#also loving The Singing not simply like Despite character voices but really just also soaking that in as a bonus feature to enjoy/appreciate | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

artblogofanekophile · 3 years

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Thank you so much for the tag, @jhoudiey!

This looked like a nice, simple enough thing to fill in (though knowing me I will needlessly complicate matters), so I decided to do this as a way to ease myself back into posting.

Firstly, here's the blank answers for ease of use:

Veggies VS Meat

Spicy food VS Non-spicy food

Sweet VS Salty

Noodles VS Rice

Mint VS No mint

Singing VS Dancing

Cold weather VS Hot weather

Dog VS Cat person

Big spoon VS Little spoon

Extrovert VS Introvert

Actions VS Words

Thin-skinned VS Thick-skinned

Movies VS Series

Comics VS Books

Good liar VS Bad liar

I believe the intention is to simply bold the answers... But because I'm extra, I'll be providing an explanation where I feel necessary. You may fill it in as you so please!

Without further adieu...

Neko

Veggies VS Meat

Miss Neko is a feline beastwoman, and cats are well-known to be obligate carnivores. However, in being a beastwoman, she also needs some form of a human diet as well. Her preference is absolutely meat, but she stopped begrudging the need to eat vegetables at about age nine.

Spicy food VS Non-spicy food

Cats are well known to have sensitive tongues, and Miss Neko is no exception! Anything more than mild spice and the poor thing will be sneaking ice-cubes out of the Mostro Lounge freezer for days!

Sweet VS Salty

She has a bit of a sweet tooth! Especially cake.

Noodles VS Rice

Rice is generally less messy, and there's nothing more irritating than ending up wearing most of your food, especially for a proud pedigree such as herself!

Mint VS No mint

I imagine mint will have the same effect on her as spice - it's less of a refreshing treat and more like a cold burn.

Singing VS Dancing

Miss Neko loves to sing! Whether she's good at it or not, well... That's up for her company to decide. Even then, it won't stop her.

Cold weather VS Hot weather

While she can manage the sun in small enough doses, Neko dislikes excessive heat. She learned the hard way to apply sun-lotion to the skin of her ears when she was but a kitten! The cold weather is so much more accommodating to her natural tendencies. Ah, a cushioned window-sill, a woolen sweater, a warm drink and the sound of the gentle rain hitting the window...

She could just... nod off right... there...

Dog VS Cat person

"Nya? Surely you jest! Can't you see from these adorrrable ears and this elegant tail that I am nothing less than a pedigree kitty? How silly~"

Big spoon VS Little spoon

Both! I was initially going to say it depends on who I ship her with, but even if she was dating one of the taller characters, I don't think she would shy away from curling in around them and purring against their shoulder to soothe them to sleep. Relationships are about give and take, after all!

Extrovert VS Introvert {It's... complicated}

I think that Miss Neko is an introvert that disguises herself as an extrovert. She displays a veneer of charm and natural charisma, putting forth the impression of a very confident person. However, her sense of bravado hides away a rather vulnerable side to herself, a part of her with insecurities and vulnerabilities that she doesn't want to readily share with just anyone.

Actions VS Words

Words can so often be empty. Actions, no matter how small, can say as much as a thousand words could. Although, if you wished to pair said actions with pretty words...

Thin-skinned VS Thick-skinned

I think it does depend somewhat on the situation, but I think that Neko doesn't allow things to pierce her very deeply unless they come from someone she holds in very high esteem. Working as a server in the Mostro Lounge has perhaps taught her how to let thoughtless words roll off her back... most of the time.

Movies VS Series

If you ask her to sit through much more than 90 minute movie, she might just doze off.

Comics VS Books

Both! Though she definitely gets through comics faster, unless the book she's reading is incredibly interesting.

Good liar VS Bad liar

A good liar to those who don't know her heart.

Persephone Amaryllis

Veggies VS Meat

Persephone finds it incredibly rewarding when meals are made using produce from her own garden! You can really taste the difference in quality.

Spicy food VS Non-spicy food

She's more adventurous with foods than others! She's always keen to try anything at least once. Kalim seemed delighted when she seemed to enjoy the dishes from his homeland despite the intensity of the spice. Even if a few others looked at her as though she'd grown a second head...

Sweet VS Salty

Sweet treats are great! Especially when you incorporate fruits and berries into a dessert.

Noodles VS Rice

Being someone who likes to work in the dirt when tending to plants, she doesn't really care much if she gets her clothes dirty from slurping noodles. Keeping her clothes spotless aren't a huge priority for her - stains just bring back fun memories.

Mint VS No mint

A little can go a long way, bringing a dish together to feel light yet fulfilling. Easy to overdo, however!

Singing VS Dancing

Being a rather animated person, she often has a lot of pent up energy! Who cares if you look silly, so long as you're having fun?

Cold weather VS Hot weather

Warm weather is Persephone's element. There's no better time to go for a long walk outside and take in the beauty of nature, wading through long grass, sitting in the shade of a tree, watching the gentle breeze sway the budding flowers to and fro. The soft caress of the sun as it cascades over your skin... what could be better than that?

Dog VS Cat person

Both animals are wonderful as far as Seph is concerned! They both have their own unique characteristics as a species that make them charming, though perhaps a dog might suit Persephone a bit more as a pet because dogs tend to match her energy more, and she could take a dog out on her adventures with her. Fancy getting a cat that isn't Neko into a harness!

Big spoon VS Little spoon

She has a protective and nurturing side to her as well. Sometimes all you need is someone to hold you close and be present with you in that moment. Seph may be a high-energy person, but she also knows when to mellow out and simply let a moment pass comfortably with peace. Nothing need be said, only felt. I'm here for you. I'm not going anywhere.

Extrovert VS Introvert

And extrovert, through and through! She has no qualms about going up and introducing herself with confidence and enthusiasm. Anything new, she will readily and cheerfully throw herself into it. She tends to be quite open and upfront about her positions and feelings on matters and people... there are few things that she feels the need to hide, but that's the same for everyone, isn't it? No one is entitled to her deepest secrets, it makes the version of her she shows to other people no less authentic.

Actions VS Words

Growing up, she learned that people liked to excuse their actions with words. She thinks it's best to let your actions and the way you treat others do the talking for you. Small gifts, body language, physical touch, small acts of service... That's her love language.

Thin-skinned VS Thick-skinned

There is nothing you could say to her that her mother or herself hasn't already. You'll have to try pretty hard or be pretty close to hurt Persephone Amaryllis.

Movies VS Series

Movies have so little time to really explore the world and characters! A series can offer more insight at a far less rushed pace than movies can, and you get so much more growth in a series than in a film. They feel more satisfying to Persephone.

Comics VS Books

There's just something so satisfying about the sound of a page turning, the scent of paper and ink, and a typewritten font...

Good liar VS Bad liar

Strict mothers make convincing liars.

Robin Redfearn

Veggies VS Meat

It takes both to make a wholesome, hearty meal!

Spicy food VS Non-spicy food

Robin is used to her grandmother's traditional cooking, where sadly the most spicy seasoning is probably pepper...

Sweet VS Salty

There's nothing like a nice trifle after dinner to hit the spot.

Noodles VS Rice

She prefers white rice because it soaks up the sauce in a dish, giving it more flavour.

Mint VS No mint

A little bit of mint is fine. Just not so intense that it makes her eyes water!

Singing VS Dancing

True to her namesake, Robin loves to sing and has quite a nice voice! She often sings while she does chores or schoolwork. If you make it known that you're listening, though, she'll trail off, turn red and quickly go back to her business but in silence.

Cold weather VS Hot weather

Many a winter night was spent cuddled up on her grandma's knee in front of the fireplace as it crackled and roared, the falling snow faint through the frosted windowpanes, the dog at her feet. Her grandmother's soft voice humming her a lullaby as she fought sleep but always eventually succumbed. These memories hold such a special place in her heart.

Dog VS Cat person

She's fond of dogs because of her grandmother's Scottish Terrier!

Also she's shipped with Jack, how can she not like dogs lol

Big spoon VS Little spoon

I don't think poor little Robin could be a big spoon if she tried... though the idea of her trying to spoon Jack is kind of hilarious. But no, I think that she would feel safe and content being in the arms of the person she loves, feeling his breath against the nape of her neck as his warmth envelops her. Lured into a secure, peaceful sleep, much like the roaring fireplace back home...

Extrovert VS Introvert

Robin is quite shy and timid at first, and while she does work on becoming more confident and assertive... she still can't quite manage to be as outspoken and energetic as Persephone. She likes smaller social gatherings, and if asked to attend larger ones, she generally sticks with a small, familiar group and tries to have a good time!

Actions VS Words

Both are necessary. Communication is an important part of any relationship. Telling someone she loves them, though nerve wracking to start, will eventually come to be as natural as breathing to her. She also shows love usually through cooking or baking. She'll purposefully make more than she needs to so she can give others what's left over, and omurice with a heart-shaped squirt of ketchup? You'd best believe it.

Thin-skinned VS Thick-skinned

Admittedly, she can be pretty easily discouraged and hurt. It's something that she knows is an issue and she's working on not taking things to heart so much. Easier said than done.

Movies VS Series

She doesn't really watch much TV. She gets more absorbed by books.

Comics VS Books

Having lived a rather sheltered life before she somehow ended up in NRC, she often found escapism in the form of fantasy books. Who would have thought that she would be walking amongst wizards and magicians, not unlike the ones in those childhood stories? Certainly not Robin!

Good liar VS Bad liar

Honestly if she had to lie she would probably just do it by omission or being very selective about the information she shares. Her grandmother had this look that always somehow managed to make a confession spill from her lips in mere moments... Sometimes Robin wonders if her Grandma might have been a magician...

This was fun, if not a bit long-winded... my apologies. I just get so into it! I hope it's not bothersome to read.

Tagging: @mopotatoes, @shadowwalker593, @goudsreblogzone, @junowritings, @kotobukicutie

And anybody else who would like to participate! To those I have tagged, please don't feel pressured to fill this out (certainly not in the amount of detail I went to) if you don't want to. I'm just interested to see what your answers are for your characters. If you're not comfortable sharing, that's totally fine. No pressure at all. <3

#tag game #twst ocs #robin redfearn #neko #persephone amaryllis #three in one!

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carewyncromwell · 3 years

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The Cinderella AU is back...and with it, a proper introduction to the character who fills the “evil stepmother” role -- Carewyn’s cold, cruel grandfather, Charles Cromwell. If you’d like to learn more about Charles and his family’s canon counterparts, you can consult this post, but to summarize quickly, in Carewyn’s canon, Carewyn’s mother Lane ran away from home to elope with a Muggle, which ended up protecting Carewyn and Jacob from Charles’s emotionally abusive influence. (At least until R started going after them, because hey, what d’you know, in Carey-bear’s canon, Charles is R’s leader.) But in this AU, Carewyn has to answer to Charles for some reason...so yeah, that doesn’t bode well, does it? You’ll just have to read on to learn a little more about why that might be...

Fashion changed very dramatically during the Renaissance, thanks in large part to the cross-pollination of different cultures and influences that came from more extensive travel, the growing popularity of published works, and royal funding of the arts. Pre-Renaissance men’s fashion, at least for the nobility, was very big on oversized sleeves, which ended up creating a more “top-heavy” frame. (Just look at most portraits of King Henry VIII.) As the Renaissance went on, though, trunk hose (which creates that kind of “bubble butt” look that we’re used to seeing in William Shakespeare Halloween costumes) became the latest fad, shifting a man’s frame to be much more “bottom-heavy.” Women’s fashion briefly flirted with wide trumpet sleeves (as one can see in this portrait of a young Elizabeth Tudor, later Queen Elizabeth I), but by the time the 1550′s were over, rounded sleeves grew much more popular. Fitted sleeves also went in and out of style in a lot of Europe throughout the 16th century, though sleeves were considered a special feature on gowns, so they often had a lot of embellishments, such as paneling, embroidery, or puffs. One exception to this rule, however, was in Italy, where fitted, detachable sleeves that could be used on multiple gowns became fashionable. Fashion in Italy in the 16th century was notably understated and modest compared to a lot of Europe, which tended to favor a lot of ornate beading and embroidery -- there were even laws on the books restricting how “bedazzled” women’s fashion could be. One such law even banned stripes, as it was considered wasteful to use two different kinds of fabric just to make a pattern. That being said, there were plenty of people in Italy who said “screw the rules” and worked around them anyway. Carewyn’s dress in this picture is somewhat based on this design, but with some tweaking, most notably with a fuller skirt and more ornate and puffy sleeves.

Previous part is here -- whole tag is here -- and I hope you enjoy!

x~x~x~x

When the end of the month arrived, Andre requested that Carewyn come to his chambers bright and early in the morning. Carewyn had anticipated that the prince had some extra duties for her to attend to, but instead, he immediately led her over to a corner of his bed chamber that he’d drawn a curtain around. When he pulled the curtain back, he revealed a full tailoring station inside his walk-in closet, complete with organized rolls of fabric, various jewels and beads strewn about over a table, several unfinished hats stacked on the nearby desk, an entire separate wardrobe of unfinished pieces, and several mannequins with fine fabrics half-pinned on them.

One mannequin, however, was wearing a completely finished, luxurious dark scarlet gown. It was made of about six different fabrics, all cut and sewn together in a complex tapestry of folds and textures and trimmed with many sparkling beads and jewels. Also lying on the floor just in front of the dress was a pair of heeled shoes made of off-white cloth with red and white roses sewn into the toes.

Carewyn couldn’t help but gape. Andre was grinning from ear to ear.

“So?” he asked. “What do you think?”

Carewyn glanced out the side of her eye at the prince, over to the dress, and back.

“Did you...make this, your Highness?” she asked, amazed.

Andre laughed. “Carewyn, please, it’s ‘Andre.’ But yes! I got inspired while working on your shoes, so I stitched this up to go with it. ...Do you like it?”

Carewyn walked around the mannequin to look over the gown, not daring to touch it. She’d never seen so many fine fabrics on one dress before -- velvet, linen, silk -- and all the embellishments must’ve taken full days to finish --

“It’s -- well, it’s extraordinary, your -- Andre,” she corrected herself very quickly noticing the prince’s pointed smile. Even she was finding it difficult not to smile too. “The beading on the sleeves, the lace work -- the alternating wool and cotton paneling along the bodice...it’s worthy of an artisan!”

Andre looked clearly both incredibly pleased and impressed. “You have an eye for detail, Carewyn!”

His face burst into a bright white grin as he bent down and picked up one of the off-white cloth shoes.

“I’m pleased you like it,” he said brightly. “I thought it’d be the perfect thing for you to wear today. Lord Cromwell sent a message to the palace asking Father if you could return home for a visit -- so I worked all night to get this done in time so that you could wear it for your outing with your new shoes.”

Despite her best efforts, Carewyn couldn’t completely keep the dismay and discomfort she felt off her face.

“What? Oh -- oh, your Highness, I -- ”

“Ah, ah, ah,” chided Andre, “what have I asked you to call me?”

“Andre,” Carewyn corrected very quickly, her eyes drifting up onto the dress rather than at Andre, “this dress is...truly beautiful...but it befits a lady of status, not -- ”

“It fits you,” Andre said, undaunted. “I used the measurements from your uniform fitting. It should fit you like a glove -- or better.”

Carewyn felt like her stomach was shriveling up. She hated turning away such a lovely gift -- under any other circumstances, she would love wearing it out and about. But...

“That...that is...it’s so kind of you, to use me as your template...”

Or “dress-up doll” -- that is what the Queen said I would be, isn’t it?

“...but I simply couldn’t wear such a gift on my visit...not when I have no comparable gifts to bring my cousins. Many of them are around my age, and...and well, I know Heather, Iris, and Dahlia would be very upset, knowing I got to wear such a beautiful dress and they didn’t.”

None of her cousins had ever been very respectful of Carewyn’s personal belongings. Not long after she first arrived, her aunt Pearl’s two bullying sons, Kain and Arsen, stole her jewelry box while she was sleeping and sold both it and its contents for pocket change. Her youngest cousin, her uncle Blaise’s bratty son Tristan, had once thrown a bottle of red wine out the window that shattered mere feet away from Carewyn and soaked her dress so badly that it never washed out. Even Iris had -- after Carewyn caught the eye of one of her suitors who’d come to call -- ripped the sleeve off Carewyn’s dress so badly that she had to hide from sight for most of the day, until she’d managed to sew it up enough that her chest wasn’t exposed. Carewyn had had to hide her mother’s old dress from her cousins for years, for fear they might steal and/or ruin it.

Andre frowned deeply.

“Well, I hardly can send along anything for your cousins without knowing their measurements,” he said with a quick glance at the wardrobe full of unfinished pieces.

His face then brightened with an idea.

“How about this -- I’ll order you. I order you to wear this dress on your trip home, and to have your cousins give you their honest opinion of it. Then you must bring their opinions back to me. Goodness knows I could use some feedback -- and maybe a few new ideas, if they have them,” he added with a teasing grin.

Carewyn opened her mouth to object, but Andre cut her off.

“As your prince, I command you to showcase my work to your family,” he said through a broad grin. “Am I clear?”

Carewyn really, really didn’t love the idea -- but she had to concede that she could use this to her advantage. She needed a stable place at the palace in order to achieve her goals, and she could help maintain that stable place at the palace by justifying to Charles why she had to be there. And Charles’s whole interest in her being there was to try to endear the Cromwells further to the royal family, and maybe even secure one of her Aunt Claire’s daughters a space in that family...

So, with a heavy sigh, she put on a small smile and inclined her head respectfully.

“Very well, Andre. I’ll wear your work proudly.”

And so Carewyn set off for the Cromwell estate on horseback, dressed in the new shoes and dress Andre had made for her. The shoes were lovely and fit perfectly, but they were rather impractical for walking around outdoors. Carewyn thought to herself that she might have to continue wearing her old shoes when she returned to her palace work, if for no other reason that she hated the thought of getting them scuffed up.

As to be expected, when she arrived, her cousins reacted very hostilely to her appearance.

“Well, well,” sneered curly-black-haired Kain, “what do we have here? Playacting as a lady, little Winnie?”

“All hail Lady Cinderwyn, Duchess of Dust!” sniggered his similarly dark-haired brother Arsen.

He reached for her wide skirt, but Carewyn -- remaining on her horse -- steered herself far enough back that he couldn’t reach.

“I wouldn’t damage this, if I were you,” she said as coolly and levelly as she could. “It’s not mine.”

Arsen and Kain exchanged a mocking, wide-eyed look and an “oooooh.”

“Are you a thief now, little Winnie?” asked Kain. “How far you’ve fallen -- we might need to call the castle guard on you -- ”

“Cinderwyn’s a thief!” crowed tiny Tristan in a sing-song voice. “Cinderwyn’s a thief!”

Claire’s three daughters looked a lot less mocking.

“You have some nerve, stealing clothes from your betters,” spat dainty, brown-haired Heather. “Grandfather should lash you within an inch of your life -- ”

“I haven’t stolen anything,” Carewyn said very firmly. “Now I wish to see Grandfather. I have a message from the Prince he’ll want to hear.”

“Grandfather’s inside,” said Claire’s gangling, button-nosed son Elmer with a crooked smile. “I’m sure he’ll enjoy your new look, Lady Cinderwyn...especially with the finishing touch!”

He jumped right into a mud puddle that splashed everywhere. Carewyn just barely avoided the spray, but when she moved back, Dahlia and Iris successfully grabbed hold of her velvet brocaded skirt and yanked hard in either direction, as if trying to rip it.

