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luvyanfei · 3 years

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with a short & insecure s/o (hcs)

ft. xiao, kaeya, zhongli, & xingqiu requested by anon

this,,, this is me

xiao.

he’s appalled when he finds out people actually tease you for your height. xiao has always known how terrible humans can be, but to think they would attempt to tear someone down, specifically his lover, just because they’re considered small irate him to no end. you might want to hold on to him tightly before he can storm off and declare war on the bullies who dared to torment you in any way.

he honestly doesn’t care if you’re short or tall, ugly or pretty - your appearance isn’t what’s important here. he fell in love with you for what’s inside of you, don’t forget that, okay? xiao may not outright say all that because he’s embarrassed of showing his soft side to you, but if your insecurity gets the better of you, he’ll at least lend an ear to you as you rant to him while stargazing together.

however, what xiao despises more than others treating you poorly is you belittling yourself. he has zero tolerance for that kind of attitude and will react quite aggressively, gripping you by the shoulders and shaking you. he can’t help himself. it hurts him deeply, dare he say more than a stab to his heart, seeing you wallowing in self-hatred. he’s harsh, but he means well. xiao would much rather see a content smile on your face than having you look disconsolate.

“have you finally stopped your wailing yet?” xiao peers at your face drenched in tears in disinterest, but really, he’s pretty concerned on the inside. your sobs have been reduced to quiet sniffles, but your body won’t stop trembling. he looks away for a minute, sighs heavily, and pulls you into his arms, a blush coating his cheeks.

he stays silent the whole time, too nervous to do anything really, as your palms press against his chest lightly and will yourself to calm down. xiao clears his throat and brings a finger down to brush away the glistening tears from your eyes.

“look, just because you’re short, it doesn’t mean i don’t like you any less,” he whispers only for you to hear, and presses his lips to your forehead, letting it linger there for a few seconds. “even if you, or anybody else, don’t think you’re worthy enough, i at lease still care about you, so don’t let others’ opinions get to you.”

kaeya.

not to be blunt or anything, but kaeya being, well kaeya, he’s probably going to relentlessly tease you. he doesn’t do it because he harbors any ill-intent towards you. it’s just, kaeya is very fond of your flustered expression. if you happen to end up crying from his words, he’ll immediately stop and apologize guiltily. the last thing he needs is for you to abandon him too because of a fault on his end.

kaeya really does love you a lot, despite your flaws and silently admires you for your empathy and altruism. one good thing about being shorter than your boyfriend is that you can wear his clothing on and he’ll be a gushing mess in no time. he’ll purposefully place his jacket somewhere for you to find in hopes you’ll put it on. he may be doing this just for the purpose of having fun, but he likes knowing that it means you're comfortable and accepting in your relationship with him.

he likes patting you on the head when you pass by each other at random times, his lips curling in a knowing smirk. if you ever need help obtaining items that are out of your reach, kaeya will conveniently be there to lend a hand. it fuels his confidence how you always go to him for help instead of seeking support from someone who might be more reliable. it goes to show that your trust in him is deep.

“having difficulties, [name]?” kaeya hollers to gain your attention as you look down from the ladder to glance at the knight, your hand outreached to grab at the material you need with failed attempts. “allow me to be of service~”

he gestures for you to climb down and gets up the ladder himself, easily grasping the object in his fingers. once his feet has touched the ground, he lowers his hand to give it to you, but before your fingertips can make contact with it, he pulls it away from you. "ah ah ah~ shouldn’t i get some kind of a compensation for helping my dearest?” you stare at him in confusion before an idea plants itself in your head. ah. so that’s what he wants. with a roll of your eyes, you stride up the ladder till your eyes meet and kisses him on the lips.

as you push your body away from him, he gives a closed-eye grin and nods in satisfaction. “that wasn’t too bad, now was it?” kaeya finally hands you the item, but he grips your free hand in his and guides it to press against his warm cheek. “you should realize by now what you’re capable of doing, stealing my heart like this. you’re so cruel [name], but perhaps that’s why i’ve grown to love you.”

zhongli.

zhongli is an honest and good-natured man. he’ll immediately tell you that he doesn’t think to care about your height, so there’s no reason for you to worry about it either. he’s not an idiot though. he’s aware that your self-deprecating thoughts won’t disappear so easily with his consoling words alone. actions speak louder than words, after all.

if anyone ends up insulting you for your size, zhongli won’t hesitate to politely stand up for you. although, if they stubbornly persist in demeaning you, it’ll push him to the brink of indignation, but he’ll still attempt to keep up a courteous manner for your sake as he calmly tells them to back off. like kaeya, he loves it when you wear his clothing! he’s lived for a long time to see many things, but witnessing you cuddling him while his jacket is draped snugly over your body has got to be the cutest thing he’s seen yet.

ever the supportive individual, zhongli will help you come out of your shell and build up on your self-esteem. he’s there with you every step of the day, so if you ever slip and feel like you’re about to fall into an abyss of despair, he’ll take your out-stretched hands in his and guide you back into the light.

“[name], is something the matter? you look as if you’re bothered by something.” zhongli questions innocently, studying your face carefully. your eyes droop slightly, but you reassure him that you were pondering how it would feel like if you were as tall as him. he nods in understanding and brings a hand up to his chin in thought.

before you know it, he’s turned his back towards you and kneeled down. perplexed, you stare at him, unsure of what he’s doing. “you said you desired to know what it’s like to be around my height, so this is the only thing i can think of.” hesitantly, you place your hands on his shoulder blades to balance yourself and he makes sure to hold onto you tightly as he stands up slowly. you smile in appreciation at zhongli’s consideration over your feelings and presses your body closer to his.

he beams back at you, sealing a kiss to your lips. “if you ever feel down, remember that there’s at least one person in the world that loves you - one of them being me, of course.”

xingqiu.

he also reacts similar to kaeya, although his teasing is slightly toned down and less vocal. like, if you wanted to give him a kiss on the cheek, he might lean away from you and probably use a stool to make himself taller, but he’ll stop after a bit of fun and laughter. it’s not funny unless both of you are smiling, right?

he finds your short stature to be one of your charm points and will compliment you for that, calling you adorable and such. it’s kind of perfect for him because he likes being the big spoon, embracing you from behind and nuzzling his face against the back of your neck. if you’re around the same age as him, it’s alright! there’s still time for you to grow. he’s sure the both of you will be tall soon. there’s no judgement when you’re with him, so don’t be afraid of being yourself around xingqiu, alright?

if he finds out your confidence is still lacking, he’ll scribble down a list of all the things he loves about you for you to read to lift your spirits up! although, that might prove to be a challenge considering his handwriting is infamously known for being illegible.

“hmm... isn’t that the picture we took at liyue harbor together?” xingqiu observes the photo in your hand, reminiscing the fond memories. his honey irises flicker to you. “hey, what’s with the frown?”

you shake your head and tries to change the subject, but he presses on to persuade you into explaining. when you finally do, he bursts into a fit of laughter, wiping away the tears pricking the edge of his eyes. “i apologize for my behavior, but [name], you shouldn’t have to concern yourself with such a trivial matter.” he tucks away a stray strand of your hair behind your ear, his index finger ghosting over your lips.

“have i ever told you that you’re cute?” xingqiu murmurs, a sense of genuine compassion laced in his tone. “don’t stare at me like that, please. i’m quite serious, so there’s no need to compare yourself with me. no matter the height difference, i’ll always love you - if you’ll allow me too.

tagging. @liliisacutieowo, @scarymoosh

#genshin impact #genshin impact x reader #xiao #xiao x reader #zhongli #zhongli x reader #kaeya #kaeya x reader #xingqiu x reader #xingqiu

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disturbedbydesign · 3 years

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The Widow and the Wolf - Chapter 3

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x dark!exWidow!reader

Summary: After Natasha Romanoff took down the Red Room, the former Widows scattered to the wind. Raised to be a killing machine and released into the world with nothing and no one, you decided to use your newfound autonomy to take down the bad guys of your choosing. But now Natasha is riddled with guilt for leaving you on your own. She wants to recruit you, rehabilitate you, make you part of a team again. But the rest of the squad has reservations, and no one is more against you than Bucky Barnes.

Warnings: Graphic violence; Mentions of domestic violence, rape, pedophilia, human trafficking, child sex trafficking; eventual Dubcon (not Bucky); eventual smut; slow(ish) burn enemies-to-lovers. [More warnings will be added as necessary but these are the Big Bads.] 18+ only, no minors.

If you prefer to read on AO3, you can do so here.

Chapter Three

If you had a home, it would be Bucharest, even though you despise the place. It was the first place you went when you got free, because you know he’s here somewhere, conducting his evil machinations from the shadows, shielded by layer after layer of vile men across the globe doing his dirty work. There are plenty of men out there deserving of your particular brand of justice, but no one more so than the Viper. Sometimes you think that, if you can just find him and take him out, you might be able to move on—try to make a normal life for yourself, whatever that looks like. You don’t allow yourself to think about what will happen if you finally achieve your life’s goal and it’s still not enough for you.

You remember everything about the day you learned of the Viper’s existence. You were just 7 years old, one of many little girls packed into a shipping container. You had no idea how long you’d been in there or how long you would be in there. It smelled rancid, and there was never a moment of quiet. Most of the girls were screaming or crying, but a few (like you) were silent, just observing. You don’t know who sold you from your orphanage and shipped you off to Dreykov and you never will. What you do know is that you had no family to miss and no one to miss you, so you didn’t understand what the others were so upset about. From the very beginning, you adjusted to life as a Widow almost effortlessly, which is its own form of tragedy.

Others, though, they were stolen away from people who loved them. This seemed a foreign concept to you when you heard about it from the tiny, sobbing girl huddled next to you in the shipping container—the girl who told you about the Viper, the girl who would become your first and only friend until Dreykov took control of all of your minds. Once you were given the serum, your memories were locked up inside your own heads—none of you could have talked about your past lives even if you’d wanted to. Your words were not your own. You didn’t know what was real and what was planted there. Sometimes you still don’t, and nothing terrifies you more than that.

You have no idea how many little girls the Viper funneled to Dreykov over the years, but it was probably a decent amount. His real bread and butter had always been sex trafficking, and he’s still doing it—on an even larger scale if your intel is correct (which, of course, it is). But he won’t be operating for much longer, not now that you’re so close you can almost taste the venom. You were barely 8 years old when you decided you would kill him, and now you have your chance. You are so close, closer than you’ve ever been, but he keeps slithering out of your grasp. And so you’re in Bucharest, again, looking for answers, again. But you have other business, too—almost as important, if not more so.

You head to the safehouse on the outskirts of the city. The building doesn’t look like much on the outside, but you’ve made sure the inside is comfortable enough for the women and children who live there. The matron greets you at the door and you hand her this month’s envelope, which contains enough cash to feed everyone for the next two months, keep the lights and the water on, and some extra to fix the plumbing issues that have been plaguing the building since you bought it.

The building can house about 40 people comfortably—it’s not nearly enough, and you’re determined to create as many safe spaces as you can, but it’ll do for now. For now, you have to select your charges according to a very strict criteria: they are all women and children (and the children of women) who have been bought and sold by the Viper. Some of them escaped on their own; some of them had assistance from you and the very few people you trust in the city. But all of them have suffered, and all of them have information that you need. Individually, it’s not much, but the more women you talk to, the more pieces of the puzzle you have to work with.

Besides for the cash drop, today you’re here to see the newest resident: Irina, a 19-year-old beauty your Bucharest contacts had managed to snatch from one of the sex clubs. Irina was delivered to the Viper at 12, and her life since then has been an endless nightmare that you can’t think about for too long without feeling physically ill. She’s sitting by the window in the living room, cupping a steaming mug of tea, when you approach her. You walk towards her slowly, and when Irina looks over at you, there is recognition in her eyes even though you’ve never met.

“You’re the Widow,” she says.

“Not anymore,” you reply. “But if that’s what you’d like to call me, go ahead. May I sit?” She gestures to the seat opposite her and you settle in for a chat. “I’d like to ask you some questions, Irina. Is that ok?”

“The others told me you’d be coming.” She speaks softly, her voice hoarse from screaming or crying or both. “I know what you’re trying to do. You’ll never catch him, you know.”

“I disagree,” you say, “but I need more information.”

“Alright,” she agrees, “if you think it will help,” and you begin the gentlest of interrogations.

Irina tells you that for the first several years after she was taken, she hadn’t heard anyone mention the Viper. She thinks that a lot of the girls probably knew about him or came directly from him, but no one would talk about it because it was too dangerous or traumatizing (or both). Things were different at her last club, though. When you ask her how many of the girls at Delirium knew about him, she tells you that several of them had passed through him somewhere along their journey. One of them—one far too young to be working there—even admitted that she’d been with him only two months earlier.

Finally, after all this time, you’ve got a clear line from point A to point B. You feel it in your bones that Delirium holds the answers, that if you can just get in and poke around a bit, you’ll be able to find him. You take Irina’s hands in yours and thank her for her help, and then you hear it: heavy footsteps coming down the hall. No woman or child in the building weighs enough to make a sound like that, and no men are allowed on the premises. You know who it is before you see him.

*****

Bucky watches you enter the building from his position on the roof across the street. His contact had told him that there were whispers of a Widow safehouse at this address, though no one would dare set foot within 10 blocks of the place to find out. Bucky doesn’t believe the rumor, though. He knows you work alone, that you pride yourself on it. He assumes this is just one of many places where your targets meet their ends, and he knows enough about Bucharest to know that there are a lot of men in this city who fit your modus operandi.

Still, something is off. It’s not an empty building. There have been women and children coming and going all morning, and nearly all the apartments seem occupied. Why would you choose to do your dirty work in a place with so much activity, with so many innocents around? That seems not only impractical but beneath even you. He’s lost in these thoughts, checking each window with his binoculars, when he settles on a beautiful young girl staring out the window, looking desperately sad. She turns to look at someone he can’t see, and then he sees you emerge from the shadows and take a seat opposite her.

There’s a softness to your face—a gentle kindness—that knocks the wind out of him. Bucky can’t take his eyes off of you, analyzing your body language and facial expressions to try to figure out what the hell is going on. This is the last thing he expected to see, and he tells himself that this woman must be hiring you for a job—except the woman is nothing but a broken child and doesn’t look like someone who would be taking out a hit on somebody (and certainly not someone who could pay for one).

It’s unnerving, watching you this way, and Bucky is no longer sure that what he’s doing is right. There’s something about your interaction with this girl that makes him feel like a voyeur, witnessing an intimate moment that he should not be seeing but that fascinates him nonetheless. Still, he’s here, you’re his mission—albeit one he took upon himself—and he needs to finish it. By this time, Natasha and Steve are almost certainly on their way, and Bucky needs to get to you before they show up. He went rogue and committed to this plan; now he just has to execute it. He’ll deal with the consequences later.

Bucky makes his way across the street and around the back, where children’s toys litter the small yard of weeds and dirt. When he gets to the back door, he notices that it isn’t the usual ancient rusted lock that one finds on the old buildings in this neighborhood; it’s brand new tech. There’s a pretty decent security camera setup around the building, too.

What the hell is this place?

Bucky has two choices: he can rip the door off the hinges, or he can scale the building and climb in the open window on the top floor. You’re going to be homicidally pissed either way, so he might as well not destroy any property—you may be a monster, but the other tenants here look like civilians, and he doesn’t want to sacrifice their security in his quest to bring you in.

Bucky makes it into the building and weaves his way through the hallways. Along the way, he runs into a few women, and each one of them freezes when they see him. They are shocked and deathly afraid—a look he knows far too well—and they scurry back to their apartments and lock the doors. With his hair cut short, baseball cap pulled down, and leather jacket and glove hiding his prosthetic, it doesn’t seem possible that all of these women would immediately recognize him as the Winter Soldier. That’s what it feels like to him, though, and it’s a gut-punch sensation he does not like at all.

When he gets to the sitting room, the girl you are with has the same look of terror, and for a moment, so do you. But you snap back to yourself quickly—having gone from soft to terrified to hostile within a span of about 15 seconds. Before he can react, you stomp towards him, grab him by the jacket, and hiss, “Not here.”

Bucky hears you speak to the girl in Romanian, “Don’t be afraid, Irina. He’s a friend,” although he knows you think him anything but.

The second you get him into the hallway, you’ve got your knife to his throat. Even with your cold blade nicking his skin, Bucky fights the impulse to disarm you. He doesn’t want to fight you. He knows that he’s intruded on something here, though he doesn’t know what, and he actually feels guilty. He could break you in half if he wanted to, but he lets you pin him to the wall—lets you feel like you’re in control.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” you growl.

“You know why I’m here,” Bucky replies, but he doesn’t know—not really, not anymore. “What is this place?”

“It’s somewhere safe,” you say, “or it was until you showed up. No boys allowed, Soldat. Time to go.”

You catch him off guard when you flip him around and throw him through the nearest door, and before he can regain his balance, you kick him straight through the window and into the yard two storeys below. The fall is nothing to Bucky, and he knows that you know that, but it certainly made a statement. He looks up at the broken window he’d just crashed through and sees you peering out with a satisfied smile on your face.

Bucky calls up to you, “I just want to talk.”

“Bullshit,” you snap.

“I mean it,” he says, and he actually does. “You can pick the place.”

He watches as you consider his offer, weighing your options—you obviously don’t trust him, but it’s clear that the sanctity of this location is important to you. Now that he’s violated it, you can’t just let him wander off. You agree to meet with him that evening—in public, at a club in Old Town.

“Come alone, Soldat,” you call down to him, “and if you tell anyone about this place, I’ll throw you out a higher window.”

Bucky tries to hide his tiny smile but he knows you see it, just like he sees the little quirk of your lip just before you disappear. He hoists himself off the ground and brushes himself off. When he turns to leave, he sees a little girl holding hands with her mother. He has no idea how long they’ve been standing there, but the girl is pointing and giggling at him.

The little girl asks, “What happened to him, mama?”

“The Widow’s bite,” she replies.

*****

“He’s not going to hurt her, Natasha,” Steve says as he prepares the Quinjet for landing.

“She might not give him a choice,” she replies, strapping herself in. “What the hell was he thinking coming here alone?”

“I don’t know,” Steve says. “There’s something about this girl that’s really gotten under his skin.”

Natasha looks at Steve, asking the question with her eyes she wouldn’t dare say aloud, and he picks up what she’s putting out.

“He’s not the Winter Soldier anymore. All of that programming… it’s gone. You know that. He’s just Bucky now.”

Natasha nods in agreement, but a part of her still has questions—not whether the deprogramming worked, she knows that it did, and she trusts Bucky with her life. No, Natasha’s concern is what is going on inside Bucky’s head. He was doing well, he was adjusting, he was finally ok, but the existence of you seems to have triggered something in him that the words never had. The words made him cold and empty and ready to comply, but you—you make him think, and Natasha knows how dangerous it can be to dwell too much on things you’ve left in the past.

When Steve and Natasha arrive at Bucky’s old apartment, it’s empty, but there are small signs of life—the indent of a head on the pillow on the floor in the corner, an apple core just starting to brown. He’s been there, and recently. Natasha and Steve don’t know who he would still have contact with in Bucharest, so they are left with nothing to go on. Bucky knows how to cover his tracks, and he left them just enough crumbs to get them to Bucharest but not enough that they could find him when they got there.

“He wants us to trust him,” Steve says, “to wait for him to bring her back here.”

“I can’t just sit around waiting for something to happen, Steve. I have a really bad feeling about this.”

“So what do you suggest we do?” Steve asks.

Natasha sighs and looks out the window. “I have no idea,” she replies, and that’s when she sees it: a piece of graffiti spraypainted on the wall of a building down the street—a coiled snake ready to strike.

The memory hits Natasha like a freight train. She knows that symbol. She knows what it means. She knows exactly who you’re looking for and it seems absurd to her now that she hadn’t thought of it before.

“Let me make a call,” she says. “I think I know why she’s here.”

#bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes smut #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes #sebastian stan #dark!reader #dark!fic #the widow and the wolf

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johannas-motivational-insults · 3 years

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Jo’s Top 10 of 2020

I see lots of artists doing that thing where they post a piece from each month of the year... unfortunately my content creation isn’t necessarily consistent and it’s hard to track what month individual fic chapters were posted in, but I figured I’d do something similar and post my Top 10 pieces of content I created in 2020, what they’re about and why I love them. I actually did get a fair amount done this year thanks to the lockdown, but I’ve narrowed it down to these ten that I’d like to reflect on. (To be fair, I’m probably forgetting something huge. Feel free to leave comments if you think I passed over something important lol.)

10. Friendship in the Horde (meta): This is something I’d wanted to write for a while but finally got around to finishing in February. It’s basically a sociology paper lmao, an analysis of the social hierarchies and systems of the Horde. It was also a convenient excuse for me to gush about Catralonnie, an underrated (friend)ship. But honestly this was an important piece for me because I have always identified with the Horde characters way more than any of the rebels (other than Adora, who grew up in the Horde) and part of why is how they are in an unsafe environment and end up forming relationships that are helpful for survival but hinder them psychologically. And I think to understand the Horde characters and really evaluate their motives and choices you need to understand this first.

9. The Sting in My Eyes: On the surface this is just a run of the mill hurt/comfort oneshot, but it was a really important post-canon processing fic for me. I had a lot of feelings about Catra’s relationships with Shadow Weaver and Melog in season 5, particularly about how Catra must have felt really conflicted after Shadow Weaver told her what she wanted to hear all those years but in a way that felt unearned and out of the blue. It was really cathartic for me to write a scene where she struggles with those mixed feelings but has Adora and Melog to help her process them. And I had long associated the song the title is from with Catra and Shadow Weaver’s relationship, and the way she died trying to redeem herself really solidified that connection.

8. Hail Mary, chapter 6: This was supposed to be a short chapter mostly about the backstory between Catra and Scorpia in this au, with some Catradora yearning thrown in. It evolved into a massive, sprawling thing that is very atmospheric in terms of how the setting and vibes are described and how in the moment it feels. Hail Mary is like that sometimes but that type of narration is usually about football games rather than parties, so this chapter was a fun change of pace in many ways. It was really nostaglic for me to write too, the nerves of being a teenager at a party with your crush and how intense everything feels. And the Scorptra stuff really is delicious, it was nice seeing them have that conversation they never got to have in canon and truly make up, and the tiny sliver I added of Catra’s earlier history was heartbreaking in the best way. So this was not what I intended to write, but it turned out way better for it.

7. A Better Son or Daughter (AMV): I’ve done other Adora AMVs, but this one is really my iconic piece. The song is perfect for Adora, so perfect it’s on Noelle’s Adora playlist. The vid itself is a character study about Adora’s mental health struggles and the way she represses them, as well as a tribute to her resiliency and her eventual triumph of getting to a better place in her life. This is a song that gives me a lot of feelings and once I was making it about Adora it gave me even more, so this was a very satisfying piece to complete. I wish Noelle had gotten a chance to see it but oh well, maybe down the line.

6. Hail Mary, chapter 12: This is the chapter that much of the fic had been building to, Catra and Adora in conflict because Catra finally got the chance to be Adora’s hero and Adora shot her down. It’s painfully analogous to canon, both in terms of how (I suspect) Catra felt in Thaymor and Adora’s tendency to victim blame because she’s so pragmatic. There’s definitely some tones of Taking Control in there but Lonnie does a much better job of examining Catra’s psychology and needs than Glimmer did in canon (a writing error imo, Glimmer should have had more insight). Adora just wants to help but sometimes in her quest to do so she disenfranchises others, and this was a much needed look at that aspect of her character. It’s also an excellent illustration of what it’s like to play a peacekeeping role in an abusive household and how stressful it is trying to protect others while also protecting yourself.

5. Unstoppable (AMV): This is not my favorite Catra AMV I’ve ever done, but it might be the cleverest. The soundtrack is a song about mental illness masquerading as a song about being a bad bitch, which is basically Catra in a nutshell. The lyrics are incredibly fitting for her and her arc as it develops over seasons 1-4. The vid itself takes a hard turn in the interpretation of the lyrics, going from talking about how no one can stop Catra to how she can’t stop herself because she’s in such a terrible sunk cost fallacy spiral, and I think I got several death threats over that twist lmao. As someone who primarily deals in angst, there’s hardly a better compliment to be paid.

4. Demons, chapter 31: This one got real dark on me. The concept of this chapter was originally an examination of how comparing abuse can get really dicey but you also have to respect that other people have had different experiences from you and you have to be careful not to equate things or make it sound like you’re talking over someone else. I guess it’s also a bit of a look at how autistic people (like myself) will often explain why they can empathize so others know they understand rather than saying empty platitudes, but that can come off as insensitive or like they’re making things about them. I mean, in this case Adora kinda was making things about her, but she was provoked into it by a parade of comments insinuating she didn’t suffer at all, which was also unfair. Anyway it’s one of the more important Catradora fights in Demons and something I’d written bits of over a year prior, it was that important to the plot, but it also took a turn I was not originally planning. I finished the chapter when I was in a really bad depressive and self-loathing spiral and that bled onto the page, but it worked perfectly for Catra in this scenario... that push and pull of feeling like the world has hurt and victimized you mixed with knowing you’ve done some bad things yourself and feeling like you don’t have a leg to stand on when mourning the ways you’ve been hurt. It’s intense as all fuck but it’s excellent.

3. Hail Mary, chapter 11: Speaking of dark Catra content, this chapter... whew. It was really something else, to read and to write. I have written flashbacks in Demons that are more detailed and even include explicit violence but because those scenes are always in flashback form I never really got the chance to sit in the head of an abuse victim waiting for the other shoe to drop for an entire chapter like I did here. It’s quite different from the rest of Hail Mary stylistically and is both highly sensory and extremely internalized. It took me back to some terrifying moments in my own life so it was difficult but also extremely cathartic to write. It’s important too because it really sets up where Catra was at mentally heading into her big fight with Adora, and that chapter is in Adora POV. This chapter is ranked so high simply because it’s... polished, as @malachi-walker put it. It almost is its own story within the story and really noteworthy as a piece all its own.

2. Demons, chapter 26: This chapter is very similar thematically to Hail Mary 12, just based in the canonverse. It deals with one of the core (but highly neglected by fandom) conflicts between Catra and Adora, where they both need to feel like they can take care of and protect the other but also detest feeling weak or vulnerable themselves. It leads to Adora’s ego making Catra feel disrespected and Catra’s behavior confusing Adora and making her think she’s an ungrateful brat rather than someone who needs so badly to be needed, just like her. There’s definitely some power struggles in this chapter but finally they’re able to get to the heart of it and seeing them talk it out is so satisfying. Getting this chapter published was also important to me on a personal level because, like I said, this aspect of their conflict and relationship is rarely acknowleged for how important it is when really it’s one of the deepest conflicts between them in the series. It’s a scene I started writing pretty much as soon I knew I was extending the fic into something longer because I just needed them to have this conversation, so finishing it was so satisfying.

1. Satisfaction, chapter 3: This chapter took me a really long time to write, both in terms of time to get it published and time I actually spent working on it. It’s the crown jewel of a fic that’s really important to me and I had to get it just right, so I spent more time agonizing over every detail and rewriting things to get them absolutely perfect than I usually do (I’m a perfectionist anyway, but this took it to a whole other level). But in the end it was worth it, because this chapter is damn fine. It’s really hot, as you’d expect from a smut fic, but it’s also an excellent character study of how both Catra and Adora were affected by their abuse and trauma and the issues it raises for them in terms of sex and intimacy. Also, come on, we need more BDSM fics out there that focus on the actual point of it all (the trust involved) and promote communication and do the character work to explain why they might be into it in the first place.

BONUS (from December 31, 2019): One of my favorite pieces of 2020 technically came out in 2019, but I posted it on New Years Eve so most people first saw it in 2020. It’s an absolute banger of an AMV called I’m Not Jesus that’s all about Catra and Adora’s anger towards Shadow Weaver and their refusal to forgive their abuser. Funny enough this came out before Adora’s iconic “I will never forgive you” line, and Shadow Weaver definitely made things more complicated with how she went out, but I think the sentiment still applies.

#2020 recap #happy new year #writing #vidding #fanfic #spop #catradora #demons #hail mary #satisfaction #the sting in my eyes #a better son/daughter #unstoppable #i’m not jesus

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sproutsgcrden · 3 years

Text

sentinel of naruhata | chapter two

mr. nice guy

warnings: graphic descriptions of violence, one short scene implying sexual harassment (non-graphic), manga spoilers for my hero academia: vigilantes

word count: 3383

previous chapter | masterlist | read on ao3 | next chapter

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If someone had told Koichi that he would get jumped, well, he may have believed them. That’s not too uncommon, especially around Naruhata. And it really wouldn’t be odd if it happened to him specifically. He just had that kind of luck. However, if they had also mentioned that a nine-year old would jump in and save him, he’d be a bit skeptical.

He honestly didn’t know if he quite believed what he had witnessed. One moment he was about to get hit by a guy he had managed to piss off earlier in the day, and the next some kid had shown up seemingly out of nowhere, threatening to steal his attacker’s quirk. Koichi didn’t think that was possible. Sure, there had been copying quirks, and erasure quirks were rare, but a quirk that allowed a person to take another quirk? That didn’t seem right, at least, it didn’t seem too entirely possible. A quirk is an integral, unique part of each individual- there’s no way somebody can take that, right? He could be wrong, it wasn’t like he was studying quirk theory.

As soon as the kid hightailed it out of the store with his strange assortment of items, Koichi knew he’d been in for it. He had already been late to work today because of the whole fiasco from earlier. He didn’t mean to run into Spiky Dude- it had just happened! Yeah, maybe he shouldn’t have been using his quirk in public, but he was running late! And then, of course, Spiky Dude just had to show up at the same convenience store Koichi worked at, and had to rough him up on the same day he was late. His manager was already absolutely pissed, and Koichi really didn’t want to stick around any longer than he had to in fear of a lecture, or something worse.

Luckily for him, he was nearing the end of his shift by the time Spiky Dude had entered the store, and the kid had helped him waste a lot of time due to the insane amount of items he was purchasing. All he had to do was clock out and sneak out of the door, which should be fairly easy. After punching out on the system and closing the register, Koichi grabbed his bag and began to get ready to leave.

“Haimiwari.” Koichi closed his eyes in disappointment, sighing before turning around with a fake grin.

“What can I do for you, sir?”

The angry tapping of the shoe really should have been enough warning, in hindsight.

------

The streets of Naruhata were busy for the late hour, not too unusual but it was something that Koichi didn’t want to bother with after the night he had. Of course that stunt had gotten him fired. Perfect. It wasn’t like it was his fault! He was the victim in all of this! What, did his boss really think that he wanted to get dragged into an alleyway and get beat up? Koichi grunted as he walked around a slow-placed couple. He would have to find another job and fast. Rent was coming up, and he still had payments due on his tuition. His left hand adjusted the strap of his backpack while his right passed over his face. This was too stressful to think about right now.

There was something he knew he could to help take his mind off of things for a while. Koichi’s eyes narrowed in determined concentration. Yeah, tonight was a good night for that.

------

The wind rushed through Izuku’s loose hair, tousling it beyond fixing. It felt wonderful, racing across the rooftops of an unknown city in the dead of the night. He was barely let out of his room and the training hall on good days- he could never hope to leave the confines of Kurogiri’s watchful eye. Which, unfortunately, meant that it was a rare opportunity to go outside… ever.

Izuku let out a harsh giggle, letting it echo in the air with a wide smile. He had never felt so free.

Slowing to catch his breath, Izuku pulled a wrinkled, old notebook out of his bag. Skimming through the pages, he stopped on the last entry he made. When researching Eraserhead, it wasn’t that hard to find out that the underground hero mainly patrolled in the Narahata Ward. However, it was a bit more difficult to find out specific times and locations of his daily patrols. He assumed that it changed quite frequently due to Eraserhead’s cryptid-like nature, but it was still frustrating to not know exactly where to find the hero. Especially since he wasn’t aware how much time he had before Tomura caught on to where he was.

However, Izuku did have a few locations that seemed to be promising. Most of them were hidden back alley’s, which made perfect sense. A majority of petty crimes took place during the day- they were a beacon to spotlight heroes, those who lived off the praise and popularity from civilians. But the nasty, evil villains? Oh, Izuku knew from experience that the worst of the worst were always found in the dead of night. Underground heroes always had to be on their toes, and it spoke volumes to Eraserhead’s vigilance that he’s remained pretty much untouchable and unnoticeable to those who wished ill intent.

Pulling up the map on his outdated phone, he inputted the first location he had written in his notebook. The specific alley was only about three blocks away. With a manic grin, Izuku pulled up the hood of his jacket and let Enhance swim through his veins once more.

------

The discs of air underneath Koichi’s palms lit up with a familiar burst of light, making the nineteen gleefully chuckle. The feeling of his signature All Might hoodie snugged tight over his torso provided him with an unexplainable comfort, as did the plain black mask covering the lower half of his face.

Koichi was inexplicably known for his plain nature at college (save for the rumors that said he was some creep that tried to lure girls into abandoned buildings. He really was just trying to make friends!), so it wasn’t like anyone would expect him to be the vigilante that ran around Naruhata at night.

Well, he supposed the word “vigilante” was a bit of an exaggeration. It wasn’t like he sought out and fought criminals, he just used his quirk to get around a bit faster and help out the common man. Koichi lost out on his chance of being a hero a long time ago, but that didn’t mean that he couldn’t help people when he had a bit of free time. As Mr. Nice Guy, he was able to get a glimpse of what he had dreamed about being his entire life.

Koichi zoomed through the lit up streets of Naruhata, providing directions to the lost, helping find missing items, and picking up bits of random trash. Everytime he received a “thank you” his eyes lit up- it was nice to be appreciated sometimes. The chorus of grateful civilians echoed within his mind as he continued to do good deeds throughout the night. After a few hours, he found himself moseying down a side road in hopes of heading home.

“All that do-gooding sure does make a guy thirsty.” He slipped down his mask, mumbling mostly to himself as he readjusted the straps of his bag.

A water bottle was thrust in front of him, followed by a peppy voice. “Here ya go!”

Koichi took the water bottle without thanking, shouting a quick “thank you” to whoever handed him the drink. And then, once he realized what had just happened, immediately did a double-take. Wide eyes looked over to the side of the road, only to see a young girl with pink, puffy pigtails staring at him with a bemused smirk.

“Pop Step?!” Koichi straightened his posture. “What are you doing here?!”

Ignoring his question, she began to walk out in front of him, hands stuffed in the pockets of her jacket. “So… you’re the guy picking up trash around town?” Her hand went to frame her cheek in wonder. “What’s your name again? Cockroach Guy?”

Wide, admiring eyes became downtrodden in an instant, an annoyed glare taking their place. “It’s Nice Guy!”

“Whatever! You’re the one who alerted me to the fuzz during my show, right? I wanted to say thanks, somehow!”

Koichi was the one who let her know the police were coming when she was performing her illegal street show earlier in the day. He didn’t care much for her music, but that didn’t mean he wanted to see her get arrested. Either way, he wasn’t sure why that provided an excuse to essentially stalk him. “So, you’ve been tailing me all day, huh?”

“Yup! I saw you almost get pummeled by those customers while you were working at that convenience store! I probably wouldn’t have stepped in either way, but wow! You were lucky when that little kid showed up, huh? Gotta admit, Cockroach Guy, that was pretty lame!”

“I don’t do well with violence, okay!” Koichi felt his eye twitch in annoyance; it was probably time to get out of this conversation before he lost his temper.

Pop Step’s face twisted with confusion. “Isn’t that dweeby hoodie supposed to be an All Might cosplay? And yet, you suck at fighting? That totally makes sense…”

“Sure, I look up to the guy. I wanna be useful to society however I can, just like he is! It’s got nothing to do with fighting! And the hoodie isn’t dweeby! It’s cool!”

“However you can?” Pop Step giggled, using her quirk to jump ust high enough to appear a little taller than Koichi. “So you know your place, at least!”

Koichi clenched his teeth in frustration, stepping around Pop Step to try and speed around her. “Stop getting hung up on the details! Knowing your place is important! If you keep playing at being some sort of pop idol, the cops will catch you sooner than later.”

Pop’s face scrunched up with a flash of anger, and if Koichi hadn’t had the night he had, he may have even been terrified. “Hey! I’m not ‘playing’ at anything! I’m the real deal!” She sped up, stopping in front of him as she pointed a perfectly manicured finger in his face. “You’ll just have to keep an eye out for the police! Also, I’ll need you to usher in my fans, set up the venues, and sell some merchandise!”

“Are you pissed off or hiring me for a job?!”

“Don’t you need one? Wouldn’t be surprised if you got fired after what happened!” Pop didn’t even take a moment to notice Koichi’s crestfallen glance towards the wall. “Anyways! If anyone can help me, it’s you- Know Your Place Guy!”

“Ugh. It’s Nice Guy!”

“Oh whatever!” Pop Step turned away from Koichi in order to run further down the alley, sparing him a glance backwards as she made her getaway. “I went through all of this trouble to express some gratitude… I didn’t think it’d be such a big deal, asking a ‘Nice Guy’ like you to do a little work to help a girl out!”

Koichi, good mood effectively ruined once again, went to bite back with a response. That was, until a familiar group popped into his view. He flinched as he saw Pop Step run straight into the leader, none other than the Spiky Dude who threatened to pummel Koichi into the ground just hours before. He could do nothing but stare as the group cornered Pop Step up against the wall, no doubt making her uncomfortable. Probably much more so than he was when he was in her position.

Now, if Koichi were a hero, this is when he would pull out all of the stops. He would crouch low to the ground, speeding to the men terrorizing the young girl and knocking them all on their asses. He would make sure he sped Pop Step to a safe location before coming back to make sure those bozos got arrested like they deserved. But, Koichi wasn’t a hero. And he would never be one. What could he do? His quirk was essentially useless in a fight. The only thing he was good at was running away.

But didn’t he have a duty to try and help? After all, if he couldn’t find the strength to help a young girl in this kind of situation, how could he try to help anyone else? With shaky legs and a determined glint in his eyes, Koichi bent low to the ground. The familiar pulse of his quirk activating below him provided little comfort, but he knew he had to push through this fear and go.

Mask pulled up, Koichi flew against the dirty pavement, locking eyes onto one of Spiky Dude’s lackeys. Now, if he could just get by unnoticed this time, he could knock this guy off his game and get Pop out of there. But of course, things never go Koichi’s way. That’s his luck.

The man caught him, large physique towering over him. The small tuft of flame acting as his hair cast an eerie shadow against the ground. “Well, well, well… look who we have here! Hey, boss! It’s the cockroach from earlier!” Still holding onto the back of Koichi’s hoodie, the large criminal threw him against the wall.

The pain of his head hitting against the rough edges of brick didn’t compare to the spikes slashing against his cheek.

“That annoying brat ain’t here to save you this time.” Spiky Dude’s eyes seem to glow in the dark night, and Koichi couldn’t ignore the sinister feeling pooling in his gut. “You ain’t getting away with just a small beating this time. I’m going to crush you. And I’m gonna enjoy it.”

The spiky criminal stalked closer to him; Koichi’s eyes immediately latched onto the blood dripping from the thick barbs protruding from the knuckles of his enemy. Shit. Shit. What could he do?! He really was going to die. Koichi shut his eyes in gruesome anticipation, hoping that at least Pop Step was using this opportunity to get away. A rush of air flew past his nose, and he blinked slowly. Looking up, Koichi locked eyes with Spiky Dude. The skewers had vanished from his knuckles, and the same, pale look of absolute petrification the criminal wore earlier in the night was on his face once more.

“Didn’t I tell you I wasn’t going to warn you next time?” The familiar voice of the kid that had stepped in during Koichi’s earlier encounter with this group echoed through the street, venom and animosity clear as day in his tone. Even Koichi shrunk into himself in fear. His wandering eyes latched onto a figure leaning down from the rooftop above, All Might hoodie bright against the black of night.

