bed to make room. Mika took the seat, but gave her a bit of space. “Okay, so I can explain—don’ttaseme!” She flinched, but all Chihiro did was give her an eyeroll.

“So after the Internships, Shiro was feeling pretty depressed. He was going to quit, as soon as exams were over. Big blow to his confidence, but not really my story to spill.”

“Yeah, he told me that,” Chihiro said.

“And you remember Akaya was feeling pretty depressed too, after some of the stuff that happened during her Iinternship, with those mutant-prejudiced assholes.”

“Dumbasses.”

Mika nodded her agreement. People could be real asses sometimes. And somebody as sweet and innocent as Akaya definitely didn’t deserve that kind of treatment. “But anyway, she was feeling real down about herself and her appearance. So I had a couple of friends who were both feeling depressed and I ended up working on a plan with Anime that would help both of them…”

Chihiro buried her face in her hands. “Mika, Fukidashi is the one person the planet with worse plans than you! I’m not sure she can actually tell the difference between fiction and reality.”

It didn’t look like Chihiro had put all the pieces together yet. Crap. That meant she’d have to explain more.

“Sooo,” she went on, “I sent him a text after the exams saying a ‘mutual acquaintance’ was feeling down and maybe he’d like to come by and cheer her up.” She sucked in a breath. Chi may have doubted her own intelligence at times, but this wasn’t going to take much to figure out.

Chihiro frowned. “And there I was when he showed up, depressed as hell because I nearly caused us to flunk. I thought he was acting funny! Even for him! No wonder! He probably thought you meant me!”

Before Mika could blink, Chihiro’s Cords shot out, less than a couple centimeters from her face. No sparks, thankfully, but that could change in an instant. ��Did. You. Tell. Him. To. Kiss. Her?!”

“Absolutely not,” Mika said. “He came up with that on his own. I think you really gave him a breakthrough, Chi.”

Chihiro sagged, her Cords drooping, letting go of some of that agitation. “What am I going to do, Mika?”

“Well, he did say he was maybe going to ask you out…”

“What?” Chihiro’s head snapped back up again.

“Give him a shot,” Mika said. “He’s really not nearly as bad a guy as most people think he is. He’s just… a lot.” She gestured at her chest. “But he liked me even before these came in, so he’s obviously not just in it for the physical stuff.”

She opted not to mention that there’d been an intermediate phase where Shiro had been hung up on Kirishima-Bakugo. Like Granny always said, sometimes, maybe don’t kick the rattler’s den.

“Ugh, but he’s so… him! With his stupid blue eyes and stupid fancy hair and stupid little smile…”

Yeah, okay, Chihiro had it bad.

“Look,” Mika said, “date him. Or don’t. That’s your decision. But you gotta stop worrying about what people will think about it. You think I worry about stuff like that?”

That, at last, got a laugh. “No, but you’re shameless.”

“One of my many talents.”

Chihiro shook her head. “Yeah, well… maybe I’ll wait and see what he does.”

“Bonus, if you do date him, I can tell you alllll kinds of secrets.”

“You two were tweens when you dated! How do you have secrets on him?”

“Because he’s still one of my friends and I still know how to get him flustered.”

She shook her head again. “Going to need you to be straight with me, Mika.”

“I think you and I both know how much I cannot do that, Chi.”

That got an actual smile out of her friend, which meant it had worked. “Not what I meant and you know it, Mika,” Chihiro said. “You’d really be okay with me dating your ex?”

It was a good question. They were two of her best friends. But she didn’t harbor any particular plans to get back together with Shiro. Being “just friends” with a guy was actually kind of nice. Not that she’d admit that to anyone. And not that she’d object if he wanted to get back together or even just get a little frisky, of course…

“Look,” Mika said, “I’ve got a buffet table out there. And one of the most gorgeous hunks of man on the planet. So if you wanna shack up with Shiro, be my guest.”

Chihiro went red. “Look, just because you’re that fast..!”

Mika laughed. “Relax, Chi. But be my guest. Sounds like you guys kind of connected. I’m happy for you, if it works out.”

Chi smiled at that, and Mika finally felt a little relief. “Thanks, Mika.”

Of course, now she needed a new plan to help Akaya. Maybe she could just bite the bullet and shove her and Aoyama in a closet until Frenchie expressed his super-obvious feelings…

Chihiro poked her with a Cord. “You’ve plotting again. Stop that.”

“No.”

“We were having a nice moment and now you’re back to being impossible. Why are you like this?”

“Just lucky, I guess.”

***

The sun was low in the sky when Class 1-A returned to the beach, this time gathering around a bonfire. Todoroki had volunteered to simply start it with her Quirk, but Kirishima-Bakugo had declared that “cheating” and had proceeded to start one by hand. For someone who was so angry with everyone else, she was surprisingly soft when it came to Todoroki. Koharu wondered if there was some kind of history or something there. At the hot spring, Todoroki had basically said she wasn’t interested in romance or sex, so it probably wasn’t anything like that, but…

Together, they made a big ring around the fire, the flames crackling red-orange in the darkening sky. She liked twilight, when the day gave way to the night, starting to bring things to a close. Koharu’s Moth Quirk actually have her excellent night vision, though she didn’t have the problems with bright lights that some of her family did. She had a cousin that was pretty much blind for anywhere up to a half hour after somebody turned on the lights.

The others were already starting to sit together in what she was learning were some of the usual pairs and groups, most of them talking animatedly. Midoriya was sitting with his girlfriend, Sora Iida. Next to them were Shinso, Tokoyami and Frog-Shadow, and Shoji. Then there was Todoroki and Kirishima-Bakugo, Shoji, Aoyama, and Koda, and Mineta and Kaminari. After that, there was Ojiro, Sero, and Sato. She took a seat next to them, with Haimawari on her left completing the circle.

“Having fun?” Haimawari asked.

She nodded. “I am. I was a little nervous about coming along. I mean, I’ve only known Ojiro and her friends for a few weeks, and you and Midoriya for a little less than that, so I don’t really know if I feel like I belong here yet… But everybody’s been really nice and welcoming.”

Haimawari smiled and nodded. “Yeah,” he agreed. “They’re like that. I was the same way, you know, when we started. They all knew each other, and there I was, the new guy moving into the dorms and being in class with them. But Midoriya reached out to me and made sure I was included. Him, Tokoyami, Izumi, and Shinso. The first friends I had here.”

For a moment, Koharu’s thoughts drifted back to her General Education classmates, especially her best friends, Mogura and Tokuda. She wouldn’t be living with them anymore and would have different classes. It would make it harder to find time to get together, though not impossible. But she definitely didn’t want them to drift apart. They’d surely understand the differing demands of the Hero Course, but she knew they’d be hurt if they thought she was forgetting about them.

Maybe she ought to try and do something to bring her old class and new class together.

“Trust me,” Haimawari assured her. “Before you know it, it’ll be like you’ve been here since day one.”

“I sure hope so,” she said.

“You will,” he said. “Trust me. They’ve got history. But now that you’re here with us? You’ve got future. And that’ll turn into history.”

He made a good point, she had to admit.

“Hey, look, Kocho,” Sero said, leaning over to show her his phone. He was wearing a Hawaiian shirt with a pattern that made her eyes hurt just to look at. His phone was open to a Viewtube page, showing Sato’s earlier recording of his cannonball and subsequent Ojiro-induced smacking. It had been titled “Cannon-Fail.”

“Eighty thousand hits and counting!” Sero told her, grinning.

“So you dropping out of the sky and Ojiro beating the stuffing out of you is hit worthy?” she asked.

“Oh yeah! Kimiko yelling and hitting things rates really high with our subscribers. Hope nobody’s getting off on it though…”

Koharu blinked slowly. “I do not get internet fame.”

Sero just laughed. “Don’t worry, I’m an expert at this. Stick with us, we’ll make you a star!”

Before she could make a counter argument to that, Shinso piped up. “Oh! Oh! Kaminari! Are you going to play? Are you?” The short boy was practically bouncing with excitement. “Pleeeeeaaasseee?”

Kaminari had indeed brought a case of some kind with her, what looked like some kind of small, guitar-ish instrument. She opened it up and Koharu realized it was a ukulele. She knew the electric girl’s mother was a musician on top of being a Hero, but hadn’t realized that she played too. She still had a lot to learn about her new classmates!

“Only because you asked so nice, Shinso,” Kaminari said. She strummed a few chords and made a few minor adjustments to the instrument before she started to play. “So this one goes out to all of us, for passing our exams, for surviving our Internships, for making it through the first term. To our Sports Festival winners. To old friends and new friends. And to our hero academia.”

“Hero too, I am a hero too

My heart is set and I won't back down

Hero too, strength doesn’t make a hero

True heroes stand up for what they believe

So wait and see

So wait and see…”

#their hero academia #my hero academia #fan fiction #fan fic #my writing #toshi midoriya #isamu haimawari #mika (tha)#chihiro kaminari #Koharu Kocho

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fanficfanatic · 5 years

Text

but every time i see you my heart sinks

read it on ao3 here

She knows it was a bad idea the minute she said it. Hell, she should have known it was a bad idea the second she thought it.

But after the mess that was Teddy Wells, the awkwardness that was Detective Dave Majors, and after the acceptance of her feelings for Jacob Peralta (the feelings that seem to unfairly grow every time he smiles and makes her laugh) Amy Santiago flipped the page on her binder, wrote ‘No dating cops’ laminated and highlighted it before calling it a day.

In all fairness, she was under the impression that Peralta had grown out of his crush (she moped around for a few days after the Maple Inn incident and incorrectly blamed it on the break up). He had moved on with Sophia and she had convinced herself that his lingering glances and his obsession to make her laugh had no other motive besides friendship.

Her reasoning for his odd behaviour and her confidence in her new rule flies out the window after she is hit with a poorly executed Jamaican accent and an equally poor confession.

And so she panics.

Panic is putting it lightly, to be honest. Her heart feels as if it is about to beat out of her chest and her brain cannot come up with a coherent thought.

And so when he tells her that he’s aware that it (it being dating him) isn’t what she wants, she goes along with it, admonishes him for making it weird and congratulating herself when they both agree to not make it weird.

Regardless, she knows it was a bad idea the minute she said it.

But she convinces herself otherwise as they take the undercover mission. When Jake looks at her with soft awe as she pecks (sloppily) his cheek. When they take a seat across the room from Augustine in perfect view when he heads to the kitchen where Rosa lurks and informs them that he’s yet to drop off the briefcase. When they catch the Chinese buyer with ease (the man has no awareness of his surroundings) and one threat from Rosa has him testifying (Amy suspects she did more than threaten but there is no way she’s going to ask).

She convinces herself that she made the right decision as she goes home to her apartment, changes into an old Academy hoodie and unsuccessfully tries to find sleep. She pushes down the guilt for making him think that his feelings weren’t reciprocated and the hollow feeling of another chance being blown away. She convinces herself that it would be too awkward if she and Jake don’t work out and that she’d rather keep him as a friend (her best if she’s being honest with herself) than losing it all for a potential relationship.

The next day she arrives at the precinct and everything is normal. Terry is typing away at his computer, Rosa is sharpening some knives, Gina is on her cell phone, Charles is probably in the break room concocting some disgusting meal and Jake is late.

It’s only when her boisterous partner’s desk remains empty for the next hour that she asks Sarge about his whereabouts; Peralta is late, but he’s never this late.

“He and Charles went out for a case twenty minutes before you came in,” Terry replies before resuming the report he was typing up.

She’s shocked for a moment before brushing off its significance. So what if Peralta is early for once? It’s only a coincidence that today happens to be the day after she shut down any prospect of a them happening.

When he returns several hours later, he walks past both their desks to head to the briefing room, presumably to put together the board and solve the case. Amy doesn’t think too much into the fact that he typically would have cracked a joke, or insulted her and instead chalks it up to the fierce determination she knows Jake has when he’s assigned on a case.

It becomes hard to ignore the obvious change the next few days. Especially when Jake stops joking around with her almost every five minutes giving her no opportunity to complain about his distractions preventing her paperwork from being anything but perfect. When he’s no longer texting her every night and sending her (infuriatingly adorable and butterfly inducing) snaps of him performing mundane tasks in a crazy way only Jake Peralta can accomplish.

And maybe it’s selfish of her (because it’s probably her fault) but he no longer actively tries to get her attention, and his eyes no longer linger on her for a fraction (or more) of a second longer than it should.

It drives her insane to a point where she walks into work ready to give him a lecture of a lifetime and stops halfway to her desk when she spots a steaming cup of coffee waiting for her and Jacob Peralta inquisitively looking at her, wondering why she froze in the middle of the bullpen.

Then,

“Guys! Santiago just got turned on by walking into the bullpen. Please refrain from speaking about the filing that needs to be done in case she explosively combusts from all the dirty talk.”

She should be pissed. She knows. He just insulted her in front of the Captain and several employees but she can’t tamper down the feeling of relief at the familiar look in her eyes. The look before romantic-stylez and it really bummed me out, man.

(She convinces herself that it isn’t loss she feels. She convinces herself that going back to the way they were before Jake left for his undercover mission is what she wants)

And then things go back to normal. He teases her every so often, she replies back with a jibe equal in bite, they solve cases together, and life goes on.

It doesn’t matter that she gets a pang in her chest every time they’re at Shaw’s and someone flirts with him (it helps that he pays no attention to them but rather makes his way over to Rosa to challenge her to a game of pool). It doesn’t matter that she gets a serious case of butterflies every time he buys her coffee or cracks a joke to make her laugh after a particularly bad day.

It does matter until Rosa corners her in the filing room one day.

“What’s up with you and Jake?”

She panics for a split second before spluttering out a hasty response, “Nothing. What’s going on with you and Jake?”

For her effectiveness when undercover, she truly sucks a lying.

“You like him.” Rosa states simply, and there is a brief flash of discomfort that flashes in her eyes; the discomfort that Amy prays she’ll act upon.

She doesn’t and goes for the kill, “You should tell him.”

She says it as if it’s as simple as that. As if she didn’t trample over his heart three times (probably more) already. As if she didn’t effectively shut down any chance of a romantic relationship between them a month ago.

She takes a leap of blind faith, praying that Rosa won’t tell (oblivious of the fact that a tiny little part of her wants Rosa to tell), closes her eyes and whispers, “I can’t.”

Rosa sighs, “Look Santiago, he’s already confessed three times.”

Amy’s eyes shoot open at that. She didn’t know Jake told Rosa. She’s aware that they were in the academy together but she supposes she underestimated the extent of their friendship.

Rosa continues, “And knowing Jake, there isn’t going to be a third. He’s persuasive when he wants to but he’s not going to pester you for a relationship when you keep telling him you don’t want one. He respects you too much for that.”

The words hit her. Mostly because she knows how true they are. Partly because it wasn’t something she considered prior to her conversation with Rosa who is no longer in the room.

Jake, no matter how immature or annoying, is one of the best people she knows. He respects women and as a result, is not going to try and push her into a relationship he thinks she doesn’t want. The thought should relieve her but instead, it gives her a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. The idea that Jake has just given up unjustly angers her momentarily before she is reminded that she was the one who gave up first, and what Jake is doing is being a decent human being.

She walks back into the bullpen, genuinely unsure of what to do. She hasn’t been this confused since choosing between cop and art history and it’s unsettling because Amy Santiago does not get this worked up over a guy.

She sits at her desk and takes a moment to study her partner. He’s just received a homicide a few hours ago, a homicide that this precinct shares with the Ninety-seventh and he’s completely engrossed in it.

Captain Holt comes out of his desk and Amy kicks Jake’s leg to tell him to look up.

Holt, who has commanded everyone’s attention the moment he walked into the bullpen (one of the many reasons she holds the utmost respect for him) speaks, “I’m informing all of you that the detective assigned to Peralta’s homicide from the nine-seven is on the way.”

Jake, who was never a fan of teamwork tries to protest, “But Sir—“

Holt holds up his hand and stops him, “Don’t be a child Detective. Detective Drake almost has more case wins than you and Santiago combined. You can use the help.”

She’s already impressed. Between her and Jake, they have a pretty high score; almost the best in the NYPD. This Detective Drake must be a catch to work with and by the expression on Jake’s face, he seems to think the same.

He stands up, “Fine. But if he turns out to be some cocky asshole, you can bet that I’m going to make his life a living hell.”

And he stomps away, probably to refill his cup of coffee.

Holt sighs before requesting, “The Detective is on the way up and I would like all of you to be as welcoming as you can.”

With that, the squad, with the absence of Jake and Gina, line up in front of the elevator as it opens and Detective Drake walks in.

Amy vaguely registers Rosa’s low whistle and Hitchcock’s ‘damn’ and she may not be as verbal in her opinion, but it’s very much the same.

The Detective is dressed casually, almost like Peralta, with jeans tucked into boots and a green bomber jacket over a black top.

She has long straight, dark hair pulled up in a ponytail, her chestnut highlights doing nothing but emphasizing her dark blue eyes and fair skin. If Detective Drake didn’t decide to be a cop, she would have done spectacularly in the modelling business.

She smiles immediately as she spots them, it’s warm and kind and genuine and whatever concerns she once had about the other cop assigned to Peralta’s case dissipates as the woman addresses all of them,

“You didn’t have to greet me. It’s nice though.”

