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groovybaybee · 4 years

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Greener - II

Greener - I

(4.2k)

cw: mentions of abuse (not this chapter and nothing too intense but better safe than sorry) also alcohol consumption

There are moments in life that conjure up intense emotion any time you think about them. Happy or sad, whenever your mind flicks through its rolodex of memories and lands on it, you feel that moment come to life. You brain must have logged every detail of that time and packed it away in the back of your brain for you to stumble upon later down the road. Your mind takes you back to that moment and brings your senses along with it. My mother always reaches for these moments in times of strife, dipping her hand into a lucky dip of ‘happy places’ and allowing the sensation to wash over her. Her favourite is a family holiday to Spain, sipping ice-cold drinks as we swung our legs in the chilly waters of the pool below us.

Not all the moments I remember are so positive, but I feel them just as strongly. Instead, I created my own ‘happy place’ to escape to whenever I felt overwhelmed.

I stand, waist-deep, in warm water. Waves lap around me, hugging and kissing my naked skin as I breathe gently under the moonlight. The sky above me is clear and an audience of stars shine down on me. I bare my soul to the universe and feel love and appreciation in return. The night sky watches over me as I let my eyes close, leaning my head back, chin high. My shoulders relax more than they ever have as a warm but refreshing breeze wraps around me, hugging me tightly. I hear trees rustle somewhere behind me, whispering sweet sentences to one another as the sand beneath my feet reaches my ankles, anchoring me securely to the world, grounding and protecting me from floating away.

I let my eyes open and I am back in my kitchen. No gentle breezes or salty air. Just my kitchen, with its colourful, mismatching crockery and photographs blu-tacked to the wall. However, there is a clear change in the room since the time I shut my eyes tightly, my chest feels looser, my throat no longer feels as though it is closing, and my breathing has slowed drastically.

Raising my phone from my side, I return to the source of my sudden panic.

A news article, forwarded from my manager, Jim, a simple ‘Didn’t know you were dating’ preceded the link to the website. Of course, he was joking, not realising the stress I was about to feel.

Quickly clicking the link, I remind myself to breathe deep and slow as I am redirected to a webpage.

BACK ON THE HORSE? HARRY STYLES SPOTTED GETTING CLOSE WITH MYSTERY WOMAN

Hunky heartthrob, Harry Styles, caught canoodling outside hot Los Angeles restaurant, Spago. Despite reportedly having only split with model ex-girlfriend, Camille Rowe, a mere two months ago, the pop sensation was witnessed cosying up to a new woman.

I am skim-reading at this point, desperate to get to the end with some shred of mental stability. My eyes land on the articles singular piece of ‘evidence’, a video taken from across the street. It begins with Harry and I talking and laughing outside the restaurant, follows us as we migrate closer to one another, my head thrown back in laughter before we are nearly pressed together. I had not realised quite how close we had gotten. The video ends when Harry and I are blocked from view, Harry’s car obstructing the camera’s line of sight. No one would be able to tell we did not kiss. My stomach squeezes uncomfortably as I read the video’s caption.

Keep it in your pants guys!

It is all a little dramatic. A small part of me wants to laugh at the way this has all been exaggerated and made into a big deal. That amusement fizzles as I continue to read the article, pausing after reading the final line.

All this has us wondering, has Harry really moved on so quickly?

Good question.

Quickly replying to my manager, I send the words ‘Blind date’, before glancing at the comments beneath the article.

Big mistake.

Despite the article not naming me directly, not something I am shocked or offended by as Harry is clearly the more famous of the two of us, the comment section of the webpage has not mirrored the same unawareness. Almost every comment mentions me by name, the majority questioning how we even know each other.

I allow myself to be sucked into the vortex of curiosity, taking in every opinion possible. Many of the replies to the news make it clear that they do not know who I am, and therefore that is reason enough for me to be nowhere near Harry. A lot of comments debate whether or not Harry has fully dealt with his breakup, suggesting that this was a PR move to make his ex-girlfriend jealous. I make the mistake of googling her.

Well I don’t think the jealousy tactic is likely to be effective.

She is stunning. A French model. Could I be more of a cliched parallel to her? I try not to compare the two of us, however, a few comments bring attention to the bloat of my stomach and it becomes very difficult not to feel vulnerable after that. It was a blind date. Harry and I were set up. That is the only reason he would ever look at me twice.

But he wants to see me again.

I cling to that thought and close the webpage on my phone, pocketing it and deciding fresh air is what I need. Stepping through the patio doors of my house, I peek out into the sunshine, letting the warm rays soak into me instantly. The small house is built on a hill, the garden demonstrating this the most as it is split into two grassy tiers. I walk up the concrete steps until I reach the patio furniture at the top. Sitting myself on one of the wooden chairs, I take a second to appreciate the view; the back of my house shaded by the incline of the hill which allows me to peer over the top of my roof and look out at the hills. As a kid, I had pictured living somewhere warm enough for palm trees, now I am able to watch them arc in the wind.

I did this, and this is far more important than a few words. I am alive, I am good, and I am kind.

Pressing my toes into the soft, cool grass beneath me, I slip my phone out of my pocket and compose a text.

Sat in my garden and I reckon the view would be fun to paint, fancy it?

The soft yellowy horizon gives me a sense of security as the evening creeps in. There is so much beauty in the world and I am glad I took the time to sit out here rather than obsessing over some meaningless gossip. It will all blow over and people will either forget about us or realise that we are not actually together. A small smirk tugs at my lips as I imagine pinning this on Lucy and using it as an excuse to get a free drink out of her.

My phone vibrates twice against the wooden table.

I love that idea. Tomorrow work? (I’ll bring wine) – Harry

I cannot help but grin at the small screen, quickly typing a reply.

4pm? Catch the last of the sun that way. Also you don’t have to keep signing off!

Only a few seconds after placing my phone back down on the table, I have to pick it back up to read his latest message.

Sounds perfect. It’s harder to stop than you’d think – Harry

Giggling at him, I lock my phone and set it down, excitement pooling in the bottom of my stomach. This time tomorrow Harry will be sat beside me, paint-covered and maybe a little bit tipsy. I make a quick mental note to go shopping for food to line our stomachs, not wanting to let him be exposed to my drunken self just yet.

I spend the next day getting my house presentable, or at least as tidy as possible despite the numerous large, brown boxes which clutter my living room. I also spend the day doing errands, shopping for food and drinks Harry might like (probably going a bit overboard and buying enough options for five people rather than two), and picking up some art supplies for the two of us.

Once home, I unpack the groceries, setting some of them out on plates and dishes, making an attempt at a charcuterie board I had seen on Pinterest the night before. Setting up the area we would be spending the most time in, I move the two small canvases I purchased earlier outside, along with paints and brushes and cups of water for rinsing. It seems a little bit amateur, but I do not have time to dwell as Harry texts me that he is just leaving his house and will be here in half an hour.

Dashing back inside, I take the speediest shower of my life just to freshen up and rinse the day away. Chastising myself for my lack of planning ahead, I smear on a touch of makeup and quickly style my hair. I am still pulling on a pair of dungarees, clipping the straps into place, when I open the front door.

“Hi,” I greet breathlessly.

Harry is already smiling when I meet his gaze, looking down at me with an infectious grin. I allow myself a second to drink him in. Obviously, he is dressed more casually than two days ago, dressed in a simple but figure-hugging black t-shirt, a golden chain peeking out from underneath. Alongside them, he is wearing a pair of brown, straight-leg corduroy trousers. He looks good. It should not surprise me, but it does anyway.

“Hi,” he offers brightly.

Stepping aside to let him enter, I try not to check him out, mentally telling myself that I am still not certain where he stands re us kissing each other’s faces off. Probably for the best to err on the side of caution.

Closing the door behind him, I walk us through the living room and to the adjoining kitchen, feeling a tad embarrassed by my decorating style. Splashes of colour litter the house, the walls are mostly covered in photographs, interesting drawings and potted plants.

“When did you move in?” Harry asks, noticing the stack of boxes. My heart pangs slightly at the question but I try not to let the dread within shine through.

“Few months now, I’m just terrible at unpacking,” It is not a total lie, so I do not feel totally bad about it. There is, however, a small part of me that resents not being completely honest with him about why a certain box remains closed and sealed. “I might have gone overboard with snacks, so please eat anything you want,” I tell him when we reach the kitchen and he sees the spread I had laid out.

Suddenly, it all feels like too much and heat prickles my cheeks in embarrassment as I watch Harry eye the full countertops. I had bought far too much and probably seem incredibly eager. Bread touched three types of meat, touched three types of cheese, touched olives, touched sundried tomatoes. There was another plate full of fruit, washed and sliced and displayed daintily in concentric circles. Then there was the bags of crisps, pretzels, biscuits, and chocolate buttons. This was enough for a family picnic, not a light grazing, and definitely too much for a second date. If that is even what I could call this.

“This is amazing,” Harry utters quietly, and I almost do not hear him, my internal monologue reprimanding me so severely it almost overpowers him. He turns back towards me, gazing at me softly, his face a beautiful light pink. “Feel bad for contributing so little now,” he says, a gentle teasing lilt to his voice which makes me smile, a breathy and grateful laugh falling from my lips.

“Trust me, your contribution is the most valuable,” I say, stretching up into a cupboard to grab two wine glasses.

We manage to carry a disproportionate amount of food outside, giggling as we stacked our arms high until I could barely see over the top of my pile. Once outside, we settle on the wooden chairs and Harry pours us each a glass of merlot.

“Matches your hair,” he muses, smirking as he hands the glass to me.

“Never heard that one before,” I tease, trying to ignore the voice in my head questioning if he thinks the colour is ugly.

Harry settles back in his chair, looking out across the hills and valleys before speaking again, “This was a good idea,”

“Yeah, the view is the main reason I bought the house to be honest,” I mumble into my wine glass.

There are a few moments of silence. It is not particularly uncomfortable, but I decide that we could use some music. I dash inside to grab a speaker and connect my phone to it.

“Can I leave it up to you?” I ask, holding out my unlocked phone for him to take, “I’m indecisive.”

He lets out a chuckle, muttering a soft, “Sure.”

Taking the phone from my hand, our fingers brush momentarily, and I have to remind myself that I am not in the middle of a romcom. I feel my cheeks redden at the interaction and quickly turn to my canvas. Placing the wooden end of my paintbrush in my mouth as I scan over the paints in between the two of us. The soft opening notes of The Chain begin to play, mingling with the warm breeze that swirls lightly around the garden.

“Listen to the wind blow,” I sing under my breath, unable to hold myself back.

From the corner of my eye, I see Harry picking up his own brush, dipping into a little bit of blue paint and brushing across his own canvas. I dip my brush back into the yellowy orange colour I had been mixing and paint the outline of my house. It is messy and a little childlike, but I am having a good time. Harry and I both begin to relax as we paint, singing along, and doing embarrassingly enthusiastic seated dance moves when the guitar solo plays.

“I love Fleetwood Mac so so much,” I admit gleefully, catching my breath as I giggle and take a sip of my wine.

“Me too,” Harry replies, a bright smile pairing with beautifully pinkened cheeks.

“What’s your favourite song?” I ask happily, popping a raspberry into my mouth.

Harry pauses for a moment, lowering his brush and giving the question some good thought. He makes it impossible not to admire him, watching as his brows furrow ever so slightly, lips puckering temporarily as his brain ticks over.

“I always come back to Songbird,” he tells me, looking up at me and nodding to himself. His eyes look so bright when they catch the light, reflecting into mine. I almost have to look away.

“It’s a beautiful song,” I admit softly, my voice quieter than either of us had expected, suddenly nervous again to be in his presence and having a conversation which means so much to me.

“What’s yours?” Harry asks, his gaze not wavering for even a second. He is undeniably intimidating, not even due to his status in the world, but simply being beside him feels as though I have won some sort of contest. There is something in his general being that makes me feel both small and powerful all at once. Simultaneously, I cannot believe that he is here in my garden when he could be anywhere else with anyone else, nor can I believe the way he is looking at me, observing me with such delicate looks that it appears he is afraid of scaring me away.

“Storms,” I blurt out. Taking a second to collect my thoughts, I explain, “Skies the Limit is my go-to, but Storms made me feel when I felt numb.”

Realising that I have most definitely overshared, I quickly dip my brush in the nearest colour and spread it across the top of my canvas, accidentally painting the sky pink.

“I think that’s really special,” Harry utters softly, his gaze still on me as I pretend to be focused on my painting and not the spectacular man beside me, or the way his eyes feel on the side of my face. “I want to make music like that, you know?” he says, turning back to the view ahead of us and finishing off his own skyline.

“I think you have,” I confess, feeling his eyes back on me in an instant. I force myself to turn to meet his gaze, urging some sense of bravery to course through my veins. When our eyes meet, he is looking at me like water in the desert, some sort of miracle before him that his brain does not fully believe. His mouth opens, pauses, then closes again. A second later, a smile pulls at his lips.

“I like your pink sky,” he tells me, grinning brightly, not breaking away to look at the canvas in front of me.

I laugh, “Started as a mistake but I think I prefer it like this,” I admit, pursing my lips as I take a long look at my painting.

“I like the way your mind works,” Harry says, smirking when I turn to him with knitted eyebrows, “I feel like you’re so bright and full of joy. Just walking through your house felt like I’ve known you years… I don’t know if that sounds mental.”

He looks at me cautiously, afraid he has revealed too much, and maybe he has, but I enjoy it more than I could even tell him. I like his perception of me. No matter what happens, how much he comes to learn and dislike about me, at this moment he likes me. And, oh boy, do I like him.

The thought of kissing him pops into my head, bold and illuminated in neon. I let it pass, determined not to ruin the moment. Instead, I look at him, and he looks right back. We share a brief period of peace, the sun on our faces with a light wind blowing between us.

“Oh!” We both exclaim enthusiastically as What Makes You Think You’re the One plays on the shuffle. Smirking at our joint reaction, we turn back to our paintings.

For the next hour or so we fully relax into our little world, grooving along as we paint. There is a real sense of calm throughout the space, even the birds in the trees seem to chirp softer, almost as though they were part of our garden party.

The only moment in which there is a break in the bubble of tranquillity is when Harry desperately reaches for a strawberry, stopping himself whenever his hand, covered in a rainbow of paints, gets close. Impossible to tear my eyes away, I watch him for a moment, a delicate smirk on my lips as he attempts to approach the task from a multitude of angles. He lets out a small sigh and I decide that it is my duty to intervene.

“Need a hand there?” I ask, failing to hold back a giggle as I pluck a strawberry from the plate with paint-free fingers.

“Thanks. Can you-- You could… Thanks,” Harry stammers while I hesitate as I raise the fruit to his face, temporarily feeling awkward about feeding a man I barely know.

I quickly get over myself and lift the berry to his lips, already somewhat parted. Taking the fruit into his mouth whole, his lips graze my fingertips ever so lightly. Our eyes lock the second it happens.

Things start to move slowly. My hand lowers into my lap. Harry chews the fruit and swallows, his tongue poking out to catch a stray bead of juice that had escaped from his lips to the corner of his mouth.

No way are you letting yourself be turned on by this. So cliché.

Despite the mental chastisement, I find myself drawn to Harry. The need to feel his lips on my own is overwhelming me. Every second spent not knowing whether he is a good kisser feels like torture, my mind in agony.

It appears that he feels the same way, gaze hesitating over my parted lips, hopefully not focusing on my clear breathlessness. Our bodies seem to be migrating towards one another, some unknown gravitational pull guiding our chests together until out faces are almost touching. I feel his breath on my cheek and quickly I worry that mine does not smell as good.

Why did you eat that slice of manchego?

Surely, he won’t want to kiss me anymore. He must not have noticed yet. But he will, and I will be humiliated. Better to stop now, while for some reason he actually is not appalled by the thought of kissing you. Why does he want to kiss me anyway? He could kiss anyone he wanted. He could have anyone he wanted. It is probably the wine.

The wine has probably stained your teeth as well. God you’re a mess.

I stop dead in my tracks. Swiftly, I pull away from him. It is harder than I had expected, his cologne sucking me in so that it feels like I have to stop breathing in order to separate from him.

“Sorry,” I mumble.

I cannot look at him. Unable to face the reality of the situation and see his bemused, beautiful face. I would only want to kiss him if I did look up at him, so instead I fidget with the hem of my sleeve, nails picking away at the firm stitching.

“I’m sorry,” Harry says, his voice is so quiet that it hurts my heart to hear him so small and dejected, especially since I was the cause.

We sit in silence for what feels like an eternity. I can feel his gaze on me, soft and apologetic, but I am still unable to bring myself to make eye contact.

“I’d be happy just being your friend,” I tell him.

It is a lie. Partially, anyway. Of course, I would love to be his friend, but I also want to kiss him all over and have heart-to-hearts in the early hours of the morning. I want to hear about his first kiss, find out his favourite sweets and his happy place. I wonder if he is there now, desperately trying to escape the awkward bubble of tension surrounding us.

“Yeah, I shouldn’t have assumed… I’m sorry.” Is all he says.

“No,” I pipe up, a well of guilt forming in my stomach as I regard his sunken features, “It’s not you...”

“It’s not you, it’s me?” Harry says with a quirk of a smile.

I let out a breathy chuckle and we finally meet each other’s eyes and understand. It’s all alright.

We keep painting. By the time the sun starts to set and the water for our brushes turns a murky grey, I have finished mine and sit teasing Harry as he adds the finishing touches to his own.

“Rome wasn’t built in a day,” Harry counters with a grin as he adds a sweep of dark red to his canvas.

“Better be some painting,” I mutter into my wine glass.

“Okay!” Harry exclaims excitedly, “She’s done. Ready for the reveal?”

“Yes,” I laugh at his question, as if I have not been waiting to share for twenty minutes.

Harry had insisted that our final products should be a surprise for the other, so for the last hour we painted in secrecy, occasionally peering out from behind our canvases to try and sneak a peek at the other’s.

When we angle our paintings towards one another, the difference in our styles is clear. Mine is bright with exaggerated shapes, almost cartoonish. Meanwhile Harry’s painting is more true to life, a meta portrayal of the view, two little figures of him and me seen from behind at the bottom of the canvas.

“I love it,” I tell him, the picture bringing a grin to my face as I observed the tiny version of myself; a little blob of shoulders and messy hair.

“I’m calling it ‘Friendzone’.” he tells me, a wicked smirk on his lips.

“Hey!” I whine with a gently nudge to his arm, however, the bout of laughter he has elicited really weakens my protest.

Harry helps me clear up the garden before he leaves, carefully carrying his precious painting out with him. After bidding me a sweet goodnight, leaving no doubt in my mind that he had a nice time today, I finish cleaning up. As I am washing the two wine glasses, I peer over at my painting, smiling as I remembered Harry’s comments about my pink sky. Maybe being just his friend would be easy after all.

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mrnibblesleviathan · 4 years

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Entry 6: Now that stings!

“Welcome Aboard Captain” rang through the base as Ryley entered. They wandered towards Bart’s workbench, hiding something behind their back, and tapped on the wall to grab the man’s attention. Bart turned to find them smiling widely.

"Wow, looks like you're in a good mood." Bart commented. "What did you find?"

"Bart! I found something!" Ryley signed, excitedly, using only one hand. The other one was still behind their back.

"...Yes. I just asked you that." Bart pointed. "What you got there? Is it the rouge cradle seeds I was looking for?"

"No. A new thing." They answered. "A new plant! New plant for you!"

Bart smiled, increasingly more interested. "So? Let me see it!"

Ryley exposed their hand. A long and beautiful glowing algae was dangling from it, with thick leafy blue curls growing around a purple stem. It was dripping and heavy from being out of the water.

Bart instantly took a step back.

"Ryley, that's... that's a dropping stinger." He muttered. "Why are you holding a dropping stinger?"

"You like it? Pretty, right?" Asked Ryley, joyful. This time they used both hands, one of which was still holding the algae, causing it to splash in all directions. Bart dodged, fearful.

"Ryley, let go of this thing, it's poisonous!" He said. Ryley furrowed their brow. They looked at the plant in their hands, and then back at him.

"Why hands numb?" They asked, puzzled.

"Let go of this thing!" Bart slapped the dropping stinger from their hands. Ryley looked at it, sad.

"You didn't like."