“Iris -- Dahlia -- ” said Carewyn, her voice growing colder and harder as she struggled to hold in her temper and emotion as best she could, “if either of you have any ambition to marry his Highness, I would strongly suggest letting go of his dress this instant!”

All of Carewyn’s cousins stiffened.

“His dress?” repeated Dahlia, looking outraged. “You mean to say you took this from the Prince?!”

“He bid me to wear it, for my visit,” Carewyn shot back fiercely. “Or would you have me oppose his Highness’s will?”

“You...arrogant, pretentious, ungrateful little rat!” shrieked Dahlia. She tried to yank Carewyn off her horse, and there was a slight struggle as Carewyn tried to both comfort her horse and prevent Dahlia from dislodging her.

“Now, now, children,” said a very coldly serene voice, “a little less noise there.”

All of the Cromwell children looked up to see Charles Cromwell striding across the lawn. He was dressed in black, gray, and white with a dark red cape with black trim, and he supported himself on an ebony-wood cane with a dragon’s head carved out of black zircon for a handle. Behind him were Carewyn’s aunts, Pearl and Claire, with their husbands, as well as her uncle Blaise. All three of them were looking over Carewyn’s outfit disapprovingly -- Blaise looked particularly irritated, his upper lip curling as he rested a hand on top of Tristan’s shoulder that made the small boy flinch.

Iris and Dahlia were still clinging to Carewyn’s skirt, but they’d frozen up like startled cats when their grandfather appeared.

“Grandfather -- ” stammered Iris, “W-Winnie’s a no-good thief -- she stole this dress from -- !”

"I have stolen nothing,” Carewyn repeated coldly. She stroked her horse’s white mane several times to soothe it.

Pearl too had come up to rest a hand on Arsen’s shoulder and was looking at Carewyn very critically out her own almond-shaped blue eyes -- most of Carewyn’s family had them.

“Is that so?” she said, her voice a low growl in her throat. “Explain, then, what gives you the nerve to show up here dressed in such obnoxious clothes.”

“It’s positively garish,” added Claire in a higher, simpering tone from her comfortable spot in her husband’s arms, mirroring her sister’s disapproval like a child would imitate their older sibling.

Carewyn raised her eyebrows very coolly. “Prince Henri will be very disappointed to hear that. He worked very hard on this.”

This startled all of the Cromwells. Blaise looked scandalized.

“And I suppose that makes you think the Prince favors you somehow?” he spat, his eyes flashing dangerously as he released Tristan’s shoulder and approached Carewyn’s horse. “Rather than just thinking of using you as some saucy little tart and then discarding you, just like your wretch of a father did your mother -- ”

"I think nothing of the sort,” Carewyn cut him off coldly.

Don’t you dare talk about my mother.

Charles, the least visibly startled, took a few steps forward. Iris and Dahlia finally released Carewyn’s skirt so as to get out of the way, and Charles came to a stop about three feet from Carewyn’s horse, his own almond-shaped eyes locked on his ginger-haired granddaughter’s face.

“I believe you owe me a full report, child,” he said quietly. “Stand before me and give it.”

Carewyn’s red-painted lips pursed as she picked up her skirts and descended from her horse at last. She looked up at Charles with a very stoic expression.

“Prince Henri learned that I would be coming to see you, as per your request,” she explained. “He commanded that I wear this dress, for my visit. He’s heard about my cousins and desires Dahlia, Iris, and Heather’s opinions on it. Then he requested I deliver their feedback back to him this evening.”

The time limit was a flat-out lie, but one Carewyn knew she could get away with. She did not want to stay at the Cromwell estate overnight -- she’d rather sleep on a lumpy old cot in the servants’ quarters than on the floor by the kitchen fireplace.

Claire looked at Charles, her face breaking into a rather eager expression. “His Highness wishes to hear from my daughters? He must have heard from the rest of the court of their extensive talents -- ”

“Or at least purported talents,” said Blaise under his breath with a rather cynical look. “Seems the rumor mill is working well...“

Pearl shot Blaise a glare, but Claire didn’t seem to hear him -- she had already whirled on Carewyn.

“Tell his Highness that the dress is a work of art, fit for a queen!” she said insistently. “And make sure that he knows that there are much better models for his work here, at the Cromwell estate -- Iris has a far superior build, Dahlia the most perfect shoulders -- ”

“I suppose Winnie can do far worse than inanely fawning over your daughters’ target on their behalf,” said Blaise in a rather cutting voice. “Mindlessly swooning certainly worked for you.”

“Blaise!” Pearl snapped reproachfully.

Charles’s eyes drifted over Claire and her three anxious-looking daughters thoughtfully.

“...What feedback...do you believe would most please his Highness, child?” he asked Carewyn.

“He appreciated it when I noticed the details,” said Carewyn. “I would think if anyone had any creative ideas to add onto it...or perhaps constructive criticism...he might react well to it. His Highness is very interested in fashion and tailoring...I’m sure he would appreciate knowing someone who could indulge in that passion with him.”

He must be awfully lonely, locked up in the palace all the time. It’s no wonder he tried to find things to do indoors that could bring him some joy, if he’s unable to go much of anywhere...

Charles’s eyes flitted over the silk and ornate beading on Carewyn’s sleeves.

“His Highness certainly does have an eye for finery...has the royal family come into additional wealth recently?”

“I don’t think so,” said Carewyn. “The castle staff is very limited. And although the nobility are all dressed and fed well and the castle is decadent, the staff is frequently short of common necessities like nails and coal for the fire. Not to mention the staff’s rations are sparse.”

Iris gave a loud, haughty laugh. “Ha! Probably just as well -- you could do with getting some of that meat off your thighs!”

“Iris,” said Charles very sleekly, even as the rest of Carewyn’s cousins sniggered.

His lips curled up in a smile that didn’t touch his eyes.

“...It seems that the King and Queen are indeed in need of our family’s charity. But we must indulge their pride. It’ll be far easier for them to accept help from a future daughter-in-law and princess than simply from a loyal servant of the realm. Carewyn -- you shall report back what his Highness wishes to hear. Customize three answers for Heather, Iris, and Dahlia -- one fawning, one critical, one creative. Whichever answer he likes best, we will then pursue that route with the cousin you’ve assigned to it.”

His almond-shaped blue eyes narrowed ever-so-slightly upon Carewyn’s face.

“And once we’ve secured an invitation from the Prince...I expect that you will step aside, to make room for your cousin to make her move.”

Carewyn’s expression didn’t shift.

“I’m not interested in courting princes,” she said lowly.

Heather, Iris, and Dahlia can knock themselves out. Andre will see through them sooner or later, and it’ll be all their own fault.

There was a cold, diamond-like glint in Charles’s eye. “...Yes...you truly don’t care to chase any man except for your brother...do you, Carewyn, my dear?”

Carewyn tried not to blink or look away.

“You have news of Jacob?”

Charles sighed airily. “I’m afraid not, my dear. I know he’s well, of course...but news from the War front, as you know, is simply impossible to come by...”

“You know he’s alive,” Carewyn shot back a bit more sharply than she meant to. “That doesn’t mean he’s well. No one could be doing well out there.”

“And yet I’m sure you’re happy that the first is guaranteed?” said Charles. “At least, so long as you do your duty to your family, and to me?”

It was a warning, but it was done so delicately -- it was like his voice was flirting with a threat, rather than flat-out making one.

Carewyn’s lips came together tightly as her gaze drifted to the ground.

“You know I wish no harm to come to either you or Jacob,” Charles said softly. “Losing a child was terrible enough, losing grandchildren as well...well, it would deeply upset me. And per our agreement, you are the one who must shoulder the burden of your brother’s and your debt to me...particularly since you have no dowry and no possible claim to my estate. Remember, Carewyn...you are responsible for how you are treated -- and for how Jacob is treated.”

Carewyn’s eyebrows knit tightly together over her closed eyes.

“...Yes, sir.”

“Good. Now then -- rehearse the answers you plan to give to his Highness with your cousins. I wish them to sound convincing, so that when one or more of them is invited to the palace, they will be able to play their part appropriately.”

Carewyn hated every minute of hashing out responses with Heather, Iris, and Dahlia. Like their mother Claire, they and Elmer were all “follower” type personalities who tended to echo whatever they thought would please others -- so Dahlia, Iris, and Heather were constantly trying to steal each other’s ideas to “improve” Carewyn’s answers, despite all three of them supposedly needing to take three different approaches as part of Charles’s plan. Even the three girls’ hostile attitude toward Carewyn largely came down to her refusing to follow their direction, despite her lowered status in the family giving them authority over her -- something that, Carewyn believed, they would never do if their positions were switched.

When Carewyn was finally ready to leave (and successfully avoided Tristan’s muddy hands when the wickedly grinning little boy forcibly tried to hug her goodbye so he could leave stains on her dress), Blaise pulled Charles aside. As the male heir of the Cromwell legacy, Blaise had always followed in his father’s footsteps most, but there was one thing they didn’t agree on.

“Father,” he said, his voice very low in the back of his throat as he watched Carewyn ride away at a fast gallop, “I don’t approve of her returning to that place.”

Charles smiled coldly. “You always have disliked sharing your toys with others, Blaise.”

“It’s a bad influence!” said Blaise, whirling on his father. “We can’t monitor what she does, how she behaves -- who she speaks to -- how can we hope to keep her, if we consistently open her cage?”

Charles’s eyes, the same color and shape of all of his children and most of his grandchildren, sparkled with something crueler.

“Ah, my boy,” he said sardonically, “you have much to learn about cages. Physical cages have strong bars, but ones easy to see and constantly weathered. But a cage forged carefully in another’s mind...can become so strong that the prisoner willingly chooses to stay.”

Charles turned on his heel, his lips curling up further still even though his face remained so doll-like and emotionless.

“As weak and overemotional of a thing she is, Carewyn is far more like you and me than Lane ever was. She’s very resourceful and she’ll do whatever she has to in order to get what she wants -- and that drive fuels everything she is and does. It may make her spirited, but it also makes it so that as long as she sees Jacob’s life in the palm of my hand...so too will she be.”

Blaise’s eyes flickered with a strange skepticism. “And...if Jacob’s life were ever not under your sway?”

Charles’s expression grew even more detached and emotionless as his smile faded and his eyebrows raised.

“...Would Carewyn really want to contemplate what state he’d be in, if he weren’t?”

Carewyn couldn’t be happier to leave the Cromwell estate behind. She didn’t slow down her horse’s pace until she’d reached the outskirts of the market, well after the manor house was out of sight. Only then did she slow her horse down to a leisurely trot, so that she could enjoy some time on her own wandering down the village streets before heading back to the palace. The castle staff wasn’t expecting her back to work until the following morning, so she could take her time.

Unfortunately for Carewyn, there was another reason her cousin Tristan’s hands had been so muddy -- and that reason soon became apparent when Carewyn reached into one of the pockets on the side of her saddle, thinking to temporarily change out of the pretty shoes Andre had given her and were now pinching her feet for the ride home. When she reached into the pocket, she instead found the tiny snake that Tristan had stolen out of the reeds by the nearby pond.

With a scream of surprise, Carewyn flung the snake to the ground -- the snake arched back, hissing angrily, and that in turn spooked Carewyn’s horse. With a loud, scared whinny, it reared back, bucking wildly.

“Whoa!” cried Carewyn. “Whoa, boy -- whoa!”

Several passerby turned around at the sound of the noise. A few looked like they wanted to help, but were too warded off by the horse’s kicking feet. Carewyn tried desperately to calm her horse, stroking its mane with one hand and clinging desperately onto the reins with the other, but it was no use. She wasn’t strong enough to wrench her horse into submission. And so when the horse gave a particularly violent jerk, Carewyn was thrown right off.

“AHH!”

Out of nowhere, someone dashed forward. Carewyn ended up slamming right into them, and the two landed roughly in a heap in the dirt.

Carewyn watched her horse gallop off the street, her face very tense and distraught. She then looked down at the person she’d landed on top of, and she gave a visible start.

Her “hero” was a man about her age dressed in modest clothes with tanned skin, slightly-too-long dark hair, and a beard. His sparkling black eyes were squinted slightly as he winced in pain, but nonetheless shone with some concern as he looked her over.

“Are you hurt, Lady Cromwell?” asked Orion.

#hphm #hogwarts mystery #cinderella au #carewyn cromwell #charles cromwell #blaise cromwell #pearl cromwell #claire cromwell #andre egwu #orion amari #my art #my writing #orion!! you sweet tofu-eating knight in shining armor!!#and charles cromwell you no-good bastard :I #the cromwell clan by and large are terrible people but all of them are dark shades of gray except for charles #he's always been the worst of the bunch easily since he first appeared in my head #but hey for a character who leads r in his canon I guess that's not surprising #charles's cane has a black dragon head which is a reference to the hebridean black dragon which appears on the cromwell coat of arms #like mythical dragons the cromwells hoard their treasures -- not just financial wealth but also their family #it's frankly no wonder carewyn's learned to be stoic and sophisticated in this universe looking at how charles acts and treats her #she got her more tearful and emotional outbursts beaten out of her by her cousins' bullying #and yet she's too proud to grovel and cower :(#I'm looking forward to writing some more pleasant stuff in the next part <3

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ellewritesfix05 · 4 years

Text

Prince Charming

Characters: Sam x Reader, Maggie, Jack, Dean, Bobby

Warnings: Fluff, like one or two “bad words”(?)

Word Count: 2.6k

A/N: I was watching Mamma Mia 2 a couple days ago and thought up this little fic based on a song from the movie, Andante Andante by ABBA. I really hope you like it 💜 Listen to the song here . If you’d like to be added to my Sam Darlings taglist, let me know here ☺️

Here’s my full Masterlist if you’d like to read more!☺️

The bunker had never been so full of life. Being part of the large group of people that was rescued from Apocalypse World by the Winchesters, you didn’t know this but, seeing the way Sam and Dean acted, it was apparent that they were not used to a busy bunker. For the past two weeks, you’d tried your best to help around the place, earn your keep by performing as many tasks as you could, anything from going out on hunts to cleaning the common rooms.

For those two weeks, however, you’d also been getting close to the youngest Winchester. It was no secret to anyone that even though the whole family was to thank for your relocation, it was Sam who was the most involved with making sure you all felt safe and comfortable in this alternate universe you now called home. Working closely with him, you couldn’t help but develop a small, innocent crush on the tall hunter.

Admittedly, it had begun with physical attraction, and who could blame you really? Tall and broad shouldered with long, silky hair and the sweetest smile you’d ever seen, Sam quickly invaded your unrealistic day dreams of being swept off your feet by your very own Prince Charming. However, the physical appeal soon turned into an emotional affair. Not only was he devastatingly handsome, but he proved to be incredibly smart, strong, and most of all, kind. He didn’t know any of you but the way he took you in and took care of you would make anyone think you were his family. Not to mention, those hazel eyes that seemed to change color every now and then, like a beautiful autumn day.

Yeah, you had it bad for Sam Winchester.

“Earth to (Y/N), anyone home?” Maggie’s snapping in front of your face brought you back to reality.

Looking down at the soaped glass you were supposed to be rinsing, you chuckled in embarrassment, “yeah, sorry Mags. Had my mind somewhere else.”

“Thinking about Sam again, I’m guessing?” Maggie elbowed you playfully. Ever since meeting back at camp in Apocalypse World, you and Maggie had become very close friends. She was more talented in research, while you were a very skilled hunter turned fighter which meant you complimented each other. That and the fact that there weren’t many other people left around the place and those who were didn’t exactly share in your interests. Then again, with the world falling apart around you, who had time for anything other than learning how to survive?

Being your closest friend, Maggie had quickly noticed your interest in Sam. You rolled your eyes but agreed nonetheless, “I was. I just can’t help it. Despite everything we’ve been through, I’m still a hopeless romantic at heart.”

“I get that. It’s okay, it’s good that you didn’t lose that little whimsical part of yourself,” she replied.

“I guess,” you smiled.

“You know,” Maggie started, “with everything going on I was thinking maybe we could have a little party? Have everyone hang out, maybe a little barbecue… and who knows? Maybe you can use that beautifully melodic voice of yours to win him over.”

“Yeah, right!” you snorted. Truth was, while you weren’t the most self-assured person on earth, the one thing you’d always been proud of was your voice. Not that there’d been much singing during the past years, but once in a blue moon you’d have little get-togethers with other people at camp and sing soft melodies of better days. That usually got you compliments, and once even an invitation to dinner by a friend, days before he was killed while out on a supply run.

“Hey! I’m serious,” Maggie chuckled, “just wait until he hears you, he’ll be absolutely floored!”

You smiled and put the last dish on the rack for her to dry, “sure Mags, keep dreaming.”

After drying your hands, you walked out of the kitchen and back to your room. She could be on to something, you thought. Shaking your head at the ridiculous notion that your romantic life would play out like something out of a cheesy rom-com, you flopped down in bed and let sleep and your imagination create yet another impossible scenario for you to live in until morning came.

---

“So, I talked to Sam about the party and he said it was a good idea so it looks like it’s all systems go!” Maggie said, walking into your bedroom.

You placed down the copy of The Marvelous Land of Oz that you’d been reading, upon Sam’s recommendation, on your nightstand and sat up, facing your friend, “what systems? Please tell me this isn’t about your ridiculous plan to get me to sing in the hopes that Sam will magically fall in love with me like I’m the little mermaid or something.”

“What? No!” Maggie lied, “not at all! I just thought the barbecue could be a fun way to have everyone let loose for a night. Like a celebration, and a thank you to the Winchesters.”

You narrowed your eyes at her, completely unconvinced but still deciding to play along, “very well, then. Let’s head out to get some supplies.”

Getting up from the bed, you both walked out of your bedroom and headed towards the library. Maggie stopped in her tracks, “Shoot. We’re going to need to borrow a car. Why don’t you go ask Sam if we can take one of the cars from the garage?”

“Why didn’t you ask him when you talked about the party?” you asked.

“I forgot, sorry.” Maggie shrugged.

“Ugh, fine. I’ll go,” you said, “wipe that smirk off your face, Mags. I’m just asking to borrow a car, not for a date.”

Entering the library, you quickly spotted Sam sitting on a table across the way from Bobby. You walked over to them and cleared your throat softly, waiting for him to notice you since you didn’t want to interrupt their conversation. Luckily, you didn’t have to wait at all since Sam noticed you right away.

“Hey (Y/N), how’s it going? Do you need something?” he asked, flashing you his signature sunshine smile.

“Uh yeah. I think Maggie talked to you about the barbecue she’s planning? We were hoping to borrow a car from the garage to go get the stuff we need,” you replied in an abnormally soft tone that made Bobby puzzled since he’d never known you to show timidity around anyone before.

Sam’s smile widened, “Yeah, sure thing! The spare keys are in the cabinet down there by the war table, first top drawer from the left.”

“Great, thanks!” you replied, quickly walking away before he could see your reddened cheeks. It was almost unsettling how this one man could have such an effect on you, especially since you’d never felt like this before. Grown ass woman with a schoolgirl crush, for fuck’s sake.

Meeting up with Maggie in the garage, your annoyance at her antics made her laugh as you climbed into a light blue 1972 Dodge Dart, a car you’d seen Sam drive before when Dean wouldn’t let him take the Impala.

---

Six hours later, the food was ready and you were helping Maggie set everything down on the library tables for people to help themselves. Proud of the result, you sat on one of the reading chairs off to the side, sipping on a glass of whiskey as everyone else gathered around the feast. Soon enough, the bunker filled with music, chatter, and laughter as the large group sat and ate while sharing anecdotes of their past before tragedy hit.

It was a couple hours, and more glasses of whiskey, later when someone suggested a song from you. Looking up from your drink, you smiled sheepishly, “Oh I don’t know.”

