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twogyuu · 1 year

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Alternative title: From 'Babygirl' to 'Wifey'

Pairing: Seungcheol x fem!reader

Synopsis:

“It’s time . . . wifey.”

Genre: Fluff, angst if you squint, heir!cheol, terrifyingly innocent!couple (but like ~5-7 years since university is when this set so they are grown grown now 🥺)

Warnings: Mentions of food, mild themes of jealousy, suggestive if you squint hard enough

A/N: Inspired by Chanyeol and Lee Hi's song, 'Yours' and Seokmin and Cheol's Allure photoshoot. Though the photos were sultry, this literally is not sexy at all LOL. Feelings were just being felt #triggered

masterlist (can be read as a stand alone!)

You weren’t sure how long you had been standing there for, eyes peering up and trained on the glossy magazine sitting on the top rack of the red-wired stand next to the register of the 7/11 down the street from your shared apartment. The ding of sliding door fell deaf on your ears, you paid no mind to the customers skirted around you – some not caring for your presence as they had a train to catch or rushing to grab a quick meal to make at home, a few throwing dubious glances in direction, the thought of a perhaps crazed fangirl of Choi Seungcheol debating whether or not she should recklessly buy the magazine with her hard earned money, running through their mind while they handed the cashier their card.

The pad of your thumb repeatedly running over the perfectly cut edges of the clear, heavy stone sitting on the silver band wrapped around your fourth finger, you examined the magazine cover of your fiance. A month ago, he had told you he had a photoshoot coming up. As the newly announced CEO of Sebong Holdings in the next few years to come, he was a hot topic in the media. Naturally, there were a few printing presses that wanted him to be featured in their next magazine issue.

When he had told you “photoshoot” you had thought it would be . . . professional. Black suit and tie, clean cut hair combed back, good posture, modest – covered.

You weren’t expecting him to be wearing a tight, unbuttoned, white shirt, sleazily covered with loose blazer and his hair to be wet and stylishly tousled and hanging over his pretty brown orbs that were covered by heavy lids.

It was anything, but professional and modest.

It was sultry and provocative.

You liked it, but you also didn’t.

This was your fiance – these kinds of photos should only be for your eyes.

Why didn’t he tell you or show you them before now?

With a small huff, you tore your eyes away from the cover, shaking your head to clear it of the green fogging your rationality. You knew it was dumb to be jealous – Seungcheol was a public figure, and a very attractive one at that. It was only natural for society to be swooned by his sharp yet gentle features, and on top of that, his pretty words.

Wasn’t that the worst? He was charismatic – somewhere along the lines after university, he learned how to craft his speech to sway the general public.

He was still the Seungcheol you knew from childhood, in university – just . . . refined.

As popular as he was with the people, he was yours at the end of the day, and he always will be after slipping the engagement ring on your finger only two weeks ago. There was no reason to suspect otherwise – he was busy with the preparations for the transition, but Seungcheol always made time for you.

You couldn’t be mad.

You couldn’t be jealous.

He was literally yours and there were millions of people across the country vying to be in your position now.

Seungcheol couldn’t even be claimed as the nation’s most eligible bachelor anymore because he had announced in an interview prior that he was happily engaged to you – though, for your privacy and safety, your identity remained hidden for now. As the wedding preparations came along, the Choi’s would introduce you slowly to the public as the heir’s partner in crime.

The buzzing of your phone interrupted your internal fuming. Out of guilt, your heart instantly sank, at the sight of his name. You were quick to swipe at the screen to see his message.

[Choi Seungcheol]: Coming home yet?

[Choi Seungcheol]: Should I come pick you up?

[Y/N]: I’ll be there soon – at the 7/11 🙂

[Choi Seungcheol]: . . . Did I forget to buy something? 😅

[Y/N]: LoL no – we’re just running low on paper towels. I’ll see you soon ♥️

[Choi Seungcheol]: Hurry~

[Y/N]: I can’t if you keep texting!

[Choi Seungcheol]: I miss you 🙁

[Y/N]: You’ll see me soon lolol

[Choi Seungcheol]: Not soon enough! Run if you have to!

[Choi Seungcheol]: Today I cooked too 😏

You let out a soft chortle, shaking your head at his message as you tucked your phone back into your purse, making your way to the paper towel aisle.

Even if he was the Choi Seungcheol, there was solace in knowing there was a piece of your Choi Seungcheol that people won’t ever see – for better or for worse. He was clingy and he pouts more than Jihoon’s son, but he loved unconditionally and after all these years, he still doted you like you were when you fake dating.

The honeymoon phase was eternal with Seungcheol and you wouldn’t change it for the world.

“You’re awfully quiet tonight,” Seungcheol noted as he tucked a clump of rice into his cheek. He looked at you from across the table, tilting his head to the side, much like Kkuma – the Maltese that Seungcheol inherited from his father a few years before. “What’s wrong?

You peered up from your tofu soup, wide-eyed and confused. “Hm? What would be wrong?”

He clicked his tongue against his teeth, leaning in and squinting from across the square dinner table as if it would give him the answer. “Something’s off.” He frowned suddenly, peering down at his soup. “It tastes bad, doesn’t it?”

“Nothing’s wrong,” you chuckled, pushing him away. “Just tired – and your soup tastes fine,” you swirled the broth before gulping down a spoonful to make a point. “You’re getting better.”

He wasn’t satisfied with your answer, but he’d let it go – for now. Seungcheol would get it out of you one way or another.

And after being together for the better of the last five years, he’d do it fast.

“How was 7/11?” he asked nonchalantly.

You choked, pounding your chest. You looked up from your dinner, scowling as you reached for a napkin.

He returned your look with a simple, but effective raise of his eyebrow.

“Fine,” you replied hoarsely. You paused, dabbing the invisible liquid off your lips to buy yourself some time. “I . . . um . . . saw your magazine cover.”

“Ah,” Seungcheol sounded, his stature visibly relaxing. He was almost . . . . amused. “Did you like them?”

You refused to give him the satisfaction he was seeking in seeing you squirm, holding your posture stiff and eyes looking away from him.

“They were interesting, to say the least,” you nodded.

“You liked them,” he smirked.

“You said it was a professional photoshoot,” you remarked.

“And they were,” he shrugged.

At this, you peered up at him once more, less happy with his smart and quick response. He gave you a shit-eating grin knowing he nailed what was bothering you and more.

“I was expecting something . . . err, different,” you added. “More . . . modest.”

“Are you jealous, right now?” he chuckled.

“N-no,” you whined, “Stop.”

“Aww,” he cooed, getting out of his seat to make his way over to you. A hearty laugh emanated from his chest as he wrapped you in a tight embrace. “You have nothing to worry about.”

“Seungcheol!” you whined trying to push him away.

“I love you,” he planted a peck on the crown of your head, continuing to smoosh you in between his arms.

“Seungcheol – it’s fine! I’m fine now! You looked amazing! I know – we know!”

You know you stood no chance against him, quick to give in and settle into his chest, wrapping your own hands around his waist. You buried your face into the crook of his neck, your whines replaced with bouts of breathy laughter.

You already knew you were being ridiculous earlier and even then, he was quick to reassure you.

A comfortable silence settled in, the both of you savoring the simple, but intimate moment. Seungcheol rubbed soothing circles into your back, your eyes fluttering shut at his touch. There were the occasional shared giggles and slap of his hand when his hand lingered a little too low for your liking, playing with the hem of your shirt.

“Still on the topic of photoshoots,” Seungcheol mumbled into your shoulder. You felt him press his plush lips against your skin.

“It’s been like . . . almost ten minutes since we dropped the topic,” you snickered.

“Wanna do a professional photoshoot with me?” he ignored your comment and asked instead. His tone was ingenuous.

Pulling back, arms slipping down his biceps, you stared at him owlishly, waiting for him to tell you he was kidding or pinch your nose and say ‘sike.’

Like his voice though, there wasn’t a hint of mischief in his expression. Only a gentle smile tugged at the corner of his lips, his eyes glistening with hope as he patiently awaited your answer.

Cupping his cheeks, you asked softly. “I think I need more details, Cheol.”

“It’s like one of those . . . engagement photoshoots, but fake – not our real ones that we’ll share for our wedding, but for the public,” he explained, gently reminding you about introducing you to the world as Seungcheol’s fiance. “Mr. Kang said my father has something set up – we just have to give them the signal that we’re a go.” Tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, he waited a beat before adding, “It’s time . . . wifey.”

“We’ve evolved from babygirl to wifey,” you joked to shake off the nerves of the request. You gave him a chaste kiss.

“Are you ready though?” he asked earnestly. “If you’re not, we can wait a little longer.”

Were you? He was yours for the rest of time – whether it was today or another fifty years down the line, the public would find out.

And what was there to be ashamed of? Afraid of?

The facts were simple and plain: he was yours and you were his.

Though flashing cameras and watchful eyes of his world were overwhelming at times, it wasn’t anything the both of you couldn’t work through.

“It’s okay, I’m . . . I’m ready,” you nodded. You raised a finger to his chest, pressing it against his sternum. “Hubby.”

At the drop of the word, you immediately crinkled your nose and shook your head. “That didn’t come out right.”

Seungcheol chortled, pulling you into another bear hug. “You’re right, it didn’t,” he patted the back of your head, “Seungcheol is just fine from you – alternatively, ‘babe’ or ‘sexy’ is also acceptable.”

You snorted. “On Jihoon’s death bed maybe.”

“You’re right, wifey.”

#seungcheol x reader #scoups x reader #seungcheol fluff #seungcheol scenarios #seventeen x reader #seventeen fluff #seventeen scenarios

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acesw · 4 months

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UTTU Part 1: The Magazine

Welcome back to A.D. doing mega lore posting because good god this will never get old. But anyways, this post will be about UTTU and not only about their magazine, but also about their Flash Gathering. (This also counts as my birthday gift for Sonetto since she likes being info-dumped, probably. Happy Birthday Sonetto!)

“Standing in the shadow, we tell all the stories which were once unknown, like a weaver in silence, or a moth light trap in the dark night.” - Pandora Wilson, UTTU Journalist

First, who even is UTTU?

UTTU Magazine is an arcanist magazine organization that releases stories about notable arcanists. According to Blonney, they are "the greatest fashion and arcanist information magazine." They operate globally as well as privately, going so far as to hide the physical identities of their reporters and their main headquarters.

There’s not a lot of things known about how UTTU works, but what we do have is information about their magazine and their Flash Gathering event, which we can start off from there. But first, what does the name mean?

The name ‘Uttu’ comes from the Mesopotamian goddess of the same name, one of Sumerian origin. She was associated with weaving (and spiders but the claim of Uttu being envisioned as a spider is limited).

They sell their magazines in the form of seasonal subscriptions, advising to only purchase the subscription and not much else. From there, they create the articles and send out monthly updates.

UTTU also hosts “Flash Gatherings” for the game’s events as a reading club, where the arcanists are invited to see the UTTU market situated in the area of where the in-game event takes place; they can read the Flash Journal and FLASH:FAME, obtain FAME cards from retails, and get rewards. I’ll get into this in Part 2.

First, we'll explore the magazine since there's so much questions surrounding them.

UTTU Magazine

Of course, the magazine is the main brand of the organization. The magazine has properties in which only arcanists are able to read it (speculation), and it has a scheduled self-update to release new articles/artworks.

The reason why we are able to see such a large amount of information is because from what can be told, Vertin is an avid collector of this media, even being titled “Top Collector” in the introduction of the Green Lake Flash Gathering.

Anyway, the magazine has a very interesting way of how it works, and they even have their own reading guide, including instructions of how to manage the magazine and activate the self-update.

Reader’s Guide and Self-Updating system

Welcome to UTTU. This is a magazine.

Don’t skip this page. Unlike those useless prefaces filled with boring platitudes, this one is important.

1. Don't doubt the truth of UTTU. We only tell true stories that happened to real arcanists.

2. You only need one copy of UTTU. After you make the seasonal subscription, the copy will update itself on 15th every month.

3. Whenever the copy updates itself, please place it below a cupboard or the firewood in a fireplace, but do not leave any fire or light. Then step back to 8.8 feet away and wait for 10-15 minutes. It is normal to hear the sounds of sewing and crawling during the update.

4. Don't be confused about the interviews of the artworks. Please note that anything can be an artwork: they can be alive, or dead. Whoever has a story to tell can be deemed an artwork.

5. You might smell a fine aroma from the pages while reading an interview. This is normal.

6. Do not be shocked by live photographs, and do not let any of them come in contact with dark coffee or matches.

8. Keep UTTU away from fire. This is an arcanum magazine and is definitely not fireproof.

9. Although it's not fireproof, UTTU is waterproof, but please do not soak it in water for too long. If you do so by mistake, please prepare enough insect repellent.

10. Don't ask where article 7 is. (lmao)

11. If you see any ads about nightmare recycle on the attached pages, do not call the number on it or make any attempt to catch those monsters. If your children report strange goings-on to you, comfort them with one extra milk candy before bedtime.

12. Try to enjoy reading UTTU.

The way one could get the magazine is buying a seasonal subscription, and upon receiving it you’d have to take care of it regularly since it is delicate. When updating, you put it in a place where you’d most commonly find spiders. That way, these arcane weavers can multiply and add to the tapestry. Additionally, this magazine seems to be a live and interactive type of media, which does explain the “live photographs” and the spiders.

Magazine Contents

Now, what are the contents of the UTTU Magazine?

First, we look at our Role Atlas. Yes, the Role Atlas is involved in this too.

There are categories of our roster that classify them by what they are: Beyond, awakened, arcanist, mixed, and infected. Now, what are each of these?

Beyond: an Arcanist with unexplainable origins not found within Arcanum (Ex: Voyager and aliEn T are aliens born of supernatural causes rather than arcanum. Jessica is a hybrid species of a deer woman (a spirit in Native American myth) and a changeling (a supernatural creature in European folklore) )

Awakened: an Arcanist who was once an object and has been given sentience one way or another (Ex: Sputnik was a regular space probe as the real Sputnik 1 who gained sentience when entering orbit).

Arcanist: A general term for those who are born with a different physiology that makes them able to sense and use arcanum, this is not limited only to human arcanists. (Ex: Door was born of arcanum on Earth and was always sentient thus is not a Beyond nor Awakened arcanist)

Mixed: People who both have the genetics or blood of a Human and an Arcanist. (Ex: Pavia and Satsuki were implied to be born of a human and an arcanist)

Infected: Currently unknown, no arcanists within this category.

They also have a “Bound Volume”, which serves as a gallery collection of arcanists that Vertin has and has not met. Those she (and we) haven't met will be obscured.

The “Artwork”

Artworks in this game are basically the arcanists that UTTU chooses to write about. As long as there is one to tell, they will conduct an interview and report on it. For each artwork they contain: Exhibition details, Item Collection, and Story/Interview.

First, the cover. Made by my friend and fellow lore chat dweller Rabies En., this is what can be made out of what each part of the exhibition details mean:

And of course, the “Completion” date is their birthday.