Captain Holt steps forward, “Detective Drake, Captain Holt. I formally welcome you to our precinct. Sergeant Jeffords here will brief you on the case that you will be working with one of our best detectives.”

She perks up at the prospect of working the case, “Cool! I read the file on the way here. This murder is going to be dope. Oh, and you can just call me Vanessa”

The vernacular is so familiar; it causes Amy’s brows to scrunch in amusement and fondness that she chooses to ignore.

“Hey Cap’n do you know—” Jake walks into the room at the moment and all eyes turn to him. It’s one of the things that Amy had hated about him when she first joined; his ability to command a room just by being himself. It’s funny how this trait along with several others that she had thought she disliked were now were things that she admired about her partner.

Her partner who has just dropped his case files and is staring open-mouthed at the newly arrived Detective.

“Nessa,” He breathes in shock and now all eyes pierce the newly arrived Detective, who’s in the same state of shock.

“No way. Jacob Peralta.”

And with that, Jake lets out a huge burst of a laugh and the next thing Amy knows is that Vanessa is running towards Jake as he easily captures her in a bear hug and lifts her slightly off the ground.

Her stomach drops and twists and turns and she wonders if anyone else can hear her awfully loud gulp.

“Oh my gawsh. I really missed you. I cannot believe you’re here.” Vanessa says when they pull away.

“You missed me. Gurl, I spend like a good year trying to find you. Where did you go?” Jake replies.

“Undercover. Two years. Romano family.”

“No way! Samzies!”

Captain Holt clears his throat and asks the question that everyone but Gina is dying to ask, “I’m sorry, you two know each other already?”

Jake answers, wrapping Vanessa in a sideways bear-hug, “We were best friends in highschool thanks to our mutual love of Die Hard and wanting to be a cop. She moved to California a few years later and we tried to keep in touch but it was too hard.”

Vanessa pulls out of his embrace before announcing very loudly, “Did you read the case file?”

Jake answers with equal fervour, “Ho-mo-cide!”

They both high-five each other at the same time while shouting, “Dope!”

The Captain clears his throat, once more commanding everyone’s attention and orders everyone back to their work before telling Peralta and Drake that the brief room is empty for their investigation.

Minutes later Amy is at her desk trying to type up her report but unable to move past the first line since the last three minutes. She prides herself for being able to type up the fastest reports in perfect condition and standards but her eyes seem to constantly drift off to the energetic newcomer who is currently engrossed in a conversation with Gina(who she obviously also knows) twirling a pen in her hands and slightly bouncing on her heels.

“You alright Santiago,” Jake’s voice breaks her out of her creepy staring and she flicks her eyes to her partner who somehow made it to his desk unbeknownst to her.

She makes a mental note of yet another thing that has changed since last month; her name. She must admit that she liked it (more than liked it) when Jake used to call her by her first name. She presumes that calling her Santiago establishes a professional barrier and she had convinced herself that she was happy that he wasn’t making it weird.

Jake follows her gaze to Vanessa and a wide smile breaks out, “She’s the best. I can’t wait to introduce you. You’re gonna love her.”

He’s bursting with energy as if he cannot contain the extreme amount inside of him and it’s so Jake that underneath this awful constricting ball in her stomach (that she convinces herself isn’t jealousy) she feels a burst of affection.

“Peralta, break room,” Terry says, effectively breaking whatever moment they had before Jake gets up and walks away with purpose and excitement.

Walks away to Vanessa.

The entire squad is gathered at the window of the brief room, has been for the past few minutes now. The door to the room is open but no sound comes out; as it has been ever since Jake and Vanessa walked in and forgot to close it.

“What on earth is going on here?” The Captain’s voice causes Amy to whirl around in fear that she might have disappointed her superior officer and ready to apologize if necessary.

Charles shushes him rather harshly before whispering, “They walked into the room, quietly assembled the board, and they’ve stared at this thing in silence for the past five minutes throwing the rubber ball back and forth.”

He’s correct of course. Vanessa and Jake have been in the briefing room for almost fifteen minutes now. They’re both leaned against a desk, postures almost identical, and methodically tossing Jake’s rubber band ball between each other without missing a beat. It’s weird to think that they’ve just reunited after a long separation because they look like they’ve been doing this for years.

(She supposes she’s getting pretty good at ignoring this constricting ball of something in her stomach, spreading to her chest. She’s been good at ignoring it ever since Sophia Perez came into the picture and even after she left)

Finally, after what seems like forever and a bit, Vanessa breaks the silence, “So there were only four people present inside the bank during the murder.”

Jake continues for her, “The manager, an employee and two civilians.”

“Catharine Stulford was helping Miguel D’Souza complete a last-minute transaction”

“While Janveer Phillips was shutting down the monitors and Jessica Austin withdrew 200 from her account across from his desk,” Jake concludes.

Vanessa turns to Jake, “They have no connection to the security guard. No connection means no motive.”

Jake fills in the rest of the blanks, “One of the four was with the other of the four during the time of the murder. Their alibis are each other and it fits.”

If it weren’t for the murder of an innocent security guard, the way the rubber ball crashes to the ground and bursts into a thousand colourful bands as the two Detectives straighten up and look at each other with matching looks of excitement on their faces would have been a comical sight that begged to be filmed.

Vanessa jumps up and down in the air in a way that Amy has only seen one other person do when solving a case, “Their alibis are each other!”

Jake is bursting with energy as he pieces the puzzle, “They’re all guilty!”

“Stulford disabled the cameras while Austin murdered the guard. But what’s the motive?”

It’s an agonizing five seconds of silence. It feels as though the whole precinct is tense with anticipation and the hairs on Amy’s neck stand up straight as the puzzles start to piece together in her own head.

“Money!”

This time, Jake and Vanessa scream in sync, the sound resonating throughout the entire floor, causing Hitchcock to spill his coffee.

At this point Jake is bouncing on his toes as he solves the remnants of the case, “Phillips is the manager of the bank. He has access to the vault’s code.”

Vanessa matches his fast-paced ramble, “D’Souza took the cash, and by the time the seventy-eight came in the next day to investigate, Phillips had erased all records of the missing cash.”

They’re out of breath at this point and the ball in Amy’s stomach forms into a pit in where her heart now falls.

Because Jacob and Vanessa have ceased their exited movements and now stand absolutely still, staring at each other with dopey grins and twinkling eyes.

They’re snapped out of the moment when the Captain walks into the brief room and shoos them away, giving them enough time to snatch their badges from Jake’s desk and hastily throw it over their necks.

Because of course, they wear their badges the same way. Why wouldn’t they?

But Amy returns to her desk and focuses everything she has into typing up this report. As if it will somehow fix all her life problems. As if it will take her back to romantic-stylez, or You liked me back, or I was planning on asking you out so she can take all the chances she had.

And by the time the report is finished (arguably her best work) and she’s handed the file in to a pondering Terry, waves a sympathetic Rosa and an indifferent Gina goodbye, trying too hard not to linger on the empty space on her partner’s chair, she’s gone back to the familiar practice of convincing herself.

Convincing herself that Jacob Peralta is her best and favourite (not that she’ll ever admit it outside of her head) partner and that seeing him work so effortlessly and eloquently with Drake had made her a little insecure of their professional partnership. Convinces herself that this conversation with Diaz has gotten her more than a little rattled, had surfaced past (she convinces herself that it was all in the past) feelings. She convinces herself that she’s in a great position with Jake right now; they trust each other and they have each other’s backs and that’s really all that matters.

She convinces herself that No dating cops is the best thing that she can do for her future because she has a plan set out in order to make Captain and imagine making Captain and having to face a bunch of ex-boyfriends.

And by the time her first alarm rings the next morning, she’s got the mantra ‘This is what I want’ etched so firmly in her head, that for the first time in weeks, she walks into the precinct with a wide smile on her face fuelled by the scent of paperwork and filing.

Her day gets better when she’s assigned to a kickass B&E and she and Rosa are called into the office of Jonas Bailey, New York’s very own engineering billionaire, with an empire big enough to dazzle a celebrity.

The case, thanks to the several cameras and the stupidity of the thief, is closed relatively quickly, and the only job Amy is left with is tracking down the stolen items, which happen to be prototypes made by Bailey to create medical advancement. It’s during events like these where Amy momentarily loses hope in humanity because who could possibly be cold-hearted enough to rob someone of the chance to save a daughter, mother, or lover.

Her CI tells her that there is a good chance of the thief selling the prototypes at the docks and she’s about to tell Rosa to get ready for a stakeout except that she finds her fellow Detective making plans with her boyfriend for dinner. There is a smile on her face and it’s so rare that when Rosa asks her if anything came up, she shakes her head in negative and almost facepalms into the door trying to run away.

She surveys her options when she reaches the bullpen; Charles will either force her to make a pit stop at some restaurant that serves dog liver and she’ll spend all of tomorrow puking her guts out, the Sarge will have to leave soon to tuck his daughters to bed and she is not going to deprive him of that, there’s no way she’ll survive a stakeout with the Captain and that leaves Jake.

He’s distracted with one of his police figurines, moving the arms and legs one way and then the other and the report he was supposed to finish hours ago remains halfway done on his monitor. He looks up as if he can feel her stare (maybe he can. She knows that his stare burns her like a pair of molten rocks) and upon spotting her his, face breaks into a goofy grin.

She drops the case file, complete with the evidence and inputs from the CI, on his desk, “Stakeout? Won’t be more than three hours.”

Apparently thrilled at the prospect of leaving his report (sometimes she has a hard time imagining what it would be like to be him) he gets up from his chair and follows her into the elevator humming a rendition of a Taylor Swift song under his breath all the way into the car.

It’s normal. She relishes in the normalcy of Jake choosing some over-the-top pop song, rolling down the windows and singing his heart and lungs out in between mouthfuls of sugar packed gummies he produced from his pocket. She smiles at the typical Jake-ness as he whines and complains about the lighting, the temperature, and location.

And for the first time in a very long time, after her cheeks have finished aching after a particularly hilarious joke at the expense of Scully, Amy believes that she is going to be alright. She believes that this is how it’s supposed to be and she (after so long of convincing herself to) believes that she’ll be okay with just being Jake Peralta’s friend.

The Bluetooth connected device rings, and the car blasts with an oddly loud song that Amy fails to recognize and she glares at her partner who looks smug, “Jake, when did you even connect your phone?”

He gives her a lopsided grin before answering the call.

“Did I ever mention that you were my favourite person in the whole wide world,” It’s his form of a greeting and it immediately spikes her curiosity as to who is on the other side of the line.

The voice is familiar and it’s as if someone threw a bucket of ice water on her.

“Is that supposed to excuse the Cheeto crumbs on my couch?” Vanessa’s voice holds no malice, just humour and affection and Amy can feel her smile drop.

Jake doesn’t notice.

“How about I make it up to you. I’m on a stakeout but I can come over with a double cheese pizza and Die Hard.”

Vanessa’s laugh is just as pretty as she is, “Is that supposed to be you making it up to me?”

“Double cheese pizza, Die Hard, and a foot massage.”

“Deal.”

“Deal”

The call ends, and Jake burrows himself into Amy’s passenger seat, zipping up his leather jacket to avoid the harsh cold and Amy is left with her wild thoughts and sinking stomach.

(she’ll later go home and convince herself that it has nothing to do with Jake)

The car is filled with a comfortable silence, the kind that Amy usually appreciates when on stakeouts with her man-child of a partner, but she’s too busy bursting with curiosity.

“So. Vanessa.” Her attempt to steer the conversation is admittedly pathetic, but Jake either doesn’t notice or ignores it.

He shrugs, but anyone can see the obvious excitement in his eyes, “We’re catching up. Starting from where we left off. She was, is, important to me ya know. There isn’t anyone else in the world that has every single Die Hard line memorized right down to the gunshots and can out eat me in gummy worms.”

“Are you two—”

She glances away briefly and thanks God that she did.

“Jake, that’s him!”

They get out of the car and follow the perp, who walked into an empty house with a creaky door that made Jake’s face light up like a Christmas tree. He’s always been one for theatrics and she’s always secretly worried that one day it might get him hurt.

They work like a well-oiled machine. Amy would like to say that it was something that she had created a binder to accomplish; ‘How to Be The Best Partnered Detectives with Jake Peralta’ would have had eighteen tabs and a whole library worth of information on how they should collaborate to be the best.

But the truth is, that they’ve somehow managed to work easily off of each other since the very beginning, even when the only thing between them was childish remarks and a fierce need to outdo each other. When they were in the field, they always managed to ease into a routine that makes it look like they’ve been doing it for years.

It’s this partnership that helps Amy catch the perp with ease; Jake running to the back entrance and Amy jumping through the first-floor window to corner the jerk who tried to deprive sick human beings of the chance to recover. She brings him in and locks him up in the holding cell, scheduling a text to Mr. Bailey telling him to come down to the station to give his statement before returning to the bullpen.

It takes her a second to heave in a breath to get rid of the prickling sensation in her chest when she sees that Jake’s desk is empty, and remembers the plans she overheard tonight.

(She convinces herself that she’s gotten used to his teasing remarks as she left the precinct followed by the genuine “See you tomorrow Santiago”)

She walks into the precinct the next morning, unable to even make eye contact with her partner, and heads straight to the interrogation room where Jonas Bailey awaits.

She along with Gina (who was adamant on joining because “There is no way someone that fine should have to endure several moments with Ally alone”) ask him questions about the perp, the items stolen, and the company and at the end she has compiled a list long enough to write a report that fits her standards.

Gina, not one for subtlety, asks questions of her own, “So, are you like, dating right now.”

Amy sends a panicked look at the man in front of her, but he just laughs good-heartedly, “Just proposed a week ago.”

Gina sighs, but it’s obvious she doesn’t mean it, “Damn. Why are all the good ones gone? I’m like the only one left of our kind.”

Mr. Bailey (Jonas. He told her to call him Jonas) gives Gina the typical flabbergasted look everyone gives Gina when they meet her. Amy gets him to sign his papers, before handing him the prototype and watching him walk through the bullpen to the elevators.

It leaves Amy with nothing to do and no one to go to in order to avoid her partner, who, judging from the concerned look he’s giving her, has noticed her persistence in avoiding her desk and him.

“Hey Santiago, mind giving me a hand with this report.” Rosa pulls out a chair for her beside her desk and Amy rushes towards it, never more thankful for her fellow Detective more than she is today.

However, her blood goes cold and her heart falls when all she sees when opening the folder is a blank piece of paper with Diaz’s curly cursive in red ink, ‘You owe me one’.

She gets up from her seat and rushes away into the printing room, laminating and printing and filing before repeating the steps. She goes down for a coffee run for the entire squad despite the dent in her pocket and sends the drinks up with Charles after a fellow officer calls her for help with a case.

She spends the rest of the day with the Captain, answering his beguiling questions with awkwardly phrased answers that he doesn’t seem to mind hearing while actively avoiding Jake’s sad stare every time she walks to her desk to grab something and refuses to look into his eyes. He looks like a kicked puppy, and eventually, by the time they’re set to leave, his sadness morphs into hurt and her heart claws when he walks away without even trying to say goodbye, telling Charles that he won’t make it for drinks tomorrow because he’s having dinner with Vanessa.

She doesn’t break until she gets home, toes of her shoes into their designated corner, hangs her coat on the hook and places her bag on the coffee table. She’s lucky she lasted this long considering the couple of months she had.

Wiping the tears from her eyes, she opens her desk drawer and finds the familiar blue binder, flipping to the last page and reading the highlighted words over and over again, trying to find its purpose.

No dating cops.

The purpose of the rule was so that things don’t get awkward at work, so that there isn’t anything deterring her progress to Captain, so that she can preserve her friendship with Jake, so that she’ll still have Jake as a friend if not anything else.

But Rosa’s note, that goddamn note, indicates that she was the one making things awkward. She was the one acting like a complete idiot. She was the one ruining this.

Jake had respected her wishes. Jake was nothing but professional. Jake had moved on.

He moved on.

From her.

And she had feelings for him. She’s always had feelings for him.

And after weeks, no months, of trying to get rid of these feelings. After months of pretending, to be okay with what she had.

After months of constantly lying to herself and convincing herself of everything but the fact (it’s a fact. She’s never been more sure of anything in her life) that she has hopelessly fallen for her partner; her kind, funny, amazing partner who always knows what to say and has had her back for the past eight years, she’s done.

She wants to scream, to shout and cry and vent. God, she wants to vent. She’s been cooping her emotions for so long, and she really needs to talk to someone, to tell someone.

Which is how she ends up on the floor of her bedroom, phone in her hands scrolling through her contacts to find someone suitable to talk to, someone who’ll understand.

Kylie, Rosa, Manny, Mom, Jake.

Her thumb hovers over his name, a smile involuntarily pulling at her lips at the contact photo of him hugging a Die Hard poster during a movie marathon they had three years ago. She scrolls down through his profile and isn’t sure why she’s shocked at the number of times she’s called him; never less than three times a day, never less than an hour per call.

She’s never ever really believed in sudden euphoric epiphanies; they were always portrayed in media in a way that seemed too fictional and unrealistic. But no other words can describe the moment she’s having, this weight (partial weight) that’s been lifted off her chest.