“Awe, come on (Y/N), you always used to sing for us after a nice meal!” Maggie chimed in, and the rest of your group hummed in agreement.

“Maggie said you have a very nice voice, I’d really like to hear it too,” said Jack, who was sitting next to Sam and Dean.

“Uh, alright then since you asked so nicely,” you replied, rubbing your hands down your thighs in the hopes that the denim would soak up the moisture that had settled upon them.

Turning in their chairs to get a better view, the group placed their attention on you. Suddenly, you were painfully aware of Sam’s focus on you and closed your eyes to calm your unusually hyperactive nerves. Singing was your comfort, how could he make it any different by just looking at you?

Taking a deep breath, you began

Take it easy with me, please

Touch me gently like a summer evening breeze

Take your time, make it slow

Andante, andante

Just let the feeling grow

As your voice filled the room, smiles formed around you. Unbeknownst to you since your eyes avoided him, Sam had discarded his plate of food and found himself inexplicably more drawn to you than usual. While you thought he was simply showing you kindness, all this time he too had come to develop feelings for you. Feelings that the hunter refused to act upon, due to his own bad luck with previous relationships.

Even though he was mesmerized by your beauty from the moment he met you, your voice was now like a siren’s song; enticing and soft, tugging at his heartstrings as he found himself leaning forward, gravitating to the source of such dulcet, beautiful sounds. Sam couldn’t help but be fascinated by you; the way your brow curved, the slight fidgeting of your fingers that moved as though you were playing an instrument.

With newfound courage, you dared to look in his direction and the moment your eyes met, they locked on to each other in a way that made it so he became your sole audience. Everyone and everything around you dissolved until it was only you and Sam, together in the middle of a sea of infinite stars.

There's a shimmer in your eyes

Like the feeling of a thousand butterflies

Please don't talk, go on, play

Andante, andante

And watch me float away

Looking straight at him, you noticed a sparkle in his eye. It made you feel as though you were the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. Without saying anything, those hazel orbs told you tales of pain and doubt, but also profound tenderness and, dare you say, love?

Andante, andante

Tread lightly on my ground

Andante, andante

Oh, please, don't let me down

Coming to an end, your voice faded into silence until the sound of someone clearing their throat snapped you back to reality, breaking the eye contact with Sam that neither of you had realized was visible to everyone around you.

Light clapping broke the tension and you looked to the source, Maggie, who was looking around at everyone as if to silently ask them to join in, which they did. Standing up from your chair, you gave a small smile and excused yourself, not risking a look Sam’s way.

If you had, you would’ve noticed his disappointment at your escape as well as the teasing wink Dean gave his little brother.

Walking out of the bunker, you flopped down on a nearby bed of grass, silently begging to be swallowed by the earth then and there. Resting your head on your arms, you almost missed the sound of feet shuffling through grass behind you.

“Y/N? Can I join you?” Sam asked.

Looking up like a startled squirrel, you shot back up and ran your hand through your hair in an attempt to smooth it down.

“Sam! Um, yeah sure,” you looked around and noticed he’d come out to see you alone.

“Hey, uh, is everything okay?”

You nodded and sat back down on the grass, legs crossed, motioning for him to join you.

“I’m okay, just felt kind of tired. Long day,” you said as he sat next to you, his long legs awkwardly folded in front of him.

“You sure? I want to make sure that you’re feeling comfortable here. And I wanted to apologize if I made you feel awkward in there, I didn’t mean to stare,” he chuckled, running a hand through his hair and making you wish it was your fingers flowing through the silky strands instead.

You felt your cheeks warm up as you looked towards the trees to avoid his gaze once more, “No. It was my fault, I’m the one that made it look like I was serenading you or something. Which, I wasn’t. It was just a thing that I did, but I am sorry for making you uncomfortable and you didn’t have to come and apologize, you didn’t do anyth-”

“Woah, Y/N, breathe,” Sam laughed, placing a hand on your knee, “I didn’t feel uncomfortable at all. To be completely honest, it was actually kind of nice. You really are very talented.”

Widened eyes fixed on the large hand on your knee, your heart began to race and you found yourself speechless. He noticed your reaction and quickly removed his hand, the cold contrast of its absence making your heart drop.

You looked sideways at him, noticing a slight change in his demeanor as if he was saddened by the lack of touch as well, “So you don’t think I was being totally weird?”

“Not at all,” Sam smiled warmly, “I was flattered, actually.”

A new wave of courage took over you, and before you knew it, you were turning to the side to face the handsome hunter, “so, you really did like it?”

“I really did like it,” Sam reached out instinctively and pushed a strand of (Y/H/C) hair behind your ear, the contact of his fingers with your cheek sending an electric shock down your spine.

Before you could realize what was happening, he leaned forward and lightly pressed his lips against yours. The moment he did, it was as if fireworks went off around you. Though taken aback for a moment, you soon melted into the kiss, hands running up his firm chest until you stopped to grab at his jacket to pull him down with you. Laying on the grass, you felt tickles from the green blades surrounding you but that only added to the intensity of Sam’s touch. The way he ran a hand down your side, stopping at your hip to pull you closer. The way his kiss turned more passionate and fervent, something you wouldn’t have expected from such a sweet soul but that was nonetheless an incredibly nice surprise.

Breaking the kiss to catch your breath, you opened your eyes to a wondrous sight; Sam’s gorgeous features highlighted by an unusually starry sky above him, the trees surrounding you forming a canopy of sorts that reminded you of fairy tales. He smiled down at you, so close you could feel his warm breath on your skin, setting it ablaze despite the cold breeze that was beginning to pass through.

“We should probably get back inside,” Sam said, noticing your shivering body before you did.

“Yeah, that’s a good idea,” you chuckled. Sam leaned down to peck your lips once more before standing up and offering a hand to pull you up. You both walked back to the bunker, hands clasped together as you did. He slowed his strides to match your much shorter ones, causing you to giggle; a reaction that warmed Sam’s heart in a way he hadn’t felt in a very long time.

Stopping at the door, Sam turned to you and leaned down to kiss you once more before you broke the news of your newfound relationship to the rest of the bunker residents. Taking a deep breath, you opened the door and smiled, ready to take the next steps to your new life by his side.

Pond Tags

@whispersandwhiskerburn @roxy-davenport @impala-dreamer @deathtonormalcy56 @samsgoddess @frenchybell @spn-fan-girl-173 @deandoesthingstome @deansleather @whywhydoyouwantmetosaymyname @waywardjoy @mrswhozeewhatsis @imadeangirl-butimsamcurious @kayteonline @supernatural-jackles @idreamofhazel @wevegotworktodo @deanwinchesterforpromqueen @chaos-and-the-calm67-blog @memariana91 @plaidstiel-wormstache @chelsea-winchester @becs-bunker @ageekchiclife @castieltrash1 @supernaturalyobessed @ruined-by-destiel @winchester-writes @evilskank-inthemegacoven @maraisabellegrey-blog @faith-in-dean @winchestersmolder @clueless-gold @winchester-family-business @there-must-be-a-lock @just-another-winchester @emoryhemsworth @serenity-sam @cas-backwards-tie @sierra-grace1227 @firefly-in-darkness @emilyshurley @deanwanddamons ns @idreamofplaid

#sam winchester x reader #sam x y/n #sam x you #sam x reader #sam winchester fanfiction #sam winchester fluff #ellewritesfix05

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theatricalities · 4 years

Text

⧼ A mask of perfect innocence hiding the machiavellian intentions forever lurking beneath the surface — the ace up your sleeve, the trick coin with one side weighing heavier than its opposite because chance is simply a game that’s far too risky for the likes of you; the claw marks left on absolutely anything and everything in your wake — it’s not desperation that makes you cling so fervently to the objects of your desire as much as it’s your own way of ensuring survival; the self-imposed solitude clouding your ocean eyes — questions of identity and belonging are forever at the heels of your every decision, begging you to turn back before it’s too late. ⧽

━━ hey, isn’t that ZEPHYRINE TRAVERS ? i read a daily prophet article on them, once ; the 24 year old part-Veela WITCH is a SLYTHERIN alumnus who has gone on to be an ACTRESS IN THE WIXEN WORLD. i’ve heard they can be quite AUDACIOUS & BEGUILING, but i don’t know…they came off very EXPLOITATIVE and DELUSIVE in that interview. it really is hard to know what to believe these days though, isn’t it?

( takes a hiatus...comes back with a new character )

Heya ghouls, gals, and nonbinary pals! It’s me, ya girl. Zephyrine is my second little child to enter the group and I’m real wild about her! She’s inspired by DE idea #17 which you can find listed here! Obviously, Zeph is an OC, but her tie to canon is that she’s the daughter of Travers, the Death Eater who killed Marlene McKinnon and family. Also, because I just don’t know how to write contented characters, Zeph’s a bit of a wreck, too — has some daddy issues, wants more than the world can offer, doesn’t have a true sense of self...but she’s got great fashion !

Below is Zephyrine’s bio and general information. Wanted connections can be found here ( very under construction rn ) and they’ll be updated as play progresses! Please feel free to pm me here or on discord ( debaucherie#6347 ) if you’d like to plot ✿

BEFORE THE WAR — “ Everyone wants something...”

[ trigger warnings for death, murder; ]

On the night that marked Zephyrine Travers’ birth, the world in return exalted her upon arrival, singing the praises of the newborn babe as boldly as a songbird in spring.

Or — that was the tale upon which her mother raised her, and it was one the girl found fitting enough to believe, even if all the world around spoke to the contrary. After all, her father (whose only claim to the term was in the scientific sense alone) created so empty a home that such fantastical ideas were perhaps the only source of hope that the young girl could find. At the age of two, Zephyrine and her family were quietly removed from their ancestral home as her father was sentenced to Azkaban for the murder of Marlene McKinnon. She and her mother were stripped of all riches, no matter the fact that the young girl continued the bloodline of one of the Sacred Twenty-Eight.

And so, life continued on in this way, with little yarns of fantasy spun each and every night in the dreariness of their one-room hovel, spoken in assuring whispers as they cooked by candlelight or repaired a worn and weathered dress when there was no money to replace it instead. Despite the woe-be-gone skirts and helpless shoes, she was determined that no one should know about the unexpected poverty that marked her home life, and walked into the halls of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry with every intent on looking the part of the Travers name even if it was in name alone that she remained connected — going so far as to insist to the Sorting Hat that she was meant to be in Slytherin, as her family had been for centuries, even when it argued she was better suited to Ravenclaw instead.

In many ways, her adolescence was a long, drawn-out course in the art of convincing others — she could manifest a stream of tears to reassure a fellow Slytherin that she truly felt for her father just as easily as she could feign prolonged wooziness to avoid Flying class for a week. She flashed her blessedly charming smile across the House tables in the Great Hall, befriended everyone and anyone while still keeping them at arm’s length, and convinced even the most doubtful that she was an invaluable creature — not because of her name or the weight it still carried in certain circles, but because she believed herself to be and would not rest until it was an undeniable, unequivocal truth.

At sixteen, however, the meager world she’d known her whole life shattered entirely, its fragments not pieced together with the loving touch of her mother, but instead the fearsome presence of her father, who broke out of Azkaban along with ten other Death Eaters, including Bellatrix Lestrange. Unsurprisingly, he was asked by Lord Voldemort to prove his loyalty, and continued his murderous warpath — but instead of getting caught this time, he ensured that another would take his place. Zephyrine’s mother, innocent as a dove, was framed for his crimes and swiftly locked up in Azkaban, and Zander Travers was restored all riches seized upon his arrest.

By seventeen, Zephyrine had all the hallmarks of the dreams her mother raised her on : wealth far beyond her dreams, a manor estate fit for royalty and all the accompanying fanfare upon being properly introduced into a society of Death Eaters, but lost her mother in the process to a nightmare come true — the very woman who had instilled in the girl so great a belief in the impossible, that even this seemed like something Zephyrine could undo.

She now balanced quite a precarious act, appearing to her father as his perfect little Death Eater in training, while turning spy for the Order in exchange for their help in freeing her mother once the War was won.

AFTER THE WAR. — “...and once you know what they want, you know how to move them.”

When the time came, however, her mother was one of the many forgotten in the shadow of the Order’s triumph, relegated to little more than a broken promise as she rotted in Azkaban along with her husband, once again sentenced for his crimes. Their daughter, however, now took up the mantle of the new head of the Travers family, left with the ruins of her father’s blood-soaked legacy. In a world rebuilding itself, there was no game to be played when each side no longer had a reason to fight — and so, she waited. Seethed, more accurately, and busied herself with cleaning up the Travers name as time passed by. After receiving a formal training with the Wixen Academy of Dramatic Arts, she cemented herself firmly as a darling in the wixen theatre scene. In truth, it was all too easy. For twenty years, she’d practiced different ways to be believed — not to lie, she’d argue to herself, for any of those perceived lapses in truth had simply been her playing a character in order to get what she needed, and the silver-tongued sweetheart she portrayed to the public was no different. To believe was the notion her mother instilled in her, but to be believed was one she’d determined necessary for herself, even if it meant losing any sense of self in the process. And so, upon hearing word of a reformed Death Eater legion under Bellatrix Lestrange’s leadership, she appealed to their cause, vowing that she could easily become a spy within the group which once held her loyalty — in exchange, once more, for the release* of her mother. Her allegiances, of course, are unknown to the public at large. In fact, when asked by the press on such matters, she voices her support for the Ministry and their efforts at preventing another tragedy to ever mark the Wixen World’s history again. Naturally, it’s all an act, as it has always been, and she’ll keep playing the game for as long as it take to reunite* with her mother, gain the most powerful of allies, and secure her own survival.

[ * — while i’d love to believe that zeph’s mom is still alive, i think mrs. travers is likely to have perished rather soon after being wrongfully imprisoned. however, i believe that this information was kept from zeph as a way of controlling her, first by her father, then perhaps by the order ( i’d have to actually plot this one out w/an order member for this to be true ), but certainly by bellatrix and the DE clan. ]

BASICS.

FULL NAME: Zephyrine Travers NAME MEANING: Zephyrine is of French origin and means ‘west wind’ ; Travers is of English origin and means ‘to cross’ NICKNAME(S): Zeph ( used by family and close friends, only ) GENDER IDENTITY: Demigirl DATE OF BIRTH: 29 October, 1995 ( i put the wrong age in my app bc maths are not my strong suit, so technically Zeph is 24 but will turn 25 soon ) BIRTHPLACE: Travers Estate, Hampshire, England CURRENT PLACE OF DWELLING: London, England SEXUAL ORIENTATION: pansexual panromantic LANGUAGE(S): English, French, basic Latin

LIFE.

OCCUPATION: Actress EDUCATION: Homeschooled from ages 4 to 11; attended Hogwarts School of Witchcraft & Wizardry from ages 11 to 18; attended the Wixen Academy of Dramatic Arts from ages 19 to 21. SOCIOECONOMIC LEVEL ( GROWING UP ): Born upper class, but lower middle class from ages 2 - 16, upper class ages 16 - onward. SOCIOECONOMIC LEVEL ( CURRENTLY ): Upper class. RELIGION: Atheist

MAGICAL.

BLOOD TYPE: Not quite pureblood — but, publicly pureblood SPECIES: 1/4 Veela WAND TYPE: Hawthorn, unicorn hair core, 13″, reasonably supple SKILL LEVEL: Reasonably proficient, but a distinct knack for transfiguration and healing magic. Is adept at DADA, but often flees from the scene of battle before needing to utilize curses, jinxes, etc. PATRONUS: Incapable of producing a corporeal Patronus, but if she could, it would take the form of a shrike. BOGGART: Herself — albeit, a different, unrecognizable version of herself. In all her lying and betraying and such, Zeph has lost sense of herself and just doesn’t know the depths she might go to in order to get what she wants — and so I think it’s very possible that her biggest fear is the worst possible version of herself, the one that resembles her father in his uncaring bloodlust, messy and indiscriminate and entirely lacking in the nuance she prides herself on. AMORTENTIA: Fresh popcorn, the collar of a well-worn leather jacket, the scent of a newspaper so fresh the ink smudges one’s fingertips MIRROR OF ERISED: TBD. HOGWARTS HOUSE: Slytherin ( the Sorting Hat debated for approximately nine minutes between Ravenclaw and Slytherin, but ultimately decided on Slytherin because Zephyrine asked it to. ) FAVORITE SUBJECT: Transfiguration. LEAST FAVORITE SUBJECT: Arithmancy. CLUBS / EXTRACURRICULARS: The Slug Club ( Year 7 ), Theatre Club ( Years 2 - 7 ), Keres Club ( ages 22 - present )

RELATIONS.

PARENT(S): Zander & Odette ( nee Lynd ) Travers SIBLING(S): Two older sisters, both deceased, from her father’s first marriage, and a younger sibling born one-two years after her from her father’s affair. SIGNIFICANT OTHER(S): tbd. EX SIGNIFICANT OTHER(S): tbd. CHILDREN: none. PET(S): Two cats, Beryl and Belinda.

PHYSICAL.

HEIGHT: 5′7″ HAIR: silver-blonde EYES: blue BODY MODIFICATION(S): Three piercings in either ear. Despite Bellatrix’s insistence, she has staved off getting the Dark Mark under the guise that it would harm her status as an actress. In truth, she simply would hate to get something so permanent when her loyalties are rather, well, impermanent. NOTABLE SCARS / BIRTHMARKS: No scars / noticeable birthmarks. A scattering of freckles. GLASSES / CONTACTS: Only when required for an acting role, but not usually needed. CLOTHING STYLE: Quite a soft, ‘feminine’ style — lace, ribbons, ruffles, pastels — but there’s always one or two little things hinting at something decidedly more aggressive ( platinum collar-tips pointed and sharpened, metallic makeup, earrings in the design of tiny daggers, black lace gloves hiding perfectly manicured claws ) ; zephyrine also wears her mother’s choker, which is platinum-plated and has a handshake as a clasp. DOMINANT HAND: Ambidextrous

PERSONALITY.

ZODIAC: Scorpio ( sun ) — observant, expressive, secretive, vengeful, enigmatic // Gemini ascendant, Capricorn moon PERSONALITY TYPE: ENTJ, The Commander — confident, charismatic, strategic, ruthless, stubborn, emotionally naive MORAL ALIGNMENT: Neutral Evil TEMPERAMENT: Phlegmatic ELEMENT: Water VICE(S): Wrath VIRTUE(S): Diligence CHARACTER PARALLELS: Dahlia Hawthorne ( Ace Attorney ), Amy March ( Little Women ), Margaery Tyrell ( ASOIAF ), Vesper Lynd ( James Bond ), Eva Perón ( history / ‘EVITA’ the musical & film )

#is this bad and also unbearably long ? u bet #nox.intro #[ these hands could hold the world and it would never be enough; —ABOUT. ]#update: originally had her patronus be a leopard but really...she a shrike babey

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the-blind-assassin-12 · 5 years

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Jigsaw // Red: Part Three

You Had To Make It About Her

A/N: Wow. Look at that, a whole month later and here we are FINALLY with part three. With Krista and Arthur out of his way, only two more names stand in the way of Billy’s revenge. What happens when he pays one of them a visit? (i would like to thank @something-tofightfor for assisting in this murder.)

Warnings: murder, talk of suicide, blood, major character death, violence

Word Count: 4,021

“I told you, Agent Madani, I haven’t heard from Billy in-“ your words jammed up in your throat and he watched you swallow them down without a chaser. “Months.” Your eyes were focused somewhere just to the left of the camera, your hands beneath the table, hidden in your lap. He looked down at his own palms, turning them over. They were shaking, the lines of his knuckles stained a deep garnet red despite the cursory rinse he’d given them. “I have nothing…” your voice made him snap his eyes back to the screen, chest going hollow at the small crack on the word ‘nothing’. I did this…I did that to her. I hurt her like that, I- “I got nothing to tell you, Agent Madani.” You rolled your eyes up to meet hers, and though they were fogged with ache he could still see a spark of resiliency in them.

