#white balancing a white puppet in a dark room is a skill i do not possess

[cool-frog-hours]

This bad boy is doing numbers on tik tok, so I figured I’d post him here too

Audio: [“Welcome…babies…to The Fruity Pebbles Castle of Torment, a scary castle with one hundred rats.” *laugher*]

[itallstartedwithplayingvet]

Whumptober Day 21 - I Don’t Feel So Well

Fandom: Yo-Kai Watch

Characters: Katie Forester, Coughkoff, Roughraff, Chansin, Dimmy, Whisper, Brushido

Content Warnings: Illness

Word Count: 1,360

Thought I’d do something less dark for a change. After 20 days of serious stuff, I think a little bit of cute will help keep it from getting stale. If you don’t like this style though, don’t worry. I’m going right back to serious for 22.

“Woah, what happened to you guys?” Katie remarked upon opening her door to find her friends all piled around the living room, all seemingly exhausted. “You’re not hurt, are you?”

“Coughkoff got us all sick.” Roughraff grumbled, gesturing with his thumb to the brown urchin-like Yokai beside him.

“Did not!” Coughkoff snapped back.

“Did too!”

“Did not!”

“Did too!”

The two kept this up for a moment longer, each gradually getting closer to the other until they were butting heads. Then, the two of them turned their heads away, coughing.

“Pointing fingers won’t help.” Chansin spoke up from his position upon the couch. “It could easily have been--” He sneezed. “--any one of us.”

“Sick?” Katie repeated, confused. “I didn’t think yokai could get sick. I thought you guys were all, like...ghosts or something.”

“Some of us are--” Dimmy replied, pausing briefly to cough. “--but that doesn’t stop us from getting sick sometimes.”

“Ah, there you are, Katie!” Whisper flew down from upstairs, and came to a stop in between Katie and the yokai. He was wearing a mask over his mouth. “It’s alright, just a cold, nothing too serious. I can’t get too close to them because it can spread to other yokai, but you should be fine. To my knowledge, yokai illnesses can’t be transmitted to humans.”

“Well, that’s a relief.” Katie replied. “But I guess that means Brushido can’t do the cleaning, huh?”

“Regrettably, no, my liege.” Brushido suddenly piped up from beside Katie. He had tied a white cloth around the lower half of his face. “I do hope you’ll forgive me.”

“It’s alright.” She replied. “It’s about time I do some chores myself anyway. You’ve already worked so hard.”

“Your kindness is greatly appreciated, Lady Katie.” The diminutive trainee bowed to her.

“Hm...” Katie began to think. “Well, if they’re all sick, and you guys can’t risk helping them, then maybe I should take care of them.”

“I can’t ask you to do that, kid.” Chansin called to her. “We’ll all be fine in a day or two.”

Katie shook her head. “It’s no trouble at all, really. You guys have been so helpful, it’d be rude of me not to return the favor.”

“Heh...” Chansin coughed. “You really are a good kid, aren’t you?”

Katie smiled. “I’ll go get some blankets and tissues for you guys. And...well, whatever else you need.” 

“Whisper and I would be honored to help.” Brushido offered.

Katie nearly made a comment about Brushido being too small to carry supplies, but he seemed quite determined, and she didn’t want to discourage him. “Oh, thanks, guys! Um...Brushido, you can help me carry supplies, and Whisper...do you know how to make tea?”

“Of course! What sort of yokai butler wouldn’t know how to make tea?!” Whisper seemed somewhat offended that she’d even asked him. “I’ll get right to work on that.” And with that, he drifted off into the kitchen.

Katie nodded to Brushido, and walked upstairs to the storage closet. There she found a few unused blankets and an unopened box of tissues. She took the blankets in her hands, and gave the box of tissues to Brushido, who proceeded to push them along until they had reached the living room again. She had to admire his dedication---the box was nearly as big as he was. 

