#but arranging them into a coherent and satisfying Story is turning out to be quite a trick

[maramahan]

Thinking of bringing one of my back-burner WIPs up to the front again for a while and maybe splitting it into three

I dunno how that’d work exactly? But hey, I don’t know how the current iteration would work either, so there’s no harm in trying something new

#just me rambling #writing #writeblr #so far one of the biggest problems I’ve been having is #well #How To Begin and how the pacing will flow from that beginning #I have all the Events lined up #but arranging them into a coherent and satisfying Story is turning out to be quite a trick #if nothing else taking a moment to view the story as a Series will be an interesting thought experiment #and the shifted angle can only do me good

[heloisedaphnebrightmore]

Childish Infatuation [Benedict Bridgerton x Reader]

Title: Childish Infatuation Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x Female!Reader Word count: 2.9k Published: 27 February, 2021 Author: Heloise Daphne Brightmore Notes: My first ever Benedict fic :) Summary: [x] After 8 years you finally come back to London. Seeing Benedict intensifies all those feelings you have been harbouring for him, but the fear of rejection lingers in the back of your mind.

Bridgerton Masterlist | Masterlists

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“Eloise! You must come here,” Benedict shouted, running after his sister, circling around the sofa in a childish manner. You watched the two siblings acting in a way society would have judged them for, but in your eyes, they looked like a family filled with love. Benedict has grown into a dashingly handsome young man, one that you didn’t expect to see. His smile was like a little child’s, far from the grown man he was meant to be, but his features must have made women fall on their knees before him.

“Leave that poor girl alone,” you chipped in with an adoring smile as they turned towards you. Clear confusion sat across their faces, both debating your identity. Eloise was struggling, she was only a child when you left, but Benedict’s growing eyes reassured you of his realisation. However, before he could have even spoken a word, Anthony walked into the room with his head held high, his eyes demanding respect. Halting his steps, he carefully studied your features, before his initial shock quickly turned into a grand smile. You couldn’t stop yourself from returning his expression as he walked up to you and embraced you in a brotherly hug.

“I shall think you missed me, should you keep hugging me,” you giggled happily as you wrapped your arms around him, missing his brooding mood, sarcastic remarks and never-ending scolding. Although you knew hugging him was wrong and it could have been deemed inappropriate by many, but he was more of a brother to you than your own.

“I’m quite certain you were not a brat when you left. I’m unsure about the change,” he squinted, watching you with eager eyes, before his lips curved into a playfully smile, earning a gentle punch from you. The manners of a lady could not have been farther from you, but you didn’t mind, you loved yourself the way you were.

“I wasn’t a brat nor am I brat now. I’ll have you know, I’m a lady and I would like you to treat me accordingly, Mr. Bridgerton,” you replied with a slight attitude as you pulled away from his embrace. His reaction, a loud scoff was certainly not what you expected.

“I apologise, but you are still that tiny ankle-biter who left 8 years ago,” he chuckled playfully. You grimaced at him, once again defying those precious manners you have been taught by your dear mother.

“Ankle-biter? I’ll have you know, I was 16 years old, not a child, Anthony,'' astonished by his reply, you pursed your lips, sulking unlike a mature adult you were supposed to be.

“You will always be a little sister to me therefore I call you however I wish to,” he snorted proudly, but before you could have even thought of a smart reply, Benedict interrupted your conversation.

“Are you-? Is it-? I-,” however he tried to find the right words, Benedict was unable to form a coherent sentence.

“Should I understand?” you turned to Anthony, but he seemed as confused as you did, trying to figure out what his brother was trying to say.

“It really is you, isn’t it?” Benedict asked, his words hesitant as if he couldn’t believe his own eyes.

“Might be. I am unsure about who you think I may be,” you chuckled playfully. However, your laughter died down as two strong arms sneaked around your waist and lifted you up in the air, holding onto you strongly, making you feel unexpectedly safe and secure. You wished to be in his arms for years, a simple thought of his smile made you keep going. Folding your arms around his neck, you pulled him closer to enjoy his embrace, heaving a deep sigh in comfort. You knew hugging him was inappropriate, but not for the same reasons as hugging Anthony. Having genuine feelings towards Benedict, thinking of him as a man, someone you could have imagined a future with made it wrong, but absolutely beautiful.

He placed your feet on the ground and cupped your face, kissing your forehead, starting your heart off in a dangerous race. From the corner of your eyes, you caught Anthony’s, trying to act as if he didn’t see his brother being more than slightly inappropriate. “Why didn’t you tell me in your last letter? Should I have known that you were to come home, we would have prepared,” he frowned, but his happy smile never faltered.

His hands wandered down your arms and held onto your hands, securing his fingers around them as he drew tiny circles with the tip of his thumb on your skin. Should you have removed your hands from his hold? Should you have created a space between you? Logically that would have been the right decision. But your feelings for Benedict were beyond logical. The man has had your heart since the very first day you met and whilst you never imagined growing genuine feelings from such a childish infatuation, now you stood in front of him with a beaming smile, looking at him as if he was the only man on earth.

“I wanted to surprise you,” you giggled, slightly shrugging your shoulders. “I did tell you that we might meet soon again,”

“I’m certain you have told me that for the past 8 years. Should I have believed you?” he asked, but you knew it was a rhetorical question and instead you just shook your head.

“Anthony, Benedict, I have heard news. Mr and Mrs-,” Daphne ran inside the room, holding onto her beautiful, light blue dress, her breathing shallow, her eyes wide in shock.

“It’s been a long time, Daph,” you smiled at the girl who has grown into a beautiful young woman.

“You are back,” she giggled happily as she ran up to you, holding onto your hands, squeezing them as if she was trying to make sure you were indeed present.

Reconnecting with the Bridgerton siblings felt as if you found a part of your life that has been missing for years. They were always close to you, even more so than your own brothers. In the past 8 years since you've been gone, you thought about them every single day, hoping to meet them again. Now that you finally did, you felt whole again.

As you sat at the dining table, right beside Benedict, you tried to concentrate on the delicious food in front of you, but he didn’t seem to share your priorities. He was a man on a mission, trying to distract you. Gently nudging your leg with his for the past 10 minutes didn’t seem to affect you. Or so he thought. You knew what he wanted.

When you were little, he always kept kicking you under the table as soon as he was done eating and he wanted you to follow him. It was an unspoken arrangement between the two of you and at first you were certain he didn’t remember, but the obvious indications and subtle messages reassured you that he knew what he was doing.

You have not been following the conversation between your parents and Mrs. Bridgerton, nor did you want to listen. Your complete attention has been occupied by Benedict and the man had the audacity to feel proud of himself.

“Mama?” you called out to your mother, waiting for her to halt the conversation for a mere second. When she finally looked at you, you continued. “May I please be excused?” your mother gave you a suspicious look before she turned to Benedict as if she knew what was going on. You expected her to say no, but instead a small smile spread across her face.

“Hurry back, darling,” she replied with a knowing look. You wanted to believe it was your own imagination playing a silly game with you, but your mother seemed unexpectedly happy to let you go.

You stood up from the table and headed towards the hall, before you walked behind the stairs and hurried your steps towards the garden. Standing beside the door, all alone, you let out a satisfied giggle. Looking at Benedict made you happy. The simple sight of him made your stomach fill up with thousands of dancing butterflies. But knowing he wanted to sneak around to see you in private just like 8 years ago, it made you feel like a foolish teenager again.

The door opened beside you, revealing a mischievously smiling Benedict. “I thought you didn’t understand,” he scoffed playfully.

“Indeed, I didn’t. I was confused. Surely, I thought you must have forgotten about our sign,” you explained with a wide, happy smile across your face.

“Would never,” he grinned proudly as he held onto your hand and started running with you to the other end of the garden, hidden away from the curious eyes. As soon as you reached a safe distance, he let go of your hand and continued walking ahead of you. However, you didn’t move. You watched his wide shoulders and narrow hips moving as he kept going forward. From a sudden urge, you walked up behind him and wrapped your arms around his waist, leaning your cheek against his back, enjoying the warmth radiating from his body.

“I missed you,” you whispered against his coat. A part of you wished he didn’t hear you, fearing rejection coming your way. But another part of you couldn’t hold your feelings inside anymore.

“Do you think I didn’t?” he turned around in your arms with a soft smile across his face, one that you could have easily mistaken for a loving one. “I have been exchanging letters with you for the past 8 years. I thought I would never see you again, but I never thought of ever giving up on you,” he cupped your cheeks, lifting your head up to be able to look into your eyes. Your cheeks heated up, under his intense gaze. You wished to be closer to him, to feel his body against you, but your racing heart and the fear of rejection stopped you.

“What did you think when I arrived, and you recognised me?” you asked curiously.

“Disbelief? Surprise? I couldn’t possibly believe my own eyes,” he chuckled at the sight of your slightly disappointed expression and hunched over back. You were ready to remove your arms from his waist, but he quickly got hold of them and carefully placed them back around himself, before he placed his hands back on your cheeks. “I’m sensing those aren’t the words you expected. Shall I continue?”

“Is there more?” you asked as you curiously straightened your posture again.

“Indeed, there is. I was shocked. I have not seen you, nor have you ever sent a photo for the past 8 years. I could not have imagined in my wildest of dreams to have you become this beautiful. You have always been pretty, but when you arrived and I first laid eyes on you, I certainly forgot how to speak for a second,” he chuckled awkwardly, making you giggle happily. His words could have been enough for you to confess your own love for him, but you stopped yourself.

You knew you weren’t lady-like, but that was you and Benedict’s growing smile reassured you that you could always be yourself around him. However, it didn’t reassure you enough of his own feelings. He certainly made you happy, might have even made you the happiest woman walking the earth. But confessing your own feelings without reassurance of his own, you weren’t that brave.

“Well, my dear lord, you have certainly become charming and handsome yourself,” you wiggled your brows playfully.

“Are you satisfied with my features?” he asked with a proud and confident grin.

“A little change here and there and I think we can work with it, Mr. Bridgerton,” you shrugged playfully, trying to hide your everlasting smile. He inhaled sharply, clear shock painted across his face, his mouth parted involuntarily, but he couldn’t hide the devilish smile in the corner of his lips.

As if your senses knew what he wanted to do, you quickly let go of his waist and started running away from him, expecting some form of a punishment. He didn’t have to run fast to catch you, your dress slowed you enough for him to reach you with one arm, gently pulling you down on the grass with him. He quickly changed position, hovering above you, his weight only held by his arms on each side of your face. The previously happy smile disappeared from your face, instead your complete attention turned to his dangerously close lips, his intoxicating cologne and his eyes that seemed to focus on your mouth.

“Benedict?” you whispered in fear of ruining the moment. “Do you remember our promise from when we were children?” a deep frown sat between his brows at your question.

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“Back when we were little, we promised to marry each other. Can you recall that?” your tone was more hopeful than ever before, and you were certain Benedict could hear it.

“It was a silly little game back then,” he smiled blissfully, but for you that simple expression which made you the happiest woman a moment ago now felt as if you were stabbed in the chest.

“It was not for me,” you furrowed. You wished he thought of that childish agreement as sincerely as you, but his rejection confirmed your worst fears. He didn’t. You felt your eyes fill up with unshed tears, your throat dangerously suffocating you, your chest becoming heavy as you tried to sit up. You wanted to disappear, feeling foolish about waiting 8 years for a man who couldn’t love you the way you wished he would. But Benedict didn’t move.

“It is certainly not a game to me now,” he added quickly as he realised your tears and distanced behaviour. “I wouldn’t have exchanged letters with you for 8 years should you have not been important to me. I have loved you long before you left, but I couldn’t offer you anything back then. I was a mere child. A foolish 19-year-old boy who was confused about his own feelings. However, now I know what I want.”

“What do you want?” you whispered in astonishment, his words awakening hope in you again, excited butterflies flapping around in your stomach.

“You!” he stated firmly and before you knew it, his lips met yours, kissing you for the first time feverishly. Wrapping your arms around his neck, you pulled him closer. You never knew how it felt to be kissed nor could you ever imagine it. But now that Benedict was kissing you, his lips against yours fitting perfectly made you quickly understand why they regarded kissing someone other than your husband a sin. If it wasn’t for Benedict pulling away, you would have never let him go.

Although slightly breathless, you giggled against his lips hovering above yours. “Shall we repeat that?” you asked boldly, earning a chuckle from him.

“I’d like nothing more, but-” he smiled at you with an adoring look in his eyes. “not now. Tomorrow morning, I shall talk to your father and ask him for your hand in marriage. I will not have anyone stealing you away from me again whether it be your parents or any possible suitor.”

“That vaguely sounds as if you were proposing to me,” you beamed at him, enthralled which earned you a loud laughter from him.

“As soon as your father gives us his blessing, I will propose to you in a way you could never imagine,” he replied proudly, before he pushed himself up and reached for your hand to help you up beside him.

“I can’t possibly wait to see that,” you giggled happily, biting into your bottom lip, trying to contain yourself as you walked back to the mansion. Reaching the entrance of the house, he quickly pulled you into his embrace, his arm holding onto your waist safely as he placed a small peck on your lips.

“Don’t bite your lips,” he heaved a deep sigh as he hid his face in the crook of your neck, slowly inhaling your scent. “Surely, I will not do anything until our marriage, but should I ask of you not to do something, please refrain yourself from doing it,” his tone was desperate, waking your curiosity.

“Would you mind stealing a kiss maybe on occasions?” you giggled playfully, earning a heartfelt laughter from him.

“I could never deny that from you,” he planted a kiss on your neck and gently nudged you towards the door. “You have to go back first, I shall follow soon,” he gave you the instructions.

“After you have talked to my father, will you come see me?” you asked hopefully.

“I wouldn’t miss it. Now go,” he ushered you in with a foolish smile across his face. As soon as you disappeared behind the door, his smile grew wider and defying all his maturity he happily jumped around in his place, laughing at the memories you left him with, giddy and slightly nervous about the next day. But for now, he could only think of you and the childish infatuation he once felt for you and over time grew into a strong love, he felt he could barely contain.

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@shelby-love​ @breadqueen95​ @keithseabrook27​ @nuttytani-reblogs​ @aspiringsloth20​ 

#Benedict Bridgerton #bridgerton #benedict bridgerton x reader #benedict bridgerton x reader one shot #benedict bridgerton x reader imagine #benedict bridgerton x reader fanfiction #bridgerton fanfiction #bridgerton imagine #Bridgerton oneshot #Bridgerton fanfic #bridgerton x reader #Anthony Bridgerton #Eloise Bridgerton #Daphne Bridgerton

[the-moon-prince]

The Last Of us~Kurapika x Reader ~Chapter II

AN: Hi my lovely fellows!

I offer you the second chapter of my story! This time I made sure to be more careful with the edition!

I wish you a pleasant read, and I hope you’ll enjoy the new chapter of my story. (Third coming soon!) (Chapter I)

Paring: Kurapika Kurta x GN! Reader

Word count: 2 655

TW: None!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Kurapika''- then they looked up to him-"I know I'm putting my life on the line. Yet, what I'm about to do is an act of desperation wholly motivated by my concluding. Are you... are you somehow related to the scarlet eyes?" their eyes still avoiding his, with a serious and plain expression on their face. It was sure they weren't joking. Kurapika immediately tensed up and put himself on guard. "I'm sheepish to inquire like this in your private life. But I have my reasons to suppose you are, if you say yes to me, I will believe you. If not, please let me know and we can pretend this dialogue never happened." Kurapika was naturally full of inquiries about this whole story. But continuing with this conversation could lead him to information. Even solve his doubts about (Y/n), that character who puzzled him so greatly. "I am," he answered after some seconds of reflection. (Y/n) nodded in agreement to him and kept stuttering "I have a... I have an offer for a pair of scarlet eyes."- the tone of their voice was worried, and still (Y/n) remained serious. At that moment, they were convinced of being on the right path.-"Please, don't misunderstand me. I am not a flesh collector. I am convinced that these kinds of people are the most repugnant vermin. And I despise them"- These last two sentences were said with particular disgust on (Y/n)'s voice-"I'm certain you're questioning yourself <<Why are they communicating this to me? How do they have this sort of knowledge?>> I-I beg you... let me explain myself. Even if I'm not a flesh collector, I'm after precise body parts and I seek to reclaim them. As a Doctor, It's quite easy to persuade dealers about my supposed appreciation for that kind of item. Furthermore, I'm telling you this because I want to be... believe the scarlet eyes are going to be in a better place with... with you than on a display rack. Seeing body parts being treated like mere dirty material articles... just objects someone can just appropriate... just possess gives rise to my sadness and fury.- as they spoke, (Y/n)'s voice trembled and stuttered and their hands tightened into fists. Even if their face stayed stoic, their voice and hands reflected all the anguish felt. Letting out a heavy suspire- If you're angry and distrust me, I concede. These are delicate subjects and I apologize for my sudden harshness, but I was obligated to clear my uncertainties. It was a part that, for my integrity and morals, I could not ignore. I am deeply grateful to you for letting me telling you this." (Y/n) finally finished and looked down their feet again. Waiting for some kind of response, and feeling ready to endure any kind of repercussion their early action could lead them to. Kurapika knew the person in front of him had not just nothing to win doing this, but they could also get murdered. Not solely by him. Plus, he recognized the sense of anger towards the flesh collectors. Only getting his suspicions bigger. "Your explanation seems coherent. I will believe you. Further, the information highly interests me. I'll collaborate with you."  The voice tone in Kurapika was not an angry one, despite what (Y/n) had anticipated. Rather a gentle feel flooded Kurapika's soul, feeling less alone in the cause he devoted his life. 

In return (Y/n) offered Kurapika their usual tender smile and looked up at him again. With the difference that in their eyes they had a look of closeness and muttered a "Thank you" to follow the conversation- "I have the details of the transaction, but I would prefer to deliver them to you in a more secure area. I invite you for tea if you accept." 

~

A proposition to which Kurapika agreed. To anew prove their reliability, (Y/n) offered to drive Kurapika to their address, a delicate move as that sort of information was notably frail and placed (Y/n) in a state of vulnerability. (Y/n)'s residence was just a small home with limited decoration. On their salon, beside the basic furniture thus consisted of a canapé, two individual loveseats, a carpet and a coffee counter in the center; the only remarkable things in all the place were a fairly small grand piano -second hand probably- and an exhibit shelf with tiny animal figurines in different situations: like two wolves and a cat drinking tea, or a crowd of distinct critters dancing. "A quite childish set to exhibit" was the thought Kurapika had. (Y/n) brew some tea and placed some biscuits on the coffee table. "To gain the scarlet eyes, the merchant convoked me this Thursday at 9:15 p.m. on a private store in the edge of the town. I have to present personally with my hunter license to confirm my identity, also the granted price for the pair of scarlet eyes would be 2 million Jennys. I'm more than willing to pay the fee." (Y/n) affirmed while taking a sip of tea. "As I suppose, you're familiar with the security protocol to access black market stores. What kind of strategy have you in mind if something turns out wrong? Those buying are always dangerous."-Kurapika questioned inclining in front, resting his elbows on his knees. Logically, (Y/n) had a plan conceived for these circumstances. -"In these situations, I take an offensive position. Regarding my nen, I'm a specialist. I'm able to conjure two ribbons, each one with different properties. The first one "Misericordiae'' has enhancement effects and is meant to protect. It concentrates great quantities of aura and grants the band high strength and healing skills. The other ribbon "Divina Poena '' has transmutation traits, it obtains the ability and sharpness of a metallic blade and is aimed to punish. Although, to obtain my I made vows and have several limitations. I can't kill with "Misericordiae", and exclusively use "Divina Poena" against people who have committed atrocities. Plus on my actual form, I can't use both simultaneously. My plan consists of physically containing the opponent with "Misericordiae '' and knock them down, to subsequently use it to shield us and escape. In extreme cases, it could kill them, although I fancy avoiding it."- (Y/n) rigorously explained. It was obvious they previously initiated contact with flesh sellers, and their cleverness was confirmed once more by Kurapika. 

"The plan is plausible and efficient. With that already determined, I will accompany you in the transaction and present myself as your bodyguard."- with that proclamation the project was complete and ready to be performed. (Y/n) provided Kurapika with a folder full of documents informing about the seller and the location. The seller ended up being a notable collector and dealer of singular and luxurious objects in the underworld. They both accorded to meet outside a coffee shop Thursday at 8:30 p.m., and (Y/n) will transport them to the establishment.

