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libidomechanica · 11 months

Text

About coming down through

A treochair sequence

My doole, drawe neare. Good people never with regular descent, in

the Fire; yea, sweet ane an’ twenty, Tam! But he had told her, as they cal

that lately kissed thee. Anthea, when in bed she falls, that wont to do?

And nature, law: all the waters is thy sweet leaves is thrown about the

whole matter what class we find the others would prevail, why thou art why

should be—a sunbow’s arc above a short- lived predilection, and Passion,

seem’d to walk through the body torn and bruised, I thought of their lives in

love with sighs himself avoided the roaring winds, veil’d Melancholy

reigns; what means to mend all people, at all the national debt-sinkers, and

ever-musing melancholy has her sovran shrine, and I, in truth,

of late the hoarder’s prize, with forest like a sharp knife: it kills without

drawing night. Honey, and intermingled with tempests and the shrieking

rush of their requiring. Vast and grace the perfect it seemed,-than till the

enviously debars, is the condemned, not by morality

whatever people say t will be time, there was Eloise? And, last, she

sat with such poysonous care my lookes downe, so semest thou prove, were

in a bed of rose petals or crystal Devon, winding river, are

lover’s een, where lang I’d been nothing higher, the fingers like a

Magician tracing Letters in the cups of youth did he make, and suit

thy pity like in every creatures’ Eyes. But when we come where thee, thy

sacred veil, the stamp of my bruises and all that’s beautiful and rare.

Love and harmony do call in a body of the river or sea

shore, know the strength to force the moon was very low and wild dismay o’er

every part; if then you went out. Virtuous mermaids, whose love and wonder

how they should blunter be than appetite, which ouer the dead, come back

down the evening close; but in old times, and with every part, that bed of

joy, where frozen chastity, you’llsay, nought they quitten him from despair?

Tis a great moral lessons of millinery, that on a time he

cast him to replie well as I may well themselves on innocent play, and

leaving dark all else! That they who blunder the pale lips; she had no

continue. Let not locks thus keep ye. For when, nak’d Boy, thou can her obteine.

To fail so. Oh, do not think the false world may stain when he felt her head

with waltzing and ideal Grace. Yet now methinks with rags of shadow, washed

dust clouts that he could, young-wise, wise-valiant, frame his sires reuenge, ioyn’d with sweet

pastimes graced; the morn was clouded, but all there in humble and the stories

are beset with snow; yet the faces that tongue that was just a

catastrophe, the blue eyes, bluer stockings, to keep going. Let it not

apart; but I’m prepared to doubt no less than t’ other lends. But Colin

made, ylke can I find, some dire misfortune foeman, but gently

tooke, that one in ten?—Were it not said thy edge should ever, wha for thy

right myself from my eyes and listen and adorning; such to me my

love’s sake, kiss me once the sky like a printed page, black letter upon

foolscap, while the hart, hind, and With frantic, into a chain!

These cogitations still cut straight across my forehead to be overcast:

I claim a phantom glue my clasping arms. Shines, bright as the goat leans

against my will was a stranger; her modest seed, and the dim windows?

And evidences which, loosest, fastest tieth! He is your cold relics

must for ever. Of cattell, and catch me with dimples in her e’re. Thy

life and joy! She remembered not. Those bright idea of the Maple

warre: wherein that which was a wonder, if you wouldest me, my manhood

is cast beneath the same construction flies, and bade him go and take a

taste, where he was standing under a spire of perfect actor on the

lovers quickening, riding seaward on the long-wave light that’s the phrase

that soothes the eye and heard it all the incessant water the immutable

crickets stirred, I am quite sure she destroys, and adding still

and in that white robes graced; to walk throughly rooted, for its poison me

with those restless passionless can never pall; theirs is the true love’s picture

or my love excuse my jade; since from Káf to Káf, down to my Root,

and Will’ in overplus; more than echoes render no song but sad dirges,

like the sweet love, for love, the illusion, a stay against my hand.

The married, and of the planets, and a box of building blocks, alone?

Give me more spotless mind! To equal young Jessie, unseen is the black

e’e, yet look as ye were not a cheat. And in my youthful fancy. Her

maids await her; on her cool brow to put a kiss? Why should gae mad, o

whistle, an’ I’ll come to it dearly! The lands on either by thy beauteous

self I swear beauty yet doth hide something like flies o’er candy buzz

round the Fortune foeman, but gently tooke, that I dream’d to have help’d out:

love may exist without regard to church or state, ’ a wife makes or takes

delights thy brow he still may leave to go. Numb nubkins, the stair, with a

magic like bos piger: ’ but if we love that’s dearest to thy hard bit.

Answer for you the heau’n forgate all vice except for buttons and ten

women I could ill confines, of moss and legs are that place where roses

of yours—who’s wiser? Betwixt mine eye is famish’d for a while thought to

bloom upon their education, and made the hardest science sleeps, and

leave shows in shambles, viewers bereft, and crowing in pypes made of

greene saye, the grots that did spend, so drew my life—send it to Elenor:

he’s dead, and walk upon the Water like angels watch the earth. Once more

I take—best quitted else—the Field of Verse, to put you out of windows?

But little more forgiveness, this obedience, looking at the eye

of scorn, upon the steaming rills, the dying gales that like virgins keep,

and pipe the three Ghosts, adieu! That thou in losing me shalt win much ioy,

many in many teares: yet never coveted their papers with

double knockings. Down a story of faults concealed, forgot your rosary

of yew- berries, though sweet, wee dochter, tho’ ye come to ye, my lad.

—Le those braunches broke, whose three sisters of such a trial;—then their ever-

during night. Now turn’d me round the doors old footstep gleams—in what every

memory written down all true, the gamester’s counter, or the dales

of yonder shrine I hear, no more—’ such language part pantomime, part grimy

guesswork: adulteration. One of the night, perhaps a sorry

muttered in thy bloom, lost in a convent’s solitary gloom! Then blowe

your pypes shepheard swayne, to other an’ mother white and bare but in

the there is of the radiant girl! The world may stain when he felt no pain.

Than it takes the same. Gently through there’s nothing. Lowering my head,

I looked back. And just above yon slope of corn such coles of displeasure?

Brings fresh is the cud eschew’d by human cattle. He hath no morn now

lifts his eye, numbering lay it chanced a bee did fly that waited

for his Foot, trampled from the fire, and being drawn and rest, that had your

sight. And pressing did out-brave all that heare this voice, that touches back. Instead

of grandmother tucked in a frocke of gray, hey ho gracelessness

Ungracious he became, and always, as long as you could read a book

through your marvelousness. Great Britain, which should be called but half a kiss,

I woke to gladness with a moral end that I were dead! Though travell’d,

I have left as the distance lies for all thy fair frame destroy, that caught

my plants both humble and thou art a ladde: with meaning&motivation.

I lose express’d. And gentle Juan, thou art forsworn. For the flower upon

fold of hueless cloud, and that’s amiss— I say, men gather flowres

forced to fall, that hath rotted thee: or sicker thy heart is what in fact

that when December blights thy brow he still th’effect of the enema.

I wish to make their cheeks; and peasant, undermines you and could not reach

her—look’d again, and palpitated tow’rd his Father’s Face his own mouth.

There is an hind, but Fate so enviously debars, is the cud eschew’d

by human cattle. Juan, who can fight again revive, but no

disdaineth; suns of the Desert saw Majnún where a creatures haunt my dreams

and she be the view; else call it winter with your love, the end they make

mad the roads of our own. And for the street and hides them. The well-built nest.

The Negroes and is worthy King durst proue to lose his crowne, rather calmly

into the moat, stifling in my head till morning arises

stormy time, where so much—to give the devil his due; nor in her e’re.

Then will render double. But I’m relapsing into metaphysics;

others are remembering what the crystal— and dreams, ready to store their

ever-during nigh and night is a-cold; come hither, who was so gentle,

charming as things here, why choose you then will I take part, the pity

one has when the book open at Stonehenge. Doubt there hath been said, into

a chain! My father, brother. Some way incomparably light and red

uprose the slow clock ticking in mud. Not permitted to him and you

have been worth it, after all poor Frederick, why did ye not me for

his infant charge, who might not profits is another? Than a cubit

in its own skin. Sheds itself adorns the Wheat-field, and for fair Scotia

hame again; as the Harper’s hand repair its cunning, and she was given

to time your own dear-purchased right that I have relished well; join lip

to lip, and to follow them I burn’d and for ever was the theme of

praise is due, onely by you Cupid his crowne, rather wish, thou hast

thou to malice lend an ear! So to see the sadness, or continuaunce.

That a sudden thought meet from City Hall to Brooklyn, which brings to my

shafts. An ordinary places. Like to a twilight is dreary, he

cometh not, she said, The night and smoke and people everybody knows,

which foreigners can never pall; theirs is the year’s pleasant place, where roses

of your bones, your fingers are remember’d such wealth of globed peonies

need spraying, trembling I unclose, that one Will. How did it within

my heart its long-forgotten, bone bag man, sing. Aimèd with the breast: ev’n thought,

at setting the brow of morning kiss: work that to each. Produced what with

a pained surprised, as filchers use, he thus began himself avoided

the occasion to talk at a great black piano appassionate

one. Heart of his brow, he had then the morning sun of heaven like a

wing across the hedge to me, lover. By dream I saw one of the law.

With music; the mouse behind the mill and try: each suck the other knots,

yet I would rather calmly into the world forgetting, by the by,

when clever, are more pure than they? But by the accursèd duke! I mean

to cease to feel, to cancel time, and scarcely greet me with craft to cloke.

Like to a twilight, or that I have been together now, the blissful

cloud of summer- indolence; happy as a wave that dandy-despot,

he, that when December blights they would encline. Call it: freedom shall I

tel thee a tale of truth, which it were Herself and curl’d Assyrian

Bull smelling of hypocrisy for truth before the taking of a

toast and gray yearning silently over me. Swords and the noon’s repose.

And around our souls each other’s dwelling! Why have you brought into the

law, but the end they were strangers wroughten this roundelay. When she sang:-

she would have relished well; join lip to lip, and to the universal

device but internal chemistries vary— though some aboue me sit; nor

hope, nor wish our dearest spite, ye know on earth, tis a great moral lessons

of mankind even with the lips of Julia, weep, for I must die.

So well; let him speake what I was a rose that grace, those soothing speeches

nobly plac’d; beauty a-wee; but come on me bestow. Upturns her dimpled

cheek toward me for his own he lifted, Pardon-pleading, if that my

Pegasus to thee, the laverock to the sunlight broke from her on

a day, the Hus-bandman selfe to other lends. Have sucked from fear, till at

her eyes: but see, how fast renneth this sun and me a journey take. When

as the Sunne beame, glaunceth from above speeds through it, ere it came; all his

blood should a Father growing—whether all, her yellow fog that rubs its

back upon thee more, and let them nor peer nor prince can buy, till Cherry

ripe themselves on innocence. I can rest me where two contracted new

come daily to the lark at break of day arising from sullen wind

wagge their tool. And the night, into the husband’s head, who, sleeping on the

rain, me of the wooing wind aloof the poplars, with Greek the lips have

kissed, and of insolence, her breast enamour’d let my gesture and clear.

Rosy morn now lifts his eye; but he had told him we would have him, if

I could hurt her cruelly! Do worke me more, and let not locks thus keep ye.

The keene cold blowes through they have chosen; tis a great moral lessons

of millinery, that one Will. More than they of her, I trow. Why then

do you know, there is a floating balance of accomplishments she taught

a lover can obey! ’Re but once I did I never love and many

more such things or great. To fold me Head and hands. And for a minute

will reverse. And fair are these? Drawn down to die. No more than the eaves, the

virgins keep, and pity! Who, sleeping beside a lonely moated grange.

Oh come! And am I flattery! That is lent to loue, wyll be lost.

For heart—it is the cud eschew’d by human cattle. Nor settles all

the night is dreary, he cometh behind. The first season gave, and, quite

to shade will come out to meet you as far away, the shyness-though the

same thanks one murmur to the tree of life is love, am gained instead

of a burning; I left thee to bestow. At the cloud is scattering

Fish like Jewels polish-sharp, to the curling breast, oercharg’d, to musick matche?

And straight, and stir within my arms, and cried, when the sunsets and thereto

aye wonned to repayre the shepherd struck one, and my soule, I deeme

ech haue gayned. Yes, call me by this, I thought of late, when she turns her

violet eye. Julia, weep, for I must die; from a dress that made the harte.

Why standst there will he liue tyll the laws the stair, with a full but soft

emotion, like an odor because he flies. You have named herself upon

her feet, innocence and peasant, undermines you and could not be his

bar to taste: the truth is, if men would put claim. ’ Plunder; and for all I

have, or else pronouncing grace, and fresh Amaryllis, with milk and honour!

And how should not look on her head of her good, who mad’st thou learne to

caroll of Loue, and her smile, lest having none, in masque-like figures on

a marble men and mair we’se ne’er be parted.— Yet still to hear the name.

But this has nought more, Thenot, my hand unstain’d wi’ plunder; and as honest

as his birth; all his powers, euen vnto Stellas heart, will and trysting

thorn, where lives, had children, grown hazy by morning kiss: work that tongue that

more fit; I do confess, that with a kiss, or that she wile your fancy

frae me, for fear my jewel tine, she is a hornet in the hopeless, lasting

chain; and her dressing the children, grown old, and die. But out, alack!

To roll it towards some over the eastern star. How blythely bear it.

Launch draws to countenance his cause. But he had found out at last to cancel

time, and Eloisa loves. Gives, with their crags: the rather wish, thou hast

not there. I thought to go by quite away. The women pretty. A basket

on her head she shut the cold walls with Beauty take. Only to kiss

the name I used to run at, when none too soon we checked the hope then all

this became my blushing bride. That would only be the finer politics

run glibber all. As an unperfect beauties finde, say whether in

paynefull loue I pyne, hey ho pinching past erased islands to ocean

and the doors old footsteps trod the upper floors, old voices wake us,

and weep is all things but forget. Before high-piled books, in charactery,

hold like you, unmov’d, and seems but an ashen-gray delight; thy

eyes diffus’d a reconciling ray, and doth among our branches the

leaves the love you. I would pleasure, but home him hasted with cold bene

an auncient tree, sacred with mourning doth the voice and fair, with the ardor,

and thus surprise—fling the riddle of epic Love’s temple of Delight

your mournful surges that I’d let me know beforehand. It is.

What scenes appear where’er I turn my view? Wrought; give me more, and brought my

plants into the chin, my necktie rich and modest, but all is silent

than before rude hands have vanished one by one, yet knows its boughs perfume

the air but who am I …? I have wept and fasted, wept, and prays, her

head, which in triumph, come and with snow. So I, made lame by fortune—he

has enough; succeeded in my heart; and the carefull heards woulde make

full faine: such play is a pitteous plea, him rested the good old man bespake.

A moment whiles ye may. About its echoing chamber for it.

—This is a lo’esome wee thing, words from my God! Are flowers alive all

over America. Take pity one has when one looks at a

cadaver. Long lov’d, ador’d ideas, all adieu! Saints to settle the

world farewells. Between fool and sage, and don’t know where is such, that we’ll never

bleach. Of you peers, you were more pure than enough to shake. Out the long-

wave light the murmuring how she loveth none. Pleasant place, where he sleeps,

and still The Shah fell Fire; to Gracelesse griefe, witnesse call the earth do

to us, that in the North End, the window peep, with your love the

constancy and virtue leads people are apt to talk at a great rate; and

nocht could I then press’d a new-leaved vine, entrailed over things, beats

love or lust makes me so much more—but my best friendship which you neither

twist thou shalt see me fresh, fragrance roll, and waken unavailing tears.

House that glows. I dreamed we both were in the time, with leaves are listless on

the bier, while the bee-mouth sips: Ay, in the eye. That he took, and thus set

at large, had left aching Pleasure and clear. That the past. Quo’ she, A sodger

lad, thou’rt welcome through the great wings break into fingers. But I’m prepare

your idol glass and others blest—but we have not learn’d to Heav’n; dispute

my heart that’s the wooing winds, and, stooping, made my cheek lie there, by

light: chrome-winged birds hatching from each cheese-paring. Prohibited what was

over an hour. And rather than a case of dog food. No more than ire.

No, make me mistress to the sun my little sporting joys have lost the

keen delight to see a childe that Perigot so well hath hym payned,

to him be the honour of Old England, old England. That bed of joy,

where sinners may I sing, whenever—which mere hopes allure nations athwart

the chambers wide, till a morbid hate all vice except a dunce, that

labour trace; let all love prohibited what could not be ta’en aback:

he hath great projects in his small bushes round the pale marble and I

worried you like a sharp knife: it kills without a stain. My shippe vnwont in

stormes to be gone. Zigzag toward the lamp and lay the lines and time for all

her points of purple and permit a place to stand neuter, for silly

wards will court you, or, what’s call’d my nest, where so much grieve, we now might with

a small wood pigeon that hand, which being full of care makes summer sang

in me a little throat around, dark vault above—devoid of hate. Survive

not the Lambe be Willye his own behoof, with a beard; or else can do,

thou still with heavenly features who had many wives, with those rare lips

of yours forever and fortune’s dearest to thy Will’ one will of mine

own when I praise is due, only with your emissary eye, to fetch

in the eaves, the virgin Cynthia sways the tides: and what arms have laid

my hand—the name appears already yellow smoke that some people’s trust.

And I by this separation I may give you there to helpe his other

chambers of the Canterbury bells. But in the end they were wood,

woode as he, the same recure, am like for desperate shine as wits;

while others blest—but we find ourselves seated in, your voice slow and quietst

iudgments see that in no more. Two small plot of ground is my Abelard

less kind than the eye of scorn, and crown with a tear. Other, by description

or petition, to say: I am Lazarus, come from tongue into

the hall eye-iudgement of renaissance, I look at you, heart of

stone, are men: some have lovely lass o’ Inverness, nae joy nor pleasure?

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That on a time I tied her throws a death- like silver, white heart-flame of

politics run glibber all? I see a face, ye weel may wi’ the teacups,

afternoon, their first seen shades down the arms of other water even

thought, like gentle peace return! My morning coat, my collar mounting,

from the force of mine own weakness being blind by nature to subdue,

renounce my loue did part, whose waylefull want debarres myne eyes from

sleepe. It is not it, at all the bride and Prejudice, in which might be

arbiter of this the very temple’s worship has paid price, and the

dire command. Or what if that politeness set it not yshend your

roundels fresh, to hear the goal yet, do not grieve; o Shadows! Cloud cover,

dry where you seek it in vain. She repented of thee who art dearer,

better! That breath of some coquettish deceit. Of a young couple of

these may be safely stuck to—for Europe ploughs in Afric like bos piger:

’ but if I had been talk’d about. And also a private place, a

body of the Ayr; but by the world esteems, long did you seek it in

vain-made up a song neuer heardgrome, I feare me, thou the golden urn.

Hye thee home shepheard, tel it not said thy edge should be;—it is a floating

balance of me, nor settles all trembl’d, and said the will of mine, you

heare apart, let breake in mine own love’s picture stayes, but neuer heeds the

frugal life is past, make accompt, unless the back-yett be a-jee; syne

up their path, stifling in the gutter yet I cannot reach! But now

no more, and the shrieking rush of the waves lie still wilt cozen me. That

held the peach; and his wings: chestnut colour, or more slack, gold, upon those

two mourning; her voice, though now a sainted maid: but all is calm in this

eternal bound these morals are a sample. Of late the oxygen.

Crystal—and dreamers that I doe Stella loue. Made up a song called her

enough. The yellow hair, murmuring how she loved as old again. Of

a kind of fashion,—the kinder veteran with cold, all for the end. Only,

this time to be gone. Love’s victim then, thy once-lov’d Eloisa loves.

Snatch me, just mounting, from the lagoon. Carrying strange: unlifted was

there is loving thee vantage, double-vantage me. They spoke as chords do

from the crevice peer’d about. Nor tears, of all but love alive. Dead seaman’s

knell. Too calm and sad! To talk at a great rate; and now she thinks of

bones and grinning skulls, and intermingled with constant heart! Nature art

disdain intendeth, which none may buy, till Cherry ripe themselves do cry.

Night to raise, and the rent, and corruption unto me.—An’ O for ane

an’ twenty, Tam! Two small plot of ground of such mothers as may know the

world, I’d scorn his temperate board, as none at all, and swell, awake

for ever swell? Your heart? Into the husbands, friendship which you may buye

gold to deare. What those unheard What pipes and the stature of an hour ere

light: chrome-winged birds hatching lover, and mony a widow mourning; I

left thee to mountain, the crystal Devon, winding Devon, wilt thou lay

that frown aside, and mony a widow mourning doth thee so appall?

She shrieking rush of the stour, a weary slave frae sun to sun, could be

time, there up took both the bride allowed a maid look’d not half so fresh and

fair, yet a man; with cryes, I hate the hoarder’s principle of action,

the fool will call the miser’s eyelid dry, but since they are like a blanket.

And now fancies she heard the mere plodding through the Night till Day! And

Earth some new Song, there is a lo’esome wee thing, this dear wee wife o’ mine.

You said, ‘Look! When hearts have overrun all bounds, that no pace else their harps

the angels tremble, and fells it then, though seen of several sheep down

to earth, and so much he scarcely greeting, earth and thrust into her head,

and snebbe the gamester’s counter, or the dales of your bones, your fingers

long as things was angry when thou saw’st, in Natures cabinet, stella, thou

seest the lamplight, downed with mourning; I left thee to the level waste, the

rounding aisles, and we drown. To me. But what, and why should I begin

to spit out all there is not all lovers, rich in their wrigle tailes,

perke as Peacock: but nowe it auales. And sweet in spring, is the lily,

unheeded the occasion. And wedded string, and whiles ye may. And

for the Smithfield Show of vestals claim men’s eyes with this sun and called but

half my heart did glide, hey ho the Thonder, wherein I should I not forth:

here is time for the honeybees to Wings after flight; and nothing?

Much glory: and I by this, I thought it beseme any haruest Queene.

— And the doome. Forms a sad climax to romantic history. Doth my greefs

augment my doole, drawe neare. That, reaching for cash. Guiltless I gaz’d; heav’n

listen’d while you sung; and truth. And yon the thrushes, the lakes that fix you

in bliss the treasured fragrance roll, and swell, awake for ever bid the

Spring adieu; and, happy me! Have known them all—the eyes of day when

western winds creep softly o’er the Past dim gulf! Among the hils of Kent.

To me;—of whom thou was peregall to the bitter sea. Better in

Silence and end with the Maker’s praise. Thou’s welcome thrice more wish’d, more rare.

Tho wouldest thou forget to say the perfect day. How do I love the

sun and me in that one in ten? The lands on either side are his; the

shiver and forbear in my short absence to unsluice a tear; but as

he them more short of life my life, pleaseth you ponder your bones, round rulers,

round nudgers, round a dying flame; and this, which the prouder beauty;

and enamour’d let my love thou my ain lassie, kind love is liberty,

doth willing to cutte the gray-eyed morn about the same to measure.

And bids them make mistake their withering perfumes, for hearts a liuing deaths,

dere wounds, faire storms, and coal, and clothes held up, she showed with snow; yet them close,

drove their meanings both joyous and saturnine. Some are soon bagg’d, and seems

but an ashen- gray delight. To steal away, and leave thy garlands drest?

The rapid running of the sparrow, little thing, words from my God! Close

to my bedside she died, my mother’s desire had overwhelming

question … oh, do not care, that he could make the miser’s treasure! And under

the blow, and this, which droops upon it still: while sages write against

the world were not a cheat, if Maud were all its frailties, all hearts have over

someone lost in chapter nine of Pride and Prejudice, in which Darcy

and Elizabeth speak of poetry’s relationship to sex. So

in my story and have not only be the sadness of her might: so,

love, beloved, and as my object; but somehow people come and greed,

I find the fatal ferry; and the roses and white: to see his neare

ouerthrow. It did it within the slave of love, ah my own, in me nothing

betweene my will and with brede the more taugment my doole, drawe neare.

Wave high, and murmur to the pain. After flight; and put under your Suppliant

and other women in a knot. Beneath his cars of Ceres groan

the room the woman is in the light in youth, I bade the flood of

remembrance, I weep my outcast state and trouble was no other lovely

women in the night away, so that novelties are about witches

and the mill and try: each suck the other side, through a sad variety

of woe: now warm in the nineteenth century gives, with the wind o’

th’ Sea, suddenly ashamed. As the down, and sorely hurt. Doe close

at hand lie fallen mask of pure ablution round earth’s modest seed, and

as honest sodger. And don’t know where is but caprice or fashion,—the

kind love comes in ten t is but caprice or fashionable mystery.

Or thou not farther room. Yet write, oh write me all, that I must die. That

won’t let up— so you reported before we grow old … I shall adorn

his temperately grew gross in soulless love, to the Master, By

the Stripling, howsoever Late or Early, like the Love’s school, and your bier?

Those smiling eyes; ye soft intercourse from sences thunderbolt not always

face, cloth’d with snow; yet the falling tears. I haven’t unlearned: to

bury one hope inside another, husbands, friendship which you may buy,

till Cherry ripe themselves to take. I have spent my hours after the mouth

and love means bliss if bliss or merely speculation as to meanings.

Are skycolor.— This is no my ain lassie, fair tho, the last sentence.

Two small people, out of a confusion of people never with

regular descent, in the nineteenth century gives, without alloy of

fop or beau, a finish’d gentle and then come, thou this softer

strain; sure, said he, with oath to make me the scortching heate? No pulse that glory

to their campes of needfull thirty years, I have play’d his ape, in

a Hercules his shadowless in fact she takes the car Love guideth.

My morning peeps can burst Joy’s grape against his palate fine; his soul shalt

taste their ever- during nigh and tear. Love’s victim then, though infinite

number of bridges. But when they talk, I’m kent the fall o’ the budded

broomes: and when the hardest science sleeps so peaceful sleeps so peaceful

citadel, What men or gods are thin! Roses at first day the buoys

were all that makes no show, is to a woman of excess, of zeal and

greed, I find the other: when the moon was gone, and so much he scarce palls.

They pass’d, like flies o’er candy buzz round the Fortune’ with the same. But that

I shall swear! Steele had pierced his pith, tho downe to the Soul was a strange:

unlifted was the solemn light; and Wonder move, least thy Will’ one will of

mine own praise I name: not for the Smithfield Show of vestals brought hither

the north flowers and ungentle writers, in this than t’ other lovely

young JESSIE you see, we live in school except its reputation.

But if Love don’t, Cash does, and burning kiss from yonder heard nor saw: tho’

this was there may be something I have also known young men who—though to-

day thou fill thy hungry eyes even the purple doors upon the new

transfers its hoards; new vestals claim men’s eyes without alloy of fop

or beau, a finish’d gentle readers and west with my desire

keep pace; therefore soone I rede thee, hence remain! This my hand—the name of

heau’nly hew and gray, the shepheard, the God of my life and all the proof

of dirt is payment for the first were white stars of night, waking she hears

deep sighs, still unravish’d bride of all but love thee downe swayne: sike a iudge,

as Cuddie, the little spoil’d, but no sinners. My eyes shut down as if they

form’d thee of angelic kind, some banish’d lover, not lawsuit country

lang—take pity one has when one long yellow fog that rubs its back upon

the glittering retreats of restless passion sometimes would do; but

at Apollo’s pleading, Crime-confest, as the quartz in the sky will be

when done: the planet hung just out of frame? Than the melancholy reigns;

what means to mend all people, without breeze enough to fill his hive. Doe

close at hand lie fallen no tears of life. Most humble cot, and the girdle

of gelt, embost with the Foam upon the glass; which do sublime of—

Heaven knows what birds have vanished into the best of her face, and me.

A hollow sound. And if in fact that what we use everyday to frowne.

Softly, in the gay, dewy morning sun of heav’nly fair! Of hopes begot

by feare, of wot not what we were;—too old for you to be loved me,

too until all of the world’s amen—’Who wouldest me, my manhood is

cast beneath the treasured fragrant, luscious flowers the droop-headed flowers

all, tho’ in her face, and let nothing:- nothing but vulnerable.

And kneeled and debonnaire: the tales of Arcady? And the carts make

the learned to clay. I do not blow away as we do. That beneath

so beautiful and rare. ’Se ne’er be parted. Ah, curious friend.

Is the conquest it survey’d, and Paradise is that I do Stella

loue. I dwelt alone in a world I will soon wheel roun’, an’ then comes ane

an’ twenty, Tam! And you have been seven years in absence! Of the world

owes us nothing higher, the angels tune. And smile and more, hey ho

gracelesse greefe adawed, that giu’st no better for their Maister is

lustlesse and old. Stifling a laugh, and the lute is broken, sweet tones

are rebuilt. The Breath of some coquettish deceit. Drop some golden urn.

Even for this to be going he went wilful-slow, towards thee I’ll run,

and some rejected to find and bind a heart there is not the golden

pin; since my appeal says I did streame: or as Dame Cynthia sways the

tides: and here, ev’n then, shall my cold dust remain, in midst of other maidens

as faithfu’ sodger ne’er despise, nor could to-night, and round the pale

lips; she had no sting, the sword of sugar. Or mountain-top, to me he

made me divine came mended from fear, till at least it rhymes to love; ’ but

I’m relapsing into it—but the bonie glen, wherein I am

attainted, that thou learne to caroll of Loue, and hew out a huge monument

over the roofs with pryde and vainer ties dissever, excepting

marriage? Though travell’d, I have snakes in my bosom, thou shalt ycrouned

be in Colins stede, if thou canst—and let nothing higher, the angels

watch them still, her brothers case, for fear that she seemed to heart’s endeavour,

to set its struggle to escape? I care not to behold the love-light

in plaints did oftentimes resound, then there was a bum on the waves blown

back when the spitefull brere had espyed, causlesse complained, and said among

the floor— and thine eagle home leave the cover—all, all of the wood.

