#Old Mill District

[rabbitcruiser]

Clouds (No. 1220)

Bend, OR

#Deschutes County #Deschutes River #Old Mill District #tree #original photography #vacation #tourist attraction #landmark #clouds #nature #summer 2023 #flora #travel #landscape #USA #Pacific Northwest #architecture #Bend #Oregon #Brooks-Scanlon powerhouse #US flag #chimney #cityscape #evening light #flower

[mapecl-stories]

A Visit to Seedorf: A Day of Discoveries

It was a sunny summer day when ten-year-old Marcus embarked on an unforgettable journey to the community of Seedorf alongside his Uncle Norbert. Uncle Norbert was a local mill employee who knew the area like the back of his hand. The truck they used for the trip had already seen many adventures, and today, another one was about to unfold.

The drive took them through picturesque landscapes in the Segeberg district. Seedorf, a small community with around 2,249 residents, lay in the northeast of the district. It was a place with deep history and fascinating traditions. The community had originated around an ancient Wendish tower from the 9th century, built by none other than the Wendish prince Slaomir. Over time, the area around the tower was settled, and today, it was known as Schlamersdorf.

En route, they passed by the imposing gatehouse, constructed in the year 1582. Uncle Norbert explained to Marcus that this gatehouse was a significant part of Seedorf's history. While driving through the village, Marcus could admire the beauty of the old buildings and the charm of the community.

A particular highlight was the Himmelsallee, a village road that cut through Seedorf and extended all the way to the Berlin district. Berlin was a subsection of Seedorf and intriguingly had adopted street names such as "Potsdamer Platz" and "Kurfürstendamm" from the capital city. Here, they met with Mayor Philipp Frank, who proudly shared the unique aspects of the village with them.

The people of Seedorf were known for their groundedness, sense of tradition, and hospitality. Most of them spoke Plattdeutsch, a dialect that showcased their strong connection to the local culture. Marcus and Uncle Norbert strolled down "Unter den Linden" street, marveling at the beauty and character reminiscent of Berlin within Seedorf.

Their walk also led them to the Weitewelt district. The name of this area had an interesting history: Originally known as "Witte Welt" (white world), the name had evolved over time into "Weite Welt" (wide world). This change was attributed to the fact that the soil in this district was not particularly fertile. Nevertheless, the residents took pride in their home.

They continued their stroll around the picturesque Seekamper Lake, enveloped by tranquil serenity. Marcus observed anglers, though his interest in fishing was limited. By this point, he had become a member of an animal protection party and adopted a vegan lifestyle.

Seedorf was rich in archaeological and architectural landmarks. Tower hill forts, remnants of burial mounds, and other historical sites told tales of the distant past of the area. Architectural marvels like the gatehouse, orangery, and mansion of Gut Seedorf bore witness to the history and cultural heritage of the region.

Nature also played a significant role in Seedorf. The community spanned picturesque landscapes and lakes. The Holstein Switzerland Nature Park encompassed the Seedorfer and Seekamper Lakes, enhancing the beauty of the surroundings.

As the day slowly drew to a close, Marcus and Uncle Norbert headed back home. They had spent an astonishing time in Seedorf, exploring its history, savoring the beauty of the landscapes, and meeting intriguing individuals. The memories of this day would forever accompany Marcus, and he knew that one day, he would return with his own stories to share.

#Visit #Seedorf #Discoveries #Sunny #Summer day #Ten-year-old Marcus #Uncle Norbert #Unforgettable journey #Local mill employee #Truck #Adventures #Picturesque landscapes #Segeberg district #Small community #Deep history #Fascinating traditions #Wendish tower #9th century #Wendish prince #Slaomir #Schlamersdorf #Gatehouse #1582 #Significance #History #Old buildings #Charm #Himmelsallee #Village road #Berlin district

[softshuji]

Sometimes Tokyo is a suffocating place. 

Rindou loves it, don’t get him wrong. The various districts, various people, all milling about, some on phones talking fast, pushing through crowds that part unwillingly as they plough through, mothers and babies in prams and it’s loud, so loud, the tinny buzz of voices on top of each other and his head aches with the need for some silence. 

He walks into the library on a whim, his headphones blinking red and drained of battery and the cool quiet interior is a welcome respite from the noise, the collar of his shirt clinging to his neck under his hoodie, the occasional wisp of blond blue hair curling around his ears as the air con blows a blast of cold air.

Once he had hidden here with Ran, between the aisles as a police car rushed past, the two of them hunched over and catching their breath, a long stare that petered off into giggles and laughs, the two of them young and still new to it all. It’s a bit different now, a bit harder to get Ran’s attention since his Wife and child came along. He doesn’t resent it, he’s happy for him. Ran has been the source of his safety for years, it would be selfish to keep him like that- to rob him of what he knows Ran deserves. Peace, something to lean on when he is too stubborn to lean on him. 

Old habits do tend to die hard.

But he can’t lie and say it isn’t lonely sometimes. The days when he picks up the phone, types out a text to his Brother- the only person who was only ever a call away, a message away, a shout across the house- and imagines him juggling the throes of newfound parenthood, something he loves and enjoys, and having his little Brother clinging onto him still, this far into adulthood when Rindou thinks he should be able to stand on his own two feet and wishes it was easier to do so.

There is only so much music he can listen to, only so much he can drink alone, only so many clubs he can waste his time at before it bothers him- the strobe lighting, the flirtations of girls who’ll forget his name when the next hotshot with a wad of cash comes along, and maybe he flirts back for a time, just to throw out the napkin with their numbers on later because it ultimately means nothing to him when there’s so little substance and he hates the idea of meeting someone like that- playing pretend because there’s so little else to do.

He’s angry that it seems so hard for him and he wishes he were a little less….him at times. A little more like Ran, a little easier, a little less rough around the edges, the jagged and sharp points of him that are stubborn and unwilling to be smoothed down by time. If it were a year ago, he’d call his Brother now and they’d drive at night and he’d feel a little less like he’s wading out to shore, a little more seen, a little less like he’s squashed between here and there and scrambling for something to understand. 

Maybe he kicks at the ground then, and maybe he loses his footing and stumbles into you reaching up to get something from the shelf, you knocked sideways and him barrelling into you, one hand braced on the wall to stabilise himself, the other reaching for you to pull you to him instinctually. 

‘Shit, fuck, I’m sorry,’ he says, headphones clattering to the floor, the wires corded around his hoodie, an avid crimson spillingacross his skin. ‘You okay?’

‘Yeah, yeah, no I’m fine, don't worry.’ And you look up from where you’d bent to brush the dust from your legs with the beginnings of a smile. And maybe the light hits you at just the right angle, the sunlight dancing through the window, dust mites flickering in the golden glow- or maybe he’d touched your hand for a fraction of a second and it had been warm and soft or maybe he’s rationalising and something cold in him cracks a little but he smiles back and lifts a hand to rub at his neck with a trepidation that he curses himself for. 

You laugh, awkwardly, a brightness around the edge of you that feels warm, that feels foreign and weird and genuine and he watches the reflection of himself in your eyes, bewilderment and confusion and an attempt at a lopsided smile when you retrieve his headphones from the floor, the two sides now coming apart in your hands.

‘Oh,’ you say, a worried bite on your lip, the two sides of his now broken pair in your two hands. ‘God I’m so sorry, I can pay you for these-’

‘No need, it was my fault, I’m the one who hit you.’

‘No, no, I was in the way-’

‘You weren’t, I was just not watching where I was going. You don’t have to pay for anything, they weren’t that good anyway.’

He neglects to mention that they were his favourite pair, a set he bought a year back to kick off the DJ thing that never really went anywhere, because it was only ever just him and the kit, him and the music and maybe it was a lonely experience to not have anyone to share that with, long nights where the tinny sound of the music is somehow an ache in the otherwise silent house.

‘You sure?’ You cock your head to the side, lifting the two halves. ‘They seem really good quality. I can’t pay for it all now but maybe-’

‘Don’t worry, seriously. I got a tonne more at home.’

You blink and he curses himself again inwardly, avoiding and resisting a sidestep on his feet in nervous apprehension. He sees then, your books scattered on the floor at your feet, and bends to pick them, resting them under his arm as he leans down before handing them to you gently, his fingers brushing yours on the underside and it makes his chest lurch when you murmur a quiet ‘thank you’ that he’s glad isn’t lost on the reverberating drone and shuffle of feet in the next aisles over. 

‘Okay, I can get you a coffee? It doesn’t quite make up but I’d feel bad for not doing anything at all.’ You turn to pack the books into your bag and he watches you, the ease with which you hand the two sides back to him and wait expectantly for his reply, the loud and disastrous crash of his heart that he’s convinced you can hear, the long and ample silence that has his tongue clinging to the roof of his mouth. 

‘You don’t have to say yes by the way- I’m not trying to- you know, I just feel bad for breaking one of your things-’

His lips part. ‘Yes, yes, I’ll….’ he chews on his lip, hands helplessly holding the broken headphones, the swirl of something that feels like desperation clouding the flecked hue of his eyes. ‘Yeah, I think that’ll be okay.’

And it feels strange and different and new and terrifying when you grin brightly and pat his arm  and the hollow of his throat beats with nerves, pink flashing across his cheeks and ears in a way that feels so utterly like a betrayal.

You hum, hoist a stack under your arm and the sun is out, streaming through the windows as you lift your bag over your shoulder. ‘Okay nice, I’m going to go check these out but I'll meet you outside in ten?’

‘S-sure….’ he says, a whisper caught on his lips with a starved and suffocating breath, the dizzying euphoria, nerves and anxiety all rolling along his chest when he watches you leave with a short wav, the bag you’re carrying falling over your shoulder.

And maybe the pain is good this time, the sense of vertigo that has him bracing a hand on the shelf, a hand to his chest to rub at, slow and deliberate breaths to calm his racing heart.

Maybe this time, he feels a little less angry, a little less sad, a little more like something that feels scarily akin to happiness. 

Reblogs appreciated!

#tokyo revengers #tokyo rev #tokyorev x reader #haitani rindou #rindou x reader

[thehandymen]

ok controversial opinion but. although spy x family and buddy daddies appear to have a lot in common (traumatized hitmen acquire a child etc etc) i really don’t think they should be compared. yor & loid, despite rushing into a marriage of convenience, are both pretty decently equipped to act as parental figures despite their unconventional backgrounds. yor has the experience of practically raising yuri from a very young age, and loid’s jack-of-all-trades spy career and general hyper competent personality means they’re able to handle anya and the whole sudden family situation better than your average single, childless, late-20s(?) adult. of course they still face a lot of bumps in the road/have a lot to learn, but what they do know from their respective lives and occupations definitely helps, and let’s not forget that anya is a whole telepath. 

kazuki and rei, on the other hand, have absolutely ZERO parental qualifications. it’s pretty obvious both of them have lived through their fair share of tragedy, with kazuki and his presumed dead wife and rei and his brutal childhood, but they’re also just. really messy people individually. kazuki is shown to regularly hang around gambling houses/the red light district and rei is a wet sock of a man when not in uniform. miri is your typical 4 year old: wildly energetic, no filter, constantly making a mess, requires attention at all times, and so on. unlike anya, she cannot read the minds of those around her, which means the only way she knows how to “help” her papas is by unhelpfully inserting herself into whatever tasks they’re trying to complete (and if you’ve been around small children, this is super typical behavior). she means well but she often inconveniences rei and kazuki’s already precarious lifestyle. and frankly, that pretty much sums up the early years of parenthood. 

kids are a lot of work. raising a child, even when you’re a “normal,” well-adjusted adult is really tough. but it’s supposed to be fulfilling, and it’s supposed to be something that parents view as “worth it.” we can’t really blame miri’s mom for resenting her so much when she never wanted to be a mom in the first place (and it’s clear she’s not suited to it, either). kazuki’s argument with miri’s mom demonstrates that his concept of parenthood is pretty idealistic, although not incorrect. kazuki may like the idea of protecting a child’s happiness, but he doesn’t realize the difficulty of the logistics involved, which we see in the daycare episode. we also see in the daycare episode that rei has no clue what a traditional childhood looks like. it’s implied he never went to school and doesn’t really understand how children usually act. 

kazuki and rei are arguably much less qualified than yor and loid to be parents, and therefore the buddy daddies family dynamic is going to be way more dysfunctional in a way that viewers may find bordering annoying rather than comically chaotic (i’ve read the crunchyroll comments). the same goes for miri, who is your average run of the mill small child, and not some super kawaii esper. but kazuki and rei are trying their best, in their own ways, and it’s clear that miri is going to brighten up their lives in really touching ways. so buddy daddies is definitely still worth a watch, especially if you already enjoy spy x family, but people should keep in mind that buddy daddies is not the “ripoff” of spy x family i’ve seen people say. 

#i did not intend for this to get so long. but clearly i have opinions #i should stop reading the crunchyroll comments #to be fair they've improved #but also i can't not ignore the lingering person who just Doesn't Get It #buddy daddies #spy x family #kazuki kurusu #kurusu kazuki #suwa rei #rei suwa #unasaka miri #miri unasaka #loid forger #yor forger #anya forger #kazuki papa #rei papa #sxf

[ltwilliammowett]

Sailors and workers Clay pipes unearthed at the old Sittingbourne Paper Mill site, in the old river area of the Swale district of Kent, England, c. 1850

#naval artifacts #clay pipes #mid 19th century #age of sail

[tenelkadjowrites]

Arrow in the Dark - Part One: Money - Seonghwa x Reader

PART TWO HERE.

💸 Summary: Your quiet life of working at a convenience store is upended when ultra wealthy Seonghwa convinces you to pretend to be his girlfriend for one night in order to fool his parents.

💸 Word count: 11k

💸 Genre and warnings: wealthy seonghwa. fem pronouns for reader. fake dating trope. depictions of emotionally manipulative parents. there is no smut in this part - parts two and three will have it.

💸 Tags: @thewonderofkpop - @obligatoryidolblog - @iusrene - @yunhofingers - @foggyinternetchaos - @multihoe-net - @spiderrenjunfics - @whatudowhennooneseesyou - @jess-1404 - @just-here-to-read-01 - @lilhwahwa - @btsreader12 - @talkbykhalid - @rdiamond2727 - @dreamtof0rget - @8tinytings - @xirenex - @meowmeowminnie - @revehosh - @nevieatiny - @nirvanawrites111 - @madamdionysia - @a-tiny-teez - @idunnowhatonameit - (sorry if i forgot anyone, i’m horrible with tags.)

this fic is not meant to represent seonghwa in any way, shape or form.

               The street is laced with puddles reflecting the city lights back at you through the rain streaked window. Your chin rests in the palm of your hand, staring at the small restaurant across from the convenience store that you work at. Half of the sign is burnt out, the other half flickering, and the water droplets falling down the window distort it just a little.

               A customer who has been milling in the back debating what ice cream flavour to purchase for ten minutes finally meanders their way to the counter, holding a pint of vanilla. All that time and that’s what they settle on, you think, scanning the item and telling them the amount owed.

               As they rummaged for their wallet, the door to the store opens and a man steps inside. Having worked here for a couple of years, you know the regulars by now and he is one of them. The designer coat is a clear indication he lives at one of the fancy apartment complexes just down the street. The convenience store is on the cusp of the financial district and occasionally rich people dart inside to grab something and leave quickly. He always takes his time, checking each aisle as if something new might appear.

               The customer with the vanilla ice cream mumbles a thank you and leaves, their fingers gripping the container so hard that you wonder what sort of day they’ve had if that is their lifeline. Now it is just you and the rich guy.