Katie distributed the blankets evenly among the sick yokai. Most of them were small enough that the blankets could completely wrap around them comfortably. Chansin was a bit too tall for his blanket, but insisted that this wasn’t a problem. Katie refused to take this for an answer and brought him an extra blanket anyway.

Coughkoff practically disappeared in his blanket with how it could have covered his small body completely. His spikes did snag a bit on the fabric, however, but he didn’t seem to mind.

Roughraff, as usual, acted tough and initially refused the blanket. After what must have been a particularly bad chill, however, he reluctantly took the blanket, albeit insisting he wasn’t a wimp all the while.

Dimmy muttered something to the extent of not wanting to be a bother when Katie offered him a blanket, but accepted it on the grounds that Katie wanted him to be comfortable, which he figured would make him more of a bother if he refused the offer. Katie thought he looked absolutely adorable bundled up in his blanket. Really, they all looked pretty cute to her.

“Katie?” Whisper called from the kitchen. “Would you carry some of these cups? I don’t exactly have four arms.”

“Sure thing!” Katie called back, walking into the kitchen. There, she took two of the mugs of tea Whisper had made and carried them into the living room. Whisper followed her with the other two. He left them on the coffee table, and returned to the kitchen. Katie then got to work on distributing the tea.

She noticed one of the cups had a straw in it. Realizing this one was meant for Coughkoff, as he was the only one of them without arms, she placed it in front of his little blanket nest. He did a sort of grateful eye-smile, and took a few sips of tea before verbally thanking her.

She gave the next cup to Roughraff, who again acted tough and insisted he didn’t need it. She gave him a knowing smile and let it sit in front of him anyway, certain he’d get over himself and drink it sooner or later. He usually did.

Chansin took the tea with a grateful nod, and after a sip, said “That’s perfect...I guess we finally found something old Marshmallow’s good at.” He gave a weak laugh, and Katie joined him.

“You should be nicer to him...” Katie muttered. “He’s not that skilled, but he tries his best...and he means well.”

He smiled, and nodded slowly. “You’re a good kid. Don’t ever change that.”

Katie smiled again, and turned to hand the last cup to Dimmy. He accepted the offer with a quiet “Thanks...” and not a word more. 

With a sigh, Katie picked up the remote and sat down on the couch between Chansin and Dimmy. She looked over to the wall where Coughkoff and Roughraff were seated. “You guys can come up too, if you want. There’s still plenty of room.” She offered.

Predictably, Roughraff scoffed at the offer, but Coughkoff eagerly drifted over to her, still wrapped in his blanket. He settled upon her lap, which thankfully, was protected from his spines by the thick blanket layer covering them. Katie shrugged her shoulders at Roughraff. “Guess that means more room for the rest of us.” She said slyly. “You know, I was thinking we’d watch TV until everyone’s ready to sleep, and this is the best spot to watch it. But I guess you’re too cool for that.” 

She switched on the TV, and started looking for a movie. Meanwhile, Whisper drifted back into the living room, two mugs of tea in his hands and one balanced precariously on top of his head. “Are these...for us?” Katie asked, deciding to relieve him of the one atop his head before he spilled it all over the floor.

“Oh, thank you.” Whisper said. “I just thought you and Brushido might like some as well, and I know I would...”

Katie nodded. “Thank you.” She took a sip. Chansin was right, it was wonderful. He’d definitely sweetened it with honey, which was perfect for soothing sore throats.

As Whisper drifted off towards the stairs to join Brushido, Katie noticed Roughraff climbing up onto the couch. He noticed her watching him, and immediately got defensive. “The floor’s too hard, is all!” He sniffled, and sneezed. “Move over, sock puppet!” He elbowed Dimmy, who jumped at the contact and squirmed over to put distance between the two of them.

“Take it easy. He’s not feeling any better than you are.” Katie scolded him. Roughraff simply rolled his eyes. 

And so the group rested comfortably and enjoyed their tea, and in the end, they had all been made so comfortable that they were all fast asleep by the time the credits rolled.