Because Jacob Peralta has always been there for her.

When it was her first week at the nine-nine and she was stressed about her very first case he brought her a cup of coffee and drove her to her old partner for a pep talk.

When she had her first red ball and he brought her food every day, reminded her to sleep, and organized her desk for her.

When her boyfriend broke up with her and he came over to her apartment and spent the whole night watching Property Brothers while eating tubs of ice cream.

Even when there was the bet looming over them, even when she was dating Teddy and he was dating Sophia, he was always there for her. Even when she shut him down three times, he was still there for her, making her smile, solving her cases. He was always there.

He will always be there.

She is never going to lose Jake Peralta.

She doesn’t remember much of what happens next, the events go by in a blur but the next thing she knows is that she’s standing in front of the door to what used to be Gina’s apartment and freaking out.

Jake, being Jake, doesn’t even give her time to do that properly because the second she decides that her courage can only give her so much and begins to walk (walk, sprint. Potato, Potato) away from the apartment door, it opens and Jake is standing there, his eyes widening at the sight of her.

She winces internally, remembering that in her haste to get to him, she neglected to change her clothes or fix herself up a bit so now she stands here in front of him in the wrinkled outfit she wore to work, her hair loose from her bun, raw and vulnerable.

“Amy,” He doesn’t even notice the slip, but she does, and it’s been so long since he called her something other than Detective Santiago, or Santiago, or Ms. Posh or whatever ridiculous name he comes up with, that it gets rid of other weight on her chest.

“I was about to come over to your place,” He admits, looking at her with those eyes. Those goddamn eyes. It reminds her of romantic-stylez, and I wanted to ask you out. It reminds her of everything she lost, all the chances he had.

“You were?”

He smiles cautiously, his eyes guarded and wary, “Yeah,”

He looks so unsure and sad and so perfect that a dam breaks in a normally composed, proper Amy Santiago.

“Look Amy, I’m not sure if I did something or if…”

“I like you!” She blurts out.

And for good measure, in case he didn’t get the hint she adds, “Romantic styles.”

His eyes widen and he would have looked so picture worthy funny if this weren’t of importance. If her whole heart wasn’t the line.

He still doesn’t say anything so Amy cautiously stutters through with an explanation, because he deserves one.

“I know that I’ve been all over the place these past few months, and I’ve said no so many times, but I have feelings for you, I always had feelings for but I was scared. God, I was so scared. So I get it if you don’t want to…”

The next thing she knows is that her back is hitting the wall of the building and Jake’s hands are cupping her chin and her fists are in his hair and he’s kissing her and it’s so soft and so slow and so, so, sweet and she should have known that Jake Peralta was a good kisser.

The kiss ends too soon when he pulls away because oxygen gets in the way but he rests his head against hers and it feels so right, so perfect, so unreal and it’s so scary that it’s only been a second but she cannot remember a time before this. The other Amy, the Amy that wasted her life convincing herself of lies, seems like a faraway memory who said no when she wanted to say yes, hid around her feelings, burned in jealousy when Vanessa came.

“Oh my God! Vanessa!” She jumps away as if someone had shocked her.

Jake looks genuinely confused, “What?”

“Vanessa. What about Vanessa?”

“What about her?”

Amy stares at him for a moment, trying to figure out if he’s being serious. Jake Peralta may be messy and cocky and may not own any real books, but he is faithful and loyal and those were two things she’s known since the moment she met him.

Still, she has to ask, “Aren’t you two…you know.”

He laughs, reeling back to hold his hands over his stomach at the sheer absurdity of the situation, “No, no, no. We’re not…she’s engaged Ames.”

She not sure whether to focus heavily on the fact that Vanessa, the women who initiated (initiated is too big of a word, she simply lit a spark) her whole spiral is engaged to someone who is not Jake or the fact that she’s just been upgraded from Amy to Ames and she’s never liked a nickname more.

Regardless of the reason, she surges up to meet his lips because she’s never been this happy before and honestly, his kisses are kind of addicting. Not that she’ll ever tell him.

This time, they both pull apart at the same time and Amy wonders how ridiculous this whole thing is.

He’s wearing an old faded out NYPD shirt with jeans, while she’s in a pantsuit that looks like it’s seen better days and they’re both holding each other grinning dopily from ear to ear in the middle of the apartment hallway.

Eventually, Jake tugs her closer to him, intertwining their fingers and she doesn’t even bother analyzing the reasons why it seems so normal, so ordinary (she’ll never analyze why it feels anything but).

“I know that we need to talk and we will, but were you actually jealous of me?”

She rolls her eyes and the world feels right once again, “Shut up.”

They walk into work the next morning, Jake ten minutes after Amy, trying to conceal the fact that she woke up with her head on his shoulder on the couch and the TV still playing reruns of Jeopardy. She heads straight for the coffee machine trying to suppress her twitching lips and instead roll her eyes when Jake dramatically greets her with a “Wassap, Grandma.”

When she returns, Vanessa is sitting on the edge of Jake’s desk, swinging her legs violently, and Amy feels grateful for the engagement ring that she recently discovered hangs around her neck because there would be no way she would have ever been able to hate the Detective, not when she reminds her so much of Jake.

She seats herself at her desk, ignoring Jake’s wiggling eyebrows (an obvious reference to her jealousy) and greets the woman, “Detective…I mean Vanessa.”

She smiles warmly, “Hey Santiago, nice one on the Bailey case.”

Before Amy can reply, Vanessa leans in and whispers softly enough so that no one else but them can hear, “And congrats on the get-together. I was thinking that it would never happen.”

Amy looks at Jake because they agreed to not tell anyone until they had time for themselves. Jake just looks at his friend in shock, “I never told…”

“Oh please. I have more arrests than you Peralta. Besides, all you ever talked about was her and today you came in looking like the day you learned that Jenny Gildenhorn broke up with her boyfriend.”

Amy sighs, “We’re too obvious.”

Jake, for all his talk of keeping things between them and not wanting Charles to know, (“He’ll burst into tears Ames. And then I’ll never hear the end of it”) doesn’t seem to care much. She finds her care slipping away as he gives her that soft smile reserved only for her.

Vanessa continues, “Anyway. I’m happy that the two of you are together. You actually helped me with something of my own.”

Their look of confusion turns into a proud smile (the proud part from Jake, Amy doesn’t know her that well yet) when Vanessa pulls her ring out of her necklace and slips it onto her finger, the diamonds (there are many) glinting under the lights.

“Oh, and my ride’s here. I’ll catch up with you guys soon.”

And the entire precinct, with the exception of Hitchcock and Scully, have the same look of bewilderment and shock as Vanessa Drake walks into Jonas Bailey’s open arms as they peck each other on their lips, his smile widening when he spots the ring on her finger. They interlace hands and walk away into the elevator, and the pieces start to fit together in Amy’s head.

Vanessa and Jonas.

She looks up to Jake’s smug face. Jake, who knew that Amy was working with his friend’s fiancée the entire time.

But his eyes are shining and he looks as happy as she feels so she just smiles at him. A pure, genuine, happy smile.

Months later, she’ll smile that same smile as he goes through her binders one by one to find the picture she took of Vanessa at her wedding and instead finds her list, no dating cops written neatly on the last page.

He’ll look at it and smirk, teasing her about breaking a rule and she’ll roll her eyes and throw a pillow at him, blissfully oblivious to the shining ring tucked away in his sock drawer.

She knew the rule was a bad idea anyway.

#b99 #b99 fic #jake x amy #jake x amy fic #brooklyn nine nine #jake peralta #amy santiago #writing #fanfic #i tried

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goldiesugar · 7 years

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Seduction? What?

Here’s a list of tips that you can try out, use and adapt to attract your prince charming… oh yeah by the way, forget that stuff… Prince Charming doesn’t exist.

Be confident

Self-confidence… that’s a phrase I like. Would you like to bring every man to his knees?

Start the work of seduction on YOURSELF. If you don’t have confidence in yourself, you can keep wasting all your evenings watching Ugly Betty and Desperate Housewives in your SpongeBob pyjamas, which you bought for 99 cents… For the love of God, don’t underestimate yourself…

EVER! All women are beautiful, and EVERY woman has her charms and her qualities. If you are less beautiful than other women, you SURELY have a very fine quality that others do not possess. If you have hang-ups, forget them! Nobody’s perfect and everyone has their own flaws!

Nowadays, and since time immemorial, beauty has always been considered something common, that everyone has, but today a woman with good qualities has become something rare [I’ll come back to this in the last paragraph] and exceptional! A woman with graceful and noble qualities is, precisely, a WOMAN…

So stop making dramas and comedies about yourselves, ladies … put your right hand on your heart, and repeat after me:

“Today, I accept myself, WITHOUT any conditions at all, I am a woman, and I can seduce every man that I want.”

Think about your Look

There’s nothing better than chatting and having conversations with a woman whose physical appearance is attractive! I respect all women, but more the ones who take GOOD care of themselves, and invest heavily in their look.

Your mom probably tells you that beauty is on the inside and blah blah blah, but if you have a hairstyle shaped like an artichoke, wear super-large jeans and a supermarket shirt, men will avoid you like the plague… Beauty is, FIRST, external, if you don’t have style and class, no normally constituted man will give you a second glance. Not even a SD.

Change your hairstyle more often, and if you can, try to grow long hair, it’s a typical sign of femininity. Invest in clothes that are more or less sexy and glamorous. In summer, wear skirts, it’s another sign of femininity… and you know what, burn all those masculine clothes you have in the closet, men HATE to see women dressed like them.

Before I forget, I’d like to give you a little tip… Keep several different perfumes! I remember this girl who wore a different perfume on every date, it made me go crazy every time I smelled a sensual and pleasant new scent. Try this trick and let me have your feedback.

Be a “rare” woman

Everything rare is expensive: the more we’re seen, the more we’re heard, the more we do, the more ordinary we seem. If you’re part of a group, stay away for a while and people will talk about you more, they’ll even admire you more. Practice absence: scarcity will increase your value.

In the excellent book by psychologist Robert Cialdini, Influence and Persuasion, the author discusses the principle of scarcity as a weapon of mass persuasion and, appropriately, seduction goes together perfectly with the art of influence and persuasion. Therefore, ladies, use scarcity as your weapon.

Make yourself into a woman who is rare and special, today’s men can’t stand conventional and ordinary women, all interesting men are TOO demanding on this point. In general, a situation of scarcity makes them react in a way that clouds and diminishes their powers of judgment, and pleasure no longer consists in enjoying something rare, but SOLELY in possessing it.

In other words, as soon as a man sees you as a special woman, trust me ladies, your work of seduction has definitely achieved its goal… it’s in the bag!

To put it in different terms, the “Romeo and Juliet” effect is probably the most widespread phenomenon associated with the principle of scarcity, so in fact, the more the parents oppose a relationship, the more united the couple will be.

In this situation, the sensation of loss they feel will drive them to focus more and more on you, blindly and with every means at their disposal.

Make use of this principle of persuasion, don’t give him the impression that you’re seduced and already won over.

And how do you seduce a man while remaining natural?

That’s the question I’ve focused on in recent years, in order to provide THE right answer! In fact, if you want to seduce men you have to start by seducing YOURSELF.

Next, you need to master the techniques of communication, confidence and, finally, optionally, the techniques of seduction.

Additionally, you should adopt and develop the mindset of the seductive woman, and you’ll be surprised to see CLEARLY that the secret codes of seduction, have become a child’s game for you.

Personally, I am firmly convinced that if you want to learn to be seductive, you must:

Develop self-confidence

Work on your personality to make it attractive

Master the art of communication with others (the better you communicate, the better your basic level of seduction)

Take care of your appearance and image.

Know the techniques of seduction, and adopt those that suit YOU!

There is no magic formula in the galaxy of seduction. But there is the work you do on yourself, and what’s known as personal development. That’s the motto of my philosophy.

To your success,

~ Bleuet 💸💖

#bleuet chats #strategies & tips

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shenanigumi · 7 years

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Returning the Favor

An impromptu mini-fic for @impracticaldemon!

It’s rough, and I basically pulled this out of nowhere over the course of an hour or two, but I happen to have SaiChi on the mind/heart anyway and I gotta get that out of my system before I switch continuities back to Heisuke’s route. I know this is a ridiculously clichéd concept, but I hope this Week Brightener is an effective one!!

It was a generally accepted fact that Saito never got sick.

All throughout his time at Shiei Hall, and later with the Shinsengumi, he had managed to avoid sickness. Among his friends, his immune system was the subject of much envy, regarded as almost inhuman—along with his other alleged superpower, in the form of an absurdly high tolerance for alcohol.

Saito had never thought himself capable of being lulled into a false sense of security, and in fact prided himself on his constant vigilance, but he must have grown so used to being healthy that he forgot he was still susceptible to illness. There was no other explanation for allowing himself to awaken with a congested nose for the first time in years.

Hovering between sleep and wakefulness in the early hours of the morning, Saito thought he was dreaming of suffocation, but he quickly realized that he actually could not breathe. Moreover, his throat felt parched, prickling when he swallowed, and he gave a faint (and painful) groan. This may be the entirely understandable result of ignoring Chizuru’s gentle warning last evening.

The long northern winter was just beginning, the air crisp and cold and delightfully clear, and Saito had wanted to stay outside and stargaze long after Chizuru was ready to sleep. (This was hardly unusual, considering that he still had some nocturnal tendencies from the fury blood.) In response to his… assistant’s… tentatively expressed concern about his health, he had given her noncommittal assurance that he would not be long after. The quality of the silence told Saito that Chizuru did not believe him, but she did not dare argue.

Now, more than a small part of him wished that she had.

Then again, thought Saito, rolling over with a snuffling sigh, he had been considering several rather important matters—among them, how exactly he should ask Chizuru to marry him. Perhaps he should pick up some ceremonial sake and insist the neighbor gave it to him; he has certainly been forward enough in his implications for it to be believable. And his own sentiments, likewise, might be easier for him to state as though they are someone else’s.

Of course, none of that mattered right now; he could never go out to get any sake in this state, ceremonial or not, and he certainly didn’t want to get his future fiancée sick. It would be better just to go about life as usual until his full recovery, and hope their workload was light in the meantime.

…Right. Saito supposed that meant it was time to get up; he could hear Chizuru in the next room, busying herself with breakfast as usual. He’d never hear the end of it if she found out he had ignored her warning, and she hardly deserved to fret over him after he brought this upon himself. Hauling himself out of bed, and almost staggering as his head and body felt light and heavy at the same time, he pulled on his clothes and tried valiantly not to miss any buttons.

As usual, Chizuru was focused on her work in the kitchen, but took the time to glance over at him as he shuffled out of his room. “Good morning, Saito-san,” she greeted him, just like always, but was thankfully too preoccupied with her cooking to take a good look at him right away. (Saito was sure her food was as delicious as ever, but he couldn’t smell it at all, and his appetite seemed to be mysteriously absent.)

“Good morning,” returned Saito… or tried to. His voice came out faint and hoarse, and the words made his throat smart a little. Struggling not to wince, he knelt at the table and fixed his eyes firmly on the surface before him, praying his condition would go unnoticed. Even the smallest sniffle could give him away…

“Oh no,” said Chizuru, and Saito realized with a jolt that even his tone of voice had been enough to catch her attention. She was much more observant than she let on, and often underestimated because of her bewitchingly innocent face; Saito had a habit of forgetting that he was more often than not among her underestimators. “I was afraid of this, after last night. Unless you feel like eating a little something, you need to go back to bed right now.”

Saito blinked a few times at her tone. “I’m… fine,” he told her, but his tongue felt dry and sluggish in his mouth, and he knew the instant he spoke that she would never believe him.

“You can’t work too well if you’re sick,” explained Chizuru, ignoring his protest in a fitting mirror of his own actions last night. “And you’ll only stay sick longer if you try anyway. It’ll be much more effective for you to rest now, and work later.”

“But I have to work,” mumbled Saito, unsure what else he should say. Coherent thoughts were surprisingly hard to come by in this condition, and he couldn’t bring himself to pull rank on her, considering their situation. (His resolution wavered still further as an unfamiliar little voice whispered that if he cooperated, Chizuru would be much more likely to accept his eventual proposal.)

Lost in his thoughts already, Saito only remembered Chizuru and her protests when she waved a hand in front of his face. “See,” she remarked, setting a jug of water down before him. Whenever his focus was suffering, Chizuru was usually the reason he couldn’t focus, yet now he couldn’t even focus on her. “You didn’t even hear me, so what makes you think you could concentrate on work? At least go back to bed and see how you feel in a few more hours.”

“I have that meeting…” Saito trailed off with a weak cough as the words tickled his throat, almost as though his body was laughing at the very idea. Taking a sip from the water Chizuru gave him, he found it cold and soothing, but knew all too well that relieving the symptoms does not cure the cause. (Being a fury had taught him that much.)

“Then I’ll answer for you and tell them you’re unwell,” insisted Chizuru, putting her hands on her hips resolutely. “You’ve always taken care of me, so let me take care of you for once. Please, Saito-san,” she added, scattering his thoughts effortlessly with a persuasive smile almost too brilliant for his tired eyes to take in. “I promise I know how. I’m a doctor’s daughter, after all.”

