#i should make a self portrait of how i feel right now (guy who cannot stop making self portraits voice) | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

mizunetzu · 4 years

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hey mark uhhh suck my dick that’s the request

no HAHAHA but I’m sure Iida will do it innnn *drum roll*

——————

Iida x reader - Iida Tenya’s Imaginary Boyfriend (pt.2)

⚠️warnings - none

Pronouns - male, he/him

Part one can be found here!

The true ending can be found here! (Pt.3)

——————

“Alright,” Kaitekina flipped open her sketchbook, setting it back down on the easel. “Who’s going to describe something to me?”

Everyone gestured at Iida.

“I apologize once more,” Iida scrunched up his fists in his lap. “I do not wish to-“

“C’mon, Iida!” Uraraka grasped onto the sleeve of Iida’s school blazer. “You’ve been sulking for a month about this ‘(L/n)-kun’ guy! You need some sort of comfort! Or better yet-closure!”

“I am completely fine! In fact, I see him every night, and that is enough for me! Now, I do not wish to be here, and I have nothing to describe!”

Everyone fell silent. Uraraka voice was barely above a whisper. “Every night..?”

Iida sat back down, bowing slightly in apology for yelling. He said nothing. Todoroki looked down, before looking at Iida.

“If you do this one thing, we’ll let you go and we’ll never speak about it again. Just this once and we’ll leave it at that.”

Iida thought for a moment. He absentmindedly picked at the metal frame of his watch with his thumb and forefinger. Just this once couldn’t hurt. How accurate can a drawing be?

“Fine.” Iida visibly relaxed. “Just this once.”

———

“So, are you describing a boy or a girl today?”

Kaitekina’s voice was smooth like butter. Her eyes, once a chocolate brown, delved pink, bright and demanding. It was probably a side effect to her quirk activating.

Iida’s lips turned up into the faintest of smiles. A sheepish one. “I’m describing my boyfriend...”

Uraraka and Midoryia choked back a shocked gasp, while Todoroki simply raised his eyebrows. Nonetheless, they gawked at Iida like he was crazy.

Kaitekina cooed. “D’aww...how long have you two been dating?”

“Almost 5 months now.” Iida seemed more calm than before. You could almost say he was happy finally talking about his baggage. He rubbed his thumb across the glass of his watch discreetly. Kaitekina looked away from her sketch to eye the dull red watch contained under Iida’s blazer.

“What’s that red thing you keep touching under your jacket? Is that a watch?”

Iida sat quiet for a moment, before pulling up his sleeve and raising his arm. There revealed a dirty, cheap red watch, cloudy but functional. He tugged at the strap, watching as it unraveled and tumbled down onto his lap.

“It was something my boyfriend wore everyday. He wore it everyday since the start of the school year. He said he’d always cherish it, so I’m...cherishing it for him.”

“This isn’t the original one he owned though, that one...disappeared. I bought this one to keep with me where ever I go.”

The woman hummed, taking note of something on a sticky note stuck to the edge of her easel. It was most likely details to add or emphasize in the portrait.

“Can you tell me like-the shape of his face?”

“Angelic.”

Iida didn’t say anything else after that. Kaitekina waited for him to go on.

“Oh-forgive me. Round face, and his hair was a (h/c)-ish shade. It was always kept rather short/long.”

“You keep saying ‘was’. Is he no longer with us?”

Iida narrowed his eyes. Uraraka, Midoryia, and Todoroki eagerly awaited his answer, not-so-subtly staring him down. “It’s...it’s difficult to explain. But in simpler terms, he isn’t here with me anymore. Or he never was. I cannot seem to tell anymore.”

Those last parts came out as a whisper. More like he was saying it to himself, rather than to the sketch artist infront of him.

“I’m...sorry.” Kaitekina stopped drawing for a second to offer her condolences. Iida shrugged.

“...I am too.”

“Um-can you describe his eyes for me?”

“It was a bright (e/c)-color.” Iida limply held up his arm, before letting it drop back down on his lap. “They were always kind of squinted, like he was always so carefree. It was one of the things I never understood about him. Beautiful, (e/c) eyes that would stare up at me like I was the world.”

She made a noise of acknowledgement, grabbing (h/c) and (e/c) pastels scattered across her desk. Scribbling down details with her hazey glowing eyes scanning the paper, she looked up again at Iida. “What about his smile-what did it look like when he was smiling?”

“I believe it was his default expression. His lips were on the thinner/thicker side, though he kept telling me he wanted them to be a bit thicker/thinner. And-they were always chapped. I always told him to put on chapstick.” Iida chuckled.

“If you had to choose one thing-and I know it’s hard, but what would you say you miss the most about him?”

Iida fell silent. He stared down at his fingers, halting temporarily. He opened his mouth numerous times to speak, but each time, no words came out.

“His ability to make me smile.”

He said nothing else. Kaitekina inhaled to speak, but let her mouth fall closed, focusing on her drawing once more.

“Can you tell me about him while I finish up?”

Iida nodded. Midoryia, Todoroki, and Uraraka turned towards him, waiting patiently. This was what they were waiting for.

Iida pushed his glasses up with his forefinger. “His name was (L/n)-kun. He went to our school, and actually sat next to me in class-but apparently no one...seemed to remember him. It’s like he disappeared. That, or my delusions delved to the point where I hallucinated a whole five-month relationship with a boy I see every night in my dreams. It’s made me look forward to going to bed. It’s the only thing I want to do these days.”

Iida thought for a moment, before continuing. “He was good friends with these 3 next to me. But they don’t seem to remember him either.”

“It’s alright, though. I’ve grown used to it. I’ll see him again tonight and I can live on with these memories alone.”

A heavy silence filled the small studio. Midoryia contemplated setting a hand on Iidas shoulder, but as he was about to, Kaitekina clasped her hands together.

“So, I believe I’m done. I hope I was able to capture at least a small part of this person you had such an amazing relationship with.” She picked up her sketchbook, walking around her desk towards the 4 kids seated on the couch. “Are you ready to see it?”

Part of Iida didn’t want to look at it. All of his logical beliefs told him people were giving this woman and her quirk too much credit. Besides, how could she possibly know what mountain of complexity (Y/n) held, and capture it into an unworthy piece of fine-tooth paper?

He nodded anyways. She flipped her book around, holding up the displayed page in the sunlight streaming through the window.

“This is what you described to me.”

There stood a charcoal sketch of a beautiful boy, smiling so gently and earnestly. His hand was resting again set his neck and shoulder, a dull red watch strapped tightly to his wrist. There were features Iida swore he never mentioned, like the crease near his left eye, or the dimple that lay just under his cheekbone.

What captured his attention most, was his eyes. It was only pastel, but it shone and demanded attention, even if his eyes were in his usual half-lidded stance. Bright, (e/c), gemstone eyes that Iida fell in love with. Honestly, he could gaze at this picture forever.

This was him. This was his (Y/n).

Uraraka gasped. “Ahhhh! Wow! It looks really good! Ne, is this accura...Iida? You alright..?” Midoryia and Todoroki tore their eyes off the illustration to check out what Uraraka was talking about.

Iida was staring, eyes slightly wide, at the drawing. He couldn’t take his eyes off of it; he didn’t want to. The drawing was more accurate than he’d like to admit. It was as if he was staring at (Y/n) himself.

He didn’t know tears were steaming down his face, until he felt small drops of water pelt down onto his lap. He removed his glasses shakily and wiped his eyes, doing his best not to take his eyes off the sketchbook.

“It’s-“ Iida’s voice cracked along with the seam of his heart. “It’s very accurate, you should be proud of the business you own, Miss.”

———

The stagnant air followed the UA students out of the building. Iida was stiffly walking straight ahead, doing his best not to look at the paper of (Y/n) folded in his pocket.

“Ne, Iida,” Iida hadn’t realized he was walking so far ahead until Uraraka had to jog up to him, followed by Midoryia and Todoroki. He hummed in acknowledgment.

“Do you feel better?”

There were two answers to this question. Yes and slowly but surely, yes. He was feeling better in the sense that he no longer had the urge to cry into his bedsheets, holding the piece of sketchbook paper firmly to his chest. He lost his dignity, and he found it again.

He was also feeling better in the sense that he finally got some sort of closure. Maybe this person isn’t real. And it’s ok. He has some sort of proof of his imaginary ‘friend’ that he can gaze at forever, instead of pitifully checking his wristwatch every 5 minutes, wishing it would go faster just so he wouldn’t accidentally forget how his face looked like.

It wasn’t healthy living day by day, waiting to fall asleep just so he could feel something again. A self imagined kiss on the cheek or just plain rest. He was willing to move on from that. It was time to start the ‘healing’ process. The drip finally stopped.

And he knew that if he got tired, if he was sad, or just needing some assistance, (Y/n) would be there waiting for him with open arms, welcoming him into his imaginary world again.

Though, he wasn’t sure if he really needed that right now.

He loosened the cheap red watch from his wrist, his head suddenly feeling empty and light.

“I’m feeling better. Thank you.”

——————

This is how this story really ends. Though, even I didn’t like it HAHAHA so I made a “true ending”. A sweeter ending without the bitter if u must LMAOO

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riddleandpottersittinginatree · 3 years

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y’all want a tomarry resurrection fic?

part one - monument and third

Tom first sees Harry at the bus stop on Monument and Third Street.

Harry is not a god and has never been worshipped, and as such is not nearly so vain. Tom, however, worships himself so avidly that no outside admiration is necessary. The man on the bench is wearing a crooked tie. One shirt sleeve is cuffed higher than the other. His hair looks as if it’s never seen a comb in its life and Tom is in love with him.

The older man wrinkles his nose slightly at the stranger. It’s difficult for him to summon patience for anyone who can’t respect themselves enough to appear tidy. If this man showed up at Tom’s hotel he would have him frog-marched right back out the front entrance.

The man on the bench at the bus stop has one untied shoelace. He has glasses that sit lopsided on the bridge of his nose. His shirt should have at least one more button fastened, perhaps even two. He isn’t wearing a watch.

Tom knows he’s a bit arrogant and a bit snobbish and has never attempted to deny such things; he is arrogant and snobbish because he’s earned the right to be and intends to keep it. The man on the bench is unkempt and scattered and honestly, how hard could it possibly be for him to tie his shoelace? and Tom is in love with him.

That’s if you remember me at all, of course.

As if I could forget you. As if I wouldn’t recognize you anywhere.

There is nothing extraordinary about the man on the bench at the bus stop on the corner of Monument and Third. He is good looking but not conscious enough to utilize it as a strength. He doesn’t catch the eye or strike a particular interest in anyone who might see him, but Tom loves him. Has always loved him. Even now he recognizes it as a truth that cannot possibly be explained, and Tom has never been fond of things more abstract than what can be represented by a graph or a chart. He enjoys numbers. He enjoys projections and things that can be predicted. He enjoys data; Tom has never enjoyed emotion.

If I saw your face in death you would raise me to life.

Tom ushers himself forward, hurried to pass the man. It’s getting late. The air is starting to bite. Tom is still two blocks from his car and his waiting chauffeur. He’s unnerved by the feeling rising in his chest.

If I were to stumble across the sight of your small fingers,

so vivid would be my memory of how they felt to touch…

There is something about the man on the bench. Something about Monument and Third street that Tom feels in the pit of his stomach like a truth. He cannot help but look as the man raises his head, raises his gaze.

Tom has never seen eyes so green, except he has. He has loved these eyes before.

how vivid they felt touching me…

Tom keeps walking. Shakes off all lingering thoughts of the disheveled man. He starts calculating the company’s profits in his head, but of course he doesn’t remember the data and so all of the quantities are made up, anyway.

II.

“Excuse me,” Harry says as boldly as he dares, “excuse me, can you spare a second?”

The man he’s speaking to freezes in his place, looking like a cornered animal who hasn’t the sense to run anywhere. It isn’t every day that the man passes Harry on Monument Street, but it’s often enough that Harry has grown used to seeing his face. He’s a serious man, Harry can tell. He works for corporate, maybe, or crunches numbers for a large company. Maybe he’s the guy that talks to the guy that talks to the man in charge, a few steps down from the top of the corporate game of telephone. He is a man, Harry can tell, that considers himself very important and is probably wrong. They most often are.

“Hello,” Harry says awkwardly, uncomfortable now that the man’s attention has stopped on him. He hadn’t planned so far ahead. “I was wondering-” Harry loses nerve and aborts the sentence midway. The man looks unhappy and it tugs at something within Harry’s chest; his distaste for the expression is immediate. “I was just curious if-” Harry stutters again then makes a third attempt: “Have we met before?”

The man blinks at him slowly before his gaze drops to scan Harry more thoroughly. He expends a quite frankly ridiculous amount of energy on simply standing still. Harry knows how he must look through the eyes of a serious man and fidgeting will surely be no help to the cause. Fidgeting doesn’t compliment his poorly fit sweater or torn jeans or ink smudged fingers, and it surely doesn’t boast confidence.

“No,” the man says finally, returning his gaze to Harry’s. “I don’t believe we have.”

“Hang on,” Harry objects hastily as the man is already turning to continue his brisk pace. “I swear-” Harry stops to swallow nervously before carrying on. “I swear I know you from somewhere. It’s been driving me crazy for weeks.”

You’ve been driving me crazy for weeks, Harry means. Him, the man on Monument Street with his suits and briefcase and shiny watches. Harry laughs at men like him, important men and serious men who haven’t any time to waste on beggars or street performers or walking slowly. Harry rolls his eyes at their arrogance, their self-importance, their pride, and the man on Monument is all of these things. This man is a perfect portrait of the sort of person Harry would find dreadfully dull, and he loves him.

Here at a bus stop on Monumental and Third Street, standing there in his pressed suit with his impatient, tapping toes, Harry loves him. It is a truth that settles in his chest like it has been waiting its whole life to rest there.

And you?

Me? Why, I’ll be having a grand time beating you in every race.

And if you forget you ever loved me?

Oh, Tom. You think that so easy?

Harry is sick of men like this one--men who believe the world is a thing of numbers, men who think too much about the economy, men who don’t stop for beggars or street performers because they always have somewhere more important to be--but he stops the man on Monument Street because he knows him.

Send us anywhere--another time, another place, a parallel existence.

Put me in any man’s shoes: Make me a beggar. Make me a merchant. Make me a king.

Harry has lived a life pointedly avoiding people like this, people like the ones who raised him, people who scoff at Harry’s worn tennis shoes, but Harry loves him.

Your voice and mine will play chase without trying.

Let us sing like Orpheus, let us ring like the bells of our temple,

let us call to one another.

There is something more here, something within this man that calls and calls and calls to Harry, and no doubt a man like him can’t possibly know how to listen. Harry must be shouting for him and the man is covering his ears, the man is counting in his head to drown the sound out.

To forget you is an impossible feat. To find you in another universe

(and another,

and another,

and another)

Tom, that will be the easy part.

He knows this man, doesn’t he? Hasn’t he always known him?

Harry asks the man once more to wait for him and he does, and Harry loves him and loves him and loves him and loves…

#tom and harry are gods with short attention spans #business man tom #struggling artist harry #i'm simply obsessed with them #tomarry #tomarry fic #excerpts #taylor writes #someday i'll finish this but for now this is what you get #<3 #tom riddle

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taylorlynn-art · 3 years

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⭐️ Underneath It All ⭐️

by Strawberry Moon Rose

🍓🌙🌹

This is a one-shot I conjured poking fun at how based on appearance, Sailor Moon characters can really confuse a person. Taking place in the anime world, but with the Starlights cross-dressing like in the manga instead of using a physical disguise.

Also, it got me thinking, what if the Sailor Starlights came to Earth at the end of SuperS? It had to have taken a while to establish their idol group before debuting.

Disclaimer: I do not own Sailor Moon or any of the characters. They belong to Naoko Takeuchi.

🍸

Soft jazz music drifts lazily around the bar. The flashy neon light of orange and green illuminates the Amazon Trio as they sip from their drinks in hand. Ice cubes slosh and clink as Tigers-Eye slams his glass down on the table in frustration.

"Man, we got scolded again," he complains. "And we're doing our best too..."

"She doesn't have to yell at us like that," Hawks-Eye agrees. "If catching Pegasus were that easy, we would have found him by now!"

Fish-Eye tips his head back daintily, sipping from his cocktail glass. "There are just so many targets, how are we supposed to know which one he's hiding in? It's like finding a needle in a haystack."

Hawks-Eye brushes through the photographs scattered across the bar top. "Hmm... None of these women are really catching my eye." He plucks a snapshot of a girl with braids and waves it in Tigers-Eye's face, knowing he has a thing for younger chicks. "What about this one? You interested?" he inquires.

Tigers-Eye yawns. "Too plain."

"How 'bout this?" Hawks-Eye tries again. If Tigers-Eye doesn't do something, he'll have to do something, and he isn't in the mood for another failure and reprimanding from the old hag, Zirconia.

"Too old."

"And this one?"

Tigers-Eye makes a face and waves his hand dismissively. "Ugh, not another guy. See if Fish-Eye wants him," he says.

"What? Where? Lemme see!" Fish-Eye slides off his stool and squeezes between his cronies. Hearts form in his blue eyes when he catches a glimpse of the target. "Oh my gosh! You're kidding!" He snatches the photograph out of Hawks-Eye's hand so fast it's nothing but a blur.

"What're you getting so excited about? He's not nearly as handsome as I am," Tigers-Eye says, unable to conceal the tinge of jealousy in his voice.

"He's right," Hawks-Eye boasts. "We're much more good-looking."

"You two don't know who this is?" Fish-Eye asks incredulously.

Tigers-Eye and Hawks-Eye stare at their friend.

"It's Seiya Kou from the Three Lights!" Fisheye kisses the picture and twirls around. "I'm so lucky!"

"Never heard of him," Hawks-Eye comments in a voice as flat as cardboard.

"Me neither." Tigers-Eye tosses his orange hair. "He must not be that popular."

But Fish-Eye isn't listening to them. "Oh my, I wonder what kind of girls he likes? How should I approach him?

Tigers-Eye and Hawks-Eye swivel around in their seats and reach for their drinks. By now they know it's useless trying to talk to him when he goes gaga over a target.

"Cross-dressing again?" Hawks-Eye sounds bored.

"Why, of course!" Fisheye gazes dreamily at the glossy portrait. The celeb is clad in a red suit and yellow tie. A bright rose is stuffed in the breast pocket. Ebony bangs fall messily above spunky blue eyes, accompanied by a microphone and crooked smile.

Fish-Eye giggles. Seiya Kou... Even your name is beautiful! I'll seduce you for sure!

🎸

"Thank you! Goodnight everybody!" The lead singer gives a final wave into the sea of faces. The crowd erupts into applause as the Three Lights exit the stage. It's a warm Saturday night and they just wrapped up their second concert at the venue.

"Great job tonight, guys. They absolutely loved you." Their manager gives each member a pat on the back.

"Thank you, sir," Taiki replies politely. "We did our best."

Seiya accepts a towel from a stage worker and dabs the sweat off her forehead. She cranes her head up to the night sky, breathing heavily. Princess... Where are you now? Can you hear our message? They have only been on Earth for two months, but she and the others are already used to cross-dressing as a boy band.

"Seiya, we are heading back to change," Taiki calls over her shoulder.

"You coming or what?" Yaten taps her foot impatiently.

"Huh? Oh, yeah." Seiya shakes her head and follows them down the corridor to their dressing rooms. The high from performing hasn't worn off yet, and she hums the whole way, a bounce in her step.

Once she reaches her assigned room, Seiya shuts the door and starts collecting her things. The open window allows a humid breeze to drift in, carrying the sweet fragrance of a beautiful spring night - cherry blossoms and rain. She can still hear the murmurs of the crowd in the distance.

Knock. Knock.

"Come in!" the Starlight calls absentmindedly, figuring it's Taiki or Yaten.

Creak... The door creeps open. When Seiya glances up, she catches her breath.

Standing against the door frame appears to be one of the most gorgeous women Seiya's ever seen before. The beauty's pale-blue hair is tied in a high ponytail that cascades in lustrous waves to her hips. She wears a flowing white dress and strappy sandals.

It's like she forgot how to speak. "Can I help you?" Seiya clears her throat and quickly fluffs her hair.

Fish-Eye smiles and brushes a stray curl out of his face. "Actually, you can," he says in a high, silky voice.

"Oh? How so?" Whenever a cute girl is in sight, she can't help it - she's always been a flirt.

Fish-Eye giggles and casually eases the door shut behind him. "I really enjoyed the concert, Seiya. You shine like a true star out there. I was wondering if I could get a souvenir of some sort to make the experience all the more memorable..."

"I'm flattered," Seiya replies smoothly. She closes the distance between them in a few swift steps, drinking in Fish-Eye's sparkly perfume. "What do you have in mind?"

"An autograph would be wonderful." Fish-Eye bats his mascara-coated lashes. "But anything from a superstar like you would make me the happiest fan in the world."

A grin spreads across Seiya's face. They gaze at each other for a few seconds, holding a teasing conversation with their eyes. Seiya reaches for a blank notebook resting on the nearby table and pulls a marker out of her pocket. Gliding close to the pretty stranger, she says, "And to whom shall I make this autograph out to?"

"To 'Sakana'," Fish-Eye says breezily.

"Sakana, huh?" Seiya smiles quizzically at him. "That's a cute name you have."

"You think so?"

Squeak, squeak, goes the marker as Seiya scribbles out the autograph. She signs her name with a flourish, tears the paper out of the notebook, and hands it to Fish-Eye. "There you are," she declares.

"Oh, thank you so much! An autograph from my favorite male idol! I'll treasure it forever!"

Still smiling, Seiya puts her hands in her pockets. "Anything else I can help you with...?"

Fish-Eye carefully folds the autograph into his purse. "Oh, perhaps there is..." he purrs.

"Yeah?"

"But it's a bit of a secret..." Fish-Eye fingers Seiya's collar, pulling playfully on her tie.

"I'm intrigued," she whispers.

Fish-Eye stands on his tiptoes and whispers enticingly into Seiya's ear, "I'd like to get to know you better..."

"Is that so?"

He outlines the buttons on Seiya's jacket. "These ties can be tricky, can't they? Let me assist you in taking it off..."

Seiya chuckles. "That sounds quite tempting, but you see, I have to go soon... The others are waiting for me," she answers honestly, regretfully.

"Oh, they can wait, can't they?" If Fish-Eye gets any closer, they'll be a grilled cheese sandwich.