"No, Ryley, it's not like that." He assured. "I actually really like this plant, I promise I do, but the thing is that it needs to be handled carefully. With special gloves, not bare skin. Honestly, it makes me happy that you thought of..." He stopped talking. Ryley was looking out of the window, distracted. "Are you even listening?"

Ryley looked back at him. And then at the ground. "Bart! You dropped the pretty plant!"

Bart rested a hand over his eyes for a moment and took a slow breath. “Ryley, I want you to look at me.” Ryley met Bart’s eyes with a glazed, unfocused look. Their pupils were way bigger than normal. The man let out a deep sigh. “Fucking hell. You’re high, aren’t you.” Another shrug from Ryley. “What exactly am i supposed to do with you now? I can’t even lecture you about safe plant care because you’re obviously too out of it to understand.” He started pacing around in circles. “No, no, don’t worry. I remember how it was, with Maida that one time. The effects will pass in a few hours, I just need to…”

Without warning, Ryley stepped over the plant on the floor to grab onto Bart, who scooted his chair just out of reach.

“I missed you so fucking much... Can’t believe finally here…” They were teary-eyed.

“Woah there big guy! I am not having you sit on my lap, you’re enormous! And I have space cancer, I’m a bit fragile at the moment.” Bart blurted. Rayley, naturally, didn’t register a word of that, just turned to him again and gave him a spine breaking hug. Damn, he was the cuddly kind of drunk back in the day, Bart thought.

“Lets go over to the bench, alright? That way you won’t crush me?” Bart took in the look of concentration on Ryley’s face with a growing sense of dread. And was promptly removed from his chair and carried to the bench, where he gained a lap full of his high as a kite best friend. “Is this better? See, pal, I’m back, I’m not going anywhere. Not that you’d let me.” Ryley nodded into his torso, and Bart laughed. He carded his hands through his friend’s hair for about 10 minutes until they started getting squirmy. Yeah, it definitely wasn’t like that with Maida that one time.

He remembered how she had spent her stoned hours trying to battle a reefback. Of course, all she had was a hardened blade at the time, which did nothing but scrape some mossy patches off the mighty animal. A gentle snap of a tentacle sent her flying 10 meters away and she was convinced she had won.

He missed those simpler days.

"I'm hungry" Ryley signed once their hands were free and facing upwards. Bart let out a weary sigh.

"Of course you are." Ryley started walking towards the kitchen. "Wait for me. I need to watch what you eat. I don't think cured fish is a good idea right now." Ryley gave a sloppy salute and sat up on the bench. “Stay here, okay? Don't go wandering off.” Bart watched them as they backed out of the room into the kitchen. They grabbed some lantern fruits and a chunk of marblemelon, hoping that it was light enough not to upset their stomach but still able to satisfy their munchies.

He walked back to see Ryley on the other side of the room, in front of the window. Naturally.

“Whatcha doin’ there bud?”

Ryley accepted the lantern fruit, biting into it as if they hadn’t eaten in days. Then they tried to speak, forgetting their current condition, and course the headache attacked. Not only that, but they hadn’t even finished chewing, which caused yellow juice to grossly drip through their chin.

“By gods Ryley, you’re starting to act like me. Please take your time” Bart attempted to clean their face with one of his tissues, while his friend confusedly tried to shake the pain away from their head. Finally, after these few struggling minutes, Ryley managed to sign… and Bart took a step back once he read it.

“Wanna go out and fight a Reaper?”

He had to admit, he was impressed. As far as he taught them, Ryley knew all these words separately. Still hadn’t gotten the hang of signing sentences from scratch. But with the fluidity of their gestures, it was like they had known the language their whole life. Bart began to think what was holding their friend back when his inhibitions were in place. Perhaps they were shy, afraid to get it wrong, so they didn’t really try?

That was a question for another time, as Ryley was still staring at him, excitement gleaming in their hazy eyes, after having just asked if he’d be up to wrestling a leviathan.

“Uh… Wait, are you serious? You’re not serious, are you? Are… Holy shit you are.” Quick, think of something. “Ahn - I’d love to, pal, but I think that one might be a little out of our league, don’t you agree? Also, your sane self would murder me if I even got out of the house. So that’s a no from me and you.” Bart tried to coax them back to the bench, but they kept pushing back to go to the hatch. “No, no, no, don’t make me drag you, you know I won’t be able to. Eat some more first and we’ll talk about going out on adventures, okay?” He was suddenly worried that this was going to turn into the Drunk Maida Incident 2.0, and he’d have to go along for the ride. He sneaked over to the locker nearby while Ryley was distracted by a marblemelon and, just in case, snagged the stasis rifle. Not doing that all over again.

Turns out he was right to, as Ryley refused by all means to get away from the hatch.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Bart blurted, distressed, feeling somewhat like the parent of a toddler. A very large toddler.

“Wanna find more plant” Ryley signed, slow and deliberate. “More stuff. Wanna go out. Pretty colours out there!”

Fuck, they really were tripping bad, if they were already seeing more colours than the myriad of bioluminescence outside. No way in hell would Ryley be able to keep themself from being mangled by some stupid shark if they left now, but in his condition, Bart couldn’t possibly stop his giant and strong trained-in-the-military friend from doing whatever they wanted. He cursed himself for not thinking of giving Ryley a prep talk on the poisonous organisms in that planet. That would have been the sane thing to do, right? And shit, they were already reaching for the damned hatch again.

“Ryley wait!” He exclaimed, and they looked at him, waiting.

Bart knew he couldn’t hold them back. Not with that condition. But what else could he do? Go along for the ride? Ryley had been very insistent on him not leaving the house - and he couldn’t even pretend he didn’t agree. He could get hurt, he could die, they both could die despite his best efforts.

And yet, there he was, faced with the opportunity to, after months, finally live a little. Not trapped in a cage, not feeling so weak that he might as well be dead. He couldn’t even remember the last time he hadn’t been drowning in habitat malfunctions, medical emergencies and resource depletions… until now.

He knew Ryley wasn’t thinking straight. Deep down, Bart knew it was unfair for him to take advantage of that moment. But if for once in his life he could prove he was good enough to be trusted with his own life, that could be it...

“I’m coming with you. I could help you find more plants, and… colours. Can you help me get my diving equipment?”

Ryley waved their head, excited, and let go of the damned hatch. No backing out now. Bart headed to the moonpool to gather his gear.

Bart breathed in, savouring the moment and the bottled up oxygen. As surprised as he initially were, being out was really doing him some good. In the water, his weak body felt a lot lighter, and his lesions didn’t ache so much. Could do without the cold of the ocean, though. He started to imagine a way he could make his dive suit generate its heat. Such mechanism would likely require power, which he knew could become a limited resource from day to night if one isn’t watching it. Still, he could…

He jumped to the side, startled, as a giant mouth emerged from a white dune and a huge shark started barking at him.

“Geez, I’m really out of practice, aren’t I?” He whispered to himself, as he rose the stasis rifle and paralyzed the creature. “Get outta here. Bad dog. Bad dog!! Where’s Ryley when I need ‘em?”

He searched around and found his companion, digging for abandoned treasure around the giant wreck stationed in that section of the Grassy Plateaus. High or not, apparently the kid still had their survival instincts impaired. They cut a very wobbly hole into a sealed door and got in.

“Can you at least wait for the metal to cool down?” Bart yelled more at himself than at Ryley, as he knew his friend wasn’t going to pay mind to anything he said. “Hey, Rye, do you have any water on you? My throat is parched.”

Ryley dug into their Compressed Inventory and threw him a bottle. Missed him by a few meters, of course, but nothing Bart couldn’t swim and catch by himself. Swiftly, he pressed a button on his helmet, deploying a plastic tube into his mouth. He attached the other end, stuck in the suit, into the bottle, and drank. What a ritual just to get some water, when you’re already surrounded by the stuff. The ocean sure was a deceiving place.

Bart was actually surprised at how well he was doing. He wasn’t even feeling dizzy. Perhaps it was the breathing, helped by the oxygen mask, finally pumping the right amount of much needed air in his lungs. Such realization came with a darker thought, however. He had never been in need of an oxygen mask, until the last time he had enough resources to thrive. And he needed it now. The bacterium had spread further into his lungs.

Ryley bonked a fist on his helmet, to call his attention. Proudly, they exposed their salvage: several cheap plastic hair clips, one broken wind chime, and a jukebox file. The last one actually caught Bart’s attention.

“Hey, Ryley, good job! This is going to be great for us! Imagine having a jukebox back home? With music?” He ignored as Ryley stuck the hair clips into his helmet antenna. “Do you think the blueprint would be around here as well?”

“This was cafeteria wreck.” Ryley told him. “I think jukebox is here, or close, in pieces.”

“Where’s all that eloquence when we’re studying, huh?” Bart crossed his arms. “You’re a sign language natural!”

“I gonna try to find more music.” They said, turning their head away, flustered.

And they sure did. The wreck was littered with all kinds of files and other treasures. The cafeteria menus, cards for the snacks, the snacks themselves (all rotten and moldy) as well as music. Ryley followed them across the room, and then the corridor, and then another room, until they ended up at the back of the section, in front of a cave entrance.

Ryley spied it, with curiosity. They didn’t know that particular opening, but it seemed to lead on the same giant system that contained the bright pink jellyshrooms. The one they had previously found one of Bart’s old habitats inside. Something in their mind was trying to bypass the intoxication, and tell them they should step away. But, peeking further into the hole, there was some kind of equipment abandoned on a rocky platform, and once they realized what it was, their eyes gleamed with excitement and they forgot any bad feelings he might have had about it.

“Bart. Bart. Bart.” Repeated the PDA, in maximum volume, as they tried to get their friend’s attention with the monotone robot voice. At least it worked. Bart came swimming, a little slower than they’d like.

“Yeah? What did you find there?”

“Bart, I fnod hrj jsaubox!” Said the PDA.

“Wha…?” The question was abandoned when Bart realized where Ryley was swimming. “My stars. Ryley, get out of there.”

Sighing, Ryley dropped the PDA on the floor, where it was still blurting nonsense, and decided to sign at him. Too high on their own excitement, and too focused on figuring out the signals to see a giant slender form creeping up behind him.

“No, no, no, no, no, get out of there! Ryley it DOESN’T MATTER, GET OUT OF THERE!”

Ryley was about to tell him they had found the jukebox, but was cut short when the crabsnake rising it’s enormous body from the hole snatched them by the waist with it’s mandibles.

#atwr #atwr fic #and they were roommates #fanfic #subnautica #sfw #bart torgal #ryley robinson

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incorrectotaku · 4 years

Text

Retribution.

Summary: In which you, the reader, landed in thirsttok and is discovered by him. He, as in whichever man you are currently simping for.

Author’s Note: idk how I ended up seeing that man grinding the air’s life away. But it made me want to apologize to all my ancestors for being the current manifestation of the bloodline. I have disappointed them all. But, I might as well go further and write a fic lol. This is absolute trash, written with the pure intent to put a smile on someone’s face. Also idk how to write about the actual process of doing the deed so I left it to your imagination.

Also warning, this has not been proofread cuz i don’t want to die of cringe a second time. so. proceed with caution.

Also tell me who the “he” is!!! hehe

Thanks for reading ❤️

The gasp left your lips before your hands could muffle the sound. A small gurgle of shock— no excitement —followed. Hidden beneath your trembling fingers was a crazed smile that fought to break out. As much as you wanted to squeal out the bubbling feeling in your chest, you had to squash it. You had to. Or else you would be exposed.

You were wasting the day away with the mind numbing entertainment of tiktok videos before landing on the gem that caused all your tingling anguish. In all its alluring glory, a man with platinum blonde hair rolled his hips with the same lust as the music that blared in your headphones. You couldn’t help it. Watching with the comment section pulled up to save some inkling of innocence. Yet, you knew deep down that your name was long crossed out from the invite list to heaven.

As the dilemma of a hell fated demise complimented the rolling of the man’s hips, another issue reared its cruel face in the form of a masculine hand that swooped from above to snatch away your phone. It was so quick you had no chance to hide the evidence. It was as if god reached down from above to finally give you the punishment that you acquired through the years of existence. However, the notion was quickly wiped away as a delusional dream as you stared up at the face that was grinning with arrows of fire shooting out of his eyes.

‘Ooo.’ You thought sarcastically. This was the end.

“I-“ But you were cut off by the smile growing maniacally wider as the he watched the video loop over and over again.

“So. This is what you watch in your free time?” His voice traced down your spine menacingly, as if it was a declaration of your imminent doom. You flipped around to sit properly on the couch, now serving as your seat of judgement, with your cheeks warming from dread, fear, and a dash of mortification. The words that continued from him trailed away as your inner monologue of despair began. You reached the point of internally screaming to the gods when you were jerked out of your lamentations forcibly. Your eyes focused on the handsome face you called your boyfriend, finally allowing acceptance to displace the fear as you saw the burning pits of fire in those beautiful eyes.

“Hmm… so you also like to ignore me too?” Then his smile was replaced with a mock pout. “Maybe I’m not fulfilling my duties as your boyfriend properly. I’m sorry b a b e, let me redeem myself. ‘Kay?”

That high-pitched “‘Kay?” was the final nail to your metaphorical coffin as your phone was thrown so far it landed back at its maker’s backyard. You were picked up like a sack of rice, flipped and swung over his shoulders with such ease you wondered if you needed to continue your workouts.

“My lord?” You said with a weak chuckle.

“Yes?”

“What shall be my punishment?” You wondered, eyes watching the couch growing further away.

When you heard that chuckle, your stomach fluttered. You just weren’t sure if it was from endearment or the lunch you had making its mark on your stomach lining.

“What do you mean punishment? I’m only trying to fix my errors and give you what you desire.”

“And what do I desire?” You were almost fearful to ask, as you knew exactly what this was leading to.

If you could see the dark grin on his face, you would have began writing your last will and testament. The day was long, but the night was longer.

—

“Please.” You cried, eyes so unfocused you saw waves instead of his face. It had been hours of him “doing his duty” and “learning from that tiktok video you were drooling at”. If you thought that man’s hips rolled like the hills, the man above you now was setting a whole new standard, and you were the model for his success as your cries rung out through the day—into night.

“Hmm?” His voice full of mirth and satisfaction. “Is it not enough, my love?” His words punctuated with another drawn out roll of his hips, coaxing out a trembling whimper from your lips. The hands that gripped limply at his shoulders fell to your mouth, attempting to muffle the slew of groans from escaping you.

“Nuh uh.” His hands securing your arms by your side, safely away from your mouth. “If my job is to make you feel good, then your job is to charm me with your beautiful cries.”

And with that statement, the night continued along, seemingly never-ending.

—

His hands rubbed soothing circles at the base of your spine, a satisfied smile keeping him from seeming even remotely apologetic at rendering you a soulless shell. You felt your life wisp away with every breathless pant, internally swearing away all technology to live a life of an ascetic monk.

“And they say jealous girls are scary.” You mumbled. “They haven’t met you.”

He laughed, his fingers gently massaging up and down your spine. “What do you mean? I was just trying to satisfy my girlfriend.”

“I’m dead. My will is that I leave all to Spoofles and you only get nothing.”

He laughed even harder, the vibrations traveling down to his hands. It shook your next words. “Stop laughing!” You huffed. “I’m very mad right now.” You found the strength to kick at the hands rubbing the soreness away. “No touching for an indefinite amount of time.”

“Please have mercy.” He chuckled, placing a kiss at your cheeks with every word. “I will simply die if I can’t touch you.”

“Then go die.”

“How about we call it even?”

You made a disgusted face. “You scammer! They’re not even remotely the same!”

“How about I deliver you boba for a week?”

You hummed. “Okay now you’re talking my speed… but.. two weeks.” You displayed to fingers, to which he pushed one down. “One and I do the chores for that week.”

“Okay fine.”

“So can I touch you?”

“Permission granted.”

“AAHH WTF!”

When permission is given to a man sick with love, it always leads to the grievances of the receiver.

Best wishes reader.

#sorry to all actual writers #i am a shame #reader #reader-insert #anime #imagines #anime imagines #self insert #fanfiction #fanfic #drabble #anime life #otaku moments #idk what else to put #i can't tag writing cuz this ain't it

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justanotherdeadgirlwalking · 4 years

Text

That is Just the Saddest F**king Thing I Have Ever Heard.

TW obviously DEH is about a kid’s suicide, so it has those themes

other parts :)

Part Four.

Despite the fact that I have spent literal months in bed, there is just something so relieving about being in my own bed. It doesn’t reek of death and sickness, just the familiar stench of my cologne, the indent where my butt fits perfectly. The comfort from the familiarity is unmatched. This room is my own private kingdom, the only place where I was ever important. I could hide away in my room and never feel lonely; I had books that I have read hundreds of time to keep me company. Everything I needed is in here, my mind is always stimulated. My pencils and sketchbooks never let me get bored, I could sketch for hours on end, my art was never done, something could always be revised. Plus, my stash of weed I kept hidden in my drawer helped me push through some of the worst days. This is the room where I spent the nights I couldn’t sleep and all the days I’ve spelt away.

I wish I could say my room is exactly how I left it. My bed was made with new, fresh sheets; my laundry was picked up off the floor, now sitting washed and neatly folded in a basket. Somehow, it feels like I am in someone else’s room, and yet, its still my bedroom. I should know better, Cynthia wouldn’t leave a mess in here when she had so much idle time, so much time to sit and worry. She redecorated every room in the house it seems. There’s new furniture, new paintings on the wall. I feel like I walked into a Pottery Barn add and not the home I grew up in.

Readjusting to life, my new life, has been a struggle. I thought I would be able to just slip back into old routine: going to school unnoticed, walking in the park unnoticed, spending time alone without anyone caring; I thought I could return to my life of being a barley in the background kind of guy. I was dreading going back to school. The dread I was feeling about going back after being gone for so long, after this Connor Project bullshit I don’t even know what to expect. I knew Evan had dropped a grenade on my life, but I didn’t know how big the explosion was. Mom let me miss a few more days before the inevitable. I told her I wasn’t mentally healthy enough to go back yet. Unfortunately, my psychologist disagreed and told her it was time for me to go back. So much for doctor-patient confidentiality. I tried bargaining with them too; I’d go back to school, but only to a new one, or online. No dice. If I ran away from my problems now, I’d spend my whole life running. It would be better for me to face my fears head on, go back to high school. I don’t know why it was so important that I couldn’t transfer; I’m super behind anyway, so why not save myself from the embarrassment.

My life will never go back to how it was before. I used to be feared, I was the school freak. Now, everyone wants to be my friend. People I’ve never talked to before are asking me how my day is; people are waiting for me after class to walk with me. Alana Beck offered to tutor me to help me catch up on all the work I missed; I just feel like a charity case. “It’s because we’re such great acquaintances” she said. More like she needs some more material to upload on the website she runs. No doubt she picked up this whole “project” as a resume booster. I can’t blame her, something like this would definitely get the attention of some college admission people.

Besides everyone trying to be my friend, school wasn’t that bad. I met with all of my teachers, and if I put a lot of work in, I’ll still be able to graduate on time. They all seemed very concerned about me, they wanted to help me as much as they could. Some were even willing to set up times to meet with me outside of school to help me miss all the material I missed. My guidance consular is trying to pull strings for me so I can still apply to colleges. Unfortunately, I missed the deadline to apply to a lot of art schools, and it doesn’t look like they’re going to budge on that, mostly the ones that I wanted to go to too. It’s okay I suppose, I don’t have a portfolio put together, so it’s not like I have anything to show. I still have time to figure everything out. Most likely, I would start at one school and just transfer into the program I want to go to.

Everyone wanted to be my friend and talk to me, but the one person I wanted to talk to was avoiding me. It’s not hard to avoid someone at school, just turn the corner or tuck into a room, but at home you have to be extra stealthy. Zoe seemed to have joined a plethora of after school activities, band, drama club, she even joined the track team, and she hates exercising. Anything to keep her out of the house, to have to miss family dinners, and have to go to school before me, and stay later than me, so she doesn’t have to drive with me. I just want my sister to acknowledge me. She seems to be attached to the hip to Evan, I guess they’re dating. Zoe probably never found out about the creepy letter he wrote about her.