Saito could only look at her, his thoughts drifting away in all directions without the goal of working to hold them together, and Chizuru—understanding that he would not argue further—turned around to make sure the food wasn’t burning. Although it had seemed all-important mere seconds ago, his job fled Saito’s consciousness completely as he gazed at the woman before him. Chizuru, capable of changing his mind and removing his doubts with a touch lighter than the wind, was without a doubt the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.

Of course, Saito had known that for some time—more than two years now—but only now, in the haze of his increasingly more jumbled thoughts, did that fact seem so important. In that moment, all he could think about was marrying her; in fact, in his still-sleepy mind, their wedding seemed more like a faraway memory than a fantasy. She was practically his wife already, as their nosy neighbor had pointed out to him several times before.

“Will you… stay with me?”

The words came tumbling out unbidden, and Saito’s heart seemed to shudder to a halt, his breath catching as he prayed with all his might that Chizuru had not heard him over the clicks and crackles of her cooking. He had not intended to propose to her so early, especially not in such an unattractive condition. Could he have possibly chosen a time at which he would be less likely to be accepted…?

Thankfully, Chizuru took his words much more literally than they had been intended, accepting the sentiment in stride. “If you like,” she responded, tossing a reassuring smile over her shoulder, and Saito heaved a congested sigh of relief. “You did stay with me all through the night of my illness, after all. It’s only fair that I return the favor.” She pointed at Saito’s room with a wooden spoon, meek yet authoritative in that way of hers. “Now, Saito-san, please go back to bed. I’ll be in with some mending to keep you company, as soon as this is done.”

There was nothing else to be done. Obediently, Saito took the jug of water got to his feet, swaying in place for more reasons than one. Everything about Chizuru was dizzying, but it took removing all the layers of work and duty for him to realize the extent. Yes; he must marry her as soon as possible if he was to be truly happy.

“Y-Yukimura,” began Saito, swallowing her given name as he reached his door. The time for that would come, and hopefully soon; as of now, he had only ever said it in his dreams, and those were not something anyone needed to know about. Especially Chizuru. “Thank you. For everything.”

Chizuru only smiled again, her expression more soft and radiant still, and Saito’s heart skipped a beat as their eyes met. “Of course, Saito-san,” she murmured, and the sympathetic affection in her voice could not be mistaken even in his state. “I’ll always be by your side.”

As he tottered back to his room, trying not to look too pleased, Saito knew then that there was nothing to fear… and perhaps Chizuru had understood his original question after all. Always meant always—in sickness and in health.

#hakuouki #hakuōki #hakuoki #fanfiction #saito hajime #yukimura chizuru #saichi

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talldarkandroguesome · 7 years

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17th of Frostfall, Tirdas

We have been pushing so hard on the road, I’ve had no time to stop and write. The times we have stopped for rest, I have been speaking with Sildras and Avon. Mah, it is such a relief to see them both. I thought for sure Avon was going to cry. Poor Sildras did, which in turn nearly made tears fall from my own eyes.

We’ve put several days’ ride between us and the Telvanni. I’m unsure when they have or will return to find the remains of their encampment destroyed. They have, no doubt, a suspicion that it was us. Yet, I did leave some Imperial buttons and buckles around the camp. If the Telvanni master is clever, he will take note of them and draw the following conclusion, his camp was attacked by the Empire’s scouts and a small fight ensued, which in turn, bought a distraction for our group to beat a hasty escape. Shades can be so useful in such scenarios. Although I can only call forth two at a time, how easy it is to manifest them in a location and have them give a short mock struggle, where I can then drop a body. Or, alternatively, I can create a traceable path in the blood from one body to the next, showing a clear path of fighting, I can have things stomped into the ground. I can also have them skirmish with one another. And it was easy to use a little of my own blood to make what appeared to be a bloody trail running away. I also made a spot that appears to be the wrapping of Imperial corpses to be taken back to their families. To anymer looking closely, it is the perfect scene of a fight between Telvanni and Imperial, the Imperial taking their own dead, maybe a couple of prisoners, and our lot having run in the heat of battle.

Oh, I do so love staging crime scenes. And the order said they thought I had gone soft over the years. The spymaster of our House severely underestimates me. I truly must come and see him once I return.

My one regret is that, in the heat of carnage that my Prince demanded, Qau-dar seems to be suffering. Nomadic life, I imagine, is very difficult, but it does not necessarily involve war. For our escape to have been possible, it was required for us to have done what we did. Today Qau-dar was no longer able to contain how upsetting the whole matter is. I tried to calm him as best as I could. I used my birth gift to speak soothing words of reassurance to him. I felt bad for it, I do so hate to use my persuasion on those I care about, but I could not stand to see him suffering so.

Of course, he is not the only one suffering. My large tent can sleep all of us, and only setting up and breaking down a single tent increases the speed with which we can travel, so we have been sharing it between all of us. This means that those who are not on guard duty sleep near one another. I have heard Lilandril’s disturbed dreams. He shifts constantly and makes noises of distress, sometimes enough to rouse him from his slumber. I am too a light a sleeper not to be kept up by the sounds. Yet I understand. It was like that for me too when the Altmeri soldiers had put me under their blades and magical tortures.

When I finished speaking with my daesohn and Sildras, I took my alchemy kit and my poisons satchel and I worked on an elixir that I hope will help. It will temporarily cut him off from his magicka while he sleeps, but it will allow him to sleep deeply with pleasant dreams. It is an altered form of the dream poison, Mara’s Goodnight Kiss, which is popularly used for assassinations. I have reduced the harmful side effects to only draining his magicka and a magicka drought in the morning should cure that. It will give him a deep sleep of dreams pulled from his pleasurable desires. Though, I’m unsure if he will trust to take anything from me, particularly of my making. I will not mention the extraction coming from any poisons, of course.

As soon as we stop this evening I shall make an offer of it. Not while anyone is around of course, I don’t need them to think we are getting along and try to have us work together again. That would be torturous. Still, I am doing this for my own ability to sleep! And that is exactly what I am going to tell Lilandril as well! He’s keeping me up with his tossing and turning and whimpering cries. I’ll watch over his fetching sleeping form if it makes him sleep better, but for the love of the Three, I don’t want to be kept awake by those sounds again.

As if it’s not bad enough to have to go through it yourself. Like I want to be reminded of my own tortures? No thank you.

Well, time to get the rest of the camp packed into the caravan. I shall write more later. Perhaps with the good news that the Altmer slumbers soundlessly besides me. What a relief that would be.

#ESO #TES #Dunmer #Khajiit #Altmer #RP #Elder Scrolls Online #The Elder Scrolls

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juju-on-that-yeet · 7 years

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When Evil Rears its Head: Chaper 2 - Takeover

NOW we can get into the nitty gritty of things. Peevils is ready to reveal her plan and get it started. Hopefully Darkiplier won’t mind...?

Read below or on AO3!

Peevils is not a late sleeper, but she wakes up earlier than usual, excited for what the day will bring. She knows that this early, most of the egos are still asleep. But she also knows that Dark is awake now, and that’s all that matters. She leaves her room and heads for Dark’s office, at the topmost floor. She takes the elevator, and thinks over her approach as she watches the needle climb.

Once she reveals her deception, Dark will no doubt become more aware of any manipulation she tries to use. Dark’s powers outstrip her own, so she knows that she cannot use hers to manipulate him, at least not directly. She has no aura, so slippery black thing wrapped around her shoulders and biting at the air like Dark does. All she has are words. But she knows better than to underestimate words, and judging by the state of the Host, so does Dark. But the Host has to be direct with his vocal manipulation, whereas Peevils can afford to keep her motives in shadow. She knows Dark well enough by now to know the right things to say to intrigue him and get him on her side, and if all else fails, she has a final trick up her sleeve: Her alien language.

Peevils is an alien, after all, and although she is accustomed to speaking English, her species has a language of its own. It’s quiet, hissing, with sharp vowels and wide-open consonants, illogical grammar and inconsistent inflections. Just the sound of it is painful to humans, and to humanlike figments. Even more potent are the words and sentences without direct translations, the ones that are more like spells and commands than simple phrases. These fragments are meant to be spoken quietly; to say them too loudly can make even the speaker’s ears hurt. Peevils knows how to say them under her breath in such a way that even the listener is unaware that they’ve heard it, unsure of where their sudden headache has come from.

She tested it out once, while speaking with the Jims. News Jim was a foot or so away working on his script for that evening’s news, while Weather Jim was alongside Peevils, showing her how his doppler weather radar map worked. She feigned interest for several minutes until boredom set in. Tired of the silly pranks she’d resorted to pulling to hide her true evil, she let the words slip out in an exhale, “Crexliq trel,” so low they rumbled in her mouth. Weather Jim’s eyes had gone huge, his head snapped down towards his chest, and his hands had begun to shake before they moved to tangle in his hair.

“Hey, what’s up with you?” Peevils had asked, feigning surprise and a measure of concern.

“I…I don’t…” Weather Jim had stuttered, as if the simple act of speaking hurt him with Peevils’s words in his head. He groaned in fear and agony, stumbled on his own feet.

News Jim noticed what was happening in time to rush over and grab Weather Jim’s shoulders, keeping him from falling.

“Jim, hey, are you okay? Did you get a vision?” He asked, but got no response other than a quick head shake, and another groan. He’d looked at Peevils then. “Sorry, but I have to…yeah.”

Peevils had accepted the dismissal without complaint, but peeked over her shoulder as she left to watch News Jim help Weather Jim away, the arm thrown around his shoulder looking like the only thing keeping him from collapsing under his own weight. She didn’t see Weather Jim for three days after, and neither did the other egos aside from News Jim. When she did see him again, he’d apologized to Peevils for the outburst interrupting their conversation, none the wiser about the outburst’s cause. Indeed, he had no idea what had happened, and as far as Peevils knows, he still has not found out.

As useful as her alien words are, there’s a limit to their power beyond causing pain. But there are words of persuasion, words to make someone stop or keep going, words to draw attention or send it away. These words are difficult to wield, so Peevils doesn’t intend to use them right from the get-go. She’ll use English first, use the words she knows Dark will respond to, and see if it’s enough. For all the time she’s spent on developing her scheme, she’s very flexible.

When the elevator stops, she steps out and walks down the hall to Dark’s office. When she gets to the door, she doesn’t have to knock to know that Dark is there; she can feel his aura through the barrier, shifting softly. He’s not in a bad mood, at least, Peevils can tell. So she knocks instead of barging in as is her usual wont, hoping to keep his mood pleasant for as long as possible. She hears him sigh.

“Who is it and what could you possibly want?” Well, so much for preserving his good mood.

“It’s Peevils,” she answers, “I have something I wanted to…discuss with you.”

The pause is deliberate, and it has the desired effect, as Peevils hears Dark get up and walk to the door, and in the next moment she’s looking the man in the eyes.

“What did you want to discuss?” he asks. There’s a spark of interest in his eyes, but it’s dim and hard to see. He’s trying to figure out if Peevils really has something to say or if she’s just blowing smoke, and if what she has to say is worth putting up with her.

“Just a little idea I’ve come up with,” Peevils drawls casually, turning her head from Dark’s gaze to pick at her nails, “Something that concerns you as much as it does me, something we could both benefit from.” Her eyes dart towards Dark’s, the rest of her remains still. “It’d be better discussed behind closed doors.”

She’s laying it on a little thick, perhaps, but she relishes the opportunity to be dramatic. Unlike Dark, she knows how to tell whether a situation calls for cheese or subtlety. And dealing with Dark calls for as much schmaltz as she can muster, and she has quite a bit to go around. Dark, for his part, takes the bait somewhat reluctantly, sighing again before stepping aside to invite her into his office. She walks in and hears Dark shut the door behind her.

She takes a seat on a chair across from his desk (she wonders if it exists for situations like this and that alone, or if it’s more decorative. Either seems likely). Dark sits back in the chair behind his desk, folding his hands on the wood surface.

“Well,” he says, “Tell me about this “idea” of yours.” He doesn’t expect much, Peevils can tell, and she grins.

“First,” she says, “I have to admit I’ve been a bit of a liar since I showed up here.” Dark’s eyebrow quirks, but he doesn’t speak, so Peevils continues. She lets her cadence drop into her preferred subdued tone, not the loud and jumpy tenor she’s used before now. “I know I’ve acted like a silly little prankster, someone a bit mean but with a heart of gold deep down somewhere just dying to escape. But I’m afraid that’s not me at all.” She grins again, her eyes flash. “I am much worse.”

Dark’s brows furrow slightly. He seems unwilling to believe her, but unable to dispute the evidence in front of him, the new way Peevils is speaking and carrying herself. Now, Peevils knows, his suspicion is aroused. She has to tread carefully.

“I should believe you…why?” he asks, tone impassive.

“Do you know what I’m here for?” Peevils answers his question with her own. “Do you know what I exist for? You know your own purpose, and I’m sure you know everyone else’s purpose, but do you know mine? What do you suppose it is?”

“Hm.” Clearly, Dark had not thought about this. Why would he have? He disliked Peevils almost from the moment he met her, and Peevils felt the same for him. He hasn’t cared enough to find out what Peevils wants as a figment, and she hasn’t cared to tell him before now. But she knows exactly what Dark’s motivations are; he’s so obvious about his intentions, how could she not? Yet he’s so used to being the most knowledgeable person in the room, and Peevils hopes to use this arrogance to her advantage.

“I want attention, admiration,” she tells Dark, not willing to irk him by making him guess, “Something that my original doesn’t have enough of. Amy is a kind girl,” she sighs, “But that doesn’t help her any. Her channel is so small, and in order to grow it, I need a place to start.” She peers into Dark’s eyes, sees him beginning to understand. “Mark has all the fans I could ever need to sustain myself, and I’m sure he’d be willing to share if Amy said the word. But unfortunately, Amy never would. I need him to achieve my goals, but so do you. That’s why I’m here.”

“Don’t get ahead of yourself,” Dark growls, “Mark’s channel is mine.” But Peevils is prepared for his anger, and she raises her hands in mock surrender.

“Of course,” she says easily, “I did say “share,” didn’t I? Surely Mark’s subscribers are capable of following two channels at once. His fans already love Amy so dearly, I’m sure you’ve noticed.” Peevils puts her hands back down as her words sink in. “The one predicament I come back to every time is that Amy would never ask for such an arrangement, and even if I made her, Mark would see right through it. The other egos would too, and I’d just be out of luck. So I not only have to use Mark to get the attention I so need, but I have to keep the other egos from stopping me.”

“How exactly do you plan to do that?” Dark asks. He’s intrigued, despite himself.

“Well, I have one other want as a figment aside from attention.” Peevils flashes an evil smile. “Destruction. Death. Chaos and blood.”

“You sound like Anti,” Dark growls, unamused and put out, like he expected more.

“I do, don’t I?” Peevils laughs. “But I can promise you that Anti doesn’t have half the foresight that I do. The fact that I’m in your office speaking to you about this at all proves it. My idea is, quite simply, that we work together.” She levels a stare at Dark. This is her moment of truth:

“I take control of Mark and force him to kill Wilford and the Host. Then, you kill Mark so he can’t bring them back. From then on, you can be Mark, and I can control Amy, and we can help our channels grow. You satisfy your need for control, I satisfy my need for attention and get to roll a few heads. With Host and Wilford gone, we won’t have to worry about anyone stopping us.”

Dark’s eyes flash, but not with glee. More like shock, some measure of worry, like he wants to accept but can’t. Peevils raises an eyebrow. She hadn’t expected this reaction. There’s a long pause as Dark reigns his expression back to normalcy.

“How exactly do you plan to make Mark kill Wilford and the Host in the first place?” he asks. “Even my aura can only do so much against him. And I can’t possess him unless he lets me in, and I’ve already tried to make him do that dozens of times. His will is more powerful than that of the average human.”

Peevils believes that there is more to Dark’s worry than that, but she decides not to push it, at least not yet.

“Easy,” she answers Dark, “I have abilities of my own, you know.”

“Like what?” Dark asks. Peevils stifles a laugh at his expression. He thinks she’s bluffing. Well, she was planning to just tell him what she could do, but perhaps she’ll just have to show him.

“Perhaps I could demonstrate?” she asks, tilting her head with an innocent smile. “I promise it won’t hurt.”

“Fine,” Dark growls.

Peevils snaps her fingers, but only for effect. She focuses on Dark’s mind, and makes sure her own is appropriately closed. She vanishes from her chair and reappears in Dark’s head, in his body. She can see everything. She can see every thought, every memory, feel his aura wrapped around her, feel the physical power coiled in his muscles beneath his suit. She already knows Dark can see little of her thoughts, having closed her mind off beforehand.

Still, he reacts immediately.

“What the—” he gasps, then roars; “What the hell are you doing?? Get out!”

“Man, I can see why you act so high and mighty all the time,” Peevils says, forgetting her decorum in her amusement. She stretches Dark’s arms in front of her. “You’re a lot stronger than I even thought.” She speaks from Dark’s vocal cords, in his voice. Any listener would hear a slight difference in pitch, Peevils’s only calling card. Dark, too, hears her speaking in that voice too much like his own, from his own mouth. Peevils can feel his fury, feel him vibrating within himself.