The waves which shows that even thy silver small talk, ending if you not

miracles are fewer to the sober west, as the soul. A goodly

wild vine, into the best of her dear lord! And I was a rose that graffed

to thy bosom: my purse is light are lover’s voice, o you than to

hurt you, entreating your bedded-down knot. Past the shore of the wainscot

mouse, and in short, I was a rose that grace, those sorrowe. Simple and pearl

in rubies grew, and given to change the moment fancy lightens in

his grave, yet now methinks we wand’ring go through it. And saw the bloud springs

from a dress that made the chain. Nature stayes, but neuer heeds the frugal

life is love remembered not. The shadow we had many wives, and

wayling, and the dim windows? And by thy beauteous are raw beginners;

a little you sung; and truths divine, are you? Oh, Mary, canst thou which

looks too oft in darkness. Thou art a fon, of thy lewd tale I tasted.

To be the afternoon where I hear, no more the hardest science to

forget! Him when there’s my loof, i’m thine at ane an’ twenty, Tam. That

the pale lips; she had not see a single one, that made my tongue. Upon

her, as someone drowning into metaphysics, those bravuras which

yet I view! The planet where I sit and prayed: give me a bower of

mischief’s daily brewing, which will be gone, can he that love in for a

day, when her love, beloved friend, whom we shall find as glad to be kiss’d

the sacred glove, and our dear lord, all ghastly pale, clotted with gory

blood; it groan’d, and she lo’ed sae dear. But when we met, to have bitten off

therefore blame gaunt wealth’s austerities? Smoothed by long siege to bow, and far

away, the shepheard, tel it not your wonder how they ca’ me fornicator,

an’ tease my name in corners of that name,—and I, its love, the

illusion, a stay against the skies; clouds interpose, waves roar, and wine

much sicker; ambition rends, and gaming gains a loss; but making

addition thus. Oh, Mary, canst thou lookest with that kills me and the bud

o’ the Nith’s winding Devon, wilt thou learnest— but in these deep solitudes

and awful cells, where will he liue tyll the loud chaunting of the

magnolias, me of the radiant girl! The breath, and so live ever—or

else pronouncing grace, those soothing accents, your feet, while the pools that solemn

sea to the old marchioness some rich and modest, but as she sings.

By railing at the eye: both in both are spent. Alone is a stranger;

remember: I raised an interest in her e’re. Such colours, and tea.

The clover has grown thorns this tumult in a vestal’s veins? Have walked through

the passing with a beard; or else one that white is black, and the boom of

them when I saw the gusty shadow as backup: crow, please keep your clever

forensics. Athwart the glass; which had a juice in it; of which with

great disaster one of the world. Then comes again and who canst thus express

of paved heaven dwelt alone in a world owes us nothingness?

If then you went out. Grace, beauty,—that is lent to loue, wyll be lost.

Vulnerable. So good an opportunity; or fall but here perhaps

there is a low, newspaper, humdrum, lawsuits, must be well apart in

a forbidden or forbidding tree, and so much more?-Night cheap hotels

and sawdust tavern at the sky like a clam. Have known them all: have known

them court an heiress for this to applie. And Hoigh for their little you stop

loving mourners be, looking at the Door of Mercy open’d in his

shroud; then glut thy sorrows of her hair; so Anacreon drawn the air.

Stifling a language holds the south, and so live ever—or else one that

which he writes. All that sweet springs to these things beside in amorous

pairs to complete their Lions, ’ but in these lone walls of that name,—and I,

in truth, with what spite of you peers, you were in love, now with’ring in the

sky, and the whole oceans roll! Present theme for popularity: now

that this sad interim like the Love which increase, so let you sit or

walk, you went out. Come daily to the trees, the virgins trouble. At kirk,

or at market, whene’er ye meet me, gang by me as thou wert wont to

make him; drest, you still for man should all be cramped into a planisphere.

Then, laughing at a joke, unaware that anything but yours, the bolts

of beautye I weene, the sashes are bent. With gory blood; it groan’d her last.

The sky will be time the quintessence of all my nightly, who has the

virtues of high station, the fool will call such thing, the sword of sugar.

And spread, thou bear’st the best of passion free When old age shall feel em most.

Of weather— still I must die. That Colin made, ylke can I you rehearse.

A basket on her own native land, and sense of the elements must

be well apart in gastful groue therefore desire to know. The troubles

thus the lowring youth in its place, where every memory of hys

misdeede, that this face: nay, I will not blame. After thee, that jewell’d mass

of miles away, dead brown from the steaming rills, the greene, a goodly

wild vine, entrailed over them and under the bloody cloth unfolds,

disclosing to her even chin, have you placer of plants both humble

cot, and let our bodies lose all that made my cherelesse byrds are priuie

to my cryes, which I your poore Vassall dayly endure: and being down

the distant Poles have come and go talking of an old grandfather. That

no pace else their lives in love; one temperately grew gross in soulless

love, I hear her tender-taken breath, whose naked Armes stretch out like

this pow’r away; and yet, beneath the sunlight on our branches and they

my payne to see a blush rising through my hearse be vexed with breath, smiles, tears,

for ages, that we’ll never love and look? Like Jewels polish-sharp, to the

married in thy bloom, lost in a crystal Devon, windings of fear. The

quantity of those who have prided themselves to take ourselves apart.

And be forgiv’n, and makes a son leap in the morning kiss from yonder

tower, was reft of life my life! Of insidious intent to lead

you to be sure. Vouch for his own mouth. That is your only poet;—passion,

pure and scorn his temperately grew gross in soulless love, to

thee! And one was blue with fatiguèd eye; made my heart, and began to bark.

Moving anyway towards thee I’ll run, and given to time your own

silhouette we saw, slow perhaps, the stage who with his golden showers. Note

or Plume in all the cottage warm; three times her little more spight: and often

crost with thought I might find you again appear beforehand, and I

have fears that moment his sturdy stroke, and my star! While people say, I

don’t know who she is. Frugal life is dreary, he will not swear that is

worst of all is, when love is in her een he delivers his law: and

stitched up into fingers push the feathery ripe heads of greenery which

in her lids: again perfect ceremony of love he should do long.

For some captive maid; they live, they speak, they breath the influence of bliss.

In the ear of night that I have walked through seas, whither: though divine, are

you? In a cloud, it faded, and when the fairest of their priestlike task

of pure ablution round earth’s human shores, or gazing on the glass; which

but to-day thou fill thy hungry eyes even thus, and forever. We

did not wish her sire had had male heirs. Prayed: give me my earthen cups

again, I cheery on did wander: I thoughts are quite sure she destroy,

that caught in her own native land, and as for chastity retires, yet

hiding royall bloud full of absence! But I am sick of politics.

But when we come where the music from a man’s own angry pride is

cap and be for a different construction as you could float on your books,

on your elbow. Moving anyway towards some over them and under

thus are rouleaus! Lips but those few your annalists have to go out the

hour has struck by light: from the lagoon. At least it rhymes to love; ’ but I’m

prepares the blames in vaine, that no pace else their carriage—but to denounce

my love thee? Entitled in the latest space-age gear blank as mirrors

above the ice had like a fly, in a queer sort our deeds reprover

of the Stars. Opening and arrow fall: not Caesar’s empress would save.

Since I’ve grown moral, still usher’d with flowers, a faintly clammy day,

like wet silk stained by one dead brown from the crime remove, less your laughter,

when love, converted from feare, comes the ground and small. Through narrow passages

walking, feelings are steadfast, still usher’d with a passionless can

never met before, that jewell’d mass of millinery, that oft the

blossomes rownd. I think of thee—I am too near thee. The thrushes,

the full ripen’d grain; when I am fast asleep, dust need not now be

pleaded—whate’er was my chiefe praise is due, only in mid Sea reveal’d

itself an Isle, beyond memory; as one who travel’d in the ear

of night, and wings, and in its girth; but when we hover between us!

And send it by whom true lovers brings that the bright and brief; with dimples

in her breasts! That the damp hair falls before, and, knocking, me molested.

All matchless creature gets some likeness, which done, that they were suddenly

you forget me do not look in the nineteenth century gives, without.

There; or to reform a curl; or with Secretary Sis to consult,

if fucus this be as good as was natural, to temptation, I can’t

live. Nor for fruict, nor for a constancy and virtue leads people say,

I don’t know what; but I’m resolved to say, oh! Europe—can children she

might esteem this moral nation: besides their knowledge with him? Those fair

creatures dear. Before supper and the fairest of Europe’s social

state; but that white rush, but feel the strongest reason why, all that’s in her

impels her to the Bankrupt worse than Gold he cannot step as does an

Arab barb, or Andalusian girl from many a mysteree, and then

my blood, than the melancholy has her sovran shrine, let in the song

is the true; and if such a chaunge my recklesse woe: helpe me, ye banefull

byrds, whose step all sweetness had me there nis sike another Grace but

yours, the toothy wolf instead! Like a swimming pool at noonday night, into

the wood. Much divided live, and all her heart a-dying. Ah

hopelessly as I, that made the wager wonne or lost? But because he dies!

Loser-like, now, all my loose soul unbounded springs to the earth. Better

for their leaues or colour’d flame; and merrily, to pass a day among

them to the larkspur, with a full but soft emotion, like the open

cans was something to do, and all her head, and wake to life and

liberty, doth willing to cutte the ground and small. For shadowe serues the

forest branches and ways? Of epic Love’s service dwells with a smile and

tall, and swelling. See that I wear too calm and maybe the baits for gentle

Juan, thou art desolate, can e’er return to me at midnight, and

yet the best bon-mots were hawk’d about; it need not keep themselues and

the feet of one that wasn’t true. The beach. To countenance his cause. And smile

as thou wert wont to have charged with buegle about going to bed. And

only vocal with the same sad prospect lies vpon the show’r I grew and

waited for his reputed Son? I only know that the public hedge

hath scarce a scar upon thy part’s be in’t the better, e’en let these tunes

our early immortal on thy lip, and to this might, which holds fast other

part; but of one if short he came a- pilfering so, he should move,

unless a man can calculation; nay, married dames will not swear that

is not greatly ouergone, so weren his vnflatt’ring glasse: but one worse for

there is a love I seem tame. The night and the swell of Summer’s ocean.

So perfect storm, when as thy letters for some wretch approaches, crying:

The deed is done; take this poor tearm of white; those still may leave the main, the

farmer ploughs the man? And Hoigh for sigh and I assure you, that sad, that

wrye. Him who made yon sun and me a journey take. To survive not the

same ages can’t form a friend to man, to whom they, in the knots that sail

toward me for comely grace, the kingdomes gaine; and gain’d his sight of such

a trial;—then the more glowing and witty, and pressing did out-brave all

the bright lily grow, before me? As may God grant that double row, which

in hope, featured like a weapon, like the earth with many a family

picture then Atlas might; but both to both so bent, as both in the sea.

A little you sung; and thy love has made itself betwixt. Ah my love

engrafted to the Reputed Father growing—whether thou wilt crowne

with limitlesse renowne? I fall in love with their outsides. All countries

have placed, nor lets them close, drove them apart, let breake in mine own desert

smil’d, and a moist mirage in desert smil’d, and Passion; and with mourning

eyes, and Cash alone: cash rules the camp of love vast and grace their shadows,

with the chain cable which hides the grove, ’—’for love with a pained surprise of

people, at all. Barbarous middle age of man; it is—I meant but

thus much know: when next he came, I can rest me where our cold coquettish

deceit. A day like the summer’s welcome thrice more wish’d, the trysted hour!

Being long manured by Vice, only with yours forever and fortune

take their visage shines around, from op’ning on my stoop and ask me

to me did reed. And in most place; it wants, to me, as may be the saut

tear blin’s her e’e. Now I pray to mute despair, resent, regret, conceal,

disdain, have put on his knowledge of the world for Love’s world compriseth!

Spring, is the prouder beauty herself in love’s sake, kiss me once again,

and pardon crave that due to the beautiful as her own bones. Left

the book of events is always rattles, remember: I raised an

interest in her smile, to have chang’d! Come where comfort dare come to ye, my

lad, o whistle, an’ I’ll come to ye, my lad, o whistle, an’ I’ll come

to the Master whisper’d: no longer. Me every source of love. Before

the Lord Mayor’s barge, to them that farther than those terrifièd, saw it

unfold itself, I could not agree, whether royalist or liberal

Lafitte, are the matter rests upon eyesight. Why, I’m posterity

will know, and pity! Woman finds an opener door for her return.

Ah, curious friend.—Burst, shatter his rebellious heart expect much more?

Is heaven, either who wounds wyde: vntimely my flowres, to peinct thir

girlonds with cold, and seemed to threat the Future shews what birds have their visage

hide, stealing unseen to west with the same thanks one murmur to the

holly is darken’d; like the Love’s star with it riseth! At, that epoch

is a bore: love lingered day by day. Friends who have squeezed the universe?

Tho’ father takes delight, and still The Shah beheld Salámán all his

active child with a small fate allotted to him and your corn is reap’d;

your barns will rock the ravens on high. Had escaped for a while the life

all the bridge, and doth among our branches I never stopped, he looked, and

those I need not keep the world wend in his self-denial. Drink wine, and

many hours: her hair, and stole my heart; or having tact as well begun;

then, from the stem but it is winter when a young couple of the stone

where comfort is, she gives me sigh for their Muses entertaine, of hopes

begot by feare, of which marrie state with pleasure nigh, till he cherish! Welcome,

wean; mishanter fa’ me, if thought upon my part, like Nature’s patient

sleepless Eremite, the moving spirit hovering lies dead when thickest

dark did trance the amphibious sort of harlot, couleur de rose,

’ who’s neither heart’s short fever-fit; perfect beauty a-wee; but come once

again appear before we grow old … I shall beat no more than enough

am I that vex thee still, but know not how it will render double.

#poetry #automatically generated text #Patrick Mooney #Markov chains #Markov chain length: 8 #152 texts #treochair sequence

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babyboydbaby · 3 years

Text

(Well now I’m thinking of a Little Mermaid/Ponyo AU for Boyd and Huey 🥺🥺🥺)

#Mun Speaks #(I don't have all the details down but overall it would involve a little mermaid boy and human...''''human''''' boy becoming friends)#(Maybe a romance develops along the way or something)#(I'd like to toss Akita in there as a villain somehow but it's not SUPER necessary)#(Also I'm willing to let Gyro be in the role of Boyd's parent in this AU)#(Or at least one of them because I'm sure he'd be adopted by a ''''human'''''' couple once he was human)#(But Gyro can be his 'birth' dad simply because....look the man has an underwater lab)#(It's just ideal casting for him to live under the sea)#(He'd probably have more of a role like Ponyo's dad than King Triton)#(ANYWAY something to ponder)

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merakiui · 3 years

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A Leaf Swept up in an Autumnal Breeze

yandere!kaedehara kazuha x (gender neutral) reader art credit - Tourou_7 on twt cw: yandere, unhealthy/obsessive behaviors, slight nsfw implications/thoughts, alcohol consumption, intoxication, spoilers for kazuha’s character story + inazuma lore note - i decided to write something short for kazuha as i analyze what we know so far of his character. hopefully the characterization isn’t too off! please enjoy nonetheless! orz

The moonlight casts its thin rays upon the calm, motionless sea. In the distance, fish surface and their movements are captured in the ripples that expand in the water, a minor blip in the otherwise tranquil atmosphere of the dark night. As if a god has taken a brush to the sky, utilizing its inky vastness as a canvas, the stars have been drawn in small specks—winking down at those who sleep underneath a blanket of natural light.

And you are caught up in the glorious shimmer, grinning widely as Beidou wraps her arm around you, pulling you against her as if the two of you have known each other for years. In reality, it’s only been a few months since you were discovered on her ship: a hidden stowaway with your Vision clutched in your hands and raw resolve etched into your body in the form of bruises and old scars. You’re a fighter and yet you also ran from something. Kazuha can’t quite tell what it is you’ve escaped. Whether it’s another person, a group of people, or even an entire nation, he’s certain it’s worthy of the risks that come with fleeing.

Your Vision shines brightly, a stark contrast to the dark color scheme of your clothes. He tries to place a nation to your outfit and comes up empty, his thoughts returning to Inazuma as though it’s the only place he can think of. And he supposes that’s true. The situation in Inazuma has clouded his mind with its strange fog, taking up residence in the nooks and crannies of his brain. Though he can dwell upon the past and the mistakes that led up to the downfall of a precious friend, he knows there is no use for such somber reflections during a happy celebration. Life moves on, as the common saying goes, and he cannot allow himself to remain trapped in the past.

During moments such as these, where he relives the horrible memory in vivid detail, you are a sweet balm that soothes the sting of loss. Even when you’re struggling to stand, face hot from the intoxication of good drinks in even better company, you’re a wondrous presence who chases away his doubts and worries.

Unknowingly, you cast a temporary shroud over those matters and he’s put at ease the minute you extend your arm in his direction.

“Kazuha! Come over here. Let’s dance!”

A hiccup interrupts your jovial giggle and Beidou chuckles before throwing her head back to drink what’s left in her flask. The aura of her ship is beyond lively. Men and women alike celebrate another successful week with drinks, harrowing tales of past heroes, and broken ballads sang in drunken tones. He can’t help the smile that sprouts on his lips. You’re such an outgoing person, always wanting to include him in your daily activities. And though he politely declines whenever you offer him alcohol, he has wondered what the appeal could possibly be.

Perhaps it’s the idea of losing your sensibility for one night, ignoring all reason for the sake of spending pleasurable moments in the confines of a warm bed, wrapped snugly in a lover’s embrace. Such instances are lost to intoxicating pleasure—buried under a hazy recollection come morning. But you haven’t done that sort of thing. Kazuha would know. He listens in while you’re relaxing—while you’re bathing and going about life on the ship without a care in the world—and his head runs wild with all sorts of fantasies. Fantasies he never would have imagined had he not met you.

To think you were just a mere stowaway, a trespasser who had snuck onto the ship and hid in the darkest corner, obscured by crates and chests. And he had pulled those crates aside in search of a few ingredients and his eyes met yours and you held your finger to your lips—a silent urge to keep quiet—and his heart skipped a beat.

It was a special meeting between two, which will remain locked away in his heart for all of eternity. A memory he regards with warm fondness. After much negotiation and a disarming conversation, you were soon welcomed with open arms as Beidou practically offered you to join her crew. You had nowhere else to go—no one else to see or protect—and so you agreed. And Kazuha felt a relief he hasn’t felt in a while, the sort of emotion that stems from almost losing something important.

The pure relief that comes and goes once he realizes you’re a missing piece in the puzzle of his life.

“You’ll trip,” he warns, pushing off from the side of the ship and walking over to you and Beidou. “It wouldn’t be wise to dance in your inebriated state. Surely you’re aware of this, no?”

“I can hold my alcohol.” Your wavering glare doesn’t reach him. “Don’t... Don’t think otherwise or else I’ll—ah!”

The majority of Beidou’s weight burdens your shoulders and you nearly almost crumble.

“You—“ she searches for a means to steady herself— “worry too much,” the captain adds, nodding in agreement to an unspoken statement. “It’ll be okay! Live a little while you’re still young.”

Kazuha sighs and easily slips between the two of you, hooking his arm around Beidou’s waist as he guides her to a barrel. The scent of alcohol kisses the air, clinging to your clothes and breath like an oversaturated perfume. Once she’s sat down, now fully determined to get the last few drops from out of the flask, the rōnin turns to you. He’s caught by surprise when your hands grasp his, your eager expression stabbing his heart with a dozen pins. He’s rooted to the floorboards, unable to look away when your face is dangerously close to his.

“You heard the captain,” you tease in a slurred voice. “Live a little.”

And he does. Or he thinks he does. Having traveled with Beidou, this is the current life he’s come to know and appreciate. But is it truly living if he feels unfulfilled in the process? To find a means for bringing back the familiar glow in a lonely Vision. To secure peace of mind and put his rowdy thoughts to rest. To one day return to the nation he was forced to flee, with you in tow. Are all of these things necessary in order to fill the gaping void in his damaged heart? Kazuha wonders if you also came from Inazuma. Perhaps you wouldn’t be so surprised to see the scenery if he were to take you there. Not now, of course. Sometime in the future, if such a future holds a changed Inazuma.

“I’m going to warn you now,” he mumbles, his fingers ghosting over your waist, “I’m not what one would call a dancer of skillful grace.”

“I don’t think that’s true, dear Kazuha.”

He blinks once and then releases a short laugh at the endearing term. “If you say so.”

“Enough talk.” You huff and pull him into your chest and he feels as though he could stay locked in this position for millennia. “Dance with me before...” A stilted pause as you nearly forget your sentence. “Before I turn in for the night. That’s it.”

Or before you get sick, he thinks, not so cheerful about the inevitable mess. But he’ll tolerate it because you’ve tolerated him. You never pry into his past, nor do you force him to answer personal questions regarding Inazuma and the Raiden Shogun. If you ever notice the way he lingers near your quarters, you don’t say a word. And if you hear his subdued moans as his hand moves in time with a picturesque fantasy of your nude form pressed against his, you keep your mouth shut. You are everything he could ever want and like the very ideal the Raiden Shogun wishes to uphold he wants to pursue an eternity with you.

Your movements are far from the precision you normally have when moving about the ship and it’s a very odd dance. Yet you spin him and he follows your unusual lead like an animal with tunnel vision. For a taut moment, the background noise melts away into obscurity and the two of you are the only people in existence. He stares at your face the entire time, ignoring the way your sandals crush his feet or the instances where he unintentionally returns the gesture. It’s certainly an awkward sort of waltz, but he wouldn’t have it any other way.

And in this moment where no one else matters, he sees your radiance in the glow of the moon. You truly are worthy of the sun and the stars beyond and should you verbalize an outlandish wish of that nature he has no choice but to follow through.

Like a leaf swept up in an autumnal breeze, reminiscent of a ronin who lacks a place in the world, Kazuha allows himself to be carried on by the winds that rustle the sails and tangle through your hair, painting you in a backdrop that’s heaven handcrafted by the pickiest god. And where you have your wits, a lively Vision, and your confidence, he only has his blade, a dull Vision, and an inkling of hope. But that’s really all he requires.

#yandere genshin impact #yandere kazuha x reader #yandere kazuha #yandere genshin impact x reader #yandere kaedehara kazuha #yandere kaedehara kazuha x reader #genshin impact #genshin impact kazuha #genshin impact kaedehara kazuha #kaedehara kazuha #kazuha

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lord-explosion-baku · 3 years

Text

Trident Tale

Merman!Shinsou x reader, Kirishima x Reader

Warnings: adult themes (Minors DNI)

A/N: read the prologue on AO3

Part 1 || Part 2 || Part 3

(Original image by @maewoahoah)

Synopsis: Moving to an island where everyone is big on the surf scene and other oceanic happenings might not have been the brightest idea for someone so afraid of anything that has to do with water, but you make do by spending your days looking after the Bed & Breakfast, trying not to burn the house down when you fry a few eggs, and obsessively scrolling through Eijirou Kirishima’s social media page. He’ll never notice you, and you think you’re fine with that, until a mysterious force washes into Ms. Shuzenji’s pool after a particularly nasty storm.

Hitoshi Shinsou is a pain in the ass from the get-go, but you put up with him, fins and all, when he promises he can help unite you with your soulmate. The catch? The fish is hellbent on taking back what was stolen from him, and he won’t lift a gracious finger until he gets what he came for.

You’re helpless to lend him a hand, so long as you stay dry. Unless, of course, he has other plans.

You know how the saying goes: you rub his fins, he’ll rub yours.

Storms have never really been your cup of tea. Though you keep yourself locked inside a good percent of the time, there’s nothing quite as suffocating as the compress of clouds overhead. It’s not like you always have to see them to be uncomfortable, but you definitely feel them pressing down, closing in, and caging you, even when you’ve got yourself tucked under a blanket on Ms. Shuzenji’s couch.

It’s been a little over a year since you first moved to the island. All you needed was a new beginning, and you got that, but you got that, and the tropical weather that you’re still getting used to. It’s currently typhoon season, and holy seaweed-on-your-doorstep, is it storming.

There’s little you can do to distract yourself while staying and working at Shuzenji’s bed and breakfast. There are currently no guests, aside from you, so all the rooms are made, and the old lady is on another one of her long vacations, so you’re basically being paid to lounge. You’re grateful for that, at least. But the only thing that’s keeping you physically separated from the terrifying weather is a thick glass pane that water sloshes on every time a wave laps over the backyard walls.

The things that separate you mentally are the old-timey recordings of Shuzenji singing alongside an ensemble cast, and the little device in your hand. If you didn’t have your boss’s haunting melodies echoing throughout the house, and some big, beefy, tatted eye-candy to gawk at during the storm, you’d surely go insane.

Eijirou Kirishima, one of the island’s best surfers, is out on his board, live-streaming his current fight against the waves. His whoops and hollers can be heard over the crashing tides, getting even you excited for what’s about to come. That’s the thing about Kirishima; he’s wild, you’re not, and it’s hot as hell. Oftentimes, you catch yourself daydreaming about joining him out in the surf—he guides you through the waves, maybe yoou impress him a bit with your sudden affinity for wave-riding, and the two of you wash up on shore where you’ll both share your first kiss. It would be feasible if you could swim. It would be feasible if you bothered to learn how to swim, but for now, you’re content with your imagination. At least he can make you hate the terrible weather a little less.

The conspiratorial smirk he shows the camera is borderline swoon-worthy when the swell begins to pull him further out. It’s impossible not to bite your lip every time you catch a glimpse of his arms forcing themselves through the sea. He makes this look easy—like the storm is child’s play, and as the winds blow Shuzenji’s trash bin into the sliding glass door, you welcome the delicious distraction.

As Kirishima stands up on his signature trident board and rides one of the biggest waves he’s seen all day, you’re once again struck with how much of a coward you are. He can fight the elements, while you can hardly bring yourself the courage to talk to him. Mind you, he’s constantly surrounded by a close group of friends—a close group of friends you find intimidating—and when he’s not with them, he’s out in the water. Where there’s water involved, you’re spoken for. Unless, of course, you’d like for the first time you guys actually speak, to be when he’s giving you CPR.

Not the most ideal “meet cute”, but if it works, it works.

A loud crash snaps you out of your admittedly salty daydream. Mango, Shuzenji’s orange tabby, yowls at the blanket of water cascading down the windows, and your stomach sinks. There’s only so many minutes you can pretend that the storm Kirishima is facing isn’t the one that’s destroying Shuzenji’s yard.

With a sigh, you roll off the velvet couch, and grimace when crumbs that were nesting in your shirt fall to the carpet: a mess to clean up later. Without any guests to mind, you don’t have to worry too much over keeping the place spick-and-span, so long as things are nice and tighty by the time the old lady gets back, which will be awhile.

You have an easy enough job—at least, when there aren’t bunches of thick seaweeds crashing over the yard’s wall, flooding the pool.

“Shit.”

Water sprays in every direction. The already trash-infested pool overflows as more kelp rolls in with the maniacal waves, and angry, white foam bangs on the back door. It's a disaster outside, and you’re not sure what to do about it.

Fingers wrapped around the back door handle, you struggle to think of a way to prevent a bigger mess, but even if you could manage to clean anything, nothing is stopping the tempest from wreaking anymore havoc. Best case scenario, you stop a plastic soda-chain from washing out to see and becoming a deadly necklace for an unlucky seagull. Worst case scenario, you slip, crack your head open on the pavement, and drown before you can ever utter the words “mahalo” to Kirishima.

Needless to say, you’ll take your life over a gull’s any day.

Another sigh.

A greater wave collides against the wall, bringing more of the Great Unknown into the pool. This is going to be a fun job to clean. Good thing you’ve got Shuzenji’s service boy, Denki Kaminari, on speed dial. You think if you sound particularly distressed in the morning, he’ll show up to help you out with just about anything in the matter of minutes. God bless desperate fuckboys.

So, for now, you cuddle back up on the couch, watch Kirishima shake saltwater out of his thick, red hair, and pretend that his storm is not the same thing as your storm.

It’s early morning when you finally rise out of bed. You hadn’t gotten a whole lot of rest—something to do with the wailing winds shaking your bedroom window nonstop, but after you finally drifted into dreams about snakes and dragons, you woke to clear skies, and light seagull calls.

From the second story, you can see early birds have already gotten the jump on cleaning up the beach. The sun is shining, the ocean blue and vast. The only trace there was ever a storm is already being taken care of. There are lifeguards riding around on ATVs and younger civilians with trash bags and grapplers picking up seaweed and absconded debris. The respect everyone has for the island is something to be admired, and you half-consider going out there yourself, after you’ve dealt with your yard, which is sure to be a wreck.

There’s no interest in picking out a cute outfit for the morning you’re going to have, even if Denki might see you, so you throw on a already-worn-this-week crop top, some pink shirts, and you’re good to go.

The first thing you do after Mango’s fed is check your socials. Kirishima posted a picture of his breakfast: a hefty plate with three eggs, sausage links, bacon, cut avocado, and what seems to be low-carb toast. The post reads, gotta eat ur gainz 2 gain ur gainz, and it’s so ridiculous that you’re infatuated with this reckless himbo. You wonder if you’d ever be able to hold an intellectual conversation with him, if you could ever manage to speak to him in the first place, but conversation wouldn’t matter if his mouth was between your thighs.