The letter. I have read it too many times to count. It’s everywhere. It was first posted on The Connor Project’s website and it’s been shared thousands of time. Everyone thinks its my suicide note. It’s so odd, it reads like one, there’s so much pain and hurt in it. It makes sense that people believe its my note. Though, it’s weird that everyone is ignoring that I supposedly confessed my love to my sister in it. Maybe they all just assume we were close and it just sibling love. I wonder if I actually took a second to read it, beyond the blurb about my sister, how different everything would be. Evan was struggling, a struggle I knew too well. I was too caught up in my bullshit to even see that. I wish I could go back to that day. He needed a friend as much as I needed one. I could’ve reached out to him and told him there was no reason for him to feel that way.

On the other hand, it seems that my attempted suicide was the best thing that ever happened to Evan. He’s popular now, and he has a girlfriend. It feels like my parents adopted him too. He’s always here, after school, for dinner, sometimes he stays the night. He even has his own room here too, Cynthia converted the guest room into his bedroom, “so he feels at home here” she said. Zoe usually sneaks in there at night. I would have never imagined my parents would let my sister’s boyfriend basically live here. I guess at first he was invited in because my parents thought he was my only friend, and they wanted to learn about me from him. Then he grown on them; they like him. He has tea and talks to mom and helps her cook; he plays catch with Larry, he even uses my baseball glove. Sure, I never used it, I got it as a birthday gift one year and just left it in the bag with the tags still on; that’s not the point. I feel like my parents adopted him as the son they’ve always wanted. A replacement for the disappointment I am.

Mom and dad thought that I would like my supposed best friend around all the time. I can’t even look at him without wanting to just rip him to shreds. I am just waiting for the right moment to expose him. Our friendship and emails we shared were all lies. He made them all up, made a fake account, wrote fake emails, made up stories and lies about me. He’s not even a good liar, none of the stories he told makes sense, there’s so many holes in the stories. He gave a whole speech about going to the apple orchard with me for the first time, when he broke his arm, but there are emails about going there that are dated months before that fake day. He wrote emails from my perspective, that I was doing well, really well, getting better. Then I tried to kill myself and no one understands why I tried. There are so many questions in the comment sections under the posted emails, people want answers, and Evan can’t keep his story straight. It’s only a matter of time before someone asks me about it, and I don’t think I’ll be able to maintain the façade. I think the only reason no one has asked me yet is because they don’t want to hurt me, but questions can only be left unanswered for so long before people go hunting for what they want to hear. They want the truth. Unless Evan comes clean, I’m the only one that can give it to them. I doubt he will, he has the life he’s always wanted. It’s not like he has a conscience, he would never have taken this lie this far if he did.

#deh #dear evan hansen #connor murphy #dear connor murphy #connor murphy deh #mike faist #DEH fanfic #deh fandom #Dear evan hansen fanfic #evan hansen #ben platt #zoe murphy #tree bros #musicals #fanfiction

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urflowersdied · 5 years

Text

cold as ice(d coffee)

In which Norah really just wants to make some money to finance her student life and Harry is her super serious, but incredibly soft-looking, café-owning boss.

A/N: Initially this was supposed to be a one shot, because I just wanted to write a story in one go and have you guys read and (hopefully) enjoy it, but turns out that’s something I don’t know how to do. So, here is the first, 4.7k long part of this three-part series. I have to thank some friends on Twitter who will get their own message, but I’m also immensely thankful for @dadshirtking, who was incredibly supportive and a really helpful creative mind, @bribe-the-door, for being loving and positive and kind and the sweetest person around, and @isitjamiemoriarty, for being the world’s greatest feedback giver and without whom I probably would’ve gone crazy trying to figure this story out.

Hope you enjoy!

Norah was absolutely fuming. It seemed like just her luck that on the first day of her job the trains seemed to have decided on making her life all that much harder and arrived with a one-hour-delay. Presenting herself disheveled due to running all the way from Manchester Piccadilly to The Brewing Pot probably would not improve the impression she was bound to make on her new colleagues, but that was a risk she was willing to take in order to get there just a few moments quicker.

She knew that it could be quite difficult for a student employee to get on well with their full-time colleagues, which was why she had devised a seemingly foolproof plan to make the first day go swimmingly. Norah had spent all of last night looking up some hilarious jokes she would try to sneak into some conversations and additionally baked some of her grandmother’s famous triple chocolate chip cookies. In hindsight, she realises that she had been hired as a help in a café where an actual baker worked in order to prepare all the sweet treats for the customers, but by then it was too late. She just hoped her colleagues would at least pretend to be interested in her amateur baking.

It wasn’t even as though this was her dream job. Far from it, actually. She loved spending time in cafés, but rather nursing a cup of coffee herself than working behind the counter with a constant fake smile plastered upon her face while listening to the ridiculous orders she had to fulfil. Needless to say, this was not her first job of this kind. She had held down her job at one of the coffee bars that were littered around her university campus for the first year and a half of her degree pursuit. After one of her coworkers had refused to stop their incessant flirting at her old job — and her boss had not even batted an eyelash when she mentioned her discomfort about the situation to them — she had felt forced to quit.

The first few weeks without a job seemed extremely relaxing, but when she had to decline her friend’s invitation to a night out because she wouldn’t have been able to afford the night - because, really, how expensive were the drinks at that club? - she decided to get back on her feet. Norah quite enjoyed working. Enjoyed the routine that came with having more than just her pain-in-the-ass philosophy class or some lecture that she would most likely not pay any attention to anyway to get her out of bed in the mornings. The social aspect that came with working was also something she cherished. She had always been a little more shy and dealing with colleagues was a fairly simple way to force herself to interact with humans without making too much of a fool out of herself.

Turns out, finding a new place of work in a town full of students had not been the easiest task. After asking around some of her friends and a few smaller shops around her university and gained nothing but shrugs and rejections, she decided to broaden her scope. She didn’t really mind taking the train to get to work - instead found it rather calming, actually -, so when she finally got the offer to work as a barista at The Brewing Pot in the heart of Manchester she had jumped at the opportunity.

The Brewing Pot was one of the most charming shops she had ever stepped foot in. The café section of the store was made up of wooden tables, tons of plants and some mismatched couches and armchairs. If you were to wander further into the building, though, you were greeted by tons of shelves filled with secondhand books. There was an extremely quaint, homely feel to the whole place. She didn’t even really mind the train ride she had to take in order to get to and from her new place of work.

The only aspect that made her feel a little on edge was her boss, whom she had met only once before during her job interview, which had not been all that fun. When she first laid her eyes on him, she had quite honestly been a little taken aback. He was absolutely gorgeous, with chocolate curls, piercing green eyes covered by a really expensive-looking pair of glasses - she was fairly certain she had spotted an engraved Gucci sign on them - and his very tall frame had been adorned by the most endearing knitted sweater. He had truly looked like the kind of man Norah could only have conjured up in her wildest dreams. That she would one day actually get to breathe the same air as such a specimen seemed laughable to her. But once he had opened his mouth, the fantasy she had created in a few milliseconds was destroyed just as quickly.

He had not been extremely rude to her, rather he had really only given her the bare minimum amount of time of day needed that could be deemed socially acceptable. Harry Styles seemed like quite the serious man though, not cracking one single smile at any of her attempted funny comments during their meeting. She wasn’t sure if he wanted to establish some ground rules on how he interacts with his employees or if he’d just gotten up on the wrong foot that morning, but she had definitely felt infinitely intimidated in his presence. Of course, looking back now, this first encounter with him did not calm her current frazzled state in any type of way.

Completely out of breath - she really should get started on that New Year’s resolution of hers to make actual use of her gym membership -, she pushed open the door and was immediately greeted by a jingle of the bells which notified everyone inside of a new entrance. Taking a quick glance towards the huge clock that adorned one of the brick walls in the café segment of the building, she thanked her lucky stars that she had decided to sprint. She thought that being a mere five minutes too late was the best case scenario in this really bad situation.

After gathering her hair up into some sort of ponytail to seem at least a little put together, she approached the counter. The wary smile on her lips paired with a nervous fumble of her fingers was probably enough to tip off the guy behind the counter as to who exactly she was. “Norah, right? You’re new, yeah? I’m Adam, supposed to show you around today!”

And, really, she could not have asked for a more charming person than Adam to show her the ropes and make her feel at home in her new job. Her other colleagues had also presented themselves as wonderfully kind people, but over the course of the next few weeks Adam had quickly established himself as one of her closest friends. For whichever curious reason, their shifts often overlapped and being of similar age only propelled their mutual understanding and bond into great heights. Dealing with some of the infuriating customers that visited, she was extremely delighted to be able to unload some of the stress into the ears of Adam, who completely understood her pain.

Therefore it’s pretty understandable how disappointed she is when he calls her one Monday morning to tell her he won’t be able to make it to their shared shift. As usual on Mondays the café was closed for business, but there had been an incredible amount of orders to fulfil for a wedding that was taking place the following day.

Ever since she started working there, her coworkers had given her crash courses on how to improve not only her own cookie recipe, which they had actually immensely enjoyed after she had mustered up enough courage to offer them to her colleagues, but also on how to perfectly follow the café’s original recipes. So when the question of who would come in on their day off to get a head start on the orders arose, she had felt pretty secure in offering her time and energy alongside Adam. The same Adam who had now left her to her own devices, because he had inspected the bottom of one too many bottles the night before.

Taking advantage of her solitude in the kitchen of The Brewing Pot, Norah blasted her ultimate mood-lifting album - does she even have to mention that it’s Nilsson Schmilsson? - through the speakers that were installed to help motivate the staff during their work day. She was already dreading having to pipe about 170 cupcakes once they had cooled from their time in the oven as the entry bells to the store chimed.

Before she was even able to wonder who interrupted her jamming session to Without You (and also, had she just imagined triple-checking the locked entry door after arriving?), a disheveled-looking Harry Styles appeared in front of her eyes. Up until now she had only ever witnessed her boss on fleeting occasions, him often not being present during her shifts or hidden away in his office if he was in the vicinity.

So you cannot possibly hold it against her when she completely freezes up and just blinks her eyes at him a couple of times instead of actually making use of her vocal chords to inquire about why he was stood here, looking as if he had just rolled out of bed but simultaneously giving Adonis a run for his money. Luckily, he decides to address her first. “Good morning. I’ve been trying to find someone to come help you out but it’s too much of a short notice for everyone, so I hope you’ll accept my help.”

And because it really wasn’t her place to dismiss his offer, which could get her back on the train, home and into her warm cozy bed a little quicker, she shot him a timid smile. “A helping hand would be more than welcome to me right now, thanks.” Those words were apparently all he needed in order to kick into gear, as he rolled up the sleeves of yet another adorable knitted sweater. She quickly sprung into actions as well and turned the volume of the speakers down by a vast amount, so that the wonderful melodies by Harry Nilsson only soft drifted through the kitchen.

The space that wasn’t occupied by their bodies trying to move about the kitchen without much interaction was filled by uncomfortable silence. His presence did not calm the movement of her hands, which was already shaky due to her fear regarding finishing up these cupcakes. Additionally to looking so wonderful that she would much rather put the icing on him rather than the baked goods, he was also her boss, which meant that she would have to try her damnedest not to mess up.

“How old are you again, Mister Styles?” She had to break the silence which had quickly settled over them somehow, right? To her, it seemed more awkward to not engage with each other while being confined in the close proximity the kitchen provided.

What she had not taken into account was that Harry Styles did not seem like much of a conversationalist. After a short confused glance at her - he must have momentarily forgotten that she is also taking up space in the kitchen, why else would he be so surprised for her to be speaking up? - he gives her the shortest reply possible. “I’m 27.”

It’s not as if she is extroverted in any kind of way, it’s just that awkward situations are even more difficult to handle for her than actually conversing. Which is why she definitely understands the hint his short answer was supposed to give her but she chooses to ignore it regardless. “So, Adam told me you’ve owned this place for like 5 years… Why did you open it at such a young age?”

“Didn’t open it myself. The owner needed a replacement and chose me.” His shortage of words stunned her a little bit. She could definitely tell he was starting to get frustrated with her incessant talking, but he seemed too polite to confront her about it. It didn’t seem to her as though she was prying into his life. She was just asking a few standard questions, no harm meant in any way.

Nevertheless, she let silence overtake the space once again and let her eyes drift from the cupcake bases she had been trying to cool by aimlessly wiggling another baking tray over it towards her boss. His head bent down (his glasses didn’t seem to budge at all which intrigued her more than it probably should), cradling a filled piping bag in his now bare hands - usually they were ring-clad, and she had been itching to ask about whether any of them held some sort of special meaning to him just like the quartz ring that she sported on her right pointer finger did to her -, she knew she was fucked.

Unsurprisingly, she had always had the tendency to gush over males who portrayed a certain distance, an unattainability. Harry Styles, though, definitely took the cake. He did not seem interested in maintaining the exchange of vowels and consonants between them in the slightest. Rather he made it seem as though these baked goods were his sole purpose in life, as he gave them his full attention.

She had noticed some thoughts cross her mind a few times before already. That he always seemed too serious, almost stoic, his mood always seeming solemn, and how that did not correlate with the beautiful features of his physique at all. His hands looked delicate, his lips pouty and the area around his stomach and hips incredibly soft - which stood in contrast to his otherwise incredibly lean frame wonderfully. Maybe her self-proclaimed hopeless romanticism had something to do with it, but had this intricate feeling as though he wasn’t born such a low-spirited person. Perhaps that was why she decided to open her mouth again. “Do you know the people who are getting married tomorrow? Like, the couple who -”

“Listen, I think you’re doing a great job working here, but I am not really interested in making friends with my employees. So if we could just… finish this order, I’d really appreciate that.”

Remember when she declared him as being too polite to call her out on awkwardly trying to attempt a conversation? She definitely takes that sentiment back. Surprised, her hands falter in their current swirling motion and lift the piping bag away from the cakes he so badly wants to complete in order to not completely mess up. She isn’t entirely fond of the idea of turning this whole encounter into an even bigger disaster than she has already found herself in.

Even after analysing the exchange in lightning speed, she couldn’t figure out where exactly she went wrong. What had warranted his coarse reply? Being completely honest, he had infuriated her. Not wanting to blur a line between friends and employees made sense to her, if that was what he really wanted. But there were right and wrong ways to make her aware of his penchant. Harry Styles had chosen to go about it in a wrong way.

“I’m sorry for prying, Mister Styles. I was just looking to make conversation. If you aren’t interested in being friendly with me and insisting on being a sourpuss, then that is your right. But please be civil when you inform me of that. It’s just common courtesy, isn’t it?”

For a moment she holds her breath. His eyes shot up to her and she was able to detect the tightening of his jaw. Alright, maybe dubbing him a sourpuss hadn’t been the smartest move, but she couldn’t stop herself. The word described him perfectly. She was convinced that this would be her last shift at The Brewing Pot. Already mourning the loss of yet another job in her head, the man who she (for now) called her boss let his Adam’s apple bop one time and then dropped his head. The conversation had passed.

One hour and an abundance of tense silence later, all 170 cupcakes were iced and placed into the fridge, ready to be delivered first thing Tuesday morning. With one mutter, he dismissed her - opting to clean the kitchen on his own rather than dragging out this miserable encounter.

And with her head held high, but her heart nestled a little bit lower in her chest, she made her exit.

Apparently, the people in charge of the railway system and the trains really did not have any aspirations towards getting on her good side. It was March now, and she had just finished up her first solo closing shift in her three months working there. Spring had yet to peak through the dreary blanket that the Winter had placed upon England. She could not wait to take a hot shower. Would have preferred a bath and a nice cup of tea, but alas, that was a feature her student housing did not provide. Then she’d like to settle down on the couch to watch reruns of sitcoms until it would prove impossible to force her eyes open any longer and then retread to bed.

Much to her dismay, those plans were crossed through by her train home, who had taken it upon himself to leave just about two minutes before schedule. So here she stood, having just missed her last opportunity to get home towards the warmth and comfort her flat could provide her with and with not one place to go. After frantically calling just about every person in her phone book that either lived in a close mile radius or owned a car, she finally decided to seek solace in the confines of The Brewing Pot.

Truth be told, she didn’t really feel all too happy with her decision, but where else was she supposed to go? Catching a cab would’ve cost her an arm and a leg and Adam, who resided outside of Manchester but did own a car, was not even picking up his phone. She believed that her last resort was just settling down on one of the couches of the coffee house and trying to stay conscious throughout the night in order to grab a train home first thing in the morning.

And this plan probably would’ve worked out well enough, had her boss not entered his store after hours and found her lounging around way after she was supposed to actually be present. It seemed to her as though Harry Styles’ baseline state consisted of a mixture of stress and sternness. Norah had once again not caught more than a few mere glimpses of him after their unpleasant icing session. Not that she had minded their lack of interaction this time around.

“What… are you doing here?” She hadn’t expected any other question from him, the confusion apparent on his face this time extremely warranted. And this time, instead of holding it up high Norah lets her head sink a little lower, knowing that she wasn’t really supposed to be here after hours. This time, if he were to get angry and throw her out, she would not be able to hold that decision against him.

She felt stupid. How incapable did it make her seem when she would tell him that on her first closing shift she had managed to miss her way of making it back home? The closing shift itself had actually been kind of enjoyable to her, but would it seem rude for her to mention how she probably would’ve arrived at Piccadilly in time had she not been left to her own devices? The sound of his voice brought her back from the questions piling up inside of her mind while she had stayed silent. “Well?”

“I’m sorry, Mister Styles… I, uhh… My last train back home left a little earlier than expected and Adam isn’t picking up his phone, so… I had nowhere else to go. Was gonna just wait it out until the first one in the morning, but if that’s not alright I completely understand. I should’ve asked for permission.”

It seemed like this flow of words didn’t please him in the slightest. The shaking of his head was a clear indicator for that. On top of that, he let out a loud sigh. “You… You don’t have to call me Mister Styles. Harry is… just fine.” This was definitely not the kind of reply she had expected. For the first time since she’s been aware of his existence, his facial expression softened a tiny amount. “Listen, Norah. I understand that working a closing shift on your own is hard work, but you really can’t just… stay here afterwards without letting me know. It’s unprofessional.”

“No, yeah, I’m fully aware of that. I just… really couldn’t figure out another place to stay and I’ve got this really important presentation tomorrow. Thought that if I came here instead of sticking around at the station I would at least be in a safe place while waiting and might even be able to close my eyes for a second. But you definitely should have been informed.”

This reply seemed to calm his mood. Harry huffed and nodded his head in her direction. “Alright, well… You’re right, it’s better to hang around where it’s safe. Just make sure everything’s locked and the lights are off when you decide to leave.” With those words he ducked into his small office to retrieve whatever had made his trip back to his business necessary.

Relaxing a little bit, Norah leaned back into the sofa and observed the now illuminated doorway through which he had just disappeared. After their encounter she really had not expected him to let her off with a warning, but she was glad that he did. While sitting around The Brewing Pot for a whole night wasn’t what she had envisioned to be doing after work, the alternatives of either wandering around the streets of Manchester or lingering by the train station for multiple hours seemed even less appealing.

A few moments later Harry emerged from the office and let the door fall shut behind him as he closed the distance between him and Norah. “I -“, was as far as he got before he stopped himself to inhale a deep breath. She didn’t say a word. Just waited - admittedly a little (scratch that, a lot) anxious - for whatever he was about to blurt out.

“You were right, you know. I was extremely rude before, when we were working on that order for the Peterson wedding. You were just trying to make harmless conversation. There was no reason for me to blow up the way I did, I’m sorry.”

And if his hands fiddling with the files they were holding while waiting for her to speak up was a sign of his nervousness, well, colour Norah impressed. It wasn’t really the apology that threw her, it was the sincerity in his tone. She had accepted that she would not be able to establish some sort of friendly relationship with her boss, especially after there had not been any repercussions following her name-calling of him. She was grateful for that, at least.

“That’s… alright. Thank you for apologising, but I guess I was also out of line, so…”, was all she was able to come up with in reply. Frankly, there wasn’t much else left to say between the both of them. He had apologised for handling a situation the wrong way and she had admitted that her form of dealing with it could’ve also been improved upon.

Harry looked around his café helplessly before continuing his utterance of what she soon understood to be an invitation. “You said you have a, uhh… a presentation tomorrow? Are you… Do you think you’ll get enough rest staying here?”

“I’ll be fine. It’s quite close to the station and if I take the earliest train I might even be able to make it back in time to shower and go over my notes again. Gonna power through class tomorrow and then catch up on the sleep I’ve missed.”