"I'm sorry." Unwillingly, Seiya gently pushes him off her. "You're extremely attractive, Sakana, but... I can't. I wish I could, but I can't."

Fish-Eye draws back as if he'd been slapped across the face. He widens his eyes innocently. "Why not?"

'Because you'd find out I'm a woman and then our image would be ruined', Seiya wants to say, but responds, "I'm not who you think I am."

"What do you mean? I know who you are. You're just making an excuse, aren't you?"

"No, I-"

"Fine." Fish-Eye steps back. The corners of his mouth crumple into a scowl. "I see how it is. I guess it's goodbye to you then, isn't it?"

Before Seiya can respond, a blue curtain appears out of the air and drops over Fish-Eye with a whoosh. It raises to reveal his true self - bubbly blue outfit, scaly hands, and black Amazon marking on his forehead.

"Who are-?!" Seiya stumbles back.

"ONE!" A red board rises from under the floorboards, slamming into the Starlight's back.

"TWO!" Cold, metal clamps bind Seiya's wrists and ankles.

"THREE!"

Seiya screams as her dream mirror emerges, taking shape bit by bit. Harsh light blinds her, and wind whips her hair all over. It feels like someone is reaching into her chest and ripping out her insides. What's going on? What is this?!

Once it stops, she slumps forward in exhaustion, supported only by the painful cuffs pinning her to the plank.

"Now to take a look inside your beautiful dream mirror!" Fish-Eye saunters towards the trapped idol. He grabs hold of the glowing mirror on both sides. It's shining brighter than any one he's seen before! His eyes glimmer in hope. Could this be the home of Pegasus after all?

"Y-You lied to me! Who are you really?" Seiya shouts, raising her head. It's obvious by the flat chest and deep voice that this monster is male, and on top of that, the enemy! How could she fall into his trap? Anger and humiliation course through her veins. She thrashes harder, but cannot break free.

Fish-Eye chuckles, but doesn't reply. He stretches the mirror on both sides like putty and dives his head inside her dream mirror. Seiya shrieks in agony.

"Where is Pegasus?" he says aloud, looking all over. But instead of finding a winged horse with a golden horn, he sees flowing images of a beautiful, red-haired princess catered by three female guardians in black uniforms.

Fish-Eye throws his head out of the mirror in horror. "H-H-How dare you deceive me! That's my job!" he cries, his voice wavering. I fell for a woman in disguise? Impossible! This can't be right...

Skin crawling and cheeks burning, Fish-Eye stands back. How humiliating! "What a waste of a trip. Well, either way, I suppose you'll have to die now, Seiya. Come out, my Remless! Superstar Daistuaa!"

A creature climbs out of his shadow - a skinny girl with a guitar as a torso and a microphone as a tail. She snaps the cord like a whip and says in a mouse-like voice, "It's showtime!"

"I'm leaving this up to you, Daisutaa," Fish-Eye barks.

"Of course!”

A black hole rimmed with water appears in the air. Fish-Eye does a backwards somersault into it and vanishes.

The dream mirror returns to Seiya's body and the board and restraints disappear. She falls to her knees, feeling dizzy and weak.

"Hello, everybody!" Daisutaa sings. "I'm so happy to be here! I've got a super great show for you!"

Seiya glares up at the Remless. A phage? No, it's different... She reaches into her pocket for her transformation brooch.

"Uh-uh! Please turn off all cell phones and electronic devices during the show!" Daisutaa lunges at Seiya. They crash into the wooden table which breaks into jagged pieces beneath them. Seiya groans, her back throbbing, and tries to throw the Remless off her. Daisutaa's three-inch nails are like knives, poised at her throat.

"Get...off...me!" she grunts, turning her head to the side in a feeble attempt to avoid the monster slicing her jugular.

"You want an encore, you say?" Daisutaa crows. "Alrighty then!"

Bam! The dressing room door slams open, nearly flying off its hinges.

"Star Sensitive Inferno!"

"Star Gentle Uterus!"

The Remless snaps her head up, frozen like a deer in the headlights as the two combined attacks hit her head on. "What? Aghhh! STAGE OUT!" she wails, crumbling to glass. The shadow on the floor fades, and a billow of smoke dissipates in an upright spiral circle. The Dead Moon magic is gone.

"Seiya!" Maker cries, hurrying over to her.

"What happened? We heard you screaming." Healer kneels beside Seiya. "What was that thing? A phage?"

"So they have invaded here too?" Maker murmurs gravely.

Seiya coughs and shakes her head. Grunting, she pulls herself into a sitting position. "No, it was something else..."

Healer helps Seiya to her feet. "Well, either way, it's gone now. Let's hope we never see anything like it again."

"Yeah. Just forget it happened," Seiya mutters, flushing as she recalls Sakana.

She knew she wanted to.

✨

"Back so soon, Fish-Eye?" Tigers-Eye swings around in his chair at the bar.

Ignoring him, Fish-Eye plops down in his usual spot and pours himself a drink. In one sip, he downs the entire thing and reaches to refill the glass.

"Whoa, easy!" Hawks-Eye jokes. "Did it go that bad?"

Tigers-Eye's green eyes dance. "That Seiya dude rejected you, didn't he?" he says gaily.

"Can it, you two," Fish-Eye grumbles, studying his red nail polish. "You don't know the half of it."

"So what happened?" Hawks-Eye asks.

A bloom of red appears in Fish-Eye's cheeks. "Let's just say that underneath it all, Seiya Kou wasn't who I thought he was."

Tigers-Eye smirks. "I could have told you all those boy bands are bogus."

"Shut up, Tigers-Eye. Just shut up."

#sailor moon fanfiction #Seiya Kou #sailor stars #fanfic #story #comedy #one shot #anime #sailor moon fandom #pretty guardian sailor moon #usagi tsukino #star fighter #fish eye #Amazon trio #sailor moon fan #bishoujo senshi sailor moon #strawberry moon rose #AO3

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raitrolling · 3 years

Text

Present Day, Present Time

[Easy Reading Version on Toyhou.se]

-- alluringMisdirection [AM] began trolling autonomousMachinations [AM] --

AM: Oh shlt slnce when was lt your bday??

AM: All g tho, l got a place ln mlnd ;)

AM: Obvlously lt’s gonna be a secret, so don’t even bother asklng! Surprlse partles are the best partles, y’know. And lt’s gotta be good for the blg 1-0!

AM: So you better get hype- or, as hype as whatever’s posslble for you 8)

-- alluringMisdirection [AM] ceased trolling autonomousMachinations [AM] --

Callan stood in the homewares section of one of Block 136’s many low-end department stores, hands on his hips and tapping his foot in mild irritation. Predictably, he’d be caught off-guard by Gerrel’s mentioning of his wriggling day coming up. He didn’t forget, of course, he just- Wait, did Gerrel ever mention it before? They’ve known each other for a while and Callan had definitely made him put his wriggling day into his stupidly busy schedule, but he legitimately cannot recall if the redblood had brought up his own before. Huh. Well, whatever, Callan’s going to say that’s Gerrel’s problem to work out, because right now he’s got his own problem. What the hell kind of present does someone with no hobbies want? Most of the time when it comes to presents, Callan would simply grab whatever silly novelty he could find in the clearance sections - A hat with a funny saying on it, some desktop USB gadget, all those stocking stuffer toys made specifically for office 12th Perigees party gifts, the impulse buy bottle openers and fidget spinners at the registers, - it didn’t matter what the gift was, if it was a gift from him then clearly it was the most important! But this time it’s different. It’s not just a gift for someone’s 10th wriggling day, but the wriggling day of someone who it wouldn’t be inaccurate to call Callan’s best friend (who would’ve thought? Of all people!). A real pro at gift-giving too, the photo book he gave last Quadrants’ Day had touched Callan’s heart far greater than any novelty chocolate or humorous greeting card ever could. So now he’s obligated to be thoughtful. Ugh, thinking.

He acknowledges that the logical gift would be something practical, Gerrel does seem to like things that are useful and would make him more productive. With how much he goes on about ‘healthy eating’ and ‘cooking your own meals’, he’d probably be over the moon if he unwrapped one of those air fryer things people keep talking about. But as Callan stared the boxes of kitchen appliances down, he couldn’t help but think one thing...

An air fryer is fucking boring.

Yes, sure, it’s the perfect gift for someone like him. He’d appreciate it! He’d appreciate it a lot more than the corner store chocolates he received from the greenblood for Quadrants’ Day, or the reindeer antler hat from 12th Perigees. He’d probably get a lot of use out of it too, if what the recipe books conveniently placed next to the display says is true. You can cook chicken, vegetables, brownies and muffins, fish and chips, mozzarella sticks… But, it may be a gift from Callan, but it’s not a gift from Callan. There’s no pizzaz, no style, nothing that screams “This is a gift from the one and only Callan Ranpoe, the best troll you’ve ever known! Accept no substitutes!''. It’s a gift someone would buy for a hivewarming party, or something his rich boss would slip in with the weekly wages just to remind everyone of how much money he has. Not a gift from someone known for their sense of humour and great taste in, well, everything.

Callan’s train of thought is interrupted by an employee asking if he needs a hand. Some tired-looking brownblood who knows that if they don’t ask every customer who has spent more than thirty seconds standing on one spot this question their boss will have them thrown out on the streets. He dismisses the employee with a wave of his hand, who only responds by parroting that the tea towels and oven mitts have a two-for-one deal tonight only.

Two-for-one… That’s it! Cheap and more fun than some boring appliance!

Not wanting to make it seem like he was inspired by the employee’s suggestion, Callan continues to mull about the appliances section pretending to be interested in the breadmakers and slow cookers before stealthily slipping over to the kitchen accessories section. Sure enough, the tea towels and oven mitts are already looking more to the greenblood’s liking. There’s the towels with funny cooking-related puns (Haha, “Let’s give them something to taco ‘bout”! It’s funny because it’s got tacos on it!), towels covered in cute animal prints (and a very un-cute one covered in horses. Sorry Gerrel, but you truly have the worst lusus), and towels covered in sayings one would find on a Facebook Minions group (which unfortunately, would probably appeal to the redblood’s sense of humour more than anything else…). There’s oven mitts shaped like crab claws and dinosaur heads, some pop culture-themed mitts with references that’d definitely fly over his head, and one that just says the word ‘butter’ repeated on every inch of the fabric. Callan starts picking a couple off the rack, already congratulating himself on his head about how genius this gift is.

But… As he stares down at the dinosaur oven mitt and the tea towels with food puns, the gift still didn’t feel right. There should probably be something… More? To this? If the last present idea was thoughtful but lacks ‘Callan vibes’, then this idea is more Him but less thoughtful or really, wanted. Who wants tea towels for their wriggling day? That’s like giving someone socks and underwear. Callan sighs, dumping the chosen items onto the shelf below instead of hanging them back onto the rack. Putting in the effort for a perfect gift sucks.

Why is this so important? Why does a gift need to be thoughtful, personal, and most importantly, something that would make him think of Callan every time? Maybe it’s to make every moment as memorable as possible to combat the reality that all of Callan’s relationships are fleeting at best. Gerrel seems to be able to recognise him through his psiionics, most likely because altering one’s voice, speech patterns, and quirks in their posture and body language are difficult without specific training that Callan doesn’t have. But a friendship cannot be perpetuated on vaguely familiar quirks alone. What if one night Callan decides he wants to cut his hair? Change the way he dresses- hell, just happens to wear a waistcoat with his symbol printed on the opposite side? Doesn’t tie the bow around his neck correctly? Gerrel would fail to recognise him, and they’d be back at square one. And that’s not to mention the major elephant in the room being Callan’s stints as the prolific Phantom Thief. That wouldn’t be something he could just shrug off and accept, especially when his boss has been one of the thief’s major targets. He doesn’t come across as someone who would be angry to find out about this secret, but… He’s very honest and loyal. It would make sense for him to dob Callan into his boss, someone who values working as much as he does would definitely put his own job over anything else.

But then again… He’s selfless, in that way that makes Callan almost feel bad at letting him take over all the chores in his hive when he probably could do them himself if he could be bothered. Almost. Thank god he doesn’t have to wash dishes any more, and the food Gerrel cooks is way better than anything he could ever make even if he put his mind to it. So maybe he wouldn’t do that. Of course he wouldn’t do that! Even if it doesn’t last, he’s Callan’s friend now. And maybe they might continue to be friends, and- If the greenblood’s ego allows it- Gerrel could learn the truth of his psiionics, and try to work with it. Just as he works with every other eccentricity that makes up Callan’s personality.

… Nothing in this long moment of introspection has given him any more ideas for the perfect 10th wriggling day gift. Goddammit.

The brownblood continues floating around the aisles, keeping an eye on Callan in the way one would monitor a known shoplifter or rowdy group of teenagers. Now’s probably the best chance to get that advice they’re paid to give out.

“Hey,” Callan addresses the employee with a nod, “Got any ideas for a 10th wriggling day gift? I need one for a guy who’s into like, cooking and shit. Practical, but fun, y’know?”

The brownblood silently casts their eyes over to the appliances, and settles on the most expensive item they can spot.

“Air fryer.”

Of course.

Once again, we’re back to square one. This is going to take more than an hour’s worth of thinking, which is well more than Callan has ever done in his life. But, that’s fine. He’s got time, and it’s for someone worth spending time on. And there’s still the entirety of the department store to meander about like what everyone else does at this time of night. Maybe he could look into finding some outfits so Gerrel can be at least half as stylish as him, maybe some instructional books on building projects that would normally bore Callan to death because they lack funny pictures, maybe some crafts to make something (he can paint a mean self-portrait, so a portrait of someone else wouldn’t be that much more difficult)...

Now, if only Gerrel didn’t steal his other non-kitchen appliance idea of putting together a photo book already, that could’ve been perfect. Who wouldn’t want their own collection of Official Callan selfies?

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It took another couple hours and some trips to a few nearby shops, but finally the search for the perfect present was over. Callan stood at the kitchen table, putting together the finishing touches on the now-wrapped gift’s presentation. The homewares idea was thrown out the window in favour of something just as practical, but in a way that feels more personal. A blazer sits folded on the table (Callan made sure to not unfold it after the cashier slipped it into the shopping bag, there’s no way he’d ever be able to get it right), in a similar style to the one usually worn by Gerrel albeit with gold buttons and a green trim on the collar and cuffs. A voucher to get his symbol printed on the jacket has also been slipped into the breast pocket. It felt right to give something with his hue, it’s a common sign of friendship between a higherblood and a lowblood. He may not have a particularly intimidating shade of blue or purple, but it’s still an indication of protecting a friend. And, it’s something picked out by Callan himself so clearly it’s peak fashion.

There was an attempt at tying up the gift in a bow - one of the spare green neckties identical to the one he wore, to be precise - but there was certainly little effort into making it look perfect. The bow was uneven and sat nowhere close to the centre, and Callan couldn’t figure out how to do that fancy criss-cross tie most presents are wrapped in. Not that the presentation mattered to him, and he’s sure that’s the level of effort Gerrel would expect from him. He probably doesn’t expect much from the greenblood, honestly, so perhaps this modicum of effort will make this gift even more special.

#drabble #callan ranpoe #the prince and the pauper #apologies to anyone attempting to read this on mobile cuz its fuckign Long #anyways heres a drabble about callan attempting to put Effort into something for once #brought to you by my own experiences working in retail

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donnerpartyofone · 4 years

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reasons my i am probably too sensitive to have anything to do with other people

including other people’s drama that has absolutely nothing to do with me

i started reading this person’s new webcomic on instagram a month or two ago, and what started out as a fun little time killer that i looked forward to every day has started making me so uncomfortable that i wish i’d never heard of it. it takes place right now, in an especially embattled US city, and it’s about the dysfunctional lives of a bunch of shallow millennials, set against the backdrop of an increasingly dangerous country in an unpredictable state of revolt. it’s solidly engaging, convincingly characterized, and rendered in a unique funny animal style; i wasn’t surprised to discover that it’s going to be published soon by the most reputable publisher of this sort of thing. at first, i was impressed by it because i thought the behavior and dialog of its insecure young people was so well observed. it felt like one of the only things of its kind that i’ve read, more or less about real people living right now, that was neither a broad ugly satire, nor a pretentious drama exaggerating the specialness of its characters. the other thing i liked about it was that while it was largely about their sex lives, it didn’t seem at all sexy to me. the artist has a kind of distorted, rough-hewn visual style that i thought put some emotional distance between the overheated state of the characters, and the real consequences of their decisions. then it all got weird.

the artist stuck a really long, graphic sex scene in the middle of story that made me think...oh, maybe i AM supposed to be getting off to this? that’s weird, this all seems really bad to me, like every character is just mindlessly, selfishly bent on destruction and not doing much to make me like them, and i’d been reading along thinking “god i’m SO GLAD i’m not in my 20s anymore and i don’t have to deal with people like this--or with the pressure to act like this, as if using sex to create drama and being ‘crazy’ is the ultimate thing a person can do with their life”--and then suddenly it felt like maybe the comic was actually some kind of celebration of this lifestyle, or at the very least it’s an intensely sentimental portrait of a time of life, and of types of people, that i cannot imagine feeling sentimental about. then something else happened that made the comic even MORE uncomfortable to read, somehow: it had been gaining traction at an amazing pace, with tons of people leaving comments to the tune of “noooo don’t do it!”, the way you would yell at someone in a horror movie not to go back for the cat, as each character made the worst possible personal choice in every daily installment. the “don’t go in there!” response seemed pretty natural to me, but then the artist stepped in and made this announcement threatening to stop doing the comic altogether if the readers wouldn’t stop criticizing the characters. pretty much everyone in the comments was like “???”. many apologized if their comments were offensive, although they had no idea what they could have said that was wrong; other people, who seemed more sure that they were the ones being accused, said that they thought you were SUPPOSED to feel critical of the characters’ obviously bad decisions. that was how i felt, and at that point i was just enormously glad that i never comment on shit online or get involved in any type of community shit, especially when the artist started explaining laboriously that all of the characters represent some facet of the artist themselves and so therefore none of them are meant to be seen in a bad light at all and they’re all meant to be loved unconditionally and if you find yourself thinking mean things about the characters then you are effectively shitting all over the artist as a person. a lot of readers fell all over themselves to be supportive, and i just thought...this isn’t something you should support, though. it sucks that the artist is feeling so sensitive, but they’re about to have a book out in the world where they won’t have any ability to threaten readers who are “reading it wrong” or having incorrect thoughts about it. i mean...life is full of uncomfortable experiences and people you can’t relate to, i really don’t think we should be promoting this hopeless sanitization of all experiences in which trigger warnings used to be something that protected traumatized people from being randomly confronted with traumatic material, and now they’re used to just make sure nobody ever has to hear anything they don’t like, ever. anyone who cares about this artist should be helping them understand that they cannot control how people read their book or how they feel about each character and story in it. or failing that, they should be encouraged to just turn off instagram comments. but because of all this drama, i found myself reading all the comments obsessively--something i did when the blowup first happened, because i couldn’t find anything in there that i thought was mean or offensive, which added to my uncomfortable fascination with the whole thing--and that’s when i spotted a comment where somebody asked the artist is this was a furry comic. i wish this didn’t blow my mind, but it kind of did. i mean, it’s a book where almost all the characters are animals, and they occasionally have a bunch of raunchy sex. i think that if you’re a furry, meaning you’re interested in that sort of thing, this book is completely available for you to enjoy however you want. but this person needed the artist to FORMALLY CATEGORIZE IT as a furry comic. what the fuck is the meaning of that? it struck me as something that people in fandoms do, where they need every single thing to be labeled to death in an intensive and intractable way like it was science, the Final Word on everything in the universe, and they like *argue with each other* about whether they’re *allowed* to ship certain characters together or imagine them doing specific things, which is something you would only worry about if you thought the topic represented a literal material reality that could be adversely affected by people’s improper thoughts. i mean imagine if you felt that way about your jerkoff fantasies about fictional characters? that your horny thoughts are up for debate by hundreds of people you don’t even know? imagine feeling like that about OTHER PEOPLE’S jerkoff fantasies, like it’s worth fighting over and trying to CONTROL? like holy fucking shit you guys, STOP IT. it would even be one thing to ask the artist if THEY were a furry, which may or may not be anybody’s business, but to ask whether interpreting the comic through a furry lens is ALLOWED is like...well, actually, maybe it’s exactly in line with the artist’s recently expressed attitude, that you’re forced to think of the book in exactly the way that they personally think about it, or else you should have your reading privileges revoked. so now i’m still reading the comic, sort of compulsively, because i’m a little addicted to the soap opera of it and i’m ALSO a little addicted to the soap opera of the artist battling the readers over finding the correct orthodoxy for reading the comic--there’s a particular guy i’ve become aware of in the comics community because he is always harassing people with this mix of really caustic sarcasm and really bitter political self-righteousness, and he was surely the main person who was being “mean” to the characters, and HE’S STILL DOING IT IN EXACTLY THE SAME WAY, because i guess the artist would rather have problems with people than simply block them and eliminate them from the equation? but the whole entire thing is making me so uncomfortable i can hardly stand it. reading about like, dumb hot chicks with no self-control, and smug young shitheads who use the veil of progressiveness to hide or justify their predatory sexual behavior, and grownass adults who start drama with 20 year olds in order to feel relevant, AND being forced to know that the artist intends for me to embrace and adore all of this bad shit--like, people and things i left behind in real life, because it was all bad!--with ultimate love and compassion, or else they reserve the right to claim that they’re being personally attacked, has just become too much to take. it’s starting to make me feel sick. i really need to take the reigns on this thing. as much as the artist needs to forget about this control fantasy and stop being so precious about what they’re doing, i need to stop subjecting myself to something i find painful, embarrassing, and frankly creepy, if i ever wanna get back to a state where i have less to complain about.

tl;dr: stupid hipster is too sensitive to read a webcomic by a stupid hipster who is too sensitive for anyone to read their webcomic.

#NOT simon hanselmann #somebody else!#i will tell you if you chat me i just don't wanna get involved

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sserpente · 4 years

Photo

A/N: THIS IS PART II! Read Part I here! Multiply requested, finally, here it is with input from @nightrose64. Enjoy, my lovelies! ♥♥♥

Words: 2288 Warnings: mentions of attempted rape, mentions of blood, fluff

His lips were soft, cool, like the feather light touch of butterfly wings. Your eyes fluttered shut, bathing in the warmth and affection Thomas embraced you with. You were lying in his arms, listening to his steady heartbeat and wondering just what had caused the universe to show such mercy on you to bless you with this wonderful man.