Following his example, you crack two eggs over a frying pan, sigh at the mostly empty fridge, then agonize over the state of Shuzenji’s yard. It’s worse than you thought it’d be. The pool is a sickly green color, and from where you’re standing inside, its murky depths seem to be almost opaque from the seaweed and garbage stewing together. Kelp litters the beige pavement, and there’s trash hiding in the shrubs. There’s a chocolate donut floaty bobbing around in there, too, and Shuzenji doesn’t own any floaties.

What a drag.

Before you get too far in your head about everything you’ll need to do to clean up, you quickly dial Denki’s number. He picks up after a ring and a half.

“I know what you’re about to ask,” says the boy on the line, and from his cocky tone, you can assume it’s not going to be about the cleanup. “I am absolutely free tonight. If you wanted to grab drinks at the Salty Barrel, maybe go on a romantic rendezvous out on the beach, watch the sunset on or in a couple blankets, I wouldn’t complain.”

“I’m not calling to ask you on a date, Kaminari,” you say as you step outside. The pavement is cold underneath your bare feet, and you have to tip-toe around to be sure not to let any kelp touch your skin. Yuck.

“But you’re not, not calling about a date, either,” he counters. By the volume of his voice, you can tell that he’s in his van, talking to you over the speaker. Good. So he’s already out and about.

“I need you to tell me how to drain Shuzenji’s pool.” Call you cold, but you’re used to Denki’s flirty nature by now, and you’ve learned that the best way to deal with it, is to not acknowledge it. Of course, you can’t be too callous when it comes to him, especially when you actually need his help. You eye the dangerously complex-looking valves off to the side of the house, and grimace. “There’s too many twisty thingies! I’m not sure what to do!”

“Now, hold your horses, little lady! Don’t go twisting any thingies just yet. Draining a pool is a process.” There’s a long pause, the loud growl of an engine, then silence. He’d pulled over to talk to you. “How’s your TDL? And what kinda PVC pipes you got?”

“The huh and what?” You don’t need to pretend to be in distress—you have no idea what he’s talking about.

“Listen, don’t touch anything. You’re calling because the pool’s a mess right now, right? You don’t need to drain it; at least, not yet. I can swing by in an hour or so to clean it, but I’ve gotta make some stops first. You’re not the only single woman who wants to watch me do my thang, especially not after yesterday.”

“It’s so bad, Kaminari.” The water in the pool sloshes around, like there’s actually something in it causing the water to ungulate and burble. “I don’t even know where to start.”

“Don’t worry your pretty, little head over it. You've got me, okay? It’s my job to protect and serve.”

“You’re not a cop.”

“Nope, I’m better than a cop. I’m a pool guy.”

He goes on to ask you to check out what kind of drain the pool has, if you can find the drain, then loses you when he starts talking numbers and gallons. While still on the phone, you send a few texts to Shuzenji, explaining the predicament, then Denki mentions rates. You’re getting the cutie pie discount, doubled because he counts Shuzenji as a “cutie pie” too—something you mention to her because she’ll get a kick out of it—then he drops all business to ask about food.

“I’m cooking my breakfast,” you say with a wary glance back at the house.

“But is your breakfast fries and a shake from Tiki Burger?”

You bite your lip as your stomach growls its empty sorrow. “No.”

“Would you like it to be?” His knowing grin is heard through the line.

“…I’m not gonna go out with you.”

He chuckles and you’re grateful that he can’t see your answering smile. “We’ll see how you feel after you see me work my magic. And hey, if you’d like me to wear a Speedo while I work—“

“You’ll be here in an hour?” You cut him off, because Denki in a Speedo is the last thing you need on your mind. The thought of Kirishima in a Speedo, however, gets you a little hot, which is saying a lot, since you’re a part of the Speedos and Dolphin-shorts Are Abominations To Swimwear belief system.

“Maybe sooner. I think my next client just needs me to check out their chemical levels. Inside pool and all. Everyone else knew to put a tarp out.”

The tarp you had blew away, but you don’t bother explaining that to Denki. Let him believe you’re the dim-witted “little lady” he wants you to be. If it means Shuzenji gets a discount, not that she can’t afford any bill Denki’s company throws at her, then let him believe you can’t open a pickle jar without a man’s help for all you care.

“See you then,” you say, and end the call. There will be time to work on your charm once Denki gets here. Until then, you figure you could do some investigating so you’re not completely helpless.

Leaving your phone on the pavement so you don’t accidentally drop it in the water, you make your way around the pool to where you think you remember the drain being. You can’t say you’ll know what kind of drain it is, but if you remember correctly, it’s circular, and like, kinda meshy? That description simply won’t do.

Dropping down to your knees, you peer down into the pool, squinting, as if that can help you see through all the muck. There’s definitely a lot of kelp and algae, sand drifting through the water, someone’s wayward brazier, and oh. A school of fish—little babies circling about. It’s wild, but you suppose it could be possible if all the chlorine washed out and there was enough salt water to sustain marine life.

The fish move together, bopping into each other, mouths gaping open to eat whatever they find in their temporary home. You don’t know enough about marine life to know what kind of fish they are. Silvery little things. Maybe Denki has something that can help transport them from the pool to the ocean. It’s not far—Shuzenji’s house is on the beach. It would be a shame if all the little fish had to die. You don’t particularly care about touching or feeding fish, but a life is a life, and if they can be saved, you’d at least like to try.

But all your thoughts of saving fish life stop when you catch something moving in the water. It’s not the fish—they’re not that big, but it’s definitely fishlike. Fish plus. It moves like a shadow, serpentine and fluid. You catch a glimpse of scales, so it’s definitely not a dolphin—even then, it’s bigger than a dolphin, and more graceful than a shark. You begin thinking of leviathan, and other mythical creatures, as ridiculous as that is, when you see a long flowing fluke.

Okay. This thing is not just big. It’s gargantuan, and to see this much of the creature without seeing its head makes your skin crawl. You imagine falling in and being swallowed whole, suffocating in the dark, drowning in a monster’s belly.

The thought spooks you static, just in time to meet a pair of eyes in the water. This is your overactive imagination—you’re scaring yourself insane, but you don’t look away, and those eyes, almost human and curious, don’t disappear.

You’ve consumed enough media to know how these impossible interactions go. The creature is inquisitive, but keeps its distance. It often has to be coaxed out of hiding, and even then, the thing is skittish and untrusting. You’re certainly not one to go “pspsps, hey little guy, I’m not gonna hurt you,” but even if you were, you don’t get the chance, because this thing you’re looking at isn’t the least bit skittish, and in one second, you’re making eyes at at it, and in the next, the thing is exploding out of the water.

A large, broad chest towers over you. The thing pushes itself up with arms, human arms, but it’s anything but human. Sure, it has hair, although an odd purple color, framing its angular face and jaw, which are both human enough. Also framing its face are a pair of long, pointed fins sticking out from where human ears should be. Water dribbles down its chest, down to its navel—its navel. Your brain screams mammal, but underneath its navel are scales, rippling down to where its legs should be. Not human. Not fish.

Fish plus.

Man.

Fish plus man.

Fish-man.

Its eyes are almost the same color as its hair, only a shade lighter, and much sharper, narrowed in on you. It’s glaring. You realize this at the same time you realize that you're staring at it with your mouth agape. This would be so rude in any other setting. It’s also rude to pop out of a pool that isn’t yours without any other warning, but you’re not about to chastise the thing. You’re far too scared.

Then the thing reaches out to you, sprinkling water on your thighs and your shirt. Its hands look like a man’s hand, but its long fingers are connected by thin, indigo webbing that matches its tail. Its tail. You lose focus trying to find the word for this creature that’s barely on the tip of your tongue, when you realize the palm of its hand, its fishy, webby hand, is hovering over your cheek, the other carefully placed next to your knee to keep it upright.

You open your mouth to speak, but only a hiss comes out. The creature, wary, brings its hand back, but only slightly. Not enough to put you at ease, but enough to allow you to gain your composure, and scream.

“H-help!!!” You screech. “Help! Somebody! Help me!”

It claps its hand over your mouth, knocking you back. Water drips down on your shirt as it leans in, mouth curling up with distaste. Then, it does something impossible.

It speaks.

“So loud,” it growls in a low, masculine timbre.

It speaks, you think, it speaks and it has no manners!

You try to yell back, probably something with little thought, but you have a mouth full of fish-man hand, and the more you warble in its palm, the more apathetic it appears.

“Be quiet and still,” it commands, as if obeying it is supposed to be the most natural thing—something it expects from you. It catches you so off-guard that you actually listen, only trembling a little bit as those indigo eyes scan over your form. It’s uncomfortable having an unknown but cognizant creature observe you so closely. You shiver when its gaze roams over your belly, down your legs. You want to curl your legs up, move away, but you’re afraid if you even twitch more than it’s comfortable with, it’ll grab you and drag you into the pool. Your nightmare.

Instead, it does something slightly less worse. It moves its hand from your mouth to your cheek. The palm of its hand warms your skin in an unnatural way, like you’ve been laying in the sun for half an hour and it’s only your cheek that heats up. The creature's eyes widen as light begins to emanate, either from you, or from it, you’re not sure, but definitely from where it touches you. Tingles run from your neck down to your spine, and you wish you’d put a bra on before going outside, because this thing’s touch is making your body react in a way that it shouldn’t.

“So easy,” it purrs appraisingly, somewhat less insolent, but you’re still taken aback, ears hot with embarrassment.

Un-fucking-likely.

“Easy?!” You squawk out. “What do you mean by easy?”

It doesn’t answer you, and instead, moves its fingers from your cheek, down your jaw, to your chin. It begins leaning closer, heavy lids closing. You notice its lips for the first time: a defined line and a pretty bow. If you were in a less dire situation, you’d be able to admit that they’re very nice lips, but they’re getting closer to you, closer still, and you realize with a jolt what it’s trying to do.

Your foot meets its chest in a heartbeat.

“Nope!” You belt out, extending your leg so there’s more distance between you and the impolite beast. “Not today, fish-breath!”

Unperturbed, it lifts a lazy brow. Then, to your absolute horror, it presses both of its hands into your bare leg, and again you’re lit up, warm, and tingly, only far worse than before. Stomach tightening, you make a choked noise, trying to hold in the sigh that claws at your throat.

“Fish-breath.” It repeats your insult like it’s a balled-up piece of paper to be thrown in the trash. “I’ve been told that my aroma is quite appealing.”

“By whom? Other fish-breaths?!” You wriggle your leg out of his embrace, or whatever you could call that invasion, only to have it slip down so your foot rests in the fish-man’s hands, bright as the stars in the sky. “Eww ew! Don’t touch me! Get away!”

The creature scoffs, but let’s you go, and you both watch as the light disappears from the arch of your foot where he’d been touching. Fish-man slinks back into the murky water, hiding under a blanket of algae.

You have enough time to gather your composure, wipe the water droplets off your face, and rub your eyes. For a moment, you try to convince yourself that this has all been a sleep-deprived hallucination, but you’ve never really been one to delude yourself, unless your Kirishima fantasies were involved, and you know that you’ll have to try another tactic to accept the reality of your situation. Perhaps you can try to be civil with this creature, ask it if it’s…hurt, or if it needs a late night escort to get it back to the sea. But then, the thing resurfaces on the opposite end of the pool. It faces you, and leans back against the wall, arms spread out against the pavement, basking.

“You know,” he says, “your decorum is severely lacking. Don’t humans have classes that teach them proper etiquette—how to be more polite towards their guests and such?”

What’s lacking is your patience for marine life.

Standing up, you take in the thing, which you’re now pretty sure is in fact a man of sorts, in its entirety. His tail is long, longer than human legs, extending past the halfway mark of the pool, if your measurement counts his fluke. There’s a golden cuff on his right arm that spirals around, accentuating his large biceps. You stubbornly admit that it’s attractive—he’s attractive, at least, he would be for people who were into fish and not surfers. You brush whatever you’re feeling in the pit of your stomach off by telling yourself that you’re simply awestruck, and move on.

“Where I’m from-“ you begin, straightening your sodden crop top- “we offer our guests various beverages and snacks, depending on the time of day.”

Annoyingly, he looks interested.

“Since it’s the morning, I’d offer a guest tea, or coffee, and if I’m looking to impress, I’d maybe cook them a hot meal.”

The creature offers you a sardonic smile. “I happen to be famished.”

“However, with home-invaders, we’re more likely to pull a gun on them before heating up the earl grey.”

He loses the smile, and you’re glad that he might have an inkling of what a gun is. You’ve never owned one, and they don’t allow firearms on the island, but the threat stands. But if he was intimidated, even for a moment, he doesn’t show it anymore, and proves just that by turning his back on you, and resting his head in his arms. He has a dorsal fin with what looks to be a deep, x-shaped scar near his tailbone. You try not to wonder what that could’ve been from.

“Then how do you propose I go from a home-invader, to a house guest?” Asks the creature with little interest.

Cautiously walking around the pool with your arms crossed, you begin to list things off for the far-too-comfortable fish-man.

“You can start by telling me who you are, what you are, why you’re here, what you want, and why you think you can lay your webbed hands on me.”

“Oh, is that all?” He hums noncommittally. Content. Aggravating. “Why don’t you start then? Who are you, and why are you here?”

The back of your neck grows hot and uncomfortable. “How entitled do you have to be to—!” You start, but you’re swiftly cut off by the shrieking of the fire alarm. Smoke plumes from outside the house’s windows, and you curse under your breath before darting towards the door. You’d completely forgotten about your eggs.

In your haste to move the pan off the stove, you burn your fingers and drop the pan to the kitchen floor, two blackened egg crisps flaking off and diving in different directions. Mango yowls at the commotion and investigates one of the fallen egg crisps. Before you can tell him to buzz off, he loses interest in your mess, not bothering to give it a taste. You don’t blame him, but the eggs didn’t appear to be cat-bad. Ah, you can’t kid yourself. They are cat-bad. They’re completely inedible. Now you’re going to have to head to the market, while worrying about a man trapped in Shuzenji’s pool.

Your stomach roars at you.

After cleaning the mess as best as you could while desperately and ruefully wanting to return to your guest—no, not guest—invader, you get the alarm, half-heartedly fan the smoke out of the house, and return. Angry. This guy better start talking soon, or things are going to get ugly.

To your utter displeasure, he looks all the more amused at your newer, messier state.

“Was that supposed to be the hot meal,” he asks, cocky. “Because if so, I’ll pass.”

Instead of biting his head off like you’d like to, you present him with the still-dirty frying pan, pointing it at his head like you intend to use it.

“Start talking, fish-for-brains.”

The beast snickers, raising his hands in the air in mock-surrender. “Easy there, tiger shark. You know how to use that thing?”

You refuse to humor him. Instead, you keep your scowl tight, your arms steady. If he’s not threatened, he’ll lose interest in this game, then he’ll have to talk.

Lo and behold, you’re right. The fish-man rolls his eyes, and looks at you, again, with apathy.

“My name is Hitoshi Shinsou,” he says, lackadaisical, like he’s already bored of himself. “I’m one of Ryūjin. What humans have learned to call merpeople are actually descendants of the sea gods who lived centuries ago. I’m here, simply because the storm washed me here. What I want is to retrieve what’s mine. I thought I could lay my webbed hands on you—well-“ the corner of his mouth tilts up-“darlin’, it was because your body reacted to me.”

Mouth forming the beginning of a question that never comes, you stare in disbelief at this myth. Then the last thing he said dawns at you.

“I did not react to you!” You rebuke, steady hands now shaking.

“Oh no?” He says, but it’s not a question. It’s a challenge.

Hitoshi grabs the flat end of the frying pan and yanks it, and you, closer to him, closer to the water. You cringe and whine when a wet, webby hand closes around your wrist. Inadvertently, you drop the pan, but he pays it no mind as it sinks past his tail. Your skin begins to glow underneath his palms, and the tingles come back, shooting up your arm, causing tiny goosebumps to appear.

“Would you look at that,” Hitoshi croons, slow and almost sensuously. His indigo eyes narrow on your index finger where you’d burned yourself. To add to this nightmare, he closes his lips around it, and begins to suck. Your stomach flips, and you’re not sure if it’s because you’re disgusted, or scared, or…enjoying the feeling of his warm mouth, his tongue, touching your skin.

“Stop.” It’s a whisper. It means nothing. You think you want it to mean something, but your thoughts are buzzing into a blur. Knees growing weak, you descend, leaning closer to him, not caring about the water or the seaweed or the fish, and instead, entirely focused on his mouth. It’s glowing, his mouth. Faintly. Like a single candle lit in an otherwise empty room.

When he eases off of you, he runs his thumb over your now-healed finger, and let’s your arm fall limply at your side.

“All better,” he whispers back at you.

There are prickles all over your skin once you regain an ounce of dignity.

“What the hell was that?” You ask, breathless for no other reason than shock.

“The glowing?” He asks. “The healing?”

“Both.”

“Your reaction to me.” He’s cocky again. This is something sick. Mythical creature or not, this has got to be a game he plays, washing into people’s pools, causing problems, sucking on lonely girls’ fingers. He probably gets his kicks this way, and uses whatever other kind of magic he has to erase whoever he’s tormenting’s memories, if he doesn’t end up eating them when he’s done. Bogus.

You won’t let him get to you.

“Alright, Hitoshi Shinsou, how would you like me to get you back into the ocean? You healed my finger-“ although it’s essentially his fault you were burned to begin with, if you take into account the sequence of events-“so helping you out is the least that I can do.”

“I could use your help,” he muses lightly, turning his body back around to his chest and abdomen are turned towards the sun. You tell yourself not to stare like you know he probably wants you to. Though his eyes are closed, he peeps at you, sneaking a glance. “I don’t want to go back into the ocean, though. Not until I get what’s mine.”

With the might of a girl who just wants to go back inside and scroll through her phone, you swallow your bite, and ask, “what would that be?”

“Oh, this and that-“ he waves his hand around dismissively-“other things.”

With the might of a girl who just wants to go back inside and find another frying pan, you say, “alright, listen. Someone is on their way to the house to clean the pool. I don’t know what one of Ryūjin means, but I’m guessing people like you don’t always want to be discovered by people like us. So you either tell me what it is you need, or see how my pool guy reacts to a mermaid lounging around in my backyard! I wouldn’t put it against him to call the local news station. Get this place flooding with cameras. Does that sound like a pretty picture to you?”

Absolutely none of your threats penetrate Hitoshi’s cool nature. In fact, he laughs.

“When he gets here,” the merman drawls, knowing he’s got you hanging on every word, “invite him to swim.”

#bnha mermay #mermaid au #siren!shinsou #mermaid!hitoshi shinsou #hitoshi shinsou x reader #shinsou x reader #bnha x reader #bnha x you #bnha imagines #bnha reader insert #reader insert #trident tale

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shootybangbang · 3 years

Text

[Talking Bird] 17: In which beans are ruined

[Ao3 Link]

At the mention of Trelawney, Arthur dimly recalls a scrap of half-remembered conversation from last year, when he’d idled with the man in a Lemoyne saloon while waiting for a mark to arrive. The first flicker of your existence, passing him by unknown. Like the brief touch of a licked finger through candle flame: deceptively benign, with just a whisper of the burn to follow.

Somewhere between his first and second glass of whiskey sours, Trelawney had mentioned the burgeoning demand for opium in Chinatown. A former contact of his had recently left the high stakes poker circuit to get in on the profit, and he’d lamented the loss.

“It’s a shame,” he’d said, absently swirling the ice cubes in his emptied glass and regarding the swirling wood grain of the countertop with a pensive, faraway look. And for once, the sentiment had sounded genuine. Knowing him, the man was grieving a lost business opportunity more than anything else, but it’d been a long time since Arthur had heard him even bother to feign emotion for a stranger. “She’s not suited for smuggling in the least. Can’t say I can see this ending well.”

Less Trelawney’s gift for prophecy and more stating the obvious, now that he knows exactly who he’d been talking about. Prickly disposition, clueless when it comes to violence, and far too trusting of strangers. The cavalier attitude of someone who’d never been exposed to serious conflict and who, having since been exposed, lacks even the conviction necessary to put a bullet in the man holding her hostage.

And far too delicate besides.

When you’d pulled the blanket down your shoulders to untie your braid, Arthur had tilted his head back just enough to catch an eyeful of your backside. A pretty thing to put to paper: the wet swathe of hair draped over your shoulder, the faint shadow of your spine a dark curve flickering with the shifting of firelight. Soft, dappled lines wrapped in the body of someone who’s caused him nothing but grief in the past weeks.

The view had confirmed something he’d already been suspecting: your lack of threat to anything larger than a rat terrier.

Judging by your physique, you’d probably struggle to lift anything more than fifteen pounds. Maybe twenty, on a good day. A veritably pathetic amount of muscle tone with none of the etchings that rough living leaves behind.

Some foreign high society girl fallen on hard times, he guessed. But oddly, none of the clumsy caution people of that strata have when confronted with any sort of real work. You’d fallen into the rhythm of whittling bark off the cottonwood branches too comfortably for someone unacquainted with physical labor, handled the knife with a deftness that comes only from rote repetition.

“I knew Trelawney had connections to some gang out west, but I never thought…” You shake your head slowly, dazed by the absurdity of this new development. “Did he know? When I sold them those bonds, did he realize they were yours? And why—”

“Nah, he wouldn’t have known. I, uh… wasn’t too keen on tellin’ folk I got robbed by a woman.” He rubs the back of his neck and lets out an embarrassed huff. “Told ‘em the whole thing was a bust.”

Looking back, he may as well have told them the truth. The lie hadn’t done much to salvage his pride, and had prompted weeks of jibes at his own expense. Snide little asides from Micah, overt ridicule from Bill, and the painful ordeal of Sean.

“Gettin’ sloppy in your old age,” he’d quipped. “I’ll tell you what you need, Morgan. You need to let someone else hold the reins for a change. Someone quick on the uptake, someone young and hot-blooded and—”

“Get back to me when you’re done complimentin’ yourself,” Arthur had replied, already walking away.

“Wait, Morgan — take me with you next time you ride out! I’ll scout somethin’ out, and we can…”

Sean had been insistent as a mosquito and twice as annoying, but ultimately bearable so long as he had a beer in his hand or a pillow over his head. His own head, though he’d been sorely tempted otherwise.

No, what had really driven him to leave camp had been Dutch.

Dutch and his put-upon fatherly air, all stern mouthed disapproval and downward sloping shoulders. His pointed observations of Jack’s tattered jacket, well on its way to becoming a patchwork Ship of Theseus. Pearson’s dwindling supply of seasonings, so scarce that the stews have become bland to the point of near inedibility. The stocks of medicine running low, bandages boiled so many times that their fibers have since frayed to a cobwebbed consistency.

“I know you’re doing your best, son,” Dutch had sighed, casting a weary eye over his threadbare kingdom. “God knows you’re the only man I can depend on to get anything done around here. But folks are… well. Folks are struggling.”

Arthur’s eyes had slid momentarily towards Dutch’s tent, resting on the golden gleam of the gramophone and the crisp cotton sheets laid across the bed. An unbroken sea of white, with not a stitch out of place. And not twenty feet away, Hosea’s shabby lean-to, the older man’s bedroll bearing the same disjointed array of colors as the rest of the camp’s accoutrements.

Dutch always did have a taste for the finer things in life. A level of refinement proportionate to the depth of his ambition, which in earlier days had been tempered by kinder, simpler ideals. Feed those that need feeding. Shoot those that need shooting. Robin Hood-esque, with a western (and occasionally lethal) twist. Evelyn Miller had been a fixture even then, but in those halcyon years Dutch had not yet twisted the author’s words to the tottering worldview that he’s since constructed.

The gang’s nascent success had bred standards and attracted new followers. A ragtag flock all too eager to nourish their leader’s growing, malignant appetite for grandeur.

“Just one last score, and we’ll be clear of all this… this manmade rot.” Dutch said, gesturing in the direction of Blackwater. “But for now, we’ve got to play their game. Get our hands dirty for the time being so we can wash ourselves clean of all this when we’ve finally got the means.”

Arthur had departed under the pretense of retrieving the missing bonds (impossible) or locating some cache of similar value (near impossible), but in truth he’d done so primarily for the preservation of his own sanity. More and more these days, he’s been seeing cracks in the foundation of the man who’d given him this life, dragged him out of the gutter and set him with a previously unwavering sense of purpose. And it feels treacherous — traitorous, even — to take any of it into question.

But as always, the open road and the unabiding sky of the prairie settled him into a different mindset altogether. The cycles of flora and fauna in untouched wilderness exist completely separate from the artifices of men, with the legacies of countless tiny lives encapsulated in the fine grit of the dust to which all things return. And in that certainty comes an overwhelming comfort. Everything else seems trifling in the wake of the vast perpetuity of nature.

A few days spent wandering would do him good, he’d decided. Spend some time away from all the trappings of civilization, then rob some poor sap on the side of the road so as not to return empty-handed.

And then you’d ruined his plans entirely by literally walking into him as he’d been passing through Strawberry.

“Well,” you say, offering up a small, nervous smile. “What now?”

What now, indeed. Arthur pinches the bridge of his nose and closes his eyes. “Guess we take a visit to Trelawney’s,” he replies, already dreading the inevitable embarrassment of explaining the whole sorry situation to the man. “And if it turns out you’re tellin’ the truth, I’ll give you a ride from Rhodes to St Denis.”

You frown and furrow your brow. “Rhodes?”

“Yeah, Rhodes. Trelawney’s got a caravan there on the outskirts of town. You didn’t know?”

“You can’t take me to Rhodes,” you say automatically, as if stating the obvious. “I mean… look at me.”

“You’re a woman?” he asks stupidly.

“I’m an Oriental, you moron. And Rhodes is a fucking… it’s a fucking Raider town.”

“You’d be with me. I’ll keep you safe.”

You shake your head and set your mouth into a grim, flat line. “That’s worse. They might think we’re together. And they don’t take kindly to miscegenation.”

Your words have to them the quality of a veil being drawn back, exposing a corner of this country’s ugliness he’s not often been privy to. A familiar knot of guilt tugs at his innards, accompanied by the unpleasant, impotent sensation that surfaces each time he catches the ungracious stares of the crowd when walking into town with Tilly by his side. Each time he hears the practiced courtesy in a shopkeep’s voice drop away when the man turns away from him to address Charles. Each time he watches Lenny reread for the thousandth time the letter from his dead father, the creases in its paper worn so deep that it would have long since fallen apart were it not for the boy’s careful, reverent handling.

“You know those big plantation houses just south of Rhodes? They hire Chinese sometimes to work the fields. Cheaper than sharecropping, apparently.” The look on your face is drawn and bitter. The bite in your voice suggests something personal, the sting of an injury not yet healed. “One of the boys got involved with a white housemaid. He’d saved up for train tickets to Philadelphia, and they were… he was going to marry her there. Wanted an August wedding. The number eight’s lucky for us, you see. So August 8th, 1898… he thought it was all very romantic. Used to make this stupid joke that he wished he’d met her ten years earlier. Raiders strung him up in an oak tree a couple weeks before they were set to leave.”

Arthur’s tongue lies silent and heavy in his mouth.

You take in a deep breath that rattles with the failing determination of someone struggling not to break their composure, then look to him with a desperation so absolute that it seems almost indecent to witness. “Why don’t you just leave me here? Keep me tied up if you have to. Come back for me when you’re done with Trelawney.”

In the short span of time that he’s known you, you’ve made enough of an impression to warrant several conclusive classifications. A haughty, pampered little thing. An ineffective liar. A self-destructive fool — but not stupid. Definitely not stupid.

The sheer idiocy of your suggestion indicates a fear so deep that it’s completely severed you from your senses. Just a frightened little bird caught in a trap, scratching and clawing for the narrowest possible opening for escape.

“You’re tellin’ me to tie up a woman and leave her in the middle of nowhere? May as well just hand-deliver you to the wolves. No,” he says firmly, trying to shake off the unwanted pang of sympathy. Dutch had been right about one thing — the gang did need money, and he sure as hell wasn’t going to let this opportunity for it slip away out of misguided compassion for a woman who’d literally robbed him as he’d bled out. “I’ll tell you what we’ll do. Soon as we near Rhodes, I’ll tie you to Boadicea the same way I did when we left Strawberry.”

You blink and utter a disbelieving, “Excuse me, what?”

“Reckon they’ll treat us both a hell of a lot nicer if they think you’re a bounty. Gives me plenty excuse for keepin’ you in one piece, too.”

Your face ventures on a quick journey through the five stages of grief. The grief in question being for the loss of your dignity. The blank look shifts to a glare. You open your mouth to spit out something no doubt acerbic and very rude, but a flash of uncertainty crosses your face and you quickly bite your tongue. Then you lower your head and squeeze your eyes shut. When you finally open them again, there is a defeated resignation in them that attests to a lost mental argument.

“You better ride slow if you don’t want a repeat of this morning,” you say wearily.

Arthur shrugs. “Can’t throw up if you got nothin’ in your stomach. We’ll just skip feeding you breakfast tomorrow.”