With a shrug of his broad shoulders - and yes, she’s aware that she really has to stop lusting after him even though he’s behaving (and looking) extremely nice right now - he fixes his gaze on Norah once more. “I just stopped by to pick up these files that I forgot. Don’t live far from here, actually. You’re uhh… You’re welcome to stay in my guest room if you want.” Had she heard him correctly? Or had she already fallen asleep and was just dreaming up crazy scenarios? “At least you’ll get a few hours of sleep that way.”

Really, who was she to say no to the promise of being able to close her eyes for at least a few hours before what was sure to be a gruelling class tomorrow. Norah was also extremely curious to take a peek into his residence (and maybe his mind), even though she wouldn’t want to admit that out loud. Harry waited by the door while she collected her belongings and not too soon after, they started their trek towards his house, accompanied by the biting gusts of cold nocturnal wind.

„You can leave your coat here, if you want.“ Harry‘s house was bigger than she had anticipated, but then again he did mention a guest room which could’ve tipped her off on the fact that his abode was bigger than her measly flat.

The seriousness he displayed during all of their encounters was nowhere to be found. His living room - where she now stood with her hands folded in front of her, waiting for him to return from the kitchen, which he had dipped into - was made up of a set of mismatched patterned couches and the walls were clad in artworks from all different styles that weirdly blended together in perfect cohesion. Plants and books adorned nearly every surface and corner in her line of vision - which made a lot of sense to her, because that was strongly reminiscent of the inside of The Brewing Pot.

Truth be told, she didn’t know what she had expected. Maybe lots of monochrome colours, whites and greys paired with a touch of black, and extremely modern furniture. Not wooden floors, which were scratched up and led her to believe in the presence of a pet in her vicinity (maybe the dog bed next to one of the loveseats tipped her off as well), and cozy, seemingly handmade throw pillows.

It was headache-inducing, really. Trying to figure him out. She was stood in the middle of a room that she would’ve definitely seen him inhabiting the first time she had laid eyes upon him. Before he had opened his mouth and heard the cold tone of his otherwise so deep and rich voice. So, had she pegged him right from the beginning? Was the solemnity a front he put on for strangers and employees or was his living space a remnant of a time and character passed, with Harry simply too lazy to redecorate?

Or was she just reading too much into this altogether?

Her way-too-deep considerations were put to a halt by Harry’s return into the room. “There you go.” In his hand was the biggest glass of water she had ever seen. The fact that she found such a small gesture endearing was enough to let alarm bells ring in Norah’s head. These mushy feelings and musings about his interior and its relation to his state of mind had to stop. She really knew next to nothing about the young man stood in front of her and based on the way their previous interaction had turned out, he most definitely wanted it to stay that way.

Gathering her wits, she accepted the glass filled with water from his outreached hand and took a tentative sip. Once again, Norah found herself in an awkward position that made her throat dry up just a little bit. “Thank you”, was all that erupted from her vocal chords.

Raising his hand to touch his glasses - which she knew for a fact had no need to be rearranged, remembering the way they hadn’t really moved an inch when he bowed his head to focus on the icing of the cupcakes - he spoke up again. “Alright, let me show you the spare room so you can get some sleep.”

#HI LOOK AT ME ATTEMPTING ANOTHER SERIES EVEN THOUGH I HAVE THE SHORTEST ATTENTION SPAN PROBABLY EVER #really hope you guys like this though #harry styles #harry #styles #one direction #one direction fanfiction #one direction fanfic #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles fanfic #fanfiction #fanfic #harry styles one shots #harry styles angst #one shots #harry imagine #harry imagines #het fic

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sweetteaanddragons · 5 years

Text

Ancient History

Bruthir glared down at one of the small cakes his landlady had made in honor of the occasion and tried to ignore the sounds of jubilation in the street outside the alley he was sulking in. It was harder than it had been for the past few hours; the noise had swelled, first with music that had very nearly lulled him out, then with shouting once the music ended. A few people had run into his alley, looking around wildly, but they had left quickly enough when they had seen that there was nothing more interesting than him sitting on his barrel, glaring at his last cake. His curiosity had nearly provoked him into asking who or what they were looking for, but that would have required ending his sulk, and he still had several hours left in which to do that. That had been his deal with himself: today he could sulk, and tomorrow he would have to get back to work.

Not even today, though, could he ignore the cloaked man who came running into the alley via an even narrower one. The man’s face was shadowed, but his head turned frantically, and it froze in place when Bruthir came into its view.

“Don’t mind me,” he called glumly. “Unless you’re planning to set the whole city ablaze, I don’t much care what you’re running from.”

The figure relaxed and moved closer. “Nothing so bad as all that,” he said a bit hoarsely, and Bruthir got a glimpse of a harp under his cloak. “Merely a disappointed audience.” He hesitated. “And in the interest of complete honesty, possibly the city guard if they’ve decided I disturbed the peace.”

Bruthir was almost certain he was missing something, but he was even more certain he didn’t care. “Pull up a barrel then.” Sulking had started to feel a bit lonely, so when the man lingered in the shadows of the other alley, he lifted up his cake enticingly. “I’ll share my cake.”

The stranger laughed. “It has indeed been a very long time since I’ve had any cake. Thank you, I accept.”

Bruthir tore it in half and handed it over. “If only it was for another occasion.”

The stranger paused, and there was not so much an air of hesitance this time as tension. Bruthir gulped and resisted the urge to lean back.

“You don’t approve of the king’s marriage?”

The stranger’s hood had shifted, and Bruthir managed to catch a quick glimpse of sharp, gaunt features and the beginning of a pointed ear. In a moment it was gone, but it had been enough. Bruthir might be more accustomed to them in books than life, but he knew an elf when he saw one. This must be one of the ones that had come for Lady Arwen and the marriage, though he couldn’t imagine what the elf was doing this far from the main event. Regardless, the last thing he wanted was for this elf to carry back tales of discontent to the new royal couple.

“The king’s marriage is fine,” he said hastily. “He’s every right to marry whoever he likes, and I’m sure the Lady Arwen is an excellent choice.”

The elf was still regarding him silently. Apparently an explanation of his sullenness would be required.

He sighed. “It’s just made my thesis very awkward, that’s all. I’m probably going to have to start all over if I’m to have any hope of it being approved.”

“Your - thesis,” the elf said disbelievingly, but he had at least relaxed enough to take a bite of the cake.

“I want to be a scholar in the citadel,” he explained. “I’ve been studying for years. All that’s left is the thesis which has to be approved by my elders and - if it meets their approval - either the steward or the king. That last step is more of a formality than anything else really, everyone I’ve talked to has said that Denethor certainly never did more than give them a cursory glance, but at the very least they’ll surely read the title.”

“And the title is not complimentary towards elves?” the stranger asked. He seemed more amused than offended, thankfully.

“It’s not that,” he said. “It’s just . . . complicated.”

The elf took a seat on a nearby barrel and leaned back against the stone wall behind him. “Tell me about it,” he suggested. “Maybe I can help.”

Well, why not? Maybe he could. At the very least, he needed to get out one good rant.

“There’s been a lot written on the changing view of the elves in Numenor,” he began. “Quite naturally, as that view was generally tied to that of the Valar and thus was tied with the fall, a subject that continues to preoccupy many. I decided to focus on a more specific group of elves: those involved in the myths surrounding Sirion.”

The elf let out a strangled noise. “Myths?”

“Well, we know it was real, but exactly what happened has become rather obscured by time . . . “ His voice trailed off. “Although not for the elves, I suppose,” he said with fresh interest. “Did you know anyone who was there?”

“Yes,” the elf said shortly. Bruthir briefly wrestled with whether or not to pry before remembering that his thesis was useless now anyway and slumping down again.

“Elwing and Earendil held a special place as King Elros Tar-Minyatur’s parents, of course, but the Feanorians were also a subject of considerable fascination to the Numenoreans. By the end, all elves were scorned by all but the Faithful, and the Faithful had become a little uncomfortable with both groups since both had defied the Valar.”

“The Feanorians I can hardly argue, but surely Elwing and Earendil - ?”

“But they sailed,” Bruthir said, shaking his head. “And with both of them half-mortal too! It worked out for them in the end - or so we think, there’s some interesting subversive readings about exactly how literally we should take Earendil being a star - but they still sailed to the Undying Lands, the very thing the King’s Men wished to do. You can see why the Faithful didn’t wish to promote that tale.”

“I suppose so.”

“For those very reasons, in the transition period when the King’s Men didn’t take quite such a hard stance against elves, the Feanorians and the half-elven were treated as honorable exceptions for their defiance and, in the latter case, for their connection to mortality and their kinship with the first king. Later in that period, Earendil and Elwing were considered to have sold out to the Valar while the Feanorians lingered on as a symbol of defiance and the right to sail where people willed whether the Valar willed or no - Are you alright?”

The elf’s hooded head had fallen into his hands. “I’m fine,” he said, sounding rather muffled. “Keep going.”

“If you’re sure,” he said doubtfully. “Further back, there’s a much less complicated veneration of Earendil and Elwing and the Feanorians were less prominent except for those engaged in studies of history or who enjoyed the occasional tragedy at the theater.”

“Theater?” The elf asked, his voice a mix of interest and dread.

“We have a few surviving fragments,” Bruthir said, “though of course so much was lost that it’s hard to be sure of conclusions. We could be missing something critical. Which is what made the final section of my thesis so risky.” He ate a bite of cake despondently. “I was tracing it all backwards, you see, so the final section was on what King Elros himself thought.”

The elf’s head shot up so quickly his hood fell off. He really was quite gaunt. Dangerously so. He hadn’t thought elves suffered from scarcity. “And what did you conclude?”

“Well, that’s the interesting thing,” he said, getting caught up despite himself and leaning forward. “There’s almost nothing. Granted, it could have just been lost, but those early records were among those texts prioritized for salvation. We have plenty of scraps about the war, and those mention all of them, but in the praise poems and genealogies . . . You’ll find some things about Gondolin, but very little about Doriath, and even less about anyone at all involved in Sirion. The one scrap we thought we did have is a letter where his daughter comments to a friend that a bard had sung of her grandparents and the Feanorians, and that the king had been ‘very much displeased, and not nearly so diplomatic as usual about it.’ Which is interesting, but hardly conclusive. Were they too flattering to parents he resented? Not flattering enough to parents he idolized? Too prone to glorifying his kidnappers? Too prone to vilifying the men who must have played a large part in his raising? Was it too accurate and raised up bad memories? Or was it all wrong and offensive for it?” He took a deep breath. “You see the problem.”

The other man slumped. “I do.”

“Then I made my discovery. Apparently, he was a bit of a musician himself, and on the back of a rather more historically significant document, I found what I’m almost sure are quickly sketched drafts of his own attempt to memorialize the events. He seemed very . . . frustrated. With both his failed attempts and with everyone involved in the actual event. But he also seemed very wistful. Fond, even.” He sighed. “So that was my conclusion. But while it’s one thing to present such a thing to a steward, and even an acceptable thing to present such a thing to the king about his far distant ancestor, it’s quite another to hand it off for review when it’s talking about the queen’s uncle. And her grandparents, for that matter.”

The elf swallowed hard. “Yes,” he said hoarsely. “Quite. She never met any of them, but I’m sure her father has told her much.” He looked away for a moment, and when he turned back, his face was more cheerful. “Perhaps if you dropped the parts about the far more controversial Feanorians and concentrated on her grandparents that would be better? You could add in something flattering about how they’re thought of now.”

“I’m not much good at flattery,” he said doubtfully, but hope was rising in him regardless. Perhaps not all his research would have to be thrown out.

“Turn it in as is,” another voice recommended. “I, for one, am very interested in reading it.”

Both of them spun to see that another elf had slipped in through of the mouth of the alley while they were distracted. Some strong emotion lurked almost hidden on his face. His splendid clothes opened Bruthir’s eyes to just how ragged his first companion’s were.

Said companion had gone very pale. “Elrond.” He dropped off his barrel and began to back away.

Elrond? Not - Surely not the Elrond that was the queen’s father -

“Don’t,” Elrond pleaded, reaching out a hand. “Please don’t run, Maglor. Not today of all days.”

Maglor. Not -

Did you know someone at Sirion?

He had not asked that question of Maglor Feanorian. That was impossible. He was dead. Or wandering lost somewhere that wasn’t Gondor’s back alleyways.

But surely no one else would have chosen that name for their son?

Maglor, son of someone who was not Feanor, slumped and held up his hands in defeat. “I didn’t mean to cause trouble,” he said. “I am - very sorry to have disturbed you today. So very sorry. I only wanted to give a gift of song, even if your daughter wouldn’t hear it. I hadn’t realized I would draw such a crowd as to cause a disturbance, out of practice with performance as I am.”

Elrond was the first elf Bruthir had ever seen look exasperated. It was a very human expression on him. “Maglor, you remain the greatest bard the Noldor have ever produced. Of course you drew a crowd. A crowd that is now very disappointed at how you vanished when the city guard got lured in to listening, mind you.”

The greatest bard the Noldor had ever produced.

So this was Maglor Feanorian.

He had just ranted to Maglor Feanorain about his place in the Numenorean imagination. Historical ecstasy hit self-preserving nausea and roiled unpleasantly.

“Someone mentioned the incident to Faramir. I was lucky enough to overhear,” Elrond continued. “And when I heard that a ragged elf had enchanted half the city with songs for the wedding . . . Well, it was either you or Daeron, and I liked my chances.”

Maglor’s head fell. “I’m sorry,” he repeated. “I should have realized my good intentions would still turn to the ill.”

“The ill?” Elrond laughed, and Bruthir abruptly realized that the hidden emotion was joy. “Today I have had to give away one family member to another, but I’ve found another at long last. Surely a small disturbance, already calmed, is worth that!” He stepped forward, and Bruthir half-expected Maglor to bolt, but he looked up with cautious hope instead.

“Elrond - “

Elrond was close enough to touch now. He held out a hand in entreaty. “Come back to the celebration with me,” he said. “Please. Arwen would surely like to hear your songs for herself, and Aragorn too. There’s no one here who will cause any trouble over it.”

Maglor hesitated.

It seemed another push might be needed. Presumably that was why his mouth opened and said, without quite obtaining his consent, “You might as well go. I’m sure they’ll have better cake.”

That actually startled a laugh out of the Feanorian. “If you wish it then, Elrond,” he said quietly, clasping the outstretched hand.

Elrond’s answering smile was brilliant, and it turned grateful when he looked over to Bruthir. “You must come too, of course,” he said. “I really am quite interested in your research.”

Why not, Bruthir though blankly, his day had certainly been strange enough for it.

It would certainly be more interesting than sulking.

#maglor #elrond #oc #gondor #fourth age #numenor #reunion #accidentally talking about legends to their faces #fic #tolkien #silmarillion #lotr #lord of the rings

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simplelinesunfashiond · 5 years

Text

Time After Time

This started out as a short fluff drabble of everyone's favorite disaster dads and somehow became 2.6k words and I refuse to cut it in half, so I apologize in advance.

Pulling all-nighters in between wild adventures is something Nathaniel is getting too old for. Not that he intends to ever admit that. Fortunately, Nix has appointed himself as responsible for Nathaniel's wellbeing. For... team morale...of course. Definitely not for any personal reasons, that's ridiculous.

Current tag list: @drabbleitout @idreamonpaper @abalonetea @elliereblogsmemes @writings-of-a-narwhal

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Nathaniel rubbed at his eyes and all but glared at his laptop screen, or rather, at the sound of an interruption approaching which he couldn’t actually glare at. The door to the stairwell had opened, and far off as that was, it echoed in the underground chambers where he and his allies worked. And then, a second sound. Footsteps. Not unexpected, of course, that the person who had come down here would continue their journey, but the footfalls came with familiar, long strides, and a certain rhythm he’d gotten used to hearing, at one point. There had been a time when hearing that particular approach would have meant everything. He dreaded it.

He was already going over the possibilities of what the intrusion could be for. “What do you want?” would be the easiest opener. Alternately, a wry and sarcastic, “What did I do this time?” Or, perhaps the most universal, “I’m busy.” Followed by nothing. He listened a moment longer, fingers still on the keyboard, trying to determine if there was anything to be learned from the footsteps. They didn’t sound angry, so maybe he wasn’t about to be accused of anything. But then, they didn’t have that slight swagger of borderline-tipsy, which was the only state Nathaniel could imagine in which Nix would somehow have forgotten the new rule about keeping his distance. That might have been for the best, really, though Nathaniel couldn’t for the life of him actually put words to why. Keeping all his licensing when he wasn’t actually a practicing doctor was a challenge that involved a lot of papers and, if he could help it, enough actual focus for a few days of editing.

The door opened, and, with none of the venom he’d planned, he announced, “I’m working.”

Nix only hummed in response, and crept into the room, almost silent. Nathaniel was hardly sure how close he’d gotten until Nix’s sharp chin settled on his shoulder, a stray section of his hair tickling Nathaniel’s face as Nix peered blankly at the vast array of documents – on the screen, in notebooks, in disorganized piles around the desk. Nathaniel didn’t look, but the mental image of how far Nix must have been bent in order to lean on him like that was enough to make him smile, despite his determination to be irritated about it.

“…I have no idea what it is you actually do around here,” Nix admitted as if he’d only just realized this, despite having stayed there with them all for a matter of months. He turned just slightly, just barely enough to peer at Nathaniel, who hoped the exhaustion wasn’t too plain in his face. Who knew that was a vain hope, as Nix had probably sensed it from the hall.

“What don’t I do?” Nathaniel asked. “Everything, all of it.” All by myself, he could have added, but it was unnecessary. He felt Nix tense behind him, knew it was clear without saying it, kind of regretted implying it, dropping it like an accusation. He breathed in, tried to relax, breathed out, though it turned into a yawn half-way through. “I’m almost done editing a journal submission, but I’ve got…Shit, what? Invoices, some sort of…permits for…something. To apply for. Budget proposals. Lots of numbers.” Nix nodded, slowly, reached around him and snatched a pencil off the cluttered desk. Still mostly wrapped around Nathaniel, he started down the column of numbers on the last paper Nathaniel had indicated, making small notes to himself. “What are you doing?”

“One less thing for you to do.”

“What do you even know about accounting?”

“Had to do my own, back in the day…”

“I have a calculator, you know.”

“Good. We can check my work when I’m done,” Nix agreed, and twisted around enough to grin at Nathaniel, still a little too close. “One less screen for you to stare at.”

Nathaniel could have argued. Wanted to. But instead, he turned his gaze back to the computer. Winced. Must have done it noticeably. Because Nix had stopped scribbling and was staring at him in a silent question.

“It’s just…Do you know what a migraine is?” And God, if “Eyebrow arched judgmentally,” had a sound that could be made by pointed silence, then Nix’s response – or lack thereof – screamed it. “Okay, so you should know there’s nothing you can do about it.”

“I asked Tawny, actually,” Nix admitted. “She had a lot to say on it. Something about neurological idiosyncrasies, sensory transmission, and – God, she’s absolutely brilliant, isn’t she?” It almost sounded like he basked in it, some strange distant pride that was starting to slowly melt the block of ice in Nathaniel’s chest. “So, anyway, then, I asked Anderson.” Nathaniel actually laughed before he could stop himself. “He said to treat it like a hangover, which might not be right, but I know how to do that, so it seems worth a shot.” Nathaniel gestured for him to get to the point. “First of all? No more screens, Nat,” he concluded. “Finish your edits later. Here, scoot, let me see the other papers.

“I will not, that’s ridiculous. How do you expect us both to fit in this chair?” Nix tilted his head curiously at the question, as if it were hardly a question at all. “You are not going to lean over me the entire time you’re doing my accounting just so we can share one desk chair. That’s madness. Besides, there’s not enough space for that to possibly be comfortable.”

Nix paused a moment, then, perfectly deadpan, said, “I have a series of very obvious alternatives of increasing impropriety for you. Which would you like?”

Nathaniel pinched the bridge of his nose, swallowed a sound that felt too much like the start of a sob. He wasn’t entirely sure if it was the pain, the exhaustion, or just the fact that this was the time Nix chose to start really sounding like Nix again. “Why does this amuse you?” Nathaniel asked, and hated the way his voice sounded, too tight, pained and weak. “Just…spare me, would you?”