“Yeah, and even if you did, even if you had heard from him, you still wouldn’t talk, would you?” The second voice was flooded with venom, and though she was standing off camera, Billy could almost see her, coiled to strike like a viper. Fucking bitch. He was the reason that you had been dragged in for questioning, but she was doing her best to make sure that it was as unpleasant as possible.

You cocked your head to the side, a slight twitch pulling up your top lip as silent tears trickled slowly down your cheek. “No,” you said simply. “No, I wouldn’t.” The vice around his heart spun tighter at your bold display of loyalty.

The click of high heeled shoes on the floor preceded the scoff as she paced on her side of the table. “And why, may I ask, is that, huh? What, you think-“ another scoff, and when she spoke again her voice was louder, closer to the mic, leaning in and staring you down. “You think he loved you? You think he gave a shit about you?” Billy’s nostrils flared, his eyes going wide and wild as he gripped the screen with his bloodied right hand. Who the fuck is she to…how dare she… He was glad he’d killed her, but after watching the videos he was sorry he hadn’t been able to draw it out longer, make it slow, make it worse.

“No, Agent Madani,” You placed your hands on the table then, leaning in yourself. You were never one to be easily intimidated, Billy knew that. “No, I don’t think he loves me. I know he does. Just like I know that I love him. And there’s nothing you could tell me that could change that fact. So, no. No, I wouldn’t tell you anything, even if I had anything to tell you, Dinah.”

“You’re incredible. You really are, I mean…” She paused and you narrowed your eyes at her. “You’re either delusional, or you’ve let him manipulate you into something just as bad as he is.”

You didn’t say a word, pressing your lips together and giving a small shrug of your shoulders, trying to show her that you weren’t phased by her tactics, you weren’t swayed by her lies.

“He’s a goddamn murderer!” She finally lost her temper, the camera quaking as she dropped her heavy binder onto the metal tabletop. “I mean, you know that, right? Billy Russo is a stone cold killer, and you’re protecting him, you’re- you weren’t even the only woman in his life, doesn’t that bother you? Doesn’t it bother you that he and I were-“ Sick was an understatement as waves of acid crashed in Billy’s stomach at Madani’s implication that she meant anything at all to him, let alone anything close to how important you were to him.

The door behind you opened then, a small, somber man in a dark navy suit stepping in and motioning to his agent to stop the recording, the video ending. This was the third that he’d watched, each one increasingly more aggressive, each separated by several weeks denoted not only by the timestamps, but also by the loss of color in your eyes, the growing unsteadiness in Madani’s voice.

Billy squeezed his eyes shut as the video file reverted back to a thumbnail image on the cracked, bloodied screen. He let the laptop slide off his thigh and onto the cushion beside him, his shaking hands falling between his knees. He turned the left one over as he opened his eyes, watching a thick stream of blood trickle slowly down his forearm, dispersing as it filled the lines of his palm. He followed it back up his arm to the graze wound on his bicep. He’d almost forgotten that he’d been shot, the pain completely erased by seeing you on the screen, hearing your voice. Nothing could possibly hurt more than losing you. Nothing could possibly cause him real pain anymore.

He looked down at his feet and grabbed the white plastic bag of tape and gauze that he’d stopped for on his way back to the warehouse, the memory of entering a store, making a purchase, and walking back completely absent. Peeling his shirt up and off, he used the gauze to wipe at the wound, cleaning the blood away from the torn skin. Both of Billy’s biceps bore small, faint pink lines, battle scars from badly aimed bullets. As he wrapped the cotton dressing tightly around his upper arm, dark red stain blooming on the thin white bandage, he could almost feel your fingertips tracing the old divots and lines. “No more of these, got it?” You’d say, dropping your ruby lips to the markings. He gripped the bandage, digits digging into the muscle, trying and failing to control his uneven breaths as a sob ripped free from his chest. He tightened his fingers, pulse throbbing against them and blood soaking into the gauze beneath his palm as he stared at the video files on Madani’s computer screen. Why did she have to…why did…

“No more close calls, Billy.” You’d press your cheek to his scarred skin before leaving another kiss there. “You gotta come back to me.”

Anger flared in his gut as helplessness clawed at his heart, the two at war within him, culminating in a harsh, howling scream. He released his injured arm and used the good one to send the laptop flying into the brick wall. It crashed, erupting in a spray of bits of plastic and wires, letter keys scattering as what was left of the screen shattered. The sound echoed in the cold, concrete building, mixing with his shouts and the ragged, labored gasps he was taking. “Why did she have to make it about her?” He demanded of the air as it swallowed the noise and replaced it with silence once more. He stared at the remains of the laptop, the memory of another video playing itself out in his head.

.. .. .. .. .. ..

“Okay, okay,” you giggled, hiding your face by pulling the scarlet Santa hat down over your eyes. The velvet and faux fur obscured your cheeks and nose, leaving your plump, smiling lips exposed. You pressed them together before grabbing the snow white pom-pom dangling from the pointed end and tugging it back up. “I’ve had a few glasses of eggnog, so,” you shrugged, another giggle tumbling free as you held up one finger and tilted your head to the side, your focus directly on the camera. “So be nice, Lieutenant.”

Christmas never really mattered to Billy- not since he was conditioned not to have his hopes lifted while living at the group home. It always felt superficial to him; the thin, chintzy dollar store wrapping paper covered in grinning snowmen and prancing reindeer, cheap red plastic coverings taped down to the card tables, the chipped trays of store bought, tasteless cookies. It was always clear to Billy that these things were simply props, for show. There was no thought put into the matchbox cars or wiffle ball sets, the dolls and yo-yos and donated items that got passed along to the kids. There was no added warmth in the room from the dated foil garlands or bare, bottle brush tree. There was no Christmas in the Christmases he spent there, so he learned not to need it, not to want it. If you don’t want something, you can’t be let down when you never receive it. Christmas was for other people. Until he met you.

You’d decorated your apartment the same way you had the previous year, your tree in the corner, filled with glittering lights and dozens of ornaments, red and green candies in a bowl on the coffee table, a wreath on the door. His heart lurched when he read the gold embroidery on the stockings that you’d hung on the wall beside the tree- yours on the right, older, well-loved, the fabric wearing thin in some places from being over-stuffed through the years, and his on the left, brighter, newer, only used once. Nervously fixing your hat one last time, you settled on your knees in front of the tree, and closing your eyes, you started to sing. “I don’t want a lot for Christmas, there is just one thing I need…”

You were in no way a talented singer. Your voice broke and warbled, you were off key, and you even flubbed the lyrics at one point. But by the time you wrapped up your performance, Billy had moved himself as close to the screen as he could get, one palm pressed to the monitor as though he could reach through and grab you, pull your giggling form against his chest, kiss your neck until your song turned to sighs. He’d almost forgotten that it was sand, not snow outside his window.

You took a long sip of your eggnog, cheeks rosy from the alcohol and from plucking up the nerve to record your carol for him. Setting the poinsettia patterned glass back on the table, you spoke to the camera again. “I hope you enjoyed your private concert, Billy.” Your eyes widened then as your smile wrinkled your nose. “And I hope it was a private concert, and that Frank isn’t over your shoulder filling up on blackmail!” You dissolved into laughter, the sound sending a flush of warmth through him in the chilly pre-dawn desert. “Anyway, Merry Christmas, Billy Russo. Oh, and don’t worry, that wasn’t your only gift.” You pointed to an emerald green package wrapped in sparkling red ribbons that had been placed beneath the tree. “But you’re gonna have to come get the rest. You gotta come back to me, Billy. You’re all I want…all I ever want.” You’d wished him Merry Christmas once more, told him that you loved him, that you couldn’t wait to have him back, and then the video had ended with you reaching towards your screen to tap the button to stop the recording, and he was left in the communications tent, alone.

“Merry Christmas,” he said to his inbox as he closed your video attachment and logged off. He wanted to sit in that tent all damn day, replaying your video, watching you fidget under your hat, listening to your laughter as it interrupted your song. But his time was up, so he pushed back from the desk and stood with a sniff, clearing his throat.

“All good, Bill?” Frank clapped him on the shoulder. “Your girl send ya a nice Christmas message?”

He forced a smile, wondering how Frank had been able to spend so many Christmases, holidays, birthdays, so much time away from Maria, away from his kids, wondering how he was ever going to leave you again once he had you back in his arms. “Yeah, Frankie, she did.” He nodded to the monitor behind him. “I’m sure you got somethin’ just as good from Maria and the kids.” Frank nodded and grinned. “Merry Christmas, brother.”

.. .. .. .. .. .. ..

Billy paced back and forth, staring at the debris of the laptop he’d taken from Madani’s apartment. He hadn’t meant to take anything. He’d had a very clear mission when he arrived in her parking garage, and he’d meant to stick to it when he found himself in front of her door; revenge, that’s it. One motive, one punishment to carry out, and then on to the next mission. Just like back in the desert- complete the task, fulfil the objective, await future orders. Knowing that the door would be locked, bolted, likely, Billy planted his left foot and cocked his right leg back, knee to chest. Might take more than one kick. A memory sliced through, and he saw himself, in a suit, undoing his tie as he fastened the locks and chained the bolt, with her behind him, already pawing at him. I can handle more than one kick.

With a grunt and a shout, he forced all of his weight through the door via the boot sole of his right foot, planting it as close to the locking mechanisms as he could. The door frame splintered, a satisfying crunch accompanying the kick as the bottom two locks broke, clattering heavily to the floor. Billy nearly lost his balance at the door’s resiliency, but a quick shuffling hop righted him once more. He peered through the small opening and saw that the entrance was only being barred by a short length of chain. One more good one. He squared up again, knee smacking his sternum as his heel, then arch, then toes made contact with the weakened door, popping the remaining locks free from the destroyed frame, sending the metal chain scattering across the floor inside.

The victorious feeling was cut short, as the unmistakable sound of a gun firing cut the air and filled his ears, a bullet ripping through the busted door and just missing him as he spun away. Alright. He pressed himself against the wall next to the door and took a deep breath through his nose. Alright, the bitch has a gun. You knew she’d have a gun, just get it out of her hands. Adrenaline pumped through his veins with every beat of his heart, the muscle working overtime to flood him with the necessary strength and steel to carry out the rest of the mission. Get it out of her hands and kill her.

“Russo!” Her voice shot through the bullet hole in the door, two footsteps punctuating her presence. “I know you’re there, I know you are. Show yourself you piece of shit!”

It was strained, cracking, uneven, her voice. It was scared, unhinged, broken like the locks she thought would protect her. She’s off her game. Not gonna be able to aim for shit. Billy waited another couple of beats, listening closely for any sign of movement or any clue that there was anyone else there with her. Five seconds of silence went by. She’s alone and she’s off. Go, now.

Your face filled his mind in a flash of light, and for the briefest of moments he could feel you in his heart instead of the hate and the anger. But as quickly as you’d come to him you vanished, and he was reminded that you were gone in part because of the woman standing on the other side of this wall. He loaded up one more good kick, all the hatred and anger, all the rage and pain centralizing in the force of that kick to bring the rest of the door down with an inhuman scream. Before the door had hit the ground, she’d pulled the trigger twice. Billy had been right- she was off, her aim- if ever she had it to begin with- compromised by the situation. He took one bullet in the bicep of his left arm, through and through, the second one lodging itself in the remnants of the door frame. Feeling nothing but the pulse of adrenaline, he advanced on her as she clutched her weapon in trembling hands.

“You had to bring her into it, didn’t you?!” His own voice sounded foriegn to his ears, the way that it was shaking and the tone that it took completely new to him. “You had to make it about her!”

Madani’s eyes grew wide as she realized that she wouldn’t be able to get another shot off before his hands were on her. Billy saw her fingers freeze in terror as she tried and failed to squeeze the trigger again. He closed the remaining distance in one long stride, turning his palm outwards, fingers wrapping around the barrel she’d held pointed at his chest to push it away, two more shots ripping into the floorboards and drywall. Wrenching it free, he tossed the gun aside. Won’t be needing that, not for this one.

“Answer me Dinah, goddamnit!” The hand that had disarmed her grabbed at her throat, the other wrapping around one of her wrists. “Why, huh? Why’d you have to drag her into it? She’s dead because of you now!” He hadn’t noticed the tears gathering in his eyes, and they surprised him as they fell onto her face as he held it inches from his own.

“I...didn’t…” she choked out against the pressing of his fingers on her trachea. “You...did, Billy...You...she died...because of...you.”

“Shut up, bitch!” Spittle, tears and sweat flew from his lips as he throttled and shook her. She’s right. It’s your fault. “No! No. No...I loved her...I loved her and she’s...she died because you wouldn’t leave her alone. She was safe! You kept pushing, and pushing.” With every word he spoke his grip tightened. “You shoulda just left her alone!” A mad sob tore through his vocal chords. “You shoulda let her forget me...it’s me you wanted, right Dinah?” With that question, he pulled back to look in her eyes, and the fear that he saw there was nearly as satisfying as the sound that the door made when he parted it from its hinges. “It’s me you wanted. And here I am, just like old times, huh?”

She tried to shake her head under his grasp but the force that he held her with stifled her movement. “Fuck you, Russo, you’re not getting away with this. Frank’s on his way and-”

“Frank?” He cocked one eyebrow high and regarded her with mock curiosity and a sadistic smile. “Frank’s on his way?” The smiled dropped like a ton a bricks. “No shit, Dinah. I know that!” He shouted into her face again until she whimpered from behind shut eyes. “I know that you called your little dog to come deal with your garbage. But I’m gonna be long gone before he gets here.” She tried to shake her head again, this time a small cry coming from her throat. He released her wrist and covered her mouth, palm pressed against the hot breath spouting from her damp lips. “Oh yes I am. And so are you, come on.”

Blood soaking through the sleeve of his shirt and dripping down his forearm, he dragged her by the face, fingers digging into her cheeks and causing her to bite the insides of her mouth. She tried like hell to grab onto anything- the couch, the doorway to the hall, the walls themselves. Billy turned his head in time to see one of her fingernails snap from the nail bed as she tried to claw at the textured wallpaper. But he was stronger than she was, gunshot wound or not. “Oh, come on, Dinah, we’ve done this before, you and me.” She splayed her legs out at the entrance of the bathroom, digging her heels into the carpet and catching them on the marble tile. Billy huffed. “Shoulda done this then, better late than never though for a goddamn bitch like you.” He scooped her up, flailing limbs doing little to hinder him, and dumped her hard into the stark white porcelain tub.

Wincing and whimpering in pain and fear, she crept back into the corner of the bathtub, cradling her head where it had hit the hard surface, but Billy didn’t let her get out. He held her down with one hand, using the other to start running the water, soaking Madani’s pants. “What are you doing, you sick son of a bitch?!” She spat at him, blood from where she’d bitten her cheeks mixing with saliva and landing on Billy’s chin.

He wiped it with his elbow, a smear of his own blood, dripping down his arm marking his face. “Just getting you cleaned up, Dinah. Like last time.” He pulled a knife from his jacket- the one he’d pocketed when he’d scored himself his new threads- and flicked it open. The water thundered from the faucet as he stared at the blade. “You know, they say that suicide rates are highest among the more stressful profesisons. Doctors, lawyers…” he raised his eyes to hers then, her body half submerged, steam rising in foggy clouds. “Law enforcement.” He gripped the dampened curls at the base of her neck and dragged her face close enough to speak into her ear. “I thought about doin’ this after I killed your partner, Dinah. I shoulda. No one would blink at an agent killin’ herself after she fucked up and got her partner killed. But I didn’t. And I been livin’ with that regret ever since that night on that fucking carousel. When I saw her. Behind you.” He pulled back, still grabbing her hair, feeling a few strands come free under his fingers. “I shoulda. But now I will. And no still… no one’s gonna blink at an agent cuttin’ her wrists after her ex-lover freed himself from the loony ward and started off on a killing spree.”

Hurry up, you don’t have that much time, Frank’s comin’. He reminded himself not to get carried away by the theatrics of revenge. Kill the bitch and get out. She’d dissolved into a crying mess, muttering the word “no” over and over and over. “Weak. You’re weak, Dinah. It’s why you couldn’t kill me. Why you couldn’t take me down on your own...why you needed to get her involved, why you need to call Frank...you’re weak. And no one’s gonna blink at a dead, pathetic, weak bitch.” Before she could say another word or move another muscle, Billy dragged the sharp edge of the knife against the underside of her forearm, opening it from wrist to elbow, the water swirling a bright red ruby color before deepening, almost to black. She gasped, her chest spasming as she tried to gulp at the air, but Billy made quick work of her other arm before curling her fingers around the handle of his blade. He rinsed his fingers quickly before shutting off the tap. Without blinking, he stood from where he knelt beside the tub, and left her there for Frank to find.

He was all set to leave the scene having completed the task, when the laptop that had fallen from the kitchen counter in the fray caught his eye. It was open, the cracked screen displaying a file of video clips. Normally he wouldn’t notice. Normally, he’d stride right out the door and down the emergency exit stairs, pulling his hood up and hiding his bloody hands in his pockets. But these files were labeled with your name. These files were displayed with thumbnail images of you, and it knocked the air from his lungs. He reached out slowly, placing his hand on the screen as his heart ached and burned. He whispered your name in the dead agent’s house, and immediately regretted speaking it there. Closing the screen, he grabbed the computer and the sleek black phone that had tumbled to the ground with it, along with the gun he’d stripped from Madani’s hands. 1 Missed Call - Unknown blinked at him, and he stuffed the phone in his pocket, and headed into the hallway, looking over his shoulder as he lifted his hood and made for the stairwell.

He’ll call back. Frank always calls back.

@something-tofightfor @its-my-little-dumpster-fire @suchatinyinfinity @gollyderek @thesumofmychoices @obscurilicious @traeumerinwitzhelden @jigsawlover10 @getlostinyourparadise @breanime @nananananananananananabatman @lexxierave @songforhema @fireeyes-on-teller-dixon-grimes @lysawayne @roses-in-your-country-house @ymariejp @belladonnarey @audreychaz @songtoyou @stories-you-wont-hear @luminex3 @ificouldhelpyouforget

Please let me know if you’d like to be added or removed!

#billy russo #billy russo x reader #billy russo x you #billy russo x murderous rampage #jigsaw #jigsaw // red #red part three #the punisher au #billy vs everyone who ever did him dirty #(and a few that he did dirty too)

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parabellum-rpg-archive · 5 years

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Congratulations, Na! You’ve been accepted to play Gemma Ramsey. Please make your page and send it in within 24 hours.

Admin note: I love everything about how you see Gemma, it’s very clear you’ve fallen in love with her character and I love the little details that you’ve included to make her feel very real. The part about her and adoption really put a smile on my face, I’m so excited to see you explore this character, Na! - Admin J

IC INFORMATION —

CHARACTER DESIRED

Gemma Ramsey.

DESCRIBE THE CHARACTER IN YOUR OWN WORDS

Gemma Ramsey is 100% that bitch - at least she likes to think she is. She’s a do no harm, but take no shit kind of gal, which doesn’t exactly get one all that far in the world she’s found herself treading.

That seems to be Gemma’s MO, though, doesn’t it - barely keeping her head above water in situations she seems to somehow stumble upon? Girl’s got a knack for falling face first into circumstances that aren’t exactly great for her.