               It is nearing midnight and your shift is almost finished. The tinny music that plays over old speakers is background noise to you, easily filtered out. When you first started working here, the fluorescent lights gave you a headache. You are used to that now as well. The shop is small, unremarkable, but in a good location and always has steady business. You know every object on the shelf. Comforting and depressing at the same time.

               The man ducks his head, grabbing a few items off the snack aisle before walking up to the counter. He is tall, high cheekbones, not a blemish on his skin. Wearing all black, with light blonde hair, he looks as if he stepped out of the pages of a fashion magazine. Of course, that’s easy to do when you have money.

               You scan the items, tell him the total and wait. The man pulls out a Gucci wallet, removes some cash and hands it to you. His fingernails are painted black. That’s new, you think absentmindedly. When he popped in last week, his nails had been bare of any polish.

               “You’re short.” You say after counting, tapping the counter.

               “What?” It is the first time you have heard him speak and his voice is deeper than you would have expected.

               “The total,” You say, waiting for it to click that you aren’t insulting his height, “You’re short. See?”

               He glances downward at the money on the counter, his brows furrowed before opening his wallet again and fishing out more cash. You finish the transaction and he leaves without another word.

*

               The next night, to your surprise, Rich Guy returns. He is wearing slacks, dress shoes, and a button up black shirt as he looks at the beer selection. There are two other people in the shop this late, a giggling couple with their heads bowed together as they look at the snack foods. You glance at the clock. Just ten more minutes and your shift is done.

               Someone’s phone goes off, cutting through the music from the speakers and a low voice answers. You turn your attention to the window, watching yet another night of steady rain. The couple goes to the counter with a random assortment of items waiting to be purchased. After ringing them up, they leave, cozying up to each other as the rain takes them.

               “No, I told you that isn’t needed,” The voice says, floating over to the register, “I’m bringing someone.”

               It’s Rich Guy talking, you realize. He sounds on edge. Maybe he always sounds like that. It isn’t as if you sit and chat with him all the time. Yesterday was the first time you heard him speak.

               “I’m bringing my…girlfriend,” He hesitates on the word before going on, his voice growing louder as he approaches the register, “So, please listen to me and cancel whatever you had planned.” He stops in front of you, putting down a few energy drinks, having apparently decided against the beer. “I have to go.”

               Rich Guys hangs up the call as you ring up the items. Of course someone like this would have a girlfriend. He probably has twelve of them all around town, competing for his attention and money. Does he switch to a different one each night or…

               Suddenly acutely aware of Rich Guy staring at you, your hand falters scanning one of the drinks, glancing upwards at him. He even looks handsome in this horrible lighting, some part of your brain thinks.

               “You’ve worked here awhile, right?”

               For a split second, you wonder who he is talking to before it sinks in. “Me?” You ask, a little thrown. When he nods, you reply, “Uh, yeah. A couple of years now.”

               “Do they pay you well?” is his follow up question.

               You wonder if the frown shows on your face. What a weird question, you think. If Rich Guy is having some sort of mental crisis in the convenience store about giving up his wealth and trying to live a “regular” life, you aren’t sure you can handle that right now.

               “Uhm. It’s a convenience store job,” You say slowly, “So…” You give him the total for the energy drinks.

               But it is as if he hasn’t heard you. Something is spinning in his head, pieces coming together for some problem that must be floating around in his life. What sort of problems did someone like him have, anyway? You couldn’t fathom it.

               “Why don’t you get a different job?” He asks.

               You picture tossing the energy drink at his head but manage to restrain yourself. You aren’t even sure why you keep replying to his invasive questions. “All retail jobs are the same.” You fight the overwhelming urge to add the word dude to the end of the statement just because you doubt anyone has called Rich Guy a dude before.

               The answer seems to quell whatever is going on in his head because he falls silent, handing you some cash. Giving him his change, your hand brushes against his. His skin is soft, almost unnaturally so, probably because he buys high end lotion or something.

               Rich Guy leaves without another word, the rain swallowing him up. You shake your head when he leaves, thankful your time here tonight is finished.

*

               Your shift wraps up a couple minutes later and you step outside, ducking under the overhang to try to find your umbrella in the bag. The rain is steady and has been for some hours now. The puddles glow from the lights and the gasoline run off. In the distance, a group of drunk people laugh loudly, exiting a bar. You wish you took your bicycle this morning but the tire popped a couple days ago and you cannot afford a new one at the moment. It’s fine, just a twenty minute walk back home to your place and then –

               “Excuse me?”

               Startled, you jump, looking to the right of you. Rich Guy from earlier is standing under the overhang, one hand on his bag of energy drinks, the other gripping his cellphone. In the dark, the screen is bright as the sun, illuminated on a text messaging screen. He shuts it off hastily, taking a step towards you.

               “I was wondering if I could talk to you for a second.”

               “Uhm…” Perturbed and on your guard, you move away from him to create some distance. “Sure.”

               Rich Guy has always been silent, coming in to buy snacks, sometimes beer, and leaving. Why he is suddenly feeling so chatty is beyond you.

               “My name is Seonghwa,” He introduces himself, the earlier tone he had with whoever was on the phone is now gone, replaced by a casual confidence. “It’s fine, I know your name already.” He gestures to your name tag. “I’ve been coming in here for like a year.”

               “Close to where you work or live or something?” You ask, mostly because you don’t know what else to say.

               “That’s right. I live in Garden Gates.”

               Garden Gates isn’t just for rich people. It’s for the rich rich, the sort of people who could go into a high-end designer store and they would close the entire place of business down so they could shop in peace. Just standing next to this guy feels wrong as if you should be dropping to your knees and cleaning his shoes or something.

               “Listen, not to be blunt, but you could use some money, right?” Rich Guy – no, Seonghwa, asks.

               You take another step away from him, guard raised even higher. “What?” You ask because how does someone answer such a rude question.

               “I have a proposition for you,” He says, his phone lighting up again with an incoming message.

               You have no idea what sort of American Psycho shit you are stumbling into but it’s time to leave. Forget the umbrella.

               “Not interested, sorry.”

               “Please, just a few seconds of your time.”

               “Nope. Uh, have a good night though.” You turn around, wondering if there is an alternate way home through a lot of traffic or something so the crowds could make you feel safe –

               When Seonghwa speaks next, he sounds positively desperate, his voice higher pitched and raised. “It’s nothing like that! I’ll pay you to pretend to be my girlfriend!”

               The words bring you up short, your feet stopping automatically even as your brain tells you to keep moving. Out of all the things you thought he was going to say, this was not one of them. Even though you know better, you still turn around to look at him.

               “What?” You want to tell him off – you may be inexperienced when it comes to matters of romance and sex but you aren’t a fool. Pretending to be my girlfriend most certainly has to be code for paying for sex. What is with this guy?

               Buoyed by the fact you have not run off screaming, Seonghwa approaches you carefully, peering at you.

               “I know how this sounds but I swear it is just that. I need someone to attend this dinner with my parents and pretend to be my girlfriend. After dinner, we’ll leave and that will be it.”

               “Uhm. Why?” You ask, perplexed, “Don’t you have an actual girlfriend?”

               “No and my dad is trying to set me up with the daughter of another company to create some sort of merger between our families.”

               What year is it? You wonder. “Is she that bad? That you don’t want to go on a date with her?”

               “It’s nothing against her personally. But my father simply won’t drop this idea.”

               “So…” You speak slowly, “In the shop. You said you had a girlfriend…”

               Seonghwa rubs the back of his neck, looking sheepish. “I said it without thinking. Just to get him to back off. But now, I actually have to show up with someone.”

               “Okay, so you take a strange woman with you to this dinner and then what? I mean, they will want to see your girlfriend again at some point, right? Then what?”

               Seonghwa blinks. You can tell that he has not thought this out very much. Impatience nips at your heels. You could be halfway home by now and instead you are listening to this man you don’t even know try to explain the most batshit idea ever.

               Continuing, you say, “So, I don’t think just one dinner will work. Especially if he is pushing this other woman on you. Would your dad drop it just cuz your ‘girlfriend’ shows up to a single dinner?”

               Seonghwa looks resolute now. “I’ll figure that part out. I just need to get through this dinner. I’ll pay you whatever amount you need. Would a few thousand be okay? It’ll be at my dad’s penthouse for a few hours. I can always lie and say that we are going overseas for a month or two afterwards and he won’t know you’re not with me.”

               There’s a lot to take in here: the use of penthouse casually, the fact Seonghwa can apparently fly overseas for weeks at a time without blinking, the prospect of money for one dinner. Would a few thousand be okay? He had uttered that sentence without hesitation.

               But there is one big issue that stops you from accepting.

               “Sorry, but I can’t. I don’t even know you. The entire thing just sounds too sketchy.” You tell him, all of it being partially true but not the whole truth.

               Seonghwa’s face falls silently but he nods. “Right. I get it. I know how odd it sounds. But if you change your mind, the dinner isn’t until Friday. May I give you my number? You can text me if you decide otherwise.”

               “Uhm, sure,” You reply, mostly to look polite, “Is that why you asked me those questions in the store? I was the first person you saw who might agree to such a thing?”

               Seonghwa looks up from his phone. The screen illuminates his face, driving home just how attractive he is. Next to him, you feel like the crypt keeper.

               “I pop in here a lot and you’re always working. I thought maybe the money would help. If there’s something you needed it for.”

               Well, I need a new wheel for my bicycle, you think but don’t say it because it sounds so pathetic. Seonghwa gives you his number and then opens his umbrella, stepping out into the rain. He turns to look back at you. In his tailored coat, and hair perfectly in place, he makes for a slender and well put together shape in the streetlights.

               “Have a nice night.” He says, nodding his head in your direction before turning around and walking down the street.

               You watch Seonghwa go, frozen in place, as he traces a neat and clean line through a small crowd until he is swallowed up.

*

               Opening the door to your apartment, you drop your bag on the floor, still wrangling with your umbrella which won’t close properly. Your roommate is out, probably for the night, which is fine by you.

               Once the umbrella finally closes, you look around the apartment. Small is an understatement. You bet Seonghwa’s closet is the size of your apartment. Stop thinking about him, you scold yourself. His offer was ridiculous. Pretending to be dating someone is a joke because the real problem at hand is that you have barely any experience in that department.

               You’ve gone on dates, you’ve even had sex a few times, but all of it fizzled out pretty quickly. Now, between working all the time and just trying to scrape up enough money to get by, you have let that entire aspect of your life go to the wayside. How in the world could you try to fool a rich guy’s family that you are dating someone you don’t even know when your own experience is so limited? That’s the real reason you turned Seonghwa down.

               Going to the bathroom, stripping off your clothes, you step under the water when it’s still cold because it takes ages to get the hot water going. By the end of the shower, it will be nice and warm but you aren’t going to run up the water bill waiting for that in the meantime.

               Washing the day off your body, your mind wanders back to Seonghwa. Some part of you wishes that you had enough experience to agree to the fake dating thing. It would be one night, make you thousands of dollars, and then you can wash your hands of it. Unless you are being blinded by the money and there is more going on here than it appears. You would hate to agree to such a thing and it turns out Seonghwa is some lunatic who made the whole thing up just to get you alone somewhere.

               And even if he is legit, how could you pass off as truly dating him in front of his parents? You could count the number of people you’ve kissed on one hand. To act like some adoring girlfriend is well beyond the scope of your abilities. He might not even pay you when the night is finished because you aren’t convincing enough. I’d have to ask for half up front, just to make sure I don’t leave empty handed. Then you catch yourself – there won’t be anything up front because you aren’t going to agree to such a thing.

               After the shower, your bed is calling. Sinking underneath the covers, ignoring the worrisome way the bed frame shakes, you grab your laptop off the night table and turn it on, wondering what mind numbing stuff to put on tonight. But you still don’t know anything about Seonghwa. He comes in a couple nights a week to buy snacks and then goes back to his Barbie Dream Life. The whole thing sounds like it is way too good to be true. To make that much money from pretending to date a guy for a night…why doesn’t he have any friends to pull into this scheme? Surely, someone close to him would agree to such a thing just out of friendship. Wait no, damn it, you aren’t supposed to be thinking about this. The entire thing is over and done with. Focus on a TV show.

               But even as the images flicker across the screen, your gaze sweeps the small bedroom. Most of the things in here you got at thrift stores; some pieces are even hastily repainted in an effort to personalize them. Your lava lamp broke a few weeks ago and is still on the shelf. A stack of books are shoved in a corner with no space to put them anywhere. You don’t even own a TV and instead hope your ancient laptop can last as long as possible. If you agreed to Seonghwa’s idea, you could get everything replaced in this room. It would look like a proper bedroom, not a hidey hole. You bet Seonghwa’s room at his Garden Gates place must look immaculate. The thought depresses you.

               Chewing on your bottom lip, you reach for your phone. The battery is almost dead but you manage to fire off one final text before the screen goes black.

               “I changed my mind. I’d like to meet with you to discuss it.”

*

               The coffee shop Seonghwa agrees to meet at the following afternoon is the sort of overpriced place you never step foot in. But he offered to pay so you are ready to take advantage of that and order the most ridiculous drink you can imagine at his expense.

               It takes about half a second to locate Seonghwa. It is difficult not to. Between his height, slender frame and annoyingly good looks, most people are shooting glances in his direction. He is studying the menu as if never been here before, something you doubt very much.

               Immediately, you wonder if you are underdressed. But no one glances in your direction minus a friendly greeting from the barista which gets Seonghwa’s attention. When he notices you, he gives a small wave. Today, his blonde hair is slicked back, while wearing a pair of blue jeans and a black turtleneck. He just screams money in a low effort sort of way whereas you scream on three hours of sleep and propelled out the door only by the hope of money.

               “Good afternoon,” He says formally, nodding his head as you approach, “I was just looking over the menu.”

               “You haven’t been here before?” You ask doubtfully.

               “Not in some time. I can’t recall what I got last time.”

               Seonghwa smells amazing. Some cologne, you assume before turning your attention to the menu. It has more options than you know what to do with and that doubt from last night blooms in your chest. If I get anxious ordering coffee, how in the world could I pull off being his fake girlfriend?

               Seonghwa goes to the register, placing an order of something you didn’t even know existed. Whatever the baristas are being paid, it cannot be enough. Seonghwa’s order sounds like a foreign language. Timidly, you order next – something simple in contrast to the big dreams from this morning of ordering something super overpriced and fancy.

               Seonghwa pays, you mumble a thanks, and then trail after him as he grabs a seat by the window. The coffee shop is next to a small side street where you can watch people hustle and bustle in and out of stores. The sun is high in the sky, not a cloud in sight for once.

               Seonghwa doesn’t even look out the window, turning his attention to you. “I assume you wanted to discuss specifics?”

               It had been your idea to meet today. The idea of not seeing him until the night of the dinner left you unsettled.

               “Uhm, yes,” You take a deep breath, “Just because…you know…this situation is unusual and I don’t actually know you.”

               “Right, of course, I understand.”      

               “Like, I was wondering why a friend can’t do this for you? You don’t have anyone else in your life who could pretend to be your girlfriend?”

               Seonghwa shakes his head, his fingers drumming against the tabletop. “No, it can’t be anyone my father knows. It won’t work then. He won’t believe I am dating anyone he’s met before. He knows I don’t see them in that light and no amount of lying would convince him otherwise. It has to be someone brand new.”

               His explanation made sense. Chewing on your bottom lip for a moment, you say, “We need to establish what is allowed then. I understand you need to convince your dad that you are dating but I don’t feel comfortable doing certain things.”

