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rabid-heart · 4 years

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Good Bones

For @sefikuraweek Day 2 - Prompt: New Beginnings

Sephiroth asks Cloud to move in with him and Cloud says yes. But once the house hunting starts and Cloud rejects every possible suggestion, Sephiroth begins to doubt if Cloud’s heart is really in this relationship.

Rating: Teen and Up Audiences

Notes/Warnings: None really, other than one tiny brief mention of sex.

Inspired by the song "The Bones" by Maren Morris.

AU – Everybody Lives! Shina is no more, Sephiroth and Cloud have been dating for a few years, and now their biggest argument is about finding the right place to start this new chapter of their lives together.

(There is angst, because Sephiroth is just an angsty guy, but really the whole thing is just purely indulgent fluff.)

Read on Ao3 | See Previous Day

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“No.”

Sephiroth sighs, exasperation, exhaustion, and annoyance evident from the crease in his brow. He moves his hand away from his face and points at the laptop screen, while turning to his very stubborn boyfriend. “What’s wrong with this one now?” he asks.

Cloud simply huffs, as if that sound were enough to explain everything, and then walks away to the kitchen, leaving Sephiroth once again a little more than frustrated. It is not as if the former General himself was perfect at vocalizing his own thoughts and needs, particularly after a lifetime of being forced to suppress them, but Cloud’s pointed lack of clarity around this whole escapade had long begun stressing Sephiroth’s discipline and patience.

He pushes his chair back away from the desk and leans to watch Cloud dig into the refrigerator and pull out one of the soft-drinks that the blond had stocked in Sephiroth’s apartment. Those drinks are one sign, but there are many others – pieces of Cloud everywhere in the two bedroom condominium he had bought with his Shinra savings years ago: a blanket strewn on the black leather couch; junk food on the kitchen island (Sephiroth was never allowed junk food in his former life, but even after obtaining freedom from Shinra and Hojo’s strict meal plan, he had yet to develop a taste for that stuff); a toothbrush in the bathroom; some clothes and underwear in one of his dresser drawers. Even beyond those facts, Cloud himself arguably spent most of his nights with Sephiroth here, instead of in his actual living quarters in the house he shared with Zack, Kunsel, Aerith and Tifa (a place that Genesis not-so-affectionally dubbed the frat house).

They had been dating for over two years, though they had known each other for longer. In the end, Cloud Strife had now become invariably and inextricably woven into the fabric of Sephiroth’s life and space. He would either wake up to the blond in his arms or to a text message from Cloud. Most dinners they shared together, holding hands huddled in a restaurant booth or making a game of distracting each other while cooking. When Genesis and Angeal sent their wedding invitations, Cloud and Sephiroth’s names were on the cards together, as one. So, while Sephiroth had, admittedly, little relationship experience before this, asking Cloud if he would like to start living together seemed like a natural progression of the dance.

He did, on the advice of Aerith and Tifa, try to make the actual asking a romantic affair. He bought Cloud’s favorite whiskey, lit candles in the apartment, asked Aerith for her best roses. Cloud had seemed thrilled at the prospect, the usually scowling face instead blushing brightly throughout the evening. When Cloud had said yes, it started such a swell in Sephiroth’s heart that he was sure there was nothing else he could ever be more grateful for in his life. He had carried Cloud to his bedroom and made sure that the blond knew just how much he loved him, well through the night and into the hazy hours of the morning.

Then, something changed. They had agreed to find a new place, something that would let them have a true fresh start, something that they could turn into forever. But every open house Sephiroth suggested, every listing he found online had gotten summarily shut down. That would not have bothered Sephiroth as much had the blond provided more thorough explanations for his rejections, or at least explanations that were not so contradictory. Too far away from everything. Too close to the city. Too traditional. Too modern. Not enough space. Too much space. I don’t like the carpeting. I don’t like the kitchen. I don’t like the bathrooms.

Sephiroth had studiously jotted down the curt notes that Cloud had offered and then tried to adjust, come up with new possibilities. And yet, nothing seemed to please Cloud, not in the slightest. It became bizarre. Cloud did not act picky about anything other than his motorbike or his hair. And it did not make a difference that Sephiroth offered to finance renovations on an existing property to make it perfect. Cloud would shake his head, say it was too troublesome, and then move on to something else.

Sephiroth had considered himself an intelligent man, but this behavior tore at the boundaries of his understanding. He had begun to think that he had done something wrong, something to cause Cloud to suddenly grow cold on the idea of living together. He wracked his photographic memory for something – an offhand comment or gesture, a sign, even discussed the possibility with Genesis and Angeal over their weekly lunches together (Genesis called him a paranoid shithead, and while Angeal was much nicer about it, he essentially hinted at the same idea) – but could not find anything suspicious.

It had then dawned on Sephiroth that perhaps what Cloud was getting cold to was not the concept of moving in together – that maybe it was him. When that thought arose, he had quickly tried to push it down, bury it with all the other dark parts of his mind that he worked very hard to control. But try as he might to ignore it, it continued to nag away in the corners of his mind.

Even now, as he watches the blond kick close the refrigerator and wander into the living room to sit in front of the television, Sephiroth cannot help but wonder. Did Cloud really love him? Sephiroth had said it first, had felt it really from the moment Zack introduced them, and he was stunned into silence by the brilliance of those sky-blue eyes. Back then, Cloud was shyer and sweeter, but he had a stubborn streak a mile wide that often clashed with Sephiroth’s arrogance and tactlessness. They had fought often in the beginning, stumbling over misunderstandings and insecurities. But after a few honest and true conversations, things began to blossom. Sephiroth found himself being less afraid of being truly known and more willing to be honest and emotionally open. And Cloud in turn became more confident, less doubtful of his worth. They began fitting perfectly into each other’s lives, like pieces of an unusual, but beautiful puzzle.

Or at least, that had been what Sephiroth thought.

He turns to the computer screen, opened on a lovely four bedroom home just at the edge of Midgar proper – close enough to enjoy the central city, but far enough for peace. It has the large master bath, hardwood floors and open concept kitchen that Cloud had requested, and the laundry room, gas-range stove and garage that Sephiroth desired. Sephiroth had thought he struck the right compromise and had been excited at the idea of showing Cloud this new listing. But when they finished dinner and Sephiroth had pulled open his laptop, Cloud was simply as dismissive as he had been before.

Resignation begins to creep on Sephiroth now, like spiders crawling up his back. Dread, too, starts to mount in his chest. The weeks of this, the stress, the wondering, the doubt, the fear – it is too much, like an itch under his skin that he could not scratch for relief. He had pushed this conversation out for so long, under the guise of his own paranoia, but now, enough had become enough.

Sephiroth stands and walks into the living room. He reaches down for the television remote and shuts the program off, turns to face a perplexed Cloud and says, “I believe we need to talk.”

Cloud pauses, soda halfway to his lips, before putting the can down on the coffee table (no coaster, Sephiroth notes with a mild hint of irritation). “I was watching that, you know,” he responds casually.

“Cloud, I am serious.”

“You always are.”

Sephiroth closes his eyes, wills himself to breath, to calm, to still. “Do you still want to do this?” he asks, looking down at the blond sitting cross legged on his couch.

“Do what? Move in together?”

For a moment, Sephiroth considers taking the out – letting Cloud admit that he is not ready to live with him and allowing them to just resume their relationship as if nothing had happened at all. But Sephiroth knows that would not be enough for him now. He loves Cloud, wants to spend the rest of his mornings and nights with this man, but if Cloud does not feel the same, if he wants his freedom, then maybe it is best to let the blond go. Even if it means breaking open his own heart.

Sephiroth decides to push forward. “No. I mean our relationship.”

Cloud’s eyes suddenly widen in shock. “What?”

“Do you wish to continue this relationship?”

"I heard you,” Cloud says, standing up now. His face looks flushed, with anger, with embarrassment. “What I don’t understand is why you are asking this. What happened?”

Sephiroth looks down, for he knows if gazes in those blue eyes, he could never gather the necessary strength. “For the last few weeks, you have shown disinterest in every option for a new home together. I have tried my best to listen to your comments, but nothing seems to be right. I thought perhaps the true issue is that you no longer desire a life with me. I simply— I just…”

The words become trapped now, blocked by the swelling sorrow and fear in his chest. Is this it? Is he going to lose Cloud? Will he never hear that bell-like laughter, watch those blue eyes glaze with love and pleasure, dance in his living room to imaginary music with that lithe body, kiss that beautiful neck and those happy lips ever again?

He does not notice that Cloud has stepped close to him, until he feels a warm hand on his chest. Cloud glances upward, and the eyes Sephiroth loves are tinged with fear. “You don’t want to end this, right? You don’t want—”

“Of course not,” Sephiroth insists suddenly, grasping onto that hand tightly. “I love you. I love you more than anything, more than life itself and I--”

Then, Sephiroth stops, because Cloud, inexplicably, strangely, starts laughing. The blond presses his face against Sephiroth’s chest, and he can feel the vibrations of Cloud’s amusement and relief running through his body. It leaves Sephiroth feeling all the more mystified for it, and in his confusion, he finds himself locked in place and unable to move.

Finally, Cloud pulls back and looks at Sephiroth with slightly misty eyes. “You scared me, for a moment. I thought that you…oh, Gaia, Sephiroth. I’d never leave you, not for anything in this world or the next. I just needed another few weeks, that’s all.”

Sephiroth blinks at him, tilts his head. “I do not understand.”

The blond pauses for a moment, biting his lip in the way that he does whenever he is considering something. Then, he reaches down and tugs on Sephiroth’s hand. “Go get your jacket.”

“I don’t—”

“You won’t regret it, I promise.”

Sephiroth’s mouth opens to protest, to question, but Cloud is already moving, shoving his feet into his boots and slipping into his coat. The blond fishes into the ceramic bowl on the table next to the front entrance of the apartment and takes Sephiroth’s keys in his fingers. “I’m driving,” Cloud explains. “Now, c’mon!”

There appears to be no other option. Though his mind is still reeling from the whiplash of the last few moments, Sephiroth takes his jacket from the coat closet and follows Cloud down the hall, into the elevator and into the parking garage. Cloud is at his car quickly, with a springing nervousness to his step that Sephiroth only sees whenever the blond is excited about something. That recognition only serves amplify Sephiroth’s bafflement.

But he goes along anyway, watches as Cloud hops into the driver’s side of his car and complains again about having to adjust the seat for Sephiroth’s “impossibly long legs.” They drive in relative silence, Cloud with one hand on the steering wheel and the other entangled in Sephiroth’s own. It only takes a few minutes (with Cloud’s borderline reckless speed) for them to reach the edge of the city proper, and another ten or fifteen to reach the outskirts. Sephiroth recognizes their route. Since the deconstruction of the plate, the reactors and the wall, more and more residential districts have cropped up on the land surrounding Midgar, especially now that the Planet had begun to heal, and the ground had begun to repopulate the grass and flowers that used to be so scarce.

Finally, Cloud pulls up in front of a plot of land, with an unfinished two-story house sitting atop it. Some of the roofing had yet to be completed, windows installed, and outside walls painted, but the construction appeared strong and in good progress. Attached to the house is a large garage, and there is an unpaved path winding from the front door to the street. Though it is far from finished, looking at it now, Sephiroth can image the quiet, peaceful beauty of the place – the flowers they could plant along the walkway, the welcoming double-doors of the entrance, the little mailbox they could stand at the end of the path to the street. The house is slightly larger than most of the ones Sephiroth had been considering, but it still seemed comfortable all the same.

Sephiroth turns to Cloud now, bewilderment on his face. It is his turn to ask, “What?”

Cloud glances at him quickly, skittishly, then releases his hand and jumps out of the car. “Now, I know it’s a mess, but you should see the sketches Genesis gave to the contractor.”

“Genesis?” questions Sephiroth, as he steps out of the car. His mind flickers briefly to the lunch he shared with his two oldest friends earlier in the week, to Genesis’s teasing of his suspicion. He almost wants to sigh in mortification.

Cloud takes Sephiroth’s hand again, begins leading him up the path. “Angeal, Tifa and Aerith helped too, with picking out designs of stuff, making sure it would be things you’d like. Zack was useless, though, said we could just use him to help us move in.”

Us? Move in? His mind craters on the verge of shutdown. He stops abruptly, halfway to the front door, and Cloud turns to him with worry on his face.

“I’m sorry,” Sephiroth begins. “I’m sorry.”

Cloud is in front of him now, his hands around Sephiroth’s shoulders. He leans forward on his toes and closes the distance, kissing him gently but insistently, as if trying to push back the doubt and the fear that had been spilling from Sephiroth these past few weeks. He keeps going, tugging on the lapel of the man’s jacket to bring him even closer.

Then Cloud breaks the kiss, almost too soon. “I love you, Sephiroth Crescent. I love you and want to spend the rest of my life with you.” He then walks backward, and with a guilelessness that seems so at odds with the ferocity and skill of that kiss (but that was Cloud, that special contrast of sweetness and steel that made him so appealing, so seductive, so irresistible), he motions to the house behind him.

“So, I built you a house. Well, technically, it’s still in progress.”

Sephiroth tries to say something, but nothing comes out of his mouth. And yet, when the realization hits him, relief floods through his body like water over fire, and he can’t help but feel his cheeks tug into a wide smile. He pulls Cloud back into him, kisses him again and again, trailing his lips down that delicious jawline, the lobe of that ear, that wonderful neck. In between kisses, Cloud breathes out words in delight.

“It was an old building partially torn down and they said renovations would be done in six weeks, but they kept delaying things and finding issues and I was getting so nervous and I—”

“Mmhm,” Sephiroth hums, just kissing Cloud again. He can feel the blond laugh against his lips, but he merely takes the opening to explore the blond’s mouth, and almost rumbles in pure thrill at the way that Cloud’s laughter melts into a soft moan.

Then, the blond pushes him back, blushing red. “Stop, we’re in the middle of the street!”

The former General finally backs up, but can’t stop himself fully, can’t bring himself not to nip that adorable nose. “Alright.”

Cloud smiles but glances askew, apologetic. “I’m really sorry. I didn’t mean to send you on a wild goose chase for a mystery home. I just wanted to surprise you, and I wanted to build something for us. For our new beginning.”

The two then turn to the building now, still empty and still incomplete. But with a bit of magic and imagination, Sephiroth could see it – the promises of comfort, of love, of peace, of a whole lifetime, held up by the good bones of this house. He could see the garden out front, Yule decorations hanging from the roof, the warm glow of fireplace light within. Most of all, Sephiroth could see himself happy here, for the rest of his life, with the man that he could hardly believe he had the good fortune to love.

Cloud squeezes his hand, softly, gently. “I can show you the sketches, if you’d like?”

“No need,” Sephiroth whispers, as he dips down to kiss him once more. “If it’s from you, I know it will be perfect.”

#sefikuraweek #sefikura #sephiroth x cloud #sephiroth #cloud strife #final fantasy vii #final fantasy vii remake #prompt: new beginnings #sfw

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not-bumbles-guthrie · 3 years

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When The Beasts Run Wild

A weird choice for a first tumblr post but alas! I must undermine expectation! If you’re unlucky enough to be interested in reading this, here’s a little description:

In a deserted environment, brutalized by nuclear fallout, we find Cherry. She’s a quiet, nihilistic young woman plagued by the knowledge that she has lived her entire life in the remains of a society that no longer exists. The story follows her as her fellow survivors celebrate the Summer Solstice. Unfortunately, more seems to be at hand as it dawns upon Cherry and her lover that the world might be ending soon.

When it came to the explosion, no one imagined it would lead to the downfall of humanity. It would lead us to a return to order, an acoustic version of the world the humans had created. They would no longer be a part of it. It was a strange concept to grow used to as the days passed, and people were eaten at by the radiation. Of course, there were people that ran to the nuclear hostels, the ones hidden deep in the underbelly of Mother Earth. Yet, they talk of those places being overrun. One person says they were there when the President was found, slumped over. She’d also been killed by the radiation from the second blast. The person who told me this would die too in the coming weeks. Her face was bloodied when she took her last breath, shaky and demure. Then, with a flourish, she sucked in one last time, as hard as she could, and breathed out, “Fin!” While she didn’t have the strength for that exclamation point, I like to imagine her enthusiasm behind it is deserving of the emphasis.

Dogs run free now. If I had to take a guess on who ruled the expanse of land Mother left us, it would be them. She seems to have made them impervious to the air, to the invisible killer. Then again, we believe that she made us impervious to the same air. Perhaps we are just lucky, though. The dogs are destined. Eventually, we will die out. I don’t think the same can be said about the puppies, with their floppy ears and jovial smiles that cut through the particles.

I toss a piece of my flatbread to the yappy pup at my ankle. Her name is Annika, after Queenie’s grandmother who survived the first blast only to die because of the second one. She isn’t my dog; unlike most of the people here, I don’t choose dogs. They find me, visit me, and then they drift away either to their human companions or back to the dust and decay. Mother Earth would’ve blessed me with one if She wanted me to tend to a dog. They are Her chosen successors, after all. I’m merely here to die and be eaten by one of them when the time comes for my body to return to Mother through a dog’s shit that will hopefully make this land fertile once more.

Or maybe it won’t. Who fucking cares? It’s not like there’s a 9 a.m. office job to attend or a peewee football game to cheer on my snot-nosed kids at. There’s the dogs, the open sores, the radiation, and Mother Earth. That’s all. Those are the last things a human will ever know.

I used to ponder what the limits of humanity would be. I thought I would see the end of it, and that ending would be magical. We would finally know what the finality of the human brain was, what its capacity was. However, it’s become quickly apparent that in my eighteen years, nothing will ever show me that capacity. This is the capacity. The height of human invention and creativity? Its own destruction. How poetic. And to think, I was a baby and I missed it all.

It’s weird, living in a sarcophagus of time. I know everything about a culture that is dead. A species that is dead. Soon, I will be dead too. I’ve been told, by a doctor who lives in the camp, that most of us will only make it another 15 years. Maybe I’ll make it longer, he said, because I miraculously survived the first two blasts before the age of five. If I didn’t die then, perhaps I’m meant to last long enough to outlive the cancers and the ARS. Personally, I don’t think he was a very smart doctor. Even I know that’s not how radiation works. Put simply, I will be dead. It’s only a matter of when Mother Earth decides to reclaim me.