The bond between you was growing stronger with every day that passed. Neither of you was able to explain what was happening to his body, how his body warmed you at night and how he could touch you ever so tenderly without reaching right through you… how his heart had come to life, pounding for you. It was a miracle—your miracle, even though you never properly spoke about it.

Sir Thomas Sharpe was still a ghost, that fine line between life and death separating you… at least that was what the both of you thought. He made no secret out of following you around on campus but respecting your privacy if you so wished. You had never sent him away before. If anything, knowing Thomas around you made you feel safe and secure.

You were about to fall asleep in his arms, with him stroking your hair gently to calm you down from your rather stressful day when there was a sudden knock on your door—a vigorous and impatient sound alerting you instantly. Shooting Thomas a worried look, you climbed out of bed and answered it, peeking through the smidge.

A small beam of yellow light from the hallway partially flooded your dorm.

“Hey, (Y/N). I’m sorry, were you sleeping already?” Suppressing a yawn, you nodded. You could sense Thomas’ presence right behind you, ready to support you if need be. A silent sigh escaped your lips when he put his hand on your shoulder in the shadows to let you know he was there.

“Almost… what is it?”

“It’s… it’s Clara. I can’t find her. She disappeared after supper and she didn’t show up for her appointment with Mrs Martins, she was furious about being stood up without being notified. She’s not with you, is she?” You frowned.

You recognised the late night visitor. She was taking the same course as you and sharing a room with Clara, your friend who had attempted to convince you to join her and those two shady young men Thomas had saved you from.

You had barely spoken since. Clara seemed… so reserved all of a sudden, like somebody had drained her of all of her energy and liveliness. During classes, she never asked questions, always staring at her notes, not to mention the dark circles under her eyes. You had spoken about it with Thomas and he suspected the men had introduced her to the dark depths of taking drugs. You had tried to talk to her and ask her if they had done anything to her she had not consented to… but the girl would not speak up.

You had considered talking to the police but what proof would you deliver? Surely, Clara and the men would deny everything, especially if there were illegal drugs involved.

“No… no. Where did you last see her?”

“Like I said, after supper. She hurried outside the main entrance when I told her how late it was and then disappeared around the corner with two men. I’m really worried something happened to her. She’s meeting with these guys almost every day but she never seems all too happy about it…” You held your breath. There was no need to exchange silent looks with Thomas to figure that something was not right.

“L-let me put something on real quick. Alert the caretaker, or any authority you can find at this hour. We have to go after her.”

The girl nodded, hurrying away as you closed the door, switched on the light and began searching for your college pullover.

“My darling, are you sure this is a good idea?”

“I have to help her, Thomas.” Self-righteousness and courage flooded your senses, pumping adrenaline through your veins. Yes. This was the right thing to do.

“I cannot let you roam the forests all on your own in the middle of the night. I will not allow it. Please, (Y/N). Listen to reason, this is way too dangerous.” His tone balanced between sternness and gentle begging.

“You will come with me?”

“Of course I will… but I am no living being. I can only protect you to some extent and you know that. I could never forgive myself if something happened to you.” He answered quietly.

“Thomas… I didn’t help Clara the first time when I should have. I… I know you only wanted to protect me but… every time I see her in class I feel such pangs of guilt… I have to do something. What if they kill her?”

“At least arm yourself. The scissors on your desk, anything you can defend yourself with.”

Thomas admired your braveness. You reminded him of Edith, in a way. Strong, independent and proud, you did not hesitate to protect and avenge the ones you loved. Perhaps it was in this very moment that Thomas realised he had fallen in love with you. But for now, he pushed the fact he was dead and could never be with you for real to the back of his mind. Keeping you save was much more important in this very moment.

Thomas followed you outside, never leaving your side. Your mobile phone was posing as a torch, the scissors in your hand almost ridiculous.

You met Amanda, the girl who had knocked on your door and the caretaker, who had already alerted the police a girl was missing, at the edge of the forest. His eyes widened when he spotted you approaching.

“Blimey… that’s impossible.”

“Sir?” Out of breath, you raised your eyebrows at him. But he wasn’t even looking at you. He was looking at someone behind you.

“Am I dreaming?”

Thomas opened his mouth, ready to explain… it took you both a moment to realise the old caretaker could see him. Nobody but you could see him. And it was clear that he recognised him. There was a portrait of Sir Thomas Sharpe in the dining hall, after all.

“I must be on drugs as well…”

Amanda appeared equally shocked, staring at him as if she’d seen a ghost. Well, technically…

“W-what? This is Thomas, my… my boyfriend. His, uh, great-great-great-great-grandfather was Sir Thomas Sharpe himself. His father was the one who sold Allerdale Hall to the university.” You came up with quickly, shooting him a quick glance.

You were stunned—the both of you were. But right now was not the time to celebrate whatever this was. Clara was in danger and she needed your help.

“Alright then…” The caretaker did not sound convinced. “Amanda, you come with me. (Y/N), you search with… Thomas.”

You waited until the others were out of sight before you spoke up.

“How… how can they see you?”

“I don’t know. I really don’t. I—“ Thomas’ reply was interrupted by a sharp scream tearing through the air. You flinched, eyes widening. This had been close, almost too close.

Alarmed, you stormed in the direction the scream came from, your mind racing with unspoken thoughts.

“Have you lost your mind? You can’t just run off like that, (Y/N). We have to be careful. I am not losing you, now that I…” Now that he what? He was unsure himself. His voice when he reached you, however, was so strict you almost flinched. Now that he was… physically present, for real?

None of this made sense. If only you could turn back time to still lie in bed with him, cuddled up against his chest and listening to his steady heartbeat. For right now, you were not paying much attention to his worried look. Only a few yards away from you, a scene of pure terror unfolded.

Clara was lying on the ground, her clothes cut and a trickle of blood running down her face. Hovering above her, the two students Thomas had saved you from. Clearly, they intended to rape her… and worse. But there was something else. Someone else. A dark-haired woman wearing a crimson dress, a downright murderous expression on her face. She was transparent, just like Thomas had been when you first met him.

Her face fell when she spotted him behind you.

“Thomas. Thomas, my love…”

“W-who is that?” You heard yourself whisper anxiously. Thomas inched closer to you, his body warmth in your back reassuring you and promising you safety. And even though both the two students and Clara were unable to see Lucille, they too saw Thomas… and they witnessed him speaking to thin air. How… how were you able to see this woman then?

“Lucille…”

“Oh, Thomas.” Her smile was both pitiful and angry. It faltered when she realised he wasn’t as transparent as she was—and he was walking; not hovering or gliding over the ground like she did. “Thomas…”

“Lucille, stop this… these men are innocent, so is the woman. Leave them.”

“Innocent?” He replied indignantly. “They took our home! Polluting it with alcohol and drugs and parties! Look at what they’ve done to this place, Thomas, look at it! How could you not want revenge as well? Why don’t we want revenge together?”

You realised with a start what was happening. Lucille. Thomas called her Lucille. Lucille Sharpe? His sister who had murdered both their parents and so many innocent women… who had killed… him. She must have influenced the young men to wreak havoc. As a ghost, she was unable to harm the living, unless… unless she messed with their minds.

“It’s over, Lucille. This is wrong, you know that. We no longer belong in this world.”

A painful sting went through your heart. We no longer belong in this world. It couldn’t be true, not anymore. What about his heartbeat? What about Amanda and the caretaker? They could see him too! Did he… you gasped. He only said this because of his sister.

“And who is that?” Her voice broke, her piercing eyes landing on you and making you swallow. “Why are you protecting her?”

Thomas knew that no matter what he said now, it would be the wrong thing. Lucille was beyond reason, she always had been.

“Lucille…”

“I missed you. I missed you, Thomas. You… changed. What happened to you?”

You looked up at him in a concerned manner when he gently pushed you behind you, fearing Lucille might find a way to hurt you. He took a deep breath.

“It’s… it’s love. Love, Lucille. Love, it… brought me back to life. I fell in love.” It was impossible. But for now, it indeed was the only plausible explanation. Again, you swallowed, this time in a desperate attempt not to sob loudly.

Lucille cried out. “I love you! I always loved you!”

You only realised you were crying when the first salty drops ran down your cheek, more tears worsening your sight.

“But you killed him!” You snapped. “How can you speak of love!”

“Shut up! You shut up!” Lucille screeched. She was mad—you could see it glistening in her eyes. The madness was haunting her even in death, making her soul restless.

“Lucille… if you ever loved me like you claim you do, then let this people be. Think about how much we suffered. Do you want Allerdale Hall to be cursed with this much agony for all eternity?”

“Put your hands up in the air where we can see them and move away from the woman, gentlemen!”

Police. Clara glanced up in shock, the two men doing as they were told as if they were being ripped straight from a deep trance.

You wrapped your arms around Thomas, his presence calming your rapid heartbeat in an instant. Amanda and the caretaker were running towards Clara, helping her up and covering her bare shoulders with a coat. Everything happened at once, along with the two men being arrested for attempted rape and illegal drug use. You turned your gaze back to the spot Lucille had been standing on… but she was gone. For good?

“Thomas…”

“I know. I know but she will not harm you, or anyone else on campus. I swear… on my life.”

On his life. Life. Thomas was alive. He was alive because he loved you.

There were still so many things left unexplained, things you might never understand. But you were together. Your tears of fear soon turned into happy tears as a weak smile spread on your lips, your body overwhelmed with feelings. You were still shaking from all the adrenaline, the shock of having met the ghost of Thomas’ dead sister Lucille and her threat to harm you and your study colleagues residing deep within you… but you were also happy. It took you only the fraction of a second longer to realise what his words meant—and how significant they were.

“Thomas? I love you too.” You breathed out, standing on your toes to, for the first time, properly kiss him, passionately. His tongue sneaked into your mouth as the scissors in your hand fell to the ground, timidly asking for permission before intensifying the kiss, pressing you so close to his body it almost hurt.

You were dizzy by the time he let go of you, your lips only inches apart.

“Let’s head back. I need to hold you in my arms, in your bed.” He whispered hoarsely. You nodded, unable to object even if you had wanted to. But you doubted it would be just cuddling this time.

A/N: Check out my blog to find more Imagines and take a glimpse at my first (to be) published novel! Also, if you enjoyed this story, I would appreciate so much if you supported me on Kofi! ko-fi.com/sserpente ♥

#thomas sharpe #thomas sharpe imagine #thomas sharpe x you #thomas sharpe x reader #thomas sharpe fluff #sir thomas sharpe #sir thomas sharpe imagine #sir thomas sharpe x you #sir thomas sharpe x reader #sir thomas sharpe fluff #crimson peak #crimson peak imagine #tom hiddleston

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honmakurara · 4 years

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Kyuso wa cheese no yume wo miru: extensive manga review

Tormented and explicit, sharp and sophisticated: what Mizushiro Setona's masterpiece really is.

Warning: minor spoilers ahead. "I want to read something erotic and violent": this is what Mizushiro Setona's editor asked her, echoing the request of their chief editor when assigning to the mangaka a story for the supplement of the Josei magazine Judy, meant to be read by an adult female target: "I don't expect you to write a nice story. You have other skills you can count on. You can narrate about gay people, for instance, or about sadomasochism."

Starting from the first casual incursion of Mizushiro-sensei into the world of Boys' Love, between the years 2004 and 2006 Kyūso wa Cheese no Yume o Miru (窮鼠はチーズの夢を見 - The cornered mouse dreams of cheese) was born and defined; it is one of the most beautiful and intense stories ever written about such a genre and beyond, which did even receive excellent notes from the well acclaimed Takemiya Keiko-sensei of the renowned Group 24. Starting with these premises, one can already understand how Mizushiro-sensei, who was not a master of Boys' Love back then, has nonetheless been able to offer an excellent tale that transcends the borders of genres and ranges over way beyond what it had been asked her: the story had been initially conceived as a few chapters later compiled in one tankobon, but it eventually came back on the pages of Judy with a new series of chapters. These ones have also been later published, three years later, in a sequel tankobon titled Sōjo no Koi wa Nido Haneru (俎上の鯉は二度跳ねる - The carp on the chopping block jumps twice). After the renewed interest offered to Otomo and to the cunning Imagase's story, that the live action movie announcement awakened, the new manga chapter Hummingbird Rhapsody has been added to the whole franchise, which is included in the recently revised Japanese edition of the manga.

"Imagase... I'm scared of you...!"

"And I'm... scared of you, too." There's however not only violence and eroticism in this intricate story, and such a definition would actually mean to simplify way too much what it portrays, not to mention it would not fit exactly what the author was actually able to convey into it; other than the most obvious themes and elements, many others way more implicit and elaborate ones can be found there. We can even have a hint of that by peeking at the cover illustration of the volume, where a languid surface does not betray the contradiction of the soul. We can see an elegant portrait of the two main characters, who both hide all but dignified emotions inside them; a very accurate mirror of such a picture, which graphically reminds us of the previous editions of the manga, is the mind of the thirty years old Otomo Kyoichi after his encounter with Imagase. Otomo is a married adult man, leading an apparently impeccable life: he has good looks, polite manners and a nice job. He is gentle and esteemed by his colleagues and is able to make the many women crossing his path sigh from expectation. He cannot resist women either, that is why his life is an endless sequence of cheating on his wife. He reckons they are of no importance, at least until his wife hires the private eye Imagase Wataru to investigate upon his possible infidelities. Imagase is no new man in Otomos' life, being a kohai within the tennis club at university: he proposes to Otomo to be silent with his wife, in exchange for the heated make-out session that he never dared asking before, despite his being a unprejudiced homosexual guy having a crush on Otomo since forever. After the end of Otomo's wedding, though, the intimate encounters between the two men do not stop at all; they are pushed towards a fierce depth instead, symbols of a spiral of lust and psychological turmoil from which Otomo cannot willingly go back any more. "I am no good one."

"I know this. Bad natured men like you are the worst. Do you think that everyone is looking for that perfect person? You can't fall in love with anyone but that one person?"

"Someday, you'll find true love, too. The time will come when you can't help the feelings that well up inside you and you'll be carried away."

The themes and the premises are taken from various undoubtedly not new Boys' Love clichés; Mizushiro-sensei makes skillfully use of them to plumb the human soul as she does in many other works of her, making the story evolve quickly into something way different and way wider than what the numerous and explicit sex scenes might make us think at first. It takes a doting and obsessive homosexual guy into the life of some apparently happy man like Otomo in order to make the latter understand that his marriage is merely an empty shell, built with no true nor deep feelings to live an ordinary life. The encounter with Imagase, though, forces Otomo to think back deeply about his own actions and the meaning to give to his own life, until he gets to understand that despite his true gentleness, he has never cared for other people's feelings at all.

The relationship with Imagase makes his worst side come to the surface: jealous impulses, selfishness and possessiveness, unsuspected masochistic and yet dominating preferences, obscure compulsions and a never missing inclination towards all sorts of temptations. Otomo is no role model nor someone to praise and yet, he's neither a man whose submissive personality can be easily blamed. Such a personality is a spectrum of a lid hiding a lot of things, a reflection of our own fearful and insecure behaviour, our own incapability of getting to call ourselves into question until the moments, those surprising and unexpected moments, that are to change life for real. That these two lovers embody a strong universal value is further suggested by the choice of the Japanese kanjis with which their names are written: Mizushiro-sensei identifies Otomo Kyoichi (大伴恭一) with the definition of 'partner' itself, a potential alter ego of each of us; she entrusts Imagase Wataru (今ヶ瀬渉, from the kanjis of 'quickness', 'crossing', 'involvement' and 'human relations') with the importance of getting to catch the 'carpe diem', the fleeting moment. Should we were to play with the language a little bit, we would find out that the union of the two main characters would lead us to the meaning of a 'relationship with a partner', the play of the cat with its little mouse happening here and now, the moment that we are to live in every single instant.

"You're kidding?! I cannot believe it… You can't decide?! Between a woman... or a man?!” - Natsuki -

"Maybe Imagase is right... maybe I still have to know what true love it. Next month, I’ll turn 30."

Otomo meets a long series of women, each of whom is identified by a definite face and a marked, strong personality. Each of them leaves a vivid notch into Otomo's life; and yet, no one of these figures is able to open a gash into his soul. The true Otomo is unfathomable to anyone, himself included, just like he himself can finally understand after the new encounter with Imagase breaks the quiet surface of his existence. The desirable man that Otomo is in his colleagues' eyes, through Imagase's cynical and revealing gaze he proves to be none other than a failed seducer, a man devoid of lash and decisiveness, a figure suddenly insecure even about what the true and intense physical pleasure is and how to gain it. It is Imagase who makes the miracle, intercepting his senpai's emotional black hole, and the latter finally manages to find out where the borders of his own self lay and how to humbly face his own limitations and inner being. This does not happen thanks to a man, nor thanks to a good guy, but rather because of a tempting snake who exploits Otomo's weaknesses with a cheeky and direct attitude towards him; by acting like so, Imagase takes a vengeance towards his own young self, first of all, the one who had been unable to face with sincerity the object of his adoration, back then. "No matter how sweet he might be, he is war away, like the moon."

His impetuous whims and his sensual attentions take the lid off Otomo's soul in the deep and they produce the most unexpected of effects, by reversing the parts of this play: Otomo, the one who never even thought he would were to find himself one day on the verge of turning 30 years old by asking himself about the true nature of love, becomes fond of the weird daily life established with Imagase, and he adapts himself to such cohabitation with surprising rapidity. He becomes more and more aware of a homosexual relationship in which he, however not knowing how to move, goes on with the cautiousness, the tenderness and the care he had never reserved to any other person before, in his whole life. He even gets to question himself what it is that truly determines the happiness of a couple, both in the short and medium-long term. As for Imagase, he teaches his senpai how to increase the physical pleasure in a more and more intense way, making him find out what offering someone unconditional love means. Someone who is clearly an imperfect one in all his weaknesses, but at the same time someone who is loved for the one he is, and not just because he embodies the ideal of an unattainable perfect man.

As the relationship with Otomo evolves, though, it is Imagase slowly losing the control he had on the whole situation, as he lavishes his spasmodic need for affection -also made up of a sometimes exasperating and childish attitude- on a story born out of a youthful crush later evolved in true and heartbreaking love, against every possible prevision.

"I'm just eating away your current existence. I can't make you happy."

"I'll decide whether or not I'm happy. We're both so selfish."

That is why within the play of the cunning black cat with his naive mouse, it is no obvious at all who the real prey or the predator are; quite on the contrary, the roles are repeatedly overturned, both on a psychological and on a sexual level, in a turn-up which is mostly unprecedented as for what Boys' Love works are concerned: as the pages become more daring, there's a parallel growth of the sexual purse power that each of these main characters can use towards one another. A strong and undermining power. Playing tag, letting go, keeping on running after each other once again: all of those are demonstration of a love both childish and adult-like in its elements, a overwhelming love taken to the limit of the obsession, a deep affection that while looking straight into reality, forces both men to ask themselves how much they are willing to leave back of their own selfishness in exchange for an improper relationship, and yet a fulfilling and indispensable one. That is why it is equally truly fitting, the choice of borrowing the name of animals for the titles of the chapters, and these very same animals appears as 'guest-stars' inside the story itself: from a frame hanging at a restaurant to a lighter herald of jealousies, there is no similarity more proper than fish, cats, snakes, owls and butterflies to suggest us behaviours that are to recall the most primeval and animal-like instincts of the human beings. Weaving traps and spider webs: those mean, sleazy and petty acts that people also do when they're in love. "The obstacle is you. And so am I." The frame of this symbolism closes with a gaze looking up at the cover illustration, where the portraits of animals silently stand out in the background behind the main characters. At the same time, such a gaze looks suggestively up at the moon: the Romeo and Juliet described by Shakespeare invoked the moon for an eternal oath, while the Japanese writer Natsume Soseki in his famous 'Tsuki ga kirei, desu ne?' (the moon is beautiful tonight, isn't it?) metaphorically used the moon for a declaration of love. Mizushiro-sensei entrusts the white satellite with Otomo and Imagase's most unspeakable thoughts, for which the moon so becomes a silent leitmotif, as if it was a sensual tokonoma opening inside the story for all those people who can see beyond it: a sort of a story in the story, like a delicate, deep, subtle and intimate alcove. It goes beyond saying that every single dialogue of Kyuso wa cheese no yume wo miru manga is either enigmatic and cheeky and equally provoking and misleading: what we do reckon we understand about Otomo and Imagase, through their own words, gets later regularly denied by other facts. With thick lines and dialogues that are to tell us the very contrary of what they actually intend to convey, we cannot help but rely then on the inner voices of the many Otomos in his mind, in order to understand the nude truth: the white Otomo, the black and the grey one can maybe remind us of the concept behind the Pixar movie Inside Out, but Kyuso's one is by far forerunner of the latter. Mizushiro-sensei will make excellent use of such theme again by exploring it fully, and not without a subtle humour, in her following Nōnai Poison Berry manga; at the same time, the intricate juxtaposition of human beings and animals comes back to life in the well appreciated Shoujo manga Afterschool Nightmare, while the ultimate aim to attribute to ourselves and to love becomes the core of the romantic comedy Shitsuren Chocolatier, winner of the 36th Kodansha Manga Award - Shojo/Josei and also nominated for the Tezuka Award in 2014. Other than a fully substantial work per se, Kyuso wa cheese no yume wo miru can be also seen as a sort of effective experimental testing ground for the mangaka herself and her various best works.

"You think that's acceptable?!"

"Acceptable to whom?"

"To society!"

"You're overly self-conscious, as usual... society doesn't care about your sex life."

Mizushiro-sensei's style distinguishes itself for a modern and state-of-the-art graphic, an elegant and refined one, and Kyuso makes no exception: the peculiar design, so clean without any trace of deburring, gets softened as time and years passing by, as we can see by comparing the drawings made for the first chapters of the story with those from the Melancholy Butterfly onwards, and until the recent Hummingbird Rhapsody. Here the lines are so delicate and thin that they almost suggest us they could literally flake off under the piercing gaze of the reader. By leafing through the tankobon, all we can see are tidy pages, sometimes with no balloons at all, thus resulting in a huge expressive performance. The design is sharp and essential as for what details are concerned, but it is no minimalistic one; it is accurate in the depiction of bodies in every detail and characterized by a certain subtle sensuality, this latter marking not only the most rated scenes but also able to permeate the whole work instead. As used as she is in narrating with extraordinary ability about twisted and askew themes and exploring the human psyche with related sexual and gender identity issues, Mizushiro Setona offers us pages with highly aesthetic value, thrilling and bold ones, not without a sort of a certain aesthete voyeurism when depicting lovemaking scenes, however never vulgar at all. They manage to effectively evoke with a surprising visual impact, instead, the devastating passions from which both the characters and the readers end up being shaken and overwhelmed from. The violence this manga is impregnated with is mostly about its psychological insight, rather than the physical one, sex being however undoubtedly an inescapable element of the complicated events binding Otomo to Imagase: it is a key of the story but no ultimate reason of it. That is why we cannot help but follow, almost in a state of trance, how this couple is eventually able to get to intimately know each other by starting from a kiss born out of a blackmail, and thenquickly slackening every inhibition under the sheets through reversal of positions, seme/uke roles and sadomasochistic implications.