Nix stood straighter, but grasped Nathaniel’s wrists, pulling him up almost effortlessly. “Go to bed. I’ll wake you when I’m done running your numbers.” Nathaniel nodded, slowly, and tried to pull away, but Nix had already snatched up the notebook in question. “Oh, no, no. You’re staying with me. You can’t be trusted. You’ve probably got work stashed all over the place to do while nobody’s looking.”

Nathaniel let out a breath that almost sounded like a bitter laugh, but with all the sound leeched out of it. “Why?” he asked, and found he couldn’t put forth the effort to finish the question.

“It’s easy for me,” Nix said, with a shrug. “And besides, I may as well pull my weight around here, if I’m staying. Why shouldn’t I?” The dodge was easy, obvious, but Nathaniel couldn’t quite muster the effort to object.

Nix all but marched out of the room, still leading Nathaniel by the wrist, though his grip was never enough to quite pull – always cautious, always careful. Nathaniel trailed behind him, lagging a little at the stairs. He felt the toe of his shoe catch a few times, but managed to stay up and moving forward. Finally, they made it upstairs, and turned the wrong way, to the wrong door.

“This is your room,” Nathaniel commented, a little too tired, a little too over everything to make it a question at all.

“You’re not to be trusted on your own,” Nix explained, as if this were obvious. “You’ll just find something else to work on.” Nathaniel didn’t argue, walked in, stopped.

“It’s freezing in here.”

“You’d be warmer if your jeans didn’t have holes in them,” Nix commented. Not a judgment, really, just a fact.

“Or you could stop leaving the window open in January.”

“It’s not, like…really that particularly open, though. Just enough to-“

“Make it freezing in here.”

Nix laughed – actually laughed, out loud, and whirled to snatch something off of a chair in the corner, tossing it in Nathaniel’s general direction. Nat promptly missed, and the item draped itself harmlessly over his head. It took a bit more flailing than he would have liked to detangle himself from what turned out to be a very dense sweater. Nathaniel stared at it a moment, before pulling it over his head. He looked down at his hands, mostly obscured by sleeve. He barely heard the footsteps come back to the entryway, and how someone of that stature could move so quietly was still a mystery. He felt the touch, feather-light, barely there, between his shoulders and nudging him forward. Nathaniel half felt like he was sleepwalking through the disorienting haze in his brain, until he’d removed his shoes and burrowed under the blankets – an actual unbelievable and frankly ungodly amount of them. He wondered with a strange sort of clarity where and how Nix had managed to acquire them all, though he chose not to question it, as it was really the only thing that made the temperature of the room tolerable.

Nix dimmed all the lights except for one soft, candle-light tinted lamp on a small table in the corner. He folded himself in a way that didn’t look especially comfortable onto a chair and, as if by magic, pulled from some unseen location yet another mysterious blanket, which he draped over his shoulders and down the back of the chair like some sort of hideous plaid cape. Nathaniel attempted to object but his words were replaced swiftly with a yawn. He wasn’t sure when he started to doze – wondered actually at why people tried to figure that out, when there was no way to know – but when he looked up again, he noticed Nix had taken a moment to locate the glasses he never bothered to wear, and leaned heavily against the desk.

“Nix,” Nathaniel said, objection framed in a single word.

---

Nix had managed not to watch and make sure Nathaniel fell asleep, though he knew it must have been nearly instant. He had still managed not to look back, taking time to change into something warmer, before returning to the list of numbers, staring until they all ran together, until his eyes burned and a ribbon of pain started to grow back into his skull. He fumbled through several desk drawers as quietly as he could before he found his glasses, polished them up a little, and put them on. They made the numbers bigger, a little, but didn’t help them resume making sense. He stared at them for a moment, a long moment, one that stretched on for possibly half an hour with no sign of resolution, until an interruption jarred him from his attempt at focus.

“Nix.”

He jumped, but still, managed not to look back. Couldn’t afford to, if he actually intended to do any sort of work. “Hm?” he asked.

“It’s late.” No more words came immediately after that, so Nix nodded his agreement and stared forcefully at the page of garbage, willing it to become numbers again. “And it’s still freezing.” And Nathaniel couldn’t possibly realize what he was asking.

“I always forget how warm it is where you’re from,” Nix admitted. “You should have somewhere else to go in winter…Somewhere warmer, maybe by the ocean…” He let his mind drift a little, could practically see the place, even if he couldn’t properly see himself ever being a real beachy sort of person. The logistics weren’t so tough. “I could probably make that happen. Somewhere we could go when it gets like this. If you’d want to.”

“That’s nonsense. You’re talkin’ nonsense,” Nathaniel drawled, in his actual voice, the southernness slipping in with sleep.

“I’m tired,” Nix said, and then stopped. Sighed. Realized he’d forgotten what he wasn’t supposed to be saying. Nathaniel, somehow while half asleep, had managed to trick him into it. He liked to think it wouldn’t have happened if he’d been properly awake, himself. If he’d really had the heart to lie. If he weren’t so curious about Nathaniel’s angle in the first place.

“Nix.” This wasn’t a question. It was a demand. Nix turned to look at him, now, saw big dark eyes staring pointedly at him. They weren’t always color when they’d met, but sometimes he couldn’t remember what they’d looked like before. It had been haunting, at first, painful, a sign of everything that had gone wrong to see the shadows in them. Now, it was just a part of Nathaniel, one little thing that made up all of him, one more thing he wouldn’t be himself without. “Why are you doing this?”

What did he say to that? What could he say?

There’s a chance I might be falling back in love with you.

Did you ever know that I was?

I’m sorry if you didn’t. I should have told you.

I hate to see you put yourself through all of this.

I like to think I’m strong enough for both of us.

I just want to do one thing for you, please, just let me do one thing.

I think I never really stopped loving you.

I never really knew the real you, did I?

I used to think that mattered, the way I remembered you, the way it was different.

I think I –

No, I don’t think, I -

“For you,” Nix said. Nothing more. Nathaniel stared, unmoving, unblinking for a long couple of seconds, before he gave a slow nod, at least tolerating this answer if not rightly accepting it. He didn’t quite sit up, but got up only enough to scoot very pointedly to one side, back pressed almost to the wall, before he retreated back beneath the mountain of blankets that shielded him from the air in the room. Of course, Nix could deny all he wanted that he minded it, the same as he could argue that he didn’t need sleep, but at the end of the day that was still his absurd fortress of warmth, and Nathaniel, well, he knew better anyway. Nathaniel also had resumed pointedly starting – waiting. “One minute.”

“Nix,” he said, sharper than the first two times, and somehow without remembering moving, Nix found himself in the still-warm space Nathaniel had made for him. “See? Better.” Nathaniel plucked the all-but-forgotten glasses off of Nix’s face, set them aside. Carefully undid the slip of black ribbon that held Nix’s hair back, ran his hand through it, toying a little with the newly-freed locks. Nathaniel smiled, a sort of sleepily dazed look, a little too close. He had faint little lines around his eyes, now, a thin streak of gray in his hair, but those things were more from stress, the stress of living, and of dying, and of having to live all over again. None of it was from time, now, and it wouldn’t be. The one gift the darkness had bestowed upon Nathaniel. This was a Nathaniel that Nix got to keep, if he could earn the right again. In one slow movement, Nathaniel closed that sliver of space with what wasn’t quite a kiss, more just a soft press into the side of Nix’s face while he was still almost laughing in tired giddiness.

Nathaniel drew away, then, but only moved enough that his head fit under Nix’s chin, face smooshed inelegantly against his chest. Nix sighed as hard as he could without disturbing him – not irritated, but not exactly relieved either, just tired, but maybe a good sort of tired, a tired that struck you only after you’d fought through something and finally made some sort of breakthrough. He waited, listened until Nathaniel’s breathing had evened out again.

#writeblr #amwriting #pure fluff #seriously #this is the softest thing I have ever written #long post #wip: the singer's prophecy #wip:tsp

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campbellsaunders · 5 years

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the echoing of ends

featuring ↮ campbell saunders, esme song timeframe ↮ february 27th location ↮ esme's dance studio triggers ↮ mentions of self-harm notes ↮ after a revengeful dance class, cam and esme learn that they're not so different from each other.

Cam heaved a sigh of relief that whatever this ‘class’ was, was finally over. Beyond the fact that he’d been stuck doing ballet at the order of his coach, he’d been stuck in a room with the last person he wanted to be around -- Esme. It was no secret that she made it particularly hard on him, the end result being his legs feeling like jello. At that point he would’ve rather spent hours on the ice. Waiting until everyone had left to change his clothes, he was finally able to slip his shirt and shorts off. He shoved them into his bag, reaching around inside of it for his jeans.

Esme was feeling accomplished in her first stage of planning. She figured she'd start small - one revenge for the shaming, and another for the leak itself. It was almost satisfying enough to see Cam struggling through the lesson, and his teammates being strung along due to his actions was just a bonus for her. An evening of hiding her amused smirks had come to a close, and with almost sincere exuberance, Esme praised the boys' efforts, sending them off while she tidied the space. Some time later, she was ready to head out for the night, making a stop into the dressing rooms to spot any disarray left from the unwilling guests. The team should have been gone long ago, so it startled Esme to be met with Cam upon her arrival, jumping some. Refocusing, her eyes instinctively dipped down in a backhanded effort to assure that he was clothed, which the lone pair of briefs slightly constituted as, instead met with the sight of the neat rows of red across his thighs that she recognized too easily. Wordlessly, she peered back up to find his eyes, more shock on her face now from that then his initial presence.

Cam’s body tensed as he heard the sound of the dressing room door open, his pace to retrieve his jeans quickening. “I’m leaving, I just need to --” he called out, upset with his own self that he’d taken so long in getting changed. Reluctant, he turned to see who exactly it was, some part of him wishfully thinking it could be a straggling teammate. As he was met with Esme’s face he instinctively and immediately reached to cover his lower half, his actions frantic for two reasons: the fact that he was in his briefs and the scars adorning his thighs. He wasn’t even confident which would have even been worse for the girl - his enemy - to see. Either way she’d find something to use against him and Cam didn’t doubt that she’d waste no time in doing so. “I was just leaving,” he deadpanned, attempting to mask his internal dread of the situation.

Esme could have easily used the initial sight as her next act of vengeance, but once the scars were noticed, all bets were off the table. His modesty did nothing to help his case; she'd have spotted the telltale marks with or without his attempt, her face softening at the revelation of their existence. It made sense if she really thought about it; Cam wasn't the most upbeat individual, but she still didn't expect this. "What did you do?" The words came out in such a sympathetic tone that it even surprised herself, taking a tentative step towards him to disprove the harmful mirage.

Cam could feel his chest tightening with every breath inhaled as he turned away from her to slide his jeans on, the pair of shaky hands fumbling with the button. He gave a quick shake of his head. “I didn’t do anything,” he uneasily muttered, now reaching for his clean shirt to slip over his head. Esme’s gaze felt as though it was going to burn the fabric right off of his back, the same heat rushing to redden his cheeks. He was too embarrassed to turn back around, keeping his eyes glued on his bag in front of him.

Esme should have figured she'd be met with resistance at the overly invasive question, one she knew the answer to before she asked it. She stayed mum while he began to dress, giving him a moment of reprieve until she noticed the second faint evidences peaking out of the pants he'd rushed into. Maybe it was the unfortunate empathy that drove her hand forward, her fingertips gingerly gliding over the raised skin hidden beneath the denim. "I'm not stupid," she countered, eyes trained on the scar. "How long have you been doing this?"

Cam sucked in a sharp breath at the girl’s unexpected touch, his body jolting forward in response to move away from her. “What is wrong with you?!” he exclaimed with a cracked voice as he spun around, taking a couple steps away from her. Realizing the potential backlash from his outburst, he offered a quick “sorry” while continuing to avoid eye contact. Answering any questions she had meant actually admitting things to her, yet not answering them meant taking the risk of pissing her off even further. Jaws clenched as he weighed the options, wavering on which would have the better outcome for him. “Why do you think anything I do is any of your business?” The words fell out of his mouth as his eyes slowly drifted up to meet hers.

Esme realized right away that her contact was out of line, instantly matching his muttered apology as she retracted her hand. She swallowed nervously, wondering if that reaction would be the worst to come from him, no longer certain of his placate nature with the new knowledge. "I-," she croaked, noting that he wasn't wrong to ask; the entire time she'd known Cam, the two had been at odds, and this outing alone was orchestrated to toy with him, so she wasn't really in a position to demand answers. Maybe she was just relieved to have someone to relate to, though it was clear that he wasn't interested in her reveling. Taking a step back, she pulled up the hem of her tutu, pulling down a section of her tights beneath to reveal a nearly identical, though aged batch of scars on her thigh.

A nervous scoff fell past Cam’s lips as he turned his head away from her, bringing up a hand to run through his hair. Truthfully, he was unsure of how to react to the sight. Were Esme’s as secretive as his, or was it common knowledge? The only thing he was sure of was that it was impossible for him cover it up; she knew, without a doubt, what secrets were harbored underneath his clothing. He’d been caught in the most unexpected way. “You can’t tell anyone,” he softly pleaded, attempting to swallow the feeling of a lump that had formed in his throat. He didn’t know what he’d do if his habit was revealed to anyone. “I’ll do anything.”

Esme "What?" She queried, the concept of sharing the epiphany to anyone else not immediately registering to her. "No, I'm not, I won't." Perhaps the first kind sentiment she'd ever offered to Cam, her words were sincere. She was callous, she'd give him that, but even she had her boundaries. A glimmer of worry popped into her head then, fleeting but sharp, and she had to voice in to rid her conscience. "You didn't. None of these are because of what I did, right?"

Cam felt his eyes roll, unintentionally, at her question. It was almost comical, albeit morbid, that Esme thought she’d caused any of the marks on his body. Had he been in the proper mood and not pure shock, he could have used her vexation as a crutch. “Were you driving the car that killed my brother?” His question was rhetorical -- and spilled out of his mouth before he could stop the word vomit from flowing. His gaze directly met the floor, his nostrils flaring as he took in a deep breath.

Esme wasn't sure what answer she was anticipated, nor did she know how to process the one she was given past a gaped mouth and momentary silence. "No," she responded unnecessarily, fidgeting with her tutu. "And I bet you didn't kill my mother either, so I guess we're both innocent," she joked with an uncomfortable laugh and an even more unsavory finger gun in his direction.

Cam looked up at her response, his gaze meeting hers for only the second or third time since she’d entered the room. He thought he had it rough and now he couldn’t even imagine what Esme had been through. It was the first time he’d felt anything but frustration towards the girl, though he remained silent. Was he supposed to make a lighthearted comment back? That didn’t feel right. All he could think to offer was a shrug. “I need to go,” Cam told her, releasing a shaky breath.

Esme likely wasn't helping the tension in the room with her remark, but it was her most well-versed method outside of anger and that wasn't something Cam deserved now. "Okay," she nodded, no longer having it in her to force him to remain in her captivity. "Um, not that I ever expect you to be seen here again, but you weren't terrible," she noted, half a smile peeking. "And dance has been really cathartic for me and pretty much the only legal thing that's made me stop," she gestured towards her thighs. "So you're welcome back whenever. And I'm sorry about your brother," she concluded sincerely, backing out of the room to let him leave in peace.

#╰ —˚ . ‣ ﹝ story . ❜#╰ —˚ . ‣ ﹝ story ; esme . ❜#╰ —˚ . ‣ ﹝ keeneresme . ❜#keeneresme

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bestrenew728 · 3 years

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Best Utilities For Mac Os X

The Mac OS X user base may not be as large as Windows, but that doesn't mean that Apple's operating doesn't have a robust app library. In fact, many popular Windows apps are available on OS X, and in the circumstances where you can't find a particular app, there's likely an analogous program.

Mac Os X Utilities Download

Best Utilities For Mac Os X

If you count yourself among new Mac users, you're probably wondering which apps are the ones worth buying or downloading. Even longtime Mac users can always use a few helpful suggestions for improving their Mac experience. Regardless of your affiliation, we have a must-read list for you.

This list of the 50 best Mac apps highlights the software that you should download to your OS X desktop or laptop. The apps will help you express your creativity, be more productive, browse the Web, communicate with others, and much more. Some of the apps are exclusive to the OS X platform; others are cross-platformers that you'll find on Linux and Windows. Two of the highlighted apps even let you run those operating systems within OS X, which opens the door to even more apps than what Mac natively supports.

One software category is conspicuously absent: games. We purposely excluded games here as they'll have their own dedicated story in the near future similar to our 10 Best PC Games article.Click on the slideshow to get started or check out the menu on the right to see the 50 best Mac apps indexed by category. Are there some high quality Mac apps we've missed? Let us know in the comments below.

The Mac really doesn't have a lot of great utilities for creating file archives, but it does have one excellent option for unarchiving: the aptly named The Unarchiver. It integrates directly with the OS X Finder and supports practically any format you can imagine.

It runs at a nominal 2.5Ghz, but it can go up to 3.7Ghz with 'Turbo Boost.' And please continue reading this laptop shopping guide for even more useful information. Best mac laptop for home use. It contains Intel's quad-core Core i7 processor. The Apple MacBook Pro is a top-of-the-range model.

Note: The Unarchiver isn't actually capable of creating archives, but there's really no app on the Mac that does a great job of archiving and unarchiving. You really need two separate apps for the best experience. The Unarchiver provides that experience for unarchiving, but for creating compressed files you'll need something else. We'll discuss your options first thing in the Competition section of this post.

Best Video Software for the Mac How To Run MacOS High Sierra or Another OS on Your Mac Best Graphic Design Software the Mac Stay Safe with Best Free Password Managers. 3 of the Best Disk Space Analyzers for Mac OS X Apr 29, 2016 - 25 Comments It’s often only a matter of time before Mac users wind up seeing the dreaded “startup disk almost full” warning message in Mac OS X, which often leads to a frantic dash around the Downloads folder as users trash unnecessary files to attempt to free up disk space. IStatistica is a detailed system resource monitor for OS X. The program includes a widget for Notification Center and statistics menu in the clock area. Simply open the Notification Center to see detailed statistics on memory, CPU, disk usage, or to see a network map and data rates. Aug 10, 2016 There's little doubt that OS X 'El Capitan' is a fully-featured operating system that helps you to get a lot done, but by adding a few extra utilities will allow you get an awful lot more from the. The Best Mac Apps & Utilities The Mac collection includes mostly lesser-known apps so the usual suspects likes Evernote, Dropbox, OneNote, or Google Drive are all missing from the list. Also, all the apps listed below are compatible with Yosemite, the current version of Mac OS. There's little doubt that OS X 'El Capitan' is a fully-featured operating system that helps you to get a lot done, but by adding a few extra utilities will allow you get an awful lot more from the. Mac OS X Snow Leopard is one of the oldest Mac OS and only few people use it. In addition, with the continuous popularity of Sierra, El Capitan users give low priority to Snow Leopard. Before, I start with the Best Mac Snow Leopard Data Recovery Utility; let’s give you a brief basics of data loss on Snow Leopard.

The Unarchiver

Platform: Mac OS X Price: Free Download Page

Features

Supports practically every compressed file format you can think of. See the full list here

You can toggle which compressed file formats The Unarchiver will decompress and which ones it will ignore.

Integrates with the Mac OS X Finder like it was a built-in feature.

You can choose where it extracts files, or you can have it ask you every time.

You can choose to keep or discard the archive once it has been decompressed.

Where It Excels

The Unarchiver doesn't do much, but that's kind of where it excels. It just unarchives practically any file you can throw at it. It's about as speedy as you can expect, and you can customize which file types it handles and which ones it doesn't. Using it feels like part of the OS X Finder, which is the other thing that makes it so great. Basically, using The Unarchiver is like adding a much broader range of supported compressed file formats to your Mac.

It's also touch-enabled. Best email app for mac computer. If you're a Windows users who prefers to not be distracted by added features, it's a good option.

Best mac laptop for coding. It also comes with a slew of ports, unlike Apple's latest ultra-light, the new MacBook. Because it's a unibody, it also stands up to the wear and tear of life on the go. That means you can easily plug in all the peripherals you need, all at the same time. Because of its size — or lack thereof — the MacBook Air takes up minimal space in your bag or even tucked under your arm.

Where It Falls Short

The Unarchiver doesn't do much, so it's lacking in that regard. Not only would the ability to actually compress files be very welcome—especially if it was through a contextual menu item—but the lack of features and control make it difficult to deal with an imperfect (and the occasional multi-part) archive. Aside from that, there's not much to complain about. It does what it says it's going to do, and it does it well the majority of the time.