Father sits in The Temple when I return with Annika. The growth of what few flowers and vegetables can be produced in this climate surround him, billowing at his feet. His toenails were kissed by the vines of the potatoes, which had grown gnarly like his bunions. Father was a sight for sore eyes, with the fallout aging him past his years. He deserved to have a big, great white beard, but alas. All he had to show for his near two decades of turmoil was a small patch of growth on his face. He no longer had a full head of hair, and the sores on his skull near his neck opened daily with each movement. That’s what filled my vision as I walked towards him, as his head was bowed in prayer.

“Father,” came out soft and trembling. I cleared my throat. No need for that.

“Any news? Has Her Graciousness spoken to you?”

He spoke about Mother with a reverence that no one in the group possessed. He worshipped her. My mouth became dry, and its taste made me nauseated. There was nothing to report. Mother Earth had never spoken to me. She never spoke to him, why would that change with me?

“Yes, Father. She has.”

His eyes widened, pupils dilating as he took in more light. Blue rhinestones. “What did She tell you?”

I glared at Annita, nudging my head to snap back and tell her to kindly fuck off. The stupid animal simply sat there and stared at me. I rolled my eyes. “Stupid girl,” I muttered before looking Father in his eyes. “Mother Earth tells me that we will be safe for the coming Solstice.”

We had no idea if the Summer Solstice was close or not, actually. We assumed, based on the markings Monsignor Karl had kept for the past nineteen years since the first blast knocked out the power grid in the eastern hemisphere. He was the original Keeper, passing on the reins to Ingrid after he passed. It was hard to watch him go, as the cancer overtook him. For the last weeks, he did nothing but bleed from his mouth. Thanks to him, we are able to honor Mother. Kind of.

“That’s a good girl. Thank you, Cherry.”

I nodded in response, bowing at Father, before walking away. Annita followed me, yipping as we made our way to Camp. Ingrid acknowledged me with a demure nod as I passed her. She wore an ornate necklace, one that was found through scavenging when the Monsignor was still alive, that held a long-stopped pocket watch as its pendant. It was the Monsignor. It ran for the first few weeks following the Chernobyl incident, before the battery finally died. It was what helped him keep the time in the first days. Now, Ingrid wore it to simply mark herself as a special one. She could study sun patterns and tell you the approximate time of day, which made her invaluable, especially when it came down to times like the Solstices. These days, though, she seemed to be slipping up more and more. It made sense, given she was always awake when I woke up for my nightly leak. She had to be tired after being up half the night.

“Hey,” I called out before plopping myself down in front of her sundial.

“Hey yourself. Your shadow is fucking up my clock.”

That was all I needed before I was brushing myself off and moving away from Gritty. It was no matter; she was routinely not in the mood to fuck around. “Talk to you later, precious. Perhaps I’ll visit you on your nightly ‘stare at the sky’ session?”

“Fuck you,” came from behind me as I walked away. “Go concoct more lies.”

The last part came out quietly, as a small tease. My body froze up at first, with my back to her, but I could hear her chuckling in the annoying way she would. I flipped her off before turning into the tent that held our food. Dinner, it appeared, was served.

The small feast consisted of grains, including sunflower seeds, and bits of wild strawberry. For the group of ten people, it would barely make us feel full, but it was enough to satisfy the Itch. When your stomach lining is eaten away for so long, even a smidge of food does away with the Itch for a few. It would at least let us sleep until the Sun came up, flooding us with the blessings of Mother. Ingrid sat across from me, kicking at my shins when she caught me staring at her plate, which was empty but for a bit of juice stain from the strawberries.

“Perv,” she said with as much menace as love. Her smirk told me everything.

I rolled my eyes, playing with my ponytail, wrapping it around the ends of my finger. Perv. It rang over and over in my mind. So what? Was how I wanted to respond. I didn’t, though. My throat stopped me. My heart stopped me.

“Thank you for this blessed bounty, Mother Earth,” Father’s voice rang out.

“Thank you, Mother,” we whispered in a low baritone. Our heads were bowed over our empty plates.

“We worship you for saving us, Lover. Thank you for blessing us with eternal servitude to you. We will cleanse your Home, Wife,” Father continued with our heads dipping further towards our empty plates. There was a small clang as my glasses hit the edge of the ceramic. Gritty kicked at me again. I almost giggled.

This was my moment. I knew this. I had practiced this countless times. I raised my head to see the crown of Ingrid’s head, and I stopped for a minute. Her dark hair caught the last rays of the sun, and I was blinded. My voice cracked as I started us all in, singing, “Danke- Danke schoen, darling, danke schoen.”

“Thank you for all the joy you bring,” everyone started in on the second line, holding their hands out to each other.

Miss Fieri grabbed my hand. Her painted red nails scratched at my palm, and the old hole in the corner of her lip caught my eye as I faced her. Her face sagged, and her eyeliner was smudged. It was a miracle she had any. To my right, Monsignor Karl’s son, Vlad, sat though I had to reach out to wrap my palm around his amputated wrist. He smiled as he sang the lines, “Save those lies, darling, don’t explain.” It was strange to think about the fact that Mother blessed him with the stupid mustache the twinkled with as we sat there, singing. Yet, he was too stupid to become the next Keeper. That’s why we have Gritty.

Across from me, Gritty winked at me. She nodded at my hand on Vlad’s stump, and I knew what she was doing. Who’s the perv now? I thought. I relinquished my smile, giving her a disappointed nod. “Get your head out of the gutter,” I mouthed while Queenie fucked up the “Auf wiedersehen” despite the fact that her mother is from Germany. Dumbass. Gritty caught my look towards Queenie, smiling. She flipped her hair, impersonating the prima donna. I held in my laughter, smiling at her. I shook my head again, but this time in appreciation.

Then, I saw Father’s gaze. His eyes narrowed, brows furrowed so that the long spindly hairs were more apparent. His scar across his face was terrifying enough without the expression. I avoided looking him in the eye for a reason. My mouth formed a thin line in response. I bowed my head, and we finished the hymnal for Mother. We let go of each other’s hands to our lips, kissing our hands, and shooting the kisses towards the ground. Oppa and Kyle gave small whoops and hollers as the old woman and the young man hugged each other. I watched them closely, noting the miracle of their friendship.

“Thinking about the time you fucked him?”

“Fuck you, Gritty. It was four years ago.”

“We all know how formative that was for you.”

“You fucked him too. Shut up.”

“You know we’re supposed to fuck him again.”

“Yeah,” I whispered as we walked further from the tent. Oppa and Kyle went their separate ways, with the kind old woman heading to her tent, wrapped in her shawl she swears Stevie gave her. Kyle appeared to be more preoccupied with the new girl we picked up. Her name was Cola. Like the soda. She was his new toy. She was only fifteen, but she told Father she hadn’t lost her virginity yet. We were supposed to give her unto Mother soon because of that. I don’t know why she bothered to stay. I suppose the food alone is worth it, maybe the dogs. She’s only been here a week and she already found a little dachshund to be her companion. She’s taken to calling him Nilla. Gritty and I passed them, and I gave Nilla a little pat on the head as he came up to my ankles and pushed his nose against me.

“Do you think they’ll force us to do it when we hold the Ceremony for her?” I asked once we were out of earshot.

“Probably. Father is known for liking convenience,” She responded quietly. Her tone was melancholic.

We found our way out of the light of the camp fires. I scooped her hand into mine. “That’s true. It’s been too long since the last time.”

“I don’t know why we’re supposed to wait until the Solstice.”

“It’s because it’s spring. Fertility and all that shit.”

“Isn’t sex supposed to be sacred? What does the time period have to do with that?”

“I don’t know, man. Stop asking such stupid questions.” I let go of her hand, picking up a stick instead.

She folded her arms across her chest. “Just because you don’t want Mother’s babies doesn’t mean you gotta be a dick because I’m asking questions.”

“It’s not that, and you know it, Grit.”

“Then what is it, Cher?”

I rolled my eyes, facing away from her. “It’s easier to just do this shit than think about why it makes no sense.” It was as close of an answer I could give.

“Yeah, but doesn’t it kill you that Mother Earth says it’s just a sacred act but instead we treat it like this fucking parade that happens once a year. Sometimes twice, if Kyle doesn’t get his jizz in us.” Her head was cocked to the side as she studied me. We stopped at the edge of the woods like we always did. We knew no one could see us all the way out here. They just assumed we were playing in the woods, as we had since kids. Not questioning the basis of our existence. I threw the stick into the woods, hearing a small yelp from some animal. Probably a cat, from the sound. “I just…” I plopped on the ground next to a rock, resting my elbow against it. “It’s easier to not think about it instead of what we can’t do.”

“What is it that you want to do?”

“You know what I want to do,” I fire back.

Her mouth snapped shut. She came and sat down next to me. “You’re the only one stopping that from happening.”

“Existentialism doesn’t work when you live in a nuclear wasteland,” I responded as she put her head on my shoulder. “You’re looking for trouble,” I whisper as her hair tickles my ear.

“Maybe I am.” She shifted so her bicep rubbed mine. “Though, I suppose, you’re looking for it too.”

I stared out ahead of me, looking at the stars that peaked up from the line of mountains. The sun was sinking fast, so only a small blue line spread across the sky, and it only served to continue to illuminate the stars. They were twinkling, like the look in Ingrid’s eye or the way the last rays bounced off her pendant. I wanted to sink into the folds of her essence, even if that was the exact trouble she was getting me into. Her cheekbones were highlighted in the rising moonlight, eyes curled up in a smile. I flicked her black hair behind her shoulder, holding it close to my nose for a brief moment. Beauty incarnate.

“You’re right.” I sighed as I sat back to look her in the eye. “I don’t understand why things got so twisted around here, but they did. Perhaps Mother wants it that way. I can’t tell. She doesn’t speak to me. But you knew that, didn’t you?” I joked, tugging on the braid in her hair.

She smiled, poking my shoulder. “Yes. Perhaps She doesn’t exist at all, have you thought of that?”

My eyes widened, and I almost looked behind me to make sure no one heard her. “That’s not true, and you know it. Why else are we here?”

“Pure chance. Luck. Destiny.” She moved closer to me; her breath fanned over my face. “Have you considered why we’re here?”

I sat back, sitting upright. “No.”

“Maybe you should.”

“Mother exists. Nietzche was right, but Mother isn’t God.”

“I think Father killed her, though.”

“What do you mean?”

��The words have been twisted. The principles have been twisted. Shit, we worship the Earth because of some age old religion that ruled the before times. Wake up, Cherry.”

We weren’t close to each other anymore. We both sat upright, rod straight. Her dark, arched brows captured my attention and I stared at them as she stared at the plains of my face. “It’s not like you and I can do anything to change that. Father rules over us, protects us. At least we have food. At least we’re living in the meantime.”

“I don’t think we’re going to be here for long.”

“I-” I stuttered, stopping. “Grit, what are you on?”

Her eyes were serious. Their brown expanse was narrowed for the first time in a long time. They were hard, determined to be taken for reality. She looked practically possessed. Her dark eyes were almost black. She didn’t speak for a moment. “Ingrid, please, tell me.”

The lost, yet determined, look in her eyes faded and she grabbed my chin, pointing my head towards the sky. “You see all those stars?” I made a noise to affirm yes. “Do you see that green one? Over to the left of the moon?” I made another noise. “That’s a new star. I don’t believe it to be a star, though.”

She let go of me, though her hand held my face still. “Oh,” is all I said. The world came together like a puzzle piece at that moment. That was why she was being so careless as of late. That’s why we were here now.

“You’re going to kiss me before the world ends, right?” I asked in a petite voice that almost broke. It was the only thing I thought of as it occurred to me that my prediction would be coming true sooner than I thought.

It was then that she tucked her hands into the base of my ponytail, anchoring herself to me as she pulled me forward to touch her lips to mine. They tasted of cherry chapstick, something she must have collected when she went out exploring to the local abandoned gas station a few days ago. My tongue instinctively reached out for a better taste, and she let me in. It was then that my hands were all over here, and she kissed me harder.

A week passed, and the Ceremony was upon us. Cola was going to be the star of the show. She was dressed in a red bridesmaid dress we found on one of the group explorations we went on. It fit her perfectly, and coupled with the dandelions in her curly red hair, she was fit to be the Solstice Queen. Kyle was also dressed in his suit that he’d worn for the past two years. Ingrid sat in front of her sun dial, dressed in her normal pair of jeans and a t shirt with holes. She couldn’t be convinced to dress up. I, however, was in a new dress Father had given me. It was a wedding dress like Princess Di’s. It was found in a thrift store, and he had held onto it for this Solstice celebration. It was poofy, and I was forced to wear the headpiece with it. I looked like a sullen bride, with my stained face and ratty hair. Queenie dyed my lips red with leftover strawberry juice. Gritty told me I looked like a pig to slaughter. She was probably right.

“Cherry,” Father called out in his quiet tone. “Come ‘ere.”

I shuffled towards him, passing Kyle and Cola, who stood whispering and touching each other. “Yes, Father?”

The sun was high in the sky, forcing Father to cover his eyes. “Will you get Ingrid in her dress? I know you two are close.” When he saw the light leave my eyes, he continued, “We have to prepare for our Solstice Queen’s first Outing.”

“Yes, Father.”

“I’m sure you can persuade her,” he said with a smirk.

My heart levitated, escaping my ribcage. I looked across the field, over Father’s shoulder, and made eye contact with Gritty. She was looking straight at me with a similar expression to the other night when she revealed to me the nature of the future.

“Yes, Father.”

I passed by Ingrid, nudging her shoulder with mine as I grabbed onto her and forced her to follow me. “Get your fucking dress on,” I mumbled as I led her to her tent.

“He knows, doesn’t he?”

“Probably. He’s acting funny.”

“How would he know?”

“You don’t exactly hide it.”

“Neither do you. You drool in my presence.”

I glared at her. “Bitch.”

“It’s just the truth.”

I rolled my eyes. “Just get dressed. It’s almost twelve. We have to get this show on the road.”

“Wow jeez can’t wait.” Her voice was saccharine.

I didn’t respond. I just waited for her to get into her flowy gown. It was peach colored, and it made her look washed out. Her hair stood out, at least. I played with the ends of it after I helped zip her into the dress. “You look great,” I said in an aimless attempt at flirting.

“Thank you,” she said quietly.

It was a miracle she was here. Ingrid had the magical way of being everything all at once. She made me want to relive the artifacts of the past, to dive into that sarcophagus. It hurt knowing that the world was taking that away. It had taken away so much. Mother had taken away so much. I suppose someone has to pay for the sins of the humans past, but I didn’t imagine it would be me. The visceral part of me, in my heart, felt the pain of this realization. I was the penance for disrespecting Mother. This was my service. This was why we did the Solstice Outings. This was why Kyle, Father, and Vlad and the rest of them could fuck whoever whenever. It was why they called it fucking for them instead of an Outing for us. It felt wrong to call what me and Gritty did fucking. It wasn’t that. It was something sweeter, less one-sided. Then again, what we did is the sin that brought us to this aftermath in the first place.

“Is this the price we pay?” I asked as I braided her hair. “Forever damned to a lack of pleasure and to death?”

“I suppose.” She sighed, looking disjointed though connected to what I was saying. “It doesn’t have to be like this. We choose it to be.”

“There you go with existentialism again.”

“It’s not philosophy, my dear. It’s how things are.”

“I didn’t ask to be left to this world. To be forced into this stupid shit.”

“No, you didn’t. But you worship the people, the men, who made it this way.”

“So do you.”

“Doesn’t make it any less true.”

I let go of her last braid, letting it come undone. “Whatever. Let’s just get this over with.”

“What does being free mean to you, Cherry?”

“What are you? A cheesy sitcom? Let’s go.”

I walked out of the tent without looking back. Whatever. Whatever. Whatever.

The Ceremony lacked the pomp and circumstance that many of past Ceremonies would have had. There weren’t many flowers we cultivated beyond weeds. We made a bed out of hay, grass, and these pesky flowers. Ingrid and I held onto Cola as we walked her into the circle of people, which consisted of our tribe. Father stood at the head of the pack, with Kyle standing next to him and Oppa on the other side. She was the eldest in our bunch, so she got to be on his right hand side while Kyle stood on the left. Everyone hummed the Hymnal, while sometimes people sang a few of the words.

Danke shoen, darling. Danke schoen...

I wore the veil in front of my face while Gritty and Cola bowed their heads. Cola was only fifteen, from the looks of her, and I felt a pang in my heart as I remembered that Kyle was two years older than me. He was twenty. The difference sat in the pit of my stomach, sickening me, as Cola smiled so sweetly at him. We were by the bed of flowers now. The humming had stopped. She was pure, still. She was worth worshipping. That would change once this was over. She’d be expected to work the fields, collect things. She’d become withered and worn like the rest of us. She was no stranger to hard work, I knew that. She had survived for this long on her own when her mother died a few months ago. Her innocence was simply so palatable in this moment. Though, perhaps that was the problem. I boiled her down to this ball of naivety when she probably had seen more shit in her lifetime than I had. She was nomadic, built with “street smarts” as they used to call it. She was human. That was why the disgust laid heavy on me.

Father put his hand on Kyle’s shoulder. He smiled in his robes, which were really just shawls we found and blessed him with. He stood with a glint in his eye as he spoke. “Thank you, everyone. Mother Earth has blessed us with a new addition, and may we bless her unto the Earth and manifest Her bounty.”

We nodded, some people making a few grunts in affirmation. Gritty stood stoic, unwilling to do anything more than bow her head. I saw out of the corner of my eye a droplet fall from her face to the floor.

“Cola, darling, step away from your sisters and lay yourself upon our Mother.”

The human stepped forward, kneeling before Father, reaching up to touch the top of his toes from a praying position, before she moved to lay on her chest. From there, Kyle stepped forward, bowing to Father, and then he bent down to unzip Cola’s dress. The red peeled back to reveal white. It was like reverse bleeding. Instead of finding the depth of a person, we were finding the outer shell. Perhaps that was how one got through this.

From there, she was stripped. The dress fell from her chest, revealing her budding breasts, before Kyle pulled it down and off of her, revealing her naked body to the rest of us. He touched her breasts, cupping them roughly, before biting at them. She laid there still, waiting for it to be over. Or at least that’s what I presumed. She didn’t act enthused. That wasn’t her job. Her job was to be there, to pleasure him. Everyone started humming, though not the Hymnal. A different song.

I made it through the wilderness,

Somehow I made it through.