~

The said day finally arrived. the plan was thus executed. (Y/n) was very punctual when picking up Kurapika, dressed in their usual good taste, always with some variety of embroidery herbaceous detail. It was not difficult to believe that he was a wealthy fan of human members. Kurapika sat next to (Y/n) in the passenger seat. For most of the trip, no word was said. They were both troubled. Just one exception; before getting out of the car, (Y/n) smiled at Kurapika and said as an encouragement "We are going to procure the scarlet eyes!". Even if their expression seemed the same, the contrast was subtle, and Kurapika recognizes the support in their action. Once through security, they both reached a vast room full of cristal showcases. These exhibiting an enormous amount of costly merchandise. The salesman was waiting for them, and they politely presented each other and engaged in a little courtesy prattle.

 Once (Y / n) confirmed their identity with their hunter license, the man led them to a private room, which he locked, to present the product. The man showed them the scarlet eyes, which were real, proving that it was not a scam. Kurapika and (Y/n) did their best to maintain the facade they came with. To conclude with that all (Y/n) pulled the money cash out of their bag and presented it to the seller. 

"Oh, no no no, child, 2 million Jennys was the first offer I gave you. But now you seem so firm to buy the scarlet eyes I raise the price to 4 million Jennys. They are very precious and rare, you know?"-the man took on a condescending tone, clearly taking advantage of the situation to play dirty. Kurapika couldn't help but feel his blood boil like lava. He was so tired of treating scumbags who treated the Kurta clan like lower living beings. He wasn't alone in this anger. "Misericordiae!" was the thing both men heard before (Y/n) conjured their nen. A white ribbon enveloped the hunter's left hand like jewelry. The ribbon gripped the seller's limbs, torso, and head, lifting him using the roof rafters as pulleys. The ribbons were tightening their grip as the man's face turned into a scared expression, and (Y/n) stopped smiling to return to a solemn expression. At the same time, Kurapika took an attacking position, ready to battle if required. "Do not try to fool us. We tried to do everything pacifically, and yet your actions are unfair. I have more than sufficient reasons to end someone who obtains a profit with human misery. So, you're going to give us the eyes, and we will calmly leave, without anyone getting injured." (Y/n) calmly replied, despite their irritation. 

"Fine, I'll accept the two million! Let me down now." the disgusting man tried to persuade, but (Y/n) wasn't satisfied with the answer "No. You broke the arrangement. You can't go backward now." (Y/n) firmly declared to directly give the pair of scarlet eyes to Kurapika and head to the door, finally realizing the man before getting out of the room. They proceeded to quickly exit the establishment. Already out, (Y/n) dissipated their nen, cleaned the tiny flow of blood that came out of their mouth, and both got inside the car.

~

After the obnoxious experience and once in the car (Y/n) angrily grunted, not leaving their annoyed plain appearance and driven to return into Yorknew. The car stayed silent for a moment, giving each of the passengers' space and calm to dissipate their tension. In the end, despite the trick the man wanted to impose on them, Kurapika retrieved the eyes. Both feeling a bit better (Y/n) mumbled, still bitter "How awful. I despise these kinds of personages, just hideous rubbish. They're as stupid as a broomstick!"- Kurapika couldn't help but let out a tiny chuckle in front of the original expression. (Y/n) turned to see Kurapika, making a small squeak of surprise- "Why are you laughing?" 

The uncommissioned of the person next to him only caused Kurapika more amusement. "Your expression is quite unique!" the blonde man replied. (Y/n) in what appears to be a sudden blow of consciousness also laughed. To playfully add with their smile back "I might have mistranslated my expression. "Why is a broomstick stupid tho? What's the reasoning?" -Kurapika joked again.

"Well, consider it. A broomstick is useless without the brush. It doesn't do anything relevant. Plus the brush doesn't need a stick; the small hand brooms are the evidence. No one needs the broomstick!"

"I suppose you're right."-Kurapika smiled at the silly (Y/n) gave him.

"May I propose you some tea?" (Y/n) continued, to which Kurapika gladly agreed. He was in a nice mood after all. A nice mood in a long time.

~

That was the second time, of many, Kurapika went to (Y/n)'s home. The tea was served along with some sweets on the coffee table in the sitting room. Each one sat in front of the other. At some point, Kurapika interrogated "How did you know I held some connection to the scarlet eyes?".

(Y/n) Slowly shrugged and looked away. "I saw you during Neon's discourse about her collection."- they answered with their tiny smile - "I recognize that expression and feeling of frustration and sorrow. The sentiment is familiar to... to me as well...".

At that moment, Kurapika decided to execute a move that would dissipate his suspicions about (Y/n). "Thank you for your service. You proved yourself as someone reliably, (Y/n). I consider you deserving of an account and promise the scarlet eyes are in good hands."-(Y/n) swiftly looked up to him-  "I'm a survivor of the massacre of the Kurta. The eyes belong to the members of my clan. My people's eyes turn red whenever we feel intense emotions. My confreres were slaughtered and had their eyes stolen."-anger and pain were present in each of his words-"  I seek to retrieve the scarlet eyes from the sickening scum who rob them and carry out my revenge on the ones who brutally destroyed my clan. They were innocent... they didn't deserve to be annihilated."-Kurapika's voice quivered as his companion stayed quiet, hearing carefully.-"The Spiders killed... unjustly my people. I pretend to make them pay. Additionally, I discerned, despite your vigilance, you are highly protective of your eyes." Kurapika finally voiced. (Y/n) slowly got up and sat next to him. "Kurapika... Although, indeed, my eyes are also capable to change; I am not a Kurta. I'm profoundly remorseful if I gave you that hypothesis."-their tone was sad -"Yet I'm also really alike; my people got killed as well for a part of their body. I am an Unilium, or vulgarly known as beast people... please do, do not misunderstand me, I can change my appearance... Even if I can change it, my current form is the real, it's part of me. They killed us for our fur. I survived only because I lived elsewhere than the rest. And I.. I'm also the last one..."

It would be a lie if I'd said Kurapika's hopes of having another Kurta alive didn't crush. He felt foolish, similar to if he wanted to cry. "Kurapika, let me join you." was a response he didn't expect.

"I believe in your cause. What the spiders did will not stay unpunished." -(Y/n) gently spoke to him, as he looked at them. For the first time, they looked Kurapika directly in the eyes. Their (eye color) catlike eyes were wet. And his words were full of support and determination to help. - "How many are there, similar to us? How many have suffered because of them? And how many more will there not be? We begged for help, but no one protected us. Let's protect those who are similar to us. We don't deserve to suffer, none of us did. We will not be giving them the pleasure of giving up. We will not be giving them the pleasure of leaving unpunished.

May evil pay for its crimes." Kurapika felt held for the first time in a very long time. Probably since the Yorknew incident. How much suffering was released at that instant? So much so that he gave up and hugged the person next to him who was caring for him. (Y/n) flinched at the contact. Just before he could cut the embrace, Kurapika felt a pair of trembling and timid arms enveloping him. It reminded him of the hugs that Pairo used to give him.

"I'll be frank, I don't believe in fate. But, random happenings in life culminated in the survival of both of us. We are the last ones. Let's make it worthwhile. The Spiders will pay."

#kurapika kurta x reader #kurapika imagine #kurapika kurta #hxh drabbles #hxh scenarios #hxh x reader #kurapika #hunter x hunter #hxh #kurapika hxh #kurapika x reader

[sinsbymanka]

@tightassets and I have combined our smutty angsty powers to bring you our combined prompts for @cozy-autumn-prompts, brain child of the lovely @scharoux. 

For our first prompt, enjoy this ADORABLE picture of Keaton Hawke and Lilitu Lavellan sharing a blanket for Prompt #3 (also join me in ooh’ing and ahh’ing over the rain effect and Lilitu and Keaton’s PERFECT expressions).

And as always, art has inspired fic! Special shoutout here for @solas-disapproves for helping me translate some Elvhen because I’m hopeless and @jennserr for the amazing translation trick on AO3!

Title: You Smell Like Wet Dog Pairing: Male Hawke x Female Lavellan, Keaton Hawke x Lilitu Lavellan Rating: M Content Warnings:  Fluff and Humor, Light Angst, Flirting, Pining, Past Anders/Male Hawke (Dragon Age), Sexual Tension

Read on AO3

Keaton was beginning to realize his memories of Ferelden may have been tinged with just the slightest whiff of nostalgia. 

Sure, there were definitely things to admire. First and foremost,there were more dogs and fewer Orlesians, always a plus. Unfortunately, a solid ninety-five percent of his stay in Crestwood had consisted of scraping mud out of his boots, an overall minus. Add in the lakes full of cursed undead he somehow missed as a child, and he’d have to readjust his thinking about his homeland. Add in Varric’s unbearable snoring, the rain dripping through a small hole in their shared canvas tent, and the smell of charred human flesh, and Keaton Hawke had quite enough of this visit .

As if the dwarf heard him, the rumble in the tent only intensified. Keaton threw his forearm over his eyes and grit his teeth together. Sweet Andraste’s blushing asscheeks. At least Keaton finally knew the real reason Varric’s prime lady friend was a weapon of mass destruction. Any flesh and blood woman would have smothered him. 

Not that Keaton would have blamed them. If he had a real pi llow, he may have done it himself. 

For a blissful moment, the constant noise ceased. Keaton closed his eyes and tried to will himself to fall asleep. He was exhausted, his shoulder ached, and-

The rumble started up again almost on cue, loud as a pride demon trapped inside with them. Keaton flung his arm from his face, turned his head to glare at the dwarf, and promptly had a fat drop of water plop in his eyeball.

Well. So much for sleeping here. Maybe he’d go find one of those charming caves full of giant spiders and take his chances of getting eaten alive. 

Keaton didn’t bother to muffle the noise his hasty departure from the tent made, but his blighted best friend snored peacefully through all of it. When he dove out through the tent flap and into the freezing rain, Keaton fought the urge to grab his sword and slash the canvas right over Varric’s annoying face. 

He honestly may have done it anyway, self-control had never been his strong suit, but before he could weigh the pros and cons of listening to Varric’s complaints about a ruined tent the whole way back to Skyhold, something much more interesting caught his attention. 

Perhaps one of the few truly good things about being stuck in the soggy Ferelden countryside. 

The Inquisitor glowed in the firelight. Keaton swore he heard her humming even in the steady patter of the rain. The song sounded half familiar, something Keaton swore he’d heard before. 

Then Inquisitor Lilitu Lavellan tossed her moonlight pale hair over her shoulder and looked behind her towards the tent. Almost instantly her nose popped into the air like a hound scenting trouble, her brow furrowing. 

“What are you doing?” She demanded. 

Excellent question. One that probably demanded a semi-coherent answer. 

He jerked his thumb over his shoulder and gave her the sunniest smile he could manage while the rain was plastering his hair to his face. “We were comparing chest hair and I was coming out the obvious winner, so now I’ve got to find another tent.” 

Lilitu blinked once. Twice. Then she shook her head and scowled. 

“You’ll get wet.” 

“Wet.” Keaton repeated. Lilitu huffed in irritation and pointed at the sky above them as if to illustrate it was indeed raining and that would be responsible for getting them wet. 

Although the little pout twisting her lips made him think of much more delightful ways to get her wet than the blighted Ferelden weather. If only his current tent wasn’t occupied by the loudest and most annoying dwarf he’d ever met. 

Before he could begin calculating alternate arrangements, Lilitu stalked away from the fire and straight towards him. One small hand, not even wide enough to wrap the whole way around his wrist, dug into bicep and dragged him forward with surprising strength and astonishing impatience. 

...was it wrong to be impressed, terrified, and aroused by the tiny elf manhandling him? 

Before he could consider the full implications of that thought, she dragged him to the log she’d been sitting on, pointing at it before issuing her command. “Sit.” 

He didn’t see how that was going to help him be less wet, but who was he to deny the Inquisitor herself. Particularly when she wore an expression that managed to be both stern and utterly adorable under the curling crimson ink of her vallaslin. He tossed the tiny elf a sunny grin and plopped himself down on her log. 

Which was exactly when he realized what a clever little set up she had. Surrounding the log was a pocket of warm, blissfully dry air. Before he could even process his shock at the sheer neatness of her trick, she settled herself beside him with a little hum, looking up at him while she picked up the blanket she’d abandoned to retrieve him. 

Then her nose wrinkled and she sniffed audibly. “Ma odhe irmes dhar.”

Had… had she just told him he smelled like a wet dog? 

“Ahn?” He sputtered. 

Her whole face lit up like Satinalia had come early. “Dirthas Elvhen?” 

Keaton smirked and nodded. “Dirthan.” 

He may have spoke Elvhen, but he wasn’t prepared for the torrent of words that flew from Lilitu’s lips as she leaned closer. He caught bits and pieces of words. Champion. Kirkwall. Something about a dragon. 

Ah. Varric’s name. Somebody had been telling stories about him again. 

“Dirtha felas’el!” He laughed, running his hand through the soaked stripe of hair on his head. “I’ll answer your questions, kitten, but you gotta slow down.” 

That seemed to please her quite a bit judging by the satisfied smirk playing around her sinful lips. She fluffed the blankets in her hand before flapping it in the air with a deft flick of her wrist. 

Then those same clever fingers were tossing half the blanket over his shoulders while her curvy form pressed firmly against his side and the other half of the blanket draped over her. Lilitu’s pointed chin tipped up expectantly, and for a dizzying moment, Keaton almost thought she’d lay her head against his arm. 

“Dirth ma.” She insisted, poking his muscled arm. “The dragon.” 

“Which one?” Keaton asked. 

Her eyes shimmered with joy. “All of them.” 

Keaton scratched at his beard thoughtfully while she examined him with her bright, inquisitive gaze. Her eyes glowed and his heart throbbed almost painfully, a feeling he didn’t quite understand.

One he very much didn’t want to understand. 

He tore his eyes from her to look at the fire, rolling his stiff shoulder, trying to think of where to start his pitiful story. 

“It hurts?” Lilitu asked, jabbing her finger into his bicep. He frowned, drawn back into her alluring orbit. 

“Only when I’m displaying manly feats of strength for your enjoyment.” 

The flirting still came easy, even after everything. Lilitu rolled her eyes to the dark sky, smile tugging her lips up, thin fingers trailing thoughtfully up over his loose cotton shirt before she dug her grip into his aching shoulder. 

Before he could complain, warmth trickled from her fingers, seeping into his abused muscles, easing the tightness, numbing the pain. It felt familiar, and different at the same time, bringing back a haunting echo of different hands at the same time a wave of heat settled into his gut. 

“Better?” Lilitu asked, eying him critically. 

It was. It would be. “You’re handy, kitten. I’ll give you that.” 

Was it just him, or did she let her hand linger just a moment, exploring the breadth of his muscles before she removed it with heat lingering in the expression she wore? 

Keaton didn’t know the answer to that question. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know. Maker’s ass, was he in trouble. 

He took a deep breath while Lilitu settled herself beside him, leaning lightly into him. 

“Tell me.” She demanded, relaxing beside him, staring into the flickering flames with an expression of great satisfaction. As if she’d rather be nowhere else than their little bubble, silent but for the rain around them. 

Suspiciously silent, in fact. Keaton shot a chagrined look at the tent behind him. That dwarven bastard had planned this. Somehow. And Keaton would pay him back for it in spades. 

After he finished impressing Lilitu Lavellan with all the dragons he slayed. 

Elvhen Translation:

Ahn - what

Dirthas elvhen - you speak elvhen? 

Dirthan - I speak it. 

Dirtha felas’el - speak slower 

Dirth ma - tell me

#CO-ZAutumn #dragonage #dragon age #dragon age inquisition #TightAssets #tightassets art #male hawke x female lavellan #keaton hawke #lilitu lavellan #sharing a blanket #varric tethras and hawke friendship

[yunohawkeye]

500 Follower Special - Arthur x MC x Theodorus NSFW Alphabet

I finally finished it! I’m sorry for the long wait but here it is :) And thanks to @jennacat84 for having a look over it.

A = Aftercare (What they’re like after sex)

You can expect some very tight hugs from Theo and some teasingly sweet caresses from Arthur.

On a normal basis you’re the one being sandwiched between them but there are days where things are switched up. When either of their demons catches up to Theo or Arthur and they’ve been the one focused on today one of them will be embraced by the other two.

If it’s been Theo he embraces you tightly from the front and Arthur embraces him from the back while he lets his fingers trace over Theo’s form or holds his hand in his, depending on the intensity of the breakdown.

If Arthur is the one fighting with his demons, you’re the one who hugs him from the front, gently pressing his head on your chest and your hands carding through his hair. Theo will start with light spooning but it doesn’t take long for it to turn into a tight full-body hug, when he isn’t able to hold his worries back.  

B = Body part (Their favourite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

On himself Arthur likes his lips - mostly combined with his wit - and how he can make you blush with his words and squirm with his mouth. Arthur loves your legs. He loves being smothered by them and they are his favorite place to bite. Also, he’s big on you wearing short skirts or shorts.

Theo likes the size of his hands. How he can bury his fingers deep within you and the sounds he elicits from you when he does. He also always melts when he holds your hand in his and realizes again and again how small and delicate yours look in comparison to him.

Deep down Theo is a simple man and so his favorite part about you is your womanhood. He actually is kind of embarrassed that his preference is so… primal. But he loves to drown in the smell and taste of you and to hear you scream out his name while he does.

C = Cum (Anything to do with cum basically… I’m a disgusting person)

First of all, both would never even think about coming inside of you without consent.

Arthur loves to come on your thighs and gets really turned on when he sees his essence run down your legs.

Theo on the other hand loves to come on your back. There’s just something that makes him feel mesmerized by it.

D = Dirty Secret (Pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

You can bet that Arthur and Theo have a whole lot planned for you. They’ve talked about it from time to time but are still debating if they should tell you because their plan would turn out rather… intense for you.

It consists of you being completely tied up, blindfolded and gagged while they take you from both sides, edging you until you can’t take it anymore combined with them both biting you just long enough to keep you conscious. The only problem that comes up when you want to come is that teo likes good girls while Arthur likes you to be naughty.

E = Experience (How experienced are they? Do they know what they’re doing?)

I don’t think I have to tell you that Arthur has a lot of experience. Theo on the other hand doesn’t have too much experience but enough to know what he’s doing. Plus, he is intuitive enough to know what keeps you satisfied. 

F = Favourite Position (This goes without saying. Will probably include a visual)

There are a lot of positions you try out but one has become your favorite. It consists of you being on your hands and knees while Arthur is taking you from behind and while you are having Theo’s member in your mouth while he kneels in front of you.

G = Goofy (Are they more serious in the moment, or are they humorous, etc)

Intimate times with them are not really goofy.There is only some teasing from Arthur but it has mostly a dirty-talk character. In the end both are more of the serious kind, one a little more than the other.

H = Hair (How well groomed are they, does the carpet match the drapes, etc.)

Both keep their hair neatly groomed although Arthur prefers it a little shorter than Theo.

I = Intimacy (How are they during the moment, romantic aspect…)

Both of them jumped over their shadows to stand with you like they are now, so coming together in those vulnerable settings turns out very intimate.

Even when you decide to go for a rougher and kinkier night the aftermath is always very sweet and loving.

J = Jack Off (Masturbation headcanon)

Theo is almost made of self-control and never really does it. This changed drastically after getting into a relationship with Arthur and you and he got the urge more often, although if you’re the one being away for a long time he’d even confide in Arthur, which still is a big step for him.

Arthur normally went out and got himself a fling before getting serious about the relationship. Now he only ever comes back to his hand when neither you or Theo are around.

K = Kink (One or more of their kinks)

I don’t think it’s a big surprise that Theo is fan of pet play and would really, really love to see you wearing a collar with a leash attached.

Arthur loves it when you act and talk dirty and are confident around him. So lift your skirt to give him a glance of your underwear, if you decided to wear any at all. He gets off on you being naughty.

L = Location (Favourite places to do the do)

When it’s all three of you who come together it always happens in one of your rooms. But if it’s only two it’s a little different because then the next empty room looks just as good.

M = Motivation (What turns them on, gets them going)

They both get really turned on when you let a not so innocent comment slip at the dining table, accompanied with a wink (effectiveness may vary depending on Vincent’s attendance). 

Theo especially likes when you’re an obedient, good girl for him while Arthur gets off on you being a naughty girl, flashing him some skin or just wearing short clothing makes him have a hard time holding back.

N = NO (Something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

Both are quite possessive and even after you’ve talked about it countless times there’s still a little tension between Arthur and Theo from time to time. So another person joining is out of the question.

O = Oral (Preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc)

Theo is almost addicted to eating you out, he loves how easily he can make you squirm and cry out his name. He wouldn’t outright ask for it but won’t say no when you offer to go down on him.

Arthur prefers to make you cum with his fingers so he can take in every expression you make. When it comes to you going down on him he’s a little more demanding and hints that he’s in the mood for seeing your head between his legs. But in the end he is more of a giver overall.