The Competition

Before we get into the competition (of which there is very little), let's talk about apps that can compress your files. The best ones are kind of pricey. Archiver is very pretty and will cost you $19. Behind it's good looks is a pretty good feature set, offering plenty of supported formats and even the ability to password-protect an archive. Alternatively you have an app called Compress Files. It weighs in at $15, so you'll save a little money. In exchange for those savings you lose a few supported file formats. For a little more than both apps ($20), you can get BetterZIP, which offers tons of features and supported formats. If you want a free utility that only supports ZIP files, use the one built-in to the Finder already. If you want a free app that can create zip files without including the annoying .DS_STORE files that OS X loves to include in its archives, try YemuZip.

As for the competition for The Unarchiver, there are a few apps worth noting. UnRarX is probably the best RAR decompressor on the Mac, but it suffers from a really unfriendly user interface. It's free, though, and is indispensable when dealing with RAR archives—specifically the problematic ones. For ZIP files, you can count on the Mac OS X Finder to handle those for you no problem. Most of the previously-mentioned archive creation apps can handle unarchiving files, too, but nothing is quite as good as The Unarchive so chances are you'll prefer to use two apps—one for archiving and one for unarchiving—to get the job done.

Apple mac password manager. Best password managers for Mac Being hacked can have disastrous results. One way to make it much harder for would-be attackers is to use a password manager on your devices.

UPDATE: @dumbinacan sent me a link to Keka, which I was not aware of, and it's pretty great. Best personal finance software for mac 2017, software. It archives and unarchives, costs nothing, and has a contextual menu add-on so you can use it directly in the Finder.

Mac Os X Utilities Download

ANOTHER UPDATE: A lot of user suggestions have been coming in so I thought I'd start a list of some popular user alternatives.

Entropy, $19, via @rainierrr

iPack, $2, via @artiste212

Lifehacker's App Directory is a new and growing directory of recommendations for the best applications and tools in a number of given categories.

Best Utilities For Mac Os X

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val-kay-rie · 6 years

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Lucky (Loki x Reader)

Summary: The God of Mischief is to reside with the Avengers for the time being, only to discover something familiar written along the back of your neck.

Warnings: I think like one swear word?

Word Count: 2,450

A/N: Hey, whaddup! This is my first work on this blog, so feedback is always welcomed! I apologize in advance for the lack of a "read more" separator thing and any typos or errors. This entire thing was written on the mobile editor so blame the phone, not me! Hope you enjoy!

Based upon a random Soulmate AU I thought up, in which the birth place of someone's destined significant other is tattooed on the back of one's neck.

"What the hell is a Jotunheim?" Tony asked, reading off your neck as you tinkered away.

"Wish I knew, Stark," you said, having grown accustomed to people wondering about the odd place that was so elegantly written on your skin.

Most people when they're born have destinations like Denver, San Diego or New York City marked upon their skin. Some people you've met even got international places like London, Tokoyo or Dubai. Not you, though. Instead, you got the weird, mythical place called Jotunheim.

Ever since you could remember, people asked about it, causing you to do some research on it once you were old enough to truly grasp the concept. Months and months of searching for the foreign location and all you had found was some mythological realm of ice and snow. After finding absolutely nothing that dealt with your actual planet, you decided that maybe your soulmate wasn't coming after all.

That was years ago. Now, you had recently landed yourself a job at Stark Industries as his lab assistant. Needless to say it took less than a week for him to come in all banged up in his suit. You were currently repairing his helmet while Tony stood a few feet away as he worked on repairing the actual suit. The billionaire asked you, "You haven't looked into it?"

"Oh, I have. But after finding nothing but a bunch of make believe worlds, I decided to just forget about it," you honestly replied. Typically you wore your hair down to cover it up and allow the rest of the world to forget about it as well, but doing lab work with long hair didn't exactly work out for you. This resulted in you tossing your hair up into a bun, leaving your neck exposed to whoever was in the lab with you. Thankfully that only consisted of Tony, and occasionally Pepper, both of which you knew you could trust.

"Helmet´s fixed," you announced, putting it on yourself for good measure.

Tony turned to you and laughed at the sight. He joked, "Wow, what would I do without you?"

It has been years since you were first hired, and life has changed drastically since then. Fighting off a villain with a robot army that highly resembled Tony's tech, hearing news that a super soldier from the 40s lived after being frozen for decades, and protecting yourself during an alien invasion aren't exactly things you thought you'd experience in your lifetime.

Yet the universe always had a way of surprising you.

Today, for instance, Thor had randomly dropped in with his brother Loki, saying that the both of them would need to stay at the tower for awhile as part of Loki's punishment for the chaos he's caused.

"So the King of Asgard, your father, bannished brother dearest and sent him to Earth?" Tony asked, trying to get the facts straight as the Avengers and their unexpected guests ate at dinner. After receiving a nod of confirmation from Thor, Tony asked, "Why?"

Thor swallowed a mouthful of his food before answering, "He has hopes that it'll change Loki's behavior, just as it changed mine when I was sent here years ago."

"Okay, but why Earth? Why send him back to the place of the crime?" Clint voiced, the man in question clearly growing uncomfortable as he sensed where the conversation was going.

"Show them, brother," Thor said in an encouraging tone.

Loki exhaled, for he had dreaded this moment since he arrived. Knowing that everyone would soon find out, he decided there was no point in delaying the inevitable and proceeded with his brother's wish. Loki placed his utensils down on the table and turned around in his seat before moving all of his hair to one shoulder. It left his neck exposed over the dark green tunic like top he wore, and the entire table was able to read the single word printed on his pale skin: Midgard.

"Midgard?" Steve asked, knowing it sounded familiar, but couldn't remember why.

"Earth. It means Earth," Bruce quickly responded, making eye contact with you as he did so.

Dr. Banner practically lived in Tony's lab after The Battle of New York - or The Incident as the tabloids liked to call it - so it was only natural that he knew about the strange birth place on your neck. He even helped you try to learn more about it after Thor took Loki and the Tesseract back to Asgard, but after finding zero cases of love across the realms, you deemed it as a lost cause once again.

Now, though, all you wanted was to excuse yourself from the table and pick up where you left off in your research. The mischevious god sitting across from you, someone you know to be born in Asgard, had suddenly given you hope that perhaps your soulmate was out there after all.

You were brought out of your thoughts as Thor began speaking again, "Father doesn't know of it, but mother discovered it and persuaded the Allfather to send Loki here, in hopes he may find his soulmate, as you call it."

"It's not common for anyone outside of Midgard to have a birth place across their neck," Loki stated as he turned back around to face everyone, "When mother found it and discovered its true meaning, she was all too eager to find a reason to cast me here."

"Well, good luck finding the poor soul with Asgard written on the back of their neck," Tony said after taking a sip of his drink.

Loki scoffed and muttered, "Right.. Asgard."

You noted the odd reaction, but remained silent as you knew he had family issues and you thought it best not to touch on that subject.

One by one, each seated member excused themself from the table to carry on with their day. You were one of the first, as you were eager to rush to the lab and begin on your old research. Upon arriving, you threw your hair up into it's usually mess of a bun and got to work.

Nearly half an hour later, you let out a deep sigh as you took a break from reading over your past notes. Nothing you had found then proved beneficial to your situation and it still didn't prove to be beneficial even after your discovery at dinner. You decided you needed a break, but weren't exactly granted that as the elevator dinged and you were met with the sight of the two Asgardians.

"Hello boys," you greeted, covering up any evidence of what you were previously working on. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"My brother requires some assistance," Thor replied, nudging Loki closer in a slightly aggressive manner.

Loki rolled his eyes and said, "Yes, thank you Thor."

You held back a laugh as Thor scanned the room and asked, "Where is Stark and Banner?"

"They went to give their opinion on some new technology SHIELD is developing, but I'm sure I can manage to assist your brother on my own," you politely informed him.

Thor seemed satisfied with your answer and said, "Excellent! I told Captain Rogers I would spar lightly with him, so I should be off. Behave yourself, brother."

With another eye roll from Loki, Thor left the room, leaving you completely alone with the God of Mischief. You carefully eyed him up and down, taking in the few chips in his armour he now wore as opposed to the tunic at dinner, before asking, "What do you need?"

"My armor was slightly damaged upon arriving here. It's nothing of dire need, Thor simply just wished for me to interact with others," Loki commented, not a drop of enthusiasm dripping from his tone.

"Surely you could've handled it own your own?" you inquired, knowing the trickster god had some sort of knack for magic.

Loki shook his head before informing you, "Before, yes. But the Allfather put a few restrictions on my powers while I am to live here, one of them being no personal uses of magic."

"Well that's highly unfortunate," you stated, Loki only nodding in agreement. You turned to retrieve a few supplies you would need to repair his armor as you instructed, "Take the chest piece off."

Loki did as you said, leaving him in his tunic once again, as he watched your retreating figure walking towards another section of the lab. Out of curiosity, he attempted to read the one hint every Midgardian is given about their soulmate, the task proving slightly harder as you continued to walk away. His breath nearly hitched when he was finally able to make out the word along the back of your neck: Jotunheim.

The god couldn't help but stare as his mind raced. There you were, his so-called soulmate, and you didn't have the slightest clue. He almost pitied you, for he couldn't imagine how confused your life must have been, nor could he imagine how disappointed you'll likely be when realizing you've been waiting your entire life for someone like him.

You turned around and began walking back towards him with different materials in hand as Loki thought about how to tell you, if he should tell you, that you were destined for each other.

As you approached him, you placed the materials you had gathered on a nearby table. Loki handed you his chest piece and cautiously asked, "Jotunheim?"

You froze, then quickly snatched the armor out of his grasp. By instinct, your free hand went to rub at your neck as you silently cursed at yourself for being so careless. The lab was such a comfortable place for you, and hardly anyone really visited, so you didn't think twice when you turned your back to the god in front of you.

"Dammit," you finally whispered. You let out a heavy breath before admitting, "Yeah.. Jotunheim, the realm of ice and snow and frost giants."

Loki took in the mockery laced within your words as he carefully dared to dig deeper, "You've looked into it then?"

"Of course I've looked into it," you told him, placing the metal chest piece on the table before rhetorically asking, "How could I not? Especially after you and Thor came down and proved Asgard existed, who's to say Jotunheim didn't?"

"I can assure you, it exists," Loki informed you, an underlying tone to his voice that you couldn't quite distinguish.

You shook your head as you sat down on a lab stool, a bitter chuckle escaping your lips as you spoke, "You know sometimes exactly what you wanna hear, isn't exactly what you wanna hear."

Loki took a seat as well in the lab stool across from you as he carefully asked, "You know of the frost giants then?"

You nodded and replied, "Yeah, which only brings about another unanswered question: how am I supposed to have a soul mate that I can't even touch without worrying about getting frostbite?"

Loki nearly grimaced, but kept his outward composure. The next few moments were held in silence as he thought on how to approach the subject with you, before deciding to just let it out. He started, "Shortly after I was born, Thor's father Odin had just ended a war and agreed upon a treaty with a.. certain realm."

"I don't see how this relates--"

"Just, let me finish," Loki said, he continued after you had fallen into silence, "Odin had just ended a war and agreed upon a treaty with the realm from which I am actually from."

"I thought you were from Asgard?" You interrupted, curious despite the fact you had no idea where he was going with this. After you had recieved a short look from Loki, you apologized, "Sorry, continue."

"Odin had stumbled upon a temple in the aftermath of the war, in which where he found me as an abandoned baby that was left to die, no more than a few months old," Loki told you, standing from his seat and taking a few steps towards you.

You grew more curious and slightly wary as he approached you, but you pressed on, "Where are you from then?"

Instead of giving you a verbal answer, Loki only stuck his hand out towards you. You looked at his hand before glancing up at him in confusion. Loki nearly cracked a smile at the amount of perplexity that swam around in your pupils. The eye contact between the two of you was held until you glanced back down at his hand. For some unknown reason, you felt the need to do as he wished, and therefore reached out to touch his hand.

As soon as you had made contact with his skin, you retracted your hand and stood from your seat in complete shock. His hand was ice cold.

"I-I don't understand," you stuttered out, daring to lock eyes with him again. Loki raised his eyebrows down at you, giving you a knowing look that was enough of a push for you to voice your suspicions, "Jotunheim?"

"Afraid so," he confirmed.

You couldn't quite process the information you had just received. All those years of seemingly meaningless research, just to have your soulmate appear in the building where you happen to work and live in.

Your soulmate, Loki, the God of Mischief and Lies.

Loki could sense your mind racing as he elaborated, "Odin took me to Asgard and raised me as one of his own. It wasn't until a few years ago that even I was informed on my true parentage."

"Wow," you breathed out, completely at a loss for words.

"I know it's a lot to take in--"

"Yeah, no kidding," you cut him off, still trying to wrap your head around the fact that you were meant to spend the rest of your life with an actual god.

You glanced up at him and really took in his features for the first time since meeting him. He clearly wasn't a sight for sore eyes, and he had yet to give you a reason to dislike him since arriving at the tower. Perhaps a lifetime with him wouldn't be so bad after all.

You couldn't help but laugh at your own thoughts and informed Loki, "You know, the others won't take this very well."

"No, I imagine not, nor will the Allfather," he said, nearly tempted to laugh himself.

Your laughter continued as thoughts reeled into your brain at a mile a minute. Loki only smirked at you as he allowed you to get your mind straight before engaging an any serious conversation with you as to what your future may hold. You told him, "Hey, just because we're soul mates and all doesn't mean I automatically trust you. You still have to earn that, you know."

"I know," he honestly responded, "I'd think you a fool if you had thought otherwise."

"Yeah, well lucky for you, I am no fool," you said to him.

"Oh yes," Loki said, believing that the fates may have actually chosen well as you smiled up at him, "Lucky me."

masterlist | thanks for reading!

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cloudysfluffs · 6 years

Text

Ticklish Prince Training

This was inspired by many fanfiction by RavenLeeWriter on Tumblr! Check her out, she’s awesome!! She’s made a lot of Septiplier, one involving training with knives and stuff before they dealt with alternates, so it inspired me to make a chance of a Lee!Roman Fanfic! If you don’t know the ship, it’s Prinxiety (Roman x Virgil of Thomas Sanders, also highly request watching) Without further ado, let’s get to it! Hope you enjoy!~

The Prince was trudging back and forth in his room, pacing. Pacing was something people normally do during stress or complete utter thinking moments, which he assumes Logan, or Logic, must do a lot. He sighs and rubs his temples. He couldn’t explain it, but he was faltering in his whole ‘Brave’ category.

He had fought a Dragon Witch off screen in one of the latest Sanders Sides videos, but many comments had said it was fake, that they used sound effects, and he just wasn’t having it! He couldn’t stand the thought of faking something like that! It was dreadful and he could’ve died!! …Right?

Roman sighs, admitting defeat in his pacing thought and gave up trying to think of a way to redeem himself as the brave and noble character he’d been dubbed as. He sat on the end of his bed, unsure what to do.

“Will you keep it down? I’m trying to drown in my mus-” An angsty and kinda annoyed voice popped up out of nowhere. “What’s wrong with you?” He eyed Roman in confusion. This was Anxiety, or Virgil, the root of all things of bad emotion. Sure he had his moments to smile, even stiffen a laugh to show he didn’t have any good in him, even though everyone knows that he is capable. Why was /he/ here??

“Why do you care? Aren’t you listening to that PG 13 music in your room?” Roman crossed his arms. He’s recently become easier custom to talking to Anxiety, even though it took quite some time and practice. So both of them knew, this was playful banter and sarcasm. Something Anxiety was always familiar with.

“For your information, Sir-Sings-A-Lot, I was. Until I kept hearing loud thuds back and forth from up here and got sick of it. Until I found you… sulking? Since when do you of all people sulk? And what about? Not like you have anything weighing you down.” Anxiety deadpanned. He was always.. how do you say… blunt. He’s working on emotions though. Just give it time, Patton says.

“Well, you remember that dragon I slayed?” “No- Wait yeah.. That was on Valentine’s day too I think. You went all out just to impress Thomas’s friend, Valarie.” “As I was saying…” Roman glared at him before rolling his eyes. “Many in our comments section found it… fake. Planned. Not real. Saying I’m not as brave as I let on to be!” Anxiety raises an eyebrow. “And..?”

“..and I didn’t like them saying that! So I’ve been pacing for hours trying to figure out a way to change their minds and prove I’m the hero! Prove how amazing I am!~” Roman declares. “Wow. Ego much?” Anxiety scoffs slightly, but it was sarcastic and not actually hurtful.

Roman pouted at Anxiety, as if he waited for an idea out of the dark and gloomy trait he’s grown to be so close to. Virgil just stares at him with a 'what the heck do you want me to do about it?’ look. That is until Prince got an idea, and his face surely showed it when his eyes sparkled.

“Ugh I hate when you get that look…” Anxiety leaned a bit back in nervousness. “Stop. Just tell me what it is, you’re eyes are blinding me.” Roman crosses his arms before beaming. “We should spar!!”

“We should what now??” “Spar!” “And what’s that?” “How do you not know what that is?! It’s only the most ethical form of training! Princes and knights all across the lands do it! Imagine fencing, with swords and possible pain! Only neither get hurt!” Roman announced.

“So you want to spar, with me, in hopes to prove to people you’re brave and didn’t fake your stupid battle against a dragon?” “Exactly!!~” “Heck no.” Roman glares at him before grinning. “I will tell Dad that you’ve been downing yourself again, I’m sure he’d love to hear that you’ve been all gloomy and depressed yet again. He even claimed to fight you last time, but I’m sure he meant drown you in hugs and affection.” Roman was fixing his sleeves like fancy people in suits doing business.

Virgil shudders. He can /not/ deal with Dad being all up in his business. They didn’t have the worst relationship, but he always wants to hug and get all up into his life like a real parent wanting in their kid’s social life and wanting to be 'cool’. The thought made Virgil actually scared. He had no choice.

“Fine. I’ll help you.” “Excellent!~” Roman led Virgil out of the fanciful room, clapping twice as if switching the lights on in a magic house, and opened the door once again. His room was now the same size, but it had grass, no furniture. It had one small rack of swords, different colors and abilities.

“What the actual fu-” Roman gave Virgil a look. “Fudge?” He snickered. “Nice save, Hot topic.~” “Aw, you think I’m hot?” “I will address that answer later. For now, pick your weapon!” Roman had already chosen his. His handle was laced with that black and red velvet padding and the sword was its usual size of being as tall from his feet to his hips. Virgil examines each weapon, wondering which to take.

A blue and tan one, seeming like it’d bend water. A normal black one. An orange and yellow one, and a purple one. The free space must be for the one Roman has. Virgil took the purple one in his hand, spinning it back and forth slightly to examine it. This one felt right for some reason.

“Wise choice, Creepy Cookie!” Roman smiled. “Now we fight! On guard!” He stood in one of those over dramatic poses with one leg out, the other bent, sword out in front of him and the other hand over his head like a ballerina. Virgil snorts and rolls his eyes. “Uh-Huh. This is totally normal and not weird at all.”

After quite a few battles, or pretend battles, the score was tied. After Virgil learned what he was doing at least. He noticed how hesitant and shaky Roman was, so they both had agreed to practice keeping Roman’s arm steady and less hesitant in swinging. “Keep your arm straight, if the enemy notices, they’ll take a chance to take you out while they see you weak.”

It was ironic, Virgil was blunt, yes, but he was helpful here. He’s stating the obvious and what he needs to improve on, which seemed to be quite useful!

“I said keep it straight, Disney Addict.” Virgil had been tracing along Roman’s arm slightly to feel his form and tension, but what he kept noticing was how Roman kept jolting each time he passed his lower bicep to his underarm or his elbow. Did Roman just giggle??

“Ihim trying!!” He sputtered. “Quit touching mehe!” Roman tried to pull away. Virgil grips his wrist softly. “Hold up…” He eyes his arm after stretching it to the side in a half jumping jack way. He traced his elbow to his underarm once again, hearing Roman squeal and jolt away once more.

“…Dude.. don’t tell me-” Anxiety stares at him in shock. “Virge No-” Roman protests. “You’re ticklish?! Holy fuck that’s priceless!! Wait til’ the others hear about this!” Roman seemed to look away with his arms crossed, a steady blush at his cheeks. Clearly embarrassed.