She’d be damned if she didn’t make the most of it, though.

Gemma’s been dealt a shitty hand from the start but that hasn’t stopped her yet. She’s not planning on letting it any time soon, either. Gemma is nothing if not persistent and resilient. Maybe a little hard headed when she wants to be, too.

A little lost and unsure what exactly she’s supposed to be doing with her life, Gemma’s still determined to make the most of it. She’s passionate and optimistic, despite her dark past - she shares the light that refuses to dim within her everywhere she goes and with everyone she meets.

It was a happy accident - her showing up in Chicago and landing a job within a crime organization - but maybe, for once, Gemma ended up exactly where she was supposed to be. For so long Gemma had longed for a family and now, it seemed, she had one. Now, Gemma will do anything to keep that family in her life.

WRITING SAMPLE

Hope is a dangerous thing…

The red and blue lights from the fleet of squad cars bounced off the choppy water below, just barely illuminating Conrad’s lifeless body where it washed up onto the rocky shore. Gemma had heard their words - Conrad had jumped and hadn’t made it - but she couldn’t believe them. At least, not until she saw the scene for herself.

They’d been reluctant to bring her to the scene, but Gemma’d refused to answer any questions until they did. She needed to see him. To see that it was real.

Hands grabbed at her arms, eventually wrapping around her waist and forcing her into the back of a squad car when she tried to run down the embankment to Conrad’s body. It wasn’t until they’d slammed the door that Gemma realized the woman wailing was actually her and tears had soaked the collar of the shirt she’d worn to her interview.

Nothing made sense. She loved Conrad. Gemma might have wanted a divorce, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t still her family. When they’d talked, Gemma thought she’d made that clear, but she’d been wrong.

So. Fucking. Wrong.

Conrad’s parents had been kind enough to allow Gemma to say goodbye at the funeral, but the second his services ended they made it clear that Gemma was no longer welcome. They also made it clear who was to blame for their son’s death.

Gemma.

And, every once in a while, Gemma still believes it to be true.

For a woman like me to have…

The vision in Gemma’s left eye blurred the flashing red and blue lights, tinting half the world in a sickeningly misplaced, vibrant purple as she sat on the back bumper of the ambulance. Someone tended to the cut on her cheek, speaking softly and reassuring her that she was safe now.

But even as the cops drug Alex to the squad car - hands cuffed behind his back and legs kicking out at anyone dumb enough to get close - the last thing Gemma felt was safe.

Once again, the family she’d created was falling apart. It wasn’t the family Gemma’d always dreamt of, but it was a family nonetheless. Chaotic and dysfunctional as she and Alex had been together, she had loved him once and the band had become like brothers to her.

They’d understood what it was like to love Alex and hate him at the same time - to not be able to escape the hold he had on them.

This, though? This was different. This was more than Gemma could handle. Did she sometimes feel entirely unlovable and like a burden to those around her? Sure. Gemma couldn’t deny the baggage she carried with her, nor its impact on her self esteem on occasion. But that didn’t mean Gemma believed that gave Alexander the right to punch her in the face simply because the mood struck him.

No one deserves that kind of abuse.

So, Gemma was done - another family shattered and her heart, once again, in pieces. The only thing left for her to do was the only thing Gemma knew how to do.

Pack up and move on.

But I do.

Chicago was nothing like Gemma had expected it to be. It was classic but modern and strikingly beautiful, even in the tougher parts of the city. Especially in the tougher parts, in Gemma’s opinion. Underdogs had always been a kind of weakness for her. Call it kindred spirits, or whatever.

What she expected, least of all though, was Morgan Sinclair. Gemma had to tilt her head damn near all the way back to look at something other than the man’s chest and his gruff, rough exterior was probably intimidating to most. Gemma had seen evil - looked it in the eyes as he told her how much he loved her, and again when he broke her cheek bone - and Morgan Sinclair was not that. There was a softness to him that Gemma found a surprising comfort. Once again, she found herself trusting a man she barely knew.

This time, though, it was different. Gemma could feel it in the way his hand clasped her shoulder as he told her she was hired and welcomed her to the family.

Family. The thing Gemma had been searching for in one way or another since she was a child, now falling into her lap as if the planets and stars had aligned to make it so. And maybe they had - who was Gemma to question it?

The only thing Gemma knew now was that she’d found a family that she could count on and fuck if she’d let this one go.

EXTRAS

TW sexual assault.

headcanons

Gemma isn’t allowed to have pets in her apartment, but she regularly sets out food for the stray cats outside her building. It’s not totally uncommon to see her sitting on the stoop with a small hoard of them winding through her legs while she smokes.

She has six tattoos - one big thigh piece on her left thigh, a quote down her spine, tiny mountains on her right middle finger, ‘still I rise’ on her left wrist, a detailed moth on her sternum and upper abdomen, and Queen Nefertiti’s bust on her right rib.

While bouncing around foster homes, there were two occasions when Gemma was sexually assaulted by her foster parents. They are, to this day, the only people Gemma could kill and not regret it after.

Gemma takes some of the left over money she makes and donates to local orphanages and adoption agencies. If she had more time, she’d also volunteer to hang out with the kids.

Adoption is a must for Gemma. She wants children of her own, of course, but she knows what it’s like to not have a family. Meaning she also wants a big family. Four kids, at least, and pets. Lots of ‘em.

Gemma has never had a pet, but she’s always wanted one and she’s a huge animal person.

Her singing voice is actually pretty decent. Gemma hasn’t had any formal training, but she can carry a tune. One foster family was extremely religious and many of the hymnals stuck with Gemma. Most of the time she only sings them when she thinks she alone at the bar.

She’s a Gemini sun, Aquarius moon, and Virgo rising.

#accepted

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solign0501 · 6 years

Text

Shall We Begin

Masterlist Part 16 Part 17 Part 18

Pairings: Bucky x Reader

Summary: As a SHIELD agent your work alongside the Avengers means you and Bucky start to get to know each other but then one day you are ordered to go under cover away from him. When the mission goes wrong, the Avengers are called in for a rescue.

Warnings: Reference to torture/ some bad language

A/N: The best laid plans of men and Loki are about to go awry

“You screamed?” Nat said incredulously, raising a perfectly shaped brow at Sam. “You actually screamed?”

“If you saw Terminator there coming through a door you were about to walk through, you'd scream too,” he huffed. Nat simply shrugged and turned back to Tony. “Can you fix it.” Tony fixed her with a perfect look of 'bitch please' and continued taking the door off it's hinges.

“I'm really sorry,” Bucky said for the hundredth time.

“It's okay,” Tony said, also for the hundredth time. “You should have seen the amount of doors and windows we went through when Capsicle was learning to control his strength. Y/N wasn't much better.” He almost heard Bucky flinch as he said your name. It was his turn to apologise.

“It's fine,” Bucky said, voice tight. Footsteps coming down the hall made them all turn to see who was approaching and Bucky found himself half-wishing, half-dreading it was you. Sam's wide eyes told him otherwise though.

“Are you serious?” Sam breathed as Loki came into view.

“Son, you clearly have a death wish,” Steve said, grabbing Bucky's arm instinctively. Bucky, however, was almost preternaturally still, his whole body virtually thrumming with menace.

“Firstly,” Loki said, trying desperately to sound casual, “I'm far old than you will ever be so I would stop calling me son. Secondly, I've come to say I'm sorry.” Without another word, Sam swung for him, his fist going straight through Loki and hitting the wall with a sickening crunch.

“Stop destroying my building!” Tony shouted as Loki's apparition flickered before solidifying again.

“I said I was sorry, not suicidal,” Loki pointed out. He turned and fixed his gaze on Bucky, clearly uneasy even being safely away from him. “Can we talk?” Steve opened his mouth to answer but Bucky shook his head and Steve got the hint. He stalked forward, even Nat and Tony moving out of his way. Projection-Loki flinched as Bucky came within an inch of his face.

“You stay away from me,” he said, his voice dangerously low. “Or I swear to God, I don't care how many magic yous you make, I'll kill every one of them, then I'll tear you apart, understood?”

“Loud and clear Sergeant Barnes,” Loki said before vanishing.

“Well that way isn't going to work,” Loki said to himself as he felt his avatar disappear. Time for plan B. Getting up from his seat on the sofa where he had been nursing a headache, he set off for the Director's office.

Eventually, you had drifted off to sleep, your head pounding from your constant tears. Wanda had stayed for another hour with you but in the end you persuaded her that you wanted to be alone. No sooner had she left than you dragged one of Bucky's shirts from the closet and, pulling it on, climbed into bed and wrapped yourself up in the blankets.

It wasn't long before the nightmare started and this time nothing could pull you out. You watched in horror as Bucky was strapped into the chair instead of you, only this time it was worse. This time it was you strapping him in, you shoving the gum guard in his mouth, you pressing the button the machine to start the torture. Every other character in the dream was another version of you. Your real screams mingled with his dream ones as you scrambled to try and release him, looking up into your own mocking face as you were slammed into another chair opposite him and subjected to the same.

Sweat soaked your skin as your screams turned to hoarse whispers and your thrashing slowed. Nobody was there to comfort you, nobody to hold you or sing to you and it was all your fault. The machine whirred to life again and this time it was Bucky throwing the switch on you. You let out one final, blood-curdling scream as the pain began.

Bucky heard your scream from the air-bed on Steve's floor. It was a physical wrench not to go to you, but he couldn't. He didn't want you to suffer, but no matter how much it tore at his insides to know he wasn't there to pull you back to consciousness, he couldn't look at you right now, he didn't have the strength. Softly, almost absently he started to sing to himself.

“Oh, woah oh sweet child o' mine. Woah oh oh oh sweet love of mine.” The tears danced in his eyes as his breath caught on the last word but, almost as if you had heard him, your screaming stopped and silence descended over the compound.

Fury looked up from the tablet he was reading from as someone knocked on his door before opening it. He put the useful bit of Stark tech down as Loki walked in.

“Well well,” he said, eyeing the Asgardian. “Real Power is in the building! To what do I owe the honour?” His voice dripped with sarcasm and Loki gave a wry smile.

“Believe me, I'm not overly thrilled to be here myself.” He sat down in one of the chairs opposite Fury's desk and looked at the director.

“Make yourself at home,” Fury said, sounding vaguely amused. “And just what can I do for you?”

Loki sighed, seeming to collect his thoughts for a moment before beginning.

“I have a proposition, for how I might be useful for you.” He paused but Fury, sitting silently with his arms resting on the desk in front of him and his fingers steepled below his chin, nodded for him to continue. “I understand you are looking for a certain cell of Hydra operatives in a place called Siberia. I would like to volunteer to help.” Not even Fury could contain his surprise, although it was replaced within a fraction of a second by his natural poker face.

“Now why would I go for that?” he asked, daring Loki to convince him. Loki smiled, calling on all of his silver tongued prowess.

“Well, not only am I trained warrior and effective negotiator,” he said without even a trace of humility, “I am also a sorcerer. I can work with your current team to find this cell and destroy, without any loss of life for your men. You are aware of my ability to replicate. Why not use this to your advantage?”

Fury leaned back in his chair, studying Loki. Despite his discomfiture at the steady gaze that one eye could hold, Loki resisted the urge to fidget. He couldn't help but be reminded of the many, many times as a child that he and Thor had been dragged before Odin for some transgression or other. It always seemed to be one-eyed people, they had a trick for giving the most unnerving looks.

After a moment, Fury's voice pulled him from his reminiscences.

“You have a point,” he conceded. “But why? What's in this for you?”

“I might get to make things better,” Loki said with a shrug. Fury, who saw and knew all, simply smiled.

When you awoke, you found Steve sitting in your room, snoring lightly in the chair nearby. His eyes fluttered open as you moved and he fixed you with a soft gaze.

”How are you feeling?” he asked tenderly, lifting the chair and moving it over to you. You sat up and looked at him.

“Like a worthless, broken idiot,” you said honestly. Steve sighed and smiled a tight-lipped smile before leaning in and wrapping you up in a strong, warm hug. “I didn't know how much I needed that,” you said as he pulled away a moment later.

“Nat and Wanda told me everything,” he said, rubbing his hands along your upper arms, ignoring the thin sheen of sweat that covered your skin still from your troubled dreams.

“I swear Steve, I thought it was Bucky,” you said, your voice pleading with him to understand.

“I know, I know,” he reassured. “But it's not me that matters here.”

“Have you told him?” Steve shook his head.

“Not yet, I wanted to let him sleep. It was bad enough when he heard you screaming. I could see him fighting not to come to you.”

“Oh Buck,” you moaned, the tears starting to fall again. Steve instantly regretted his words and, shifting himself to the edge of the bed, wrapped you up in another hug, pulling you tight to his chest.

“He'll come round, don't worry. He's just hurting right now and we both know how damn stubborn he is.” You chuckled and Steve smiled down at you. “There now,” he said, softly kissing your forehead. “There's that beautiful laugh.”

“What can I do, Steve?” you asked, meeting his soft blue gaze with your watery y/e/c one. “How can I get him back? I can't do this without him.” Steve sighed and closed his eyes.

“He's just going to need time, doll,” he said gently. “You know what he's like, he's thinking he doesn't deserve you.”

“No!” you protested, cutting him off. “It's me that doesn't deserve him! He's perfect and charming and wonderful and sweet and perfect!” Your words came out in a rush and Steve chuckled, the sound vibrating through you as you lay against his muscular chest.

“Then maybe you should show him that,” he suggested. He gave you another quick kiss on the forehead and flashed his million dollar smile. You couldn't help but smile weakly back. “Come on now, why don't get yourself showered and we can try and get some food into you?” He stood up to go, turning to give you one last smile before leaving the room.

You knew that Steve was looking out for his friend, but when he was in den mother mode he was exactly what you needed every time. Thank God for Steve Rogers, you thought, getting to your feet and grabbing your towels.

“I have one condition,” Fury said after a considering for what felt to Loki like an age.

“Naturally,” Loki drawled, sounding more calm than he felt. Could this plan work?

“I want the Avengers to go with you.” Loki's blazee demeanour shattered. This wasn't how it was meant to go. Fury chuckled. “You seriously didn't expect to just go on your own, did you?” Fury asked, knowing full well that was what Loki had expected. He had wanted to go to Siberia, be the hero and take down your greatest enemy in the chance to win your trust back. Then, and only then, could he start to fix things for you.

“Well it would rather defeat the object of keeping them out of danger,” he pointed out.

“They won't be. They're a highly trained team of Earth's Mightiest Heroes,” Fury stated with a simple shrug. “Besides, you'll be the bait.” Loki thought about arguing but Fury's face brooked no refusal – yet another trait he shared with Odin All-father, Loki mused bitterly.

“Fine,” Loki spat. “As you wish.” Fury nodded.

“I suggest you vanish now,” he said non-too-subtly. “I'm about to call a meeting and I'm prepared to bet there's some folks here you don't want to be trapped in a room with until you have to be, right?” Loki nodded, immediately remembering Bucky's metal fist connecting with his jaw before he stood and took his leave from the Director.

“F.R.I.D.A.Y.,” Fury called out to the AI. “Get the team to the briefing room now please.”

“Yes, Director Fury,” F.R.I.D.A.Y responded.

@hillywooddestiel @imaginecrushes @thebookisbtr @fandomlover03 @rosep16 @marassberry @capandbuck @fangirllover2000 @diinofayce @characterxreader

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angelicwritingoflesilva · 6 years

Text

Sunday (shh it’s not Monday be quiet), “S.O.S” (completed short story!)

no just because it’s midnight doesn’t mean it doesn’t count (need anymore negatives, angel? xp)

Here it is! Polished, shiny, and hopefully error-free, S.O.S, my first story for my Short Story Summer challenge, is officially completed! I’ve had such a blast doing this, and, although it isn’t excessively sci-fi-y, it forced me to step out of my comfort zone.

What I’ve Learned: hOly cow, exposition is hard in short stories. I do think that, at times, S.O.S suffers from a bog of exposition, but I really shouldn’t edit it anymore considering it’s already Monday,,, ;n;

Also, procrastinating is bad. I am so bad at getting things done it is 12:10 as I am writing this.

Finally, cinnabun characters are so perfect. Ta’hua is meant to be that kind of character, and, if I ever revisit this universe, I think I’ll either set the story in Ta’hua’s past or the life he lives with Ashley and, his now adopted brother, Sterling. >u<

Final Word Count: 5,336

Final Time Spent (Writing/Editing): 5 hrs and 33 minutes

And, now that I have teased the ever living hek out of you, enjoy reading S.O.S

Trigger warning: blood, implied death, suicide, slavery, cruelty, dead family

S.O.S

“S-Sani is dead.”

The words are whispered to Sterling. The young boy’s gaze flicks to the side, meeting the dull, but worried, eyes of his friend, Ta’hua. The young Avian’s head feathers droop in sadness, his hands shaking as he pushes his mop along the deck. Sterling glances down at his own motionless mop before replying.

“How? When?”

Ta’hua turns back to his task, replying quietly. “After br-breakfast. He ju-umped.”

Sterling swallows a lump in his throat. It hurts to do so. Suddenly, his ribs feel much more pronounced, the bags underneath his eyes much heavier. “I’ll look for one this time.” Sterling says. Shoulders sagging in relief, Ta’hua gives an almost imperceptible nod before directing his mop away from Sterling.

When he is sure that his friend is out of earshot, Sterling whispers to himself in a voice devoid of emotion, “Fourteen.” Sani marks the fourteenth body. Over four years, Sterling has slowly killed fourteen different slaves aboard this ship. In the beginning, it was almost impossible to ask for others for their measly food, for their blind labor. It has become so dreadfully easy. He feels little guilt when he begs the kind-hearted, the weak-willed, the elderly, the mothers, and anyone else, for food. No shame rushes him when he manipulates others. Now, it is more of an annoyance than anything else when someone dies, because it means that he has to find a new target. He knows that he should feel guilty, disgusted at himself, devastated, anything but the cool numbness resting in his chest.

But, quite simply, he doesn’t.

He used to amend his guilt by telling himself that he needed this food, that the meals given to the slaves aboard this ship weren’t enough for anyone. While true, it didn’t become true to him until two years ago. Up until then, he would shake in his cot nightly, going insane with guilt. With every person he starved, every innocent victim to his unholy crimes, the only face he could see was his father’s. His father, who only ate enough to make it to the next meal time, just so he could feed his son most of that, who whispered stories late at night about a forgotten life, who died of starvation because he cared too much about his son.

But taking advantage of his fellow slaves now? Easy. There weren’t many weak-hearted slaves on board, but sometimes, newer ones were easier to convince. They didn’t understand the truly horrible conditions, and, before they did, they already found themselves caring about Sterling and Ta’hua. They would begin to form a one-sided parental bond with the children. They would feed them. They would take part of their workload. They would eventually die for them. Sterling swallows another hard lump in his throat. It is no easier to swallow than the first.

He turns to look at Ta’hua. His head is lowered and his back is hunched over his mop. As usual, his body shakes with every step. Everything about him screams that he doesn’t belong on this ship. His sun-like eyes and vibrant blue and yellow feathers speak of island life. His stutter and quiet demeanor are far too delicate to survive on this ship. Every time Sterling looks at Ta’hua, he sees an escape from reality, the rebellious call to something long dead. The only spring blossom untouched by winter’s greedy kiss. A person worth sharing his food with.

A whip cracks over Sterling’s head, causing the boy to flinch. The sudden motion brings instant, fiery pain to the deep sunburns on his face, and he struggles to push back tears. Looking up, a slaver yells at him in a language he doesn’t understand. He stabs a clawed finger at his motionless mop, and Sterling realizes that he had stopped working. He pushes himself to move again. The whip snaps again, although, this time, fresh agony washes across his body. Sterling can no longer hold back tears as fresh blood drips down his back. The blood, at least, cools his burned skin.