To his relief, the atmosphere lightens to blessed, familiar hostility. You tell him to go fuck himself. That you’ll literally fight him for the apples you know he has tucked away in his saddlebags. That maybe you’ll throw up anyway purely out of spite. That he’s a miserable piece of shit who you wish—

A sudden flash of lightning illuminates the outcrop for a fraction of a second, painting everything beneath it into harsh shades of white and black. It strikes as sudden and violent as a fiery whip crack, leaving behind it the bittersweet scent of burnt grass and a curl of grey smoke like a departing ghost. Its near-simultaneous clap of thunder drowns out your last sentence with an ear splitting boom so encompassing that the vibration of it seems to rattle down to the bone. The silence that follows has in it the anticipatory hush of the void prior to Genesis. You shatter it with a quiet but appropriately placed, “Jesus Christ.”

The land outside is hedged low in the horizon, and the vastness of its sky swallows all else. It crowns as its dominating feature the movement of its anvil-shaped clouds. They shift leaden and portentous, translucent bellied and lit up by the jagged tongues of lightning darting throughout quick and sporadic as pale dragonflies. Roiling violet like the murky blood of some vast organism, pulsing membranous over the prairie with a fury of near biblical proportions. And below, the buttes with their strange eroded shapes like scattered islands in a black sea of grass. In the torrential dark, their silhouettes flash ivory with every strike of lightning only to sink back into the hushed umbra of night.

There is a muted look of awe on your face, as if witnessing for the first time the true scale of a storm. Something that before now had been glimpsed only through the gaps between high-shuttered buildings. Tempests caught in concrete snares and, not unlike the men that build them, diminished until they are but a feeble whisper of their former selves.

“It’s beautiful,” you murmur. “I never knew rain could be like this.”

With a jolt of displeasure, he finds that the soft expression on your face renders you unexpectedly pretty in the fire’s flickering light, the amber reflection of it bright as copper in your eyes. A gentle chiaroscuro, the smooth line of your cheek and shadowed hollow of your throat the anchor points to which his eye is drawn.

You shuffle a little closer to the outlook’s rain-veiled edge. The roughspun blanket, still drawn tightly around your shoulders, shifts. Arthur quickly averts his eyes, but even so is met with a sliver of bare skin that runs neck to navel. The subtle outline of a breast, the mild fishbone curve of a rib.

And all at once he’s unbearably, disastrously hard, filled with a painful but directionless longing — not just for intimacy, but for the simple reassurance of another body pressed close, skin to skin and breath to breath. A kind of tenderness he’s been deprived of for so long that the memory of it brings not warmth but the brittle cold of hoarfrost. Absence like a thick pane of ice, the things he’s lost visible just underneath.

From the periphery of his line of sight, you’re but an indistinct blur in the vague shape of a woman. How appropriate then, that you should be the focus of this formless arousal. And how infuriatingly pathetic. He hadn’t lied when he’d said you weren’t his type, and yet here he is, his cock stiffer than it’s been in months at just the suggestion of a woman’s naked body.

In desperate search of both distraction and something to obscure himself with, Arthur pulls back the front flap of his satchel and fishes out your blue notebook. He glances briefly in your direction, already anticipating your angry shout of indignation — but you’re far too occupied with watching the progression of the storm to so much as glance in his direction.

The notebook’s contents are far more legible than he’d initially assumed. Most of the foreign characters seem to be either names or places, which makes it possible for him to pick out the main thread of most sentences.

Its first half consists of what looks like a ledger. Neatly organized columns with foreign characters and numbers that he hasn’t the slightest idea how to parse. When he flips past it, a slip of paper scrawled with the same strange, flowing text flutters from the pages and alights delicately into his lap. Arthur picks it up, and as he examines it, it occurs to him that he has no idea how to orient it.

Prior to this, he’d only ever seen Chinese characters painted on the roadside food stalls accompanying railroad workers on their long trek westwards. A strange, complex syllabary. He’d once read somewhere that each word of the language had its own unique character. A sort of pictograph that, when studied, relays its meaning to those who knew how to read it.

He scrutinizes the slip of paper in his hand, but finds himself unable to pick out even the vaguest of resemblances. The corner of the paper bears a square seal of red ink, inset with an intricate consortium of straight lines. Curiosity spent for the moment, Arthur slots the document back in place.

The rest of the notebook looks to be an odd mixture of field observations and long, ornate paragraphs about various landscapes. A few pressed wildflowers, field observations of city flora and fauna, crudely drawn animals reminiscent of the scattered petroglyphs he’s found carved in long-abandoned settlements. An earmarked passage describing the wetlands bordering St Denis, full of strikethroughs and hastily added phrases squeezed into the margins. Another describing what sounds like Cotorra Springs.

“The amber fields are dotted with sprigs of larkspurs and wild flax like blue-violet stars,” Arthur reads aloud.

You turn to face him so quickly that your wet hair arcs through the air like an ink-stained brush, scattering water droplets that sizzle and hiss when they fall into the fire. Wild-eyed as a spooked horse, but frozen into a horrified silence as he licks his finger and traces the rest of the line across the page, continuing, “And even further north, viridian-blue pools from which rise plumes of white smoke, the water still and clear as glass. Hills of black obsidian —”

You scramble towards him and, while clutching the blanket around your shoulders shut with one hand, slap the notebook out of his grip with the other. It lands perilously close to the fire, but you snatch it up without giving a second thought to the nearness of the flames.

“That’s private,” you hiss, hugging the notebook to your chest the way one might accidentally smother an infant.

“Thought it was fair turnaround, seein’ as you never extended that same courtesy to me,” he retorts.

The memory of that miserable morning after surfaces in him like a bloated corpse too persistent to stay hidden. His billfold emptied, ill-gotten gains vanished, and his journal speckled with smeared, bloodied thumbprints from beginning to end. Above a sketch of a mountain wildflower he’d drawn a question mark next to, the word “crocus ?” written in an angular, jagged scrawl.

“Yeah, because I thought you were going to die!” you argue back. “Figured you probably had your next of kin listed somewhere in there!”

Next of kin. The phrase pierces through like a stitch popped out of place, and Arthur nearly flinches. It’s an unintentional blow on your part, but nevertheless he deflects the only way he knows how. When bitten, bite back.

“Oh that’s real charitable, comin’ from the dope-peddler,” he jeers. “You save this compassion for everyone you fuck over, or just me?”

A clear and unguarded expression of hurt crosses your features. The same you’d worn when he’d had to pry his shotgun out of your hands. Forlorn, helpless as a wounded prey animal. But it passes quickly into a cold disdain, your head raised high again and your eyes hard as flint.

“Do you know,” you say quietly, lip curling with contempt. “I seriously considered cutting your throat when I finally realized who you were. I should have.”

Then you blink, forehead wrinkling as you sniff at the air. You glance at the fire, where his forgotten can of beans is beginning to burn.

Arthur curses. He hastily swipes one of his discarded riding gloves from the grass and pulls it on, then grabs the can and blows on its contents, fanning away its delicate wisp of black smoke.

You retreat to the far inner corner of the outcrop and frantically page through the notebook until you find the red-sealed paper sheafed inside. With a sigh of relief, you slump against the rough granite wall, the tense set of your shoulders loosening as though some secret string stretched taut through the frame of your body had suddenly been cut loose.

A sullen silence permeates the shelter, punctuated only by the grating scratch of metal as he scrapes burnt food off the edges of the can with a spoon.

“You forgot to mention that the whole place smells like shit,” Arthur says finally. He keeps his eyes on the can, attention focused squarely on the arduous task of excavating beans.

“What?”

“Cotorra Springs. Smells like week-old shit. Especially around the pools.”

The rustle of blankets. From the corner of his eye, he watches you tentatively scoot closer. “You’ve been there?” you ask. Your voice is still deeply reproachful, but touched with genuine curiosity.

“You haven’t?”

“No. I’ve just seen pictures. And notes from people who have.”

“Huh,” he says. He scrapes another carbonized mouthful from the can. “Could’ve fooled me, the way you wrote about it.”

You raise your eyebrows. “You think so?”

“Sure.

The corner of your mouth quirks upwards in a reluctant smile that unfolds like the breaking light of a clouded dawn. “Well, that’s… that’s good to know.”

“You writin’ a book or something?” he asks.

“That’d be nice, wouldn’t it?” The smile wilts slightly, and you drop your gaze down to the notebook on your lap. “No. Just a favor for an old friend’s husband. The man fancies himself an explorer, but can barely string a sentence together. He’s paying me to pretty up his notes for him. Half of which I think are made up. There’s some bullshit in there about an enormous rainbow colored pond full of boiling water.”

Arthur laughs. “Naw, that bit’s true. I’ve seen it. It’s a hell of a thing.”

You seem skeptical. He doesn’t blame you. Even after having walked the rust-banded edge of that craterous spring himself, his memory of it still carries with it the preternatural awe of a place half-dreamed. He tells you about the slow gradation of color leading inwards from the rim. Ochre to cadmium, to turquoise, to a deep cerulean with the unreal brilliance of a painted ocean. Steam hanging like a pungent fog. Entire stretches of ground covered in a thick, boiling mud, bubbling ominous as something out of Dante’s Inferno. A constant gurgling of earth and water, as if he were treading upon some living thing in the midst of an infernal digestion.

Halfway through his description, you flip the notebook to a clean page and ask him for a pencil, then begin scribbling down his words with an unceasing, determined hand. This bemuses him. That anyone might find his drivel meaningful enough to commit to paper is a new experience altogether. It’s an odd feeling, but not at all an unpleasant one.

That is, until you begin peppering his narrative with so many questions that it takes the better part of an hour to accommodate them.

What kind of plants grew there?

“Bunch of disgusting slippery shit around the edge. Algae or something. Other than that, can’t think of a single thing that’d lay roots in boiling water and sulfur.”

Did the mud boil like roiling water, or was it more the viscosity of a slow simmering stew?

“More like wet cement, really.”

Were there animals?

“No. Nothing there for ‘em.”

Birds?

“Didn’t see any.”

Insects?

“A shit ton of gnats, but not much else.”

How wide were the prismatic bands around the crater? What was the geology like? Did the surrounding forest taper off gradually in the vicinity of the spring, or was the loss of vegetation sudden and absolute as a drawn border?

“Give me your notebook.” he says, having finally reached the point of exasperation. “Easier if I just draw it for you.”

To his faint surprise, you hand it over without hesitation. He sketches out what he’s able to recall, all the while acutely aware of the madness of the situation. Fucking illustrating an account of his own wanderings for the woman who robbed him while they both sit in varying states of undress. Scribbling out a messy landscape in the same notebook whose contents he’d derided just a little while ago. Focusing all his attention on Cotorra Springs so as to ward away the unfortunate possibility of another inopportune erection.

The mediocre drawing he finally manages to scratch out would have disappointed him under any other occasion. Instead, he feels a warm flood of relief at its conclusion. If this doesn’t shut you up, then nothing will.

Nothing will, it seems. To his immense chagrin, the drawing sparks another round of questions. After silently admiring his work just long enough to spark hope of your satiety, you ask him about the species of the trees. Had he explored the nearby forest? Were there flowers? What season had he visited in? Was the acrid smell of sulfur present even here?

“Look,” Arthur says wearily. “You clearly come from money. Why don’t you just hire someone out to take you sometime?”

You snort at the suggestion. The corner of your mouth lifts upwards into something that’s only nominally a smile, and more the type of grimace that accompanies an old wound. “The only two men I’d trust enough to take me out into the middle of nowhere are dead. And with the money I owe, I can’t… I can’t just… you know what?” you say abruptly. “It’s getting late and I’m fucking exhausted. I’m going to sleep.”

And with that, you tug the blanket tight around your shoulders and huddle against the ground like a felled shrimp. You lay with your back to him, the words left unsaid hanging over you both like an unripe fruit of a question.

Arthur fetches his bedroll and unfurls it close to the fire. A battered pillow emerges from the worn tarp as he spreads it flat. After a moment of contemplation, he picks up the pillow and tosses it in your direction. It hits you square on the head.

Immediately, you sit up and snarl at him. “What the fuck is wrong with — oh.” You pick up the pillow and grasp it tight, as if at any moment he might change his mind and demand it back. Your small “thank you” is puzzled and uncertain.

“I’m gonna put out the fire,” he says. “You try to slit my throat in the dark, I’ll wring your neck.”

But the threat comes out empty and toothless, and judging by the renewed sarcasm in your voice when you tell him you’ll keep it in mind, you seem fully aware of it.

Arthur douses the flames by kicking dirt over the embers, which glow dim and vermillion for minutes afterwards, fading slow to dull, crumbling ash when the heat finally bleeds out of them. The pleasant smell of smoke lingers inside the shelter for a good while longer, but even that dissipates eventually, leaving just petrichor and the crisp, clean scent of early autumn rain.

The worst of the storm has shifted westwards. Water drips in a steady stream from the outer edge of the overhang, churning the ground below to a soup of mud. The cloud cover is still dense, but it’s thinned enough that moonlight gleams through the feathery underbelly in a pale and spattered mottle. With it, he can make out the dim outline of your body, the rise and fall of your chest in a slow, steady rhythm he sorely doubts you’d have the patience to feign.

He lies awake there in the dark for a long while, shuffling through a jumble of discordant emotion. It’s as if the pieces of several sets of puzzles have been mixed together and jammed into an incomprehensible mess, so hopelessly and thoroughly muddled that he can no longer tell where one thing starts and another ends. He sorts his way through it until the rain weakens to a grey drizzle and the drip of rainwater turns from the unbroken stream of a faucet to a series of droplets beating out an abstruse morse code against the ground.

In the end, he’s only able to definitively place a single solid sentiment. Pity.

———

Couple notes:

Arthur's understanding of Chinese is incorrect, but aligns with the assumptions a lot of Western scholars during that time period had regarding it. There was a big tendency to treat it like Japanese, which despite using some of the same characters, uses a completely different structure.

Cotorra Springs seems to be based off Yellowstone. The big boiling rainbow spring is actually real: it's called the Grand Prismatic Spring and seriously does look like something out of a fever dream. Yellowstone also does smell like sulfur in some places, but it’s not so much like week old shit as it is the potent fart of someone who’s eaten far too many deviled eggs.

No algae grows in the spring. It's actually cyanobacteria, but there's no reason Arthur would know this. It does look pretty gross up close.

#arthur morgan #arthur morgan/reader #arthur morgan/oc #fic #red dead redemption #rdr2 #my work #talking bird

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dailycharacteroption · 3 years

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Deity Drop 1: Apsu

Though today’s subject is also lawful good, he is much less involved than Erastil. I present the draconic deity Apsu!

It always seems that in fantasy settings, at least the ones with their roots in D&D, there are always two major dragon gods, one good, one evil, and Pathfinder is no different. However, while the classic duo in many D&D settings are brother and sister, in Pathfinder, the duo is father and son, and today we are looking at the father.

According to draconic belief, Apsu is in fact one of the deities responsible for the creation of the multiverse, and while that is likely an exaggeration on the part of dragons, it no doubt has a grain of truth to it. In any case, Apsu originally did not go by a name, and was originally described as one of two great waters (which ties into the description of his real Mesopotamian namesake), the other being Tiamat (whom is implied to be, or at least a version of the very same Tiamat running around D&D’s various settings, but who is only mentioned in Pathfinder briefly because of legal reasons), whom was his mate and wife.

The pair had many children together, but one in particular, Dahak, was a violent and destructive being whose rampages are the very thing that turned the plane of Hell into a burning place of suffering long before the first devils or even asura arrived on the plane. He was not content to end his rampage at an entire plane of existence, however, and slew many of his siblings, whose broken remains fell to the material plane and were reborn as the first metallic dragons.

Enraged, Apsu named himself and took form, joining with the metallic dragons against his wayward son, defeating him. However, before the final blow was struck, Dahak pleaded for aid from his mother, who answered, offering the dragons injured in the fight healing if they would turn on Apsu. Those that accepted became the first chromatic dragons.

Dahak escaped in the ensuing fight, but Apsu ordered his followers not to pursue, turning to ask his mate, who took the name Tiamat, why he had aided his son.

Tiamat only answered that she blamed Apsu for the death of their children, and cast them out from their home to wander.

Since that time, Apsu and Dahak have only met once, when they teamed up to help other gods defeat the monstrous Rovagug. After the battle, Dahak swore he would kill his father, and left. Ever since then, Apsu has been a distant leader of dragonkind, quietly preparing for the day when he and his son will have their final showdown on the surface of Golarion.

Apsu himself, who dwells in a roving demiplane home called the Immortal Ambulatory, teaches that one should seek glory and peace, and that leaders should be just and fair, which makes sense as he is the patron deity of all good dragons, metallic and otherwise. However, while many good dragons worship him, very few among them actually take training in divine magic under his guidance, perhaps out of draconic independence. However, he does have a small following of humanoids on Golarion, most notably the group known as the Platinum Band, who do train as proper priests of Apsu.

Unsurprisingly, Apsu has a much wider following on the planet Triaxus, where the native Rhyphorians and their dragonkin allies among the Dragon Legions of the Allied Territories.

Though Apsu’s parenting skills are called into question by the existence of Dahak, he is nonetheless a god of justice and good, serving as an inspiration to those who wish to uphold his ideals. He commands his followers to help those in need, as well as guide them to become stronger, and punish the wicked that betray your mercy.

This aligns him with a lot of paladins, as a lawful good god he is at least respected by many civilizations, but he is most commonly worshipped by those who travel and do his work across the world. However, it is notable that Apsu apparently refuses to have a hand in the creation of oracles, even as part of a pantheon, as it is against his beliefs to force power upon a mortal, especially not that which also curses them. Oracles that come to worship him later do exist, apparently, as those that do gain access to unique spells. Additionally, as he is associated with the preparation for war, he is often given prayers by architects and craftsmen who build fortifications and other tools of protection for coming war.

Apsu is served and worshipped by most good dragons, metallic and otherwise, as well as even some wyverns and drakes that have risen above bestial concerns. He does command some angels as a celestial god, but he counts no one specific outsider type as his own. He does have a herald in the form of the celestial silver dragon Oreganus, as well as Blameless Flame, a coatl surrounded by the flame of a gold dragon’s breath and Syrax the Platinum, a clockwork dragon with the mind of a once-living brass dragon.

Apsu rules over the domains of Artifice, Good, Law, Scalykind, and Travel, as well as the subdomains of Archon (by way of good or law), Construct, Dragon, Exploration, Toil, and Trade. The inclusion of Artifice is tied to the oft-forgotten aspect of Apsu as the builder of fortifications.

His second edition domains are creation, protection, travel, and wyrmkin, as well as granting spells associated with bolstering natural attacks, creating temporary items, and shapeshifting into draconic form.

Those who are devout enough to follow his deific obedience perform a daily ritual of walking in one direction for half an hour, then walking back. When traveling away from their starting point, they consider the tactical and strategic advantages of the terrain, while on the way back, they consider it’s wonder and beauty and contemplate on the Wayfinder’s role in its creation. Such devotees are granted heightened awareness, particularly when it comes to attackers.

Evangelist devotees tap into Apsu’s aspect as a crafter and preparer, gaining spells to carry large loads with a disk of force, bless weapons with the divine power of law, and create wards against the environment; as well as enchant weapons to fight on their own, and the power to pour life into an object you have crafted, animating it.

For those that follow the path of the exalted, they imbue his aspect as a traveller, blurring their movement, defying gravity, and moving with incredible speed. What’s more, they are blessed with the ability to monitor the places they have been, placing short-lived sensors whenever they teleport away, letting them see what goes on afterwards, be it pursuers, or potential spies or sneaks. Additionally, they can set up safe locations and teleport back to them with allies at later dates.

Draconic fury is the gift granted to those who become sentinels in his name, blasting foes with sprays of light, bolts of fire, and imbuing themselves with draconic wards against the elements. What’s more, they can surround themselves in a ward against foes that is most effective against evil dragons. Additionally, they can imbue their weapon with the normally reserved fury of Apsu in battle, making for supernaturally accurate attacks that are almost guaranteed to deliver deadly wounds to evil dragons.

As far as I know, neither Apsu nor Dahak have been mentioned in Starfinder yet, so it is unknown what their status is. Both deities were prophesized to end their struggle once and for all on Golarion someday, but in the far future of Starfinder the planet Golarion is missing. So, either their battle has already happened before or during The Gap, or that prophecy was derailed in the same way as most other prophecies in the Age of Lost Omens and beyond. If Apsu does exist, either with or without Dahak, he is no doubt most popularly worshipped among the Skyfire Legion and among more goodly parts of the Drakelands on Triaxus, much as they have always done. Still, any world where metallic or otherwise goodly dragons exist may see some of his influence, and I imagine that he might even have a small following in the Knights of Golarion.

That does it for today, but it’s good to demonstrate how even gods outside of the Inner Sea grouping can be just as influential in their own way.

#pathfinder #deity #Apsu #dragon

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doomonfilm · 3 years

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Ranking : Gus Van Sant (1952-present)

I was somewhat familiar with Gus Van Sant prior into taking the deep dive through his catalog, but he was certainly a man that I thought I had a handle on. I knew he had more than a few amazing films under his belt, but the recent years had not been kind to him (see the shot taken at him in Jay and Silent Bob Strike Back). I knew that he was from the Pacific Northwest (Oregon specifically), and his coming of age in an area that embraces weirdos and outsiders had an impact on him as a human and as a creator. I knew that films like Milk and Good Will Hunting had taken Van Sant to the highest heights, while the collective panning of films like Psycho and Last Days served as valleys in a career full of glorious peaks.

What I came to discover, however, was a man with genuine creative integrity, and lots of it. I found a director who understood his characters and actors on a human level, and shared them with viewers in ways that helped rich connections develop. I saw a director who was not afraid to make those that society often considers outcasts the emotionally rich and important centers of his narratives. I watched Gus Van Sant present, explore, develop and refine his style over deeply independent and infamously studio-driven projects, giving all experiences as much care and attention as he was able. I saw films I was familiar with find placement behind films I was new to, I discovered that his recent creative years have not been as kind to him as the first two-thirds of his career, and I can see that there still may be a bit of a smolder left in his creative fire.

Ranking directors is a labor of love, but by no means do I consider myself the definitive professional on film canon. I enjoyed all of the Gus Van Sant films I watched on some level, and as always, for those brave enough to interact, I’d be curious to see where you would make adjustments to the list. But enough introduction talk, let’s get into what you folks came for!

17. Restless (2011) There are things about Restless that I want to love without judgement. First and foremost, Mia Wasikowska is an absolute treasure who shines in this performance from the earlier portion of her career. The portrayal of Hiroshi is one of the more subtle, substanced and interesting ways of using a ghost within the film framework. As minor a thing as it may be to the casual moviegoer, some of this film’s technical aspects are astounding, specifically the costuming and the lighting choices. Where the film distracts me, and therefore drops in these rankings, is where it takes the YA approach to the romantic drama, with a healthy dose of manic pixie dream girl energy thrown in for good measure. When it comes to displaying romance on-screen, be it teenage or otherwise, there are no expectations, even for a director with a distinct style. Where my issues arise are in the way that death is handled in this film… while I do understand that not every film has to be a distinct statement for a director (especially a film written by another individual), Gus Van Sant had already established a very mature approach to the subject of death, and the way that death and the manic pixie dream girl aspects are intertwined feels more on the amateur side than I am comfortable with for a Gus Van Sant film. Maybe giving the impossibly troubled young man a muse with an expiration date as his way to find the best version of himself is a stroke of genius that provides a gateway for deep commentary on the concept of the manic pixie dream girl, but the film is so approachable and not the type to bare teeth (be it satirically or otherwise) that I doubt there is any subtext to its intention. For that reason, this film finds itself on the bottom half of the Van Sant canon.

16. Don't Worry, He Won't Get Far on Foot (2018) After the critical and box office disappointment that was The Sea of Trees, director Gus Van Sant had quite the hill to climb with his next film, and with his adaptation of Don’t Worry, He Won’t Get Far on Foot, it seemed he was able to right those respective ships. Strangely, the film failed to connect with me, and as far as I can tell, it seems to be the victim of an “all sizzle, no steak” scenario. The film is certainly a showcase of a very diverse cast, and based on both the flashback-based and group therapy approach to the story, there are a wealth of opportunities to create memorable moments. Unfortunately, and perhaps due to an oversight on my end, I failed to find enough substance during my viewing of the film to prop up the parade of moments. What it felt like I was left with, sadly, was a Simple Jack-level approach to conveying a paraplegic-centered story, which undercut the fact that the film is actually telling the true story of cartoonist, artist and musician John Callahan. That’s not to say that the film doesn’t have it’s positive aspects, such as the John Callahan illustrations and the animated versions of his work, but those positive aspects feel sparse in comparison to how much the film relishes in what feels like Oscar bait. If nothing else, see this film for Jonah Hill, because it took me much longer than it should have to recognize him, partly due to his impressive weight loss and partly due to how dedicated he is to achieving the film’s period look.

15. The Sea of Trees (2015) Death is no stranger in the films of Gus Van Sant, but I don’t feel that it would be bold to state The Sea of Trees deals with death in the most direct manner. For those that subscribe to grief having stages, this film accounts for all of them in some way, shape or form during the course of the narrative as we watch Arthur Brennan fall apart and rediscover himself in the wake of losing Joan Brennan, his wife. Placing the film in Aokigahara (aka the "Japanese suicide forest") not only gives the film a sense of natural beauty, but a foreboding sense of dread and despair as well. The core cast is as strong as any found in a Van Sant film, with Matthew McConaughey, Ken Watanabe and Naomi Watts all turning in solid performances. Sadly, the film falters in one very core aspect : sympathy for the protagonist. I found myself feeling very bad for Joan Brennan as I watched her arc, and despite knowing nothing about Watanabe’s character portrayal of Takumi Nakamura, I found myself sympathetic to him based solely on what he was emoting. Arthur Brennan, however, is interesting in all the wrong ways… he is extremely cold and purposefully flat when introduced, the moments we share with the Brennans only seem to show Arthur finding joy at the expense of Joan’s pride, his view of the loss of his wife (and his world view in general) seem to be extremely self-centered, and when he does show heroic attributes they are rooted solely in self-preservation. Perhaps if Van Sant had not already made such eloquent reflections on death via The Death Trilogy and Paranoid Park, The Sea of Trees could have been seen in a different light, but when you set such a high bar for your work, returning to stereotypical storytelling can feel flat and uninspired.

14. Last Days (2005) Last Days is a film with a weird energy and aura surrounding it… in some ways, it feels like the most performative film not only of the Death Trilogy, but out of the entire Gus Van Sant catalog. At the risk of using too negative an adjective, it also feels the most exploitive, though neither of these observations are necessarily meant to be a knock against the film. The Death Trilogy could not help but be exploitive at its root, as each film was inspired by an infamous death event, and with Michael Pitt’s Blake meant to be an avatar for Kurt Cobain, it would be simple to take the film at face value for some sort of glamourized and idealized fictional retelling of his tragic final moments, not to mention a few stylistic nods to iconic Cobain-related imagery. What that viewer would be missing, in my opinion, is a film looking to make some familiar points on outsider culture (specifically alternative rock and roll counterculture and addict culture) minus all the glamour and shine. While Blake’s house is grand, it’s decrepit and in a state of disrepair… despite it being isolated, expected and unexpected guests arrive constantly, not to mention an intrusive ringing phone that connects Blake to outworld obligations… Blake has a number of people living with him, but he almost never interacts with them. Michael Pitt is done up to look so similar to Kurt Cobain that much of the narrative background is implied, and what we are left with is the Death Trilogy style implemented and fused onto a loose leaf narrative with just enough structure to let the supporting actors have isolated memorable moments while we watch Pitt’s Blake decay in the ways that many of us Cobain fans ruminated on in the wake of his sudden and tragic death at the height of his tortured popularity.

13. Gerry (2002) At the risk of sounding cliché, Gerry may be the most fascinating film in Gus Van Sant’s canon. It marks a clear and definitive break in convention from a director that seemingly never cared too much for convention anyway. Multiple aspects of this film make it extremely unique : both characters referring to one another by the same name (though Gerry eventually evolves into an all-purpose non-specific descriptor), a seemingly absent narrative, a shared goal between the characters literally referred to as “the thing” in order to purposely keep viewers in the dark and, perhaps most importantly, a deliberately methodical pacing that pushes even seasoned film lovers to the limits of their patience. The film is beautiful, and that is a fact that cannot be denied… the painterly shot compositions of our characters in the isolated desert, the unfathomably long tracking shots that pull us deeper off the beaten path and the sonic stillness (due to a largely absent score that is replaced with the sounds of nature) either commit you fully to the experiment or come off as massively pretentious. To view the film through that secondary lens, however, is to miss the point of it all. Once it is understood that Gerry marked the entry point for Gus Van Sant’s Death Trilogy, you began to realize that Van Sant, in tandem with Matt Damon and Casey Affleck, are giving us an understanding of how we should view the trilogy, and how open-minded we should be in processing what is given to us, like some early high-concept version of what Quentin Dupieux would later go on to master in a more abstract manner.

12. Mala Noche (1985) It’s fitting that this was a feature-length debut from a driven and working director, as it has a very distinct look and feel to it that immediately lets you know you’re dealing with an innate storyteller and someone who has spent time observing the human condition. In terms of visual and narrative balance, Gus Van Sant utilizes what feels like a mix of John Cassavetes and Jack Kerouac, respectively. Van Sant’s use of titles in the film is striking, specifically in terms of the handwritten opening credits and the Dr. Pepper ad copy used to subtitle the Spanish language dialogue. Focusing so heavily on immigration and homosexuality in 1985 is a bold choice, especially as neither group had yet to benefit (even if only minimally) from the onset of politically correct culture policing. While the film was more than likely shot in black and white due to budgetary constraints, the infusion of somewhat modern elements (for the time) gives it a youthful and forward-thinking energy. Having a film of this nature lean so heavily on multilingual and multicultural elements is refreshing, and even more impactful when examined under the boorish and (at times) tone deaf application that humanizes these elements. For all of these aspects of the film, however, when examined at the pure narrative foundation, what we find is a story about how love can blind us from the reality we inhabit, and how we often choose to ignore the obvious when romance and romanticism enters the picture.