"Do you love me? Or after you got a taste of being loved so passionately are you pretending to be my lover as compensation for my feelings?"

How such a sentimental-psychological tangle can be outlined into a story constantly in balance between drama and comedy, keeping a perfect balance between each of its many faces always, without ever falling nor losing a thing, the reader can find it one page after another, surprising himself together with Otomo and Imagase in a thick and tormented love story, terribly authentic as much as its complicated and complex characters are. The pressing storyboard does now allow any rest nor break nor peace: accusations and skirmishes rebound from one man to the other in a never-ending evolution and involution of the personalities of the characters, that is until the unsettling ending; when the time of the games finishes and infantilism stops, another moment inevitably comes. The moment when the face of the adult we want to show to other people outside, goes finally and fully matching the inner essence of us as human beings. That very moment when one can take responsibility towards its own self.

"Poking holes in happiness makes you unhappy.

Nobody understands what I'm going through.

No one knows about the happiness I got to feel despite navigating into an ocean of doubts."

Otomo' sexism, while appreciating what Imagase offers him despite never intimately accepting it’s a man providing him with such a pleasure, vanishes in the very moment he gives his lover a vintage Château Pétrus bottle: it is one of the finest French wines in the whole world, thus suggesting his precious man the implicit idea of being an equally unique and irreplaceable one. Carrying on with a relationship where people can look at each other's eye and discuss, offering our whole self not in order to give back something we received but rather to go beyond our own self, it is then something quite different from seeking the pleasure of a night without any involvement: it is not the same indecisive man he was before, the one for whom appearances in society stops being an excuse, the man suddenly questioning himself how it might be wooing a man rather than a woman, or whether the relationship between two homosexual guys might even be more complete and deep than the one a heterosexual man might start with someone belonging to a ‘different’ universe from his own one.

What is love, then, if not the innate strength that allows us to see beyond our stiff self-esteem and pride, in order to overcome our limitations and arrive and reach the most intimate recesses of the one soul we naturally tend? And it is not only the Boys' Love theme per se to be central in this story, quite rather something that transcends every gender limitation to virtually embrace every kind of love, regardless of any possible colour or legitimacy. And that is because a different way of loving is no inadequate love nor a "less" love. However merely brushing LGBTQ+ themes, however never aspiring to become a gender manifesto, the Kyuso wa cheese no yume wo miru manga is able to outline some of these aspects with great perspicacity; there's then the excellent portrait offered to the weaknesses of the human being, slave of a need for affection as much hidden as obscure and here translated into the relentlessness of a physical and lacerating love. It does confirm to us how much the social and psychological themes are here treated with crude realism and keen sensibility. In a perfect synthesis of the Yin and Yang elements, Otomo and Imagase's greedy, mean and liar characters are flecked in a sometimes merciless way, not to mention the moment they mean to hurt other people but end up cleaving their own self instead first: it is a couple of uncomfortable characters the one we have here, someone with whom it is definitely not a pleasure to identify ourselves with, someone we wish never to meet, if any. Someone that nonetheless chooses never to give up when in front of human frailty, and that is why these characters end up being unusually authentic, charming and unforgettable ones. " I was hoping, someday, that by sharing my way of loving with you, you would have done the same to me one day." - Imagase -

"Ugh... I don't lose my temper like this with women." - Otomo -

The new revised All in One Edition reunites the two original volumes into one, which comes with a few color pages in the introduction and the brand new extra Hummingbird Rhapsody chapter. As for what the censorship is concerned, the original pages have actually been partially edited in a very few graphic details: it has been Mizushiro-sensei herself to provide them at the request of the Japanese publisher for the revised edition, which is meant to remove every explicit content starting from 28th January 2020. That happens in order to make the manga available also to a younger target, as the live action movie received a R15+ rating. Censorship involves however only the depiction of male genitals in a few specific, small and delimited portions of the pages, mainly in the first chapters of the story, and does not apply anywhere else. Female nipples and breasts, naked bodies and rated love making are left totally untouched, and so are the original dialogues, the true quintessence of this manga. Even the revised edition presents the harsh and explicit tones of the original pages and there is none of the messages conveyed by the manga that has been damaged or watered down by the re-print. "Love is divine punishment."

Carrying a perfect balance between seduction and feelings, the Kyuso wa cheese no yume wo miru manga is a challenging, demanding and intense reading. It is a mature story filled with issues, a complex and provoking one; it is compulsory to get near this story with the utmost attention, receiving though a crescendo of emotions that the reader will feel entangled with until the very last page. The Italian poet Giacomo Leopardi would have probably defined it a "matto e disperatissimo" love, a 'mad and utterly desperate' one. Like a river in flood sweeping everything away, the need for getting to know how to slacken control of ourselves and how to gain it back: educating the passion in a relationship is complicated to the point of seeming almost unmanageable.

Love in daily life is quite a different issue from the feelings of a romance novel, an engagement that forces people to swallow bitter bites sometimes, an endless tension towards the other and towards ourselves. In this story that happens to painfully disturbs the deepest part of the heart, we do not know who is the one leading the game; both characters here overthrow the typical Boys' Love canons, an audacious, cocky and authentic couple ready to question itself always.

A story that cannot be missed for all the lovers of the Boys' Love genre, Kyuso wa cheese no yume wo miru is also quite appropriate for all those one searching for an atypical love story, a strong and nonetheless sensual one, sublimated by a masterful introspection and a very welcome hint of subtle and stinging humour. It is a work dealing with many interesting and complicated issues, though never boasting about none of its many qualities.

A story that knows no limitation and no borders. One of those volumes to keep on the shelf of our own personal bookcase with the utmost care, to take up every now and then in our hands and find new shades of meaning after every new re-reading.

Originally written and posted in Italian @ Animeclick

#the cornered mouse dreams of cheese #Il Gioco del Gatto e del Topo #review #my poor feels

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yourdeepestfathoms · 4 years

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time to play your dead man’s hand (Day 1)

Life is Strange AU!!!! I don’t even have the first chapter done. It’s too long for Tumblr all together.

Also part one is kinda a test. I don’t know if I’ll continue this, but it people like it I will. But if this only gets, like, 10 notes then I’m not gonna slave myself over the LiS script to write this correctly.

Also also: I literally had no idea who should be Anne’s stepdad, so “Edmund” is just a filler name. If anyone knows someone who would make a good step father for her, please let me know!

One more thing- The Anne in this is Bowman!Anne! Because I like her more than Millie even though her character is supposed to be punkish

TW: Gun violence, death

——————

Part One- Chrysalis

The first flash of lightning wakes her. She cannot really recall falling asleep, but she is certainly awake now. The sky turns white again and then the rain, hard and relentless, begins. Another flash of lightning and, this time, thunder accompanies it. The massive boom shakes her to her toes and makes her feel small in comparison.

Her senses are a mess. She can hardly smell through the rain, and all she can see is the dark until the lightning intermittently burns the sky.

She’s lying face-down in the mud. The brown sludge slides down her face, slippery and grimy. It coats her clothes, but the rain is quick to wash it away and replace the drench with some of its own. She nearly slips as she’s pushing herself up to her feet, suddenly shivering.

The thunder cracks again, but this time she hears something inside of it. A shout. Several shouts, like the wail of anguished souls. She sees lightning, and then in the fading light, she sees shadows leftover.

She’s on a sloped path that has turned into a river from the rushing water. Her shoes and socks are soaked in an instant, already rubbing her feet raw and chafing blisters against her ankles. She tries to speak, but her throat is closed up in horror.

Where am I? What's happening? She thought, looking around. A storm? Why am I in a storm?

A burst of lightning torches the sky, splitting it in two in a magnificent silver slash. It illuminates the towering shape of the lighthouse just up the hill.

Wait... There's the lighthouse... I'll be safe if I can make it there... I hope...

Wind whips at her at dizzying speeds and the rain drives hard enough to push her to her knees. It is only through force of will and sheer luck that she manages not to be thrown clear as she began to stagger up the slippery path and to the cliff where the lighthouse is situated. She could scream, but the storm screams louder and its cries are deafening.

Time ceases to mean much as the storm pummels her and the world around her. She cannot see more than a hand's span in front of your face- she’s having to shield her head and squint so those subzero jerks couldn’t stab her blind. She’s exhausted by the short trek and is nearly prepared to give in to the whims of the storm and let it blow her where it will when she pulls herself up to the top of the incline.

Before her is the ocean, as dark as wine, and atop is a massive tornado. It was much too large to be real, but there it was, caged in flashing bolts of lightning and thick gales.

And it was heading right for Whitby.

Holy shit...

Suddenly, the storm whips up a large boat that had been thrashing in the waves near the beach. It was sent flying, crashing into the lighthouse and causing the top half to come crumbling down, down, down-

————

Maggie awoke with a start. Cold sweat is beaded on her brow and runs like slick snail trails down the back of her neck. She doesn’t scream, thank god, because she realizes that she’s in her art class at school. Warm rays of sun are bleeding in through the window, casting grand, golden shadows across pastel canvases and abstract parchments and colorful tapestries strung up along the walls. There was no sign of a storm in sight.

Woah, She thought. That was so weird.

A line of sweat starts to make its way down her pale face and she quickly swipes it away. Her heart is still racing, pounding painful inside of her chest. She tries to steady it and just focus on the calming voice of Mr. Tudor, the art teacher.

Okay... I'm in class...

At the table in front of her, Agnes Tylney’s pen falls on the floor and she reaches down to pick it up.

Everything's cool... I'm okay...

Catherine Aragon throws a paper ball at Joan Astley.

“Now, can you give me an example of a photographer who perfectly captured the human condition?” Mr. Tudor is saying.

Jane Seymour’s phone vibrates.

I didn't fall asleep, and...that sure didn't feel like a dream... Weird.

“Diane Arbus.” Jane answers. Her voice is like honeyed venom- sweet but stinging. Maggie knew the potency of the poison in her words all too well.

“There you go, Jane!” Mr. Tudor praised, “Why Arbus?”

As Jane was explaining, Maggie looked down at her table. Her basic school needs-pens, pencils, journal- were scattered out on the blacktop, along with her camera and a photograph. When she picks it up, she looks upon the horrid image of her standing in front of dozens of other pictures tacked on her dorm wall.

Look at this crap! How can I show this to Mr. Tudor? I can hear the class laughing at me now.

She sighed and set it back down. Her eyes cast over to the analog camera and she carefully picked it up as if it were a baby bird. She was always so cautious with the old thing.

Her thumb grazed over the washes out yellow top portion before gently pressed a button. The camera flashes in her face, taking her by surprise.

“Shh, shh, shh,” Mr. Tudor piped up. “I believe Maggie has taken what you kids call a "selfie"... A dumb word for a wonderful photographic tradition. And Maggie...has a gift. Of course, as you all know, the photo portrait has been popular since the early 1800's. Your generation was not the first to use images for ‘selfie-expression.’ Sorry. I couldn't resist. The point remains that the portraiture has always been a vital aspect of art, and photography, for as long as it's been around. Now, Maggie, since you've captured our interest and clearly want to join the conversation, can you please tell us the name of the process that gave birth to the first self-portraits?”

Maggie grits her teeth and tried not to sink into the bottom of her chair and evaporate into the abyss. Eyes were boring in on her from all sides. Tiny flames light up in her ears.

“I-I did know!” She stammered. “But I kinda forgot...”

Mr. Tudor narrows his eyes. He usually looks so lax and kind, so seeing him bring out the Disappointed Look cut deep.

“You either know this or not, Maggie.” He said, frustrated, “Is there anybody here who knows their stuff?”

“Louis Daguerre was a French painter who created ‘daguerreotypes’ a process that gave portraits a sharp reflective style, like a mirror.” Jane said, as boot-licking as always. She swivels her head around to Maggie, her eyes gleaming like a hungry tiger that just found its next meal. “Now you're totally stuck in the Retro Zone. Sad face.”

Maggie’s spine chafed painfully against the back of her chair as she hunches her shoulders in to seem smaller. Her ears were fully on fire, now- she hopes her hair is hiding them.

Just as Mr. Tudor is finishing his lecture on Jane’s answer, the bell rings. Students are instantly leaping up and scampering out of the classrooms.

“And guys,” Mr. Tudor says, “don't forget the deadline to submit a photo in the "Everyday Heroes" contest. I'll fly out with the winner to London where you'll be feted by the art world in the Tate museum. It's great exposure, and it can kickstart a career in photography. So, Agnes and Maud, get it together. Catherine, don't hide. I'm still waiting for your entry, too. And yes, Maggie, I see you pretending not to see me.”

Maggie stands up slowly, unfurling her shoulders from their hunched position. As she’s waiting for the muscles to stop aching from the sudden uncoil, she sees Jane beeline to Mr. Tudor’s desk. Maggie rolls her eyes.

Jane doesn't waste a second kissing ass...

She gathers her things and heads for the door. Before she could make her escape, however, Mr. Tudor’s smooth voice rang out.

“I see you, Maggie Wyatt. Don't even think about leaving here until we talk about your entry.”

Maggie tenses and then gives in. She turns around and approaches the front desk. She does her best to avoid Jane’s drilling gaze.

“I'd never let one of photography's future stars avoid handing in her picture.” Mr. Tudor said.

“Do I have to? I just don't think it's that big a deal.” Maggie said.

Jane snickers. Mr. Tudor has an almost-sympathetic look.

“Maggie, you're a better photographer than a liar...” He said. “Now I know it's a drag to hear some old dude lecture you... but life won't wait for you to play catch-up. You're young, the world is yours, blah blah blah, right? But you do have a gift, you have the fever to take images, to frame the world only the way you envision it. Now, all you need is the courage to share your gift with others. That's what separates the artist, from the amateur.”

Maggie can only bob her head shyly and mumbled a soft, “Yes sir.” Mr. Tudor takes it and lets her leave.

Stepping out into the hallway from the art class was like stepping into a hurricane. While the art class was serene and peaceful and illuminated by the sunshine’s warm glow, the hallway was a tiled jungle with fluorescent suns. Student were weaving every which way like colorful, talkative birds of paradise and the teachers peering out from their classrooms were the watchful jaguars. Dozens of conversations were going at once, laughing came from every direction, and the clatters of lockers were white noise for the cacophony. Everyone seemed to know what they were doing, boldly showing off their tail feathers and wings without a care in the world. Everyone except Maggie, that is. She sighed and shoved in her earbuds before she could hear Aragon from across the hall finish her statement about someone being “so fucking shy.”

Her destination was the bathroom, where she needed a serious timeout to unwind from her classroom embarrassment. She made herself as small as possible, narrowly avoiding the rushing figures of other students. Her awkward swivels and side-steps definitely earned her a few odd glances, but she tried to ignore them until she finally got into the safety of the bathroom.

Empty. Good. Nobody can see my meltdown. Except for me.

Maggie washes her face using one of the sinks, letting the chill of the tap water sink into her cheeks. She keeps her hands there for a moment before sighing and dropping them. She takes out her polaroid photo after turning the sink off.

Just relax. Stop torturing yourself. You have “a gift”.

She stared and stared and stared at the photo, but it just seemed to appear worse and worse the longer she looked.

Fuck it.

She tears apart her photo and drops it on the floor. The way the pieces fall to the ground are as delicate as the flutter of the butterfly’s wings that just flew in from an open window. Maggie blinks and follows it. It lands on a bucket behind a stall and spreads its emerald green wings into the light bleeding over it.

Holy shit. Maggie thought. Well...when a door closes, a window opens...or, something like that. She takes out her camera. Okay girl, you don't get a photo op like this everyday...

Maggie slowly approaches the butterfly and takes a photo of it. At the flash, the butterfly takes off, flapping in a blur of brilliant green that almost seems to glow in the air. As it dashed for a safe landing, the bathroom door opens and closes and a guy walks in. Maggie recognizes him as Thomas Cromwell, the richest, most pompous kid on the campus, from his slick hair and letterman jacket. He does a quick scan of the bathroom, not noticing Maggie hiding, and then began pacing. His pale, bat-like face is twisted with enraged horror. He looks like he was about to shatter at any second

“It’s cool, Thomas... Don't stress... You're okay, bro. Just count to three...” He was muttering to himself. “Don't be scared... You own this school... If I wanted, I could blow it up!” He laughed. Craziness oozed from the fractures in his voice- or maybe directly from his fragmented brain. “You're the boss.”

A moment later, the door swings open and a girl strides in. She’s a little heavier set, but carries herself with great pride and power. Her dark eyes are impish and on fire. Green is spilled out over the top of her hair, long, dyed tendrils of emerald coiling with brown locks. When she speaks, her voice comes out in a (familiar) confident growl.

“I hope you checked the perimeter, as my step-ass would say.” She said while checking the stalls. Maggie has to back up in her hiding spot- it’s a wonder neither of them have caught her, especially with how she’s peeking out to watch. “Now, let's talk bidness—”

“I got nothing for you.” Thomas said. He’s trying to keep his composure, Maggie can tell just by listening to him, but it’s about as cracked as his sanity.

“Wrong.” The girl said. “You got hella cash.”

“That's my family, not me.” Thomas grits. He’s grinding his teeth now.

The girl laughed. “Oh, boohoo, poor little rich kid!” Her tone becomes serious. She marches over to Thomas, who is hunched over the sink, bracing himself. “I know you been pumpin' drugs 'n' shit to kids around here... I bet your respectable family would help me out if I went to them.” She leans into his ear, “Man, I can see the headlines now—”

“Leave them out of this, bitch.” Thomas snarled.

“I can tell everybody Thomas Cromwell is a punk ass who begs like a little girl and talks to himself—”

Thomas rounds on the girl. There’s now a gun in his hand, which he must have been hiding in his jacket. The girl backs up into the wall, the fire in her eyes going out in an instant, and Thomas stands in front of her, one arm against the wall beside her head and the other pointing the gun at her stomach.

“You don't know who the fuck I am or who you're messing around with!” He roared.

“Where’d you get that? What are you doing?” The girl babbled. Her fearless mask has dropped in an instant at the presence of a weapon. “Come on, put that thing down!”

“Don't EVER tell me what to do! I'm so SICK of people trying to control me!” Thomas howled. Whatever was holding the crack in his brain together has broken apart at the seams and every bad thing is pouring out at a horrifying rate.

“You are going to get in hella more trouble for this than drugs—” The girl grunts. She can feel the biting metal of the gun’s muzzle press against her stomach. She’s so rigid.

Thomas leans into her ear. His voice is curled with dark ice. “Nobody would ever even miss your ‘punk ass’ would they?”

“Get that gun away from me, psycho!!”

The girl shoved Thomas away from her and makes a break for the door. Her sudden movements jar Thomas and he pulls the trigger. Blood splatters against the wall and from the girl’s mouth as the bullet passes through her stomach.

“NO!!” Maggie screamed.

She’s running out from her hiding spot without realizing it. She stretches out her right hand, as if she thought she could actually do something to help. The gun and the girl are falling to the ground in slow motion. Maggie’s breathing picks up. Everything becomes blurry. Black and white and grey splotches haze her vision. Every nerve is filled with painless liquid fire, buzzing inside of her. Red is the only other color she can see- the dark red of hot blood. Of her blood, maybe. She can’t tell anymore, but, suddenly, awareness returns to her- intense shock fades and leaves behind wet adrenaline in its wake, soaking her to the core. She opens her eyes- when did they ever close?- and finds herself in the art class again.

Warm rays of sun are bleeding in through the window, casting grand, golden shadows across pastel canvases and abstract parchments and colorful tapestries strung up along the walls. There was no sign of a storm- of a gun- of a dead body-

Whoa! What the fuck?! Maggie’s body lurches back in her seat. A few kids glance curiously at her before focusing back on Mr. Tudor, who was giving his lecture on Alfred Hitchcock and photography. How- how— I— She looks around again. I was in the bathroom... He shot that poor girl... I held up my hand...and now I’m back here.

Agnes Tylney’s pen falls on the floor and she reaches down to pick it up.

I already heard this lecture...

Catherine Aragon throws a paper ball at Joan Astley.

Now Joan is being hassled again... And if Jane’s phone rings...this is real.

Jane Seymour’s phone vibrates. Maggie’s heart leapt in her throat and her body flinches as if her fear had taken a physical form and punched her. Her clumsy limbs scramble awkwardly and one arm knocked her camera off the desk. It breaks into pieces upon hitting the ground.

Shit! Oh my god, I cannot believe this... Okay, if I'm crazy, I might as well go all the way... Can I actually reverse time?

Maggie holds up her right hand and, like an instinct knowing when to be triggered, her vision turns grey. She feels like she’s floating, maybe vibrating, and she watches as her broken camera pieces itself together and rises up to sit in its original position. When Maggie releases the force, Mr. Tudor is just getting to his Diane Arbus question. However, Maggie can barely hear him or Jane’s know-it-all answer. She was too busy staring in awe at her hand.

Holy shit. Holy shit! I’m a human time machine! H- how— Okay, okay, don’t freak out, Maggie. Not yet.

She looked at her newly-repaired camera and picked it up. She presses the photograph button and the flash momentarily blinds her. Just like before.

“Shh, shh, shh,” Mr. Tudor pipes up, “I believe Maggie has taken what you kids call a "selfie"... A dumb word for a wonderful photographic tradition. And Maggie...has a gift. Of course, as you all know, the photo portrait has been popular since the early 1800's. Your generation is not the first to use images for selfie-expression. Sorry.”

The teacher’s voice is barely processing in Maggie’s mind. She just couldn’t get herself to care about what he was saying. She was too worried about the girl she had seen die.

If I can go back in time...what if that girl isn't dead yet? Can I save her?

“Now Maggie,” Mr. Tudor is rounding on her, just like he did last time. “since you've captured our interest and clearly want to join the conversation, can you please tell us the name of the process that gave birth to the first self-portraits?”