Thankfully, we didn’t sing the lyrics. We hummed. We hummed louder when she started to groan in pain. We hummed even louder when he covered her mouth. We hummed louder still when he finished. We stopped when she sat up. She covered herself again, walking to join us again. She had given herself unto the Earth.

“She gave herself unto him,” Gritty whispered.

I didn’t respond. The sun shined in my eyes, blinding me, as we walked away. Kyle wouldn’t be ready again for another five hours or so, leaving us to tend to Cola before it was my turn. Then, we would turn in for the night before it was Ingrid’s turn in the morning.

It was strange, having an appointment for something like this. It made it better, I suppose, than being shocked by it. Cola wiped at her eyes as we went to Ingrid’s tent. I offered her a shoulder, wrapping an arm around her as we all piled onto Gritty’s cot.

When the sun started to set, we were woken from our nap. Father stood at the opening of the tent. His hands rested on his hips, making dual triangles. His face read of disappointment.

“You silly girls,” he said with a jovial smile, the disappointment fading. “You know it’s inappropriate to sleep together.”

“Sorry, Father,” I started as Cola started to wake up next to me.

“Shut up,” his voice came out hard. He softened as he said, “Just don’t do it again, okay?” though he looked to Cola, not me.

“Sorry, Father,” she said quietly.

“Good girl,” he said back before walking away.

Funny how easy it is to become a pet if you let yourself. Though that was what Gritty was talking about. I chose not to judge Cola because of this.

We got up, picking at each other to make each other primed for another Outing. Gritty fixed my hair, sneaking a small kiss on the cheek before the tent door opened and Oppa came in.

“Let’s go, girls. There’s a shooting comet we see coming our way across the sky. We want to watch it when the sun goes down.”

Gritty and I looked towards each other, and she smiled. My Outing was on a schedule. My life was on a schedule. We knew what this meant. I looked Oppa in the eye. “I’m coming!” It came out happy, bright. It was filled with the last squeeze of life from my lemon.

I left the tent in a flourish. This was it. This was the end. I felt the joy buried beneath me come undone. The string has been cut! I am free. I walk quickly, with Cola and Gritty on either side of me.

“You’ve never looked so excited to be fucked like a stuffed pig,” She teased me quietly.

I looked over to her as we walked to the tune of the Hymnal. “It doesn't have to be like this, remember?” I smiled wide, aware that I looked a little unhinged.

“Yes, you’re right,” she whispered before I stepped away and kneeled down. I didn’t bother to touch the toes of Father before I laid down. In fact, I reached behind me and started to work my zipper down. Kyle murmured, “I got it,” but I didn’t listen to him. His hand stood close to mine as the zipper was worked down. The fabric billowed around me, squishy as I worked my way out of it.

“Cherry, this isn’t how the Outing goes,” he whispered quietly as Father stared down at us.

I didn’t respond. I finished my way out of the dress. I stood up, stepped out of it, and looked Gritty in the eyes. I was naked. Exposed. The stars were looking upon me, as was everyone else. I chose this. It was then that a hand pushed me down, hard, onto my knees. I saw Gritty freeze up, and Cola held onto her harder.

“Cherry,” Father’s voice came out cold. “This is not how the Outing is done.” He pushed me back onto the bed of growth. “Have your way, Kyle,” he said as I laid there, spread out like a plate of hors de o’deauvrs. The circle began to sing.

My fear is fading fast

Been saving it all for you

He bit me, ate my skin, before he fucked me. It was a blip in time. I looked towards the green star, the thing that was coming to destroy us. It was beautiful. I saw life in it. I saw the beauty in all things. I forgot that there was a boy fucking me, brutalizing me, making me his meal. His object. I didn’t care. I wasn’t his. I was this star’s. I was death impending. I was free.

When he was done, I didn’t wait. I plopped upright and walked away naked, forgetting the stupid costume. I wrapped an arm around Gritty’s waist before taking her hand and running off into the night. My bare feet pounded across the wasteland’s floor. The star was coming closer. It would be here soon. I knew this chapter was coming to a close. I was going to end it with her.

We made our way to the edge of the forest.

“Can I unzip you?” I asked Ingrid.

She nodded, smiling, as she turned around and pulled her elegant hair towards her front. It twinkled and wrinkled down her breasts. She was elegance, the form of death that I least expected. I pulled her close and kissed her, enveloping myself in her the way I needed to a week ago. I heard the sounds from the camp as the sun disappeared but the star came closer and illuminated the expanse of earth. I paid them no mind as I danced with Ingrid. Eventually, we became dizzy and fell.

Her hand laid on my bicep, and mine on hers. We stared up to the sky as we had a week ago when we kissed for the first time. The green of the meteor shooting towards us blinded me, but I kept my eyes open. I started to sing quietly as Ingrid’s fingers played at my skin, touching me. “Danke schoen, darling, danke schoen. Thank you for walks down Lover's Lane.”

My voice was awkward, and I didn’t sing in tune. Ingrid rolled into me all the same, shielding herself from the green glow. I wrapped her hair around my finger. This was death. It was beautiful. She was beautiful. She was who I wanted to die with.

“This is what free means to me,” I whispered as she continued to hum the song, taking it for her own.

I could see the details of the rock now. The edges were curved, like the indents of her body. My heart left its cage. It floated above me, blocking out the death rock. This was what was coming to claim me. It sung the song of my soul, repeating back to me the song I had just been singing. It was mine. This was my choice.

The green became more intense. She wrapped herself closer to me. My heart sung louder. This was it. Whatever. Whatever. Whatever.

#lgbtq #gay #lgbtq romance #romance #apocalypse #chernobyl #end of the world #short story #my writing #creative writing

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peepingtoad · 4 years

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|| @dokuhebi cont. {x}

The peculiar period of downtime that they’d found themselves enjoying ever since the destruction of the other hideout, short-lived as it would no doubt be, had borne witness to the reveal of some truths that could never have come to light while he was still Orochimaru’s captive. Now they were in another of the many laboratories that could technically be considered ‘part’ of Otogakure, except this one was far, far flung from the sight of prying shinobi—not even Danzō had any hand in the funding or knew the whereabouts of this place—and of course, the timing was such that the expiry date on the sacrificial vessel he and Tsunade had met during the Deadlock was drawing ever nearer.

While this said a lot about exactly how long he’d been cooped up, it had proven more interesting in Jiraiya’s eyes, by this point, to wonder anew how Orochimaru had managed to weasel their way around the permanent obliteration of the chakra network to their arms. Knowing their sensei’s last-ditch jutsu, this was a feat the sage had previously thought impossible until they’d managed to snap him up and seal him in the forest, like a frog tempted closer by the innocent flick of the adder’s tongue… but particularly since their impromptu flight across the land, and especially what with having his own chakra restored, it became ever more apparent that the situation wasn’t quite so clear cut.

Ever one to observe quietly and gather his thoughts (whenever he wasn’t being boisterous and charging thoughtlessly ahead; such is the duality of man, or this man at least), Jiraiya said nothing when he first noticed the increased use of wrappings around their hands, and the certain quiver that was uncharacteristic of the graceful yet confident gestures he knew. Of course, he also noticed how Kabuto seemed to be the only one in and out of labs while Orochimaru spent more time lounging around—and while yes, this was often to spend time with him, Jiraiya couldn’t simply chalk it up to being a wonderful distraction, even if it would tickle his ego. Not when they so often seemed agitated by an itch for activity that they clearly couldn’t scratch, and particularly not when with increasing frequency they avoided laying their hands upon him in that lovely, possessive way he adored.

However, he wouldn’t call them out on their secret-keeping until meditation, and the awakening of a sage’s ability to sense all around him, showed him exactly what was going on—that cells were beginning to die, that chakra capillaries were deteriorating like old and frayed cables unable to communicate signals, and that this process of death, while gradual, was only beginning with this particular point of weakness. It wasn’t just the Reaper Death Seal that was behind their condition; it was all tied in with the Body Possession, too.

By the time they placate him with the barest of explanations, he already knows that they hide the full extent of what’s to come, and the implications of what must happen next (and soon) to remedy that... are grim. It is where their ideals come to a definite nexus, the reason that they've had to consider each other as enemies for so long, until happenstance led to choices that would solder their fates together once more.

Most critically of all though, it presents Jiraiya with a question he’s avoided until now: can I support this?

Amid numerous growing concerns, witnessing their ailing health only becomes more of a struggle to watch. But the final straw comes when they retire to bathe one evening, and yet many minutes pass—five, ten, fifteen—without even a drip of water to be heard, no shower before the bath, nothing to suggest that any other personal grooming is underway.

He finds them perched on the stool used normally for cleansing before entering the bath, having evidently made attempts to turn on the tap, so he quickly completes the task, and within moments steam fogs up the room. It would seem propriety may have to take a back seat for simply getting them in and comfortable, this time—Jiraiya wasn’t fool enough to think they’d allow the indignity of him stripping and washing them beforehand, but he certainly has plans to do so once they’re relaxed.

“Mm,” he replies simply at their assertion, a response he may as well not have given for how focused he is on unravelling the bandages with utmost care. He doesn’t need to see the damage itself to know that Orochimaru justifying themself is the very first sign that they aren’t satisfied in this situation, that they are perhaps embarrassed or even ashamed by the cost of their ability... but revealing the tender skin, mottled slightly mauve with the beginnings of that deterioration he’d sensed on a cellular level, certainly hits differently. Still, he keeps it hidden from his expression (as best as he can, at least), not wishing to rock the boat. Much more set on offering a little pampering care to soften the edge of being in such a state.

With their silken hair all gathered, tied up and away from their skin—albeit it not as elegantly by Jiraiya’s hand than it would have been by their own—he guides them into the deep bath, and spares no time in kneeling on the step that he may begin to gently wash them. It’s easy to lose himself in how stunningly beautiful they are while his hands roam over their body, sometimes with the cloth, and for those extra sensitive spots that require something even less abrasive than that, completely bare with only a film of lightly floral suds to make it glide over flawless skin.

Of course, few situations were quite so grim that the notoriously lusty sage could ignore desire when it was right before him, pliant and lovely in his hands, but reaching Orochimaru’s arms causes quite the abrupt pause in what had been shaping up to be an act both caring and skin-tinglingly sensual. Something that they clearly pick up on. Something that, dare he say it, gives them a reason to think he needs an extra reminder of that desire... or simply a distraction.

And it certainly works.

With his forearm supporting his weight on the curved edge of the ofuro, Jiraiya melts into the kiss, his free hand sliding up their sternum to cradle their neck, curling around its slender shape with only the lightest pressure applied. The steam feels steamier the more he tastes what is undoubtedly his Orochimaru; he knows too well their small breaths and gestures for this to possibly connect, in his mind, with the concept of a mere corpse painted with their likeness. And yet it does niggle. Enough that there’s a slight pinch to his brow as they part—just that subtle little indication that in this moment, despite the agitated, trembling weight of his breaths that would indicate stirred up lust, or the fact he’d topple into the bath with them if he tried to lean much further, his feelings towards them have become just a touch overwhelming.

Love, worry, protectiveness, sadness... it all mingles together in soft, storm-cloud grey, and the very last on the list of reasons for that look is ‘trying to make sense of them’. In fact, it isn’t even on the list at all.

“Mm,” he mumbles again—although this time, at least, he intends to say more. Right after his fingers stop idly fiddling with ink-black forelocks that have fallen from the poorly arranged up-do, settling finally on brushing it gently away from their face, before caressing the elegant line of their jaw. His chin rests atop his forearm, the distance allowing him a better look at them, which in turn prompts a smile that, while gentle, could mean an array of things. Not that he’s going to leave them hanging, as he continues calmly: “Quite the contrary. It makes all too much sense to me.”

Surely he need not say out loud how well he understood their aversion to death, their obsession with sweeping over any tracks by which it could pursue them as it had whilst growing up, nor that he knew the fact that actually possessing the power, wit and audacity to potentially overcome death was what had spurred them to just do it. Surely he need not say out loud that he knew their ambition and independent streak would have seen them leave Konoha’s tenuously safe walls for some other reason, if not this one.

After all, all three of them had left, albeit for different reasons—and Jiraiya’s own reasoning lay in an ambition of his own, or just a burden of destiny, he couldn’t always tell which. It was different to theirs, but he understood the drive to chase it. Admittedly, his is one that he still feels would have them struggling to make sense of him. Maybe, after everything, he was the one still showing a lack of trust in them. In anyone but himself, really.

Sighing, he braces his hand on the side of the tub, then rises to his full height with a few pops and cracks of his knees here and there. He’s only wearing a light yukata now, having showered not long prior, so it takes little for him to shed himself bare before decisively joining them in the tub, where the addition of his significant mass causes the water to swell, brim and spill over the edge. It evens out as he settles himself on the step situated on the side just beside Orochimaru, his arms made weightless by the water immediately curling around them to hold them in a loose embrace.

“I sensed when we fought that day, that something was different about your body, and I won’t pretend it didn’t disturb me.” His head tilts thoughtfully after saying this, clearly searching for the best words to spin substance to his thoughts. “But your essence, your soul, whatever you may think of it… it’s still the same to me. No matter how much I disagree with what you do, or worry that your actions are only gonna create new chains of vengeance and hatred that’ll come back to bite you, or even how much I worry about you, just you in general—your happiness an’ all that… Well, it still is you. It always will be you. And just like agreeing doesn’t necessarily mean understanding, not agreeing doesn’t mean not understanding. I won’t say this doesn’t worry me, of course, but...”

His eyes flick in the direction of their arms when he emphasises the word ‘this’, about the same time as a gentle nudge of the arm that forms a ledge beneath theirs illustrates it, before meeting their golden gaze again. The fact that someone will have to die to sustain their life... it’s rotten to think about it, but the fact of the matter is, Jiraiya would always choose them over someone else. And if that ‘someone else’ is a shinobi, well... there’s not much to vouch for in terms of their ‘innocence’. They were all killers here. That didn’t make killing someone to further a selfish pursuit for immortality okay, but there isn’t much he can do besides accept the fact that loving them, not from afar but being with them, means accepting that he’ll be inhabiting some exceptionally grey territory... or leaving.

Which, clearly, is quite the opposite of what he’s currently doing.

“It’s funny,” he adds with a slightly bolder curl of his lips, his hand returning once again to their face to simply hold their cheek while his thumb gently caresses the high, refined bone that lends well to that sharp glare of theirs, even with such smooth features, “you’ve tried to tell me that the way I see you, what I continue to see in you is wrong... but you’d be sad, wouldn’t you? You’d be sad if the way I looked at you changed and became like everyone else. Otherwise there’d be no need for you to hope it doesn’t. Watch me look at you, and see—”

Oh, and the way he looks at them is indulgent. Traces of concern and sadness still remain, but as always seems to be the case with Jiraiya, such feelings find themselves lost in a bright and lovely nebula of far better things—love, care, warmth... and, as always, little glimmers of teasing and jest..

“It hasn’t changed, has it? Well... except maybe the bedroom eyes. I suspect they weren’t always quite so obvious~”

#dokuhebi #now to get back to the remaining birthday asks dsjfiosjf #you really got me with this one though #so i couldn't resist #{verse:captive | dokuhebi}#{long post}#{thread:nogood}

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diveronarpg · 4 years

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Congratulations, ALEX! You’ve been accepted for the role of HORATIO. Admin Rogue: Alex, I can’t exaggerate enough how thrilled I was every moment of reading your app. You were so clever and thought so quickly, it was like seeing Hunter being built in front of me, until he became not just a character I wrote, but a person in his own right, quick-witted and dipped in gold. He was mesmerizing from start to finish; I believe I ended up half in love with him by the end of reading it. You brought such exciting depth to him that I can’t wait to see him brought to life! . Thank you for bringing my most beautiful son to the dash. Please read over the checklist and send in your blog within 24 hours.

WELCOME TO THE MOB.

OUT OF CHARACTER

Alias | Alex Age | Twenty-four Preferred Pronouns | She/Her Activity Level | I am a full time grad student but because of the messy events happening throughout the world at the moment, I have been left with more free time than I know how to handle! I anticipate investing that time in plotting with people and beginning threads so once classes pick up again, I am in a rhythm and able to maintain stable activity (catching up on all/most replies 2-3 times a week). Timezone | US EST How did you find the rp? | Honestly, at this point I don’t even remember. I have been lurking for eons, waiting for the right timing and the right character to become available, and now couldn’t be more perfect!

IN CHARACTER

Character | HORATIO, Hunter Marchesi

What drew you to this character? | There are about a thousand-and-one things that I could list here. I have always been drawn to characters that walk the line between golden and gilded, the ones that are a little bit too inhuman to be fully mortal and yet too weak to truly be a god. When I read Hunter’s biography, it was striking how electric he felt. Reading through the plot summaries, it’s evident that Verona has been wading through dark times for a while now, and glancing through several biographies, her inhabitants are not without their scars. Yet here is Hunter, a boy from out of town that stumbled into the greatest war the underbelly of Verona has ever seen. He’s too clever to be fully naïve, yet he’s rampantly green – and that newness brings with it a certain freshness. Hunter isn’t tarnished yet. His future is bright, and he’s ambitious enough to learn how to make himself known in a new society. All the possibilities that came tumbling in with Hunter was vastly appealing to me, as well as his capability to step confidently into this world. Also, this one line in Castora’s connection had me dead: “He doesn’t hate her of course; his family often deals in philanthropy.”

What is a future plot idea you have in mind for the character?

BECOMING INSTRUMENTAL: Being an initiate sounds significantly more important than Hunter currently feels. He’s too new to be helpful, too green to pretend that he knows what he’s doing. Hunter requires mentors to aid in his transition. After all, his face is one that’s never known a bruise, his fingers remain ignorant to the pulse of a trigger, and his nose blind to the rusting of blood. He has started taking on minor missions, learning what he can and aiming to impress, but he needs guidance if he’s going to thrive outside of his comfort zone, and the people that he receives that guidance from will leave a lasting impression upon the Montague’s newest recruit.

NEW MONEY: All his life, Hunter has lived within the penthouse of society. The Marchesi family had wealth so vast that it was rumored to transcend written record. Often, he heard his father discuss how he hardly considered new money families to be money at all. “After all, if you don’t have at least three generations of wealth, you’re no better than a peasant that happened to have a successful night of gambling.” Essentially, Hunter has no concept of what it means to happen into wealth, but he imagines it feels rather similar to his new position within the Montague ranks. It is not the Marchesi family that matters here. No, everyone around him owes blood it to the Montagues, and Hunter is beginning to expect there is no exchange rate for a life debt. He is dealing in an entirely new currency, which he finds remarkably exhilarating. His journey within the mob is just beginning, and as such he’s blinded by challenge and possibility and bolstered by a history that has never known failure. However, I anticipate Hunter stumbling as he assimilates into a new life, and as such, I expect that he will begin to struggle with his idea of self. Hunter is no longer defined by a name, or wealth, or charm; everyone around him carries such characteristics aplenty. For perhaps the first time, Hunter will need to learn how to identify himself without his very foundations, and that may entail a dash of demolition.