P = Pace (Are they fast and rough? Slow and sensual? etc.)

It’s quite rough on a normal basis but always slow and very sensual when one of you had a really bad day. That happens when you’ve been in any kind of danger or if the past caught up to one of them.

Q = Quickie (Their opinions on quickies rather than proper sex, how often, etc.)

Quickies don’t really happen with all three of you involved but both are up for it with you.

Arthur asks for it more often while Theo does give in to the temptation less, but also from time to time.

But as they’ve grown more fond of each other as well they prefer to do it together.

R = Risk (Are they game to experiment, do they take risks, etc.)

Both are up for a good amount of risk.

They’re ready to go for everything that doesn’t actually hurt either of you or leaves permanent scars.

S = Stamina (How many rounds can they go for, how long do they last…)

Both of them can offer a lot of stamina and can go for some rounds… when they’re the one topping.

But when either of them is the one being cared for, both do come quicker and harder and can’t go for that long.

T = Toy (Do they own toys? Do they use them? On a partner or themselves?)

Both love to use toys on you and if you’re up for it they’d like to try out a big variety of them.

Theo isn’t that big on them being used on him, just like Arthur. Although he’ll indulge once or twice a month.

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

Ha… Haha… Do you even need to ask? On milder days it already consists of endless teasing and you can believe me when I say that you won’t be able to form coherent stories on a wilder day. On those they will probably edge and tease you until you can’t take it anymore.

V = Volume (How loud they are, what sounds they make)

Theo normally grunts and groans in a mild volume, which rises the closer he gets. Arthur pants a lot and moans silently, which become more frequent and louder the closer he gets. But both are more vocal overall and even let out a whine once in a while when they are in a submissive position

W = Wild Card (Get a random headcanon for the character of your choice)

Theo has been tricked by Arthur once as the writer told Theo and you that he arranged one whole wing of the mansion to be free so all of you didn’t hold back in volume that night. Everything was alright until breakfast the next day where Theo almost choked on his pancakes when Vincent told him that he had heard weird noises from the room next to him while he was painting.  Even though Theo gave him a deadly glare, Arthur just chuckled to himself and took a sip of his coffee.

X = X-Ray (Let’s see what’s going on in those pants, picture or words)

Theo is pretty average in length, maybe a little longer plus a little on the thinner side.

Arthur’s a little slim but also on the longer side. 

Y = Yearning (How high is their sex drive?)

Arthur’s sex drive is high and is down to go for it almost always. Theo’s yearning made a 180° turn when he got together with you. Before he never felt the urge but now it has gotten hard for him to hold back whenever he sees you.

Z = ZZZ (… how quickly they fall asleep afterwards) If either of them has played the submissive part that night they will fall asleep rather quick, otherwise they stay awake and wait until you are sound asleep. Some days they lie there without a word and some days they might chat a little. 

#ikemen vampire #ikevamp #ikevamp theo #ikevamp arthur #theodorus van gogh #theo van gogh #arthur conan doyle #Nsfw-alphabet #n//sfw

[qqueenofhades]

I know she wasnt one of your favorite characters and you dont watch the show anymore but what is your opinion on this whole mad queen Dany thing from a storytelling perspective? I personally hate it. But I am really attached to her character.

Short answer: It’s an idiotic giant pile of steaming bullshit.

Longer answer: It’s an IDIOTIC GIANT PILE OF STEAMING BULLSHIT BY A COUPLE OF MEDIOCRE-ASS FAKE-WOKE MISOGYNISTIC RACIST WHITE MALE HACKS WITH ABSOLUTELY NO STORY-TELLING OR COHERENT NARRATIVE ABILITY WHO THINK THEY ARE BEING ~LE RISQUE AND IN FACT ARE ACTUALLY JUST FUCKING DUMBER THAN A BOX OF TRUMPS.

(Deep breaths. Deeeeeeep breaths.)

Obviously, the question of whether Dany was going to be “mad queen Dany” was played with a little and could have been thoughtfully or subtly done (if these hacks possessed any writing ability, which as noted, they do not). But (again, bearing in mind that I don’t watch the show), from what I saw, she went evil in the span of like… an episode and a half? After Jorah, Missandei, and Rhaegal died, and she is justifiably upset and fucked into a corner by illogical plot decisions and contrived writing, apparently these misogynist fuckburglars were just like “oooohh that would Drive a Bitch Crazy!!! UNLEASH THE KRAKEN OF CRAZY!!!” Which perhaps isn’t unique to Dany, since they busily destroyed everyone’s character arcs and 7 seasons of development, but wow.

(Plus I have heard spoilers/hints about Jon having to kill her next episode, which is a whole new LEVEL of Yikes. We knew they were misogynistic asshats and the treatment of female characters had always been gross, BUT WOW.)

Dany’s arc, both in books and show, has had some other problems. I.e. the very cringy “white saviour” business and how POC were generally reduced to props for her story, whether “savage” or as “noble savages” or slaves who needed saving – as usual, the show made that much worse, because again, they cannot write and their entire ethos has been to hammer home Shock Value Grimdark as much as possible. Especially since they apparently claimed that Dany’s turn into madness was foreshadowed in season 1 when she had a “chilly” reaction to Viserys’ death. You know, the brother who mentally, physically, and sexually abused her and sold her into an arranged marriage for his political ambitions. According to these monumental crapsacks, that definitely means a woman is Crazy, if she doesn’t break down in tears over her abuser’s death. They have managed to send a fuckton of gross messages about women throughout the show in general, but that’s a new one.

Dany has, at this point, struggled for seven-plus seasons in show canon to make the right choices, to realize how hard it is to be a ruler, to deal with her Targaryen heritage, to help the entire North in the Long Night (honestly, why didn’t they end the show after that? It’s been nothing but downhill since). They already forced her to act irrational and to play up the Dany-Sansa feud, rather than acknowledging two complicated female characters and their different philosophies and allowing them to find actual common ground. So having us believe (again, when apparently the takeaway here is to kill everyone she cares about Because Bitches Be Cray and then have that drive her into murderous insanity) that within like…. 1.5 episodes, she’s supposed to be the End Level Boss is… wow. (After Cersei got killed by…. a falling ceiling, and don’t even get me started on Jaime and Brienne.)

As far as I can tell, these bogglingly incompetent hacks either got bored with the season/project (since they were offered the budget for 10 episodes but were like “nah we’re good with six!”) or indeed, this was the plan all along. I would not be surprised. They have been absolutely wedded to ham-handed Shock Value as their main plot tactic all along (it was one of the many reasons I quit several seasons ago) and mistake gruesome mistreatment of their female characters as Gritty Medieval Realism ™ or Strong Female Characterness ™. So we can’t say they weren’t on brand until the end. The assumption here is clearly that we were all chumps to “expect a happy ending from Game of Thrones!” …. which, I seriously doubt anyone was. In my version of the ending (TNR), it’s genuinely bittersweet. Not all the favorites make it, in the epilogue it’s clear that the post-war years have been difficult, and so forth. But it’s also not a pointless, nihilistic bloodbath of eight seasons of audience investment masquerading as Woke Postmodern Grimdark Super Smart Cutting Edge Ending.

(Also in my version, Dany melts down the Iron Throne to help fight the Others, survives the final battle, forgives the fake Aegon, becomes Queen of the South, eventually gets married and has a son, deals with the death of her dragons and the contestations to her rule long-term, and doesn’t go goddamn crazy.)

I don’t care how Realistically Grimdark your media is (and I have written many posts on how I would like this whole trend to die with fire and I blame GOT for making other franchises think this is the way to go). In no universe is your audience going to think that sending everything to hell within less than 2 episodes of the final season is a satisfying and meaningful ending, and if you think so, you really have no idea how fiction works and should not be writing it. A GOOD ending does not need to be a rainbow-fluffy-bunnies one. But in no realm, as evidenced by the uproar that my entire dash is in, does this one qualify. The paranoid terror of social media and spoilers is making them go so far as to gaslight actors, film false endings, and then break their hearts when they find that a decade of their hard work is going up in smoke like this.

As far as I know, Emilia Clarke had at least two serious health scares while working on GOT, and when she found out this ending, she left the house and just wandered aimlessly for three hours and tried to drink her sorrows away. How is that acceptable to do on a professional level, far less what you may think of Dany or her character or anything else? When again, the takeaway from this is that anyone who ever identified with Dany or her struggle to overcome abuse, enslavement, helplessness, etc, and admired anything about her, was a chump to do that. Sure. “Mad Queen Dany” was one narrative possibility. But if they were going to pull it off (which, again, I cannot emphasize enough how bad they are at writing) this needed to happen way before. Not out of the blue in the last two episodes of the show, because Women Are Emotional LOL, Must Be Stopped.

I am so sorry to everyone who loved her, or any character on this show, but I honestly, deeply am not surprised. As bad as it is, I have… known for a long time that they were capable of ruining this on a fundamental level, have never actually understood the characters or cared about narrative coherency, and their treatment of women is disgusting on just about every level. But even I am gobsmacked at how badly they managed to fuck it up. That should tell you something.

Me to D&D, every time they have or will open their mouths for the rest of time:

#got critical #got spoilers #daenerys targaryen #anonymous #ask

[fearfearer]

more thoughts about the magnus archives as i reread the transcripts

i was thinking about how gertrude robinson was really an extraordinary person (not extraordinarily Morally Sound, but extraordinary) just because of who she was, whereas the only extraordinary things about jonathan sims are things that have been arranged for him (i.e. his role). i don't mean this as a diss for jonathan, as i'm not extraordinary either. it's just striking that gertrude was so driven and confident compared to jon. of course, now we know that basically everything she did was in the pursuit of a moot goal (i.e. killing people in order to stop rituals that were already doomed to fail) so maybe my point is somewhat moot as well.

i've been doing some rereading of episodes on my phone (i.e. away from this text document on my computer) and i'll have a realization like "right, i should note that down when i get back to my computer" and i have forgotten all of them now that i am back at my computer. suffice it to say there are quite a few things i misheard/misunderstood on the first listen, unsurprisingly.

reading through the first 20 or so episodes i'm surprised by how well i remember each of them, considering i was listening like 4 episodes a day when i started. then again, it was only a month or two ago that i even listened to them, so one should hope my memory is at least this good. anyway the first episode i'm re-listening instead of rereading is 22 bc that's the first one where we hear martin's voice, i'm pretty sure

i've also noticed some errors in the official transcripts, which aren't a big deal because obviously what matters most is the audio, but still... some of them have been simple typos. magnus archives hire me as your official transcriptionist and i'll make all your transcripts 100% error-free bc im smatr

(reading through the rest of the transcripts and my standards went way down in terms of grammar/stylistic consistency, as most of the later ones are fan transcripts by several different people. i found quite a few mistakes, but obviously i have no particular way to help fix them short of sending an email to the tma transcripts fansite person like “hey there’s all these mistakes. upload my good version instead?” bc i’m not that much of a dick)

the whole reason martin went to the spider guy's building was because he didn't want jon to be disappointed in him for not doing Due Diligence. he says so twice. then he went back for the same reason. it seems the fandom joke is "jon asks his assistants to do crimes for him" but in this case martin is like "oh no maybe i didn't do enough crimes to satisfy jon"

jon was doing his archivist voice HEAVILY in season 1, huh?

tim's first appearance is so jovial compared to how he ends up...

if this boat lady is speaking spanish in brazil, then it doesn't matter if it was "bad spanish" or not. anyway now i understand why we already knew peter lukas was serving the lonely by the time jon mentioned offhand that peter lukas was serving the lonely. it was my whole “let’s not bother noting down any FREQUENTLY RECURRING names”

well i guess robert smirke was a real person. should i feel dumb about this? idk. it’s such a fictional-sounding name, to be fair. but i guess that set the precedent of using a real person as an important historical figure in the fiction that we see happening again when edmund halley is referenced later on. also episode 35 has foreshadowing for the separation of 14 powers, and people thought it was 13 because they mention 13 halls PLUS the one they came through.

totally forgot about tim goofing around in episode 39... he was really not having the worst time at this job before bad things started happening and he realized he was trapped, huh

the worms were trying to make a doorway into the Worm Wealm

ep 40 jon's like "I need to hear it. I need to record it. Or else I can't finish." (lightly abridged)

listening to the season 1 Q&A for the first time and EARL BIGMAC

also good to know there's only going to be 5 seasons. very good to know. this seems like a good kind of series to write with a fixed endpoint in mind, as it's very easy to do an episode that has effectively no bearing on the MetaPlot but which is still a short story in itself and therefore doesn't count as "filler"

jonathan sims performs with a mythical space pirate music cabaret. so he IS a ham

jonny says, "no rude words. i could say bums, maybe..." (alexander j newall does a laugh while i do the exact same laugh irl) "...but i won't."

some dumbass writing into the Q&A to ask if the background music is diegetic... get a podcast brain, ya fool. though for my part, i have to say that one of the most striking things about this podcast when i first started listening (though i never made a note of it before) was the Too Spooky Music, and i didn't like it at all. the reason was that i am, and have been, vulnerable to Getting Spooked about irrational things at night, such that it becomes really hard to fall asleep... and one of the things that has an outsize effect on my level of Spookédness is spooky audio. so if i was watching a video at night and i was worried it would Get Me Spooked, i would just turn the sound off, and it would turn out fine. but obviously you can't turn the sound off on a podcast. and i've been listening to podcasts after work, i.e. after 5pm, and i go to bed at like 8 or 9pm because i'm old. so the way it turned out was that even if the actual subject of the podcast wasn't that scary to me, the music would amplify it in an unpleasant way and make me more likely to have trouble sleeping. also i think most of the episodes would have been fine without the music, or maybe with some less intentionally-disconcerting background music.

this just in: i seem to have totally missed episode 50 on my first listen-through, despite having gone in linear order. bc i'm listening to it now and i've definitely never heard this before. fortunately it doesn't seem to have much of a bearing on the rest of the series, so it's not like i missed any crucial information. tbh the only worthwhile bit was a brief moment of tim being a ham, which was good. i hope i didn't miss any other episodes the first time... still don't know how i managed to miss this one.

the official transcript said [EXTENDED SOUNDS OF BRUTAL PIPE MURDER] ...

so gertrude and leitner WERE played by jonny's parents <:3c i'd thought as much when i saw the cast names but i like that it's confirmed. his mom is a really good actress too. i always find the gertrude episodes to be striking in a certain way

"it's Fine working with your parents. it's Fine." as someone who worked with my mom for like a year i can confirm this

i'm tickled to find that the official transcripts have a sense of humor. i wonder who is behind them. i also wonder, what is the excuse for not having a full set of official transcripts when it is a script-based show? surely you know what is going to be said beforehand, and you have it written down, and if someone ends up saying something different in the final recording, surely it wouldn’t be too hard to give the original script a little edit, and bam! that’s a transcript. i wonder if this approach is not feasible for some reason.

whenever martin reads statements, he says something about jon... whenever he talks to someone, he says something about jon

i think episode 110 is an instance of the tape recorder turning ITSELF off... at the end of the episode. because they walk away, and they say something distantly, and then it turns off. lots of other times, there had to be a diegetic reason for the tape recorder to turn off at the end.

i noticed something which i missed last time, which was that there is a rumor between melanie and georgie and basira that implies that jonathan is asexual. worth noting, i think. [side note added in later: yeah it’s canon. cool]

also i listened to episode 103 again and yes. i had thought-- i had been SURE-- that the person interrogating the traffic cop (using the asky ability) was martin. but it was actually jon. how did i possibly manage that mistake? i'm not great at distinguishing voices, but i'm not THAT bad. the only possible answer: when i was listening to the episode for the first time... i must have been eating a crunchy snack.

"it doesn't have to make sense! alex has to make it sense." (jonny sims re: writing the spiral)

glad to know that jonny sims regrets using his own name for the protagonist. doesn't make a difference either way at this point but yeah

YES i knew episode 100 was improvised. and i see, all the statementers had actually had supernatural experiences, but because the archivist was absent, their statements didn't have the coherence and clarity normally lent to them by the eye (in exchange for becoming cursed). i think melanie or basira actually said pretty much that in the episode itself, but i still couldn't be sure that all of those people had something real to talk about.

"in the same way that tim is dead, michael is helen." good shit

the archivist is canon a bit of a drama queen. the first bullet point in my first tma notes document is vindicated

jonny sims mentions another podcast (apocrypals) that sounds 100% up my alley, so that is appreciated, i will add that to my list i think. (listened to episodes 0 and 1 of apocrypals and i'm heavily struck by how VERY clearly i can hear the smiles in chris sims's voice. i did not know smiling could be so audible, truly.) (listened to quite a few more episodes of apocrypals and it’s certainly entertaining at times. i should’ve been reading along though. maybe some other time)

I DIDN'T LISTEN TO THE SEASON 4 TEASER THE FIRST TIME AROUND.........................................

i must confess something that people who know me well may already know: i hate when stories have a bad ending. an unhappy ending. a painful ending. a hopeless ending. bittersweet is the furthest in that direction i can tolerate. my perspective, which is pretty deep-seated, is that there's no point in getting to know and love characters if you're only going to be hurt by that connection to them when the end turns out to be bad. if i have even a mild inkling that a story is heading toward a bad ending, i make a conscious effort to regard all characters from afar and not develop any strong attachments. this is not so much "how i think all stories need to be," but rather, "the characteristics a story needs to have to appeal to me personally." so i understand that my view is very subjective and mostly based on my own mental weakness. but i can't help but apply it to the media i consume. and the idea that someone would do something like "make characters very human and strongly developed" IN COMBINATION WITH "heading toward a bad end" makes me upset. like, picture a horror movie. think about the characters in a horror movie. with the exception of a main character, if there is one, there's no guarantee that anyone is going to survive to the end of the film... BUT... the characters generally aren't fleshed out and very sympathetic. i wouldn't go so far as to say they're disposable, but you're not SUPPOSED to cry when they die; you're just supposed to get scared. their purpose is as objects of fear, and you never expect or even hope for a happy ending. but in the magnus archives... all i'm saying... is that i would cry if any of the remaining members of the main cast died. and it seems clear that we're not heading to a happy ending. so i'm somewhat afraid, and not in a good way. i don't know how much i can trust jonny sims to give me the story i want, and obviously, i'm not entitled to it.

if your name is jonathan and you want to shorten it, the short form is jon. it ain't john, no matter what the official transcripts say. where'd you get that h, huh? stole it from someone else's name? are you shortening it like JOnatHaN? you can’t just be that sneaky!

i listened to scrutiny again and it hits so hard. now, in heart of darkness, when manuela begs jon not to force her statement, it's really heavy given the direct context of the previous two episodes where we see how compulsion works and how it hurts.

also when jon was talking about how to destroy the dark sun and he was like "i just need to see it," when i first heard it, i assumed he meant something along the lines of, "by seeing it, i will learn how to destroy it." but now i understand that the mere act of the eye seeing it destroys it, because being known is what the darkness is weakest to.

the magnus employees who work in the library probably at least have a LITTLE BIT of a feeling that they work in an almost normal place, given that jon and all his assistants were able to have that impression before transferring to the archives. so i wonder how the magnus library people feel about their institute's director getting arrested for double murder and now the big boss is a completely unrelated ship captain who seems to want nothing to do with the place but simultaneously is trying to continue business as usual

on second listen, listening to jon ask helen when the guilt stops (wrt hurting people in order to feed one's patron fear) is pretty chilling. because it seems like he's definitely accepting that he will have to hurt people, and what he's concerned about is how bad it makes HIM feel. of course, helen then answers with precisely what i just wrote, so...

i should've read the transcript for episode 159 instead of relistening because i forgot that peter lukas's actor got so gravelly and hard to listen to in this one. anyway, time to re-listen to the season 4 finale... then i'll listen to the season 4 Q&As and stuff... and then the new episode. (DOKI DOKI DOKI DOKI DOKI)

i heard in the Q&A that the voice of peter lukas did multiple takes for episode 159?! but it was because of technical difficulties. right. because i can’t imagine the way it turned out being deemed the best take. sorry

ok, things i missed last time i listened to 160: daisy and the other two hunters are missing. also jon mentioned "magnus's body" and martin mentioned "an old man's corpse" and at the time i took this to mean (somewhat unthinkingly) that when jon and martin returned from the lonely, they killed elias/jonah's body. which would be a weird thing to happen "off-camera," so to speak. so i think i must have been wrong? slightly confused. ok, no, i'm now sure that elias survived, so i must have misunderstood. definitely alive.

as martin leaves and jon is about to begin the statement, he sounds so peaceful and satisfied. that's good acting.

by the way, in one of the previous few episodes, i noticed that jonah seems to have body-swapped by switching out his eyes into his preferred body, which i'm pretty sure i missed the first time.

i like that jonny sims checks reddit to see whether people have solved the mystery. that's just a really funny way to do things, sneaking a peek like "hmm how mysterious is my mystery? let's see who has figured it out..." and for the record, i wasn't even close to figuring it out. but to be fair to myself, i didn't try. like i said from the beginning, i started listening with the intent of going along for the ride. plus the mystery had already been solved before i started listening to the series, so it's not like i had a lot of time in between updates to contemplate whether elias was jonah, etc.