Maggie opened and closed her mouth for a moment. The words are thick at the back of her throat.

“I-” It’s hard to enunciate properly. If she wasn’t so worried about that green-haired girl, she might have been more embarrassed over her squabbling. “I'm sorry, Mr. Tudor, I feel sick. May I be excused?”

“Nice try, Maggie, but you're not gonna get away that easy. We can talk more after class.” Mr. Tudor said.

Maggie swallowed hard. As much as she loved Mr. Tudor, she really wanted to slap him right about now. She wasn’t feigning illness- she genuinely felt sick to her stomach with anxiety and fear. She was sure she was ghostly white, too. How could Mr. Tudor not see that?!

“Is there anybody here who knows their stuff?” Mr. Tudor asked.

“Louis Daguerre was a French painter who created "daguerreotypes" a process that gave portraits a sharp reflective style, like a mirror.” Jane answered like before. And, like before, she looked at Maggie mockingly and said, “Now you're totally stuck in the Retro Zone. Sad face.”

“Very good, Jane.” Mr. Tudor praised. “The Daguerreian Process brought out fine detail in people's faces, making them extremely popular from the 1800's onward.”

It was Jane’s snide remark that snapped Maggie slightly out of her worried trance. She side-eyed the blonde and clenched her jaw. She decides to test out her new power again and ‘rewind’.

“Now Maggie,” Mr. Tudor said, marking the ability a success once again. “since you've captured our interest and clearly want to join the conversation, can you please tell us the name of the process that gave birth to the first self-portraits?”

“The Daguerreian Process.” Maggie said, practically reciting Jane. “Invented by a French painter named...Louis Daguerre. Around 1830.”

Mr. Tudor looks a little surprised, but smiled at the girl. “Somebody has been reading, as well as posing. Nice work, Maggie.”

Jane gives Maggie an annoyed look, which she can’t help but feel empowered about.

“The Daguerreian Process made portraiture hugely popular, mainly because it gave the subjects clear defined features. You can learn more when you actually finish reading the assigned chapters. Maggie is so far, way ahead of everybody.”

The bell rings. Maggie practically flies out of her seat and began collecting everyone as quick as she could.

“And, guys, don't forget the deadline to submit a photo in the ‘Everyday Heroes’ Contest!” Mr. Tudor said, “I will fly out with the winner to London where you'll be feted by the art world in the Tate museum. It's great exposure and it can kickstart a career in photography. So Agnes and Maud, get it together. Catherine don't hide, I'm still waiting for your entry too. And yes Maggie, I see you pretending not to see me.”

Maggie, you are not crazy. You are not dreaming. It's time to be an everyday hero.

Instead of trying to leave, already knowing she’ll be halted, she hurries over to the front desk. Joan watches her with those lamb eyes of hers from where she’s still seated.

“Excuse me, Mr. Tudor, can I talk to you for a moment?” Maggie asked.

“Yes, excuse you.” Jane said, narrowing her eyes at Maggie.

“No, Jane, excuse us.” Mr. Tudor said. He turns to Maggie. “I'd never let one of photography's future stars avoid handing in her picture.”

“I’m not avoiding, just...”

“Biding time, waiting for the elusive ‘right moment’?”

“Exactly.”

Mr. Tudor chuckled lightly and said, “Maggie, my dear, don't wait too long. John Lennon once said that ‘Life is what happens while you're busy making other plans.’ Go on now, don't let me stop you.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Maggie exits quickly and delves right into the jungle that was the hallway. She pushed through the brambles of students to get to the bathroom, making it there in record time.

Okay, Maggie, retrace every step... I washed my face- She washes her face. I shredded my photo- She shredds her photos. Then the...butterfly flew in- The butterfly flies in. And I took a photo...

The camera flashes. The butterfly leaps up from the bucket and flaps away. The bathroom door swings open. Thomas Cromwell strides in.

Maggie stays hidden behind the stall, listening. She hears Thomas mutter darkly to himself, then that girl enters. She unknowingly taunts Thomas and he soon snaps. By the sudden yell, Maggie knows the gun was out.

She began looking around as the terrified yelling rattles through the bathroom. She dreads the gunshot that was soon to come if she didn’t do something.

She notices the fire alarm on the wall. Grabbing a fallen hammer by the bucket, Maggie smashes the glass encasing the alarm and pulls it. The siren began to wail.

“No way...” She hears Thomas mutter. Then, he grunts in pain as the girl knees him in the groin and shoves him away. Maggie watches in relief.

“Don't EVER touch me again, freak!” The girl yelled before running out.

Thomas totters on his feet for a moment before picking up his fallen gun. He growled softly, noticing the photograph scraps on the floor.

“Another shitty day...” He mutters before walking out.

Maggie emerges from her hiding spot. Cold sweat is prickling on her brow, sliding into her bulging eyes. She doesn’t even bother to wipe it away.

That did not happen! This cannot be real! I just saw a girl get shot and then saved her! What the fuck is going on?

She waits a moment before exiting the bathroom. Outside, the hallway is empty, aside from a few fleeting figures of running students. And the school’s security guard.

Edmund coming at Maggie nearly startled her back into the bathroom. He’s upon her in an instant, his sharp voice tearing strips off of her before she can even think of something to say.

“Hey, do you hear that fire alarm? That means you should be outside.”

“I had to use the bathroom...” Maggie said.

“Girls always use that excuse.” Edmund rolled his eyes.

“Excuse for what?” Maggie said, slightly ruffled.

“For whatever you're up to. Your face is covered in guilt.”

“The alarm tripped me out!”

“Then trip on out of here, missy. Or are you hiding something? Huh?”

Maggie was about to consider crying to get herself out of that situation when Principal Dudley emerged from his office and called out.

“Thank you, Edmund, the situation is under control. There's no emergency here.” He said. “Leave Miss Wyatt alone and please turn off that alarm, since that's your job.”

Edmund didn’t argue, but he did give Maggie a suspicious look before lumbering away. Maggie sighs in relief and starts for the front doors to leave and evade the incessant siren, but Principal Dudley stops her.

“You look a little stressed out, Maggie.” He said. “Are you okay?”

Maggie chewed on the inside of her cheek. “I'm...I'm just a little worried about my...future.” The lie was horrid.

“You're sweating pinballs.” Principal Dudley points out. “Is that all you're thinking about? You can always be upfront with me, Maggie. Or have you done something wrong... Is that it?” He’s making Maggie even more anxious with his prodding. “Well, Maggie? Talk to me.”

Maggie clenches her jaw, then let’s the truth spill out. She had to tell- Thomas was a danger to the school!

“I just saw Thomas Cromwell waving a gun around...in the girls' room.”

Principal Dudley’s eyes go wide, but then his brows furrowed when he really processes what had been said to him.

“Thomas Cromwell. You sure?”

Maggie is shocked at his doubt. Sure, it may be normal to ask for complete sincerity, but Principal Dudley doesn’t seem very convinced at all. He must be swayed by all the money the Cromwell family has. Even then, could he not see how Thomas was breaking apart at the seams?!

“Yes!” She said. “He was in the bathroom talking to himself with a gun. I saw everything! He was babbling like crazy—”

“Okay, slow down, slow down.” Principal Dudley said. “So you saw this...without him seeing you?”

“I was hiding behind a stall.” Maggie said. Impatience and desperation are oozing into her voice. “I have the right to be there. It's the girls' room—”

“I know, I know.” Principal Dudley said. “I just want to be completely clear what happened. Mister Cromwell happens to be from the town's most distinguished family. And one of Blackwell's most honored students. So it's hard for me to see him brandishing a weapon in the girls’ bathroom. So what happened next?”

Maggie went to tell him about the girl and their conversation, but stopped herself. She didn’t want to make herself a suspect if this all blew up in her face.

“Then...then he left. I ran out here wondering what to do.” She paused. “Are you going to bust him?”

“This is a serious charge.” Principal Dudley mutters. “I'll look into the matter personally. Thank you for bringing it to my attention.”

Maggie nodded. She wished Principal Dudley would do more than that, but she should have known. The Cromwell family practically owns Blackwell Academy. She just hopes she didn’t just throw her entire scholarship down the toilet.

She steps outside and is immediately bathed by the warm rays of the golden-orange sun. Beams of light hit the Blackwell campus in just the right way to show off how grand and pristine it was. It was a private school, after all.

As Maggie is walking down the front steps, she notices some papers scattered out on the ground. She picks one up and reads it.

MISSING- KATHERINE HOWARD

MISSING FROM: Whitby, Yorkshire

DATE MISSING: Monday, April 22, 2020

OTHER:

Age: 15 years old

Height: 5’0 Weight: 110lbs

Hair: Blonde, dyed pink Eyes: Hazel

Katherine Howard... She looks so hopeful and pretty. I wonder what happened to her...

Maggie set the paper back down and started to walk to the dorms. As she does, she gets a text from Cathy Parr, a good friend of hers. The girl was asking if she could have her flash drive back. Maggie texts back saying she will and would meet her in the parking lot. However, getting the flash drive was a lot harder than she expected, starting with the way Jane and her goons, Aragon and Jane Rochford, were lounging on the steps to the girl’s dormitory like watchful hawks. When Maggie approaches, Jane stands up with a wide smirk.

“Oh, look, it's Maggie Wyatt, the selfie ho of Blackwell. What a lame gimmick. Even Henry-” She slips for a moment, but corrects herself quickly. “Mr. Tudor—falls for your waif hipster bullshit. ‘The Daguerreian Process, sir!’ You could barely even say that. I guess you got your meds filled.” Behind her, Aragon and Rochford laugh. “Since you know all the answers, I guess you have to find another way into the dorm. We ain't moving. Oh, wait, hold that pose!” Jane snaps of photo of Maggie and sneers. “So original. Don't worry, Maggie, I'll put a vintage filter on it right before I post it all over social medias. Now, why don't you go fuck your selfie?” She sits back down on her perch.

Maggie steps back, grinding her teeth. She looks around the dorm’s courtyard, trying to find something to help her. Anthony Lee and Peter Meutas were throwing a football ball to each other, but Maggie didn’t dare approach boys in their primal sport. Maud was reading on one of the benches and Joan was sitting all alone near the shrubbery, but she didn’t want to bother them, either.

And then there’s a rattle from above.

The school’s most well-known janitor, Duke, is up on a ladder painting. The bucket of white paint he’s using is supposed to be hooked on the side of the rungs, but Maggie watches as it falls and splatters all over Jane.

“No way! No fucking way!” She screeches.

Aragon and Rochford leap up in an instant. Their eyes are wide- a look of such shock is unusual on them.

“You okay, Jane?” Aragon asked.

Jane glared at her. It’s enough of an answer.

“Hold on, hold on, we'll get some towels!” Rochford said. “We'll be right back!”

“So move your ass, before I dry!” Jane barked.

Aragon and Rochford scramble inside. Maggie waits for a moment before slowly approaching Jane- or, rather, the door, but she got dragged into a conversation anyway.

“Uh...hey, Jane...”

“What do you want, Maggie?” Jane hissed. Her eyes are narrowed in a warning.

“I’m sorry about what happened. That was an awesome coat...”

Jane blinked at the passivity of the younger girl’s comment. She loosened up a little and stopped baring her teeth like an enraged white tiger.

“It was.” She sighed. “But there will be another.”

“Well...” The conversation was actually going smoothly. Might as well keep it up and try to get on Jane’s good side so she’ll lay off. “you always seem to know how to pick the right outfits.”

“I do have some talent. Mr. Tudor told me-” Jane stops herself. Maggie is sure she’s biting her tongue.

“I've seen your pictures.” Maggie said. “You have a great eye, Richard Avedon-esque.”

“He's one of my heroes...” Jane’s eyes, usually so judgmental and cruel, scan Maggie without an ounce of mockery in their gaze. “Thanks, Maggie.” She looks over her shoulder at the doors to the dorm. “I hope those sluts get me a towel before they hang a sign on me.” She turns to Maggie again. “You deserve a better shot. Sorry about blocking you and...and the ‘go fuck your selfie’ thing.”

“That was mean...but pretty funny.” Maggie admitted, laughing slightly.

“Just one of those days, you know?”

“I know exactly what you mean, Jane.” Maggie said. “I'll see you later.”

“Au revoir.”

Maggie notices that Jane offered her a small wave. She returns it with a slight smile before stepping into the dormitory.

The dorm building is about as basic as one could get- a long hallway full of doors with one branching path that led to the bathroom. Maggie walks down the corridor, glancing at the slates beside each dorm that could be written on. Hers was blank when she got to her room at the end. She didn’t think much of it and stepped inside.

Home, sweet home. My favorite cocoon...

Her room is a basic setup- bed in the corner near the door with a fuzzy ferret stuffy sitting atop the pillows like a duvet guardian, lanterns strung around the ceiling for lighting, a drawer with a radio at the foot of her bed, a desk, a bookshelf with a few potted plants, a small couch, a guitar, her closet, dozens of photos tacked on her wall. It was cozy, and it was home now.

While she’s searching for the flash drive, Maggie noticed a sticky note on her desk. When she picks it up, it reads, “Hey girl,”-the I has a heart instead of a dot, a little something that made Maggie’s touch-starved heart flutter-“I borrowed your drive so I can watch some flix while I study. If you need it back, just track me down! XoXo, B.”

So it’s in Bessie’s room...

Honestly, Maggie didn’t mind. Bessie Blount was nice to her and super sweet, despite having obvious baggage of her own. She was strong and smart in a way Maggie wished she could be.

As Maggie leaves her room, she sees Maria de Salinas charge out of Bessie’s dorm and lock the door. She leans against it as Bessie knocks loudly.

“You can't get out now, Bessie! So tell me the truth, or rot in there!” Maria growled.

“Let me out, Maria! This is so stupid! You are ridiculous! If you don't let me out, I will scream!”

Maggie blinked. She approaches slowly, but Maria doesn’t glare at her when she gets near.

“Hey, Maria,” Maggie said. “Is everything cool?”

Maria rolled her eyes. “Oh, yes, Maggie. I've locked Bessie in the room because we're ‘cool’.”

“What did she do?” Maggie asked.

“What didn't she do?“ Maria’s anger bubbles up again. “Shes been sexting with my boyfriend, that’s what she did.”

“No I didn’t!!” Bessie yelled from inside the room.

Maggie winced. “Ouch. How did you find out?”

“Uh, why do you care?” Maria said. “Why are you even asking me? You never talk, just zone out with your camera.”

“That's why I'm talking to you now.”

Maria crosses her arms. “What's my last name?”

She’s being tested to her an answer. Maggie blinks.

“Maria de Salinas. Duh!”

Maria is surprised. “I'm flattered. I didn't even think you knew my name at all.”

“Of course I do. Just because I don't talk a lot doesn't mean I don't care. So, how did you find out about them?”

“According to Jane, Bessie would do anything to date a football player.” Maria explained. “She saw the sext. And William won't answer his phone. Once Bessie admits it, she can go. Straight to hell.

“Maggie, I swear I didn't do ANYTHING!” Bessie cried from behind the door. “But I bet Jane did! I know the proof is in her room!”

Knowing that she couldn’t go to Cathy without the flash drive; Maggie agrees to do a little trespassing and snuck into Jane’s room, which was about as pristine and neat as she expected.

After printing an email Jane sent to Aragon about the whole ordeal going down, Maggie returned to Maria and showed her the evidence.

“Of course...” Maria muttered. She turned and opened Bessie’s door. “I'm an asshole. I'm sorry, Bess.”

“You are, and I hope so.” Bessie’s eyes softened. “You really think I'd mess around with William?”

“No. But I get stupid jealous. I owe you dinner. Still love me?”

Bessie smiles and chuckled. “And you do my laundry.”

Maria turns back to Maggie with a relieved look. “Thanks, Maggie. You're like the Blackwell Ninja. Now let's see what William has to say about Jane...” She storms out of the dorm.

“You set me free!” Bessie laughed. “Thank you. Cathy’s flash drive is on my desk.”

Maggie retrieves it quickly and heads out to the main campus. However, she stops when she sees Edmund stalking towards a very scared-looking Joan.

“...so don't think I'm blind!” The security guard was saying. “I see everything here at Blackwell! Do you understand what I'm saying?

“No!” Joan cried. Her eyes are glistening with tears. “Leave me alone!”

“You can't fool me. I know everything about this school. I cover the waterfront. So you better figure out what side you're on...”

“Please, leave me alone!” Joan is crying, now.

Edmund is about to say something else when there’s a flash from a few feet away. He notices Maggie holding her camera and grits his teeth before storming off. Maggie instantly went to Joan’s aid, but the blonde didn’t seem to be in the mood for pity.

“Hope you enjoyed the show.” Joan grits, wiping away tears. “Thanks for nothing, Maggie.”

Maggie watches her run to the dorms with a frown.

Poor girl...

#life is strange au #six the musical #anne boleyn #jane seymour #henry the eighth #catherine of aragon #maria de salinas #maria on the drums #bessie on the bass #jane rochford #thomas cromwell #catherine parr #katherine howard #tw: gun violence #tw: death

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alphawave-writes · 4 years

Text

Evil actions and good intentions chapter 12: Earthshine

Synopsis: The newly reformed Overwatch and its new recruits, Harold Winston and Sigma,

Read it here on find it on AO3. You guys can find me on twitter or in my Sigma/Harold discord server. If you want to support me, buy me a ko-fi or commission a work from me

Harold never thought he’d be back here, but here he is, staring at the Xichang Satellite Launch Center again. It hasn’t changed all that much since the last time he saw it, back when he was to board Chang’e 50 to get back up to the moon. It gives him a strange sense of nostalgia as he watches this new, smaller spacecraft, aglow with a million lights, engineers and technicians preparing it for its flight. News crews are all here with their cameras pointing at the spacecraft, waiting on bated breath for the moment it launches up into the sky and disappears from sight. Everywhere Harold looks, everybody is talking about it. The world’s first lunar rescue mission. A race against time. A historic moment in the making.

And he has to go up there and literally steal the spacecraft for himself, the very man they think is trapped on the moon.

As people watch Hou Yi 1 get prepared, Harold sneaks in through the engineer side. He taps at his temple, briefly getting an x-ray glimpse at everybody else’s position. Genji and Symmetra are making their preparations at the side of the building while Tracer and Lucio are in the crowd, hiding in plain sight. Brigitte and Reinhardt and Lucio are waiting on the airship with Winston, ready to help in the charge if needed. That just leaves him and Siebren to find a way onto the spacecraft.

Harold tugs uncomfortably at the cap on his head. “I hate hats,” he grumbles.

“I know you don’t like hats, but you have to keep it together. We cannot afford to blow our cover now.”

For the purposes of infiltration, Siebren and Harold had to get disguises. For Harold, all it took was a change in his hairstyle, but for Siebren they had to go one step further. Apparently, Mei had a lot of fun putting make-up on Siebren, hiding his wrinkles and making him look younger. A cheap wig was considered, but it was ultimately decided that he looked less like himself with his bald head. Siebren, of course, had no idea how to respond to such a comment.

“Sigma, are you there?” Harold hears Winston’s voice crackle from his ear piece.

“Sigma, present and in position.”

“Good. Charon?”

Harold can’t help but smile a little. The codename is probably unnecessary, but he has to admit, he can see why Siebren’s so attached to his own. It’s another life to breathe beneath his skin. Another little mask to hide behind. “Charon here, with Sigma,” he said.

“Everybody is in position,” Winston says.” If all goes absolutely well, you might be able to get into the spacecraft without any trouble, but the chances of that are unlikely at best. Most likely, you will have to fight some guards off. We still don’t know what Talon has in store.”

“Talon has resources, but even they have difficulty in acquiring resources when it comes to space travel,” Siebren says. “I only rescued Har—Charon on their behalf because they managed to scrounge up the necessary parts for an abandoned spacecraft and secure a private air yard, and apparently that took well over a year’s worth of effort. I very much doubt they have the resources to get up to the moon by themselves. They need this mission to go smoothly.”

Winston hums in thought. “Symmetra, do you think Lucheng might have connections to Vishkar or Talon?”

“I cannot speak for Talon, but I can assure you that we have petitioned to collaborate with Lucheng Interstellar on numerous occasions, and each time we have been turned down. They have been unwilling to see the true potential of hard light in space colonization.”

“So the answer is no,” Winston says.

Satya lets out a quiet sigh before saying, “Correct. There are currently no ties between Lucheng and Vishkar. None that I am aware of.”

“Ladies and Gents, the show is starting,” Tracer announces. “Everybody ready? We gotta time this distraction perfectly, and then the show is on!”

All around him, men and women and omnics in identical uniforms do their final checks on Hou Yi 1. Each person is designated one specific thing on the spacecraft to double-check. Nobody seemed to glance twice at Harold or Siebren, to his relief. Disguising themselves as Vishkar guards was definitely a stroke of genius on his part, even if he has to force himself to wear a hat throughout the ordeal.

Harold’s eyes catch on the walkway above him, where the astronauts will enter. Through the ear pieces, Harold can hear a smattering of polite clapping. In the reflection of the glass, he can see Lucheng Interstellar’s presentation for himself, projecting through the news cameras. Within seconds he sees a projected portrait of his younger self. The CEO was speaking now, making some grand speech. Unlike last time, neither Moira nor Sanjay Korpal could be seen behind him. Instead, it was the small crew of astronauts chosen to pilot the space craft.

His eyesight still wasn’t that good even with the nanobots partially correcting his vision, but he could vaguely make out the astronauts’ faces. They were all young, wide-eyed Chinese men and women who looked like they’d rather be anywhere but at the press conference. It wasn’t too different from his own first mission up to the moon, nervous as hell, just waiting for everything to hurry up.

By Harold’s side, Siebren frowns deeply.

“What’s wrong?” Harold asks.

“I don’t have a good feeling about this,” he murmured. “Something is wrong.”

Harold is about to open his mouth to ask how, but then he heard a terrifying sound. It isthe noise of the universe, the gaping maw before the black hole threatening to swallow the world whole, the calm piano arpeggios before the storm. He stares at Siebren wide-eyed, lips tight in morbid understanding.

And then he hears the screams.

Behind him, he sees the omnic workers jolt and jitter, their eyes shining red in warning. They grab the workers and beat them up or throw them away. Siebren begins to float up, toeing away his shoes, hyperspheres forming in his hands before he flings them at the nearest omnic. Almost immediately, the omnics all turn not to Siebren but to Harold himself, red lights sparkling with resolution.

“Jade Hare…” they say in unison.