“I said GET OUT!”

Abruptly, he kicks her out of his mind with force like a mental shove, and Peevils finds herself standing before him once more. She expected this, of course; Dark is too powerful to let someone else control him for long. Even with her out, he’s still enraged. His hands are fists at his sides, his face is set in a snarl. He trembles with anger. His form splits open, showing a shadow of himself twisting with rage, and a wave of static runs through the room. It takes him a moment to regain his composure, and even then he is still deadly furious.

“What was that?” he asks, voice dangerously deep.

“Possession,” Peevils says easily, “You know a thing or two about it, I’m sure.” She lets her eyes go soft, placating, and she smiles. “The only difference between us is that I don’t need permission to do it. I just figured you’d hate me even more than you do right now if I’d done it without asking. And just think,” she says, her own gleeful pride sneaking into her tone, “If I could possess someone as powerful as you, with you expecting something from me, and control you for a few seconds, imagine how long I could control Mark.” Her grin is sharp and manic, but she can’t help it. She still acutely remembers Dark’s power in her veins, and it invigorates her. “Imagine the kinds of things I could make him do. He’d be a rat in a cage, and he’d never escape unless I let him, or,” she calms her smile and looks into Dark’s eyes, “You kill him.”

With that obstacle addressed, Peevils hopes to see agreement in Dark’s features. But something nags at him still, and he says nothing. She sighs.

“Okay, what’s the real problem here?” she asks. “I figured you’d be happier about my plan by now. Tell me what has you so troubled.”

Dark stays silent for a moment, before sighing with reluctance.

“If you aren’t aware,” Dark says, voice curt, “I don’t wish to take over Mark’s channel just for myself. As infuriating as the other egos can be, I do what I do for them, whether they realize it or not.” He considers his own words. “I’m sure they do, deep down. Otherwise they would’ve tried to kill me already. And I would’ve killed them too, long ago, if I had felt they got in the way of my goals.”

“But they do get in the way of your goals, don’t they?” Peevils asks, leaning forward in her seat. “They know in their hearts that you do what you do at least partially for their benefit, and how do they repay you? They don’t. They’re too attached to Mark, too consumed by their hatred of you to accept where you’re coming from. They’re ungrateful. If you take over Mark, Host and Wilford will stop you the moment they find out, no matter what you tell them. Besides, it’s not like you’re the one who has to kill them. There won’t be any blood on your hands, if that’s what you desire.” She pauses, waiting for Dark’s expression to change. It doesn’t, so she continues. “Look, Dark, I could easily have done my plan without telling you. But I want you on my team. I need you on my team.” She flashes a conspiratorial grin. “You and I are not so different. Neither of us were created by our originals, or by one person’s imagination. We’re the product of thousands. Compared to the other egos, we are untouchable. We’re practically immortal. All they have is strength in numbers, but if we take down the most powerful players, they’ll never be strong enough to stop us. And if you control Mark’s channel, you can give them the help they’ve always needed.” She looks around like she’s telling him something confidential. “There’s so many egos that are in danger of fading. They’re fine right now, sure. But what about the egos from MarkiplierTV? How long will their novelty keep them in the fans’ minds? What about poor Yandereplier?” Ah, there it is, that slight widening of the eyes, that pursing of the lips Peevils was waiting to see. It seems she was right about Dark’s feelings for Yandere all along. “Yan hasn’t gotten an appearance in almost a year. Can he be sustained by Mark just playing his game every once in a while? If you take over, you can make sure no one forgets the egos. You can prevent them all from fading. Mark doesn’t care about them like you do. Wilford and the Host are necessary casualties. This is for the greater good, not just for you and me, but for everyone.”

Her words have gotten through to Dark. He’s taking her seriously now, considering her plan seriously. But there’s something behind his eyes still, something that holds him back. Peevils can see it, and she already knows what it is. She saw it in his mind when she possessed him, she saw it in his memories. Dark may have come far since his early days, but he has not forgotten him. He has not forgotten the loneliness. He has not forgotten that time when he was new, when all he had was himself, then Wilford, then the Author. He has not forgotten the stress, the fear, the way he forced himself to be a protector. He has not forgotten how hard he fought to keep the three of them from fading. He has not forgotten what it was like to find new egos, to take them in, to keep them alive without Mark’s help. He has not forgotten where his power comes from. He has not forgotten why he so craves control, how he has had to keep in control his entire life to keep the others safe. No matter how jaded and evil he becomes, how much he often detests the other egos, Dark remembers his roots and has his own morals, and he doesn’t wish to forsake them.

And Peevils can see that he never will.

“Tempting though your offer is, I am not helping you.” Dark says coldly, raising a hand. His aura twists around, swivels towards Peevils. “I cannot let you do this.”

Peevils wishes it hadn’t come to this, but knowing what she does about Dark now, she supposes it was inevitable. Sure, she could modify her plan to leave out the murders of Wilford and the Host, maybe even Mark, and institute a bloodless takeover with Dark’s help. But where would be the fun in that? Luckily, she has one last trick up her sleeve.

“Varnik ag wisshel,” Peevils breathes, low enough to keep the word for hurting her own mind, but loud enough for Dark to hear. He pauses sharply, his pupils constrict. But the reaction is minute and fleeting. He’s a tricky one, Peevils thinks. Time for something stronger.

“Yelkor pyanis oj haron,” she says, a bit louder than before, and she feels a prickle between her eyes. But she gets the reaction she was looking for: Dark’s breath hitches, his raised hand drops to his side, his eyes glaze over. His aura shrinks, clinging closer to him. She steps closer to him until they’re nearly chest-to-chest. There’s only one thing left to do.

“Maruns rav ignet, you take orders from me now,” Peevils whispers into his ear. She hears him exhale, and when she steps away, she sees the hollowness in his eyes. She grins.

“Now,” she says, “You have a gun, don’t you? Give it to me; I’ll need a weapon when I’m in Mark’s body.” She doesn’t need to explain herself, but she does anyway for the fun of it.

Dark turns and mechanically walks to his desk, opening the top drawer. He takes out the revolver, walks back to Peevils, and places the weapon into her open hand.

“Perfect,” she says, mania touching her voice again. She has no need to hide it now, so she doesn’t try to. “Now, give me some advice. How should I go about killing Wilford and the Host? You know how they fight better than I do.”

“Kill the Host first,” Dark answers, voice flat, “Wilford will take longer and attract more attention. Don’t give the Host a chance to narrate, and don’t let Wilford know you’ve killed him. It’ll only make him fight more ruthlessly. Neither of them will want to hurt Mark, so use that to your advantage.”

“I figured as much,” Peevils says in reply to all the information, “But it’s good to know.” She thinks. Originally she was going to hitchhike to Mark’s home, perhaps steal someone’s car and drive most of the way there and back herself. But now that she has Dark under her thumb, she can be more efficient.

“When I say the word, teleport me to Mark’s house,” she begins, “And once we get there, be quiet and stay hidden. If he senses your presence I’ll lose my element of surprise.”

Dark nods. Peevils’s grin widens.

“Now,” she says.

For a moment, she and Dark are in, well, darkness. Peevils feels the cold of his void, the breathless inkiness of it. She can’t help the shudder that runs through her. A moment later, she’s in Mark’s living room. Dark slinks away behind a shadow, so quiet Peevils can barely even hear him breathing. She nods to him, knowing that this will keep him there until she returns. She can’t hear anything in the immediate area, so she walks around the apartment slowly, stepping gently. Finally, she can hear exclamations from behind a closed door, muffled by sound-proofing. She’s about to open the door when she hears a soft growling from behind her.

She turns to face Chica, Mark’s dog. Peevils sneers down at the animal. Chica never liked her, as though she had some sixth sense about the figment that looked like her owner’s loved one. But the dog had never shown such aggression to Peevils before. She lays a hand on the door. Chica barks. Peevils hears a questioning tone from within the room, and she curses under her breath at Chica. She has half a mind to shoot the creature, but decides it isn’t worth the trouble. She pulls away from the door, moving to the left side, hoping the opening of the door will conceal her.

In the next moment, the door swings open, and Peevils is forced to catch the doorknob with her hand to keep it from slamming into her. Mark steps out, and though Peevils can’t yet see him, she can hear him quite well.

“Hey Chica-Bica, what’s up?” Mark asks his dog, who is thankfully ignoring Peevils in favor of trotting in anxious circles around her owner. “Do you gotta go outside? Huh, pupper-snup?”

But Chica doesn’t stop circling, and begins to whine and whimper. Peevils uses the sound as a cover to slowly move from behind the door. All she has to do is get Mark in her sights, and she can take control.

“What’s the matter, girl?” Mark asks, confusion tinting his voice. Peevils hears him bend down to the floor to Chica, and knows that this is her chance. She steps out and sees Mark kneeling down, scratching Chica’s ears. Chica snaps her head towards Peevils, but it’s too late.

Peevils slips into Mark’s mind as easy as water, filling out his limbs. Peevils’s gun, unable to travel into Mark’s psyche, clatters to the ground. Unlike before, Peevils doesn’t bother to keep her mind closed off. She lets Mark see everything, just as she sees everything in him. All the better for him to fear her, after all.

“What the heck? What’s happening??” Mark shouts in his own head as Peevils maneuvers his body to the gun she dropped before. “Who are you? What are you doing with that gun?? What—”

“If you would be silent for a moment,” Peevils says smoothly, her voice echoing in Mark’s brainspace, “You’d have enough awareness to find the answers to those questions yourself.”

Mark gasps, recognizing the voice responding to his own. But he takes Peevils’s advice, going quiet as he sifts through Peevils’s thoughts, memories, plans. The plans she told to Dark, and the plans she kept secret. Who she really is, what she really wants. What kind of figment she is, what kind of figment the egos are, how vulnerable they are to her. What she’s done to Dark, what abilities she has yet to show. He reels from the informational overload. As Peevils finishes checking over the gun, assuring it wasn’t damaged in its drop, Mark finally speaks again, voice wavering with fear.

“You…you won’t get away with this.” He takes a shaky breath in. “You can’t get away with this. The others will see right through you, and they’ll stop you.”

“Are you sure about that?” Peevils laughs, tucking the gun in the waistband of Mark’s jeans. “You already know what I’ve done to Dark. Imagine what I’ll do to the rest.” She pauses. “Imagine what YOU will do to the rest.”

Peevils feels Mark’s surge of anger, hears him screaming at her from within himself, desperately trying to break free. Dark was right, Mark does have quite a strong will. Any other human would’ve given themself over to despair upon seeing the atrocities Peevils plans to commit. But Mark’s will is not nearly enough to knock her away or make her loosen her hold on his mind. She walks back to Dark, ignoring Chica, who now cowers under a table.

Mark gasps again when he sees the emptiness in Dark’s expression, like a slate wiped clean. It chills him to see the most powerful of his figments reduced to such a state, and Peevils can feel his wave of renewed fear. She relishes it. This, truly, is what she was made for.

“We’re going back to Ego Inc.,” Peevils says to Dark, holding up a hand to stop him as he prepares to teleport, “But I want you to put us outside it, at the front door. That way it’s less likely for someone to see us. No doubt they’d suspect something if they saw you teleporting Mark around. Once we get there, you can teleport back to your office. Give me…” Peevils thinks. “…thirty minutes. Stay in your office for thirty minutes, and then meet me in Wilford’s studio. Prepare to help me kill him if he’s still alive when you get there.”

Mark and Peevils both see a flicker in Dark’s eyes, a shard of something coming through. Mark feels a burst of hope that Dark might break free of Peevils’s control. But the flicker disappears as quickly as it came, and there’s a moment of deep darkness, and then Peevils and Dark are standing outside Ego Inc. Dark nods to Peevils and teleports away in a cloud of black smoke, leaving Mark to face Peevils alone. Peevils rolls her (Mark’s) shoulders.

“Let’s do this.” She grins, sharp and evil, twisting Mark’s face into something like her own.

#markiplier egos #markiplier fanfiction #peevils #darkiplier #when evil rears its head #my writing #kristin says stuff #hoo boy

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loveiscosmicsin · 7 years

Note

Hey if it's alright Ignoct and the letter V. Have a nice day and happy belated New Years.

Send me character(s) and a letter and I’ll write you a minific!

For @deepwolfwolf: IgNoct, letter V. An Abandoned or empty place. Happy Belated New Year’s to you, too! I hope you enjoy my writing and thank you for your patience! Anything you request isn’t a bother to me at all. Also, please, anyone, give me song recommendations for IgNoct. I’ve been making a playlist on YouTube. I really like “Dernière Danse” (Last Dance) by Indila for this couple.http://lyricstranslate.com/en/dernière-danse-last-dance.html

Art that inspired me, please don’t click on them until after you finish reading!: https://mobile.twitter.com/FFikaika_/status/816753648260681729

@ruebird’s http://ruebird.tumblr.com/post/157210311094/stars-are-their-thing

@ravitae’s http://ravitae.tumblr.com/post/157747269898/ignoct-may-i-ask-for-one-last-dance

@letshareapapou then drew this after reading the fic https://twitter.com/Letshareapapou/status/855947679796404224

This is also posted on my Ao3 as Look How The Stars Shine For Us if you prefer reading fics off there.

Your shoulder blades Your eyes ablaze The way you throw your head back When you’re losing faith But finding hope It lights your face That helps me cope Through all of this without a kiss And I get through all of this without a kiss

From the atlas Take me far Leave me reckless Off the map Turn the paper Don’t bring me back- “Atlas” by Shannon Saunders

V. An abandoned or empty place

“Sure ya wanna head out all on your lonesome?” Cidney asked as she pulled the service truck to a stop.

“Yes. It’s nearly time.” Ignis answered before turning to face the head mechanic. “Will you be all right waiting?”

“Now don’t ya worry about lil’ ol’ me.” The plucky blonde’s cheerfulness was nearly palpable and a paper bag crinkled as she stroked it. “If you don’t need me, I’m finally gonna chow down on these purdy sweets an’ listen to some tunes ‘til you get back.”

“I see,” the strategist smiled, pleased that she had been anticipating his renowned memory lane pastries far more than she alluded. He knew now that bribery was unnecessary. “You have my thanks.”

“Ain’t no trouble. It’s nice to be away from the garage for a spell.” The sound of rubbing leather was soft as the woman adjusted her seat. “Sure is gorgeous out here.” Cidney whistled sharply. “Not a single cloud in the sky and the wind won’t be picking up. Perfect weather for stargazing.”

Ignis had his hand on the door handle, but made no move to turn it. “Indeed.” He agreed, distant. He had requested for the mechanic’s assistance, there was no turning back now or he would surely regret it.

Cidney’s hand was on his shoulder, giving it a firm, but playful shove. “Well, best get movin’. Give my regards to His Majesty.”

At the mechanic’s encouragement and behest, Ignis’ feet landed flatly on solid earth and the door shut behind him. The strategist had his doubts but entrusting Cidney, an unlikely confidant, was a wise choice. She understood how important his date was and needed little persuasion to take him there.

Sediment crunched under his shoes and loose rocks evaded him as he walked towards his destination, a cliff overhanging Duscae. It was a brief journey that required moderate exertion on Ignis’ part but worth it when he was blessed with the sight of a young man seated on a blanket. The older man intended on surprising him, but a snap of a twig betrayed him.

“You finally showed,” the raven-haired man said over his shoulder, his eyes seemed to encapsulate Ignis on the spot. “Thought I’ve been stood up.”

Ignis pursed his lips. “And since have I ever done that, Noct?”

“Got me there.” Noctis chuckled softly before noticing something was off. “What’s that look for? Forgot something?”

“I, ah, no,” Ignis patted his pockets, an obvious lie. “It’s nothing.” He couldn’t believe he had forgotten it.

“Okay,” Noctis snorted, darting glances from the strategist’s face and his pants as the brunet sat down. “Have it your way.”

Ignis sighed, holding up a paper bag and thermos he had been carrying. “I believe these would keep your interest more effectively.”

Noctis studied his face for a moment longer before claiming the bag. “Knew I smelled something tasty.” He grinned, tossing the sweet in the air and catching it. “Haven’t had these in a while. They’re really for me?”

Noctis moaned into the first bite, his dark eyebrows raised as he savored the pastry. He dove back into the confection with a vengeance and quickly devoured it. Sugar and Ulwaat jam coated the bow and corners of his lips and he wiped at them with a sleeve.

Ignis sighed as he took Noctis by the wrist and folded back a cuff. “Do mind your manners, Noct. I brought napkins for a reason.” Something metallic glittered in the moonlight. “You’re wearing it…”

“This? Saw you fiddling with it and thought it’s meant for me. You didn’t have to get me anything, Iggy.”

“I had to get you something. It’s a charming accessory that would meet your refined tastes at the very least.” Etro knew Ignis tried in vain countless times in persuading Noctis to wear a watch.

“I think we both know that I’ve worn too many of those to last a life time.” Noctis replied with a snort. “One family ring’s enough. But… I’ll keep this bracelet. Kinda forgot it was on me anyway.”

Ignis was unwilling to not let this go until Noctis admitted he liked it. “And because it suits your fancy?”