JON'S AMERICAN ACCENT FOR THE IONIZED YEAST AD

ALEX WAS THE VOICE OF JARED HOPWORTH?! i mean it was so messed up it could have been anybody but god

ALEX DIDN'T LET GERTUDE CACKLE

i've listened to the bloopers (including a gertrude cackle?) and the season 5 trailer (martin seems slightly cavalier about the end of the world but maybe he's just trying to keep his shit together for jon) and i'm going to listen to the new episode Soon.

final conclusion on rereads/relistens: i had pretty poor comprehension of some important happenings. i’m realizing just how easy it is to mishear/fail to hear exactly what is happening in a podcast when you’re doing other stuff at the same time. there are still a couple things i don’t quite understand, but i think i’ll have a look around the wiki one of these days.

[shogetsus]

Stripes of Auburn, Eye of Sapphire

14. Masamune

Read on Ao3 | Read on FFN |  Masterlist

Summary:  “Pah! What are peasants but tools for your lord! It’s my decision when and where your worthless lives end!” And somehow, the man makes it even worse.

The comment makes Masamune’s blood boil in indignation, the coil in his gut tightening, threatening to snap in any moment. However, he does his best to remain collected, a dark chuckle leaving his lips as a cold smile finds its way to his face.

“Well, there we go…” He says low, his fingers finding purchase on the handle of his sword as he turns to the daimyo, a certain craving within him dangerously close to clouding what’s left of his rational senses. ”Looks like you’re not fit to be a leader.”

Spoiler alert! - Masamune’s route.

Masamune

Their ride becomes much more amicable after Masamune manages to redirect the lass’ distress elsewhere, racing under the twilight sky and the sparkling stars, offering quite a memorable display for the two of them alike. Basking in the fact of being able to make Mai relax around him, he keeps a casual and easygoing chatter on the rest on their way north; the noticeable fresher air from the region reminding him of home.

For some reason, the farther they ride and closer they get to the intended destination, Masamune can’t help thinking more and more about his people up in Oshu, even more so as they pass through a couple of familiar roads he’d been wandering about with Kojuro and the rest twice or thrice in the past.

Could mother be still troubling her maids with more of her extravagant requests? Hopefully his cousin isn’t sleeping on the job just yet, and keeping a watchful eye on what remains of the construction of Aoba Castle as Masamune’s left it before departing to Azuchi. He better would be, although it’s been some weeks since I left. And Shigezane even has two eyes!

A delicate hand waving in front of his face prompts him out of his reverie. “Ah, good, you’re still here,” The Princess sighs in apparent relief, tucked in his arms, “For a moment I feared you might have dozed off and we’d be riding to the middle of nowhere,”

“Mmh, that doesn’t sound so bad, kitten,” It’s almost impossible for him not to tease her a little, with those feline amber eyes staring at him so curiously, “Weather’s certainly nice for a quick nap, and you look like you’d make a very pretty pillow…”

The lass gives him a blank stare, clearly trying to figure out whether he’s kidding or not. “I was just about to ask if you’re okay in the head for even considering sleeping atop a horse, of all places,” She snorts in disbelief, “But then I remembered you have a tiger for a pet, so…”

“Yeah, I know. I can’t help being too cool,” Masamune guffaws, leaning down and rubbing his face against her copper mane, turning a darker shade of red and brown where the faint light of the sunset doesn’t reach it. “But mmh, this is a very soft spot, it’s so tempting. Why don’t you wake me up when we get there?”

“Wha—? Masamune! Are you for real?”

The Princess’ face turns into a clear picture of utter panic, “Alright, alright, it was just a joke!” He opts on to take some mercy of her, “It’s a shame though, but we’re here already,”

The residence of daimyo Yoshitoshi comes clear to view, yet suspiciously there’s closer to no people around to meet them, the clattering of hooves the only source of noise. Not a single worker around. This man must be expecting us, for sure. His small troop lead by Kojuro is a shadow further past the twilight horizon, catching up not long after as expected, despite Masamune’s intense pace.

Hideyoshi and Ieyasu take some time, though, arriving with matching scowling faces. “Damn it, Masamune! I told you not to go off ahead on your own!”

He shoots an apologetic smile, not truly reaching his eye, “Hah, sorry, sorry, force of habit.”

“You’re so lying about being sorry.” Ieyasu rolls his eyes in feigned annoyance but doesn’t bother mentioning any further.

At his side, Mai seems to hesitate for a moment, “Um, don’t want to point out the obvious but, is this place supposed to look this… empty?” Concern narrows her face, appearing to shrink and sink further into the saddle.

The hairs at the back of Masamune’s head start to itch, watching Kojuro and his soldiers glance suspiciously at their surroundings, hands on their scabbards and ready for anything. Guarding the sides of his two associates, they all stop before the gate to the palatial residence.

“We’re not leaving this place until we get him to confess. Agreed?” Hideyoshi says firmly, waiting for the rest to agree before dismounting and making their way inside.

With some luck on their side, they manage to find an attendant, being led into a spacious hall where the daimyo in question appears to be awaiting them. The arrangements and decoration remarkably contrast the view outside, prompting a disapproving frown on Masamune.

The farms are empty, but the palace reeks of incense. This daimyo better has some good explanation for that…

Despite being in charge of the mission, he opts for Hideyoshi to do the talking for the moment. “Now tell us, Yoshitoshi, is what you wrote in this letter true? If this is all a misunderstanding, we can pack everything up and leave your place right now.”

To upscale their annoyance, the daimyo keeps his lips pursed tight. “We’ve got reports that you’re exploiting the populace by seizing their funds. What were you doing to do with all that money?” Ieyasu steps forward, face hard as stone, “Buy weapons for your revolt, maybe?”

And yet, Yoshitoshi remains stubbornly silent.

Masamune huffs, “This is taking forever. I say we kill him.” He puts on a deadly serious look as he goes for his sword.

His threatening jab appears to work, the daimyo immediately breaking his silence. “It’s all true! Everything I wrote in that letter is true!”

Hideyoshi curls his hands into fists, knuckles going white with indignation. “That’s a start. Now tell us, why have you betrayed our lord?” He snarls.

“I only swore to lord Nobunaga because I believed my true lord was dead! But Lord Shingen Takeda is still alive!”

A tense silence falls over the hall, the three warlords stammering in sheer surprise at the statement. Ieyasu’s hand goes for his kodachi in a clear act of reflex at the mere mention of the dreadful name of his rival, Masamune struggling to keep a straight face and Hideyoshi all but utterly failing to do so, going white as a ghost.

“Not just him, but Kenshin Uesugi as well. He’s been sheltering Lord Shingen.” Yoshitoshi continues, his words escaping him one after another, “I was loyal to him before Nobunaga! I’m simply siding with my proper side!”

Lost for any coherent sentence, Masamune first glances at Mai—most certainly the less stunned of them all; why is that?—before fixing his eye on Ieyasu; the more knowledgeable among the group regarding ominous rumors about the Takeda clan. One of his emerald green eyes twitches ever so slightly, gaze unfocused, appearing to ponder the severe implications of the daimyo’s confession.

“So it is true…” Doubt lingers in Ieyasu’s murmur, a hard frown narrowing his face.

“You may be shocked, naturally, but it’s the truth,” The daimyo insists on his version of the events, growing more confident for reasons unbeknownst to Masamune. “Perhaps it’s time you three reconsider where your loyalties lie. Nobunaga is weak! He’s no match for the two of them!”

Even with not facing them on the battlefield, Masamune’s no stranger to the battle prowesses of the Tiger of Kai and the Dragon of Echigo in the past, deeming the two of them among the fiercest rivals in the land. Regardless and despite Yoshitoshi’s claims, this isn’t particularly the first time they’ve heard said murmurs of Takeda or Uesugi coming back from hell, leaving it so far to one of many ghost stories, with little space for some credibility.

To some extent, Masamune genuinely wishes for those stories to be true—the mere thought of dueling such bold commanders stirring deep into his soul. On another hand, having two of Nobunaga’s opposers arising once more on such close regions to his homeland makes him grow concerned for Oshu’s current welfare.

Not long after, Hideyoshi’s composure comes to a dangerous breaking point, “… Are you satisfied with those being your parting words?” Standing up, his face is hard as iron, and Masamune struggles to recall the last time he’s seen him just about to burst in rage, “Because nothing else you will say matter when you’re executed in front of our lord for treason,”

“N-not if he and you are utterly crushed first!”

And then he whistles, signaling dozens of armed men and swarming in from every entrance, surrounding the room. The invigorating feeling previous to facing a challenge course through Masamune’s veins, pumping in anticipation as a lopsided grin narrows his face.

“Um, guys? I have a bad feeling about this.” Concern laces Mai’s voice, tucking herself closer between him and Ieyasu.

The small number of troops Masamune’s brought leaps to their feet and draw their own weapons, Kojuro showing himself at the front. It’s clear they’re outnumbered, yet no northerner would find that troubling in the slightest, blazing determination burning in each one of his men’s eyes—a fact Masamune takes sheer pride of.

“Nothing to worry about, lass,” He says casually, fingers itching on one of his katana.

She seems to find his words hardly reassuring, though. “Shouldn’t we, I don’t know, run?” She mumbles anxiously, low enough for only him to hear.

“Don’t be ridiculous, there’s no reason to run.” Flanked by three commanders and a fearless troop backing them up, Masamune doesn’t have any qualms for the Princess’ wellbeing, “But watch your head, though. Wouldn’t want it to go flying off your shoulders…”

Yoshitoshi comes to a stand, more poised after most likely considering himself at an advantage. “I’ve been told you would be coming here, so I prepared to deliver your heads to Lord Shingen as a gift.” The group of armed, angry soldiers inch toward them, threateningly closing in.

However, the evident hesitation plastered all over the daimyo’s men makes Masamune grow skeptical, his brows knitting into a frown. “You there! Yes, you,” He nods towards one of them, a lean and short young boy. “You’re cowering. Are you in this fight to win or not?” On his periphery, Hideyoshi shoots Masamune an alarmed glare, but he ignores him, “You’re holding your sword all wrong. You’ll die too fast that way. Is that what you want?”

The mention of death makes the boy alarmed, stammering. “W-who’d want to die for a man like Lord Yoshitoshi?” His voice quavers, sword visibly shaking in his hands, “I was forced to come here! He said I needed to fight for him or he’d take my land and kill my family!”

Several heads turn to the daimyo, all but demanding an explanation to such preposterous act. At Masamune’s side, the Princess’ face scrunches in sheer indignation. “He takes the whole rice crop too, leaving us with nothing to eat.” A taller enemy soldier follows, “He torments our women and children, and lets thieves steal whatever little we have left!”

“Y-yeah, some daimyo! You’re the worst!” Spits a third man.

Slowly yet consistently, more men rally up to protest, “We’re not going to give up our lives for you!” Concludes another soldier, inspiring almost half the group to join Masamune’s envoy and turn on Yoshitoshi; their swords noticeably steadier as they point at their Lord.

Mai snorts darkly at the sudden turn of events. “You guys should meet my father. Never underestimate a worker if you know what’s good for you…” She arches a brow, her lips curling into a sly smirk.

“Your father must be a very cool guy. I’m starting to like them as well…” Masamune agrees wholeheartedly.

Ieyasu can’t seem to hold his grumbling any longer. “You know you made it harder to pick out whom to fight, right? You just had to step in…”

Technically, he’s not wrong, but Masamune doesn’t feel apologetic in the slightest, just shrugging nonchalantly. “All I did was giving these guys a little nudge in the right direction.”

“Pah! What are peasants but tools for your lord!” Yoshitoshi glares at his subordinates, face scrunching in anger, “It’s my decision when and where your worthless lives end!” And somehow, the man makes it even worse.

He thinks his people are tools, huh? The comment makes Masamune’s blood boil in indignation, the coil in his gut tightening, threatening to snap in any moment. However, he does his best to remain collected, a dark chuckle leaving his lips as a cold smile finds its way to his face.

“Well, there we go…” He says low, his fingers finding purchase on the handle of his sword as he turns to the daimyo, a certain craving within him dangerously close to clouding what’s left of his rational senses. ”Looks like you’re not fit to be a leader.”

Through his periphery, Hideyoshi shoots him a dubious look, “Hey, Masamune—“ But whatever protest he’s about to voice doesn’t stop him from finally drawing his sword, leaving its sheath with the same familiar noise that makes his blood pump excitedly.

The Princess takes a precarious step back at his menacing stance, gladly so. “He’s just confessed to treason, right? And as he says, it’s one’s lord who determines whether you live or die. Those are his rules.” Masamune points out, “And we were told to take whatever measures we deem necessary.”

Truth is, he’s been wondering if they could talk their way out of a conflict in the first place, yet the daimyo has just made it quite clear how that wasn’t about to happen. If that pointless revolt would have been about protecting his people, Masamune would have no issues going easy on Yoshitoshi; but it’s preposterous to consider having an honorable fight with such a bastard, who only appears to be looking to satisfy his personal greed and ambition.

I’ve got no pity for a man like that.

And so, to make it precisely clear, he points his sword at Yoshitoshi’s head, ready to kill. “If you want to live, drop your weapons and go back to your farms now. As for everyone else, make one move and you die.”

The hall falls silent, Masamune’s threat sinking in; the only sound being from the lass as her breath hitches, stumbling upon Kojuro. Yet his single eye is utterly fixed on the daimyo before them.

“What are you doing!? Strike back!” Yoshitoshi’s frightened call has little effect.  

“As much as I’d love to take you all on—and I would win, mind you—it’s time to choose a side,” Masamune grins in a challenging manner, taking a step forward, “We don’t have 500 years! Do you really want to die for this guy?”

“Don’t listen to him! Go get them!”

One man takes a hesitant swing and Masamune parries his weak blow, knocking his sword away with ease before his elbow connects with his head. “Follow Lord Masamune! Don’t fall behind!” Kojuro rallies the troops, not needing to glance at him to see the proud smile in his face.

“Y-yeah! Let’s do this!” A farmer appears to grow more confident, joining the Date soldiers and raising his sword.

Another soldier rushes to Masamune and he knocks him out just as easily as he did with his first partner, his brows knitting into a frown. Any unnecessary deaths on either side are going to cause resentment once this is over. The conscripted fight those who’re willing to serve Yoshitoshi, yet regardless, they’re all from the same land. He had created an untenable situation, not caring about the pain it caused.

Masamune focuses his eye on him. The best way to end this is to capture him quickly.

“Prepare yourself, Masamune Date!”

“Out of the way.” He growls menacingly, unwilling to budge. A taller man comes at him, and he could see he’s prepared to fight and die. He strikes him in the leg—a fast, effective way of incapacitating anyone—the warrior collapsing to the ground in pain. Stay right there and you’ll get out of this with no more than that.

One after another, enemies come at Masamune; Ieyasu and Hideyoshi stepping forward to assist in no time. However, after he manages to disarm and knock another man, he dares to throw a glance behind his shoulder, his breath hitching as concern courses through.

Where’s Mai?

Daimyo: Honorific for a Japanese feudal lord. Kodachi: Small or short tachi (sword).

A-N: To make it known, I'm kinda starting to diverge from strict canon at this point and adding some more depth to some other arcs I think it fits better this 'verse. It's not a huge deal to me, but thought of making it clear just in case. Either way, feel free to ask me about anything you may find confusing! :D

2nd part of this scene is coming up next Thursday. I hope y'all have a wonderful Christmas!! You certainly make it amazing and heartwarming for me with your support and encouragement, I can't possibly ask for anything else, so from the bottom of my heart, thank you so much!!! ♥ ♥

Also please let me know if you’d like to be tagged in these posts! In any case, you can follow the ‘Stripes fic’ tag for all updates :D 

#Cassie writes #Stripes fic #Ikesen #Ikemen Sengoku #Ikesen Masamune x MC #Ikesen Shingen x MC #Dragon Date #Ikesen fanfiction #SPOILERS: Masamune's route #Ikesennw reblog

[ayearofpike]

The Grave

Pocket Books, 1999 194 pages, 16 chapters + epilogue ISBN 0-671-55077-2 LOC: CPB Box no. 1856 vol. 22 OCLC: 42262026 Released September 1, 1999 (per B&N)

Keri Weir has a rough life: her boyfriend bores her, her sister is dead of cancer, her dad has abandoned her to start a new family, her mom is addicted to cocaine and is slowly selling everything they own to get a new fix. That doesn’t mean, though, that she wants it to end. But when she meets a mysterious man at her workplace, and feels inexplicably drawn to him, that’s what happens. But the end itself is a new beginning, one that threatens to never end.

And so we come to the end of Christopher Pike’s output under the imprint of Archway Paperbacks, a solid 11-year run whose end was inevitable thanks to the increasing stature and importance of teen and YA literature. If you weren’t there, it’s really hard to understand what the climate was like, how books for young people were seen as less — less important, less prestigious, less work to read and write. Likewise, it’s kind of hard to overstate the importance of Harry Potter, what it did for not just the readers it aimed at but the whole genre of juvenile literature. Prisoner of Azkaban came out one week after this book in the US, which I remember as being the flash point for interest in the boy wizard over here. After that, nobody was going to underestimate the selling power of a kid’s book, and nobody was going to accept an underdeveloped story that stood alone and didn’t (or couldn’t) promise resolution over a series.

It seems like Pike saw the writing on the wall here. He’s talked a little bit about the market changing around him and not being able to catch it. We saw a lot of the crap we were pushed fall off around the same time; a whole bunch of the series I’d mentioned before became too fluffy or lightweight for the new generation of teen book-purchasers. Longer stories became de rigueur, as publishers saw the willingness of kids to push through four hundred pages of the third story out of seven in order to find out how that poor kid with the lightning scar was going to figure himself out and avenge his parents.

It’s not like Pike didn’t have the chops to write a longer book; his four adult novels illustrate how he can dive in more depth into a concept and really flesh it out. (OK, two of them do.) And it’s not like he didn’t have material to expand upon and really explain — if anything, I feel like I’ve been complaining that he doesn’t unpack ENOUGH here at the end. And maybe that’s the real problem. Christopher Pike rose to fame in a climate where it was OK and expected to not give up all your information and secrets, to not explore a thread that didn’t speak to a highly-focused theme, and above all else to keep your page count down. Adapting to the new model of kidlit would take him some time.

This book is no exception. It starts with a strong and promising presence, reaches a conflict point that explains and engages, and then ... just sorta falls off with no real resolution, or at least not a satisfying one, maybe with a mandate to get out of the book before page 200. It opens another door right at the end, one that would have been OK to leave hanging ten years before maybe, but which now is unsatisfying and frustrating to readers who are expecting to know where that door leads. And maybe there are some other problems with construction, but let’s get into the recap before we talk too much about that.

We start not with Keri, but with Ted Lovett, a college freshman who has fallen for a young woman at HIS work site. She is mysteriously charming and bewitching, and when Ted asks to see her again she promises to call. And she does, holy crap. But her calls are scattered and sporadic, and even though Ted isn’t sure whether he wants this kind of a relationship he finds he can’t stay away. The last call leads to a hike into the forest, where suddenly he is beset on all sides by monstrously strong humans and buried alive in what appears to be a Satanic ritual. He feels a prick in the back, pleads with a morose but determined beauty, and then smothers in a shallow grave.

Keri doesn’t know any of this. She doesn’t know Ted, even. All she knows is she’s stuck in a dead-end with no way to turn around or back out of it. That is, until she meets Oscar, a sensitive and quiet man who has some undefinable quality that draws her to him. He’s certainly a lot more interesting than her doofy boyfriend, who comes across as the worst kind of clingy shithead. We understand this through his behavior as much as we do because Keri wants to shake free of him. It helps that the next night after work she sees Oscar again and asks to go to his apartment to see his paintings. Like, leading up to much? Of course they have sex, and of course Keri’s boyfriend is waiting outside her apartment when she gets home, and of course he’s all whiny and shitty about it.