“I was looking for Eraserhead, but maybe I can do his job for him tonight and knock you fucker’s out.” Holy shit, what was up with this kid?

Koichi had noticed earlier that the kid had bright green eyes, but they seemed almost electrified, bright green sparks lighting off in his pupils as his glare deepened. He jumped off the roof, floating just above the ground before he hit it at full speed. His hand was held out, and Koichi glanced at the numerous scars stretching against the palored skin.

While Spiky Dude was distracted, Koichi took the opportunity to get back on his hands and feet, and forced himself to crash into the lizard looking man that was still holding onto Pop Step. She used the momentum from Koichi along with her quirk to jump out of the way and out of the alley. In his happiness of the fact that Pop was able to make a getaway, he wasn’t able to stop his momentum. Koichi ended up crashing straight into the other wall, the force of it knocking out the criminal he held tight in his grip.

“There’s no need for that!” A deep, grudd voice echoed from the other side of the street, and before anyone could react, a large fist connected straight into Spiky Dude’s nose. “The name’s Knuckleduster. And it’s my job to take out the trash like you.” Koichi barely even blinked, and the next moment the other tone was conked out right beside the leader.

What the fuck was happening?!

------

Izuku sighed in relief as he felt the rubber band snap against the quirk he held in his grasp, sending it back to its original owner as some random old man knocked him out. He didn’t want to steal a quirk, but that dude really wasn’t going to give him any choice. Luckily some geezer showed up before he could make good on his threat. He watched the man with a careful stare, seeing as he checked each of the criminal’s tongues before standing back up. His red sneakers crunched against the pavement as he lowered himself back to the ground; he walked towards the cashier he met earlier and held his hand out for him to take.

The man sitting across from him scratched the back of his head in a sheepish manner, choosing to take Izuku’s hand in order to get back up. “Uh, suppose that’s twice you’ve saved me, huh kid? We really have to stop meeting like this.”

Izuku chuckled, nodding his head in agreement. A cough sounded behind the two of them, and they both turned around to find the old man staring straight into their souls. Knuckleduster’s bandana covered his entire head, including the top half of his face, only leaving holes to see out of. His black trench coat was grimy, not to mention ripped on the hemlines. Everything about this screamed “homeless old man”, even down to the gritty way the man seemed to fight.

Izuku couldn’t help but think the man seemed familiar.

“You take quirks or something, kid?” The man’s eyes narrowed, his already gruff voice deepened.

“No! I don’t take quirks! I was just playing a bluff, really!” Technically, Izuku wasn’t lying. He hadn’t ever willingly taken a quirk before. “I have an erasure quirk! That’s why I’ve been looking for Eraserhead. I’m hoping he’s willing to train me.” Now, there’s the lie.

“Hmph.” Knuckleduster’s eyes stayed on Izuku a little while longer, tense silence following before he shrugged it off. “You both show promise. Gotta admit, when I heard about Naruhata’s newest vigilante, I wasn’t expecting him to have a sidekick.”

Both Izuku and Koichi stared at him in shock, making the old man laugh. It was a hearty laugh, scratchy and sarcastic. “People are gonna make that sort of assumption when you’ve got two kids helping fight crime in the exact same hoodie.” The two boys flushed, causing Koichi to shake his head.

“We just met today.”

“So? Doesn’t mean the two of ya don’t work well together. I almost didn’t need to come down here. If it weren’t for the threat of Trigger I probably wouldn’t have. Don’t know if it’s luck or not, but these thugs didn’t have a trace of the drug on ‘em.”

“Trigger?” Izuku knew what he was talking about. His father was one of the main benefactors of the production and distribution of the drug. Or well, he was before he got forced into a coma. He had originally thought the distribution would slow after the underworld had found out about All for One’s current medical status, but it seems that wasn’t the case.

Knuckleduster waved it away. “I can explain that later. After you two accept my offer.”

Koichi paled, backing away from the crazy old man. “What offer?”

A sinister grin formed its way onto Knuckleduster’s face, making the duo in front of him back away even further. “Let me teach you kids what it takes to do hero work, and how great it feels to pound some villains!”

Koichi thought this man was absolutely insane and would only lead him to more trouble.

Izuku thought that he had enough training from the villains themselves.

They met each other’s gaze before turning back to Knuckleduster.

“We refuse your offer.”

#bnha vigilantes fanfic #bnha vigilantes #koichi haimawari #kazuho haneyama #midoriya izuku #afo is hisashi midoriya #midoriya has a quirk #midoriya has all for one #midoriya fanfic #deku fanfic #deku au #bnha au #bnha fanfic

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lovelylogans · 3 years

Text

honey, you’re familiar (like my mirror)

see other chapters, notes, and warnings here!

chapter one: qualia

qualia: in philosophy and certain models of psychology, qualia are defined as individual instances of subjective, conscious experience. philosopher and cognitive scientist daniel dennett once suggested that qualia was "an unfamiliar term for something that could not be more familiar to each of us: the ways things seem to us.”

JANUS

Janus almost always develops a headache when he has to deal with the latest idiot intern at the firm, but this headache is beyond the pale. Then again, so is this intern. He has never met a uni student that is more destined to become an obnoxiously vocal Tory. It’s like someone granted a novel about Etonian history his wish to become a real boy.

“Out,” he bellows at the intern who has been attempting to stick himself to Janus's side, unable to pick up on the fact that his repeated mentions of his father, you know, the chancellor of the high court, is doing the opposite of impressing everyone around him.

This intern—Janus is going to make it a point to never remember his name now—has probably never been yelled at in his life. He gives Janus a very offended look, sniffs, and retreats from Janus's office, likely to bother whatever barrister he hasn’t yet told about the blatant nepotism that has gotten him into their office.

Janus puts his elbows on the table and pinches the bridge of his nose, breathing slowly in and out. Though the intern has certainly exacerbated the headache at hand, he’s had the headache since he inexplicably woke up at four in the morning.

He’s taken paracetamol, he’s tried hydrating, and drinking caffeine, and rubbing his temples, and even wearing the blue light glasses Key swears by, but there’s been no luck. His head’s throbbing just as badly now as it did when he woke up from a dream about a strange American wearing a pale brown cardigan and a pink tie.

The man had gone pale and sweaty as if he was ill, leaning back against air, clutching at nothing, like he’d hoped to find someone’s hand to hold, but despite the pain he seemed to be in, he’d stared straight at Janus, beaming and wide-eyed.

“I see them,” the man had whispered. He’d opened his free arm as if to offer a hug. “Oh, they’re beautiful. You’re beautiful, my dear. My darling.”

You’re beautiful, my dear, my darling…

Janus rubs at his forehead. If he’d been so beautiful and dear and darling, he would have appreciated being left without this migraine as the price of the compliment.

“You,” he barks at the nearest intern walking by his office—a mousy little thing, a girl who’s swimming in a cardigan that makes his eyes throb with a familiarity he can’t recognize—“I’ll let you assist on this case if you get me a tea with two sugars, right now.”

She perks up. “Really?”

“Right now,” he thunders, and the girl practically squeaks before she heads for the building’s refectory with its in-house café.

Janus tries his hardest not to smile to himself, really he does, but the best part of intern season is scaring the interns. What is he supposed to do, not revel in their suffering?

He’s about to reach for his smartphone resting on his desk when he feels a buzz against his sternum.

He pauses, glances toward the door, before he swivels around his desk chair and opens a lower cabinet as if he’s searching for a file; instead, he reaches into his innermost breast pocket to pull out his other phone. This one is a good deal cheaper than the one resting on the table; that is by design.

He glances at the window to double-check the reflections, that no one is watching him—they aren’t—before he unlocks the phone and looks at the message.

K: jazza, you found anything yet?

Janus scowls at the phone. Honestly.

J: Do you want to get arrested, Key? Because rushing this job is how you get arrested.

K: aint that the reason ur a big fancy barrister in the first place

J: Do they want to put up the rush fee?

He turns back to his desk and manages to get some actual, legal, non-shady work done before the phone buzzes.

K: no.

If pixels could look sullen, these ones do.

J: Then tell them to put up or shut up.

A pause.

J: And don’t text me for inane little updates during actual people’s work hours again. You are specifically only to contact me during these hours for emergencies.

He shuts off the phone and tucks it into his breast pocket again before Key can respond. The nerve of some people. He’ll do the work, fine, but people needed to realize they’d get what they paid for. For the information that Key’s clientele wants him to retrieve, they’ll have to put up quite a bit more cash for him to move at anything beyond a snail’s pace.

A knock at the door. Janus gives the girl his most imperious look.

“Here you are, sir,” she says, handing over one insulated to-go mug, keeping another one in her hands.

“Yes, fine, fine,” he says, taking it. “What’s your name again?”

“Emma, sir.”

“Emma,” he repeats. He takes a sip of the tea.

Or, he expects to take a sip of tea. What he gets is a mouthful of coffee.

Very good coffee, very high-quality coffee, but coffee, and lukewarm at that. He pulls a face instinctively.

“What did you get me?”

Emma immediately looks petrified. “Tea with two sugars, sir?”

Janus frowns at her, then examines the side, where the tea option is ticked off. If they’ve managed to mess up the order, at least they’d given him the good-quality stuff, even if it did taste like it had been sitting on a desk for an hour. He takes another cautious sip.

Tea. Sweetened, hot tea, fresh from the café.

He’s never had a headache this bad before. So maybe he doesn’t know that headaches this bad can mess with his sense of smell. And temperature. Now that he thinks of it, he is feeling really quite hot, even though the building’s air conditioning is blasting.

“...Very good,” he says slowly, and then proceeds to nudge a perilously tall stack of manila files toward her. “Read the top one so you can get reacquainted with the case.”

Emma takes the file immediately, and, just for a moment, just for barely a flash, Janus could swear he’d seen someone walking in the hall in their pajamas and bunny slippers in the reflection of his office windows.

He looks at it more directly.

No. It’s just Emma’s reflection and his. Janus's office, furnished in dark woods and leather desk chairs, his fine suit, the damningly recognizable birthmark and scar splashed across his face.

Janus frowns at himself in the window, turns away, and reaches for his own manila file.

VIRGIL

Getting off the plane from America to South Africa is always an experiment in temperature adjustment.

He takes off his hoodie in between the shuffle of getting off the plane to going to the baggage claim, tying it around his waist, leaving him just in a purple t-shirt and his ripped jeans.

It doesn’t help that he’s got a headache that’s absolutely killing him.

By the time he gets there, his baggage is already waiting at the side of a woman with her hair wrapped in a scarf, her glasses resting low on her nose; they look new, and it makes Virgil’s chest hurt—what else has he missed since he’s been across the world?

Virgil’s mother, Andisiwe, beams at him. “Virgil!”

“I’ve missed you, Mama,” he says in Xhosa because ever since he was a child jetting back and forth for school breaks she’s been worried about him losing his mother tongue.

She laughs, hugging him tight and warm, and he wraps his arms around her in kind, closing his eyes tight. This is the longest he’s been from her since he was born. She’d been in America to teach for a year and a half at Johns Hopkins when she’d met his father, and then Virgil happened.

He couldn’t have gone back to South Africa with her, a black woman with a mixed-race child, not during apartheid. His white father had had to bring him home to his white wife, and white children, and initiate what would eventually become a long, messy divorce.

But he doesn’t like to think about that, and he won’t, not today, not when he’s finally back here. He’s missed her, and Pretoria, and his jacarandas, and his grandmother’s recipe for coconut pitha, and umngqusho, and proper, African coffee more than he can say.

All he’d drunk in the States was tea because he didn’t want to be reminded of home; he can taste it lingering in the back of his throat, even now.

“Or should I say, Doctor Virgil Wright-Nkosi,” she says, beaming at him wide, and Virgil ducks his head, grinning even through how awkward he feels.

“I’m a doctor of botany, it’s not the same as you,” or Dad, he tacks on in his mind, taking his suitcase and gesturing her ahead of him; she trades him with a to-go cup of coffee, which he sips eagerly. It’s such a perfect taste of home that he doesn’t even care that it’s lukewarm.

“Quite right,” she says, leading their way through the airport. “Ph.D. is different from an M.D., I’m thrilled my employer has taught you so excellently in your undergrad—”

Virgil laughs, again, but his foot slips on the smooth airport tile, and he looks down instinctively, and his breath catches in his throat, laughter dying in his mouth, freezing where he stands, because if he takes one more step he is going to die he is going to die he is going to fucking die—

There’s this tight feeling across his chest like a band and suddenly he’s not looking down at clean airport tile but he’s looking down at a yawning expanse of air between himself and the ground at least three stories up and he’s standing on a thin metal bar and if he keeps moving he’s going to fall he’s going to die

“Virgil?”

Virgil looks toward his mother, breath seized in his throat, and—

And he’s at the airport again. Bustling crowds, pinging PA system, his mother, a hand reaching toward him in concern.

“Virgil, are you all right?”

Virgil swallows once, twice, squeezes his eyes shut, and shakes his head to clear it; he opens them again.

Airport. His mom. The crowd. And, just a flash, weaving in and out of the people, there’s a big man with tattoos, and he’s wearing bunny slippers. It’s strange enough that it manages to shake him out of it better than any physical gesture could.

“Yeah,” he says, and his voice sounds strained to his own ears. “Yeah. Um—jet lag, I think.”

Andisiwe surveys him, before she nods, once, decisively.

“Finish that coffee,” she says. “You know how much worse it’ll get if you let yourself fall asleep now.”

Virgil takes a long pull from his cup—bitter, dark, African coffee. Home. He’s home.

Jet lag, he tells himself. Jet lag, and that weird dream you had on the plane. That’s all this is.

REMUS

“The fucking rat bastard bitch-ass sorry shit-stain of a cunt,” Remus pants to himself, as quietly as he can when he’s heaving for breath and sprinting along the forest floor. Remus wasn’t particularly athletic in the first place—one doesn’t really become a horror author if they’re a star athlete, do they?—but when one is running for their life, things like “stitches in my side” and “is that blood I taste in the back of my mouth” kind of take a back seat to things like, you know, continued survival.

Remus nearly trips over a vine, which he verbally abuses for a few hundred more feet, (“fucking useless pieces of shit fucking—”) before he manages to slip and stumble into the shelter of something like a cave. He checks it—as much as he likes wildlife mauling other people, in theory, it kind of goes against this whole survival thing if he wanders into a cave only to get his throat ripped out by a bobcat.

As he casts back the hood of his jacket and mops his brow of sweat, looking back and forth to ensure he hasn’t been tracked, and his heart rate returns to something like normal, turns his mind back to Miguel fucking Contreras.

That fucking bastard was lucky he was dead, and even so, Remus might go back and dig up his freshly-turned grave with nothing but his own two fucking hands and he’d gladly break a hundred of his fingers and turn his knuckles into right-angled wrongness just to reach in there and grab his rotting corpse and wring his neck to kill him again.

He didn’t even kill him the first time, that’s the unbearable thing! He’d wanted to kill him and someone swooped in and did it before Remus ever could!

Remus spits on the ground, furious, and even more furious that everything with him is so vital he can’t risk destroying any of it in a rage—his clothes, his last couple testosterone pills, a burner phone he’d stolen off someone who reminded him of his own wretched abuela a couple cities back and kept shut off ever since. She’d been yelling at some homeless kids trying to get some pesos for a goddamn meal, though, so Remus felt as if he’d performed a public service by making her day worse.

He’d managed to snatch her purse and empty it out, too. The kids got a meal, Remus got a meal, everyone won.

Remus chances a peek around the forest once again, just to ensure he hasn’t been tailed, and—

He shrinks back into the cave at the sight of a large man jogging by. He’s very big, very tall, very tattooed, and very confused, by the looks of it. Like he’s sleep-walked miles into the forest and now doesn’t know his way back.

The man pivots on his foot, walks out of Remus's view behind a tree, and doesn’t resume walking again.

Remus's eyes narrow. He tenses his muscles, ready to start sprinting again, but that man had looked rather big and strong, and therefore much more decisively athletic than Remus.

But minutes pass, and the man doesn’t emerge again.

Remus creeps out, just enough to see past the tree, and—

No. The man is gone.

Anyone else might think that they were losing it. Anyone else might think that they were going crazy.

Remis is fully aware that he’s crazy, though, so he shrugs and returns his attention to sorting through his bag, except—

His fingers run through the money he has, and they aren’t pesos anymore. Remus frowns at the sight of the money, holding it up to the meager light to see it.

There definitely isn’t an old white lady on pesos usually.

“The fuck?”

“Erm.”

Remus whips his head around, very suddenly aware that he isn’t in a cave anymore.

He’s in an apartment. A swanky apartment. The air conditioning is blasting—Remus hasn’t been in air-conditioned surroundings for so long, and he nearly melts under the feel of it, cooling the sweat coating his face, running down his back.

A white man lowers his glasses down his nose and frowns at Remus. The way his mouth moves twists up the scar on the side of the face. He’s holding up a handful of pesos.

“Well, first of all, I really need to send a note so they improve security around this place,” the man says in an undertone. Then, “second of all, if it’s all the same to you, I’m going to need those pounds to pay for my takeaway.”

Remus stares.

“I’ve ordered Indian food to my office,” he continues, “and I’d think that they’d prefer the national currency in exchange for my food. I’ve been craving samosas something awful.”

Samosas do sound good. Any food sounds good, Remus thinks, as his stomach growls with envy.

Remus slowly extends his handful of the old white lady money. The white man places the pesos into Remus's hand, taking his money back at the same time.

“Much obliged,” the white man says and disappears.

Remus blinks down at his handful of pesos, then looks around. No more air conditioning, or swanky office, or promise of takeout.

He shakes his head.

“If I hadn’t lost it before,” he mutters aloud and goes back to counting his money.

Well. It’s not like Remus's brain is any great loss.

LOGAN

Logan gives a cursory peek through the telescope and grumbles, pulling back and rubbing his forehead. Fantastic. On top of this untimely migraine, his equipment has decided to throw a tantrum, too.

He’s known technology can be fiddly even in the best of conditions. He’s known that cold can adversely affect equipment. And yet, for some reason, it is still constantly frustrating when it does happen. Which in turn is frustrating; he should expect cold conditions to interfere with any equipment that he uses for his space research. He’s in Antarctica.

Logan makes effort to simply narrow his eyes at the telescope before him, fiddling with the lens. He has half a mind to ask it there, will you behave now? but considering it is simply scientific equipment, it will not answer. Therefore, there is no reason to speak.

Logan rubs his forehead again, and, for the brief moment before his hand obscures his eyes, he sees a flash of something.

Logan squints, lowering his hand. But no, he decides; he just sees snow, rock, the local wildlife.

But for a moment he could have sworn, while he was looking out at the sea, that he’d seen a large, tattooed man looking out at the sea, too.

No, he decides. It couldn’t have possibly been; this headache, coupled with the general brightness of the world right now, is making him see things.

There is no way he’d just seen, in the midst of an Antarctic island, a large, tattooed man in pajamas and bunny slippers.

ROMAN

Fuck if it’s not early, but fuck if he’s not having a blast.

“Do we wanna run it one more time?!” Roman hollers down from the catwalks.

“I should’ve known better than to give you a fly scene,” María says ruefully. Roman blows down kisses from where he’s strapped in, harness tight across his chest, the camera crew looking dutifully to María to see what the verdict is.

A long pause. She sighs and waves a hand. “Set up for the close-up landing!”

Roman whoops to himself, shifting on his own two feet. He never gets to do stunts, much less stunts like this. All his movies are machismo, punching people and firing guns, and sure, this one is full of all that, but at least this time he gets to spend a day flying around on wires like he’s a superhero.

Which is ironic, considering he’d started his career in movies as a stuntman. But now his pretty face is too high-market-value to risk it doing the thing he’s been trained to do.

But whatever! Today he gets to fly around! Today he gets to throw himself into saying his lines! Today he gets to throw himself into his script and his acting and his costars!