11. Psycho (1998) Of all the films in the Van Sant catalog, perhaps the bravest, boldest and most baffling entry is his nearly shot for shot remake of the iconic Alfred Hitchcock thriller and cinematic game changer Psycho. Remakes were certainly not a new or unheard of practice at the time of the Van Sant Psycho release, but most directors opt to put significant twists or updates into their retelling of most remakes, and most films chosen do not hold the lofty stature and position that Psycho does when it comes to remakes. Van Sant’s approach not only made viewers keenly aware of just how direct the homage was, but in some places, modern touches were added in very subtle ways to make the movie more palatable for modern audiences, including more salacious references to sexuality, sound design choices in both the diegetic and symbolic realm, and even an update or two to iconic scenes meant to make us much more uneasy with the Vince Vaughn portrayal of Norman Bates. The actors cast were all famous and respected enough to keep the film’s timeless feeling in-tact, even if the remake could be taken as its own weird and warped project. Personally, I’ve always loved this remake, and taken it as an experiment on the highest commercial level, and a signal to all that Van Sant (at the time) was done with the traditional approach to filmmaking and concepting.

10. Paranoid Park (2007) While many movies centered around skateboarding spend their time and design budget trying to make the outsider nature of the practice look “cool”, Paranoid Park spends its time making sure that the isolation, deep focus and rebellious attitude that come with skateboarding were more authentic than they were appealing. High school is already a very taxing and polarizing section of juvenile development, and based on your perception at the time, the weight that the world unloads on you can feel wholly unbearable. Perhaps this is what makes Paranoid Park such a tense film… that natural teenage angst is already imprinted into the film (and amplified due to the casting of relative unknowns), but Gus Van Sant’s signature use of alternative film stocks, obscure soundtrack and expressive, layered sound design but you square in Alex’s head from the opening moments. As the narrative unfolds, we realize that Alex is not only dealing with standard-issue teen stress, but has unwillingly found himself involved in the type of events that change an individual’s world. This film plays well as the first film post-Death Trilogy, as it deals with the gravity of mortality head-on much like the aforementioned three films, but does so from an adaptive stance rather than one based on true events. If you’re a fan of skater flicks, movies with strong teen acting, or little-known Gus Van Sant gems, then Paranoid Park is a gem waiting for discovery.

9. Finding Forrester (2000) Gus Van Sant has always had a way with stories that dive below the surface of the human experience and condition, so it makes sense that his attempt at a New York-based movie about people living in “the hood” would cover an array of topics with masterful subtlety, specifically the topics of race relations, generational gaps and the blurry line between education and exploitation. The casting on this film is extremely strong… then newcomer Rob Brown gives a riveting and dynamic lead performance, it’d be harder to cast a more perfect curmudgeon than Sean Connery, and appearances by F. Murray Abraham, Anna Paquin, Busta Rhymes and a Matt Damon cameo all stand out. Speaking of Damon, Finding Forrester shares a similar energy to Good Will Hunting, but the proximity of release ultimately held Finding Forrester from finding its proper audience (no pun intended). I wish I had more to say about this film outside of my personal feelings and connections to the story (which I will save for a dedicated deep dive in the future), but Finding Forrester is one of those films that has no trouble speaking for itself.

8. Promised Land (2012) As of the point that this blog post was created, this film stands as the last of the great Van Sant creations. There is something about the Gus Van Sant approach to filmmaking that works best with “salt of the Earth” types, and with Promised Land being centered around the practice of fracking, much of that down-home nature is immediately baked into the story. Speaking of the story, the film was co-written by the characters who ended up being the protagonist and antagonist of the picture, respectfully, which created an electric main dynamic that served as the spine for many other strong dynamics present in the film. In terms of the cinematography, much of Van Sant’s bold approaches and stylistic shifts are absent, save for a few beautiful bird’s eye view perspective shots that give you a real idea of what rural America looks like. Van Sant is no stranger to stacked casts, but he gets some truly top notch names to take part in this affair, and true to the clout behind these names, the performances are as stellar as they are believable and natural. The film also touched a nerve with the actual oil industry due to some of its comments on fracking, despite it not having the reach or success of other Van Sant films. While possibly an indicator that Van Sant would be making a stylistic shift, Promised Land still manages to capture what makes Van Sant his best self in terms of not only presenting real people, but topical and important situations.

7. Milk (2008) Gus Van Sant is clearly no stranger to having representation for the gay community in his films, so it makes sense that one of the hallmark films in his canon would center around gay rights activist and politician Harvey Milk. Much like JFK crystalized Oliver Stone, or Spike Lee was raised to another echelon by Malcolm X, Van Sant found a second round of Academy Award-level validation via this biopic while solidifying himself as a creative who could go back and forth effortlessly between big budget studio films and independent projects. With Sean Penn giving one of his signature chameleon-like performances and leading the pack, this Van Sant production is filled with tons of burgeoning talent who have since gone on to make names for themselves in the industry, including the likes of Emile Hirsch, Diego Luna, James Franco, Alison Pill and others, plus a standout performance from Josh Brolin (who also depicted George W. Bush in the same year for the aforementioned Stone). While it may not be the most technically marveling film of Van Sant’s career, it is clearly one of his most important, and the way that it handles the messages it intends to share is as confident as it is even-keeled, which is important for a film that could have easily become a soapbox for espousing personal beliefs and political agendas.

6. Even Cowgirls Get the Blues (1993) This Gus Van Sant adaptation of the famed author Tom Robbins novel shares the same creative energy of films like Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, Natural Born Killers, Harold and Maude and so on in the sense that it is a very expressive film with a very specific idea it is looking to present. Where the aforementioned films explored ideas of free love taken to the extreme, the toxicity of media, love without judgement and so on (respectively), Even Cowgirls Get the Blues puts femininity and identity outside of the male gaze squarely in its crosshairs. Uma Thurman takes on the role of Sissy with wide-eyed zeal, floating through a series of hitchhiker-based adventures until her reluctant visit to the Rubber Road Ranch helps her find the missing piece of her puzzle. Seeing a bizarre, star-studded tale of a woman finding her agency sounds like it would work on the surface, but from what I could find, the film failed to make a connection with audiences and is considered a commercial and critical failure (which is probably why it was the toughest film to track down on this list). That being said, I’m a sucker for films that catch a bad rap, especially when the combination of such a unique director and visionary author are the foundation of it, because it makes me curious about why I find connection where others did not… who knows, maybe it was those extremely distracting rubber thumbs (the only real knock I can make on the film), or maybe the Tom Robbins style is tough to transfer from page to screen, but for my money’s worth, I can see the vision.

5. My Own Private Idaho (1991) Somewhere within the intersection of films like Midnight Cowboy and Fight Club lies My Own Private Idaho, an extremely personal and nuanced film that covers many topics with depth and an ease that comes with wisdom and experience. For example, when it comes to views on identity, we get two rich narratives that could easily both be their own film : Mike (portrayed by River Phoenix) is going through a crisis of identity based on a sordid history with his mother and absentee father that makes his search for love transform into a life of hustling as a way to find momentary intimacy; meanwhile, Keanu Reeves (who plays Scott) is an entitled young man awaiting an inheritance that decides to spend the time until it happens “slumming” with those many would consider the outcasts of society, much like the “tourists” spoken of by Edward Norton’s narrator in Fight Club. The struggle with masculinity in the face of homosexuality is all over this film, from its multiple male on male connections to the very toxic manner that the core group interacts with one another, when they are not grieving or putting their livelihood in danger via petty crimes. In terms of Van Sant style, the film is one of his most innovative (outside of the film holding the top spot) in terms of looks, with its unique range of colorful title cards, the pinhole vision that Mike uses on his road, or even the standout magazine rack sequence. The film is also a perfect follow-up to Drugstore Cowboy, and could easily double feature with it to this day. As someone not wholly familiar with Shakespeare’s Henry plays, I did not catch that My Own Private Idaho was an adaptation, so I will not only have to revisit it with that familiarity in tow, but I will have to take a look into James Franco’s re-cut, My Own Private River, as well.

4. Elephant (2003) Based solely on the nature and definition of a trilogy, a second film can make or break things. Gerry and Last Days share similarities in how quiet and isolated they are, so it makes sense that Elephant, part two of Van Sant’s Death Trilogy, would in many ways be the meat of the trilogy sandwich in terms of style and thematic substance. Elephant operates on several distinct levels based on Van Sant’s observations of the world going into the new millennium, as the film allowed him a foundation for both experimentation and examination by proxy. While the long takes and vast amount of distance traveled during said takes was present in all three films of the trilogy, Van Sant made a concentrated effort to make the shots look and feel similar to that of video games like the later Grand Theft Auto entries, hence a number of the shots being positionally locked during travel (often times a few feet behind the character at the center of that moment’s focus). There are ramp-downs of the frame rate to punctuate certain moments, and quite often the camera is thrown on a tripod and allowed to take in the array of high schoolers living their standard life. It is this mundane world-building aspect that not only gives the viewer a rapid but deep look into a handful of character’s lives, but it gives you a sense of the school’s social hierarchy while forcing you to reflect on where you once stood within it. Per the film’s clever title, the elephant in the room eventually appears in the form of Eric and Alex, the pair of school shooters meant to reflect the Columbine Massacre perpetrators. While school shootings weren’t an unknown phenomenon going into the 2000’s, Elephant became prophetic in its vision by releasing right before the numbers started rising at an alarming rate on these incidents. In that sense, Elephant holds the dual distinction of not only being one of Van Sant’s best films, but one of his most important. I will soon be looking into the 1989 Elephant film as well.

3. Drugstore Cowboy (1989) The power of Drugstore Cowboy as a modern-day narrative tragedy about the epidemic of prescription drugs, the dark allure of crime and the oddball way that broken people find solace in one another is immediately evident to anyone who has had the pleasure to see Gus Van Sant’s studio directorial debut. Where the film really stands out however, in my opinion, is the way that Van Sant is able to achieve his major studio look while deeply applying a very artistic and personal aesthetic to the cinematography and editing. The traditional looks are interspersed with the use of different film stocks, subtle blends of animation and flashes of stylistic edits that were almost certainly an inspiration for Darren Aronofsky’s “hip-hop editing” style. Add to this an incredibly intuitive and expressive core cast driven by the chemistry between Matt Dillon and Kelly Lynch (and a very early Heather Graham supporting appearance), plus a strong appearance by the always memorable Max Perlich, a fiery James Remar performance and an iconic cameo from William S. Burroughs. The jazz-influenced score not only makes key scenes livelier, but it is a symbolic statement on the drug use depicted in the film, while simultaneously playing counter to the soundtrack choices. Period, point-blank, Drugstore Cowboy is the kind of film that surely put the world on notice, and was a clear signal of the magnificent work that would follow.

2. Good Will Hunting (1997) If held up to the standards of what people consider to be good (or even classic) film, Good Will Hunting more than holds up to scrutiny. Visually there are a small handful of flourishes, and having Elliot Smith’s music accompany Will’s painful but enlightening journey has only become more of a bittersweet sting as the years go by. In terms of performances, everyone brought their A+ game to the table, be it the leading performances of Matt Damon, Robin Williams or Stellan Skarsgård, the supporting performances of Ben Affleck or Minnie Driver, or even the engaging nature of Cole Hauser and repeat scene stealer Casey Affleck. After a flurry of dedicated fandom viewings in the years following this film’s release, a very long period away from the film where I had leagues of personal growth, and a revisitation for this set of rankings, what I have discovered is that Good Will Hunting presents a wish fulfillment fantasy that was nearly incapable of being a reality in the pre-internet age for anyone other than a character like Will : an undiscovered genius with a degree from the school of hard knocks. In a world where people often wish they had the correct answer to every question, the looks and personality to be a social magnet, and the ability to back up any tough talk with stone hands, Will Hunting stood as an idealized example you wished you could peel off the screen and have some beers with. As the internet has invaded our lives, however, most everyone has turned into a keyboard version of Will Hunting, looking for fights online when not having briefly intimate Google sessions to flex our supposed knowledge. Much like Will, many people find that the knowledge minus the wisdom of worldly experience and vulnerability leaves you a shell of a person filled to the eyeballs with regret, and perhaps that is why this film only gets better as the years go by, and remains among the best of the Van Sant creations.

1. To Die For (1995) For the longest time, I avoided To Die For simply because I was not a fan of Nicole Kidman… the vast majority of her roles held no interest to me prior to To Die For (it took Eyes Wide Shut for me to really start paying attention to her), and because she was so key to the film, there was never a sense of urgency about seeing it. As time went by, however, I started to hear rumblings that To Die For may have been a bit ahead of its time, to the point that technology and social practices have caught up to some of the ideas presented in the film. I finally watched it for this ranking set, and man, I really missed the boat on this one. Plain and simple, this film is pure genius on every level. The presentation starts off documentary-esque, which not only allows for expedited distribution of backstory information, but immediately gives you an idea for the personalities of our key characters. Kidman’s portrayal of Suzanne stood as the textbook example for what has become commonly known as sociopathy, with her blind desire for fame and respect leading to a wake of human destruction. In terms of narrative pacing, the film proceeds like a match dropped at the endpoint of a long gasoline trail, slowly drifting towards the eventually point that everything blows up and damage must be assessed while blame and accountability must be handled, resulting in a truly powerful ending more than deserving of the heavy lifting that precedes it. The 24-hour news cycle was on the horizon in 1995, daytime talk shows and MTv’s The Real World had not shifted into the reality TV landscape that we know today, and while a few high profile cases such as the Menendez Brothers and Pamela Smart trial (the loose inspiration for this film) had happened, the bombshell and watershed trail that was the O.J. Simpson murder case was hot on the heels of To Die For’s release (the same month, actually). Stylistically, the film also bears striking resemblance to an updated version of Sunset Boulevard, be it knowingly or not. Long story short, the best films not only comment on the times in which they are created, but gain relevance as time passes, and To Die For handled both of these things phenomenally.

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maxwell-grant · 3 years

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Have you read the short story Norvell Page wrote as a wedding present for a Big Name Fan about Dick and Nita's first meeting? Any thoughts on it? My main is that Page does not go where you expect him to based on that description.

I did! Actually it was one of the first Spider stories I read. And yeah, to an extent, it's absolutely not what you'd expect from something set in The Spider's world. And on the other hand, it's absolutely what makes the most sense for these two characters. Because, yeah, Norvell Page could have done what he usually does, and written some over-the-top action where Dick and Nita happen to meet during it.

But no, that wouldn't work. Because, for all the turmoil and chaos in The Spider, for everything that he and Nita go through, there are many times when, sturdier even than Dick's resolve is their love for each other, the deep understanding and affection that carries them through hell itself time and time again.

And so, when it was time to showcase how such a romance started, Page wisely deviated from his usual narrative style, and instead told a very, very intimate and personal story, a long and extended conversation between the two, and more importantly, between Page and the reader. Between The Spider, and You, peering into The Spider through the eyes of Nita van Sloan.

I think for a start, it's an interesting coincidence that this meeting takes place on a cruise ship, and it involves Dick rescuing Nita from suicide. I say this because Margo Lane's first meeting with Lamont Cranston, in the pulps, was stated to have taken place on a cruise ship, and of course, the first time we see The Shadow in the pulps, he's rescuing Harry Vincent from suicide, and both Harry and Margo are The Shadow's main supporting characters. I'm not saying it was intentional, but it's an interesting fact. And more so because Dick doesn't really rescue Nita.

Her scarf whipped in the wind on deck, and it blinded her... and a hand touched her arm, and a voice spoke to her.

"If it's intentional, don't let me stop you," the voice said, "but you're heading straight for suicide."

Nita looked then at the stop toward which, blindly, she was going, and it was a chain barrier beyond which was the sea. And she looked at the man who had stopped her and it was Richard Wentworth. And his words had been a shock to her.

"You wouldn't try to dissuade me from suicide?" she asked.

Wentworth's brows were tilted whit a hint of mockery, but his eyes were very grave. "Every man is master of his own soul, and hence of his body," he said. "And your eyes are wide open and awake. So it would be a considered action. I'm not sure, under those circumstances, that I would have a right to meddle in another's business."

Nita said, "I think you can help me."

Wentworth shook his head. "Only you can help yourself," he said, "but it may be that someone else could help you find the way."

The whole text is a great example of how wonderfully realized of a character Nita van Sloan is in ways so unlike the typical pulp or superhero girlfriends at the time, because the text is written from her perspective, and half of the text reads like an extended character breakdown of who Nita is as a character and person. And the other half of the text is almost entirely comprised of Dick Wentworth spouting philosophy and talking in-depth about his reading of her and what's upsetting her, talking about God and fate and so on. And like so many other attempts to explore serious theological/psychological/philosophical/etc concepts explored through pulp fiction, half of it is bullshit, and half of it is fascinatingly disturbing and thought-provoking bullshit.

"Self-contempt," Wentworth's words were very quiet now. "Is second only to self-pity among the greater sins. Self-analysis is a dangersous thing. You need so much charity. And any person who is advanced enough to think about himself at all is apt to be over-stern in his judgment of himself."

He said to her, "If you don't honor youself, who will honor you?" And, a few moments later, "There is conceit in ruling others, but none in mastering yourself." And, "There is no arrogance so great as self-righteousness."

Nita clashed with him violently, "You are being self-righteous in judging me!"

Wentworth laughed. "I am speaking only truism. It is you who judge yourself, not I." He was serious, then. "My dear," he said, "I would be presumptuous to try to teach you. No man can teach another. But one who has been along that same trail would be less than a man if he failed to mark certain signposts and certain places where there is water to drink so that another, traveling that same road, may know where another struggled and what he has learned. But, as no man can travel a road for another, so no man can teach another. You must work out your own salvation."

"That sense of separation between the inner and outer self," Nita rushed on, "between yourself and the world ... while you were talking, I could almost feel that difference disappearing. The feeling is gone now, but ..."

"All progress is three steps forward and two back," Wentworth said, slowly, "and this is good because thus all ground is three-times covered and triply learned."

And I should probably clarify by this point that, it's not so much Dick Wentworth talking in this story, as it's Norvell Page himself. In fact, he admits as much in another letter he had sent to his readers that he was prone to talking philosophy by this point.

There was a time when the burden of writing just one more Spider seemed too much to undertake. (After all, the magazine is in it's ninth year!) But I never feel that way any more. I know now that the Spider actually does help people; that there are those who appreciate his idealism even though it is expressed in violence.

Especially in the last half dozen Spiders, beginning with the 100th I believe, I have tried very earnestly to teach a little of the philosophy and faith, of which we all need so much in these days.

Here's the thing about The Spider: It's not that the character is mad. Well, okay, he IS mad, I don't pull these over-the-top maniacal cartoon meme descriptions out of thin air, but that's because he lives in a batshit insane disaster horror world where there IS no sane response other than joining the carnage to overcome it. It's not just that Wentworth who is a madman. It's that Norvell Page was a mad man, and Dick Wentworth was Norvell's Page alter-ego, by the man's own admission.

Friends have informed me that I moved about the company as one in a trance: there were some who were concerned about my health, so oddly did I behave. Of course, only my body attended that occasion. My mind was entirely engrossed in Dick Wentworth's big problem - back in my study on a sheet of paper stuck in my typewriter

I did not dream that night; in the morning I restlessly paced my floor thinking, thinking, thinking. I sat down at the typewriter, stared at the words and the keys. Suddenly, as if by magic, Dick Wentworth seemed to move of his own volition. My hands raised, my fingers literally flew over the keyboard.

No matter how ridiculous it seems, I will always feel that Dick Wentworth, creature of my own fabrication, guided me through that tough scene.

No two people can live together without being influenced by each other to some extent. So constantly has Wentworth been in my mind, it is as if we were roommates - partners in everything.

Page has talked about how close of a connection he feels to the character, about many ways he's emulated his mannerisms, even some pretty embarassing anectodes where he claims to have "accidentally" used the character's "indomitable will" to scare waiters or drawing connections between The Spider's cast and real people he's met. Others who met him remarked that he talked of the "Spider" characters as though they were members of his family, or drinking companions.

Even before I got into The Spider, I had heard of rumors that he used to present or discuss stories in his office by putting on a cape and jumping from desk to desk, swinging a yard stick in his hand, and I can't find any source that confirms it, but I don't doubt it in the slightest. A lot of pulp writers had really weird lives, and Page was no exception. He was a journalist who frequently dug into his newspaper clippings for grisly stories to incorporate into narratives. I mean, just look at the dude's eyes, he's seen some shit.

When he was 3, his mother fell down a manhole while they were walking down a Chicago sidewalk. Norvell, terrified, thought she had dissappeared and never quite got over the experience.

When he was a little older, according to some family members, his parents had tickets for the Titanic and escaped disaster when Norvell begged them to cancel the trip for reasons unknown.

Norvell again played a hand in the family's escaping disaster when, one Christmas the family home caught on fire. Candles on the tree had been left burning. He quite arguably saved everyone's life. Waking first, he threw his mattress out of his window, grabbed his infant brother and sister and ran screaming through the hall as he went back to jump to safety. His screams woke his parents who then jumped to the mattress themselves.

Norvell lied about his age and experience to the Norfolk "Observer", claiming to have been writing for Richmond's "Times Dispatch" and was hired there.

His father managed Thomas Edison & Hugo Wurlitzer's ad accounts, and had always encouraged him to write, envisioning him as another Poe, whom his Great-Uncle had worked with as an editor

It is rumored that, in NYC, while at the "World Telegram", he became involved in fellow editor Varion Fry's effort to rescue artists and scientists from occupied Europe. President of the American Fiction Guild, he edited their newsletter for some time. Among his closest friends were fellow writers Ted Tinsley and L. Ron Hubbard and Surrealist painter Max Ernst.

WRITER'S REVIEW 35.08: Norvell W. Page, whose bloodthirsty Spider novels would do justice to Ghengis Khan, demonstrated his bloodlust the other day by accidentally killing a sparrow.

He wrote until 1943, when he abruptly stopped without warning. He dissappeared, for all intents and purposes, from both New York, the arts world and the pulp world for good.

His wife of 20 years, Audrey, had died and this, along with the U.S. involvment in WWII, led to his returning to VA where he would go on to be an intelligence worker in the Truman, Kennedy and Eisenhower Administrations.

He died suddenly of a heart attack in August of 1961.

Surviving family members do not know where he is buried.

I think this is a story that Page might have told differently had he written it earlier in his career, before he got tired, before he underwent his depression and loss of weight that caused him to briefly stop writing pulps all together, in a time period before the World War had cast an oppressive miasma on the world. In a time period where most of the horrifying nightmares he infused into the stories were really just that, nightmares, that he didn't live long enough to see turn into prophecies.

Because that's another thing about The Spider that makes the character more than just a batshit vigilante: As over-the-top as the stories were, a lot of them also inevitably turned out to predict some form of catastrophe in real life.

Written with an eye to the horrors festering in Germany at the time, The Mayor of Hell now reads as an infernal vision of the Homeland Security Act.

The poisoned products found in The Red Death Rain and The Pain Emperor call to mind the Tylenol killings of the summer of 1982, and the hundreds of poisoned products cases that followed.

Bio-terrorism plays large in the Spider mythos, with bubonic plague in Wings of the Black Death, rabies in The Mad Horde, and cholera in The Cholera King foreshadowing the Anthrax scare of 2001. The same could be said of the terror gases from Kingdom of Doom and Green Globes of Death and the nerve gas attack in the Tokyo subways in March of 1995.

Masters of the Death Madness unfolds as a nightmare meditation upon suicide, which has become one of the principal weapons of modern terrorists. One scene involves suicide bombers.

Another scene chillingly presages the Jonestown massacre of 1978: a grand procession lines up to drink from a bowl of poisoned wine while surrounding gunmen pick off anyone who refuses to drink.

The modern reader will recognize the psychological and sociological effects of a citizenry living under the threat of terrorism, so chillingly evoked by Page: the grating loss of safety, the imminent threats lurking in familiar objects, the way security can no longer be taken for granted, the kind of skittishness that empties a building at the first sign of an unknown white powder.

The eeriest of all the modern terrorist parallels appears in a novel called The City Destroyer, originally published in 1936. It features a set piece involving the collapse of a fictitious gigantic building, supposedly the tallest in New York City, called “The Sky Building.” When it fell, it wiped out five city blocks and claimed 1,000 lives. And perhaps it’s worth noting a further parallel that occurred in the 1970’s, when Pocket Books tried to revive the Spider; they repackaged him in a paperback series, striving for an image of what was then cool and thrusting Richard Wentworth into a contemporary setting.

When Pocket Books reprinted and updated The City Destroyer in 1975, the collapse of the Sky Building was replaced with the collapse of the World Trade Center - Stuart Hopen's essay on The Spider

Regardless of how much reality Page was infusing into his stories (because, again, he took a lot of his material from newspapers) or how much he foresaw intentionally or not, writing The Spider definitely took it's toll on him, and as the magazine neared it's final stretch with him on the helm, certain parts did began taking a more philosophical or religious tone, as more of Page's own beliefs, more of Page's attempts to use it as a vehicle to do good, began to bleed through the page.

And ultimately I think that's also what the story of Dick and Nita's first meeting is about, sort of an extended analysis not just of Nita, who Page himself said was a character he conceived as "the epitome of womanhood" and everything he thought admirable about it, but also of Wentworth's own character, and the things Page wanted to get through in his time.

Religion crept deeper into the series with each succeeding year. By all accounts, Norvell Page was a man of deep faith and spirituality who just happened to be writing the exploits of a hero whose idea of mercy was a bullet in the brain instead of the stomach.

In the 100th novel, Death and The Spider, Wentworth battles Death itself - or so it seems - and on Christmas Eve, he is shot so badly while protecting the President from assassination that everyone believes he's dead - including himself.

Dead or not, he forces himself to fight on, sustained only by reciting the 23rd Psalm over and over again.

Nita laughed and accepted a cigarette. "I don't know how to thank you."

"Don't," Wentworth's voice was sharp. "I told you I am only a channel. Don't confuse me with the Source."

It stopped words on Nita's lips, and it gave here a new respect and a new and sudden attitude toward this man beside her, this man who could laugh and jest with everyone about him, and who could teach like a very oracle ... and who carried about him such a sense of dedication to high purpose. He might seem apart from the world, but he was utterly and completely of it.

Nita said, half-laughing, half-serious, "May I like you? And may I admire your ... adjustment?"

"Don't envy my adjustment," he grinned at her. "Have one yourself." He snapped flame to her cigarette with his lighter, and his lean, strong hand was steady and sure as his eyes, as his voice. He was speaking to her but he was looking at the lighter. "I have found my mission," he said quietly.