When it comes to describing their inspiration, it tends to be left on a vague note and left for speculation. While concluding that the first half is the title of the arcanist’s afflatus, the second half has left most people confused. My speculation is that this latter half is something that is related to their job, hobby, skill, or interest.

For example, Balloon Party’s inspiration is quite straightforward: “Remains of a Rock Formation [Mineral] Bones Balloon.” It directly showcases her afflatus and what she is inspired by, which also goes hand in hand as to what her arcane skill is. Meanwhile, Sonetto’s is more vague and unique: “Trained Loyal Dogs [Mineral] Foreign Affairs.” These reflect her upbringing and main interest respectively. With this theory, I concluded that the afflatus and inspiration boost one’s arcanist’s medium, which in turn helps fuel their arcane skill.

Second, the items. All arcanists have a section that lists personal items that closely pertain to their character, usually, these things would be visible on their person. The author analyzes them and relates them to their story and character. And depending on the item, they are priced by clear drops.

Additionally, if a character has a garment that isn't their I2 (e.g. event garments), they will have a special section for a new set of items. (Ex. Sonetto's Parade Anthem garment isn't exactly her I2 outfit, thus she has another set of items that relate to the uniform.)

Lastly, the Story and Interview; Each and every arcanist is interviewed by Pandora Wilson, another fellow arcanist and one whose face is obscured to the world other than a pair of lips.

The first story is a retelling of their background and upbringing, the second is a story about their daily life or lifestyle, and the third is a transcripted segment of their interview. The interview segments usually starts with Pandora greeting and/or asking a few questions towards the interviewee, but occasionally they also include the end of these interviews.

They highlight parts that make the interviewee unique; It exhibits their distinction, their personality, and most importantly, their overall character and the life they lead. These help us learn about the arcanists in a more deeper level the more we bond with them, as well as learning about the world they live in considering how all of them come from different times.

Now, our magazine analysis ends here. Feel free to ask questions and Part 2 is linked below!

Part 2: The Flash Gathering

#reverse 1999 #uttu #lore analysis #say thank you to rabies en for the exhibition guide #heavy sonetto mentioning cause we love her

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alwaysthefool · 17 days

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Melting (like an Ice Cream) Part 1

Tags: Fluff, Reader is a bit over-enthusiastic, gender neutral

Warnings: unemployment mention lol, ultra embarrassing reader like 2000s rom com protagonist level embarrassing

Synopsis: You don’t want to lose your job as Chuuya’s assistant because it pays well. Multi part.

Chuuya sighed as he looked down at the document assigning him a new secretary after he rejected the previous few. He simply didn’t want one, but it was mandated for someone at his position. Plus, Mori wanted him to have a reduced workload. Considering Chuuya was too busy to attend the interview process, Mori personally selected whoever was most ‘enthusiastic’ rather than someone with experience or qualifications.

And that person was you.

Green but willing to do whatever to make this job stay. You were told your boss was a little cold and transferred others who were under him. It was stupid to take a job in the mafia but the current employment situation left you no choice. The pay was really good, and it wasn’t like you’d have to off people, at least that’s what the job description said. You just had to make reports, and help out the guy who did off people— one Chuuya Nakahara, and that too in the office. *

“This is going to be a piece of cake!” You chimed as you entered the Mori Corporation building, a very sophisticated mafia front business dealing with shipping ‘items’ overseas. You stood out like a sore thumb with a bright face as you swiped your employee card to enter the elevator area, pushing the button and greeting everyone there. Your previous job taught you to be nice to everyone because you never knew when you’d need someone’s help, but looking at how no one returned your greetings, you felt like perhaps it had the opposite effect here. You stared down at the document you prepared, reading your new boss’ schedule, wondering if you should’ve gotten him and his team coffee since you were early anyway and he didn’t have anything in store for the day.

As you reached your floor, you felt like people made snide remarks right as you stepped out the elevator. Hopefully it was just your imagination. You walked to the executive’s room, knocking on the door.

“Come in.” His sharp voice echoed.

You took a deep breath, put on your most professional smile, and opened the door, cheerfully introducing yourself. He looked up, a little surprised, then looked down again. “What are you so happy about?” He mumbled. Is everyone at this place this way?

Still, that wasn’t enough to set you off. “Is there anything I can help you with, sir?”

“Chuuya’s fine. Do whatever you want, just get off my ass.”

You blinked at his words, excusing yourself as you exited the room and made your way to the adjoining office where you found a few people working away on files. Oddly, there were no windows, and the lighting was too dim, despite which a blonde woman wearing sunglasses typed away rapidly. You sat on the desk beside her, where a note was left for you telling you to take the day off.

“But it’s my first day?” You spoke out loud.

The blonde woman beside you stopped typing, making the room eerily silent and said “You must be Nakahara’s new assistant. Well, enjoy your week off.”

“Wait, what?”

“He doesn’t really need- well, want an assistant but the boss’ wants him to try them for at least a week. They- well, you will be let off with a week’s pay.”

You couldn’t accept that. You needed that job, even without insurance, the pay was too good to pass up.

I just have to prove myself as an indispensable employee so Chuuya can’t fire me!

You devised your plan as you introduced yourself to the blonde woman named Higuchi, who too had a strict boss but somehow still held her job. “Miss, do you know which car belongs to Mr. Na- Chuuya?”

“Oh, you’ll know when you see it.”

You looked at the schedule and rushed downstairs, again greeting everyone on the elevator to no response. You ran out when you reached the lobby, greeting an old man at the entrance gate, who actually greeted you back.

It didn’t take long to find Chuuya’s car. A mahogany sports car, with a foreign number plate and tinted glasses, no car being parked near it. You walked to it and looked under it, checking it for explosives and the like, just stuff you’d seen in action movies.

“What the fuck are you doing?” A sudden, irritated voice spoke from behind you.

“Checking your car for explosives?”

Chuuya sighed, pinching his nose bridge. “Headache in the morning.” He spoke under his breath, probably to not let you hear him, but you did as even his whispers were just naturally loud.

“Uh, sir-“

“Chuuya’s fine.” He repeated.

“Let me open the door, so if there’s an explosive, it doesn’t detonate on you.”

He rolled his eyes, holding your arm lightly to move you away. “All the more reason for me to open it.” He pressed a button on the keys he was holding, and the door opened upwards, in true sports car fashion. Before getting in the car, he looked to you and said “Look, I’m sorry for being rude in the morning. I’m just tired of… I don’t need an assistant. You can spend the week at home and you’ll be compensated for it. I checked your records, you’ve never been in an organisation like this before, right? Trust me, you don’t want to be here. Just go.”

He didn’t meet your eyes, but bowed politely and got in. You moved further back to let his car go.

Your new boss actually seemed nice, but seeing the job market, you did want to be there. No where else would hire someone with your experience, references, and grades at an actually liveable price. Even if you transferred to other jobs in the mafia, you didn’t think you’d be able to handle the field work they do. Accounts, budgeting, making spreadsheets and schedules, planning meetings, picking up someone’s laundry or morning coffee— that was fine by you. So you slowly walked back up, using the stairs this time so as to not meet anyone, going back to your cubicle beside the blonde woman who was still typing away rapidly.

Everyone around you was too busy to engage in conversation, and you wondered what you could do. Maybe meet with the people who hired you in the first place to ask them for— no, they were literal gang bosses, you reminded yourself. You stood up and went to Chuuya’s office, which you were given keys to.

Maybe I can clean up?

You hoped dusting didn’t count as snooping. You pulled your sleeves up and started cleaning the windows with a dust cloth you obtained from the janitorial closet. You dusted the curtains, vacuumed the carpet, wiped the table, even removed the cobwebs from the corners of the room. There was nothing more to do except organising the files, but you also didn’t want to be yelled at. You looked outside the window, watching clouds cover the city skies.

Did Chuuya have an umbrella?

You luckily carried one in your bag, owing to the unpredictable weather of the summer months. You went down, waiting at the parking lot. Sure, doing so much looked pathetic but being unemployed was even worse. As it started raining, you opened the umbrella and wondered what more you could do.

Luckily, Chuuya’s car arrived soon, speeding too fast for that weather. You rushed to his door with the umbrella.

“What the fuck?” He seemed confused at you holding the umbrella over him as he opened his door.

“Um, I didn’t think you had an umbrella?”

“I don’t need one. You use it.”

You watched in awe as he pushed past you again, the raindrops gravitating off him. Of course. Why didn’t you think of that?

You followed him, leaving your umbrella in the holder at the entrance. People stopped to bow at him as he walked past, and even greeted him at the elevator. It was then that you realised respect at the port didn’t come from being polite and making connections, but the kind of work you did. You had to take the same approach to get Chuuya to not fire you too.

You rushed out the elevator and opened his office door for him, which made him chuckle a little. “I should be opening the door for you, don’t you think?”

Everything he said was just so charming, almost kind. At the same time, he just seemed so intimidating and unapproachable. Something out of a dream.

You were lost in your thoughts and did not reply, or even notice his reaction to his office. At that moment, where he just stared in silence, you felt terror overcome you. What if he assassinated you there and then because you cleaned his room a little? What if the mafia executed in their style on the assumption of you being a spy?

“Hey, you cleaned up my office. Looks good.” He spoke unexpectedly, handing you his coat. You took it and hung it on a rack.

“Thank you, so much.” You were breathless. “I didn’t touch the files or cabinets because-“

“No need’ta be so nervous.” He seemed more friendly than he was in the morning. “You did good. You can organise the cabinets if ya want.”

Everything was too surprising. You wanted to be a strong employee and butter him up a bit more, but everything felt overwhelming. “Should I get you coffee?”

“No, I’m good with wine.” You resisted the urge to ask what he was doing drinking so early as he poured himself a glass. You were about to leave when he asked you something that would be the start of both your lives changing.

“Hey, would you like a glass?”

#slowburn #fic #bsd #bungou stray dogs #fluff #hcs #self insert fics #chuuya nakahara #bsd chuuya #chuuya x reader #bsd x reader #gender neutral #fanfiction

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bullet-prooflove · 3 months

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Prey! Series - Part One: Trafficked - OA Zidan x Reader

Tagging: @trublu2u @mrspeacem1nusone @greenies-green @rosaliedepp @whateversomethingbruh @anime-weeb-4-life @daydreaming-belle @burningpeachpuppy @scarlettsakura @divergent146 @upsteadlogic @malindacath @skyesthebomb @@kilikonakapamana @yezzyyae @redpool

When Omar first meets you it’s because a young Ukrainian girl has been found bleeding out on someone’s lawn after being stabbed thirty times. She’s lucky to be alive, he’s told at the hospital while he waits for you to arrive. When he thinks of the nineteen bodies they’ve just found buried in the woods and the shallow grave Hailey had clawed her way out of he thinks luck had nothing to do with it. That girl is a fighter through and through.

When you appear, he isn’t prepared for just how pretty you are. You’ve tried to downplay it; no makeup, hair tied away from your face but you’re naturally striking. You’re wearing civvies, black jeans with battered Doc Martens, a light grey tunic top thrown over the top. You’re in the midst of clipping your badge to your hip when he approaches you.

“Sorry.” You greet him, raising your head to meet his eyes. “It was my day off.”

For a moment the entire world falls away and he’s completely captivated by you. This is what the Quran talks about, he thinks, when you meet your soulmate. There’s a sense of tranquillity, of peace. A familiarity that you can’t explain. That’s how he feels when he shakes your hand.

“Hanna Emery.” You introduce yourself. “Human Trafficking Division.”

Hanna

In Hebrew it means compassion.

You certainly live up to your namesake.

He hangs back during the interview. He’s new to the bureau, still finding his feet and he’s experiencing a lot of firsts during this case. Human trafficking is your world, something you’re well versed in he comes to discover as you question Hailey. The technique is different, tailored towards different aspects of the victim’s experience. There’s an emotional intelligence in you that he can’t even begin to fathom.

Through the course of the interview, you learn that Hailey and her sister were trafficked from the Ukraine through an Eastern European employment agency. They were from a small farming community. They each completed a test before participating in a video interview. They’d been ecstatic when they’d discovered they’d been selected for jobs in New York City.

“It’s a scam we see often,” You tell Omar in the aftermath when you’re comparing notes. “They target girls in rural communities, the ones that don’t know any better.”

The girls had been picked up at the airport in a van by three men Snake, Spider and Hog. They’d been transported to a townhouse before descending into what Hailey described as the depths of hell. Your demeanour changes when Hailey mentions the name Snake, it’s a subtle shift, a tension in your shoulders, your eyes flicking upwards.

“Who is he to you?” He’d asked you as he swiped his card over the payment feature of the vending machine. “Snake?”

You’re already tearing open the wrapper of the candy bar he’s just bought you because you’d had to skip out on lunch with a friend to cover his case. Omar figures it’s the least he can do.

“A monster.” You tell him. “I’ve been cleaning up his mess for almost two years now. The shit he’s done to these girls…”

You shake your head as you throw the rest of your half-eaten candy bar into the trash.

It’s when Hailey describes the extent of her abuse that Omar finds himself at a loss. She and her sister Brook were taken to the basement of a townhouse, raped for three days straight. That’s incomprehensible to him, the terror of it, the violation. He has three sisters, the thought of something like that happening to one of them…

It makes him sick.

“It’s a way of breaking them down, keeping them compliant.” You explain to Omar afterwards. “It destroys their hope, erodes their sense of person. They become an object to be used, a vessel for someone else’s pleasure.”

You pause, your fingers toying with the bracelet on your wrist. It’s woven fabric, black, white and red threads all interlocked in an Aztec pattern and secured with a tight knot. It’s a couple of years old, he thinks. He doubts you’ve taken it off since it was given to you.

“They call rape murder of the soul, it’s worse than death. With death there’s peace, an ending. With rape, the person you are is completely obliterated, you can pick up the fragments, but they don’t fit the same way they used to.”

It’s harrowing, hearing it described like that. You must have done thousands of these interviews, heard so many variations of the same story. He wonders if it wears on you, if it takes a little piece of your soul everytime you endure their suffering along with them.

“I’m not sure how you recover from something like that.” Omar says, rubbing his hand over the nape of his neck.

“Some don’t.” You say sadly, your arms crossing over your chest as you look through the window into Hailey’s room. “Hailey though, she’s strong. I think she’s one of the ones that make it.”

“Is it true what you said?” He asks quietly, his shoulder coming to rest against the wall. “Is it really one in five women who get sexually assaulted?”

You sigh as you tilt your head to look at him. He sees the truth of it in your eyes and it devastates him because that means it’s happened to someone that he knows, someone he cares about, and he isn’t sure what to do with that knowledge.

“Yea.” You say softly. “I’m afraid it is.”