Today he gets to spend it on set and not lying in bed taken down by this godawful migraine and scrolling through his phone with his heart in his throat to see if there are any developments in the news!

Today he gets to tell Sasha all about the day he’s had in his usual bright and happy voice! It’s a great day!

Roman shuffles on his feet, waiting for the “action!” to be called when he hears the tell-tale rumbling shriek of a plane flying overhead, and Roman bites back a sigh; that’s going to delay the shoot of the scene for sure while they wait on that, so Roman slumps, looking for something to occupy either his hands or his brain with, but then—

“Quiet on set!” María barks.

“We aren’t going to hold for the plane?” Roman asks, confused.

“What plane?” María says.

“I thought—” Roman says, and frowns; from where he is in the catwalks, he can’t exactly look up and see the sky, but even then the angle of sound seems wrong; it’s like he’s walking past an airfield, planes taking off and landing all at once.

“Never mind,” Roman calls down weakly. “Thought I heard something, must have been tech stuff.”

María looks up at him, eyes narrowed briefly before she shrugs, and repeats, “Quiet on set!”

Roman shakes out his shoulders, intent on getting into the mind of Pablo Márquez, and out of his own.

⁂

Roman’s got an icepack under his shoulder and on his forehead, eyes squeezed tightly shut.

Okay, so, maybe he got a bit too into it today. Whatever. It’s not his fault he’s stuck with a killer migraine, and it’s definitely not his fault that the person who fastened his harness clearly didn’t know what he was talking about; you’d think that now he was the big star, people would be more cautious with him than they were when he was a stuntman, but what does Roman know? He’s just the pretty face.

But whatever. He’s got a breather for a while as his costar shoots a few scenes with her supposed father (a twist of the movie is that her father is not, in fact, her father) and so he’s taking the time to sit and relax.

He’s going to relax.

Really.

...oh, who is he kidding. Roman immediately rolls to grab his phone from where he’d set it on the minuscule table in his trailer, and loads the page to El Universal.

He’s got the search down to a science, really. He starts with the wider, more professional news sources—ergo El Universal—and then gradually meanders his way down, through the magazines, then the tabloids, then the blogs dedicated to the writings of R.J. Duke.

When he’s really desperate, he checks Twitter.

He turns out to be really desperate every day, though.

He isn’t really sure how not to be desperate when one’s brother is on the run for committing murder.

He definitely isn’t sure how not to be desperate when one’s brother is only revealed to not be his brother under a thin guise that someone might find out any minute.

He absolutely isn’t sure how not to be desperate when any day now, someone will crack it, and they’ll raid his apartment to see if Roman was hiding him (Roman would absolutely hide him if Remus would just come to him) and ask him questions, and how is Roman supposed to respond when they ask him if Remus would be capable of murder, no? Fucking obviously Remus would be capable of murder.

And the thing is, he is desperate. He’s desperate to get news of how Remus is doing, where on earth Remus is, if he’s okay.

And then he wonders what kind of person he is, to be so willing to set aside that his brother might have killed someone. He’d like to think that he’d do the right thing and turn Remus in, but he is also sure that he absolutely wouldn’t.

But the question is, does Remus know that? Does Remus know that Roman would throw everything, everything—his fame, his fancy apartment, his money—just to be sure that Remus was safe, that Remus was with him?

They’d been so entrenched in their petty disagreements over the years that Roman isn’t sure that Remus does.

The thought that his brother might not know Roman loves him is a thousand times more painful than this headache will be.

Remus is his brother. His twin brother, the only person in the world who understands Roman; for all their differences, for all their disagreements, he and Remus have always understood each other. They’ve always been on a wavelength no one else has, in sync and in step with each other. They’d even been born at exactly the same time, by virtue of their mother’s c-section.

How is Roman meant to just set that aside?!

So he lies on the couch in his trailer, scrolling obsessively through a Twitter search of his brother’s pen name and his legal name and his actual name, eyebrows drawn together further and further.

He’s so lost in chasing down clues, he doesn’t even notice the large, pajama-clad man appearing in his trailer and disappearing again, between five blinks of the eye.

PATTON

The view in front of Patton is crystalline and beautiful, dark gray rock and snow a blindingly clear shade of white and the ocean, constantly shifting between deep, lovely blue and bottle-green depths; ice, and rock, and the sun glinting off the sea and the snow, so bright that it almost hurts to look at it.

It’s so lovely that Patton would gladly spend all day looking at it, if not for the deep chill working its way into his bones as if he’s been here for months instead of minutes. Which is kind of confusing, but he doesn’t think his flannel pajamas and bunny slippers probably don’t make the cut of approved winter gear, so that might be it.

And also the part where Patton went to bed in his apartment in Auckland because of his blindingly bad migraine, and he has woken up in some wintry wasteland. That part’s kind of confusing him, too.

There’s a particularly sharp gust of wind, and Patton squints, turning his face away and lifting his hand. The breeze lessens, and Patton lowers his hand.

He’s in an office.

A nice office, the kind with hardwood floors that would click under his feet if he weren’t wearing slippers and the big, floor-to-ceiling windows that speaks of a recent, expensive renovation, a door ajar. He walks forward to peek into it—

—and finds himself looking inside of a cramped little trailer, a man flung out dramatically on the couch, one arm over his forehead, not able to cover the anguish on his face, and the other scrolling through his phone.

He takes a step forward, and just like before, without any sense of transition, just one blink and he’s not in a trailer anymore, he’s outside, standing at the foot of a mountain stretching for forever above him, moving quickly on his feet, jogging alongside a hooded man sprinting down a barely-worn path—

He takes a step forward, and his foot lands on the carpet.

“Goodness,” a man says, with a familiar, amused tone. “You’ve been walking quite far, haven’t you?”

Patton looks up to see a man—the parent he’d thought he’d seen yesterday. He’s in the same cardigan and dress shirt, looking rather rumpled, but his tie has, at least, been loosened from around his throat. The lights are off, the only light filtering weakly through the windows. The man is lying down in his bed, looking pale and sickly.

The room would look quite depressing if not for the laptop blaring a cartoon—an American one Patton doesn’t know—and various assorted cartoon art and sculptures as clutter around the room. His duvet has a subtle pattern that Patton, after tilting his head, looks a bit like gemstones.

“...I think so,” Patton says cautiously. “But it doesn’t feel like it.”

“No, it never does,” the man says, smiling. “Even when you’ve walked halfway ‘round the world.”

For lack of anything to say—other than who are you, what’s happening to me, what on earth is going on—Patton keeps quiet.

“I like your tattoos,” the man continues.

“Oh, thank you,” Patton says, twisting his arms so that the cardiganed man can see them, swelling with pride. They are a big part of his culture, his history, himself, after all. “They’re tā moko.”

“Tā moko,” the man repeats as if committing it to memory.

“I’m Māori,” Patton adds because he can place the accent now—American. And, well, nothing against Americans, it’s just that he isn’t sure how much the average American knows about the indigenous populations of other continents.

“Indigenous to,” the man says, and his eyes narrow for a moment. “New Zealand, right?”

Patton nods to the man, before he says, “Where am I?”

“Oh, excuse my manners, please sit down,” the man says, gesturing to an empty spot on his comfy-looking bed. Patton sits. It is comfy.

“I’m just so excited, you see, I’ve spent most of the past day recovering, so you’re the first one I’ve met. I’d expect you to be recovering, too, this is either a fortunately-timed fluke or you seem to be getting the hang of this very fast. Doesn’t your head hurt?”

“Terribly,” Patton admits, then, “First of who?”

Before the man can answer his question, his brain flashes with images from today—an airport, dark catwalks, a yawning cliff face, that fancy-schmancy office.

“Well,” the man says. “I’m Dr. Emile Picani.”

For whatever reason, it feels like he should have known that name already; his name slips into Patton’s mind like a key turning a long-forgotten lock.

“And,” the man continues, “you’re technically wherever your body is now.”

“Auckland.”

“Auckland,” he repeats. “Patton the Māori from Auckland. Oh, how wonderful, I don’t think I know any of our kind anywhere near Australia or New Zealand yet.”

“Our,” Patton says, and his brow wrinkles. “Our kind?”

“Patton, my darling,” Emile says warmly, leaning forward to put a hand on Patton’s. “Have you been walking around in other places? Feeling things that aren’t there, seeing people that aren’t there?”

“Yes,” Patton says.

“Those would be your cluster,” Emile says, and the word buries itself deep in Patton’s heart with an aggressively radiating kind of warmth, instantaneously fond, like he’s loved them all along but just now realized it. My cluster. It may as well be my family, that’s how much love he feels.

“Your body is in Auckland, still, but right now, your mind? You’re visiting me in Florida.”

Patton can’t help but smile a little. “I’ve never been outside of New Zealand before.”

Emile smiles back at him, warm and comforting, and it feels just as familiar as looking at the face of his father.

“Patton, dear, you are no longer just you.”

REMY

Remy turns from where he’s making a mug of green tea to see that he’s in Emile’s room.

“Babe,” Remy says, reflexive, before he sees the look on Emile’s face; and he understands immediately.

“Fuck, are they still here?”

Emile, still smiling, shakes his head just a touch regretfully. “You just missed him.”

That piques Remy’s attention. “Him? You’ve got a son?”

“He’s not technically my son,” Emile says bashfully; they swap, effortless after so long, and Emile takes a sip of Remy’s green tea using Remy’s hands, Remy’s ] mouth. Remy takes that time to use Emile’s body to settle more comfortably in the bed, and he places a cool, wet washcloth across Emile’s forehead.

They swap back without losing a beat; this rhythm between them has existed for a decade, Emile’s psychic birth isn’t about to trip them up. Sure, it looks different to him than it does to Emile; right now, to Remy, it’s like Emile’s curled up in his Nicean apartment, just at home in France as he is in Florida. To Emile, he knows, it’s like Remy’s appeared in his bedroom, oddly dressed for the Florida spring.

“Your psychic son, then,” Remy teases, then it clicks. “Wait, you’ve seen one of them already? How long did it take one of us to see Harley after the activation—?”

Emile waves a hand in a so-so type gesture. “Linny saw Dalisay and she kind of served as a mentor for her, didn’t she? That was the closest to a non-cluster visit that we got.”

“And that was after three days or so,” Remy muses. “Hm.”

“Yeah,” Emile agrees. “I dunno if it’s a fluke or if Patton’s just really well-adapted for this life.”

“Patton,” Remy repeats.

Honestly, he isn’t really sure how to handle this; the closest he could get to preparing for his boyfriend’s psychic birth is googling things about being a stepdad, and that’s not even slightly close to what’s actually happening. Bonding with the stepkids can only really happen if Emile’s lucked into a cluster with a Frenchman, Frenchwoman, Frenchperson, whichever.

Emile quirks a brow at him, knowing what he’s about to ask. “New Zealander.”

“Fuck,” Remy says. “No in-cluster education for Patton, then. Do we know anyone there, baby?”

“I’d have to check with the Archipelago, and, well,” Emile says, gesturing vaguely to himself; he’s laid out in bed, and, with the washcloth on his forehead, he really does look quite ill. Out-of-cluster visiting might be too much of a strain right now.

Remy frowns, taking the washcloth in hand and gently dabbing Emile’s forehead.

“Tell me about him?”

Emile beams.

“Oh, Remy, he’s wonderful. Simply fantastic! He’s Māori—indigenous population—and he’s got all these interesting tattoos. I’ve been researching, look,” Emile says, tilting his phone so that Remy can see.

Remy takes it. He sees swirling designs, up and down arms and legs, neatly segmented lines filled with various patterns, a few portraits of tattooed faces.

“—the tattoos themselves have a really interesting history, but I have a lot of reading to do when it comes to the Māori population itself. I've already tried to put a few books on hold at the university library.”

“What’s he like?”

“Big, tall,” Emile says, gesturing vaguely with a hand where the top of Patton’s head would compare with his own. “It’s late there, or early, I think, he was still in pajamas. Bunny slippers.”

Remy smiles at that, knowing for a fact that Emile’s wearing his knee-high muppet socks. “Takes after you, then.”

“Maybe,” Emile admits, then, “oh, all right, probably. We have a lot in common, at least, even if we don’t have any solid evidence on if cluster parents influence the traits of their cluster.”

“Influence, schminfluence,” Remy says.

“But he seems very nice, very polite. Wasn’t too shaken by appearing in America.”

Emile’s brow creases.

“I think he needs a cluster,” Emile says, very quiet. “I think he needs them badly.”

Remy isn’t sure what to say to that, so he puts a hand on Emile’s cheek, attempting to check his temperature.

“Harley should have given us the equivalent of psychic sex-ed,” Remy mutters irritably. Emile’s skin, always soft, is warmer than Remy would like.

Emile yawns. “Not gonna disagree with you there.”

Remy tugs up Emile’s blankets to tuck him in. Emile smiles up at him, a little bashful, a lot sleepy.

“Cuddles?” Emile mumbles, holding out his arms, entreating.

And, well. What is Remy gonna do, not cuddle his incredibly adorable boyfriend recovering from psychic birth?

#my fic #my fanfic

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poppi-fields · 3 years

Text

[LFRP] 𝔑oishe 𝔊athluain 🌙

— — — — 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐁𝐚𝐬𝐢𝐜𝐬.

Age: Mid-twenties? Probably?

Nameday: 21st Sun of the Sixth Astral Moon

Race: Miqo’te ; Keeper of the Moon

Gender: ┑(￣Д ￣)┍ (All pronouns fine, usually uses they/them.)

Orientation: Demisexual ; panromantic

Alignment: Wouldn’t you like to know?

— — — — 𝐏𝐡𝐲𝐬𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐥 𝐀𝐩𝐩𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞.

Hair: Dark blue, lightening slightly at the tips (which appears to be naturally occurring) and almost impossibly long. Often tied back in a nearly-knee length ponytail. Haircuts appear to be very infrequent and haphazardly done, judging by the state of their bangs, but the hair is healthy, as is the fur of their large fluffy tail.

Eyes: Pale blue, almost white. A deeply intense gaze, often sharp and analytical, though they have been known to gleam when mischief is afoot.

Height: 4′10″

Build: Lithe and elegant, with long limbs and nimble fingers. They carry themselves with a graceful posture, always light on their feet, but their movements innately carry a ‘predator on the hunt’ vibe.

Distinguishing Features: Typically wears simple ritualistic paint on their face, around their eyes and along their cheekbones. Mouth is full of pointed fangs. Rarely seen without a mask on, even outside the Shroud.

— — — — 𝐏𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐨𝐧𝐚𝐥 𝐈𝐧𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐦𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧.

Profession: ‘Janitor’. Will gladly clean up your human-sized messes... for the right price.

Hobbies: Playing the piano; ‘urban exploration’; writing poetry; baking; people watching; clothing design; traditional song.

Languages: Fluent in Eorzean, Rogue’s Cant, and Huntspeak. Has basic conversational knowledge of most other commonly spoken languages.

Residence: Inn rooms while traveling; ancestral home deep in the Shroud.

Birthplace: The Black Shroud

Patron Deity: Menphina

— — — — 𝐑𝐞𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐩𝐬.

Relationship Status: Single, never married.

Parents: Deceased.

Siblings: Deceased.

Other Relatives: All deceased except for two cousins.

Pets/Other: N/A

— — — — 𝐏𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐨𝐧𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐲 𝐓𝐫𝐚𝐢𝐭𝐬.

Extroverted / In Between / Introverted

Disorganized / In Between / Organized

Close Minded / In Between / Open Minded

Calm / In Between / Anxious

Disagreeable / In Between / Agreeable

Cautious / In Between / Reckless

Patient / In Between / Impatient

Outspoken / In Between / Reserved

Leader / In Between / Follower

Empathetic / In Between / Apathetic

Optimistic / In Between / Pessimistic

Traditional / In Between / Modern

Hard-working / In Between / Lazy

Cultured / In Between / Uncultured

Loyal / In Between / Disloyal

Faithful / In Between / Unfaithful

— — — — 𝐑𝐨𝐥𝐞𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐲 𝐇𝐨𝐨𝐤𝐬.

♦ A SONG IN THE DARK. Travelers in the Shroud have occasionally brought back tales of hearing distant songs being sung while they camp for the night. Those who are brave enough to try and investigate find that the singing stops when they get too close, and there's never any sign of a living being. While some have voiced concern that it may be a Voidsent trying to lure the unwitting to their doom, not all are convinced the entity is malicious. The Wood Wailers have offered a small bounty to adventurers willing to investigate.

♦ A TALE TO TELL. The Gathluain were one of the more infamous Keeper clans, back in their prime. Legends say that they were Menphina’s chosen assassins, sworn to kill those who earned the goddess’ wrath or harmed her Keepers. Perhaps something drives you to seek out the truth, to know for certain if the Gathluain were only ever just stories... or something more. Good intentions or ill, your quest has pointed you in Noishe’s direction, but don’t expect any direct answers...

♦ A KNIFE IN THE BACK. You wish to see a life taken; a wrong righted; a slight rectified permanently. Whether you lack the means to do it yourself, or simply require a middleman to keep the blood off your hands, you seek an assassin to carry out this dark deed... and there are whispers of a lithe little Keeper who's quite capable. Your more 'esoteric' contacts have led you to Noishe's metaphorical doorstep, but you might have to plead your case.

♦ A HINT OF A SMILE. Despite their seclusion, Noishe has been known to occasionally leave their home in the Shroud and head into the cities, seeking sociable companionship and culture. They are particularly drawn to other Miqo'te, always curious to learn of other customs and traditions, but any particularly interesting individual may earn a conversation or two from this mysterious creature. Perhaps the intrigue is mutual- approach and see what lurks behind those icy eyes.

♦ ANOTHER IDEA? Noishe is rather flexible as a character, and they often find themselves in all sorts of strange situations. Got another idea for how our characters can meet? Run it past me!

— — — — 𝐎𝐎𝐂 𝐈𝐧𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐦𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧.

I’m in the PST/PDT time zone, with a work schedule that thankfully takes up only a small amount of my time. This means I can adjust to most schedules, given enough forewarning! If we can’t work something out, I’m also open to Discord RP.

Noishe is currently on Mateus with no plans of transferring, but I’m happy to server hop for RP!

Please be 18 or older, both IC and OOC. I’m not comfortable RPing with underage folks! Sorry!

Shy, but friendly! Feel free to strike up a conversation! I love making new friends. If I don’t reply right away, it’s likely because I’m AFK... I zone out a lot...

I’m happy to give my Discord ID to those who want to chat, plot, set up a meeting, or figure out a connection. Just send me a Tumblr IM and ask!

No bigots, creeps, weirdos or jerks. I have a very low tolerance for bullsh*t, so don’t test me.

#ffxiv #ffxiv rp #crystal rp #mateus rp #long post #Noishe Gathluain

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frogmentarii · 4 years

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QUESTIONS FOR OC CREATORS

Haaaa ok so I am doing this cause i saw @fallout-lou-begas steal it from @tarberrymentats and they both looked like they were havin hella fun so i am commandeering this for my own purposes. So lucky for yall its Emi time (art by the dearest @yesjejunus because yall need to see more of her work)

A) Why are you excited about this character?

Because she's an older woman (57) that breaks a lot of moulds and I love to see it. Aside from just enjoying older characters, Emi isn't a sweet old lady and she isn't here to try and mother anyone. Her drives are entirely her own and while she prioratizes herself and her sister before anyone else, its not always due to complete selfishness and just due to growing up in the wastes (I try to keep her character true to a fend for yourself setting as possible). I think Ill go into detail in another question with this, but I went through a lot of concepts and personalities for Emi before settling on someone who was seasoned and very much a product of the wastes. I think after seeing a lot of other couriers I finally figured out what I wanted to do differently, and that sort of helped guide her to become what she is today.

B) What inspired you to create them?