               It is then the barista comes over, dropping off the drinks. Seonghwa has gotten some fancy looking latte with pretty art on top. He admires it for a few moments, momentarily distracted, before taking a small sip. He didn’t even stop to take a pic, you think thunderstruck, because he drinks them all the time and this is just another coffee in a long list of coffees.

               You regret not getting a nicer coffee just for the sake of posting it on Instagram and looking fancy for a few seconds.

               “What is that?” You ask curiously, unable to help yourself.

               “It’s an oat milk lavender latte,” He pushes it towards you, “Do you want to try it?”

               “Oh, uh, no thank you,” You say sheepishly, “I was just curious. It’s pretty. You should have taken a pic of it.”

               Seonghwa blinks in surprise, looking back down at the ruined art on top. “Why?”

               “Cuz it’s so pretty. That way you’d always remember it and how you felt when you first saw it.” You explain.

               “I never…thought of it like that before.”

               You shrug. “Maybe next time.”

               “Right…” He looks incredibly thoughtful, as if you just told him the meaning to life and not to take a photo of a latte.

               You clear your throat a little when it is evident he isn’t going to speak. “Anyway, like I was saying. Ground rules. For the dinner.”

               Seonghwa breaks out of his thoughts, lacing his fingers together and resting his chin on the top of his hands. “My father isn’t big on public displays of affection so you don’t have to worry about anything overt. I was thinking some handholding and maybe touching your shoulder or waist occasionally, sitting really close together, things like that.”

               You could handle all of that. “Okay. But obviously, no kissing.”

               “Naturally. I’d rather die than kiss someone I was seeing in front of my parents anyway. What about kissing your cheek? When we leave for the night.”

               Seeing as all that requires of you is to stand there, you agree. “There is one more thing,” You tell him, “I want half up front.”

               Seonghwa raises one eyebrow delicately. “Do you not trust me?”

               “No,” You reply bluntly, “Sorry. But I don’t even know you. You could be leading me upstairs and turn into Hannibal, I have no idea.” Setting boundaries and asking for things is not your strong suit but given Seonghwa is brand new to your life, it is less anxiety inducing to ask him for things versus someone you have known for a long time.

               “Hannibal, the Carthaginian general?” He asks, confused.

“What? No, Hannibal Lecter, the fictional serial killer – forget it. You understand the risk I’m taking, right?”

Seonghwa looks stricken. “Of course, I understand. I’ll give you half before we go upstairs. Would this amount work for you?” He gives you a total that is enough to make you pass out on the spot and it is all you can do to nod.

               Taking a moment to collect yourself, you add, “I also want the address of where this penthouse is and the full names of you and your parents. Oh, and we should add each other on Instagram cuz who is dating and don’t have each other added on at least one social media site?” You rattle off the ideas as they pop into your head.

               “I’ll text you everything you need. Whatever you need to make you feel comfortable, of course.”

               On a whim, you add, “I’ll also be telling my friends where I’ll be that night.” You aren’t sure if that one will actually happen for the mere fact you don’t know how to explain something this ridiculous to your friends, especially your best friend. But better he thinks you will.

               Seonghwa is nodding so much he looks like a bobblehead. You finally stop talking to take a sip of your drink, giving him a chance to speak.

               “Like I said, whatever you need. I’ll also give you half before we go to the penthouse. Do you need me to send a car to pick you up?”

               “Uh, no, I’m okay,” You say quickly, unsure how you would explain such a thing if your roommate saw it, “And this is all just for one night. I’m not your fake girlfriend after this.”

               Seonghwa shifts positions, his fingers back to tapping against the table. “I know. However, if my lie about going overseas doesn’t swing, maybe I could ask for your help again? For more money, naturally.”

               “Let’s just wait and see how the first night goes. You might not be impressed with my performance. Your dad could possibly tell it is total bullshit.” You see, Seonghwa, I actually have no clue what I am doing and am just doing this to get your money and leave. The chances of anyone believing we are together is laughable and you definitely won’t want to see me again after this dinner.

               The two of you fall silent, drinking your coffees together for a few minutes before you talk again. “I don’t know anything about you. You should probably tell me stuff about yourself and your life or your dad won’t believe that either.”

               “Oh.” Seonghwa looks sheepish. “I’m not very good at talking about myself.”

               Join the club, you think but instead go, “Just tell me generic stuff, I guess. Your favourite colour.”

               “Black.”

               That’s not a colour, you think but instead go, “What do you do for fun?”

               “For fun?”

               “Yes, you know like…a hobby. Something that gives you joy.”

               Seonghwa’s brows come together. Wow, he actually has to think about this. “I like going yachting,” He answers finally as you take a sip of the drink.

               Which you then almost promptly choke on, coughing at his reply. He looks alarmed, asking if you are alright. You nod in between coughs. Yachting! Imagine having that as your hobby. This is so not going to work.

               “Do you own a yacht?” You ask once the coughing fit passes, afraid of the reply.

               “Me? No. Father does and so do a couple other families we know well.”

               “What do you do on the…yacht?”

               “Soak up the sun, drink a little, just relax. We usually take the yacht to the island we own and spend a few days there before taking it back. A mini vacation, you know?”

               No, you don’t know. Your idea of a mini vacation is faking an illness to call out of work and then staying in bed to shove your face full of potato chips while watching the worst movies imaginable for twelve hours straight. Wait, he said they own an island. Oh, this is a clusterfuck.

               “Uh, right. I like to watch movies.”

               “Oh, my movie knowledge is pretty limited,” Seonghwa replies.

               I assumed that when you thought I meant Hannibal from a war twelve billion years ago, you think but don’t say. “If you don’t mind me asking, how did your family get rich enough to own a yacht and an island?”

               “Oh, my family owns a chain of supermarkets. It started about a hundred years ago. But then the chain expanded out of the country about thirty years ago and our money with it, very quickly.”

               “What chain?” When Seonghwa tells you, your stomach clenches. I’m going on a fake date with the heir of one of the biggest supermarket chains on the planet…I should’ve asked for more money.

               The doubt, which has been a wiggling creature in your stomach since Seonghwa first proposed this idea, is now screaming for attention. It is difficult not to wonder if this is going to be a giant mistake. You are not only out of your depth in regards to his money but also the fact you are woefully inexperienced in relationships. The need for money is blinding your common sense – and it continues to because you grab your coffee, standing up.

               “I should go. I have work tonight.” Which isn’t a lie but you suddenly desperately need to get away from Seonghwa before you call the entire thing off and miss out on making money.

               He looks surprised. “You’re going already?”

               You find his answer a strange one. What did he think, you two were gonna hang out?

               “Yup. Thanks for the coffee. Just text me all the information, okay? See you later.”

               You dart off before Seonghwa can even reply. You know that it appears as if you are running away – and fine, maybe you are. But the gravity of what you agreed to is hitting you and it is hard to breathe.

               For some reason, you know that Seonghwa is staring at your back as you walk down the street, leaving him behind in the coffee shop.

*

               It is past ten at night and the store is completely empty. Bored to tears and knowing your manager has snuck off for another cigarette break, you finally give in to the urge that has been tugging on your sleeve all shift.

               Pulling your phone out of your pocket, you bring up the text Seonghwa sent a few hours ago. It has the address, his parents’ names, and his Instagram handle. Curiosity gets the best of you, clicking it to see what sort of things Seonghwa posts online.

               His follower count is obnoxious and anxiety inducing; the idea of that many people seeing what is posted would freak you out. The page itself is clean and minimalist and Seonghwa is barely in any. Most of the photos are of streets at night. One is even of the outside of your store, the windows frosted over with snow from last winter, the yellow lights of the sign bright and visceral.

               You aren’t sure how long you scroll. You aren’t even sure what you are looking for. Does he just wander the streets at night or something? Most of the feed is of the city lights, the tall towers glittering like gems, occasionally a photo of a gorgeous hotel lobby, always the location tag with some other country.

               You finally find one photo of Seonghwa, with his hair dyed a more vibrant blonde than it is currently. He also doesn’t have black on, instead wearing a dark red button down shirt with the sleeves hastily rolled up a bit. There is a glitter smear across one cheekbone, catching the light. He is in some restaurant, face somewhat covered by his hand as he laughs. The angle is slightly tilted as if someone took the photo on a whim just to capture Seonghwa’s expression. Behind him is what appears to be the ocean dotted with expensive boats. The restaurant must open out onto some sort of balcony. You linger on the photo, unsure what you are looking to discover in Seonghwa’s laughter. Who took the pic of him? What made him laugh this hard? You have a difficult time picturing that same Seonghwa laughing like this now. Maybe you just don’t know him well enough but he seems to be much more distant and static than what this photo shows. Perhaps you are just overthinking it.

               You are so entranced by the post that when you bring your finger down to keep scrolling, you accidentally heart it instead. Breath catching, your eyes drop to the date on the post. It is from two years ago.

               “Fuck.” You say aloud and then quickly make sure a customer hasn’t come in when you were busy scrolling.

               But the shop is still empty. Looking back at your phone, you feel momentarily frozen at the idea of Seonghwa realizing you scrolled back years through his Instagram. The embarrassment rolls through you. You aren’t even sure why you scrolled back so far in the first place.

               Panicked, you unlike the post and drop your phone on the counter as if it burned you. Would it still notify him? Had you waited too long in unliking it? Maybe he won’t mention it.

               Deciding your phone has brought you enough danger, you shove it in your pocket and turn your attention back to work. It’ll be fine, you tell yourself, I’m sure he didn’t even get the notification.

               You don’t check your phone again until you get home from work a few hours later. To your surprise, there is a text from Seonghwa and a notification on Instagram. He had hit like on a photo of yours from two years ago, a poorly lit picture of you and your best friend at a shitty bar for someone’s birthday.

               His text message reads: I can scroll too.

*

               When you turned down Seonghwa’s offer to pick you up for the dinner, you’d forgotten that your bicycle still had a popped tire. That meant texting him and asking if he could, in fact, come get you. Originally, you planned to walk. But when another storm rolled in, you knew that showing up looking like a soaked rat wasn’t going to sell the lie that Seonghwa was dating you or that you were taking this entire thing seriously.

               For some reason though you assumed Seonghwa would come by in a normal person car so you are baffled at the sight of a limo in front of your small apartment complex. Great, you think, so much for not attracting attention. To make it worse, a driver opens the door for you to scamper inside. You can practically feel people staring from their windows at the sight. Your roommate isn’t home again but if anyone mentions it to her, she will ask you a thousand questions.

               Seonghwa is sitting comfortably in the limo, another surprise. You hadn’t thought he would be here too. Having never been in a limo before, you take in the sight of the plush seating, a small TV playing the news, a bottle of champagne cooling in ice, untouched and unopened. Tiny lights run the floor length of the seats and the partition separating you and the driver is rolled up.

               “Good evening,” Seonghwa says, always slightly sounding like he belongs to the early 19th century, “Before, I forget…” He opens a formal looking bag next to him, looking for something.

               Seonghwa is dressed in a black button down shirt, the Prada logo evident on the small front pocket. With matching dress slacks and formal shoes (also Prada), he looks well put together as usual. His hair is slicked back again, making his cheekbones as attention grabbing as ever. Everything about Seonghwa is professional, distant, and clean. Your mind flashes to the photo of him in the restaurant. For some reason, you can’t stop thinking about the Seonghwa in that photo and the one currently in front of you.

               “Do you want to put this in your bag?”

               His words shatter your thoughts. In between slim fingers, he is holding a white envelope. Hesitating for a moment, you take it, glancing inside. It is a fat stack of money. Seeing the amount like this makes your head spin. You hastily shove it in your purse.

               “Don’t want to count it?” Seonghwa asks.

               “Uh, no, I’m fine, thanks.”

               “You look nice.” He says casually before looking down at his phone.

               You narrow your eyes a little, trying to gauge if he is making fun of you. Your outfit feels like a dismal imitation of what someone would wear around a bunch of hyper wealthy people. But Seonghwa’s attention has already shifted away from the compliment.

               “I told my father you were coming to dinner tonight. Listen, my parents…” He pauses for a moment, looking slightly uncomfortable, “They obviously don’t want me with anyone they don’t pick for me. So I apologize ahead of time if they come off rude or ask too many personal questions. I’ll do my best to step in.”

               Great…like that doesn’t fill you with a sense of growing dread. You nod, lapsing into silence. The moment is quickly arriving. You have no idea if you are going to pull this off. What the hell am I thinking?

               When the limo slows down, your heart jumps to your throat. The door opens, and you get out of the limo first, looking at the extremely tall building. There is no name on the front, no indication it is an apartment complex minus the doorman. You assume every floor is a penthouse and it has to be at least seventy stories high. It is dizzying. You have gone past this building many times during life in the city and never glanced twice at it. It belongs to a different world than you. Now you are stepping directly towards it like a tiny fish getting ready to be swallowed by a whale.

               Seonghwa stands next to you and asks, “May I hold your hand?”

               You take a small sharp breath. This is it, you think, panic poking at the edges of your brain. You nod and Seonghwa slips his hand against yours, holding it gently. Your heart immediately starts to race. Seonghwa walks towards the doors and you let him pull you along. The doorman nods at him, pushing the wide silver doors open, and then you are in the lobby.

               It is as silent as a tomb in here, so minimalist that it feels completely uninviting. A large sleek reception desk makes up one of the walls, a large fountain in the middle, and the temperature just low enough to remind you of a morgue. The floors are black and white marble, sparkling in the soft lights. A row of elevators along the right side catch your attention as Seonghwa goes towards them, pressing a small key against one of the buttons which emits a soft dinging noise as it registers.

               As you wait, you catch your reflection in the elevator doors, slightly distorted. Seonghwa, looking posh and professional, handsome in that untouchable way…and then you. Absolutely no one will believe we are dating, you think, this is insane.

               The doors slide open silently and you realize the elevator only has one floor – the top one. Holy shit, his parents have their own special elevator. He presses the small key against the button signaling the top floor and the doors close.

               “Hey,” Seonghwa says, “You’re so tense.”

               “There’s no way this is going to work.” The words spill out before you can stop yourself, “Your dad will know in two seconds we aren’t really dating.”

               Seonghwa gives your hand a small squeeze, standing very close to you now, one hand resting on your hips. It is intimate and your heart is fluttering. “This will work. Just follow my lead.”

               Whatever the hell that means. Before you can ask, the doors open and you are suddenly in the penthouse.

Alright, let’s go.

*

               The next hour is an overload of information. You meet Seonghwa’s mom first, who takes you on a tour through the penthouse. You end up being glad that Seonghwa is holding your hand because it is the only thing that steadies yourself to the overwhelming show of wealth that is touted in front of you. If the lobby was minimalist, then the penthouse is maximalist to the tenth degree. Every section is covered in expensive artwork in gold frames, vases on display that look incredibly old and easily breakable, and even a large salt water aquarium running along one wall.

               Yet in all the objects and jewels and beautiful things that fill the penthouse, it is hard to find anything personal, anything that indicates this belongs to a family with a history or affection for one another. Who doesn’t have any photos of their kid? You wonder, not seeing a single photo of baby Seonghwa anywhere.

               By the time you finally sit down in the living room (on a couch so plush that you worry for a second that it is going to suck your body inside and never free you) your head is spinning and your grip on Seonghwa’s hand is so tight that it probably looks less romantic and more horror movie.

               It is then Seonghwa’s dad enters. You assume it is his dad because it is the first time Seonghwa lets go of your hand, standing up immediately to greet him. You also stand up to introduce yourself and the gaze his dad gives you is enough to curdle milk on the spot. Oh, he hates me, you think, but he probably would hate anyone dating his son who he didn’t pick.