[xiolaperry]

The Piano - Chapter 13

Summary: Belle French and her daughter arrive in New Zealand to an arranged marriage with Gaston LeGume.  Gaston shows little interest in her or her piano and books. However, Mr. Gold is fascinated… (Rumbelling of the 1993 film “The Piano”)

Rating: E for smut, dark subject matter and violence.

Also available on AO3

-

Two days earlier...

Needle and thread in hand, Gold settled himself on the porch to wait for Belle. He sat outside, wanting to see her the moment she appeared. He wore his best waistcoat, shirt, and trousers. No cravat. There was no need to look overdone.

He sewed the buttons Belle ripped off with passion yesterday. She'd been glorious and fierce, and he hoped the buttons he reattached would be popped off again. He'd suspected there was a passionate nature underneath her self-containment. Bringing that out was a highlight of his life and a privilege.

The bright sun shone overhead when he finished his mending. Gold got out his knife and a piece of wood. A rough form appeared beneath his patient hands. A new cat for Tilly. He'd make her a whole cat family. Perhaps Belle would bring Tilly with her today. As much as a repeat of the previous day's activities would be perfect, seeing Tilly again would be enjoyable as well. She was intelligent and spirited like her mother.

He must learn to sign as soon as possible. He learned the language of the Maori, he could learn this. There was much to discuss and there was the problem of what to do about Gaston. But he wasn’t concerned. If there was anything he was good at, it was dealing. When two people want something the other has, a deal could always be struck.

As the sun tracked its way across the sky, disquieting thoughts set in. Where was she? Maybe Gaston had worked at home today. The light faded, and with it, his earlier joy was replaced with despair.

Darkness came. Gold contemplated the indifferent stars above and felt very small. Those stars had seen many things. They'd seen the dark deeds and deals he used to amass his fortune in Scotland. He'd been ruthless. They saw him find a measure of peace here in verdant New Zealand among the forthright natives. The bargaining skills he’d gained he used for their benefit.

But he hadn't gone soft. No, old habits die hard, and he did not make friends with his fellow settlers. He wheeled and dealed, always in his favor, and to the detriment of the unwary. And now here he stood, gazing up at the night sky, alone.

He woke up the next morning to Granny poking him with her crossbow. “Are you still drunk, Gold?”

“You're not going to shoot me, are you? No, I'm painfully sober.” He stretched, stiff from sleeping in the chair. Every joint ached.

“Then why are you sleeping outside?”

“Because I didn't want to sleep in my bed, obviously.”

“Something wrong with it?”

“No.” It would have broken him to lie in it and catch a whiff of her fragrance.

Granny peered at him over her spectacles and frowned at the sadness etched in the lines of his face.

“Let's go inside, and I'll make you breakfast. You'll never guess what Hira told me about Nihe.”

“You just want to eat my food,” he grumbled. Granny's gossip always made an adequate distraction. A fresh day brightened his outlook, and a tiny ember of hope still burned. She might come today. - - -

The stars came out again, and still she had not returned. His hope transformed into grim acceptance. He should have known. No one could ever love him. Especially not a vibrant young woman with her entire future ahead of her.

Now, with a grief so profound he could neither sleep nor eat, he knew he had to leave. She had moved on. He must do likewise.

Granny had no need to poke him when she checked on him the next morning. If he'd slept the night before, he wasn't aware of it.

“Oh, Gold.” She sighed. One look at his face told her no amount of gossip would help. “I'll make you something to eat.”

“Nothing for me, thank you. Please make something for yourself.” Granny squeezed his arm as she passed him. “On second thought, could you make me some tea, please?”

“I'll get it started right away.”

His tea had cooled enough to drink when Cora's small group arrived.

“Hello, Mr. Gold. So nice to see you on this fine day.”

Gold felt sorry for Reverend Hopper. He was a kind man, he cared and tried to “shepherd his flock.” But he was firmly under Cora's thumb. He doubted she allowed him to give a sermon without her approval of the topic. What the Reverend needed was a strong wife, to balance out his gentleness with some backbone. That would be the only way for him to escape being Cora's puppet.