LOYALTY IS FICKLE: As someone that has only joined a mob to avoid certain death, Hunter lacks the strict loyalty that seems to flow through the veins of his new family. Of course, he remains loyal to his own life (who wouldn’t?), and to a certain degree, Henry (largely because the good professor had the courtesy to keep him alive). As such, Hunter is able to recognize that helping a Capulet would potentially ruin his future, but the fear of such ruination hasn’t yet gripped his heart. Why shouldn’t he reach out to Beau? What’s the worst that could happen? // The way I visualize this conflict entails Hunter reaching out to Beau before becoming completely entrenched within the Montague camp. Naturally, Hunter will come to realize just how dark and violent life at war can be, thus adding pressure to the help he’s become determined to offer, perhaps leading to the first glimmer that perhaps danger can be just as terrifying as it is invigorating.

Are you comfortable with killing off your character? | You have my blessing to kill him off as you see fit!

IN DEPTH

INTERVIEW

Hunter was never one to enjoy sitting still, and his leg bounced even as he reclined in his seat. Those that did not know him may mistake the bobbing as movement motivated by nervousness, yet there was too much light glittering across his eyes to be born of anything but excitement. He might as well have been starting his first day at his dream job, not beginning to repay a newly incurred life debt.

His accomplice didn’t appear quite as energetic. Their shoulders were slumped, their gaze downturned. When he’d walked in, Hunter had guessed him to be in his mid-twenties. With the cloud hovering over his head, he looked twice that age. Thirty minutes into a stake-out, Hunter had started picking up on the crow’s feet, the downward angle of his lips, the hair that was in desperate need of a trim. He’d always thought the grandiose mobsters of Verona would have more style.

Five minutes passed, and Hunter focused his attention on the dimly lit street in front of him. He’d been in the city less than a month now, and he barely recognized the intersection in front of them. “Where are we in the city?” he asked.

“Ten minutes north of the Roman Arena,” his partner answered. Hunter had introduced himself at the start of the mission, but his partner had settled for a quick once-over before settling on silence and slipping into the car. He hadn’t bothered to ask his name since.

“Haven’t made it to the Arena yet,” Hunter mused. His partner didn’t respond, so Hunter settled for another question. “What is your favorite place in Verona?” Again, he was met with silence. If they weren’t three hours into a stale stakeout, Hunter would have let it go. He would have read the tension between them as one better suited for silence, but three hours of nothing begged to be replaced by something of substance. “I think that I’ll be quite fond of Lamberti Tower when the time comes. Haven’t exactly had good reason to celebrate yet.” He leaned his head back against the headrest and waited for an answer that he knew wasn’t coming. This time, he let silence settle between them. The moon arched higher overhead, a desperate sliver against the abyss of the night sky.

Hunter glanced at the clock. It’d been ten minutes since his last question, meaning it was high time to strike up conversation again. “What’s your typical day like? So far, all I’ve done are stakeouts and guard shifts at the library.”

“Depends on the day.”

“You’re a real charmer, anyone ever tell you that?” Hunter softened the dig with a wink. “Know any particularly talented fighters? I’m looking for a sparring coach. Punching bags rarely hit back.” Silence. Not even a pity chuckle. “You’re going to need to start answering some of my questions. These are the easy ones.”

His partner glanced at him briefly. “Awfully bossy for an initiate, anyone ever tell you that?” A sigh, and Hunter assumed that was the end of the conversation but the next sentence came with a pleasant surprise. “What are you doing now? Working out? Running errands? Sucking up to your superiors? All worthwhile things, sure. But I’m guessing they aren’t scratching that adrenaline itch that drove you to sign up.”

“And what makes you think I have an – how did you put it? Adrenaline itch?”

“You’re young, confident, rich. The world was given to you on a silver platter so you’re wondering if it’ll taste different on paper. Need something to stoke your fire since you’ve never come in contact with real conflict. You made a mistake joining, kid.”

Hunter swallowed the first response that threatened to spring to his lips. His partner was trying to start a fight, to insult him to the point he’d shut up for the remainder of the night. He wouldn’t be so lucky.

“Alright then, if we’re talking about mistakes, teach me something. What’s the biggest mistake you’ve made thus far?”

“Man doesn’t go around bragging about his mistakes.”

For the first time all night, Hunter agreed with him. He didn’t want to speak of the first mistake he’d ever made in life that carried consequences. There was still something unsettling about remembering that night, Doctor Zhang creating bloodshed and making it disappear with the bat of an eye. He’d made it seem so easy, and Hunter couldn’t yet imagine himself in such a position. He’d wondered nightly if it was a mistake to have pursued Henry for this long, to think about him as frequently as he did. It led to far too many uncertainties. If Henry Zhang was his greatest mistake, then signing up for a philosophy course was the root of all evil. It sounded ridiculous. Naturally, that meant that the true nature of the mistake would require significantly more introspection than Hunter cared to participate in. So he settled: his biggest mistake was being in the wrong place at the wrong time. A shame, but at least it was true.

Nearly an hour passed, filled with a brief moment of excitement when they noted movement ahead only to be met by the visage of a couple stumbling home linked arm-in-arm. There were at least three hours still until sunrise, and Hunter was beginning to lose all motivation. There had to be a better use of time and resources. There was no way this would be his future.

“What’s the most difficult task they’ve asked of you?” he asked suddenly, sure that this night marked his own.

“Staking out in a car all night with an initiate that isn’t comfortable with silence.”

“I’m trying to learn. It shows initiative,” Hunter countered.

“It shows that you’re nosey.”

Hunter wanted to be offended, but he couldn’t help the soft laugh that bubbled from his lips. After a night of intermingled silence, distant traffic, and brusque responses, this was the closest thing to humor he’d encountered, even if it was at his own expense. “They haven’t asked anything difficult of me yet.”

“Be thankful for that, son. You need to learn how to crawl before you can walk.”

“Alas, I came out the womb already sprinting.” It might be the low lighting, but Hunter swore he saw the slightest smirk on his partner’s face. It was enough camaraderie to summon up the question he had been desperately wanting answered all night: “What are your thoughts on the war between the Capulets and the Montagues?”

What warmth he’d gained was quickly replaced with solid ice. “You shouldn’t ask questions like that.”

Hunter hummed. “Maybe not, but I’m still interested. I think it all seems very… personal. Professional on the surface, of course. They’re competing industries in a small space, conflict in inevitable. But it hardly seems as if they’re fighting over territory at this point. Everything feels much more intimate, and not in a particularly loving way.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t I?” He sounded confident, maybe even cocky. But he wasn’t entirely certain, and that unsettled him. Ever since arriving and locking himself within Verona’s perfect cage, he’d been trying to uncover the nature of this war they were fighting. If he was going to risk his life for someone, it only made sense to know why. Yet the answers were vague, elusive, textbook. There were too many layers of blood staining these streets to ever get at the bottom of it all, and Hunter was beginning to realize that like it or not, he’d been assigned a side in this war. And he would fight it.

EXTRAS

ZERO TO SIXTY: While Hunter was never groomed for war, a prior life of extravagance and wealth was not without its incidental lessons. Around his twentieth birthday, Hunter experienced a bout of boredom stronger than any that had come before. University was routine (save for the exception of a single course that oft labored late nights, red eyes, and grins that dripped sunshine), his parents were content with his performance, and his circle of friends remained vast and glittering of silver and gold. There was no change, no challenge looming ahead, and so he sought to create his own. // The first time he slipped into the driver’s seat of a Ferrari 488, he was sold. Looking back, he recognized his first lap as a slow fumble, but at the time he had felt himself a natural. Sinking into curves made his heart race, and the rumble of an engine with more power than he could control sent all thoughts of discontent scattering. Ever one to turn talent to profit, he began to race on the weekends, soaring with pride as his name began to climb the leaderboards of local tracks. The thought of turning his passion into a full-blown career would flit through his mind whenever he was standing in the winner’s circle, but he would wake the next morning with the knowledge that the lifetime wages of Formula One racers appeared mere pocket change next to the Marchesi fortune. Little did he know that he could one day turn his talent into a lucrative career as a getaway driver for the Montagues.

Driving playlist: 1. Physical // Dua Lipa. 2. Ride It // Regard. 3. Roller // Apache 207. 4. Red Flag // Billy Talent. 5. Run Boy run // Woodkid. 6. Slip // Skrizzly Adams. 7. Legend Has It // Run the Jewels.

FAMILIAL INFLUENCE: The headlines have been screaming it for ages: the British aristocracy is running low on funds. However, a single glance at the Marchesi family would cast doubt upon even the most reputable reporter. With manors in three different countries, the Marchesis have no qualms about demonstrating their wealth. // Jasper Marchesi was the eldest of four brothers, and he inherited his father’s art empire upon his death. Collectionswere the Marchesi trade, particularly the acquisition of difficult-to-come-by pieces. Jasper often cited the families distant Italian roots as being the source of his exquisite taste, and he honored the heritage by building a home in Milan. It was at this home that Hunter remembers spending a majority of the year, with voyages to Britain reserved for the holiday season and vacations to Brazil confined to the summer. // While her husband was rapt with the arts, Ana Marchesi believed that wealth was best unearthed in the modern-day gold of real estate. She began investigating just how lucrative buying, selling, and renting properties could be while her father was still traveling the world on diplomatic assignments. What started with a few rental houses quickly morphed into buying mansions left abandoned by new-money families that never had a chance of living in such elegance and transferring them (at a notable mark-up) back into the hands of those with the resources to invest in such a gilded future. Jasper reminded her on numerous occasions that such a business wasn’t necessary, that marrying into the Marchesi family meant that she had already bought into a future of diamonds and galas, but Ana insisted upon building her own empire. // Between the decadence of his father and the intrepid spirit of his mother, Hunter was destined for success. His family’s background required fluency in English, Italian, and Portuguese, and his father’s aptitude for the arts and his mother’s skill with finance instilled a harmony of practicum and creativity within him. He exclusively attended private schools as a child and enrolled in the most prestigious university in Italy without batting an eye. He pursued a degree in economics, and upon graduation assumed control of a subset of art galleries across Italy.

PLAYLIST

More // Poets of the Fall —What do you give someone who has it all? More, just to be sure. I got what I wanted so naturally I want more, what I paid for. Kansas City // The Mowgli’s — Been in a new town, got the same issues to work through. It turns out when you move, you just take them all with you. Wanna Be Missed // Hayley Kiyoko — I wanna be missed, like every night. I wanna be kissed, like it’s the last time. Say you can’t eat, can’t sleep, can’t breathe without me. An Evening I Will Not Forget // Dermot Kennedy — I remember when her heart broke over stubborn shit. That’s no way to be living kid; the angel of death is ruthless. And I’m always thinking summertime with the bikes out, pushing our luck, getting wiped out, days with nothing but laughing loud. Power Over Me // Dermot Kennedy — I wanna be king in your story. I wanna know who you are. I want your heart to beat for me. Pay the Man // Foster the People — Seasons change, you know it’ll never be the same. We’ll see the sun again before it fades. I just wanna say [REDACTED]. Cringe // Matt Maeson — She said I’m looking like a bad man, smooth criminal. She said my spirit doesn’t move like it did before. She said that I don’t look like me no more. The Best // AWOLNATION —Me, I wanna walk a little bit taller. Me, I wanna feel a little bit stronger. Me, I wanna think a little bit smarter. Said I just want to be the best. Classic Man // Jidenna — My name, calling all night. I could pull the wool while I’m being polite. Like darling, calling all night. I can be a bull while I’m being polite. Bonus Track: 7 rings // Ariana Grande

#accepted #accepted: horatio

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morromasterofwind · 5 years

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Destiny

THE MOMENT EVERYONE’S BEEN WAITING FOR IS HERE. Congrats to @kyra-plays on winning the raffle! Here’s to you and your support.

Summary: Wu decides to bring back Morro. It is a pretty significant adjustment, but somehow feels...right.

Prompt/Character: Redemption/Morro

AO3 Version

(Fic below cut)

Wu was depressed about how he and Morro ended off. He got to see his beloved student again and figure out what happened to him. Even so, the way he left that second time wasn’t any more easing. He still failed him, even when given another chance. Morro’s final words would ring in his ears.

You can only save those who want to be saved.

But then Morro returned on the Day of the Departed. It changed many things. Wu wasn’t sure why he chose to aid them. Nor was he sure what shifted in his stubborn pupil’s mind. Either way, it made Wu happy. It was good to see Cole return. It was also good to see Morro...at peace. Morro had always been high-strung and insatiable. Watching the way he faced the ninjas, Wu noticed something. There was an air of acceptance and subtle confidence in his former student’s demeanor. Not feigned, but genuine confidence. Acknowledging that they had a right to be angry with him, but also standing in his current self as opposed to his previous.

It was for these reasons that Wu wished to try summoning him once again. He knew it would be a lot to ask of his team. He also knew they would want Morro as an asset once they got beyond their inhibitions. His powers were already incredible in strength. What would happen if he were allowed to unlock the full extent of those powers? It’s like he always said to them:

The best way to defeat your enemy is by making them your friend.

This rang true for Lloyd, and he’s grown exponentially since. Wu thought he would possibly be the most understanding because of this concept. Given Lloyd’s history with Morro, Wu also feared he might be the hardest to sway. In the end, though, everybody came to an agreement.

When Morro returned, he was not the type of person the others expected. He was much more quiet. They did not know he read so much, either. Probably a habit that carried over from his studies. He trained with them, but still didn’t say much aside from typical jabs about formation and the like. There were a lot of little details he’d pointed out as they sparred that had never been picked up on. It was helpful.

It took some time for the gears to fully set into motion. While the others did not implicitly mind him during training, actually bonding outside of that proved difficult. They were apprehensive, and he gave them their space. Nobody was eager to make the first move.

Except for Jay, apparently. It did not surprise Morro, but he was still curious nonetheless. He actually found the lightning master’s awkward attempts and gestures flattering. He could tell Jay was sincere and very true to his nature. It was appreciated. He did not even notice they had become friends until he caught himself snorting at a ridiculous joke Jay cracked.

Once Jay opened up, Zane was pretty quick to follow. Morro figured Zane was not the type to maintain grudges. It was probably out of solidarity until the others were ready. It felt nice to have debates over topics most would find boring. Aside from that, they practiced creating some wicked blizzards. Zane lacked the sort of judgemental behaviors humans displayed. He didn’t feel like Zane was waiting for him to mess up again.

Nya and Morro had a strange situation. On one hand, he was terrified of her powers. On the other, he thought she was a genius. Not in the traditional sense, but there was something special within her. She decided she was done being petty one day and decided it’d be easier to get to know him than sit around tolerating him. So they talked. For hours. Kai was pissed.

He and Lloyd had been more gradual. They came across each other one night. Morro was watching the stars. After all, he never slept. Lloyd didn’t seem to sleep much, either. The two would simply watch together. Then it became tradition. They had already known plenty about one another. They’d shared thoughts within Lloyd’s body the entirety of the time Morro possessed him. There was not much else to say between them. But Lloyd was fond of having somewhere to go those restless nights. Somewhere without expectation awaiting.

Cole did surprise Morro. He hadn’t expected such a lax and inviting person to be so cold. But when Morro did ask him, it became clear. Obviously, what he put Lloyd through was not acceptable. Despite this, he knew there had to be another layer. He was right. He’d almost forgotten their entire situation put Cole through the experience of becoming a ghost. Something Cole was extremely lucky to have recovered from. Recalling this left Morro feeling off and unbearably guilty. But they unpacked what happened to Cole. Cole knew that Morro would understand how emptying it felt. How couldn’t he?

Kai? Kai was a tough nut to crack. Morro could tell that Kai valued Lloyd greatly as a person. It wrecked him to see his little brother put through so much. Morro just wished to show Kai that he understood Lloyd’s worth, too. Even if it took some time. But they would be okay. Through a complete accident during sparring, they discovered how much Morro’s power amplified Kai’s. Once that happened, it was kind of hard to avoid one another. It was an itch they both couldn’t resist scratching.

The way Morro came into his power was not entirely different from how Kai got his. One day, yet another person decided to get some bright ideas about Ninjago. So, naturally, the ninjas had to intervene. Only they were about to get to Lloyd after he was already down from some pretty bad blows. Everyone else was either too far away or incapacitated. Morro wasn’t sure what he could possibly do. He’d never felt so helpless. So weak. But he willed himself to do something. Anything.

“Lloyd!” he screamed. A sudden rush coursed through him. Almost instinctively, hurricane levels of wind ripped at the villain in question until they were knocked back a safe distance.

“Even think about laying another finger on him, and I will smite you. You will experience horrors unlike any you’ve ever known” Morro spoke, voice taking on a darker edge. The wind ceased completely. He panted. He looked to Lloyd and then noticed his own figure had faded significantly from the use of energy.

“Oh no. No. No. Lloyd needs help. Somebody. Please. Not now.”

He was barely able to get to Cole in time, calling out his name before almost completely fading. Cole awoke with a start, certain he’d heard Morro but confused because he was nowhere to be found. He then saw Lloyd and immediately rushed over.

It had been a day since the battle. Morro shut himself into a closet and refused to speak to anybody, though his form eventually returned to normal. He heard someone familiar outside the door. After some prodding, he opened it. He remained silent.

“What is troubling you?” Wu asked.

“You wouldn’t understand” Morro mumbled. Wu shook his head and placed a hand on his shoulder. “I...I threatened that person. And it sounded so much like...and Lloyd was…and I thought things were finally getting better but now they’re gonna ha-” he began.

“Do not finish that sentence. They do not hate you. All my nephew has talked about since our return is how concerned he is and how you saved him. They are all worried. We sometimes say things when we get into a panic, but there is no confusion as to the cause you were fighting for” Wu reassured him. Morro looked away.

“And Morro?” Wu asked as an afterthought. The other could not meet his eyes.

“What?”

“I am proud of you.”

