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eolewyn1010 · 5 months

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Downton Abbey Fashion 1 - Edwardian mourning dresses

I have finally decided to stop planning into infinity and just start posting my collected thoughts on the fashion of Downton Abbey on my blog. So, this is the first in what will probably be a rather long series of posts, as I will separate them by season, sometimes by character, and in cases like today's by the purpose of the clothes in question. Nevermind my occasional snarky comments about the characters; I'm here for the fashion, not for the writing choices in Downton Abbey. Keep in mind that I will focus on the female characters because... frankly, I think Edwardian and onwards is the time when Western menswear gets supremely boring. And also, the vast majority of what I'm talking about here is high fashion. I will have a look at some of the servants' dresses, but their wardrobe is limited and they rarely get the prettier pieces of the cake. Shame.

Let's start with Season 1, which plays from April 1912 up to the beginning of the World War in the summer of 1914. And our dear Crawleys start the series in an exceptional situation regarding fashion - they are in official mourning (to Mary's resentment, but we'll get to that). Accordingly, four of Violet’s prominent 11 outfits in the first season (11? Wow, they sure blew up the dress budget later on…) are mourning outfits. Maybe three, because one of those is a heavy black coat and she wears it outside of mourning, too, but I think the character of Violet actually premiered in this.

Unfortunately, it rarely is seen in a light that does not make it look like a flat black blob. But that velvet is actually gorgeous (and might be dark blue instead of black? I dunno, it would be typical for movie outfits). And the sleeve decoration (those aren’t cuffs; they are like in the middle of the sleeve instead of at the hem) as well as the collar show actually some embroidery. There’s not much to be said for the structure – except for the shoulders, and these shoulders? Are very Victorian. Those are late 1890s’ shoulders. Yeah, the series starts out in 1912 and goes well into the mid-1920s, but to be honest, Violet’s fashion never quite gets there. Good on her for sticking to those lovely buttons and the fabulous hats!

Speaking of 1890s, the sleeves on this evening dress are even a few years older than the previous coat. The giant poofy sleeves are somewhere around 1893, I think? Give or take a year or two; sleeve fashions throughout the 1890s were highly specific, and I can’t remember every year’s specialty. They aren’t as structured as I would expect; perhaps that is Violet’s concession to the times. The silhouette certainly isn’t. Also interesting: In the first picture, Violet is visibly wearing her wedding ring. Huh. She’s been a widow for a while, and afaik her marriage was, while harmonic, not exactly passionate. So maybe she keeps wearing it as a part of her “duty and reputation above everything” mentality.

I first couldn’t distinguish this dress from the former and threw them in together – same sleeves, same silhouette, same neckline with a translucent bit closing up in a choker. But no, the bodice front isn’t as heavily embroidered, the lower sleeves are see-through. It also doesn’t seem to be employed as an evening gown, if the comparatively light bling is anything to go by. I like the fabric though; I think it may be taffeta.

See what I mean about the comparatively light bling? This dress here? Is very definitely an evening dress. It’s practically nothing but blackwork, the whole top is encrusted with rhinestones, the sleeves and gloves are both made of lace. This is the height of fancy that Violet can do in official mourning. And it barely toes the threshold to the 20th century. Now, granted, the high neck and the pigeon chest are still a thing throughout the 1910s, but the dresses slim down by that time. This looks massive and opulent. For as long as the rest of the family looks Edwardian, Violet’s dresses will have a distinctly Victorian feel to them. She’ll dabble in Edwardian fashion by the time the others have moved on to the Roaring 20s…

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I’m already getting bored of the black (Mary attitude? Not on this blog, I don’t). This time around, it’s Cora! Three mourning dresses out of a total of 20 notable outfits in the 1st season, that’s not a bad rate. Can’t wait to get to her gorgeous coats.

Speaking of coats. Look at this, and directly compare it to Violet’s first black coat. Granted, you could make a point for the structured Victorian shoulders. But the coat itself is way slimmer, not the wide thing Violet is wearing, but something that’s cut into shape and actually shows off Cora’s figure, including a lack of chest poof. Pigeon chests haven’t died out until the late 1910s, I think, but I don’t see it on Cora. That may be because Elizabeth McGovern has such a dainty figure and they wanted to show that off, so she’s very on top of the fashion for now. A shame that the picture doesn’t lend itself to a closer look at embroidery, but I applaud Cora’s endeavor to try and keep up with Violet’s massive hats.

That’s more like it! A house dress, this isn’t trying to drown Cora; it’s showing her off. I mean, it’s modest; it is a mourning dress with a high neck and all, but she looks nice in this. Early 1910s fashion dresses her well! I’m not sure how I feel about that giant pendant thing on her necklace (actually, I do; I hate it), so we’ll just ignore that and look at the dress instead. This rectangular sort of frame that the lace bands form on her chest is something that appears on a ton of late Edwardian lingerie dresses (it’s not sexy underwear; the term means a usually white summer dress for something like strolls in the garden, covering everything, but very lightweight and comfy in warm weather). Now, this mourning dress is of heavier material than those; it’s definitely made to look more severe. But the decoration elements, the narrow sleeves, the high waist, that’s pretty similar. Also, that dangly beads bit on her belt? That seems to evoke the kind of playful design that’ll dominate the 1920s.

Cora is still owning the Edwardian fashion with black tulle, and I really enjoy looking at these sleeves. I wouldn’t enjoy wearing them; the swishy fabric would keep irritating me. But tops partially made of tulle are kind of a thing for Cora’s early evening dresses, so this is some of the most skin she shows – even in mourning. I mean, the long gloves are mitigating that a bit, but the wide neckline with the delicate lace leaves space for some heavy jewelry. And that is old-fashioned, 19th-century jewelry; look at those clunky cabochons.

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Mary infamously established her character by complaining about having to go in mourning because black is so dull. Which is not only the first instance in a series of remarkably tactless behaviors; it’s also hilarious. Aside from maybe Violet, the Dowager™, Mary’s gotta be the protagonist who wears the most black, even outside of mourning. But alright, chickie; keep your attitude. For this season, it’s three of 21 outfits for this particular purpose.

Call me a contrarian, but I think Edwardian fashion isn’t terribly flattering for Mary the Fashion Queen of Downton Abbey. This is what she’s wearing for the memorial service for her cousin, and I dunno, the waist seems to make it one of the outfits that work the least in favor of Michelle Doherty’s lanky figure. In all fairness, she slays as soon as we hit 1920. It’s still a high-quality outfit, don’t get me wrong. Simple cut, I’m a fan of the white details, the hat is lovely. I’m actively appalled by the handbag though. Wasn’t this the time before reasonable pockets died out?? I feel betrayed.

A bored look and an evening dress, if that isn’t a Mary vibe. Also, evening garb is time to show some skin, and what I find interesting is that, different than her mother and grandmother, she’s wearing costume jewelry. It’s a good fit to the netting / lace with rhinestones her dress is made of (going with the principle of simple cut, intricate material), but I didn’t know it was a thing before 1920s’ art deco. Huh.

Fancy black lace there! I like it. The dress cut is more fitted than the previous, and again, I’m not a great fan of Mary wearing Edwardian. But maybe it’s the wide round or square necklines? Mary usually goes for Vs during most of the season. Ah, well. She sure combines her jewelry well with tulle.

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Edith, my girl. They’re doing her looks so dirty this season. This was when she was still the ‘plain’, ‘shrew’ sister. And then, Mary also peed on her for genuinely grieving her cousin. How dare she.

Her memorial service dress, and instantly I go “she’s wearing this better than Mary does hers in the same scene”. And it’s not because she doesn’t have Michelle Dockery’s wide shoulders; it’s because in her case they don’t try to compliment a tall, flat figure with a cut that isn’t made for it. There’s more material on chest and waist here, bunching up in a way that Edwardian blouses often did in the tail end of pigeon chest fashion. I really like the hat, full set with feathers, bow, and tulle veil, as well as the collars of both the blouse and the jacket… wait a second, is that a handbag??

Another dress with a lot of blackwork on the top to a simple skirt, and I’m here for it. I wish they would allow her a decent hairdo, but we gotta dress her down somehow, because that nice necklace sure isn’t gonna do the job. In comparison to Mary’s and Sybil’s black evening dresses this season, this looks unassuming and understated, but the cut dresses her well, and the lack of bling on the dress itself allows the necklace to pop nicely. Maybe too nicely, because the next one is a mess.

I wonder how often they had to tell Laura Carmichael throughout the first season to pull this face, not to smile her natural smile (which is gorgeous), and to press her chin down to make it look less defined. Because… she is a beautiful woman, and they didn’t want Edith to look beautiful. They let an unflattering hairdo and a bad posture do the job. Or a dress like this that is made of tulle and lace and all fancy, but looks like it doesn’t fit her. Why does this fit so badly? The sleeves, the uneven V on the front, it’s all over the place. Something went really wrong with the layering here.

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Last batch of first season’s mourning dresses, for Sybil! The youngest Crawley daughter is a genuine sweetheart, different than Mary, and she holds the writer’s favor, different than Edith, so she’s consistently dressed to look pretty and charming and girlish.

On that matter, I envy her that jacket. Look at the lapels and the buttoned front! Shame we don’t see too much of this outfit; the focus of the scene is on Mary being nasty to Edith for having emotions. But I love the structured fabric they used for the framing. Interesting that she gets away with a brown ribbon around the hat; it's not like they couldn't swap those (and Sybil does a few times over the course of her runtime with other hats).

Not the greatest look at the dress, but it’s the best I got… Doesn’t Sybil just have lovely hair? With Edith, they use these kind of curls or buckles to both sides of her face to make her hairdo look unbalanced, but with Sybil, they went for cuteness and a young look, so she gets her hair tied up in the neck instead of an updo – I’m pretty sure Sybil is only 18 here. The top of her dress seems to be layered lace, if I look at the back of this. And the sleeves are gorgeous!

Different dress, different jewelry! The previous one went for costume jewelry, but this pendant is at least made to look like real. And that giant hairbow! Sybil looks inappropriately chipper for mourning time; I keep expecting her to bounce over flowery meadows. And she gets more lovely lace sleeves.

#Downton Abbey #historical fashion #I swear the screenshots got better when I had more practice :P #but we'll only see this as I go forward #hm if I make this a regular thing I need a separate tag #Downton Abbey's costume fund #yeah that'll do

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starlene · 2 years

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Color asks:) Yellow, blue, coral, emerald, fulvous, honey, scarlet.

Thank you!!

Yellow: name of an artist you think is underappreciated

Of the music I listen to, 85% is musicals, and 15% is artists that are all, if not mainstream, well appreciated within their own genres... so I don't really know.

Blue: preferred type of weather?

Cloudy, temperature somewhere between 15 and 20 celsius.

Coral: an animal you wish hadn’t gone extinct

Those giant beavers. I mean, beavers the size of bears, just wandering around. Imagine.

Emerald: if you had the option, would you choose to move and live in another country? which one?

In my dreams, I live in the Northern Jutland region of Denmark already, being the manager of my own little Bed & Breakfast, keeping bees, and watching the sun sink into the North Sea every night.

I know a move like that would solve zero of my current problems and give me a thousand troubles more, I absolutely do not have what it takes to be a hotelkeeper and would likely never get a grasp of the language... and yet, I dream.

Fulvous: another name you think would suit you

I quite like my name, but I do think my parents didn't think one thing through when they came up with it: my first, middle, and last names all have multiple instances of the letter "I" in them. That makes them sorta blur into each other when you say them, unless you take an awkward little pause in between saying them... and my last name being really rare makes it even more confusing, because the vast majority of people I introduce myself to haven't ever heard it before.

I'm definitely not going to change my name because of something like that. But in case my Finnish followers who listen to the podcast have noticed that I always introduce myself last name first, that's why – to make the combo sound slightly less blurry.

Anyways, Starlene has been my username on so many different sites across the years, it's kind of like my other name by this point. I don't know if it really suits me, I think it's got a more feminine ring to it than I really am, but it's mine.

(I had never heard of the colour "fulvous" before, and before searching it, I imagined it would be some kind of a pale purple.)

Honey: your thoughts on magic- does it exist?

I think yes, but not in the sense that there are wizards who can do magical spells out there. I just think some moments are magical, in the sense that they have more to them than our senses and reason can really explain.

Scarlet: favorite holiday

Titanic week.

If that doesn't count, Halloween... and more specifically, Internet Halloween. While I really don't like the USA-ification of Finnish/European culture in general, I can't help it, Halloween as a concept is super fun. I enjoy logging in here on Tumblr and seeing my dash covered with skeletons and other spooks, I enjoy the memes and silly songs that get reblogged every year, I even like the black-and-orange colour scheme. Looking forward to October already!

(All that being said, though, I wish all Finnish trick-or-treaters a very pleasant piss off. We have our very own going-door-to-door-begging-for-candy holiday before Easter and as far as I'm concerned, that's ENOUGH of that. Don't get greedy, kids, let's just enjoy the spooky aesthetic!)

Color Asks

#thanks!#ask games.

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uniquetempo · 2 years

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Micro Space

Many people, in the state I live in, either have a house or talk about wanting or getting a house. Usually people who desire a house have a family under their care or they desire to have a family someday. In my opinion, living alone in a house can get quite boring and sometimes can also get a bit scary; especially with all that space.

I, on the other hand, do not desire a house. Don't get me wrong, I had moments where I imagined buying a house with many rooms, a basement, and/or attic.

Each room with its own color scheme. The basement - an arcade paradise with all the dance game varieties. The reading room - filled with bookshelves and a side of mirrors. The toy room - large area rug in the middle surrounded by showcases. The tech room - filled with gadgets and computers with the latest updates to get my business started. Three bedrooms, two separate kitchens, and two separate living areas with separate entrances for business purposes.

As detailed as the house is, I do not desire it. I would've, if I had people that I kept around to share it with. Sadly though, I'm a runner.

I desire quite the opposite: micro-apartments. I would like to live somewhere at or below 100 sq ft. I have read such apartments or rooms exist in most major cities. In NYC, the price for such a spot may be $1,000 or more compared to other countries.

In the Summer/Fall of 2013, I temporarily lived, with my son, in a 'micro' apartment in San Diego, CA. The apartment is between 125 sq ft to 150 sq ft and the rent was $900/month. It was the perfect size for me, but it was quite the opposite for my son. We had to move, due to a family emergency. At this moment and time, these apartments are being rented for $1,377. Yikes!

I currently reside in a 900 sq ft, two-bedroom, apartment with my son and roommate. My son and I have the smallest of the two rooms and even that room feels too big for me. We have been living in this apartment for many years and to be honest, no matter how many times I change stuff around, it doesn't feel like home. I am only staying here for my son's sake.

In the past, I thought I needed more space - like my own room -because I don't have a space of my own. My space is everywhere and nowhere at the same time. I even thought if my roommate moved out, this place would finally feel like home. I then realized that is not exactly the case.