Virgil gave pity and sighed. “Fine, fine. I’ll drop it. Let’s get back to training.” And so they did. Virgil hadn’t made any attempts at even tickling Roman again. Not for the first few minutes at least, which made Roman more on edge. Waiting for that spidering and tickly sensation to start, but it didn’t.

Not until he least expected it. He took a swing to the side, where Virgil ducked under his arm and spidered into his underarms mercilessly, causing him to drop his sword and wrap his arms around his midsection to protect himself. “VIHIHIHIRGIL NOHO!” He snickers. “But this is cute.~”

His cheeks rose like a fire. “IHIT IS NOHOHOT! WEHE’RE SUPPOSED TO BE TRAHAHAINING!” Roman squeaked. Which Virgil has now dubbed as his new favorite sound from the fanciful trait. “We are training, but you aren’t keeping steady, Prince Charming.~” Virgil smirked. “If you don’t stop fidgeting I’ll tickle you until you do.~”

Roman’s eyes were too squeezed shut to glare or go wide just at the thought of that. He could NOT last that long if he kept squirming like he was, so in desperation he sunk to the floor on his knees, which ironically and predictably, Virgil just followed.

Virgil moves to squeeze his hips. “Here too? Gosh, this is ridiculous.~” He shook his head in utter shock at the whole thing. Here he was, the embodiment of all things negative, tickling the crap out of the fancy and ego full of himself Prince Roman. Crazy huh?

“STAHAHAHAHAP!” “Why?~” “IHIHIT TIHIHICKLES!” “Thank you, Captain Obvious.~” Virgil smirks more. He moved to nuzzle at Roman’s neck, to which he shrieked and went limp. This seemed to be that one spot that when someone finds and exploits, no matter how much you wanna squirm you just can’t for some reason.

Like you secretly like it and this is that one spot you won’t pull away from, even if it’s unbearable to hell. Virgil noticed this, but kept to himself, just relishing in the sound of Roman’s wild cackling.

“STAHAHAP! SOHOMEONE WIHIHILL HEHEAR!” Roman sputtered in embarrassment. Virgil thought about it, and for someone who wasn’t one for being the center of attention, he could care less if someone walked in and saw this. He just took in the moment and chance as if this would never happen again, but knowing it secretly would.

After what seemed like an eternity, he stopped, leaving Roman a panting and giggly red faced mess. “You’re so ticklish, it’s unreal.~” He grins. “Shuhuhut up.” He whined. “I’m never letting you live this down, you know that, right?” Virgil remarked to the whine.

“Mhm.” Roman rolls his eyes.

…

“As for earlier, I do think you’re hot.” “Wait what?” A kiss to the lips silenced both of them. Nothing else needed to be said. (Hope you enjoyed! Like I said I was bored and wanted to write Lee Roman! Submitted it to Raven as well, hope it’s not spam, just didn’t know which to do. I’ll shut up, I hope you like it keep up your great work 💜)

REPONSE: OH!!! MY GOD!!!! I LOVE IT!!!!! YES OMGGGGG

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petty-crush · 7 years

Text

"Okja"

-shout out to New Beverley for showing this on the big screen in 35 mm; what a experience

-this film is a tone-a-sauras. It's like eight films in one, each changing with the language. But all of them are great, Bong Joon Ho lets loose a streak of genuine eccentricity, and this is one of the best films I have ever seen.

-the pre credits showcase Tilda Swinton's character ramping up we the audience with a cutesy graphic about ending world hunger via super pigs;

+notably popping his head in is her associate repeating her words with a movement like a puppet master; suggesting he is pulling the strings behind her image

-off to Korean as the film introduces Ann-Seo Hyun as Mija, and her relationship with Okja, forming a bond with far more resonance than I was expecting

-I am somewhat in awe of Bong introducing Okja so soon in the running time and so casually. Like in "The Host" the creature is introduced concurrently with the humans, suggesting they are a character like the rest, a natural part of the world

-this section of Mija and Okja hunting for food in the forest really really brings to mind "My Neighbor Totoro". Except I actually think this is better

-the part of Okja running valiantly to hook Mija to a tree and seemingly sacrifice herself dropped my jaw

-I literally never expected such a scene let alone so suddenly in the film

-one aspect of this film I am really enjoying is how Bong doesn't introduce Mija as being a "normal" element or or stand in; he simply shows what she wants, so that we empathize with her, and we never lose track of who she is or what she desires in life (mostly happiness and frolic with Okja)

-Okja swimming like a goof and flinging her shit like a hippo is so positively sublime in its patience to show a character be content with itself

- I have to pause here and say I have no idea how to describe Jake Gyllenhaal's character Dr. Johnny Wilcox.

+What tone or planet Jake is going for is completely lost on me, and yet I was never once less than thrilled to see him.

-Dr. Wilcox is a character I got the gist most of the audience couldn't stand, and some will be quick to label a failure, but I (in addition to imagining him a double shotgun parody of the male character from "Her") found him so bizarro and different that I wouldn't have taken a second away from him

-Mija's sheer enthusiasm at seeing him is doubly sad considering his sinister intentions

-I love how baffled Dr. Wilcox is at seeing Okja being so super by being (essentially) given a free range life; to wander and enjoy her environment

+that it never was considered anywhere else is troubling and so very pathetic

-Mija's grandfather is utterly awful, he seemingly never gets her, and attempts to woo her with money (I say all grandparents real love is food until you are a human boulder and then money as a cherry on top)

-the fact that he does so while at the graves of her parents is the ultimate low

-there is something of cultural significance to this golden pig I am not getting right now, but suspect my intuition will reveals later (I don't mean in terms of the story, but how it relates to Korean culture)

-no attempt is made to humanize Okja, and her shyness is beguiling

-beautiful touch as Mija is ready to jump at this glass office door with her full force, looks at it from a long hallway, and carefully adjusts use backpack at the last moment

-I never get tired of moments where it seems the target is standing then collapses two seconds later

-this girl can't stop, not stop

-Mija's athletic attempts to get on the truck that is carrying Okja away is so Spielbergian in its utter mastery and disdain for realism in geography that I simply must say that anyone who doesn't think Joon Ho is a master can go eat shit

-the jumpcuts and angles as we follow this tiny 14 year old as she; attempts to jump on moving truck, doubles speed and actually jumps on truck, ducks and narrowly avoids being hit by low bridge, seeing even lower bridge and runs back to grab back of door is spellbinding

-the red herring truck driver/really pissed off blue collar worker is just killing me. Especially his disgruntlement at "I got vehicle insurance, but no workman's comp; so, fuck you"

-Okja running through a Seoul mall is so vintage 70's American cinema; I'm emotionally standing up and clapping

-odd but delightful detail with the masked rescuers using umbrellas to block the tranquilizer darts

-the most jarring tonal shift happens as the masks come off and they are revealed as the animal liberation front, with Paul Dano as Jay, and he fills Mija in via a lengthy monologue

-it somewhat reminds me of the council scene in "North by Northwest" where the action and events are so fast and piled so high, there needs to be a "what the fuck is going in" scene before it shift gears

-of course Bong being Bong, this is intercut with moments of a animal lover almost fainting because of his hungry, trying to "leave the tiniest carbon footprint" before being conviced to eat a tiny cherry tomato

-I suspect Bong's real feelings are coming out in Mija's cry to just leave her and Okja alone, he being one to put personal decisions and values above those put group identity and politics above all, but translations are mislead and the journey continues

-I cannot help but feel the character of K saying "learn English, it will open doors" and the later "translations are sacred" is not only Bong commentating on entering the American film industry but his dust up with the weinsteins over "Snowpiercer"

+at least in my head

-Tilda Swinton deepens her character's insanity as we find out she is obsessed with clearing her company's name and making it gold

+also that she personally designed all the uniforms for the security, seemingly inferring that she can see the trees, but not the forest

-in an extremely long and up close take the same associate from the beginning(Gicarlo Espisito) slides the chair away (as loud as possible) then casually walks over to the coffee machine, equally as loud as the chair, to the dismay and fright of the other underling is in the room

+he definitely walks along a tightrope as only he can

-Shirley Henderson (as the personal assistant) is doing this voice in a way only Betty Boop world approve of

-here's the interesting thing; pretty much every major character in this corporation (excepting Expisito's) from Swinton's to Gyllenhaal is utterly fucking demented or emotionally unstable; conversely Dano's character, while forlorn and moody, comes across as thoughtful and sincere in his convictions (for animal rights)

+ it would certainly be much different potentially if made by Americans; as animals activities tend to be painted with a bucket of antisocial paranoia

-nonetheless Mija is conned back into coming to America and agrees only out of desperation ; meanwhile the animal activists see more disturbing shit from their video feed

-in a moment I am entirely unsure of the reason for, Okja is forced to mate with another super pig; this is more inferred than seen but is certainly vividly disturbing

-Dr. Wilcox is entering the height of his carpet eating hysterics, as he drunkenly punctures Okja for her meat

-the taste test of the tiny sausage (with the second judge being a kid who says "fuck yeah!") is something out of "Robocop"

-the tone is varying wildly, as I literally have no idea what to expect

- Paul dano communicating with Mija via cue cards (including one that says "Don't look back) is a beautiful, freewheeling touch

-I note these similar cinema colors and hues to again point out Bong Joon Ho knows how to mix and match and meld with the best of them; he steals like a artist

-Paul Dano shedding his bellhop uniform just makes me happy

-another thing I like about Ho is how he treats each new scene, particularly in a new location, as way to add visual textures and patterns, keeping my eyes stimulated

-Pink Floyd pigs; I just have it in my mind

-Lucy is scared of her sister Nancy, and Espitsio's character is very subtle in revealing who his real alliance is to

-it's very impressive how much heavy emotional lifting Hyun is doing as Mija through her eyes and her movements

-despite all the attacks and chaos, the most disturbing thing in this section is how militarized and corporate controlled the police are.

+They beat the shit out anything that they are pointed to

-the part with Mija and Jay barely missing Okja is so very heartbreaking

-Nancy (also Tilda Swinton) is fully in control

And in her detached way the most demented of them all

-my stomach turned several times when they track Okja down to the slaughterhouse

-I will be truthful; I'm not entirely sure why nancy agrees to sell Okja for the golden pig; perhaps I had missed something, but the pure cinematic force of dread just wants that poor animal to be free

-in a wholly disturbing moment a momma and poppa superpig throw their young for Okja to save

-the part with all the pigs moaning and screaming into the night seems like a "Animal Farm" moment

-at last there is a moment of happiness, of light at the end of darkness, of new beginnings of Mija and Okja together.

+They certainly deserve it

-a wholly hilarious post credits sequence where Dano gets everyone in his bus to put in a mask to attacking the corporate stock holders, including a surprised granny

-a most unusual film that won me over several times, and had me upset at bacon. Bong Joon Ho certainly unleashes more pure cinema and human heart than anyone else I have seen in a long time. I grow ever more excited to see this man and his work. He is one of the greatest, and this quizzical film is his most audacious yet. I cannot wait to see it again

#okja #bong joon ho #netflix #tilda swinton #jake gyllenhaal #ahn seo hyun #new beverly cinema #paul dano #new bev #film #art

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apathetic-revenant · 7 years

Text

chapter one, part 5

A HEIST UNDERWAY

In Which Rare and Daring Deeds Are Attempted and Absolutely None of Them Go According To Plan

fortuitous mistakes are made, librarians are strangely oblivious, and rigorous academic discussion takes place.

She eventually found that Mr. Vervain had led them back to the divination section. He took a few circles around the area, looking for any potential witnesses, but the aisles were empty: evidently all the students had since been shepherded away, and the librarians convened back to the office, or wherever else the head librarian was sending them.

Satisfied with this, Mr. Vervain took out his notebook and began scribbling furiously across the pages. Ms. Harcourt watched with interest, but none of what he put down made any sense to her at all. It did not even seem to be any proper language, rather a collection of symbols and letters and numbers all swooping across the page in strange and intricate patterns. Mr. Vervain hummed a little as he worked, or occasionally made a clicking sound with his tongue against his teeth.

Finally he put his pen down and paused to look at the sigil on the palm of his free hand. It had faded from stark black to a darkish gray, slightly blurred around the edges. “I'm glad I used that spell,” he said, half to himself. “It works in complement with this very nicely. But we need to move quickly, now, before it expires.”

“We?” Ms. Harcourt asked. “I don't even have the faintest idea what you're doing.”

Mr. Vervain sighed. He seemed to be frustrated with something; she hoped it wasn't her. The day had gone out of bounds enough already without her angering an actual magician. “Perhaps not,” he said, “but some degree of cooperation will have to occur, considering that at the moment I have only one hand to work with.”

“Erm,” she said. “Well, whatever I can do to help...”

Mr. Vervain tucked his pen behind his ear and handed her the notebook. “You can hold this open,” he said. “Much less inconsequential than it sounds, I assure you...thank you. Now...”

He took off his glasses and placed them carefully in his breast pocket. Having known him for less than an hour, Ms. Harcourt was surprised that she had already grown used to his face enough to find that it looked rather odd without the addition of lenses. Not that she had never observed that phenomenon before, but on Mr. Vervain it was especially pronounced; it showed the dark spots under his eyes and in general made him look less enigmatic and more exhausted.

While she was considering this-magic, she supposed, would have to be a fairly tiring profession-Mr. Vervain located a fine-tipped brush, which he laid on top of his notebook, and the little pot he had taken out earlier, which he opened. He had to brace it under his chin to pry off the lid with one hand, a sight so strangely awkward and ordinary that she almost giggled, before he set the pot on top of the notebook, dipped the brush in it, and then closed his eyes and carefully drew the substance in spiraling lines over his eyelids.

When he opened his eyes again they looked more unsettling than ever, but Ms. Harcourt still could not have described exactly why.

Mr. Vervain put the jar and brush away in a pocket and began to walk up and down the aisle, running his fingers over the spines of the books and murmuring rapidly. Ms. Harcourt could not make out the words any better this time. In fact, she was not entirely sure that they were words: it seemed almost to be some strange kind of song, or recited poetry, made up of noises fitted together into a rhythm that gave them a meaning they did not have on their own. She followed, holding open the notebook, but in fact Mr. Vervain never seemed to look at it.

It occurred to Ms. Harcourt to wonder why, exactly, she was even still here. Mr. Vervain had gotten her out of confinement so that she could refer him to the information she had collected; but now that was done, and surely he had no more use for her. He hardly had any obligation to help her out of her situation, especially considering the degree to which her plan had inadvertently inconvenienced him. This hardly seemed to be the time to bring it up, though.

Mr. Vervain seemed to go on muttering and walking back and forth for a great length of time, although in truth it could hardly have been more than a few minutes, dragged out unnaturally by the looming fear of being discovered. Ms. Harcourt was beginning to wonder if the spell had failed after all, or perhaps it was working but in a way which was only noticeable to Mr. Vervain.

Then the glow began.

It started as something barely perceptible, the faintest suggestion of illumination around Mr. Vervain's fingertips. Ms. Harcourt thought she was imagining it at first. But it grew, stronger and stronger, and began to spread out into thin glittering lines like morning cobwebs, stretching between the the bookcases. Then the books themselves began to glow; only in faint distant spots at first, but the spots grew quickly, and spread out and touched one another, and in very little time every book on the shelves around them was glowing with that soft white light, all bound together by the lines crisscrossing all around them like the rigging of a ship.

But it did not stop there. The lines continued to shoot out from shelf to shelf, taking the light with them. Ms. Harcourt, craning her neck around the end of a shelf, saw the light rapidly taking over the entire library, or at least as much of it as she could see from where she stood. She thought she could see things in the rays of light now, something like letters but not in any alphabet she knew, and there was a rising noise: a thin, scratchy, whispery, rustling noise, the noise of pens scratching and paper being turned, transmuted somehow into something that was almost a voice.

Mr. Vervain stopped murmuring. “Oh,” he said. “Oh dear.”

This was hardly the sort of thing one ever wanted to hear from a magician. “What is it?” Ms. Harcourt said, her own voice low, more because it seemed somehow appropriate than for any particular practical reason. If this didn’t get them discovered, nothing she could do was going to. “It seems to have worked...or something did.”

“It worked,” Mr. Vervain said. “It worked a great deal better than I expected. I only intended to use it on the divination section. But I seem to have...erm...inadvertently woken up the entire library.”

Ms. Harcourt looked around at the rays of light stretching out into the distance. There was surely no way they could remain hidden now, she thought. There would be a commotion any moment now. She waited for the sounds of angry and panicked librarians, but they somehow failed to materialize. “What do you mean, woken up?” she asked. “How can you wake up a library?”

Mr. Vervain raised his eyebrows. “You can wake up just about anything if you know how. What do they teach at this school?”

“Nothing that's been relevant to my experiences so far,” Ms. Harcourt muttered.

“Well, the full theory is rather too lengthy to go into at the moment. Suffice to say that libraries are powerful enough places on their own. But a library of magic...and one as old as this...” Mr. Vervain sighed and rested his chin on his free hand. “I suppose I really should have known better.”

“Well,” Ms. Harcourt said, “You've learned a lesson that far too many great and terrible magicians never did.”

The words slipped out somehow before she quite realized what she was saying. She flinched away as Mr. Vervain turned slowly toward her, a completely astonished look on his face. Brilliant move, Harcourt, she told herself bitterly as she waited for the fallout; you meet a man in possession of a terrible and unholy power such as has not been seen on this earth for an age, and what do you do? You make a snide comment to him while you're literally in his grasp.

Mr. Vervain burst out laughing.

If she had thought about it, Ms. Harcourt probably would have imagined a magician's laugh as something sinister and wild, a mad cackle full of dreadful promises. Mr. Vervain's laugh was as low and understated as everything else about him, but it was pleasant and decidedly lacking in anything sinister.

“Well then,” he said, shaking his head, “that certainly put me in my place.”

“I'm sorry,” Ms. Harcourt stammered. She was terribly confused. “I didn't mean...”

“You didn't? That's a pity. That was a good one. You should be proud of it.” While Ms. Harcourt was still trying to process this, he turned to examine the nearest beam of light. “In any case, the time for self-recrimination is certainly not right now. It's worked in some fashion, so we may as well take advantage of it.”

He splayed out his long fingers through the light and began to speak again in that strange murmur. When he finished there was a long pause like a great intake of breath, and then the answer came rushing back in exhalation. Ms. Harcourt could not understand any of it, but she knew it was some kind of answer, from the way the crackling paper-voice of the library rose greater than ever before until it sounded like the rustling of an entire forest bent by the wind, and the way the symbols in the light swirled about and rearranged themselves into new, more complex patterns.

Mr. Vervain listened carefully, his eyes flicking back and forth along the lines of light. But whatever the library was saying did not seem to be encouraging. His expression, almost eager to begin with, grew slowly more discouraged, and by the time the library's answer subsided he was looking very downcast indeed.

“What is it?” Ms. Harcourt asked, wondering if the spell had somehow failed after all, or if perhaps the library itself was refusing to help.

“It doesn't know,” Mr. Vervain whispered. “It doesn't know. All these books and none of them have what I need.”

His shoulders slumped. He looked so devastated that Ms. Harcourt found herself trying to think of some way to comfort him, but she was too bewildered to figure anything out.

The library began to rustle again. There was something different about the sound now: in some way she could not quite have described, Ms. Harcourt thought it almost seemed as disappointed as Mr. Vervain.

“What's it saying?” she asked.

“It's upset,” Mr. Vervain said, rather dully. “It wanted to help. I think this is the first time in...well, in a long time that anyone has really used this library the way it was meant to be used. Really asked it something. And it couldn't give an answer. That's a great failing for a library. The worst thing, really.”

Ms. Harcourt considered this. It made a certain kind of sense, if one thought about things from the perspective of a library.

She chased that idea around in her head for a moment, feeling that it might lead somewhere. Libraries: books: books referenced other books. Did books talk to other books? Did libraries talk to other libraries?

“If it doesn't have the information you need,” she said slowly, “does it...maybe know where you could get that information?”

Mr. Vervain's eyes widened slightly. He spoke to the library again, much shorter this time. The library's response was brief but enthusiastic. Mr. Vervain hastily flipped to a new page in the notebook Ms. Harcourt was still holding open and scribbled several things down.