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yomogi-mogi-mochi · 1 year

Text

Ineffable Bloom

Pairings: Azul/Siren MC

Summary: Despite your status as siren, there are not many words that reach those around you anymore, voice now muted and marred from the surgeries you have endured to remove the carnations that once suffocated your throat. But you don't mind it, serving quietly as the gardener of Night Raven College, making do with a notepad and pen when necessary. You are pleased to find your childhood friend, Azul, now attends the school, who spontaneously hires you for the flower arrangements he decides to decorate in his lounge with. There's little hope you bear with the silent poetry you weave with each meticulously placed flower, only an ache which tumbles over you like the ceaseless seas. However, Azul is not deaf to this song you have sealed in your bouquets, having cherished the morsels of sweetness in your childhoods where you shared the silent language of each flower.

Notes: Sorry this took ages lmao. Been in a “creating anything is obsolete” phase my/spring allergies are starting so I am. Dying. Part of the twst myth series, here is the post with some basics. I just reached 1000 likes on tumblr which might not be much to some but wowwww thank you guys for your support!!

GN terms for MC

CW: Emotional abuse and toxic parenting when we get into MC’s backstory

AO3 Link Here.

Masterlist

——————————————————

“Would you like to add a ribbon to this? I’ll add it for free since I have some extra?” You placed the last slender stalk of green hydrangea into the bouquet and move your hands in practiced shapes and swerves, forming each phrase with careful deliberation.

Jack struggles a bit in forming as keen language with his hands, but you appreciate that he has taken the time to respond in your vernacular. Writing does get a little tiring after a bit. “If you wouldn’t mind. I think Trey would appreciate that.” He pauses, looking to Ruggie, who sways around the room with his hands behind his head in boredom, dipping his gaze to the lilies standing tall in a bucket on the ground. “Right, Ruggie?”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever is fine.”

The wolf huffs a bit before crossing his arms. “You know, you should be grateful (Name) is doing this so last minute since you forgot to place the order a week ago like we all agreed on.”

“Ugh get of my back‒ Leona had me running around more than usual last week…” His eyebrows raise a bit when he brings his attention to the dandelions drying above him, a slight movement you take notice to when wrapping the bouquet in its final layer. “Besides, who cares about all the details of each flower, it’s not like whoever is receiving them is looking into all the deep meanings of each blade of grass.”

You finish tightening the bow around the bouquet, assuring with your trained hands that it is secured tightly onto the broom, before handing it off to Jack. “Just like you mentioned in the interview‒ green color scheme, with symbols of loyalty, prosperity, and patience. Here is a card that has all of the flower languages on them.” You sign, which the man responds with a smile, and a clumsy thank you with his hands.

Ruggie has drifted over to the dandelion heads soaking in a bowl of water, being prepared for the dandelion honey you sell at Sam’s shop while his junior admires the bouquet in reverence. “You like dandelions?” You write on a notepad, poking Ruggie with it. He looks over lazily, shrugs.

“I guess.”

“They symbolize ‘an oracle of love’, resilience, and even sorrowful goodbyes. The name Dandelion comes from the word dent-de-lion, meaning the ‘jaws of a lion’- fierce, is it not?” Ruggie hums in curiosity in response, glancing at the flowers again to imagine it with a growing smile on his face. “Flowers and plants all have their silent poetry. It’s good to tip your ears to them once in a while, they may have something to say to you.”

“You hear that Jack‒ ‘jaws of a lion’..." The hyena says with his hand on his hips, a bashful finger grazing his nose.

"Yeah, yeah. Let's get going, we have a lot of prep to do for Trey's celebration." Jack turns to you before he leaves "Oh, you should stop by if you have time‒ everyone was curious during my birthday who had arranged my broomquet. I'm sure the other students would be thrilled to see the face of our new‒ well, I guess not so new anymore‒ gardener."

You furiously shook your head, scurrying your hands across the air in a flurry. "I wouldn't want to intrude…my work is nothing worth fussing over…"

"Anyone with a pair of working eyes can see otherwise‒ your talent is unmatched, you nearly performed a miracle reviving my half dead cacti." Jack smiles, remembering fondly of the times he had come in, asking you for advice on his growing horticulture collection. "Besides, it's nice for the students and staff to get familiarized."

"And free cake." Ruggie adds.

You raised your eyebrows at that, quelling the swirling anxiety in your stomach. "…okay, I'll try to make it. Just have to finish a few things here and I should be good to head out."

"We'll see you then, (Name)."

——————————————————

You brush your apron, relieving the weariness of a day's work in the breath that swelled from the bottom of your stomach and escaped as an audible huff that loosened the tension of your shoulders. However when you glance at your phone, anxiety shot through you as you realize time had passed a lot quicker, and it was about half an hour past the time Jack had told you to come. In racing footsteps, you gathered your items, throwing your apron on the hook near the front door before slamming it.

By the time you arrive, everyone is singing happy birthday, gathering in a circle around who you assumed was Trey, who bore a bashful smile on his face with the broomquet in his hands. You catch the eye of Jack across the room, who lights up when you wave nervously at him. The room erupts in applause and bright laughter as Trey blows out the candles of his cake‒ a volume you take a mental note of to judge just how many people were at this celebration. Quite a lot, especially now as the students disperse, preparing plates and cutlery to cut the delicious looking strawberry shortcake.

"Hey~ what are you doing here?"

There’s a surge of anxiety when those words are pointed at you, which you respond with a pressed smile as you swerve your head to the voice. To your surprise, you recognize the face which greets you, though it is a bit unnatural seeing them without a bluish tint to their skin, or scales. You suppose it’s a surprise for them as well, seeing you out of the water for the first time in about eight years.

“I thought I recognized that face. Hello, (Name), it has been a while.”

You hands move automatically to the pen and paper stuffed inside your pocket. “Jade? Floyd? It’s been a while. What are you doing here?”

“Eh? What's with the notepad little siren?”

The anxiety returned with Floyd's words. Even with the Leech family’s connections and the chattiness of your hometown, it was hard for rumors to form with the eight years you had spent apart from your home‒ your friends. You were thankful a bit for the amnesty it brought you on rare occasions like this, but explaining the whole situation was difficult for you‒ making up a believable excuse even more so considering the one memorable thing your species was known for. Sirens‒ their voice famed to plunge sea farers into maddening passion, the talents of which even the great Sea Witch openly admired in historical record. Perhaps you had been an example of this once, training your throat to squeeze and burn itself to strike impossible notes, whirling an unmatched vibrancy when you perfected each lyric, each score, each tendon to stand straight, expand your lungs, smile, and sing. Even if you had such talents in the past, it was negated with every pinch and pull of your mother’s craft‒ that memory now clandestine, numbed from the surgery.

Or that’s what you told yourself, as your calloused fingers graze the satin ribbon around your neck, the scars marring it aching slightly as you adjusted the fabric in a slight nervous tick. They’re been healed from quite some time‒ or you believe they are from the years you had observed every winding crack slowly dull against time‒ but the mountainous fossils carved onto your flesh would grow tender like this, pushed then retraced piercingly like the jagged shores far from your homelands, leaving snowy, bursting seafoam prickling against your skin. You suppose all you could do is tighten a smile against your mute lips, maneuvering past it as best you could.

“I’ll explain later. What are you guys doing at NRC?”

“We’re students, see~?” Floyd flashes a crooked smile, turning to the side to show off his dorm uniform. “Jade here is even the vice dorm leader. Boring if you ask me.”

“What are you doing here, (Name)? I don’t think I’ve seen you in my classes.”

“My aunt just retired as the gardener here, she's back at her shop in the Shaftlands. So I've come to officially take her place."

"We'll have our quartet back in no time now‒ you should visit the Monstero Lounge sometime so we can catch up~" Floyd wraps an arm around your shoulder, hanging lazily off it while his twin smiles.

"I agree with Floyd. Azul would be more than happy to see you too." At Jade's words, you brighten, and quickly scribble onto your notepad.

"Azul here too? Is he here today?"

Jade nods. "He's our dorm leader, actually. And yes, I think he just went outside to get some fresh air" his smile widens "you know how he is."

You do. Surely he was tired of the noise and pleasantries of birthday celebration. "Azul the dorm leader huh."

"You won't believe how much he’s changed unless you see for yourself." Floyd switches his weight to his other foot, landing on his brother's shoulder while gesturing to the veranda doors. You swerve your head towards it, trying to make out a figure against the bright blue skies and roses reaching towards the mild sun. There's a slight silhouette, but you can barely make out its features with the glare of the glass.

"You should go to him. He talks about you sometimes, you know." Before you could turn around and question the twins, their backs are turned from you, melting back into the bustling crowd. Despite your initial excitement, your feet move in idle footsteps, weighed by the heaviness which emerges from your wrapped throat, plummeting to the soles of your feet sticking densely onto the ground. The notepad in your hand is gripped through your sweaty palm‒ there was only so much space in each sliver of parchment you could fill with your words, the rest of your language lost to the silence which cages your throat. Even if you could rasp through your disfigurement with a language people would lend an ear to, you were sure that your thoughts, refined through your mother's distant voice, would drive you back into forlorn silence‒ your hands clawing and reopening your wounds wide and fresh enough to assure not even a breath could be heard from it. Flowers always came to you with such ease in comparison, eyes turned away from your secret adoration for something far more beautiful in perfectly placed petals, inventing no hope that you could cling to that would turn your throat raw with desire.

Even if these givings were seen, spoken of , or heard‒ you armor yourself by repenting‒ these gifts were never a virtue, but a disguise for the womb of shame you kept awake in your heart. Forgive me, for there is fear that one day that life will ripen within it‒ something as grotesque as myself, a venerable mirror to my slumbering desires to be swaddled and held. You arrive at the handle of the door too fast for your liking, hovering your hand over it with a heavy heart and tongue before grasping it quietly, hoping a little that your soundless footsteps would turn you into a phantom.

But when you are faced with a familiar image‒ his weaving dusty mauve hair, and the arctic clarity of his blue eyes, you can't help but to pause your prayers for a moment, met with the blinding joy his face brings you. Dear, dear friend.

You're so used to his name springing from your throat that you nearly tear the fragile nerves of your lesions with a rasp threatening to boil over by the warmth in your stomach. But you clench that tension in your hand as you scribble his name in hurried, crude strokes across the entire page.

"Azul?" You turned the paper pad over with clumsy, shaking hands. He looks just as surprised as you, but he nods slowly.

"(Name)?"

You nod your head vigorously to your name, decorated sweetly with his voice. His entire body is facing you now, taking you in with the gulp of his gaze. You do the same, noticing that, actually, not quite a lot has changed. Sure, the soft little octopus had grown tall and slender during the eight years you didn’t see him‒ but still, there is that mole dotted prettily on his face you remember quite well, and the softness of his eyes when they meet yours is one of your fondest, most tender memories, unraveled whenever you saw the sea blue glow of freshly fallen snow, or the velvety reflection of the skies in gentle spring creeks. But now they were here, gazing back at you, there were no words that appeared in your mind, or which you could communicate with the likeness of flowers. It's so sweet again when you hear his voice.

"What's happening? Why are you writ‒ never mind that." He shakes the thought away. "How…How have you been? Last I heard from mother you had moved with your aunt somewhere on land."

Azul does not question how, or why you stood in front of him after eight years, but rather simply‒ how are you? The smile that blooms at that realization hurts your cheeks. Azul mirrors your sentiments silently, relieved that there were no comments on his appearance of how he's "changed so much". Dear, dear friend. He missed this. Missed you too.

"I'm well. Been working as a gardener here, I enjoy it. How have you been? I’m guessing busy, I heard you're a dorm leader from the twins."

"Ah, you've already met them I see. I just hope they haven’t said anything…unnecessary." His smile widens, you trace the movement of his mole which stretches against the curve of his lips. "I've been…alright. Land life has been a lot to adjust to, but I think I have the hang of it now."

"Haha. It was a lot for me when I first came on shore too. Pillows are so weird, aren't they?"

The dormhead chuckles as you approach him near the railing, situating yourself beside him to face the white roses dotting the garden. One meant mercy, purity, the breath of love; two‒ "I deserve you"; three‒ adoration; 99 white roses, and this would be an Eden of eternal love. But you're too enraptured by his laughter to count, caught in the waves of his lightness.

"They are. But I think it's nice now, might even be a hit at the reef if we sell them during spring break. You mentioned you're a gardener?"

"Yes. I just maintain the horticulture on campus, and I do bouquets from time to time like Trey's broomquet today." You write fast, wanting to answer Azul quickly, fill the time with as much of him as you could. He leans over, watching you as you scribble, relishing silently in the smell of fresh cut lilies and seaside rosemary tangled in a salty sweet ocean breeze.

"An impressive feat, considering the size of our campus. If you're willing‒ I may actually need your help with the twin's birthdays coming soon."

“I'd be happy to help! We would need to set an interview up like I do with most of my clients‒ just so I know their preferences more. But it'll be easier since I already know Jade and Floyd." Truthfully, you were already putting together the perfect bouquet for the twins, violet roses here, silver ragwort there, and a sprinkle of beauty berry should bring the composition together in a delicate balance. The meeting was just an excuse to assure another conversation with Azul again, a thought which churned a feeling of shame within you, rolling you smooth with its ragged tongue that sanded down the rough joy jutting out from you like an unfinished pearl. When Azul nods on confirmation, this sensation becomes slightly eased, but your muscles churn inside you like the dark, deep seas.

"I agree. Nonetheless, us four should meet at the mostero lounge soon to catch up. I could use a talent like yours to freshen up the look of the lounge a bit‒ perhaps we could work a contract of some sort out."

"I'm not that good, I'm not so sure I can hold up to your expectations, dormleader."

"Please‒ Jade's tastes aren't so bad but Floyd's sense of interior design is abysmal. His idea of interior design is a bunch of half finished snacks decorating the shelf beside his bed. Any help would be wonderful."

A silent laugh shakes your shoulders. "I'll think about it."

The patio door opens again‒ revealing Jack, who waves a hand towards you, and speaks with clumsy hands. "They're cutting the cake (Name)- Azul, you too‒ it's gonna be gone if you stay out here for too long."

"Be right there." You sign, lifting your body from the deck railing.

"Is that sign language? I've never seen it in person." Azul holds the door open for you, allowing you to scurry in with a bow of your head.

You nod. "Writing gets tiring at times. But I'm happy either way people speak to me." There’s a twitch in Azul’s eyes that you catch at your statement, regret tingling at your fingertips making your skin feel raw against your flesh. You squeeze the meat of your palm to ignore it.

"We saved you two some cake~" Floyd summons the two of you with a wave, gesturing to two neighboring seats across from them.

Jade smiles, scooping a part of his cake with a fork. "It's nice that we're back together like this. It seems forever ago that you left the reef (Name)."

"But eight years fly by, don't they? You're going to have to catch me up on all the embarrassing stories of each other."

"Only if you let us in on some blackmail about you (Name)." Floyd reveals his sharp teeth with a wide grin, licking the icing off his fork.