               After everyone sits down again, there is a few seconds of silence. You can feel Seonghwa’s parents staring at you, their eyes scanning your clothes, the necklace you threw on at the last second (fake gold, can they tell just by looking? Probably.) and the way you scooch over closer to Seonghwa, closing the gap between the two of you while still keeping it respectful. It doesn’t matter what they think of me. All of this is bullshit. So, why am I so nervous?

               Seonghwa is grazing his thumb against the top of your hand, a minor touch that feels so strangely intimate that your heart skips a beat for a second. His father is staring daggers at the gesture and it is all you can do not to yank your hand away, apologize and leave hastily.

               “Have you lived in the city long?” It is Seonghwa’s mom, Mrs. Park, who breaks the silence, beginning the interrogation.

               “Since I was about five.”

               “What do your parents do?” This one is from Mr. Park.

               You tell them, watch the subtle change in both of their faces. It is evident the answer does not please them.

               “And what do you do?”

               This is about to please them even less. “I’m a convenience store clerk.”

               Seonghwa’s parents glance at each other. In that millisecond of a look, tons of information is exchanged, none of it positive. The scent of dinner is wafting into the room, cooked by an entire staff hired just for that purpose. Last night, you made instant ramen for dinner.

               Seonghwa speaks then, “It’s not too far away from where I live. I go in there sometimes to buy stuff when other places are closed.”

               “It’s dangerous to be out that late,” His mom scolds, “You could just get it delivered.”

               “I don’t mind,” He replies breezily.

               “What do you like about Seonghwa?” Mr. Park asks suddenly, his eyes focused on you and only you.

               Great, you think, I know almost nothing about this man besides the fact his favourite colour isn’t a colour and he thinks going to his own private island is a hobby.

               You can feel the weight of everyone’s eyes on you, waiting for your answer. This will make or break the belief that you are dating Seonghwa and you regret not learning more about him at the coffee shop before running off. Seonghwa has stopped grazing your hand with his thumb as if he hadn’t expected his dad to ask a question like that.

               You glance at Seonghwa out of the corner of your eye, hoping to glean some last minute information from him. But nothing is forthcoming. Your mind randomly flashes back to the pic of him smiling at the restaurant, the slightly blurry nature of the photo, the glitter smear on his cheek, the dark red fabric bright against his skin.

               Turning your attention back to his dad, you reply, “He’s focused and professional. Always well put together,” Thinking of his face as he laughed, you go on, “But once you get past that exterior, Seonghwa is funny and charming. He’s thoughtful and considerate,” Where is the Seonghwa in the photo now? “He knows what he wants even if he puts other people’s needs before his, sometimes to his detriment. But there’s something in him that,” The glitter smudge on his cheekbone. “…that wants a sort of freedom that I hope I can give him.”

               His parents gawk at you. But it is Seonghwa’s gaze who feels the heaviest. You turn your face to look at his. His lips are parted slightly as if in question. You cannot read his expression. You haven’t seen it on him before. Something about it tugs on you.

               On a whim, just to twist the knife further against his parents, you lean forward and very softly kiss his cheek. The touch is so slight that it barely counts. But Seonghwa stiffens slightly in surprise before relaxing into it. When you pull away, your eyes meet for a moment and then you turn back to look at his parents.

               Mrs. Park stands abruptly. “I should go make sure dinner is coming along. Seonghwa, perhaps you can help.” It is not worded as a question.

               Seonghwa pauses for a moment before releasing the hold on your hand and following his mom into the gigantic kitchen, leaving you alone with Mr. Park, glancing worriedly at you over his shoulder before he vanishes.

               You should probably ask him a question now but your mind is completely blank. What do you ask a man like this? How many millions he made in the last five minutes? You would rather not know. Shifting uncomfortably, you scan the room trying to find literally anything to remark on. His gaze is heavy on you, almost suffocating.

               “You understand my worries, I’m sure,” Mr. Park begins instead, “And why I ask such questions. Seonghwa comes from a family of considerable wealth and there are those who would take advantage of it.”

               “I understand, sir.” By the way, your son is giving me a fat stack of thousands to pretend to date him tonight.

               “How am I not to know that you recognized him and decided to approach him simply because of his money?” Mr. Park is clearly trying to intimidate you but it is difficult for it to work when the situation is entirely fake.

               “He approached me, actually,” You reply which technically isn’t a lie, “I wasn’t familiar with his connections until recently. He doesn’t flaunt his wealth around or give any indication on who he is.”

               His dad chews on this for a moment. Deciding this would be a good time to flee, you stand up, asking where their bathroom is. Mr. Park rattles off a confusing amount of instructions which you pretend to understand and turn around, shuffling towards the hallway.

               The path you take, which may or may not be in the actual direction of the bathroom, takes you past the massive kitchen. You glance inside to see a few people hard at work making dinner. The sight is strange to see and as you go to turn the corner, the voices of Seonghwa and his mom float over, stopping you in your tracks.

               “This is all very funny, Hwa,” Mrs. Park is lecturing, “But bringing some poor girl to the house and flaunting your wealth around to make her smitten with you is in poor taste.”

               Great, we are definitely going to be caught already. Maybe your speech had come off completely artificial –

               Mrs. Park continues, “If you think the idea of you dating someone in another class would scare us into giving up the arranged marriage, you’re wrong. All we have to do is offer her a check and this….convenience store clerk will vanish. People like her only care and want one thing. You know that.”

               Your heart drops to your stomach at her words. You know that. How many times had his parents paid someone off to leave Seonghwa? Sounded like more than once. And wait…arranged marriage?

               “That isn’t why I’m dating her,” Seonghwa replies sharply, “I’m dating her because I like her. I know you and father have other plans for me but that doesn’t mean I have to marry whoever you pick.”

               “You know what happens if you don’t,” His mom’s tone is slightly pleading now, “I don’t want to see you left with nothing.”

               All this new information is throwing you for a loop. So not only is Seonghwa being forced into an arranged marriage, which he conveniently left out, but he might be kicked out of his family if he doesn’t agree to it?

               “I don’t know why we are talking about this. I told you. I’m dating her because I like her a lot. You should give her a chance. I wouldn’t bring her around if I didn’t care about her.” Seonghwa sounds convincing as if every word out of his mouth is completely true.

               However, there is a low rumble of anger in your stomach now towards Seonghwa’s parents and the intensity of it is throwing you off. You don’t know why you care so much about this new information when you took Seonghwa’s money to pretend to be his girlfriend. But before your logical brain can stop yourself, you come around the corner and feign surprise.

               “Oh, sorry to interrupt. Seonghwa, I think I got lost finding the bathroom, sorry.”

               Seonghwa moves towards you, one hand coming to rest on your waist. “No need to apologize.”

               “I guess it’s because my own apartment is so much smaller,” You say with emphasis, looking over at Mrs. Park, “All these fancy things are kinda over my head.”

               Mrs. Park looks stricken at the reminder of the disparity in wealth which you take secret pleasure in. When she replies, her voice is steel. “Seonghwa can show you. I should get back to the kitchen.”

               Right, time to boss around the servants. Seonghwa, his hand still on your waist, gently wheels you around, heading down the hallway and making a left. Then he opens the bathroom door.

               “Thanks,” You say, “But I actually don’t have to use the bathroom. I just wanted to get away from your dad grilling me.”

               Seonghwa’s mouth quirks at the corners and for a second, you think he might smile. But he doesn’t. Instead, he searches your face to see if you have heard the conversation with his mom. You want to bring it up but now isn’t the time – not in the middle of the penthouse, his parents breathing down your neck, and a fake date to complete.

               “How did you come up with that speech? And the kiss on the cheek at the end was genius,” Seonghwa asks, his voice quiet, taking a step closer to you. You get the feeling he has done a lot of whispering in this penthouse and the thought makes you a little sad.

               You can’t meet his eyes, staring instead at the Prada logo on his shirt. Cologne faintly clings to the fabric, a warm and spicy scent, mingled with clean laundry. “I don’t know,” You lie, “Just came to me. You know what? I actually do have to pee. Sorry, excuse me.”

               Slipping past Seonghwa, you close the bathroom door, trying not to be visually assaulted by how over the top and spacious the room is. Your heart is beating quickly. Just nervous. This shit is stressful. That’s all it is.

*

               Dinner is as awkward as the living room conversation. Between thinly veiled insults from Seonghwa’s mom about being beneath the family and his dad asking you questions as if you’re on the stand in a court room, it is all you can do to remember you are supposed to appear as if you are dating Seonghwa. Remembering to touch his shoulder when you are laughing, to look shy when Seonghwa tilts his face close to yours to tell you something and to cast adoring glances his way when he speaks while juggling his parents acting as if the world is ending in front of them is draining.

               On top of that, the food is rich people fare, which means most of it is completely new to you and the portions are so small that you are daydreaming about inhaling French fries once you get out of here.

               By the time the night is winding down, you think that the ruse may have worked. Mrs. Park seems thoroughly disturbed at the idea of you dating Seonghwa and his dad watches you like a hawk. The two of you fall into a simple routine of light touches and hand holding although there are no more kisses on the cheek. The singular one you gave Seonghwa earlier seemed to do the job.

               And while you are waiting for Seonghwa to finish saying goodbye for the night, you think maybe I don’t need a lot of experience to pull this off. In fact, maybe I just found my secret talent of acting. I could get into that. Maybe –

               “I was thinking perhaps your girlfriend could come with us to the beach house next weekend.” Mr. Park suddenly speaks, directing this at Seonghwa but carefully watching your face.

               Oh, he doesn’t believe us, you think with a thud of your heart, glancing at Seonghwa and trying to compose your expression into one of subtle questioning versus the panic that is bubbling in your chest.

               Without hesitation, Seonghwa replies smoothly, “I’m not sure if she is working next weekend.”

               Mr. Park gives a wave of his hand. “I’m sure you can work your schedule out?” He asks you and without waiting for a reply, goes on, “We like to go every six weeks or so to the beach house as a family. It’s important. And since Seonghwa is clearly so taken with you,” He lingers on the words, “We would love to have you.”

               You don’t work next weekend. Actually, it is the first weekend you have off in months. The universe is clearly laughing at you. But Mr. Park doesn’t know that and the last thing you plan to do is go to this beach house and pretend to date Seonghwa for an entire weekend.

               Stumbling over your words, you reply, “I would have to see my schedule. I can’t remember if I work or not. We are short staffed so I can’t just take off. As much as I would love to see the beach house.” You amend quickly.

               Seonghwa is pressing the elevator button multiple times as if that will make it arrive faster. Mr. Park is still staring at you as if he can read your mind. You take a step backwards, your hand going to Seonghwa’s lower back as the elevator doors finally open.

               “Thank you so much for dinner,” You tell his parents, trying to shove Seonghwa into the elevator without it being too obvious, “It was nice meeting you.”

               His parents say goodbye and the doors glide shut, leaving you alone with Seonghwa. You go to open your mouth to tell him that you failed when his hand circles around your waist and crushes you against him, lips grazing your ear. The touch is sudden and electric that your skin breaks out in goosebumps, heart racing so quickly that you wonder what in the world is wrong with you.

               “H-hey,” You stutter.

               “There’s a camera in the elevator and my father might be watching,” Seonghwa whispers in your ear, “Don’t talk about anything until we are in the limo.”

               Your cheek is against his chest, his hands around your waist, lips near your ear. The entire position is incredibly intimate which conflicts with his words of basically being spied on. You realize you should probably hug him back or you will look like a limp fish. Gingerly, you wrap your arms around Seonghwa, hating the fact your face feels warm and your heart is racing. You have no idea what is wrong with you tonight. Seonghwa smells even more amazing this close and your fingers press against his lower back, realizing how slender his waist is. His chest underneath your cheek feels hard and firm as if he works out or something….which you suppose he does because what else did he have to do all day?

               The elevator ride feels roughly fifty years long this time around. You can hear Seonghwa’s heartbeat in your ear, the warmth of his body and it feels so personal that when the elevator doors open it is all you can do not to run fleeing from the small space like someone desperately swimming to the surface for air.

               Scuttling through the lobby holding Seonghwa’s hand into the city lights outside, you are ushered into the limo and it is only then you finally speak.

               “We failed. You saw your dad, right? It was like…” Your mind searches for some sort of example, “It was like when Katniss failed to convince President Snow she was really madly in love with Peeta.”

               Seonghwa stares at you blankly. “When who didn’t convince who about who?”

               Frustrated at the fact Seonghwa is apparently too rich to understand basic pop culture references, you slump in the limo seat, secretly enjoying how comfortable it is. “We failed.”

               “We didn’t fail. He just knows me too well,” Seonghwa replies.

               “If you think the idea of you dating someone in another class would scare us into giving up the arranged marriage, you’re wrong.” Mrs. Park’s earlier words float back to you. Chewing on your bottom lip, you wonder if it is time to mention to Seonghwa what you learned. It feels wrong not to bring it up.

               But Seonghwa keeps speaking. “I know I told you it would be for just for one night. A weekend is asking a lot –”

               “Wait. You’re not asking me to actually go with you on this beach trip,” You blurt out.

               Seonghwa looks resigned as if he expected that answer. “Even if we say you are working next weekend, my father will just push it off to when you are available.”

               “And? I thought you were going to lie and say we were going overseas. You know, rich guy showing poor girl all the wonders of the world, making her wonder if she’s in love with him or just the fact his money opens every door sort of thing.”

               You mean this as a joke but Seonghwa’s face darkens like a storm rolling in. Whoa, hit a nerve with that one, you think, wondering if you pissed him off.

               But if you did, he doesn’t say anything about it, opting to ignore the remark. “I know. I told you this would be my problem, not yours,” He opens the bag he had left in the limo, pulling out another white envelope, “This is the rest of the money.”

               He hands it over but you find yourself hesitating to take it. “Are you sure? We didn’t technically pull it off a hundred percent.”

               “It’s fine,” Seonghwa’s voice is stiff, “We convinced my mother. It counts.”

               You slip the money in your purse, thinking about how much cash you have in there. More than you ever had before. “All we have to do is offer her a check and this….convenience store clerk will vanish. You know that.” The two of you fall into silence. Seonghwa is staring wordlessly at the unopened bottle of champagne, most likely trying to figure out his next move. This has nothing more to do with me. I agreed to this for the money and nothing else.

               As the limo turns down your street, you try to think of what to say to Seonghwa but no words come. The limo comes to a stop, the driver opening the door for you to get out.

               “I’ll walk you,” Seonghwa says suddenly, ignoring your protests when you say that isn’t necessary.

               Your apartment is on the ground floor which means escorting Seonghwa through the courtyard made up of mostly dead plants and a bench that has seen better days. You really didn’t feel like showing him where you lived any more than necessary.

               As you cross the courtyard, Seonghwa goes, “I’ll pay you triple.”

               Stopping in your tracks, you look over your shoulder. “What?”

               He seems to be mentally chewing on something, his brows furrowed and his gaze intense. “For the beach weekend. I’ll pay you triple what I paid tonight. I’ll pick you up Friday, bring you back Monday morning.”

               Silence settles across the empty courtyard. Somewhere, very faintly, you can hear thunder. Seonghwa has shoved his hands in the pockets of his overpriced slacks but his posture remains as regal as ever.

               With a tiny sigh, you say, “I heard you. With your mom. About the arranged marriage.” Seonghwa stiffens, his lips pressed in a thin line. You keep going, “Why didn’t you tell me they are trying to marry you off? There is way more at stake here than your parents wanting you to date someone. You’re going to be…what, cut off from the money if you don’t marry who they choose?”

               “I’ll be cut from the inheritance and not allowed to take over the company when my dad retires. I have money of my own but my family’s wealth won’t go to me if I don’t marry who they pick.”