Sterling has been watching a certain slave for about three hours now. He works on the hauling team, pulling the net full of diamonds from the bottom of the ocean. It takes a strong set of slaves, at least a hundred, to pull up such a hefty net. The diamonds, which are formed under the ocean’s immense pressure, are said to be worth more than diamonds on earth, due to their rather exotic formation underneath the Oilcean.

Sterling’s mother had educated him all about the Oilcean before they travelled to it. He remembers the wondrous tales she spun about the immensely deep ocean, filled with riches such as diamonds and oil. Every moment she spent with him was precious, simply because they were so rare. It was always his older sister who took care of him and his younger sister. It was she who would kiss them goodnight. Sterling can’t remember her name, her face, or even her voice. Just the warm, cherry-scented comfort of her arms. She loved cherry soap. He wondered where she is now.

He learned bits of Avian from his mother, for which he is immensely grateful. Ta’hua was also taught some basic English and, together, they have created their own language that is a mix between the two. He remembers his first words in Avian. It was a quick “hello” to the bird-like people who welcomed him onto the cruise ship. His mother had been so excited to board that ship.

Sterling blinks, and his mind clears. His back stings a reminder; thoughts have done him no good today.

Instead, he chooses to think about the slave he has his eye on. While the creatures themselves do not call their kind this, humans have dubbed their kind Frog Men, clunkily so. Despite this, the name is apt.

The slave is to the far right of the net--his bleeding hands are proof that he has not yet had time to develop calluses. On top of that, his clothing is not yet caked with blood or stiff with salt. His feet slip against the wave-soaked, peeling floorboards of the ship.

What’s beneficial about targeting Frog Men is that they are given much to eat. This is due to the facts that they tend to have the heavy-lifting jobs and that their massive bodies need plenty of food to function. If Sterling could convince one to share some of his food, he and Ta’hua wouldn’t have to worry about starvation for a long while.

The only trouble is convincing them to help. They’re not the smartest creatures, and there is more than a language barrier between Frog Men and everyone else. It might be too much trouble to coax food out of one. Nonetheless, Sterling has managed to do it before.

The sound of a scream jolts him out of his thoughts. A human is curled over her dripping arm, screeching in pain. The wooden planks beneath her are stained darkly. A mop rests next to her shaking body. Sterling bites his tongue slightly, trying to block out the screaming. Even so, he can’t take his eyes away from the scene. A slaver stands above the fallen slave. His leathery skin stretches to accommodate a widening smile.

The slavers are disgusting creatures. Tall and gray-skinned, their body is covered with wrinkles and spider-webbing veins. Their faces have only a mouth, one that is constantly pulled into a sharp, yellow-toothed grin. Their eyes hang from muscular tubes that sprout off of the top of their heads. Sterling has heard some slaves mutter about tearing off their eyes from their heads. He also holds this wish close to his heart.

Sterling tears his gaze away as the slaver slices at the slave’s exposed neck. Their innate violence scares him; he can never show any reason to be punished. Even the smallest things can have severe repercussions. Plus, the slavers don’t bother bandaging any injuries they cause. Either you deal with it yourself, or you die.

They love to cause pain, but hate to lose. If a slave is caught attempting to jump off the deck, the slavers will torture the unlucky soul for weeks before they put them out of their misery. They would sooner kill the slaves than let any of them escape.

Sterling spots Ta’hua gagging, but still working. It kills Ta’hua to see anyone treated this way. It seems at times that he is the only one on deck lamenting the lives lost. He sings songs to those who pass away, songs from his tribe, meant to guide the dead to their final resting place. But he cannot afford to sing now. For now, he must continue to work. If he stops, he opens the door to pain and death. Ta’hua may be mournful, but he’s no fool.

The deck must be cleaned at all times, otherwise, salt will settle into the wood and rot it. This makes it instantly clear who slacks on their duties above deck. All day, the deck slaves work under the boiling sun on a never-ending task. The boat is so large that it takes fifty slaves just to keep the deck from rotting. Every day, they clean the deck. Scrub it. Ignore the painful splinters that wedge underneath their nails. Avoid the slaver’s wrath. And the next day they do it all over again.

It begins to have a wear on your brain, this life. Sterling has started to forget anything but the boat, but the work, but the endless waves. He can’t even remember the last time the boat was docked at a port, even though he was sure it was less than a few months ago. Perhaps. Or was it last week? He doesn’t know. All he knows is how to push a mop across the deck floor.

And how to manipulate innocents.

Finish your work. Finish your work. Sterling chants to himself.

Finish your work. Finish your work.

A stick suddenly jabs into Sterling’s back. Flinching, expecting further punishment, Sterling draws his shoulders into his body to protect himself.

Nothing.

He cracks an eye open, met by blinding sunlight. Gradually opening himself up again, he turns to meet whatever poked him.

An elderly Avian stands in front of Sterling. Through the layer of thinning red feathers, a pair of tired, wrinkled eyes blearily stare at him. “My apologies, young man,” the Avian says, his voice a hoarse whisper. “I didn’t see you there.” His mop stick is now lowered, away from where it had accidentally bumped into Sterling.

He rubs the spot on his back. The seemingly harmless prod peeled up skin from the sunburn there. Through his shirt, he could already feel specks of blood pushing to the surface. The pain is not unbearable, but it stings badly. He lets his eyes water slightly, biting his lip. “It’s al-alright,” he sniffs. “I’m fine.”

The Avian’s beak twitches slightly. “Good man,” the Avian replies. Underneath all the bumps and grooves of his voice is a tone of deep sadness.

Sterling inclines his head ever so slightly before continuing with his work. Once he hears the old Avian shuffle away, he considers his new option.

Fortune smiled on him today. The old Avian would be a perfect temporary food source for Ta’hua and him. Already, the elderly are among the easiest to convince to share. Thanks to the incident today, Sterling has been able to plant the seeds of empathy in the slave’s heart. Hopefully, within the week, he would feel comfortable enough to give food to Sterling and his friend.

The only issue with the elderly is that, unlike younger slaves, they cannot last long without all of their food. They are also more likely to be punished since they work at a much slower rate than anyone else.

Sterling contemplates his options as he continues to mindlessly scrub the deck. He could set up a temporary food source with the Avian while he worked on the Frog Man’s willingness. That way, they could both be fed and, given some more time, perhaps convince a second slave.

He ignores the pang of a buried emotion, and continues to work.

Sterling lives for the sunsets.

Despite the coldness and unyielding waves, the sunsets on the Oilcean are gorgeous. For the first time all day, the heat abates to let in an embracing coolness. It wraps Sterling in its shivering arms, soothing his burns and splintery hands.

The sun lights up the waves. Bright flashes skitter across the water. The sky is painted in rich purples and delicate pinks, and, as the night progresses, it deepens into the most magnificent starry blue. Sometimes, Sterling feels a quiet desire to know why the sky changes to such beautiful colors.

As if called by the ensuing darkness, phosphorescent creatures rise from the depths. When the sun disappears, thousands of pulsating squids, octopi, and jellyfish take its place. Now, instead of cheerful gleams off of the waves, green and blue lights float regally beneath the frigid waters. Miles upon miles of open ocean are lit up in an underwater celebration of hope and light in the face of darkness.

And, best of all, the sunsets bring the promise of a break.

The familiar hiss of a slaver makes Sterling giddy with excitement. He gets a rest. He doesn’t have to work for the next five hours. His aching muscles and burning skin will no longer need to cry out for a bed.

He gathers up his cleaning supplies--his mop, sponge, and bucket coated with suds. Without a backward glance, he eagerly turns away from his workspace. He is the third in line to the locked door that leads downstairs. A slaver stares at them, his two eyes swinging down by his chin, as he watches the line. Once he deems that everyone is ready, he unlocks the door with a definite click.

The slaves hurry inside. Although relieved to be inside, none run. The last time someone was caught running below deck, they were thrown overboard and fed to the waiting squids.

They file steadily to a large cabinet, in which the mops are neatly stacked in a corner. The slavers will take any opportunity to hurt their slaves, so if anything is out of place, someone is guaranteed a beating.

As soon as Sterling makes sure that his bucket is facing the right direction and that his mop is not leaning against the wall, he quickly walks out of the room. Now that he has stopped working, his stomach begins to growl, as if it is just now noticing that it is empty. Eagerly, he makes his way to the cafeteria.

The gem cleaners and polishers, who work below deck, are already eating their food in silence. Sterling’s gut clenches in anger--they get the easiest job. Never burned by the sun, never doing the hard work, but always first to dinner. They claim the spots by the walls, so their backs are supported nicely. His gaze slides past their gaunt faces and onward to the line ahead of him.

Once he receives his dinner, he searches the line for Ta’hua. The blue and yellow Avian is easy to pick out of the crowd. He stands hunch-shouldered between a human and a Frog Man. His feet drag with every movement of the line. Sterling waits patiently for his friend to receive his meal.

Ta’hua approaches him right away and, without a word, make their way to a part of the room with fewer slaves. They sit down together, Ta’hua’s hands shaking as he holds his food.

“So little,” Sterling murmurs. A bread crust is all they have for tonight. Touching the rim of the crust, where bread once was, Sterling can feel teeth marks and a certain wetness.

He tears the corner of the crust off, places it in his mouth, and chews it slowly. He’s learned that he can trick his stomach into believing that there is more food if he eats it piece by piece. So, every bite is savored, every crumb licked from his hand.

“Di-did you find anyone?” Ta’hua asks.

Sterling shrugs slightly. “I may have found someone to temporarily support us. An old Avian. Red feathers.”

Ta’hua’s head droops further. “Another el-el-elder?”

Instead of getting angry with Ta’hua’s pickiness, Sterling nods wearily.

“Is there an-anyone else-se?”

“Maybe a Frog Man. He’s new.” Setting his head on his knees, Sterling bites his fingernail. “I’m not sure though.”

“I hate it here,” Ta’hua says suddenly. Sterling glances up sharply. Ta’hua’s stutter is gone. Although his words are quiet, each shakes with anger and sorrow. “I hate it so much. I hate what we do. I don’t care if we have to, I hate it so much. I want to go one night without crying or having a nightmare or hating myself so much that I want to die. I want one day to pass where I’m not whipped. I want…” Ta’hua trails off, his eyes dulling with tears. “I wa-ant…”

Despite Sterling’s best efforts, tears form at the reminder that he once had something better. His heart is hollow, his stomach even more so. A sudden wave of disgust at his earlier excitement washes over him.

He remembers his sister. Her comforting words. Her cherry soap. Mom will be back soon, she’s just on a business trip with daddy right now. She always knew what to say. Now it is his turn to know what to say.

“We’re not going to be here forever.” Sterling whispers. He closes his eyes, letting tears drip off of his eyelashes. “It just can’t happen.”

The rest of dinner is spent in silence.

As a bell rings, slaves hurry to stand up. Many just finished savoring their meal. Slavers let whips trail from their claws threateningly. They bark orders in their language at the slaves and, although no one knows what they are saying, their meaning is clear. They file out of the room in a hurry, their heads bowed submissively as they make their way to the slave’s quarters.

They enter the dark room one by one. There aren’t any beds, just rows and rows of wooden shelves. There are at least three hundred sleeping spots packed into a room meant for twenty.

Each slave climbs onto a shelf. There is nothing to stop one from rolling off in the middle of the night. Many prefer to take the bottom shelves so they don’t break a bone. However, the shelves closer to the floor tend to have rat infestations.

Sterling climbs up a ladder to take a shelf in the back of the room. Four shelves up, far enough from the rats but not too far from the ground to take a potentially life-threatening tumble. He bends his knees slightly, wishing to draw them up to his chest. If he did so, he would be too wide for the shelf and fall out. His clothing scratches painfully against his burns and, where there are holes, the wood does the same. The cold is now unwelcome, making his whole body shiver and promising him a restless night.

Nonetheless, Sterling knows that, if he is going to have energy for tomorrow, he will have to sleep. So, he closes his eyes and continues to tremble with cold.

His dream is filled with laughter and light. Nothing is coherent, except for the warm sense of peace and happiness in his chest. His sister holds him close, tightly. It is not painful; he is not burned. He enjoys the hug, nestling into the crook of her shoulder. Her hands rub up and down his back comfortingly. I love you so much, Sterling… Never give up… When tears splash onto his cheek, he looks up. Why are you crying? he asks softly.

Because I’m going to lose you… because I have already lost everyone…

You’ll never lose me, Ash. I promise.

Brave boy… stay brave, will you?

I will.

He sits up suddenly, hitting his head on the shelf above him. The slave above him pounds an angry fist against the wood plank. Sterling drags his legs to the side of his bed, so they can dangle, as he rubs the sore spot on his face. What woke me up…? His dream had been pleasant. No nightmare to shock him out of sleep tonight. Shaking his head, he listens closely to what seems like only waves. But soon, he can hear it again--shuff, shuffff. Shuff.

Heart rising in his throat, Sterling pulls his legs back into his cot. Those sounded like footsteps. Not the confident stride of the slavers, but someone trying to be sneaky. It was either someone trying to escape or--

Someone screamed, and gunfire filled the night.

Instantly, everyone was awake in the slave’s quarters. Some started to wail with fear, others prayed, but most just silently shook inside their shelves. The footsteps above were not so sneaky now. Rather, painful sounding thuds punctuated the crack of pistols and the smooth hiss of a different, more advanced weapon. Something that the slavers definitely couldn’t afford.

Sterling hid. He tried to keep his emotions in check, but his heart was already trembling with hope. Could it be…? Would he finally go back to his old life? He clenched his fists, begging some god unknown to let the attackers win. He couldn’t even bring himself to consider that the assailants could be a rival pirate ship. If all this meant was that a more powerful clan would take him, there was no way he could possibly live any longer.

Suddenly the door swings up, hitting the wall with a loud bang. Sterling’s head pokes out of his cot to see the person, and he instantly pulls it back in as he registers what’s happening. The slaver begins firing shots at the cots, and Sterling covers his ears. Crack crack, thunk, crack crack crack!

His voice is loud, screaming at the slaves as he shoots them down. It hisses and cracks with pure, ungodly rage. What was going on?

Wood splinters as bullets ricochet everywhere in the room. Sterling shakes so hard that he can barely keep his hands on his ears. Is this it? he wonders tearfully. Am I going to die now? Do I die in this awful place?

No.

The gunshots are suddenly cut off, replaced by a strangled gurgling noise. “I found them,” someone whispers.

A tinny voice replies, “Where are you, soldier?”

“Below deck. It looks like everyone is down here.”

Hardly daring to breathe, Sterling sits up. As his eyes travel down the aisles, finally he spots the soldier. The man is covered head to toe in white armor, and orange, glowing glass plates protect his eyes. As soon as Sterling sees him, he forgets the ship.

He forgets his years spent on it.

He forgets his caution.

He cries out, stumbling down the ladder to rush to the man. He is crying so hard that he can barely breathe, his breath hitching every second. As he collapses in the soldier’s arms, he is screaming. After a second of hesitation, the man picks up Sterling, propping up the child on his hip. A cool, armored hand presses against his back. The other rests atop Sterling’s limp hair. The man calls to the room, “You’ve been rescued by the Navy of the Oilcean. We’re here to help you.”

Sterling wails incoherently as the man’s backup arrives. Doctors rush the room, helping up those injured by the wild shooting of the slaver, who now lies dead on the floor. They tie red ribbons onto the toes of the dead and cover them with heavy blankets. It was probably the best cloth that those slaves had felt in years.

The man carries Sterling through the ship. His crying echoes throughout the boat that he had spent the last four years tending. Each pause in his sobbing opens up another painful memory, sending him through the cycle again.

Once he reaches above deck, the soldier sets the child down. “Sh,” he says softly. “We’re here to help. You’re going home.”

“Please don’t leave me,” Sterling whispers, clutching the man’s wrist. Desperation clogs his words. “Please.”

“I--”

“Soldier Ruben!” A voice shouts.

The soldier’s gentle demeanor disappears as he snaps into a salute. “Yes, Senior Captain Ashley!” His voice matches the bark of the first.

“Why are you above deck! Why aren’t you helping with the injured?”

The soldier’s eyes trail down to Sterling, and he swallows slightly. “I was comforting this child, Senior Captain Ashley!”

The Captain marches over to Sterling. She is not wearing white armor--rather, she is wearing a helmet and a strange, scaly looking shirt. There is something vaguely familiar about the round curve of his face. The blonde hair hanging by her chin might as well be his own…

Their gazes meet.

The Captain sinks to the ground, her brown eyes suddenly filling with tears. A trembling hand presses against his cheek. “S-Sterling?”

Sterling’s eyes squint in confusion. “…Ash?”

Sterling’s sister pulls him in for a hug, her quiet gasping sobs scraping past his ears.

The gentle, floral scent of cherries reaches him.

“Sterling,” she pulls back from the hug. Her eyes are still wet with tears, but no more form. “I have to let you go for now. My men need my help. Soldier Ruben will lead you to the submarine. There are people waiting to help you.”

With that, the Captain stands. She heads to the door leading downstairs, her boots cracking the floorboards of the ship with every stride. His reality crumbles with every step she takes.

Crack. Tomorrow I won’t have to wake up before sunrise.

Crack. Tomorrow I won’t have to trick someone into feeding me.

Crack. Tomorrow I won’t have to fear for my life.

When Ashley reaches the door, she looks back once and nods. Then, she disappears into the blackness of the stairway.

Sterling stares after her for a few more seconds before Soldier Ruben leads him to the edge of the deck. A ladder is bolted onto the side of the ship. Above the waves, the top of a submarine cuts through the water as it keeps pace with the ship.

Ruben holds Sterling’s emaciated body close to his chest as he climbs down the ladder. His bony knees knock together with every step. Each rung takes him further away from the memories of death and slavery. Each rung takes him closer to freedom.

Once they reach the submarine, a group of humans takes Sterling. Ruben leaves Sterling to them, off to help more of the rescued onto the submarine. Every moment is a blur. They bathe him in warm water, gently washing away the dirt, dead skin, and grime that have accumulated over years without bathing. They dry him with a towel so fluffy that it practically floats above his skin. Then, they dress him in clothes too soft to imagine.

Sterling remembers staying awake to search for Tu’hua. Eventually, when his friend comes, they sat together and cried. Once their tears are too painful to continue crying, they fall asleep together in the safety of a warm bed.

Two days later, Sterling wakes up in a hospital. He’s dressed in different clothing, and a white blanket is tucked up to his chin. He sits up, his eyes half open, expecting instant pain. When nothing comes, he checks his face for burns. Nothing. He pats his back--only old whip scars.

“You’re awake.” A quiet voice says from the corner.

Sterling’s eyes go straight towards the sound. “A-Ashley?”

The woman sitting in front of him is a far cry to the girl from four years ago. Her eyes are tired, bags worn into her face underneath them. Muscles have formed on her arms, and there is a certain cunning to her eyes that Sterling does not remember.

“Do you remember me, Sterling?” The boy looks down at his hands, which clench the covers of his cot.

“I remember your cherry soap.” He says softly. “I remember the way you would hold me close when I cried because mommy wasn’t home. I… I remember that, even though you’re my sister, you’re like mommy.”

She nods. “Do you remember the day we were captured?”