"I will." You write, hoping you can fill their heads enough with the happier moments at your aunt's flower shop and time so far as the NRC gardener, rather than deliberate the disease which flowered in your lungs, the sickness that came with it‒ the surgery, the scarring, the healing‒ your departure from your mother, from your home, from them. The ribbon feels tight on your throat, your smile grows tense on your lips. You try your best to quell the swelling waves of anxiety, eased a bit with the laughter of your friends that rang in your presence once more.

——————————————————

You meet them again at the VIP section of their lounge just a few days later, having planned a date to meet before you went home after the birthday celebration. Though conversation was a bit stiff at first, energy begins to swell in the room as you reminisce the events of your childhood, and the years of adolescence you missed in the 8 years of absence from your hometown. The conversation slowly progresses towards how the three would be able to see you more, shifting back to Azul's proposal to have you come to set up flower arrangements in the lounge.

"How about roses?" Floyd suggests. "Classic. Everyone likes them."

A shrug. "Hm. They're a nice touch‒ but a bit basic. I can add them in, but I wouldn't make them the focal point since there's just better flowers out there."

"What do you suggest?" Azul asks.

You think, flipping through the catalog of flowers in your mind. "Especially for the color scheme of your dorm, I think hydrangeas would be nice. Blue poppies, perhaps some rosemary in there as well. Maybe purple carnation‒” you scribble that last thought away as quickly and vigorously as it came, your throat tightening in remembrance at that thought.

“Those sound great‒ but I want something more elegant looking, the carnations you mentioned would be fitting‒ ah‒ remember those flowers from that story you always talked about? The one about the poetry being written on the petals?”

You were glad he moved from carnations. Besides, purple carnations signified grief and death in some cultures, far removed from the emblem of prayer they were in your culture. “Hyacinths?”

“Precisely. What do the white ones mean?” What about this one? What does this say? How about this, this, and this? You remember the way he pointed to each flower in your encyclopedia lent by your aunt, his small fingers fluttering across the page like a busy little cuttlefish at your riveting explanations. This is this, this and this. There was always a hurry to your words when you spoke to others‒ particularly your mother‒ rushing to seize the brief opportunity allowed for you to speak, but no matter how much you had stumbled over your words in clumsy delight, Azul listened with a smile on his face, making notes on paper for his experiments, words rushing to his hands like a school of fish.

“White ones mean a ‘quiet love’, or ‘love that is quelled’. If you want something with a happier meaning though, I would go with white wisteria, it means sweet nostalgic memories or drunken love; cornflowers‒ delicacy and elegance; or salvia‒ veneration and wisdom. Purple chrysanthemum would be splendid too‒ meaning your wish will come true."

You remember when your mother was kinder, tucking your small, innocent body into her soft arms‒ hushing your cries with a tender whisper. It was without that rattle in your throat she pointed towards you like a knife when you grew from that chaste form, sullied and filled with her disappointment. Your body was tall and flushed with it, but not quite tall enough, not quite curved and plump the way she liked‒ needed you to be to carve her desired image into you. A mirror within a mirror within a mirror‒ mother and child, mother and child. Her words lashing as the waves cracking against the jagged rocks, shaping you into a memorial of her pains, her aching hunger.

But you returned to that far-flung memory of her maternal care, remembering the legend she told you about purple chrysanthemums‒ placing one dearly to your hair, chirping her bright song with a story that was passed from the throat of her mother, to the her ears as a child, blood through blood. This was one of the only memories you remember of her singing not to an audience or a stage‒ but to you, flesh of her womb, skin and bones lovingly mirrored in babbling purity. You trace her unusually soft words with your hand, gliding across the page with the exact pitch of her voice swimming in your mind.

"There's a legend among our kind, of the purple chrysanthemum. We decorate our most treasured people with it, and wear it as a sign of someone watching over you to make a dream come true‒ whether it is a benevolent god, or another person." You pause your writing, the three looking over you to watch you write. "It symbolizes the victory of love‒ its power which pulls the best from you to achieve something as distant as a dream."

Your pen stills. "But‒ I should retract my suggestion. People of other cultures use it to commemorate death, I wouldn't want to offend someone."

Azul is brightened by the way you talk about flowers again, the fragrant morsels on his mind blooming, coloring him vividly in your dazzling artistry. This is this, this, and this. The way you forge lustrous, silent poetry with each careful placement of a blossom amazes him each time, finding your words lingering and echoing in the cove of his mind. "No." His mouth races somewhat brash, he tries again, clearing his throat. "No‒ I trust your initial judgment." He smiles. You trace that mole on his face. "I like it."

"Then it's decided."

Floyd yawns, draping his arms dramatically against the couch, and lulling his head upwards with a sigh. “Ugh. Enough with the flower talk‒ let’s talk about something more interesting.” He flashes a toothy smirk. “(Name), you wanna hear about the time Azul cried so hard he threw up?”

His twin clasps his hands with a similar expression. “Oh, that’s definitely a good one.”

Azul’s eyes blow wide open. “That is absolutely a violation of our contract‒”

“I don’t believe that includes (Name) actually.” Jade muses with a sly grin.

"Why was he crying so hard he threw up??"

The dormleader groans, dropping his hands into hands.

The twins exchange a look before Jade answers. "You, of course."

"Me?" You point to yourself in disbelief.

Floyd chuckles. "He sipped a little wine at the restaurant on accident. Then he starts blubbering about how 'oh I miss them', 'oh remember when they did this', and 'oh‒"

"I think they get the point, brother."

While Floyd ignores his twin in favor of continuing the story, Azul continues to hide his slowly darkening face behind his hands, while you sit, pen hovering over the paper.

“Why?”

The twins blink with a confused expression on their face, while Floyd speaks with a baffled tone. “Ha? Why? What do you mean why?” From the corner of your eye, you see Azul lift his head from his hands to look you, with what expression, you can’t tell‒ training your eyes on the paper with hardened brows, blood tinging on you tongue from the flesh drawn between your teeth.

The pen in your hand hovers above the paper with a soft tremble. Why? Why me? When you left that reef years ago, you left any notion that your presence would be something that would be worth lingering over‒ much more grieving about‒ a thought that was confirmed by the way your mother hurriedly dumped you at your aunt’s flower shop near the somber shores, her frosty gaze and distanced followed by years of inveterated silence as incurable and everlong as the one wrapped around your throat. Like the winter storms on the beach where your aunt's shop sat upon, that silence from your mother, and everyone else for that matter, was as thrashing and unforgiving to your empty ears and throat. There was nothing left for you down there, just memories that would make that scraped dryly against your throat and make you long for something your body was not mended properly for. So the proposition that Azul had felt something towards you‒ so much so that he had shed actual tears for you‒ threatened to bring the nausea deep in your darkened stomach frothing at the surface. You pushed through it, hand gliding clumsily across the paper.

“Never mind, sorry. I should get going soon‒ I’m behind on some duties in at the Botanical Gardens.”

Azul sighs in slight relief, and stands as you gather your things. "I'll see you off." You bid goodbye to the twins, who flash a pointed smile at you while Azul holds open the lounge doors to leave.

“Come back again so we can embarrass Azul more with our stories.” You smile at Jade's words.

Before you pass through the portal, Azul taps your shoulder. He lays his hand flat against his lips, sweeping it towards you. You're taken a bit by surprise, but soon your cheeks ache from the warmth squeezed into them by your curved lips, turning the nausea reaching from your stomach to your chest into something, you think, extraordinary.

You held that feeling in your chest as much as the rupturing threaded into yourself would‒ drinking in the ease of passing clouds and the clemency of rippling seawater tickling the bottom of you feet‒ much too quick, too light, too wonderful to be bound by the chthonic gods. Your heart races with the swiftness of sprightly, sun drunken waves. There was a rising ache‒ knowing your fractured body would splinter before you could swallow this feeling in its entirety, filling you body brilliantly like a blooming chrysanthemum‒ unfurling its divine petals towards all cardinal directions in a form which flared itself every which way. Victory of love. You knew it would not triumph against your fragmentation‒ but despite it all, you smiled stupidly, weaving your florid fingers against his to show him the correct placement of the word.

"Like this." You instruct‒ on his chin, near that dotted mark, then towards you in one motion. The word is practiced twice so you can linger your hands on his own. "Thank you, thank you." You mouth.

The heat of your fingers burns this motion into him, even as you let go. He practices it again, hoping to retrieve your sensation onto his skin with the repeated motion. “Thank you.”

You take your pointed and middle finger to your eye, then glide it towards the tip of your chin with a circle made with your pointer and thumb.

“See you soon.”

——————————————————

Carnations are always a favorite among your customers. The flower of love, of adoration‒ of the gods. They have been woven into hair to commemorate new beginnings, have been rumored to sprout from a devoted mother’s tears faced with her child’s death. Their name comes from carnis, or flesh, from the myth of innocent bloodshed, a shepherd who had his eyes gouged out from a goddess of the hunt, who was displeased by his flute playing which caused the animals of her hunting grounds to be spooked. From his empty flesh, carnations grew, white petals emerging, stained with blood. White carnations typically signify the mourning of lost lives, pure love, unrequited love, loyalty, faithfulness, a mother’s love.

But most of all, it whispers, my love for you is alive. It felt that way when they flourished in your lungs, choking the song in your throat in just a few months after they sowed into your meat. Alive and red and beating so vibrantly against your flesh‒ filthy with the darkened red of your aching insides. They came as impossible heaps from your mouth, emptying quietly as you could in the corner of your room so as not to bother your sleeping mother in the room over. You remember furling your body inward, praying it to become smaller, smaller, smaller‒ quieting your agony, erasing your swaying footsteps to the medicine cabinet, slicing your body up and down into manageable pieces. It was a dance in your eyes you carried everywhere with you that classified every variation of footsteps, the slightest inflection in tone, a twitch of the lungs before it even came‒ so you could shape yourself flat against the sharpened teeth of any who bothered to bite down on your brittle, bitter form, flaying and cleaving your meat carefully to its shape. Your eyes remembered these wounds, reopened and festering against your clumsy stitches to take into account next test‒ next time, next interaction, next opportunity to prove‒ I’ll be better, I’ll prove I am worthy enough to live.

‘You’re so sensitive‒ you would be good with flowers’, your aunt says. Thank you, you gulp in the ache of your disfigurement with pride‒ a medallion passed from your mother, passed from her mother, passed from her own‒ blood through blood it was gifted, and split from your strangled throat. It felt like your body rejected it, but oh, that was the best part of it all‒ more pain, more, more, more‒ something to wear on your skin as a testament to how you’ve been such a good child, to mutilate yourself against anyone’s maws. Something to show, mother, love me for all of these marks prove it, prove that I can cut open myself deep enough to mirror the perfected version of yourself.

Carnations are a symbol of that. People give them as a trophy of love that is agony, love that is alive, love which slaughters. It is a mother's love. They're popular in those early months during the spring, where the flowers devour the corpses mulled over by autumn and winter, chewing and spitting it out with a drunken splendor. As such you had many on hand during these colder months, surrounded by consecrations of this love, thrashing, bursting inside you like sea-brine churned into frothing bubbles, the waves breaking against it swelling them over the edge of the shore. You could feel the eyes of the flowers leering towards you, tightening the ribbon around your neck.

The hand in your pocket reaches towards the heads, your fingers brush against their cold petals. They are worn, withered from the days they have slept stagnant and untouched in their watery casket. You are quick to take them from their bucket, shoving in a bag to be thrown away in the compost, back into the earth to nourish the next generation.

“(Name)?”

Was it already that time already? You had promised him you would meet with him to plan the twins' broomquet after you closed, but the day had waded through you so quickly.

His name, as always, almost makes it out of your throat. But you held the silence in your mouth like your muffled heartbeat, quietly turning to him with weary eyes. He immediately drinks their lorn gaze, before he takes out a small leather bound pocketbook from his inner pocket, flipping through a few pages, returning it to his coat when he finishes reading the contents of the page. With clumsy hands, he signs. “Do you need help?”

You look him up and down, pausing your hands shoved deep inside the bag of wilted carnations. “You know sign language?”

“I learned.” He says sheepishly. “Apologies‒ clearly I haven't gotten too far with it. I don't know some words yet.”

Your eyes widen. “Why?”

He points to his head, then towards you. For. You. I learned for you.

A smile curves on his lips, but you avert your eyes from it. You’re afraid to measure that tinted color on his cheeks, the shape of his softened eyes, the length of his smile the wrong way‒ to take something without anything worthy from yourself to give in compensation, so you take his words instead, knowing you could at least repay them with something much more beautiful, whole. Flowers. You don't look at him. “I could use some help.”

He rolls his sleeves up, takes the carnations in his hands and brings them inside the bag. “What is the meaning of carnations?”

“Love, adoration, ‘my love for you is alive’.”

“Easy to capitalize on. I see why it is so popular.” He takes one between his fingers, twirls it with a sly smile. "I like it."

You return it best you could. “They’re a bit grotesque, don’t you think? The petals are quite unfinished, like they’ve been cut jagged.”

“You don’t like them?”

You remember the day after the surgery, your lungs emptied not only from the lack of carnations taking seed inside of it, but sapped from anything you had felt for your mother. You realized, that day, oh.

It was her all along.

You had searched far and wide for what the cause of your sickness was‒ you had given too much yourself to too many people to pinpoint who you had such feelings for. Your nerves felt exposed to all, to everything all the time, pricked and pinched at any abstruse movement, washing over you like a bloody crusade everytime.

There was nothing written about in the dozens of books, articles, and lyrics you dug up that had said anything about familial love specifically, so it never struck you that it was even a possibility‒ besides‒ your mother loved you, didn't she?

But of course, the carnations‒ of course. Your love for her may have been alive, but so were these flowers, once. Before they were picked from your tendons and emptied from you as rubbish.

The absence of your piteous devotion to her plummeted your heart deep into the ocean abyss, your flesh weighted as a museum of that dance, the butchering of your body, marked up and down with lines which traced the shapes of jaws with surgical precision. If you could not be loved by the flesh which founded your own, surely, it would be a ludicrous dream to wish for any other being to love you at all, to take the weeping, patchwork meat of your body and consume it.

You want to get rid of all these carnations, give them all away at once. Take them, take them all. Yes, your mother would love these‒ yes or course they're a sign of eternal love, pure love‒ anything and everything that is alive, they would be a wonderful gift. You offer them as extras to people, suggest them instead of those beautiful roses or lilacs or lilies. These gifts were never a virtue, but a disguise for the womb of shame you kept awake in your heart. Take them, take it all. Take everything from me.

You smile, squeeze your eyes to mimic candor.

"No, I hate them."

His expression is like sand, shifting in a thousand ways. You try to inspect each grain of lustrous sand to feel how they shape around your words, but always, the waves. Wait here, you tell him, to go toss the flowers back into the decomposing earth to become the blood and body their children will sprout from.

You set some lavender tea and dandelion honey cakes on the table‒ the bareness of the table is odious to you, sways you with abhorrence. Even with it filled, you sign. "I'm sorry, I wish I had more to offer you."