But then they find Keri’s mom inside, barely breathing after an overdose, and they rush her to the hospital. Once in the waiting room, Keri passes out from the exhaustion of not only having to take care of her addict mother but also from doin’ it all night. She has a dream about a beautiful garden full of happy people, and of journeying from it to a cave full of smoke, where a figure shrouded in shadow asks if he should come. This part was super confusing, because it’s literally a page of one-sentence back-and-forth unattributed quotes, and you almost have to mark it with a pencil to keep track of who’s saying what. But ultimately Keri says yes, and then immediately wakes from her dream to learn that her mother is stable and her relationship is over. Well, OK, she and the now-ex talk about it and agree that they need to be done. Which she should have said before, considering how long she’s felt that way, but I get it. (I’ve had my own relationships that dragged on longer than they should have out of obligation, on both our parts.)

So obviously Keri isn’t going to work today, but she does arrange to meet Oscar for a late dinner and maybe some more shpdoinkling. On her way to the car, though, she’s suddenly waylaid by a strong person who chloroforms her and drags her off. She’s aware enough to realize when she gets shot with a syringe in the butt, and fully awake by the time she’s carried from the vehicle she’s in and deposited in a grocery store freezer. She manages to break her bonds, but there’s no fail-safe to escape the freezer — even Pike’s favorite emergency ax has been removed from its hooks. So she feels her body freeze, go numb, and then inexplicably feel warmer as she blacks out for the last time.

And now she’s in her sister’s bedroom, back in the before times, when Sis was alive and Dad was around and Mom was coherent. This part is one of the times when I wish we’d gotten more. We learn that Keri has more or less completely blocked out any memory of her sister’s death, and won’t talk about it to anyone. Her sister tells her that she needs to come to grips with reality, that her death has led to so many of the problems and if Keri will just understand and accept this tragic end it could help her. Only maybe not now, because she’s in a weird place where she’s neither dead nor alive and is going to have to face the coming of the shadowed person. And then Keri wakes up, and we almost never talk about her sister again. Like, what was the purpose of this dream sequence? We just needed someone dead who could explain it to her? Shouldn’t the sister play a bigger part in post-death? I was dissatisfied, much like with the mom, who we’ll get back to.

But yeah, Keri wakes up, and she knows it’s cold but it doesn’t bother her, and she knows it’s dark but she can still see quite well (except suddenly without color), and she knows she’s locked in a freezer but a couple of stiff kicks get her out the door. She also knows she’s hungry, and she eats more food than she would have even been able to look at before she went in the freezer. What’s most disconcerting to her, maybe, is the fact that she doesn’t really FEEL anything about these changes. She accepts that she’s changed, that she should have died and didn’t and is now insatiable and powerful, but she’s not bothered by that — which is the thing that bothers her most.

She leaves the market and, after a run-in with a gang where she totally ruins the leader by kneeing him in the crotch up to his sternum, starts to go to Oscar’s house. Only, wait: Oscar was the only person who could have known she was leaving her place when she did, and he exhibits some of the same things she’s feeling now (colorblind, need to eat, unexpected strength). So maybe don’t seek out the person who made some weird manipulation that cheated your death, but then tried to kill you. Instead she goes home and calls her ex and talks about her concerns about Oscar, staying vague but still ominous and foreboding. She can’t sleep anymore either, so she basically eats all night and into the morning before she goes to see her mom. Mom notices a frightened, frail stance that Keri is taking (trust an addict, I guess), but she also wants to talk about a dream she had where they were all watching Sis pack for some kind of a trip. Keri apologizes for her distance, but then she leaves again right away, after determining that Mom can get home safely after being discharged. And this is the last time we see Mom too. Which I’m kinda OK with, because at least we get a picture of her being on the road to recovery, which allows us to imagine she turns out all right ... but wasn’t it the death of her first daughter that made her spiral to begin with? What’s going to happen now that she never sees her second one again? 

But Keri has suddenly realized why Oscar looks so familiar, never mind that this was not foreshadowed or alluded to ANYWHERE in this novel. He’s a dead kid who disappeared last year, who had his picture in the paper next to a tragic article. A dead kid named Ted Lovett. And like, you saw this coming; we had enough foreshadowing that Ted was dead but back somehow. I’m OK with that. What I’m not sold on is Keri going to talk to Ted’s mom. Like, why? She doesn’t know he’s alive; if she did, wouldn’t that have also made news? But she does it, because I guess Pike just can’t leave the parents of dead kids alone, and then she goes to Oscar’s place because what the fuck else is there to do when you’re colorblind and hungry and strong and out of options?

Oscar’s not alone. There’s a scientist there, who explains that Keri’s condition is a clever manipulation of her DNA to prevent the body from being able to die unless it is completely destroyed. He created the compound to try to save his daughter, who was succumbing to leukemia ... only she went bad. In fact, she swiped the formula and turned a whole bunch of others, including her brother. The secret, it seemed, was to enhance the dying person’s fear, which would then manifest in cold brutality once they awakened from death. It didn’t work on Ted Oscar, for reasons not sufficiently explained, and now he and the scientist are trying to figure out how to stop the monstrosity that is these other monsters. They have help: an inexplicable vision of a shadowed man, who has indicated that they should impregnate a virile young woman and then turn her so that she brings him into the world.

That’s right: Keri is vampire-zombie-monster pregnant. And the baby she carries will determine the fate of the world.

The bad guys want the baby too, of course. All of a sudden they’re at the door, holding Keri’s ex hostage. Seems they followed her from Ted’s mom’s house. No one has to get hurt, the bewitching beauty daughter says, if they willingly go downstairs and get in the van. Obviously Oscar and the scientist aren’t gonna willingly anything, and Keri wants to get her ex out of harm’s way. Too late she dives after BBD, who calmly and effortlessly rips her ex’s arm off. There’s a monster of a shootout, and our good guys manage to escape (not the ex, who bleeds to death in seconds), only to find once they’re out on the ocean in Oscar’s boat that the bad guys have a helicopter and a flamethrower. So they have to bail as the boat goes up, and sure they have super strength and stamina but Keri can’t outswim a power boat, which is what BBD pulls up in, informing her that she has no choice but to be a prisoner.

They caught Oscar too, and drive the both of them to an abandoned military facility in a mountain somewhere. Their cell is a nice one, as far as cells go, but unescapable: the bars are too strong to break, and the back is raw rock that goes deeper into the mountain. They won’t be able to dig their way out before the baby comes, which thanks to Keri’s enhanced biology should take about a week. After that, the bad guys figure, they’ll just undo Mom and Dad and be able to use this baby for their own nefarious ends.

Of course it’s more complicated than that. BBD still has feelings for Oscar ... it seems that something about the undeath process might make us more susceptible to finding a soulmate or falling in love with a person. At least that’s what I feel like we’re supposed to understand, given Keri’s inexplicable and instantaneous affinity for Oscar; this is one more thing Pike doesn’t go into. Just like the brother, who is a total cocknugget but only really shows up at the birth, so he can menace the couple and torment the doctor before killing him. Seriously: we constantly hear about this dude and what an evil monster he is, but he’s only actually in the book for seven pages. Still, he acknowledges that our other prisoner needs to live, too, as the mother will be critical to feeding the baby while he matures.

And he also does this fast. In twenty days he gains twenty years, reads the entire Internet, and gets crops to grow in their underground cell. Shades of Last Vampire 4, a little bit. BBD tries to get him to explain his goals and doings to her, but he flat-out refuses. In fact, the only person he’ll try to explain anything to is his mom. She asks if he will draw a picture of how he might represent himself before he was born, and it’s ... caprine. Horns, a tail, cloven hooves. And now Keri is all, oh shit, I invited the actual DEVIL into my uterus. But the boy advises her: don’t panic.

So now they’ve been in this facility a month, and all of a sudden there’s sounds of scuffle. It seems that the scientist managed to get away clean, and has given up just enough info to the government that they managed to track these monster fighters to this facility and are now cleaning it out with firebombs. Luckily for our heroes, Oscar has dug up to a boulder that he’s pretty sure is the last blockade between their cell and an underground river. They can’t move it, though, before everyone comes pouring into the holding facility: BBD and Cocknugget with guns, Scientist with an obvious bomb, and then the military. But what if we ask the devil? So he moves the rock without any problem, just behind an explosion and expansion of fire, creating a swirl of water and a gush of ashes and a battering of rocks that leaves Keri unconscious.

She comes to in a beautiful garden, like the one in her dream. Oscar and their son are there too, so obviously they’re dead and in heaven, right? No, idiot, they can’t die, remember? And the son has decided he’s going to say in this nowhere and be one with nature, and that his parents have to go on without him. Keri doesn’t want to, but Oscar thinks they have to, and he has a rationale: he’s pretty sure that their son is not Satan, but instead is Pan, the ancient god of the wild. They both have goat legs and horns, after all, and look at how good this kid has been at making plants grow no matter the lack of water or sunlight. This doesn’t go any farther either, and I need more, specifically: how the shit does tampering with human genes equal giving birth to another fuckin’ Percy Jackson character? We never get to find out. Keri and Oscar leave, they run into BBD (who also somehow made it out alive), they tell her to fuck off, and then they keep walking, and the book ends.

So if you’re keeping count, that’s at least five people whose stories have not been satisfactorily explored in this novel, which pulls up well short of half of the page count that Harry Potter would get to lose a rat. If we’re looking for an inability or unwillingness to expand and explore both the narrative and the changing state of YA, this is it right here. Just like Pike’s career, it fizzles out unresolved and without warning. Couldn’t he have spent just a little more time on some backstory or character building, to explain just why these douche-monsters were so horrible but Oscar was good? Was there no chance at all of explaining the connection between technology and nature that would explore just how and why Pan reincarnated in the womb of a half-dead high school senior? What happened to Keri’s family that it fell apart so hard and was predisposed to forget about a dead sister through running from her? Is it any wonder that The Grave was his last book for four years?

[sickficprompts]

Submission

So I based this off the There’s a Catch! 34… the one about the character getting their creator sick? If I was better at making this whole Tumblr thingy work, I’d try to connect the two, but at this point I’ll be happy if this just submits properly. This is also probably the wrong place to put this, but if people like this, I may or may not try writing a part two. Wouldn’t bet on it, I tend to forget my projects.

1:53 AM.

The white numbers in the lower right hand corner of my screen seemed to be mocking my insomnia. As usual, I was up at ungodly hours of the night, unable to sleep. Now I understood why my parents ordered me to bed at midnight when they were here instead of Chicago. Staring at a too-bright screen and trying to work on another chapter of my two-year long story. Wishing that the characters could somehow pop out of their black-and-white prison to come have an actual conversation with me. Listening in on the conversations they had between themselves was all good and fine, of course, but to actually be able to talk to them myself, and not through other characters… well, it would provide some useful insight.

“Hello?”

I froze, almost too afraid to look at the source. The front door was locked, wasn’t it? I should’ve heard someone coming down the stairs. But I’d definitely heard someone say hello, and they were in here. With me. And no one else was supposed to be in the house.

That meant I had to be hallucinating. Again. Now I understood why my parents ordered me to bed at midnight when they were here instead of Chicago. If I was hallucinating after some meager twenty or so hours, I didn’t even want to think of what happened when I went thirty without so much as a nap. At least hallucinations were something I was used to… but already, I could feel the anxiety creeping through me.

“What is this place? It feels vaguely familiar, but… not quite.”

OK.

What. The. Hell?

The hallucinations didn’t normally talk this well. One or two words, tops. Barely coherent. Certainly not a well-crafted English sentence that I could actually understand. Something was wrong, and wrong on more levels than I was capable of counting at this hour. Maybe if I just held still and focused on my writing….

“Do I - yes, or… maybe? Well, uh, I think I know you,” the voice said, getting closer. It was decidedly a adult male’s voice, young and not especially masculine. The accent was odd, too; it wasn’t local, and I couldn’t really place it either. “Is everything all right? You look a bit pale. Not that I have much room to talk, of course, but for a human. You’re - actually, I’m not sure. Who are you, exactly?”

Finally, I mustered the courage to turn around and look at the voice. Most of my vision was varying degrees of blue from too much time staring at the bright screen in total darkness, but I could make out the outline of a very thin man. He didn’t seem threatening - standing a good distance away, the outline of his hands seeming empty and by his sides if nothing else. Still wasn’t going to tell him anything until I knew who the hell he was, though.

He coughed as I turned around far enough to flip on the overhead lights. After I winced and blinked a few times, my vision focused enough for me to get a solid idea of who this man was. Thin, like I’d figured from his silhouette, and jet-black, razor-straight hair tied back around his neck. Maybe it was the hair, but he looked scarily pale, almost ghost-like, the only place with any human coloration being his nose, pink as the pint of strawberry ice cream I’d finished hours ago.

“Umm… hi,” I said, glancing around my desk for something to defend myself with. He hadn’t done anything, not yet, but I decidedly didn’t like strange people standing around in my house. Even if they probably didn’t really exist. “I really don’t think I know you. How’d you get in here, anyway? Maybe you should go home, you look a bit sick.”

“You called me here,” he said. “Louis? Does that seem familiar?”

Oh God. Dear God. Please no.

I hadn’t meant it that literally. What was I supposed to do with him now? Sure, I’d said I’d wanted to talk to him, but I hadn’t meant right here and now at almost two o'clock in the morning. Of course he wouldn’t think anything of it, that was the downside of writing a vampire. He thought two o'clock was a perfectly reasonable time to strike it up.

“Oh,” I said. “Yeah. Yeah, I know you. Hi.” Louis nodded, starting to look a bit awkward. “Why don’t you sit down…?”

He almost mechanically took a seat on the sofa some ten feet away from me, jumping back up at the feeling of sitting on the remote. Right… he didn’t know anything about modern technology. The glowing box in front of me was probably confusing enough, not to mention the large black one hanging off the wall in front of him.

“Here,” I said, getting up and taking the remote. “Do you want to watch a… a play? On that box?” Louis blinked a few times, looking at the box with a painfully confused expression. “Here, I’ll just turn it on to something, we can watch a bit.”

“But how are the actors going to get in the box?” he asked. “Even dwarfs aren’t that small.”

“They just do,” I said, turning it on. Louis yelped and shielded his eyes at the sudden flash of light. An immediate pang of guilt ran through me as I remembered that I had made him overly-sensitive to bright lights as part of his vampirism. Oops. “Sorry, I’ll try to warn you next time. Go ahead and sit down, make yourself comfortable. You’re French, right? So no Merlin….”

“Oui,” he muttered, feeling his way back to the couch. “I don’t mind if you watch something English. I take it you’re English, since you’re speaking the language.”

“…Sure,” I said. Now didn’t seem like the time to try to explain DNA tests and everything else to him. I just needed him distracted for a while so I could maybe fall asleep or come up with how I was going to handle having a vampire in my house. “How’s Downton Abbey? Good enough with you?”

“Never heard of it,” he said. “Dr. Haralson would’ve told me if it was by that Shakespeare he likes so much, so I don’t suppose it’s on of those… what’s it about?”

“Servants, lords, war, the standard stuff,” I said. Louis nodded, apparently satisfied with my lackluster explanation. “You’ll probably like it well enough. It’s about more English people, but there aren’t many French shows on around here. For obvious reasons. Anyway, I’m a bit tired… do you care if I lie on you a bit?”

Louis was already engrossed by the scene, but pulled his attention back to me just long enough to wrap an arm around my body, almost forcing me to snuggle up with him. If we had a blanket - which we did, just some five feet away - maybe he’d go to sleep too, and save me some trouble. A sleeping vampire didn’t usually sink their fangs into your carotid, anyway. That alone almost made it worth the journey.

Well, I’d get it just as soon as it got to the good part.

———————————————————————————–

“M-miss?” Louis whispered, shaking me awake. “Hello?”

I blinked a few times and looked up at him, freezing when I saw his face. The nostrils flaring should’ve been a dead giveaway of what was coming next, but even his eyes were streaming now. He was going to sneeze and it was more than unlikely that he would think to cover his mouth. So much for not catching his cold….

“ATCHOOO!” Just as I’d predicted, he hadn’t made any attempt to cover his mouth, only turning his head down slightly and sneezing towards my chest. “S-sorr… ehh-HTTCHHOOO-ATISHOOO! Hhh-hnnxxt-H'STCHOOOO!” He sniffed a few times, then looked back up at me, sheepish. “Very sorry about that, it’s this blasted cold.”

“…Yeah, I get it,” I said. “Bless you, or santé, or whatever it is in France.”

“Merci.” Louis sniffed a few times, dug in his pockets for a moment, then sighed and collapsed back against the couch. “What is this Great War they keep talking about on here? I don’t want to believe it could’ve happened, but it did, didn’t it?”

“Yeah, it happened,” I said. “Long time ago. Not a really long time, but about a century now. It was bad, but the second one… we call it the Second World War… well, as much as I hate to minimize the suffering in the first one, the second was something else.”

“Oh God,” he groaned. “There was another, worse one?”

“That’s what I’m tellin’ you.” Louis’s face hinted no traces of surprise, only disgust and disappointment. Seemed appropriate enough for someone who’d seen as many wars as he had. “It’s a long story, the second one, or I’d tell you some about it. Not that you probably want to know anymore than you know already. Anyway, even if you do, I’m too tired to go into nuclear weapons and Nazism and all that.”

“…Understandable, I won’t ask.” I yawned, already feeling fatigue returning to plague me again. “Cherié, you’re clearly tired and you’ve been sleeping on me for almost three hours now, perhaps it’s time to go to bed proper? It doesn’t bother me, don’t misunderstand, but I would think I’d make a rather uncomfortable sleeping arrangement, being as bony as I am.” “It’s my fault, isn’t it? You should’ve said something, given the hour. Sometimes it’s so easy for us to forget about the human need for several hours of sleep… of course, you must know this already, but it bears repeating. What day is it, anyway?”

“It’s… uh, it’s Saturday, I think.” I blinked and stared up at the clock, not sure how long I’d been up before I fell asleep on Louis. It was something around 5:40, which meant the sun would be coming up before too much longer. Good thing Louis wasn’t going to burn to a crisp. “Yeah. Five in the morning, Saturday, and I’ve had a whole three hours of sleep. That’s great.”

“If you’re tired, please don’t stay up on my behalf,” he said. “You can go to bed for a few hours, I’ll stay here. English or not, the show is somewhat like what I’m used to back in the palace. It’s… almost comforting. Any time you want me to wake you up? I could bring you some coffee if you’re so inclined.”

“No coffee, please,” I said. “I’ll probably be sufferable after another four hours, so sometime around nine would be all right. And… if you’re going to insist on bringing me something to drink as soon as I wake up, I wouldn’t be entirely opposed to some tea.”

“Typical Englishwoman.” He was grinning, not scowling, so he probably meant well. “Never mind, I shouldn’t be keeping you. You’re exhausted. Go on to bed, I’ll wake you up later. Sleep well.”

———————————————————————————–

“G'morning. Sleep well enough?”

I groaned and looked up at Louis. As I’d asked, he was standing with a glass of tea for me, but he looked somewhat concerned. The smoke alarms weren’t blaring and if he had destroyed the kitchen, I was fairly certain I would’ve noticed some of the noise. It wasn’t until I sat up that the possibility of being sick occurred to me.

Dang it.

A cold shouldn’t be able to come on this fast - I’d only been exposed some four hours ago, since he’d remembered to get me up on time - but I had all the tell-tale symptoms of a bad cold. Burning throat, nose full of concrete, and a throbbing headache just to top it all off.

“Miss, you look… maybe a little ill,” Louis said. “I-I didn’t give you this cold, did I? I’m very sorry about it, it wasn’t my intention.”

“No, that’s clinically impossible,” I muttered, “It hasn’t been long enough for me to catch a cold off you. Or the flu, if you were wrong about why you’re sneezing.”

“But I’ve been here about that long,” he protested. “Only eight hours, if we’re going to count, but I know that our smallpox takes hold much faster than human smallpox. A day or two instead of a week. It doesn’t seem unthinkable that colds would work the same way.”

Well, dang it double.

“It doesn’t matter,” I said, trying to get up. Trying, as Louis almost immediately shoved me back onto the bed. “Let me up, it’s just a bad cold. I’m fine.”

“I got you sick, didn’t I?” he asked. “You don’t have to try to spare my feelings. Not that I’m sure why you’d bother after all the other things you put me through. Here, drink this and… do you want me to go back to nonexistence? I’d more than understand if you don’t want to see me right now.”

As much as some of me wanted to say yes, I knew I didn’t really want him gone. It was nice having someone around the house, even if that someone was quite possibly a sleep-deprivation induced hallucination that was somehow infecting me with colds and bringing me tea. OK, maybe not a hallucination. But at the very least, a figment of my imagination that had somehow gained independence and a physical form, all while somehow understanding that I was its creator and responsible for all its suffering… and had a history of sociopathic tendencies… and was more than strong enough to rip me to shreds….