I think my last line there sort of short answers this. I wanted someone different from the other couriers I saw, and wanted to make one that was distinct or even juxtaposed against some tropes. She's a woman in her late 50s that doesnt try and play mom/granny to the companions, she very much has no stake in what happens to the Mojave, she doesnt care about Benny or that he shot her in the head (such is life in the Mojave, but she did have a job to complete so ripperoni him), and a lot of her motivations are selfish or exist to benefit her sister. She doesnt act 'old' in the fact that she isn't a wise caring soul or a grumpy old man, but rather her age is shown through her experience, and this also shapes her personality. She's never had to formally 'grow up' so she can come off as immature and irritating for her own entertainment, but she doesn't have youthful ignorance for how the world works. She knows how to be responsible but she doesnt have to act like it outwardly, even with her Tragic Caregiver Backstory.

C) Did you have trouble figuring out where they fit in their own story?

To a large degree in the beginning, yes, and to specific degrees now, also yes. Writing in general isnt my strong point though I did know what I wanted for her. The main image is there but the details are funky, and Ive been slowly hammering those out as I work along with her and Camila's stories. There's been some huge changes along the way that help push both of them towards an ending I like and that fits them, and even if it takes forever and I never actually write a fic, I'll be happy when she finally feels completed in New Vegas.

Aside from that, she kind of fits in anywhere in regards to AUs. My friend @yesjejunus and I have probably like 40000 fucking aus for our OCs and all of them feel just as organic and their canon stories.

D) Have they always had the same physical appearance, or have you had to edit how they look?

So I know I have an 'original concept Emilia' art on here where she looked like Laura Croft and had aviators but that wasnt even her first concept. I had originally wanted to make a petite southern belle type from Louisiana who used a shot gun and had a mean streak, but as I kept playing with concepts Emi really started to lean other places. Another huge change was her personality. Even when her concept got settled as a sniper from Mexico, she was suppose to be an early 30s caravan guard who was way too sure of herself. While there are reminents of that concept still in her, she has a lot more experience in the wastes and in think-on-your-feet situations to back up her attitude. Another thing she required was dropping her "take me seriously" personality with more goofy "i do what i want cause why not" traits.

E) Are they someone you would get along with? Would they get along with you?

Emi can get along with anyone at a surface level, for a small while, if it will benefit her or she wants to pass time. She really doesn't have interest in folks who arent interesting or beneficial in some way. Since I don't really offer her much, and am a bit of a wet bag, she might yank my chain for her own funsies or she'd have no interest.

And while I did indeed give Emi my go with the flow attitude, I think I wouldn't be able to keep up with her. Emi is very fast paced and doesnt necessarily have regard for those she decides to pick up as drinking buddies for the night. Def dont trust her with my life, and knowing the shit she gets into I'd def want to steer clear of it....like a trainwreck its much better to watch her from a safe distance, lol.

F) What do you feel when you think of your OC (pride, excitement, frustration, etc)?

A lot of affection from a meta standpoint? I've worked with Emi and Cam a lot since creating them, and they've def come a long way since their original concepts. I wouldn't say their story is quite where I want it yet, but I am quite happy with it overall.

That, and Ive met so many awesome writers along the way with Emi. Not all of my friends have posted fic but the amount of world building and having our characters interact and talking OCs ive done with them has placed both Emi and their OCs in a special place for me. Sure her having her own story is fun but I much more prefer the bonds Ive created with people over OCs and I think thats a bit more of a cherished component to character creation for me.

G) What trait of theirs bothers you the most?

Literally? That she likes to be irritating if she feels she can get away with it (or even if she cant). Actually? That she has a very "I shelter you and feed you therefore I make the rules, period." stance on how she takes care of her charge. She lets a lot of shit slide with Camila but things get very Rapunzel-esque at times.

H) What trait do you admire most?

How sure of herself she is. Even if its to a fault, she trusts herself and her judgements. That sort of confidence is something I strive to have haha.

To a lesser degree, and more of a meta point I wanted to make with her, just...her appearance I suppose? To me she's attractive, but she also has a lot of traits that aren't conventionally attractive and that's played a lot into how Ive wanted her to be. Again she's 57 years old. She has age to her body, her skin wrinkles and droops, her tits sag, she has the body of someone who uses chems, and yet despite her age and breaking of beauty standards ive made it a point to show that she is desired or thought of as attractive in non fetish specific circumstances. She herself, while aro, also still has an active sex drive and I really wanted this to be a backseat part of her character, as I feel like fandom in general shafts older women in this department (this also goes for a lot of her non 'old lady' traits I give her too). She still has sexual needs and is still very much sexually active, and she is still found to be a regular sort of attractive and is desired by those she gets involved with.

J) Did you have to manipulate or exclude canon factors to allow them to create their character?

Yes? Ish, to a degree. I didnt have to but I wanted to. I also did a lot of headcanoning with post Mexico for her early life which, afaik is free real estate for lore/nothing super detailed has been given in canon.

Given that she and Camila both shape their stories as individuals, I did have to split up some canon elements to follow two seperate characters, but other than that I really just had to make sure Emilia's story wasnt "boring" in the fact that she again, has no real stake in what happens to Vegas/the Mojave.

I) Do you prefer to keep them in their canon universe?

Cackles in 'which au will I obsess with today'

For the most part yes, however I love placing her in new things or different stories. She may be 'my courier' but really shes just the frog granny that goes into whatever au I am feeling at the time.

#courier six #emilia #emi #emilia vazquez #fnv

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minmotl · 4 years

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Chapter 44: Sui Zhou,“If You are Willing, This Will Be Your Home From Now On.”

Context: A continuation of Chapter 43.

Introduction Post | Masterpost

—

Highlights under the cut

Tang Fan’s bout of illness lasts for half a month.

Due to this, Sui Zhou is also able to see Tang Fan’s relationship with others.

He is not even referring to the scholars who passed the exam the year that Tang Fan did, amongst them, a majority has already been released and then the handful that made up the creme of the crop of the cohort and now still remain in the Imperial Academy to build up their experience — To be able to stay in such a department to train themselves is an honour, and not every single person is like Tang Fan, who was ‘silly’ enough to be transferred out of the academy.

Just in these two weeks, four to five of Tang Fan’s cohort mates have already come to visit him, one after the other, and this includes that year’s top scholars Xie Qian and others.

This number is considered rather significant. After all, Tang Fan is not someone who is charming enough to have charmed the pants off of everyone he meets, earning their love and affection immediately. Moreover, officials in Jing city are both simple and poor, and for those who aren’t very familiar with Tang Fan, they still have to turn up with gifts should they visit in person, and so if they cannot afford to buy a gift, they naturally decide not to turn up at all. Instead, they have sent notes asking after him and Tang Fan received their well wishes and thoughts gratefully.

For Shun Tian Prefecture that Tang Fan works in, both Wei Yu and Du Jiang also visited him for a short while, sitting down and also bringing Yin-daren, Lao Wang and more with them to greet Tang Fan. From the Northern Administrative Court, Xue Bing who is familiar with Tang Fan also turned up, bringing with him Pang Qi.

Of course, these two individuals most probably considered the good relationship between Tang Fan and Sui Zhou, and being nice to their boss’ good friend means they can score some points with him, so this connection is understandable as well.

Lao Xue is a rather humorous person and chatters a lot, a far cry from his direct supervisor. He sat in Tang Fan’s room for half a day and the laughter in Tang Fan’s house did not stop for even a moment. The only thing was that Tang-daren’s voice has gone because of his illness, so he ended up coughing as he laughed, and ended up sounding just like a duck quacking. This was honestly ruining his image. Moreover, Sui Zhou was staring at them coldly from the side, as if Xue Bing and Pang Qi were a hindrance to Tang Fan’s recovery, and finally, Xue Bing was unable to sit tight anymore, running off with Pang Qi after dumping his gift at Tang Fan.

And of course, they cannot leave out the Western Depot’s Eunuch Wang.

Wang-gonggong has probably been busy arguing with other officials in court over the war in the North, and he still has to follow up on the East Palace case’s investigation, finding out who is the mastermind who collaborated with Fu Jia. He truly cannot get away, but that does not stop him from frequently sending his own men over.

If Tang Fan was now a Shang Shu from the Six Departments or an elder of the Inner Court, or perhaps has the Emperor’s favour currently, it is not such a strange thing for him to have a continuous stream of visitors, but the problem is that he’s simply a Sixth Rank prefectural judge, so everyone who visits him is trying to maintain a good relationship or touch base with him, to do what a friend would do, and not because they want to gain something from him.

From this, it is easy to see that Tang Fan has good relationships with others.

The men from the Western Depot who are visiting Tang Fan on behalf of Wang Zhi also turn up with gifts every time without fail, but from Sui Zhou’s extremely cold expression, Tang Fan feels as if Eunuch Wang is doing this to purposely rile Sui Zhou up. But no matter how much he thinks about it, it doesn’t seem as if the both of them are harbouring any old grudges towards each other, unless it’s due to some enmity between the Western Depot and the Embroidered Uniform Guards?

Tang Fan takes notes of this and once he has the opportunity, he says to Sui Zhou, “How about when I’ve recovered, I’ll find a house and move out?”

Sui Zhou is clearly not expecting this, and he frowns, “Why?”

“Although we’re both good friends and you’ve also let me and Ah Dong stay free of charge, at the end of the day, it’s still your house and my friends and acquaintances constantly coming and going, it’s not very good and I’ve bothered you and your rest…” Tang Fan says.

“I’m not bothered,” Sui Zhou returns.

Tang Fan is about to continue but Sui Zhou stops him by asking a totally unrelated question, “To you, is Wang Zhi a friend or an acquaintance?”

Tang Fan pauses, stunned, “He’s probably neither?”

At that, Sui Zhou is surprised, “Why is that so?”

Tang Fan laughs, “As friends, we must be honest with each other, take care of one another without reserve and help each other out. Between Wang Zhi and I, if I say we are friends, then there is the lack of some warmth. Look at me, I’m now staying here and I’ve almost taken over your entire house, and if you ask me to try that at Wang Zhi’s house? I definitely will not go.”

It’s nothing novel for major officials and eunuchs to interact, but they have to be aware of the possible effects. If it’s with someone like Huai En, that’s one thing, but with Wang Zhi who’s morally ambivalent, it is easy for him to influence the reputation of the person he’s interacting with. When one’s reputation is ruined, his future career as an official is ruined as well. It is because Sui Zhou saw them both in such an intimate manner previously that he is asking this question now.

Seeing that Tang Fan is showing so much clarity in his thoughts and is well aware of the intricacies of this issue, Sui Zhou nods in satisfaction, “Then do not mention moving out again, not even in the future.”

Tang Fan hesitates, “But…”

“If you are willing, this will be your home from now on.”

Tang Fan wavers a little.

Sui Zhou pats at his shoulder, “Although you and I have not known each other for long, the depth of friendship is not something that can be measured by time. It is because we understand each other that we are friends. You are supposed to accomplish great things in life, so you should not care about these little details. Even if you moved out, who knows if you will be troubled by rent or some other issues in the future, so you might as well stay here without any worries. Within the next few years, I will not be marrying, so you don’t have to concern yourself with this. Moreover, considering my position, no one will dare to intrude, so if you’re staying here, I will feel more at ease as well.”

Sui-baihu is actually not one bit terrible with words, he is just not willing to speak in excess on a usual day, but once he really speaks, the effect is a hundred times stronger than people with the most glib of tongues.

Indeed, Tang-daren is so touched that he’s totally out of it, and for someone as articulate as he, Tang Fan finds himself entirely speechless.

Taking opportunity of this, Sui Zhou hands him the medicine in his hands. Tang-daren is still filled with a spirit of heroism, of brotherhood, and takes the bowl without another thought, raising his head as he swallows the medicine down as if it is water.

His expression becomes twisted as a result.

What the hell is this… Sui Guang Chuang you’re taking advantage of someone’s moment of crisis!

Seeing his expression of complaint, a tinge of humour appears in Sui Zhou’s eyes. He picks up the bowl and then feeds Tang Fan an osmanthus candy, as if he’s soothing a small, little animal.

Tang-daren huffs and turns his head away, rejecting the offering.

Sui Zhou does not mind and directly lifts his hand, sending the candy into his own mouth.

Tang Fan, “…”

===

Notes:

*六部尚书 liu bu shang shu

尚书 (shang shu) is an official rank and title, but I’ve not been able to find what exactly the ranking is, but we can assume it’s pretty high up in the hierarchy. 六部 (liu bu) is translated as the Six Departments and refers to:

1. Ministry of Officials 2. Ministry of Households 3. Ministry of Rites 4. Ministry of War/Military 5. Ministry of Criminal Affairs 6. Ministry of Manpower/Industry

#the sleuth of ming dynasty #tsomd #tsomd novel #成化十四年 #fanzhou #tang fan #sui zhou #a short one for today!#i love how sui zhou obviously #wants to keep tang fan with him #and already has feelings for him #but TANG FAN IS A DUMB DUMB

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marvelmando · 5 years

Text

the first breath [p.parker x reader]

notes: hi! i... actually love this. i’m a sucker for soulmate! au’s, so naturally this was somewhat easy to write. this is just a small break from my tempest series, ill continue posting tomorrow (bc it’s my birthday!). tomorrow as in the eleventh, just in case it’s already daytime wherever you’re reading this!

contains: soulmate! au, some swearing

pairing: peter parker + reader

word count: 3.6k

“Hey!”

Peter’s heart thumped hard in his chest. Looking around for the person, he saw a girl greeting a friend, and Peter sighed, unconsciously massaging the band covering his left wrist.

No matter how many times Peter had heard the word, it never failed to send a spike of panic in him. It was just a word, an unfairly common greeting phrase in America, but to Peter, it meant infinitely more.

“Stupid Soulmark,” Peter grumbled to himself as he walked the halls of Midtown High.

For as long as humans could tell, each individual was born with a word or phrase inked into the skin of their nondominant forearm. The Marks could say anything, but they belonged to the first words spoken to you by your soulmate.

Soulmarks were considered sacred by most of the world, and like most sacred things, they were hidden from public view. Soulbands were a staple in almost every culture, meant to only be taken off in front of your soulmate. Although modern times saw the general acceptance of most controversial topics that were shunned in the past, Soulbands seemed to never grow out of popularity. It was also a sense of security, to make sure that they couldn’t be said by the wrong person.

Some had easily-identifiable Marks. Where there was little room for doubt that the words spoken belonged to your soulmate. Others, like Peter, had simple, one-word Marks.

For as long as he could remember, Peter lived in a near-constant state of anxiety over the word. What would normally be an off-hand remark or a polite greeting made Peter’s heart skip and his knees grow weak.

Whenever greeted with the word, Peter would tense, and respond with a stiff, “Um, hi?” and watch as the person gave him a weird or blank look in return. There had been several instances - none of which he was particularly proud of - where Peter ran away rather than face the sting of false hope.

Most religions viewed Soulmarks as divine intervention, a sign that humans were blessed by the gods. A lot of the time, Peter wanted to curse whatever gods forced them into the arranged couplings.

Failing at keeping the scowl at bay, Peter stopped at his locker, twisting the lock and opening it to return his books.

“Hey, Peter,” a voice said from behind, and he instantly recognized it as Ned Leeds, his best (and only, really) friend. Peter turned only his head, unsurprised to find Betty Brant, Ned’s soulmate, at his side.

Like most matched individuals, Ned seemed to glow with happiness in the presence of their soulmate. Sometimes the dopey smile on Ned’s face was too much for Peter. Whether it was from envy or discomfort, feeling the never-ending, unadulterated joy exuding from him made Peter’s stomach turn and twist uncomfortably.

“Hey, Ned. Betty,” Peter nodded as a greeting, stacking his textbooks in his locker.

“Are you planning on going to the... internship, today?” Ned whispered, his inability for subtly flaring to life. Though Betty had been Ned’s match long enough to know Peter’s secret, it was a good thing the halls had pretty much been deserted at that point, as the school day had been over for more than ten minutes.

“Yeah,” Peter shut his locker, heaving his significantly lighter backpack over his shoulder. “Just neighborhood stuff, though.”

Ned nodded enthusiastically. Despite how preoccupied he was with Betty, Ned had always been Peter’s go-to Spider-Man guy. Ned called himself “The Guy in The Chair”, but Peter refused to say it out loud unless absolutely necessary.

They parted ways at the train station, where Peter went to find a secluded alley to change into his suit.

You had no idea what possessed your parents to up and move the family to New York.

You’d lived your entire life in a small, cozy town in the middle of nowhere. You’d enjoyed that life. Then suddenly, your father called you down one day earlier that summer to announce that in a few months, you’d be packing and moving to the heart of Queens.

Despite having been in the bustling city for weeks now, you still hadn’t gotten used to walking through the crowded streets. People were rude here; though, with the craziness of the city, you weren’t really sure you could blame them. Still, it filled you with frustration when you tried to weave through the streets, only to be knocked roughly in the shoulder and subsequently cursed out for no damn reason.

On the bright side - the only bright side, if you were being honest - was the exponential increase in the possibility that you would finally meet your soulmate.

Your hometown was lovely and quaint, but the general teenage population left a lot to be desired. It didn’t help that there were only fifty other people in your graduating class, or that you’d met and exchanged first words with every single of them already.

That being said, of all the people you’d met at Midtown so far, none of them had said the words branded on your right wrist. But to be fair, there weren’t many opportunities where someone had to yell, “I swear I wasn’t aiming at you!”

You didn’t have to worry about the possibility of danger in your old town, but in New York, you were vaguely concerned that the words would be uttered during a mugging.

Unfortunately, you were quite right to be concerned.

“All right, Karen, what do we got?”

Peter watched as the screen flashed, images of satellite footage and recordings of police radio calls popping up and disappearing again as Karen flipped through potential threats.

“The city is quiet today,” Karen’s robotic voice remarked. Distantly, Peter wondered how the voice was created, and if it was recorded, who the person was behind the voice. It was distinctly human, after all, without the awkward pauses and emphases that Siri usually had. “There have been no reports of any robberies or shootings.”

Peter sighed, bored and disappointed. He’d long gotten over the guilt of wanting some danger in the city.

Suddenly, before Karen could notify him, he heard a voice cry, “Stop that guy!”

Immediately swinging into action, Peter noticed a man in his mid-twenties sprinting down the sidewalk, shoving himself through the crowd. The woman who’d yelled for help was young, in her thirties, but still wasn’t fast enough to keep up.

Peter swung overhead, gaining distance and landing directly in the guy’s path. The thief skidded to a halt, his eyes widening in obvious fear at the sight of Spider-Man. He clutched a purse to his chest.

“It’s not nice to steal!” Peter yelled, moving to shoot a web at the purse. But the thief was quick, and he ducked under his web, making a run for it.

Peter was faster though and lunged to bodyslam him, sending him into the wall of a nearby building. The impact knocked the purse from his grasp, and it spilled to the ground as the man struggled to get back up. Peter webbed him to the wall and notified Karen to call the police.

Satisfied with his handiwork, Peter was about to leap onto the roof when an aggravated noise caught his attention instead.

He turned to see you growling, your splayed hand webbed to a streetlamp. The web the thief dodged must’ve hit you instead. Catching sight of him noticing you, you yelled out, “Hey!”

For once in his life, the word didn’t seem to register. He was, for lack of a better word, enchanted by you. Even with furious indignation twisting your face, he couldn’t stop staring at the depth of your eyes and the slope of your nose. Blinking, he said without thinking, “I swear I wasn’t aiming for you!”

It was a stupid response, admittedly. Of course, he wasn’t aiming for you. You’d probably noticed the thief and could probably make the connection.

However, Peter didn’t have time to think about the pointlessness of the protest, because he was too busy registering what you’d said. The word. His word.

Cheeks flaming under his mask, Peter braced himself for the rejection. But it never came.

Your eyes went impossibly wide, and you immediately stopped yanking against the web. Peter watched as you gaped at him, and thanks to the mechanics of the suit, he noticed that your heart rate increased significantly.

Almost in a trance, Peter stepped toward you. “It’s you, isn’t it?”

Your mouth closed, and you visibly swallowed. “Depends,” your voice was tight, anxious. “How often do you accidentally shoot your webs at innocent bystanders?”

You flushed as you registered the double meaning behind the words. Peter watched in amusement as your cheeks flushed and you stammered to correct yourself.