Harold takes the jet injector out from its hiding place, switches it on, and pulls the trigger. Bolts of lightning flash and flicker, zapping at all the omnics who dare come close, making them fall down one by one. With a grunt, Harold tosses his hat away and runs away before the cameras can pick up his face.

“Change of plans,” Harold calls into the communicator. “Omnics are on us. We have to break for the ship now.”

“We’re on our way,” Winston cries. “Everyone, they’re on the attack. Change to plan B: we have to hijack the spacecraft.”

“I should be able to hack into the computer systems from here, but I’ll need help,” Symmetra says.

“I will watch her back,” Genji says.

“People haven’t noticed yet, but the omnics are acting real fishy. Me and Lucio’ll cause a distraction, Tracer style,” Tracer says.

Harold almost doesn’t see the omnic rushing straight at him, but it explodes before his eyes with a well-placed volley by Siebren. His lips curl into a frown. “Pay attention,” Siebren says.

“I will, don’t worry,” Harold says.

As he runs, he shrugs the Vishkar uniform off to reveal the Overwatch uniform underneath. With a grunt, Harold connected the jet injector to his backpack, sighing when he felt the nanobots begin to activate, flowing out of his veins, into the backpack and filling the vial of the jet injector. Siebren shrugged his own uniform out, the heavier plates of his armour floating over his shoulders.

There’s a smaller contingent of omnic guards in front of them. They outnumber them, but Siebren summons a barrier in front of them to block the bullets. Harold runs forward, letting the lightning rip through their systems while Siebren launches volleys of hyperspheres as cover fire. When a bullet grazes Siebren’s armour and draws blood, Harold switches the mode of the jet injector and points the trigger at Siebren, a stream of nanobots healing Siebren’s wound in an instant.

When the final omnic guard falls to its knees, Harold’s earpiece crackles again. “We’re on-route to your position,” Winston cries.

“The press sure is loving us,” Tracer cries. The sounds of gunfire and more screams can faintly be heard. Some up-tempo nu-techno song is playing faintly in the background.

“The spotlight loves us as well,” Lucio laughs.

“Where do we go, champ?” Harold asks Winston.

“You’ll have to go to the main hall and backstage. The stairs up to the spacecraft is there.” The comms crackles off.

“Let’s hope this distraction goes as planned,” Siebren grumbles to himself. “This mission is ruined if people realise who you are.”

“They won’t,” Harold says as his eyes begin to glow gold. “I’m not the man I used to be.”

“No,” Siebren laughs. “You’ve got just the right amount of him.”

They enter the building and go through the winding hallways of the staff areas. It’s fortunately empty, apart from the few fleeing staff members, but they are too busy escaping to give them any heed. When they get to the end, Siebren uses his powers to shove the doors open. Harold stops in his tracks at the sight before him. Everybody has already fled, leaving only Tracer, Lucio, and their attackers. Reaper and Moira are here with an army of omnics supporting them, launching their own offensive. The giant screen that used to show Harold’s younger face now displays a very familiar sugar skull icon.

It’s a nightmare come true. Talon is here.

Tracer and Lucio are fast, trying their hardest to fight, but no matter how many hits they can dish out, it all gets healed up in an instance by Moira’s biotic orb or by Reaper’s abnormal healing. But Reaper and Moira are too slow in trying to fight them. It’s literally a battle of speed versus attrition.

“We have to help them,” Harold says.

“We can’t. We don’t have much time.”

Above their heads is a few smaller screens, each connected to a different news channel. On the corner of each of the screens is a countdown for the spacecraft’s imminent launch. One by one, the countdown decreases dramatically from one hour to ten minutes. On screen, the astronauts are hurriedly putting on their spacesuits, making their hasty final checks.

In front of him, Tracer and Lucio are slowing down, losing their speed. Reaper and Moira also look tired, but not nearly tired enough. Moira’s blackened hand reaches out for Lucio, sapping the life away from him. They’re distracted. He can slip past, get to the spacecraft, and finish the mission. This will all be for nothing if Harold doesn’t get on the spacecraft. But he also wants to help them. He sees Siebren’s jaw clench, the same thought going through his head.

“I’ll see you in hell,” Reaper growls, pointing a shotgun square at Lucio’s face.

The blast goes off but Lucio is still standing and alive. Siebren is in front of him, absorbing the energy round and dispersing them into dust. Harold quickly moves to join him, a small stream of nanobots healing Lucio before he flicks the gun back to attack mode as Tracer escorts Lucio out. In the corner of his eye he sees Siebren give a fleeting little smile before staring down his new foes. Harold does his best not to smile too wide.

“You two have been a real pain on my backside,” Reaper growls.

“Dr. Winston,” Moira sneers. “I shouldn’t be surprised you have picked an organization such as Overwatch to protect you, but I am surprised with you, Sigma. I thought you were more intelligent than that.”

“The purpose of my work was always to build a better future,” Siebren declares. “Giving myself up to this cause is not injudicious.”

“And you think you did not have a purpose with Talon? We saw who you really are, that is why we set you free. We’ve cultivated your mind, your abilities. Overwatch has undermined brilliance in the past, and they will do it again. It’s a place of stagnation, where great minds go to die. Do you honestly think a change of leaders will not bring up the same issues?”

Siebren doesn’t speak, the hyperspheres flickering slightly, growing darker. His lips dip for just a second.

“You don’t belong with them. You belong in a different environment, where you can grow without restriction, where no one can judge you for the way that you think.” She glances coldly at Harold. “Where you are not led astray by those who don’t know what your best interests truly are.”

Harold can hear the hitch in Siebren’s throat, quiet but unmistakable. He feels those ocean blue eyes upon his body, breaking down his body molecule by molecule, trying to find the nonexistent needle in the haystack. He doesn’t dare turn his head and give Siebren the benefit of the doubt. He can’t hesitate now. All he can do is keep his weapon trained on Reaper and Moira.

“Dr. Winston doesn’t speak because he knows it’s the truth,” Moira continues. “He’s using you. You just don’t realise it.”

“And you didn’t use me?” Siebren spits.

“Perhaps, but we never mislead you. We’ve always wanted to help you develop your research and your abilities.” Moira turns to Harold. “Can you say the same, Dr. Winston?”

“All you care about is what he can do, not the person himself. You don’t care about his well-being. You don’t care about how he feels about this violence.”

“You’re not answering the question,” Moira smirks. “Might as well be an admission of your guilt.”

“And let you twist my words even more?” Harold asks.

Harold turns his head just a bit only to find Siebren stare blankly in front of him. He’s glancing between Moira and Harold, eyes wide, a myriad of emotions flickering and scintillating. Then, they narrow, and those ocean blue eyes turn cold as ice. With a wave of his hand, he lowers the barrier and floats forward.

“Siebren?”

He does not react as he joins Reaper and Moira’s side, his head ducked in submission. Moira’s smile is wide, a curious mix between glee and cruelty. Siebren only spares a single knowing glance in Harold’s direction. Harold’s eyes widen.

“Perhaps we should restart your mental conditioning. For now, I’ll let you decide if you want to fight or not.”

“I think I will fight,” Siebren utters, his expression growing cruel, “but not for you!”

Siebren raises his hand and breaks the shackles of gravity, taking him and Reaper and Moira high in the air. He’s floating above them, the universe’s song playing for deaf ears, the back of his head glowing as he summons the hyperspheres into fruition. One hits Reaper in the side while the other barely misses Moira. Siebren grits his teeth as he slams their bodies down, but they both turn into mist just before they land. Siebren floats down to the ground beside Harold, summoning the barrier once again as a volley of shotgun pellets flies.

Moira tries to go forward, but electricity crackles from Harold’s jet injector, making her keep her distance. Reaper rushes forward, looking for an angle, but Siebren flickers the barrier in and out, tilting gravity to keep them away.

From the main entrance Harold hears the heavy thud of Reinhardt’s armoured footsteps approaching. Reaper turns to Moira, his voice tinged with annoyance. “We can’t stay.”

“Very well,” Moira huffs, and the two of them disappear in a cloud of smoke. Siebren tries to chase after them, but it’s far too late. They are gone without a trace. There’s no way they can catch them now.

Harold glances up at the countdown. Five minutes left. “We have to get to the spacecraft quick!”

Siebren grumbles to himself but nods sharply. He has stopped floating now, bare feet running on the floor as they head backstage and up the staircase. When they get to the top floor, the elevator next to them chimes. Winston, Genji, and Symmetra are there, rushing out behind them. There’s a new wave of Horizon guards in front of them, but together they cut them down to size easily.

“What’s the situation?” Harold asks.

“Reinhardt and Brigitte are at the front, distracting everybody,” Winston says. “Echo tried to hack into the spacecraft but she couldn’t. Athena tried as well and failed. We’ll have to launch it manually.”

“You know that’s impossible for Gen IV Lunar spacecrafts. I can’t fly it with Siebren alone.”

“That’s why I am coming along,” Winston says. “We’ll need all hands on deck.”

“You will require my assistance as well,” Symmetra adds. “I will not allow any more chaos or disruptions to this plan.”

“I’ll make sure no one gets into the spacecraft,” Genji says.

“But we need to get into the spacecraft ourselves and make sure they don’t activate the emergency kill switch from the control tower,” Harold says.

“Then we’ll just have to make sure we’re quick enough that they can’t activate it,” Siebren says.

They run through the hallway and into a giant room lined with glass windows. The astronauts are there, waving to the cameras but they stop in their tracks when they see them. They shout their orders in Mandarin, but Siebren curls his fingers and suspends them in the air like they’re ragdolls. They can’t do anything but speak, a litany of foul words escaping their mouths. “Bàoqiàn,” Harold smiles nervously as he rushes forward.

From the room he walks down the small runway to the spacecraft. In front of him he can see the interior of the spacecraft, which should lead up to the payload, where he can pilot with Siebren. For a moment, time is in slow motion as the lights of a thousand cameras flash onto him. As he turns his head to the glass walls, he sees his reflection staring back at him. Except it’s not really his reflection. There’s a trace of the man the public know as Harold Winston, but it’s overshadowed by someone else. A man he knows has been residing in his bones for decades. It is this man that is control, this hero that lives and breathes strength. The real Harold Winston.

He heads inside and makes his way to the payload area, getting into the front seat. The buttons and dials and switches are second nature to him, his hands moving fluidly as he gets everything prepared.

Outside he hears the sounds of a fight erupting, of bullets and blades dancing in a deadly ballet. Winston comes in soon, then Symmetra, taking their positions near the rear. Faintly, Harold hears Reinhardt’s sharp laugh of joy, and the unmistakable sound of a mace hitting a metal body.

“Where’s Sigma?” Winston asks.

Harold’s about to ask the same question when suddenly the controls all turn red. “Get him in here now! They’re already starting the emergency kill switch.”

“The guards have him trapped!” Symmetra calls. “We have to go now.”

“I literally can’t survive the trip without him. The G-force will kill me! We need him here!” Harold taps at his communicator. “Sig, you need to get yourself over here.”

“I’m…trying!” There’s a loud huff, as Siebren scrambles in, shutting the door behind him. There are rhythmic thumps as people try to hit and shoot at the door, but it remains stable. He quickly flies over to the seat next to Harold, strapping himself in. His fingers dance over the dashboard, his expression stoic in thought. “Engine temperatures?”

“We don’t have time,” Harold says. “We have to launch now before the emergency kill switch grounds us for good.”

Siebren begins to go through the motions, but is repeatedly stopped by a klaxon alarm. “It’s too late,” Siebren grumbles. “There’s nothing here that can stop it. We’ve failed.”

Just as Siebren says this, the red screen suddenly flickers in and out. In its place, a purple sugar skull appears. From Harold’s communicator, Harold hears a nasally, abrasive laugh. From the way Siebren jumps in his seat, it seems he’s the only one who can hear it.

“Ground Control to Major Tom. You really made the grade here.”

“Sombra?” Harold gasps.

“What? You thought I wouldn’t help you out? Shame, Dr. Winston, shame. Hey, can I call you Harold? Harry? I like the ring of Harry.”

The sugar skull symbol fades and the controls are back to normal. The roar of the engines is almost deafening. A computerized voice is counting down from twenty. Amidst the noise Harold laughs shrilly in relief.

“I’ll let you call me whatever you want if you can get us to the moon and back. I assume you want a favour after this?”

“Perhaps,” Sombra says, in a voice that made it very clear what her true intentions are, “but way later. You wanna pay me back now? Get back down alive and take some photos for me. Oh, and keep Sigma alive too.”

Harold turns to Siebren and smirks confidently. From his vantage point he can see everybody watches the spacecraft in morbid fascination. The countdown is ticking down. Ten. Nine. Eight. Seven.

“Ready to head back to the stars?” Siebren asks.

Five. Four. Three.

“You know what?” Harold says.

Two. One.

“I think I finally am.”

The spacecraft rattles and bobs. The engine gushes as it propels them upwards towards the sky. As they break through the atmosphere, the gravity engines kick in, the outer shell breaking away. As they get higher, the G-force gets almost overwhelming for Harold but he sees the plate behind Siebren’s head glow as he keeps the gravitational forces at bay. But even with Siebren’s help, it’s still a bit too much for his fragile body. He gets a glimpse of the Earth, wide and blue and glorious, and is able to give a weak smile before he falls unconscious.

When Harold finally wakes up, the spacecraft is already docking itself in Sector 06, right next to the Observatory. By his side, everybody else are preparing for their departure. He’s groggy, but it quickly fades away when he sees the Earth, once so near, now far away. Winston approaches him, nervous but trying his best not to appear it.

“We’re here,” he says.

Harold lets out a small smile as he grasps him tenderly on the shoulder. “No,” Harold replies. “We’re back home.”

They go through the standard decontamination process—Harold first, followed by Siebren, Symmetra, and finally Winston, who took the time to explain the process to her. The rooms are fortunately still sealed properly, as intel suggested. The number pad for many of the doors are malfunctioning and damaged, but the one to the Observatory still works. Harold places his hand on the scanner, and it opens with an audible swish.

Harold can’t help but gasp as he takes in the sight. It’s almost pristine, like it hasn’t changed at all. The Observatory doors are slightly open, the telescope facing directly at the Earth. While Winston shows Symmetra the telescope, Harold moves further ahead. Far on the other side, Harold’s office sits untouched, fake plants still green as ever, files in the same place he left them all these years ago. He walks over to his desk, his fingers catching on the framed photograph of himself and a baby Winston. His thumb trails over his younger face. He looked so innocent and naïve back then.

“I can’t even recognize myself,” he whispers.

“Harold?” Siebren asks.

He shakes his head lightly and places the photograph down. “Sorry. It’s just…it’s a lot. Being back here.”

“In a good way, or a bad way?”

“In a lot of different ways,” Harold utters. “This place was my home away from home, the stepping stone paving the way for the future of space travel. It’s tragic, seeing it all in ruins like this.”

“You are not the only one. I always thought this place was beautiful, and it still is, but it’s now so cold and empty. A husk of its former self.”

It’s more than that, Harold thinks, but if he says that out loud, Siebren will expect clarification, and Harold doesn’t think he can give Siebren clarification. He takes his old files and tucks them under his arm. The four of them meet up and they head out of the Observatory.

As they walk through the empty hallways, Harold can hear the faint noises of the apes and chimps, muttering behind closed doors. Outside the Observatory, he sees the extent of the rebellion’s destruction. Appliances in the Commissary are broken and rifled through, the peanut butter jars empty and smashed onto the ground. Furniture blocks many of the doors to the other sectors, while most of the personal rooms for the scientists have had their number pads smashed beyond repair.

He doesn’t know how to feel about seeing all this. He thought he was prepared, but it’s another thing altogether to see the gorilla paw prints on the door to Hammond’s room, schematics lying haphazardly on the floor. If he was any weaker than he was, he might cry, but he’s got a mission to complete and loved ones to support him. His hand reaches for Winston’s, squeezing softly.

“Where do we need to go?” Symmetra asks.

“The Hangar,” Harold says. “We need to shut down all the data and monitoring systems, so we need to get to the servers. From the Hangar, we can get there easily enough.”

“A little bit too late for that,” a voice says.

In the Training Facility, smiling cruelly, is a man that looks almost identical to Harold himself, but with some differences. Their clothes are the typical Horizon uniform with a lab coat on top, the sleeves rolled above their elbows—a complete contrast to Harold’s own Overwatch uniform. Their hair is in a similar haircut but slightly darker, giving a salt and pepper look. A rectangular pair of glasses framed the imposter’s face, no cybernetic implants or scars or tubes to wreak havoc over his skin. Even the eye colour was wrong, a dark blue rather than Harold's dark brown eyes. It’s like someone has used an age filter on a younger picture of Harold. This imposter is too clean, too perfect, but it's not an omnic or a robot. Only a human could ever smile like that, condescending and innocent all at the same time.

Harold doesn’t even hesitate raising his jet injector at the imposter, who immediately throws their hands up. He’s confused as to their weird actions, until he sees it. A camera, hidden in the corner of the room, red light blinking on and recording.

No, not just recording. Broadcasting. Thousands, if not millions, are probably watching this right now.

“Who are you?” Harold seethes.

The imposter smiles. “I’m Dr. Harold Winston,” he says, “and I believe you have been trying to steal my work, you imposter.”

Wide eyes fall on Harold's body but he ignores them all. He stares at his mirror image, an unspeakable rage clamming his throat shut, golden eyes staring down fake blue eyes.

#Overwatch #Sigma #Siebren de Kuiper #Harold Winston #Sigrold #I know in the very first Sigrold fanfic I gave Harold the codename of 'Tristan'#But after new evidence I have now decided he will get the punniest name ever #So his new codename is now Charon #This is a really intense chapter #probably because this will be the end #Two more chapters and this fic will be over #Oh and uh...sorry for the cliffhanger XD

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famous-aces · 5 years

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Karl Lagerfeld

Who: Karl Otto Lagerfeld

What: Fashion Designer, Creative Director, Photographer, Author

Where: German (Active largely in France)

When: September 10, 1933 - February 19, 2019

(Image Description: a black and white photograph of Lagerfeld, a self portrait from 2013. Lagerfeld is alone in the image, standing in profile. He is holding a book with an identical portrait of himself on the back. That Lagerfeld is also holding a book we can assume one that has him on it again. He is wearing his trademark look, sunglasses, fingerless gloves, suit with detachable collar. He is a white man with a very square face and large mouth. He has snow white hair pulled back in a ponytail at the back of his head. End ID)

In 2011 Helen Wigham of British Vogue called Lagerfeld "the master of reinvention" because of what he did for the brands that hired him as well as his own persona. He was as well known for his elaborate eccentric image as his styles and designs. According to Bruce LaBruce of Vice magazine "having now met and spent time with Mr. Lagerfeld, it seems that, as close as I can figure out, the man really is the myth."

Lagerfeld liked to be weird and mysterious and had a distinct Look of suits, removable collars, fingerless gloves, black glasses, and white hair. He also describes himself as a lover of paradoxes and really a lover of controversy, subscribing to the Oscar Wilde that there is "only one thing in the world worse than being talked about, and that is not being talked about.". Indeed he claimed a lot of his controversial statements came from a desire to troll, although some, like his feelings on use of fur in fashion, he held strong to.* This doesn't excuse him from being a massive tool, even if he was being insincere. He was definitely an asshole, talented, but an asshole on many fronts.

There was more to Lagerfeld than just his persona, of course. He had the skills to back up his strange arrogance. He was famous for his ability to bring a brand back from the brink of death, as he did for Chanel in the 1980s. He excelled at the marketing end of fashion, how to sell a brand and how to sell to buyers. He was known for his designs' "intellectual sexiness." He worked for Chanel (1983-2019), Fendi (1965-2019), and his own brand Karl Lagerfeld (founded in 1984-2019) as well as doing collections for the likes of H&M, Macy's, Chloé, among many others.

*To be fair when he elaborated on his stance on fur it is understandable. Not a disregard for animal life, but that there are people who make their livelihood that way. I'm not crazy about fur, but there are ethical ways to raise animals for that end.

(Image Description: Some of Lagerfeld's designs over the years listed are the model and the year the design is from. Image 1. Jerry Hall, 1984. A women's tailored suit in plaid and black. There is a wool coat and a wool cape. Image 2. Naomi Campbell, 1992. A bright purple pencil skirt suit with big floppy hat -- very 1990s -- with a black leather belt with gold chains. Image 3. Naomi Campbell 1997. A black and sheer Lacey dress with a feathery hat and fan. End ID)

Probable Orientation: gay ace or aro ace with a queerplatonic attraction toward men and mspec aesthetic attraction.

Don't skip this guy! The post might be long but he is evidence that exclusionists are completely ignorant about queer history!

Lagerfeld didn't really identify as much, but he was definitely put under the gay umbrella and was content enough there. The thing is his sexual relationships were all but nonexistent, few and far between, and seemed to have nothing to do with attraction. His longtime partnership with Jacques de Bascher, who tragically succumbed to AIDS in 1989, was platonic, easily defined as queerplatonic. Lagerfeld called him his "best friend." He talks a lot about aesthetic attraction to men and women (he has great admiration for female model's bodies), but it seems to be more about aesthetics from a distance than sex. He admires both male and female bodies but does not want to have sex with them. He voiced his feelings that sex was seperate from affection and should be kept that way. He didn't mind being alone at times.

He is proof that asexuals have always been queer. He had a QPR and was asexual without the term "queerplatonic" or the word "asexual". He was accepted as part of the gay and then queer community. He is against gay marriage as part of this desire for heteronormality within a queer relationship, much more in favor of dismantling this concept of "normal" rather than become part of it: "Yes, I’m against it for a very simple reason: In the 60s they all said we had the right to the difference. And now, suddenly, they want a bourgeois life."**

In many ways Lagerfeld was Old School Queer and proof that Queer has always been complicated.

Lagerfeld was devestated by de Basher's death. He never had another partner again. In the end Lagerfeld's ashes were mixed with his partner's and his mother's, two people he loved most.

**I am not against gay marriage, obviously, but exclusionists love to taut that the queer community was "always" about gay marriage and becoming "normal."

(Image Description: more of Lagerfeld's designs. Same structure. Image 1. Lagerfeld and unnamed models, 2003. He is wearing his usual costume, they are wearing flowery and frilly pale dresses. Image 2. Kaia Gerber, 2019. A pink flowery dress with feathers at the arms and waist. End ID)

"I infinitely loved that boy [de Basher] but I had no physical contact with him."