“Are you going to vomit?” he asked, taking a few very quick steps back. “You went pale just now… very pale… maybe you have something worse than my cold. This cold was awful, but it didn’t give me nausea. Did you eat anything yesterday? Maybe that’s it.”

“Please don’t kill me,” I whimpered, almost sobbing. “I’m sorry for what I did, I really am, please don’t kill me… y-you must want to hurt me, I won’t hold that against you, just please don’t kill me. I’m begging you, please don’t!”

“What - no! No, I don’t hold that against you,” Louis said. “You seem nice enough. There must be some good reason for it, even if I don’t understand… and anyway, I wouldn’t kill you even if I could. Don’t cry.” Despite his efforts, the tears still welled up and then ran down my cheeks, my hands too shaky to accurately wipe them away. “All right then. It seems like the normal thing to do here is offer to turn on that stage-box and watch something with the other person? Honestly, I’m not sure, but you know that already. Will it make you feel better?”

I nodded, a weak bob that should’ve gone unnoticed. Still, Louis took the remote off the nightstand and pressed the power button - he learned faster than I gave him credit for - and then gave it to me. As I browsed through the shows, Louis managed to find some small part of the twin-sized bed to sit on without crushing my legs. The slight flinch when Downton Abbey came up told me all I needed to know.

Today I was staying in bed with a cold, watching Downton Abbey with someone who shouldn’t even exist. And, at least to me, his company was worth the misery, fangs and all.

[gigiree]

Ch 5: #No R-Agrestes. I don't always make friends

But when I do, I make sure to give them a bodily injury to remember me by. -Adrien Agreste as The Most Interesting Man in The world.

🙃🙃🙃🙃

When Gabriel Agreste comes home, it is without much fanfare...typically. The night will fall, the dark tracing delicately across every corner of the Agreste home. Maybe finding itself a little threatened by the warm light dripping out from underneath the crack of Adrien’s door. (Never Felix’s. He sleeps strictly at 9:30 PM, sleeping mask and all.)But besides that, there isn't a sound. The morning will bring with it the day’s newspaper, a few fashion magazines, and perhaps one or two of the local tabloids all piled on the dining table in alphabetical order.

Adrien really hadn't factored in his father's reaction to keeping Felix the cat. He'd supposed he could keep him hidden well enough for a while. His father was never home and the house was big enough for someone to get lost in. It shouldn't have been that hard. But ever since Marinette came into his life, he's been finding that his luck has devolved into a series of close calls. This time, they're might not be any call to make when Gabriel’s eyes look so flinty, they could cut through any web of lies Adrien can try and weave in this moment. “Apologies, Father. The cat belongs to me.” Felix (the brother) seems to coalesce from the shadows himself, wrapped in gunmetal gray silk pajamas, his sleeping mask pushed over his unusually messy hair.

Adrien shivers. His brother does not look amused...except, he notices the slight edges of Felix’s mouth curl the slightest bit, his gray eyes are impassive, but they shine with amusement as he takes in Gabriel’s ruined pants. Gabriel asks for an explanation and Adrien is almost entirely forgotten when Felix spews out the most amazing dribble of a story. “He reminded me of the stories Mother used to tell me about her own black cat...remember, the one named Pancake? I simply saw the poor little stray and he looked exactly as I'd always imagined Pancake..and so on a whim, I brought him home...I didn't think he'd find his way into your room. I'm sorry.” At the mention of Mother, Adrien feels his heart twist in his chest and sink to his feet. He's almost sure the same thing is happening to his father, because even Gabriel’s cold expression falls and he looks contemplative. “I see...make sure this doesn't happen again.”

Felix’s expression remains carefully neutral as he nods. “Yes Father...and welcome home.” “Well then...goodnight to the both of you.” “Goodnight.” Adrien and Felix say in concert, both of them wincing at how lame it sounded. Adrien watches on as Gabriel makes his way back down the hallway and it may be his imagination, but his father looks a lot more off balance than usual. But that always happened whenever someone mentioned Mom. The sadness that clings onto their house is a lot less vulnerable to light than the dark...Adrien thinks it's a shame that Marinette isn't around to distract him with another mishap.

Felix stays behind for a bit. Sleep is a difficult thing for him to piece together once it's been broken. He stays in Adrien’s room, sprawled across the messy bed as he stares up at the glow in the dark stars that Adrien had stuck there over a decade ago. “I don't remember that story about Mom’s cat?” Adrien points out as he absentmindedly pets the cat currently purring on his lap, perfectly content with the events of the night. “That's because it wasn't a cat. It was a hamster.” “Oh...well...I don't remember her talking about a hamster named Pancake?” “That's because I named it Pancake after the story.” “Why did you call it Pancake?” Adrien sighs, finally looking up at his brother from desk chair. “Did you just basically lie to Dad for me?” Felix fixes his gaze on the stars, his fingers flat against the green duvet as he thinks for a moment. “I named the hamster Pancake because Mom accidentally ran him over. And not for you.”

Adrien rolls his eyes, but a grin tugs at his mouth and he feels affection for his older brother swell in his chest until his heart is bobbing up and down again. “Of course not for me. It was for the cat.” Felix closes his eyes and smiles for once. “Yes, the cat. He did me a favor by destroying one of Father’s hideous pairs of red pants. So, I paid him in kind.” “Well, Felix really appreciates it.” Annoyance lances across Felix’s serene expression and his gray eyes snap open to glare at a laughing Adrien. “The fact that your girlfriend gave him my name is bad enough. The fact that the cat itself feels entitled to the same privileges as me because of said name cannot go unattended. He's become a plague on my peaceful lifestyle, Adrien.”

“Sure...sure.” Adrien chuckles, rubbing his cheek against the cat’s soft fur. “You're such a plague on this household...such a cute little plague.” Felix’s annoyance turns to satisfaction when he pulls out a fish shaped biscuit from his pocket and calls out in the most beguiling voice. “Come here Plague...come here...come get your treat.” The cat is a simple creature. Names are things that do not matter to cats. What matters most is what comes attached to the name, and currently, a treat is being offered with the name Plague...the cat thinks it's a great bargain and it leaps off of Adrien’s lap and prances up to Felix and the biscuit with a meow of satisfaction. “There...he likes his new name.” Felix says with finality, and Adrien watches in awe as his brother actually nuzzles his face into Plague’s fur.

“Fine...but I'm renaming your cactus Felix.” Adrien quips. He stifles his laughter behind his hands when Felix glares at him. Adrien thinks that moments like this are the ones that deserve to have a little light shone on them. --- For an arrangement so hastily made and with an equally hasty excuse, this fake dating thing is surprisingly mellow. She’s been waiting on tenterhooks, waking up way before her usual alarm just because her anxiety has rendered her incapable of sleep. She had tried hinting at Adrien, prodding him with a thinly veiled calm about just when she should uphold her end of the bargain. One cute date at a relatively obscure cat cafe does not seem like the most efficient way to spread the word about a relationship. Even if it a fake one.

And then it happens. Adrien makes an attempt to uphold his end of this haphazard deal of theirs. She’s glad he told her through text, because her knees are trembling and she has to sit down on her bed to reread his text message. From: Adrien Paindrien Hey...ummm...my father’s home. He’s invited you to dinner. Would Friday night work? I'm sorry. I didn't think you would have to meet him this soon...if it helps, you can bring samples of your work? Her hands are clammy. Her fingers too cold and leaving gross sweaty prints on the screen of her phone as she types out several different replies and then deletes them without sending. This is her opportunity. But she hadn't expected it to be so abrupt or unplanned. She wonders if Adrien knows anything about decorum or how not to look desperate...because she's sure if they're going to keep up this charade, she cannot come off as a girl selfish enough to use her boyfriend as a stepping stone to opportunity.

Her stomach is twisting into knots, a veritable Ouroboros of an organ as it feels like it's digesting itself and taking the rest of her organs with it. The window is open, a slightly muggy breeze blows past her gauzy white curtains and whispers across the loose strands of air falling from her bun. She heaves a breath, letting the scents of the city ground her. She decides to take things slow. She figures that her first method of introducing her work would be best. With that, her anxiety lessens a smidgen, and she texts back with more confidence than she feels. “Sure. Friday is perfect.” ---

The week passes by with a cheerful alacrity that's not very welcoming. Marinette clings onto the days with sheer determination, still casting disappointed glances at the last minute gifts she'd decided to work on. All three of them are nearly done. A few spools of fine silk thread and several square feet of expensive creamy fabric had gone into making these. The last of them is still stretched across the embroidery hoop, a short strand of black thread marking where she'd left off in her work. “It's all wrong.” She cries out to Tikki, who sits nestled in the middle of a droopy cosmos, probably gorging herself on the fat aphids common this time of year. She traces the expertly stitched patterns on Adrien’s embroiders handkerchief, lets her fingertips linger on the raised emerald of the black cat’s knowing eyes. “Maybe this isn't thoughtful enough? I don't know much about any of them.” She picks at a few fraying threads, wondering if she should just order a fruit arrangement and call it a day. The memory of a red, puffy faced Felix being rushed to the hospital instantly negates the thought. She'd rather not expose them to another potential allergen.

These little tokens of gratitude and well wishing have to be enough. Her tired fingers and less-than-ideal point work will have to be enough. It's a matter of pride that she gains recognition by her own effort, and it's with an apologetic smile that she sticks to her guns and texts Adrien. “I’m still coming, but I don't need your help.” --- It's raining when he comes to pick her up. His face is contorted into an anxious grimace, his fingers twisting together in his lap as Gorilla parks the car cross the street from of her apartment.

The water dashes against the windows, cold and marking time in a way that's sort of pretty and sort of melancholy. He'd been so excited to have her meet his father. In some ways, it felt almost real. If he let himself believe in her smiles and their newly established friendship, perhaps this could almost be a pleasant thing. The truth of the matter is that he's lonely. And he had been selfish to pull Marinette into something like this arrangement, even when she'd been the one to lie first. And then she’d sent her cryptic text message “I don't need your help.” The problem with texting is that it's hard to read someone's tone. He'd sent her sporadic messages after that, receiving the usual cheerfully chagrined responses. She'd acted like nothing had changed, but her words echoed in his head until he couldn't think about anything but that for the next three days.

Even his father’s ever looming presence had faded back into the numerous shadows that plagued (haha) the Agreste home. Adrien has had very few people he can call friends, much less close friends. There isn't anyone besides Felix he can ask for advice, and Felix would have kittens if he knew just how transactional his relationship with Marinette actually was. Regardless, there's a harrowing mixture of relief and anxiety that wells up in his chest, and he's not sure if it's that or the lovely gauzy red dress she wears that steals his breath. She stands under the awning stretched out over the entrance of the apartment complex, her trench coat is fashionably wide open, the edges flapping softly in the wind. Her dark hair is down, spiraling delicately across the tops of her shoulders. And her lovely face is contorted into an expression of worry as she eyes the rainy skies disdainfully.

She reminds him very much of Plague. Precious, preening, scared and angry at the rain for threatening to ruin their pretty coats. Her arms are full with three gift bags, and his stomach lurches with fear at what they might contain. Still, he's a gentleman by training and a kind person by his very nature, so he doesn't think much as he grabs his trusty old battered umbrella, and rushes across the empty street to offer her portable shelter. He doesn't open it right away, not really caring if his nice green sweater and collared shirt get a little wet. “Your knight in shining armor is here, My Lady.” He calls sweetly, and her glare turns from the sky towards him, but it's softened by the bemused smile she graces him with. “You sound like one of those guys online who wear fedoras and complain that girls won't fall for them because they're nice guys.”

He winces a bit, but takes it all in stride, brandishing his umbrella playfully as he steps under the awning with her. “I'm not that bad.” He says plaintively, and the playful pout on his lips makes her think that the world really isn't fair because some people get everything. She looks down at her brown ankle boots, little droplets of rain bouncing off of them harmlessly. “No...you're not that bad.” She says quietly, warmly. When she looks up at him again, her smile is earnest. Her eyes large and soft. He swallows thickly. He thinks the world really isn't fair because Marinette is everything he could fall for, and...this isn't real.

They could barely be termed friends and any friendship they could build would be marred by this silly farce he proposed because he'd been so lonely and bored. He hadn't lied when he told her he was bored...but he hadn't meant it in the way she'd taken it. Marinette was vibrant, silly, ambitious...things he used to be...a long time ago. So his thoughts are a bit scattered when he holds out his umbrella to her, and accidentally presses the button. There's a brief metallic swish sound, the old rusted handle groaning as it angrily shoots out to full length and punches Marinette squarely in the nose.

“OW SHIT!” Marinette yells in pain. “OH FUCK!” Adrien yells in horror, dropping the umbrella. “DID IT HURT YOU?” “No! It FREAKING tickled!” She's dropped all her bags in favor of cupping her nose. Adrien tries to get close, but she shakes her head and winces, waving him away. “I'm fine. Just...owww...just let me deal with it.” She tells him in a nasally tone. She drops her hands and presses the bridge of her nose. “The presents...they shouldn't get wet!” A trickle of blood has made its way from her nostril, and Adrien panics as he bends down to retrieve the sodden gift bags from the ground...at the same time that she does.

He gathers up two. She gathers up one, and he stands up way too fast, knocking his head into chin and he ends up biting his lip. He lets out a hiss and his eyes water in pain as she starts apologizing. He waves her off, and is finally able to speak after a moment or two. “You're still bleeding.” “It's slowing down.” She says, looking ridiculous as she tilts her nose up and keeps pressing on it. He clicks his tongue in disapproval and then decides that that was stupid because it's still sore. But regardless, he's sort of irked by her sudden push for independence. He hangs the bags off of one arm, and uses one hand to gently cradle her face. She protests weakly, but she's too caught up in his proximity. Adrien doesn't even realize it as he uses the cuff of his sleeve to carefully wipe away the blood from her nose. “There...that's better. Right?” He says cheerfully when he's done. She seems a bit speechless, before pointing up at his mouth and saying- “You're bleeding too.” She tells him, and he watches with something like tenderness as she digs through one of the gift bags and pulls out a gorgeous silk handkerchief. “Here...use this.” He takes it from her and upon seeing the expertly embroidered black cat surrounded by little stars, he feels something entirely too debilitating seize his heart in a vice like grip and squeeze until he's hurting worse than just his stinging lip.

“You...you made this...for me?” “Yes.” “I...thank you so much, Marinette. It...I'll keep it safe.” He tucks it away in his pant pocket, gingerly folding it so that it doesn't wrinkle. He gives a brilliant smile, the dried blood on his lip cracking disgustingly. His tone gives her pause...as if he can't quite believe that someone would put effort for him...she's not quite sure where this idea comes from. He's an Agreste. There are people with three times her status in society who would trip over themselves to put in effort for him. She tries not to show how much his appreciation moves her. “Well yeah...I mean I made one for Felix and for your Father.” She shrugs. “It would be weird if I didn't make one for my boyfriend.”

“Oh…” She feels her heart sink. He looks like a kicked puppy, crestfallen expression, messy damp hair and all. She swallows back her acerbic replies and somewhat roughly steps up and uses the sleeve of her coat to wipe away the dried blood from his lip. “There...now you look presentable.” She says softly, and steps back for a bit, clutching the now empty gift bag to her chest. Adrien's mind has skittered to the far reaches of comprehensible thought, the signals that were shooting through his neuronal network did not match up with the memories of her terse messages. The clumsy carefulness of sleeve against his lips...the slightly angry replies that she'd given him. “Why...why did you say you don't need my help?” He sounds sad...so sad.

Marinette wonders why a simple message could have hurt him so. She still here. She's still keeping up her end of the deal. “I didn't want to succeed in that way. I have to do it through my own efforts.” She fiddles with the edges of the wrinkled red tissue wrap peeking up from the rumpled bag. “I have very little pride left...but it's enough for this at least. Bringing my designs to this dinner would have looked really bad, Adrien.” “Oh...that's it?” He blinks owlishly, relief making his shoulders sag until he looks like a dropping sunflower. Too bright in this rain. “That's it….were you worried I was dumping you or something? I said I was still coming.” She looks a bit miffed that he'd doubted her word. “N-no...well yeah. I'm not good with this? This friend thing?” He says sheepishly, smiling nervously at her. Marinette feels a page of understanding turn in her thoughts and she laughs.

“Friends...okay...well you're lucky I am.” She tells him blithely, and bends down to pick up the umbrella. She shakes it out a bit, and opens it carefully over the both of them. She looks at him once more and smiles back. “I can show you how to do the friend thing. So...let's get going. I think we've kept Go...your driver waiting too long.” They head out into the rain together, feeling the budding of something warm and true curling in their hearts.

#adrienette #miraclous ladybug #miraculous snippets #help me this is so much of a crack story

[autisticblueteam]

someone coming out to wash or wash not being able to resist making a joke about his own gender?

@stormphrax​ thank you buddy!! I managed to mush together these two into a somewhat coherent story so.

Also as the need to do this and this fic in general have been very inspired by @fyrehawk​ / agendermaine’s fics Showers and Twin Scars I feel like they deserve a tag here too?? But anyway!!

Transmission

[AO3] [Fic Tag][Ko-Fi in Bio]

Word Count: 2818

Summary: Still finding his feet among his new teammates, there’s some things that Wash has been waiting for the right time to bring up. Or well, that was the plan. His lack of filter has other ideas.

“Hey, Wash?”

Wash glanced back over his shoulder at Connie, half-waythrough wriggling his way out of his undersuit. It caught a little on the lighttank he wore under it, and he huffed as he tugged it free, “Yeah?”

“You did good out there today,” She said, smiling at him.She was sat on the bench in front of her locker, running a comb through thelong side of her hair; it was still wet, she’d not long come out of the shower.Wash had deliberately dragged out the process of removing his armour, dodgingany questions about why he wasn’t joining her. Communal showers, and all.“Really had my back when I needed it.”

“Oh, uhm, no problem,” Wash said, throwing her a smile inreturn. And then he cursed internally, hoping that didn’t sound too awkward. Hewas still relatively new to the team and, whilst Connie was quickly becomingone of his best friends here at the project after Maine, he was still findinghis feet. “I mean, shit, thanks. Too. Thank you.”

Connie giggled under her breath, “I know what you meant,don’t worry.” Putting down her comb she let her fingers slide through her hair,separating it out and starting to braid it. “But anyway, something that yousaid out there in the field today reminded me of something I needed to tell you.”

“Yeah?” A new bundle of nervous thoughts pushed their way tothe front of his mind, and he fought to ignore them as he finally peeled offhis undersuit. He was quick to pull on his sweats after that, the baggymaterial hanging loosely on his hips. He untucked his tank.

“It’s just a heads up for future reference, but, well− I’mnot a girl,” Connie said, a hair tie snapping tight around the end of herbraid. Wash’s eyes widened, his gaze intently on his locker. His first thoughtwas: oh, right, he had referred to heras a girl offhandedly earlier. His second thought was more along the lines ofincoherent screaming, that could be roughly translated as ‘holy fucking shitI’m not alone’. “I didn’t realise I hadn’t told you yet, because everyone elsealready knows. So I kinda just didn’t think about it? But I’m non-binary. Istill use she pronouns, most of the time, though. I’m just not a strictly agirl.”

“Me either!” Wait, no. “Shit, wait, I mean− Obviously I’mnot, a girl, I mean. Um. Fuck. I didn’t say that right at all.”

Connie raised a brow, quirked an amused smile, “Use yourwords, Wash.”

“Right.” He was becoming known for muddling his words, itwas a little embarrassing. But when he got excited, any kind of emotionalreally, they just sort of− mixed themselves up, didn’t come out right. So hetook a deep breath, tugged at the drawstring of his sweats; the twang caused bythe tension was satisfying. “I mean− I’m trans. A trans guy.”

“Oh!” Connie’s face lit up, her smile spreading into a grin.She bounced a little on the spot, stood on her toes, and her arms swungslightly at her sides. “Oh oh oh! That’s why you don’t shower with everyoneelse, oh!”

Wash chuckled awkwardly, scratching the back of his head,“Heh, yeah. Pretty much. I uh, wasn’t sure how everyone would take it, I guess?And y’know,” he coughed, lowered his voice a little, “dysphoria.”

“Hey, don’t worry about it. No one on the team cares,promise,” Connie said, nudging him. “Believe me, if they did, I don’t thinkthey’d be on the team anymore. In South’s words, she’d ‘shove their head so farup their own ass that they could see sunlight’. Which… doesn’t even make thatmuch sense, now that I think about it, but I think it got her message across.”