At those words, Morro’s head whipped around and his eyes widened. His hand covered his mouth, and he wasn’t sure how to respond. Wu lowered Morro’s hand and nodded before he left.

It was in that moment the full realization of what they went through hit him. Lloyd had never made things about himself. Lloyd never thought of himself as more significant than any of the others because of a title or color. In fact, he relied a lot on the others. It was not Lloyd’s destiny. It was their destiny. All of them. Together.

#ninjago #lego ninjago #ninjago masters of spinjitzu #morro ninjago #wu ninjago #the whole team is mentioned and talked about in here though #fanfiction #50 follower raffle #kyra-plays

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ask-the-guiding-light-cast · 5 years

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Guiding Light turns two years old today!

It’s crazy to think this all began only a couple of years back... and also hilarious it falls on the same day as “International Mystery Dungeon Day” over on Twitter. More after the cut. This is gonna be a long one, so I appreciate anyone willing to read this. ^^

For a long time, I had been a casual consumer of fan fics. It started in the late 2000s when I was in a Spyro craze thanks to the more story-driven Legend of Spyro trilogy. I had an itch that I needed scratched and FFN fulfilled that to some extent. I also looked at some Mario fics, including Paper Mario: The Temple of the Sun, which I greatly enjoyed and thought did a good job adapting the formula that made Paper Mario: The Thousand Year Door so beloved and putting a unique spin on things.

But it was until the early 2010s that I actually started getting back into Pokémon games with Gen V. After Emerald, I fell out of touch with Pokémon for a time. When Gen VI came around, I dipped my toe into the fandom through Twitch livestreams, but also through reading a few anime-based fics that are very long and still going, even now.

At the same time, I ended up buying PMD: Explorers of Sky... and damaged my cartridge before I could properly finish the game with my Vulpix/Riolu team. So, I watched cutscenes for what I missed on YouTube, then got Gates to Infinity and, later, Super Mystery Dungeon and had fun with both of them... though more for the stories and characters than the actual gameplay. Truth be told, I don’t care much for roguelikes at all.

It was during the gap in time between Super’s release and the first official footage of Sun & Moon in mid-2016 that I found myself hit with a recurring thought: “What if someone made a PMD story where the hero and the partner are forced to fight one another with the fate of the world at stake?” I wound up (loosely) brainstorming an idea for a PMD story revolving around an antagonistic Hoopa character who would use its ring portals to collect entire communities, including the Pokémon living in them... all so that he would never be bored. This would lead him to “collect” the partner to add to his “toys,” so when the hero shows up, he’d sic the partner on them.

But that was as far as I got with the idea. I ended up graduating college and took a job with late evening hours. It left me pretty tired and exhausted and unmotivated to do much of anything. I withdrew from the parts of the Pokémon community I was involved in.

Then the Generation VII games came out and, while divisive in the fandom, I found myself really liking some of the concepts. There were so many times when I thought, “Gee, I wonder what this would be like if it were in a PMD game?” For example, one of the ideas I had was a sort of edgy rival rescue team akin to Gladion, which would have a Midnight Lycanroc, a Zoroark, and a Type: Null character in it.

So, toward the end of 2016 and early 2017, I started creating an idea for a Choose Your Own Adventure story with the intent of putting it on this really small forum I was a part of. It would be a Gen VII-themed PMD story, but because I didn’t think that sounded interesting enough, I decided that, not only would the human keep their memories, but they would be from the real world and be a major Pokémon nerd. The idea was that the choices the readers made would affect the relationship between the human and partner. I even came up with a point system. The more points the readers earned for their choices, the “closer” the relationship the hero and partner would have and the happier an ending the story would get. If the hero and partner couldn’t stand each other, one of them would likely end up working with the bad guy and winning. If they became steadfast friends, they’d work together to save the world.

Unfortunately, the forum shut down before I got too far into planning it, so I shelved the idea and continued focusing on my job. And things stayed that way for several months, until I ended up getting into med school and scrambling to move.

During the downtime I had when I wasn’t doing moving related stuff, I decided to look at FFN again and found Pokémon Mystery Dungeon: Defenders of Warmth. I wound up reading through the entirety of the story quite quickly. I guess you could say it sparked something in my head. The fic itself focuses on what, at the time, was the newest Gen (Gen V). It also has multiple humans and is set on a continent separate from the canon locations (which were just the Air and Grass Continents, since Gates and Super didn’t exist when the fic was written). In short, it renewed my desire to pursue my idea of a Gen VII-flavored PMD story.

So, I set about creating my story outline. It is so... so much different from the actual story, though I’ve gone into that in previous posts (search for #amby answers). Originally, I used Mario & Luigi: Partners in Time as the framework for the fic: an alien invasion in a colorful, comedic world. I took more specific cues, too. Zero was meant to be a (mostly) silent antagonist a la Princess Shroob, for example.

The problem was, I really didn’t have much confidence in myself or my abilities. I’d like to say I was writing for myself, but I really did want validation, too. I think any author is lying to themselves if they say they don’t feel this way at some point. Because of this, I figured if I put the fic on FFN, it would get ignored. The site’s huge! There were, at the time, around 85k fics in the Pokémon section alone. (That number’s since gone up to over 90k!)

Given I had experience with forums, I decided to post it to Serebii, because the fic community seemed much smaller and more open to giving feedback to one another. In an effort to try and, y’know, establish some connections, I actually read other pieces and reviewed them before posting any stories. This also helped me build up a backlog of chapters and prove to myself I enjoyed writing this enough to keep going.

When I finally did post the fic, it was a bumpy start, for sure. I do think I made a lot of mistakes out of the gate, including uploading chapters way too quickly for readers on Serebii to (reasonably) try to keep pace. That probably cost me a few potential readers... or made them silent readers who I never ended up hearing from. Which is why I’m especially thankful to @girl-like-substance (who I can seem to tag, drat) for all of the well-thought-out feedback given throughout the fic’s run. I don’t think I would’ve made such significant strides in my writing otherwise... and there are plenty of long-running fics where the quality tends to stagnate.

In any case... it was thanks to a request from @deliriousabsol to put the fic somewhere more mobile-friendly that I chose to mirror Guiding Light on FFN starting in October 2017. I would’ve kept going on Serebii had she not asked so nicely, so she’s the one you can thank for it showing up there! (She’s a fellow author who does cyberpunk-themed fics and art and her characters have cameoed in the fic.)

And, honestly, I’m just... beyond shocked at what wound up happening to the fic once it hit FFN. Well, actually, for the first several months I was lucky if I even got a comment when I put up a chapter. I’m not sure any of the people who first commented on FFN still follow the fic anymore. I haven’t seen/heard from them at all, so I assumed they moved on with their lives.

In any case, around March of 2018, the word count on FFN passed 300k and... somehow, the fic starting getting more attention. Like, a lot more attention. This was... not really something I was even remotely prepared for.

(Yes, this means there’s gonna be a giveaway. More on that later.) I never would’ve thought I’d reach a number like this. I never imagined I’d meet another PMD author who’d be willing to do a fun collab (thanks @virgil134, Spiteful Murkrow, and Namohysip). I really did not imagine that I’d ever get fanart of characters that I wrote (huge thanks @thebreak-ofdawn, @ask-nicky-and-others, and @cresselia92). I mean, above everything, I not expect the fic or characters to resonate with anybody the way it wound up.

A part of me feels like I don’t really deserve it. I’ve made a lot of serious gaffes with writing this. When initial Serebii feedback had people intrigued by Shane’s jerkass attitude (when I didn’t actually intend for him to come off as a jerk), I dialed things up in the hopes I’d keep their attention. It probably cost me readers. Then there’s the slow pacing of the early episodes and the mistake of making Special Episode 3 as long as it was... which my speaks to my (bad) tendency to give into some of my strongest impulses even though I had an outline I was trying to stick to.

And, I mean, there’s also some of the “shamlessly shameful” stuff I’ve done with the fic. I’m not fooling myself. Guiding Light has grown progressively more furry and, uh, probably fanservicey, too. All the big furbait (and some scalebait) ‘mons are accounted for. There’s a lot more sexual humor when I initially promised myself I would stay away from romance and keep everything platonic. I practically turned Xerneas into waifu bait, if some of these asks are anything to go by. This blog certainly didn’t help in that regard. Maybe I’m just being my usual nervous self?

I am worried that this fic’s performance has, somehow, affected my thoughts and behavior. There are very popular fic authors who let their popularity get to their head... or chose to open up Patreons (something that makes me uncomfortable) or start doing things like taking commissions for written pieces, which is understandable... though I think it’s an easy way to lose your passion for writing. I guess some of that worry stems from a debacle I learned about on a Discord server I’m in, but that’s not something I’m comfortable discussing publicly.

And I haven’t even talked much about the blog itself. Like, it somehow passed 100 followers? Where? When? How? I don’t actually draw stuff like many other Pokéasks. And, like, for a lot of folks, I have no idea if they’ve actually read the fic or just check in on the blog. It’s the same with the fic, I suppose. If you’re a silent reader/follower, I would really love to hear from you! I promise... I don’t bite or anything. I’d love to know what (if anything) you’re thinking. And if you’re a blog that’s following this one and we haven’t interacted, please feel free to reach out! It’s honestly hard to tell if people like what I’m doing, so any feedback is always appreciated.

In any case, if I haven’t lost you by now, I guess all I can say is... thank you. Thank you all so much for all of the support... whether it’s on the fic, the blog, or both of them. I really do hope this final episode can meet your expectations. I’ll try my very best to make this an ending to remember. Nothing would make me happier than to hear you guys enjoy it and feel it does justice to the PMD series.

Sorry for all the rambling. The inbox is open again if you’d like to send any messages for the ficaversary. Again, thank you all so much! You’re the best!

#ooc #long post #fic anniversary

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findingthewaytohoseoksheart · 6 years

Text

Sunshine Smile

"Why do you always hang up before you get ready for bed? I want to fall asleep with you". It wasn't a big ask. At least you didn't think it was. Why was he so embarrassed, then? (Otherwise known as: that one where Hobi has a retainer and it's cute)

Fluff/established relationship

Based on this concept I sent to @etherealmins because I needed to write it...I just needed to.

“Why do you always hang up before you get ready for bed? I want to fall asleep with you”

Hoseok paused, hand still held up to his face where he was absentmindedly playing with the starting scratches of stubble. Eyes that where looking out towards the night time view of his hotel room turning to face you through his phone screen. It was late, his hair was still damp from his after concert shower, dressed in an old black shirt and jeans, a small stain on his collar from where he had dropped his dinner moments before, making you laugh as he pretended to pout, wiping away the offending sauce with a paper napkin and making a point of wiping nonexistent tears from his eyes with it after.

This had been you routine for the last week and a half, calling each other for dinner, eating together, chatting together, even if you were miles apart. He told you about his day, you told him about yours. Sometimes the other members would join, stealing bites while he was busy talking, teasing him about how soft he became when your face popped up on that screen. But most of the time you would eat, wash your face, brush your teeth, get changed and crawl into the comfort of your sheets while he excitedly told you about how he nailed this move, how he saw this really cool fan banner or how proud his was of Jin-Hyung’s dancing. Your eyes would drop, you would slur your responses, slowly falling asleep to the lullaby of his voice. But he would alway hang up just before you fell into a peaceful slumber. He would always wish you a good night and blow you a kiss that you sleepily caught and pressed to your lips before he hung up. He never moved from his armchair, never prepared for bed, never laid down alongside you, let his eyes drop as you left your phones to run out of battery, silently filming sleeping figures to no one. And you didn't understand why.

His life was a busy one. The rare occasions he could spend time with you he was clinging, arms always around you no matter the activity, the place, the time. He had fallen asleep beside you before, curled tight around you like a protective mother bear, body heat warming you to an almost uncomfortable level. He didn't have an issue being barefaced around you. He didn't care about his morning breath, his pimples, his messy hair. So why didn't he fall asleep with you during your long distance calls?

You missed him. Deeply. You didn't show it very often. You didn't let him know how badly you ached for him, how some days you found yourself tearing up for no reason other than you couldn't drop by the dorm and give him a cuddle before practice. You didn't want to look needy, you didn't want to seem desperate. But you where. It was hard not to miss him, it was hard to be away from someone you loved so deeply for so long and so often.

Absence makes the heart grow fonder.

Wasn't that the saying? It was accurate, almost upsettingly so. With each passing day your heart grew for him. You loved him, more and more, with each passing second. Your chest hurt, your head hurt. He was coming back in two weeks. You didn't think you could survive. You may have spent your free time looking up flights, calculating how much spare cash you had, how many days of holidays you had accumulated at work, under an impossible dream of visiting him, curling up in those hotel sheets and finally resting your swelling heart. But it was impossible.

So, you took what you could get. Finding closeness any way you could. That's why you wanted to fall asleep with him. That's why you wanted to prop your phone up on a pillow, resting it on his side of the bed and fall asleep with him. Trick yourself into thinking that he was here, beside you. But he kept hanging up. That's why you asked. That's why you waited until you were ready to sleep, until you knew he was also ready to fall into a blissful slumber.

You didn't expect the shy blush that filled his cheeks as he looked down at his lap, avoiding your eyes as shaggy hair fell across his forehead. You hugged your pillow to your chest, waiting for his reply with bated breath. He sighed, a long suffering sound, rubbing long fingers against his lips.

“I'm...embarrassed, I guess”

His voice was small. Talking with his chin to his chest, looking up at you through a curtain of bangs. You smiled, tucking your chin over the pillow in your arms.

“Embarrassed?”

You prompted, watching him curiously as he leaned back in his chair, puffing out his cheeks as he gathered his thoughts, staring at the hotel ceiling. Finally he looked at you, nodding to himself as he stood up, carrying his phone to the bathroom as he propped it up on a folded hand towel and went about his night routine. You watched in silence as he scrubbed away the last remnants of foundation and eyeliner, applying toner, moisturiser, medicated cream and a few wayward acne patches on to the emerging valleys of his cheeks. He brushed his teeth, smiling at you with a mouth full of foam, making you laugh as he smiled and spit, wiping his lips and moving back to the room. He got changed, playfully throwing his shirt over his phone so you couldn't watch and removing it once he was in his silk pajamas. But that's when he hesitated again. Phone leaning against the bedside lamp, him sitting on the edge of the mattress with his makeup bag on his lap, digging around for something he was reluctant to pull out.

“Hey….”

You pulled his attention to you. Eyes looking up to lock with yours, that blush on his cheeks slowly growing. You blew him a kiss. He laughed.

“I love you”

Your voice was soft. The affirmation pure and raw. His lips stretched wide, pearly whites lighting up the dimly lit room. That seemed to give him the confidence he was looking for as he finally pulled out a little black container, popping the plastic open and pulling out a clear retainer and sliding it into his mouth, fitting the moulded rubber to his top teeth snuggly and putting the container back away. He didn't look at you, lips pushed out slightly as he mimicked your set up, phone against his pillow, resting on your side of the bed, his spare pillow hugged to his chest, hiding his mouth behind the soft linen.

You tilted your head, a fond smile gracing you face. You knew he had braces when he was younger. You had seen the photos, kissed his cheeks as you called him cute as he huffed and insisted that he got to see your cringey teen photos next time. But it never occurred to you that he would wear a retainer. But...it was adorable. Your hands ached to trace his lips, to run through his hair and reassure him that he was beautiful, stunning, cute, angelic. You want to kiss him, wanted to hold him. But instead you spread an open palm on the empty stretch of mattress between you. Biting your lip as your heart thumped in a sympathetic longing.

“This is what you were embarrassed about?”

He nodded. Mouth firmly shut.

“Why?”

You could see the internal battle he had with himself. His forehead wrinkling in thought as he closed his eyes and nodded, moving his pillow up further to cover the lower half of his face completely. He sighed. You waited.

“...just...don't laug-th…”

You face lit up, eyes wide and mouth pulled into the brightest smile. He had a lisp. Not a massive one but...noticeable. The retainer pushing his tongue into an awkward position. He groaned, hiding his face in his pillow, his voice coming out muffled as it fought against the feathered filling.

“I knew this was a bad idea. Th-op, I can hear you trying to hold it back”

Again, that little lisp. You hugged your pillow tighter, pretending it was him. Wishing it was him.

“The only thing I'm holding back is an impulse to buy a plane ticket over there so I can kiss you and tell you how adorable you are right now”

His eyes popped out from behind his hiding place, wide and innocent. He watched your fond expression, scanned your face for any dishonesty. His shoulders dropping from their tensed position when he could find no trace of mocking.

“Th-eriously?”

You nodded. His eyes crinkled in an unseen smile.

“This is why you always hung up? Because you were afraid I'd finally find out your secret to your sunshine smile?”

He barked out a laugh, throwing his head back enough to finally reveal that smile. Pearly whites now covered in clear plastic but not dimming the light they emitted at all.

“There it is...I missed that smile”

He tucked his pillow behind his head, rubbing long fingers against itching eyes. He was beautiful. You didn't want your heart to grow fonder. You wanted him, here, in your arms, that sunshine smile lighting your dim room not some far away hotel with no one to appreciate it.

You watched him slowly drift off to sleep, watched how his lips parted, pouted and puffy. You watched him shift and wriggle, getting comfortable. You watched him for once. He didn't watch you. You didn't hang up. You watched him until your eyes stung, until sleep forced them to close, forced you to follow suite into the comfort of dreamland alongside him.

#bts #bts senarios #bts imagine #bts reaction #bts jhope #jhope #hoseok #jung hoseok #bts hoseok #jhope fluff #bts fluff #fluff #im writing so much hobi lately #im sorry #but im so soft for him #i am working on other members i promise!!!!

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meshugana1 · 6 years

Note

Girls being turned into braindead cosplayers at a local anime convention?

Morgan slide through the crowd as she usually did. Her slender legs gave no impression as to their direction between her long strides. Her dress drew the eyes of those lucky enough to catch a glimpse of her between blinks. Over the years going unnoticed came naturally to her, but in these places, it was only too fun not to make an appearance, no matter how brief. She could observe these places for years and never see the same thing. There were Deadpools beyond counting and more Thanos’s than the Avengers could ever handle. The unusual ones were her favorite. The Caskas’s and the Ryokos were few and far between, but they often had the most detail placed on them. That alone was worthy of her respect.

But even more than the beautiful costumes that told stories all their own or the instant kinship two strangers felt if they wore complimenting uniforms, Morgan loved the stories people brought with them. She had read signed editions of the original Ghost in the Shell and seen more Mobil Suit Gundam than even she could remember. She had no idea such vibrancy and beauty was out in the world. If she had, maybe she would’ve fought harder, perhaps so many things would be different.