Cora's haughty voice cut into his musings. “Aren't you going to greet us, Mr. Gold? Or has living among the savages caused you to forget all your manners?”

Gold put aside his tea and leveraged himself up with his cane. He made a courtly bow, extending his arm with a flourish. “Good morning, Reverend Hopper, Regina. You'll notice I don't include you in my greeting, Cora, as any morning with you in it could never be good.”

Reverend Hopper tried to salvage the visit, which was not going the way he hoped. “Mr. Gold, we are here at my suggestion. I want to spread Christmas cheer and greetings to everyone, and that includes you. Might we please come in?”

Hopper was making a valiant effort, he had to give him that. On any other day, he might have invited them in and played dutiful host. But this was not any other day.

“I appreciate the sentiment, Reverend. But Cora can take her bloody Christmas cheer elsewhere.”

Granny came out when she heard him raise his voice. “I see you have a visitor here already,” sneered Cora.

“Yes, I do. And I have much to accomplish today, so I'll bid you haere rā.”

“Come, Regina. I won't spend another second in this miserable man's rude presence.”

“Actually, a moment please, Regina. I'm leaving, and this will probably be the last time I see you. You have spirit, and there is good in you. Get as far away from your mother as possible and give that goodness room to grow. You'll be much better off.” He hoped she'd take his advice. It was the only way she'd find any happiness.

Regina removed a package from her basket and handed it to Reverend Hopper. He approached and placed it on the step.

“I'm sorry to hear you're leaving us. The Maori will miss your help. I wish you safe travels.”

“Thank you, Reverend. I meant no offense to you, it has been a difficult couple of days. But you're another who would do well to rid himself of that viper. Goodbye.”

Granny picked up the package to spare him the step down, knowing his leg must ache. They turned their backs on the trio and entered the house.

“Keep whatever that is. Knowing Cora, it’s probably poisoned.” He rubbed his fingers, uncomfortable with what he was about to ask. “Can you do me a favor?”

“Of course.”

“Can you make sure the cat is taken care of?”

“The cat? The little black one that comes around?”

“Yes. After I'm gone, see if Gaston will take it for Tilly. If he thinks it is his idea, he might let her have it. But if he doesn't, would you look after it?

“Yes, I can do that. You're really leaving?”

“Yes, I am. And thank you.”

“I'm sure you have a lot to do, so I'll go. But don't leave without saying goodbye.”

“I won't.”

Exhausted, Gold sat on the porch again. Thankfully Granny had asked no questions about the cat. He was too tired to explain.

A few minutes later Ebony herself appeared, weaving through the plants on dainty feet. She jumped into his lap and settled there, purring.

Gold scratched her head and ears. Her golden eyes closed to contented slits. He remembered the first time he saw her, a scrawny little thing, just skin and bones. The smell of his dinner cooking had drawn her, and she'd watched him with bleary eyes, hopeful for something to eat.

Hunger was a suffering Gold understood all too well, and he couldn't bear to let anything starve, not even a cat. He'd tossed it scraps of meat and after that, the cat was a regular visitor.

He'd found satisfaction in watching the cat fill out, her dull fur becoming glossy with health, her ribs no longer visible. But he never named her. No, naming was not for the likes of him. Then Tilly came along, and now she was Ebony.

Lost in his memories, his cat warm in his lap, he dozed.

He spent the next morning packing the few belongings he wished to keep into the saddlebags. The teacup and book were wrapped with care, the only two things he truly cherished. Gold saddled his horse. The Maori village would be his first stop. He would gift his land to them; it was theirs to begin with. And he wanted to say goodbye.

Granny was leaving with her crossbow, ready to hunt when he arrived. She surprised him with a traditional Maori greeting, the hongi. As she pressed her nose to his, she said, “I'll miss you, Gold. You've been a good friend to me.”

“And you to me. Haere rā.”

“Let's not drag this out. I wish you well Gold. Goodbye.”

He saw Kamira on his way to the village elders.