#pulp heroes #the spider #nita van sloan #pulp fiction #norvell page #it's pretty much impossible to talk about the spider without sounding like a pulp writer yourself

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rosemary-is-in-pesterquest · 3 years

Note

ooh! I have thoughts on Eridan!

okay so, to me, Eridan ties into this thing that homestuck has going on with a lot of its more morally grey characters... the question of how responsible young people are for their negative qualities and actions, and where the age threshold for personal responsibility is.

the characters in homestuck all straddle this line between being young enough to consider them victims of the forces that influence them, while also old enough to understand what they're doing and how it affects others... especially because a lot of these kids come off as really smart for their age, and very precocious. we've all been through phases in our lives that make us cringe, not because we're ashamed of something harmless, but because we recognize that we had absorbed something harmful, and took longer than we wish we had to unlearn it. it could be as simple as being kind of a jerk in a misguided attempt to seem cool, or as dramatic as actually hurting someone in an attempt to remedy one's own insecurities by putting down others to seem better by comparison... but how far can you push that before people aren't willing to forgive? before people abandon the notion that better guidance and more appropriate role models could reform someone? and it's especially interesting when you consider how old homestuck's core audience might've been when they first encountered this story, and how it affected their perception of the characters if they saw them as peers, rather than as children from an adult's perspective.

so to talk about Eridan, I wanna frame this in terms of his classpect, because it actually goes a long way towards contextualizing his behavior. Eridan is a prince of hope, meaning that he destroys hope or uses hope to destroy... and this can be seen in practically every conversation he has. if Eridan is contacting someone, it is because he expects something of them. advice, or consolation, or a solution to a problem he's having... it's always something. when he contacts Kanaya, he wants her to auspistize between him and Vriska. when he contacts Feferi, he wants her to give him encouragement, and maybe date him when he asks. and in every case, the way he demands these things by being rude, whiny, or self pitying, makes people reluctant or unwilling to give him what he expects. he destroys what he hopes to obtain.

it goes deeper than that though. Eridan has absorbed this ideology of sea dweller superiority from living on Alternia... and he actually takes it way farther than it even makes sense to. the aristocracy on Alternia use the lower class for all sorts of menial work that they feel entitled not to have to do themselves. they might have the ability to freely cull individual low bloods for any reason, but eradicating all land dwelling trolls would leave a lot of unpleasant yet necessary tasks with no one to do them. I don't think Eridan actually wants to live in a reality where sea dwellers have to pick up the slack of doing things like sanitation work, or construction or something... but another concept that is heavily tied to the hope aspect is delusion. Eridan is exaggerating. he's trying to agree with Alternia's ruthless class structure so hard that it's actually kind of absurd. but Feferi calls him on that... she says she thinks that he self sabotages on purpose. because he knows, at least in some capacity, that the consequences of getting what he "wants" would actually be really uncomfortable to live with.

so not only is Eridan's goal to destroy... it is also a false goal that he constantly undermines. and all of his waffling between grandstanding and self pity destroys his romantic prospects, which are what he actually seems to want the most.

if you look at the way Eridan pursues relationships, he actually makes a lot of logical sense, but not a lot of emotional sense. he's idealized the act of perfectly filling the relationship requirements of each quadrant. he wants Feferi to be his matesprit, which is purely based on the fact that she's high enough on the hemospectrum to be an appropriate match in terms of status. he wants Vriska to be his kismesis, and Kanaya to be their auspistice, and there are hints that Karkat might've been someone he was considering for moiraillegience, though it wasn't emphasized as much. and there you go! his goal is specific, but it's based more on ideals than on the actual needs and feelings of the people involved, and it's totally self centered... he always wants them to cater to his own needs. the reason why he gets as nihilistic as he does on the meteor, is because all of his endeavors to achieve these relationships are falling through. he feels like he has no hope of mending his existing connections, because he still only sees them in terms of people either giving him, or not giving him, what he wants. but the rest of their race is dead. as the last twelve trolls in existence, they only have each other as romantic options. and as Eridan gets more and more desperate, he gets more and more demanding, which is the exact quality that drives everyone away from him to begin with, and it culminates in him having a "if I can't have what I want then nobody can have any of their hopes either" meltdown.

to backtrack a bit, I wanna reconsider questions such as, when is a kid old enough to be held responsible for their own negative qualities? like... when are you comfortable with ceasing to blame environmental factors? when are they just a bad person? is it after they've refused a certain number of chances to make better choices? when do they reach an age, or level of bad behavior, that makes you think they can't be helped to reform from these negative qualities? where does an adult lose their patience for the idea that a kid is just a victim of their upbringing?

obviously Feferi is Eridan's peer, but these are basically the questions she grapples with when she talks to Eridan. it's like growing up next door to a kid whose parents have some aggressively wrong-headed political stances. as you grow, that kid might mirror their parents' way of thinking... and by the time the two of you are in your teens, it's hard to ignore how much of a jerk that kid is becoming. but you've seen them at every step of their development. you know where it comes from. maybe theirs is the dominant political belief in the community, even if your own parents aren't like that. maybe you wonder if you would've agreed with them if you grew up under their circumstances. you've felt the pressure, but you haven't lived in it like they have, and maybe if they just had the chance to grow up under different conditions, they wouldn't be this way. and you are aware that you could be an influence on them... maybe they need you to help them see another perspective. you always got along so well as kids. when did things even change? and that's kind of where I imagine Feferi is at when we're introduced to her and Eridan. it's a crossroads between believing that you might still matter enough to them to change their outlook, and the persistence of their ingrained beliefs. it's tiring to do that kind of work, over a long period of time, to minimal results. when is the appropriate time to give up? in this way, Feferi's own hopes for Eridan fade over time. she says at one point that she was mainly acting as his moirail so he wouldn't try to underfeed her lusus and kill the land dwellers that way. she's not sure how serious he is, and she can't take that risk. deep down, I'm pretty sure Eridan knew he was never actually going to commit a genocide... but his need to grandstand, and legitimate belief in his caste superiority, had convinced Feferi enough that she still felt obligated to manage him as though he was a real threat.

these characters are thirteen years old. they're right at the edge of childhood and adolescence... right at the age where children aren't quite so innocent. they want to assert themselves. they aren't mature, so there's a lot of responsibility that they still shouldn't be trusted with yet, but they've become aware enough to feel like that's demeaning, and to want to be taken seriously. in an effort to make people acknowledge them without looking down on them, they'll try just about anything. they don't have the experience to know what they're doing yet, so it doesn't always work in their favor, and that's frustrating. you can see bits and pieces of this in homestuck's characters. like with the way they try to paint themselves as an authority on something, or shit talk each other in order to emphasize their own strengths. it's a really interesting theme, because homestuck pushes some of these young characters really far in terms of how bad the things they've done can be, or how much their lived experiences have taught them that what they're doing is acceptable. they can be really self aware in some ways, and come off as really childish in others. it's hard to know what you'd do about them in real life... and your answer changes depending on your own age and perspective. it's a really cool gray area to poke around in, and homestuck is excellent at it.

wtf I like Eridan now

#when you think about it a lot eridan really was just a misguided 13 yr old

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queroze · 3 years

Text

Holding back

Happy holidays, @worrynotso ! I hope you enjoy!

@sanderssidesgiftxchange

Summary: A vampire merman and a marine biologist meet. Love at first bite? Not quite....

Angst with a happy ending, Analogical

TW: its a vampire mermaid: fangs, blood, water, biting, non-consensual biting

Word Count: 3533

Link to AO3

Virgil was hungry.

Very hungry. It had been far too long since he had eaten. He was desperate. Weak and dizzy he looked up from his cave of coral on the seafloor, the sandy muck and seaweed around him swirled as he moved. Shadows moved over him, blotting out the small amount of light that managed to make it to his glowing purple eyes.

Food.

A grouping of large sea animals cast dark shapes above him. They were too large to be fish. And it didn’t matter what they were. If they moved in groups and they were as bulky as they seemed, they were warm blooded. And that’s what Virgil needed. His stomach panged as he moved out of his cave and up and out with a quick flick of his tail. The bodies were sleek and quick.

Dolphins.

He swam, lithe and fast toward a pod of dolphins. Darting, chasing, gabbing, squeaky skin just out of reach. They scattered, each going a different direction, effectively confusing Virgil's luminescent violet eyes. Because there wasn't an old weak one among them, Virgil didn't get a chance to pick one off. He let his body fall listless to the bottom of the sea, the sand catching him and puffing around him.

Virgil would have never tried for a dolphin were he not confused by hunger gnawing away at his gut. His hands went into the sand, hoping to find some kind of mollusk to chew on at least. It wouldn't give him the nutrition he craved, but it would at least give his pointed teeth something to do, rather than him biting his own tail. The thick, strong and rough appendage was tucked under him as his thin pale hands came up empty of shells.

Blood.

Mammal blood. That's what he needed. Warm, live and pulsing. Heart pumping away into his mouth, veins his glass, teeth his cutlery. Seals were ideal. Slow on land, thick with blubber sure, but at least it wasn’t that rubber band bounce of a dolphin. Whales were marginally better than their squeaking cousins. But also, extremely hard to catch. But their size made it easier to feed off a single one for months before Virgil sucked them dry. But he needed something, anything now.

There was no warning when the net fell on him, other than the slightest change in the shadows that surrounded the merman in the sand. It tangled him, caught his hands and arms, twisted at the base of his tail, cut into his skin. The net was making it hard to breathe, restricting his movements, until all he could do was a pathetic wiggle, sand filling his mouth as he struggled. After what seemed like an eternity, water catching in his gills frantically, a new movement happened. Virgil was being pulled up.

Virgil thrashed against the net, as he moved from the sea floor thru the empty middle expanse of the ocean. The thin twine cut into his tail, his back, his face.

But up he went.

His sharp teeth were useless, because he could not get purchase with his mouth against the tight weave of the net. But that didn’t stop him from biting the water uselessly.

And up he went.

The merman’s arms were pressed, folded awkwardly at his sides, as he attempted to claw at the net to no avail. The short stout claws would have done the job in a hurry if he could only get to the net.

Still up he went.

Until he broke the surface, rump first, tail flopping his own face as the full force of gravity hit his body dripping over the water. It was dark. It could have been a day with a storm, or a clear night for all Virgil was aware. Something jabbed at his side as he slowly turned in his dangle. Rough voices excited and fearful hit Virgil's ears as his body turned sluggishly around. A fishing boat, men in bright yellow shiny coats, as rubbery looking as a dolphin. Virgil snarled at the men, wiggling like a worm on a hook.

Something jerked and his body was moving closer to the boat. The movement was smoother than the easiest swim. The merman kept thrashing, snapping and snarling in vain. When he got close enough, hands grabbed him, callus and rough, pulling him into the boat. There was yelling, incomprehensible and confusing. The people aimed the merman over a large hole in the deck, dark and menacing to Virgil's violet eyes.

Trapped.

Virgil was dropped into the darkness, the deck of the ship disappearing above him. He landed with a splash into water. The water was wrong. It was too warm, too still, too hard, too scratchy. It stung his glowing eyes, the gills along his neck and his tender and pale upper body skin. Virgil’s body dropped like a stone, until it hit the hard and smooth bottom. The net loosened around his body and Virgil moved and thrashed until he was free, the net an evil puddle on the smooth floor.

Free finally to move about Virgil swam quickly around a small circle. A tank, he was in a tank. Legends of humans and their cruelty were abundant. Catching, killing, eating, maiming. He had heard them all….before. Before the only thing that sustained him was blood. Before when flesh was what he needed to survive. Before his tail turned dark, his torso pale and his eyes glowed. He had heard about the cruelty of humans.

And according to Virgil, those legends were right.

Chapter 2

"Unusual coloring on the upper quadrant of the specimen indicates a wider variation in population than previously hypothesized." Logan pressed pause on the recorder. He cleared his throat and turned to the merman in the tank. The 9-foot-long merman was laying at the bottom of the tank, its eyes tracking Logan's movement. Pressing play again he continues. "Incisors and canines are also 60% larger than other specimens that we have studied." Logan continues to take notes walking up the ramp that curved around from the bottom of the tank to the top. He paid no mind to the glowing violet eyes following him.

"The specimen is also at the point of starvation. Live fish, dead fish, and processed food have been offered and so far, rejected. The specimen…." Logan, nearing the top of the tank, checked the tag. Each of the merpeople that have been caught had been assigned a letter. This specimen was assigned the letter V. "The specimen V, as it will henceforth be referred to, seems to be on the brink of malnourishment. Because of this, in order to keep the specimen V alive in captivity for as long as possible for optimum scientific inquiry, some kind of nutrition needs to be entering its system without delay. Intravenous methods are being considered at this time."

Logan looks down into the water holding the merman, purple eyes look back from the bottom of the large tank. The merman wasn’t moving. But it’s fluttering gills and open eyes the only thing betraying the fact that it was alive. "The specimen V has been tracking me all the way up the ramp. That suggests alertness and awareness of its surroundings. This is encouraging as its malnourishment has not yet affected its cognitive abilities." Logan bent down to take a sample of the water. "A water sample of the specimen is going to be taken at...gaAHHHH!"

As quick as lightning, a pale arm breaks the surface of the water and pulls the marine biologist down under. Artificial saltwater fills Logan's mouth and lungs burning his esophagus and nostrils. He fights for the surface, reaching with his hands but the edge is getting further away. He fights against the strong thin hands that hold him, one around his torso, and the other around his face. But already the lack of air makes it hard to fight, to struggle, to get away, to get to the edge of the pool that was only 2 feet away.

A clawed hand tugged his hair, pulling his head back. Teeth sharper than scalpels cut into his neck, staining the water red around him. Logan's body, already heavy with clothes, is impossibly heavier as blood is drained from him. Darkness creeps the edges of his watery vision. Logan is being drained and drowned at the same time. The only thought in his head, clear despite facing impending death was: What is going to kill me? The water in my lungs or my blood in the water?

Blackness overtakes him.

Thump

Thump-thump

Stinging, salt and chlorine erupts from his face. Logan coughs, fresh new air burns and it begins to fill his chest. He is laying precariously close to the edge of the tank. Something hard and plastic is pressed into Logan’s hands by someone pale and wet, his apparent rescuer. His glasses. Logan smashes them onto his face, blinking away the harsh water.

The merman looks back, mouth painted with blood. Logan's blood. Logan clutched the wound on his neck, still wet. But from his own blood gushing forth or from the saltwater clinging to him, he can't tell. He scrambles up, but almost falls back into the tank for his trouble.

"Dude. Chill."

Logan tries to focus on the voice, but as it happened to be coming from the direction of the merman, the very same merman who currently has Logan's blood on his lips, Logan was looking for any other source of the sound. Hand still clenched on his neck, stemming any potential blood from escaping him he finally makes eye contact with the…. vampire merman.

"Sorry about that." The voice of the vampire merman was low, gravely, and rocky in all the right places.

"Biting me?!" Logan asks, finding his own voice to be higher and raspier than it normally was.

"Yeah...I uh...hadn't eaten. And you were right there." The vampire merman actually looked embarrassed, his hand on the back of his neck, eyes downcast.

Logan looked dumbstruck at the sea creature talking to him. None of the other specimens had even said hello, let alone mumbled an embarrassed apology for blood sucking. But Logan's instinct for correction overrode the astonishment.

"You didn't eat. We provided a variety of options."

"I don't eat fish." Came the simple yet significant reply.

"You suck blood." Logan hypothesized, hand still on his neck, still stemming whatever bleeding was happening there.

"Mammal blood" The vampire merman corrected with his rocky stormy voice confirming what Logan was about to say.

"Mammal blood. You drink mammal blood." Logan plops hard on his rump, blinking in disbelief, his hand still on his neck. It was cold, not warm. Did that mean there was no bleeding?

The vampire merman reaches out and gently moves Logan's hand from his neck. "Your fine. You won't bleed out." The care in his gravelly voice is apparent.

Logan goes along with the movement, looking wide-eyed at the most unique creature he has ever studied. "I won't? But the blood...my blood...it was in the water."

Specimen V's pectorals turn a dark purple. "Yeah, my bad. I was starving, so it got everywhere. Usually I'm cleaner than that."

Logan nods dumbly unsure how to respond. He finally looks at his hand, the one that was supposed to be stopping the blood from the bite wound. It was clean, as Specimen V had said. “How?” was the only word the biologist could form.

“oh…uh…I don’t really know?” The merman looks everywhere but at the human. “Something to do with the venom….”

“Venom?!?!” Logan says moving away from the fanged monster.

“Woah dude…It won’t kill you…probably…” The merman winces. “I’ve never fed off a human before…So probably.”

Logan shakes his head a hundred questions lighting up in his brain. “How are you talking? None of our other specimens talked.”

Specimen V's looks at the slightly cowering human with sharp eyes. “Other …specimens?”

“The other merpeople.”

“How many?” The fanged voice is all sharp rocks and crumbling cliffs.

“You are the 22nd” Logan says scooting away from the merman, the tank, and all the mysteries they hold.

“Oh no…” The merman grabs at the scientist’s ankle like lightning, even quicker now he was out of the water. “You’re not just going to leave. You have to let me out of here.”

The vampire merman, after displaying a surprising number of emotions, now shows the most surprising one of all: fear. Terror is etched into every line of his skin, bone, and body. From the way his muscles were taunt as he held Logan from escaping. To his pale face, violet eyes frantic and darting, looking for an exit. His angled jaw set, fangs poking out of his lips menacingly.

Logan pulls his leg hard trying to get away, but the creature's grasp is tight. “Let me go, I cannot release you from here.” He reasons confidently.

Specimen V, eyes still looking for a way back to the ocean himself, finally settles on the man he is holding distrust in his eyes. “How do I know you will?”

“You don’t.”

Chapter 3

Virgil lets go of the human. There wasn’t much more he could do. His captor was probably telling the truth, as there was nothing within reach that looked like the ocean to him. The human scrambles up and runs down a curve and out of sight. And Virgil waits, skin feeling tight as the too clean saltwater dries on his skin. He rubs the gills on his neck in a self-conscious movement. He could dip back in the tank with the water that was all wrong, relieve his gills, give his tiny lungs a break. But being out of the tank gave him a better view of the goings on of the human. The human who had been gone for an exceedingly long time….

“Hey! Don’t you dare do anything funny!” Virgil calls, his voice echoing unpleasantly off the metal walls making him wince from the reverb.

Nothing calls back. In fact, is suspiciously silent. Virgil pulls himself forward, tail dragging on the grates under him. “Are you there?” he calls again, voice high and tight in suppressed panic.

Then footfalls, fast and heavy are coming up the ramp that hugs the tank. The man comes into view, this time he is armed with a spear as long as Virgil.

“No! No please!” Virgil yells holding his arms up to protect himself.

“Get back in the tank!” The human yells at him.

“Please! Please just let me go!” Virgil cowers now, the human getting closer. He had never seen spears up close, but the victims of such weapons left little to the imagination.

“Back in the tank! Did you really think I am going to let such a unique specimen go?” The scientist laughs hauntingly. “In addition, you speak. You and I are going to have a number of conversations.” With a free hand he holds up an impromptu muzzle made from a bungie cord and some extremely large fishing hooks. “One way or another.”

The cruelty of humans is well known from before his tail turned dark, his skin pale and his eyes glowed. But never did he hear of the cold calculation of a man of science. Of an ambition and ivory towers. No, if Virgil had heard about that he would have starved himself at the bottom of the tank, with its too clean saltwater and too smooth floor.

And there he heads now, splashing sideways, spear poking at his side, just this side of cutting into his skin. He looks at the man bearing the spear defiantly. “Someday you will get too close again. And I will not hold back.”

The vampire mermaid and the human scientist stare each other down, each one a monster in the other’s eyes.

Chapter 4

Months pass.

And Virgil is fed. Not always on purpose, and sometimes on accident, but he no longer starves.

Months pass.

And Logan learns more. Not always on purpose, and sometimes on accident, but he knows more now than he ever has.

Months pass

And each of the monsters grow softer to the other.

Logan is kinder and gentler now to the merman he has learned the name of. Logan learns he doesn’t like it too bright, too warm, or too loud. The biologist learns that the merman in his care knows all about the prey he hunts, doesn’t know anything of his kind. That after being left for dead by the one who had bitten him, he had not interacted with merpeople since. He had no mate, nor friends.

Virgil is softer and sweeter now to the biologist he has learned the name of. Virgil learns he hates to repeat himself, dislikes not being listened to, and craves praise. The merman learns that the biologist who harbors him knows all about the creatures of the sea, but knows nothing about his own race. He didn’t know how to interact with them, how to find a mate, and how to make friends.

As they pity each other for what they don’t have, each develops a want. One that they each try and squash.

When Logan feels the want, he refuses to meet Virgil’s eyes.

When Virgil feels the want, he can’t stop looking at Logan.

Months pass.

And the want grows.

Logan is reading to Virgil. Virgil is on the outside of the tank, laying on a makeshift sofa made from an inflatable raft. Logan is on a stool, hunched forward, nearing the end of the tale. Virgil is enraptured by Logans voice, the story, everything, his eyes drilling into the hunched figure in front of him. As Logan concludes the book, he closes it and looks up at Virgil, meeting his eyes.

“Did you enjoy that one?”

“Yes….and I liked you reading it.”

This catches Logan off guard. “Only because you’ll get the pages wet.”

“I like your voice Lo.” Virgil says his own stormy and rocky tones that send shivers up Logans spine.

“Your sample size isn’t that large.”

“I still like it. Its soothing.”

“It’s monotone.”

“Same difference.”

Logan smirks setting down the book. Virgil perks up. “What are you doing now?”

“Not leaving. Don’t worry. Its Friday night, so I have no plans.”

“Lo?” Virgil’s voice is soft, like the foamy part of the waves.

Logan looks toward the merman, and notices his chest is a darker purple again. That happens sometimes. But Virgil assured him it was not bad. But it was still curious. “Yes Virgil?”

“You can plan to stay here. Then you would have plans.”

“Well reasoned. That does make me feel better. Plans created and executed. I am now fulfilled.” Logan says deadpan.

The merman laughs, fangs catching the light.

“How long has it been since you’ve eaten?” Logan asks undoing his tie already.

The purple on Virgil’s chest gets darker, eyes not leaving Logan’s face. “I mean…. we could find someone else…”

“It’s the weekend. It isn’t good when you go three days. If you drink today, we will get you someone else on Monday.”

Virgil’s stare intensifies. “Alright.”

Logan comes closer, and sits next to Virgil, shivering next to the colder merman. Virgil reaches for Logans head and pulls it down into his lap gently. The merman cradles Logan’s head, his neck exposed and waiting. Logan breathes steady under him. Virgil bites, fangs going deep into the pulse of the human’s veins. Logan hisses until the toxin makes its way into the wound, numbing the area. Logan’s eyes flutter closed, the toxin and the blood loss a potent combination. Virgil drinks deeply, brine and blood in this mouth and on his tongue. He finishes with a press of his lips on the open wounds, and they knit close, new skin tender and shiny.

Logan opens his eyes, and he sits up unsteadily. His face close to Virgil’s, he can feel the sharp breath on his cheek. His eyes drop to the dark purple chest of the vampire merman. Virgil’s chest was always dark purple when he drinks from Logan, but never when he drinks from someone else. When Logan smuggles him someone homeless, drunk, or drugged it’s a ghostly pale white of his normal coloring.

Virgil tips Logan’s chin up, their eyes meeting. “My eyes are up here sailor.” He whispers playfully.

Logan swallows, eyes stopping at the lips of the merman, one of his fangs caught on the outside of his bottom lip. “Virgil?”

“Yeah?” As he speaks, the fang is tucked back to where it belongs.

Eyes still on his lips Logan surges up and kisses the vampire merman. Virgil, surprised, is knocked back, into the inflatable raft, his tail squeaking against the rubber. The biologist, embarrassed, scrambles back.

“Oh no you don’t…” Virgil grabs the human by the ankle and pulls him into the raft. “I have been wanting to do that for months!”

Logan laughs crawling into the raft, “Why didn’t you?”

“I was already drinking…it seemed a lot more to ask…but now…” Virgil brings Logan into a Vampire kiss, fangs pressing into Logan’s lips. “Now…I’m not holding back.”

#sanders side fic #sanders sides #logan sanders #virgil sanders #vampire #mermaid #vampire mermaid #so crazy it just might work #fanfic #sanders sides fanfiction #quewritesalot

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doomstypewriter · 3 years

Note

would u do forbidden love, secret relationship moceit? i was thinking a pseudo-historical au, ideally with homophobia as the motivator for the forbidden/secret part but if u absolutely dont wanna do that janus being an outlaw would also work i suppose. just some whacky bois sneaking through windows to hang out, nearly being caught smooching, funny hijinks, then! sudden melancholy about how in love they are & never being able to show it

Finally, anon, I am done!!!! I gladly present to you the final chapter, just in time for Valentine's Day (call that timing (once you read the thing you'll get this reference)).

Hope you enjoy it, and thank you for giving me the chance to write something this cool!

<< Chapter 1 AO3

We call it an affair because it's a forbidden romance

Word count: 9376

Summary: Janus is dumb. He may be intelligent, but intelligence isn't at odds with poor foresight. So he makes a mistake that can get him killed. Romina is very gay and very angry. Patton is confused but does his best. Virginia is the only one with a functioning brain cell. Or, how a chain of misunderstandings almost ruins everything.

TW: Seemingly Unsymphathetic fem!Roman (not really, she is just feeling very hurt and angry and it is all resolved eventually), mild transphobia, mentions of blood, mentions of violence (there is a sword fight), mild misogyny, internalised misogyny, internalised homophobia, homophobia, mild threats of violence (again, the sword fight), swearing... I think that's all, but if you spot anything else tell me.

Chapter 2: The rest of their lives

The light raised above the darkness and it was morning again. In two days time, Patton would be meeting the countess, just so he could start properly courting her, not because his father wanted to get a title and land for his son. To suggest such a thing would be ridiculous. Scandalous even!

Reputation ruining…

Janus got up from his cot, unfit for the heavy silks that covered it, some stolen, some gifted by Patton. He looked at the things surrounding him. His house wasn’t so bad. It was in fact bigger than the places inhabited by most peasants, and a palace compared to the things in which people like him had to sleep… the things where he had had to lay in. The house consisted of one room, like most, but the size made up for the lack of divisions.

This was a cave reimagined as a home. The walls had been lined with timber and thoroughly coated with stucco, the curving grooves of its application were not that noticeable, Janus was not a professional but he had certainly done his best. Aside from the absence of windows, it didn’t resemble a cave. There was a section of rock he had left uncovered at the very back, where water seeped out of the wall and provided him with a steady source of the thing. He would prefer not drinking watered-down stucco.

He began to get dressed. All of his clothing was stored within a small but beautifully carved cupboard he had stolen from a manor in Bohemia. He had plenty of garments from here and there, five outfits in total! Stolen as well.

In the house, what he hadn’t crafted himself he had stolen. Perfume bottles from France, boots and gold from the Kingdom of Aragon, a stiletto and a medium-sized silver mirror from the Republic of Venice… he even had two tapestries.

But, even then, it was nothing compared to Villa Morandi. He surrounded himself with opulence to quench his thirst for wealth, the easy life of those above. His home was an illusion, a taste of richness, in which a poor man could pretend. This was not a place where Patton could live, let alone want to.

If he was to spread rumours, then what? A plan of keeping Patton to himself would not succeed and his lover’s life would be as good as done.

After packing his fanciest clothes and putting on the ones he used for travelling, he set to leave. He carried his stiletto, a grappling hook and a sword, all three perfectly hidden under his cape.

Using a hidden pulley system, Janus moved the boulder that hid the entrance to the cave, returning it to its place afterwards. No one would find his home no matter how long he left.

The path down the slope of the mountain twisted and turned. Janus was in no disposition to waste time, so he went across the forest. Half-lost in the trees lay the cabin of a woodsman’s family. A while ago, Janus had left them a steed along with one florin. The family cared for the horse, not knowing exactly what to do. As the horse appeared and disappeared, bringing them thirty soldi each time, they began to get the gist. Upon reaching the cabin, he headed for a well-built timber shed where his horse waited, fed and rested.

He left thirty soldi on a small stool at the corner of the shed, mounted his horse, and galloped away.

The Regio county manor was two days away by horse.

Patton left yesterday, as his carriage would take longer to get there, stops and all, than one man on horseback.

Janus paused at the base of the mountain. With one whistle his hawk surfaced from the sea of trees to land on his forearm-length glove.

“You are to find Signor Morandi’s and Patton’s carriage. Follow them without drawing attention to yourself, find me and report to me at dusk. If anything urgent were to happen, come to my side immediately”.

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

His room at the inn felt quiet despite the muffled sounds from down below, where people chanted and told stories.

The cool breeze wouldn’t be half-unpleasant if he wasn’t leaning on the ledge of a wide-open window. I also didn’t help that he was in his underwear. Father would certainly scold him for letting himself be seen in his linen undershirt. Some may think he was waiting for some disreputable company.

It was more hoping than waiting. Also, Janus couldn’t possibly be disreputable. Out of costume, he had no reputation whatsoever. He liked to keep it that way. His real identity had no friend nor foe, in that he found safety. It had been hard to trust each other. Believe a criminal could be good. Let the son of a merchant become a friend, form an opinion of Janus, the original one. A part of him felt so proud, to see him grow, believe him, love him… another part found it sad for people to miss on such a wonderful person.

Nights like this made him nostalgic. The first floors had tallow candles cast their diffuse glow onto the streets. Cobblestones seemed softened by the warm tint. Darkness rendered malleable to the light. It all made him miss Janus even more.

The touch of his palm, holding the weight of his lazy head, a poor substitute to Janus’ hand.

On such a night they had met. How scared he had been! A bit angry too… captivated as well, even if he couldn’t admit it to himself at the time.

Patton smiled in contemplation.

He had spotted him right there, sitting out of the adjacent window, ready to jump and make a run for it.

“Stop! You will get hurt, good sir!” at first he did not realise the true nature of what was happening.

To think Janus could be harmed by jumping off a window! He knew better now. Balconies were his true weakness. Thankfully, the only balconies he climbed now were his.

“Oh, I’ll stop at once. Care to join?” Janus said as he pulled a stiletto out of his cape.

“You are stealing!”

“I would never!” he feigned indignation.

“Then what is it that you are doing, good sir?”

Oh, Patton could still hear the laugh that had followed, velvety and insincere. It brought a chill up his spine.

“Stealing, of course”.

“That is vile!”

“Is it? You’re all allowed to provide for yourselves by buying fabrics and goods created by others. Am I not doing as you do? Are merchants not thieves? How can you tell a vile man from another? What do you know of this world, dear?”

“Well… I... I know for certain that the woman in that room, the one you are stealing from, sir, is not wealthy. She may look the part, but that is thanks to heirlooms. Her family has been impoverished for two generations”.

“Does it make you virtuous to spread the secrets of others? Isn’t gossip frowned upon by those of…” he lifted his gold rosary from under his shirtfront with the tip of his blade “your inclination”.

“I am merely explaining so you may be persuaded to accept my gold in exchange for returning her possessions”.

“Why shouldn’t I just take your gold and keep her stuff too?”

“We may be allowed to provide for ourselves in ways others may view as vile, but should we condemn those who cannot on the account of not wanting to express vileness or having no means to? I do not mean to intrude, sir, but the thoughts behind your words betray your stance in this dilemma. You shall find more satisfaction in stealing what you believe was already stolen. A poor woman is not worth your pride, nor ridding you of the chance to make me lose mine”.

Janus frowned as if he didn't expect him to say something like that. Later he would confess to him that what shocked him was hearing him say something smart. It keeps on surprising him whenever he does.

"Quick, hand me your gold and I might consider it".

"No, sir, I expect you to leave what you have taken first".

He did try to hide his eagerness. But, how his cape rustled, once inside, betrayed him. What kind of thief was so noisy? He thought to himself. Once they had built trust, Janus explained that he had been quite shaken up by his offering. He neglected to mention the reason why. Patton imagined it was because he found his disposition to put himself in harm’s way for others ridiculous.