Noctis threw his arms behind his head, a light blush dusted his cheeks. “Yeah, that too.” He flipped the lid on the thermos open and took a sip. His eyes lit up before downing a gulp, exhaling sharply. “Whoa, it’s Ebony and it’s exactly how I take it.”

“If you can call it that. If you ask a connoisseur, they would say your taste buds are forever ruined to appreciate a perfectly good cuppa.”

“Well, you’re the one who prepared it, Iggy.” Noctis pointedly jabbed a pastry in the strategist’s direction. “Broke your own rules there.”

A float of sweet cream accompanied by several dollops of sugar was how Noctis took his coffee. Far too sweet for human consumption. He hated the way coffee tasted, but drank it because of the sophistication appeal, proclaiming it was a step up from the Purple Phoenix and trendy energy drinks. Diluting the bold flavor of Ebony coffee went against Ignis’ incorrigible creed. Having his coffee black was the only acceptable way in Ignis’ world. But despite all that, Ignis would vehemently prepare a cup that Noctis would approve of and drink it whenever he thought of him. It would’ve been a waste to dump it down the drain otherwise.

After Ignis nibbled on his first pastry and Noctis wolfed down on second, the younger man rose to his feet and dusted crumbs off his clothes before offering a hand. “Can I have this dance?”

“Without music? This is rather daring of you.”

“We’ll improvise.” The king paused before cursing, “Dammit. Forgot my phone. We’ll just go without it. Are you going to take my hand or not?”

Ignis took the hand and let the younger man guide him away from the blanket.

“I don’t trust myself after last time,” Noctis rested his palms on Ignis’ waiting hands. “You lead.”

When he was the Crown Prince, Noctis was required to excel at all forms of dance and despite having mastered agility in combat, he was utterly helpless in the ballroom. Ignis must’ve made a poor teacher because Noctis never quite improved, but he was relaxed and there were least cases of foot injuries under his guidance. It had been years since they had last danced together.

Ignis secured Noctis’ right hand and placed his other hand on his upper back. “Don’t look at your feet. Focus on counting your steps and you’ll do fine.”

Noctis gave him a sheepish grin, his stance spoke volumes of his uneasiness. “As if I can keep my eyes off you, Ignis.” He put a hand on the strategist’s shoulder.

Their starlit waltz was a simple one though in the beginning, they were like stiff figurines going through steps that they had done numerous times. Ignis was educated in both lead and follow designations and could alternate on cue. He could read immediately on Noctis’ face that he regretted suggesting this activity. Worrying on his next step was throwing him off rhythm, he wasn’t trusting his partner. Ignis decided to switch it up, no longer their postures were restrained, they were in a more loose position.

Noctis’ eyes widened at this. They were deviating from the strict protocol, but Ignis wasn’t done there. Side to side, backwards and forwards, they maintained a synchronized rhythm that suited the both of them. The strategist lifted a hand, signaling the king to turn, circling a halo around his head. Noctis laughed as he turned, returning to Ignis afterwards.

As the two danced, Ignis felt all the years they had together weigh heavily upon his shoulders. The strength of their unspoken bond became more profound in their movement. Their gazes had a million words to illustrate just how they revered each other in the highest regard.

Ignis brought Noctis close after a tighter and swifter turn. He smiled as he leaned in close. “I’ve underestimated you. Your footwork has—”

“Improved?” Noctis asked, hopeful.

“Worsened.” Ignis informed with a smirk. “Though you rightfully earned a gold star for effort.”

“Yeesh.” The king groaned, throwing a betrayed look. “And here I thought that I could impress you for once.”

So that’s why Noctis took the initiative. It must’ve been difficult for him to ask.

“Oh, but you have in so many ways. Be it in a room full of people or simply the two of us, I’d always pick you in a heartbeat.” Ignis swayed his hips and concluded the dance. “You’re my partner of choice.”

“Well, likewise,” Noctis bowed to demonstrate his appreciation. “You make me look good.”

“And just that?” Ignis asked, studying the exhilaration and delight in his king’s features. They both knew that it wasn’t the only reason.

Noctis smirked, but offered no reply as he swept his bangs back. “What I wouldn’t give for another moment with you.”

“I’m curious. What would you give?”

“I…” Noctis began before a red light streaked across the sky. “It’s starting.”

It was a meteor shower, an vast array of light shot out from all directions. For once, they were in perfect clarity because the two men were far away from the city lights and the moon couldn’t drown them out.

“Whoa, that’s gonna be a night to remember.” Noctis said lying on his back, he was in awe of the universe.

Ignis made an amused sound. “You say that every year.”

“Anticipation makes the wait feel longer.” Noctis argued as he marveled at heavens above. “Besides, can’t you agree with me for once?”

But Ignis was directing his attention to the man at his side. “The night sky pales in comparison to your radiance, my king.”

Sitting up, Noctis’ gaze met Ignis’, a slight quirk in his eyebrow. “Are we still looking at the same ‘night sky’ here, Specs?” He articulated with a smirk and a nudged the brunet’s arm with his shoulder.

Warmth from Noctis’ body permeated to Ignis and the brunet drummed his fingers anxiously on whether to curl them around Noctis’ stationed hand or keep them to himself.

Noctis rested his cheek on Ignis’ shoulder. “Promise that we can do this again soon?”

“Of course,” Ignis choked out, his heart thundered against his rib cage. “but I thought routine would bore you a tad.”

“Routine’s not that bad.” The king replied as he glanced at Ignis. “Gladio wakes me at the crack of dawn for training and would surprise me with fishing right after that. When Prompto says we’re going on an adventure, he really means the rooftop of our old high school for movie night. And us…” He pointed out to stars, drawing lines with his finger, connecting the dots. “Stars are our thing. Look, they’re shining for us right now.”

Noctis’ grin was the last thing Ignis saw.

Darkness crept in the advisor’s vision, ending a pleasant, but short-lived reprieve. The brunet inhaled deeply as he removed his visor. He tilted his head toward the heavens, determined to force his ruined eyes to see what needed to be seen.

Noctis is Ignis’ other half that he had longed for.

And now Ignis was alone because where Noctis had gone was where the living couldn’t follow.

“That’s right,” Ignis voiced, moving constellations in his mind just so they formed a familiar visage. “If nothing else, you and I… We still have the stars.”

There was sorrow in Ignis’ heart that he only saw stars in his dreams. But when the inevitable dawn arrived, his memories became fleeting as the wisps of smoke from a extinguished camp fire. Ignis had seen the wonders of the universe, but the warmth of Noctis’ gaze was a spectacular wonder found no where else.

Conversations had played repeatedly in his head: one prior to leaving the Crown City for the first time, the pilgrimage to the Disc of Cauthess, the ultimatum on blind loyalties, and the final night before Eos was to be liberated from its plague. For ten years, light was consumed by the Starscourge and ashes rained, smothering crops and contaminating bodies of water. Stars were fondly recanted as phenomena of legend, children born during that time never would’ve known their glory. Humanity had to create their own flickering lanterns in the darkness to survive.

The four warriors of the tragedy, in their youthful naïvety, never knew that it took just one man to herald the Light.

All that time, Ignis thought his sworn duty was to guide a young king to his fullest potential. It should’ve been obvious when King Regis never pressed the issue of leadership and he chose to simply place Noctis in his chamberlain’s care. Ignis was a fool. Noctis never became the ruler he was meant to be and Ignis never quite expressed the truth within his heart. Duty had outweighed emotion and irrationality, above everything. If only they had more time together.

Ignis loved Noctis.

In his heart, Ignis was bound to meet Noctis many times just as they would have to part ways afterwards. Time was endless and infinite. It had to be.

Perhaps in another universe things could’ve gone differently. Somewhere, Ignis was together with Noctis again. In that imagined world, there was a Ignis Scientia and a Noctis Lucis Caelum who were able to marvel at the same sky, find themselves in the same constellation, and share visceral sentiments of peace and melancholy that was beyond comprehension. Their world. They would discuss their reality of lost possibilities and endless adventures, maybe go as far to planning trips to space one day. The nightly conversations, entertaining and far-fetched as they were, remained dreams.

Noctis wasn’t a dream. He existed. He lived. Ignis could see him and if he reached out to touch him, it would be the closest he would ever get. Noctis was Ignis’ home. Ignis would never let Noctis go unforgotten, true love never diminishes in remembrance. There had to be some way to commemorate him.

Remembering wasn’t difficult when Noctis had his own constellation in the sky. It was named after him, its appearance more evident after a meteor shower.

Galaxies were ever-changing, steadily drifting in course but the patterns remained the same should the strategist pinpoint the stars’ coordinates. Wherever he was, Ignis hoped that Noctis could look down and see the world he saved.

Maybe in a not-so-distant future and in another life, they could celebrate such a victory.

“Thank you, Noct, for bringing the stars back and… Happy Birthday. Shall we witness our first sunrise when the time comes?”

#IgNoct #Ignis Scientia #Noctis Lucis Caelum #FFXV spoilers #FFXV #Final Fantasy XV #Final Fantasy 15 #Final Fantasy #FF15 #FF #Noctis/Ignis #Ignis/Noctis #Noctis and Ignis #Ignis and Noctis

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tendance-news · 6 years

Link

Picking up a man isn’t as difficult as people sometimes lead you to believe… But Learning to seduce menand to understand them is still an art form… an art form that you can master, Madam, starting this very instant!

In this first article from the series, seducing a man, we’re going to cover the basic rules you should know, along with a set of techniques and methods of seduction that will let you EFFECTIVELY seduce a man, with class and elegance!

Many of you visit the site, and it is our duty to serve you and especially to boost your knowledge of feminine seduction, or if you prefer, to sculpt it.

But before sharing the secrets of seduction that will enable you to capture any man you desire, let me tell you a secret.

As I explained in my first book , we men are like ON/OFF buttons. Simply press the ON button, and there you go! Meanwhile you ladies, you’re like volume buttons that move incrementally, we have to turn the volume up bit by bit, or in other words, we need a whole seduction arsenal to achieve our goals. See the difference.

I would also like to pay a small tribute to my first girlfriend, who seriously *cruelly* seduced me, and made me go totally crazy over her, and still managed to stay…

Classy and elegant! I’m grateful to her because, first of all, I am currently in Hawaii next to two beautiful supermodels while I write this article but, more importantly, because I’ll analyze all her diabolical little techniques and draw inspiration from them, and then I’ll add the techniques of feminized men, to give you, ladies, the best recipe for seducing men.

But seriously … I’m not in Hawaii, and I’m not next to a supermodel, it’s actually my cat who’s messing around with the mouse on my laptop, and keeping me from writing… Go on Hitch, get down! oh thank you now… (yes, his name is Hitch )

Let’s move on…

Men aren’t all jerks, as some desperate women say, and women aren’t all sluts, as Loser men say… everything is a question of…?

Seduction!

Bravo…

Here’s a list of tips that you can try out, use and adapt to attract your prince charming… oh yeah by the way, forget that stuff… Prince Charming doesn’t exist.

Be confident

Self-confidence… that’s a phrase I like. Would you like to bring every man to his knees?

Start the work of seduction on YOURSELF. If you don’t have confidence in yourself, you can keep wasting all your evenings watching Ugly Betty and Desperate Housewives in your SpongeBob pajamas, which you bought for 99 cents… For the love of God, don’t underestimate yourself…

EVER! All women are beautiful, and EVERY woman has her charms, and her qualities. If you are less beautiful than other women, you SURELY have a very fine quality that others do not possess. If you have hang-ups, forget them! Nobody’s perfect and everyone has their own flaws!

So stop making dramas and comedies about yourselves, ladies … put your right hand on your heart, and repeat after me:

“Today, I accept myself, WITHOUT any conditions at all, I am a woman, and I can seduce every man that I want.”

Think about your Look

There’s nothing better than chatting and having conversations with a woman whose physical appearance is attractive! I respect women who take GOOD care of themselves, and invest heavily in their look.

Be a “rare” woman

Make yourself into a woman who is rare and special, today’s men can’t stand conventional and ordinary women, all interesting men are TOO demanding on this point. In general, a situation of scarcity makes us react in a way that clouds and diminishes our powers of judgment, and pleasure no longer consists in enjoying something rare, but SOLELY in possessing it.

In other words, as soon as a man sees you as a special woman, trust me ladies, your work of seduction has definitely achieved its goal… it’s in the bag!

In this situation, the sensation of loss we feel will drive us to focus more and more on the other person, blindly and with every means at our disposal.

Make use of this principle of persuasion, don’t give him the impression that you’re seduced and already won over.

And how do you seduce a man while remaining natural?

That’s the question I’ve focused on in recent years, in order to provide THE right answer! In fact, if you want to seduce men you have to start by seducing YOURSELF.

Next, you need to master the techniques of communication, confidence and, finally, optionally, the techniques of seduction.

Additionally, you should adopt and develop the mindset of the seductive woman, and you’ll be surprised to see CLEARLY that the secret codes of seduction, have become a child’s game for you.

I’ve prepared and assembled everything in a single book, The Seductress’s Guide.

This book, let’s be honest, is not about transforming you into some kind of tease or man-eater.

No, far from it…

Personally, I am firmly convinced that if you want to learn to be seductive, you must:

Develop self-confidence

Work on your personality to make it attractive

Master the art of communication with others (the better you communicate, the better your basic level of seduction)

Take care of your appearance and image; and finally:

Know the techniques of seduction, and adopt those that suit YOU!

There is no magic formula in the galaxy of seduction. But there is the work you do on yourself, and what’s known as personal development. That’s the motto of my philosophy.

To your success,

#IFTTT #Blogger

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referenceblog2017 · 7 years

Text

19971228

Unknown author

The Story Behind a Nonfiction NovelJanuary 16, 1966

The Story Behind a Nonfiction Novel

By GEORGE PLIMPTON

n Cold Blood" is remarkable for its objectivity--nowhere, despite his involvement, does the author intrude. In the following interview, done a few weeks ago, Truman Capote presents his own views on the case, its principals, and in particular he discusses the new literary art form which he calls the nonfiction novel...

Why did you select this particular subject matter of murder; had you previously been interested in crime?

Not really, no. During the last years I've learned a good deal about crime, and the origins of the homicidal mentality. Still, it is a layman's knowledge and I don't pretend to anything deeper. The motivating factor in my choice of material--that is, choosing to write a true account of an actual murder case--was altogether literary. The decision was based on a theory I've harbored since I first began to write professionally, which is well over 20 years ago. It seemed to me that journalism, reportage, could be forced to yield a serious new art form: the "nonfiction novel," as I thought of it. Several admirable reporters--Rebecca West for one, and Joseph Mitchell and Lillian Ross--have shown the possibilities of narrative reportage; and Miss Ross, in her brilliant "Picture," achieved at least a nonfiction novella. Still, on the whole, journalism is the most underestimated, the least explored of literary mediums.

Why should that be so?

Because few first-class creative writers have ever bothered with journalism, except as a sideline, "hackwork," something to be done when the creative spirit is lacking, or as a means of making money quickly. Such writers say in effect: Why should we trouble with factual writing when we're able to invent our own stories, contrive our own characters and themes?--journalism is only literary photography, and unbecoming to the serious writer's artistic dignity.

Another deterrent--and not the smallest--is that the reporter, unlike the fantasist, has to deal with actual people who have real names. If they feel maligned, or just contrary, or greedy, they enrich lawyers (though rarely themselves) by instigating libel actions. This last is certainly a factor to consider, a most oppressive and repressive one. Because it's indeed difficult to portray, in any meaningful depth, another being, his appearance, speech, mentality, without to some degree, and often for quite trifling cause, offending him. The truth seems to be that no one likes to see himself described as he is, or cares to see exactly set down what he said and did. Well, even I even can understand that--because I don't like it myself when I am the sitter and not the portraitist; the frailty of egos!--and the more accurate the strokes, the greater the resentment.

When I first formed my theories concerning the nonfiction novel, many people with whom I discussed the matter were unsympathetic. They felt that what I proposed, a narrative form that employed all the techniques of fictional art but was nevertheless immaculately factual, was little more than a literary solution for fatigued novelists suffering from "failure of imagination." Personally, I felt that this attitude represented a "failure of imagination" on their part.

Of course a properly done piece of narrative reporting requires imagination!--and a good deal of special technical equipment that is usually beyond the resources--and I don't doubt the interests-- of most fictional writers: an ability to transcribe verbatim long conversations, and to do so without taking notes or using tape-recordings. Also, it is necessary to have a 20/20 eye for visual detail--in this sense, it is quite true that one must be a "literary photographer," though an exceedingly selective one. But, above all, the reporter must be able to empathize with personalities outside his usual imaginative range, mentalities unlike his own, kinds of people he would never have written about had he not been forced to by encountering them inside the journalistic situation. This last is what first attracted me to the notion of narrative reportage.