“I take it that was better news,” Ms. Harcourt said when the rustling died down again.

“In some ways,” Mr. Vervain said. “And in other ways...well, it is at least news. I was beginning to think I would receive absolutely none from this entire venture.” He tucked the pen back behind his ear and smiled at her. “Thank you very much for that idea.”

“Er...you're welcome,” Ms. Harcourt said.

The library spoke again, in a short, querying kind of way. Mr. Vervain cocked his head to one side slightly. “It wants to know if you have anything to ask.”

“Me?” Ms. Harcourt spluttered in astonishment. “Why would...I mean...I'm not...”

“Not a magician?” Mr. Vervain said rather dryly.

“Well...yes,” Ms. Harcourt said, glaring at him.

“The library does not appear to regard that as especially consequential,” Mr. Vervain said.

“I-I don't know what to ask it,” Ms. Harcourt protested. “I wouldn't even know where to start. I'm not like you...”

“But you did come here with a question.”

“Yes, but, it's all sort of...well, moot now, isn't it?” Ms. Harcourt was growing so frustrated she almost let go of Mr. Vervain's hand to gesture at him. “I wanted a way to access the library as a secondary student, but I'm not even that anymore.”

The library rustled.

“And why did you want to access the library?” Mr. Vervain asked. “Because you had questions.”

Ms. Harcourt sighed. “Far too many to ask right now. I wouldn't know which one to start with.”

“Ah, well, that is certainly a dilemma I can sympathize with,” Mr. Vervain said. “Still-are you certain you have nothing to ask? This is quite the rare opportunity.”

Well, and there it was. Opportunity. What all this had been about in the first place. What was the sense in wasting it now that it had come along?

Ms. Harcourt took a deep breath and closed her eyes, trying to put aside all her confusion and nervousness and dreadful anticipation of the immediate future, and thought hard.

A number of things came to mind, questions she had had at one point or another in her time at the university-how does this work? why does this do that?-but they all seemed rather petty at the moment: worth knowing, certainly, but not worth expending such a chance. What else?

The thought arose to ask could I really be a magician? It was tempting to put the matter to rest then and there, and perhaps stop Mr. Vervain's remarks to the contrary. But asking a question to which one already knew the answer, just to settle a point, was hardly a worthy use of this opportunity; and anyway, she realized that even if she knew it to be true that she was no magician, she did not really want to hear the library say it.

What was a worthy use? It couldn't be a question just for her, she realized. Everything has consequences: her actions today would have an impact on the university, especially on the other secondary students. It seemed only fair to address this balance somehow. Mr. Vervain had said that there might be some chance for good to come out of the university's anger, if she moved forward instead of turning herself in, and here that chance seemed to be.

Perhaps she should ask her original question, turned around a little: was there a way to make all this available to the secondary students? But...she could feel the power of the library all around her. Not as strongly as Mr. Vervain, perhaps, but it was there, in the greatness of the sound when the library spoke, in the way the light seemed to go on forever. She thought of the note in Mr. Vervain's voice when he realized how well his spell had worked after all, and got the uncomfortable image of herself casually removing a stone and breaking open an entire dam, all the water rushing forth and wiping out everything in its path. She had already caused more of an impact than she had ever meant to today. She could not afford to be careless.

Everything has consequences.

“We do not have much more time,” Mr. Vervain said gently.

Ms. Harcourt did not feel herself equal to this task. Maybe if she had the time, she could think of what, exactly, was the right choice, but...

She needed help. Well, it was a library, wasn't it?

“Ask it...what it thinks I should ask,” she said. “What does it think someone like me should know?”

Mr. Vervain's eyebrows shot up. He spoke to the library, and the library responded in a slow, almost hesitant way, like pages being slowly shuffled. Whatever it said made Mr. Vervain's eyebrows go up even further.

“It has a question for you,” he said.

“For me?” Ms. Harcourt was so surprised her voice came out in a bit of a squeak.

“Yes.” Mr. Vervain spoke softly, hesitantly, like someone translating a foreign language word by careful word. “It's not sure how to answer your question because...it's not sure what someone like you is. That is...” He frowned and mouthed something to himself before going on. “The library isn't concerned what people do with its information, not really, you understand, its job is simply to provide the information...but it doesn't understand the way things are done now. People come and study its books, but they don't take away the magic with them like they used to...sorry, that's a bit hard to describe but I think it's saying that people don't cast spells from the books anymore. They just look at them. The library...” Mr. Vervain's eyes widened slightly. “The library is concerned. Things aren't being done the way they should be done. It doesn't understand what happened.”

Ms. Harcourt stared at the symbols in the light, which moved in a way that did, somehow, seem concerned. “You mean the library...doesn't know that magic isn't done anymore?”

Mr. Vervain looked at her and then, rather pointedly, back at the beams of light.

“Er...right,” Ms. Harcourt said. “It doesn't know that magic is...not generally done anymore?”

“I don't think so,” Mr. Vervain said. “It's been asleep for a very long time. Or something like asleep...”

Explaining the history of the fall of magic to a library felt a little bit beyond Ms. Harcourt at the moment. “Tell it...erm...tell it the people who come here, they're not magicians like in the old days. They study magic, but they're not going to use it.”

Mr. Vervain told the library this. The library responded with something that did not seem entirely satisfied, or happy. Ms. Harcourt shifted nervously, and wondered exactly what the library could do if it was displeased.

“So, you are one of these new magicians, then? You study magic, but you don't wish to use it?” Mr. Vervain shrugged in the face of her annoyed expression. “I'm only repeating back what it says.”

Ms. Harcourt sighed. “No. Not quite. Tell it I'm not a proper magician-I'm not going to be a proper magician. I'm not supposed to know...” Her eyes widened as a terrible thought occurred to her. “Is it-is it going to be angry with me? Because I broke in, I'm not supposed to be here?”

“I...wouldn't think so.” Mr. Vervain paused, listening for something, and shook his head. “No, I don't think...you broke the traditions of the university, but as far as the library is concerned...you didn't break the wards, you didn't take any books away. If the librarians let you in willingly, then you're supposed to be here.”

“But I tricked the librarians.”

Mr. Vervain shrugged. “I don't think it really understands that. Nor does it understand the university restrictions. It might if someone had explained them to it, but no one did. No one's spoken to it in a long time.”

It took Ms. Harcourt a moment to realize all the implications of this. “You mean the library doesn't understand about non-accredited students?”

“No. Not in the least.” The library rustled encouragingly and Mr. Vervain nodded along. “It understands different kinds of apprentices, I think...and it...oh. It's asking if that means you're an academic magician instead of a practicing one. It understands that distinction.”

“No.” Ms. Harcourt sighed. “I mean, yes, but...Tell it...there are no practicing magicians these days. There are only academic magicians anymore.”

“That is demonstrably untrue,” Mr. Vervain said dryly.

“Well, I don't-you explain it, then, since you know so much!” Ms. Harcourt burst out, and instantly regretted it. “I'm sorry. I...”

“I can't explain it,” Mr. Vervain said. His voice was surprisingly kind. “It's your question, you see...and you really needn't flinch like that. I'm not going to strike you.”

But it was difficult, standing there under the scrutiny of Mr. Vervain's strange, strange eyes, while he worked spells that should not have been, not to feel a little afraid of him, and afraid of the great voice of the library demanding answers she did not know how to give.

Ms. Harcourt felt very small and insignificant just then, and also very tired and confused. She was nearly ready to simply give up, tell the library she didn't know how to answer its questions, leave all the magic and wondrousness to Mr. Vervain and go home. Which, of course, she could not do, not just now. She did not feel worthy of being caught up in this strange tale of magic and great deeds; it ought to go to someone better, who could hold their head higher.

Quite unexpectedly, she felt Mr. Vervain's hand briefly squeeze hers, and looked up in astonishment to see an encouraging smile on his face.

Ms. Harcourt took a deep breath. “Tell the library...tell the library that these days, the university teaches magicians...not like the old magicians, but...never mind that...it teaches magicians and it teaches people who can't be magicians but just want to know something about magic. Just for the sake of knowing. And I'm one of those people. I want to know about magic, but I'll never be a magician, not like people are nowadays, and not...certainly not like they used to be. Not like you, I suppose.” She ducked away from his strange eyes. “Tell the library I'm sorry, I can't be a magician like it used to know. I just wanted to know a little more.”

Mr. Vervain looked at her sadly and spoke to the library. The library shuffled and said something that seemed no less confused than before. Ms. Harcourt's heart sank; she did not think she could take much more explaining.

“The library doesn't understand your distinction,” Mr. Vervain said. “Between wanting to know about magic, and being a magician.”

“What...” How could a magical library not understand such things? “You have to be, well, you have to have certain qualities to be a magician. You have to have the right blood. The library doesn't know that?”

“It...does, but in a very different sense than you do, I think.” Mr. Vervain paused, and then began to speak rapidly to the library, in an almost secretive, confiding sort of way that made Ms. Harcourt wonder very much what he was saying. Perhaps it involved some magical secrets beyond her comprehension.

The library began to rumble. The bookshelves almost seemed to be shaking. It did not sound confused any longer; it sounded very certain indeed.

“Ah.” Mr. Vervain looked pleased. “It understands now. It knows what you need to know.”

“Oh?” Ms. Harcourt said, wondering how they were still undiscovered. “Well, what is it?”

“I think...hmm. Pardon me.” Mr. Vervain reached over, took the notebook from her hand and tucked it back into his satchel, and then gently took her open hand and guided it toward the light.

“I think you should hear it for yourself,” he said. “Try to listen.”

“But...I can't,” Ms. Harcourt protested. “I'm not-”

“But I am,” Mr. Vervain said, almost sternly. “Trust in me, if you will not trust in yourself. You are part of this spell. I guarantee it to you.”

Who was she to argue with a magician about how magic worked? Ms. Harcourt held out her hand in the beam of light and tried, though she was not sure how, to hear the library.

At first she could hear nothing more than she had heard before, the rustling of pages, the creaking of the shelves. She could see nothing more in the light than the same strange symbols, drifting about in slow patterns. She tried to find some meaning in it all, craning her head as if to make out the words of someone calling from far away, searching among the rush of sound and movement for something she understood.

It came slowly at first. A symbol that seemed briefly familiar, or a whisper of a page that seemed almost like speech. She listened harder. Another moment of meaning, then another, and then they began to stack up, connect to each other-she was almost there, she could almost understand it...

When it came, it came all at once, understanding as clear and sudden as though someone had switched mid-sentence from a language she had never heard to her native tongue. It was not that voice of the library sounded any more like any words she knew, or that the symbols became a familiar alphabet, only that for a moment she understood how it all worked, and in the movement of letters, in the feel of a pen on a page, in the rustling whisper of a forest long dead, she understood what the library wanted to tell her.

YOU ARE.

She gasped, and in her shock it all fled away and became nothing more than incomprehensible noise once more, but the memory and the meaning remained, clear and sharp and impossible to argue with. She almost let go of Mr. Vervain's hand in her surprise, but thankfully he had more presence of mind and held on.

“But...” she said. “But!”

“You have it from a very great authority,” Mr. Vervain said. There was a decidedly sly smile on his face. “What more reassurance do you need?”

“I don't understand!” Ms. Harcourt cried.

“Well, perhaps we can discuss the matter at more length later,” Mr. Vervain said, checking the sigil on his hand. It had faded even more, to a very blurred light gray. “For now, though, I'm afraid we cannot remain much longer.”

The library spoke. Ms. Harcourt almost thought she understood it, for a moment, but then it was gone again. Mr. Vervain looked surprised. “Oh...it has a request.”

“Oh?” Ms. Harcourt said weakly.

“It wants to...give...it wants us to take a book. It wants...it wants to work with magicians again. Like it used to. I can't quite make out what it means, but it thinks it's important. It's...the way things should go.”

“But you can't take books out of the library!” Ms. Harcourt protested.

Mr. Vervain smiled sharply. “You can if the library gives you permission.”

Ms. Harcourt felt a bit dubious about this, but she supposed that if Mr. Vervain wanted to attempt to tamper with the library wards, that was his business. She was still reeling from the library's message.

“Come along then,” Mr. Vervain said, tugging at her hand, and she abruptly found herself being pulled into a half-run down the aisle.

“Where-where are we going?” she managed to stammer as they reeled down the corridor, passing through one beam of light after another.

Mr. Vervain slowed down a little, glancing around him. “I'm...not quite sure, but I think I'll know when I see it. Ah, this way.”

He set off again, and it was all Ms. Harcourt could do to follow him.

#the rough project #the rough project: chapter one #scribulations #writing #fantasy

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pogueman · 7 years

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Inside the World's Greatest Scavenger Hunt: The Finale

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GISHWHES stands for the Greatest International Scavenger Hunt the World Has Ever Seen. Teams of 15 have one week to complete a list of 200 difficult, charitable, or hilarious tasks. They prove they’ve completed each item by submitting a photo or video of it; their $20 entry fees go to a charity, and the winning team gets a trip to an exotic location.

This is the final part of our series!

Part 1 • Part 2 • Part 3 • Part 4 • Part 5

Part 5: The Hunt is Over

It’s been an exhausting week for the 15 members of Team Raised from Perdition. In their fourth annual attempt to win the world’s largest scavenger hunt, they’ve taken the week off from work, palmed off children to relatives, and tested the limits of society’s tolerance for disruption.

They’ve also made personal sacrifices. “Sleep deprivation. Junk food all the time,” says co-captain Nina Mostepan. “Working out? I don’t know what that is right now.”

“We eat a lot of pickled eggs and chili in a jar while we’re driving,” adds Shiane Gaylie.

During the heat of the hunt week, “we get short with each other,” admits co-captain Geoff MacAnally. “Nina and I bicker about, like, how things should be running. And then we’re like, ‘I need to breathe.’”

As the deadline approaches—Saturday midnight—it’s clear the team won’t complete all 176 items on the GISHWHES list. (In the six-year history of the hunt, no team ever has.)

In the end, though, the team managed all but three tasks. They’ve pampered a cow in Vermont, played badminton in a food court, persuaded two old men to play chess in a movie theater, sold bottled air on the street, registered 10 people to vote, built a spa for a mouse, panned for gold in a public fountain, sculpted a life-size dictator out of maxipads, built a working rowing scull out of trash, wrote a phone app for dialing a rotary phone, and played a human piano.

The judging process

“Months pass between the end of the hunt and the actual winner’s announcement,” Christine says. “We spend that time obsessively combing over all the other teams’ entries and beating ourselves up for what we could have done better.”

In general, though, Raised from Perdition was feeing confident. “We figured there was pretty much no way we wouldn’t at least be a runner-up,” says Rob Fitz-James.

“Because we were runners-up the year before, and we did even better this year,” Shiane adds.

Rob agrees. “Better video quality, better photo quality. And submitting items before the deadline problem helped.”

According to hunt creator Misha Collins, the judging takes so long because, well, there’s a lot to go through.

“We take it very seriously. We have stages. We have lots of people that help judge in the first round, and then we narrow it down to the top 50 teams, and then down to the top 10 teams, and then down to the top three.”

Every year, some teams try to get by with “interpretive” items. “Sometimes, people will come up with a creative interpretation; they’ll do a cardboard cutout version of the real thing, or something like that. 19 times out of 20, they don’t get points for that, even if they put a fair amount of creative work into it. Our directive is very specific: you have to do the item as it is stipulated, and not some creative re-imagining to make it easier.”

Nowadays, his team actually employs Photoshop experts. “Because people cheat! One year, there was a team that would have won, but they’d Photoshopped a really big-ticket item. It was very convincing, and we were like, ‘Wow, they did it!’ But they didn’t. They had cheated, and we caught them.”

The GISHWHES judging process isn’t just long; it’s also opaque. Each item on the list carries a certain point value, but “there’s a high degree of subjectivity in the judging,” Collins says. “Like, we give bonus points.”

But the teams themselves will never know.

“GISHWHES never tells the competitors what their point total is,” Christine points out. “We don’t even get a cumulative point total, and we’re never told what the individual items are awarded. And it drives us crazy. Because it’s difficult to know how to improve from year to year if you don’t have a metric for what the judges are looking for.”

“That’s by design,” Collins says. “We don’t want people to get involved in petty arguments. So we don’t give them enough information to fight.”

The big moment

The contest wrapped up on August 6, but weeks—months—went by without any word as to when the winners would be announced.

“Sometimes GISHWHES can be a little disorganized, I find,” says Shiane. “They just kind of surprise you a lot. You don’t know when the winner will be announced, for example. You don’t know when anything will be announced, until it’s there.”

But then, one day in October, there it was: a tweet that Misha Collins would be making an announcement on Facebook Live.

Christine: “I’m sitting in my dark hole of a basement. We gathered over Google Hangouts and held our breath.”

Shiane: “He did the runners up first, and he did it alphabetically. As soon as he skipped R, which our team name starts with, we knew that we’d won. We were all freaking out before he even announced it.”

Geoff: “And then the moment: ‘And the winning teammmm is…’ That’s exactly how he does it.”

In fact, that is how Misha Collins said it. “And the GISHWHES 2016 winning teammmm… is… Raised from Perdition!”

Christine: “Everyone erupted.”

Kira Sullivan: “We were all freaking out. It was pure joy. I screamed. My roommates thought something really bad happened to me!”

Shiane: “I hit my head on the ceiling. I pushed Rob over a table. We yelled and screamed for, like, 20 minutes.”

Geoff: “I cried.”

Nina “Ugly crying! You can see it in the video. I’m like, ‘Waauuuugh!’”

Kira: “In that moment, we really felt like a team. We didn’t know each other beforehand, but we came together and we won.”

Suzanne Simpson: “It was the most surreal experience of my life.”

Geoff: “After three years of working hard, it was a euphoric feeling.”

The prize for winning GISHWHES is a trip to some exotic spot. This year, it’s Iceland. (For the 2017 hunt, which begins in August, the trip will be to Hawaii.)

Raised from Perdition arrived in Iceland today, in fact, to begin their five-day adventure, orchestrated by the GISHWHES staff and attended (at least for one day) by Misha Collins.

“Well, Misha’s pretty cool,” says Nat. “But the best part of the trip is meeting our teammates! We don’t know the people in San Fran, or South America, or Chicago, or Tennessee, or Connecticut, so we’ll get to meet them all! It’s all going to be great.”

Why GISHWHES

For many GISHWHES players, the greatest reward isn’t the trip.

“I’ve heard a lot of people say things like, ‘I was suffering from agoraphobia. I hadn’t left my house to do more than go to the grocery store in two years. My friend coerced me into participating in GISHWHES, and it somehow broke things through for me,” recounts Collins. “Or, ‘I did GISHWHES and I changed my major in school to art,’ or, ‘I did GISHWHES and I decided to go back to school because of it.

“I mean, I don’t want to be too grandiose about it,” he adds. “I don’t want to make it sound like it’s all about that touchy-feely stuff. It is just a scavenger hunt. But people do have some remarkable experiences.”

Of course, there’s something in it for Collins, too. He’s proud of his seven Guinness World Records. The million-plus dollars raised for charity. The five Syrian refugee families housed and fed. The lives saved from bone-marrow donations. The mountain on Mars that NASA named after GISHWHES.

And he’s especially proud of the 2011 hunt item that required launching a fully decorated Christmas tree into the air with helium balloons.

“There was something just magical about that image, of watching Christmas trees float away. It was one of those ephemeral, magical moments,” Collins says.

“But we didn’t really think it through all the way. Because what happens if untethered is, the Christmas tree just floats away! And there were some regional airports that were closed due to, ‘Christmas trees in the airspace!’ I love that item, even though people’s flights were delayed because of it.”

Over the years, GISHWHES has grown from an impromptu game that Collins ran on Twitter for 300 fans to a truly international competition with 55,000 participants. And in that time, he’s had to add lawyers, and insurance, and a staff, and a website. Is there a danger that GISHWHES might become so Real and Official and Regulated that it loses its sense of chaotic, spontaneous, hilarious fun?

“We want the tone of GISHWHES to remain irreverent and free spirited and kindhearted and challenging and humiliating,” he says. “But at the same time, we want it to grow to something that more people participate in. In my grandiose scheme, people all over the world dread the first week in August, because that’s when GISHWHES happens. That’s my ambition for our enterprise. And you know, we’ll see. If it keeps growing at this rate, by the year 2300, we might be a well-known outfit.”