               You exhale slowly, starting to pace the courtyard. You make a mental note of the fact his mom made it sound like he would be left with nothing which is obviously far from the truth. You are getting a sinking feeling that they know how to manipulate him. The thought makes you sad.

               “Seonghwa, you have so much at stake here. And I don’t think I’m a good pick for what you need. Don’t get me wrong. As you can see,” You gesture to the building, “I need the money. I want the money. The amount you’re offering for the beach trip…that’s life changing. But there is no way I could pull it off for an entire weekend.”

               Seonghwa, perhaps panicked at the thought of his already tenuous grip on this absurd plan falling apart, takes a step towards you. “I – I can’t suddenly change people. It has to be you. I didn’t think – I didn’t think my father was going to invite you to the beach trip. He’s never done such a thing before. I can do the overseas lie after, I just –”

               “No, Seonghwa, I mean…” This is so awkward, you think. “My dating experience is tragic. You understand? I’ve never even been in a real relationship. I’ve gone on a few dates. That’s why I said no originally until I changed my mind for the money. I don’t know how to be in a fake relationship because I’ve never been in a real one. That’s probably why we didn’t convince your dad tonight. Going to the beach house means I have to act 24/7 and there is no way I can pull it off. I’m not just saying no because of me. I’m saying it for you too. If I had known…if I had known there was this whole marriage thing going on, I wouldn’t have agreed to it. There’s too much at stake here.” You want to crawl in a hole now – what an embarrassing speech.

               You see a flicker of surprise cross Seonghwa’s face which only makes you feel worse.

               Adding on before he can reply, “It’s like…you’re paying me so this is a job, right? I’m not qualified for the job. So, you should fake break up with me and find someone better.”

               You have stopped pacing now and Seonghwa approaches you. Your nails dig into the palms of your hands as he does so, your breath catching in your chest.

               “So what if you’re not qualified for the job? Have you seen most people at their jobs? Anyone in middle management usually doesn’t know how to rotate a PDF.” His voice is quiet, his gaze steady. “We have a week until the beach trip. We’ll do a crash course in relationships.”

               “Uhm, I don’t think that is how relationships work.”

               “I’ll show you the ropes so you can act better next weekend. We will go on dates, spend a lot of time together, you’ll learn more about me so you can loosen up at the beach house. I’ll show you what a relationship is like and you can use that on the trip. By the end of it, my parents will be convinced we are in love with one another and they will give up on the arranged marriage. I’ll lie and pretend to go overseas with you, threaten elopement. I might need to see you one or two more times after, which I’ll pay you for, and then I’ll tell them you left me and I’m too heartbroken to consider anyone else.”

               “Seonghwa, that is a batshit plan.”

               “I’ve tried everything else with them. You’re my best shot. I’ll pay whatever you want. I’ll pay your rent for a year. I don’t care.”

               You want to ask him if this is how his family does things – just pay for someone to stick around, pay for someone to leave. You want to ask him who his parents erased in his life with money. You want to ask him what happened to the Seonghwa in the photo.

               But your brain is glitching on this whole relationship practice thing followed by an entire weekend around his scary parents. No words leave your lips and instead you just stare at him.

               “Do you need time to think it over?” He prompts.

               Your mind flashes back to the elevator, his lips near your ear, his arms around you, your heart racing. There would be more of that if you agreed to this ridiculous idea. But then you think about the money in your purse. There would be more of that too. A lot more of that.

               Thunder again. Louder this time. It rains in the city constantly at this time of year. You haven’t been to the beach since you were a kid. Seonghwa doesn’t seem to be an asshole. There could be way worse people to fake date or learn about relationships from.

               “No,” You say, “I don’t need any time. I agree.”

PART TWO HERE.

#seonghwa x reader #seonghwa fics #ateez fics #ateez smut #kpop fic #arrow in the dark #100 notes #500 notes

[theroyalsims]

PRINCE ALISTAIR DEBUTS "OFFICIAL" NEW RELATIONSHIP WITH SIMDIAN SOCIALITE

Prince Alistair finally confirms the real status of his relationship with Simdian beauty Amarthi Crishan.

The pair set the set rumour mill ablaze after they were first spotted together on a date at a seaside bistro a few months ago. Although both the Prince and Amarthi refused to comment on the status of their relationship at the time, multiple sources confirmed that things were still very new and casual between the pair.

The Prince was further involved in another controversy after he was spotted out on a coffee run with a mystery redhead mere days after his supposed date with Amarthi. The lady was eventually identified to be the longtime girlfriend of one of Prince Al's best mates, and the coffee run was indeed just that - a simple errand to get coffee between two very platonic friends.

Today marks the first time Al and Amarthi are photographed together after their controversial first date, and this time, there's no denying that they are very much together. The couple was photographed holding hands as they wandered around the Arts District (where Amarthi reportedly lives).

Both Al and Amarthi lead very busy lives, however, they found some way to connect and get to know each other these past few months without all the intrusion. The duo apparently went old school and exchanged love letters, or should we say "love e-mails." They also managed to meet briefly abroad, especially during the holidays. Rumour has it Amarthi was invited to Anya's board game night a few days before New Year's.

What Al reportedly adores about Amarthi is how she's unfazed by all the attention and crap that comes with dating a royal, having come from a very well-known family herself. One source shares:

"They're clearly very attracted to each other. Al thinks she's amazing - whip-smart, funny, and utterly gorgeous. But above all else, he loves that she's confident and sure of herself without being cocky. She doesn't walk on eggshells around him. She makes him feel normal. She's met his sisters, and already, she's made a great impression."

(Above: The raven-haired beauty looked stylish during the outing, keeping warm and cozy in a belted red coat from designer brand Draap.)

Looks like Amarthi's hitting it off quite well with our royals! And it's lovely to see Prince Al looking so happy again! We're so here for this couple!

#ts4 #theroyalsims #ts4 simblr #simblr #ts4 royals #ts4 royal family #ts4 royal story #ts4 royal legacy #ts4 royal simblr #mystory #amarthi #alistair

[accidental-king]

BURYING THE NOT QUITE DEAD: A DISCO ELYSIUM FANFIC

My take on the events after the game featuring a multi-fic HarryKim slowburn. I'm also just a sucker for case fics. This is just a snippet from Chapter 1 but I actually have several chapters written. I'll be posting them on AO3 eventually but I'd like to run it by some beta readers first. Feel free to DM me if you're interested!

SHIVERS - As the sun begins to lower over Jamrock, the dome of an old silk mill shines like brass in the golden light. It's not difficult to see a time in which masses of workers filed in and out of its entrances, and the motor lorries lined up along its western wing to collect their wares. Miles upon miles of lustrous textiles to be shipped across oceans and isolas to glide across the skin and furnishings of those few who can afford it. The Revacholiere will never be one of those people. 

The long and blocky building projects off of either side of the dome like a russet brick ladybird, splitting its chitinous hide and stretching its wings between half-demolished tenements and modern high rises alike. Its masonry tells tales of a time before the deathblow. A time when even the utilitarian still showed a thread of residual vanity in the form of granite steps, sharp stone arches, and molded concrete cornerstones. Original varve clay brick, brown like dried autumn leaves, sit in contrast to newer, coppery replacements, highlighting the scars of war and neglect in cracks, blotches and even an entire end of one wing. Always visible like a reality you can't unsee. 

ESPRIT DE CORPS - It has been a Police Precinct longer now than it was ever a Silk Mill but its old purpose still lingers in the bones of its columns, trusses, and long abandoned smoke stacks.

INLAND EMPIRE - It’s all that you have left.

What’s to the North?

What’s to the South?

What’s to the East?

What’s to the West?

What’s inside this building?

Shudder and blink

YOU - What’s to the North?

SHIVERS - A peninsula. A district left abandoned by its surrounding infrastructure. Bombed out ruins and mountains of shipping crates slowly turning red. The harbor has been locked up tight since shots rang out in the square. Blood and heavy fuel oil paint an old mosaic red and hang in the air like a fog that dares to challenge the sunlight. Motor lorries still sit abandoned in the circle, where you left them. A bookstore is no better now than your last visit, and a hostel is now empty of guests minus a few lucky souls who now grieve their lost brothers in the Union booth.

INLAND EMPIRE - It was your home for the past week.

CONCEPTUALIZATION - It is your birthplace. Born of a drug and drink deluge, on a floor covered in a lifetime of mistakes. 

YOU - And beyond that?

SHIVERS - An islet of crumbling concrete and steel. The wind whistles through water reeds and swathes of tiny white petals that push through the last spring snow. Ashes of a fire long gone out blow out into the sea to be swallowed like the memories of the cause that built it. Its only resident is gone now, taken away for medical treatment and for a prison sentence that will see him to his final days.

What’s to the North?

What’s to the South?

What’s to the East?

What’s to the West?

What’s inside this building?

Shudder and blink

YOU - What’s to the south?

SHIVERS - An apartment building. Mostly stone, though partially the ivy and wisteria that have done their part to claim it in an attempt to reach the heavens. They are a part of one another now; inseparable without either coming to ruin. Inside, a marriage has been strengthened thanks to an unusual discovery made by an unusual officer of the RCM. Husband and wife embrace as they look over the colorful image between them.

YOU - And beyond that?

SHIVERS - A wind whips down the long stretch of Boogie Street that barely contains the buildings and crowds on either side. Neon signs illuminate dark windows that are rattled by the music within. Lively chatter fills the air both inside and out. A young woman walks out with her lover in hand. She presses close to his side to fight against the chill of the spring air as her dark brunette curls whip about her face. The man flashes a charismatic smile and he pulls her in closer to lead her away to a shiny white lacquer motor carriage parked just off the main street. They each know something the other does not.

What’s to the North?

What’s to the south?

What’s to the East?

What’s to the West?

What’s inside this building?

Shudder and blink

YOU - What’s to the east?

SHIVERS - Seemingly endless blocks of brutalist apartment buildings that tower over the residences that survived the revolution 43 years ago. The whole district lies in a millennium old riverbed, leaving it forever in shadow of Jamrock to its west, the GRIH to its north, Grand Couron to its east. Grand Couron and the Old South district maintain their borders with two of La Delta’s canals. 

INLAND EMPIRE - A mark of constant probability. Everyone of Revachol West is just one bad couple of weeks away from moving to the Eminent Domain or the Burnt Out Quarter.

SHIVERS - Across the water, a woman in a satin robe sits with her elderly dog, surrounded by shining white marble as she peers out her 11th story window. The glass leaves the evening in an emerald tint. She would have the Eminent Domain wiped from the face of the Earth if it meant sparing her view. The canal and a financial cushion are all that separates her from the proles.

And beyond that?

SHIVERS - La rivière Espérance and Revachol East

What’s to the North?

What’s to the South?

What’s to the East?

What’s to the West?

What’s inside this building?

Shudder and blink

YOU - What’s to the West?

SHIVERS - A home you will never see again. Trees and underbrush devoured the old hospital and surrounding buildings of the Pox long before you even had a chance to remember it. Stray vagrants find their way through the bombed out ruins, shuffling past abandoned wire bed frames and rusted carts of broken tare. There is nothing left to be found here but a little bit of shelter from the wind. But the Valley of Dogs lurks nearby and most know never to stay unless they’re entirely out of options. This place will likely never be safe again.

What’s to the North?

What’s to the South?

What’s to the East?

What’s to the West?

What’s in this building?

Shudder and blink

YOU - What’s in this building?

SHIVERS - As day begins to fade and the lights begin to slowly begin to blink on across the city, multi-story factory windows will slowly transition from the concealing darkness to exposing illumination of what is no longer the East Insulindic Textiles Company. The loading docs have now become the motor pool for the 41st Precinct of the Revachol Citizens Militia. An old Coupris 40 whirs past a vehicle of a similar model and one of a decidedly newer model as it turns into the garage for the evening. Both MCs it passed do not belong to the 41st.

Inside the building proper, a stern looking man in a well tailored uniform walks toward the elevator at a brisk pace. His left breast is heavily decorated in medals and ribbons. One from the Suzerain, three from the Commune, most from the Moralist International. He bears the weight of the whole city on his shoulders but he carries it with an air of pride and authority. He’s heard tell of some strange happenings and without seeing it for himself, he’s not sure he believes it. 

Across the precinct, in the East wing, tucked into the far end of the first floor an eclectic group of men sit inside a dimly lit Lazareth. Three surround one in a way not too dissimilar from how the interviewee had been earlier in the day.

What’s to the North?

What’s to the South?

What’s to the East?

What’s to the West?

What’s in this building?

Shudder and blink

YOU - A violent shudder passes down your spine and you find yourself suddenly aware that you have been staring off into the ether for about 3 minutes. You are one with your body once more.

PRECINCT 41 - The Lazareth Office of Dr. Nix Gottlieb is small despite the size of the precinct that it maintains. Cabinets and shelves line just about every surface in some manner or capacity. And each and every surface was crammed packed with medical supplies, specimens, and piles upon piles of folders and textbooks. There isn’t much space to move, let alone work. The center of the room is dominated by a surgical table that is currently sporting a flimsy pad that serves as a cushion for your injured ass.

INLAND EMPIRE - This is the closest thing to private healthcare you’ve seen in years.

PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT - Your bullet riddled leg has already been looked over. You’d managed to pull your stitches and partially reopen the injury during your little jaunt about Martinaise and the islet.

PAIN THRESHOLD - You wish you’d been unconscious like the first time you got sewn up. Gottlieb is quick and efficient but he’s merciless in the empathy department. In other words, you cried. And your leg still hurts like a bitch.

EMPATHY - Kim radiated pride and relief behind his subdued expression when the doctor had complimented his work.

ESPRIT DE CORPS - [legendary: failure] He’s just glad it wasn’t worse.

NIX GOTTLIEB - The doctor is a bespeckled elderly man, dressed in civilian clothes, a dark, woven turtle neck covered by a brown blazer that stopped fitting him in the shoulders about 10 years ago. His forehead and brow are permanently creased by stress and a deep look of concentration. His brow deepens when you shake yourself out of the thought. “Welcome back, Detective.”

RHETORIC - That was sarcasm. He doesn’t care.

PERCEPTION [smell] - On his breath, mingled with the scent of Tioumoutiri cigarettes, you catch a whiff of peppermint schnapps.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY - If we play our cards right, maybe he’ll share a belt.

VOLITION - We’ve been clean this week. Don’t fuck this up now.

NIX GOTTLIEB - He scratches at his wispy white hair and beard as he speaks over his shoulder at two other men. “And how long would you say these episodes tend to last?”

KIM KITSURAGI - Your partner of the last seven days looks between you and the blue notebook in his hands, occasionally flipping through its pages. He still stands in his field attire; Orange nylon bomber jacket zipped up to his collar, white crew shirt hidden beneath it, brown aviation mechanic pants tucked neatly into his black boots, and his brown leather driving gloves. 

KIM KITSURAGI - He thumbs over a couple of pages before answering, “Anywhere between a few seconds to several minutes. This… is one of his longer episodes.”

CONCEPTUALIZATION - Wait! Has he been taking notes on you?

LOGIC - [medium: Failure] Of course not. We’ve already established that this is his method of working through his thoughts. This is likely a method of recall for him.

TRANT HEIDELSTAM - A lean blonde man in a tailored suit looks over you from where he stands, with fascination glittering in his hazel eyes. You saw a similar light when you spoke with him in front of the defunct Feld R&D when he spoke of their pre-revolution efforts. He was also one of the only ones in the fishing village who stood up for you against your partners onslaught of insults.

ESPRIT DE CORPS - This man is a special consultant taken onto the Major Crimes Unit in C-Wing. His well-traveled knowledge and personable demeanor has lent itself invaluably to the task force.