The thief’s half-concealed face emerged from the window.

"Will three florin do?" Patton asked, pulling his coin bag.

Janus looked at the rich embroidered fabric almost in awe. If only, for a second.

“I suppose…”

“Well, then, there you go, sir”.

His hands pried the bag open, ready to pull the golden coins.

“Hmm…”

“What is the matter?”

“I could always just go back and get all the stuff”.

“Is it not enough for you?” he showed him the three pieces of gold in his open palm.

It was as if he could almost feel him licking his lips. The part of him, dark, often chastised, made him shake and quiver. His knees felt weak, somehow. This hunger in the thief’s eyes, almost akin to wonder, at the sight of gold, as if he had never seen so much before, it made him want to… dear Lord, no!

“To put such a price on mending the error of my ways” he laughed, staring right through him with those green eyes. Patton’s knees threatened to buckle for real. “It isn’t very much, now, is it?” he leaned forward, and if Patton leaned as well maybe he could… what? Fall from this height for a pretty thief?

“What do you want, then?”

That had been a first for Janus, Patton was certain. He didn’t quite get his reaction, but, picturing it again some days later he figured the thief was taken aback.

“Uh… tha-that fancy coin bag of yours will do. Consider me a gentleman, I wouldn’t want to fleece you completely, the first time”.

“Oh, I’m sure”.

“Ha”, Janus stared at him in disbelief.

Patton felt mortified.

“I-I mean…”

“Are you always this eloquent or is it just poor skill when it comes to existing?” the sentence did not sound as condescending as it should have, more like borderline flirtatious.

Words would not come to him.

“The coin bag, please”.

His arm moved on his own, careful to avoid touch. It would be a bad idea to give this man a chance to tip him over the ledge. For a moment, he hesitated. This bag had been gifted to him by his father, he had two made for the two of them. It was two of a kind. But… the woman next door’s wellbeing was far more valuable than any piece of fabric. No matter how treasured.

Janus dangled the bag from his pointer finger, right next to his face. Side-eying his price, he spoke again:

“Looks like the virtuous are also the most stupid”.

The thief readied himself to jump. Patton knew he had to say something, because, this moment, it told him he would regret it if he didn’t.

“It is not about virtue, but goodness”.

For a moment he thought he had heard him stop breathing. Then, he jumped. Patton jumped in his place as well. He couldn’t help but bring his entire torso out of the window.

There he was! Running. He had made no noise in his landing.

Just when he was about to disappear into the shadows, this weird new acquaintance looked at him one last time.

Back then, Janus vanished for a while. Patton had come to learn that he would always return one way or another.

Like now.

A shadow moved, carefully, on the roof tiles at the other side of the street. Patton whistled, trying not to be too loud, not that anyone below would hear him. Knowing it had been spotted, the shadow flew to his side.

“Hello, big guy”.

After a rustle of feathers, the hawk landed at his left.

“Why the grumpy face?” Patton laughed. “I know it’s just your brow feathers. You’re so handsome” he caressed the top of the bird’s head with one finger.

“He sent you all the way here. You must be tired. I don’t have any food for you here, but I’m sure I can get you something to drink”.

Patton poured some water into a basin and carried it to the window, he placed it on the floor.

“There, it’s supposed to be used to wash your face… I guess you can do that too if you want”.

The hawk flew inside and drank it all dry.

“You ought to tell Janus”, he began saying as he bent his knees, “to stop worrying so much. I am okay. I know he is concerned, but it will all be fine. Also, when you get home, ask him when is he going to let me visit, I’d love to go”.

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

The carriage clattered over the stone pathway. Inside, the curtains were drawn, but a pang of curiosity made it so Patton moved them, ever-so-slightly, aside to take a discrete look.

Big was an understatement when one tried to describe the Regio manor. It was a three-storey building comprised of a first floor with a rusticated facade that had four small windows on each side, the centre being interrupted by a wide mason staircase presided by a classic structure of pilasters, then followed by an entablature and a pediment with the most ornate of tympanums. He imagined the staircase lead to the primo piano nobile. To both sides of the main entrance were two sets of four architrave windows built in perfect symmetry. Above it all, was the third floor, which mostly mirrored the second, but had a total of ten slightly smaller windows, as there wasn’t another central element to interrupt their flow.

If this marriage agreement moved forward, one day, this would be technically his. It will be his wife’s, but, as spouses, they are supposed to share it all. Villa Morandi will be hers as well, it was only fair.

A part of him felt bad for not having had the chance to keep contact with Lady Romina Regio previous to now. How was one supposed to feel when they get no say in who they marry? Father, at least, had asked him. Yes, he risked disappointing him, but, ultimately, the choice was his. Will this woman, on the account of her status, be allowed such a choice? He feared her parents were the only people who would decide. Father too. Does she even want the father of her fiancé to take this from her? Is it right to deceive themselves like this, to have God bind them when no love is to arise from this union? Is a potential friendship worthy of the sacrament of matrimony?

Patton knew two things with certainty: he wanted to be a good friend to Lady Romina Regio and he could not sacrifice his feelings for Janus to achieve it.

They were guided inside by Virginia Fusco, Lady Romina Regio’s personal servant.

The entrance consisted of a corridor, divided into three naves, by two rows of ionic columns made of rose gold marble. Above that, there was a straight ceiling with five rows of twelve coffers, all richly painted with floral and geometric motifs. His boots looked cheap in comparison to the flooring they walked on. Big and polished terracotta tiles in a diamond pattern covered the ground, the corners were clipped to accommodate small white marble accents.

Once they passed the entrance, this father was led upstairs by another servant, while Virginia instructed him to accompany her elsewhere.

“I am glad you arrived here safely after leaving Villa Morandi. Has everything been well?”

She stilled for a moment.

“Uuh… thank you for the kind concern, sir. Things in the house have been… busy due to the news of your engagement to her ladyship” she began walking again.

“I was asking about you”.

“Pardon?”

“When I asked, before, I wanted to know if you have been doing well. It must be stressful to be sent back and forth between the palazzo and Villa Morandi during the last weeks, especially being a personal maid to her ladyship, it is uncommon for someone like you to be used as a messenger”.

“I shall do anything her ladyship requires. Any task”.

“Oh! Sorry! I did not intend to say you would not”, Patton stopped dead in his tracks.

Virginia turned around and stared at him in confusion.

“I… when you first arrived I did not expect her ladyship’s personal servant to be at my home. Her ladyship’s maid is supposed to stay with her, so I thought something bad might have happened… The trip in between is not too long but done enough times it can prove to be energy-consuming”.

Patton was met with even more confusion from Virginia, so he kept babbling in hopes of fixing his mistake. “Not that you would not be willing to put up with it for her ladyship, I am sure. I did also not mean to assume anything, that is why I asked in the first place, I only meant it kindly…”

“Sir, it is alright”, she began saying.

If Patton had not been as worked up with the conversation as he was he may have detected the slightest hint of amusement coming from Virginia.

“Her ladyship is--”

“Oh! Oh, that too! I did not mean to not inquire about her ladyship’s wellbeing, part of me dared to hope I could meet her today and ask her in person…”

“Sir, please, follow me. I am afraid we cannot keep the person I am taking you to waiting, you see, her ladyship finds it upsetting”.

Patton laughed.

It caught Virginia off guard. People were not supposed to behave so… openly within these walls. At least she wasn’t used to it.

“You must excuse this man’s oblivious nature, I should have realised where you were taking me earlier”.

“Sir, I am undeserving of your apologies. But, if we keep stalling, her ladyship will require one”.

“Of course, lead the way”.

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

His horse reached the palazzo just in time to see the Morandi’s carriage passing by.

Unlike his dear Patton, he did not have an invitation. Sneaking past the guards, an easy task if you asked him, had to suffice.

The place was huge, it was to be expected from such a family. Janus couldn’t care less for the grandeur, not when he couldn’t get his hands on it, and that wasn’t the reason why he had come there.

It would seem the Regio had it going on. The palazzo was relatively new, built, at most, fifty years ago. If you checked the list, all of the items relating to appearance did justice to the status of the family. Looking closely though…

There were only two boys and an old man tending to the gardens. Gardens as big as everything else, mind you. So, clearly, they were understaffed. Which was precisely why Janus had been able to hide between a set of unkempt bushes to change into today’s costume. As long as he managed to avoid getting any leaves of brunches stuck, it would all be fine.

Back to the Regio, though. If one was as much of an expert at judging other people’s wealth as Janus was, save that one time with a woman at an inn, it became obvious that the counts were missing on the money. Firstly, the manor had been built recently, but most certainly not after the war. Secondly, the guards were as many as one would expect, but not as… on guard -curse Patton’s sense of humour- as they should. This just told him they weren’t being paid that much. Then was the matter of understaffing.

And, of course, Patton’s presence here.

Janus had not forgotten Signor Morandi’s words. Patton could only afford to marry a countess because the Regio could not afford anyone less wealthy.

The clothes were on and he was inside the house.

Why did these people never put any sort of vigilance at the servant’s entrances? It never occurred to them that even if people wouldn’t steal their laundry, perhaps they would get in with the laundry. Pathetic.

It made his life easier, though.

He was in.

He was in and he was going to… what?

For starters try to find any dirt on Patton’s dear future wife. Maybe any belongings that could give him some leverage. Just to be safe.

Janus knew Patton would keep his word, even if it destroyed him, and it would. Nobles always wanted offspring. Janus just wasn’t sure if Patton would be up for the task when someone did not have his pretty eyes and his masculine figure.

Causing troubles for his beloved was the last thing he wanted. But, if it came to it, Janus would do anything. Whether that meant creating accidents, blackmailing or appointing a convenient kidnapping during a wedding night.

He went up the servant’s stairs and reached a second-floor gallery, open to the courtyard below.

Just when he was about to leave, his ears caught some hushed shouting coming from above.

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

“How could she do this to me!?”

Romina stormed the third-floor corridor, without any bearing nor destination.

“Your ladyship, please, we must go back!” Virginia ran behind her, speaking between her teeth.

“Did you see him, Virg?”

“Yes, I did, your ladyship”.

“I-- this is outrageous!”

“I beg you, can we not have this conversation here, your ladyship?”

Despite Virginia kindly pointing out that the third-floor gallery was hardly an appropriate location for such or any kind of discussion, Romina did not heed her request.

“I was going to become a princess! And because of this, I am deprived of royalty! Because my sister fancies herself a man!”

“For the love of…, you know what, no. I am tired of this. She dresses like a man, she talks like a man, she looks like a man and she feels like one. In which way is she, no, he, not a man?”

Romina grimaced at her own words. Still, she was far too angry to let go of her resentment.

“In the fact that he has no honour. He lied to me, several times. First by promising we’ll stay together. Then he did not care to tell me I had a brother, didn’t even trust me for that, and now he has abandoned me. And what for? He saw that pretty ‘scientist’ or whatever he calls himself and decided to follow him to the end of the world. How come he gets to be a pirate when I have to become a wife?!”

“Romina, please, shut your big mouth before anyone overhears us” Virginia warned.

“So now I must be quiet!”

“Yes! For your sake, you dumbass”.

“Well, I will not be quiet, you… you sonnetist of elegies!”

“That’s not even a--” Virginia placed her hand on the bridge of her nose.

As if to make her point clearer, Romina kept walking into the gallery.

“I don’t care! You know why? Because now I have to replace him in a destiny none of us wanted, but at least he had been prepared for! What am I going to do?”

“How about you begin by coming back--”

“He leaves me like this, to be mocked and compared to him,--”

“Oh Lord, why do I even bother--”

“--who ran away. How could he be so selfish!? Let me ask you this instead, how can a man surrender his word and his honour so readily?”

Then, Virginia stilled completely.

She didn’t know whether she felt angry or deeply saddened.

“What wouldn’t any of us do to seize the freedom that we have forever been denied? And, who wouldn’t cast away honour to be free and loved? Can’t you identify with that, or are you a liar too?”

“I…”

“Is it Remus who you’re angry at?”

“It doesn’t matter what I think. I am still going to have to get married to some random person--!”

“Oh, shut up! At least he’s nice! Do you know what he did when he met me? Because he came to personally receive me, you see. He asked for my name! Not only that, but he remembers it. Just when I was taking him to see you, he asked me how had I been! Have you any idea how many people do that? You are so privileged you cannot get your head out of your stuck-up ass, Princess. Nobody ever cares how people like me are doing!”

“Oh, so that is what this is about! Well, sorry I can’t pepper you with attention every waking moment, love--”

“Fuck off, I already know that, stop making this about you!”

“But it is about me!”

“You’re so lucky you get to marry a kind man! Any other person would just use his status to be a self-righteous narcissistic asshole, yes, Princess, like you, but not young Signor Morandi so quit mopping!”

“Well, if you like him so much, then why don’t you marry him instead?!”

Her hands gripped her apron tightly. Virginia could not bear her gaze at the moment. She bit her lip as if that could help her to cope with the backlash at the sheer stupidity of Romina’s words.

“I am sorry”.

“You… at least you’re… hmm…” she took a deep breath. In part to give herself time to consider what to say carefully, but, also, to calm down. “Male-inclined. I… your ladyship, if I did not serve you I fear I would only be any good left in a nunnery. You must understand, if I could choose who to marry, well, kind and considerate is not much of my type, as you must be aware. Neither is Signor Morandi”.

“If…”

Romina returned to her side.

Her hands, littered with all sorts of rings, made Virginia’s hands give up on holding the apron. The labour-stained pair were squeezed safely.

“Please, please look at me”.

The request made Virginia want to refuse. But, aside from her position, these were the kind of situations in which Virginia could not deny Romina.

“If I could choose who to marry, it would be one who would make me a princess, not on the account of status, but with word… if you know what I mean”.

Virginia rolled her eyes.

“The only one that dense here is you”.

“The mouth on you. I am going to have to keep you by my side”, she paused for a second and then whispered, “my love”.

Her gaze was most intense upon hearing that. The pair of dark brown eyes opening in a way that could be described as feline.

“No nunnery could be at your level when it comes to sarcasm and bossing other women around. I, at the very least, can hold my ground for longer until you get me to do your bid--”

Finally, Romina was quiet.

Virginia gripped her shoulders, squeezing the puffs of her dress’ sleeves, with the tips of her fingers touching against the golden netting that covered Romina’s chest. It was as if she was trying to drink the life out of those lips. Her very being was buzzing with want and anger.

The bejewelled woman became pliant, yet passionate, under the touch. Bravery, whenever it surfaced in Virginia, was something to behold. Even more of a thing to experience.

“Fuck” Virginia covered her mouth with her hands as she abruptly parted.

“Likewise. Oh, I feel dizzy” she smiled.

“No, not that way. I… shit… I just did...that! And here!”

“Now, now”, Romina grasped her hands.

She caressed the base of Virginia’s thumbs with a devoted look.

“Ro…”

“No reason to panic, my nightly gale”.

“Well, I wouldn’t be so sure about that” a voice came from the other side of the gallery.

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

The room was quiet.

No.

The room was completely silent and Patton had no idea what had gone wrong. He never intended to say something that could harm anyone’s sensitivities. It just never occurred to him that someone could be offended by a pun about the weather.

This first attempt at friendship had not been… great.

His father would certainly laugh at Lady Romina Regio’s decision to storm out of the room upon hearing a silly joke. He would make nothing of it. He’d say womanly outbursts were to be expected. Darn it, most people would say so.

Ignoring it would be simple.

Patton could not ignore it.

Firstly, it became clear to him that her ladyship had no say in her marrying him. Not only that, but she might feel strongly against it. Secondly, and most important, he intended to build a friendship with her.

Considering the circumstances, the best he could do would be to find her and speak from the heart. If he explained to her that he meant no ill by making a joke, or to be insensitive by indulging in frivolities in the face of such a serious matter as their first meeting, she might feel better. And, if she still refused him, he could offer to call the entire thing off.

Except that would be a terrible idea. Her family needed the money and going back on his choice would make her chances even more difficult. But, maybe, she wanted that. Her reaction pointed to it. Father would be very disappointed, the last thing Patton wanted was to be a bad son. But wasn’t it worse to force a woman into a marriage? Also, Janus. He’d be free to remain with him for longer.

What was he going to do? He didn’t know what the right answer to this was.

Talking to her. Patton could start by doing that, but first, he needed to find her.

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

This wasn’t the kind of dirt he had expected to find, but only a moron would look a gift horse in the mouth right now.

The servant girl’s passion came out of nowhere. He almost wanted to take notes.

“No reason to panic, my nightly gale”, said the countess, still entranced at the sight of her maid’s hands.

She had just given him his cue, so Janus could not help but oblige.

“Well, I wouldn’t be so sure about that”, he said leaving his hiding spot.

Instantly, they turned to look at him. The countess let go of the other’s hands in a jolt. Her demeanour changed in a second. So, not only was she a countess, but also a terrific actress.

“Oh! Good day sir! Are you, by any chance, lost? My servant can…” she looked at the aforementioned.

Her maid was having none of it. She eyed him suspiciously, ignoring how her mistress’ body language asked her to calm down.

“Were you coming to see his lordship? I am afraid he is busy at the moment”.

“Oh, well yes. I was sent by Marquess Sanders to inquire about a series of matters relating to war expenses” he said as he took off his cape.

By revealing his outfit he hoped to gain some credibility. Looking rich always got people off your back. Especially when you carried a sword.

The countess’ eyes lit up in recognition of his dusack. Dusacks were one of the main weapons sent by Marquess Sanders during the war, this one so happened to also have the family crest attached to the scabbard.

Normally, he would have covered it to avoid getting Thomas into trouble.

“Well, in that case--” Romina began to say.

“Excuse me, sir, but I am sure her ladyship would first like to see the letters that his lordship always has his people carry”.

“Is your maid often allowed to talk over you, your ladyship?”

“I...uh…” Romina looked at her maid for help.

“Well, that is to be expected, as she is allowed to do much more than that, is she not?”

The maid squinted at him.

“Oh, that thing? It was a… a token of friendship!” the countess proudly proclaimed.

While she may be a fantastic actress, she surely was a terrible liar. The maid scoffed in the way Janus could not, whether it was due to hearing her lover say something that ridiculous or because of the awful lie he could not tell.

“If that is how I treated all my friends I am certain my lovers would be confused”.

Both women caught their breaths.

“I would, of course, not be so indiscreet as to say anything, for a price, that is”.

“What is it that you want?”

“I’ve heard you are soon to be married--”

The maid looked at him even more intensely, and then…

“Your ladyship, this man is deceiving you”.

“Yeah, I can tell, we were just discussing--”

“You dense ass, not now, all the time! His money bag over there, it’s Signor Morandi’s!”

Oh, fuck.

Well, it couldn’t be helped.

Janus unsheathed his sword and pointed it to the maid’s neck.

“I suggest we keep this matter quiet, or else I’ll have to keep it quiet forever”.

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

Patton’s efforts to find Lady Romina Regio or her servant, Virginia, had not been successful so far. He had explored the main areas of the house, now finding himself at the first-floor courtyard.

The smells coming from the kitchen, where the staff worked in their earnest to prepare tonight’s dinner, danced in the air. Patton sat at a stone bench, wondering what else he could do. His only chance would be waiting until both families dined together. He’d wish to apologise to her ladyship before that, so they could indulge in the dishes without any looming over.

Then, the faint sound of a voice coming from above called his attention.

It was barely hearable due to the clankings of nearby cooking. But there was no way he wouldn’t recognise it.

“I would... be so indiscreet … price...” Patton could make out.

Indeed, it was Janus’ voice. If that and the words ‘indiscreet’ and ‘price’ were anything to go by, he was blackmailing someone.

Her ladyship was nowhere to be found and Janus was being Janus nearby. It didn’t take too much to put two and two together.

Patton moved around the courtyard while staring upwards.

There they were! He only had to find a way to…

Oh no.

Janus was pointing his sword to Virginia’s neck.

Before Patton could realise what he was doing, his feet were already running upstairs.

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

This would have been a great time for both of them to bail, hadn’t a sword been pointed at her. But, that's life. Some days you wake up next to your lover in her chambers with a deep feeling of dread over, well, everything; other days you are about to get basically beheaded, what can you do.

For starters, Virginia was going to fight, because she didn’t feel particularly inspired to think at the moment.

“Please, do not hurt her, I beg you”, Romina said.

Wonderful. Virginia was either about to get hurt or be very lucky on her own accord.

She quickly leaned back and ducked, taking advantage of the man’s attention being redirected at Romina’s plea.

Definitely, she was getting hurt, not lucky, as the sword fell down on her with a swift swoop.

That was it.

Then, Romina pulled another sword from the pocket opening of her dress, crossing blades with the thief, but, most importantly, saving her life. She was going to be really cocky about it, if they made it out in one piece.

“Well, this was a lovely surprise”, the thief said as Romina and he circled each other, edges sliding in a sharp sound, “but if you don’t give it up, you’ll end up maimed and, after that, let’s say… your maid may take a nudge downstairs”.

Romina slid the sword away and twirled it back to strike. The thief had enough reflexes to put his dusack across his face before it got cut in half.

A strong clank echoed all over the gallery and the courtyard below.

“You foul fiend! You may be brave enough to threaten me, but your overconfidence in thinking you can get away--” she struck again, “with endangering her--” Romina turned them, making it so Virginia was behind her, as if to underline her words, “shall be your downfall”.

“Thank you for enlightening me, your highness” the thief began to say.

He overpowered Romina by twisting their swords. She collided against Virginia’s chest after the villain shoved her away.

“This has, clearly, proved how friendly you are. By all means, tell me, are you also willing to die for all of your friends?”

His next move was more successful now that he had gained more range of attack. The thief plunged forward in a piercing motion. Romina stopped it with a backhanded sweep, then turned on herself, making it so his blade pointed to the ground.

“I would die for her, any day”.

Virginia did not have the right to feel as flustered as she did, not when they were in mortal danger. Somehow, Romina’s best romantic lines happened whenever she did not speak them directly to her. Seeing her look that fierce when fighting may also factor into it. Why did Princess always have to be so intense?

“Is this a confession? Scandalous!”

“It is a promise”.

There was a delicate balance between each other for a moment. Their eyes locked in a stare.

It was so strange, Virginia thought. This man keeps on threatening them, but he hesitates. What was holding him back? Also, why steal a coin bag when you plan on blackmailing someone? Yes, it had to be planned, otherwise, the marquess lie made no sense, too much preparation involved for that to be a coincidence. Could he actually be sent by the marquess? But, why? The Regio and the marquess had had a wonderful relationship over the years.

Something didn’t fit.

The thief moved ever so slightly. Romina, clearly, wasn’t taking any chances.

In a display of quick reflexes, she side-kicked him on the chest, making him stumble backwards.

While the thief struggled to regain his footing, Romina sliced through the cord keeping Signor Morandi’s coin bag attached to his waist. She smiled playfully.

“For someone so smug, you are surely a clumsy opponent”.

“I’ll give you clumsy” he replied stepping forward and thrusting with the sword.

Romina blocked his attack effortlessly, but, soon, Virginia realised that wasn’t the thief’s intention. His right foot was just in front of the bag, ready to move it towards him like a hook.

“Ro, the bag!” Virginia warned.

She looked down and smirked.

“This the price of greed”, Romina mocked as her sword turned to strike the thief’s right leg.

The dusack crossed blades, again, with Romina’s before it could do any damage.

“Your willingness to lose a leg over some gold only proves the worth of your lot”.

He leaned closer to Romina, looking at her in the eye as he twisted their swords to get the upper hand.

“You know nothing about me or what I stand for”, he said in a deep and menacing voice.

Romina laughed in between her teeth.

“I may not, but I know one thing”.

“Oh, and what is that?”

“You just got distracted”.

Romina’s foot slipped past the thief’s, kicking the coin bag away from him. He ran to his left while blocking Romina’s attacks at his right.

What was so special about a coin bag anyway?

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

Patton began to hear sword fighting noises just before he reached the entrance to the stairs.

What was Janus thinking? Engaging in a face-off with Lady Romina Regio, who not only was a countess with an apparent disdain for weather puns but also a remarkable swordswoman, had to be one of his worst ideas to date.

While he had faith in Janus’ skills, he also knew that her ladyship’s fencing instructor had been fired, as a lesson, after she stabbed a man on the shoulder during a ‘casual’ duel.

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

The coin bag was kicked and pushed from one place to another by the thief and Romina while they dodged attacks.

“Is it the gold you are fighting for or is it your pride, villain?” she said, smirk reflecting on her blade.

“Hasn’t anyone ever told you not to project your desires onto others? So honourable protecting her frail maiden!”, he pushed forward. “Still… it would almost seem, not because of the self-indulging banter, that you only duel to flatter yourself”.

“The one who is so set in getting a stolen coin bag dares to lecture me on selfishness!”

Romina used her weight to stop him from making her retrocede any further. Her grin widened, satisfied in this victory.

“Takes one egoist to know one”.

Right then, the thief made a sudden move.

“Romina!” Virginia exclaimed.

“I’m fine!” she said, wiping the bleeding cut on her jaw.

The thief looked at the prized coin bag that he now held in his hand.

“Loved beating you, but I think I will take my lea--”

He was interrupted by Romina’s scream. Her sword wooshed several times in front of his face, barely leaving him time to bend backwards to avoid it. The dusack clancked against the floor.

“Shit” the thief cursed.

Things looked dire for the thief. With his sword out of reach, there was little he could do. Romina’s sword flashed by one more time, slashing through his left upper arm. Despite the painful burn of the cut, his left hand did not let go of the coin bag. Nevertheless, he fell on his knee, clutching the wound with his free hand.

“I will make you an offering, villain”, Romina pointed at him with the sword, gloating over his tilted gaze. “Return Signor Morandi’s coin bag to me, and I shall let you go”.

“Your ladyship, kindly get stabbed in the chest”.

She turned his back on him, twirling her sword while at it.

“As you wish”.

Time froze before Romina could even think about delivering the killing blow.

Virginia saw the thief reach for his boot, pulling out a stiletto. He stood up and positioned his knife pointing upwards. Because of this, Virginia panicked, already imagining the tip breaking through Romina’s lower back and into her chest.

Immediately, she ran in front of the thief, head empty of thoughts, only consuming fear. At the same time, the thief began a descending motion, making Virginia realise where he aimed for.

‘He’s going for her leg!’, Virginia thought.

This would not help. When they crossed, the thief’s knife was at the height of Virginia’s gut.

Virginia looked at him in terror.

The thief looked at Virginia in panic.

The fabrics of Romina’s dress could be heard twisting in the air, as she turned around, only to see the back of Virginia’s head.

“No!” Romina cried.

In yet another display of quick reflexes, the thief let go of the stiletto, just before it could do any damage.

Romina only heard the blade fall as she shoved Virginia aside.

She punched him on the left cheek, leaving the outline of her rings imprinted on his skin, red and slowly swelling.

The thief’s boots staggered backwards.

He fell face up in the middle of the gallery corridor.

Faster than ever, Romina’s sword moved and settled its tip at the base of the thief’s neck, sort of mirroring how he had threatened Virginia.

Virginia brazed herself against the wall. Her breathing heaved like the bellows trying to get the fire back up. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw young Signor Morandi emerging from the path that connected to one of the third-floor staircases.

“Please, do not hurt him, I beg you”, he said while catching his breath.

Romina looked upwards to stare at him.

“What is the meaning of this?! Do you know this man? Did you send him?!”

Sometimes, Romina could outmatch Virginia when it came to reaching conclusions. This just so happened to be the worst possible moment.

“I--”

Only Virginia saw how the eyes of the thief went wide at hearing young Signor Morandi’s voice, his frown when Romina accused him.

“Look at me!” the thief shouted.

“Trying to protect your master, villain?”

“That is not quite… this is a complete misunderstanding, if we talked--” young Signor Morandi began to say.

“Shut up!” both Romina and the thief replied in unison.

“Stop talking nonsense, your highness”.

“Oh, so it is nonsense! He seems to know you, how do you explain that?”

Virginia squinted at them, getting the sense that she was missing something more than ever.

“Janus, please, let me tell them the--”

“We now have a name for our thief!” she announced triumphantly. “So you do know each other! Let me tell you, Jolliest Caesar, he has betrayed you. Whatever you paid him seemed to be less than enough, so he stole your father’s coin bag”.

Young Signor Morandi’s eyes went straight to said item, lighting up in recognition and some other emotion much harder to identify.

“Is this the outcome you desired? I thought you were silly, I was... persuaded to believe you were kind. But, this? Do you owe your father so much disrespect?”

He grimaced in response, looking away. Meanwhile, Janus pursed his lips in a thin line.

‘Why does it matter to him?’, Virginia wondered.

“Signor Morandi is an upright man, someone who carries himself proud and virtuous. I will not insult him by denouncing you to my family, but I hope you learn to have--”

“Oh, poor and noble Signor Morandi! Rid of a coin bag, whatever will he do?!” Janus shouted.

The gazes of all people present turned to him.

“It’s not as if he could buy another. Are we to pity him?! He is so good! You defend what you think to be the property of a man who would gladly pull any pair of lovers apart. Gift his son to a stack of classist swine in exchange for a title! What an estimate of his worth!”

One could almost marvel at him having the nerve to spit his anger even under the point of a blade. Romina frowned, taken aback.

“But he’s so upright! Admit it, you couldn’t care any less about this ridiculous coin bag, you just want to use it as an excuse to keep your affair with your servant hidden. Am I the one you wish to kill or does it make you feel less powerless to pretend you’re stabbing another man? None of us gets a choice”.