“Oh my God, Brandy! That’s so gross; you kiss him if you think he’s so hot.” Morgan heard as she, for the first time in a long time, felt a hard shoulder shove into her back. “Fuck, watch it, loser.” The tall woman said. Morgan laid on the ground, gasping elation from her open mouth. It has been so long since she felt anything, now a person had even spoken to her. So stunned by this miracle, she was that she nearly allowed her to leave. But as she leaped up and lunged at the girls arm her hand, as it had a million times before, passed through unhindered. Her heartbeat beyond counting for the first time since she read the first chapter of Dragon Ball.

Caitlyn drew her hand up close to her chest, wincing at the sudden cold that passed through it. “Who were you talking to?” Miranda said. It wasn’t often she saw Caitlyn have a senior moment like that. “That little grey faced chick with the slit throat, duh? Now could you please tell me why we’re at this godforsaken place?” Caitlyn said. Her disdain for this sort of event was well documented. The odor alone was enough to convince many to stay away. “Because the food is awesome and cheap. Besides, there’s no entry fee if you have a costume.” Brandy said.“That’s what the name tags were for?” Miranda said. She would’ve preferred to simply pay the five dollars rather than argue as to what constitutes a costume with the ticket takers. Miranda glanced down at her “costume.” It didn’t vary much from her friends; all three wore a simple white name tag that proclaimed their assumed identities. Miranda bore the name “Aisha Clan-Clan” and had little to no idea of who or what that might be, she did hope that she wasn’t unintentionally appropriating something. Brandy’s tag proclaimed her as “Haruka Athena,” the only thing she recognized about that was the Greek deities name. Caitlyn had been dubbed “Mai Shiranui,” it sounded like the only named that actually might belong at this convention. “You better not have picked out something stupid for us,” Caitlyn said. “What do you care,” said Brandy, “we’re just here for the food. It’s not like we’re going to talk to any of these pathetic freaks.”

Liars. These girls were all liars. How could they be so cruel to people they hadn’t even spoken to? To discard so much beauty and art and creation? These people could see her; they could finally see! How were they so blind? What had she ever done to deserve these frauds as the only people who could even interact with her? One of them had to be a witch, that or she had a lot of latent magical potential. Such a waste. But as Morgan stared at the girls, filling more and more with vitriol, a plan she had read in an old manga popped to the surface of her mind.

"Pardon me,” Caitlyn heard a weak voice behind her say. When she spun about on her heel, she once again met the morbid little cosplayer. “What do you want, freak?” she said. She hated the culture surrounding the whole anime fanaticism, but she could still appreciate the skill applied in this girls makeup. It almost looked real. “Sorry, I just saw your name tags and I thought that was a clever idea. Very minimalist. Who are you supposed to be again?”“I don’t know; Brandy just got them off some website. What do you care?” Caitlyn said.“Oh no reason, I just heard you say you were here for food and there’s a ton of it over there for super cheap.”“Oh sweet! Thanks, kid,” Caitlyn said. The little girl smiled as she stuck out her hand expectantly. Briefly, thoughts of cooties entered her mind. But they disappeared as all the vitality seemed to vanish from within her as she wrapped her fingers around the girls. She felt her knees stake the floor and her eyes twitched in her skull. Her friends turned to see the color gone from her face. But when they approached her, her fit had ended. Caitlyn gasped for air and dubbed over, But she looked no worse for wear.

“Cat! Are you ok? What happened?” Miranda said. She grasped her friend’s shoulder as she helped her to her feet.“I’m fine; I guess it’s the cleanse diet I’m on. Where did that girl go?”“What are you talking about, it was only you here,” Brandy said. Before Caitlyn could work up her catty rebuttal, there was an airy feeling around her. In point of fact, all the girls felt a sudden chill pass near them. The chill was countermanded by a sudden warmth spending from Caitlyn’s stomach. “Guy’s, I don’t feel good…” she said. Her scalp began to tingle and she scratched at it furiously. Brandy and Miranda watched as Caitlyn’s blond hair darkened, and watched still as it began to shoot out of her skull nearly reaching the floor. Both of her hands scratched at her growing tresses but did not alleviate the itch. She flung her head back, giving her friends a clear view as her modest chest ballooned out, popping several seams on her shirt. Then every string of her clothes seemed to instantly dissolve, leaving her naked for the briefest of moments until they began to reform. She wore a red Japanese style that left practically all of her legs, hips, and ass exposed, save for slim thong and the giant loose flowing red and white cloth that dangled behind her. Her chest, now nothing less than an H-cup, was barely contained by a top that threatened to release them at the slightest wrong movement. Her hair then spun atop her head and ordered itself into a high ponytail. Caitlyn still scratched her skull; a fire burned in her mind that would not die. But then her tired fingers stopped, and her arms fell to her sides. “Caitlyn?! What the fuck just happened?” Miranda said. Caitlyn had a glassy look in her eye, but suddenly she struck a pose. She produced a fan that matched her outfit from seemingly nowhere and declared “I, Mai Shiranui of the Shiranui school, will punish you!”

Mirada and Becky tried to rouse her but all they could get her to say was “Me bouncy!” Miranda was so distraught; she failed to notice as her ears began to elongate. They became long and not quite elf-like, then took on a brown furred color. Her scalp began to itch as her hair turned a whitish blonde shade and lengthened all there way to her hips and a giant golden ring formed at the end of her new single braid. Her brown eyes turned blue as the burning in her head became worse. Her proportions did not radically change, but her skin turned dark and became brown. Instead of dissolving like Caitlyn’s, Miranda’s clothes seemed to blur. As if they reformed themselves too fast for the human eye to see. All that was left of her was her mind, and that was burning into ashes. She was dark skinned, but she was mostly clothed. Her chest was the only visible skin aside from her face, and it was on full display. Her bustier was white and her new, very short dress was green. Her arms and thighs felt so much muscular than before, even as the last bit of will was burned away she could tell how strong her body was now. Bandy was in horror as her friends became freaks before her eyes. And as she locked gazes with Miranda, Miranda declared proudly “Ctarl-Ctarl! Ctarl-Ctarl!”

Brandy had no concept of what happened, but she knew enough to run. She forced her legs to move even as the burning came into her skull. She knocked over a girl in a school outfit as she dashed madly for safety, not even aware of where that might be. Her shoulder-length hair retracted into her skull and turned into a bright blonde combover. Her lithe body became sturdier with study muscle obscured by a thin layer of fat. Her beasts inflated almost in step with her gasped running, creating a massive window of cleavage. The burning in her skull became too intense. She stopped, her breath ragged and desperate for oxygen as she changes were carried out in earnest. Her hips pumped, her clothing vanished, and her body took on a look of a very youthful middle-aged woman. What cloth remained on her body shifted, and a cape sprung from her new shoulder pads. Her plump nether lips were covered by a skimpy blue thong that couldn’t be seen from between her cheeks. The golden crest on her chest left little of her ample new breasts to the imagination as the created a window both above and below her erect nipples. There was no fight left in her as her Hamas fell to the ground. The crowd around her waited, then she leaped up and declared “Eighth Wonder is here!”

From the outskirt of the venue, a small girl could be seen enjoying the show as three new cosplayers flung themselves into their roles, genuinely embodying the characters they had become. Blank smiles decorated their faces as legions wanted a picture with them. Morgan only smiled, now she had the power to ensure people respected these places, and she was going to put it to use.

The end. Hope Y'all liked it!

#Breast expansion #ass expansion #hair growth #Transformation #Mai Shiranui #Aisha Clan-Clan #Haruka Athena #mind wipe #Mental change #braindead #bimbo tf #Anime #request

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jasondillisdead · 7 years

Text

JDID’s Favourite records 2017

50. Brian Eno - Reflection Although not the definitive version of Eno’s generative music, the permanent and impermanent formats of the most labored over conceptual kick of his career are both vital listens.This was the first record I heard in 2017 and was almost relieved how untenable it was, Eno’s been defending this position for years. Reflection is not the result, nor last chapter, just a tiny fragment.

49. Godflesh - Post Self Post self is a flattened charred industrial record as all Godflesh records are but built on an idea that they had transcended what they had become. It succeeds - Post Self relies on a guitar sprawl so unique the way the ear navigates these tracks is indescribably different. It becomes a suffocating evil cousin of their ambient project Jesu.

48. Aaron Dilloway - The Gag File In 2017 Dilloway graced me with a track called “Karaoke with Cal” - anyone that knows or works with me know s the significance of that. If you don’t then all you need to know is that this record is the only one that legitimately creeped me out last year.

47. Tinariwen - Elwan

Elwan is little more than a beautiful extension of the middle eastern band’s meditative rounds they perfected on 2014's Emmaar but in current times it feels potent. Despite the band actually not being able to return to mali after being directly targeted by militants Elwan is not as urgent, political or anything a band from the region with a strong western following could be. It makes a far more confronting point, this magic that is under threat from the current dangerous political and cultural climate closer to our increasingly nationalist western homes.

46. Talaboman - The Night Land Perhaps deliberately designed not to overshadow the solo work work of either John Talabot or Axel Bowman, this collaborative album feels relaxed and Jam-session-like at face value which as a concept sounds appealing anyway. The pair have made an album that is so overtly welcoming to the point where spending copious amounts of time within it to discover each of the artist's sneaky signatures is really easy. When Talabot has been making us wait for years for a Fin follow-up there are plenty of moments here that tease what that could sound-like.

45. The Necks - Unfold I first listened to the Australian improvisers expansive 19th (!) record whilst stuck in the Grampians preparing for a music festival whilst exhausted and sleeping in a tent. It seems to stretch on forever, Tony Bucks’ percussion refusing to stay still. It was one of those perfect place and time moments to experience a record.

44. Tom Rogerson with Brian Eno - Finding Shore High drama plays out the second you read that Eno has a second billing, yet alone when he starts to play with the composers piano shapes with lasers.

43. Chuck Johnson - Balsams The pedal steel guitar has been a point of many emotive musical moments for me. It’s an instrument that seems to deal only in longing beauty. Chuck transformed that often fleeting feeling into an entire album of indulgent ambience.

42. Jenny Lin - Philip Glass: Complete Etudes for Piano Glass wrote these classical vignettes to challenge him to learn, he later admitted the structure of some of them, especially the 11-20 movements, were beyond his grasp. Lin’s technical experience has injected new life into them via their most competent delivery yet.

41. Matthew Hayes - Indigo Indigo is at first very disarming, a series of patient, calming exhales. Soon interwoven moments of intricacy, a voice here, a trickle of water there shape it into something that culminates explosively and joyously in relative terms by the final track. It’s a journey record that resets you and perfectly balances between melancholy and the quest for a more patient world. I listened to it a lot on my repeated plane rides from Melbourne to Adelaide. During the most capitalist points of my existence in 2017 it politely re-positioned my perspective on things.

40. Bicep - Bicep The Field re purposed trance in a way that felt inexplicably sophisticated, in the same way these Bicep must be in on a joke, because they take the muscularity out of prog house and make it ephemeral.

39. Yves Tumor - Experiencing The Deposit of Faith The first track I heard in 2017 moments after midnight on new year's eve was Yves’ “Limerence” one that wasn’t on his acclaimed Serpent Music, my introduction to him a few months earlier. It blew me away. “Limerence” went on to be the centrepiece of PAN’s Mono No Aware and one of 2017’s most vital pieces of music. Yves has made the most of it. Experiencing the Deposit of Faith rides the feeling of that seminal track in varying directions.

38. Khotin - New Tab A few years ago everyone either realised Macs were overpriced paper weights and acknowledged that functionalism is the future or became nostalgic for Window's 95. Although I hope it's the former I suspect it's the later fascinatingly, 22 years later windows operates not that differently but still looks like the future. You could say the same about the best mid 90's IDM I love so dearly and Khotin.

37. Visible Cloaks - Reassemblage The critical darling of experimental music in 2017, possibly with thanks to the hard work of their lauded mixes that landed a few years ago. I’m not sure it it actually re purposes Hiroshi Yoshimura’s music but it’s nod to it is convincing enough to be be received as sincere and at times beautiful homage to it.

36. Golden Retriever- Rotations There’s an alluring bass clarinet (I think?!) that populates Rotations -an unusual instrument to use prolifically especially in a Neoclassical leaning piece of experimentalism but it codes rotations with its own unique sound. It’s a new language that is rooted in emotion, although very different it wants to be felt by as many people as possible.

35. Rainforest Spiritual Enslavement - Ambient Black Magic

At the very least Rainforest Spiritual Enslavement as a project wins best bullshit back story, a bunch of cassettes found in Port Moresby believed to be from missing christian missionaries, reissued in all their terror. I was a fan from the get go but possibly due to Fernow’s prolific 2017 workflow this is the best shape the project has been in since its inception.

34. Actress - AZD

Due to his bizarrely complex modes of operation every time I listen to a new Actress album I wonder if it actually is him or an imitator, it takes a few spins for things to line up again. This didn't happen with AZD, a capital B Black afro futurist techno record that is the true spiritual successor to 2012's rightly lauded R.I.P. - a record he threatened never to make.

33. Shabazz Palaces - Quazarz vs. The Jealous Machines/Born On a Gangster Star This epic double album streamlines Ishmael's sound into a distilled, aggressive but typically cosmic assault on America. Although this might be the easiest Shabazz Palaces album to digest, the music still forms a wonderfully alien ELM laced world where emotionless voices become percussive ghosts dancing around swamps of alien synths.

32. Lee Gamble - Mnestic Pressure Apparently political, Mnestic Pressure’s finest point is the maze like way you need to train yourself to listen to it and extract full reward. It’s more psychological than political to me but maybe the point is they’re not so far apart.

31. Four Tet - New Energy The insane popularity Kieran Hebden experienced at the turn of last decade seemed to throw him. New Energy finally scratched an itch for his magic I hadn’t had satisfied since Rounds.

30. Moon Diagrams - Lifetime of Love Lifetime of Love is a particularly weird, aching piece of ambient electronica. Torn between a hypnotic ambiguous drawl of his Geographic North peers and his band's early ambient psych pop monuments, Deerhunter's Moses John Archuleta has made something here that is a rhythmic buffer from the catharsis of his day job.

29. Forest Swords - Compassion Barnes's latest offering as Forest Swords creates a vibrant maximalist voyage by narrowing the occasional kitsch musings of his previous album and blasting the important and unique aspects of his project into full scale widescreen stuff.

28. Cologne Tape - Welt Magazine's finest assemble for a homage to German music that although oddly eclectic is full of purpose and resolve. Magazine once again proves a safe haven for artists like Jens-Uwe Beyer and The Field to experiment outside their comfort zones, making me very happy.

27. Rafael Anton Irisarri - The Shameless Years Although not his finest, Irisarri’s latest is a real grower by one of the ambient masters that rewards repeated listens and like his best can still suspend a Sunday afternoon in pure weightlessness.

26. Japanese Breakfast - Soft Sounds From Another Planet Michelle Zauner's smoldering sophomore record was originally intended as a science fiction concept album. It never quite became that but a strange dystopian shade is cast over it. It's as if she made it 50 years in the future in mid western America, past its prime remembering its past.

25. Strategy - The Infinity File

Jefre Cantu Ledesma's excellent 2016 release on Geographic North meant more people than usual pointed their heads at the direction of the label. They didn’t waste the opportunity to capitalise on the attention, TIF is a genre hugging tape loop record running in the lineage of Basinski that beatlessly flirts with idea that this is music that can make you move.

24. Shannhet - So Numb

Bordering on classical in its grandeur, So Numb is the ambient metal titans at full wingspan. An austere and almost comically epic record, they understand like few others the grace and beauty required to pull something like this off.

23. Avey Tare - Eucalyptus Anco’s Meeting of the Waters was the return of a sound I felt had long cease to exist, an early 2000's ambient record with folk-pop song gems hidden inside. Eucalyptus is the realization of those songs in broad daylight. Its stunning lucid dream state at its best it sounds like a sister album to Deakin's Sleep Cycle, or even Spirit.

22. Juju and Jordash - Sis - Boom- Bah The idea of improvisation in techno normally lends to a sloppiness but these two have worked together so closely over the last decade that this record scans as each predicting the other’s next move. Impulsive yet perfectly refined.

21. Rolling Blackouts Coastal Fever - The French Press Quite possibly the most unfathomably fully formed guitar band since The Walkmen and about the only indie rock record I cared about this year.

20. Jefre Cantu Ledesma - On The Echoing Green For the third year running the noise maniac has outdone himself. This ventures closer to shoegaze and song structure than anything he's released before and wonderfully for noise heads and MBV fans alike, pulls it off.

19. Richard Dawson - Peasant Peasant is sort of halfway between the absurdity of modern day Scott Walker and the somber beauty of prime time Nick Drake. It’s the most confounding record I heard all year. He plays the guitar like a 7 year old snapping at a nylon string but does it so intricately that it feels like there’s no other way to play the instrument. It also simply must be noted that for me there was also no better song than “Beggar” in 2017.

18. Call Super - Arpo I heavily underappreciated the depths that Joe could mine, he’s always been able to flick his music around just enough that it becomes genreless but the LP format give it time to crystallize in a way that is a lot less messy and much more rewarding.

17. Just Neighbors - Being where I Thought I'd Be

Being where I thought I'd be could be the best math album since Mutiny on the bounty's IMAX epic, Digital Tropics. Just Neighbors is the counterpoint to the record that out battlesd battles, a patient neighborhood band that know their limitations millimeter perfectly and simply coast through a near perfect suburban album like a lost cousin of American Football.

16. Kettenkarussell - Insecurity Guard Giegling may be the first label to become a glorified electronic music meme. Insecurity Guard is virtually impossible to get a hold of digitally and if you want a physical copy you have to pay, big. The problem that seems to encourage this ostentatious behaviour is the music is somehow gorgeous enough to justify at least some of it. That last track is on some serious BOC shit.

15. Forest Walker - UV Sea Constilation Tatsu have always had an astoundingly consistent output of soundcloud ambience but this tape from Oakland's Forest Walker is the next step above. UV Sea is an enveloping wave of humming machines and perfectly measured, piano that melt together. Ambient bliss of the finest order.

14. Ahnnu- Special Forces I’ve been a massive Ahnnu fan since Battered Sphinx but always seem to overlook the LA surrealist when writing these dumb lists, his music is timelessly expressive and fascinating, Special Forces is yet another record to ad to his ludicrously high standards of experimentation.