“I-I just mean that -”

“It’s okay, I -”

Peter started to placate you, feeling the blood rushing through his veins like soda, popping and fizzing under his skin. But he was cut off by the sound of Karen’s voice, though distant, but urgent enough to draw his attention away from you.

“Peter, there’s a hostage situation that was just called in happening thirteen blocks away,” the AI announced, causing Peter to falter in his steps.

“I-I gotta go,” he told you, hurrying to free your trapped hand from the lamppost, and backing away reluctantly. “I’ll find you, I promise!”

He could see the disappointment on your face as you watched him scuttle off, and every cell in his body protested the distance he forced between him and his soulmate, but he knew he had to go.

“If you were anyone else, that’d be super creepy!” You yelled as Peter swung away. He smiled widely under his mask.

Your skin was still tingling and your cheeks were sore from smiling so much when you finally reached your apartment.

All you had to do was look at your mother for her to tell that you had met your soulmate. After spending an hour at the kitchen table being interrogated by your parents, you were finally released to your room to process.

You closed the door gently behind you and slid your back against the wood until your bottom rested on the ground. You tilted your head back, barely feeling the thunk as it collided with the door. Every time you tried to relax your face into a neutral expression, you remembered the way Spider-Man’s eyes widened as he took in the sight of you, and how your heart skipped several beats as he said the words you knew so well, and your lips crawled back into a giddy smile once more.

Even in your hometown in the middle of nowhere, you had known about Spider-Man. The superhero wasn’t nearly as popular as he seemed to be in the city he protected, but you still remembered the passing of phones and newspapers whenever Spider-Man saved another day or stopped another robbery. Even your high school had a day dedicated to him after a particularly miraculous defeat of the notorious Green Goblin, who’d terrorized the borough for weeks before he was stopped.

Spider-Man was a national - if not global - phenomenon. And he just so happened to be your soulmate.

You’d just reached for your phone to call your best friend from home when a knock on your window startled you.

You jumped, scrambling to your feet. Your apartment was on the eighth story, there was no way a burglar would have climbed all this way to rob you. A burglar wouldn’t knock either, you scoffed internally.

Tiptoeing to the window, you peered through the glass. Even under the dark cover of the late hour, you could distinctly make out the identity of the figure. You hurried to unlatch and open the pane, stepping back nervously when the figure climbed through, rather clumsily for how graceful he normally was.

Spider-Man was polite enough to close the window behind him, cutting off the brisk gust of wind that caused goosebumps to appear on your arms. You crossed them, rubbing them to warm yourself up.

When he straightened and faced you once more, you couldn’t help but stare back. You bit your lip anxiously, suddenly very aware of how messy your room was. You had, after all, just moved in, and most of your stuff was either still in boxes or strewn haphazardly about the room.

“I’m sorry for the mess,” you blurted, unable to help yourself. “We just moved here a couple weeks ago, and... well, y’know.” You gestured unhelpfully around the room.

Every cell in your body seemed as though they were vibrating. The muscles in your chest twitched and your bones ached to close the distance between the two of you. It was as though you and your soulmate were opposite ends of a magnet, and the field around you was pulling your bodies together.

“It-It’s okay,” Spider-Man stuttered, and you realized that he’d turned off his voice modulator. You hadn’t even realized earlier that he was using one, but you now recognized the difference. His voice was higher than before, not as robotic and crackly. “I don’t mind.”

You nodded awkwardly. Spider-Man shifted his balance between his feet, as if he too was fighting the urge to get closer.

“Uh, how did you find me, anyway?” You couldn’t help but ask.

“Well, there’s this intelligence system installed in my suit, and I had her look up your address,” the eyes of his suit narrowed sharply as if he was wincing, probably at how creepy it sounded. “I hope that’s not too creepy, because it sounds pretty creepy. I didn’t - I mean, I wasn’t stalking you or anything.”

You smiled. Spider-Man rambled adorably, and though the thought of him looking up your address should have been terrifying, you found that you didn’t mind at all. You weren’t sure if it was because he was your soulmate, or if it was because he was a superhero. Either way, you placated him. “It’s alright, I don’t mind.”

Despite your insistence that it was fine, Spider-Man still held himself back, hesitant to move forward with the conversation. To cut through the awkward tension, you said the first thing that came to mind.

“I like your suit,” you said, cringing immediately after. While true, that wasn’t exactly what you meant to say.

With the mask, you couldn’t decipher Spider-Man’s reaction. Though, after a brief moment, he chuckled.

“Thanks,” he giggled. You felt yourself relax. “I like your shirt.”

You looked down. It was an old band shirt that you bought at a thrift store a few years ago and was well-worn, the ink faded and several holes stretching the neck out. “Uh, thanks.” You smiled nonetheless because it seemed that Spider-Man was just as nervous as you were, which inexplicably made you feel much better.

“My name’s Y/N, by the way,” you smiled, holding out your hand. “But if you know my address, you probably know my name, too.”

You thought you could see Spider-Man smiling under the mask. It shifted over his face as he accepted the handshake, wrapping his hand around yours. Even through the fabric of his suit, his skin burned like a furnace. From anyone else, it may have been stifling. But from him, the warmth was cozy, a calming heat rushing through your hand and up your arm, wrapping around your heart like a security blanket.

“I do,” he said, and you could hear the smile in his voice. It took you a second to connect what he meant.

The seconds passed and your hands were no longer shaking, but neither of you dropped the hold. You found yourself drifting closer toward Spider-Man, and it took all of your energy not to fall into his chest and wrap your arms around his waist.

“I’m guessing that your real name’s not Spider-Man,” you cocked your head. “And I feel like it’s only fair that I know my soulmate’s name, too.”

Your breath hitched. You heard him inhale sharply, too. It was the first time you’d directly acknowledged to each other what you were, and it suddenly was too real for you.

You jerked your hand back, embarrassed. Your hand was startlingly cold now, suddenly bereft of Spider-Man’s touch. You flexed it subconsciously, yearning to reach out and grab his hand again.

“I - I...” you tried to explain yourself, but the wide, questioning eyes of his suit made you falter. You averted your eyes as you took an anxious step back, fighting against an overwhelming urge to flee.

“No, wait -” Spider-Man said, and reached up and yanked his mask off in one swift motion.

Your eyes immediately found his, as if they were pulled instinctively to each other. His soft almond-shaped eyes were filled with worry and caution, the warm brown irises gleaming in the darkness of your room. The lights of the ever-glowing city were the only light filtering in your room, and the shadows cut angles against Spider-Man’s cheekbones, carving his jowls and accentuating his slim mouth. Even in the darkness, you could make out the light smattering of freckles across the slightly crooked bridge of his nose, and the endearing flick of his left eyebrow, emphasized by their worried arch.

The chestnut curls piled on top of his head were tousled from the mask and flipped haphazardly over his forehead. His ears stuck out from his head, but instead of looking awkward, they fit his face nicely, softening the sharp edges of his high cheekbones. They were what made his already stunning face heartbreakingly adorable, and you fought the need to run your fingers over the shell of them.

Though the shadowy bags under his eyes conveyed a sense of exhaustion too severe for his apparent age, Spider-Man was younger than you thought. If you were to hazard a guess, Spider-Man was about your age, give or take a couple years.

“My name’s Peter,” he breathed, looking slightly panicked as you studied him. “Peter Parker.”

“Peter Parker,” you whispered, testing out the name on your tongue. The words were gentle but the pounding in your chest was overwhelming. The tension that grew since being in his presence while pulling yourself away made you feel as if you were drowning, gasping for breath. There was a bursting sensation in your stomach, then a warm, satisfying weight that spoke of absolute certainty that Peter Parker, aka Spider-Man, was your soulmate.

You felt your body inch toward his, and the relief flooding his face was palpable. You stepped closer to him, relishing in the way your body hummed in delight at the closeness.

Peter looked down at you, his gaze sweet and caring as he searched your face. There was a moment of content examination spent in comfortable silence as you both memorized every little detail of each other’s faces.

It should have been awkward, looking and saying nothing, but the longer you spent staring into each other’s eyes, the farther you seemed to fall. It was completely ridiculous and entirely premature, but you were certain that Peter was someone you could fall madly in love with.

“Hi,” you whispered, grinning shyly.

“Hi,” Peter responded just as softly, a mirroring smile stretching his lips.

Suddenly realizing something, you moved back just enough to bring your hand up. Peter backed away slightly, though it seemed to pain him.

You grabbed at the band covering your forearm, watching Peter’s expression as you unwound it. His eyes went wide, shifting from your arm to your eyes, then back to your arm as the band fell away and exposed your Mark.

Eyes meeting yours for permission, he tenderly took your proffered arm. His eyes roved over the Mark, before he brought his own hand to his mouth, grabbing the middle finger of his glove and yanking it off.

With his bared hand, he reverently ghosted his fingers over the inked letters. The look on his face was pure awe. “I really wasn’t aiming for you.”

He winced as though the words weren’t meant to escape. You chuckled. “I know.”

The light caressing of his fingertips against the sacred Mark shot spikes of pleasure through your body. It was a heady feeling, seeing your life partner touching the place meant for only the two of you.

When he looked back up at you, his face was split in an achingly loving smile. He pulled away, and yanked on the sleeve, revealing his own band.

It was simpler than yours, designed to fit slimly to the skin under his suit. It only took a simple click of his finger for it to release. On the dip of the inside of his wrist was the word, “hey!” written in your handwriting. With gentle movements, you traced the lines with your fingers. Peter visibly shuddered, watching you soak in the Mark.

Though you could’ve stared at it forever, you finally tore your eyes away. You met Peter’s gaze, finding the weight of it easier to handle than you thought.

With your thumb pressed to the Mark, and his hand wrapped around yours, the universe nudged you together. You and Peter fell into each other, lips meeting and melding as your bodies and souls collided like two exploding stars; fate and gravity and destiny crashing into each other and settling happily between you and your soulmate.

Your Mark burned and your lips ached with the pressure of your shared kisses. Reality forced your bodies apart, foreheads resting against one another as you caught your breath, but all at once, your soul felt grounded - you hadn’t even realized how empty it was until it found Peter’s.

In the safety of his arms, you breached the surface and took your first full breath.

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alightwhendarknessfell · 4 years

Text

Dear Andy,

I have debated posting this for a while, mostly because I wanted to get it right. With the WSTW re-record release approaching and things coming to light about the actions of a former member I feel that now is as good a time as ever. I don’t know if you’ll read this, but it is something that over the past year I have wanted to do. I have been unfair and overcritical and at times, downright mean. I was judging you and your actions based on my own interpretations. The events of the past few weeks have shown me that those interpretations were wrong. So here it goes…

I have been a fan of not only Black Veil, but of you going back to 2008-2009, when everything was still on Myspace. I vividly remember eagerly awaiting the release of WSTW and making my mom drive me to the local Hot Topic to pick it up the day it came out. I remember going to my first show in a small little bar in Raleigh, NC that sadly is no more, and I remember being dressed in war paint along with my best friends. I know that it may not seem like it, but I to this day consider myself a fan. The band that you created was pivotal for my teenage years and to this day the community you helped build means the world to me.

I will admit that it was my passion and love for that community that was the root of my criticism. Despite what you or others reading this may think, I do not hate you, not at all. There have been times that I felt let down, cheated, and disappointed as a fan, but the events of the past few weeks have really opened my eyes. I will get that to that point, but I did not and do not hate you. As a person I speak up, at times when I probably shouldn’t, but I do when I feel strongly about something. I have certainly made the mistake too many times of speaking before I had all the information or trusting my own judgement on things, I knew nothing about. I am trying to get better at not doing that.

I can see how some of the things I have said, condoned, or even given a platform to were mean, uncalled for, hurtful, and regrettably untrue at times. I have had this blog and been in this fandom for over a decade. I was 13-14 years old when I first made this blog, and I am almost 25 now. I look back on some of the things I said, and I deeply regret them. In 2015 this blog was accidentally deleted, and honestly it was probably for the best that some of my earlier posts are gone. Regardless, I have let myself get carried away or swept up in drama perpetuated by others (and sometimes myself). I have said things, even in the past few years that I shouldn’t have, things that could be hurtful. While my intention was never to hurt you, I think it’s safe to say that myself and others lose sight of the impact of our words when they are said behind a screen, to people we think will never read them. As a teenager or even in my early 20’s I didn’t think that someone ‘famous’ would see what I wrote, surely it would all get lost in the sea of tweets, posts and comments.

That does not make saying those things right.

I would like to personally apologize to you for not considering the fact that you might see some of those words. That you are a person with emotions just like everyone else, that could be hurt by them. I am sorry for letting others get away with saying cruel things, even if I pushed back on them or didn’t directly comment. I would be lying if I said that the fame (or infamy), status and notoriety I got for my words didn’t affect my actions. It’s sad, but true that often times more attention comes out of negativity than kindness.

As someone who has been bullied and suffers from mental illnesses, I should have left some things unsaid. I do not know you personally, I only know what you have shared. Seeing you speak about your own struggles with mental illness over the recent years has really given me a much-needed reality check. I have related to some of the things you’ve talked about more than you know. Some of the things that others and I have been critical of were clearly not the result of malicious intent but of your own hardships that we were blind to.

I think people forget, and I know I did, that when this band took off you were just a teenager yourself. To think that at 18 or 19 someone in your situation would act ‘right’ all of the time and never make mistakes is ridiculous. Not only were you a kid trying to figure the world out, but I think it has become clear that you were dealing with people who used you for their own selfish gains. That would be hard for anyone, regardless of their age.

I have never dealt with addiction on a personal level, but I emphasize with whatever pain you had to endure in your own struggles with it. You are right when you said that no one sees themselves becoming an alcoholic at twenty years old, and I am sorry for not being more sympatric in the past. One of my biggest regrets in all of this was hearing that during the time that I was probably the harshest to you (around 2016) was when you were struggling the most with trying to be sober.

I am happy that you are sober, I am glad that you were able to make it out of that cycle that consumes so many people. I hope that others who are struggling are inspired by your dedication to living a healthier life. In an industry where it is too easy to fall back into toxic behaviors and coping mechanisms, I am glad you have found strength.

I would like to speak on why I have been so negative in the past (and at times hateful). As I said, what you created in Black Veil meant a lot to me and so many others. This band has been a part of my life for so long and I have met some of the most amazing people through it. I have met people that I can honestly say I love because of this community. This fan base gave me a home when I felt alone and gave me something to identify with as a kid. That’s why I started cosplaying as you, sure it’s a hobby of mine and aesthetically I am a fan of 80’s glam metal, but it was mostly to pay tribute. I am not a ‘traditional’ artist in the sense of paintings and drawings, my media is makeup and costume. The WSTW/STWOF era is what I consider my era as a fan, the one that I identified with the most.

I admit, I was upset when it ended. That’s a stupid reason to be upset, obviously all bands change and there’s nothing wrong with that, but that’s how I felt. The source of my jadedness was not the adoption of a new look, it was deeper than that. Around 2016 was when I had the most animosity because I saw what I thought at the time was you ‘giving up’ on Black Veil. I felt like the ‘old’ fans weren’t wanted anymore and like most people, I felt the need to protect and defend what I loved.

With the introduction of your solo act, it felt like the community I cared so much about was being destroyed and I couldn’t understand why you were doing that. I was blinded by my own judgements. What came off as hate was really just hurt. I know I am not the only ‘OG’ fan who felt that way, and I took that to mean I was justified. In hindsight it is clear, none of us had any idea what was really going on with the band and certain individuals who were bringing it down. At various times it seemed like you hated the old era and as a fan who stood there from the beginning that felt like a gut punch. I let my own feelings make me bitter, and that was wrong. I let others fuel that bitterness, including ones who were actively stabbing you in the back.

I remember around 2012 I made a very critical post of an article you did in Kerrang talking about your struggles with alcohol. I criticized you for not saying more and even said that what you shared was nothing in comparison to a former member’s struggles with addiction. When I received this DM from that individual saying that they approved of my words and that I was ‘spot on’ I felt embolden. I deeply, deeply regret letting such a toxic and horrible person influence me. That post I wrote was wrong, ignorant and immature. That post was one that got deleted in 2015, but I still regret having written something so heartless.

(screen shot is from 2012, this was a Twitter DM from said individual. I did not share that post with them, they found it on their own and contacted me. )

I see now that you were not turning your back on Black Veil, you were trying to save it. The interview you did with Ryan Downey brought me to tears. I cannot imagine what it feels like to have something you spent your whole life fighting for be taken over by an abusive, evil, and selfish person. I feel like I have gained a better perspective of where you and the band were at over the past three weeks and I am sorry you are not free to say more. I am sorry for defending this person because they did not deserve a single fan.

Some who takes advantage of another’s passion and youth because they lack the creativity and ability to do it on their own is stealing, plain and simple. I am sorry that you have been tethered to such a horrible person for so long. I deeply admire your perseverance, strength and determination in taking back what that person tried to take. To be willing to destroy something you love and care about to keep it from the hands of evil is an incredible act of dedication to it.

I would like to end this with a few more things. I know I have been critical of people that you love. I do admit I have taken those criticisms too far at times where they crossed into bullying. I am sorry to Juliet for being unfairly harsh, I am not a hateful person, but I have allowed myself to act that way. There are certainly things that I have said that I stand by, and there are things that I may not agree with or understand, but I think there are ways that I can voice my own opinions respectfully, without being mean.

In an ideal world I would love to sit down with you, or anyone else I may have hurt and have a discussion about it, but hopefully this gets my point across well enough. I do not intend to delete my blog or stop accepting posts (although I will try and make an effort to get rid of toxic posts. It will just take a while to sort through them all). While I can’t promise to never say anything critical again, I can promise to stop the hatefulness. I am promising to make a real effort to clean up some of the toxicity towards you that is unfair and unwarranted. To facilitate a more respectful, yet still honest and open dialogue. I do take pride in my blog being one of the last places of discussion and community for fans, but perhaps without the cruelty that been allowed to fester. If you are someone reading this who comes here to be mean and hateful, I’m sorry but it has to stop. This was never intended to be a ‘hate blog’, but I will openly admit I understand why people thought it was.

If you take anything away from this, or if you even read this, please let it be this. I consider myself a supporter of you and what you have created. I want nothing more than to see you succeed and be happy. I hope that you are able to overcome the struggles in your life and that you are able to find meaning and true happiness if you have not already. Although it may not appear so, I have always routed for you. It may seem like nothing you do is ever good enough for the fans (or at least some of them) but for me at least that is not true. You have been given an impossible task of trying to please thousands of people, of never being allowed to fuck up, and having past transgressions brought up again and again. For that I am sorry, and I am sorry for having played a part in that.

You deserve to be treated as a person, not as an object or persona. I whole heartedly believe you are a decent person, who maybe has flaws and room for improvement, but so do I and so does everyone else. I do believe there are fundamentally bad people out there, people who deserve the karma they have coming. Those are the people that purposefully hurt, lie, manipulate, cheat and deceive others for personal gain. I think especially in the past few weeks we have been shown who those people are. Yet, I don’t believe you are one of those people.

To everyone out there who is reading this, please give people the chance to change. Be okay with admitting when you are wrong. Allow people to grow and become better. Over the past year my mentality and perspective on the world has shifted dramatically. Two years ago I couldn’t have written this post, but as I enter my mid-twenties I am able to look back and say ‘this is not the person I want to be, this is not the person I want people to think I am’. So all I can do is admit my shortcomings, apologize, and be better.

Andy, if you read this and made it to the end, thank you. You are in no way obligated to respond to or accept any of what I said. I just wanted to put this out there with the hopes that it in some way, or that some part of this, lessened some of the hurt I regrettably have caused.

- Ren <3

P.S the banner of my blog is not calling you or the band trash. It’s a fan term for when someone is really into something. Saying “I am ______ trash” means you love that thing. I know it’s weird, but it’s supposed to be an inside joke for other fans, it’s a positive thing. So, when I say “I am 100% 2010 Black Veil trash” I am talking about myself being a massive fan of that era. I don’t think you or the band is trashy, if I did, I wouldn’t be spending money on tickets, merch and shoving blue contacts into my eyes for 10+ years.