After visiting NYC on my own, two times in the past two months, it occurred to me that I am definitely a fan of small spaces. The hotel-sized room of 229 sq ft to 362 sq ft was comfortable at first, but then it started feeling too spacious.

I remember curling myself up in the corner of the room, behind the ceiling to floor curtains, and looking down at the people outside. This made me feel more relaxed. It was like a little getaway section of the room; an escape from all the available empty space.

Someday I will live in a micro apartment. I would actually live in one right now, if I could. But, I do not live in a major city nor do I believe there is an apartment under 100 sq ft in my current area.

Right now, I’ll just deal with the vast space in front of me and suffer just a while longer until I can find a place to call home.

#Micro apartments #small space #homes #tiny homes #dream home #too much space #micro living in the city #Hillcrest Inn #Studio apartments #Wyndham 45 #dream place

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harper-ance · 2 years

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Kit and Zoey (A himbo romance series - part 3)

The smell of green apple fragrance filled the air while Zoey, wearing bright yellow rubber gloves, worked her way through a pile of dishes. After the incident in the garage the day before, even though she and Kit had finished their shift in there, their boss Justin had thought it was best to switch them out of the dust filled air just in case. At first Zoey had been grateful because the garage was a mess of squirrel nests and heavy boxes, but five minutes inside had her wishing she could be knee deep in the wood scraps again.

The owner of the house they'd been hired to clean out was an adorable older woman, who's four middle aged children were spread out in various other rooms to help pack up the important stuff to set aside somewhere safer. "My my my," the woman kept saying every few minutes. "I'd nearly forgotten about this!" To which she would show an object to Kit who would take an interest and ask about it. Everytime Kit was distracted, Zoey found herself chancing a glance in his direction and staring at the hat he wore, imagining the hair underneath that she had recently seen and learned was actually rather long.

Zoey understood that something was going on with the woman to contribute to her hoarding. It had sounded as though the passing of her husband when their children were still in high school played a big part of it. But hearing that same phrase over and over again while she stared down at the pile of dishes that never seemed to end had Zoey clenching her jaw tight and staring at the soap suds in the sink as as she rinsed the one hundredth plate.

The dishes left behind were only a fraction of the original mess. The crew in there the day before had boxed and trashed the vast majority of them. The only thing that kept Zoey going was that Kit had to stay close at hand, helping to hand dry and put away the dishes. At one point he gently coaxed the woman, whom he fondly called Mimi at her insistence, to toss all her plastic takeout containers into the recycling can he'd brought in from the side yard.

Kit was so good at keeping Mimi on track and distracted with conversation that Zoey didn't have to participate much. She would occasionally thank Mimi when the woman tried to offer her one of ten beverage options from the fridge or would call for Kit's attention when he didn't notice the dishes waiting for him. She was on the verge of thinking her brain was going to melt with boredom when Zoey heard Mimi ask Kit something interesting.

"Are you dating anyone? Is it serious?" Mimi asked. "My granddaughter, you know the one in college I was telling you about earlier? She's a little younger than you, but mature. Real smart girl, real pretty smile. You two would be so lovely together! You should let me call her over, where's my cell phone?"

Zoey stood up a bit straighter as she realized that Kit's answer was more interesting to her than it should be for someone she couldn't stand no more than twenty four hours before. She stared at the plate in her hand extra hard, watched the suds as they rinsed away and disappeared down the drain.

"I'm sure Jenny is wonderful," Kit said, clearing his throat for a moment and turning his back to Mimi in order to pick up a few plates. He busied himself with putting them away before he followed up with, "It's very nice of you, but I'm not looking for anyone right now."

"Oh," Mimi said with interest. "So you are seeing someone? Tell me all about her, I feel like I've told you so much about my dear, late Richard and I haven't heard anything of your...?" Mimi trailed off in an attempt to prompt Kit into giving her some sort of details.

"I'm not seeing anyone," Kit answer. "Not anymore."

"Oh, a broken heart," Mimi fussed before she distracted herself with her own memories of her teen years, telling Kit stories of dates she went on in high school. In between remembered moments she asked Kit if chocolate would make him feel better while turning to her pantry and remarking, "I know there's a few boxes in here... Samples are the best way to go, you know. A little taste of everything."

Zoey glanced over her shoulder to see what Kit was doing only to find him standing closer to her than she realized. He stood there, quietly drying some glasses, and looked much happier than she might have expected. After the internet snooping she'd done the night before, as best as she could tell, he hadn't really been single all that long. And it had looked like his ex had been around for a long time.

"Life is a journey and all we can do is enjoy it," Kit beamed when Mimi paused long enough during her stories. "Smile because it happened, not because it's over. Am I right?" The cheeriness in his voice reminded Zoey, once again, that he was a very different person from herself. The last time she'd been in a breakup situation she had nearly eaten her own weight in ice cream and Krispy Kreme donuts. But Kit was bouncing around the kitchen like he was a delighted little grandchild visiting grandma for a holiday.

Mimi's cellphone began to vibrate on the table and she gasped with obvious glee. "Oh my, her ears must have been ringing! Jenny dear, is that you? Do a video call, there's someone I want you to meet!"

Zoey knew immediately what it was that Mimi was hoping to do and she felt a mixture of amusement and sudden jealousy. After a few protests Jenny relented to a video call while complaining that her hair was a mess, though Zoey doubted that it was. "Meet this wonderful man, Christopher," Mimi said as soon as the video was active. "Isn't he handsome? He's single, too!"

"Grandma!" Jenny exclaimed. "I'm so sorry, my grandmother is just trying to be nice. Mom! Mom can you hear me? Grandma is objectifying people again! Mom? Moooom!"

"What's all this?" The woman who joined them in the kitchen could only be Jenny's mother, Zoey assumed, as she looked over at the small crowd forming. Kit stood behind Mimi with a big, goofy smile on his face while he waved at the video that Mimi was hoisting up for all to see. "Mom, stop pestering Jenny! She had finals to study for." Sheryl poked her head through the doorway behind them all, curious what all the noise was about but kept her distance as a curious bystander.

"Oh, relax Sarah. I just want to make sure Jenny remembers to have fun! Christopher has been so polite today, I'm sure he'd take her on a proper date."

"Mom," Sarah protested, though she laughed a little. "You're supposed to be clearing out the cabinets. I'm sure Jenny can find her own dates."

"Oh," Mimi exclaimed. "I almost forgot to ask. Are you actually gay Jenny? You know your brother just informed me last week that he's gay. They say that kind of thing runs in the family. Zoey over here at the sink is cute, too! She's a hard worker, I bet she could help you study."

Zoey found a phone being shoved in her face all of a sudden, catching her off guard. She wasn't sure if she should be flattered that Mimi had called her cute, or curious what it was about her that made Mimi think she was both single and into women. "Uh," Zoey said, seeing a frazzled girl sitting on her dorm bed with her hand over her face and the sounds of other girls in the background giggling. "I'm not into girls, but good luck with your studying!"

The phone was out of her face just as quickly as it had appeared, leaving Zoey wondering when exactly a cleaning job had turned into speed dating. As Sarah wrangled the phone away from Mimi, Kit leaned on the counter next to Zoey and took a plate directly from her rather than the stack she'd been building. "They're adorable," he said, watching them. "It must be nice to a grandmother. Do you think she has those cute little aprons anywhere? I'd wear a cute little apron."

#himbo romance #harper ance #original characters #original writing #hoarders #a story about cleaners #opposites attract #a cheesy romance story #guilty pleasure #writers on tumblr

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bereft-of-frogs · 3 years

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also while I’m being sort of grumpy about how much fandom throws around terms like ‘abusive’ (see last reblog)

I have to say something that’s been sort of bothering me lately is how extreme fandom conversations about characters can be. Especially complicated ones, that are meant to be protagonists that sometimes say or do the wrong thing. I just feel like half the fandom ends up thinking they’re perfect and can do no wrong and the other half spends their time calling them a literally abusive monster. I know nuance is a lot to ask from tumblr but...come on guys...

just like. if you* find yourself hating a character...and calling the other half of the fandom delusional, or accusing them of being too committed to a fanon interpretation, or cherrypicking canon for being fans of that character (or vice versa)

...perhaps just ask yourself if the truth isn’t somewhere in the middle and perhaps...you may also be cherry picking canon or cleaving too closely to a fanon interpretation that there’s no room for nuance?

*the general you, not calling anyone out lol

#this is literally not a callout to anyone in particular #because i could name a dozen posts about a dozen different characters i've seen in the last week #like it's just...it's somewhere in the middle for the vast majority of these cases #yeah sure you have your unquestionably evil characters #but most of these are about protagonists with flaws #and then people feel the need to make callout posts about those characters #that accuse their fans of cherrypicking canon and being delusional #you know a character interpretation can be in the middle right guys?#good people say bad things sometimes #good people make mistakes #that doesn't mean they're abusive assholes

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destieltropecollection · 3 years

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Destiel Trope Collection 2021 | Day 1: Fallen!Cas

In A Fortress of Pine Trees | @mistofstars Rating: Explicit Word Count: 3,380 Main Tags/Warnings: Endverse, Croatoan, 2014, 5x04, Smut, bottom!Dean, Angst, Top!Cas Summary: Future!Dean / Future!Castiel "Cas", he finally exhales. "I could need one of your amazing hippie massages right now" -it starts with a simple massage and ends somewhere else; Dean gives in to long neglected needs... DESTIEL in 2014

The Warmth of your skin | @notfunnydean

Rating: Explicit Word Count: 3,414 Main Tags/Warnings: Sharing Body Heat, Hurt!Cas, First Kiss, Naked Cuddling, Sharing a Bed, no explicit sex, human!Cas Summary: Dean and Castiel are in the middle of a forest, when a snowstorm surprises them in the middle of the summer. To make their luck perfect, Castiel breaks into the ice of a lake. There is only one way to survive this cold. Body Heat.

Are We Human? | @one-more-offbeat-anthem

Rating: General Word Count: 3,766 Main Tags/Warnings: human!/fallen!Castiel, first kiss, love confessions, pet cats Summary: After losing his grace, Cas struggles with being human. Dean tries to help him out—and in showing the former angel how to find joy in the little things, starts to find joy himself (if he's brave enough to reach for it). And also discovers that maybe cats aren't so bad.

The End Of The Beginning | @vampamber

Rating: Explicit Word Count: 3,885 Main Tags/Warnings: ABO, omega Dean, alpha Cas, endverse, endverse Cas, heat, pwp, S5E4 The End, there's a sequel Summary: He just wished that Zach-y boy had picked a better time. Dean could feel those deep seated aches in his abdomen that could only mean he was a day or so away from his damn heat starting. Hopefully he could learn his little lesson before he had to lock himself away for a few days to keep himself from presenting to every damn alpha in a five mile radius. He usually took suppressants, but dealing with Lucifer had kind of taken front seat just long enough for Dean to miss a few too many doses. “Damn it,” he muttered to himself as he rubbed at his wrists, finally free. He wandered out to see where the hell he was. It was an old summer camp, that much he could tell, but that was about it. But as weird as all this was, as unreal and impossible as it had to be, the most mind blowing part was definitely Cas. Fuzzy, stoned out of his gourd, sex guru to a gathering of betas and omegas Cas. Cas, who smelled so strongly of alpha and everything that Dean had ever wanted that he had to shift himself when the guy wasn't looking to try and hide the quickly growing erection in his pants, praying that he wouldn't slick right through his jeans.

Finally Realized | @vampamber

Rating: Explicit Word Count: 4,018 Main Tags/Warnings: ABO, alpha Cas, omega Dean, Dean in heat, human Cas, first time, porn with plot Summary: Dean is sick in bed, so Sam calls in a now-human Cas to come and take care of the cranky patient while he escapes goes on a hunt. Dean cooperates with Cas, but it just figures, when the cold is finally gone, his heat takes its place. Now denial stops being an options as Dean begs Cas for the thing he's always wanted, but could never admit to.

Sweet Cherry Pie | @imbiowaresbitch

Rating: Explicit Word Count: 4,801 Main Tags/Warnings: No archive warnings apply, first kiss, first time, friends to lovers, top dean/bottom cas Summary: Dean takes the newly-human Cas to a diner to try some new foods. Cas wants more than a taste.

Tick Tock Goes The Clock | @vampamber

Rating: Explicit Word Count: 5,784 Main Tags/Warnings: ABO, omega Dean, alpha Cas, human Cas, alcohol as a coping mechanism, implied mpreg, angst, porn with plot, drunken confessions, drunken sex Summary: It was a well known fact that every omega had a metaphorical biological clock ticking away inside of them, just waiting to spring the alarm and make the poor guy or girl go just a wee bit baby crazy. And as much as Dean Winchester tried to deny it, mostly to himself, the one inside him was gonna blow at any second. Even though Dean would never admit it to anybody, especially his brother, he had always felt pretty maternal towards Lisa's son, Ben. He’d always wanted a nice, big family with plenty of pups of his own, ever since he had presented as an omega as a teenager. At least, whenever John hadn't been pressuring him to act like the alpha his dad thought he should've been, that is. It had only gotten worse when Sam presented as a beta, so Dean had shoved that dream so far back in his mind that he completely forgot about it ninety-five percent of the time. That was exactly why the omega knew that his biological clock was gonna kick his ass any day now. Where he used to mostly forget about the idea of having a bunch of pups, it was now taking up the vast majority of his thoughts lately.

I Been Blind | @jemariel

Rating: Explicit Word Count: 22,387 Main Tags/Warnings: Human!Cas, porn-watching, masturbation, mutual pining, porn with feelings, suggestion of m/f and m/m/f sex (in porn), oral sex, frottage, anal fingering, suggestion of bottom!Cas. Summary: Castiel is in love with humanity. At least, so long as he's not the one experiencing it. A lighthearted smutty romp wherein Dean helps Cas navigate the tricky minefield of human needs.

Roaming in the Dark (WIP) | @casbelieves

Rating: Explicit Word Count: 24,624 Main Tags/Warnings: Major Character Death, Graphic Depictions of Violence, Drug Abuse, Drug Use, Drug Addiction, Explicit Sexual Content, Alternate Universe - Croatoan/Endverse, Bottom!Cas, Top!Dean, Heavy Angst, Smut, Fallen Angels, Apocalypse, Croatoan Virus, Canonverse, Minor Character Death Summary: A reimagined look into how "The End" came to be. Castiel does not return to heaven after he rescues Dean from his stint in an apocalyptical 2014. The brothers don't reunite. The angels do fall. A dangerous and deadly virus spreads worldwide. But, without fail, Castiel follows Dean and, perhaps, that is his only fault.

Room A Thousand Years Wide | @mittensmorgul

Rating: Mature Word Count: 34,921 Main Tags/Warnings: Case Fic, Getting Together, Long-Suffering Sam Winchester Summary: Once the world and their lives are finally their own, and Cas has chosen humanity once and for all, he begins to find a new routine of daily life with Dean. Sam doesn't know how much longer he can take their apparently oblivious platonic domesticity, when their regularly scheduled evening goes out the window with a single text message from someone they never expected to hear from again. Ex-Ghostfacer Ed Zeddmore is afraid he's stumbled over something too big to let slide, and sends them a link to a potentially dangerous Ghostfacer wannabe, and a case that isn't at all what it appears to be on the surface. What they uncover dredges up a lot of interesting feelings all around, and they must finally face a few ghosts of their own.