AUTHORITY - /Your/ task force.

INLAND EMPIRE - Not anymore. You’ll be lucky if they’ll even let you back into the field as a patrol officer, given the circumstances.

TRANT HEIDELSTAM - “And what do you experience during these… lapses, Harry?”

HALF LIGHT - Don’t. This is a trap.

[RHETORIC - challenging] Explain the skill set

+1 Kim is here -1 Butcher doctor -1 This sounds insane

[VOLITION: legendary] “The city speaks to me sometimes.”

+1 Revelation in the church +1 She loves you -1 This sounds insane

[DRAMA - godly] Convince them your thoughts are normal (lie)

-1 Kim is here -1 Butcher doctor -1 You’re already insane

“A real shit show of internal monologue that drowns out the world around me.” [continue]

Really? Anything else?

YOU - Really? Anything else?

CONCEPTUALIZATION - Nope.

[RHETORIC - challenging] Explain the skill set

RHETORIC [challenging - Failure] What spills forth is a vomited spew of half finished sentences, aborted gestures, and some words you’re pretty sure you’re misusing. You throw in some apologies and self-depreciation for good measure like a dog half-heartedly trying to bury its own shit.

NIX GOTTLIEB - “Try again. But in Vacholian this time.” His arms cross and his fingers drum impatiently on his bicep.

[RHETORIC - challenging] Explain the skill set

[VOLITION - legendary] “The city speaks to me sometimes.”

+1 Revelation in the church +1 She loves you -3 This sounds insane

[DRAMA - godly] Convince them your thoughts are normal (lie)

-1 Kim is here -1 Butcher doctor -3 You’re already insane

“A real shit show of internal monologue that drowns out the world around me.” [continue]

Really? Anything else?

YOU - “Just a real shit show of an internal monologue that drowns out the world around me.”

KIM KITSURAGI - “It’s inconvenient at times, but he often comes through with concepts and ideas I never would have considered. Unorthodox as it may be, it was invaluable to the investigation.”

DRAMA - [Medium: Success] He means it, sire.

EMPATHY - He’s concerned about your well being, but he also doesn’t want to see you misrepresented in the eyes of these men.

+1 Morale

#disco elysium #fanfic #my art #my writing #harry du bois #do not repost #post martinaise #slow burn #kim kitsuragi #harry x kim #harrykim

[mybeingthere]

Bakarwal blankets: this pastoralist community makes them using wool from their animals. It has become almost impossible to continue with this beautiful and essential craft. Ritayan Mukherjee reports:

The woollen blankets are made by members of Scheduled Tribe communities – Megh and Mihngh, known for their wool craftsmanship. Once the blankets are made, they are washed and dried by the Bakarwal men. The thread and yarn for the blankets are usually made by Bakarwal women, and the yarn is dyed at home by Bakarwal families.

Mohammed Kalu has come from Khanna Chargal, a small settlement in a riverbed upstream from Pargalta. Pointing towards an old woollen blanket on which his little son is asleep he says, “[The blanket] lives as long as a human being or longer. But the market-bought acrylic wool blankets hardly last a few years.

He adds that blankets made of pachim (the local word for acrylic wool) take days to dry if they get wet, unlike pure woollen blankets. “Our feet burn and body aches after using the acrylic blankets in winter”.

“I can look at a quilt and tell you which family it comes from,” says Zareena Begum who lives in the same settlement as Talab Hussain.

“It is difficult to get people who still have mills,” says Maaz Khan. In his sixties, Khan is from a family that still processes wool. Many in the community say that the charkha (spinning wheel) is dead and have given up spinning.

As a result, pastoralists are also finding it difficult to sell wool. “We used to get at least 120-220 [rupees] for a kilogram but now we get nothing. A decade or so ago even the goat hair had a price in the market; now even sheep wool has no buyers,” says Mohammad Talib, a Bakarwal from tehsil Basohli, in Kathua district. The unused wool lies in their storerooms or is discarded at the shearing spot. The number of artisans working with wool has also reduced.

Maintaining a herd of animals for their wool is no longer easy as grazing grounds are scarce in and around Jammu. They also have to pay people whose land their animals graze on.

Recently a lot of areas around the villages in Samba district were taken over by invasive species, Lantana camara. “We can’t graze here. There are weeds everywhere,” says Munabbar Ali, resident of a small village in Basohli tehsil .

Many of the old breeds of animals have been replaced by the state and Bakarwal’s say that the current cross-bred sheep cannot stand the heat of the plains for too long, and neither can they navigate mountain paths, “When we migrate to Kashmir, they stop in their tracks if there is a small ledge as it is difficult for them to jump. The old breed would walk well,” Tahir Raza a shepherd told us.

https://ruralindiaonline.org/.../bakarwal-blankets-out.../

[dj-bynum3718]

Newbie

Melissa Schemmenti X Reader 

Summary: Melissa finds out that the reader is Italian also. 

Words: 604 

Notes: this is my first go at a fic, but it’s been bouncing in my head for a couple of days.so it is short and sweet I might continue if y’all think this is any good 

Warings: none  

You have been a teacher at Abbot Elementary since the beginning of this school year, a new 1st grade teacher. You were a first-year teacher after finishing up your student teaching at another district the previous year and after a long search you ended up hired here, the students were your run of the mill kiddos no harder than any other kids and you loved your class. Your coworkers, however, ... anything but especially a certain elusive red head. From day one Melissa made it clear to you that she had no interest in “baby sitting” so you simply kept to yourself eating at one of the couches instead and taking over the coffee table to grade occasionally.  

This afternoon, however, was different when Janine called out to you. “And what about you (y/n)?” “Wait what was the question?” you ask clearly not used to being part of the conversation. “See this is what I'm talking about these new teachers don’t take this seriously” Melissa speaks to the whole room while making direct eye contact with yourself.  

“I’d hardly consider that fair Ms. Schemmenti, I wasn’t a part of this conversation previously how was I supposed to know that I needed to listen in” she rolls her eyes at you as Janine tries again. “I was asking how your class was handling the family tree projects” you nod in response “great I've reached out to the parents to get ahold of pictures for their posters. The kids are all excited! Are any of you going to be making a poster as well?”  

“Oh yes my students were very insistent on me participating” Barbara responds to you as the rest simply nod in response. “Well, I look forward to seeing all of your trees” you say gathering all your belongings heading back to your classroom for the second half of your day. 

--- 

It wasn’t until all the posters were finished and put up along the hallways outside of the respective classrooms that Melissa came into the staff room addressing you first. 

“You’re Italian?” you look up from where you were grading in your normal spot. “yes?” you respond not seeing the issue. “why didn’t you say anything?” you look up at her deadpan “You didn’t ask” looking back down to finish your grading. She huffs out “but your last name is (L/N)!” she is clearly distraught by this, but you don’t look up this time simply nodding your head.  

By this time Babra is snickering at her friend. You have a smirk on your face now looking up over your glasses, “would it have changed anything if I did tell you? If I remember correctly you didn’t want anything to do with me when I got here.” “yes, it would have changed a lot!” she moves her bag come sit with us it's about time I have someone to back me up on some things” she chuckles you hesitate before deciding you have nothing to lose as you sit with them. “Fine but just for today.”  

It was in fact not just for that day and became a regular occurrence, especially when she realized just how pleasant your company was and just how much of an old soul you were. That began a beautiful friendship that none of the others quite understood but it made sense to the two of you and that is what mattered. 

#melissa schemmenti #melissa schemmenti x reader #abbott elementary #wlw fiction #lisa ann walter

[rabbitcruiser]

Clouds (No. 1222)

Bend, OR

#Deschutes County #Deschutes River #Old Mill District #tree #original photography #vacation #tourist attraction #landmark #clouds #nature #summer 2023 #flora #travel #landscape #USA #Pacific Northwest #architecture #Bend #Oregon #Brooks-Scanlon powerhouse #US flag #chimney #cityscape #evening light #sunset

[avoxrising]

Miss Nectarine ~ Johanna Mason x Femme Reader

Warnings: Homphobia

This is a hunger games one shot based on the song Miss Nectarine by Ashnikko. Enjoy :)

It started when we were 14. District 7 was unbearably hot in August so you and your best friend Johanna decided to go down to the lake and swim. The specific lake you went to was small and somewhat out of the way of most people in your district, so you two often opted to swim sans clothing as you couldn’t afford bathing suits and wearing wet jeans sucked.

“Earth to y/n,” Johanna states, snapping you out of your trance. You definitely weren’t staring at her…

“What?” you ask.

“We should get going,” Johanna says as she wades towards shore to put back on her clothes. “The mill will be closing for the day soon and I don’t want the creepy old lumberjack men coming over to our lake to stare at us.”

“Fine,” you relent as you exit the water and put on your clothes as well.

“Tomorrow meet me at the lumber yard by my house at dawn,” you tell her. This was your favorite place to meet up besides the lake. She agrees and you depart for your house.

Your parents were less than enthused about your friendship with Johanna. Many townsfolk had seen you two skinny dipping and no matter how many times both of you had told your parents you were just friends, the neighbors still gossiped.

Being gay in District 7 was seen as a big no no. The people in the district were weirdly spiritual, believing that if you were gay you would go to a bad place in the afterlife. Neither you nor Johanna believed any of it but it was hard to avoid hearing it.

You actually met Johanna at a spiritual service your parents took you to for the autumn festival a few years ago. Johanna was the only other girl your age who didn’t seem to be into the lessons either. And she was undeniably attractive.

“Were you out with Johanna again?” your mother asks as you arrive home, noticing your wet hair.

“Yea uh we just went swimming,” you reply. “It’s hot.”

“Y/n what did I tell you about going swimming with Johanna?” your mother scolds you. “People are going to think you’re a homosexual and burn you at the stake.”

You quickly head to your room, realizing that what your mother said was correct even if it wasn’t fair.

Meeting up with Johanna in the mornings before school was always your favorite time of day. The lumber yard by your house sat on a hill that was perfect for watching the sunrise over the forest. The two of you often used this time to laugh about the people at school or talk about the latest neighborhood gossip.

“Omg y/n I met the cutest guy on my walk home yesterday!” Johanna gushes to you.

“Oh uh what’s his name?” you ask.

“His name is Jack and he’s in the grade above us. The super cute guy with the brown spiked hair,” she replies.

“I think I’ve seen him,” you shrug.

“He wants to hang out after school today and I’m so nervous,” Johanna exclaims. “What if he wants to kiss me?”

“Then you kiss him,” you state.

“But I don’t know how to kiss people,” Johanna sighs, seemingly frustrated with herself.

After a moment of silence, Johanna suddenly blurts out, “Can we practice? Kissing I mean. I want to know what I’m doing when Jack kisses me.”

Stupidly agreeing, you proceed to kiss Johanna, the girl you have had a crush on for 2 years, and a girl who would never love you back. Kissing her was even better than you had pictured it, but she was the most boy crazy person you knew. No matter what there would always be boys that would be her first choice over you.

Your routine of practicing kissing with Johanna continues up until you’re 16. You claim it’s so you can “get really good at it” but really you just want to kiss her. In those moments you can close your eyes and pretend she’s really yours.

Meetups now involve liquor and short shorts as you continue riding the fuzzy line between friends and more than friends. It was never more than kissing, and never more than platonic on her end, but you wish it was something real.

This dream shatters when her mother catches you two kissing at the lumber yard one morning. Johanna had forgotten her lunch at home so her mother had gone to your house in an attempt to find her, and your mother pointed her in the direction of the lumber yard. Her mother flew into a rage, more over the kissing than the alcohol, and dragged Johanna by her hair back to her house, screaming at her the whole way.

You immediately followed and tried to apologize. Saying how it was all your idea and Johanna had nothing to do with it. Tears streamed down your face as you realized what Johanna’s parents would do to her. No matter how much you tried to take the blame for what happened, you both were now painted as “sexual deviants”. Maybe if you attended more spiritual events with your mother this feeling inside of you would go away, and you would be seen as normal. Maybe you could “fix” yourself in the eyes of your community.

You didn’t see Johanna for almost a year after that date. Her parents sent her off to a camp for troubled youth and your parents grounded you and kept you in the house. Every single day you wished you could go back and undo it all; save Johanna from the punishments she’s enduring. It’s not fair. Maybe one day you’ll live in a district where you could love anyone you wanted to, but not now and not here in 7.

The next time you saw Johanna was at the reaping ceremony. Her hair was longer and her body seemed strong. The camp she had attended was known for working the kids in the forests so her muscles had grown. She seemed angry and dejected, as if she was still being punished for what happened. You wanted more than anything to go stand next to her but her mother would have your head if she caught you.

After that day you realized that you could never have Johanna. Your boy crazy best friend was shipped off to the games and came back a victor. She moved to the other side of the district and now had her choice of any boy she wanted. You would always be the second choice.

She was your Miss Nectarine, and you were the girl who ruined her life.

#hunger games #the hunger games #hunger games angst #the hunger games fanfiction #ashnikko #johanna mason #Johanna x reader #Johanna x y/n #hunger games x reader #district 7 #femme reader

[mapping-elysium]

Coast Orb: Snow Shivers

WEST

More coast with abandoned buildings and piers

Pre-revolution effort to gentrify the coast

Coal city

Boom town from when revachol was powered mostly by coal

“in the shadow of Saint-Martin”

Supplanted by offshore petroleum and hydropower from Esperance

Infrastructure crumbled. Now a poor area “only the weakest remain”

Below the mines: L'Ossuaire Municipal, Revachol's underground cemetery

Les Petits rats attempt to to find Le Royaume (royal burial chambers)

EAST

Canal and Martinaise

[see PLAZA ORB] whitest part of town

Run-off point of a long forgotten canal

NORTH

Church

1 of 2 remaining stave churches

Originally of a set of 8 called Les Sept Souers “other six sisters were destroyed during the revolutions”

World’s end

Islets

Sea Fortress: The 114th Anti-Aircraft Division of the 4th Army of the Commune of Revachol

Résurrection: Popular spa for  Ozonne residents

A couple of other islets scattered and uninhabited

Martinaise Inlet

Bay of Revachol

1200 m depth

Ozonne

SOUTH

8/81 - raised motorway

Separates Martinaise from Jamrock

Buildings under the motorway (Labyrinthine alleyways)

The Pox

Once a park for the Old Military Hospital

In the 20s was a quarantine center during measles outbreak

Abandoned after the outbreak

Completely wild now, overrun by feral dogs and wolves

Police keep deepest corners cordoned off

Precinct 41

Line of motor garages 

Repurposed silk mill

Central Jamrock

Utility district - Library, florist, saramisizian restaurant

Brothels, drug dens and Zemlyaki(gang) chopshops

Built around lake formed by meteorite strike [Ship in the middle]

Below

sand poisoned with industrial run-off. The storm drainage. Hidden bunkers

NOTES: This is unfortunately the last of the notes I had written ahead of time so things may move slower. Hopefully I've made enough posts that you all can understand the format I'm going for. Joyce's Reality Lowdown is going to take a long time to work through

Shivers - Winter, slow to let go of Revachol, flecks some more wet snow from above...

You - Look around you.

Shivers - The snow falls lazily, making the beach sand paler still, mixing with the rust-coloured sewage run-off.

Shivers - And to think -- it seemed as though it were already spring.

You - How does it feel?

Shivers - Your teeth chatter as the snow melts on your exposed skin, running down your chest and your back in icy rivulets. To distract yourself, you look around...