“Gold! Just the person I was hoping to run into,” said Kamira, speaking to him in his native tongue. “I have something to trade.”

“I'm not making deals today.”

Kamira pulled the gleaming ivory piano key from his waistband. Gold lunged for it.

“Give me that.”

“I found it. What will you offer me for it?” He knew Gold valued the piano the white woman had brought and thought he might make a good trade for this piece of it.

“Where did you find it?” His fingers tightened on the reins to keep himself from grabbing for it again.

“There's something written on the side, but I can't read English.” He pondered for a moment. “I'll trade you this for your knife.” Kamira had long admired it and Gold never showed any willingness to part with it.

“Deal.” Gold dismounted and opened his saddlebag. The knife, really more of a dagger, was ornate, a work of art. He pulled it from its sheath and it gleamed in the sun. They traded.

The words were difficult to decipher. They were written in flowing script instead of plain print. He concentrated. His eyes narrowed as he sounded out the words, his heart thudding in his chest. These might be the most important words he'd ever read.

“Dear … Gold … You … Have … My … Heart. Belle French.”

Tilting his head back, he laughed with joy. Hope rushed back. In his giddy relief, he did not think to chase down Kamira and ask how the key had come into his possession. Belle loved him.

He'd be patient and go home. No matter how long it took, he'd wait for her. She'd sent him a piece of her treasured piano that was her voice. No one had ever given him anything so precious.

The rain that fell on him as he rode did not dampen his spirits. He repeated the message to himself over and over, savoring the sound of the words, his heart so full of happiness he thought it might burst. “Dear Gold, you have my heart. Belle French.” He was still smiling when he reached his home.

Granny rushed out.

“Gold! I heard the girl, Tilly, screaming, and I came running. She has blood splattered on her. I took her inside the house. Get in here, quickly!”

[lucasnesswrites-blog]

The Deserter

I ran.

Looking back wasn’t an option. And yet, I had to.

I needed to know if there was any hope at all, even if only a sliver of it.

But there wasn’t any.

The King’s army followed. Some in horses. Others in carriages pulled by horses. The rest rode in small cars with pedal-engines. Those were the ones ahead. Armed with sawed-off shotguns, bullwhips, or baseball bats.

And they were gaining on me. But, I kept running anyway.

The thud of hooves stomping on sand grew louder. As did the haunting whirring of the pedal-engines, along with the manic panting of the meth-head working it. Then, I heard a metallic sound. The kind you hear before a firing squad robs a person of their right to exist. My heart skipped a beat.

The desert extended endlessly before my eyes. A mass of yellow and blue meeting on a blurry line beyond my grasp. If I hadn’t been so dehydrated, I would’ve shed a tear.

“This is it,” I thought. “This is the end of me.”

But then, I felt a sharp pain on my leg. I tripped and fell on the sandy wasteland. I tried to get back on my feet, but it was futile. The King’s men soon surrounded me. One of the meth-heads jumped off his pedal-car and walked toward me, brandishing a duct-taped cricket bat. I was too busy looking at him in terror to realize some of the others had sneaked up me. They grabbed me by the forearms with predictable strength, as bat boy came at me. Mid-stride, he took a stance. Lifted his bat. Smiled. And swung at my nose.

But they didn’t kill me.

I wake up in a room I know too well. The Royal Infirmary. A large, colorful hall with too many beds, occupied by many patients, knocked out or screaming. Most of them from the Royal Guard or the King’s army. I, on the other hand, feel fine. Somewhat drugged, but fine.

I sit up. My leg is covered by a thick bandage and my nose, while numb, appears to function as expected.

Then, panic returns.

The King obviously meant to bring me back alive. Why? It may have been risky to send the meth-heads after me, but it worked nonetheless.