Sterling closes his eyes. His breathing increases slightly. “Yes,” he whispers. “We were on a cruise ship. Mommy and daddy were celebrating their company’s success. I remember we weren’t supposed to be on the Oilcean, because of the pirates, but daddy gave money to the man that said we couldn’t and then he said we could. And then our ship was attacked, and mommy and Emma… they… they died… and they took you away…”

“Sterling,” Ashley broke in. “I need you to tell me where dad is. I know he went on the same ship as you. Is he alive?”

Sterling shook his head, his eyes still closed.

Ashley fell back in her chair. A trembling sigh brushed past her lips. “That’s it then. You and I are the only two left.” Only a few moments pass before she breathes in deeply, bracing herself against the wall of emotions threatening to crush her. “Sterling, I’m going to tell you what happened to me. Once I’m done, you can ask questions. I’m not going to make you tell me your story.”

Sterling’s eyes crack open to see his sister. She has her forearms braced on her knees, which she leans over. Her hair swings in front of her eyes as she begins to speak.

“When they separated me from you and dad, I almost died with grief and fear. I didn’t know where I was going, didn’t know what would happen, and had no one to tell me what to do. All I could do was what I was supposed to. I was put on an oil rig. I was always covered in the stuff. It was always in my mouth; all of the food tasted like oil. It was awful.

“But, within a year, my oil rig was liberated by the Navy of the Oilcean. I was free, but I had nowhere to go. Dad and mom’s company had already been claimed by one of their heirs, and they shut me out. They didn’t want a lawsuit on their hands. I… I didn’t know what to do.

“I realized that I had to do something with my life. After all, it was saved for a reason. So I looked to you. I had a new goal in life--finding you and dad. The best way to go about that was to join the Navy. I spent every moment trying to make my way to the next rank, so I could start searching specifically for you and dad.

“It was hard, because people easily connected my actions with my past. Many tried to get me fired since they thought I was biased towards you.” Ashley chuckles softly. “They were right, of course. Didn’t mean I could let them get in my way.

“I spent every minute of my day fighting my way to the top. And, once I was there, I spent every other minute fighting to stay there. I was able to trace several ships that could possibly have you onboard. As the years went by, I had to confront the possibility that you and dad might be dead. But… I never gave up.” She smiles sadly. “And here we are.”

Sterling blinks. “Where is here?”

Ashley sits up, and her sadness fades away. “We’re still on the Oilcean. A hospital, in San Paola.”

“Is Ta’hua safe?”

“The Avian you fell asleep with?” At Sterling’s nod, she continues. “He’s doing just fine. He’s been awake for a few hours now, actually. Very quiet, that boy.”

Sterling’s lip trembles. “Am… am I safe?”

Ashley’s eyebrows slant sadly. She comes to sit on his bed, careful not to disturb his legs. She grasps one of his hands. “From now and forever.”

Sterling smiles at her, his eyes filling with tears built up over four years of torture, pain, and misery.

From now and forever.

And there it is! I hope you enjoyed reading my first short story of the summer! Thank you for reading!

- L.E. Silva

#SSSChallenge #short story #writing #writers #writers on tumblr #scifi

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certifiablyplatinum · 5 years

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Can you save my heavydirtysoul?(Please say you can.)Twenty One Pilots concert story, 10/22/19

As I had missed my GA Floor seat show in June at home in Cbus due to my woeful injury, I decided to buy tickets when the boyz announced their second leg and stop in Cincinnati. I mean, why not? Fangirling all over the place here. Of course, I was taking Jordan, as the summer of 2016 was the Blurryface summer and we played it out on our deck almost every night. I am secure in my vast music knowledge and boldly admit my love for Twenty One Pilots just as I do my more bizarre and obscure bands. Diversity is where it’s at, babies, ya like what ya like.

The brilliant blue October day arrived, and my preparations were made.

First, I chose a hotel north of Cinci. I had a work retreat on the south side of Columbus the next morning, so shaving off those ends saved me time.

Secondly, I told the wayward Jordan “Meet me at XXX South High Street with your bags packed at 3:30 pm.” (referring to the event space I needed to be at the day after the show.) Jordan: Huh? Where? Why? Me: Just meet me there.

Third, I called the event space to ensure I could leave a car parked there overnight.

Fourth, I packed an overnight bag with 17 different outfits. I am not sure why.

I left work and drove to the space I was to be at the next morning, and Jordy showed up VERY promptly. (Me texting her: It’s just past the bridge going over 71. Her reply: I have GPS.)

She tossed her bags in my car, locked her car up, and off we went together. She drove, as I needed to focus up with a call and verbal beatdown to A T & T and a little light bill paying. An hour and a half later we arrived at our Blu hotel in Blue Ash, freshened up, poured a Citron and G2, and called an Uber to US Bank Arena.

Our driver pulled up, we tossed our cardboard coffee cups in the trash, and hopped in. He looked back at us randomly asked, “Do you like country music?” I diplomatically and cheerfully answered, “I do if you do!” He seemed to doubt my sincerity, as he wordlessly handed me his phone. I chose a 90s alt-rock playlist and, well…. Pearl Jam’s Jeremy came on first. I believe this set the tone for the whole evening and led to my overall uninhibited abandon. Because here’s the deal—I have this thing where I have a primal need to sing Pearl Jam loudly and also in a PREEEEETY spot-on Eddie Vedder voice. I simply can’t not do it. So when I began to bellow along in my Eddie voice, Mohammed turned the radio up so loud that my ears were bleeding, as if to urge me along. Still, I sang on. (OOoooh my jaw left hurtin’, OOoohhh dropped wide open…)

Anyway, we got dropped off and headed to get food and drinks at the Holy Grail Tavern. Both Jordan and I couldn’t stop looking at our attractive server. It got so that we were laughing out loud when she whizzed past us because we (the server and me) were always accidentally locking eyes. I said, “Oh my God she’s going to think – who is this perv staring at me?” And Jordan said, “Well, *I* get to see her as she walks away and she has a great butt.” This led us to the conclusion that we couldn’t stop looking at her because we, as a species, are so used to ugly being the norm (“Have you BEEN to the BMV, Elaine?”) that we can’t stop looking at people who are attractive. We drink them in like a scarce hidden spring in a dusty desert. The server asked, “One check or two?” as soon as we finished our food and apparently I spoke loudly and with a bit of shock: “Well I am HAVING another drink!”

We chugged away and then around 7 we headed out the door. I was in a bit of a conundrum because I had already walked a great deal and I didn’t know what side of the stadium we were on, and I didn’t want to walk in circles for nothing, as BabyCalf and BionicTendon were a lil sore. Just then, (of course, because this is how things happen to witchy little me), a jolly man called from one lone open-air shuttle across the street: “Need a ride?” And how! Not only did we get a ride, we got the VIP drop off at the secret back elevator! Up we went, got scanned in, and found our kickass seats—basically 6 rows up from the floor.

Once we knew where our seats were, we went up to the stuffed and crammed hallway overflowing with yellow and camo-clad Cliquers, and made our way to a hallway bar cart. The windows behind the bar cart looked out to the open air terrace. We figured we would go out and get some fresh air rather than wait in our seats, and asked the bartender, “Can we have someone let us back in if we go out there?” She said “No, but you can keep walking around the corner and come back in the main entrance.” No problem! But was it? We soon found it was, as we wandered back up to the main entrance with our brazenly open containers and were told, “No re-entry!” by a shocked looking person who may as well have added, “You dumbasses!”

“BUT! BUT! She said we could come back in this way!” I eloquently burst forth.

The ‘who are these stupid people’ gate attendant said with some ‘tude: “Who. Is. ‘She’?”

“The bartender!” I pouted.

“You can’t have open containers either!” he parried again, noticing our drinks.

“Well what do we DO!?�� I demanded, my Scarlett O’Hara inconvenience bubbling up.

He sighed and pointed. “That guy in the blazer is the manager. Go talk to him.”

Another witchy win: the plaza was empty except for the one, lone, blazered manager, talking to a cop! What are the chances he was right there? I strolled up, my drink still blatant AF, and explained our predicament.

“No re-entry,” he said.

“Oh my God! We were clearly here! We had to get in to even be here with a drink in our hand. She told us we could go out on the terrace and walk around to get back in!”

“Who is ‘she’? And no open containers.” he chided.

Amazingly, our damsel in distress act got us back in and the manager bellowed “Let ‘em through!” to all the ticket attendants, and we sailed on through, triumphant. “Comin through!” I waved my hands. Back to our seats we went!

MIsterwives opened up, and I get it, auburn-maned singer Mandy Lee has a wild falsetto that yips and yodels and leaps around, putting me in mind of Kate Bush’s vocal style. Their wavy, colorful set and lighting was bright and cheery with rainbow tones and pops of pinks and yellows. The highlight was their cover of Lizzo’s “Truth Hurts”. Ballsy move! They bopped, boogied and bounced with great gusto all over the stage and when they finished with a rollicking “Our Own House” with its zesty horn riffs, the crowd was getting into it. (Jordan and I happened to be sitting in the “Family Section” and felt chastened by the uncertain-faced teens at their first show, not quite sure how to let loose, and their basic and somewhat resigned parents – neither of which group had a drink in their hands. Jordan made several trips up and back, soaking these poor people with vodka as she sloshed her way back to her seat.)

FINALLY – the main event! The arena seethed with anticipation when the curtain billowed back and forth, sooo close to unveiling the set and stage. Finally, in a burst of red lasers and flames, Josh and Tyler appeared on the scene and ripped right into Jumpsuit, performed as a car on fire burned behind them. JUMPSUIT! JUMPSUIT! COVER ME! He screamed at the close, as we all did.

Visually, the evening was a treat for the senses. Kaledoscopic shifting colors and shapes, lasers, catwalks, a B Stage…. Costume changes and bridges, Josh Dun and his abs on full display, Tyler with his various hats and costumes and instruments, a glittering swath of twinkling lights for the gentle “Neon Gravestones” shining like stars caught in a net: The production of this tour was top-notch and stunning, allowing for a visual orgy to accompany the talent of the hometown boys. I stumbled across a line that I think puts it perfectly:

“This wasn’t a band rocking out, despite how hard Dun plays the drums. This was a post-apocalyptic rapper-hero performing songs with his drummer-sidekick nearby, in the midst of lasers and explosions.” They really do have a kind of anime’, lone-wolf kind of renegade vibe going, especially with the way their albums tend to run with storylines: The Blurryface character, and now the bishops and mysterious DEMA of Trench.

Their setlist was packed full of the goodies…. Stressed Out (“what’s my name?” Tyler would chant rhythmically.) The frenetic insanity and staccato rapping of Heavy Dirty Soul. My favorite from Trench, The Hype, or as I say “The song with the best ukulele-backed bridge ever written.” God that song is tight! They shifted stages during the end of “Nico and the Niners” and returned back on the main stage by the time Holding On To You started….. ahhhh, where Josh does his perfectly timed backflip from the piano! Lean with it, rock with it. Swoon, y’all. Tyler’s laid-bare confessions are what resonate, causing the band’s wildfire-like leap to global fame.

Something that is becoming a bit of tradition with the duo is that every show, as far as I know, has always ended with Trees. It’s a euphoric communal outpouring to close the night, everyone jumping up and down singing “LA LA…. LA LA LA LA LA LA….. HELLOOOOOOO!” It’s a soft start, a gentle and sad build, and then a sweaty screamfest at the end. PERF!

As we made our way out the doors and across the plaza, we made up songs like “My momma needs to take an elevator because of her busted tendon” – Jordan, and “OOooh but I got ma fishnet stockings on, yeahh” -Me. Jordan also stepped on my foot and I howled in pain as she knelt before with remorse, boozily patting and stroking my foot.

Sooo we grabbed another Uber, and here’s where things shifts from a normal boozy concert night to one for the books. Our dude, Dean, pulled up with the license plate that began with LGR. Our relationship began with my opening sentence: “Your license plate says LIGER, like Napoleon Dynamite. It’s a lion—and a tiger!” And bam! Merrily we roll along!

I am not quite sure how this went from polite chatter to veering off the rails, but I will condense and recount what went down as best I can recall.

Jordan: She had her achilles’ tendon repaired!

Dean: Oh, I can fix that.

(Like, totally matter of fact. Oh, I can fix that.)

Jordan: Really? YES!

Dean: Sure. We’re all made of electricity. We’re just made of electric particles and neurons. I consult all over to doctors because I fix people.

Jordan: Why are you driving an Uber?

Me: .

Dean: Don’t worry, I’ll fix it.

Me: …How???

Dean: Electricity.

Jordan: How do you know how to do this?

Dean: I’m just kind of brilliant with this kind of stuff.

OK, so, I’m kind of brushing it off at this point, thinking I’ll ditch him when we arrive at the ol’ Blu. Dean says he’s going to find a place to park and he will be right in. Jord and I get out and stand outside for a minute as we watch him drive around the corner. “Let’s just go in,” I say. “Yeah,” she agrees, “I think he left.” My brain was so jumbled with confusion I wasn’t sure what was going on. Was he actually planning on coming up to the hotel room? “Let’s get inside,” I said, relieved that he probably was just messing with us and took off.

The automatic glass doors blew open to the lobby and we walked in. Right behind us, a dude with a bag of City BBQ carryout and a gray medical-looking case followed us in.

Jordan: What’s that?

City BBQ dude: This is my (blah, blah, blah.) It uses electricity to heal injuiries. (He says a name similar to something like the Electralux El Diablo 5000.)

Jordan: She tore her achilles!

City BBQ dude: Yes, this equipment will heal it.

ME: (whipping my head back toward him): OH MY GOD!!!! MY UBER DRIVER JUST SAID THAT TOO! WHAT ARE THE CHANCES!?

Like, seriously, I am thinking this guest of the hotel is maybe a doctor in for a conference, or whatever. It was only through muddled bits and pieces clicking together in my brain during the ride up in the elevator and ending when the bbq-toting man did not go to his “room” but walked in OURS that I fucking realized…

This guy WAS MY UBER DRIVER.

Not 2 separate people, both coincidentally on a mission and willing to fix bodily injuries with a machine with the equipment on their person.

I was so confused when faced with this reality it was like I was living in an alternate universe. As I am sputtering around saying, “Oh my God, I never really saw your face in the car, just the back of your head” Dean is busily and efficiently placing electrodes on my ankles, calves, shins, even my goddamn glutes. I find myself saying, “You know, my shoulder has hurt a bit lately too” and he briskly whips my arm around and jams his thumb right where it hurts, murmurs the word “Release…..” and then slaps an electrode on my shoulder. THEN he hooks Jordan up. “Is this a TENS unit?” I ask. “Pfft. This makes a TENS unit look like child’s play” he retorts proudly.

Jordan and I are now are standing next to each other looking like inmates of The Green Mile and sizzling with pulsating electricity. Dean eats his corn pudding, yanking the current up and down based on our grunts of discomfort. My phone is in my hand at all times with the first two numbers of 9 – 1 punched in and on high alert. But as he contentedly moves on to his green beans with his feet kicked up on the table in front of him, I have to admit he looks pretty harmless.

I think Dean the Electrode Machine was in our room until midnight, giving us confident tips on how to heal, saying he could bring his machine anywhere in the world, and I finally started giving signs of get-out-I’m-tired. In a gentlemanly way, he bid us adieu, as I babbled on about leaving him a big tip. I mean, he invited himself to cure me, but isn’t his time and trouble worth something? I tipped him 30 dollars and added him on Facebook.

Jordan and I try to get ready for bed but she then runs into a couple of questionable characters and starts talking to them. The three of them are standing outside (why did we go back outside? Perhaps to bid Dean adieu, I believe.) They start cooking up plans like long lost homies. I say “Get upstairs” and take her arm. (She can be hard to manage once she crosses that line.) We get in bed. It is nearing 1am. Jordan lays on top of me crying and blubbering “Promise me you won’t ever die.” I say kindly as I smooth her hair, “I will though.” We laugh about being electrocuted by our Uber driver. I say I can’t believe he just invited himself to our hotel room. She casually says with the air of a jaded and well-worn matriarch: “Please, Mom, everybody hangs out with their Uber drivers in their hotels now.” Then she gets up again and walks out the door. I am fading fast but I manage to say, “GET BACK IN HERE! Where are you going?” I close my eyes for a minute and I open them when I hear the door open again and Jordan puts her face right next to mine and whispers in a low, clear, concerned voice:

“Mom. There is a naked man sitting in the egg chair in the hallway masturbating.”

“Huh?” I whisper back.

She repeats it.

With STRANGE AND STOIC CALM considering my inebriated and disoriented state, I pick up the desk phone. The next thing I know, I am whispering as calmly and clearly as Jordan did: “Hello. This is Room 303. I want you to know there is a naked man masturbating in the egg chair up here in the hallway.”

DEAD ASS PAUSE on the other end. Finally: “Umm, ahh, ok, I… I .. uhhh… I’ll come check it out.”

Five minutes later the phone startles me out of my slip into slumber.

“Hello?” I answer.

“He’s gone.”

“Gone?”

“Yes. The man. No man.”

“Okay.”

It is 2:30 now and I don’t just fall asleep—I hurtle into it like a plane crashing into the ground, fading to black. I don’t wake up until I hear something. It sounds familiar. It’s a ringing sound. It’s that thing that makes you wake up. But where is it? “Jordan,” I hiss. “Huh?” she moans. She bolts upright and grabs her phone and stares at it. “This is new,” she whispers. “Make it stop!” I cry. The ringing continues. I realize it’s coming from my phone which is on the floor. I remember how to make it stop. It’s 6:45 am. I lay in exhausted torment until 7:15. Then 7:30. Then with every ounce of strength I can muster, I get my ass up and get to the excruciating business of getting my shit together and getting my shit together…( sayin’ wake up, ya need to make money!) At 8:10 Jordan and I are both in the car with a cup of coffee. You’re not hard core unless you live hard core, like Dewey Finn says.

I sail up 71 without incident. The coffee kicks in and I’m actually feeling pretty okay. At 9:49, I pull into the venue we are at for the day at work. Jordan’s car is safe and intact. I find a parking spot, wave to my friend, and tell Jordy to wake up.

She sits up, opens her eyes, retches, opens the door, and promptly vomits down the side of my car.

I squeal, then chant prayerfully: OMG PLEASE DO NOT PUKE IN FRONT OF MY CO-WORKERS!

I don’t even see her leave. She is gone, slinking away to her car, as I had practically pushed her out of a moving vehicle.

So. That’s my review of Twenty One Pilots and a little story thrown in to boot.

PS My foot doesn’t feel any better.

PSS Pics below of Tyler, Josh, me, Jordan,and Dean.

#twenty one pilots

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softfics9 · 7 years

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To: The One Who Found Me

Fandom; GOT7

Main Pairing; Choi Youngjae/Reader, Choi Youngjae/You

Side Pairing; Im Jaebum|JB/Park Jinyoung|Jr.

Summary; I'm writing you this letter because I find it easier to put words on paper than say them out loud.

Genre; Fluff

Trigger Warnings; None

Authors Notes; This is written in the style of a letter from Youngjae to you, the reader. The way the original character is written is gender non-specific so can be read by both male and female readers. The character is also asexual so if that bothers you then don’t read. This was my first ever work so I know it is a little all over the place but I hope you like it anyway.

Beta’d; No

Cross-posted on; AO3

To; The One who Found Me.

It was Friday, I ran home from college with my collar turned up against the weather. It was raining and the cold winter wind blew the water in to my eyes and down my back. I had no hood, no coat, and no umbrella. Hence why I ran. I hadn’t done a lot of exercise these past few weeks, skipping my dance classes in favour of the music room, composing new songs. It had certainly caught up with me though, my breath coming in short gasps as I finally turned on to the residential street where I lived. I reached the door of my apartment, I turned the handle but it didn’t open.