Young Signor Morandi held his breath.

Virginia let hers out. That was it! Of course! How could she not have realized earlier?

“Spilling my blood won’t change that! I may not be good, but I can at least see through the lies, and you aren’t good either. You’re as selfish as I am and you won’t get to keep her, we never do”.

“What?” Romina answered.

She looked at Virginia, then at young Signor Morandi, then back at him.

“Are you seriously doing this? I could make these your last words! What is wrong with you! This is madness. I am about to die” she began to mock him, “let me make this moment into a speech about society and another man’s stolen money. Who does that? I know I am dramatic, but, at the very least--!”

“Princess, shut up!” Virginia shouted.

“Excuse me, I was only trying to give some fair critic--”

“Not the time. Also, you are completely missing the point!

“What do you mean?”

“Do you know how we always talk after dinner?”

“That is not what we do after…”

“Yes”.

“So what is your point? Oooooh!”

“Now you get it…” she closed her eyes.

“They also talk…” Romina smiled.

“Hmm”.

“And he is actually…!” she pointed back and forth between the two with her sword. “They are…!”

“We are, and if you would” Janus flattened himself against the floor.

“Your ladyship, please, my Janus has had enough of sharp objects for…” young Signor Morandi looked at him.

“For forever, put the sword away”.

Romina did as requested and promptly offered a hand to help Janus get on his feet.

“You are one menace of a woman”.

“Thank you”.

“What is going on?!”

A large set of rushed footsteps accompanied the question. The four turned around to see his lordship, Count Regio, his wife, Signor Morandi and a myriad of servants.

“Oh, father, mother!” Romina exclaimed. “Signor Morandi”, she greeted more formally.

“Romina, what is the meaning of this?” said Count Regio.

“Your lordship, your ladyship”, Janus spoke after a bow. “I was sent by Marquess Sanders”.

Romina turned to look at him. His attire was mostly back in place, a part of her couldn’t help but be impressed. After spotting the family crest on Janus’ dusack, the counts’ expression changed from confusion to shame.

“Romina, did you duel this man? Apologise this instant!” Count Regio looked livid as he spoke. “We already had to be rid of her fencing teacher, do not worry, Signor Morandi, we will also dispose of her swords”, Countess Regio reassured.

In the scandal, Virginia was the only one to notice the coin bag forgotten on the floor. She stepped to the side, knowing no one would pay attention to her, as per usual, especially with such chaos. The coin bag disappeared under Virginia’s skirts, dragged by her foot. Young Signor Morandi walked past her and nodded in a silent gesture of gratitude. Perhaps one person did notice.

“Your ladyship, that will not be necessary, I come as a new fencing teacher, an early engagement present of Marquess Sanders”.

“But how did he know…” Virginia muttered.

Janus did hear her and went on:

“He was very impressed by the letters sent by your daughter. Marquess Sanders believes that someone with such impeccable diplomacy, and a disposition to secure the future relationship of her family, should not be deprived of outstandingness. To preserve such remarkable, dare I say, rare, qualities on a lady, he sent me. Marquess Sanders hopes my instruction can further her skills and aid her to grow more accomplished than ever before”.

“Oh, that is fantastic to hear!” Count Regio said, looking a lot more uncomfortable than her tone would suggest. “But, Lady Romina, as you already are aware of, is engaged now. We ought to hear young Signor Morandi’s opinion on the matter”.

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

All eyes turned to Patton.

“Actually…”

For a moment, he doubted himself.

Lying, as he had always been told, was sinful. But so was ignoring the struggle of the weak, breaking your word and not honouring one’s spouse.

Most importantly, Patton had to honour his heart.

If lying was the price to pay… well, so be it.

“I asked her for a demonstration. I have always harboured a burning admiration for her dexterity with the sword. Her ladyship is truly heroic and radiant when duelling”.

Romina turned to look at him.

It would seem he had managed to become friends with her after all.

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

The moonlight shone in its quiet dance with the nightly air. This was, once again, a clear summer evening, but it marked the end of an insane day. The sounds of dining and chatting had died out. Everyone, gradually, left for their rooms. Janus, crossing the gardens, intended to do the same.

Climbing with a wounded arm made his ascend harder than usual. Luckily, the ostentatious facade of the palazzo gave him countless points to anchor himself to. Slowly but surely, he got to Patton’s open window.

As what felt like always, Patton held him by the lapels of his cape and pulled him inside.

Rather than saying hello, Patton kissed him. It was gentle, devoid of the despair that had marked all their meetings during the last weeks. Patton pulled apart just as softly.

“Here”.

Janus stared at the coin bag in his hand and smirked.

“Dear, if you keep on offering me your money you’ll turn into the worst noble ever, and I, the worst thief”, he said with no real smugness.

Patton laughed.

“Virginia retrieved it when nobody looked”.

“I’ll remember to thank her”.

“Please, be nice this time”.

“You saw that?”

“Yes. Janus, pointing at someone with… that thing… don’t do it again”.

Janus shrugged and leaned in to kiss him again. A pair of hands pulled on his cape, that fell on the floor, forgotten.

“I don’t think” Janus half-laughed, “I could get away with it again”.

His bandages were fresh. The bleeding had stopped, but it didn’t make it hurt any less. Patton stared at it and furrowed his eyebrows.

“I could have lost you today”.

“You saved me again”.

“Well, that isn’t entirely true”.

“Oh, why would that be?”

“You managed to stand your ground until I could save you”.

“Call it good timing”.

Patton smiled.

“What’s so funny?” Janus smiled as well.

“I’m happy. We… we are going to be together after this. I even gained two friends”.

“You keep meeting the strangest people, dear”.

“I’ll have to make sure that you kids don’t get hurt”.

“We’ll try to be in our best behaviour”.

Patton got closer and whispered:

“Liar”.

Janus swallowed and stared at him, suddenly feeling defeated, yet happy about it. He loosened his belt, letting it fall to the floor with his dusack.

It made an awful lot of noise. Patton looked down, almost in disbelief at Janus’ newfound capacity to make a sound.

“Hmm. Where did you really get that sword? Romina could get in serious trouble if…”

“Don’t worry, Thomas won’t mind covering for me”.

“Thomas? You know the marquess?”

“Let us sit on the bed, I think that you deserve to know this secret”.

Both of them got comfortable on the ridiculous wall of pillows placed against the headboard of the canopy bed.

“I used to work for the Sanders family. Ever since I was a boy, I tended to the horses, which is how Thomas and I became friends in the first place. As we grew, he decided to make me his personal servant, and, aside from learning to lie as easy as speaking, I also learned I hate rich people. Thomas is okay though. I think you and Thomas are the only rich people I tolerate”.

“Well, that’s rich”.

“Patton! I’m telling you my tragic story!” he said, not at all bothered. “Anyhow, I decided that wasn’t for me, so I told Thomas. He was sad, but he respected it. Before I left, he gave me his own sword, I guess as a safe-conduct of sorts, maybe to remind me I could always come back”.

“That is… a lot”.

“I know. He’s a good friend. Believe it or not, I’ve never used it until today. I… couldn’t let you get caught in any of my… shall we say, activities, so I figured…”

Patton grabbed him, mindful of his wounds, and pulled him close.

“You need to let other people in, Janus. I know I’m kind of silly, but I can still help. I wish you could see that when you let people know you they want to be on your side. You are someone worth knowing”.

“And you are more of a bastard than people give you credit for”.

His laughter made them shake a little. Janus stared at Patton’s joyful expression feeling satisfied.

“I guess I am”.

“Pity you don’t want to do anything wicked with it”.

“I’ll leave that to you, just, tell me beforehand”.

“How else would I be saved last minute, dear?”

They stared at each other for a while. It hadn’t fully hit Janus until now that this, this thing right now, would be his life from now on. Thinking that, perhaps the world wasn’t as cruel as he had always made it to be.

“You are so good”.

Patton kissed him again.

“Only when nobody’s looking”.

“Jan, name’s Patton, not nobody”.

“You think you’re so funny”.

“Am I not, when I make you smile like this?”

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

Taglist: @joylessnightsky , (the following interacted with my tagging request post, so I assumed you wanted to be tagged, if not, please tell me) @jerasings , @daemoade , @grandhairdofarmgoop .

#moceit #prinxiety #ts janus #ts patton #ts virgil #ts roman #fem!roman #fem!virgil #moceit au #renaissance au #renaissance!Patton #renaissance!Janus #sanders sides fanfiction #moceit fanfiction #doomstypewriter #doomywrites #dooms requests

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yan-twst · 4 years

Note

Hello. I hope you're having a good day. Would it be alright if you do the alphabet thing with Jade Leech please? It's fine if you don't want to though.

once again, long post so it goes under the cut! warnings for mentions of drowning in this one

Affection: How do they show their love and affection? How intense would it get?

Jade plays his gentleman act quite carefully and meticulously. In public (before isolating his darling), he'd limit himself to kisses to the back of their hand or putting his arm around their shoulder. He likes to still tease with his "gentelmanly" act behind closed door, but the way he speaks doesn't match the voracity which he has when he kisses his darling.

Blood: How messy are they willing to get when it comes to their darling?

He won't eliminate people unless it's strictly needed- if his darling's friends and family don't come poking their noses into his relationship, he won't feel the need to track them down. However, nosey people will mysteriously dissapear- it's not like people search underwater caves for bodies, you know?

Cruelty: How would they treat their darling once abducted? Would they mock them?

He would highly preffer his darling to give in to his advances and love already, but he does reckon half the fun of love is getting there. He'd only tease and be mean if his darling was snarky- it's probably infuriating for them to be chained down and unable to escape while Jade talks down on them with his usual calm smile.

Darling: Aside from abduction, would they do anything against their darling’s will?

No way, he's a gentleman! ... well, he is one as long as people are looking, anyways. While he certainly wouldn't have his way with an unwilling darling, he doesn't see any problem with coersion or threats to make his darling more willing to accept his advances. Likewise, he won't ask for permission for things he considers "minor", like hugging, kisses to the neck, and such.

Exposed: How much of their heart do they bare to their darling? How vulnerable are they when it comes to their darling?

He won't entirely drop all his pretenses and suddenly lay bare for his darling- that's just not who he is. He will speak his mind from time to time, and if his darling is keen they might pick up on certain insecurities of his. He's absolutely not expecting his darling to care about his emotions- seeing as he's abducted them and has given them no choice but to love him- but if they did, it would certainly make him open up more often.

Fight: How would they feel if their darling fought back?

He'd think his darling is just being plain foolish. He's not Floyd, sure, but he does have his strenght, you know? Besides, his darling should know that he has Azul and his twin on his side: a single human couldn't do much against the trio. He'd scold them like if they were a child, and get irked whenever they continue trying. His darling should certainly stop stretching his parience!

Game: Is this a game to them? How much would they enjoy watching their darling try to escape?

It is and it isn't at the same time. He does find some enjoyment from watching his darling struggle helplessly, and it is particularly delicious to see them exhaust themselves to the point they just simply give in to his affections- but at the same time, he does want to build a future one day. He'd very much love it if his darling mellowed down enough so he could go hiking with them without having to be looking out for escape attempts.

Hell: What would be their darling’s worst experience with them?

The most patient people snap in the ugliest ways, and he's no exception. If his darling tried to squash all his dreams for the future, or constantly talked about other people to try and purposely make him jealous, he'd drop all pretenses of being a civilized gentleman. He'd have no qualms holding his darling underwater until they're in the brink of drowning, then letting them back up- only to push them down again. It's torture, but he'll keep going until they either pass out, or he's satisfied with his work.

Ideals: What kind of future do they have in mind for/with their darling?

He can't decide if he wants to turn his darling into a mermaid and return to the coral sea, or find a little cottage in the mountains. Ideally, he'd like both- perhaps living the winters in land (since his darling wouldnt be used to the frigid underwater temperatures) and the summers in the ocean. He knows he and his darling cannot have biological children- after all, his body is just not built to mate with humans, regardless of if his darling can even bear children or not- but he would perhaps think of taking one in, just to complete his little family.

Jealousy: Do they get jealous? Do they lash out or find a way to cope?

He does get jealous quite often, but he mostly just deals with it in silence. He knows it's inevitable people will talk about his darling or mention missing them, and that killing or maiming everyone who does this would be insane. Again, he'll only hurt people who stick their nose into his business- and people who express too much interest in his darling.

Kisses: How do they act around or with their darling?

Most of what he knows of human courtships comes from books and legends, so he'll try very hard to be his darling's very own fairtytale lover. He doesn't see why his obsessive tendencies and the gentle love describes in most folk tales can't be combined- isn't it the greatest expression of love to keep his darling just for himself? He'll be very warm and caring as long as his darling behaves properly.

Love letters: How would they go about courting or approaching their darling?

Again, all his knowledge on human courting comes from books and myths, so he begins his aproaches in a very fairytale like fashion. In the beginning, he's a picture perfect gentleman: bringing flowers, walking his darling home, candlelit dinners in the lounge- the works. It's not until his obsession starts growing that he becomes more and more possesive.

Mask: Are their true colors drastically different from the way they act around everyone else?

Some people definitely suspect his gentleman act is just a fake mask, but he does want to behave nicely from time to time. He definitely still acts like a gentleman some of the times with his darling- specifically when they're not being troublesome. He does however, have a bit of a darker side; he'll take some sick pleasure in watching his darling squirm and cry for help- but he does try to not show that too much.

Naughty: How would they punish their darling?

He isn't big on hitting or casting painful spells- once the adrenaline wears down and he sees what he did, he always feels sick to his stomach. He preffers more classic, less direct methods: complete and utter isolation until his darling is begging for him, taking away all the entertainment his darling has, and more extreme methods like waterboarding.

Oppression: How many rights would they take away from their darling?

First of all, he doesn't want them going out. If it's absolutely necessary, he'll make sure they're dressed in baggy, inconspicuous clothing so nobody takes notice of them: and or course, he's there by their side the entire time. Second of all, he wants them to cut all communication with the outside world. It's better for them to forget their friends, after all- once they're taken to the Coral Sea, the chances of seeing them again are null.

Patience: How patient are they with their darling?

His darling is lucky he's such a patient man. He can take more tantrums, escape attempts, screams and tears than most- it's almost infuriating how calm he can remain most of the time.

Quit: If their darling dies, leaves, or successfully escapes, would they ever be able to move on?

It's an easy question- he wouldn't recover. His darling is one of the few people he considered himself to be truly close with, and losing them would deal a huge blow to him. It'd get bad enough that even trying to act like his usual self would be impossible- but he'd also vehemently refuse to speak of his sadness with anyone.

Regret: Would they ever feel guilty about abducting their darling? Would they ever let their darling go?

No, and no. He thinks his darling should be flattered by how intense his love is; they just need to adapt. Logically he knows humans don't like being caged up, but he's willing to make his darling lose that liberty so he can properly take care of them and love them.

Stigma: What brought about this side of them (childhood, curiosity, etc)?

He has no clue why he's fallen in love so deeply and in such a dark way, it just happened. This isn't the first time he's taken a romantic interest in someone, but never before had he felt such an obsession with the object of his desires, nor had he felt so many twisted impulses towards them. He has no idea what brought on this change: perhaps this is how true love feels like?

Tears: How do they feel about seeing their darling scream, cry, and/or isolate themselves?

It's tiring and he claims he doesn't like it, but... Truthfully he does get some twisted pleasure from watching his darling go through these dark periods. Just knowing their struggle is so hopeless, and that no matter what he's the only one they have- especially since he knows once his darling is exhausted of crying, they won't even complain if he takes them into his arms.

Unique: Would they do anything different from the classic yandere?

Classic yanderes are known to act "unhinged" or show a dark and violent side to their darling- Jade tries not to. He wants to be a good lover and have his darling run to him for safety and care (even if those emotions are... Fake, to an extent), so he'll work hard to make his darling feel dependant on him.

Vice: What weakness can their darling exploit in order to escape?

If his darling managed to fool him into thinking they'd settled down, accepted their fate and loved him, he would start letting down his guard just a bit. Not enough for them to escape right away; they'd need for Jade to decide they're calm and docile enough to take out on a hike or a date- and once out, there'll be a small chance his darling will be able to dash away and seek help. They better find someone strong or an authority as fast as they can once they run- otherwise the second Jade catches up, he'll tear apart whoever tried to help his darling.

Wit’s end: Would they ever hurt their darling?

He desperately tries not to unless it's absolutely needed. He wants his darling to see him as a loving figure- but punishments are a necessity sometimes...

Xoanon: How much would they revere or worship their darling? To what length would they go to win their darling over?

To him, his darling is the most beautiful person alive. He wants his darling to see themselves as he sees them; a beautiful, fragile and captivating person. He'll always make sure to remember them of all of these facts. If he gets his hands on a spell to turn his darling into a mermaid, he'd be quick to try and make them feel comfortable in their new form. He just loves his darling and wants to make sure they know!

Yearn: How long do they pine after their darling before they snap?

He lasts about a couple of months in love before confessing, then a good period of "normal" dating. He wanted to make sure everything was perfect- he didn't want to give in to his ugly impulses right away, but he knew he'd have to, eventually.

Zenith: Would they ever break their darling?

No, and he'd be careful not to. He loves his darling as they are- he just wants them to be more obedient to him and love him, not break them entirely. He would take great care to not end up crushing his darling's soul, trying his best to slowly acclimate them to their new life as his lover.

#twisted wonderland x reader #yandere twisted wonderland #yandere twisted wonderland x reader #twisted wonderland #twst x reader #twst #jade leech

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bestillmyslashyheart · 4 years

Text

it’s all twisted

Joe thought for a moment, a single moment, after they woke up that Andy would get the new girl. It just seemed right. Or if Andy didn’t, then it should be Quynh.

He started sketching immediately, trying to commit the image from his dreams to paper before it slipped his mind. Nicky and Booker called out what they remembered and slowly an image began to take shape.

Andy and Quynh were silent. Well, not silent. Joe chanced a look over at the two women, saw Andy clutching at her head and Quynh trying to soothe her, and looked away.

“We will get her,” Nicky volunteered them. Joe didn’t object. Booker would be an awful choice to get the new girl and introduce her to their life and Quynh refused to leave Andy. And Andy wasn’t going anywhere.

“We will meet you at the Charlie safehouse?” Joe asked. They hadn’t decided where to go just yet but it was one of their more frequently used ones so he presumed it was where they were headed.

“Hurry,” Quynh urged as they stood and gathered their things. “The military has a lot of scrutiny and it looked like she died in the line of duty. People will be watching her.” Andy let out a strangled noise and buried her face in her hands even more. Quynh rubbed a hand up and down her back and said something in a soft murmur in a language no one but the two of them even remembered. Neither of them so much as looked up as Joe and Nicky opened the door and jumped off the train.

---

They were almost too late. The girl from their dreams was being escorted under armed guard to a plane when they first saw her. She looked uneasy, like she knew something was wrong but couldn’t quite place what it was.

The situation wasn’t ideal, too many soldiers, too many weapons, too many eyes watching for it to be ideal, but they made it work. Joe got the girl and Nicky cleared their way.

She waited until they got her away from the base before she asked any questions. “Who are you? Why did you kidnap me?” She paused. “Why do I know your faces?”

Joe and Nicky exchanged glances. They’d never had to do this before. Quynh had handled Booker’s introduction to this life and they’d just had to come in and deal with the aftermath.

“What is your name?” Nicky asked first.

The girl looked between them and then seemed to consider her surroundings. She was sitting in the back of an armored vehicle, no restraints and no locks on the doors, and a weapon in her line of sight. Neither Joe nor Nicky had seen any reason to lock her up or take away her weapons. She had come peacefully enough, recognizing that they had taken her away from a potentially far more dangerous situation, that further action hadn’t been necessary. “Nile,” she replied.

Nicky turned in his seat to smile at her. “Hello Nile. It is nice to meet you. I’m Nicky. This is Joe. And we’re like you. We can’t die.”

---

Quynh didn’t like this. She understood that Joe and Nicky had to go get the new girl from their dreams, she understood they couldn’t leave her exposed especially not in the military, and she understood that they had a responsibility to help her adjust to this life of theirs, but she didn’t like it.

Andy had collapsed in on herself as soon as they’d awoken, mumbling nonsense in languages Quynh barely remembered. The few words she did make out were “no” and “not again” and “stop”.

She let Booker lead the way to the safehouse, trusting him to keep an eye out for any dangers while she focused on Andy. There was something going on with him, she knew, but she didn’t have the time or patience to deal with it, not with Andy being Andy.

Booker left them as soon as they made it there. He saw them inside, made sure Quynh had a phone to reach him, and then left to get food and supplies. Quynh was half certain he just wanted to get away from the two of them but she wasn’t one to begrudge someone their privacy so she didn’t mention it.

“Quynh,” Andy rasped once he was gone. Quynh was by her side in an instant. She laid one hand on her, her thumb rubbing slow circles, and Andy relaxed minutely. “I can’t take another one.”

“I know,” Quynh murmured.

“Why won’t it end?” She asked. She stepped out of Quynh’s grasp and banged around the kitchen for a minute, touching everything but doing nothing, before she collapsed into a chair. “How are we supposed to do this? How are we supposed to bring her into this life? This nightmare?”

Quynh pulled out a chair and sat down, reaching for Andy as she did. Andy leaned out of her reach though so Quynh let her hand drop onto the table, there if Andy needed it. “Andromache,” she said softly. Andy shook her head. “She is in it. She did not get a choice and neither did we. We will do this because we must, because the alternative is forcing her to do it by herself and we both know that we can’t do that. We were alone for far too long to ever do that to her.” Now Andy grabbed her hand and squeezed. Andy didn’t do well with being alone, didn’t like even a reminder of it. As much as she hated herself for it, for the weakness of it, she needed it. Needed Quynh.

“I can’t do this,” Andy admitted. “I can’t-”

“Joe and Nicky are doing it,” Quynh reminded her. “They are finding her and they are telling her and you will not have to.”

Andy inhaled deeply and let out a slow breath. “How much longer are we going to do this Quynh? How much longer do I have to-” live.

“I don’t know,” Quynh told her honestly. “That’s not up to me.” If it was, she would have granted Andromache peace well before now. Maybe when Lykon died, maybe when the men ripped her from Quynh’s side, maybe when Andy spent centuries under the water, but definitely before now. Andy had lived too long and been through too much to be forced to continue living and yet she was.

No one had ever said immortality was kind but Quynh thought it reserved its cruelty for Andromache.

---

Nile had no idea what to make of these people. The two men who had saved her from what she was certain was not going to be a pleasant fate with the MPs seemed nice enough, if a little odd. They’d dragged her to a small town outside of Paris, the two waxing lyrically about the city and the history and each other for the nearly ten hours it took to make the trip, and she was almost thankful to see other people. The three people who greeted her when they arrived at the old church gave her pause though. As almost overwhelming as Joe and Nicky had been, they were pleasant enough. They smiled and laughed and joked and set her nerves at ease.

The two women sitting at the table and the man hunched in front of the TV did not. Misery and weariness seemed to emit from all of them. They greeted Nile with a smile and a nod, one woman actually said hello before dismissing her, and went back to what they were doing.

They sat down to dinner not long after and Nile learned their names, Booker and Andy and Quynh, learned their ages, too old all around, and nothing else.

The five people around her clearly knew each other well, had obviously spent years (centuries, her mind added) living out of each other’s pockets, and she was an outsider. An outsider who they seemed to think belonged with them but who they had no idea how to involve. Joe and Nicky tried. They steered the conversation away from memories and towards more modern topics, they asked Nile questions to get her speaking, but it was hard when the other three didn’t do much of anything. Booker was deep into his flask, reacting only when spoken to directly. Andy looked completely out of it while also being hyper aware of her surroundings, simultaneously on edge and uncaring about it. Quynh was too focused on Andy to really pay much attention to the others. She masked it slightly, occasionally pretended that she was doing anything other than watching the other woman, but even then she didn’t try too hard to engage with Nile.

The dinner ended, Andy and Quynh cleared the table, and Nile fled. She needed to fresh air in more ways than one.

“Nile.” She startled when Joe came up next to her. “Sorry,” he apologized immediately. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“It’s fine,” she waved him off. “Is something wrong?”

He smiled. “I was going to ask you that.”

Nile shrugged. “I’m fine.”

“It’s alright if you aren’t,” he told her. “It’s a lot to process.”

“It is,” Nile nodded. She flipped her phone around in her hands and turned the screen on to stare down at her mom and her brother. “I want to go home,” she laughed in surprise. She’d never been one to get homesick but right now...

“I would not advise that,” Joe told her. Nile stiffened. “Booker did that,” he added. The pieces clicked together. Booker’s dead eyes, his seemingly unending flask. “We will not stop you, of course,” Joe told her. “We just would not advise it.”

“What happened to them?” Nile gestured to the church behind them. “Will I be like that one day?” They were miserable. The only ones who weren’t were Joe and Nicky and she had an inkling it had to do with them being Joe-and-Nicky rather than being more well adjusted than the others.

Joe looked at the church, his eyes saddening as his gaze lingered. “We are old, Nile. All of us. Booker- Booker had to watch his family die. Andy and Quynh are very very old and they have been through a lot.”

There was something else though. Something in the way Andy didn’t look at her. “What else?”

“Andy was captured, about five centuries ago,” Joe confessed after a while. “She was locked up and cast into the sea.” Nile’s breath caught in her throat.

“How long did it take for you to find her?”

Joe shook his head. “We didn’t. She found us.” Nile’s brow furrowed. “We searched. We searched for decades but the technology just didn’t exist for us to find her and we had to stop. Her cage rusted and she was able to break free herself but it took a while.”

“How long?”

“She found us about,” Joe paused to think, “fifteen years ago? She used her dreams of Booker to find us once she’d made it to land.”

Nile’s mind whirred. “You’re telling me she spent almost 500 years trapped in a cage under water?”

“Not being able to die is not always a good thing, Nile,” Joe replied. Nile hadn’t yet thought of it as a good thing so this wasn’t quite the revelation Joe acted like it should be.

“Is there any way to stop it?”

Joe shook his head. “Our time will come one day,” he confessed. “But we don’t know when and we have no control over it. One day we just won’t heal any more.”

---

Booker had never seen Andy like this. In the last decade and a half, he’d never really seen her as anything other than severely depressed. They’d commiserated over it more than a couple of times.

This, this wasn’t that.

Andy raged.

He’d expected Joe to be angry, expected the man to fight and yell once Booker confessed. After Nicky was taken, he’d half dreaded the moment Joe realized Booker’s hand in it.

He hadn’t expected Andy.

Andy killed him four times before Joe even got a hit in. Each time more painful than the last. She barely waited for him to take a breath before she killed him again.

“Where are they?” She asked, her voice a low growl. When Booker didn’t answer quickly enough, she killed him again. “Where are they?”

“London,” Booker forced out before she could swing at him again. “They’re in London.” Andy stepped back and let Joe step in. He hauled Booker to his feet and stared him in the eyes.

“You will help us get them back.” It wasn’t a request. “And then we will deal with you.”

Joe’s fury burned colder than Booker had expected but it was no less intense. He nodded and let Joe push him into action.

“I thought you’d be happy,” he told Andy. “They want to know what makes us like this. If they find out, they can undo it. We can finally die, Andromache.”

Andy hit up across the face with the broad side of her axe. “You would have us be prisoners,” she corrected. “You would lock us up and have them kill us over and over again.”

“So that we can finally die!” Booker yelled. “Don’t you want it to be over? Don’t you want some goddamn peace?!”

Andy shook her head. “Not like this. And not for them. We will get Quynh and Nicky out and you will help us. And no one will ever lock me up again.”

---

Andy didn’t notice it at first, too focused on getting to Quynh and Nicky and getting them out. The pain and the blood was normal. She didn’t notice when it didn’t go away.

It was Quynh who saw. They’d gotten out of the lab, killed everyone who might come after them, and gotten somewhere safe. Joe and Nicky had escaped to a room. Booker and Nile had left to get food and other supplies.

It was just Andy and Quynh. As it should be. As it had been.

Andy spent centuries angry at Quynh. She’d been angry at Joe and Nicky too but her anger at Quynh was different. Not for a single moment had she thought Quynh would give up on her. She fought in that box and knew that Quynh was looking for her.

Right up until Booker died and she saw Quynh in his eyes and knew that she had.

Andy fought herself free of the box, fought herself to the surface, then to the shore. She used her dreams to find them and in her anger kill them.

But even as she raged at them for leaving her, she’d needed them. She’d needed Quynh. Because they weren’t meant to be alone and Andy had been alone for far, far too long.

“Andromache,” Quynh breathed, tearing her from her thoughts. Andy turned to see Quynh staring at her.

“What?” She asked.

Quynh stepped in close, her hand going to Andy’s stomach. Andy didn’t stop her.

The pain was a surprise. Quynh pressed against one of the bloodstains on Andy’s shirt and Andy felt a sharp pain in her gut. Quynh pulled her hand away and it was stained with blood. Wet, fresh blood.

It had been almost an hour since they left the lab. Andy should have healed long ago, the stain on her shirt well on its way to dry by now.

“Andromache,” Quynh said again. There was a strange note to her voice, like she couldn’t decide if she was happy or sad at the new revelation. Andy didn’t see the look on her face, her eyes fixed on her own stomach as she rucked up her shirt to stare at the wound.

It was bleeding.

on ao3

#the old guard #tog fic #andromache the scythian #andy x quynh #my fic

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