-Karl Lagerfeld in an interview in 2017

LaBruce: What about famous gay artists like Francis Bacon or Wilhelm von Gloeden? They both had important relationships that were almost like marriages.

Lagerfeld: I knew Francis Bacon; he was the sweetest man in the world, like a Middle English lady with the finger up drinking tea in Monte Carlo. My best friend, who is dead now, was very friendly with Bacon. They gambled and drank together.

LaBruce: Your best friend is…

Lagerfeld: He’s dead, too.

LaBruce: What happened to him?

Lagerfeld: AIDS. That happened 20 years ago.

-Excerpt from a 2010 Vice interview.

"I don’t want to sleep with them [people he truly cares about] because sex cannot last, but affection can last forever."

-Karl Lagerfeld, same Vice interview (in that interview he also voiced an appreciation of Simone Weil)

(Image Description: another photo of Lagerfeld this one in color from the 2010s. He is on a red carpet kind of thing. He has a beard and his usual uniform. His fingerless gloves have a ribbed pattern and he has a bee pin on his lapel and another pin [maybe a plant?] in the center of his fat black necktie. End ID)

#queer #lgbtq #asexual #ace #gay #aromantic #aro #20th century #history #europe #21st century #german #fashion #artists #karl lagerfeld

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purewhitepages · 5 years

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La Retour de Foi Chapter 3

A/N: Thanks so much for all of the support you guys, I really appreciate it. I was really nervous about publishing this fic, but the response has been nothing but positive, I cannot be grateful enough for that. This chapter is a bit longer, and makes good on the second promise of the summary. There is one eureka moment, see if you can spot it.

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2

The cobblestone lane wound through the town lazily, matching the couple’s attitude. Bree swung their clasped hands between the two of them and Roger smiled at the whimsical gesture. She giggled laid her cheek against his shoulder.

They had dropped off their luggage at the main house. And, with no one else there besides Mrs. Bug, they had ventured into town.

“Where exactly are we goin’?” Roger asked, still smiling.

She shrugged. “Wherever. I’m not that picky.”

Roger stepped up onto the curb, but Bree trailed in the street.

“Ye’re gonna get hit by a car.”

She skipped along the cobblestone street with a smile. “You’ve spent too much time in the city, my lad. No one drives cars in Broch Mordha, everyone knows that.” Like many of the smaller towns in Europe, Broch Mordha had been built long before the invention of cars or even carriages. Most of the streets in the village were narrow and had sharp turns, unlike the wide, and straight roads in America or farther south.

Roger nodded. “A cyclist then. Some lad more taken up with his own self than to watch for lasses in the street,” he teased, a smile on his face.

She laughed as Roger’s phone rang and he sighed. “I’ll be just a moment.” He stepped aside to check it. She tried not to let the worry in his eyes bother her too much. The university where he worked as a researcher was getting tougher as his team got closer to the end of their grant. It took every ounce of persuasion she carried within her to convince him to take this trip north with her, and she intended to make the best of it.

Roger was on the sidewalk with his back turned to her, Bree was standing in the street patiently, and two girls were walking down the street and chatting. Everything happened very fast all of a sudden. A car engine and a flurry of motion out of the corner of her eye. Bree heard a woman shout “Look out!” and she fell to the ground. There was a distinct sound of metal being hit and another body hitting the ground beside her.

Bree’s heart beat very fast as she scrambled over to see who had been hit. A young woman was feeling her head and torso as Bree crouched beside her.

“My god, are you alright?!” She asked.

“I’m fine, just bumped a bit. But everything’s in the right place.” The young woman’s hair had been pulled up into a messy bun before the rush of activity, now her curls sprung free.

Bree would later hear claims that she had acted calmly and cooly, but in the moment all she could think was to get this woman to see her Mum, immediately. “We have to take you to the clinic down the street!”

“It’s fine, I’m fine.”

Bree was incredulous and her blood ran hot at the stranger’s placid demeanor. “You were hit by a car! We’re going to the clinic.” She hoisted the woman to her feet. Roger had come to her side and cursed that he had walked away. Bree assured him that she was fine, but cut off her statement as she noticed the tableau occurring just a few feet away.

“..And just what exactly were ye thinking, ye absolute weapon!” Kitty slapped the young man’s chest once again and he cursed.

“I said I was sorry, leave me alone, Kitty!”

“Ian James Fitzgibbons Murray! Ye just hit my friend with yer car! Ye just wait until Ma hears about this!”

Ian paled at this. “Kitty, dinna tell Ma about this. Please, I’m beginning ye!”

“It’s alright, Kitty. I’m fine. He should watch where he’s going though.” Beee could not believe how calm she was about this whole thing. What had she been thinking, anyway?

Kitty whirled on them. “It’s the principle of the thing, Faith! What’re ye even doing, driving yer car in the village?” She hit his chest again and Ian pushed her away.

“Uncle Jamie sent me on some business outta town and I wanted ta stop by the Printshop before I went home. It woulda been counterproductive to take the car home and then walk to the Printshop, ye see Kitty.”

“Kitty!” Bree said, quite loudly, gaining her attention. She gripped the young woman’s arm and herded her to the car. “Ian, if you drive us to the clinic, I promise that we won’t tell your Ma that you hit someone with your car.”

“What- och, I canna be-”

“Now!” Kitty jumped into the passenger’s seat.

The young woman was wedged in between Roger and Bree in the backseat of Ian’s car. The two Murray siblings continued to argue on the way to the clinic, causing the woman to smile. She groaned a little under her breath and felt her torso lightly.

“A little sore?” Bree asked, eyeing her and she nodded.

“I’ll be fine.”

“You seem very confident in that.”

She shrugged. “I’ve seen and felt worse.”

“Been in a lot of fights?”

Bree saw the thoughts churning in her mind, deciding what to say. “I guess you could say that,” she finally said after a moment. “I don’t believe we’ve been introduced. I’m Faith.”

“You can call me Bree, and that’s Roger over there.” She shook Faith’s hand and the other two repeated the gesture. “My mother is a doctor, we can have you in to see her.”

Faith nodded and smiled at Bree. “Alright, if it makes you feel better. But the most she can do is prescribe me some pain-killer and I hear you Brits are pretty stingy with those.”

Bree shook her head with a smirk. “Maybe most, but if my ma thinks you need them, she’ll give them to you.”

Roger made a face at the both of them. “Ye seem so calm, Faith. How’d’ye know its not something more serious.”

Faith glanced at him and then down. She chewed on her lip. “Well, he can’t have been going more than 10 miles an hour if that and my major organs can’t have taken a lot of impact when how I fell. There will be some bruising, and maybe some sluggishness after the adrenaline wears out, but overall– I’ll be fine.”

Bree furrowed her brow. Faith had spoken so clinically and professionally, as though she was separated from her own body by the diagnosis.

“What are you a doctor?” Bree asked, incredulous.

Kitty finally seemed to clue into their conversation and spun around in her seat, cursing Ian as he took a turn too fast.

“Not only is she a doctor, Bree, but she’s been all over the world. She’s been with Doctors Without Borders and been to Africa and India and Australia.”

Faith grimaced, but nodded. “Australia was for a study abroad I did, though, I didn’t do any doctoring there.”

“Were you really in Doctors Without Borders though?” Bree asked.

Faith reached back and pulled her wallet out of her back pocket, fishing through the contents for a paper before proudly handing it to Bree. She inspected the paper with an eyebrow raised, her French had been very limited since going to University and Bree wasn’t sure what she was looking at.

“That’s a permit to practice medicine,” Faith explained. “That way I don’t have to worry about being licensed so long as I’m with MSF.”

“‘MSF’?” Roger repeated.

“Yeah, we know it as ‘Doctors Without Borders’ but the organization is French, the acronym is for ‘Medecins sans frontieres.’”

“She speaks French too, completely fluently!” Kitty boasted, as if she had taught Faith the language from birth. Faith colored again, but smiled.

“What brings you to the Scottish Highlands?” Roger asked.

Faith didn’t look at him while she answered. Instead she busied herself with putting her permit away, her face going a shade darker. “Eh, my family’s from around here. My mom used to talk about it all the time while I was growing up. I’m going home after this, for good.”

They were at the clinic now and Bree let Faith out on her side of the car. Kitty slammed the door with a huff at her younger brother and the three from the back seat followed behind into the building. The clinic was small, but cozy. And everyone in Broch Mordha had been going here since before Bree’s time, since maybe even before her father’s. They walked through the lobby where Mary, the nurse, was manning the desk that day. She seemed a little surprised to see the quintet of people barging up to her.

“Oh hello Roger, Kitty, Ian. Bree, are you here to see your mum? She’s seeing a patient right now, but I can-”

Bree nodded emphatically. “Actually yes, I need to see her. This is my friend, Faith. Young Ian hit her with his car and she needs to see a doctor as soon as possible.”

Mary’s eyes opened wide and she began to pull paperwork together as Faith spoke up. “I can see the first available doctor, there’s no need to call her away.”

“Mary, don’t do any such thing!” Bree insisted. “She will be seen first.”

“Bree, your attitude is gallant but I’m afraid it’s up to the patient.” Mary looked to the other woman at the counter. “I can move you to the front of the line, but I don’t know when either of the doctors will be ready.”

Faith nodded. “That’s fine, I can wait, and if there’s anyone more serious, you don’t have to move me in front of them.” She gave her information and took the clipboard of paperwork to fill out.

“It’s alright,” Faith asuaded, yet again as Bree looked as though she was going to protest. “Can you help me fill out this paperwork?” This seemed to distract Bree as she followed Faith to the seating area, pointing out spots on the clipboard.

Roger’s eyebrows were nearly meeting his hair at the exchange, having only too well known how hard it could be to calm Bree’s temper sometimes. “How in the hell..” He commented as he went to sit beside his girlfriend. He stopped when he nearly ran into Faith, who was standing stock still, as if frozen. He followed her line of vision to the portraits of the staff of the Broch Mordha clinic.

“Ye alright, lass?” Roger asked and Faith seemed startled..

“Sorry, must’ve dozed off there for a second.” She smiled at him and sat down

“Are you having trouble concentrating? I can tell Mary-” Bree asked, moving to stand.

Faith stopped her. “It’s fine. I can wait. Now, lemme get my passport out-” She reached down to fish around in her bag and Bree relaxed into her chair. Ian was still there, remarkably, and Kitty still seemed cross, but stayed silent for the time being. They made quite the group.

After about a ten minute wait, Bree looked up from the paperwork to see Joe Abernathy walking over to them, making a face at Bree. He seemed amused by the situation, but, then, he’d always had a good-hearted attitude, especially towards the Fraser-Murrays. He scoffed good naturedly at Bree’s insistence that she had nothing to do with the current situation. “Who was driving the car?”

Kitty pointed at her brother beside her. “Ian.”

The boy in question looked up from his phone screen and shook his head in disbelief. “Och, I thought we had a deal.”

“I promised ye I wouldna tell ma, I dinna make any other promises. Besides, he’s a doctor, I canna exactly lie to him.”

Ian groaned. “Well, at least it isna Auntie Claire seeing her.”

Faith glanced at him and then Kitty at those words.

“Would you prefer to see Dr. Fraser, Ms. McTavish, seeing that you’ve been adopted by the clan?” Joe was clearly enjoying the drama from the twinkle in his eye.

Faith glanced once again at Bree and stood. “That won’t be necessary. I’d just like to get out of here.”

She followed him back.

xXx

There was something about this patient that struck Joe as odd, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. He decided it must be the familiarity in accent. Though not the same as the true Bostonian he had grown up with, her New England accent endeared him.

“MSF, huh?” he asked, feeling along her abdomen.

She nodded.

“You could make a career out of that if you wanted.”

She smiled at him, but shook her head. “Since I finished med school, I’ve been a bit of a nomad, I think it’s time to plant roots somewhere.”

“Well, if you’re looking to plant them around here, the soil is pretty rich and I don’t think you’ll regret it.” He tilted his head to one side. “Maybe not as exciting as some places, but-”

She shook her head and sat up. “I’ve enough excitement for one lifetime, let me tell you.”

“Yeah I can tell, so much excitement that you had to throw yourself in front of a moving car.” She laughed, face turning slightly red. “Well, take care of yourself, Dr. McTavish.”

She jumped up from the bench and picked up her bag once again.

“Pity you couldn’t’ve seen Dr. Fraser, she was also in MSF.”

Her head jerked up and he swore her skin turned a shade paler. “She was?”

He nodded, eyeing her. She cleared her throat. “Well, I’ll try and time my next heroic act better and maybe I can talk to her about it.”

Joe nodded and let her go, giving her paperwork to turn back into Mary. The day was winding down, and he walked by the office before taking the next patient. Seeing Claire inside, he poked his head in.

“Hey, Lady Jane.” He knocked on the door twice.

She seemed startled and she wiped her eyes quickly, seemingly trying to be discreet.

“You alright?” he asked.

She nodded quickly. “Yeah, sorry, what’s up?”

“Your daughter came in.”

Claire seemed extremely shocked by this but then shook her head. “Was there anything wrong? Why didn’t Mary-”

“She’s fine, she was seeing one of her friends here.”

Claire nodded. “Well that was nice of her.”

“Get this though, the patient I saw was in MSF.”

Claire raised her eyebrows and made an approving noise. “Small world.”

Joe nodded. “Well, just thought you’d like to know. I might take off soon. You in for the night?”

She shook her head. “No, no, I actually need to go home right now, Joe.” She stood and immediately started packing her things.

“You’re acting very strangely, is something wrong?”

“What? No, not at all, I’ve just received some news is all. I can’t go into detail right now, but I’ll tell you all about it tomorrow.” She pulled the coat off her peg and threw it over her shoulders.

“Is it good news at least?”

She looked back at him, positively beaming. “Really good.”

Chapter 4

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carndriverrecords · 4 years

Text

First Blog Post 3/20/20

Started CnD Records today. Feels Good.

Working on some diss tracks. Not sure if they see it coming - doesn’t matter either way.

Planning to release Car and Driver first real record this Friday 3/20/20. Driving Test Driver Fest 1.

Self release first record - another 20 tracks next week. Compile top 10 - 15 for first release with other label - thinking Terrible, Kranky, blu ish label or Thrill Jockey. Citrus City a no-go for now. Maybe just keep building CnD records.

Be the middle man - take advantage of opportunities without sacrificing my bands’ (and those I represent) integrity.

Reach sleep destroyer.

Last night at Ted’s - great DJ set. Kidz bop remixes, Fancy. Crowd hated it. Ted disappointed we had to leave but it’s ok with everyone. Tall guy took aux right out of computer, have video. Started dancing - cucked everyone. Everyone thinks they’re the crazy charismatic guy. Am I actually? I think so. Syd thinks so.

CnD Fest 2 , 3 , 4 at Purchase and beyond. Would like to play apartments, Scully’s den in BK (reach out) and Philly, DC etc.

Next voice memo album - 20 - 25 tracks right now. Better than the first. Danny said best album ever.

Working on “My oh Maia Reason Why” video - my favorite video I’ve ever seen. Getting good feedback.

Important to collab with certain SUNY people before I go:

Members of Lip Critic, Dawson, Neal, Gabe.

Send stuff back and forth with Joseph Kress.

Need to write song about not sharing a stage w unstable Car and Driver - cost me 2 gigs. Ok because I had the police interaction that night.

Things have been working out quite well. Syd is keeping me in check. Main priorities are keep the energy going while I can and make sure everyone around me is comfortable with me doing my thing, specifically mom, sofia.

Going to Only Angels tomorrow to collab with Alex.

Tues/Wed in RI with Zach Gorton. Need to see Nick Holcomb, Sofia, Will Orchard if he’s around. Riley in Boston? Would love to.

Visit Dad soon on the way to Richmond, in a few weeks perhaps. Grandma Roberta etc. They have a BBQ place now - I bet it’s great.

Follow up in the morning (3 hours from now) with wedding band, Kevin Daniels, drummer etc.

Film sunrise sessions at Purchase: My Ride’s Here, Splendid Isolation, Keep me in your heart, Studebaker, Cat’s in the Cradle, Everybody that you know. Don’t think twice, Boots of Spanish Leather, Someday my Prince, Teenage Dirtbag, Arthur (Woof Woof), Forget You, Signed Sealed Delivered, Superstition, The Promise, Hold me now (TT), Love on Top, Townes Van Zandt, 1-800 superstar, Evan Wright, Tom Petty, Blinded By the Light, Searching for a Heart, Mag Field’s, Barenaked Ladies, TMBG, Dolly Parton one sided love, Byrds, Beatles, Kinks, Stones, Parquet Courts, T Swift (Red, Way I loved you), Mitski, Sasami, Anything Could Happen, Beach House, He Needs Me, These Days, YLT, Beach Boys, Big Star Take Care, G500/Luna, Felt, Psychic TV, Shelia, BJM, Yellow Sarong, Over and Over, Hazel St, Heatherwood, Helicopter, He Would’ve Laughted, I wanna be your lover, The pump, Good enough (sleep destroyer), Them airs, BH (14, indian summer), help me scrape mucus off my brain), Beach Comber, DO YOUR THING, Icehead, Bobby, 1000 times, WIll Orchard, Bon Iver, MGMT, Tame impala, Instant Crush, etc. Art Vandelay, Quick Canal, Stereolab, Grouper, Broadcast, Animal Collective, Panda Bear, Bachelor Kisses, Cranberries, Cure, Pastels, MBV, I found a reason, pale blue eyes, Deerhoof, Gretel Alex G, Dancing w tears in my eyes, Elvis Costello, No age(things i did), Are ya ok, Maus, Ariel, R Stevie, Aphex Twin, Zomes, Vampire Weekend etc.

Bring Laptop for Beats on some and lyrics for all.

Love life more than ever before. Music feels so good. Want to help, make amends, everything that moondog did. Don’t be homeless much longer.

Not sure if I like throbbing gristle - definitely like Psychic TV.

How savage should diss tracks be? Very? Match the severity of the person’s treatment of me/others. Aka - pretty bad for all except for Auto.

Listened to new Kanye today - 10x better and more influential than death grips.

Realized today that i’ve spent my whole life wishing I was Kanye and now I am Kanye. Feels very good.

Everyone is gifted but internet makes us angst.

I am mostly Camus right now - maybe more Kierkegaard soon. Religion and Terrence Malik. Still need to read books.

Order of Books: The graduate Portrait of the artist Consider Lobster Infinite Jest Pynchon Ulysses (At recommendation of American gamer association)

Syd is incredibly gifted. Want to help her feel comfortable doing art/work here in the chaos but also sort out the chaos for both of ours’ sake. I thrive in it, she tolerates well. Want to move to Riverdale still, maybe East Williamsburg with Backpack Chris. We’ll see about money. Philly perhaps, little too far. Jersey is good location but bad commute. Bad to RI.

Visit RI and Boston Tues - Thurs. Sell Cigarettes at Concerts. Feels right.

Keep smoking for now - quit end of summer perhaps.

Don’t have Corona Virus - glad we are not quarantined. Still be smart. Don’t expose mom regardless. Protect at ALL costs.

Really though, why does Journee hate me? Write new track (Journee into forever nevermore not now not ever (Lou)) or Journee into SJW self righteous moral posturing (way too savage - maybe voice memo outro)

AR Kane album is incredible. Syd loves too. Sample everything.

Crazy - sound better at jazz than ever in my life. Exploring harmony - never practice. Teach free lessons all the time. Love the diminished scale. Might be best jazz guitarist to ever live. Time will tell. Would be cool long term. Prefer singing.

Getting good at piano too.

I’m my favorite lyricist/comedian/actor.

Is maia right, acting isn’t hard? Weird they can’t act.

^Remember to delete^

Don’t share this on Facebook yet.

Why does Journee hate me so much? Just the Louis CK joke?

People who stay home and do nothing hate to see irreverent people doing things.

People like when you’re losing - don’t like to see you win.

^That makes me sound crazy.

F00D outsider might make me famous first.

Need to keep up with legal situation.

Hope mom and dad both live long. Call Syd, get something nice for everyone in family. Get weird jewel cases. Order jewelry from etsy. Post merch on bandcamp.

Finish album art soon. Music videos. Get better at animation etc. Pay Ben for his poster. Actually really good. Maybe album art? Duo album! Record in Wisconsin, release under his name. WIll success be good for Ben? I think so. Still can’t believe Liv told him I wasn’t ok. Wow - good content for lyrics. You truly cannot write this.

How will people react to diss tracks? Extremely negatively. Or no reaction. We shall see. Maybe no real names in the titles...... only on Oh my. 4 names in titles is too many. Don’t release Auto track. Maybe on Voice Memos.

Track List: Good God Bed Head Rosa Reprise Oh My House Pop 1 skydive Pop 2 APhex GVO Pay 4 Take some Cherish Stars in F Are ya ok too bright Honeys Get to work Everybody That You Know Frost Bit BPC NYC New Age Heimet Helmet Deadbeat dads watermill for slitting bars romantic song david byrne Cinema study in cinema Brain ego Cherry doc marten Can’t liv w/o Venmo groceries Oh you like? Dancin DJ blues We are the State Farm robots Danny dorito is a dirty devito My funny valentine Zoomer blues The thing abt genres Blss Like minds ft dawson Lil toucha jazz Introducing car and driver The holy moment empire Ethics 101 - gma in the street Otto is sad I don’t know what it means! Operatic mellismatic Car and driver fest will be a success! Car and driver fest was a bust again! Cipha’s comedy corner Ryder Be gone evil atonal spirits!

Unreleased mental breakdown compilation ep:

I like all music! I’m a stupid pos Electric micro bike Get off your phone! John frusc Nice song Lap steel for 2 My masseuse advice Bed head wash sq Punchie John Maus yoyo interview Diminished kinda thing

Build the NYC scene, w Blu ish, Evan, 1 800, sweet joseph, Comics Club, Dawson, Sloppy Jane, Wheatus,

See Jack Fortin in NYC soon. Either my event or his.

Things are still good. Syd will be a great filmmaker. WIll maybe will end up with a dancer or a filmmaker - Probably not a musician. WIll have many loves.

Things are good right now - hope they stay that way.

Feel like Ezra Keonig - hopefully someone reads this one day and agrees. Different time in history and the internet - hope this is less cringe than Ezra’s blog , probably not. Ezra, if you’re reading this, sorry. See ya at Bernie’s rally.