My door was never locked, with one or both of my roommates always home. I fished through my pockets looking for the keys I knew I didn’t have with me, I never needed them. Banging on the door yielded no results, there was no one home. Then it hit me, they were gone to the city to celebrate their anniversary. Leaving me alone for the first time since we started living together two years ago. Im Jaebum and Park Jinyoung, my hyungs and roommates. Gone for the weekend to enjoy some time together, just the two of them. And there I was, standing in the rain, locked out of my own house with no way in until they got back on Sunday evening.

I almost cried with frustration, maybe I did but the rain running from my hair down my face made it hard to tell. I trudged over to the bench on the opposite side of the road, the stinging rain had drained all the energy and life from me. I could have gone back to the college campus, I could have gone to the café ten minutes down the road. But instead I sat in the rain, feeling like I deserved the punishment, not caring if I caught pneumonia. It would serve me right.

You found me 15 minutes later, sitting on the bench staring holes into the ground, completely soaked to the skin, shivering from the cold permeating my bones. I looked up when I realised there was no more rain falling on my head. You stood there with your big golf umbrella, obnoxiously bright colours contrasting the dark grey sky. Your clothes were slightly damp, although it was hard to tell since you wore a black shirt, black trousers and black jacket, like a shadow standing under a rainbow.

The look you gave me was like the one my mother gave me when I came home from school one day with a broken arm, filled with concern and worry. You asked me what happened, and then your look changed to incorporate a hint of disapproval when I told you I locked myself out of my apartment. It was just like my mother when I told her I broke my arm by falling out of the tree in the school yard, despite her constant warnings not to climb it.

But still, you offered your hand to help me up, and walked me to your apartment five minutes further down. You let me in to your house with no more questions asked, I was too numb at the time to think about this.

Your apartment was spotless, nothing out of place, everything was so clean and bright. I walked in your door, and left my battered sneakers beside your polished boots. I was dripping water all over your floor, but you said nothing as you directed me to the bathroom and told me to take a hot shower. I just nodded, my teeth were chattering too hard to say much. I closed the door behind me and began to strip out of my sodden clothes as quickly as I could with unresponsive fingers.

You didn’t knock before you came in again with a giant hoodie and pair of tracksuits that definitely looked too big for you. I was only standing in my boxers at this time, but you seemed unfazed, just showing me how to turn on the water and adjust the temperature. Another thing I didn’t give much thought to, I was far too cold. You pointed to the towels I could use and then instructed me to bring my wet clothes out of the bathroom when I was finished. You asked if I had any food allergies, satisfied with a shake of my head to indicate no. You told me to take as long as I might need, and as you turned to leave, you smiled, and the iciness that had taken over my body seemed to melt a little.

I finished stripping my wet clothes and stood into your shower, I let the amazingly hot water wash over my frozen skin. When I finished showering, after washing my hair with your coconut shampoo, I dried myself off and decided that these were by far the fluffiest towels I had ever felt. It was like wrapping myself in a cloud.

The clothes you left for me were slightly big on me too, but they were warm and comfy so I couldn’t really complain. From the way you were dressed when we met, so formal and sombre, I didn’t expect you to be the kind of person to own these types of clothes. But when I left the bathroom and found you standing in the kitchen in an oversized cardigan and loose grey tracksuits not unlike the ones I was now wearing, I reckoned there was a lot I didn’t know about you.

Before I could announce my presence in the kitchen, the wet clothes in my hands were whipped away (to be washed and dried, you stated simply when I exclaimed in confusion) and I was pushed to sit at your dining table. The bowl of piping hot soup and steaming mug of tea that was waiting for me came as a surprise, but with an authoritative “Eat up” I did just that. It warmed my insides and left me feeling sleepy but content. I tried to offer my help cleaning up but you insisted I needed to rest. The blanket you wrapped around my shoulders was soft and warm, just like you I thought wistfully. We sat on your couch and you asked all about me, and with a security I had never felt before I told you everything, despite only meeting you an hour ago.

My name was Choi Youngjae I told you, and after discovering we were close in age we both agreed to use informal language. I was a music major, attending the local university on a scholarship, and I found out that you were taking a year out of college, working part time in a book store and teaching music to children. We both played piano, we both loved Disney and animals. When I told you a funny anecdote from my last showcase you laughed, and it sounded like a choir of angels singing the highest of praises.

It wasn’t long before I started to yawn and when you took my hand to show me where the bedroom was I was too exhausted to protest. I wanted to insist that I sleep on the couch but the fatigue was too much. You tucked me in to your bed, which was rather small but comfortable, and when you asked if I minded sharing I shook my head. There was plenty of room for us both I assured you. That was probably one of the best night’s sleep I had in a long time, falling in to a deep slumber straight away.

When I woke up the next morning, I was surprised to find I had started to cuddle you while we slept, my arms wrapped around your smaller frame easily. It just felt so right, waking up to you there proceeded to warm me more than the blanket thrown over us. As you stirred and looked at me, the innocence and purity in your eyes took my breath away, I felt the need to protect you with all I had.

You didn’t seem to mind our closeness, and I had to wonder how you could be so comfortable with someone you barley knew clutching you like a teddy bear as we slept. We got up and you made breakfast, I seemed to have caught a cold from the rain the day before, and you laughed at my sneezes. It was inevitable you said, and started to lecture me on the workings of the immune system, using words I didn’t recognise but I just smiled and nodded.

You were very intelligent and well spoken, your voice like soothing honey.

We had pancakes and hot chocolate, it was still raining outside. You went for a shower and changed in to the fluffiest jumper I had ever seen, fluffier even than your towels. We sat wrapped in the same blanket from the night before and watched your impressive selection of Disney films, singing along to every song. Your voice was as heavenly as your laugh, I couldn’t get enough of it, of you.

The rain let up around lunch time, so we went out, I was back in my own clothes which smelled fresh and new. I drank coffee and you just had water, caffeine didn’t agree with you, and your friends all claimed you were bouncy enough without it. I had to agree with them, you were a physical manifestation of happiness itself, sunshine had nothing on the brightness of your smile or the warmth in your voice. No matter where we went people would smile and wave to you, it seemed everyone was your friend. I understood why, you were a delight to be around and your presence seemed to make everything look more beautiful.

We returned to your apartment after a walk around the park, where I had shared with you about my roommates and how we met. You laughed at my description of Jaebum, a gruff leader type who was scary when mad but still managed to be a giant softie. Jinyoung intrigued you, a man full of sarcasm and wit but still seemed to have such inherent motherly qualities. Stories of my other four friends had you creased, a volume to your laughter that almost matched my own. Mark the quiet hyung from America, who I co-owned a puppy with. You cooed over photos of Coco, and I felt like a proud father. Jackson I told you was loud and full of energy, a Hong Kong man with many talents, and a knack for making people laugh. Bambam from Thailand, you couldn’t pronounce his full name and got slightly embarrassed. He was a fashion guru who loved making mischief. And finally the giant maknae Yugyeom, annoying as anything and an incredible dancer. He was very sensitive and we all protected him like a baby.

Although there was something troubling me, I had to ask you the question that was on my mind. Why were you so open, so welcoming, and so friendly with people you had never met before? It was dangerous, anyone could take advantage of you and your inherent sweetness.

You looked puzzled, your head tipped slightly to the side as you contemplated what I asked. It was in your nature you mused out loud, you were raised to always help people whenever you could. You were lucky enough to have been raised by a secure, caring community and although you knew that darkness existed, you chose to see the possibility for good in everybody. And besides, you added almost as an afterthought, no one could take advantage of you when you were a third Dan black belt who knew all about the pressure points and weak spots on the human body. A giant grin broke across your face at my shock.

Maybe you were not just as soft as I originally thought.

I sighed defeated, and we sat together aimlessly browsing the internet like old friends, it was so comforting. Watching stupid cat videos and debating the best online gaming tactics. You suddenly squawked at some stage later that evening as we began to discuss dinner, I had never called my roommates to tell them what happened. It was the first time I thought about that, my hyungs were so protective of me, they would freak out if they found out what happened. I called them under your direct orders (“Or so help me Youngjae I will call them myself”).

I was right, they did freak out, insisting they come back straight away despite my protests. They would be back first thing in the morning and “seriously Jae-ah we can’t leave you anywhere”.

I was upset that they were cutting their trip short because of me, but you cheered me up with the promise of my favourite meal for dinner. Honestly you were too good for me, how could anyone else ever compare, I was falling for you hard but you didn’t seem to notice. After dinner, which I successfully managed to clean up after against your wishes, we went back to your room and cuddled in bed. Why were you so comfortable like this? I wondered out loud, just lying in bed with a stranger with no awkwardness. And come to think of it, how had you not been embarrassed walking in on me almost naked the day before?

You turned to look at me, an expression of deep thought on your face. You simply told me that you didn’t feel sexual attraction to anybody, that you were raised by people who were so open and comfortable in their own bodies you sometimes forgot about other peoples need for privacy. Nakedness never phased you, and you felt happy in your own skin, so embarrassment over anyone seeing your body was non-existent. So even though I was a very attractive and handsome guy (I turned bright red at this outright compliment) you didn’t feel anything other than a sense of friendship with me, despite being in such close physical contact.

Even though it should have made me upset, this direct rejection from someone I had begun to develop feeling towards, instead I just felt a warm glow. This was a connection which wouldn’t be troubled by awkwardness about our bodies, I was quite comfortable with myself, being a dancer and in relatively good shape. I was content with just cuddles and giggling about whatever random things came to mind, singing songs at the top of our lungs and lounging around doing nothing all day. As these thoughts of a future closeness with you, I smiled, and you called me your sunshine. That just made me smile harder and you laughed when I called you my angel. And as we fell asleep wrapped around one another, bare skin touching with only underwear to separate us, it was serene, it felt like finally finding my own oasis of peace.

When they said first thing in the morning I honestly didn’t take my roommates 100% seriously, but yet a loud banging woke us at an ungodly hour. As you went to answer the door only wearing a band t-shirt two sizes too big (that still managed to stop only just below your hips), I contemplated what series of crazy events had led me here. And as I heard exclamations and awkward apologies from my two hyungs, mostly Jaebum-hyung, I laughed as I thought back to Friday, it seemed like eons ago. When I walked out into your hall in only my boxers and they exclaimed even louder, blushing furiously at the implications and conclusions they had jumped to, I smiled wide.

You ushered them in to your home, insisting on having breakfast despite it barely being past dawn. I threw on the jumper you gave me on the first day and explained everything to my two friends, who were both red as ripe tomatoes, and you set up the pan to cook French toast and waffles. They calmed down after I finished explaining and said how grateful they were to you. You just laughed it off, and you said you were happy to have met me.

Breakfast was a happy affair, recounting both of our stories from the past two days. It was a shame it had to end, but I needed to go home and do assignments for Monday (I groaned out loud when my hyungs reminded me of that). As I bid you goodbye, we exchanged numbers and promised to keep in contact often. It wasn’t long before you became fast friends with my roommates and the others, sharing stories and even staying together often. Going out to the cinema, and for dinner, having game nights and even thinking about taking a trip when I got a break from college. My roommates were able to go on more excursions together, secure in the knowledge that you would take care of me. Simply put, it was bliss, you were the missing piece of our puzzle and you fitted in with us perfectly.

So now, as I write this letter to you, five years after our fateful meeting, I hope you are happy with me. I know it took me far too long to finally get the courage to ask you out. I know that I was awkward at first, not wanting to sabotage the beautiful friendship we had. But you made me realise that a relationship was just a friendship. One which had a title and a stronger, more intimate bond. One that meant kisses and hand holding were seen as a normal thing, and spending exuberant amounts on gifts for the other was not frowned upon.

So I write you this letter as a thanks, thank you for becoming my other half, for teaching me that every cloud truly does have a silver lining. Thank you for being my sunshine, my guardian angel, my reason to wake up and want to make the world a better place. You have changed me for the better, and I hope that you feel I have done the same for you.

Please come to the bench where we first met, I am waiting here to ask you a question that I think has been a long time coming.

From; The One who Loves You.

P.S Please say yes? This ring was expensive and I lost the receipt. Plus the others have already set up a party to celebrate.

#got7 #igot7 #aghase #fanfiction #fanfic #fanwork #choi youngjae #youngjae #cyj #original character #youngjae/reader #my first work #asexual character #gender non specific #second person pov #letter format #non canon au #fluff

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recentanimenews · 6 years

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Fist of the North Star: Lost Paradise is an Outstanding Open-World Oasis

IN THE YEAR 199X, a boy is with his parents at a tiny mom-and-pop video store in Okinawa called American Video, off on his own trying to find something to watch. He finds a tape, part of Streamline's "Video Comics" line of dubbed anime releases titled Fist of the North Star, and carefully covers the "Not for Kids!" sticker with his thumb when he shows it to his parents, who are fine with him watching Dragon Ball Z on Japanese TV, so more fighting anime men is perfectly fine. Thank you, parents--25 years later, that boy appreciates you being lax that one time.

The glorious violence that followed hit me right in the soul, adding a new love to my young life, one that's stayed with me ever since. I don't gush about my love for Fist of the North Star as much as, say, Dragon Ball or Giant Robo or Berserk or Gintama, but it's always there for me in some form... except in the realm of video games, for some reason.

Last Battle, a US-released Fist of the North Star Genesis game that removed the blood, changed everybody's names, and featured hilarious, nonsensical dialogue

Fist of the North Star is a franchise that's never been lacking in video game adaptations. From the very first PC adventure in 1986 to a whole list of side-scrolling actioners (one of which was released in the US as Last Battle) to those amazing arcade games with the punch pads to an (amazingly broken) ArcSys fighter all the way to Koei Tecmo's brutal large-scale brawlers, gamers have wasted more wasteland mooks than Kenshiro himself ever did. And to be completely fair, there's a reason fans don't talk about too many of them: with a few rare exceptions, they're not all that awesome.

So please, trust me when I say that Fist of the North Star: Lost Paradise is the first Fist of the North Star game to really get it right.

Finishing moves are (appropriately) accompanied by these sick-ass title cards and Kenshiro shouting the attack name

Fist of the North Star: Lost Paradise is the happy product of Sega's ongoing success with its Yakuza franchise, and just how perfectly Kenshiro and the gang fit into a very similar video game mold. I mean, look: a stoic-yet-honorable man must navigate a series of betrayals and revelations, all in the name of protecting their loved ones and cherished ideals, and all while getting into a series of spectacular one-against-many fistfights culminating in an emotionally-charged shirtless duel. Pretty damn spot-on, right?

Aside from perfectly lining up with Yakuza in terms of storytelling and overall feeling, Lost Paradise matches its gameplay as well: after a short on-rails introduction, Kenshiro wanders the wasteland and discovers the city Eden, which is besieged by game-original villain and Immortan Joe impersonator Kyo-Oh, the King of Fear, and his vast and vicious armies of wasteland killers. At the same time, Kenshiro has to battle the evils within Eden, and discover the city's secrets... and retell the rest of Fist of the North Star in the process.

Rather than just dump this game's entire original story between episodes 22 and 23, Lost Paradise simply picks up with Kenshiro facing Shin in their destined duel, and then adapts large chunks of Kenshiro's adventures to fit this tale. Rei and his glorious mullet still think Kenshiro kidnapped his sister, Jagi is still a poser piece of garbage, Rihaku is still the biggest Yuria fanboy on what's left of Earth, and Raoh is still the ideal all Shonen Jump villains aspire to. To further tie Lost Paradise to Yakuza, you'll hear a lot of familiar voice actors on the Japanese audio track: Kenshiro is played by an even more deadpan Takaya Kuroda (Kiryu), Raoh is given life by Masami Iwasaki (Ryuji Goda), Rin doesn't sing but still has that Rie Kugimiya (Haruka) adorableness, and many more as a satisfying nod to Yakuza fans.

The blasted-out, nuclear-bombed, oceans-dried-up world of Fist of the North Star isn't nearly as colorful or lively as Yakuza's, so there isn't much to look at, but the game does quite a bit to still make Eden feel like home. You'll spend most of your time running around Eden talking to different characters, receiving quests and substories, and eventually getting a buggy to drive around the wasteland and discover new locations to meet interesting people, hit their pressure points, and explode them from within.

Beautiful

Regular random battles are a big part of the Yakuza series, and despite how much I hate them in, say, JRPGs, I've never really been bothered by them in Yakuza because there's something truly satisfying about smashing some goon's head against a railing for daring to bother you while you're running around town trying to do something more important. Lost Paradise does much the same thing, with the same dozen or so types of post-apocalyptic troublemakers in Mad Max gear trying to start some shit, and then getting immediately turned into a fine red mist. When you start the game, Kenshiro's Hokuto Shinken feels more limited than Kiryu's techniques, but that quickly opens up as you buy and learn more techniques--there is no question as to whether or not you're going to win against these nobodies, so you're encouraged to finish them off as spectacularly and quickly as possible, with experience bonuses given out for particularly flashy or precise kills.

Yes, you can make a cocktail called "You're Already Drunk"

It's not all doom, gloom, and boom, though: Lost Paradise's world shows us a softer, funnier side of Kenshiro by putting him in ridiculous situations and letting him stay exactly as stoic and deadpan as he always is through a huge list of side quests and minigames. An accupressure rhythm game, post-apocalyptic baseball where you line-drive bikers with an I-beam, playing hide-and-seek with kids, fighting in the arena, bouncing and managing a hostess club, working in a grocery store, upgrading your buggy with Bat, and becoming the wasteland's best bartender aren't even the full list of distractions available from the main plot. Like I've said before, none of these time-wasters feel like wasted time--you get experience for all of them, and they all serve to make Kenshiro and the people around him that much more endearing.

Lost Paradise, unfortunately, is not quite paradise on all fronts: the constant random battles would be fine if you could just tear through them, but you'll hit regular snags with large enemies who simply exist to soak up damage, and the battle system just isn't flexible enough to give you ways around this aside from just hammering them until they stagger. Character models and animation feel stiff, especially for small everyday actions like walking up and down stairs, and driving the buggy is something I just want to do as little as possible. No joke, Mass Effect's Mako controls better than this thing. Additionally, Fist of the North Star's story has never been particularly complex, but that was to its benefit--a few late-game reveals and a final villain switcheroo feel kind of weak, and take away from the built-up emotion (and a tradition of perfect final battles in the Yakuza series).

Even with a few frustrations showing up now and then, I could not stop playing Fist of the North Star: Lost Paradise. Popping bad guys like zits is addicting, spending time with Kenshiro's friends even more so. Lost Paradise is so much more than a post-apocalyptic palette swap--just as you spend entire Yakuza games becoming the Dragon of Dojima, now you too can become the Savior of the Century's End. And maybe a little more than that, too: Lost Paradise adds some dimension to the otherwise stone-faced Kenshiro, and maybe this is what this legend needed to get (even) more people to love him.

REVIEW ROUNDUP

+ Fully-realized Fist of the North Star experience: sound, visuals, rhythm of combat, hot-blooded energy

+ Satisfying battle system requires creativity, forethought, and efficiency to truly fight like Kenshiro

+ Wealth of minigames and side quests never feel like filler because they're just that damn good

+ Shoutouts and callbacks for Fist of the North Star and Yakuza fans alike

+/- Explore a larger map with the buggy, but the buggy is also just not fun to drive

+/- Character models look so close to Buronson's art, but this also makes their animations kinda wonky

- I legitimately don't feel any connection toward the game's original characters

- Hidenari Ugaki (Majima) deserves so much better than playing Jagi

-----

Nate Ming is the Features Editor for Crunchyroll News and creator of the long-running Fanart Friday column. You can follow him on Twitter at @NateMing.

By: [email protected]

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