Empty Spaces | @thisisapaige

Rating: Mature Word Count: 48,411 Main Tags/Warnings: Angst, Drug Use, Drug Abuse, Drug Withdrawl, Fallen Castiel, Pre-series Dean, Canonverse, Internalized Biphobia, Slow Burn, Canon-Typical Violence, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort Summary: [Castiel] found the colour. It was a green, one of the few gentle colours at the edges of his dreams and the one he tried to capture in his paintings, never quite finding the right hue. He spent so long chasing the colours, trying to find it though pills and needles, but they always evaded his grasp. Yet he found one, right here, hiding in the eyes of a stranger. He studied the colour, the subtle differences between dark and light, the little flecks of gold nearly hidden in the sea of green, the ring around the outside. He studied it, trying to commit the colour to memory. The other man cleared his throat. “Uh, dude?” Oh. Castiel forgot the colour was attached to a person. ~~~ What if Castiel had fallen before the start of the series and met Dean on a routine hunt? Set in the spring before Dean goes to find Sam in Stanford.

Gates of Bronze and Bars of Iron | iCeDreams (AO3)

Rating: Teen & Up Word Count: 80,466 Main Tags/Warnings: Season 9 Divergent, Dean in Heaven Summary: Dean realizes that staying in Heaven and catching endless fish isn't living up to its hype. Especially since the gates of Heaven are still closed and there are no angels to guide you in the hereafter. Castiel is surviving Earth, fallen and human until a reaper brings his attention to a hunt forcing him to seek out his fallen brothers.

#destiel trope collection 2021 #day 1 #fallen!cas #destiel #supernatural #fanfic

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rotshop · 3 years

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i cooka da pizza , i horror da body ,, and YOU kill murder chompa da person ,,

n e ways enjoy but heed the warnings !! ;;]

The Loves of my Entire Life

tw ; descriptions +/ talk of body horror, gore, blood, breaks ins / home intrusion and murder

The shift in Nevada's society and over-all structure had changed drastically over time. This wasn't anything new to say or anything remotely unfathomable. It was a simple fact of the matter that people seemed to grow used to, slowly numbing and adjusting to it all. Sure, it was a grim thought in retrospect but..it happens. Well, rarely it happens, nobody really knew if there was another case like this somewhere out there. Nobody really cared about that thought anymore either.

Hofnarr had changed with Nevada in several ways. For the most part, he'd been able to keep some slivers of his old life. He was still in a home like his old one (he wasn't sure how it'd been left in such fine condition, he didn't bother asking questions about luck like this), he was still intact, and he still had you. Granted, you'd had much more noticeable changes in yourself as well.

He'd become far more of a morning person, much to his and your surprise. His previous habit of staying up all night working turning into him waking up far too early for your taste. He was always careful to not wake you when he got up, even just laying there until you got up yourself sometimes. Despite everything, despite all the new fears and things to worry about, despite the risks of dying at any given moment-

he doesn't think he's ever slept this well.

At first he'd just joked that it was because you were warm or because the weight of your arms around him or your head on his chest was comforting. It wasn't entirely a lie, either which way, you really did help him feel at peace. Then he'd started to think on it more and more, zoning out for a period as he went over the thought. While he was still stressed, scared and overwhelmed at times, he felt freed.

He didn't have to worry about performing perfectly under deadlines and watchful eyes. He didn't have to worry about being completely professional nor about jokes and attempts at small talk that fell flat under unamused sighs and stares. He didn't have to worry about Phobos, his job, anything of that manner. It felt nice.

Though, of course, there were still times he had to remember it wasn't always peachy.

It was another one of those nights where he'd woken up in the middle of it. They weren't annoyingly common but they weren't rare either, most times he was able to toss and turn a little and then fall back asleep. This time though, it proved to be more stubborn. Despite him only having really slept for an hour or two, he felt perfectly awake.

He felt a sigh pass by his lips as he begrudgingly sat up, idling for a moment as he fought against his lack of motivation to get up. Briefly, he'd glanced over his shoulder to look at you, shifting his focus temporarily in hopes it'd help. It did. You were still passed out, the majority of your figure hidden under a blanket, save for your hand that stuck out from under it.

He couldn't help the little chuckle that'd bubbled up in his throat at the sight. Carefully, he'd reached and held onto it for a moment, either as some sort of wordless signal he would be back (he was sure you wouldn't have known, he just didn't know how else to explain it and he was still flustered to admit he just liked feeling your touch sometimes). He could feel your hand twitch a bit, distantly registering the weight of his. He'd smiled at that, brushing a thumb over your skin gently, grinning to himself when he'd heard the familiar rumble of you purring. He'd stayed there for a moment or two, simply enjoying the little moment of affection before he'd hesitantly pulled his hand away.

He'd shook his head slightly, some sort of attempt to clear it as he stood up, cringing internally at the cold of the floorboards. Nevada could get bitingly frigid at night, it'd been hard to adjust to given how blistering it was when the red sky rose, but you'd both done your best. It was dark ; furniture and walls as guides only being vague shapes and outlines in his vision. It'd been hard to find his way around at night when everything had first spiraled, with no sun that meant no moon, much to his grimace. Luckily though, you start to gain muscle memory of your house after the nth day there, it was a small blessing he could enjoy.

Gingerly, he'd pulled a cup from one of the cabinets, hoping he could just get a glass of water then lay back down. His previous restlessness had melted into a sleepless exhaustion, something he hoped to change soon. He'd felt any lingering wisps of sleep snap away when he'd heard that one sound he'd grown so accustomed to.

A click.

"Put your hands where I can see them," the voice was rough, scratched and bruised in its heaviness.

Just from that voice he knew he didn't have any chance of fighting without any sort of proper weapon. He could only hope and pray for another stroke of luck, though he knew the chances of such a thing were low. He only vaguely registered how his grip had tightened on the glass, nails pressing hard against it as his mouth ran dry.

"Are you deaf? Did you not just fucking hear what I said?" They'd barked, irritation obvious, "I said, put your fucking hands where I can see them and maybe you won't paint the walls red."

He'd swallowed at that, struggling for some sort of thought on what to really do here. Slowly and hesitantly he'd set the glass aside, raising his hands with growing anxiety. The air was thick in its gore, danger laying heavily in it. Though, after a moment of reconsideration and distantly hearing the steps of his visitor grow closer, he realized that in full.

It wasn't the gun that was the danger. It wasn't the intruder that was the danger. There weren't any others outside that were a danger. There was something far more controlled, far more quiet, far too still despite the adrenaline, and far too familiar for him to be afraid of it.

He'd hesitated once more as he spoke up, "Please take this outside."

He could hear the start of a sentence, the beginning of a breath before it died on the intruder's tongue. There was a shout of surprise as metal clattered to the floor, weight being dragged around like a rag doll as you lumbered away. He could hear how the struggle grew more distant, carried out through a door and into the unforgiving winds of Nevada.

He was thankful you had as much control over yourself as you did, it wasn't fun cleaning up the first few times this sort of thing had happened. There was still stains from it in the wood, the grooves between boards being recolored a dark crimson for the price of a disposed body. It was a reminder of how brutal you could be. It sounded odd, maybe even a little insulting, but you seemed like a personification of Nevada.

You could be gentle and a home when you wanted to, even with all the claws and teeth. You were strong and skilled in endurance, scrambling back up whenever you were knocked down. You could be brutal, rendering flesh and turning figures inside out in crude distortions of themselves. You were vast in a way that he found comforting while others never found it at all, never getting the chance to over the gurgling of their own lives bubbling up their throats.

He wasn't sure how long he'd been standing there, only really snapping back to it after you he heard the door open and close once more. He'd turned to look back at you, the dark hiding you along with everything else even as you drew closer, him feeling it more than he heard it. He'd let go of his breath for a moment as he took his own steps closer to you, careful as he wrapped his arms around your torso.

Your hands hovered for a brief moment over him, the smell of copper gave a silent explanation as to why. You'd taken another moment before carefully putting your own around him as best as you could, having to lean down to close the difference in height and uncomfortably hold your hands away from his shirt. It wasn't the most pleasant of positions, bones uncomfortably arched and muscles awkwardly pulled to form it. Despite the way your body groaned under itself, it was paid off by the little murmur you could just barely make out under the ringing silence of the night.

'Thank you.'

#hof is that one 'so true beasty' post ill die in this hill fuck you #dr hofnarr x reader #dr hoffnarr x reader #madness combat imagines #madness combat x reader #madcom imagines #madcom x reader #rot writes #my entire brain is just 'GRRR ARK BARK SNNNRNSNNEDKEDL' rn

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spring-2022-nola · 2 years

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Nola caps COVID

After 24 months of taking every pre-caution, just when I thought it was all behind us and let my guard down, COVID finally caught up with me. It turned out to be a mild case; with vaccines, boosters and antivirals the worst of it was a few days of isolation. On the plus side though, a good doctor friend advised me that post infection, I was the least likely to be re-infected, or be infectious (at least for a little bit). Happily then, I ditched my mask and experienced life like it was before this drasted virus changed life as we knew it. A long weekend in Nola seemed just the right place to be to enjoy my freedom.

We stayed at the very funky Eliza Jane hotel on Magazine street. Named after the first woman to publish a major newspaper (The Times Picayune), the hotel once housed the headquarters of said newspaper, as well as a factory for Peychaud Bitters - a mainstay of many cocktails. The interior of exposed beams, bricks, books everywhere, cozy nooks to hangout in, a bar in the middle of it all...a cool place to stay in a cool city.

The Big Easy has big murals - this beautiful untitled one near the World War II museum is by MOMO. His note says

“My paintings have no theme, like music without lyrics. There’s a composition of things to be felt the way rhythms, tones and harmonies reach us beyond narrative or language.”

The WW II museum itself was vast, excellent, and a stark reminder of the horrors of war. 93M lives needlessly lost, the enormous scale of destruction, the sacrifices by so many to turn the tide, and how close we came to losing it all.

References to Hitler’s promise to “...make Germany great again...” reminded me of another similar slogan close to home. The allies’ 1938 appeasement of Hitler, giving up Sudentenland - a german-speaking border region of Czechoslovakia - without protest reminded me of what’s happening in Ukraine right now. As Benjamin Franklin said, “A Republic, if you can keep it” indeed.

Walking by, just outside the WW II museum, I came across some Nola street poetry

“Looks like freedom but it feels like death - it’s somewhere in between I guess”

says Jistoid the drainhole cover poet

Nola, of course is all about Jazz - this band at a tiny Bourbon street venue (Fritzel’s European Pub) belted out amazing music for the price of a beer and tips (if you dont have cash, Venmo is fine too). Music was everywhere in the city - wherever we saw a line (e.g. outside Café Du Mond for Beignets) there was sure to be a musician hustling for tips and applause.

We also checked out a performance at one of the oldest Jazz venues - Preservation Hall. The place hasn’t changed in a hundred years and the Preservation Hall All-star band entertained a small seventy-person crowd sitting on wooden benches or standing at the back of a very small hall. I liked the music at Fritzel’s better but the atmosphere at Preservation Hall was very authentic.

Right by our hotel, at the corner of Canal and Magazine, we ran into Sazerac House - a museum dedicated to Nola’s famous cocktails. Featuring Bourbon, Peychaud bitters and an absinthe-like liquor called Herbsaint, the pretty three-floor museum was an interesting mix of history, liquor factory, cocktail samples and a unique digital bartender experience.

Bourbon Street known for revelry, especially during Mardi Gras, but also most nights, anytime of the year. Balconies, grenade cocktails, a bar every 20 feet, music of every kind, and bead necklaces abound.

(Picture credit my wife Smitha)

Some of the side streets near the famous Bourbon Street had these horsehead hitching posts. I can imagine revellers of the past riding up in their 1HP magnificent beasts and tying them up outside their favorite watering hole.

We took a side trip to the Bayou to ride Air boats and find alligators. An entertaining guide took us into the marshes, and we saw several Alligators including one that was a sucker for Marshmallows, though it seemed like he would just as easily settle for a human arm. Here’s the video

Finally, even as I peek outside the Bubble to check if its really gone, I realize that there is no real escape from Covid - its a path to nowhere

Leandro Erlich’s - sculpture aptly titled “Too Late for Help” in the NOLA Art Museum sculpture garden

#new orleans

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the-garbanzo-annex-jr · 3 years

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In an email sent to observant Jews on campus, Cynthia Yang, the deputy chief of staff to the college president, and the head of the college’s pandemic response team, described the new technology protocols for reporting COVID-19 symptoms and participating in contact tracing.

Then, it all went south. Quickly. “We recognize that how you have practiced religious traditions in the past may not align with the use of technology during the high holidays or the Sabbath, but this year it is paramount for the community’s health and safety that you abide by the Barnard pledge and follow the college’s policies and procedures.” (emphasis added.)

The idea a university bureaucrat — and not Rabbis or other Jewish leaders — would instruct Jewish students on how to square their practical obligations to the college with their religious beliefs, is deeply offensive.

That this bureaucrat would specifically imply that the religious practices of Jews on campus are all “in the past,” and that despite their beliefs, their convictions, their faith, they need to abide by a system set up by people who have not considered their circumstances at all, is simply unacceptable.

Barnard was a bastion of liberalism before the word woke entered the lexicon. Anyone who works there has sat through countless sessions on diversity and inclusion. So I have to wonder: other than checking the box to prove progressive bona fides, what exactly is the purpose of a seminar on diversity and inclusion? If something as basic as whether a recognized religion has the right to practice its beliefs is something lost on a senior administrator at a liberal arts college, we can only draw two conclusions.

Either diversity and inclusion efforts are not crafted with Jews in mind at all — despite our multi-generation history of enslavement, oppression, displacement, ethnic cleansing, and genocide, our experience is bizarrely characterized as privileged by the vast majority of leftist caucus. Therefore, we don’t matter. At all. Or: diversity and inclusion trainings are meaningless attempts by cowed bureaucrats to signal that they and their institutions are just as woke as everybody else. That virtue signaling is a plea: please, inoculate us against cancellation. These choices are not mutually exclusive. As is often the case, the truth likely lies somewhere in the middle.

#shabbos #barnard college #jews #cynthia yang #covid #covid-19

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ask-spider-man-61610 · 3 years

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The Infiltration: Part Two of Three

In the ten years he had been a vigilante, Peter Parker had become very good at sneaking into places he shouldn't have been.

Air vents were useless. The vast majority of them were far too narrow for anybody to slip through without becoming amorphous, and even when the ducts were large enough it was impossible to move inside one without making enough noise to alert the entire block. The subceiling--the space above the ceiling tiles, but below the actual architectural structure--was a far better bet, but that was similarly cramped--and besides, only some buildings had gaps in the walls to allow for movement like that.