Replaced with "Your teeth chatter as the snow melts on your exposed skin, running down your chest and your back in icy rivulets. The toes of your one bare foot are growing numb. To distract yourself, you look around..." if HasShoes() == false and (CheckEquipped("shoes_snakeskin_left") or CheckEquipped("shoes_snakeskin_right"))

Replaced with "Your teeth chatter as the snow melts on your exposed skin, running down your chest and your back in icy rivulets. Your bare feet are growing numb. To distract yourself, you look around..." if HasShoes() == false

You - What's in the west?

Shivers - More winding coastline lined with abandoned buildings. Crumbling piers, salt water lapping at their dark piles. Grey and red, forgotten city blocks. What remains of the pre-revolutionary effort to gentrify the coast.

You - And beyond that?

Shivers - The waters turn black. Coal City in the shadow of Saint-Martin, a boom town, back when coal extracted from countless shafts near the city was needed to power Revachol.

Shivers - No more. The coal was supplanted by petroleum from the ocean floor and hydropower from the Esperance. Everything crumbled. These days, only the weakest remain in Coal City. Their hopes of getting rich linger in the defunct shafts under their feet.

You - What is there?

Shivers - Below the old mines -- L'Ossuaire Municipal, Revachol's underground cemetery. *Les petits rats* brave the underground passageways, trying to get to Le Royaume...

You - Le Royaume...

Shivers - ...where the Filippian kings were interred, with their doctors and their admirals. Mausoleums, burial chambers, leaf gold still remains on the Double Door of the Morning.

You - That's where Cuno said he's gonna go...

Shivers - Yes. To peel the gold off with his fingernails.

You - Les *petits rats*...

Shivers - Children under 14. They go underground, looking for artefacts to sell to foreign museums -- and for fabled relics. Their parents let them. They go deeper...

You - Deeper...

Shivers - ...after rubies, melchiorite, lapis lazuli plundered from Safre and Seol during the time of the Suzerain. In the burial chambers of the kings: Grand Old Filippe, Guillaume II, and even in the mausoleum of Filippe the Opulent.

Shivers - Two kilometres underground, in a winding shaft along whose walls mirrors have been placed so that daylight may eternally fall upon the richest of all the kings.

Shivers - The mausoleum contains untold quantities of gold -- and that special, purest-of-the-pure magenta cocaine favoured by Revacholian royalty.

Electrochemistry - Did someone say *untold quantities of cocaine*? Drop everything immediately and go looking for this hoard!

Logic - How can it be pure if it's magenta?

You - Wipe the snow from your shoulder.

Shivers - Few *petits rats* return from the shafts -- and even fewer find what they're looking for. A small child steps out of a black tunnel, with silver trinkets in her pockets.

Shivers - All around her, white snow on the extinguished coke furnaces, and on the weather-worn shacks, where fathers beat their sons after drinking. The snow melts on your fingers, turning to water.

You - What's in the east?

Shivers - The canal you crossed to get here, and beyond it -- Martinaise proper, the district the police forgot to police. There is laughter, lights, attempts at entrepreneurial activity, cynicism.

Shivers - Someone is scraping snow off their windshield. At the roundabout, in the midst of which a statue of Filippe the III serves as a destination for grade-school field trips and a fine perch for winter birds.

You - And further...

Shivers - A fenced-off yard. There's a truck belonging to a logistics company parked next to the gate. Bright light from a building behind the fence reflects off its hood.

Replaced with "A fenced-off yard. There's a truck belonging to a logistics company parked next to the gate. You've seen it. Bright light from a building behind the fence reflects off its hood." if Variable["jam.dlc_truck_shivers_orb_done"]

Replaced with "A fenced-off yard. There's a truck belonging to a logistics company parked next to the gate. You've heard about it. Bright light from a building behind the fence reflects off its hood." if Variable["village.idiot_cocaine_dlc"]

Conceptualization - Clean white light, coming from the windows of a clean cube-shaped office building hidden amidst ruins. A secret...

You - What's in the north?

Shivers - The abandoned church. One of two remaining stave churches which were collectively called les Sept Soeurs. The other six sisters were destroyed during the Revolution.

You - And further north?

Shivers - A serpentine strip of land weaving its way into the Martinaise inlet. Unfortunates on the run -- from the law, from themselves -- sometimes hide out on nearby islets. Little dots in the ocean that are occasionally submerged when the tide is high and the weather foul.

You - And on the islets?

Shivers - The remains of a camp on a jagged piece of rock -- a tent, old dishes and cutlery. Long since abandoned. A hermit crab scuttles among the debris, looking for a new shell.

Shivers - Further out, the lights burn bright on Résurrection; way beyond Martinaise -- a popular spa destination for ample-bodied Ozonne kids with equally ample pockets.

You - And on the other side of the inlet?

Shivers - Then there's Ozonne... but the snow falls too thick. You cannot see that far.

You - Before that? Before the curtains are drawn...

Shivers - The Bay of Revachol, vastness, great depth -- over 1200 m at its deepest. Water, air brinier than here. It is crisscrossed by huge cargo ships bearing company logos: Wild Pines, ZAMM, Moriyn.

Shivers - And, at the farthest reaches of the Bay of Revachol -- the shadow of Coalition Warship Archer, on perpetual patrol duty, ready to unleash artillery fire if you were to rise up against the market. You shudder.

You - What's in the south?

Shivers - The raised motorway, 8/81, separating Martinaise from Jamrock. Vehicles whoosh past one another day and night, while those who reside in the labyrinthine alleyways beneath the motorway attempt to carry on with their lives in the snow and the slush. And south of the 8/81 is the Pox.

You - The Pox...

Shivers - ...was once a park, a place for reflection and recuperation for the patients of the Old Military Hospital. In the Twenties, it was used as a quarantine centre during a measles outbreak that killed many children. Most everyone has avoided the hospital and surrounding park ever since.

Shivers - The Pox is completely wild now. Evergreen thickets covered in snow and industrial dust. Feral dogs and even wolves roaming in packs. The police try to keep the deepest corners cordoned off.

You - But still...

Shivers - ...heavy drug users do slip through and hole up in the Old Military Hospital, hoping to find something to get high on among the hastily abandoned supplies. Or just to overdose in peace.

You - Further south...

Shivers - A line of motor garages with armoured carapaces, hunched in the cold. A mechanic is hard at work, patching up bullet holes in the side of a Coupris 40. These are the garages of Precinct 41. Snow settles on the roof of the re-purposed silk mill that serves as your station. Shivering RCM personnel hurry in and out of the main entrance.

Mack Torson - "Wonder if Vic's found his hetero-sexual life partner yet." The man in the fishnet wifebeater looks over at Chester McLaine.

Chester McLaine - "Damn, I don't know. Even a real *bröderbund* like that can't survive everything..."

Shivers - Around you, the snow continues to fall. To the west, the ocean swells.

You - No, it was home. I want more.

Shivers - The stairs descend -- to Central Jamrock. A man named Kuklov has a snow-covered stall there, in the market across the bridge. He sells kebab infested with fly larvae to your colleagues who believe eating it will make them immune to food poisoning.

Shivers - Snow falls on the utility district: the library, the florist, the Saramirizian restaurant that offers homemade wine. And also on the brothels and drug dens, and the chop shops of the zemlyaki.

Shivers - All of this built around a lake that formed in a meteorite strike. At the centre of this lake, there is a little ship. There are lights at the bottom of its hull. They are lights directed toward the sea floor, looking for something, like whiskers...

You - For what?

Shivers - A chill comes over you, crawling down your back. The sand under your feet is wet. Somewhere in the south, tarpaulin flap in the wind.

You - What's below me?

Shivers - Layer upon layer of sand poisoned with industrial run-off. The storm drainage. Hidden bunkers. Rats scuttle...

You - Tell me a secret of the sands, wind.

Shivers - Someone's stuffed a big old polar anorak into a concrete pipe under the boardwalk. It would keep you warm. You will probably never happen across it, but who knows.

You - Stomp your feet for warmth, brushing off the snow. [Finish thought.]

Kim Kitsuragi - "We should keep moving. Who knows when this snow will let up?"

#disco elysium #map project #revachol #jamrock #coal city #martinaise #saint-martin

[heliads]

Hey again! Got another idea 👀👀 But could I request a Clove Kentwell x past victor reader (won very young) who lives in the capitol? Reader is good friends with Enobaria and Brutus and decides to check in with the tributes/mentors of that years game to see what's up and to give some tips and tricks. Immediately she hit's it off with the other careers other then Clove (who likes her but has no idea how to go about it), they accidently meet on the balcony and start to warm up with each other (R gives Clove a token since she didn't get one). Later on R watches the games with the mentors and not so secretly cheers on Clove (defo get's her sponsor packages). Clove wins and they reunite, with clove making the first move after realizing her feelings during the game. Thank you, and I hope this isn't too long!

'lessons worth learning' - clove kentwell

masterlist

The Hunger Games is always your least favorite time to return to the Capitol. As if any of the other opportunities are good, though; you can be trotted around like a prize pony, gawked at as a Mentor, or called up out of the blue to reminisce on the good old days when you won your Games and were lucky enough to have the lovely experience of murdering children who had done no wrong other than the simple misfortune of having their name pulled from a bowl.

The Games are worse, though. You stand on a balcony, knuckles tight like bone around the railing. Below you, two dozen children ripe for the slaughter mill around, testing weapons and receiving instruction from their mentors. You’re here for mentorship duties yourself, having won your Games a couple of years back and thus entitling you to spend the rest of your life watching other tributes attempt to do the same or die trying.

Some would call it a blessing. Sometimes, though, you envy the dead back in your Games. Their lives, although ended early, are theirs, and theirs alone. They won’t have to live forever as a poster child of the Capitol, an example of what District can amount to if they just try. That isn’t to say that you wish you had died in the Games– you are a fighter, always have been, and you’d rather bleed a thousand times than give up– but you do wish that you could have won without having to be a puppet for all the Games afterwards.

All the Victors know the feeling. You ache like a dog on a leash, all of you, having trained all your lives to win the Games if you were Careers or at least dreaded them your entire childhood, but upon doing the one task set before you, every pretense of independence was ripped away. What was once a prize mastiff or foxhound is now a muzzled lapdog, dolled up every season of the Games before being shut up in the Districts once the fun is over.

The first year of your Victorhood, you could hardly handle it. Everything was switched around. The jokes weren’t funny, and what was worth laughing at could cost your head. The food was too much and the clothes were too little. It was like living in a backwards world, one where one false step would bring destruction to you and your family.

Thankfully, you had your other Victors to help you. Enobaria and Brutus, also from your home district of Two, walked you through the gilded trials of a successful Victor, and in turn, you mentor the next sets of tributes to be sent your way. You won your Games young, surprisingly young, so Brutus and Enobaria tend to be the ones selected for primary Mentorship. 

Turns out most tributes prefer to be taught by actual adults, thinking them more experienced and a better shot at their own survival. That’s fine by you, by all accounts; the more time out of the limelight, the better. You’re still required to show up to the Capitol, being the youngest Victor in quite a while means you’ll never fully be released from the Capitol’s fascination, but you can be a quiet darling in the shadows any time you like. If there’s one thing the years have taught you, it’s that it is far, far better to be the dusty doll left behind in the toy chest than the one out on display.

This time around, however, Brutus and Enobaria called you up to give the tributes some advice. District Two hasn’t won a round of the Games since– well, since you, and that was more than a couple of years ago. Since you’re the most recent Two victor, you’ll have valuable insights to provide. Supposedly.

Thus, you find yourself leaning against this balcony, watching the tributes prepare themselves to die. There’s a good amount of competition amongst the Reaped ones this year, it’ll be a tough fight. You don’t envy anyone down there for the task they’ll have to face. Both the tributes from One look formidable, plus a good crop of others from a smattering of districts. Of course, your fellow tributes from Two look strong too, but maybe that’s just wishful thinking.

Then again, the girl from Two this year, a certain Clove Kentwell, does seem to be impressing everyone in her path. She’s about your age, and you probably would have seen her around Two more often were it not for the fact that you’re more fond of suppressing memories in the Victor’s Village than training for the Games you’ll never have to enter again. She seems clever, which is a good thing. Clever girls can get themselves out of deadly loopholes. You can speak to that through past experience.

She’s watching you now, actually. It’s no surprise. Clove has been keeping her eyes on you since the moment she was Reaped. At this point, the quiet weight of her gaze on your shoulders has grown comfortable, more like a woolen cloak than a knife in your back. It’s not a hostile gaze either, this, just painstakingly present. Clove doesn’t mind it if you catch her looking. She’s not the type to glance away first. Good. Anything to keep weakness off her shoulders.

Clove’s fingers tap absentmindedly on her legs, then she seems to make a decision and walks up to talk to you. Your eyes flash to the Peacekeepers stationed at the exits, but they don’t flinch. Still, you have no doubt that they’re watching. It’s fine if the tributes want to talk to the Mentors, but you can’t give them any weapons, nor any advantage at all other than a few good pieces of advice. There’s only so far advice will go anyway, but you might as well offer up what you have. At least then you won’t leave this round of the Games as you do every other:  wondering if what you’d done was enough, and then trying to scrub another set of two young names out of your brain for another year in a row.

Clove reaches the top of the balcony and folds her arms across her chest, eyeing you down like you’re another tribute. It’s a mistake that’s been made before, actually. You’re awfully young for a Mentor, but then again, you were awfully young for a Victor as well.

“So, you’re supposed to be helping me win these things?” She asks daringly.

You nod. “You and your fellow tribute.”

Clove knows this, of course. She’s testing the waters, searching for some kind of reaction. You’re not sure what she wants, but she’ll probably convince herself of it soon enough anyway. Better not to get involved. Better not to get attached. You know how this ends, don’t you? You know better than to enjoy someone’s company if you know they’re going to die.

“You won a few years ago, didn’t you? You were the young one they couldn’t stop talking about?” Clove asks.

You force a smile. It’s as cold and disinterested as you can make it. “That’s me. Although I would have assumed your plan for winning the Games wouldn’t involve rattling off exciting facts about mine.”

“Isn’t it your job to share details about your Games so you can give me a strategy to win mine?” Clove snips at you. She’s fiery. Like you, when you dare to let your spark grow out of the stifling embrace of the Capitol.

“No two Games are the same,” you shoot back. “It’s a better use of your time and mine to consider the current situation instead of mulling over the past. The only things you should think about right now are the present and the immediate future. The next few weeks are your entire life. The past can rot with the rest of the tributes who died because they failed to plan properly.”

Clove whistles. “Charming. Did Brutus and Enobaria bring you here because of your knack for motivational speeches?”

Your grin is bitter. “That, and they knew I wouldn’t coddle you. These are the Hunger Games, Clove. Realism is all you have.”

“Because the Hunger Games are all that will matter in my life?” Clove asks, tone acidic. “Funny, I didn’t think the youngest Victor would have agreed with that.”

“I don’t,” you answer her. “It’s because you’re going to win the Games, and then you’re going to go home, and none of it will have mattered at all.”

Clove pulls a face, disbelieving. “Of course. Winning the Hunger Games won’t mean a single thing in Two. That makes perfect sense.”

“It won’t matter,” you insist, “Sure, it will, for a couple of days. Then you’ll be in Victor’s Village with the rest of District Two’s idols and you’ll blend right in. For months afterwards, you will be flush with victory, knowing you’ve done this spectacular thing, and no one will even care. It’ll be all you can think about, and no one will know. This is the Hunger Games, Clove Kentwell. They matter to you because you’re in them, but once everyone else knows their name won’t be pulled, it’s nothing to them.”

Clove’s eyes have gone quiet. “They’ll have to remember, though. Every year, when they make us do the Victory Tour or go back to the Capitol.”