It seems to me that most contemporary novelists, especially the Americans and the French, are too subjective, mesmerized by private demons; they're enraptured by their navels, and confined by a view that ends with their own toes. If I were naming names, I'd name myself among others. At any rate, I did at one time feel an artistic need to escape my self-created world. I wanted to exchange it, creatively speaking, for the everyday objective world we all inhabit. Not that I'd never written nonfiction before--I kept journals, and had published a small truthful book of travel impressions: "Local Color." But I had never attempted an ambitious piece of reportage until 1956, when I wrote "The Muses Are Heard," an account of the first theatrical cultural exchange between the U.S.A. and the U.S.S.R.--that is, the "Porgy and Bess" tour of Russia. It was published in The New Yorker, the only magazine I know of that encourages the serious practitioners of this art form. Later, I contributed a few other reportorial finger-exercises to the same magazine. Finally, I felt equipped and ready to undertake a full-scale narrative--in other words, a "nonfiction novel."

How does John Hersey's "Hiroshima" or Oscar Lewis's "Children of Sanchez" compare with "the nonfiction novel?"

The Oscar Lewis book is a documentary, a job of editing from tapes, and however skillful and moving, it is not creative writing. "Hiroshima" is creative--in the sense that Hersey isn't taking something off a tape recorder and editing it--but it still hasn't got anything to do with what I'm talking about. "Hiroshima" is a strict classical journalistic piece. What is closer is what Lillian Ross did with "Picture." Or my own book, "The Muses Are Heard"--which uses the techniques of the comic short novel.

It was natural that I should progress from that experiment, and get myself in much deeper water. I read in the paper the other day that I had been quoted as saying that reporting is now more interesting than fiction. Now that's not what I said, and it's important to me to get this straight. What I think is that reporting can be made as interesting as fiction, and done as artistically--underlining those two "as" es. I don't mean to say that one is a superior form to the other. I feel that creative reportage has been neglected and has great relevance to 20th-century writing. And while it can be an artistic outlet for the creative writer, it has never been particularly explored.

What is your opinion of the so-called New Journalism--as it is practiced particularly at The Herald Tribune?

If you mean James Breslin and Tom Wolfe, and that crowd, they have nothing to do with creative journalism--in the sense that I use the term--because neither of them, nor any of that school of reporting, have the proper fictional technical equipment. It's useless for a writer whose talent is essentially journalistic to attempt creative reportage, because it simply won't work. A writer like Rebecca West--always a good reporter--has never really used the form of creative reportage because the form, by necessity, demands that the writer be completely in control of fictional techniques--which means that, to be a good creative reporter, you have to be a very good fiction writer.

Would it be fair to say, then, since many reporters use nonfiction techniques--Meyer Levin in "Compulsion," Walter Lord in "A Night to Remember," and so forth--that the nonfiction novel can be defined by the degree of the fiction skills involved, and theextentof the author's absorption with his subject?

"Compulsion" is a fictional novel suggested by fact, but no way bound to it. I never read the other book. The nonfiction novel should not be confused with the documentary novel--a popular and interesting but impure genre, which allows all the latitude of the fiction writer, but usually contains neither the persuasiveness of fact nor the poetic attitude fiction is capable of reaching. The author lets his imagination run riot over the facts! If I sound querulous or arrogant about this, it's not only that I have to protect my child, but that I truly don't believe anything like it exists in the history of journalism.

What is the first step in producing a "nonfiction novel?"

The difficulty was to choose a promising subject. If you intend to spend three or four or five years with a book, as I planned to do, then you want to be reasonably certain that the material not soon "date." The content of much journalism so swiftly does, which is another of the medium's deterrents. A number of ideas occurred, but one after the other, and for one reason or another, each was eventually discarded, often after I'd done considerable preliminary work. Then one morning in November, 1959, while flicking through The New York Times, I encountered on a deep-inside page, this headline: Wealthy Farmer, 3 of Family Slain.

The story was brief, just several paragraphs stating the facts: A Mr. Herbert W. Clutter, who had served on the Farm Credit Board during the Eisenhower Administration, his wife and two teen-aged children, had been brutally, entirely mysteriously, murdered on a lonely wheat and cattle ranch in a remote part of Kansas. There was nothing really exceptional about it; one reads items concerning multiple murders many times in the course of a year.

Then why did you decide it was the subject you had been looking for?

I didn't. Not immediately. But after reading the story it suddenly struck me that a crime, the study of one such, might provide the broad scope I needed to write the kind of book I wanted to write. Moreover, the human heart being what it is, murder was a theme not likely to darken and yellow with time.

I thought about it all that November day, and part of the next; and then I said to myself: Well, why not this crime? The Clutter case. Why not pack up and go to Kansas and see what happens? Of course it was rather frightening thought--to arrive alone in a small, strange town, a town in the grip of an unsolved mass murder. Still, the circumstances of the place being altogether unfamiliar, geographically and atmospherically, made it that much more tempting. Everything would seem freshly minted--the people, their accents and attitudes, the landscape, its contours, the weather. All this, it seemed to me, could only sharpen my eye and quicken my ear.

In the end, I did not go alone. I went with a lifelong friend, Harper Lee. She is a gifted woman, courageous, and with a warmth that instantly kindles most people, however suspicious or dour. She had recently completed a first novel ("To Kill a Mockingbird"), and, feeling at loose ends, she said she would accompany me in the role of assistant researchist.

We traveled by train to St. Louis, changed trains and went to Manhattan, Kan., where we got off to consult Dr. James McClain, president of Mr. Clutter's alma mater, Kansas State University. Dr. McClain, a gracious man, seemed a little nonplussed by our interest in the case; but he gave us letters of introduction to several people in western Kansas. We rented a car and drove some 400 miles to Garden City. It was twilight when we arrived. I remember the car-radio was playing, and we heard: "Police authorities, continuing their investigation of the tragic Clutter slayings, have requested that anyone with pertinent information please contact the Sheriff's office. . . ."

If I had realized then what the future held, I never would have stopped in Garden City. I would have driven straight on. Like a bat out of hell.

What was Harper Lee's contribution to your work?

She kept me company when I was based out there. I suppose she was with me about two months altogether. She went on a number of interviews; she typed her own notes, and I had these and could refer to them. She was extremely helpful in the beginning, when we weren't making much headway with the towns people, by making friends with the wives of the people I wanted to meet. She became friendly with all the churchgoers. A Kansas paper said the other day that everyone out there was so wonderfully cooperative because I was a famous writer. The fact of the matter is that not one single person in the town had ever heard of me.

How long did it take for the town to thaw out enough so that you were accepted and you could get to your interviewing?

About a month. I think they finally just realized that we were there to stay--they'd have to make the best of it. Under the circumstances, they were suspicious. After all, there was an unsolved murder case, and the people in the town were tired of the thing, and frightened. But then after it all quieted down--after Perry and Dick were arrested--that was when we did most of the original interviews. Some of them went on for three years--though not on the same subject, of course. I suppose if I used just 20 percent of all the material I put together over those years of interviewing, I'd still have a book two thousand pages long!

How much research did you do other than through interviews with the principals in the case?

Oh, a great deal. I did months of comparative research on murder, murderers, the criminal mentality, and I interviewed quite a number of murderers--solely to give me a perspective on these two boys. And then crime. I didn't know anything about crime or criminals when I began to do the book. I certainly do now! I'd say 80 percent of the research I did I have never used. But it gave me such a grounding that I never had any hesitation in my consideration of the subject.

What was the most singular interview you conducted?

I suppose the most startled interviewee was Mr. Bell, the meat-packing executive from Omaha. He was the man who picked up Perry and Dick when they were hitchhiking across Nebraska. They planned to murder him and then make off with his car. Quite unaware of all this, Bell was saved, as you'll remember, just as Perry was going to smash in his head from the seat behind, because he slowed down to pick up another hitchhiker, a Negro. The boys told me this story, and they had this man's business card. I decided to interview him. I wrote him a letter, but got no answer. Then I wrote a letter to the personnel manager of the meat-packing company in Omaha, asking if they had a Mr. Bell in their employ. I told them I wanted to talk to him about a pair of hitchhikers he'd picked up four months previously. The manager wrote back and said they did have a Mr. Bell on their staff, but it was surely the wrong Mr. Bell, since it was against company policy for employees to take hitchhikers in their cars. So I telephoned Mr. Bell and when he got on the phone he was very brusque; he said I didn't know what I was talking about.

The only thing to do was to go to Omaha personally. I went up there and walked in on Mr. Bell and put two photographs down on his desk. I asked him if he recognized the two men. He said, why? So I told him that the two were the hitchhikers he said he had never given a ride to, that they had planned to kill him and then bury him in the prairie--and how close they'd come to it. Well, he turned every conceivable kind of color. You can imagine. He recognized them all right. He was quite cooperative about telling me about the trip, but he asked me not to use his real name. There are only three people in the book whose names I've changed--his, the convict Perry admired so much (Willie-Jay he's called in the book), and also I changed Perry Smith's sister's name.

How long after you went to Kansas did you sense the form of the book? Were there many false starts?

I worked for a year on the notes before I ever wrote one line. And when I wrote the first word, I had done the entire book in outline, down to the finest detail. Except for the last part, the final dispensation of the case--that was an evolving case--that was an evolving matter. It began, of course, with interviews--with all the different characters of the book. Let me give you two examples of how I worked from these interviews. In the first part of the book--the part that's called "The Last to See Them Alive"--there's a long narration, word for word, given by the school teacher who went with the sheriff to the Clutter house and found the four bodies. Well, I simply set that into the book as a straight complete interview--though it was, in fact, done several times: each time there'd be some little thing which I'd add or change. But I hardly interfered at all. A slight editing job. The school teacher tells the whole story himself--exactly what happened from the moment they got to the house, and what they found there.

On the other hand, in that same first part, there's a scene between the postmistress and her mother when the mother reports that the ambulances have gone to the Clutter house. That's a straight dramatic scene--with quotes, dialogue, action, everything. But it evolved out of interviews just like the one with the school teacher. Except in this case I took what they had told me and transposed it into straight narrative terms. Of course, elsewhere in the book, very often it's direct observation, events I saw myself--the trial, the executions.

You never used a tape-recorder?

Twelve years ago I began to train myself, for the purpose of this sort of book, to transcribe conversation without using a tape-recorder. I did it by having a friend read passages from a book, and then later I'd write them down to see how close I could come to the original. I had a natural facility for it, but after doing these exercises for a year and a half, for a couple of hours a day, I could get within 95 percent of absolute accuracy, which is as close as you need. I felt it was essential. Even note-taking artificializes the atmosphere of an interview, or a scene-in- progress; it interferes with the communication between author and subject--the latter is usually self-conscious or an untrusting wariness is induced. Certainly, a tape-recorder does so. Not long ago, a French literary critic turned up with a tape-recorder. I don't like them, as I say, but I agreed to its use. In the middle of the interview it broke down. The French literary critic was desperately unhappy. He didn't know what to do. I said, "Well, let's just go on as if nothing had happened." He said, "It's not the same. I'm not accustomed to listen to what you're saying."

You've kept yourself out of the book entirely. Why was that--considering your own involvement in the case?

My feeling is that for the nonfiction-novel form to be entirely successful, the author should not appear in the work. Ideally. Once the narrator does appear, he has to appear throughout, all the way down the line, and the I-I-I intrudes when it really shouldn't. I think the single most difficult thing in my book, technically, was to write it without ever appearing myself, and yet, at the same time, create total credibility.

Being removed from the book, that is to say, keeping yourself out of it, do you find it difficult to present your own point of view? For example, your own view as to why Perry Smith committed the murders.

Of course it's by the selection of what you choose to tell. I believe Perry did what he did for the reasons he himself states--that his life was a constant accumulation of disillusionments and reverses and he suddenly found himself (in the Clutter house that night) in a psychological cul-de- sac. The Clutters were such a perfect set of symbols for every frustration in his life. As Perry himself said, "I didn't have anything against them, and they never did anything wrong to me--the way other people have all my life. Maybe they're just the ones who had to pay for it." Now in that particular section where Perry talks about the reason for the murders, I could have included other views. Perry's happens to be the one I believe is the right one, and it's the one that Dr. Satten at the Menninger Clinic arrived at quite independently, never having done any interviews with Perry.

I could have added a lot of other opinions. But that would have confused the issue, and indeed the book. I had to make up my mind and move toward that one view, always. You can say that the reportage is incomplete. But then it has to be. It's a question of selection, you wouldn't get anywhere if it wasn't for that. I've often thought of the book as being like something reduced to a seed. Instead of presenting the reader with a full plant, with all the foliage, a seed is planted in the soil of his mind. I've often thought of the book in that sense. I make my own comment by what I choose to tell and how I choose to tell it. It is true that an author is more in control of fictional characters because he do anything he wants with them as long as they stay credible. But in the nonfiction novel one can also manipulate: If I put something in which I don't agree about I can always set it in a context of qualification without having to step into the story myself to set the reader straight.

When did you first see the murderers--Perry and Dick?

The first time I ever saw them was the day they were returned to Garden City. I had been waiting in the crowd in the square for nearly five hours, frozen to death. That was the first time. I tried to interview them the next day--both completely unsuccessful interviews. I saw Perry first, but he was so cornered and suspicious--and quite rightly so--and paranoid that he couldn't have been less communicative. It was always easier with Dick. He was like someone you meet on a train, immensely garrulous, who starts up a conversation and is only too obliged to tell you everything. Perry much easier after the third or fourth month, but it wasn't until the last five years of his life that he was totally and absolutely honest with me, and came to trust me. I came to have great rapport with him right up through his last day. For the first year and a half, though, he would come just so close, and then no closer. He'd retreat into the forest and leave me standing outside. I'd hear him laugh in the dark. Then gradually he would come back. In the end, he could not have been more complete and candid.

How did the two accept being used as subjects for a book?

They had no idea what I was going to do. Well, of course, at the end they did. Perry was always asking me: Why are you writing this book? What is it supposed to mean? I don't understand why you're doing it. Tell me in one sentence why you want to do it. So I would say that it didn't have anything to do with changing the readers' opinion about anything, nor did I have any moral reasons worthy of calling them such--it was just that I had a strictly aesthetic theory about creating a book which could result in a work of art.

"That's really the truth, Perry," I'd tell him, and Perry would say, "A work of art, a work of art," and then he'd laugh and say, "What an irony, what an irony." I'd ask what he meant, and he'd tell me that all he ever wanted to do in his life was to produce a work of art. "That's all I ever wanted in my whole life," he said. "And now, what was happened? An incredible situation where I kill four people, and you're going to produce a work of art." Well, I'd have to agree with him. It was a pretty ironic situation.

Did you ever show sections of the book to witnesses as you went along?

I have done it, but I don't believe in it. It's a mistake because it's almost impossible to write about anybody objectively and have that person really like it. People simply do not like to see themselves put down on paper. They're like somebody who goes to see his portrait in a gallery. He doesn't like it unless it's overwhelmingly flattering--I mean the ordinary person, not someone with genuine creative perception. Showing the thing in progress usually frightens the person and there's nothing to be gained by it. I showed various sections to five people in the book, and without exception each of them found something that he desperately wanted to change. Of the whole bunch, I changed my text for one of them because, although it was a silly thing, the person genuinely believed his entire life was going to be ruined if I didn't make the change.

Did Dick and Perry see sections of the book?

They saw some sections of it. Perry wanted terribly much to see the book. I had to let him see it because it just would have been too unkind not to. Each only saw the manuscript in little pieces. Everything mailed to the prison went through the censor. I wasn't about to have my manuscript floating around between those censors--not with those Xerox machines going clickety-clack. So when I went to the prison to visit I would bring parts, some little thing for Perry to read. Perry's greatest objection was the title. He didn't like it because he said the crime wasn't committed in cold blood. I told him the title had a double meaning. What was the other meaning? he wanted to know. Well, that wasn't something I was going to tell him. Dick's reaction to the book was to start switching and changing his story. . .saying what I had written wasn't exactly true. He wasn't trying to flatter himself; he tried to change it to serve his purposes legally, to support the various appeals he was sending through the courts. He wanted the book to read as if it was a legal brief for presentation in his behalf before the Supreme Court. But you see I had a perfect control-agent--I could always tell when Dick or Perry wasn't telling the truth. During the first few months or so of interviewing them, they weren't allowed to speak to each other. So I would keep crossing their stories, and what correlated, what checked out identically, was the truth.

How did the two compare in their recounting of the events?

Dick had an absolutely fantastic memory--one of the greatest memories I have ever come across. The reason I know it's great is that I lived the entire trip the boys went on from the time of the murders up to the moment of their arrest in Las Vegas thousands of miles, what the boys called "the long ride." I went everywhere the boys had gone, all the hotel rooms, every single place in the book. Mexico, Acapulco, all of it. In the hotel in Miami Beach I stayed for three days until the manager realized why I was there and asked me to leave, which I was only too glad to do. Well, Dick could give me the names and addresses of any hotel or place along the route where they'd spent maybe just half a night. He told me when I got to Miami to take a taxi to such-and- such a place and get out on the boardwalk and it would be southwest of there, number 232, and opposite I'd find two umbrellas in the sand which advertised "Tan with Coppertone." That was how exact he was. He was the one who remembered the little card in the Mexico City hotel room in the corner of the mirror that reads "Your day ends at 2 p.m." He was extraordinary. Perry, on the other hand, was very bad at details of that sort, though he was good at remembering conversations and moods. He was concerned altogether in the overtones of things. He was much better at describing a general sort of mood or atmosphere than Dick who, though very sensitive, was impervious to that sort of thing.