Using a disguise to sneak in was better all around, but it required a lot of skill and care. You couldn't disguise yourself as a scientist unless you were genuinely an expert in the field you were pretending to study. Nor, in this particular case, could you just dress up as any old agent--they had security levels. Executives were out, reporters were only viable if the people you were trying to fool had reason to believe a reporter was going to be there, and the less said about solicitors the better. The key was to attract as little scrutiny as possible, to not raise any questions you'd have trouble answering; because the second someone grew suspicious of you, your cover was all but blown.

Janitors, then, were perfect.

Nobody pays attention to a janitor. It's practically one of the perks of the job. Beneath notice means beneath scrutiny, and people only give custodians the slightest thought when a place needs cleaned. Even then it's just an assertion that a custodian needs to be there. Nobody questions what a janitor is doing in a room, even in the dead of night. Nobody questions why a janitor is wearing gloves, or where they got their ring of keys. There's no better disguise for going somewhere that people generally can't go.

Peter had been pretending to be a janitor in the main headquarters of the Cape Code Authority for several days now. He had listened intently as he'd mopped the floors, mapped out the layout in his head, figured out where the labs were and who had access to what while keeping his head down. He'd owned this coverall for years now, for infiltrations exactly like this, and now with the security cameras disabled he hooked his cart on the handle of his mop and dragged it towards the door the three agents had just left.

The door had locked automatically. Of course it had, all laboratory doors locked automatically around here, and even the custodians needed special permissions to get them unlocked. But as the door had swung closed, Peter had pressed the trigger in his palm under the guise of adjusting his grip on his mop, and now the door's latch was glued down beneath a small splatter of webbing. Pulling on a latex glove, Peter tugged the door open a crack and slipped into the lab.

He adjusted his hat as he glanced around the lab, the hat that had blond curls sewn to the inside to disguise his brown hair, and scratched at his false nose. The hologram table sat in the center of the room, still softly glowing even after its deactivation--an enormous waste of energy, but apparently nobody cared. Ignoring it entirely, Peter headed straight for the computer monitors against the far wall, grabbing a chair without breaking stride and only stopping to climb on top of it and crouch on the seat like a gargoyle on a rooftop.

Like everything Reed Richards ever touched, the computers were encrypted. But Peter had dated Johnny Storm for five months once, and he didn't spend so much time nearby his fellow supergenius without taking some time to figure out how to bypass their usual security. It took him just over five minutes to get through the firewalls, and then he stuck a translucent plastic sticky note to the screen and began to browse.

The sticky note was, of course, a data drive. Peter had learned about these only recently, but he was fast growing to like them; they were easy to conceal on his person and, unlike a USB stick, didn't require a specific size of port. As he opened up the computer's files, the drive pinged off of the computer's software and integrated itself into the system without leaving a trace. Cracking his knuckles, Peter typed a few cursory searches into the file browser and tapped Enter.

Perpetual Holographic Avatar/Nano-Tech Offensive Monsters had been a thorn in his side for over two years now. They didn't move like humans; their range of motion didn't have the limits that their skeletal shape implied; their systems adapted and learned and coordinated in ways that he'd never seen before in artificial intelligence. Even Octavius, permanently on the cutting edge of AI and biorobotics development, wasn't sure what the hell was going on with them. Last year, in the middle of beating the multi-armed megalomaniac's face in, Spider-Man had asked for Otto's thoughts on the Phantoms; the technology, both of them suspected, wasn't exactly beyond Otto's work so much as to the side of it. The systems were hyperspecialized: they had no connection to neural networks of old, and were practically useless for advancing them in the future. They were, in a word, alien.

Peter suspected Chitauri tech. The War of the Worlds had left countless remnants of the Chitauri on Earth; some of them still remained, like the Leviathan rotting in Maine, but far too many of them had seemed to simply vanish. Anyone who gave it more than ten seconds of thought could realize that governments of the world had squirreled the stuff away to study and reverse-engineer. Now, as Peter's eyes darted back and forth across the screen, he skimmed through the blueprints and models that he found in the folder and tried to see if any of it matched the distinctive look of the Chitauri.

Some of it did, he found as he kept searching, but not a huge amount. Reed had done some work with Chitauri tech in the past; traces of its influence were obvious in the composition of the Phantoms' gun barrels, and in the way their hard-light armor projected itself over the skeleton. Kid stuff, nothing that explained the problems he'd had with them. Peter's brow furrowed as he copied the files he found to his data drive and peered over his shoulder at the hologram table behind him.

What had Reed been saying to Flint in here only a few minutes ago? Peter had a spiderlike hypersensitivity to vibration; he could feel footsteps on the other side of the building rumbling through the floor, and the variations in air pressure caused by the fly drifting around the ceiling. But it didn't work like hearing did, nor was it interpreted by the same part of the brain. Though he had felt Reed talking in here, it just felt like a continuous drone of vibration against his skin--he hadn't heard him, and so couldn't interpret the words. And, like an idiot, he hadn't thought to bug the room beforehand.

He pushed his tongue against his upper lip in thought. Had it had something to do with why Flint had registered with the CCA in the first place?

Kicking a foot against the bottom of the desk, Peter rolled his chair over to the hologram table and set to work getting past the security there too. This took even less time than it had with the computer, now that Peter knew how Reed had updated his security measures over the last few years. Within three minutes of typing so fast an observer would have seen his fingers as blurs he was browsing through the most recently accessed files.

The image lifted out of the table and filled the room with its soft light, and Peter frowned at the image of the Phantom he saw. How on earth was this related to Flint's desire to Be A Real Boy? He typed a few commands into the table and watched the Phantom's white shell disappear to reveal the mechanical skeleton beneath. A few notes by Reed appeared to highlight key points, and Peter read through each with steadily rising concern.

Very little of the Sandman's mass was actually Flint Marko. When he had been disintegrated all those years ago, most of his body had become just plain old sand--only his nervous system had become anything different. Over the years, he had gained entire truckloads worth of sand and lost enough to fill beaches, but the gallon or so of milky white silica that had once been his brain and nerve cells had remained, scattered evenly through every shape and sculpture he made himself into. They assimilated granules of a similar composition through static cling, arranging them with an intricate electric charge that neither Flint nor Peter had ever fully understood, and now it looked like Reed wanted to apply that same static charge to the Phantom project.

Looking through the notes, Peter could already see that Reed wasn't putting much effort into following through on his promise. The conjectures and theories put forth in them were ludicrous--ideas that Peter had discarded years ago in his various scrambles to stop one of Marko's rampages. But he read between the lines, read ideas that Reed had intended for his own eyes only, and his blood grew steadily colder in his veins.

It wouldn't take much modification to turn a Phantom into a suitable chassis for Flint's nerve granules, so went Reed's idea. The skeleton already contained organic elements, and they already received commands from a biological source rather than a computer. This flew in the face of Peter's assumptions about the Phantoms.

They were only partially robots. They were like Octobots; their processing units were very much alive.

Peter waved a shaky hand over the table. The hologram deactivated, which wasn't his intent at all, but he was too taken aback to care.

Deep in the bowels of the building, ignored by Peter until now but always scratching at the back of his mind, the vibrations of mechanical footsteps rumbled through the walls and floor. The central hub of manufacturing and deploying Phantoms was located fifty feet under the foundation--a fact he'd known all along, but which he had to investigate now. Now, when he knew that within those robotic skeletons were living and thinking beings. Now, when he knew that the drills whirring and 3D printing that he felt even from here were working tirelessly to imprison and enslave something. Jumping off the chair, he retrieved his data drive from the computer and took barely a minute to wipe all evidence of his presence from the room. Then, readjusting his disguise and checking for the presence of witnesses, he slipped out of the room and finally allowed the door to lock.

The route to the underground hub was a circuitous one. As the operations were almost entirely automated, not even the janitors were given clearance to enter that level; maybe four people had access, and Peter wasn't one of them. No matter. There were more ways to sneak around than just throwing on a coverall and mopping a floor. If Peter's disguise only took him this far and no farther, it was time to drop it. Some places you could only reach as the wall-crawler.

Had the security cameras not mysteriously lost power earlier that afternoon, they would've seen a janitor shedding his hat, kicking off his shoes, and beginning to unbutton his coverall. Without breaking stride, he snatched a small bag from where he'd hidden it in his cart before and pulled on a mask; whatever features, real or fake, a witness might have noticed, they were now hidden by dark red fabric and two gleaming grey bug eyes. In short order the coverall and hat were gone--wrapped up into a web-knapsack that he slung onto his back even as he swapped his shoes out for red spandex boots. Pulling on his gloves right as he reached the elevator, Spider-Man stopped to politely tap the call button beside the sliding metal doors.

With a ding, the elevator doors slid open, and Spider-Man immediately smashed straight through the emergency hatch at the top of the lift.

Elevator shafts were always a bit more complicated than one expected. Even Peter, who could feel the constant motion of the metal boxes through the building and their cables sliding against pullies, always needed a moment to figure out how to squeeze through the systems that controlled its rise and fall. He paused as he examined the mechanism of this particular elevator before he sucked in his stomach and crawled around the box with a few inches to spare. Then, once he was beneath it, he released his grip on the elevator shaft and let himself fall.

He caught himself fifty feet later, his fingertips sticking instantly to the concrete as he touched it. Just across the shaft from him was a set of elevator doors, which he hopped onto and began to pry apart. It was slow going. Like everything in the CCA headquarters, these doors were made with superhumans in mind, and they had a magnetic lock that Spider-Man found himself straining to overpower. He pulled on them for a few seconds, changed his mind, and crawled two feet to the left to begin messing with the wiring that controlled the lock. There was a moment of silence, a low, hollow ding, and the doors slid open.

With one hand still stuck to the wall Spider-Man lowered himself into the unlit chamber, dropping to the floor and landing there in a crouch. What little light had made it down with him reflected off his mask's glaring eyes. For a moment he was still, one hand pressed to the metal beneath him and his attention fully on the vibrations of the environment. Then, mentally sorting through the sea of threats that his spider-sense whispered and squirmed at, he rose to his feet and nonchalantly slapped the lightswitch on the wall behind him. Sparse florescent lights flickered on above him, and he blinked and furrowed his brow as he adjusted.

Now that he was down here the vibrations were sharper, like a the world coming into focus as you come up from underwater. They travelled through the air, through the concrete, and through a metal catwalk that served as a floor, branching into pathways and situated above buzzing, whirring machinery. No wonder it had been so difficult to discern what was going on up above, Spider-Man reflected as he glanced over the guardrail and watched robotic limbs carry a Phantom chassis through a gap in the wall and to another room. He turned his attention ahead of him, where similar chasses were held in racks upon racks that spanned nearly wall to wall across the room, black robotic skeletons awaiting deployment.

But there was a difference between these Phantoms and the ones he so often encountered on the battlefield. Frowning under the mask, Spider-Man stepped forward, leaned over the catwalk's railing, and set a finger against the nearest collection of servos and solid-light projectors. Yes. There it was, the constant, ambient tremor of air in motion; the chasses were hollow like the frame of a bicycle. Whenever he'd fought them, they hadn't displayed any such emptiness.

Right. Mechanical systems supported by biological processing. He took his attention away from the chasses, looking instead at that hole in the wall that one of them had vanished into as he'd come in here. He could feel the Phantom in the next room over being hooked up to--to something, metal vibrating on contact with metal and stabilizing with a little pop. His eyes narrowed. His fingers twitching nervously, his breath held, he began to pace down the catwalk towards the door to that room.

A window on one side greeted him as he stepped through, displaying the Phantom under maintenance. Screens embedded into the window offered diagnostics and schematics, all of which Spider-Man ignored. He turned instead to the far wall, where what looked like a large cabinet was anchored in place and had a hundred or so pipes no wider than test tubes leading into and out of it. A quick ripping of metal, and he tossed a mangled padlock over his shoulder as he threw the cabinet doors open. The interior was poorly organized, and called to mind a prototype rather than anything intended for widespread implementation: a screen with a series of codes flashing across it, a mess of piping and tubing, and in carefully arranged racks hundreds upon hundreds of test tubes, most full of some amorphous fluid.

Spider-Man's brow furrowed as he selected a vial at random. Working carefully, he unscrewed the valve that connected it to the mess of piping and slid it out of the vial's stopper--without it, the test tube's lid sealed airtight again. He held it above eye level and turned to see the light filter through from overhead. The fluid inside surrounded what looked almost like a pipe cleaner, thousands of copper wires branching out from a central silicon rod. As he tilted it one way, an air bubble slid up the glass wall, and out of the corner of his eye he thought he saw--

--a tendril, as black as the rest of the liquid, squirming in that air pocket in a bid for freedom.

Spider-Man's eyes widened behind the mask. Oh my god.

Dead Leviathans and alien technology hadn't been the only things the Chitauri had brought to Earth. It had taken the terrestrial armies, and the remnants of SHIELD that Spider-Man had fought alongside, far too long to realize that the shape-shifting battlesuits that their enemies had used were themselves a separate species. Earth hadn't been the only planet to face invasion under the Chitauri; centuries ago, those invaders had conquered and enslaved a species called Klyntar. Amorphous, shapeshifting, symbiotic creatures, the Klyntar had the distinction of being able to use every single cell as musculature, digestive system, armoring, and neurons. Nobody was sure how long the Chitauri had been selectively breeding and brainwashing their symbiote slaves into battle armor, and until now Spider-Man had assumed that practice had stopped with the aliens' defeat.

The little vial of Klyntar sample in his hand was far from his first experience with the species. He had, for six months during and after the war, worn a stolen symbiote as a battlesuit of his own, and even after he and Vee had separated he'd been up close and personal with the species many, many times. But he had believed that Vee's defection from the Chitauri had been a fluke; that they had been the only Klyntar to be recovered from the Chitarui alive.

But now Spider-Man stood in the basement of the Cape Code Authority, holding a vial that contained another member of that species, and right next to him were over a hundred identical vials. All at once, the control systems of the Phantoms became obvious to him.

Without hesitation he turned back to the cabinet and began yanking the tubes out of their holders. The brush-like machinery in each vial, he figured as he worked, must have been some kind of brainwashing system; the copper wires made contact with as many of the Klyntar's neurons as possible, with controlled electric shocks frying out whatever thoughts the aliens tried to form and replacing them with--with whatever programming was necessary to get the Phantoms working. As he pulled each tube out, he killed the electrical charge, but for now he didn't release the Klyntar within from their cells. Where would they go down here? Did they even remember what they were? At best they'd die, at worst the CCA would collect them again and make it even harder to get to them again. No, for now he stuck the vials together with webbing, bundling them together in a padded sack of sorts--he could keep them safe until he knew what else to do, but for now--

--for now, he could feel footsteps vibrating through the concrete fifty feet above. Could feel the elevator starting to move, and the frantic tingling in his head suddenly concentrated all its alarm on the man upstairs. He paused, but only for the smallest fraction of a second; then he worked even faster, his hands becoming blurs again. Grab, break, thwip, grab, break, thwip. The bundle of vials and webbing in his arms was becoming untenably large. He kept at it anyway, always careful not to smash the vials, always careful to separate them from their neighbors with a carefully padded layer of webbing. Even as he webbed up the last one, he wove backpack straps onto the sack and pulled them onto his shoulders. Then he turned on his heel and darted out the door, ready to make an escape.