“Sure, sure,” you say listlessly. “You’ll be one of the Victors. But they’ll forget what year you won, or what you did to deserve it. After a while, they won’t be able to remember if you were the sibling of a Victor, or the lover, or a friend. What do you think happened to me, huh? When you came in here, you didn’t even know my name, and I won just a couple of years ago. Face it, Clove. It all ends after this.”

Clove is silent for a while, and when she speaks again, her voice is quiet and wooden. “So how do I fight that? How do I be someone they’ll remember?”

You chuckle bitterly. “You can’t.”

Clove’s face flashes with irritation. “Then why are you here, huh? I thought Mentors were supposed to help us. Is your job just to depress us and then leave? Whose side are you really on?”

She’s started moving towards you with every word, inching forward threateningly. You don’t back down or move a muscle, and when you’re both eye to eye, barely a few inches apart, close enough to see how her chest rises and falls with the brunt of her anger, you bite out at last, “Yours.”

“I don’t believe you,” Clove hisses back.

You smirk. It’s not a nice thing to see. The Capitol has stripped the warmth from your emotions, leaving only blank ghosts of what were once shiny, vivid expressions. “You don’t have to. Look around you. You are in the Capitol. Look at how everyone here looks at you.”

You put your hand on Clove’s cheekbone, forcing her to turn around. You can see it in her expression as she gets what you’re saying, how her eyes harden even more, how she shifts back away from everyone else and towards you again. This, after all, is what it means to be a tribute. The Capitol citizens eye you like a piece of meat, the other competitors stare you down like a hawk who’s caught onto its prey. There are no friendly faces here, just territorial or greedy or both.

“So you’re the better option,” Clove murmurs.

“That’s one way of putting it,” you admit. “I know how it feels to be out there. Alone, despite your Mentors.”

“And you wanted to make sure I felt that, too?” Clove asks, somewhat bemused.

You shake your head. “I wanted you to feel the opposite.”

Clove considers this, then looks back at you again. The hostility is gone from her eyes, replaced with curiosity. “I think I do,” she says.

“Good,” you tell her. “Now we can work together on how to make you win this.”

After that, Clove is focused, her simmering rage honed to a knifepoint’s sharpness. She finds precise techniques to master and practices them over and over again until she’s sure of herself. Those skills that she’s unfamiliar with, she gains a bare capability. She doesn’t need to be good at everything, just not bad at anything. It’s far harder than it sounds, but Clove is all too willing a pupil.

Enobaria finds you later that night. She’s mulling over a drink, and you’re watching the recordings of the tributes’ daily trainings over again so you can spot any weaknesses or potential allies. “The girl seems to be taking to your lessons,” she notes. Her sharpened teeth flash in the low light of the room.

You keep your eyes on the screen ahead of you. “Clove is a proper Career. She makes our district proud. She’s had a lifetime of lessons, and not just mine.”

“Clove?” Enobaria asks, eyebrow arched as she calls out the first name basis. “Getting along quite nicely, aren’t you?”

You elect not to comment, instead focusing on the image of Clove’s form on the recording as she practices with her knives. Enobaria shakes her head, chuckling softly in a manner not too far removed from a jackal when it sights its prey. “I thought you knew better than to get attached to tributes, Y/N. You know Mentors should never fixate on those that will likely end up dead.”

“Of course,” you answer her. “And when you were mentoring me, you never did anything of the sort, right?”

With that comment, you finally look up at her, grinning slightly. Enobaria barks out a laugh, knowing full well that she’d seen you as a sister while you were training. “Get some rest,” she tells you at last. “Your Clove needs you to be functional.”

Your Clove. You can’t deny that you like the ring of it. Enobaria is right to warn you to keep your emotional guard up, though. Soon enough, the week of training is up, and then the tributes are receiving their last words of advice from their Mentors before being sent to the Arena.

You meet with Clove one final time, relating the last bits of information, though the last thing you say to her isn’t practical guidance but a raw, naked hope that she will survive. She promises you she’ll win. You’ve heard many such promises, but for the first time, you believe it.

Then she’s gone, and you are alone with only the other Mentors and Victors to guide you. There’s not a moment to waste, though. Clove has hardly vanished from your sight before you’re racing back up to the viewing stations, where you fling yourself wholeheartedly into the masterful game of winning over sponsors. If Clove has to be out there, fighting for her life, you’ll make sure she’s doing so with the best weapons, medicine, and food that you can bring her.

It’s a terrible thing, sending a friend to die. Worse still when Clove was the first tribute you let through your walls in a very long time. You spent a while winning her over with your experience as a tribute, but Clove won you over too. You watch her as much as you dare, your brave girl, cheering whenever she survives a tricky situation and engulfed in fear whenever she’s in trouble.

At the end of a couple of the longest weeks of your life, though, Clove emerges victorious, the final cannon blast signaling the end of her trials. You swear that you were more stressed during the showdown of the last two tributes than during your own Games, although surely that would be impossible. Clove is brought back from the Arena and immediately checked into the medical wing to handle several injuries from the final fight.

Once visitors are allowed, though, you’re the first one through that door. Clove is in your arms at once. Her eyes are bright upon seeing you, but there’s a shadow that wasn’t there before. She’s a Victor now. It’s not all grand and glorious celebrations. Once the euphoria of still being alive wears off, Clove will have to walk the longer and harder path, the one that doesn’t let you go after a matter of weeks. The memories of this torment will stick with her forever, and the nightmares don’t ease up just because you get older.

Clove will have you, though. Always. You promise her this now, and have just enough time to see the rush of relief in her expression before you’re separated again. Clove will have to be made over by her team so she can be crowned Victor in front of the Capitol. They’ll make her talk about the kills and the narrow escapes, but then she can leave, and so can you.

You watch her from the audience during the interview, then meet her backstage afterwards. She pulls you into a dark corridor behind the grand mess of stylists and Capitol citizens. There are many annexes and mouse holes in the mansions of the Capitol, small places to be alone if you only know where to look.

“You were stunning,” you tell her honestly.

“It’s over now,” she says dazedly. “Isn’t it?”

“It is,” you confirm. “You’ll go home. You’ll recover. They’ll drag a few more appearances out of you, but it’s over. You won.”

“I don’t know how to handle this part,” she confesses. “I don’t know how to be a Victor. Will you show me?”

“Of course,” you whisper. “You’ll be perfect at it, just like you were in the Games. You earned that crown, Clove. Be happy. As happy as you can.”

Clove’s eyes shine, rivaling the low glow of the Victor’s crown nestled in her dark curls. Out of some impulse, she reaches up and plucks the gold circlet from her temples before placing it on your head instead. Her hand lingers near your face, dropping slowly from your forehead to your cheek, where her fingers remain, soft against your skin. These are the hands that are responsible for twenty-three dead tributes, and your mouth is the one who taught her how to do it. Still, when it is just the two of you in the quiet dark, you would swear that you and Clove have only ever done good things; pure, too, like falling in love with a girl who grew up loving you, like finding someone to guide through death itself and ensuring that she would walk out the other side.

“I remember that from your Games,” she says dazedly. “You looked good with the crown.”

You laugh quietly. “If that’s all you remembered about my Games, I would be happy.”

Clove’s eyes are dark and large. Falling into them is easy, you don’t think you could escape if you tried. What a sweet way to drown. “If this is all I remember about mine, I would be happy, too.”

You take her hands in the dark. “I’ll help you forget if you help me.”

“Together,” Clove says. “Promise it.”

“Together,” you swear. “Always.” There is no such thing as always, not in the Capitol. Not in this hopeless city, not in this starving country. For a moment, though, for two girls away from the prying eyes of the world, it exists as a bond between the two of them, drawing them inexplicably and permanently together. It’s an oath of blood and gold, a crown that soothes and cuts to the core. Nothing is good here, not in Panem, but you will have Clove, and you will have her always.

requested by @beepboopnel-deactivated20240128, i hope you enjoy!

hunger games tag list: @w1shes43, @ilovexavierthrope

all tags list: @wordsarelife

#clove kentwell #clove kentwell imagines #clove kentwell x reader #clove kentwell oneshot #the hunger games #the hunger games imagines #the hunger games x reader #the hunger games oneshot #thg #thg imagines #thg x reader #thg oneshot #clove #clove imagines #clove x reader #clove oneshot #the hunger games clove #the hunger games clove imagines #the hunger games clove x reader #the hunger games clove oneshot #thg clove #thg clove imagines #thg clove x reader #thg clove oneshot

[scotianostra]

On January 4th 1973 Biggar Gasworks ceased production, eventually becoming a museum.

For more than 130 years, from 1839, Biggar Gasworks made coal gas for the town and surrounding district. It was one of the first small-town gasworks to open in Scotland, and among the last to close, hence I am including it in our anniversaries.

In the 1780s, Archibald Cochrane 9th Earl of Dundonald, came across coal gas while heating coal to obtain tar, for use in preserving ships’ timbers. He was able to use this ‘waste product’ to light some rooms in his home at Culross, Fife.

Experimenting with coal gas was one thing. Solving the technical and commercial problems of creating a large-scale industry was an entirely different matter. Step forward another Scot, William Murdoch/Murdock, from Ayrshire. In 1806, while working for the Boulton & Watt Company, he designed the first large-scale installation, at a Manchester cotton mill. Murdock was a brilliant Scottish engineer and inventor. He probably doesn't get the recognition he deserves, do a search for him for more info.

In 1812, Friedrich Winzer, a German, established the world’s first public gas undertaking, in London. By 1815, the Chartered Gas Light & Coke Company had laid 26 miles of gas pipe. Glasgow got its first supply in 1817, Edinburgh in 1818. Biggar was among the first small towns to convert to gas, in 1839, the year Murdoch died.

Biggar Gasworks is remarkably complete – even the coal barrows and shovels remain. Buildings and equipment have been renewed and replaced over the years, but almost everything is in place.

The retort house, where the town gas was manufactured, was built in 1839 is the oldest building on site. It was stripped of its coal-fired retorts in 1914 and ended up as the coal store. (At that time, the gasman was using 400 tons of coal per year to serve 320 consumers and power more than 100 street lights.) A new retort house, complete with purifying equipment, replaced the old one.

The building that now contains the visitor centre and display was put up in 1858 to house the gasman and his family. John Ramsay, from Carluke, was the first tenant.

The two gas holders originally installed in 1858 and 1879 were rebuilt in 1918 and 1939 respectively.

It is the only preserved gasworks left in Scotland.

#scotland #scottish #history #industrial history #Borders

[kittenintheden]

Willstravaganza 2024 - Rejection, Worship

So I'm doing it, I'm turning this prompt list into a multichapter exploration of Wyll from pre-canon through canon. LET'S GO.

Scar Tissue That I Wish You Saw, Ch 1 Rating: M Word Count: 950 Content: pre-canon Wyll, young Wyll, questioning faith, vague mention of death during childbirth RE: Wyll's mother

AO3 Link

A series of vignettes following the Blade of Frontiers from his youth through his adventures with the squad, loosely based on prompts for Wyllstravaganza 2024. There will be angst, and found family, and friendship, and fighting, and romance, and very likely smut. We begin in the Gate with a seventeen-year-old Wyll questioning his faith, or lack thereof.

Wyll is not a religious man.

Much of the time, the patriars and politicians in their orbit find it curious that he and his father aren’t overly dedicated to the gods. They pay proper deference, of course, but the Ravengard men do not practice any rites, make time for regular prayer, or kneel before altars. Most people receive a polite smile and a gentle change of subject when they press the matter with the Grand Duke. In time, people stop asking altogether.

Every now and again, it comes up with the younger Ravengard. Wyll is young, only a lad of seventeen, but he holds himself as a man, refined and noble. His father ensured it so. His dedication is to the Gate, to the people. There is no time to be spread thin appeasing the gods. Not when the city needs its leadership to lift them when they are low.

But Wyll knows the true reason his father lowers his eyes when they pass the temples, why he picks up his pace ever so slightly until they clear the holy district. Wyll knows, every time he looks upon the portrait in the hall of his father standing behind a seated paladin, her fingers intertwined with his upon her shoulder, her golden eyes and dark skin radiant even on canvas, the bound hands of Ilmater prominent on her ceremonial chestplate.

Ilmater called suffering holy, and sacrifice in the name of life the most holy cause of all.

Wyll has never quite forgiven the Crying God for calling for his mother’s sacrifice at the moment of his birth. He should, it is expected. But he cannot.

Perhaps that’s why he finds himself in Rivington today, standing just outside The Open Hand temple. Wyll rubs small circles into the hilt of the shortsword at his hip as he stares up at the belltower. While the Grand Duke encourages him to regularly venture out to the Lower City to be among the people, he insists his only son keep a blade close. Just in case.

Wyll is not the only Ravengard who fears further loss.

Pigeons flit back and forth over the tiled roof, some with tightly rolled parchment bound to their legs, some without. The afternoon sun is warm, but not uncomfortably so, and the people mill about. When a few here and there note his modest but unpatched clothing, they ask if he can spare a bit of coin, and he does. Every time.

He should go inside. Pay his respects, check on the clergy. See how he can help those who suffer, those who are in need.

Wyll absently reaches for his vest pocket where a gold chain hangs and rubs the links between his fingers. He’s had it as long as he can remember. A gift. An inheritance.

His feet will not move.

“Are you all right?” says a voice from beside him.

He turns to find a human woman standing there, perhaps ten or so years his senior. Wyll is a tall youth, yet she nearly matches his height. A beauty, certainly, with flawless skin and crystalline blue eyes, her shoulder-length auburn hair swept back underneath a ceremonial headpiece. He’s unfamiliar with the iconography, but it’s clearly important for her to display it so prominently. 

“Yes, saer, thank you for your kindness,” Wyll responds, inclining his head to her. “Simply lost in thought.”

The woman hums, giving him a slight smile and turning her gaze onto the monastery. “The Broken God is quite keen on keeping his lambs lost, I suppose.”

Wyll’s brow twitches ever so slightly. It’s fallen out of fashion to refer to Ilmater as The Broken God. “He’s led me here, has he not?” he says. “No better place for one to be of service.”

She gives a light laugh and then goes wide-eyed, seeming to realize her offense. “My apologies, young saer. My mouth got ahead of me. I meant no disrespect to you or your patron.”

It’s Wyll’s turn to laugh. “No, I am not of Ilmater’s clergy. I uphold his teachings as best I can, but the god and I, we… ah.” He bites his cheek, considering his next words. “Have our differences,” he finishes weakly.

The woman tilts her head and looks him over. “What god does a man of the people worship if not the god of those suffering most?”

Wyll arches a brow at her and she shifts her eyes over to the children playing nearby. “I saw you handing out coin just now.”

“Subtle as I try to be, I can never quite manage,” he says, reaching up a hand to rub the back of his neck. “Guilty as charged. To answer your question… none.”

“Interesting,” the woman says. “You do so seem like the type. I mean that as a compliment, by the way.”

“Then I shall take it as such,” Wyll says. “Forgive me, I don’t recognize your symbol.” He indicates her headpiece.

She smiles, then. “A lady looking to strike a deal,” she says. “One who always gets her man.”

His brow furrows again. “I see. Well. My apologies for my sudden leave, but I’ve come here on business and I should get to it.”

“Of course,” the woman says, nodding her head to him. “Do take care.”

Wyll pays her a tight smile and turns toward the postmaster, intending to bring up the mess his delivery system leaves once again.

Behind his back, the woman’s smile goes sly, her eyes briefly flashing red.

“See you soon,” she says.

#wyll ravengard #bg3 wyll #baldurs gate wyll #wyllstravaganza2024 #wyll week #wyllweek2024 #wyllweek #kitten writes #wyllstravaganza