"This is plenty." He signs. You avert your eyes from that soft smile, but the warmth that bubbles in your chest knows the angle of its curve, the way his mole stretches across his chin, the world in his eyes.

"So, what exactly are you looking for in the twins’ bouquet?”

He thinks, you know he folds his arms to do this. “I trust your tastes. You were always better at reading people than I was.”

“I…” You pause. Yes, the dance‒ breathing in the world raw. But part of it is remaining silent to that ripening wound. “I guess.”

“What do you suggest, then?”

“I think blue star would be great. Perhaps some ragwort, and I believe I have some dried sea lavender left from my aunt’s shop. Salvia would be great too, and some Zion, beauty berry as well.”

“What do they all mean?”

“Blue star and salvia mean trust‒ something they are bound by. Zion flowers signify that someone is thinking of you, even if they are far. And sea lavender lets someone know they are thinking of you. Beautyberry means a deep understanding. I can of course fill up the space with roses, some chrysanthemums, of course.”

Azul writes in his small pocketbook, scribbling your words across a page, then another, then another. He was always like this when you talked‒ recording the medicinal properties of plants, committing your sensitives to flowers with a fervor. If you hadn’t known any better, you’d say he was excited by your words, but you didn’t.

“Is it alright if I came and watched?”

“Watched?”

“Yes, if I came and watched you work on the twins’ bouquet.”

“It’s boring work, you would fall‒“

You feel your hands in his, your words quickly swallowed by the warmth of his palms. He speaks with softness which reaches deep within your ears, tingles the back of your neck.

“I think it’s quite brilliant, the way you work.”

You want to clasp your ears shut, squeeze your eyes until you see stars‒ knees tucked into your body, forming an embryo to protect yourself from those words. Your tongue shakes in your mouth. You want to scream at him. However to realize this rejection through your trembling fingers would be to deny him something, even if it was the mangled scraps which make your bundle of flesh. You'd keep this revolution plunged deep inside the heart of your whirling sea, a war raging at your marrow to keep the shores lush with anything he'd wish to take. Take it, take it all.

You're still for a moment. "Have it your way, then."

He smiles, but this time, you can't look away.

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When he comes a few days later, he brings tupperwares full of food.

"What's all this? A feast?" You see various dishes from the nights your mother brought you to perform at the Ashengrotto’s restaurant‒ fragrant steamed fish that falls off the bone, crunchy seaweed salad, steaming bowls of fish-broth soup, bursting with flavor.

“My mother’s recipes. Your favorite, at least from back then.” He remembers fondly of the times you would finish performing, joining him at the seat right beside him. You’d point to the aquatic plants, bring him to the magic and wonders of their chemistry, their mythos, your sensitivities to them, the world. He's shaped his shores against the curve of your gentle waves, your words always returning to his sandy beaches to leave a million gifts from the sea. This is this, this, and this. He'd hold each sparkling grain of sand, each seashell nymph like an exquisite pearl, cupping his ears to every single one to catch the whispers of eternity bundled in each of them. No matter how you would run yourself raw against jagged beaches and the maws of dark coves‒ he would remain a mirror to your sun faced sanctuaries, hoping that in this lifetime, you would realize that it was you‒ you all along‒ that he'd chased, parodying your brilliance to finally become himself.

His words almost bring you to tears. You gulp it down with the nausea that rises on your tongue, cindering the muscle with its heat.

"Why are you‒" your hands spit out these words in a fervor. "Why are you so fucking nice to me? What is all this?"

You hate the way his expression softens, the infinite arctic blue which melts against your image, the elation in your chest upon devouring such delectable things. It’s revolting.

"Because…" He begins out loud. There’s breath that swells his shoulders, before he gathers his fingers to a shaking fist, locking it under his chin.

Precious.

You swing your head left and right mutely, wrapping a hand around your neck as if to choke any sound that could be ripped from it. Still, it comes out like dried leaves, a strangled rasp, a whimper which rattles in your tightened throat. You hate how he pulls your trembling fingers from your skin, you hate it. But you let him.

His warmth comes as a cosmic storm stirring the oceans into inescapable waves. You were a fool to even try to shelter yourself from it‒ his tenderness beat against your form so loudly it hurt. You can’t pull away, your body does not let you.

Azul sees the fear that bruises your eyes, the way your chest lurches, in heaving, shuddering, controlled breaths to mathematically contain that terror inside of you. There’s a moment where he suspects himself to be the culprit, the distaste of his form, the vile nature of his weaknesses. But you had always consumed all of him, everything‒ his unsightly body, his awful shortcomings, all of the best and worst parts of himself with what surely was heavenly grace. Everything but his adoration for you, a mirror to your givings to the world, and most of all‒ him. This was something within.

He brings you to a seat, a cup of water to your hands. He lets you take time, sipping the moment in small gulps like the drink he sets in your hands. Silence, even with the lack of words exchanged between you two, was never something which was present when you were beside him. His mind always rushed with thoughts about you‒ all the more louder in the eight years you had been absent from his side. Even then, your likeness was always carved in the back of his mind, coming and going like a haunting oceanfront.

“Do you remember the first day we met?”

You remember. “Tell me.” You sign.

“You saved me from those awful kids, remember? I still got so scared of them I got ink everywhere. You were in such wonderful garments I didn’t want you to get dirty, so I told you to back off.”

His smile makes your own. He continues. “I was such a brat back then‒ even after you fended those kids off I told you to get away from me‒ ‘don’t come crying if I spoil your garments!’” A stiff chuckle escapes your nose as you remember the expression on his face. It was much like your own‒ frightened. “But you told me‒“

“Stain them, I don’t care.” Of course you remember. The surprise on his face, the stutter of his hands as you held them.

“Yes. We spent the whole day together. You took me to the shores for the first time, facing the field of‒ what was it?”

“Memorial roses.”

“Memorial roses. You told me they meant love for the honest form." He drags his gaze from his hands, and into your eyes. "I didn't even see the sun set when you talked about flowers the way you do. All my current knowledge of horticulture comes from you, you know.”

"Surely not all of it."

He shakes his head. "No, all of it. I've inscribed every word you've said to me in my mind and I've carried you with me all those years I spent toiling away in my octopot." The hand he rests on your own warms your fingers. "I have you written all over me."

You grip the heat of your throat, hands heavy as you raise them to retaliate, again. "No. Why would you want‒ ."

"I'm not. Why do you think so?" That softness, again, his eyes. Revolting.

You threw the words from your hands in frustration. Didn't he understand? "Why would you want someone like me to‒ to poison you?"

"I could say the same for myself. Why did you defend me that day?"

You remember the look in his eyes, the way he crouched low to the ocean floor in shame. "I saw myself in you. I couldn't‒"

"You couldn't bare it." He finishes.

"Yes, but you're different. With me, I'm not‒ I wasn't‒ "

"But you aren't different." There's a growing lump in his throat, frustration, heat‒ it rises with the volume of his voice, erupting raw at the back of his tongue. "Why won't you let me show you that you're worthy of the same treatment you give to the world?"

“How could I let you?" Your legs ascend from beneath you, your hands feel hot in the air as you flare them out from yourself, hurling them for Azul to see. "Look."

"Look at me." He would see, finally.

The nail of your thumb digs on your chin as your splayed hand sharply juts from your skin. It says, "My own mother".

You slip the ribbon from your throat, unraveling yourself in front of him. Azul sucks a tense breath in‒ you revel in it, your venerable mirror‒ it breaks against your old stitches, bringing you an ineffable bloom inside your chest. You don’t know if it's pleasure or pain which tightens it, but you feel as living, as chemical, as whole as a flourishing chrysanthemum‒ blazing your florid petals every which way, splitting the bud in a thousand directions. Here is proof. You lay yourself out, to him, flay your fragmentation against his eyes. The wounds burn fresh the air. This was your wish, wasn’t it? Still, the seafoam bursting against your skin, the ache, in waves. You hold the emptiness in your hand triumphantly, or, you try to.

He looks when you tell him to, of course, but the softness in his eyes tightens your chest. He's silent for a moment, thinking. "Aright." Finally, he speaks.

"Will you make a contract with me?"

"...what?"

"A contract. Will you make one with me?"

Your knees fall from you when you lean towards the table in support, seating you in the chair across from him. You open your arms, facing your palms towards him, empty, silent.

"I don't have anything I could trade you."

He reaches towards your emptiness, filling it with his warmth. "Then give me this. If you have nothing, grant me you."

You bring his heat near your face, hoping to harbor‒ at least‒ next to it. You won't take it, you couldn't. The fear laps upon you like stormy waves, it's force tearing your fingers from his. "I don't have enough of myself to give you."

"This." He replenishes the absence in your hands again. "This is more than enough‒ it will always be enough." It's a firm grip, it quells the tremble in your body slightly.

"So, will you make a contract with me?"

Hesitantly, you nod.

He guides you towards the shop window where the flowers swill in the moonlight, violet chrysanthemums shining pearly, plump with their honeyed sap. He slips one between his fingers, holds it between the two of you. "I lied when I said I only liked these. When you tell me of promises of success, of love‒ I feel like I can crack open this world with my bare hands. I don’t just like it‒ everything that comes from from you soars my soul."

He continues, bashfully. You feel filled with his words. "You're my ocean, the waters that shape my shores. You've always been where I belong, and what comes back to me to mold me to what I am even after your physical absence." The heat of his hands feel like fire on your skin as he pulls it towards his own. "This is a contract, a promise. Will you let love victor over you?"

You trace that spot on his face as he smiles, you find the small way that it curves mirrored on your own lips. You drink in his smile, returning it with your own; you breathe his scent in, exhale with the breath in your lungs that stirs his and yours‒ you mold yourself against him like you've done so many times against gnashing teeth and jagged seaside cliffs, but this time, your rolling waves kiss warmly against his sun faced sanctuaries, melding together to refract the light in your joint tenderness. The feeling begins as a seed he implants in your chest, pressed firmly against your heart, and you feel it slowly burst open when it is showered in his gaze, his touch, all of him against all that you can muster‒ an ineffable thing, a bloom which you could never put into words, even with the language of whispering flowers and the spectacular earth. It comes in heaping waves like the tears that draw flushed lines on your face. He takes all which falls from you in his hands, staining his hands with the salty fragrance.

"Stop that. I'll get your hands all dirty."

"Stain them, I don't care."

You sob, you smile harder. The tears make it impossible to neurotically measure the twinge of his muscles, the shape of his expression. But you don't think of this, filled with the knowledge of his tenderness, the precise shape of his smile, the softness of his seaborne eyes that fossilize deep within you. "You know I'll be difficult. I always am."

"And you know this about me to, don't you? But this feeling for you comes as easy as water to me."

It's true what he says, you feel like you're floating‒ weightless in the mild seas, drinking in the sunlight which trickles from the skies. Waves upon waves of this brilliance that tilts the light a thousand ways for you to admire. The chrysanthamum petals seem to widen with his warmth, the same unraveling comes bursting, flowering forward in your chest. Victory of love. It comes not as a whisper this time, but loudly as the beat of your blood. You feel it within you, that victory. At last you hold it in your hands, and it shines and lusters like a brilliant peal seeped into each of its petals, blooming forward with all of its love. You allow yourself place the flower in his hair, decorating his face with your love, your victory.

——————————————————

Notes:

All sign language is based off of American Sign Language

Part of the reason why I wanted to use hanakotoba (Japanese flower language) rather than western meanings for flowers was not only because I was more familiar with it, but because the twins I believe are Asian coded. The Octavinelle dorm is seen as the "yakuza" one (Japanese controlled crime syndicate), since they demand those Azul signs contracts with to pay the price, whether through general intimidation, or just straight up physical violence. Tweels also unfortunately sort of fit into the 'Asian twins' stereotype seen in Disney media (Siamese cats in Artisocats), but their overall design (ie eye shape and bristle-y, straight hair) fit into a pseudo Asian look. You know, as much as the fictional land of twisted wonderland will allow. But either way, I think it would be cool to see different species of seafolk have different cultures, and I think sirens in particular would have their own beliefs, systems, and traditions connected to verbal storytelling.

Not entirely sure if this is the case in the western world, but the east is very sensitive about numerology‒ so “bad” numbers are usually avoided when picking out the number of flowers to give to someone.

Chthonic gods are gods connected to the underworld

Carnations were used in coronation garlands for the Romans

Christians believed that it was the flower that sprouted from Mary's tears after the crucifixion of Jesus

Also associated with Artemis, who gouged a shepherd's eyes out because she blamed his flute playing for the lack of game that day. Therefore, they are a symbol of innocent bloodshed

Carnis, the word which is speculated the word carnation comes from, also means flesh. The genus name Dianthus comes from Zeus, connecting it to his daughter Artemis' story

Memorial Rose (ノイバラ) : In the western world, it is often a symbol of wisdom or talent, used often on literary and musical symbolism by writers such as Goethe. But in Japan, it symbolizes "love for the raw/honest form", as it is usually a wild flower that grows in the plains. Modest, but lovely. In Japan it is also called the ノイバラ or "thorn of the plains", so this modest but definitely still packs a punch. Just like Azul lol

Also often grows in the coasts

Omg I just noticed all of the fics I have written has had a toxic maternal parental figure don’t worry I’ll even it out soon lol

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jessread-s · 5 months

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✩🎉🥂Review:

If you ever were to read a novella, this is the one to get your hands on!

“Same Time Next Year” follows Sumner, a hockey player on the brink of breaking into the NHL. With Sumner’s work visa about to expire, his only chance to stay in America and achieve his dream of going pro is to get a green card. Enter Britta, an ambitious waitress looking to become a part owner of the bar she works at. In exchange for the money she needs, Britta reluctantly agrees to marry Sumner, but the closer they become in preparation for their green card interview, the harder it is for them to keep their relationship solely contractual.

Novellas can be challenging to write because they are shorter than novels, yet longer than short stories (typically being anywhere from 70 to 160 pages), but Tessa Bailey navigates the constraints beautifully. She tracks her characters’ fake marriage across the span of a year, cleverly homing in on specific moments in time that are sure to hold the attention of readers and further invest them in the development of Britta and Sumner’s relationship—like when Sumner insists on accompany Britta to a concert or when they went to their first family gathering as a “couple”. Bailey also perfectly balances steamier scenes with more wholesome moments.

By the time I got to the end, I wanted more, not because I was left unsatisfied (a feeling I often experience when reading novellas due to their brevity), but because I genuinely fell in love with the characters and their story. I thoroughly enjoyed this little taste of what is to come in Bailey’s sports series and cannot wait for them to hit shelves!

Cross-posted to: Instagram | Amazon | Goodreads | StoryGraph

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goddess1111sblog · 2 years

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I came across this cool success story on reddit by u/celestial-form. It is worth a read.❤️

A long success story

Here is the summary of my wonderful experience of consciously visualizing myself into a drama that later materialized.