13. Mount Kimbie - Love What Survives Mount Kimbie were once ambassadors for a sound I really loved that only seemed to really exist in 2010-11 before it was consumed by pop culture and somehow became something different. James Blake is a pub singer playing stadiums now. Love What Survives rescues some of that sound but also offers a nerdist offering of their fascination with the MS-20 - one of my favourite synths.

12. William Basinski - A Shadow In Time Many debate the legitimacy of the connection between Basinski's Disintegration Loops to 9/11. On his first work that has actively engaged with the same technique since that career defining legacy, he crafts music that shifts over essentially large scales with new techniques to further unravel his difficult relationship with tragedy. It further homes in (and perhaps justifies) the most lauded conceptual framework of the his career. The two pieces introduce violent acts around the 6 minute mark, like a real marked event, by the distant end of the track's twentieth minute it's hard to remember what the pieces were like before fate reared its head.

11. Varg - Nordic Flora Series Pt. 3: Gore-Tex City Varg takes contemporary popular music culture, purist independent ambient techno and our self perception in the digital age, irony and steely purpose and compresses it to a dense singular point. Then he boasts on instagram about how easy it was to make on his ipad. This is your reality, are you flying business class?

10. Albrecht La'Brooy - Escape Velocity As with much of the Melbourne duo’s work Escape Velocity is yet another place making exercise but this time one that is interpretive and cosmic bound. Their previous records relied on personal experiences and recordings to supplement their sometimes astoundingly intricate soundscapes, this proved that they can project that same romance to places they could only dream of going without diminishing any of their music’s power.

9. PAN - Mono No Aware Mono No Aware strikes a balance that few label comps could ever dream of, and feels as important as Artificial Intelligence must have. The record is an incredible distilled snapshot of the way ambient music operates within the music of today, eclectic enough to keep you on your toes and yet captures a beautiful static and very specific mood. The thought that has gone into this is immeasurable, it doesn't read as a collection as much as a modern ambient classic.

8. Baths - Romaplasm

Born from the 2010’s era where poptimism and independent music were still distinctly separated, Bath’s masterful third full length gave me hope that there is still a pop utopia hiding in the queer underground.

7. Bing and Ruth - No Home Of The Mind Composer David Moore's neoclassical drone opus is waves upon waves of arpeggiated chords and shuddering, gut wrenching bass tones executed with mathematical, classical and emotional precision. Very few can do this type of thing.

6. Bjork - Utopia Utopia has been unfairly labelled Bjork’s “Happy Album,” unsurprisingly it’s far more complex than that. Bjork has become the perfect catalyst to bring out the best in Arca, strangely she grounds him but also manages to paint these surreal collages that are both “happy” and also somehow skin crawlingly weird. Their second meeting has resulted in my favourite Bjork album since Vespertine.

5. Shinichi Atobe - From the Heart, It's A Start, A Work Of Art The mysterious chain reaction expat has been pulled out of hiding revealing a plethora of stunning technoscapes, Atobe crafts three dimensional loops that weave in and out of each other with no beginning nor end. His distinctly Japanese sensibility puts him squarely in a lineage of greats like Rei Harakami Susumu Yokota and the beyond legendary Hiroshi Yoshimura who plucked the impossible out of the most simple of electronic constructions. There is something desperately elemental about it, as though he's trying to expose what it means to be human.

4. King Krule - The Ooz One hailed as the new voice of our generation, I never saw Archy as more than a modest fad, an english kid with a guitar and a deep voice. I’m very happy to be wrong, The Ooz is an incredible jazz fused odyssey and nothing sounds quite like it. Marshall plays with perception of the English language, bone shattering bass and quirky and brash areas of a lengthy album that open up into gorgeous interludes. His voice is one thing - and still notable - but his abilities as a producer and a lyricist are where things have become incredibly interesting. He’s getting a lot of attention right now and he deserves every bit of it and you don’t need me to tell you.

3. Bibio - Phantom Brickworks Phantom Brickworks borrows from just about every corner of modern ambient you could imagine. Basinski’s disintegration techniques, Glass’s repetition, GAS’s hiss, Eno’s placemaking melodies, this list goes on. What’s so absolutely remarkable about this is how an established artist who has never operated in this field has made such a convincing and beautiful masterpiece out of recycled ideas.

2. Skee Mask - Skee Series - ISS001 - 2012 / ISS002 After last year's already canonical Shred, The peerless German returns with a series gorgeously realised, ungodly pieces of ambiguous IDM. Both EP’s were razor sharp, bold statements from a producer with absolutely nothing to prove at this point. He has an LP on the way in 2018, repent sins, the messiah might be here.

1. GAS - Narkopop Full disclaimer: I regularly regard GAS’s 2000 record Pop as my favourite of all time to the point where I once wrote an entire book about it. Wolfgang Voigt has done a lot since then including building one of the most important techno labels ever in Kompakt and continued to explore ambient avenues, but never returned under the GAS name. Myself and others started to loudly wonder if he ever would, or more importantly if he still could make this music. Pop perfected the formula he had been testing in the mid nineties, it sounded like the universe breathing, it gave new meaning to existing. The conclusion was always simple: Why would he?

Eyes fixed on the future, when Wolfgang brought back GAS for a fleeting remix of The Field a few years ago it felt unimportant but also opened up the possibility that he may not be done with the name. He had ever so slightly tarnished Pop’s perfect full stop. 17 years after Pop he’s exhaled another opus over the decades that does the GAS name justice and reinstates his god given right to walk away from it. One thing to readily note here is this record is certainly not Pop 2.0 as the title may suggest. Narkopop's new unstable nature brings fascinating, readily consumable answers to the question of where he planned to take us as well as obligatory nods to Konigsfrost and Zauberberg in overwhelming ecstatic waves of classical music. Narkopop is anything but nostalgia, it presents itself as a stunning individual entry into this once seemingly sealed vault. Gone are the naturalistic running streams of Pop’s opening three tracks, replaced by human voices on 3, horrifying militaristic drums on 5 and most strikingly, blindingly gorgeous piano fills, clear as day on 6. Its meaning was quickly clear. Narkopop feels heavier than Pop ever did. It’s a velvety record, luxurious even but where Pop felt like it could have been accidentally made by the forest, Narkopop is undeniably the result of fingers on buttons and keys. Pop would never have let a human made piano fill enter the frame yet alone a voice. 17 years later perhaps Voigt can no longer achieve such feats, what’s more likely is he is trying to tell us that the world has gotten to the point where it won’t let him. Once a vision into the surreal side of nature, Narkopop seems to point the project somewhere it has never faced, nor needed to - the human condition required to program it. Not so strangely 2017 felt like the right year for him to do it and for me it was the best record of the strange year by a mile.

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jasperrollswrites · 7 years

Text

Competitive Streak

Another story for @mfmonstah, which has a little bit of a backstory. A while back he’d drawn a transformation of a mutual friend into a goblin who was also something of a shitheel gamer. We’d discussed the concept and I mentioned I wouldn’t mind getting turned into a competitive gamer orc, so he rustled up a TF (which is the image accompanying this story), and out came Jorgagu, a fat beefy orc who was only the hardest of the hardcore...but secretly sensitive at heart.

Then I opened commissions, and they wanted to get turned into Jorgagu, so this happened.

———————

For some people, they yearn to prove themselves in some way. Physical strength, intellectual prowess, precise skill - regardless of the arena they chose to fight in, their desire is to be counted among the best, if not considered the very best. Being good enough is, ironically, not good enough for people like this - they have to be on top in some way.

Most people tend to take an opposing view. They're perfectly happy not being the best, just as long as they do well enough for it to not be embarrassing. You can't win all the time, but no-one likes to lose too much. Just chill out, don't take it too seriously, and you'll have fun no matter the result.

To a certain amount, it depends on the context, but right now Wolf was definitely feeling the latter. He'd gotten a full week off of work (how long had it been? Felt like years), and he wasn't about to stress himself out taking playing Overwatch too seriously. He just wanted to chill out and play in the Arcade, or mess around on one of the custom servers...it was just a game, at the end of the day.

As another round of Mystery Heroes wrapped up (a victory, but barely - that overtime felt like it had gone on forever), Wolf stretched his arms upwards, and tilted his head to the side. Further...further...his brown hair flopped a little, taken by gravity. He kept tilting, straining the muscles in his neck until there was a satisfying pop, and the ache he'd been feeling in his neck relinquished.

Feeling a little bit of relief, Wolf checked the clock in the corner of the screen. 10:39, it said. Still quite a bit of time before he'd planned to go to sleep, but Wolf quit out the game anyway. He felt like winding down with some light internet browsing, but first, he was needing a drink. That match had gone on quite a while.

He got up from the computer, and made a kind of slow walk over towards the fridge in the kitchen, still wrapped up in some post-game stretching. He'd have to work on his posture - the hunched over slump he got into when he played games wasn't doing wonders for his back. He blinked a little as he exited the darkened corridor between his room and the kitchen - what was it about kitchens that made them so bright when it was getting late at night?

Wolf absent-mindedly scratched his chest through his light blue shirt as he opened the fridge, looking for something to fizzy to drink, but his hopes were kind of low. He was pretty sure he hadn't bought anything in a while - it'd be a very very quick trip to the 7/11, most likely. He perused the shelves, and stopped when he came across a familiar neon green color.

"Or maybe not..." he mumbled, as he reached out and took the Mountain Dew out of the back of the fridge. He clenched the bottle between his rather thin fingers and checked it over, making sure everything was on the level. The sell-by date wasn't until next week. He didn't remember buying it, but it wasn't like he was about to complain. It was just some regular Mountain Dew, after all.

He twisted the cap open and took a swig, letting the bubbly liquid slide down his throat quickly. It wasn't the best drink he'd ever tasted, but when had a soda ever been the best drink? It was just a quick hit of sugar, that was all he wanted. He adjusted the belt line of his dark blue jeans, hanging loosely around his rather thin waist, and took a moment to blink again, feeling a bit more awake than before. He rubbed the palm of his hand against his forehead, feeling a little bit of a headache come on. Maybe he shouldn't be drinking Dew, but...well, he'd opened the bottle now.

Wolf walked back through the darkened corridor, and took a moment to scratch his butt. He re-entered the slightly less intense light of the study room, but something had changed about him. It was like, as he'd walked through those shadows, his hair had taken on a bit of that darkness. His hair was losing its light brown, becoming a deeper, more chestnut colour. Wolf wasn't really in a position to notice, though, as he set the bottle down on the desk, and settled back into his chair.

He scrolled blankly through his various social media feeds, but he didn't feel like any of it was really catching him. Maybe a slight smirk at some stupid joke, vaguely piqued interest at some kind of article, mild amusement at some fanart of some show or another...but he wasn't really feeling it. He leaned to the side, resting his head in the palm of his hand, as he reached towards the bottle and took another sip.

Lazy browsing was never the most stimulating activity he could be doing, but Wolf was really not feeling it tonight. He shifted in his chair, feeling a little bit antsy. There was a niggling feeling in the back of his mind. He ran a hand through his hair, and there was a strange reaction - the hair he touched became darker still, almost a complete jet black. The length changed too - from slightly long to a shorter cut, more choppy and untamed than before.

Wolf recognized the what the feeling was. He felt like he wasn't really doing anything. He was wasting time right now. His hand settled on the mouse and gave an involuntary twitch. He was itching to do something. He looked at the clock. 11:23.

One more game wouldn't hurt.

He opened up Overwatch again, taking another brief swig from the bottle. As the familiar, orchestral intro played, he ran his hand over his mouse...and suddenly spasmed, sending the mouse off the table.

There was a clack as he heard the mouse smack against the side of the desk, but he was more concerned with his hand. There was shooting pain coursing through it, like a horrible cramp. He closed his eyes in pain. Wolf held his wrist, as the muscles in his mouse hand were almost paralyzed. He could hear more pops and cracks, like the way he'd cracked his neck earlier. He felt his skin shifting underneath his finger. What was going on? His fingers were being pushed further apart, as if his hand and wrist were growing bigger as he held them.

The pain began to course through him for a few more moments before finally subsiding. Wolf lowered the hand to his desk, panting like he'd just been through a marathon. He cracked open his eyes to look at the hand that had been causing him all this pain.

It was big. It was big, and meaty, like he'd been working it out or something. The palm was big and broad, the fingers were a lot thicker than those of his other hand. This was a hand made for punching stuff. He slowly held his other hand up. The size of one finger on his newly buffed up hand was the size of two fingers on his regular one. But that wasn't for long. There was another sheer pain, this time on the opposite hand. Wolf yelled out in pain, grasping the desk for stability, but forced himself to keep his eyes open.

He watched as the left hand began to match the right. His fingers and thumb were doubling in size, he felt the bones under the skin and muscle pop as the knuckles bulged outwards, the back of the hand becoming larger and larger. As the change slowed and the pain subsided, Wolf stared in wonder at the big, beefy mitts he now had.

It didn't take long for him to come to an explanation for what was going on, or how to progress it. He grabbed the bottle, lifted it up, and tilted his head back, downing the whole thing in one go. Tossing the empty bottle in the vague direction of the wastebin, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and waited for it to begin in earnest.

The start was innocent enough, and he probably should've expected it. You don't drink a whole bottle of soda in one go without the carbonation getting to you a little bit. He felt the air bubble up his throat. It was bigger than a usual one, that was for sure. There was that brief moment of resistance, and then...it was free, and Wolf gave the loudest belch he'd ever released in his life. His jaw opened wide and he swore he could feel the desk shake.

But now his jaw was suddenly locked in place, and he was struggling to close it. He felt a low rumbling moan from the back of his throat, as a dull ache pulsed through his lower jaw. It was becoming...thicker? He reached up a beefy hand to his chin, and realized that it was no longer quite as soft and round as it once was. The jaw line was much more defined, becoming bigger, squarer as he felt it. A real lantern jaw.

"Gyah!" Wolf yelled out, the ache suddenly becoming a piercing pain in his lower canines. He closed his eyes again - he couldn't not - as he felt his teeth painfully shifting in his mouth. It was the weirdest feeling - his center teeth were being pushed closer together, moving to make way for...something. The pain in his canines seemed to be increasing, the pain was getting...bigger. There was no other way to describe it.

The ache was spreading across his face, and he could feel a pressure on his forehead, like something was pushing down into his skull. He reached up his hands to his temples now, the hair that adorned it much shorter and choppier now. He moaned in pain, and felt that familiar feeling of his body shifting underneath his hands. His brow was pushing forward, becoming an overhang that shadowed his eyes. He blinked a few times, and the sclera of his eyes went from a pure white, to a dim yellow.

Then, as so often before, as quickly as it started, it stopped. Wolf slowly closed his jaw, and there was the unmistakable feeling of his teeth pushing between his lips. He opened his eyes and looked down, confirming what he was thinking. He reached up again to touch them, to confirm they were real. Those canines had extended, grown, into a pair of big tusks, hard to miss on his broader, manlier face.

"An orc, then", he said in a low grumble of a voice, smirking a little, but the smirk was quickly wiped off his face, as the pain began to pulse all over his body. Now it really began. Wolf grimaced, feeling it surge through his arms. His muscles tightening, relaxing, tightening again - almost tearing themselves apart, before fixing themselves again. Whatever he imagined bodybuilding to be like, it wasn't this. These weren't muscles gained with hard work - they were...more natural. Like he was born with them.

His triceps and biceps bulked outwards, and he heard a rip as his shoulders expanded, his back broadened, and his shirt struggled to keep up. Wolf bit his lower lip, hunched over, and looked down. It was his pectorals now, pushing outward, the muscles pumping up in size. The shirt tore again, this time down the front. Wolf reached up, grabbing where the shirt had ripped, and began to pull it apart, exposing his thickening torso.

On top of the obvious changes, was the skin. Once a pale white, it was now beginning to take on a green tinge - right now he looked like he might be about to throw up, but he knew soon enough it would take on a much richer tone. In the meantime, his pecs had stopped putting on the muscle - in what seemed like a change of direction, he could begin to feel fat plumping them up now.

He leaned back, taking the hardened pecs in his hands, and rubbed them a bit, feeling them getting softer beneath his hands. His nipples were getting bigger to match - Wolf stuck out his tongue, and felt his pants tighten a bit. Massaging his pecs...no, no, they were softer now, more like moobs. It felt good. But there was more to come.

As the colour of his skin deepened, the pale, sickly green turning to a more deep, emerald hue, his belly began to bloat outwards. It was a mixture of muscle and fat, but fat was definitely winning out, as his waistline bloated outwards. His belt was almost immediately stretched to its absolute limit, before snapping completely. There was a loud 'clink' as the buckle, forced out of position by Wolf's expanding stomach, rocketed away and hit the wall. He gave out a loud chuckle. This was amazing.

His lower body was racing to catch up now. He felt the chair creaking, as his jeans got tighter and tighter. His butt was packing on the fat now, pushing against the seams of his jeans. It wouldn't be long before..."Yep, there it is" Wolf breathed out with somewhat barely disguised lust, as a loud RRRIP went through the air, and he felt the jeans being torn apart by his mammoth-sized buttocks, the legs thickening immensely to support their weight.

The muscle packed on there in a similar manner to his arms - tearing, fixing, tearing, fixing. He could feel the cotton of his socks, shredding and snapping apart, as his feet became too big for them. He stamped his right foot, feeling satisfied by the loud thump his feet now made. He reached up and flexed his arm, admiring the natural muscle given to him, by nature of being a male orc. Maybe some other orcs wouldn't give him the time of day, but Jorgagu knew he looked good.

It was starting to finish up now. His skin was now a deep forest green. He looked at his hands where this had started, and saw his nails were a grubby yellow, a tone matched by his tusks, which didn't look like they'd been brushed in a while. He looked down, admiring the light dusting of black hairs adorning his belly. Reaching his right hand down, he stroked the bulge in his boxers, which themselves were barely holding on - if he got any more excited, they'd probably snap.

Jorgagu had more important things to be doing, however. Pleasuring himself could come later. Reaching up and rubbing his chin - he noticed, with a bit of start, that he'd grown a somewhat stubbly beard too, but then of course he had - he finally looked back at the screen. The Overwatch title screen was still there, an image of McCree, the cowboy, glaring at him with a stony face. Jorgagu smirked.