But as the elevator began its slow descent towards him, he paced around the room and realized that there was no escape to be found. No windows or doors, because he was in a basement, and the air ducts were of course far too small to crawl through. If he didn't have the Klyntar vials, he would've been able to crawl past the elevator, but with that bundle on his back there was no room. If he wanted to save these Klyntar, he was trapped down here with them.

Well, decided Spider-Man as his pacing came to a stop directly in front of the elevator. If he was about to be discovered down here, he certainly wasn't going to let whoever was about to discover him get a dramatic moment about it. There would be no voice booming out from behind him as he frantically looked for a hiding place, there would be no cat and mouse as the person looked for him in this increasingly exposed room. He folded his arms and leaned against the guardrail right in front of the elevator, glaring at the doors. Waiting.

When the doors dinged open, Scrier momentarily hesitated, not having expected to see Spider-Man so out in the open. He blinked behind those blank white eyes, far more awkward than a supervillain wanted to be, before he lamely managed, "I thought that was you, Spider-Man."

#Spider-Man #Spider-Man AU #Peter Parker #Specs #Earth-61610 #Scrier #Marvel AU #spidersona #story #odyssey prelude

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something-very-special · 3 years

Text

they ran over the seals

More Replicant playthrough observations and general nonsense under the cut. For reference, up to the keystone quest; completed the Forest of Myth and Junk Heap.

This fucking game I swear to god.

A vaguely coherent ramble about sidequests An observation about sidequests in general in this game -- and I don't recall if I ever voiced this somewhere public or it was just a personal observation from my time with the original -- is that the quests in the first half of the game are all relatively easy to complete. There's that one asshat who wants 10 goat hides, but other than him, most of the sidequests are either very much based on finding characters, or gathering a sensible number of items that are either relatively common, purchasable, or given a guaranteed spawn for the duration of that quest.

The sidequests everybody remembers having to do are in the second half, where everybody is demanding and awful and I'm sorry ten MACHINE OILS do you know how goddamn rare those are? They're goddamn rare.

(We'll not discuss Life in the Sands.)

This is generally agreed to, in the technical vernacular, 'suck'. And it's always funny that the most interesting sidequests are the ones with very minimal requirements (Yonah's cooking, getting Popola drunk, the Lighthouse Ladoh my god everything's gone blurry I'm not crying you're crying who am I kidding we're both crying). That particular aspect of the design also feels intentional, not really gating your ability to progress the really meaningful or funny sidequests behind an unreasonable number of rare items. The other aspect of the design is that these quests are not meant to be completed in a single playthrough; most of them are single-stage and just absolutely unreasonable, but if you're going through the game four times you have a... reasonable chance of getting everything you need more or less naturally.

Nobody does that but I think that was the intended design. I think it's a good idea, although the execution of expectation is flawed so I don't really blame people for saying those sidequests suck. (Although I will in turn blame people for saying the sidequests suck as a blanket statement. Yeah getting that guy who burned his kitchen down a billion Broken Motors is aggravating but did you not find that old man's dog? Speak to Ursula on her death bed? Solve a murder? Then again I think tracking down that rotten son who's trying to get away from The Family Business only to learn his father is a con-artist and get literally no reward is the height of comedy so maybe I'm not the greatest point of reference.)

But that asshole in Facade can get bent. I can't exploit my garden properly, jackass! I am no longer a god of time. (I kid, of course.) (This guys sucks even when you can fix your clock.)

Forest of Myth It didn't even occur to me to wonder how they would incorporate the comprehensive voice acting into the Forest of Myth. I like how it plays out, although I wish the voices maybe had a fade as you went deeper into the dream instead of just cutting out at some point, especially for the lines where the characters are being ascribed actions by the narrator that they themselves aren't doing near the start of the Deathdream. But it's just delightful to go back to it. The second half of the game really sticks in your mind both for emotional reasons and because you play it at least three times per full playthrough of the game, but the first half is just so much fun.

Protip: Talk to everybody after you've finished the dream sidequest. Weiss tries to dissuade you. Don't let him dissuade you. I'm still delighted by the Mayor; "We're building a statue of you, made of solid gold. I know you don't own a horse, but we're going to put you on a horse."

I forgot about Yonah being a disaster chef Papa Nier's reaction to the stew is better. Brother is still funny but Papa Nier just expecting to die is comedy gold.

For anybody curious, the joke about the cakes is that Yonah made 'fruit cake' using some of the worst possible fruits for cake-making. If only she'd thrown a tomato into the mix, too.

Lighthouse Lady Every time. what the fuck is a canal I'm aware of the addition of the new-old content but it didn't occur to me until Popola suddenly starts nattering on about fixing the canal when I'm expecting Yonah to talk about a penpal that oh, yeah, I guess Seafront would have had something going on the first half that would play into the second half? (I assume it does. Be weird to introduce these characters just to have groundwork for an added sidequest. ...but it was a cute sidequest.) But look Popola my boy is supposed to be in the next area I visit could we-- I mean he's on the way could we just-- no-- fiiiiiiiiiine. (It was short and sweet, though, and I appreciate that the couple's love is exemplified by them both calling Weiss a floating magazine in tandem.) On a related note but was I the only person suddenly concerned when the sidequest completion maxed out at 50% and not 51%? I had to double-check with a guide just to make sure, since I've spent the last decade telling people to make sure you hit 51% before going on to Part II.

MY BOY I love that nowadays, Emil is everybody's son. But I really wish I could go find somebody only familiar with Automata and just watch their reaction. (I'm guessing there are streams out there that fulfill this but man I'd love to get it in-person.) If you're only familiar with him from Automata this has to be a mindfuck.

Personal anecdote, but I've had the privilege of playing NIER with somebody else almost every time I've gone through it. I had a wonderful experience of doing a replay some years back with somebody who had experienced it with me before but didn't have the most solid memory of the beginning (and had actually missed the entire weapon's lab the first time through). I get to the boy at the piano introducing himself and the 'Wait, what?' was a thing of beauty.

MY ANDROID This was a welcome mindfuck for me; finding Sebastian and having him 'reactivate' in such an unnatural, mechanical way. I don't recall if it was ever officially confirmed that Sebastian is an android (I know that it's just understood that this is the case but I'm not I can't recall a specific one) but the little flair they added to his animation caught me completely off guard. I liked it!

Destroying the food source A lot of people will cite a major inciting incident for the game as being when the protagonist heading back into the village and killing the child Shades just outside the entrance. This moment is such a great bit of subtle foreshadowing that's so easy to miss... but kind of joining that, just before the Knave of Hearts attacks, I realized that the Shades out on the Northern Plains are clearly ramping up for an assault of their own by murdering the sheep. The sheep population at this point is decimated (which is great when you realize you haven't gotten the Sheepslayer trophy and you're about to enter Part II and you don't know if the boar drifting minigame got carried forward with the inclusion of 15 Nightmares). You go out onto the Plains and you will find not only small clusters of sheep left behind instead of the vast, terrifying herds from the start of the game, but until you get their attention the Shades are prioritizing killing the sheep. (Also annoying because that doesn't count toward my sheep murder number.) The Shades will be out there also killing sheep earlier on, but since the whole map is in Overcast mode after talking to Yonah it's especially prevalent to go out to the Northern Plains and seeing the slaughter. And I realized-- they're cutting the Village off from a primary food source. Shades don't eat and they don't have any beef with the local ungulates (at least, no more so than anybody else does), so why are they hunting down the sheep? To deprive their enemies of resources. Sheep are extinct by the timeskip. It's actually really clever of them, and a really clever indication of their sentience and intelligence before it's fully verified.

"Let's get these shit-hogs!" Everything about the way Kaine and Emil interact across the entire game is perfect I will brook no argument this is objective fact.

Emotive Rectangles I wrote an essay about this before but it really bears repeating that the job the original animators did with this scene is just phenomenal. The way Weiss drifts, flits, flips, fans his pages, drunkenly swerves, shoots around the room in defiance... He's a goddamn rectangle, but there is so much emotion and personality in this scene just based on the movements conveyed through a what is effectively just a box. Ten years later and triple-A titles with full facial capture don't have this much seething personality. I really have to give props to the cavia animators, wherever they wound up. That studio could really put some subtle love and care into their titles, utterly unnecessary and easy to miss but you can tell that whoever was working on it was giving it their all. The books are probably the exemplification of this, but every time I go into Seafront and visit the seals I can tell that the guy on seal duty was having just the best day. They made Emil so pretty There's an FMV cutscene right smack in the middle of the original game after the battle against Noir. I understand why it was a necessity on a technical level, but it always looked pretty out of place and a little uncanny valley compared to the rest of the graphical fidelity. That's no longer a necessity so this cutscene is rendered in-engine. I admit I was actually curious to see it redone this way and it looks fantastic. I single out Emil since he is the focal point of cutscene and because his particular high-poly model had some pretty weird difference from his in-engine model, but he and Kaine both look great. But, like, it's almost mean how pretty he is.

They made Brother Nier so pretty Yeah okay you got me he's kind of hot. Kaine's expression when she wakes up and looks him over is... significantly easier to read now. Good voice, too. (Ancient rumors tell that one of the issues with international releases of RepliCant was that they couldn't find an English VA with a voice that 'fit' Brother Nier. He sounded good out the gate but hearing him growl "Let's go TAKE CARE of those KIDS" during the thief sidequest-- I got chills. It sounds so silly but there's a kind of percolating fury to that delivery. Papa Nier was like frustrated but mostly disappointed dad; I felt like Brother was going to take care of those kids, and nobody was going to find the bodies. Younger Brother Nier just never stops looking goofy to me but Older Brother just looks great in motion, between the alterations they made to the movement and just the entire weaponry system. The distinction between the two halves of the game was always a little odd in the Gestalt version-- not odd enough to really raise eyebrows if you didn't know about RepliCant, but of course you can tell that this age gape between the optimistic doe-eyed dogooder and a man largely ruled by his fury and calloused by tragedy is what the timeskip was going for. Swab me down and call me Ishmael, it works. Younger Brother wasn't quite clicking with me-- not because of any writing or voicework issues, but I've got Papa Nier on the back of my mind and it's impossible not to compare and contrast the delivery and dialogue between the two. I know that this is intentional, too; Younger Brother is supposed to be that happy-go-lucky video game protagonist, always doing the right thing and helping people, in order to contrast against the man he becomes. Even just edging into Part II the effect is dramatic and it recontextualizes Younger Brother into a much more effective overall character. And let me reiterate, I enjoyed my time with Younger Brother just fine, I have no issues with him. But he's up against Well Meaning Big Dummy Part I Papa Nier. No contest. And I'm excited to see where Older Brother goes from here.

Speaking of voices I mentioned this before but the delivery on the character's lines is different. The entire game was re-recorded and quite a few lines are still pretty similar to the original, but there are some that are... definitely different. Part of this is a difference in the relationship between characters based on their life experience and ages-- Weiss is much more of an ass to Younger Brother but has a much more even respect for Older Brother (neither of which are like the rapport he established with Father). Some of Kaine's lines feel more aloof, dismissive, and almost tired in the front half of the game. I haven't really gotten to a point to dig into Emil's rapport with the other characters, but the delivery feels more hesitant and uncertain (which I think is more in line with his Japanese VO, but I'm prefacing that on an untrained ear and a presumption rather than recent memory). It's been interesting to see not just where hey adjusted dialogue (and how-- there are some lines that didn't need to be rewritten), but also how they adjust tone and delivery. Dealing with Younger Brother is one thing, but as I said, I'm very excited to see what's different in the second half, especially being much more familiar with that part of the game. Speaking of Voices! Halua got dialogue! I... preferred when it was inferred (and the implications of "I'll always be watching over you" are borderline malicious given the results of their fusion dance, yeah THANK YOU HALUA this is GREAT). Halua's delivery also felt a little too innocent and upbeat both for the situation and when compared to her narrative voice in The Stone Flower, where she comes across as much more cynical and cold. But given what she's been through and the nightmare she's finally escaping I guess she's allowed express happiness. She's certainly earned the right to having a spoken line. No matter what. Every fuckin' time.

"Here we go." This was always a great line to kind of ease in to the officially-official start of Part II-- every time you start up a New Game+ you're greeted with Emil musing about his conflation of Halua to Kaine, and then the phrase "Here we go". There's a lot in that one line. On a personal level he's grounding his thoughts in the moment and steeling himself for what comes next and pushing through his pain and sadness and fear. Whatever Nier told him in the facility he's still terrified, desperately terrified, that Kaine -- who was the one who told him his life had meaning -- is going to reject him. And why wouldn't she? Ultimately they don't know each other, not really. He understands at that moment that his relationship with Kaine is based on confused memories of his sister, that maybe the bond he thought they established isn't actually real. As soon as he frees Kaine he's going to have to confront her, like this, and how could she ever-- she won't-- but he can't just leave her. Whatever happens next. Doesn't matter. Doesn't matter. (God it matters.) "Here we go." On a meta level, that's our introduction into the second half of the game. The first half is all prologue. This is where we'll be spending the rest of our time, even to the point that 'New Game+' skips straight ahead to this moment. Now that we've finished the establishment, this is where it all builds and where it all matters. Here we go, audience. The ride starts now. You get up to this point now in Replicant. You get the same lead-in. My dumb ass even whispered "Here we go", because I can't help myself. And he says, of course he says--! "Anyway." ... ...a-anyway? What the hell kind of line is that? "Here's some deeply personal musings that are also an indication of my own discomfort as I babble to myself just to fill the void so I can stave off thinking for just a few more seconds. ANYWAY." What a... bizarre decision. Just bizarre.