I was 11 years old, living in Tehran, Iran, my birthplace. I was a very strange child with an abstract, sort of a metaphysical mind. I was very perceptive and questioned every area of life. One day I was observing my life and suddenly came to the conclusion that I don’t like my life. I didn’t like the country I lived in, I didn’t relate to the culture and I knew I couldn't thrive there. As I was a very imaginative child I told myself, what if I can escape this reality in my imagination?

The same night I lay down and before sleep, I decided to experience what it would be like If I lived in a different country and went to school there. As I am laying down I hold steadfast to the joy I would feel if I actually lived somewhere else. I couldn’t specify the country but i could specify the wonderful feeling of ahh, my wish has finally come true.

I resided in that feeling, and I even remember my attention wandering off into randomness but I brought it back and again held it steadfastly on the wonderful feeling of my desire being my reality. I dropped into sleep while holding the feeling and I found myself in a vivid dream (imaginal act). I was sitting in a classroom, there were black people and blonde people, and girls and boys were sitting in the same room (this doesn’t happen in Iran). I was sitting in the last row of the class on the right end of the room and I was observing my classmates. Suddenly I had an overpowering feeling that “omg, I live here, this is my classroom, this is my home.” and I had a feeling of certainty that this is a different country from my hometown. The dream was so intense and vivid that when I woke up I had to take a moment to realize that was a dream. I was so certain that I was living there with all of my being until I awoke and realized it was just a dream and I was terribly disappointed that it was all a dream, I nearly wanted to cry.

Fast-forwarding to age 12, my cousin from Germany calls to ask my Mom if she’d be interested in applying for the DV lottery program for a chance to win a U.S. green card. She said oh it must be a scam but if it’s free we will apply. So, all of us 3 members of the family applied and let it go. My mom kept saying oh this is probably fake, nothing is gonna happen. But since it was free she thought well we don’t have much to lose.

Next year comes and we get a phone call from my cousin in Germany. “I have good news and bad news,” she says what is it. K (me) has won the lottery but you can’t go with her because she’s a kid. If you had won you could take the entire family and kids under the age of 21. My mom was excited but also disappointed. She said well it’s ok, we’ll send her alone so she can finish her high school and college there.

Fast-forwarding again, a year passes and my family applies for the lottery again in hopes that they might win. And surely, my mom wins just a year after I had won. I was prepared to go to the U.S. alone, I had an interview appointment at the U.S. embassy in the UAE but we had to cancel it because now that my mom has won, she can take her 13-year-old child with her. So, exactly this happens. We go to the embassy and my mom and I get an American Visa added to our Iranian passports. they said once we enter the U.S. they will send us a permanent resident card in the mail.

So, I come to the U.S. with my newly divorced mother. I spoke English fluently almost with no accent. I am now 15 years old and entered my sophomore year in high school. One day I am sitting in my world history class, in the back of the room on the far right end row and I’m observing the room when suddenly I feel, “I have been here before.” I was sitting in the same exact spot I sat in and some of my classmates had blonde hair and others were black which is something I could never have in Iran.

I just want to point out, that at the age of 11 I had no access to Neville's teachings, I didn’t consciously know what I was doing, I just intended to escape my life in my imagination and I did it at night before sleep and I intensely focused on it because I was so deeply in love with the idea of living in a different country. I didn’t think about what country or even what it would look like, I only resided in the wonderful feeling that my wish is true and I held the feeling so intensely that I fell asleep to it and my subconscious mind put me in the exact drama that would resemble the feeling as completely true. My subconscious dreamed the scene automatically. I didn’t pick it.

Another point is, after that, I always had a sure feeling in my heart that one day I will live in a foreign land, even a psychic had told my mom that she sees suitcases packed and we are leaving the country. I was 12 at that time. my mother thought she was talking nonsense.

From the story that I have shared here, you may be able to tell that I personally nor my mom didn’t lift a finger to make it happen. It all came to us, my cousin offered to fill out the application for us, and she did everything. And my mom kept consciously doubting, she said it will never happen, this is a scam and such words but my subconscious conviction and imagination were far more powerful than the doubts of the conscious mind (i personally didn't think it's gonna happen either, I just had a feeling one day I'll live elsewhere. When we actually won it felt like a miracle. My parents were in the middle of a divorce, they sold the house and all our stuff, I and my mom moved in with my grandparents and suddenly we had good news about moving to the U.S. and everything was at the perfect time. I can even say, it was mathematically perfect timing and the orchestration was done so smoothly and effortlessly. like, an extremely fine work of drama.

I moved to the U.S. at the age of 15, which is 4 years after the visualization experience. Now, I am 24 and received my American passport 4 years ago. Since age 22 I have been consciously manifesting and using the law. Before that, I didn’t have any practice or technique that would allow me to “direct” the law. I manifested a 7 figure business and healed my shoulder injury all from the state of being half asleep. From the drowsy state between complete sleep and wakefulness.

The last thing I want to add is that you want to replace your feeling of attachment to an idea with the feeling of conviction and certainty that it is already done. It is the present reality. Instead of the worry feeling of “what if it doesn’t come true?” reside in the feeling of, “ahh, how wonderful that I am this…”.

It is truly about changing your concept of yourself. Even when you worry and have anxiety around your life you are still in the center of the universe with the divine. And always remember that you have these wonderful capacities because you are God’s child. As he said “yee are made in his image.” that means, the wonderful mind of the creator of this wonderful drama of a universe resides within you. Therefore as he dreams, you can dream too. It’s just about controlling your mind and feeling. And remember, the cause of all our suffering is that we have lost touch with our true Self which is one with the Lord of the universe.

Take this affirmation with you:

“I know that God’s power is limitless; and as I am made in His image, I, too, have the strength to overcome all obstacles.”

and, always, always, always, focus on the feeling of the wish fulfilled before falling asleep.

Here's the link if you wanna read it on the app :- 🔗🔗🔗

#law of assumption #neville goddard #loa #manifestation advice #manifest #sp manifest #111talks #affirmation #self concept #manifestations #reddit

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dojae-huh · 21 days

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Lost boys: director interview

An interview with the director of Lost boys: part1, part2, part3, part4, part5

It is better to watch the videos, but I will summarise facts in case the episodes will be deleted due to copyright or smth.

He is working on a new film, maybe he will cast one of the members. Won't be surprised if Jungwoo.

He got handwritten letters from NCT fans, many thanked him, but he also had death threats (got closer to the idols after the experience, I bet).

Each member prepared several stories for their interviews. The final aired stories were chosen through a discassion with neos.

Jaehyun said that after the debut an idol is like a racehorse with focus on the present, who easily forgets the past and where it is.

The loss of memory (of the pre-debut life). Lost boys not remembering their past was the main theme of the series.

Some of the memebrs thanked the director for the opportunity to look at their past, understand how far they've come, where they came from. It was theraputic.

The members wanted to share more, but censorship for the image.

There were sasaengs in US that followed the car with the members that brought them to the shooting location one by one. The filming crew had to switch the car. And in Korea the writing team went to extra measures out of fear that there will be leaks. The producer burnt the notes that contained private details from the interviews with the members, he got so paranoid.

The production team ended up becoming practically stans, because to understand their subjects better they listened to NCT 127 music, looked into hobbies, favourite colours, and so on.

The director's favourite scene was with Jungwoo, and it was cut out.

The documentary took more than a year to finish. Which was a very short time for the genre, according to the producer and the director.

There were a lot of easter eggs, many of which fans didn't find.

Taeyong and Jaehyun both explained to the director that they have a public and a private lives and personas, and both are true and are a part of them.

General impression of the neos: very honest and thoughtful.

All members were tired during filming because their life is non-stop work.

Johnny is comedian-funny, Jaehyun is awkward weird-funny, nad Mark is unintenionally funny.

Jaehyun remembers his trainee days in a fun day, he learnt a lot, he wouldn't mind coming back to those days. However, he wouldn't want to go through the first two post-debut years, the time of transition, when his private life became public life. (Worth mentioning, it was the time of DoJae problems and the need to hide a lot from the group and fake good mood on the shows).

Taeyong had a taugh time in high school (the degree wasn't shown in the documentary) and during trainie times.

Yuta's animation sequence was cut. Yuta was too honest in his off-record interview.

The director thought that Haechan seemed the most grown up and sounded like a 70 y.o. wise man.

All of 127 neos were better than most Korean actors (not high profile).

Haechan's reaction to a message from his mom was real, it was the first time he heard the recording.

Neos did drawings for Johnny in "secret rooms" during concerts. To keep the preparation unnoticed by Johnny.

Taeil drew Johnny twice, one time as a ghost to represent soulmate.

Taeyong has a hard time relating to people (empathising, I guess). Taeyong said in the 7th year after debut he learnt how to love. Tae's presence in other neos' stories represented the absence of a barrier between him and the members, him wanting to understand others more.

Taeyong was rejected by his first love, so he had a fear of confessing to other people afterwards.

The director mentioned that on his radio show Yuta said he was surprised about the stories of other members (he didn't know, no surprise here).

The cards with a green cross in neos' stories represented Tae saying "I love you" to other members. The monologue about children wearing masks of adults was by Tae, not the scriptwriters.

Doyoung compares music with light. Singing helped him to overcome the hard period in middle school, get over it.

The beach and the ocean were important for Doyoung, his solo singing part. (the documentary was shot 1-2 years before the 1st solo album, meaning, Doyoung decided on the theme already back then)

The director picked a different song for Doyoung to sing, but Doyoung offered "Run with me?" instead. (lol, of course)

Doyoung and Taeil sang live, their voices were recorded with normal mics that are used on filming locations (and the music was playing only in their earpieces).

The director gave a direction in the middle of shooting Do's solo segment, asked him to connect somehow his acting to his past, and Do said he wanted to act as himself, be natural, be honest. (lol, again)

The director said that neos were very candid, which he won't expect from some other k-pop groups he knows. And that some neos are exactly bts as they appear before the cameras. Especially Mark.

Jaehyun's stand up comedy segment was edited heavily, a lot of funny stuff didn't make the final cut. The director think that Jaehyun in the scene of preparing for his stand up (in the room with a lady) was more funny than the show before the audience.

The director thinks Jaehyun has a serious personality. (and that it makes a great contrast with when he says jokes).

Jaehyun was preparing for the stand up segment for 4 hours. The director was very impressed, because it is very long, and neos are so busy. (again, nothing new to discover here, heh)

Jae memorised his script easily and even watched the show of the comedian before him, he wasn't nervous or pressured. The audience was real, not actors, 70% random people and 30% NCT fans.

When a scripted joke didn't lend, Jaehyun sighed heavily and theatrically, improvising, and got the audience laughing. He changed his lines a bit to adjust to what the audience was saying.

The whole filming team was swooning over Jaehyun because he was like "a cute little boy". He was known for being the perfect one (looks, dance, voice), the most popular member, but in real life he was himself, and noone called him "handsome" or "cool". To everyone he looked "cute" while preparing for his role and getting embarrased when messing up. The director called him an open book. (duh)

Yuta lives like a normal Korean citizen: walks on the streets, takes subway, etc. That's why his dance was shot in a metro car, among regular people.

The director asked neos if they think Jaehyun is handsome (for his introduction segment), Doyoung replied "I think he is the most handsome in the group". (lmao, the director even remembered and highlighted this. Do's prince...) Yuta answered: "I'm envious".

"Will be" song was chosen by Taeil.

Description of neos in one word: Mark - pure-hearted; Haechan 0 genius; Yuta - coolest (and honest); Taeil - alien (he needs many words to describe him); Jaehyun - misunderstood, Doyoung - kind, Jungwoo - sweetheart; Johnny - hilarious (=fucking funny); Taeyong - Peter Pan (and charisma).

Haechan got the assigments right away, acted very well, perfectly matched his current voice with the voice of his younger self for a scene. The director said Haechan was destined to be an entertainer, he was born to do it.

Yuta is cool because he is honest and stays himself, Taeil is an alien because he was asking the director random stuff (like stories from the past) between takes, was sincerely curious.

Jaehyun said "If you are truthfull enough, people will see it" (hard to be sure what rumours the director meant, but maybe how Jae "doesn't liek the fans" and writes on bubble seldom).

The director had similar experience to Jae (moved from US to SK) and to Do (was very popular and then due to rumours was bullied in a form of being treated with silence, like he didn't exist)

#chain reaction

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usadvlottery · 3 months

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zooophagous · 1 year

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Artemis held a tuna sandwich in one hand, and a cell phone in the other, and went down the hall at a brisk pace while splitting her attention evenly between the two. She found her office, stuffed the sandwich in her mouth long enough to free up a hand to retrieve the lanyard with her key-card. The light by the door went from red to green with a cheerful beep, and she pushed her way in.

She went straight to her desk and deposited the sandwich by the open laptop, careful not to get crumbs on the (many, many) papers that covered the handsome dark wooden furniture. She sat down and wheeled forward. She glanced to her right, and paused. There was a cup of coffee there. Hot, steaming, and piled next to it were packets of cream and sugar. What on earth-

"Guten abend, Frau Van Helsing."

She jumped up, but closed her eyes and put a hand to her chest and forced the surprise back down her throat.

"Strauss? How did you get in here?"

"It matters not." He replied flaty. He stood by the window and stared out into the night with his hands folded neatly behind his back. It was a windy night. Stray snow flurries danced past the frosty panes.

"Actually, it does. This is supposed to be a secure area. A-and I told you to call me Artemis." Her voice broke slightly. Why was he making her so anxious right now? He was acting weird, even given how weird he usually was.

"I know what you told me." He snapped. He turned to face her and walked over to the chair in front of her desk and sat in it stiffly. He was much taller than her, and he was making sure to use every inch of that height to look imposing.

"Strauss, are you ok?"

"You lied to me."

"Excuse me?" She sat forward in her chair. He was making very pointed eye contact- an unusually forward move for him, and she was returning it right back.

"You told me the Van Helsing Institute ceased the slaying of vampires when it was under the control of your parents."

"Yes?"

"So explain to me why the man I was forced to kill in self defense has an employee record?" He threw the manila folder containing his file onto the desk. The contents shifted slightly, and the dead eyed mugshot of Strauss fell out into the open and stared the director back in the face.

She stared back at it with a deep scowl of concern, and slowly turned her gaze back to him with dawning realization. "I see. You've found your records."

"I owe Frau Harker an apology. However that is not the least of what is owed to me. I have been nothing if not cooperative and open with the people here, Frau Van Helsing. Even though there is not one of you who deserved it. I wonder why, then, nobody seems to bother doing the same for me."

He tilted his head to one side and stared at her expressionless, with his claws folded in front of him. "I thought this was a tit-for-tat. I get something from you, you get something from me. So. Here is an interview question for you then. Who was Elliot Lane? Who is Sylvain Pietra? And why, despite being told how harmless and special I am, did the Van Helsing institute seemingly hire not one, but two slayers to dispose of me?"

"Strauss..." Artemis started, then stopped. "... Is this coffee for me?"

"Ja."