#Andy Biersack #Andy Black #Black Veil Brides #BVB #alightwhendarknessfell

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wiltedwisterias · 3 years

Text

Useful Things To Know When Writing Pianist Characters/Characters that play the piano

From someone who’s been playing the piano for more than 10 years.

Things that happen during practice that you might not have known

Weird sheet music cuts are among the worst things to ever exist, and it occurs more often than you’d think. Page changes occur during the middle of a phrase or a section a lot of the time and this is the most annoying thing ever if you don’t have the entire piece memorized when practicing because it completely disrupts your flow, it cuts off the emotion and the transition from phrase to phrase won’t be smooth because you’re constantly interrupted at the same spot.

Playing the piano can be a very sweaty experience (not very attractive yeah), especially when you’re practicing, because you’re putting in a lot of concentration and there’s a lot of physical exertion for a long period of time (playing sonatas and concertos require stamina I am not kidding). But you can’t turn up the fan speed because that will in turn, create the problem of sheet music flying off the music rack in the middle of your practice! I live in a tropical country where it’s hot as hell all the time and let me tell you that sweating buckets when practicing is the norm.

Clicking fingernails. Pianists never have long nails, because the sound of nails clicking on the piano keys absolutely ruins the music. If a pianist hears their nails going clickity-clack when playing, it’s a bright neon sign to go cut their nails.

Getting distracted. Duh. I often go to YouTube in the middle of practice because I’m not sure how a section is supposed to sound like, so I have to listen to and learn from professionals who know what they’re doing (unlike me). However, sometimes I get whisked away by the video recommendations and 30 minutes later I’m watching child prodigies playing Paganini Caprices instead of practicing. D:

Technical flaws to piano playing (can be used to criticize others or when your character is practicing)

Uneven chords. When two or more notes have to be played together by one hand, it’s best to press all the notes at the same time so a clear, sharp sound is produced. Some compositions have consecutive and fast chords, which can lead to uneven chords with insufficient practice or if the pianist is less skillful.

Inaccurate jumps. Jumps are a pain in the arse. Imagine that you’re playing the piano and really feeling it, and suddenly you slam on the completely wrong notes. Most of the time, it’s not a mistake that’s easy to cover up, more so if they’re chords.

Faked running notes. Not exactly “faked” per se, but it’s very easy to slip and miss a handful of notes during runs and it’s something that could pull someone out of your performance, especially someone with a trained ear or who’s familiar with the piece. Normally it’s not a big mistake, but it does spoil the quality of the music.

Speeding up. I think this is something that all musicians tend to do when they’re either excited or nervous, due to the adrenaline. Personally I feel like this sometimes does allow the musician to feel the music and enter the “zone” more easily but sometimes it causes them to slip in the already-fast passages as well, since they’re going faster than they are used to.

Unclear dynamics and phrasing. Dynamics and phrasing are gigantic parts of classical music in general and they can define an entire performance. A performance with unclear dynamics and phrasing is like a movie with a bland and ill-thought-out plot. You’d want listeners to be able to distinguish and feel the ups and downs of the music, not feel bored out by it.

Too much pedaling. If you’re familiar with piano you should know that pianos have a sustaining pedal that is used to sustain notes that would otherwise be out of reach and produce a richer, fuller sound. However, the pedal should be changed (lifted and pressed again) every few beats, or else the piece will sound noisy. This can become a problem because sometimes, pianists themselves don’t notice that the sound gets blurry, as the vibrations spread out away from them, and listeners will have to point it out to them.

Other things to note:

Statistics prove that females generally have shorter fingers than males, which can be a disadvantage to playing piano, mainly because of the inability to reach wide chords in compositions, though this can be solved by playing them in arpeggios (spreading the notes out to play instead of playing them all at once). Another thing is that having longer fingers can minimize wrist movements which makes playing easier.

Every single piano has a different touch when playing, due to the difference between the weight of the keys. In addition, keyboards, clavinovas, upright pianos, baby grand pianos and grand pianos all have different technologies in producing the sound. Keyboards aren’t favorable most of the time as they are relatively shorter (have less keys) and the keys are very shallow in comparison with an actual piano, which limits the music dynamics (loudness and softness) that can be produced. The good thing about keyboards and clavinovas though is that nowadays, most of them have audio jacks, so pianists can play with earphones/headphones plugged in, which makes it much more convenient for practicing as the sound won’t impact other people living in the same building/vicinity.

Regarding practice time: in all honesty this probably differs from pianist to pianist. Nevertheless, professional pianists generally practice 4-5 hours a day. For people that play the piano as a hobby or on the side, practice duration is usually much shorter. As an example, I used to try and squeeze in 2 hour practices on Saturdays and Sundays for my Grade 8 exam as my weekdays were packed full with school and co-curricular activities, this however, was the best-case scenario. If I had other activities on weekends, piano would be deprioritized and practice duration would be made up for during the next week. It was the same for all my classmates who played the piano outside of school as well, but keep in mind that this kind of practice schedule isn’t ideal and it’s best to practice every day even if it’s just 15 minutes per day. When I started preparing for my diploma exam, I tried my best to practice at least an hour a day because I was scared of failing it hahaha. Once again, practice duration and schedule is highly specific for every individual based on where piano is placed on their priority list.

I hope this was helpful! I’m also planning to do more posts like this so feel free to ask me if you have any questions :D

#writing #writeblr #writers #writing things #writer #write #writing help #piano #music #writers on tumblr #writing tips #tips for writers #on writing pianists

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hen-of-letters · 3 years

Text

To me, the Supernatural finale felt like a slap in the face. And then a suckerpunch to the stomach and a knee in the crotch. Afterwards some more punches, a bit more kicking, and a spit in the eye. So, here's my rambling account of just why I think it was so hurtful, and why I don't think I'll ever stop being sad and angry about how the show ended.

Stories matter. Everything that happens in Supernatural is the result of a decision. Each of these decisions carries a weight and a significance that resonates well beyond the screen.

Castiel's love confession in 15x18 is a beautiful, powerful thing. The love between Cas and Dean has been shown in the text for twelve seasons, but it had never been named in the text until that moment. Castiel's words brought their love out into the open.

However, his immediate and permanent removal from the rest of the narrative (aside from the briefest of mentions) is also powerful. He is erased from the text. After speaking, he is silenced.

Dean is silenced, too. He's never allowed to respond. With him never voicing his feelings for Castiel, their relationship is slammed right back where it came from: into the narrative closet.

Dean's love for Castiel is left as it always was: shown but not spoken. Open to interpretation. This is presented as a positive thing: there's a blank space left in the text where you can imagine them reuniting in heaven.

However, telling the audience that a love story between two men can't be openly declared and that their reunion can't be shown on screen is massively harmful. It perpetuates the idea that queer stories can only be told in the margins, in between the lines, in the silences of the text.

Claire is never shown on screen again after we hear that she loved Kaia. Kaia is rescued from the Bad Place, but their reunion is kept off-screen. Queer love is present, and at least in this case openly defined, but kept in the sidelines, unseen.

It's a phrase with a complex history, but it's telling that 'the love that dare not speak its name' came to be used as a euphemism for homosexual love. Queer love had to be kept silent out of safety. Even now, for many of us, being openly queer can endanger our lives.

Supernatural had a massive opportunity to say: queerness is not to be marginalised or silenced. Here is a love story that is central and spoken and celebrated. I think it's probably the enormous gap between the finale that we had, and the finale that we could have been given (which was the finale that the entire season had seemingly been building towards), that makes Supernatural's ending so heartbreakingly hurtful.

There's a reason, I think, why it feels so viscerally jarring for Cas' confession to never receive a reply or even acknowledgement. Disregarding every other episode of Supernatural up until that scene in 15x18, and with absolutely no knowledge of the characters, what we have is one person saying to another: "I love you". From this point on, every fibre of our being is aching for the answering "I love you, too". That's just how human beings are wired. That's just how narratives function. We hear a question and we need the closure of the answer.

When someone proposes publicly, even though these people are strangers to us, we are all waiting anxiously to hear the "yes". Imagine that you're watching a TV chat show, and then the host announces that someone in the audience has a very special question. Cut to the audience, where someone kneels and says to their partner: "will you marry me?" The camera moves to the partner's face ... and then cuts back to the action on stage. The proposal is never mentioned by the host ever again. You never find out if they said yes. Don't you feel cheated? Don't you feel, maybe, at least annoyed?

Now imagine you have two friends that you've known for years. You've grown up alongside them and you love them dearly. You think they're perfect for each other and you're sure they're in love with each other. One day, you see on Facebook that one of them has finally proposed to the other! You're overjoyed! But this is the last you ever hear from either of them. You never know the answer. You might feel just a little bit frustrated with the ghosting little fuckers. Yes, you can imagine that they're ridiculously in love and they've moved to Maui, but you never know. They might be dead in a ditch. They might be utterly miserable. You just never, ever know.

I swear, I'm normally all about the ambiguity, the open ending, the delicious possibilities of uncertainty. But here the question was too clear, the answer too obvious, the significance too weighty. The entire issue of Supernatural's problematic queer representation came down to this: could we see Dean say "I love you, too"? Could we see them live as well as speak their truth? Sadly, the answer was "no".

There could have been something powerful in the death of the author in Supernatural, in the exhortation to write your own ending, in the acknowledgement that meaning is created in active, creative collaboration between the text and the reader. But this wasn't handing over power. This was passing the buck. Representation is a responsibility.

In the end, Supernatural utterly dismissed the possibility of giving either the characters or the audience the power to write the story. We could have been gifted an open ending: Chuck defeated, Dean, Cas, Sam, Eileen and Jack alive and reunited, and the audience given free will to imagine their future. Instead, it gave us the most closed-down ending possible: all three main characters dead, other characters forgotten, and with nothing more to tell.

Going back to considering characters as friends made me think again about why the finale hurt so much. Yes, the erasure of Eileen from the narrative angered me because the decision was misogynistic and ablist. But also, I absolutely adored Eileen, and wanted her to be happy. She, like every single character in the show deserved better.

However, we don't only see characters as our friends.

We see pieces of ourselves in the characters we love. When we get to see those pieces acknowledged, and treasured, and loved, we feel validation. When we see those pieces disregarded, or silenced, or torn to shreds, we feel hurt.

Consider what someone might see of themselves in Dean Winchester: a queer individual, a war veteran, a survivor of physical, mental or sexual abuse, someone who has felt worthless or suicidal, a caregiver who has sacrificed their own needs for the sake of another.

What killing Dean says to these people is: there is no place for you in the world. The only 'peace' for you is death.

The same message can be read in Castiel's death. It's Castiel in whom I saw a piece of myself. I'm nearly 40, and when I started watching Supernatural in 2005, I didn't yet realise that I was maybe non-binary and definitely bisexual. The world looked at my body and assumed I was a woman. The world assumed I was straight. I was being told a story about myself. It wasn't until later that I realised that there were other stories, that there were other words that I could use about myself. Castiel's story was one that I could identify with (if I'm honest, mostly because of our shared social awkwardness), so his death said to me: if you speak your truth, you'll be shut down and forgotten. Happiness is not something you can have.

The deaths of Castiel and Dean find their bleakest mirror in that of the Kaia from the Bad Place. Not-Kaia wants to return to her own universe, even though she knows it is dying. She feels she doesn't belong in this world: "This place is cold. I don't understand it. I don't know how to move through it. So I just find empty spaces and I hide. This world doesn't want me, and I'm done with it." And, honestly, haven't most of us felt exactly like that at one time or another, for whatever reason? If we've felt different or excluded, if we've experienced physical or mental ill health, if we've felt like an outsider? Although Sam and Dean do try to get her to come back with them, she accepts death - just like Castiel and Dean. Visually, the moment closely resembles Castiel's demise: she's enveloped by blackness, her serene face the last thing to be covered.

Alternate Kaia is the embodiment of otherness. Her hopeless, voluntary annihilation is incredibly troubling. I wonder though if perhaps this moment is the text criticising itself: Alternate Kaia chooses death because the world is hostile towards her. If we marginalise others, if we tell people that who they are means that they have no place in the world, if we tell people that they can only exist in silence and in the shadows, then these people will feel despair. Depression and suicide are a real concequence of exclusion and marginalisation.

In contrast, we're shown Kaia being accepted by Jody. Castiel has already acknowledged that Jody is Claire's found family, and we know that Claire loves Kaia. Here is a hopeful mirror: Kaia, who has been set up previously as an analogue to Castiel, finds acceptance, and love, and a found family.

Dean and Castiel could have been given Claire and Kaia's ending, but instead they die like Alternate Kaia. The world doesn't want them.

I think that the erasure of difference is why the finale feels so flat to me. So empty, so hollow, so silent. The brothers' diverse found family is killed off or forgotten (like Kevin Tran, presumably left to wander the earth forever as a ghost); women are erased; people of colour are erased; queerness is erased. Sam and Dean are reduced to being cardboard cutout versions of themselves, devoid of complexity, with nothing to say.

For 15 years, Supernatural has said: choose free will. You can make your own destiny. You can write your own story. Love can defy the will of God himself. You can be loved and supported by a family that you choose, even if you are rejected by your blood. In the final episode, every single one of these ideas was systematically trashed. It hurt.

What gives me hope, though, is how the fandom responded to this hurt: with creativity and kindness. Immediately, fundraisers such as The Castiel Project and Dean Winchester is Love were set up & have raised a massive amount of money. I don't think I'll ever stop being awed by this.

#spn 15.20 #destiel #dean deserved better #castiel deserved better #eileen deserved better #sam deserved better #every single character deserved better #we deserved better #tw suicide

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cubesquareddigital · 3 years

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Work vs. Mental Health

aka KNOWING YOUR RIGHTS FROM YOUR WRONGS

We’re passionate about promoting positive mental health here at CubeSquared, but we know not everyone is, so we wanted to put something together to help those (especially given the impact of the coronavirus) who may be looking for work with a mental health condition in tow.

Confucius once said "find a job you love and you will never have to work a day in your life". Well that's all well and good for him and his corner office, but what about the rest of us? What about the rest of us just trying to get through the day without punching that buffoon from Sales or from getting caught nicking all those pens? Exactly.

If those work-based annoyances aren't enough, if you're living with a mental health condition, then work can be so much tougher. For some, just getting out of bed is a Herculean task, let alone coping with additional deadlines, a huge workload or trying to create a PowerPoint slideshow that won't send everyone into a coma.

Just like life, work colleagues and management will have different viewpoints when it comes to mental illness. Some will be accommodating of your needs, others won't and it will be a source of contempt. Screw those guys!

With these different points of view, how helpful employers are will vary wildly, so it's important to know what your actual rights are. Can you punch that idiot from Sales? Probably not, but where DO you stand? If you're in the UK (like we are), we can try and help, so let's take a look at another of our world-famous* Top 10 lists! Let's bloody do this!

(* - not actually world-famous)

1. BEFORE YOU START WORK

Let's start before you actually have a job! What do you mean that's cheating? Oh you sound just like that douchebag from Sales!

If you're in the position of looking for work, let's face it, you're not alone in that, it's important to know where you stand as you sit down for the interview. See what we did there? Let's say, for the sake of argument, you have depression. What next?

Any prospective employer can NOT ask you about your mental health, unless they are:

Asking about any reasonable adjustments they need to make during the job application process.

Checking they have applications from a wide range of people; this might also include sex (as in gender, it's not a 'Yes Please' / 'No Thank You' thing), religion, sexuality, race, etc.

Ensuring that you will actually be able to do the job you're applying for.

2. TO DISCLOSE OR NOT TO DISCLOSE. THAT IS THE QUESTION.

Of course, there's nothing wrong with being open about any condition you might have, it's just that you don't HAVE to. If you want to be open and tell them, feel free. The question you might want to consider though is whether to tell them before or after you get the job. If you don't get it, then I wouldn't bother!

If you DO disclose, then you will be protected under the Equality Act 2010. This means you can get any extra support you might need at work, ask for any reasonable adjustments to be made and, hopefully, get support from your lovely new work mates. Depending on the environment, that might work against you (if they're a bunch of A-holes), so it will be your choice. Just remember, you're not legally obligated to do so.

The key words here are 'reasonable adjustments' If you want them to build you a solid gold throne to sit on, then you're probably not going to get that, but if you need to sit in a particular part of the office, for example, or building in some 'work from home' hours, then you can certainly ask. It boils down to whether you would be at a 'significant disadvantage' without it.

It's not as onerous at it sounds. Employers don't necessarily have to foot the bill for any changes. They can get help through the Access to Work scheme, which can help to pay for practical support their employees might need to help start or stay in work. Also, if the company has an Occupational Health department, then they may be able to help with this.

It might also be worth noting that when looking for a company clever enough to hire you, you might want to look for firms that display the 'Disability Confident' symbol. Like ours in the footer of every page (just scroll down, we’re not lying, in fact we’re very proud of it!)

It was launched by the UK Government and was designed to encourage firms to recruit disabled people (this includes depression by the way). It does mean that they are more suited to hiring (and keeping) people classed as ‘disabled’.

3. THE EQUALITY ACT.

Whilst we're on the subject of the Equality Act, nice segue I know, let's touch on that piece of legislation a little. It classes depression as a disability, so is covered by this piece of legislation. The Act also covers things like bipolar disorder, dementia, OCD and schizophrenia, in fact anything that is a "substantial and long-term adverse effect on a person's ability to carry out normal day-to-day activities".

Because of this, employers can't (or shouldn't at least) discriminate against you when you apply for jobs, have a job or if you lose it through redundancy.

4. BENEFIT BITS

If you're starting work after being on benefits for a while, then it can be a financial tricky path to navigate. The time between getting your last benefit and your first bumper pay day can seem like a lifetime.

You may also be able to get benefits AND work, depending on how many hours you work. This applies if you've been on either Employment Support Allowance or Jobseekers Allowance.

5. SICK PAY

You've got your dream job (hopefully it won't be a nightmare) and things are going tickety-boo, but then you have a bit of a turn for the worst. Now what?

If you need to take time off for your physical or mental health, then there also things you need to be aware of.

How much time you can take off ill, and how much you'll get (or for how long) will vary from employer to employer and their own policies. It might also be dependant on how long you've worked there, so giving a definitive answer here is a little harder.

Most will give you full pay for a short while, before reducing it to half-pay. When that happens, or stops completely, providing you have been off work for more than 4 days, then you can apply for SSP (Statutory Sick Pay) for up to 28 weeks. Then 28 weeks later? The zombies come ;-)

6. WORK....UNTIL YOU CAN'T

If you're off for more than 4 weeks, then your employer can refer you to Fit for Work.

This is a UK government-funded initiative which offers advice on returning to work. They can also refer you to a Occupational Health professional (if your company doesn't have one) who will work with you to create a 'return to work' plan. So that’s nice.

7. I'M BACK BABY!

Depending on how long you've been off for, even if it's only a short time, going back to work can be tough. Not knowing the reaction you'll get from colleagues when you return or even if it's just FOMO (Fear of Missing Out), then it can be an anxious time.

You can help to ease that by keeping in touch with your manager while you're off. This will mean that going back to work can be a little less daunting. You don't have to be 'cured' to go back to work, as long as you can go back without making yourself worse or you don't feel under any pressure to go back, you should be fine.

You may need a ‘fit note’ from the GP and, if you do, you can ask them to recommend adjustments on the form for your employer to see, e.g. reduced hours at first, etc.

8. I'M NOT BACK BABY!

If your short-term mental (or even physical) illness becomes a long-term problem, then your employer can eventually decide to 'let you go', providing there are no reasonable adjustments they can make to keep you there.

This isn't a decision they'll take lightly, but remember that they're trying to run a business and can't keep your job open forever. They won't want to lose a good worker, so try and look at objectively before firing off any strongly worded emails in the middle of the night after one-too-many bottles of wine.

9. MAKE A COMPLAINT

We'd like to think that all employers are honourable and trustworthy (like us), but sadly that isn't the case. Whatever your circumstances and whatever kind of employer they are, they do have to adhere to the law.