Upgraded melee combat The introduction to the armored Shades always feel kind of rough-- the defenses on those Shades are significantly higher than anything you've faced and the new weapons you're given to combat them just aren't that good. (If you got lucky you could have a fully-upgraded Faith by now, which is nearly three times as powerful as the 'heavy' two-handed sword you're given; if you downloaded the 4 YoRHa pack for Replicant you've probably been able to upgrade one of those weapons once, which are also a really nice strength boost that leaves the freebie heavy swords and spears in the dust). As an introduction to the new weapon types it always feels like rough going. But then you get a chance to get decent weapons and the combat system truly opens up, and compared to the first game you really feel it. At this juncture I would always just bustle off to Facade and grab the Phoenix Spear and never look back-- the raw power compared to the rest of your arsenal coupled with the triangle dash is basically the bread and butter of the rest of the game. It's not exciting, but it's effective. No more triangle dashing, which was deeply disappointing... but both weapons definitely feel good. I am also somewhat ashamed to admit that it wasn't until now that I realized attacks weren't just about rhythmic input-- you can hold the attacks down to do different charged hits and combos depending on when you execute them in your combo, similar to Automata. I, uh... I felt a bit dumb. But hey, wow, it's a welcome adjustment and it makes all of the weapon types feel equally valuable for different purposes. I never liked using the heavy blades in the original release because they just felt too slow for the damage output they did, even if their 'point' was mostly to sheer off armor (and they definitely felt too slow for use in crowd control). Now they're still heavy and slower, but not to the point that you're basically leaving yourself open just trying to attack. Spears now do crazy sweeping combos and multi-hits. Both of these properties were borrowed from Automata and I find myself prioritizing melee combat and almost forgetting I have magic because honestly it just feels intuitive and fun. I feel like Kaine and Emil might have gotten a power boost as well? Not that I can really confirm this but going into some of the Junk Heap rooms I'd focus on killing a few robots in the corner and then turn around and just see a field of item drops and no more robots. Don't take my word on that, of course, but they felt a little more effective, and a placebo effect is still an effect. "You're staging a protest? That's fun!" Emil. Rebel without a cause. Will not hesitate to kill you if you trespass on his property. (Might explain the statues in the courtyard, actually.) I'll have to double-check this dialogue because I definitely remember more of a melancholia before we get to roasting marshmallows. I think Papa Nier actually offers to talk to/implicitly threaten the villagers to let them in the Village whereas Brother offers to sleep outside with them... which is actually kind of funny. In the former it comes off as Emil and Kaine maybe kinda-sorta not wanting to be allowed in the Village for their own reasons (they're not happy reasons but they're reasons nonetheless) and reassuring Father that no, it's okay, it's fun! The latter is almost telling Brother to stay inside because he'll ruin their sleepover.

(They're absolutely having giggly girl talk about him outside the gates, 100%.) they ran over the seals All I want in Seafront is to enjoy the music and run out to the big beach and hang out with the last living seals and they put a fucking pirate ship on top of them. Oh, wow. Gideon. Wow. OG Nier featured a Gideon that tried to keep himself together and then had fits of mania. You'd be concerned about him during some of the dialogue but generally speaking he came across as... functional. The delivery on all of his lines is now so insanely murder bonkers, like every line he's addressing you like you're already chained to the wall of his serial killer dungeon and it's glorious. I don't know if the distinction between the games is deliberate (in that Gideon in Gestalt was just more even-keeled between his 'rip 'em apart' snarlings and was always just totally nutso in RepliCant) but I do appreciate it. It's a good mirror to Brother Nier's own anger, which only ever seems to be mollified when he's talking to his friends (even kindly accepting sidequests there's a pretty consistent -- not universal, but consistent -- air of barely-bridled frustration). The other characters that Brother encounters are various reflections of himself if things had just been a little different-- Gideon was a representation of the kind of obsessive madness that would have eaten Brother alive if he hadn't had his network of support. Gideon's constant fury and bloodlust even bleeds into him just saying "What can I do for you?" He has no anchor to keep himself sane, nobody to stay human for; he's all mania, all anger, and he only takes any real interest in Brother on his return because he sees an opportunity to act out his vengeance. After defeating Beepy and Kalil he even goes so far as to not only blame Beepy for killing Jakob, but for also killing their mother, which is patently insane but really speaks to how far his justifications and fury have taken him. Papa Nier responds to his anger toward Beepy by basically backing away slowly and saying "Oookay then". Brother, however, actually commiserates; "That's enough. [...] We get it. We really do." This is definitely one of those moments where Brother's context works better than Father's; he absolutely sees himself in Gideon. He completely understands him and sympathizes. He recognizes the madness of his own quest, he sees where it could take him, and there's a resignation when he speaks to Weiss: "Revenge is a fool's errand." "...yeah." Papa Nier has a similar delivery and similarly implies that he understands how terrible his quest is, but there's something decidedly haunting in Brother's sympathy. Also just verifying something on the wiki and this bit of 'Trivia' really jumped at me:

Gideon is the only character to only cause the deaths of other characters. In his case, he caused a platform to crush Jakob and ordered the deaths of P-33 and Kalil, with P-33 surviving.

Metal AF.

#NieR #NieR Replicant #Rambling #He will always say 'here we go' in my heart #And that's probably a serious medical condition

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loverspersonas · 3 years

Text

the most beautiful moment in life | part vii

pairing: ot7? x reader

genre: hyyh au, high school au, angst, drama, fluff, smut?

length: 5k

summary: Eight strangers with different stories happen to meet one day, by fate or some kind of cruel, exquisite happenstance, and realize that they’re not as different as they thought.

↳series masterlist

“So it was under this character?”

“Yes,” you answered.

“And it was in English?”

“Yes,” Seokjin said.

“Spelt exactly like this?”

“Yes, Taehyung, okay?” you exclaimed, exasperated. “We covered this already. We were under the bridge by the river and we saw it on the graffiti wall.”

The next day at school, the eight of you met in the library after you and Seokjin had called in a meeting. The way you spoke about it made it sound like you were some sort of breakfast club. You had met in detention, after all. Maybe you could even form a band like they did in the movies.

Taehyung gave a noncommittal shrug. “Just making sure we don’t miss anything.”

“In case you’ve forgotten,” the librarian appeared in front of your table, shooting a scalding look between all of you. “This is a library, and we don’t tolerate noise here.”

“Would you look at that,” Yoongi said dryly without looking at her. “Must’ve slipped our mind.”

He didn’t bother hiding any irritation in his voice, so the librarian opened her mouth to retort until Namjoon started with a polite smile, “We’re sorry. We’ll keep it down.”

That seemed to be reassuring enough for her, because she walked away. Leave it to Namjoon to pacify any of the teachers.

“Isn’t it kind of weird that we didn’t notice it before?” Jimin asked in a lower voice.

“We were a little distracted,” Namjoon said. “And it was dark.”

“What if it wasn’t there before?” Hoseok asked.

Jungkook frowned. “Meaning what? Someone wrote it afterwards?”

Yoongi rolled his eyes. “No, it magically appeared there overnight, Jungkook. Yes, someone put it there.”

There was something you didn’t like about his tone. Something about his mood had been off all morning. He could’ve been sarcastic to anyone else, but to you, Jungkook was a little different. You felt almost defensive about him. “You know, that attitude isn’t very helpful,” you spoke pointedly.

Yoongi’s expression was as dry as sand as he looked at you. ”Sorry, did I hurt your feelings, princess?”

It was clear since your first conversation that the two of you would have a kind of relationship where teasing and picking at each other would become a norm. But you hadn’t realized before that he would have these major mood swings. You glanced at him in slight disbelief. “I told you not to call me that.”

“And I told you I don’t care—“

“Guys, really?” Namjoon said, looking between you. “Can we get through a conversation without you two biting each other’s heads off?”

“If one of us stops acting like an ass,” you muttered under your breath.

“Or if one of us stops being such an entitled princess,” Yoongi retorted, apparently having heard your comment.

“Yoongi,” Hoseok said, his eyes holding something like a warning.

The older boy let out a sigh and grumbled, “Fine.”

“Back to the main point,” Jimin spoke slowly, like he was making sure you and Yoongi were finished. “Smeraldo. We’re assuming it’s an artist. But none of us have ever heard of him?”

“Or her,” you corrected.

He nodded at you. “Right. Or her.”

“It could be a small artist,” Taehyung said. He was rolling a coin around the table, not so concerned about the noise it was making. “You know, like a local thing. They don’t have much of an online presence normally.”

“Explains why I couldn’t find anything on google,” Namjoon added.

“Then how do we find them?” Jungkook asked.

“The old fashioned way. Look through books, magazines, shops or galleries. Maybe even more graffiti locations.”

Taehyung gave a small sigh. “I forgot how difficult life was before the internet.”

You shot him an amused glance, to which he gave you a sarcastic boxy smile. “Ever the dramatic, Tae.”

“How did the painting end up here?” Seokjin asked. “At Sky Academy of all places.”

There was a small gap as most of you pondered over it. Then Hoseok asked, “As in, what if somehow the academy is connected to the artist?”

“Maybe.”

You gazed around the table for a bit, watching your own expression being mirrored. Seokjin had a good point. What if Smeraldo was associated with the academy? It could make sense since all kinds of people and places endorsed the brand that was Sky. Did that mean that it was just a coincidence you had come across that painting? Or had it been left there intentionally?

You broke out of your thoughts as Yoongi shifted in his chair, grabbing his things as he got up. “Well, you guys have fun with your little research project.”

“Where are you going?” Jimin asked.

“History.” His eyes flicked in your direction. “Which I currently have a 90 average on, to all those who doubted me.”

You held back a scoff, shooting him a fake smile. “Who did you have to pay to change your grade?”

He looked like he wanted to make a retort equally snarky, but settled with mimicking your fake smile, though his was much colder.

Taehyung watched him leave before looking back at the rest of you. “I can really feel the love here.”

It had been a while since you last found yourself on the rooftop of the academy’s main building. Students weren’t typically allowed access to it, except for the gardening club who had done a very nice job of decorating the place with green and shades of purples and pinks and yellows. You loved breathing in the air from up here, where the floral scent fused with the breeze. It was also quiet, and so ideal for when you wanted to think or be on your own.

Which seemed to be often these days.

“Hey.”

The voice startled you a little, but your shoulders sunk in relief when it was just Jungkook walking towards you.

“How’d you know where to find me?” you asked.

“I saw you leave,” he said, sitting down next to the ledge you were occupying. “Not very stealthily, might I add.”

You were downstairs with him and a few of the others and were about to go to the cafeteria for lunch, when you found yourself abruptly wanting to come up here instead. You rolled your eyes slightly. “I’ll work on it. We seem to have thing for rooftops, huh.”

He looked around the vast space, at the plants and the glass ceiling cover with a newfound amazement. “I didn’t know we could come up here.”

You couldn’t help but find his innocent fascination a little amusing, but refreshing too. “Me either. Not until last year when Min-hyuk—“ Now, you remembered why you’d also been avoiding the roof. “We stumbled upon it trying to outrun the football team.”

Jungkook noticed the break in your sentence and your mood, but didn’t comment on it. “They’re that bad, huh?” he joked.

“You have no idea.” You glanced sideways at him. “Say… how come you’re not on any sports team? You look like you could be a jock.”

And you meant it, especially in this lighting that was doing wonders for his side profile. If he wasn’t such an introvert and recluse, he could very well fit in with the sports crowds. You don’t think you noticed it before, but Jungkook was handsome. Soft, shiny hair, a sharp nose and jawline. Not to mention, he was well on his way to being built like an athlete.

He snorted. “I thought jocks were obnoxious and dumb.”

Your mouth formed into somewhat teasing smile. “But you’d be a nice jock.”

“An oxymoron,” he said, returning it with a laugh. He cleared his throat a little as the laugh died down. “Min-hyuk was nice, wasn’t he?”

Your demeanour lost every trace of amusement. “Everyone’s nice at first. Not everyone stays nice.”

“You did.”

At first, you didn’t say anything, didn’t know what to say. Sometimes you realized it was harder to talk about yourself, especially personal things like insecurities. Was that what Min-hyuk had meant in that one argument when he’d called you unattached and indifferent?

“Can I ask you something?” you started. “When you were on the roof that night, if I hadn’t been there... what would you have done?”

He turned away from you, staring into space as he thought about it. “I don’t know. I feel like if it had been any other day, it would’ve been different. But that was the day we all met. When we found that first painting. It doesn’t make sense, but something kept telling me to hold on a little longer. And then you showed up and it was almost like a sign.”

“I have been called many things,” you mused. Somewhere underneath, maybe you were even amused or flattered. “A sign is not one of them.”

“It’s hard to explain,” he ended up saying.

“Most things are.”

You weren’t going to push him to talk about that night anymore. It was his lowest and darkest point. But you were glad he’d found something to cling to, whether it had been the words transpired between you two on the other roof, or the ambiguous hwa yang yeon hwa. That sliver of hope was like a raft in the middle of the worst kind of ocean. Staying afloat in the storm that was your mind was a struggle you knew all too well.

“Yeah.” His voice trailed off for a bit, like he was gathering courage to ask his next question. You could feel him watching you, as though expectantly. “Were you expecting someone else to come up here?”

“No.” As you turned your had to look his way, you bit back a smile, happy that nothing about it felt forced. “But I’m glad it was you.”

Slowly, his mouth curved into a similar smile, and you think you would’ve just stayed that way if you didn’t turn back to the skyline.

Jungkook released a wistful sigh. “The sky’s really nice from up here. No wonder the garden club doesn’t want to share.”

You laughed. “Right?”

“I hate this,” Jimin said for what you were almost certain was the 500th time.

“The hospital?” You left the elevator of the said memorial hospital first, stopping when you realized the boy wasn’t walking with you. “You’ve said that already.”

He only began walking down the hallway after he noticed the expectant look you were shooting him. “No, the paint on these walls. What is that, eggshell white? It’s atrocious.”

“Okay, first, I really liked your usage of atrocious. And second, relax a little, Jimin.” The tension set in his shoulders was obvious not just to you but the staff and visitors passing by. Granted, hospitals had that sort of effect, but he didn’t need to be this anxious before he even stepped foot in the doctor’s office. “This place doesn’t hate you as much as you hate it.”

He scoffed. The sleeves of his sweatshirt were long enough for him to keep pulling and tugging at. “That’s hard to believe. If the building was alive, I’m sure it would spit me out instantly. I’m like that piece of cardamom you accidentally bite on.”

“You don’t like cardamom?”

“It’s possibly the only thing more atrocious than this paint. How can you like it?”

After the sharpness in his voice and the brief silence that followed, you asked, “How’re you feeling now?”

He wouldn’t look your way, but the blush staining his cheeks was obvious. With his shoulder, he gave you a light push before speeding up. “Shut up.”

“Hey, it worked, didn’t it?” You let out a small laugh, picking up your pace to match his. If only you were blessed with legs as long as his. “I got you to loosen up a little.”

“I guess,” he mumbled. You let him speak to the receptionist on the floor as you lingered by the side, walking back and forth with your hands in your pockets. He returned to your side a few minutes later, and somehow the anxiety was now practically radiating off of him.

“So, have you always come here alone?” you decided to speak to get his nerves down.

“My parents used to come with me,” Jimin answered. “Then they got busy and… well, I didn’t feel like their presence was helping anyway.”

You raised a brow. “And mine does?”

He pursed his lips together, finally looking at you. You noticed then that he wasn’t much taller than you. Sure, you usually wore boots with platform heels, but out of all the boys, he might’ve been closest in height to you. “I’m not sure yet. I just know that when I ran into you last time… it didn’t feel so horrible to be here.”

“Park Jimin?” A nurse with a clipboard was looking around the waiting area.

Jimin released a breath before stepping forward. “That’s me.”