"Thanks." She replied awkwardly, and began adding the cream and sugar to it. Maybe that was a sign of trust, eating food he'd given to her even though she didn't see it prepared. He was angry, that was clear, and an angry vampire had to be placated quickly. Small gestures met and returned may help.

"Alright. No sense trying to keep a lid on it anymore. You're right, Strauss. I did lie to you."

"Tell me why."

"I don't know where to start." She took a sip of the coffee. It didn't taste poisoned, or tampered with. She didn't believe he would, but the confirmation was a comfort.

"The Van Helsing Institute did not fully disband the slayers faction under my parents. In fact, it isn't fully disbanded now. Under select emergency situations, fatal stopping power is still authorized."

"Emergency situations like what?"

"For example, if, say, I don't know. A vampire is actively killing a victim and Ursula walked up on the scene, she'd be in the clear to shoot it."

"So in direct situations where a human being is in danger? Not just any vampire out on the street?"

"Correct."

"So why was my 'harmless' status revoked and why was I slated for immediate emergency removal when I was asleep in my bed? Who are Elliot and Sylvain?"

She set her cup down. "Ok, the timeline here is confused. I'll just... I'll start from the beginning." She got up and began to pace nervously. For once, she was the one having a hard time making eye contact. Strauss tracked her movements with an almost predatory stare.

"Go ahead, then."

"First I want to apologize to you." She began shakily. "I wasn't open with you because I didn't want to make you afraid. I thought that... the image of a friendly researcher was easier for you to connect with than... than the image of a, of a..."

"Of a slayer."

"Of a murderer." She corrected. "The slayer's program was not dead under my parents, no. It's also not dead under me. It is, however, scaled down considerably. Our operations focus heavily now on investigation, and only actual known dangerous entities are targeted. You aren't the first vampire to get a 'harmless' rating by the institute. You're not even the only one known to us now."

"So why get rid of me?"

"The short answer is, your behavior changed." She said grim faced as she stared out the window. "Project Symbiosis is new. VERY new. You're the first vampire we've actively attempted to rehabilitate. The project was actually designed specifically with you in mind."

She continued. "Initially, you were slated for destruction for your first kill in Trier. You were assigned to Sylvain, who was a slayer acting under the Van Helsing mantle. Before she could carry out her orders, you were granted a reprieve."

"So who was the one who made an attempt on my life in the cemetery?"

"That one I wasn't lying to you about." She turned to face him. "Mr. Lane was a rogue agent at that time. My decision to halt hunting operations and attempt a mercy protocol was VERY unpopular, Strauss. Most of these people had made their career their entire life, their entire focus. They didn't know any other way to live. And here I was, telling them that everything they'd ever done, even things I TOLD them to do, were suddenly immoral and immediately had to stop."

"They didn't listen to you."

"There was a schism. Jonathan Akeley was the lead slayer at the time, and he quit, and he took a good deal of our files and weapons... and talent with him."

"So the Van Helsings never did manage an attempt on my life?"

"No, Strauss. Before you were captured alive and taken in, none of us had breached your tomb. You were scheduled for removal, but you were very low on the priority list. I believe Jonathan wanted you dead specifically to spite me and put an end to Project Symbiosis."

"Then what of the other who I found in my file. She clearly never completed the work. Does Sylvain still work as a slayer?" He tried to be vague. No sense showing his whole hand just yet. She deserved at least a chance to be honest.

She sighed heavily. "Sylvain is sort of a long story."

"I have all night."

"Sylvain never made it to Germany. She died before she could get that far down the list. She and two apprentices were after a high priority target in Manitoba. It was a really, really awful case. That... thing made its living along the highways picking off whatever it thought wouldn't be missed. Usually sex workers. Runaways. Hitchhikers. There was probably more than a little human trafficking." She looked up and blinked away tears.

"Sylvain caught up to it in a rest stop it had holed up in. All three agents died that day. One apprentice had his neck broken and was left face down in a toilet bowl. He drowned. The other one died of a traumatic brain injury when he was picked up by the head and slammed into a concrete wall. And Sylvain-"

She paused and put her hand to her mouth and closed her eyes tight. Strauss almost felt guilty about questioning her, now. His anger faltered under the sight of a friend in distress. He prodded gently. "Sylvain didn't stay dead, did she?"

"No." Artemis croaked through tears. "She won her fight. She did. She managed to fatally wound the piece of shit and call for backup before she went down." Artemis paused to catch her breath and held her arms tightly around her chest.

"She didn't die right away. It was actually three weeks. She wanted to live so badly Strauss. She knew what was coming if she didn't. Vampire blood is potent though, and she was too badly injured to fight off the infection. She basically died in my arms in the infirmary."

"I believe I understand." Strauss replied solemnly. "She was meant to be destroyed after that, but you didn't have the heart to go through with it."

"I couldn't do it. It was my fault she got hurt. I sent her on that mission, I made that call. When she woke up screaming at me not to let them hurt her what the Hell sort of person would I be if I walked away? No. I refused to do it. I couldn't."

"Where is she now?"

"I don't know." Artemis rubbed her face with her hands. "We tried to help her adjust. Tried to help her adapt. But her whole world was just... broken. She'd spent her entire adult life thinking a vampire was a monster without a mind and without a soul. Now she had to make that her reality. You know very well that not all people can 'make it' as a vampire, and she took it extremely hard. By the end there was no reasoning with her."

"You say that as if she died."

"She's dead to me." Artemis replied with an edge of anger to her sadness. "Auntie was going to destroy her after she attacked me physically. I still couldn't let them do it. I walked her out the front door and told her to leave. I told her if she ever came back I wouldn't intervene in what happened one way or the other. So she did. She left with the clothes on her back. I never saw her again."

"I see." He looked down and away. "It sounds like you cared for her very much."

"I did. I do. I shouldn't, but I do. I worry about her every day. I have no idea if she's even still alive."

"So you created Project Symbiosis because of her."

"Yes. I had to prove to her- to myself, that a vampire actually could be rehabilitated. That your state of being was not automatically a death sentence. We went through our records, and we chose you. You had only recently lost your harmless rating. We don't go after the harmless. We're not allowed to per the church. After you lost it, we had grounds for removal. We had the excuse to go after you, and you were the best possible candidate."

"So this research project was essentially tainted from the beginning." Strauss tapped his claws to his chin. "You started with a hypothesis you wanted to be true because of your own feelings, not necessarily based on observations."

"No. The observations came from studies I conducted while trying to help Sylvain. The research might be flawed, but it's not meritless. Look at you." She turned to him with a smile, still red and wet from tears. "You've met and exceeded expectations at every turn. I actually feel guilty we never tried it before now. Who knows how many people we could have saved."

"And your preferential treatment of Sylvain helped cause the schism."

"Yes. Some were loyal to her, and therefore to the Institute that protected her, the others were loyal to "the cause" and just wanted her dead."

"Is she the one that took your eye?"

"Yes, the night I threw her out. It was an accident... I know it was an accident and it was really my fault for pushing her as hard as I did-"

"That is enough." Strauss got up and joined her by the window, placidly watching the storm. He'd gotten honesty, so why did he feel worse than before?

"I have been told that... you loved her."

"I did. Yes. I do. It's over now, but I do all the same."

"So you could love a vampire?" He asked softly.

"I tried to. But... Could a vampire love a vampire slayer?"

"Have you slain a vampire with your own hands, Frau Van Helsing?"

"I have."

"Well. Vampires have slain humans before as well. So I suppose that makes it even."

She cleared her throat. She was tired, now, and also nervous to be alone with Strauss for reasons she felt might be different than before. "Auntie is going to be doing her rounds soon. You need to get out of here before she sees you."

"Very well, Artemis." He nodded, slipping back into comfortable casualness. "I am sorry for cornering you like this. It was not my intention to frighten you."

"Don't worry about it. We'll talk more tomorrow but don't get caught out of the dorms at this hour. You might get darted, for real."

"I will be careful. Gut nacht."

#wayward souls #writing

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fictionobsession · 7 months

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Thenii Begins

Pairing: None

Summary: What's her deal?

Word Count: 4,972

Warnings: domestic abuse, horror themes, this is emotionally painful

A/N: this is my baby. i love thenii so so much, and i feel very strongly about her character. if you don't like this or it isn't your thing, that's cool, but if i can get anyone to love thenii as much as i do, i wanted to try!

She looked across the room, squinting against the blinding light as it reflected off the dwarf’s bald head, highlighting the sheen of sweat that had begun to gather at the beginning of the meeting. She’d been at this job for twenty years, working hard, schmoozing harder. Getting a leg up for this position was supposed to be the saving grace of an otherwise terrible experience as a patriar’s secretary in Baldur’s Gate. As soon as a position opened up for an assistant to a magistrate, her application had been filled out. She knew she had the experience and skill, and, from the way this idiot stumbled over his words, an increasing confidence in her understanding of Baldurian politics compared to even those already serving in these positions. Her initial team of interviewers had made it clear she was the obvious choice. She just had to wait for the actual people in charge to make the final decision.

“We’ve decided to go with another applicant.”

Her green eyes snapped to the man’s face, looking for any sign he was joking, that it was some kind of sick prank. His eyes quickly fell to the table, his hands reaching to dab sweat from his forehead. The room spun as she felt the rug pulled out from under her. She felt nauseated. The room became stuffy, claustrophobic, as if there wasn’t enough air for her lungs. The man had picked back up with empty platitudes, but she could no longer listen. She could only focus on forcing the in and out of her breathing, her vision tunneling.

“Help.”

A voice came from right beside her. Her head whipped to the side, trying to pinpoint the source. There was no one else in the room, no speakers to project the plea. Her anxiety was too strong, making her panicked desires manifest outside her own mind. She closed her eyes for a second longer than normal to allow a bit of space to even her breathing. She forced herself to nod along to the last of the man’s obviously prepared speech, heard herself thanking him for the opportunity, and left, already writing her notice in her head and regretting the last 20 years of her life.

She didn’t know where she would go next. She hadn’t made any plans outside of this, really. It’s what her parents had wanted her to do. Work your way up the political ladder, get in good with someone important, make a good look for the family name. She looked up to see gray clouds covering the sun, casting a shadow on the world. The world felt in tune with her as she felt the first hint of rain lightly tapping her face, winding down the side of her nose, getting lost in the cracks of her lips. She should be crying, or at least upset at the loss of her future, she thought, but the weather seemed to be feeling that for her.

She watched the people of her town on the walk home, appreciating the diversity of her neighborhood, but feeling detached from it all somehow. The young kids playing in the alley regardless of the weather, her elderly drow neighbor stopping by the newly married tieflings home with baked goods. The cobbler giving a tight smile to the new Fist rushing out his door, uniform on mostly correctly. It seemed a wonderful place to live, everyone accepting each other without the presence of a singular culture or race, the thing that had drawn her to Baldur’s Gate in the first place - but none of them looked happy. She felt them all going through the motions of what they “should” be doing. The tall building that held her home stood menacing as she rushed under the awning, leaving the calming rain behind.

She could hear the sounds of men playing cards, losing money to one another in her home, her key pausing in the lock when she heard him yelling at the others about lost rounds, and knowing her rent money just went out the window. The sound of a tankard hitting the other side of the wall where she stood pulled her out of her musing. She sighed, steeling herself for the fight she knew was coming. She pushed the door open, slowly, cautiously, expecting something else to come flying toward her. She hoped to make it to the bedroom before he noticed, but luck evaded her yet again.

“You were supposed to be back an hour ago.” His accusation was heavier after the weight of the afternoon. The other men in the room went deathly silent.

“My shift was over an hour ago, but I had that meeting about the, uh, the job.” She cringed at her own tone, waiting for a hit that never landed.

He grunted. “Well hurry up and make dinner. I’m hungry.” A pause, long enough that she took a hesitant step toward the safety of the bedroom. “At least you’re getting paid more soon. Actually be useful. Worth something.”

She heard the question within the statement, heard him walk up behind her in the hallway. She stared at the small puddle on the floor where she’d been standing.

“You made a fucking mess of my floor. Better clean that up. Not like we can afford a maid, even if you got the job.”

“I didn’t - “ The whispered admission was cut off as his rough hand cupped her chin, tilting her head so that she was forced to look him in the eye. She could smell the alcohol on his breath, on his skin.

“You know how I feel when you mumble.”

She tasted the blood that welled up as she bit the inside of her cheek. She sent a quick prayer to whichever god deigned to listen to her. They never did. The hallway torch flickered behind him, giving him a beautiful, almost angelic appearance. She took that as a small sign, and had hope as she spoke again, stronger. “I didn’t get the position. They gave it to someone else. Some half-elf, power drunk on daddy’s money.”

The slap surprised her, though she should have been expecting it. She had been too candid, given too many details. She pressed her lips tight together to keep herself from crying out, to keep herself from making it worse. He turned on his heel, stumbling slightly into the wall, not seeing the tears forming in her eyes. Not caring when she sniffed back a sob. “Get out of my sight before I do something you’ll really regret.”

She shuffled backward until she felt the door handle press into her back. She spun to open the door, shutting and locking it behind her. She stripped her clothes, tossing them in the hamper, and went to wash up. The only thing on her mind was getting clean. Maybe she should have been more concerned about the rest of her life, she thought, but she just felt dirty.

She ran a bath in their small tub, the water as hot as she could get it. The tears fell then, the water putting false distance between her and the real world. She slid down as far into the tub as she could, drowning out the sounds of the men in her sitting room, giving herself permission to think, to wish for a better life.

“Help.”

The voice again sounded external, though she knew it could only be her own plea to the gods, or the universe, or anyone, anything that was listening. She realized at that moment that there was no help for her. If she was going to find a better life, she would have to do it herself.

Once there were no more tears to cry, she got out of the bath, toweled off, and started planning. She didn’t have much that was her own - her pay went to him, always - but she had enough stashed to make it a few days. She could make it to her sister’s, she thought, it was a twelve day journey, and she could surely make it that far.

She grabbed her old bag from the closet, stuffing it with a few days of clothes, the spare potions and tools she kept hidden under the loose floorboard. A coil of rope was tied to the side of the bag, just in case. She dug around her dresser for the knife her grandfather had given her on her fiftieth birthday, only five years prior. Her hand wrapped around the comforting leather of the hilt, pulling the dagger out. She meditated on its familiar weight for a moment before hooking it onto her belt, then stuffed the backpack between the bed and her nightstand. She cleaned the puddle in the hallway, started soaking his dirty clothes from the day before, and waited for him to fall asleep. After the others left, he wouldn’t remember that she hadn’t made dinner; the beer made sure of that.

“Go.”

Her inner voice sounded farther than it had, almost muffled, as if on the other side of the wall. Shortly after, his snores drifted through the tiny apartment. She rushed to the bedroom, slinging the backpack over her shoulder, grabbed her old bow and quiver from under the bed, and crept to the front door. She dared a glance into the sitting room, where she saw him passed out. His sleep had to be deep, she thought. The snores trailed off, and he had fallen asleep with a tankard still in his hand. There was dust swirling around his face, imperceptible if not for the moonlight shining through the window, landing across his chest.