If you've lost your job, but you feel like they haven't done this lawfully and you have been unfairly discriminated against, then you can make a complaint. There may be an opportunity to do this informally at first, just in case there has been a misunderstanding or miscommunication that can be easily resolved. If not, then it's time to kick on!

The company will have their own procedure for formal complaints, so speak to their HR or Personnel Department (or the Office Manager if they're only a small firm) and find out what the procedure is. It might be worth getting in writing if you can. If this doesn't help, then you can take it to an Employment Tribunal.

10. MORE INFORMATION.

Obviously there are a multitude of people reading this and any number of individual circumstances to consider. We don't have ALL the answers, as shocking as that might be.

If you need any further help with work, then there are a number of organisations that specialise in this kind of thing. Citizen's Advice (they're not a Bureau anymore apparently) are a great place to start, but also an organisation called Benefits and Work have some excellent resources and an active forum where you can ask questions and (hopefully) get some answers.

If you're going through something, then probably someone else already has, so it can be a useful weapon to have in your arsenal.

We hope you find some useful hints and tips here, but these are just ours. If you've got any more to share, then please let people know in the comments section below. We're off to punch that pillock in Sales ;-)

Blog photo courtesy of Tim Mossholder on Unsplash

#mental health #disability confident #workers rights #Citizen's Advice #mental illness #Employment Tribunal #SSP #Statutory Sick Pay #Employment Support #FOMO #Fear of Missing Out #Fit For Work #creative industry #Equality Act

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wisemanners · 4 years

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@wadamwoltron asked sincerely for my take on The Scene so here it is, i guess, but on my blog and NOT in her DMs like a weirdo. also some additional background context i guess. i’m trying to keep this somewhat objective, though obviously my specific memories are probably going to color it anyways.

so background context: this is mostly metatextual analysis regarding what is apparently a hotly debated topic in fandom of “what shiro’s mysterious disease.” the wiki says muscular dystrophy; we can’t find a source for this (though, if you know of one, please feel free to share). what’s stated in canon (in 7.1, “a little adventure”) is as follows:

it’s a muscular disorder

it’s degenerative

it involves muscle stiffness or tightness, which is alleviated by electrostimulation

we know for sure it affects his right arm; keith’s asking “what are those?” MAY imply that he has two (or more?) EMS devices but in the later scene where he has both sleeves rolled up we only see one.

a quick search of EMS therapy brings up this page which lists the following uses: you suffer from muscle spasms, have suffered from muscle atrophy due to disuse, your muscles need to be stimulated and re-educated, your muscles are weak and lack tone, you've lost range of motion due to an injury or illness. (it’s also used for circulation reasons, but since he mentions keeping muscles loose we can assume it’s related to one of these.) searching “degenerative muscle disease” brings up MD (general) as the first result, followed by other neuromuscular disorders; the symptoms listed that EMS is used to treat check out as the various muscular dystrophies all feature one or more of those symptoms. given that, this analysis will proceed as if this is the factual diagnosis (not ONLY because as far as i recall it was, though that is also the case).

[there are numerous types of MD, and we’ve done a fair amount of research to determine which one is the most likely given the symptoms presented (myotonic, probably DM2), but that’s less significant other than its CURRENT mortality rate.]

that said: the scene itself.

“Everything okay?” The only thing to analyze in the first line is the genuine concern in it, but that does contextualize the scene; i AM coming into this conversation from a place of being worried about someone i love.

“Iverson thinks I shouldn’t be part of the mission. Called in the big guns; Admiral Sanda showed up to try and convince Sam to remove me from the crew.” (there are interesting and significant implications with regards to how the Garrison’s chain of command works here, but that’s not the point of this character analysis.)

“Well, maybe he’s right. Maybe you shouldn’t go on the mission. You’ll only be putting yourself at risk.” the absolute lack of hesitation in agreeing with iverson is i think the bigger clue at the greater context of this argument. this isn’t news. this is something i’ve been thinking about, and have clearly already come to a conclusion how i feel about it. “maybe” is a hedge word here. i DO in this moment think iverson is right, and this is just an excuse to say so. additionally, risk is an important word here, which i’ll circle back to several times.

[additional note on animation: i show almost no expression during these lines, except to frown and look stern at the end.]

“You know how important this is to me. It’s worth the risk!” Aside from tone and expression (he’s clearly upset and desperate here, and even looks away at the end as if he can’t face me), note risk again.

“Takashi, how important am I to you?” I know this line is everyone’s favorite. I understand why, even, especially given the dubious nature of “canon” on our actual relationship. The line itself establishes a lot; the first name usage (canon isn’t super clear on why he goes by Shiro, even with the other people he’s closest with (Keith, Sam, Matt), or its relationship to his Japanese heritage (which is significant here whether or not producer LM would agree), but to this point I’m the ONLY person in canon who ever addresses him by first name) as well as the general phrasing makes this the most obvious statement that we’re in a relationship. That’s arguably good, considering canon does little else to show it.

The significance in the CONVERSATION, however, is to position this as a choice - your dreams, or your partner. It’s actually the biggest reason I hate people siding with me in this argument! That’s not a good thing to ask someone you love to choose. More on support in a second, though, as well as more about what I’m asking for here.

[animation note: let’s talk about my coffee here. the hand shake and slamming down my cup is definitively the most show of emotion I have here, which IS significant. that line + the choice presented AREN’T coming from a place of deliberate manipulation, it’s emotionally charged despite me trying my best not to show it.]

“Every mission, every drill, I’ve been right there with you. But this is more than a mission. This is your life at stake.” here’s the support bit, obviously, since that’s what I’m evidencing here - reminding him that I’ve always been by his side and supported his dreams. that’s not actually the important thing going on here, though, because it’s the end where he cuts in:

“Don’t start that again, Adam! You don’t need to protect me. This is something I need to do for myself.” First: again - we’ve had this discussion before. Second, the timing: it’s not until I bring up the risk again that he gets upset.

A relevant concept here that I think most people in the fandom genuinely will not have heard about but is TREMENDOUSLY important to this conversation and to understanding what’s happening in this argument is dignity of risk. The article linked is a good overview, but in short: many things can only be gained or achieved by taking chances of getting hurt, and disabled individuals (originally those with cognitive and intellectual disabilities, but certainly applicable to physical disabilities as well) are disproportionately PREVENTED by overly-cautious caretakers from taking those chances.

Shiro’s objection that I don’t need to protect him, I think, points really strongly to THIS being the actual issue. I’m trying to look out for his safety because I don’t believe he can or will do it himself (which I DID think, at the time); he feels smothered by this because he’s an adult who has the ability to assess risks for himself and decide which ones are worth it to him to take.

“There’s nothing left for you to prove. You’ve broken every record there is to break.” This is significant in that it shows I think how highly I regard him, but I also think it’s the strongest textual evidence in the scene that we’re talking about COMPLETELY different things - that I fundamentally don’t understand what’s important to him about this mission OR why he’s upset that I’m trying to stop him.

[animation note: he’s stopped arguing, gesturing, or looking at me here, and doesn’t look up again until I reinforce the ultimatum in the next line.]

“I know I can’t stop you, but I won’t go through this again. So if you decide to go, don’t expect me to be here when you get back.” I feel like “I won’t go through this again” is another line that people sympathize with, which makes sense; I’m afraid and wounded, and people sympathize with fear and hurt. It reiterates the cyclical nature of this argument, too. It’s also still bringing back the choice: stop taking chances on things that matter to you, unless I’m not one of them.

[animation note: shiro looks both hurt and angry and doesn’t take his eyes off me the whole time i’m saying this, but doesn’t say anything. I also only look at him once during it, at the very end.]

“I’ve got a class to teach.” probably obvious without additional analysis, but in addition to an emotional reaction, this puts an absolute hard stop to anything else he might say in response.

having gone over the scene, some additional considerations:

I think a lot of people latch on REALLY hard to “this is your life” and shiro’s later “it’s getting worse” line and somehow conflate the two into an implication that this is about a lack of TIME. It is, I think - but NOT the way people assume.

Prognosis now, in the 21st century, is for a good percentage people with even severe forms of MD to live high quality, enjoyable lives into their 30s and 40s or later; even without a curative treatment, it’s reasonable to assume that in the 24th century this has improved. Given Shiro’s current overall health still being good, with the primary effects we see being localized to just the one side, it seems a little odd to assume that 30s-40s is still his life expectancy.

My lines about the risk to his life also don’t actually discuss an imminency of death in GENERAL - it’s SPECIFICALLY risky to go on the mission. why? well, most likely, because a minimum of 10 months is an AWFULLY long time for someone with a serious progressive condition to go without medical care or a checkup. which is a reasonable thing to be concerned about!

but we also have textual evidence that shiro’s GOOD at being responsible and taking care of himself, even if he sometimes sacrifices his needs for others’. he wears his assistive/medical devices. he keeps a workout routine. he can push himself hard, but we also see places where he knows his limits. and the majority of interventions for MD are about upkeep - building stamina, range of motion exercises, monitoring condition - and having the right tools on hand for an emergency. so, at what point does the concern become about not trusting him to take care of himself well, especially when the kerberos mission was in regular contact with the garrison?

and the flip side of the coin about time: with a progressive disease, there IS always a looming time limit, on everything. that included his dreams. our time together wasn’t limited the way people seem to assume - but his time as a pilot was. so having more perspective now, I can see his side better, and find myself frustrated both with myself from before, and with the people who agree with me. it feels dismissive to his wants and needs, as WELL as his right to self-determination.

i don’t think takashi abandoned me when he went to kerberos. i think i abandoned him, when he badly needed my support, by forcing him to choose between someone he loved waiting for him, and a dream which was running out of time. i know it’s popular to joke about what happened and that i’d say “i told you so,” but he was right, and I should have listened better.

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rixxy8173571m3w1p3 · 4 years

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The Truths Found On Petram Viridios IV (2/?)

A/n: I really enjoyed writing this chapter. Read Part 1

____________

Chapter 2: Getting Along

There was so much you still had to learn about mice and Salamandrian men; minus the mice part. You were surprised by V'gha's chattiness. Why, it was no sooner when you two had taken a seat that he began asking about your culture, interests, as well as to what you did for occupation. It seemed that he was fascinated by how both you and Zeta-7 lived; being that you were the only human he's officially met, he wanted answers for the questions which his home world's databases could not answer. You couldn't fool him when it came to your acquaintance with Rick as his neighbor, but you played it off by saying that he was the local mad scientist that everyone knew of but gave little importance to; it hurts you to say this, for he was worthy of the highest praise, with his extraordinary mind and his winsome personality, but V'gha was more familiar with Zeta-7 then you had known; it seemed Rick had a bigger reputation then you had thought, and the chemist hoped that he could make his acquaintance once all this was over; how he could be interested after all your initial rudeness was inspiring and in its own right.

You found his straightforward nature refreshing, albeit at times coming across as nosy, but first impressions at times gave allowances for this; to discover that despite how one may come across in passing, is not always the sincerest, true version of oneself. There was no malice or ill intent in his inquiries or reactions to your answers, and while you had redirected many of his questions, he didn't seem to mind; whatever you shared gave him delight. Over and over you wondered why Rick couldn't have been seated at this table, for this creature could have shared all that fascinated him with a fellow scientist and they could have debated in peace over theories and experiments; for your part, you would have sat there raptly, admiring the like-minded individuals who might or might not have been jealous at one point or another over understandings, discoveries and what not. As you two talked, you scanned the garden with your eyes, and searched for Rick, but couldn't spot his bowl cut anywhere; you trusted that he'd show up one way or another, but you hoped for sooner rather than later. In the meantime, you two discussed how fascinating the planet and its inhabitants were while making remarks on the flavor of the food "My soup is thin and looks as though I stuck my foot in it, but it tastes like honey." you commented as you set your spoon back down. "I'm not sure whether to drink it or to jar it."

"Neither. It's what your utensils will go in once you are done eating."

"Oh, I probably shouldn't have tasted it then."

"No harm will be done." he chuckled, which exposed his fine, sharp rows of teeth. "I've taken the liberty of scanning it to make sure."

If Zeta-7 had been here, he might've tried the utensil cleaner on purpose in the good ole' way of tasting the chemical when he should've tested it. Yet, since he wasn't here, you were ready to admit that you found V'gha a bit more intriguing then you had anticipated. When you had initially boarded the ship and met him upon entering a cabin, you were determined to despise him for you didn't want to appear weak in front of strangers, but it melted away as he decided to apologize once you two had reached your assigned table. Sure, you weren't really into reptiles, but whether it was how his skin glistened in the starlight, his intellect, or how his bright oval eyes seemed to bore into you as you spoke, it was somewhat flattering; you thought only Rick could make you feel this way; hopefully, it was his simple charm and newfound politeness, and nothing more. To ease the anxious thoughts which were building in your chest, you glanced at the empty third chair. "Do you think Noathamas is in trouble?"

"I'm not sure." he confessed in all seriousness. "After all, he did violate one of their laws which was not to eat any of the guests. I don't know what came over him, but hopefully, whatever consequences come his way, will simply be disciplinary action and nothing more."

"Yeah, that would be good."

Though, you blamed the fact that the knight had returned from battle not long ago, and might've been triggered by something done or said; you hoped he'd survive. To distract yourself further, you stabbed your synthesized meal. It was a mass of congealed worm meal, and you pretended to eat it, but you weren't really hungry; it was supposed to be calcium-rich if you were correct. "So," you wondered as you pushed away your dish. "where you're from, do you do stuff like this?"

"You mean attend formal gatherings where I'm not allowed to have fun? Or meet total strangers that I'd rather study then stand next to? Hmm, more often than I'd like. It does have its perks. I'm highly respected in my field and get paid well, but I don't get out much unless it's work-related. A majority of my free time is used to study journals or to sleep. Occasionally both."

"That's a bummer. Not the studying part, because that can be fun if it's a topic you're passionate about, but you strike me as someone who enjoys good company. I'm surprised that at this point you haven't mentioned hanging out with friends or family."

The pause in conversation didn't seem long enough for your liking, but neither was it short enough to keep its natural flow. There seemed to be a distant, far off look, as though he were staring through you, at someone else; longing; one which would've gone without notice if you hadn't been used to reading people who were like Rick; intelligent, curious, lonely people who were less like normal men, but were no less mortal, and not quite a machine. When he started, you hadn't expected the familiarity in his words. "I consider my lab as my friend and my lab samples as my family. It's where I am most of the time."

Before you met Rick, would he have said the same? Almost, for his inventions and things bought, made, or salvaged held meaning; he was very sentimental but desperate to cling on to good feelings; maybe, these two weren't so different. "I used to feel the same way about the characters I wrote," you started, wondering if this was a good idea. Yet, now that you've shared this much, you couldn't stop now. "and the stories which I typed for others consumption and entertainment. It's as though you spill and pour a bit of yourself into these dreams and passions. As a famous singer once sang, 'You may say I'm a dreamer, but I'm not the only one.'"

"What a way to put it. I think I might've heard the song you quoted some years ago. I believe my satellites picked up the transmission."

You smiled at that. You had heard the stories, read the theories, and admired man's will of wanting to make contact with the unknown; if only they would have known what they were getting themselves into. It wasn't all bad, and could very much be as Star Trek would put it, 'To seek out new life and new civilizations. To boldly go where no man has gone before!' And to watch an intellectual man like Zeta-7 to almost wax poetic about the marvels and atrocities which were in the depths of space, and listening to how an alien admired what was in another quadrant of space, why it warmed your heart. "That's neat. It's funny," you admitted a bit quietly at first, then you raised your eyes towards him. "I'm not used to these kinds of events, but I gotta admit that it hasn't been so bad. You've made an otherwise tiresome task a joyful one."

You had long since noticed that his face was very stiff when it came to expressing emotions, but he still managed a smile that was no less winning. And unlike most of the evening there was an unaccountable silence. Till now, it seemed nothing could stop the Salamandrian from talking, but whatever had come over him went away as a danceable tune began to play, and you felt a subtle shift as he stood and wondered if you cared to dance. Keeping in mind the strict rules of this planet, you raised a brow, but he seemed to know what to do. "Come, I'll show you how it is done."

With a nod, you followed him all the while keeping a fair distance. Beneath your feet, you felt the bumpy path through your thin flats and relished the strong gust of wind that whipped your hair about. If you had closed your eyes, you could almost imagine yourself back home in Rick's backyard, remembering one of the first times you urged him to dance under the moonlit night, admiring how he colored when you realized it was a first for him; reluctant he stood on the patio unsure of what to do, but you smiled at him and told him there wasn't much to it because it was simply more romantic. Oh, how your heart ached for those days, but there wasn't much time to continue reminiscing, for you were dragged back to reality by the candor of the chemist's voice. "We're here."

On a raised platform was a honeycomb pattern of tiles, which illuminated when stepped on. V'gha took his place and stood very still until a see-through chamber enclosed him in. There was no panic or surprise, which led you to believe that he had done this before. In like manner, you followed his lead and took your place a few feet away and stood still until a chamber rose to encapsulate you in it. You felt a tightness in your chest, and took deep breaths in order not to panic, but a new tune began to play and it struck you with a sense of deja vu.

A glance at the stage revealed the appearance of a tall, veiled figure surrounded by six guards. You pressed a hand over your heart, feeling it quicken as he swiftly, but gently passed his fingers over a golden orbed plant which had very stiff leaves, and when it detected movement, it vibrated, and this, in turn, caused it to emanate a sound a little more delicate than that of a kalimba. Its melody seeped into your bones, buzzing against your skin, and in it you felt a sense of belonging and warmth to a moment. Along with the veiled figure was the being made of pure energy, whose voice added body to the already beautiful tune; flowers bloomed at high frequencies, and thread-thin roots spread along the stage and dance floor; illuminating at rhythmic intervals.

You imagined yourself dancing with Zeta-7, on a plane of nothingness; submerged in a viscous sweetness then rising to the surface; floating, falling, losing yourself in a funny world, with every intrinsic, idiosyncratic, and inviting thing in your path; laced fingers, shared breaths, surrounded by his warmth, secure in the nearness of him, and sure in his grasp; he was incandescently happy, and he was as much yourself as you were of him. "C-can you hear me princess?" he whispered.

You could hear him, but you couldn't answer. Lips ghosted over yours, whispering phrases you thought you recognized; haunting you; trying to tell you something of the utmost importance, but the song ceased, and the figure was gone; breaking the trance you hadn't known you'd been under. When the chamber returned from whence it had come, you followed V'gha back to the table; confused, embarrassed, lost, but with a sense of knowing. You thought to yourself that the veiled figure could've been Rick, for who else could evoke such feelings except for Rick; that or it truly was a tune which was out of this world. "You're quite a dancer." he commented, which interrupted your thoughts.

"What are you talking about? I didn't do anything."

Taking a sip of his murky beverage, he explained. "There is no physical dancing done on this planet, except to those exclusively done by royalty and that of the Milleannos guardians. What the rest of us did, including yourself, was dance with our soul. None of us can really discern what the other is dancing to, which makes it appropriate and is in line with the laws, but while the others might not have understood what you were about, I could tell from the bliss which you exhibited on your face when we came back this way. It made me conclude you had enjoyed yourself. Call it instinct, but I believe this is the happiest you've been all evening."

Again, he wasn't wrong. Yet, how could you not know? It's possible that Zeta-7 didn't know it would take place either. You remembered how you felt, how real and tangible it seemed, but if that was the case, were you really dancing with Rick, or the idea of him? Did it matter?

The music now, albeit stimulating, was light and nearly silent as though someone was lightly humming. It was not as provoking as the tune earlier had been, but perhaps the experience you had was exclusive to your own feelings. "I did enjoy myself," you replied. "did you?"

"It was fascinating," he admitted smoothly. "but I much more prefer the view of all twenty-nine of this planet's moons. I cannot study the intangible thought of a feeling."

"If it helps, I much would've preferred regular dancing, but the experience...it's… it's one I wouldn't mind trying again."

One you wouldn't mind trying again, but only with Rick.

Tbc

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