She nodded at him. “The doctor will see you now.”

As soon as she left, you noticed that Jimin was hesitating to follow her. You came forward to stand beside him, and touched his arm lightly. It seemed to bring him out of some kind of trance. When his gaze found yours, you tried for something like an encouraging smile. “I’ll wait out here.”

Finally, he managed to nod, slowly walking in the direction the nurse had gone in.

While you waited, you found yourself roaming the floor in your boredom. No one paid you any attention, so you didn’t think it was a problem. As you were walking, eyes moving with the patterns on the floors, there was something like an itch in the back of your mind. Like something in your memory being tugged forward.

That was when the floor, the walls, the rooms and posters you passed, all became a familiar sight. Too familiar for someone who tried to avoid the hospital in general. You swore you could even hear someone saying your name. Until you realized that someone was actually saying your name now.

There was a woman in a white coat and a long black ponytail offering you a friendly smile. “Y/N. I thought I recognized you.”

You took a moment to gather your thoughts from inside your head to acknowledge her appearance. “Dr. Kim.”

“It’s been quite a while.” Her brow furrowed. “While it is good to see you, I hoped you didn’t need to come back here.”

“I’m not here for me,” you said quickly. “I’m here for a friend. As moral support.”

“Of course.” As she stepped closer, her voice lowered a little. "Can I ask though… how are you doing? The migraines haven’t come back? If your prescription’s out, I can get you—“

“No, it’s fine,” you interrupted, hoping she understood that you didn’t want to talk about that. “I’m—I’m fine for now.”

She looked at you before sighing sympathetically. “I know you refused to see the psychologist I recommended, but I do hope you’ve been talking to someone.”

With a careless shrug, you said, “My guidance counsellor is trying, for sure.”

The way she was looking at you made it seem like she was debating whether or not to continue. “After the night they brought you in, when I actually had the chance to speak with you…” Her mouth turned into a contemplative frown. “I could just tell there was something more. I’d hoped therapy would help.”

Now, it was your turn to frown. The discomfort was like an itch on your skin, but you tried to ignore it, forcing a confused smile instead. “Help with what? I’m fine, Dr. Kim. It was just a little scratch.”

“Some wounds run deeper than you think,” she said quietly, her eyes fixed on yours until she tore them away, and her face regained some lightheartedness. “Have you visited that boy recently?”

At first, the abrupt change in topic took you aback. Then you shot her a puzzled look. “Boy?”

“I know you didn’t want anyone to know it was you leaving flowers in his room, but his family really appreciated it—“

“Y/N.” Jimin reemerged by your side, his gaze then landing on the older woman he too recognized. “Dr. Kim. I didn’t realize you two knew each other.”

Dr Kim smiled at him. “I presume that you’re the friend who needed moral support.”

He laughed, only with a tinge of uneasiness as his hand moved to the back of his neck. “That would be correct.”

“Well, I’m glad.” She looked from him to you, eyes fixating on yours with something you didn’t fully understand, or didn’t fully want to understand. “I hope you can do the same for each other.”

Jimin waited until she was out of sight before turning to you. “What did she mean by that? How do you know her?”

“She was my old family doctor,” you lied. “How did it go?”

“Oh,” he said, as though remembering why he was even there. "Better than I thought it would. It was just a checkup.”

You started to nod and then your eyes caught a glimpse of the paper he was trying to tuck into his pocket. The kind of paper you were quite used to seeing yourself. “You got a prescription. Jimin… you’re not—“

“It’s nothing serious, Y/N,” he said, lips tugging into a little smile. “Just something for my throat.”

He did that a lot, you realized. Answering with a charming smile to distract the person from the actual answer. You wouldn’t press on, even though you wanted to. A part of your mind was still stuck on some of Dr Kim’s words.

“Come on,” Jimin said, tugging your arm forward. “They’re still serving bagels.”

When you reached home, the lights were on and your mother was sitting on the sofa in the living room. And you would’ve been at least a little surprised, but you were a little distracted.

“Where have you been?” she demanded, getting to her feet. “You didn’t answer your phone.”

“My phone was dying,” you replied distantly as you removed your shoes and jacket. “I didn’t see.”

She released a sigh. “Look, you can be mad all you want, but at least text me where you are or that you’re okay.”

You finally stopped and glanced at her briefly. “I was at the hospital.”

Suddenly, your mother’s voice dropped. You couldn’t read her face, but she swallowed almost nervously. “Oh. Is everything okay?”

“A friend didn’t want to go alone.”

Her eyes widened. “Your prescription. I completely forgot.”

“It’s fine. I got it already.”

She stood there like she still wanted to say something else, but wasn’t sure how. “But is everything okay… with you?”

“I saw Dr. Kim,” you decided to say. Maybe because you wanted to make sense of what she’d said, and because there was a chance, your mother might know something. She’d been there that night in the ER with you. “She said something, and it was kind of strange…” You shook your head. “You know what, it’s probably nothing.”

You turned to leave when your mother spoke again. “I know that I haven’t talked about the night they brought you there.” You opened your mouth to tell her you didn’t want this conversation again, but she raised her hand to stop you. “It’s not that I don’t care, I just—I thought it was better that way for you. I wanted you to move on with your life.”

For the longest time, that was what you wanted too. And for a longer time, you’d really just wanted to hear from her. You tried for a smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes. “I’m starting to think that you can’t really move forward without looking back first. I’m tired. I think I’ll head to bed now.”

“Y/N.” You turned halfway, waiting for what else your mother had to say. She hesitated, unfolding her arms from her chest, and finally met your gaze. “I didn’t mean what I said the other day.”

You found that your voice wasn’t working in that moment. And maybe that was because you didn’t know what to say to her. So, you glanced at her another time before heading to your room.

The last thing you wanted that night was to leave the apartment to find yourself at a park near the Academy. What you wanted was a nice bath, to watch an episode of Brooklyn Nine-Nine, maybe even a bowl of ramen. But the universe didn’t want those things for you, because as soon as you were getting ready for bed, your phone lit up with a text. And normally, you would’ve just ignored it, but you knew it would stay in the back of your mind like an itch you couldn’t get rid of.

Thankfully, it wasn’t too late that buses had stopped running, and that your mother had already retired to her room. You found yourself at the park about a half hour later, and a familiar figure by the swings.

“If you were anyone else, I would think you brought me out here to murder me.”

Yoongi turned his head at your voice. Although, it wasn’t too chilly that night, he was wearing a wool beanie. “Why do you assume I didn’t?”

You gave a small hum. “You don’t give off murderer vibes. You’re more… gothic, underground rapper.”

His hands were in the pockets of his jacket, expression maybe just slightly amused though the streetlights weren’t bright enough to be sure. “How long did you take to come up with that?”

You might’ve retorted if it was another time, but it was late and a part of you didn’t want to agree to his message, asking you if you meet, but another part did want to despite any better judgement you might’ve had. “I don’t have a lot time before my mother notices I’m not in my room. And if you don’t kill me now, she most definitely will.”

“I doubt that.”

“Well,” you said with a shrug. “You can’t always be a princess.”

He paused for a second. “I was being an ass earlier.”

Good, you thought. He caught on to your jab at him. “When? I didn’t notice.”

There was a noise of disbelief as his hands fell at his side. “You know what? Forget it.”

“Wait,” you found yourself saying. Maybe it wasn’t so tactful to respond with sarcasm when someone was trying to be serious. At least, not all the time. “You wanted to apologize, I shouldn’t have said that.”

“Who said anything about apologizing?”

You raised a brow. “So, you dragged me all the way out here this late at night because you didn’t want to apologize?”

He gave a half frustrated sigh. “I wasn’t trying to sound like a jerk. Sometimes I’m thinking about something else and it just… happens without me even realizing it.”

You started to nod in understanding. “You project.”

He frowned. “What?”

“You project your feelings on to other people. Even when they’re not who the feelings are directed at.” You shrugged at his surprised expression. “That’s what you were doing earlier, wasn’t it?”

“I wasn’t mad at any of you,” he said finally, sighing to himself. He brushed some of the hair out his eyes. “There’s just—other things I’m dealing with right now.”

You wanted to feel for him, and deep down, you probably did. But you didn’t want to let people off for being cruel just because they thought they were allowed to. You didn’t want to do that anymore. “That’s not an excuse to be mean.”

“I know.” At least, he had the decency to sound like he meant it. He didn’t meet your eyes as he went on, instead glancing at his feet. “Sorry about what I said to you.”

Suddenly, Yoongi wasn’t the only one who felt awkward with apologies. You forced something in between a scoff and a laugh. “Please, it’s not like you hurt my feelings or something.”

“I didn’t think so. But you probably wanted to hear it, didn’t you?” He narrowed his eyes, smirking a little as he saw your expression. “Don’t even deny it.”

You rolled your eyes, folding your arms over your chest. “Yes, Yoongi. Thank you for stroking my ego with a half decent apology.”

His expression actually became slightly incredulous and offended. “Half decent? I had to ask Namjoon how to do it.”

Raising your eyebrows partly from surprise and partly because that was the first time you’d heard of anyone asking for instructions on how to apologize, you said, “So, you’ve already practiced this before, possibly more than once, and yet you’re still this unrehearsed?”

“Okay, fuck off,” he scoffed. When you started to laugh, you were sure he was actually going to punch you. “I’m not good at talking to people. Sue me.”

“Well, I can’t for that,” you said with a shrug, the laughs gone but a smile still lingering. You grabbed on to one of the swings, settling into it. “It would be too hypocritical.”

“What, you?” Yoongi said with skepticism. He followed your actions, taking the empty swing beside you. “Please, you're Sky’s favourite girl. You don’t even have to try, and people will fall at your feet.”

It was funny how easily moods could go from amused to sour. “Everyone keeps saying that,” you said under your breath.

“What?”

“It’s not like that.” Shaking your head, you tucked some loose hairs from your ponytail behind your ears. “Not anymore, at least. Everyone keeps imagining this past version of me, but present me is someone else, and I—I’m so confused which one I am or I’m supposed to be.”

It had to be something in the air, you told yourself, that was making you open up this. It had to be, because you didn’t randomly just burst out with your thoughts. Or maybe it was the fact that you’d already talked to Yoongi about serious things once. Because he seemed like someone who wouldn’t make fun of you or be condescending. He seemed like someone who could try and relate.

“Well, which one do you like more?” he asked after a second.

At first, the question took you by surprise, because no one had ever asked you anything like it. But you knew the answer without having to think. “Neither.”

“Why?”

Because they’re either fake or distorted beyond recognition. “I don’t know.”

The swing continued to move without you controlling it, and could feel his hooded gaze on you, both calculating and curious. “Why were you in the middle of the highway?”

“What?”

“The night we all met at the river. What were you doing?”

“I don’t have a death wish,” you said darkly as soon as you sensed the undertones in his voice. The same undertones everyone at Sky, including people who’d been your friends, had shown to you the previous year.

Yoongi didn’t argue with you. His swing wasn’t moving anymore, so he sat there patiently, hands still folded in his pockets. “Then what were you doing? And don’t say you don’t know.”

“I was thinking,” you answered finally.

His mouth quirked up slightly. “Only for you would something so normal actually become dangerous.”

The glance you cast at him was part affronted. “What does that mean?”

With a sigh, he shook his head. “It means don’t hate yourself because you think everyone around you does.”

You glanced at him a little surprised. “How straightforward.”

But it wasn’t quite exactly that. It wasn’t that you hated yourself in a pitying way, or that made you want sympathy from other people. It just felt like there was something like poison rooted in the back of your mind, the tiniest drop that was touching every other part of you. At least then you could tell yourself that there was a reason for everything bad that had come your way, even if it meant it was your own fault.

“But true. Not everyone hates you, Y/N.”

In the back of your mind, you realized it was one of the rare times he actually said your name. “You don’t?”

“I apologized to you, didn’t I?” he said as though it answered the question.

“But you never did? Not even before?”

He shrugged, as though the answer wasn’t as important to him as it was to you. “I didn’t know you enough to hate you. And neither does anyone else.”

You didn’t say anything at first, letting the creaking of the swings’ chains fill the empty space instead. “I thought you said you didn’t care. About any of this.”

He sighed, like you were a child who had too many questions that he didn’t want to deal with. “Back to this, are we?”

As you turned your head to look at him, you narrowed your eyes a little. “You know, you’re really good at diverting, too.”

While throwing a grin at you, he said, “Thanks, I’ve had a lot of practice.”

But you knew that him trying to divert from the topic wasn’t because it was a bore to him. You’d spent a lot of time pretending to care about things yourself. Somehow, you could tell the difference even now. “You do care,” you said again. “At least a little. Or you wouldn’t have been there at the river with the rest of us.” You wouldn’t have pushed me out of the way of that car.

“Believe what you want, princess,” Yoongi said with another eye roll.

This time, you chose to ignore the nickname, and instead, you grinned at him cheekily, pushing your swing further. “You know what? I’m going to get you to admit it.”

He scoffed lightheartedly, in a way that told you this was amusing to him, and looked at you still swinging. “Don’t hurt yourself trying.”

“Some day,” you emphasized. “You’re going to admit that you care. That Min Yoongi has a heart after all, and it’s so big and capable of— wait, where are you going?"

“To find somewhere this conversation won’t follow me.”

As he got up from the swing and started walking out of the sand box, you were watching him only with the faintest incredulous expression. “You’re hilarious.”

chapter vi // chapter viii (coming soon)

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duchessofostergotlands · 3 years

Note

Do you know why Charles Spencer is “Earl Spencer” and not “Earl of”. Is there a difference in rank or something?

Spencer's not a place and in the vast majority of cases you are "Earl of" if it's Earl of Location. Generally the higher the title, the more likely it is to have an of. All Dukes are "of" somewhere whereas Viscounts or Barons never are, even if a place name is used. Earls are middling titles so have a mixture. That all reflects how many of them there are; there are tons of Barons but hardly any Dukes. Generally - although not exclusively - the titles which use the family name instead of a territory are less senior in the peerage system, newer, and created under the peerage system of Great Britain rather than England. This is most likely just because they were running out of counties so they had to go for smaller areas or use the surname instead. The Spencer family have a Viscount title with Althorp, the area they have the most connection to, so couldn't have that for an Earldom as well. The area Althorp is in - Northampton - already has a Marquess so was unlikely to be used. So the last name is used instead and they don't use of as a result of that. So it does imply that the title is less senior than many others but it’s not always or automatically an indication of that (there are Earls of x who are less senior than the Spencers).

#ask #anon #aristocracy #titles

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imaginepirates · 4 years

Text

Modern! Beckett

Alrighty, so I know these were requested forever ago (sorry, fml) but here you are with another modern au setting in which Beckett is plunged into today’s world. You live on a peaceful vineyard, so if you need something aesthetically pleasing rn, this is it.