She inched the door open, slipped through, and ran. She didn’t stop running until she reached the edge of town. Someone running down the street in the middle of the night should have caused some alarm, perhaps, but this was Baldur’s Gate after all. She would hardly be the only person running from something that night. She settled her bag more comfortably on her shoulders, and set off down the road. She pulled her sending stone from her pocket, leaving her sister a simple message that she was on her way. Her sister only said “Thank Sylvanus,” and told her to be careful.

Her racing thoughts and development of a plan proved to be a much needed distraction from the stress of the day. The stress of a year, the stress of many years, culminating in one trip to another town, hopefully far enough away. Just a few hours into the journey, she started to wonder if she should go back. She wondered if he was out looking for her, though she suspected he likely wouldn’t be out of his stupor until the next morning, anyway.

In the pauses between the fantasies her imagination provided, the fear kept creeping back in. The voice in her head was absent, or at least back to normal, but she couldn’t shake the concern she now had about why it had sounded so alien in those times of greatest stress. She thought it may be her body’s way of processing. She felt herself start to get comfortable, finding some catharsis in the sameness of the road, the quiet acceptance of the forest, and the thoughts of who she may become.

After two days with minimal food, she could feel hunger growing in her stomach, the effort of the journey almost too much for her underfed body, and she pulled out the last apple she had snagged from the kitchen as she fled. She knew she would have to stop again eventually for sleep. She had walked straight through the first night, and she hadn’t even considered sleep until that moment. She had no bedroll, so a night under the stars would have to do. She could imagine worse nights than that, assuming no unsavory characters decided to make an appearance and ask for money she barely had. She walked a bit farther, thinking, the sound of her sister’s voice telling her to be careful echoing through her mind. She tried whistling a tune from her childhood, she tried telling herself stories out loud, anything to make the anxiety lessen. But none of it could drown out the thoughts. She still couldn’t get the fear out of her mind. Walking down a mostly unfamiliar road, toward an uncertain future, all for the chance at a new life, some money, some friends. Initially she thought there was hope there, an escape, at least, from him. From the Gate. From the politics and the fake people and the bullshit.

She knew this trip would be long, and she hoped it would be boring. The sky turned to gray as the sun disappeared behind the mountains. Yet, her journey continued. The thoughts never ceasing, never letting her breathe. Of all her anxieties, sleeping under the canopy of trees was not one; however, in all her attempts to distract herself from that exact thought, she had let herself become unaware of her surroundings. She noticed a few homes, likely farmhouses, a ways in the distance. She hadn’t remembered there being a town, even just a small farming village, between the Gate and her sister, but she assumed that many things had changed since she’d last been this way.

“Help.”

She startled, looking around for the source of the… sound? offer? question? “I don’t need any help, I can take care of myself, thanks.” She turned around, waving off the stranger, but there was no one. There were no other people on the road as far as she could see. Had been, she considered, the only person she’d seen on the road for the last two days. A general store was the only building directly nearby, and it appeared to be permanently closed, with wood criss-crossing the entrance. Her brow furrowed, one hand reaching for the bow slung across her shoulder, before deciding on the dagger instead, on the non-zero chance she was too out of practice with the bow to survive a proper fight. She shook her head clear, putting aside the fear she was losing her mind, and went back to work looking for a safe, or at least mostly safe, place to lay her head for the night.

Resigned to sleep just off the road, in a bit of a clear patch mostly hidden by trees, she started to shrug off her backpack when her skin crawled with anticipation and the voice returned.

“Run.”

And she did. Slinging her pack back over her shoulder as she went, she ran as far as she could, losing her sense of direction completely, driven by adrenaline alone. When she finally stopped, she had the distinct sense of being followed. Tracked. Hunted. She hid under the porch of one of the farmhouses she had seen, begging the dark to hide her tracks from the pursuant. She crouched, eyes closed, waiting for his face to appear in the light outside the porch. Instead, she heard the squelch of feet in mud coming closer. She couldn’t help the sharp inhale when she heard the voice again.

“Come.”

Calmer again.

“Help.”

She backed further into the safety of the porch. The steps came closer. Stopped. She let herself look, just a peek, and saw…

Nothing.

There was no one there, no footprints in the mud to mark the passage of another living thing.

She knew it had been a hallucination. Exhaustion induced, perhaps. She was road weary, she knew she had been through a lot, but she still felt that hallucinations were a bit of an extreme side effect.

She extricated herself from her hiding place, the rough wood of the porch scraping across her back as she moved. The place where footsteps should have been, the direction from which the voice came, was empty. In fact, the whole space was barren up to the treeline, save for the puff of her breath in the cold, her own footsteps, and the rundown home that had hidden her.

The wind nipped at her cheeks as she inched forward. The quiet of the night was overwhelming, her mind distracted by a fear of what she thought she had heard. She could hear nothing but her teeth chattering, and the distant hoot of an owl, who left her alone with her fears. Her thoughts drifted back to that voice.

It had offered assistance, comfort, she thought, but it had also followed, pursued. It hadn’t seemed dangerous, but neither had its intentions seemed friendly. If it hadn’t been a hallucination, she knew she couldn’t go back to the road immediately, offering herself up to a potential threat. Not that it would have done any good. In a clearer headspace, this house was nothing like the farmhouses she had seen on the horizon, and she had no idea which direction she’d come from. She’d just get more lost trying to get back to the road. She wondered, if briefly, about the lack of people she had seen since she started her journey. She had seen others, she was certain, but not since… no. She hadn’t seen a single person since leaving Baldur’s Gate.

Blinking away the fog of adrenaline, she dusted herself off, worked to set her heartbeat to its normal rhythm, and set off to the front door of this random house. She knocked, only briefly wondering if she was going to be met by a knife to the throat. Waited. Knocked again. An ancient gnome opened the door, mostly obscured by shadow, only his wide, gray eyes visible as he took in the disheveled elf before him. “Can I help you?” He asked, his voice loud against the night. His frown seemed permanent, the wrinkles covering his face gave away no sign of happiness. She didn’t get the impression this man would help anyone with anything at all.

“Could I possibly get directions back to the road to Baldur’s Gate, sir? I got a bit turned around, and I’m not entirely sure where I am. Some direction is all I need, and then I’ll be going.” She reached to wipe invisible sweat from her forehead. When she pulled away, her hand was slick with brown-gray mud that wouldn’t come off no matter how much she wiped her hands on her pants. The old man shut the door slowly, calling “No, just keep on goin, thief. ‘M not falling for that. I may be old, but I ain’t no fool.”

She sighed, leaned against the doorframe for a moment as she once again surveyed her options, or lack thereof. There was the forest, a little further down, this house with No Fool inside, and the general store building back where she’d started. Wherever that was. There still weren’t any other houses in sight. The simple dirt path ended with No Fool’s walkway. Of all her options, the great unknown was the forest. She studied it from the driveway. She could feel the strange energy pulsing from it. She imagined the dark, twisting paths, complete with brambles and roots to trip on. The trees that were likely indistinguishable in the dark would make navigating difficult, even for someone who grew up in similar woods.

She imagined some poor kid exploring the woods on a soft summer day finding her remains if she was unable to make it out. She imagined the poor schmuck finding her frozen body somewhere in the expanse of nothingness if she tried to find her way back. She felt for the knife at her side, always accessible “in case of emergency,” as her grandfather had insisted, and rubbed a thumb over its hilt. A breath in, a breath out, and she walked toward fate.

She trudged the worn down path for quite some time, appreciating the beauty of the forest life, before the voice she had come to associate with her exhaustion returned.

“Left.”

She turned her head to the left, and found nothing but the dense trees that had been surrounding the path from the start. Nothing appeared different or special here. The trees were just as thick, the forest just as dark. The sticky sweet smell of sap tickling the back of her throat, the feel of an entire ecosystem watching her every move. She continued on, her feet starting to drag as the remainder of her adrenaline wore off.

The minutes passed like hours, the hours like days as she continued along the neverending trail, until she came to a split. The path looked identical in each direction, nothing giving away the secret to the way through. She felt drawn to the leftmost path, and remembered the hallucinations, the voice saying “Left” clear and obvious in her mind.

She took the path to the right.

A searing pain shot through her head.

The whole world faded out.

A voice. That Voice.

“Again.”

The blur of green and brown mixed with the feel of the crunchy grass beneath her, and her aching head, gave away that the night had not been a dream.She pulled herself off the ground, did a quick inventory. She still had her bow and quiver slung across her back. Her knife was still in its place on her belt. Her backpack was still on her shoulders, undisturbed. She touched her head to feel for the knot she knew must be there, the blood she thought might be, and felt nothing. No physical evidence existed that she had been harmed. She had no injuries that she could find. She looked up. The split in the road stared back.

“Left.”

The Voice startled her, though she should have perhaps expected it. She was not, she thought, about to have a conversation out loud with her subconscious in the woods. And this had to be her subconscious. It certainly didn’t feel like the voice of any deity she’d ever heard of. She imagined that arguing with yourself in the middle of a random wood was how forest witch legends were born. Though she didn’t want to give in to the Voice, she set herself on the left path regardless, hoping that the throb in her head would go away.

The trees seemed less threatening somehow, on the left path. The dirt beneath her feet was solid, safe, like it hadn’t seen rain in weeks, despite the region having consistent rain for the last four days. No roots twisted their way around her ankles. She could still feel the eyes watching her, but their energy was no longer hostile. Nonetheless, the cold wind still blew, the night became darker, and she couldn’t stop the shiver when the owl’s triumphant hoots sounded over the terrified squeaks of its dinner.

As she walked, a loose pile of dirt caught her attention. The Voice, or the feeling behind the Voice, compelled her to dig.

The soil was soft, marred only by the occasional leaf, its edges sticking into the flesh of her hand. No insects, no worms crawled around her as she dug. A bit of oddly colored rock stuck out of the ground, and she brushed away the last of the debris, revealing a small white bone underneath, approximately the size of her pinky. She rubbed her thumb along the length of bone as she stood, feeling each divet, crack, canyon; feeling where it had once connected to the larger Being, and she understood what it had felt in the last moments.

She felt the ache of the day in the creak of her joints as she continued. She slid the bone into her pocket opposite her knife. The silence here had begun to calm her, as if she had curled up beside a warm fireplace in the middle of a winter storm. The trees themselves seemed to push her forward into the shadows, her feet moving without having to tell her mind.

She carefully stepped over a fallen log, crawling with ants she tried not to disturb. She paused on the other side to watch them working together perfectly, feeding themselves with the leftovers of the larger world around them, unbothered by the dark and the quiet around them. She jumped at the rustle of leaves, looked up to find the owl watching her closely, as if committing her to memory. It flew off, seemingly satisfied that she was neither friend nor food. Its flight stayed low, and it stopped on a branch farther along the trail.

“Follow.”

She hesitated, the implications of following, perhaps literally, the voices in her head keeping her immobile. A tingling sensation began to work its way around her head, the pain from before returning, though not in full. It was enough. As her vision began to tunnel, she stepped toward the owl, her intent freshly set.

She followed the owl through the darkest parts of the forest she had seen thus far, the path winding back and forth, ruining any chance she had of knowing the direction. When her legs struggled to keep her moving forward, the owl would stop to give her a chance to catch up. If she waited too long, the tingling would return. The sky was still dark, still cloudy where the trees thinned, and the path widened. She stopped to look back at the warm embrace of the forest before stepping out into the clearing.

The house, the house where No Fool lived, stood at one edge of the clearing, which could be considered its yard, of sorts. The middle of the yard was empty. A stack of stones leaned against the house. She tried not to notice the owl, eating its dinner at last, sitting on the roof. Tried not to notice the drips of blood on the porch that may have been too large and old to belong to that particular meal.

She saw the rocking chair, moving slightly with the wind, now contained a small box. She walked up the porch steps, unsure how the house had gotten here. It was, assuredly, the same house. Small, but not too small. Made of stone, having more so the appearance of a traditional cottage than the cheaply built homes she’d seen in the Gate. She lined her hand up perfected with the muddy handprint she had left on the door frame those unknown hours ago.

“Open.”

The Voice came again. “Help.”

She let out a breath as she realized it had never been offering help to her, but had instead been asking for her help. She knew it had to be done, though she still wasn’t sure what “it” was. She rubbed her hands together and picked up the box, sitting where it had been in the chair. She pulled the top loose and tensed as the box fell open. Inside was nothing unusual. She found a matchbook, four candles, a bit of chocolate, and a note, written in crude Elvish. She unfolded the note, the messy scrawl almost illegible,

Thank you for help.

Light candles.

You know what to do.

The items, she realized, were inside a metal bowl in the box. She looked at the stack of stones again, noting the deliberate sizing of these random rocks.

“Begin.”

She nodded, more to herself than to the Voice, which she realized she no longer thought of as a piece of herself, but rather a very external Being. Starting with the largest stones, she made a circle, with one medium stone between each large one, making the clearing resemble a map compass.

She tiptoed out of the circle she had made and gathered enough of the smallest stones to make an impromptu fire pit. Satisfied, she went back to the box, bringing it to the inner circle. She removed the items one at a time. Each candle balanced on top of a large rock, lit using the matches. The box was used as a kindling, along with the note as a firestarter. Her brow furrowed, hesitant, unsure.

“Offer.”

The offerings were placed in the bowl. The candy to nourish the soul, the bone from her pocket to give respect to the dead, and…

She hesitated, waiting for guidance. She felt there should be three offerings, but she had only two. “Offer.” The Voice insisted, sounding closer now than ever. She started to stand to look for the last offering, but the sensation in her head brought her back to her knees.

“OFFER.” Forceful this time.

She trembled, whispered, begged, “Don’t make me. Please.”

Her request was met with silence. She sighed, thinking to relish the feel of warm breath leaving her body. She raised her knife, ready to obey. Knowing it could make her obey, regardless. As the knife point began to dig into her neck, the Voice returned.

“Stay.” Not a command, not an insistence. An offer. For her.

She stopped her motion and looked around. The house, empty, she somehow knew. The rocking chair in the shadow of the porch, beckoning. The owl, watching, anticipating. The trees stilled, waiting. The entire forest was waiting. The front door of the house creaked open, and she could see a fire burning in the fireplace. She could feel the potential of her life shift, in that moment.

“Stay.” The offer again. Softer, maybe.

She nodded, looking into the forest, somehow aware now that she was in its heart, had become part of it. The knife slid across her palm as she sealed the final offering - the promise. The contents of the bowl began to smoke, their essence burning away, giving life, or at least form, to something greater. The shadow being had never been, she realized, particularly malicious. Nor had it been entirely good. It was released into the world now to do its work, whatever that meant, but she smiled as she surveyed her home and decided the world was none of her concern.

#oc: thenii #d writes #please be kind #oc #oc fic #oc fiction

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