At this, one of the nurses sees me sitting up on the bed and her eyes widen. I try to yell at her. Implore her to help me, but my voice won’t come out. I try to scream, but I can’t. No sound. I turn around on the bed and recognize the tube coming from my upper back and into a machine. They intercepted all breathing via an incision at the trachea to prevent my oxygen from coming out through the vocal cords. It’s a powerful rig. Only removable by a skilled blacksmith—after you’ve died in prison. While you live with it, you look and feel like a puppet. Hollow and empty inside with your very existence in the hands of someone more powerful than you. Indeed, irony has been the King’s main pleasure since the day he discovered it as a child.

I consider breaking off the rig. To try at least. But at once I remember all those times I saw others try as well, and fail. Seeing their pale, terrified faces as they slowly realized they had been turned into a lifeless embodiment of silence and despair–

My mind begins to numb as I hear the clanking of armor plates. Five soldiers walk into my line of sight. One of them takes the breathing rig and ties it to my back like a backpack. Two others help me to my feet, and escort me out the Infirmary.

I know where we’re going long before getting there. The Hall of the King–the throne room. Longer than it is wide, with a red-clothed podium covering the lower half of the King’s seat. When we enter the Hall, I can’t see the king. We’re too far away. Despite that, the sight of the throne dais makes me shiver. I can’t look at it, so I lower my gaze as we approach it.

I’m still staring at my feet when we stop at the base of the dais. One of the guards nudges me forward. The weight of the breathing rig is enough to rob me of what little balance I had left. I fell on the carpet, hands and knees on the ground.

I still refuse to look up, even as the King’s hairy silhouette covers the floor in front of me until I’m fully under his shadow. I imagine him leaning forward over his podium to look down at me with his maddeningly empty gaze.

“Well,” he says in his unnerving, high-pitched voice. “I see you have the decency to remember your place in this Kingdom.”

I do not respond.

“However,” he says. “I’d love it very, very much if you threw that right out the window and looked up at your King, with the respect he has so humbly earned.”

My very being begins to sweat. Large beads of saline water cover my forehead and fall down my face, and onto the King’s carpet, without hesitation. My whole body shakes for a few seconds before deciding it will be less painful if I just look up.

I meet his dead-eyed gaze. White ping-pong balls with a black dot to act as an iris and pupil. Faded red fur cover his roundish head and limp body. A felt crown painted in gold stitched onto his head. He raises a hand to wave at me. It has a black stick coming out of its side that disappears into the back of the podium.

“Ah,” says King Elmo. “Isn’t that much better? Huh?”

I simply gaze into the black abyss of his stare.

“Irregardless, all I wanted was your attention.”

I let out a breathless sigh and sit back on the ground, eyebrows raised and arms crossed, making an effort to appear calm.

“Good,” says the King. “Consider this your official sentence. You are charged with treason, for having abandoned your post as my personal assistant, caretaker and puppeteer. You are henceforth sentence to life in the Silent Cage, where you will spend the rest of your days wanting say things without having the ability to do so.”

The King pauses to look at me in the eye. He notices that I don’t seem moved by his sentence and starts to shake. He does not have any facial features, so he shivers vehemently to express anger instead.

“Do you realize the gravity of your punishment?!”

I raise an eyebrow.

“You will not be able to say out loud how pretty butterflies are!”

I pretend to yawn.

“You won’t be able to give little squirrels cute pet names they’ll eventually respond to!”

I slowly get back on my feet, not looking at him.

“AND WORST OF ALL, YOU WON’T BE ABLE TO SING ABOUT THE ALPHABET EVER AGAIN!”

I feel the sudden urge to laugh. I heave back and forth, never making a sound. I laugh so hard my sight darkens and a sharp headache creeps up around my temples. What little I can see through the darkness is littered with small pinpricks of light. Stars in broad daylight.

“TAKE THIS DARN REBEL AWAY!” says King Elmo, flailing his head and arms around in a mad gesture.

One of the guards grabs me by the forearm and drags me away from the Hall of the King. I look back at the throne, and see how the King falls over the podium, limp. A pathetic-looking man comes from behind the podium and is quickly rounded by two guards.

Just as they take me to the Silent Cage, they take the poor man away, leaving the King to rest near his throne.