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starfxckersinc · 5 years

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DOING THE HARD WORK OF MAKING EVERYONE IN DORIAN GRAY LOOK LIKE A DICK EXCEPTING, WITH LIMITS, DORIAN GRAY

okay so I’ve read The Picture Of Dorian Gray three times and I plan to again after I finish a few more novels, so I consider myself knowledgeable enough both about the book AND about the fandom surrounding it to make this post. This has been kicking around in my head for YEARS, especially after getting into Velvet Goldmine and noting how that fandom treats Brian Slade, who’s basically a modern interpretation of the same character. I know a lot of people are jonesing for me to rag on Basil Hallward and I plan to, so fair warning to those of you who i know are obsessed with him.

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To start, a lot of people see Lord Henry as the only discernible “Villain” in the book(though the book really has no villain) and Basil as the put upon good guy. This description is somewhat fair. Lord Henry contributes a lot of Dorian’s toxic ideas and enables a LOT of his most self centered behavior, not to mention he gives him the book that inspires his worst deeds. He’s the person who makes it clear to him that youth, self gratification, and most importantly, beauty are all that matter in life. Basil, on the other hand, does his best to “counter” these ideas, though I personally would say his idea of countering amounts to nothing but passive aggressive, low energy disdain. Dorian is too wrapped up in Lord Henry to listen to reason, and eventually murders Basil in cold blood, allowing him to achieve a sort of tragic book character aura that makes him sympathetic.

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To put it simply, the general attitude towards these character dynamics is that Lord Henry is the Bad, Basil is the Good, and Dorian could’ve been good if Lord Henry would’ve let him be. I find this interpretation very surface level despite the relatability of Basil Hallward’s homosexual yearning and romantic struggles.

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But before we dissect Basil, let’s dissect his counterpart. Lord Henry, to start, is immediatley established as a vain and flippant dandy(which is true) because of his belief that beauty is the most valuable trait a person can possess. This is the first lesson that he gives Dorian: that his beauty is his power, that his youth is fleeting, and that life will be worthless once he’s lost the ability to appeal physically to others. However, while he is the first to say it frankly enough for Dorian to consciously understand it, he is NOT the first to communicate that to him. He is just one in a long line of many, as is Basil himself.

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Funnily enough, I would argue that of all the adult figures in Dorian’s life, Lord Henry is the MOST supportive of Dorian’s actual person, and I think it’s entirely natural that he became as attached to him as he did and may have less to do with Henry’s good looks and manipulation than we think. Nobody in his immediate circle of friends or family allows him to explore himself or form an opinion about the world that differs from their own- Except for Henry. It’s merely Dorian’s misfortune that the first person he meets who allows him to be a human being is a conceited asshole, but it follows the theme of Dorian’s life, which is that he is the avatar for older and more cowardly men. And in Lord Henry’s eyes, Dorian’s poetential is limitless. He’s happy to give him ideas and let him run wild, but can’t accept the responsibility of teaching him kindness or compassion or self-preservation, because that would make the spectacle less interesting. Lord Henry is using a 19-to-20 year old to live out his fantasy of what he wishes he could do- But he’s not really different from Basil in that respect.

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And now it is time.

Basil Hallward reminds me a lot of myself, so I feel like I understand his motivations. He’s a shy, earnest, secretive artist who doesn’t care much for anything besides doing his work and yearning while looking out over his garden. He’s upset by people like Lord Henry, who are the embodiment of the poet who lives what he cannot write, because he is the opposite: He creates, and therefore doesn’t have to live out, his fantasy worlds. Basil is repressed and mild mannered while Henry, to his intense jealousy, is more attractive, vivacious, and conversationally interesting- Which is most likely why he didn’t want to share him with Dorian, instead of the reason he gave, which was that Dorian’s pure personality would be tarnished. It’s quite obvious Basil has a crush. But I don’t believe he ever loved, or even truly cared for, Dorian himself.

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Allow me to explain: I have a whole blog of random pictures, mainly of other people, that I keep because I find those pictures striking in some sense. I don’t have an aesthetic theme, really: It’s just people who make me feel, or think, or see something a certain way. I have a pregnant wax figurine in there and old pictures of Marilyn Monroe- And I find both creatively interesting because of how they appear to me. What I’m getting at is I think Dorian Gray is to Basil what an art blog is to the average tumblr user. As David Bowie once said, there’s a difference between being in love and going on to love someone; And there is a difference between being fascinated with your muse and actually caring about the person beyond the projection.

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I think it’s extremely telling that before painting his portrait, Basil had an entire notebook dedicated to portraying Dorian as various mythical figures and heroes. I think it’s even more telling that when Basil DOES paint his portrait, he’s ashamed of it because it is a portrait of HIS soul, an admittance of his worship and idolatry. Dorian REPRESENTS something to Basil, and it’s fun to speculate on what: I believe he is the poster boy for all of Basil’s sexual and romantic fantasies, which he obviously finds shameful, woven together with the romantic escapism found in mythology. But it’s obvious from the start that Dorian is Not the virtuous young man that he wants him to be, and that those virtues are simply what Hallward believes Dorian should be like, as opposed to what he actually is.

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This is depressing, but what’s worse is that Dorian is aware of it, which is what actually inspired me to write this post. When he realizes his youth is fleeting, he accuses Basil of the truth, in a heartbreaking scene featuring this quote,

“Dorian Gray turned and looked at him. ‘I believe you would, Basil. You like your art better than your friends. I am no more to you than a green bronze figure. Hardly as much, I dare say.’ The painter stared in amazement. ‘Yes,’ He continued, I am less to you than your ivory Hermès or your silver Faun. You will like them always. How long will you like me? Till I have my first wrinkle, I suppose. I know, now, that when someone loses one’s good looks, whatever they may be, one loses everything. Your picture has taught me that. Lord Henry Wotton is perfectly right. Youth is the only thing worth having. When I find that I am growing old, I shall kill myself.’

Hallward turned pale, and caught his hand. ‘Dorian! Dorian!’ he cried, ‘don’t talk like that. I never had such a friend as you, and I shall never have such another. You are not jealous of material things, are you- you who are finer than all of them!”

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Lord Henry and Basil are nowhere near on the same moral level, but what’s tragic is that they, and everyone else, treat Dorian the same way- As their vicarious vessel. It’s just that Basil’s idea of what Dorian should be is A) Literal sainthood(as evidenced by the above quote), and B) Impossible to live up to, so therefore he seems to be the nicer guy. But it’s cruel to value anyone for what you can get from them, even if that thing is great art.

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In my opinion, the adult figures in Dorian’s life couldn’t give less of a shit about his true nature. His grandfather hated him and wanted nothing to do with him. Lord Henry is interested in seeing how far Dorian would go to do the things he can’t do because of his own cowardice. Basil expects him to be a storybook character, as do most people who came into contact with him. He was right to believe that his looks were the only thing anybody wanted from him because it’s the truth.

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To close, my personal interpretation of Dorian Gray is this: Dorian Gray was a neglected, naive child who became the fancy of two older men, both of whom were only concerned with using him as a fantasy and therefore both corrupted him for their own personal gain. This in no way excuses his actions, but I think it better explains them- And I think it condemns the people who ought to be condemned. Lord Henry was the person who played on his lack of self-worth to manipulate him, but Basil was the person who exacerbated that lack of self-worth in the first place. Basil wasn’t a good mentor(and DID NOT deserve to be his boyfriend). Henry wasn’t a good mentor. There was no good mentor- There was only Dorian, and the simple fact that people weren’t going to love him if he stopped being pretty. The person he became afterwards was someone of his own making- But the initially shy, praise-hungry, warped young boy who felt the need to become that person was both Basil and Henry’s creation.

#aberdeen spoken word #the picture of dorian gray #basil hallward #lord henry wotton #dorian gray #im not trying to start a war with this post its just what i honestly think #dont get all Touchy about The Boys™️#i dont believe its evil to like/love/connect to any of these characters and im not sitting in judgement #u dont have to cancel basil blah blah blah

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sierracolorstheworldofwords · 5 years

Text

EGOTOBER day 11&12-

Swap and Travel, Yandereplier and another self insert

An: I combined prompts! And I feel like I got really creative with this! I hope you guys enjoy. Also this is unedited so warning

Everyone knows there’s a beast in the woods. Every twenty to thirty years, he demands a sacrifice— he asks for the kindest, prettiest, person in the village. Nothing else.

Nobody knows what happens to those the beast takes. If they die, if they live.. or if they’re simply tortured to death, but after every sacrifice, the villagers soon forget them, living in fifteen years of happiness.

….Until the fear sets in.

Sometimes, the beast is known to come early. Sometimes, the beast is known to come late.

The villagers know this, it has been told to them late at night, by concerned mothers and overbearing fathers, the beast became the scary truth, a bedtime story told to naughty children, but they all know the beast is no story. They know. It’s in their blood. As time draws closer, the village is filled with a fear so sharp it stabs the air like a blade. Parents coddle their children close, spoil them rotten so they may not be sacrificed, scar them, harm them in anyway, so that they may survive.

Willow never believed in the stories though. Even when the elders of the foggy village told her that they were true. So, it was no surprise she laughed when she was told about the sacrifice, the willowy young woman thought it was a joke!

Until she realized no one was laughing.

“You can’t be serious!” She cried, looking at her fiancé, blonde, tall pale man with beautiful baby blue eyes and a deep gash on his left eye, “Darling— this is a joke! Right?”

He looked up at her, sitting on a wooden bench, his gaze shifted for a moment to the elders, wrinkled and grey, who wore tawny long capes. They looked like they were bare foreboding skeletons against the grey evening landscape. It was barley evening, he thought for a brief moment, but the sun was setting. Autumn always did that. Sighing sadly, he looked up at her.

“No, no it’s not my dear.” He whispered softly, tears in his eyes as he looked into hers, the color of lavender. Willow looked back at him, white eyebrows furrowed in confusion. She looked at all the faces at the town meeting, distorted noses and eyes looked back at her.

“You.. you’re all crazy!” She screamed, “You’re all.. all mad! There is no beast! Monsters don’t exist! They never have! What kind of joke is this?! What’s wrong with you all—“

“SILENCE!” A deep voice, rough with time, commanded, hitting a wooden gravel against the podium he stood at, “Young lady. I will not tolerate this behavior. Consider your sacrifice an honor. You were chosen not only because of your beauty, but your kindness as well.”

Willow looked at the older man, whose face reminded her of a starving old cat. She said nothing as he hit the podium once more, dismissing the meeting. She looked at her lover, barely noticing the others as they left, barely caring. Sighing, John blinked away his tears and stood up, grabbing her hand. He wanted to make these last days count.

They both walked away in silence.

Sierra found out the news much later, when Willow, her best friend since the age of six, came to her lonely house at the edge of the village, knocking frantically. She answered the door to her crying friend.

“Willow? What’s wrong?”

Willow only sobbed in response, her pale cheeks going red as tears cascaded down her face. Sierra guided her friend to her book filled living room, sitting her down on a soft green chair.

“Oh it’s terrible! Terrible! I can’t.. I can’t..”

Sierra pulled a matching chair next to her friend, rubbing her back as she sobbed. After a few minutes of soothing words, the woman opened up, admitting she’d been chosen as a sacrifice.

“They’re just going to send me to the woods to die when the beast comes. The elders told me.. when they came to my.. my house— that.. that a storm always comes with the beast.. I’m going to die all alone in the woods.”

The brown haired woman looked at her friend, pushing up her round glasses in thought, before saying, “I know you don’t believe in the beast—“

“I don’t! It isn’t real!”

Sierra sighed, “It is, Willow. I’ve seen it myself, when I was younger—“

“Then you’re crazy too!”

She put a hand up, silencing her, as she continued, “The beast is real, Willow. And.. and it asks for the beautiful and the kind amongst us. We don’t know what it does to them, but we sacrifice them anyway, so that other beasts will not come and destroy our village.”

Sierra looked at Willow, thinking once more.

“I know I’m not beautiful on the outside, but.. according to.. well, the village, I am beautiful on the inside, and that has to count for something.”

“Sierra— what are you saying?”

“I’m saying I’m going to convince the elders to let me go in your place.”

“You’re crazy! You’ll die out there! You’ll—“

“Willow. Look at me and listen to me now.”

Willow’s purple eyes landed on Sierra, looking deep into her brown ones. They were the same age, but sometimes… it almost felt as if Sierra was older than her, like she knew more things than she could ever understand. She hated that, sometimes, but right now, she didn’t care about the advice Sierra gave out, or how often Sierra helped her too much, she didn’t give a damn. She only cared about her friend. About how she loved her like a sister.

“You have a whole life ahead of you, Willow. I don’t. I stay in this big house, all day, wondering rooms and reading books, sometimes writing. I have nothing. I know no one will marry me, and don’t give me that look like you’re going to interrupt me and say they will. If any of the men here had an interest in me, I’d know by now. So you keep quiet and let me speak. You have a whole life ahead of you. A husband who loves you, treats you with respect, and takes care of you, but also who lets you do the same. He isn’t one of the prideful ones, he’s a good man from a good family. The only reason he wasn’t chosen was because of the scar on his eye. He’s a good man, Willow, you take care of him, but you make sure to make him do the same to you.”

Sierra went silent before getting up and grabbing Willow’s hand. She took the blonde woman to her writing room, and dragged a chair to a large wooden table, scattered with papers. It was clear she had used it, since a chair was already there, she just needed another one to make sure Willow watched what she wrote out.

It was her will, leaving Willow all of her estate. Her parents, before they died in a shipwreck, were famous explorers and merchants, often leaving her for months at a time as a child, so more often than not, she had to take care of herself. She was used to being lonely.. until Willow came, and befriended her, giving her everything she owned was the only thing she could think to do to repay her. After writing the will, she made sure to write five more copies, and showed Willow where she hid each one.

“S-Sierra.. you can’t.” Whispered Willow as Sierra lifted up a floorboard underneath her large table, revealing a wooden box, she put in the delicate paper before putting the wood back.

“I am.” Sierra responded, waking out of her writing room and into her living room. She went to the book shelf, “I’m hiding this in Dickens. Do you hear?”

“Y-yes but.. but you can’t!”

“Charles. Dickens. Oliver Twist. Remember.” She put the paper in. Two wills hidden, two more to go. She made sure Willow signed all of them as her witness before hiding them. She wasn’t going to let the elders steal what she left behind.

“I- I remember but you cannot do this!”

Sierra walked out of the living room, down the hall and into her bedroom, hiding the next piece of paper in a book, this time, Jane Eyre.

“Remember. Jane Eyre. By my bedside.”

“You can’t! Listen to me! Please! You’ll die!”

She ignored her friends cries, and hid the last piece of paper in her parents old bedroom, in the safe behind the family portrait they hung there.

“The code is two-four-ten-eight. Remember. If

You forget, look on page 99 of Jane Eyre, I have it written there.”

“Sierra.. please.. listen..”

“There’s money in this safe. Gold, jewels, valuables. If the elders try to take this house, make sure you get to this safe. Please.”

“Sierra—“

“Please, Willow.”

“Okay..” Willow whispered as Sierra handed her the last piece of paper, she held it tightly in her hands as she was guided to the living room and led to the front door. Her friend opened it, eyes shining with tears.

“I love you Willow. Please remember that. This will be the last time I see you.. so.. just.. don’t be too sad about me. I know I can convince the elders. I know it.”

All Willow could do was say a soft goodbye and hug her friend as she left in tears, running back to her fiancé. Sierra had only one place to go, and that was the elders’ cabin. She had three days to convince them, or at least, that’s what the woman at the market who said she felt the storm coming told her— three days.. that storm comes in three days, and with it, the beast.

Sighing, she gathered her cloak and went to swap herself for her friend.

The sun set as she entered their cabin. She caught them in the middle of leaving. She convinced them to talk to her, and to listen, but they did not fulfill her request.

So, the next day, she went to her secret stack of treasures, bringing out a gold statue, four pearl necklaces, two rubies the size of fists, and a small bag of coins. She went to their cabin once more, early in the morning. They considered her offer, and told her she should come back the next day with more, only then would they consider it.

The elders didn’t argue much about it, gold was gold. Money was money. A sacrifice was a sacrifice. That was all. On the morning of the next day, Sierra was granted her request.

All day, the elders prepared her, brushing her hair, filing her nails, reddening her lips and taking away her glasses (she, of course, took them back, placing them in the pocket of the brown cloak they provided) After telling her where to travel, she left the cabin, making sure to steal back her cloak. She hated the dreadful brown one they provided. If she was going to die, she was going to die comfortably.

As she left, a loud clap of lighting signaled the storm. The beast had arrived. Right on time, just like that lady said.

She took off the brown cloak, threw it on the ground, unfolded her red one, and put it on, along with her glasses.

The villagers looked at her through their windows, watching her walk around the elders’ cabin and into the woods. They had seen so many people walk that same path. Sons and daughters, cousins and friends, and with their losses, they learned to forget. They only remembered that pain briefly, before turning away from the rain filled landscape, and towards their bright fires.

Sierra entered the dense woods, where fog swamped her ankles, made the air dense as she walked through. The wind blew her cape away from her body, and the rain soaked her hair clear through. You’d think the elders would provide some form of cover, but after the first five years, they got tired of doing so.

The rain came down in pellets, beating the ground as it created large puddles, the trees didn’t do much to protect her. Their leaves came down on her, bright red and orange, landing on the ground in a soggy mess. Sierra stumbled over a root, that grew underneath the stone path. She groaned, before getting up, determined. Her knee hurt, and she couldn’t help but limp as she continued in the dense fog, only able to see the rain as it came down from the sky. Even the trees, usually so tall and scary, faded into the mist. She didn’t know where she was going, or if she was going to get there.

Did the beast even exist? Was what she saw when she was a child just a bad dream?

She didn’t know anymore. She remembered her mother holding her as her she cried. Her mother saying, “Never, never go to the beast, Sierra. Promise me.” Her mother sobbed, arms wrapped tightly around little Sierra’s was it, “Promise me.” She begged.

“But, what if someone I love—“

“Promise me.” She said firmly. Holding in her tears as her friend disappeared into the woods.

“I promise.” Sierra said softly, sounding like a lonely teardrop that landed on the ground as he mother cried. Then, her mother followed her best friend into the woods, and Sierra followed her mother. That’s when she saw the beast. She can’t remember the rest. Except her mother was different after that. She forgot everything.

Sierra couldn’t help but feel.. a little lonely as the memory passed her mind, she missed her mother dearly. She.. she still loved her, even if her mother hurt her. Always commenting about her weight. Always saying mean things when she was around. Sighing, she slowed for a moment, wondering if she would ever find the end of the path. After a moment, she continued.

How long had she been here, walking?

One hour, or two?

Was she even walking?

She checked. She was. Her feet were moving.

There was no end to the fog, no end. No end to the fog that kept going and going. No end to the rain, no end to the rain that kept raining and raining. Her legs were going to collapse. Her legs were going to collapse like an old house in a storm. She was exhausted.

Panting, she didn’t notice the fog starting to clear ahead of her, or the rain going away slowly.

She didn’t notice until she saw a tall figure in a clearing, sitting on a stone with an umbrella.

Startled, she stood at the edge of the tree line for a moment, before taking a step forward.

“He-hello?” She called, holding her cape close as she shivered.

The figure turned towards her, smiling, “Hello!”

She took a step back.

It was the beast! He was so, so tall! She barely even reached past his waist! He had horns, long, curved and black sprouting from his head and fangs and claws! Her heart pounded as he approached her. All she could do was stand frozen with fear, her legs turning into overcooked noodles as they shook. Her stomach flipped, burning with fear as her body started to shake.

When he was standing in front of her, she took the time to observe everything. He had red hair, and dark red eyes. He wore a black kimono, cascaded with bright red and white roses, he had a bright red sash in the middle, and a white layer underneath said kimono. Then, cautiously, she looked at his face.

...He was handsome.

Very handsome.

He had some black facial hair, which she liked. His chin was also nice.. and he wore glasses too, which she had to admit complimented his face shape.

When he met her eyes, she quickly looked down, noticing his shoes, she recognized those, but forgot the name! She knew her mother brought a pair from Japan on one of her trips at sea. Then, she looked at his hands, long black claws that faded to red at the tips.

Testing her courage, she looked up again, and took a deep calming breath, straightening her shoulders. She met his eyes, pushing up jet glasses defiantly as she could.

Yan, the creature she was looking at, smiled. Gently, he held out his hand.

“You must be exhausted.” He said softly, “I know a place where you can rest.”

He watched caution appear on her face as she lifted her hand, wondering whether to take his.

“Don’t worry, I won’t hurt you.”

Sierra figured she had nothing to lose, and took his hand. He quickly pulled her under the umbrella before picking her up. She stiffened for a moment, before sighing tiredly.

“Are you tired?”

“Yeah, I’ve traveled a long way to get here.”

Yan’s voice was.. calm, as he spoke to her, but still soft, “You should rest then.”

He couldn’t help but feel his heart pounding in his chest as he looked at her, his little human. Papa had been noticing he felt lonely lately, so Wilford told him to go get the next human who came around, hoping to cure Yan’s loneliness. It worked a little too well.

“I have a question.” Sierra said suddenly.

“Yes?” Yan asked, walking towards another stony path, but this time, it was clear.

“How come you aren’t pink?

“What?”

“I saw you once, when I was younger.. and you were pink.”

“Oh! You must’ve seen my papa.”

“Your papa?”

“Mhm, he usually comes to pick up the humans, in fact, that’s how he met my mom! Right at that spot you walked to!” Yan couldn’t help but think of how romantic it was! And now! He met a human who made him feel.. feel like all the things his papa described when he was in love! The fluttering heart and the butterfly filled tummy!

“...O-oh.. I remember my mom followed a friend who was chosen..”

“Chosen?”

“Yeah.. as like a sacrifice.. because that’s why the humans come, right?”

“No! They come because.. well it’s complicated, but in our world their was a big war, and a lot of people were killed. We were dying out so.. so we brought humans over and.. well.. repopulated. But a lot of humans wanted to go, we couldn’t take them all.. so we decided to just take one every few years.”

“Oh.”

“Yup!”

Sierra went silent, leaning on his shoulder as she took it all in. Her mind was too tired to think, she realized, looking up at.. at the beast, she closed her eyes. He seemed trustworthy, and she was just.. so.. so tired..

Eventually, Yan reached a portal and held the small human close, noticing she was asleep.

“Don’t worry Senpai..” he whispered, “I’ll take care of you.”

Then, he stepped into a portal, leading her into a bright new world.

#self insert #self ship #yandereiplier #yandereplier #egotober #egotober2019 #ego #markipler #fan fic #my writing #sierra’s writing

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