He reached down and picked the mouse up off the floor, setting it back on the desk, then clicked play, and then "Competitive". His mouse and keyboard were too small for his new hands. He'd fix that later, though. It was late in the season, and he had some serious work to do if he was ever going to reach Grandmaster rank.

#writing #transformation #orc

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bridgetkat-blog · 5 years

Text

Imposter Syndrome

“You should be an English teacher,” my dad used to tell me.

And I would respond with something along the lines of, “English teachers get paid shit.”

I sat in a blue, plastic chair in the front of my Calc AB classroom—one of the only air-conditioned classrooms in my budget-conscious Catholic high school—as my teacher projected a piece of paper onto the front wall. Written on the paper was a distribution of scores earned on the most recent test.

“One person did get a hundred,” my teacher said as he gave us a run-down of the score distribution. “This is the first time someone has ever gotten a hundred percent on this test.”

After he had finished discussing the scores, he began passing the graded tests back to the students. After anxiously awaiting the news of my score, he finally handed me my graded test. Bright red ink was scribbled on the top of the paper:

100

Math was my niche, my safe haven, where I always knew I would succeed. Where I never feared failure.

I’ve never been good at reading. It was always my lowest-scoring section on standardized tests. I read slowly, and sometimes I realize that I haven’t been paying attention for the last two pages. My eyes scan through the words, but they kind of just go in one eye and out the other. Not only did this make reading difficult for me, but the frustration it caused made reading utterly unenjoyable.

I come from a family of health-care providers. My father is a physician, my mother is a PA, my uncle and his wife are both physicians, my grandfather is a surgeon, and my older sister is in medical school. My dad could always tell me if I had strep or not. He once used his stethoscope on me at home because I thought I was dying[1]. On another occasion, I had the stomach flu, and he called in a prescription anti-nausea tablet for me—it was that easy. When I had cramps, my mom would tell me, “the prescription dose for ibuprofen is 800 milligrams, so you can take four.” I couldn’t go to the grocery store with my dad without running into four different people that he either worked with or treated. When I got the stomach flu again in college, by parents were able to tell me everything from the best position to lie in to the best over-the-counter medicine to buy.

There was never any explicit pressure for me to follow in my family’s footsteps, and I never felt any implicit pressure either; health care was just all I ever knew.

Before I was an English major, I had some pre(mis)conceptions of “The English Major”: obsessed with books, wears big hipster glasses, spends free time reading The Great Gatsby while drinking tea in locally-owned cafés. Has read the entire Harry Potter series three times. Mildly, endearingly socially awkward, but otherwise unremarkable. At one point, I thought people chose to major in English because they weren’t good at anything else. That’s why I was hesitant to become one myself. Why would I be an English major when I’m good at other things – “more useful” things, “more impressive” things? Why would I give people a reason to think I was unremarkable?

As I approached high school graduation, I never felt confident about what I wanted to do in college. I never felt like thinking about it. I told myself that I knew what I wanted to do just so I could stop worrying about it. I knew I was confident in math, and I was above average in science, so I decided on biomedical engineering—the same major my older sister had already been studying. It just made sense—I could use my talents in math and science, I could be involved in healthcare, and best of all, I could make good money. It made sense, didn’t it?

I vaguely remember one day in 3rd grade when my class was having silent reading time. My teacher—who I did not particularly like—came over to my desk and told me that I shouldn’t mouth the words while I’m reading. I didn’t understand why doing that was bad, and I still don’t really understand now. I’m not sure if it was solely for that reason or if other evidence was involved, but my teacher ended up making me do one-on-one reading practice with a volunteer parent. This is the earliest memory I have of feeling stupid.

I went into the semester optimistic—lots of people on my floor were in engineering, my older sister was a tutor in the College of Engineering, and I expected to enjoy all of my classes. But within two weeks, I decided I hated engineering and Engineering Problem Solving I[2]. “Everyone hates EPS 1,” they all said. “It doesn’t mean you hate engineering.” How exactly does one not hate engineering? was my only thought. I stuck with my engineering math class because it was basically just Calc II, and I wasn’t against advancing my math expertise.[3]

At this point, I was back at square one. So what the fuck do I do now? I decided to jump right on something else I had considered in the past: physical therapy. I had been interested in it since my senior year of high school[4], so the next semester, I began my work as a major in human physiology on a Pre-Physical Therapy track. It made sense, didn’t it?

You know those fat literature books you get in middle school? I always read the dumb little stories but hardly could remember what they were about. In high school, I Sparknotes’d my way through Huckleberry Finn and Of Mice and Men. I think I actually read about 50% of To Kill A Mockingbird. And I still got an A in American Lit, presumably because I’m good at bullshitting[5]. I got a 2190[6] on the SAT because, unlike the ACT, there is no reading portion.

One day — after a year in Human Physiology, a week of shadowing, and semesters full of bullshit classes — I had an epiphany: I fucking hate this. Maybe it was the professors; maybe it was the three-hour labs in windowless rooms; maybe it was the fact that every class made me cry on at least one occasion. But I knew that I hated it. And besides that, how does a painfully shy five-foot-tall girl work as a health care provider, anyway?

So for the next couple of weeks, I panicked and obsessed over what I was going to do. There I was, a second-semester sophomore, looking to completely start from scratch as I went into my junior year, and the self-reprimanding thoughts began. Can you pick something you actually enjoy for once? This is the rest of your life we’re talking about. Stop letting other people’s expectations make decisions for you and get your shit together.

But I’ve loved writing since I took my first creative writing class in high school. As soon as I was formally introduced to it, creative writing became my coping mechanism for any and all things. It was my way of sorting out the jumbled thoughts in my head into something I could translate into words. And my composition teacher was constantly astounded by my flawless grammar. So, despite my less-than-ideal track record in reading, I chose to be an English major. Am I actually, diagnosably insane? Probably. But more than a year later, do I regret it? Not even a little bit.

I need to make one thing clear for those who have the mindset I used to have: English is not easy, or useless, or unimpressive, or unremarkable. STEM students see English as a cop-out major, but ironically, those are precisely the students who are most likely to fail miserably in an English class. STEM is numerical, logical. English is subjective, creative, and abstract. Throw a stereotypical Engineering student into a Chaucer class or a creative writing class, and they are bound to have difficulties. But they don’t think so. They think it’s easy. I’d like to see a STEM major write a three-page paper on four lines of The Canterbury Tales. I’d like to see a STEM major read one of Shakespeare’s Sonnets and even have a clue what it’s talking about. I’d like to see a STEM major write five pages on the symbolism of fire in Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein. I’d like to see a STEM major read five novels in four weeks. I’d like to see a STEM major take a class entitled “Chaucer” and even make it out alive.

I don’t read for fun, but maybe I would if I had the time. I don’t read or study in cafés because I can’t concentrate if I can discern nearby conversations. I wear glasses, but only because I need them to see, and contacts make my eyes itch. I’m socially awkward, but neither mildly nor endearingly. I’ve never read The Great Gatsby, or Gone with The Wind, or Great Expectations, or any books of the Harry Potter series[7]. I do drink tea, but only to calm my clinical anxiety.

I always thought I had to go into math and science because I was especially good at those subjects. To me, there was never even a question of what I enjoyed; what mattered was what I was good at. People always asked me, “Why do you want to be an engineer?” or, “Why do you want to be a physical therapist?” And my answer was always based on the fact that I excelled in math and science, not that I enjoyed those areas. It only dawned on me that I should enjoy my career when I was halfway through college and it all suddenly became real.

Why had I never considered a career in English, you ask? Because in 21st Century America, a successful career in English[8] is “unrealistic,” a “fantasy.” Doesn’t pay well[9]. Most people don’t even consider pursuing a career in English because it’s generally accepted that it’s not even a valid option, unless you want to be “stuck” teaching or working as a full-time barista, sharing a four-bedroom apartment for the rest of your life. And so what if someone does want that?

Sometimes I worry about how I’ll be able to teach English if I’m not particularly gifted in reading – literally half of the subject. But then I realize that that is exactly the reason I will succeed as an English teacher. Some teachers are so gifted in their field of study that they don’t know how to help people who don’t understand it immediately. When you’re naturally talented in an area, it’s hard to explain it to someone else. It’s when you actually have to work to learn the material that you understand how to teach it to someone else. The best teachers are the ones who understand how it feels to struggle and know how to help. I’m going to be that teacher for someone.

But yeah, I’ll probably get paid shit.

[1] I was not, in fact, dying.

[2] Engineering Problem Solving I, or EPS I, is a core introductory course for all engineering students.

[3] I ended up getting an A.

[4] Throughout high school, I had a chronic muscle knot near my right shoulder blade—a result of cheerleading, show choir, and bad posture. Eventually, it got so bad that I started going to physical therapy. In my efforts to relieve this massive knot, I became infatuated with muscles and how they functioned. And that’s how I got interested in the field of physical therapy.

[5] A lifetime of mandatory religion classes in a Catholic school system gets you good at that kind of thing.

[6] Out of 2400. This is approximately equivalent to scoring a 33 out of 36 on the ACT.

[7] I have seen all of the Harry Potter movies, though; I don’t live under a rock.

[8] Besides teaching.

[9] Includes teaching.

#nonfiction #personal essay #english major

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cherish--these--times · 8 years

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He has always loved her.

I was always convinced of that fact. I was one of the very few Sherlolly shippers out there who firmly believed that it would become canon. I knew I could be wrong, of course. But I think this is it. Or rather as close to canon as we can get. To me, the Final Problem confirms all of the suspicions I’ve ever had as to why they wrote Sherlock and Molly the way they did. Take note that what follows is obviously with shipper goggles on. But still.

Quite a long post under the cut.

You do count. I need you. You mattered the most. But why?

I like the idea of Sherlock realising that he loved Molly under duress. I see no issue with the idea at all. It makes perfect sense to me. This is Sherlock Holmes after all. Loving someone romantically has never been an option. He wouldn’t even consider asking himself the question. Add his life-long conviction taught by Mycroft that caring is a disadvantage, the repressed loss of Victor, the loss of Mary, the constant threat of losing John and the case of Irene Adler to the mix and that’s what you get: Being in love? Never.

But seriously, guys. He lost the battle against friendship long ago. What would be the point of that scene if not to prove that he lost the battle against love too? More of that in my other meta: Why I think Eurus knew Sherlock loved Molly.

Can Sherlock Holmes love?

If yes, who?

This has been the unknown in the equation for John Watson since the very first episode, at Angelo’s (girlfriend? boyfriend?). Same question asked to Mrs. Hudson in ASiB. And an itch he needs to scratch both in Sherlock’s mind (murderous ghost scene in TAB) and in real life (the chat before The Hug in TLD). In a story, if a question is asked more than once, you can safely assume that it will be addressed later on. Another example: both John and Mycroft wonder what his feelings regarding Irene Adler can possibly be at Speedy’s as well.

And, coincidence (?) both are in the room when the phone call happens. Passive and silent. Spectators. An audience. Us. The scene is set to be a revelation for them as well as for the viewer regarding Sherlock’s heart. A forced and long overdue introspection into the one area left unexplored. Three minutes of unbearable tension leading to an outstanding emotional breakthrough. What could that be? That Sherlock loves Molly as a friend? Nothing new under the sun.

John believes that loving someone will complete Sherlock as a human being. A notion Sherlock doesn’t understand (”That doesn’t even mean anything.”) And it would have stayed that way. If not for Eurus. If not for his psychopathic sister who spent ‘such a good day’ reconciling his brother with what he suspected he already was. Human. And a very emotional one at that. John thinks that Irene will be the one to do the trick. Then distances himself from the idea and figures that Sherlock needs his own Mary. Unconsciously describing this potential person to be exactly what Molly always has been. Right before they go out to meet her for cake. Right before TFP happens. The universe is rarely so lazy.

If you consider the possibility that Sherlock discovers in the span of 3 minutes that he has loved Molly Hooper in that way all along, every single interaction clicks into place.

- His civility and, dare I say, enthusiasm with her in the early days. He is awkward in his approach and sometimes even indelicate. But he is also tempting to be nice. (He even drinks her awful coffee and doesn’t say a word!!). Keep in mind that this is before John Watson started to do his magic. Sherlock is at the peak of his sociopathic behaviour.

- His passive aggressive behaviour towards her regarding any potential suitor in the first two series (Jim in TGG, the mysterious recipient of her gift in ASiB, her lunch date in TRF). These scenes are, in fact, the only moments he becomes cruel. With Jim from IT, he even thinks he is being kind. Oh, and the line Molly says “He’s not gay. Why do you always spoil…?! He’s not.” suggests that Sherlock frequently deduces her dates to death.

- The idea of her not counting immediately sounds preposterous to him. Foreign.

- He comes to her when things become really dangerous and dark. The fall is coming. He’s got Mycroft and the entirety of the British Secret Forces or whatever on his side. He knows what is to come. He could have done without her involvement, surely. But he needs someone he cares deeply about to know the truth about him. That he is not a fraud. And so, he goes to her. Tells her he needs her. With tears in his eyes.

- His uncharacteristic tenderness on their crime-solving day.

- Why she’s the one who keeps him grounded and focused so he can fall on his back and prevent further damage when he gets shot.

- Why he hides away at her place when he needs it.

- His behaviour towards Hooper in TAB. He never strikes back in the morgue. Holmes is deliberately unresponsive. Better than that, BC acted tongue-tied. Same for the Christening scene in TST. She chastises him, knocks him in the ribs, teases him. He never looks annoyed. You can conclude from that interaction alone that he is incredibly fond of her.

Not to mention that the writers kept Molly intentionally free from any other man (end of her engagement). Because yes, to execute the Sherlolly becomes canon plan, Molly also has to stay emotionally available until he is on the same page. I see no other reason for it. Seriously. From a feminist perspective, that doesn’t sound very good. But Mofftiss have been careful. Molly is in love but it’s not gratuitous and purposeless, nor is it what defines her as a person. They made sure she always stands her ground. She takes care of him but doesn’t take any of his shit. She is not a bloody doormat. Up until the very end, she has the upper hand: “You say it. Go on”. Her love matters. Makes him a better man.

No matter what, through thick and thin, she is always, always there. It’s a beautiful thing from both perspectives. Molly stays because she is strong, she loves him and would rather be his friend than nothing at all. She doesn’t ask for anything in return. This is a lesson of bravery, selflessness and kindness. The lesson Louise Brealey cares so much about. From Sherlock’s point of view, and up until TFP, it’s not clear as to why, she stays because he wouldn’t have it any other way. He knows of her feelings and how difficult it must be for her stay. Still, Sherlock needs her to. The mere concept of her not being by his side is inconceivable. We know it is. She would have been long gone otherwise.

You could argue that he kept her around only because he loved her very very much as a friend. But if Mofftiss wanted Sherlock to become a good man (which is the whole point of the show) but not for him to fall in love, then Sherlock would have stayed away from Molly for good after he realised what she felt for him. Because that’s what you do when you deeply love your friend and want them to be happy. Not doing so would be the most selfish thing in the world.

After TRF, two golden opportunities presented themselves to kindly deal with the problem of Molly Hooper and prevent her from becoming a potential love interest. One where she stays in his circle and one where she leaves. In a way, Mofftiss used both. And destroyed them in the next breath.

1. Happy ending. She stays.

She marries another man. Perfectly reasonable. She doesn’t see him for two years, falls in love and never looks back. She can stay his friend and we don’t lose awesome Molly. A very handy solution because she is Mofftiss’ original creation and they want her to stick around. Ideal to have her develop a beautiful dynamic with Sherlock based on deep respect and camaraderie. “God, you’re such a dick sometimes. I can’t believe I fell for you.” “I know. I don’t get it either, Molly Hooper.” They twisted that option and used it instead to prove that no one but Sherlock will do for her. It started as being a few hints in TEH and TSoT and became the truth in HLV with one single line “Sorry your engagement’s over, although I’m grateful for the lack of a ring”.

I won’t even talk about that line. Come on. It’s so ambiguous it’s laughable.

Also, Tom was purposely made to be a facsimile of the real thing and Molly was droolin’ all over Sherlock during his speech in TSoT. So yeah. It’s him or nothing.

Not to mention THAT SCENE RIGHT THERE. At the time, also known in my book as: Sherlolly is gonna become sooo canon bitches. I knew there and then, that something big was coming.

2. Bittersweet ending. She leaves.

The solution I mentioned before. Sherlock decides to do the right thing and lets her go. As a friend, as someone who cares (and we know he does), he cuts himself from her life and thus allows her to move on. Rings a bell? This is the hallway seen in TEH. It could have been the very last interaction between Sherlock and Molly on the show. And it would have been beautiful. If it was definitive, it would have been as effective to make Sherlock a good man as him destroying her coffin because he couldn’t bear to break her heart. I would have been sad, devastated even but all in all not surprised by this turn of event. I think we can all agree on that. We would have been proud of Sherlock. Relieved for Molly. He grew up. He wants to protect her. He lets her go, even if it means losing her friendship in the process.

But again, they nipped it in the bud. Again, with a single line.

“Maybe it’s just my type”.

Both keep coming back to one another. Like magnets.

Molly because she knows who Sherlock is deep down and loves what she sees. He’s her type, and it is what it is. Sherlock because he needs to have her in his life. In any way he can. He refuses to free her from him. Why? When you think about it, I think Mofftiss made crystal clear the fact that he just can’t.

Because he is, and perhaps always has been, in love with her.

Lastly, best of all for me, the I Love You scene finally explains why he never made a move. I don’t know for you but my take on that was that he knew of his feelings for her but repressed them because he considered himself unworthy of Molly Hooper. It made my shipper’s heart happy. I never asked for more. It fit his behaviour as I read it and the show could have ended with them staying apart. I was satisfied with that view of things. In fact, if not for Sherlock Holmes to realise that he was in love with Molly Hooper, the I Love You scene was completely unnecessary. Just like the end of TSoT in the gif above.

And it makes perfect sense, now.

He simply was not aware of the depth of his own feelings, clueless idiot that he was. He needed a big push, in his case, a life or death situation, him contemplating a life with no Molly Hooper in it, for him to face the truth.

This is not far fetched at all, you know. It does happen in real life. I’ve known two specific examples, both with the same pattern. They are the best of friends. They spend so much time with one another that people keep asking them what is really going on there. They keep insisting that it’s only friendship. And then life takes over and threatens to tear them apart. That’s when they realise.

« I love you. »

Oh.

Oh..

#sherlolly #will you just shut up about these two #it's been a week and a half you idiot #sherlock x molly #sherlolly meta

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