@fablelady @kay-maybe @panagiasikelia

~3200 words

~~~~~~~

Something had gone horribly wrong with the food. Some sort of toxin had made its way into your body. It had to have. Otherwise, you wouldn't be seeing a man standing in your vineyard, wearing an embroidered waistcoat, looking completely and utterly lost.

You'd been walking barefoot through the rows of vines after breakfast, letting your toes curl against the earth. It was a pleasant sensation. A light breeze tugged at your loose hair, and the morning sun warmed your arms and back. Ripe grapes hung from the vineyard’s vines, purplish blue, ready to be harvested and sold to the nearby winery. You looked up, gazing over the endless rows of green and out to the golden fields beyond. Even further was the shimmering lake, the morning sun dappling across its surface, vast and blue and ending hazily at the mountainous opposite shore.

You wandered aimlessly, with no goal in mind, just looking out over the vast stretches of empty land. There was another vineyard in the distance, much the same as yours, and a small road interrupted the natural beauty, but there was little else around. A small city sat beyond the crest of a far off hill. You couldn’t see it from where you lived, but you drove in to get groceries and anything else you needed.

It was as you walked that you found yourself face to face with a small man who had somehow made his way deep within your vineyard. He stared at you with wide eyes and a perplexed expression, and you stared back, equally surprised.

It took a few moments to even comprehend the idea of someone ending up on your property. The section of vines you were in was far from the road, and you likely would have noticed someone coming from the road in any case. He didn’t really look like he’d walked a long way; there was none of the thin layer of dust that a person accumulated while walking long distances. You had no idea where he could have possibly come from.

The second thing that you noticed about the stranger was his manner of dress. A pale blue embroidered waistcoat, breaches, and strange heeled shoes were hardly the normal manner of dress. Not to mention the wig.

It took you another instant to realize that you recognized the man. Which means I must be dreaming, or I must be crazy. He bared an uncanny resemblance to a character from one of your favorite movies. There’s no way this could possibly be him. Lord Cutler Beckett, in my yard.

You must have been staring at him for an uncomfortable amount of time, as he cleared his throat.

You had a hard time forcing words out of your mouth. “Oh,” was all you could manage at first. Then, “Any idea how you got here?”

The man had the decency to look embarrassed. “No, I’m afraid.” He fidgeted with the hem of his loose white shirt. “Where am I, exactly?”

“In the middle of my vineyard, actually.”

“Ah. And that is?”

“A ways from wherever you come from, I think.”

He seemed to agree, assessing your clothes and the area around him.

“Would you like to come inside? We might be able to figure things out better.”

“Thank you.”

You walked back between the rows of grapevines, much more quickly than your earlier aimless meandering. The house was just ahead, a red roof against sandy walls. Cypress trees stood, lining the gravel driveway, at the front of the house. Beckett didn’t seem phased in the least by the outside appearance; you were sure he’d seen things like it before. It was old-fashioned, if not truly that old, in the style of Tuscan vineyards.

Beckett got a shock upon seeing the inside of the house, though. You led him up the stairs to your back porch and through the double doors at the back of the house. If the porch a story off the ground didn’t seem strange enough to him, the modern furniture, lights, decor, and appliances shocked him. You could hear him gasp a little behind you as he entered the house.

You entered into the kitchen. It was a large, open space connected to your living room. Bar seating separated the two spaces. “Water?” You asked. “I know it can get hot out there.”

“Hm? Oh, yes, please.” Somehow, he still managed to keep his manners.

You pulled a glass from the cupboard of the kitchen, filling it with water from the refrigerator. You looked back at Beckett, who stared on quizzically with his mouth slightly open. When you gave him the glass, he eyed it suspiciously before drinking.

“Perhaps ‘where’ am I wasn’t the right question,” he murmured. He drank slowly, eyeing everything around him. You were half tempted to turn on the TV, just to give him a start, but you decided against it.

“I think you’re going to find that everything is different around here. It might take some getting used to.” That was an understatement and you knew it.

“Ah.” He continued to stare. Finally, his eyes snapped back into focus and he looked at you. “I don’t suppose you’d be willing to play the part of the host?”

“I have plenty of room.”

He raised his eyebrows. “You live here alone?” “Not anymore, it seems, though I might like to know the name of my guest.” You gave him a smile, and he tentatively smiled back.

“Beckett. Cutler Beckett.” It was your turn to be dazed. “Thank you. I’d rather not make myself more lost by trying to find somewhere else to stay.”

“I understand.” Huh. Cutler Beckett. Right in my kitchen.

You showed him to a guest room. It was fairly minimal, and the decorations were sparse. The room had been painted an ivory color, and you’d complimented it with pale blue decorations. The curtains sported flowering shapes in both colors, whereas the bedspread was slightly patterned in varying shades of blue. An ovular mirror stood to one side of the room. It was charming, in its own way, though you were sure Beckett was used to more lavish accommodations.

He, for his part, didn’t seem to mind. He tapped the bed absentmindedly with a hand, looking around. He furrowed his brows, looking at the nightstand with its lamp. “What’s this?”

“A lamp. It’s a light that you can control from next to your bed.” You then proceeded to show him the lightswitch.

He stared, bewitched. “How does it work?”

“I’m…. not completely sure. It’s so common, I don’t really think about that. I know that it’s a complicated mess of wires, though.”

He continued to stare at the switch. As you left the room, you heard him give it a few experimental clicks. You smiled. It was sort of adorable, the way he was enchanted with everything. Much different from the man from the story. Softer. More human.

“Are you hungry?” You asked. It was getting on towards midday, and you found the idea of lunch to be appealing.

“The thought of food tempts me, I will admit.”

“It’s decided, then. Perhaps we’ll make it a picnic.” You busied yourself in the kitchen, pulling out meats, cheeses, fruits, nuts, and crackers. Snacky foods, but delicious when combined, and perfectly filling.

Beckett seemed a little dubious at the idea of eating outside, but you assured him that he wouldn’t get dirty, nor would he have trouble with bugs.

“And the heat?” he asked.

“Firstly, you can lose the waistcoat. And the wig. They won’t do you any favors. Secondly,” you snatched a floppy sun hat from a peg on the wall, “I have two.”

You might have considered getting him different clothes if you’d been worried about someone seeing you, but you weren’t, so you didn’t bother. You instead put the large sun hat on his now bare head, the hat clashing horribly with everything else.

You put yours firmly in place, picked up the basket in which you’d put your food, and strolled out the back door. Beckett followed right behind you, staring out at everything he could see. “It feels like Greece,” he said, “or Italy.”

“Thank you. I try to keep that feeling, actually.”

“You’re doing beautifully.”

The words took you aback. You could see that he was perfectly serious, but you hadn’t expected such a compliment from him. You’d hardly expected him to say anything nice at all. The story didn’t do him justice, then. You’d always expected him to be a bit of an ass. You supposed he still had the chance, but he’d been nothing but the picture of polite company, if not massively confused polite company.

You walked him down a winding path through the golden fields surrounding the vineyard. It trailed down to the shore of the lake, whose deep blue waters stretched out to a hazy horizon. Mountains rose up far beyond, too far away to see clearly, barely standing out against the sky. A small boat sat on the beach there, on your side, and you had a mind to row it a ways down the bank.

You pushed off from the bank, peacefully rowing through the serene waters. Few boats used the lake, making it ideally scenic. You would have hated for the lake to be crowded. More urban areas got choked with tourists during the summer, but you were far enough away from any big cities that it wasn’t a problem. Besides, the nearest town didn’t have major hotels.

You rowed along, Beckett sitting opposite you in the little boat. He seemed to be enjoying himself, looking out over the scenery. The tension had left his shoulders. He seemed almost peaceful this way, staring out at the hazy mountains, looking over the golden fields and banks of trees.

You arrived at a flat, grassy area shaded by trees. The two of you got out and sat beside the lake, shielded from the blistering sun. You unpacked the basket you’d brought with you. You and Beckett sat in companionable silence, enjoying the meal, enjoying a slight breeze. Beckett looked ridiculous in the sun hat. It seemed too big on him, somehow, and it made him look much less threatening than you were used to his being. Meeting him in person had been a lot different than how he was portrayed, you reflected.

“It’s wonderful here. Much more peaceful than home,” he said. His expression changed when he spoke of his home, like he’d tasted something sour. “I do wonder what’s going on. And how I’m supposed to get back. If I’m supposed to get back. It’s a rather terrifying thought, that I might never go home.” By the look on his face, the thought was just now occurring to him.

“I’m sure we’ll find a way to get you home.”

“Are you sure? I don’t know how I ended up here in the first place. It seems rather like a dream, though I can say with confidence that it isn’t.”

“You had to get here somehow. I don’t think you’re meant to stay here forever.”

He looked out over the lake. “Things are such a mess there, the idea of staying here isn’t so awful, actually.”

“Maybe you just needed time away.”

“I doubt the world would be so kind.”

You steered away from the subject, and the two of you ended up talking about the vineyard. He knew more about viniculture than you might have guessed.

“It really does take me back to some of my lessons in school,” he said. “They had pictures of the Italian countryside in some of my books. It was much like this, though I don’t remember any lakes.”

You smiled. “It’s one of my favorite places. Too many methods of production have taken on more modern approaches; the massive farms growing wheat, or the rows upon rows of corn, interrupted only by giant sprinklers and massive tractors. I like keeping things small. It’s so much more peaceful than those unnerving monocultures.”

“I always wanted to go. To Greece, or Italy, I mean. I loved all the stories, all the history. I wanted to experience it for myself.”

“Never got to go?”

“No. My travels took me elsewhere. Africa, China, India, the New World. I always told myself that I’d make time for it later.”

“Surely the places you did go to proved to be interesting.”

“Very. The cultures of those places were foreign to me; lord knows they weren’t part my education. I found them fascinating. Tell me, have the American colonies expanded? I’m sure they’d have had to, by now.”

“Well, yes.” You didn’t think he’d like where this was going.

Something in your expression must have tipped Beckett off. “They are still under the control of the British?”

“No.”

“The Spanish? God forbid, don’t tell me the French got control. I can’t imagine those frogs doing anything good with the land.”

“Actually, the colonies had a revolution and became their own country.”

“Ah,” he said. “I suppose that’s wont to happen sometimes.”

“Yes, yes it is.” You thought of all the other countries that had broken away from Britain, too.

You packed up, stepping back into the boat. This time, you drifted out towards the center of the lake. “Did you spend much time at sea?” you asked. “You did seem to travel a lot.” You didn’t want to make it look like you knew too much about him, even though you did.

“I spent a fare amount of time at sea, yes, though I typically settled down once I got somewhere.” He let his hand skim the top of the water. “The sea is much different from a lake, though. Calmer.”

You were out on the lake until dusk, talking about this and that; the places you’d been and the things you’d seen, all the questions Beckett had for you about modern technology and travel, and a hundred other things. You figured it was the most relaxed Becektt had ever been. He even laughed from time to time at your jokes. How strange it is, to see him like this. I think he’s growing on me.

You seemed to be growing on him, too. “You’re very easy to get along with, you know that? I haven’t just sat and talked with someone in ages. At least, not without wanting to get something from them.”

“Is there nothing you want to get from me?” you asked innocently.

Beckett looked at you, surprised. A slight blush dusted his features. Then he smiled, a little wickedly, and raised an eyebrow. “Was that flirting?”

It was your turn to blush. “Perhaps a little.”

“Just know that it can go both ways.” A smug look crossed his face as you blushed deeper. “Although I have to admit, I’m rather out of practice. It’s been a long time since anyone’s flirted with me.”

“I can’t see why. You’re such a charming man.”

“Am I? I rather think that my good attitude has everything to do with my company, and nothing to do with my charm.”

You rolled your eyes, rowing back to shore. By the time you got back to the house, it was time for dinner, and you coerced Beckett into helping you make it. He had little idea what he was doing, but managed not to make a complete mess with any of his tasks. It’s cute, you thought, to watch him try doing domestic things.

The two of you enjoyed a pasta dish with chicken and tomatoes, fresh basil and olive oil drizzled over the top. You had an assortment of fruits to enjoy, too. You plucked a pomegranate from the mix.

Beckett eyed you. “I suppose you know the story of Hades and Persephone?”

“I do. How Hades fell in love with Persephone, kidnapped her, and tricked her into eating seeds from the fruit of the underworld. She had to return to him, then, and spend half of each year with him.”

“A man from another world, falling for a goddess of vegetation.” Beckett’s eyes focused on the pomegranate. “Sometimes, mythology is unbelievable. Sometimes, it isn’t.”

You cut the fruit, taking out a large spoonful of the burgundy seeds and eating them. “I like the version where Persephone knows exactly what she’s doing.”

Beckett watched you, eyes never leaving yours. “I don’t think I’ve heard that one before.”

“It’s a little wicked, I must confess. The thought that she was no innocent victim, but a wholly conscious decider of her fate. Perhaps not all women want to pick flowers all day. Some of us might like a taste of power, of having men fear our names.”

“And would you have me fear yours?” He arched a brow. You laughed. “No, no.”

“Would you rather me kidnap you, then?” He didn’t give you time to answer, instead pulling you out of your seat to be flush against him. “Tell me, do you dance?”

“Does the Macarena count?” He gave you a questioning look. “Nevermind,” you said. “The answer is no.”

“Shame. Looks like you need a teacher.” He smirked. “It might be a little hard without music, though.”

“What song?” Beckett looked confused. “Can you get any waltzes?”

“Alexa,” you turned your head towards the small device sitting on your counter. “Play the Second Waltz.” You turned back to Beckett. “It’s a bit more contemporary, but I trust you’ll know how to dace to it.”

The tune, familiar to you, at least, began. Beckett put a hand on your waist and took one of your hands with the other. Your free hand floated just above his shoulder, where you assumed it was supposed to go.

“Don’t be shy,” he urged.

The moment your hand came to rest on his shoulder, he took a step forward, forcing you to step back. He guided you to one side, then forward, and again to the other side. Your movements were clumsy, but you began to get the hang of it as he repeated the steps.

“Not so hard, see?”

You smiled shyly, aware of just how close the two of you were.

“Blushing already?” he teased. He suddenly pulled you flush against his chest. “And to think I hadn’t even given you anything to blush about.”

“You’re cheeky, aren’t you?” You barely managed to get the words out through your embarrassment.

“Perhaps. Though I’m sure I can make you blush harder if I try.”

“Is that a promise?”

Beckett laughed. “You’re not so bad at this yourself, you know. But if I must…” The hand on your waist took a firmer grip, while the one holding yours came to rest on your cheek. His thumb grazed over your lower lip. Softly, he planted a kiss to your lips, staying close even after it was finished. “Perhaps staying here forever isn’t such a bad thought after all,” he whispered. He stepped back. “Though I suppose I have to find a way back at some point.”

“We will,” you said, still a little dizzy from the kiss.

“Together?”

“Together.”

~~~~~~~

If anyone was wondering about the song:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LPG_WUgHbis

#potc #pirates #pirates of the caribbean #becket #lord beckett #cutler beckett #request #modern au #modern #au #drabble #drabbles #writing #fanfic #potc fanfic

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