“Yeah, that sure sounds like South,” Wash said, chuckling alittle. When Connie raised a brow again, lips curling into an amused smirk, here-considered what she’d just said and− “Wait wait wait, are you saying−?”

“Yep.”

“Holy shit.”

That made Connie laugh, muffling the sound behind the backof her hand. Wash felt heat rise to his cheeks, making his face flush pink. Ifanything that seemed to make Connie laugh more, the bright sound completing thecycle by making Wash’s blush deepen. Connie pushed up higher on her tip toesand ruffled his hair, something she’d definitelypicked up from Maine, and Wash batted playfully at the hand.

“You’re not alone on the team, like, at all. I mean, youobviously know about Maine, right?” Connie said, risking another bat at herhand to brush Wash’s hair out of his face.

“Well, yeah,” Wash said, shrugging a little. He dropped ontothe bench with a thud, started to fiddle with the drawstrings again; he twistedthem around his fingers, tied them in loose knots, and so on. “They know aboutme, too. Kinda hard to hide when you share a room.”

“So there’s me, Maine, South− Florida’s non-binary too. Thatmakes five of us!” Connie said, plopping down on the floor in front of him.Wash chuckled, nudging the side of her head with his foot.

“We’ve got the cis outnumbered, huh?” He said. Connie’s facelit up again, this time with a slightly mischievous look in her eye.

“We do. Oh South’sgoing to get a kick out of this,” She said, grinning. Then, as an afterthought,“Not that I’m gonna tell her! Y’know, until you tell everyone. But when or ifyou do.”

“I know what you meant.” Wash nudged the side of her headagain, and she batted at his foot with a pout. He smiled, relaxed; this wasokay. This was good. “Eventually.Soon, maybe. I’m glad you know now, I mean− You and Maine. You’re my two bestfriends here.”

“Aww, why thank you Wash,” Her grin became fond, and sherocked back and forth slightly, holding her feet. “Glad we can make you feelwelcome. Hey, y’know, if I sat on your shoulders then together we’d nearly makea full Maine.”

Wash chuckled, “Almost.”

“Almost. I canstand on their shoulders and get into the rafters of the rec room and sometraining rooms, you know that? Made for some amazing pranks.” Slowly coming to a stop, she uncrossed her legsand hopped up to her feet. She made sure to ruffle Wash’s hair again beforeturning back to her locker.

“Now that I have to see.”

Connie glanced back at him, winked, “I’m sure that can bearranged.”

Wash laughed, shaking his head and standing up. There was amoment of comfortable silence as both rummaged around in their lockers, puttingthings away and grabbing things they’d stowed there before the mission. It wasinterrupted, eventually, by Connie’s locker swinging closed and her speakingup.

“Hey, if you want, I can keep watch so you can have a shower,”She suggested, shrugging a little. “It can’t be nice, stewing in post-missionsweat all day.”

“I−” Wash hesitated, biting down on the inside of his cheek.Chewing a little, and briefly wishing he’d got his chew on hand, he spent amoment thinking before− “…that’d be nice, actually.”

Connie beamed.

A little over a week later, Wash found himself running amission with Connie, South and Carolina. It was routine enough, simple compoundinfiltration. Connie was there to get them in; South was her back up; Carolinawas leading the team; and Wash was− well, honestly he wasn’t quite sure what hewas, Carolina’s back up? Did she even need back up?

Anyway, the mission was going fine. Connie and South movedon ahead to eliminate any locked doors or other obstacles whilst Carolina andWash hung back, keeping to the shadows. If all things went to plan, then Conniewould get herself and South into the target area without Carolina and Washneeding to come any further into the compound. Then it was only a matter ofclearing an LZ, which they could do before Connie and South made it back withno problem. Simple, really.

Of course, the second you dare to think a mission is goingto be simple, something goes wrong.

[We’re pinned down.]South’s message appeared on their HUDs moments after the radios went silent. [Not seen. Can’t move w/out being seen tho.]

“Dammit,” Carolina cursed, pulling up the map of thecomplex. Two blips marked Connie and South’s positions, barely 100 metres awayfrom the target. She typed at the same time a she talked to Wash, “If we cancause a distraction on the other side of the target, we might be able to draw them away from Connie and South.”

“Might,” Washsaid, gripping his rifle a little tighter. “Only might?”

Carolina somehow managed to look amused, something in theway she cocked her head, “It’ll work, rookie.”

“Is this that improvising thing Connie keeps warning meabout?” He had no idea how he felt so comfortable bantering with his CO likethis, but he guessed it had something to do with how he’d definitely seen herusing that chew he gave her after his first mission with the full team.

“Oh no, don’t worry, you’ll know when that happens.”

Well now, wasn’t that reassuring.

They had to move fast; South and Connie wouldn’t be able tostay hidden indefinitely, eventually someone would stumble across theirposition. Following side passages to circumvent the target room, they madetheir way around. It didn’t take long, but right before they reached the otherside, Carolina stopped and ducked into cover.

“Boss?” Wash said, peering around their cover to keep a lookout. “What’s happening?”

“Hold on a moment, I’m getting a transmission from command.”

If you asked Wash what came over him in that moment, he honestlywouldn’t have the answer. Willed by some unknown force, he opened his big mouthand−

“Yeah, well I’m on a trans mission and we need to get going,so hurry up.”

−was what came out.

The beat of silence that followed felt hours long; the slowturn of Carolina’s head back to him was agonising; and Wash was pretty surethat if the ground opened up and swallowed him right now he’d gladly accept thesweet embrace of death.

And then a spluttering sound came over the radio, quicklyfollowed by hysterical laughter.

“Holy fucking shit did−did the rookie just−” Apparently unable to finish her sentence, South burstinto another round of laughter interspersed with snorts and failed attempts tomuffle herself. In the background, Connie was heard halfway between laughingand trying to get South to shush, though it wasn’t long before the latter wasreplaced by the sounds of reloading guns and grabbing knives. “Position− Position compromised, fucking−holy shit, rookie, holy fucking shit.”

“I− I didn’t−” He shut his mouth, before he could sayanything else he’d regret. His face was on fire.

“I have to say, Wash,that’s a hell of a way to come out to more people,” Connie added, a grin inher tone. Wash’s face got hotter. “Ithink you’ve broken South.”

On cue, there was another burst of pitifully muffled laughter.Even as gunshots filled the air.

“It wasn’t even that funny!” Wash said, voice raising anoctave or two. “That was like− the worst pun ever, of all time!”

“Rookie you just−”a snort, “−fucking came out with a fucking pun, in the middle of a fucking mission− this is fucking hilarious. You totally fucking one-upped me.”

“You also revealed your position,” Carolina said (“Worth it!”) making Wash all but jump outof his skin. He held his breath, looking for some sign of how she felt aboutwhat had just happened− and then she chuckled. “Wash, never tell me to hurry up like that again. But that was pretty funny.”

Wash chuckled awkwardly.

“Okay so, we do stillsorta need back-up now, especially because South’s laughing is really messingup her shots.” She paused, “Though, actually, I think it’s also reallyconfusing the hostiles.”

Carolina shook her head, “We’re on our way.”

“That was totally fucking worth getting shot.”

“You have a very twisted set of priorities,” Carolina said,glancing at South out of the corner of her eye as she de-suited. Southshrugged, leaning back against her locker. She was already out of her suit, thewound left by the glancing bullet covered by gauze padding.

“Hey Wash, you recovered yet?” Connie said. She muffled agiggle behind her hand at the sight of Wash with his head in his hands. “Waaash?”

“Almost.” He inhaled, exhaled, then raised his head. The redin his cheeks had refused to fade, despite the time that had passed since the incident.“I can’t believe I did that.”

“Rookie, it was fucking hilarious. I mean, it was a fucking terrible joke, but it was fuckinghilarious,” South said, arms behind her head. “Somehow I think you fucking beathow I came out to everyone, asshole.”

“…How was that?”

“By calling us cocksuckers and promising to throw us out ofthe back of a Pelican if we said a thing,” Carolina said, chuckling. “Leftquite the impression. Especially since Agent West had fallen out of a Pelicanbay the week before.”

“…What?”

South nodded with exaggerated graveness, “Never found her.”

“You two are terrible,” Connie said with a roll of her eyes.Though she was still smiling. “They found her, you literally saw her last week withthe lower squads Wash, don’t worry. But yeah, it did leave quite the impression.”

“What did?” A voice came, catching everyone’s attention.Looking towards the doors, they saw the most of the remainder of the team−North,York and Maine−coming in from the direction of the training halls. York hadspoken.

“South’s speech about throwing us out of a Pelican,”Carolina said without missing a beat.

“Oooh, that.” They spread out to their respective lockers,Maine ruffling Wash’s hair on their way past, and there was a moment beforeYork paused and spoke again. “Wait, why are you talking about that?”

“Holy fuck, you will not belie−” A hand covered South’smouth, and Connie looked to Wash. Tilting her head, she hoped the silentquestion got across. Wash found his teeth gnawing on the inside of his cheek,but he nodded anyway. He had no reason to be nervous now, right?

When the hand fell away, South continued as if nothing hadhappened, “−ve what the rookie pulled in the field. You think how I announced my shit to everyone wasfucking something? This little fucker made a trans pun! Not even a fucking good one! He just heard fucking ‘transmission’and ran with it!”

All eyes fell on Wash, and Wash chuckled awkwardly. Again.

“Heh. It just− slipped out?”

Maine stopped what they were doing as their shoulders beganto shake, a low, rumbling laughter coming from deep in their chest. Wash’scheeks darkened another several shades, and he elbowed them in the hip in ahalf-hearted defence. All that did was earn him a hair ruffle, to which hescrunched up his face.

“You know what? I’m not even surprised. Of course the nerdrookie comes out via a ridiculous joke. Of course he does,” York said, shakinghis head with a laugh. “You fit right in kid. Ridiculous shit like that is thenorm here, y’know. Wanna know what I did?”

Maine started to laugh harder.

York tossed a stress ball from his locker at their head, “Igreeted Maine in the locker room with ‘so, d’you come here often?’ First dayhere.”

“He has a type,” North threw in, pulling a fresh shirt overhis head.

“Do not.”

“Oh you do, shut up.” Connie grabbed the ball from the floorand tossed it back at York. “People who can kick your ass.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” York said, nose inthe air. The ball smacked him right in the forehead. “Ow.”

“There’s no way that hurt.”

As the banter passed back and forth, Wash found himselfstarting to relax. His face was still burning hot−he’d never been so embarrassedin his life−but this was… nice. It feltsafe. No bad comments. No intrusive questions. Just a bunch of people with the sameterrible, gay sense of humour. He was far, far from alone.

“I made an ‘I can’t think straight’ joke,” Carolina said,wriggling her way into her sweats. Closing her locker, she turned to Wash withher arms folded. “Don’t worry, Wash. You fit right in.”

“Yeah, guess I do,” Wash said. Teeth catching his cheek, hetook a moment to consider his words. “I’m… glad everyone knows now, actually.It’s a real weight off my chest.”

Almost immediately, the entire room groaned.

“Wash, no.”

“That was just bad.”

Maine shoved his head.

Wash grinned.

#rvb #red vs blue #agent washington #agent connecticut #agent south dakota #agent carolina #agent maine #agent york #agent north dakota #rvb fic #my fanfiction #prompt fics #autistic fics by me

[screemagazine]

The Saddest Joy

On the release of Viktor’s Joy “I used to be clean”, a few words about the album, and a few more words with guitarist and songwriter Kaarel Malken… Having been tipped off by a musician friend from Herefordshire, I went to see Viktor’s Joy play in a pop up bar in some nondescript corner of Berlin when I was there last year.  The walls were scoured and mottled with patches of paint over bare plaster, the lighting dim.  Viktor’s Joy are led by Kaarel Malken (guitar, vocals).  He played fingerpicked guitar with a gentle but technical drummer (Jim Good) on a stripped down kit.  As we waited for them to come on music from Leonard Cohen’s first album set up the ambience, an obvious precedent.  I think it is probably lazy journalism to write soundbites like “Viktor’s Joy are Estonia’s answer to Leonard Cohen”, but the restraint of the music and depth of the lyrics encourage such behaviour.  Another comparison is Elliott Smith, particularly evident on the poetic and wearily lilting Parade Song #2, which even the title appears to be a conscious nod to the dear, departed American singer, sounding reminiscent of something off Either/or. The gig was beautiful, and swept us away.  At the end of the gig I spoke to Kaarel about his music, and he was kind enough to give me a pre-release of the album in a handmade cover for review in SCree.  I looked forward to playing it at home, and have played it sporadically since.  The album is out now, and I recommend you hear it, particularly if you are keen on melancholy folky singer songwriter stuff as I am.  Some music you hear seems to pose with miserable depth as a kind of sad expression forced to convince of profundity.  This music speaks of genuine experience, and seems to talk of growing up in Estonia and life experiences that transcend the specifics of their birth.  All the Promises Ever Made talk of the perils of addiction and how easily we fall into smoking, drinking, drugging.  There is a nostalgia to it as well as regret.  The refrain “never again” speaks of our brief determination to avoid destructive behaviour that is so easily forgotten.  The music sits in a rolling groove that has something of the Velvet Underground in the swooping electric guitar part.  There is variety on this record as well as coherence, in the instrumentation as in the arrangements.  The following track The Taste I remember, She Became a Ghost, is woven through with fast picking and tells a story effectively and evocatively.  It is haunting, ethereal and worn with a weary strength.  The guitar playing is almost Spanish classical style, particularly in the interludes.  He makes use of repetition to effectively show the tide of passing time.   Even more Spanish is the virtuosic opening lick to Lake Ontario, which is a short flourish before the cyclical picking comes in.  Again, there is an anecdotal narrative to it which is poetic and evocative.  Characters are introduced alongside the places they live.  Glacial vocals echo between verses.  The production is reverb-heavy and deep.  It sounds like it was recorded in an empty building.  The closing track Sisters ends on a slightly different note.  There is a warmth in the recording that offsets the wistfulness.  Like the bittersweet end to an eventful journey.  

A few questions: When did you first pick up the guitar? Growing up in a small town, surrounded by nothing but Soviet block houses, derelict playgrounds and seemingly endless  fields of peat, there were really not that many options. Either you take to kicking around a ball  or you take to kicking around other kids, most seemed to prefer the latter. Luckily my sisters, being ten years older than me,  saw the last of MTV and VH1 . By the time I got there the funeral procession was over  and the burial was about to end - the music industry, wearing shorts, was filming the open grave for a new reality TV show. I was the social experiment, the kid brother, the one who had to wear  "Guns n’ Roses" T-shirts and grow his hair long - during a time of shaved heads and garbage disco music. In the late nineties my father got offered a job, in Moscow, as a warehouse keeper. A few times a year he’d  return with a trunk full of  shovels, power drills, hammers, saws  and other tools he had managed to steal from the warehouse. Everything  spray painted red to fool the Russian customs into believing they were used. There had been a snowstorm the night before my dad arrived. An endless carpet of pure white. I was leaning over the sill, looking out from the kitchen window. My eyes were watery from the cold, but my excitement got the best of me. He parked his Lada and from the backseat he would lift out a large cardboard box, with the words “Dolby Surround” printed on its side. Little did I know that the content of that very box would affect my day to day existence to an almost unhealthy degree. During the following  years our collection of pirated cassette tapes and compact discs grew with  albums from Nirvana, Offspring, Dire Straits, Korn, Kino etc. Anything the shopkeeper in Moscow could copy on a CD-R and send to my sisters. Perhaps it was the sub-woofer that ignited my obsession to become a drummer, perhaps not, but by the time I turned ten I had begun taking lessons in the  local music school. My teacher was a middle aged marching band percussionist with a serious boozing problem. The four years under his tyranny taught me more about the side effects of binge drinking rather than drums. “For Christ sake boy, you keep missing the  f*ing beat train!” : something I’ll remember for the rest of my life. I called it quits after failing to perform  to a handful of  Sunday afternoon pensioners, my mother and my teacher,  in the city hall. Years  later, on my way to university, I walked past a plate glass window of a small music shop. The sign said : “20% off all instruments!!!” in big bright letters. With the little  I had saved,  working night shifts as a receptionist in a hotel,  and with the help of my parents, I scraped together enough to buy a blue XS plywood guitar. I composed my first song three days later. A two chord, short lived disaster. Last time I saw the guitar, hung by its neck, behind a plate glass window of a pawn shop - once more, discounted. What have you been doing up until now? Do you have any other interests beyond music? I’ve worked as a dishwasher, pastry chef, phone agent, engineer, as an extra in low budget German TV-movies. In other words, you name it - I’ve done it. Right now I’m sitting in a cafeteria a few blocks down the street from my house. I’ve been coming here for years to read and write. The bohemian life…. you know.  These days the place is full of prams and crying toddlers. One of them is drooling on my pants sleeve, as we speak. I find this drone of life calming. How did you find recording the album? Although the process started off in a proper studio, under the  guidance of a fantastic sound engineer, Martin Fiedler, I decided to continue by myself in the comfort of my bedroom - for the larger part. I suppose I felt intimidated by the expensive Neumann’s and the professional approach, deeming myself unworthy. In the long run, the positives outweighed the negatives and I learned how to use the equipment I had bought or borrowed from my friends ( mainly from my good buddy and band member Jim Good), during the years I’ve lived in Berlin. I guess the hardest part was recording the drums.  I used an old Russian Oktava that Jim brought back from Estonia a few summers ago - the only one that seemed to yield results. Jim is a subtle player , not a 4/4 rock drummer, and getting the sound I was looking for wasn’t as easy as I expected. It all worked out thanks to Jim’s infinite patience. Along the way Michael Brinkworth came to my aid with his beautiful 70’s Fender (I’m sorry if it wasn’t a Fender, Michael) and his ideas. Always a few hours late and out of breath - always passionate. He’s the most prolific  songwriter I  know and his input was more than welcomed. Some of my guitar tracks and vocal takes were done in a rehearsal room that used to belong to  Nina Hagen (something the locals seemed to take a lot of pride in). A damp basement full of old carpets and stale air. I spent a few weeks locked behind that massive metal door singing the same lines, over and over again. It was the following Autumn when I met Mauno Meesit from Grainy Records.  He was in the midst of recording his own album and was in need of a classical guitar. Our  mutual friend, who knew I had one,  got him to come to one of my shows. We barely spoke after the gig but in a couple of days I received an E-mail and from there on we got to speaking. Turned out he liked the show and was enthusiastic about the album I had been recording.  Soon enough he proposed me to join his label and I accepted without hesitation. I saw how serious he was about his own music and my mind was made up even before he asked. I’m not the easiest person to work with but Mauno’s, Buddha like, calmness bridged our way. The result is on my table, boxes full of it. Who could have imagined… What was the inspiration for the songs? I consider “I used to be clean”  a concept album. A retroperspective glimpse into my  childhood and how it was to grow up in the East during a time of despair and poverty as well as unity and love. I’m sure these themes will carry on into the future of my lyrics. Inspiration is an entity. Some sort of an astral being that enters and exits one’s body whenever and wherever. During these times I’m nothing but a medium in a state of unconscious effortlessness. Many of my songs are not born out of inspiration. These are the ones I’m never fully satisfied with, the conscious ones, the ones I labor over. The beauty of these songs lies in their ability to grow and change as I do. I’m learning how to work without inspiration yet remain open to it - it’s not that easy. How do you go about writing? My day kick-starts in the afternoon after a few cups of coffee. I try to write something in my diary every day. Sometimes it’s a poem or a short story, but mostly it amounts to nothing more but  everyday uneventfulness. It takes me weeks, months,  at times even years, to finish a song. Lately I feel as If I’m in  dire need of a break. Someplace quiet, outside this metropolitan cesspool. Someplace small where people go to sleep when the sun sets. Someplace where people talk about ordinary things, sit by a card table, eat canned sausages and drink clear spirits. Any place  considered “culturally inactive” according to metropolitan standards. Where can we hear it? www.bandcamp.com/viktorsjoy  or www.grainyrecords.com Where can we hear you play? The album release show, in Berlin,  will take place in Neue Nachbarn on the 5th of April. https://www.facebook.com/events/1879058472306213/1879252808953446/?notif_t=like&notif_id=1490094469947888 What are your plans for the future? Organize a couple of shows in Estonia and focus on writing and recording new tracks.

#music #folk #singer-songwriter #viktor's joy #album review #interview #kaarel malken #I used to be clean #new album #Berlin #Estonia

[gravityzine]

The Saddest Joy

On the release of Viktor’s Joy “I used to be clean”, a few words about the album, and a few more words with song writer Kaarel Malken...