What turned them back to the Clutter house after they'd almost decided to give up on the job?

Oh, Dick was always quite frank about that. I mean after it was all over. When they set out for the house that night, Dick was determined, before he ever went that if the girl, Nancy, was there he was going to rape her. It wouldn't have been an act of the moment--he had been thinking about it for weeks. He told me that was one of the main reasons he was so determined to go back after they thought, you know, for a moment, they wouldn't go. Because he'd been thinking about raping this girl for weeks and weeks. He had no idea what she looked like--after all. Floyd Wells, the man in prison who told them about the Clutters hadn't seen the girl in 10 years: it had to do with the fact that she was 15 or 16. He liked young girls much younger than Nancy Clutter actually.

What do you think would have happened if Perry had altered and not begun the killings. Do you think Dick would have done it?

No. There is such a thing as the ability to kill. Perry's particular psychosis had produced this ability. Dick was merely ambitious--he could plan the murder, but not commit it.

What was the boys' reaction to the killing?

They both finally decided that they had thoroughly enjoyed it. Once they started going, it became an immense emotional release. And they thought it was funny. With the criminal mind-- and both boys had criminal minds, believe me--what seems most extreme to us is very often, if it's the most expedient thing to do, the easiest thing for a criminal to do. Perry and Dick both used to say (a memorable phrase) that it was much easier to kill somebody than it was to cash a bad check. Passing a bad check requires a great deal of artistry and style, whereas just going in and killing somebody requires only that you pull a trigger.

There are some instances of this that aren't in the book. At one point, in Mexico, Perry and Dick had a terrific falling-out, and Perry said he was going to kill Dick. He said that he'd already killed five people--he was lying, adding one more than he should have (that was the Negro he kept telling Dick he'd killed years before in Las Vegas) and that one more murder wouldn't matter. It was simple enough. Perry's cliché about it was that if you've killed one person you can kill anybody. He'd look at Dick, as they drove along together, and he'd say to himself, Well, I really ought to kill him, it's a question of expediency.

They had two other murders planned that aren't mentioned in the book. Neither of them came off. One "victim" was a man who ran a restaurant in Mexico City--a Swiss. They had become friendly with him eating in his restaurant and when they were out of money they evolved this whole plan about robbing and murdering him. They went to his apartment in Mexico City and waited for him all night long. He never showed up. The other "victim" was a man they never even knew--like the Clutters. He was a banker in a small Kansas town. Dick kept telling Perry that sure, they might have failed with the Clutter score, but this Kansas banker job was absolutely for certain. They were going to kidnap him and ask for ransom, though the plan was, as you might imagine, to murder him right away.

When they went back to Kansas completely broke, that was the main plot they had in mind. What saved the banker was the ride the two boys took with Mr. Bell, yet another "victim" who was spared, as you remember, when he slowed down the car to pick up the Negro hitchhiker. Mr. Bell offered Dick a job in his meat-packing company. Dick took him up on it and spent two days there on the pickle line--putting pickles in ham sandwiches. I think it was before he and Perry went back on the road again.

Do you think Perry and Dick were surprised by what they were doing when they began the killings?

Perry never meant to kill the Clutters at all. He had a brain explosion. I don't think Dick was surprised, although later oh he pretended he was. He knew, even if Perry didn't, that Perry would do it, and he was right. It showed an awfully shrewd instinct on Dick's part. Perry was bothered by it to a certain extent because he'd actually done it. He was always trying to find out in his own mind why he did it. He was amazed he'd done it. Dick, on the other hand, wasn't amazed, didn't want to talk about it, and simply wanted to forget the whole thing: he wanted to get on with life.

Was there any sexual relationship, or such tendencies, between them?

No. None at all. Dick was aggressively heterosexual and had great success. Women liked him. As for Perry, his love for Willie-Jay in the State Prison was profound--and it was reciprocated, but never consummated physically, though there was the opportunity. The relationship between Perry and Dick was quite another matter. What is misleading, perhaps, is that in comparing himself with Dick, Perry used to say how totally "virile" Dick was. But he was referring, I think, to the practical and pragmatic sides of Dick--admiring them because as a dreamer he had none of that toughness himself at all.

Perry's sexual interests were practically nil. When Dick went to the whorehouses, Perry sat in the cafes, waiting. There was only one occasion--that was their first night in Mexico when the two of them went to a bordello run by an "old queen," according to Dick. Ten dollars was the price--which they weren't about to pay, and they said so. Well, the old queen looked at them and said perhaps he could arrange something for less: he disappeared and came out with this female midget about 3 feet 2 inches tall. Dick was disgusted, but Perry was madly excited. That was the only instance. Perry was such a little moralist after all.

How long do you think the two would have stayed together had they not been picked up in Las Vegas? Was the odd bond that kept them together beginning to fray? One senses in the rashness of their acts and plans a subconscious urge to be captured.

Dick planned to ditch Perry in Las Vegas, and I think he would have done so. No, I certainly don't think this particular pair wanted to be caught--though this is a common criminal phenomenon.

How do you yourself equate the sort of petty punk that Detective Alvin Dewey feels Dick is with the extraordinary violence in him--to "see hair all over the walls"?

Dick's was definitely a small-scale criminal mind. These violent phrases were simply a form of bragging meant to impress Perry, who wasimpressed, for he liked to think of Dick as being "tough." Perry was too sensitive to be "tough." Sensitive. But himself able to kill.

Is it one of the artistic limitations of the nonfiction novel that the writer is placed at the whim of chance? Suppose, in the case of "In Cold Blood," clemency had been granted? Or the two boys had been less interesting? Wouldn't the artistry of the book have suffered? Isn't luck involved?

It is true that I was in the peculiar situation of being involved in a slowly developing situation. I never knew until the events were well along whether a book was going to be possible. There was always the choice, after all, of whether to stop or go on. The book could have ended with the trial, with just a coda at the end explaining what had finally happened. If the principals had been uninteresting or completely uncooperative, I could have stopped and looked elsewhere, perhaps not very far. A nonfiction novel would have been written about any of the other prisoners in Death Row--York and Latham, or especially Lee Andrews. Andrews was the most subtly crazy person you can imagine--I mean there was just one thing wrong with him. He was the most rational, calm, bright young boy you'd ever want to meet. I mean really bright--which is what made him a truly awesome kind of person. Because his one flaw was, it didn't bother him at all to kill. Which is quite a trait. The people who crossed his path, well, to his way of thinking, the best thing to do with them was just to put them in their graves.

What other than murder might be a subject suitable for the nonfiction novel?

The other day someone suggested that the break-up of a marriage would be an interesting topic for a nonfiction novel. I disagreed. First of all, you'd have to find two people who would be willing--who'd sign a release. Second, their respective views on the subject-matter would be incoherent. And third, any couple who'd subject themselves to the scrutiny demanded would quite likely be a pair of kooks. But it's amazing how many events would work with the theory of the nonfiction novel in mind?the Watts riots, for example. They would provide a subject that satisfied the first essential of the nonfiction novel--that there is a timeless quality about the cause and events. That's important. If it's going to date, it can't be a work of art. The requisite would also be that you would have had to live through the riots, at least part of them, as a witness, so that a depth of perception could be acquired. That event, just three days. It would take years to do. You'd start with the family that instigated the riots without even meaning to.

With the nonfiction novel I suppose the temptation to fictionalize events, or a line of dialogue, for example, must at times be overwhelming. With "In Cold Blood" was there any invention of this sort to speak of--I was thinking specifically of the dog you described trotting along the road at the end of the section on Perry and Dick, and then later you introduce the next section on the two with Dick swerving to hit the dog. Was there actually a dog at that exact point in the narrative, or were you using this habit of Dick's as a fiction device to bridge the two sections?

No. There was a dog, and it was precisely as described. One doesn't spend almost six years on a book, the point of which is factual accuracy, and then give way to minor distortions. People are so suspicious. They ask, "How can you reconstruct the conversation of a dead girl, Nancy Clutter, without fictionalizing?" If they read the book carefully, they can see readily enough how it's done. It's a silly question. Each time Nancy appears in the narrative, there are witnesses to what she is saying and doing--phone calls, conversations, being overheard. When she walks the horse up from the river in the twilight, the hired man is a witness and talked to her then. The last time we see her, in her bedroom, Perry and Dick themselves were the witnesses, and told me what she had said. What is reported of her, even in the narrative form, is as accurate as many hours of questioning, over and over again, can make it. All of it is reconstructed from the evidence of witnesses which is implicit in the title of the first section of the book "The Last to See Them Alive."

How conscious were you of film techniques in planning the book?

Consciously, not at all. Subconsciously, who knows?

After their conviction, you spent years corresponding and visiting with the prisoners. What was the relationship between the two of them?

When they were taken to Death Row, they were right next door to each other. But they didn't talk much. Perry was intensely secretive and wouldn't ever talk because he didn't want the other prisoners--York, Latham, and particularly Andrews, whom he despised to hear anything that he had to say. He would write Dick notes on "kites" as he called them. He would reach out his hand and zip the "kite" into Dick's cell. Dick didn't much enjoy receiving these communications because they were always one form or another of recrimination--nothing to do with the Clutter crime, but just general dissatisfaction with things there in prison and. . .the people, very often Dick himself. Perry'd send Dick a note: "If I hear you tell another of those filthy jokes again I'll kill you when we go to the shower!" He was quite a little moralist, Perry, as I've said.

It was over a moral question that he and I had a tremendous falling-out once. It lasted for about two months. I used to send them things to read--both books and magazines. Dick only wanted girlie magazines--either those or magazines that had to do with cars and motors. I sent them both whatever they wanted. Well, Perry said to me one time: "How could a person like you go on contributing to the degeneracy of Dick's mind by sending him all this degenerate filthy literature?" Weren't they all sick enough without this further contribution towards their total moral decay? He'd got very grand talking in terms that way. I tried to explain to him that I was neither his judge nor Dick's--and if this was what Dick wanted to read, that was his business. Perry felt that was entirely wrong--that people had to fulfill an obligation towards moral leadership. Very grand. Well, I agree with him up to a point, but in the case of Dick's reading matter it was absurd, of course, and so we got into such a really serious argument about it that afterwards, for two months, he wouldn't speak or even write to me.

How often did the two correspond with you?

Except for those occasional fallings-out, they'd write twice a week. I wrote them both twice a week all those years. One letter to the both of them didn't work. I had to write them both, and I had to be careful not to be repetitious, because they were very jealous of each other. Or rather, Perry was terribly jealous of Dick, and if Dick got one more letter than he did, that would create a great crisis. I wrote them about what I was doing, and where I was living, describing everything in the most careful detail. Perry was interested in my dog, and I would always write about him, and send along pictures. I often wrote them about their legal problems.

Do you think if the social positions of the two boys had been different that their personalities would have been markedly different?

Of course, there wasn't anything peculiar about Dick's social position. He was a very ordinary boy who simply couldn't sustain any kind of normal relationship with anybody. If he had been given $10,000, perhaps he might have settled into some small business. But I don't think so. He had a very natural criminal instinct towards everything. He was oriented towards stealing from the beginning. On the other hand, I think Perry could have been an entirely different person. I really do. His life had been so incredibly abysmal that I don't see what chance he had as a little child except to steal and run wild.

Of course, you could say that his brother, with exactly the same background, went ahead and became the head of his class. What does it matter that he later killed himself. No, it's there--it's the fact that the brother did kill himself, in spite of his success, that shows how really awry the background of the Smiths' lives were. Terrifying. Perry had extraordinary qualities, but they just weren't channeled properly to put it mildly. He was a really a talented boy in a limited way--he had genuine sensitivity--and, as I've said, when he talked about himself as an artist, he wasn't really joking at all.

You once said that emotionality made you lose writing control--that you had to exhaust emotion before you could get to work. Was there a problem with "In Cold Blood," considering your involvement with the case and its principals?

Yes, it was a problem. Nevertheless, I felt in control throughout. However, I had great difficulty writing the last six or seven pages. This even took a physical form: hand paralysis. I finally used a typewriter--very awkward as I always write in longhand.

Your feeling about capital punishment is implicit in the title of the book. How do you feel the lot of Perry and Dick should have been resolved?

I feel that capital crimes should all be handled by Federal Courts, and that those convicted should be imprisoned in a special Federal prison where, conceivably, a life-sentence could mean, as it does not in state courts, just that.

Did you see the prisoners on their final day? Perry wrote you a 100-page letter that you received after the execution. Did he mention that he had written it?

Yes, I was with them the last hour before execution. No, Perry did not mention the letter. He only kissed me on the cheek, and said, "Adios, amigo."

What was the letter about?

It was a rambling letter, often intensely personal, often setting forth his various philosophies. He had been reading Santayana. Somewhere he had read "The Last Puritan," and had been very impressed by it. What I really think impressed him about me was that I had once visited Santayana at the Convent of the Blue Nuns in Rome. He always wanted me to go into great detail about that visit, Santayana had looked like, and the nuns, and all the physical details. Also, he had been reading Thoreau. Narratives didn't interest him at all. So in his letter he would write: "As Santayana says"--and then there'd be five pages of Santayana did say. Or he'd write: "I agree with Thoreau about this. Do you?"--then he'd write that he didn't care what I thought, and he'd add five or ten pages of what he agreed with Thoreau about.

The case must have left you with an extraordinary collection of memorabilia.

My files would almost fill a whole small room, right up to the ceiling. All my research. Hundreds of letters. Newspaper clippings. Court records--the court records almost fill two trunks. There were so many Federal hearings on the case. One Federal hearing was twice as long as the original court trial. A huge assemblage of stuff. I have some of the personal belongings--all of Perry's because he left me everything he owned; it was miserably little, his books, written in and annotated; the letters he received while in prison. . .not very many. . .his paintings and drawings. Rather a heartbreaking assemblage that arrived about a month after the execution. I simply couldn't bear to look at it for a long time. I finally sorted everything. Then, also, after the execution, that 100-age letter from Perry got to me. The last line of the letter--it's Thoreau, I think, a paraphrase, goes "And suddenly I realize life is the father and death is the mother." The last line. Extraordinary.

What will you do with this collection?

I think I may burn it all. You think I'm kidding? I'm not. The book is what is important. It exists in its own right. The rest of the material is extraneous, and it's personal. What's more, I don't really want people poking around in the material of six years of work and research. The book is the end result of all that, and it's exactly what I wanted to do from it.

Detective Dewey told me that he felt the case and your stays in Garden City had changed you--even your style of dress. . .that you were more "conservative" now, and had given up detachable collars. . .

Of course the case changed me! How could anyone live through such an experience without it profoundly affecting him? I've always been almost overly aware of the precipice we all walk along, the ridge and the abyss on either side; the last six years have increased this awareness to an almost all-pervading point. As for the rest--Mr. Dewey, a man for whom I have the utmost affection and respect, is perhaps confusing comparative youth (I was 35 when we first met) with the normal aging process. Six years ago I had four more teeth and considerably more hair than is now the case, and furthermore, I lost 20 pounds. I dress to accommodate the physical situation. By the way, I have never worn a detachable collar.

What are you going to work on now?

Well, having talked at such length about the nonfiction novel, I must admit I'm going to write a novel, a straight novel, one I've had in mind for about 15 years. But I will attempt the nonfiction form again--when the time comes and the subject appears and I recognize the possibilities. I have one very good idea for another one, but I'm going to let it simmer on the back of my head for awhile. It's quite a step--to undertake the nonfiction novel. Because the amount of work is enormous. The relationship between the author and all the people he must deal with if he does the job properly--well, it's a full 24-hour-a-day job. Even when I wasn't working on the book, I was somehow involved with all the characters in it with their personal lives, writing six or seven letters a day, taken up with their problems, a complete involvement. It's extraordinarily difficult and consuming, but for a writer who tries, doing it all the way down the line, the result can be a unique and exciting form of writing.

What has been the response of readers of "In Cold Blood" to date?

I've been staggered by the letters I've received, their quality of sensibility, their articulateness, the compassion of their authors. The letters are not fan letters. They're from people deeply concerned about what it is I've written about. About 70 percent of the letters think of the book as a reflection on American life, this collision between the desperate, ruthless, wandering, savage part of American life, and the other, which is insular and safe, more or less. It has struck them because there is something so awfully inevitable about what is going to happen: the people in the book are completely beyond their own control. For example, Perry wasn't an evil person. If he'd had any chance in life, things would have been different. But every illusion he'd ever had, well, they all evaporated, so that on that night he was so full of self-hatred and self-pity that I think he would have killedsomebody--perhaps not that night, or the next, or the next. You can't go through life without ever getting anything you want, ever.

At the very end of the book you give Alvin Dewey a scene in the country cemetery, a chance meeting with Sue Kidwell, which seems to synthesize the whole experience for him. Is there such a moment in your own case?

I'm still very much haunted by the whole thing. I have finished the book, but in a sense I haven't finished it: it keeps churning around in my head. It particularizes itself now and then, but not in the sense that it brings about a total conclusion. It's like the echo of E.M. Forster's Malabar Caves, the echo that's meaningless and yet it's there: one keeps hearing it all the time.

Mr. Plimpton is editor of The Paris Review, which has made a specialty of the long, tape- recorded literary review.

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