Having been tipped off by a musician friend from Herefordshire, I went to see Viktor's Joy play in a pop up bar in some nondescript corner of Berlin when I was there last year.  The walls were scoured and mottled with patches of paint over bare plaster, the lighting dim.  Viktor's Joy are led by Kaarel Malken (guitar, vocals).  He played fingerpicked guitar with a gentle but technical drummer (Jim Good) on a stripped down kit.  As we waited for them to come on music from Leonard Cohen's first album set up the ambience, an obvious precedent.  I think it is probably lazy journalism to write soundbites like “Viktor's Joy are Estonia's answer to Leonard Cohen”, but the restraint of the music and depth of the lyrics encourage such behaviour.  Another comparison is Elliott Smith, particularly evident on the poetic and wearily lilting Parade Song #2, which even the title appears to be a conscious nod to the dear, departed American singer, sounding reminiscent of something off Either/or. The gig was beautiful, and swept us away.  At the end of the gig I spoke to Kaarel about his music, and he was kind enough to give me a pre-release of the album in a handmade cover for review in SCree.  I looked forward to playing it at home, and have played it sporadically since.  The album is out now, and I recommend you hear it, particularly if you are keen on melancholy folky singer songwriter stuff as I am.  Some music you hear seems to pose with miserable depth as a kind of sad expression forced to convince of profundity.  This music speaks of genuine experience, and seems to talk of growing up in Estonia and life experiences that transcend the specifics of their birth.  All the Promises Ever Made talk of the perils of addiction and how easily we fall into smoking, drinking, drugging.  There is a nostalgia to it as well as regret.  The refrain “never again” speaks of our brief determination to avoid destructive behaviour that is so easily forgotten.  The music sits in a rolling groove that has something of the Velvet Underground in the swooping electric guitar part.  There is variety on this record as well as coherence, in the instrumentation as in the arrangements.  The following track The Taste I remember, She Became a Ghost, is woven through with fast picking and tells a story effectively and evocatively.  It is haunting, ethereal and worn with a weary strength.  The guitar playing is almost Spanish classical style, particularly in the interludes.  He makes use of repetition to effectively show the tide of passing time.   Even more Spanish is the virtuosic opening lick to Lake Ontario, which is a short flourish before the cyclical picking comes in.  Again, there is an anecdotal narrative to it which is poetic and evocative.  Characters are introduced alongside the places they live.  Glacial vocals echo between verses.  The production is reverb-heavy and deep.  It sounds like it was recorded in an empty building.  The closing track Sisters ends on a slightly different note.  There is a warmth in the recording that offsets the wistfulness.  Like the bittersweet end to an eventful journey.  

A few questions:

When did you first pick up the guitar?

Growing up in a small town, surrounded by nothing but Soviet block houses, derelict playgrounds and a seemingly endless  fields of peat, there were really not that many options. Either you take to kicking around a ball  or you take to kicking around other kids, most seemed to prefer the latter. Luckily my sisters, being ten years older than me,  saw the last of MTV and VH1 . By the time I got there the funeral procession was over  and the burial was about to end - the music industry, wearing shorts, was filming the open grave for a new reality TV show. I was the social experiment, the kid brother, the one who had to wear  "Guns n' Roses" T-shirts and grow his hair long - during a time of shaved heads and garbage disco music. In the late nineties my father got offered a job, in Moscow, as a warehouse keeper. A few times a year he'd  return with a trunk full of  shovels, power drills, hammers, saws  and other tools he had managed to steal from the warehouse. Everything  spray painted red to fool the Russian customs into believing they were used. There had been a snowstorm the night before my dad arrived. An endless carpet of pure white. I was leaning over the sill, looking out from the kitchen window. My eyes were watery from the cold, but my excitement got the best of me. He parked his Lada and from the backseat he would lift out a large cardboard box, with the words "Dolby Surround" printed on its side. Little did I know that the content of that very box would affect my day to day existence to an almost unhealthy degree. During the following  years our collection of pirated cassette tapes and compact discs grew with  albums from Nirvana, Offspring, Dire Straits, Korn, Kino etc. Anything the shopkeeper in Moscow could copy on a CD-R and send to my sisters. Perhaps it was the sub-woofer that ignited my obsession to become a drummer, perhaps not, but by the time I turned ten I had begun taking lessons in the  local music school. My teacher was a middle aged marching band percussionist with a serious boozing problem. The four years under his tyranny taught me more about the side effects of binge drinking rather than drums. "For Christ sake boy, you keep missing the  f*ing beat train!" : something I'll remember for the rest of my life. I called it quits after failing to perform  to a handful of  Sunday afternoon pensioners, my mother and my teacher,  in the city hall. Years  later, on my way to university, I walked past a plate glass window of a small music shop. The sign said : "20% off all instruments!!!" in big bright letters. With the little  I had saved,  working night shifts as a receptionist in a hotel,  and with the help of my parents, I scraped together enough to buy a blue XS plywood guitar. I composed my first song three days later. A two chord, short lived disaster. Last time I saw the guitar, hung by its neck, behind a plate glass window of a pawn shop - once more, discounted.

What have you been doing up until now? Do you have any other interests beyond music?

I've worked as a dishwasher, pastry chef, phone agent, engineer, as an extra in low budget German TV-movies. In other words, you name it - I've done it. Right now I'm sitting in a cafeteria a few blocks down the street from my house. I've been coming here for years to read and write. The bohemian life.... you know.  These days the place is full of prams and crying toddlers. One of them is drooling on my pants sleeve, as we speak. I find this drone of life calming.

How did you find recording the album?

Although the process started off in a proper studio, under the  guidance of a fantastic sound engineer, Martin Fiedler, I decided to continue by myself in the comfort of my bedroom - for the larger part. I suppose I felt intimidated by the expensive Neumann's and the professional approach, deeming myself unworthy. In the long run, the positives outweighed the negatives and I learned how to use the equipment I had bought or borrowed from my friends ( mainly from my good buddy and band member Jim Good), during the years I've lived in Berlin. I guess the hardest part was recording the drums.  I used an old Russian Oktava that Jim brought back from Estonia a few summers ago - the only one that seemed to yield results. Jim is a subtle player , not a 4/4 rock drummer, and getting the sound I was looking for wasn't as easy as I expected. It all worked out thanks to Jim's infinite patience. Along the way Michael Brinkworth came to my aid with his beautiful 70's Fender (I'm sorry if it wasn't a Fender, Michael) and his ideas. Always a few hours late and out of breath - always passionate. He's the most prolific  songwriter I  know and his input was more than welcomed. Some of my guitar tracks and vocal takes were done in a rehearsal room that used to belong to  Nina Hagen (something the locals seemed to take a lot of pride in). A damp basement full of old carpets and stale air. I spent a few weeks locked behind that massive metal door singing the same lines, over and over again. It was the following Autumn when I met Mauno Meesit from Grainy Records.  He was in the midst of recording his own album and was in need of a classical guitar. Our  mutual friend, who knew I had one,  got him to come to one of my shows. We barely spoke after the gig but in a couple of days I received an E-mail and from there on we got to speaking. Turned out he liked the show and was enthusiastic about the album I had been recording.  Soon enough he proposed me to join his label and I accepted without hesitation. I saw how serious he was about his own music and my mind was made up even before he asked. I'm not the easiest person to work with but Mauno's, Buddha like, calmness bridged our way. The result is on my table, boxes full of it. Who could have imagined...

What was the inspiration for the songs? I consider "I used to be clean"  a concept album. A retroperspective glimpse into my  childhood and how it was to grow up in the East during a time of despair and poverty as well as unity and love. I'm sure these themes will carry on into the future of my lyrics. Inspiration is an entity. Some sort of an astral being that enters and exits one's body whenever and wherever. During these times I'm nothing but a medium in a state of unconscious effortlessness. Many of my songs are not born out of inspiration. These are the ones I'm never fully satisfied with, the conscious ones, the ones I labor over. The beauty of these songs lies in their ability to grow and change as I do. I'm learning how to work without inspiration yet remain open to it - it's not that easy.

How do you go about writing?

My day kick-starts in the afternoon after a few cups of coffee. I try to write something in my diary every day. Sometimes it's a poem or a short story, but mostly it surmounts to nothing more but  everyday uneventfulness. It takes me weeks, months,  at times even years, to finish a song.

Lately I feel as If I'm in  dire need of a break. Someplace quiet, outside this metropolitan cesspool. Someplace small where people go to sleep when the sun sets. Someplace where people talk about ordinary things, sit by a card table, eat canned sausages and drink clear spirits. Any place  considered "culturally inactive" according to metropolitan standards.

Where can we hear it? www.bandcamp.com/viktorsjoy  or www.grainyrecords.com

Where can we hear you play?

The album release show, in Berlin,  will take place in Neue Nachbarn on the 5th of April. https://www.facebook.com/events/1879058472306213/1879252808953446/?notif_t=like&notif_id=1490094469947888

What are your plans for the future?

Organize a couple of shows in Estonia and focus on writing and recording new tracks.

#music #folk #indie #singer-songwriter #viktors joy #album review #interview #SCree #Berlin #estonia #I used to be clean

[aurelliocheek]

Crafting Resolutiion’s Levels

Creating a game inspired by Mario, Zelda, Sonic, Mega Man, Contra, Final Fantasy, Fez, Shovel Knight and Sword & Sworcery.

Pixel art games have been around for over thirty years, and it’s looking a hell of a lot like they’ll stick around another few decades. While the aesthetic was originally defined by its constraints, today’s pixel-games have massively extended their boundaries in every conceivable direction. For the uninitiated, creating a pixel art game looks simple. We see a screenshot of a beautiful platformer and instantly deconstruct it into individual pieces: player, ­enemies, walls and some background ­layers. Easy. In late 2015, between a shitty coffee and discussion about Star Wars, we decided to learn how to push pixels and create our first indie game. Two months later our prototype was done. It featured a robot-guy walking across a bordered background map, attacking some generic enemies with his laser-sword. It sucked, big time. And so, the magnitude of our endeavour became a little clearer: to create a fun, satisfying and engaging video game, we needed a fleshed-out world. And it needed “depth”, whatever that meant.

– Rich, layered, holistic – Mushroom Kingdom, Hyrule, Planet Zebes – Insane, amount, of work

In this article we’re describing how we developed Resolutiion’s world and visuals while learning to build our first video game. Let’s start by having a look at the levels and how they came to be.

Cloud City’s Tower with all its points of interest.

Space Everything our character, Valor, perceives defines his environment. The sand he walks on, the clouds in the air, the leaves that float from nearby trees. Creating this space was the single biggest task in Resolutiion’s development over the last four years.

– Sky, floor, wall. – Above, below, ahead. – Close, far, nowhere.

As Resolutiion is a story-driven game, we wanted each map to be a small part of something bigger — each with a specific purpose: battle-zone, riddle, or to build ­dramatic ambience. Starting with pen and paper, we ­drafted long lists of the encounters, highlights and points of interest that would tell our story. Sorting and grouping these gave us an ­early feeling for progress and a tangible depth.

Highlights in hand, they now needed a place to go, they needed geometry, and to be linked to the main path. Pacing the player’s encounters with these areas was important: spreading them apart built up a mysterious vibe, while cramming them together motivated intense action. Plenty of small sketches helped us to explore these ideas and connect them: an item room received an epic entrance; a big, floating boss got some leeway to manoeuvre.

We stitched all these rooms and paths and caves together to form the first couple of maps, then combined those together to build even larger maps. Eventually, we had a clusterfuck of dirty, but fun, patchwork-maps and it became quite easy to extract themes and distinct levels from those.

By this stage, we had built a prototype to test mechanics and speed, and written a first draft of the overall story: both helped to develop a solid understanding of the size each level should be, and in which order they had to appear. Maps A1, B2-1 and E4 became the Desert of Giants, while others made up the Divided Sea, the Sunken City and the rest of the key levels. With names, story-bits and maps in place, we had a final, good look at the whole composition: were there any areas that felt too flat or boring? Could we make that linear tunnel more interesting to navigate?

From there, we dropped those maps straight into the engine, applied path barriers to define walkable areas, and playtested: they were boring and lifeless, but their size and complexity felt right and ready to be cultivated.

Bring out the crystal-trees and holographic swamps: we needed some colour.

The map’s designs started by painting architecture right on the layout-skeleton.

Level themes With a pool of ideas and plenty of maps, we began work on the second stage of our groundwork: level theming. Crafting an interesting, coherent world for a video game requires multiple visual themes. Huge mountains have deep chasms. Fire levels need their waterparks. And where there is a sky, there must be ground. Deciding and fleshing out these themes is a defining factor in any game’s development — remember Mario’s abominable ice levels?

The world of Resolutiion’s consists of nine major areas: – Cloud City, Desert of Giants, Forest of Self. – Phantom Pits, Mechanical Mines, Divided Sea. – Sunken City, Fallen City, The Stadium.

As a player progresses through a game, part of their incentive and reward is discovering new spaces, with new visual styles that keep the world feeling fresh. So each of our nine areas required unique colours, patterns and details (with plenty of asset recycling, of course).

We began by exploring colour combinations, and testing these styles with the simple maps we had, evolving them into interesting locations that furthered the story, asking ourselves questions like, where can we place that big, blue cat…? It sounds like a joke, but many criteria have to be addressed in answering those types of questions, from what colours work well with blue, to how big is the cat, and what is a reasonable environment in which to find a giant blue house-cat anyway? (It’s a desert, obviously.) Being a pixel art action-adventure in the style of the Zelda games, Resolutiion’s levels would require flat planes, walls to limit movement and some stairs and ladders for extra verticality and access to different tiers. Streams, cliffs and thick greenery limit movement too, more importantly they are also plenty of fun, and more exciting than another wall — it’s a video game, remember? It’s not just about creating a space that works thematically, for gameplay, or spectacle; all of those ingredients must be stirred into the stew simultaneously.

Creating our early theme mockups sparked much out-of-the-box thinking: growth in a forest is obvious, so are rocks in a desert and fish in the ocean. But how about thousands of mushroom-kids in a desolate mine? Or a coffee grinder on a rusty dock? Trying new combinations like these infused Resolutiion with its own, weird-ass charm.

Then the grunt-work began. With level themes in place, incorporating them into the wider map architecture was a tedious process. We started with the obvious areas and built towards the more interesting sights, optimising and extending patterns in the process. Continuously, we added more variation, twisted and flipped our assets ad nauseam, and forcibly transported many pixels to new lands and levels. This process continued through approximately ten billion maps … and counting.

Backgrounds are a great place to add to any game’s lore.

Layers Creating the first prototype level of our pixel-game and having a primitive Valor walk through it was an insanely gratifying experience. But after a while, everything felt a little too “flat” — like moving a piece of paper on top of another.

– Clouds, skylines, buildings. – Underground seas, metal bridges, rusted machinery. – Trees, trees, more trees.

While there are plenty of tools that can be utilised to add depth to a basic scene, splitting the map into various z-layers was Resolutiion’s chosen route: we call the structure that our kid/hero/worm runs/walks/crawls across “the floor”. Behind the floor there’s something farther: “the background”; and in front, between the camera and our character, there’s … (drumroll) … “the foreground”.

Floor Intuitively a game developer might think that players will focus their attention primarily on the playable character, but as long as the gameplay is fluid and reliable, this assumption would be wrong. Instead, our senses process the space in close proximity of our character: the floor, the walls, cliffs and similar patterns, seeking paths and scouting for enemies. With the player’s main focal point being the floor, crafting these details was the most crucial part of our world-building process. Balancing variation and repetition went through long iterations: don’t bore the player with the same things over and over, but also don’t have her learn new visual signals at every corner.

Backgrounds While floors have a direct impact on how a pixel-world is traversed, backgrounds barely matter on the interactive dimension. They might, however, form almost the entirety of screen real estate at times, so we’d better make sure they look awesome.

From our experience with Resolutiion, we’ve learned that backgrounds are the task that can be the most fun. As they don’t interfere with actions or collisions and exist mainly to look pretty, backgrounds turned out to be a great place to add some epicness, fun and story to the game. From the desert’s distant skyline of the Fallen City to a silent giant looming over the Forest of Self, backgrounds were always a cool place to add fun details. Foregrounds

Structures, growth and elements that appear between the camera and player-­character can add an impressive sense of depth to any game’s aesthetic. These foregrounds crack open the flat, paper feeling and connect the hero to the planes and borders. Low grass or rocks, chains hanging from the ceiling, or a wire fence with birds on top. These all had to be crafted with care, however. Obscuring too much of the game-world with foreground art can easily ­result in the loss of a player’s overview and ­control. Combining background, floor and foreground into interesting visual arrangements quickly elevated our maps from shallow planes to rich pixel-landscapes, but it took many months to balance those graphics — colour and contrast needed to be fine-tuned and applied repeatedly.

In Resolutiion, most levels feature between four and five art layers. As the name implies, Cloud City’s floor lives atop two misty backgrounds, with additional clouds in the foreground. As another example, the Fallen City is a desolate wasteland of collapsed sky­scrapers, with threatening shadows lurking overhead.

Particles and blurry backgrounds help to elevate Resolutiion’s aesthetics above classic pixelart.

Effects By this stage, things were starting looking good —like a real retro game— but we wanted a modern retro look, as ambivalent as that sounds. Let’s have a look at ­Resolutiion’s final set of magic tricks.

Parallax scrolling By far the most widely used technique to sell depth is parallax scrolling multiple back- or foregrounds. In theory, this means that objects which are farther away from the camera move slower than the closer ones. In real life this is obvious when, say, driving past a forest or a city skyline, where the distant buildings or trees appear quite static, while streetlights and road signs zip by in a blur. Some of our levels feature up to ten different parallax layers, but often fewer layers can sell depth just as well. Cloud City is built up like this:

-5 Red sky with few clouds -4 Far away cities, floating, in red -3 Closer cities, floating, in purple, with some clouds -2 Flying ships, connecting the cities -1 Individual towers and more clouds 0 Main floor +1 Large foreground towers +2 Cloud shadows +3 Ambient particles, small +4 Ambient particles, large

Positioning elements on various parallax backgrounds turned out to be challenging, due to their unnatural scrolling dynamic. We made life easier for ourselves by pla­cing a numbered grid in the background, which informed our positioning of relevant patterns and objects, helping judge where they best helped sell depth to the player’s eyes.

Blur Manipulating focus through blurring is heavily used in photography and films. It can also be applied effectively to pixel-games when used with care. ­Obvious use cases include clouds and mist, but some of our backgrounds benefited greatly from growing increasingly indistinct the farther they got from Valor.

Vignette In our case, a vignette is a radial gradient that fades out from the player-character into a darker shade. This helps the player to focus more on the centre of the screen, in that previously mentioned sweet-spot where the action is happening. Typically the vignette is attached to a scene’s camera and will follow it everywhere. For Resolutiion, we’re using multiple, coloured vignettes, to add a vibrant, glowing effect to each area of the world. These are tailored to each level’s colour theme, but also to differentiate indoor and outdoor spaces: the closer the walls, the darker the vignette.

Particles To sell the depth and dreamy world of ­Resolutiion just a little more, we ­added two layers of drifting particles between the camera and our hero, naturally ­parallaxing slightly faster than the main floor. They could resemble dust, mist or light ­reflections, but in general, they just add to the ambient illumination of ­characters and levels which we were looking for. Additionally, those particles were rather tame on the game’s performance compared to the same amount of added light sources, which degraded every play-session into a forced euthanising slideshow with ­grandpa.

We were not lying about “the coffee grinder on a rusty dock”, were we?

Step By Step, Layer By Layer

– Ideas, locations, connections. – Themes, details, layers. – Scrolling, vignettes, particles.

There are many routes to creating fun and engaging video game levels, and we learned them all the hard way, through trial, error, and hours of frustrating playtesting. Ideas became prototypes, just to be discarded. Mockups were massively extended, before being reworked entirely. The whole process of taking a single idea from paper to an enjoyable experience took months and sometimes years, as we tweaked mechanics and restructured story­lines.

Step by step we learned how to stitch a patchwork of ideas into a beautifully ­balanced quilt-game. Layer by layer we elevated its flat presentation to something worth exploring.

A pretty location to walk around is obviously not the ultimate goal of a good gaming experience. You still need objects, obstacles, enemies and more to interact with… But those are things for another ­article — that I need to write in between pushing glorious pixels and placing parallax towers in the red sky.

Günther & Richard Beyer Senior Developers

Resolutiion is created by Monolith of Minds: two angry German brothers leading a band of vagrants. We’re as independent as it gets, building Resolutiion one pixel, one frame, one line of code at a time, one line of copy at a time, since 2015.

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